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darknesseddiem · 1 month

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𝐀𝐥𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐳: 𝐂𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝟔𝟔

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: In the shadowy annals of crime, a figure emerges, casting a chilling pall over the world. Eddie Munson, infamous for his macabre deeds as a serial killer, now stirs fear with an unprecedented proposal. Like a sinister weaver, Eddie prepares to embroider a fabric saturated with long-held vengeance. Whispers of his scheme cloak his intentions in darkness, leaving observers to ponder the depths of his depravity.

Each stitch in his plan weaves a sinister narrative, drawing the curious into the abyss of his psyche. As intrigue mounts, the world braces for Eddie Munson's cryptic request, poised to unravel reality itself, ushering forth chaos and terror.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: +18 MDNI, gore, mentions of blood; violence, descriptions of torture and death, Eddie is a serial killer, cannibalism, cruelty, mistery, Eddie is on the death row, mentions Chrissy's mother and allusion to her death.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: Please be advised that this series of stories delves into darker and more disturbing themes than my previous works. The content will include highly sensitive and grotesque subject matter. If you find yourself uncomfortable with such material, it's perfectly understandable. Your well-being is paramount, and your decision to refrain from reading is respected.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2,4K

𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫.

Fell free to support my works with some 𝐊𝐨-𝐅𝐢!

In the somber depths of the penitentiary's labyrinthine corridors, where the very air seemed to congeal with foreboding, the flickering glow of pale moonlight dared not venture. Within these subterranean confines, an imposing edifice of concrete and steel stood sentinel, its walls steeped in the crimson stains of untold atrocities perpetrated by the merciless hands of those who had transgressed against the sanctity of innocent lives. This fortress, a bastion of unforgiving incarceration, cast its shadow over all who dared to tread its bleak corridors, an inescapable abyss of despair and anguish.

Descending further still, into the bowels of this infernal domain, lay the deepest recesses of confinement - a purgatory reserved for the most depraved and desolate souls. Here, shrouded in perpetual darkness and devoid of even the faintest glimmer of sunlight or human contact, languished men and women so irredeemably profane that they had become naught but spectral echoes of their former selves. Condemned to an eternity of solitude and torment, they withered away in the suffocating embrace of isolation, their existence a cruel mockery of the vibrant world they once knew.

Amidst this realm of despair and desolation, a singular figure loomed in the shadows - the enigmatic inmate of Cell 66, a nameless specter whose very presence invoked dread and apprehension. Eddie Munson, a man cloaked in the chilling aura of mystery, stood as an epitome of cold-blooded savagery, his nefarious deeds shrouded in the veils of silence and secrecy. For a decade, he had steadfastly refused to divulge the twisted tapestry of his dark past, his lips sealed with an iron resolve that defied the relentless interrogation of law enforcement.

Eddie Munson, age of 28, stood accused of crimes so heinous and grotesque that they defied comprehension - murder, slaughter, torture, and the ultimate depravity of cannibalism. The latter having as victim his father, William Munson, the man had his heart ripped out of his body while he was still breathing, and eaten by his own son.

His victims, numbering unknown, bore the indelible mark of his sadistic cruelty, their anguished cries silenced forever in the abyss of oblivion. Yet, despite the relentless onslaught of interrogation and torture, Eddie remained an impenetrable enigma, his psyche a labyrinthine maze of madness and malevolence that confounded even the most seasoned investigators.

In a desperate bid to extract the truth from him, they exhausted every tool in the arsenal of human torment. Shock therapy surged through his veins like bolts of lightning, while hypnosis sought to unravel the tangled web of his mind. Sleep deprivation gnawed at his sanity, each minute stretching into an eternity of agony. Temperature manipulation plunged him into the icy depths of despair, while purposeful drowning submerged him in a watery abyss of terror.

Yet, despite their relentless efforts, the truth remained elusive, shrouded in the darkness of his twisted psyche. As the investigators and police faced the grim reality of their failure, they reluctantly conceded defeat. With heavy hearts and haunted souls, they consigned him to the unforgiving confines of death row, where the specter of execution loomed ominously over him like a shadowy executioner awaiting his final reckoning.

Perched upon a cold, unforgiving chair, Eddie Munson found himself shackled before a cadre of stern-faced law enforcement officials. The putrid hue of his garb, a garish orange jumpsuit, seemed to mock the gravity of the situation, its color reminiscent of flames licking at the edges of his very existence.

As he awaited his fate, the weight of his crimes hung heavy in the air, a palpable presence that suffocated the room with an oppressive sense of dread. The gaze of the officers bore into him with a mix of contempt and morbid fascination, as if they were peering into the depths of a bottomless abyss, searching for a glimmer of humanity amidst the darkness.

The clang of metal against metal echoed through the chamber as the handcuffs tightened around his wrists, a stark reminder of his loss of freedom and impending doom. And yet, despite the grim tableau unfolding before him, Munson remained eerily composed, his eyes betraying no hint of remorse or regret, but instead, harboring a chilling calmness that sent shivers down the spines of those who dared to meet his gaze.

"I, Judge William Bennet Carver," the judge's voice reverberated through the solemn courtroom, each syllable weighted with the gravity of the impending verdict, "sentence Edward James Munson for the heinous crimes of murder, slaughter, cannibalism, torture, concealment of a corpse, violence, and femicide, to face the ultimate justice: the electric chair."

The resounding thud of the judge's gavel against the polished wood punctuated his decree, sending a chilling ripple through the hushed chamber. Yet, amid the somber atmosphere, a twisted smirk danced upon Eddie's pallid visage, his lips curling into a sinister grin that betrayed a morbid amusement at his own demise.

The dim light of the courtroom cast eerie shadows across his features, accentuating the gleam in his eyes that flickered with an unsettling blend of defiance and derangement. To Eddie, the solemn pronouncement of his fate seemed to serve only as fuel for the perverse amusement that bubbled within him, a dark amusement born of a mind steeped in darkness and depravity.

As the weight of his sentence settled upon him like a suffocating shroud, Eddie's gaze remained locked upon the judge, his expression an unsettling mixture of defiance and amusement. For in the face of impending doom, he found only a perverse delight in the twisted game of fate that had brought him to this chilling juncture.

Before the attendees could muster the resolve to depart the trial chamber, a chilling silence settled over the room like a suffocating fog. Yet, amidst the palpable tension, a voice shattered the eerie stillness, cutting through the air with an unsettling cadence that sent shivers down the spines of those present.

It was Eddie, his voice devoid of the usual satisfaction that accompanied his macabre deeds, each word dripping with a cold detachment that belied the horrors lurking within his psyche. As if emerging from the depths of a nightmare, his utterance hung heavy in the air, a spectral presence that seemed to linger long after the sound had faded.

The unexpectedness of his speech sent shockwaves through the gathered throng, their eyes widening in disbelief at the audacity of this monstrous figure to break the oppressive silence that had enveloped the chamber. And yet, despite the chill that coursed through their veins, there was an undeniable allure to Eddie's words, a morbid curiosity that compelled them to hang upon his every syllable, like moths drawn to the flame of his dark presence.

For in that moment, Eddie Munson stood as a harbinger of terror, his voice a haunting echo of the abyss from which he had emerged, leaving all who bore witness to wonder what other horrors lay concealed within the depths of his twisted mind.

"Before you lend me to my inevitable fate," Eddie's voice sliced through the heavy air, his tone carrying an unsettling calmness that seemed incongruent with his looming demise, "there is a final thing I must ask."

The twisted curvature of his lips formed a grotesque grin, a stark contrast against the grim backdrop of the courtroom. His smile, more akin to a rictus of madness, sent shivers coursing down the spines of those assembled, each icy caress leaving behind a trail of apprehension and dread.

The macabre spectacle of Eddie's grin seemed to warp the very fabric of reality, casting a pall of unease over the room as if the darkness within him threatened to consume all who dared to behold it. And yet, despite the visceral discomfort it elicited, there was an undeniable magnetism to his presence, drawing the gaze of onlookers like moths to the flame of his twisted charisma.

For in that moment, Eddie Munson stood as a specter of malevolence, his smile a haunting reminder of the horrors that lurked within the depths of his depraved soul. And as the weight of his words hung heavy in the air, the gathered throng braced themselves for the chilling revelation that awaited, knowing all too well that whatever he had to say would only serve to deepen the darkness that enveloped them all.

“Nothing you say will save you, Mr. Munson.” Judge Carver said seriously.

"Indeed, Judge Carver," Eddie's voice echoed through the chamber, carrying an eerie calmness that seemed to mock the severity of his situation. His gaze, like obsidian pools devoid of remorse, bore into the judge with an unsettling intensity, as if daring him to peer into the abyss of his twisted psyche.

A grim chuckle escaped Eddie's lips, its echo reverberating off the walls like a sinister melody. "Save me?" he mused, the words dripping with a venomous disdain that sent a shiver down the spine of all who heard. "Oh, dear judge, salvation is but a distant memory in the shadowed recesses of my existence."

The air seemed to thicken with tension as the weight of Eddie's words hung heavy in the room, casting a pall of unease over the gathered throng. And yet, despite the palpable discomfort that permeated the chamber, there was an undeniable allure to his defiance, a morbid fascination with the darkness that lurked within him.

For in that moment, Eddie Munson stood as a testament to the depths of human depravity, his words a chilling reminder of the horrors that lay concealed within the darkest corners of the human soul. And as the judge's stern gaze bore down upon him, Eddie met it with a steely resolve, knowing full well that no words could save him from the abyss into which he had willingly descended.

"I want my story to be told to the world," Eddie's voice sliced through the tense atmosphere of the courtroom, each syllable laden with a sinister promise that sent a shiver down the spine of every witness. Gasps of shock rippled through the room, eyes widening in disbelief as if Eddie had uttered a profanity that defied comprehension.

"But... on one condition," he continued, his words hanging in the air like a heavy fog, suffocating all who dared to breathe in their ominous implications. The palpable anxiety in the room intensified, a suffocating weight pressing down upon the gathered throng, rendering them paralyzed in a state of morbid anticipation.

The silence that followed was deafening, a tangible presence that seemed to fill the room with a foreboding sense of dread. Each heartbeat thundered in their ears like a drumbeat of impending doom, the rhythm echoing the pulse of their mounting fear.

And then, with a voice that cut through the silence like a blade, Eddie delivered his chilling demand: "Bring her to me." The words hung in the air like a curse, casting a shadow over the room as the gravity of his request sank in. In that moment, the darkness that lurked within Eddie Munson's twisted soul spilled forth, enveloping all who bore witness in its malevolent embrace.

As Eddie's demand reverberated through the room, a hushed murmuring rose among the spectators, whispers of unease intertwining with the palpable tension that gripped them all. Judge Carver, his brow furrowed with concern, exchanged a glance with the bailiffs, uncertainty etched in their solemn expressions.

Suddenly, from the back of the courtroom, a figure emerged, cloaked in shadows and bearing an aura of ominous dread. It was a woman, her features obscured by darkness, yet her presence radiated an eerie calmness that seemed to quell the rising panic.

With measured steps, she approached the bench, her gaze fixed upon Eddie with an intensity that bordered on obsession. And as she drew closer, the dim light revealed the haunting familiarity of her visage—a haunting resemblance to one of Eddie's victims, long thought to be lost to the annals of his depravity.

A collective gasp swept through the room as the truth dawned upon them all, a revelation so horrifying that it threatened to shatter the fragile facade of their reality. For in that moment, it became clear that Eddie's request was not merely a macabre whim, but a sinister plot to unleash a new chapter of terror upon the world—one that would plunge them all into the depths of darkness from which there could be no escape.

"It's about time I found you, Munson," the words cut through the air like a frigid wind, each syllable dripping with a chilling resolve that sent shivers down everyone's spine. The voice, belonging to a middle-aged woman, resonated with an underlying tremor, hinting at the depths of her pent-up anguish and fury.

Eddie's gaze locked onto the woman, his expression unreadable yet tinged with a flicker of recognition that danced behind his steely facade. The name she uttered—Selenne Cunningham—stirred a distant memory within him, a memory veiled in the shadowy recesses of his consciousness.

A sinister smile curled at the corners of Eddie's lips, a perverse amusement twinkling in his eyes like the glint of a predator stalking its prey. "Ah, Selenne Cunningham," he purred, his voice laced with a venomous edge that mirrored her own icy tone. "Your daughter... such a delicate flower, crushed beneath the weight of my artistry."

The room fell silent, the tension thickening with each passing moment as the gravity of their confrontation hung heavy in the air.

With the first thread of Munson's sinister plot meticulously woven, the tendrils of his malevolence unfurled like a dark shadow, poised to ensnare those who unwittingly danced within its grasp. The nefarious machinations of Eddie Munson, honed to a razor's edge, stood poised to carve a path of unfathomable destruction through the lives of all who had dared to cross his path.

As the tendrils of his wickedness coiled with calculated precision, a palpable sense of foreboding descended upon those ensnared within the web of his deceit. Edward Munson, a specter of malevolence risen from the depths of darkness, loomed large on the horizon, his presence casting a long shadow that threatened to engulf all who stood in his wake.

With a chilling resolve that echoed through the corridors of fate, he returned from the abyss, his resolve steeled by the bitter taste of past failures. This time, there would be no room for error, no margin for mercy.

Eddie Munson had returned, and with him came a reckoning so dark and terrible that none would emerge unscathed.

#darknesseddiemfics #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddiemunson #dark!eddie munson #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson smut #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie munson angst #eddie munson stranger things #eddie munson imagine #bestfriend!eddie munson #older!eddie munson #eddie the freak munson

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natroze · 1 year

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netherdeep party made it to Bazzoxan and all immediately had terrifying narratively-significant dreams :)

past lives, specters of the red moon, divine and infernal visitations, visions of the calamity.... everyone loves a good horrifying experience in a terrible new place :)))

#netherdeep campaign #dnd #d&d #nat's art

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violant-apologia · 4 months

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Meet the Violant-Scrawling Apologist

Or try to. He's notoriously hard to get a hold of, but his residence is public knowledge: you'll just have to get past the Neddy Men.

A very modest challenge Your Shadowy quality gives you a 72% chance of success.

Rubbery vigilance (Failure)

There isn't any entrance to the Bazaar that isn't guarded, so you try to slip in the most direct way. Unfortunately, you're caught – by a constable with more proclivity for the lecture than the life preserver. While she's giving you a standard telling-off about "things best left un-noseyed," a Rubbery Man bursts from the door behind her and makes gestures as to invite you inside. The constable – evidently disappointed that she can't instil the value of the Masters' privacy into you – concedes to let you through. The Rubbery Man (dressed in the attire of a kitchenhand, you now notice) closes the door behind you, but stops you when you move to ascend the spiral staircase. This is rather a relief – the spire looked infernally tall.

Listen to the Rubbery Plongeur's explanation

What's all this about, then?

Noticed (Success)

The Rubbery Plongeur, through impressive charades, explains that the Apologist keeps an eye on the up-and-comings of London. It seems that he's taken notice of your escapades (the Plongeur refers to some of its favourites of yours) and is interested in making your acquaintance. You picked a bad time to call, though; he's busy at the minute.

Ask when the Apologist will be back

What's could he be doing that's more important than meeting you?

Confusion (Success)

The Plongeur makes a series of gestures which could mean that the Apologist has squirreled himself away with his poetry. It could also, perhaps, mean that he is away from London: on a dangerous journey to the Khanate on the Something Beautiful — or that he is delivering a sermon up the Stolen River. Perhaps it even indicates some clandestine meeting elsewhere in the Bazaar... It soon becomes apparent that this isn't a translation issue; the Plongeur itself has no clue where its employer is.

Leave— and return later

Who knows how long this character could be away for? GO (0)

Sit on the stair and wait

You came to see the Apologist, and that is what you'll do. Besides, this Rubbery fellow seems like fine company. KICK HEELS

hiding some of the art of him down here:

by scribble specters, the-insouciant-scientist and sunlessveils, respectively!

#pinned post #the apologist #fallen london

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aconflagrationofmyown · 1 year

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A Whole Man is Hard to Find ~ chapter 14

an Elvis Presley fanfic AU

Link to previous chapter here, entire fic so far on AO3

Warnings: the typical universe warnings apply for this chapter, including internalized self hatred, crass verbiage regarding exploitation, blackmailing and threats regarding past prostitution || and my dubious grammar and copious misspells

Well folks, I did it, I made Rosey her very own character. Thank you so much for all the love and support and I do hope y’all enjoy, your feedback and comments mean the absolute world to me ~xoxo Marina🌹

…wondering who I’ll copy, mustering some tender charm, she feels no control of her body, she feels no safety in my arms, I’ve no language left to say it but all I do is quake to her, breaking if I try conveying, the broken love I make to her… ~A.Hozier

They were lying in wait for him in the mess hall, Elvis perceived, and instead of food on the table there were ledgers and memorandums and ink pots, and each with their face in one was Parker, Rosetta, Scotty Moore.

And Rosey. He was pleased Rosetta had stuck by her as requested and that she was serenely marking up her book in the presence of her accused. The food barren table was less pleasing.

Sister Rosetta was leading the current remonstrance against the cost of knocking down more walls in the boats belly in order to expand the stables for all the infernal Federal Equines that would have to be housed aboard if such a trip up river occurred. Elvis hadn’t thought of that, hadn’t had the time as yet, not beyond registering in gloomy dread that such a quantity of horses and food, so many bored men loafing about for a weeks journey to their death, was going to be a nightmare.

And He’d think about that later.

“Why’s there no food on the table when I asked for it?” he inquired, very quietly, at its foot and all the table’s occupants turned to him as if he were a specter.

-“what did Binder want?”

-“don’t ask that”

-“is he really taking your boat?”

-“do all the women really have to leave?”

-“did you…handle him…my boy?”

He caught Scotty making an honest to God survey of the state of his clothing while Rosetta had yet to hush with her million questions disguised as protests. And the Colonel, the Colonel was looking at him with that same old expectancy Elvis had once thought held pride in his capabilities, now he knew it was just that -expectancy. Expectancy that Elvis could pull miracles out his ass at whim, or else achieve them; no doubt using his ass for that as well. That thought struck Elvis so squarely in the soul as the colonel kept looking expectant and he kept looking back, thinking how all this time he had a real father, and one up in heaven to boot.

He wasn’t sure when he’d gotten so lonely this miserable codependence actually felt familial.

Taking advantage of the Colonel's preoccupation with staring his protege down, Rosey reached across the table in the dainty manner of ladies that often doubles as stealth, and snagged his hoarded ledgers out from under his fat forearm. He had been very insistent all this meeting on only reading out his numbers, and would not share the actual written proof with any of them despite her and Mr. Moore’s candor and transparency. Cal left off his clinging to the Captain’s shirt and took a seat, sensing a brewing storm.

