#I just wanted to draw killer in a skirt

[ossiethegreat]

drew the sillies in me and my bff’s outfits except I’m not saying which one is mine

@paximilion gay 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴

Color belongs to superyoumna

Killer belongs to rahafwabas

:-)

[doctorho]

thinking about viktor with a chronically ill reader. you know? we see the vision, right?

it just works.

the thing with chronic pain, illnesses, disabilities, all of that - is that you can't always see them. sometimes you can, sure, you can see the mobility aids and the not-standing-up-for-too-long and the bruising from blood draws and sometimes you can see the compression garments, the pills and inhalers and the i'm fine, i just need a moment-

but most people just don't pay attention to that. or if they do, they don't put the pieces together fast enough to figure out what's really going on under the surface. viktor does, though; he's been there, and most of the time he's way beyond hiding it. or, well, he's way beyond hiding some of it.

walking with a cane was like carrying a neon sign that said yes there is something different here. yes i can't walk the way you can. no it's not going to get better. that last part wasn't directly evident just from him using a cane, sure, but with the way his cane looked, it should've been pretty clear. He had used one practically forever and it had evolved with him, he'd made it as comfortable to use as it could be, had even made it match his uniform.

so yeah. viktor knew what it was like. he'd been the disabled kid forever, even if some of the others were never going to say it out loud. that was just a thing about him, and he knew how hard it could be to navigate something like that in an academic environment. it was hard to admit you couldn't do something, that you had to sit down, that you needed a moment. that sometimes your body was just falling apart for no particular reason and it was just another tuesday.

sometimes it was easier to sit with the pain than take medication in the middle of a meeting, knowing that someone would make a bigger deal out of it than it had to be, even if it was just raising their eyebrows meaningfully. they'd think about you differently afterwards.

he could see you push through it, and he didn't blame you, really, he did that himself, too, but - he didn't want you to hurt yourself. you hadn't been in the lab as long as he had, so he could understand you being a little cautious with how you acted and what you told people, but he didn't want you to feel like you had to put on a show for him. he was, after all, walking around with the equivalent of a light-up sign of i'm disabled, too, and he liked to think of himself as someone who wouldn't come off as judgemental about stuff like that. other stuff, sure, stupid stuff, but not that.

so when he sees you dealing with the telltale signs of being in pain, he conveniently sends jayce and the others to pick up some parts that would take a while to collect and that they wouldn't actually need until the next day. but better prepared, right? what's the harm.

and then he comes to sit next to you and sighs deeply. leans back. relaxes to the best of his abilities. asks if you're alright, and sounds like he already knows the answer.

you sigh too, shift your position, and answer with it's fine. and viktor recognizes the strain in your voice, in your posture, and he knows there's a key difference between this and i'm fine, but he'll take it. it's not what he'd like, but he'll take it.

he leans over to dig around his belongings, and then offers you a bag of candied almonds.

"if you're going to take pain killers, it's better if you eat something first," he says, and you just stare at him. "i assume you haven't taken anything yet. nothing strong enough, at least," he continues, casually, and you take a deep breath and accept the almonds.

he smiles. continues like this is totally normal. "jayce made me start carrying around some food so i could do that. for myself, i mean. but it doesn't hurt to have some snacks around either way, i suppose."

he knows he's skirting around the real topic of the conversation, but he also knows that sometimes people get uncomfortable around his bluntness, and you hadn't exactly told him you were in pain, so he'd understand it if you were a little weirded out. after all, most people didn't notice this stuff. but you haven't run away from him, and you're eating, and then you're digging around your own bag to take your medication, so he'll count this as a win.

thanks, you exhale, handing back the almonds, and he takes a handful of them himself.

"i'm fine, really," you continue, not really looking at him, "it's just hard sometimes."

he nods. it was - even if he didn't know the specifics, he knew that it was true. especially since you had been hiding it from the others. and with something like that, something the others couldn't see, the invisible step to let them see it would grow bigger and bigger with time, when they expected you to be able to do everything they did without a second thought.

he also knows you didn't mean fine in the dictionary definition sense of the word, but more in the this is normal and you don't need to worry -sense. and that's fine. he was used to functioning on different parameters than most people, so this version of fine was good enough.

my body just isn't always very reliable, you explain with a sigh, and that he knows better than well.

he hmms in answer and nods. he knows.

you exhale a small laugh at that.

and he's glad you're relaxing, wants you to be as comfortable here as possible.

"these people are alright," he says casually, "as far as healthy people go."

viktor smiles a little.

another win for him.

and then he sits with you, talking and not talking and enjoying the quiet comfort if it all. and then he makes up some excuse so you don't have to keep working yet. he was well aware what it was like trying to work through the pain, waiting for the medication to kick in, and he wouldn't exactly recommend it. besides, as a rule, you were more likely to make mistakes if you were thinking through a layer of pain, and that was just plain bad planning. it made much more sense to just take a break and continue when you felt better. in fact, he was in dire need of a caramel latte and a pastry right now, do you want anything?

and after that it just... sort of falls into place. you're more relaxed around him. and the others, too, but he's the only one that really gets it. doesn’t make a whole thing out of it when you need to sit down for a moment or take a break while your pain killers kick in. he's just there.

he knows what it's like, and that feels like an invisble curtain lifted from between you and him, and it's just easy. you don't have to pretend you're doing better than you actually are and he doesn’t hide it when he's in pain, either.

most people don't see it, but there's a mutual understanding there; yeah, sometimes life sucks and sometimes you're in pain and no it's not fair that sometimes your body is falling apart and life just keeps going. you can't do all the things you want to do but you still have to show up for the other life-stuff and if you took a day off every time you felt bad you would never get anything done and it just never stops.

but sometimes there's someone who'll sit through it with you without judgement. offer a warm drink and a snack and some understanding.

[rhiannonsknife]

you are quite literally an angel sent down from heaven. i think i died and ascended all the way up to the pearly gates after reading your response

i know you mentioned this a little bit in your coworker!rhiannon drabble and i don't mean to be beating a dead horse but theres just something about teasing rhiannon while she's at work, especially if you're working with her, only a few feet away but impossibly out of reach

you keep sending her explicit messages, detailing every dirty thought that passes through your mind, and you relish in the way that her cheeks heat up the second she reads them. you also send her countless photos every time you go to the bathroom (or even sending a photo at your desk with your skirt lifted just enough for her to see your absolutely soaked panties) and you know from the way her eyes widen and her finger presses down on the image that she's saving every single one of them

coming over to her desk because she wants you to "help her with an email" after toying with her all day and she's whispering in your ear, telling (begging) you to stop being such a tease. of course, you "accidentally" brush a hand against her clothed cunt in response, enjoying the way she whines under her breath and glares at you with her bottom lip between her teeth

it eventually gets to be too much and she's beckoning you to come with her to the bathroom for a "feminine emergency", but in reality, you're getting down on your knees and pressing kisses to her dripping pussy

she's so close to cumming all over your face when you hear someone knock on the bathroom door and ask if you're alright in there. rhiannon looks down at you, wondering if you're going to stop, but you just give her a look and keep lapping at her cunt. she's desperately trying to croak out an answer in a way that doesn't give away that your tongue is inside of her, and all she manages is an "i'm fine!" before she's cumming all over your face, almost drawing blood with how hard she bites on her lip to stay quiet

and oh, she's not letting you off scott-free for all your teasing. she will be pulling out the strap the second she gets home and bringing you to more orgasms than you can keep count

-🪐

🪐 anon please don’t ever stop spoiling us with your genius thoughts. nsfw content. mdni.

i feel like office sex with rhiannon in general would be…something. in the beginning (before becoming a serial killer) she would not be as down to try, too worried about getting caught. but once she gains enough confidence?? suddenly, rhiannon is the one who regularly shoves you into the bathroom stall or starts feeling you up from behind when it’s just the two of you in the staff room…

but, anyway, once said confidence is established you make it your mission to tease her as much as anyhow possible!! you know you are rhiannon’s number one soft spot and you know exactly how to make good use of it…

right now, you’re on your knees before her, her skirt pushed up her thighs, her panties already stuffed in the pocket of your jeans (which is where you’ll be keeping them for the rest of the day).

it had started harmlessly enough. after waking up with her earlier this morning and making a point of entering the office separately to avoid any unnecessary and annoying commentary from one of your colleagues, you haven’t stopped thinking about her once. how could you when, the night prior, you’d spent hours in bed together? when you can still taste rhiannon on your tongue from how she’d been riding your face shamelessly?

so, obviously, you had to make your horniness her problem.

if you could, you’d literally send every single one of your useless coworkers out and ask rhiannon to eat you out right then and there, on top of your desk. but, since that was not an option, you had settled for the next best thing: texting her. every other minute, rhiannon’s phone went off. at first, she expected something work-related and her eyes went wide when she saw your message, telling her about how you couldn’t stop thinking about her in explicit detail.

and you didn’t leave it at that: you kept sending her messages, even used your bathroom breaks to send her pictures, too, pulling up your shirt or shoving your hand down your pants. you can see from your spot that rhiannon, despite her warning glares, looks at every single one of them and even saves them to her camera roll. once, you even called her desk phone from the bathroom, only to moan into the received or hold it to your own pussy, letting her hear how wet you are for her.

when she finally got up from her desk to beg tell you to stop torturing her already, you pushed it too far. or, at least, you’d pushed rhiannon over an edge that she must’ve been toying for a while at that point: as she pretended to point out errors in an email you’d written, she leaned over your shoulder from behind.

“i swear to god, baby, you need to-“ your hand pressing against her crotch shut her up. “quit” she gasped, her hips immediately rolling against the press of your fingers. rhiannon’s lashes fluttered and she sighed softly.

“bathroom” she had instructed once she finally gathered herself. “now”

and, who are you to deny her that?

and that’s, precisely, how you’d gotten yourself into your current position: kneeling before her, panties taken off and out of your way, mouth where it’s supposed to be: on rhiannon’s cunt. she’s dripping down your chin, at this point. your teasing must’ve really done it for her.

rhiannon is leaning back against the sink to balance her weight, one leg thrown over your shoulder, a hand buried in your hair. her head is tilted back a bit and she’s panting already, even though you haven’t done much yet. only mouthed at her pussy, licked broad strokes through her wetness, and pressed the tip of your tongue against her clit in a way that had her knees buckling. it’s been your teasing that got rhiannon to this point: wet and wanting. that’s all it takes for your girlfriend to be dripping down your chin.

you watch her when you start eating her out more purposefully; pushing your tongue deeper, applying more pressure in all the right places, watching the way rhiannon falls apart above you. she has to rest more of her weight back to avoid her knees giving out beneath herself right then and there and her breath comes in short pants.

“shit” she hisses, one hand running through her disheveled hair as the other pulls you closer. rhiannon shouldn’t want this. it shouldn’t turn her on to be eaten out in a place where all of your coworkers could hear if she’s not careful. you’ve locked the door, obviously, but that doesn’t mean the people outside wouldn’t be able to overhear her moans through the thin walls.

it’s a risk. a risk worth taking, because rhiannon tastes heavenly and looks her most beautiful as she’s shaking and visibly struggling with trying to be quiet. she’s rocking her hips, too, for an extra feel of your tongue lapping up her arousal. at home, in your bed, this would probably be a point where she’d be too frustrated with you. where she would toss you around and ride your face in order to get off. but that’s not happening here. (she will make up by laying you down, later, and fuck you with her strap until you’re a babbling mess, apologizing for teasing her like this in the first place…)

all rhiannon can do is lean back and take what you’re giving her as she tries to be quiet. her hand slams over her mouth once you bring your fingers up as well and push two of them into her while sucking on her clit harshly. she barely contains the whine, only trying to poorly cover it with an exaggerated clear of her throat just in case anyone is near the door.

you hope that there’s not: even as rhiannon tries to be quiet, her pussy certainly isn’t: you can hear how wet she is, as you pump your fingers in and out of her while your tongue flicks against her clit.

like this, it doesn’t take long until she’s close to cumming. you don’t have a lot of time so fortunately you know what it takes and what you have to do to make rhiannon cum quickly: you know where to put your mouth, where to bend your fingers, where to apply just the right amount of pressure. it’s not long until she starts getting tense and tighter around your fingers, walls fluttering.

it’s perfect, the way her body goes rigid in the pre-orgasmic bliss. you’re ready for her to stumble over the edge, already watching her eagerly. and then someone’s knocking on the door. you both flinch, instantly glaring at the other.

“rhiannon?” someone’s voice echoes. “are you alright in there sweet pea?”

rhiannon is still staring at you, panting: eyes wide, chest rising and falling rapidly. and then, she nods and you put your mouth back where you both want it. her eyes press shut tightly and she bites her palm as she musters up enough strength to speak without sounding like she’s currently getting fucked.

“uh-“ she rasps, eyes rolling back. “yeah, i’m alright. i’m alright. don’t worry lana!”

that’s all it takes. that, and another harsh suck on her clit. lana is still in front of the door; you can still hear her muffled voice, offering her help. but it’s white noise to the way rhiannon looks as she cums. her back arches and she puts her hand back over her mouth as she rides out the waves of her orgasm on your tongue. you’re lucky; she somehow manages to cum in silence. otherwise, you’re both sure, lana would’ve definitely heard…

you know by the way she later grabs you by the arm and guides you back to her car that you’re in for something when you get back home.

[howlsofbloodhounds]

I like the idea of Killer experimenting with clothing, particularly after the talk with Color about wants.

Apparently when someone asked rahafwabas where killer got his new outfit, they said “player,” which I take to mean that killer chose out his current outfit based on what he thought would most appease the forces he always feels watching him.

But I like the idea of killer, during his early weeks with nightmare, spotting cool and interesting and beautiful clothing in store windows and being so fascinated he stops and stares. Maybe the typical scene where’s he about to reach out to touch the glass, but nightmare calls him to attention and he immediately dismisses the idea of maybe buying that pretty dress.

But the thought keeps lingering and comes back in full force when color manages to get him to confess to something he wants while in stage 1. and now stage 2 finds pieces of colorful fabrics and textured clothed, pretty skirts and dresses drawing his empty, curious eyes.

