#entries.

[anviled]

@shortpride

The Hazbin Hotel is livelier than she remembers, its extravagant halls bustling within the wake of recent news. The murmur of conversation drifts faintly from elsewhere, but she sits alone in the hotel’s main lounge, carefully folded hands resting atop crossed knees, posture impeccable despite the weight pressing upon her conscience.

Pale eyes remain fixed forward, though her thoughts wander to the memories of the weapon she crafted for Vox—the angelic cannon powered using Lucifer’s own stolen essence. She had never intended for things to spiral quite so far beyond her control, yet even the most strategic of decisions can birth unintended consequence. Regret is not an emotion Carmilla entertains lightly or often, yet tonight it settles within her chest, discomforting and persistent, twisting in tandem with a familiar thread of worry for a friendship that has survived countless years, that may now bear cracks from her own hand.

Movement at the edge of her vision breaks the flow of her thoughts, and she turns slowly toward the approaching figure. Rising from her seat, Carmilla inclines her head respectfully, an acknowledgment filled with a sincerity reserved for very few.

“Lucifer,” she greets, her voice measured, though there is an undertone of warmth that betrays the depth of her relief at seeing him upright and whole. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me. I imagine mine is among the last faces you wish to see at the moment.” Her brows draw together slightly in a brief, uncertain pause. “I understand it may be too soon, yet I thought we might speak, if you are willing.”

[asclepic]

to @dollypardonne — in my most quiet and undisturbed days, there you are - visble, palpable. imagined but once concrete. you, grief reincarnate, a lesson on circularity and tangential points. your memories, conceived at one point in our lives, catching up to me again, and again, and again. you, a life-long theory on true love manifested. his infinite bride, perpetually to be in his life, and never mine; but you're gonna live forever in me.

001 parts of me were made by you;

2012 — tokyo, japan.

the summer heat beats down on him, synchronous with his own heart palpitating against his chest.

jianwei, then ken, did not know what was worse: the way his upper lip was stuck against his braces or how he was about to vomit his heart out from his mouth. that was the result of being in close proximity to a pretty girl. a nauseating, sweat-inducing experience that every straight, teenage boy suffers through. how they crossed paths is a complete blur to both jennie and jian now—though, revealed to jianwei by jennie, years and years ago, between tangled limbs and linen sheets, once dreamt up to be orchestrated by the birds... or by the red-string of fate... or a greater, unnamed force.

jennie, stance emitting signals of distress, had gone adrift from her mother whilst on a vacation in the thick of tokyo's concrete jungle—tourists tend to do that, jianwei remarked internally—with her eyes flushed and swollen, lips jutted into a pout. the young girl, like a deer in headlights, found herself overstimulated in the middle of the shibuya crossing. ushering her to a safer part of the road, the sight of her gave jianwei the strong impression that volumes of tears were spilt due to frustration that were grander-than-life; her expression at the time was enough to stir discomfort in him, anyway.

much to his confusion, 「えと...すみません 、大丈夫ですか？」 ("umm... excuse me, are you alright?") ellicited nothing but a glassed look on the girl, and a croaked-up response of "i don't understand you." in a thick, foreign accent — for the young boy, released from the confines of his boarding school for the season, crossing paths with an unknown person, lost in her own regard, was the last thing he have imagined for himself.

mustering every microgram of bravery, and all the english he knew from his private lessons and advanced courses at school, he utters "i'm ken." his voice breaks as he assumed the english language, a common occurence for someone his age.

softer, stark from her initial, defensive snap, jennie responds... "my name's jennie."

an internal scream bubbled from his throat, but he clears it, "you're jennie?" the boy keeps cool. it was a rather foreign name, ken thought, but her face, round eyes, a button nose, with soft supple cheeks, struck a chord of familiarity in him. upon thorough inspection, those delicate features paired with her jet-black, pin straight hair falling past her bare shoulders gave jennie the look of incandescence that, retrospectively, he traces back to the stronghearted, radiant heroine in mangas and asadoras he would consume as a naive child. "i have a phone...?" tone upwards at the end of each sentence, a mixture of uncertainty and so as not to alarm her, he offers his device after rummaging through his knapsack. at the time, jianwei, unassuming, missed the first turning of a page in his scant book of romance.

