#// they teach opera now if you were wondering

[thanatologie]

@mercred - What caused you to start writing? What was your key point? questions for the mun / accepting

i couldn't tell you what started it that was…a…[mumbled number of years] ago and like i barely remember what i have for breakfast most days.  what i can tell you is that one of my earliest memories of me writing things for shits and giggles was way back in the dark ages when a baby me and my best friend at the time had a notebook we'd pass to each other between classes where we'd write our self-insert fanfic (if that tells you how baby i was) for a fandom i shall not name.  i remember this notebook exactly, for what it's worth, it was a little almost a5 thing we picked up from the dollar tree and i wrote in it with a sparkly purple gel pen so you knew who was writing what.

[ifwebefriends]

My thoughts during “The Sign” [SPOILERS!!!!!]

ID in ALT

More thoughts under the cut

So I think most of us can agree that this is the best episode of Bluey so far. It was so emotional and satisfying in ways that are kinda new for Bluey. It answered so many questions while giving us a few new ones. I’ve been waiting for this episode for months and it did not disappoint in any way.

This is just a Chekov’s firing squad of an episode. As in a lot of stuff that was set up in earlier episodes all pay off in this episode. I kinda understand why people love soap operas now lol. I will say that this episode was a tad overwhelming for me in the best way possible. As in I had to pause and rewind every 30 seconds or so so I could emotionally process what was happening before moving forward (but that’s a me thing). There was just so much going on and I’m happy about that.

Now onto individual thoughts about specific things:

The callback to Baby Race (“you took your first steps in that house!”) really got to me because Baby Race was the first episode of Bluey that I watched and it immediately made me fall in love with it so it just got to me.

When Chilli said “Frisky and I came up here as teenagers to…um…think,” my mind started racing immediately with “what the FUCK happened at the Lookout?” “Who hurt Frisky and/or Chilli?” And I’m just so curious about what made Chilli say that line like that but we’ll probably never know what happened.

So yeah that scene at the end when the music was playing and Bandit ripped the sign out of the ground and Chilli tackled him to the ground ABSOLUTELY CHANGED my brain chemistry y’all. I can’t articulate my feelings any more than that.

I know some people were upset that Brandy ended up getting pregnant but I thought it was great for her! I’m happy for her! And I think that even though she got what she wanted in the end doesn’t negate the feelings she had about her infertility earlier. But I think we’re all wondering who the father is and I don’t know if the show really needs to answer that.

The whole message of “we’ll see” in terms of if something is good or bad is such a mature message that I never really thought of like that so I will be taking that philosophy forward in life. Congratulations Bluey, you managed to teach a 22-year-old childless person something new and insightful about life that I don’t think I’ve learned from another show.

I want to know more about what Bob was going through and feeling and why he went to India, but again, we’ll probably never know.

I just love how the wedding photos were beautiful but imperfect. Like of course we’re not perfect and nothing will ever be perfect but it’s beautiful and worth remembering anyway.

So many little jokes and moments were so funny in a mature way (I.e. “are we allowed to do that?” And Nana thinking there was about to be a baby announcement) were just so funny and memorable.

I think some people would say it’s a cop-out to end up not selling the house after building it up for 2 episodes but I don’t know, I think it works. I think Bluey and Bingo learned a valuable lesson and Bandit (and Chilli kinda) learned it’s not always about making their kids lives “perfect” in their eyes. Also I’m just personally glad they didn’t end up selling the house and I also kinda like that it wasn’t entirely their choice to keep it.

On a more serious note I think this episode has some interesting commentary on like gender roles and gender relations in straight relationships. In this episode Chilli and Frisky (both women) have to deal with their male significant others pressuring them to move with them far away from what they know and love. In the end they don’t end up moving and the men didn’t seem to have like malicious or selfish intent with it, they were just kinda basing their choices off their jobs instead of what’s best emotionally for their loved ones. But I think it’s interesting to have this conflict where gender is kinda brought up in a way (“because your husband is making you”). It kinda plays into the traditional idea of like men are the breadwinners and the family has to move with them regardless of what they actually want. And this episode kinda like deconstructs that and says “no, it’s not always about the job or money, it’s also sometimes about connections and emotional attachment.” And I’m not saying that you should never move or whatever, but really weigh your options. I just thought that it was interesting that this episode kinda touched on that.

So yeah that’s kinda the main thoughts I had on this episode if you made it this far thank you for reading my rambles and have a good one!

[nyxs2]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 16/?)

In a masquerade, faces are borrowed, truths are twisted, and sins are veiled beneath silk and gold. What happens beneath the masks stays there—after all, isn't that the point of wearing one?

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 13,7K

Warnings: smut, resolved sexual tension, unprotected sex, sex against the door, mirror sex, use of the title "sir" in a sexual context, semi-public sex, dirty talk, dom/sub dynamics, Silco teaching about manipulation and being a little self-centered, Silco POV

Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.

Useful information for better visualization during the chapter: Costumes inspired by "The Phantom of the Opera", a 2004 film. Mask used by the reader Main dance music: Phantom of the Opera By Prague Cello Quartet

Part 15

Five days later.

There was a little Powder by your side, her bright blue eyes wide with wonder as she curled into the folds of your long dress. The delicate lace at the hem fascinated her, her small fingers tracing the intricate patterns with the kind of reverence only a child could possess. 

It wasn't exactly wise to let an excitable child like Powder play around with a pristine white dress—especially when she had an uncanny talent for turning anything into a mess within minutes. But you didn't care. Not when she looked so enraptured, so utterly captivated by something as simple as fabric. You watched her with quiet amusement before speaking, voice laced with gentle curiosity.

"You're not supposed to be here, are you?"

"Nope."

"Then how did you get in, little one?"

"The same way everyone else does, duh." Powder rolled her eyes, voice dripping with exaggerated exasperation. "Through the front door."

A soft chuckle slipped past your lips as you reached out to ruffle her twin braids—those stubbornly tight plaits she adored so much. She huffed at the gesture, scrunching her nose in protest, but didn't pull away. Her small fingers continued fidgeting absentmindedly with the lace of your dress, twirling the delicate fabric between them.

"And how, exactly, did Silco not see you sneaking in?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Powder's mischievous grin widened. Without missing a beat, she lifted one tiny hand to cover her left eye, dramatically mimicking Silco's scarred visage.

"Did you forget? He's practically blind!"

Her impression was ridiculous—an exaggerated scowl twisting her face, her stance suddenly rigid as if she were trying to embody some grand, intimidating presence. It was so absurdly endearing that you had to press your lips together to keep from laughing outright.

"Stop that!" You playfully nudged her hand away, shaking your head. "He's not blind, just stressed. And stress affects his ability to see things clearly."

Powder snorted, unimpressed. "Same thing."

You sighed, shaking your head, but there was no real reprimand behind it. Powder was Powder—cheeky, unpredictable, and absolutely relentless. And honestly? You wouldn't have her any other way.

"Yes, but he doesn't need to know that fact."

That sent her into fit of giggles, a sweet, airy sound that filled the room like the purest melody. It bounced off the walls, wrapping around you in warmth, in something so light and innocent that it made your chest tighten. You had grown to love that laughter—especially when you were the cause of it.

You wanted to protect that little girl from the world, to shield her from the darkness you knew lurked just outside these walls. And now, you understood. Now, you truly understood why Silco was so fiercely protective of her.

A soft smile lingered on your lips as you turned back to the mirror, letting her continue playing with the layers of the dress while your fingers deftly adjusting the delicate corset. It fits your body perfectly, sculpting to your frame like a second skin. The square neckline framed your shoulders with an understated elegance, accentuating the delicate curve of your collarbone.

The fabric was impossibly light, almost ethereal, as if woven from something intangible—meant to float, to move with every shift of your body like whispered silk against your skin. The embroidered lace on the sheer, long sleeves stretched over your arms in intricate, delicate patterns, casting faint shadows against your skin beneath the flickering candlelight. Your fingertips trailed along the edges of the fabric, feeling the contrast between its fine, airy texture and the coolness that clung to the dimly lit room.

The skirt cascaded around your legs like mist, flowing with every subtle movement, the hem brushing against the floor in an effortless dance. But the most daring detail—the one that made your breath hitch ever so slightly—was the slit along the side, parting just enough to reveal a glimpse of your thigh, the white lace of your stockings peeking through like a whispered temptation.

Silco had been oddly particular about choosing this dress for you. It was a deliberate choice, one he had made with the same precision he applied to everything that held his interest. And yet, you couldn't quite understand why he had chosen white.

Red or black—you had expected something in those shades. His colors. Deep, commanding, unyielding. But white? White was... unsettling. It clung to you like a contradiction, draping over your body in soft, immaculate folds, as if whispering of innocence and virtue. But you were long past that, weren't you? Whatever purity white was meant to represent had been stripped from you long ago, leaving behind something far more jagged, something that Silco himself had helped shape.

Still, it fit you well. Annoyingly well.

You shifted, gently nudging Powder aside as you reached for your mask. Like the dress, it was a masterpiece in its own right. The black filigree metal gleamed under the dim light, each delicate swirl and intricate detail a testament to craftsmanship that bordered on artistry. The design was slightly asymmetrical—the filigree curling like lacework over one eye, while the other side was left exposed, adorned only by three fine golden chains that draped subtly across the space where the mask should have extended further.

A statement. A choice. A balance between concealment and exposure.

You crouched slightly, holding the mask out to Powder, wordlessly inviting her to help you secure it. Her face lit up instantly, her hands—small but quick—reaching for the black satin ribbon. She worked with impressive speed, fingers nimble as she fastened the knot at the back of your head. There was a faint tug as she adjusted the placement, ensuring it sat just right, her touch light but precise.

Then, as if she were handling something delicate, she fussed over your hair. Tiny, careful hands smoothed stray strands, adjusting a curl here, tucking another behind your ear there. The concentration on her face was almost comical—brows furrowed, lips pursed in deep thought, as if she were a sculptor perfecting her masterpiece.

"There." she declared at last, stepping back with a triumphant nod. "Now you look perfect."

You let out a quiet huff of laughter, tilting your head.

"How perfect?"

Powder tapped a finger against her chin, pretending to consider her answer before breaking into a mischievous grin.

"Like a really fancy villain."

You arched a brow, amused. "A villain, huh?"

"The best kind."

A smirk ghosted across your lips, and before she could dodge, you ruffled her hair again, messing up her carefully styled braids.

"Hey!" Powder whined, swatting at your hand.

"If you say so, little one." you teased, unable to help the fondness in your voice.

She crossed her arms, puffing out her cheeks in mock indignation before suddenly tilting her head, blue eyes scanning you once more. "But..." She hesitated, then grinned wide, her voice soft with something that almost felt like awe. "You also look like a princess."

Oh, heavens...

For a moment, you could do nothing but stare. Those wide, gleaming blue eyes gazed up at you with such raw admiration, such unfiltered wonder, that it nearly stole the breath from your lungs. Powder wasn't just looking at you—she was seeing you, in the way only a child could. To her, you weren't just someone in a dress. You were something magical.

Without a second thought, you reached up and carefully removed the tiara from your hair. The delicate piece had been chosen to complement your attire, a glimmering, ornamental crown meant for a ballroom and whispered admiration. But now, none of that mattered.

Without hesitation, you placed it atop Powder's head.

The weight of it made her pause, her eyes blinking up at you in confusion. Of course, the tiara sat awkwardly at first, tilted precariously to one side—the size difference between your head and hers was undeniable—but with a few gentle adjustments, you managed to nestle it securely among her braids.

"Look at that." you murmured, stepping back slightly. "Now you're a princess too."

Powder hesitated for only a fraction of a second before her small fingers shot up to brush against the cool metal resting atop her hair. Then, as realization dawned, a spark of pure excitement lit up her face. Without another word, she spun on her heel and bolted toward the mirror.

You watched from behind as she tilted her head this way and that, twisting and turning, examining her reflection with unfiltered delight. The way her fingers lightly traced over the tiara, the way her lips parted in a silent, awed smile—it was the kind of joy so rare, so fleeting, that it made your chest ache.

You found yourself smiling too. A soft, almost foolish smile—one you didn't even try to suppress.

Powder was just a small girl living in a cruel, bloodstained world. One day, she would have to see and do terrible things. Things no child should ever be forced to endure. But she didn't have to lose her innocence as early as you had lost yours.

No.

You would make sure of that.

You would give Vander's daughter—Silco's daughter—everything you were never given the right to have.

You were so lost in those thoughts that you barely had time to react when something collided with you. A small body crashed against yours, nearly knocking you off balance. Tiny arms wrapped around your waist, holding on with a fierce, unrelenting grip. Soft blue hair pressed against your stomach.

Powder was hugging you.

For a long, frozen moment, your mind didn't quite know how to react.

There was something about your late-night meetings at the bar—something unspoken, something careful. No matter how friendly your interactions were, Powder rarely touched you, and she rarely allowed you to touch her. It was an unspoken boundary, one you never tried to cross.

And you didn't mind.

Her presence alone was enough.

So to have her hugging you now—arms wound tightly around your waist, fingers gripping the fabric of your dress like she feared you'd slip away—felt strange. Not unwelcome, just... unexpected.

There was something heartbreakingly fragile in the way she clung to you, like a child seeking comfort but too proud to ask for it.

The only person who had touched you in all these months had been Silco. His touch was something you had grown accustomed to—the weight of his hands against your skin, the casual, possessive way he would lift your chin to look at him, the way his fingers would trail over your skin, lingering just long enough to remind you that he was there. That you belonged to him.

But this?

This was different.

You hesitated for a moment, unsure, before your hand came up, cradling the back of her head with a careful, almost tentative touch. The strands of blue hair were soft against your fingertips. Slowly, cautiously, you lowered yourself to her height, making sure to meet her gaze directly.

Her face was warm beneath your hands, small and delicate, though there was a steeliness in her eyes—a fire that had yet to be fully tempered by the world's cruelty. And yet... something about her reminded you of Silco. Maybe it was the intensity in her stare, the way she observed everything with an unwavering, discerning gaze. Or maybe it was just the way she was—defiant, unpredictable, always teetering between innocence and something far more dangerous.

You pulled her closer, arms tightening around her in an embrace that felt... heavier than it should have. Not physically, but emotionally. There was a weight to it, something unspoken pressing against your ribs, making your breath hitch for just a moment. And for a fleeting second, you could have sworn—almost—that you felt it.

That warmth.

That imposing, steady presence you had once known so well. The one who was a leader and yet a friend. The person you would kill and die for.

Vander.

The thought came unbidden, curling around your mind like smoke from a dying ember. You could have dismissed it as foolishness, a trick of your own sentimentality—reaching, grasping for something long since buried. But still, for that brief moment, Powder felt familiar. She reminded you of him.

Then, just as quickly as she had clung to you, she shoved herself out of your grasp, her small hands pressing against your arms with a stubborn impatience that made you chuckle.

"Alright, alright. Enough of that!" she huffed, scowling as if the very idea of vulnerability physically pained her. She wriggled free with dramatic flair, shaking off whatever impulse had driven her into your arms in the first place.

You smirked, amusement curling at the edges of your lips as you let your arms fall back to your sides.

"Guess that's all I get, huh?"

Powder rolled her eyes so hard you half-expected them to pop right out of her skull. Arms crossed, chin tilted up, she scoffed with practiced indifference.

"Don't get used to it."

You wouldn't. But for now, the memory of that fleeting warmth was enough.

You watched her for a moment longer, noting the way she averted her gaze, how she fidgeted with the ends of her hair, the ghost of something unreadable flickering behind those electric blue eyes. It was gone as fast as it came, replaced by her usual energy. You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head with a soft chuckle.

"Do me a favor, will you?"

Jinx raised a brow, suspicious but intrigued. "Depends. Is it fun?"

You grinned. "Depends. Will you actually listen?"

Her cackle was immediate, sharp and delighted. "Pfft! Absolutely not!"

You moved toward the dresser slowly, the fabric of your dress whispering against the floor with each measured step. The room was bathed in the restless hues of neon—bleeding shades of pink, violet, and electric blue filtering through the open window, painting shifting patterns across the walls. You hadn't bothered to draw the curtains. Maybe you had forgotten. Maybe you had simply stopped caring.

Behind you, Powder was watching, her wide, curious eyes tracking your every movement.

Your fingers found the cool gold of your necklace, the familiar weight of the chain slipping easily between them. You glanced over your shoulder at her, lips curving into something soft, something secret.

"Here." you murmured, turning and holding the necklace out to her.

Powder's eyes flickered between you and the delicate piece of jewelry in your hand. "For me?" she asked, blinking as though the thought had never even occurred to her.

You huffed out a quiet laugh. "No, little one. I need you to take it to Silco for me."

She pouted dramatically, but her fingers still closed around the chain, cradling it like it was something sacred. You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice like you were sharing the most important of secrets.

"And while you're at it..." you smirked, tilting your head conspiratorially, "Make sure to show him your new tiara. I'm sure you look far more regal than he ever could."

Powder gasped, delighted, her free hand shooting up to adjust the tiara in her hair. "You think so?"

"I know so."

That was all she needed.

She beamed up at you before spinning on her heels, already bolting for the door. "Okay! I'll tell him you said that!"

"You! Wait, no!"

Too late. She was gone.

She nearly tripped over her own feet in her haste, but it didn't slow her down. Within seconds, she had disappeared down the hall, her breathless giggles fading into the distance, swallowed by the dim hum of the city outside.

And then—silence.

