#sometimes brown eyes sometimes blank sometimes grey

[artbytesslyn]

Loveeee what they’ve been doing with the Darkholme-Adlers don’t get me wrong. but good lord they need to decide what Irene actually looks like

[mightbeimpossiblenotto]

Jewel - Oct 11 - @rosekillermicrofic - 928 words - Warnings: none

It started sometime in October, when Barty wore a random sweater that Evan had never seen before. It was a lovely amber brown color, and it brought out the light brown tones in Barty’s hazel eyes beautifully. Evan couldn’t pay attention all through charms, his eyes kept finding the soft-looking sweater pulling around Barty’s shoulders.

Then, on the next Hogsmeade trip, Barty wore a brand new cloak. As he was putting it on, Barty explained that his mother had bought it for him as an extra gift after his father had forgotten his birthday for the fifth or sixth time. It was a beautiful, deep, sapphire blue, and it complimented Barty’s pale skin and dark hair wonderfully. Evan couldn’t take his eyes off of him for the entire trip to Hogsmeade.

The following week, Barty showed up to potions with a new set of dragon-hide gloves. These were one of his original birthday gifts from his mother, he explained, but Evan couldn’t focus on anything other than the turquoise leather perfectly outlining the lines of Barty’s fingers and hand. He ended up making Barty partner with Regulus, and attached himself to Dorcas, who sent him knowing looks while they brewed their potion.

At a Gryffindor party a few weeks later, Evan lost Barty for an hour or so. At these parties, they typically stuck by one another, since they were surrounded by a sea of garish red and gold, and Dorcas and Regulus made quick work of abandoning them for one of the Gryffindors (Regulus for James, Dorcas for Marlene). Pandora never came to the big parties, preferring to hang out in her common room with the other Revenclaws, having a quiet night in.

Barty finally showed up after an hour and a half, strolling down the stairs from the girls’ dorms in the Gryffindor common room, and Evan did a double take. Barty was wearing ruby red lipstick. Marlene and Dorcas were following him down the stairs, and Marlene was wearing the same shade of red lipstick, Dorcas sent Evan a wink. He was going to fucking kill them.

Barty made his way over to Evan. “What to do you think?” He asked, smacking together his ruby lips.

Evan had to will his mind not to go woefully blank so that he could come up with some kind of answer. “Very… red,” was what he finally said, and he could have hit himself in the head for the stupidity of his response.

“Yeah, that’s the shade,” Barty laughed awkwardly. “Do you like it?”

Did Evan like it? He more than bloody liked it. He wanted to see red marks all over himself, perfect little prints of Barty’s lips pressed all over his skin. But he didn’t say any of that. “Yeah, I like it. Brings out your eyes.”

Barty gave him a dazzling smile, settling on to the loveseat next to Evan. “Thanks, Rosie.”

Evan’s issue seeing Barty in certain colors continued well into the winter. Every new shade brought out something else about Barty that Evan couldn’t possibly ignore, and he was starting to be driven completely crazy. It felt as if Barty was specifically teasing him, except he couldn’t possibly know about Evan’s feelings for him (could he?).

The Yule Ball was scheduled for the last day of December before winter holidays, and Regulus and Pandora had goaded their whole friend group into attending. It was simple enough for Dorcas and Regulus, who already had dates in the form of their significant others. Barty and Evan had decided to go stag together, which Evan was simultaneously grateful for (he had negative interest in any of the girls attending Hogwarts) and horrified about (a whole night attached to Barty???).

Evan’s dress robes were brand new, bought for him by his parents with the Yule Ball in mind. He didn’t have a say in picking them out, though, and they were a dusky, boring charcoal grey. After he put them on, he looked down at himself morosely, and was grateful that he didn’t have someone he was trying to impress.

And then Barty left the bathroom, which he had commandeered to get himself ready. He was wearing dress robes in the most beautiful shade of emerald green. Evan’s mouth actually dropped open a little at the sight of him. He saw Barty in Slytherin green all the time, which was close to emerald, but more of a flat shade than the gorgeous jewel tone. The deep emerald was stunning against Barty’s pale skin and dark hair, the gold accents bringing out shades of gold in Barty’s eyes.

“How do I look?” Barty asked, and he was chewing his lip nervously.

Evan swallowed. “Barty, you look…” He couldn’t finish the sentence, which only made Barty more anxious.

“…What? Is it too much? I told mum it was too gaudy,” Barty fussed, going to turn back into the bathroom, presumably to change, but Evan reached out to grasp his wrist to stop him.

“No, Barty, you look breathtaking,” Evan breathed, and Barty turned back around with wide eyes. Evan couldn’t keep his bloody eyes away from Barty’s mouth — and he noticed a red tint. Barty was wearing a little of that fucking lipstick—

He couldn’t hold himself back any longer. He surged forward, hands coming up to cup Barty’s face and pull it to his own for a searing kiss. Barty responded enthusiastically, moaning loudly and hands coming up to play with the buttons of Evan’s robes. They didn’t end up going to the Yule Ball after all.

[luvnami]

the proper care of foxes - chapter 2 (you can stay)

author's note ɞ say hello to the miya twins and suna! / mlist warnings ɞ ageless/blank blogs and minors dni or i will block (18+) word count ɞ 500+

the white fox wakes up to sparrows chirping on your porch. the birds perch themselves on the wooden bannisters, but are quick to fly away when they spot the fox blink itself awake and stretch its limbs. 

when did the storm stop? the sky has turned a light blue, though the grass and surrounding ground is still damp. a humid smell lingers in the air. 

the fox uncurls itself and steadies itself on its four paws, leaving flakes of dried mud on the ground. the rest was good, but not sufficient. a certain weariness has carved itself into the fox’s bones ever since its bonded human passed away. no amount of sleep can relieve it. 

a dish of water and some raw meat sit by the steps leading down the hill. you must’ve left it there. the fox ambles over, shaking its dried coat out. the matted parts of its fur stick uncomfortably to its skin. the fox gives the meat a careful sniff and its stomach growls. 

but the fox knows better than to accept food from a stranger. it decides that the water is safe enough, and laps at it till the dish is half-empty. the fox then leaps down the steps and disappears from the hill. 

the grass and trees soak up the rain that has filtered through the dirt, and birds squawk at each other as they peck the fresh soil for worms. a white eagle peers at the fox as it bounds through the countryside. it remains perched on a tree branch, hidden from the sunlight, wings folded close to its body. 

the fox arrives at its destination not long after. it's a cemetery. 

.

on the other side of the land, two foxes lay in a heap. a third watches them from a safe distance away. 

i told'ja we should’ve gone for the udon! 

the two foxes are similar in size and build. one has grey fur, while the other has a yellow-orange coat. they both have a fluffy, white-tipped tail and sharp features. 

if ya didn't mess up, we wouldn’t have been caught in ta first place!

the foxes growl and pounce at each other again. 

the third fox watching them is reddish-brown, with darker patches of grey and a belly of white. its eyes give it a sleepy appearance. it knows better than to interrupt the twin foxes, so it watches them bicker.

the grey fox throws a nasty punch at the yellow one. 

“ow! ‘samu!” 

in a puff of white, the yellow fox turns into a young man. he holds his forehead with both hands where the grey fox had hit it. 

the grey fox looks unapologetic. 

“yer always so violent! can’t ya b’nice to me sometimes? would it kill ya? would it?!”

silence.

the man grumbles and flops on his back, limbs splayed out. he stares up at the sunny sky, spots of white filtering through his vision. 

“‘tsumu, i’m hungry.”

“hah?! it’s your fault we didn’t get any food in the first place, and now yer complainin’?” 

atsumu sits up suddenly, staring daggers at his brother. osamu rolls his eyes.

“whateva’. look, the fishermen should be comin’ back soon because the storm ended a while ago. i’m gonna go pinch some fish from ‘em.”

“wait! don’t go without me! ya bastard!”

in two puffs of white, the twin foxes dart towards the market, nipping at each other’s tails the entire way. 

the third fox runs after them. if it’s lucky, maybe it’ll catch some fish for dinner, too.

[stvngrantsgf]

you had me at "fuck you" ☆ post hogwarts!draco x muggleborn male!reader - Chapter One

Life for Draco after Hogwarts was what he expected as soon as he took the Mark. His dreams of greatness and the wrecking ball he imagined the Malfoy name being for his future were discarded; they were simply too damaged to repair and were a "wrecking ball" in ways he did not like. Walls that he imagined himself breaking down to rebuild as his own were broken but strengthened to keep him out. Draco wished he could say it was unfair but he knew the outside world had done nothing wrong. It was all due to his own faults.

So he did what they had all wanted him to do, he killed himself. Draco Lucius Malfoy was dead, buried with his mother and father and left to decay in Malfoy Manor. His crimes were not forgotten and he watched from afar as they brutally battered what they perceived as his corpse. He had moved away from pureblood society, stole a drunkard's wand, cast Disillusionments over every recognizable part of himself, abandoned his family's inheritance, and went to live in Muggle London where none would recognize him. He barely recognized himself.

He lived in a small flat which he shared with Spencer, a Muggle man he had obliviated into thinking he was there all along. His once striking, pale blond hair was now a plain, dull brown. His cold, grey eyes turned to a light, honeyed brown. He had cast glamours over his scars with ease, grateful for the blank slate he appeared to be. He was Deacon, a young man who worked as a bartender in the smallest, smelliest pub a couple blocks down.

Draco liked life as Deacon. No one gave him a second glance out of fear or disgust but sometimes out of attraction. He was normal. He didn't worry about the Golden Trio, the responsibilities his parents has placed on his shoulders, Voldemort's daily torturings. He could just be. And that was something he had never experienced before. As time went on and the fear of being discovered faded, Draco spent longer and longer in his glamours and disillusionments having become obsessed with the euphoria he associated with Deacon.

He was on his way to work, walking and humming a tune he had heard Spencer playing on his drums earlier.

Everlong, was it?

He had discovered within days of living in Muggle London that their music was exciting and brilliant. He hadn't known how advanced Muggles happened to be until he was surrounded by them. The telly was one of the first things he became enraptured by.

He pushed through the pub doors, flashing a smile to his friend, Sally, who worked the shift before him.

"Sally."

"What's up, Deek!"

He winced, finding the name she had given him on his first day still irritating. He looked around at the surprisingly crowded bar and leaned on the counter to talk over the blasting music.

"Is there an event tonight I didn't know about?"

The girl shook her head before pointing at something over Draco's shoulder.

"I think it's a party for birthday boy over there!"

Draco turned his head curiously over his shoulder. His back immediately straightened and his eyes widened.

The birthday boy was gorgeous. He stood on top of a chair dancing sensually to the song playing over the speakers. His hips moved side to side and his hair framed his face beautifully as he moved to the beat. He sang along to the lyrics loudly with great feeling that if Draco had not heard the accompanying music, he would have thought the boy had wrote it.

"NO! I DON'T WANT NO SCRUB! A SCRUB IS A GUY THAT CAN'T GET NO LOVE FROM ME. HANGING OUT THE PASSENGER SIDE OF HIS BEST FRIEND'S RIDE. TRYIN TO HOLLA AT ME!"

Draco smiled, watching and enjoying the show he was putting on. He bit his lip as the boy, or man rather judging by the giant headband he wore on his head with the number 20, dipped low and his low-rise jeans revealed an emerald g-string with a bow. Draco looked away, swallowing, as he turned back to Sally, who was grinning at him.

Draco rolled his eyes at her childish behavior.

"He's single, I overheard his friends when they came to get a drink. Apparently, he's looking for a man to go home with tonight."

Draco looked back at the man, who had gotten off the chair and was now giggling with his friends.

"Good for him."

He cleared his throat.

"I'm gonna put my things away. Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

"Oh no! But, Deacon! How will I manage when you're my only brain!"

"Shut it, you witch."

"I'm not a witch! They aren't real!"

Draco smirked as he walked away.

☆

A/N: Hey guys! So this is my first time writing ANY HP fanfiction - I've read A LOT though, haha. Please be kind and if you like it, comment or like so I can release Chapter Two which will be from your/my character's perspective :) also NOT proof-read

[the-fluff-piece]

Sanji x reader modern day AU part 4:

I just want some f***king lunch

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

"That sounds like my favorite kind of problem" you cooed into the phone, "it's a 'not-my-fucking-problem' Karen!"

Karen from finance has called again with complicated questions regarding spending positions so old no one remembered anymore.

"But you've got to help me!" Karen's voice wailed from the speaker. Fine. She's been here for 2 months and they're already sending her on wild goose chases for random information no one cares about.

"Fine. I'll see what I can do about that" you sighed. It wasn't her fault. But neither was it yours.

And you hadn't even looked at the 200 unread emails floating in the nirvana of your inbox. Maybe you should. Sometime.

The first mail you picked was a mile long conversation someone had forwarded with 'fyi', than came a few creatively phrased ones complaints from citizens about your workspeed. You decided the most productive thing right now was to close your eyes and think about last weekend.

A knock on the door prevented your daydreams from starting.

"Hahaha" you heard the fake laugh the upstairs secretary used as a substitute for "hello, how are you? I have loads of work for you because I don't use computers!"

She brought a stack of handwritten papers that you where supposed to turn into a coherent presentation for next week.

You felt your blood pressure rise to at-work-levels and your resolution to cut back on sugar lay abandoned somewhere in a gutter.

Biting into the cinnamon roll you got from the cafeteria made you feel at least a little better. You questioned your life's choices as you chewed and gulped it down with office coffee. Too bitter and too sweet at the same time.

Usually, your snack would have worked to lift your spirits - at least until lunch. Now, it tasted bland and unsatisfying. After the taste orgasm during the weekend, nothing you could get here or on the go would hold up. Yesterday seemed so far away now.

That sweet, precious cook, his loving gaze, great food; under the much too bright office lights shining dowm on grey carpets and brown desks it felt like a dream.

The only thing faintly reminding you of the last days was that you actually squeezed into a pantyhose and pencil skirt on a monday because you felt sexy. Sanji's apparent interest in that had made you bold enough to explore the deeper corners of your wardrobe. It was a bit tight around the ass, but that's what modern stretch materials were for.

You sighed and dialed up your old pal from controlling, he could maybe help.

"Hey, Max! You got a minute?"

"Sure do!" Max' voice sounded in your ear.

As you talked about an implausible booking from three months ago, there was kind of a commotion just outside your office - people walking quickly, raised voices. You could see it through a thin glass panel in the door.

This was a state department, people here shuffled around quietly and talked softly. There was either cake in the kitchen or a fire.

"I'll see what I can do!" Max voice sounded like yours a few minutes ago.

"Thanks, you're a lifesaver!" You said, still studying the scene in the hallway.

"You can show your gratitude by treating me to lunch" He chuckled and hung up. At least nizt everything in the office was bullshit. There were good people, too.

You decided to get up and see what all the fuss was about. What you saw as you opened your door was the last thing you expected:

Sanji lay on the floor, his head propped up on someone's bag as a makeshift pillow; people were standing around him, looking concerned.

"Sanji!" Kneeling down, you assessed his state: he was heavily bleeding from the nose and muttering something. You leaned closer and heard his whispers: "office lady...tight skirt"

Your face went blank immediately.

"Do you know that guy?" Heidi from payroll asked.

"He's cute, I'll adopt him!" Kate said. She was a mother of three, she could certainly handle him.

"He's just a friend with a peculiar illness. It causes him to faint randomly. Very rare. He'll be fine in a few minutes. Let's get him to the first aid room."

Two of your colleagues helped him up with his arms around their necks and dragged him to the abandoned room at the end of the corridor that had a small plank bed and some band aids. It barely helped anyone in an emergency, but at least someone could lie down.

They heaved him onto the bed and told you to call of he needed more help. You got some bandages from the first aid kit and tried to stop the bleeding by stuffiing them into his nose like little plugs.

"Hey, what?" You screamed as something pinched your thigh.

You looked down and saw Sanji's hand on your skirt, holding on.

"Hey princess!" He coughed dramatically.

"What the hell happened?" You proceeded to stuff rolled up bits of bandage up his nose.

"Wanted to surprise you! I brought lunch" He nasally mumbled.

