#(technically platonic intent but no matter)

[couch-collector]

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Malefic Attachment.

Pairing: Yandere!Malleus x Reader (TWST)

Written for a very lovely anonymous commissioner.

Word Count: 3.0k.

TW: Platonic (At The Moment) Yandere Malleus, Manipulation, Deliberate Social Isolation, and Obsessive/Delusional Behavior.

The worst thing about you, Malleus had decided, was that you’d chosen to be his friend.

‘Chosen’, because you’d been the one to approach him, a dazzling smile painted across your lips and a dozen questions about his life as royalty in a faraway land on your tongue, and ‘worst’, because he couldn’t think of a single other thing about you that he despised so fervently, or for that matter, that he disliked at all. He couldn’t be sure when he came to such a grim conclusion, although it had most likely been some time between the fourth time you’d sought him out in the minutes between your classes and the seventh you apologized for having to cut your conversation so short, nor was he entirely certain why the thought of having any claim to you left him so unsettled, despite how innocent your relationship was.

Briefly, he’d considered keeping you at a distance, telling his retainers to make sure you stayed at arm’s length, but he hated the thought of inconveniencing Silver and Sebek, and he hated the thought of having no claim to you at all even more. He’d never hurt you, nor was he possessive by nature. Most days, the only thing he craved was to sit by your side and—

“Malleus?” He felt a shoulder nudge into his side, a glanced down to find you, of course – staring up at him, smiling as if you already knew he’d been too lost in his own thoughts to listen properly. Immediately, it was all he could do to settle into place and smile back.

Most days, the only thing he wanted was to sit by your side and be with you, and it would’ve been a shame to squander such a golden opportunity to do just that.

He moved to apologize, to explain himself, but there was no need. You were already rolling your eyes and returning to your previous posture; curled into yourself, your legs folded against your chest, chin resting on your knees. It was strange – what lengths such a small creature would take to make itself even smaller. Malleus couldn’t help but find it endearing, the way he might’ve found a plush toy endearing, or a particularly charming prey animal. “I just don’t understand what’s going on,” you sighed, slumping further into yourself. Instantly, Malleus knew that whatever the cause of your distress was, it would not survive much longer than that night.

Still, he listened intently, as you went on. “I mean, I have to be the problem, right? I’m the only common factor – well, me and NRC, but it’s not like people are avoiding school.” Another sigh. This time, when you buried your face in your knees, it remained there. “They’re just avoiding me. I must’ve done something wrong.”

“Never,” he said, because it was true. Because you were infallible, save for your poor taste in companionship. “I can’t imagine what would lead you to believe such a terrible thing. Did someone tell you that?”

There was no real point to asking. He would’ve known if someone had planted such a vile thought in your head; would’ve dealt with it on the spot. Despite his reservations, Malleus made a hobby out of your safekeeping. If something were to happen to you, a human brazen enough to share his company so often, it would’ve reflected poorly on him.

(It’d occurred to him that you were not the first human to ever approach him, nor would you be the last, but Malleus opted against lingering on such technicalities. You were the only human to enjoy the spoils of his protection, and that was enough to make you wholly unique.)

You didn’t answer, not at first. Instead, your attention drifted from him to the view you two so often enjoyed together. It’d been difficult to convince you to join him here – on the roof of Diasomnia’s tallest tower, where one could make out mile after mile of dark, inviting forest in every direction and the dark colors of your dorm uniform blended into those of the night sky – but it’d been even more difficult to convince Vil to let you slip out after curfew. While Malleus knew he had no right to question the nature of your soul, he did often wonder why you had to be placed into Pomefiore, of all possible dorms. Schoenheit was one of the stricter house wardens, outmatched only by Rosehearts. It was difficult to steal a student of his dorm away at the best of times, and Malleus rarely wanted to see you at the best of times. If you’d belonged to Savannahclaw or, should he be so lucky, Diasomnia, there would be no need to rely on Schoenheit’s sparse charity after he’d already gone to the lengths necessary to seek you out.

But you were precious to Malleus, and there were few things he wouldn’t do to ensure your happiness. He cared about you – irrationally so. “My lab partner,” you admitted, eventually. Malleus felt something deep within his chest lose its shape, and yet his smile could only seem to widen. “I don’t know him that well, so it’s not like I have any right to feel… betrayed, I guess, but—”

“You have every right to feel exactly how you feel,” he interjected. “What did he say?”

Malleus already knew. He wanted to hear from your lips, though.

“It’s a little hard to remember.” And yet, you didn’t hesitate to go on. “I think… I think he might’ve said it was too dangerous to be around me. That I was a hazard to have in class, or something.”

That was only half-true, although he doubted you were lying deliberately. Just ‘a hazard to be around’ would’ve been more accurate, on its own. “Is that all?” He moved closer, draping an arm over your shoulders. Automatically, you melted into his side – your body slotting perfectly against his. “You have to know how untrue that is. You’re an excellent mage, and a pleasure to—”

“He’s not the only one, though.” It was the first time he heard your voice so pitiful, so distorted. Malleus couldn’t help but find it endearing. It would’ve been better for both of you, if you allowed yourself to be more reliant on him. “My roommate – that’s someone you have to share a room with when your dorm doesn’t unanimously decide to worship the ground you walk on, I know you’re probably not familiar with the concept – requested to move last week, and—” Your voice caught in your throat, your gazing turning downward. Malleus felt his fangs sharpen behind his lips, but repressed the urge to act on his less wholesome instincts. “There’s this boy in my third hour – from Ignihyde, I think. I swear, I’ve never even talked to him, but last time we had class together, he just came up to me, and—” You paused, shrunk into yourself. You attempted to pull away from Malleus, but he only drew you in tighter, and your resolve gave away far faster than his patience. “He called me a freak.”

Ah.

Malleus had wondered what’d come of his brief conversation with your classmate. It was a tamer offense than what he’d expected, although you were having a much stronger reaction than he would’ve hoped.

You weren’t wrong, for what it was worth. You hadn’t spoken to that particular classmate, but you could have. He’d planned to confess to you during your shared period, although he hadn’t thought to phrase it quite so romantically. Sebek had overheard him building up his courage, and it’d only taken a few words from Malleus to dissuade him from doing anything so foolish. Not that it was foolish to want to be around you – if that was true, he would be the biggest fool of them all. It was only foolish to think that someone so insignificant, someone so unimportant had any more right to be around you than Malleus did.

He couldn’t help but notice, as time went on, that all of the people you may’ve once considered friends were rather weak-willed. It was a tragedy, really. Malleus was aware that he had a reputation among the mortal portion of NRC’s student body, but that was no excuse to act the way your ‘friends’ always seemed to – sniveling and shaking, brought to tears by even the implication of a threat. He worried, at first, that they’d go running to you, spout off something awful and exaggerated that painted his protective habits in an unflattering light, but as far as he could tell, it was unfounded fear – an easily dealt with one, at that. Should anyone ever try to put anything but distance between you and themselves, he’d—

Well, he couldn’t hurt them. You wouldn’t care for him as much as you did, if he tried to.

That was, if you ever found out.

Again, his mind drifted back to Schoenheit; all narrowed eyes and pursed lips and disapproving scowls every time Malleus mentioned your name. It didn’t make him angry – he’d never been quick to anger, and it would only be childish to change that now – but he didn’t care for the way he felt when he was apart from you, when he couldn’t find an excuse to do away with the flimsy barriers that separated you from him. He didn’t enjoy the tightness in his chest, the dryness in the back of his throat, the way every little inconvenience left him on the brink of violence. No, he didn’t care for the way he behaved when you weren’t with him.

Yet again, his mind turned to Vil.

Perhaps he was more prone to anger than believed himself to be.

“Mortals,” He was talking before he realized he’d wanted to. His gaze flickered from you, still despondent and curled against his side, to the landscape, all-but pitch black under the thick veil of night. “are fickle creatures. They tend not to trust what they don’t control. Humans, especially.”

Another jab to his side, albeit not as forceful as the first. “Keep in mind that you’re talking to a human right now, Mal.”

“How could I forget?” This time, it was Malleus who detached from you, pushing himself to his feet and offering you a hand to help you do the same. With a huff, you followed him, mimicking exasperation as you let him guide you. “I only meant to say that you might not be entirely understood by such short-lived creatures. I mean, you’ve seen how they act around me.” He squeezed your hand, and bashfully, you looked away. “You agree, don’t you, (Y/n)?”

It took a moment, but with a small sigh and slight smile, you nodded. “…yeah, I guess. It’s not like teenagers are supposed to be nice or anything.”

“You agree, then. They’ve been treating you cruelly.”

Your smile wavered. Malleus considered that it may have been your fragility that’d endeared you to him. Or your inability to hide it, at least. “Well, I wouldn’t call them cruel, but…”

“But?”

“They can be mean, sometimes, I guess. The people in my dorm, especially.” You forced an airy laugh, turning away from him entirely. “I… I think Vil might’ve told them to keep an eye on me. They’ve been acting like I’m under house arrest, lately.”

“You must know how unfair that is.” Almost as unfair as Schoenheit’s attempts to keep you away from him. “And I’m sure you must know that you’d be much happier in a dorm with more open-minded students.”

Immediately, your expression dropped. You tried to pull your hands out of his, but he only tightened his grip. It pained him to exert any amount of control over you, but some pains were necessary. Those that kept you within the scope of his protection, especially. “I… I don’t really like where this is going, Malleus.”

“You haven’t even given me a chance to explain myself.” He didn’t realize his hold had tightened into something bruising until your lips quirked downward, eyes narrowing as you struggled to choke down a fractured whimper. Reluctantly, he released you, but his hands soon found their way to your shoulders. You couldn’t run, not on a rooftop, not very far, but there was no reason to give you the chance to. “I only think that you should consider how happy you could be if you—”

“Malleus,” you interjected. “I really don’t—”

“If you belonged to Diasomnia,” he finished, despite your protests. Impressively, you managed to bite your tongue long enough for him to explain himself properly. “Our students are much less territorial, and the majority are still human. If you’re afraid you’ll be an outcast, don’t be. You’ll still be among your own kind, just a less hostile breed.” When you failed to move, he gave himself the luxury of a less restricting form of affection – bring one hand up to cup your cheek. “I’m only trying to suggest that you seek out a more suitable place for yourself. It’s not as if staying where you are will make you any happier.”

“…I like Pomefiore, though. And it’s not like everyone’s avoiding me.” A lie, albeit one plausible enough to send a bolt of white, searing fear from the deepest hollow of Malleus’ chest to the back of his throat. He flinched, but caught himself before his pointed nails could harm your delicate skin. If you had any friends left (aside from himself, of course), he would tear them apart. He would carve their hearts from their bodies. He would—

He would change that.

There was no need to be so gruesome about it. Not yet, at least.

“You care for it more than you care for me?” He made sure to keep his tone light, teasing, only letting it dip into something more serious when you bit the inside of your cheek and looked away. “Please, don’t tell me that you still think they’re worth your time.”

“They’re not all bad.” You still weren’t looking at him. Malleus might’ve been more annoyed if he thought you had anything beyond him to pay attention to. “Vil’s a really good house warden, and—and, we have these skincare nights once a week, which might not sound very fun to you, but—Well, I haven’t been invited recently, but—”

To your credit, you didn’t need him to say anything. All it took was a sympathetic look, his palm slotted tenderly against your cheek, and you cracked before he had the chance to say a word.

“…but, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t.” You shook your head, shrugged, as if it wasn’t a matter of true concern. As if you wouldn’t give anything to be as near to him as possible. “It’s not like I can just decide to change the nature of my soul. That’s between the dark mirror and…” Another chirping laugh, like windchimes and birdsong and silver bells. Malleus could only hope he’d hear it again sometime soon, in a more celebratory context. “…itself, I think.”

