flower of regret

[fluerduremords]

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[aedearly]

✎ㅤ. . .ㅤ𝑯𝑬𝑨𝑫𝑪𝑨𝑵𝑶𝑵 𝑸𝑼𝑬𝑺𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵𝑺.

₊˚⊹ ㅤa collection of character analysis/headcanon questions to learn more about your character and your partners'! writing/headcanon prompts requested by anonymous. feel free to edit these as you see fit.

[ 🖐️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat do their hands feel like: soft, calloused, trembling ? [ ☂️ ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they crave touch or fear it ? [ 🎐 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a sound, like a song or voice, that they associate with peace ? [ 🕊️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen did they feel the safest ? [ 💤 ]ㅤ.ㅤhow do they sleep ? curled up, sprawled, holding onto something ? [ 🦇 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat is a fear they never talk about ? [ 🔒 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat is a secret they’ve sworn never to tell ? [ 🪢 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen was the last time they broke a promise ? [ 🫳 ]ㅤ.ㅤwho do they feel they owe, but never paid back ? [ 💼 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat do they always carry with them ? [ 🧨 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat’s the quickest way to set them off, even if they hide it well ? [ ⛓️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat does guilt feel like to them ? [ 💢 ]ㅤ.ㅤwho have they never forgiven and never will ? [ 🩸 ]ㅤ.ㅤis there something or someone that, if lost, would break them ? [ 🌧️ ]ㅤ.ㅤis there a pain they refuse to heal from ? [ 🪞 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen have they looked at their reflection and hated what they saw ? [ 📿 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat superstition or ritual do they cling to ? [ 🌊 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhen was the last time they cried ? [ 🐾 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo animals like them instinctively ? [ 🪶 ]ㅤ.ㅤhow do they laugh ? [ 🫀 ]ㅤ.ㅤwho taught them what love is ? did it hurt ? [ 💭 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they believe they’re worthy of being loved ? [ 🎀 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat is their main love language ? [ 🔦 ]ㅤ.ㅤwho do they search for ? [ 📜 ]ㅤ.ㅤis there a story they love sharing with others ? [ 🌒 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a dream or goal they have given up on ? [ 🕯️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat memory do they replay when they’re alone ? [ 🌪️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat’s the one choice they regret (not) making ? [ 🧩 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat’s a truth about themselves they refuse to admit ? [ 🍻 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat kind of drunk are they ? [ ✉️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat kind of letter would they write but never send ? [ 🗡️ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat is a scar that they have but never talk about ? [ 🕸️ ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a favourite lie they like to hear ? [ 🪦 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat would they want on their gravestone but never admit aloud ? [ 🎱 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat kind of future do they crave, and who’s in it ? [ 🌀 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they have a recurring dream or nightmare ? [ 🍃 ]ㅤ.ㅤdo they feel like they belong ? [ ⚓ ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat does “home” mean to them ? [ 🧭 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhere would they go if they could disappear tomorrow ?

[fountain-of-memes]

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[fluerduremords]

// Hi everyone!!!

Sorry for the brief disappearing act I pulled there. A schedule change with the winter storm kind of kicked my brain into stalling mode, but I'm going to endeavor to be back in action now.

Since I have several new followers (hi!) I'd like to just toss out the general reminder that my ask box is always open for anything that strikes your fancy, and my Discord is always availale on request! I'll be seeking out and reblogging a few ask memes too to hopefully get the ball rolling :)

[moonreaped]

small closed starter // @fluerduremords

There was something about the way that Lysandre stared at her that had her curious as what to lay behind those sky coloured eyes of his. What thoughts could be going through his mind as his stare bore into her? It caught her curiosity and she tilted her head subtly in his direction, almost as if she was trying to sus out his heart's thoughts through hearing alone.

However needing to know outweighed polite decorum, voicing herself as her ear remained slightly upturned. A smile grew on her lips, blooming with a bit of mischief.

"Hmm...? Is there something on my face?"