"That's sweet, but why where you lying on the floor?" You saw the colour return to his cheeks as he recovered slowly.

"You took me by surprise!" He said.

"That skirt...the blouse...oh god..." he seemed to lose it again, but reigned his lower instincts in with sheer willpower.

"I thought...I was prepared but" He grinned like a little pervert as his hand and eyes went exploring again.

"Sanji!" You smacked his hand and he seemed to snap out of it for good.

"Of course, I'm Sorry!" He sat up and tentatively removed the plugs from his nose. "I brought some lunch! A nice Sandwich and a chocolate soufflé for dessert." He grinned widely.

"A...Sandwich?" You were a bit disappointed. A sandwich was so mundane compared to everything else he had made.

Sanji swallowed hard at the very clear inflection of uncertainty in your voice.

"I swear it's great! You'll love it!" He jumped from the stretcher and took your hands.

"And I know the perfect place for our picnic!" He cooed as his eyes got glazed.

"Let's gooooo!" He already grabbed your hand and dragged you with him - and stumbled a bit when you didn't move.

"Sanji" you said, pointing at your watch, "it's still a bit early for lunch, I'll need to get back to work for at least half an hour."

He looked as disappointed as you felt, but just like blue sky breaking through the clouds, his blue eyes started sparkling again.

"I'll just wait and watch you work!" He smiled.

"I guess you can wait here for a bit, but it's extremely boring stuff" you answered,"it's just me on the phone or typing, really."

"I've never worked in an office! This is actually quite interesting." He rubbed his chin.

"Well, if you insist..."

Sanji

He got to sit on a small chair in the corner of her office and watch her. It was in fact so small, he almost didn't know where to put his long legs.

Opting for some kind of half-crouch, his arms resting on his knees, he settled in to drink in more knowledge about her. This was where she spent a lot of her time.

He didn't get most of what she said or did, but she did it in a professional way. Her small fingers typed incredibly fast on the keyboard as she wrote emails that would have taken him probably a few hours to find the words for.

On the phone, her voice took on a Business tone, very professional.

Her desk was full of paperwork, files and books. How could she keep track of it all? Sanji wasn't one for paperwork, so this was like magic to him.

That's my cute y/n-chan, so smart! , he thought to himself. A hard worker, she needs a good lunch to keep up her strength.

The ringing of the phone knocked him out of a short daydream, where she came home from a long day at work to find a perfect dinner on the table, made by her perfect boyfriend.

He half listened as she talked.

"...thanks Max, you're a lifesaver! Next lunch is on me, I promise!"

Ok, so she talked to a guy.

Now she giggled.

"Yes, see you there. Bye!" She slammed the receiver down to end the call and hummed to herself.

So she talked to a guy and giggled. No big deal. Sanji tried to tell himself that.

"So....who's this Max?" He asked, trying hard to sound relaxed.

"Old colleague, we help each other out sometimes." She scribbled a note and began sifting through a file.

"Oh, ok" Sanji was sure this guy was absolutely bound on taking her from him. How could he not? She was so cute! He would have to...

"Alright, 12 o'clock, lunchtime!" she threw her pen down, locked her computer and was out before Sanji could finish his thought.

She punched out for lunch and Sanji could see an alarming number of overtime hours on the digital screen. This girl needed some Savoir Vivre asap.

So this took a year longer than expected,but better late than never.

Is this part the battle hymn for the overworked mid 30s girl? Yes. Is it unapologetically shit I have to deal with every day? Also yes. Is it what I sometimes envision to make work bearable? Absolutely. Your blorbo is sitting in the corner of your office and rooting for you!!!!!

[snailsgoingdowntown]

Intrigued With You

i ii iii iiii

Yandere! Pinocchio x fem! Mechanic! Reader

Warnings: mention of death and injuries, Geppetto’s unhealthy obsession with Pinocchio, mention of the illness going on in the universe of “The Lies of P,”, inaccurate portrayal of the game demo because I am not done with it yet, when the game comes out, this work may be completely different from the actual game.

This blog contains/creates and interacts with dark content, so if you are uncomfortable with that, don’t interact.

Disclaimer: I do NOT condone any of the toxic and harmful behaviors/thoughts that take place in this piece of fiction. None of this should be romanticized or considered normal as it is extremely toxic and dangerous.

Dead dove don’t eat.

Minors/ageless blogs that are blank/barely have anything, dni or you will be blocked.

Over all story Summary: Your uncle’s puppet takes a little too much of an interest in you.

Wc: 2169k

--

The first time you saw ‘him’, you almost mistook ‘him’ for a human.

A living, breathing, emotional human, who could laugh and cry and yell. Constantly reminding yourself that it is a puppet, a project that is not done yet, you can’t help but feel uneasy whenever you go to visit your uncle. He loved that puppet, yet there was something sinister about the way he would look at it. Obsessed with it even, the damn thing taking up more of time than his other projects.

Inventions that were only child’s play, usually leaving the rest to the workshop. But this puppet? This puppet is a personal job, and whatever it’s being made for is unknown. But, to you, it feels like he’s making it to be a pseudo son – something he created with his own hands, a blank canvas that, unlike the other ones, was expected to feel things that a puppet shouldn’t feel and think things that it shouldn’t.

It was bad enough that the citizens were relying on the puppets a little bit too much. And it was bad enough that your uncle was fussing over a puppet that didn’t provide any actual use, a replacement for a son he can’t have, yet, at the same time, the puppet also meant nothing to him. Like it could easily be replaced.

You also don’t like the left mechanical arm, or the fact that weapons are being implemented onto every mechanical arm made for that puppet. You don’t like how human it looks, the material not steel nor metal, and looks too realistic to be porcelain. You don’t like how your uncle made the eye color the same as his, a blue grey that’s completely lifeless. You don’t like the carob brown hair, the way it looks so natural, the way it’s messy and has curls. You don’t like how there’s no segments separating the visible limbs, and you pray to God that your uncle didn’t plan on giving it a dick for shit and giggles.

You don’t like the puppet.

You don’t like any the puppets.

Yet, at the age of twenty-two, you had no choice but to work in the field, testing them, repairing them, scraping them if they were considered a ‘failure’. To be there when everything went wrong and a few people were injured or worse, dead.

You hate your parents for shoving you to the field, to your uncle, and you hate your uncle for thanking them. You hate that instead of seeing and working on puppets that look like puppets, you were entrusted with one that looks too human.

And yet, as you stand in front of it in your uncle’s personal little workshop, you still admire the beauty of it. You refuse to touch it. Your only job is to repair any of the mechanical arms that break, to work on the voice box, to repaint the eyes, to fix up the clothes. Your uncle is the one touching, the one experimenting, the one expecting. The one looking forward to its eyes opening someday.

The ‘heart’ lays in your hands, gears visible in the middle, glass covering them. Gold in color with a chain attached. Sometimes it ‘beats’ – you almost dropped it the first time it happened. And sometimes, it feels a little too realistic, if you ever held a heart, like in fiction. Your fingers tremble, fixing the gears as they get stuck again. You ask for more oil.

“Uncle… out of curiosity… have you eaten at all today?” You look out from the corner of your eye, the table in front of you cluttered with numerous parts, some broken, some not. He doesn’t answer, placing an eye into one of the sockets. “Uncle,” you repeat, turning to face him fully, “did you eat today?”

Your voice is louder, and to add more effect, you slam your hand onto the table that’s now behind you. He jolts, startled, and almost drops the eye. He doesn’t mention it. “Ah what?” He cranes his neck to look at you over his shoulder. He heard your voice but not the question.

“Did you eat today? Anything at all? Or even a sip of water?” raking a hand through your hair, you lean against the table, shoulders slumping over. “It’s the third time I asked you – three times too many.”

He laughs, looks away to place the eye in the socket property this time. “Well… not yet, but I was about to say something about it.”

“You’re lying.”

He laughs again, shoulders shaking, and with a sigh, pats the puppet’s hair before turning to you. He grabs his goat disregarded on the stool next to him, fingers adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He smiles but there’s barely any emotion in his eyes. “You caught me once again. Make sure to get your coat – it’s chilly outside.”

The trip to the nearest café was longer than it should be, if you had been paying attention to the actual goal rather than chatting with your uncle’s friends and acquaintances. You just smile and nod, answering any questions they may have about the current trends ‘youngsters are into today,’ bouncing questions about the puppets around. You don’t want to talk about that dreadful job when you’re finally out in the sun, enjoying the cool wind that gently sways your hair, the smell of pastries as your stomach grumbles.

You miss your social, normal life that wasn’t centered around things you both hate and fear.

“- I heard one of the new police models are dysfunctional,” an older woman whispers, shoulders tense. She continues, “but it still works properly with children. Apparently, the children love it – but… I can’t help but feel that it’s just an accident waiting to happen.”

Your uncle stays quiet, gaze on the ground as he mulls over it. So, you’re the one who asks the question, “How is it dysfunctional? Does it break down often? Attack others?” Your heart beats faster with each word, the worst scenarios plaguing your mind. You’re scared to ask the questions, but you needed to know. Needed to fix It if they don’t scrap it.

She takes a pause before answering. “It blows up, sometimes. Or glitches, and just overall, not very good at the job it’s supposed to do. It’s more of a mascot than anything. Such a shame too, it would have been perfect to capture criminals.” She sighs, tension never leaving her body.

It must be one of the larger models.

If that’s the case, then you’re fucked. Big time, because that model was already a risk to handle, let alone make. You barely got The Parade Master to work properly three weeks ago. The number of injuries the employees suffered was not worth the stupid thing. It was too big to handle, and now they want a big cop one? Everyone is going to die if that thing glitches out.

“Oh, but that’s not the only thing going on. It doesn’t involve the puppets, but it’s still… concerning.”

“What is?” Your uncle pipes up, responding now that the subject wasn’t about a puppet with a potential glitch in its system. The woman purses her lips, trying to find the right words to say. Again, she pauses before she whispers in even a quieter voice;

“The illness going around. The one that forms blue bumps and makes people go crazy and blind.” Her face turns pale, fingers messing with the handle of her purse. Everything goes quiet, the three of you staring into space. There’s nothing you could do about that, can’t even get involved, the medical experts doing samples and attempting to treat the ones who have it.

“Well… just keep clean, if possible,” your uncle says.

--

It’s on the third month of working on that puppet when you finally finish the voice box. The voice sound should be youthful, one to match ‘his’ pretty face and slim physique. The puppet is still lifeless, and you still refuse to touch it. You hate being involved with it in any form. You just want to smash it, seeing your uncle’s obsession with it turn into madness. It’s all he can think about, almost all he cares about, his entire world at this point.

He even calls it his son.

It makes you hate the puppet even more.

The voice box is given another polish, fingers sore and worn out, no longer as soft as they should be. Nails with dirt and grim underneath, grease covering your skin, eyes strained – three months of working on this damn thing, and there’s still more to do. More to experiment with, more to spend on, more to worry about, more to lose. You swear to God you just might sell this thing just to get rid of it. Just to make the feeling of unease go away, to forget about its existence completely.

You just want to be done with the thing.

“How’s it going?”

You scream, turning around only to trip over spare parts that fell off the table. A hand reaches out to catch you, but it only results in smashing your head against the floor, and a body landing right on top of you. The air is knocked out of your lungs, and you squirm, kicking and pulling at hair – anything to get whoever this is off you.

You only stop when one hand covers your mouth, the other grabbing both of your wrists. And you only stop resisting completely when you see your ex-boyfriend – Howard. And it is Howard who curses instead of you, gently letting go and getting off once he realizes you’re not going to hurt him anymore. And it is you who stays on the floor, ponytail causing discomfort as you lay your head there, heart finally calming down and hands clasped over your chest. And it is you who lets out the biggest sigh, happy that it's someone who means no harm.

Supposedly.

“Jeeze… while I do like hearing you scream; I’d prefer if it was in ple- “

 “Off, off, off!” you sit up to push him off, Howard landing on his butt with a thud. He scoots to give you room to pull your legs to your chest, pants now covered in even more grime and grease. You’re going to kill him. You really will.

“Howard.”

“(name).”

You stare at each other, the silence deafening. The breakup was messy at best, lost feelings, and a bittersweet love. You’re not sure why you kept in touch, or why he didn’t tell his parents about the ordeal, while yours were unaware you were even in a relationship to begin with. You’re not sure why he still ‘loved’ you enough to try and try again.

You don’t know why he’s here.

As if he’s reading your thoughts, he provides an answer. “Your uncle told me to check up on you.”

“Ah.”

He stares at you as you stare at your feet. With a sigh, he pushes himself up, extending his arm to you, hand ready to take yours. You don’t take it.

You push yourself off before dusting off your pants.

“I wonder why he would do that… ah, it doesn’t really matter,” you ignore the way his eyes follow you. The voice box is once again in your hands, and for the fifth time today, you polish it. Watch the way it gleams under the harsh light, the way it trembles alongside your hands. The puppet sits in a plush red chair, eyes, mouth close, and limbs limp. It still looks more human than puppet.

Howard doesn’t comment on your trembling hands, instead taking interest in the puppet. He walks towards it, extending a hand out only to draw it back. Your uncle would kill him – you were the only one with permission to touch any of your uncle’s work in progress. It’s still not done yet, still needs work, still needs to be ‘perfect’. It seems you’re not the only one unnerved by the puppet.

“Creepy… it’s amazing how he managed to make it so human-like…” he tilts his head, taking in every detail. From the brown freckles to the way its fingernails look trimmed. “What kind of material did he use for the skin? There are no segments to separate the fingers or even the neck, and it looks too realistic.”

“I’m not sure. He hasn’t told me.”

“Yet?”

“He doesn’t plan on telling me,” Is all you say before playing the voice box down. Down goes your ponytail, fingers rubbing at your sore scalp. Everything hurts, from your head to your feet, hands sore and slightly shaky. You want to go home. You’re not sure how much longer you can keep going with this job. The puppets scare and worry you too much for your mind to stay sane.

Howard hums in acknowledgment, turning away from the puppet to look at you, a crooked smile on his face.

“Want to go get lunch?”

[mossfeathers]

Writing and art for day 16 of lifetober: Deal

Fic takes place in an AU by my friend Rose in which the rage crystal Scar gives Tango has a few strings attached. If you guys like this, I have more written I can polish up + post!! Word count: 1.3k TW/CW: Possession, panic attack (implied), swearing, villain Scar (not really a cw just a heads up)

“Tango, Tango, Tango, I’m sure you’re wondering why I called you here,” Scar said, voice low, not quite a growl but still menacing enough and grinning with the sort of happiness that wouldn’t end well for anyone else. His pale grey hair was long and a few of the more wild strands draped over his face, breaking apart the cutting gaze of his bright yellow eyes staring right through Tango.

‘Well not really, mister crystal-butt-man. Me and my crew back there were just coming by for a bit of enchanting-magic-funtimes and you were all ‘Ooh only Tango can come in’ and shooed my guys away. Jerkface.” Tango leaned back in the ornate wooden chair Scar had pulled up for him in front of the amethyst pedestal the enchanter usually sat upon, twirling the emerald-green crystal he had bought from Scar just a few days prior boredly in his ash-tinted fingertips. “But I’ll bite. Whaddya want, Scar?” Scar’s such a pain sometimes, honestly, Tango thought to himself. Always asking for this or that and another and never giving anyone the time of day, favoring selling you a clock over sympathy. Tango really wished he wasn’t stuck with him in the wizard hut, but it’d be rude to leave and he’d rather not tick off the one guy who had a knack for tracking down the enchanter.

“I’m so glad you ask! It’s all got to do with that little crystal you got there. It’s been working, right?” Scar said, leaning forward in his chair with a sick smile, crossing his hands under his chin. 

“Yeah?” He stopped fidgeting with the crystal and now let it dangle limply from a thin brown string looped on his fingers

Scar’s grin widened. “Excellent! Oh, I’m so glad to hear it! The custom rage crystal, if I remember correctly. Well, not to go full ‘Villain-Scar’ mode here, but I may have… let’s say neglected to mention a bit of fine print on that fine piece of merchandise. I’ll be honest with you, I don’t feel like explaining it so I’m just going to show you. Besides, I think you’d get the point more if you just saw it in action,” Scar said as he stood up from his own chair, grabbing the wooden cane leaning on it, bejeweled with an intricate laying of crystals and engravings of cats. Tango grimaced and laughed awkwardly, not quite sure what else to do.

