#spot the lack of horns i guess

[sleepsucks]

[merakiui]

11:11 — sugar dew sewn anew.

yandere!rook hunt x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, obsession, violence, murder/death of reader, description of blood/injuries, rook is rather morbid and creepy in this fic note - this fic is the result of a character fic poll, in which rook was the winner.

“You wear a very forlorn face when you paint, mon cher.”

You swivel on the stool, legs unfolding at the ankles, to properly peer past the easel at the man who sits in a gold-and-white satin chair, backdropped by various animal heads. They’re mounted with such care, each one organized according to where it lies on the food chain. They almost form a pyramid when you look at them from where you’re seated. From a dusky brown house mouse to a pitch-black crow, the heads range in species and size, all arranged on a vermillion wall. 

The biggest one, sitting in the very center of the display, right above your client’s head, is a chestnut-colored buck with a pair of magnificent antlers curling from its scalp. From where Rook sits, it almost looks like those horns are sprouting from his head. Contemplating the discrepancies between man and buck, you swirl your brush through a muddy cup of water and survey the rest of the aureate placards until you reach the top.

There’s a mount lacking a head. 

It was the first thing you took notice of after stepping through the halls of this quaint cabin to reach the sitting room. Although, after spending hours enclosed in cedarwood walls, it feels more like a trophy room—a place meant to showcase the spoils of every hunt rather than welcome people with disarming decorations. 

Rook crosses one leg over the other and, resting his elbows upon his knee, steeples his hands. You peer at the antlers, noting the valiant curvature, before meeting his verdant stare. A grin slowly sprawls on his lips once he realizes you’ve caught his gaze. 

“I concentrate on my source,” you explain with a shrug, still twirling the brush through the water. “Steady focus makes a steady hand…or something along those lines.”

“And yet you never smile, even when working so diligently to bring your masterpiece to completion.”

“If I viewed it as such, then I would have reason to smile.” Your contemptuous scowl slides to the canvas, where you’ve painted two dull green eyes set into a freckle-speckled face. The beginnings of a smile trace the portrait’s plush lips, withholding secrets no one will ever know. “I’ve yet to create a masterpiece. Therefore I can’t smile.”

“Oh, you’re much too critical of your art!” Unclasping his hands, Rook places one upon his chest, as if he must calm his heart after hearing your response. “I’ve studied your work, both through a screen and in person, and as your devout follower I can wholeheartedly say it is beautiful in every way, even down to the miniscule flaws other critics often spot with sharp, perceptive eyes!”

“You speak as if I lead a cult,” you admit with a sheepish chuckle. “I’m just painting the things I find interesting.”

“For a reason, I assume?”

“Usually it’s to find inspiration for what I hope will be my first masterpiece. I’d like to finally feel proud of my work.” The brush peruses the colorful selection on your palette, settling into the green you’ve mixed from yellow and blue. “It’s not that I’m unhappy. I just can’t find it in me to love what I produce.”

“But you enjoy creating, yes?”

“Of course. It’s what I’ve been doing for years. Painting allows me to understand the world and its inhabitants through my own lens.” You put brush to canvas in a series of small, significant strokes. “So when I’m painting… Well, I guess I just want to try to love the things I put on my canvases, even if it’s impossible.”

“Is that so? Then I’m beyond flattered you would ever consider using me as your most beloved muse!” He tilts his head, suddenly more animated than when he first sat down to pose for you, and adds, “I love you, too. Very much, my little artiste.”

“Are you just saying that so I’ll paint you handsomely?”

“Why, I would never say anything that would influence or persuade your process! Just as I love sweetly and solemnly, I also love monstrously and mercilessly. The primal facets of humankind are not exempt from my loving eyes. Even the most dirty and deceitful corners of this world—I love those just as fiercely. So should you choose to depict me as a fiend, I will adore your representation regardless of its harsh implications. After all, there’s beauty in tragedy.”

“And would that make life the greatest tragedy?” You hum as you add a sadistic glimmer to the eyes on the canvas. They pierce you with their unblinking stare, hollowing your soul until they reach unfathomable depths. “Or maybe it’s the ability to love with such a big heart?”

“Are you suggesting love is a tragedy? I suppose, in some sad sense, it is. Unrequited feelings, shattered hearts, lovers separated by way of death or divorce, and even the type of love that curdles like spoiled milk—oh, the misfortune! Each is a tragic tale spun from a mixture of melancholy or the intensity of hatred and all-consuming loneliness. But even so, no matter how horrendous it may seem, I hold each in my heart. They’re beautiful because they have the unique ability to shape a person into someone new—for better or for worse.” 

You lower your arm, hesitating while the excuses rise to the surface, before turning to look at him. “I’ve never known real love, Mr. Hunt, which is why I’m trying to capture it while I paint. I suspect I’ll be able to smile at my work because it will be something I’ve fallen in love with. Only then can I consider it a true masterpiece.”

“Your way of thinking is simply très bien!” He drums his fingers along his knee, humming his contemplation. “I’d love to unscrew your skull and poke through your brain. I wonder what memories have shriveled your ability to love…”

“It’s not that it’s shriveled. It’s just…” You shrug, losing your previous statement. “The words ‘I love you’ are just that—words. I have no use for meaningless sentiments. If I force myself to love, it feels wrong. I can like people and things, but loving them is too much. I can’t cross that line. If I did, I’d be a liar.” 

“Ah, so it’s like that…” Rook chuckles, but none of what you said was remotely humorous. His voice lowers to a whisper, ghostly and haunting, as if wrapping around your head and settling into the very folds of your brain. “I find it charming that you’re unable to love and I love too much. We possess many differences, and yet at the very center of it all we’re merely human beings composed of flesh and blood. It’s a beauty more stunning than the most radiant sunset!”

You pretend to have not heard him, resigning yourself to your work as you spend an absurd amount of time trying to illustrate the peculiar glaze in his eyes. They’re always so bright, but here you’ve painted them as soulless, viridescent sockets—a dark, dense forest having lost its vivid greenery with winter’s frost. But then there is not an ounce of ice within Rook’s eyes. They are always smoldering with many things: enthusiasm, intellect, new opinions just waiting to be shared regardless of whether or not you wish to hear them. It’s a genuine warmth, but something feels strange. Out of place. Much like the headless mount poised right above Rook to form the tip of the pyramid. 

Why is that mount lacking a head?

Without realizing it, you’ve abandoned your task with fixing his eyes to start on the antlers poking from a head of canary-hued hair. 

“You live up to your surname, sir.”

“Please, you’re much too formal with your fan. You need only call me Rook, should it suit your fancy.” He giggles when you pin him with a dubious glare. “Is it so wrong to label myself as such? I go to great lengths out of admiration and support of your work. Wouldn’t that, by definition, make me your fan?”

“I’m not very famous.”

“In my eyes, you are the famed sun and I am merely the moon who hopelessly pursues.” 

“Really? Well, I wasn’t aware I had an eloquent hunter for a fan.”

“Do you find my hobby eccentric?”

“No. It’s normal to enjoy all sorts of pastimes. Hunting is as much of a hobby as it is a sustainable sport. In older times, most people would hunt for the sake of survival.”

Rook nods, his gaze flicking towards the heads on the wall. You dip your brush in brown paint to add more color to the antlers. “It takes immaculate patience to be a hunter. Most hunts are not always successful.”

“Is there a reason you hunt?”

“It’s in a human’s nature to obtain the unobtainable, and I seek beauty in its most visceral forms.”

“I see…”

“Do you?” Rook crosses his legs again, but this time his posture is stiffly statuesque. “Is obsession not the most flattering form of dedication?”

“It’s not exactly how I’d go about defining dedication… But then I suppose everyone has their reasons.” You steal a peek at the headless mount. “Do these heads mean anything to you?”

“Why, of course! They are the beautiful animals I have pierced with my arrow, whether or not I intended to. Often, when you trek through the territory of beasts, you might need to release a mortally wounded animal from its suffering.”

“So a mercy kill.” Your eyes return to the painting, where you set to work adding tiny blossoms along the curved antlers. “Doesn’t that upset you?”

“So goes the cycle of life, I’m afraid. I would be a daring fool to interfere with the balance of the world.”

“Have you ever lost any of your hunts?”

Rook hums, tapping out a rhythm against the top of his hand. The pads of his fingers fall in rapid succession: tick, tick, tick, tick. “As a matter of fact, I have! Just last week, after your departure, I lost the mouse I’ve been trying to catch for years now.”

“Years? Shouldn’t you give up?”

“Not until I feel that mouse’s heart beat within my enclosed fist.” He smiles wide, flashing flawless rows of pearly whites. Under the dim lighting, they appear sharp and predatory. “I suspect I’ll get lucky tonight.”

“How can you be sure? Mice are difficult to catch with bare hands. You’ll need a trap.”

“Mon cher, you wound me! I would never make such an amateur error.” He chuckles to himself, relishing in the cruelty of a joke that doesn’t quite land. “When I set my sights on something, it’s a guarantee I will catch it, even if I must play a dreadful waiting game.”

“My apologies. I was only passing on a helpful tip.”

You pull away from the canvas to inspect the strands of white dahlias curled around the man’s antlers. Frowning, you raise your arm, intending to slash through the portrait with a streak of black paint, when it occurs to you that you need only add red. 

But before carmine, you return to nature reflected in wide greens.

“Has my dear artiste ever hunted before?”

“No, not really. I seek inspiration all the time, but I wouldn’t call that a hunt.”

“Oh? Please elaborate.”

“There are stakes in a hunt. Life and death. Danger. A battle of wits between predator and prey. Looking for inspiration is just a matter of searching and exploring. It might lead some down scary paths, but for me it’s a matter of reading more books or taking a stroll through the town. I don’t like dangerous things, so I tend to avoid them.”

“It pays to be cautious, no?”

“Right. Shouldn’t you be the same, Rook? As a hunter, don’t you worry about what might happen if you aren’t careful?”

“Of course there are worries! That comes with every profession and hobby.” He gestures to the plastic tarps plastered to the floor and walls. “You worried you’d sully my floors, and to ease such a fear I put these protective plastics up. My worries for hunting may be different, but they are worries all the same.”

“I guess that’s true… Well, what do you worry about?”

“Whether I’ll be fast enough to catch my prey when they’re unarmed and unaware.”

“O-Oh… That’s a little…”

Rook laughs a guttural laugh—a sound that comes right from the depths of his chest. “Imagine something you’ve always wanted. Picture it slipping through your fingers, just out of your reach, and now you’ve lost the chance to seize it. Is that not worth a worry or two?”

“I can’t say. I’ve never tried to chase after things I knew I wouldn’t be able to have.”

“Mon cher, you must learn to take risks. How else will you live?”

“I live perfectly fine without the need to step out of my comfort zone.”

Rook hums. “I think you’d change your tune if you found yourself in a risky situation.”

“Define risky.”

“Life and death.”

You pause, your brush poised at the pupil in his eye. “Everyone wants to survive. It’s in our nature as animals. A very basic instinct.” 

“And despite our most dedicated efforts to stall the inevitable, death catches us all—some sooner than most.”

“This is getting kinda…morbid.” 

“Haven’t you wondered,” he asks, and you don’t hear the wood creak under approaching feet, “what someone might do if they found your corpse?” 

He’s behind you. Five steps away in this cubic space. The man with antlers has crawled out of the canvas that once confined him, and he’s behind you. 

The mount on the wall lacks a head. 

The man in the chair lacks antlers. 

The creature in the portrait lacks humanity.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice a voice recorder tucked away beneath the chair. 

You swallow thickly, your heart in your throat. “I… I’m not sure. I’d hope they’d give me a proper, respectful burial if I died of natural causes.” 

And if it wasn’t natural causes? 

You don’t hear him verbalize the question, but somehow you catch it amidst the smothering silence.

“If it wasn’t natural causes…” You force a laugh, but it’s flat and misplaced just like the headless mount. “That would be murder, right?”

His shadow looms behind you, cast ominously dark over the earthly colored canvas. Slowly, so slowly, your free hand lowers to the pocket in your artist’s apron, where a dozen palette knives rest. Trembling fingers peruse the selection, locating the one with the sharpest point, and it’s the heaviest burden you’ve ever secured in your fist. You remain sitting horribly still on the stool, listening only to the frantic, slick sound of blood rushing in your ears. 

Steeling your frayed nerves, you whirl just as he descends. 

There’s a pause, a stumbled heartbeat, and then raw fear coagulates into confusion when you find him sitting primly in his chair, his verdant stare striking through you as if it’s an arrow he’s just loosed. It hits its mark, for it leaves you pinned in perplexity. 

He was behind me.

“And… And what about you?” you ask, your tongue heavy and thick in your mouth. “If someone… If I found your corpse, what would you want me to do with it?”

He was behind me. I’m sure of it.

“That wouldn’t happen.” His lips curl into a cat-like smile, and he angles his head curiously. “Normally it’s the other way around.”

You see it, then. The silver glint of a sharpened meat cleaver. It lies in his lap, where his fingers curl around the wooden handle, and all while holding eye contact he continues to smile. His teeth are refined cutlery in the light: artfully honed, yet not quite serrated, they’re tough enough to bite and tear and chew. Like a deer trapped in the hauntingly hypnotic glow of oncoming headlights, you don’t dare move. Perspiration wets your brow, slides down your back between your shoulder blades. You lick your lips. Anticipation claws through your intestines, nestling in the very pit of your stomach. Bile creeps its way up your throat like acidic fingers.

What’s happening?

“Come now, ma souris, don’t give me such a sullen face! I’ve shown you my hand. Isn’t that a miracle more beautiful than life itself?”

Your hold on the little palette knife tightens. “One person’s going to leave this room,” you say, your eyes sliding to the recording device, “and it’s not going to be me. Isn’t that right, Rook?”

“I can’t possibly say,” he affirms, dulcet and smooth like rivers of blood running ruby-red from a broken nose. His finger drums a rhythm against the flat side of the cleaver. “But I can certainly guess.”

Carefully, you rise from the stool. His eyes track you, so full of the vitality of the color green. More than that, they’re bright with bloodlust and you’ve been caught in the crosshairs of his cutting gaze. He peers at your unfinished painting and chuckles.

“Even your interpretation of me is beautiful! It’s an honor to be your fan, ma souris. Truly, I’m quite happy.”

You brandish the palette knife as if that will do anything to protect you from him. He stands from his seat, a monster adorned in gloomy garb. Like a stain against the red wall of heads, he no longer fits into the picture you once thought he did. Rather, he is blight in human form, a sinister omen housed within a skeleton encased in friendly skin. 

And he’s walking right towards you, putting one foot in front of the other, in no hurry to rush. The cleaver taps against his hip as he approaches, each bump mirroring every one of your heartbeats with startling accuracy. 

“Are… Are you unhappy with my portrayal?” you ask, not particularly interested in his reply, but desperate to keep him talking at arm’s length. 

For every step he takes, you take two backwards. 

“Not at all! In fact, I’m flattered.” Rook narrows his eyes at you, sickly entertained. “You’ve made prey out of a predator. Not many are capable of such a generous feat.” 

Your back connects with the door. Swallowing thickly, you search for the door knob. “Do you really see yourself as one? You don’t have to be one. Y-You can be neither. You’re only human.”

“Ah, but humans are the worst kind of predator.”

“What makes you say that?” Your fingers wrap around the metal door knob.

“Humans are afforded choices. We think through decisions. We make merry with our enemies and then hurt them after they’ve properly settled. We are complex in a way that differs from other animals. Predators are bound by survival, always trapped in high-stakes life or death, unable to truly make a decision that ventures beyond whether they wish to live another day or become sustenance for those who sit a rung above on the food chain. You see, we are not simple predators.” He raises the cleaver and points it at you. “As for humans, we can decide if we want to feel something when we hurt and kill. We can communicate in languages simple predators can’t use. Oh, the beauty of words!” He chuckles, elated. “To pluck a phrase from my vast lexicon: I’m going to take your life for myself, ma souris. Stow it within the depths of my very soul so that I may be the only one to treasure your rarity.”

The confession guts you quicker than his knife ever could. 

Wrenching the door open, you turn on your heel and step through, ready to break into a sprint, when heavy footfalls make their way towards you from behind. He covers the meager distance in seconds, wrapping a muscled arm around your torso and yanking you back into the room. You scream, words and sounds mixing into something incoherent, and elbow him in the ribs with as much force as you can muster. He releases you and you, fueled with panic and adrenaline, drop to your knees just as he swings, your hand closing around the palette knife you had previously lost. 

Somehow you manage to get back on your feet when he descends again, this time intentionally missing your shoulder when he brings the cleaver down. It cuts through the sliver of space between empty air and your own body, narrowly missing you by a hair. You throw yourself against the wall, entangled in a plastic tarp that comes loose from its hooks. They fall around you in noisy pitter-patters, something akin to metallic rainfall, and you hit the floor with a harsh thump.

