#incertion

@incertion said: kurapika's knuckles are white, straining against his skin as he grips his phone. not even new contacts can stop the momentary flash of scarlet. “ how did you get this number? ” it's only the public setting that stops him from full-on yelling, contained instead to leashed rage that startles each syllable; he's caught in the middle of a crowded cafe, somewhere in the middle of yorknew. not good. before any response, his head swivels. surely he's here, somewhere. watching me. but his wild turn of eyes grants him nothing, not even a glimpse of darkness. the devil is nowhere in sight. could the sinner really be far away, only making contact through a phone call? he doubts it, and he's got no proof. gritting his teeth, he picks it back up. there's no need to wonder whether or not the call is real. only a spider could sound so hollow, so dispassionate, like a black hole of emotion. kurapika has no doubts; the man on the other end is him. that horrible fallen angel, the arachnid's head. chrollo lucilfer. why hear him out at all? why show any sort of mercy, even if it's just through words? don't let him speak. and yet, some compulsion keeps the device pressed to his ear, listening to that voice. ⸻a moment of silence. “ do you remember where you killed uvo? ” of course he does. as much as he'd like to think it a perfect, sparkling victory, the sort of thing he should wear on his chest, it rings in his head. get lost. the body's not even far; five, ten minutes out, in the middle of the desert under piles and piles of dirt. his shoulders ache at the memory of strain. “ no. i told you before. i don't remember anything. ” he pauses. is it obvious that he's lying? could it be possible the spider has a heart, one that all legs and head are connected by? he banishes the thought. they must die. a heart only makes them easier to chain. “ where are you? face me. don't⸻ phone me, like a coward. ”

The line connects. The web has started to be spun, sticky strands snaring by the acceptance of a phone call. ( UNLIKELY from what he heard ; but it seems his fortune is on the rise as of late. )

Anger coils around each word like the chains that had confined him, like the blade pointed at his heart. Spat - but he answers. THE LINE STAYS CONNECTED WHEN IT SHOULD BE SEVERED. It is a mistake ; one that the spider will take full advantage of. " Why did you answer? " Chrollo counters a question for a question. Chrollo will not reveal how, and Kurapika will almost certainly not answer why he had answered. It is a purposeful stalemate.

He is patient when silence keeps him company from the other side of the phone ; idle as he watches the streets far below. He does not need Nen to be a ghost in this world. All those from Meteor City do not exist in any official records, and Chrollo has long been something INTANGIBLE even in the flesh. Thus he bears no concern of being sensed. Chrollo is concept made tangible rather than an individual ; he slips through the detections no matter how one strains. Noise returns ; the question is uttered that prompted his call. An answer received.

Silence dangles in the air after the false confession, and then even longer after question and demand. Chrollo tilts his head backwards, eyes lifting away from the street towards the skies above. He is in no hurry and Kurapika clearly does not intend to hang up even if he should.

" You are a poor liar. " Words that should be daggers, accusatory and angry - ARE NOT. They're calm ; a gentle sound of water easing against the shore. It lacks the fury of anger or grief. It lacks irritation and accusation. IT IS THE EERIE STILLNESS OF A CEMETARY. ( And what is Chrollo, if not also church and cemetery for those past spiders lost too? ) " You who have sought that for so long would not forget your achievement. " He exhales gently, lashes resting upon his cheeks for the brief moment he closes his eyes. " You lose yourself to rage, but you are not so lost to forget what occurs. But I suspect that it was not as SATISFYING as you had thought it would be. None of it is, is it? " He does not expect an answer to this either.

The spiders are not like their victims ; they do not beg for mercy or pity. They die with their secrets, betrayal never a possibility ( sans the false moon ). No leg has ever died in a way that left sweet victory upon the victor's tongue. The goal is never the individual, but the spider. If the spider lives, that is what matters above all else.

His attention shifts, a pleasant smile painted on his lips when a waitress approaches him and places a cup and small plate of pastries in front of him with a gentle click of fine porcelain. ( It must carry through the phone. ) It is like the car ride again - Kurapika's fury met with Chrollo's unshaken calm. She leaves with a smile and he is left with avenger from afar. ( Except not really far at all. )

He lifts the cup to his lips and takes a sip. Chrollo had not anticipated an answer ; he had anticipated the fury.

" No. " KURAPIKA IS NOT THE FIRST TO BEG FOR A FIGHT WITH HIM. Hisoka has been at it far longer. And both are denied.

He stares down at the plate, contemplative. There is a particular ache in not knowing where a part of you lies. " You misunderstand if you believe that I seek revenge which would motivate me to meet you. Uvogin's last wishes were already honored that night of the auction, and our requiem sung for his soul. " Body or not, they had sung for him - in fire and violence and theft ; in the chaos and violence he had so loved. HIS FUNERAL RITES WERE NOT FORGOTTEN, but honored with the upmost care one so beloved deserved. His lips curve upwards ever so slightly at the memory; a flicker of warmth before gently extinguishes it for the moment. Soon the head will need to head east ; but he has a few more days before his scheduled departure.

aether meat tastes somewhat similar to elk.

it doesn’t count as cannibalism. he’s a featherless biped. vaguely human shaped. he’s basically chicken.

reduced risk of prion disease.

