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listlessdionysian · 4 months

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A Song for the End Times Chapter 2: Darkest Dungeon FF

Chapter Two

In which our jester falls afoul of a knight's honour - the party assembles - tensions on a cart ride - the party arrives at the ruined manor - and an occultist tests a vestals patience unto breaking.

Quick content warning: violence, discussion of religion, bit of wordplay, and honestly this is a Darkest Dungeons fic: you know what to expect.

There are certain truisms in this world: never test a friend you want to keep, money can't buy happiness, and if a knight of the realm is openly staring at you it's because you spilled his pint. Metaphorically speaking. The nobility are easy to offend - possessing so many rules for dressing, eating, and speaking, that breaking them came easily to the jester. At one point it had been an occupational necessity.

In this case, as far as they knew, the jester's latest crime against good taste was merely existing.

'What are you supposed to be then, a minstrel?' the knight in question was a young man visibly aged by years of hard living. A patchwork of scars on his neck and face. The rest of him concealed by players of plate and ring mail. His longsword slung over his back. They were the first two of their small camp to have woken and had stood, milling around, in the small yard behind the smithy awaiting Paixdecours. It had taken minutes for the nobleman to strike up conversation.

‘As you say milord,’ the jester inclined their head, ‘Song and tales to delight and bewitch.’

‘Know any good jokes?’

‘I’m looking at one right now.’

The knight blinked at them, their face frozen between disbelief and disgust – wide eyes and tight lips. By this point some of the others in their little camp behind the smithy had awoken slowed in their pre-dawn rituals. The wind stirred for a moment, as if it too were beginning to feel awkward and had to do something to break the tension.

‘Low born no-account,’ the knight muttered, flexing his gauntleted fists. Naturally his first instinct was towards violence. Another shared flaw among the nobility, and one which the jester was intimately familiar with.

They still had some of the old scars.

‘And I am your minstrel, milord. Now is that first name and last, or is that just your title?’

Paixdecouers rounded the corner of the smithy, paused, then chose a spot by the smithy wall. He leaned against it with his arms folded – features impassive, but an interested glint in his one good eye.

Colour bloomed in the knight’s cheeks. His jaw worked but the words wouldn’t come. When he took a step forward the jester spread their arms wide and tilted their head to the side in a gesture reminiscent of a very large and very patient cat watching a mousehole. The knight hesitated and took in the rest of the camp, who were beginning to stir, for the first time. When his eyes alighted on Paixdecours the knight dispensed with doubt and moved immediately to anger.

‘I demand this- this-‘ the knight was screaming, voice cracking to betray their age. The colour in his cheeks was in full bloom and had begun to creep down his neck turning him a muted shade of beetroot. He stabbed a finger towards the jester but seemed to be struggling to find a suitably insulting name, ‘This- This this has insulted me, whatever it is. I demand restitution.’

‘Demand, is it?’ Paixdecours said from their spot by the wall, scratching his bearded cheek and pursing his lips. He looked to the jester, the knight, then the lightening sky above, ‘Well, your lordship, all demands must be submitted in writing. If you want to ask me something, well, I’m right here.’

The knight’s stabbing finger faltered and gradually drifted back to his side. For the second time he stood at the heart of that little ring of tents, open mouthed, lost for words – making small choking sounds. Something must have changed in his mind, a rusting gear finally catching and sending the whole mechanism spinning into motion, as he straightened abruptly. The knight brushed his hands on the front of his plate mail and stalked off towards the square. He gave Paixdecours a wide berth, stepping clear away from him as he disappeared around the corner.

Paixdecours turned his head to watch the younger man go, allowing himself a small and mostly unobserved smile to himself. Then his attention snapped back to the jester.

‘Alright then, let’s step to,’ he said and turned without waiting to see if the jester followed.

***

The rest of the party were a sorry and disordered sort, thrown together by poor luck and a shared naivety about what awaited them outside the hamlet. A young woman in a get-up caught between a nun’s habit and a suit of armour, touting a mace whose function she seemed mystified by and carried it with an air of unwilling duty. An older man with a moustache and goatee beneath a turban, his wine-coloured robes already drinking the muck underfoot into its trailing hem.