And all the while, the mounts continue to peer at you with glass eyes.

“There’s no need to fall over yourself in a frantic haste. You’ll waste all of your energy, and even then adrenaline won’t be enough to fuel you. I’ll catch you if you aren’t careful…” He smiles at you from where he stands, green eyes cold with calculation. “Let’s take a moment to chat, shall we? I’d like to regale you with the five stages of the delightful thing known as prey drive. You’ve heard of it, haven’t you?”

“No, of course not,” you spit, vitriol lacing every syllable. Your pupils flit about the room, tracing the cleaver in his hand and then flickering towards the chair. The recording device sits in shadow, just within your reach. If you can stand up, take two steps forward, and drop down when he moves to intercept, you might be able to retrieve it. “Enlighten me since you seem so eager to run your mouth.”

Rook chuckles and enunciates his every step with a whistle. He reaches the chair in three steps and kicks the recording device out from under it. You watch it skid across the floor towards you, settling mere inches from your feet. You glance at it; it’s still recording, seconds stapled into it with every tick of your heart.

“A dog searches.” His back is turned to you, and he gazes at the mounts on the wall. You lower just enough to swipe the device from the ground. It’s not heavy in your palm; rather, it’s palm-sized and it slips into your pocket like a silent knife through butter. “And when it finds, it stalks. Have you caught the pattern yet?”

His neck is right there. All you need to do is rush up to him, grab him from behind, and drive the palette knife so far into the side of his neck that it’ll surely cause some sort of distress. Or you could turn and run. You have evidence. You have his address. You have your car. You can escape. You can drive far away from this horrifying cabin in the woods and never return. You can live. 

You can run.

“And from there…” 

So you do.

He whirls just as you dart through the door, over the threshold into the hall, and you miss the crazed twinkle reflected in wild, untamed green eyes. Rook’s laughter follows you, airy and light like a comforting breeze. He’s alive with murderous delight, and you’re nearly dead with fright. 

“Ensues the chase!” he calls out, so close in the cramped confines of the hall that his voice nearly grazes you. 

You swallow your sobs, pressing onwards with hardened resolve, and follow the length of the hall until it spits you out into another room. It’s undeniably a kitchen, what with the refrigerator and microwave pushed into a corner, but it’s furnished more like a lab. Nearly every appliance is metallic and the floors are tiled, constructed with surfaces that are perfect for washing away pesky fluids. A drain is built into the very center of the floor, sticking out like the nastiest bruise. You spy meat hooks hanging in place of where spatulas and whisks ought to be—both of which are innocent culinary tools meant to assist in food preparation rather than something killer. 

Spinning on your feet, you locate the door opposite of where you stand in the small kitchen-lab and take a momentous step towards it, hoping it leads you closer to an exit and further from your hunter, when a cold hand seizes your wrist, spidery digits curling into your skin. A shrill scream rips from the depths of your throat, surely shredding your vocal chords into bloody ribbons. You struggle, yanking your arm in vain, for his hold is impossibly strong. He tugs you towards him, his feet moving in time with the shuffling of yours. It’s a stiff stalemate of a waltz. You pull away and he pursues, his hand creeping up your arm in an attempt to pin it to the nearest surface. With another helpless shriek, you tear yourself free, staggering backwards against the metal table, which rolls further away on well-oiled wheels. Your horrified reflection blinks back at you in the shine, and with a sunken heart you realize it’s a dissection table. 

“Mon cher, I must say, you wear disarray so naturally. It’s far too forbidden for my simple eyes to behold.” 

“Why… Why are you doing this?” Your voice is thick with terror, sore from screaming, and you wipe furiously at your glossy eyes. “Please stop… You’ve had your fun. Now… Now let me go. I… I promise I won’t come back here again. Y-You can keep all of the supplies and the canvas. Just let me go…”

A secretive smile stretches slowly across his lips. “Oh, how Fortuna graces me with the benevolent opportunity to admire these special sides of yours. To be able to witness the rawness of pure horror after cornering the most dangerous animal of all…” He pricks his finger on the tip of the blade and adds in a breathy whisper, “Beauté.”

A disgusted shiver claws its way up your spine. You glare at him. “So it’s the thrill you enjoy, yeah? It doesn’t faze you that you’re going to kill an innocent person?!” 

He tilts his head. “Rather than snuffing your light, I intend to give new life to your excellence. In many ways, aren’t I also an artist?” 

“Like hell! You’re crazy!” You take a step back when he advances, moving towards you like a graceful panther stalking its prey. Your grip on the palette knife tightens. “What did I ever do to you to deserve this?” 

“Nothing, mon amour.”

“N-Nothing?”

“Absolutely nothing!” he reaffirms, rather conversationally, and the frustration-riddled tension in your body deflates all at once. 

“But… But I thought—” You shake your head, hopelessly searching for a means of convincing him otherwise in his pursuit, and say, “I thought you… You said you loved me! Can you really hurt someone you love?”

Rook hesitates, his feet shuffling to a halt, and he peers blankly at you, all emotions veiled in a stoic mask. “While it’s true that I will always cherish you in life, I must also come to love you in death. If I’m unable to accept even the rotting and decaying sides of everlasting love that most shy away from, then I’m simply undeserving of my title as a hunter. If I seek the wonders of life, it’s only fair I seek the wonders of death all the same. You understand, don’t you?”

“No! In what world would I ever understand that logic?!” You point the palette knife at him. “You don’t have to kill me. You really don’t have to…”

“I suppose, if I’m to apologize for anything, I should ask that you forgive my greedy behavior. I’m hopelessly infatuated with your work, so allow me to thank you for all that you have shown me tonight. I promise to repay your tenderness tenfold.”

He smiles, stepping aside to allow you passage through the door, and foolishly you take the bait. It’s a run through tar—something you’d only ever experience in a dream, in which outrunning a villain is an impossible task. You make it through the door and out into the hall, and from there your only goal is to mindlessly flee towards safety. Tears obscure your vision, clinging to your lashes like fragile sugar dew. 

You think you see the outline of a faraway door, but perhaps it’s just the illusion brought on by mournful tears. 

You think you’ll make it to freedom, but perhaps it’s just the animalistic desire to survive that ignites your nerves. 

You think you can escape the horrors of encroaching affection, but it slips into your hand, tight and reassuring. 

Tugged into the kitchen-lab, your back collides with Rook’s chest. His grip is bone-crushing, and you don’t hear anything he’s saying—is he humming or waxing poetry?—but you feel the warmth of spreading blood as it soaks through your shirt and stains your artist’s apron. The palette knife slips from your grasp, landing on the floor with a noisy clatter. You peer down at your abdomen, where the cleaver is snugly nestled in your stomach. 

The cleaver. 

It’s in your stomach. 

He’s stabbed you. 

The cleaver. 

It’s in your stomach. 

It doesn’t hurt. Not at first. The shock snuffs the agony. He twists it gingerly, once or twice, before he yanks it out. Sticky strings of torn flesh and blood cling to the blade, connecting it to the injury he’s inflicted. Then you feel the rush of torturous, agonizing pain, and it stings more than anything you've ever experienced before. Red-hot, thick trails of blood trickle through your fingers when you shakily place your hand upon the wound, hoping to stop the flow. Rook clicks his tongue and guides you towards the dissection table, your feet dragging bonelessly upon the floor as you’re led along. You try to fight him, but everything’s so painful, and so all you can manage is a slight shake of the shoulders. Your world spins, and your mind reels as it struggles to process the dangerous gash. 

“After the chase,” he says, lowering you onto the table despite your blubbery protests, “the dog grabs its prey in a sharp-toothed bite and then it kills.” 

“S-Stop… You…” Your fingers curl into shredded skin, and you press down with as much strength as your shuddering body can muster. Blood continues to seep through the cracks between your fingers. “You… You’ll kill me…”

“Well, that’s the point, no?” Rook pets your cheek, fondness glittering in his green eyes. 

You peer up at him through bleary eyes, reaching for his face with a trembling hand. “Please… I’m begging you… It h-hurts… Please…” A helpless sob wracks through your frail form. “Please, Rook…”

For a while—whether an eternity or merely a few seconds, it’s hard to discern—he watches you fade in and out of consciousness, your groans a haunting melody in the discomforting quiet. Eventually, his hand finds yours on the table, limp and twitching, and envelops it in a firm hold.

Blissfully ignorant to your wheezing gasps, he begins to murmur: “‘Out—out are the lights—out all. And, over each quivering form, the curtain, a funeral pall, comes down with the rush of a storm. While the angels, all pallid and wan, uprising, unveiling, affirm that the play is the tragedy, ‘Man.’” He looms over you like a ghastly shadow, lips arranged in a gleeful grin. “‘And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.’”

The time is 11:11 at night when you finally fall into Death’s frigid embrace, never to wake again. 

11:11 - the mystical time at which the universe tugs celestial cotton from its ears and listens to wishes and woes alike. it is not a promise that all wishes will be granted and all woes will be soothed at this hour.

The time is 11:11 in the morning, and sweet, twittering birdsong flutters into the trophy room through a window left ajar. 

The sun has long since risen, casting radiant beams through the thinning slices between the trees. Rook Hunt hums as he works, deft fingers perusing various cosmetics arranged on a metal tray. Eyeshadow is applied to delicate, paper-thin eyelids, each one pinned open in the permanence of preservation. Glass marbles are set into hollow sockets, colored in memory of the eyes that were once attached to a brain via optic nerves. He matches foundation to the skin tone, which works well to hide meticulous stitching and mottled flesh. He’s humming in tune with the birds, the nearby rushing stream, and the swaying foliage caught up in a wind gust, relishing in nature’s symphony. 

“You claimed you’d finally smile after you’ve learned to love,” Rook observes, petting the top of the head, feeling human hair beneath his rough, calloused palm. “And now you beam brighter than the sun outside! Perhaps it’s because of me? You’ve always been so honest with your heart. It’s a facet I most adore.”

His gaze slides towards the unfinished painting propped against the wall, where an antlered man smiles at his viewer, his green eyes filled with a mysterious forest. 

“Have you always thought me to be prey?” Rook pauses, awaiting an answer, and snatches a lipstick from the selection. “Or maybe this is an artist’s ideal vision… Perhaps it’s a fantasy you’ve wished to see or a place you’ve always wanted to visit. Escapism is most magnificent when it’s comforting.” He opens the lipstick and surveys the color with his observant greens. He inhales deeply and catches notes of the cedarwood cabin walls and the floral perfume he spritzed on his dear artiste. “Though it may not be your masterpiece, it’s one that will forever fascinate.”

Red blooms on dry lips that can no longer scream or protest. He cups a cheek stuffed with the finest wood wool, palming an area that was once bruised and broken. The grisly mark has been painted over, and now it is out of sight and, as far as the hunter is concerned, out of mind. As the saying goes, before one can broach beauty, one must suffer some degree of destruction. 

Rook steps down from the ladder and sets the tray of cosmetics on the gold-and-white satin chair. He lifts his hands, fingers forming the borders of a rectangle to frame you in his own portrait. At long last, the headless mount has its head and the pyramid of trophies is complete. There’s a crooked smile sewn into features expertly stitched to finalize beguiling taxidermy. 

With a covert grin, Rook peers through his fingers at your head situated at the very tip of a tragic triangle.

“After all, prey are the prettiest when they’re dyed scarlet.”

[avocado-writing]

we need a rewrite of the tiefling party where tav can actually convince wyll to join the party and have fun please 🥹

notes: love love love writing for Wyll. he's such a sweetie! Implied bard reader but not explicit.

rating: T, but there will be a spicy part 2 coming up!

The party is lively and your head is swimming from the buzz of attention. That, and the small amount of wine you’ve had: not so much as to dull your senses but enough to make you merry. Warmed with Arkhen’s Hoard you take a break from the grateful tieflings and head out towards the familiar babble of the river. The further from camp you go the quieter your surroundings get, and you’re able to breathe a little more easily knowing there aren’t half a dozen children hanging on your every word. It’s lovely to be the centre of attention because you helped them, but a little overwhelming with all those eyes on you.

Of course, that’s not the only reason that you’ve come wandering over this way.

Wyll sits with his legs crossed on the bank, staring at the way the water dances under the moonlight. He seems at peace, the calmest he’s been since Mizora appeared and sprouted those horns for him; shoulders relaxed, tensionless. 

“Wondered where you were,” you say, quietly. You don’t want to make him jump after all. It hurts your heart to see the way that his body stiffens when he hears your voice. Ah: there’s the tension again. Nevertheless, he turns to look at you over his shoulder, an easy smile on his lips - but one with a hint of sadness. You’ve studied his face enough in camp in order to know when he’s trying to hide something. It makes your heart ache bitterly that he would try and hide it from you, though. 

“Thought I’d be able to sneak away. Should have known you’d be able to find me.”

You take a seat next to him in the grass. It’s a soft spot he’s managed to pick, not wet from its proximity to the river, but green and lush from its plentiful feeding. You lock eyes with him and press a hand to your chest, mock-wounded.

“Wyll! You make me sound like I’m a bloodhound tracking you down, not someone who cares about you checking in.”

He laughs, and you see him begin to lighten again. When he smiles this time, it’s sincere.

“That’s not what I meant. Apologies. Just that I’m not surprised you know me well enough to guess where I’d end up.”

“Down by the river,” you hum, fingers suddenly itching for the feel of a lute’s strings. 

“You’re always singing that, you know?”

“I am, it’s a good song. I’ve never once heard you complain about it.”

“I’m not complaining! I never would, I love to hear you sing. Since I joined you on this journey, my life has been filled with so much music. It’s been wonderful.”

You put your hands behind you and lean back on them, allowing your face to become level with his. He looks into your eyes and, this close, you can see his breath hitch a little when your fingers brush together.

“I could be persuaded to do an impromptu performance, but I’d need my favourite person in the front row to give me courage.”

“I’m sure that you don’t need me for that. Courage is the one thing you couldn’t possibly lack.”

“To be my muse, then.”

You know if you lifted your hand and felt his cheek, it’d be warm.

“Please, Wyll,” you continue, softly. “Please come and join us. Everybody wants you there. Me especially, if I’m being selfish.”

“Ah…” you can see he’s warring with himself. On one side of the argument, he longs to indulge you. On the other side…

“I’m not sure. I think people may find me off-putting.”

You furrow your brow.

“You? The single most charming man I’ve ever met?”

Another flash of shyness over his face. You can tell that he enjoys the compliment, but his self-doubt wins out.

“Perhaps I was, before the horns.”

“Oh, Wyll. Do you think anybody up there cares about those? A group of your friends and people you fought tooth and nail to protect? I know for a fact that Karlach wants to challenge you to a drinking game.”

“That seems like more of a reason to hide! I think she’d drink me under one of the tables,” Wyll grimaces, and smiles when you laugh at his silliness. He seems a little more open to the idea, but still not completely sold.

“I don’t know… just… the children…”

“The children who love you and hang on your every word? Umi won’t stop asking me where you are, and someone needs to keep Mol in line…”

“I doubt even the gods themselves can do that.”

When he chuckles you find yourself reaching out to cup his cheek, running your thumb over the sharp ridge that was raised there when Mizora cursed him. His eyes widen and glaze over before sliding closed, nuzzling into the gesture, soul laid bare to the sweetness of your touch. 

 “Nobody feels unsettled by you. Nobody is afraid of you.”

His lips fall apart, anticipating the way you reach in to kiss him.

It’s a soft kiss. Lips dancing slowly, a waltz, noses bumping together a little, his horns grazing your hairline. Your heart soars at it.

When it’s over you sit there and breathe together. Sharing the same air, letting your blood thrum through you in an intertwined heartbeat.

“Will you come and join us? Will you come and dance with me?” you ask.

Wyll loses the argument with himself.

“Yes.”

taglist: @ghosti02art @sadandanxiouswtf @yeethaw13 @trappedinlimbo15 @infinitely-kate @dhampling @wereallbrokenangels @tilldeathdonugget

[certifieddilfenjoyer]

Why is Haarlep so different from Raphael - a theory

Hello! Welcome to another theory of mine.

"I am Haarlep. Raphael's personal incubus. Glamoured and transfigured to look like him. I'm a perfect copy(...)"

Hold your horses, sir Wait, they are nonbinary: Hold your horses, noble.

Haarlep states that they are a perfect copy, however there are some major differences in their appearance that could not be caused simply by the visual age difference.*

Haarlep's face has a few major differences:

Lack of darkened skin around the facial hair area (they appear a lot smoother).

The nose is straight and while the tip is shaped similarly, there is no bump across the bridge. They don't even have the cute-angry wrinkles in between the eyes! (Female form has them wrinkles, but the bump is softer)

Maybe it's just me but I was thinking that the upper lip appears to be a bit plumpier.