2013 — seoul, rok.

the penultimate time the two younglings have met, jianwei had grown inches past jennie and was closer to his current physicality now than when he first met the girl. it was another hot summer day, this time set across the east sea, when jian and jennie met once again. last year's encounter was a gamble by the higher forces, a stroke of luck, but this felt like an intentional choice from the universe; it was the only time jian allowed himself to believe in such abstract forces.

since their second meet-cute, the two maintained contact through line or kakao calls, rarely the snail mail. at that point of his life, from the tight schedule dictated by his father, jian had nothing to focus on but academics and sports... but he made space for jennie, and in a way she became a conduit to a version of him that was unreflective of the structured life he truly lead.

and so, as time permitted, until life constructs an irreconcilable fork on the road they shared, they continued to entertain each other.

with much negotiation from their respective parents, jennie and jian kept their promises to meet december of that year... and the events that unfolded then jian would never utter to a soul, and no endeavour would ever draw it out of him.

002. and planets keep their distance, too.

2025 — jeju, rok.

it hummed of everlasting bliss and countless years of choosing one other, the venue encapsulated in hues of lavender - the colour of devotion.

the bride, beautiful, and the groom, proud; jennie and hanbin's vows reflected a bond only the average can dream of, and a kind the cunning endlessly chase. with little discernment needed, one could realise—obvious in the way the couple exchange enamoured looks, or the way their body leaned towards one another in any given posture—theirs was the type of love, a kind of which upon trial and past the haze of one's coming-of-age, titled quintessential by those who came before and after them... it was the type of commitment that uplifted each other, a love sustained by community. a love that calls for a complete rearrangement and piecing together of each other's lives.

"could we have had that?" a mere thought, jian's gaze on jennie.

jian observed from the sidelines throughout the evening, stepping not an inch past jennie's peripheries... a complete parallel to how he orbits her since their final goodbyes as bumbling adolescents. the persona non grata smirks to himself. in between sobriety and complete intoxication, blood blooming under his cheeks whilst the world around him threaten to gyrate violently, jian rests his own weight on rowan. "they've lasted so fucking long," he groaned, "how many funerals of each other d'ya think they attended?" he managed to mumble, short on coherency. "i'd be fucking pissed and resentful if she was my wife by now." he appends.

what a lie that was—a kind of aphasic miscommunication between the longings of his younger heart, shirked and spurned by someone unknown to him—though certainly not jennie, but mostly likely only himself—and the heavy truth of who he has become. jian excuses himself from the function, a curt dismissal whispered only to rowan. on the way out he stumbles against ivory walls, past ceremonial cheers, reprieved from the joyful festivities — sparing the beautiful bride no more glances.

that part of his life is finally behind him.

003. i'll keep my word and my seat.

here are my heartfelt congratulations, jennie kim and kim hanbin:

yours is the forever that once, and never was, mine. may love and light deliver you away from me, jennie kim.

here's to a lifetime of happiness.

[anviled]

@arachnaemboss

Silk and sequins rest against her skin as she stands beneath the gilded light of the ballroom, the webbed lattice at the back of her gown catching it as she shifts to bring the glass of champagne to her lips. The Goetia lord before her carries on with yet another self-satisfied anecdote, his voice thick with entitlement and honeyed flattery. Courtesy alone roots her in place as she is hardly listening and the edges of her patience are beginning to fray. He has been useful to her business in the past, and she will not risk disrupting a profitable rapport, no matter how strongly she wishes for more enjoyable company.

She and Zestial arrived as friends and long-standing allies, as they always do when the eyes of Hell are upon them, yet she had hoped that by now they might have stolen a moment away from the crowd, perhaps even shared a dance or two. Her attention slips despite her best efforts. The music swells, sweeping through a sea of masked faces and fine fabrics, and she lets her gaze drift past the Goetia’s shoulder. She looks for a familiar shadow, but the crowd swallows any trace of him.

A low exhale escapes her as her free hand lifts as if of its own accord, an idle shift of posture that becomes a light brush of fingertips against the pendant resting above her sternum. It is an unconscious habit formed since he gifted it to her, unaware of how instinctively she seeks the comfort of his presence whenever she feels unmoored. Her gaze returns to the man before her, offering a polite dip of her chin as though fully engaged when she feels the faint hum of his soul through the onyx stone.

[anviled]

@bungem;; cont. ;;

Observing Elara’s exuberant disposition, Carmilla allows a smile to bloom, small but genuinely pleased, for she finds such unguarded enthusiasm unexpectedly charming, reminding her in a way of Clara’s brightness. She follows the gesture of Elara’s hand, her gaze drifting down the street with an assessing curiosity. To be coaxed out so boldly is rare, but the sincerity threaded through the other Overlord's delight makes the invitation difficult to refuse.

“You have the right of it, I am afraid,” Carmilla admits, her tone warm with a thoughtful hum as pale eyes meet lavender. “My business is ever demanding, and it leaves me little opportunity for leisure.” Her head tilts in concession, acknowledging both Elara’s infectious insistence and the allure of stepping briefly outside her routine.

