#glitter in his eyes as he tries AGAIN and fails AGAIN to commit murder to the point she buries herself in a hole forever

[lexydakitten]

man i would probably be able to like. complete this drawing if i drew on it. ouaaghgh but if i didnt have my one at a time rule i'd never complete anythinggg g this is not fair. and becoming more efficient is NOt an option i die on this hill weekly. i pile taller than the hill itself, even, i lay claim to the inefficiency hill

[ad1thi]

2020 fic recs!! [Part 1]

this idea was stolen from @iam93percentstardust cuz i just,,,thought that this year was absolute shit and it would be nice to make a fic rec list of fics from this year that helped me through it. this will be over a range of fandoms and ships, but all fics were written this year. 

fics are ordered by the month they were published. ive tried to keep to five fics per month, but this is not obviously all the fics ive read that month - i just didn’t want to make this insanely long. 

im releasing the first half of this on the 1st of December, and the second half on the 1st of January 2021 - because otherwise it would just get so long (and also so i will actually have fics for December)

happy reading!! hopefully you find fics on this you haven’t read yet

***

January

The cat is mighty dignified (until the dog comes by): @five-wow

Steve and Danny find them on the pillow in the corner of the dining area, where Eddie is on his side, ass half on the floor because the pillow is more cat-sized than lab-sized, and Pickles is nestled between Eddie’s front legs, essentially being spooned and looking very I-got-the-cream about it. Pickles’ head is tucked into the crook of Eddie’s neck and Eddie’s head slots perfectly on top of Mr. Pickles’, like a furry jigsaw puzzle.

“They’re cuddling,” Steve points out, unnecessarily.

Or: There is a love story unfolding under the McGarrett roof.

Captain ‘Socialist Rage Muffin’ America: @baffledkingcomposinghallelujah

It takes three months of dating Steve Rogers for Tony to understand why Aunt Peggy once shot at him in sheer frustration.

Alternately titled, Honey, I committed treason again.

The Best Laid Plans (Of Mice and Men): @arboreal-elm-ash-oak

His Dark Materials AU

It was Annalise who noticed their small visitor first.

“Tony,” the spider daemon said softly, skittering up the collar of his dress shirt, two of her eight legs resting delicately against his cheek, “Don’t startle them, but I believe we have a guest. Look, by the coffee table.”

Fourteen Million to One: @tunastorks

Six months after Thanos, six months after Tony’s death, six months after Steve returns to his own timeline, Tony Stark turns up on their doorstep.

Brewed Awakening: @iam93percentstardust

Two years after he comes out of the ice, Steve is drifting through life. On his teammate's recommendation, he decides to go back to school where he meets the grandson of an old friend. He finds happiness with Tony but Steve won't be in Boston forever and someone is out to hurt the Starks. Will Steve and Tony be able to reach their happily ever after?

February

the young, the reckless and the foolish: @bruciewayne

In most universes, they don't know each other, not in the slightest, or they hate each other, in a way that's perfectly logical for anyone who were to find themselves in a similar situation.

In this one, they've known each other since they were four years old and naively idealistic.

This is them over the years, against the odds.

a giant sign: @areiton

“Think you can get him to open the weapons division up again?” his CO asks, his voice hungry and Rhodey laughs because this--

“No. Tony hung up his weapons.”

“That’s not what the suit says,” his CO objects, and Rhodey shrugs.

Tony has always had rules, rules he expects the entire world to live by.

And then there was Rhodey, slipping under them.

my heart is driftwood, floating down your coast: @nethandrake

Tonight, there’s a stranger in his backseat. That’s not unusual.

He’s also sad. That’s not unusual either.

What is unusual is that the stranger is silent.

(One night, a stranger enters Steve's taxi. Nothing is the same again.)

Just A Cold: @/delighted 

There’s a new text waiting for him. It’s from Steve of course, and it’s vaguely threatening as most messages from Steve are these days. Still Danny ignores it, and now he’s really playing with fire. Maybe it’ll burn the cold out of him.

Or, Danny’s sick, and Steve can’t stay away. The usual comfort fluff. With a little cameo from a gently meddling Grace.

An Unexpected Guide: @/Rachel500

Danny Williams has hidden his Guide status to keep being a detective, but his time of hiding is up when he unexpectedly finds his Sentinel, Steve McGarrett in the midst of a tragedy.

March

Why don’t we (Collide the spaces that divide us): @five-wow

When they finally catch sight of each other again through the milling crowds, they’re both a little worse for wear. Danny’s left side is covered in glitter and every time he brushes a hand over his hair, more blue and purple confetti rains down. Steve is- Well, Steve is randomly shirtless, which is all things considered not excessively remarkable, but he’s also covered in smudges of colorful paint and has a very nicely printed bloodred lipstick kiss mark on his cheek.

“What did you do?” Danny asks, because it looks like Steve had a lot more fun than he did.

Or: Steve and Danny accidentally end up in the middle of something entirely new.

A Little Unsteady: @finduilasclln 

Written for the Tumblr prompt meme : "Hey! I was gonna eat that!"

Tony lashes out at Bucky for eating his dessert. Only, it really isn't about the dessert.

a national treasure: @starklysteve

Steve isn't looking for an apple and Tony decides his passion is to inspire young souls. -x- OR: the AU where Tony is a Youtuber and Steve is Captain America and somehow they still save the world together.

April

cycle through: @ambivalentmarvel

Twenty-five years ago, Tony Stark disappeared from his family home a month after the tragic deaths of his parents, Howard and Maria Stark, leaving a billion-dollar tech conglomerate without an heir and the world wondering what happened.

Twenty-three years ago, HYDRA gained another super soldier.

Ten years ago, Peter Parker’s parents died in what is ruled as a home invasion gone wrong but he knows was murder, plain and simple, because he spoke to the killer.

And in the present, Project Insight fails, and the Iron Soldier pays the price.

FOREVER-LOVE YOU-I: @/Eudoxia

Tony Stark is twenty-one when he loses his voice. It shouldn't matter, but in a world where the first words your Soulmate says to you are marked on your skin, it can be pretty damn annoying.

Especially for Tony's soulmate.

--

Companion piece to my fic Thumb, Index, and Pinky Extended. This is Steve's POV, with a few extra scenes, as a treat.

(Edit: Sorry if you guys get multiple notifications for this. I just realized (about two hours after posting it) that I fucked up the grammar in the title and I HAD to fix it. YOLO, I guess.)

come build a home out of me: @maguna-stxrk

Steve clears his throat.

“What if I went with you?” he asks nonchalantly, like his heart isn’t threatening to beat out of his ribcage.

Tony blinks a few times, looking at Steve, his mouth ajar. “As a— As my date?”

“Yeah.” Steve nods, feeling a little breathless.

“You don’t mind?” Tony furrows his eyebrows.

“I don’t. In fact, you can just tell them I’m your boyfriend. I’m sure they’ll back off, wouldn’t they?”

What.

“I— Huh?” Tony stares at him, brown eyes blown wide open.

What. What. What.

“Huh? Uh, I mean— You know, that way people will see that you have definitely moved on. Monica will see that you have moved on. Right?” Steve smiles, hoping that it masks his inner panic, because what?

Steve Rogers, what have you done?

i don’t have a choice (but i’d still choose you): @nethandrake

There’s a name inked onto his chest, a name written in an all-too familiar scrawl. And it’s— It’s—

Steve doesn’t realize his body is quaking until he’s tracing the tattoo with a shaky finger.

Because of course that is the name etched into the skin. Like a brand, a reminder for everything he has done. An appropriate retribution.

Anthony Edward Stark.

(When Thanos snaps half of the universe away, he unknowingly leaves the other half with soulmarks.)

ua haʻalele ʻoe iaʻu (a ua hoʻomālamalama ʻoe iaʻu): @just-fandomthings

"The truth is, I was shot in the chest and nearly died, and not even three days after I was released from the hospital, you up and left-- and of those two, I'm not sure which one hurt me worse!"

(Coda to 10x22 because come on, we all need a better ending than the one given to us.)

Title loosely translates to: "You left me in the dark (you lit me up)" -- inspired by the brilliant song "Say You Won't Let Go" by James Arthur

May

A Piece Of The Past: @hddnone

It had been so many years since Bucky had gone undercover in the Stark family's mob, he thought he'd gotten away clean.

Then Tony Stark slid into the seat across from him at his breakfast diner, and Bucky's boss has a new case for him.

the privilege of loving you: @starklysteve

“Why won’t you let me touch you?”

It’s a desperate plea, half-shouted and half-whispered, Steve’s voice cracking at the end. Tony stops in his tracks, halfway to the stairs. He doesn’t dare to turn back, and he really doesn’t want to fight, or to leave, to spend the last month of his life away from his husband and their son. But Steve can’t know, can he?

-x-

Or: Tony has palladium poisoning, but he doesn't tell Steve and Peter

your pillow feels so soft now (but still you must advance): @firebrands

When Bruce is 13, he decides to go to boarding school. It's an opportunity for him to learn about other people, and how to interact with them.

Bruce has the misfortune of meeting Tony Stark upon his arrival in Roxbury. Bruce is moving into his room, and Tony opens the door of his room to watch. He looks a bit younger than Bruce, hair wild and eyes bright. Bruce has never seen a boy like him before—handsome and confident.

Bruce doesn’t like it.

IMPORTANT: This fic has them meeting at 14, then progresses slowly until they’re 17. Includes underage drinking and kissing.

This is set before Bruce becomes Batman and Tony becomes Iron Man and I have no explanation as to how or why they just DO Canonically, Bruce is 17 when he finishes school and goes around the world to train, so we're sticking with that

The Real MVP: @sword-and-stars (part of a series)

[“I have saved this Tuesday!” Sokka announces, rattling the bag upon reentry.

Zuko doesn’t even look up from his phone as he deadpans, “It’s Thursday.”

Okay, so Sokka is still having trouble getting his days right without checking. At least he’s gone back to sleeping at night! Going to bed at night is way easier when you have a cute, cuddly boyfriend who starts falling asleep around eleven o’clock. It also helps that he and Zuko are on solid gold butt-touching terms.

It’s been a while since Sokka has been on butt-touching terms with someone and it’s amazing.]

Or,

Sokka knows a guy, gets laid, and introduces Zuko to the merits of an afternoon delight.

When is a bed not a bed? (When you’re not in it): @riotwritesthings

There’s a tiny safe house, with one tiny window and one tiny couch.

And one tiny little bed.

June

Nice Fingers: @anthonyed

A single compliment given by Tony stirs Bucky restless until he caves in and asks him out on a date.

With Steve’s help of course (whether he likes it or not).

The Darkest Touch: @starkrogerrs

This is the story of how Steve finds that it has been ordained that he is to marry a monster he cannot resist aka the God of Love himself, Tony.

It's Cupid x Psyche retold, but with thrice the amount of porn.

The Night Shift:  @weethreequarter

Welcome to the Emergency Department of San Antonio General where Dr. Tony Stark joins the team fresh from his most recent tour in Afghanistan and - much to the consternation of the other staff - strikes up an instant rapport with Nurse Steve Rogers. Meanwhile, new resident Bruce Banner refuses to give up on his patient, and Dr. Sharon Carter learns something from her own patients. Throw in a pissed off hospital administrator, Clint using the coffee pot as a mug again, and a major car crash and you have, well, just another night shift.

Wind Beneath My Wings: @iam93percentstardust

Sam first meets Tony Stark in 2005 when he joins the EXO-7 Falcon program.

In jest: @/apathyinreverie

“No, babe,” Danny shakes his head with a grin. “If the apocalypse were to go down while I’m elsewhere for some godforsaken reason, then you stay put and I’m coming to wherever you are.” His grin widens. “And I expect you to have cleared any aliens or zombies or whatever else might be messing with us off the island and to have set up a nice, comfortable military dictatorship for us to rule over by the time I get back.”

It’s a joke.

Of course it’s a joke.

Until it isn’t.

(A the-day-after-tomorrow-style apocalypse AU, where the world decides to end right when Danny is visiting one of the other islands with Grace. Because, of course, it does.)

[danganronpaimagineslol-blog]

V3 Boys Reaction | killing someone out of self-defense

A/N: I tried to write this in a different way than my last written reaction. Let me know what works best for you guys! Personally, this way doesn’t take me as long, but in the end, it’s up to you guys of course.

V3 boys

Genre: angst

Important remark: C/N, in this case, means culprit’s name.

Submit a request here [X] 

Gonta Gokuhara

Gonta’s typical nature is to never hurt anyone. For him to be in a situation where he has no other choice but to kill a person out of self-defense, it must have been crucial.

Gonta, being the oblivious person that he is would easily get tricked into meeting up with a person. They would ask him discreetly and it wouldn’t take much for Gonta to be convinced.

Gonta would walk in with a glittering smile on his face, not worried about his safety or doubting the situation whatsoever.

Gonta would end up accidentally knocking the person out. The culprit would attempt a sneak attack on Gonta, only for Gonta to turn around quickly when he heard quiet shuffling. Before he knew it, the culprit was on the ground, undoubtedly knocked out, cold. What exactly occurred, was Gonta clueless about.

Fright and hysteria would be painted clear all over his face and body. While trying to comprehend what had taken place, he was also trying to make sense of why this person was carrying a weapon with them. After some thinking, he realized the person's true intentions.

Gonta would pace back and forth hesitant of what to do. Without realizing it, the culprit had woken back up and had noticed the frightened Gonta. The culprit was sneaking up to him patiently and carefully, with the weapon in hand once again, he attempted to strike with all their might at Gonta, but Gonta reacted faster, snatching the weapon out of their hand mid swung.

“C/N what are you doing? Gonta not accept this” Gonta confused and heated from the situation, would yell at the person with all his might and throw the weapon far away.

The culprit was quick and pulled out a substitute. Gonta was taken over by rage and before he could stop himself, he pushed the culprit backward resulting in them flying back at a rapid speed, knocking the back of their head into the wall. Immediately Gonta ran up to the person attempting to awaken them, little did he know the person took their last breath right then and there.

Regret couldn’t even begin to describe how Gonta felt. Gonta never intended for any of this to happen, but it was too late. He would feel guilty until the day he died, which wouldn’t be long after, because Gonta would admit to his crime and would go through with his execution.

Kiibo

Just like Gonta, Kiibo would be reluctant and attempting to make peace, but I also think he would be wary and cautious of the situation. During some free time, Kiibo would make his way to his destination for the time being. Somehow, he could sense a presence as he was making his way there.

Kiibo would start to move slower and slower watching his surroundings like a hawk, it was clear he was nervous and anxious. He managed to make it to his destination unharmed and it felt as if a burden was lifted from his shoulders. Finally, being able to relax, Kiibo started enjoying his free time.