The face is shorter and because of that, the cheekbones are a lot sharper, Haarlep looks like they had some botox done 💀

The ears appear to be less sharp and shorter (aging hits ears quite hard, but they usually sag and the difference here is with the tip.

Archduchess form does have the roman nose, however the lips are plumpier.

See for yourself below:

And in comparison to Raphael (even to his EA model that has the famous bald spot):

But where is this leading, you may ask?

Well, I am proposing two different perspectives on that:

Haarlep's 'tweaks' point to Raphael's insecurities (a version of theory that my friend @shutexco proposed)

Raphael's devil form resembles MEPHISTOPHELES and he can't stand looking at the actual accurate depiction of his cambion form. Also, if that's the case, take a moment to consider how F-ed up it really is to have Haarlep gifted to him if his father was completely aware of the resemblence. But it would make sense, wouldn't it? Raphael left Cania at some point, but his father made sure he will haunt him all the time.

Have you noticed how Raphael has two portraits of himself that also don't look like him at all?

The second portrait has two horns, so it could be made during the EA, but there is no other similarity.

The first portrait looks like it's wearing some kind of variation of the Helldusk Armor, you can spot the 'Teeth' across the chest, but apart from that and 4 horns, it doesn't look like Raphael at all.

To sum up: the portraits are some kind of a 'vision' of Raphael. For a narcissist he really seems to be avoiding an actual perfect (as in 1to1 accurate) copy of himself.

Also, a few fun facts/smaller theories I'd like to include!

I think he made his own portraits. There are two easels in House of Hope. One behind the Archive (with brushes and cup at the ready and some paint stain spilled below them) and second is on the right hand side of the bed in the boudoir.

Now, the paintings on both easels can be found across Faerun, but the devil portraits are exclusive to HoH and I believe (please fact-check me if you know) that the painting inside Raphael's safe, right above the hoarded treasure, is also exclusive. Raphael is very talented. His diaries are like poetry, full of symbolism, bro is literally a composer, so why not an artist as well? I wouldn't put it past him. And because HoH was made by the head of Mason's Guild, then I guess he had the major influence on the design and I've heard someone say that it's Italian baroque and it's just beautiful.

Here's the Magic the Gathering card of Raphael (I think it was issued in 2022??). It looks more similar to the Statues at House of Hope than the portraits or Haarlep. Oh, btw, I've seen many people saying (mainly on YT and tiktok) that House of Hope is full of Raphael's statues. Not true, those are just cambions

Statues are present not just in HoH but inside Devil's Fee (yes, with both the belt and kneepads)

That's it! Thank you for reading all the way over here, appreciate it so much <3 <3

*Some aging research, specifically for bone structure changes: "As we age we all lose some bone which means that our cheeks flatten, our jaw bone shrinks and our eye sockets get larger. The structure of the face changes so the tissues above the bones will sit differently and so look different." Source "Facial bone loss can lead to retraction of the jawline, which emphasizes jowls and an unstructured neck. Widening eye sockets give your eyes a more sunken appearance and make you look tired. The angle of the bones beneath the eyebrows decreases, which contributes to frown lines on the forehead, droopy eyelids and crow’s feet at the corner of the eyes." Source

So as we can see, Raphael doesn't really suffer from any of those, besides the crow's feet that are imo so gorgeous that I lose my shit, AHFAIHFAJDSKSHA

[valakiir]

So i was looking at the official moorbounder art and it's starting to bug me. It's a really cool design, don't get me wrong, i do like it, but the length / positioning of the tusks just seemed off to me for some reason. I think i finally figured out why!

(Official art above)

((The biologist in me is speaking now, prepare for me to dive into the practicalities of dnd monsters))

The moorbounder's tusks arc up and back, appearing to grow from the lower jaw. They seem to spiral a little like ram horns imo. Looking at them, trying to infer what their purpose is, there are a couple options. The curve of the tusk means it doesnt work well as a cutting or holding feature -- the tips are pointed too far back and around bc of the spiral shape. Assuming they are like ram horns, they could be used similarly in territorial fights. They could also be used, in a similar vein, to bludgeon opponents with the side of their heads. Again the curve of the tusk means it wont pierce anything in front of it. It would be difficult to pierce /anything/ with them.

My second thought was that they were used for defence. Looking at where that curve places the tusk in relation to the rest of the head, it could easily function as protection for the eyes (this could also be why their pupils are such a unique shape -- to avoid having a massive blind spot on the sides of their heads). Moorbounder eyes, looking at them now, are not actually placed forward on the head, the norm of ground predators (birds of prey have their own reasons behind their anatomy). This means they are likely not the top of the food chain -- even that they have a different creature predating frequently on them that they need to watch for. The small ears imply they do not rely heavily on hearing (they have little to help funnel noise into the ear canal), so im going to make the assumption they rely primarily on scent to hunt -- but this is getting off topic. The lack of large ears may also have developed due to their agressive nature -- less skin to get caught or torn in a fight. The tusks might be a large enough curve to protect the ears, even. It is difficult to tell exactly from the art. Another point toward the tusks acting as a guard for the sides of the head.

Another option is that they are used to attract mates. Natural selection just encouraging larger tusks until we have what is shown in the art.

This is not what bothers me. The problem I have is how far the tusks extend /forward/. From what I can tell, the forward curve of the tusks reach about the tip of the nose. This is another hint that they might be used in a forward bludgeoning motion, however there is a problem with this. How are they supposed to bite? The tusks would press against anything the moorbounder is reaching for and hold it away. There are long whiskers extending from the nose, I'm assuming, with great confidence, to feel past those tusks.

My theory is that the curve of those tusks, while /natural/, is not actually observed in wild moorbounders. My guess is while those tusks grow continuously throughout the moorbounder's life, they are worn down through use. Captive moorbounders would likely not have to grind down on bone or protective plating -- their food is provided for them. Nor would there be any need to, say, mark territory by scratching the tusks against trees or other landmarks. If this is the case, wild moorbounders would have much shorter tusks, tusks that would actually be useful in biting, cutting, and holding. Moorbounders are agressive enough, filing their tusks down would be very difficult -- down right dangerous -- and because they are used primarily as mounts, not pit-fighters, the chore is easier neglected.

Another option, of course, is that the full curve of the tusks is a mark of age, and only seen in captivity because moorbounders don't live that long in the wild. This would be because it gets more and more difficult to catch prey as the tusks grow. The oldest moorbounders would essentially die of starvation. This means they live /much/ longer in captivity.

Yet another possibility is that the tusks are not teeth or horn -- they are like antlers. If those large tusks are grown and shed in a mating season when they are most aggressive, it would make sense that they would want to protect the head. It means moorbounders would not be able to eat during that period of time, but this is not unheard of in nature.

If the tusks grow from the upper jaw, this whole arguement is rendered largely irrelevant btw, and i will hide in my corner in embarrassment if that was actually addressed. They would still be inconvenient, but not prohibitive.

Overall, i am of the opinion wild moorbounder tusks are much shorter due to use, and irresponsible ownership is the reason we see the large curving tusks in the official art.

I appreciate you coming to my TED talk.

[twilightpowerdiamond-blog]

My Helluva Theory

(AKA mixed characters in Helluva Boss)

So, my friends and I were hanging out and discussing Helluva Boss over a call. I had Google Images open and something struck me looking at Blitzø's family photo.

His mom is a succubus.

Her horns struck me as weird. All other imps have the striped horns with the white bands indicating gender difference. I started looking up crowd shots and confirmed so. However, guess who has the thin, all black horns?

She also, notably, has no white features as imps do. Succubi lack these white freckles and whatnot entirely. Most of all, she has their pupiled eyes.

This sent me down an insane rabbit hole of digging deeper. There are PLENTY of mixed characters throughout the show that I think have flown under the radar, and I really want to talk about them. Some might really surprise you.

Following this, I started looking into Blitzø (and Barbie by extension). This post helped point out lots of features on Blitz:

It reiterates lots of the points I just made, and adds some. Blitzø has lots of unique features that make him very un-imp-like. His feet and eyes, namely, along with a heart theme in lots of his objects. He is also canonically stated to be AMAZING in bed.

Next, my friend pointed out that Fizzaroli has the same eyes as Blitz. At first we were scared this broke the theory, but looking into it, Fizz has some of the same characteristics as Blitz that makes me think they might've been childhood friends partially because they are both half succubus.

The pupiled eyes are our best piece of evidence since his adult form is mostly robotic, but the sharp boots on a child stick out to me still. Fizz also grows up to be a sex icon in Hell despite his shtick clearly being a clown. Fizz is probably also a half succubus.

Also, why is the circus symbol clearly a heart? Could it be because notably both succubi and imps worked there, along with their mixed children?

I had also heard talk of Striker being half something. I think his design speaks for itself: the distinct snout, the ringed eyes, his long and spiked tail. I thought he might be a loan shark at first, but this is a half-imp-half-snake.

He is clearly different from Butch, the half imp loan shark who has the smaller imp stature and lacks the two large fangs.

Striker's attempt to connect with Blitz, another half-imp who climbed up the ladder, makes lots of sense now.

Those are those in the main cast I could pick out, but there are minor characters I wanted to pick apart. To start off, Glitz and Glam.

These are not loan sharks. They lack key features all loan sharks appear to have. They do not have tails nor the distinct snouts. Their eyes are not ringed. However, the aquatic theme is still very apparent, and their skin is pale. I figured they are probably succubi-sharks. Their horns (which the sharks DO have) have the black pattern on the tips that some succubi have, and the shapes match. They have wings, another distinct succubus feature.

Their song is about transactional sex, a combo of both the themes of loan sharks and succubi.

A wrench was thrown into my theory, though: Stu, the loan shark, is canonically a half succubus. Also, this background character from episode 4.

They are very different! The pink, the heart tail, the present snout, the ringed eyes. They look nothing like the other pair.

So, Glitz and Glam are not sharks. They are part possessor, which are eel-like demons. Marcella has similar glowing spots in her hair and this background character has the same eyes as Glitz and Glam.

I do not think Glitz and Glam are full possessors, though. Their horns are succubi horns and, as far as we know, only succubi usually have wings. Their faces are also still very flat.

The Ozzie bouncer MIGHT be a succubus mix.

He has white features that are too pale to be scars, the x's which may or may not be clothes, the striped horns, and no irises. However, he has the wings. This could be mitigated by the fact that imps can earn a pair of wings, so he may simply be an accomplished imp.

But if Blitz and Fizz are half succubi, why does this one look so different? The answer is in the parents. Ligers and Tigons are different depending on which parent is which.

Similar, but clearly different.

I have no idea how to end this, but it was most of what I have figured out after lots of digging. I think it's really fascinating! It makes me appreciate Vizi and the team's designs a lot.

I have a few people to thank in the comments that pointed out some problems which I've amended, such as how imps can get wings. Thank you guys!!

[veskscans]

Persona Sketches by Kazuma Kaneko

Long post today. I recently picked up Megami Ibunroku Persona Club, a fan book that includes 12 of Kaneko’s rough sketches for the game’s original Persona designs. Here’s scans of them that I did over a couple of days, they were printed tiny so these were the best that I could get (there are also textless versions in the link).

https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1waKTLvlDJb3DJAHWOUSgYVUEyXYiBiUO?usp=share_link

I’ll provide translated commentary too... translated by me, so it might not be that great. I’ll give my own input underneath as well, but I won’t be translating the handwriting on the art. It’s hard to read, for one, and it just outlines basic features and colours, likely for sprite artists to use as reference.

‘Vesta, the goddess of hearths in Roman mythology. The shape of her hat is somewhat reminiscent of a jester's, and her lack of legs is a distinguishing characteristic. Her entire body is covered in leather’.

Vesta also reappears in P2 EP, and is Yukino Mayuzumi's initial Persona in both games. You can also spot Vesta behind some text in the Persona Original Soundtrack booklet here.

‘Gozu-Tennō, deity of the Gion Shrine in Kyoto. According to some legends, he his sometimes equated with Susanō. The horns extending from his mask and intertwining with each-other are quite impactful’.

The cape is meant to be coloured red... definitely inspired by Spawn. Also in the  Persona Original Soundtrack booklet, here.

‘Aizen-Myōō, the love deity of Esoteric Buddhism. She can transform sentient beings' lustful desires and troubles into spiritual enlightenment. Buddhist statues often depict Aizen-Myōō with the face of a scary-looking man, but the female image used here is perhaps the most human-like’.

Kei Nanjo's initial Persona in P1. Also in P2 EP, with a couple of additions to her design. Aside from her heels and long, black coverings, it’s essentially P1′s design replicated underneath.

“Lakshmi, the goddess of beauty in Hindu mythology. The protruding back of the head looks a bit like an alien. The rubber material used in these designs comes from Kaneko-san's favourite clothes”.

Not in P2 IS, but she does reappear as a sprite in P2 EP, with different colours. The head was definitely inspired by the Xenomorph from Alien.

“Kali, the goddess of war in Hindu mythology. The protruding design of her breasts is quite striking, but their bellow-like shapes are less noticeable in-game”.

Also seen controlling Maki in the 'Dolls' artwork.

“Shiva, the god of destruction in Hindu mythology. Both Shiva and Kali had different rough designs than the versions shown on page 4”.

The art on page 4 is just the finalised art of Shiva and Kali. The designs are the same as they are in the sketches, I think they just meant the art is different.

“Garuda, the bird god of Hindu mythology. The cape, pose and mask are reminiscent of old-fashioned anime”.

The anime in question seems to be ‘Science Ninja Team Gatchaman’ from 1972. Thanks to @RustyVanBurace on Twitter for pointing this out. Notice the G on their belts, which I suppose stands for Gatchaman (I haven’t watched it). Garuda also has the G on his stomach, but in this case, I guess it just stands for Garuda, lol.

“Vishnu, the main deity and god of creation in Hindu mythology. He has appeared in commercials and other media, so you might recognise his face, but few people actually identify him as Vishnu”.

Here’s a link to the commercials in question. He probably has the most art of any Persona in the game, which might be why the only text in the art is his name. There might have already been public material that the sprite artists could have used for reference, or maybe this art was done earlier on, and Kaneko didn’t think about outlining colours just yet.

"Durga, an incarnation of Kali. Her hat-like mask and the design of her clothes, which seem to be made of a rubber material, make for one of the most daring outfits in the series”. 

Yukino Mayuzumi's ultimate persona in both P1 and P2 IS. If anything, it got even more daring in IS, with robo-hands cupping her boobies and being used as high heels.

"Shōmen-Kongō is prominent god in the Kōshin cult. Kōshin-tō monuments can often be found along roadsides. He is the initial persona of the protagonist, who you will see many times during awakening scenes. He has somewhat of a Tokusatsu design".

Better known as Seimen-Kongō. The name means 'Blue-Faced Vajra-Yakṣa'. I know next to little about any Kōshin stuff, so don’t trust my translation for this one particularly. Sometimes he’s depicted with three monkeys, as seen below. The monkeys are the origin of the phrase “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil”, which is why one has a mask over their eyes, another has a mask over their mouth, and the last one has... headphones, lol. Shōmen-Kongō has a tail in the art below, but not in the rough art.

On the Tokusatsu note from that last sentence - I don’t know enough about Tokusatsu to guess what it’s from, but the face, including the lack of mouth, looks like a mask in particular. The yellow lines going down his body also look like something from Ultraman.

"Urvashi is a prominent Apsara (celestial nymph) in Hindu mythology. Her design strongly expresses the dancing aspect of the Apsaras”.

Cool design, but she’s not all that notable in-game. She’s meant to be the ‘main’ Apsara, so it’s surprising that the only other game she appeared in was Majin Tensei II.

"Hanuman, the heroic god of Hindu mythology and the original form of Qitian Dasheng. The only motif remaining from the monkey figure is his tail. The shape of his head is quite familiar...”

Last one! AKA Sun Wukong, Seiten Taisei, Son Gokū, etc., you know the drill. The shape of his head is quite familiar indeed, since it comes from Ultraman. Ultraseven, in particular. Also notice the similar plated design on the neck and shoulders. Thank you AtmaFlare for finding this dude (or on Twitter, @atmaflare).

^ Is this Kaneko’s magnum opus?

[jedimordsith]

Deleted Scene from Latibule

Luke looked up from his reading when the door to the Organa-Solo apartment slid open. Han wandered into the sitting room a moment later. His sense was warm and relaxed, and his attire matched. His formal jacket was slung over one shoulder, his shirt sleeves were rolled up, and his spavat had been untied and hung loose at his collar.

“Hey, kid,” he greeted. “Pretty quiet in here. You didn’t sell my kids to the circus, did you?”