[fluerduremords]

  Though subtly was an art encouraged among those of Kalosian nobility (as little as those ancient positions truly meant, these days), it was not a talent Lysandre possessed in any excess. When comfortable – as he is now – any ability to hide his sentiments flew from him. That, and he ever did love to speak (if only because, in turn, a voice would greet him. And this voice was so pure, so sonorous, so entrancing, he wanted only to listen to it eternal).

  “There is. It’s small, though.” He leans forward, eating away at the dreaded space between them. One hand drifts up and a thumb presses to the corner of her lips (right where they turned up, full of mischief, of energy-). He squinted, then, as if trying to focus on some small, unseen speck, then swips his finger across her cheek as if to brush something away, only stopping when he could cup her cheek easily in one hand.

  “Perhaps I was wrong. You seem just as flawless as always.”

[fluerduremords]

@windsofalola continued from here.

 The intimidation doesn’t work on Lysandre; the front of anger, the threat of violence. How could it? He had ended one world in one universe, felt the pain and glory of victory for a brief moment, and arrived at a place where the very same illness resided – accompanied by the shadow of black wings.

 He meets the gaze of the younger man – one full of a burning resolve – and doubts the claim that this was not about being good. There are many ways to be so, and not all of them require nonviolence. It came down to intent – and this one did not seem like he intended to do this for a prize.

 Lysandre’s lips twitch, then twist into a smile. It’s a wholly bereft of any joy, a hollow shell, much like him. More of a reflex than anything.

 “Do you think that would stop me?” There is not a hint of malice in his voice – just curiosity. “Do you think that hurting me would stop anything? The world would continue on its path – broken without realizing it. Is your view of what is good so narrow?”

 It probably was. It was for so many, so many times over. That’s why they never tried the way they should. They never reached out. Why everything only continued on the trajectory to worsen, not to heal.  

[hellhoundoom]

        If all of the sights of Lumiose did not give him pause then this display certainly did. The evening was in full swing now, the awkward earlier stage was a yawn in an otherwise wonderful performance. The bright colors otherwise contrasted the bold reds and blacks of his would-be-partner’s attire and Archer was suddenly aware that he was far too in over his head. The outstretched palm did not intentionally garner attention–

        Until it did. 

         Lysandre was being keenly watched even on the outskirts. It made sense; it was his own party, after all. This had been a trap and he had foolishly stumbled headfirst into it. They clashed horribly, or complemented each other. White and blue stood out against the planes of Lysandre’s far bolder palette. 

        Despite himself, he stepped closer. The scent of cologne was light, not enough to agitate the nose unlike the heavier perfumes from the crowd. He set aside his wine glass, callously, allowing it to rest upon the aforementioned display. It made a better table. Once more his hand found Lysandre’s, securely curling around his to draw him nearer. 

        “It would be my pleasure,” he offered another smile, unconcealed by a glass veil. The difference in height meant he could deploy another weapon; sheltering the intensity of his stare beneath his lashes. “I expect you to be a man of your word.”

        The song that played at their backs was delicate, anticipating the rush of dancers flooding the floor. It was no surprise that people would clamor to follow suit, lest they be unfashionable if the moment passed them by. Archer’s body fit perfectly against the curve of Lysandre’s. They were so close that he was sure the fluttering of his heart was far louder than the music.

        In a moment of daring, he pressed his cheek to Lysandre’s, just so his words would find his ear alone. “I do think I found my favorite piece.” The statement was punctuated with hunger, making the innuendo a bit more apparent.

[fluerduremords]

 There was a challenge implicit in the way Apollo set aside his glass with so little care for the displays. He carries the air of a man who never did anything without reason – someone with every move pre-planned, words selected to produce the greatest impact. It’s evident in the careful way he moves his body, too; a step forward to tempt but not close the distance completely, dare Lysandre to take the final step.

 He does, without further hesitation (and no more than one final glance and a raised brow at the casually discarded glass of wine), leads Archer to the dancefloor. It’s instant the way the environment changes. Instant and familiar. Every partner Lysandre has ever dared take, whether it be chance or arranged, a stranger or long-term, has been scrutinized by the public. That is simply how it must be for the Prince; a title and a name too large to go without eyes.

