𝖗𝖊𝖖𝖚𝖎𝖊𝖒— [ᵃᵖ]

Read the rules before following/interacting!

[kagematsuri]

ky is accustomed to deference. down on one knee — or two — with head bowed, gazing heavenward as though chain of command was the only thing keeping everything from falling apart. never had he felt humiliated by such an act nor demeaned. instead, he views it as a necessary act of humbling oneself, that there is always something greater than oneself put there, whether they be physical or not.

which is why he does so now as a symbol of his devotion, though instead of an obedient word, it's teeth brushing featherlight against the skin of her midriff, holding her waist with firm and war-scarred hands. it's from this angle he looks heavenward to see the shape of god, and there is nothing holier than pleasing her with every shameless shred of his wicked self.

It was once the belief of humans that God does not discriminate.

That their deity's wrath and their favor are granted with equal (lack of) consideration.

As if they didn't all know better. As if they weren't fully aware that just like humanity, the being they know as 'God' plays favorites.

(This has, historically, not been a good thing, ever. No matter how palatable or pleasurable it may seem.)

However, there is a difference between someone who believes they have earned God's favor, believing they and only they are worthy, and someone who has actually earned her favor. The former are little more than self-aggrandizing figureheads, egoists presenting themselves as chosen; as inherently purer, better, more worthy.

The one and only true object of God's attention, however, believes no such thing.

He crawls- on his knees, his hands, his belly- servile and supplicant, believing himself wholly unworthy and praying only, fervently, to not be found lacking. It's as amusing as it is unnecessary, because he is her favored- is, has been, always will be; a certainty as much as a curse, as an omen- and will thus always be, in her eyes, worthy. And it is because he cannot fathom himself without her will, because he cannot believe that who he is, who he was meant to be, can be separated from what he believes is the expectation of divinity.

He knows, unlike the rest, that his place is on his knees.

That when he stands in her presence it is only because she allows it. Because she has deemed it necessity, has deemed him the only person who may be allowed to stand eye to eye with her, if he so chose.

And his choice not to is what cements it, what ensures that in her eyes, he is the perfect object of her vicious adoration. He kneels, and it is not because he fears, but because he wants. He desires- so thoroughly and so completely that he is sick with it- and he believes that only at her altar will he be cleansed of it. Yet beneath her gaze, beneath her palm, there is only one truth that he is allowed to understand.

His wants are as good as her own, his hungers the gnashing of her own teeth, his desires little more than offerings at her altar.

So when his mouth skims her skin, when his teeth press the slow, gnawing presence of himself against her, it is nothing more than what she wants. What she requires. Each scrape a psalm, each bite a hymn, writ in red across the flesh of the Almighty.

Wherefore do I take my flesh in my teeth, and put my life in mine hand?

His eyes, too blue in the dark- blue as the sky, the horizon, as hope- sharpen beneath her own gaze, ravenous.

God smiles, allowing his teeth to sink deeper.

"Come on now, choirboy," she murmurs, half derision, half commandment, "you can do better than that."

After all, whether penance or praise, what he offers his God should be given with all of him, or not be given at all.

[literanis]

fun, she says. he’d never really considered that word, always so agonizingly straight-laced even as the years wore on those tight knots. she effortlessly pulls each one of them loose, barely doing a thing aside from mere suggestion. a king is but a man on a high throne; sometimes he has incredible might, and other times he is there because of circumstance, regardless of the spine that carried him. which one is he, ky thinks to himself, if he is so swayed by the simple notion of satisfying need? yet regardless of the truth, he becomes all but exposed, frazzled emotion for her to pick apart like a vulture if she so fancied.

however, prostrating was not the only way such manifests. there was offering oneself to god — baring sins for deliverance — and there was exposing one's humanity so that the honest truth may reveal itself. here, she is inviting man to take another bite of that forbidden temptation. to peel back that ripe skin and sink teeth in deep. it's right in front of you, so what are you waiting for? ah.

all at once, those nerves were quelled, washed away by a sealing kiss of consecration as body goes still. a realization makes itself known, and then he closes his eyes for a brief moment in consideration of this new fact. she's right. she may be a flawed god, but that doesn't make her words any less true.

he frees her finger from between teeth and detangles their rosary-tied hands, now opting to hook his arm around her waist and tucking face to neck. if he is to free himself from imposed boundaries, then he ought to shatter them, devouring the whole — body and blood.