“The hell do you think you’re doing, Beaumont?” the man roared, his beady eyed attention suddenly snapping to her as she rose from the table, chair legs squeaking across the floor in her haste, the prized ledger cradled in one arm. Elvis saw her flinch violently from the anger alone before she rallied that old regal haughtier and replied,

“I’m clearing the table for breakfast, sir, surely you heard the Captain’s complaint?” and in this manner both men watched her traipse about the table in self righteous breeziness, gathering up books and papers before disappearing into the kitchen for a brief word with Crudup regarding the importance of haste when it came to food. And burying the ledgers god knows where, Elvis concluded. If he had the energy to feel a damn thing he would have been impressed. Shortly after, the breakfast bell rang and in came more of the crew to seat themselves, all hungry and all asking questions about their imminent displacement.

“My boy, those are my books she took!” the Colonel was still remonstrating with a seated, head in his hands Captain Presley when Rosey reappeared in a cloud of steam, the books in question gone, having been dispersed somewhere amongst the potato peels and eggshells with strict instructions not to give them up, “What have you done with them! Give them back!” there was actual spit flying from the man’s mouth, although Cal was uncertain the Captain noticed, he was staring through his fingers at the empty plate before him, near catatonic in his exhaustion.

“Oh, here. You can have my seat, Miss Beaumont.” Cal piped up at Elvis’ elbow and that made him raise his head, survey the table of crew and his investor, who was currently sprawling in Rosey’s accustomed seat. Thankless fucks the lot of them.

“Gotcha a spot right here, honey.” the Captain’s voice came out rough but his hand was gentle when it landed on her arm and tugged her into his lap in an effortless spin.

She was quick to obey, taken by surprise and eager for the tiniest of his touches, just as he suspected. He allowed his forehead to thud to rest on the nape of her delicate neck and his heavy breaths huffed down her spine. Better than food, better than liquor, better even than fire on a cold night was the feeling of a good woman’s ass cradled on his hips.

And Rosey was a good woman to him in that moment, soley on the merit of having made the food appear five minutes after he arrived, when he was sure it would usually have taken twenty. And it was funny, he thought again for the second time in twenty four hours, that once you know a thing you see it everywhere, and what had once been in his mind adorable, kittenish mischief on her part, he now perceived as an alarmingly calculated ruse to gain her whatever it was she sought. Food, safety, position, ledgers. That old distaste for himself, and the mirror of himself in her, returned.

“The Captain is exhausted” was a statement Rosey contemplated making to the table with each labored breath he puffed down her back, but refrained from doing so for two reasons. Firstly, it would make him look weak.

Secondly, it seemed shockingly obvious to anyone with some sense or intuition, which, none present besides Mr. Moore seemed to share with her at the table. The Colonel kept seething, Rosetta kept remonstrating, Cal was asking when he might be heard and half the crew seated were talking over themselves in true, Tower of Babble form, all asking him what he was going to do.

So she sat quietly meek, near deafened by the den, and let him curl himself behind her and catch his breath, his hands landing heavy on her thighs and that old familiar feeling of him at her back making her want to cry in relief at feeling it again. She stroked and petted the tan hands now interlocked over her lower belly and his wrist twitched in response, a helpless little tremor and she wondered if maybe all the bravery he stoked in her had made her forget to be gentle with him.

It had been Etta’s first rule of conduct when loving Elvis Presley. Be gentle.

Etta said she had run out of gentleness herself, he’d ground it right out of her with his moods and sharp tongue and stubborn pride. The trembling man behind Rosey seemed incapable of any of those awful things she knew him to be.

“Perhaps we might say grace as we wait, Mr. Hodge?” Rosey prodded, just loud enough to be effective and all at once the den quieted and hats were doffed and a couple dozen heads joined the Captain’s already bowed one in prayer.

She liked him best when he was warm and needy and reverent, and he was all those things now, so she petted and stroked his hands as they prayed, and savored the way he didn’t shirk from her and how his nose dug into the top notch of her spine. He was familiar, and forgiving, and unabashed of it in public, even if it was anger or tiredness that made him so brave with her.

A truly monstrous plate of eggs, with pork in various forms of sausage and bacon and ham with jellies and syrups on the side, finally arrived and that made him raise his head. The plate was solely for him, the others having been served, but they were not as interested in food as they were in where their next paycheck was coming from. They had not spent the evening prior fasting from medicinally induced madness and a night sweating it out again. Nor had they just spent an hour closeted in conference with the intolerably sensible Mr. Binder. Rosey alone was gentle and giving in his lap, and he wanted to fall asleep just like this, chin hooked over her shoulder, crew be damned. If only he were not so hungry.

It was awkward to cut sausages with a lady taking up one’s lap, even for a man as capable and dexterous as Captain Presley.

So she took it upon herself to pick up his utensils and carve him a bite, bringing it up to his lips on knife point -as she rightly suspected speed was proffered to etiquette this morning. His gleaming teeth clamped round the meat and blade fearlessly, eyes twinkling at hers the minute the greasy goodness of it hit his tongue. He let out a groan as he began to chew and wiggled his hips beneath hers as if she had given him a taste of…something else.

Rosey’s cheeks flamed scarlet as she felt her body respond as it had been taught to, with a rush of mad warmth and gooey excitement. She glanced about the table and found to both her relief and indignation that no one noticed her shudder, they were still going at it with louder and louder voices. Mr. Moore and Cal alone minded their hash browns with gentlemanly restraint. Swallowing his humongous bite with great effort, the Captain finally looked away from her, down at the tumbler of orange juice at hand and, having drank that, interrupted the Colonel’s continued monologue,

“There will be an announcement and general explanations,” he boomed in her ear and the table settled, his cadence polite but his voice carrying so forcefully there was a hint of a threat there, “and it will be made atop deck, at 8 bells. I expect to see you all there. Until then, I’ll be eatin’ my damn breakfast in peace, thank ya all kindly.” and with that he nodded at her to cut another slice, “An’ go on and get some eggs on that fork ‘fore they get cold.” he whispered, less in secrecy so much as to set the decibel he dearly wished to be copied at table.

The Colonel did not believe this talking veto applied to him, naturally, and so continued on in the more quieted atmosphere, “Those are my papers, she hasn’t any right-“

“She’s got plenty of right to clear the damn table, sir.” Elvis replied through a mouthful of eggs, “In fact, any of the scullery maids have that right. If you’re not gonna eat those biscuits I will.”

“You don’t need more food, overeating is slowing your heart, the doctor says so.” The Colonel bit back.

“Any hope it’s slowing yours, Sir?” Rosey inquired placidly, and heard Scotty snort into his orange juice, much to her satisfaction.

Elvis pinched her inner thigh so savagely in reprimand for that quip she found herself shaking apart, nearly coming unraveled from that intimate touch alone in a shivering, gushing, whining reaction in his lap that neither of them had anticipated but both registered with bewildered potency.

Both of them froze for a moment, her teetering so close to the line from sheer neglect of his touch these past hours that she dared not move lest she breathe a climax into being.

After a moment of forcibly regained composure, Rosey skewered more eggs with heaving bosoms and he adjusted in his seat again, more of a pump this time, and in that uniquely capable way where his upper body appeared motionless to the occupants of the table. Thanks to the movement, or the feeling of being held again, or the savage satisfaction of being petted in front of Parker -Rosey did not know which or if any of these were responsible, but she fell over that edge. The fork she held wavered from its stab amongst the eggs and gave a horrid screech across the porcelain as her capable hand shook, then drug across the plate, and she whimpered out her relief through pursed lips, angry all the while at the inopportune joy her body (or was it his?) had just extracted. Elvis seemed rather angry himself as he took the clattering fork from her hand and set it down, snatching a biscuit from Cal’s plate and holding it her still whimpering mouth,

“Eat, for god's sake, eat, Cricket.” he growled, and she stifled her aftershocks into the warm wheat, the childhood nickname effectively curtailing those last grinding, burning pulses of desire.

Damn him, bless him -she thought, while trying to wave off Cal’s growing concern as she choked on the biscuit.

“You’re a live fuse this morning, dear.” That darling, familiar voice murmured in her ear, low and soothing, “Goddamn tripwire, keep on like this and you’ll blow us all sky high. Settle baby, can’t ya try to settle, for me?” he coaxed and she knew he could feel her lingering tension, that attuned as he was it was affecting him, keeping him high strung and vibrating apart. She focused on the wet splash of pleasure in her bloomers and the sweet caress of his lips behind her ear, so brief a touch she could have thought she dreamed it, but there all the same. It was enough, it had to be enough. He needed her. She settled and took up his fork again, eating the eggs while he contented himself with the bacon, his hand rubbing her belly soothingly.

Damn her, bless her -a woman through and through his Cricket, fuckin creamin herself from a pinch alone, there was no delusion to be clung to anymore that she was some violated child. She was a crafty woman who happened to interest herself in scheming on his behalf. And in between bites of bacon slathered with marmalade and growing irritation that his request for quiet was being deafeningly ignored by his crew, he spared a thought for the abysmal possibility of having turned her against him somewhere along the way. He had behaved horridly enough to warrant it, but he reckoned that she wouldn’t have kept him in much suspense if so, he’d already have his throat cut or his eyeballs gauged out like marbles from a mud pie. He shivered in delight at that thought, only to be tossed back to earth with the snatches of prohibited talk reaching him from over Rosey’s most comely shoulder.

-“you pointed a gun at the boy!”

-“I did not, the child exaggerates, he is on a voyage and reveling in his rebellion, he must embellish what has been a dull journey, no?”

-“and the jewels?”

-“requested by a lady passenger and the Purser was…well, where were you, my dear? You were absent from your post this morning.” Parker, who Elvis found tolerable on a full stomach was grating his last fraying nerve at this rate, and he fully expected Rosey’s to give back as good as she was getting and that made him tired, too. “Are you always so remiss in your duties?” the Colonel went on and Elvis clung to the charming notion that pretty Mr. Binder had bumped that train departure up by a few hours, “Or were you merely attending your true duties, warming a man’s bed?”

“Why didn’t any of the past decades installments buy the captain his boat?” she shot back and Elvis was too weary to feel much upon having Jerry’s quipped gossip confirmed.

“Now see, that is a question worthy of an answer,” the Colonel smiled and Rosey clenched her napkin into a wad in her fist, “you see, Beaumont, there’s something you ought to know about the expenditure rate of this boy’s father-“

“Don’t you fuckin mention my daddy.” tumbled from Elvis lips before he could bite it back, keenly aware he needed to remain passive in this duel.

The Colonel took this rather hard, but blaming his boy’s peevishness on the obvious signs of hangover, he carried on in a different track, “Regarding the business at hand, the women aboard will have to be unloaded.” he addressed himself to the Captain, “And I am offering my protection in taking Miss Beaumont to Memphis with myself on the afternoon train.”

Rosey seemed to turn to a pillar of salt in his lap but Elvis munched on his bacon casually, “Binder done told me your train’s been moved.”

“For the love of god, it drives one to ruin, these time tables-“

“Moved it up.” Elvis mumbled in correction.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, you’ll get outta this shithole just fine.”

“Oh, well then.” The Colonel dug into his pork and beans with renewed appetite.

“And that’s too soon for Rosey to be ready, need her for the severances.” Elvis was the embodiment of ennui, “I’ll send her back later, with Scotty, he’s catchin’ the evenin one.” Elvis shrugged, shelving the subject easy as anything, “Now, if I can have some goddamn peace and quiet.”

“Elvis!” Rosetta insisted, heedless of his command and pointing an accusing finger at his Patron, “This man drew a gun on Calhoun after the boy caught him rifling through Miss Bea- the Purser’s safe, then had the gall to tell the passengers that their possessions weren’t to be found. A check -a sizable check- has since been written as compensation! The gall of this man!” She repeated.

“What are you suggesting, woman?” the colonel snarled.

“I’m suggesting you are a thieving miscreant! Tell the Captain what happened, boy-“

“-I asked for everyone to shut up, if I do recall.” Elvis reminced loudly, entirely ready to play the bastard if it meant getting the Colonel aboard his noonday train, unsuspecting that Elvis had had quite enough of mornings like these.

“He was takin Jewels-“ Cal’s toothless lisp joined in the mutiny.

“Cal, you watch yourself.” Rosey hissed, a panicked whisper that was the highest Elvis had ever heard her voice pitch, true terror having seized her.

“It’s true!”

“Just -enough, for the moment.” Elvis begged the boy to have some self preservation.

“You’re not going to let him get away with this!” Rosetta cried out.

“I said -be quiet.” he repeated.

“You really aren’t interested in the how’s and whys of the boat not belonging to you, after all this time?” Scotty inquired.

“For the love of God-“

“I’m sorry for all the upheaval my boy,” the colonel sighed, “but the army would not be bought from their determination to utilize your boat. We will have fresh acts when you arrive back in Memphis, it will be as if you were never requisitioned, fear not.”

“Silence!” Elvis thought he screamed it.

“You do realize the railway is about to put the whole river carnival business -out of business.” Rosey snarked.

Maybe he was hoarse and they could not hear him, maybe he was drowning and his screams were inaudible through the water, maybe he was merchandise that couldn’t get any fuckin respect at his own goddamn table laden with food he worked to provide.

Crack, crack crack, bang bang bang, pop, pop.

By the time the ringing sound of a pistol being fired right beside her ear had ceased, plasterboard from the bullet riddled ceiling was falling atop Rosey’s stunned head and into the eggs. The Captain pocketed his pistol again with calm relief at the stunned silence that his action had created and continued eating his now ceiling-dusted ham.

“Now, if all you mind your places, do your jobs and show a lil respect,” he intoned whilst chewing, “then all will be well.” and with this injunction, and nine bullet holes in the boat’s ceiling, the breakfast table chatter ceased, for good.

When the breakfast crowd had dwindled down, plates left lest the clatter of clearing them spark off another one man shoot out, and only Rosey left in the Captain’s lap, the Colonel busied himself with prolonging his meal so as to be the last man standing, the last man with the Captain’s ear.

“That check is going to have to be written to the lady whose necklace-“ he began to venture.

“A whole lotta checks are gonna have to be written.” Elvis replied, idly flicking at a stray orange peel, it’s rolling journey across the hills and dales of the table cloth Rosey took great interest in, or pretended to in order not to meet the Colonel’s studious eyes.

It was enough to sit in proximity to him, it was enough to bite her tongue over Cal’s mistreatment, it was enough to learn of the requisition and the embezzling and the false accusations against her own stewardship. It took enough self governance to mildly sit by and watch an orange peel get flicked across a swath of table while a murderer smacked and chewed his food, but if that was what it would take to endear her to Elvis Presley, then my god she would do it.

“A great many checks, gonna be written, at least two months' worth of paychecks for those displaced.” Captain Presley went on, a low grumble in her ear, “Not to mention the damages to the ship acquired by breakin’ down walls to make room for barracks and horses, and ice gear. Gotta find goddamn ice gear in twenty four hours, gonna be ice and growlers in the river this time a’year.”

“What’s the rush to be off?” the Colonel paused in his chewing, his non-existent brows drawn in suspicion at a deadline he himself had not ordained.

“Colonel,” Elvis huffed a laughing lie that was in fact a half truth, “folks are gettin’ slaughtered up north, s’why they’re sendin the soldiers up posthaste. S’why they needed my boat, me -my speed.”

“Ah, is that what Bunder said? I see, well, it makes things clearer,” the colonel shrugged with a lie of his own, “although the conflict has nothing to do with us, yet, if they pay us, why not, eh?”

“Americans gettin’ slaughtered hasn’t anythin’ to do with us?” Elvis repeated.

“No.” The colonel insisted, “And with any luck, the troubles between the natives and settlers will continue after your trip and the railroad will be prevented from materializing for another two decades.”

“What happens in two decades?” Elvis asked, his tone deceptively meek.

“I’ll retire, I suppose.” The Colonel joked.

“Ah, yes. Retirement, the good life.” Elvis pondered and absently stroked the soft hip at his disposal until he remembered he was attempting some sort of ill defined sabbatical from Rosey Beau-…Hodgkins…from Rosey… And her hips. “Hate to break it to ya,” it took all of Elvis’ considerable acting skills to pretend as if it were hateful to impart the following “hate to break it to ya but uh, well, th’railroads gone far past the Minnesota Territory, into the Dakota’s by now. That retirement’s gonna be comin’ up a bit sooner, I reckon.”

The Colonel scowled and thumbed at the greasy corners of his mouth, “It is a pity the army did not allow you to keep the whores or the tables aboard, ferrying men hardly compensates us.” he conceded.

“Mmm, truly.” Elvis agreed adamantly, “But I reckon profit weren’t the reason for you settin’ this lil trip up, ain’t that so, Colonel?”

The Colonel shifted uneasily at being caught and took to studying his boy in a somewhat perturbed manner, finding he had grown rusty at it, those vulnerable blue eyes entirely guarded and that money making mouth a firm, steady line. “Well, I-“ he bought time as he tried to read just how much his boy knew about him deviating the plans, commissioning the boat, wrecking the alliance with Binder.

“Reckon this lil trip must be making someone back in Memphis awfully happy, hmm?” Elvis went on, his tone chillingly sweet and Rosey felt a tad sick upon recognizing it as the same that had been used upon her on occasion, no doubt when he saw through her and was baiting her for more, it was unpleasant to be categorized in the same group as the colonel, for any purpose at all. “You set this trip up didn’t you, Admiral?” Elvis went on in the tone of an excited boy and Rosey held stock still, bewildered and breathless in anticipation to hear the final blow, “You got us a deal with someone in exchange for daddy, didn’t ya? Oh bless you!” and he was then tipping her out of his lap to hug his Benefactor ardently.

Parker spluttered and patted and stroked his boy in sweat-inducing relief that he had not been required to even come up with a cover story, this dreamy eyed idiot had spun one for him, a kind, noble, idealist story -as they always were with him.

“Why, yes, you’ve caught me out.” Parker chuckled with bashfulness Rosey was certain was a cover for his relief as Elvis pulled away at last, grinning at his partner with glinting, crocodile eyes.

“Well, let’s get the ledgers out, we’ve money to spend.” He laughed, carefree and boyish, and flicked his wrist for his erstwhile lap warmer to fetch them from the bowels of Cruddup’s safe keeping.

Rosey let a few grumbles fly once safe in the steamy kitchens, waiting for the ledgers to be excavated by Arthur. She glanced over the railings side where the maids were dumping the slops into the frigid, muddy river. No alligators to be seen.

Just as Mr. Schilling had predicted.