 The music swelled, and Lysandre danced. He could take these steps even in his dreams, no stranger to balls and galas. This was a better dance than he’d experienced in a while, even so. His companion kept pace well – and he felt right against Lysandre. A perfect fit against him, the curve of his hip a tempting place for his hand to drift (he would not; it was by no means appropriate for the setting or the dance itself). The small of his back still suited well as they glided along.

 Up until Apollo pressed closer, so much so that he could feel the brush of his lips against his ear as he spoke.

 Lysandre decided, instantly, he’d made the best choice he possibly could the whole evening through. Perhaps the best choice in the past several weeks, if he were to be somewhat dramatic. His hand pressed slightly firmer into Apollo’s body in response, though he moves his face further away from his. He still speaks in a low roar, quiet enough to prevent anyone from hearing, loud enough to be heard over the music (with focus and some strain, perhaps, if Lysandre was correct in just where his tone was).

  “All this beauty surrounds you, yet you come claim to find the best art in a man? I’m most flattered, but I fear it may be far too soon for you to claim so in complete confidence. My process requires a bit more time to fully appreciate what a piece has to offer.”

 The Kalosian Prince flashes his winning smile – the one that appeared in just about every magazine he’s been interviewed for. It’s mostly for show, the truer, softer expressions reserved for the private, intimate moments of his life. “I like to observe, further out at first – then closer. I want to examine every detail as intimately as possible. There is ever so much you don’t see at first.”

 The song begins to wind down, the dancers beginning to seek their next partner or prepare for the next movement. Lysandre’s eyes search Apollo’s – daring him to stay, daring him to walk away and let the man pace after him like a Pyroar with prey before it.

   His move.

[mooncrcwned]

The threat of tears turned into peals of laughter, ringing loud and clear as Yrisviel was grapsed and thrown into the air. The momentary surprise of being airborn followed by the drop into her father's strong and certain arms distracted the young girl enough to make her forget, a moment, the hurt of separation. She was delighted and the house was filled with her little voice getting into every corner.

"Together? Do you mean you're going to stay? No, am I going home?''

There was so much hope shining in her eyes, a mirror to his. Such a bright blue it was almost inhuman how much they shone still with youthful hopes and dreams. The world had yet to dash and ruin the young princess, so she still spoke as any little one would.

But of course, she noticed how stiff his face was and, sensitive as she was, picked up on it. Her brows pinched a bit as she put on a helpless smile.

There would be no going home, would there?

She touched his face gently, caressing carefully along his cheeks until she reached the corners of his mouth and poked at them. She wanted to call him a liar, but stayed silent -- she was surprisingly mature for her age in that way. Or perhaps her lessons on decorum had pressed into her the need for tact and to not react like a petulant child...even though she was one.

One advice her mother always told her that when things got bad, you had to smile. Light up like the brightest thing in the room. Everything would be okay as long as she could keep smiling.

"I'm fine, papa!" And she closed the distance to kiss his face, too, mimicking his show of affection. Tiny little butterfly kisses wherever she could reach. "Everything is better now that you're here -- I have a lot to show you! Miss Grace and my aunties taught me so, so, so many things. I've been a very good girl, you know!"

At this point, her foster mother stepped up, bowing in greeting to Lysandre. "Oh, yes, she's been such a delightful child, your highness. I can scarcely believe she's only nine years old now. She's accomplished so much ."

[fluerduremords]

 She asks about home and he knows his smile falters – he can feel it, the way the dread creeps into every line of his face, rewriting the evidence of a life of smiling, the wrinkles at the edges of his eyes. In public spaces, it’s easier to hide behind a mask. Even if he’s adept at playing pretend with his little girl, he always fails when it comes to hiding what he feels.

 Or perhaps she’s just like her mother that regard, even if she’s but a child still. It may be something to do with the moon’s blessings, or simply something to do with how the weight of duty ever made one so aware of other’s state of mind. Perceptive is a word he would use to describe them both.

 She bids the smile back, though, with ease. The poke of her little fingers at the corners of his mouth sees it return, then grow to beaming at the return of his kisses twofold. He adjusts his grasp upon her once more, so that she may have free reign of wherever she desired to perch upon him, then cast his eyes to her caretaker as she spoke.

