#a shade darker than red chapter 2

[butchkaramazov]

A Shade Darker Than Red: Chapter 2

Ten years had passed by in the blink of an eye. Paro and I saw each other often—while coming back from tuitions, we stopped to treat each other to rabri kulfi—other times, our mothers met up and sent us away to Paro’s room to talk about whatever.

That day, ten years ago, Maa had indeed freaked out when she came home. After an hour-long lecture and a peck on the forehead, we walked down the block with a box of rasgullas as I hung onto her elbow, feet barely brushing against the pavement.

Our mothers had a lovely chat while we pretended to organise a court case with our Barbies. It was certainly weird, now that I think of it—but it was a start.

At fifteen, we had grown closer still. Papa appeared in my dreams often, but if I stole Paro’s cologne and wore it myself, he would slowly fade into the background. Sometimes, when I woke up sweating, I felt a warm hand on my shoulder, gently guiding me back to reality. It was Paro—I knew it by the way her fingers splayed across my shoulder, her nails digging into my bones, crushing the marrow open. I want to see, Renu. Let me see the words written inside you. Is it still red?

When I turned, it wasn’t Paro. It was thin air. 

Red air.

But when I held Paro’s hand, swinging it as we sang Kishore Kumar in the wrong key, it was white.

It was normal.

It was nice.

When I held Paro’s hand, Papa seemed as much of a myth as the Gods.

As the day of our board examinations grew nearer, Paro began to come over more often. She was exceptional in the Sciences—whereas I excelled in neither, deciding to rot away in my bedroom, writing things on red paper only to crumple it up and throw it in the red dustbin.

Paro, on the other hand, made chemistry—the demon king of the Sciences—seem like a tiny kitten—a thing to adore, not be frightened of. 

After her daily ‘coaching’, as I liked to tease her, she shut the door to her bedroom and practised bharatanatyam. Sometimes, she allowed me to watch her practice. I always went in with my notebook, in case inspiration struck at the strangest of times. Once she started dancing, however, the pen remained tucked behind my ear.

She had been dancing since she was nine—and yet, she moved like an apsara who had spent her immortal life doing nothing but dancing—she moved like a wild deer, a fierce, glazed look in her eyes; her every step falling on beat, making the ground shake. She was mercy, she was ruthlessness. She was dark, she was light. She was Kaali, she was Parvati.

She was mine, and she was not mine.

One evening, one of the many nights when she allowed me a glimpse into her divinity, I caught sight of things I had refused to acknowledge before—the slight tremor of her fingers when she held a mudra for far too long, how her eyes grew darker when the sunlight clouded her with its divine embrace, a vein throbbing in her temple, a stray strand of hair falling over her face as she held her stance, glaring defiantly at who knows what.

And just like that, the music stopped.

Paro clapped her hands and beamed at me. “So, how was it?” she asked, breathless.

“Great,” I breathed. Divine, on the tip of my tongue.

Even in her slightly frayed shirt and messy bun, she looked like a goddess shrouded in sunlight. And oh, how I wished to be the sunlight. Her sunlight.

“Oh, you,” she chuckled, swatting my shoulder playfully.

“Oh, you,” I repeated under my breath.

@avani-amulya @manujanolavu @nirmohi-premika @lovesickpdf @arachneofthoughts @sonilaalbindi @desi-yearning @alhad-si-simran @thatpagalchokri @trashmeowcan @waitingforthesunrise @vellibandi @thesunandstarss @chanda-chamke-cham-cham if you want to be added or removed from the taglist, please let me know<3

ok this is slightly unhinged. c'mon, we all are :')

[crookedteethed]

ᡣ𐭩 the good girl . • ° 　 .　 *　:.　the engagement (2)

synopsis -- when a drunken kiss leads to rejection, Rafe's possessive nature takes a darker turn. Between mounting debts, your engagement to his rival, and a trip to Morocco looming, Rafe manipulates his way into getting what he wants - you, isolated and far from home.

warnings -- 18+- mdni, cursing, mentions of murder, dark!rafe, stalker!rafe, stalking, unwanted touch, angst/hurt, rafe's daddy issues. mention of suicide (not literal)

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | word count: 3.5k

The fluorescent lights of Roots' private bathroom cast harsh shadows across Rafe's tear-streaked face. Your palm cradled his cheek, feeling the slight tremor in his jaw, the expensive cologne mixing with the lingering scent of vodka. This was Rafe Cameron stripped bare – no arrogance, no power plays, just raw vulnerability that made your heart ache, all to your belief.

"Because you're the only person in my life who sees me. Really sees me." he whispered, his cerulean eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide with something more dangerous than just desire.

Time suspended itself in that sterile bathroom, reality shrinking to a single point: your thumb gentle against his tear-stained cheek, his hand finding your wrist – not to dominate, for once, but to steady his shaking world.

Then Rafe lunged forward, capturing your lips with a hunger that bordered on violent. The deep red lipstick he'd been watching all day smeared between your mouths like fresh blood. He kissed you as if he was starving, as if you held all the oxygen in the room, as if you were simultaneously his salvation and his damnation.

Just as his tongue sought to deepen the kiss, survival instinct kicked in. Your hand flew up, connecting with his cheek in a sharp crack that echoed off the bathroom walls.

"MR. CAMERON, THIS isn't appropriate!" The words tore from your throat, your voice bouncing off cold tile. "I don't know what you thought this is, but no, I'm not that type of girl--I'm your secretary." The last word tasted bitter on your tongue, like a reminder of all the boundaries you'd both just shattered.

His cerulean eyes darkened dangerously as you fled, watching your retreat with the focused intensity of a predator marking its prey. One hand touched the red mark blooming on his cheek – the same shade as your lipstick now smeared across his mouth like evidence of a crime.

Alone in the bathroom, Rafe's embarrassment quickly morphed into something darker. No witnesses meant no proof – just his word against yours if you decided to talk. The thought made him laugh bitterly as he lined up another hit of cocaine on the porcelain sink. He'd learned long ago that money could make most problems disappear, and he was nothing if not generous with his money.

The bartender's eyes widened at the size of the tip Rafe dropped on his way out – because even in crisis, a Cameron never forgot their image. But his practiced smile faltered when he spotted you in the waiting limo, pressed as far into the corner as physically possible, like a trapped animal seeking escape.

Rafe slid into the opposite corner, the leather seat creaking under his weight. The space between you felt electric with unspoken threats and possibilities. This was it, he thought – the final straw. Tomorrow he'd have to have that dreaded conversation with Ward about finding yet another secretary. And worse, by sundown he'd be on the first flight to Morocco – his father's favorite form of punishment disguised as business opportunity. Cameron Boy banished to the desert again, all because he couldn't keep his hands off his secretary.

But as he watched you from the corner of his eye, noticed how your breath hitched every time he shifted, how your fingers nervously played with your skirt hem, Rafe realized something that made his blood run hot: you weren't disgusted by the kiss. You were afraid – not of him, but of how much you'd wanted it too.

Maybe he wouldn't need to call Ward after all. Maybe his good girl just needed a firmer hand to guide her toward what they both wanted.

"I'm engaged." The words burst from your lips like a shield, shattering the charged silence in the limo. You watch as Rafe's expression transforms – his previous predatory calculation morphing into something far more dangerous, far more unhinged.

"Well," you continue, words tumbling out faster as his cerulean eyes darken with each syllable. "I've been engaged for the past year, we're saving up for a ring, but he's already proposed. We're looking at houses too—" You're rambling now, knowing you should stop but unable to halt the nervous flood of words. "I'm getting off topic, but what I mean is—I'm taken. I'm sorry if I gave you any wrong impressions…"

Your voice trails into nothing as Rafe's gaze pins you to the leather seat. The look in his eyes screams danger, screams shut up, screams of violence barely contained beneath his expensive suit. The air in the limo grows thick with unspoken threats.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, though you're not sure why you're apologizing. Maybe for the slap that's still branded red across his tanned cheek. But then again, you wouldn't have had to mark him if he hadn't tried to claim what wasn't his to take.

Rafe's knuckles bleach white against his knee as his jaw works silently, grinding thoughts you're terrified to imagine. Your engagement revelation hangs in the air like smoke – not the shield you'd hoped for, but kindling for something darker stirring behind his cerulean eyes. To him, your engagement isn't a wall; it's a challenge. Another obstacle to destroy.

His fingers drum against his thigh in a rhythm that sounds like a death march. When he finally speaks, his voice comes out soft, gentle even – and that's what terrifies you most. A gentle Rafe Cameron is a deadly Rafe Cameron.

"Well, I sure hope I'm invited to the wedding?" The question slides from his lips alongside a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. Then comes the laugh – a sound that erupts from deep in his chest, too loud, too sharp, too wrong. It fills the limo like poisoned honey.

You force yourself to laugh along, the sound brittle and false, counting the seconds until this ride through hell finally ends. But the way Rafe's eyes glitter in the passing streetlights tells you this isn't an ending at all – it's a beginning.

That night, Rafe sat in his home office, the blue light of his laptop screen illuminating his tormented expression as he attempted to craft an apology email. The words poured out, a mixture of manufactured remorse and raw truth: how inappropriate his actions had been, how the alcohol had loosened his careful control, how he couldn't stop replaying that kiss in his mind.

But with each sentence he typed, the apology transformed into something darker, more possessive. Professional phrases dissolved into dangerous confessions – how he'd been watching you for months, memorizing every detail, dreaming of claiming what he saw as his. The kiss had only intensified his obsession, giving him a taste of what he'd been denying himself.

Mid-paragraph, clarity struck like lightning. An email would be evidence – permanent proof of his transgression. One forward from you to HR, to Ward, to the board, and everything would unravel. The Cameron empire had weathered many storms, but a harassment scandal involving the youngest son and his secretary? That would be harder to bury.

Rafe deleted the draft, watching the cursor blink accusingly on the empty screen. No, he wouldn't apologize. Instead, he'd show you exactly why crossing lines with Rafe Cameron was both the best and worst decision of your life.

Instead of empty apologies, Rafe decided to speak in the language he knew best: money.

With practiced ease, he logged into the payroll system using his father's credentials – a trick he'd learned years ago for situations that required discrete handling. An extra $2,000 added to your next paycheck would look innocent enough:

"Performance Bonus - Approved by W. Cameron."

A satisfied smirk played across his lips as he authorized the payment. He could already picture your face when you opened the check this Friday – that delicate mix of surprise and pleasure he'd come to crave. Would you understand the message behind it? That everything had a price, even forgiveness?

But as the night wore on, Rafe's thoughts began their familiar spiral. His fingers drummed against his desk as his mind filled with questions about you. What were you doing right now, at this exact moment? Were you home? Alone? Had you told your "fiancé" about the kiss? Were you touching your lips, remembering the taste of him like he couldn't stop remembering the taste of you?

He pulled up your employee file, eyes tracing over your address for the hundredth time. The logical part of his brain knew driving past your apartment at 2 AM would be crossing yet another line, but then again – hadn't he already crossed the biggest one in that bathroom? His car keys felt heavy in his pocket as his OCD thoughts circled like hungry wolves: check on her, make sure she's safe, make sure she's alone, make sure she's still his.

Rafe navigated the familiar streets with practiced precision, taking the curved bend that led to your apartment complex. He knew this route by heart now – the figure-eight loop that ended where The Cut began, a middle-class neighborhood that he deemed barely acceptable for someone who belonged to him.

He'd planned this carefully, dressed head-to-toe in black like a predator preparing for the hunt. Instead of his usual gleaming Mercedes, he'd chosen his older BMW – a car he despised for its squealing brakes and dated interior, but perfect for remaining anonymous. No one would expect Rafe Cameron, heir to the development empire, to be caught dead in last decade's model, which made it the perfect vehicle for nights like these.

The parking garage across from your complex offered the perfect vantage point. He eased into a space on the third level, ignoring the protesting squeal of those damned brakes. From here, he could see directly into your living room window, where a soft light still burned despite the late hour.

Rafe's fingers drummed against the steering wheel, a rhythm matching his racing pulse. How many nights had he watched your shadows dance across those curtains? The count blurred in his mind, each evening melting into the next. But tonight felt different. That kiss in the bathroom had changed everything – had turned his careful observation into raw hunger. Watching from afar no longer satisfied the growing obsession that consumed his thoughts.

His breath hitched sharply as you emerged from the distant hallway, wrapped only in a white towel that made his vision blur at the edges. The sight of you, casual and unguarded in your private space, sent a dangerous thrill through his body.

Then he saw it – you were talking, gesturing with a toothbrush in your mouth, clearly addressing someone just out of view. In all his previous surveillance – only twice from this particular spot, he reminded himself – he'd never caught a glimpse of this mysterious fiancé you'd mentioned. The thought of finally seeing his rival, the man who dared claim what Rafe considered his, made his blood simmer with anticipation and rage.

His cerulean eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, focused entirely on your apartment window. Tonight might finally reveal the face of the man he needed to remove from your life.

Then the moment Rafe had been waiting for arrived with all the subtlety of a knife to the gut. Rising from behind the low couch, partially obscured by the jungle of decorative plants crowding your window, stood a figure Rafe knew all too well. His worst suspicions crystallized into a reality far more infuriating than he'd imagined.

Pope fucking Hayward.

What was it with these Pogues like Hayward – always trying to claim what they couldn't afford? No ring, no house, just empty promises to girls who deserved better. To his girl. The thought made Rafe's blood boil. A Cameron would have already crowned you in diamonds, marked you with luxury. Not these pathetic Pouges from a man playing at success.

Rafe's hands clenched the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, a string of violent curses hissing through his teeth. Of all the men in Charleston, you were engaged to Pope Hayward – his childhood rival, his professional thorn, and now, apparently, the thief who'd dared to stake a claim on what belonged to Rafe.

The pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity: those whispered conversations in meetings, Hayward's constant proximity to you, that smug smile he wore whenever Rafe watched you two interact. For a year, right under his nose, Pope had been marking his territory.

A dark laugh bubbled up from Rafe's chest, edged with something dangerous. This wasn't just about desire anymore – this was about revenge. Pope Hayward had just made the biggest mistake of his life, and Rafe would make sure he learned exactly what it meant to take something from a Cameron.

"I want Hayward gone." Rafe's voice cut through the pretentious lunch crowd at Charleston's finest bistro. You were safely tucked away at the office, working on his Cut property reports – exactly where he needed you while he handled this particular conversation.

The Italian sub in front of him bore the brunt of his aggression as he stabbed it with his knife, imagining a different target entirely. Ward Cameron watched his son's violence toward the innocent sandwich with growing concern.

"Are you kidding me, Rafe?" Ward's laugh held all the warmth of a shark's smile. "Pope Hayward is the smartest asset we've got. The deals he's closed for R&P alone—"

"I don't give a fuck about his deals," Rafe snarled, his cerulean eyes flashing with that familiar Cameron rage – the kind that had built their empire and destroyed countless lives along the way.

Ward set down his wine glass, studying his son with calculated precision. "This tantrum wouldn't have anything to do with your pretty new secretary, would it?" He leaned forward, voice dropping. "The one I caught you staring at during yesterday's meeting. The one who happens to be engaged to Pope."

"You knew?" Rafe said. "I thought work relationships weren't permitted."

"Pope works for R\&P, not for us," Ward replied simply, his tone suggesting Rafe was being deliberately obtuse. "Different company, different rules. Though I'm sure if he did work here, he'd manage to maintain professional boundaries better than some."

Rafe's knuckles whitened around his knife. The restaurant's ambient noise faded away, leaving only the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

"He works for our collaborators, son. I can't touch him without raising questions we don't want asked. Without damaging relationships we can't afford to lose." Ward's tone carried a warning. "Let it go."

Rafe pushed his plate away, appetite destroyed by the taste of his father's refusal. Fine. If Ward wouldn't handle this through official channels, there were other ways to solve the Pope Hayward problem. More permanent ways.

His mind drifted to the Morocco trip – to deep waters and convenient accidents, to bodies that never resurface and questions that never get answered. His lips curved into a smile that made Ward's blood run cold.

"You're right, Dad," Rafe said, his voice eerily calm. "I'll let it go."

But they both knew that was a lie. A Cameron never lets go of what they consider theirs.

Rafe's mind wandered to darker possibilities as Ward droned on about Morocco. How easy it would be to eliminate the Pope Hayward problem permanently. One push down the right stairwell, one "accident" at a construction site – problems had a way of solving themselves when you had Cameron resources.

You'd grieve, of course. But Rafe would be there, watching, waiting. He'd comfort you with gentle touches and understanding smiles, show you what real power felt like, what real wealth could offer. Soon enough, "Pope who?" would become your mantra as you fell deeper into Rafe's world.

But reality crashed through his murderous fantasy like ice water. The mounting debt to Barry and his other creditors was already a noose around his neck – adding a homicide investigation would be suicide. Besides, Pope's disappearance would raise too many questions, bring too much attention. Rafe Cameron might be unhinged, but he wasn't stupid.

As if the universe was mocking his thoughts, Ward cleared his throat and said those dreaded words: "I spoke with Dennis Rutherford the other day." His father stirred his soup with deliberate slowness, steam rising like a warning sign.

"Great." Rafe rolled his eyes, launching his napkin into the air with theatrical disdain. Just what he needed – another reminder of his mounting debts while plotting the removal of his rival.

The napkin floated down like a surrender flag, but surrender wasn't in Rafe's vocabulary.( Not when it came to you, anyway).

"Rafe," Ward's voice dropped to that familiar tone of paternal disappointment, the one that made his son's blood boil. "When will you realize that all of 'your' men were first my men? Every contact, every connection you think you own – I built those relationships decades ago." He paused to take another spoonful of soup, letting the words sink in like poison. "I went to prep school with these people, built this empire alongside them while you were still learning to walk."

Ward's eyes hardened as he set down his spoon with precise control. "Rutherford called me yesterday. Not you – me. Do you know how that feels? To have your son's creditor reach out because he doesn't trust said son to make good on his debts?" His laugh was bitter, cutting. "A quarter million in loans, Rafe. What am I supposed to do with that?"

The restaurant seemed to shrink around them as Ward leaned forward, voice barely above a whisper. "Sometimes I lie awake at night, wondering where I went wrong with you. Sarah and Wheezie turned out perfect, but you…" He shook his head. "Maybe I gave you too much. Maybe I didn't give you enough. But watching you spiral like this – the drugs, the debts, this obsession with your secretaries – I have to ask myself: what did I do wrong in raising you?"