“then, let's have fun."

[kagematsuri]

She is akin to a knife in the hand, a blade at the throat- as much a threat as she is a promise.

There is something there, beyond the fear of the blood- one only has to find the courage to reach for it. Has he perhaps finally found that courage? Or is it simply a new type of belief, spurring him forward, just as it has ever done before. Does he now look at her and she the hope she was always meant to become, or does he look at her and see something new to which he must devote himself to in order not to lose himself completely?

(Regardless of which he believes, both are equally true and false; she can only return that which she is given.)

Fingers tighten around his, a sigh leaving her throat, soft and chilling as a death rattle. Salvation is the greatest hope of men like him, and it is what drives them to their direst straits. What his revelation will be after he tastes the fruit, the body, the blood once more- she cannot wait to find out. It's strange, this feeling of want- this consuming curiosity to witness an as of yet foreseen outcome for herself.

(Drunk on sacramental wine the same as blood the same as her, her, her- haunting and holy and hellbent.)

Her neck arches, an offering as certain as a hand held out, the host in its palm. Flesh pale as an apple, inverted, the red no more than a hint beneath thin skin.

"I can't wait," she murmurs, like confession, like consecration, "to see what's been hiding in you all this time, choirboy."

[finalgirlabigailhobbs]

ENOUGH “submissive and breedable”. what about “bloody, eyes glinting with resentful rage, and breedable” huh. what about that.

[literanis]

in the ancient texts of yesteryear — before even the original had discovered magic — there were mentions of a woman known as lilith. this woman was often regarded as the she-demon wife of the first man— a temptress, a betrayer, yet equally holy as adam. what made her demonic, exactly? god does not reckon in creating demons. so it was the hindsight of mortal man who deemed her such.

i-no was fighting for her truth and humans impeded on her wish after condemning her to the same fate of liturgical exile. and what of ky? rather, he is painfully aware of his lifetime of sin, of murder, that perhaps all he can do now is pray for salvation.

his breath catches in throat. i-no, knowingly, plucking at the threadbare strings of self-restraint, sends a shiver down his spine. “i don’t know if you know this, but i have a habit of biting and holding on.” he recalls the rumors passed around; he knew exactly who they were about and it hadn’t been the actual gear that had infiltrated their ranks (of whom he would describe as more a brute). oh, he knew who the real monster was, white garbs stained deep sanguineous scarlet. on his face, matting his hair. iron in hand, iron on tongue. in his soul, as he sent men, honest men, to die.

but it’d been a white cloak once, under it all. with effort he can remember that time. even now, he can’t let go of white vestments; white like god’s untarnished light, white like a virgin canvas, white like old world marble. he was beautiful, once. he knows he was. he pretends he still is and holds on to that past truth tightly.

though he is learning to accept that red into his life. it’s in his veins, his heart. at the end of the day, white is what makes someone heavenly. red is what makes him human.

“you’re right, there are worse things than animals— after all, by nature, they’re free of sin. so what does that make me?” the timbre of his voice wavers and a shaky laugh follows, “…a man who can’t help himself.”

“especially not with you.”

ky finally indulges on her suggestion, catching her finger between teeth. the pressure is decently firm.

[kagematsuri]

"You know that I do," she laughs, a bright, sharp thing, as cutting as her razor-sharp tongue. "It's always been delightful to watch, if... infuriating to experience. Though maybe this time, it might be fun."

It's the fear that holds him back.

Has always held him back. Not a fear of death, or violence, or even of the monstrous things he'd constantly had to turn his blade on. The things he'd been willing to give his life to defeat. (Had given his life to defeat, in some cases.) No, what Ky Kiske fears isn't external force, but internal truth. He fears what he may become if he ceases to restrain himself, but in so doing, has only crafted himself a prison in the shape of what he thinks is belief.