  “She is her mother’s daughter, and mine, too,” he answers with no shortage of pride. It blazed in his chest and his stomach, shedding light enough to cast out – for the moment – the grief of Sumire’s passing and the knowledge of a parting from Yrisviel which would come all too soon. “Though I hope she remembers the importance of play, as well. A princess may have her duties, a moon maiden a fair amount as well, but all duty shall wear her out.” And time often took the job of a child from them; to simply enjoy life at its simplest, without worry for the future, for those who they cared for beneath their banner.

  "And Grace-" he adds, almost an afterthought, "While I am here, refer to me freely by name. As if I am extended family."

 And then, he looks once again to Yrisviel and answers her with as much honesty as he can muster. “I will be here with you for a month, my dear. Nothing shall call me away early, I promise, though I may have to work an hour or two some days. There will be no going home just yet. That won’t be forever though, even if it feels like it. Now, what is the most important thing you want to show me first?”

 He bends to set her down on her feet as he finishes his sentence, knowing she already boasts a degree of independence and hoping she will lead him about with the confidence and excitement he wishes her to carry her whole life-long.

[fluerduremords]

I'm inexorably drawn to you. You have lead me so deeply astray from my path, but I cannot deny that I adore being tangled up in you. How gauche would it be to compare your beauty to a flower?

 There is so much here that fills him with delight – more than he had words to express, perhaps, though there is yet no dearth of them. Lysandre is a man prone to weaving image into his speech, and here Archer offers it on a platter. Almost as if he were on his knees, begging Lysandre to make him poetry.

 Even so – something in Lysandre questions it. Has he truly drawn archer astray? Acts of terrible unkindness call to him yet, and Archer wields his orders as efficiently as any blade. Knowing what he did, shrouded from Lysandre’s view, drove his mind to darker places. Whatever wickedness he conjured must be worse than the truth.

  (He hoped, he prayed, he swore, hiding fractures behind the décor of physical contact and honey-sweet words, pretending they wouldn’t appear again).

 “Perhaps not gauche,” Lysandre purred, no hint of his turmoil laying claim to his words (he would not allow it). “Cliche though, most certainly. Yet not far from the mark; I was named for the lily. I know this is something you know, my sharp-witted Archer.” He can’t help but come closer, either; Archer possesses a great gravity when it comes to Lysandre. Just as he claims he is drawn to the Prince, the Prince is, in return, bound to him.

 A finger traces along the planes of Archer’s face, from the bottom of his jaw and sweeping up to his cheekbone. The movement is slow, reverent, attentive in every way. If Archer were to one day become a phantom of his past, Lysandre wished only to hold the sensation, the shape of him in mind eternally. “I would risk a breach of decorum to turn it about upon you, too. You are much the same as the hawthorn. Eye catching and most beautiful, but possessing of such frightfully sharp thorns. Delicious,” he adds, with a look of hunger that lingers on his lips before traveling to his eyes, “but the seeds are deadly poison. Cyanide, should I recall.”

 What is Archer if not a temptation, hiding poison just within? He'd already worked it on Lysandre. It would never stop now.

[fluerduremords]

"Papa! Je t'adore~!"

Just little Yrisviel randomly proclaiming her love for her father out of the blue.

  “ Mon ange, beaucoup j'adore.” There is never hesitation in his response, no matter how many times she says it to him. He will never, ever get tired of hearing it either. It will always rank amongst the best sounds the world has to offer.

  He scoops her up into his arms as he always does, and peppers her face all over with kisses. With her his life is truly richer; that is a truth he shall never forget.

[fluerduremords]

‘ i’m hungry and hollow and just want something to call my own ’ ( baby Corbeau time !!! )

Poetry Starters

  Lysandre looks down at the child by his feet, hears the words he says, and is struck instantly by a fierce pain, cutting to his very roots. At so young an age, he looked tired and worn, burdened by unimaginable troubles. No soul in the world should have to bear such weight alone, let alone a child.