“Normally,” he admitted, running his thumb over your cheek. “Save for when you have another extremely competent house warden to petition the headmaster on your behalf.”

Even in the dim light, he could make out your cheeks flush. Good. He wanted to have an effect on you – any effect at all. “Malleus, I—I really can’t ask you to do that. You’re already so busy, and I really don’t mind—”

“(Y/n).” Immediately, you went quiet. He rarely used your name, and you knew to pay attention, when he did. “If you can tell me, honestly, that you do not believe you’d be happier in Diasomnia than you currently are, I’ll drop the matter entirely.”

You pursed your lips, your eyes meeting his own for the first time since he’d broached the topic. “…and if I couldn’t say that?”

Biting back his grin would’ve been impossible. He could only hope you mistook his delight for relief. “Then consider it done.”

You really were a delicate creature. A few seconds of quiet anticipation, a gentle squeeze to your arm, and he all-but watched you fold into yourself, crumpling under the weight of your own isolation. A small, unsteady smile spread over your lips as you pulled away from him altogether, only to throw yourself into his chest; your arms winding around his neck as you pulled him into a lung flattening hug. After a startled beat, he returned the gesture, pulling you that much closer as you buried your face in the leather of his coat. “Thank you thank you thank you thank you,” you stuttered, speaking quickly enough for each word to slur into the next. “I—I just haven’t had anyone to talk to, but you’ve been so patient, and so nice to me, and I… I really don’t know what I’d do without you.” You pulled back, looking up at him. Your smile was brighter than he’d ever seen it, and Malleus took a moment to savor that he’d been the one to draw it out of you. “You’re the best, Malleus.”

“Think nothing of it.” He was tempted to pull you back, to hold you for just a few seconds longer, but you were already tearing yourself away from him, clapping your hands together as you rambled excitedly about how much fun it would be to stay in the same dorm, how much more time you could get to spend with him and Lilia, how excited you were to get to know Silver and Sebek and all the other underclassmen who liked to, in your own words, ‘bite at his ankles’. It was only when you took an over-eager step towards the rooftop’s ledge that he took you by the arm, pulling you back with an airy chuckle. “It’s gotten late,” he explained, snapping his fingers. In the blink of an eye, the two of you were standing in his dorm room, the rooftop and the night sky’s expanse left behind entirely. “Why don’t you spend the night in one of our spare rooms? I’ll make more appropriate arrangements in the morning.”

You agreed without a second thought, and as he walked you through the shadowed halls of your soon-to-be home, he decided that he’d been wrong, initially. The worst thing about you wasn’t that you’d chosen to be with him. Really, your closeness wasn’t a bad thing at all.

The worst thing about you, undeniably, was that you could still choose to be close to people who weren’t Malleus.

Thankfully, he was already taking measures to fix that.

[reverseexorcist]

★ 𝐅𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐁𝐢𝐫𝐝 ★

"If it's alright could I request Carmilla Carmine x a fem reader who's a fallen angel? Like maybe they met during extermination and got their wings ripped off for not wanting to kill Carmilla's kids or they were already in hell with Carmilla for some time before the extermination? If you don't want to do this that's totally fine, and sorry if this isn't how to request stuff :)."

Honestly, with how this ended, I'm really tempted to write a much fluffier part 2 to this

Part 2 ↫ Right here

➲ 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚 Carmine + !Fallen Angel!Reader

➲ Romantic ☐, Platonic ☒

➲ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 Count; 3,462 Words

➲ Warnings/notes; Female reader, descriptions of gore/blood, canonical Lute slander (sorry Lute), romantic or platonic wasn't requested so I went with platonic to fit the story more (if the requester wants romantic just feel free to ask me), mother mode Carmilla (she might be a bit ooc because of this),

Oh wow.

Oh wow were you shaking.

You couldn't tell if it was from the excitement or the nerves - Probably both if you were being honest with yourself, but you couldn't shake off the vibrating feeling tingling beneath your skin that made you want to fly laps around heaven. Your stomach was doing flips, but you led mask only reflected your nearly psychopathic grin and twitching eye.

Even after your lieutenant Lute shot you a stern look, no doubt pissed off because you couldn't sit still for five goddamn seconds, you still couldn't resist fidgeting with your spear. It was sparkly, and somewhat heavy, and a murderous weapon that was entirely yours! It was also cold, freezing almost. Even against your gloves it made your palms feel numb and seemed to shine in sync with your own valiant excitement.

Baby's first extermination, basically. While the name certainly sounded scary, you'd been waiting for this day for six months (you and the other forty-five cadets in your platoon) and you were ready to do your best! Sure, you were still technically a rookie, hanging around the flock and bringing up the rear of the exorcists, but this was how you proved yourself to rise the ranks, right?

Your heart stopped beating in your chest when you finally reached the front. Holy shit, that was the high seraphim! Sera, right? Oh wow, she really was much much taller in person, towering above the clustering sea of black and white murderous intent. Her outward vibe was motherly and caring, but you could see the glint of distain, guilt and regret sparking in the deepest depths of her eyes. Which was confusing, because you were doing a good thing, right? Ridding the divine planes of sinners irredeemable souls.

The thoughts crowded your mind - Evil, twisted monsters crawling around like bugs in the brimstone crowded crevices of hell. You could only imagine the satisfaction of killing your first hell spawn.

It would have to be cool no doubt. Something big with lots of teeth and claws and that could breathe fire! You had to come home with a cool story to brag about. You'd heard the tales from all your superiors. From everyone including the first man Adam himself, your respectably awesome (if a little terrifying) lieutenant Lute, to the other lieutenants like Michael and Gabriel. You'd have to off a demon built like a mountain to get their attention.

And by the big man himself, you were going to do it. Even if it took you a hundred years, you could already see yourself commanding a group just like yours, bearing a helmet with horns big and curved and bold, black stripes stippled along your ivory wings.

With a very particular pep in your step, you saluted the high seraphim Sera respectively, head cocked up just so you could regard her kindly warmth in fullness. Her smile didn't reach her eyes, and although she swiftly sent you on your way with the rest of your platoon, you couldn't help but let your nerves sway your resolve ever so slightly.

It didn't matter though! You unfurled your wings with perhaps a bit too much of a dramatic flair, but with your spear in hand and helm polished so it shined with malevolent glory, you kicked off without a second thought, tailing right behind where you were supposed to be.

Your first impression of hell was the heat.

With the extermination already well under way, raging fires were already burning up half of the city sending whorls of smog up into the air. You easily battered it away with a few strong flaps of your wings. With your head on the swivel, your eagle-eyes peered around the desolate land for the forms of the sinners struggling to thrive below, silhouettes hidden by the thick layer of smoke and ash blanketing the landscape.

Lieutenant Lute furled out her wings below you, a screeching war cry echoing throughout the battlefield as she all but left your rookie platoon in the metaphorical dust. The sound itself only spurred you on, itching for the blood of a demon on the blade of your angelic spear. Without a second thought, you tucked your wings to you sides and dived below, headfirst into the fray.

Billowing flames licked past you harmlessly, though they burned like hell (which seemed rather apt, considering where you). You didn't falter, flying through the embers like a goddamn phoenix ready to cleanse the realm sprawled out beneath you. The solid wingbeats of two of your fellow cadets only strengthened your resolution, a holy fire burning in your soul - An itch to clear the filth of devil scum away. This was the chaotic strength that your captain had sought to build in you, and now you were finally able to act on it.

But everywhere you looked, you only found simple, humanoid souls running and screaming in terror. Eyes wide, half-dead or bloodied beyond belief as they scrambled to find shelter from the onslaught of exorcists like yourself. Nowhere could you see the mangled forms of the demons you'd been taught to slaughter. Descriptions from your seniors before you passed through your mind - 'gleaming eyes with with wrath and lust', 'gangly limbs twisted to an unholy form', 'mouths filled with rows of sharp teeth, and claws like knives'.

You faltered, confused. The words of Lute rang out in your mind.

"Of course, it's not like they can actually hurt you. You're all warriors, the toughest, just use your spears to stab the shit out of them!"

You were alone now. You couldn't hear the comforting sounds of your fellow rookies behind you anymore. They were well in front of you now, peering around with a similar confusion to yours. But to your absolute horror, they simply shrugged their shoulders and dived forward with bloodlust evident in their glowing white masks. Silver points of spears were jammed through the heads of the terrified demons below. But were they demons? They didn't look like them at all. Every single book you'd seen depicting demons drew them as eldritch monsters with too many eyes to count, tentacles and claws and fangs with nary but bloodlust and vile thoughts hidden within their slitted eyes.

But the demons in front of you looked just like people. You could see the way their faces contorted in terror. You could see them scrambling to help what you could only assume were friends and family, pulling them along and carrying the ones who couldn't run for themselves. You could only feel your heart fall as you watched one of your best friends land on top of a sinner already crushed by rubble, turquoise skin stained red. The begged and pleaded and cried, but their voice was silenced as the spearhead sunk into their skull.

You flinched. The world around you ignored you completely, and for once, you were completely happy to go unnoticed.

Shakily, you touched-down in a nearby street. It was littered with already oozing corpses, but other than that it was peacefully empty. At least here the sounds of violence and pain and terror was muffled, far away enough that you could at least try to distance yourself and get your breathing under control.

You barely reeled in a gag as the smell of blood invaded your senses.

Was this really what you wanted to do for the rest of your life? You could still see yourself in your mind's eye, a model exorcist like your lieutenant now leading her own platoon into another extermination. Maybe this would be a one off, just a shock to the system that would get your mind reworked into killing mode. But, the more you thought about it, the more your heart clenched in pain and terror that seemingly matched the suffering souls around you. You were an agent of heaven, you thought you were killing mindless monsters, not those with human souls! Sure, there were probably shitty people fucking around down here, but what about all those who had to sin in self defence?

A chorus of startled gasps startled you out of your panic ridden stupor. Your wings flared up, trying to make yourself look bigger, more threatening as you wheeled around. The spear in your hands looked more like a prop at this point, and it was clear that you had minimal idea how to use it inside a proper battle. But still, you fumbled with it and pointed it threateningly in the direction of the two demons that had appeared right behind you.

They clutched each other, stumbling backwards and further away from the danger of your angelic weapon. One of them placed an arm in front of the other, her eyes narrowing behind her red-tinted glasses as if she was both terrified by you, but was daring you to do something about it.

But still, you could see them shaking from where you stood. They both seemed rooted to the ground, the one with platinum blonde hair refused to take her eyes off of you, but the demon behind her (maybe her sister? A friend?) was looking around nervously.

You could see yourself reflected in those crimson specs, and for once it made you freeze. You'd seen yourself in uniform plenty of times before, the steel boots and guard gloves and the led, horned helmet, but it always seemed almost comforting before. When you were surrounded by your cohorts, it made you fit in. Out here, you realised, you were the monster.

The ever-present smile on your mask shrunk, falling into a grimace as your grip on your weapon tightened. Your wings drew in, you shrunk backwards, almost stumbling over your own feet in the process of trying your hardest to get away. You never wanted to scare people.

So drowned by your own confusion and fear and reckless thoughts of worry about the future that you didn't notice the confusion growing the faces of the demons in front of you turn into abject horror as a far more ominous silhouette grew behind you.

"I thought I taught you not to hesitate," Lute growled in your ear, placing her free hand on your shoulder and digging her fingers in till your were sure a bruise was marred into your skin. You didn't respond, couldn't even if you wanted to. The trembling that rattled you only grew stronger, and you fumbled as your hands cramped painfully. With a resounding clatter, your spear dropped from your grasp an on to the brazen brimstone floor.

Lute growled.

She didn't say anything, but she knew. The both of you knew by now. You couldn't kill a sinner.

Lute didn't even hesitate before shoving you to the ground. Your head collided with solid stone painfully even with your helmet on, stars shining behind your eyes as her words blurred together as she pressed her foot firmly between your shoulder blades. Your wings shivered and spread involuntarily, and you feared the moments that would come next. Lute was unpredictable, but this could only end with bloodshed.