“            yes  ,  i  believe  so  …            ”               the  words  come  softly  ,  the  former  hunter  choosing  to  agree  despite  the  caution  weighing  in  her  chest  .  as  she  sits  together  with  the  doll  ,  side  by  side  on  an  old  scorched  pew  ;  maria  can't  help  but  wonder  why  she's  here  .  it  felt  like  a  mission  to  search  for  herself  …  but  what  was  the  point  when  she  had  been  lost  for  so  very  very  long  ?  the  thought  prompts  her  to  heave  a  short  &  gentle  sigh  ,  gaze  lifting  to  glance  at  the  other  .  a  replica  of  herself  …  what  a  surreal  thing  to  come  to  terms  with  . 

" the loathing is in our blood. " / from melina to rya <3 perhaps she's talking about her origins with rya, they're discussing how where / who you come from doesn't define you?

Decay shed monuments off gold, without proper begin nor an end in this stagnant state of time. The lost radiance a more a legend than memory, which the last serpent was born disconnected for nascence of her existence. Born in the beginning of this ever-ending twilight. A PURGATORY in place of a paradise. It is all Rya ever learnt to know, and appreciate. History she learnt carefully constructed by her elders. Narrowed to look upon the future engulfed in flames, and the rise of the serpent king.

MELINA shares small visions beyond she came to be, before and when the branches of a once grand family began to weep. Rya listens with her head resting against hands - filling the small gaps that always felt off, yet all seemed to circle back to same conclusion.

" Melina, do you then loathe, as well? what became of you... do you feel something was taken from you?" question forms from within innocence and curiosity to understand. Fingers clutch slightly, over the flat of her chest, as if searching an answer herself.

" I ponder what it feels like... to loathe. I am aware people loathe I as well. For who I am."

without explaining further, she adds:

Unprompted.

@incertion asked:

old sexuality: bi NEW sexuality: RED

❝ What can I say? ❞ Hopefully nothing, yet the inhale that follows acts as a herald of bad news. He is going to open his mouth again to spew a load of bullshit, isn't he? ❝ I'm woke like that. ❞ On the dot, like clockwork.

❛  please  don’t  leave  me  alone .  ❜ mahiru to guren in that one room... you know the one

Eyes narrow as they turn back to him. There's not smile across her features. Guren's begging. Mahiru wants to extend a hand. She wants to pull him away into another life where things are simpler, freer. A demon's whisper poisons her wishes. Have him beg; have him chase after you. It's nice to feel wanted, isn't it?

Fingers curl to fists at her sides. To pursue the future and to ensure Shinoa's safety, she's decided there's no room for love. Tonight is the last memory of who she was as the young maiden whose heart so desperately wished. No longer human. A monster.

There's something distant to her eyes when she looks at him. Without regret or remorse, she won't need Guren to wipe her tears anymore. He'll never be able to reach them. Like the hare, she runs and runs and runs. The world may crumble under step, and if it does she simply runs faster. Tick tock; tick tock. Be sure to watch the clock. There isn't much time left.

“ You're not strong enough, Guren. ” She doesn't apologize.

Mahiru approaches the bed and draws a hand towards his shoulder. Fingers follow the lines in his crinkled shirt. He looks cute disheveled like this. Like a normal teenage boy. If only this moment could be their world tomorrow. It can't.

“ You're not alone. You have your friends. ” You chose them over me, remember?

She starts to count off her fingers, “ Shinya, Sayuri, Shigure, Mito, Goshi. You have all of them. ” Listed with a tone less than kind.

Her smile's harsh as she cants her head to him. The look to her eyes reflects something sympathetic; a hopeful pity for the tortoise. It's the smile of a demon. Guren should know it well. Mahiru's fingers brush along the fabric of his shirt and fall at her side like they've gone limp. She leans forward, drawing her lips to his ear where they brush his skin. A beat longer than what should be appropriate passes, and she stays like that. But nothing should be inappropriate between them now; there's no erasing the sins that they've woven together, each other.

“ Aishiteru, Guren. ”

@incertion ─ .✦. ─ "if this were a real fight, I'd have broken your arm twice by now." from skirk hehe

             dirt and leather can only create as much traction for him to not outright fall but drift backward for long enough to stumble, calculate the best physical maneuver to come back right up once his body inevitably tumbles after a potent throw. Tartaglia rolls, pushes himself up and bounces back onto his feet a few good meters away from his master. Aside from the select, abstract exclamations through his brief journey across the field, he also manages to breathe out a, frankly chipper, "wow" once he's ready for more.

death is among the characters in children's stories. they come in a pair, if parents, just before local festivities, can be believed. one that guides and one that bites. never has hwei made their aquaintance, for never has he been at the threshold. a witness to destruction is not exactly someone, he assumes, death would lend their time to.

first, it startles him to spot them while checking the scenery for composition. then, shortly after, his ever-present melancholy seeps back in. he thinks little about himself - the brush finds the linen again - but rather siblings that will be without their eldest. ❛ i had hoped i'd have more time. ❜ many missed opportunities suddenly come to mind. many unfulfilled wishes follow soon after. hwei looks up and between them, even if just for a moment. considering the situation ( he assumes he's in ), his manners slip for a moment. ❛ i did not expect you to look like the . . . you . . . from the fairytale. ❜ there's no intent to offend. even with most - if not all - children's tales having some roots in truth, the tale of the kind death always seemed so outlandish. his attention falls back down to the linen scrap. both of @incertion are already featured in the rough outline of the scenery.

❛ i have a crass request, before we go. allow me to finish this last painting. i'd loathe to leave my last piece without meaning. ❜ unfinished, yes. as all art is. forever evolving, forever changing. every piece of his bears meaning and heart, even if his intent doesn't reveal itself even to him until a piece is properly soulful.