The worst part wasn't the words themselves – Rafe had grown numb to his father's disappointment years ago. No, it was the way Ward maintained that perfect Cameron smile throughout his entire diatribe, nodding pleasantly to passing socialites while he gutted his son. Ever the performer, keeping up appearances for the Charleston elite who dined around them, pretending they were just another father and son enjoying an expensive lunch.

The casual cruelty of it all made Rafe's stomach turn. How Ward could slice him to pieces with that benevolent patriarch smile plastered across his face, how he could destroy his son while shaking hands with the banker two tables over. But it was that throwaway line – "Sarah turned out perfect" – that confirmed what Rafe had always known: Ward Cameron didn't just disapprove of his son's choices. He hated the very man Rafe had become.

The comparison to Sarah twisted like a knife. Perfect Sarah. Golden Sarah. The daughter who could do no wrong, even in her absence. While Rafe sat here, drowning in debt and obsession, wearing his father's contempt like a brand.

Ward's smile never faltered as he took another sip of wine, but his eyes held all the warmth of a shark's. The message was clear: Rafe would never be the son Ward wanted – but by God, he'd keep up appearances while reminding him of that fact.

"Listen, Rafe," Ward's voice dripped with false sympathy, that shark smile still firmly in place. "I'll cut you some slack. After all, it must be…" he paused, savoring the cruelty of his next words, "…absolutely exhausting being as incompetent as you are sometimes.

He dabbed his mouth with his napkin, every movement calculated for their audience of lunching socialites. "So I'm going to make you an offer. You handle the Morocco situation – properly, no mistakes, no distractions involving pretty secretaries – and I'll personally clear your $250,000 debt. Hell, I'll even throw in a bonus." His eyes glittered with dark amusement. "Consider it hazard pay for finally doing something right."

The offer hung between them like a noose, and they both knew it. Ward wasn't offering salvation – he was buying compliance, demanding submission. The money came with strings, each one designed to puppet his son exactly where he wanted him: away from Charleston, away from you, and firmly under his control.

But Rafe couldn't stomach the thought of leaving you behind. Not with Pope Hayward circling what belonged to him, planning to put a ring on the finger Rafe had already marked as his territory. Every second away would be another moment for Pope to play house with his property.

A plan crystallized in his mind, dark and perfect.

"You have yourself a deal, father," Rafe purred, his cerulean eyes glinting with something that made Ward's smile falter for the first time. "On one condition – my secretary comes with me. To keep me focused, you understand. To ensure everything goes… according to plan."

Ward studied his son's expression, finally recognizing the dangerous Cameron obsession he himself had passed down. In that moment, he realized his mistake – he hadn't just given Rafe an escape route from his debts. He'd handed his unhinged son the perfect opportunity to isolate his prey.

Morocco suddenly seemed very far away, and very, very dark.

a/n: thanks for making it to the end of this chapter!! as always all likes comments, and reblog keeps me motivated! 💕🫶🏾

Taglist -

@trapistani @alexxavicry @rafestoothbrush @ttrinity @jjmaybankmylovee @slut4rafey @Itristessedureratoujours @hittmeandtellmeyouremine @yoongling @lilithblackkk @yootvi @alyisdead @littlelamy @skel-skell

[starrysharks]

OK heres zeno coloring tutorial 2.0 !!!! i'm gonna do it kind of in chapters i guess?

chapter 1: choosing base colors

when i'm choosing base colors i always pick everything based on a specific off-white! my 'default' off-white is this kind of very light cyan color but i change it regularly based on character designs/environment/lighting whatever,, examples here!

for callie in this piece, i based everything off of this pinkish color! her skin tone, tentacles, outfit etc are all chosen to harmonise/contrast with the pink color

and with this piece, i used a slightly darker blueish color as they're in space but there's still a lot of light... and the lighter colors in the background (the explosion) make a sense of depth i guess? i used that blue color and chose similar cool colors to harmonise with it!

so i more or less base the tone of the colors in the piece off the off-white! warm off-white = warmer colors (like the nova valentine's day art) and cold off white = cooler colors (like the explosion nova and paro art). but i switch up this formula often !!

chapter 2: coloring specific things

here i'll go over some specific textures and stuff like skin and hair ... skin first !!

for skin, i like to use a variety of tones! there are different ways to draw cooler and warmer skintones that other people have gone over way better than i have but basically for skin i use this part of the color wheel and pick the darker tones of oranges/reds/pinks etc. (for darker skintones, i go to the middle of the color square thingy, and for lighter tones, i usually slide down the upper-right side)

when it comes to shading skintones, it's pretty straightforward, just a darkish-purple and a pinkish color on 100% multiply, and i always add a little shadow on the nose and blush becuz i think it's cute

(also i like to add reflective spots on darker skin tones sometimes because 1. darker skin tones reflect in real life and 2. it's fun)

next up is hair... this is very specific to my artstyle but i like to add 3-6 long oval line thingies to the hair to mimic reflection ! it looks cool, it's a good way to show off different colors in the design and i like to switch it up sometimes based on a character's personality!! (like how the frye pic above has a lighting bolt shaped hair thing, or how my teto design has a wing shaped hair thing to mimic her wings in her chimera form!) (note: it doesn't always need to be lighter than the actually hair color and it usually isn't)

for other materials like metal, screens, etc etc... i just add random X marks lol... and reflections!!!

(also, just a general thing, but adding little saturated lines to shading really adds depth and color imo!!)

i would put more tips with refs but tumbles only allows 10 images per post ;w; so i will simply close off by saying don't be afraid to add overlays and filters to your art!! overlays can really help harmonise colors and filters like brightness and contrast can help colors pop... try not to completely rely on them for color choice tho!!

and that's basically it !!! this is not a definitive 'how to draw/color' post... i am not a color theorist... i just wanted to show people how i choose colors cuz a lot of people say they like my color choices! honestly i don't know much myself but i hope that this and the philosophy of 'do what looks good' will help you all o_ob thank you and goodbye

[evesedenramblings]

Damon and Diana: Design Comparison

Gear up everyone because this is a LONG post. The parallels between Damon and Diana are plentiful, so this post just sticks to just their design elements or else it would never end. Spoilers beneath the cut.

1. Names

The name Diana in Hebrew means “giving light”, “shining one” and “luminous”, but also is associated with leadership. While Diana already acts as a light for many of her classmates, Damon included, I think her leadership role will begin to bloom in Chapter 2.

Meanwhile, the name Damon means “to overpower”, “to conquer”, “one who subdues” and “to tame”, which associates him with power and control as he displayed in the courtroom. Additionally, these terms can be associated with leadership qualities. Damon can also be associated with “guardian spirit” and “loyal friend”.

When comparing the two names to each other, the parallels become clear. Each represent a different approach for how they want to lead the killing game. Diana represents a light/faith-filled and optimistic approach while Damon leads with a more cautious and pessimistic approach. Diana protects everyone while Damon protects those he needs to. Diana is unable to accuse anyone of being capable of murder, as she’s still to inwrapped in light while Damon has the swift execution of power capable to make the decisions to find the culprit, and even turn on those he trusted if needed. Both need each other- Diana’s strength lays in faith and charisma while Damon’s lays in doubt and decision making.

As of Chapter 1, the two embody each other’s weaknesses. If that will change, it could go either way! In an ideal world, the two could grow and learn from each other (a balance if you will), but I think due to Diana’s idolized version of Wolfgang, and Eva’s betrayal of Damon, the two are going to go further down their own paths, convinced that they’re right and the other is wrong.

2. Appearance

Diana’s main colour palette is primary colours, given the red is substituted with the diluted shade of pink. Additionally, the neutral colour she’s paired with is white, which again aligns her with that idea of light, or brightness.

Meanwhile, Damon’s main colour is green, a secondary colour! First and foremost, it’s outside the primary wheel entirely, creating contrast with Diana’s design. It’s also worth noting that the only yellow in Diana’s design is her bowtie above her blue shirt, right where Damon’s green tie goes. Additionally, whereas Damon’s eyes are green, Diana’s are a lighter magenta, which are opposing colours on the colour wheel. The same applies to their hair colours, as Damon is blond and Diana’s hair is a darker shade of magenta than her eyes, pushing it closer to purple, which are also opposite colours on the colour wheel. For those unfamiliar with the wheel, that means the colours, though opposite, compliment each other when paired together!

The same opposing pattern can be found with Damon’s neutral colour scheme, as a majority of his design is dark neutral colours like grey, black, or brown, which opposes Diana’s prominent neutral colour of white. However, they both do have a white undershirt which is a nice similarity between the two, and both are even wearing vests though of different styles

3. Ultimate Talents I would also argue their talents parallel each other! If Damon’s talent is to convince people of something via words (telling), I would say Diana’s talent is to convince people of something via appearance (showing), both two different ways of conveying information. Damon’s talent is pretty self explanatory. He is the Ultimate Debater, responsible for convincing action through words. Diana’s talent though, as the Ultimate Cosmologist, I don’t think has had enough spotlight. Diana’s talent is good enough to convince people she’d never been sliced with a knife- what is that if not convincing via appearance, showing rather than telling? Damon’s talent embodies telling, while Diana’s embodies showing.

Additionally, there's how the two perceive their talents and others. Where Damon is confident in his own talent but thinks everyone else's talent is useless, Diana has the opposite ideology where she downplays her own talent but uplifts everyone else's.

I think it’s really interesting how much their designs compliment each other and I absolutely cannot wait for Chapter 2 to see them interact as protagonist and antagonist.

[whateverthought]

House Targaryen circa. 135 After Conquest

The next generation of Targaryens per Kass_tanie's 'Red Flame Dragon Empress', drawn with inspiration from @littlest-gemini's family tree and busts.

Both are really Great, this is your sign to check them out!

unnecessary details under cut

Okay, waaay too much thought went into this.

I didn't want to draw characters who had actors because that would be in my head, making them look as close to the real life people, and as the story is Show Canon more than book, I would not be able to get the faces out of my head. Also I was only really interested in the kids. (I called them 6, 3, 2, and Corwyn as I was writing this out, based on group size)

Now, Kass_tanie has graciously given physical descriptions in the notes of one of their chapters, describing which kids have whose eyes and hair of Rhaenyra and Alicent's kids but other than some passing details, the rest are mostly assumed. But everyone's related so I had to decide what was similar between the kids.

Which I put into categories, Alicent/Rhaenyra/Velaryan/Pentos, and what was being separated? Eyes (Color went with shape), Nose, and Ears.

I gave each group their own shade of purple but let them all have the same Live Action White Hair.

Corwyn and the 3 siblings(Laena's) had the same Nose because Laenor and Laena were siblings.

Helaena was described as looking just like Rhaenyra but with Alicent's coloring and Aelyie was described as looking just like Rhaenyra but with Alicent's Hair Texture. So they have the most similarities.

Daeron and Haerrold are twins but they took after different moms, even still I tried to give them the same head shape and Ears.

Ironicly Aemon ended up as the most Alicent-facing child with her Hair, Nose, and Ears.

If you look you can see what each person shares with different people in their family! There's also outliers, like Corwyn's Lannister Green Eyes and the 2 siblings' (Daemon's) Pentos Nose.

I gave Daemon's kids longer faces as thats how I imagined Daemon and Matt Smith does have a thin face...

I also gave the 6 (Rhaenicent) darker-than-pale skin tones since its mentioned 'the Essos Sun darkened the skin' of the characters like Alicent, Rhaenyra, and their Sworn Dad-Knight.

I also had to go back to see how each character was described and if they had a hairstyle. Corwyn is said to look just like Corlys, Rhaena is described as having shaved sides and a "Man's Bun". Aegon (3) is described with braides and thankfully Aelyrie is said to have two braids. Thats how I saw her in my head, little Pippin Longstocking. The rest I got from the Family Tree we get in the later chapters. I also spent days attempts several hairpieces and accessories but God I could not get them to work. The only one to survive was Helaena's headband type deal but I could not detail it. I also experimented with tiny details, like the Edges design on Aegon (3) or Daena's braids being hearts or Aemon and Helaena having more copper highlights because I wanted them to have redder hair.

The color of words was decided based on Alliance. Aemma and Viserys have no side. Laenor is Velaryan but also Targaryen so Red in Blue, Laena, symbolic of her life now, has the same colors but inverted. She's a Targaryen now but they'll always be siblings. Daemon is the "Black Team" so he uses more black than red, the opposite of Laena's Targaryen kids. Rhaenyra is the 'Golden One' so she's Targaryen red encased in Gold, just like her wife. But their kids are inverted, raised in Tolos but now they're Playing the Game as Targaryens. And they each use different shades because they're different flavors of Targaryen. The Red in Daemon's is different than the Red in Rhaenyra's which is different than the Red and Black of Laena's and her kids.

[itsmeemeg-fandomsandfics]

Like Nothing Matters - Chapter 2

“So…” Jayce attempted to fill the awkward silence as the pair walked through the crowded streets of Zaun. Ever the gentleman he had offered to carry Elvie’s bag for her, surprised that all of her belongings could fit into one measly messenger bag. “Have you lived in the undercity your whole life?”

“Mhm.” Elvie nodded, only half listening to the man beside her. “Born and raised. It’s not so bad, believe it or not.”  

Jayce raised an eyebrow, sidestepping a vendor shouting about glow-ink tattoos. “Not so bad? Guess that depends on your definition of 'bad.'”

Elvie chuckled, the sound soft but genuine as she gazed up at the tall man beside her. “You get used to it after a while. Besides, we’ve got our own kind of charm down here. I mean, there's a reason the brothels stay open, even the enforcers can’t say no to Babette and her charms.”

Like a child caught by his mother, Jayces face flushed a deep shade of red at the mention of the undercity brothels. Awkwardly he cleared his throat and readjusted the bag hanging off his shoulder. 

“I forgot topsiders could be such prudes.” Elvie snickered, hand covering her mouth to suppress the smirk that was pulling at the corners of her lips. Jayce was easy to mess with, more so than the average topside citizen she had come across. 

Jayce huffed, his face still glowing red. “I’m not a prude. I just… have standards.”

“Standards?” Elvie quirked an eyebrow, her voice dripping with mock seriousness. “Let me guess: polite conversation over tea, a strict bedtime, and absolutely no mention of anything worthwhile, right?”

Jayce groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can we please change the subject?”

“Sure, sure. What do you wanna talk about?” 

“How do you know Viktor?”

Sucking on her teeth, Elvie stopped in her tracks, her eyes fixed on the faint silhouette of Piltover’s skyline, barely visible through the smog that hung heavy over Zaun. The towering spires gleamed faintly in the polluted haze, a stark contrast to the rust and grime of the Undercity.

Her chest tightened as she stared upward. Viktor was there. He had been for years, living in that world of progress and prosperity. And yet, in all that time—nearly seven years—she hadn’t seen him. It killed her to think about it. 

“We grew up together, what more is there to it.” So much more, but she wasn't about to go spilling her entire history to the man before her. This was a chance to move forward and start anew, dredging up the past would hardly do any good.

Jayce- a few steps ahead turned to look at his companion, surprised to see she was several paces behind him. “Are you okay?” He asked. 

Before Elvie could answer, shouting from further down the street caught her attention. The hair on the back of her neck stood up straight as she turned towards the source of the noise. It dawned on her that this was not the usual kind of bickering one could expect while walking through the market, this was different, harsh- dangerous. 

The crowd around them had all but disappeared, the bustling energy of the main street giving way to a darker, eerie atmosphere. The faint hum of machinery echoed off the walls, and the flickering lights overhead cast jagged shadows across the alleyways. 

Bright green spray paint littered the rusted exteriors of abandoned shops. Creating crass illustrations of a bald man with a wide smile and spirals for eyes .The face seemed to leer at them, repeated in various sizes and angles, as though the figure were watching their every move.

“Keep your head down,” In two long strides Elvie had managed to catch up to Jayce and was tugging her bag off his shoulders. “And for the love of god lose the jacket.”

Jayce looked around, his unease showing on his face. “Where are we

She didn’t respond immediately, her eyes scanning their surroundings. “Nowhere you want to linger,” she muttered, her hand subtly shifting closer to the knife tucked into her belt. Elvie’s voice hardened as her gaze returned to Jayces figure, still clad in his pristine academy white. “I said loose the jacket, now.” 

Jayce blinked, confused. “What? Why?” Wordlessly he shuffled out of the academy jacket, a symbol of his status as a topsider. Awkwardly Jace shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unsure what to do with it now. 

“Because it screams Piltover,” Elvie snapped, nodding her head towards a nearby dumpster. “Now dump it.” 

Jayce glanced at the dumpster overflowing with trash, and then back at her. “You want me to just—throw it in there?”

Rolling her eyes Elvie bit back a sarcastic remark. “Yes, that's exactly what I want you to do. Unless you want to be jumped by Rourke or his goons? Now stay close and keep your eyes down.” 

Reluctantly Jayce tossed his jacket atop the pile of garbage, watching as the garment almost instantly sucked up the top layer of grime and staining it a disgusting shade of brown. “Happy?”

“Very.” Elvie replied flatley, already moving forward. 

The silence that followed them was suffocating. Every skittering of garbage down the street or hissing of an alley cat causing Elvie to grip her knife a little tighter. Every couple of steps she had to force herself to look back at her companion to ensure he was still following diligently behind her. 

Only once before had Elvie had the displeasure of finding herself in Rourke’s neighborhood- The Maw, years ago when she was much younger. The place was infamous, a part of the city even the most hardened of Zaun’s criminals avoided unless they were desperate. It was a part of the city where people had a tendency to go missing. 

She could still remember the terror that had filled her all those years ago walking the same empty streets. She had been desperate back then and had exhausted all other options before turning to Rourke for information.

A high pitched whistle grounded her back in reality.The shrill sound cut through the stale air of the Maw, snapping Elvie out of her reverie. Her muscles tensed, and her hand instinctively went to the blade at her side, eyes scanning the street ahead.

The sound was followed by the faint scrape of boots against metal. Someone was coming.

Her heart quickened as the figure stepped into view. A man, tall and stocky, with a scar running down the left side of his face, wearing a patched-up leather jacket. His gaze locked onto hers almost immediately, and Elvie felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. He wasn't alone—two more figures emerged from the shadows behind him, their movements deliberate and calculating.

“Well, well, well.” Rourke taunted, dropping his cigarette and grinding it beneath his boot. “I haven’t seen you round here in quite a while. Where's the cripple? The two of you were stuck like glue. He finally bite the bullet?”