You remained standing there, frozen in place, staring blankly at the uneven patterns of the wooden floor. Now, without Powder's presence to pull your thoughts away, they returned in full force—sharp, relentless.

The night outside was restless, alive. Even in the quiet, the Last Drop never truly slept. There was always something—a muffled conversation behind closed doors, the distant shuffle of feet in the alleyways, the faint clink of glass against glass. But tonight, it was as still as it could ever be.

Still, it wasn't enough to silence the pounding of your own heart.

Your mouth was dry. Your palms slick with sweat. Nervous was an understatement. You felt like you were unraveling, thread by thread. The very thought of setting foot in Piltover again sent a tremor through your spine, curling tight in your stomach like something cold and insidious. You had told yourself—over and over again—that nothing and no one could take you back.

They had failed once, in that pathetic attempt to kidnap you. They would fail again. And yet, the fear still lingered. A quiet, whispering thing. What if?

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to breathe, forcing your muscles to move, to do something other than stand there like a caged animal waiting for the inevitable.

One step forward.

Another.

You pushed through the door.

The air in the hallway was thick with the lingering scent of smoke and aged wood, steeped into the walls, woven into the very bones of this place. Familiar. Grounding. But not enough to ease the weight pressing down on your chest. You moved forward, steps light as you neared the staircase.

Then—voices.

Drifting up from below, low and restrained, just beneath the usual hum of the bar. The unmistakable murmur of a conversation on the edge of something sharper.

And Silco's voice.

Smooth but laced with irritation.

"How many times have I told you not to show up like this at this hour, Jinx?"

Silco's voice carried through, edged with that distinct, weary patience he reserved only for her. Not anger, not even irritation—just the kind of exhaustion that came from knowing full well that no amount of scolding would ever change her behavior.

"If I obeyed every order you gave me, I'd never do anything."

You could practically hear the smirk in her voice, that teasing lilt laced with mischief. There was a brief pause, just long enough for you to wonder if, for once, she might actually acknowledge his reprimand.

And then—

A sound. Half-choked, half-laughter. Like someone who had tried to stifle a laugh but had taken a sip of something at the wrong time.

"Jinx!" His voice sharpened, reprimanding, but even from here, you knew.

She wasn't sorry. Not in the slightest. 

You and Silco were going to have so many problems when she reached adolescence.

Oh...

And that was what made your chest tighten. Because in that moment, you saw it clearly. You saw what you'd both become for you. The realization hit like a sudden drop, stealing the breath from your lungs—sharp, unexpected, irrevocable. Because this wasn't just about the near future.

No.

You were imagining something more. A real future. With him. With her.

That was dangerous.

You knew what happened when you started caring. When you let yourself get tangled in the fragile, messy concept of family.

You had spent years building walls to keep that kind of vulnerability at bay—brick by brick, carefully, methodically—until the person you used to be was little more than a ghost haunting the edges of your reflection. And yet, here you were. Standing in a dimly lit hallway, half-hidden in the shadows, listening to them bicker below.

And for a brief, foolish moment, you let yourself believe in something soft. Something that could be ripped away.

Just like Vander.

The thought struck like a blade slipping between ribs—silent, precise, lethal. You inhaled sharply, grounding yourself before it could take root. No. You couldn't afford to dream about things that were never meant to be yours.

You clenched your jaw, forcing the sentiment down, burying it where it belonged. Now wasn't the time to drown in memories. Now was the time to act. It was time—time to silence the voices in your head and, just as importantly, to put an end to the monologue Silco was undoubtedly about to deliver on the virtues of following orders.

So, you stepped forward. Emerging from the shadows of the staircase.

Three pairs of eyes turned toward you.

Powder. Sevika. Silco.

And suddenly, you were hyper-aware of yourself.

Powder tilted her head, ever-curious, her fingers idly fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. Sevika with an empty glass in her hand — being the person who had laughed before — let out something close to a scoff — more amused than annoyed, though you could see the sharp gleam of interest in her eyes.

But Silco...

Silco was different.

His expression remained composed, that usual mask of calculated indifference, as if your presence was nothing out of the ordinary. But you knew him too well. You noticed the minute widening of his sharp blue eye, the way his body stiffened ever so slightly. You saw how, in an instant, his entire focus shifted, as if the rest of the room had ceased to exist.

He was watching you now, truly watching.

Silco was dressed entirely in black, an imposing figure draped in darkness. His heavy overcoat, made of thick, luxurious fabric, fell over his shoulders with effortless elegance, its weight amplifying the sharp silhouette of his frame. Beneath it, a richly embroidered waistcoat clung to his torso, the intricate patterns woven in deep crimson and burnished gold. The swirling arabesques traced across the fabric, reinforcing the aristocratic aesthetic of his attire.

Black gloves encased his fingers, their smooth leather barely creasing as his hands flexed at his sides. And then, there was it—the half-mask.

A stark, unyielding white, covering the left side of his face. The porcelain-like surface was smooth and rigid, concealing the ruined skin beneath while paradoxically drawing attention to the haunting brilliance of his orange iris. The contrast was striking—one half of him veiled in pale perfection, the other raw, exposed, and piercing in its intensity.

He looked like a specter. A monarch in mourning. A devil wearing the guise of nobility. And right now, all of that intensity—all of him—was fixated on you.

Silco didn't speak—not at first. Instead, he stepped forward, until he reached the base of the staircase. Then, without hesitation, he extended a hand toward you. An invitation. A silent command.

The flickering of the bar lights caught on the sharp angles of his face, casting half of it in shadow, the other half illuminated just enough for you to see the quiet intensity in his gaze. That mismatched stare—cool calculation in one eye, searing ember in the other—pinned you in place, a wordless demand that sent something shivering down your spine.

You hesitated for only a fraction of a second. Then, slowly, you placed your hand in his.

Even through the smooth leather of his glove, you could feel the warmth beneath—the undeniable heat of him. It wasn't just physical; it was something deeper. A fire that had burned you before, in ways you couldn't name, and yet, you let it consume you now without resistance.

As you descended the steps, Silco's grip remained firm, unwavering, a tether grounding you to him as the rest of the world faded. There was something intoxicating in the way he held you—possessive without pressure, a silent declaration that he would lead, and you would follow.

The moment your foot touched the last step, he moved.

In one fluid motion, his arm curled around your lower back, guiding you seamlessly into his orbit. There was no space left between you—no hesitation, no uncertainty. Just the press of his body against yours, the faint scent of smoke and burnt gunpowder clinging to him, the unrelenting pull of a force as inevitable as gravity itself.

Then, Silco finally turned his attention to Sevika.

"Ensure everything stays in order while I'm gone and stay away from the gambling tables tonight."

Sevika gave a single nod, accepting the command swiftly and without argument. But you saw the flicker of tension in her jaw, the slight tightening of her lips. You knew exactly why. Silco had just denied her one of her greatest vices—and Sevika loved to gamble. Silco, however, had already moved on, his gaze shifting to the small figure lingering nearby.

"Don't blow anything up. And go back to your room, you're not wandering around the bar at this hour."

"But—" Powder started, her voice already edging toward a protest.

Silco was faster.

"Sevika."

That was all it took. No elaboration. No further instruction. Just a name. And somehow, it was enough.

There was an unspoken understanding between them, a silent efficiency that needed no further words. In an instant, Powder was plucked off the ground with effortless ease, as if she weighed nothing at all. Sevika slung her over one shoulder like a sack of restless cargo.

Powder, predictably, did not go quietly.

"Hey! Put me down!" She twisted in Sevika's grasp, her limbs flailing, her blue braids whipping through the air as she squirmed like a feral cat caught in a too-tight hold.

Sevika barely spared her a glance, already carrying her toward the exit.

"Try not to claw my eyes out this time, kid."

Powder growled in frustration, her tiny fists beating against Sevika's shoulder in protest.

The man beside you—Silco—watched the scene with nothing more than mild amusement, exhaling softly through his nose. He didn't seem particularly concerned with the struggle unfolding in front of him, as if this was just another routine occurrence.

Then, as if Powder's tantrum was nothing more than background noise, he turned his attention back to Sevika, his voice smooth, controlled.

"Make sure the new instructions reach Singed today."

Sevika gave a brief nod, her movements efficient even as she adjusted her grip on the wriggling child. When the little one turned to face Silco and met that stern, reprimanding gaze, she simply accepted her fate. There was no protest, no attempt at negotiation—just a resigned sigh as she allowed Sevika to usher her away toward the staircase.

You watched as they passed, Powder peeking at you over Sevika's broad shoulder. A mischievous glint sparked in her eyes before she formed a tiny gun with her fingers and mimed shooting. You gasped dramatically, clutching your heart as if she had struck a fatal blow.

Her grin widened before she disappeared upstairs.

Then, without a word, Silco raised a hand and made a simple, dismissive motion. The few men lingering around the bar immediately obeyed, slipping out into the streets without hesitation. Within moments, the room was empty. Silent.

Leaving only him and you.

Silco turned his attention back to you, his presence suffocating in its intensity. He reached for you, gloved fingers brushing your waist as he guided your body to stand directly in front of him. His touch wasn't forceful, but there was no mistaking the command in it. He wanted you here—precisely here, within his reach, within his grasp.

His hands moved with a quiet deliberation as he swept your hair aside, the leather of his gloves cool against your heated skin. A glint of violet caught your eye, and before you could react, he was fastening your necklace around your throat. The gemstone at its center shimmered with a deep, rich purple—the only vivid color against his otherwise monochromatic attire. It didn't match anything you wore.

But you didn't care.

Silco's fingers moved swiftly as he secured the clasp, but they didn't leave you once the task was done. Instead, they lingered.

One hand descended, tracing over the curve of your waist, his touch a whisper of leather and heat against the firm structure of your corset. Slowly his palm skimmed lower, following the shape of your body, fingers pressing just enough to make you aware of every place he touched. It was a touch both torturous and indulgent, as if savoring the feel of you beneath his hands.

The other remained firm at your waist, holding you in place, keeping you right where he wanted you.

His gloved fingers trailed downward, exploring the slit in your dress, just barely grazing the soft skin of your thigh. A tease. A silent promise. And still, his grip on your waist tightened, a reminder—

You weren't going anywhere.

"You look sinfully divine, dove."

Silco's voice was a low murmur against your skin, the warmth of his breath sending a delicious shiver down your spine. "It's almost an outrage, really, allowing those damned Topsiders the right to see you like this."

You laughed softly, tilting yourself further into him, letting the rich scent of lingering tobacco, worn leather, and a metallic note of burnt gunpowder or rust that clung to him invade your senses.

"Weren't you the one saying you wanted to show me off?"

"I've changed my mind."

His grip on you shifted. One hand stayed firm on your waist, keeping you close, but the other slid upward with a languid sort of dominance. The smooth leather of his glove brushed over your throat, fingers pressing just enough to coax a response from you. The faintest pressure—not enough to constrict, not yet—but enough to make you hyperaware of his touch.

Your breath hitched. Your lashes fluttered shut. Your lips parted slightly, instinctively.

He hummed in satisfaction, the sound reverberating deep in his chest.

"I wonder..." His fingers flexed against your throat, tilting your chin up just enough that you could feel the sharp edge of his smirk ghosting over your skin. "Just how late we'd be if I bent you over the bar right now..."

As if to prove a point, Silco moved. Not away from you—never that—but forward, pressing you against the bar counter. The impact wasn't harsh, but it was enough to knock a sharp breath from your lungs, leaving you momentarily caught between the unyielding wood and the even less forgiving presence of the man behind you.

"Don't you dare ruin this dress."

"I'll buy you another."

His reply was smooth, effortless, barely a concern—because of course, in Silco's mind, anything could be replaced. Anything but you.

His lips found the exposed skin of your neck, the heat of his breath contrasting with the cool leather still gloved over his hands. His mouth didn't simply linger; it wandered, trailing along the curve of your neck before his teeth scraped against sensitive flesh. Not quite a bite, but the promise of one. A warning. A temptation.

"Silco."

You injected as much authority into your voice as you could, a firm reprimand meant to reel him back in.

And, surprisingly, it worked.

Silco released you—just enough to let you breathe, though his grip on your lower back remained. Always in control. Always ensuring that even when you thought you had space, you never truly did. His other hand slipped beneath the folds of his heavy overcoat, reaching for something.

A flicker of steel caught the dim light.

His dagger.

Without a word, he handed it to you.

"We're walking into a viper's nest, dove." His voice was low, even, but beneath the smooth cadence lay something else. A warning.

You took the blade without hesitation, flipping it between your fingers before slipping it down into the strap of your stocking. The weight of it was familiar, reassuring.

"And you?"

Silco merely shifted his overcoat slightly to the side. From the folds of dark fabric, the polished barrel of his pistol gleamed in the shadows. A silent answer. You exhaled, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. 

"Don't leave my side. Understood?" His voice was steady, measured—but beneath that even tone, there was something else. Not quite worry, but something close. A weight behind the words that made your stomach twist.

You nodded. Of course, you understood. That much was obvious.

The two of you were walking into enemy territory without any guarantee of what the night would bring. A Friday night gala—glittering chandeliers, delicate crystal glasses filled to the brim with aged wine, laughter laced with thinly veiled malice. The aristocracy thrived on theatrics, feeding off scandal and intrigue as if it were their lifeblood. And where there was power, where there were secrets swirling beneath silk and velvet, tragedy was never far behind.

A ballroom was an epicenter for disaster. You just hoped it wouldn't end in bloodshed because you'd hate to ruin such a beautiful dress.

[...]

Classical music filled the air, the sound of a live orchestra swelling and echoing through the gilded walls. The melody was rich, sweeping—elegant in a way that made the very air hum with sophistication. And yet, despite the grandeur of the performance, you barely recognized half of the instruments being played.

The music wrapped around the room like a silken veil, muting the murmur of voices beneath it. The gathering was small but meticulously curated, the kind of exclusive affair where wealth was measured not in numbers but in the subtlety of extravagance. Dresses and suits adorned every figure in sight, each piece undoubtedly worth more than the mansion itself. Even the most insignificant details—the golden embroidery on a sleeve, the hand-painted porcelain on the banquet tables—screamed opulence.

And the masks—the masks.

A quiet competition had taken shape among the attendees, an unspoken battle to outshine one another. Every glance you cast across the room revealed something even more ostentatious than before—filigree twisted into delicate vines, gemstones embedded into polished ivory, feathers extending high like plumes of a peacock. And you hadn't even descended into the main hall yet.

White and gold. Everywhere.

Piltover's colors, proudly displayed in every archway, every drape, every perfectly polished floor tile. The people, too, were adorned in them, their presence a living extension of the city's vanity.

And then there was Silco.

A black mark on an immaculate canvas. A shadow in a sea of pristine light.

He stood out effortlessly, his presence a deliberate contrast against the uniform splendor of Piltover's elite. Dressed in his usual darkness, he moved with the calm assurance of a man who belonged—or perhaps one who did not care whether he belonged at all. The weight of disapproving stares settled upon him like whispers behind a closed door, but if he noticed, he gave no indication.

His hand rested firmly at the small of your back, a constant, grounding presence as he guided you deeper into the lion's den.

Where others averted their eyes in quiet submission to Piltover's judgment, Silco met every sneering glance with an unwavering stare, his chin tilted just slightly higher, his expression unreadable save for the glint of defiance in his eye.

Prideful. Unapologetic. Unshaken.

And though you could feel the weight of their disdain pressing against you like a heavy velvet curtain, Silco moved forward without hesitation. And you—held against him, caught in the current of his presence—followed.

"Why is the decor so... Piltoveresque?" you murmured, your voice low as you and Silco came to a halt near one of the grand marble columns, safely tucked away from prying eyes and eavesdropping ears. "Aren't the hosts from Noxus? I expected something more... dark. More imposing."

Silco exhaled through his nose—something just shy of a chuckle—as he studied the opulent surroundings with the same detached scrutiny as one might afford a chessboard. His voice, when he finally spoke, carried that familiar academic tone, as if he were indulging you with a lesson rather than merely answering your question.

"To put the guests at ease."

You turned your head to look at him, curious.

"It's a subtle manipulation, really." he continued, absently adjusting the cuff of his glove. "The moment you present an environment that echoes the familiarity of those you wish to influence, they become more inclined to let their guard down. A space that exists outside their comfort zone breeds awareness, tension. If the décor were distinctly Noxian, they would be far too conscious of their surroundings. Too aware of where they stand."

Your lips pressed together as you considered his words. A simple yet effective strategy.

If you thought about it, it made perfect sense—especially given the nature of the gathering. Everyone in attendance was from Piltover. Everyone except for the two of you, of course. There were others, like Silco, who would see through this carefully curated illusion of warmth and hospitality, but the majority? The majority were too absorbed in their own self-importance to notice anything beyond their upturned noses.

Piltover's arrogance would be its inevitable downfall.

And that thought, above all else, was almost entertaining.

The sharp call of a voice announcing the arrival of a guest caught your attention, its echo carrying across the room like the strike of a bell.

From where you stood, you watched as the young herald—tasked with announcing titles and names—leaned in, murmuring something to the two men before him. Their backs were turned to you, but even so, you could make out the elegant cut of their attire, the sharpness of their silhouettes.

One was tall and broad-shouldered, his posture confident, a presence that commanded attention even in stillness. The other stood beside him, his frame leaner, a slight tilt to his stance that betrayed the reliance on the cane in his hand.

Then, the names rang out.

"Jayce, of House Talis, and his partner, Viktor."

A ripple of murmurs spread through the room, heads turning toward the top of the staircase. Your gaze flicked across the gathered crowd until it landed on one in particular.