And he decides to test things with nightmare before going for it. maybe not because he thinks that nightmare may not approve of killer wearing skirts or dresses (Killer doesn’t care what anyone’s opinions are on whatever outfit he wears), so much as he thinks nightmare might not like killer doing that without his permission or approval.

and so he does and says small things to garner nightmare’s opinions on these things, what small modifications he can and can’t get away with on his frame and outfit, testing if the boss would even notice or care. if this counts as breaking an unspoken rule.

and with confirmation that nightmare at least hasn’t noticed, its time to go bigger and see if he actually cares or not. see how well the boss takes it when killer wears something he has not allowed; either different shoes, a different jacket, different colored gloves. killer testing nightmare’s rules, his authority.

and nightmare just continues not to care. because there’s no way he hasn’t noticed by now. and killer doesn’t wait for any permission to jump at finally buying that skirt he saw.

i like the idea that killer one of the more fashion forward and gnc of the bad sanses, because he doesn’t care about others’ opinions or whatever societal norms may exist in human or monster cultures (he isn’t a human nor a monster, they don’t apply to him), but also i don’t think he would immediately after being taken from his timeline.

because hed push down any desire about it and dissociate from it, he doesn’t want anything, in stage 2. so i think hed need a bit of a push to actually go full in. (A push from someone he can at least trust won’t hold it against him later or attempt to take it from him, which he managed to get from color in stage 1.)

But eventually he becomes like that one anime character who wears a different outfit every episode whereas the rest of the cast all wear the same outfit most of the time.

[kim-jongin-s]

svt fic recs (mostly nc-17; jeongcheol, minwon, seokgyu, wonchan + other)

JEONGCHEOL

"uncomplicated". college!au. oneshot, 3.5k. r.

He doesn't lean into it, to the gravity that pulls himself bodily to Seungcheol. He doesn't have the excuse of alcohol anymore, and he has to go back to how they were before the high of hormones and lust. Jeonghan just keeping an arm's length away. Close enough to reach, but still an infinity away.

"promise of the solstice". royalty!au: knight!sc, prince!jh. oneshot, 43k. pg-13.

New friends, joyous festivities, and blossoming love is the nature of the Winter Solstice. It would be better, Jeonghan thinks, without the attempt on Prince Minghao's life.

"amorem et circenses". historical!au, omegaverse: alpha gladiator!sc, omega prince!jh. 3 chapters, 68k. nc-17. ♡

Jeonghan, heir to the Roman Empire, is conquered too. By a gladiator, Seungcheol, whom he's not supposed to love, for the sake of Rome.

"lean on me". college!au. 8 chapters, 73k. nc-17.

“Choi Seungcheol.” The guy introduces himself, holding his hand out for Jeonghan to take it. It is a friendly and completely non-provoking gesture. Jeonghan doesn’t take it.

“Don’t I also get a name?” Seungcheol asks curiously as Jeonghan reaches for the door handle. Jeonghan pauses, throwing a mischievous grin in Seungcheol’s direction.

“No.”

MINWON

"everybody wants a taste (that's why)". oneshot, 2.5k. nc-17.

Wonwoo gets jealous and Mingyu tries to make it up to him.

"professor jeon and the room of requirement". hogwarts!au. oneshot, 3k. nc-17.

professor jeon and his favorite quidditch star in the room of requirement.

"nevergreen". au. oneshot, 10k. nc-17.

Wonwoo doesn’t expect to run into Kim Mingyu in the buffet line during the dinner break at the Fashion and Luxury Brand Financial Management Conference—but it happens.

"can i get "i told you so" in the chat?". au: streamer!ww, volleyball player!mg. 12 chapters, 98.5k. pg-13. ♡♡

“Repeat that one more time, but slower,” Chan suggests.

“An interview came out with Kim Mingyu, the ace hitter of the Olympic men’s volleyball team,” Seungkwan says slowly. “And he’s a fan of Wonwoo hyung. Like, a huge fan.”

↳ "closer, closer, even closer". au: streamer!ww, volleyball player!mg. oneshot, 6k. nc-17.

When you're dating Kim Mingyu, of all people, it's only natural to yearn for him a little. Especially when he's been in Japan for a week and Wonwoo only gets to see him on TV and there's a big Mingyu-sized hole in the apartment. Right?

So, anyway. Wonwoo yearns.

SEOKGYU

"tell me, we belong together". omegaverse: beta!dk, alpha!mg. oneshot, 11k. nc-17.

Omega and Alpha noses singe with the acrid scent of a possessive, pissed-off Kim Mingyu. In his arms, Seokmin rests, Beta senses none-the-wiser.

"뺏긴 my heart, that boys a killer". oneshot, 16k. pg-13.

Like the jagged edges of a knife. Like the unexpected sharp prick of pain from a small thorn hidden beneath beautiful flower petals. It draws you in, the vibrancy in its colors, the slightly musky scent, swaying freely in the open field. Only hidden beneath can be the sticky sap sticking you together or the thorns pushing you away.

Mingyu’s heart threads itself in thorns.

WONCHAN

"treat me like dinner". au. oneshot, 2k. nc-17.

A dopey satisfied look crosses Wonwoo’s face before sharpening into something more unreadable when his eyes travel down his body. Chan’s breath hitches as the other’s right hand lands on his thigh, his left one squeezing his waist.

“This is new,” Wonwoo hums, twisting the soft fabric of Chan’s circle skirt between his fingers. “I don’t remember seeing you wearing it before.”

"in a frame". au: photographer!ww. oneshot, 9.6k. pg-13.

With every photo Wonwoo takes, Chan finds himself staring into the eye of the lens.

It shouldn’t mean everything, but it does.

OTHER

"waiting in intermission". gyuhao. omegaverse: alpha!mg, omega!mh. oneshot, 2k. nc-17.

Mingyu remembers when he used to ask for it— wanting, aching for the indifference Minghao reeked of. Asked for it until he no longer had to, until Minghao just knew.

"my heart by your side forever". jigyu. omegaverse: alpha!wz, omega!mg. oneshot, 2.6k. pg-13.

mingyu presents. jihoon tries to process this fact in a normal way.

"[baby] i'm just trying to play it cool". wonwoo/dk/dino. college!au. oneshot, 11k. pg-13.

Seokmin makes it his mission to teach his roommate Wonwoo how to flirt.

The plan backfires spectacularly on him.

"find nothing good". seokcheol. fantasy!au: werewolf!sc, hunter!dk. oneshot, 16k. nc-17.

There isn’t an easy answer, no way for Seokmin to explain that yes, he’s attracted to Seungcheol. Yes, he knows Seungcheol is a wolf, a natural born monster that should be eradicated. Seokmin has spent his entire life like this, learning to kill, killing, hands stained black and red and candy blue.

"curse the moon". seoksoon. magic!au: hunter!dk. oneshot, 19k. r.

Darkness is starting to envelope his senses, and he doesn’t know if it’s due to the night getting deeper or to the pain. Stopping in his tracks, he manages to raise his head towards the sky; the branches over his head look like distorted faces, leering at him, reminding him that he’s doomed. There’s a silver smile there, a slice of moon shining a bit of reflected light down on Earth. The snow seems even whiter.

[catboymettaton]

heaven is a place on earth 💖🍓

Misa and Matsuda friendship, 3.5k words, rated T. read on ao3 Valentine's Day 2011: Misa jumps from a building, hoping to reunite with Light. And then wakes up, still alive.

Tokyo looks so small from up here. Misa reaches out a gloved hand, traces the line of the street below. Cars honking, people scurrying, everyone in such a rush to go somewhere, to do something.

Misa is in no such hurry. 

A man below is carrying flowers, so many they spill out of his arms. Another man has just emerged from a chocolate shop, bursting bag in tow. Women giggle as they pass by.

It is Misa’s second Valentine’s Day alone. It will also be her last. 

She still can’t understand what the men kept saying. Light, her Light, couldn’t possibly be a killer. He loved her. He loved her so much. He would never lie to her, he would never put her in danger, he would never do anything to harm her. Light loved her. 

And she still loves his ghost. 

Perhaps, by the end of the day, she won’t be alone any longer. 

She hikes her skirt up and clambers over the barrier. Her dress is awkward and makes it hard to move but that doesn’t matter because it makes her pretty. Misa is pretty. Light always told her that. It was okay when he was too busy to touch her, because he made sure she knew she was still pretty. 

She’s wearing her contacts today. It’s the first time in a while, since she quit acting to be with him. He never even had the chance to give her a ring. 

She touches her cross necklace. She’s never believed in that god, especially not since learning Shinigami were real. But she hopes all the same that heaven is just how it’s described in the books. 

Misa is hungry, she realizes. She doesn’t know when she last ate. But it doesn’t matter, because heaven or not, soon her body will no longer need to be fed.

She’s craving apples.

She’s drawing this out too long. If it were Light up here, he’d have a grand speech to make for the world. He’d go out beautifully and gracefully and powerfully. 

She declined to see the photographs. Couldn’t stand the thought of seeing her beloved all torn and bloody. Better to imagine him dignified and elegant, all poised on a crucifix.

The sun is beginning to dip below the horizon. It’s time.

Misa realizes, now, that she never planned her last words. Not that it matters, since no one will be close enough to hear. But with another moment’s thought, it becomes obvious.

She shuts her eyes. “I love you, Light.”

And she jumps.

…

Everything hurts and everything is bright and everything is so, so loud. This can’t be heaven at all. 

Under the aches, she feels her heart beating away. Her chest rises and falls, with spikes of pain on every inhale. There’s no doubt about it: somehow, she’s alive. 

I’m sorry, Light.

Her vision is blurred with pain, but she can make out machines beeping next to her. There’s tubes in her arm, and a tube down her throat, and maybe if she can knock one machine out of place then everything will go quiet and dark again, the way it’s supposed to be.

She reaches forward and the pain jolts all the way up her arm. She lets out a scream.

A nurse is there. “Oh, Miss Amane, you’re finally awake! I’m so glad to see you’ve pulled through. Here, let me help you with that pain.”

She reaches for a button. Misa wants to cry out, to beg her to end this, but she finds herself unable to speak.

The nurse pauses. “We were trying to find your next of kin, but we couldn’t locate any living relatives in the country. Is there a friend you’d like us to call?”

A name slips from her lips. It’s not a name she expected, or one she would have thought of if it weren’t for the drugs, surely.

“Touta Matsuda.”

The painkillers carry her away once more.

…

The next time she comes to, he’s hovering just inches from her face. She yelps in shock and then again in pain.

“I’m sorry, Misa-Misa! I didn’t mean to scare you! I just wanted to make sure you were still breathing, is all!”

Misa shuts her eyes. “Matsu… you came.”

“Of course I came! I was so worried when I saw the caller ID… I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“Everything hurts,” she slurs.

“The nurses said it was a pretty nasty fall. You’re lucky you made it.”

“Lucky, huh…”

He places his hand over hers, gently, trying his best not to hurt her. 

Light and Ryuzaki always called him an idiot. Called him the stupid one. But somehow, he seemed to know what to do when no one else did. 

And he’s made it longer than both of them, hasn’t he?

“Misa.” His tone is serious this time. “Misa, when you get out of here, will you come home with me?”

Her eyes shoot open. “Um, you’re way too old for me and I-”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant at all!” He looks ashamed. “I just - I don’t want you to be alone, okay? They told me you don’t have any family, and with Li - I just think you must be pretty lonely now and I don’t want you to be lonely, okay?”

To not be lonely…

Misa has nearly forgotten what it was like to not be lonely. 

Even when she and Light were living together, he was so busy, and she saw so little of him, and she knows he loves her but it was still hard to not miss him and she misses him so much and she was so lonely and he was so tired after work and he barely touched her at all and he loved her. He loves her! She knows he loves her!

But. 

But she was still so lonely. Is so lonely. 

She had friends before all this, but they’ve moved on, grown up, gotten married, settled down, had kids, stopped caring about ghost stories, stopped getting dressed up all fancy just to go get groceries, stopped caring about pop stars like Misa-Misa. 

It would be nice to have a friend again.

“Okay,” she murmurs.

The nurse comes back. She sleeps again.

…

Her hospital stay is a blur. She can’t tell how long she’s been there, when one day ends and another begins. She’s fed through a tube and she pees into a bedpan, which is so yucky but she knows she can’t stand.

And Matsuda is there by her side day in and day out.

“You don’t have to stay,” she mumbles. “Go back to the police. They’ll call you when I’m all better.”

He shakes his head. “No, Misa. I - I want to know you’re okay. I need to know you’re okay.”

So he stays. 

After some time, she can sit up. They take the feeding tube out while she’s asleep and Matsuda feeds her congee, one spoonful at a time. It’s all plain and kinda gross but the doctors say she needs to be gentle with her stomach. 

Matsuda watches the nurses transfer her to a wheelchair so she can pee in a real toilet. It feels good. 

In the evenings, he brushes her hair. It’s gotten horribly knotted from all the lying around, but he does his best to tease out the knots. 

“Maybe I should just cut this all off,” Misa muses. “Would make it a lot easier for you.”

“But it’s so pretty.” He eases a comb through the back of her head.

“I’m not gonna be pretty with all these bruises anyway.” Misa thinks it over, and decides. “I want you to cut it off.”

The nurses provide scissors, and Misa’s bleach-blond crown falls to her feet. She wonders how far her roots have grown out now. She hasn’t been brunette since her parents were alive. 

She gets stronger. She’s allowed to eat eggs again, and then even some sweets.

She thinks about Ryuzaki and his cake. She can tell Matsuda does too. Neither of them brings it up.

Finally, Misa is discharged. She can walk a little, but needs crutches. Matsuda takes her home to his apartment, where he’s set up his spare room for her. The bed is lush with comfy pillows, there’s a table next to it just how she likes it. She realizes he must have remembered from Task Force Headquarters. 

Six years ago feels like a different lifetime.

…

She’s been living at his place for a week when he brings it up over breakfast.

“Misa,” he begins. “I know this is really hard to talk about. But I need to know.”

She takes a bite of her rice and nods. She already knows what’s coming.

“It was Valentine’s Day. You climbed over the railing. You were trying to die, weren’t you?”

“Yes.” She’s not upset. She feels numb to it, actually. “It was Valentine’s Day. I wanted to spend it with my Light.”

Matsuda shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“It’s just not fair,” she continues. She knows her voice is whiny and it’s not cute when a grown woman is whiny when she isn’t an idol anymore but she can’t help it. She misses him and everything hurts. “It’s not fair that he’s gone, and I’m still here, and I just wanted to see him again. I was supposed to see him again.”

“Misa. I know how you felt about Light. I know you want to believe he was good, but -”

“But he loves me! Loved me. He loved me so much. And I loved him too and I loved him so much, more than anyone else in the world so you’re wrong you can’t possibly know how I feel.”

His voice is shaking. “Misa, I loved him too.”

There are many ways to love. You can love your friends, you can love your family, you can love the color pink and pretty dresses.

But the way he said it can only mean one type of love.