“I don't want any trouble, Rourke, just makin' a delivery for the shop,” Elvie lied smoothly, pulling one of the bottles she had stolen from work before leaving. She held it out, shaking it slightly to catch the light, hoping it would distract them from her true intentions.

Rourke’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he took a step closer, inspecting her face with an intensity that sent a chill down her spine.

“Delivery, huh?” he repeated slowly, as if testing the words on his tongue. His gaze flicked down to the bottle, then back to her. "In The Maw?"

Before she could answer, one of the men behind him piped up, his voice sharp and inquisitive. "Who’s your friend?"

“A replacement, “ Forcing herself to breathe steady, Elvie answered. “Since Vik’s not around anymore.” 

“Sorry to hear that.” The shock Jayce had felt at the man's sincerity was quickly replaced with fear as Rourke turned to him with a sneer. “What's your name, friend?

“Jayce.” Jayce answered, throat tightening as he choked out his own name.

Rourke’s lips curled into a cruel smile. "Jayce, huh? You don’t look like someone who belongs here. You sure you’re in the right place?"

Elvie tensed, instinctively stepping closer to Jayce, but Rourke raised a hand, signaling for her to stay back. His eyes never left Jayce’s.

"Not many folks wander into The Maw without something to hide," Rourke continued, his voice dripping with malice. "So, tell me, Jayce... What's a Piltie doing in my turf?”

There was a flash of silver as Rourke’s right hand- Ziggy, lunged forward with his blade raised high. With a moment to spare Elvie jumped back as the knife sliced through the air where she had just been standing. Her shoulder slammed into the wall behind her but there was no time to be hindered by pain. Using the fact that she was much more nimble than the men surrounding her Evlie used the wall to launch herself towards Jayce, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him back the way they came. 

“Run!” She shouted.

Jayce did not need to be told twice. 

The men in pursuit howled with laughter as they chased the pair down the narrow streets. The sound of boots pounding against the cobblestones echoed through the alleyways, mixing with the frantic footsteps of the fleeing duo. Elvie, breathless, glanced over her shoulder at the group of rough-looking men gaining on them. They were getting closer, their cruel jeers carrying in the damp air.

Grabbing a trashcan next to a bar's backdoor, Elvie hurled it into the path of her pursuers with the hopes of at least slowing them down. The streets continued to twist before them, growing harder and harder to maneuver in. 

 A hand ghosted over the exposed skin of her shoulder threatening to pull her back and into the arms of danger. Instinct took over, within a split second the knife that had been tucked into her belt this whole time was slicing through the air. Rourke howled in pain as the blade made contact with flesh. For a split second the men pursuing them hesitated- startled by their bosses' cries. 

Using the hesitation to their advantage Evie grabbed Jayce once again, pulling him behind a corner he had failed to notice. Hopefully their pursuits had failed to notice it as well. She pressed her back against the rough stone wall in an attempt to hide within the shadows. Not once did she allow her grip on Jayce to loosen. 

“Don't move.” She whispered, voice barely audible as the thrumming of her heart threatened to give their hiding spot away. 

Wide eyed Jayce nodded, his chest heaving. The adrenaline that had gotten them this far had quickly disappeared, replaced with a heavy blanket of exhaustion. The heavy drumming of boots on the ground drew closer and Elvie could hear their pursuers bickering amongst themselves . 

“Spread out, I want that brats head.”

“Yes sir.”

“On it.

“Won't let you down boss.”

The goons shouted over each other, voices dangerously close. Elvie was sure that if she dared to peek around the corner she’d find herself nose to nose with Rourke once again. Shadows danced on the opposite wall, large and imposing as they darted past the pair's hiding spot before disappearing further down the road. 

Next to her Jayce shuffled, prematurely attempting to push himself out of the shadows to get the two back on track. Swiftly Elvie placed a palm on the man's chest pushing him back against the wall and silencing his protests with a glare. Not wanting to risk drawing attention back to the alley she hoped Jayce could understand what she was trying to convey- wait.

Minutes ticked by- uncomfortably long as they remained unmoving. The air seemed to grow more heavy and oppressive if that was even possible as Elvie and Jayce struggled to catch their breath. 

“I- I think we’re in the clear.” Whipping the sweat from her brow Elvie turned to Jayce, offering him a lopsided smile. “If we backtrack and cut through the fissures we should make it to the streetcars in twenty minutes, thirty tops.”

Jayce let out a shaky breath as he nodded. “They won't be waiting for us there?”

“No,” She sighed. “Too many enforcers. Rourke’s tough but he's not stupid.” 

Jayce looked at her for a moment, his face caught between doubt and trust, before giving a small nod. "Alright. Lead the way."

It didn't take much backtracking for the pair to find themselves on friendlier streets. The labyrinth of Rourkes territory makes way for wider streets bustling with dimly lit apartments on either side. The lack of green spray paint confirmed they were free of The Maws grasp. 

Slowing her pace Elvie looked back at Jayce who had been following no more than a step behind her. “Told you we’d make it.”

Awkwardly Jayce chuckled, his heart rate still elevated from their close call. “You're sure they won't come this far? 

“Positive.”

By the time they finally made it to the street cars night was beginning to creep along the horizon. Tired enforcers stood around chatting with each other. One had even decided to take his break early, seated on a stack of crates with his flask open and half empty.

“Last call to go up to the bridge.” A female enforcer shouted, unnecessarily so as they were the only ones around this late. Next to her Jace said something but Elvie had been too distracted to actually hear what he had said. How could she when the beginning of her new life was only a few steps ahead of her. 

Piltover's gilded gleam stretched before her, both beautiful and imposing. How many times had she stared up at the city, wishing she could claw her way up and join them. To breathe in air that didn't burn her lungs with every breath. To indulge in fancy foods and imported wines. All of it had felt like nothing more than a childhood dream and yet here she was. 

Despite the fact that they were still technically in Zaun, Elvie could already feel the difference around her. Piltover's influence lingered, blurring the lines between the city of progress and the harsh edges of the undercity. The streets were cleaner, the air less suffocating. She really was on the precipice of something great. 

“Ready to go?” Jayce reappeared out of nowhere, placing a warm hand on her shoulder. She jumped slightly at the touch, muscles still wound tight from the earlier confrontation. Turning to him Elvie gave a playful punch to Jayces shoulder.

“Scared the crap outta me there.”

“Sorry,” Jacye chuckled, hand dropping to his side. “We should get going, I’m sure Viktors wondering what's taking us so long.” 

The thought of Viktor waiting for them, for her all the way up in Piltover brought a smile to Elvies face. She could almost picture him now- features sharper from age, staring intensely at the clock while he tapped his cane impatiently on the floor. Had he missed her just as much as she missed him? Five years was a long time, surly over the years he had made new friends. Yet he had sent for her, with a proposal so grand it would change the world. 

Throwing one last glance at the platform before her, Elvie bid her home, her city farwell and stepped onto the street car. The doors hissed behind her as they closed, sealing the pair in with a soft metallic thud. Slowly the street car began its accent bringing Elvie one step closer to her new life. 

It was odd seeing the undercity from such a height. From the streetcar’s elevated tracks, Elvie looked down at Zaun stretching out beneath her, a labyrinth of metal and smoke, its disarray laid out like a tangled web. The city sprawled below in a chaotic mix of rusty rooftops, smoke billowing from forgotten vents, and twisting alleys that seemed to disappear into the depths of the earth. There was no neat order here—no carefully laid-out plans, only the wild, desperate surge of life clinging to the city’s bones.

“Saying goodbye?” Jayce asked, his voice soft yet teasing. 

Elvie scoffed with an equal playfulness, “More like good riddance.” 

Piltover was waiting for her, Viktor was waiting for her. The thought settled in her chest like a spark, warm and comforting. Elvie wasn’t just leaving Zaun behind—she was moving toward something new. A future she once believed was nothing more than a childish dream. The contrast between the girl she had been and the woman she was becoming wasn’t lost on her.

The streetcar continued on, widening the distance between her and Zaun. Zaun had been harsh, unforgiving, and yet it was hers. The struggle, the fight to survive—it had made her who she was. Piltover was a new chapter, a chance for her to be a part of something worth the city of progress. More importantly Viktor would be there with her every step of the way just like when they were children

With a steadying breath, Elvie tore her gaze away from the fleeting cityscape. Piltover was no longer just a distant dream—it was where she was going, where she was meant to be.

And she was ready.

[justporo]

A Night of Fake Smiles and Hidden Lies

Hi, uhm - I don't really now how to start. I am currently writing a long fic in which Astarion and Tav get invited to a ball. It's been going for a while and I thought (very selfishly and self-indulgently) how about I promote it a little since so many new people have joined. It's a still ongoing story. I'd say it's a very chaotic mix of sweet, fluffy, spicy even sometimes and some darker tones in between. I really pour my heart and soul into this project and try to challenge myself! But maybe it's better to just give you some sneak peeks (from like every other chapter)? I'd be super happy if you were interested to check it out! Thanks to @megschaef98 for suggesting some of your fave parts, ily!

To the chapterlist!

You looked at the invitation in his slender hands. Two golden lines framed the card and under a decorative print stood in elegant cursive writing: “His Lordship Lord De Grodt requests the pleasure of the Company of Lord Astarion Ancunín & Tav to a Ball at Herrenfordt Castle on October 5th, 1493 DR after dusk.” “They really only just wrote ‘Tav’? Should I be insulted?” “You don’t have a last name?”, Astarion asked while looking up from the card. “No, Astarion, I grew up on the streets, because my parents abandoned me – I’m only Tav, always have been”, you answered, only a tad of bitterness in your voice. “Well, my love, you could always just take mine”, the vampire replied smugly and grinned at you. “Weird way to propose”, you muttered under your breath but then immediately said before Astarion could react: “So what do you make of this?”

(Prologue)

So, you finally strode over and took in the garment: It was a striking deep blue that became lighter and a wonderful shade of purple up to lavender further down the skirt – impressively similar to the colours the sky turned when the sun set. It had a high collar that didn’t fully close around the neck in the front, so it allowed for a deep neckline that almost looked like a four-pointed star and long flowy sleeves that from the elbows down became cascading trains of fabric. The bodice was decorated with embroidered bigger four-point stars and smaller sparkles in silver and a few shiny stones. From the slender belt around the waistline down it became a luscious silken skirt that was carefully draped with few more star decorations that became fewer the more the colours lightened. It was quite frankly stunning. Regal and elegant, but not overly flamboyant which would have been something you would have never felt comfortable to wear. And the most important thing: no corset. You wouldn’t have believed it, but you were actually excited to put this garment on.

(Chapter 2)

All around people were standing as couples or smaller groups: chatting, slandering, laughing, drinking the champagne or eating the food being offered by the many servants passing through the crowd with huge silver trays. Some seemed to be well in their cups already, staggering or sloshing their drinks while talking and gesticulating animatedly. Some couples already seemed very handsy as well – hands wandering deeper from backs to more insolent regions, décolletages emphasised with a carefully placed hand or arched back, spines straightened and shoulders rolled back to look taller and more intimidating. Gold, diamonds and pearls seemed to be everywhere you looked. Everything and everyone was sparkling in their finery and giving off the aura of careless excess and frivolous debauchery. Jewels shone from daunting cleavages, signet rings clanked on chalices, flamboyant headpieces swung around during coquettish laughter, deep red lips left stains on crystal glasses and silk shone like liquid in the dim lighting. An impressive display of languid ignorance and luxurious degeneracy. And it was more than impressive even – it was intimidating.

(Chapter 4)

“So sweet, my dear darling, almost as sweet as you”, he whispered hauntingly while you felt drips from the delicious fruit run over your fingers and hand and waves of arousal ran through your body. Then he leaned in again, taking the rest of the strawberry out of your hand, his soft lips closing around your fingers, sucking for a short moment and his tongue flicking over your fingers. Astarion’s sparkling ruby eyes were still on you, patiently observing your reaction, one eyebrow twitching playfully. Your lips parted slightly and your eyes widened as the vampire then lifted your hand up farther and just licked the remaining strawberry juice off the palm of your hand, his fingers steadily around your wrist.

(Chapter 6)

The demon gave a low and rumbly chuckle. “I see”, he had said and with a snap his admirers had returned to roam his body with their hands. “But if you ever change your mind…” He had left the sentence unfinished, his gaze again boring into you until you felt almost stripped naked in front of him and Astarion had protectively placed his hand on your shoulder and quickly led you out of the room. So now you stood in the back of another dimly lit room and listened to this poet theatrically presenting some of his poems: “The moaning and the groaning, The sighing and the sobbing, Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing.” He enunciated every word carefully, his tone and conduct underlining the meaning of his words – it was quite a thing to watch and listen to. People sat and stood around the artist in a half circle, the performance area marked by some small cold, bright mage lights that were the only light source in this room. The sharp illumination from below then made the performance of the poet even more ghostly. Astarion and you were both leaning against the wall in the back, observing the show in companiable silence.

(Chapter 7)

CHAPTERLIST | READ ON AO3 | MASTERLIST

[bcdrawsandwrites]

[ID: A Team Fortress 2 fic banner showing Pyro standing in front of a fireplace with its back to it, tossing a book backward into the fire. Pyro is in shades of gray, the book is in yellow-white, and only the fire is colored orange, mimicking the style of the Cooking the Books achievement icon. The title is on the left, in yellow-white text on a darker background reading, "CHAPTER THREE: COOKING THE BOOKS" /end ID]

Flickering

Fandom: Team Fortress 2 Rating: K+ Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Friendship Characters: Spy, Pyro, Scout (plus the rest of the mercs, but the others have minor roles in this chapter) Warnings: General references to trauma, TF2-typical violence Fic Description: After the events of the comics, the mercs try to go back to how things were, but it’s never that easy.

Spy can see his teammates going through their own struggles… but something seems to be very, very wrong with Pyro in particular.

And since no one else seems to be doing anything about this, Spy makes it his mission to get to the bottom of what is troubling Pyro. For no particular reason. Beta Readers: @mechmolar, @gonturan0, @junuve

---~~~---

Chapter 3: Cooking the Books Summary: In which Pyro takes notice of Spy.

---~~~---

The bustling atmosphere of the pre-match preparation was tinged with tension, at least for Spy. Sniper kept to himself; Soldier went on a rallying, confusing speech that no one other than Demo listened to; Heavy checked over his guns; Medic prepared his ubercharge; Scout... Engineer talked quietly to Pyro about setting up his buildings.

And Pyro stared directly at Spy.

Spy pretended to check through his disguises, but watched Pyro out of the corner of his eye. The Pyro never looked away, though it did give a tiny nod when the Engineer asked if it heard everything.

"Good to hear," Engineer said, and patted Pyro on the back with his good hand.

That made Pyro finally tear its gaze away from Spy to whirl on the Engineer. But the Administrator’s voice had already called for the match to start, and Engineer was hauling his toolbox out into the fray. When Pyro looked back, however, it gave a start; Spy had taken the opportunity to cloak so he could escape that creature's gaze.

Spy barely suppressed a shudder as he put as much distance between himself and the Pyro as possible. Once he was sure he was far enough away, he de-cloaked and let himself breathe.

Well. This was, indeed, going to make things difficult. If the Engineer hadn't startled Pyro, he wasn't sure what it might have done. But even though he'd gotten away, he couldn't imagine this would be the end of it.

Still, for the time being, he focused on the match. Pyro would likely be spending most of its time in their intelligence room, so he wouldn't get the chance to see it. Probably for the best, this time.

The match went on as it typically did, and Spy managed to sneak in to nab the BLU team's intelligence. As he was bringing the briefcase back, the Administrator's voice cried out that their intelligence had been taken as well.

Interesting—the Pyro had slipped up, it seemed.

Sure enough, Spy entered the intelligence room just in time to see the Engineer's precious gadgets be destroyed by enemy sappers. Sighing, he dropped off the stolen intelligence before charging back out to chase down the thief.

Spy followed the path the enemy had likely taken—through the sewers. Not something he enjoyed doing, but work was work, and the respawn would clean his outfit, provided he actually died. As he was mulling this over, he nearly ran smack into the RED merc standing at the edge of the water. "What are you doing?!" he cried. "They are going to—"

He faltered upon realizing whom he was talking to. Pyro did not acknowledge him, still staring at the water. The last time he recalled Pyro avoiding water was when it was “protecting” something it had set aflame, but it wasn’t holding anything other than its axe at the moment.

Before he could think any further on this, an explosion rang out just outside the sewers, followed by an announcement that the enemy had dropped the intelligence.

"Oh, got some of 'em on me shirt that time!" the Demo shouted with a laugh.

Spy snorted, whipping out his butterfly knife and preparing to leave to defend the intelligence when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye—Pyro had turned around to stare at him. Spy stared back, just for a moment, before cloaking and retreating.

He did not see the Pyro for the rest of the match, much to his relief. It must have gone back to defend the intelligence room again, and Spy avoided the room thereafter, instead opting to aid his own teammates in obtaining the enemy intelligence by taking out the enemy sentries and sniper. The remainder of the match went smoothly, with the RED team scoring yet another pointless victory. Spy rolled his shoulders as he headed back to spawn, only to freeze in his tracks.

Scout sat against the wall, breathing heavily.

Spy's mind plunged into a blank, staticy whirl, his heart threatening to break free of his ribcage. He could smell the smoke from the destroyed robots, the metallic tang of blood, and Scout was so hideously pale. There weren't any respawn machines here, and the Medic—

"What're you lookin' at, chucklenuts?" Scout snapped, tipping back the brim of his baseball cap as he fixed Spy with a look. His face was flushed red and glistening with sweat; he wiped his brow.

Rolling his eyes, Spy forcibly shoved the imagery from his mind. "Only wondering why you are wasting time when we need to return to spawn."

"What, I can't take a breather? I ran straight from the BLU intelligence room to here without stopping, or getting hit." Wincing, he held a hand against the side of his chest. "Mostly, anyway."

So he hadn't been imagining the smell of blood. Though it wasn't as strong as it had been back when... "You can rest after you've seen the Medic. Move."

Scout muttered a few unsavory words before pushing himself up to his feet, trudging back toward spawn, and Spy followed, closely inspecting the walls around them so he could look everywhere but at Scout.

When they arrived, Spy busied himself with tidying up his locker. He could hear Scout chatting with Medic, but tuned it out with the rustle of paper and fabric. His hand found a lint brush, and he used it to gently clean off his jacket and pants. Yes, they had another round in a short while, but it never hurt to look one's best.