A woman.

Dark skin illuminated by the warm glow of the chandeliers. Black curly hair twisted into elegant ropes, golden cuffs adorning her hairline, catching the light like scattered embers. She wore gold—bold, provocative, yet meticulously restrained. Every detail of her appearance was purposeful, a calculated balance of allure and authority. A striking beauty. One you recognized immediately.

Of course you did.

You had been instructed to memorize the faces of every Councilor of Piltover as part of your training. It had been drilled into you with the same precision as combat stances and pressure points—Know their names. Their allegiances. Their weaknesses.

The young Medarda approached the two men, though it was clear from the start where her attention lay. She spoke primarily to the taller, more imposing figure, completely disregarding his companion, who stood just beside him. If the slight tilt of his head was anything to go by, he was accustomed to this—being overlooked, existing in the shadow of someone more commanding.

Intrigued, you studied him more closely.

A white-skinned, brown-haired human with a scrawny build. His posture, though compromised by the cane he leaned on, was not entirely weak. His back remained straight, his chin lifted, and there was a quiet confidence in the way he carried himself, despite his apparent introversion.

And then, as if sensing your gaze, he turned his head toward you.

Your eyes met.

He wore a dark blue mask, symmetrical to his face, its design simple yet refined. But that did little to distract from his eyes—the sharpness in them, the intelligence lurking beneath the reserved exterior.

The moment was fleeting.

Before anything could be exchanged—before you could read deeper into the man behind the mask—Silco's hand was at your back once more, guiding you toward the staircase. You followed his lead, but your awareness lingered. You caught sight of the young herald tilting his head toward Silco, listening intently to whatever words were being murmured between them. He gave a slight nod in response. Then, as Silco extended a hand toward you, the young man cleared his throat.

"The Baron and Baroness of Zaun."

The title rang out, reverberating through every inch of the grand hall, wrapping itself around you like a noose before snapping back with the force of a whip.

You had heard Silco call you that once before—during the meeting with Marcus—but you had assumed it was nothing more than a calculated theatrical choice, a tool to manipulate the conversation in his favor. A momentary fabrication.

But now?

Now, that same title was being announced as truth.

A ripple of silence passed over the crowd before the weight of countless eyes crashed down upon you.

Zaunites regarded you with scrutiny, measuring, evaluating, weighing their judgment in quiet contemplation. But the eyes of Piltover? Those were different. Oppressive. Unforgiving. They bore down on you with the distinct sharpness of a blade pressed against your throat, staring as if you and Silco were nothing more than unwelcome intruders in their pristine world. Filth dragged in from the undercity, parading in stolen titles and borrowed elegance.

You had never been under such a blinding, suffocating spotlight before. Your breath caught, tension creeping up your spine like ice-cold fingers.

But then—

A hand squeezed yours, grounding you.

Silco.

You turned to him, and the moment your gaze met his, the rising tightness in your chest eased. His eyes—cool, steady, unshaken—held yours with quiet assurance. There was no hesitation in his grip, no flicker of uncertainty in his expression. He wasn't fazed by their stares, their judgment, their barely concealed disdain.

And if he wasn't?

Then neither were you.

You inhaled slowly, gathering yourself as he guided you forward, step by step, leading you down the grand staircase— descending together as if this had always been your rightful place.

You passed by the small trio you had been observing. The tallest of the three offered Silco a polite nod through the pristine white of his mask, a silent acknowledgment exchanged in the space of a heartbeat. The Medarda—adorned with a luxurious golden mask that only sharpened the already cutting edge of her gaze—assessed you both with quiet intrigue, her expression unreadable. The third, however, made no such effort for decorum.

His stare lingered on you, an unsettling weight that crawled along your skin like fingers trailing over silk. There was something deeply disquieting about his attention, not in the way a predator watches prey, but in the way an alchemist watches a volatile reaction unfold in his hands—expectant. Before you could decide how to feel about it, his interest shifted, drawn back into whatever his companion had murmured in his ear.

Silco wasted no time leading you through the ballroom, weaving through the sea of bodies with practiced ease. He guided you to a strategic vantage point—near a wide, arched window that stretched almost from floor to ceiling, its glass polished to perfection.

From there, the City of Progress sprawled before you, a sea of golden lights extending far beyond what the eye could capture. The glow of innovation pulsed through its veins, illuminating every towering spire and winding street, each glimmering like a promise of power and possibility. Above, the sky stretched vast and endless, constellations scattered like shattered diamonds, while the moon stood high and unyielding, a silent observer to the night's grand spectacle.

You were so caught in the sight of it all that you almost didn't notice when Silco pressed a glass into your hand.

The deep red of the wine caught the light as you swirled it, watching the liquid cling to the sides of the glass before lifting it slightly toward your nose. A precaution. A habit. The sharp, rich aroma filled your senses, dark berries and oak laced with the unmistakable bite of expensive alcohol. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Satisfied, you took a small sip, letting the warmth bloom across your tongue, sinking low into your chest. Perhaps it would give you the courage to say what had been weighing on your tongue since the moment you heard that title.

"You called me Baroness."

It wasn't quite a question, yet not quite an acceptance either. Your voice was measured, but the weight of the title coiled around your ribs like a vice.

Silco didn't hesitate.

"It's an appropriate title for your current position."

So simple. So matter-of-fact. As though it didn't shift something fundamental between you.

You studied him, searching for some indication of intent. A smirk, perhaps, some flicker of amusement in his sharp features. But he offered nothing. Just certainty. Confidence. As if the thought had never been up for debate in the first place. If he noticed the gravity of his words, he didn't show it. Or perhaps he did and simply chose not to acknowledge it. Either way, you felt it.

This wasn't just a title.

This was a shift in hierarchy.

A change in standing.

To be called Silco's whore was one thing. An insult, a weapon meant to demean. It carried no weight, no consequence, merely the vitriol of those too afraid to confront him directly.

But baroness... his baroness...

That was something else entirely. That was power. A claim. A role with meaning, with purpose. A position that, once given, could not simply be revoked without consequence.

You wanted to press him for more. To demand the reasoning behind such a choice of words. But instead, you drowned the question in another sip of wine, letting its warmth coil down your throat as you swallowed the implications along with it.

Your fingers tightened around the stem of your glass as you spoke again, voice lower this time, careful. Controlled. But there was no mistaking the quiet frustration simmering beneath it.

"But why choose those particular titles to introduce us, Silco?" Your gaze flicked to his, searching, demanding. "Now we're the center of attention. I thought the plan was to know your enemy, not to offer yourself to them on a silver platter."

Silco showed no sign of concern. If anything, he looked positively at ease, sipping from his own glass as his gaze lazily swept over the gathered elite. The half-mask he wore did an excellent job of obscuring his expressions, leaving only the sharp gleam of his uncovered eye to betray the quiet calculations unfolding behind it.

"That's where you're mistaken, dove."

His voice was smooth, unaffected, as if he were merely humoring a naïve inquiry.

"The best way to operate in a place like this isn't to shrink into the background, it's to give these vultures something to talk about." He gestured vaguely, swirling the deep red wine in his glass before taking another unhurried sip. "Think about it. If you were one of them, wouldn't you be curious? Wouldn't you wonder why someone from Zaun was standing in this very room? What someone from that wretched, discarded undercity could have possibly done to catch the attention of an organization outside of Piltover, enough to be invited?"

As if to punctuate his point, Silco made a deliberately elegant motion with his hand, acknowledging a couple approaching with polite smiles and watchful eyes.

"Curiosity." he murmured, almost to himself, "Is what drives scientists and the ambitious alike. And lucky for us..." his lips curled just slightly, "We're surrounded by both."

The couple arrived, exchanging greetings laced with the thin veneer of civility. You watched with veiled amusement as Silco eased into the conversation, donning the facade of a charismatic diplomat with unnerving ease.

And just like that, the game began.

[...]

The night had been a sea of conversation, each exchange laced with veiled intentions, subtle barbs designed to provoke, and negotiations shrouded in pleasantries. Silco had introduced himself as an industrialist from Zaun, a man whose chemical advancements had reshaped the undercity and earned him the title of baron. It wasn't exactly a lie—but it wasn't the whole truth, either.

And you? You had been presented as his adorable fiancée. The first time he said it, your face burned so hot you were certain it had turned as red as a Piltover noble's finest wine. But you had played the part well, slipping into the role as seamlessly as if it were another mask to wear. 

Throughout the evening, you had met an array of scientists and industrialists, individuals of influence but not true power. No politicians had sought Silco's company, nor had he seemed particularly interested in seeking theirs. The conversations were a careful dance of veiled intentions, light provocations designed to irritate or test, and negotiations that held more weight in what was left unsaid than in what was spoken aloud.

There had been only one interaction of note—a woman draped in crimson silk, her face obscured by an elaborate mask shaped like the beak of a raven. She had introduced herself as one of the event's organizers. Noxian.

The exchange had been brief, almost perfunctory. A polite acknowledgment of Silco's presence, a few carefully chosen words hinting at a possible commercial arrangement. Not an offer. Not yet. Just enough to confirm what Silco had already suspected. They were watching him. And, more importantly, they were curious about Shimmer.

A pause settled over the conversation, a lull in the murmur of voices around you. And then— Low and resonant, the first note of a cello cut through the air. It did not demand attention; it commanded it.

The sound unfurled slowly, its depth sinking into the very bones of the room, each vibration lingering in the grand chandeliers overhead, in the polished marble beneath your feet. The melody built upon itself, bold yet intricate, a symphony of shadows and grandeur. Strings wove together, a delicate interplay of tension and release, a harmony that balanced on the edge of something haunting, something intoxicating.

Silco turned to you then, his movement as fluid as the music. One hand extended, his fingers gloved in black.

"I believe we can allow ourselves a slight distraction."

There was something in his tone, in the gleam of his uncovered eye—a challenge, an invitation. A slow smile found its way to your lips. Without hesitation, you placed your hand in his, allowing his grip to tighten just slightly. Around you, other couples had already taken their positions, slipping effortlessly into the rhythm, but the moment Silco led you onto the floor, it was as if the rest of the room faded.

As Silco positioned you both for the waltz, you tilted your head, amusement dancing in your eyes.

"I didn't take you for a dancer." you mused, allowing him to guide you effortlessly. "Who would have thought that the cruel and terrifying Eye of Zaun had such a hidden talent?"

Silco's fingers flexed slightly against your waist, his good eye glinting with something unreadable.

"There are still parts of me you have yet to unravel, dove."

The first movement was graceful.

Silco guided you effortlessly, his hand firm at your waist, his fingers pressing just enough to direct but never force. The music swelled around you both, the deep, dramatic strokes of the cello setting the rhythm, dictating every shift, every step. He moved with precision, controlled and calculated—just as he was in every other aspect of his life. Yet there was an elegance to it, a certain lethality in the way he led you across the floor, as if the waltz itself were merely another kind of battlefield.

His touch was light yet commanding, the glide of his palm against the curve of your waist, as if he wanted to make clear his possession over you. With every step, every turn, you could feel him—his presence, his warmth, the way his breath ghosted against your temple when he leaned in to murmur instructions only you could hear.

"Don't think... let me take care of everything." His voice was low, intimate. A reminder, a demand.

And you did. You just followed his lead, matching his steps, your body responding to his like it was meant to, like it belonged there. The world around you faded; there were no curious eyes, no whispered judgments—only Silco, only the dance, only the quiet, growing tension coiling tighter between you.

Then, he spun you.

The movement was sudden but fluid—his hand guiding yours, sending you into a turn so seamless it felt as though you were weightless for a fleeting second. Your skirts flared around you, the air rushed past your skin, and just as quickly as he had let you go, he pulled you back.

You barely had a moment to breathe before you found yourself flush against him, your back pressing into his chest, your hands instinctively catching his arms to steady yourself. The music swelled, deep and intoxicating, and you swore you could feel the vibration of each note reverberating through his body, through yours.

Silco didn't release you immediately.

His grip was possessive, his palm sliding lower, fingers splayed across the curve of your waist, teasingly close to your hipbone. An innocent touch, one that lingered just long enough to make your breath hitch. His other hand, still clad in that ever-present black glove, skimmed the sensitive skin of your inner arm, fingertips barely ghosting over your pulse as he led you. Slow. Calculated. A deliberate unraveling.

He was guiding you, yes—but not just through the dance.

"You've done this before." The words slipped from your lips before you could stop them, your voice steadier than the uneven rhythm of your pulse.

Silco leaned in, breath warm against the shell of your ear, close enough that you could feel the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.

"Observant as always, dove."

And then, without warning, he turned you again. This time a spin on its own axis.

The world blurred for half a second as he spun you effortlessly, his grip unrelenting, pulling you back against him before you could catch your bearings. Your back met his chest agaim, firm and unyielding, his arm wrapping around your waist, anchoring you against him. The movement was seamless, natural—like this had been the destination all along.

A shiver coursed through you as his lips brushed the bare skin of your shoulder. Not quite a kiss, not quite an accident. A mere breath of contact, featherlight, but enough to send fire licking up your spine.

The waltz had shifted.

It was no longer a polite exchange of steps, no longer a performance for the elite gathered around. It had become something else entirely—something intimate, something indulgent, something far too personal.

Silco's hand trailed along your ribs as he guided you into another turn, the touch so infuriatingly delicate that your body betrayed you, leaning into him, craving more. He pulled you closer. Closer. The space between you vanished, swallowed whole by the tension crackling like a live wire, electric and sharp, stretching to its breaking point.

Your pulse pounded against your throat, your breath unsteady as he steered you through the slow, heated dance. Every step was a temptation, every shift in movement a provocation. He was toying with you, savoring the way you responded to his touch, the way your fingers gripped his shoulder just a little too tightly, as if grounding yourself.

Another turn. Another breath of his lips against your skin. Another slow, torturous pull closer. You exhaled sharply, only then realizing you had been holding your breath.Silco, of course, had noticed.

The bastard was smiling.

The curve of his lips betrayed him, the barest hint of amusement tugging at the corners—a knowing smirk that sent heat curling in your stomach. Not smug, not mocking. No, this was something else. The kind of satisfaction that came from control, from setting the perfect trap and watching his prey step willingly into it.

And you had.

You danced as if you were the only two in the room.

The black of Silco's attire stood in perfect contrast to the white of your dress—two opposing forces locked together in an unspoken battle of dominance and surrender. The floor beneath your feet felt weightless, as though you weren't truly touching it at all, as though the world existed only in the space between his hands and yours.

The music swelled, rising in tempo, a feverish, hypnotic rhythm that seeped into your bones. Silco moved with it, with you, every motion seamless, each turn effortless. His grip at your waist was firm, commanding, fingers pressing just enough to remind you who led this dance. 

He turned you with purpose, the rush of movement sending the hem of your gown flaring out like a whisper of silk. And when he pulled you back, the impact was intoxicating—your body flush against his, the warmth of him bleeding through the fine layers of fabric separating you.

Politics, alliances, whispered schemes—none of it mattered in this moment. It was only the two of you. The swell of the cello, the thrill of movement and the quiet surrender to something dangerously, beautifully inevitable.

Silco's gaze burned into yours, piercing, consuming. It was relentless, unyielding—an invisible chain wrapped around your throat, stealing your breath with its weight. And yet, you craved it. Drank it in like it was the very air keeping you alive.

A hand at your waist, firm. A pull. A command.

Your body answered before your mind could, drawn effortlessly into the fluid, hypnotic rhythm he set. He led with precision. A teasing press of his fingers here, a brief, intoxicating brush of his chest against yours there. It was a dance, yes, but it was also something else. Something darker.

You hadn't noticed when the other couples began to step back, giving you space, watching.

You hadn't cared.

Because Silco hadn't cared.

And if he did not yield to the audience, then neither would you.

The air around you shifted, thick with intrigue, laced with something unspoken but palpable. You could feel their eyes, hear the hushed murmurs—the curiosity, the scandal, the shock. Oh, they watched. How could they not? You had become a spectacle, something intoxicating to behold, a performance neither of you had intended to give but delivered effortlessly.

And Silco—he knew it.

Knew exactly what he was doing. Knew exactly what you had become together.

He turned you sharply, stealing your breath, and before you could recover, pulled you back—hard. Your back slammed against his chest, the force sending a jolt down your spine, your pulse thrumming wildly as his gloved hand came up, fingers splaying over your collarbone. His breath was hot against your ear, but he said nothing. He didn't need to.

Your lips parted in what could have been a gasp or a slight sigh.

A mistake.

Because Silco noticed.

His fingers traced lower, a ghost of a touch against your pulse, feeling the frantic beat beneath your skin. The bastard was testing you, measuring how far he could push before you shattered completely.

The cello swelled, a final, desperate crescendo. And then—the last note rang out.

Silco spun you, one last time.

The world blurred around you, a dizzying whirlwind of silk and shadow as your skirts flared with the force of his lead. The movement was sharp, precise, a show of control as much as grace. And then—his grip tightened. The spin ended abruptly, seamlessly, as he caught you, dipping you back into a perfect, deliberate arch.

A soft gasp escaped your lips.

The breath you had been holding shattered into uneven pants, your chest rising and falling beneath the suffocating confines of your corset. Your fingers dug into his shoulders—seeking stability, seeking him—as his hold remained unyielding, solid, keeping you suspended there, trapped in the moment.

He didn't lift you right away.

No, Silco lingered.