  And was it wonder or fear or something else Lysandre saw in his eyes? Was there danger to be had, something to run and hide from? Did he look at the Crown Prince because he felt that this adult would take something from him, claim what little he had as his own?

  Ever emotional, he feared the fury would show on his face, be readable as something directed towards the young one. He had to smooth it over, push forth the decorum his father always told him to hold close. Even so, Lysandre’s hands curled to fists for a moment, fingernails biting against his palms even through the leather of his gloves. Then that, too, was brushed away, his visage schooled into as careful and warm a smile as he could muster given the circumstance before him.

  “I think that is all well and good.” He is assuring, warm. Lysandre settles himself to one knee, hoping the action of lowering himself nearer the ground would make him seem less of an authority, more approachable somehow. “It looks like you deserve more than a single ‘something’, though. You’ve been alone some time, haven’t you?”

  That’s what he fears most, should he be true with himself. He is afraid to hear that there is this small somebody who has slipped through the cracks in the world and ended up in the worst of the mire of life. That he has, one way or another, failed this small somebody personally.

  “I think, perhaps, you and I should find you a few somethings, and fill that belly of yours. There’s a cafe there with some fine sandwiches, and you can stay where you feel safest while I get you what you want. Only if-” He holds up one finger, as if signaling him to wait, “you are comfortable with me doing so.”

[mooncrcwned]

Lysandre knew his daughter all too well.

Once upon a time, when the Prince still had his Maiden, they went on a short journey together when the little Princess was no taller than a Wigglytuff. Left behind, she had worried and waited, making herself utterly sick from missing them both and only recovering after they returned to give her curse dispelling kisses, for they had joked that some foul curse had taken hold while they were not there to protect her from evil witches.

How spoiled she had been. Yrisviel wished she could go back to that time again when she could be sick in bed and draw in her mother and father for support and warmth.

Maybe that was why she was here and not home.

Grace was nice. She was a wonderful caretaker; a former knight turned racer who had always wanted to be a mother and had gladly volunteered to look after Yrisviel in Unova, one of the furthest places she could go, away from the influence of both Kalosian government and her own maternal family.

An important guest was coming and while her foster mother would not say who, they would be important enough to warrant good manners and patience. Since dawn, she practices little things like curtseying and saying her most gracious greeting without fumbling her words (it still happened anyways). There was a hope that maybe if she was very good she could go home.

When the signal of their mystery guest came along Yris went to the door alongside Grace who went ahead to open it, while the little girl waited patiently with her hands at the sides of her little dress, ready to show her best behaviour exemplary of a real life princess!

As the door swung open and Yris began to curtsey, head beginning to bow, a great shadow cast over her. For a moment, she froze, a little frightened because goodness this guest of theirs was tall, like a giant. Blue eyes wide with nervousness before recognition filled them instead.

Manners went right out the window as Yrisviel charged at the man at the door. The way her eyes got watery said she wanted to cry (a mixture of delight and hurt), but little Yrisviel held it in, merely reaching out to rush into Lysandre and hold onto him. She had to be grateful for anything she got!

"Papa! Papa I missed you!"

[fluerduremords]

 He caught her in a curtsy that seemed quite well-practiced. Looked like someone had kept up not only with her schooling, but etiquette lessons as well. He could almost imagine her prancing through her room, pretending she was attending some grand party full of Lords and Ladies, greeting each of them with flawless decorum. Every time she finished a greeting, she would look towards him where he sat at the edge of the bed (the throne, on a raised dais before the gathering), seeking for approval that she’d done well.

 ...Only that wasn’t really happening, was it? Perhaps it could, during this vacation of his. Not enough, not enough, not enough. The look in her eyes, too, like the threat of rainfall on a sunny day. Mourning, raw as the very first hour of separation struck again. To fight its tide, he sought to capture joy in his arms – lifting Yrisviel without a moment’s spare thought to his stiffness in one swift motion.

 Rather than hold her tight and close to his chest as if she would fade to ash, he opted to swing her up, toss her a short distance to the air and catch her again. His little maiden, his angel in flight. The smile on his face felt odd; soreness bloomed in his cheeks. How deeply etched within his life had a scowl become to leave it so?