As he bent down to clean off the bottoms of his pant legs, the hair stood on the back of his neck. Bristling, he whipped around to see Pyro once again staring at him from the other side of the room. This time, he stared right back, maintaining eye contact (or whatever approximated it with that creature's mask) before slamming his locker door shut and striding off to the bathroom to finish tidying himself up.

When he opened the door to step back out, he almost immediately leaped backwards to find the Pyro staring at him from just outside. He half-expected to see an axe or flamethrower being held at the ready, but Pyro's hands were empty.

...Oh. Perhaps it just needed to use the washroom itself. With a grunt, Spy weaved around it and back into the spawn room. But to his consternation, Pyro followed him.

Finally Spy whirled around to face him. "What?" he snapped.

Pyro said nothing, and turned its head slightly to the side.

Frustration mounting, Spy opened his mouth—

"Mission begins in ten seconds!"

Sniper hurried to the Pyro's side. "Mate, can we have a word? An enemy spy caught me last round, and if you could..."

Spy turned away from the conversation, instead checking over his equipment in preparation for the round.

He wasn't sure what he would've gotten out of talking to that thing, anyway.

—-

The match had gone on as normal, other than Spy doing all he could to avoid Pyro. They'd won another swift victory and returned to their base to cool off.

After hanging behind the others to make sure he wasn't tailed by anyone again, Spy quickly found himself in his smoking room, sitting on his chair and facing the fireplace. He had a fire going—entirely unnecessarily for all but atmosphere—and a book open on his lap, a glass of wine at his side. A few drags from his cigarette and a few sips of wine were quickly taking the edge off of the events of the day's match.

A victory, yes. But with more than a few things that bothered him.

Pyro had, of course, realized that Spy had been... well, spying on it. But what it planned to do with that information, Spy had no clue. It had yet to attack him, and he didn't much enjoy being watched by that creature every second it was around him.

It didn't help that he had no way to actually ask the Pyro anything. It couldn't talk intelligibly to begin with, and now it was refusing to vocalize at all. What was he supposed to do? Give it a pen and paper? He didn't even know if it could read or write, let alone hold a pen in its creepy claws.

Sighing, he tried to turn his focus to the book he'd pulled off his shelf. He could figure this out another time—for now, he only wished to unwind.

Of course, no one else in this stupid base seemed to agree.

THUD. THUD.

Spy's lips pulled back in a grimace. "Who is it? What do you want?" he called out, letting the annoyance edge into his voice. Hopefully whoever it was would pick up on it and decide to leave him alone for once.

He gave a bitter laugh at the thought, and sure enough, the bothersome person was once again knocking.

THUD. THUD.

"You have got to be kidding me," Spy muttered, setting his book aside and rising from his chair. He strode over to the door. "Who is it?" he demanded.

No response.

Frowning, he opened the door a crack and peered through. Upon seeing nothing, he opened the door wider, and to his consternation, found absolutely no one outside.

Ah. Probably another one of Scout's stupid pranks. Rolling his eyes, he turned around.

The Pyro stood beside the fireplace, staring directly at him.

Spy gave a start, his heart jumping into his throat before his fear turned to anger. "You—?!" he sputtered, then stormed closer. "How did you get in here?!"

Pyro lifted its left hand, pointing at the door.

Spy glanced back at the door. "Yes, hilarious. But how—" He stopped himself, realizing that Pyro had probably sneaked into here before he'd arrived. But then why go through the trouble of distracting...

Tap, tap.

Turning back to Pyro, he realized abruptly that it was holding something, which it had tapped against the side of the fireplace. It took him a moment to realize it was the book he'd just been reading. "...Wait."

Pyro's head jerked toward the fireplace, and it held the book out.

Spy gave a start. "Don't you dare."

And Pyro tossed the book into the fire, setting it ablaze, and pointed at the burning book.

"Sacré bleu!" he cried, bolting over to the fireplace. "What have you done?!"

The Pyro's head snapped back in his direction, and it pointed at the fire with more emphasis.

Spy stumbled to a halt beside the Pyro and returned its gaze, staring at the reflection of flames in the creature's dark goggles. For a moment he could see himself in Pyro's room the night prior, the creature staring at him through—or with—those same dark lenses. The memory of it sharply brought him back to reality, and he followed where the Pyro was pointing, staring at the pages of the book as they curled and blackened in the flames. After watching this for a second, he looked back.

Pyro gave a brief nod, and reached for him.

"Mon dieu!" Spy stumbled back. "What are you—?!"

Pyro exhaled a sharp breath through its filter, and took a step toward him. Its suit and mask gleamed in the light of the fire, and it made a grab for him.

With a yelp, Spy stumbled back again, looking from the fire to Pyro and quickly realizing what the thing intended to do. Without another word, he bolted for the door.

Yet Pyro had somehow anticipated his move, and swerved to block him. It held one hand out, palm forward, and its breathing was heavy through its filter.

Spy's heart pounded, but he glared. "Out of my way, you mush-mouthed freak!"

To his fury, the Pyro shook its head, and reached for him again.

Later, Spy would tell himself that it was purely on instinct. Maybe it was. Maybe it was something else. Whatever it was, the next thing he knew he had flipped open his butterfly knife and was swinging his arm in a stab. At the last moment he realized what was happening, and adjusted the stab into an awkward slash, tearing across the Pyro's arm.

Maybe because he was expecting it, he thought he heard a strained noise after the slash. But he was more concerned with rushing to the other side of the room, hoping to find another way to get around that deadly creature. But to his surprise, it was already hurrying out of the room, one hand grasping its injured arm. He watched it leave, and, once he was sure it was gone, hurriedly shut and latched the door behind it.

The room now secured, he stumbled back to his chair, numbly retrieving a cloth from his pocket and cleaning the blade of his knife. As he picked up his wine glass to down it, he happened to glance at the cloth, staring at the mix of blood and soot that was smeared across it.

Why had he ever gotten involved?

[skullhorn59]

Clouded Sensations 2

A/N: my first Hazbin Hotel Fanfic! heres chapter 2, for all of Moth-hungry Tumblr! :3 if you wanna request anything, go for it! Tags are going to get added progressively! this chapter is an introduction to Y/N's life! Some Angst, but no smut yet. :P

Pairings: Valentino x Fem!Reader Legend: ❲☆❳ - flashback, 『♡』 = change of scenes Warnings/Promises: Valentino, Manipulation, Drugs (his smoke/saliva), flirting, alcohol, smoking, Hell being Hell, mentions of traumatic events, self harm/neglect, implied and mentioned self ending

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Minors DNI 🚨🚔

"so, tell me about yourself, amorcito.~ what's got you down here?" The Moth Demon regards you with a curios gaze, and his smile gains a hint of something hungry.

You think back; how did you get here? 

❲☆❳

Your life was rather unspectacular - you never achieved anything great, only ever strifed to find your personal happiness. (greedy, sure, but what else were you supposed to do?) although you tried your best, it always seemed like there was none reserved for you. the night you died wasnt much better - you just couldnt take it anymore. the next time you woke up, you were confused at first. 

where the actual fuck were you?? was this a dream? are you in a coma and this is conjured up by your brain? theres only one way to find out, as much of a cliché as that may be. so you pinched yourself, which followed a quick, sharp pain, making you wince. okay, so this was real. in the clarity of the pain you stood up, first examining yourself. aside from ripped clothes and lots of dirt, not really much seems to have changed.

well - except the claws, and that big ass white tail you had. following a quiet suspicion, your arms shot up, and you felt around your head. and your suspicion proved itself right - your fingers touched sensitive, white ears atop your head. feeling your face next, you find no major changes, except a bit of a pointier, wetter nose. based on that, you could only guess what you represented. a fox? a cat? both? something entirely different?

You shake your head - those thoughts had to wait. so you looked around you, trying to see if you can figure out where you were. from the looks of it - you were in a city. all around you rather tall buildings, the streets were sprinkled with burning cars, burning creatures, fire in general, blood, demons murdering... wait. demons?! you quickly hide in the next best dark alley, keeping yourself hidden as best as you could, while you observed your surroundings. and as your eyes met with the red sky decorated by a huge pentagram, you sighed. this gotta be a joke, right? like, seriously? Hell?

either this was a crazy expensive show, or actual hell. and judging by the creatures all around here, they seemed too casual and too murdery to be anything else than real, since you could literally watch one of them getting brutally murdered right then and there on the open street. you shuddered; yeah, no way you wanted to be part of any of that. this has had to be hell.

first things first, you looked deeper into that dark alley you were hiding in, and considered your options. you could 1, lie in that alley for days and cry your soul out in hopes that anyone might have pity with you and grant you shelter, or 2, get a grip for once and get yourself in a stable situation. undead sinner or not, you didnt want to find out if you could die from starvation or not, so you chose the second option. so, you had to get out of here and somewhere safe.

examining the alley, you found nothing besides blood, trash and muddy puddles. you scrunched your face at the latter, because you knew you couldnt stay as white as you were now. you have had to dye yourself in a darker shade, or be spotted immediately and murdered on the spot. and you were, ironically, dead-set on not dying. so, following the most logical option, you began covering your ears, hair and tail in mud.

logic. yes. it was gonna keep you alive, if everything else failed.

logic, and your instincts. 

『♡』

after what felt like an eternity of hiding, and sneaking around, you found an abandoned apartment, and immediately made it yours. barricading the door, you tidied the thing up as best as you could, shoving and pulling broken furniture into a corner, and wiping the most important surfaces and items clean. you closed the ripped courtains, falling into the bed exhaustedly. "tomorrow," you thought to yourself while drifting off to sleep, "im gonna look for a job."

after you woke up from a dreamless slumber, you went into the bathroom, examining your appearance in the mirror. Fuck, you looked terrible. it was about time you fixed that. so you tidied up your ruffled hair, washing the mud off of where your skin was exposed. although you did keep the mud in your hair, tail and ears. no way you were risking your life just to look good. when you were satisfied with how you looked, you sat back down on the bed, with the sewing set you found, in one of the closets, the previous night. while fixing up your ripped clothing, you thoughts went to the task before you - finding a decent job. assuming it was much more violent down here than up on earth, you defintely wanted a safe job, something similar to shopkeeper, cashier or bartender.

stashing the kit away, you went outside, immediately trying to act as if you were a regular resident and not embarassingly new to Hell, calmly heading down the street while glancing into shops and bars, even stepping into some clubs, just to take a look. none were looking all too comfortable to work in, let alone the staff even friendly enough to even ask them for a job. while a cashier growled at you, a butcher even threw a knife near you, yelling at you to piss off. ears flat to the head, you quickly retreated, continuing your search.

luckily, as you entered one of the more grand looking clubs, it didn't look too bad. sure, it was hell, so of course it was bad, but not bad enough for you to keep looking. and so, you approached the bar, hopeful for success. and, fortunately, the bartender didnt dismiss you right away. he just waved you to the backdoor, redirecting you to his manager. so, with a pounding heart, you carefully slipped through the door.

mentioned manager wasnt very nice, treating you more a whore than a person, but you didnt mind too much. better have a job than pride. only barely able to convince him, you managed to get yourself a job as bartender. polite as you are, you thanked him before leaving, barely able to hold back a giddy smile. stretching yourself as you stood outside the club, you thought about what to do next. time was on your side now - you just had to find a reliable source of food, you mused.

in your head, you made out a plan to cover your white features in mud everytime after showering, and spraying perfume overtop so you wouldnt smell too bad. so you began to stroll along the streets again, until you found the source you needed. returning to your makeshift home, you spent some time showering thoroughly, and went to sleep after.

soon enough, - still not soon enough for your taste - you found into a rythm. nearly every day - if you could even call it "day" with the non-existent day-night cycle in hell- you woke up, got yourself dressed and ready, checked the fridge for any remaining food, headed out while dodging dangerous scenes of arson, murder and/or sex, worked at that okay-paying club, afterwards went scavenging for food, then headed back home, slept, and repeated that cycle the next morning.

you didnt have the time for hobbies, friends, let alone lovers. work and the hunt for food kept you plenty occupied. and you didn't need anything else either, considering the bar was a source of information and entertainment. through listening and looking, you quickly figured out how things worked. someone named Valentino owned this club among many more, and based on the things you heard about him, you were definitely gonna avoid him. at least, that's what you told yourself, until you found yourself in his grasp. 

❲☆❳

Valentino interrupts your thoughts by placing his hand on yours. "Hello? anybody in there?" he sounds a bit annoyed. shit, did you already piss him off? you flash a quick smile at him, before answering. "sorry, got lost in thoughts for a moment. I dont really know what's got me down here. maybe the fact I ended myself? is that even a valid sin?" he raises his eyebrow at that, taking a drag of the cigarette he holds on one of his lower arms, before he leans in, blowing a cloud of red smoke in your direction. "how interesting. tell me, baby doll, are you interested in a better job~? I can make so much more out of you than a simple Barkeeper." you swallow hard, swirling the alcohol around in your glass as you try your best to casually not breathe in the smoke.

is he gonna kill you if you deny?

A/N: i made a doodle of Y/N!! be sure to check it out :D

─❲♡❳▷Hazbin Masterlist ─❲♡❳▷Main List

Taglist: @diffidentphantom @helreyy @alastorthirsty

[pencildragons]

another snippet (from chapter 2 this time lolol) for my foxquinweek sinner sinner (come to dinner) which shall be posted 22/01!! (fair warning, fox is a VERY unreliable narrator here)

The gloves Vos is wearing, Fox notes distantly as his pounding heartbeat echoes in his ears, are a deep red. Not quite the shade he dictates all armour be painted with—that’s all the same colour, the same pattern, eliminating external individuality for every man except himself, eliminating any identifiable target except for him, because what is his duty as a commander if not to be a shield—but close. A little darker, a little more brown in it. Maroon, he thinks it might be called. He heard a natborn say that, once. It had been a Mando trainer on Kamino, or maybe even Prime himself. Mah-rone. Mah-rone. Mah-rone. He heard a senator’s aide call it that too, later on. They say it differently here on Coruscant, drawing out the final syllable into mahrooon instead of dissecting it into even halves. Everything is different here. Conformity is survival, and deviation is certain death. (Shields are hit first. Shields are targets. What is his duty as a commander if not to be exactly that?) (He thinks, if he were to ever utter the word, he would drawl it just like that senator’s aide did. Better to be a nothing than remembered after the fact.) Conformity is survival. Deviation is certain death. He does not know how to conform in this situation, does not know what counts as a deviation. The rules of the game he and Vos play are an unknown, and Fox is all too well aware how dangerous ignorance is. Vos has just trapped Fox with him in a durasteel box halfway between the ninety-first and the ninety-second floor of the Rotunda. Whatever is going to happen, he will not be able to escape it, and he does not know what to do. Vos is silent. Fox wonders if he’s waiting for him to talk, but all the things he desperately wants to say—starting with how did you know I was here? And followed by, why are you so close with my brother’s general? And finishing off with why the everloving fuck are you following me?—are wildly inappropriate, and he is not certain that he wants to know the answers. He is trapped here with Vos, and there is no one else around. Even if he called for backup, it would be too late, and he does not want to risk angering Vos, does not want to risk him taking out any rage on his vod’e. He’s seen it happen before, too many times. He is a commander—the commander. If something is going to happen to him, it will be his to bear, and no one else’s. The silence stretches on. Fox’s skin is itching below the dermis, rotting, rotting, rotting. Everything is different here. Everything is a putrified corruption, and he is no exception. Vos is. The elevator smells of too much metal, and of deathsticks, and of Vos—minty, a hint of the thing that may or may not be woodsmoke. Fox corrodes with this city, with this planet, with this galaxy, but Vos stands apart from it all, whole and hale and untouchable. He leans against the wall, blocking the control panel with his body, and studies Fox, arms crossed against his chest. He’s keeping his distance for now—as much as that’s possible in this tiny, cramped space—but the elevator is small. If Fox were to stretch his arms out, his fingertips would brush its sides. Vos could be on him in a heartbeat if he wanted. The silence stretches on.

reblogs are very appreciated, and tysm to everyone who interacted with my last snippet posting :3

[immoralimmortals]

A Song With Ten Names

Chapter 39: Take Me to Church (2)

Chapter 1 ☆ Next chapter ☆ AO3 ☆ Featured song playlist

Summary of chapter: The god of her world is dead and gone. Only Jashin can save her now, the woman who is in too deep over her head, the lover who sings of starlight.

Author's Note:

The song is Take Me to Church by Hozier. Please note that the nature of this chapter is much more NSFW than before and proceed accordingly.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies

I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife

Offer me that deathless death

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

In…

…

Out...

A body. Two bodies. One is laying in front of her, pinkish and red, while the further is staring at them, stance wide as his eyes.

In…

…

Out...

The first body staggers in its attempts to get up as the second draws close. Kakuzu's face is recognized, and for once in this time together...she can tell he doesn’t know what to do.

No. That's not true.

This isn't that far apart from when he cared so much that his hand branded her skin.

In…

…

Out...

The hilt of the knife is sticking out of her thigh. He holds her wrists, palms up. They are hot and sticky.

The sighs of ocean’s tide draw in and fade out once again.

In…

…

Out...

He’s yelling at him. He yells back. Hidan’s face twists in pain as he holds his stomach and tries to keep upright. She sees her fingers twitch up to reach him, to try to help, and the two bodies visibly gasp and flinch towards her.

In…

…

Out...

The view of her thigh, Hidan’s knife slowly...carefully...slipped out by a hand with a rust-toned ring. Another with the color of aged turquoise pinches the open flesh shut, but not before you can see the layers that make up a poor sinner’s flesh. Skin and fat and muscle and bone.

A thin, black, featureless snake crawls from Kakuzu’s leather skin and enters her own. It goes in.

In…

It goes out.

Out...

It goes in.

In…

It goes out.

Out...

Her vision fades with the fragile whims of a shocked mind and the dreams that have haunted her many a night. She hears it, the bubbling, distant laughter underneath the surface of the water that drowned her long ago. Or maybe it’s just the blood in her ears.

Bare arms with circled tattoos frame her view of the wound now, reaching around her. And then her body feels light.

In…

…

Out...

Trees. Passing through them, like flying birds or falling leaves. Air is rushing past her, through a cloth that feels barely wrapped around her cold self. Her head is resting against something. Another rush of liquid, a soothing, slow blink in her reality...and she knows someone is looking at her.

In…

…

…

…

…

Out.

And the tide pulls back, leaving her on the bank of the conscious and living. The shade of light is warm, wrapping around darker features of this space she exists within. A blink of her own eyes...and she can tell she is laid on top of something soft. Flicker, flicker. Her vision passes from one object to the next, different directions and depths away. She doesn’t recognize this place...although…

...It also somehow feels...familiar.

