#awaoo

[cuiowrites]

she doesn't know what to do. one moment she was just walking down the abandoned, quiet streets, fresh cookies in her pocket for later because mai had been especially kind today and pushed some extra in her hand, and the next she is crouched behind some of the bins she unfortunately knows well, frozen in fear and not quite believing what she's seeing. 

they were supposed to be safe here, hidden away from the shitty neighborhoods and the shittier people that would bother them sometimes. safe from being harrassed.

she should have known that it wouldn't last.

she wants to chastise herself for that but she can't, not with blood that suddenly is like ice in her veins at the sight before her. her buddy stirs and she can feel a growl growing in her chest and the effort to keep it down is almost more than she can manage

they're hurting him.

she can hear faint argueing, muffled, like it's underwater, like it’s buried underneath the thunderous racing of her heart; she's not sure what rythian is saying but it can't be good, not with the way he's scowling, twisting in the grip of some stranger who's entire demeanour screams arrogance, pleasure even.

she doesn't like them at all. but that's irrelevant, really. what matters is that they're hurting him and she can barely bear to see it, muscles tightening as she's poised between one moment and the next, either to run away or to jump towards them to see if she can do something, anything.

she nearly makes a noise when rythian meets her eyes all the way from where he is, some kind of plea for her not intervene, and fuck she hates how tempted she is. how badly she wants to turn and run away, flee from what is slowly unfolding before her and hide somewhere in a dark corner until it's safe to come out again.

her self-preservation screams for her to do just that, to make a run for it and count her losses and get somewhere safe, but for whatever reason her eyes stay glued to the scene, even when rythian almost unnoticably shakes his head.

they were supposed to be safe here. damnit. damnit.

it takes everything she has, nails digging into her palms with the force of it, to keep a leash on her friend when they’re stirring in the back of her head, a shiver running down her spine with the intensity of it.

let me run let me bite let me kill them they're bad we're good we can do this let me at them come on it might be fun and it'll be good let’s move come on why are you not moving--

don't, she thinks, quietly, teeth grinding behind her mask. we shouldn’t, what if we hurt him more.

an agreement, though a begrudging one. they sit, and wait, unable to leave and unable to do anything other than watch.

the tension breaks, snaps when they start touching his mask.

it's a line they don't cross, ever; they understand secrets, understand the need to hide some things away from the prying, judgemental eyes of the outside world, and that's that. 

there are never any questions asked or excuses needed; and now they're grabbing the very thing that keeps him safe, keeps his secrets hidden, and they’re yanking it away like it's some piece of worthless cloth and god, she can imagine the panic he must feel, can see it as it lights up his eyes in the suffocating dark.

and that, she cannot take.

quickly, before she has a chance to think about it, sev reaches behind her and snaps loose the fastenings of her mask, heart hammering away even as she lets it fall to the ground with a soft thump that is muffled enough that no one looks around to see her. and there's something in her chest that's almost like joy, like euphoria;

yesss, yes, they’ll pay we'll get them come on lets run they're hurting we will k i ll

she doesn't stop to question it. before they've even noticed her moving through the shadows, let alone identify her, her teeth are already digging into someone's thigh and tearing away cloth and flesh alike. the taste fills her mouth and she knows it should make her nauseous in some distant part of her mind, but it's wonderful; just like the screams of agony and pain that override the soft, muffled conversation.

"what the fuck, what was that."

it's us, she thinks. it's us, and you've fucked with the wrong person. you've fucked with my friend.

what comes out, is a growl that would make anyone's hair stand on end as she stops worrying and starts helping.

[linguaangelica1]

enderwarden replied to your post “♒ Does the carpet match the drapes? Not really sexual, but it still...”

Okay but do your literal carpets match your drapes, garret insist I ask

Darling. We’re never at my place, what the fuck does it matter.

Also, no.

[cuiowrites]

'you have your mother's eyes.'

they say it so casually too, and kore thinks from anyone else it might have been creepy; there was this god once, leering and flirting with everyone, divine or otherwise. and that's not even mentioning about the humans and their horrid pickup lines yet. 

and demons... well.

this though, this is just a statement, something factual, and for a reason she can't place it makes her pause more than compliments ever do.

'you knew my mother then?' she asks, and almost damns herself for jumping at the first opportunity to speak about her. but it's why she's here, after all, it's why she spent hours sitting on the bank of the river, idly chatting with the ferry...person. and they've given her an opening so by the gods (the alive ones, not the dead, never the dead, don't go there) she's going to take it.

it takes a while, though. their company stays quiet and kore frowns, twisting the fabric of her floral dress between her fingers, glancing up at mort from underneath her lashes. she's almost turned around and ran, back up, back to the reddening trees and further still, to her father, who is waiting for her (always, always, always) when mort finally speaks again.

