#Yes he keeps the costume and mask for 'later use'

[r0-boat]

İ would give my lungs for ghostface Leviathan pls plspls

All right fine just this once I will humor you

Sorry about your Boyfriend

Ghostface!Leviathan

Cw: murder, Yandere behavior, jealous ex, stabbing, blood, strangulation.

Human au!!

He thinks it's so cute that you think you're done with him. He thinks it's utterly adorable that you can just break up with him, and you'll be done with him just like that... How dare you cast him aside like worthless trash. He wonders if you notice his intense gaze from across the street as he watches you smile and flash those eyes that were only meant for him at another. And those friends of yours... Those two-faced snakes, hissing their little lies, trying to split you two apart.

Your friends finally convince you to host a college party at your place. You aren't much of a party person, But when they dragged your new boyfriend,, a happy-go-lucky Golden retriever type Who always loved seeing smile,s, You couldn't say no. Your friends, delighted to see you finally broke out of your shell, did not worry you with planning, prepping, snacks, and everything. They got everything handled. You smile. Lucky to have great friends. You've been through a lot; they've been with you through everything.

He planned this night meticulously. It had to go right. Even now, he was thinking of you as he dawned a black cloak and an iconic white mask with a few chains, small ones just for looks... You've always loved old horror films. He remembers how his face would always twist in jealousy as you talk on and on about people who you can't even see their faces and don't even know.

The Hunt begins. With a phone call.

"Hello?"

Your sweet voice he misses but it does not quell his anger

"Who is this?"

His voice sounds slightly different... Smooth yet husky, there's something about it that you can't quite put your finger on.

"Who you trying to call?"

"What number is this?"

"Well What number are you trying to reach?"

He could hear the smile in your voice His heart pounds,him wants to talk to you more He yearns for more of you.

"I don't know..."

"well you have the wrong number..."

He couldn't hide a smile as it slips into the phone.

"Do I~?"

You hang up your phone and place it on the counter before returning to where your friends are. He watched you through the window. You always were the forgetful type with everything, placing things down and forgetting them, and he was always there to bring them to you. As much as he nags and calls you worthless, it's adorable how much you need him... That's why he must do this. He turns on the cell phone jammer in his pocket. It's a good one, an expensive one. He got this from his wealthy roommate at his frat, so it better do its work.

He carefully places it in the bushes. The radius is wide enough to cover the entire house. He won't need it after tonight, and it's better if it's not in his hands, just in case.

The backyard blinds were closed, so it was easy to sneak around the back to cut the power. Then, with a spare key, he comes in from the door to the garage. All your friends were either asleep, drunk, or watching a movie with you. You're cuddled up to your new boyfriend when the power went out.

As you go to check the power, Levi purposely avoids you. He doesn't want you to see him yet. First, he wants to get rid of everyone that made you sway away from him. Simply stabbing and drawing blood wasn't enough. Especially to your fucking boy toy. The anger and jealousy consumed him As he wrapped his hands around his muscular neck and strangled him till he could no longer breathe.

He couldn't help but let out a little throated chuckle. I saw the fear in your eyes when you watched the situation unfold. He's never seen that look before... That look of panic and anxiety. Perhaps he understands why you like masks so much. He couldn't help from his words slipping. "Sorry about your boyfriend... All that struggling didn't help." He hissed the word boyfriend. The word alone made him sick. Knowing that he was talking about someone else other than him. You could have noticed him from his voice, but it seemed like you were so choked with fear. All you could do was scream and run.

When he sees something, he chases, and you are always like a magnet to him, brandishing a knife to get your blood pumping until you lock yourself in the bathroom. No matter... He could always return to you. He has other victims.

Your hands shake your entire body was shaking As you hear muffled screams from God knows where and you don't even want to think about where they're from. You must have the courage to try to at least find your phone to call the police...

The house was eeriely quiet and dark. The rain patterning against the windows and your heart thumping in your ears as every creek from your light steps sounded like thunder. But he was quieter It was almost as if he was supernatural stalking you in the shadows like an apex predator You're so engrossed and trying to get your phone to work You didn't notice the gloved hand slipping around your throat.

He laughed at your pitiful attempts the struggle before placing a knife right against your neck. It was cold and soaked with red as tears rolled down your face. That's when he finally took off his mask to kiss your tears away.

Your eyes widen at the sight "Levi..."

"Yes my love?"

His voice was sickly sweet and he used the pet name that he'd always give you when he was in a good mood which is rarely of ever. Everything he ever wanted was back in his arms. All you could do is cry.

"please don't kill me..."

His eyes widen before giving you a soft smile His fingers rushing against your cheek.

"Oh I'm not going to kill you..."

His smile a smile that you'll probably see in your nightmares from now and forever reaches into a pocket pulling out a purple collar.

"Now you will always be mine! And no one will ever come between us~"

[avocado-writing]

The idea of Wade as a used car salesman found a love of his life during his midlife crisis before he met Logan. They don’t have a clue that he’s Deadpool. They just fall in love with Wade the used car salesman Wade Wilson, even see him as a funny, harmless person till one day his partner showing a picture of Deadpool and goes “He looks hot, could we find some costume to wear next time we fuck, dear?”

Wade totally forgot that he’s retired from Deadpool cause he’s in his suit, ready to fuck the love of his life for eternity. 👀

Wade Wilson knew he was in love the first time you cried laughing over one of his stupid jokes.

You’re probably too good for him with your easy smile and kind heart, and he knows he’s punching above his weight when he asks you out - but somehow you end up saying yes. 

At the bar that night he keeps you laughing until there are tears in your eyes and then continues the show in bed. It’s so lovely to have you all giggly under him, pressed into the mattress as he makes you cum so hard all you can do is moan. 

You lie there, walking your fingers up and down his chest, molasses-slow as the streetlights outside your apartment silhouette you both in fluorescence. 

“I like you, Wade. You’re nice,” you sigh, in a way which suggests you don’t often meet nice people. Ah man, he fucking melts. He’s never letting you go. 

Your relationship is pretty easy. He never feels like he has to work to impress you or keep you onside, you like him for him. It’s a… refreshing feeling, from a world where Wade Wilson constantly feels like he’s too much. 

He catches the Deadpool keyring on your house keys one night after the two of you have grabbed pizza on the way home; spotting the telltale red and black while trying to keep a pile of boxes in place between his hands and his chin. 

“Oh, Deadpool fan?” he asks, trying to affect nonchalance. He sees you get a little flustered. 

“I mean… yeah? Back in his heyday I thought he was cute, kind’ve a shame he disappeared. Merc with a mouth, what’s not to love?” you pause for a second. “He reminds me of you actually.”

Wade laughs at that way too loud and way too hard.

“What? No. That’s crazy!”

You throw him a side-eye but don’t comment further. 

He lets it rest for a couple of days so as not to draw suspicion, but when you make yourself a cup of coffee and his own mask is staring back at him from the ceramic, he can’t hide his wandering eyes. 

“What’s up?” you ask. 

“Nothing. Just didn’t realise they made those.” He didn’t get a cut. Should he have gotten a cut? Would have been nice if whoever had merchandised his face had asked him if he was cool with it.  

“Oh, look, everyone has a crush on at least one superhero, okay? It’s impossible not to. They’re everywhere and they’re hot!”

He lets himself digest this. You think Deadpool is a superhero? He didn’t get that much. Mostly he was referred to as “god’s curse to crimefighting”. But also you have a crush on him? Both of these facts are… interesting. 

“I… think Deadpool is hot, too,” Wade blurts out when he realises he’s been silent for ten uninterrupted seconds. 

“Oh,” you reply, settling down a little when it turns out he’s in agreement with you. “Well, cool! Glad we can agree.”

Phew. Got outta that one, then. 

He really doesn’t think any more of it, or tries not to, until a couple of weeks later when you bring it up in bed. 

“Wade, can I ask something kinda kinky?”

Cuddled in post-coital bliss, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin, he pauses. 

“Abso-fuckin’-lutely, sweet cheeks. I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

“How do you feel about roleplay?”

He turns to you with a grin which threatens to split his face in half.

“Oh, you’ve been keeping that under your hat!” he laughs, “But, in answer to the question, very positive. What were you thinking? Cop and criminal? Nurse and patient? I’m down to play any of those roles by the way, I believe in equal gender opportunities in the bedroom.”

You chuckle, but when you tuck a piece of hair behind your ear and try to work out how to phrase the next part of the question, he cottons on. 

“Oh my god. You want me to roleplay Deadpool, don’t you?”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to! It’s just, you said you thought he was sexy… so I wondered…”

He puts a finger on your lips, stoppering the spill of panic from your lips. 

“Baby, I am so down to clown that you might as well call me Pennywise. Let me sort the details and I’ll give you the best night of in-character boning that’s ever been known to man.”

You look giddy at that promise. Truth be told, he’s kinda excited himself. 

Wade retrieves the suit the next day and feels a little weird putting it back on, covering his body again with red and black. When he’s done this in the past it’s in order to go and kill like, a lot of people, not to fulfil a fantasy. But hey - there’s a first time for everything. And it’ll make you so happy, too.

You scream when he taps on your window from his perch on your fire escape. Admittedly he should have told you he was coming, but he thought it could be a fun and sexy surprise. He was wrong. 

“WHAT THE FUCK—!”

Wade whips off the mask as you lunge for your kitchen knife set, hands up in a gesture of peace. 

“Baby! Babe, it’s just me!”

You go limp with relief, leaning against the counter to support yourself. 

“Holy shit! Wade, what the fuck do you think you’re…”

You trail off as you take in the picture of your boyfriend crawling in through the tiny window decked out in his suit. An eyebrow raises. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah! See, I told you I’d sort it.”

Anger and fear now completely ablated, you walk a slow circle around where he stands in your kitchen, appraising his look. 

“This is a high quality suit. Where did you get it?”

“Peter,” he says quickly. This isn’t a lie. He did get it from Peter… Peter’s locker anyway. You look confused. 

“Our coworker Peter?” When Wade nods you furrow your brow. “He… he hasn’t fucked in this suit, has he?”

“No!” says Wade with far too much force. Actually he can’t prove that. Now it’s an image he can’t shake from his mind. Not super conducive to the mood. 

He takes a knife from his belt, and your eyes go wide in a mixture of panic and arousal. 

“Oh my god…”

“It’s blunt! Well. It’s sharp enough for me to cut your underwear off, which I’ve been rocking a semi all day from imagining…”

From the smile which takes up your face, he knows he’s done right. 

Any way you ask him to fuck you, he does. Over your dresser. Against your wall. While running the dulled point of baby knife over the curve of your ass as he pistons his hips inside you, getting the mess of your cum all over the front of his suit. It’s filthy. It’s fantastic. 

But when you lay there cuddled up to his chest that night, Wade feels… conflicted. It isn’t that he’s lying to you, exactly, but it feels like he’s keeping a pretty fucking big secret. 