  "Mon bijou, how I have missed you too." He at last replied, peppering her face with too many kisses to count.  He adjusted her so he could hold her in one arm, leaned up against him steadily. “It seems you have been working on your manners, no? I am quite proud to see it, my little princess. You will have to show me everything you’ve been working on while we’re together.” 

 To say such a thing was to invite the deluge of questions he knows she must be withholding in the euphoria of his arrival; he would have to face them sooner or later. He could bear that, too, placing his other hand to the side of her face and swiping one thumb across a damp eye.

 “Look at you. If you feel like you have to cry, then do it. There’s never any shame in shedding tears; your heart is strong and good and all your feelings are, too.” It’s something his mother used to tell him when he was young – a point his father disagreed with, citing tears as weakness. The sting of his words- those and so many others – were what inspired Lysandre to do his best in every moment he could with Yris. To do his best not to stifle her.

[hellhoundoom]

        This was the worst case scenario; Archer realized belatedly. The outstretched hand before him felt distinctly like a test. He kept a steady mask of calm, swallowing his hammering heart back into his chest. It was difficult to get the words from sticking to his teeth despite practicing them numerous times just prior to the gala. He hadn’t expected to need to use them so soon.

        This was a very decisive opening blow. He would need to tread carefully.

        “My, my,” His fingers found Lysandre’s outstretched palm, a brush of skin against his. He wasn’t about to back down from the challenge, “You’re Lysandre himself? I’m charmed.” Intimidated, more like, but Archer had endured far worse. He made a show of lowering his glass, just-so, allowing his interrogator a glimpse of his face unhindered. “My apologies, likewise, for not introducing myself to you. My name is Apollo. I was asked to come by another invitee—,” he hesitated, turning his gaze towards the glimmering crown at their side. His own face reflected imperfectly in the dull gleam of the silver, “— He left with another.” 

        He sighed against the lip of his glass, the curved edge caught most of the sound and swallowed it down. It wasn't entirely a lie. He had lifted the ticket from someone who had meant to be in attendance. This man was too shrewd, he'd easily poke holes into any excuse that Archer offered. Lysandre had been bold enough to approach a stranger he hadn’t personally invited. It was sheer luck that he didn't immediately flag the guards upon seeing him.

        “I don’t wish to dwell on something so unpleasant, not when you’ve cultivated such a beautiful atmosphere.” The score had changed, pleasant conversation lulled to give way to activity. The room had come alive with synchronous movements of silk and organza, combined with the twinkling of gemstones it gave the room a hazy, starlit look. He needed to find the artefact and plot an escape route. 

        Not yet free from the duties of making small talk with the event's reclusive organizer, Archer allowed his hand to slip free. “I don't want to keep you to myself,” It was a subtle test; how wary was he? There was a faint crescendo in the volume of the celebrants. One dance must have been finished because they scattered fluidly to fetch wine and finger foods before the next song began. “Otherwise I'm afraid you'll be joining me in admiring the new exhibit.”

Not that Archer had seen any of the others, but it made for a decent enough cover story.

[fluerduremords]

 Apollo, he said, and what a radiant name that was. Befitting a man who carried himself with such careful decorum and spoke as finely as he did – though he heard the accent. Johtonese, if he were correct, judging by the lilt at the end of each sentence. Musical, alluring.

 If Lysandre was one to place bets, he would put one on the fact that Apollo knew he was all these things – the lowering of his glass was far too well-timed, the flash of his lips and his handsome face acting as a bayonet. The Crown Prince lifted the offered hand to his lips, placing a greeting kiss upon the back of his knuckles; far more  befitting the hold he’d placed on him.

 Abandoned by his date, then. The idea of it tugged keenly enough on Lysandre’s heart – he was a man, after all, who was painted in many colors of abandonment (both perceived and actual). With hope it had been a casual affair, and no acute heartbreak of long-lasting lovers. All the same, he felt pity; loneliness was a terrible thing, particularly when surrounded by others.