Not too long after one of his classmates walked in, surprising Kiibo as it wasn’t typically someone he would spend a lot of time with. At the time he didn’t know this person would attempt to murder him, but even then Kiibo did have a weird feeling about the interaction.

After spending a bit of time with the culprit, and feeling relaxed again, Kiibo left for only a moment to retrieve an object that the culprit had asked to see. He was walking back into the room when suddenly the culprit swung a huge hammer at Kiibo as he was walking in. How he managed to dodge the hit, was a miracle truly.

“C/N what is going on? Put down the hammer” Kiibo shouted, dropping the item he was holding, backing away from the enraged culprit. The culprit seemed to have gone nuts as they were just swinging around the hammer randomly, not even aiming at Kiibo anymore. Soon after they dropped to the ground, exhausted from swinging the blunt instrument around. Kiibo was frozen in the moment, completely unresponsive due to shock. It took him some time to snap out of it.

“So, what are you going to do now? Are you going to tell the others?” the culprit was smug, despite their obvious failed attempt. Suddenly the culprit would jump up, running at Kiibo knocking him to the ground. Getting ahold of the hammer, the culprit would try to smash in Kiibo’s head once again. This time Kiibo knew that he had to end the situation. Kiibo dodged the hit swiftly and pushed the culprit backward, by punching their stomach.

Picking the hammer up from the ground, Kiibo quickly swung at the culprit before they could get back on their feet. Immediately dread would fill Kiibo as he dropped the hammer on the ground, his eyes darting all over the place, realizing what he had done.

I believe Kiibo would also commit to his murder. He just seems too friendly and honest to commit murder and try to get away with it.

Kaito Momota

Kaito would be making his way out of the dorms to meet up with a few classmates for their usual night training. 

Kaito showed up confused, searching the area for his missing classmates. He would start to doubt if he arrived too late or maybe even too early. Kaito would wait around in case one of them showed up, but the longer he waited the more worried he got. 

Kaito would hurry back the dorms, knocking on the first door of the missing classmate. No one replied or opened the door, so Kaito made his way to the next classmate’s door. As soon as he started to knock on the door it slowly opened. Kaito would feel extremely nervous and terrified, hurrying inside the room to check for the missing classmates. 

What he walked in on was definitely something he never expected at this very moment. Before him, lay the body of Kaito’s dead classmate. Kaito wouldn’t even have time to react or get help, because soon after, the other missing classmate would come out of their hiding place, immediately running towards Kaito, with a knife in hand. The culprit managed to slash Kaito’s upper arm.

Kaito would cry out in pain, quickly turning around, but only to see the face of his fellow classmate. 

“C/N did you do this? Please don’t do something you are going to regret” Kaito was unsure of what to say, knowing he couldn’t convince this person to change their mind. The culprit would attempt to strike at Kaito again, but Kaito fought back this time. He pushed the culprit into the wall, knocking them out in the process. Kaito took a moment to think through what to do and figured he would murder the culprit. Even if he would get caught, he’d probably still get away with it since the blackened would be the first culprit. 

Even if Kaito wouldn’t get executed or graduate he would still end up being hated by the rest of his classmates. It would take him a little while to truly realize what he had done even if his true intention was self-defense and felt it was for the better, he had still murdered another person. One of his classmates and he would continue feeling guilty about this for the rest of his life. 

Kokichi Ouma

Ouma would be the type of person to kill someone out of self-defense and manipulate it to create a mystery out of it. 

Ouma would be by himself doing just what Ouma usually does. He knew his classmates were annoyed with Ouma keeping to himself acting all suspicious, but it only encouraged him even more. He knew his classmates weren’t exactly fond of him or trusted him very much and a particular person had decided to get rid of him before he could win this killing game. 

 Ouma was spending some time in his ultimate lab during some free time, and suddenly he heard a knock on the door. 

“It’s open!” Ouma would yell enthusiastically. Ouma would watch the door open out of the corner of his eye, still paying attention to what he was doing. 

“C/N what are you doing here? Have you finally decided to join my secret organization?” Ouma would ask, with a smug expression. He would spend some time with the culprit during this free time, but Ouma knew in the back of his mind that something wasn’t quite right so he stayed alert the entire time. 

Ouma would constantly try to trick the culprit into striking their attack, by turning around and paying attention to other things and suddenly the culprit finally pulled a knife they had kept hidden. This was the moment Ouma had prepared for, so he very carefully pulled out a knife he also had kept hidden. The same moment the culprit struck at Ouma, he quickly turned around and stabbed the culprit in the chest. 

“You actually thought you could kill me? Pathetic” he’d laugh at the culprit's idiocy, watching as the culprit dropped to the ground, life slowly draining out of them. As soon as the culprit was dead, Ouma would immediately start setting up his master plan to hide any evidence that could lead to him being the murderer. 

It wouldn’t be a surprise if Ouma got away with his master plan, but if he was caught he would whine like a small child. Although being upset that he was caught, he would also respect the person who had figured out his plan and would tell them something along the line of “Since you can figure out any case I expect you to win this game”. 

Ouma would not be fazed walking into his execution, as much as he was disappointed in himself, he could not show weakness in his last moments alive. 

Korekiyo Shinguji

Kiyo would be going for a relaxing night stroll, thinking about this killing game and where he saw himself in it. He was deep in thought while exploring the school until he heard quiet footsteps behind him. Kiyo knew not to react or turn around, so he kept walking as if he heard nothing. 

Kiyo continued walking, this time completely focused on any sound that may occur. A little while went by before he heard anything again, but this time he again heard faint footsteps. Kiyo had decided to hide around a corner so he could catch the person red-handed, and so he did. 

Kiyo had waited around a corner at the top of the stairs, and true enough not long after, the culprit came sneaking up the stairs. Kiyo lashed towards them, pinning them up against a wall. 

“What is it that you are planning?” he asked absolutely fearless of the person. On the other hand, the culprit was panicking. After the culprit had explained themselves, Kiyo let them go, still feeling uneasy. 

Not long after, while Kiyo was making his way back to the dorms, the sound of running became louder by the second. Kiyo turned around seeing the culprit run at him with a weapon in hand. Kiyo swiftly dodged their attack and pinned them to a wall once again. 

“You’ve made a terrible mistake” would be Kiyo’s last words to that person before he grabbed the knife from their hand and slashed their throat open. Kiyo rushed to go and grab resources to cover for his murder and it didn’t take him long before he returned and immediately picked up the body bringing it with him so he could cover his traces. After Kiyo had carefully cleared every trace he could, he returned to his room exhausted and immediately passed out. 

Little did he know one of his classmates had seen him return to the dorm all distressed and out of breath. In the end, Kiyo would be caught solely for the fact that someone had seen him commit his sin, therefore Kiyo would accept his fate with no complaints whatsoever. 

Kiyo wouldn’t even regret his mistake he had made, he didn’t have much will to even bother with the horrible life he suffered every day. He just wanted to go home to his sister and now he could. He couldn’t go through anything more beautiful than that.

Rantaro Amami

Rantaro was working hard in the library. He had been searching for clues all day and it was already quite late at night, but he was so deep in thought he hadn’t even realized the nighttime announcement that had played more than an hour ago. 

The library door would slowly open, the culprit peeking inside to see who could be in there. They had seen the dim light shine through the door at the bottom outside of the library. At this point, the culprit had already grabbed their weapon of choice from the storage room. Rantaro hadn’t noticed anything, he was leaning against the bookshelf, eyes skimming over a paragraph he was reading. If it wasn’t because at this very moment that Rantaro’s eyes started to get tired and he couldn’t concentrate on the words any longer, he probably would have been the victim this night. He closed the book quickly returning it to its dusty spot on the shelf. 

Rantaro turned around only to meet eyes with the culprit that was only mere meters away from him. Immediately Rantaro’s eyes darted down to their hand, in which they were holding a metal arrow. 

“Huh? What’s this, C/N?” Rantaro asked not even fazed, he was slightly confused. but not frightened. 

The culprit wouldn’t respond but just run at Rantaro with the weapon raised so he could easily stab him. Rantaro’s eyes shot open and he quickly realized what was happening. 

Rantaro ran at the culprit grabbing them by their waist, knocking them down but also falling with them. They both looked around trying to find the weapon that the culprit had dropped during the fall. Rantaro spotted it and crawled over as fast as he could. He picked up the weapon and immediately got up on his feet, he was out of breath. 

“How about we both leave here and never talk about this again and then I’ll snap this arrow in half?” he suggested attempting to give the culprit a second chance, but they weren’t convinced. The culprit got up and started running at Rantaro again. As much as Rantaro didn’t want to, he stopped the culprit, by piercing them through the chest with the metal arrow. 

Rantaro would start to panic as he looked down on his hands that were covered with blood. Now he was nothing more than a murderer and there was no way he would ever be able to forgive himself.

Ryoma Hoshi

Ryoma would be relaxing in the dining room just having a snack and talking with a few of his other classmates. He didn’t have much motivation to get anything done that day, so he had decided to just do whatever he felt like. 

One by one everyone left the dining hall and a bit later he was sitting there alone, just drinking some tea and thinking about life. 

All of a sudden a person walked in, the culprit. At the time Ryoma had no idea, so he just greeted them with a nod. The culprit sat down and they started casually talking. The person’s intention was to take the life of Ryoma mainly for their own selfish needs, but also because they knew Ryoma’s perspective on life. 

Something seemed to have changed in Ryoma for once, even tho he didn’t have much motivation for daily tasks, he seemed to have a bit of a more positive look on life and he would try to make it out of this horrible place with the rest of his classmates. 

It wasn’t long until nighttime would arrive and Ryoma wanted to take a shower before then, so he said his goodnights to the culprit and left the dining hall making his way to the dorms.

Ryoma had walked into his room peacefully and started to prepare for his shower, little did he know he had forgotten to lock his dorm room. He had finished preparing and got in the shower. 

During this time the culprit made their way into Ryoma’s room and had hidden behind the door to the shower room, so when he walked back out, he had easy access to attack him right then and there. 

Ryoma finished showering and got dressed again, he got out of the shower room and that’s when the culprit struck at Ryoma, but they missed and hit the door instead. Ryoma was shocked by the sudden appearance and he immediately backed away from the culprit. 

“C/N please you don’t have to do this” Ryoma would try to convince the culprit as sincere as possible, but they weren’t touched by his words. Ryoma picked up his desk chair to shield himself from the culprit, but they wouldn’t give up, so Ryoma, in the end, decided to smack the culprit with the chair, so he did. He ended up hitting them harder than intended and it created a hole in their forehead and blood was just pouring out. 

Ryoma’s intention was just to knock them out, not to kill them. Ryoma was filled with regret and decided it was best if he just accepted his punishment out of respect. 

Shuichi Saihara

It wasn’t long ago that Shuichi and his classmates had discovered the body of their other classmate, so Shuichi was extremely focused on the investigation. He was trying his very best to figure out who the culprit could be, but while he was focused on obtaining clues, the culprit was planning to murder Shuichi. 

Shuichi knew he didn’t have much time left and he still needed to search the body again, so as he was making his way back to where the crime took place he was pulled into another room. 

“Wh-What’s happening?” Shuichi would yell, struggling to turn around and see who was pulling him. Shuichi managed to free himself from their grasp and saw his fellow classmate holding a kitchen knife in their hand. Shuichi very carefully started retreating further away from them. He could feel the sweat starting to form and his hands were shaking out of fear. 

“C/N calm down. Let’s talk about this” he reassured them, carefully making his way toward the culprit so he could disarm them, but the culprit was only getting furious and started lashing at Shuichi. 

Shuichi was dodging their attacks, but only because the culprit wasn’t trying to aim for him, he was only slashing the air in front of him. Shuichi managed to get behind the culprit and pinned the hands of them. Shuichi started leading the person out of the room, his intention was to take him to his classmates and reveal what had happened, but the culprit wasn’t giving up. They struggled furiously and managed free themselves from Shuichi. 

The culprit ran back hurrying to pick up the knife and ran at Shuichi once again, this time the culprit managed to slightly mark Shuichi’s cheek. Shuichi jumped at the culprit, causing both of them to drop to the floor where they fought for their life. 

Shuichi was out of breath but knew his life was on the line so, in the end, he managed to pin the culprit down, by sitting above them.

With the knife in hand, Shuichi stabbed the culprit, ending their life right then and there. Shuichi dropped the knife and crawled far away from the body. His breath was only increasing more and more now that he had realized what he had done. 

His classmates walked in at that exact moment and saw the horrified Shuichi who at this point was crying out of fear. 

~ Mod Ibuki

[bones-of-sheogorath-blog]

I write stories to cope with depression. Here’s one about Sheogorath. I don’t usually post my writings because I’m insecure as all hell, but I wanted to see if it was worth any amusement to you guys. Fair warning, Sheogorath isn’t a good person in this short story. He’s mean and cruel, because I have a habit of writing mean people when I’m sad. IDK why. So, if you feel like reading a story about Sheogorath doing something horrible, then here’s your chance. 

The afternoon swirled with mountain mist, a biting chill in the wintry air. Snowflakes glittered like ivory stars as they drifted from a clouded, silver sky. Most people knew it unwise to wander in such bitter weather, but on that day, a dark elf lingered in the windswept valley, piercing gaze of bloody crimson scanning the rocky mountainside that rose to tower over either side of their position. Just ahead, in a shadowed crevice, was their destination. Rumor had brought them there, and on a desperate whim, the elf had decided pay the cavern a curious visit, to see if the stories were true.

The Dunmer was a sad individual, with hopeless thoughts that swirled and danced within a dark and solemn mind. For years they had faced a terrible depression, and each time they had tried to steal away their own life, they had failed. It didn’t make sense to the dark elf. They didn’t have a bad life. They weren’t poor. They weren’t abused. Their family was kind, gentle, and lived in a small farm nearby. They had always treated the elf with respect and love, so why had the Gods cursed them with such cruel madness?

This was their way of fixing things, of finding some amount of joy in the cruel, miserable world that hung over their head like an eternal thundercloud. Their boots pressed into the thin crust of glacial snow beneath large feet as they approached the cave, and, without hesitation, slipped into the shadowed depths of the crevice with only the stream of overcast grey light from an overhead crag to illuminate their path. They found it with ease, no twists or turns or narrow passages. The shrine stood tall in the center of the dark cavern, empty and lonesome, not a candle or worshiper in sight. The stone was chipped away, leaving the bearded face and carved cane hardly recognizable, but if the rumors were true, they knew who this shrine belonged to.

Sheogorath.