If you knew, would you still like him? Still want to be with him? Having a crush on a superhero is one thing, but being with one is entirely different. Ask any of the assorted Spider-Man and their various fucked up partners. It isn’t always pretty.

As if determined to take his mind away from this thought you nuzzle into his side, blissfully fucked out. He buries his lips into your hair. 

It never needs to be an issue. Deadpool is retired. He’s never gonna be used for non-kinky reasons again. 

…right?

taglist: @falsewordz @malfoys-demigod @belilwen @mildly-salted @tvwebs @childeslegstrap @getmeoutofhell @s1eep-o @just-a-beatlemaniac69 @yrthr @momopad @sugarplumz100 @captainjinkx @madspads @acrosstheunivcrse @yeethaw13 @na-is-salty @florduarte @hunterispunk @starfleetteddybear

[cowboydisaster]

Just Like You

pairing: SImon "Ghost" Riley x single mom reader word count: 1.6k summary: Ghost can't get used to the fact that he's your son's favorite person in the world, but damn- he's trying. ("You- You're me for Halloween??") a/n: this fic references the comics, so for those who didn't know: Joseph was Simon's nephew. Super angsty and fluffy. Simon bonding with your kid. beta read by @margowritesthings

masterlist

Leo loves Halloween. It’s your son’s favorite time of year. The five year old boy, with your help, worked incredibly hard on his costume, and he’s sure it's going to be the best costume on the block. You may be a little biased, but really, it’s very good. Leo has put extra effort into perfecting every detail of his costume, because this year is special.

It’s the first year that Simon will be accompanying Leo with trick or treat. Leo loves Simon to pieces– but Simon can’t figure out why. The soldier elicits fear from nearly everyone that he encounters, his mask makes children scream and run in the other direction. Hell, his mask makes adults piss themselves in the field. Many enemy soldiers have surrendered at the sight of Ghost running towards them. So Simon can’t wrap his head around the fact that his girlfriend’s little boy looks up at him like he’s the greatest person in the world. 

Simon is less than stellar with children. He tries, but he’s not entirely sure how to talk to them. He’s always a little awkward, generally avoiding children when he can, but this one seeks him out. Simon loves you more than anything, and he wants to form a relationship with Leo, he’s just not exactly sure how. He’s trying, for you and the boy. Leo’s biological dad is a piece of shit, which Simon has lived through, and he tries to shield the poor kid from that pain as much as possible. Maybe it’s because Leo reminds him so much of Tommy and Joseph, but your kid is special. 

–

“You ready, bud?” You ask, pulling a hoodie over your frame. It’s Simon’s and it’s oversized, stopping just above your knees. But it's comfortable, and late-October in Manchester is not. Immediately, you find yourself encompassed in its warmth and the smell of Simon’s cologne.

“Almost, mummy!” Leo yells from the bathroom. “Simon is gonna love this!”

You chuckle, “I know he will, baby.” You grab the fresh mug of tea from your nightstand and head down the carpeted stairs. Simon was to be here an hour before trick or treat. You check your watch. 18:00. As if on cue, the doorbell rings, sounding out loudly through your little home. Always punctual. Leo squeals out of excitement at the sound.

“Coming!” You holler, padding across the chilly living room towards the door. You jog lightly, causing a few drops of tea to spill over from the lip of your mug, dripping down to the floor and splashing against the hardwood floor. Ignoring the little mess, you pull the frosted glass door open. Simon is wearing his less civilian mask with the hard plastic skull face. You’d specifically requested that he wear it, though he wasn’t sure why.

“You can just come in, you know. You don’t have to ring the doorbell.” You chuckle, nodding for him to come in. He steps inside the door, hands softly gripping onto your waist as he kicks the door shut. 

“I told you to keep your door locked.” Simon raises an eyebrow, squeezing your waist. 

“Oh, right…” You hum, squinting your eyes as you recall that conversation, “I forgot.”

“Course you did, love.” Simon smirks, “Happy Halloween.” he says, and you chuckle, gripping his skull mask by the teeth and pushing it up over his face. His scarred lips are sporting a smile, and you kiss it away. It’s over all too quick as he pulls away, nodding towards the cup of tea in your hand. 

“The kettle’s still on, yeah?” He asks, pulling the mask back down over his face. 

“Yes, I’ll get you a cuppa.” You roll your eyes playfully. He’s cutting your kisses short for tea, something he’ll make up for later, you’re sure. Simon glances around the living room, noting the few abandoned truck toys that lie around the living room.

“Where’s Leo?” Simon asks, looking around the living room as you walk towards the kitchen. 

“He’s just finishing getting ready upstairs. Why don’t you go up? I'll bring your tea up.” You hum, grabbing a tea bag and Simon’s favorite mug. You hear heavy footsteps going up the stairs, and take that as his response. 

You shake your head, amused as you slowly pour the steaming water over the tea bag, watching it turn a rich brown. Once it’s properly mashed, you add his preferred amount of milk and sugar, and then carefully start up the stairs. Your footsteps are naturally much quieter than Simon’s, and with the added fact that you’re trying not to spill his tea, he doesn’t hear you coming up the steps. You reach the top, and stop dead in your tracks at the sight around the corner. Simon is walking towards Leo’s bedroom, but from the angle you’re at, you can see Leo hiding around the corner as if he's about to scare Simon. Leo is fully dressed in his Halloween costume, a little replica of the exact outfit Simon is currently wearing, skull mask and all.

“Boo!” Leo screams, rounding the corner that Simon was just about to go around.

Simon clutches his chest, jumping back a comical amount. Simon literally screams, attempting to sound terrified. Obviously Simon isn’t scared in the least, but Leo doesn’t know that. Simon lets the boy proudly think that his costume is scary enough to frighten the unshakeable. Leo’s smile is as bright as ever under his mask, and you grip the cup of tea a little tighter as a smile pulls at your own lips. Simon’s eyes are comically wide as he fakes terror for the young boy. Entirely satisfied with Simon’s reaction, Leo pulls his mask off, giggling madly. 

“It’s okay, Simon! It’s just me, don't be scared!” Leo giggles, jogging up towards Simon who is bent over at the waist, pretending to gasp for breath and holding his chest.

“Bloody hell, mate. You nearly gave me a heart attack!” Simon chuckles, scooping Leo up into his arms. Once settled on Simon’s hip, Leo holds the plastic mask up to Simon’s face. It’s an exact replica of the mask he’s currently wearing, just much smaller. 

“Look! I'm just like you for Halloween!” Leo smiles, showing Simon all the little details that he’d put into perfecting his mask. 

“You–” Simon’s brow furrows, “You’re me for Halloween?” He asks, piecing it all together. Leo holds the mask out to Simon, who takes it and looks over the smaller version of Ghost’s infamous skull mask. 

“Yep! Do you like it…?” Leo asks, sounding a bit worried. His little eyebrows pull together, and Simon is quick to reassure him. 

“I love it, mate. It’s perfect, looks just like mine.” Simon whispers. There is emotion in his voice, unusual for him, you note. Tears prick your eyes as Leo puts the mask back on, looking up at Simon. 

“I wanna be like you when I grow up.” Leo says, wrapping his little arms around Simon’s neck. 

“You’re gonna be better than me, Leo. Much better, yeah?” Simon whispers, looking the boy in the eyes. Leo nods, curling up against Simon’s chest. He rubs his hand up and down Leo’s back, comforting him. 

“You know, Leo, you remind me of a boy I used to know.” Simon mumbles in a rare show of emotional vulnerability, his eyes glazed over as he pats the boy’s back. 

“Who?” Leo asks, propping his chin on Simon’s chest to look up at him better. 

“Uh–” Simon hesitates. “His name was Joseph… He was my nephew.” Simon whispers, and your heart wrenches in your chest. 

“Maybe I could meet him someday and we could play.” Leo whispers, hopefully looking up. 

“Yeah. Maybe someday.” Is all Simon says, nodding lightly as old, ugly memories pull at his brain, ones he’d shoved out and burned long ago. 

“I love you, Simon.” Leo whispers, hugging his little arms as tightly around the man as he can manage. He pulls Simon out of every dark thought he was having, those three little words pulling at his heart strings. Simon hesitates, voice stuttering for a moment. 

“Yeah– I love you too, little mate.” Simon whispers, voice heavy with emotion.

“This is gonna be so much fun– Mummy even helped me with my costume!” Leo adds, unintentionally changing the subject. He creates a perfect time for you to announce your presence. 

You hastily wipe your eyes and walk up the last step, rounding the corner you were just hiding behind. You catch Simon off guard, and he turns to you, slowly placing the young boy back on the ground.

“I didn’t hear you come up.” Simon whispers, taking the mug from your outstretched hands. He’s far away, lost in thought. Leo runs down the hall to grab his treat bag as Simon wraps his arm around your waist. 

“Didn’t want to spill your cuppa.” You explain, resting your head on his chest for a moment. Leo comes back around the corner with his bag, excitedly waiting for trick or treat to begin.

You smile up at Simon, noticing a few little tear tracks running down through his eye black.

ghost taglist: @moths569

[katoobee]

I HAVE. MY OWN DREAMTALE HEADCANON THAT HAS GOTTEN A BIT. LARGE.

so i wanna put it into a big post!

i like the ideas for Nightmare that Passive and Corrupted are separate beings, as its implied (or iirc, outwardly stated) in the story that Nightmare isnt a worse version of himself, its literally just a really evil entity possesing him.

so with toying with the set ideas for Nightmare (different person, negativity, shapeshifting) i came up with this!!

-

the general idea for this version of Nightmare is that his Evil Schemes and Dastardly Deeds have been resoundingly successful, much to the dismay of literally everyone

his power becomes abundant due to the amount of negativity in the Multiverse, and he changes his form more and more. (my HC height of Nightmare is related to this!)

his minions (ie Killer Dust Horror) slowly get more and more beat down by Nightmare and look more exhausted, due to more prevalent abuse in the gang

Nightmare loses the need to manipulate other AUs by appearing as Sans. his body starts to look,,, saggy. with the more power he gains, his features more long and "incorrect" (like he's not respecting anatomy). the teeth in his mouth are the only thing that moves when he speaks.

his minions notice this around (i guess i can call it stages?) stage 3, and theyve started feeling like theyre not respecting Nightmare's orders anymore, and that they're respecting someone elses orders.

all this leads to this image which also introduces

NIGHT TERROR

Night Terror i imagine, is quite literally the Human that killed Nim and was imbued into the Tree of Feelings, once again given form. the driving force that started everything

he no longer hides in the costume of Nightmare nor sans, as he shows himself for what he truly is. (quite literally tore off his skin and stepped out of it like a costume, i might draw this later)

he knows fully what his presence entails, and he plans to uphold himself to that no matter what. he will stop at nothing to cause as much death, destruction, and suffering as possible.

he's freakishly powerful, a step above how Nightmare already was.