”Not for lack of trying,” Luke quipped back, marking his spot and tossing his data pad on the lounger beside him. “Ringmaster said they were too small yet. Since I have to wait and try again next year, I dropped them back in their beds. They’ve been out cold for an hour. How was the event?”

“Just like every other one,” Han shrugged and flung his jacket over a nearby chair. “Lots of fancy people who like to listen to themselves talk eating fussy hors d'oeuvres and drinking wine that’s more label than taste. Leia had a good time until she and Winter got cornered into a hush-hush meeting with Mon over something.” He frowned. “Why didn’t you go, anyway? You like museums.”

“I’ve already been,” Luke said casually, rolling to his feet and grabbing his glass from the side table.

”This was the grand opening,” Han objected. “What, did you get some kind of special Jedi tour?”

“Something like that,” Luke offered noncommittally, angling past his brother-in-law toward the kitchen.

Han’s demeanor turned smug. “Let me guess — it was one of your excursions with Jade.”

“It might have been,” Luke shot a sly look over his shoulder. “But I’d keep that suspicion to yourself if I was you.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

”Because you have a life day coming up, and if you don’t do anything to bring unwanted attention to Mara, a bottle of Whyren’s gold might find its way into your gift pile.”

“Gold label?” Ambling after him, Han whistled. “How’re you affording that on a Jedi’s salary?”

”Mara’s getting a couple cases at a pretty serious discount,” Luke confided, rinsing his glass and putting it in the cleaning unit. “Someone at the distillery owes her a favor.”

”That’s some favor.” Han cocked his head. “She seems like the type who knows how to collect ‘em, though.”

The Omega in Luke bristled. He immediately quelled the reaction, but not before Han caught it.

“Hey,” he said, lifting his hands, palms out. “You know I’ve got nothing but respect for Jade. The NRI might jump to tawdry assumptions, but that’s just because they lack imagination. Me,” he lowered his hands, pointing at his chest. “I’ve been around the system. Flesh is easy and cheap. You want to collect real favors, you have to get into the weird stuff.” Raising his eyebrows, he held his hands a short distance apart, palms parallel to one another. “Saw a guy trade a whole moon once for this ugly little statue — this big, looked like it oughta be a doorstop at a tacky cantina.”

Amused, Luke felt the tension in his shoulders ease. He clapped a hand on his brother-in-law’s shoulder as he passed back toward the sitting room.

He’d known, intellectually, that it would take a while for the NRI to warm up to Karrde and, by extension, Mara. The Intelligence community was skeptical of smugglers as a whole and less than thrilled at how deftly Karrde’s organization had shoe-horned its way into the respectable echelons of the New Republic government. The fact that they couldn’t find a single record of Mara’s existence prior to her work for Karrde only exacerbated their frustrations. He didn’t begrudge them their caution, really.

But after three heats spent in Mara’s bed, the Omega in him had unavoidably begun to think of her as his, and he couldn’t entirely suppress the instinctive resentment that flared when she was disrespected.

Their secret Force-healing and training sessions didn’t help the situation. Mara was intensely careful about her shielding, only ever letting him into one small section of her mind or body at a time, but the anxiety singing at the edges of his touch each time left him profoundly aware of the risk she was taking, entrusting him with even that much. There was something incredibly intimate about extending his own control over the Force into her body, knitting together the fine sheathing around ravaged nerves or unraveling knotted scar tissue and seeing her entire body soften as a long-borne pain slipped away. About the way she smiled when they finished, as if he could see a little more light behind her eyes, a little more spaciousness in her breath.

Then there were their “excursions” as Han called them. Mara had grown up on Coruscant and, much to his delight, Luke had discovered that she had a mischievous streak. When the mood struck, she would appear from nowhere with a glint in her eyes that made his heart rate kick up with the same bright anticipation he’d known as a youth when he raced his skyhopper toward the canyons to Thread the Needle or when sneaking round bases during the early days of the war with the Rogues, intent on pranking another squadron. Ditching whatever he was supposed to be doing, he’d follow her at all hours of day or night. It was through those stolen moments that she introduced him to all the intriguing places that existed beneath the surface —often literally — of Coruscant’s glittering cityscape. Private libraries. Greasy cantinas whose menus were as obscure as they were mouth-watering. Junk shops whose backroom shelves mysteriously stocked the most hard-to-find parts for anyone willing to ask no questions about their provenance. And, occasionally, secret tunnels and camoflaged peep holes through which they accessed yet-to-open museum exhibits or dress rehearsals of the most in-demand new performances.

In her determination to prove her independence from her former master and the life he’d shackled her into, Mara was steadily, and entirely accidentally, achieving the one goal she’d believed wholly out of reach: capturing Luke’s heart.

It’s fine, he told himself for the hundredth time, gathering his data pad and bidding Han goodnight. It wasn’t like they slept together outside of his heats, and Mara was genuinely the perfect Alpha. She would never claim him, would never try to bind him or prevent him from keeping his vows of independence and service to the new Jedi Order that he was building. As an Omega, it wasn’t like he could claim her, and her traumatic past meant that even at his weakest he would never ask her to claim him. If she ever found another Omega to bond with, the loss might kill him. Unless or until then, however, he intended to enjoy every moment he could manage with her.

[valorant-reverie]

Malevolent - Tricks & Treats

What comes after. Arthur and John want to give Faroe a suitably exciting Halloween. A gift for @lighthouseshepard.

(Posted this yesterday but forgot to put it here! Please enjoy my first published piece for this fandom, with hopefully more to come.)

“I feel ridiculous.”

Arthur practically hears the pout in John’s voice, and cannot help the peal of laughter coaxed out of him as he smooths his hands over silk. If the gesture straightens out the mustard yellow waistcoat at all, he cannot see to tell. But it must offer some comfort as John’s broad form immediately seems less tense under his palms.

“I am sure you pull it off very handsomely, John - or should I say, sheriff,” he reassures further, his fingers finding and readjusting the plastic star pinned to John’s chest, “and I doubt Faroe would want you to look silly.”

John huffs. “You do. Look a little silly, that is.”

An affronted scoff, all for show, and Arthur lifts a hand to feel out the right horn on his hood. Confident that the drooping article is upright at least for now, he cocks his hip to the side and grins. “I do? What, you don’t find me devilishly attractive in this get up?”

He feels the horn flop to the side after all, and that eventuality paired with the awful line earns a real laugh from John, bemused as ever by the man in front of him.

“You are always attractive to me, Arthur,” he insists, in the plain and factual way that still makes Arthur a little giddy to hear, “but the tail dangling from your waist does somewhat… offset your usual charm.”

Arthur waves a hand dismissively and opens his mouth to say something else when he hears the dainty click clack of small heeled boots on the wooden floorboards. John squeezes his shoulder once in confirmation he did not require - it’s her - and then he hears a timid voice call from the doorway.

“What do you think, John?” Faroe asks, in her sweet polite voice, the same one that has both her father and their dearest friend wrapped tightly around her little finger.

There is a rustle of fabric, presumably Faroe turning on the spot to show off her costume.  John moves away, and Arthur wishes - not for the first time - that he could see the two of them together. He remembers Faroe distinctly even as other faces have faded from his memory, and he has an educated guess as to what John looks like based on extensive descriptions and his own explorations by hand and by mouth. But his heart aches because he cannot see as John kneels down to tuck a few coppery curls behind Faroe’s ear before nodding once, and she in turn pauses to tug at the rim of his cowboy hat so it sits straight on his tumbling dark hair.

“Perfect,” John assures her with a smile in his voice, and then there is another shift of fabric, him returning back to Arthur and placing a hand on his arm to steer him closer, “and shall I tell your father how you look?”

“Yes!” she exclaims - Arthur hears her hop on the spot with delight and feels his eyes prickle. 

“Very well. Arthur, it seems that Faroe is dressed as a witch. She has a pointed hat with a buckle on it, and she is wearing a black and white dress with a matching cape, and a woven basket for our…”

“Trick or treating!” Faroe hastily picks up where John has left off in his lacking knowledge, clearly unable to hold in her excitement for a moment longer, “Mrs Foster downstairs said I looked darling, and she gave me a Big Hunk bar!”

The chuckle that leaves John at the unusual name of the candy is quickly stifled by the alarmingly well-aimed jab of Arthur’s elbow in his ribs, and hidden poorly behind a cough into his fist.

“Yes, well, we’d best get going. Don’t want to miss the parade.” Arthur says, with John’s hand guiding him through the apartment in pursuit of Faroe even though he could navigate the space with ease by now. His apparent difficulties in seeing meant that most people look upon the two of them touching in public with pity rather than disgust, and while John would appreciate if people chose not to perceive them at all, one is far more preferable than the other - especially when a glance of any kind is quickly dismissed by the burning gaze of one Miss Faroe Lester, who is at once her family’s staunchest defender and most vocal member.

***

Even without his sight, Arthur realises how loud it all is. John seems to have acclimated to the constant roar of the city from dawn to dusk, almost taking a sort of comfort in the empty noise that uncountable cars and people and movement brought with them. But this is too much even for Arthur, and he cannot see any of it. There is music, different songs playing both nearby and further away. Food of all kinds emit their tempting aromas into the evening air, intermingling with exhaust fumes and smog and the distant promise of greenery from Central Park not quite smothered by the scent of civilisation. Children laugh and scream, and adults murmur as their charges dart around their legs, bustling and pushing.

Arthur feels Faroe press in between them. He also feels as John stands taller; before he had been hunched, as if shrinking down could ward off the assault of sound and sight and smells, but Faroe’s uncertainty seems to give him new purpose. Drawn up to his full height, Arthur has an empirically proven suspicion that John cuts quite the intimidating figure, the sharp brim of his hat and the flattering definition of his fitted shirt and waistcoat around his wide frame lending credence to his wild western persona for the night.

“Stay close to me.” John says, just loudly and authoritatively enough for both Faroe and her father to hear over the din of the crowds. Both of them are steadied by the words.

“The parade should be starting soon,” Arthur adds - he feels John guide them up a short set of stairs, presumably to a better viewpoint than standing at street level, “so we can see that and then go home, alright?”

“Will I get candy from back here?” Faroe asks. She is determined in her objective even in the face of her fear, even more so as Arthur feels the knock of her body against his, John hoisting her up so she is nestled between their torsos rather than caught between their legs.

“I am sure you will,” John reassures her in his most serious voice, “especially seeing as you are by far the best dressed witch I have seen all night.”

Arthur’s heart soars as he hears Faroe giggle beside him. He would have once done terrible things to bear witness to her joy just once more. Arguably, he had done terrible things to do so. But that past feels so blissfully far away when the man he loves - who once was not a man at all, but something so unfathomable that he still cannot define it - can create that joy for the daughter he never thought he would get to hold again.

He presses close. Faroe’s arm loops in a claim around his shoulders, anchoring the three of them together with John holding her so assuredly. Nothing could hope to separate them.

***

Hours later, when the night sky is rebelliously dark in spite of light pollution from the city below, and all the little monsters of New York slumber soundly in their beds, Arthur and John sit side by side on the couch. Arthur is in his nightshirt, forsaking any semblance of manners to stretch his thin legs out over John’s lap. John reads aloud, still dressed, though his waistcoat has been abandoned and his shirt is undone by a few buttons. His voice is soft and melodious as it once was echoing in Arthur’s head, even with the seasonally spooky subject matter he reads.

“It is a strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and woes, and troubles. And yet when King Laugh come, he make them all dance to the tune he play,” John reads, “Bleeding hearts, and dry bones of the churchyard, and tears that burn as they fall, all dance together to the music that he make with that smileless mouth of him.”

Arthur chuckles, then yawns, drawing John’s gaze from the pages of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. “Sounds a little too close to home, doesn’t it?”

“Like the King in Yellow, you mean?” John asks.

His solemn tone indicates that he has not received the revelation with the same humour that Arthur originally intended, and so he reaches out, one scarred hand carefully smoothing down John’s shoulder when he finds it.

“Sorry, dear heart,” he murmurs, “I was only teasing. Not the sort of thing to tease about though, is it? Forgive me. The festivities have clouded my judgement.”

“It’s alright,” John says with a sigh, “Perhaps we should… save the rest of it. For another time.”

Arthur nods. “If you like. Are you tired?”

“No.”

“Oh? Are you… distracted?” Arthur presses further. His hand lifts from John’s shoulder, rising to cradle the strong jaw that his teeth suddenly ache for.

John leans into his palm, eyes fluttering closed, a soft sound drawn from him at the tender touch.

“No,” he repeats, and then huffs before adding, “but I should like to be, I think.”

Unable to resist that offer, Arthur pulls his legs back from resting atop of John only to cross the distance to him, his knees on either side of thick thighs and a heat that draws Arthur back like a moth to flame again and again. Both palms cradle John’s face this time, and he leans down to bump their noses together, the promise of pilfered candy sweetening the air between them and tempting them all the more.

“Well, you know what they say.” Arthur murmurs, already grinning.

John tenses for a moment as if anticipating whatever is about to come from Arthur’s mouth. “What do they say?”

“Save a horse, ride a--”

He is silenced, thankfully, by a kiss.

[toxooz]

i dont know if you've ever said anywhere- but we know that Remy and Ollie are both half orcs and that Ollie's other half is ~Demon~

Do we know what Remy's other half is or is that a future secret?

I'm just curious cause Ollie is So Clearly Orcish so is Remy's other half just super strong blooded or is he a twink?

SHEW yall I've been sittin on a huge lore breakthrough with Ollie and Remy that my high ass accidently unlocked a few weeks ago that I've been debating on just dumping here but I'm still considering if it's too spoilery for what is literally just about to come up in the comic, but tbh it would probably just help contextualize things a little better so IDKK if i dont drop it soon it'll be after-not this update or the next-but the one after but before I slap a little snippet, the short answer is I still don't know what his other half is exactly, it's demon no doubt but a mangly unimpressive one for sure. Adding onto that I don't even know what Remy's mom is part UUH and imma have to design her up Real Soon so im still wracking my brain for that one. The closest I got right now is maybe the demon resembled a giraffe somehow hence the giraffe esque spots on Remy ??? both Ollie and Remy's "fathers" came from the same demon cave hence the kinda dark look even around Remys eyes and similar horn stripes:

believe it or not it isn't eyeliner LMFAO its basically what Ollie has horn with just to a much lesser extent (they used to be more of a brown hue to i guess show that they weren't as tough and more sensitive to the touch but making the comic i kinda dropped it oof) but anyway the whole reason Remy was born in the first place was just for a "anything you can do I can do better" attempt by Remy's mom (Mogaks sister) ie. a lil snippit from the lore dump in the drafts:

*SIDE NOTTE Remy's mom has mental issues due to the hierarchy in the orc community over being a half orc and the fact that she isn't involved in combat and just minds the village, so she already wasn't really seen highly of (Mogak would treat her equally however) meanwhile Mogak was a pretty hefty solid full blooded orc and was a warrior of sorts and a leader in that aspect (her 'occupation' for lack of better word wasn't necessarily THAT high ranking in their society considering battle fighting was a common 'career' within the orc tribe so she's still even among the orc community, but still well liked and respected regardless) but her sister was seen as less-than in subtle ways. Due to her tough upbringing she quietly dealt with jealousy of Mogak throughout her life and during their young adult years she would take up the habit of trying to outdo Mogak with little things. When she was told about Mogak being pregnant with Ollie by her quest into a demonic cave, she planned on doing the same. The demon she ended up mating with wasn't all that great to say the least and didn't put up much of a fight either (Mogak declared a battle with the demon she wanted to make the deal with and chose a Pretty Fukkin Big Ass Boi one of the biggest in the cave I'd argue) so that's why Remy turned out Like That. After everything happened and they moved Remy's mom still carried self conscious habits and would get with men who would play off of those insecurities

[thatndginger]

I think I prefer this top-down way of depicting my dragons. I'm gonna have to make a bottom-up version too since a fair few dragon breeds have countershading...

Anyway, here's what Grizzle and Moondance's patterns look like. I'm much happier with this version of Moondance compared to the previous one in terms of markings. This also gives a really good idea of how different dragons have different wing shapes, especially Griz and Dance. Dance is made for speed and distance. Griz is made for fast maneuvering in tight quarters.

I already talked about Dawnchaser dragons (Moondance), so I guess we'll give a little love to Blacktails (Griz) below

The most common species of wild dragon in the Craglands - the floating mountains that dominate the west side of Ostrera - is the Blacktail. While the two of subspecies vary in size depending on their region, a common Blacktail measures in at 18ft long with a wingspan of 25ft, and an average weight of 550lb. They have fairly short necks and tails and have strongly muscled legs. Females grow larger than males, but can also be identified by their lack of wing stripes. Both sexes have rough, twisting facial horns and a pair of rigid fins at the end of their tails.

