#theixth

[gridbest]

@theixth liked for a starter!

“Tridentarius.” Harrow is sure she’s never felt as much shame in her entire existence than she does right now. She’s the Reverend Daughter of Drearburh. She’s the best necromancer the Ninth House has ever produced. And yet, here she is. Standing in front of Ianthe Tridentarius, feeling as though she’s going to burn up due to pure embarrassment. She hates it. “I require your assistance.” God, she hates even having to say it. Her lip curls as the words leave her mouth. She glares up at Ianthe, trying to summon at least an iota of something other than embarrassment. “Well? Are you going to help or not?” If she has to die of embarrassment (an absolutely abhorrent fate, in Harrow’s opinion), then it’s only fair that Ianthe die of irritation.

[gravesung]

THE END OF A TOUR is a somewhat liminal time for an idol. tours themselves, for someone of nebulously mid-tier fame like CHIAKI, are rare enough that no matter how tired said idol is, it's outweighed by the sheer excitement of having some level of freedom when she finally gets to tokyo. between shows, chiaki has her run of the city. karaoke, visits with her family, shopping, carefully-disguised visits to bars and clubs when she can sneak away from her bodyguards, the lot of it.

it isn't one of these situations, however, that chiaki is caught up in when it happens. she's onstage, instead, at the tail end of her penultimate tokyo show.

because fuck her, right?

the visions come in flashes. here-and-gone, epileptic. and they aren't just visions — they overwhelm every sense when they overtake her. blood on her hands, in her nose, spurting. open gash. something cold and heavy in her hand. scalpel in her hand, slicing.

what it is, she realizes with a lurch of dizzying nausea, is an open cadaver underneath the sickly-white light of an operating theater. no, wait — it's too dark. where is she?

sense of a different body.

sense of a different mind.

and then, all at once, chiaki is slingshotted back from whatever the hell that was, only to find herself on the stage floor staring into the lights above — and the face of her bodyguard, concern etched into the lines of his face, as he scoops her into his arms and carries her half-conscious body offstage. what — what the hell. what the hell.

she's in the dressing room when it happens again. one second, she's working the makeup off her face with a lavender-scented wipe, still in full costume. the next, she's staring through the reflection in the mirror at an operating table that has somehow appeared in the room behind her. atop it, an open body. beside it, a woman in a mask whose skin and hair are nearly as pale as her own. there's something familiar about her sallow eyes, but chiaki can't place it through the overwhelming deluge of shock and confusion.

for a moment, she just... stares. blinks a few times, in hopes that the pale woman and her nightmare theater will go away. when it doesn't, chiaki lets the arm with the makeup wipe fall into her lap, face still half-undone. maybe all of the blood should freak her out more than it does, but she's never been terribly squeamish.

❝ are — ❞ oh. ow. sung-out throat. chiaki grimaces, shakes her head, tries again. ❝ are you real? ❞

sense8 au // @theixth

[p-sti]

@theixth said ; x

" but that doesn't mean it's gone just yet. " from caitlyn

// she nods, leans her head against the map on the wall. it's like they're always chasing down dead ends, everytime they make progress, they end up losing track again, or they run into another wall, or they get distracted by something else.

her eyes wander over caitlyn, hesitantly, before leaning into her vision. " maybe. " , is what she says, when she smiles. " you should take a break. you've been thinking about this all evening. " maddie suggests, but she knows that caitlyn won't take it to heart.

everytime she says something genuinely caring, it falls on deaf ears. like caitlyn isn't truly here with her. like she's up in her head, up in the clouds, up somwhere entirely different. thinking about entirely different things.

she narrows her eyebrows, a small frown building on her lips at the expression on caitlyn's face. " c'mon. what's a few hours of rest? "

[the-haunted-office]

( @theixth - Continued from here!)

Gideon tries very hard to suppress a smirk, even though she meant that comment - she really does think martinis taste like pine trees, even though she hasn't the foggiest what a pine tree tastes like, let alone looks like, she's only heard of pine trees and had them described to her, and the first time she tried a martini was five minutes ago, so it's half conjecture at this point - but somewhere between the look of death on the Tridentarian princess' face and her palms going down on the table, she fails. Miserably.