And the knight, of course, who had now donned his helm and was making the most of the anonymity it afforded him by openly staring.

Paixdecours made the introductions: the nun was called Druon, the robed man was Mercure, and the knight went by Rivillien.

'Sir Rivillien,' Rivillien said through gritted teeth, still not looking away from the jester, his gauntleted fists gripping and working the leather wrap of his sword hilt as if it were the jester's throat.

Paixdecours rolled his one eye, then waved a hand, 'You’re all headed for the ruins further north. A cart will come by and collect you shortly. It's a simple scavenging run: anything that glitters or anything that we can eat. Everything else - just leave it. No heroics, and everyone comes back with all their fingers and toes. Clear?'

The group answered with a series of noncommittal noises.

'Shall I lead the group in prayer?' Druon said, struggling to open her oversized leather-bound bible while avoiding dropping her mace. She tried tucking it under one arm and then the other.

'Depends on the deity, my dear,' Mercure showed yellowing and crooked teeth.

Druon paled for a moment, then with a wavering voice said, 'There is but one god.'

Mercure quirked an eyebrow, then shook their head.

'My, how pedestrian,' he muttered.

Fortunately, the arrival of the cart spared them from further theological debate. The jester restrained himself from profusely thanking the driver, a sallow-faced old man in a tattered overcoat whose skin blended perfectly with the splintering boards of his vehicle and settled for a polite nod. Indeed, the only sign of life that came from the driver was when he turned in his seat to ensure all we're aboard, and the occasional jerk of his wrist as he directed the mangey nag drawing the cart.

Paixdecours had slipped away at the first mention of prayer, so there was no one to see them off, and the cart rattled and clanked away unobserved.

They followed narrow winding roads northwards which climbed sharply upwards after the first mile, its every twist and turn disguised by the dense woodland around them. The jester eyed the trees with equal parts curiosity and unease. They had grown tall and thick and strange in that forgotten part of the world. Without the forester's axe to fell them, the trees had devolved into twisted and gnarled shapes, threatening to spill out and colonise what little road remained. Here and there were signs of past expeditions grappling with the encroachment - shorn limbs and charred earth where controlled fires had burned.

'A fellow I spoke to in the tavern last night said these roads were once choked with bandits and wild dogs,' Mercure said, as much to himself as to the party, his attention on the dark woodland. He turned another crooked, yellowing smile on Druon before he added, 'Among other things.'

'If you mean to frighten me with tales of monsters, sir, you can save your breath,' she said, drawing herself up. For a moment her bible lowered, and the mace rose to prominence in a subtle raising of one hand and the lowering of another, 'I have seen into the heart of the darkest nights and I have no fear of what dwells there.'

'Really?' Mercer chuckled, 'That's nice.'

Druon's eyes narrowed, and her upper lip twitched. Then, seeming to remember herself and perhaps her vows, she relaxed. Set the mace down on the bench beside her and opened her bible.

The jester caught a familiar twinkle of delight and victory in Mercure's eye and smiled behind their mask. But the confrontation brought the knight back to mind and when he turned the jester found Rivierre staring at them from behind his helm.

'Did you lose something over here, your lordship?' the jester said.

'Only my honour,' Rivierre leaned a fraction closer, anger radiating off him.

'I’m sure I would remember relieving a nobleman of his honour,' the jester said, then tilted their face skyward and tapped their chin, 'Or perhaps not. It happens so often.'

'My honour that you impugned, minstrel,' Rivierre was half out of his seat.

The jester wasn't sure if the cart would tolerate a fistfight. More likely it would throw an axle, tip, and hurl them all out into the wilderness. The image held some attraction for the jester, but not enough to risk the broken bones it entailed.

'Why are you here, may I ask?' Mercure interjected.