“Hey buddy, you feelin’ ok?” Tango barely managed to get the words out before Scar had closed the distance between them, looming over him with unnerving authority.

“Ok Tango, I’m going to need you to stay very calm, alright? Ok?” Tango nodded along slowly, a pit of concern growing in his stomach. “Great! Now, I need you to go get me a diamond from Joel’s cave. I trust you know where that is, right? Bye!” Scar spoke quickly and excitedly, words bouncing with anticipation and playful malice.

Tango’s face dropped. He tucked the crystal into his pocket and made his way down the ladder and out of the wizard’s hut without a sound. This, in theory, was against his will, but his mind was just blank, like someone had smudged out all his thoughts as one cleans off a whiteboard after using it in school. There wasn’t a will left to defy, the only thing in his mind the faint ringing of an order, carried out dutifully by his body. His hair flickered weakly, fire somehow managing to glow less than it should. To someone who knew Tango, they wouldn’t have thought him to be himself, lacking a certain swing in his step so signature to himself. Once he reached the edge of the mountain, his dull eyes hardly glanced down as he walked off, stumbling off jagged edges and drops, scraping knees and elbows until he reached the front of Joel’s cave. By some miracle, he wasn’t home, and Tango dragged himself through the entrance and started to rummage around through a few chests, getting nicked by a spare sword left unsheathed in the wreckage, until he pulled out a diamond, sharp edges seeming to glow in the miserable afternoon’s light that flooded the cavern. His eyes sparked with something akin to recognition, and hardly a second later he was heaving himself up the cliff-face.

He stumbled through the door, breathless with a straight face, to Scar’s awaiting smile leaning against the wall next to the ladder going up to the enchanter, idly twirling his hair between his fingers. Scar extended his hand, Tango dropped the diamond in, and promptly collapsed; a puppet with its strings cut. His hair exploded upwards, flames licking the roof of the shop floor and body small as he took in heaving, gasping breaths. He was shaking, but more importantly he was back. His thoughts flooded back in, horrified and scared and screaming, desperate cries to get back into his own head swirling with relieved terror at release back into his mind, the flood of sudden information and emotion making him sick to his stomach. After a long, anguished moment, he looked up at Scar with furrowed brows, rage boiling over alongside tears out of bright red eyes.

“What the fuck have you done,” he growled, furious and terrified and helpless all at once as he stared with the most intense hatred he’d ever felt at Scar, stronger than Bdubs, stronger than the games themselves. His gold eyes just smirked down at him, glinting with the sort of mischievous malice he’d now learned to fear. Tango made a move towards the dagger he kept hidden in his back pocket, wanting nothing more than to bring him down to his knees, make him feel even a fraction of the anguish he felt rushing through his body, make him hurt.

“Oh, can you stop that?” Scar laughed, and Tango felt his hand freeze in place, that same complicit nothing washing over him in a wave of pure white nothing. “Would you mind getting up too? I don’t want the floor getting damaged, that stuff’s not cheap!” He stood up.

Tango was still shaking. Badly, in fact; he could hardly stand. But Scar had said he needed to stand, so he would. Scar hadn’t stopped smiling the whole time, as if this was just a joke, just a prank. Just a prank. The fact Scar hardly cared, didn’t think what he was doing, whatever he was doing, was a terrible thing made Tango want to tear him apart with his bare hands, limb from bloody limb. It filled him with such violent, earth-shattering rage Tango forgot about the crystal sitting in his pocket. It filled him with so much rage while he couldn’t do anything but listen when Scar started to speak again.

“So! Whaddya think? I’m proud of myself for that one, I mean who else would have come up with putting a control spell on a crystal? Genius, right? It’s really quite easy, to quote Mumbo. You’ve got questions, I’m sure, but I’m not quite qualified to answer them. I’m just your local wizard, after all. I cast the magic, not a clue how it works.” Scar sighed, a slight shrug in his shoulders. “I can try though.”

“Just tell me what the hell you’ve done to me.” Tango’s eyes were bright with fury, and he could hardly spit out the words through his throat thick with anger, voice cracking as he did so. “Now.”

“Were you even listening? Gosh, it’s a control spell, Tango. Simple, too. I just… say what I need you to do, and you listen! All tied to that little crystal you got in your pocket there. Rather convenient for me, you’re like my little helper! I really am sorry for not mentioning it beforehand, I just needed you to take the deal. Think of this as a good thing! We’re very lonely here in the wizard hut after all, and I do believe this is the start of a beautiful friendship.” Tango didn’t do anything but bore into Scar’s soul with his burning eyes. “I apologize for any discomfort, can’t do anything about that I’m afraid. Oh, and don’t mention this to your little crew, okay?”

Tango just stared at Scar, and he only walked out when Scar said he could.

[synthetic-sadness]

Brooklyn Baby

photo credits to owners on pinterest (mine is green filter edition)

Pairing: Peter Steele x Lana Del Rey

Word Count: 13k

Warnings: 18+, Slight Angst, Self-Esteem issues, Slight NSFW, Slight OOC (really tried not to), Alcohol Issues, Developing Relationship, 90s setting;

I saw that well-known photoshop of them both and couldn’t help myself. I’m a creep, writing about pairings that one person like (me 👈) is my fetish 👹 English is not my native language, this is my first work so it may contain some mistakes. Enjoy ✨🧚‍♀️

NSFW under the next cut 💚

They broke her heart every time when she decided that one of these men is the only one for her, special. She was so naive, even after all of these nasty heartbreaks she somehow stayed pure.

Sad hazel eyes, but there's the light still seen in.

He had a big heart, that had been stitched, almost torn by many of long red nails of gothic and ordinary long-haired «succubuses». He'd been tricked countless times that he didn't even remember correctly the lies they'd been saying to him. And he almost gave up, almost decided to not to fall in with anyone, but still wanted to love and be loved one day.

Big sad green eyes, but there's a hope still seen in.

They met each other at the festival. She had just dropped her new album and a good respected label noticed her and offered a contract. At first she didn't trust them because of her previous record which flopped almost immediately, but in the end decided to say yes. And, after all, Elizabeth got a real jackpot.

He, at the same time, had been promoting Type O's album "Bloody kisses" in tours for two years. Meanwhile, the new material for a next release had been accumulating gradually, but there was no time for a proper work. Moreover, guys felt rather tired not only to write new songs, but to give concerts. Sometimes they couldn't decide what to do: to kill each other, because of living on a bus for a few years together and having enough, or to kill themselves.

And Lizzy, on the other hand, was excited to perform in front of a large number of people. Finally, these years of being in "underground scene" had paid off and she could present her music to various listeners.

But beside a thrill there was a huge fear. Not paralysing, but still.

She used to give concerts in bars and small clubs and the last one also were new to her. Girl was just getting used to its surroundings, to crowd of more than twenty people, when a manager said that she'll attend a festival in Europe. It was huge and she was completely terrified by the thought of many people would be there but tried not think about it a lot.

And the day came.

Her hotel room was comfortable but felt blank because of its colour — white. Not this cold hospital white one which make you feel anxiety, but soothing empty white. There were only a few colourful pieces of furniture: round mirror framed with brown wood, grey carpet and her black suitcase. Nothing special.

There was an odd feeling inside Lizzy's chest when she was looking around her surroundings while preparing clothes and make up for the show. It was that moment, when nothing special is happening, but you know that this scene will imprint in your mind as something meaningful.

It was a feeling. Probably it would be a great concert for her.

The hotel was close to the festival's field so it didn't take too long to reach their destination. And when Elizabeth saw a crowd of people she was not only shocked by the number of them but also by their looks. They were all different, but there were so many metalheads that girl immediately wanted to scream at her manager "What am I going to do here?!"

"Take it easy, it's a mixed crowd," said her tech-guy. "There are enjoyers of indie too. They just decided to bring together alternative sub-genres."

"Oh," was all that she could say.

One hour left before the show and their team chose to have a look around. Elizabeth was examining people, listening to their conversations and small talks, looking at other's bands merch tents and just trying to get use to the festival in general. When she got tired of it, which happened pretty quickly, she went to a backstage for preparing.

And there, turning her head and searching for the right direction, Lizzy happened to bump into someone pretty damn harshly.

A strong and massive hand on her left shoulder stopped her from collapsing onto floor but she still stumbled little bit.

"I'm sorry, I'm just huge for this world and you're kinda petite for mine," said a very tall man in extremely deep voice which impressed Elizabeth and even scared a little bit.

"Oh, that's okay, I'm really clumsy today," she chuckled lightly and fixed her hair reflectively because she had spent a few hours by making the vintage hair-dress and didn't want to ruin it.

"Stay safe," the big man nodded shortly but politely and went into the depths of the backstage area which consisted of black boxes with equipment, many sound-tech and light-tech guys, bands with their groupies (there were few of that girls, but still they were), just people who worked at the festival and all of these folk were hidden from view of audience by many metal bars and tent roof.

"Wow..." Lizzy chuckled again being impressed with his height and voice. What a man, really. He looked like a living example of testosterone.

This short encounter cheered her but the girl still couldn't get rid of this creeping anxious feeling in her lower stomach.

Rest of the time of waiting Elizabeth was watching other bands play. Tried to watch their show attentively and understand their art but after every few minutes she was returning to the only one thought: "Fuck, there is gonna be my turn soon! What am i going to do?!". Even if she liked music the fear of failure was so strong that it almost made her choke and cry.

But the girl pulled herself together and when the time had come and violinists started playing the heartbreaking tune she gladly took a hand of one of her tech-guys, who helped her got on stage because of her high wedge shoes and shaking knees it was so easy to twist an ankle and emabarras oneself.

It was daytime. The sun was shining high in the sky but hidden behind some kind of milky haze, there was no a single cloud and no reminding that it could be blue. Just this milky silk with rare golden sun rays.

And because of it the crowd was clearly seen. Many musicians say that doing shows in an afternoon is hard task and Lizzie was not exception.

All of these tiny people dressed in different clothes and looking like scattered skittles on the floor were clearly visible. But it's no more funny when you start gaze in to their faces and see how they were impatiently waiting to see and hear something good.

Elizabeth let out a great breath, opened her mouth and it all happened by itself. So naturally and so right.

Peter was irritated and tired because they had to perform late in the evening and it was only 3 p.m. He had already done everything that the man usually did when he was bored to death and paralyzed by stage fright: firstly, drank a bottle of wine, then got into small argument with Josh but it wasn't a big deal because they both knew that they all were tired of touring, met some fans, signed their CD's and merch t-shirts and also had a good chat with them.

The only thing that Peter liked in touring was communication with their fans. These people literally were giving away their money that they had earned just to see these "four dead trees" standing on stage. Because of fans and due to the fact that they were buying Type O's albums the group members could live on this money and pay taxes. So, Mr. Steele was so grateful to them, loved them for supporting his art and treated with unlimited respect. Also, the musicians and their fan base had something in general; especially it were sense of humour and music taste.

After spending some time chatting with other bands that guys knew before and getting acquainted with new people, Kenny, Johnny and Peter decided to come closer to the stage and look at the next perfoming person while Josh was somewhere else trying to ease an awful headache.

"Oh, that's something different that we've heard here," said Kenny when violins sounded and then a guitar.

"Yeah, I think it's some kind of an experimental artist or I don't know," the drummer also was interested in the current song.

That's the girl that I had almost crashed today, thought Peter and watched how this particular girl untangled a microphone's wire.

And when she started to sing... Well, Kenny was right: that was something that they hadn't heard before.

The audience was hypnotized and so was the gigantic gothic frontman. People, who were close to him, knew that Peter liked not only hardcore music but something sensual, slow and calm; that's why he had admiration for bands such as Cocteau Twins, Portishead and Dead Can Dance. And this particalr perfomance caught his attention instantly... but not only by music.

She looked like she might glow against the beige sky: in that white lace dress with golden cross on her chest, old-fashioned makeup, red long nails and red hair made into the Priscilla Presley's hairstyle it seemed like the girl came straight from the past. And her tunes also were somewhere between present and the times when people used to worship no God but Hollywood and its platinum blondies in golden dresses. This was particularly noticable in the "National Anthem" song. It was a strange mix, audience didn't understand it fully but they liked the whole experience.

She just came and dragged everyone into her weird but magical portal while tearing apart space and time. And Peter was the first who willingly let her take him away.

"Well, I can say this oficially. She's cool," said Johnny and blew smoke while Kenny was listening carefully to the melody and Peter... well, Peter was smitten and even confounded because the man didn't remember the last time when he was so captivated by music which always had been something intimate to Steele.

He was stunned by her sadness and ethereal melancholia that was running through all of her songs and the set, but what amazed him the most it's "Without You". It was like a painful love letter put into a heartbreaking cry and all of these was sang to the accompaniment of a piano and a violin. The girl was so fragile and feminine at that moment, looking like that "China doll" she sang about that Peter and others wanted to know about whom it was. And he felt desire to be... that man?

Well, yes, she had gotten him charmed by her music, so it was no surpise that the big frontman was impressed by her genuine and shy stage persona, not to mention that she was really beautiful.

The girl looked languid but at the same time her behaviour on stage was adorable: she slowly strolled, smoked from time to time, couldn't keep a cool facade and smiled and giggled when people were cheering and giving other positive reactions. Such a cutie.

"Fuck, this weed doesn't make any sense to my migraine," tired and gloomy Silver finally decided to join them backstage but slowly stopped. "Tell me, am I got so stoned or is there Priscilla Presley on stage?"

"No, it's just some retro girl doing her set," snickered Peter.

"Yeah, and she's kicking asses," the drummer exclaimed. It was always so hilarious to hear him talk and do interviews while other members were around, because unlike them he sounded cheerfully and looked like a golden retriever all the time.

"But slowly," added Hickey.

"Deeply and harder," Steele joked referencing their first album and all of them shared small laugh. It wasn't a joke in general, he really thought that the singer put her heart into the art. And the man was not the only one who came to such conclusion; everyone noticed that as well.

When the set came to the end she blew a kiss and waved under the sound of cheering crowd, looking absolutely happy and terrified at the same time. And there, offstage, people also were clapping for her which immediately made her cheeks burn with heat. She did it, but her body was still shivering uncontrollably.

After a while this blood-sucking feeling was no longer gone and was replaced by a pleasent numbness. There, before the show, everything felt like an eternal nightmare, and now Lizzie was almost floating.

In recording studio she felt at home, but in front of audince it was quite opposite. A disgusting feeling, like someone is peeling your skin, however Lizzie thought that life is short. Once she said that It's important to show yourself in the light that you'd like to be shown and the light she'd like to be shown in is not necessarily in a spotlight in front of everyone else. She loved to introduce herself to people through her lyrics and the way that she thought because she liked it. The way that she looked on stage in front of thousands of people wasn't really her thing but she tried to do her best. But only her closest ones knew that.

And that night, after the stressful but successful perfomance, she decided that examining other musicians may help her learn from them some tiny tips. But the girl stayed not only because of "studying process" — she wanted to find a new music and have a great time because the main difference between gigs and festivals is that that they give you more energy and emotions.

Rock and metal wasn't really her thing but Elizabeth was shocked by an attitude of bands because some of them did a really crazy shit on stage.

And how high was level of her curiosity when she saw that tall guy in a green t-shirt with his band. Of course Lizzie understood that he was some kind of musician when she ran into him but she expected him to play a batshit crazy metal and scream his head off (well, actually he did it few times) but not a slow, dark and extremely sensual heavy tunes. What was more surprising that his persona and deep low voice were created for this type of music which the girl started to enjoy sincerely.

She had a great opportunity to see the man from head to toe: huge, pale and muscular, with long wavy black hair, tattoos on each biceps and beautiful manly vocal which amazed with its sensuality and low tones at once. His sharp, almost sculptured face features with sullen look on them were seen from a distance and after all it was no surprise that women who were backstage decided to watch the show. Other guys in the band were no less cool, they even complemented each other which was amazing, but all of the focus was on the gigantic frontman-vampire with bass guitar on chain strap and a bottle of wine on a box case next to a mic stand, who rolled letter "R" and was making sarcastic jokes with crowd. And what about the instrument Lizzie couldn't keep her giggles when she noticed how small it looked in his hands. What an insane view.