His grip at your waist was firm, the leather of his gloves smooth against the corset and gown. His other hand, still locked with yours, twitched slightly, the tension in his fingers betraying him. You could feel the heat of his breath—closer than it should have been. His chest, rising and falling just as unsteadily as yours, pressed against you, the space between you a mere suggestion rather than a reality.

And then—he pulled you upright, too close, too fast. Your body met his in a swift, intoxicating collision.

For a second, neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed.

The music swelled around you, the final echoes of the cello fading into the murmurs of the crowd. But here, in this moment, there was only him. Only the press of his body, the heat of it, the way his fingers—still resting at your waist—curled just slightly, possessively, as if claiming his prize.

His eye, dark and half-lidded, bore into yours.

A shudder ran through you, unbidden, as you felt the rapid beat of his pulse against your own. The sharp inhale he took did nothing to steady him, nor did it steady you. The tension between you was a living thing, clawing, breathing, demanding.

Silco was just as breathless as you.

There was no applause for you both, and if there had been, you wouldn't have heard it. One second, you were standing in the middle of the grand hall, breathless, staring into each other's eyes, and the next—Silco was dragging you away. His grip around your wrist was tight, almost bruising, as dragging you down the dimly lit corridors of that vast estate. 

His black overcoat billowed dramatically behind him with each hurried step. You struggled to keep up, the flowing layers of your dress threatening to trip you, but Silco didn't slow down. He didn't even look back. He moved with single-minded purpose.

The moment he found a door—unlocked—he shoved it open and pulled you inside with little care for grace. The air in the dimly lit room was thick with dust and perfume, a forgotten lounge or study, abandoned in the wake of the event outside. But you barely had time to register your surroundings before your back was pressed against the door, the wood cool against your flushed skin, and Silco was on you.

His lips crashed against yours in a desperate, claiming kiss, all teeth and hunger. He wasn't gentle—no, he kissed you like a man starved, like someone who had spent the entire evening barely restraining himself, his patience now worn to nothing. His gloved hands cupped your jaw, fingers digging in as though he feared you might pull away. But you didn't. You couldn't.

Your hands found the fastenings of his overcoat, fumbling with the clasps in a rush to rid him of the heavy garment. The second the last one came undone, the fabric slid from his shoulders, landing at your feet in a soft, weighty heap. Silco, however, didn't stop—he was already undoing the ribbon holding his mask in place, fingers quick and precise. He tossed it aside, letting the pristine white porcelain find its way to the floor, uncaring. Your mask followed the same fate.

His mismatched gaze burned into yours, pupils blown wide, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. There was something raw in the way he looked at you, something dangerous, something reverent — like he was starving, like you were the only thing that could possibly satisfy the ache inside him.

And then he kissed you again, deeper this time, slower but no less intense, his fingers trailing down the length of your throat, brushing over the pulse hammering beneath your skin. His other hand ghosted down your waist, over the curve of your hip, fingers toying with the high slit of your dress.

Doing that... there... with the danger of anyone just walking in was madness. Dangerous. Addictive.

And neither of you cared.

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

Silco's hand slid down to grip the back of her thigh, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he effortlessly lifted her leg. He guided it to wrap around his hip, the motion causing the slit of her dress to ride up even higher and expose the creamy skin of her inner thigh.

At the same time, his other hand slid up to cup the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair as he tilted her head to the side, baring the slender column of her throat to his hungry gaze. Silco leaned down, his lips brushing against the hammering pulse at the base of her neck, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of her skin.

He leaned in to press his lips against the sensitive flesh behind her ear, his breath hot and heavy against her skin as he murmured. "You feel what you do to me, don't you? How much I want you?"

His hips pressed forward, the hard, rigid length of his cock grinding against her core, separated only by the flimsy barrier of his trousers and her panties.

Silco's lips trailed along the column of her throat, his teeth grazing the delicate skin, his tongue washing over the marks he left in his wake. His hand slid from her thigh to cup the curve of her ass, squeezing the firm, supple flesh, as he held her in place, pinning her against the wall with the weight of his body.

"I want to take you, right here, right now." Silco growled, his voice rough with need. "And I know you wouldn't deny me that... You want that too, you greedy little thing."

Silco chuckled darkly, the sound rumbling through his chest as he felt her body tremble and shudder against him, heard the desperate grunt of confirmation that spilled from her lips. He could see the way her eyes were glazed over, her pupils blown wide with desire, her cheeks flushed a pretty pink. She was lost, utterly consumed by the pleasure he was giving her... and it only served to inflame his own hunger.

With a wicked grin, Silco mimed a sudden lunge, his hips jerking forward as if he were about to sheath himself inside her slick, scorching heat. At the same time, he leaned in close, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, his voice a low, demanding growl.

"Come on, dove... Don't be shy now. I want to hear you... tell me what you want."

Silco nuzzled against the soft, fragrant skin of her throat, his stubble rasping deliciously against the delicate flesh as he continued to grind his hardening length against her core in a maddeningly constant rhythm. He could feel her body responding eagerly to his touch, her hips undulating instinctively against his own as if seeking more of that delicious friction.

"Please..."

At her breathless, wanton plea, Silco paused, his hand returning to hold her thigh as he pulled back just enough to meet her gauze with a wicked, expectant grin. His mismatched eyes glinted with mischief and a dark, hungry light as they searched her face, taking in every minute detail of her pleasure-drunk expression.

"Please..." Silco repeated, his voice a low, mocking drawl as he arched one eyebrow. "You can do better than that. I figured you'd have learned some manners by now, with all the time we've spent together."

Silco's hand slid up to cup her jaw, his thumb brushing over her kiss-swollen lower lip as he tilted her face up towards his own. 

"Beg for it properly. Let me hear that sweet voice of yours, all pretty and breathless, as you ask me to fuck you. Give me a real reason to give you what you so desperately want." He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against hers as he whispered, "Go on... I'm listening."

She hesitates, but only for a second.

"Please fuck me... sir."

Silco's lips curled into a wicked, approving grin at her breathless plea, his mismatched eyes flaring with a dark, possessive light. "Good girl." he purred, his voice a low, rumbling growl of satisfaction. "Such a clever little thing, knowing just what I like to hear. You're learning your place so well."

With that, Silco released her leg, letting it drop from around his hip for just a moment as his hands moved to the waistband of his trousers. With deft, urgent motions, he flicked open the buttons, freeing his aching, throbbing cock from its confines. It sprang forth, hard and heavy, the thick shaft pulsing with need.

Soon after, Silco hooked his fingers into the delicate fabric of her panties, the flimsy lace tearing like tissue paper in his impatient hands. He ripped them away, baring her glistening, needy sex to his hungry gauze, the scent of her arousal filling the air between them.He didn't care much for her grumbling, she was probably irritated that he had ruined a perfectly good pair of panties. But her irritation quickly turned into a longing moan.

Silco positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head of his cock nudging against her slick slit, teasing her with the promise of what was to come. He could feel the scorching heat radiating from her core, could sense how her body ached to be filled by him, to be stretched and claimed by his thick, throbbing length. 

But Silco held back, a sadist at heart, he wanted to draw out her pleasure, to make her beg and plead for his cock like the desperate little slut she was. So instead of burying himself inside her, he began to rub the head of his cock along her slit, coating himself in her slick, scorching juices.

"Fuck..." Silco groaned, his voice strained with the effort of holding back, of denying them both the sweet relief they craved. "My perfect, greedy little dove, so wet and ready for me..."

For a few more tortuous seconds, Silco continued to tease and torment them both, his cock sliding along her dripping slit, coating himself in her slick arousal. The head of his cock caught on her clit with every thrust, sending jolts of electric pleasure shooting through her body, making her writhe and buck against him.

"I need you... please, sir." Her voice sounded more like a longing moan than anything else now, but Silco felt the appeal in her plea and that was enough for him.

With a low, animalistic growl, Silco could no longer deny them both the sweet relief they craved. He notched the head of his cock at her entrance and thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt inside her in one brutal, merciless stroke.

Silco gave her no time to adjust, no respite from the intense pleasure-pain of being so suddenly, thoroughly filled. He set a brutal, punishing pace, his hips slamming against hers with enough force to make the door rattle behind them. One hand gripped her thigh, holding it high and wide, while the other gripped her hip, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises.

The obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the room, mingling with their harsh pants and moans as Silco took his pleasure from her pliant, willing body. The wet, squelching noises of her dripping cunt being plundered only spurred him on, made him fuck into her even harder, even deeper.

He groaned as he felt her fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders as she matched his brutal pace, her hips rolling and undulating to meet every one of his powerful thrusts. The way her body moved beneath him, so eager and responsive, spurred on his own lust,

Lost in the haze of pleasure, it took Silco a moment to register the single, breathless word that spilled from her lips. But when he did, he stilled instantly, his hips pausing mid-thrust as he stared down at her with a mix of confusion and wary curiosity.

"What?"

"A mirror..." she repeated in a breathless, choked voice, her head nodding to something behind Silco.

He turned his face in the direction she had indicated, his gaze landing on the mirror propped up against the far wall. The reflection that greeted him was a sight to behold — his own back and her leg hooked against his hip. The sight was erotic, almost obscene.

The idea that comes to Silco's mind is so natural that his eyes automatically try to search for something in the environment that will help him complete the plan. He easily finds a table on the wall opposite the mirror.

Silco reached down to grab both of her thighs, his large hands easily spanning their slender girth. In one smooth, effortless motion, he hoisted her legs up and wrapped them around his waist, pulling her flush against his chest. She let out a soft, gasp as she found herself suddenly lifted off her feet, her body molding to the hard planes and angles of Silco's own. 

Silco carried her over to the table, the wood creaking softly under its weight as he laid her down upon its smooth, polished surface. He took a moment to appreciate the way her hair fanned out around her, the locks stark against the dark wood, before grasping the edges of the table and dragging it across the floor until it was positioned directly in line with the mirror. 

With a wicked grin, Silco grasped her hips, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he changed their position. He flipped her over onto her stomach, urging her to lean against the table's edge, her elbows and forearms braced against the smooth wood. The movement made her ass jut out — he only had to move the layers of fabric aside— a perfect target for Silco's hungry gaze and aching cock.

Silco's hand slid from her hip to wrap around her slender throat, his long fingers easily encircling the delicate column of her neck. He applied just enough pressure to make her gasp, to feel the way her pulse raced beneath his palm as he forced her chin up and her gaze towards the mirror.

"Keep your eyes on the mirror." Silco commanded, his voice a low, authoritative growl as he positioned himself at her entrance once more. "Don't you dare look away, dove... or I'll stop. And we both know you don't want that, do we?"

With a low, appreciative groan, Silco began to move once more, his hips rolling in a slow, sensual rhythm as he pressed forward, sheathing himself inside her welcoming heat inch by delicious inch. He kept his pace unhurried, wanting to draw out this moment.

Silco had long since stopped caring about the way he was corrupting her.

Once, perhaps, he might have entertained the thought—might have traced the trajectory of her descent with something resembling guilt. A flicker of hesitation, of consideration for what she had once been before him. But not anymore.

Not when he saw her now.

She stood before him, draped in that ethereal grace, yet steeped in the sins of man, the weight of them pressing into her skin like an ink that could never be washed away. No longer untouched. No longer something pristine. A wolf in the guise of a lamb—still soft in appearance, still so deceptively delicate, but beneath it all, that fragile exterior was nothing but a lingering echo of what she used to be.

No amount of white could ever restore the purity that had been burned away.

And if he had been one of the architects of that metamorphosis—if his hands had shaped her into what she had become—then so be it. He would take this role with pride.

Especially when she looked at him like that.

Through the reflection in the mirror, her gaze met his, and it held no trace of innocence. No naivety. There was no fear in those eyes, no hesitation. Whatever she saw in her own reflection, she did not recoil from it. She did not mourn it. No, there was something else entirely. A quiet, deliberate acceptance. A willingness that sent something dark curling inside him, possessive and raw.

He did not need to tie her down. He did not need to force her into submission. She had already chosen to be his.

His lips hovered near her ear, his breath hot against her skin as he whispered, "Look at yourself, dove. Look at what you've become."

Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths.

And that was when he knew he had made the right decision.

The orders he had given Singed had been changed for a reason. 

He needed her.

Her loyalty was already his. Now, all he had to do was remove her limitations.

She would understand. She had to understand — she would see the effort he was investing, the lengths he was willing to go to for her sake. This was no mere experiment. This was purpose.

He was doing this for her.

For a future where she could stand untethered by weakness. For Zaun.

For them.

Silco's grip on her waist tightened, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he lifted her effortlessly off the table. He held her aloft, pinning her body against his own as he began to thrust into her with deep, powerful strokes that made the table creak and shudder beneath them.

At the same time, his other hand remained wrapped around her slender throat, his thumb and forefinger brushing against her racing pulse. He could feel it fluttering wildly beneath his touch, could see the way her eyes widened and her lips parted around a silent gasp of pleasure as he filled her so deeply, so completely.

Silco kept her face fixed on the mirror, forcing her to watch as he took her, as his body thrust against hers with a primal, animalistic rhythm. He could see the way her hair began to come undone, the once neat and tidy locks now a wild, tousled mess as he fucked her with increasing fervor.

With each powerful thrust of his hips, Silco watched as her body jerked and shuddered, her breasts bouncing and swaying with the force of his movements. Her mouth hung open, her breath coming in ragged, desperate pants as she struggled to keep her eyes on their reflection, as he commanded.

Silco's eyes remained locked with her in the mirror's reflection, the intense gaze holding her captive, just as his body pinned her in place. He could see the way her expression began to change, the desperation and need in her eyes giving way to a look of pure, unadulterated bliss.

Unable to hold back any longer, Silco leaned in close, his lips brushing against the delicate shell of her ear as he whispered those two simple, yet profoundly meaningful words. "You're perfect..."

The breathless declaration seemed to be the catalyst she needed, her body stiffening and then shuddering against his own as her orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave. Her head tipped back, her mouth opening in a silent scream of ecstasy as her climax ripped through her, her walls clenching and fluttering wildly around Silco's throbbing length.

The exquisite sensation of her release was enough to send Silco careening over the edge of his own, his climax hitting him with the force of a runaway train. He buried himself to the hilt inside her, his hips jerking and stuttering as he emptied himself into her willing, receptive body, painting her womb with his thick, hot seed.

Silco's fingers tightened around her throat, his grip reflexively tightening as the pleasure consumed him, his hips pumping and grinding against her own as he rode out the waves of his release. He could feel her trembling in his arms, her body going limp and pliant as the aftershocks of her own climax rolled through her.

They remained locked together like that for a long moment, their bodies joined and their eyes still holding each other's gaze in the mirror's reflection.

It felt like an eternity before either of them moved. The air in the dimly lit room was thick, heavy with the remnants of what had just transpired. Silco was the first to shift, exhaling slowly as he adjusted his trousers, smoothing down the fabric with practiced ease. His fingers ran through his hair, pushing it back into place before he bent down to retrieve the scattered remnants of their discarded clothing.

Among them, he found what remained of her undergarment—delicate fabric now little more than torn lace. Without a word, he pocketed it. A souvenir, a claim, or perhaps just a quiet indulgence. He didn't examine the reason too closely.

The voice that broke the silence was slow, thoughtful.

"Where did you learn to dance?"

Silco paused mid-motion, glancing toward the woman sprawled across the wooden table, her chest still rising and falling with the echoes of breathless exertion. She made no move to dress, no effort to conceal herself—not out of defiance, but something else. A quiet satisfaction, perhaps. A simple unwillingness to break the moment.

He considered her question for only a second before answering, the words slipping past his lips as if they had always been there, waiting.

"Jinx's mother."

The response was easy. Too easy.

"She loved to dance." he continued, his voice steady, detached in a way that only made it feel more intimate. "And when she drank enough to climb atop a table and put on a show, she would drag me into it. Even when I hated it..." a faint exhale, almost a scoff. "There was no denying her anything."

He hadn't thought about it in years. Those trivial, fleeting moments of a past that had long since been buried under blood, ambition, and revolution. And yet, for a second, he could see it—her wild laughter, the way she swayed, uninhibited, careless of who was watching. The way her hands would grab his and force him into motion while Vander laughed in the background, even when he resisted, even when his mind was elsewhere, always thinking of what came next.

Silco found himself smirking faintly at the memory, though he was careful to school his expression before it could linger. He busied himself with folding his coat over his arm, letting his hands work as his mind wandered places it shouldn't.

"Did you love her?"

Silence. ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

"She was my best friend."

That was Silco's answer.

It was simple, straightforward. And yet, the weight of it lingered between you like an unsaid truth, something deeper than the words themselves. You knew, in this context, Silco likely assumed you thought of Felicia as his lover—someone he had once loved in the way a husband loves a wife. Well, he really should love her, but not like this. But his response, vague in its essence, carried something deeper beneath the surface.

Silco did not have friends. Not truly. He resented most of his past, buried it beneath layers of hardened pragmatism and calculated distance. But not Felicia. No, she was the exception. Even now, after all these years, he still called her his best friend.

The weight of that realization sat heavy between you both, thickening the air in the dimly lit room. He did not elaborate, and you did not press him. Some things were meant to be left unspoken.

With a quiet inhale, you shifted, smoothing the fabric of your dress, fingers ghosting over where his hands had been just moments ago. The remnants of his touch still lingered against your skin, the heat of it refusing to fade so easily.

"We should go, dove. The night was not over."

Silco had already finished putting himself back together, every button fastened, every layer of clothing smoothed out into its usual meticulous perfection. Meanwhile, you were still adjusting the rumpled layers of your gown, fingers working over the creases left behind by his hands, his weight, his hunger.