The two girls still hadn't moved, transfixed in horror as they watched the scene in front of them play out.

Asphalt stung your hands and you tried to claw your way to freedom, fingertips digging into the scorched Earth as you started crying. Lute, however, was stronger than you. Of course she was, she'd been doing this for centuries, and you were still a fledging on her first trip out of heaven.

You never thought it would end like this.

Lute dug her fingers into your wings, tangling into your still downy feathers before she yanked with all her might. The scream she tore from your lips was hellish, agonising, yet the blended with the sounds of violence all around you. You were sure you blacked out several times throughout the process, but by the time your old lieutenant was done with you, barely anything but feathery stumps and golden blood remained of your wings.

You could only curl up, cry and watch as Lute tossed clumps of feathers aside as she stalked toward the two demons that still hadn't had the thought to run. And for the first time in your life, you felt sorry for the sinners that populated hell's ring of wrath.

She would make them suffer, that was for sure. If she was happy enough to tear of another angel's wings, you could only imagine what she would do to a sinner. You didn't want to imagine, and your mind was fuzzy enough that you thankfully didn't have to.

The sound of something sharp rang throughout the air. It made you groan in pain, the sound piercing your ears and making your brain rattle in your skull. Sharp - 'Tink tink tink tink tink.' If you could see the look of relief coming across the demons faces, a part of you might've urged Lute to run. Only, she had just torn your wings off with little qualm, and now you had no shits left to give if she lived or not.

The exorcist never got the chance to strike, her weapon torn from her hands and thrown across the street till it collided with a bloody body. Lute herself barely had time to react before she was struck over the head once, then twice in rapid succession. A whirlwind of white and angelic steel and pure fury launched herself in the path between the two demons and the exorcist. It was almost exhilarating to watch, seeing Lute strike out with her fists in a pathetic attempt of hand to hand combat against her new foe. Whoever they were, they were really fucking fast, almost too fast for you to keep up with.

The fight was over before it started. Without her weapon, Lute couldn't do much against the sinner she was pitted against, and as ruthless as she was, she knew when a battle was lost. In a flurry of black and white feathers, she fled. And then the newcomer's attention was shifted to you.

At this point, you would've welcomed death. The pain alone was making you drift slightly, and you didn't even have the energy left to groan when whoever nudged you slightly with something hard and cold.

"Mother.." The words were so soft, floating away from your ears.

"We need to leave." It was undoubtably her. That voice was the one who beat Lute into the ground.

"What about..?" That was the one who called out for mother.

"Won't she tattle?" So that had to be her sister.

Those words sent a dose of adrenaline through you. With as much strength as you could muster, you clawed yourself into an upwards position. You could feel the clotting blood running down your back, but if you were going to die, you at least wanted to do so with some dignity.

Shakily, with much more effort than was really desired, you reached up and peeled your helmet off.

It clattered noisily like glass against the floor, and suddenly the world was much brighter, much more red and the air was laced with more sulphur and death than you could imagine. But what really surprised you was the look of shock written across the sinner's face.

She was tall. Really tall. The only person who could really compete was Seraphim Sera or maybe Adam, but you really couldn't tell with how delirious you were.

"Una niña?" They all looked surprised.

The one called mother took a few steps forward, confusion and anger clearly present in her eyes. But, as she kneeled down in front of your comparatively tiny form, you realised the anger wasn't directed at you.

"Did she try to hurt you?" She turned back to face her daughters. They both shared a look, but ultimately shook their heads no. That right there, was your saving grace.

She looked back at you, hair pinned into high horns, and took your helmet in her large hands. She passed it off to one of her daughters, before gently scooping you into her hold.

You whined, writhing minutely in her hold as the searing phantom pain of your wings being torn off returned. Fat tears rolled down your cheeks, and yet the demoness tutted softly, shushing you like you were a baby.

Her daughters followed without a word, and you and the family unit moved swiftly through the desolate roads. So many questions were running through your mind, and yet you couldn't find the answer to any of them, your thoughts to lost to the fog of blood loss to ever truly return.

"You better not betray me," Were the last words you heard before promptly passing out.

The plushness of a soft blanket was the first thing you felt waking up. For a moment, you felt nothing but relief realising the entire thing had been a horrid nightmare, but when you tried to rustle the numbness out of your wings, the relief was replaced with horror when you realised that your wings were just straight up missing, only two feathery stumps remaining in their place.

That made you shoot up in horror. You didn't even care about the sharp sting that ran down your spine and into your very being, you were a bit too concerned about your current predicament.

"You're awake."

That made you promptly scream before ducking under the covers like you were a nestling again. A soft sigh reached your ears, but you dared not to venture out from the warmth of the thick covers.

Not like you had a choice, though, as you were soon pried away from their safety. It was her, the demoness with the high-pinned buns. She looked down on you, red eyes glowing in the low light, and yet, you couldn't sense a smidge of hatred towards you. Only distrust and sadness laced her expression.

"How old are you?" She asked after the silence had gone on long enough.

"I'm a fledgling," Is all you said. You didn't really fancy giving too much information. Although, the look of horror the crossed her face maybe suggested that you'd already given away plenty.

"Obligan a los niños a hacer esto?" She raised a hand and carded it through her snowy tresses, locks of white hair threaded loose as she paced back and forth. You only watched her, slowly sinking back into the comfort of the warm blankets.

"You're still a child." It was a statement.

You hated being a child. You didn't want to be a child, at least, you hadn't wanted to be a child in the past. You wanted to join the ranks of the exorcists, and to do that you at least needed to be juvenile. Hell, you were lucky enough to make it into the cadets while you still had baby feathers decorating your wings. But now, the fact that yes, you were still technically a kid made your saviour look upon you with more than just disdain and hatred like any other exorcist, but rather she looked upon you with an emotion that you'd never seen before, and not one you could really name.

"You are a child, and now you have fallen," She eyed your mostly healed wing stumps, and you couldn't help but reflexively flex them anxiously. The literal weight off your back made you want to cry.

"Was this your first extermination?" She gazed upon you with a guarded look. You nodded.

"And you didn't hurt my daughters?" Another nod from you. That seemed to make her relax just a tad.

"Could you ever hurt someone?" That made you pause, the memories of the extermination rushing back to you full force. Tears grew at the corners of your eyes, and still, you answered with a simple 'no'.

She exhaled a sigh of relief before closing the distance and kneeling down to your eye level.

"Carmilla Carmine." She reached a hand out toward you. So that was her name.

You clutched your hands close to your chest, fearing her touch, but gave her your name anyway.

"What are you gonna do with me?" You asked, voice cracking. Her gaze softened, finally letting her guard slip for just a moment.

"Well, you weren't going to make it out there by yourself. You'll be staying with me," The words took a moment to sink into your mind. Well, at least it was better than death.

Gently, like she was working with a scared animal, Carmilla coaxed you out from the comfort of the bed, slowly ushering you to her side. With your wings missing and their remains bandaged, head bare and missing your exorcist helmet, it felt like the safest place in the world.

"Welcome to Hell."

Rules + Info,

Masterlist,

[not-xpr-art]

Len and Tommy's life told through nine photos ~

A fanart based on the Inside no 9 episode 'Bernie Clifton's Dressing Room' because I loved it so much!

(09/2024)

See below for close ups and unnecessarily detailed explanations of each individual artwork lol

First wanna say that I spent wayy too long on these (like 25+ hours), especially trying to make them look like actual old photos lol... also trying to get their likeness right for the various ages was really bloody hard lol, but hopefully each photo has the essence of each character even if it might not look 100% right pfft...

Second thing is that the dates & locations are very much my own subjective thoughts on their life and not particularly rooted in the canon of the show lol

Also I did go really heavy with the colour symbolism lol...

Ravenhill School, 1965.

The year they met, both are around the age of 10 (give or take). Len is 3 from the left in the top row, Tommy 2 in from the left on the bottom row (also I tried to include references to the other 2 League Of Gentlemen guys... Though I think the only vaguely recognisable one is Jeremy pfft)

Also shout out to @lapis-lazuliie for the idea that they met at school!

(side note, this is the least detailed of all the paintings not just because I was too lazy to render all those children's faces pfft but ALSO because of the significance of them being less recognisable or prominent in each other's lives in this point...)

I was planning on making another childhood/early teen photo but couldn't really think of any good subject matter that could also fit thematically with the episode (also the fact both are coming from poor families who would have had limited access to cameras in this era means we can just pretend that there are just no photos that really exist of them at these ages pfft...)

Photo booth in Leeds, 1974.

Both in their late teens, they'd (well, mainly Tommy) gone to a photo booth in Leeds with the intention of getting some professional looking photos only for Len to immediately make Tommy laugh once they got in there lol

The middle photo is covered in lines as Tommy had planned on throwing it away, only to find he couldn't bring himself to do it in the end... Is it platonic? Romantic? Both? Who knows, you decide lol! I mainly wanted it to be a candid moment between two people that love each other lol

(final one is them play fighting because that's kinda just what 19 year olds are like pfft... also I think photo booths technically gave you 4 photos? so let's pretend there was another photo that they did throw away for whatever reason lol...)

Rehearsals, 1979.

Deep in the midst of practising their routine for some of their first performances!

I'll admit this photo was mainly me wanting to include something more episode specific lol and also to get in some much needed heavy handed symbolism (the crease in the photo separating them, the bottle in front of Len's face, etc)

Polaroids taken at Tommy's flat, 1985.

In-between shows the two often spent a lot of time at Tommy's place (featuring that god awful sofa the previous home owner had left). I did originally plan to have them in the sofa shot together, but was finding it hard to figure out who would have been taking that kind of photo so figured it made more sense to make it shots they took of each other.

Also marks the beginnings of Tommy's weariness (& Len's over drinking...)

Outside the Glasgow Pavilion, 1988.

The morning of that fateful performance...

Ok not much else I wanna say about this other than the reference I used for the pose had Reece sorta awkwardly clasping his hands in front of him which I really liked but unfortunately in my art it just looked like he was trying to cover his crotch so I had to change it pfft...

Tommy standing at Len's grave, 2024.

The sixth anniversary of Len's death, and the sixth time Tommy has travelled across from France to lay flowers at his grave. Photo taken by Leanne from the inside of a taxi (I'd like to have had more references to her in these photos but was unsure of dates/ages where it would have fitted...)

She couldn't get her phone to not focus on the raindrops on the window as she tried to take a picture of Tommy at her father's grave but then realised that she actually liked the pathetic fallacy and had it made into a print anyway lol (look I'll be the first to admit that this is the least 'realistic' in terms of a photo that people would take, but I couldn't resist the symbolism of it lol...)

There were a lot more ideas for photos I wanted to do but for obvious reasons had to keep it to just 9 lol

Also will be posting these on my ao3 with snippets of stories to go with each photo so keep an eye out for when I share that link!