“ACK—!”

She hears her first sound, Hidan grunting despite gritted teeth and bracing for the impact. Kakuzu has no remorse for how harshly he sews the pin cushion man all back together. Damn fool deserves this and so much more.

“What the HELL were you thinking?!”

She tries to answer but she can’t, tongue mute. Fate has decided this is not a conversation for her to partake in.

“Kakuzu, I—FUCK!”

The thread loops into him, though the exclamation may be from the way the named man grips Hidan’s shoulder tight.

“What in your perverted, twisted brain made you THINK-?! No. No. You didn’t think at all!”

“Kakuzu—!”

“Do you know…?!” he leans in close, nice and close so Hidan can see nothing but haunted gemstone eyes, the spirit in them aflame with fury. “Every day...we are one inch away from being THROWN OUT and NEVER seeing her again,” he hisses, deep and low. The reaper’s sneer could be from either his physical suffering or his emotional one. It isn’t enough. Nothing will be enough.

“We started this...with everyone being suspicious,” the rag doll continues. “And we nearly. Lost. It all. When they found that bruise.”

The damn bruise. Maybe that was enough. Maybe they did deserve to never be near her again, if this is what was destined to happen. Maybe then they wouldn't be cowering, recovering where no one can see, in the inn where Hidan tried fish, where Kakuzu began to wonder if he could still find some semblance of a good life. Good fucking riddance to that.

“We were let back in," he seethes, burning and burning with coal of hatred in his chest. "And YOU… You…!”

The grip gets tighter. Hidan hacks again, but no fighting back.

“You may have ruined everything we had.”

Bit by bit, shaky violet eyes unclench, a stutter in the reaper's throat:

“I…” he tries to explain, as best as he can, “I...tried to save her—”

A smack as Kakuzu holds him by the collar and cracks his knuckles into Hidan’s head.

“FUCK!!! Asshole, that HURTS!”

“HOW DO YOU THINK SHE FEELS?!”

And just like that, he’s awake and coherent, at the spur of a woman’s autonomy on the line. “THAT SHE HURTS! THAT’S WHY! That is WHY—!”

His punctured, mutilated chest heaves up and down, a still weary set of lungs catching breath now that it’s been injected with righteous fury. Mask over Kakuzu’s face, all you can see on him is his green, red, glittering anger. Hidan spits, blood in the saliva from somewhere in his impaled guts.

“Kakuzu…!” He needs to understand; Hidan HAS to make him understand. There HAS to be a way—! “She...she’s sick. She’s sick real bad, Kakuzu…”

Kakuzu barely has enough tact to keep the thought of “of course she is” held back from his lips. Through Hidan’s quivering, determination, as ever, overtakes his being, even when he’s bloody and cut and beat up and at the mercy of the world’s most fucked up surgeon, literally holding him together by a single thread. Through the shake eyes have in their sockets...there lies something the old man has never seen before— not in him.

A secret can't be kept any longer.

“I ask her to hurt me to stop her from hurtin’...herself.”

And something in Kakuzu clicks. Little...by little...his iron hold laxes. More...and more...until Hidan is let go. Wide-eyed for a new reason, the masked man now grips onto his own head and falls back against the wall. Hidan’s brow curls as he watches this happen, a long pause of silence until the priest's partner manages to speak again. The rage, perhaps, is gone...or at least redirected.

“...How long?” he asks.

And Hidan knows what he means, though he hesitates to tell. “...Since we got back from the desert," the answer is mumbled. Days and months and full seasons away. And he knows— he knows before Kakuzu beats him to the punch:

“Why?" And then, more urgently, confused. "Why? Why didn’t you...—?”

But he can’t finish the thought, wretched as this all is, barely under wraps like a bedsheet trying to hide a corpse. It’s the reaper’s damn responsibility. His gaze casts down in shame.

“Never felt like the right time.”

Ironic how Kakuzu heard her say the same thing just some hours ago. Finally, finally, the man pulls off his mask lest he suffocate any more, raises his gaze in search for connections and answers. “Hidan…” he mutters. Unsure what to ask next, he simply states thoughts as they come. “There’s no way she asked for this.”

Blood rusting against the stitches on his neck, his chin tilts diagonally away. “...That’s right,” he admits. “I just...told her. I told her she could. I...showed her...she can.”

“And you thought this would make her better.”

...Hidan knows an accusation when he hears one. A magenta stare flickers up to meet the challenge, though head stays meekly down; the man is contradictions, the very thing the woman admired him for. “Better,” he repeats. “...Not perfect. But...”

Kakuzu sighs. “...Better.” Against his better judgment, he understands. He understands much more, now. His skull rests against the planks of wood that make up the inn room’s wall. Heavy lungs exhale. How naive. How stupid of him. The woman he named Takara told him so clearly how her story finished. But Hidan...Hidan…

...He looks at Hidan now, cloak open and barely draped around him, hastily thrown on pants with red seeped into its cloth. On the few missions they shared...since they started to live in that house...Kakuzu had noticed the marks. They always healed so fast. But they were still there. New and fresh and already fading. It had been noted but information not made use of. What did it matter what the guy did in his own spare time? A lot, evidently.

And that is how Hidan got to see how the woman tumbled her way towards the end.

And the rag doll presses his fingertips to his forehead, the sliced headband that eternally reminds his own betrayal and loss, and closes his eyes. Now that the girl is stable and the priest has explained...the exhaustion in him begins to overtake. He needs a second...he needs a moment lest something in him break when his strength is needed most. In this break it provides, Hidan’s spirit too searches for respite; it only makes sense he looks to the thing that’s always calmed him down.

He looks to the side.

There she is.

Laid up on the bed. Kakuzu’s cloak underneath, opened up so you can see the way her chest goes up and down when she breathes. In...out... Like a zombie, he staggers forward mindlessly, without realizing he is until he's already there.

She’s just in her underwear. Used to be something clean and pale, so it wouldn’t show under her dress. It’s a shade of pink now, splotched in different depths of it, based on how long and deep the blood got to soak. He’s standing over her now, and his stare traces all the way down, top of her head...her half open eyes...and lips...neck and breasts...stomach, cunt...thigh. The skin there is angry and reddening. Normal bodies resist the healing process so much more than Hidan’s does; he can already feel the insufferable itch that comes as cells reattach, layers close back in on their own. Hers, though...it isn’t going to be so fast.

Even with Kakuzu’s mending, it’s going to hurt for a while.

Hidan takes a deep breath and feels himself bob side to side, still struggling to focus. His grasp reflexively goes for his neck, but not finding the intended target, instead combs up into his hair, providing a sensation to try and help him concentrate, stay awake. “My necklace…” he murmurs, “My damn necklace…” To pray over her. To ask for forgiveness. Lids crack open...and something is different.

She is looking back at him.

And the whole world stops.

...And he feels like the luckiest man alive.

“Look at her…” he whispers. Because he certainly does. He’s helpless but to lean in, put his hands forward in her space until, as before, they figure out what they want to do. “That’s my angel…!”

Gentle, his palm cups her cheek and Hidan begins to sink closer down. He can feel Kakuzu watching. And it isn’t that he doesn’t care, no...

He’s asking him to see.

“Look at our girl…” And for the first time, this whole time...somehow...someway...Hidan begins to smile. His knees get onto the bed and he looms over her, closing in..and in...and in...until his forehead is pressed so reverently onto hers.

“Isn’t she something…?” he asks, a tremble in his voice. All this time, he's never forgotten the first day he met, how he felt his lord Jashin place a hand on his shoulder and behold...behold the one who will change your whole life. His eyes screw back shut, and she can feel his sharp inhale, both in pain and in marvel. “Isn’t she beautiful…?!”

And she wonders if she’s dreaming, as tears fall on top of her face. Is he...? Is he really...?

“She did such a damn good job…!” a pious soul struggles, gritting his teeth, sneering his lips with effort and overwhelming, holy emotion. And Kakuzu can only watch, no idea what to make of this, no idea what— if anything— he can do. The reaper's lone confidant is begged for once again:

“Kakuzu…”

And the man's breath hitches, a witness in the corner. The Jashinist is all but a puddle, barely held up by his own scratched arms.

“It’s our girl, Kakuzu…!”

The named man remains where he stands, entirely dumbfounded. The most selfish person in the whole world is praying over her, to her, and asks him to do the same. Stitched lips part but can’t find words to speak. He watches her...as she watches him. Even half closed, the big starry eyes are so soft, so knowing. She looks then at Hidan, and Kakuzu can already tell there’s no anger in that heart at all.

She manages...her first words.

“I’m...s-...s-..." Though inevitable, they let her finish. "Sorry.”

And quivering, trembling with adoration, Hidan tells her through sobs, “...Shut up.”

The stars begin to well at the bottom of her eyes, and the ocean, drip by drip, escapes in the saltwater that falls down her face and stains onto the pillow.

He’s only being like this because he feels bad...right? Right? She remembers what he said. “I’m not...beautiful…” she corrects, barely audible at all. “You...don’t..have to…”

And with only Kakuzu and Jashin as his witness, Hidan can't take this anymore shuts her up himself. Overtop of her, in this dingy little inn, he does what he should have done from the very start. His palms hold her face...and with all the gentleness in the world…

He kisses her.

He kisses her.

He kisses her.

In…

…

Out...

The sigh of breath as he pulls back, just enough to look her in the eyes, push stray locks off of her forehead. “I don’t care anymore,” he says, only now that they’ve reached the brink, the edge of universes and fate and faith and chance. “I don’t care about that fucking book. I love you. I love you! Jashin, damn me, I—!”

He.

Kisses.

Her.

And this time as he pulls back, she finally knows how to speak. It takes a moment of furrowing her brow and thinking past both bliss and throbbing pain. “...Book…?” she repeats, dizzy with the taste of him on her lips, blood and all. His eyes narrow but his grin widens, both adoringly and spitefully.

“So you didn’t read it. That’s it.”

A gasp. Her mouth opens.

Despite himself, Kakuzu can only watch. These idiots will figure it out, after all, despite everything and themselves in their way.

“I...I don’t…” Finally, finally. “I don’t...know...how to read.”

…

A stutter.

A twitch.

And a laugh.

Hidan laughs, slamming his fist into the pillow, bitter and relieved all at once. Before she can apologize again, he sits up, winding in an inhale of air and rolling his shoulders, finally feeling like a free man.

“Babydoll…! After all this time...!”

And she can feel every inch of him shake with the next rough, roar of a laugh, as Hidan kneels over a woman who hardly believes this is happening at all.

“Angel, baby…” The word takes on a new meaning now, next to these others. She thought it was just a nickname, an extension of sorts of their relationship...and well...it was. But it was a lot more than that, too.

But it’s hard to outright call someone your love, your light, your everything when you aren’t sure what they feel back. Finally, his eyes roll back down, and he looks more like his usual, coy self...maybe even then some.

“...You could have saved us a lot of trouble.”

Us.

...Wait.

Hidan flinches, visibly shifts. His smile drops. “Wait,” he realizes. And all of a sudden, he feels so wrong. Shit...shit...! She didn't even SAY! “I— do you—?”

A woman's too stunned, stuck within dreams of the beach and heavenly touches come to life, to fill in the blanks for him. He has to ask. He has to be the one to stop assuming, and to save them some trouble. And so he swallows his pride and he begs, one word at a time:

“Do...you...love me...too?”

In the way that he loves her. Because he never figured out what she meant when she said "love" before.

And weight of his shadow on top of her, heat of his body, the sweat on his stomach...the kindness of his face…

Silly. Silly things, they are.

“Yes,” she tells him. And she swallows the ‘but’. “Yes,” she promises him, no backing down. “Yes,” she exclaims, in spite of everything in her telling a woman that she doesn’t deserve it.

And, savoring every inch of it, Hidan comes down and kisses her yet again. Her eyes close, and it still doesn't seem real.

She does not see as Hidan turns his head to look at Kakuzu...not only acknowledge him but beckon him here. The stitched man’s jaw drops; he had thought his fun, the little bit of delight, was all over. Even if Takara was willing to share, Hidan wouldn’t.

Oh how wrong he was.

“Look at our girl,” Hidan tells him again, a cock of his head used to gesture, soon as Kakuzu stands at the foot of the bed. “Isn’t she somethin’?”

And she is. Kakuzu feels himself losing his breath, the twitch in his hands and the blood rushing in his veins. He sees what is happening—

“Hidan,” he mutters. “Be careful.” No, indeed, no rage at all, not even a bit. “She’s still hurt. She’s still scared.” The reaper snorts, giving a lopsided smirk.

“But you fixed us up so nice…!” the silver-haired demon coos, and as he combs into her locks again, the woman’s eyes open. He smiles at her, so very devilishly, longingly. There's no stopping him and Kakuzu can tell. Another secret has to be told:

“She’s never kissed before.”

...

...

Hidan rolls his shoulders and looks back; the lust in his eyes is not reserved just for one, and Kakuzu wears a target on his forehead. Fuck. “...And how do you know that, you old bastard?”

That shuts Kakuzu up right quick.

“You make it to her before me?" the younger man retorts, relentless. "Kakuzu...I’m hurt!” And before she can mumble a sincere apology, Hidan presses a thumb onto the lips of this conversation's subject. “Well...baby,” he turns to ask her now...and all of a sudden she's noticing him stripping off a cloak of black and red clouds. “You ever fucked?”

And of course she hasn’t.

He knows she hasn’t.

Couldn’t have if he was the first person she saw nude. And he’s looking right. At. Her.

"Then I get to be the first at something else."

All of a sudden she remembers how naked she is. That and the glimmer in her eyes makes Hidan so very, very excited.

“I’ll be the first to make you cum, baby.”

A gasp and her heart pounds so heard it hurts. Hidan continues, pinning her down with hooded purple irises as he talks it out to Kakuzu, lest he ruin the moment, make her even more scared.

“I promise...I promise I’ll be gentle... We'll talk it out and nothin' happens she doesn't want..." The tongue that sips blood comes out, swirling slowly over his lips. "And ain’t gonna touch that cute little garter you put on her pretty leg...no matter how much I wanna.”

She looks down. The stitches of her wound do look like a garter. Pulsating pain or not...it…— Oh shit. It took all this for her to realize what is about to happen.

...Just as Hidan places one knee...over the other side of her pelvis...and begins to straddle. That's what it takes.

“Lost your tongue, eh angel…?” he leans in close. His nose rests into her neck. “Then do what you do best…” he instructs her. “Sing to me instead. The first one. The one you said in the woods about prayin’. I wanna make you feel that way...”

So even since back then, not even a full day. That’s all it took for lonely Hidan to change his mind about whether or not she’s pretty. She swallows, and worries try to resurface and explain.

“I...I’ve never…”

“She’s scared.” Kakuzu repeats himself in interruption, and suddenly he’s so much closer, too. Hidan opens one eye and glances up to his partner, daring.

“Then help me show her,” he says. “Help me show her she doesn’t need to be.”

And then the rag doll and his duckling lock eyes. Her lips part with nothing to say but disbelief, sighs and grunts and gasps. She looks so innocent...is so innocent...but as Kakuzu sees the bob in her throat to swallow again...as she sighs...as she begs with eyes alone…

...He just needs to be sure and actually ask. No more assuming. Not this time, especially not when they're her first.

“Do you want me? Us…?”

The line between reality and fantasy blurring is the only thing that holds her back. She looks at them, two men as different as night and day… She went from having the worst day of her life to...to...this…! She’s dreaming. She has to be dreaming.

...And if that’s the case...

Then...

Then there will be no regrets.

Then she can say...yes.

The permission is mouthed and that’s all it takes. The world's most hellish want a bite of heaven. Hidan dips in first.

The man eases into it, trying to keep advice in mind, trying to go slow, starting at her forehead...then her mouth...over the length of her neck, down to her breast. She stutters...and that's when the woman catches as Kakuzu gets onto the bed, easily residing the little free space left. That gorgeous brown hair of his is free, dreadfully long and brushes the top of his muscular bust. A glance of admiration— or perhaps, rather, amusement— and a big hand tenderly takes one much smaller. The man at first just holds it, noting how soft, how selfish he is to know it at all, then raises it next to her head, pinning it by the wrist as he begins to bend down.

“You can say stop at any time,” he reminds, behind her ear in the low voice that sends tingles down her spine. But why on earth would she do that, she thinks, when she's longed for so long? “You’re in control here.”

But is she? How can she be when she is being touched, caressed, held by two men she’s wanted so desperately all this time? She’s going to lose control entirely...but she can appreciate what he means by that.

“Just...don’t...touch my leg…” She’s already whimpering; they’re going to have to draw this out, lest it end so soon. Kakuzu nods, his silky hair bobbing with the motion. He picks her hand back up and traces it onto his stitches...over his chest...down his stomach.

“Do you like this?” half sincere, half teasing. “Don’t flatter me for its own sake.” Of course she nods. And on her own, to answer that question, her hand moves further down.

For someone who hasn’t handled a man’s cock before, she’s damn good at it.

The stiffness already forming firms even more, Kakuzu so hard underneath his attire, coddled in her touch. How many times has he touched himself, imagining something like this? In the bath, getting undressed...one hand balancing himself against the wall while the other pulls?

Maybe as much as Hidan has. Maybe as much as she has.

As Kakuzu moans, so does Hidan. “Angel…” he praises, a palm over her other tit with his mouth takes a break from the first. Not even sex can keep this bastard from talking, though she doesn't mind, not at all. His words just make it all the more incredible. “Look at us, angel. Two of the biggest and baddest and you’re gonna make us cum in our pants like it’s nothing… What a good girl, eh…?”

And he raises up, if only to watch the cute expression she makes as he squeezes, sees the give of flesh between his fingers. The bra just gets in the way.

“Let’s get that nonsense off…”

A flick from his pocket and she’s set free. Kakuzu hums in satisfaction. “Damn kunai...good for something after all…” All the same, he watches the woman for a reaction, just in case it’s too much, being reminded of the weapon. A bit of a glint in her eye, a vocalization of startle—

Hidan catches on first. It’s thrown to the side, far away from where the blade can touch her again. Doesn't need it anymore. “Rest I’m gonna do myself," he says. "Gonna make the old man watch. Can you do that, girlie? Come on...show us how wet we make ya... I'm sure you are...!”

The strap of her underwear is pulled down, and it confirms how right he is. A big, big grin stretches in satisfaction. With that, there's only one question left:

“How do you want it, angel?”