But what was more insane that in the end of the set he just tore the guitar strings with bare hands and silently walked away from the stage with band members. That was a sight that Elizabeth would remember for a long time.

The night was in a full swing, only few bands were about to perform but most of people and musicians were partying hard and enjoying themselves. Type O's were not exception. Some guys decided to throw a party in their bus and it was full of drunk folk dancing, drinking and rocking it from side to side with their actions. When Josh saw this shit he rolled his eyes and decided to have a walk at least untill there would be ten strangers and calm his aching head.

His dear childhood friend was also an introverted soul but sometimes touring routine had been killing him and Peter had no choice but to surrender. And when after few glasses of red wine he felt that he was gonna to throw up because of blaring loud music and flirtatious laugh of women who were trying to hook up with him or other members, the man stood up and walked out of the hellish tour bus.

Chilly night air was like a blessing after that stinky transport that he was sick and tired of being in for two years. Why did he quit his job at the Park Department? Why was he such an idiot? He constantly reaproached himself — especially after drinking his favourite drink.

Peter slowly strolled looking at cheerful and drunk people illuminated with colorful spotlights, feeling how the ground was shaking under his legs with every beat of drums on stage. He loved music with all of his heart but sometimes such atmosphere annoyed him and because of it he decided to go somewhere quieter and less crowded.

And there she was. Standing leg-crossed with a cigarette between delicate long fingers, looking thoughtfully somewhere to the left while many colorful rays of spotlights were flashing behind her back. In that white lace dress she looked like a vision, a ghost, an angel. Completely didn't fit into the surroundings.

Peter really was stunned by her (and her bad habit that he had a fetish for) and even though he wasn't a confident man he thought that he would be a total fool if he wouldn't say few words to her. And he approached her.

"Hi, I'm that guy who almost killed you today," said Peter with a little smirk on his face.

"And I'm the dwarf from your world," she smiled. She had such a cute voice in everyday life, he thought.

"Just wanted to say that your perfomance was great, same with your music," his words were really genuine.

"Oooh, thanks..." the girl instantly turned color and added, "You guys were cool as well."

"Nah, we suck but it's not blood," he brushed off and she started laughing and her giggling sounded light and gentle like a crystal bell.

"Well, I can't agree with you," the fragile singer playfully shaked her head.

"Then you definitely didn't see us,"

"I may be blind but definitely not deaf," she said and sucked in the smoke again.

"Well, I can't agree with you," Peter flashed her a toothy grin and even though she laughed he noticed that his fangs caught her out off guard for a second.

But the moment was interrupted unexpectedly by a man, who seemed to be disturbed by something. He ran up to them quickly and made both worry.

"Gosh, I had been looking for you everywhere!" Marc, who was Type O's bus driver in his late forties, exclaimed wearily to the gigantic frontman while being completely out of breath.

"What happened?"

"Kenny, this bloody asshole, got so hammered that decided to smash some guy's face!" the man with funny mustache and round belly had been visibly irritated. "Only you can help us to pull him away from this poor man."

Everyone knew that Kenny Hickey was a nice fellow but sometimes his demons were making people doubt this statement.

Peter suddenly felt embarrassed because their guitarist turned a complete prick mode on and because he had to leave this lovely stranger in order to save friend's ass.

"Can he deal with his mess himself?" he grumbled but tried not to show how really annoyed he was. "I'm tired of being his bodyguard."

"You know that i don't want to disturb you, Pete, but you're the only one here who can break them up," Marc was right; Steele had enough strength to hold some furious fighter like it was an angry small chihuahua. "This motherfucker is short but very prehensile!"

And that also was true.

"It's okay, you shall go and help your friend," the girl assured him that everything was fine. But in reality he didn't want to leave her, not like that.

"Yeah, you are right. I'm sorry. Thank you for a short but nice chat," Peter nodded to her politely and Marc did the same but more eagerly. "See you."

"Bye," she waved them goodbye knowing well that she and this guy Pete would hardly meet again. And when the big and the small silhouettes gradually had faded from sight over the deep blue sky and moist chilly night air Elizabeth dropped a finished cigarette to the ground, stomped it and felt how her body and mind were drained after a festival's debut.

The girl turned and walked away with one wish: to fall asleep under hotel's soft blankets.

Five months had passed and label's bosses decided that it was enough for Type O Negative to be on tour. After all they still needed to record a new album which of course shall become a commercial success in the end. That's funny how many people think that being well-known musician or other type of artist is so easy: you do what you like, you get paid for it. It certainly gives some privileges but in reality creation of a product of art contains of endless pressure from the record label, self-doubting in your abilities, creative crisis, deadlines, disagreement with your ideas of band members, hours and hours of recording sessions where one single mistake or a badly played note make you return to the begininng, and neverending stress makes you lose it. And you can't leave this game so easily because you had signed a contract for a few music albums.

Peter quickly disappointed when he found out about the music industry when he was 24. Now, being a 32-year-old man he got used to it but still didn't fully accept its rules and didn't wanted to be led. Their work in a studio usually wasn't going well; everytime Pete cursed the day when he left his job but repeatedly admitted that he was a masochist.

Because of their common love of misery guys from Type O's were making the new album but after a month of continuous work they started to take few a days off. And you can only imagine how "happy" was Peter when he found out that his whole weekend he had to spend under the hood of his car which the man affectionately called "The Beast": a huge black machine with no bumpers but large wooden planks, big bright lights on the top of it and a truck horn. This "monster" had been both repainted and repaired many times by Peter himself and many repairings were done for the purpose of upgrading. Unfortunately that time it needed a a real repairing.

But even though being an excellent handyman that he was, that time Mr. Steele was too exhausted to do fixing himself. And a solution was simple: to visit a good friend in a car service in Brooklyn.

The fellow of his was a good man, they chatted for a little bit, caught each other up their latest news, had a good laugh but Peter didn't want to disturb him and then went to a record store nearby the car service.

There in a small room full of stands with CD's and vinyls and a silent salesman behind the cash desk with a magazine in his hands the frontman was studying range of music products. He came there just to kill some time but had been looking at new music with interest before his gaze fell upon one special record in best-selling section.

He felt how his eyes glued themselves to the image of an red-haired girl dressed in a white shirt. The colors and the idea were pretty simple: a mid-shot of girl's face and upper body to show audience beautiful features with serious expression of the artist, blue sky, pale wooden barrier and probably an old-fashioned car. Blue font on white read "Born to Die" and white one on blue was typed in big letters "Lana Del Rey".

Luxurious and vintage as I had thought, Peter thought to himself.

That was what he had been looking for since their short encounter that night at the festival. It was so brief and blurred that the man had no time at least to ask for her name. The next day he'd spent looking for her merch tent to buy her music but it turned out to be that she had no one. Moreover the idea to look for someone when you don't even know their name itself was stupid and doomed to failure from the beginning.

And at that moment Peter felt that a missing puzzle piece went up in its place. It was an exact feeling when you finally learn about what you have been trying to find out for so long. Some kind of bliss may be said. Plus he really wanted to listen to the records of this melancholic songstress because he saw the same mood in her music that he had in his own.

But what Peter didn't expect is to see her at the same record store, slowly shuffling through vinyls.

His heart dropped for a second and the next was slight panic and the urge to grab her so she wouldn't disappear. It was so sudden that he didn't know what to say to her and not look like an idiot. Although Peter couldn't miss the chance.

He had decided that it would be better if he'd just leave the CD on the self to not look like some creep in her eyes and went straight to her while slightly waping his sweating palms on dark blue jeans.

"Hello," a familiar deep voice came above her head.

Lizzie quickly looked up and jumped a little, the height of the gothic bassist gave her a slight jumpscare. He couldn't help but chuckle at that.

"Oh, hi," she immeaditely became flustered. "What a surprise. I didn't expect to see you here."

"Me too actually," and then he frowned a little. "I'm sorry that I disappeared so quickly last time."

"That's okay," the girl simply waved her hand. "I hope your friend is doing fine."

"Yeah, he is much better now," Peter slightly snored at the memory of Kenny kicking and screaming threating nonsense and being completely pale with greenish shade the day after he had spent hugging a toilet.

The man took his large hand out for a handshake "I'm Peter."

Lizzie accepted the gesture, her elegant small hand was swallowed by his very gentle touch.

"I'm Elizabeth, nice to meet you officially."

Peter felt a slight pang in his chest.

His "favourite" name. Again.

But he didn't show her sadness hidden behind green eyes. She was not "that" Elizabeth, she was more humane and warm person without a single doubt.

"The pleasure is mine. I've been looking for your records at the festival but found it here" Peter pointed at the best-selling section "I can say that you're doing great".

"Yeah and I still can't believe it..." looking at her own image with grateful expression Elizabeth shooked her head and the gigantic rocker believed the sincerity of her words. And when a dreamy glint in eyes of hers was gone she turned to him with crossed arms. "What brought you here?"

"Firstly, I live here. And secondly, my car is getting fixed down the street," Peter explained in his velvet low voice.

The girl smiled when she understood which accent he got.

"I'm here to see my uncle. I used to live in Brooklyn too with him and my aunt."

"You did?" he slightly raised his eyebrows in surprise. When Peter first saw her onstage he had a strong feeling that she was somewhere from West Coast. Now she looked like a typical city girl: her wavy red hair was loose, same vintage makeup but not so catchy that was at performance, dressed in tight jeans and racing Ferrari red bomber jacket.

Brooklyn was not a glamorous place to live in and Peter knew it well and wondered how living there had affected her or even had inspired in work.

"Yes, but then I had moved to Bronx, after that to New Jersey, lived in a trailer, then returned back so... Well, actually a list of my relocations turned to be a little bit longer than that," she felt a bit awkward because of oversharing and the thought that she was boasting off which was not true.

"You have an interesting life as i see," a small smile was curving the frontman's lips. But the next moment he got slightly tensed, inquired. "Would you like to have a snack and tell me more about your journeys someday?"

"I would love to," her face was graced by a radiant smile which made Peter's stomach drop but he had no clue why.

"I'll give you my phone number..." he took a crumpled small piece of paper and short pencil from pocket of his leather jacket and

"You've prepared," Lizzie giggled citing the fact that he could use it while meeting women.

"Being an old man that I am I need this to write down a grocery list. I hate this feeling when I'm in a supermarket looking for milk but ending up buying tampons," this dramatic head shake and the fact that he had been joking so easily about himself made her think that he liked to be some kind of a clown.

"Poor Peter," she snickered.

"I can say the same about all of musicians," he grinned and caught her looking at his fangs with curiosity again while laughing.

The fact that the girl was exposed didn't go unnoticed and Elizabeth's pink cheeks showed her embarrassment at the situation.

"Thank you..." she lowered her head when he gave her the paper but quickly regained her composure. "Um.. can I ask you for something?"

"Of course," his eyes showed slight concern.

"I have been looking for your records but didn't find one. Can I find it here?"

Oh that, our shitty music albums, the man chuckled at himself.

"Let me see," the musician decided to act like he didn't know that their and Carnivore's discography was in that store. Peter Steele was kind of hero of Brooklyn music scene, many musicians and metalheads knew him and his music (even though he was harsh on himself) had a great impact on others' musical creations.

He went to a section of rock and different genres of metal and pretended to be searching hard for the album, in fact just moving his CDs back and forth, and after a minute of that shameless simulation under Lizzie's watchful eye he picked the latest one, "Bloody Kisses".

"Here," Peter returned and gave her the current CD.

She gladly accepted it while paying attention to how long his slender fingers were. But her attention was instantly captured by two moaning goth-like girls on the cover in a moment of heavy make-out-session... Well, Elizabeth heard their songs live and all of the erotic messages that were there, so it wasn't a big surprise.

"Oh, that's... provocative," she giggled awkwardly looking at the cover from both sides.

"We play dirty," stated Peter in pleased voice. But the cause of his high spirits was that he liked to see how she was getting shy in front of him at his actions or any nonsense that he'd said.

The man turned to get her record but instead was interrrupted.

"Oh, It's not a good version. Trust me!" Lizzie exclaimed. The puzzled and confused gaze he gave her made songstress disappear behind various stands.

And when she came back he saw her holding another music record of hers. The cover was shot with the same prospect but style was different: vintage luxury, swimming pool and palm trees in the back, dressed in swimming suit with straight loose hair looking magnificent as always. All of these was framed with golden textures. It had the same name but under the title there were small gold letters: The Paradise Edition.

"This is a special edition, went on sale only a week ago. The first one sells good but this has twelve more songs and costs the same, even cheaper."

"Thanks for taking care of my wallet," smirked Peter. "That's actually good that you've decided to add so many songs even though I'm sure that your label made you do it."

"Yeah, but I'm glad that I can finally show my material to the world..." he noticed that her cute voice always sounded very garetful when it came to the music and opportunities that were given to her. And then Lizzie stole a quick glance at a round wall clock that hung on the wall behind the salesman. "I think that I shall go and meet my uncle, don't wanna make him wait for me."

"Sure," the frontman felt a sudden wave of sadness and despair by looking at her buying his CD and knowing well that they wouldn't meet so soon, hastily added. "I'd like to call you but I don't know when you'll be in New York next time."

"I'm here everyday," the girl said and threw him a meaningful smile over her shoulder. Then she got the change and waved at him. "Bye."

When glass doors closed themselves with a quiet slam Elizabeth no longer saw the amused look on the big man's face.

"What was that?" Peter chuckled to himself under the annoyed gaze of the salesman, who had been waiting impatinately for them both to pay.

What was that, Lizzie thought to herself while walking down the street to a café when she and her uncle had decided to have a cup of coffee.

Looking down at the CD record in her hands she couldn't help but shake her head with wry chuckle. This is all so strange. At first that festival which almost made her shit herself, then this huge gothic guy with fangs and corny sense of humour...

He wasn't her type at all. Yes, she had said many times that she had no type but all of her boyfriends had something in common: appearance or some kind of fleur around them. But Peter was different. He was beautiful in a dark way; pale, long-haired with manly face and hypnotic green eyes looking like a black-maned demigod or a vampire. But Lizzie had no interest in vampires... until when?

Anyway, there was something about him that seemed to be magnetic for her romantically or not.

Five days later they met in a good place where they could have a proper meal and a real conversation and where nothing and no one could interupt them this time. At first Peter had wanted to invite her to a premium restaurant but then he thought that it would look like a date and he didn't want to scare her away that way... Well, to be honest the man didn't fully understand what he felt for her. But the one thing was clear: he was drawn to the melancholic songstress.

"...and then you moved to London?" Peter asked while pouring red wine into his glass after she had kindly refused the drink. He was trying to sort out Lizzie's life and her numerous moves and almost every one of them had been remembered by him.

Her life looked like that detailed puzzles that people buy and then forget about them because its complexity irritate them and make them feel oppressed due to they can't easily collect it. But when it's finaly ready it looks so fascinatingly and reassuring that they can't tear their gazes away.

And Peter even felt little bit embarrassed because being six years older than Elizabeth he still hadn't moved out of his parents' basement. His life was so boring compared to hers: no relocations, no life in a trailer, no metaphysics degree.

"Yes, right after my first studio album got flopped," she said and took a sip of her Pepsi. "I lived in a shitty flat with no heat, it was so awful."

"Looks like you took everything from life," he smiled and got chuckle out of the girl.

"Not at all," with slight frown Lizzie remembered all those ten years that she was desperately trying to break into a music scene.

"Anyway, I'm pleased to be in a company of such an intelligent and erudite woman."

And again there was heat rising on her cheeks.

"Am I wrong or you do really enjoy see me blushing?" her lips curved into an cute-awkward smile. "However, thanks."

"Making people feel uncomfortable is my another favourite hobby," significantly stated Peter and there was a mischievous small sparkle in his eyes when he sipped wine.

Oh, if only she knew about "Nazi" scandal, the original cover of "The Origin of the Feces", being "misogynist" and this "Prelude to Agony" song...

He wasn't proud of it at all, but that's what happens when you have a provocative vision of art and crude humour.