“But you make a compelling point. I have been remiss in granting myself time away; a café sounds lovely.” A soft, appreciative huff of laughter escapes her. “Perhaps your company is precisely what I need.”

The light taps of angelic steel echo against the pavement as she falls into step beside the rabbit demon. “Lead on, Elara.”

[anviled]

@steelgrey-angel.;; cont.;;

Carmilla's sharp gaze remains upon Vaggie as she speaks, the faintest curve tugging at the corner of her lips, though it is not quite a smile, more an acknowledgment. The young woman’s gratitude, her earnestness, strikes her in that quiet place between pride and melancholy.

“You remember my words well,” she says, her tone threaded with something soft beneath the steel. “Good. Strength without reason is nothing but violence, and love, though often dismissed as folly, remains the sharpest motivator of all. It drives us to endure what logic would bid us abandon, to fight beyond pain, beyond fear.” Her attention drifts briefly to the polished floor before rising again to meet Vaggie’s.

For a time, silence fills the room, broken only by the soft rhythm of Carmilla’s steps as she moves past her pupil. She circles the fallen angel slowly, the motion measured, graceful. “You owe me no debt,” she replies at last. “If you have found purpose, if you have come to see yourself more clearly, then my instruction has not been wasted. That is payment enough.”

Her claws press lightly into her palm, a subtle, habitual motion as her thoughts settle. “Now, niña,” she continues, the word carrying the faintest touch of affection, “how would you spend our time today? Do you wish to risk a few more bruises, or,” she tilts her head slightly, pale eyes narrowing with interest, “does your spirit crave a different challenge? Strength takes many shapes, and each must be sharpened in turn.”

[asclepic]

to @belleoumoi (this self-para was 4-years in the making. time only allows you to write about things conditionally; the distant the memory the riper it seems.) (t.w: illicit substance abuse, drug use)

001. the prologue

2021 — seoul, rok.

jianwei's presence in a foreign land was exacted and willed upon his father's insistence to enter the tight gap of south korea's pharmaceutical and medical market. with his transcripts submitted, and a doctorate position secured in one of the nation's most prestigious institutions, jian agreed to raise roots once more.

there was not a choice in jianwei's life uninfluenced by the undercurrents of his father's ambitions. his father's kitchen sink approach in progressing a unified east asian conglomerate meant utilising his only son as an accessory - to build jianwei up as a hyper-scholar fortified with field experience.

it worked, as jianwei developed a calculating and sharp sense when it came to business.

however, such a stifled way to rear a child caused an opposite reaction, or perhaps a parallel reflection to the larger image itself, in which jianwei, himself, ran his own drug-ring in every university he matriculates in. jianwei successfully distributed as far as MDMA analogues to the privileged or misguided, cognitive enhancers to the try-hards and gunners, and even counterfeit prescriptions to those crafty enough to get a hold of his higher services. growing underwhelmed by the tedium of his campus affairs, a repeat of his undergraduate challenges and masteral degree's proficencies, he decided to distribute outside of his usual setting — aiming for clubs and raves in hongdae, his contact reaching desperate or desolated wives and mothers from gangnam.

jianwei's objectives, by definitive means or another, was done.

002. the aberrant

jianwei required neither the money nor the noteriety that came with his ventures, just the satisfaction of doing a stellar job; his own high came from realising the delicate equilibrium between his supply and the overgrowing demand. his well-titrated experiment came to an oversaturation upon meeting a handsome face, she was strapping with rugged edges; rowan was equal parts striking and an inviting person to exploit. it was rather heady, at times, getting to know her - if he was introspective enough to untangle it, he would realise that laced in with the bubbling curiosity he held for her was his own identity being mirrored back. rowan's own brand of sorrow, subdued by jianwei's supply, was a strand he had himself... something reserved only for those who have tasted deep pain.

so a mutually parasitic symbiosis between jian and rowan jumpstarts. he knew what to give, when to give it, and in return he is offered a few good chats. he has never seen them sober, but perhaps in his line of work sobriety was rarer than the brains he admires on rowan.

the cooperative alliance came, however, to a grinding halt when his regard for the individual outweighed jian's need for an ego stroke. rowan came to him more and more for illicit substances, staying a minute less and less to chat each time. then came the undeniable toxidromes: initially, some restlessness and inability to stay still while waiting for his dispense, then the yawning and sudden onset of irritability. this downward spiral continued until it finally registered that she has become a fucking addict. in jianwei's line of work, there were recreational users and addicts, though the latter provided a stronger source of patronage it was labile and jianwei hated nothing more than dealing with such scums of the earth.

but he did not hate rowan, he just simply couldn't. so what must he do? — the feelings he had for her were ineffable, sourced from a deep, intrinsic sense of care.