But now those beliefs are shattered, because God is not so pure as he'd thought. She's just as scarlet as the blood in his veins, on his blade — between his teeth, if he'd only allow himself the indulgence. The problem is, he thinks that wanting it makes it wrong, but how can anything freely offered be a sin?

Fingertips settle on the underside of his jaw, nails pressing, the barest amount of pressure.

Eat me, drink me — is the blood of your God not sacrament enough for you?

"Haven't you figured it out yet?" The finger between his teeth twitches, and she pushes herself higher, closer-

Her lips land on his forehead, gentle and fatal as a blessing.

"That's all you've ever needed to be."

[literanis]

man is, by default, born in the dark. they must work — no, devote — their entire lives to prove themselves worthy of being even graced by the shining light of heaven. to be blessed with a miracle on its own is a feat which so few are gifted. so what did that make ky, someone who has repeatedly been spared by the ravages of an on-earth armageddon, wrought by a legion of false demons? he doesn't know. to this day, he hadn't the fainted clue, save for the vague idea that perhaps he was put on this earth to do good ; his purpose was to serve, and so serve he did. or at least, how he rationalizes his grand position and the immense weight that sits on his shoulders like atlas' boulder. but there was an issue.

when a being, born of man's wish for salvation, offers the opportunity to be as equal as them — devoid of strife, suffering, guilt, shame, and all which has been deprived after falling from eden — is it right to accept it or more humble to deny? the question raced through his mind as his white blade's tip pushed tentatively into the surface of i-no's neck, impalpable form unbothered by such mortal travails. forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. ky knows those words well, just as he knows that he is, indeed, doing exactly every single one of these things.

he knows and must live with that sin (what's another when it's for the greater good? so, for this intent, it should be forgiven). and it does "live", like a seeded weed that only grows the more it lingers and feeds off the rest of residing malcontent. he knows this dream well, the one that spawns from those darkest corners. him on the floor, defenseless. her, standing over unsympathetically, her thick boot heel languidly dragging down the length of his neck to the bottom of his chest, splitting open his shirt like a precise incision. the rubber, cold against skin, presses down and his breath quickens. every sin he's ever committed collapsed onto a singular point to remind him just who was in service to whom. from whom exactly he must beg forgiveness. no doubt she could hear his heartbeat race, pulse quickening, in the same manner she knew everything else.

"i see. so the one that saved you is god. that's a good one."

these strange words echo as a reverb of another time. his calloused hands grab her leg to stop(?) the dispassionate unraveling, fingers digging into scarlet leather, as supple as the muscle underneath. it's always been difficult to read i-no's iridescent eyes, dense with the foci of the universe, eclipsed by the frames of cat-eyed shades. they condescend him. that's the point. maybe he deserves it. hands trace up her calf as high as they're able in conflicted reverence. reaching for a forgotten memory of when god had indeed bestowed the greatest miracle of all: resurrection.

i know you know me and you always will ; like a man with no wisdom and a soul with no king.

ky is draped in her arms now, pietà. as she leans in over his form that had surrendered to her deific birthright, those wicked talons trace over his body until meeting bare neck, enclosing slowly, tightly, so he's conscious of her power upon man (reminding him of who saved that stupid boy in rome all those years ago; who had the power to take it all back). akin to how he'd raised his sword — trespassing her, she trespasses him, prying this puppet-king open and unleashing the animal kept hidden by piety to run wild. as she is, after all, humanity's desires. blue eyes flutter close in deference, welcoming this lurid punishment as breath catches in the back of throat.

"do i deserve this...? am i worthy...?"

i-no replied cooly with a snicker. "so irrelevant. do you want it?"

she's too close — like every suppressed thought he's ever conceived that lie dormant right underneath the surface. lurking, waiting, snapping at his heels. her low, amused laugh coils into the shell of his ear. he's always been hot with passion, with rage, with melancholy. oh, he feels every single thing at once and it is because she is, too.

and it's when he's snapped awake in cold sweat, hands steepling the bridge of nose as thoughts ran a million miles a minute does he know there is something deeply, deeply wrong (her fingertips seared into him, right to the soul, then ripped out his darkness to lay bare). or, perhaps it is less wrong, and more that it's about time he lived for himself. years of service, devotion, for what, exactly?

call out my namе when you need me again ; if you know who I am, why won't you call my name?

he rubs his face, frustrated. though, interestingly, he pauses for but a second, and he traces over his throat where i-no hand clutched him. the way his face and neck turn hot all but cements these questions as valid. "dammit..."