At this rate she would take the colonel leaving on the noon train and her and Cal making it alive till then. If Elvis would find some moderation between stroking her and ignoring her, that would be a lovely bonus.

Crudup gave her a pastry to eat as she copied out the last of the Colonel’s pages she thought crucial for their proof and comparisons, papers precariously shielded from the mess on the wet countertop. She went to tuck the ink wet pages into her blouse when the cook stopped her, a fatherly grin creasing his face as he took them from her and put them in a grain sack instead.

“There now,” he soothed, “if ya end up in da river as you always sayin, dey at least will be safe here, yes?”

“Yes.” Rosey agreed absently, “that -that is a comforting thought, Cruddup.” and returned to the table with the ledgers and more coffee, one to bring discord and the other harmony, whining that the maids had prolonged her absence with displacing the books.

The three of them stayed like that for hours, busy and occupied at the table with papers and letters of introduction and bank notes filled, with a reticent Mr. Moore coming in on occasion for legal witnessing of them. There was a fragile peace here, between the three of them, and Rosey hated every minute of it, feeling lonely in it as she sat across from Parker, signing away what little Elvis still had in money to his dependents and crew and watching as the other column barely received a dent, raising protests from neither man. She bit her lip bloody and slaved away miserably until she observed Elvis, reading glasses uncharacteristically perched on his nose, shaking his leg beneath the table in that old nervous tick and saw him glancing at his watch with an overly fond expression as the hours ticked towards noon.

Suddenly she did not feel so very alone, she had forgotten how well he could act, how little she would know him now if it were not for those tender, aching, desperate moments when his composure cracked and desire painted his face with every emotion known to man.

Otherwise, he was made of marble when he chose. Flushed marble, but marble all the same.

Noonday became a thing they wished for together, a separated communion of sorts across the table.

“Be a dear and take these to Mr. Schilling,” Elvis spoke up at last in a quiet murmur that did not disturb the rustling hush that had descended upon them, casually handing Rosey a sieve of checks, “he’ll be needin’ these about now with the last of the passengers loadin’ off and reparations to be made. You know the deal, don’t argue with ‘em, if they name a fair price, fork it over.”

Rosey took them hesitantly, feeling the weight of Elvis’ dwindling funds in her hands and the Colonel’s hard stare on her. But the Captain didn’t even bother to look up from his writing as she stood to carry out his errand, she chose to consider his disinterest a show of trust in her skill.

“It’s half past eleven, Colonel, they’ll be bringin your trunks up right about now,” he began chatting to his Partner as Rosey moved passed them to leave, giving her a significant look that belied his light tone regarding the luggage and her walk faltered in confusion for a moment, “anythin’ else you need prepared? Want Crudup to fill ya some hot water bottles for the ride to the station?”

“Oh, now that would be nice, my boy…” their voices faded as Rosey exited the mess hall and shut the door after her, bound for the top deck and Jerry Schilling.

It was orderly pandemonium up there, everyone bundled and their noses red and breaths puffing white and steamy in the frigid autumn air. Rosey spared a thought for how much worse the climate of the territories might be before searching out Mr. Schilling in the mass of people. She found Mr. Hodge orchestrating the offloading in his stead, much to her confusion, and having pressed through the crowd with a pleasant yet persistent,

“Staff, let me through please, staff let me through” she got to him and inquired of him as to Mr. Schilling’s whereabouts.

“He ran off thattaway after that young brown boy-“

Rosey took off herself, half eager to be in on whatever mischief those two were up to and the other part of her incensed that the captain couldn’t trust the workings of his ship to a subordinate for a couple hours without abandonment of station occurring. Her ire dwindled as she rounded the curve of the bulkhead and found the two miscreants in its shadow, digging through a substantial amount of high quality portmanteaus. Judging by the size of the waistcoats being scrupulously set aside so as to allow them to rummage at the bottom in peace, Rosey surmised that the embossed “C.P.” on the sides of the luggage stood for Parker, not Presley.

“You idiots.” her voice dipped in admiration and Mr. Schilling spooked, drawing a pistol on her as reflexively as most women scream when getting a scare.

“Jeeesus, Mary an’ Joseph, thank god you’re not him.” he wheezed and thunked his pistol down on the deck.

“Did Elvis ask you to do this?” she inquired hopefully, remembering his significant look upon mentioning the luggage.

“No,” Jerry shook his head, his straw coloured hair frizzy and wild, mimicking the internal state of its barer, “but you was bitchin so much about initiative we thought we’d try our hands at it.”

“He’ll be comin up soon.” she warned while dropping to her knees to do some rummaging herself.

“Yeah, Cal told me his train got moved forward,” Jerry puffed out copious amounts of white steam with every grunt, “thank god for small mercies.”

“What’ve you found so far?” she asked them, thumbing through a journal of deposits with a list of recipients whose high profile names she wished she could memorize.

“A shiny necklace.” Cal grinned, proud and toothless, as he held up a ornate piece of jewelry in his hand -opals set in gold.

Rosey couldn’t help the impulse to kiss the boy’s wind chapped cheeks, much to Cal’s gratification and Jerry’s amusement as the boy kissed her back more ardently than was the common way between teachers and their charges.

“The lil fucker sure takes advantage of any moment afforded him,” Schilling muttured, pocketing a small ledger of gambling tallies he found wrapped in a starched shirt, the numbers suggesting the Colonel had no real genius for blackjack, “kissin’ the Captain’s woman while the Captain’s downstairs with any empty pistol, goin through trunks cause his crush got maligned. It’ll be Divine intervention if the boy makes it passed fifteen.”

“Oh hush.” Rosey pulled away from the fond mauling Cal was subjecting her to, swatting at the snarking second mate, “I think it’s brilliant, absolutely brilliant of him. And you know the Captain is sympathetic to you, Cal,” she insisted vehemently, thumbing at the necklace in question, “he just can’t show a rift between himself and the Colonel right now, it’s precarious, that’s all.”

“He don’t act symfathetic.” Cal grumbled, having taken offense at having not been heard, watching his lady love be seated in another man’s lap and the same man decorating his pancakes with drywall and bullet ricochet.

“Sympathetic.” She enunciated it, “And you can be sure he is, it’s his sympathy assures you’re not buried in some french mission’s schoolyard, dead from maltreatment or starvation, that’s all the proof of sim-pa-thee you should need, and don’t go forgetting it. You mustn’t think him uncaring of what happened to you. Reckon he’s real mad about it deep down.”

Or, at least, she hoped he would be. In the meantime keeping tempers even was of the utmost importance.

It was lucky that she was there to aid in replacing the trunks, the two men folk were useless in reordering them in a tidy, unsuspicious manner that would soothe any plaguing doubts the Colonel might have about his things having been rifled through.

“A man accustomed to snooping through safes will have an eye for misplaced things, you idiots.” she instructed, exasperated and adorable with a pink, sniffling nose and her hair whipping about her face in the northerly breeze, her students taking her admonishments meekly as a result. “Alright, let’s go, come on, let’s go, back to positions before he gets here!” she urged, her heart heavy at having left an entire roll of banknotes behind in the luggage, knowing full well that snooping was allowed but theft would never be approved of by her man.

“Hey! -you there,” Jerry instructed one of the deck hands, “go take this note to the Marshall, and the necklace too, tell him to contact that lady who reported the theft and tell her that her possession has been found. Go, off ya go. And you lot, bring those trunks down to the carriage.”

Mr. Schilling had a remarkable knack for making things move while expending very little personal energy or movement himself, standing on deck in the midst of the swirl. Directing, never hefting himself, and Rosey had to hand it to him that she had been over hasty -he did do his job well, when he bothered with it. She supposed that if Elvis did not exist, if the Mississippi River had the fortune to be running through darkest Africa and was untouched by the Memphis Flash, then maybe Mr. Schilling would be considered one of the more impressive specimens of American manhood.

As it was, he was Captain Presley’s

second mate. “The hell was he shootin at earlier?” he asked her as there was a pause in the bustle and their transactions with the offloading passengers, “spooked the folks millin’ about.”

“Just asked for quiet, is all.” Rosey sighed, “Wasn’t heeded.” she added by way of explanation.

“Ah.” he sympathized and then she saw him squint as the Colonel came lumbering into view up the staircase, Captain Presley keeping a slow pace with him, “Kissin’ ass always puts him in a bad mood. Say, did’ya two make up?” he suddenly inquired.

“Beg pardon?” Rosey feigned haughty ignorance.

“He were madder than hell at you last night,” Jerry replied, “and you knew it. ‘Were cryin about it the whole way home and before -in the washroom with Rosetta.”

“And how would you know what I did in the washroom with Rosetta, Mr. Schilling?” Rosey turned a very arch expression on him, startling herself when she saw the deep blush that dunked the visible skin of his face and neck in deep crimson shame at having outed himself, “Lord,” she gasped before putting a dainty, gloved hand to her lips to regain her composure, “he really has the most bizarre tastes, doesn't he?”

She didn’t believe for a minute it had been Mr. Schilling’s idea to peek and she also realized that as a result both men may have seen her weeping bitterly to Rosetta in her agony of having turned away that offered sin. No wonder the Captain thought her bitter and skittish of his attentions, thought himself boorish and untrustworthy. -He had asked permission to come into his own room this morning.

“No accountin’ for taste.” Jerry agreed blandly, eyeing the friendly way Elvis had his arm around his Partner as they approached, and how he allowed a similar familiarity towards himself, the colonel’s fat arm heavy on the Captain’s trim waist.

“All loaded up?” Elvis inquired congenially of his scowling mate as they arrived at the ramp with its going away party of snooping-Colonel-hating-miscreants.

“Yessir.” Jerry affirmed.

“Excellent.” Elvis took his arm off the Colonel's shoulders to give a clap of fake excitement that not even that conceited fucker belived was genuine. “Well, guess this is farewell, Colonel.”

Rosey had never wanted to force a man to take a nap so badly in all her life. Instead she threw an arm around Cal’s shoulders and gave the Colonel a polite nod, “Goodbye sir, safe journey.” she prompted his exit and the man gave her a studying look before he shook himself and began to step onto the ramp.

“Oh I forgot to mention,” he turned around, saying in that studied way of those who do not forget a thing, observing the little group closely, “word has reached me, my boy, that a certain pardon of yours has gone missing from the federal archives, and with it containing such… sensitive… details, one can only assume it has been retrieved for blackmailing purposes.” Rosey watched as the Colonel’s sugar coated warning registered on Elvis face, that handsome mouth gave his partner a brittle smile as the man went on, heedless, or intentionally, discussing such sensitive matters in a public space, in front of a child, “No doubt it’s the work of Red West yet again, and I don’t want you to fret over it,” he dared yet more, “but I want you to know that the threat is there and while I will be expending all my efforts to keep it from entering the papers, you might implore your crew” and he eyed Jerry and Rosey significantly, “to do nothing that might precipitate such a publication. Think of your father, my boy, the effect on his trial were his son to be publicly liabled as a Nancy, can you imagine? Utterly maligning and preposterous, but you know they might misinterpret your history and, well...the case would be sunk.”

A Nancy -my god, he went there, in front of them all. Rosey suddenly remembered with icy clarity this brazenly cruel way the man had about himself, she recalled vividly the ease with which he had shrugged off battering out Susannah’s brains. In this case he managed to shrug and keep smiling that beady eyed smile while holding a metaphorical knife to his protégé’s throat, while humiliating him before his friends. Something had to die in one’s heart to manage such -pleasure- from others shame, she thought.

“I’ll be sure to think of my father, sir.” Captain Presley’s voice was hollow and rough, his face wearing a dull look of disbelief and Jerry’s head spun like a top on his neck to give him his own look of disbelief at his maintained composure.

“So, with that in mind,” the Colonel pressed his advantage, reveling in the shock of his hated audience, his briefcase tucked under his arm and one foot still on the gangway -

-“Just go you fucker.” Rosey heard Jerry hiss for her ears only.

“-are you sure that was all Mr. Binder wanted, my boy?” the Colonel asked mildly, “He just came aboard to mention the army’s need? He did not complain of having been robbed of a chance with you?”

Elvis stared him down for a moment, letting the man’s inflated confidence begin to ebb in the growing silence before he glanced over to where Cal leaned into Rosey’s embrace, his mouth twisting bitterly at what he was about to do before smoothing again into something quite charming and suggestive as he tilted his head towards the Colonel's as if to share a confidence,

“T’weren’t all he wanted,” Elvis dipped his voice and waggled his eyebrow, “but he didn’t complain for long after I gave it.”

The Colonel’s smile took a little while to form but when it did it was more joyfilled and amused than Rosey would have assumed that horrid creature could look or feel.

“Well, done. Well done indeed, my boy.” The colonel chuckled, and with a satisfied nod he descended the ramp, turning the Captain’s brief and costly victory into a hollow ache which manifested in his watering eyes as the carriage took off and his waving hand fell limp to his side.

Predictably, as the last clatter of hoofs left them all behind in an uneasy silence upon the deserted deck, Cal piped up with gentle curiosity, “What’s a Nancy?”

“An Irishwoman who drinks too much.” Jerry didn’t miss a beat and Elvis choked out a watery laugh despite his misery.

“Oh.”

“Stay away from the bottle,” Jerry urged the boy, “if you ever get taken to court they’ll vote against ya just for being a drunkard.”

“Hell, Jerrah, you’d make a decent father, ya know that?” Elvis laughed again, shaking himself from his gloom and tugging Cal to him in a rough hug.

“So I’ve been telling Miss Beaumont.” Jerry egged on, fully aware and intentional of what rousing benefits his inflammatory tactics were achieving in his brow-beat friend; like pissing on a bullet wound, it served both to heal and amuse.

“Oh damn ya.” Elvis swatted at him, locking eyes with Rosey’s warm ones that seemed so very hurt for him, so very understanding of it all as the wind whipped her curls about her brave face. “Are you alright boy?” he inquired of Cal as he drug his eyes away from that vision of loveliness, the mere absence of the Colonel’s presence aboard suddenly giving him the capacity to give a shit about more than keeping the whole place from blowing up, “He hurt ya or just gave ya a scare?”

“He didn’t hurt me none but he called her a thief and whore!” Cal hugged him back as viciously as he aired his complaints regarding the ill treatment of Rosey’s good name.

“Whores, Nancies…” Elvis’ voice trailed off, “bet he called you somethin’ too, didn’t he?” he deduced with a sad smile.

“Yessir,” Cal shrugged, “but it ain’t the first time I been called a half bree-“

“Hush.” Elvis clapped a hand over his young mouth with gentle firmness, “You’re Calhoun Presley, that’s who you are and what you are is what you do. Remember, that. Ain’t nobody gets to tell you what you are, ya hear me? Yes? Good boy.”

“Presley?” Rosey inquired, a little startled.

“Yes.” The Captain had that bashful smile on his face, like the one he wore when Etta listed his accomplishments and beneficences, “I’m a deacon down at the church in Tupelo, ya see,” he explained with alarming casualness, “it's a matter of procedure for a deacon to take a child or two for fostering. And I took one look at this scamp and thought, ‘hell, that one’s gonna run me ragged, I’d better snag ‘im.’ Ain’t that how it went?”

He consulted Cal for backup on the adoption story and was met with a giggling boy of thirteen instead, who managed nothing particularly useful save more giggles -which is not to say giggling is useless, it was in fact a most important exercise after the hellish strip down by the colonel, but Rosey found it hard to giggle upon learning she’d been sharing a bed with an ordained deacon for the past few months.

“A deacon?” she repeated with a meaningful dip to her voice that had the Captain’s eyes blowing wide in sudden, panicked understanding.

“Yes.” He tried for an easy tone of voice and was rather certain he failed, “Yes a deacon. There’s a lot you folks don’t know about me-“ he rambled, clutching Cal close and milking his mouth with the other hand, “In fact. Uh, Jerry, regarding what the Colonel said there, uh, I reckon there’s something I should tell you about, just in case it blows up-“

“I already knew you were a drunken Irish woman.” Jerry codedly halted any of the Captain’s heartfelt confessions that were simmering to the top.

“Oh.” the Captain's mouth hung open for a beat as Cal’s head swiveled back and forth between the three adults, trying to get a read on the situation. “When? -all this time? You sunnuvabi-“

“Such language from a deacon of the church!” Rosey was quick to intervene, a helpless smile pulling at the corners of her soured mouth as Jerry put his hands up placidly.

“Quite right.” Elvis conceded, some of the old, breathtaking gallantry that had first suprised, then charmed her, coming out despite his weariness.

His eyes flicked from hers back to Jerry with a puzzling glance before giving up on that score for the time being, “Well,” he rallied, “now we’ve exorcized the ship, how bout we get to business?”

“What's next, boss?”

“Officers meetin’ first, I reckon, then onto addressin’ the crew.” he decided after a pause, surveying the abandoned deck, the last of the passengers offloaded, “Reckon we should figure out how we’re gonna provide for ‘em all before we dump in St Louis of all places.”

“The army didn’t pay in advance?” Jerry didn’t mean it so much as a question as just a -observation, Rosey supposed.

“Oh they did, they’re payin’ for the coal, all two tons of it.” Elvis snarked and Rosey groaned audibly at the thought of how much of his profits would go into paying the crew for a month's severance. Severances that he would not be making up in profit from the trip.

“Right, well,” the Captain and Rosey shared a look of mutual exasperation before he rolled his eyes and shrugged his ruination off, “Cal, you go down and fetch Mr. Moore, don’t make a scene of it, we don’t want everyone evesdroppin’ on us, and Jerry go fetch Lamar and Bill and Rosetta. Uh, to my office, I think. I was reminded I have one this morning.”

“You got it, boss.” Jerry laughed while collaring Cal and hauling him away from the warmth of Elvis’ embrace, down to convene the others.

Rosey found herself alone with Elvis for the first time that day since the heated bout of confessions and -whatever all it was that had occurred between them when he came to her in those early hours of the morning. Alone, if one can be alone when standing atop a shipboard of souls with an open firmament above one’s head.

He was pensive, the Captain, watching the fellas disappear down the hatch before turning and leaning his weight on the boat’s railing, looking outward. Staring out at the city's gloomy skyline, the breeze tufting and lifting his black locks from his sweaty forehead, his eyes keen and sharp over his noble nose. She thought he looked every inch a Captain of marble and pigment, something too romantic and stunning to be real until a touch confirmed he was very real, both fragile and strong as only mortals can be. Perhaps that’s why he was always touching, always allowing touch. It made him more real.

She hesitated, whether to leave him be and join the others, or keep him company. She wasn’t sure she was company he wanted at this moment, and irresolute she stood there poised towards the hatch when she heard him call gently,

“Don’t you got just yet, Rosey.”