The jester broke their staring contest with Rivierre by gradual degrees, only looking away once the knight had settled back in his seat and affected an air of haughty disinterest - having lost his moment.

'Me, sir?' the jester said.

'You sir. Each of us contributes something to the group, tactically speaking. I am versed in the eldritch arts. This one,' he flapped a hand at Druon, who scowled behind her bible, 'is no doubt a gifted healer. And the knight, impetuous as he is, brings a certain martial prowess. What is it that you bring?'

The jester shrugged.

'Colour commentary and a sparkling personality?' they said.

'Besides those.'

'Two sharp implements and a passion for their usage.'

Mercure considered for a moment, rubbing a long ink-stained finger against the side of his nose.

'A possibility that you may be of some use after all then,' and with that Mercure dismissed him and the party fell into an uncomfortable silence.

Save for the jester, who began to whistle.

***

Credit where it was due, the ruins lived up to their imposing reputation. A grand gothic facade made up of tall, crooked towers, and gap-toothed window panels. The manor itself seemed to loom over them like a voracious beast considering its next meal. Its entrance lay open, the heavy double doors that had once guarded it were missing. The jester presumed they had been among the first materials scavenged from that place to make repairs in the hamlet. Perhaps to make a fetching dinner table.

The party disembarked the cart and idled around the dishevelled courtyard. Huge paving stones underfoot, frozen in the act of bucking and heaving as the earth strained to eject them. Moss and creeper vines intermingling and lending their dusty bouquet to the scene.

The cart left them there. Its driver clicked to the nag, snapped the reins, and then it squeaked its way back to the road. If they survived, another cart would collect them at dawn the next day. None would risk lingering outside the hamlet after dark.

'Well?' Rivierre said, 'Are we to be about this business, or shall we stand here till we lose the light?'

'By all means,' the jester said, extending a hand toward the dark entryway, 'Lead on, noble sir.'

Rivierre hesitated for a moment. The jester could feel, rather than see, his eyes flicking from the jester to the rest of the party, and to the ruined manse before them. In the end, bravado won out over brains. Rivierre drew his longsword, gripped it in both hands, and began a steady - if slow - clanking march towards the entrance.

The jester met the eye of his remaining two companions, shrugged, and followed Rivierre in. A heartbeat later they heard Mercure fall in step, followed by Druon who whispered an unceasing prayer to the powers above.

Darkness, ancient, proud, and predatory waited for them inside. Their entrance to the manse parted it like a curtain, and it retreated further when Mercure paused to light a torch. Its ignition provoked the darkness to flinch and leer at them from the manse’s endless deep corners. Deeper in, things stirred and shifted – whether it was the ancient boards and crumbling mortar of the house itself or something more malevolent, the jester found it hard to say.

The scant light of the torch revealed fading and rumpled tapestries, their edges frayed and tattered by years of voracious moths. The stone walls were scored by battles long since past – the bite marks of old blades, gouges from massive claws. Here and there a deep, brown stain the jester tried not to stare at for too long. The party’s every step boomed in that empty and desolate place, every footfall resounding. Behind the jester, Druon shifted – perhaps to lower the bible and raise the mace. Her prayers increased in pace and fervour. All teeth and hissed breath.

‘We’re unlikely to encounter any resistance on the upper levels,’ Mercure said, loud enough for the whole party to flinch, ‘After years of expeditions into this place, whatever dwells here has likely withdrawn deep into the lower levels.’

‘You first,’ the jester said.

Mercure smiled, ‘Perhaps caution may prove prudent, in the end. Lead on Rivierre.’

‘Sir,’ Rivierre said without turning around.

Mercure rolled his eyes at the jester and whispered, ‘Nobles.’

‘Precious, aren’t they?’ the jester said, falling in step behind Rivierre and – perhaps – speaking a touch too loud.

‘You’d think they were made of glass,’ Mercure sighed, looking around, ‘But this place is impressive. A great house, generations in the making, undone by a single scion in a single lifetime.’