…

It takes a moment for her to realize what that means.

“Face up? Face down? Me? Him? Both of us?” So quick he goes back on his word, his desire to tease the partner he wants so much to beat. Just the sight of the mounds of Venus and all a man wants is to get her off. Choices given, they both give her time to collect, to coherently choose. With some reluctance, Kakuzu takes her hand off his crotch, and Hidan lifts himself up by the palms to get a good read on her face. Sweet little thing...already so hot and bothered. She really hasn’t fucked before. If there was any doubt before, certainly isn’t now…

The woman looks at them both, two men radiant with adoration and lust after holding it in for so long, no outlet for it until everything fell into place. A perfect storm. Surely they want to get inside her...and she nearly asks for this—

...But.

But.

She is still afraid. Even if a little. Even if only because she does not yet know her own body quite so well as they may. And so, despite how much she wants to give, it has to be okay if she takes, instead. Surely they won't mind.

“T-t-touch me,” she pleads under her lost breath, words she’s held back for so long. “P-p-please…!”

And she’ll be touched with hands and mouths as hungry as they are vicious.

Darker lips hold onto hers, matching palms taking their turn massaging nipples and feeling her moan into his mouth, letting her feel the moan from it, too. Her legs are spread open as a man tastes the sweetest thing he’s ever had the pleasure of tracing his tongue around. In between kisses, she sings as requested, even if soft, even if broken up, even if hardly said at all. Even if it feels a little bit silly. It's all that they asked for, so it's what she's got to give. She begs of them:

Take me to church

Waves of her are ridden, unintentional bucking of hips. Her breath quickens...and raises...and loudens... Until she’s begging, until the sound of her crying and screaming in pain is far, far away. Now, it is ecstasy.

Kakuzu holds her hand as she grips tight, and he pulls away just enough to see the look on her face for what comes next.

A moan.

A clench.

...And with her lovely, lovely voice...a release.

Hidan looks up at her, magenta eyes hooded and something thicker than saliva dripping from his lips. A drop of blood is staining into the rest of the liquid. Just as the story started, the girl gets her finish with a reminder of Jashin, of the blessings he bestows. He laps it up, long and slow to savor the taste. To show her how good it is to be in his position.

But a good girl still needs a break before it’s the old man’s turn.

She gets to soak in the hot spring and watch as Hidan decides to finish, next, what she had started, holding his partner's dick like that, getting him nice and hard with nowhere to go. She holds around Kakuzu as he pulsates and moans, and he stretches one arm and pulls her in to brace himself. She whispers to him that it's okay, she likes him holding her tight. The rag doll, with that permission leans his full weight, cheek pressed against her head as he uses his other hand to grip Hidan by the hair as he so wonderfully sucks him dry. Kakuzu worships no god, but he can see the appeal in having a goddess. A goddess and her dutiful priest with a big mouth to shut up.

He can at least understand now...what makes someone worship something outside of themselves.

An exhale and the woman is there to feel his entire body relax. Silver locks drip as they emerge from the surface, a lingering kiss on Kakuzu's jaw and Hidan inhales deep, catching his breath, and wraps around him and his angel, legs and arms and all. His nose finds home in the other side of her, so she is so warmly, snugly flanked by two S-rank missing-nins who will never let her go.

Three of the undead, three who by fate...or luck...or whatever the hell makes life work...ending up like this, together. Fucked up, fucking, and fucked. Sensations unending at least until it’s time to go, lest the others wonder where they ran off to.

But not just yet.

If anyone asks, though? They have two zombies to get through. That assurance alone...helps their treasure feel safe.

 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Oh, good God, let me give you my life

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[amorest-viesse]

[You And I In This World Adrift] - Chloe SSR Card Story Translation

Ft. Akira

A Reassuring Presence - Chapter 1

[Manor Living Room]

Akira: (Whoa! What’s with all this fabric!?)

Having finished lunch, I was making my way to the living room for a break only to find it covered in fabrics of all different colors and materials. At the center of the chaos was of course, none other than…

Chloe: Should I use… red here? No wait, the blue might be nice…

Akira: (Chloe seems to be working really hard on something. I wonder what he’s making… Although, maybe I shouldn’t interrupt.)

Just as I was turning around, Chloe suddenly looked up from his project, and we made eye contact.

Chloe: Oh, Master Sage!

Akira: Good afternoon, Chloe. I wasn’t bothering you, was I?

Chloe: Not at all! In fact, I’d say you’re right on time. Come on over!

At Chloe’s invitation, I made my way to him.

Chloe: Could you do me a favor and hold still for a sec?

Akira: Oh, uh, sure.

Upon my agreement, Chloe began to drape several fabrics on my shoulder.

Chloe: Oh, I just can’t decide which one is better! The lighter blue or the darker one? …Ooh wait, what about something right in the middle?

As he swapped colors in and out, Chloe would occasionally turn and look at a sheet of paper.

Akira: Is that a new design? I’m sure it’ll turn out amazing.

Chloe: You really think so? That’s great! It’s supposed to be for you, so I’m really giving it my all.

Chloe: You’re always doing so much for us that I wanted to thank you somehow, and this was the first thing that came to mind.

Akira: Chloe… That’s so sweet of you.

Even without the gift, his words alone made my heart swell with joy.

Chloe: …Alright, this shade of blue has gotta be it! Although it looks like I’m a little short on fabric, so I’ll have to get more.

Chloe: Oh, do you wanna come with me? I gotta figure out what to do for the ribbon too, so I’d love to hear your opinion.

Akira: If it helps, then of course I’ll come!

♡♥♡

[City of Affluence - Day]

Akira: I’m glad we were able to get that fabric you wanted, Chloe. It’s lucky we came just in time to grab what was left.

Chloe: Yeah, me too! It could’ve been bad if we’d just been a little later.

With the goods safely in hand, Chloe sighed in relief although his face was full of determination.

Chloe: Just you wait, Master Sage! I’m gonna make you the perfect outfit with this!

Akira: I’m looking forward to it.

Chloe: Yep yep! …Oh!

Chloe: That golden braid is gorgeous. I didn’t think to include one when I first came up with the design, but I bet it’d look great with this color.

As Chloe zeroed in on the stall’s goods, his eyes sparkled like a child discovering a new toy. Watching him brought a smile to my face as well.

Akira: (There he goes again. Ah well, while I’m here, I might as well take a look around too.)

Hooded Old Man: You there. Youngster.

A Reassuring Presence - Chapter 2

Akira: Huh? Are you talking to me?

Hooded Old Man: Yes. You. If ain’t too much of a bother, could ya help an old man with his wares?

I quickly scanned the crowd for Chloe and spotted him chatting away with the stall owner. Noting his presence, I felt a sense of reassurance.

Akira: (I’ll probably be back before Chloe’s done shopping, so it should be fine…)

Akira: Sure I can. What do you need?

♡♥♡

Chloe: Master Sage! What do you think of this color? It would look so good on you, but—

Chloe: …Huh? Where’d they go…?

Chloe: (Maybe they saw something interesting and went to check it out…?)

Chloe: (If so, then I should probably wait here. It’d be bad if we both wandered off.)

Chloe: (Although… this isn’t exactly the safest city. What if they were kidnapped or something like I was…?)

Chloe: (I could never forgive myself if something happened…)

Chloe: I was the one who invited the Master Sage here, so it’s my job to make sure they’re safe!

♡♥♡

Akira: (We’ve gotten pretty far from that street stall… I wonder where we’re going.)

As the distance between us and the noise of the city increased, the sounds of our individual footsteps grew louder, and with it, my anxiety.

Akira: Um… Could I ask where these wares are?

Hooded Old Man: It’s just a little further.

Below his hood, the man’s lips curved into a smile. In contrast with the soft tone of his voice, it sent a chill down my spine.

Akira: (I didn’t say anything because I thought this would be quick, but I really should’ve told Chloe where I was going…)

Hooded Old Man: What’s wrong? We’re almost there.

Akira: Umm…

I had no idea where we were. Stuck in an unfamiliar place, my legs froze out of fear.

Akira: (Now that I think about it, didn’t Chloe mention something about being kidnapped before…?)

He had said it happened because of his naivety. Now it seemed I was learning the hard way what he meant.

Akira: (I fell for the same trap. Since I had Chloe here today, I thought everything was going to be fine and let my guard down…)

It was a huge mistake to leave without a word. If anything happened to me, Chloe would definitely blame himself.

Akira: (I can’t make Chloe sad because of my stupid mistake. I have to find a way to get back no matter what.)

I hardened my resolution and spoke up.

Akira: My deepest apologies, but I need to head back. My friend will be worried if I’m gone for too long.

Hooded Old Man: Is that so…

Akira: Apologies once again, but if you really need help then my friend and I can return together…

As I turned around to leave, the old man suddenly grabbed my hand with a growl.

Hooded Old Man: You’re not goin’ anywhere!!

A Reassuring Presence - Chapter 3

Akira: (Agh, he has a tight grip!)

Chloe: <<Suispicibo Voitingoc>>

[Smack!]

Hooded Old Man: Ack! Was that… a button?

The man cried out, grabbing the back of his hand. At our feet, a single button rolled to a stop.

Chloe: What do you think you’re doing?

Akira: Chloe!

Chloe: You’ve got a pretty important person to me there, so you better watch yourself or you’ll regret it.

Hooded Old Man: Hngh…

[Running Steps]

Pressured by Chloe’s fierce conviction, the old man quickly turned tail and darted down a back alley.

Chloe: Eh!? He’s already gone…!

Chloe: I guess he was just pretending to be an old man. His voice did seem young for his age…

Akira: …

Chloe: That aside, are you alright, Master Sage? I’m sorry I didn’t show up sooner…

Doing a complete 180 from before, Chloe looked at me with worry in his face. 

Akira: Yes, I’m completely fine. Thank you so much for saving me, Chloe!

Chloe: I’m so glad you’re okay. I shouldn’t have gotten so swept up in shopping and left you alone like that…

Akira: Oh no, you’re fine! I was the one who followed a stranger without saying anything.

Akira: I guess I thought everything would be fine since I was with you today.

Chloe: What do you mean…?

Akira: I know you told me about the kidnapping incidents in this city before, but I didn’t remember until it was too late.

Chloe: …Well, I know how that feels.

Chloe: During my travels with Rustica, the dangers of the world always felt so far away. With him by my side, it felt like nothing could touch me.

Chloe: Which is why I’m happy to hear you say that.

Akira: Say what?

Chloe: You felt safe because I was here and that everything would be fine.

Chloe: I guess that makes me a little like your “Rustica”.

Chloe sheepishly gave me a smile—one that’s been supporting me all this time without me even realizing it.

Chloe: Ah, but we’re getting off track! I’ll do my best to keep you safe from now on!

Chloe: I know I was the one that asked you here, but if you’d ever like to go somewhere, I’d be happy to accompany you too!

Akira: I’ll definitely keep that in my mind for the future.

Chloe: Alright! Anyways, let’s head back now. I have everything I need, so your outfit will be done in no time!

Akira: I’m looking forward to it.

Chloe vigorously nodded his head as if to say “leave it to me!” With smiles on both of our faces, we set off for the manor.

Chloe and the Bygone Gate - Card Episode

[Chloe’s Room]

Akira: It seems like a gate that shows the past has appeared on Borda Isle’s beach.

Akira: It reminds me of when I had just arrived in this world. I often thought about the past as a way of calming myself down.

Chloe: I totally get what you mean! It’s nice to think about happy or comforting times!

Chloe: What kind of stuff did you think about?

Akira: I’d go back to when I was a kid being read a story by someone I trusted.

Chloe: Whoa! That sounds just like you! I bet you were a real cute kid.

Akira: Ehehe, thank you.

Akira: Do you have any comforting memories like that? Something you hold onto when the going gets rough…?

Chloe: Oh! I wonder… I feel like there’s a lot I could talk about.

Chloe: Of course, most of them have to do with Rustica… Hmm…

Akira: It sounds like you have too many to even choose from.

Chloe: Well, that is true, but it’s also that I just haven’t had many bad experiences since meeting Rustica…

Akira: Whoa! That’s pretty incredible.

Chloe: I know right? I’ve been so lucky that I can barely believe it myself.

Chloe: It’s not that I haven’t experienced any hardships.

Chloe: But whenever I do, I can always find comfort in those memories…

Chloe: It’s all thanks to Rustica’s kindness and the new sights he’s shown me in our time together.

Akira: Knowing him, you two are always making happy memories together, aren't you?

Chloe: Ehehe… We really are.

Akira: Rustica’s pretty cool.

Chloe: Ehehe… Isn’t he? That’s my teacher for you.

Chloe: Even if time rewound to before I met Rustica…

Chloe: I don’t think I’d be the weepy mess I used to be. I don’t think I’d hate myself like before.

Chloe: No matter what terrible things people say to me, I’ll continue to love myself. That’s what Rustica taught me.

Chloe: Even if I have to relive my childhood once again, face my family and their relentless bullying, the way they singled me out, their sudden anger…

Chloe: If I had my memories of Rustica, I think I’d be able to protect myself this time.

Chloe: Haha… It’s just like how you dealt with coming to this world.

Akira: Chloe…

Chloe: Hey, Master Sage. Let’s make a lot more of those memories together.

Chloe: That way, when the hard times hit, we can always go back to them.

Chloe: I love you so much, Master Sage! Spending time with you makes me so super happy! I really, really mean it!

Chloe: Don’t you ever forget that! Remember it!

Home Screen Voice Line

“Surely we’ll experience both sad and happy times in the future, but no matter what happens, let’s enjoy ourselves! After all, we’re wizards who revel in all the world has to offer!”

[butchkaramazov]

A Shade Darker Than Red: Chapter 3

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Six months passed by. The results of our board examinations were out. I had scored around 95.6%, surprising even myself. Paro had scored 97%.

“Always two steps ahead of you, Renu,” Maa said playfully. 

“Mediocre coaching,” I laughed, pointing at Paro.

She smiled back. Her lips were pressed into a thin line as she tried to cover her teeth with her hand. On wild impulse, I leaned forward and gently pulled her hands apart. “Not happening,” I said.

Paro looked at me like I had punted her puppy into the sun. 

I rolled my eyes. “Stop looking at me like that, idiot. Have a sandesh.”

That day, I was once again invited to watch her practice. I sat on the edge of her bed, swinging my legs and trying my hardest not to glance at her heaving blouse. 

She was dancing to her favourite Hindi song, which was, rather unnervingly, starting to grow on me as well. 

I watched her as I scribbled incoherent lines of poetry—poetry, or desperation? I do not know. Everything was red, anyway. The only poetry I could think of right then, was Paro.

A swat of black hair sent me tumbling back onto the bed—did she just slap me with her hair? Paro quickly paused her playlist and climbed onto the bed, leaning her elbow on the headrest. She still looked at me like I was the stupidest thing she’d ever seen.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, not looking sorry at all.

“Doofus,” I muttered, grabbing her elbow and pulling her down with me. “If I go down, you go down with me.”

Laughter echoed throughout the room as she fell on top of me and roamed her fingers along my sides, trying to find my ticklish spots. I let out a strangled laugh, rolling over on my side. 

“I’ll—I’ll tell Mumma,” Paro gasped between laughs.

“I’ll tell Mumma,” I mocked her, making her laugh. I could drink up that sound, smear it over my wounds like it was ambrosia. 

A comfortable silence ensued, broken only by her fading chuckles and the creaking of the bed as I sat up. “Wanna go out for ice cream?”

Paro raised an eyebrow, arched perfectly over her almond eyes. “At three in the afternoon?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

Paro leaned her elbow against my knee, using my leg as a lever to push herself up. “Sure, okay.”

I climbed off the bed, holding up a finger gun. “I’m not letting you go today, Topper-ji.”

Paro rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Miss Head Girl. Text me when you get home.”

@avani-amulya @manujanolavu @nirmohi-premika @lovesickpdf @arachneofthoughts @sonilaalbindi @desi-yearning @alhad-si-simran @thatpagalchokri @trashmeowcan @waitingforthesunrise @vellibandi @thesunandstarss @chanda-chamke-cham-cham @damnn-dorothea @the-unhinged-fanwinggg if you wanted to be added or removed from the taglist, please let me know<3

(we're in the denial phaseee guys and gays) this was pretty short, but we have smth intense coming up next sooo :p (LISTEN I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT BOARDS OK PLS DONT COME AT ME)

[brandstifter-sys]

The Great Bitchin Bake-Off

Chapter 2: You Close? (Ao3)

Word Count: 3215

Rating: T+

Characters: Roman, Remus

Warnings: Innuendo, blood, gore, food, intrusive thoughts, Remus has OCD

Roman and Remus have no internet, no cookbooks, and they have to make breakfast for everyone in the mindscape. Rather than work together, the creativitwins just have to make it a competition, if only so there's something edible in the end.

--

Roman returned to the kitchen before Remus, and checked his dough. There was still some time before it should have been ready. It had risen somewhat, even with that stupid towel covering it. He was not looking forward to making the filling or glaze for his cinnamon rolls now that he was clean and wearing his Mickey Mouse pajama pants and an old American Eagle t-shirt. His pajamas were not meant to get dirty, so he also borrowed one of Patton's aprons. 

At least he could get started on his filling in peace. He went to the fridge and grabbed a block of cream cheese, thinking that it would suit his needs. He placed it in the clean mixing bowl and turned the mixer on to the highest setting. Whipping the cream cheese seemed like the right thing to do. He also needed to add some cinnamon, so he went to the cabinet for the spice.

“Aw! You started before I got back!”

Roman glanced over his shoulder and pouted at Remus. The duke was pouting back at him, leaning against the oven he turned on, and holding an electric hand mixer. Good. Roman was not about to give up his edge. 

“Last I checked, it’s not a race,” Roman scoffed and casually dumped some cinnamon in his cream cheese. It was just enough to give it some color. That's what he told himself. 

“It’s not!” Remus laughed and bounced to the counter where his butter was waiting for him. He immediately grabbed a bowl and put the butter into it. 

“Then why are you complaining?” 

“Because I want to spend time bonding with my pissy little brother!” he laughed and grabbed his blood jug. He needed to add some more holding power to his filling. 

Roman scowled and turned to his mixer. Would he need to add anything more? He hoped so, if only so he could pretend that he couldn't hear Remus. Unfortunately he couldn't think of anything. 

“Of course I would rather not have to fight or compete every time we get to hang out! But you think I'm evil for some reason,” Remus continued and turned on his mixer. 