She squints at him, trying to detect if this is some weird joke. “But you - but -”

“I fell in love with Light Yagami years ago. Of course I didn’t tell anyone. I don’t even think he knew. But… I trusted him. I thought he was honest, I thought he was righteous. He wasn’t scared to call Kira evil.” He takes a breath, trying to steady himself. He’s looking down at his bowl, not meeting her eyes.  

“I - I had my doubts, you know? Not about him. About Kira, I - he stopped wars. He stopped crime. And that was good, I couldn’t convince myself that it wasn’t. And he didn’t get mad at me for that, and I thought it was because he was being gentle with me. But he wasn’t.”

He looks up at her, and she can tell it hurts. “Misa, Light was a very cruel man. Even if we both loved him.”

“But he loves me! He loves me! He could never do all the things they said he did.” She’s had this conversation before, with her reflection. She’s had it many times, and it always goes the same. “I know my Light, he would never do anything to hurt other people, and he definitely wouldn’t do all that killing!”

“He confessed it all to us before he died. He thought he’d won.” He’s starting to cry now. It’s his fault for bringing it up, so she doesn’t feel bad. “His plan was to kill us all. We were the last thing in his way, that’s all he ever thought of us.” 

His voice is breaking, his words are barely coming out clearly. “I thought - I don’t know what I thought, but - I thought he cared about me, I - of course he didn’t feel the same but I thought we were friends. He was my best friend, Misa. He was my best friend.

“He was my best friend and I - I was just - I was just another pawn, I -  He - he wanted me to be his little attack dog, he wanted me to - to shoot -” He loses his composure completely here and Misa averts her eyes.

“No.” She stumbles to her feet, clutches her crutches. “No, you can’t - he couldn’t have. He wasn’t -”

She trips and he catches her. “Misa. I’m sorry.”

…

Misa looks in the mirror. Her deep brown hair has grown just enough that she can run her fingers through it.

It occurs to her that soon it’ll look like Light’s.

Her chest aches whenever she thinks of him, and she’s sure it isn’t because of her fractured ribs. 

Nothing Matsuda says makes sense, except it makes perfect sense, horrifying sense, at the same time, and she doesn’t want to believe it, she can’t believe it, except - 

There are things she can’t ignore. Pieces that don’t quite fit together.

He says Light took her memories away to keep him safe. Her memories of being Kira. He says she helped him as Kira, that she killed people.

She wants to deny it. She wants to say no, Misa-Misa is a good girl, Misa-Misa wouldn’t kill. 

But she remembers. She remembers how good it felt to see her parents’ murderer’s name and body on the news. She remembers her passion growing as Kira’s kills ramped up further and further.

Of course, she was young and dumb and she has grown up since then. Light dedicated his life to catching Kira, and nothing was more important than making Light happy, so that meant catching Kira was a good thing. She realized it was wrong to idolize a murderer, that Kira was evil, that Kira had to be stopped. She realized that killing was bad and murder wasn’t justice at all.

But Light didn’t believe any of that.

She’d restructured her mind around a total lie. Light didn’t go to America to catch Kira, he went to protect himself. 

Her memories of their overseas stay are fractured. She remembers sleeping alone in a big hotel bed. She remembers coming home from her Hollywood shoot to an empty room, not even a note. And there are stretches of time she can’t remember, which is normal because it’s been three years, except she cherished every minute she had with Light, so why can’t she remember half of their conversations? 

He had gotten colder and colder as time went on. In the beginning, they made love nearly every night, but they hadn’t slept together in three months by the end. 

He must have been too busy with Kiyomi.

He told her Kiyomi was just another part of the investigation. That the feelings weren’t real at all. 

But if he was on Kira’s side after all, then - he had lied about that. It wasn’t part of the investigation. And did he lie about the feelings? 

Did he lie about loving her?

She tries to focus on the beginning, when everything was good. Wasn’t everything good? She remembers finally leaving confinement, finally being able to rest in his arms, back where she belonged.

He had said something then, something that bothered her. What was it?

He said… he said that she wouldn’t leave him alone. But that didn’t make any sense. Why wouldn’t he want to spend time with his girlfriend? Why would he want her to leave him alone? 

She tried not to think about it. She tried to focus on after they got out, when they moved into their apartment and finally got to have a normal romance. Finally got rid of that creep Ryuzaki.

But if he really lied about wanting to catch Kira, if he really lied about all of that - 

But he told her he loved her so much. He told her he loved her all the time.

If he didn’t love her, then what was she doing these past six years? 

If he didn’t love her, then why did she jump?

…

“When did you fall in love with Light?”

She can walk with a cane now, and Matsuda takes her out to the park on weekends. He’s gone back to work, now that he trusts her to make it through eight hours alone. He doesn’t talk about it and she doesn’t ask.

He looks away from her, breathes a heavy sigh. They try not to talk about Light, but his ghost hangs heavy in the air.

“I met him as a teenager. He was brilliant for his age, but of course I saw him as a kid. During the investigation, once he took control -” His voice breaks a bit. “It - it felt so wrong, he was like a little brother, but… I saw his confidence, his competence, his brilliance. He was so damn charismatic.”

Misa knows. Misa understands completely.

“And then when we were alone in LA… he trusted me… and I trusted him too. He seemed so committed.” He swallows. “And - he was so handsome in that damn turtleneck.”

Misa nods. She also liked the turtleneck.

He sighs. “But it was all an act. All of it. He called his father a loser and a fool in the end. His father, his hero.” 

Light loved his father. Light loved his father so much. Light was devastated when he died.

“He called you an idiot.”

He’d said it to her face before too, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because he loved her.

Didn’t he love her?

He said he loved her. He told her she was cute. He told her she was a great girlfriend. He’d even asked her to quit acting to marry him. 

He was such a sweet talker. 

But had he ever really looked at her? Had he ever touched her without her reaching out first? Had he ever asked her about how her shoots were going, or taken her somewhere nice without her asking? 

He hadn’t even remembered her 25th birthday. 25 on December 25th, a big number, and he’d been too busy hunting down Kira.

Not hunting down Kira. Hunting down the people trying to stop Kira. 

Hunting down the people trying to stop him.

Would he have turned on Misa, too, if he’d lived?

She reaches for Matsuda with her free hand. His arm fits nicely in her palm. They walk together in silence a little longer. 

…

Misa’s bangs get in her face. She cuts half of them off so she looks like Matsuda. Matsuda puts his hair up in tiny pigtails. 

Misa swims in Matsuda’s suit jacket. Matsuda’s shoulders strain against Misa’s shirt.

They look at each other like clowns in a funhouse mirror. They touch their palms together.

In each other, they see that cursed love for Light Yagami.

They change back. Misa shaves that side of her head.

Somehow, life goes on.

…

On Valentine’s Day in 2012, Misa bakes a cake.

Matsuda offered to take the day off, in case it was too hard, but Misa insisted she was fine, and she is. And she wanted to surprise him.

Misa is an awful cook. She always has been, and she’s accepted that she always will be. But baking seems straightforward. If she reads carefully, measures slowly, everything will be okay.

It’s messy. She spills flour all over the counter. She has to start over when she puts in too much salt. She hopes Matsuda didn’t need all that sugar.

She’s never going to act again. She can walk mostly fine, but she can’t run or jump or push herself too hard. She’ll never model again, with the scars that haven’t quite healed. 

She’s gotten into writing ghost stories. She posts them anonymously. Her blog isn’t popular, but that’s okay. It gives her something to do. 

Matsuda is nice to her. He seems to care about her in a way that Light never did. They aren’t in love, not romantically, but they fit together well. He reads her blog and he likes her stories. He thanks her when she cleans the house. And he remembered her birthday, and took her to a Christmas market so she could pick out her own gift. 

She stirs the batter. She realizes she forgot to preheat the oven and rushes to set it. Matsuda says preheating is very important. 

She thinks about how small the city looked. She thinks about her last fleeting thoughts of heaven. She touches her cross necklace; that’s one thing that hasn’t changed. The dress was wrecked, but that’s okay. She’s okay.

Maybe she was looking for heaven in the wrong place. Maybe heaven doesn’t come after death. Maybe heaven is now, in this little kitchen, where she’s still breathing and her heart is still beating. 

When Matsuda comes home, she’s just finished icing the cake. It’s bright pink for the holiday (and because it’s Misa’s favorite). She cuts them each a slice even though they haven’t had dinner yet. 

She got it just right. It’s the best strawberry cake she’s ever had.

[alwayssassydreamer]

Do Not Disturb

Day 11 of Kikitober

Plot: you should've known better than to let your thoughts drif taway during the meeting.

not proofread

Warnings: edging and fingering used as punishment, voyeurism?, MDNI

Characters: Killer x F!Reader (x Kid)

"The weather is rather nice today" you thought to yourself not paying attention to the briefing that took place right now. You weren’t a fan of them, thinking that most of the time they were usless and boring.

You were sure that sometimes they were just meant to boost Kid's ego especially after a victory. Other times you asked yourself why you had to join. Killer could tell you all you needed to know later when he sneaked into your cabin.

"I think I'll go shopping later on. Maybe Killer wants to come along"

"Oi, y/n" someone shouted ripping you out of your thoughts.

"Huh?" You shook your head to look at the men at the table.

"Did you pay any attention to what I was saying" the voice shouted. you turned in the direction it came from to see your captain in a rather angry mood.

"I asked you a question brat" he shouted once again.

"Sure i paid attention, I just let your words sink in" what a horrible lie.

"Then repeat what I said"

Busted.

"I uhm,I can't" you stuttered feeling your cheeks heat up in embarrassment.

"Sorry, is this little meeting too boring for you" he said voice dark and fist clenching.

A small yes escaped your lips but as soon as it did you covered your mouth with your hands. "Fuck why did i say that out loud" you thought hoping no one heard it.

Well the look on Kid's face told you that this didn’t go unnoticed.

He clenched his jaw, eyes dark and full of rage. You knew you crossed the line. You only wished to disappear right now. Fear spreading through your body.

"What was that!" He yelled making you sink into your chair.

"Fuck if you can't pay attention yourself we'll have to make you" he growled a devilish smile on his face.

You gulped.

"Killer get her"

"Wait-" you jumped out of your chair trying to get out but the first mate was faster and had already grabbed you, dragging you to his seat next to Kid.

Standing in front of Kid, being held in place by Killer made you shiver. What did he plan on doing to you.

"I need to teach you a lesson and show everyone what happens when you ignore me" Kid taunted you, hand squeezing your cheek. He looked at Killer and smiled. And you did not like it.

Killer sat back down on the chair pulling you onto his lap. Your back facing his chest, hands trapped in between, as he spread your legs. You cursed yourself for wearing this fucking skirt today.

"Let's continue and as for you doll" Kid said looking at you "i will not hear a single sound from you, you will not disturb this briefing any longer understood" You nodded nervously.

The briefing continued where it left off when you felt calloused fingers kneading your knees. You were startled about to squeal but thankfully were able to swallow it.

Fingers started to move over your inner thighs drawing lazy circles. The sensation sent shivers down your spine and made it harder to suppress the sounds that threatend to leave your lips.

You once made the mistake to look over at Kid who must've felt your gaze on him because he looked back at you for a moment shit eating grin on his face.

You decided it would be better not to look around you too much and try to blend the men in the room out because the fact that they were watching this whole scene sent a rush of embarrassment and heat through your body.

Gritting your teeth your breath hitched when one of Killer's fingers brushed over your clothed core. Earning you a nasty look from Kid.

Killer was talking and discussing with the others while tormenting you with his fingers like this was the most normal thing.

He moved the fingers of one hand further up your thighs lingering there while his other started to tease your core more and more through the fabric of your panty. Fingers running slowly up and down.

You let out a small whimper, luckily for you Killer was the only one to hear it.

"Shhh kitty, if Kid hears you this will get worse" he whispered in your ear.

You tilted your head slightly to look at him with pleading eyes. But all you got was another rush of heat through your body as you felt him move the fabric of your panty aside. That bastard enjoyed torturing you like this.

You soon realized that sharing a bed with Killer meant that he knew exactly how to get you riled up.

Oh god. This was getting too much. The moment his finger brushed against your flesh you started to breath heavily biting your lower lip to muffel a moan.

A finger suddenly pushed into your already dripping entrance. You bit your lower lip so hard that you were sure it would draw blood. But you didn’t care at least not right now. You cursed Killer and his tormenting fingers.

Why does this god damn briefing take so long.

When a second finger was added your head fell back on Killer's shoulder hips bucking. He wrapped his other hand around you to keep you from moving.

You heard some of the other men in the room shift in their seats while others seemed to breath a little heavier than before. Knowing that you were the reason for all this made your cheeks flush. Their eyes burning holes into your body as they imagined fucking you right here right now.

This was going to end so bad for you. You were on the brink of exploding. All you wanted was to beg Killer to stop. Or maybe not stop entirely just stop the teasing and give it to you right here.

But then again the thought of the others watching embarrassed you. This was already embarrassing.

The slow movement of Killer's fingers caused tears to form in the corner of your eyes. Until one finger pressed against your clit slowly rubbing it.

Fuck no. The sensation of his fingers inside you and the one on your clit made you moan, back arching, eyes closing. Causing everyone to attract their attention on you.

"What did i tell you" Kid shouted but there wasn’t anger in his voice it was more some sort of satisfaction.

"I'm sorry" you stuttered, as another moan followed. Killer not once stopping his movements. You were so close just a little more.

"That's enough" Kid ordered. No, not now just a few more seconds you thought to yourself but Killer removed his hands from you.

You whimpered.

Kid stared at you - looking like the devil himself.

"Briefing's over now get out you horndogs." he said making everyone leave.

"Now to you doll" he groaned facing you. "You've been ignoring the briefing, paid no attention to whatsoever i said and you've been distracting us with your little noises" he said grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling you of off Killer's lap and close to his face.

You weren't able to form a single word, exhausted from the stimulation.

"You better make it up to me and your part time lover here or I'll have the others join us" he demanded voice full of feral desire.

You looked puzzeled at him.

"What you really thought that I didn't know that you and Kill are fucking" Kid groaned his lips brushing your ear.

No you actually thought that you were really good at hiding this fact. Surprised you looked at Killer.

"Sorry kitty, but I'm the first mate i share everything that goes on, on this ship with Kid" Killer shrugged, you didn’t expect that either -at least you could stop hiding now.

"We share a lot of things..."Kid mocked a dangerous smile on his face.

You swallowed. Staring at the captain and the first mate.

Pushed against the table you were stripped of your clothes and spent the rest of the day screaming and begging as Killer 'shared' you with the captain making sure you'd never again be distracted during briefings.