he knew one thing: with any business, some semblance of ethics must be applied. first, he scoped her drug behaviours through piecemeal statements, "starting to get jealous you'll see someone else but me for these." he scoffed, a mini-baggie with fine crystalloids taped along a bag of clean needles pinched between his index and middle fingers. the next time, jianwei with his head tilted and gaze fixed on rowan, sensing her urgency and distress, but not one caused by the lack of the drug, "...this is the second time you've come to me with a scowl on your face like that." he comments, nothing the catalysts for her usage.

then, bit by bit he placed placebos on her orders, decreasing potency and dosage, whilst ensuring she has access to approrpriate, sanitised tools. "no drinking with this... not before or after." he instructs, lifting the baggie away from rowan herself. "promise me."

"why?" she asked.

"just a new formula i've been working on... don't fuck it up for yourself, because i'll know." he retorts.

this gradual, one-sided plan to taper her off continued, and as it reached its last phase she contacts him... all of jianwei's intricate work sabotaged — she was high to say the least; her pupils so small they were non-existent, she was bradycypneic... and still she wanted more. the question of how and by whom she got there jianwwei dared not entertain...

it was heartbreaking, staring at her.

the line between himself and her completely delineated in his mind - who was he more pitiful towards? the fucking busted addict in front of him, or the poor boy who simply wanted to save a one-sided friendship?

so jian placed a moratorium on her, a complete cut both from his services and his life. all he knows is avoidance when threatened in the matters of the heart.

this is no different.

for once, he just wishes, this were all done.

003. the healing

jianwei saw how life got good for rowan.

there was nothing in this world more satisfying than the bloom of colour and healthy sheen on her face.

though back on her two feet, the probabilities of her relapsing was likely - an occuring stage in every recovering addict's progression to remission. the thought gutted him to no ends, but was relieved by the fact that she now has community in people who were earnest, salt of the earth. he's met one of them vividly during his time as a physiology teaching assistant, a medical student, oozing of diligence and light.

those were the people rowan needed in her life, jian thought, appended by though i hope they'll still want me in theirs.

rowan's healing embodied the inception of jian's desire for a community of his own... a life that is his.

during a night of vulnerable talks over fizzy drinks and ramen, he onced joked to rowan that, perhaps if he repented enough, he would be offered a blank slate by fate.

to some extent... it was done.

003. the epilogue

jianwei's ventures continued, now veering off drug dealing and into larger, more darker schemes. at one point, he was nicked for his involvement with a club used as a front by his so-called friends for money laundering, accidentally stepping a bit too far and finding himself at odds with his father's growing territory in seoul.

out of fear that jian has grown wayward and blind to the cause, and to extirpate any challenges to the korean expansion, he returns to shanghai as ordered by his father... uprooted, only this time against jian's wishes and better judgement. with no contact or trace left, wang jianwei left only his academic record in seoul, korea.

a blank slate.

he thinks to himself, on a private charter on course for home, that this chapter of his life is not yet done.

[anviled]

@arachnaemboss

The distant hum of Barcelona’s nightlife drifts into the apartment through partially opened windows, its mundanity almost oppressive in just how much it highlights her sense of displacement. Carmilla finds herself unexpectedly yearning for the metallic rhythms of her factories, for she had grown to associate the clamor of industry with strength and stability. Perched upon the edge of the neatly made bed, she smooths a palm over crisp cotton sheets, attempting to ground herself through the gesture, though it does little to ease the undercurrent of tension that has lingered since their arrival in their new home.

A faint rustle draws her attention away from introspection, and she lifts her head, dark eyes settling upon Zestial as he moves through the room, readying himself to retire for the evening. She watches him closely, observing a familiar routine rendered so very alien by his human form, beloved demonic visage having been exchanged for gentler lines. His presence, as always, offers comfort, yet guilt gnaws persistently at its edges, a constant companion ever since she first broached the idea of him leaving Hell with them. Though his decision to follow had been freely given, she cannot help but question if her pleas burdened him unfairly, if ultimately her selfish desire to keep him near left him little choice but acceptance.

Drawing in a steadying breath, Carmilla shifts fully onto the bed, legs folding beneath her as she turns to face him directly. “It is strange, is it not?” she muses as her gaze meets his. “To be here, so far removed from everything we have grown accustomed to.”

She studies his expression closely as a beat of silence settles between them, slender fingers curling lightly against cotton, betraying an anxiety she would prefer to conceal. Her voice dips softer still when she speaks again, accompanied by a small crease of worry forming upon her brow. “You have said so very little since our arrival, Zestial. Tell me, how are you faring, truly?”