@kagematsuri

[kagematsuri]

@literanis

𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐈𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓. No, the hard part is the waiting. For someone with so much time on her hands (as much as she could ever want or need) I-no is hardly what one would consider a patient person. In this case, however, the timing is important. Too soon, and he'll still be clinging to his ideals. Too late, and he'll be in the IPF's claws and mired so deep in their bullshit that all the patience in the world won't be enough to drag him back out. So she watches, and waits, and sees him begin to falter under the weight of the IPF's obvious corruption not long after joining.

Ah, to be so young and naive, and to have it crushed from you like wine from grapes- barely ripe and bittersweet.

It's something a person- most people- will only experience once. Will only have to come to terms with and move past at one point in their lives. What it means to be a person- as much one as she can count herself anymore- and have it happen over and over again... does that change a person? Do they stay a person? Or is that understanding being wrung from a soul until only the blood-tinted husk remains what makes God?

(Who is there to give her the answer? No one but herself, and she thinks she might- must- be right.)

But that doesn't matter now. Now it is spring in Paris, and there are rumors.

Rumors that will send the little knight (not so little now though, not really, though still so faithful) digging back down to his roots to try and recapture the certainty he's lost. That he'll continue to lose, regardless of how the fake 'tournament' turns out. It's the perfect opportunity, really, for some divine intervention.

Nostalgia would have hit her like a truck if she could still feel things so powerfully as she came to rest on the little balcony of his home. The pang is still there, but a muted thing, a memory of a memory of a feeling. Small as this place- so much smaller than Illyria castle, and the way its cavernous halls will echo his guilt back at him like the cavernous way a church bell echoes in a cathedral. Around her the wind whips, seeping under the door, and she unlatches it with a wave, stepping inside like the passing of a spring breeze.

Empty for now- there is bread to buy, so early in the morning- and with just enough time for her to bide her time for his return.

Cloak set aside, she meanders the room that makes up his office idly, fingers drifting over miscellanea while she explores.

The teacups are still there, and she considers breaking one, just out of spite.

Then she remembers she doesn't want him angry at her, and she reconsiders, moving away, toward the kitchen. Coffee, she thinks, will help this conversation along fabulously- and will serve as ample forewarning to her presence. Brewing it is familiar and unfamiliar both- she's done it for herself once or twice, in stolen places whose owners will not return. Doing it here feels the same- an intrusion, an imposition of herself and her will where she's not been welcomed and is making herself at home regardless.

The cup is still steaming when the faint ozone-crackle of his magic begins to seep back into the room. Quiet as the grave this one, putting his groceries aside and reaching for his blade without loosing so much as a whisper. If she looked, would she see that dazzling killing intent he reserves solely for Gears?

She almost finds herself hoping so.

"Put the blade away," she warns, sipping from her cup delicately, despite knowing it's already out. Already close. Her eyes remain closed, as if savoring the drink- but in reality, she can't bring herself to look at that face just yet. Has to prepare herself for the full force of righteousness without the burnishing of years and disappointment dulling it. "I'm sure you know you don't really need it... don't you?"

[literanis]

gently, ky idly sways them as he deliberates her words. it hardly evokes any romanticism. rather, an act finding solace in god herself. how she makes it easy to simply indulge was something that perhaps the devil itself would find envious. despite their history, their defiances. there was a defiance here as well: why does he refuse to want? it isn't some tale of religious trauma, beaten into him to hate human sin. in fact he would say his relationship with faith was quite healthy. no, the answer was probably less simple than laying blame on a concept, however powerful.