[crushedsweets]

ANSWERING A TON OF ASKS AGAIN

(30 asks..)

the reason i added it to my AU was a nod towards Ann being popularly (?) shipped with Tim way back in the day! her reasoning is prob just some 'i like my men with muscles and beards' or something LMFAOOOOOOO

yes!

I APPRECIATE YOU!! youre so sweet and im glad it helps !

only english!

in my au, i could possibly see her in a long denim skirt... and there was that one alpite drawing of her in the miniskirt... looked really cute LOL

please release me from my prison.

WHAT ARE U REFERENCING

let the man dance. . . must he stand perfectly still. . . ?

i think her smile is sooo perfect. shes perfect.

LOL AS USUAL, toby clocky nina EJ and kate. my fave is between toby and nina

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR LEAVING SUCH A SWEET MESSAGE!!! it makes me so happy when you guys enjoy the stuff im putting out, especially since im enjoying creating it! i have a lot more free time now since two of my accelerated classes ended, so im just always thinking about.. them... LOL ty again also ur english is perfect!

i didnt care for it just cuz i loved the OG so much, but i totally understand why the creator did it - being berated and bullied and harassed for years at such a young age over a fun little character you made . . . i would want to "fix it" as well. but i think ninas original concept was scary in its own right! i think copy cat killers and true crime fanatics are haunting and OG nina reflected that!!!

HE'S GOT LAZARI thats his ..half daughter half sister figure. LOL. maybe dina too ive been thinking abt that a lot... omfg and lulu...

?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?? CHAT.

leave her ALOOOONNNEEEE SHES PERFECT THE WAY SHE ISSSS!!!!!!!!!!

i have! i read a bit about it and whatnot in 2023, but i didnt get fully into it! im too stuck in my own world ... RIP

ive drawn him once before! i really didnt like it . LOLLLLLLL i deleted it like a couple days after posting ... ill think about doing it again!

ive been meaning to draw her with them all up her right arm+both hands+back and peaking up her neck, but i keep forgetting!!!! i only seem to remember with jane , but thats cuz its like ... very fundamental to her design LOL

yea but it wasnt my thing... very cool concept, but the humor and pacing wasnt my taste!

i have actually!! way back in like 2020, one of my friends made me HAHA but i kept falling asleep during it . . .

yes.

CRISPY IS CRAZY LOL but yeah. i love her too. LOL

release him...

true.

HAHA YEAH I CHANGED IT A WHILE BACK..and now im debating changing it again... omg

thank you anon!! youre a sweetheart

ghglugghh...

[sunshine-and-moonshine]

Dbd - You Offer To Eat Them Out

Requested: Yes [I love your dbd hcs sooo much! (NSFW) Could you please write how the killers would react when a survivor they find attractive offers to eat them out/give them a bj? (you can choose anyone, but I'd esp. love to see Huntress, Charlotte, and/or Max)]

Warnings: Slight Angst in Max’s, Spice, implied virginity for all three killers

Huntress

Well however you manage to communicate to Anna what you want to do, she still doesn’t understand at first. “Eat her out”? You want to eat her???? She’ll threaten to eat you first, no matter how attractive she thinks you are. It’ll take another moment of explaining (while she stands there pointing a fork at you) before she really understands what you mean. You’ll probably need to provide her a chart. Or a drawing. Some sort of charades need to be done. But eventually she’ll get the gist, chuckling with a little smirk as she drops her axe, cupping your cheeks in her hands before forcing you down by your shoulders, undoing the laces to her pants. Who is she to refuse such a….kind offer?

Charlotte

Charlotte is also confused at first, though not at the same level as Anna, and will likely catch onto what you mean just a smidge faster than her. She’s blushing, absolutely flustered by the very idea. But she’s not opposed, especially with how attractive she thinks you are. But she doesn’t have any experience to speak of so she’s hesitant when you kneel in front of her, hiking up her skirts. But all worries fade from her mind the second she feels your mouth on her, and she can barely think for the rest of the day after this event.

Max

Another person who also doesn’t understand what you’re asking. But unlike the girls, he doesn’t understand when you explain to him. Yes, he has a vague idea of what sex itself is, but to the best of his knowledge that does not include putting your mouths on each other. His brain is also kinda malfunctioning cause he doesn’t understand how someone so attractive would want to do something like this with him anyways. Eventually he’ll just reach the conclusion that you’re doing this for mercy, so that you can escape in your next trial against him. And while the thought hurts, it’s the only thing that makes sense to him, so he feels like he can just pretend you actually have an interest in him as you swallow his cock, his moans echoing in the shack of Coldwind farm.

[not-even-nostalgia]

Them

click for better quality why are you like this tumblr

ramble about designs and headcanons

All of them are a few years older than in canon cause I wanted to

As aforementioned I gave Mantha some bellbottoms swag because I imagine she grew up in the 70s before she died. Also just tried to make her look more zombie like while keeping the colour pallet.

Ra’s design didn’t change much I just added more detail. I used to imagine his skirt was made of denim as a neat modernisation but idk if it still works with the design now. Also I messed up his face but don’t look at it too hard. I’m not entirely sold on his design since I worry he looks like he’s in a costume compared to the rest of them. But idk maybe he’s just got a killer skin care routine.

I think it’d be funny if Casper despite wanting to be friendly actually looked more on the scary side so hence why he’s Like That. I wanted to give him period accurate clothing but it all sucks so I went back to the sweater and just gave him an undershirt with a large collar to vaguely allude to the 1800s. Also ik it doesn’t fit the movie but I hc that he froze to death hence the black frostbite-adjacent stuff.

Thatch’s canon design is acc so funny to me with his dress shirt and low rise jeans and chain so I just upped that. Dude wants to be punk so bad but he’s still got the rich kid mentality of needing his clothes to look neat and high quality. Anyway, Dummy Girl gave him the gloves. Also I had to change his hair I’m sorry even Thatch deserves better.

Dummy Girl’s design also didn’t change much but I gave her bigger platform shoes cause ya girl is short. She has the opposite problem to Casper (looks cute but would kill)

I didn’t draw it very well but Techwear Slither entered my head and wouldn’t leave me alone. So you get this. Added green to make him look more monster like. Also Slither in a skirt is necessary and iconic.

[chysgoda]

Equinox Service

A Desertwalkers Story

Rating: T for a tiny bit of language

—

You went to the Equinox Services. That’s just how it was if you were raised in the church of the Holy Mother and Father. That was certainly how it was when Bel had been growing up. So she was dressed up in her best skirt, shirt, and waistcoat as she made her way across Stonewood to the little church on the far side of town. There were more people than the church usually saw, most were like her, showing up for the holiest of days and then not much else.

Bel filed in with the rest and ended up in a seat two thirds of the way up from the door since she hadn’t left early enough to get a seat in the back where a quick and painless exit could be had. She considered the little church in comparison to the cathedrals she’d been in across the salt. She liked this one better on the whole. It was cozy, less grandiose for the sake of being grand. She also hadn’t heard of the intensive conversion work that the church usually pushed happening in Stonewood. At least not under this Vicarius. The former priest had come to some sort of ill defined end that generally meant someone had pushed their luck too far with the locals. So far the new Vicarius had not attempted to draw in a single convert.

“Miss Lahabrea, I did not expect to see you for this evening’s service,” Vicarius Themis stopped next the end of the pew she sat on. Bel wasn’t terribly surprised he knew her name. She’d been the only parrot in town for months, there were far more people who knew her name than those she knew the name of.

“Old habits die hard Vicarius,” Bel said honestly. There was something about this man that seemed familiar but she couldn’t place what. He didn’t look that much older than her, but he carried himself like someone much more experienced than what her age would have allowed for. This was going to bug her for days.

“Perhaps after tonight you will feel more comfortable here,” the Vicarius’s smile seemed genuine, and it seemed to reach his eyes, but there was something about him that made her hesitate to drop her guard. He continued, politely ignoring if any of Bel’s thoughts showed on her face, “Always know that you have sanctuary here Miss Lahabrea, no matter who your grandparents are.”

The priest was walking towards the pulpit at the front before a frown could even bend Bel’s lips. If he’d said ‘your family’ she wouldn’t have thought much of it. The Lahabrea family as a whole had had a reputation of being meddlesome and dramatic for generations even back to before they had crossed the salt and established themselves in Tural. Members of the family running away to remote regions was hardly new. Vicarius Themis had specifically called out her grandparents though. It made her uneasy.

Bel wrote off any connection to her grandmother Athena immediately. Not a single one of her associates would ever take the guise of a priest. Which left grandpa Hephaistos. That seemed more likely. It was easier to imagine that voice in grandpa’s office. Replace the white robes with a suit, navy blue and just poorly fitted enough to look off the rack. The imagining brought up a memory. She had been ten maybe? She’d wriggled away from her father and was running to her grandpa’s office and there had been a white haired man in a navy suit with gold buttons.

“It is done.”

“Excellent, Shall I send the usual payments to your Limsian account, Elidibus?”

Another half heard conversation between her parents echoed in her head as well.

“I don’t want your father’s pet spy and killer in my house, Ericthonios.”

“I know Idunn, I didn’t offer him a spot at the dinner table.”

So Elidibus was possibly Vicarius Themis. What was she going to do with this? Did it matter? It wasn’t something she was even sure of. It wasn’t practical to catch a train and ask her parents in the small town nestled in the shade of Tuliyollal. Assuming they were home to start with. She blinked when people began to shift and stand up. Bel blew out a breath, she could chew on if there was anything to do with this at home.

“You have good instincts Miss Lahabrea,” Vicarius Themis was standing next to her again. There was an amused tilt to his smile this time, “You should trust them and hopefully pay more attention to the actual service next time.”

Bel felt her cheeks burn like she’d been called out for bad behavior in school. “My apologies if I was disruptive Vicarius.”

“I think the prize for that went to the gentleman in the back snoring loud enough to wake the dead.” Vicarius Themis chuckled. “I do hope that you grace this hall again, before solstice Miss Lahabrea.”

Bel stood and gave the priest her best high society neutral smile, “Have the rest of a good evening Vicarius Themis.”

The white robed man stepped aside for her, but caught her elbow in a gentle grip, “I was serious about sanctuary should you find you need it.”

“I appreciate that.” Bel said tense, “I need to be getting home now.”

The priest let go of her arm and stepped back to go speak with someone waiting for his attention. Bel left quickly, unnerved and unhappy about the fact. She was well away from the church when she noticed a heaviness in one of her pockets that should not have been there. She reached in and pulled out a beautifully crafted Ul’dahn* knife in a tooled leather sheath. She stared at it and then turned back to stare at the church.

“What the fuck?”

*picture a Persian knife

[antigone-ks]

Lantern of Evil, Chapter Seven

MARVEL MASTERLIST

CHAPTER SIX

This chapter contains some sexual content

Chapter Seven: In September, When the Leaves Come Falling Down

I saw you standing with the wind and the rain in your face/ And you were thinking 'bout the wisdom of the leaves and their grace/ When the leaves come falling down/ In September, when the leaves come falling down

____________________

Now, they just cuddle up, and oh, boy! How you feel!

You sure can love ‘em when you’re not behind the wheel!

There’s a great attraction,

Lots of satisfaction,

Sittin’ in a rumble seat.[1]

Steve takes a deep breath and wills the song out of his head as he watches you slide into the seat of his car. From this angle, he’s got a killer view of your décolletage and a desperate urge to just find some quiet place to park like a couple of teenagers.

Do teenagers even do that anymore? he wonders as he circles the car to the driver’s side. They’ve got a lot more options than we ever did. Not that he’s ever been parking, but he’s heard stories. Probably not all true, now that he thinks about it, just boys bragging about stuff they wished they could do. Bucky had caught one of them out, once, boasting about getting up Millie Finch’s skirt in the backseat of a Packard.

“You don’t have a Packard, you chump, and Millie Finch was at the pictures with me last night.” And the guy – Steve can’t remember his name anymore – had gone off with his tail between his legs.

“You weren’t at the pictures last night, Buck,” Steve said when the other guys were out of earshot. “We listened to the game, and then Five Star Theater came on and we kept trying to draw on a Clark Gable mustache.” They’d been fifteen or sixteen, if Steve recalled correctly, and if young Bucky had more luck with facial hair than Steve, it wasn’t by much.

“Yeah, but he was lying anyway,” Bucky shrugged. “And even if he wasn’t, you can’t kiss and tell. At least not with names. If I found a girl sweet enough get in the backseat with me, I wouldn’t tell her name around for the fellas to laugh at.”

He had found a girl, Steve was pretty sure, not long after that. It might even have been Millie Finch, but true to his word, Bucky never said.

What Bucky had said had been enough to keep an impressionable young man up at night for a very long time after.

Steve checks the rear-view mirror as he buckles himself in. The backseat isn’t as big as an old Packard’s, but you’d both fit.

“That was fun,” you say.

Especially with him being little. Might be harder to squeeze back there when he’s six-two again.

“Grant?”

Of course, you could always be on top. Steve is slammed with the sudden, visceral image of your skirt raked up to your hips, the straps pulled down so he can fill his hands with your breasts, riding him to kingdom come.

“Grant?!”

He gasps as your fingers slide along his, and looks at you with eyes blown wide and dark.

“Can you breathe?”

“Yeah!” He can, when he remembers to. “I just.” Calm down, sport. She oughta have better than you pawing at her in a car. “I just wanted to tell you how beautiful you are.”

You squeeze his fingers and smile shyly. “You keep saying that, it’s gonna go to my head.”

Steve tucks a lock of hair behind your ears and whispers, “I hope so.”

***

It’s a short drive to your house, but long enough for your nerves to ratchet up to unbearable levels. Your hands are twisting in the fabric of your dress; it’s obvious enough that you’re worried Grant will notice, but he’s staring straight ahead, his own hands clenched on the steering wheel tight enough you think he might dent it.

You’re both quiet as the car sighs to a stop. Grant slides out of the driver’s seat and you have the wild impulse to dart toward the house without waiting for him, to escape whatever this is, to outrun the air between you, thick with possibilities.

You don’t.

You wait for him, for his hand reaching out to take yours so gently, for his eyes piercing yours with such intensity, like he’s reining in something dark and wild and dangerous. He grips you firmly as you climb the porch steps, his hand settling on your waist as you rummage for the key, stroking upward to the bare skin between your shoulders. You draw in a sharp breath as his hand reaches the back of your neck, firm and warm, and when you look at him he’s so close your nerves are on fire.

“Is this . . .?” His breath is hot against your skin. “Can I . . .?”

“Yes,” you murmur, and tremble as his lips brush your cheek. You have a moment to think, soft, and then his mouth is on yours.