Rivierre paused at a doorway, leaning into the dark with the torch outstretched. Over his shoulder the jester could see little but bare stone wall, curving to the right. The knight paused, sword lowered and tapping out a slow rhythm against his armoured ankle.

‘Stairs. Leading lower,’ Rivierre said.

‘We’re unlikely to find anything up here,’ Mercure said, ‘As I was saying – past expeditions will have picked the upper floors clean. To have anything to show for our efforts we must descend.’

‘But that heightens the risk,’ Druon said, ‘Perhaps they missed something on the upper floors.’

‘Scared?’ Mercure smiled, rounding on her, the wavering light of the torch cast long, dancing shadows across his lined face, ‘Afraid of the dark? Of the things that dwell within? Of things that have neither heard of, nor care, for your god?’

Druon’s eyes narrowed once more. It was all the warning Mercure had, before he fell hard on his backside, cupping his gushing nose and making small gasping sounds. She wiped a smear of blood from her forehead with the sleeve of her habit and took a deep breath to master herself.

‘As I told you before, I have no fear of things that cower in the dark – whatever their intentions. I am tasked with preserving your lives, I would not see that task grow unnecessarily because a group of boys refuse to listen to reason.’

‘My nose!’ Mercure glugged, the blood already spilling into his goatee and dripping from his chin. Rivierre watched them, impassive and unimpressed, while the jester made sure to take a few steps back.

‘Oh spare me,’ Druon said. She waved a hand, bathed in a soft golden light. As its passage crossed the jester’s eyeline they felt- something. They found it hard to define: peace, a pervasive feeling of ease and security, a warm rippling wave of relief. Feelings and sensations that had only grown more distant and alien to them with the passage of time.

Mercure gasped in surprise and released their nose, in time for the jester to see the bridge pop back into position, and the twin streams of blood to slow to a trickle before stopping altogether.

‘A broken nose could be the least of your worries in this accursed place,’ Druon loomed over him now, mace in hand, her grip tightening, ‘How many lives have been lost here? How many dozens fallen to folly and bravado? We will search the upper floors, and we will do so carefully. God help you if you need my help a second time.’

With that she stepped around Mercure, mouth twisted with distaste, to inspect a further opening to their left between two tapestries.

‘There is a corridor here that leads deeper. This will be our path,’ she said, before opening the door and stepping into the waiting dark.

Rivierre watched her disappear, and it took him some moments to recall his purpose and the torch in his hand, before hurrying to join her. Mercure remained where he was, staring at the blood mingling with the old ink stains on his hand. His eyes were wide, disbelieving, and his lips worked soundlessly.

‘That cannot be right,’ he said, at last, ‘That- that cannot be right.’

The jester dropped to a crouch beside him, and patted Mercure on the shoulder. Those wide, disbelieving eyes met the pale expressionless mask, and those smiling green eyes behind it.

‘For the moment,’ the jester, ‘It looks like it is. Onwards.’

The jester straightened and followed the others, without waiting for Mercure to rise to his feet.

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Thanks to all who've returned to read the next instalment, and to first time readers you can find the first chapter here. I'll be adding to this every now and then - it's more of an exercise than anything, but I'm having fun for the moment.

More serious stuff later. When I get around to it. Maybe.

#darkest dungeon #writing #fan fiction #dd man at arms #dd dismas #dd highwayman #dd jester #dd crusader #A Song for the End Times #Sassy jester #dd occultist #occultist nose goes squelch #ontological debates are for nerds #darkest dungeon fan fiction

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stardustpinkart · 1 year

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Owning a Pet Billy! We have the lovely Jess Bradford modeling as a Billy owner.

Be wary before purchasing a pet Billy. They are high maintenance and a lot of work, so dont buy one if you're not ready for that.

Is very energetic and giggly, will clamber all around and get into things he shouldn't. He requires constant attention and will often cling to you, including clambering into your clothes.

Be careful, he’s known to BITE.