"Need help?" His voice was calm, steady, but there was an edge of amusement beneath it as he secured his mask back onto his face.

"No, it's fine. Go on ahead. I just need a moment to breathe before stepping back into that place."

Silco hesitated. Just for a second. The flickering candlelight caught the sharp line of his jaw as he studied you, as if considering whether to insist on staying. But then, with a curt nod, he turned on his heel and left, his long coat sweeping behind him in a dramatic arc, vanishing through the door without another word. The moment he was gone, you exhaled, turning toward the large mirror against the wall. You looked... presentable. If someone only gave you a passing glance, they wouldn't notice much amiss. But if they lingered—if they truly looked—they would see the signs.

The faint smudge of your lipstick behind the delicate curve of your mask. Stray strands of hair that had slipped loose, framing your face in a way that was too unruly to be intentional. The way your skin still carried a flush, warmth lingering beneath the surface, betraying the ghosts of Silco's touch.

And then, of course, there was the absence of your underwear. A secret that made heat crawl up your spine every time you shifted, every time the cool air brushed against bare skin beneath the heavy fabric of your dress. You sighed, running your fingers through your hair in an attempt to regain composure, when suddenly—

The candles flickered.

And then, in unison, they snuffed out completely.

The room plunged into darkness.

You didn't hesitate. Your fingers wrapped around the hilt of the dagger hidden at your thigh, blade unsheathed in a single, fluid motion. Your muscles tensed, your breath shallow, ears straining for any sign of movement in the pitch-black silence. And then—just as suddenly as they had gone out—the flames returned, casting the room in their dim, golden glow once more.

Your heart was still hammering when your gaze instinctively flicked toward the table.

You froze.

There, resting atop the polished wood, was something that had not been there before.

A single black rose.

Part 17

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is currently the longest chapter of all, because I was truly inspired by the visuals of The Phantom of the Opera—the grandeur, the masks, the mystery of the ballroom. But look, we have some new faces in the story. It was about time they made their entrance, don’t you think? And this new status? From prostitute to baroness… close your eyes, and it almost sounds like a marriage proposal. I’ll just say one thing—buckle up. A new arc is about to begin...

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[ckret2]

I had just finished the first chapter of the Axolotl arc in WAIGLZ and reading the second.

Is he technically being a ghost ever going to come up past this arc to the other chapters in WAIGLZ later on?

Like,

"It was not like y o u were the one who viciously murdered me! I am mean technically your gruncles did not even kill a "living" being in the first place, according to s o m e people,

Bill shook his head, fanning away trillion year old resentment

-"you really think it was my first roadio? P l e a s e . So, try not beat yourself up about it kid, ok?"

Mabel looked up and stared at Bill.

"Wha- Huh??" Mabel said dumbfounded.

It would be crazy coolio to see it mentioned in the main fic.

Until I read your fic I never even thought about Bill being a spirit once, and now I feel rather silly wondering how he lived so long outside of his dimension :,)

Please have a truly wonderful day + happy holidays! ^ ^

Toodaloo!

I'm sure eventually it'll be mentioned again (I mean, for one thing, eventually we're gonna see the massacre) but probably not like that.

Like, Bill technically-being-a-ghost isn't some big secret or a major plot twist, and it doesn't fundamentally rewrite the rules around him and what he does. It's just what we see him do throughout canon.

He's a non-physical entity ("a being of pure energy!") that's apparently self-sustaining without needing sleep or food and impervious to injury and illness ("with no weakness!")

He's usually invisible to normal (living) people. He can possess people. He can move inanimate objects even though he can't physically interact with them. He can haunt dreams.

When he has the opportunity to make himself a body, he doesn't turn into something physical; his physical form is separate from him, and he can freely separate from it any time he wants.

This is mind-body dualism. Generally, mind-body dualism is a framework people use to express the idea that the spirit/soul is a separate entity from the body. The thing that's killed in Stan's mind is the spirit; the statue left behind is the body.

Meaning, before he had that body, he was spirit.

When he separates Dipper's spirit from his body in the exact same way Bill separates from his own body, he says, "Without a vessel to possess, you're basically a ghost!"

Bill usually doesn't have a vessel to possess.

Ergo: Bill's basically a ghost and he said so himself.

I haven't listed anything we didn't learn from Sock Opera and Weirdmageddon.

The ONLY question is "well BEFORE he was an energy being, did he have a physical body?" Whether he was born an energy being or became one later is in the realm of headcanon; and I suppose it's a matter of opinion if an energy being counts as a ghost if it's 100% identical to ghosts in every way except that it didn't previously have a physical body. You could argue that his eagerness to get a physical body the second he could implies he used to have one or was meant to have one, but that's speculation.

In every other way, he meets the criteria for a ghost the same way that tomatoes meet the criteria for berries. But when someone tells you "tomatoes are berries," it doesn't teach you anything new about tomatoes. You already knew tomatoes have berry-like traits, you just assumed they were disqualified because they're too big or too unsweet or too vegetably, and now you know they aren't disqualified.

So like—putting that word on him doesn't change anything about Bill. You've learned nothing new. The characters around him would learn nothing new. It's not a plot twist or massive character revelation; it's just a background fact that gets mentioned when it's relevant.

[arpmemething2]

Batman the Animated Series sentence starters

Send one for my muse’s reaction.  Feel free to change pronouns as needed.

"All right, scum bucket, it's you, me, and thirty stories. You're gonna tell me exactly what I want to know."

"That's one way to remove a splinter."

"I have this natural immunity against poisons, toxins, the pain and suffering of others. Go figure."

"I failed you. I wish there were another way for me to say it. I cannot. I can only beg your forgiveness, and pray you hear me somehow, someplace... someplace where a warm hand waits for mine."

"Last time we met, you tried to throw me off a building."

"If you think I've been bad news before..."

"Old and infirm as you are, I'd trade a thousand of my frozen years for your worst day."

"What kind of a saboteur uses a six-thousand dollar Metronex to set a time bomb?"

"I never counted on being happy."

"A strong mind can fuel a frail body."

"I need a new car."

"There's no way you could have escaped from that explosion! How did you get out?"

"I'm gettin' too old for this."

"I suppose what they say is true: society is to blame. High society."

"Succumb to the fear!"

"Gee, it's amazing the things you find in people's glove compartments."

"Children and guns do not mix. Ever."

"I'm having a BAD DAY! I'm sick of people trying to shoot me, run me over or blow me up!"

"They're not stupid, and it's your party."

"Aren't they just the cutest family you've ever seen?"

"It's midnight darling, time to unmask."

"It's gonna be one of those nights."

"When you look too long into the abyss, the abyss looks back through you."

"If you're so smart, why aren't you rich?"

"You've got to admit there's something between us."

"There's always time to heal."

"I didn't realize you'd taken up listening to rock and roll."

"Choosing a weekend date?"

"I don't believe in fate."

"An entire city screaming in fear. I wonder if we'll be able to hear it."

"Some thought I'd gone mad. Others thought I always had been. And so they put me where they thought I belonged."

"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no tales."

"This city would fall apart without you!"

"I love that trick but I can never make it work."

"Taking up video games, are we?"

"I hate it when he does that."

"You are strong... but not strong enough!"

"They don't make straight jackets like they used to. I should know."

"He's not samurai. He's NINJA. They're spies and assassins. Their only code is to get the job done."

"A pixel is worth a thousand words."

"I am vengeance! I am the night!!"

"And who says opera has to be boring?"

"He always knew how to make an exit."

"Hey! Do I hit your kids? Oh, actually I do..."

"Now boys, didn't your mommies teach you that's not the way to get a lady's attention?"

"Not the robot theory again."

"Freeze, maggots! You're all under arrest!"

"You said you'd never let me go home!"

"What was she before she went bonkers?"

"This used to be a beautiful street. Good people lived here once."

"'Tis better to have loved and lost, and made a small profit, than never to have loved at all!"

"Chance is everything. Whether you're born or not, whether you live or die, whether you're good or bad. It's all arbitrary."

"But you've forgotten the first rule of comedy: if you have to explain the joke... THEN IT ISN'T FUNNY!"

"I told you not to speak!"

"Coming through! Hot stuff!"

"The snow is beautiful, don't you think? Clean, uncompromising..."

"When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping."

"What a pleasant surprise. Though I should warn you - breaking and entering is against the law."

"This could cause a stampede to pork."

"You really know how to put the fun in funeral."

"You ought to put your toys away."

"Would not, could not... would not, could not... oh, could not join the dance."

"Home. I never thought that could sound so good."

"Then I'll see you in your nightmares!"

"As the Bard said, "the fault lies not in our stars, but in ourselves.""

"You know what I'd have given for a death scene like this. Too bad I won't get to read the notices."

"He's a little protective of all this. I think he likes bats better than people."

"All your power and money has bought you an empire of misery."

"Don't try this at home kids!"

"I feel ill."

"Well, that was fun! Now, who's for Chinese?"

"You're about to fall out of orbit."

"Why can't he ever stay dead?"

"They can bury me in the ground, as deep as they like. But I'll grow back. We always grow back. Don't we, baby?"

"All men have something to hide. The brighter the picture, the darker the negative."

"You thought I was just another bubble-headed blond bimbo! Well, the joke's on you, 'cause I'm not even a real blonde."

"When the wage slaves start acting like they own the place, it's time to pull the plug."

"I've been known to be foolish, but ain't nobody calls me a liar and goes to bed happy."

"Since you don't like my side-splitters, how 'bout a skull-splitter?"

"This is kidnapping, mister! Last time I checked, it was highly illegal!"

[odyssean-flower]

Yandere Neuvillette + Phantom of the Opera

I posted about this a while ago

Don't have any plans to write a full fic about this in the near future. feel free to take these ideas and expand on them if you like (credit me first tho)

warning: it's very long and rambly. i really should work on that

neuvillette is one of the last remaining dragons, if not the only, in the world. his kind has long been hunted into extinction by humans. he can keep a mostly human form, but he can't hide his tail, his slitted pupils, or his horns, so going outside is out of the question

neuvillette spends his days beneath the opera house (which is built on the water of course), surrounded by ancient ruins and other sea creatures as his only company.

neuvillette is a brilliant man with the most beautiful voice anyone has ever heard, but because he is who he is, he can never show these skills, or be appreciated for them

even though he's pretty much immortal, neuvillette feels like he's already dead, with nothing to look forward to but an eternity alone

he has the powers to bring the opera house down (and possibly the world), but doesn't because...what's the point? what good will that do?

so neuvillette is resigned to his fate, until...you show up

you are a new member of the chorus, innocent and naive with big dreams of one day having a lead role. your voice is nothing special, but you keep practicing

progress is slow. it feels like you're in a rut. you feel like you'll always be in the background. no one understands your feelings, and you're told to be content with your position

one day, neuvillette hears you practice and is entranced. even though your voice was unpolished, it contained a lot of emotion and passion--things that had long become foreign to him. he sneaks a peek at you from a hole in the wall just in time to see you stop and break down crying after you went off key. you tearfully wonder out loud if you should just give up singing

that alarms neuvillette. once he heard you sing, it's as though he became addicted. hearing your voice was like seeing the sunlight for the first time after being in the darkness for ages. he needs more

he decides to politely introduce himself as the "angel of music" and offers to teach you how to sing. after you get over your initial shock of some random disembodied voice talking to you, you agree enthusiastically. have i mentioned that you are very innocent and naive

and so your private lessons begin. at first you were somewhat apprehensive about this, but your "angel" is so kind and patient, and such a good teacher, that your doubts are quickly dispelled. you can feel yourself improving drastically in a short time

meanwhile, neuvillette finds himself falling in love/becoming attached to you. he knows that he shouldn't be interacting with you, that you will probably be afraid of him and reject him like everyone else, but he impatiently looks forward to your private lessons every day. he likes to hear you talk about your life (he himself is less forthcoming about his own life), he likes how much you respect and idolize him, he feels like you two are kindred spirits

you would occasionally ask to see him in person, but he always declines, fearing your rejection. he becomes tempted as you spend more time together. what if...you'll accept him as he is?

a few months later, you audition for the lead role in a new opera and stuns everyone with your angelic voice. you receive a standing ovation when you finish your first performance. there's a new opera star in town now

neuvillette knows he should be happy for you, but seeing you being showered with attention and gifts from people who (in his view) have more sinister and impure intentions than simply admiring your voice sparks a jealous rage within him and a deep sadness that he can't court you like they can. he'll be forced to watch you shine from the darkness, and eventually you'll leave him

you notice that your angel has been speaking to you less frequently, which makes you sad. you had come to see him as your guardian angel, the one person you could confess all your hopes and fears to. you've got plenty of friends and admirers now, but they're not the same

eventually, you beg to see him, apologizing to him (though you don't know why). he finally obliges to take you down to his realm (insert "phantom of the opera" here) (actually i might try to write this scene)

you are amazed by the beauty of this underwater realm, and even more so by the beauty of your "angel". his draconic features didn't frighten or put you off at all. you fondly remember your favorite childhood stories about the hydro dragons, and how sad you were when your parents told you that they were all dead

neuvillette is hopeful. will you stay down here with him? you are reluctant and return to the surface.

as your fame grows, the waters around the opera house become unsettled and stormy. waves crash against the building. the opera house starts to get flooded very quickly

just as the staff plans to evacuate, your "angel" speaks to you again. he sounds very different this time, though. he tells you that this is all his doing, and that you can put a stop to it by giving yourself in marriage to him (he already has the wedding dress and everything). Would you be so cruel as to leave your friends and coworkers to their deaths? Neuvillette know what you will choose. your soul is as familiar to him as the waters he resides in

[purrlockswatson]

Phantom of the Opera (2004), we have beef!

(I'm sorry, Gerald Butler's Phantom, you're still very cool. See the original drawing without beef here.)

I'm not saying that the film is entirely bad. It's only that I tend to be extra critical about plot and portrayal. Phans of the film, feel tree to sit this one out. Now, the beef.

🥩 1. They cut out one of the most powerful scenes

Before I fell (or rather, was pushed) into the Phandom, I saw a clip of Sierra Buggess and Ramin Karimloo performing the 'SING!!!' part of The Phantom of the Opera, and even then, it struck me. Watching film, I was waiting to see it again... But they just kept rowing the boat. I find this direction choice rather symbolic of the angle of the entire film: they lowered the prominence of Christine's thrall to the Phantom's music and instead focused on their dubious romantic attraction.

🥩2. The Phantom's origin story

Perhaps they felt the need to explain his past more, but this is a case of the more you explain, the worse it gets. Why on earth would you feel the need to explain that the Phantom has been visiting Christine since she was a child? That is not only terrifying but also creates unnecessary confusion. If he's been teaching her for so long, I find it dubious that nobody has noticed her behaving strangely before the Hannibal performance.

🥩3. They gave Mme. Giry too many hats to wear

In the film Mme. Giry essentially took on the role of three characters: her own, the Persian's, and Mama Valeris' (Christine's surrogate mother in the book). Initially, I liked that they gave Mme. Giry a more active role in the Phantom's past, but then it gets very weird because she's essentially matchmaking her surrogate daughter with a man her own age whom she has witnessed killing someone. I mean, it's not implausible to give a character two conflicting roles, but the film gave no viable explanation for it.

🥩4. The graveyard duel

Why were they using rapiers in 1870? The Phantom dueling I can get behind, being the theatre kid he is, but Raoul? Get a pistol, monsieur le vicomte. Anachronism aside, this addition doesn't add more to the scene. It's meant to show how the Phantom tried to lure Christine again and Raoul comes to disillusion her, but with the duel added in, it's just a question of who wins the duel, who gets to leave with Christine. And I keep wondering how the heck the Phantom lost the fight in spite of his Magnificent Cloak advantage. (Cloaks were used as shields back in the day of rapier duels.)

🥩5. Carlotta

I adore Wendy Ferguson's Carlotta. I understand that the film wanted to make a contrast between Christine and Carlotta, but making her something out of Mean Girls was uncalled for. You got the wrong musical, mate.

I talk about other POTO adaptations here!

[perry-fics]

Steve answers fans questions

What music do you enjoy listening to? I heard you were a fan of Outkast and was wondering if that is true.

SP: Yes, last year when I first heard Outkast I knew that this was going to go all the way. I now like to listen to Keane, Diana Krall, The Postal Service, Florida Inc. and some re-mixers like Thunder Puss 2000 and some new downloadable groups. 

Have you ever considered teaching? Whenever I speak to children involved in music programs in school, one of the names that always comes up is yours.

SP: Thanks for telling me that. If I could help kids reach and find something in themselves that they never thought they had, that would be a very cool thing. Who knows, right?

Would you ever consider releasing the Against The Wall tracks collectively? 

SP: Sony is a strange machine. In England, the record labels always re-evaluate their past and do re-release singles from older CD's. Here? Never.

I read today on-line that the actor/singer Patrick Wilson (Phantom of the Opera) regards you as a favorite singer. What great taste and a wonderful compliment, as he also has a beautiful voice. I have always loved music and great voices and in my opinion you have one of the best rock & roll voices of all time. My only regret is that after all my years in So. Calif (born and 40 years living there) I never saw you live in concert. I was married by the late 70s and just wasn't doing the concert thing as much. Now I live outside the D.C. area and of course could not make the Walk of Fame event. Congratulations to you and the band.

SP: I owe Patrick Wilson money for saying such nice things. Sorry you couldn't be at the WOF event..........Thanks for your kind words, too.

Have you ever thought of writing your autobiography?