As soon as the beaters met his cursed concoction, a crazed laugh leapt from his throat. The rapid spinning was spraying the blood all over the bowl. Some of it even splashed onto the counter top. 

Roman turned off his mixer and guarded it from any potential splash damage. He was horrified by Remus' deranged, wicked cackling and his unnaturally wide eyes, locked onto his bowl. 

Did he really have to wonder why Roman was convinced he was evil? That laugh could freeze the fires of hell! 

And then he stopped. Remus turned off his mixer and grinned at Roman as if he hadn't unleashed an inner demon or two. 

“It matches your face!” Remus giggled and held up the beater. Roman would have been more offended if the whipped butter was a darker shade of red, but it was a rather light pink that matched his favorite blush. 

“You didn't add any cinnamon,” Roman commented dumbly. Granted, he still had the powdery spice next to him. 

“Of course not! That goes on separately! Don't tell me you didn't know!” Remus jeered and grabbed a rubber spatula to clean the beaters. 

Roman fumed and tried to ignore the smugness hidden in that chipper tone. The least Remus could do was acknowledge his budding ire! 

But nope! Remus was happily cleaning up his mixer and gathering yet another bowl and a measuring cup. He didn't even look Roman's way when he pushed his butter mixture aside and pulled out the sugar. 

“What are you doing?” Roman huffed.

“Making cinnamon sugar for the filling!” Remus responded and carefully measured out the sugar he would need. He had a feeling Roman would want to copy him somewhat. 

He was right! Roman snatched the bag of sugar from him like a greedy little goblin and grabbed a bowl. The rude little prince could keep it, as long as he shared the cinnamon. 

Remus knew better than to expect that much from Roman. He stole the cinnamon while Roman poured some indeterminate amount of sugar into his bowl. Hopefully it wouldn’t bite him in the ass later! 

Of course, being a nosy little bitch sure would! Roman just had to see what Remus was doing. He had to fight back the urge to laugh, Remus added so little cinnamon to his sugar, surely no one would be able to taste it! 

He swiped the bottle from Remus with a scoff and dumped half of it into his sugar. Remus mixed his sugar and bit his tongue. He wasn’t going to ruin Roman’s “perfect” cinnamon rolls with any decent advice! 

“And now to pull a Frankie!” Remus cheered and grabbed his resting dough. He tore the towel away with a flourish and grinned. It was so puffy and red, like his lips after using them on someone's—

He cleared the counter and pulled out two baking dishes, mainly so Roman wouldn’t get in his way later. This was the second most fun part, right after kneading the fresh dough. Then he sprayed both pans with cooking spray and broke out the flour again. 

Roman set his fillings aside and checked his dough. It rose somewhat, but it looked dense. Surely it would become fluffier after baking. He watched Remus coat the countertop with a dusting of flour and then let his dough slowly drop onto it from his bowl. It was disgusting. 

Remus laughed and set the bowl in the sink. He was far too pleased with his creation for Roman’s comfort. He was so pleased that he slapped the red mass with a giggle. 

“It’s even softer and jigglier than Virgil’s butt!” the duke cheered and grabbed a rolling pin.

“What?” Roman gasped, affronted that Remus would dare talk about his best friend in such a lewd manner.

“Yeah! He’s got a booty to die for! That’s the one spider trait he can’t hide!” Remus jeered and coated his rolling pin with flour, “Remember this, Ro hoe bro, spiders have the fattest asses in the animal kingdom!” 

Roman sputtered indignantly and stole the flour. He had to finish this task so he could get away from this twisted disaster! 

The so-called twisted disaster was absolutely killing it, rolling out his dough and humming to himself. Roman immediately floured his counter and grabbed a rolling pin, not one to be out done. But when he turned his dough out, it landed with a thud that caused flour to puff up in a cloud and cover his shirt and apron.

“I’m looking down the hole, you’re looking up at me,” Remus sang to his bloody mass of gluten, “You’re cold and tired, that is easy to see.” 

Roman forced himself to ignore that off-key screeching and focus on rolling out his thick dough.  

“Lower the rope to you, a bucket and a light,” Remus kept going, “Your membrane will be soft and smooth, and your heart will be mine! It rubs the lotion on its skin! Or else it gets the hose again!” 

Roman gripped his rolling pin tightly, enough that his knuckles turned white. He was not hearing this. He was not hearing this while this imbecile made the kitchen look like a murder scene.

“The look inside your eyes drives me from control,” Remus kept singing as he carefully flattened and spread his dough, “Evoking visions of my favorite casserole! And if I eat your heart—”

“Will you stop that?!” Roman snapped.

Remus stared at him with wide eyes and an unnerving grin. He cracked his neck and waited for Roman to continue. He didn’t. 

“I look like an organ harvester, the least I can do is have fun with it!” Remus said through his teeth. The horrible thoughts flooding his mind about harvesting actual organs were getting too loud. The singing was helping him. Not that Princey ever considered that. 

“And whose fault is that?”

“Yours.” 

Roman frowned. He hated that Remus was right. But he could not concentrate when Remus was singing about Hannibal Lecter! 

“Could you find a different song, one that isn’t laced with questionable queer representation,” Roman sighed. He would have to make some sacrifices if he wanted to get this over with. At least Remus seemed to relax at that request. 

He set his rolling pin aside and grabbed his butter and spatula, dancing to the beat in his head. 

“Just a steel town girl on a Saturday night, lookin' for the fight of her life. In the real-time world no one sees her at all. They all say she's crazy!” he sang as he spread the butter on the flat dough, making sure to leave a thick coat. He was jogging in place and having fun with his little baking mess. 

Roman was not having nearly as much fun. His dough kept tearing and he couldn’t get it flat enough for his liking. This was not a task meant for a prince, but he would do it, and he would surpass Remus. He was sure of it. 

By the time he was satisfied with his dough and spreading his cream cheese on top of it, Roman saw Remus was finished adding his cinnamon sugar mixture. Instead of continuing to the next step, he just had to have a little dance break. 

It was impressive, watching him run in place on the balls of his feet, switching into fast pirouettes and flailing with timed precision. Roman was half convinced he could hear “Maniac” playing as his boastful brother went full on Flashdance. 

“He's a maniac! He just moved in next door! He will kill your cat and nail it to your door!” Remus sang, surprisingly well for how much he was moving. 

That's when Roman noticed that Remus switched from his Dread Pirate get-up to a black, strapless leotard and dark red leg warmers. Dark. Red. 

“You thieving wretch!” Roman snarled and abandoned his baking to throttle Remus. That bastard had the gall to steal his—wait. 

Roman didn't own a pair of leg warmers. 

Remus was too lost in his performance to pay him any mind. There wasn't enough room for any cool flips or sudden dips, which put a damper on things, but he was Remus, he could make it work! 

It was only when the duke arched back, stretching his torso over the island counter by the stove, that Roman realized what absolute hell could break loose. 

Remus reached up and grabbed a pull chain out of thin air. Knowing him, the fluid that was supposed to crash over him would not be water, like the movie. It could be urine or diarrhea or something else from that area. Or it could be blood. That was the most likely considering the course of the evening. 

Roman immediately tried to will the coming cascade into water. Or juice. Or anything that wasn't a bodily fluid. Just not blood. Not blood. 

Not blood 

Remus pulled the chain and opened his mouth wide. He was thirsty and he was looking forward to a mouthful of Gatorade. 

Blood rained down all over him, coating the counter top and splattering all over the floor. Fortunately it didn't reach the cinnamon rolls. 

Remus jolted upright and raced to the sink. He spit out the offending fluid and coughed like he was dying. 

“What the fuck?! Why did you make it blood?!” Remus whined and washed his face. 

“What were you expecting?” 

“A tasty beverage! Why did you change it on me? It's my job to be gruesome!” 

“I was trying to change it to not blood!” Roman huffed. He would not be blamed for Remus' mess. 

“‘Not blood?’” Remus laughed and magically changed out of his dance get-up, “You know you can't conjure a ‘not’ anything!” 

Roman shrank back and tried not to pout like a kid.  

“At least it was human blood! Can you imagine how much thicker it would have been if it was dragon blood!” Remus giggled and skipped to the fridge. He was still thirsty and he knew Virgil had some pomegranate iced tea in there. And if he didn't want to share, well Remus was a glutton for punishment! 

Roman shook off any embarrassment and got back to his cinnamon rolls. He sprinkled the cinnamon sugar on top of the cream cheese and realized he didn't have enough. So he grabbed the cinnamon and coated the whole thing so he couldn't see any cream cheese. 

Remus watched him amusedly as he drank a glass of iced tea. Oh, he was excited to see the end results of that! 

He put the empty glass in the sink and washed his hands again. It was time to finish the beast! 

He carefully rolled up his dough, making sure it was just tight enough. Roman blatantly copied him, but that wasn't a problem for Remus. He was fine with giving Roman some help. 

Roman was quite pleased with how well he rolled his dough and pulled out a knife to slice it into perfect rolls. This was something he knew he could do! He was careful not to create any sort of tear with each slice. When he had ten rolls to bake, he was satisfied. 

And then the countertop shook violently. 

Roman glanced over at Remus and cringed. The duke was suspended in mid air, doing a split, with his hands around the handle of an oversized, double headed battle axe. The axe was jammed in the counter and covered in off-red gunk. 

“Are you trying to wake everyone?!” Roman snapped as Remus' feet met the floor. 

“Nope!” Remus laughed and swung his axe again, jumping up to deliver a comical amount of force. Roman had to wonder if his trembling on impact was just for show. Considering he repeated the process until he had twelve buns, and he was giggling, Roman assumed that it was an act. 

Remus banished his axe and dusted off his hands. And then the oven beeped, signaling that it was ready. Perfect! 

“Pick your pan, Princey!” Remus cooed and motioned to the baking dishes he prepared. Roman would suspect he sabotaged one, especially if he handed it over, so he had to give Roman the first pick. 

Roman swiped one with a pompous air and brought it to his rolls. He arranged them delicately as if he were arranging a bouquet and sighed once he was done. 

Remus was not so delicate, plopping them on his dish in three rows of four. He didn't take a deep breath to relax, but instead went for the cabinets again. 

“Can you put mine in?” Remus asked as he pulled a jar from the cabinets. Powdered sugar. 

“Why on earth would I help you?” Roman scoffed incredulously and brought his tray to the oven. 

“Why would you want to pass up the opportunity to ruin my dish?” Remus laughed and grabbed his mixer. He needed to clean those beaters for the final piece. He summoned his rubber gloves again and turned on the sink. 

“Am I nothing more than a scoundrel to you?!” 

“Nope! But don't heroic princes want to keep things fair? It's fair if they bake at the same time!” Remus countered and washed his beaters, “Plus my gloves would melt in the oven!” 

Roman relented and took both dishes to the oven. He set them inside on the same rack and closed the door before setting the timer. 

“Thanks Pissy!” Remus said and dried his beaters, “I'll get started on the rest of the dishes after I make my glaze.” 

Roman glanced at the stand mixer and pouted. He would have to wash the paddle and bowl before he could make his own glaze. He was not Cinder-Elias for Pete's sake! Baking was more than enough for him, cleaning was absolute agony! 

“Gimme your bowl and paddle while I still have my gloves,” Remus said, cutting into his spiraling, “I’ll make a double batch of glaze while you run to your side to get some eggs.” 

“Why didn't you ask me to do that before you used blood?” Roman gawked. 

“Because you told me to figure my own shit out before I could ask! And now I'm not asking because I need help, so you won't immediately say no!” 

“And why would you think that?” 

“Because you wouldn't be helping me! We still have to make eggs and sausage for everyone!” 

“‘We?’ You have already bastardized this breakfast enough!” the prince huffed and crossed his arms, “I shouldn't even let you make my glaze, seeing as how you'll ruin it with your demented ideas!” 

“Butter, powdered sugar, milk. That's all I'm putting in there. Nothing else. Even despite your cowardly sabotage, I haven't used anything you can't find in this kitchen,” Remus pouted. 

“The blood!” 

“It's still here, in the jug on the countertop, and then there's some on the floor and cabinets, and there's plenty rushing to your face, Pissy!” he jeered. 

Roman fumed as he gathered his bowl and paddle and put them in the sink for Remus. It should have been a red flag considering how the duke lived, but Roman couldn't be bothered. He was too frustrated with this menace. 

Remus shrugged and washed the dishes, perfectly content with the job as long as he didn't touch any dish soap. 

“Why are you so calm about cleaning?” Roman asked. He knew Remus was always raving about his filth and squalor.

“It calms me,” Remus shrugged and rinsed the paddle, “Don't tell me you haven't noticed!” 

“Why would I?” 

“Because you secretly care about your stinky big brother and his mental health. Or maybe you don't, but you need to know your enemy's weaknesses!” Remus teased. He had long come to terms with the fact that Roman didn't like him, possibly that he hated him. Remus didn't need Roman to like him, as long as he didn't live up to his namesake. 

“Do you honestly think you're worth my attention?” Roman scoffed. So what if he didn't pay attention to the duke? It's not like Remus was paying him any mind! 

“Yes, but I can be wrong,” Remus said as he set the paddle aside and washed the bowl. Roman was unnervingly silent. Remus decided that he struck a nerve. 

He most certainly did! Roman was a noble prince and he knew exactly where his attention was needed. Not some fiendish evil twin! Why would Remus even think he deserved Roman's attention? Because they were brothers? 

They were brothers. Maybe Remus was right, that he should care, or admit that he cared. 

“And now I'm ready to churn up some cinnamon roll cummies!” Remus chirped and set the clean dishes aside.

No, Roman did not have to give him any attention. 

He huffed and sank out to gather the ingredients for the rest of breakfast. If he were smart he would do all that cooking in his part of the Imagination. And he was feeling rather intelligent.

Remus mentally patted himself on the back. This was not the right time to get into deep stuff and get all emotional. He had work to do!

--

(1)(3)

[pyrrhia-times]

Chapter 2 - Scorched Face

The sound of waves rolling into the rocks of the beach steadily grew louder as the morning’s wind grew. A forceful gust of the wind made its way through the doorway of croaks house, and stirred the scroll now laying on the floor. The scrapping sound of the paper brought Croak back to the present, he had been adrift in his daydreams.

He picked up the noisy scroll and brought it back to where it belonged on his bookshelf. Croak noticed that he had gone stiff from sitting for so long, and stretched out his limbs one by one, and shook himself to shake away his fatigue. He needed his full attention to be able to capture the little squids. They always seemed to guess his next move before he’d even made it, zipping away into a crevice he couldn’t reach his talons into, or disappearing behind some corals, never to be seen again.

Shaking his head, he quickly left his house and took off, knowing that he would continue to procrastinate or get caught up in his daydreams again if he didn’t leave straightaway. The sun was hovering just above the horizon, making the sky glow red-hot. The clouds hanging in the air were a deep orange. He always loved the peaceful morning skies.

Croak flew above the water, which now had some sizable waves, their white caps tumbling over and disappearing under the water only to rise again. He headed for a large coral garden that was near a small island just a few kilometres south of his home. The squids could always be found at the shallow reef, feeding off the other small fish and critters who lived there.

In the distance he spotted a murky green blob. Looks like Barb coming back from some early morning fishing. Barb was his nearest neighbour who often went fishing before the sun rose, so that she could spend the rest of the day sunning herself on the dark rocks of the shoreline. She was a sweet dragon, getting up there in age, who often invited Croak over for dinners. When he had first settled on the island, she’d taught him how to keep pests out of his seaweed garden.

As they got closer to each other she flashed her scales in greeting. “Good day for fishing, the cuttlefish were especially active.” Her bioluminescent scales glowed a bright green.

“Looks like you got quite the haul!” Croak flashed back as they passed each other. She was carrying a net bursting with colourful flopping fish in her brown talons.

Like many SeaWings who lived outside the Palace, Barb had brown scales speckling along her body and gathering on her arms and feet like muddy boots. SeaWings who lived in the Sea Palace were often bright shades of greens and blues, with the occasional deep indigo, while farmers and hunters living near the border with the Mud Kingdom tended to be darker, and less vibrant than their wealthier neighbours. Croak himself was almost completely covered in brown scales, with nearly no blue scales on his body, except for his bioluminescent scales, which were a deep blue. Many royal SeaWings even held the belief that at one point villages near the border had hybridized with MudWings.

Whether he or Barb had any distant MudWing relatives had never actually been proven, and Croak believed it was simply genetics at play. After all, he had never heard of a farmer marrying into the Royal SeaWing family.

Croak twisted his head back to watch as Barb plunged her net into the water, helping keep the fish alive on the journey back to her home. He was about halfway to the reef now, and decided to swim the rest of the way, avoiding scaring off the squid with a loud splash. The cold water pressed around him, chasing away the very last of his morning weariness.

The water here was much deeper, the bottom of the ocean covered in dead corals and large bumpy stones. Swimming along the bottom, he pushed himself off of the large stones that rose up off the seafloor. Just as he was about to push himself off of the next rock, he saw a familiar shape darting around in the corner of his vision. He grabbed hold of the rock, stopping his momentum, and turned to properly identify the squid.

I’ve never spotted one this far from the reef before.The cuttlefish was darting to a black rock and back. Barb did say they were extra active today.

He slowly wriggled through the water to get closer. The easiest way to catch the slimy creatures was to sneak up close to them, and flare all of his bioluminescent scales at once in a blinding flash, stunning the squid long enough for him to grab it. He was nearly upon the squid now. Come on, just a bit closer. He moved as slowly as his muscles would allow him. When the squid was nearly in talon-length he shot forward, flinging his wings open, and flashed his scales to life.

The squid flinched, and Croak’s mouth opened in an inaudible scream, bubbles flying from his mouth, as the illuminated face of a charred-black SeaWing stared back at him.

Croak sat trembling on a sandy beach. He felt hot and cold at the same time. The moments after discovering the corpse and now a total blur. Barb sat beside him, rubbing small circles in his back, trying to calm herself just as much as she was trying to calm Croak. Two soldiers blatantly argued further down the beach, where the body had been dragged to shore. They had tried to question him, but he just stared numbly at his talons, pressing them in and out of the soft sand. He couldn’t bring himself to lift his head, scared to see the dragon’s face again, petrified forever in a lifeless scream.

Barb’s hand stiffened on his back, and she let out a small gasp. Croak managed to tare his gaze from his talons, to glance up and see what had caused Barb’s reaction. His eyes widened as he saw a group of deep blue and green SeaWings rushing to the Island. The huge blue dragon at the head of the group was Queen Coral, unmistakable with her strands of pearls gleaming in the sunlight.