Dream is the only thing that can stop him completely, with the help of weakening him by other sanses and other powerful bodies.

calls Dream and Nightmare "Nim-Child/Children"

his body is still goopy, but its smoother and not runny. akin to surface tension in water.

his eyes glow when he speaks.

he can summon knives, mimics of the actual knife that killed Nim. he can also summon a LOT more tentacles. these are all lot stronger than his relatively "weaker" form

he can single out one person in an AT-Lich like manner (uses this to talk to Dream directly, and also generally uses few-line commands)

his hands can become coated in pure toxicity, acting like agonizing acid that isnt just exclusive to Dream. his fingers can also become sharp like razors when coated in the toxicity.

where everyone else speaks in the sound-font, noise for each letter, he has his own voice. like fully, audible voice

he still is going for Dream's golden apple, but is more forceful about it due to his mask basically being dropped

(visuals made here with lyrics from a song by Chonny Jash, yes i know its a LOZ song IT JUST FITS THE VIBE)

i imagine "killing" Night Terror restores the real Nightmare to what he was once was. "killing" Night Terror doesn't actually kill him, but makes him go into dormancy, keeping himself inside of Nightmare's soul, like a worm burrowed into an apple.

the only feasible way to save Nightmare is for Dream to severely hurt himself, since negativity is like acid to him,,,

arms go byebye!

i also believe that reverting Nightmare back to normal would mean he'd still be his young age, like when Dream was encased in stone

ok thats all i have to say about this if anyones curious feel free to ask about it :]

[nyxs2]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 16/?)

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

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 13,7K

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

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

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

Part 15

Five days later.

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

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

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

"Nope."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Powder snorted, unimpressed. "Same thing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, it fit you well. Annoyingly well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How perfect?"

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

"Like a really fancy villain."

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

"The best kind."

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

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

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

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

Oh, heavens...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.

You would make sure of that.

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

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

Powder was hugging you.

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

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

And you didn't mind.

Her presence alone was enough.

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

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

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

But this?

This was different.

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

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

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

That warmth.

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

Vander.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't get used to it."

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

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

"Do me a favor, will you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know so."

That was all she needed.

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

"You! Wait, no!"

Too late. She was gone.

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

And then—silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

One step forward.

Another.

You pushed through the door.

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

Then—voices.

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

And Silco's voice.

Smooth but laced with irritation.

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

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

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

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

And then—

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

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

She wasn't sorry. Not in the slightest. 

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

Oh...

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

No.

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

That was dangerous.

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

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

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

Just like Vander.

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

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

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

Three pairs of eyes turned toward you.

Powder. Sevika. Silco.

And suddenly, you were hyper-aware of yourself.

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

But Silco...

Silco was different.

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

He was watching you now, truly watching.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, Silco finally turned his attention to Sevika.

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

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

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

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

Silco was faster.

"Sevika."

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

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

Powder, predictably, did not go quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Make sure the new instructions reach Singed today."

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

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

Her grin widened before she disappeared upstairs.

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

Leaving only him and you.

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

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

But you didn't care.

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

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

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

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

You weren't going anywhere.

"You look sinfully divine, dove."

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

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

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

"I've changed my mind."

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't you dare ruin this dress."

"I'll buy you another."

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

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

"Silco."

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

And, surprisingly, it worked.

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

A flicker of steel caught the dim light.

His dagger.

Without a word, he handed it to you.

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

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

"And you?"

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

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

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

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

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

[...]

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

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

And the masks—the masks.

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

White and gold. Everywhere.

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

And then there was Silco.

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

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

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

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

Prideful. Unapologetic. Unshaken.

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

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

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

"To put the guests at ease."

You turned your head to look at him, curious.

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

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

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

Piltover's arrogance would be its inevitable downfall.

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

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

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

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

Then, the names rang out.

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

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

A woman.

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

Of course you did.

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

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

Intrigued, you studied him more closely.

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

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

Your eyes met.

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

The moment was fleeting.

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

"The Baron and Baroness of Zaun."

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

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

But now?

Now, that same title was being announced as truth.

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

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

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

But then—

A hand squeezed yours, grounding you.

Silco.

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

And if he wasn't?

Then neither were you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You called me Baroness."

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

Silco didn't hesitate.

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

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

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

This wasn't just a title.

This was a shift in hierarchy.

A change in standing.

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

But baroness... his baroness...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And just like that, the game began.

[...]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The first movement was graceful.

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

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

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

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

Then, he spun you.

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

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

Silco didn't release you immediately.

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

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

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

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

"Observant as always, dove."

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

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

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

The waltz had shifted.

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

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

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

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

The bastard was smiling.

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

And you had.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hadn't cared.

Because Silco hadn't cared.

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

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

And Silco—he knew it.

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

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

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

A mistake.

Because Silco noticed.

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

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

Silco spun you, one last time.

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

A soft gasp escaped your lips.

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

He didn't lift you right away.

No, Silco lingered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silco was just as breathless as you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And neither of you cared.

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Please..."

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

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

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

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

She hesitates, but only for a second.

"Please fuck me... sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not when he saw her now.

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

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

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

Especially when she looked at him like that.

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

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

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

Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths.

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

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

He needed her.

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

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

He was doing this for her.

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

For them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The voice that broke the silence was slow, thoughtful.

"Where did you learn to dance?"

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

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

"Jinx's mother."

The response was easy. Too easy.

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

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

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

"Did you love her?"

Silence. ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

"She was my best friend."

That was Silco's answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The candles flickered.

And then, in unison, they snuffed out completely.

The room plunged into darkness.

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

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

You froze.

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

A single black rose.

Part 17

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

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[rabbitwitch2poems]

Part 6 based off a prompt by @ready-to-read7

I'm going to keep posting on here as well as AO3, but if y'all think a preview plus a link may be better let me know ^^

  It was a cave... A wet, echoey cave with huge platforms filled with tech and random things Danny's baby mind just didn't have the processing power to deal with. Overwhelming was an understatement to what the child was feeling. But hey, at least there was a cool dinosaur and a giant penny...and a creepy puppet in the back that looked like a mobster... (Danny looked a little closer and noticed some ectoplasm glowing from within but ignored it; that was future Danny's problem)        

 

     "Father, why have you returned so early with Superman, Wonder Woman, and a baby in tow?" The voice was hard to pinpoint for Danny seeing as the giant cave made all noises echo outwards. Thankfully the source of the voice made its presents known by the squeaking of a chair by the giant computer (Danny for a moment wondered why a hero with all the technology batman had would have a squeaky chair, he had to figure it was cause of the cave)          

 

    "I really hope you didn't have another fling" the small boy in a red and black costume said hopping down from the squeaky chair. Whoever this boy was, danger seemed to follow him. This was Danny's first impression based on two things,

1. the kid in a mask had a large sword and what looked to Danny like a thousands knives all over his person.

2. the amount of ectoplasm that this kid was expelling could feed an entire army of ghosts.      

 

     Also, what did he mean by fling? Did this man have more kids? Did he think he was going to adopt Danny? Well he wouldn't allow that! Sure the man seemed like he would make a decent father (he was intelligent, knew what he was doing, and focused on helping people so Danny assumed that transferred towards parentage as well) but if he had to choose a father he would rather Superman be his dad and he would fight anyone who tried to take him away from momma!

 

      "And now the child's eyes are glowing like the Lazarus pits grandfather watches over," this was said so bluntly that it took a few seconds for Danny to even realize all eyes were on him. He tried his best to play it off by smiling wide but he had forgotten how his teeth get when his ghostly attributes take over only causing his mother's frown to deepin. Danny frowned "sowwy momma, will exwain as bewst I can." With a deep breath and a kiss on the childs forehead his mother nodded.       

 

     The time has come for Danny to tell his mother what exactly was going on. He started with the basic of how he chose this world to be in, how he admired the three immensely and thanks to Clockwork (who he explained was basically time itself given a form) he was able to be reborn into this world, though even he didn't understand how or why he was in his core and in the possession of Luthor. He told them how Clockwork watches over the timelines within the multiverse and how he makes sure no deviations that could cause either that universe or the entire multiverse to unravel.   

 

   "So...he is kronos?" His mother asked causing Danny to pause for a second, "huh...kindwa? Nevew awskd... Wait dwos dat mean kwolcwork is my..." His mother confirmed with a nod, "great grandfather, yes my little one; seeing as my mother is Athena." Danny jaw dropped at that, oh he was so going to call CW gramps as soon as he could. Somewhere within the ghost realm CW shivered and turned to look at his mirror he used to check on Danny glaring at it.      

 

    Superman was in full attention to the little child's words while Batman was focusing both on the words and on quickly typing things into his small wrist computer to send to the main computer for later; only briefly stopping to ask questions. "So this realm you come from connects all worlds and multiverse together?" He asked and Danny nodded in answer, "baswiclly." Batman nodded at Danny, his emotions were starting to show more (it seems he allows himself to show emotions more when he is relaxed; as far as Danny could tell) curiosity and some kind of obsession floated around the man like tiny bats of different colours... One of them looked like a bat wearing a disco costume which puzzled the young boy.   

 

     More and more questions were asked, mainly about the ghost realm and how it worked which Danny couldn't really tell them in detail cause even he didn't know. They asked him if he had a name beyond what wonder woman had given him and he confirmed that Danny was his name,   "Last name?," batman asked bluntly, Danny pointed at his mother "hew wast name," it was an obvious answer to Daniel but the smiles on everyone's faces (even batman was slightly smiling though Danny could tell from his emotions floating around he was genuinely pleased) his mother hugged him close and kissed the top of his head causing the child to giggle happily.     

 

   Then came the tough questions, of where he used to live, he didn't remember much still, he remembered a crazy rich guy chasing him and wanting him to be his son, (this caused everyone including the child in red and black to laugh hysterically as Batman scrunched in on himself only to be hugged by superman, calming him down), he remembered a clone of himself that the rich man made to replace him (this caused Superman's emotions to flare with sadness and understanding which made Danny think he had an experience similar to him). They asked if that clone would be a problem and he shook his head, "she twavels a wot and hewps othwers," superman seemed to calm at his words confirming Danny's suspicions.  

 

      "Constantine called you  quote "your highness" what did he mean by that?" Danny sighed, he knew that question was going to come sooner or later. So he explained, he explained how the ghost zone had a rule of battle, where one owns what their opponent had upon defeat and how the last king of the realms, who basically kept order in the entire multiverse, was a tyrannical monster who was sealed away only to be brought back by worshippers. He explained the fight that almost killed him, that through some way and will he kept fighting (he knew it was to protect peopled he cared for, he just couldn't remember who, it was starting to make him slightly mad but he figured if they needed to be remembered they will) and eventually bested the king, sealing him away forever.      

 

     Superman and his momma where trying to absorb all the info but Batman seemed to already figured everything out, "so your people just let you come here?," the man asked and Danny paused thinking how to respond. " Well, yes and no,  vey wanted me to take the trone immedwiantly bwut CW swaid dis was fow da bwest, so fwostbit took ovew as my we...veasion?" His mother patted his head and corrected him "liaison," and Danny looked up at his mother pointing at her with a smile, "what momma swaid."       