Blacktails are named for their distinctive coloration: a flat orange-brown color that darkens to black or dark brown around their heads and tails. Their bellies and undersides of their wings are a pale cream, while the tops of their wings are a darker brown shade than their bodies. Males have distinctive cream-and-white stripes on the tops of their wings, as well as a series of large spots at the edges. Female have these spots as well, but lack the stripes.

Most Blacktails will live their entire lives in the canyons of the Craglands, rarely venturing above the mountaintops into open air. Their wings are perfectly formed for navigating narrow canyons and tight spaces, but are poorly suited to soaring. Most Blacktails nest on the narrow ledges within the wider valleys where they can use their preferred hunting method: dropping from above onto unsuspecting prey. Because they don't spend much time in open air they aren't typically a danger to human settlements, but have been known to try and take over cliff dwellings for nesting on occasion.

In the wild, Blacktails form close family units composed primarily of females and hatchlings. A single female - usually the mother or grandmother to most of the flock - acts as leader. All members of the flock work together to raise their young, who usually remain with their birth flock for two years. After this time, males will disperse - joining a bachelor flock or remaining alone - while females either stay with the flock or break off to form their own if the birth flock has grown too large. The bonds in Blacktail flocks are extremely strong, and if one member is attacked the rest are quick to defend it.

Blacktails have a distinctive, cough-like call that is often likened to laughter. This call is used to help flock members find each other in the twisting canyons of the Craglands

[taybatwo2]

Magic Mixling Review: Deerlee!

Guess who got her hands on Deerlee?? I did! I couldn’t find her anywhere in my area, nor any of my neighboring towns. After ordering her twice on Amazon, I finally got her (the first time was another Unia). She was the one I was most excited for too.

Here’s Deerlee with all of my other deer-esque dolls. Monster High Isi Dawndancer, Monster High Gilda Goldstag, Zelfs Talleen (she’s not technically a deer….but I wanted something else in the picture) and Manny the moose Zelf.

Here she is!! She’s super cute. She has a bunch of cute (I think plum) blossoms all over her, including her antlers.

More of her and other deer dolls under the cut!

As with almost all of the Pixlings, she has sculpted clothes (including gloves) and a “swimsuit” with the same theming. The knots on her top/boots/back of gloves remind me of pankou knots (I’m not sure if that intentional or not). It does bother me that her little tail is on the side. I need to make her a little tail like Winter and Unia.

Here are both sides of her shoes (she has hooves sculpted on the front).

The bottom has more plum blossoms, petals, and the Moose Toys logo.

Her hair is super soft by the way. It feels just as soft as the other Pixlings. She also still has some pixelization (but again, it’s not as distracting as Mattel’s printing). Her blushing on her nose and one side of her upper lip is a bit off, but not too bad. She also has a very cute assortment of freckles and petals on her face.

Oh! And her ears are fully sculpted to her head, they’re not separate pieces.

An oddity with Deerlee is her neck peg. It doesn’t seem to have any paint on it and it is very visible when she lifts her neck up.

Let’s briefly compare her to some of her deer attributes to other deer-like dolls (as I don’t own many of these and I do deeper dives into them on my other Pixling posts).

Her and Gilda both have deer-like ears sticking out of the side of their heads, pinkish hair, face spots, and light tan/gold skin (the darker tan on Deerlee is very similar to Gilda’s skin tone). Her antlers are much more like an antelope than those of a deer.

Gilda’s horns have more in common with Enchantimals: Gabriela Gazelle’s.

Let’s compare her to someone who has more deer features: Isi Dawndancer.

Isi actually doesn’t have attached antlers, and her ears are placed higher on her head; she does have lots of freckles/spots on her face though. To make up for the lack of antlers, she has some of the COOLEST FEET EVER! Take a look Deerlee!

Cute little hoofies!!! She’s actually the only one of these bipedal deer dolls that (were created) to have hoof feet.

Monster High had another deer-like character: Fawn, but she never received a doll. She has deer ears on the side of her head, no antlers, face freckles and she has HOOF FINGERS!!

Ever After High’s Dragon Games’ Deerla (a smaller pixie doll, ancestor to their Enchantimals’ line) has similar design elements to Isi, Fawn, and Deerlee:

Her skin tone looks very close to Fawn’s, she has freckles, and deer ears on top of her head (like Isi’s).

-I still can’t get over the two pairs of ears design choice-

……her antlers look really odd, like they have a main antler shape in there, but they added a bunch of random swirls to them as an afterthought.

Deerla passed down her golden ears, antlers and second pair of ears to her Enchantimal cousins.

Danessa Deer is one of the main cast of Enchantimals. She is about the height of Deerlee, has a similar skin tone to Isi, and once again has freckles.

Danetta Deer (-they seriously just took the two ‘s’s in her name and changed them to the next letter in the alphabet-) is on a much smaller Enchantimal body and basically looks like a smaller version of Danessa with a cuter face (in my humble opinion).

Rainey Reindeer has some impressive looking antlers. She has the lightest of freckles and she looks close to Deerlee’s skin complexion. Honestly, one of the cuter Enchantimals (maybe because her ponytail hides her human looking ears).

Nope, I lied. Queen Delilah has the most impressive looking set of antlers sculpted onto her head (for the Enchantimal line anyways). -someday she will be mine- She is eight inches tall. A tiny bit shorter than the Ever After High Pixies which were 8.5 inches tall, but she has more articulation: her knees! Not even Deerlee has that!

She looks to be the same color as Rainey and parts of Deerlee. Of course she has the freckles too.

The last Mattel line I’m going to look at are the Monster High Frightmares. Specifically the two “deer” looking frightmares: Fawntime Fallowheart and Meadoe Flurry. -two more deer dolls I desperate wanted but never bothered to buy when I had the chance!!-

They are 6 inches tall, have molded on clothing and down turned ears just like Deerlee! Their arm articulation is pretty limited, but they could move at the hip and neck. They have the cutest little molded deer tails!! And their bodies are giving me nostalgia for my G2 My Little Ponies. I think only Fawntime has freckles (and some unique branch eyebrows) and Meadoe has only powdered lavender/ periwinkle skin tone so far (and the most badass looking fantasy antlers). Okay! Onto MGA’s deer doll offerings.

-my holy grail- Novi Star’s Doe A. Deer! She has flocked legs (and I thiiiiink that’s all…which is a choice).

Her body is mostly white and her dress looks like something Fawntime would like to graze on, she doesn’t have any freckles (just some dot eyebrows, Gilda would be pleased), I don’t believe she has a tail, her ears look to be the same, but her antlers are wonderfully large.

Na! Na! Na! Surprise had a female and a male deer doll: Myra Woods and Donnie Ranger.

Both have the littlest of freckles, super detailed clothes (seriously, Donnie’s look amazing) and plastic horns stuck to their hats (both seem to be new sculpts too). For some reason, Myra’s sleeping bag’s antlers are set under her ears.

Okay! Onto another Moose toy!!! Zelfs!!! I have already said how much I love posing my pixlings with my Zelfs, but they are so cute together. Deerlee seems to like gossiping with Talleen and Manny.

Both of them have ears stuck to the tops of their head like Isi and the Enchantimals. There were two more deer themed Zelfs: Dorthy-doe (who looks a bit more like a pink Jack-a-lope than a deer) and another reindeer to join the herd: Rein-Doe. Both lack face spots and have different horns than Deerlee (although Rein-doe looks very similar - he even seems to have a flower theme too).

I had wanted to compare her with one of my Zelfs that had downturned ears (as what hers immediately reminded me of). Hmm, it actually looks like the Zelfs (this is Flitter by the way) had a little indent in there and Deerlee had thicker chunkier ears.

Anyways, not as deep as I usually go for over-views on dolls, but I’ll take some more photos of her after I give her a proper tail and paint some of the detail on her shirt and gloves. Did you guys have a favorite deer themed doll? Any of these on your want list? Did I miss any play line deer dolls?? She was super cute, and while I would still love for the line to give us knee articulation, more dolls with fully removable clothing, and the option to buy the dolls without the potion bottles (which are fun, but I am not going to be playing with them again). I look forward to trying to find the dragon and the fairy pixlings.

[docholligay]

Wintering by Peter Geye

The absolute best moment of this book:

“History and memory aren’t the same thing.” “How are they different? “History doesn’t abide acts of the imagination but memories depend on it. And memories are as much what we’ve forgotten as what we recall. History cannot be forgotten” (as a history girlie, I don't even AGREE, but I love love the ideas in that and definitely find them worth engaging with)

Trying to think of what I would say about this book that's not spoilery, and isn't quite as dismissive as I think I could sound about it. Because there are a lot of redeeming qualities in this book. But, at core, it's what I'm going to very reductively call, "A book for your 60 year old dad" It's a bildungsroman about mustache twirling evil in a small town, the seduction and purity of nature but especially survivalism against the elements, and realizing your parents don't know what the fuck they're doing.

Doc, uh, don't you love the purity of survival against the elements? Well, yes, I am your 60 year old dad also, and I can have a LOT of fun with a fuckin...Call of the Wild moment. Join me in spoiler town for the rest

I think the issue is not, "Learning what sort of man you are up against the freezing winter on the border between Minnesota and Canada." I think those things are in fact very clarifying. But. There has to be more to carry the book, and a lot of what resonates with the author doesn't resonate with me.

Geye makes a big deal out of Harry, Gus' father. I called it a bildungsroman and I guess it is but as I'm sitting here, I think it's actually more about Harry and Gus' reactions to Harry, even after he's fucking dead, then it is about Gus himself. I could tell you everything about Harry only a handful of things about Gus. It's about Harry and how Harry is a great guy and comes from a long line of good men who were involved with shitty women, but don't worry Berit waited for him until his wife left because he was so great and she knew from the outset it was only him for her. Which is actually a larger problem with this novel: Women are bitches or dogs. But I am not going to be harsh enough to call it misogynist because the flat characters are nearly everyone who isn't Harry, so at that point its just a blind spot.

Speaking of, my GOD, what a mustache twirling villain. To the point of, I shit you not, pushing his disabled war hero brother into the open hole of a cliff fall. That is not a joke I made, that is me recounting the tale to you.

So, why don't you say the story is awful, full stop? Because when its focused on the nature, and the winter, and the fact that Harry has clearly imagined this wintering as a vehicle for revenge more than anything, and that he has endangered his son in order to try and get his moment with Charlie, that nothing else about this fucking mattered, it has moments of brilliance. The lack of planning and an end, the map made up of imagined lakes and rivers out of a romantic sense of exploration, the mercy of nature and the borderlands against its harshness, the moose eaten by wolves because they were tangled into each others' horns from a fight. (But of course despite what would have been brilliant foreshadowing, Harry can't die here)

Harry is so great that he doesn't even die when he dies, he wanders off into the winter woods and they do not find his body I am not making a joke I am not joking.

[cozyfoxy]

The Brackenwood Murders Chapter 2/?

Summary: Dan and PJ go to the police with the envelope that they received, but they were ignored like always. When dectective Lester stumbles upon them on the steps into the station, he finds himself with not only more evidence than he had expected but also a soft spot for a certain Dan Howell.

Read Part One

Read on AO3

Phil walked carefully along the wet sidewalk, absentmindedly counting each leaf that he passed. His interview with the local news station had gone as well as he had expected. Most of the townspeople agreed with him that there should be a curfew and a rule against traveling alone until the killer is caught. However, there was a small handful of hecklers, telling Phil that he was wasting his time and that he should let the “sinners” die. 

As much as Phil had wanted to argue with those people, as much as he wanted to yell and correct them, he bit his tongue. He hadn’t been a detective for very long, but he had learned in his first year that letting emotions overtake you would prevent you from getting the answers you need. So, he stood in front of the camera, smiling politely and promising to get to the bottom of the Brackenwood killer. He hoped that the killer himself might have been in the crowd tonight. 

Overall, Phil wasn’t a majorly intimidating man. He was a bit too lanky and as clumsy as a newborn deer, but he knew how to use his words. Even when he lacked confidence in himself or in a case, no one would ever spot it. He would speak clearly, surely, and calmly. He had discovered from a young age that even if you had no idea what you were talking about, if you acted like you did, then people would believe you. Phil could only hope that his confidence was already stirring something within the killer. 

A shaky sob brought Phil from his thoughts, and he gripped his briefcase more tightly. Perhaps it was being in such a small town that set him on edge. Back home in London, he could easily ignore the sounds of people crying, horns blaring, or the sirens of emergency vehicles. Something about Brackenwood seemed to set his soul on fire and put his anxieties on display. He didn’t allow himself much time to think about it before he followed the crying to the stairs of the police station. 

“I’m just so fucking sick of them treating me like a problem. I just want to help them solve this so no one else has to deal with losing a loved one, but I’m an overreactive pervert.” A voice cried, followed by a soft shushing from the man next to him. 

Phil watched the men quietly for a moment, taking in their appearances. Both men looked exhausted in a way that Phil had seen more times than he’d like to remember. They were grieving, floating through the days that passed and trying to stay for the future while focusing on the present. Something from their past still sat heavy over both men, like a permanent cloud that prevented the light from touching them. 

“I’m sorry, Dan; I should’ve known that they wouldn’t care. I guess I hoped that things would be different with that big deal detective around, but the cops are still as useless as before.” The other man huffed, still trying to comfort the one next to him.

The mention of the cops grabbed Phil’s attention, and he quickly determined what was going on. These men had evidence of some kind, or something that they thought could be useful, but they were brushed off, ignored by the very people who were meant to protect them. Phil stifled an annoyed sigh; he was going to have to bring in his own team at this rate. Before he could even scold himself for intervening, he began to stroll over to the men. 

“Hello, I’m sorry to interrupt, but are you two alright?” Phil asked calmly, pulling out a small pack of tissues from his coat pocket.

The men looked up at him, the one crying, taking the tissues thankfully, “as alright as we can be, I guess. I’m just done with these asshole cops. They treat me like a problem every time I try to help them with anything.” 

Phil raised his eyebrows curiously, pulling out his badge from his coat to flash it. “I’m detective Phil Lester; I’ve been brought in to assist with the murders here. My time with the police force here hasn’t been the most pleasant, so I can’t say I’m surprised. What happened tonight?” 

“I’m Dan, and this is my friend PJ. We, well, I found this envelope in our flat tonight. We were leaving to go and watch your interview at the park when I found it. Someone had slipped it in through the mail slot; it’s labeled with my name. There’s pictures of Liam Collins inside, the third victim of the killer. He’s my... he was my boyfriend.” Dan rambled, stopping when the pressure in his chest became too much to continue. 

PJ frowned and looked up at Phil carefully. “After we both looked through the pictures and read the note inside, Dan fainted. He does that sometimes when he’s overwhelmed or moves too quickly. I waited on him to wake up, and then I dragged him here to show Brewer. I was hoping that we’d be taken seriously for once, but Brewer scolded us for pranking him. His deputy called Dan a sick pervert for having photos of Liam like this lying around. They never take us seriously here.” 

Phil felt anger bubble up in his chest, and he took a deep breath through his nose to calm down. “May I see the envelope? It could be crucial evidence for the case. And you say they’ve brushed you off before? Was it to do with this case?” 

“Yeah. When we were nineteen, Liam PJ and I were at the opening night of the town’s Halloween festival. We were waiting in line for the haunted house when another man came up to us and started a conversation. He was wearing this really detailed plague doctor outfit, with leather gloves and some kind of heavy white baton with a big black diamond on the end of it. Maybe it was a cane? He was asking if we knew about the new gay club that had opened up a couple towns away. I said yeah, but it wasn’t really my thing. I had heard that it was a kinky place, and at that time I wasn’t even out of the closet, so I wanted nothing to do with it.” Dan rambled, taking PJ’s hand in his as he recalled that night. 

Phil wrote everything that Dan was saying in his notebook quickly. “Anything else? I’m taking on the case as if nothing has been done previously since it seems that nothing really was.” 

Dan nodded, his curls bobbing slightly at his movement. “We thought it was weird, but weird and Halloween go hand in hand, you know? When the guy left us alone, we forgot about it. It wasn’t until around midnight when I was leaving the bathrooms near the trails of the park that I saw him again. I was alone this time, and he stopped me. He told me that he had never seen eyes as beautiful as mine, and I said thank you but told him I wasn’t interested. He apologized profusely and told me to have a good night. When he went to walk away, I noticed under the streetlamp that there was blood on his leather gloves. It was barely noticeable, but it was there. There was even more blood on the crystal part of his baton, dripping down to the white base of it. At first, I thought it was a part of his costume that we hadn’t noticed earlier, until the next morning, when Dillion Hilton’s body was found on the trail closest to the bathrooms.” 

Phil froze in the middle of his writing to look at Dan curiously. “So you went to the police with this information, and they ignored you?” 

PJ nodded along with Dan, “I went with him as support; he was terrified to go anywhere alone at this point. They didn’t write it down or anything; they just told us that it was a Halloween festival and that the blood was clearly a part of the costume. Brewer told Dan not to waste his time.” 