Be prepared for swear words, obscenities and trying to get into your pants. If your a lady its even worst, he will try and get into your panties or cling to your breasts. He enjoys using them as a pillow.

Men are only relatively safer, he will still try to stimulate your privates.

When he’s calm and cuddly it’s very cute. He occasionally has moments of lucidity and will wear himself out, these times are easier.

Is bffs with the house cat Claude. Very fond of cats, will be seen riding them, and cuddling up to them seeking comfort and warmth, like a kitten and it’s mama.

Requires Christmas Themed treats. Peppermints and candy canes are a winner.

Has a lot of energy to burn off, so anything you don't want broken, lock it up or put it away. Will knock things off shelves, smash things, just for the heck of it.

Can play on your phone quite happily for hours, will often steal it to play games.

Will also take various strange pictures with the camera feature, usually from strange angles. Expect pictures of mouseholes, blurred legs of the cat, and you(especially when sleeping or getting dressed).

Will OFTEN get into your panty drawer. Keeping him out of there is all but impossible, he’ll find the key if you lock it. If he cant he’ll pick the lock. Will roll around and dive through and smell your panties.

You can make a bed for him, but more often than not he will rather sleep with you. Sneak into your bed. But on rare occasions he’ll stay in a little bed made for him, he especially likes socks and xmas stockings.

#artwork #fanart #billy lenz #billy #jess bradford #slashers #black christmas #horror movies #classics

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teawaffles · 2 years

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yuumori ch72

Now on: Cubari and Mangadex

Thank you for waiting! It has been a trip settling back in my old room (and house) after such a long time, so thank you as always for your patience (^^;

Edit: The canon refs post has also been updated up to Ch72!

Author hiatus

Although V18 and the 221B character profiles will be released on 4 August (JST), there is no new chapter this month as the authors are taking a break — Ch73 will be released in September instead.

A trip to Cornwall

I had the opportunity to visit Cornwall back in July: specifically the tiny village of Mousehole, where *drumrolls* stargazy pie is said to have been invented! More on that under the cut:

Mousehole Harbour. The village is said to be named after the little harbour entrance, almost like a mousehole when viewed from the sea.

Stargazy pie is served for free on Tom Bawcock’s Eve (23 December) every year at The Ship Inn. But it’s only ever served then, so I didn’t get a chance to try it (-ω-、)

Legend has it that there was once a terribly stormy winter; the fishing boats were unable to leave the harbour, and the villagers were facing starvation as Christmas approached. The day before Christmas Eve, Tom Bawcock braved the storm and managed to catch enough fish to feed the entire village — and this feat was celebrated by baking the fish into stargazy pie ✨ (More about the tale on Wikipedia)

The story is also retold in the wonderfully-illustrated children’s book The Mousehole Cat by Antonia Barber 💖 Managed to snag a copy from this delightful bookstore in Penzance:

The Edge of the World Bookshop, along Market Jew Street in Penzance. The lady at the counter was really nice, and there are little cards with personal book recommendations from the store employees, which are spot-on: I especially enjoyed The Lamplighters by Emma Stonex 💕

Aside: If you're wondering how stargazy pie is related to Yuumori, it was mentioned in the Volume 2 omake (Mangadex) that William loves Louis's stargazy pie (๑˃ᴗ˂)

#moriarty the patriot #yuukoku no moriarty #yuumori #scanlation

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moonbiscuitsims · 9 months

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Gorillaz Kong Studios Kitchen/Dining Chronicles

Noodle's room pics Russel's room pics Murdoc's room pics ("mature") 2D's room pics More Gorillaz themed posts

Again, grimey af to get that Gorillaz vibe I was going for, if you look at the artwork it is often depicted as quite cluttered dirty and messy. So their kitchen and dining room were completely 100% made up by me I had no reference pic but just used the same vibe as the rest. Also a lot of my inspiration (not recreation) was from the Do Ya Thing video.

I placed those little mouseholes that I believe came with Cats and Dogs (also city living but the place-able object is apparently C&D) but it keeps giving them annoying tense buffs, even the members who are sloppy. I think I might try the deco version that was made by Bakie Gaming even though the hole decal is different...