 

     After all the questions we're finally asked momma let Danny down to explore, reminding him to be careful of the edges of the platform, "even if you can fly I'd rather you not risk it okay little one? Now go with Damian and let him show you around while I and my friends discuss everything." Danny nodded and turned around slowly marching up to the larger kid. Damian, the kid who had a bird symbol on the right side of his  chest and a red hoodie, looked down at Danny with apprehension, Danny looked at Damian, wearing a cute superman onesie his momma got him, with unblinking, semi glowing eyes and smiled impossibly wide at him.        

 

     The dinosaur was even cooler up close! It looked like one out of the movies and it was robotic. Danny could see some bent parts and wires sticking out of the joints, he wondered if the Batman one day would let him repair it, It would make a great security device, could even make it scare people in the shadows like the hero himself.

 

     The penny was bigger than Danny expected it to be and gave him an off feeling; like it was waiting for him to turn his back so the giant piece of metal could flatten him like a cartoon. Danny stayed away from the mobster puppet, but just over to the side of it were broken apart metal teeth and a strange looking ball with a strange green liquid in it. It wasn't ectoplasm, that Danny was sure; but it was eerie looking.    

 

    The entire time the young child was looking with awe at all the cave had to offer, Damian was watching him (it creeped Danny out) his emotions were as hidden as his father's, but every so often light waves of curiosity and suspicion would make it's way out. After looking at a hat that looked like it came directly out of Alice in wonderland Danny got annoyed at the quiet kid,     

 

   "Why are yew stawing at me?" Danny finally asked staring up at the slightly taller boy his eyes knitted together. The hooded kid looked down at him, "you feel like my grandfather and suddenly appear with one of fathers friends, I do not trust you for now and feel you shouldn't be allowed here so I am keeping an eye on you to make sure you to not plant anything." Danny was confused by every word beyond not trusting him. He huffed, "imma be a hewo like momma! I wuldt dawe to pwant things, even if I cwould thews no diwt to pwant them!" Danny was slightly floating up glaring back at Damian's scowl before being shocked back by a laugh.      

 

   "You remind me of Jon, I will trust you, for now," the red hooded child responded after finishing his laugh. Danny was starting to suspect that anyone related to the batman was as batty (heh pun) as the man was. This suspicion was confirmed when he heard a squeal coming from the elevator located near where his momma and her friends were talking.       

 

  "Superman you had another kid! And didn't tell me!" A girl wearing a purple hoodie (Danny began wondering if everyone here wore hoodies but then figured they were in a cave, was probably a smart thing to do) and basic jeans was quickly walking up to him before scooping him up from the air. "He is such a cutie pie! Hello there small child, I'm Stephanie and I'll be your honorary auntie ok?"       

 

     Danny didn't know how to react, on one hand the emotions of this woman where of compassion and kindness and love. On the other hand a random stranger was holding him and pinching his cheek. Naturally Danny whined, "stawwwwp." Funny enough the person did stop, mainly because another person grabbed her hand. He expected it to be momma or even superman but instead it was another girl who was wearing a black mask shaped like a bat like batman, but with the mouth piece covered with leather lazily stitched over.      

 

   The woman who grabbed Stephanie's hand made a few hand signals Danny didn't understand before walking back. Waves of embarrassment and sadness came from the purple woman holding him; what was her name again? Stephanie? Danny was sure that's what she called herself. "Sorry, I tend to go overboard, thank you Cassie." Stephanie put Danny down and turned to the adults, all of whom had made their way over.     

 

     Danny's mother scooped him up and hugged him, "we will need to work on your freeze instinct but you kept calm, very good my little warrior," she kissed the top of his head as Damian nodded from behind everyone in agreement. Stephanie looked on with wide eyes, "ohhh he's your kid WW? Sorry for being so... Quick to judge..just the onesie... and the floating..." The girl was stopped with a wave of Diana's hand and a small smile, "it's ok, it was a natural conclusion to come to," she responded quelling Stephanie's worry, "though touch him again without his consent and you will be on the floor," and the worry was back again, Danny sighed, his mother could be a tad overprotective, but then again he was a baby so that was understandable.     

 

    To quench his mother rising anger he hugged her neck, "it okay momma, just supwized." That thankfully seemed to help as love radiated from his mother and the worry stopped from Stephanie, replaced by adoration from the display of affection.    

 

   The reving of an engine turned everyone's gaze to the red motorcycle currently parking next to the batmobile as a man wearing a large red helmet got off. Danny's eyes were wide, if the kid in the hoodie had ecto oozing out of him for an army this man was exploding with the stuff and it felt like it was rotting! He wiggled out of his mother's arms and ran up to the man patting his leg, "yew, yew fiwed with bad ecto, I hewp." The man with the helmet looked down at him, one of the eyebrows of the helmet raising (Danny had no time for confusion on how that could work) and crouched down and booped his nose before looking at the adults staring on with their jaws dropped.    

 

    "Who's the brat and what does he mean by bad ecto?," the man said causing Danny to pout and punch him (it actually hurt red a little which shocked him but he made sure not to show it) "not a bwat! Bad ecto from ghost wealm, wotten gween, wepwace!" Danny emphasized this by patting the mans chest and pushing some clean ecto into him. The reaction from hood was not what Danny expected, he was hoping for calmness, mabey joy, or even shock. He did not expect the man in the helmet to fall to his knees and vomit.       

 

     The three main heros acted instantly,  Batman ran over to the mans side expertly taking the helmet off. Superman was gone in a second and by the next had an old butler with water and a box with a plus symbol on it. His mother scooped him up and looked at him with furrowed brows, "Danny Prince you will explain right now what you just did." He had never seen his mom's anger pointed to himself before, it scared him and the child started to cry,  

 

       "I...I ju...juwst w...was hewping, hewmet man had b..bad ecto, ghost enewgy, I wepwace wif good ecto, did nowt get aww, shouwd feew bettew soon."         

 

       His momma patted his back holding him close and humming a tune, "there, there, little one, thank you for explaining, but know now not to do so without asking first, all actions have consequences, what was meant to be good caused a mess to need to be cleaned up, now once red hood feels better you will apologize and we will head upstairs to Bruce's home and have a moment to relax... I think we all need it"

 

*********

 

    Jason's head hurt and he felt like he just had fourth degree burns quenched with water from a glacier mixed with electricity; overall not how he expect his day to end, that was for certain. It had been an overall annoying day to begin with, first he wakes up early from a nightmare about that damn clown only to find out his safe house was out of cereal and coffee.     

 

   His afternoon was  decent, he stopped by some of the non profits he kept safe from bandits and assholes to check if all was going well and to donate some cash (which he may or may not have gotten from a drug den he busted up for dealing to kids) and was then off to the gym where he worked out for a few hours.     

 

     Wasn't till late into his nightly activities that shit went sideways, first black masks goons thought it would be a good idea to try and kidnap some homeless kids on his alley. Then a new crime boss tried taking over his territory so obviously Jason had to hunt him down and take out his goons. And now he is kneeling on a metal platform, dizzy as fuck, his skin both burning and freezing, and his stomach doing more flips than Dick during training.      

 

     When the world finally wasn't upside down he was alone with Alfred holding a glass cup of fizzing water.   "Its ginger ale master Todd, young Daniel recommended it to help with the... 'ecto sickness' as the young one calls it. Apparently whatever helped bring you back to us caused something to stick around."

 

     Jason drank the beverage with gusto as he slowly stood up. Making sure he wouldn't faceplant getting up was dear Alfred by his side. "do you need a moment to yourself? Everyone else will be waiting for you at the dining room area," Jason gave a short nod as he walked over to the batcomputer and sat down heavily, -man Bruce has to get a new chair- he thought to himself as he tried to make sense of whatever the fuck just happened.  

 

**********

 

     Danny had to admit, the house was far better than the cave below it. It was huuuge! A mansion to be certain, one that Danny was sure that if he had a chance to explore; would probably take him days to see it all. Currently they were in the dining room, a giant area with ornate carvings along the corners of the ceiling and a giant chandelier situated above the very long table currently filled with six inhabitants.   

 

     His mother had just finished a long lecture to him about asking before doing anything to anyone for any reason (unless of course they were super villains then all was fair game which caused Danny's prankster of a mind to be riddled with ideas) and the butler (who Danny learned was named Alfred) had just put down the last plate of dinner. Danny was nonchalantly eating a rib, bone and all, when the man he helped walked in.    

 

    He stopped and took in the sight, everyone was watching Danny with worry (besides his mother she had gotten use to this long ago) and coughed , "so .....what's the deal with the kid?" Everyone's head swiveled to look at the man as well as Danny; who stopped mid bite. Bruce gestured to a seat and explained what was going on as Jason went to sit down. "Danny here is a being from a different reality, one that connects all realities, after events that happened to him he chose this world to start a new in. Diana found him as a crystal and when he appeared as a baby decided to become his mother and take care of him"      

 

    Jason looked at Bruce, his eyebrow raised and a snort exiting his being, "well...at least he isn't another one of your forgotten children I suppose, we will have a deeper chat about what it is he did to me, for now I'm hungry and tired." Everyone around him nodded as they all went back to eating.     

 

    After the dinner was finished Danny got to explore the mansion, with supervision of course, red hood took up the task at hand not knowing how hard it would be. Within the first few minutes Danny was alone wandering giant halls filled with paintings and suits of armor. It honestly reminded him a bit of the palace in the ghost zone just less...colourful.       

 

     This mansion had pretty much everything, giant gym in the basement, theater in a side room that could be it's own house, even a room for playing bowling! Daniel realized rich people were a little weird when he entered a room covered in animal heads (a relic long since abandoned by Bruce and family it's still well kept and dusted regularly by Alfred); Danny didn't like that room and so moved on.    Honestly this place has everything a person could need to live a secret life which Daniel guessed was accurate seeing as who's house it was.

 

     Only thing missing was a arca... -holy crap they have an arcade!- Daniel thought to himself and it was huge! It had a vr setup with moving floor, arcade machines of old and new types, and DDR! Daniel was so preoccupied staring at all the machines he didn't hear the man come up to him and screeched when a hand touched his shoulder. Turning around he saw a large man with short black hair that looked like it took hours to get to look right.

 

     "Whoops! Sorry little guy, I guessed you would have gotten mesmerized by this place, Stephanie just loves her games and bruce loves indulging us sometimes," the man said, worry emanating off the man calming Danny slightly (but man, if he wasn't use to having his heart stop as a ghost he would have had a heart attack!)

 

     Slowly he breathed in, his mother taught him some techniques after a hectic tantrum over a toy. "Deep breath in, hold, slowly out" she would say, repeating it like a mantra to calm him down.  The man saw Danny breath deeply and cocked his head, "ya know...for someone who is barely a toddler you are very intelligent young man," Daniel giggled at that and the man smiled, "there we go all calm? Okay well I'm Tim, one of Bruce's kids it's nice to meet you."