Phil pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, “They’re fucking usless. Sorry for the language, lads; I’ve just never worked with such a careless police force.”

Dan giggled a bit at Phil’s little outburst and shrugged, “Trust me, I’ve said worse.” 

The detective couldn’t help but smile at the giggle, the sound relaxing his shoulders just a bit. He carefully reached into the envelope, studying the pictures closely. It always struck him as painful to look at someone be so alive in photos, all while knowing that they’re dead and gone. The man in the photos, Liam, didn’t seem truly frightened in the pictures; it seemed like he was enjoying himself. Phil’s heart broke for Dan momentarily before something clicked in his mind.

“So Dan, you said that the masked man was asking about a gay club a few towns away, right?” Phil asked softly, looking into Dan’s eyes. He hated the hurt that he saw there. 

Dan nodded and dabbed at his eyes with a tissue. “Yeah. It’s a fetish club; it’s called The Raven’s Roost. They have a website; I can give it to you if you need it.” 

Phil chuckled, "It seems like you’ve done some investigating yourself. That’s-”

“Stupid, dangerous, a waste of time? I’ve heard it all before.” Dan whispered, pulling up the website on his phone to allow Phil to write it down.

The detective cleared his throat and wrote the website name down in his journal. “I was actually going to say impressive. It is dangerous, but it seems like this criminal has a bit of humanity towards you. Otherwise, I think you would’ve already been a victim of his.” 

Dan shuddered at the thought and watched as detective Lester read through the letter, making occasional notes in his journal. PJ looked at Dan and offered a supportive smile, squeezing his best friend’s hand gently. It felt strange to actually be taken seriously; he could only imagine just how good his friend felt. 

“Dan, PJ, I know this might be a little uncomfortable for the both of you, but could you possibly take me to Liam’s grave? In the letter, the killer says that he’s seen you there. I want to see if there’s a specific spot that he could be watching you from.” Phil explained, writing a note to himself before closing his journal and latching it. 

PJ looked at Dan silently before they both nodded in agreement. Dan stood up and shivered, having refused to put on a coat when PJ was rushing him out of their flat. Wordlessly, detective Lester slid his thick, navy blue trench coat off of his shoulders and offered it to Dan. Despite his best efforts to act unaffected by the act of kindness, the brunette felt his cheeks heat up as he slid his arms into the sleeves. 

“Thank you, detective Lester.” He mumbled, letting the slightly too long sleeves cover his hands.

Phil smiled, “My pleasure, dear, and just Phil is fine. Now lead the way; it might seem impossible for me to get lost in such a small town, but I would find a way.” He joked with a soft chuckle. 

PJ watched Dan carefully, feeling his heart swell. For so long, it felt like it was he and Dan against the world. His best friend had a hard time letting people in and an even harder time letting them stay. After Liam was killed, Dan had decided that he was bad luck and that it was somehow his fault that Liam was killed. Dan had even tried to push PJ away, but no matter what he did, how much he acted out, PJ stayed. It was nice to see Dan open up and show his feelings with someone new, even if it was just with a detective. 

The graveyard that was attached to the local church grounds was just a street away, so the walk didn’t take long at all. It was only just past eight in the evening, but the streets were completely empty. Phil felt a surge of pride knowing that the curfew in place seemed to be working. He pushed his black fringe out of his eyes as he followed Dan and PJ down a row of graves, stopping beside them in front of one.

“This is it.” Dan whispered, looking only at his feet. 

Phil nodded thoughtfully and looked around carefully. The graveyard was old but well kept all the same. The gravestones were neatly polished and decorated with flowers and wreaths. Liam’s grave was nearly glistening underneath the glow of the streetlamps, a beautiful autumnal wreath positioned on a metal easel just to the left of it. The entire gravesite felt overwhelmingly warm and loved to Phil; it sent a calming surge down his spine. 

He pulled out a small camera from his briefcase and turned on the flash, taking a few photos of the areas around them, focusing heavily on the church building. The church was quite small and worn down from the years that it stood, but it was surrounded by beautiful red and orange marigolds that seemed to give it new life. Phil looked up and down the building, pausing at the old bell tower and snapping a few photos. 

“Is it possible to access the belltower?” He asked, looking over to the men who were standing starkly still beside him. 

PJ nodded. “Yeah, they just recently reinforced the flooring and redid the staircase. A little over a year ago, I think.” 

Phil hummed and looked over to Dan, who seemed lost in thought. He debated on interrupting whatever had Dan thinking so hard, but thought better of it. PJ had said earlier that Dan was prone to fainting, and Phil didn’t want to be the cause of that. The detective took a few more photos before turning his attention to the other men once again. 

“Alright, one more thing. I would like to walk you both home, one for safety but also to get a look at your front door. Do you have a doorbell camera or anything like it?” Phil asked, putting his camera away carefully. 

Dan shook his head, “No, we don’t. But you can take a look at the door or whatever you need.” 

Phil cocked his head to one side curiously. “You just lied to me, Dan, why?” He asked softly. 

The younger man froze and looked at PJ with desperate eyes, silently begging him to answer. 

PJ sighed and shuffled on his feet. “We have a hidden camera in the lightbulb cover of our outdoor light. He lied because outdoor cameras aren’t allowed in residential homes in Brackenwood. Something about it invading the privacy of neighbors.” 

Phil arched his eyebrow. “This town is a bit backwards. Alright, let’s head out.” 

PJ all but ran out of the cemetery, feeling on edge. The graveyard freaked him out even on a bright summer day, so being in it on a dark and cloudy night wasn’t the best feeling. He heaved a sigh and stood beneath a large streetlamp, waiting patiently for Dan and Phil. 

“Phil? How did you know I was lying?” Dan asked quietly, following PJ at a slower pace. 

Phil smiled calmly, “I’m trained to see through lies; it’s easy sometimes, but other times it’s impossible. I could tell you were lying because you became unsure of yourself. You’ve been honest with me all night, completely confident, but a simple question made you doubt yourself.” 

Dan sighed and shook his head. “I always thought that I was a good liar.” 

The detective hummed and looked at Dan with curious eyes. “Do you lie a lot?” 

“Nearly everyday.” The brunette admitted in a whisper. 

“What about?” Phil asked just as quietly.

Dan chuckled humorlessly, “People ask me if I’m okay a lot. I think that if I say that I’m fine often enough, I’ll eventually convince myself too.” 

Phil paused his steps for a moment, taking in what was just confessed to him. He had dealt with many people who were struggling in some way or another. Hell, he had talked a few people down from bridges that they planned to jump off of; he had talked a shooter out of killing a group of innocent children. He had even talked a serial rapist into turning himself in. His voice was his greatest weapon, his strongest feature. Yet, in that moment, he was completely speechless. 

“You coming, Phil?” PJ called softly from the lamppost, bringing the young detective out of his stupor. 

Phil cleared his throat, “Yeah, sorry. I got lost in thought. It’s a bad habit.” 

Dan and PJ walked a bit ahead of Phil, not really talking but just keeping close to each other. Despite only having met them an hour prior, Phil couldn’t help but be thankful that they had each other. It was like the men in front of him completed each other in some way. When Dan couldn’t finish his thought, PJ would always step in. When PJ was thinking too hard, it was like Dan realized before anyone else and helped ground him. They had supported each other all these years while this murderer was on the loose. When the people that they should be able to trust proved to be unhelpful, they still had each other. Phil felt himself smile at the friends in front of him, feeling for a moment that he was a part of their lives. 

“Home sweet home.” Dan joked when he and PJ stopped in front of a red painted door with a gold 111 plaque attached to it. 

Phil chuckled at Dan as he observed the door quietly, “An angel number.” He remarked quietly, seeing PJ jump up excitedly. 

“See! It’s not just me, Howell; lots of people believe in angel numbers.” PJ nearly yelled before unlocking the door. 

The detective laughed softly to himself as the two men in front of him bickered about the truth of angel numbers and the idea of fate. While they argued, Phil got onto his knees to take a few pictures of the mail slot on the door, easily spotting a few black threads caught in the edge of the slot. Phil quickly pulled out some gloves and a clean pair of tweezers before plucking them out and putting them into a small bag. 

“May I see the footage from your camera?” Phil asked calmly, spotting the hidden camera in the light cover with practiced ease, “Where did you guys get that camera set up? I haven’t seen that design before.”

Dan invited Phil inside before closing the door and locking it, being sure to lock it with the chain as well. “Oh, we didn’t. Well, we got the camera, but PJ actually built the lampshade cover around it. It’s all his design.” 

Phil smiled. “That’s actually really impressive. What do you do for work, PJ?” 

PJ blushed at the compliment and shrugged, “I think it’s fun, honestly. I’m a journalist; we both are.” 

The detective nodded, thanking Dan quietly when he brought his laptop over with the video feed saved on it. “I think you might be in the wrong line of work, PJ.” Phil teased as he scrolled through the video tentatively. 

Dan nodded in agreement and sent PJ a smile. “I’ve been telling him that for years.” 

PJ rolled his eyes dramatically and sat down on the couch beside Dan. “You can sit down too, Phil. Just pull the coffee table up.”  

Phil hummed in thanks and sat on the other side of Dan, scrolling through the video footage slowly, being sure not to miss anything. At the timestamp of 5:12pm, a figure walked up the steps of the porch, and Phil felt a weight in his stomach. The person was wearing black leather gloves and a leather witch doctor mask. 

“Dan, is this what the mask looked like?” Phil asked softly, turning the laptop to Dan and PJ.

Beside him, Dan stiffened, “Yeah, exactly like the guy was wearing.” He whispered, as if he were afraid the masked man would hear him. 

Phil nodded slowly and scrolled through the video some more, pausing it quickly when he saw patches on the leather jacket that the masked man was wearing. He pulled out his camera and took a few pictures. Each patch was in the shape of diamonds, red and purple in color. The patches clearly had some kind of design on them, but Phil wasn’t able to get a clear look at them just yet. 

“Does anyone else know about the plague doctor mask? Besides the police?” Phil asked calmly, not looking away from the video. 

Both Dan and PJ shook their heads. “Not that I know of. After the reaction from the cops, I felt stupid for thinking it was serious. I was too embarrassed to talk about it.” Dan explained quietly. 

The detective nodded again, “This guy is careful. He’s got a mask underneath the witch doctor mask to cover his neck. Maybe he has recognizable tattoos.” Phil mumbled to himself. 

“You can email the video file to yourself if you want.” PJ offered quietly, leaning over Dan to see the paused video frame. Seeing the mask again made him uncomfortable; it reminded him just how much had happened since that night six years ago. 

Phil smiled thankfully before sending the video to himself quickly. “I think that this will help the investigation a lot. Now I have a better idea of what kind of person we’re looking for.” 

Dan looked at Phil with tired eyes and red cheeks. “Do you think you’re only looking for one person? I’ve always thought there was more than one.” 

“I don’t know for sure. Why? Do you think there’s more than one killer?” The detective asked curiously, closing the laptop gently. 

The brunette took a shaky breath and said. “I don’t really think there’s more than one killer, but I think that the actual killer has someone to help them clean up or move the body. The bodies are never found bloody; they’ve always been cleaned up. Did Brewer not tell you that? They’re always found shirtless, cleaned up, on their backs with their arms crossed over their chests.”

Phil frowned a bit at the new information. He would have to ask Brewer for crimescene photos when they spoke again, as the pictures hadn’t been released to the public. The detective’s blood went cold for a moment. “How do you know that, Dan?”

“I have a... friend who’s close with Brewer. I can give you his name, but please don’t tell Brewer. I get a lot of information from him; that’s why I always know stuff before the other journalists.” Dan rambled, chewing his chapped lips anxiously. 

Phil forced back the small sigh of relief that threatened to fall from his lungs. Though he still had to write both Dan and PJ down as possible suspects, he now had reason to write it off as only speculation. He pulled out his journal and looked at Dan expectantly. 

“His name is Aaron Brewer. He’s chief Brewer’s son.” Dan explained quietly, looking at his lap. 

The detective raised his eyebrows curiously. So, Brewer’s own son was telling journalists information behind his father’s back. Information that should have stayed only between that of the police force. In that moment, it clicked in Phil’s mind who the mystery blogger was that Brewer had been grumbling about. Dan and PJ were smart in their conquest for justice, but now he was in the middle of it. If they had anything to do with the murders, he would find out easily. 

“Thank you both for your help. I need to get back to my hotel room and start going through the evidence that you guys have given me. Here’s my card, one for both of you. Don’t hesitate to call me if anything happens or if you think of anything else that could be helpful. I’ll be stopping by to check on you both sometime soon, so please text me tonight and I’ll save your numbers.” Phil explained eagerly before standing up and stretching his arms over his head. 

PJ nodded and stood as well. “Thank you for taking us seriously. You’ve given us hope for the first time in way too fucking long. Especially Dan.” He added in a whisper. 

“Thank you, Phil.” Dan smiled, “Oh, your coat.” He realized, quickly standing to take it off. 

Phil chuckled, “Keep it for now; I’ll see you again soon and take it then. Besides, it looks cuter on you. Goodnight, lads, lock the door behind me, please.” He added before waving and walking out of the front door. 

PJ quickly ran to the door and locked it before looking at a still blushing Dan. “He’s kinda cute, eh?” He teased. 

Dan stammered and looked away from his friend, “Shut up! You’re not even into men.”  

“Oi! I’m not into dogs, but I can say that they’re cute!” PJ argued with a laugh. 

Dan groaned loudly and stood up, “You didn’t have to say it like that!” He argued before storming off to his room, leaving a laughing PJ alone in the lounge. 

[nvrcmplt]

With still heavy eyelids, the dragoness peered into the dark room. The faint light from the lamppost outside crept in through a crack between curtains, causing long eerie shadows. One of which that made her hair stand on end. It then became apparent what exactly had awoken her.

In an instant her eyes flew open and she sat upright in her bed, face to face with a creature she'd never seen before. Another person's tooth beneath the pillow behind her.

"I think I've had too much ramen before bed...," she muttered to herself. "Or was it the sake?"

// for Tand Fé

"Oh molars no - neither, lass." A chime in tone, movement of the giant fae was without fanfare but confusion amongst the senses. They were tall, terribly tall - shouldn't at all fit within the room and yet the ceiling near touched their crescent horns, the floor never cracked under pin-point ending limbs. Instead they chimed as if hollow metal against stone, a tune if one was to listen well beyond their prior drunken state. Mouthless but not without voice, did the Being of Teeth, lower themselves only slight to reach out with spindly arm, fingers poised with motion to pinch something from them? Well, no, not them, her, the creature that scents of blossom touched waters but beyond them.

Garments of white, glistening stars over chains rest at shoulder and throat, bangles and gauntlets and hoops, lots of them trinkle their figure as if royalty stepped from the voids above. It wouldn't be far off, but still, over dressed and oddly dressed, a presence that spoke of something of the highest of orders in their wears. Movements gentle, graceful, spidery-yet without the creep factor even though they are a being akin more to the looks of a giant insect or alien. The biggest feature was indeed a cape of the most bluest of blues, dotted in stars and fur around their neck, a fluff as misty as a lakes fog and as soft as a morning yawn.

"Pardon me, lass. Just a little something for me under here." A shift of pillow, the bone cradled in metal tin and fabric. Ah, delightful gift. A cherished tooth, though They were confused upon them, settled within the sheets. They could tell without seeking inside her jowls that she was not missing a single tooth and yet, she slept with one under their pillow. How queer. Just ignore how They tut at the lack of missing teeth from them.

Still, Tand Fé smiled, strangely a thing to be felt or just known by her, without a mouth to show it. Delight in bonfire hues, a dance of liquid flame and warmth, a flicker of adoration as tin was held within three pointed digits. "Oh, they treat me so well… This world is just delightful for keeping tradition. Do you wish to see it? Ah, no I should wait - this little gem needs my full attention." Ah, how They marvelled, almost danced upon the bloody spot in their joy of such a treasure.

Still, They had to control themselves, staring upon their toothful guest and instead lowering attention from the tin for a moment to look them over. Not of their stock, their blood was something special but not of this country or origin, a foreign little tooth-bandit. "Well, I guess should ask who it is that sleeps with my treasure." Did she steal teeth from those that lost them? A faux-tooth fairy? Wonderous, a rather noble profession but Tand Fé wasn't so sure now.. Hm.

"The fact you see me states more that meets the eye here. Whilst not rare, it is strange for those outside of my boundary to see what I am." Though itching to see the tooth in its glory, They were polite, awaiting their turn to speak… Tand Fé at the moment, wasn't sure if they could return the tin with gift inside for the toothless being to find in the coming morn with her.