The Dunmer approached, hesitant at first, before reaching into the pocket of their heavy fur coat to pull the only item of value they possessed. A flawless diamond. A family treasure. They were in the wrong for stealing it from their grandmother, but desperation had driven the elf to take what wasn’t really theirs, if it meant some manner of comfort in the end. Placing the glittering gem upon a stone pedestal in front of the gloomy shrine, they waited in silence, to ponder their words. After moments had passed, they finally spoke.

“Lord Sheogorath. I offer you this diamond in the hopes that you will hear my pleas, and listen. I am a desperate elf. Sadness burdens my heart and mind. Please…” The Dunmer sounded entirely hopeless, certain this wouldn’t work, that they were praying into empty, frigid air. “I just want to be happy.” The quiet stretched onward, until a rumble of thunder shook the cave. That was strange, there hadn’t been a storm in sight on the way in. Then they heard the voice, a cheery, accented string of words that fell into their mind and echoed throughout their head.

“A diamond? Well, not the best offering, but it’ll do I suppose. In your case, at least. I’m quite curious.” Was that...Sheogorath? The elf’s scarlet eyes widened, uncertain as to what to say, but after a moment, they swallowed down their surprise and anxiety, and spoke again.

“I just want happiness. I’ll give you anything for it. I’ve suffered so much.” The Dunmer uttered a heavy sigh, his tone bleeding with a sorrowful, desperate tone.

“Really? Anything?” Suddenly, in a flash, a swarm of vibrant butterflies, a bearded man appeared, or at least, the daedra appeared as a man, but the elf knew better. Daedra were shape-shifters, and were more than capable of appearing as any form they desired. But for now, as Sheogorath had taken the form of a silvery haired male, the elf would consider them as such. It would be polite, wouldn’t it? But the sudden sight of the Madgod made the Dunmer increasingly uncomfortable, and they stumbled back, tripping over their own feet to fall flat upon their ass. Amusement fluttered across the daedra’s face, and the elf felt their cheeks heat with embarrassment.  

“I can give you happiness.” Sheogorath spoke in a chipper tone of voice, lively and loud enough that it echoed throughout the cavern. “In exchange for your soul, and on a day of my choosing, I will come to take you into my realm. Sound like a deal? I certainly hope so, because if not, I’ll have to consider this little trip to be a waste of my time, and you wouldn’t like that, little mortal.” The Madgod spoke dangerously.

They swallowed as a fearful ache developed within their gut, heart rate increasing until it pounded within their chest. Suddenly, tugging in a breath felt a bit more difficult. Sheogorath was threatening them. It was make a deal, or suffer the consequences of summoning such a dangerous being. Perhaps they’d suffer anyways. The Dunmer struggled with their own thoughts for a moment, but the desperation won over their terror.

“I-I accept.” They responded carefully. “Just make me happy. Please.”

“Wonderful!” In a flash of black, like a shadow had been peeled away from his chest, a dark orb arose from where their heart should be, and danced toward the Madgod, who quickly gathered it within his hands, and with a clap, the blackness dissipated. The elf wondered if that was their soul. Black souls were souls that belonged to people, weren’t they? They suddenly felt a chill run down their spine. They had just made a deal with the devil, and Sheogorath was beaming, looking quite pleased with himself. “Now then, why don’t you go rest somewhere warm? Before you know it, you’ll be giggling like a madman! And of course, we can’t forget the part where you brutally torture your two sons and cut your grandmother to death!”

The Dunmer felt a shock shoot through their body, eyes widening into crimson orbs that reflected both confusion and horror.

“What? What do you mean? I’d never do anything like that!” The elf protested, fear edging his voice.

“Oh, but you would! And you will! But don’t worry, you’ll be happy while you do it, and that’s just what you wanted, isn’t it?” The Madgod seemed to purr with wicked amusement, serpentine eyes of gold piercing the Dunmer’s mind.

“That wasn’t part of our deal! Please, they’re innocent people!” They were pleading now, desperation like nothing they had ever felt before struggling within their own thoughts. Already they could feel the hint of something strange creep into their mind, making their thoughts turn sluggish. A seed had been planted amidst terrifying visions, and it would soon blossom into something cruel. A euphoria that would claim their mind, and force them to commit the most terrible of acts.

“It wasn’t? Hmm. I don’t recall you saying anything about not murdering your entire family.” Sheogorath chuckled darkly. “Now run along, before I decide your happiness should only last until shortly after your family’s death. After all, you never specified how long you wanted me to make you happy.” Cold amusement prompted a chilling chuckle that slithered into the open air from the Madgod’s own lips. Then, he was gone, engulfed within a swarm of butterflies that devoured his round bellied frame and faded back into oblivion.

Horrified by the deal they had just made, the elf staggered out of the cave, and fled as far away from their cottage home as possible. But as the madness began to claim their mind, they found themself twisting in circles, confused as to what direction they had been originally heading, and before they knew it, the giggling elf had found their way back home, and, finding a scythe among the farm tools, proceeded to chop the life of their family away, their screams prompting joyous laughter.

[ghostmartyr]

Fic: A Terrible Idea [9/?]

Fandom: Attack on Titan Title: A Terrible Idea Author: Immi Rating: PG-13 Summary: Ymir’s pursuit of the hot cheerleader was meant to stay strictly lustful. But it’s a high school AU with a ship tag, so you know, fuck that. Notes: This fic has a thing about three in the morning.

Segment summary: Kenny imparts life advice.

I II III IV V VI VII VIII

Maybe an actual parent would have wanted more details about what kind of party his bereft, innocent teenager was absconding away to instead of bonding with her friends and siblings in a night of passably sober revelry.

With Kenny, the conversation went something like this:

“Can I ditch homecoming to feel up a hot babe?”

“As long as no one ends up back in the house while I’m making out with my boyfriend, I physically could not care less.”

He didn’t mention the boyfriend in words during the actual conversation. He didn’t have to. The man might as well have been whistling all week long, asking them how many hours they thought they’d stay out come dance night. He’d conned Levi into being their chauffeur and everything. He got a haircut. Sometimes there really was fucking whistling.

He gave Ymir the green light to go be surrounded by people whose neckties cost more than all of her organs on the black market without so much as a suspicious question. To the untrained eye, it was negligent bullshit that Ymir was happy to exploit.

Years of living under his roof said that he already knew every single person at the Reiss party and had personally threatened at least five of them with murder. Creepy, but if it meant he wasn’t badgering her about her life choices, swell.

Too bad a certain other person couldn’t follow the example.

There was one side effect of dealing with a parental unit on this that wasn’t so great. Cowboy Dad believed, so very dearly, in cleaning up good so the rest of everyone would fuck off. He liked to call this having manners. As someone who’d had to sign paperwork to take on a more active role in not caring what teenagers did, he also thought it was his solemn duty to impart some of these manners to the spawn he could happily disown at will.

Predicted side effects of that included small talk about not pissing off the people who had invited her into their home. Since Historia had been the only one at all interested in her presence there, that wasn’t the worst promise she could think about keeping, so fine, whatever, can I go now and so on.

Unfair fucking blindsides included the suggestion (suggestion, like every other thing Kenny suggested didn’t carry promises of life getting very unpleasant if the suggestion didn’t see some follow-through) to go out and fetch some flowers to present to Historia’s parents when she showed up at the party.

“She doesn’t like her parents,” Ymir had said. That was a large part of the point.

Kenny had looked at her, unimpressed in the face of logic. “Sunshine,” he’d said, “where in the hell do you get the thought in your head that manners are for people you like?”

An hour later Ymir was hanging out in a flower shop, stretching the boundaries of her artistic sensibilities to figure out just how ugly a bouquet they were capable of. Kenny had stopped just short of making her pay for the damn things, so she had room to work, but there was only so much she could do. The worst combinations she had so far said, “Your daughter has let someone with zero taste into your house, but the good news is they’re desperate for you to think they’re trying.”

When what she wanted was closer to, “Fuck you for thinking I care about your approval before fucking your daughter, also fuck you in general,” preferably in freshly-picked pastels.

Ymir had never been a flower connoisseur, and turning the notch on her style of aggression back to passive definitely wasn’t her speed, but she knew passive aggressive went best with pastels. From what she knew of the Reiss family, their entire mansion would be covered with the things. Kenny would approve of her commitment to speaking her hosts’ language, but she’d have to work extra hard to keep from complementing their color theme.

Her only entertainment for the day was watching Porco freak over how to handle being at a dance in Pieck’s proximity. She had time.

She was also an efficient multitasker.

Porco’s sneakers tapped loudly against the linoleum floor. “She liked the roses last year,” he said, nowhere near the rose section. He was looking at peonies.

“She’ll like whatever you get her, and they’ll be dead in a few days. Stop angsting and pick something,” Ymir said, even less interested in his problems than usual. Pieck had sent an innocuous text earlier to remind her that she liked tulips. Hint hint. Somehow they were all still pretending that it wouldn’t melt her overly devious, mushy heart to be getting flowers from Pock at all.

Except for Porco. He really was that clueless, so cue the hours of fretting over which collection of stems would brighten Pieck’s desk best before their inevitable deaths. Accompanied by Ymir for reasons beyond a good laugh and pity, all thanks to their weird non-parent’s sense of propriety. Bringing a girl’s parents flowers wasn’t good manners, it was something out of Victorian era courtship advice bulletins. Near the end, after the two weeks of knowing each other had passed and it was time to ask the patriarch for his daughter’s hand.

Ymir thought she had a good idea of how that proposal would go. Awed by her acute flower arranging skills and misled by her tailored garb, she’d receive the father’s blessing and it would be rendered immediately moot because Historia would never forgive her for involving him in their love life.

“It doesn’t bother you that she’s using you to piss off her parents?” Porco had asked oh, maybe seven times when Ymir broke the news about how she was spending her Saturday night.

“Not anywhere near as much as it seems to bother you,” was the only answer to that, and it still took three more tries before he gave up in disgust and stopped blocking the middle of the hallway so she could go to bed.

Porco had weird ideas about family. Namely, that they were supposed to like each other. His blood parents were dead, automatically promoting them and everyone remotely like them to sainthood. His brother was so fervently adored that any first year psych student would gleefully attach a complex to it. He seemed to find it personally offensive that Historia couldn’t stand the people who hired her a personal driver.

Ymir would have loved not to care. She’d spent most of the previous night happily not caring. She’d spent most of their friendly afternoon jaunt to the neighborhood flower shop not caring. Pock had responded by making it his life mission to do enough caring for both of them. If he didn’t have the stress of not asking Pieck to dance to look forward to, he’d still be ranting her ears off.

“You don’t even want to date her!”

Way to state the obvious. That hadn’t been worth any response at all.

Ymir looked around at the colorful displays surrounding them. All perfectly designed to suit Porco’s purposes of failing to ask a girl out, none of them meant to check off a politeness box that had been summoned out of thin air to make her life more difficult.

Garish wasn’t going to play. No matter how badly the bright colors clashed, all the flowers were too healthy and friendly to get away with being used as a fuck you collage. She needed something with contrast to bring out that deliberate eye-gouging quality. Some of the lighter carnations could work. Classy and decorative in a clump, but put them next to something with some flair…

“Ymir?”

Ymir tilted her head Porco’s way and walked over to a selection of painfully sunny sunflowers. “What now?”

The follow-up didn’t follow through. His shoes squeaked and his jacket rustled while Ymir carefully mapped out her success of floral offense. Signs pointed to a talk happening.

“I—never mind,” Porco muttered.

One of those talks, then. Ymir rolled her eyes and searched out the heliotropes. Past experience dictated no gathering of custom bouquets herself, because the cashier would cry, and that would hold them up, but the second she said she was done and they fetched Pieck her tulips, Porco would be back to questioning everyone else’s life choices instead of his own.

“It’s too late to be her real date,” Ymir said, stopping to smell the roses. “You should have said something earlier if that’s what you wanted.”

Porco crossed his arms and scowled at the hydrangeas. Somehow they failed to burst into flames. Maybe because he looked closer to bursting into tears.

Ymir took magnanimous pity on her baby brother. “Just do what you always do: Wait for her to ask you to dance, and instead of mumbling and letting her drag you away, tell her you don’t want it to be a friend dance. She smiles, your heart melts, you live happily ever after, and I owe Marcel ten bucks.”

“Marcel wouldn’t bet on this,” Porco said, showing off the kind of deep misunderstanding only idolatry could foster. “He likes me.”

“That’s why he bet on you growing a pair,” Ymir said. “Don’t go letting your big brother down, now.”

Porco sulked. He had a way of doing it audibly.

They were through the purchase of Ymir’s custom monstrosity and Pieck’s much lovelier tulips before he brought it up again. A true sign of growth; last year he’d started the conversation once and then sworn her to absolute secrecy.

“You think she’d want to? If I asked?”

A flash of Historia’s wide eyes under the snack shack lights came to mind. A glimmer of a smile that matched the glitter on her cheek, all of her face lit up by Ymir.

“Sure,” Ymir said distantly, “girls like it when you show some initiative.”

----

“You keep tugging at your sleeves and I’m gonna feel insulted.”

Ymir dropped her hand from her suit jacket. “Dressing up three times a year isn’t enough to get used to formalwear. Perfect fit or not.”

Kenny didn’t bother dignifying her with a look. He was driving, and whatever Parenting 101 class he had crashed oh so many years ago had drilled not taking his eyes off the road with children present into his head better than a construction crew. He simply took the next turn, and drawled, “Funny, and here I thought it had something to do with your nerves making a fuss over this girl.”

Did no one ever stop to consider that if she wanted their thoughts about this, she’d ask for it? “Could also be that your shortcut landed us in the middle of nowhere and there’s nothing else to do but pluck threads.”

“Ymir, if you’d caught a single thread out of place, you’d be crowing about it ‘till the end of next month.” He took another turn. Second-to-last one, if Ymir was counting. “Find a better excuse or rub two brain cells together and work out how to stop lying.”

Ymir rolled her eyes and continued looking out the window. The winding road they were heading down was pure black-and-white movie horror. All they needed was some lightning. If the Reisses hadn’t already splurged on it, they ought to invest in a drawbridge and a moat. Great for parties.

Cowboy Dad had volunteered to drive her, and keeping up with his creepy way of knowing too much about everything, had told her they were taking a shortcut he knew before she had a chance to hand over the address. She’d told him she needed to be dropped off at the guest house, which was a fucking thing, so maybe his idea of how to get there could use some help, and got a shrug.

With the look he’d given her bouquet when she presented it, she’d call it a punishment, but passive wasn’t his brand of aggression either. Punishments were delivered with a highlighted anvil.

She pulled at her tie. Kenny sighed loudly.

One last turn, and they came back to civilization. Or some over-glammed approximation of it. A large stretch of road away, a gate shrouded in floodgates heralded their destination, and if it had a giant R in the middle of it, Ymir would have a great start to her bingo card for the night’s festivities. Historia had written the security code for it down on her hand the night before.