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itti-the-mouse · 10 months

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We absolutely should test how good a cockwarmer you are! I bet you'd be downright velvety inside - just, never want to pull out again kind of lovely feeling.

Of course, I get ripe when I get sweaty, and it doesn't take much to get me dripping. It won't smell at first - after I catch you and start pounding your pretty little hole, I'll just be getting you soaked wherever you touch me. But about the time I cum, all that sweat is gonna start to smell musky.

I might have asked you to huff my armpit, but that's redundant. Your body smells like my fucking armpit dank; you can't escape its pungency. And it's only going to get stronger as I keep thrusting into you and getting sweatier.

I figure if you're a good cockwarmer, I'll let you huff my crotch. It'll probably make you so horny you can't think straight, but don't worry - I can do the thinking for you. Just keep sniffing my balls and my taint and my asshole, as much as you like, you fun little mouse. And when either you're too stupid to move or you've sucked the stink off my pucker, I'll give you a big kiss with tongue as a reward - and because I love kissing girls whose lips taste like my crotch reek.

Then, I'll have to stuff my dick back into your little mousehole and make a fresh batch of ball sweat.

Oh, and cats sleep for 16 hours a day, so you probably aren't going anywhere for a few hours each time I fall asleep inside you. Hope you didn't have plans ;3

@w@ Oh my goodness~

I'm never getting off that catgirl cock of yours am I? Not that I'm complaining ;3

Sooner or later, you'll have fucked me so stupid I won't be able to think of anything else~ And it's hard enough to think of something other than cock already, I don't think I'd last very long.

Within a day, you'd have a happy, willing, mindless little toy you could do with as you pleased <3

#<3 <3 <3 #anon ask #I'm pretty much speechless again @w@

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seaswalllow · 2 years

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“You’re gonna lose a finger if you don’t get outta my sight right now,” Clypeus rumbles. It’s more of a low, furious snarl, really; Solus, just passing by, winces as the smoky tang of anger hits his nose. Skye’s there, a poisonously sweet smile curling the edges of her mouth, and Timore is there, all icy anger- he only has to look once at the nobleman that they’re loosely arranged in front of, and he can guess what exactly is happening here.

Fucking nobles. Especially because if he’s remembering right, this is the eldest Duke of Hoarton, and- ugh, he really doesn’t need to guess. Not with the man who has more mistresses than fingers on his hands, and he hasn’t even lost any fingers.

He wanders over, pasting a vaguely cheerful smile onto his expression, and drapes himself across Cly. The weight won’t do much to stop Cly from lunging, but it’ll make him second-guess the movement, and hopefully ground him as much as Skye’s hand on his arm is.

“Is there a problem, gentlemen?” He all but purrs, slitted eyes watching the duke with keen interest. Duke Hoarton is nasty enough, and just as foolish, but it takes a special kind of stupid to stare down three, then four witchers, and assume you’re not outnumbered.

“Duke Hoarton was giving me some tips about what to do with my beauty, and Clypeus objected,” Skye says with some amusement, darkly tinted, and Solus snorts, making sure to lend it as derisive a weight as he can. It’s just funny when he watches the duke’s ruddy face color a deep, rich beetroot, in his defense.

Then he considers his next words.

“I thought the Duke liked being on the other end of the harem?”

Silence. Solus stifles a gleeful wriggle, only watching the Duke’s mouth open and close like a cat at a mousehole, and slowly, steadily, Clypeus’ scent smooths out into something lighter.

“Those are dueling words,” the Duke warns, face red, and this time Solus doesn’t hide the way he throws back his head and cackles. Besides him, Skye giggles lightly too, and Solus throws her a wide smiles as he catches his breath, leaning heavily on Cly.