[outpost51]

— The Unlikely Adventures of Bitchface and Go F*ck Yourself (18+)

To the web, to the flame, to the zapper.

Chapter WC: 6,974

Warning(s): bullying, mild body horror

{READ HERE ON AO3} or below the cut ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

9 months, 10 days remaining

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“Ow!” Dillon hissed as she missed her next catch and the rubber ball she’d been throwing against the ceiling whacked her right in the nose. She rolled onto her side, clutching her nose to ease the eye-watering throb. A week had passed since the revelation that Daisy was dying. Again. She still hadn’t done anything about her lack of training, choosing instead to drift aimlessly around the house and her part-time night job like she was dead herself. They had time. They didn’t have time. She was being pulled back and forth between assurance and urgency, and she couldn’t stand it anymore.

Moira picked up before Dillon even realized she’d called her. “Lunch,” she barked into the phone.

“Sandwich,” came the wry response. “But I’m guessing you didn’t call to play the word association game after goin’ ghost for a week, and you’re trying to ask me to meet you like a normal human being.”

Dillon groaned into her hands. “Fuck, sorry. Can we do the team meeting thing? I guess I need to apologize to everybody for wallowing in my own bullshit so much.”

“Maxine’s?”

“Yeah.” Maxine’s Roadhouse was their usual spot for any meal; the booths were comfortable, the food was good-for-your-soul greasy, and Maxine made the coffee strong enough to blow somebody’s eyebrows off. “Can you come get me?”

“Mom got the car?”

Dillon shook her head, then quickly added a vocal negative upon remembering Moira couldn’t see her. “I just don’t want to drive.” They both knew it wasn’t the truth, and that she just didn’t want to be alone and needed her best friend, but neither would speak it into existence. Moira had some tact; as much as she called Dillon on her shit, she knew what shit needed to shovel itself, and Dillon appreciated that.

She had time to wash off the previous night’s nightmares and grab an outfit off the floor that still smelled moderately clean before the familiar jeep horn blasted an impatient cadence outside. It was about time, what the hell had taken Moira so long? She only lived ten minutes away — six, at the speed Moira usually drove. “Going to lunch!” she yelled on her way out the door. That's how they announced their comings and goings in the Monroe house. Nobody ever checked their phones, and Cheryl liked having the verbal confirmation it was really her daughters and not some impostor with their phones.

The reason for Moira’s delay was made apparent as Dillon bounded across the yard: she’d picked up the other three first. “Get in loser!” Moira shouted over her blaring stereo. “We’re rekindling our friendship!” Dillon rolled her eyes even as she dove through the open passenger side window.

“You know there’s a door, right?” Bonnie huffed.

Dillon swore while she tried to right herself with the additional challenge of loose pants and her best friend’s insistence that speed limit signs were simply a challenge. “Yeah, but I fit through the window,” she scoffed, finally seated properly and buckling in. She leaned around the back of the seat to acknowledge the group in the back. “Sorry I was an asshole.”

“I’d say you’re actually handling all this better than I would if it was Faith,” Rosie assured, Faith nodding along next to her. “We knew you would come back in your own time.”

“Personally, I thought it would take a lot longer for you to bounce back,” Bonnie added. She spat a nasty swear as Moira slammed the jeep into a parking spot. The car they’d stolen it from blasted their horn; Moira blasted hers back.

Their usual booth was occupied by a group of high schoolers. Dillon sighed, knowing what was coming next. Bonnie didn’t give a fuck where they sat, and the twins were adamant that they not cause a fuss, because they had church in the morning, and they really didn’t feel like listening to the lecture from their dad.

“And they’re just teenagers, Moira, they’re not hurting anybody,” Rosie insisted. “It’s fine, look — there’s another booth over there on the other side.”

They didn’t know Moira. “They’re not just fucking teenagers, Rosie,” she grumbled under her breath. She was right, they weren’t; they were this year’s top dogs at Oak Hills High, led by none other than Troy Lawson, Brett’s younger brother and the current heir to Charles Lawson’s equine empire. The Lawsons bred champions, both horse and human offspring, and for a Lawson to not hold the throne at their respective schools was unacceptable, so it came as no surprise.

Though it spoke volumes to their confidence in their sons to lead that they stuck them in public school with the plebeians, rather than sending them to Heritage Academy or any of the other six private schools within rich-people-transportation range.

Moira was already mid-confrontation-march by the time Dillon formed half a half-assed argument on her tongue. Oh well, I tried, she thought. Hopefully the sneer stayed in her head this time.

“Oi, Lawson, fuck off,” Moira barked. She had such an elegant way with words.

“Or what, freak? You gonna hex me?” Troy made a dismissive gesture. “Go back to your coffin, the sun’s still out.”

Dillon could almost hear the creak of Moira’s jaw as she clenched it. The pentacle necklace that never left her neck rose and fell with every angry breath, flashing a warning in the afternoon sun. Dillon stepped up behind her best friend. Her belly button barely cleared the top of the table, but she could still mean mug the shit out of them. Moira didn’t need help taking on six high schoolers, it was the thought that counted.

“Oh look, it’s the littlest Monroe, too,” Troy’s best friend, Conner Stevens, drawled. He didn’t move from his relaxed drape against the back of the booth. “What’re you gonna do, cut yourself at us?”

The bar for being the bigger person suddenly got a lot lower. Moira snarled over the table. Dillon put a gentle hand on her bicep. “No, Troy,” she chuffed. “I’m not. But you wanna know what I can do?” She hopped up on the table, jostling his drink with the jolt and wobble of the table. “You remember what happened to Brett?”

That got Troy’s attention. “What, you gonna pull a bear outta your ass? Wouldn’t surprise me, if you’re as big of a whore as your s—” His voice was suddenly cut off with a wet choke.

“Dill—”

“He brought Daisy into it, Moira,” she spat. “His ass is fair game now.” Her head hurt and her chest tightened as her emotions rose higher, but this time she was ready for it, and greeted the pain like an old friend. Passing out would so be worth making that little worm regret even thinking Daisy’s name.

Conner shook Troy’s shoulder, but it was no use. He was fully choking on a massive lump lodged firmly in his esophagus. His blond girlfriend-of-the-week pulled him into a Heimlich position — she was a lifeguard at the community pool, Dillon thought — and on the fourth violent thrust of her hands against his diaphragm, the foreign object in his throat finally dislodged itself.

A clump of daisies the size of her fist slopped wetly onto his half-finished burger.

Dillon felt something wet trickle from her nose. Worth it. “Now get the fuck away from our table before I pick something with thorns.”

As the teenagers scrambled away, and she and her friends helped the bus boy get the table cleared and cleaned, she couldn’t help the spark of hope igniting in her heart; if she could grow a ham-fisted metaphor in Troy Lawson’s throat from nothing but a morsel of food and her own spite, she could perform a ritual in a book that she’d technically already done before.

A sudden wave of dizziness washed over her and Moira barely managed to shove her in the direction of the booth so she’d have a soft place to land. Still worth it, although the seats were much less comfortable when bouncing one’s head off them at terminal velocity.

Maybe she needed a little training.

Dillon gagged at the sudden acrid tang assaulting her senses and sat up with a start. “Fuck, how long was I out?”

“Long enough for me to make Maxine think you had a killer hangover so she wouldn’t call an ambulance,” Moira replied, sounding quite proud of herself. She slid a cup of coffee in front of Dillon. “And for this to cool down to a chuggable temperature. So, fifteen minutes, give or take.”

That was acceptable. Dillon could accept fifteen minutes. She was worried it had been days; she sure as hell felt like it, anyway. She didn’t want to waste any more time. “Did anybody figure anything out while I was doing my best Aurora impression?” she asked over her coffee.

“That Moira knows entirely too much about you,” Bonnie said wryly over the rim of her own mug. “Hope you’re feeling up to the Batter's Box Special.”

Dillon slid her eyes to her best friend. “No hashbrowns?”

Grinning triumphantly, Moira nodded. “Sub grits, add Swiss and cheddar.”

Dillon could have cried. Maybe she was still emotional over her sister, or maybe the adrenaline of ruining Troy Lawson’s day was wearing off, but it tugged her heartstrings extra hard that Moira had her usual memorized.

“Arright, arright, you can propose to me later,” Moira chuffed, tossing a handful of napkins at Dillon. “We got a zombie to charge up.” Her drawn-on eyebrows lifted nearly to her hairline as she sipped her soda. “And clearly you don’t have an issue with the power part of the equation, just needs some refinement.”

“And about fifty percent less nosebleeds,” Rosie chirped.

Faith added, “Staying conscious would be a plus, too.”

Everyone looked at Bonnie. She sighed, already tapping out a message to her cousin. The reply came through almost immediately. “Eugene’s on his way.” She stretched up and shouted to Maxine for another cup of coffee and an order of fries. When she turned back, she met Moira’s raised eyebrow with an incredulous look of her own. “What? Your goth isn’t the only creature of habits around here. He’s weird, but he’s at least consistent about it.”

‘Weird’ was an understatement. They felt Damien’s — Eugene, according to Bonnie, but saying it behind his back and saying it to his face were entirely different things — arrival before they saw the pale, duster-clad stringbean bluster through the diner doors like a storm made of angst and too much patchouli.

Despite Maxine’s being one of the few restaurants in town that still allowed smoking indoors, Dillon tried not to light up indoors, on principle. She had her vape, but it was somehow more frowned upon than regular cigarettes.

But as Damien swept across the diner, stringy hair clinging to his face and floor-length leather duster billowing behind him on an unseen breeze, she popped a cigarette between her lips, flicking her lighter over the end with a resigned sigh. It was about to be a long fucking meeting, she thought, exhaling a cloud of spicy clove-scented smoke.

Bonnie slid over to make room on her side of the round bench seat, knowing damn well no one else wanted to catch whatever vibes he was giving off and be cursed to write bad poetry about unrequited love and bloody roses for the rest of eternity. Rather than sliding in like they expected, however, Damien placed his hands on the table and the back of the booth, then vaulted into a squat onto the seat.

“Your shoes better be clean,” Maxine huffed as she arrived with his coffee and everyone’s food.

“If you’re referring to the ectoplasmic residue of lost souls soaked into the leather of my boots, then no, they aren’t, but I washed them of hallowed mud last night and the soul residue won’t transfer onto polyester,” he drawled, more focused on shaking salt and dumping sugar into his coffee than carrying on the conversation further.

“Thanks, Maxine,” Moira offered with a wince. Dillon held out her pack of smokes without looking up from her plate, one cigarette sticking out in a silent offer.

Damien didn’t look up from digging in his beat-up canvas bag, but assumed the offer pertained to the whole table. “No thank you, Miss Monroe, I have my own hand-rolled blend that assists my focus, but I appreciate the generous offer.”

Moira took the fucking cigarette.

“So,” Damien said finally, dropping a heavy stack of stained notebooks on the table, “you’re the girl… who…” He squinted at Dillon, at her ravenous attack on her eggs, at the cigarette in her hand. His eyes widened like he was seeing her for the first time and he plucked the cigarette from her hand, holding it above his head like she’d lunge for it.

She did, but her arms were too short and she didn’t feel like becoming personally acquainted with whatever the fuck lurked beyond Damien’s fly when she inevitably fell face first over the table.

“What kind of establishment is this,” he hissed. “Who lets a child—”

“I’m twenty, Bela Ludouchey, give me my fucking potpourri cancer stick back,” Dillon snapped, pointedly ignoring the chorus of stifled giggles and the obnoxious snort Moira couldn’t hide behind an eighteen-wheeler.

Damien sucked his lips into a thin line in shock and delicately handed the cigarette back. “Well, then. That’s a little more feasible than a twelve year-old raising the dead with no prior training or practice.”

“I was eighteen.”

“I stand corrected, and my career offer stands.”

“I’ll think about it,” Dillon grunted, blowing smoke over his plate. Sure, she should probably be playing nice, but she deserved a little vindication for the twelve year-old comment. “I have piercings.”

Damien flipped open one of the notebooks without breaking his deadpan eye contact. “I’ve seen preteens forge signatures to apply at Fithum, Zegan, Stazor & Smith, a few facial piercings are nothing in comparison.”

Faith cocked her head, raising her hand as if they were in class. “Smith?”

“Tom’s human and he didn’t take the standard route of changing his name to something more esoteric to fit the profile our clientele is expecting when hiring a resurrectionist or other magically-inclined individual. I need to feel your energy, Miss Monroe.” He reached across the table and barely dodged Dillon’s fork. Had he not flinched, she would have stuck it right through his forearm.

“You gonna buy me dinner first, Discount Eric Draven?”

“Funny, Dillon, I see we’re not making this a professional affair,” Damien sighed. “I’m not doing anything untoward, I won’t even make direct contact. I just have to know what I’m working with before I give you any advice.”

“She made Troy Lawson choke on a garden about twenty minutes ago,” Bonnie drawled.

Damien blinked slowly. “Well, that’s an interesting development, isn’t it?” He reached for Dillon again, but at half the recommended speed for approaching a wounded wild animal, just in case she got spooked and aimed for his face next. True to his word, he didn’t touch her — not directly, at least; she felt the heat from his hands hovering an inch from both of her temples, and then a slight pressure and an icy tingle speared directly into her brain.

Oh, and she went blind temporarily. When her vision returned, she wasn’t in the diner. She and Damien were standing across from each other in a dark forest. The coppery miasma of heavy bloodshed made the air around them thick and heady. “Where… what the fuck did you do?”

“I’m looking at the last time you used your abilities to their upper limits,” Damien explained, already walking towards the faint voices.

Her stomach sank. Oh no. This was bad, nobody knew about—

“I already know about Brett, Dillon, I got here before you.” He turned, furrowing his brows. “You aren’t even supposed to be here, not like this. That alone is… unique.”

“God, don’t tell me you’re about to give me some spiel about being the Chosen One or some shit,” she groaned.

A rough snort shook his shoulders. “No, it just means you have somebody really badass perching somewhere in your family tree. It’s genetic sometimes.” He stopped just on the edge of the grizzly scene from two years prior. “Wow, Cheryl really did a number on him.”

“Yeah, she was out for blood,” Dillon remarked. It was so surreal looking at it from an outsider’s perspective, it almost didn’t seem real. “What do you mean sometimes? What is it every other time?”

He winced when her echo stomped her heel down between Brett’s legs. “I’m betting your dad’s a regular human too, but sometimes things from across the Veil canoodle with us.”

“My mom didn’t cheat on Darren,” she snapped defensively.

Damien carried on, knowing the show of teeth for what it was. “You’re not a Changeling, so that’s not the case either.”

“How do you know?”

“You’re not pureblooded Fae. They’re pretty easy to spot, and you wouldn’t just be using energy, you’d be creating it.” His hand went to his chest in an automatic reaction and it was her turn to wince; she knew exactly what had happened without looking. “I’ve seen enough to make an assessment.”

Dillon felt like she was being simultaneously ripped out of one reality and stuffed into a much smaller one, and when she blinked, they were back in the diner, and Damien was dunking his fries in mayonnaise as if he hadn’t just witnessed one of the darkest moments in her life. She, on the other hand, was shivering slightly, shaken to her core.

“What the fuck just happened?” Moira snapped. “Pugsley’s eyes went all horror movie for a couple seconds, it was really freaky, and why the hell does it smell like wet leaves now?”

Dillon lowered her brows. “How long were we gone?”

Moira gaped at her. “Gone? Gone? What the fuck did you—”

“We just took a little trip into her psyche, it’s no big deal, nothing happened.” Damien popped a few more fries into his mouth. “It was a few seconds at most, Dillon. Time passes differently when you’re in somebody’s memories. Anyway, you don’t need training.”

The twins sat forward in unison. “What do you mean?” they asked.

“That she doesn’t need training. The ability is there, but there’s a block on it, so there’s nothing to train, exactly. She just needs a Conduit to wake it up so she can strengthen it.” He tossed back a few more fries, then washed them down with his salty-sweet coffee monstrosity. “And therapy. A lot of therapy.”

“And a Conduit is…?” Dillon opted to ignore the therapy comment. She was fine. She didn’t need therapy, she needed her sister to be okay.

“Something Veilborne that will create energy you can use. They’re called Familiars a lot, but that’s an entirely different thing. You don’t need one for the usual reasons, considering how developed your abilities are already, but having the extra boost should help you figure out what that mental block is and how to get around it.” Damien dug through his bag again for more books. “Has to be Veilborne, though, not Veilmade, so you couldn’t use your mother. Angel, Fae, or demon, those are your choices and they all come with different prices.”

“We can put together a crowdfunding thing, I’m sure our mom wouldn’t mind telling the congregation your sister is sick,” Faith offered brightly. “How much do we need?”