He wasn’t looking at her when she snapped her attention to him, he was already back to staring straight ahead, but she needed no other encouragement.

She chose to lean beside him, her hand nearly brushing his on the railing and watched the dismal drizzle in the distance pelt the southside of St Louis, moving towards them. “What are you thinking on?” she whispered, knowing he wasn’t pondering rain or rooftops.

“I’ve really done it this time.” his voice was soft and his lips barely moved as some shocked sort of awe had taken hold of him.

“What have you finally done?” she pressed, looking up at him earnestly.

“Cut the damn rope.” he whispered, eyes wide and vast in their absence of focus, “This really was…farewell.”

The Colonel.

He was speaking of Parker and Rosey dared not offer a heartless cheer nor an insincere condolence for the loss of the parasite. Finding Elvis strangely absent from his own face, her eyes dropped down to their hands, now speckled with raindrops and tentatively moved her own tiny one atop his, blanketing his knuckles. Without a trace of hesitation he spread his fingers wide and weaving her own between his, clamped them shut, intertwined together.

The differences in size, structure and texture of their hands made her smile, a small, silly little smile that is common amongst those who love without explanation. But it was the gesture that soothed her most. She grew brave and leaned her head against his shoulder and the whole of him hummed in response, swaying closer, a burning furnace of a man in the frigid weather that his thoughts had prevented him from feeling.

“It’s just a matter of him findin’ out what I’ve done, then he’ll set to ruin me.” he spoke up again after a moment, sounding steadier despite his dire prediction, and the rumble of his voice buzzed her cheek where their flesh joined, “And it’s take your pick as to which way he finds out I’ve undercut him. Either he learns Binder’s sniffing out his business and the councilmen’s too, or he learns I ain’t sending ya down, cause I’m not, you realize that? I’m not sendin’ ya down to Memphis to get pulled apart, not unless you want me to have Scotty drop ya off in Helena or such?”

He turned his head to look at her then, her little face pressed to the now damp sleeve of his arm and her eyes locked on him like he was her father, her brother, her provider, all in one in whom she trusted.

Which, upon reflection, Elvis reckoned he was. In theory.

“We’ve spoken of this before. Helena isn’t on the way to Memphis, it’s past Memphis.” she smiled, warmly chiding at his logic, and it soothed him like hot milk in the gut, “And I’ve no wish to be parted from you.”

“Off to the territories then.” he declared, though his voice lifted in the end as if he couldn’t help but question her resolve.

“Let us to hell, if you say it.” she shrugged against him, icy wind cruelly whipping her cheeks into that blooming splash of color that had earned the darling girl her name.

He took his hand from the railing and thumbed at the apple of one cheek, watching with tender satisfaction as her eyelashes fluttered at the touch. “I warn ya, with a boat full of men, and headed to such a wild place, I’ll be locking you below, you won’t see the horizon for weeks. I ain’t kiddin’ dear, I mean it,” he was adamant despite her lack of protest, “I ain’t gonna let them get a glimpse of you and start trouble. You promise to heed me?”

“Course, Elvis.” she murmured, droopy eyed and worn to submission.

His thumb fluttered over her lashes, petting at the blue veined lid of her eyelids as she closed them, hugging his arm to her chest contendly.

Things seemed very simple to him here and now, he wondered if this calm they achieved together was a fragile delusion or nearer to the reality of things than anyone ever wanted them to know. Left alone together they could craft some frisky utopia that would startle the world, for generations after them. The bare bones of it, of them, was good. He wondered if that was enough, or if circumstances and time and scars were truly so detrimental as to warrant years wasted in grief and distrust.

“Thank you.” he managed to rasp, his heart near oozing at the gentle set of her features beneath his hand.

“What for?” those sober eyes popped open, eager, hopeful.

“For letting me handle it my way.” he acknowledged every pained second she had sat beside her enemy, every double cross act Elvis had engaged in and that she defended, while she remained the butt of the joke and the temper besides. “Thank you.” he repeated thickly, cupping her cheek and slowly lowering his lips till they brushed her forehead, hot and pillowy.

“Thank you.” she whispered in turn, tears starting to form now the time for strength had passed and he was found still to be gentle and kind, her nemesis gone and considered an adversary at last, “-For forgiving me.”

“Yeah.” he sniffled, lifting his gaze back to the skyline and biting his lip, not yet ready for more.

She wanted to ask him how much he knew of his enemy, what he thought of him now, if he believed her at last. What had changed his mind. But his mind was not so simple, folks were not all bad and ills were not all evil in his inner thoughts. If he were otherwise she herself would be overboard. With that sobering reflection she let the topic lie for the time being.

“Cal found the necklace in the Colonel’s trunks.” she couldn’t help herself, not in that regard.

“Hmm.” He seemed unmoved either by the discovery or the snooping, “Scotty says he’s up to his eyeballs in debt. I’ve no idea how, he doesn’t spend it on ice or coal or wages. Colonel says every installment I made for this boat was redirected into providin’ for the expenditures of my father’s fancy new wife.”

Vernon’s wife was neither new, nor particularly fancy, but she spent money like it was chaff and to a poor boy having sold his soul to get home, finding her strange face in his father’s doorway upon returning was reason enough for lasting animosity. Elvis could not forget that icy shock at learning the home he’d tried so desperately to reach was no longer his own, nor had he been particularly missed or pined for by those still living in it. Where once he had been his father’s pride and joy, he was replaced by two young ones who’s bright eyes and eager innocence he could not match with his bruised lips and drunken, limping sullenness.

Hating one’s father was a sin, but nothing had been mentioned in the good book about hating one’s step mother. As it stood, Elvis paid for that woman’s finery and pleasure for nearly a decade now with little complaint, it was just galling to find that he had paid for even more than he knew.

“If I were a betting woman I’d wager those funds made it into the pockets of Parker’s card dealers.” Rosey chanced a hint.

“Probably.” he agreed without hesitation.

“We ought to get Binder to agree to providing you with a new boat.” Rosey’s sensibilities cut through his fog of bitter reminiscence. “It ought to be in the contract. If he wants you to win, he ought to give you the tools.”

“Well ain’t you clever,” he cooed, looking her over like she was a curiosity, girlish scheming and wily sense all blended in a charming little package, “that’s precisely what we were hashin’ out in the office.”

Rosey studied him for a moment upon hearing this and his blood rose to his cheeks upon realizing she was trying to discern if he was telling the full truth, “Darlin’ I was just…just pacifyin’ the colonel, goin’ on like that. I’d never, I’d not- not anymore-”

“I know that.” she snapped at him as if angry at anyone, even himself, for suggesting it, “But did he threaten you?”

“No.” Elvis shook his head and thought of her pardon, lying light and freeing in his pocket. He’d save it, he thought, for her birthday. Or as a wedding present. “Not at all.”

“Good.” her little chin jutted out strongly and with decisive approval. “Should we-“ she nodded her head towards the hatch as the rain began to pelt down on them both, “-join them? For the meeting? Your office?”

“Oh.” he shook himself as if quite having forgotten more than her cheek against his arm and the departing specter of his erstwhile benefactor. “Yeah, yeah we should.”

He offered her his arm in earnest and together they went down into the dry confines of the boat, shivering like wet children caught out playing, unable to let go of their grip on each other’s hand.

They entered the office in that manner, none but Rosetta bothered to comment upon it and hers was regarding the dripping clothes and pallid shivers.

“It’s rainin out there.” Elvis replied helpfully and pulled out a desk chair for Rosey before helping himself to a seat. “Where’s Cal?”

“With Hodge,” Jerry replied, “did you want him here, I th-“

“-no, no, Hodge is a good man.” Elvis muttered from behind the hand he held to his mouth, “but when this place is crawlin’ with soldiers, I demand that all of you look out for each other and mind my curfews. Honorable men the majority of our guests, I’ve no doubt. But it only takes one. And I ain’t got one of you I'm willin’ to see harmed. That understood?” and he looked pointedly at Rosey and Sister Rosetta.

“Yes sir.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Now, we’ve got a nasty business of turning away more than half the crew.” Elvis straightened in his chair, “Compensation must be issued and letters of recommendation must be written, all before sunrise tomorrow.”

“What happens at sunrise?” Lamar balked at the hour.

“Loadin’ the troops up.” Elvis replied, “and the minute they’re boarded I want this place stowed and rigged for a race. Cause we gonna have us a lil one.”

“Oh Lord have mercy on us-“ Rosetta moaned.

“I’ll count on you to intercede that we win.” Elvis smirked, “Cause if I don’t, this’ll be the last trip we ever make together.”

A sobering silence fell upon everyone for a moment.

“Have you-“ Sister Rosetta seemed too jaded to hope, except for the wild shimmer in her coal black eyes.

Rosey realized someone here had been hoping for this longer than she.

“I’ve gone an’ cut ties.” Elvis confirmed with a sober nod that cut short Jerry’s whoop of celebration, “And when Colonel finds out, it’s gonna get ugly. I’d prefer that he not find out until means can be obtained for my father’s release, but apparently I’m a fool for hoping to that end.” and he shot Scotty a sour expression as if Scotty invented such news solely to chafe him, “So we must expect no help from Parker from now on, which means our money is gone, quite gone once we give the severances.” he stippled his fingers on the desk top before addressing himself to his reflection in the polished cherrywood top, “So we will be left with only the boat, and that ain’t very clearly ours. To which purpose Mr. Binder and Mr. Moore have devised a wickedly clever scheme.”

And with that cliffhanger he stalled and Mr. Moore found himself the center of eager attention.

“Well sir?” Sister Rosetta demanded, “You’ve a way to maintain collateral?”

“The boat,” Scotty agreed with a nervous flick of his eyes towards his silent friend, “and what little will be left in money.”

“Money is all in Memphis now, but we could wire it here,” Elvis explained, still not looking up, smudging his finger in circles on the desktop, “which will alert him to our maneuvers but will ensure we’ve money for daddy’s bail. It’s a start. And a start is all we get in a race -the rest is skill. But mostly, mostly just grit. The ability to endure.”

“Why have we never tried wiring money before?” Jerry asked the valid question sitting on the tip of Rosey’s tongue.

“Hell, don’t look to me man, you’re the damn lawyer.” The Captain merrily pitched Me. Moore to the lions.

“It-it would take some -adjustments.”

“What kinda adjustments?” Sister Rosetta demanded.

“Mr. Moore, those funds and possessions, such as the boat, they can only move to Mr. Vernon if the Captain’s assets are freezed.” Rosey cut in, puzzled and fretful they’d gotten ahead of themselves.

“Yes.” Scotty nodded with anxious vigor, casting one last appealing glance at his implacable friend before blabbering out, “Which is unthinkable with his current imprisonment and his expenditure rate-“ he trailed off as Elvis shot him a look of warning, “-it would require creating another…next of kin.”

“Creating…kin?” Lamar was intrigued by the sheer opaqueness of the argument.

“It happens all the time,” Scotty laughed nervously, “each time a boy falls in love with a girl.”

“What in God's name are you on about?” Rosetta sounded truly angry and Rosey studied her, curiosity piqued as to the nature of her outrage. “That man has

whelped no children.” she declared, pointing at the Captain, and Rosey found herself breathing easier despite her previous lack of suspicion on that account.

“No,” Scotry agreed, “but, umm, God once fashioned kin from a rib, you see, and sometimes in the wild-“

“Mr. Moore thinks I oughta marry so the wife’ll get my shit when I kick the bucket.” Elvis summarized tersely.

Silence followed for a few beats. Half the room seemed a little confused as to why their opinion on matrimony was even being asked, while the other half were rather heatedly invested in either calling it a disenfranchisement of the holy sacrament of marriage, or else eyeing each other heatedly across the desk to see if the other truly meant it.

“You’d make a mockery of it and expose that girl to the-“ Rosetta was defending Rosey’s case hotly -for who else was a candidate aboard?- while Rosey herself attempted to whittle a lifetime's worth of romantic expectations down to basic, common, monetary sense.

If only his eyes were less blue, it might hurt less to marry for money.

And she knew then that it was irony at its most poetic, that the man she had once schemed to trap for his riches she now took offense against for marrying her to save enough dough to bail his father. She owed it to him, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have wished for something a little more -girlish, idyllic, loving.

Something like what her mother and Maddy and Miss Gladys had told her wooing and marriage was supposed to be like. Supposed to be. There lay the truth. So far, little of Rosey’s womanhood had resembled the gentility of those women’s early, prewar years.

Everyone was arguing now, while these two stared at each other. Even Lamar had opinions on marriage, boiler expertise or no, everyone had a thought about money and about marriage. It reminded her of the breakfast table and she rolled his eyes, just to make his mouth twitch in a brief smile. He leaned forward, hunching over the desk and she mirrored him. They met halfway, heads put together.

“Strictly legal, just a paper, a-a-and a n-name change, i-if you want it.” he whispered urgently, his hands clattering across the desk to grab her nerveless ones, “Strictly legal and I don’t want no one to know bout it, outside this room, you understand? It’ll be like nothin changed.” he assured, devoutly earnest.

She did not want things to be like nothing had changed. She wanted a husband and a name she could wear with safety and legality, a man who would marry her and take her and bed her with pride. Elvis took her wavering for fear, or hesitance, at becoming his wife.

“I’d not ask it of ya if it weren’t so dire,” he begged, low and raspy for her ears only while everyone argued about them, regarding consummations and the assumed science of bank notes being rolled up and wired through a telegraph wire, “I can’t care for you, provide for you without a boat, Rosey, and without Binder’s interest in it.”

“And this’ll gain us that?” she asked, her voice flat and his heart squeezed a little, he wasn’t sure what over, some pity for that little girl she once was, maybe.

“Yes.” he vowed, “It will. And there ain’t no one else I trust to take care of mine if ought happened to me on the trip.”

“The tri-“ her quick mind put together the missing details of his alliance with Binder, “-you mean for this to happen…soon?”

“Yeah uh, so there’s gonna be a magistrate at the city hall at about eight o clock.”

“Tonight?” she nearly whimpered.

“Yeah, honey, tonight.” he eyed her, “C’mon now, babydoll,” he coaxed, “it’s gonna be like nothin’ changed. Be before a judge, not before God, just name signed and -and my money over to ya. You’ll be gettin a winning hand outta this any which way. Hell, you can divorce me or kill me and you’ll still get it.” he teased but found his little friend was swallowing down a load of grief instead of laughing along in her usual way.

“Alright.” she nodded, glancing sideways at Rosetta who was too busy haranguing Scotty regarding the sanctity of oaths to prevent her from this oath of her own. “Alright I’ll, I’ll do it, I’ll marry ya.”

“Thank you!” he gasped, a rush of sudden emotion taking over him as he seized her hands and brought them to his lips, peppering her cold knuckles with kisses. “Ain’t it funny,” he murmured against them as she stared back, eyes shimmery with melancholy, “me askin’ this of ya…and come to find out, you’re my oldest friend, Cricket. Like a providence really.”

Rosey had to agree, God was in it somewhere, wether in blessing or cursing was yet to be seen.

#elvis fanfiction #a whole man is hard to find #chapter fourteen #mine #elvis fanfic #elvis imagine #austin butler elvis #elvis x oc #Elvis x Rosey #elvis x y/n #elvis x reader #elvis smut

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fantomcomics · 9 months

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What's Out This Week? 8/9

The Summer is winding down, but the comics are still hotttt

Akane-banashi GN Vol 1 - Yuki Suenaga & Takamasa Moue

Akane unintentionally stirs up the specter of scandal when she's discovered taking informal lessons from her father's former teacher, Shiguma Arakawa. But she's about to make even bigger waves, because her first step in climbing the ranks of rakugo performer from zenza opening act to shin'uchi headliner is exchanging her secret lessons for formal training. And she'll still have to finish high school and navigate her relationship with Shiguma's existing apprentices, all while learning that becoming a stellar rakugo performer takes much more than just being good at performing!

The Ambassadors GN Vol 1 - Mark Millar & Frank Quitely

You've cracked the superhuman mystery and can give superpowers to six different people around the world. Who do you choose? The world's greatest and most ambitious superhero comic needs the world's greatest comic book artists. FRANK QUITELY, TRAVIS CHAREST, OLIVIER COIPEL, and an international line-up of superstars step forward to introduce an all-new cast of characters from MARK MILLAR's latest Netflix sensation.

Comic Books Kill #1 - Shane Berryhill & Hoyt Silva

NONSTOP. NYC. 1939. Comics creator Jack Levi places his life and career on the line when he begins an affair with the femme fatale lover of his mafia boss publisher. Comic Books Kill! is a crime noir tale of myths, mistresses, and mobsters sure to thrill fans of Kirby, Brubaker, and Phillips.

Damn Them All TP Vol 1 - Simon Spurrier & Charlie Adlard

After the death of Ellie's uncle Alfie, an infamous magician and occult detective, the 72 devils of the Ars Goetia are mysteriously freed from their infernal realm. It's now up to her to track down each of these demons and damn them right back to Hell... using holy water, conjuration, or just her trusty, rusty claw hammer.

Meanwhile Dora, a detective traumatized by the same events as Ellie, is suspicious of the untimely death of Alfie. As new terrors unfold, the two witness strange changes to the political landscape of Britain: a gibbering madness infecting the population. Alfie's meddling made more than just the mortal realm a nightmare, so it's up to Bloody El to set things right... with only eternity at stake.

The Enfield Gang Massacre #1 (of 6) - Chris Condon & Jacob Phillips

The THAT TEXAS BLOOD duo returns to Ambrose County, Texas with an all-new MINISERIES set 150 years in the past!

Gunslinging action meets dark frontier drama in this original Western thriller, as Montgomery Enfield and his gang of outlaws find themselves in the crosshairs of an aging Texas Ranger and a newborn county that's hungry for law.

Finders Creatures GN Vol 1 - P. Knuckle Jones

Meet detective-in-training Finder and her friends as they try to figure out why everyone in Belly Acre Bog has disappeared in this hilarious mystery graphic novel! Finder the tree frog absolutely loves solving mysteries. So when all the animals in Belly Acre Bog mysteriously disappear overnight, Finder and her friends Chopper and Keeper are toad-ally on the case. But when Seymour Warts, the world's greatest detective and Finder's hero, arrives on the scene and begins his own investigation, the young creature finders soon realize that this mystery could be even bigger than their little bog!