"I noticed that when you played this 'Christian Woman'. Kinda reminded me about the time when I was in a Catholic school. Singing in choir and loving going to a church..." the girl's face assumed a nostalgic expression as if she cherished those times which surprised the gothic musician — his own experience was quite the opposite.

"Oh, that means that I wrote this song about you?" he asked jokingly.

"Well, I don't remember that I could be touching myself while looking at crucifix at nights. So, probably no."

"Yeah, it was me who had been fantasying about Jesus, sorry..." Peter was fooling around again, like he used to act around with his close ones, but when he saw her restrained smile and shining eyes he decided to tell a little bit more. "Actually, I wrote this song out of my experience being a catholic boy during puberty. Nocturnal emissions and other embarassing things, you know. Just made up a sensual story out of a teenage nightmare."

"I do write songs based on my life too," Elizabeth nodded knowingly. Her favourite way to write music was when the stuff that made the girl emotional had happened so she could see things more clearly. But at that moment she thought about how many of his songs were filled with real experience and not wet and gloomy fantasies.

There was a short pause before Peter spoke again.

"You have this interesting song. Um, 'my pussy tastes like Pepsi cola' as long as I remember..." he uttered with a puzzled expression, looking away like couldn't remember it properly but in reality he was just messing around with her again.

Her hazel eyes immediately widened.

"Oh my god!" she choked on the exact drink and quickly caught the attention of other visitors. Some of them had stopped their conversations and turned around to see what the matter but they saw the songstress wiping her mouth with a napkin.

"Very interesting line," the man could hardly keep the smile off his face.

That bastard... that extremely good-looking bastrad, Elizabeth thought.

"Oh my god, ughh!" she hid her face behind palms and groaned embarassingly. If few moments ago her cheeks were briefly dusted with pink, now she was sure that the heat her face was radiating could be felt from the other end of the table.

"I'm sorry, I didn't want to embarrass you so much!" he laughed heartedly. It was a deep rumbling sound that Lizzie wanted to hear again and again. So smooth and calming.

"No, it's fine," the girl waved her hands. "Well... oh my," she couldn't help but snored again. "One of my friends, he's Scottish, ones said that American girls' pusseys taste like Pepsi cola. And I thought that's would sound cool."

"Your friend seems to be an expert in foreign cuisine," Peter noted ironically.

"I don't want to go into these details!" the girl exclaimed giggling.

He liked to make her laugh, how she lowered her long lashes, how her plump lips were curving into a gentle smile. That was a hypnotic sight to see.

Although, this part of conversation was hillarious but Lizzie couldn't help but felt slightly insecure.

"Do you have silly songs like this one?" she looked calm but the way she started to pick her long manicured nails didn't go unnoticed by the big gothic musician.

"Every song of ours is silly," his biting self-criticism was storng as always. Had this man ever admitted his achievements?

"Come on," the songstress rolled her eyes in a playful manner.

Peter coughed — that was the habit of his, he did it occasionally during conversations or interviews — and thought.

"Alright... um, from the last album it is Black No. 1," that time the answer was honest and serious.

"Really? But it's a hit. I saw the crowd going insane when they heard it," she wondered. The song was brilliant, catchy and had great pontential and not to mention the fact that it was the single. Audience was shouting, jumping and singin along with the band that evening.

"I would like to look at them when they find out that this song is about hair dye that I wrote in a traffic jam while driving a garbage truck," Peter smirked. "Although, I've said that too many times in interviews. People don't understand that's a sarcasm. I noticed that they don't understand what sarcasm is at all."

Then she started to understand that Peter Steele was not about gothic romantism and sex; this person was much deeper and complicated. But in a witty way, may say.

"Being a musician means that every song of yours shall mean something deep and contain higher thoughts. But how exactly this hair dye inspired you? I'm interested."

"My ex-girlfriend used it and she still does, I think. She was a gothic girl, a real hot stuff. She listened to goth bands and was making fun of my music taste, especially hardcore bands that I liked at that time. She said that I don't know the real music."

"That's kinda stupid of her," said Lizzie with furrowed eyebrows and took another sip of Pepsi. She'd always thought that It's so childish to make make fun of something that you don't like or don't understand yourself.

"Yeah, but at that time I was crazy about her, I didn't mind," the man just shrugged his shoulders.

This made her wonder about that girl: how she looked like, was she really that hot as Peter saw her, how she smelled like and what kind of a perfume she used, was her voice low and sultry or high and pitchy, how she prefered to spend her free time and was she more beautiful than Lana herself.

Lizzie found herself thinking about these silly things and but decided to brush them off. She had no need to know about his love life. But anyway, almost every song that Elizabeth had heard on that 'Bloody Kisses' record (oh, and how she got so fucking scared when in the beginning some girl started to moan heart-rendingly) was about both mental and physical relationships with women.

"So, according to my observations can I say that women are your main inspiration?" the girl asked curiously but couldn't hide that mischievous glint that was seen in her hazel eyes. She wondered if this giant would deny it with male shame or agree willingly in order to cozy up to her.

"Not main, but they are also important to me," Peter stated simply understanding that the talented companion wanted to mess with him little bit. And he smirked himself teasingly. "But you too have these love ballads from what I've heard."

And then that glimmer in her eyes faded. Lizzie had two options: to tell the truth or to laugh it off playfully and move on next topic. But somehow she felt urge to share a little bit. Maybe because he was an artist too or because she just wanted to.

"Ha, well..." Lizzie giggled but it was more nervous and sad chuckle. "I'm an ex-alcoholic."

The playful mood that was between them two quickly vanished after that leaving a ringing silence. Peter was looking at the girl and feeling guilty for making her feel uncomfortable by offering to drink wine earlier but Lana was okay.

That moment he saw her in a different light but not in a bad one: behind this careless lush red hair, vintage makeup, long nails and golden necklaces was something dark, tragic and fragile. People who saw her and heard her music thought tha she was just a foolish beautiful doll with whining songs and a pathetic product of a good label. But that's not true.

This beautiful porcelain doll had barely noticable cracks and Peter wanted to see what was behind them, inside.

The man felt ashamed for drinking wine so casually in front of her all the evening.

"Oh, sorry, shall I..." he started to apologize hastily and his already big green eyes became even bigger while fussing and attempting to get rid of alcohol on their table.

"No, I'm not so fucked up," Elizabeth rolled her eyes with ironic smile at his fuss, he was so cute. "I mean, almost in every music piece that I create there is a small hint about my past addiction."

He nodded silently in response and felt no desire to sip this wine; the laid-back atmosphere around them collapsed like a shattering glass but it wasn't girl's fault. Suddenly Peter found the dark red liquid in his glass so interesting to observe.

"You may be silent but I see the question in your eyes, you know," Lizzie joked and got chuckle out of the frontman.

"Right," he smirked in a guilty way and slightly lowered his head to hide a fact that his pale cheeks were flushed with shame.

"It's all started when I was fourteen," she began her story. "When I was very young I was sort of floored by the fact that my mother and my father and everyone I knew was going to die one day, and myself too. I had a sort of a philosophical crisis. I couldn't believe that we were mortal. For some reason that knowledge sort of overshadowed my experience. I was unhappy for some time. I got into a lot of trouble. I used to drink a lot. That was a hard time in my life."

"I know it all sounds silly, but... I was a big drinker at the time. I would drink every day. My parents were worried, I was worried. I knew it was a problem when I liked it more than I liked doing anything else. I was like, 'I'm fucked. I am totally fucked'. Like, at first it's fine and you think you have a dark side — it's exciting — and then you realise the dark side wins every time if you decide to indulge in it. It's also a completely different way of living when you know that...a different species of person. It was the worst thing that ever happened to me."

"In general, my album is about me being a crazy mess in my teens," the girl waved her hands so simply that made Peter blink distractedly. One minute she was telling a harsh story and then acting like nothing happened. There was no bad taste for her but maybe they are telling truth? Time heals?

"I just wondered why we're here and was sort of consumed by the fact that everyone's gonna, um, leave this planet. About love..." Lizzie smirked tauntingly returning to the previous question. "They think that I write songs about a specific guy who broke my heart or 'bout the man I will love forever, but the true is most of my "love songs" are about alcohol. Don't know, when I write about the thing that I've lost I feel like I write about alcohol because that was the first love of my life."

The gothic bassist remained silent but couldn't tear his gaze off. Not anymore.

"Anyway, this fact doesn't change that I still have bad taste in men," an awkward giggle escaped her lips.

"Can say the same about my taste in women," Peter joked to support. But in that one there was also some truth.

Elizabeth really wanted not to talk about her personal life, at least not right now, but the urge to babble about it was so strong so the girl was holding herleslf back as much as she could.

"It's just like, once I was blessed to find someone who made me so happy. But, in the end, it seemed like I wasn't good enough for him."

"I think you were more than enough," he said surely, his deep voice was filled with warm and kind notes.

"You can't know such things, you weren't there," she uttered with her hand shuffled through patterned napkins in a carved metal napkin holder on the table. Lizzie didn't want him to assure her in something that she still couldn't figure out.

"I know that's true because someone who says this usually that one who tried their best in a such shitty relationship."

That made her reflect on it.

"Well, I can't help but agree with you this time..."

The rest of the evening went well and calm. They felt some kind of an ease and were joking and talking like nothing had happened before, just having a good time in general. However, both sensed that someting intimate flashed between them, especially after Lizzie's honest tale. In response the gothic frontman told her that bottles of wine onstage were not for cool entourage: he had a bad stage fright like Lana did.

Later that night, when Peter came home being greeted by his few cats he played her CD again. Skipped to the 'Born To Die' and started listening to it from a new perspective knowing small details and a skeleton of the piece.

And that moment he knew — he was falling for her. Fast and irreversibly.

After that night Peter and Elizabeth started to spend more time together. At first they had been meeting twice a week but soon Peter started to notice more and more often that he's on phone with Lizzie asking her for a walk. And their walks weren't romantic or too amorous. That were two brilliant people, even though they didn't know that about themselves, walking around New York together, telling stories and discussing many topics but all they did was only in a friendly way. Even though Peter cut his long strides in half to walk alongside the girl, her legs were aching anyway after their 'city tours'.

Elizabeth was intrigued by the fact that passers-by always looked at him, examined his tall figure, long black hair with a police cap, dressed in the leather jacket. Of course it was difficult not to notice him but he had something special about him, and it's not just beauty, that made women stare at him.

Especially Lizzie Woolridge Grant.

Once they walked around Manhattan and she told him how the city had inspired her in so many of her songs. When she was younger the girl used to wander around New York and hum some tunes then she just cuptered them on paper. 'I was a waitress at that time,' she said. In return the Brooklyn's giant took her to his favourite Chinese food restaurant and bought meals for 60$.

Peter started to quickly dissapear after every music session and the guys liked to make fun of him every time they got a chance. Kenny and Johnny were joking, Josh did it too but more cautiously. He knew very well how vulnerable his friend was so he didn't want to rescue his big boney ass if something would go wrong. Even though they didn't know Lana personally three of them had a common joke that next time Peter would write a sarcastic song about vintage hair curlers and a glue for fake eyelashes.

Meanwhile Lizzie began to realize that she was attached to him not only because he a beautiful, intelligent, polite and restrained Individual... The reason surprised her — she liked him.

While listening to his album, which was a gimmick in her collection, the girl found herself not enjoying Type O's instrumental anymore. From then on it was all about his voice, no matter if he talked or sang. His deep velvet voice with rambling laugh made her knees weak. She could no longer look him in the eyes without admiration which immediately led to confusion and shyness.

At the same time Elizabeth started to caught his glances more often. Of course Peter had found her attractive before but now he couldn't help himself. Every time the man looked at her gorgeous face he wanted to trace his fingers down her cheekbones, full lips... those lips... The frontman wanted to devour them in the most hot and sweet kiss at once.

This continued for some time. Long walks along Coney Island, restaurants meals and conversations about music, art and love affairs.

They said that they didn't want anything serious or a proper relationship and the very next second they were passionately kissing in his car. Long slender fingers tangled in red hair, long manicured nails slightly scracthed the back of the neck. Both knew that there was no way back. Both were so fucking glad.

Peter didn't paid attention to friends'mockeries of him being excited and in love. Instead he began to invite Lizzie to their recording sessions which didn't disturb the process at all. She had known inner workings of the recording and tried not to distract them very much but she made friends with all of them somehow anyway (what a bunch of facts, both gross and nice, guys told her about Green Man...). And for Pete her presence in the studio had been good. Melancholic songstress didn't know that she was in fact his muse at that time and that most of his creative fantasies, and not only creative, were about her.

Out of respect she didn't buy this 'Playgirl' magazine with his spicy photo session. But in the very beginning of their relationship there was a huge temptation because her hormones gone wild.

It was so scary and thrilling. Lizzie was afraid because she'd heard about his tour lifestyle. God, she even didn't need to hear about this — the girl saw with her own eyes how women were looking at him wherever they were going together. Particularly after that infamous magazine which seemed to be not only for ladies...

But she decided to dive into it, knowing there would be no turning back. Only a broken heart and vain hope.

Though everything between these two were developing gradually and correctly.

Several months later Peter being a family guy that he was decided to introduce Elizabeth to his big family. His mother, Nettie, really liked her (the woman complimented her hair-style every time), five older sisters and their kids thought that she was nice and even Peter Sr who usually prefered to stay out of son's private life, that was his wife's job, who knew about love adventures of their youngest child, appreciated his new squeeze. He also promised Peter that if he would hurt her somehowhe he would get in the neck. In response the man just laughed and pledged that she will be cherished and taken care of. Just like Lizzie deserved and how his sisters taught him to treat a woman.

Life is so god damn weird, she thought looking at his sculptured masculine profile while having a ride with him one night. Peter could swear loudly at passing cars or speaking in puns just to hear Lizzie's laugh, her real laugh: loud and bright, not small giggles.

That European festival supposed to increase the music career of hers, a task with which it was succesessful, but in addition it gave Lizzie something bigger: a great man and worthy relationships.

Compared to this her past experiences were just a shit on a sole. No regrets.

Behind shutters there cars were passing in the night with a dissapearing flash and a distant roar. The light in the room was dim, a lamp with a red illuminating bulb was on. Such glow created a mysterious atmosphere with lit candles in the bedroom combined with living room in the flat in Queens.

Cocteau Twins' 'Pepper-Tree' was softly playing in the background. The only sound that was heard besides it were light sighs and quiet girly moans.

Lizzie's naked body was wriggling on light burgundy cotton sheets under Peter's skillful tongue and watchful eyes. She was lightly swaying her hips, arching her back with sexy breathy 'Oh's, grabbing her perky breasts herself and pinching hard nipples between the middle and index finger.

Looking at such erotic and mesmerizing view Peter was absolutely sure in one thing: he would spend his whole life between legs of his angelic girlfriend if he could just to hear these moans and see her beautiful face in pure ecstasy, with closed eyes and parted full lips.

"Mm, you taste divine..." he murmured lowly and adding thoughtfully. "Those soda bubbles and cherry... or vanilla, I haven't figured it out yet..."

She rolled her eyes but this time not from pleasure.

"Why do you have to do this right now?" Lizzie asked irritably and rose on her elbows feeling her climax fading and lustful mood ruined.

"Because you yourself say that your pussy tastes like Pepsi cola. It's not my fault!" said the man in his defence. He could hardly hid the cheeky grin behind her smooth silky skin.

Sometimes he was so unbearable.

"When I wrote that I thought that it would sounds cool, but now I hate this line more than anything!" she stated heatedly and lay on her back again.

He always found her so cute and funny complaining about her lyrics.

"I think it's one of the coolest things that I've ever heard about vagina."

Elizabeth turned a deaf ear on that.

"Ugh, why am I such an idiotic songwriter?!" Lizzie groaned hiding her face behind palms.

Peter was looking at her while calmly running his big palms up and down her thighs in soothing manner.

"I am always trying to create something but every time ending up doing some stupid shit!"

"And because of it I love you."

Bitter annoyance and frustration were gone. Her tongue was immediately caught in her throat. She even forgot how to breathe.

The girl looked at him over her naked breasts expecting to see a grimace of fear and painful waiting but she saw absolute assurance in his pretty manly face. These words weren't a fleeting gust even though they were in bed.