[spooky-dice]

there’s nothing wrong w hc’ing riz as alloromantic from a canonical perspective and i’m largely a live-and-let person, but some posts make me feel like some of you should inspect why you feel aromanticism makes a character less compelling, less relatable, or less sympathetic.

does a character not being shippable make them less connected or interesting or has amatonormitivity convinced you that romance makes a person more whole and that platonic relationships are inherently less valuable or complex than romantic?

technically speaking, riz has never been explicitly confirmed aro. there is however, a good amount of canonical coding that implies he is. coding is sort of a tricky thing to determine if it is canonical or not, depending on whether it was intentional or not, and historically speaking, intentional queercoding was usually outright noncanonical and contradictory. given d20’s MO when it comes to queer characters it is likely the coding is deliberate, but it is not confirmed within text.

personally, i think the text does not require an explicit canonization to be aro representation. i would like it! but to me, riz’s story is already an aro story and it means a lot to me because it is one of the ONLY ones i can think of and the ways it explores aromantic loneliness. aro/ace representation in public media is still in its infancy, and despite recent pushes for queer rep, there is still an all-time total of zero (0) aro main characters and >10 side characters in film and television.

also, i think people should be mindful about levying phrases like “he’ll grow out of it” “it doesn’t matter” etc, because even if your intention is to talk about riz, real aro fans can inadvertently catch strays, and the safety of real queer people should take priority above all else

[johnwickb1tsch]

you're the worst thing (i'm addicted to) PART 2

a john wick x Helen'sSister!Reader fic You are Helen's baby sister. When you meet John Wick at Helen's graveside, he invites you to dinner to celebrate her birthday. Set a few years after the first movie, 2-4 never happened. Use of y/n. Warnings: canon typical violence. Future reference to threat of noncon, (not John! because he's our assassin sweetiepie). Mourning. Smut. Grey areas. Questionable decisions. Sweetheart!John, BAMF!John Depressed!John - If you can handle the movie you should be fine here... PART 1

PART 2.

You tell him that you’ll meet him there. After your little crying jag, you have to go home and clean up. Maybe with some painkillers and a nap with an ice pack on your eyes you won’t look like death warmed over. He offers to pick you up, but you decline, knowing it would make the drive twice as long for him.

For a moment he seems like he wants to argue, but in the end he lets it go.

The restaurant is in Manhattan. It’s the sort of place you could never afford, and maybe even if you could, it wouldn’t exactly be your scene. You smooth your dress over your hips as you get out of your cab, hoping you won’t embarrass John. It was the nicest thing you own for a respectable rendezvous, a dark green paisley Etro dress with long sleeves that you’d scored at a thrift shop. It bared your shoulders with a wide neckline, but not much cleavage. You were behaving yourself tonight, despite the little suggestions the devils on your shoulders were whispering into your ear.  

Despite the fact that you arrive early, John is waiting for you outside, looking utterly edible in another black on black three-piece suit. Does he buy them in bulk? The thought makes you smile a little, a thing he returns in small measure. There is a sadness that cloaks this man like a mantle, and for a moment you wonder if that is what people see, when they look at you. You’re not sure you’re qualified to help him at all, but maybe, just maybe, there could be some solace in your shared grief for the same woman who left you both behind.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

Nervously, you look through the window at the glittering lights and swanky diners laughing over their expensive glasses of wine. You feel unbearably self-conscious. “Am I dressed ok for this place?”

“You look beautiful.” He says it so matter of fact, his tone completely platonic. And yet…

And yet.

He looks at you with a haunting intensity that grips you to the bone. He isn't even looking at your body. He's looking at your face, almost as though he's seen a ghost. 

You know you remind him of her, and you wonder if maybe this is a bad idea. 

But he shakes himself out of it, offering his arm, and even though you have an inkling that maybe you shouldn't, another part of you that is usually kept locked up in the dungeon with the rest of your worst impulses pushes you to take it, because you want to. Bolstered by his approval and your own special brand of foolhardiness, you slip your arm through his with your head held high.  

You haven't technically done anything wrong yet. Lusting after your sister's husband in an abstract way you never had any intention of acting on isn't exactly new. But the rest...is edging into a murky gray area.

What would Helen think? She'd probably be amused, truth be told, at least by your own inner turmoil. You remember that she told you once that she never got jealous when women went all googly eyed over her model-handsome husband, because she trusted him so completely. He doesn't even look at them, she said. 

Well. He'd looked at you, like he was a wolf and you were a tasty little bunny. Just the thought made you flush all over again, your fingers involuntarily flexing on John's bicep.

Dear lord, it was like granite. 

He looks down at you, curious, and you know you look as embarrassed as you feel. “Sorry,” you quickly apologize, looking anywhere but at his burning anthracite eyes. He pats your hand, but says nothing, sparing you the embarrassment of making up some lame excuse. 

You go inside, and the maître d’ is exceptionally solicitous. Welcome back, Mr. Wick. This way please, Mr. Wick. He and Helen must have been quite the regulars.

Once you are at your table John waves off the maître d’, opting to push in your chair for you. His fingers brush your shoulder afterwards. It was probably a mistake, but you cannot suppress a small shudder. He does not look at you as he seats himself, opting to pick up the menu.

You follow suit, your skin on fire. 

It was an accidental touch, you tell yourself.

He didn't mean anything by it.

You glance up from your menu, to find he is looking at you out the corner of his eye.

You tell your treacherous heart that attempts to pound out of your chest to settle the fuck down.

“So...what was Helen’s favorite dish here?”

He doesn't look up, and for some reason you are relieved.

“Guess.”

“Hmm.” You scan the offerings. It is mostly French leaning nouvelle cuisine. It all looks delicious, and very expensive. You know the moment your eyes find the line, and you smile. “The magret de canard.”

This time he does smile with you. It is tinged with nostalgia, and your heart aches. For him. For you. For the woman you are remembering together.

“She took me to Europe when I graduated from high school. She ordered that dish in every restaurant in France we went to. She said it was so delicious there was no point in trying anything else.” You cackle with another memory. “Then when we got home she was determined to learn how to make it. It went ok until the sauce. Holy shit, the black smoke in that kitchen was like a tire fire!” You wipe away a tear that is borne of mirth and memory. 

When you look across the table again John is smiling gently, as though he can see it perfectly in his own mind’s eye.

“She was a terrible cook.” He says it fondly, like it amused the hell out of him.

“I know. I am too, I’m not throwing shade here. Do you like to cook?”

The side of his mouth ticks up in a smirk. “Yes. I find it relaxing.”

Figures. He would be so perfect. One of many reasons Helen undoubtedly fell in love with him.

When the waiter comes John orders a filet, and you, the duck. “For Helen,” you say with a wistful curl of lips. He stares at you silently for a long beat before nodding, returning your smile perfunctorily. You marvel that you can already tell when his expressions are genuine, and when he’s playing the part he needs to for the sake of social nicety. Your heart aches for him. It must be so painful to be here, where he'd dined with Helen so many times. Maybe more like sticking a finger in a wound, than a brave act for the sake of nostalgia. What were the two of you thinking? 

It occurs to you, from things Helen had said, that maybe this is more than just her favorite restaurant.

“This is where you met, isn't it?” 

His eyes are fixed on a particular spot at the bar. “Right over there. She was meeting a client, but he canceled. So we had dinner together.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You didn't happen to have anything to do with that?” All Helen had ever told you about John's occupation was that he worked in security, but she had implied multiple times that he was resourceful, smart, and not someone to be fucked with.

The corner of his mouth ticks, his eyebrow rising slightly. You congratulate yourself for lifting him at least a little out of his funk. “I'm afraid it was just luck on my part.” 

“Fate,” you correct, toasting with your water glass, because you haven’t been brought drinks yet.

“It's nice to think so.”

“So then you had dinner.” You know the story. “Where did you sit?”

“Right here.” 

You feel a chill, knowing that once, your sister had sat in this very place, across from this very man, and changed the course of her life forever. You marvel at what that must have been like. You never fall for men quickly, usually keeping them at arm’s length for as long as you can manage. You’ve never experienced love at first sight, or first night, but looking at this handsome man across from you, it's not so hard to imagine.

“Did you fall in love that night?” you ask quietly.

“I did. I think for Helen...it took a little longer.”

Immediately you shake your head. “No,” you contradict, wanting him to know this. “She called me, the next day. She told me she'd just met the most amazing man and that she wanted to spend her life with him. I thought she was crazy.” You look around at the intimate setting, the low soft lighting and the swanky surroundings, a little misty eyed. Then, you look at him. This handsome devil with the soft eyes of a poet.

Helen hadn’t been frivolous. She hadn’t even been particularly romantic. Meeting John Wick changed all that.

“Maybe I understand a little better now.”

You look at each other from across the table. There is a longing in his eyes that you know you do not have the power to heal, and yet you would if you could. You would give a great deal to see this man made whole again—you’re not really sure why.

He looks away first, and you feel…raw. 

“Thank you. I…was the best version of myself, for her.” His long fingers trace a circle in the white table cloth, a hairline of a frown appearing on his brow. “I've slid backwards a bit, since.”

Hoo boy, did you get that.

“That’s ok,” you say softly. “We do what we have to, to survive.”

He looks up at you with those soulful dark eyes through his long hair. Your fingers itch to brush it out of his face. To touch him, and you absolutely know you shouldn't. Shouldn’t even think it. But there is something in the way he's been looking at you today. Something almost like…hunger, and your belly flutters with a thousand butterflies made of bad ideas and midnight longings.

“So…what about you? Are you seeing anyone?”

You shake your head with your heart in your throat. Is he asking out of politeness, making chit chat, or does he want to know if you’re unattached?

The truth is you’ve never had a relationship that lasted more than six months, and a nervous little laugh escapes you.

“I’ve…never met anyone who it was worth the sacrifice. Things are always nice at first, but then he starts to try to mold you into the person he really wants you to be, and you realize all along he just wanted someone to cook his meals and wash his socks.” 

John lifts an eyebrow at this, the corner of his mouth turning up ever so slightly.

“Maybe you should try dating someone who can afford a housekeeper.” He looks up at you then, his dark eyes soft yet penetrating, and you swear he can see straight through to the depths of you. The look almost feels like a challenge, somehow. You try to meet him head on, but in the end the unbearable heat of it makes you squirm, and you look away.

The waiter saves you from what you might say next, bringing the bottle of wine John ordered. 

Thank god, because you need a drink.

[yanderes-galore]

Since you haven't written for them yet... Can I request Yandere Elo Kadu Baqzo and Ndo Kadu Baqzo aka "Colony" romantic concept if it’s okay?

I'm not sure I can do romantic due to them being... worms... but I will keep it general!

"Yandere"/Overprotective! "Colony" Concept

Pairing: Ambiguous

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Overprotective behavior, Violence, Possessive behavior, Murder, Stalking (?), Forced companionship (?)

If you think about it, regardless of the pairing, having Colony protective/possessive of you would be terrifying.

Their species, the Mgalekgolo, have the ability to merge with vehicles.

Not only that but the two bond brothers are capable of convincing other Lekgolo to aid them.

The creepiest part of this is the fact that their species is just worms.

Which means... I feel their intentions towards you are neither romantic or platonic.

They just feel they have to be around you and protect you.

They'd shed blood for you as a Banished Leader.

Unlike most "Hunters", Colony has a translator to give orders.

So they can communicate with you to tell you generally how they feel.

On the Ark Colony is responsible for controlling all the Lekgolo in the area.

So you technically don't have two Hunters after you... you have a hivemind of worms.

While loyal to Atriox, for this concept I imagine them attached to a fellow Banished member.

They cooperate with The Banished but have their own plans.

How they think is an enigma, which is why it's weirder for you when Colony or other Lekgolo keep clustering around you like you're some sort of worm whisperer.

While they do have translators their speech still seems robotic and unfinished.

They somewhat try to tell you they like you in some way but it still perplexes you and other members.

After all... even Atriox is intrigued that the Lekgolo hover and protect you.

Everything from the Skittering units to the towering Goliaths... since Colony controls them all they all swarm you.

If anyone gets too close a Lekgolo unit quickly comes over to punish such a notion.

In a way you could way Colony stalks as you always have some form of Lekgolo near you.

Out of all Halo yanderes, Colony is probably the worst.

Why? They have endless swarms of Lekgolo at their disposal and are probably the strongest Banished unit.

No one can come near you.

If anyone picks a fight with you they are a fool.

It isn't long before the roaring cry of Hunters echoes and they swarm.

Colony is not affectionate, it's mostly like having bodyguards.

Atriox lets them have you around since they seem oddly behaved when you're around.

You're both under good care yet imprisoned.

Colony sticks around you one way or another no matter where you go.

It's unnerving to have the two Mgalekgolo approach you so often.