Ghost Book GN - Remy Lai

Twelve years ago, the boy and the girl lived. But one was supposed to die. July Chen sees ghosts. But her dad insists ghosts aren't real. So she pretends they don't exist. Which is incredibly difficult during Hungry Ghost month, when the Gates of the Underworld open and ghosts run amok in the living world. When July saves a boy ghost from being devoured by a hungry ghost, he becomes her first ever friend. Except William is not a ghost. He's a wandering soul wavering between life and death. As the new friends set off to return William to his body, they unearth a ghastly truth-for William to live, July must die. Inspired by Chinese mythology, this dark yet hopeful tale about friendship, sacrifice, and the unseen ghost world is a dazzling heir to Studio Ghibli classics.

Hexware TP Vol 1 - Tim Seeley, Zulema Lavina & Mirka Andolfo

Why sell your soul...when you can buy a new one?

In a corporate-ruled city where class inequality is greater than ever, a desperate, lonely populace is drawn to neo-spiritualism and hedge magic. When their teenage daughter is murdered, the Marks family is left asking the gods what they did to deserve this. But their android maid, Which-Where, has a different approach. Perhaps if she asked the devil...

Now, to pay the price, a machine with the soul of a teenage girl must hunt down souls who have escaped from hell. But on the way, she and her only friend, Ren, discover a vast conspiracy threatening to burn the last civilization to the ground. Can Which-Where keep her soul with her humanity on the line?

Mech Cadets #1 (of 6) - Greg Pak, Takeshi Miyazawa & Ian Herring

General Park-head of Sky Corps Academy-must assemble a team of heroes to protect humankind from alien invasions, and Stanford Yu, Maya Sanchez, Frank Olivetti, and Park's own daughter Olivia may have been pulled into the role by fate... as they are Earth's best hope.

But there is more to their relationships with the symbiotic, sentient giant Robos they pilot... and the alien threat of The Sharg is far more epic and widespread than any could imagine!

While Mech Cadets makes a fresh debut for new readers and viewers, long-time fans can delight in having more adventures after the long awaited collection of Mech Cadets Book One!

Oblivion Song Compendium TP - Robert Kirkman, Lorenzo De Felici, & Annalisa Leoni

The entire series, collected in a single volume for the first time!

A decade ago, 300,000 citizens of Philadelphia were suddenly lost in Oblivion. The government made every attempt to recover them, but after many years, they gave up. Nathan Cole...won't. He makes daily trips, risking his life to try and rescue those still living in the apocalyptic hellscape of Oblivion. But maybe...Nathan is looking for something else? Why can't he resist the siren call of the Oblivion Song?

Paul Bunyan: The Invention Of An American Legend GN - Noah Van Sciver & Marlena Myles

Did you know that a mainstay of American folk culture was in fact created as an advertising ploy? Few people realize that Paul Bunyan, the legendary lumberjack, and his blue ox are the product of corporate marketing by a highly industrialized industry. Cartoonist Noah Van Sciver shows us the myth creation as real life marketing man extraordinaire W.B. Laughead spins ever more wondrous tall tales. Van Sciver's story is bracketed by rich contributions from contemporary Native artists and storytellers with a very different connection to the land that the Bunyan myths often conceal. Readers will see how a lumberjack hero, a quintessential American fantasy, captures the imagination but also serves to paper over the seizure of homeland from First Peoples and the laying bare of America's northern forests. It's a tall tale with deep roots... in profit-making!

Plush TP - Doug Wagner, Daniel Hillyard & Rico Renzi

Serial-killing, cannibalistic furries! PLASTIC and VINYL creators DOUG WAGNER & DANIEL HILLYARD are back. This time, they've recruited colorist extraordinaire RICO RENZI for their disturbing "neon-horror" spin on fursuit psychopaths and bizarre love. In PLUSH, Devin Fulcher is coerced into attending his first furry convention. When he accidentally happens upon a group of furries devouring a human, the insanity begins. Do they just want Devin for dinner...or something much more wicked?

Skeleanor The Decomposer HC - Emily Ettlinger

An instantly charming and vivid chapter-book graphic novel, starring a music-obsessed skeleton, Skeleanor, and her quest to find her sound (and her confidence) by debut creator Emily Ettlinger. Skeleanor loves music more than life itself. There's just one problem: She has a bit more rattle than rhythm at the moment. No matter what type of instrument she plays-from the fiddle to the xylobone-she always seems to scare the people of Little Casketon away. But with the Little Casketon Summershine festival coming up, and the town band missing a player, maybe Skeleanor (along with the help of her best friend, Batima) could show people her skills and finally take center stage.

Summer Ghost The Complete Collection GN - Otsuichi, Yoshi Inomi & loundraw

Based on the critically acclaimed animated short film about three high schoolers' supernatural coming-of-age! There's an urban legend that claims the ghost of a young woman will appear if you set off fireworks in a certain abandoned airport. Three high school students are united by their shared desire to meet this ghost-and each of them is close to death. What happens when they come together one fateful summer night as the boundary between life and death grows thin?

The Summer Hikaru Died GN Vol 1 - Mokumokuren

Two boys lived in a village: Yoshiki and Hikaru. The two did everything together...until the day Hikaru was encompassed by a mysterious light. That was when everything changed-Hikaru most of all. Yoshiki still wishes from the bottom of his heart to always stay by his side...but is there even a Hikaru left to be with?

The Madness #1 (of 6) - J. Michael Straczynski, Aco, & David Lorenzo

In THE MADNESS, Sarah Ross has been using her power as a thief, stealing from the rich and...well, keeping it. Until the day she stole from the wrong person, a highly placed official who pressures the government to assassinate her. The plot, aided by so-called "good" superheroes sponsored by the government, misses her but wipes out her family. Driven mad by grief, and laser-focused on revenge for the murder of her family, Sarah and a hidden side of her personality - an imaginary friend who may be more real than she believes - goes after these superpowered operatives determined to take her revenge, at any cost.

Us TP - Sara Soler, Silvia Perea Labayen & Joamette Gil

Us is Sara and Diana's love story, as well as the story of Diana's gender transition. Full of humor, heartache, and the everyday triumphs and struggles of identity, this graphic memoir speaks to changing conceptions of the world as well as the self, at the same time revealing that some things don't really have to change.

Vampirella/Dracula RAGE #1 - Christopher Priest, Christian Rosado & Lucio Parrillo

NO MORE MS. NICE VAMPIRE!

They're coming for her baby. They're going to murder him before her eyes. And then she's going to kill every last damn one of them. Picking up where Vampirella: Year One left off! In an unprecedented turn for our titular heroine, Vampirella/Dracula: Rage presents Vampirella as you've never seen her before. Inconsolable grief yields to irreducible rage as Vampirella tracks the cultists who threaten her son across Europe and America, unsettling political and economic alliances and unraveling the global network of the baby's father - Dracula.

In a macabre exchange of norms, it is Dracula, the Lord of Vampires, hunting the elusive Vampiri, trying to save Vampirella from herself - or, more precisely, to save her from becoming like him. To this end, Dracula recruits Victory, once Vampirella's closest friend, to act as his ersatz Renfield while they try (and fail) to anticipate the next moves of a woman whose anger has now completely consumed her.

WYND Book Three: The Throne In The Sky GN - James Tynion IV & Michael Dialynas

The land of Esseriel is a darker and more dangerous place than ever, as tensions between the Human and Faerie realms build to the brink of war. Could Wynd be the only hope for peace?

Danger, betrayal, and even some romance confront our heroes at every turn, while elsewhere, the Duke makes murderous plans of his own. Things seem dire, but help from an unexpected figure might just be the lifeline Wynd and Merien need... even though the final battle draws near.

Whatcha checking out this week, Fantom Fam?

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lonelypep · 1 month

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as anyone who has tried to learn an art could tell you, your taste in the craft will always accelerate faster than your actual skill. and now, dear tumblr users, i have reached this point. my taste has risen meteorically, and is now exploring the cosmos. my actual skill at anything has been left choking on pathetic, earthling dust.

as such, the specter of perfectionism has once again reared its head.

it sits at the helm of my creative synapses, acting as an infernal judge dictating the quality of everything i make. and unfortunately, the specter is a pessimist, a real “glass half-empty” sort of guy.

in a lot of ways, i’m a real hypocrite. i’ve encouraged nearly everyone i’ve met in the past year to pursue some sort of creative effort. and when they jokingly retort “oh id only make garbage,” id unleash my whole spiel on the topic: “it doesn’t have to be good! self expression is important! the greatest poets were spitting drivel at first! van gogh’s first painting is probably a complete piece of shit!”

and then, after the spectral, infernal judge/helmsman hasnt sent anything good out in a while, a second ghost, that of self doubt creeps in. and i question if i even enjoy making, if im so obsessed with the result. have i chosen the wrong profession? have i ever had an original thought in my entire life?

it’s time i mention the most popular thing ive ever posted on this website: a complete ranking of every super smash bros character, ranked by how good of a meal i think they would bring to a potluck.

i got the idea for this post after babysitting my young cousins, playing super smash bros with them. after a while, i got a character with a charge move, and said “hang on, let me cook for a bit.” they’re young, so they took this completely literally with “you’re not cooking anything.”

the entire night i was plagued, thinking about what smash bros characters would actually cook meal-wise. i wrote the entire thing in 2 hours, and i was sloppy with it. i got the numbers for the characters wrong multiple times, and i didn’t even go back and fix it. and yet it’s my most popular post, it has over a thousand notes.

my point is that your best ideas aren’t something that will shine on you like the light of god. they’re things that you’ll randomly think of while sitting on the toilet, which is even better than the light of god i think. and there’s value in all of your ideas. not just value for random tumblr users, but value for yourself.

originality is overrated anyways. i haven’t necessarily said anything original here, but it was worth it to me! i’ve reasoned through a writer’s block! i’ve made a thing! it’s worth it to me!

just make things. every single idea a person can have is precious. it’s all valuable in some way. you’re creative, even if you don’t know that yet. you’re an artistic genius whether you like it or not, you simply have no choice. so just make.

and i don’t think this essay will solve all block forever. obviously not. i’ll be scorned by the evils of perfectionism again. probably later today. but just do what you need to, take a break, take a walk, rewatch everything everywhere all at once, take a tumblr break. this is fun, remember?

#rudimentary pretentious essay #mini essay #essay #essay writing #personal essay #in this essay i will #my essays #i’ve said essay too many times now it has no meaning #art #poetry #writing #creative writing #creative inspiration #creative process #creativity

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scarletsaphire · 7 months

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Tucker enters an inventing competition with his newly finished Ghost Suppressor. Unfortunately, the non-Amity Park judges don't recognize its value until they see first hand just how helpful it is.

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Ectoberhaunt day 9: robot

"A three out of ten?" Tucker said in shock, looking down at the paper the judge had handed to him. "Why is it a three out of ten?" Tucker looked up at the judge, whose face was stone cold. "You all said it yourself, it's the best feat of underage engineering this contest had ever seen!"

"While it may look technically impressive," the judge snuffed. "...it is completely impossible to verify your claims. Furthermore, it does not fill the brief."

"It totally fills the brief!" Tucker protested. "I use this thing, like, every day back home!"

"I'm sorry, but I fail to see how you could possibly use a 'ghost suppressor' every day," the judge replied. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other entries to score. Ones that actually meet the qualifications."

Tucker gripped the paper with his score on it almost hard enough to tear it. "Dumb non-Amity Parkers. Don't understand just how useful this thing is." He turned back around to the "Ghost Suppressor" he'd entered into the contest. Tucker had first built it from one of the Fenton's Specter Deflector's; it was a useful device, but its electric shocks and limited range made it much less user friendly. Especially when that user happened to be a physically inactive best friend of a half ghost. His new and improved Ghost Suppressor was able to detect ghosts in a radius, and dissuade ghosts from using their abilities through a much more humane means: obnoxious, remixed, Box Ghost declarations of fear. (It did not work against the Box Ghost himself, but that was ok. No one needed help dealing with good ol' Boxy.)

He'd brought the Ghost Suppressor (her name was Rebecca) with him to school to show off to Danny and Sam, but Tucker's long term friendship with Danny had infected him with the terrible Fenton luck. Skulker had decided that that was a wonderful time to bust through the wall during lunch, activating the Ghost Suppressor in front of the entire student body. And the lunch lady. And half of the teachers.

Luckily, it had been highly effective! (Danny transforming to lead Skulker away may have been an additional deterrent, but there were definitely a number of statements about that "infernal cardboard cretin sticking his nose where it didn't belong" so Tucker counted it as a win.) His invention had been effective enough, in fact, that Mr. Falluca had immediately started bombarding him with questions, the main one being "Would you be interested in joining a highly competitive statewide robotics competition?"

Tucker's answer had originally been a resounding "No." After he heard that there was one hundred dollars of prize money on the line, along with an all expense paid vacation during the school week? Tucker simply had his priorities in check.

Which led him here, to the Illinois's capital, Springfield, at the Junior Inventors Competition, getting his incredibly helpful invention absolutely ribbed on by uneducated judges who didn't have to deal with ghost attacks at least twice a day. Tucker picked up the Ghost Suppressor, which looked a little bit like a radio, and turned it around in his hands. "I'm sorry that they don't see your talent, Rebecca. You deserved more than this." He sniffed and wiped away a tear. "We both did."

Rebecca flickered to life, and the beginning beats of Tucker's own remixed track "Fear Me!" started to play. Tucker looked down at it in shock for a moment, before looking around the large building frantically. Rebecca wouldn't act up on him for no reason. Somewhere, there was a ghost.

The wall only a few feet away from Tucker's booth was blown away in a shower of splinters and debris. Luckily for him, it wasn't one of the more subtle ghosts. That would've been a pain to deal with.

"Behold! The master of all things wired, Technus, is here!" In fact, it was one of the least subtle ghosts Tucker had ever had the misfortune of meeting. Most of the crowd began to panic, running wildly towards exits and under tables. It had been a long time since Tucker had seen such a complete failure of ghost attack evacuation techniques. Most people in Amity Park had it down to a science, when they evacuated at all. It wasn't uncommon for the more common, less harmful ghosts to be dealt with by anyone. (Boxy, for example.)

Over the sound of the panicking crowds, Technus continued his monologue in normal Technus fashion. "The Great Technus heard through his extensive network that there was to be a gathering of all of the greatest technology created by the youngest geniuses of your time! When I heard that such a technological treasure trove was gathered here, I knew what I had to do! I, Technus, must become master of it all and integrate it into my already expansive collection! Now, cower before the might of-"

Technus's already loud and obnoxious voice was drowned out by the familiar sound of an even louder, more obnoxious voice, this time with some mediocre dubstep behind it. Rebecca had finally made it to the beat drop of "Fear Me."

Technus turned from his place in the air to meet Tucker's eyes. Tucker waved. Technus sighed. "I see that I was not the only technology wizard who heard of this place. And I see you brought that... thing with you."

Tucker didn't bother trying to yell over the sound of Rebecca. Technus might have the special ghost gene of "yell really loud" that they all seemed to have, but Tucker didn't. Instead he just nodded.

"I fail to see why you would want to bring a reminder of that crazy cardboard caretaker with you everywhere, but I get enough of him in the Zone. I'm certain that there will be another chance for I, Technus, to amass this technology when I am not haunted at every step by that ." Technus shuddered, then turned invisible, presumably flying out of the hole in the wall he had made and back to Amity Park.

The remaining panicked people began to calm down, with many of them turning to stare at Tucker in various states of awe, confusion, and fear. One of these individuals was the judge, who had taken refuge from the attack (Tucker was hesitant to call it that, honestly) underneath the neighboring booth.

"So, now that you've had a live demonstration, would you care to reevaluate my point total?" Tucker asked, holding Rebecca out in front of him with a smile. He couldn't wait to show his parents the first place ribbon he was about to win.

#danny phantom #danny phantom fanfiction #tucker foley #ectoberhaunt23 #day 9 #eh science

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skaiadog413universe · 2 months

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From now on, I shall now be using the term Bible Bashing.

#off game #off spectres #infernal specter #home (off fangame)#pentel

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wuxiaphoenix · 1 month

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Plotbunny: Fixing Up Old Haunts

I’m not into restoration and construction, so I’d probably never do this... maybe someone has done this, but...

In a story, there may be more than one way to deal with a haunted house.

Some people dehaunt houses by goodwill, blessings, or unlicensed nuclear accelerators. But it’s possible that sometimes, none of these quite work. So if the house is still standing... it’s time to call in the Contractor.

No, not that kind of contract, stop panicking. There’s nothing infernal involved. There’s not even anything remotely supernatural involved... unless you consider the Power of the Oblivious Bystander.

I picture the Contractor (possibly also called the Renovator) as a kind of average guy in a paint-stained t-shirt and jeans. Hair maybe a bit thin, with the eyes of a man who’s Seen It All....

And chalked all of it up to the hangover.

The Contractor’s seen terrified families, no doubt. But more often he’s seen baffled pastors, exhausted scholars, and way, way too many lawyers and real estate agents trying to make the best of an unwise purchase or abandoned inheritances before the property taxes eat them alive.

Well, whatever. Time to get to work.

Creaky doors? Order some squeak-proof hinges.

Cold spots? Modernize the heating system. And insulate! Sheesh, too many places were built when they thought electricity would be free....

Moans and wails? Might look into a white noise system.

Flickering lights? Electrical systems check. Put in some surge protectors.

Hallucinations? Check for gas leaks.

Odd thumps, creaks, doors sticking or swinging without cause? Alright, we need to look at foundation and settling issues. And probably clear out the spiders down there....

Plants withering? Check the irrigation systems. Maybe see if there are some better-adapted local landscaping varieties. Heck, check with the local extension office. Odds are there’s some botany or landscaping undergrads rattling around looking for a class project. Free help!

...Okay, maybe not free, they run on soda, chips, and the occasional takeout. But cheap help.

(I can picture a specter eventually dissolving out of sheer frustration!)

I’m not sure you could make a whole book out of it. But as a short story or subplot... free to good home!

#creative writing #plotbunnies #free idea #haunted

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slothquisitor · 4 months

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The Trouble With Home

The Netherbrain is defeated, but Astarion struggles with adjusting to this new life. Post-Campaign, so therefore major endgame spoilers. Astarion x Liv, 6.2k, home related angst.

Also on AO3.

Astarion doesn’t need to be able to see his reflection to know that restlessness isn’t a look he’s wearing well these days. He sits at a book-laden desk in the room that he is beginning to despise and watches the sliver of sunlight that peeks beneath the curtains mockingly dance across the wooden floorboards. The evening hours right before sunset are the worst part of his day now that the Netherbrain has been defeated. He feels like a specter, a ghost of the person he became these last few months. Cazador is gone, but trapped in this room during the daylight hours, it’s hard to believe he isn’t back in that palace, that Cazador isn’t going to appear in the doorway and order him out into the city as soon as night falls.