"What?" sounded like a choked gasp.

"I love you."

Lizzie had blinked few times before she began to feel hot clear tears running down her shocked face.

She grabbed him in attempt to pull closer and planted a hot and strong kiss on his lovely mouth. While their lips were moving Peter felt her whispering 'I love you' all over again and again. And they couldn't be happier than at that night.

'You make me feel electric' Lizzie said to Peter when they were lying on the bed in his basement, just cuddling with his cats at their feet. Grizzelda was purring when the songstress scratched her tiny head delicately.

Both lovers and cats were napping that rainy evening and Elizabeth felt absolute peace. It was always like that near him.

'That's because I always give you these electrical shocks every time you touch me?' he asked hoarsely and she giggled tiredly.

He was so humble, so sweet, gentle and down-to-earth that the girl could no longer imagine her life without Peter. More important, it was mutual.

For the first time Pete saw that his woman could show as much affection as he did himself with her. Every hour spent with Lizzie he could compare to delicate sunbathing in warm Spring days. The muscician almost felt how the light was seeping through him with their every interaction.

She made a discovery that he wasn't that gloomy and serious like she saw him on that European festival. He was a jokester, who liked to fool around with puns and scare his loved ones with weird noises that the deep voice of his could make. But the man treated people with respect and was friendly to everyone. Of course he could have bad days like any of us, when the bassist could sit there all grumpy with furrowed bushy eyebrows and with no desire to share his worries with her. Peter preferred to keep everything to himself, just not to bother anyone on or not to look like a weak person.

Otherwise, he was a tender and supportive soul.

But still, Lizzie anxiously waited for that moment and it happened. He just couldn't be only hers forever. Not him, not Peter Steele.

One day at the party of some friend of' the drab four' guys' Kenny went to her to talk about it. She was terrified to hear next 'You see...' or 'I don't want to be the person who'll tell you this but I know that he has no balls to do it himself, so...'. But instead the guitarist said that he was almost shocked to see Peter not paying attention to any other woman anymore but her. And he said that he was very proud of his mate and them both. Lizzie didn't know what to say and Kenny didn't know what to do when he saw her crying.

And how shaken was Peter when he saw his girlfriend shedding floods of tears in a corner with his best friend standing next to her.

"What a fuck is going on, man?!" shouted the frontman angrily without paying attention that his friends and acquaintances stared at him instantly while being anxious and confused.

"Pete, I..." Kenny started to make excuses but his mate didn't want to hear any.

Peter looked at Lizzie for an answer but without any words she unexpectedly threw herself at him, tugging his neck down and capturing his lips with a strong kiss full of adoration. Distractedly accepted the gesture and scooped the melancholic songstress closer but still had no idea; his friends just snickered and returned to their previous activities.

Later she told him the reason of this public 'rush of love' and the man couldn't help but laughed and pulled her closer to his huge frame.

But still there was a third wheel between them two.

It was a miracle that the city in their such differernt tour programs had coincided. Lizzie's first worldwide tour had been a success. Sales were great, people bought tickets for the shows and records, appearences on TV and interviews on radio. Life was sweet like cinnamon. But what eluded her the most that she had opportunity to see her man performing right after her perfomance would be finished.

When the time had come Lizzie was walking down the backstage hall hurriedly to see Peter after five-month-separation.

"Johnny!" the singer greeted happily walking past Kelly.

"Hi, dear," the drummer smiled in his cheerful manner.

"Where's Peter?" the eagerness in her voice made her sound like a little girl waiting for Santa at midnight.

"He is in the dressing room alone," he showed her the very last door in the end.

"Thank you," she lightly patted his back and went into the direction.

Full of enthusiasm and giddy impatience Lizzie had thought how tightly he would hug her. His warm mitts on her back, cheeks, gentle kisses on lips, the crown of the head.

But when the door was open Peter didn't show joy at all. The frontman had been trying to hide a bottle of red wine but failed. The red liquid accidentally spilled on the dirty carpeting from the sudden movement.

"Shit!" he hissed lowly either of being caught red-handed or because he'd almost ruined his pants.

Elizabeth's expression turned to stone one. The wish to squeeze him tight in her embrace died, instead she wanted to leave with a loud bang of the door but it was not her style.

"We were talking about it, Pete," Lizzie said quietly but as stern as she could.

"I remember," the man nodded not looking at her with a blank face.

"You told me that that was the last time," at that time words came with more passion.

"I remeber that too."

"And you told me that you'll make an effrot."

"I have a good memory," Peter quipped. In his opinion it wasn't really a big deal. Few sips could reduce endless anxiety level, a few bottles could make his legs went to jelly and give this excellent feeling like he was at home during perfomances.

"Looks like you're definetely not!" she threw in return angrily. Thanks to the empty backstage hall and loud banging music no one would hear them arguing.

The frontman could fight back, make excuses, explaining or shout at her but he was so tired of touring, performing, living on the road, giving interviews about his penis in 'Playgirl' magazine to stupid journalists, endless parties just all of that shit that he couldn't stand.

Peter stayed silent not wanting to say any word.

Of course the girl knew how he "liked" his job but there was something about it that the Brooklyn giant was sick of the most: live perfomances. Even there, at 'home' clubs she saw him panicking and stressing out, trying to dull feelings with alcohol before a show and then celebrating it with another portion of booze after.

One big vicious circle.

"Pete, I fucked up on TV!" Lizzie exclaimed wanting to comfort him even though that fact hurt her very much. "My performance on SNL was so bad that almost every fucking person in this country thinks that I can't sing! But it didn't start to drink again after that."

"Yes, I see that you're much stronger than me," he rolled his eyes turning a jackass mode one.

"I didn't mean that," Lizzie stared at her boyfriend coldly. "I just beg you to stop, because it will drag you to nowhere"

"Sounds not so bad," Peter smirked dramaticaly and she almost send him packing.

"You don't know any shit," the songstress chuckled bitterly. At that moment he reminded her a small boy who hadn't listened to anyone but in the end that boy admitted that he was wrong. And she knew that he would come to it himself but on his way he would receive many wounds and scars.

Lizzie was slowly passing around the stuffy small room with greyish-blue carpeting and stains of splashed wine on it, a worn out black couch, a smudged square mirror and a coat rack by the door. Peter was sitting on the couch, his hands were lazily clasped, elbows were on his knees. His gaze was focused on a plinth, the forgotten bottle stood next to the right leg.

When music subsided a little the girl began to speak again.

"I know that it's much easier and more understandable when you smash your face into a table. It immediately shows how things are going. But believe me, you don't want it."

Peter looked like he'd closed inside himself but he heard everything she'd been saying. The gothic bassist just didn't want to face it, not now. God, please, not now.

"I do this because I care about you. And the reason why I care about you is because I love you. I don't want to see you going through the same things that I went through," her lovely voice was tender that time, like she wanted to touch something deep inside him, to wake her loved one wake up. Unfortunately he didn't want to wake up.

When silence had become unbearable Lizzie sat down on the couch next to Peter whose look was distant. This was this type of silence when one of them understood that there was urge to tell something meaningful and that feeling was pressing on Elizabeth.

She had never actually told him about her past. Peter didn't want to push her and the girl considered that phase of her life was over. It was so long ago that seemed far, far away from her and current events.

But still, it was painful and nasty to tell about. And she had no way; the youngest child of Ratajczyk's was so stubborn.

"I stopped when I lost my parents' car somewhere and couldn't remember where, why and what happened then," admitted the melancholic songstress. The voice was steady but still there was a shameful tone. "And I'm afraid that you will stop when you lost your parents' house when you'll be officially of the rails,"

And then the frontman was all ears.

He was looking at her carefully, the right side of girl's face was hidden behind loose wavy red locks; they didn't look presentable like they had been a few hours ago. Even though Lizzie looked sad and tired after the performance, it was seen in features and slightly smudged mascara, Peter still saw her as the most attractive woman even with fake eyelashes peeling off.

"And the recovery wasn't all about rainbows and unicorns. And the first attempt wasn't successful and the last one. These things don't go smooth."

She stared at the deep scratch at the bottom of the door and continued half-heartedly.

"If you want to know more, I worked as a volunteer at drug and alcohol rehabilitation centres in Brooklyn. Before that I was in rehab myself, great times," Lizzie chuckled lowly and felt a strong desire to smoke right now but the room had already smelled like a mix of piss and smoke so the decision of hers was to not make it worse.

"I saw their desperate exhausted faces," memories of that poor lost people flashed n girl's mind but Peter couldn't understand that tragedy fully, he didn't see them. "They knew that we were ready to help them, but the only thing that was out of their reach was that everything starts with themselves."

Their lives were chaos but her own had been no good too.

"I know what is like to have an alcoholic boyfriend," Lizzie smirked and if Peter didn't know her he would have thought that she tried to make him jealous or feel guilty. "And I know what is like to be an alcoholic girlfriend to a sober guy, a complete mess both ways."

Although the man continued to stay silent at that moment his brain was absorbing the new information rapidly. Since the day one, when he first saw her on European stage in that white dress with Priscilla hair, the musician couldn't get rid of the impression deep inside in the corner of his mind that she was like a fog: weightless and illusory, without a story behind and big shocks. However she had everything. She had a family, parents and two siblings, childhood in Lake Placid, funny stories, adventures with her dad, arguments with mom, fears and failures.

She was like a real human being, just like him and any others he knew. But much sweeter and cheerful, and because of it Peter loved her with his whole heart.

And Lizzie thought that the man was like a Frankenstein. Not because there was something monstrous about him, which was absolutely not true, it was as if he was made and stitched of different pieces that at first sight couldn't fit.

"You're so weird..." the girl muttered with amused chuckle and a head shake.

"Oh, you stabbed me!" Peter sarcastically placed his hand on his heart. That were his first words in last fourteen minutes.

Lizzie still was feeling down but could help but chuckled quietly.

"You almost hate your musical career. But since sixteen years old you only do that create bands and play music..."

"You are the most fucking conflicted person that I know," she confessed honestly.

Peter decided not show that it struck him because everything that was coming out of her mouth was true. In her and others' eyes he looked like a masochist.

"You flatter me," the gothic singer brushed off with irony natural to him.

However, his so called "playful" mood was killed when the girl finally looked at him. And oh boy, Peter had never seen her so serious and overwhelmed at the same time and he almost regretted what he had said.

"Your self-conscious will catch you up one day, Pete," Lizzie stated not wanting to tip-toe with the whole topic. "It'll destroy from the core."

And then the man could no longer keep a deadpan expression. Certainly Elizabeth Woolridge Grant was a smart girl, she saw that painfully shy small boy in the big man's body, who ripped guitar strings barehanded onstage once. If a person could be brave (and tall) enough to look into his blue hazel eyes with green contacs, that Brooklyn giant had been buying on King's Highway, they would see vulnerability that contrasted his overall presence. Peter was so soft for her, he could do literally anything that she would ask for, but the only thing that he couldn't do was to not kill and poison himself with his own self doubts, venomous criticism and self-deprecating jokes.

"Small things inside of us can fuck up everything," her voice got quieter, raspier, and her pretty features expressed only tiredness.

Now Lizzie was observing Pete without any frustration. The frontman turned and looked away but his whole appearance showed noticable weaking of his positions.

"I don't know how to do this," he muttered quietly gazing at the bottle beside his leg. It seemed to him that he could smell the intoxicating smell of wine from that distance.

The small questinable ' hm?' came from the songstress and Peter tried to recollect his frantic thoughts.

"I hate parties, I've always hated parties and being in bunch of loud and annoying people," the man sounded almost exhausted and dark, with no jokes and sarcastic remarks. "I'm grateful to our fans but I feel the weight of responsibility on my shoulders every time I go onstage because I need to do my job good. They pay money just to see us messing around with instruments. But what's more important that I chose to die with a bass guitar in my hand than with rake because I wanted to use my brain, not to say that I have any."

"I don't know how I've ended up here," he confessed heartedly and felt completely lost.

Lizzie saw something shattered in big green orbs, so she moved close to the man and gently brushed shiny long black strands away from his face. Her delicate moves, cold hands and long nails always caused goosebumps on his skin.

"Just start, it will get easier, you'll see," the girl briefly touched his temple.

Peter closed his eyes wearily but suddenly opened them again when he felt how she took his big palm into hers.

"And I'll be there with you, I promise," Lizzie almost whispered but the words were loud like a scream.

That made him look at her, then at their clasped hands and then at her again. The man sensed a warm feeling inside, it was much warmer than two liters of a red wine.

Without any words Peter tugged his melancholic vintage girlfriend closer, holding her in tight and sweet embrace and sniffing the rich scent of her perfume.

And he started.

Not immediately, but started.

The spring breeze blew thin creamy curatins with pale floral patterns. The sun was shining high in the sky, that May was warm and bright. The electric black clock showed 3 p.m with its neon green numbers which actually was the wrong shade of green.

They moved in only three weeks ago but thus far felt like that Brooklyn apartment had been their home, like they used to live here before. There was a big number of boxes around but all of the furniture was already assembled by the leader of Type O Negative and him only.

That was a big step and both of them knew it. But Peter, for the first time in his life, was ready to move in together with his woman of his dreams and newly there was enough trust and love to try and create something special. And Lana felt enough assurance to buy a property with her man for once and not to be tricked or cheated.

"Well, my boyfriend's in a band," Lizzie sang softly to herself while shuffling through the box full of her notepads when they had been resting in the living room. "He plays guitar while I sing Lou Reed..."

Peter couldn't hide a smirk when he heard the line about musician-boyfriend. He tore his gaze away from a scientific book that he had bought last week and looked at her but Elizabeth was so focused on the task that she didn't notice a gentle stare.

"I've got feathers in my hair..." at the last word she did this raspy thing with her voice that he loved so much. "I get down to Beat poetry."

Peter caught himself thinking that it was a new song, because he probably didn't hear that before.

"And my jazz collection's rare," that time the songstress switched to a beautiful melodic falsetto. "I can play most anything."

At such moments she reminded him of that retro female singers or cartoons' princesses, it sounded so airy, so fantastically like in a fairytale or in the old musical TV perfomance.

"I'm a Brooklyn baby," Lizzie caught a wave and she could no longer be stopped. Her eyes were closed, small smile palyed on her full lips. The girl repeated. "I'm a Brooklyn baby..."

When the girl opened her eyes she saw a strong adoration on Peter's face, who was sitting across from her in the opposite armchair to hers.

"Come here," he said in his deep voice putting the book aside.

Lizzie fluttered from her seat easily and teasingly and with a playful smirk sat on his lap.

"So, you're Brooklyn baby now?" the musician asked with a pleased look. His mitts lovingly wandered over her bare legs in denim shorts that he liked so much. "Hm?"

"I think I've never stopped actually," Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders thinking back to the days when she used to serve in cafes in Long Island and giving first gigs. Although she added giddy and proudful. "And I will always be the coolest couch queen."

"You have to prove me that, darling," Peter flashed his fangs with a rolling "R" and quickly got up from the armchair with screaming Lizzie in his hands. Her loud laughter boomed around the room when her body hit a soft sofa and one of his cats ran away from there with annoyed 'meow!' not wanting to nap anymore with these two around.

He was biting her neck lightly and tickling girl's sides with long slender fingers while she was trying to kick that fucking big oaf off of her. After all, she gave up and took initiative upon herself, kissing him deep and slow just how he liked.

And Peter felt that familiar taste of a cherry lipbalm and Pepsi cola on his tongue. Just like he preferred.

Tried not to make it cheesy, hope turned kinda okay?

[thetwstwildcard]

“The emotions are sometimes so strong that I work without knowing it. The strokes come like speech.”