SP: No, not really but I have been approached.

 

My question, silly as it may be, is do you sing in your car? Around the house? In the shower?

SP: ALL of the above. Especially in my car. Doesn't everybody?

Do you have any pets?

SP: I've had many pets through my life. When I was a young boy I had a Cocker named "Lady" then through the years I've had 3 Beagles. "Peggy," "Donna," and "Lenda," and later 3 cat's named "Tashka" and "Tonja" and then later again "Kitty." I do love all pets but right now, I have none.

Do you have a favorite painter?

SP: I'm a lover of all the arts and I love going to galleries, but I'm not that knowledgeable about the artists themselves.

You are truly missed by the fans! One can only hope you get the "bug" again to write & record again! My question, besides the many obvious questions would be, do you think any previous wounds were healed at all for you or the others being together again in Hollywood on Friday Jan.21?

SP: I don't know about our wounds being healed. When bands break up, it's a real personal relationship break. Everyone knows how rough that can be. I was very glad I decided to go though, because for one day, for 90 minutes, we were all together again being recognized for our playing, our music and our moment in time when "we were good together"! The fans energy was something I had not felt in a long time. I get high just thinking about it!

[shilohsylvanian]

Happy World Frog Day! Here are the Bullrush Frogs and a bit of info dump about them <3

They were first released in 1991 for the UK and then re-released in 2001. So there are Tomy and Flair versions, as well as a release in the US, which has slightly different clothes and sitting/crawling twins. The Tomy clothes for them are similar to the Urban Life era, being a bit fancier. Official Bios (this one cracks me up):

FATHER WALTER BULLRUSH is known for being very, very lazy, but this is not really true. If Walter likes to do something, he will put all his limited energies into it. He will always be ready to drive the Country Bus for instance, he will even get up early in the morning if you need a driver. Fishing, of course, is his main love, that is, dangling a hook in the water. He does not like to catch anything because if he did, he would have to then find something else to do. Walter has found that by singing at the top of his croaky voice he can frighten all the fish away! His singing also frightens everyone else away, so he spends many a happy, uninterrupted afternoon on the riverbank singing and sunning himself.

MOTHER LYDIA BULLRUSH, unlike her darling husband, is always working and working very hard. She runs a beautifully spotless house and cares for her husband and four children, and that full time job is only a small part of her busy life. Lydia has a passion for wicker work, whether it is making baskets, hats or mats, her workmanship is imacculate and very artistic. Collecting bulrushes, dying them bright colours before leaving them to dry in the summer sun is the only job she gets any help with. Algy, her oldest son, enjoys the summer afternoons down by the river helping his mother whilst she enjoys teaching him to weave.

BROTHER ALGERNON BULLRUSH hates his full name, so everyone calls him Algy, even his mother who does not like nicknames and only does so, because it pleases her wonderful son. Algy, like his mother, has a passion for weaving, but unlike his mother he prefers to create impractical items like wall hangings. He claims these items he creates are art, not picture art like in art class at school, but abstract art where the shapes and colours portray the meaning and message. Lily his sister says he gets these strange ideas from reading too many stuffy books.

SISTER LILY BULLRUSH loves to sing and unlike her father has a beautiful voice. Because she is a little shy she does most of her practising down by the river where everyone avoids going because of her fathers singing. She originally wanted to be a pop star but now wants to be an opera singer because people go to see the opera all the time. Pop singers only have concerts when they have a record in the charts. Ottilee Marmalade is also giving Lily tips on how to be more confident, hoping she will overcome her shyness.

BABY BROTHER MOSES BULLRUSH must be about the only little boy in Sylvania who loves having baths. He spends hours and hours in the bath playing with his rubber duck and other bath-time toys. If only Lydia or Walter had more time, he would spend all day playing and splashing around in the tub.

BABY SISTER IRIS BULLRUSH must be one of the cleanest little children in Sylvania, because she just hates having baths, so therefore never gets dirty. When ever it is her turn to have a bath, she just cries and cries, then bawls her eyes out and splashes about until her parents get her out of the bath. Bath-time in the Bullrush household is always rather nerve racking!

*having trouble finding official photos so here is one from Sylvanian Store Keepers and the rest are my family who dont have the right clothes lol

<3 In my town Mr. and Mrs Bullrush are renamed Sunnypatch and they are co-mayors of Sunnypatch Gardens.

[meabh-mcinness]

In Sickness

Humans do not have 'Evil Cycles' it's true. However, they can bend under stress in other ways. Some lose their minds and others present more physical symptoms. With all the stress of parenting, working as a teacher, and doing your best to make sure no one figures out either your or Iruma's rather human status, it's no wonder you fall victim to a stress fever. Luckily for you, the resident gargoyle demon is more than happy to help nurse you back to health once he discovers your ill state.

This was originally created/inspired for @snippychicke because I love their Balam x reader story "For Sake of a Smile". While not finished yet it's incredibly well written and I would highly recommend it, also for Sleepylilacfox who writes "New Start: The Beginning of a Beautiful Life" on AO3 and wattpad which is a well-written FemIruma x Everyone story I highly recommend!

No TriggerWarnings! I think.

Main Masterlist

You quietly groaned at the massive headache that had made itself known to you the moment you had woken from your alarm. Head pounding, all you could do was curl into yourself just that much tighter. Pulling your blankets up further to block the almost nonexistent light from daybreak, you did your best to give the impression that you did not exist. If you did it well enough, perhaps you wouldn't, and then all your pain, physical or mental, would be gone as well.

Of course, you knew you couldn't. There were people who depended on you, Iruma depended on you. Never mind the entire school body of both students and teachers who needed you to do your job. And yet you just couldn't make yourself move, your brain just felt so slow and your body so heavy. Perhaps one day off wouldn't be so bad.

Right?

No, you needed to get up. There was paperwork to be done, you were supposed to supervise that new library project for Professor Farbas, and Professor Stolas was expecting your help with the greenhouse as they deconstructed the Harvest Festival. Slowly you started to undo your burrito wrap, mind racing with both nothing and everything you needed to do; like your classes needed teaching (who would have thought you'd be such a natural at your field) and you needed to –

"Fall back asleep, my lady." An even voice broke through the fog, and a cool hand placed itself gently onto your forehead, startling you. Red and yellow eyes stared unwaveringly into your hazy ones, slowly getting further away as you were gently pressed back down. When did they get here? There couldn't have been that much time spent after your alarm, and you hadn't even heard your door open, much less seen them come in.

"But Opera, I need to-" You started to get out and tried to push back up but were quickly silenced when they easily overpowered you despite still feeling like they were only barely touching you. Seriously, were you just that weak, or was the Cat demon just the embodiment of excessive strength?

"While I am not often in the business of disobeying my masters," that was a straight-up lie, they disobeyed Sullivan all the time, "it is my belief that what you need is a couple of days rest. You have been overworking yourself, the same as Master Iruma does. Had you been a demon, you would have already entered an Evil cycle, even now I worry you still will." Opera stated while fixing your blankets to lay over you properly again.

"Humans don' evil cycle," you tried to protest, slurring the sentence out. They only had mental breakdowns, and you did far more things at once in a shorter amount of time in the human world than here while staying completely sane. Honestly, you felt as if you had barely any work here and were taking advantage of Sullivan's kindness. For the most part you just spent your days reading, keeping an eye on the school library, and teaching classes. And when you weren't working you were hanging out with your family or the other teachers. You did occasionally (often) help others out as well, but not enough that you felt you had taken on to much.

"Royal one." They rebutted easily, cutting through your thoughts, causing you to flinch.

Iruma's overnight personality change had thrown you all for a loop. Though you had come out of your shock far quicker than anyone else seemed to; you were certain Sullivan was still traumatized. After all, Iruma was a teenager and more than deserved a rebellion or two after the life he had!

You also may or may not have let slip to the janitors that you were worried Iruma wouldn't know Kalego meant all the faculty employed at the school and not just the teachers.  Your own personal rebellion against Kalego when he tried to bully you into not helping the misfit class, but that was another story, and therefore another thought that needed burying at the moment.

After all, you had a feline to bargain with right now. Or make that felines, when you barely made out the faint pitter-patters of small feet coming into your room. The resident hellcats making their way in to back up their leader.

Before you could even open your mouth and try, though, Opera successfully managed to wrap you up in a sheet under the comforter so that you couldn't even try to get up. And on top of that, the two resident hellcats have decided to jump up and lay on top of you. You blinked in confusion, you hadn't been that deep in thought, had you? Still, you were determined to try, even if the blankets were so warm and heavy with the hellcats' weight, and you could just make out a light circling pressure on the edges of both sides of your temporal.

You tried to struggle but you barely even wiggled and succeeded only in making one of the hellcats readjust itself with a yawn and close its eyes again.  You were close to joining it, but still, you tried to hang on.

"O-per-a," you slurred out slowly before your traitorous body gave in to the persistent demon. Your eyes closed and you knew no more.

**********

You were quite rudely awoken by a quiet knocking sound later.

At first, you weren't even sure you had heard knocking or if it was the hellcats moving on. Still feeling the warmth but lacking a good amount of pressure made you decide it was simply them leaving and curled back up under the blanket. Until the sound returned, rousing you slightly more.

Groggily, you poked your head out of your blanket-made cocoon. You fully expected to have to shield away from the daylight, only to find the room pleasantly dark, curtains drawn shut.

You vaguely remembered Opera coming in and putting you back to sleep; one turn of the head confirmed that it wasn't a dream. A small tray with a kettle, two different-sized glasses, and what appeared to be a note sat on the bedside table. You would bet your life that the kettle and smaller cup were filled with steaming hot 

Hell-gray tea (Opera's specialty, for they never seemed to make anything else, though to be fair you wouldn't know what to ask for), and the taller of the two glasses with cold water. They must have closed the curtains as well on their way out. You would have to thank them later for their thoughtfulness, though you still felt this was all quite unnecessary.

You were drawn out of your thoughts once again by a third knocking. Still faint and barely there, though more easily heard now that you were more awake. You were tempted to drink some tea and bury your head, never to be seen again, but the knocker seemed quite persistent. Steadily getting louder and faster with each repetition. So, with a tired sigh and great effort, you heaved yourself out of your comfy bed, only to flinch at the cold floorboards.

'Whoever was at the door better have a good reason for being here,' you thought as you made your way out of your room towards the front door with heavy steps.  It surprised you, how slow you were moving. It was as if every muscle in your body had been replaced with lead and were still expected to move.

'Was the front door always this far away?' Perhaps it was a good idea you stayed home. If you were this slow and a student got into some kind of trouble, you would never be fast enough to help them in this condition. And after all, Opera hadn't said you couldn't do paperwork from home.

But first to deal with this intruder.

You swore, as you opened the massive front doors, that if this was some delivery Sullivan ordered for the nth time since you and Iruma came, you were going to tear him-

"Balam-sensei!" you choked out, surprised at the massive demon standing on the other side. This was most definitely not who you were expecting as your bleary eyes did their best to make out his pale skin and white hair from the blinding noon sun. If it wasn't for his recognizable dark clothes and eyes, your blurred vision might not have noticed him at all.

Squinting, you tried to look him in the eyes as best as you could, but the shine of his metal mask reflecting the already bright sun made it hard to look even close to his face, much less that high up it. You ended up settling on staring at his fur collar, watching it sway in the slight breeze. Just high enough to see his face in your preferential vision but low enough for his own body to block a majority of the rays.

To be honest, you did expect a delivery demon or even Kalego to drag you to work as one of the few people the misfit class voluntarily listened to. Not the resident biologist, whose happiness for the two humans' existence in the Netherworld could probably rival Sullivan's. Considering his rather high paranoia of discovery where you and Iruma were concerned, though, maybe this shouldn't have been such a shock.

And, oh, his eyes were crinkling with furrowed brows. At least you thought they were, it was hard to see the white eyebrows against his skin on your best days. Oh no, had he been talking this whole time?

"I'm sorry, what were you saying?" you croaked out, wincing at the way your voice cracked. You had to focus! What if he was here to report a serious issue, and you were just standing there zoning out?

"Ah, I was just saying hello and how I noticed you weren't here today. Opera told the staff you were on the verge of an evil cycle," he started to fidget here, one hand raising to rub at his no longer shaved neck. You blinked, was it just you, or was his hair several inches longer than when you last saw him a few days ago?

"But when Iruma stopped by during lunch, he mentioned that humans just didn't have those." He eyed you questionably as if asking if his information was correct as he continued. You nodded in confirmation; it was true after all.

"We don't," you added verbally to his unasked question, "even if Opera is entirely convinced otherwise." You tilted your head to the side in confusion. You may have been a bit slow today, but "that doesn't explain why you're here, though?" The words slipped out before you could stop them. Never mind, you were slow today.

A matching set of flushed skin appeared on both of your faces, though for different reasons. Yours was for embarrassment for not being able to keep control of your own mouth, his for being called out. It was true, when you later thought about it, he could have simply phoned or even just asked Opera or Sullivan privately.  The hand rubbing his neck pulled away before awkwardly pushing his two index fingers together, eyes staring down at them as they pushed against each other repeatedly.

"I... may have gotten a bit anxious that it was something more serious and decidedly human, so others couldn't know. With my classes done for the day, I rushed over after Iruma left, to make sure you were okay."

You felt your heart clench a bit at his words. Seriously, how did this being exist? He was the literal embodiment of a giant teddy bear, and quite honestly, you wanted to give in and squeeze him in a hug. Thankfully, though, your brain hadn't left you behind that much, not yet at least. The longer you stood here though the more certain you were that it would.

"Thank you for rushing over to see me, but I can assure you I'm fine. I'm sorry for worrying you. The only reason I skipped today is that Opera trapped me in bed and lulled me back to sleep." You spoke nonchalantly, despite being slightly irritated at the whole thing. You were determined to get on Opera about this. Even if they were slowly being proven right, it didn't mean you were happy to admit it.

Some clouds flew overhead blocking the sun, leaving you in the blissful shade, almost as if the Netherworld itself could feel your frustration at the feline demon. Sighing in relief for your poor eyes you looked up at Balam properly and froze. Or, perhaps, the clouds had been a warning.

His entire body was tensed up and his eyes were zeroed in on you with such focus you honestly felt a bit like prey, much like the first time you encountered him. It took everything in you to not slam the door and hide in the deepest darkest corner you could find until safety arrived, or the threat left. You mentally shook yourself; this was Balam, he would never hurt you. Even if he could be intense at times, he never meant harm from it, often seeking the opposite result even.

"Ba-"

"You lied." He stated bluntly. Huh?

"I-Wha?" You were so startled by what he said you couldn't even form a sentence. Lied? When? Everything you stated was the truth as far as you knew. Opera had essentially trapped you; they had made it quite clear that you would not be leaving that bed even if they had to tie you down. While they hadn't physically said it, you could just tell that they would.

"You lied," Balam repeated, "Just now."

You shoved yourself off the door-frame you were leaning on (when had you leaned on it in the first place?) and stared indignantly at him. "What part of what I just said was a lie? I would expect you of all demons to understand Opera's strength especially compared to a normal demon much less-"

"Not that part." Balam interrupted, short-circuiting your brain. Not that part? But what other part was there? "When you said you were fine, you were lying," He took a step closer to you, hands reaching out to grasp your shoulders so lightly that if you didn't see them, you wouldn't have known they were there. "Where are you hurt? Was Opera too rough? Do you need medical attention?"

"I'm not injured though?" You blinked incredulously at him. You were certain you were not lying about that. Sure, you may still have a crazy strong headache and you felt dizzy just standing here, and your muscles did still feel like lead. Or maybe concrete the longer you stood here, or was it the other way around? It had been so long since your physic class days and your head was getting fuzzier by the minute. Regardless you were fine. You've experienced far worse things and still worked; this was nothing new.

His head tilted slightly and moved closer to your own. So close, in fact, that you could see that what you once thought were tiny irises were actually pupils, surrounded by incredibly light grey rings that made up his actual irises. To be honest you thought it was very pretty and slightly memorizing, especially in your current non-focusable state. So memorizing in fact that even though you watched them move back and forth across your face as if searching for something, you barely processed it.

"That's good, I believe you" You let out a sigh of relief at that, "however."

However?

Eh?

"Ehhh!? Balam-sensei!" you couldn't help but shout in surprise at suddenly being lifted into his arms. Your legs were thrown over one of his arms and his other arm supported your back easily, even lightly pressing you to lean against his chest. You gripped his tank top right under the fur collar tightly and closed your eyes in both shock and to protect yourself against sudden vertigo that plagued you from the unexpected fast movement. A furious blush spread across your face as you tried to comprehend what exactly was happening.

"Sorry, but you're swaying as if you're about to fall over. Even if you're not physically injured, you're clearly not fine." He apologized while walking into the mansion and shutting the door behind him with one of his feet. "Not to mention your eyes are glazed over and your face has been getting paler and paler since we've started talking. Where's your bedroom? I can't believe Opera left you alone in this state, I can feel the heat radiating from you more than normal and it's upstairs, is it?" Balam continued without stopping for breath even once, barely even acknowledging when you weakly pointed towards the large staircase in the center of the room, still dazed and flustered from your sudden position in his arms. If he was worried about you being pale, that problem had been fixed with the searing hot blush that covered your entire face to your ears and refused to leave.

Ah, you suddenly realized. This must be one of those famous Balam scoldings Iruma warned you about. You buried your face in his chest, silky fur collar tickling the top of your head like the feathers you saw in those ear-cleaning videos back in the human world. Briefly, you wondered if they had the same practices here. (Later you would find out that they did in fact do them and that Opera was trained in it. You obviously did not put this knowledge to use later on. Not at all.)