 

     Tim gently ruffled the toddlers head, "let's get you back to the adults ok? They are a little worried about you...cept Diana but that's just her normal state of being," Tim stated and Danny nodded, "momma best wawwior." Daniel giggled at the man who picked him up with wide eyes.

*******

       It had been a fun day in Danny's opinion, he got to go to space, met momma's friends, answer some questions, and see a giant house that a man dressed as a bat lived in; Overall a good day. Sure he had to deal with his mom lecturing him again and yeah he felt embarrassed that he got caught, but hey for someone only turning one in a couple days he has had a lot of fun. He was sure he had made the right decision in living here. 

       After dinner his other tucked him into bed and read him a story about a boy who was the child of a god (his mother chuckled as she read it). After finishing the chapter and putting the book back Diana sat on the edge of Danny's bed and petted his head,

 

    "know this little one, no matter your situation , no matter your past, you are my ward, my child, I love you and will always be there for you, anyone who dares to harm you will answer to me."

 

     Daniel smiled wide, tears in his eyes as he held his mother close a warm spreading from both. Slowly the two separated, his mother tucking him back in and slowly  exiting leaving the door open just a crack after turning off the light. Danny slowly drifted away to dreams of his new life to come. 

[amazingdeadfish]

Do u think u could make an opera version of mayor? I've seen a few artists make diff opera wukong/Mac designs but I think a opera mayor design would look very cool :D

Not gonna lie, I was nervous to do this, but, I don't regret trying out this challenge.

RAMBLES + (literally only two) REFERANCES BELOW THE CUT:

The costume is based on the classic armor outfit in Chinese Peking Opera. Since, we all know that the Mayor doesn't actually have that many identifiable characteristics or, much of a role in the LMK show other than being LBD's foot soldier or, thrall. So, I had to reflect that in what's probably an incredibly basic interpretation for what their design could be (because if you actually see the insane level amount of detail in peking opera outfits, you'll understand that this drawing is heavily simplified and lacks detail).

The mask, is, also simple. I tried to look at numerous references and get my head around the insane amount of possibilities of patterns and designs and what they mean, as well as what the colours symbolize, but all that's important is that blue symbolizes stoicism, black for integrity, and white symbolizes evil (but of course these meanings for colours have leeway in between depending on what source you look at. There is no definitive answer).

The mask is also important because it creates the most visual distinction from Mayor being a Jing instead of a Sheng (male protagonist). And, even though it's a basic mask, I did create it to imply an almost 'skull' shape to it. But it's discrete and, you have to be looking for it to be there (which I suppose fits because, Mayor being LBD's thrall wasn't revealed straight away)

Now okay look, I'm- I'm not an expert on peking opera at all, I had to do a bit or research to do this in order to actually understand what I am doing when it comes to designing an outfit for Mayor. You might see a hint of his Chief costume in the chest plate I decided to keep, and all those skull motifs to show that he is a thrall of Lady Bone Demon. But in short, he is a warrior, a soldier, a chief of war, and he fights and works for Lady Bone Demon. He is to be a character with heavy, dramatic armor, and a mask to not only symbolize his role in whatever theatre show he lands himself in, but also for the shrouded identity he has and, well, not exactly being the most in-depth or open character in the show :))).

Anyways, here's a beta design back when I legitimately had no idea what I was doing and had done like zero research apart from looking at references I lied and, thinking Mayor would have a 'lighter (less heavy) and less decorative outfit (clearly I changed my mind later on):

I am, glad I did not follow through with this design. This is, not a peking opera outfit. Not a conventional one at least, that would reflect who the Mayor is (because this mf is conventional as hell, fitting in with modern times with his suit and all).

And here are the, uh, two references I used (obviously there's more but, these two were the ones I really picked apart and analyzed and, have clearly referenced):

And yes, I copied the pose on the right.

Design is welcome for critique (again, I am not an expert on peking opera (it's such a vast, complex, and wonderful artform that the more I found out the more I was intimidated by) and possibly subjected to be redesigned later on should I look back on this months-years later and cringe horrifically.

[italiansteebie]

something you'd never expect about steve harrington is that he loves halloween.

i mean, he really gets into it.

he dresses up, decorates the house, hands out candy and even goes trick or treating with the kids as an excuse. "i'm keeping an eye on you guys!"

"you didn't have to dress up though,"

"yes i did, dustin. you don't know everything."

even after the upside down bullshit, he still loves it, and maybe he kept his scoops uniform with blood and barf stains so he could use it as a costume. and maybe that was kind of fucked, but he's coping with it.

now, steve's love for halloween is one of robins favorite things about him. especially since his house is equipped for an exceptional party, what with the size and the decorations steve is going to put up anyways? it's perfect.

so the halloween after scoops, they throw a masquerade of sorts. it's quite a rager, despite steve's expectations.

he decided to go as a masked cowboy.

he got the boots, the hat, and he wore a leather vest that ended up giving him a chill for the night since other than some chaps, it was all he was wearing on his body. he did the whole nine yards with a red bandana and some sunglasses.

"hey cowboy."

steve turned, taking in the sight in-front of him.

a guy, with long curly hair, somehow making a jason voorhees costume work.

he tipped his hat, always committed to the bit, "jason." he said simply, thanking the bandana gods for hiding his blush.

"never woulda thought king steve would throw a party like this."

"why not?"

"i dunno. it's cool though, guy seems to have changed."

"for the better?"

jason tilted his head, "yeah man. for the better." he said it as though the decision had been made, and locked in place.

so they sat.

and talked.

all night.

and the rest of the party seemed to fade away. that is until a drunk robin, dressed as micheal myers laid across his lap, "kick everyone out, im tired."

he checked his watch, it was 4 am, probably about time for them to go home. so he stood, gearing up to say his farewell to jason, maybe ask him for his number, but when he turned again, he was gone. only the smell of weed and cheap cologne remained. (and later, he'd find, a lone 36 sided die, that he'd end up asking dustin about).

it's silly to think that steve was falling in love with this guy after only just meeting him, but he'd grappled with his sexuality on a bathroom floor, appropriately, and was ready to dive back into the dating pool. or maybe the puddle, because halloween jason, seemed to be the one.

the only thing is, steve has no idea who the guy is.

that is at least until, none other than eddie munson had a broke bottle pressed against his neck. now he didn't figure it out in that moment, but when they were fleeing for their lives, eddie's hand found a way into steve's, and back at eddie's trailer, steve caught a glimpse of none other than the jason voorhees mask he'd been searching for ever since that party.

and maybe it was a sappy declaration of love, but steve was nothing if not a hopeless romantic.

"don't be heroes."

it was pleading.

steve tossed the dice eddie's way, watching fondly as he struggled to catch it.

"steve- wh?" he could see the moment it clicked in eddie's eyes. steve turned, ready to finish this mess, so he could talk to eddie, to jason, and figure out some shit.

"hey, steve?"

he turned, meeting eddie's eyes.

"make him pay, cowboy."

--

it was done.

they did it.

a few were in the hospital but, hey. they did it. eddie had been in a rough way for a little while, eventually pulling through but not before some physical therapy.

steve was there when he woke up.

had been ever since he'd explained to eddie's uncle wayne how they knew each other and what eddie meant to steve.

eddie cracked open his eyes.

"howdy, cowboy." it came out scratched, and rough.

"eddie," steve breathed, grasping his hand.

"i knew i liked those chaps."

steve rolled his eyes, smiling while tears rolled down his cheeks. "you saved my life." eddie said, reaching a hand to steve's cheek. steve shook his head, "how can i ever repay you?" eddie said, a glint in his eye.

steve laughed, "no thanks necessary," he said, tipping his imaginary hat, leaning into eddie's touch. "there must be someway," he said, southern drawl creeping into his voice. "how about a kiss?" steve asked, eyes flickering down to the metal heads lips.

wayne shook his head at the boys' antics. "will y'all just kiss already? im getting old waitin' for ya!"

eddie laughed at his uncle's testimony, before nodding, "c'mere, cowboy," he said, before closing the gap between him and steve.

"was it rootin' n tootin'?" eddie asked, a cheesy grin on his face as he pulled away. "sure was, partner."

"oh my god."

"hey robs,"

"steve, shut up. eddie's jason! jason from-" robin stumbled into the room. "from the party!" she all but squealed. steve laughed, nodding, "yeah, babe. we figured that one out ourselves."

[hoooooooooot]

Worm AU but instead of shards it's a magical girl/miraculous AU. Every power has a fucked up plushie or creature that embodies it. Instead having to make a costume the shards give you a magical girl transformation. Also the thing changed with you and your transformation with it. Let's try and come up with different new looks for the characters and have some fun with it.

Okay so I'll start with the guys who actually matter, the underseiders. I'll go easy/interesting to hard/boring.

Let's start with my boy Brian. Favorite wallflower. Now, you might be thinking "Brian would never wear frills, he can't be a magical girl" and you'd be correct. Plus, the whole point of his power is to hide him and his so he won't be too sparkly. Instead, he gets and elegant black suit with medieval armour haphazardly added on top. He looks like if a modern day bouncer in final fantasy. Also, his darkness is constantly leaking out of gaps in the armours and where it would have a feather.

As for what fucked up plushie I want to give Brian... At first I wanted to give him a pair of eyes that can only exist in the dark but then I realized that was basically just a grue. Then I realized a grue would be perfect! Yes, I'm not very creative but it is fun.

Next we have Taylor. Good old Taylor Hebert... What to do with you. See, I kind of want to give her a tapeworm that grows alongside her. Something literally eating her up inside, growing to consume more of her. To the point that she eventually puppets herself to be slightly faster than humans should be using it. The only problem is that it feels too on the nose. Eh, workshop later.

Now, what dress do we give good old Taylor... Taylor would hate wearing anything that calls attention to her, so she would probably get something lame. Boring even. A long dress with plenty of bulk and frills to hide her actual figure, some victorian era type thing. Expect as she grown into skitter the dress aquires layer for her to keep bugs in. The fold of the dress begin to resemble the layers of a hive. Or something idk.

Jean-Paul! See, this guy is interesting because I don't quite get his deal. I do think his final costume will be more or less what he wears in canon but the change form Hijack to Regent sounds fascinating. I can imagine his first transformation being more so based around his father, and either dramatically changing into canon or slowly adapting into canon until he escapes.

As for what his little animal will be... Instead of an animal I kind of want to give him an object. Be it his scepter, a crown, a series of puppets strings that wrap around him, or maybe even the ceramic mask. He's just an object kinda guy, yannow?

1/? I'll think more about this later

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

Devil's Night: Part One

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.3k

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill

Summary: Halloween makes its way around again, and you and Spencer are preparing for the best holiday (according to Spencer). He keeps you busy with decorating while he makes arrangements of his own, arrangements that will completely change both of your lives for the better.

Season Six Masterlist

Author's Note: I know Devil's Night is usually the night before Halloween, but for the sake of this rewrite, Devil's Night is the weekend before.

x

"If an injury has to be done to a man, it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared." - Niccolo Machiavelli

October is special for two reasons: Spencer's birthday and Halloween. Spencer's birthday was last week but the team was on a case so you really couldn't celebrate. That doesn't mean you didn't sneak out of your hotel room and give Spencer mind-blowing sex that night. Derek and Emily roomed together to allow you and Spencer to be together. You just haven't had time to celebrate outside of that. It's why you're going to plan something for this weekend because next weekend is Halloween.