The car slowed halfway down the street, going at the speed society could agree belonged to stalkers or people who didn’t know how  to read maps.

“You got everything?” Kenny asked for the third time that hour.

‘Everything’ in this case meant Ymir, the invited one, her phone, the toy she’d brought along for another tally in her win column with Historia, and the gate crashing flowers. “Yeah,” Ymir said.

Heading up the slight hill to the cliché gate, Kenny dotted in the code smoothly, and open the spiked monstrosity went. Step one of the night accomplished. Historia hadn’t explicitly said that she wanted Ymir to avoid talking to anyone on the property until they laid eyes or other parts on each other, but Ymir could read between the lines. Her invite said to show up an hour early and head over to where the staff wasn’t preparing for the party. Until the curtain rose, Ymir was invisible and waiting in the wings.

They drove by the house, also known as an affront to taste so brightly lit that Ymir had to blink several times to confirm that it hadn’t been decked in four stories of cheap Christmas lights, and hit the side road that would lead to the guest house.

Ymir had never had much money, but she had trouble imagining a world where she’d look at her grand mansion with its sixty bathrooms and forty bedrooms, and decide that what it really needed was a smaller house next to it. Just to remind the first house how much better it was than everything around it.

Kenny rolled the car to a stop in front of the whipping house, and in a move that said she wasn’t the only one feeling the horror vibes tonight, killed the engine. He turned to her with his parent face on.

“A few ground rules before you go in there,” he said.

“Was there some reason you couldn’t do this at home, or—”

“No drinking.”

Ymir unbuckled her seatbelt to slouch more effectively in her seat. “Kuchel was just giving Marcel and Pock this lecture,” she said. “If you wanted me to hear it, we could have left five minutes later.”

“Sunshine,” Kenny said, “you’ve never partied with rich people before. All you know about these folks is that a girl you like can’t stand them, and each one’ll have a lawyer on speed dial so they don’t catch consequences when they show off for their fancy friends. That’s not company you want to lose your wits around. No drinking.”

“Great. Next up?”

“No having sex with this girl until you see a clean lab report.”

Ymir was too fucking young and too removed from the blood pressure problems Porco had to worry about a heart attack at her age, but for a second her cardiovascular system, built up by all the recent running, submitted to blind horror and slammed her chest with a sledgehammer.

“What.”

Parent of the Year, showing his usual concern for his offspring, propped his elbow against the steering wheel. Not a sign of remorse or pity in his eyes, he said, “You want to go about devirgining yourself, you do it safely. No letting your hormones go so wild you need a medical consult.”

Ymir took a second to pave over her new mental scars. “Right, I’ll just send her off for one instead,” she said. That’s what all the appealing sexual partners did these days. ‘I really want to jump your bones, won’t you pee in this cup for me?’ With a dash of ‘my dad wants confirmation that you are as much of a touch-starved virgin as everything you do says you are.’ The absolute pinnacle of game.

Kenny was the sort of guy who had probably met sympathy once in a bar and shot it. “You want your bits to fall off, or you want a fun time?”

The bad answer to that was that Ymir just wanted Historia. In a lot of ways and positions, all perfectly lewd. Only when the thought popped up, all she could think of was the marker against her cheek.

“Asking her for clerical proof of how diseased she is sounds like a real riot,” Ymir said instead.

“You can’t work your way around that, you’re too young to be having sex,” Kenny said. “Falling head over heels down a flight of stairs is how you get concussions, and I have enough of that to worry about with your brother.”

This conversation was a better case for not skipping the homecoming dance than anything the school had ever come up with, and it was unfair to the nth degree that she’d still rather be sitting outside the reject house. Unquestionably, which meant, put together with Kenny’s magic sleuthing powers, Ymir was now promised one more fun conversation with Historia in her future, putting to graphic verbal life all the things she thought about doing to her and couldn’t, because they didn’t have the right paperwork. Historia would definitely be on board with that. Things to look fucking forward to in the middle of looking forward to fucking.

Cowboy Dad was committed to his parenting course. He could write his dissertation on this feat of manipulation and emotional trauma. Jackass.

“Fine, great, anything else you want to ruin?”

Kenny unbuckled his seatbelt and opened his side of the car. “Your tie needs sorting. Out you get.”

Ymir rolled her eyes and stepped out into the night under the shadow of the guest house. Since it wasn’t drowned in lights, it was actually capable of casting a shadow. Kenny rounded the car and began his deliberately pointed adjustment of her suit, undoing all of the casual muss Ymir had fidgeted her way into. He saved the tie for last, securing it much tighter than her style called for.

“Anything goes wrong, or you need pickup early, you call. Got that?” he asked.

“Are you trying to make up for not knowing me when I was five?”

His large hands held her head. “Got it, kid?”

Way, way too committed to the parenting thing. Ymir made a show of sighing, and saluted him with the ugly bouquet of flowers he’d coerced her into buying. “Got it, cowboy.”

He pecked the top of her head. “Then you’re all set. Have fun, keep the stupid to the minimum, and don’t be afraid to use a fake name if someone’s too interested.” He set her free and clapped her on the back. “Knock ‘em dead.”

Umbilical cord officially cut for the evening, Ymir sauntered off to the doorstep, respectfully resolving to fix her tie once she was inside.

With Historia.

So much better than homecoming.

Next

[acsversace-news]

Playing larger-than-life fashion icon Gianni Versace isn’t a role Édgar Ramírez will soon to forget: the 20 pounds he put on for the part in Ryan Murphy’s The Assassination of Gianni Versace: American Crime Story are a constant reminder.

“I had to gain weight, so I somehow kept the character with me all the time. I had to live with that weight for seven months. Every time I touched my belly or had heartburn, it reminded me of the show. Every time I couldn’t fit into my pants or was on a photo shoot and couldn’t fit into sample sizes, I was reminded that I was playing Gianni,” he confides ruefully.

It’s the night before the second season premiere of FX’s true-crime anthology, a highly anticipated follow-up to 2016’s much-feted, award-winning The People v. O.J. Simpson. The 40-year-old actor is in New York to promote the nine-episode series, an exploration of Versace’s murder that is based on Maureen Orth’s best-seller Vulgar Favors: Andrew Cunanan, Gianni Versace, and the Largest Failed Manhunt in U.S. History. Despite having a nasty cold—which hit him “like a truck” during Golden Globes week—and still toting around some of that extra, custom-designed Versace baggage, his passion for the project is palpable.

“What Versace did—the impact that he had on the history of fashion and culture—is undeniable. He basically changed fashion by marrying sexuality and glamour on an unparalleled scale. Right now, we live—for better or worse—in a time that was shaped by Gianni Versace. The culture of bling, the exacerbation of fame, the picture between cinema and fashion, and fame and celebrity is something Gianni helped to create,” he enthuses.

Sadly, the Italian-born designer’s death became as infamous as his life had been. He was shot and killed in cold blood on July 15, 1997, on the steps of his Miami Beach mansion after returning from a walk on Ocean Drive. He was the fifth victim of serial killer who committed suicide just eight days later.

Ramírez��like most of the world—was fascinated by the glittering Gianni Versace, but it was the chance to work with American Crime Story’s equally mesmerizing producer and creator that drew him to the role. “I want to be part of stories that are not only dramatically gripping—that grab you and don’t let go—but that also touch upon important subjects. This is the case for most of Ryan Murphy’s work—his stories are interesting, but also socially and culturally relevant,” he notes, before admitting, “The first thing that drew me to the project was Ryan. I’ve been a huge admirer of Ryan Murphy for a long, long time.”

That said, he still didn’t accept the role right away. In Hollywood, Ryan Murphy need only snap his fingers and say “Jump!” before any number of A-list stars would squeak “How high?” But not Ramírez. He wanted to be sure of the project before he signed on the dotted line, and bold as brass, told Murphy to “come back to [him] with another script.”

When we applaud his chutzpah, the actor is quick to set the record straight and maintain that he is not a diva. “I loved the script immediately, but just based on one episode, it was very difficult for me to understand how the character was going to be a force, and not just a presence,” he explains. “That was very important. I needed to read other episodes to be able to understand where the character was going. It’s not about the size of a character, it’s about how much of a force a character is within a story. I knew that the writers were going to be spectacular, but I wanted to understand the direction of the whole story. Ryan gave me my process and my space, so I said yes.”

He has another reason for being hesitant: He’s been burned before—and it only happened once—but he’s loath to let it happen again. “People can have the best intentions—and I can say I’ve always worked with well-intentioned people—but so many things can happen in a production. Things change, and then all you’re left with is promises when you’ve already taken on a project. For me, it’s very important to take responsibility of my choices,” he notes, before describing his most disappointing cinematic experience, in what was one of his first major roles.

“I was lucky that it happened early in my career, which made it actually painless in a way, because I learned that I have to do projects for the right reasons,” Ramírez says. “I wasn’t sure about the script and was more fascinated by the people I was going to work with, the scope of the project and the charisma of the director—who turned out to be a much better producer than a director and a writer. I was enchanted by his promises and how he pitched the movie to me. But it didn’t end up that way on the page, and I was already committed; [the character wound up being ] difficult for me to play.”

His starring turn in The Assassination of Gianni Versace is a role that he takes full ownership of. “What I said to Ryan is, ‘I have to be responsible for my choice, so that if I sign on regardless of what happens, I’m not going to blame anyone—you or the producers,’” he recalls, noting, “It’s not about having things my way, because that’s boring. I love to be surprised by material, but walking into the unknown I need to be sure that I’m being responsible for that leap. I need certain conditions to be met for me to open up to the adventure.”

Clearly, Murphy, along with the cast and crew, more than satisfied his requirements, giving Ramírez one of the top overall experiences of his career. “This is one of the best roles I’ve ever had the chance to play. I couldn’t be happier, and I have only great things to say about this experience,” he says, adding that he’s not only formed a life-long friendship with Murphy, but with co-stars Penélope Cruz, who plays Gianni’s sister, Donatella; Ricky Martin, as his longtime lover, Antonio D’Amico; and Darren Criss, as the killer Cunanan.

He formed a familial bond with Cruz in particular, whom he first met while filming the series in December and refers to as “a very good friend,” though the cast as a whole truly seemed to form a life-long bond. “It doesn’t happen very often, but we all became very close. It was one of those experiences where you know that everyone will be in each other’s life after this project,” Ramírez vows.

Their closeness was especially opportune given the sensitive subject matter. “It was a lucky strike that really helped the process, because this was a very intense shoot, and we had very [dramatic] scenes,” he maintains. “The family relationships within the Versace clan were volatile, and we had to have a lot of trust in each other. We had to really abandon ourselves to each other to really get to the core of the scene.”

The fiery Versace family hasn’t been particularly impressed with Murphy’s project, which, again, ais based on a nonfiction work. They released a statement in January asserting that they “neither authorized nor had any involvement whatsoever” in the series, and that it “should only be considered as a work of fiction.” A follow-up declaration was equally dismissive, announcing that the “Orth book itself is full of gossip and speculation” and was an “effort to create a sensational story” with “secondhand hearsay that is full of contradictions.”

Needless to say, Ramírez did not get in touch with any members of the Versace family—not his brother, Santo, niece, Allegra, nephew, Daniel, nor Donatella (who reportedly sent friend Penélope Cruz a bouquet of flowers wishing her luck)—while researching the role. Instead, he did his research by reading old interviews, and also managed to find friends of the late designer who were willing to talk and provided much-needed, personal insight into his life. “For particular reasons, we weren’t allowed to [approach the family], but I also knew it would be fruitless, and I didn’t want to do that. They weren’t open. The Versaces went through one of the most horrible tragedies in contemporary history, and it happened in the public eye. I knew this was going to be hard for them, so I didn’t want to reach out to them,” he admits.

That said, he is interested in hearing their thoughts after they’ve actually seen the series, which debuted on January 17: “I’m very curious to see what their reaction will be when the cat is finally out of the bag, and they see what we did, and that we did it with the utmost respect and compassion. It is not sensational. Our show is based on a nonfiction book by a highly respected female writer, and we stand by her reporting.”

After playing Gianni Versace, however, Ramírez very keenly feels the family’s grief. “In order to understand the massive loss that this man’s disappearance was, we really had to understand his creative process and how much love he had for art, for life, his family,” he notes. “In the most Italian of ways, he had such a hunger for life. He had such curiosity. He was such a disruptor, such a nonconformist. He tried to change the world in the best way he could. After having portrayed his life, it hurts more to know that he’s no longer with us.”

However, Ramírez did not have to shake off his sadness at the end of every day. Instead, he embraced the true essence of Gianni Versace. “I didn’t really need to get rid of the character every time I walked off set, because he was fun,” he admits. “It was nice to be him. It was nice to be that force.”

CARPE DIEM

Ramírez has always stood up for what he believes in, and does this even more so now that he has the world as his stage. “I have the opportunity to help others by the virtue of what I do,” he notes. “I have a great platform to give a voice to people who are underrepresented or don’t have a voice. I think that’s a part of my responsibility.”

He does this most frequently through HeForShe, a solidarity campaign for the advancement of women initiated by UN Women. The movement’s goal is to achieve equality by encouraging men and boys to become agents of change and to act against the inequalities that women face worldwide.

“[As a result of the campaign], I think that women have felt supported and more men have their backs. Men have felt encouraged to also join forces in trying to reach a more gender-equal world, which is the goal of the movement. Gender equality is a liberation movement for each and every person that has felt the burden of a gender stereotype, or like they’ve had to fit into an uncomfortable mold or felt the pain of discrimination,” he declares.

And no, he’s never been personally discriminated against, never had resistance or doubt in accepting a job, and that’s the point. Things shouldn’t always be easy, and if they are, you fight for others, in his opinion.

“[Discrimination] has never personally happened to me, but it’s been very close to me—my mom, my sister, my niece, my female friends. Not even when I decided to become an actor did I feel it. To have had the privilege to decide my life and what I am, that obliges you to help other people to have the same privileges,” he says.

Growing up in San Cristóbal, Táchira, Venezuela as the son of Soday Arellano, an attorney, and Filiberto Ramírez, a military officer, Ramírez was allowed to do as he pleased. His sister, Nataly, was not as fortunate. “I never felt that I needed to do something else, because my father’s expectations were different. I felt very supported at home. But my sister was not. For example, she wanted to become a pilot. She really knows how to drive a car. She wanted to become a race [car driver] and pursue that passion, but my father wouldn’t let her. I had the privilege to choose and decide my life, clearly,” he says. “My sister, cousins and friends didn’t have that choice. I had more opportunities to decide my life based on my gender. I was never criticized by my dad when I decided to become an actor. He said, ‘Okay, I guess you know what you’re doing,’ but I don’t know if it would have been the same thing if my sister had wanted to be that.” Incidentally, there are no hard feelings today in his household. “We are, as a family, trying to build opportunities for the next generation so they don’t feel the burden of a gender stereotype,” he says.