“Oh, fuck, that’s a good joke- shit, you want to pick which of us you’re going to fight? Skye probably should, as the head, but I’m fine with dueling for my words, can’t be worse than a drowner-”

The duke’s blustering again. Honestly, it’s fucking hilarious, and he could stand here all day, but Clypeus is also steadily winding tighter and tighter under his grip, so he only grins, bright and merry and cruel.

“Here’s a tip. If you’re not willing to put some steel behind your words, don’t fuckin’ drop them at all, you spineless loach. Skye, whattya say?”

“Leave him,” she hums after a moment, eyes just as bright as his. “He’ll learn his lesson better if he’s alive, after all.”

“Honored, Skye of the Cats,” the duke grits out, and Solus rolls his eyes, dragging himself off of Clypeus only to start turning him in a different direction. Skye doesn’t bother offering him the courtesy of a bow; only watches with sharp eyes as he bows and scurries into the crowd before she crowds around their other side to herd them out.

The crowd parts like water before them- an angry witcher is a sign for havoc, let alone two. The fact that they have four witchers doesn’t help.

Solus exercises enough self control to wait until they’re outside, and then he drops the smile, facing them. Cly rumbles again, and he slides an arm around his shoulders, waiting for the Wolf to draw his arms around him.

“Mistress-hunting, I’m presuming,” he says, and Skye sighs.

“Wife hunting. Disowned Aphelion or not, some nobles haven’t gotten it through their head and think my title would make a nice accessory to theirs.”

“Fuck them,” Clypeus grits out, and- ow, yeah, his arms are tightening around Solus. “Fuck them, and their lies, and disrespectful trophy-hunting bullshit-”

Solus shoots a wide-eyed look at Skye, but Timore only looks on in grim agreeance. It’s not that he disagrees. It’s just that- well. This is an interesting development now, how protective he gets, isn’t it?

Skye sees his look, and steps around to him, curling up under another arm. “Stop, Cly. It’s okay— they’re not worth your anger, okay?”

“They don’t even see you as a person,” he starts, and then falls silent as Skye presses a gentle kiss to his lips. Top marks, Solus notes idly. Very good way to make your Wolf be quiet.

“Seriously. It’s okay. While they’re out here, chasing empty titles and pointless pride, I get to be happy with all of you. I have a family I can trust, partners to trust- everything they have is built on a lie. And I’m more than strong enough to face them.”

Slowly, slowly, Cly presses his forehead against hers, and the acidic taste of his anger fades a little more.

“I know you are,” he murmurs quietly. “But it rankles all the same.”

“And that’s why we’re here as support,” Solus breaks in, now slinking up to Timore to wrap himself around the Viper and revel in his warmth in the cool night. “So you don’t go cat-mad from jealousy and start an intercontinental incident.”

“I’m not jealous,” Cly grumbles, and all of them laugh faintly- even Timore huffs out a soft laugh, the knife in his hand vanishing. “Seriously, I’m not. I just don’t like sharing.”

Solus has to pause at that, and squint at him.

“…We are in a polycule.”

Cly waves a hand at him, and Skye giggles a little, the edges of Timore’s mouth ticking up.

“That’s different. You don’t count. I trust you, I don’t trust the fucking wife-hunters.”

Solus presses a hand to his chest and playfully swoons back against Timore. “Do you hear that? He trusts us! A declaration of love so profound-”

“I take it back,” Cly deadpans over him, “you specifically are not allowed in my room-”

If Solus puts his heart into it, really puts his heart into it, he thinks he can win his way back in. That’s half the fun, anyways, charming his way back, testing out how much those beds can hold out, how much of the innkeeper’s coin goes towards good, solid products. It’s not the entire point of it, though, he thinks, as the din of their argument ebbs and falls as they wind their way back to the inn they’re lodging at for the night.

I trust you.

“I trust you too,” he says, at once, and all three of them look askance at him before Skye beams and pads over to press a kiss to his cheek, Timore grumbling less aggressively than he would otherwise.

I trust you, I love you, I’m here for you. We’re yours, and you’re ours.