It’s a slow, gentle, yearning thing, this kiss. It tastes like water in the desert, like months of longing fulfilled. His lips are plush and warm, patient as he coaxes you into him. When you open to him, when his tongue slides against yours, you both still for an instant, then he makes a noise low in his throat and takes your face in his hands. They’re calloused, the skin rougher than you’d realized, but his touch is so tender, so reverent.

This is it, you think, your mind gone indolent with pleasure, this is how it should be. All this time, it’s Grant I was waiting for.

Your hands slide under his jacket to feel his skin, hot beneath his shirt, and he breaks the kiss with a gasp as your fingernails scratch along his waist.

“Doll –” he says, but you brush your lips against his and he growls and he’s not as gentle this time but it’s so good; you can’t catch your breath but who needs air? He pulls you close and you know he wants you, you know it, you can feel it against you, and thank god for short men because if he moves against you just right it’ll be right there, right where you need it.

A light crosses over you, a car moving slowly down the street. You freeze, and Grant slumps back away from you. You fumble the door open hurriedly and pull him inside, into the living room that’s entirely too bright. You stand there, looking at each other with identical frantic expressions, your lips ruddy and swollen, twin patches of red on his cheeks.

“So,” you say at last. “Did you want to come in?”

He barks out a laugh, and if his eyes are less hungry, there’s no shortage of fondness in them.

“I have tea,” you offer. “Or wine, if . . . or there’s –“

Grant ducks his head, shoves his hair out of his face, looks up longingly. “Can I kiss you again? Will you let me?”

Let you? I’ll cry if you don’t.

He kisses you until your lungs burn, hands drifting slowly over every inch of exposed skin. You don’t realize you’re moving until the back of your legs bump into the sofa and you reel a little, only his grip keeping you upright. You can feel his laughter rumbling up from his chest and you pull away, mock-glaring.

“Are you trying to get me in a compromising position, sir?”

He beams at you, resting his forehead against yours. “Yes,” he says, pecking at your mouth.

“Yes,” he says, lips caressing your jaw.

“Yes,” he says, gripping your hair so he can trail kisses down your neck.

“Yes,” you say, turning and pushing him toward the sofa. He pulls you with him, and you fall together, just catching yourself on the edge of the seat, legs to the side, leaning over him. You raise yourself up, suddenly self-conscious, holding your weight off him. He doesn’t seem to notice; at this angle his face is even with your bosom and he looks . . . well, he looks like a man who’s just landed face-first in boobs, to be honest. Like this is the most thrilling thing that’s ever happened to him. He feels you shifting and wraps his arms around your waist.

“Don’t go,” he tells your chest.

“I’m not, I’m just trying not to crush you.” He does look up then, pulls your face down to his and kisses you sweet and slow. His hands move lower; you feel the fabric of your dress slide against your legs, just high enough to let you move.

“Is this okay?” he murmurs, and you take a shuddering breath and nod, and then his hands. His hands are on your skin, helping you shift your legs and straddle him. His hands, calloused and warm and gentle and hungry, rest inside your knees, and his mouth is devouring yours, and you sink against him and he arches, your shared gasp echoing in the space between you.

He’s toying with one strap of your dress, kissing along your shoulder, his other hand in your hair. He slides the strap down your arm, follows it with his mouth, then his breath dusts across the suddenly-revealing neckline of your dress.

You whimper, and he kisses the swell of your breast. “I could live here,” he murmurs. “Right here, right where it’s almost indecent. It’s perfect.”

He pulls your head down to his. “You’re perfect,” he whispers against your lips.

You’re floating, weightless and trembling in his arms, whispering, “I love you.” His eyes burn into yours, fiercely and ravenously, and he jerks the other strap down and mouths at your breasts through their lace coverings. You arch against him. “Grant, oh god, Grant –“

It’s like he’s been doused with icewater. His whole body jerks, and all the hunger drains from his face. His looks away, his eyes hooded.

“Grant?” Your voice comes out a little frantic, and you find the presence of mind to rein yourself in as he pulls back and scrubs his hands over his face. No, not now. What did I do wrong? What did I do?

You knew this would happen. You knew it. He doesn’t want you, not like that. You’re good enough to fool around with, but you’ll never be someone he could love.

“I have to – I can’t – this isn’t right,” he says, quietly, almost to himself.

You freeze, hands stiff where they fell from his body. You can’t even turn your head to look at him. When he shifts your hips to the side, you go, half-falling onto the sofa, legs tangled in your skirt. You feel emptied, hollowed-out.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

The hollowness fills with rage. “Well, that’s okay, I guess. I guess it’s okay. I guess it’s good that you didn’t fuck me, then tell me you don't feel anything for me. Glad you’re doing the right thing here.”

“Doll, no – that’s not what –“

“I asked you, Grant. I asked you what this was, and you said –“

“I know what I said, sweetheart. I meant it. I do have . . . I have so many feelings for you, but I can’t –“

“Quit lying to me, please.” The room goes quiet. Your chest hurts and you take a deep breath, trying to hold back your humiliated tears.

“Okay,” he says. His hand slides over yours and you jerk away. His face falls. “Right, okay.”

Grant takes a deep breath. “My name isn’t Grant Stevens. It’s Steven Grant Rogers. Steve Rogers.” You stare at him. “I’m Captain America,” he says, like he expects you to believe him. Like he believes it, himself.

“Oh my god.” You bury your face in your hands. “Is this a joke? I just asked you not to – Jesus Christ, Grant. Just say you don’t feel like that. It’s okay. I was stupid to think you would. Say you were just trying to get laid –“

“Hey, no, that’s not fair.” His voice is louder, almost commanding. “You know it’s not like that.” You should know, but the shame you feel won’t let you believe it.

“What is it like, Grant? How am I supposed to – You sit there and you tell me these ridiculous lies. Like, how could you possibly think that’s okay.”

He flinches like you’d hit him. “I’m not lying. I was just – no, I was lying to you, and I’m sorry, but I thought they’d fix me and I could tell you then, and then it was taking so long and I should have stayed away from you but I couldn’t, and then you said you noticed me and then you were wearing my jacket –“ his hands grasp yours, tighter now, so you can’t pull away. His voice is frantic “– and letting me draw you and, and no woman ever noticed me like this, not like this, not except – and I knew I had to tell you but. But.”

“What is wrong with you?” You can’t hold them back anymore, the tears are streaming down your face.

“I’m so sorry, I’ll prove it – “ 

“Please leave.”

“Sweetheart – “

“Don’t. Don’t you ever.”

He squeezes your hands so tightly that you wince, then drops them abruptly and stands. His breath is harsh, not-quite whistling, and for a wild second you hope it hurts, then –

“Your inhaler,” you say into the stillness.

“I’m fine.”

He turns away, wiping at his cheeks with the back of his hand, and walks out the door. You clutch your hands together, willing yourself to be quiet, at least until he’s out of earshot. You listen for the sound of his feet on the steps, his car door slamming, ears straining, but there’s nothing but silence for long minutes, then –

“Lock the door.” You start violently at the sound of his voice.

“Sweet – doll – you gotta lock the door. I can’t leave till I know it’s locked.”

Jesus fucking Christ, this man.

Numb, you cross the floor and turn the lock, then throw the deadbolt for good measure. It cracks like thunder in the stillness.

You hear him sigh. “Okay. I - I . . .” then you do hear his steps, his door, hear the engine start and the sound of tires on gravel. You slide down the door, dress raking up to your thighs the way it had only a few minutes before.

And then you let yourself cry.

[1] “Get ‘Em in a Rumble Seat,” Harry Reser’s Six Jumping Jacks, Vol. 2, 1928, http://www.heptune.com/lyrics/getemina.html. Accessed 31 July 2019.

____________________

Van Morrison – When the Leaves Come Falling Down

I saw you standing with the wind and the rain in your face/ And you were thinking 'bout the wisdom of the leaves and their grace/ When the leaves come falling down/ In September, when the leaves come falling down

Read Chapter Eight

[bhaalbaaby]

The Stillness Bends // Chapter 1

Title: Know Yourself and The Enemy (1854 words) Pairing: Shadowheart/Fem!Tav Warnings: Emetophobia, Flirtations, Flashbacks A/N: be gentle and thank you for my beta @bunnidarling 🥺 Taglist: @spacebarbarianweird @tragedybunny @astarionsbeloved @razrogue @celestialomlette @rentheannihilator @rinmoon7

Read on AO3!

Penelope grimaces as they trudge through the mud, thudding and yelling not too far ahead of them. She's never met any goblin before all of this. Odd little creatures. Her first victims. She tries not to think about them too much. 

Her daggers have seen so much blood, there's no bloodlust, only grief. She hides it with a smile, not wanting to seem weak in front of her companions. Penelope is not a killer. Her daggers at home were only for threatening. Is she a seasoned killer now or a hero? What would her friends back in Baldur's Gate think? They wouldn't believe her. Hells, she barely believes any of this herself, the experience living in her bones.

She already feels inexperienced with combat and survival when she speaks to any of her companions. 

She stops in front of the bridge, the smell of piss, alcohol, and blood thick in the smoky air. Wyll can barely contain himself as he grimaces. "We should cut them down quickly and efficiently. The longer we stay, the more issues we may find." He's so confident. He should be the leader. 

Penelope turns to the rest of them. Shadowheart nods, "I must agree. Goblins aren't known for hospitality." "Wicked little creatures," Astarion adds. 

"Let's see what they know first. Volo mentioned something about the Absolute, and Nettie said Halsin came here searching about these tadpoles." Penelope reasons, trying to see if they can avoid more bloodshed. 

Astarion rolls his eyes. "I suppose we can snoop around. Find out more about these monsters in our heads." She flashes him a grateful smile. "I wonder what power they possess." Astarion continues with a glint in his red eyes.

Her smile fades. She doesn't want to find out. 

Getting past the Goblins at the gate is an easy feat. She feigns grief as she lies. "We were sent here by True Soul Edowin. Absolute rest his soul." His siblings were the first humans her blades claimed. 

"Another True Soul? The Drow will want to speak to you then." He then remarks on Penelope's body, making her shudder. Before, she would only think about ending any of those who crossed her. Now she can. No one but herself can stop her from fighting.

She can hardly blame the goblin for saying anything. She's ill-fitted for fighting, her armor bits and pieces from her dancer attire, repurposed for battle with Astarion's help. Her dark pink bralette is reinforced with some scale mail they got from Arron. Against Shadowheart and Wyll's suggestions, her midriff is still exposed because it didn't look right covered up. Her skirts remain the same, makeshift boots under them to protect her legs from any damage and the elements. She could always lie and say she's a dancer ready to entertain the leaders if need be. Her long fuchsia hair is rolled up in a bun resting on her neck, with flyaways, and small curtain bangs framing her delicate face.

The urge fades as they walk past the wooden gates. She would kill him later. Would she enjoy it? Possibly... She doesn't know. 

As the group approaches the Goblin camp, the tadpole wiggles as if awoken by something. She glances at Shadowheart, jaw tight as they continue. Wyll rubs his temple gently, trying not to cause any attention. Astarion’s expression is no less unnerving, his brow low. Penelope continues walking. At least it's not just her, she thinks to herself as they start to cross the bridge. 

The pain is piercing and gradual, forcing her on her knees. She hears the others struggle as well before silence and darkness cloaks her. Her heart races, pressure building in her head. Is this the end? The woman's voice draws her in, the tadpole stilling as if listening as well. Purple light emits in front of her, three black figures sprouting from them. Their features are hidden by the smoke and darkness, but that man, his manner, that smile. She's seen it before. Maybe in her dreams. Her concentration wanes as the voice booms. "Help My Chosen search for the Prism and you shall be worthy to be in my presence."Heat emanates from behind her as the artifact leaves Shadowheart's pack. The voice grows fainter as the artifact dwindles in the air, the power pulsating stronger than ever as it floats back to Shadowheart. 

Penelope sits back on her knees, left catching her breath as the pressure lifts. Making sense of what just happened would be as inexplicable as everything else. Shadowheart stares at the prism in awe. "What in the Hells is that exactly?" Penelope asks, her eyes darting between the artifact and Shadowheart's face. 

"I don't know. It saved our lives," Shadowheart says, shaking her head. Packing away the prism, her dangerous green eyes meet Penelope's. "I will keep it protected. I must do so. All I know is that it's important to get it back to Baldur's Gate, at any cost." 

"What's in Baldur's Gate?" Penelope asks, stepping closer. She can feel Shadowheart's hesitancy as she steps back. "I suppose I must tell you as we're traveling together..." She straightens, her shoulders squared. "I serve Shar. My cloister is in Baldur's Gate." 

Shar. Penelope knows little of the Goddess. She also knows the cloister exists, just not where. She lost a client to Lady Shar's practice in the past; the man barely remembered his name except that he came to Sharess' Caress sometimes. She pitied him and all of Shar’s followers. The same sorrow fills her now as she listens to Shadowheart. And such a pity. Shadowheart is such a pretty woman. The Lady of Loss isn't keen on her followers feeling any pleasure and Penelope has fleeting plans for the Cleric.

Wyll shakes his head as concern lines his face. "A Shar worshiper? Not my usual quarry, nor my usual ally." 

Penelope sighs, rubbing her head, at least the tadpole is silent. "Thank you for sharing, Shadowheart. At least we know something about whatever that is." She gestures to her pack as Shadowheart rolls her eyes. "This is out of pure necessity. Pure desperation, in fact."

"I'm sure... Keep it safe. Whatever it is, 'The Absolute' is searching for it." Penelope replies, suddenly tired. "Let's go meet these leaders." 

The stench grows stronger as they walk through drunk Goblins, Bugbears, and Orges. Penelope holds her breath as they reach the doors of the defiled Temple. 

"I don't think I can do this." Penelope whimpers, her uvula feeling thick in the back of her throat.

"What do you mean you can't do this?" Astarion asks, his tone annoyed. 

She turns to him, pale. "This smell doesn't bother you?" She asks in a hissed whisper, her stomach lurching. He rolls his eyes as Wyll steps closer, "We can come back later. I'm sure they'll drink themselves to death." She hopes he's right as they head to camp.

Penelope sits by the water at camp. Maybe a bath would clear her mind and calm her stomach. As she starts to undress, she hears footsteps in the sandy grovel. 

She keeps her top on as she turns to see Shadowheart. "I don't mean to intrude." She says, surprisingly shy. Her eyes avoid Penelope's direction. "I'm decent enough, luv," Penelope says with a light laugh as she walks over to Shadowheart. 