 It was the very same sensation he so often drowned in. All of Kalos’ eyes upon him, and not a single one knew who he was. They saw the surface; the leather and flaming mane, practiced words and hollow smiles. They did not know his favorite books, the poetry that sang to him most, or how he loved to sit by the side of his Gyrados’ swimming pond and watch moonlight reflect from his scales in glistening waves, listening to the sigh of a breeze through shuddering branches.

 The current song ended with the trilling of strings, the murmuring of celebrants exchanging thanks or making requests for drink and food. His first instinct was to refuse that it is wholly unpleasant for him on the occasion, though his eyes slide to the immediate display the moment Apollo mentioned the exhibit.

 Ah. It was that horrible crown, donated by Lysandre’s father himself. Traditionally, the man held onto every piece of family heirloom – especially those to do with military history – with the attitude of a greedy Salamence. This one took very little convincing to part with, exclusively for the fact that it was objectively, hideously ugly. The matching painting was even worse, boasting a beautiful technique in the same place as a horrible understanding of Pokemon anatomy.

 “The exhibit is lovely, though you have chosen to start with one of the less impressive pieces, in my personal opinion.” Lysandre gestured behind them, drawing Apollo’s eye to the massive piece inside its gilded frame. “The crown is most unimpressive, though the accompanying piece is nicely done– besides the haunting expression the Pyroar wears.”

A mild manner of putting it; the creature possessed a face comparable to a particularly disgruntled, withered old man.

 “While I would be remiss to tear your attention away from the display, if you find yourself bereft of your previous partner, I’m afraid you’re missing a key aspect of this function.” Lysandre took hold of the conversation once more, steering it away from the artwork and back into the personal. He took a half step away from his conversational partner, eyes carefully regarding every inch of his body language, then bowed to him. It was low, sweeping, perfectly picturesque. In his current attire, Lysandre looked no different than a breathing variant of any number of the fine art all around them.

 “It would be my great honor, Apollo, to invite you to a dance with me. For the slight you have suffered at the hand of one of my guests, I shall endeavor only to make your evening more brilliant.” Lysandre could feel countless eyes boring into his back, now swimming towards his partner with the kind of jealous greed opportunistic Wingull often bore. He heeded them not, extending his hand once more, palm upturned, a polite invitation.

 He was well aware, of course, that Apollo could not refuse easily. It was a game of power, the giving and taking, and of glancing touches and hushed words. A miniaturized version of Lysandre’s social balancing act, held within the echo of strings preparing to sing to their steps.

[fluerduremords]

(Replies coming out later once I can finish the formatting at home ♥ )

[fluerduremords]

‘ history repeats itself ’

Poetry Starters

 How could he argue this when there was no lie to be found? He has chosen, willfully, to take on the mantle of something truly terrible, to act in grief and fury the very same as the old man he’d taken the key from. The picture was clear, the warnings written out; yet he was proud enough (desperate, too, undeniably) to think the ending would alter from how it was written before.

 Weren’t fairytales retold? How many versions had he seen of the same old story, collected by someone else, the ending changed to fit their vision? How many terrible endings had been made gentle and kind for the young, with wide eyes and unbroken hearts? How many has he read, handpicking the best endings so he could shape her world the way he wanted her to live? A world that was full of love, uneclipsed by the wicked, one for her to help shape.

 And what was he now? The dragon, the monster, the villain? For a happy ending, didn’t he have to disappear? When he did, what would be left? Lysandre wanted to laugh, wanted to weep; it was absurd, this whole situation, the things he had done and would do in mere minutes.

 It stung, those simple words, for their truth. It stung worse because it was her words, because they were spoken with certainty, as if she’d seen the ending before it came. Were they at war, then, with how they were writing this? What did she see he did not, what did he feel that she could never understand?

 When she was a child, he’d told Yrisviel there was never shame in shedding tears. If that were really true, why did he swallow them now behind a broken, disingenuous smile and a voice so, so steady despite the aching?

 “We will see if that is true, my little princess.” Could words so cut the tongue, leave him raw without even a droplet of blood, red as the gift tied tight around his neck?  “You know me to be stubborn and fierce as the worst of storms.” The same as her.