Spencer did most of the decorating in the apartment, littering it with Halloween decorations, fake spider webs, fake blood stickers, and other creepy shit. Halloween is Spencer's time of the year while yours is Christmas. You can't wait to decorate the apartment for that holiday. You walk into the kitchen, push aside the spiderweb that's hanging on the corner of the doorframe, and head to the coffee machine.

You're in the middle of pouring Spencer's cup of coffee when you feel arms snake around your waist. His lips find the expanse of your neck, and you roll it to the side to give him more access.

"Good morning," he mutters.

"Good morning." You turn and wrap your arms around his neck. "Happy birthday, baby."

"My birthday was last week."

"I know. I just need to say it before our big event this weekend."

"Which is what?"

"Like I'm going to tell you and ruin the surprise." You lean up and kiss him. "So, how does it feel being thirty?"

"I'm twenty-nine."

"Same difference," you giggle.

He kisses you and pushes you against the kitchen island. If you continue, you're going to be late for work and the last time you were, Hotch almost had your heads.

"We can't be late again or else Hotch will kill us."

"It'll be worth it," he mumbles as he kisses down your neck.

"Spencer," you moan. "Come on, we gotta go. I promise we'll have time for this later." He pulls away from you, and you finish with both of your coffees. "So, is your costume ready for next week?"

"Yes. Is yours?"

"Of course. I'm excited. I've never been to a party thrown by Rossi. I hear his house is huge. It should be fun!"

Rossi threw one last year but you weren't able to make it. Everyone on the team is invited including their families and a few other people Rossi knows. You're excited to show off your costumes since you and Spencer are dressing up as Jack and Sally from Nightmare Before Christmas since it's both your favorite holidays rolled into one movie. Even Hotch and Jack are going since afterward, they will go out Trick or Treating with JJ, Will, and Henry.

Before you two can walk into work, Spencer pulls out a transparent mask so he can scare whoever will be his first and only victim. Emily passes by as soon as you walk through the glass doors, and she laughs at the mask instead of fearing it.

"Please don't tell me that's your Halloween mask for next week."

"No, it isn't."

"What are you two doing this weekend?"

"We're going to celebrate Spencer's birthday but that won't take the whole weekend. We'll probably prepare for trick-or-treaters after Rossi's party."

"The cool thing about Halloween is that it's a uniquely American holiday." Spencer takes off his mask and walks with you two to the briefing room. "I mean, despite its obvious origins in the Celtic Festival of Samhain and the Christian All Saints Day, it really is a melting pot of various immigrants' traditions and beliefs." You three walk into the briefing room where Rossi and Derek and they see the look of faux annoyance on Emily's face. "It became a little more commercialized in the 1950s with trick-or-treating, and today it rivals only Christmas in terms of popularity."

"All I asked was what they were doing this weekend," she says and sits down.

"I'm toying with the notion of either going to the Edgar Allan Poe Shadow Puppet T or the reenactment of the 19th century Phantasmagoria."

"I don't want to know," Rossi shakes his head.

"Oh, yeah, you do." You love it when he speaks so passionately about things. "Phantasmagorias are these amazing pre-cinema projected ghost shows invented in France, where the showman attempted to spook the audience using science magic." Penelope walks in with files in her hands. "It just so happens that I have an extra ticket."

"Reserved for me, no doubt," you grin and kiss his cheeks.

"Guys, I wouldn't have to worry about losing my feminine curves if you all paid more attention to all the trees we're consuming around here," Penelope says and passes out the files.

"When did you become an eco-freak?"

"Baby, I was born green."

"You're going to Detroit. Arson investigators have noticed a three-year trend in the week leading up to Halloween. Devil's Night. This unsub is only killing the week before Halloween every year."

"How's he doing it?"

"He's burning his victims alive," Hotch answers. "He's abducting seemingly random people and dumping their bodies in abandoned parts of town. He struck again last night."

"Yeah, Tony Torrell who was forty. He lives in the suburbs but he was found twenty miles away in the Rivertown District," Penelope says.

"He's attacking the city at its most vulnerable time. What does he do during the rest of the year?"

"He's dormant."

"You know, arsonists are typically white males between seventeen and twenty-five who can't stay away from fire. They're addicted to it, there is no rehab, and they target dwellings, not people," Spencer explains.

"So, you're saying he burns his victims alive but he's not an arsonist?"

"Fire is simply his weapon, and Devil's Night gives him the perfect cover to kill."

"Seeing how the week is almost over, he's got forty-eight hours before he disappears again."

"His last victim was athletic. He wouldn't be easy to subdue. The offender must be just as strong or might have an upper hand if he's younger."

"Still, how does he transport his victims across the city and get them inside buildings without being noticed?" Emily asks.

"That's for us to figure out. Wheels up in twenty."

Once everyone is on the plane, the pilot takes off, preparing for the two-hour flight.

"I thought Devil's Night was Halloween Eve," Emily says.

"The moniker 'Devil's Night' is somewhat deceiving. In Detroit, it's actually a week citywide cultural phenomenon complete with masks, chaos, and costumes."

"It sounds like Mardi Gras if it went on longer."

"Yeah, a violent one. Vandals and amateur arsonists literally set hundreds of fires. It's devastating."

"Who burns their own city?" Rossi asks.

"It started as pranks in the 1930s but escalated in the 1970s with disenfranchised youth. Given today's economy, it's a free-for-all. They've got record-breaking unemployment and foreclosures leaving a lot of displaced, desperate people. Every single one of these victims suffered unimaginable pain," Spencer explains.

"I'm sure that's what gets him off, watching them burn."

"It gives him power and control. The top of the list is first responders--firefighters, arson investigators, cops, and paramedics. Civil servants with a hero complex all of whom will be helping us."

"This guy is angry... I don't think I've ever seen a level of burns like this. Have you seen the pictures?"

You hate looking at pictures of burn victims. Those are the ones you can't help. Your abilities are useless when it comes to fire. It burns through everything, including energy. You feel totally and utterly helpless.

"Extreme anger usually manifests from a quick temper but this guy is patient. I'm gonna ask Garcia to notify us the minute that someone's reported missing."

"A victim a day... That's seven victims every year while he plans the rest of it."

"There's a flaw in his plan this year. We know about it. Alright, Prentiss, Y/N, and Morgan go to the crime scene. Dave, Reid, and I will go to the morgue."

"I'd like to go to the morgue if that's okay," you say. "Fire burns through energy. I won't be able to do much at the crime scene. I might be able to get more off the body even though it is burned. It was still a human."

"Okay, Reid, go with Prentiss and Morgan."

You leave the plane with Hotch and Rossi to the Detroit Fire Department headquarters since they are in charge of the operation. The fire chief, Al Garner, waits eagerly for your arrival.

"We're stretched as it is, but we've set up a joint task force with the Detroit PD to catch this guy. I'd say don't profile me, but you're in a roomful of suspects, right?"

"A city full."

"Victims are abducted across every socioeconomic divide. The problem is, we've gotta catch up and we know he's going to be watching this year. We've got three agents on the way to last night's crime scene."

"Great. I'll meet them there. I hope we find something soon. It gets dark early this time of year."

"We're heading to the morgue."

"I hope you have a strong stomach," Al sighs.

A strong stomach isn't enough to have. The body is so badly burned that you can't determine if it was a man or a woman or what color skin the person had. Everything is a charred black. You put gloves on and delicately touch the face, allowing the person's energy to paint a not-so-pretty picture of what happened. Tony, the victim, is dragged through what looks like a warehouse of sorts only to be chained from the ceiling. The unsub throws gasoline onto Tony and lights him on fire without so much as a hint of remorse.

"Was gasoline the accelerant?" Hotch asks.

"Gas vapors collect in a low, enclosed space. When he ignited, those vapors burned down to his bone. We call this a fourth-degree burn."

"There's a fracture on the back of his skull," Rossi notices about Tony. "Was that postmortem?"

"No, it was antemortem bruising. He was struck from behind."

"What's this on his face?" Hotch asks.

"Charred fabric. All of the victims have the same material on them. The fire fused the original garment to his flesh, then burned away, leaving behind these remains."

"He's covering their faces?"

"That's my best guess, yes."

"He doesn't want his victims looking at him even though he wants to watch them die. It could be a sign of guilt or inadequacy," you state.

"Wouldn't a guy like this want to see the terror in their eyes? Instead, he keeps them in the dark."

"He's covering their faces and setting them on fire. It's an execution."

In the past, there used to be six or seven hundred fires the fire department would have to put out on Devil's Night, but the number has gone down drastically to a little over a hundred. The city is reeling from budget cuts so the Detroit Police Department hasn't always been able to patrol the Rivertown District so they recruit volunteers to man the street for them. That adds about a thousand more names to Penelope's list of suspects. You can't rule anyone out.

There's a reason why the unsub chose the place he did to set his victims on fire. It's completely isolated not only from the rest of the world but from the main road. He can beat, torture, and burn someone without anyone hearing it. It happens to be an old engine factory which is massive and medieval. It pumped out more cars than any place in the world but it's now used as a killing ground for the unsub.

Apart from the place where Tony was hung and burned, there is a char pattern on the ground leading away from the post. It's likely the unsub stood there to watch Tony burn. It's not the best vantage point to watch someone burn since there are parts in the way but it is close to the exit, and the unsub needs an exit plan when dealing with fire. Fire is unpredictable and will kill anything in its path.

The only thing is, the fire alarm went off, and Al's men were there in five minutes. However, the unsub was already gone which means he knows the response times for the fire department. This unsub doesn't leave anything to chance so he knows exactly how long he gets with his victims. He either knows response times personally or he listens for them over trial and error.

Derek, Emily, and Chief Al aren't back yet so you decide it's the best time to grab a. cup of coffee. The break room is in the back corner, isolated from everything else. There are glass walls that people can look through but you're not worried about it. You pour yourself a cup when Spencer walks into the break room.

"Hey, baby."

"Can I talk to you?"

"Yeah, what's up?" Spencer waits for you to set your coffee down to take your hands and turns you to face him. "Is everything okay?"

"Everything is more than okay," he grins.

"Then why are you so nervous? You're making me nervous."

"Listen, I've been... I've been thinking about this for... wow, a while. Well, I.. I only got the courage to do it now. But it's been on my mind a while now..."

The door to the break room opens and Derek pops his head in.

"Reid, Y/N, let's get started."

"Right. We can talk later, right?" you ask.

"Yeah," Spencer stutters.

You leave the break room with your coffee and Derek looks at Spencer in disbelief.

"Were you gonna do it now?"

"Is that wrong?"

"Kid, she deserves something a bit more than a random break room in a random fire department hundreds of miles from your home."

