#haha. ouch

[xejune]

posting this as a rebloggable WIP for now because it's going to be a while before i finish this one :')

[flowery-guy]

in the chapter four snowgrave route, if you choose to pray for noelle, kris kicks the prayer thing instead. :(

[aecholapis]

October 24th: Memory

Ambulon / Rossum

For the @tfrarepairing fest 2024

[silkscream]

for the 3k celebration - (sangria) the first argument with arvy 💀 all da angst

“why can’t you just talk to me?”

“it’s complicated,” arvin strains, huffing his cigarette and trying to keep the vexation inside his body instead of taking it out on you.

“there’s something you won’t tell me, arvin,” you try earnestly. you brush him on the shoulder with your hand but he jerks away. the sight makes your stomach drop.

arvin would never talk to you about the nightmares, the 4 am’s when he would wake up in a cold sweat shaking. you would have your arms around him immediately, but he’d never let you know what was going on inside his head. there were always the same excuses — childhood boogeymen, stories of demonic entities that would scare him straight through catholic school — but you never believed them. but he was difficult to talk to, always retreating to the front porch to smoke his cigarette quietly and hollowing out his cheeks to the cold air around him. arvin russell was fucking tired.

“i don’t gotta tell you everything on my goddamn mind,” he says bitterly, barely looking at you. he can’t. he knows that you’re about to cry. he can hear it in the quiver of your voice.

“you don’t tell me fucking anything that’s on your mind!” you spit. “this stoic bullshit has to stop, arvin. i’m here for you every goddamn day, i cook and clean for you and i hold you when you get those nightmares and you— you won’t even let me in!”

he’s silent. all you hear it the light rain and the slow burn of his cigarette. without thinking, you snatch it from him, throwing as far into the yard as you can.

“what the fuck was that for?”

“you know what that was for.”

“’m not in the fuckin’ mood, y/n,” arvin growls. his jaw clenches tightly. “you better not keep prying before i do something i regret.”

your face falls.

“was that a fucking threat?” his eyes widen once he looks at you, actually looks at you for once, and fear replaces the anger in your eyes.

“baby, i don’t wanna fi—” he grabs your arm and you wince.

“don’t touch me.”

your nails dig into your palms as the rain gets heavier, flowing into the direction of the porch. without another word, you walk back into the house with a slam to the front door.

arvin’s anger is often quiet, but he’s never threatened you before. he’s never even indicated that he could harm you in any way, even if he is pissed off. but then the vitriol in his cutting stare was enough to maim you. enough for you to have tears streaking down your face while you clutched the fabric of your dress.

the rain has transgressed into thunder and lightning, so you almost don’t notice the light raps on your door.

“sweetheart, open the door,” arvin rasps.

“’s not locked.”

he opens the door slowly and joins you on the bed as you stare out the window, face unwavering.

“i’m sorry.”

“i know.”

he clears his throat and tries to put his hand on your thigh, but you wince in response. seeing you in this state, all curled up into yourself, makes him want to punish himself. he thinks he ought to go to hell for ever making you cry.

“i’ve done some bad things,” he whispers. “i just don’t want you to look at me different.”

silence.

“i don’t talk about lenora because it brings me back to a bad place. she—she was pregnant when she hung herself. pregnant by the preacher.”

you look at him with wide eyes. he sniffles, rubbing his reddish eyes.

“shot him at the church. i was so angry, so fucking angry about what he did to my lenora that i thought—i thought that was justice. i’ve been runnin’ this whole time until i met you. you’re the only thing that’s made me want to stay anymore. you’re the only thing that makes me feel sane.”

a lump catches in his throat as you press your forehead to his, turning him by the jaw to get close to you as you both share labored breaths.

“but you’re too damn good for me, ya know that? too fucking good. like an angel on earth. i don’t— i don’t deserve you.”

“arvin…”

“i’m so sorry for not tellin’ you. i didn’t want you to know, i didn’t wanna.. break what we have. but i don’t think i’m safe for you to be around.”

“arvin, don’t.”

“christ, haven’t even told you the whole thing,” he croaks, running both his hands across his face.

“we don’t have to talk about it right now,” you whisper, mouth on his cheek murmuring softly.

“keep thinkin’ that no matter how hard i try to be good, ‘m just not.”

“you are, you are, you are,” comes in a succession of hushed tones with kisses all over his face.

[dalygrace]

THE LAST OF SOMETHING BRIGHT BURNING, STILL BURNING

summary: grace reflects on the takeover of the cathedral and comes to grips with the finality of her actions against the capulets. date: the night of may 15 2019  mentioned: @rafaellacapulet, @catherinedaly, @reginadalys, @evcravens, @la-bella-falco, @katarinadvpont

It takes years to build a life, to formulate a sense of self unshakeable in the face of the changing world. In Verona, it takes more: it takes blood to carve out a space for oneself in the underbelly of the city, takes dedication and ambition to cement oneself in the mythos of the city. It takes time to recognize oneself in the whispers that trail behind the mobs, even longer to grow comfortable with that place. It takes years to settle into one’s bones.

It only takes a moment to undo it all.