Sometime they'll try to talk with you beyond orders but they can't hold longer conversations.

Again, not affectionate, but I can imagine you touching the exposed worms and them... growling? Vibrating? They seem happy.

While I can't quite pick a pairing for this they may fall under the Animal/Pet-Like category more than anything.

You have worm bodyguards that will squash anything that comes near you.

In a way they express what seems to be possessive behavior around you.

Colony themselves prefer to be around you more than anything.

So while they order other Lekgolo to be infantry and scout... they stay by you.

The entire time you're a bit on edge while the two Lekgolo stretch their "heads" towards you as the try to keep your attention.

It feels weird to touch the worms but they seem to vibrate in enjoyment from it... it's so damn weird...

Overall, I feel Colony acts more like overprotective bodyguards more than anything.

They're useful when they're on your side...

Yet with their strength and numbers... you aren't getting away easily.

[ambrossart]

good morning!!! I hope this week is better than your last, I’m looking forward to the next chapter of Paper Men! I was rereading and noticed that it seems, of all her love interests, Patrick is the only one who doesn’t hold her to this impossibly high standard. I was wondering if you did this intentionally (because I can tell everything you’ve written so far has been) or if this could change? I feel like this is partially why I root for Patrick even though he’s bad news, he’s different than Henry and Vic… he’s openly interested in Evelyn and seems to admire her (admire might be a strong word for him) differently than the other guys have been. idk if any of this makes sense lol. just seems unlike Vic and Henry, he doesn’t need Evelyn to be perfect.

Well, tomorrow (or uh… today, technically) is my birthday, so this week is already gonna be better than the last lol. I was just really busy with work last week, and I'm still getting used to my new writing schedule. Normally, I have a little free time during the afternoon to write, but not anymore. Now I have to do all my writing late at night. I don't love that, but I don’t really have a choice.

Anyway, it absolutely was intentional to have Patrick treat Evelyn differently because I want people to understand why someone like Patrick (who, at first glance, probably doesn't seem like Evelyn's type) might appeal to her, especially at this point in her life.

When it comes to relationships, Evelyn is very direct. If she likes someone, either romantically or platonically, it's pretty obvious that she likes them. Evelyn's not good at holding in her emotions, and that, unfortunately, can be overwhelming for a lot of people. We saw that with Victor when they were kids. Evelyn came on very strong right out of the gate and Victor couldn't handle it, so he kept pushing her away until Evelyn eventually gave up and moved on. Then she got “involved” with Henry, which was a slight improvement but came with all kinds of other problems. And you’re right, he does hold her to an impossible standard. Henry demands perfection and absolute loyalty from his partner; otherwise he doesn’t feel safe. That’s all well and good for Henry, but it’s not exactly fair to Evelyn.

Frankly, Evelyn’s exhausted right now. She’s tired of putting all her time and energy into one-sided relationships. She wants to be wanted. She wants to be desired. So now here comes Patrick, who is very consistent and clear about what he wants: he wants her, that’s all. He doesn’t play hard to get. He doesn’t pull away. And he doesn’t place any expectations or restrictions on her. With Patrick, Evelyn can do whatever she wants. She can be clingy and emotional. (In fact, Patrick wants her to be emotional. The guy’s a leech; he feeds off that shit.) She can’t cross a line because Patrick has no boundaries. It’s basically impossible to make that man uncomfortable. That’s gotta be pretty liberating for someone who’s used to walking on eggshells.

Most importantly, Patrick displays a genuine (or at least a seemingly genuine) interest in her, her life, her hobbies. He asks questions. He listens. He remembers. Does he have an ulterior motive? Of course he does, but does that really matter? Eh, I’ll leave that up to you. 🤷🏻‍♀️

Right now, Patrick is exactly what Evelyn needs, and I think if she ever lets her guard down, she’ll be surprised by how attracted to him she really is.

… which is what Patrick is counting on. 😂

[ennissg]

If nobody else asked them yet 3 and 8 for the asks?

I got the exact 3 and 8 ask for A’mos but since you didn’t specify which durge I’m gonna ramble about Dr. Vrach this time if that’s ok, I just think about both of them a lot🙏

Based on this ask. (also ty for creating it! And additionaly thank you for making it not romance specific!) While this is technically durgetash I wanna specify that it is strictly platonic between these two. Tho, I’d argue this doesn’t make their bond less unhinged. It might make it worse actually?

3. What did Durge think of the little wannabe Tyrant at the beginning? Someone competent or someone who tries really quite hard?

For this I hc they met way before Gortash even became a banite, before he was sold to Raphael even. Dr. Vrach never forgets a face, just like he never forgot the face of a certain lower city cobbler’s kid who tried to pickpocket him once but got away bc he couldn’t snatch a child in broad daylight with multiple witnesses, nor could he be bothered, when he wants to keep appearances as a well-meaning doctor. 

He is getting into his 120s when they meet a second time, both being a wizard and a demigod he was able to extend his lifespan way above what an average human has and he has full intent on going as long as he needs to bring his father’s rule and achieve lichdom himself. So, when he sees Gortash again, 10-15 years later, having successfully resurrected the cult of Bane in Baldur’s Gate and strolling over to the living(for now) flesh and blood of Bhaal for an alliance? Oh, he was intrigued to say the least. A man forged in the hells, fostered by tyranny, with an unstoppable drive for progress and absolutely no limits as to what is ethical  - what a terrifying combination for a human to have. What an amazing opportunity to observe this brilliant mind, he would’ve dissected his brain if it didn’t kill him instantly, too. He saw so much potential in Gortash, potential he could help him realize. Dr. Vrach instantly became invested in his work, he wanted to become his mentor, to teach him how much more death he can bring into this realm if he only had more knowledge.

And Gortash, finally getting that older nurturing figure in his life? Finally getting his talents not only recognised but encouraged and cultivated? Yeah, he didn't get an assassin for hire, he got a free uncle who's always elbow deep in gore and likes to call ghouls his "colleagues".

8. Both Gortash and Durge are sadistic little gremlins, so when it comes down to it, who's better at torture? And did they make a competition out of it?

Absolute torture olympics at the Iron Throne all day every day for these two. And, unfortunately, no judge survived to keep the score but it is definitely in Dr. Vrach’s favour. He is always up for “research” and there is no end to lucky participants in his very ethical humanoid trials™ as well as his lifetime experience as a necromancer and a self proclaimed medical professional. Sometimes he’d like to see how many organs a person really needs to stay alive, sometimes he’d try to turn someone’s skin inside out all in the name of curiosity of course. It's edutainment to him. Magic certainly helps to keep them alive longer, he’s not interested in seeing the limit of an average person, he wants to see the limit. Period. How much can one’s body endure before its soul is released to the Gods? How far can you go past organic matter? It was a regular Unit 731 when they got together. 

There isn’t much of a difference between Dr. Vrach’s research and torture though, so it’s hard to tell at times.

[atrpntime]

tell us some aphorisms abt art or like someth uve been thinking abt tht might seem embarrassing or pretentious to say

Sure anon, lets get pretentious; Not every created imagery is art. I would define art as the articulation of some idea, feeling or concept through a medium. intention plays a big role in this but is not entirely necessary. whether something is art doesn't mean its good or bad, plenty of bad art, plenty of not art.

Technical skill matters so much less than people think all that matters is the total aesthetic cohesion and appeal.

I almost never use reference unless there is something very specific from the real world i want to use. I have a photographic memory and innate curiosity about the world that i just learned how things work how to draw a scene how to place objects etc. Most all of the clothing, cars, buildings, objects etc i just designed on the spot, it is by no means perfect but I like to have that flow tapping from the internal platonic form in my minds eye. To pollute that stream by regularly diluting it with reference would lose the feeling as they say, the perfect is the enemy of the good.

[ephemerensis]

To You; February // Bakugou Katsuki x GN! Reader

ya new character 4 me ik,, anyways this is formatted as a love? letter/ monologue from katsuki 2 u! no pronouns or physical descriptions just… a lot of rambling. pretend ur birthday is the day after valentines pls </3 u can argue that it’s out of character but i disagree 🤨☝️ not proofread as always xoxo love yall

—

Something about February has always invoked in me a sense of docility.

It doesn’t make sense.

I have coined myself as an embodiment of passion and rage and discontent. It's against my nature to feel so calm.

I wouldn’t go as far as to say something stupid, like the love of the season settles onto me. I have sought none and I seek none. I’ve never had the desire. Love isn’t real; at least not the way it’s made out to be.

They make it seem so trivial. As if to be with someone defines it. I see in them, the fear of being alone and the fight for having someone over intertwining with someone. It’s almost melancholic. It’s completely idiotic. I reject every suitor in my path.

I don’t care for public displays of affection. I never have. Only morons need to parade around something so vulnerable like it’s a show. I care even less for sweet nothings. There are so few words that ever carry meaning anymore. How could a person be in love without ever presenting everything they are to the other? They mean nothing when they claim that my eyes are the most dazzling they’ve ever seen. Or maybe those idiots do mean it, everything glimmers if you squint. They see it without seeing me. If it were real, it would be too raw to be spoken. It would be whispered like a prayer. To salvage it from being stolen, or worse, remade and copied and sold until everyone has it. It becomes nothing.

At the very least, if I’m going to vocalize the most susceptible, intimate parts of me it should rivet through your soul and be yours alone.

Yet paradoxically, Valentine’s is my favorite holiday. I find myself more tolerant. Sometimes I’m even happy for them, because despite the intentions and deceit and falsehoods and inflations of avoiding a fear— at the very least they have succeeded. I find myself happy. Maybe it is something stupid. I’ve never had nor wanted another person, but I once had a soul shattering inkling of you.

Of course, we weren’t together then. We were never together. But we were never friends. Stuck somewhere on the cusp of both and yet impossibly far away from either. And somehow still, in that platonic complacency you managed to breathe an innate sense of comfort into me. It’s like my persona was unfired clay, I crumble to you. Your words meant nothing, but when you called me dumb I couldn’t have been more irrevocably enamored. I found myself content. Like a moment of clarity in the midst of noise. Especially, on a day I so often found to be profane. But I can hardly justify my favoritism through the confines of contentment alone. It’s too ordinary.

That’s not to degrade contentedness. It’s a peace I spend my longer days pining for. Above joy, it is ecstasy to know the permanent renderings of contentment.

But I would be lying to say it’s the only reason. Really, it's something more technical. The day after, forever and inevitably, was always your birthday. When you first told me, I said it was unfortunate. Who would want to celebrate with you when the world was too caught up in the whims of chocolate coated affections. But you said you didn’t care, validation never meant so much to you. That congealed loneliness I so often expected you to feel doesn’t exist. I know that now. As if anyone else ever mattered in our lives, yours and mine.

It was then I began waiting for Valentine’s Day. I looked forward to it. There was a time when I even pined for it to end, because it was a permanent, promised excuse to talk to you. We spoke so often but every sentence we’d exchanged always entranced me. You still do. But February especially was always yours.

It became my favorite holiday to justify all that. Then it became less about you. Half because I was never vocal about my feelings, and half because I grew too fond of platonic complacency. Until I did believe it was my favorite. It’s true now— although I’m not sure it was ever really a lie. I think somewhere in my mind I equated the two.

For the first time in years, I almost forgot your birthday. If you didn’t text me the day prior, I might’ve. But that contentment you stirred in me perpetually rolls in with the month, with or without your presence. It is yours. I don’t believe in love, but I can’t deny I do love you. You have bewitched my soul. That calm, content forever. A promise of nothing. We were never meant to be together, and I love you.

—

likes and reshares appreciated !