Ramírez, who is also a Goodwill Ambassador of the United Nations Children’s Fund (UNICEF) and supports Amnesty International, has always stood up for what he believes in. “I’ve always been an outspoken person since I was a kid,” he reveals. “I didn’t always know what I wanted to do, but if I wanted something, I was determined to get it.”

He had the freedom to try his hand at a variety of careers until he found one that fit. After graduating from Venezuela’s Universidad Católica Andrés Bello with a degree in mass communication and a minor in audiovisual communication with the intention of pursuing international relations, he tried a stint as a political journalist before working as executive director of Dale al Voto, a Venezuelan foundation similar to Rock the Vote. He also worked in promotions at one point before deciding to become an actor.

His first role of note was in the Venevisión soap opera Cosita Rica. His first major motion picture was Tony Scott’s 2005 film, Domino, and first blockbuster the 2007 action flick The Bourne Ultimatum. He has appeared in a plethora of films with big-name directors since his early days as an actor, including Steven Soderbergh’s Che; Kathryn Bigelow’s Zero Dark Thirty; andDavid O. Russell’s Joy. Other projects include Vantage Point; the 2015 Point Break reboot; Hands of Stone; The Girl on the Train; and, more recently, Gold and Bright.

He just wrapped Pablo Trapero’s thriller The Quietude with The Artist’s Bérénice Bejo in Argentina and will reunite with Robert De Niro for the third time in a top-secret project. Although he can’t talk about the film, he has plenty to say about De Niro, his co-star in Joy and Hands of Stone. “I’ve only done two films with Bob, but it feels like six because of the intensity of the films, but also because of the intensity of our relationship,” he shares. “I’ve been lucky to become very close to Bob, and he’s an important part of my life, not only professionally but also personally. We try to hang out as much as we can. He’s a great listener and a huge source of inspiration. He’s one of the most polite people I’ve ever met. He treats everyone equally, honestly. That’s very inspiring, especially in this day and age.”

At the end of the day, Ramírez is just looking for things that make him happy. “I’m in New York City right now, and I’m playing one of the most important parts that I’ve ever done and working with some of the greatest talents I’ve ever had the opportunity to work with,” he notes. “I just spent an amazing New Year’s Eve with my family. My father almost died this past year, but he made it [to the holidays] with us. I’m at a great moment in my life. It’s as good as it gets. Is it perfect? No, nothing’s perfect, but that’s part of the challenge. You’re always trying to make things a little bit better. Sometimes you nail it, sometimes you don’t, but you wait for the next day to make it better. I take things one day at a time.”

He references the destruction of his homeland, and the constitutional-crisis protests that swept Venezuela in 2017. “I come from a country that was destroyed by bigotry,” Ramírez says. “My country has been basically morally erased. Almost more than three million people have left the country. However, every time I walk through Buenos Aires [in Argentina], I see young people from my country that have fled there just happy that they’re alive, that they have a new slate in front of them. And that is beautiful. It gives me hope.”

We ask if he thinks his innate optimism—his hopefulness—has helped him navigate through life—the belief that if you want things to be wonderful, they will be. He mulls this over, and he agrees. “I think so. I always try to see the glass as half full and not half empty. I mean, there are days when I just see emptiness, sure—it’s not a constant thing—but most of the time, I have to believe that things can improve. Bad things, evil things just tend to be a little bit louder.”

But it’s in his personality to focus on the good, to live in the moment. He asserts that he’s happy with his path: “I’m very lucky. I also work very hard. I have great people around me, and I try to surround myself with people who have the same attitude. I’m at a very interesting moment [in my life]. But you know, if you had asked me 10 years ago, I would have said the same thing. I’m very open to what the day awaits.”

[nevofthewilds]

S20: Facing the Lights

The crackle and glow of Shakan’s burning trees illuminated the small clearing in front of the Oxbow Spypost. Rucker caught Shakan and Kazrik up with Ser Caeldwyn’s betrayal, and how Vax was pursuing the traitor knight. Shakan related their efforts to deal with the hostile archer, reasoned to be Srokka, and how Temloc and Taerus had entered the spypost several minutes ago but hadn’t come out.

Indeed, after apprehending and shackling Naliq, they were faced with a small force of very skittish and irritated Kjollden. Captain Halvtor in-particular was still incensed over the loss of men in a sneak attack perpetrated by individuals brought along by the Mudwang’s. Taerus was understanding but firm, claiming the betrayal was an unintended event they’d then dealt with. Naliq, trying to reignite the conflict, attempted to rile up the nervous soldiers before Temloc silenced him. 

Shakan and Taerus began to mentally message with each other, sharing that Naliq was apprehended though things were still a bit tense inside. As Temloc reiterated the betrayal and independent actions of Naliq and Srokka, a call of alarm is heard from outside as Rucker pushed inside. With a nervous jolt the Kjollden step back, unsure of what to make of this new behemoth before Taerus quickly identifies him as an ally. Shakan and Kazrik hastily enter as well, joining their companions.

Temloc, sensing the simmer animosity still present, took the initiative and stepped forward between the groups. He slowly cast an incantation, and the wary soldiers watched as a glowing circle of runes briefly appears around the newcomers before fading away. The cleric assured the Kjollden soldiers their party was now obligated to speak completely truthfully, while perhaps bending his own truth to appease their fears. They then begin to question the prisoner, who was unable to resist the spell.

Naliq revealed that peace was never an option, that he and Srokka were meant to sow chaos. When Temloc pressed as to why he’d been chosen to lead, Naliq chuckled ominously: When news of the Hallehaig’s envoys of peace failure reached the Nest, including the shocking murders of the cherished Mudwangs and their leader’s gothi, anyone holding reservations would fully commit to the Rattlesnake’s plans of moving against the Kjollden.

Sgt. Reinke interrupts the interrogation, claiming the spypost had been thus far undiscovered, and only suffered once they arrived. The Mudwangs immediately refuted this claim, as Hallehaig himself had given them directions to this very location. Reinke then asked how if they were actually representatives of Marshal Trest, why they would be acting as emissaries for the Wild Wevir barbarians? Temloc reiterated that they had come as bringers of peace, and standing now with weapons sheathed, that was still their intent. 

Tired of the back and forth, Rucker rose to his full height, exposing some of the skulls around his neck. Several Kjollden took a fearful step back at this, gripping their weapons tighter. Halvtor, unwilling to let violence erupt again, halted the debate and ordered that any bystanders leave so he could speak calmly with the Mudwangs. Though Rucker refused to budge, Shakan and Kazrik agreed to wait outside with Naliq and some Kjollden escorts.

The room thus emptied, the Captain proceeded to learn all that the remaining Wevir about the Rattlesnake’s forces. Temloc reported that it seemed much of Hallehiag’s army was made up of various disparate Wevir tribes from around Virpresque. Speaking on this, Rucker mentioned how many of the Wevir he’d met, while prideful and hoping for greater self-governance, did not seem fully on board with the idea of open conflict. Taerus reported his observations of the Rattlesnake’s preparations for combat, noting an army of 600-800 warriors, basic infantry formations being practiced, as well as the construction of catapults and trebuchets, hinting at preparations for an assault.

The Captain listened to this news with a grave visage. Wanting some answers for himself, Rucker challenged the Captain on the Marshal’s character, and why so many Wevir felt beleaguered by the rule of the Duchess. Halvtor looked straight into the goliath’s mask as he vouched for Trest’s integrity, claiming that while no one man alone could undo centuries of stern rule, the Marshal above all else sought peace. The goliath thus answered, Halvtor then indicated they wait outside so he could consider their next course of action. Temloc graciously acquiesced, and led his fellows out. 

There they found Shakan in mid-conversation with a returned Vax. The warlock had been retelling how his attempt to pursue the traitor knight had failed. Despite his skills at urban sneakery, tracking in the wilds in a Turned Moon was not his forte. However, he was more concerned about an encounter with ethereal whispering and whistling in the deep woods. Isolated and fearful, Vax recognized the danger and flew off, catching sight of many glittering eyes watching him leave. 

While Shakan and Temloc tried to rationalize what Vax may have seen, the warlock was mocked by Geffry Buttler over letting his fear of children’s legends get the best of him. Belvedere did not take the matter lightly, having known folks who’d had close encounters with the terrors of the wilds. Regardless, Vax continued to observe the dark woods around them with ears perked.

Rucker dragged Naliq forward and put his scythe to his neck. The rogue laughed at this show, loudly promising the goliath’s death would be quicker if his throat wasn’t cut. After a moment, Naliq caught sight of the burning woods across the river and his smirk faded. Shakan mocked the prisoner, revealing that any aid from his partner, Srokka, had likely gone up in a burst of smoke. Naliq gulped deeply as Rucker leaned in again. Before anything drastic occurred, Taerus stepped in and bade the goliath hold, noting their temporary ally, the Captain, may still wish to keep the prisoner alive. At that moment, Sgt. Reinke sticks his head out again, inviting them all back in.

Entering the Spypost again, Captain Halvtor delivered his decision: while he was appreciative of the aid offered during the attack, the remaining Wild Wevirs would not be allowed to stay inside as a matter of principle. They would be abandoning the post in the morning, and if they wished to caravan back to Timberfall Outpost they were welcome to ride along. Finally, Naliq, an aggressor against Kjollden forces, would be dealt with in the morning. Choosing to grant the Captain his due respect and ignoring the protestations of Naliq, the Mudwangs, Temloc, and Kazrik began setting up camp outside.

Over a small campfire tended by Shakan, the group agreed that returning to the Nest wasn’t an option. Given the chance to finally return to the Marshal and complete their original mission seemed ideal, though there were concerns about the narrative Srokka and Ser Caeldwyn would share at the Nest, if either made it back alive.

It was then that Kazrik offered to return to the Nest, hopefully to help slow the buildup of Hallehaig’s forces and to carry messages back to any allies they may have. Shakan and Taerus both took several minutes to craft letters to Shanga and Kijiwan, respectively. Kazrik offered to return Temloc’s mace, but the gothi encouraged he keep it, as he was undertaking a great risk. The dwarf thanked Temloc for his leadership before preparing to depart in the morning alone.

Before retiring, Rucker took a moment to speak with Shakan, inquiring the genasi might know about the magical energies within him. Nothing that both he and the spectral Claw encountered in Northome possessed green magical energies, Shakan reasoned their green auras were likely related to necromantic magicks. While extremely rare, Shakan noted how liches dealt in necromancy to achieve eternal life in pursuit of some objective. This power usually came at the price of depositing one’s soul in a physical relic known as a phylactery. Rucker thanked the sorcerer for the knowledge, and began considering what his lich had been driven to sacrifice his mortality for.

Temloc stepped off by himself for a moment, the weight of the past few days weighing heavily on him. Taking a deep breath, he knelt in prayer, asking Bozhoba to provide some assurance that he hadn’t been pushed in error. As he saw the twinkling of a shooting star overhead, Taerus knelt next to him. The veteran offered his apologies for his temper and lack of aid in Todey’s cave. He went on to describe the curse of tragedy that seemed to strike whenever allowed to get close to him. Temloc shared he too was new to this sort of life, leading and working with others. The two spoke briefly on the gods, and the chance they’d both found themselves on this path. Both understood regardless of the reasons, they’d each met a kindred spirit. With a knowing look and an astute glance, Taerus and Temloc made off to rest before the morning. 

Watches were set, as the threat of further intrusions was not out of the question, but the night passed without whistling or attack as Shakan’s fire smoldered into cold, dark ash.

---

The Mudwangs and Temloc awoke the next morning to find the small river gorge enshrouded with mist, the early morning light casting an eerie glow around them. Kazrik had already left, the vivacious dwarf not wasting any time. The soldiers were already awake, packing their documents and important supplies. A bruised and bloody Naliq is brought forth and made to kneel over a tree stump in front of the fort. After a night to gather themselves, Shakan, Rucker, and Taerus chose to not watch the proceeding. Temloc and Vax both bear silent witness as Halvtor unsheathed his longsword near the prisoner.

Naliq spits at the feet of Temloc, cursing him for being a traitor to the Wevir cause. Crying out in defiance of the Kjollden aristocracy, of their boots holding the Wevir down, about how they would always be free at heart, Naliq is silenced forever by Halvtor. No one cheers as more blood is shed. 

With horses weighed down with supplies, the caravan begins to hurry south towards Timberfall Outpost, hoping the intelligence they’d gathered would be enough to sway the coming conflict in their favor, for the sake of the families and way of life. Trest and Hallehaig had both commented to the Mudwangs on the symbolic importance of the Festival of the Fall Equinox, a widely celebrated holiday for Wevir in Virpresque. Leaving the gorge, the calendar held eight days until the equinox itself, and the descent of Winter.

[starcrossedmyth-lovers-blog]

Young and Beautiful Chapter 5 - The Hierophant

Type: Alternative History (AU)

Background: Ancient Egypt

CP: Scorpio × Reader

Warning: Mature (rough), Bloodiness, no Huedhaut at all

“No, please don’t,” You were obviously frightened, “You can’t do this to me! It’s late. Tomorrow I will……”

“Shut up. It doesn’t matter what goddamned time it is,” Scorpio flashed you a devious grin, "I’m gonna punish you now, hard and rough. It’s as frickin’ simple as that. Got it?“ He’d been so aggressive. Impatiently, he pinned your hands above your head, tearing off the linen around your body, pulling down his short kilt. His other hand reached out to roughly caressed your skin. 

"Don’t, Scorpio…” You begged with a quaver in your voice, “I can’t take this. Please, let me go this time.” You resisted, trying to escape, but he tightened his hold.

“Today you’ve been fucking arrogant. Is that also your style in bed?” He laughed sarcastically, “Hmm. I’ll test it out. Gonna be a lot of fun." His lips sucked and bite your skin, electrifying your body with a wave of pleasure. 

You went on shaking your head, "I’m not! I apologize for what I’ve done, so please…” You were pliant and pleaded for mercy, but it was too late. As he looked at the expression on your face, he felt an urge to force you do his bidding. He thought again how it was the transformation that turned him on; in the day you were a woman of dignity and wild confidence, in the night a creature of soft and pliant. He would have no interest in you if you were beginning with a weak one.  

There was a sense of cruelty in his black eyes and the lifted corners of his lips. The very and only thing in his mind was to possess you with every ounce of strength and vigor. His left hand holding your wrists tight, the right hand moved to take hold of your neck. Under his palm, you moaned quietly, gasping for breath, writhing in torment.