She landed on the beach clumsily, and ran towards the body, dropping down and wrapping her arms around the charred corpse. She let out a scream as she looked at his face, “CERULEAN!”

Croak felt the blood drain from his body, and Barb let out another gasp. Cerulean? The SeaWing Prince?!

<|>

Read it on Archives of Our Own

[foundtherightwords]

The Firebird - Chapter 14

Pairing: Prince Paul (Catherine the Great) x OFC, Fairytale AU

Summary: When Paul, a spoiled young prince, spots a strange bird in the forest near his palace, he impulsively chases after it, hoping to both escape from and prove himself to his disapproving mother. Thus he is plunged into an exhilarating adventure across a magical realm populated by enchanted princesses, dangerous monsters, and powerful wizards, an adventure that may change him more than he can ever imagine.

Chapter warning: violence, fire, gore

Chapter word count: 3.8k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13

Chapter 14 - Deathless

After everything he'd heard of Zhara's brother, after witnessing every act of cruelty Illarion was capable of, Paul was expecting a villain, someone who exuded power and wickedness. What he saw instead was a boy, looking no older than sixteen, of the same tall, slender build as Zhara, with the same red hair, though it was a shade darker, almost auburn, and the same freckles. There was even something of Zhara's impishness in the turn of his mouth as well. Only the eyes were different. When Paul looked into those eyes, his heart sank, and all his doubt about the boy's true nature vanished. They were the same glittering green as the medallions, hard and cold. Zhara's eyes were always human even when she was transformed into a bird. This boy's eyes didn't even seem alive; the only hint of life in them was a glare of hate.

But Paul didn't spend too long contemplating those lifeless eyes. His attention was riveted on a large mesh cage at the window. Zhara was fluttering in it, while the setting sun cast its light on her plumage, turning her into a fireball, just like the first time Paul had seen her in the forest of Tsarskoye Selo.

Underneath the cage, laid out on the table, were an array of strange items and instruments—a gold chest, a hare, a duck, and an egg. The animals each had an angry red slash on its chest. It seemed Illarion had everything he needed for the Deathless ritual, except for the most important one—the needle containing his death. This the boy was twirling between his thin fingers while he leaned casually against the throne, watching Paul with a curious, almost fascinated expression. Under the disconcerting gaze of those flat green eyes, Paul became too aware that he was no knight in shining armor, with his torn and bloody shirt and mismatched weapons. He could only hope that appearances may be misleading.

"For a mere mortal from Rus', he did quite well, did he not, Zharissa?" Illarion said conversationally. "Much better than those bumbling bogatyrs of yours. I wonder what other surprise he may have in store."

To Paul's shock, Zhara spoke. "Paul," she said. "You shouldn't be here. Go! Save yourself!" He stared at the bird. It was Zhara's voice, desperate and full of tears, coming out of her beak. What trick was this?

"Oh, now she talks," Illarion said, sounding annoyed. "I gave you the power of speech so we could have a chat and make the waiting a little less tedious, and you refused to talk to me, but the moment he showed up, you started chattering away?"

"If you don't want to wait until I'm human again to perform the ritual," Zhara said, "why not undo the curse and just kill me now?"

"I would if I could!" Illarion shouted. "Do you think I want to wait? But they are very imprecise, curses. I never meant to curse you, you know. This avian form greatly diminishes your power. If you would only agree to wear that medallion—"

Why, he doesn't know how to undo the curse, Paul realized. He's nothing but a boy, in over his head. He wondered if Zhara had realized this as well and was stalling for time.

"You didn't have to control me," Zhara said to Illarion, spreading her wings in an imploring gesture. "I would've gladly let you rule—"

"What, so you could go behind my back and gather the support of the boyars?" Illarion hissed, baring his teeth in anger. "So you could play the victim and undermine my rule? I know you too well, sister."

They sounded like siblings bickering over a game rather than discussing matters of life and death. Paul took a tentative step forward, reaching for the skull in his knapsack, the only weapon that might stand a chance against Illarion's magic. "Let her go," he said. At least his voice was steady.

"Or what?" Illarion snickered. "Are you going to throw that skull at me?"

In reply, Paul raised the skull. Fire shot out of its eye socket. He meant to aim it at Illarion, but the flame hit a corner of the velvet curtain instead, setting it ablaze. Illarion shrugged, looking almost bored. "I never like those curtains anyway," he said. "You're going to have to do better than that."

"How's this for better?" Paul aimed the skull at Illarion's robe. There was a flash, and the robe caught fire. Illarion didn't even flinch. He beat out the fire with his bare hand, as casually as blowing out a candle. Refusing to be intimidated, Paul advanced upon the boy, the skull held in front of him like a musket. He shot another bolt of fire; Illarion dodged it, and the flame hit the corner of the throne in a shower of sparks.

"Enough of this," Illarion growled. He pinned the needle to the shoulder of his robe before slipping something out of his belt and throwing it at Paul.

Belatedly, Paul saw that it was a medallion.

He threw up his arms, but the medallion hit his chest, burned through his shirt like a cattle brand, and adhered itself to his skin.

The pain was unbearable. He'd thought being pinned under an iron-and-copper dragon was bad, but it was nothing compared to this, this red-hot agony, this hellfire that seared his very bone, that reached all the way to his heart, that spread through his blood. Was this how it had been for Afron when he foolishly cast in his lot with Illarion? Was this how it had been for poor Alyosha Popovich?

Paul collapsed, clutching at his chest. The last thing he heard was Zhara's panicked voice, calling out his name, as the white-and-gold room around him faded to black.

***

When the darkness cleared from his eyes, Paul found himself on a bed, a large bed, with the silk cover of a pillow under his cheek. There were blue velvet drapes with gold fringes around the bed. The room around him was blue and gold as well, and strangely familiar. It took him a moment to realize this was his bed. His room, the one at the Winter Palace in Saint Petersburg. An untrimmed candle still flickered on the bedside table, but the morning sun was pouring in through the curtains being swept back by a servant. The door opened, and his mother walked in.

"What, still abed at this hour?" she said, though she didn't sound quite as harsh as usual. "And on such a big day?"

Paul sat up, blinking stupidly. His hand flew up to his chest. The pain was gone. Had there been a pain there at all, or had he dreamed it?

"A big day?" he repeated.

"Your coronation, of course!" his mother said, laughing and clapping her hands together.

Paul stared at her, too stunned to speak. His mother seemed almost giddy, quite unlike herself. "Are you—are you abdicating?" finally he asked.

"That was always the plan, wasn't it?" She briskly walked over to an array of frock coats and robes being laid out by the servants, pointing to several. "That one, that one... no, that one. Yes." Turning back to Paul, she said, "It was agreed that I would only rule until you reached your majority. Now that you have, it is time for me to step down."

Something was not right, but Paul couldn't quite put his finger on it. He felt dazed, half-asleep, as though he'd just come out of a nightmare and was not quite awake. Yet he vaguely remembered that it was true, the council had finally convinced his mother to pass the throne to him. He let himself be dragged out of bed, washed and dressed in full ceremonial regalia, and before he knew it, he was standing in the cathedral in front of a crowd, while priests chanted over him and the crown, the crown he'd seen on his mother's head hundreds of times and coveted each time he saw it, glittered on a velvet cushion before him.

Could it be? Could it be that he had finally achieved what he desired the most?

He looked at the crowd, at their adoring faces all turned toward him. Yes, this was what he wanted, to be seen and respected and appreciated. But he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else he wanted, something missing. He noticed a young lady standing by his mother, doll-like with her porcelain face and tiny rosebud mouth, eyes cast down demurely. Paul didn't remember having seen her before.

"Panin," he said to his old governor, who was standing by his side, "who is that young woman?"

"Why, that is your betrothed, Your Excellency."

Startled, Paul wracked his brain. Again, he had some vague recollection of having chosen one of the princesses from all the miniatures given to him, but try as he might, he couldn't remember her name. Why couldn't he remember her name? It would be terribly embarrassing to ask Panin her name, wouldn't it?

The young lady lifted her eyes to look at him, and Paul suddenly found himself expecting her eyes to be a warm, golden color, honey held up to sunlight. How strange. Her eyes were blue, perfectly pretty, but for some reason, he kept thinking of those amber eyes. Where had he seen such eyes?

And then, to his shock, the young lady's face began to change. Her eyes turned golden just as he'd imagined; her powdered wigs became a long, red braid, and freckles splattered across her skin. If he looked closely, he could see seven freckles curve around the corner of her mouth... he remembered kissing them... he remembered running his hand over that hair, having those eyes look into his in the moonlight...

"Your Excellency," Panin said in his ears, but it wasn't Panin's voice, it was a strange voice, oily and cold, a voice he'd heard once before in a dark forest. "This is what you want, isn't it?" the voice continued. "You can have all that, and more. As long as you obey me."

Paul turned to his old governor in horror. Panin was looking at him with eyes the color of malachite.

"If you want her," Panin said, still in that spine-chilling voice, "well, I cannot give you the real thing, you understand, but I can give you something very similar." And he nodded at the young lady who looked like someone Paul both did and didn't know.

There was a weight on his chest. He couldn't breathe.

The young lady opened her mouth. She was standing not five feet from him, yet her voice seemed to be coming to him from far, far away. "Fight it, Paul!" she was screaming. He knew that voice. He knew her.

The crowd around him faded, leaving only her eyes and her voice. Holding on to them as an anchor, he clasped a hand to the base of his throat. His fingers closed around a hard disc, something like a pendant or a medallion that was stuck to his skin. It burned. He pulled it out, screaming as it took some of his skin and flesh along with it, and flung it as far away as he could.

The cathedral vanished. Paul found himself on the floor of the throne room, the marble cool under his cheek. The burning sensation on his chest had gone, but the pain lingered, weakening his limbs. Lifting his head with difficulty, he saw that Illarion stood over him, nostrils flared in fury, while the cage stood empty, with a gaping hole in its side—fragments of the medallion scattered nearby told Paul that he must have hit the cage with the medallion by accident and broken it open. Where was Zhara?

The thought of Zhara finally cleared the cloud in his head. She had saved him. She had pulled him out of that—that vision or hallucination or whatever it was that Illarion had used to tempt him, and brought him back to reality.

This, this was real. Not his mother's palace, not his coronation, not his nameless betrothed. This was real. Zhara was real. And he must save her.

And there she was, a spot of red circling close to the ceiling, out of Illarion's reach. Illarion was flinging his hand at her with his fingers outstretched, launching all sorts of things at her—lightning bolts, stones, even sharp icicles—anything he could conjure out of thin air, it seemed. Strike after magical strike hit the ceiling and the walls, and bits of marble rained down. Zhara flew on agile wings, narrowly avoiding the missiles and the debris that flew off the ceiling and the walls. But she could not hold out for long, not when the sun was getting lower and lower by the minute. Why wasn't she fighting back? Her power may be weaker, but she could still throw a few fireballs, surely? Or did she hesitate because she still thought of this crazed boy as her little brother? Well, if she refused to fight him, then Paul would.

As Illarion twisted and turned like he was battling a particularly pesky fly, Paul struggled to his feet and pulled out his broken sword, holding it ready. At one point, Illarion turned fully toward Paul, arms wide open as he tried to hit Zhara with a whirlwind. This was Paul's chance. He ran at the boy at full tilt and stabbed the sword through Illarion's chest.

Staggering back, Illarion stared at the sword's handle sticking out of his chest in astonishment.

Then he started to laugh.

"You fool!" he said, still laughing. He pulled the sword out and threw it to the floor. There wasn't even any blood on it. If it wasn't for the torn patch on his robe, nobody would know he'd been stabbed.

He truly was Deathless.

With a flick of his hand, Illarion threw an invisible force at Paul, sending him sprawling.

Paul's eyes caught a glint on Illarion's robe. It was the needle, reflecting the red rays of the sun.

The needle! Of course! To defeat Koschei, one had to destroy the needle. Paul picked himself up on trembling limbs and aimed the skull at it. If he could at least damage it somehow, that would distract Illarion long enough to give them a chance...

Illarion spun around. Another unseen hand slammed into Paul. This time the force knocked the air out of his lungs and hurled him across the room. The back of his head hit the wall. Stars burst in front of his eyes. Golden ropes sprung out of the floor like tree roots, binding his wrists and ankles. He strained against them, but they only tightened, threatening to slice off his hands and foot. The skull clattered away, rolling to the foot of the throne. Illarion's boot came down, smashing it into bits.

Paul was still staring at the smashed skull, his last hope, when Illarion came to stand in front of him.

"Stupid mortal!" he spat at Paul. "How dare you defy me! Now you shall pay!"

He pointed his hand at Paul and curled his fingers into a fist. Paul gasped. It felt as though there was a claw inside him, squeezing his heart, cutting off the flow of blood in his veins. Incredible, indescribable pain radiated from his heart to his ribs, his neck, his arms and shoulders, and the rest of his body, choking him, paralyzing him. He could feel his life force draining away, but he was helpless to stop it.

From the ceiling, Zhara came barreling down like a golden arrow. She dashed past Illarion, who made a grab for her but missed her by just a hair's breadth. The pressure around Paul's heart loosened, and he collapsed to the floor, coughing. Zhara shot back to the ceiling, and Illarion clasped a hand to his shoulder, the first hint of fear creeping to his face—the needle was gone.

"Please, Lariosha, stop this," Zhara said, the needle tightly grasped between her talons.

"Do not call me that!"

"The magic is killing you! If you go through with the ritual, you'll be dead! Baba Yaga told me—the same thing happened to Koschei—"

So Baba Yaga had told Zhara the truth after all. Was that why she wasn't fighting Illarion? Was she still trying to save him?

"See, that's where you're wrong, sister," Illarion said, though he indeed did not look well. The boy's face was pale, as pale as the marble walls around them, his hands shook, and he was breathing hard, spittle spraying from his lips. Only his green eyes burned feverishly. "Koschei was an old fool. He put his death into an ordinary needle. But I am cleverer than that. This needle will be indestructible once I temper it in your fire. Don't try anything stupid. Whatever you do to it will only make it stronger."

"I'm sorry," Zhara said. "I can't let you go through with this." Turning to Paul, she said, "Hold on to Baba Yaga's handkerchief. It will protect you."

"Protect me—from what?" Paul gasped. He still hadn't quite regained his breath after Illarion's attack.

"From me."

With that, she pointed the needle at herself and plunged it into her chest.

"No!" Paul and Illarion both screamed.

Blood spurted from Zhara's breast, dying her red feathers a darker shade. Blood dripped to the floor below her, and wherever the blood fell, fire sprang up and spread around the room as though the floor was made of the oldest, driest wood and not cold, hard marble. Flames surrounded Zhara, turning her whole body into a fireball, burning the needle white-hot. Flames swallowed up the table with its instruments of magic. Flames licked around Paul, but he strained his bound hand to find Baba Yaga's handkerchief in his knapsack, and the fire never touched him, though he felt its heat on his skin.

"You think you can stop me by killing yourself?!" Illarion hissed. "No, no, dear sister, you will live—at least long enough to serve me!"

He raised his hand. Zhara was pulled toward him on an invisible string, her wings flailing uselessly against his force.

"I have taken Koschei's powers," Illarion said, "and now I'm going to take yours!"

Just as he had done to Paul, Illarion curled his fingers into a fist. Paul knew now that the gesture meant Illarion was draining his victim's life force. And there was Zhara's life force—flames rolled along the string of air between them, flowing from sister into brother, until they were connected by a rope of fire. Paul could only watch, powerless, while Zhara's eyes rolled to the back of her head, and she made a strangled sound. Her plumage started losing its color and luster. The paler she got, the stronger Illarion seemed to be—his face was no longer deathly white, his hair became redder than the fire itself, and his eyes burned more brightly.

The fire was almost gone from around Zhara's body now, her feathers a dim, dark shade of purplish brown, like old blood. She was limp, only held up in midair by the force of Illarion's magic. The needle was lifted from her chest by that same force and flew into Illarion's hand. He caught it, laughing, paying no heed to the incandescent metal.

"Yes, yes!" he shouted. "Why didn't I think to do this sooner? This is so much better! Now I can temper the needle with my own fire! I shall be truly invinci—"

He didn't finish the sentence. The smug smile vanished from his face. The fire continued to blaze around his body as it blazed around the room, sucking out all the air, turning the whole place into an inferno. Despite the protection of Baba Yaga's handkerchief, Paul could still feel the heat blasting him in the face and scorching his lungs.

"No, this is enough—" Illarion was saying. "The tempering is done—I want it to stop—Zhara! How do I get the fire to stop? Help! Help me, please! "

Zhara, who was suspended lifeless in the air with her head lolling back and her wings drooping, gave no answer.

"It burns—oh gods, it burns!" Illarion moaned. He tried to throw the needle away, but it had melted into a puddle of liquid metal in his palm. Still the fire raged on. "You witch!" Illarion screamed at Zhara, his face twisted with rage. "You've tricked me! But you won't get away with it! If I die, you shall die too!"

He clenched his fist again, and some of the fire flowed back to Zhara, searing her feathers. She remained unconscious. Soon, the fire would consume both brother and sister...

Paul took his hand out of the knapsack and dropped the handkerchief to the floor. The moment it left his fingers, flames roared up around him. He angled his body toward it, letting the fire burn the ropes around his wrists and ankles to ashes, biting back a scream as it scorched his skin. As soon as he was free of the ropes, he got to his feet.

Illarion saw the handkerchief, and his eyes went wide. They both dove for it. Paul—perhaps by sheer luck—was a fraction of a second quicker. He scooped the handkerchief up, jumped at Zhara, and snatched her out of the air, wrapping her in the square of fabric.

"No!!!" Illarion, now nothing more than a pillar of fire with a vaguely human shape in its middle, charged at Paul. Paul leaped aside, and Illarion crashed through the window, plummeting down the sheer cliff, burning like a falling star.

A long while later, a blast from the sea below told Paul that the boy had met his end.

The flames rose all the way to the ceiling in one last furious eruption, and then, with a rushing sound of air being sucked inward, they vanished, leaving behind only a few scorched patches and an acrid smell.

Paul looked down, not quite believing what he was seeing. Zhara was lying there, in his arms—Zhara, as he'd seen her that first night in the woods of Lukomorye, freckles standing out on her skin, her hair covering her body like a cape, her eyes closed, the wound on her chest still bleeding. Outside the broken window, the sun was taking its plunge into the sea, turning the water into molten gold for a moment before winking out, and darkness descended on everything.

Chapter 15

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