[constantlymisspelled]

4 - Mandalorian Divorce Court (and Marriage I guess)

[Text in image is as below]

i) Spouse Definition;

a) Romantic, lifelong partner b) Defacto partner in the eyes of the Law, Medical Professionals, and in Clan Law.

ii) Spousal Privileges;

a) Medical Preferential contact and Consent b) Parental Rights regarding Foundlings, Adoptees, and Children from previous marriages.

iii) Conditions for Legal Engagement;

a) The Mando’ade and their partner in question must both be past the Mandalorian Age of Sexual Consent. b) The Mando’ade and their partner, if the partner is not Mando’ade, must have the approval of a Clan Goran to be engaged.

[Text in images is as below]

iv) Consent and Age Restrictions;

a) Age of sexual consent varies between species to great degree. However, for the vast majority of humanoid species, the age of sexual consent is from fifteen onwards, if the other participating partner is within eighteen months of their age (upwards). The age of consent for any humanoid with a partner over the age of eighteen is explicitly sixteen – with or without sexual intent or participation. Sexual relationships that start before these ages and break these rules with humanoid aging individuals will face statutory rape charges. Humanoids of species that age at a slower rate – such as Halassai – are not able to give informed sexual consent of any kind until twenty, and that includes even humanoid partners of a younger age. If both parties are below age of consent, regardless of species, the partnership in question is to be physically removed from each other, and their guardians and clan face fines and jail time for either encouraging, or ignoring underage copulation. b) The Species Aging Index – Accredited to Ordo Technical College – is a comprehensive list of comparative ages between over two thousand of the listed Sentient Species in the Galaxy. The capacity to give sexual, informed, and clerical consent is referred to heavily by Mandalorian Laws to this specific list. Cross species relationships, whether they be sexual, familial, or generally platonic, are subject to the constraints discussed in this list. For instance, a Wookie must be at least seventy standard years of age to even consider adopting another sentient, let alone sexual liaison with another from any species. c) The legitimacy to give consent refers to whether the correct being is being asked for consent – a third party is rarely necessary for engagements, marriage, or divorce. However, witnesses are frequently required. A divorce cannot be filed, not a separation, without at least one partner’s explicit consent. A divorce or separation cannot be fled without any partner being the instigator – family cannot request a divorce on another’s behalf; however, a separation can be requested if there is proof of invalid, or inhibited consent at the time or marriage, or if abuse can be proven. For example, a partner could be under the influence, or trappings of another clan, and their respective clan can file for temporary removal from spouse in order for the partner in question to be psychologically assessed for any interference on the behalf of any clan, clan member, or partner. d) Consent under coherent capacity refers to either inebriation, ability to think independently (for example, mentally impaired Mando’ade with certain disabilities can not reasonably consent to specific matters due to their disability. Signing on a disabled Mando’ade’s behalf can be a position of extreme scrutiny, as Mando’ade with such disability are protected under Mandalorian law and are not to be traded as chattel or near-slaves to their partners.) injury such as concussion, and mental stability, referring to the old practice of Mando’ade taking war prizes in the form of unwilling partners. Such things are no longer to be tolerated in Mandalorian space, and those that attempt such practices will face Mandalorian Military Court.

[Text in image is as below]

v) Conditions for Legal Marriage;

a) Both parties must be present and of age at the time of the vows, and at the time of engagement announced to witnessing Goran and assembly. b) In the occasion of battlefield weddings, both Mando’ade must be in their right mind, with no head injuries, mind altering substances, medical or magical interference, and cannot either be currently wearing sentient trafficking garb, or currently be a slave. c) Mando’ade cannot marry a non-freed slave. Those who marry slaves and keep them as such are declared dar’manda and will face both Mandalorian and Galactic Court. The Freed are completely able to marry any Mandalorian once freed. d) Both parties must be able to give informed consent of their own accord – in the event of a Mando’ade with impaired mental faculty, their carer, who cannot be their future spouse, must be present and one of the signatories for the wedding. Only Mando’ade who’s mental faculty works beyond the significantly impaired grade can reasonably give consent for sexual conduct and intent.

[Text in images is as below]

vi) Conditions for Legal Divorce;

a) Divorce must be recognised by a Goran and witnessed by at least one third party, non-Clan aligned Mando’ade. A divorce cannot be completed without a witness. b) Reasonings for a Legal Divorce (Dar’Riduurok) can be of the following; a change in political, environmental and marital circumstances that cause undue stress to the partnership, the partnership’s children, or the partnership’s Clan. c) Reasonings for a Legal Divorce that declare one or more of the parties involved as Dar’manda (Resulting in a Court Recognised Absolution of Their Oaths) can contain the following; physical, emotional or mental abuse of the spouse requesting the divorce or children within or outside of the partnership’s Aliit. Spouses can divorce a partner without becoming dar’riduur by sending a request to both their local Astro Body Governor, System Governor, affiliated or unaffiliated Goran, Journeyman Protector Commander in Chief, and even the Manda’lor in office if required. If the Manda’lor in question is the being to be held to account, the House Alors can be notified in their stead. d) Divorcees from within, or outside of Mandalore – if they do not have the explicit exemption of a Court Recognised Absolution of their Oaths – cannot marry again and consider themselves Mandalorian afterwards. Divorce does not make a Mando’ade no longer Mandalorian, but ignoring these stipulations resorts in excommunication from Mandalorian Society. e) A Separation Request can be filed without divorce when necessary – such as when a Super Commando has a break in psyche and requires institutionalisation, a Separation Notice will be filed. Whilst, before and after a Separation Notice is filed, a Mando’ade can remarry. Mandalore does not define Marriage as between two partners exclusively – however, lack of notification to other partners can result in a Ban of Marriage and even a Separation filed between the Mando’ade and their ven’riduur in question. This can continue on to existing partners if required, and if the breach is significant. f) The removal of a Mando’ade’s Beskarta is not required to acknowledge a Divorce, Separation, or loss, and is up to the individual beliefs of the Mandalorian in question. g) A married Mando’ade can marry again with the same requirements as their first marriage for as long as a divorce has not been filed.

[Text in image is as below]

vii) Children, Clan and House Considerations;

a) Children are permitted to disown a parent for their choice in partner, or choice to separate from partner or Clan. b) Children from a previous marriage – depending on the stipulations and the manner of the previous partners death, separation, or agreement to a new partnership member – are readopted by both their new parents, and previous parents in order to maintain family security. c) Warring Houses, or Clans in conflict, can not demand any prospective partners discredit, or denounce their oaths. Regardless of the Clan or House of any set of partners, Mando’ade are permitted to marry anyone of any sector, or belief, for as long as the children they raise are raised as Mandalorians. d) Children that are raised as Mandalorians, but do not wish to swear the Creed cannot, regardless of their parents, or Clan’s feelings, be disowned or disavowed in any way. The swearing of a Creed is not what solely makes a Mandalorian, and they cannot break oaths they have not sworn. This is not a legitimate reason for either separation, or divorce in Mandalorian Law.

[Divorce section, my beloved. As always, if you have any ideas or criticism feel completely free to let me know. The sections on consent are close to my heart for many reasons - including having a family member who cannot give Mental Faculty Able Consent - and so I hope I have made it as fair and bullet proof as possible, but I am always happy to make any improvements anyone can think of.]

[Back to main Codex]

[unfunny-mcsqeak]

regulus and pandora were in love. what kind didn't matter to them, though the tabloids called it romantic and their acquaintances called it platonic. but they knew it was more than that, they knew that to eachother they were everything. they got married, though their love wasn't quite romantic. it worked for them. they got to be united, in magic and law, in a way that people recognized. they got to be lord and lady black, which helped immensely in their "little projects". and they got to spend their lives together, like they always knew they would. there was nobody they would rather be with.

barty and evan stayed with them for a weeks, then a few months and eventually they just never moved out. it suit them well to be squatters, and even though pandora and regulus were married none of them would dream of changing the dynamic. barty and evan were family, just as pandora and regulus were and they had no intention to split up.

dorcas had her own place, of course, with marlene. she was still there more often than not but her absence was always there. though they were technically living apart dorcas would come to their place and they to hers at any hour of the day, with no warning. it weirded marlene out at first, especially when she got up to get a drink of water and found evan reading in their kitchen at 3 in the morning. she got used to it eventually.

pandora and xeno would still date, though her family was always her number one.

[too-destiny-panda]

Wyllvember Day 15: Karlach

A/N: I'm not really happy with how this came out, I'm blaming my classes ending at 8pm for causing my brain fatigue. Anyways, hope you enjoy! Prompts are @sagscrib 's, and I'm also tagging @commander-yinello WC: 627

Wyll’s contract is very clear when it comes to his duties. Mizora has specific targets for him to hunt and he must oblige no matter his thoughts on the matter. So far, their goals were the same. He killed and wiped-out monsters she told him to and since they were a stain on the world, he didn’t hesitate to do so. Karlach was supposed to be the same.

And yet when he finally confronted her, talked to her, he had realised that Mizora’s intentions weren’t always as forward as he thought them to be. And so, after a tense few moments, he stowed his blade, his thoughts and feelings a mess. This was not what he agreed to. On paper, apparently, he did, but in his heart? No. That is not what he stood for. But as he stood there, watching the conversation unfold between the fiery tiefling and Tav, he couldn’t help but wonder. Was this the first time wool had been pulled over his eyes? Were there more like her, people that were painted as fiends, that he slayed before they had a chance to utter a word in their fence?

His only comfort in the days that came after his involuntary transformation into a devil was that at the end of the day, he stood by what he believed in, and the only price he paid was physical, no matter how hard it was to come to terms with. Next time, Mizora wouldn’t be so merciful. Tav had muttered about the terms, saying that a mechanical heart was still technically a heart, that nowhere was it said the organ had to be made of flesh and blood, but at this point it was semantics. The she-devil herself admitted that turning him back was beyond her powers, so ultimately, it was best not to dwell on it.

Their new barbarian addition was a cheerful, strong person, one he meshed extremely well with. Neither of them could stand injustice, they both had an extremely soft spot for children, and they both were sometimes a little rasher in their decision making than they should be. On the battlefield he would curse his enemies to make them easier targets for the great axe that swung upon them, their combined strength a fearsome spectacle in of itself, not to mention the other two accompanying them that picked off any stragglers attempting to distance themselves from the bloodshed.

But battle was not the only place where they worked well together. During their down time at camp, they would swap stories, curse devils together and reminisce about Baldur’s Gate together. They would talk about their favourite spots to hide from the adults, the best shops and tastiest taverns, the views and the muck under their boots. Talking about their greatest heroes and idols, with a bit more fawning on Karlach’s side once they met Jaheira. Both fighting against the infernal current that constantly tries to pull them under.

Both of their lives were difficult, the part right before adulthood especially so. And although beating Mizora at her own game was a distant prospect, they both discussed different ways to make Gortash pay, and how to give back to the city what he so forcefully took. Their upbringings were very different despite Wyll’s constant attempts at causing trouble and hiding from his teachers, but their shared understanding of the other’s pain and not so dissimilar hardships was something rare in this world. Some extra romantic poets would call them platonic soulmates.

As they journeyed on, pacts broken and hearts overheating, a silent promise was made between them, swearing that if one was to succumb to the torrent of the Hells, the other would be right there to pull them out of it.

[practically-an-x-man]

help me I'm thinking about Nikoletta and Abner's dynamic with the Squad again

I keep thinking about how Nikoletta and Abne resort of become the outcasts among the outcasts when they're in Corto Maltese. Him because of the dots and the outbursts about his mom and all that, as the movie goes, but her because she's cold and reclusive and never comes within a few feet of anybody (plus, all of the lingering impressions of her from back in Belle Reve, the prisoners generally tolerate but do not like her). The only person she lets get close at all is Abner, and even that starts out slow and awkward.

So they're the outcasts of the group. And while Nikoletta (who's survived the past few decades only because she's learned how to read people and manipulate social situations) is aware of this from the very beginning, Abner (who doesn't have much socialization outside his siblings and a few bullies in Belle Reve) is very much not.