Pressed against Balam like this you could feel, more than hear him lecture. A low rumble in his body worked in tandem with the strong beat of his heart and gentle steps. Despite his grumblings, he was extremely delicate with you, with barely enough pressure from his arms to keep you in place and slow methodical movements as he made his way upstairs without jostling you. You could feel yourself starting to relax and zone out again as he continued to berate both you and the absent Opera. Who knew being chastised could be so relaxing?

He found your room rather easily, despite your lack of help after your initial point. While it wasn't the only, nor the first, room open on the second floor, it was the only one with both a strong smell of fresh tea and something undeniably you. Entering it almost cautiously, Balam gave it a cursory once over, unable to deny this small piece of instinct in unfamiliar territory while holding precious cargo. Deeming it safe he quickly laid you back in your bed and moved to pull your blankets back over you, fussing to get them just right. Once he deemed it good enough, he kneeled by your side and brushed some loose hair from your face, before settling his hand on your forehead.

Despite the mask covering half his face, you could tell there was a huge frown marring it. You wanted desperately to wipe it away. He had become too precious to you to have anything other than a smile.

"You're so warm," he mumbled, seeming to have stopped his tirade for now. That was nothing new. As a human, you had discovered that both your and Iruma's bodies ran hotter than the average demon's. To the point that you had even been mistaken as a fire-based demon by multiple others, which you had found quite funny considering your affinity for water and ice runes. You even laughingly reminded him of such before dissolving into a fit of coughs, body curling in on its side.

Oh. Oh no. No, you refused to believe it. You weren't sick, you simply must have choked on some air when laughing.

.....

That sounded weak even to your addled brain. Especially since the longer you laid here the more you could feel just how off you were. Seriously how did you not notice? Was the Netherworld so much better that you had forgotten what it felt like to be sick? The resounding yes in your mind was very loud and you chose to ignore it.

Well, you counseled yourself, at least you could tell Opera that they were wrong about the possible evil cycle. It was simply your body betraying you to whatever was infecting it. And oh, you were not looking forward to the simply insane fest that was going to occur when Sullivan found out you were sick. You mournfully resigned yourself to his hysterics already.

When the last cough rattled out of your chest you breathed harshly while unfurling your body again. Bleary eyes focused on the sudden appearance of a glass in front of your face as you recognized a sensation fluttering in circles on your back. You gave the panicked-looking gargoyle in front of you a grateful smile as you carefully leaned up, grasped the drink, and took a sip.

Cold water traveled pleasantly down your throat, spreading its soothingly frosty touch throughout your chest. Once you had your fill you handed back the glass and flumped fully down again. The pressure on your back never lets up once and you take a minute to fully savor the feeling. How long had it been since you enjoyed the touch of another like this?

The longer you laid here, focusing on feeling the ministrations on your back and just trying to breathe, the hazier you could feel your mind becoming again. Almost as if a fog was just rolling through your mind, blowing away any conscious thoughts and leaving only a mess behind. While you heavily disliked not being all there, never truly feeling safe enough to zone out, you much preferred it to the pain of the migraine you had woken up with.

Sullivan's desire for you to have the best of the best meant the fluffy bed you were laying on took away the weighted feeling of your lead filled limbs. Combined with your increasingly hazy mind meant you felt something similar as to floating in space kept grounded only by the feeling of the gargoyle's hand and the itchiness slowly growing in your throat. 

You could feel sleep trying to claim you again and you were honestly more than willing to answer its call. Now that you acknowledged you were sick it was easy to want to stay in bed and just sleep through it all. You were well acquainted with what would happen next and had no desire to actually be awake for it. As much as a tiny voice in the back of your head yelled that you should push through it, it was just as it easy to squish it when your brain went all fuzzy.

Until it abruptly stopped as Shichirou pulled away and said something. You didn't even bother trying to understand him and simply whined at the loss of contact, reaching out blindly towards where you thought he was. Briefly you wondered when you closed your eyes but just as quickly threw the thought out. It wasn't needed. What was needed you had decided, making grabby motions at him, was for the contact to continue.

One eye squinting open you found, quite frustratingly, he wasn't even looking at you. Instead he was moving things about on the tray as a sudden vine reached across the wall from your bedroom holding a small container. You watched him screw up the container and shake a small amount into the tea cup. Swirling the cup to mix the powdery mess with the tea Opera had left behind, he eyed it critically before nodding to himself and turning back to you.

Finally you had his attention, making another whining sound and reaching out for him again you ignored the cup and grabbed the outer part of his hand instead. A low chuckling sound hit your ears as his other arm wrapped under your side and gently hauled you up. With the cup now close to your face you couldn't help but wrinkle your nose at the off putting scent rising from it.

"Just drink this darling and I promise you can go back to sleep." You threw him your best (most pitiful) dubious glare before relenting and opening your lips just a bit. The slightly thick liquid that poured into your mouth reminded you of pepto bismal, if pepto tasted like oranges that was. When the cup was drained, he carefully laid you back down again, smoothing your hair out of your face.

"As promised I'll leave you be to sleep," he pushed b back one last stand and started to rise to leave. Leave? Well that certainly wouldn't do. You hand lashed out faster than it had any right to and gripped his again. Eyes widened in surprise as he looked at your combined hands before locking with yours with a question already on his lips.

"Stay?" You asked, a pout already forming on your lips at his possible refusal. "Please? Just till I fall asleep at least." His face softened immediately and nodded his consent.

Tugging his hand closer to you, so that his knuckles were tucked directly under your chin and the length of his arm ran down your body. Legs pulling up so his elbow was just barely locked in between your knees. You never fully realized how tiny you were in comparison before. The length of his forearm alone was the same as your torso's. Logically, in a different situation such a size difference would frighten you. But here and now, curled around something that could easily harm you brought only the feeling of safety.

It was rather easy to drift off to sleep in that position as his other hand came up and started petting your head, rubbing away any potential headaches before they could even start. When you were better again you might regret this (highly unlikely, you were going to treasure this feeling forever) but for now you would fully relax and just drift off.

**********

A shuffling followed by a quiet chuckling-like noise drew you out of your sleep. Groaning you opened your eyes to try to find the source of the disturbance in your sleep yet again. You were facing the wall with your vanity against it and able to, rather blearily, see your room door through it. 

Through the mirror, you could see a pair of bright red ear-like horns poking through a crack in your vine-covered door along with a blue scythe-like antenna just underneath it. Opera and Iruma your mind supplied and judging by the pale clawed hand far higher up the door, Sullivan was there too. But that wasn't what caught your mind addled attention.

Just behind you was an incredibly large moving lump sharing your blankets. It was only then that you realized that you were not only laying on something long and hard but that something of the same shape and size was carelessly tossed over your middle as well. Arms. You were being held by someone. That woke you up quite a bit. As your mind frantically raced to remember what happened before you fell back asleep again you felt said arms tighten around you fractionally as a muffled groan came from behind you. A groan that you were quite familiar with, even in its sleepy form.  

Balam Shichirou.

Was in your bed.

You were almost positive your head was going to explode from how hard you were blushing. Your hands drew up and covered your face as you fought the squeal demanding to escape your throat. As your memories came back, you vaguely recalled grabbing him and asking him to stay, but you didn't think he would join you in bed too! 

As if sensing your plight in his sleep, his large arms drew you further into his embrace, nose nuzzling into your hair in an attempt to soothe you. You didn't want to admit how much it made your body relax to feel it but as the tension left, you could feel sleep calling you again. Resolving not to deal with this when you were still in the throes of whatever sickness had claimed you, you resolutely turned away from the mirror and into the safety of the wall of flesh and feathers behind you.

"愛してる Shichirou...." You whispered as you fell back asleep, nuzzling back up against his warm chest as his arms unconsciously wrapped around you even tighter.

*At a later date *

"Thanks for the book, Balam-sensei!" Iruma said, antenna wagging happily as he held the new book to his chest. Unlike the heavy textbooks the human boy usually got with his classes, he quite enjoyed the picture books he got from the gargoyle teacher.

Said teacher leaned forward and patted Iruma's head, ruffling the blue hair about as he smiled at him.

"It's my pleasure, really. I'm just glad that you enjoy them and that they're so helpful to you." Balam said as he drew his arm back. "How are your studies coming along by the way?"

Iruma's eyes sparkled in pride, "I've gotten far better! I'm getting an average of seventies thanks to everyone's help! You, Kalego-sensei, Mom, Azz-kun, Clara, and everyone else. You've all helped me come so far, and I can't wait to go further!" Iruma clenched one of his fists in determination.

Shichirou looked at the small human boy and felt something akin to parental pride. To a demon ambition was everything, and to see this child who had such a big disadvantage in the Netherworld giving his absolute all to see his goals through, and manage it. It was amazing and reminded him all the time why he found living things so beautiful.

Among other beings. Which reminded him...

"Hey Iruma-kun," Shichirou started, as he unconsciously drew the boy into his lap to pet him some more, "I have another human question if you don't mind?"

Iruma tilted his head in confusion, giving a rather devipup image in his mind, before nodding his head in consent.

"What does 愛してる mean in the human language?"

"....Eh? EHH!?!"

___________

*Fun fact; 愛してる (or ai shiteru in romaji) translates roughly to I love you and is only used when the person is absolutely certain in their romantic feelings for their partner. The meaning is so strong that it's actually very rarely used in real life, even between married partners!

Or at least that's what my studies say ^u^'/ If you're native Japanese please correct me if I'm wrong!

This turned out way longer than I expected it to, which is part of the reason it so long to get out(it was supposed to be out in Nov ಥ ͜ʖಥ). The other is that I actually fell into a stress cold, because of course I did, while in the middle of writing e.e and then life struck. But hey, it's out now!

Also I may or may not make Kalego and Opera versions of this

[no1lucanispegger]

Meet my Rook game!

Nobody tagged me, but I've been looking for an excuse to post about my Rook so I'mma do this anyway cuz it looks fun. I tag @classicleechaos and @nonagesimus.

Also, if you see this and you're looking for an excuse to yap about your Rook, consider yourself tagged.

And if I tagged you to give credit for your beautiful, wonderful Rook, you can also consider yourself tagged.

GENERAL

Name: Mirevas

Alias(es): Rook; Blade; Enasalin; Valor; General; Viago's Dream Witch; the Dragon of Dock Town; She Who Brings Fire on Behalf of Elgar'nan, Sun-Tamer, Crown of Arlathan, First of the Firstborn, Lord of the Day and of the Night, who Woke at the Dawn of the Elvhen.

Gender: Spirit of Valor Made Flesh; Sword

Age: Too many thousands to count.

Place of Birth: The Fade

Spoken Languages: Ancient Elvhen, Common, Dwarven, Antivan, Orlesian, a number of other languages so old there's no one left to remember them.

Sexual Orientation: Pansexual

Love Interest(s): Felassan (RIP King 🙌🏽), Lucanis, Neve, Viago (until they crashed & burned), Teia (every once in a while)

Occupation: Magekiller; Leader of the Veilguard (Formerly); Antivan Crow (Formerly); Right Hand of the Dread Wolf (Formerly); General of the Dread Wolf's Rebellion (Formerly); Champion of Elgar'nan (Formerly); Arcane Warrior (Formerly)

FAVORITE

Color: Purple & Orange

Entertainment: She enjoys the theater and, after getting to know @orangeandclover's Rosalind de Riva, the opera. She also really loves wandering the Fade and exploring old memories.

Pastime: Any and all forms of combat. Teaching, and in particular training combatants. She loves blacksmithing, creating beautiful weapons with which to perform combat. Also having sex. And painting, but mostly body painting.

Food: Antivan food; anything with carbs and cheese, really, but especially anything Lucanis cooks. She also has a soft spot for Hal's fried fish.

Drink: She has a moonshine recipe that'll make you taste colors. Other than that, she loves a cup of tea in the morning and a cioccolata calda.

Books: Mirevas doesn't generally have the attention span to sit down and read a book, but she does participate in Book Club. Her favorite books to read are war novels. She finds most romance novels to be horrendously boring, but she does enjoy good smut.

HAVE THEY

Passed university: No. She was too busy fighting in wars to attend universities in Elvhenan, and after the Veil went up... Her dreams could teach her more than any mortal universities could.

Scared easily: No. She's lived too long.

Jealous easily: No. Mirevas is polyamorous. When she was with Felassan, they took many lovers together over the course of millennia. After he was stolen from her, she was with Viago and Teia for a while, who were both free to pursue whomever they wished. She's with Lucanis and Neve now, and they have the same freedom.

She and Lucanis are part of a multiversal polycule made up of all of my friends' Rooks. They pass him back and forth like a football. He has the time of his life, bouncing from one strap to the next.

Trustworthy: Mirevas keeps her word until doing so compromises who she is and who she wants to be. When an agreement becomes a noose, she cuts the rope before they can hang her with it.

FAMILY

Siblings: Spirits of Valor are the closest she has to siblings

Parents: Does the Fade count? Otherwise, no.

Children: None, unless you count @defenseattorneyofneve's Rowan Mercar, who was born to Felassan and their girlfriend Isobel.

Pets: Six months after Veilguard and her liberation from the Crows, she gets clawed up by a stray cat in Minrathous that then follows her home. She names him Viago.

[empty-ecnelis]

Let me introduce to you Music and Dance customs of Kaon and Iacon and the difference between them. And how it makes Orion thirsty for Megatronus lol. >:3

Ok imagine this: Iaconians like classical music, the operas, ballroom music. Music were mechs sing of the purities of love and the fine feelings of life. Music you can listen to while having coffee and what not. After all, life in Iacon is mostly peaceful, you go to work, get upset about work problems, hang out with your friends, go to bed, repeat.

Not Kaon, though! With the Gladiator Rings, poverty, crime, and other nuisances, life in Kaon is full of adrenaline and aggression. It only makes sense their music would reflect such life. They like hard drums and bass. They still sing of life's fine pleasures, but they do it with much more fervor. Throughout the busy streets of Kaon, you can often hear EDM, Rap, Trap, and other similar genres of music. Dance is a common part of someone living in Kaon. Replace the coffee shop gathering with music club dance night!

Now imagine tfp Megatronus, Orion, and Soundwave before the war, back when Megatron was still a gladiator. Orion came to see one of Megatronus's fights, and as usual, he was victorious, so Magatronus asks Orion to come celebrate with him and Soundwave. Orion doesn't know what he's getting himself into but he just wants to spend more time with Megatronus so he accepts.

They enter some sort of private club, Orion can tell it's not public because he recognizes various other Gladiators Megatronus talks to. The music is a bit too loud to Orion's auditals, and everyone is talking nonstop. As they head deeper into the club, Orion can see the center of the room is not as crowded as everywhere else. He doesn't have much time to see why though as Megatronus drags him to what seems to be a bar and asks him if he would like something to drink. He says he's not sure as he's never drank before, so Megratronus buys him something he thinks he would like.

(I've linked the song the next bit is supposed to be imagined with for your convenience.)

Soundwave and Megatronus have already downed a couple of shots before Orion is done with his. In no time, Megatronus is dragging Soundwave to the middle of the room. Orion can see why it's not as crowded now, other mechs are dancing there. The mechs make room for Megatronus's giant frame and his partner. As the song develops, Megatronus pulls Soundwave closer to him, and he begins to move his hips to the drops of the music. Moving in staggering, but controlled movements. Making sure to display how much control he has over his lower body. Oh, the way those hips move. It certainly looks erotic to Orion, but it's not supposed to be. Soundwave wastes no time dancing along Megatronus, they move together like they do this often. Probably because they do.

Somehow, Orion has a clear view of Megatronus's back, he thinks he's never seen a better-looking mech than Megatronus. He can't help but feel jealous of Soundwave. How he moves his own hips to the roll of Megatronus's. How he doesn't push Megatronus's hands away from his frame when he lays them on his hips. In his dazed mind, he takes a moment to appreciate how well-built Soundwave is too. In contrast to Megatronus, Soundwave has much less plating, and the biolights that adorn his protoform are almost on full display for anyone to see. No wonder Megatronus wants to touch.

Megatronus wants to touch...

A thought crosses his mind. He should be him with Megatronus over there. It should be Orion who's grinding his aft against Megatronus, it should be Orion who Megatronus has his hands on. He knows he can't though, he doesn't know how to dance like this. He would have to ask Megatronus to teach him when they got their moment of privacy. He wonders if Megatronus would let him put his hands on that huge chest of his, or drag his servos along his strong back. Maybe that much touching and grinding would make Megatronus want to touch him instead. Would he also want to put his larger servos on Orions's hips? Megatronus's servos were so much bigger than his, he could pin both of Orion's hands with one no problem. He could pin Orion down with no trouble in general, could do anything he wanted to Orion. It's not like Orion would stop him. Megatronus could rip open his modesty panels, make do with him, and he wouldn't sto--

--What was Orion thinking about?! Primus, he should have just said no to this drink. Oh, Primus, he cannot -should not- be thinking such things.

[sleepyhollowtimburton]

These are gifs of a deleted scene. It's a real shame they deleted this scene because it's quite cute, the scene is included in the scriptbook and novelization, so here I'll give you the novelized version of this scene (it reads better than the script). What do you think? Should they have kept this in the film?

As Ichabod picked up his pen once again, he heard a knock on the door. At last, the servant girl with the bible. He'd sent her so long ago he thought she'd forgotten.

