#003.

Seus professores tinham lhe perguntado porque sua performance não estava exatamente nos parâmetros esperados. Ele mostrou um vídeo de Lucille e, pelo menos as femininas, chegaram a suspirar porque ele era "um fofo". Ah, não, não era isso. Ele sabia ter relações que eram só carnais, tinha vivido em Londres por tempo o suficiente para aprender — por mais que sempre fosse ele quem queria algo diferente.

Contudo, tudo sobre Lucille era diferente. Dexter foi de uma pessoa que não suportava lugares cheios, para alguém que frequenta um bar quando shows estão acontecendo. Ele sorria sem motivo e, até, estava se aventurando mais sobre pesquisa sobre o espaço, depois de ver o quão fascinada ela ficou com tudo.

Ali, no pub, alguns já o conheciam. O barman preparava o seu drink preferido assim que ele entrava e o dono deixava ela guardar a bolsa com a câmera atrás do balcão. E era exatamente isso que estava fazendo, até ouvir alguém reclamar aos gritos sobre mulheres em espanhol. Iria ignorar isso, porque, bem, ele ignorava a existência da parte da população masculina que os fazia parecer uma espécie inferior na maior parte do tempo, mas duas coisas o fizeram se aproximar:

Lucille era o alvo das reclamações.

E ele a xingava por nome.

the entire "beating wally with the power of love" is funny, sure, but i think that is fucked up about the quest is that all of the protoframes originally died because they were not accepting themselves. kind of. let me explain;

aoi dies because she uses her powers to the point her body just cannot handle it, quincy dies because "he got found" by a tank (which is later revealed that he died because he did not understand he could shoot the enemies inside), eleanor died believing this was her last shot and lettie died being scared of eleanor, arthur died taking the title of the "good leader who sacrifices himself" and amir dies because he did not understand the extra abilities that come with warframe.

so we need to focus on two things: canonically, iirc, quincy(?) says that they were not given any instructions. no manuals, no nothing. they got these powers and that's it, which makes arthur the only one who is able to use his abilities with expertise. aoi, amir and quincy did not fully know what they were capable of until drifter helped them (and lettie too, as in the comics she says she's "getting the hang of it" when healing arthur, meaning she most likely was making things up as she went)

the second is that. well. albrecht especially used not the best individuals??? mentally??? for the protoframes. they probably came to him as a las resource, and afaik the protoframes are the only ones that managed to survive the strain they were infected with, but all fo the protoframes seem to be people who, without the appropriate help and support, would lose themselves. arthur would be an even more sacrificing asshole with the need to be seen as a hero regardless of what is going on around him. eleanor might have succumbed to the techrot seeing how her relationship with it is (good job on naming it girl mwah). etc.

so like... yes. i guess that the "power of love" saved the protoframes, but not in the way that "oh love fixes everything" but rather love comes with acceptance, and acceptance comes with change. without the variable factor of the drifter being capable of "taking their pain away" like the operator did albrecht's entire plan would have gone to shit. and it had, as drifter had to do a timeloop for the hex to survive. albrecht's flaw was not that he did a fucky wucky, but that he did not see it all through and simply assumed they were all doomed. albrecht's flaw was that he never realized the gift that loid gave him, the power to change through love, and thought that the protoframes were unable to do so too.

but anyways that's just my thoughts :p the guy should at least given the protoframes a warframe 101 manual. also does this even make sense at all

He wasn't sure what happened except that he was hurt again. It had to be something about his mother's latest boyfriend-- it usually was, according to Melissa's stories-- and it made him angry that his mind kept making him forget. If he could remember better then maybe he could ask for help. As it was all he felt was his sore throat, his bruised muscles, and the sting that came with Melissa's bandaging going tight around his open wound. These things could've happened for any reason at all.

Arthur swallowed the acrid taste of bile. When Melissa finished, his gaze drifted to her face.

"How do you..." His voice was hoarse. Arthur coughed, trying to get that feeling out to speak properly like Melissa deserved.

"How d'you always know when I need your help?"

All he'd thought about as he stumbled down the fire escape to his building was Melissa. Over and over and over. It felt right for him to find her out on the sidewalk after he made it out of the alley at the time, but now he wondered.

maturity, one discovers, has everything to do with the acceptance of not knowing.

we all create stories to protect ourselves.

here then at long last is my darkness. no cry of light, no glimmer, not even the faintest shard of hope to break free across the hold.

i still get nightmares. in fact, i get them so often i should be used to them by now. i’m not. no one ever really gets used to nightmares.

love of love written by the broken hearted, love of life written by the dead.

passion has little to do with euphoria and everything to do with patience. it is not about feeling good. it is about endurance.

little solace comes to those who grieve when thoughts keep drifting as walls keep shifting and this great blue world of ours seems a house of leaves moments before the wind.

losing the possibility of something is the exact same thing as losing hope and without hope nothing can survive.

like patience, passion comes from the same latin root: pati. it does not mean to flow with exuberance. it means to suffer.

the greatest of love letters are always coded for the one and not the many.

for some reason, you will no longer be the person you believed you once were. you’ll detect slow and subtle shifts going on all around you, more importantly shifts in you.

it seems that 'to fit' the world or to make sense of it requires either reason or arms.

you do not work, you do not read, you do not daydream. if you sleep it is not because you need to sleep. and when at last it is over, there is no evidence: no weapon, no blood, and no body.

the mind is a labyrinth, and the soul is forever lost within its depths.

why did god create a dual universe? so he might say 'be not like me, i am alone'. and it might be heard.

it might be a mistake but fuck it, it's mine.

the house is ¼th" bigger in the inside.

this is not for you.

some people reflect light, some people deflect it; you, by some miracle, seem to collect it.

explanation is not half as strong as experience but experience is not half as strong as experience and understanding.

known. some. call. is. air. am. / 'non sum qualis eram'. / i am not what i used to be.