"then you'll have the truth." light eyes pierces into hers, cool like the edge of his blade. undauntedly in the face of her inevitable impossibility. words slicing through his own pretenses. "because wanting makes us animals. and animals started this war."

because his want to kill scares him. his hatred scares him. all the frustration, impatience, and ugly vices that have taken root within his body like uncontrolled weeds sapping life right out. he's been poised — shaped, shattered — into being the pinnacle of human resilience. only to still be infallible in the face of self-reflection. the light against the darkness. a fight he's exhausted of. and if he's honest with himself, at last, he wants to be set free of that cage, half self-imposed, half crafted by the hands of others.

taking on the burdens of others. what's another one to the pile at this point, he asks as the wolf within snarls and gnaws at the bars of his ribs. his own little personal defects from growing up with the blood of monsters and men on his tongue.

i-no isn't the answer to that. he knows this, she knows. but that's never been the point.

"that ... is putting how i feel about it bluntly." even the admission of this unsettles him. though, as he's entwined with her in this intimate union, truly there was no other way such words would be coaxed out like hypnotic confession. a sigh. he brings their tangled hands up to his lips, stopping short of contact a sliver away. like all things in his life, just out of reach.

[kagematsuri]

𝐆𝐎𝐃 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 misguided beliefs of mortals, and yet that is all I-no can do.

Because of course, that's what it is. The man believes- has always believed in something, if perhaps not always God. At some point that 'something' must have been people, must have been humanity. Must have been the thought that mankind could not possibly deserve their current conflict despite not knowing the truth of it. Is it because now he does? Or is it only that now he has allowed himself to see?

Is it because now, knowing humans, knowing Gears the way he does, he understands that in reality, the difference between them is wholly negligible?

Questions she might get the answers to, were she only to ask, but they're negligible, now. She will ask them, eventually, and get her answers. Pull the words from him like loose teeth, string them together to make a facsimile of greater understanding, a testament to his honesty. For now, she will give him guidance, because isn't that what a good God must do?

"You've never truly stopped being an animal," I-no tells him, coolly, because it's the truth. "Maybe you've been domesticated, and maybe you've been leashed and locked up to keep you pointed at what's convenient... but the wanting won't make you a monster. The people who leashed you might have, but not anymore, I think." She can say this because if nothing else, there is something about him that won't let him become any such thing- not for himself. "...and you know you've always been all teeth, don't you?"

Her hand turns in his grip, the back of a long, scarlet nail pressed against the soft skin beneath his lower lip, notched neatly against the soft curve there. The contact he might have made is eschewed, but only just.

"So open wide. Let yourself bite. The blood won't stain you, the violence won't change you. They've always been you. So let yourself be, for once, choirboy. Who knows — you might finally figure out that an animal isn't the worst thing you could let yourself be."

[avakkins-restored]

配信：イノ

[edwinhuang]

Ino wishes everyone a Happy Halloween! Have fun, stay safe 👻🎃💀 Also, my Halloween sale ends at midnight! 30% off selected prints. Head to ironpinky.com.

[piccolourme]

comms work for TWT: BeansAreTastyAF !!! I-NO from Guilty Gear Strive. happy with what I did here! 😍🎸🎶

[borcheim]

I-no

[direclat-deactivated20240328]

what an interesting question.

hope. when he had nothing else, not even food nor drink, he'd feast on traces of hope left behind after a successful campaign, slaying beasts that had ravaged a village. "hope" that showed itself through persevering survivors of the apocalypse. "hope," a thing he clung to as he spit up blood and braced against his fallen sword. "hope," a concept which no one could take away unless you let them. "hope" was everything. it was the bare minimum, present in everything, proof of god's existence.

but now he had plenty of things, and hope wasn't all that he had. so, what then did he want? ky thought of the question often. when settled on for too long, however, it would be shooed away with the fact there is nothing more he could want. wanting was selfish, wanting distracted from his duties to others. ky, long regarded a weapon since childhood, an instrument against demons, must how face his mortality head on. the unfortunate part is that with i-no he cannot cowardly dodge the question as he always did.