Apep, the god of evil, who threatened to destroy the sun god Ra, always took his prey captive in the first place. You felt the same way of being plunged into endless darkness. However, his somewhat sadistic treat seemed to excite you. With perspiration running from you like water, the slit between your legs became as wet as a warm spring. You made little whimpering noises as a crazy yearning rose inside you.  

“Punishments just suit a filthy woman like you so well.” He loosed his right hand a little. You breathed heavily, trying to roll away from such a brutal man. But as long as you were naked under him, there was no way escaping.

“Get prepared. It’s gonna get worse.” He smirked, confronting you with a cruel demand. 

You let out an agonized cry when he thrust into you, bumping you with his doughty body fiercely. Seeking to be violent and passionate he wouldn’t let up, even you begged again and again, then sobbing. The only thing he would do was to rule over you, not as a beloved man but as the evil god in bed. He looked down at you in triumph, put his hand around your throat again.

“Scorpio…I can’t…breathe…” You tried to get the words out, but your voice was muffled. With a glitter in his eyes like a black panther eyeing his prey, he gripped you tightly by your neck.

Your consciousness was getting dimmer. A strange yet overwhelming feeling slam against you like the waves of the Nile, sweeping one part of your body to a new dark world - a world where the jackal-headed god lived and ruled. You thought you’d caught a glimpse of the face of Anubis. At the same time, the other part of you were being pulled to ascend the ladder of pleasure. No matter how desperate you were trying to hold yourself, your body began to soar while the core of you turned to a rolling sea of white flames.

He could tell that you were near your climax even without your cries during the intense lovemaking. As you were getting close, the folds of your flesh wrapped his cock became hotter and hotter, gripping him faster and faster. At the last moment, the velvet folds surrounding him broke into waves. With several last thrusts, he groaned and came hard. He clutched at you as his warmth pulsed into your deep inside again and again.  

Your feverish passion was spent very soon and thanks to that you were still alive. You thought he was going to kill you. But your body loved it. This was exactly perverted, why I still got excited like crazy? With the conflicting feelings in mind, you dozed off.    

When you opened your eyes, you were in his arms. Your throat was so dry that you could barely speak. Found your reaction, Scorpio smirked in a mocking satisfaction. 

“Seemed like you were havin’ a pretty good time. Want some water?”

You nodded. Watching you struggled to sit up he stopped you and slipped out of bed to get the water jar on the table. He took one gulp, then lowered his head and passed some of it from his mouth down through your dry lips. After he repeated a few times, you found you could finally talk a little.

“I almost died,” You sighed with a husky voice, “Bastard. How could you do that to me?" 

"Tch. Don’t speak as if I abused you. Your body was talking to me more friggin’ honestly than your words." 

A light crimson flushed from your cheeks all the way to your ears. This was incredible and you had no way to deny it. You thought back to the first night with Krioff. It started with pain but ended up with great pleasure. The second night with Zyglavis and Scorpio was intense as well. Now you had a new experience, an experience that related sexual pleasure to death. It was scary; however, you fell in love with it.

Reading your expression, he laughed triumphantly. "You just liked it so much, filthy woman. You really are a perv.”

You pouted, "Hey, that’s rude! I’m Pharaoh and you’re not allowed to…“ He rolled over to pull you into his arms again, sealing your red lips with a passionate kiss.

The next morning, Helena entered your chamber and awoke you from an exhausted sleep. You sat up, rubbing your eyes while looking at the side of your bed. There was no warmth on the linen sheet. Scorpio must had left before dawn or even earlier. When you thought of how sweet in the end he was you smiled: He didn’t force you to make love to him again. Instead, he held you in his arms and went on stroking your back till you fell asleep. He left early to prevent being spotted by other people - Surprisingly, he could be so thoughtful.

"Your Majesty, don’t fall to daydreaming again. It’s time to get up.” With a twinkling smile she clapped her hands, a group of body servants filled in, busy doing their own work. When the hot water was ready she accompanied you to bathe. The aroma of jasmine and lotus wafted up from the steam when she spread some essential oil into the water. Such a pleasing fragrance. You sit slowly into the water and laid your head back in the tub.

“Helena,” You said, eyes firmly closed, “Please summon Lou later. I want to be sculpted as I was receiving the emissaries.”

“Yes your Majesty,” She smiled while rubbing the soap all over your body, “He hasn’t left his studio for two days - Busy working on your bust. Even those young girls failed to distract him.”

“That’s incredible!” You shrugged your shoulders exaggeratedly. It made her laugh. Beyond the fact of an artist who lived up to his reputation as the magician, Tauxolouve was really a ladies man. He had a certain inborn charm that drew girls to him. He didn’t go girl hunting, girls threw themselves on him; neither did he sleep around. He had girlfriend, just changed them on a monthly basis. But nobody blamed him for his womanizing, even those who were broken up with him - Whenever they saw their pretty faces in mural and sculptures, they were choked up with pride. 

“Find a pleated gown for me, white or whatever. Same jewels, same sandals, and the crown.” You thought for a second, then added, “Let Dui wear the nemes. I want Lou to sculpt him with me.”

She stopped. Her eyes met yours with a queer, unbelievable look. “The nemes? For a prince?”

“A prince who is co-regent with me and will inherit the throne of Egypt someday.”

“Your Majesty, moving too quickly is not good, if I may venture to say so. They’ve been irritated with the anointment. When they find out you are minded to make Prince Dui the successor, they may take a risk to assassinate him.”

You stretched your sore back. “They’ve been trying all the time. Stop showing that I am in favor of Dui won’t change their mind, since it is so, why not do something to take them by surprise?”

“By dressing him like Pharaoh?” She was skeptical.

“By indicating him the future Pharaoh in front of everyone, especially the emissaries. Then they’ll have to think twice before they send assassins - Murdering a prince or a potential Pharaoh, the prices of committing two crimes are different.”  

At first, she might not agree but saw your intonation determined she nodded, then did as you said. After you were fresh from bath she applied a handful gold powder to your body, making every inch of your skin glitter with gold, even your fingertips. She dressed you in a fine linen gown so soft and light that it was transparent, so your beautiful skin was partially visible. 

“Whoa! I’ve never known I had such a gorgeous gown. Is it a tribute?”

She fastened the collar around your neck while you stood in front of the mirror. “No. It’s a gift from the Temple of Isis. Melunia made it for you.”

Watching yourself in the polished bronze: a hand-made pleated dress from your mawat, a pair of your mother’s favorite earrings, and a handsome crown designed by Lou - Nothing could be more precious.

You could remember very little of that day. Everything seemed went on smoothly and you hardly paid any extraordinary attention to it. You showed up at the Window of Appearances with Dui. Watching the nemes headdress framed his handsome jaw you felt a surge of happiness. He spoke fluent Nobiin with emissaries from Nubia while you were greeting the Mitannians and Babylonians. Tauxolouve followed you wherever you went, sketching both of you onto papyrus. Guests and nobles were clad in their most splendid jewels, drinking, feasting, talking to each other pleasantly, even the High Priest of Amun and members of the Royal family. Everything seemed perfect - So perfect that it was a bit terrifying. 

When you excused for leaving it was after midnight. You got very tired, but Dui was still in high spirit. “__,” He shook your hand happily, looking at you with wistful puppy eyes, “You should teach me Hurrian and other languages.”

The transparent clarity of his eyes touched your heart, you couldn’t help but smiled. “Then I’ll ask Huedhaut to be your tutor. He was mine.”

“Huedhaut? I haven’t heard of the name before.” Dui said inquisitively.

“He is the son of a priest with exceptional intelligence. You will have the best tutor, I promise.”

“But I want you to teach me.” Dui cocked his head aside and pouted. He was so adorable that made you laugh. “Well, well,” You smiled merrily and teased yourself, “I’m a quick student, but a bad teacher. Choose me and you’ll get the worst tutor in Egypt." 

As soon as you were around the corner you saw the emissary from Mitanni. He must be waiting here for you. You made an eye gesture to Dui. He nodded, then left with Helena and Krioff. "Your Majesty, congratulations to your coronation.” The emissary bowed deeply. You know what he wanted, even without words.

“Please rise,” You raised your hand, “Egypt will provide Mitanni with military assistance. We shall fight together to wipe the Hittites from the northwest. Now tell me, how’s the situation in Washukanni?”

“No news, Your Majesty. We’ve been out of touch for more than three days.” There was a true agony in his voice. You looked at each other for a silent moment. No news is good news. You realized with sadness that while you were rising as a new star in Egypt, your mother’s homeland was falling, and the progress was irresistible. Perhaps it was your fate that Gods destined.

Deep in thought, you continued walking. When you were about to open the inner door to Queen’s chamber you heard a young and pretty voice, surely not belonged to any common servant, saying, “Your Highness, Lady Helena sent me to taste your wine. She’s busy in the kitchen now.”

A new taster? You had your suspicions. Without interrupting her you remained to hide behind the door and peered in toward the direction through a door viewer which was cast into the eye of Horus. Dui was facing toward you, you could see him talked to her with a gentle smile. 

Hotep, to be at peace, the girl told him her lovely name. She also made an arresting sight with her slender neck and amber-colored skin. 

“I taste your drink, Your Highness. If there’s poison in it, then let it poison me." 

She wiped clean the rim of the cup by her handkerchief carefully after taking a sip. "There is no need for such caution, please rise.” You watched Dui replied and she dropped her head even lower as if she could not bear to watch the precious smile. 

Now it was time to end it.

As Dui took the gold cup from her hand you swung open the door. They both looked up and found you were standing at the door. You said warmly, smiling sweetly, but your gaze was icy cold.

“Hotep, taste it again."  

”__?“ Dui blinked in surprise, He was happy to see you. “But, why the need?” He asked with a slightly confused expression. 

You went up to him, looking sharply at him from under your long lashes. “Where’s Krioff?”

“Here." 

A familiar voice pierced the tension in the chamber. Krioff strode out of the bathroom. His hair was still dripping wet. He wrapped linen around his waist, silver gaze fixed on the young woman who was kneeling on the ground. Then he frowned and looked very severe.

"Who is she?” He demanded. 

There was a knock on the door. Helena returned with a cup of wine. Two servants followed her closely, carrying bowls of fruits. Seeing this she was quite shocked and nearly dropped the silver cup. You turned to look at Hotep. The color drained entirely from her face.  

You smirked a little. From the moment you saw her in Dui’s chamber you knew something was not right: Helena would neither send a new taster nor let him drink or eat from containers other than silver. The way Hotep used linen to clean the rim also proved it. She was making it seemed that she didn’t want her mouth to soil the wine. A low-level mistake for a real taster. 

“Krioff, guards." 

You raised your voice. He left at once, then returned with twelve men. Their bodies were powerful and tense, ready to defend you and Dui with weapons in hand. 

Hotep was visibly shaken. Her plot was struck out and she had no way to run. Suddenly she collapsed to the ground, begging for forgiveness, her shoulders heaving with sobs. She confessed that not only herself but also her family were under intimidating. She was forced by someone to take a risk, she said, tearing miserably.  

 "He said he’d have us killed. Forgive me, Your Majesty! Forgive me, Your Highness…”

Terror paled Dui’s face. This was another closest he’d been to facing death.

Who was the one, or the ones, in the back of the plot? Krioff asked her several times, but she wouldn’t name the mastermind. The only thing she kept saying was pleading for mercy.

“I forgive you.” Your face remained expressionless.

She raised her head, looking up with wet, bright eyes, which revealed her yearning for life. She could hardly believe in her good fortune. However, your next words sapped her will to live.

“Now drink it.”

“Wait, __, please!” Dui tugged on your left arm, “Why don’t we give her a chance…”

“Shut up!" 

You seethed. This time you were furious. If you arrived later, even a few seconds, he could be with Anubis now. But here stood him, asking you to forgive someone who was about to kill him. Didn’t he aware that mercy to enemy meant cruelty to himself?

Without hesitation, you jerked your chin toward Krioff. He nodded, grabbed the gold cup and forced her to drink up the poisoned wine while two soldiers held her down. There was a scream as Dui stood from the chair. Helena ran to him immediately, holding him tight in her arms. She didn’t want him to see the blood.

But you stood still. 

You just quietly watching her twisted about in pain, crying out as the poison began to corrode as well as spread around her body. A chilly sensation of witnessing the progress of death lingered, making you feel sick. You swallowed the tightness in your throat, forced yourself to watch - Because you knew if you let your guard down, even once, that could happen to you. 

I will never let that happen. In silence, you swear to yourself, never.

↳ The Whole Chapters  

[kristie-rp]

Living

DENMARK, NOW

The armour is hers long before she dons it, chain mail interlinked beneath an expensive lightweight plate. It isn’t often she requires the added protection, but as the lady knight goes down beneath an invader, Tera finds she’s grateful for it. She’s marked as neither friend nor foe to anyone on the field, her armour silver and crimson instead of black and white or gunmetal and blue, and it has given most of the fighters pause she can take advantage of. She drives her sword - stolen from some fallen fool after she lost hers, unevenly balanced, but easy enough to work with - into the head of the lady knights attacker, killing him instantly, and grins wickedly as she helps her up. It only takes a moment, and then she’s off again, following black hair in gunmetal-and-blue armour through the crowd.

“Constantine! Syrus Constantine!”

She can see his shoulder stiffen beneath the plate armour, and can see the way he straightens.

She watches him turn.

AMSTERDAM, JANUARY

She looks out of place there, all pristine blonde hair and willowy limbs and supple, eye catching curves. In her gown and glittering jewellery, she’s the brightest thing in the place, and it’s not ideal, but she settles at the bar alongside the paper-white man with his glass of crimson wine regardless. It’s too feminine a drink for him, and while he’s shooting her a sceptical look - what woman comes to an actual gentlemen’s establishment, unless they’re a particularly ambitious prostitute - she smiles winningly and waves the bartender down.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” she says, and her voice is husky and enticing. The server delivers quicker than if one of the usual men had ordered, and she sips at the wine. “Fruity,” she notes aloud, refusing to make a face that matches her distaste. “Is this your usual?”

“I appreciate a variety of drinks,” he says defensively, and her lips curl into a smile. “Anything less would be boring.”

She takes at him, slowly lowers her glass. She pours temptation into her smirk, and leans in a little bit closer, the better to encourage his advances. “I’ve never been a fan of boring, myself,” she says.

He swallows.

DENMARK, NOW

She can see him swallow, and adjusts her grip on the sword. He does the same.

“You can’t leave me alone for five minutes, can you?”

She laughs, letting it ring out. It is lost in the clash of metal around them, but their little space - their circle - leaves it hanging. “You have taken me on quite the whirlwind tour, Syrus, but it needs to end. I have a job to do.”