Full Name: Des Carriedo

Gender: Male

Age: 18

Sexuality: Pansexual

Birthday: August 27

Star Sign: Virgo

Height: 194 cm (roughly 6'4)

Eye color: Pale teal

Hair color: Dark brown fading into grey tips

Homeland: Land of Hot Sands

Dorm: Ramshackle (formerly Heartslabyul)

Club: Horseback riding club

Year: 2nd

Best Subject: Music

Worst Subject: Ancient curses

Favorite Food: Sea Salt Ice Cream

Likes: His sisters(Lyss and Ire), art, music, poetry, sculpting, theater, old literature, flowers, the night sky, baking, and helping Yuu

Dislikes: His parents, seeing Lyss overexert herself, forced physical activity, cruel people, people who use others, dried out paint tubes and controlled creativity/"having to do things by the book"

Hobby: Sketching his dormmates

Personality: Soft spoken, poetic, loyal, when drawing/creating his expression is blank. He may seem stand off-ish but it is because he tries to be respectful

Unique Magic: Cálmate- the ability to quell someone's emotions if he touches them with all 5 fingers. Can be used on people overblotting, though it is dangerous. He takes the person's built up emotions two fold. He can build up several emotions but it becomes more taxing on his mental state. He does art to expell these extra emotions

Trivia

The younger brother of Lyss Carriedo and Ire Carriedo

His UM opposes hers (she riles herself up and he calls her down)

Is friendly with the ghosts of ramshackle and school portraits

He's pretty neutral about his emotions so his personal emotions may seem a mystery to the fact that if they belong to him or not.

Was scouted by the Solstice Watchers for his UM

Transfers to Ramshackle after the Heartslabyul chapter due to Lyss pushing him to not always worry about her

Is seen as a prodigy in both magic and creative skills

Is the main creator of all the new decor Yuu adds to Ramshackle

Made his own piercings though Lyss did his piercings

Calls everyone Miss/Mister/Mx for respect so he uses last names mainly (if they have one) regardless of if they are younger than him

Was a club suit when in Heartslabyul

Is very "disney princess" with being good with animals and children

In the Japanese dub, Lyss is "onee-san" and Ire is "onee-sama"

His horse is named Ava

While he bakes a lot for his dormmates, he doesn't have a sweet tooth

His eyes change colors based on the emotions he takes from others. If his eyes are brown to black he may be close to passing out from too many strong emotions

Has a large michelangelo-esque tattoo on his back

[dynamic-k]

You said Vic's birthday was shortly after he got arrested. Did Alan, Chosen, Dark and/or Second do something special to celebrate this? Did anyone do something for his birthday???

Please say yes-

Also, is Ballista still pixilated in Super Sticks??

Like- are all the mercenaries appearing like they are in canon? Primal is crayony-pencily like, Ballista is pixils, Agent has sunglasses, and Hazard is a walking bathroom sign???

I'm trying to imagine it in Super Sticks and my mind is drawing a blank.

Best wishes, because it's been less than 24 hours since I said have a great day,

-R

No no, I said before he was arrested. While he was still running Rocket Corp.

O w O' I sorta had the idea of making a Bonus Feature at one point but... It was a pretty boring birthday as he was mostly alone and didn't tell anyone it was his birthday.

And his relationship with Primal was still rocky and Ballista was in jail and Agent and Hazard were both living elsewhere and didn't know if they should make a visit or not, though I think they would end up sending a card or something at least. They'd celebrated Vic's birthday previously, so they know it was the day which it was.

Super Sticks is definitely an ambiguous design, I'll say that much. You ever watch anime and sometimes the style randomly changes and everyone is a short chibi-like character before it goes back to the more complex normal design?

Something like that happens in Super Sticks...? Like, Second can both be seen as the young kid he is with human features like hair and ears and such, and he has a 2-inch in circumference orange circle under his left eye/above his left cheek. And he can also be seen as "orange hollowhead stick figure" and the story describes him as such.

A weird, back and forthing happens, I suppose. Call it my way of saying, everyone's fanart is lovely. U v U

Ballista is... in a similar boat, I would say. He is pixellated like in canon for the most part, and yet not at other times? I dunno, I don't think I ever had a clear picture or envisionment of him in my head before, I... just write. XD

Primal, I have a much clearer depiction of, however. Her shape is that of a tall woman with broad shoulders and long hair restrained in a ponytail. Her skin color is scribbly and moving, as in canon, and her eyes have white coupled with the same tone of brown as her skin. Hair is also the same brown, and she typically wears tan-colored attire or another brown shade though typically much lighter than herself.

HAZARD!! HE ACTUALLY IS SPECIAL in the designs regard, because he- nsnjdecrkwnevj! I made a little sketch actually- hwfkjvkewv

I- You're not allowed to see my horrible sketch right now- wjrekvnkwjenbkweacv

Okay. Compromise.

I uhh

A month or so ago, I showed my embarrassingly horrible sketch to my brother Keegan, and helped describe Hazard, and he drew me something a whole lot better. That, I'll show.

His eyes are a nice golden color, and he wears grey plaid.

There is a more human version and then a stick version.

I consider SuperSticks!Hazard to be very muscular, easy on the eyes, and he has a certain mysterious charisma due to his lack of speaking for the most part.

I love my little artist siblings, hehe

:3

Thank you for the ask!!

[retrospective-d3c-a--y]

OC LIST

As title implies, just an of list^ will try and add links as I go (hoping eventually this will be so long each oc I have needs their own post list! so! send em in!)

All ocs will be tagged on each of their involved post as follows: "#RD- [Name]" .

"Aegius" - A391U5 [Story Link] it/its via programming > grows to like he/him

Android 391- Unit 5 A pink android with eyes that change slightly depending on the program as follows: Grey- Blank, Basic program. Obedient and obeying, the system comes blank and easy to reprogram to fit the needs of any owner! Bash its head in or take it on a walk to show off to friends, this pet is incapable of disobeying and fighting back. Mind you, this program is unspecialized and may fall short if you have specific needs! Blue- Advanced math and science program. This is a specialized program for scientists and engineers of all degrees. Need a test dummy or subject or even a henchmen to carry out specific combinations for key result? This program is for you! This program will have your robot doing anything to help with your endeavors, its key command of science. Pink- Romantic program. Looking for a more durable romantic-pet? Satisfy your needs with this programing! It will do anything to do what you decide is "good"- just be careful, as this programming may cause some disobedience if not commanded properly ;) Don't worry, our patrons seem to like that. Purple- Oh no :( Unfortunately your device has been corrupted. You shouldn't try and shove new programming into these bots without first decoding old programming! You cant know what this robot will do with such messed up programming. We advice you terminate your bot and return it to our labs and get a new and improved updated item from our catalog.

[Placeholder 1 Name] - Backstory HERE! Regenerative, Immortal, Winged Whumpees. KID WHUMP TW!

Orion (He>It), Adult

Winged-Humanoid with massive brown and grey wings and birdlike legs. His hair is ash brown, greying from the trauma he's enduring. In most storied his hair is long and bluntly chopped off as allowed, but he likes his hair rather short as he hates his hair being grabbed and thinks it helps (spoiler alert.. you can still grab short hair </3). Once he'd been torn apart enough, he does scar. His regeneration is slow and painful, and although he does black out, hes never allowed to "die". He doesnt know what to think of himself most of the time. Pessimistic of all beings on earth, he doesn't believe that he was meant to be tortured and hurt like he is, but ponders why.. why is he allowed to live on like this. If there was a being above, wouldn't they want to stop this? Ellie, his kiddo, is the only star in his life. He loves her dearly and uses his own blood to feed her when they need to. He'll do anything to keep her safe.

I will rp nsfw, whump, comfort, the works with Orion. Anythin, just send stuff on in.

Ellie (She/They>It), Child

Blue eyed wonder, she is. Light brown hair and white and brown baby feather adorn her ting little body. Her hair is short, soft, and warm brown. She has a scar on her throat from the repetitive destruction and removal of her vocal cords. She knows nothing of safety in life... of hope... of the sky, ocean, or sea her dad sometimes mumbles about. But she will always love her dad..

All roleplaying with her will have her set at newborn age to age 5. You can threaten Orion with her in any way and torture her, but do not send me ask box stuff actually having her partake in any sexual activity. Infact her whump should be more like a plot point than a focus point ^^;. Thank you in advance.

[dismalzelenka]

Febuwhump 2 - Solitary Confinement

Context for this one: Miriam's been subsumed by Hadar as a consequence of betraying her pact and has been brought back by her sister with some questionable divine help.

Her magic is volatile, and there's a lot of holes in her memory, and even though Eleanor checks on her every day, she doesn't remember the visits.

This contains spoilers for one of the available companion endings.

Pairing: Gale/Tav

CW: briefly mentioned failed suicide attempt

Read From Beginning || Previous || Next

"It didn't work." Eleanor stands at the altar, arms crossed as she wills Gale's avatar to come face her. She's found he tends to appear faster if she kneels, but this time, she refuses to offer him that courtesy, not when he owes her a massive explanation.

He answers with a faint whoosh, the charged scent of Karsite magic rippling in the air as he materializes before her. It's an odd space Eleanor occupies these days, because by all conventional definition, this is the god she worships, if it could even be called that. She prefers to consider them allies in pursuit of a common goal, but she supposes the nature of her divinely inherited powers these days doesn't particularly care about that little nuance. Sometimes, she thinks, neither does Gale.

"Explain," he says. "I sense her presence here, so I assume something must have gone according to plan."

"I've reconstructed her body using the theories we've discussed, it's true." She pauses, studies the body language of Gale's avatar in fascination. She wonders idly how many people in this life have had the experience of playing sister-in-law to a god. "Her mind is in tatters. I fear the Far Realms have taken something from her that cannot be recovered."

Gale's avatar ripples, becomes more corporeal, shrinking into something deceptively human. His skin loses its lustrous pallor, his eyes fade into their old soft brown with a tiny smattering of wrinkles at their edges. Grey streaks thread through his hair. In this form, he almost looks kind. "Show me."

---

Miriam doesn't know how long she's been in this room. It's a familiar room, familiar beyond the fact that she's been trapped here so long she can feel her mind unraveling. The clock above the polished mahogany desk circles the same hour every hour, and try as she might, she can't seem to keep track of the minutes that it does measure.

She's tried writing them down, but the parchment always vanishes when she puts it down; and she's tried holding onto it, but her mind wanders so erratically that she forgets what its doing in her hand within seconds of rolling it up. She's tried carving notches in the wall, too. That would have been an effective solution, except at times she finds herself carving them into other shapes, and by the time she comes back to herself, the orderly rows of lines she's been carefully curating has become a jumbled mess.

The worst is the silence. It presses in on her like a vise clamped around her ears. Sometimes she screams to break it -- obscenities, hysterical laughter, poorly recreated songs she only remembers a handful of words at a time -- but inevitably all that does is break her more when she runs out of sounds.

There is a balcony on the far side of the room. Sometimes she steps beyond the doors and finds herself looking across a harbor she doesn't recognize. She'd tried to throw herself over it into the water below, once, but there is an invisible enchantment that ripples with power that locks her in. Sometimes the sunlight is soothing. Mostly, it's another reminder that she's lost something she cannot wrap her mind around.

There is a blank section of the far wall that once housed a bookcase she's long since torn down piece by piece in sporadic fits of rage. Now there is only a messy scrawl of black ink across the stone:

my name is miriam my name is miriam my name is miriam my name is miriam MY NAME IS MIRIAM MY NAME IS MIRIAM

How many times can she repeat a name before it, too, becomes lost in the endless wash of history that refuses to straighten into an order that makes sense?

---

"You've locked her in my old study?" Gale almost sounds amused as Eleanor leads him to the scrying screen she's installed beside the door. "You do know this is where her entire plight began."

Eleanor clamps down on a familiar ripple of annoyance. "If you'd been paying attention, you'd know it's also the only room warded heavily enough to weather her outbursts of magic. I require further testing to be sure, but I suspect the traces of the True Weave in her blood are directly at odds with the magic that brought her back." Your magic, she thinks darkly to herself. "It took me three weeks to restore your old bedroom after she spent one night in there."

"Curious." He runs a hand along the scrying screen, and Eleanor wants to scream at how detached he sounds. She barely stifles a cruel, vindicated laugh when he jumps at the sound of something slamming against the door.

"Let me out!" Miriam screams. "Please! You can't keep me alone in here forever!" Her sobs never get any less heart wrenching. "Is anybody out there??" Then the pounding begins anew, and Eleanor steels her heart against what always comes next.

"When was the last time you saw her in person?" Gale asks, and with each blow that rattles the wood as Miriam throws herself against the door, his porcelain visage finally begins to crumble.

"This morning," Eleanor says. She means to sound as detached as he always does, means to try to hurt him with how little he's made her care, but her words come out as a choked whisper. "She never remembers me."

[idontknowanametouse]

Genshin cringe headcanons part 7: other Liyue people

This post reclaims the term "cringe". If you use it as an insult or feels triggered by it, please DNI

-

Name: Ajax/Tartaglia/Childe

Gender: trans man, he/him

Pictures of Character:

Appearance: ethnically russian, white, pale, strong, ginger hair, blue eyes, many freckles through his body, strabism, many scars through his body

Age: 25

Sexuality: gay

Personality: proud, trusting most of the times, excentric, easily dedicated, kind to children

Area of greatest ability: Fighting, acting

Kins: foxes, sea, squishy things

Family: Anton, Tonia, Teucer (biological lil siblings) Xinyan, Hu Tao, Qiqi (found family)

Relationship status: dating Zhongli

Friends: Wanderer, Beidou, Chongyun, Gaming, Xiangling, Xingqiu, Yanfei, Yaoyao, Yun Jin

Disabilities: strabism, autistic, ADHD, lack of iron deficiency

Belief: believes the Tsaritsa with ortodox-catholic practices

-

Name: Qiqi

Gender: demigirl, she/they/it/zombie/cold

Pictures of Character:

Appearance: ethnically chinese, thin, looks very ill, grey skin, skeletic face, dark circles, small, long lilac braided hair, blank eyes

Age: chronologically 507, physically, psychologically and mentally 6

Personality: calm, polite, naive, very serious for their age, is seen as “quirky”

Area of greatest ability: biology, herbology

Kins: pastel colors, zombie, Dreams

Family: Zhongli (adoptive dad) Ganyu, Xiao, Xinyan, Hu Tao, Albedo, Klee, Kaeya, Diluc (adoptive older siblins) Ajax (found family)

Friends: Yaoyao, Diona, Nahida, Sigewinne, Sayu, Paimon, Ningguang, Baizhu, Shenhe, Xianyun, Yanfei, Keqing

Disabilities: autistic semi-verbal, arthritis, short-term memory, breathing issues, uses an oxygen tank

Belief: does not believe in anything specifically, but has buddhist practices on zombies day-to-day life

-

Name: Shenhe

Gender: transfem parawoman, she/they/ice/snow/winter

Pictures of Character:

Appearance: ethnically chinese, has albinism, tall, very muscled, has long white braided hair, clear eyes

Age: 33

Sexuality: asexual lesbian

Personality: soft with certain people, very reclusive, easily irritable, violent, does not know how to act in social situations

Area of greatest ability: Fighting

Kins: winter, crystals, pastel blue, clay, forest, magic

Family: Xianyun (adoptive mother) Chongyun (biological nephew) Ganyu (found family cousin)

Relationship status: dating Yelan

Friends: Beidou, Hu Tao, Qiqi, Xiangling, Xiao, Xinyan, Yanfei, Yaoyao, Yun Jin, Zhongli

Disabilities: autistic semi-verbal, depression, PTSD, chronic pain, uses sign languages sometimes to comunicate, wears orthosis on joints

Belief: believes Rex Lapis and has taoist-like practices

-

Name: Zhongli/Morax/Rex Lapis

Gender: cis man, he/him

Pictures of Character:

Appearance: ethnically chinese, tall, brown skin, long brown hair he keeps tied up, brown eyes, a few wrinkles around his eyes

Age: chronologically 6130, physically 42

Sexuality: asexual gay

Personality: calm, reclusive, polite, protective, has an inclination for nostalgia, regrets things he did in past

Area of greatest ability: way too many.

Kins: does not has kin as he is the concept itself of what he would kin, but supports his friends and family who do.

Family: Ganyu, Xiao, Xinyan, Hu Tao, Qiqi (adoptive children) Albedo, Klee, Diluc, Kaeya (found family children) Venti (found family nibling) Shenhe (found family niece) Xianyun, Makoto, Ei, Kuni, Nahida, Furina (found family)

Relationship status: was in a QPR with Guizhong while she was alive, is now dating Childe

Friends: Baizhu, Beidou, Chongyun, Gaming, Keqing, Ningguang, Xiangling, Xingqiu, Yanfei, Yaoyao, Yelan, Yun Jin

Disabilities: autistic, arthritis, diabetes, chronic back pain, uses a cane to walk.