'non enim videbit me homo et vivet.' / whoever sees god dies.

picture that. in your dreams.

prometheus, thief of light, giver of light, bound by the gods, must have been a book.

god's a house. which is not to say that our house is god's house or even a house of god. what i mean to say is that our house is god.

scars are the paler pain of survival received unwillingly and displayed in the language of injury.

sublime is something you choke on after a shot of tequila.

𓈓⠀⠀⠀and there you have it, another body on the floor surrounded by things that don't mean much to anyone except to the one who can't take any of them along.

what miracle is this? this giant tree. it stands ten thousand feet high but doesn't reach the ground. still it stands. its roots must hold the sky.

and where there is no echo there is no description of space or love. there is only silence.

the ruminations are mine, let the world be yours.

Rushing up the steps to his apartment, Emily in tow, Harrow felt every nerve he had was on fire. The image of her in his head was clear: how quickly she’d pushed him out of the way (she was special, he was not), how violently her head had jerked back, how blood had spewed out of the other side and splashed onto his neck and collarbone.

But now, the woman he carried home had almost no signs of that carnage. Save for the dried blood that’d oozed down her face in lines, the hole that’d been in her forehead was closed over. Khonshu couldn’t let an Avatar die—back when he’d donned the name, Harrow always woke up a few minutes after his revival, feeling like nothing happened at all. In those days danger had meant nothing to him, and now the only reason he put himself in danger was because it was all the penance he could make.

Emily had been over before. He was sure she’d wake up on his couch and know exactly where she was. Though Khonshu was likely responsible for the wind that rustled the plants by Harrow’s window, he was quick to shut it.

“When will you learn she’s safe with me?” he asked, turning to some space close to where Emily was sleeping. Harrow didn’t know if he was facing that fool god at all, but it didn’t matter in the end.

As Emily slept, he lowered himself to the floor beside her, arms folded over the edge as he watched her rest. Without the adrenaline in his veins from having killed again, all he could think about was her. He wondered if she’d ever died before this. He wondered if those deaths had been worth it.

This one, he knew, couldn’t have been. There was no version of this story where Emily deserved to die for him.

Still, his touch was reverent as he brushed stray hair out of her face, blue eyes softer than they’d ever been.

Emily died for him. To protect him.

“Now why’d you go and do that?” he whispered, quiet despite the cacophony in his rib cage. Harrow wasn’t certain why his heart was racing, not when they were already safe.

But as soon as the woman realized it was Gavin, the air was released in a soft exhale and a smile curved her lips. Melissa had already been prepared for bed - out of the lavish gowns that she still wore despite the chain around the neck to remember everyone of her true position at court (not a consort, but a slave). The shackles were removed for bed, of course (every servant assumed that the night hours would have nothing but horror awaiting for the newly-minted queen in name only), and the loose garments made it harder to discern her figure or even suspect of her current condition.

If not for the king's prior medical studying and the close inspection of his companion's vitals, he would have been ignorant of it too - nearly as much as the member of his council on that morning. Melissa had dared to look the wrong way at someone or to move when not requested to - something small and unimportant, but made offensive when coming from a slave towards her 'superiors'. The man had struck her powerfully against the face, causing her to fall - but luckily nothing too serious had come to pass save for a few bruises; Melissa was fine.

Their child was fine.

But what stopped the woman in her tracks was not the fact that Gavin had finally released himself for his duties - but the way blood dropped from his hands, marking his path and staining the fabric of his clothes. Melissa immediately ran to him, concern and worry changing her expression while petite hands searched for a wound or anything serious, fussing over her captor in a manner that would surely confuse anyone outside the royal quarters. // @stingslikeabee

Gavin's breaths had come heavy and hot the entire trek from the throne room to his chambers. Rage was unbecoming-- reminded him too much of his step-mother, of his sibling that passed-- but in the moment it had blinded him with such ferocity nothing else had existed. He'd heard the murmurs from his council, words of how the bastard king truly is of Shepard blood, yet even as he rose to his feet with all eyes on him all he could think was that, finally, justice was done.

"No-one touches her," he'd said then, knuckles split and hands smeared with the blood of his coinmaster. Gavin had faced the men that once served his sibling, hair drenched with sweat, and brought his arm in an arc to point at all of them. "Any punishment Melissa earns is mine to give."

With a jaw pulled and crooked and a face split from violence, Gavin had turned the head enough its angle was unnatural. Bloodied eyes stared at the rest of his council as Gavin left the room-- this is what happens, they'd seemed to say, when you step out of line.

His guards stepped aside at the sight of him, silent despite the trail of blood that dripped off his fingers. Gavin smeared it on his doors when he pushed them open, and with a firm voice growled, "Let no-one inside."

Then, deliberate, he shut the doors behind him.

Despite his immediate intention to seek Melissa out, she seemed to appear before he could think to move forward. The first brush of her hands calmed him, but it was only when he could take her face in his own palms (gods, she was already bruising on her cheek) that his breathing found peace.

"Darling," Gavin whispered, stroking a line of red over her cheek, "No monster will touch you again, I swear it."

Monster, he said, like the fine clothes he wore weren't stained with blood-- like his knuckles weren't still bleeding, and there wasn't flesh caught beneath his nails.

"Are you well?" Cradling Melissa's uninjured cheek in one hand, the other touched her clavicle, and then curved over her belly. "Have you any pain?