( at that moment, he felt himself becoming like sol in that regard. )

"i did, yes." ky admits quietly. "i never thought that i'd have more than the idea of a better life. now that i do..." i have no idea what to do with it. it goes unspoken. "how can i even begin to want if i avoid wanting at all?"

a pause, and his gaze darkens, his tone colored cynical. a side well hidden from others. "we're just trying to fill a void, one that people created within us whether they know it or not. not that it matters; they can't help us."

[kagematsuri]

𝐆𝐎𝐃 𝐒𝐄𝐄𝐒, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐆𝐎𝐃 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐒, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐆𝐎𝐃 may not necessarily understand. A fact easier to understand with the knowledge that God had once been like him. Mere and mortal and dragged up onto the altar to be sacrificed for the greater good regardless of her own desires.

They are the lamb, they are the knife; they are the answer to the prayers of those who offered their lives up for humanity, whether they like it or not.

"The question of the hour," I-no hums, fingers squeezing his where their hands are still clasped tight. The rosary wound around them glitters prettily, too delicate-seeming a creation for the severity of the tie it represents. "...is why you're avoiding wanting."

There are certainly theories, but they're little more than that- considerations based more on her own experience than the knight's personality. Because he still restrains so much of it even now; he might not be running, but the cage is still shut tight. The desires inside him pace in the dark, teeth sharpened on the bars, waiting.

Her smile is a razing thing, paring him to the bone with the demand for answers.

"We can't be helped by people who speak only with expectations. A real answer requires that there be no judgment. Maybe not even acceptance. Only the understanding that whatever may be revealed is and always has been the truth."

@literanis

[tenrots]

hard rock witch, i-no

[kagematsuri]

@direclat | cont. from here

𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐄 like I-no would expect reciprocation. Would all but demand to be shown due deference despite the impossibility of the idea that mortal hands might make something to her tastes.

A ridiculous notion, of course, considering how very human their God really was.

And for all that she is a divinity given form, it must be understood that I-no has never expected anything. Neither gratitude nor consideration nor reverence. She's long since grown past the idea that humankind will ever be grateful as they ought for all that she's done for them. For all that she might tug at his metaphorical leash, the choirboy is no different. All she does is with the understanding that, regardless of her intent- good, ill, or anything in between for her own amusement- there will be no reciprocity. There's really (but only in his case) no need for it. All she needs him to do is stay alive.

Well, that was all she'd needed before, in any case.

Now though, there is the reality that his role has been played, the future he was meant to prevent avoided. For now (and it's always for now, there is no rest for the wicked or the divine) humanity is safe, and he has little need to worry about making himself its sole savior. It makes it more dangerous, this little game she's playing with him- because who can predict what trouble it might bring? Nothing she's sure the mortals would say they can't handle, now that they're so sure of themselves. Now that they think their little peace with the Gears means anything.

(As if she didn't watch him die in Rome. As if she didn't watch the Command Gear burn the world because no one else could stop her by any means other than sacrificing his life to her. It might not seem like that to anyone else — but why else, then, is his one and only son named Sin?)

Dangerous, yes, but a game she plays nonetheless.

Because of the possible outcomes, there is one that would be worthwhile. One that might make her remember what it was like, before everything boiled down to that single word he now understands so well:

Inevitability.

She would always be God, and she would always be relegated to the past; unnecessary, since they had no need to pray to her for salvation anymore. Since they did not need her (supposedly) to save them from their own mistakes. That his is the only faith that perseveres, despite his lack of prayer feels like it means something. Like it must, for his sake more than hers.

So when he comes to her, all dark-clad and stern, as though he can cover up that light of his so simply, she welcomes him with open arms. There is little else she can do, because the game is turning in her favor, and with it comes the most dangerous part of all. That singular, fervent intensity of his, all focused on her. He may not overpower her- not now, perhaps not ever- but what God, in the eyes of such devotion (the kind that drives the devout to think of nothing, nothing but their deity) would not feel some reciprocal awe?

"Was it ever really me you were running from?" Though she asks it, she knows the answer as well as he, but if he's truly stopped running, then he needs to say it. She needs to hear it. Just as much as he needs to hear —

"Besides, you're a smart boy. You have faith and you have hope... but you didn't really think that's all you'd ever need, did you?"