"I made you this. It's for nausea relief. Should help when we go through their stronghold." The bottle is murky brown and smells medicinal. 

"Thank you, Shadowheart."

The Cleric nods, still looking away. She's cute when she's playing coy, Penelope thinks as she steps closer, tilting Shadowheart's head towards her. "Are you alright? You seem a little distracted?" Penelope asks, her thumb brushing Shadowheart's cheek. The blacks of her eyes help the bright magenta pop more in the growing darkness, the heart pupils more prominent. 

"I-I'm fine." She doesn't pull away from Penelope's grasp.

 "Did you want to join me for my bath?" Penelope asks as innocently as she can. 

Shadowheart's breathing quickens, her eyes widening slightly before she laughs, stepping away. "No, we shouldn't. Um. Thank you for not being angry with me." She adds as well, keeping her head lowered. 

The urge to kiss her is overwhelming, but Penelope behaves herself. "What are you talking about?" She asks, tilting her head to the side. 

"For being a Shar worshiper." 

Penelope rolls her eyes. "None of that matters while we have The Absolute and Ceremorphosis to worry about." She tries her best to mimic Gale as she says the mind flayer transformation's official name, happy to see Shadowheart try to suppress her smile. 

"I guess you're right. I should leave you to your bath." 

"The offer to stay is still on the table," Penelope replies, playing with the ties of her dress. 

Shadowheart's cheeks tinge pink as she shakes her head. "Maybe another time." 

It's not a no. Penelope smiles softly as she turns around, "I'll be here when you change your mind." The dress loosens around her waist as she discards it, stepping into the water. She glances over her shoulder to see the half-elf gone.

Her bath is quiet in contrast to her mind, which thrashes with anxiety as she glides her fingers over her arms. Maybe they can do something else before returning to the goblins. She feels cowardly not wanting to venture further into the keep. They're not ready. She's not ready. She can barely strike without feeling remorse. She knows a few spells, but she feels so weak compared to Gale and Wyll. She is leading them to their doom. Sinking into the water, she ignores the feeling of mud under her toes as she wishes she could run away. 

Flashbacks are ice daggers in her chest as she remembers the forest enclosing her and her mother. "Keep going," her mother instructed as they ran. The thudding of horses echoed behind them: highwaymen. She squeezed her mother's hand as they sprinted. 

Penelope looks up at the sky and the stars above. The memory tries to resurface, the men shouting at them. “ Hellspawn !” They were so close to the city. Her mother stopped when they lost them, reaching into her pocket and handing the young Penelope the letter from her aunt and her mother's locket. 

"Nel, go to the city. If we get separated, find your aunt." 

Penelope sniffled, "I don't wanna go without you." 

Her mother wiped the stray tear. "My beautiful girl, I'll always be with you." 

She splashes her face with water, feeling a lump in her throat. Her mother is now a distant memory, and yet she can recall the scent of rosewater and thyme from their garden in Elturel. Her mother wouldn't want her to give up. 

She steels herself with that memory. She won’t break down in front of the others. She walks out of the water as the warm sunset covers the camp. She ignores how scratchy the old towel is as she picks it up. Tomorrow is another day. Hopefully, Shadowheart's medicine works. As another day passes with the tadpole in their brains, the more paranoid Penelope becomes.

[silkmoon777]

The Arcana: Julian's Route | Chapter 3

!! THIS STORY IS A DETAILED RETELLING OF THE ARCANA, INCLUDING PAID SCENES IN BOTH PROLOGUE AND JULIAN ROUTE. ALL CHARACTERS EXCEPT THE MC ARE PROPERTY OF THE ARCANA FRANCHISE !!

A/N: This is a reupload from my AO3 cause I want to branch out. Enjoy!!

Summary: In a small shop in Vesuvia lives Vivian Caelum, a student of the magical arts who works as a shopkeeper for her tutor, Asra Alnazar. Her name is not known in the streets as her master's is, nor does she have full control over her magic yet. But one night, there's a knock at her door; Vivian is needed at the palace to help Countess Nadia upon her personal wishes. Soon, what she thinks is a small task is something she would never have expected her magic to be used for: Vivian must find Count Lucio's murderer. Will she be able to track down the infamous murderer and finally put the Countess's years of restlessness to ease? Or will the killer captivate her in ways she can't explain? Is she even running after the right man? Something deeper than she thought is happening within her beloved city, and she's about to understand the vastness of the magical realms.

Pairing: Julian Devorak x Fem!Magician Reader

This Chapter Contains: brief mentions/discussion of death

Word Count: 5,478

find the rest of the chapters in my masterlist here :)

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

Marble. Everything is marble.

Steep, swooping ceilings cascade into carefully crafted pillars that line the walls. Polished marble floors stretch out infinitely, so glazed that I wouldn’t be surprised if a thin film of water settled overtop. The grand entrance is expansive and towering, ending ahead in a sweeping flight of stairs that meet the second story balustrade. Intricate details are not just found on the pillars, but on the ceiling. Carvings of suns and stars, lush foliage and indecipherable shapes meddle together, each curve and line lovingly chiseled into the stone. 

On either side of the palace doors stand two identical, towering women, their soft bodies draped in solidified silks. Their stone faces are turned skyward, chests puffed and nipples protruding through the portrayed fabric. In the hands closest to the doorway, the hold sceptres that cary flames beneath the halo of a crown, the light regarding wherever their gazes fall. In the other, they brandish longswords, the blades’ tip pointed to the floor. As above, so below.

Evergreen flora and oil paintings decorate the walls. No painting is like the last, but the one that draws my attention stands above the stairs. Painted between two pillars is crowded street scene, where women crowd around a glossy white Frisian horse. It’s snout points downwards and front legs rear, a faint look of distress in its wide eyes. It pulls tight against the red and gold reigns. The women in the foreground wear incredible finery, each dress different from the last. Pouring from their hands are flurries of petals thrown from the hoards they carry in their skirts. Flower crowns weave through their hair. In the background march armoured guards. Everything about the scene is beautiful and carefully crafted, yet there’s a feeling of unease it evokes, all radiating from the man atop the horse.

Golden hair, glassy skin, ice blue eyes. Drowning in gold armour and a thick red cape, Count Lucio mounts the distressed horse. The late count disregards the women who fawn over him with handfuls of flowers, instead tuning his gaze towards the heavens. Even the mercy of a beautiful painting cannot hide the narcissistic touch. Hell, the painting is narcissistic enough. When was the last time a real woman gushed over the cruel count, if not out of naivety?

“Ah, Portia.” A tall, middle-aged servant dashes to Portia’s side. He adjusts a white hat atop thinning brown hair with a crooked smile and a welcoming bow.

"Afternoon, Chamberlain. How are we doing on time?" Portia asks the bright-eyed man.

The servant, Chamberlain, smiles. "The first course will be served shortly. Her ladyship has yet to descend."

Portia heaves a heavy sigh of relief as he retrieves the pomegranate basket from her hands. "Perfect. Tell the kitchen that our guest has arrived."

With another bow, Chamberlain disappears with the fruit basket down one of the many connecting hallways, his stride strong and purposeful. Portia grabs my arm once more and tugs me along with an excited smile. 

"Come. I'll show you to the dining room. Milady will be there soon."

"Dining room?" I echo. “With the countess?"

Portia gives me a look. "You thought we wouldn’t feed  our guest? When we invited her over in the evening?"

"No, it's just I've only spoken with Countess Nadia once. I wasn't expecting her then, but now that I am," I purse my lips. “The courtesies from and for noblewomen are foreign to me.”

As she guides me down the halls, she quietens to consider my worry. "It is like that at first, and trust me I know. My first few weeks as her servant gave me inescapable anxiety, but when you get to know her more, speak to her more... It gets easier with practice."

“I guess you’re right," I answer with half a mind, examining paintings and plants as we go.

She leads me down the end of the cavernous hallway and to a grand mahogany door. She pushes it open and—

—oh my.

Rich scents rush to meet me, unfamiliar and tantalising, before I even cross the threshold. A long table draped in a silky, white cloth inhabits the middle of the room. Laid heavy over the soft fabric are platters covered in the most careful delicacies. Portia takes the lead and pulls back a chair with a gesture to sit. Still in shock, I sit silently, falling into a plush red cushion. I hear a soft giggle behind me; Portia must find my bewilderment humorous.

I barely smile back before a sprawling painting on the opposite wall calls to me. That feeling of unease returns. Wrapped in a frame of gold is the depiction of a meal shared among animal-headed figures. There's a cow with layered gold necklaces and a strapless green dress, a black bull with a nose ring and huge curling horns in red and gold finery, a white dove in a delicate blue dress in front of a black-clad wolf. There's a cheetah, a pig, a lion, an eagle, all standing in the foreground. There's even a horse-headed figure, but there is no skin to be seen; only bones and a silky black mane. To me, the horse appears as Death, which I find strange to see in such a grand painting.

Though...what sits in the middle catches my attention. Central to the painting with palms held out and an array of grapes and dead animals before it is a tall, white goat. With protruding horns, emotionless red eyes, and a halo of gold rays behind its head, it captivates the attention of the beastly people nestled in finery. I shiver at how strikingly lifelike its eyes are. I wonder what Countess Nadia thinks of it if she's decided to display it in her dining room.

"Welcome, Vivian. I see you're admiring the painting."

As if on queue, I hear the countesses voice behind me, as firm and graceful as I remember. She stands at the head of the table, gaze following mine. Her chair appears like the tangled roots and arms of a tree. It’s set in gold, similar to the rest of the chairs and cutlery and decorations adorning the walls. The countess, as tall as she may be, almost appears like a child as she takes her seat.

Today she has her wavy, plum-coloured hair a half-up style, with pearls weaving in and out of sight like silver fish in a pond of wine. There is a modest crown of golden branches holding glistening emeralds above her head. Hugging her elegant figure is a simple purple dress with a low neckline and impossibly long sleeves with slits along the inner arm. Cherry-red lips curl into a placid smile as our eyes meet.

"Do you like it? The painting?" she asks.

I consider lying, telling her I would die to have it for myself, but it seems wrong. “It's uniquely…unsettling.”

"Such honesty. Good to see that you have a backbone." She makes a face as she regards the painting once more. "I must confess that I do not like it either."

"Then why does it remain?" I ask quietly. 

As the countess considers my question, two servants appear. They carry what I assume is the first course of the meal, the starter. In a bowl covered in faint blue floral designs is a potato leak stew. After presenting my cutlery and offering me wine, I thank the servant, who bows with a smile and retreats down the hall. I carefully bring a spoonful. Unsurprisingly, the simplest stew tastes unlike anything I’ve every had.

"Why does it remain? Sentimental value, I suppose. It was one of my husband's favourites," the countess answers simply.

It’s strange to suddenly hear of the count and observe him in paintings after three long years. It irrupts a sudden sense of familiarity as I look back to the goat. Its eyes are so vivid that I can almost feel them returning my gaze.

"A beautiful red..." I murmur aloud. When Nadia’s gaze follows mine once more to land on a pair of beady red eyes, I can't decide if the emotion in her eyes is longing or disgust.

"Ah, yes. It is a beautiful red." When she looks back, that emotion is gone. "The one in the middle is Lucio—or so it's supposed to be. Providing for the people as he saw himself. If anything he certainly knew how to entertain."

The second I finish my soup, it’s whisked away to be replaced by the second course: roasted mushrooms and onion in a drizzle of gravy. Like the previous dish, the portioning is small to allow the array of food. The plate its presented on depicts the same blue patterns.

Nadia continues. "I know how fondly the people of this city remember the Count's Masquerade. Our annual revelry in honour of my husband's birthday...a delight to all of Vesuvia. Did you ever attend?"

I hum in thought. “I...don't recall attending, no.”

“A pity," the countess offers. Her eyes turn dark with remembrance. "Nevertheless, it is a memory now twinged with bitterness... After Lucio was murdered at the last Masquerade."

I nearly choke at how strong her words come and how little sadness I hear in them. Mercifully, I catch myself, swallowing my mouthful with ease.

The countess shakes her head. "Such a terrible shock to the guests. Such a vicious injustice upon this house, to slaughter the host while he celebrates, sharing his joy and properties with open doors."

The Count’s murder is full of holes, muddied by wild rumours and unanswered questions. But the end is always the same: the Count retired to his chambers, and by midnight, he and his chamber were engulfed in flames. The culprit was allegedly captured on the spot, but before he could be brought to justice...he escapes. Vanished into the night.

Since the masquerade, guests to the Palace have been few indeed. I wonder how long after the last visitor I’ve come. Once, all those years ago, the streets leading to the palace were bustling with life and the gates were indefinitely opening, inviting endless nights of party and celebration for the littlest of things. You could explore the streets of Vesuvia at night without rotations of guards doubting your every move. Count Lucio was the talk of the town, a prayer on everyone's lips. Now, everyone is scared to speak his name.

"A tragic story. But you’re grace…" I tilt my head to the side, “what does any of this have to do with me?"

"The Masquerade is precisely why I called you here. This year, I intend to revive and renew its reputation."

Don't stare, don't stare.

But I still do, forgetting the bite of mushroom that I hold inches from my mouth. Portia, who stands behind Countess Nadia, shares my shock. So does every other servant in the room. Three years later, she wants to throw a Masquerade despite its tarnished image? And, most bewildering of all, I have a part to play?

The countess smiles. "The festivities in Lucio's honour will be more fantastical than ever. Music, entertainment, food, no expenses or invites needed to attend so that all of Vesuvia can celebrate. If not for my husband, then just for themselves. There is but one loose end in need of tying."

"And that is...?"

"Lucio's murderer still roams free. To this day he has not met the justice he deserves for committing such a terrible crime.” 

She manages to remain almost entirely indifferent. All that betrays her is a slight quiver in her lip—anger. She’s angry its taken this long to let Lucio rest easy. Her memory of the count may differ, it seems. There are few people who would willingly bring him justice. But, in this moment, that doesn’t bother me. Instead, the wanted posters swim in my head, worn and muddied in time, some still found deep within the streets. The name had escaped me for the longest time, but now it couldn’t be more memorable.

My stomach twists in unease. Doctor Julian Devorak, the man who broke into my home, who I spoke to only last night and saw wandering the markets today. I curse myself for overlooking the familiarity of his name and how easily it came to me.

The countess continues, oblivious to my horror. "Doctor Julian Devorak, my husbands former physician, confessed to the crime when we caught him. But somehow he slipped through my grasp. All that is left is his sentence."

"I've heard a lot of talk about him," I say slowly, "but never an inkling of his sentence. What shall it be, if...you don't mind me asking, my lady."

She raises a brow. "His sentence? Death by hanging, of course."