-

Name: Xiao/Alatus

Gender: agender, it/its

Pictures of Character:

Appearance: ethnically chinese, pale, small, black and green hair, black eyes, dark circles, many scars through its body

Age: chronologically 2079, physically 19

Sexuality: aroace

Personality: reclusive, resistent, socially awkward, gets everything it puts its mind on done, tries not to care but cares deeply

Area of greatest ability: Fighting, music

Kins: neon green, black, floral objects, crystals, gems, paint, clouds, wind, music

Family: Venti (found family cousin) Ganyu, Xinyan, Hu Tao, Qiqi (adoptive siblings) Zhongli (adoptive father) Itto, Yanfei, Shinobu, Yelan, the yakshas (found family siblings)

Relationship status: single

Friends: Chongyun, Shenhe, Xianyun, Yaoyao, Diluc, Kaeya, Albedo, Klee

Disabilities: autistic, depression, insomnia, fibromyalgia, intrusive thoughts

Belief: believes Rex Lapis but does not has any specific practices

-

Name: Yaoyao Maö

Gender: trans girl, she/bun/green

Pictures of Character:

Appearance: ethnically chinese, black, brown eyes, brown braided curly hair

Age: 8

Personality: polite, very smart for her age’s standards, curious, very attached to buns daily life, kind, caring.

Area of greatest ability: botany, biology

Kins: does not has kin but supports others who do!

Family: Xiangling (biological big sister) Wanmin (biological dad) Yanfei (adoptive cousin) madam Ping (adoptive grandma) Xianyun, Shenhe, Xiao, Ganyu (found family)

Friends: Baizhu, Beidou, Ningguang, Qiqi, Childe, Zhongli, Diona, Klee, Paimon, Sayu, Nahida, Sigewinne

Disabilities: autistic, dyslexia

Belief: believes Rex Lapis and has taoist-like and buddhist-like practices on greens daily life

-

Name: Baizhu

Gender: transmasc nonbinary, he/they

Pictures of Character:

Appearance: ethnically chinese, brown skin, black hair dyed green, brown eyes

Age: 38

Sexuality: gay

Personality: learns easily, kind, sassy, gets things done as soon as they can, might be very agressive when he wants to protect

Area of greatest ability: pharmachology, medicine

Kins: writing, squishy things, snakes, nature, plants, green, clay

Family: none

Relationship status: single

Friends: Zhongli, Qiqi, Yaoyao, Ganyu, Shenhe, Xiangling, Xiao, Xianyun, Yelan, Yun Jin

Disabilities: OCD, chronic pain, uses a wheelchair, Changsheng is a support animal

Belief: believes the adepti and has buddhist-like practices

-

Name: Xianyun

Gender: cis woman, she/they

Pictures of Character:

Appearance: ethnically chinese, white skin, grey hair, blue eyes, tall

Age: chronologically 4564, physically 60

Sexuality: aroace

Personality: dedicated to her work and duty, polite, competitive, caring even though they doesn’t show it, likes kids

Area of greatest ability: Fighting, caring for

Kins: has not kins but supports her family on theirs

Family: Shenhe (adoptive daughter) Chongyun (adoptive nephew-grandson) Ganyu, Gaming (found family niblings)

Relationship status: single

Friends: Zhongli, adepti, Xiao, Baizhu, Hu Tao, Qiqi, Miko, Xiangling, Yanfei, Yaoyao, Yun Jin

Disabilities: autistic, Tourette’s

Belief: believes Rex Lapis, does not has any specific religious practices

-

Name: Xinyan

Gender: genderfluid, she/he

Pictures of Character:

Appearance: ethnically chinese, black, chubby, brown eyes, dark brown afro hair in two buns

Age: 18

Sexuality: polysexual

Personality: easily exciting, persistent, bold, loud, kind, likes kids

Area of greatest ability: music

Kins: summer, sand, fire, red, glitter, guitars

Family: Zhongli (adoptive dad) Ganyu, Xiao, Hu Tao, Qiqi (adoptive siblings) Ajax (found family)

Relationship status: in a colorful friendship with Yun Jin

Friends: Fischl, Kazuha, Mona, Xiangling, Beidou, Yanfei, Keqing, Barbara

Disabilities: ADHD, anxiety, chronic migraines

Belief: believes Rex Lapis, but doesn’t really care about him

-

Name: Yun Jin

Gender: transfem demigirl, she/they/fluff

Pictures of Character:

Appearance: ethnically chinese, chubby, dark skin, brown eyes, black long braided hair

Age: 18

Sexuality: asexual lesbian

Personality: learns easily, friendly, polite, graceful, gets easily embarassed when in front of few people

Area of greatest ability: music

Kins: squishy stuff, painting

Family: Yun-Han clan

Relationship status: in a colorful friendship with Xinyan

Friends: Baizhu, Ganyu, Keqing, Ningguang, Barbara, Shenhe, Childe, Xiangling, Xianyun, Xiao, Xingqiu, Yanfei, Yaoyao, Yelan, Zhongli

Disabilities: autistic

Belief: is agnostic, but has a phew buddhist-like practices on her daily life

[gladiatefm]

                        𝙸    𝙰𝙼    𝙵𝚄𝙻𝙻    𝙾𝙵    𝚆𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳𝚂    &    𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙻𝙻    𝚂𝚃𝙰𝙽𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙶    𝙾𝙽    𝙼𝚈    𝙵𝙴𝙴𝚃                                              katniss everdeen , district twelve

may calamawy . cis woman . she / her ➶ did you see them ?! they’re finally back as a mentor , and you know they’re one of my favourites ! it’s katniss everdeen , the thirty six year old winner of the seventy fourth hunger games! i’m just so excited to see them returning to the capitol all the way from district twelve ! they won their games using a bow and arrow & her romance with peeta mellark so their tributes will no doubt be desperate for their wisdom. the capitol just loved them for being so adaptable , even if they have been known to be stand offish at times. they do have a relative in this years games and they did volunteer . ( character isn’t part of the uprising ) 

— 𝙱𝙰𝚂𝙸𝙲𝚂

full name: katniss everdeen

nicknames: catnip

age: 36

gender / pronouns: cis woman , she  /  her

orientation: heterosexual

cccupation: mentor in the hunger games

home: district twelve

— 𝙿𝙷𝚈𝚂𝙸𝙲𝙰𝙻 𝙰𝙿𝙿𝙴𝙰𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙴

eye colour: grey

hair colour: brown

build: slim , athletic

height: 5′4″

piercings: none

tattoos: none

distinctive features: fashionable style thanks to cinna

face claim: crystal reed

— 𝙱𝙸𝙾𝙶𝚁𝙰𝙿𝙷𝚈

your story is long, it is harrowing — so let’s keep it to the basics . you thought you would be dead by now, in fact ringing in your thirtieth birthday felt like a fever dream . you looked at the baby sister who towers over you now, who is alive because, in part, of you . you felt something like happiness . 

the games broke you long ago . you are not in the arena anymore, but did you ever really leave it behind you ? it seems hard to deny when you wake up screaming in the middle of the night . your children are old enough to notice now, and you allow peeta to slip from the bed, to comfort them instead of you . it doesn’t matter anyway, sometimes you can’t even look at him for the guilt . he should have a wife who can love him properly, who didn’t sob with fear, with dread when she realised she was carrying his child.

in truth, every day has felt like a slow march to what comes next . you can’t face it, your son grows older each second, he begins to look more like peeta, and you love him so much you can’t bear it . every sound makes you jump, every night brings new terror and you don’t know if you have it in you to be a mother. and then you get pregnant again and dammit — she looks like you .

you’re paraded around each year, brought to the capitol to hand two children over to their deaths . but hey, this is the world, and at least they aren’t your own kids. the word mother doesn’t suit you, but peeta is perfect. peeta is everything. you could live a hundred lifetimes and never deserve that boy. you can’t love him the way he wants you to. you can’t admit it to yourself that you do . you avoid him, you’re quiet, you’re withdrawn . does he regret you yet ?

you’re so full of fear, you’re so full of rage . rye turns twelve and it’s inevitable, snow will take what he wants, and he wants you broken . the reaping comes and haymitch, peeta, alexander . . . stood by the stage they hold you in their arms as you shriek, you wail . they say you sound like something dying and you are . your mother looks at you with sympathy, eyes full of grim understanding and you want to slap that look off her face . what does she know about anything ?

 willow is somewhere with prim, your sister guards your daughter from the truth of you when you throw yourself at the peacekeepers, at effie trinket . screaming obscenities that the rest of panem won’t see, but you know that snow is enjoying every second of your breakdown . let them kill you, there is nothing left of you anymore .

you hold rye’s hand on the train, your anger is towards peeta as though he could have done anything about this . how can he stand her ? you’ve heard people whisper, and you don’t blame them when you blank your husband the moment he needs you most .

on stage with caesar flickerman, you do not look at peeta when you step forward . you speak clearly the words that set all of this into motion — i volunteer as tribute . 

[writingwarmupsofthedamned]

I am the doll maker.

Macabre as some children can be, not every child wants to have glass eyes rolling around on their night stand, disembodied and directionless.

My sister was like that. She'd found three of them, one red, one brown, one blue. She'd try to cover them up, put them in a drawer. Once, she let the blue one roll right off the edge of the night stand and crack on the wooden floor.

The next morning she woke up and couldn't see out of her right eye. Her eyes had been blue, but one has been grey ever since that day, though some sight has returned to it.

So, I made her a doll. It was a plain thing, just sewn together from scraps and stuffed with grass, but it worked. She named it Lucy, and kept it on the foot of her bed, facing her while she slept. It seemed to make the nightmares go away.

Other parents began requesting dolls for their unwilling children, once my mother started talking. I was sixteen then, and quickly realized if I charged for making these dolls that I might postpone having to go work in the lumber mill with my father for a few years. Perhaps, I could avoid it altogether.

That was some years ago now, and all the children have dolls, depending on the eyes they find. If the child only finds one eye, then I make them into pirates with eyepatches or puppies with floppy ears falling over the blank space where another eye should be. If they find an uneven number of eyes, I hide one at the back of their head, careful to keep the hair from covering it.

One frequently unsupervised especially precocious child has a spider doll.

My workshop is in my bedroom, with all the unfinished works watching me as I sleep. I tried to work somewhere else, but this is where they like it best, I can tell. It was unsettling at first, but I got used to it.

The only thing is that lately, I haven't been able to sleep. Perhaps it's middle age finally catching up with me. I often work late into the night, or roam around the main floor of my house, restlessly picking things up and putting them down when my mind can't settle on an activity.

They don't like it when I don't sleep in my bed.

If I don't get into bed at a reasonable hour or I get up late into the night, I'll leave the room and come back to find my work undone, to find eyes on the floor, rolling around like marbles. Sometimes they'll all be lined up in a row on my desk, staring at the door.

I wonder if our parents and our parents' parents have known this all along. The eyes don't watch us while we sleep because they like it, they watch us to make sure we don't leave their beds.

What happens to the children who leave their beds?

Text: Children who dig in the forest often unearth strange glass eyes. They are presents, the Elders tell us, and we should leave them on our nightstands to keep watch while we sleep.

[p0plotte]

Wanderer of The Stars

My Time - Bo En

Minori’s supposed to be the protag but i pnly introduced her here?!/!/ 😭😭..

—•—

Stood atop the school roof top was a girl in grade 7, brown strands of hair falling over her eyes. Her hands behind her back, fingers fiddling with the carefully crafted lovey-dovey envelope she had prepared just for this moment. It was different from the one she prepared the day before, which she had implanted in his locker. It was much more special.

Because if he actually showed up.. it meant he was worth the extra details.

She stared up to the heavens, the fluffy white clouds complimenting the sky which was painted in orange, pink and yellow hues.

Though, the sound of slow footsteps broke her from her trance. Like an eager child she was quick to turn.. and there he was.

She took a nervous step forward, looking the raventte up and down. He was perfect.. stunning, even.

Mysterious, yet beautiful. And as the sun began to set, he became her new light!..

-

Black. Pitch black darkness.

That is the color in which the world is coated in. Everything is patterned with black and white lines, greys filling in the blank spaces. Only a day ago the boy known as Asmodeus Rune, the misfit of the school, recieved a note.

One which left a red line through his vision ever since. One which showed him his destiny. His fate. And now, it guided him here. To the meeting point which the letter entailed.

Without a word, yet filled with hesitation, he reached a hand out to hers. Red, red is a girl.

Soon, his black lines overlapped with hers of red, and when together they would create a gradient. Something he’d never seen before.

When red and black meet, they form anew.

“You’re Meguri, aren’t you?”

“Mm! Meguri Haida, I’m in your science class.. I sit behind you.”

Caught off gaurd by the sudden touch her cheeks flared red. The brown haired girl turned her head to the side, gaze hitting the ground.

This far already with little to no words. Had he been paying as much attention to her as she had been to him? She could stare off into space at him for the entire period sometimes, watching as the boy fidgeted with his erasers or pins- drew random scribbles, bounced his knee rhythmically to whatever he had playing on his headphones.

Had he noticed those small things about her as well? Is that why he was able to hold her hands with no strings attached? No .. fear?

“You.. read my note, right?”

“Mm.”

Living his life in the dark, he had never seen this light before. Everyone around him prior to this was covered in the same sickening air, black scribbles feigned their identities from his view. No matter where he turned, he couldnt rely on a single person. Nobody was ever truly there.

Just.. scribbles.

Nothingness wrapped in a pretty bow called society.

“Meguri, will you follow my string of destiny with me?”

His gaze wandered to behind red. The string continued further on from her. Still hand in hand with red, he moved forward till his left hand rested on the railing to the edge of the rooftop.

And that’s where the string ended. Below, red scribbles covered the ground. That was his ending destination.

“You believe we’re soulmates, correct?”

“O-Of course! I wouldn’t have said so if I didnt..”

She gave the other a glance of confusion, grip on his hand tight. She was trusting him with her everything right now.

“Then we share the same fate.” The ravenette turned before holding his arms out like a bird, “Will you commit a double suicide with me, Meguri?”

“H..Huh?..”

She froze and watched as he moved behind her, body once again feeling warmth as he embraced her in a tight hug.

She was silent as he undid the buttons to her cartigan, gaze falling with the ribbon of her uniform.

“You showed me the way.. and it all ends here. We end here.. I dont know why.” He paused, “But I have to go through with it.. I need to know what comes afterwards, or if this is the end.”

His hands wandered from her chest to her hair, slowly he ran his fingers through it and undid the small pigtails which had been so carefully put up with heart pins beforehand.

He removed his shoes, hands now by his side.

“So what do you say, Meguri Haida?”

Saying nothing still, she slowly removed her shoes. Her breath had hitched in her throat. Everything was .. moving in slow motion. This.. couldnt be happening, yet it was. It was all too.. surreal..

But for some reason her body moved without thinking, and as he took her hands in his she simply accepted her fate.

“Goodnight.”

His body went limp, yet as their lines had once overlapped, they soon spread apart once more. He watched as the two grew further and further apart.

Even though she hadn’t gone through with it.. he.. wasn’t upset. More so curious. Was it not both of their fates to die there?

Was her red- somehow different?

Well, either way, in his final moments he savored it. Yes. Red is a girl, the sweet girl who sat behind him in a class of delinquents and cruelties.

The sweet girl who had changed her fate, or so that’s how he chose to see it.

His red.

——-•——-

The splatter and cracking noises which followed the tragedy still lingered in her mind. They were just.. kids!.. Junior High kids with crushes. Why would he do that?

Maybe she was in over her head asking him out when they’d barely talked, but to end his life right there and call it fate?

Was that.. truly what he wanted?

Was it her fault he ended his rope there?

“Idiot..!”

As she stared down from the very same rooftop during the hopeful twighlight, she clutched her side bag.

Now that she could finally face herself here without the feeling of needing to escape.. now she could finally move on. Find a future where he could be proud. Where everyone could be proud.

A future where she would save everyone.

—•—