[direclat-deactivated20240328]

@kagematsuri sent : It's an innocuous enough thing, the box that finds itself on his desk shortly after his break. Long and slim, black matte with a red silk bow. The interior, upon being opened, is just as scarlet as the tie that had kept it closed, and on the soft interior lies a rosary. Faceted black glass threaded through with silver leads to a single, elaborate gem, its colors shifting in the light. Dangling from it is a cross that looks more like the shape of a familiar sword than a holy symbol. Though to him, might not the two be the same?

There is no signature, no card- only a piece of paper with the blood-dark print of lips upon it.

(A gift from God for her most favored devotee.)

if he is completely honest with himself, he'd say that there used to be a time where reaching such a big age was but luck of the draw; indeed how many others would suffer a miserable fate under such a immemorial war? countless, no doubt, and here ky had been, on the front lines, diving right into maws of demons and diabolical creatures who knew nothing but to rend the world asunder. then there was a time when ky himself had perished, all too young they'd say, only to be resurrected by the chance fact that he was necessary in saving the world.

there were times where he'd say he didn't deserve it.

but here the king was now, upon such lofty heights that his younger self could never once fathom. an orphaned boy from rural france to illyrian war hero. even still, ky is humble about it, because the deepest recesses of his mind rejected the notion. so, what is a birthday, really? well, with this peacetime, he figures that a birthday was another trophy: it means that he's still here, as life is a gift that should be relished, should be experienced to its fullest. thirty-some-odd years and he's still discovering new things about himself, about this universe he's had a hand in saving.

god works in mysterious ways, and while he and her had never met eye-to-eye, he can appreciate that no matter what, there was a place for the living. it was something i-no herself had fought for.

he returns to his desk (for even on his birthday there were no days off when it came to politics and similar nonsense) only to instantly spot a black box upon it. it was a sharp contrast to anything else that adorned the room, making it an instant attention-grabber— and thus, instantly identifiable. it need not signature, name, or any other marker. its presence alone felt as dense as a black hole. deceitfully delicate hands pick it up, pinching the end of the scarlet bow to unwrap such mysterious gift. within it revealed a rosary lined in seductive padding, glistening with dark age luster. dare he say, it's beauty toed the line of heretic witchcraft and biblical mystique. something contradictory only i-no could manage.

a soft sigh escapes him as conflicted emotions and thoughts run through his brain all at once. of course he is thankful, but something about mixing sinister darkness and divine light unsettled him in a manner he wasn't ready to confront. like anything else regarding her. fingers close, wrapping themselves around beads, and with curious gesture he sends a small spark of electricity through the object. it sparkles brilliantly, as even though these materials shouldn't conduct electricity, it wasn't exactly made by man and instead designed by god, tailored for him, the acolyte.

however he is but mortal and cannot materially return the gesture in any meaningful way. there was prayer, sure, but that was a pedestrian action that was more routine mundanity than anything signifying specialness. and i-no was the queen of dramatics, after all. so when he next has the opportunity to see her, he dresses in a black version of his knight-wear that'd always had a priestly air about it. he then takes her hand with his, twisting about to entangle the rosary and trap them in its twine. he stands nearly flush to her, towering the god but not overpowering. never.

"i remember when you told me about what happened in rome. that it meant that we're inextricably linked." he says it with equal parts exasperation and acceptance. "you gave me a gift and i've been wondering on how to best repay it. it then dawned on me that there is nothing i could give in return. if you're inevitable, then i've decided to stop running."

he'd been rejecting the truth for so long, had fought her at every turn. while his duty was to humanity, he also had a duty to her.