Damien gave her a look like she’d just admitted she was from another planet and had, in fact, come to earth to steal all the women and cows. His left eye twitched. “N-no, Miss Wheeler, that’s. That’s not the kind of—” He paused to eat a few more fries for energy, then recited: “While the price of a single, one-time loan of energy might be something as trivial as a given amount of hours in servitude to a demon, or something less-so and steeped in trickery if one were dealing with Fae, or perhaps an amount of time or money given to more philanthropic causes with an angel, a long-term agreement could mean the forfeiture of one’s own soul.”

When he was met with even more confused stares, he continued, “A soul owned by another cannot be retrieved for reanimation, nor can it be reincarnated, unless the owner of that soul releases the contract or dies of natural causes. Should the owner of the soul be killed, the contract transfers to the being that killed the previous owner. Across the Veil, souls become tangible things; should one find oneself in such a predicament, one’s soul can think and feel pain just as their physical body once could, and as that soul is bound to the owner’s will, it is subject to anything the owner desires to do to it or for it to do.”

The table was silent until Moira, as usual, broke it with all the tact of a brick thrown through a window. “Did you just recite the fucking Conduit terms of service from memory?”

Damien sniffed, leveling her with an unamused glare.

“So… it’s a battery,” Dillon hazarded.

“… Yes,” Damien reluctantly agreed, dragging the word out. “It’s a battery that thinks and feels and sometimes has very dangerous ulterior motives.”

“And I need one to… wake my abilities back up?”

“More or less. It’s not just a simple repetition of the first ritual, you’ll have to channel more energy, it’s why we rarely bring someone back with the intention of keeping them alive indefinitely. It’s a lot of upkeep for even a firm of our size, and the fact you’re taking it on yourself is… admirable.” His face softened briefly, like he saw a reflection in her of someone he’d loved and lost. “Here, I have a few tomes for you,” he said, pushing a few books from the stack he’d put on the table and ignoring Moira as she dramatically mouthed tomes at Dillon. “There’s also a map of ley lines here — energy is more concentrated in those areas, so you might find it easier to channel power from these until you get stronger and can channel it on your own — and one of my notebooks detailing various alliances my colleagues and I have made over the years so you can get a feel for the cost.”

He held onto the stack as Dillon grabbed for it, adding, “Read it all carefully. I mean it. This isn’t just like calling a cousin to help you out of a bind, this can get you seriously hurt, and if something takes your soul, Mother help you, because I can’t bring you back.” He held her eyes in his gaze for a while, and that’s when she noticed his eyes were ringed with black. Stained. She wondered if the magic tainted him on such a deep level, everyone else around him could see and feel it, and if the same would happen to her.

When she nodded, he let go, gathered the rest of his things, and stood. “Good luck, Miss Monroe. Give my regards to your sister.” A sad smile flickered across his face. “She was always kind to me in school.”

“So,” Moira huffed, breaking Dillon from her trance as she watched him go, “what do we do now? Where do we go from here?”

“What about a slumber party?” Rosie suggested. “We’ve never been to one before, but they look really fun in the movies, and the good-guy girls always come up with their best plots during sleepovers.”

“Might I remind you we’re in our twenties?” Bonnie rolled her eyes. “We’re not preteens anymore, we’re perfectly capable of conducting business in a library or—” She paused at the twins’ teary, wobbly pouts. They had been homeschooled, Dillon didn’t imagine they had many opportunities to have friends stay overnight. “Or we can have a… slumber party,” she concluded, albeit reluctantly, with a grimace like the words tasted sour.

They found themselves at Sprawlmart for snacks and drinks, with the additional ulterior motive of getting Dillon out of her shifts for the rest of the week. “I’ll be right back, don’t go too crazy,” she tossed over her shoulder as she dashed off towards the back offices. Lucky for her, Arlene was still on shift, and even luckier, collided with her before she made it four steps.

“Well, damn, girl, didn’t think I’d ever see you so excited to come to work,” Arlene teased, brushing off Dillon’s shoulders and helping her straighten her clothes.

“Well, that’s actually why I’m here.” Dillon offered a sheepish smile. “There’s some stuff going on with Daisy—”

“Say no more.” Arlene held up a hand and Dillon shut her mouth, feeling oddly like it hadn’t been entirely voluntary. “I’ve got a few new hires that need the training, what do you need?”

“Rest of the week?”

“Done.”

Dillon liked Arlene. Her previous manager wasn’t particularly awful, but Travis wasn’t particularly great either. He put the schedules out last minute, was slow to respond to issues, and sometimes didn’t bother showing up for shifts. Arlene showed up out of nowhere a few months prior in her tattooed-makeup bottle-blond glory with a cigarette in one hand and no bra in sight, claiming she was sent by corporate to take over Travis’s position. Dillon didn’t know if it was the truth or if Arlene was just that charismatic, but the regional manager accepted it without so much as checking her resume. So far, the change had been nothing but good, and Dillon wasn’t about to look that gift horse in the mouth, because quite frankly, she liked being able to ask off whenever she needed to for family issues and having a manager that understood her employees were people.

As they left with two bags full of candy, popcorn, and sodas, Faith piped up, “Arlene’s Fae.”

Dillon stopped dead in her tracks, a chill running up her spine. “What?”

Faith nodded. “Her back’s hollow, I read in one of the books last week that High Fae have hollow backs if you look at them out of the corner of your eye.”

Dillon’s brows sank in confusion. “How could you tell under her uniform shirt? And what would a powerful creature like that want with a Sprawlmart? Can’t they literally make actual magic?” She wasn’t sure why she was asking Faith as if she was suddenly a Veilborne expert.

“It’s a Glamour. An illusion.” Faith shrugged. “Not sure what she wants with a Sprawlmart, but she seems really nice. Maybe you can ask her for an alliance?”

“Hard no on that one, Faith,” Dillon said quickly. “I’m not mixing work and personal life like that. Besides, I’m already beholden to Sprawlmart enough as it is — I have to cover shifts and do a bunch of extra work all the time anyway, I’m not binding myself to that company further, cool ass manager or not.”

They had one more stop to make at the Wheelers’ so the twins could pack overnight bags and let their parents know where they would be; Bonnie already had clothes in her backpack due to her paranoid nature constantly putting her on high alert for bugging out at a moment’s notice, and Moira had half her wardrobe in the back of her jeep at any given time. Dillon loved her best friend, but fuck, if her car wasn’t a rolling bachelorette pad.

Daisy wasn’t home when they arrived, and Dillon didn’t know if she was more upset she hadn’t gotten to see her sister off on her weekend trip with McKinleigh or relieved that she wouldn’t be there to overhear them discussing literally summoning an otherworldly creature to help Dillon perform the ritual. The needle on Dillon’s mood-o-meter shifted heavily towards upset when her mom trotted downstairs in full makeup and heels. “Where are you off to all tarted up?” she teased.

“I’m heading up to the pack’s hunting grounds for a few days as a bonding activity, but a few of us girls are stopping somewhere nice for dinner on the way, since it’ll be our last people-food for a while,” Cheryl explained, already opening her arms for her daughter to fling herself into the hug. “Will you girls be alright tonight without me here?”

A chorus of affirmatives went up as the group set up their sleeping bags and laid out the refreshments, but Cheryl wasn’t entirely convinced.

“Will you be okay for a few days with the house empty?” she asked Dillon, quieter. “I can ask someone to stay here, I’m sure Heather wouldn’t mind.”

“I’ll be fine, Cheryl, I don’t need a babysitter.” Dillon looked up at her mom so she could see the sincerity in her eyes. Maybe it was a good thing for the house to be empty anyway, if she decided to go through with the summoning. “I promise. Just text me every day and send pictures, please,” she added, just so Cheryl wouldn’t think she wouldn’t miss her.

Her mother gave her a dubious look, but shoved a wad of cash in her hand as she pulled away. “That should be enough for pizza tonight and takeout tomorrow. Daisy will be home on Monday and I’ll be home the day after, okay?”

Dillon nodded again and Moira helped her shoo her mother out the door.

“At least we don’t have to worry about watching movies too loud, right?” Moira chuffed, punching Dillon’s bicep to intercept the tears she knew were coming. Dillon almost got a thank-you out, but her best friend had already started back to their nest on the floor, cordless phone in hand.

Once the pizza was ordered and the movies were queued up, they settled in with Dillon and Eugene’s books to study. Every so often someone would point out something important and they added it to the communal notebook they were passing around. The sun set early in the evening, as it was wont to do in the fall, and as soon as it was dark outside, Rosie pulled a spirit board out of her bag.

“Why do two little church girls have one of those?” Moira sputtered.

Faith raised an incredulous eyebrow. “In case we ever got invited to a sleepover,” she huffed, like it was common sense. “We thought we could put out a general call with it and see if there’s anything nearby. Ghosts tattle.”

“You remember what Eugene said, right? That souls are tangible in the afterlife, and I’m pretty sure ‘snitches get stitches’ doesn’t stop at—” Moira’s head shot up, her eyes suddenly going to the uncovered window.

“What is it?” Dillon rested her chin on Moira’s shoulder in an attempt to follow her eyes, but all she saw were their reflections and the darkness of night beyond the glass. “What’s wrong?”

Moira squinted as if she’d see something with a little more focus, then frowned. “I dunno, Dill,” she whispered. “I thought I felt something… there, y’know? Watching us. But I don’t see anything.”

After shaking off the shudder of that particular idea, Dillon got up and checked herself. It was her house, she was in charge in the absence of her mother and sister, so it was her duty to secure the perimeter. She braced herself for a monster to slam into the window, but just like Moira, she saw nothing outside, and slammed the curtains shut with as much force as one could muster against fabric.

Little did she know that outside, pressed against the clapboard siding so hard it pinched his wings in an effort to be as flat as possible, a demon lurked just out of view.

Freaking the fuck out.

Had Pinkie Seen him? She looked right at him, right into his eyes — two of them, anyway — and for half a second, it felt like she Saw right through his Glamour, but then the little one shut the curtains and teased him with a sliver of soft, bare flesh as her shirt lifted ever so slightly. That, at least, had distracted him enough to calm his breathing and cease both of his hearts from trying to beat right out of his chest.

She had a line of bats inked over her hip, which was the hottest thing in the room — he’d spied on a few college-aged sleepovers before, and there was at least one hundred percent more pillow fighting and fifty percent less clothing.

Not that they were dressed for his benefit; he’d just gotten his hopes up for something slightly more titillating than sweatpants, flannels, and socks, for fuck’s sake. Who the hell wore socks to bed?

Brunette did, apparently, and it was no small wonder no one had called her on it yet considering the permanent scowl on her face that very much matched his own when the little one had robbed him of the show.

Something oily slithered out of the basement and he remembered why he’d come here in the first place; the werewolf that lived in the house had a real hard-on for vigilante justice, and she’d unwittingly created a buffet of evil souls he was surprised no one else had claimed. He intended to find a seldom-used pocket of the house to nest in and reap the benefits of free meals and decent wifi. If he was lucky, they’d all have jobs outside the home around the same time frame and he could take over the television for a few hours, too.

Now he had yet another ulterior motive in the form of that soft preview he wanted to bare to the world and rub his face over like a cat.

The demon grabbed the oily thing by the head as it tried to slip past, dragging it around the perimeter of the house while he looked for a way in; he hated eating in the open, there were bugs and other Veilborne skulking about, and there was a high risk that the scent of the cursed thing would alert them to his new nest. It was no use, the whole place was sealed up tight, no one was stupid enough to leave any doors or windows unlocked, and while he could just Flash inside, there was the risk he’d get stuck in a wall again or worse, make another human explode. They made such a mess.

He tried to duck into a bush when a set of headlights turned into the drive, forgetting in his jumpy state of mind that unless the pizza delivery boy had the Sight, he was effectively invisible to him. As if things couldn’t get any better, he’d somehow tangled his tail around his ankles and the fucking soul wouldn’t stop screaming, so he was forced to rip its head off and scarf it down before it spoiled. He couldn’t even savor it.

Wait. Pizza delivery meant a door needed to be opened to complete the transaction, giving him a way inside. The wiry teen was already ringing the bell, which eliminated the possibility of possessing him, then jumping to whoever opened the door and melting out before they knew what happened, but if he was quick —

The demon sublimated into shadow, tearing across the yard, through the door, and up the stairs where he hid around another corner until the girls had once more let their guard down.

And then he was getting the fucking pizza he was owed for the spoilage of a perfectly good soul.

His hiding spot had a nice view of the goings-on in the den, and as soon as comments were made about the wind picking up and checking the floor for leaves, he felt safe enough to explore the upstairs rooms. The largest smelled strongly of werewolf and suburban-mom perfume, and the one next to it… something floral, bright, and a few notes of death. The elder daughter’s room, then, he’d seen her milling about in the yard, her soul bright and cheery as she was, but starting to peel away from its vessel.

There was a small bathroom to the other side of the mother’s room, then a room that appeared to be utilized for storage. There was extra bedding in that one, and he gladly helped himself to a comforter and a few pillows. Whether the girls downstairs knew it or not, he’d invited himself to their little slumber party, and he intended to be as comfortable as they were. He would not, however, be wearing socks like some sort of heathen.

At the far end of the hall sat a door covered in odd drawings, band stickers — the little one lived there, no doubt. Pinkie didn’t live here and she was the only other inhabitant that fit the profile of someone who would decorate their door in such a fashion. Just when he turned the knob, however, the girls started chanting something… utterly ineffective at summoning spirits. He snorted to himself. This will be fun.

The demon gathered his borrowed bedding in his arms so he wouldn’t trip again and tiptoed back to his vantage point on the stairs. Sure enough, the group was all gathered around the coffee table, pushing a planchette around a spirit board. Once he was comfortable, he placed his palm on the wall, feeling for the steady hum of energy through the veins of the house, and waited patiently for their first question ‘to the spirits.’

“Is anyone with us?” Pinkie asked, projecting her voice in case the spirits were, what, deaf?

He sent a pulse of energy through the wires. The lights flickered. The girls screamed. Jolly good fun.

They were determined little buggers, though, and kept going despite the initial scare. At their next question, he sent a gust of air through the living room to rattle the pictures on the walls and make the curtains flutter. They asked another, he moved something else.

It seemed, however, that the unflappable Brunette wasn’t quite the impenetrable tower she made herself out to be; he didn’t get the chance to mess with anything, because she gave the table a subtle little shake herself. He made the lights flicker again, unprompted, but before the others could decide themselves that they were too scared to play anymore, he watched as the planchette slid over Goodbye and she tossed her hands up, proclaiming the spirits were clearly done speaking to them.

That was no fun.

He cut the power entirely, and while utter bedlam broke out with a racket of panicking girls, he snuck down the stairs to swipe a few slices of pizza. Someone almost tripped over his tail twice, and in an effort not to get kicked out, he whisked away to the kitchen to devour his spoils, eating over the sink to catch any wayward crumbs. He didn’t want to leave evidence, and besides, he was a guest, albeit an uninvited one, and to mess up their home would just be rude.

The too-bright beam of a flashlight waved near his head. He took that as his cue to move his ass, and right when he’d just gotten comfortable on the stairs again, there came a wary chorus agreeing that maybe they should all just go to bed. Dammit. He peeled his weary bones off the ground and trudged back to the storage room to make his nest again. He was in the middle of setting his deflection ward so no one would come in before he’d returned the bedding to its proper place when the sound of light footsteps coming up the stairs gave him pause. Were they not all sleeping downstairs?

The door at the end of the hall opened and shut. Forget the fucking wards. The demon slipped quietly out of the storage room, sublimating again to slip under the little one’s door. Once more, his excitement for the evening was dashed — Pinkie and the little one were still fully clothed, the former pulling a trundle out from under the bed, and neither made any indication anything further would happen. Boring.

After an uninterrupted night’s sleep in his nest, he awoke to the smell of bacon and the sounds of bags zipping up. He couldn’t risk leaving the room until Pinkie and her cursed Sight were gone. By the time he’d made it through two episodes of a random drama he picked on a whim, he finally heard the front door shut and silence washed over the house.

He barely managed to get the storage room door shut behind him when the little one came trudging up the stairs, passing within a hair’s breadth of him, but if she felt the little shock of his power jumping to her, she didn’t react. Odd, and odder still it happened in the first place. Was she the one that raised her sister from the grave? Couldn’t be, she was so… small, soft, almost frail. He considered following her into her room again to snoop around for any confirmation of his theory, but she turned the opposite way down the hall and went into her sister’s room. Was she snooping, as younger siblings often did?

The door was open when he approached. He wished it wasn’t. The little one curled into a ball on her sister’s bed and sobbed into her pillow. He’d seen a lot in his eleven-hundred-and-change years, but for once, the voyeurism felt wrong; it was too private, too intimate, too vulnerable of a moment for a stranger to witness. The tightness in his chest compelled him to quietly wave the door shut and give her the privacy she needed. He could pester her some other time, but for now, he had a basement to explore.

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