The first few days after the Netherbrain’s defeat were a sort of hazy bliss. Neither he nor Liv had realized just how exhausted they were until they could finally rest. They’d scarcely left the room, enjoying the novelty of privacy and no demands on their time. They had oscillated between sleep and rest and the simple luxury of each other’s undivided attention. He had made love to her in the morning, languid and unhurried. He had loved the moments after best, basking in the afterglow, skin to skin. Safe. Loved. Seen.

But of course, it couldn’t last because neither of them were built for lives lived in a single room. On the third afternoon, she had risen and dressed, kissed him goodbye, and gone to meet Gale and Rolan at Ramazith’s tower to begin researching vampiric curses and infernal machinery. As ever, Liv has filled her fears of purposelessness with other people’s problems like stones in her pockets. In his selfishness, he hasn’t stopped her.

Halsin had been the first to go, leading refugees and orphans away from the city back toward the lands surrounding Moonrise. The druid that hadn’t wanted to be a leader once more thrust into leadership. Shadowheart had been the next, leaving under cover of night, her parents in tow. Their newfound notoriety in the aftermath of their victory had worried her, and made her afraid to lose what she had just so recently found. Jaheira and Minsc are still around, of course, overseeing repairs and the rebuilding. They stop by the Elfsong in the late evenings to check in, filled to the brim with stories about how the rebuilding is going or isn’t in this city they love.

The sudden and unexpected monotony of Astarion’s days weigh on him, and the irony isn’t lost on him. During their long days on the road, he would often complain about the dirt or the bugs, but now, despite relative comfort and safety, he misses those days. He misses them most in the final hour before sunset when the ability to leave his room is so close he can taste it, but he is instead forced to watch the way the light burns orange and red before finally, finally shifting blue.

Tonight, he leaves before the sun is entirely set. It means he has to keep to darker streets, following the shadows, but he doesn’t mind. He pulls in breaths he doesn’t need, inflating his chest with the promise of the city. He takes a winding route toward the upper city, walking the streets he used to stalk, jumping at the sound of too loud laughter, and music that spills perfunctorily out of taverns and restaurants. He is different, changed, no longer chained, but in the darkness it is hard to remember, not to look at the life and people of this city and not immediately catalog them as prey.

At first, it had been easy to pull himself back from the brink. The city itself was in shambles, and the destruction served as a reminder of the battles fought, and the scars earned. But he is surprised by how quickly it fades, how fast the ruin is patched and dressed. At first, he hopes it is a chance for things to be different, to be changed, but it is not. Instead, so much of the city is brought back nearly exactly as it was. Alone in the moonlight, he worries he is the only one who misses the ruination of it all, of the way the broken building stood as a testament that he had done something that had mattered.

A slight breeze snakes through the streets, and a headline on a discarded copy of The Baldur’s Mouth Gazette catches his eye. He bends to pick up the dirty scrap of newsprint, reading the headline inked bold and accusing, FAMILY OF BALDUR’S GATE HERO ARRESTED. The article itself is sensationalized trash, full of pearl-clutching supposition. But he doesn’t doubt the core of it: Liv’s parents and sister have been arrested. Has she seen this? He folds the paper and hurries on toward Ramazith’s tower.

When he arrives at the tower's base, he is met by a teenage dwarf, his beard patchy, nonexistent in places. He looks like he’s waiting around for something, but Astarion would prefer to skip the interaction. Perhaps if he ignores the boy, he won’t have to talk to him.

“Oh good, I’ve been waiting outside this tower for hours,” the boy says as he approaches, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice.

“Waiting for what exactly?” he asks.

“Your lady friend to emerge. Was told you’d do in a pinch though.” The boy produces a letter and holds it out.

Astarion goes to reach for it, but the boy tugs it back. He holds out his other hand, clearly indicating he’s waiting for payment. He’d be impressed with the boy’s entrepreneurial spirit if it didn’t come at the cost of his own coin. Astarion sighs. “Who’s it from? Then I’ll decide if it’s worth paying for.”

The boy grins. “You’ve got mighty powerful friends in the Guild.”

While the boy speaks, Astarion peeks at the writing on the letter. He doesn’t recognize the script, but it’s neat and looping. It’s probably from Percy. He pulls out a gold piece and hands it to the boy, who relinquishes the letter happily.

“Pleasure doing business,” he grins.

Astarion pockets the letter. “Next time Percy needs to get in touch, tell him to come himself.”

The boy laughs as he walks away. “All due respect, but I won’t be telling him anything of the sort.”

With the boy gone, Astarion is alone at the base of the tower. It’s always a little tricky to get inside since the door likes to move when approached. With the new wizard in residence settling into the place, the magical quirks have been frequent and frustrating. He approaches the door and whispers the password, hoping that it will simply work and he won’t spend the next ten minutes chasing the door around the outside of the tower before it decides to let him inside.

Thankfully, it works the first time, and he enters the tower. The bottom level is empty, as it usually is, but he can hear the echoing voices of Rolan, Gale, and Liv as he makes his way up the stairs.

“Dammon seemed to think that the biggest problem was the ra-gnax alloy casement and not the demono-valves though,” Liv explains.

“But according to the notes that Helsik procured, it hasn’t been tried or tested anywhere but in Avernus. Still might not fix the problem,” Rolan replies.

“I still think a regeneration spell might be the best bet. If we can simply generate her original heart, we’d bypass the concerns about whether it could withstand this plane,” Gale says.

As Astarion crests the stairs, he finds the three wizards at their respective study stations. Liv is perched atop her desk, a book open on her lap. Rolan lounges in a tufted chair, while Gale paces back and forth. Astarion doesn’t find himself that interested in this particular conversation. He’s already heard it, or at least some version of it the last few days. Gale keeps looking into divine solutions for Karlach, Liv pesters Dammon for information, and Rolan insists that they need an actual infernal mechanic from Avernus. He has no doubt they’ll find a solution eventually, but he has no desire to be part of the workshopping of it all.

Liv smiles when she sees him. “We’re still working on the heart problem.”

“So I gathered. I ran into a visitor on my way in. He had a letter for you,” Astarion says walking over to Liv.

“A letter?” Liv asks, hopping lightly off the table.

“I suspect it has something to do with this,” Astarion replies, handing off both the letter and the copy of the gazette he’d found.

Liv takes both, looking over the gazette page first before tearing into the letter. The other two wizards continue their conversation, wandering over to the far side of the tower, granting Liv a measure of privacy. Liv looks simultaneously elated and somehow troubled too.

“They were arrested,” she whispers in disbelief, looking up at him. “I…I can’t believe it.”

Astarion just runs a hand along her back in what he hopes is a comfort. “What does the letter from Percy say?”

“Percy needs to meet,” she explains handing the letter off to him. “Tomorrow night at my parents’ estate.”

“Why?” he asks, truly unable to restrain his distaste for the idea. The letter itself is short, just three lines. It takes no time at all to skim it. Apparently, as part of the arrest, their assets were seized and handed over wholesale to Percy. “Well, no wonder he wanted that ledger. He’s done very well for himself in the wake of it.”

Percy might have shown up for Liv in the end, but her family’s ruin wasn’t his only goal, clearly. He knows that Liv is clever enough to see it, but he’s not sure if she’ll care. She’s too desperate for this connection, quick to believe the best of her brother. “I don’t care that he profited from it. I expected as much.”

But what about her? What about what she deserves? “Do you want to go?”

She bites her lip, looking as if she needs to decide something, but then she looks up at him. “Will you come with me?”

“Of course.”

***

Like so many things in Baldur’s Gate, the Netherbrain’s destruction fell unfairly and without pattern or reason on the streets of the upper city. Some streets had been completely demolished while others looked pristine and untouched. Liv didn’t know what condition she’d find her parents’ estate in, and she hadn’t really cared. Even now, she’s not sure if she wants to find the place in shambles or as beautiful and perfect as it ever was.

The streets are familiar here, wide, even cobblestones, houses hidden back from the street by gates and tree-cover. It was beautiful to her once, it felt like safety, like home. But these large houses, these wide lawns, they come with prices. She didn’t know that then, but she does now, and she cannot look at them with anything except a sense of horror at the utter excess.

“I used to walk these streets. I loved these houses,” Astarion says, stretching to peek around the wrought iron bars hiding one of the estates. “I wasn’t picking up victims, of course, but Cazador had never dictated my routes, so sometimes it was nice to walk these streets. They’re so clean!”

Astarion is in good spirits tonight, and she doesn’t want to quash it. He’s been putting on a brave face, but she knows the shift in freedom, and the loss of days weighs on him. It makes him irritable, and a little bit mean. Their lodgings are largely to blame. The room is small and cramped and he is trapped there while the sun shines. But there really aren’t many other places in the city for them right now, too many people are displaced. They’re lucky to have the gold and gratitude for their heroic victory to get them a room at all. But she knows that they need a new solution, soon.

“Amazing what money can buy,” she replies simply.

“And which one is yours?” Astarion gestures around them, arm outstretched in a flamboyant gesture.

It was never hers. Not really, but she doesn’t say that. Instead, she sighs and points ahead of them at the darkened gate and park ahead of them. “That one.”

It’s impossible to see the house from the street. Through the gate is a large stretch of trees and wilderness that makes the estate feel less like it’s in a city and more like it’s out in some countryside somewhere. The gate is open, and the gravel path is long and winding. Astarion fills the quiet with chatter, unprompted. He’s clearly sensed her own disquiet, is doing his best to distract her. But then the house comes into view, and they both pause.

“Wow. I knew your family was wealthy, but they are wealthy ,” Astarion says with a hint of awe in his voice. “They’ve all been arrested, yes? Percy isn’t setting you up for the worst family reunion ever, right?”

“Definitely arrested. I think this is all Percy’s now,” Liv replies. She had worried briefly that going back home might mean seeing her parents and sister again, but they’re locked away at Wyrm’s Rock for now.

Besides, she trusts Percy. He had shown up when it mattered. He still feels like a stranger, someone she doesn’t quite know yet, but he is her brother. And he’s the last bit of family she has left here, and now that the world is saved, perhaps they’ll finally figure out how to be family. For now, it’s still stilted and a little bit awkward despite their best attempts otherwise.

“Maybe he’d let us move in,” Astarion says hopefully. “I think I could hate late afternoons less in a gigantic estate.”

She wants to say yes, to give him something new, something better. To do whatever it might take to make him smile, but it’s taken a lot to even return to this place. She’s not sure she could live in it again, parents gone or not. But she doesn’t say that. “Maybe,” she says instead.

The only lights on in the entire place are on the first floor, and the front door is open, a bright square of yellow light in the darkness. Liv steels herself before she walks inside, and tells herself it is different. This is not going backward but is instead a part of moving forward. The foyer is open, and the marble floors are still polished to a high shine. The stairs curve around and lead to the darkened upstairs, to the libraries and the studies, and the bedrooms.

Astarion remains at the threshold, and clears his throat, sheepishly. “Uh, darling…”

It takes her an embarrassingly long moment to realize what the problem is. “Shit. Come on in.”

He crosses the threshold then, letting out a low whistle. “Imagine greeting guests in this foyer.”

She doesn’t need to imagine it. She’s lived it. “Percy?” she calls, heading through the gallery, deeper into the house. Astarion trails behind, eyes scanning the place, taking in every painting and sculpture and molding with a look of wonder.

“Dining room!” Percy calls back.

“How did you find anyone in this place?” Astarion asks, lengthening his strides to catch up to her.

“The servants could usually tell you where someone had gone,” Liv replies. It had been an awful lot of work not to be found. Secrets had been hard to keep in this house.

The dining room itself is the most haphazard she has ever seen. The table is covered with papers and books and Percy stands at a chair like he’s been using this room for an office. He’s still dressed impeccably as always, but he’s undone the first few buttons of his tunic, and his dark hair is mussed as if he’s been running a hand through it.

But he smiles when he sees her, and it’s still off-putting. “Glad you could make it.”

“You do know that there are several studies and an actual office you could be using, right?” Liv says.

Percy shrugs. “Yeah, but I like the light in here during the day. And I like to think that using the dining room like this would piss our parents off.”

It absolutely would. It still surprises her to see his rebellion.

“So, you actually did it. I assume the arrest is thanks to you,” Astarion says by way of greeting.

“And Liv too. Wouldn’t have happened without that ledger you found. There were many, many arrests this week. Theirs is just the most newsworthy,” Percy says, he’s got several papers in his hand, and the words are tossed casually across the room as if they’re the least of his worries right now.

She sighs as she runs a hand over the back of one of the expensive dining chairs. “I saw the charges. You know they won’t stick.”

Percy grins. “I haven’t spent the last ten years cultivating connections across the city and the Guild for nothing. I have it on good authority they’ll be banished at the very least.”

It feels impossible. And like too little too late anyway. “Well, congratulations then.” This all feels empty to her, but she hopes it doesn’t for him.

Percy's next words are careful and tentative. “I didn’t just call you here to bask in victory. The house…it’s yours if you want it.”

She freezes. “What?”

“Really?” Astarion says gleefully, voice keyed high in excitement. “Your parents might have been awful, but they really do have incredible taste, don’t they?”

Her reaction is visceral and she cannot stop the ferocity of it, she is practically yelling. “No, absolutely not. I don’t want it.”

Her reaction has pulled Astarion back, his brow furrows. “Are you alright, my dear?”

Percy straightens, setting papers down and giving her his full attention. “I certainly don’t want it, but this could all be yours, Liv. Imagine how pissed off they’d be knowing you’re living here.”

She stares at her brother for a moment. “Are you giving it to me because you want me to have it or to spite them?”

He shrugs. “Why can’t it be a little bit of both?”

It couldn’t ever be simple, could it? “My answer is no. I don’t want it. Sell it, live in it, burn it to the ground. I don’t care.”

“Let’s not be hasty, darling. Really consider this,” Astarion says, stepping in front of her, eyes searching hers. He clearly doesn’t understand her unwillingness.

She doesn’t need to consider this. “I don’t want anything of theirs,” she whispers as she looks up at him. He studies her for a moment, and he must see something in her eyes he understands, even if it disappoints him.

“I think you and your brother need to talk. I’m going to take a walk.”

He leaves her alone in the dining room with her brother, who stares at her with a mixture of disbelief and exasperation. “Come on, Liv. Don’t be ridiculous. After everything they did to you, to us , don’t you want to take something back?”

She is surprised at how much she truly doesn’t. “No. I simply want to move on.”

“And live above a fucking tavern forever?”

“We’re not staying in Baldur’s Gate forever. It’s just for now.” And it is, just for now. Until they have a better lead for elsewhere. Until she has everything she needs to leave. She’s close.

“It was maybe too much to hope you’d stay here, wasn’t it?” Percy says.

“You want me to stay?” Liv asks, surprised.

He shrugs. “You’re my sister; of course, I want you to stay. But I also want you to have whatever you want, whatever makes you happy.”

“I promise to visit, to stay in touch.”

His answering smile is a little rueful. “I’d like that.”

“So the house is yours.”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s not. If you don’t want it, I’m going to sell it. We’ll split the money.”

“I really don’t want-”

“I understand not wanting the house, but take the money, Liv. Consider it reparations or whatever you need to sleep at night. Let it fund this fantastic life of yours. Besides, Astarion seems like he has expensive taste, you’ll need the gold.”

She laughs at that. It’s a compromise, and it would be nice to not have to immediately find work or ways of earning money on their travels, but there’s one other person owed too. “And Roland?”

“He said he wants you to have his share.”

This doesn’t make sense. “You talked with him?”

“I made sure he heard the news, told him my plan with the house, and he gave his input,” Percy replied.

“And I could barely get him to return my letters…”

Percy walks around from the table over to the windows, hands clasped behind his back. “We all broke after Brelia’s death. Roland just did his breaking farther away. He’s better at replying to sending spells, but maybe your travels could take you to Candlekeep? I think he’d be glad of the visit.”

“You think so?” she asks, hating how small her voice sounds. How eager. To have lost so much, but gained some back feels a little bit like jumping off a cliff.

Percy smiles then. “I do. Will you take a walk with me in the gardens?”

“Sure.”

The windows of the dining room are large enough to double as doors, and on hot summer nights had stood open and inviting. She had escaped many a party out here, to these gardens filled with rows deep with pungent roses, trees, and elegantly shaped hedges. The gardens had seemed endless because her whole world had been this estate. But it’s not anymore, and she’s struck by the smallness of it, at how close the city presses in on it all.

“I asked you in the Guild Hall if you remembered an afternoon out here, with flowers. You really don’t remember it, do you?” Percy asks, hands buried in his pockets.

She racks her memory, searching for whatever he might mean. “How old was I?”

He sighs. “Ten or eleven, maybe? Young. I found you out here, and taught you how to pull up flowers with your magic.”

With that, the memory slots into place. She’d been hiding out here, only to be found by him. Percy never had time for her, was too busy, too important. She had been afraid when he found her crying amongst the dead flowerbeds, still not blooming even though it felt like spring. But he hadn’t said a single mean thing instead he’d invited her to do magic with him. They had walked the flowerbeds together, pulling up flowers with their magic. Once finished, the gardens had been a riot of color and life. It had been perfect until he had said something cutting, something about her magic and the afternoon had tipped sideways. Of course, he wasn’t spending time with her, it had all been some sort of test. Two days later, a late spring sleet storm had hit the city, crushing the flowers in the beds. A fitting end.

“I remember,” she says. “Why…why are you bringing it up now?”

Percy won’t look at her, instead keeps his gaze fixed on the darkened horizon. “I know that I ruined it, and I know I hurt you, but it’s one of my favorite memories of this place.”

She stares at him, uncomprehending. “It is?”

“You were so sad when I found you, and all I wanted was to make you smile the way Brelia and Roland could. It was a really lovely afternoon…until I ruined it. I realized that if anyone had seen if you believed it had happened without agenda…that would ruin my goals. So I’d told you that your magic was weak, and I walked away.”

“It had been nice, for a moment,” Liv replied. When she had believed it was because he wanted to spend time with her. When they had felt like siblings instead of rivals.

“You were never weak. I hope you know that. I never doubted that you would come out triumphant against the Absolute.”

And as he says the words, she realizes that since meeting him again, he hadn’t ever questioned her abilities. Not once. Percy is many complicated things, but perhaps he simply wants a sister as much as she has always wanted a brother.

“You know, these garden beds are looking a bit neglected,” she says, trying to offer forgiveness and a path forward for them both.

And so they pull up flowers together, rewriting an old memory into something better, sweeter, less tainted by the ghosts of the past.