[direclat-deactivated20240328]

but she had been the villain. embraced the role to its fullest in order to get what she wanted, no? that was what he'd observed, what he fought against— perhaps it was inevitable that he could never understand the machinations of a being that transcended mortals. something of only the intricacies the backyard manifested. or was the truth more simple? that he defied god because he wanted to live. i-no's plan was not what he'd fought for, what he believed in.

this was a painful conundrum. too perplexing, convoluted. in her embrace, her wicked wiles, those anxieties washed away with mere temptation. the meager promise of some imaginary reprieve from self-imposed hamstrings. an electric shiver runs down his spine, uncoiling down a lightning rod. "rome..." he murmurs, "tous les chemins reviennent à rome." all roads lead back to rome.

her chosen martyr, a fate he cannot run from or even spite for good reason. instead he must only confront head on, almost embrace it, for he is alive to fulfill that singular purpose. his mouth is agape, as though he cannot decide on whether to speak or act. she snatches his soul out from him like a viper. he claims her lips fervently, speaking in breathlessness. "you did this to me—"

[kagematsuri]

"You did this to me—" So she did. But she'd had about as much of a choice in it as he had; which is to say none at all. The future demanded that he live. Worse, the future demanded that he sacrifice- his freedom, his heart- all for the cause of the continuation of humanity. Certainly, there were other choices, but the ones that would lead him to that victory he so desired... For him, there were none, and it is a pitiful, pitiable thing. She'd consider it, if her sympathy for the fates of others hadn't been wrung out of her in iterations. In minutes and seconds devoted to keeping alive lifeforms that would never see her efforts as anything but cruelty. It's why she revels in it, allows herself to enjoy the suffering she causes them- because they think they know why she does the things she does, and she'd so hate to disappoint them. "Ce que femme veut, Dieu le veut, non?" She curls the words into his mouth on the heels of her tongue, answering his devouring mouth with her own. "I only made sure the path was clear, little knight," hands pull, drag him upright, tilt his body against hers, letting the weight of him fall against her like accusation. "You're the one who strode down it without consideration... even for yourself. But you were so good for it, even if you hated where it lead. I can at least praise you for that."

[direclat-deactivated20240328]

hissing sharply at her words, her finger worming its way into lips which have uttered countless prayers before, he finds that unwinding oneself is perhaps the ultimate retribution, for it is sin to withhold truths. his truth wasn't the glamorous, put-togetherness that he presents to the world. the one crafted for the sake of saving face. indeed, leo seemed more comfortable in the limelight, yet ky is tasked with receiving most of the unwanted attention.

and isn't it criminal to be everything he is not? i-no is the face of everything this world is, ripped apart by an unknown man who thought he could contain it— control it. the age old tale of man becoming god, of imitating a fraction of that power. ky always knew it to be a farce, but in the end, its always humans pretending to be more than what they are.

wordlessly, lips part, teeth following as they then press down lightly on her fingertip as a silent acceptance of what she is presenting, of the notion that perhaps there is something here that i-no can give him. perhaps the ultimate reprieve for what he contained for so long, for so many years. is this mercy, or torture? is this what it means to be strung along? maybe so if he could stay ahead of that curve. or possibly it is equally futile. he doesn't know, not yet. it does not matter as he clutches fabrics that barely clung to her hips. "that's all you've ever seem to have done," he breathes at last, "take the brunt of humanity's sins." for once in his life, he could relate to divinity.

[kagematsuri]

"Oh? Finally coming around to understanding...?" It seems almost flippant, the way she says it; the soft, almost amused tone gently goading. Better than most though, he knows that the quieter she is, the more dangerous. Already her eyes are locked onto his mouth, to the way his teeth sink faintly into her skin- not hard enough, not nearly hard enough, but enough of a capitulation that she feels it down to the star-littered core of her bones. But when his palms land on the half-bared skin of her hips, her eyes shutter closed, a momentary reprieve, mouth curving, ecstatic. "Bear them over and over and over again, and always, always the villain because no one else cares to think beyond their own little circle of importance." She isn't going to claim that she's either hero or martyr; her path is one too bloody and besieged for that. Yet wicked though her actions may be, is it not God's place to discern who lives and who dies? Is it not for God to deliver wrath or mercy as she sees fit? Her palm cradles his cheek, teeth skimming his lips, eyes locked on his, a shimmering mirror of eager acceptance. "And all of them sins I never asked or cared for. But yours... yours, I'm demanding. So... show me."