"Yes, yes come in!" he shouted over his shoulder. Perhaps that family tree on the bible's inner leaf would reveal something, Something odd had caught his eye during his brief perusal in the parlor, a familiar surname that he couldn't recall now.

Behind him, the door clicked open. Soft footsteps trod the wooden floor. "Thank you." Ichabod called out. "Just leave it on the reading stand. That will be all." No, she's a resource, you can learn from her. "Wait. Tell me about that big brute who seems to be Katrina's.."

As he spoke, he turned around and came face-to-face with Katrina van Tassel. He shot up out from his chair. His hip knocked against the desk, which thudded against the wall, sending papers cascading towards the floor. "Forgive me! I asked Sarah to bring me..."

"So your clever books have failed you," Katrina said with an amused smile. "and you turn to the bible after all."

Ichabod collected himself. "I see I am talked about downstairs."

"In passing only. We have many things to talk about, even in this backwards place."

"I am sorry. Please excuse my manner. I am not used to..." Speechless, she renders me speechless.

"Female company?" Katrina asked.

"Society." Ichabod shot back.

"How can you avoid society in New York? How I should love the opera and theaters, to go dancing! Is it wonderful?"

Ichabod fought the urge to lie, to make himself sound cultured and urbane. She would see through him, she saw everything. "I have never been."

"But there is an art museum? A concert hall?"

"I don't know."

"Then you have nothing to teach me." The words made Ichabod shrink away in disappointment, but an idea was forming. "Perhaps I have." He said. "Do you believe the van Garretts and the widow Winship were murdered by a headless horseman?"

"Not everyone here believes it is the horseman."

At last, a realist. "Good." Ichabod said.

"Some say it's the witch of the western woods who has made a pact with Lucifer."

Ichabod's shoulders sank. Katrina was one of them after all, provincial and irrational. "There are no witches or galloping ghosts either. Is everyone in the village in thrall of superstition?"

"Why are you so afraid of magic? Not all magic is black. There are ancient truths in these woods which have been forgotten in your city parks."

"If they are truth, they are not magic, if magic, they are not truth," Ichabod told her.

"You are foolish, when there is a fever in the house, it is well known that willow herb roots and a crow's foot must be boiled in the milk of a pure white goat with special charms uttered over the fire, and the fever abates."

"Next time, try the herbs without the rest." Ichabod had heard enough. "And now I must ask you to excuse me."

"Gladly, I should not have interrupted our town's saviour. Good night." Katrina turned and walked towards the open door. "And as to your first question, that big brute you were asking about has proposed to me."

That statement caught Ichabod off guard. "I..I..I'm happy that..."

Katrina looked back over her shoulder. "He's proposed to me...several times." She paused and smiled, letting the last two words linger. And as she left, she seemed to take all the air in the room with her.

Ichabod had to sit down.

[amcbrisce]

(   anna sawai  .  cisfemale  .  she/her  )       —       blasting  strangers in the night by  frank sinatra  down  main  street  we’ve  spotted  NOA YOSHIDA  sporting  their  handmade bag on the verge of overflowing with sheet music.  the  thirty-five  year  old  GHOST  who’s  been  in  town  for  twelve years  often  can  be  seen  exploring any form of art she can get her hands on, with her nose buried in a book and a steaming cup of tea just across the way, practicing until night turns into day, keeping to herself, combing through her collection of antique records,  or  working  as  a  PIANIST  at  PORTUM PERFORMING ARTS CENTER.  people  say  they  display  poised  and  antisocial  traits,  but  we  rather  trust  their  vibes:  a closet overflowing with cream and black, the first notes of an age-old melody previously thought to be lost in time, an eye that catches the details, seeing romance only in art.  also,  we’ve  heard  they  love  THE OPERAS OF PUCCHINI !   

TRIGGER WARNING: murder, death, implied neglect, suicide, police

𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐒.

name: noa rose yoshida nicknames/alias: none, but would likely be open to one depending on the person

faceclaim: anna sawai

age: thirty-five gender: cisfemale sexuality: bisexual / biromantic date/place of birth: january 15th / brooklyn, new york currently: portum, ??? occupation: pianist at postum performing arts center

character matches: inej ghafta ( shadow and bone ), bonnie bennett ( the vampire diaries ), dr. spencer reid ( criminal minds ), dana scully ( the x files ), chloe decker ( lucifer ), dale cooper ( twin peaks ), melinda may ( agents of shield ), jo march ( little women )

positive traits: poised, creative, intelligent negative traits: antisocial, self-critical, cynical astrological sign: capricorn archetype: the prodigy

𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐘.

everyone around you always told you that you were born to be an artist. sometimes you can't help but wonder if they speak the truth -- or if you became a follower in your own existence. offered a front row seat in the audience at a movie screening. the movie of your life.

now, granted, both of your parents were artists. your mother was an opera singer and your father was the photographer that captured her -- the reason her face ended up on the front page of every paper. photographed with love. your arrival in their lives was unexpected, frankly, both had been unsure if their demanding careers would even allow them to start a family. you gave them no choice. it showed in their care for you. however, you earned their devotion with your intelligence. your iq test results came back to greater applause and granduere six year old you never even knew was possible.

while the piano began as a safe haven, a space of comfort when everything else around you was moving far too fast ( you're skipping through grades at the speed of light, on track to graduate from high school by the time you're fourteen years old ) -- it isn't long before your caught. the music teacher overhears, and the questions begin. how long have you been taking lessons? i've never had one. did you teach yourself, sweetheart? yes ma'am. from there, your parents were notified -- and the lessons and regiment began. you're competing within the year.

some parents truly forget just how foundational the early years are, don't they? how imperative they are to the way their children will not only see themselves in the present moment -- but throughout the rest of their lifetime. as short or as long as it is. the craving for perfection is driven into you like a hammer is brought down on the head of a nail -- desperate to break through a slab of wood. to see the other side.

graduation comes. as expected, you finish high school at the age of fourteen, just when the other children are beginning their experience. the fundimental awkward years. and while the stress of your academics has been lifted from your shoulders -- it is replaced by more practice. you'll practice until your fingers bleed. those were your mothers words -- another piece of evidence to add to your hypothesis about your relationship with her which, although simple in description, is incredibly layered. she feels the need to compete with you. the older she gets, the more her appeal vanishes. at least in the eyes of the public. you'd come to learn later that her appeal is dwindling in the eyes of your father as well -- who can't keep himself from window shopping elsewhere. meanwhile, your gift means something to people.

much of the attention you recieve in the circuit, as expected, is due to your youth. how can someone so young be on our level? no music degree to her name -- just pure, unadultured talent. then you beat them and suddenly, you're not on their level. you're above it. the world of classical music may love you, reviere you, even, but as you've learned from your mother: there will always be someone out to get you.

you're in paris when it happens. you're looking out over the city, in your best concert dress, minutes away from leaving for one of the biggest concerts of your blossoming career. you don't even hear them come in. and then -- you're falling. before everything suddenly goes black. the police initially rule your death a suicide -- before a crime scene tech notices fingerprints around your balcony railing that don't belong to you. through further investigation, the ruling evolves to homicide.

however, your soul has not left this world. it's been wandering aimless, terrified -- wondering what you did for your life to be cut so painfully short. fear soon turns into realization, you're still on earth. either religion is a sham and there is no afterlife, or your soul will not move on until your muderer is caught.

much like everyone else in town, you can't quite recall how you ended up in portum. what you do know -- it's the cure for your aimlessness. while you're free from the constraints of your mother and your teachers, you find yourself unable to think of anything else to make of yourself and continue to play. just like before, they love you. you make your new home your own, and you've taken back control over your time.

you never expected that death would be what would bring you freedom.

suddenly, twelve years flash before your eyes. you don't care that the rest of the world may have forgotten you, that your murder is nothing more than a tragic ghost story. at least, that's what you tell yourself -- considering you're more you than you've been since the moment you were born.

music. such a beautiful thing. but like all beautiful things, it very well could be the death of you.

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒.

queen of the outfit formula. cream pants and a white button down, a monochromatic black look, you name it. her closet is nearly devoid of color.

noa is a pleasant person to be around, but after you get to know her. at first she's a bit prickly as they say -- she's analyzing you. watching your body language, making sure she can trust you. should you pass, she will give everything she can to being the best friend you could offer.

her home is modest in size, but certainly decorated. she bought most of her furniture secondhand, and has quite the affinity for trinkets that most don't get to see.

if she isn't practicing, she can likely be found either searching for her next read or with her nose buried in her book of choice. she is a furious reader and goes through books with ease.

due to the previously mentioned trust issues, she also doesn't have the greatest history with her love life. when she was alive she never exactly had the time for romantic relationships, nor the energy. now, she still can't quite let go of the belief that everyone is out to get her. that love is some kind of ruse that artists came up with to fuel their creativity.

MORE TO COME.

[vivianleighwishesshewasme]

The Italian Beasts Beauty-9

Dinner with the Changretta's

______________________________________________________

Before New York* I wrote to many chapter ahead and forgot I didn't post this. There are parts to it however that I feel matter going forward in the story so please read before New York , New York.**

_________________________________________

______________________________________________________________________________

“It's our last night in Italy, Tesoro. Come on, lighten up.” Luca had never pleaded with anyone in his entire life. He understood she’d just gone through a traumatic experience.

He also felt a little slighted that she was still acting scared of everything. He was there right next to her, she was in the safest place she could be in all of Italy, especially right now. Word had spread far and wide among his kinds of people what had been down to the men who’d kidnapped Charlotte from outside their villa. 

He knew nobody would be dumb enough now to touch them but it was their last night until they sailed to America. 

He looked down at her. She was snuggled up to him as tightly as she could. Her hand tightly wrapped around his bicep. When the food came he was hoping she’d back up and let him eat. He was going to need his elbow. 

He had suggested a dinner brought to the terrance but his mother said Charlotte would spend her whole life scared to come back if she didn’ get pushed out by him. She needed to face her fears. 

He sighed remembering her crying and sobbing, she’d dug her heels and hands into the door frame. It would have been comical if it wasn’t upsetting. She’d been terrified like he was going to stop her back off at the slaughterhouse. 

You can't live in fear Tesoro, trust me, you can't and it's easier to stay afraid if you stay cooped up. Let's go.” He had said to her as  two of his men to help drag her out.

She had refused to talk to him the entire ride. She just sat there on her own side far away from him, looked out the window and pouted. 

His mother kept shooting him sympathetic looks and mouthing at him to be patient. 

“So sex is definitely off the table tonight?” He had tried to make her laugh and failed miserably.  She had just  glared at him, clearly not amused. 

Now they were seated at a table in a gorgeous restaurant and she was clinging to him like if she’d let go, she’d be swept away out to sea. 

“I love you Charlotte Changretta.” He said softly, lowering his head to ear. That had been the first time he’d ever said those words to her. 

Her head whipped up looking into his warm green eyes, her pupils blown. He caught her lip quiver as the words sank in.

“I love you too.” She closed her eyes and placed her head soft against his lips. 

He hoped she'd be okay. He couldn’t promise his enemies would never try to hurt them, but he’d keep his promise that they would die horribly while trying. 

____________________Charlotte_________________________

  He'd taken her to an Opera. Back home she adored going to ballet and Opera. When she was little and Uncle Tommy would arrange one for a birthday or special event, she’d always try to sneak backstage and learn the moves from the Ballerina’s or singers who would teach her notes. 

It was a wonderful way to forget about everything for a few hours, much better than dinner. 

________________              ___________________________

She ran straight up to their bedroom, her feet practically flying up the stairs. She felt bad when the breeze contrasted with her speed and slammed the door of their shared bedroom. 

She heard her husband swearing downstairs but she didn’t care. They were home and she was safe! 

She drew a bath and stripped. She perched by the edge of the tub waiting to hear his clunky footsteps but they didn’t come. When the water reached a decent level she climbed in and soaked. Her muscles had been tense and tight all day. 

Everytime someone spoke loudly, a noise happened or a plate hit the table Charlotte had been ready to jump out of her skin. Everything screamed danger except him right now. 

She wasn’t thrilled that he’d made her go out. His mother was there to make sure she didn’t sneak out and lock herself in the car, Audrey had told her that much when she’d followed her daughter in law to the powder room. 

Charlotte waited until the water got to chill to relax and wrapped herself up in a towel and blanket. She parked herself infront of their fireplace and waited for Luca to walk in. Except he didn’t. Two hours went by with her lost in her thoughts of what New York would look like. 

She wasn’t afraid of sailing anymore. They’d done that and the ship hadn’t sank so at least she’d conquered that fear. 

So much newness had been coming at rapid pace since her fathers death on Christmas day, her birthday. Now it was almost May and she still seemed to be experiencing new things. 

What was also continuing and bugging her was that every month she’d get her bleed. They’d been together almost 5 months and she wasn’t pregnant. 

Luca and his mother didn’t seem bothered by it. Tommy and Arthur wanted to know what was wrong with her. 

Ada also wasn’t any help since she’d been pregnant before her and Freddie had married. Hell, Finn was married and within two months she was expecting. 

Perhaps they were right, she should enjoy sleeping, being able to get out now without a baby in tow but in all honesty, Charlotte couldn’t wait to be caring his child. She had always dreamed of a house full of kids. 

She hoped by the time they were in New York she’d have good news. 

______________________________________________________________

[stuffymcstuffsworld]

March Madness

*warning mature content don't attempt any such actions in reality*

You really had to hand it to Ivan Pavlov and his theory on critical conditioning. Who knew that it could work on a demon so well? You stared down at your victim, a well-known smile making its way across your face.

March Marbas was a professional when it came to teaching torture. He could also stomach it very well, considering you sometimes had to receive hands-on experience to understand how much a body could endure. Waterboarding, electric shock, psychological torture. It's really a by the book process.

What March-san never accounted for, however, was for you to use human methods. Admittedly slower, yet effective. Oh, sure, you could have chosen any old method. But well... this one was more likely to affect a demon well known with physical torment. And looking at the results in front of you at the crying demon you knew it had.

They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. The same could be said for breaking a man's spirit. Well, in this case, a demon. See, you knew that he would be on guard from you for a bit, but that's okay. Your plan didn't associate you with being seen as the main culprit until the end.

The key to Pavlov's theory when applying it to torture wasn't actually much. In fact, it was even easier with the help of Opera. Just following 3 simple steps.

Step one ensures the victim becomes accustomed to whatever you are implementing into their daily routine. In this case, Opera serving snacks to their fellow staff members.

Step two is to experiment with withdrawal signs to observe when the subject becomes most desperate. One merely has to repeat these two steps a few times before landing on step three.

Step three is the easiest. Full stop. Leaving not a trace to be found anywhere. And watch as the beast becomes ravenous. Course one might wonder why this would occur. He has other food, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. So why be so caught up about a snack?

Well, you grinned at the begging demon who pleaded and clung to one of your legs desperately. It was never really about the snack. It was always about the constant secret ingredient layered in. Addiction. That's the real secret.

Pavlov's theory uses simple tactics that can lead to one being conditioned enough to believe they can't live without something. Once they associate what conditions must be met to receive the desired item, it makes it harder for them to believe that there are other ways to obtain it.

Of course, using an addictive helps to hurry the process along. You never did tell Opera what was in the small bottle you gave them, and they never once asked. It's a secret that only you knew as you held up a similar bottle the smell coming from it had March drooling excessively.

Silly demon. He's sadly mistaken if he thinks you'll give him more. This is punishment, not pleasure. Reaching out, you grasped him by the hair and tugged harshly. The plain demon hissed in discomfort as you had grabbed rather close to his horns.

You opened the bottle with a flick and watched as March-san egarly opened his mouth wide tongue sticking out. You glanced at Opera, who nodded to you at the ready. Just as you made it look like you were going to poor it out on the floor, Opera shoved a rather disgusting item down the professor's throat. Irumas home made cooking. (Don't judge for getting rid of something toxic)

You kept your eyes on both of them as you drained the bottle's contents down your own throat instead, not thinking as you swallowed. You watched as the kneeling demon continuously gagged but seemed to regain his senses. He stared up at you in shock.

"So how did it feel sensei? Did you get a small idea of how maddening human torture could be? Stuck inside your own head howling while your body acted on it own. Crawling at my feet and begging for more, are you remembering how dangerous torture can be now?"

The realization crossing his features was so satisfying. The way he ran like you had sent firey Hellhounds after him pleased you greatly. Torture came from more than just pain. You had already reminded them of that.

But you couldn't help but ponder if you should remind that cocky bastard of more forms. After all, he hurt your poor Jazzy with a smile on his face. Remedial lessons might be in order.

Opera nervously watches from beside you. Waiting for any symptoms from drinking such a large quantity at once. You smiled at them, a peaceful look finally settling in. "Opera, you might want to go shopping today." You noticed their tail twitch erratically.

Handing them the empty bottle, you started giggling. "Because we're out of strawberry syrup silly." You watched their body slump with relief that you hadn't consumed anything dangerous before they bowed and quickly left the room.

Leaving you alone with your thoughts. Mental theory is great and all, but seeing it in person and how it can drastically change someone? It made you shudder once you knew you were alone. It seemed you were becoming more demonic by the day as you acted more upon your impulses.

Rolling up your sleeve, you examined a small cut on your arm. It is barely visible now but has been well taken care of by all the magical ointments you had on hand. No one could ever know.

Thank devi Opera never caught on, but maybe that's because you had mixed it with strawberry syrup and warned Opera not to taste the contents. Rolling back down your sleeve, you stood up and made your way into the hall. As if nothing happened.