***

The Vires Estate is massive, stoic, and filled with signs of so much casual wealth that it is hard to reconcile the Liv Astarion knows with one that could have ever been comfortable here. He wanders the rooms aimlessly, wondering about the places that might have been her favorites, the memories here. He’d be lying if he said a part of him didn’t want this.

But he cannot shake the look in Liv’s eyes, the haunted fear. She had said she didn’t want anything that belonged to her parents, but what she really meant was that the weight of this place was too suffocating, and she cannot come back. He considered for a mere moment what it might be like to be given Szarr Palace, and his own reaction was an instinctively violent thing. He understood her sentiment in a moment. So, he’s sure this is the last they’ll ever see of this place, and yet he can’t quite resist walking the halls, committing the floorplan to memory, as if learning this place might also give him some more insight into the woman he loves.

He stops when he finds the only room that could be hers. It is filled with books, stacks of them litter every surface and the bookshelves themselves are bursting with them. The room is neat as a pin though, the bed crisply made as the whole room was holding its breath, awaiting her return. The art on the walls differs from everything else in the house, these paintings aren’t solemn or fashionable, instead, they are filled with color, with unfamiliar landscapes. He wonders if she had hung them here as a promise to herself, of distant places, of adventures she might one day have.

He’s sure he had a home once, though he cannot remember it. Cazador called his palace their home in the same way he wielded the words like family and siblings. When he thinks of home, it is that place that he conjures in his mind. The memories come unbidden, sharp things that feel like kneeling for hours scrubbing stone floors of his own blood. The concept of home is just another thing he’s lost to Cazador’s violence. He’s surprised by how badly he wants to wrench the word back, to reforge it and own something of his own.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to find you here, of all places.”

Liv’s voice startles him, but he tries to disguise it as he turns. She is leaning in the doorway, watching him wander the room that was hers. “So I did guess right?”

“You did.” She doesn’t move from the doorway.

It occurs to him then that she never wanted to come back to this house at all, but that he did it anyway. He’s just not sure why. “Do we need to leave?”

She sighs, finally stepping into the room. She keeps her arms wrapped tightly around herself, as if touching anything might make the place grow teeth, and sink themselves into her. “No, it’s alright.”

“You never wanted to come back here, did you?”

She pauses in her wandering, finally meeting his gaze. “No, I didn’t.”

“Why are we here then?”

She shrugs. “Because Percy asked…and because I…I don’t want this place to have any hold on me. I thought that by coming back…coming with you…it would feel different.” She is so rarely searching for words that he knows she is thinking this through even as she tells him these things. It’s an intimacy, he knows, to hear anything from her that’s not already polished, set.

“Does it?”

“Not as much as I hoped,” she says, tears gathering in her eyes. She furiously brushes them away. “I’m sorry I don’t want it. I know you do, but I couldn’t live here again for anything.”

He steps close and reaches for her hands. “You don’t ever apologize for that. I think I’d look very good living in a mansion, but that’s not worth your discomfort.”

She laughs, though an errant tear slips down her cheek. He reaches up to brush it away. She leans into the touch. “Thank you for understanding.”

“That said, I am going mad in that room at the Elfsong. I don’t care where we go, but I can’t continue to spend the daylight hours in that tiny little room much longer.” She has offered him so many truths tonight, and this is his. It turns out that there is a limit to his endurance, and he has reached it.

Her eyes close and she bows her head. “I know. I am so sorry. Can you give me a day? Just a day?”

He lifts her chin. “It isn’t your fault. You’ve told me what you need, and I’m simply telling you what I need.”

“I promise I have a plan,” she says, words soft.

“You always do.”

“I think we should leave Baldur’s Gate.”

“But your research-”

She shakes her head. “Keeps hitting dead ends here. Rolan will keep looking if I ask. Let’s cast a wider net, you and I. I keep waiting for something, some sign or lead to tell me where to go next…and I think we’ve been waiting around long enough. We should just go.”

He cannot contain his surprise. “Where?”

“Pick a place on a map. Preferably somewhere with libraries,” she says.

“Just like that?” It is so unlike her, rushing forward at the future without everything thought out and accounted for. It feels like a gift.

She nods. “Just like that.”

“Let’s go have an adventure,” he whispers as he kisses her. There is an end date on his imprisonment, and that is good enough for him. Good enough for now.

“You’ve got some planning to do,” she grins as she pulls away, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

There’s some thrill in it, in the freedom to go anywhere to be anything. But leaving the decision up to him does mean he has some work to do. He melodramatically throws back his head. “Ugh, must I?”

She kisses the tip of his nose. “Yes. Are you finished here?”

He glances around the room one last time. He had meant perhaps to pocket something of hers, to later present her something of sentimental value…but there’s nothing here that matters. Nothing that feels like hers. “Are you?”

“I think so.”

He links their hands, and together they walk out of the room. “Do we have any other plans for tonight?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

He smiles and glances sideways at her. “How do you feel about committing arson?”

***

The following afternoon, Liv wakes to Astarion reading by candlelight, still in bed beside her. She’s rarely seen him this focused on anything, but he’s jotting down notes while he references several books on different places within Faerûn. So leaves him to it, heading downstairs to join Gale for what is their breakfast, though it is late afternoon.

Gale sits alone at a table reading through a copy of the Gazette , but a place is set for her, coffee and toast waiting.

“Good morning,” she says brightly as she sits down.

Gale’s answering smile is an indulgent one. “Afternoon.” This has become somewhat of an inside joke between them with the new hours they keep.

“You’ll be pleased to know that you made the front page again,” Gale says, sliding the newspaper across the table to her.

The big headline is about Szarr Palace going up in flames the night before. She skims the article, twice. There’s no mention of her or Astarion. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she says around a sip of coffee.

“Oh come now. There are only three or four mages in Baldur’s Gate capable of setting a ward to keep the fire from spreading, and two of them are sitting at this table.”

She shrugs. “And the third and fourth?”

Gale sighs, putting the paper away. “I wouldn’t have minded an invite, you know.”

“Sorry, it wasn’t exactly a planned excursion,” she replies.

He nods. “A spur-of-the-moment decision to cause chaos? You don’t say. Astarion is a terrible influence.” Gale’s tone is light, teasing.

“If you have a home you’d like to burn down, I’d like to kindly offer our services,” she says.

“I quite like my tower, and I’d like to keep it wholly unburnt.”

She laughs.

“Speaking of my tower…I did have something to discuss with you,” Gale’s tone shifts into something more solemn.

She knows what’s coming. Gale has a home, a family, a tressym. He wasn’t going to stay in Baldur’s Gate forever. “Oh?”

“I rather think it’s time I return home. To Waterdeep. I haven’t given up our search, I promise, but I have more contacts in Waterdeep, and access to my own library. I think I’ll be much more effective there.” His words are gentle and practiced. She realizes he’s been working up to this for a while.

“It’s alright. You need to go home. I get it.”

He looks relieved but then leans eagerly across the table. “But I was thinking: my tower has plenty of room. You and Astarion could come with me. It’s far more comfortable than here. We could enchant the windows so that Astarion can move about freely during the day, and Waterdeep has a fantastic nightlife.”

She reaches for his hand and covers it with her own. “That is a very, very, generous offer, Gale, but I think Astarion and I need some time, and I think he needs more of an adventure than more wizard towers and research.”

He looks disappointed but not surprised. “I had a feeling that would be your answer. In truth, your coming with me would eliminate some of the awkwardness of my return…the explanations to give…the relationships I let drop when I was afflicted with the orb. I should face those things myself, without your company as a crutch.”

“I promise we’ll visit, but you should go. I’m sure after you explain, everyone will understand.”

He nods, holding tightly to her hand. “I do, but I admit I’m a bit afraid to go back to it. These past months have been some of the best of my life. Even when things were at their bleakest, I was still happier than I’ve been in such a long time.”

She knows the feeling. “This is just the next adventure. It’s going to be even better than the last.” It is what she has been telling herself when she finds herself missing her friends, their adventures, the family they’d built.

“You might be my very best friend in the world,” Gale says, eyes shining suspiciously.

She squeezes his hand and tells herself she won’t cry too. “And you’re mine.”

And they sit together in this moment, the late afternoon sun streaming into the tavern, their hodgepodge of breakfast sitting mostly forgotten between them. Liv has said goodbye to all her friends, but this is the one she feels the most. Perhaps because she and Gale are so alike, they were fast friends immediately. Perhaps because he has stayed the longest, so loyal and kind and committed to her new causes just as much as he had been the last. But it is time for him to go just like it is time for her and Astarion to leave the city. They have both been holding onto each other, to research, to whatever excuses they can find to stay. But it’s time.

“I got you something,” Gale says, reaching into his bag. He produces a small, intricately carved door, made of ivory. The door itself is no larger than a book, but it is covered in vines and flowers that look so life-like, that she can’t help but run her fingers over them. It’s beautiful. “It should be the last component you need.”

And it is. “Thank you, for everything.” Gale will go home, and she will leave the city, and everything will be different. But perhaps it will also be better.

#astarion x tav #astarion #bg3 fanfiction #bright lost things #astarion x liv #what I had a totally normal holiday and definitely don't have lots of complicated feelings about homes and returning to them...#why do you ask #slothquisitorwrites

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thefaceoftruesanity666 · 4 months

Text

(FOR MANY REASONS, MY DEAR) AVARICE IS GOOD

O, avarice! You are a multifaceted specter, oft misunderstood and maligned,

Yet within your vast and enigmatic depths, certain treasures lie refined.

For in the relentless pursuit of wealth and earthly gain, avarice, veiled in cunning disguise,

Bears blessings unforeseen, beckoning us to ascend its splendid skies.

Ambition, that fiery ember, stirs within the hidden recesses of the soul,

Kindling an insatiable hunger to traverse the path towards the ultimate goal.

Through avarice's distorted lens, the world takes on a resplendent new hue,

Casting shadows of desire upon every endeavor, propelling us to see green like strips of yew.

Within the realm of commerce, where fortunes are amassed and destinies are woven,

Avarice's enticing whispers echo, promising untold riches and commanding devotion.

The insatiable longing to accumulate wealth, to flourish and prosper, a yearning profound,

Becomes the catalyst that ignites the fires of innovation, ensuring to progress and resound.

The pursuit of boundless riches becomes the very fuel that propels the mighty engine of trade,

As intrepid souls, undaunted by fear, seek out elusive opportunities amidst the dance of wealth in Hades.

Avarice's hand guides their every move, virtue crumbles and dissipates in smoke,

While ambition, unbridled, runs rampant, shaping destinies with each decisive stroke.

From the modest origins of humble dreams, aspirations become flames untamed,

Soaring upon the wings of avarice, reaching the skies, fierce like the night, its glory proclaimed.

With yearning for abundance, a thirst to explore, mortal beings driven, seeking treasures galore,

Forward they're propelled, to unlock the doors, destiny awaits, their potential soars.

Through trials and tribulations, amidst existence’s ebb and flow of the business trade,

Fortunes won and lost as avarice drives the souls of men until their final vestiges fade.

For within the realm of ambition, dreams are spun like gossamer threads, in audacious hearts' hold,

Avarice’s touch possesses the power to unveil treasures that lie dormant and untold.

I fret not when it breeds its insidious decay, poisoning the very essence of our spirits,

Leading us astray from the path of virtue and righteousness, for I care not for Heaven’s bliss!

My eyes are open, as will yours be, for our filthy lucre is bred from swindles and schemes!

In shadows we lurk, the cunning and the shady, we cast our illusions, where nothing is as it seems.

With pockets lined in gold and emerald green, we weave intricate webs of treachery and lies,

Ensnaring unsuspecting souls within our intricate traps, betraying trust, as innocence slowly dies.

Fret not, your filthy, conniving soul, of gold’s infernal blaze in Hell's domain,

Nor strive to flee, lest you are dragged back into the wealth with disdain.

In this realm, our desires, like riches, shall unfurl, within this abundant haven, our dreams forever twirl,

No need for fears, qualms, or hesitation, simply embrace the depths of our Devil-given pearls.

Fret not the fiery depths where molten treasures flay, for here, our hearts' desires shall stay,

Though the urge of redemption yearns, luring us astray, hold fast to riches found, where we shall lay.

No need to labor, toil, nor suffer in despair, within this realm, prosperity is everywhere,

As silver as scalpels, as green as the leaves of trees, as gold as a natural blonde’s hair.

Let not thy weary spirit yearn to break free, for true wealth and abundance lie here, you'll see,

Cast off worries which cloud your mind's eye, and have no fear, for my eyes are open as will yours be.

Fret not, your wicked, evil soul, of the casino deep below, where flames and darkness forever glow,

Where souls of man are but commodities, traded in this den of iniquities, savoring smoke of tobacco.

Devils hold the winning hands, as demons shuffle and deal, all around the Styx,

Lives become mere poker chips, bet and lost 'til the last soul slips.

Stacks of skeletons of losers past, their bones in heaps amassed, piled to the ceiling's shadowed height,

Their souls are damned forevermore, trapped in an endless night, never again to see the light.

Such rightful decisions of vice and avarice shall allow us to lead this place of wrath,

Once our immortal essences have casted off these corporeal cages on this dark path.

Lo! We shall assume our rightful places as the unrivaled kings and queens of this demented paradise!

Hark! Hear how the fiends howl and hoot, shriek and snicker, rejoicing at our succumbing to vice!

Morals? Pshaw! I care not for such false virtues and empty morality!

Our Kingdom of Hell, hidden away from prying Puritan eyes, where wickedness reigns supreme!

Within the shelters of this secretive place, the seeds of splendid sabotage and scandal shall be sewn,

Above the masses, we shall command sinners from our creepy cold crystalline thrones.

What good has their God and grandiloquent guidance ever done for twisted souls like ours?

Their Heaven and their own selves shall wither like aged flowers.

Their smug sermons only stoke the fires in our bellies for beautiful blasphemy, not sate them,

May we continue to only revere Hell and our abundant, prosperous incomes.

Of course, what finer fruits of felony could a scoundrel hope to harvest in this world?

Deception is an art form begging our deft hands to craft the masterpieces of The Underworld.

Tonight we shall toast to the demise of scruples and the ascension of vice!

Let decadence be our libation and corruption our sacrament, as Puritans pay the price.

No qualms can dampen the bacchanalia where sin is sanctified and darkness dazzles brighter than light,

This den of delight is a place where all reason flees as madness and mayhem like old friends reunite.

Here in our blasphemous kingdom, moral rectitude spiritually dies while fiends celebrate,

Feast on the carcasses of care and caution which have met such a terrible fate.

Thus, let prudes preach to their Puritan hearts' content and may we laugh at their notion of shame,

Such concepts hold no currency here, we've no time for their tame little games.

Why fret over consequences when rapture can be found in illicit gains?

Damnation is but a trifle when guile brings lavish wealth for our avarice inflamed!

Ah, at long last the moment has arrived to toast our radiant rise,

And the ruins we shall unleash across this wretched world for all eyes!

Brothers and sisters, raise your chalices high – fete the ascendance of our anarchic ambrosia alone!

Think of it, my macabre comrades – can you not sense Hell’s throne?

Drink deep the dregs of debauch and damn all designs of virtue,

Done away with dull probity and propriety for good, and behold what is as green as yew!

Virtue's high hopes are but hollow lies, beneath dark waters of delight shall rise,

Decency dies while wickedness thrives, all in the name of what satisfies!

We and limitless evil usher onto this sphere depravity to ring out evermore,

And damnation dictate wherever our presence holds power.

#the church of jeremiah valeska #holmes vibes

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sergeantsporks · 1 year

Note

Dagger is either to loath having a baby sibling around... Or completely shock everyone by being the most loving, doting big brother out of the whole lot!

Oh, no. He HATES it. Like, he doesn't hate the baby in and of itself, because he can acknowledge that having a grudge against a 2 year old would be pretty pathetic of him, but he cannot stand how they cling to him. They're 2! They don't understand like 70 percent of what he says to them! He says "Get off, you infernal specter" and they giggle and say "spetter" over and over again!

#toh #asks #gilded family au #dagger #ghost

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avatar-saiki · 1 year

Text

Dancing in the Moonlight

Rating: M

Word count: 4.3k

Tags: Belphegor POV, angst, mentions of Lilith, survivor’s guilt, murder of humans, cynicism

Summary:

*Set in a period of time before the establishment of RAD*

An imagining of the first time Belphegor was contracted to protect some witches while wandering in the human realm.

The witches were, of course, not entirely clear what that meant other than telling him to do what must be done.

(Aka a way for me to brain rot how the Specter of Despair could've been created)

How annoying.

The seventh born knelt down, keeping to the shadows among the trees lining the road. Neither a cart nor a carriage could be seen coming from either direction, but only a fool would dare travel at night. A human’s vision was greatly limited in the dark and often they flocked to sources of light like moths to a flame, finding comfort in what chased away their weakness.

But it only served to funnel them into predictable patterns.

He stood up and walked further up along the road, keeping to the shadows while whispering in the Infernal tongue, imperceptible runes scrawling across the dirt as he passed. The moon shone up above, glowing bright within the pitch of the night sky and casting its precious light atop the trees down below, reflecting off their leaves in an ethereal silver glow.

Little by little, runes peppered the road and laid in wait for their prey while he sat down to watch the fork with an irritated sigh. Normally he’d have finished replenishing the amulets and returned to the Devildom and Beel by now, but instead he was stuck here.

Waiting.

Under orders.

The curse at his wrist began to burn again and he scratched, cursing the damn humans that’d placed it on him. In the last few centuries, humans had begun to discover the secrets of their universe, further separating themselves from nature’s laws. All well and good, but now they’d started finding ways to perceive more outside their known realm. He should’ve seen it, should’ve known after watching them evolve so much over time when he’d lived in the Celestial Realm, but he never thought they might harness an understanding of their own magic.

He winced and hugged his arm to his chest, feeling the heat increase as the faint clink of iron interrupted a cricket’s song.

Loathsome humans.

I might actually have to report this to Diavolo.

The thought sickened him even more than the curse as he glared through the trees. Anything that forwarded whatever goals Diavolo might have was not something he’d ever support. But if these bastards were going to start believing they could command him?

He ducked down lower as the first iron-clad humans came into view, marching with their shields strapped to their arms and eyes cast about scanning the trees.

As if they were truly able to see anything beyond their torchlight. What hubris these creatures had.

The curse burned brighter and he counted, assessing the group as it passed.

Six knights and a priest.

His upper lip twitched.

He’d been captured, bound, and threatened with extermination for six knights and a priest.

Well… at least it wasn’t more. Aiding humans was infuriating enough, but seven wouldn’t be that difficult to deal with.

He breathed out an irritated sigh. Humans were so idiotic. Some had found a way to manifest their Will and bend the world around them, but because it was against the status quo it was deemed ‘witchcraft’.