'i did know her,' they say, and there's something eerily close to grief in their voice. strange, kore thinks, for a god of death; but then, who's she to question strangeness in a world that seems set on breaing the mold. 'a long time ago.'

that's all she gets, she thinks, but when she looks up mort is,,, the only word she can think of is studying, they're studying her like she's some precious artefact or, worse, the product of grief and nothing else. there's an insult behind her teeth, ready to whip out at the smallest excuse, but something about the look in their eyes stops her.

besides; this is still the god of death. not that she's afraid. but people tend not to want to talk to her when she's been picking a fight with them. she has a feeling death isn’t much different.

'you're your mother's daughter,' mort says quietly, and that is enough for her to snap back instantly, fire in her eyes and her hands balled into fist because she knows, she already knows and she can't bear to hear it again.

'i am my father's daughter too, and don't you forget it!'

only pride stops her tail from flicking and her eyes from dimming and for a second, she considers what she would do if she gets into the kind of trouble even her father might not be able to save her from. but mort, for as much as she can read them (which isn't much), doesn't seem offended. maybe even the opposite.

'you are, at that,' they concur with a small nod, and something in kora snaps. not the kind of tension that usually makes her lash out with flushed cheeks and a firey tongue but something deeper than that, something she hadn't known she'd been clinging to so tightly.

'..thank you?' she wagers after a moment, an apology following close behind, but mort stops her with a small gesture of their hand.

'i did not mean for you to think that i refuse to acknowledge your father,' they say, and kore widens her eyes at that. 'i was just.. closer to your mother, by the nature of how things are. but you are most definitely honoring the heritage of both your parents.'

they manage, for once, to keep the demigoddess quiet. she's almost impressed - would be, if her pride would let her.

'damn right i am,' she says instead, and doesn't miss the flicker of amusement in mort's eyes. she contemplates for a moment to be offended, then decides it's not worth it and sidles a little closer to them, no longer worried about insulting someone that old. 'would you.. i mean. i've only ever spoken about her with my father and i'd like.. i want to know her better.'

(she knows her mother, of course. she has memories that are soft around the edges, of family naps illuminated by the fires of hell in the background when she was curled up on her father's chest and the warmth of her mother's hand on her back kept her safe and calm and loved. but she knows it hurts her father to talk of his lover and even though they do it anyway, to keep her memory alive, kore wants more.)

she expected an instant no, if she's honest. and looking at mort, whose expression grows if possible even more closed-off than before, she doesn't think she's going to be surprised. at least she'll be able to say she tried and there are other people to speak to, other paths to take that she hasn't ventured before.

it turns out, death can surprise her even now.

mort hesitates a moment too long but then nods, almost-formal in a way that makes her giggle, and gestures for her to follow them.

'i knew her for a long time, i'm sure there are some things i can share,' they say, and kore most definitely does not hesitate to follow them further into their home.

[cuiowrites]

you know this; you would kill for him. you would die for him. if his words are true, you have already -- and nothing about this surprises you. not knowing what you know now; that you would fight the world itself with nothing but bared teeth and a desperation matched only by love, for him. for him, and gods forgive you, if the day would ever come that you had to follow him into hell, you would do so without hesitation. (you're not Lot's wife; your friends call you salty but you would not turn to look back at the world you'd be leaving behind, as long as you were leaving it for him. that should terrify you more than it does.)

you know the heart of him, every inch of him a miracle that you will never tire of

[linguaangelica1]

Are you or are you not a memelord extraordinaire?

Oh, help. I MEAN I like memes! But the real memelords are Kain and Flynn, really.

[linguaangelica1]

A fancy box arrives at Garret's place addressed to Chess, a letter taped to the top. The most noticeable thing is the poor handwriting, but the name and the writing inside can be read well enough. "Happy Valentine's Day, Chess!I hope you and your valentine have a wonderful day today! I made cookies for you-- that's what I put in the box. Oh!!! This is from Garnen, by the way! :D"And inside the box is a dozen delicious-looking chocolate chip cookies.

“.....Hell yes.”

Those are all going to be devoured, probably today because Chess is a self-indulgent little shit who really fucking loves chocolate. :3

[linguaangelica1]

YO it’s valentine’s day I’m going to positively drown myself in chocolates. B)

[linguaangelica1]

Confess! Is it true that you're scared of the clan?

No. We’re gonna burn those fuckers down, and properly this time.