No more than a second later, a terrible crash echoes through the room. We both turn to see Portia, her face white and stricken with something resembling horror. At her feet are the shards of fine china and ruined deserts. Her wide eyes jump between the two of us. I give her a sympathetic smile that I hope says, it's okay, because I don't blame her.

There's a sick feeling churning in my stomach in response to Countess Nadia's words that Portia must feel. Half of it comes from my fresh and unrealised encounter with Doctor, and the other half comes from his sentence. Hanging… There hasn’t been a hanging in Vesuvia for a long time. The age of public death sentences has been on a come down in many parts of the world. Though merciful, the reasoning is somewhat cruel: people have realised that suffering is more rewarding than a quick death.

But he's a criminal, I remind myself. He killed the count. He broke into your home like the crazed lunatic he is. Think of it as a kinder punishment.

“Portia?" The countess doesn't sound mad, instead concerned.

"F-forgive me, milady," she stammers. "Caught me off guard, is all."

The countess sighs. "You are forgiven."

The few present servants rush to Portia’s aid, stepping away the shattered mess with wind-sprint speed. I watch Portia a moment longer, intrigued by the way her eyes search the floor. She isn’t looking for mess, no… I think she might cry.

I’m quickly distracted by two more servants appearing from the hallway, each carrying dishes Portia had just dropped. They take our empty plates and dirtied cutlery in silence. Before me is an array of bite sized pastries, each decorated in berries, caramelised banana, and a dusting of powdered sugar.

"As I was about to say…” Nadia graciously picks at a pastry with delicate fingers, somehow taking a bite so graceful and perfect that I’m conscious to take my own. “This is where you come in, Vivian. Doctor Devorak has been very elusive. But you have quite the reputation. Rumour has it that you have surpassed even your master, Asra."

Again, I manage not to falter despite the absolute shock. What rumour? Who told her this?

I purse my lips. "I appreciate you coming to find me, my lady. Really, out of all those capable, it bewilders me to know you wanted to find me. But…I’m unsure you have heard right."

She smiles. "Oh, but I did. From some very trusted sources, who have heard from Asra himself that you are a unique specimen. But it will still come down to whether you believe you live up to that standard—which I will let you decide once I have provided you with more detail."

I nod. “I will try, if that pleases you, but I must ask you not to have high hopes.”

"No need." The countess laughs lightly with a shake of her head. "I have enough trust in myself that you are what people say. I’ll let you in on a little secret: I myself have a connection to magic, though not as palpable as yours. Glimpses of the future come to me in dreams. They tell me you are the one who will find Doctor Devorak."

"A clairvoyant, huh?” I lean back, brows raised in disbelief. “Fascinating. I’ve never met someone one before. And don't mind me asking, but what of the doctor if we find him?

“When we find him, we will bring him before the people so that all may see his long-awaited punishment. And so, to commence the festivities, the doctor will die on the gallows for his terrible crime. And once you have brung me my prize, I will reward you with any amount of riches that you desire.”

Riches. Though I pride myself on my humble beginnings and willingness to help anyone in need, I’m only human. Not just any riches, but those I desire. The idea amazes me. I could afford enough food to not worry about the next few weeks, I could afford finery and real jewels, I could even buy a bigger shop for Asra and I, where we have our own spaces, if she’s generous enough. While I hate to be swayed by money, the weight it could lift of my shoulders is too appealing.

The countess rises to her feet. On instinct, I follow suit. When I really take in the magnificence of her, the spectacular dress of flowing material and jewels that must have cost handfuls, I realise how dressed down I must seem, despite wearing the nicest clothes I own.

"Now that I have told you all you need to know, would you like to work alongside me?" she asks.

"Of course." I bow my head. "Anything to finally put you and the rest of Vesuvia at peace."

"Good. Portia?"

Portia jumps at her name. "Yes, milady?”

"Show Vivian to her guest quarters. I imagine she has much to think over before the night is out."

"Right away, milady."

Portia gently takes my elbow and guides me around the chairs, and with a humble bow, whisks me through the doorway. She is quiet as she ushers me through the maze of halls, but it isn't the same silence we shared when walking to the palace. It’s an uncomfortable, heavy silence. For a minute, I endure it, feeling that maybe this has nothing to do with the dining room and she has nothing to say. Despite telling myself, I can't fight the urge to speak.

"Call me crazy, but...maybe the punishment is extreme," I say softly. "There are plenty of convicted murderers in the world, but lots of them aren't sentenced to...death. Just because Count Lucio was well known shouldn't change the Doctors sentence—the count is still as human as anybody I know." Pursing my lips, I add, “Never mind, maybe it was just jarring to hear."

Portia shakes her head. "No, no, I agree. ...Death sounds a tad extreme, but I would never tall m'lady so."

I nod.

We pass a large staircase, veiled in shadows. A draft rushes from above, prickling my skin like a ghostly caress. It almost feels heavy, carrying an ashen smell. Curled up on the bottom stairs are two white, lanky dogs. Around their necks are thick, gold collars. Beady red eyes following us along. Silently, they rise. I stop walking, staring back and gently holding out my hand. The bigger one walks forward, sniffing me. The other follows. Their huffing breathes tickle my skin and eventually, their tails raise and wag.

"Well, I'll never," Portia breathes, eyes curious. "They never take kindly to strangers. It's how they were trained, but...I've never seen them act kindly."

Their slim snouts brush up my sides as the white dogs investigate me further. Satisfied, they draw back, looking at me expectantly. I almost reach out to pet them again, but something in their eyes catches me off guard. Suddenly it’s unsettling. I take a careful step back, giving them plenty of room. They trot proudly back to their spot. 

"They're very strange things, aren't they?” I wonder aloud.

"I agree... Oh! No wonder they're like this, they haven't had their chamomile cakes." She looks between the two dogs, who stay as still as statues. "Wait here, Vivian. And it's probably best to keep your distance. I'll be right back with those cakes."

"Of course."

Portia drags back a panel in the wall and disappears through a servant tunnel. It shuts behind her with a heavy thunk and I'm left alone in the halls with the dogs. There's a nudge at my side as one of the dogs sniff my side again. When I look down, it pulls away and stares again.

There's another nudge at my other side—the smaller one taking in huffing samples of my sent. I whirl around to watch it mirror the bigger one's actions. It sits back on its haunches, giving me a look of innocence. I laugh. Cheeky. But as I share its jovial gaze, that unsettling sensation returns, rippling beneath my skin like a wave of fever.

"A guest?"

I step back from the dogs, looking around the hall expecting to see a servant or another visitor. Anyone, really, but I’m still alone.

"Intriguing..."

The voice doesn’t come from down here, no. I follow the dog's gaze to the top of the stairs, where the voice spoke. No one is to be seen, shrouded by the gloom atop the staircase. I jump when I feel yanking at the hem of my skirt; the dogs have taken a mouthful of white linen into their jaws. Their grip is and stubbornly strong.

"Hey, drop it," I warn.

They don't comply, pulling me towards, only letting me go when we've reached the top. I’m met with a hallway identical to the one below, but the intricate chandeliers are unlit. There's an eerie aura in the air, that both pulls me in and begs for me to leave. The smell of ash is overwhelming. I cough, feeling my throat and lungs sting. With one hand over my nose and mouth, I summon a ball of light in my other. I’m alone again. The dogs have disappeared. 

There is a grand door ahead, partway open. Inside is a deeper darkness that my light cannot pierce. I should go back. Portia could be arriving at any moment with those cakes. But that door...

Portia can wait.

The magic in my hand flutters to a glow as I step into the dark. I frown, focusing my mind on the small ball of light. No matter how hard I try, it remains dim, as if something unseen is snuffing out my magic. 

Despite the coldness of the corridor outside, the room I step into is warm. Uncomfortably warm. The air, however, is strangely thick and tastes strongly of pepper. Nevermind that though...

Once my eyes have adjusted to the dim light, I take in the bedroom before me. A heavily canopied bed stretches midway across the room, the sheets neatly done up. I step further into the threshold, passing a suit of extravagant, gold armour. A wooden writing desk sits to my left. Its surface is scattered with neat piles of paper and books and a white feather pen.

Everything looks lived in. Well, if not for the ash.

The curtains, bedspread, and canopy sheets are in shreds, charred and limp. Everything has been touched by fire. Horror coils in my gut. This is the infamous room, the quarters of Count Lucio that set the scene for his demise on the night of his birthday. 

A shiver chases down my spine. I shouldn't be in here, but there’s morbid curiosity the accompanies the unease. Who else can say that they've witnessed this mess?

My attention is caught by a portrait on the wall, twice my height. For the third time this evening, I examine a painting of Count Lucio. Either this portrait is old or he looked younger than I remember because the gleam captured in his eyes and the youthful face takes me by surprise. Or perhaps the artist was catering to his vanity. The count is painted before a mountain range, with one silver-booted foot on a rock. He's wearing cream-coloured pants and a scarlet suit jacket threaded with gold designs. Hanging from his broad, straight shoulders is a long fur coat lined with a red matching his jacket. I lean closer—

"Go on. Touch it."

My heart skips to my throat and I draw back, guilty. I’ve been caught…but by who? I’m still alone in this sad, empty room. From my guilt sprouts fear. I almost call out to the voice when a miasma of thick, scorching air shoves my hand against the portrait. The skin on my wrist burns and I cry out in alarm. A snickering fills my ears as a haze settles over my mind.

"Nothing like the real thing, seeing...unable to feel. Such sweet torture."

My magic reacts to the invisible threat, the light seeping from between my palm and the canvas and down my hand. With a burst of force, the light explodes outwards, pushing the mass away and seeping into my tattoos. The strange sensation subsides in kind, the voice growing fainter, even wistful.

"Ahh...interesting," the disembodied voice murmurs. “There, in your energy… Ohh, it’s him. Could you be…?”

I subconsciously take a step backwards, face horror-stricken. Either someone finds it funny to play with me like this, or this room is...alive. My magic buzzes in reaction to something unholy hiding in the shadows. Soft material brushes against my legs and I fall through the folds of dust-covered fabric covering the bed. Great plumes of dust and ash billow through the air as my back hits the duvet of Count Lucio’s bed. I lay where he once did, where he was incinerated. Ash stings my eyes, fills my nose and mouth with a terrible taste. A sick feeling turns my stomach and I clamp a hand over my in my struggle to escape the bed. This was a mistake.

"Going so soon?" the voice coos. "You're no fun."

"What are you? Why are you talking to me?" I demand, eyes darting between the shadows. "What do you want?"

"What do I want? What do I want?"

The echo of my question ends in a deathly snarl. I freeze, feeling the sensation of something reaching for my back. Abruptly, the temperature drops and the feeling disappears. I let out a breath I never knew I was holding. The air from my lips turning to mist. I dare not look as something moves.

"Chains of gold, but no neck. Beautiful, beautiful furs, but no back. No perfect face, no perfect body. I have nothing I want."

My breathing is no longer mist in the air. My skin is no longer chilled by the dropping temperature. All at once, the room feels normal. When there is nothing but silence as the voice fades, I aim for the door. Breaking into a run, I dash down the hall, my mind racing. Could that have been... No. The portraits lining the wall watch me run with cold, aristocratic stares.

"Come back... Come back..."

Don't listen, the voice in my head reasons. And I shouldn't, but against all good sense, I still look back.

I only see it for a moment; a silhouette, stark against a wall of high windows frosted with smoke. Claws, horns, and hoofs like onyx—that's what I see first. Second comes the white face of a goat staring back at me, glowing red eyes fixed gleefully on mine.

Then I blink.

It’s gone.

But I don't stop. If anything, my legs move faster. By the time I've stumbled down the stairs, Portia is back, confusion on her face at my sudden appearance.

"There you are!"

She stares at me, taking in the dishevelment of my appearance: ash covering me from head to toe, the mess my hair has become. I wonder how white my face is.

Her eyebrows lower. "What...why are you covered in ash? Oh, what did those naughty dogs do to you?"

"Oh, nothing,” I lie breathlessly. “They wanted to play a game of chase and I couldn't help it. But we had a little... accident."

"Those two." She shakes her head. "They won't cease to confuse me. They must really like you. Would you mind if I fixed you up a tad?"

I sigh. "Please."

She gestures for me to sit on the stairs. After helping me to brush the dust from my clothes, she takes a seat behind me and takes my hair in her hands. With a motherly touch, she undoes the mess my braid has become, gently combing her fingers through the tangles. 

"You have such lovely hair," she murmurs. "And may I ask why your tattoos are glowing?”

The dainty, identical patterns stretching from my elbow to my fingertips, otherwise inked in black, glow a soft white. 

I look down at my left hand. Inked on it are black and white snakes that intertwine, weaving around my wrist and through my fingers. Instead of the plain colours they normally are, they glow a soft white. Similarly, the rest glow. The sun on my sternum, the snake and moon phases down my spine, the stretch of stars along my collarbone… I can feel each line on my body radiate a comfortable heat.

"Oh, I don't really know,” I answer. “There’s special ink, no special designs. Asra thinks that maybe it's because my magic is so restless that it’s constantly in search of an outlet."

“Fascinating.” Portia pulls my hair into a fresh braid. "I hear a lot of whispers that you are not what you seem. What the countess says about you surpassing even your own master is what I've heard myself. But what you said to m’lady…"

"You want the truth?"

"Yes."

"Well...I don't know."

She pauses. "What do you mean?"

"I grew up unable to learn magic," I say after a moment. "My parents restricted a lot of my life, and even mentioning magic was punishable. I ran away from home and spent a few hard years on my own. Eventually, Asra found me and offered to take me in. After a year he told me he sensed something budding, but I didn’t believe him. It felt too late in life to connect with magic. Until one night, I was running an errand late in the evening for Asra with my coin push stupidly on display, and a thief noticed.”

"...What happened?"

I purse my lips. Only Asra has ever known this—not that I’ve had other friends to tell. To repeat it to Portia now, after so long, feels strange. 

"Looking at me, he of course thought that I was an easy target. So he pulled me into an alley and drew a knife on me and threatened to take my life if I didn't comply. I was so frightened, so still and in shock that I didn't give the money. Eventually, he tired of me and raised the knife to swing. Then out of nowhere, this burst of magic shot from me as I tried shielding myself. It hit him square in the chest. His body went flying."

"What happened to him?"

"I have no idea. I just hope I didn't kill him."

With a twist of a hairband, Portia finishes the braid and gives my shoulders a squeeze. "You did what you had to do. Now come along. I think you need a little rest."