Grace doesn’t sleep the first night, coming home from the Cathedral. She smokes through a pack of cigarettes with shaking fingers, clutching at the fraying edges of her mind. Her motions are mechanical, driven by muscle memory, the familiar scrape of her lighter and stubbing of the butts not bringing the relief she seeks. Grief itches in the back of her mind, the dryness of her throat. She crushes the empty pack in her fist, ignoring the flare of pain from her still raw fingers.

Her hands still shake. They’ve never done that before.

As she smokes, she thinks of her family. She thinks of Catia, five years old and unable to understand why Grace never wanted to play. She thinks of Regina, always distant, a void Grace was content to never approach. She thinks of them now, stilted conversations around the dinner table, Catia more hardened than she should have had to be, Regina the same as she ever was. She thinks of Everett, of years of arguments that weakened their foundation, of the cold February morning when it finally came crashing down. She thinks of her friends - of Lucrezia, stolen nights of gossip and the kindred pain of settling somewhere on the outskirts of the regard of those that should have cared for them; of Katarina, radiant in her grief, treading a path Grace could not follow; of Ivan, cavalier in his loyalties but fierce in his regard for her. She thinks of the weight of thirty two years.

Most importantly, she thinks of Rafaella.

She thinks of sparring sessions, of laughing conversations, of twin bruises and savage smiles blooming in their wake. She thinks of warm summer nights with all the windows open and the radio on, drunk on crisp white wine and the radiance of Rafaella’s presence. She thinks of soft kisses on her neck, of drowning in the love she felt, overwhelmed by every minute of her attention, two years full to bursting with happiness Grace had never known possible.

She thinks of the Cathedral in each harsh exhale, of the hate in Rafaella’s eyes, how the love she thought she’d excised choked her then, more effective than the garrote at her neck. She thinks of the way Raf never stopped struggling. She thinks of the way her body went slack in her arms.

People say she wrecked her own life a year ago. They’re wrong.

Grace destroyed her life in the moment between breaths, in the last decisive strike that sealed her victory. She walked away on top, and everything crumbled behind her.

In that moment a door slammed shut, one she was not even aware she had been holding open. Another crime from which she could never redeem herself, another reason for her former compatriots to curse her name. Her actions of the last year weigh heavy against her, judge and jury in their own right. She had not cared until now, until the smoke from her burned bridges cleared and she could see with startling clarity the rubble she had made of her life. There is nothing left for her with the Capulets. She cannot bear to think of why she thought there could be, too proud to admit she still wants the love she’d so callously tossed away.

Pride is a sin she has steeped herself in. Too proud to change herself for others’ standards, too proud to stand down when her ambition was on the line, too proud now even in her grief to crawl back, tail between her legs, begging for her place back in the lives of those she had abandoned. She’s branded herself with a bloody legacy, carried it with her for twelve long years. It had never weighed heavy until now. This life she has built as minister of chaos, as destroying angel - it dissipates like the smoke she breathes into the early morning light. In the end, she’s only human. And sometimes that is the hardest thing to be.

The wounds on her fingers heal. Her hands still shake sometimes, but she turns her attention elsewhere. She hollows herself, lets her rage and grief burn her clean. She shoulders her bloody mantle, sets her sights high once again. The world has shifted, and it is time to carve out her place in it once more.

[killingnotes]

Rumi or Mira! : )

send this or that questions to my muse!

“  that's  -  that's  a  silly  question!  i  can't  pick  between  them!  they're  my  best  friends!  ”  (  …  )  “  do  i  have  to  pick  one?  i  guess  i'd  go  with  mira  …  it's  not  that  i  don't  love  rumi,  but  she's  always  so  distant  …  mira's  not,  not  like  rumi  …  ”

[killingnotes]

which  tragic  character  from  ancient  greek  literature  are  you?

patroclus.  you  are  patroclus,  from  the  iliad  by  homer,  doomed  by  fate  to  be  stuck  in  a  love  story  that  has  no  place  on  the  battlefield.  although  you  always  have  the  best  intentions,  you  have  to  realize  you  cannot  save  everyone.  your  unwavering  loyalty  means  you  often  lose  yourself  in  the  process  of  putting  others  first.  take  a  deep  breath,  remember  who  you  are,  and  that  you  are  deserving  of  the  same  love  you  try  to  put  out.  you  are  kind,  you  are  strong,  and  you  give  and  you  give  but  it  is  never  enough  to  protect  those  you  love.  in  the  end,  it's  not  even  enough  to  protect  yourself.

tagged by:  @sajasbaby tagging:  @yoobiins @deadupon ( for abby? or whoever you want! ) @lavenderhaired @soure-iteo & ..... YOU!

[cathodekisses]

Dating a pre downfall spamton who's a workaholic, but you deal with it because he's just determined to make a good living for both of you. You deal with it even though he cancels your dates sometimes, asking for rainchecks as he answers ever important work calls. You deal with it even when his company becomes scarce, and you go to bed alone most nights.

Is it too much to bear, knowing you aren't his number one any more? That his ringing phone will come before you? You ask yourself as you pack your bags. You tried to call him one last time, but instead of his voice it's an automated message telling you the line is busy. The line falls to garbage noise as you close the door to your once shared apartment.