"Thus implying you liked me at all? Points to me?" she quips, taking another sip of the pine tree flavored martini, the sour expression resulting from it thus ruining her quip.

[burdenedreverence]

"Some days, I think, what if we retired?"

Hayden lifts the burrito to his lips taking a bite out of the wrap of egg, sausage, hashbrown, and some other tidbits. It's early in the morning and they occupy Makima's office. Hayden seems content staring out the window of the highrise and enjoying his fast-food delicacy. His comment is out of the blue.

A hand remains in his pocket, as he chews slowly. And then he swallows.

"I mean, we have enough money. Why keep doing this?"

@theixth

[memento-mors]

@theixth

What was society without rules? Oh sure, Mors would never say he fully agreed with all the rules the Camarilla laid out, couldn't even say he followed them all. But he did follow some rules.

He respected the havens of others. He upheld his word with those who upheld their own. He kept the secrets of the brood.

And if he had a problem with someone, he dealt with it directly -- he didn't fuck with their coterie.

He knew that his relationship with Leland could be considered unique among the Kindrid. Ghouls were sentient blood bags to so many, blindly devoted puppets to others, and even less among the truly inhumane. But to Mors, Leland was his confidant, his friend.

He hadn't even been able to get out of the car that was haphazardly parked in front of the estate, headlights still on. An attack that would have killed any other human, broken ribs and torn flesh, glass embedded around his eye from where his glasses had been punched in.

It had been, oh, decades perhaps since he had felt anything like this in his chest: a hot pulsing desire to cause pain. An anger that had driven an impulsive text, less of an invitation to come over but a demand for the presence of someone who knew how to make others hurt.

And when the knock upon that smooth dark door sounded it took only a moment for the knob to turn and the stony visage of Mors to reveal itself.

"Get in."

A warm welcome all things considered. He turned from Nikolai and stalked further into the home, through the parlor and into the spacious living room that smelled sickly of iron. The sound of Leland's belabored breathing sounded all too loud here, as he rested on the previously dove grey couch.

[spungolden]

❝ i can’t stop. if i do, everything falls apart. ❞ for dio from jinu ❤️

⋆｡‧˚ʚ💋ɞ˚‧｡⋆ 𝐢 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐩𝐭 // dio + jinu

A soft hand reaches up to press her palm against his jaw. Her hand is gentle, just like the thumb that runs over his cheek. They were both trapped until the end of their days to be amongst the royals. It would be some people’s wishes to be in their shoes until they’re in it. Their only off times were the secret late night walks in the garden. “I know,” she says quietly. “You know it’s the same with me. One wrong move during a dance and who knows what they’d have planned for me. Who knew being so lucky could have consequences.” She lays her head against his shoulder, hand holding onto his. “I hope everything stops when I’m with you, if even a little bit. There’s nothing to fall apart when everyone’s asleep, right?”

[spungolden]

starter for @theixth // dio + juni

Maybe it's the feeling of vertigo, or maybe seeing the waves of the Honmon move beneath her feet. It could be the pain on her burns that nearly hid her patterns. Panicked brown eyes look down to her now clawed hand. It's the sudden, sharp pressure in her head that causes her to stumble. She makes it over to her vanity, hands holding onto the wood as if it would disappear.

In the midst of her vertigo, she knocks over her lamp. Without thinking, she grabs the wire with an already burning hand. She drops it into the water she was drinking to cool it. Her body lowers to the ground, a clawed hand gripping the wood as her knees hit the ground. Already half-lidded eyes close, waiting until everything stopped moving.

When she finally opens her eyes, she sees a figure in her now moonlit room. She's silent as she looks at them. They were a demon, but human, and didn't feel like a threat. Something in her knows who it is. She doesn't want to believe it. So, she sits there, looking close to the same as she had two-hundred years ago. Almost black hair drapes around her, brown eyes lacking their sparkle. "Step further into the light, please," she asks quietly, no fear in her voice.