"Right, I'm dumb," Spencer shakes his head.

"No, you're not. You're nervous. She's gonna say yes. Just speak from the heart. Come on."

x

Want to be tagged? Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[kalolasfantasyworld]

Hi everyone! So this is my initial post for @lyranova's halloween event and surprise surprise it's not Nozelena (just because I have an art of them and it's waiting to be posted with my art halloween countdown, so no spoilers and no descriptions of them in this fic😂)

@blackclover-emc

Welcome to interact on this post 💕

Pairing: Natalia Silva (Nozel x OC next gen) x Eri Faust (Nacht x OC next gen)

Summary: The Silva familia arrives at the masquerade ball and Natalia wants to slip away from her slightly overprotective family members. Especially since she knows a certain red eyed Black Bull is somewhere in the crowd.

Word count: 966

Eri belongs to @purpled-royalty 💕

A masquerade ball had begun and the whole Silva familia was invited. Natalia shyly followed her parents and older brothers, her gaze skipping from one masked face to another. She herself had put on a white feathery mask, but she had low hopes of not being recognised. Silver hair basically screamed Silva. Her parents did not even try who they were with their costumes as for Natalia’s brothers… she was not going to mention them. 

As much as she loved her familia the masquerade seemed like an event where she could try to be on her own a bit, explore. Hopefully talk to people without three protective eagles following her around. Especially since she had an idea who she wanted to see that evening. 

Natalia turned away from the buffet tables her familia was headed to and quietly began walking away. 

“Natalia,” sharp as an edge of a knife voice stopped her in her tracks. 

She whined spinning on her heel. 

“Yes papa?”

“Where are you going?” Nozel narrowed his eyes, almost drilling them into her very soul. 

“Oi mi amor, why so tense?” Said Helena who’s arm was hooked over her husband’s. “We’re here to party!”

“I’ll excuse myself to that corner then,” Noureen sighed, pointing far away from the middle of the ballroom. 

“Do you want company?” Heinry hung his arm over his twin’s shoulder. 

Noureen just sighed and shook his head resigned as he and Heinry walked away. 

Nozel continued on looking expectantly at his daughter.

“Where are you going, hija?” Helena asked.

“To find…” Natalia mumbled, “prima Hermione!”

“Hermione!” Helena smiled. “When you see her tell her that tia Helena wants to see her,” she moved closer to her husband to poke him. “See mi amor? I told you, no boys.”

Natalia flushed. Of course there would be no boys. What were her parents even thinking? She completely did not hope to run into a certain red eyed Black Bull. She simply wanted to see her cousin.

Nozel narrowed his eyes at first at Natalia, but a moment later he looked over her shoulder. Natalia turned around to see a young nobleman scurrying away in haste. Her father had that effect. 

She felt a gentle touch on her cheek as her mother moved head to face her. Helena smiled softly and fixed Natalia’s mask, ruffling the feathers. 

“I’ll keep papa busy and you have fun with Hermione tonight,” Helena reached out her pinky, “but promise me Natalia if you feel sick, weak or have any trouble with your magic you find me, papa or your hermanos and let us know. Are we clear on that?”

“Crystal clear,” Natalia perked up, hooking her finger over her mother’s. 

She looked at her father. Natalia knew that he was just worried and he was doing his best to give her the space she needed to grow by herself, but she was also aware of how close they were. She could never deny the daddy’s girl allegations. 

“I’ll be alright papa,” she said. 

Nozel let out a slow breath. He nodded and allowed his lips to form a soft smile. 

“Perfect,” Helena smiled and walked back to her husband. “We’ll be… busy,” she grinned, hooking her arm over his. 

Natalia gave her parents a quick excited wave, before turning on her heel and heading towards where she thought she had seen her cousin. Hermione had to be hanging out with other young Black Bulls. This means Natalia would see more of her friends. 

She pushed herself between a few nobles, he skirt slightly lifted up so she would not trip but it was hard in such a crowd. Natalia was not used to being around this many people in such close proximity. Many of them were taller than her and she would not risk trying to use her risky magical powers to locate her cousin. 

Natalia was getting uncomfortable. Maybe she should have asked Heinry to come with her. Her brother always knew how to act around people and got along with everybody. He would just ask if anyone had seen the Black Bulls and she would be with them right away. 

No. Natalia could find her friends herself. She was a brave princess, a daughter of Nozel and Helena Silva, bearer of arcane story magic and a future advisor to her tio Wizard King Asta. 

She furrowed her silver brows and fixed her mask again. If the Bulls were not in that corner of the ballroom she was going to find them on the other side. Natalia pushed past more noblemen. She was so careful about not falling into any of them she did not notice a waiter with champagne coming from the other side. 

In the last moment Natalia jumped away by miracle not pushing the man and spilling champagne. However her heels did not give her the support she needed. Natalia wobbled. She was sure she was going to fall on the ground, ruin her dress and embarrass herself and the house of Silva. 

Suddenly she felt someone’s touch at her waist. In the last moment somebody caught her, lifted her up and once the flutter of her silver hair stopped she was able to look at her savior. 

A pair of beautiful red eyes met with her dark brown ones. The boy had a slightly darker complexion, soft black hair tied in a ponytail while a few strands of his bangs fell over his mask in a messy yet very cute way. 

The corners of his lips tugged up. Masks did not matter; she would recognise this smile everywhere. 

A bright pink blush spread over her cheeks as her heart picked up its pace. 

Here lies Natalia Acier Silva, passed away from embarrassment in the arms of her crush.

“Natalia?” Eri asked.

[nightmarebeforenewsiesau]

any headcanons for Race? How did he die/end up in Halloween Town?

Yes, as a matter of fact, I have a lot-

-

Racetrack Higgins spent most of his life gambling while he was alive, despite dying relatively young. He often cheated, since he wasn't perfect at his trade and needed a way to keep food on the table. He was murdered by a drunk man one night after cheating in a game against him, and the last thing he heard was the man calling him a "Lying devil spawn". Sure enough, after death, he manifested as sort of a devil-looking creature. He formed a small group alliance with two old friends- Spot and Albert- and later started dating both of them. (Yes, the spralbert is real).

His little group, although close with the leader of the town they lived in (Jack) still found themselves not very fortunate money-wise. Until they were approached by a man, wearing a mask made out of an old burlap sack, who had a preposition for them: They do his bidding and kidnap targets to bring to him. In return, they get free lodging and more money than they could earn in several lifetimes, alongside the promise that if they ever used it all this man would provide food for them. They were given masks to hide their identities, and all the weapons they'd need to carry out jobs. They agreed, living in a treehouse just outside the town. They kept on good terms with Jack and the residents, spending most of their time downtown gambling or hanging out with friends.

As for Racetrack specifically, here's some fun facts about him!

His tail is real- not part of his costume. He can move it, it feels pain, and he whacks people with it when he's annoyed.

He paints his nails black. Take that how you will.

He has a forked tongue, like a snake.

His shirt has pockets sewn on the inside of the sleeve for cards.

He has a bad habit of chewing on things that aren't food. Tables, rocks, erasers, his shirt, his arm, bones, the souls of the innocent, paper, plastic happy meal-esque toys... you name it. This is part of the reason he always has a cigar but it's rarely lit- better he chew on that than his own skin or on a pencil or something.

He can hiss like a snake. He doesn't do it often, but he can. He can also make his tail rattle like a rattlesnake.

He doesn't know what sleep is. He will stay up for days on end. Someone give him some melatonin, he needs it.

He is transmasc (JUST LIKE ME FR) and Pan.

There is a snake who lives in their treehouse that Racetrack has claimed as his pet. He named it Jackpot and uses it as a threat to people. ("Oh, I have a pet snake you know... yeah, he's poisonous and I trained him to bite people I don't like.) He also hisses at Jackpot randomly and Jackpot hisses back. He's managed to convince Spot and Albert that he can speak snake and knows what Jackpot is saying (he doesn't).

Spot and Albert are both deathly afraid of Jackpot and Race teases them for it.

[atomicjellybean]

Black Bismarck: Empty Your Head & Hit Rewind

Just got home. Still catching my breath from Black Bismarck—and not just because of the foam blasters and the woman in the Michelin Man suit. It’s one of those nights where I want to scream what did I just watch? into the void, but instead I’m here, whispering it into this Tumblr void, hoping someone out there saw what I saw and is also reeling.

I’m a young theater artist, newly arrived in Berlin and still riding the high of getting to see radical European performance up close. But Black Bismarck? That was a whole other beast.

Let me be real: there were whole chunks of this performance where I had to rewind. Yes, rewind—I was watching a recording, and even still I barely kept up. The stage was so saturated with overlapping images, projections, bodies, texts, karaoke lyrics, dubstep beatboxing, actors in bunny masks, and costumes that seemed half camo/half commentary, I nearly short-circuited trying to absorb it all. At one point I paused just to sit in silence and stare at my radiator.

But even in my confusion (or maybe because of it?), I’m haunted by what I saw.

[15:49] – A voice asks: “Am I the colonizer, or is the Ego the product of the colonization?”
This question hangs over the entire performance like a ghost—or maybe like that massive white blob one character later refers to as “a ghost that looks like my father.” The show isn’t interested in answering the question directly. Instead, it buries it in overlapping aesthetic choices, like the dinging bell every time someone says white, black, or dark—is this a counter? A tally? A metronome for racial discourse?

[17:10] – “That is the white privilege: to put names to things, but stay anonymous yourself.”
Reader, I gasped. The screen went completely white. The lights reflected that whiteness back into the audience, making us feel like part of the problem, or maybe part of the projection. And maybe that’s the point.

Visually, the production is absurd and maximalist to the edge of parody. But it’s parody with teeth. I keep thinking about the blue flag with the star—a supposedly benevolent emblem used by Leopold II to mask colonial violence as philanthropy. When they say, “This flag symbolizes a torch of light burning on a dark continent,” you feel the weight of irony collapse on itself. The continent is Africa. The torch is colonial fire. And Bismarck? He’s the guy lighting the match.

There’s a long stretch in which a woman lists every location of a Bismarck Tower in Germany (there are 142!) while a slideshow of tower photos blitzes past, so fast they become a smear. Meanwhile, a model tower with someone inside rolls silently across the stage. It's hilarious. It’s horrifying. It’s historical kitsch turned Kafkaesque. Add to that the schnapps tasting passed out to the audience (because of course there’s Bismarck-branded alcohol), and you start to feel complicit in the commodification of a legacy you never asked to toast.

And can we talk about the actors in wooly soot suits camouflaging against the birch tree projections? There’s something incredible happening here: these costumes both conceal and protect. As if visibility itself is a trap—and invisibility, for once, a form of power. There’s a line earlier about birch trees being “like Germans because they are white.” It’s absurd and uncomfortable and brilliant. This whole moment felt like a meditation on what it means to disappear, and whether that disappearance is survival or surrender.

By the time we reach [53:03] and hear that line—“White… hints at the heartless void and the infinity of space”—I was just holding my head in my hands. Like, yes. Exactly. That’s what watching this show feels like: peering into a white void, half expecting revelation, and getting static instead. White noise. Literally. The actors try to silence their thoughts, and all they hear is a hum.