 How could he argue any further, when he had crafted the kind of ending he tried to shield her from?

[fluerduremords]

‘ i’m sorry i came to your party and seduced you ’

Poetry Starters

 Fundamentally, that is a ridiculous thing for him to say – not only because it sounds silly when put in such plain words, but because by no means is Apollo sorry at all. Lysandre knows this to be true, between the sly smile stained across his lips and the confidence with which the man carried himself even in the early hours of morning, when the sun was yet struggling to wake.

 He finds himself with a smile paid in turn, the slightest lifting of his brow. Very well, he would play this game, work himself into the clever back and forth that so thoroughly captured his attentions the very first moment it began. When was the last he’d met another who could cut so keenly without a weapon anywhere to be seen? One who was still willing to weave their words together with him?

 “Are you, now?” Playfulness fills his tone, eyes settling upon Apollo from where he leaned against the doorway, arms crossing over his chest. “The question still remains, for me, if that was your intention from the start or a mere serendipitous incident.”

 He left his place in the doorway then, prowling towards Apollo with the same ease and grace as the leonine Pokemon he styled himself (in part, at least) to resemble. Heavy footfalls, easy gait, command and danger all in one. He didn’t circle, though, opting instead to place one hand upon the other man’s shoulder, leaning down far enough that distance was just a suggestion, a thread, a ghost.

 “You may be sorry,” his words dropped to barely above a whisper, purposeful, somewhat theatrical. Another presentation, as it was, but this one with an invitation hidden inside. “But I am not by any means.”

[phantomemes]

credit  /  feel free to change pronouns !

‘ tell me about the dream where we the pull bodies out of the lake ’ ‘ it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio ’ ‘ tell me how all this , and love too , will ruin us ’ ‘ we’ll never get used to it ’ ‘ there are so many things i’m not allowed to tell you ’ ‘ we know where the sound is coming from ’ ‘ the world is no longer mysterious ’ ‘ it’s thinking of stabbing us to death and leaving our bodies in a dumpster ’ ‘ i like him and i want to be like him ’ ‘ someone once told me that explaining is an admission of failure ’ ‘ history repeats itself ’ ‘ i wanted to be wanted ’ ‘ frequently i was finding myself sleepless ’ ‘ i’d like my money’s worth ’ ‘ we can’t punch ourselves awake ’ ‘ sorry about the blood in your mouth ’ ‘ you wanted happiness , i can’t blame you for that ’ ‘ a mouth sounds idiotic when it blathers on about joy ’ ‘ tell me you’re not miserable ’ ‘ imagine being useless ’ ‘ there is no way to make this story interesting ’ ‘ i want to tell you this story without having to confess anything ’ ‘ he told me it wasn’t going to be okay ’ ‘ the minutes don’t stop ’ ‘ every morning another chapter ’ ‘ i wanted to give you something more ’ ‘ i’m sorry i came to your party and seduced you ’ ‘ you want a better story ’ ‘ i can already tell you think i’m the dragon ’ ‘ you still get to be the hero ’ ‘ i take the parts that i remember and stitch them back together ’ ‘ here is the part where everyone was happy all the time and we were all forgiven ’ ‘ the entire history of human desire takes about seventy minutes to tell ’ ‘ unfortunately we don’t have that kind of time ’ ‘ it isn’t over yet , it’s just begun ’ ‘ things happen every minute that have nothing to do with us ’ ‘ i wanted to fall down right there but i knew you wouldn’t catch me ’ ‘ you are a fever i am learning to live with ’ ‘ everything is happening at the wrong end of a very long tunnel ’ ‘ i just don’t want to die anymore ’ ‘ you want to die for love , you always have ’ ‘ let’s not talk about it , let’s just not talk ’ ‘ you say  ‘ i’ll give you anything ’  but you never come through ’ ‘ i’m hungry and hollow and just want something to call my own ’ ‘ anything past the horizon is invisible , it can only be imagined ’ ‘ you keep singing along to that song i hate ’ ‘ this is the place where everything starts to begin ’ ‘ monsters are always hungry ’ ‘ none of us are going back ’