“So do I.”

She gestures, hand sweeping out across the crowd. “Look around, my lord. Your army is going to lose to the lady knight and her lover and their army. The least I can do is make sure you don’t have to live with the failure.”

His shoulders tense, then hunch in. “You mean to kill me this time, then.”

She stops, doesn’t immediately answer. She pauses - she swallows.

PRAGUE, MARCH

She has a dagger strapped to her thigh when she joins him in his rooms. It is an alloy of iron and Byzantine and adamantium, sure to kill anyone and anything if she can deal a traditionally fatal blow. The heart is a classic, and it’s her intention here, a delicious kind of irony in it - stab the seduction victim in the heart, put an end to the romance here.

“Care for a drink?” He asks. His voice is deep and smooth, still the same, just as the last time they met. It sends a thrill of electric energy down her spine, knowing she will be one of the last people - the last person, even - to hear that voice.

“That depends. Is it going to be strong?”

“The strongest,” he says, and smiles at her like she’s supposed to be charmed.

But she’s met men with better qualities than him and survived their presence. She survives his that night, too, drinking with him, letting him drink another, more, most, until he drifts off on top of the covers. She leans over him like she’s tucking him in, and draws the knife. There is a soft Schlick as the metal scrapes against the sheath, and she raises it to strike - there is a spot between his ribs that she can get the blade through, and when she does, it will pierce his heart. He will die.

His hand catches her wrist before she can complete the act. A heavy silence hangs over them.

“A gift for me?” he whispers, shattering the quiet. “You shouldn’t have.”

She scoffs quietly. “With the price on your head, I absolutely should.”

“Then surely you should invite a little challenge,” he says, “make it a real worthwhile pursuit. Let me survive tonight, let me show you a good time. Let me convince you I deserve to live.”

“No one deserves to live,” she retorts. Her breath is warm against his skin.

“Let me be the first, then. If you aren’t convinced, you are free to chase me to your hearts content. It will be a game.”

She hesitates. “A game that ends in your death.”

He nods. “Or you failing at your job.”

She pauses. The idea is tempting - it is not often she is challenged, and for the price on his head, she expects more of a challenge. A cold pick up at a bar, a few months of courting, a night of revelry turned red with blood - it’s boring for her. She can not deny the temptation. She withdraws the blade, slips it back into its sheath.

His teeth are too white and his grin too wide, and beneath the thrill of a real challenge, she feels that she may have made a mistake.

DENMARK, NOW

“You don’t want to kill me,” Syrus says, voice filled with wonder and something that she takes to be amusement. Tera raises her sword defensively, and he shifts back, out of reach. “No, Tera - really. You don’t want to see me die. I’m observing, not telling: I would be dead by now if you did. You aren’t incompetent.”

She grits her teeth and rocks on her feet, shifting her stance. “Irrelevant,” she bites out; “my desires are irrelevant. The bounty can cover travel overseas. For multiple people.”

LONDON, BEFORE

Tera’s family lose their fortune and most of their dignity when her father is accused of committing a series of rapes and murders in the city. He gets off with no charge because of a technicality and a dubious connection with a judge, but it ends up not mattering.

The Michiligan ancestral home burns to the ground on a Saturday afternoon. Tera isn’t inside because she is spying on fencing lessons that the neighbours children are terrible at. She hears the scream of “fire!” when they are wrapping up, and would have ignored it if not for the smoke.

Her jaw drops and she watches as the building burns, disbelieving. She can hear screams from within, can see some servants scrambling to escape. A maid streams out the door with a cloak of flame clinging to her dress; she stops and drops and rolls until the fire starves. The smoke is heavy in the air above her home; she knows that it will have choked anyone upstairs to death.

Both of her parents would’ve been up there. Her father deserved it, but her mother doesn’t - didn’t. Tera has no doubt that that makes a difference; women burn as well as men, and she will be dead, too.

“Lady Tera!” calls a servant, clinging to a bundle in her arms.

Tera collects herself, drags her jaw shut with a click, and dashes away any potential tears. “Yes?”

“We - I couldn’t save your parents. However. I - Jeremy. Here.” She shifts her arms, and Tera pays attention to the bundle for the first time.

A slot covered arm flails and escapes the blanket, and Tera swoops in quickly. Her baby brother, not even four years old - he is alive. “Thank God,” she murmurs, and examines him with dedicated fervour. “They sought to burn father?”

The servant swallows and nods. “Everything is gone, ma’am. Not - we barely have our lives.”

London is a death sentence for their family, Tera knows this. She is nineteen and staring at her baby brother and his nanny, and she is going to have to get them out of this trap somehow. She is Lady Michiligan now - she is the one who carries her families legacy.

She is their greatest chance of surviving, and she will do anything to achieve this.

DENMARK, NOW

He stops moving, hand on his sword. For all the chasing, for the game he suggested - she’d never said why she had any interest in the income his death would provide her. “Travel,” he says, disbelieving. “I’m to die so you can travel.”

She lowers the sword with a huff. “Please - you’ve been running from your responsibilities since long before I met you.”

“I’m leading my parents soldiers to war,” he points out, disbelieving. Tera scoffs.

“You haven’t fooled me. What little lordling plays at warfare when he could be safe at home, unless they’re running from something?”

He stares at her - peers, really, searching as though she offers an answer he does not already have. “Are you talking about me?”

She sputters, and swings her sword upright again. “How dare you imply that I am as useless as a lord!”

“A lady, then,” he corrects himself, too dismissive for her liking. “A lady who sought to escape? Or - no, you were always eager for this, but not desperate. Not until now. You had a source of income before - previous murders? - but it is starting to run out. Or whatever you’re running from… tell me, Tera, what are you running from?”

She thinks of a small boy, nine years old and falling on the unnerving side of charming. People are uneasy around her family and always have been; but her family home has been in ashes for half a decade and the peasantry are often restless.

“My,” she starts, then halts, then takes a breath. Her sword point sinks into the ground and she slumps, tired of the weight and bored of pretending. “I have a baby brother, and the idiot peasants are weeks away from attacking what remains of my family. At most.” She lifts her gauntletted hands, tries to drag them through her hair and scowls when it hurts. “I can’t let him die, too. I refuse to let the peasantry win.”

Syrus is gaping at her like she’s just suggested something impossible. She’s unarmed and sets her hands on her hips, ready to get defensive. Before she does –

– the clash of metal against metal, and she’s dimly aware of a sudden ache in her shoulder. Syrus has grabbed her, tugged her against him, raised his blade to meet someone - something - else. There’s a singing crash, one, two three, and the other is disarmed. She can tell from the thud of metal on grass.

She twists out of Syrus’ arms and grabs her own sword again - the poorly balanced one that her aching arms are protesting - and eyes the man who attacked. He’s wearing the same armour as Syrus, gunmetal and blue, and he must have taken her for a threat and leapt to his lords defense. It’s admirable, but thanks to Syrus, he is disarmed and gaping, staring at them. “Why -?”

She doesn’t hesitate to pierce a gap between the plates of his armour. When faced with an unarmed nobody, she doesn’t think twice about killing him.

“He was unarmed,” Syrus protests immediately, and Tera scoffs.

“Anyone who aims for the back deserves to die,” she says, “and no, I don’t. You’re correct.”

It takes him a moment to catch on. “You don’t want to kill me?”

“I don’t want you dead,” she corrects. She does not address whether she would prefer to be the cause of his death – she still wants to be there for his last breath. She’s just less certain what that means.

He stares at her. She stares back, chewing on her lip.

“I want you to live,” she murmurs at last.

Syrus smiles.

(BETWEEN)

In April, they come to a rest in Paris. There, he chokes on a baguette while she looks on over lunch. It could be fatal. She saves him, though, drawing polite, surprised applause from the staff of the restaurant. She turns to harangue them in stilted French, proud and confident and haughty. They get a refund. Syrus lives.

In May, she catches up with him on the edge of Berlin. He’s speaking fluent German with a man in full armour; she looks on skeptically and, when they’re done, seduces the details of the conversation from someone she supposes is a knight. She catches him in the midst of them, ruining the ambush he has planned, and smirks as he threatens her with execution. Syrus lives.

In June, she finds him in a place full of snow despite the summer months. Someone misplaces her coat – she will not admit to losing it – and it is Syrus who keeps her warm, taking her to bed in front of a roaring fire, where they lose their clothes and any claim to virginity, if they hadn’t already. Syrus lives.

In July – well, you get the idea.

Syrus lives.

LONDON, LATER

“Is this truly everything you own?”

“No need to sound so skeptical,” Tera retorts hotly, a flush crawling up her neck beneath lead-lined makeup. Her dress is a soft shade of blue that doesn’t suit her personality at all, something Syrus has voiced multiple times since she purchased it.

(“That’s the point,” she had said last time, and laughed off his offer to fix it so it wouldn’t come up again.)

“It’s a long journey, is all. I wouldn’t want Jeremy to be bored without his toys.”

“Nancy has assured me that Jeremy’s toys are already in his cabin,” Tera says, setting down the last of her bags and rolling her shoulders. She is used to travelling; the heaviest thing she owns is her silver and red armour, and the sword Syrus bought her. It is iron, Byzantine and adamantium; it matches her dagger perfectly. She still isn’t convinced he didn’t steal the dagger to copy the design, but she cannot prove anything, and she was never aware of it being away from her side.

“And yours?”

She snorts, reaching blindly for his hand. He grabs it, and she squeezes it once. “My toys are right here,” she says. From her, it’s practically endearment.

[anotherramblingfangirl]

The fine art of reverse assassination

“The night wasn't particularly unusual for Zevran. In fact, it was frankly dull, with his dear grey warden having gone out with some of the team "muscle" for some task and him being left behind at camp with nothing to do but make sure his aim with his knives didn't get rusty.

Then he heard the screaming.”

My entry for day 5 @zevranology’s ZevWarden week: Character development.

Notes: This takes place while they're on route to the Landsmeet, Arl Eamaon having gone ahead to make preparations for when they do arrive.

SFW but there is descriptions of poison and past deaths. 

Also this turned out longer than intended.

AO3 link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11656236

*Thwack*  *Thwack*  *Thwack*

Get up, go over to the tree, collect the knives and then repeat.

*Thwack*  *Thwack*  *Thwack*

Zevran sighed. It wasn't that the knives weren't hitting the target, his aim was just as sharp as always, serving as testament that his being in-between jobs, so to speak, hadn't caused his assassination skills to go rusty.

Normally, that would be enough to occupy and even entertain him, keep him mind on track, practicing how to efficiently murder.

But it simple wasn't working tonight.

He was bored.

He was bored and his mind refused to remain on task.

In fact, it kept drifting again and again to matters such as the upcoming Landsemeet, and the likelihood that there would surely be many assassins present.

He'd been to such political events himself before, and was well aware that such occasions had an undeniable allure for a humble Crow such as himself. So full of opportunities to take advantage of, in order to make someone disappear.

But this time, he wasn't going to be there for a target. In fact, this time, he and the rest of the group were in all likelihood going to be the prime targets

And he...he didn't like that feeling. No, he didn't like it at all.

So he really shouldn't be letting his mind wander. He had to be ready, prepared for what was to come. Some assassins would likely not wait for them to reach Denerim, they were a relatively small group traversing down an isolated route, after all, an ambush could occur any moment.

So of course, his dear warden had chosen now to go off on some task or other, with the team muscle.

He had muscle. Certainly, he might not have those many shoulders like their rugged Templar fellow, or be made of solid rock like their glittering golem, but he was very lean and possessed a great level of dexterity that would have made him most useful on the quest.

And indeed, he made that quite clear to their leader before they departed.

But alas, no. He was to stay here and watch the camp while they went and got to have all the fun.

And on top of that, the hound had been instructed to make sure he did not try to follow regardless, a task which the four-legged fellow seemed quite committed to following through. He'd almost be impressed with the dedication, were it not him it was inconveniencing.

That was morning.

It was now quite late and they still had not returned.

Usually, by this time, he and the Warden would be in their tent by now, having another sort of fun.

But still, no sign of their return.

Not a single peep.

He tried to tell himself he wasn't concerned. The Warden was more than capable of looking after themself, their first meeting alone being proof enough of that.

All would be fine.

They'd be back soon enough.

So, for now, he would keep trying to drown out his thoughts with the sound of metal embedding in wood.

*Thwack* *Thwack* *Thwack*

And then the mabari started barking, howling in the most distraught manner before bounding off after something.

His knife that time missed widely as he wondered what the ears of his furry friend had picked up on to set him off like that.

And then his ears picked up on it too.

That was screaming.

Getting closer and closer, the source heading directly towards camp.

That was- no!

He was up in a flash and racing through the camp, rousing? yelling at the humans and dwarf about how something was wrong and that they had to prepare themselves now!

Braska! This is taking too long! He'd perhaps be better off just following the hound into the woods himself-

- It turned out there was no need. Just as Zev was about to go running into the woods, Alistair comes bursting out of it, screaming for Wynne.

"What's wrong Alistair?" The eldelrly mage asked, as Alistair grabbed and started pulling her off.

"Yes, what's he prattling on about now? T'would seem the man has finally lost it." Morrigan mused, but even she had joined the rest for her little camp and had a look of weariness about her.

A variation of "Where's the others?" was then asked again and again as Alistair again and again failed to calm down enough to say something more detailed than "something was wrong."

Zev and Morrigan were both perhaps a bit...harsher in their phrasing in most when they asked that question.

And then came the familiar sounds of a thudding golem, the mutterings of a qunari and the keening whimper of a distraught mabari.

"They just collapsed and started I-" Alistair put his head in his hands, voice catching for a moment. Faintly, just faintly he could be heard saying "Not again. I can't lose anyone again."

And, for once, the rest of the camp is silent, as the rest of the outgoing team returned.

With their dear leader slung over the shoulder of the golem, twitching, with some wetness dripping onto the golem from where they lay.

No.

"Something's wrong with it. It-"

The moment of silence abruptly shatters the second Shale starts speaking, turning instead into yells and thudding boots as they start moving towards Shale and the twitching figure that they carried.

Shale placed the warden down onto the ground with a level of care that would have been surprising had Zevran been paying any attention to that.

He was down on his knees besides his warden in an instant, examining them, his heart pounding faster and faster as he took in the symptoms.

Spasms.

Eyes glazed over, unseeing.

Their skin so hot it almost burned to touch.

Blood trickling from their nose and leaking from the sides of their mouth with each fresh wet wheeze, as they fought to be able to breathe.

This was...oh no...oh braska he needed to see the wound n-

"Out of the way!" Morrigan snapped as she barged in, knocking him out of the way, to kneel beside their downed warden, closely followed by Wynne.