Now Nikoletta's on edge, both for her own safety and for Abner's - even at that point, she had a bit of a soft spot for him, and the whole reason she was in Corto Maltese to begin with was because she worried someone would try to off him at some point during the mission - and it only keeps growing as the mission goes on. And of course, she's also constantly on guard to avoid spreading her shadow-touch to the others. Abner's having a good time, making friends with Cleo and getting his hair ruffled by Flag in la Gatita Amable and all that, but Nik is more stressed than ever. And she's so emotionally repressed that she probably doesn't even realize why she's more on guard than usual, she just assumes it's from the upcoming danger of the mission.

And then there's the matter of the two of them. They start getting closer from the plane ride (technically even a little before, with their interactions in Belle Reve itself, but the plane is really the catalyst), and while there's nothing particularly romantic about it until la Gatita Amable, it's still enough to attract a bit of attention from the others.

It starts with DuBois. Just a few comments here or there, dry and ironic teasing that maybe comes out a bit too sharp but is really harmless in intent, get a room and leave space for Jesus and other sarcastic little digs like that. Abner doesn't quite catch onto what he's getting at, not yet, but Nik does.

Then they meet up with Rick, and he sees DuBois' teasing and starts to play along. He's... well, not quite heavy-handed, but his Southern sarcasm is a little different from DuBois' dry British wit, and Abner catches onto the joke. Again, though, it's all harmless, and not nearly as bad as the flak he normally gets - and he and Nikoletta both seem to realize that if they let this fracture now, when she still can barely convince herself to hold his hand, it might not ever come back.

And then we get Peacemaker. Now he's the Saint Bernard of the bunch - always a little late to the joke, but rambunctious to the point of being destructive to try and make up for it. He takes it from harmless teasing to something a little more antagonistic, and as we see in The Facts Are These, this results in a few close calls for Nik and Abner.

So that just places them both in this really strange spot, at least at the beginning - they don't quite fit it with the others but can connect one-on-one, though that connection itself opens them up to more scrutiny, and at this point Nikoletta is still so tightly-wound that she hardly even processes it as anything more than an assessment of social power dynamics. It's not until she saves him from Starro, or maybe even until she wakes up in the hospital after that, that she realizes she's made an emotional connection with him at all (and even then, she's not entirely sure whether it's platonic or romantic or some mix of the two).

[yomogi-mogi-mochi]

Pygmalion (V)

Pairings: Rook/ (Pygmalion) MC // Idia/MC (Platonic)

Summary: You were frequently told that your career as a renowned sculptor did not match your dull and less than colorful personality. With your cybernetic hands, you carve the lives and deaths of those long gone‒ producing pieces which have been held in both technical and emotional high regard, dubbing you with the title “Pygm.AI.lion” despite your human heart and brain. When you accidentally still the usually flamboyant archer into silence after he comes across you working in your atelier‒ you find that you’ve become a victim to one of his ceaseless stalkings. Though, you’ve been prey long enough to know how hunt the huntsman himself.

Notes: The devil has been “putting me through the fucking ringer” as white people say. Been going through it recently lol February has already been such a shit month so I tried not to let my absolute mental spiral into ceaseless despair affect my writing as much hahaaaaa

Short but dense chapter

Anyways enjoy the fluff and angst (*´∀`)♪

CW: Mentions of grooming

AO3 Link Here.

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 (Here) // Part 6

Masterlist.

——————————————————

Your friendship with him flooded into your life after that day. The two of you began to spend your weekends in the atelier from mild afternoons, until the moon rose high in the sky. Truth is‒ neither of you meant to stay for too long in the company of one another, but the bright laughter that carried throughout that small shed had made you both blind to the crimson brilliance of the setting sun and the bellow of the moonlight‒ only just noticing the darkness of the world when you aught the flickers of the candlelight lick his carefully carved features, glowing against his golden hair. You thought of grand baroque sculptures‒ the way he swayed and glided his arms in sweeping movements, tipping his head back into jubilant laughter‒ catching yourself posing him in your mind, committing every crease rippling from his fair smile, every which way his fingers fluttered against one another, sometimes against your own, carefully chiseling his flowering delight in your mind. 

The two of you began to whisper clever lines to each other during critiques, tossing amused looks during rehearsals at Film studies club, shared each other’s warmth in your atelier. He urged you to talk with Idia after what you had said, and you nodded, following the march of his heart as part of your own. Idia was surprised when you showed at his door, lifting your heels off the ground to reach your arms around his neck. Even with his slouch, you felt joy in how much he had grown. Rook also followed you in this manner, listening intently when you showed him techniques and effects on his camera‒ racing your brilliant sensibilities as quickly as you revealed them to him, with a dancing heart. 

“You seem different. Happier.” Idia says with a smirk. Ortho agrees, quietly catching the lingering glances each of you gave during rehearsals, your snickers and banter when you thought no one saw. Time had slowly receded back into the beat of a human heart once more‒ something you realized when you could remember each day, each sweet moment of which you and Rook slowly unraveled yourselves to one another. The two of you discussed all matters of things‒ ancient carving techniques dead to the world, the taste of his food, your friendship with foregone artists, his extravagant experiments in the science lab. You taught him attitudes of love, art, creation‒ trading thoughts which bloomed from your heart. 

“How does your food taste?”

“Like buttered clouds‒ honeyed with the sun.” 

“What are you carving?

“Guess.” 

The stories of your six hundred years of existence felt no richer than his own years. When he reminisced about his childhood, you could catch fragments of your youth with it‒ revelations of long forgotten memories surfacing by the enchantment of his voice. You remembered Lutetia, the name before the City of Flowers, your time you spent in the sun, skipping rocks by yourself by the pond. Rook recounts similar stories‒ perhaps you would have been friends as children. The centuries that had weighed upon you felt impossibly lighter when you faced his excited laugher.

The scarcity of time and distance mattered less to Rook when you divulge him in your secret smiles‒ too much to enjoy here, now, at the base of the ripening fruit tree that he had not thought much of the decay of his harvest, but the sweetening morsel in front of him. The game‒ the hunt never ended, however he no longer hopped from one carcass to another, instead following this animal with narrow, childish joy and curiosity. That picture of clarity in his mind felt brighter than ever when he allowed the fresh fragments of himself that he gave to you to be a part of it, which you returned with your own growing roots in that painting‒ creating, hand in hand, a magnum opus of beauty. There was truly no way to spend the days between the two of you without coloring it with each other’s warmth. 

You knew, soon, you were going to begin to find shapes of him everywhere you went‒ and in his absence, you would glance over at the imprint he left, and ache. The way his face stained pink with electrified blood when his touch lingered on yours made this longing worse, the rebellion inside of you nearly crumbling at his fingertips. The only thing which fortified that revolt was your knowledge of how it ended, the sculptures that surrounded the two of you which descended their decaying image upon you were evidence to that relentless tale, that curse. 

Sometimes, you indulge yourself in such sweetened moments, your backs against each other resonating each other’s heart beat while you sat carving splendidly insignificant sculptures into ivory, he, fiddling with the camera in his hands, raising the screen when he remembered one of your exhibitions he had gone to, showing a picture of his adoration. But at times like this, it all felt too close‒ the ache much too acute for your swelling chest‒ suddenly aware of the closeness between you two strung together by your neighboring hands. Dread tightened your brows, you shrunk away from the warmth. This cruelty was a curse of your own making, but it was spun into your long, long life in such a way that it was almost unavoidable if you wanted to prevent your heart from breaking. 

“Ah‒ sorry‒“

“Désolé, I did not mean to after‒”

“No. It’s alright.” Your smile reached the corners of your eyes, lifting them like the climbing in your chest. “I just try not to, because of my magic. My body is unpredictable‒ I don’t want to hurt anyone.” 

“Does your magic affect living things as well?”

“No, but‒“

“Then I trust you not to hurt me.” 

You would let him do whatever he wanted with you when he said things like that, cradling your hand with such tenderness. Anything‒ just don’t let go, don't leave. Don't leave me.

 He asks you many questions, your thoughts. You don’t mind his curiosity. 

"What did you intend with this piece?"

"What did I intend with it?"

"Yes. What did you intend when you created her?" He pointed towards the wax covered figure they glowed delicately in the dusty sunlight. 

"My…" you lingered a bit at his words. "Like I said before. My hands move on their own. I am a sculptor who carves not with the mind or heart." Ignoring the tug in your chest at your own words, you continued. "I possess stone with life that has departed, and fossilize its demise into marble. That is all I know…I…" You were suddenly aware of the slight jitter in your movements, caused by your cybernetics. Opening and closing your fists, you could see the inhuman tick through the glass lens, connected to the enhanced retinal scanners of your eye. You knew of the cold, black blood which ran through your plastic veins. "Why…" Those words felt heavy on your lips. 

Rook pressed a finger against your chest, feeling the rhythmic drumming of your still very human heart melting into his skin, into his hand, traveling to the thundering of his ears. He hoped to fish it out so you could hear it for yourself too. "Here. What did this one here have in mind when you created?" He noticed his height made it perfect to gaze right into where the flesh over which your heart beat. "When gods create, they make their creations in their own image." The green tucked behind the slits of his eyes flickered towards you. "What sort of god are you?" 

You clenched the nausea in your abdomen. “…I am no god. These hands that create do not belong to me. I am merely a vessel to humanity’s life and death‒ its sorrows, pains, happiness. I merely observe it.” Your words came out in short bursts as you struggled to string together words that reflected your splintering heart. “ I cannot feel it. “

“What about your pain? Your sorrow? What about your happiness?”

You were silent. “My,” Rook took your old hands into the softness of his own. “My sorrow. My pain. My happiness.” The swirling in your chest felt muddled, a fine slurry of colors‒ you couldn’t identify what was what and where if you wanted to. You heaved out shallow breaths. 

“Your sorrow. Your pain. Your happiness.” His cheeks raised to a slivered smile. “Treasure it, like you treasure others’.” Rook hadn’t meant to say the last part, but as always spoke with as much conviction as he could. He meant to keep it deep within himself, melting into the chasmic depths of his heart so you could not trace the entrails to his soul, where he hid in the forested depth of his viridian eyes‒ but when he found himself lingering, deepening his gaze towards you, he couldn’t help but to cleave those words from himself, so openly offering a part of his heart. No wound had felt fresher, more incandescent, more real. You press your hand on top of his, resonating the fluttering of his pulse at your sensors with your own elating heartbeat, as if to answer‒ yes, yes, yes . It tickled. 

“Then show me yours, so I may know what to treasure.” 

 It had been centuries since you let go of your inhibitions to let the world eat you raw. You devoured each other in that tenderness, carving open your chests and watching them beat in each other's hands. Even in the face of blazing firelight against the darkness of night, your grotesque flesh burns the brightest, kindled with unparalleled vigor‒ the most soft, the most lucid, the most real thing in your hands. 

So it was inevitable that he would bear witness to the sudden stutter of your movements. 

It was during one of those temperate weekends, the two of you delightfully blind to the scorching sun setting on the horizon. You had been able to acquire a particularly fine specimen of ivory, carving it hollow into a small casket, sizing it to the dimensions of his hunter’s arrows. You chiseled diligently, with a murmuring chest, a low relief depicting scenes of affection, adoration, devotion. You remembered crowns of daisies, buttercups, and pansies merrily laced in wind tossed hair; scenes of lovers tending to a beast of love, the unicorn; secret meetings between sweethearts in the rose gardens‒ sculpting them prettily onto the creamy material, engraving the features as soft and tender as the feeling in your chest. There was a slight jitter in your arms, sure, but the swelling feeling in your chest carried you to an ignorant bliss. You place the casket on the drafting table, and go to lift a large slab of marble to access materials to polish the box. A tick sounds in your arms, you try to ignore it, but you're unable to when the full weight of the marble is slammed onto the ground, carrying your arms with it. Oily strands of black bead from your chest to the ruptured arms at your feet. You bend down‒ expecting it to pull together like threads, but it doesn't. It simply lies like cold flesh on the wood floor. 