Almost forgetting what I saw upstairs, I nod and smile, letting her take my hand and lead me to my room. Thankfully, it isn't far. We take one last corner and approach another door that is as grand as the rest. She pushes it open to reveal a room so big I wonder if I could fit the shop inside.

Portia grins. "Here we are. This will be your quarters, Vivian."

"...Oh my.” Gilded walls, a huge bed, velvet pillows and couches… “This is amazing.”

"You may put your things wherever you like. Breakfast is at sunrise, and don't worry about oversleeping. I will be here to wake you."

Overwhelmed, I pull Portia into a tight hug, which takes her by surprise. Though, she doesn't hesitate to wrap her arms back around me with a squeeze. She smells of spring air, with the sweet hint of cherry blossoms.

"Thank you," I whisper. "And if you happen to see Countess Nadia again before tomorrow, tell her I won't fail her."

"Of course, and you're most welcome." She pulls back. "Now sleep well. Your job starts tomorrow."

Gently she closes to door. I drop my bag on the bed and change into a silk slip. Sliding underneath the thick covers, I feel my fatigue hit me like a wave. But I do not sleep for a long time.

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

[bluecoolr]

For Life Or Until Fault

Alt Timeline 2.0 - Darrell x Odile (Part 6)

Warnings: MINORS DNI! Main characters are slasher ocs. Implied murder. Mutual stalking involved.

Darrell belongs to me ♥︎

Odile belongs to @solmints-messyocdiary

Tagging my beloved @ajarofpickledtears who might get a kick out of this 🥹💕

Footsteps were muffled by the dusty, dull green carpet. Hardly anyone was at the library, and Darrell was sure that this might just be the norm. He waited for the kindly librarian to find the newspaper article he had asked for.

They huddled in front of a computer hooked up to a microfiche reader, sifting through page after page of old local newsprint. Finally, the librarian gave a satisfied "Ah!"

"Here we are," she told Darrell cheerfully, "I'll leave you to it, then."

She stepped aside to let Darrell slide into the chair in front of the monitor. "If you want to print anything," she said, "the computer's linked to the printer so just click this little picture here."

Darrell thanked her and began to read the article about the accident the town had simply dubbed as "The Fire". Not out of indifference, but of grim aversion. It was a ghastly thing, a tragic event that supposedly took the lives of a woman, a kindly priest, and his quaint charge.

Overturned candles, the authorities suspected, or some electrical problem. It could all have been easily avoided. Such a shame.

Perhaps by some printer's mishap, the photographs of Father Henrik and the woman were grainy. Parts of their faces were even blotted out completely.

Her, however. Her face was bright as day.

Odile, the description read, church custodian.

A timid beauty that drew the eyes to her spot on the page, where she presided like a saint over adverts and small town news.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed a slender figure lingering by the bookshelves. It was the ring leader from his last visit, swaying in place with her baby braids and her school skirt perched too high on her waist. Darrell kept his eyes on the screen.

An article - no bigger than his palm - ruefully declared that yet another body had been found gutted and impaled on a pike. No doubt the work of the killer the press had dubbed "Tepeş" - The Impaler - after the infamous Wallachian prince. Curiously, all his victims had been men who had a history of violence.

The governor was quoted to say, "I would not trade this horror for less congested jails. There is a perverse gratification in this for this individual."

That had been years ago. As far as Darrell knew, the killer had never been caught.

He hit a button and headed for the printer.

Her picture was warm in his hands, and he trembled as he folded away the parts that didn't matter.

At the book checkout, the little minx strolled up beside him, bearing a racy vampire novel in her hands. She ventured for small talk. Darrell tried to make it evident that he wasn't interested. She was however, persistent. "Who's she?" she asked, eyeing the picture.

Darrell covetously snuck Odile between the pages of the book he'd picked. She watched him draw his lips into a tight line. "She isn't your girlfriend is she?" She chuckled. "If she were, she'd give you her picture herself. You wouldn't need to print it from the library."

"You like him? He's quite a character."

Darrell glanced at his book's cover. Vlad the Impaler: His Life and Exploits, the title read.

"I think he's awful," Darrell told her. "But I'm feeling quite nosy today. Might want to get all up in his business. No school today?"

"Done for the day."

"What year are you in?"

"11."

"That makes you… what 16?"

"Yep." The young girl flashed him a pretty smile, revealing a row of perfect white teeth.

"I'm 31," Darrell said pointedly.

"I don't mind."

Darrell nodded once. "But your mother will. Maybe I'll have a talk with her."

The color drained from her face and her round eyes grew even wider. She suddenly looked like she wanted to get as far away from Darrell as she could.

"Look." He sighed. "You seem like a nice girl, ok? Don't waste your time on grunts like me. I promise I'm not at all that interesting."

He thanked the librarian for her help and made his quiet way to the door.

~

Darrell had seen no sign of the girl since their unfortunate first meeting. He'd left her little trinkets, apologies after he'd upset her, on a mossy footstone near the fringes of the forest.

So far she'd taken none of his gifts, but he did feel eyes on him when he came bearing new flowers - the last of that prematurely cold season. He pretended, then, not to notice as she pretended not to watch.

Sometimes, when Isabelle begged, Darrell would let her run to the forest to play with the girl. They seemed to be familiar with each other, and he caught himself smiling when he heard her giggle from somewhere in the woods. When he did spy her from a distance, he would venture a smile.

At last, she'd left carnations on the footstone for him, and he gladly took them home. The splash of color livened up the sickly yellow parlor.

One day, he woke up and took the 2-kilometer walk to the town. He purchased a pack of steaks from the lone supermarket. While leaving it out on the footstone, he hoped she had a stove. Hot food would certainly help with the cold weather.

He sat down beside his new offering, tired from the trip, and decided to rest before heading back to start the day's rounds. Somewhere between debating whether to start with the western or the eastern half of the cemetery, he fell into a doze.

The rustle of plastic wrap woke him with a start. He let out a soft gasp and froze.

There she was; Her posture tense. Her eyes blown wide; Grasping a blood-red steak in one hand, a ribbon of flesh making a bridge between her lips and her knuckle.

She began to scuttle away on her knees, and Darrell begged her to wait. "Please." He raised his hands as if to say I mean you no harm.

"I'm sorry," he said, his heart beating like a drum. Her brow crumpled in confusion. "About last time."

The recollection of their first meeting obviously made her embarrassed, and her eyes immediately became misty.

"Are you hungry?... C-cold? I… I can - want - to help, if you let me."

She dropped the steak and gingerly ran her palms over her arms, hugging herself. She looked into his face, trying to read his expression for any danger, any ruse.

"It's alright, Odile."

She gasped under her breath, and her eyes shifted into focus - her attention falling full on the man in front of her. The world seemed to grow sharper around the edges and she could see. The verdant hills beyond, the blue-gray heavens above, and the freckles on his face. It was all so clear.

"W-what?" she asked, her voice hardly rising over a whisper, as if she'd been roused from a deep slumber.

"Odile," he repeated, "I-is that your name? Odile?"

She felt a tug at her heartstrings and at the corners of her lips. Yes! Of course, how could she have forgotten? She had a name!

"Y-yes." She nodded. "My name… my name is Odile."

The smile he gave her was relieved, radiant. "That's a lovely name."

She quickly brushed the back of her hand over her cheeks, hoping he didn't catch the tears that had fallen.

"Well, hello, Odile. I'm Darrell," he said, "I'm happy we've properly met.”

"Here." He took off his jacket and draped it around her bare shoulders. She tucked herself into it, delighting in his warmth that was still enmeshed in the fabric.

He asked a question and she started, blinking blearily. "Hmm?"

“Shall we head for the manor? Get out of the cold?"

She nodded, and began to slowly reach for his outstretched hand. She jerked back. Tears suddenly welling from her eyes.

She stumbled back, fingers clinging still to the lapels of Darrell's jacket. She wasn't ready to let go just yet, but she told him what had plagued her since that day in the forest, "I-I've been horrible." Her next words were caught between a sob. "I didn't… I didn't mean to! I-I'm sorry!

"Oh, no, princess." Darrell flew to her side, brushing her arms to soothe her. "No, no, no, no, no. Please don't cry. It's alright."

"I-It's just that I was hungry and there was nothing left. I wouldn't have if I could, but-"

"I know," Darrell assured her. He pulled her to his chest, hastily wiping her tears away with his thumb.

"I'm sorry I did it. Oh, please," Odile wailed. "Don't hurt me."

Darrell took her face in his hands, wishing he could find the right thing to say to make her grief go away. "Nothing bad is going to happen to you," he told her. "I won't allow it. Okay? You poor girl. Shhh…"

"But they brought you here t-to find me… to make me pay.. f-for all my sins…"

Darrell stared into those olive green eyes, the pupils wide enough to look like chasms. Her nails dug crescents in his forearms, threatening to draw blood as she struggled to keep her breath even. He shook his head. "I swear, nothing will ever happen to you. I won't hurt you, and I won't give you to them."

"Please." Darrell could have winced at the way his voice cracked. "Come with me."

Odile was exhausted, and she was scared. But he offered warmth and kindness. Besides, Odile knew in her frail little heart, that there was no other place she wanted to be than with him.

[abhainnwhump]

Another continuation of the misgendered Ink prompt: Ink presents Nightmare with a flat gift box.

When Nightmare opens it, he finds a carefully crafted dress with holes in the shape of the phases of the moon with a sparkly sliver fabric underneath.

The curious doll announces that it will finish the necklace and tights later.

Upon arriving at his treasured toy's room, he finds it to be near under recognizable, all the pink that once covered the room was now sparce, did his aura send his precious princess spiraling into despair? Perhaps he took things too far, *this* was *not* what he had wanted.

"Oh! Hi Nightmare, is something wrong?" Ink queried without a second thought.

"I-I **demand** to know what happened to you? Do you need therapy?" Nightmare shouted with awe.

Ink retorted "I just really dislike clashing aesthetics and I know it would be too much to ask to change the entire castle just for my sake."

(I asked the other continuation prompt and the answer to what you are doing with you life is something wonderful.)

First Part || Second Part

(Content warnings: Lot of misgendering, manipulation, implied domestic abuse, mentions of mental health issues)

Nightmare recognized the box Ink gave him immediately. It was the same one he gave her with her first bra. It did interest him, Ink finally began to come around and accept the training and role as a doll. Nightmare pat her on the head as he opened the gift.

He pulled out a small dress, going just below the knee as Nightmare required Ink to wear, such as the pink dress he wore now. The dress was a deep black with a white bow at the neck. The skirt was what caught his interest though. Each layer had a careful cut and sewn path of the moon's phases. Silvery fabric glittered under the patterns to make them stand out.

"I see your sewing is going very well. Good work, my little doll. " Nightmare caressed her cheek, though he was confused on a few factors. "Did you make this for me? I'm not wearing a dress, it would throw my aesthetic off. You are the one meant for them."

"Thank you! And no, it's for me. I just wanted to show you." Ink nuzzled against him, surprisingly not complaining or putting up a fight as Nightmare expected. Her aura wasn't as happy as Nightmare wanted though. Not because he cared for Ink's happiness, but it would be easier to handle a doll that didn't think. "I'm going to make the tights and the necklace for it later. Bye bye!" Ink smiled and skipped off.

Nightmare's mouth twitched, eventually forming a smile. His training was finally seeming to work, he could tell from Ink's tone alone. It was much more chipper. He looked back at the dress. Something was certainly off.

The Guardian of Negativity walked down to Ink's room in the middle of the hall. He opened the door, blinking twice to make sure he was seeing the room right. Ink's room was always covered in pastel colors, namely pink, but now it was gone. Strokes of black paint covered up the pink walls and white furniture. The pink curtains, makeup, stuffed animals, and other decorations were shoved into boxes.

It reminded Nightmare of Dust and Killer when they first arrived. Both of them were in unstable mental conditions and damaged their rooms. Killer stabbed holes in the wall and Dust scribbled black and red on his wall, believing he was covering faces. Horror was unstable too, yes, but he was quieter. He would remain calm until one wrong sound or sight set him off. Was Ink going through the same phase? This was the last thing he wanted. Ink was meant to smile and look adorable. If Nightmare didn't catch her in the early stages, he would have to wait another few weeks or months before putting her into battle. Nightmare groaned and followed Ink's aura.

Nightmare followed the emotions into the living room, where Ink lay curled up on an armchair, drawing in her sketchbook. Ink looked up with a smile. Her tone didn't match her words. "Oh, hey Night! Are you angry? Is something wrong with the dress? I thought I got all the stitches right . . ."

Nightmare crossed his arms. "Don't play dumb, little doll. I demand to know why you destroyed your room. Is this an act of rebellion? Or are you asking for help? I could hire a therapist if that's what you need. I have connections to send you to one. I won't be able to help you if you don't talk to me." Nightmare put a softer tone to his voice, hoping that would lower Ink's guard and make her speak.

The artist shut the sketchbook and sighed. "Well, the whole castle has this gothic edge going on with it, including everyone's bedroom. Then there's my room which is this cutesy Lolita paradise, it doesn't mesh well. Even us standing next to each other looks weird, I'm cute, It'd be pretty rude for me to change everything about the castle because I want something, right?" Ink chuckled to herself, despite the guilty feeling in her aura.

Nightmare narrowed his eye, debating how to respond to the smug retort. His plan was always to scold and punish Ink, but he wanted to try a different route this time.

Nightmare crouched down in front of that chair, holding Ink's hands with one hand and using his other to manipulate her sensitive emotions. Ink flinched when he grabbed her. His fingers swayed, increasing Ink's guilt. "My angel, it's okay. You were just scared and you didn't know how to ask me for help. You can talk to me if you're feeling unsure or stressed, I'm here to listen. I'm your boyfriend, or did you forget?"

Ink looked up with the same regret in his eye lights, feeling horrible about the temper tantrum he pulled. "No, I didn't forget, but-"

"No 'but's'. You didn't talk to me, so you decided to destroy your room. I won't punish you for this though. Instead, I will order you to repaint your room. I know the aesthetic clashes, but I made an exception for you. This is your appearance on the battle field. You're not meant to look tough and fierce like the MTT. You're meant to be cute and trick opponents with said cuteness." Nightmare brushed Ink's face, just enough to keep her interested.

Ink thought about all of that. She looked own at her hands before hugging Nightmare. Nightmare stopped harnessing her guilt. "I'm sorry, you're right. Wrecking my room was stupid because you spent so much time on it . . . I'll ask for help next time. Promise."

"Good girl." Nightmare praised. He helped Ink stand up and Ink leaned weakly against him.

That was far too simple.

(Thank you, those are some very kind words. I suppose it is feeding a market with skeleton psychological whump.)