#kit writes #vivet verse #vivet au #vivet au month #vivet tag #last one of the night i have an exam in 12 hours and need Sbeep but. i've found my stride :_

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latenightwalking · 3 months

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that time i did kill myself

at a stranger’s house

the house party murmurs wanton lust

jean waistbands shuffle, accommodating thick thighs,

crossed; slender backs arch, sunset lips purse, full eyes give

a sultry gaze around the room

that i try to ignore

a drink gets spilled and that’s the funniest thing ever

fingers caress the bare, toned chest that needed to be disrobed

quickly; obviously

“I am so, so, s-sorry”

“Let me make this up to you. In the bedroom. I’m talking about sex. I’ll apologise by how well I’ll let you fuck me.”

fly on the wall in the corner

the booming music

blurs into idle chit chat about ex-partners

into gossip about over dramatic flat-mates

into “did you hear about that slut [redacted]”

“wait! look! here, there’s even security cam footage!”

“what a loose cunt”

giggling

candle wax creases melt further

work; life; this; the stress of it all;

my shadow friend pays a visit

but i’d already checked out

of the castle in my mind

left the keys there that morning,

couldn’t stand another minute,

agitated

a gentle hand offers the quivering lamb respite, leads it

to the slaughter

and the grunge of the illicit room takes me aback, at first,

heads turn,

kind of,

quickly re-captivated by white dust

by the smoke covered walls spluttering the haze

of one sequence of inhalation,

spread over the many years

that dysphoria takes from a person

i can relate to that

“this your first time?”

“don’t take too much”

“you don’t know how you’d react”

“best to go slow, eh, real slow”

“takes a few minutes to hit, yeah?”

“i’ll cut half”

“there’s always more”

“[person]’s got connections”

“he’s in deep”

“real fucking deep”

“almost feel bad for ‘em”

i’m not paying attention

the tally reminds me of math class

if i had to describe it:

transcendence

like floating in clouds

except you’re the cloud

so floating in yourself

the birds watch

perched on the solid cloud

that holds no one else

and they speak their squawky language

and although it’s just high-pitched guttural noises

you can understand them

they tell you not to go higher

“fuck you bird.”

“i’ll go higher if i want to”

i had already committed to taking another line

as many lines as my conciousness could handle, in fact,

before this opportunity had even presented itself

the fabric of air is torn slightly

exposing loose, yarn, stiches that i pull on

curiosity did kill the cat, after all

the other atmosphere seems no different

though the cacophony of distortions rifling my eardrums

unnerves me.

i remain in complete, illogical suspension

as euphoria and dysphoria play their dance

i want to rip open this small mousehole

and pull myself through

but there’s nothing to grab

the air brushes my hands aside

like love letters received from one

too naïve to know about love

silence, the only option left

and shouting, wailing,

panic at an unforeseen crisis

concern, regret,

anger

i feel the hot coal remnants of slaps to the cheek

warm, liquid, pooling from several unrestrained kicks to the rib

of my unconscious body

“why’d you have to go and do that for”

“this’ll ruin me!”

“snap out of it!”

when a rocket knows

that it’s going to tilt back toward

the braced, unflinching earth

and end itself in a fiery, horrific explosion

of metallic guts and oil blood

it has no choice but to concede its fate

much to the chagrin of the lock-jawed personnel

who’ll later try to deny any responsibility

that “that guy didn’t matter anyway”

and that their mistake wasn’t the one

that caused this hellish one

i wonder

if my parents knew

playing fast and loose with baby

shutting the door to its incessant wailing

as the shadow form, stuck to the pale wall

un-sticks itself and creeps closer

i wonder

if they realised

this one seemingly inaction

would set my entire path

or at least, block off the happy ones

and lead to passiveness; quietness - they just want me to shut up. no problems. got it.

in-defensiveness - a doormat has no right to refuse being stepped on

denial of responsibility - the guilty shall bear witness to the hand

self- inadequacies, fear of rejection

the horizon seems endless, lost in the desert

and so too my woes

i don’t blame them

they were tired

after my sister

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