#opsequen

☥ @opsequen asked: 🔥

Nobody should feel guilty for setting up boundaries, much less allowed to be guiltripped with being "egotistical" for even doing so, while limiting the boundaries of someone else. Something that many people forget is that this is a hobby, something that one enjoys. They have every right to establish all the boundaries they want to curate their space and feel themselves at ease, specially if it starts to become a source of stress. You aren't any less good for trimming those hard edges to make yourself feel in peace. If doing so affects someone else and they feel targeted, let them be. You'll know it was worth it depending on whether they change their ways or leave civilly. Never feel the pressure to do something you don't want just to please someone else, or out of fear that you may be less popular. Only by doing what you aren't comfortable with you're limiting yourself instead of doing it the other way around. As for those who stay, there will always be those who do stay and agree with every one of your conditions, more or less people they may be. Focus on yourself first.

Send me a “ 🔥 “ for an unpopular opinion → Accepting!

non-verbal actions prompts || accepting

On the very first day the golden lights finally brought Gilbert and Vincent to the Baskerville grounds, they got to see Oswald for a few seconds, purely incidentally, as they were being guided through the estate to be cleaned up. But even though the boys came in with barely two shoes between them, covered in all manner of refuse in the gutter of city streets--he said he was grateful to have them. 

Grateful. No one had been grateful for their existences, not even their own parents. 

Not only in his infinite generosity did he open the gates of his grand estate to boys worth less than trash, but Gilbert was soon told that he would serve a greater purpose here. He would not only be allowed to serve him, but he would one day inherit the new position as head of the Baskervilles. Him! 

Here, he was not only wanted. He was needed. He could finally stop being worthless, not just to his brother, but now to Oswald. Gilbert would not betray the expectations from his new master! Even though he didn't smile much, Gil just knew he was kindest man in the world. 

The expectations were shoved onto him quickly and immensely. He had to learn how to speak like someone befitting a noble house, dining etiquette, reading, writing, math, etc. But even it meant long days of tutoring and practice, even if he felt stupid on the days he struggled to keep up, it didn't matter, because he wouldn't give up. It wasn't an option.

On one such day, after encouraging Vincent to not wait up for him to eat dinner, young Gilbert sat hunched over a smattering of papers, ink quill clutched definitely too tightly in his fist (a habit his tutor was still trying to break). He learned to copy well enough, but sounding out words in his head and translating them to ink felt like his brain was being plucked and pulled at by a starved crow. 

Gilbert was determined to perfect the words he reviewed that morning, by himself, even if he had to keep staring at paper for the rest of the night. He would not give in to sleepiness, he wouldn't! Even as his little head bobbed helplessly up and down and his eyebrows scrunched together in an attempt to keep his eyes opened, he wouldn't give in! 

Until his body made the choice for him. 

He knocks out, one plump cheek firmly planted against fresh ink. The candle sitting on the desk continues to pool, nearly overflows from it’s catcher. The tiny flame melts down its wick in an uneven burn, as the candle begins to slowly tilt to one side. 

Until Oswald, who was wandering the halls seemingly like a living ghost (even among a house of those already haunted, which is saying something), swiftly blows out the candle and moves it away from the mess of papers. 

As he moves around the table to get closer to Gil, his foot is halted by a soft lump on the floor--a young Vincent curled up partially under the table with two pillows and two blankets scattered on and around him.

With a small sigh and a whisper of a smile, Oswald plucks one of the blankets and wraps it around Gilbert's body; a small bit of warmth while he delicately maneuvers the younger brother into one arm first. Once Vincent is in tow, he carefully bends down to scoop Gil up in the other, tucking the wraps a bit tighter with the opposite hand. 

As Oswald walks towards their room, enduring to step with a perfectly even gait, Gilbert mumbles small, incoherent noises before turning his body inward, his face nuzzling closer to his master's chest. He cannot help but relax against the steady rhythm and warmth, even while deep within his own sleep. One of his hands quietly seeks him, thin fingers gently grasping the fabric of his shirt. 

When the early morning light streams through the cracks of the window curtain, Gilbert can only wake up in confusion as he tries to remember how he got into bed, a quill still in his hand. 

𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍'𝐒 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐓𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆, 𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 to believe that nobody should have to be tread the polluted Journeying Paradise. Not sane enough to be something remotely above a human corpse with no eyes, just their mouth wide open to sing the hymns and praises of their false deity. Immense guilt plagues Fleurdelys at the very notion of a survivor here, the guilt of what she has caused without knowing so, the guild for not being strong enough to stop the obscure currents before it was too late— nothing. Nobody should have to stay in a land that reeks of corruption, yet here stands you, Oswald from the House of the Baskervilles.

As the Blessed Maiden, Fleurdelys is no ignorant to that family just as she is not of the Fisalias. Spending time in the Order of the Deep as the maximum exponent gives one some information whether they are pursuing it or otherwise. In the Baskervilles' case, she has heard rumors of their members colluding with Leviathan. Heretics, infidels to Imperator they have been branded. Spurned completely from society without ever stopping once to ask the veracity of such claims and, in case they are indeed true, what led them to incline more towards Leviathan than they would to Imperator. The brief time together where she has encountered you, however, tells her otherwise.

The Baskervilles are no more than a family pushed to believe that the deity they worshipped was the true Master of the Heavens. That their deeds would bring prosperity into a society that trembles at the very notion of the Threnodian. All of these facts not learnt necessarily from the very head of the family, but from fractured prayers and curses, lamentations and wallows that would not let her shut an eye to rest for a few hours before following Leviathan's steps once again. See if there are any survivors such as you in a dimension that should not exist in the first place— anything.

Should you have it in your heart to have faith once more, if anything in the very breathing being that stands before you, then allow her to wash the corruption you carry like a curse away with her presence. Comforting like the waves crushing against the shore, fresh and soothing as the silent breezes of Rinascita. Fleurdelys knows better than to impose herself upon anyone, thus she keeps herself at a prudent distance.

Color her surprised the moment used not to dig further into how history may portray you and the ones who stood by your side, but concern for her wellbeing. Lapis lazuli irises widen for a fraction, aureate brows knit in a frown she hopes to conceal as she turns away from you— not entirely, just sufficient to hide some of her own affliction. Delicate hand finds comfort as it wraps around her opposite arm. Quiescence greets you instead of an answer. Will history be kind to her? She doesn't know, nor she has stopped once to think about it for a moment. Ever since Leviathan revealed the harsh truth to her, thousands of scenarios have crossed her mind were the people of Rinascita learn about it, too. Long story short? Nothing good comes from either of them, and so Fleurdelys has come to accept the worst case scenario— not accept, but come to terms with it.

Because she would never accept this fate imposed over her, for her intentions to be drown in dark waters following Leviathan's whims. Her grip on the arm tightens slightly, she bites the inside of her cheek before she elaborates an answer at long last. ◜We who carry the weight of people's safety needn't find respite in history being kind to us.◞ Certainly not when they have a Threnodian who can easily alter it as it was shown through the distorted faith of the people of Rinascita in Imperator— in a Sentinel that is no more and that it was their worst fear all along pulling at the strings. ◜That isn't of import now.◞ A quick shake of her head follows before she turns to you once again, her sorrowful frown now one riddled with the weight of responsibility, of concern. ◜Please, allow me to escort you to safety. You being conscious at all is a blessing in itself. To dwell any longer in the Journeying Paradise is no different than inviting death.◞

☥ @opsequen continued from here x.

@opsequen asked: “I prefer watching from the sidelines to participating.”

A   soft   chuckle   emanated   from   rosette   lips,   head   canting   slightly.   "I   get   the   feeling   you'd   get   along   really   well   with   my   sister.   Pretty   sure   she's   actually   said   the   exact   same   thing."

Then   man   certainly   looked   mysterious,   standing   there   alone   while   the   other   party   guests   danced   merrily,   some   a   bit   ...   boisterous   but   Anna   was   just   happy   everyone   was   having   fun.   It   was   her   first   time   hosting   a   ball   as   'queen'   and   she   admittedly   did   feel   the   pressure   of   it.

"but   I   think   you   should   dance   at   least   ONCE   this   evening.   I'm   sure   you're   wonderful   at   it!"