And in the final moments—when the black woman steps out of the inflatable Michelin costume, looks at us, and says “Empty your head. We can see you,” followed by the blackout and “We cannot see you,”—I felt like I had been both accused and absolved in the same breath.

If you're looking for a play that ties everything up neatly—this ain't it. Symbolism is everywhere and often contradictory. It refuses resolution. It loops. It glitches. There’s a moment where someone says: “Black Bismarck is pure propaganda. Very dangerous!” and honestly, I don’t know if the play is agreeing or mocking or both. I was trying to connect motifs—visibility, projection, colonial nostalgia, Freud, the rabbit, karaoke lyrics nobody sings—but every thread leads back into the tangle.

At one point I found myself muttering, “They just be doing whatever, honestly.” But maybe that’s the point. Colonization is chaos in disguise. So deconstructing it—really looking—should be disorienting. Should make you want to rewind.

I'll probably watch it again. Maybe a dozen more times. Maybe I still won’t “understand” it. But I can feel it. And sometimes, that’s what makes it good theater.

[bearmemesreviews]

FotW: SDMI - In Fear of the Phantom

Welcome back to Scooby-Doo Mystery Incorporated, and now we're getting into a problem many reboots and adaptions face - what happens when you try something different. Today's episode isn't really that special, serving as a bridging point between the next stint of episodes focused on the gang's love lives.

Except for featuring the Hex Girls of course.

Not to overshadow the main villain, which would be extra funny considering their backstory, but come on that's what y'all are here for.

Yeah, they got a bit of a redesign since their last few appearances in the two billion direct to DVD films. Fans DID NOT like this, and in a later episode they had to actually address the backlash while also scrapping these outfits for the original ones. They also steal Luna and Dusk's hair dye and gave Thorn's highlights a diminished role.

My personal opinion? Eh, I would've preferred a middle ground between the two, but for reboots I encourage designers to go all out since it's their own thing. So for Mystery Incorporated I would've either kept the redesigns or gave them completely brand new looks a second time. The OGs have a more cohesive aesthetic, but I like how MI experiments by giving each girl their own Alt style. It's probably Dusk who could probably use a new outfit though, since her Tank Girl getup doesn't mesh as well as Thorn's "Pagan School Girl" and Luna's "Lesbian Thespian" outfits do. Actually, maybe one of those Scene Kid reconstructions of School Uniforms would've worked better?

Oh yeah, this nerd.

Backstory: Like most lesbians Velma is a massive fan of The Hex Girls, snagging front row tickets for the Scooby Gang just in time for them to witness a "Phantom" try to murder Thorn on stage. As with every mystery the gang decide to take it upon themselves to do the cop's job to keep the concert going while protecting the band.

This leads to an exploration of the show's two main ships, Fredphe and Shoob - again, yes really.

This show is really good trust me on this.

Scooby outright calls Shaggy a cheater for going to prom with Velma instead of hanging out with him like they always do, and replaces Mathew Lillard with a wooden dummy much to Shaggy's chagrin.

Fred meanwhile comes out as nonbinary a teenage boy with emotions as he finally grasps Daphne's romantic interest in him. All thanks to an entire song written by Daphne where she uses Fred's special interest to get through to him.

Behold, one of the best songs made for a television show in history.

Before this spectacular moment of audio interposed with occasional Zelda CDI-level animation (to be fair are you even looking at the animation in the first place) we got some Phantom shenanigans. Mostly him responding to Scoob and Shag's ability to warp time and space by just setting them on fire, probably the most effective thing one these guys have attempted so far.

Design: Obviously a homage to The Phantom of the Opera, and as we go through the series, you'll start to notice a lot more homages that Wikipedia will kindly point out for you. Though you can also see a bit of Comic Supervillain in his design, so much so that he doesn't seem to fit with the show's own aesthetic. He wears a black full body suit with a gigantic, taller than his own head, Dracula collar and grim reaper-esque hood. He has a fabricated piece of his outfit that goes over his shoulders like Football Pads, but with a sleeker design as it attaches his cape to the main costume. His cape is black but its interior is lined with a sparkling holographic material.

His mask, belt, boots, and glovers are all made of golden mechanical pieces, as they actually allow him to charge up bolts of electricity to fire at the teens in our show. This tech is never explained, and he really only uses it a few times before forgetting he has these weapons at his disposal.

His mask is the best part of the outfit, legitimately cool while evoking a gas mask. It's almost like it was made out of several pieces asymmetrically stuck to each other with large bolts, like if C3PO was mangled in an accident and put back together with recolored bits of R2-D2. There are several short, cylindrical ports on his gauntlets, boots, belt, and mask that occasionally glow green.

Reveal: Shaggy, with an extensive knowledge of obscure musical groups as we'll be shown time and time again, recognized the shiny material of The Phantom's cape as belonging to a One-Hit Wonder named Fantzee Pantz. And once that's discovered it's pretty obvious that the other suspect, The Hex Girl's manager, is not the culprit as he was just as responsible for Fantzee's obscurity as THG.

No, the true culprit is the girl's songwriter, who first attempted to sabotage them through badly written songs but was thwarted by the girl's talent and popularity - So he then turned to just trying to kill them, and Daphne. He ends up taking Scoob's dummy to jail with him, but the original duo patch things up by then - letting us look back at Velma who got sidelined so badly this episode.

2/5 Goofy as hell design for a goofy character, probably the most "Villain of The Week" we've encountered so far. In fact, he'd probably fit in better in Miraculous Ladybug than this show. Not that bad otherwise, just not as impressive.

[eu-ry-dice]

Welcome back to my bullshit

This time; Marc! Aka Argeiphontes, the Peacock Holder of this AU!

Don't ask why, the vibes just work, mk? Mk.

Also, yes, I drew his weird hair thingy as a ponytail. I'm not drawing that shit and you can fight me on it.

And now for the random bullshit facts

• Marc found the Peacock Miraculous in an alley and thought it looked nice, so he decided to take it with him. Meanwhile, Nathalie was freaking tf out cause she lost it.

• He freaked out and threw Duusuu out of a window when he first put the broach on and he popped out.

• His parents own a successful tech business overseas so he uses a voice changer to hide his identity better, using a different voice every patrol. It's also why he can 'sneak out', and be Argeiphontes whenever - his parents are never at their house so he doesn't need to sneak.

• Marc usually sends Sentimonsters (idk what he'd call them tbh) that look like him to help with fights and watches from a distance cause he doesn't want to get in LB and CN's way.

• He can glide thanks to the tail feathers on his costume and essentially has the Minecraft slow fall effect.

• His fan's feathers are extremely sharp and are basically like knives. He can also control them even if he isn't using them to create an Amok.

• He figured out Nathaniel and Marinette's identities pretty quick because.. come on. It's painfully obvious. He's still in denial about Adrien being Chat Noir, though, because of the horrendous puns.

• His 'mask' is actually moreso makeup than a mask. He doesn't intentionally conceal his face, it just happens to be covered by his hood most of the time. His reasoning is because he's basically invisible in his civilian life anyway, so nobody would even recognise him.

• When Marc finally joins the art club and has friends other than Marinette, there's a miscommunication that makes them think he hates heroes and treat him kinda crappy at first cause of it, which is what leads to Reverser in this AU. Luckily he doesn't have his broach on when he's akumatised. He kinda takes the 'hating heroes' thing and runs with it as an excuse as to why he isn't a hero on the rare occasion someone (*cough* Alix and Nath *cough*) starts connecting the dots.

• People can't really figure out if Argeiphontes is meant to be a hero or a villain. He's usually helping, but sometimes his Sentimonsters get out of control and start seemingly attacking people and destroying stuff for no reason. This is mostly because of the Peacock Miraculous being damaged, which he figured out and decides to start fighting himself and not with Sentimonsters.

• The 'childlock' is keeping Marc safe from the damaged Miraculous the most part, but he's still starting to get sick. Later down the line, he'll likely need a mobility aid of some sort like Nathalie had in canon but it isn't taking effect as fast because of the power limitations.

• The hoodie in his costume isn't actually.. a part of his costume. He just consistently puts it on overtop because he gets cold. It also hides his Miraculous, but it's not intentional and he doesn't even realise that he's hiding it until Vixen points it out.

[sanerontheinside]

For the kisses prompt: hand kisses 👏

well, it lives on ao3 now! pls enjoy :3

the meme | the ask box

“The rules are simple,” Bruck had said pompously. “You have to make it through the ball without anyone recognising you. But that’s the easy part: you have to make it not just through the ball, but for a month afterwards. Winner takes the pot.”

He’d grinned at Obi-Wan. “Well, Oafy? Care to take the bet?”

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I don’t see why not.”

No one who had attended school with Obi-Wan would ever have challenged him to take part in their friendly wager. Garen had recused himself at once, which really should have been a hint. 

After all, Obi-Wan had taken the female role in every play they’d ever put on at school. And he had very good friends. 

Bant stepped back to survey her handiwork. 

“Oh, you look wonderful, Obi,” she said, and grinned. 

Obi-Wan turned to the mirror, and found there a pretty young shepherdess looking back at him. Even without the mask, he looked entirely unlike himself. The cleft chin might give him away—if someone weren’t already convinced they were dancing with a woman. 

“Thank you, Bantling,” Obi-Wan said. Already, he’d softened his voice into something that could pass for a lady’s sweet lower register. 

Behind him, Garen was smirking. “So what’s my share for walking you into the ballroom and passing you off as my distant cousin?”

Obi-Wan grinned. “While I appreciate your vote of confidence, Cousin, there’s no sense counting our eggs before they’re in the pudding,” he said demurely. “There’s a whole month to carry on afterwards.”

Twenty minutes later in the carriage Garen still had a strange gleam in his eye. Obi-Wan didn’t like the look of it. 

“What is it?” 

Garen leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Well, dearest cousin Bennie—” Obi-Wan wrinkled his nose in disgust “—if we want to sell this for an entire month afterwards, then shouldn’t my cousin attend a few more balls this season?”

Obi-Wan barked a startled laugh. “Oh no—Garen, I couldn’t pass for your dainty cousin Bennie in broad daylight, not without a costume.”

Garen shook his head quickly. “No, but think about it! Your typical ball—an evening of candlelight. The best lighting you’ve got is a fireplace. Think about it, that’s all I ask.”

“Fine.” Obi-Wan sighed. “What sort of a name is Bennie, anyway?”

Garen shrugged. “Short for Benedictine?”

“Absolutely not.”

It was Garen’s turn to laugh at him, apparently. “Bernice, then—oh! Bernadette!”

“Wouldn’t that be shortened to Bernie?”

“Would you like me to call you Bernie?”

Obi-Wan made the most disgusted face he could. “I have a shepherd’s hook, you know, and no compunctions about using it.”

“Yes I think that’s exactly the threat you made when you were five.”

keep on reading on ao3