"Maître d’Ivoire?"

When you don't respond, looking blankly at your fallen limbs, he tries again‒ closer, soft touch tickling your neck. 

"(Name)?" 

"It's not…" Fright seized your throat. "It's not mending. My Orpheus system. It's not working." There’s a slight tremble in your voice, Rook catches it with ease, steading your shoulders as you rise. 

"Let us search for Roi de Ta Chambre." 

You nodded dumbly. A worn cloth is wrapped around the arms, Rook searches for another cleaner one, before he shrugs off his own coat, wrapping it tightly around you. His smell‒ deep earthen oak and warmed amber on skin‒ is the only thing you take note of until you find yourselves in the hallways of the Ignihyde dorm, which feels stretched with your soaring anxiety, your knees wobbling as that lift each heavy foot to catch up with Rook’s hasty pace. You find yourself stumbling, staggering to the cold wall with your head leaned against it, the floor spinning from under your feet. Rook scent rushes closer as he catches your body, letting you slowly fall to the ground to rest. 

“Let’s rest a minute‒ before you’re falling into my arms again.” He makes you chuckle, you're glad he does as it distracts you from the gravitational feeling of something heaving from your chest, energy‒ or something more primordial from it‒ pouring from that thread of tension drawing from your lungs. You close your eyes for a moment, only lifting its weight and the slight one at the corner of your lips when you feel him pulling the jacket closer to your chest. Normally you would have detested such a fussy action, but you had little energy to thwart his movements or the smile mirroring your own, nor minded the warmth that came with his florid hands, enveloping you in his golden sanctuary. 

A darkened shade sharply colors your vision. You shift your eyes from Rook to the towering figures, your entire body clenching into itself at the sight. 

"Hello my little ram." He says with a crescent smile, arms open like a covetous falcon. Pointed teeth slashed across his face, glimmering sharp sliver in the inky overcast of his face. 

The words dry in your strangled throat. The shimmery, twisting horns archaic and unforgiving as the river Styx, the hair dark as burning coal sticking sharply in the air; the staff coiling around his veiny hands, commanding every movement of his body. Krios. 

“We were looking for you everywhere, young Jupiter.” He retracts his smoothed arms‒ just then, you notice he does not have the same weariness he did when you last saw him. It frightens you. “I can’t say I’m pleased with where you ran off to.” The creases at his nose bridge, and twitch of his eye were almost negligible, but the exact shapes were blackened in your memories as a sign of great vexation despite the hissing lightness of his voice. 

Somehow, you force words out, staccato breaths. “They brought me here. They chose me. I belong here.” 

“More than your family? More than I?” 

“I don’t believe strangers are welcome here on Night Raven’s campus. I would be glad to retrieve an escort to see you out, monsieur.” You see Rook's jaw tighten as he clenches his teeth through a thin smile, raising his cheeks just enough to reach that strain from his lips to his eyes. You shudder as you haul your body off of the floor, aided by Rook’s rushed hands, steadying your legs, your chest, your heart momentarily with his touch. Krios follows your movements carefully, crimson eyes slender and slow through the narrowed slits of his face. You turn to Rook. 

“Do you mind getting Idia for me? I’ll be alright here.” 

“Are you certain? I‒” 

“I am certain.” You curve your lips into a reassuring smile, quelling for a moment, the shaking in your body with all of the energy you could muster. Relief floods you when he nods, his hands stick Ike honey before he speeds off for Idia's room. 

"Why have you come to get me? S.T.Y.X has not come to collect me since Night Raven College called for me, not ever, since your…” you chose your words carefully, remembering the coldness of fallen flesh of the man standing, sprightly, in front of you. “... sabbatical. Why now?” 

"Who was that boy just now?" He trails his gaze to the endless hallways of the dorm, as if to pierce his precise location.

"Won't you answer my question?" 

"Oh sweet child." He curled his taloned hand under your chin, then curving it to your cheek. You thought to pull away, but didn't, instead wrinkling that disgust in your brows. "Look what they've done to you here. So defiant, so soft ." 

"My softness does not negate my abilities." You would treasure it dearly, harbor far from all of this . 

"With what arms, my child? The whole reason I'm here is to fix you. Don't you have some gratitude for the family who took you in and gave you everything ? You have it all‒ fame, immortality, youth‒ you could have power too, you know." 

No , you knew. You knew now. You were ablaze, enlightened by the brilliance of your own life, spun in the heavenly refuge of others. "I was so young. Conflicted. You took advantage of me. All of you. Every single one." The words were spat from your tightening throat. You knew what his presence heralded‒ your body would be brought back to that lab, subject to Krios’ dissections. Though you felt yourself being ensnared by Krios’ gaze, you felt that if you did not cry out this poison in your body, you would turn back‒ resist against the inevitable. You would spare that bitterness from yourself, from Rook. You glowered, a searing violence in your eyes. 

“I don’t want any of it‒ and you rob me of everything in return. My humanity, my memories, my youth- gone. What more must you take from me ? ” You bare your teeth, clenching an animal violence in the blood of your mouth. There’s your humanity. In the brutality, the lament of your eyes. It’s all still here, now. You want to tear him apart. 

His smile never falters, plucking your dismembered arms from the ground. With a lithe hand, he waves his staff, levitating your limbs in the air, before the blot swirls to your shoulders, threading together your body in curdles of jerky ink. You quickly shrug off Rook’s jacket so as not to soil it, allowing Krios to place a hand on your newly mended shoulder, bare to his sharp touch, cold as a cadaver. You lurch yourself from it, reaching down to grab the jacket, warming your shoulders inside of it. 

"Are you done with this tantrum of yours, my dear little ram?" He chided, slinking his hand onto your neck to turn your body towards his. The grief, the fury is slowly dying inside your chilling body, you clutch onto it in your thundering chest to conserve any of its fleeting warmth. You think of the fluttering pulse of Rook's hand, bright and balmy as the sun. "Feels good, does it not? Blaming others for your own shortcomings. Come back to your family now, you won’t survive without us. I'm giving you the change to go quietly before‒ "

"(Name)!"

You inhale sharply, and do not meet Idia's eyes. It would break you. 

"Master Idia, Master Ortho. How good it is to see you two again." A tightened smile.

“Rook is getting the headmage as we speak. You have no jurisdiction here Krios. I don’t know how- ” 

The doctor titters a piping whistle that cuts through Idia’s words. “Doctor’s orders, Master Idia. Right, (Name)?”

You wish you had the organs to vomit, the way he pulled your body close to his side while your name sat on his tongue like a blight‒ the smell of bleach and decay overpowering the warming amber of Rook’s scent. He turns to you, expectantly, a sly tip of his head which says, “ you know what to do .” You want the world to collapse‒ cindering fires, cataclysmic tornados, roaring thunderstorms‒ anything that holds all your rage and grief. But the youth, the heart Rook has resurrected with his careful hands knows the ruthless wrath pooling in Krios’ eyes that adds, try me, do it. Not a threat, a declaration of your power against his. 

“Idia. Ortho. Hear me.” You know the expression on his face without having to turn. Crumpled at the center of his nose bridge, head down. It was like this, always, back at the lab when you would tease him and his brother. 

“ Anything .” Idia answers for the two of them. 

"Watch over him. Over yourselves too."

"(Name)-" His voice breaks. 

“Idia.” You’re able to turn to him now, holding the last drop of humanity in the warmth of your smile. “Take care. It’ll pass.” Then, like blood, you drain it all from your body.

Still, it returns‒ breaking into your veins like a flood. You wanted to clobber yourself from weeks ago, begging Rook not to let go. It was always you, always . You swallow that lump of humanity down your esophagus, deep deep into the belly of the darkness. 

Krios rubs a thumb of your neck, guiding your movements towards the carriage you suddenly find yourself staggering towards. You twist out of his grasp like a feral animal‒ letting the coat fall from your shoulders and snatching the collar of his neck. Your breaths come out in white, steamy gasps, as you think, your gaze gritting against his never ending smile. No words, not even in all of the arcane, ancient languages you knew, were big enough for the hollowness in your heart, and the anger at the one who twisted it open. Hunger, starvation, famine‒ these words were not enough for the cosmic emptiness. You heave, silent, crumbling to the ground, pathetically grasping at the ground near Krios’ feet. The jacket is seized in your hands, rushing to a fragrance of humanity‒ of warmth, of life, of love. it will never be like this again. The frost you feel rising now is especially fracturing, knowing what the warmth from the rapture of the sun felt like on your flesh. It splitters you. This is not a wound your body can mend.

——————————————————

Notes:

Gina Lorenzo Bernini was a famous Italian baroque sculptor, you’ve probably seen some of his works in the past without realizing it‒ his work has been featured in a lot of mythological and Roman Catholic contexts. If you look up his pieces like David, Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, and Blessed Ludovia Albertoni‒ you’ll see what I mean when I was comparing it with Rook’s over dramatic movements lol. Baroque sculptures are typically very dynamic and have a melodramatic flare‒ but still retain a sense of sturdiness and realism‒ perfect for Rook I think. Very sensual, beautiful‒ and kind of scandalous for its time period. But some art historians argue that he’s even better than Michelangelo so sometimes you gotta be horny in the wrong time to get that sweet sweet fame after your demise ya know. You’d be surprised how many artists fit that statement

Also fun fact about Baroque painting‒ the guy who is most well known for it, Caravaggio (you might have heard the term “Caravaggesque” and chiaroscuro which are attributed to him and the overall baroque movement), killed a guy. Like literally just stabbed a guy to death. And NO ONE talks about it

Magnum opus: Basically the most important piece of artwork an artist produces (most renowned, most popular, etc)

Lutetia (called Lutèce in French) is actually the old name of Paris, meaning mud or swamp in Latin.

I feel like I spoke in riddles with all the analogies I’m using with Rook lol. But I feel like fits the flare of his character while it also grounds itself in reality a bit with its very visceral experiences. Like the whole fruit tree analogy is like Tantalus' thing‒ except the catch is that you’re the thing that holds yourself hostage from claiming the fruit, which I think is a very relatable experience for people who’re are in that young adult stage. 

Ivory chests, or coffret in French (meaning “coffin”- however no connection to death or burial rituals) were used as dowry pieces, or tokens of affection during courtship, as they often depicted scenes of love‒ especially through hunting imagery that was growing in popularity during the medieval period when these were made. Since they were much smaller because of the limited shape and size of ivory, they often held small things like trinkets, jewelry, locks of hair, etc. There’s a pretty famous version of these caskets (“Casket with Scenes of Romances”) that were reproduced multiple times in Paris, the center to ivory carving in the fourteenth century (unfortunately because of the plundering of Africa during the period). There’s a strong intersection between secular and nonsecular imagery during the period because Christianity was growing as a huge patron of the art world‒ so I changed some of the imagery up a little bit. Also, because of the unfortunate sexist and colonialism bit (keep in mind Crusades had just ended like a couple centuries ago too, and contributed significantly to national French identity)- like images of love being equated to the take over of a castle, images of combat, and the hunt and slay of a unicorn. Yes, heteronormative courting rituals have been convoluted with a slight air of violence for centuries folks. Anyways wanted to add more gentle imagery since A) don’t love the sexism and colonialism bit and B) it better fits the overall theme of acceptance and gentleness.

Yeah can you tell I like consumption imagery in my writing? Not at all right 

In “Flowers of Manhood” by Christopher Looby he describes daisies, buttercups, and in particular pansies as terms for "flamboyant gay men", which in the mid 20th century had become a symbol of queerness and queer love. As a queer myself, it's difficult to completely separate my own life from my writings‒ and with a GN MC, I thought I would add that in as a little homage to any of the queer people reading this, since we are so rarely represented in media.