"What happened?" She snapped at the golem and qunari, a sentiment quickly echoed more politely by Wynne, who was working on looking for the wound.

Zevran didn't need to ask. He'd seen this before.

"There was an ambush. They took a blow, but it was shallow enough that we thought nothing of it and continued on. But it seems that the blades of the assailants were-"  Sten started.

"Poisoned. This is poison. How long?" Zevran snapped. He needed to know how long this had been in their system.

Sten glared at the interruption, but it was nowhere near the usual level of intensity and disdain he had when interacting with the elf. "Hours. But the blood is recent."

"How many hours?" Not specific enough, nowhere near specific enough

"We need to get them to my tent. Morrigan, help me move them." Wynne spoke, trying to hoist up the Warden. Morrigan complied.

"Everyone else, out of the way, you'll do more harm than good hovering." She demanded to the crowd, quickly making haste with the other mage to the tent.

"Wait!" Zevran called, following after them

"Not now Zevran, stay put!" Wynne didn't even glance at him as she ducked into the tent.

Zevran, of course, ignored that instruction, ducking in after them.

"Morrigan pass me that elfroot we need to- Out Zevran!"

"Ah, but I wish to offer my assistance. I believe you'll find that I am an expert, so to speak, on matters of poison, after all." He fought to maintain a cool, blasé demeanour, but the smile was blatantly faked.

Wynne and Morrigan continued working for a moment, Morrigan genuinely ignoring the offer and scowling at him but Wynne...

"Alright. But don't think we won't be watching you."

That was all Zevran needed to hear, before he was again at his dear warden's side, examining the now exposed wound.

"What?! The assassin?! What's to say-"

"Do you have a better suggestion Morrigan? We can stabilise them with the healing magic but we'll need to know what the poison is and how to cure it if we want any hope of-"

Zevran tuned them out, trying not to let himself be insulted by Morrigan's distrust for him.

He had been in the presence of the Warden sleeping, had them alone with their back to him, dozens of times. All opportunities which he, as a trained assassin could have taken advantage of, should have taken advantage of.

In fact, he should be walking off right now, leaving them to their fate. He could claim credit, that this had been his dastardly plan all along and return home to Antiva.

All he had to do, was let them die.

Like he has so many others.

But he hadn't....He cou-

He was an assassin this should be easy, but he...

He...

...

The wound was no longer bleeding, nor did it seem to be leaking any pus, but the bulging veins nearby had taken on a putrid green colour.

He knew exactly what this was.

And it was nasty.

He quickly shared what it was with the women and the three worked together after that, for what could only have been minutes of hurried concoctions and cast spells but felt like days, weeks even.

Everything had to be so very precise in order for this to work, for this to save them and the fear of it going wrong was like a tangible weight pressing down on all of them.

He was to make the antidote while Morrigan and Wynne kept their leader alive long enough for him to do so.

...And kept them pinned down long enough for him to administer it.

And then it was done.

The blood stopped dripping and their shallow, rapid wheezing breathes, deepened and regained a steady rhythm.

They were going to live.

Wynne and Morrigan had put their foot down on his presence after that quite fiercely, saying that the warden needed some space to sleep.

And he reluctantly complied.

After all, what was he but a gentleman?

They would be fine. Antidotes weren't his usual forte but he was still skilled it. As skilled as he was handsome in fact, and he was very handsome.

They would be fine.

He'd seen them.

They had to be.

So now, he was back to doing the exact same thing as before: throwing knives and trying to keep his mind from wondering.

*Thwack* *Thwack* *Thwack*

Funnily enough, he still wasn't having much luck with that.

There was, however, one benefit to that particular failure to focus.

It meant he noticed the approach of the witch, well in advance.

"T'would seem that our leader wished to see you. I would not disappoint them, were I you." Morrigan spoke with her yellow eyes narrowed.

"Do I ever?" Zev didn't need to be prompted again.

He made his way towards the tent quickly, ignoring the slander about him disappointed the warden being spoken by the tailing witch behind him.

But when he actually got there, he paused, realising he had no idea what was going to be said.

"Well, get on with it then." It seemed that Morrigan was going to be waiting outside the tent, having appointed herself as a bodyguard of sorts.

Well no matter.

His Warden wanted to see him, so see him he shall.

And so he ducked in, almost tripping over the mabari sleeping at his warden's feet as he did so.

"Miss me?"

"Hi Zev." Came the reply. So they were able to speak again already. Sure, the voice was raspy, tired, but it was still there. That was definitely a good sign.

"Feeling any better?" He sat down besides them, putting on what he thought was his most charming smile.

That was quite the scare you gave us all.

A snort. "Feeling like shit, but alive shit. I heard you helped make sure of that."

"Oh, that I did. It was a more complex poison, I'll tell you that, but I'd see it used before." He said lightly.

Children huddled together as they were pricked with coated needles, not one peep made out of any of them. They all knew what happened if you showed pain."If you want to be a Crow, you need to be able to know your poisons. Identify and find a cure to this one and you pass your test, if not, then the poison will do our work for us" the Master has said. The weakest had nosebleeds within the hour.

"No match for my amazing talents. You were in quite safe hands, my dear."

"I know." A smile. "You're probably wondering why I set Morrigan after you."

"Surely because you missed my wonderous, charming presence, no?"

"That too, but I also wanted to say thanks. Thanks for helping to save my life. I appreciate it."

"You're most welcome my dear warden! But really, I had no choice! After all the effort I put into trying to assassinate you, for someone else to succeed instead? Now that would be an insult!"

A small, weak laugh at that. "Who would think if they saw us now that our first meeting was you trying to kill me?"  

"True, true." He quipped, his face briefly taking on an unreadable expression.

Who would indeed?

"But I must ask, that poison...slow to kill, it may be, but you usually start to feel it quite soon...or so I have heard...you did not notice?'

The Warden sighed. "I did. But I thought it was nothing important. I was injured, I was tired and I was hungry, it was all just getting to my head and making me feel worse than usual. We had a mission to complete so best to just keep walking and deal with it later." They paused, biting their lip in apparent thought. "Always been bad at self-care. Next time I get stabbed I promise to take it more seriously."

"Then that is all that I can ask."

They sit in silence for a bit after that, simply thinking and taking in each other's presence.

"Could you give me a hand?" The Warden asked, shuffling about in their bed roll.

"Hmm?"

"A hand up? Best let the rest of the camp know I'm not dead."

"Are you quite certain?" He asked, examining them. He would easily do it, but he just wanted to make sure first.

Then came that familiar, lovely, wicked grin. "Always."

And with that, two hands clasped firmly together.

They would both probably be at risk of being killed by Wynne for this: Warden breaking bedrest and Zev assisting in them doing so, but he was certain he could charm his way out of it.

"Then, lets."

[wakingwriter]

When and why did you begin writing?

I’ve always written, mainly articles, but it wasn’t until 2015 that I decided to write my first novel, The Artist’s Muse. I’ve always admired anyone who has finished a novel, as I have started and abandoned so many over the years and recognize the commitment it takes to see a novel through to completion. I always told myself that I would write a novel one day but the more I talked about it the less likely it seemed that I would ever do it. Life was good and very distracting. I went out a lot, my work as a teacher was fun.

Then it happened – the event that got me to put pen to paper where everything else had failed. I was attacked in the classroom by a violent male pupil who had issues with women in authority. After that, teaching wasn’t the same.

I turned to writing. I wrote compulsively, penning articles to motivate others, writing pieces on art, travel, food. I had a desire to give meaning to my world and writing was the most powerful way to do it.

When did you first consider yourself a writer?

This is a tricky one as there’s something almost mysterious, possibly pretentious, to call oneself a ‘writer’ which belies the hard graft that goes into the writing itself. When I first started to write The Artist’s Muse I would meet up once a week with a friend who also wrote. Yet when other friends asked us what we were doing we would be evasive, self-conscious, wary of criticism and the odd raised eyebrow. It was only when I had finished the novel that I decided it was time for me to tell people about it. I considered myself a writer at that point. I had completed a work of fiction. I’d written 90,000 plus words. I’d researched the paintings I’d mentioned and the historical context, I’d edited and re-edited, removing unnecessary detail, delighting in the sounds of my sentences.  Though to call myself a writer, that took a little bit longer. It was only when articles and reviews presented me as ‘Kerry Postle, author of The Artist’s Muse‘ that it truly sank in. I had written a novel. I was ready to call myself a writer.

Why did you choose to write in your particular field or genre?

My first novel, The Artist’s Muse,  is historical/literary fiction. I’ve always loved art and art history. I’ve studied it, even taught it. I’m interested in gender politics too. And so, when I went to an Egon Schiele exhibition in Vienna back in 2015, my two loves came together. I knew what I had to write about.

I saw rooms full of paintings of the same model, the wonderful Wally Neuzil, but I could find out very little about her life. She was very evidently key to Schiele’s work, and yet, for such an important figure, she was unsettling absent. And to make matters worse, what little I did manage to dig up about her was presented from a very male perspective. I felt compelled to put this right and to tell her story from her point of view, and that’s what I’ve done. I’ve given her a voice where she presents her life with and influence on Schiele through her eyes. In this way we can understand her actions. She challenges us to judge her if we dare as she is aware that she very often swims perilously close to the limits of acceptability. However, to see how society dismisses her, how it turns a blind eye to the exploitative way that she is treated by powerful men, the reader has no option but to condemn the hypocrisy of those who should know better.  The Artist’s Muse celebrates the glittering art of turn-of-the-century Vienna while never ignoring the decay and corruption at its core.

What made you decide to sit down and actually start writing this book?

What made me start writing was the need to celebrate Egon Schiele’s art but also to challenge the right of one person to use another as a possession. I was compelled to breathe life into the artist’s muse and show her to be the inspiration she really was. The work Schiele completed with Wally is his most original. He failed to reach the same artistic heights after he had abandoned her and so The Artist’s Muse is my acknowledgment of the contribution she made to his ‘oeuvre’  and recognition of the sacrifices she had to make. I had to write it.

Tell us more about your main character. What makes him or her unique?

Wally Neuzil is the main character in The Artist’s Muse. She is Schiele’s muse and her commitment to him enables him to achieve the greatness that he does. Her voice is refreshingly unique. We follow her thought processes and although she has few choices we see, as she shares with us what she thinks, that she knows right from wrong. Exploited, in an abusive relationship, we feel her pain and understand why she does what she does. She has a knowingness about her that recognizes the wrong in what she’s made to do, yet she does it anyway because she must. Her voice is distinct and clear and she often challenges the reader directly, asking if he or she would act any differently. Her aim is to make us think, feel uncomfortable about the blind eye we may sometimes turn to the unpalatable truth before us. Yet underpinning it all is the little voice of a young girl who only ever wanted to live a good and happy life, to love and be loved.

Who is your least favorite character and why?

My least favorite character, yet the one who was the most fun to write, is the repulsive Herr Altmann. He is the most repellent character in the novel. Like a slug, he oozes bodily fluids. I’d been looking at Ursula LeGuin’s book on writing called Steering the Craft where she urges you to have fun with your language and that is what I did when I had Wally go into Herr Altmann’s study. She delivers a drawing to him (it’s of her body) and as he unrolls it the sense of menace builds up. A powerful man who abuses his privileged position, I portray him as a vile and ultimately ridiculous fool.

If your book was made into a movie, who would you cast?

Egon Schiele is the enfant terrible of the art world – stylish, handsome, louche. A young David Tennant, therefore, would be perfect but as time waits for no man I’m going to have to give the role to a younger model. Possibly Eddie Redmayne. As for Wally, his red-haired model, I would go for Sophie Turner (Sansa Stark in Game of Thrones) or Kate Mara, while the cold Emilie Flöge would be best played by Tilda Swinton or Cate Blanchett. Then there’s Klimt – not too sure who I’d like to play him. Nick Frost? The Artist’s Muse would make a wonderful film!

What is your next project?

My next project is a novel set during the Spanish Civil War. It again looks at misogyny, this time when used as a weapon in war. The trigger for the action is a war crime perpetrated by Franco’s Nationalists in a finca near the village of Fuentes de Andalucia. The soldiers, tired after a grueling campaign, kidnap local women. They are forced to cook and dance for the soldiers. Then they are raped, murdered and thrown down a well. The soldiers return to the village, bloodied underwear trailing like flags from the tips of their rifles.

What role does research play in your writing?

Research is key. It helps add authenticity to your work. When researching The Artist’s Muse two texts became central to the novel. The first was Otto Weiniger’s Sex and Character published in 1903 which is a pseudo-scientific attempt at illustrating the differences between men and women. It’s a work of unparalleled misogyny, so full of odious opinions that I found it hard to choose just one quotation to sum it up. However, the one for which I’ve opted should give you a flavor: ‘Woman,’ Weininger writes, ‘is soulless and possesses neither ego nor individuality, personality nor freedom, character nor will.’ The other text is by an Austrian feminist called Adelheid Popp. It’s called The Autobiography of a Working Woman and it shows the hardships poor working class women had to endure at the beginning of the 20th century in Vienna. I used much of the detail presented in this book to fill in the gaps and add authenticity to Wally Neuzil’s early life.

How successful has your quest for reviews been so far?

I’ve got quite a few in the UK but have struggled to get many in the USA, which is a shame, as I believe the US readership would love my story. I haven’t tried very hard to get more but that’s because I don’t know how to. Part of me hopes that the book will speak for itself, but I realize that readers need to know about it before that can happen.

Who is your favorite fictional character and why?

This changes constantly and depends on which book I’ve read recently. At this point in time, my favorite is Tabitha in Francis Spufford’s On Golden Hill. She’s really very intriguing. Nasty? Quite possibly. Prickly? Of course. But there’s something quite desperate about her that makes my heartbreak. Her own worst enemy.

Who are the writers that have influenced your work?

I studied French literature from the 11th through early 20th century as an undergraduate and specialized in 17th-century French drama and Proust’s A la Recherche du Temps Perdu for my Masters. My studies have given me an appreciation of well-written literature irrespective of genre and context. However, when I’m writing I immerse myself in books that do well whatever it is I’m aiming to achieve at that time.  If pushed I would have to say that Proust is my turn-to author when I need general inspiration. He combines great insight with a sharp wit that spares no one, least of all himself – a valuable attribute in a writer. The writing of Richard Flanagan (Gould’s Book of Fish/ The Narrow Road to the Deep North) is also a favorite, but in truth, there are so many great books out there.

  How can you discover more about Kerry Postle?

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    Kerry Postle, author of The Artist's Muse @kerry_postle #historicalfiction When and why did you begin writing? I’ve always written, mainly articles, but it wasn’t until 2015 that I decided to write my first novel, The Artist’s Muse.