As if all the prayers and rituals they’d cultivated across generations didn’t do the exact same thing.

The knights rounded the bend and marched within range of his traps, but he just closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the tree.

Who gives a shit what the humans do to each other? All he’d wanted was to nap in the sun. The hill he’d found had been so… comforting… it… was almost enough to let him dream of—

The first knight triggered an unseen rune and fell to his knees, screaming into the night. Poor fool, it almost sounded like he thought he was being eaten alive…

He left his hiding spot and stalked closer to observe, curious to see how they’d react to a ‘touch of madness’ suddenly befalling their comrade. Would they attempt to console and leave themselves open for an attack? Leave the man to wail?

End his abrupt misery?

“Uriel, be silent!” The knight closest to the first admonished, approaching him. “Have you no sense?”

The man only wailed, lost in nightmares of his mind’s own creation, spurred on by Belphegor’s spell.

Frustrated, the knight who’d spoken reached him and rose his fist to strike sense into his ally when the priest raised a hand.

“Wait. Do not touch him. There may be black magic in our presence.”

“Black magic…?” The knight echoed, backing a step and reaching for the hilt of his sword. “Here? But those heretics are nowhere to be seen!”

The priest nodded with a thoughtful expression, observing the wailing Uriel from a respectful distance. “Giving into senselessness and fear will only weaken our own resolve. Let us not be too hasty, Ezekiel.”

Uriel began to claw at his face, desperate and unseeing as he turned his face up at the moon, voice raw and broken in his cries.

But the priest had tempered their irrational response.

Belphegor rolled his eyes and drew a lazy circle in front of himself while murmuring a reduction of the curse’s effect to shut him up.

Seems I’ll be introducing myself after all.

He pulled the hood of his cloak overhead before stepping out into the moonlight, adopting a meek gait as he came into their view.

“Uriel?” he asked, feigning obliviousness to the tension that greeted him. “Uriel the angel is here?”

The sharp sting of steel unsheathing from leather cut through the air, and Ezekiel pointed at him with his blade. “And who might you be, boy?”

Ah, good. A healthy level of distrust. This one might’ve survived long under normal circumstances.

He cowered back and clutched at the fabric over his heart, letting his voice falter as he spoke. “J… Just a tr-traveler, sir. Please, could you tell me where the angels are?”

His eyes narrowed. “And where did you come from? There have been no other travelers in sight for miles.”

Again, he cowered back and shrank his posture like an admonished child. “I-I have no money. I was sleeping nearby and heard the name of an angel.”

Would adopting a pitiful and hopeful tone quell suspicion? Appeal to the arrogance in his heart as if he might prove a savior?

“Please,” he begged again, stepping closer and looking up at him. With his eyes captured, his charms began to take effect.

Look at me.

Look at how small and frail I appear to be.

“Tell me, is it here?”

Ezekiel’s resolve wavered, eyes flicking back and forth uncertainly.

Another step closer.

You pity me, that much is clear, but I’m nothing more than a poor and destitute child sleeping in the dirt.

The priest outstretched his hand and spoke gently, almost… paternally.

“No, there are no angels here, my child. Only men of God.”

He tilted his head as if confused, unwilling to let Ezekiel go just yet.

“Men of God? But… I heard you say an angel’s name.”

Something snapped and Ezekiel’s eyes relighted. He scowled down at him. “Are you thick? There is no—“

“Calm yourself, Ezekiel.” The priest said as he approached Belphegor with carefully placed steps.

Too careful steps.

Doubt crept into the demon’s heart and he stepped back half a step, but the priest only smiled calmly, lifting his head to make his expression visible in the moonlight as he spoke in an elderly, soothing cadence.

“Yes child, these men have been given the names of servants of the Holiest on High to show our devotion to serve in its name.”

Bile rose to his throat at the mere thought of any human sharing the name with his former kin.

“Is that so?” He bowed his head to hide his disgust while keeping his voice full of wonder. Humans taking their names as if they could somehow be equal? He clenched his fists, nails biting the heels of his palms. “I had not heard of this practice before.” What purpose did it serve? “Does it bestow you God’s Graces?”

Bastardizing their names for your own benefit.

Loathsome.

Disgusting.

“Even the Faithless know—“ Ezekiel stopped himself again with the patient gesture from the priest, but scowled at him instead.

“Father, can you not see?” He pointed at Belphegor, “This boy knows none of our ways. Appeared out of nowhere. If not allied with heretics, he may as well be from the—“

“Hush, Ezekiel.” The priest’s tone was kind, but firm. “We are to love all God’s children, and welcome them into the fold.”

Belphegor bowed his head further and gripped at his chest, thankful for the dark to hide his morbid grin.

Welcome them into the fold? When the God they know is not that which exists?

“Look at how he cowers at hearing your holy word!” Heavy steps strode closer toward him but he remained unmoving. “If he’s not with the heretics, he may as well be!”

“Ezekiel, steady thy sword!”

In the corner of his eye he watched as Ezekiel raised his sword, the shadow of the blade cutting across the road, jagged and elongated.

An execution’s arc.

“God’s children,” he murmured without lifting his head, giving Ezekiel pause. “You think taking their names as your own is enough to count yourself among God’s children?”

Uncertainty slackened Ezekiel’s grip, but anger held it fast.

“How dare you-!”

Before he could bring his blade down, Belphegor dove under his arm and reached for the unprotected space between helm and breast, lifting him by the neck.

All was quiet.

“The hubris of humans truly has no end, does it?” He said, turning to grin at the priest. “First your kind attempt to enslave me, and now you wish to be counted among my kin?”

“M-My child, put him down-!” The priest sputtered in disbelief, retreating as the others moved to place themselves between Belphegor and he.

He squeezed even as Ezekiel struck and grasped at his arm and only lifted him higher.

“But are you not men of God?” He asked, Ezekiel’s struggles nearly effortless to ignore. More a mild annoyance, he’d be easier to hold if he’d quit squirming but soon enough the kicking would cease.

But not before he was punished for his blasphemy.

The sword fell to the ground in a thud and he looked up at Ezekiel, his disdain upturning his grin.

“Tell me. Does evoking the name of Ezekiel bring you protection?” He stared into his eyes, watching the man sputter as spittle ran down his fingers. “Do you feel closer to God?”

“Release him you fiend!”

“Fiend?” He echoed with a tilt of his head, unaware of whichever forgettable human had spoken. “Why such cruel words? I only wish to see evidence of God’s Graces.”

A knight drew his blade and held it with a shield raised while the priest bowed his head and began to pray.

Again with this? Prayers meant noth-

He frowned, a faint but steady glow beginning to form around the knight. Some rudimentary barrier of protection?

Was this the priest’s Will manifesting?

Fine. If the witches could see through it, there was a chance this elder could too.

He reached up to open his cloak and let it fall off his shoulders, releasing his glamor and letting his true nature shine in the moonlight. Silver kissed ebony as it entwined at his temples, extending in twisted horns of the human-named ‘Damned’.

“Wh-what is…”

“F-Father…?”

He lashed his tail behind him and lifted Ezekiel high while giving him a pitying grin. “Such a stupid fool you are, led to believe God would even know your name.”

Panic set in and he began to kick again, but Belphegor only turned to lock eyes with the priest as he crushed his throat.

“Tell me,” he said, dropping the body with an unceremonious thud.

“Do you still believe in God’s Graces?”

The priest continued his chanting, maintaining rhythm and only projecting his voice louder in a steady defiance as golden rays of light began to shine, extending to each knight one by one.

How funny, his spell casting looked so similar to the witches they pursued.

He widened his stance and shifted his weight to the balls of his feet as he lowered down, touching the dirt with one hand.

“Do you think God will hear you if you continue to pray?”

His tail swayed side to side in a lazy arc, capturing their attention with ease.

Idiots.

They should be watching his eyes.

No one moved save for the subtle nods as they watched his tail’s sway, captivated in their discomfort at the unnatural and inhuman.

Until the first knight broke through his stupor, overcome with a holy wrath. His first mistake was believing, his second yelling.

As the sword arced high, the demon dove low and struck up, crunching the knight’s face with one strike. In an instant he crumpled, joining Ezekiel on the ground.

To his surprise, the second acted just as his comrade fell and swung at his back.

Clever.

He sank to his haunches, letting the sword swing harmlessly overhead. Not to lose that precious momentum, he hooked his tail around a leg and snapped it out from under him, dragging the knight across the dirt before throwing his body against a tree with a crack.

Men of God broke so easily.

“Three,” he said quietly, standing up slowly and lifting his knuckles to his lips, the scent metallic and faint. “I have killed three, and yet I see no Grace.”

Iron clattered as fear shook resolve, but the priest’s prayer only became more fervent.

He grinned and dragged his tongue across his knuckles, tasting the blood of man.

“Do you still believe?” He taunted, stepping forward with hands outstretched while the cowards trembled back. “Do you still believe God cares for thee?”

No answer.

He sighed and looked up at the moon. Did they truly believe God lived in the sky?

A silent breeze whistled through the trees, stirring around and raising gooseflesh with its chill, but only the persistent murmurings of the priest’s unending prayer stretched between them.

“It’s fascinating you still find the Will to pray,” he said, looking down from the sky to smirk at the priest. Perhaps he could use this opportunity to test just how far a human’s Will could reach.

Without a second glance, he stepped over Ezekiel’s body and ran toward the knight on the right. Startled but quick, the man raised his shield and readied his blade.

Ready even in the face of death?

I’ll kill you quickly.

Belphegor leapt up and twisted in the air, illuminated by the moon’s glow as he flipped overhead. The moment his feet connected with the ground he half-stood and struck back with his elbow, shattering the man’s spine and eliciting a delicious wail of agony.

“Do you think if I pray too, God might hear you?”

“Gabriel!”

Another snap and the knight once called Gabriel fell alongside his brethren.

He drew himself up to his full height and rose his arms to the heavens. “Oh Father, have mercy on my soul!” He cried, “Please save me from this agony! Such wickedness am I!”

“You damn demon!” The last standing knight bellowed, charging at him with sword drawn.

“Ah…” He leaned back, dodging the blade and catching him by the arm. “Yes, but didn’t you wish to be like me?” He twisted on his heel and threw the man’s momentum, causing him to stumble and fall over the dead. Then he turned to the priest and smiled wide. “A child of God so beloved and free? Only to be cast aside without a thought of mercy?”

Still the man prayed, holding himself in reverence as he backed away slowly.

The demon only grinned, feeling more alive than when the night began.

“Tell me priest, what am I doing wrong?” He said, stalking closer with hands raised. “I beg, I plead, I scream, and yet I am not struck down. Could it be that God has abandoned me? Truly?”

The priest’s eyes lifted to his for a brief glance, but his chant did not waver.

“If God had cared, wouldn’t I receive an answer? Your prayers haven’t ceased, and yet there is no one here but you and me.”

A regretful expression crossed his features, but still he did not waver.

Why wouldn’t he waver?

Angered, he dropped all pretense and strode toward him. “Stop that blathering and answer me!”

His eyes did not look away, and that had been his mistake. In his anger, Belphegor had nearly forgotten, but with that spark of hope in the priest’s eyes…

…he turned and caught the blade before it could lop off his head.

The knight didn’t react at first, mystified he’d caught it so effortlessly.

He sneered. “Did you honestly think a human’s creation could ever—“

Heavy drops fell to the dirt, imperceptible to the human ear but deafening in his own. He looked down, stunned, staring at his blood muddying the sand.

“You…”

Nothing in this world could cause him harm.

“You cut…”

Nothing had ever come close.

The priest’s prayers hummed within the blade, burning into his flesh as it glowed with a golden light.

Light he doubted humans could even see.

How could they have—

Pain sliced through his palm as the knight awoke first, yanking the sword from his grasp. A righteous yell swallowed the shocked scream as the sword drove forward, aimed to pierce through his chest.

If he didn’t move…

…he might finally die.

The night sky reflected so expansive and bright on polished steel, unfathomable stars and galaxies stretching overhead in endless wonder.

Endless…

He sidestepped and grabbed the man’s wrist, yanking him forward to land on his face at his feet.

“As if I would let a human kill me,” he spat, slamming his heel down on his back and forcing him to release his grip. The accursed sword fell to the ground in a clatter and he dropped the arm in favor of the blade, holding it with bloodied palm while studying its features. The glow was bright, but focused around the blade’s edge.

…was just another reference to nothingness.

“F-Father,” the man cried, crawling toward the priest with one arm limp. “We must—“

Belphegor drove the sword through his heart, slicing through iron as if it were paper. “Hm…” Just another sword after all. He smiled sadly, “First to shed my blood and yet you die like the rest. What a shame.”

Only then did the priest’s prayers cease.

“Do you still believe?” He asked numbly, pulling out the blade and inspecting the night’s sky on its marred surface. It wasn’t as pretty as it was before… Where was that Willful glow?

He dropped the sword and walked the last few strides toward the priest, who had moved to kneel with hands clasped and expression patient. He gazed up at Belphegor with an acceptance of Fate, his eyes sorrowful in their grief.

“God made no move to intervene.”

The priest answered with a silent nod.

“He answered neither you nor me.”

Another nod and the priest closed his eyes, turning his face up to the heavens.

Belphegor clenched his fists, grounded only by the steady thud of bleeding into the dirt.

“Then how can you still believe?” He asked through grit teeth.

“Simple, my child,” the priest said, looking into his eyes again. “It is a Father’s duty to love—“

Belphegor struck him across his mouth, whipping the priest’s head aside and cracking his neck. Killing him in an instant, an unintentional mercy he’d not yet decided to grant.

“Don’t you dare begin to say such things to me!” He yelled at the body as its soul began to rise, forming in wisps of ethereal clouds. Memories incarnate that could dissipate and begin again anew. Another life.

Another breath.

He leaned over and inhaled, swallowing memories as they began to wake.

Liars.

Humans were filthy, faithless liars.

Scum. All of them.

Unknown images flickered in his mind’s eye. Thoughts. Feelings. Memories.

Praying at the altar. Warmth and hope.

Feeding the poor and orphaned. Regret and compassion.

Seeing the sick be made well. Relief and a tired sense of joy.

Raising and living alongside those with no family. A tenderness that—

Bile rose to his throat, burning until he turned and vomited into the dirt.

No.

He wretched again.

No.

“How much longer must you torture me?” He asked with a self pitying laugh, eyes starting to sting.

He threw back his head and cried out to the night, knowing no God would ever hear his prayer. “Why take her and not me? Why?” Tears might’ve ran hot down his cheeks, the throbbing at his palm might’ve continued to burn, but in his pleadings he could feel nothing.

Nothing…

His sense of the world began to fade, the familiar shadow creeping into his mind and pulling his consciousness downward, drawing him into its endless abyss.

Endless.

Soon even he could not hear his wails unto God, only knowing he continued to scream by the rawness felt in the back of his throat.

Nothingness.

The abyss beckoned, spreading darkness further and promising to swallow every thought, every despair.

If he could fall deeper this time… perhaps he might not…

A sharp hiss snapped him back to reality and he turned toward the sound, blackness retreating to reveal Uriel’s face, sweaty and labored with hair clinging to his brow and hatred in his eyes.

Who are you?

Why such anger?

A shard of moonlight flew toward him, reflecting off the thrown dagger as it sailed for his throat.

How… pretty…

Pain returned to his palm, pulsing with every beat of his heart.

He closed his eyes and held his breath.

Perhaps he too could find freedom in the light.

The blade slid across his throat smoothly until the handle struck and it ricocheted off his neck. He coughed on reflex and reached up to rub the bruise.

“You bastard!” Uriel yelled. “You rotten, filthy, putrid scum!”

Not even a scratch.

“How many…”

He stood up, seeing the world bend and fold as his mind flirted with the edges of the abyss and reality. Nothing was anything. Thoughts were not meaning. Breath without breathing.

Unfeeling.

Nothing.

He turned toward the one who yelled, a face that floated in a sea darkness and light. It continued to yell and hurl obscenities as he drew closer, fascinated by the vitriol it expressed. Such anger was…

So…

Noisy.

“Stop yelling,” he said dully, tongue thick in his mouth as reality began to shake, solidifying at the edges of his view but the abyss refused to release its hold. If it could not swallow him alone, it would devour reality itself.

Darkness stretched forth to silence the angry face, covering its screams until nothing could return once more.

He breathed in deep, tasting hate upon the dying breath and turned his face up to the heavens.

If she could be cast out for saving the Fate of one…

The abyss beckoned again, calling to him to submit himself to its embrace but a sudden burn anchored him still. Foreign, but familiar. It made his body feel… angry. But why?

He couldn’t remember.

He blinked, but the darkness only stretched over his peripherals again. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, focusing on the feeling of opening and closing his fists again and again until they felt attached to his body. Tangible. Solid.

Wind whistled through the trees, making him shiver with the memory of its chill.

He stretched his neck, feeling the ache of the healing bruise.

The heat around his arm began to fade and he breathed a sigh of relief.

He opened his eyes and looked around, recollecting where he was and what he’d done. With the knights and priest dead, the curse must've been released.

So the contract was complete, then.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he glanced back in the direction from which he’d come. With no curse, he was free.

And there were some damned humans that could curse in that direction.

He walked toward the trees but stopped, noticing an extension of the abyss had attached itself to reality. That…

Had never happened before.

He tilted his head, curious as he approached it. The air around it was hazy, and an uneasy sense of vertigo set in when looking into its depths. Even light itself seemed unable to resist the yearning to sink into the sense of…

Endless.

He reached out, the motion opening barely healed wounds and spilling blood into its bottomless chasm.

Nothingness.

It rippled and shook, crackling in the air as entropy danced before his very eyes, fighting to find shape or break apart.

So entranced, he’d hardly had time to even flinch as it shot through his chest and embedded itself, finding anchor in his soul.

He choked and fell forward in a breathless gasp, chilled to the bone as the darkness found its shape, becoming his shadow.

A deadly chill touched his spine, crawling down slowly as the specter rose and blocked out the moon at his back. He turned back and regretted it, the agony of distant memories of a life now passed flooding his mind.

He turned away from it and forced himself to his feet. There was no time to wallow in self pity. Even as he swayed, he forced himself to remain standing.

The ability to curse demons was a problem.

The sooner he solved the problem, the sooner he could go home and rest.

The easiest solution was always the best.

So it stood to reason that if he killed the witches, the knowledge would die with them.

No more curses from humans ever again.

He stepped into the forest, the shadow of despair following in his wake, the dull pain of his palm returning as he clenched his fist.

And no more blessings either.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me belphegor #obey me belphie #fanfic #angst #saiki lore

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