❝   What  do  I  want?  ❞  𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓  𝐀  𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆  𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.  Ideally,  she'd  like  to  not  be  drenched  in  the  rain  with  her  face  paint  about  to  be  washed  off  (  but  hey,  who  was  she  to  complain  if  faux  tear  streaks  added  drama  to  the  farce  ),  or  maybe  she'd  like  to  grow  her  empire  &  get  her  seat  at  the  table  that  old  men  like  Blackmask  have  taped  off  for  decades.  Or,  maybe,  what  she  truly  wants  is  ──── 

Her  arms  spread  wide,  she  points  towards  the  city  that  was  her  playground.  There  are  probably  idiots  out  on  the  street  right  now,  no  matter  the  weather,  celebrating  her  recent  acquittal  with  faces  painted  just  like  hers.  Or  others  who  don  her  clothes  like  a  second  skin  to  be  a  cheap  imitation.  Or  her  face  plastered  on  a  billboard  that  screams  '  Free  Punchline  '  &  '  No  crime,  No  time  '  ──  she  had  been  acquitted.  But  it  wasn't  enough,  it  would  never  be  enough,  not  until  others  realized  she  was  not  a  singularity;  she  was  the  punchline  to  this  joke  of  a  world.

❝ I  want  to  be  saved.  ❞   Her  voice  threatened  to  drown  against  the  rain,  but  she  knew  he  heard  it  ──  soft  &  full  of  mirth.  Briefly,  she  wonders  how  Batman  would  react  to  that  line  ─   would  it  tug  on  his  guilt?  Or  would  it  translate  as  cheap  noise  in  the  background  of  a  shitty  video  edit?  Probably  both.  Who  said  the  bat  couldn't  multitask?  She  could  imagine  it  now:  guilt  &  indifference  washed  in  the  rain  &  mixed  like  blood  in  water  to  circle  down  the  drain  ─  right  into  the  sewer  system  with  the  rest  of  Gotham's  bullshit.  She  didn't  lie,  though;  she  truly  wanted  to  be  saved.  She'd  go  to  drastic  measures,  even  if  it  meant  coercing  the  rich  heir  of  the  Baskerville  tower  to  pose  for  a  quick  propaganda  video.

An  edit  of  a  lifetime  ! For  him,  for  her,  the  shot  buys  around  1  -  2  weeks  of  peace  (  but  that  was  fine,  the  deceitful  had  sharp  teeth,  she'd  figure  something  else  out  by  then  ).  ❝ What,  that  hard  to  believe?  ──  Look  around  you,  ❞ she  gestured  in  a  theatrical  manner,  though  it  was  mostly  for  the  camera's  sake  ─   far  enough  away  to  look  like  she's  considering  jumping  ─   maybe  she  is.  ❝ Everyone  loves  a  rescue.  The  trembling  girl,  the  merciful  heir,  the  rain  doing  half  the  editing  for  us.  All  you  have  to  do  is  reach.  I  get  saved,  you  get  applauded,  and  Gotham  gets  a  story  clean  enough  to  choke  on.  ❞

THE  PUBLIC  LOVES  A  FACE  ATTACHED  TO  A  BRAND,  that  was  branding  101  ──  the  reason  a  lot  of  these  rich  asshole  types  failed  in  terms  of  approval  rating  is  that  no  one  can  see  anything  behind  the  face  they  can  relate  to.  She's  offering  him  that  now:  A  woman  who  should've  been  hanged  but  was  found  innocent,  now  about  to  throw  herself  off  his  roof.  Just  one  extended  hand  &  the  story  trends  for  weeks.  To  Punchline  fans,  Oswald  becomes  the  rich  heir  who  '  saw  her  humanity.  '  To  moderates,  he  becomes  a  responsible  citizen  who  prevented  a  tragedy  without  grandstanding.  To  the  wealthy,  he  becomes  a  man  who  controlled  a  reputational  crisis  with  grace.  Even  critics  talking  about  him  still  put  the  Baskerville  name  into  circulation.

&  more  importantly,  she  gets  power  by  association.  She  doesn't  need  Baskerville's  name,  money,  or  backing  (  though  she  wouldn't  mind  very  much  ),  she  needs  the  doubt  of  it  circulating  in  the  underworld:  '  Is  one  of  the  city's  oldest  &  most  powerful  families  backing  Punchline?  '  ────  the  question  trends  long  enough  for  a  few  weeks  that  Joker's  enemies  who  want  her  dead  will  hesitate  to  act;  she  needs  the  angle  &  she's  giving  him  a  beautiful  little  PR  wrapped  sin. ❝  So  go  on,  Mr.  Baskerville,  ❞  she  hummed,  shifting  one  heel  against  the  slick  railing.