#the boy who sacrificed all for one ;; visage

[ser3nityst4r]

Vil’s Backstory

The scent of lavender and chamomile hung in the air, a sharp contrast to the bitter taste of disappointment that settled in Vil's throat. He slumped against the worn velvet curtains, the stage lights casting long shadows on his face. He had done it again. Another audition, another villain role. Vil, the boy who dreamt of standing under the spotlight for longer than anyone else, was perpetually confined to the shadows.

His father, a man of gentle wisdom and calm demeanor, had always reassured him. "Vil," he'd said, "a villain is a special role that requires a particular kind of brilliance. It takes a certain je ne sais quoi to embody the darkness." But even his father's words couldn't assuage the sting of rejection.

Vil had dedicated his entire life to perfection - a perfection that was defined by beauty. From the tender age of five, he had endured grueling training regimens, enduring painful treatments to achieve the ideal appearance. He had sacrificed his childhood, his carefree days spent honing his skills, chasing the illusion of a flawless visage.

But despite his relentless efforts, he was always relegated to the antagonists. He had been a bullying prince, a jealous witch, a manipulative mastermind. Each time, he had poured his heart and soul into his performance, capturing the essence of the villain with such chilling realism that even children on the streets recognized him.

"Look over there! That guy was the bully in the drama I watched yesterday!" a young boy had pointed at him, fear in his wide eyes. Another child had shouted, "He must have a really bad personality if he can make it look that convincing!"

There was a strange irony in it all. Vil, the boy who yearned for acceptance, was perceived only in the distorted lens of his villainous portrayals. He was admired for his ability to convey darkness, his chilling demeanor, but never for himself, for the vulnerable heart that beat beneath the perfectly sculpted exterior.

One day, after another grueling audition, Vil found himself the target of a group of children who had mistaken him for the villain he had played in a recent movie. "He doesn’t look pretty strong," one whispered, "Let’s get revenge for the hero!" Just as the group began to advance, a boy with wild, unruly hair burst through the crowd.

"HEEEEYYY!!! Stop ganging up on one kid, you idiots!!!" The boy, Jack, stood in front of Vil, his stance unwavering despite being outnumbered. The children scattered, leaving Vil and Jack alone.

"You recently moved in around here, right? Are you okay?" Jack asked, his voice trembling slightly.

"I am quite skilled in boxing and fencing," Vil responded, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "I could have made it home safely even without your help."

"I-is that so? Sorry for doing something so unnecessary," Jack stammered, his face flushed.

"It’s nothing to apologize for. Thank you," Vil said, his gaze softening for the first time that day. "I find it hard to believe that those children couldn’t separate fiction from reality… They must be quite daft."

"I don’t really watch TV a lot, so I don’t understand what they’re going on about…" Jack confessed. "But doesn’t this mean that your acting was super realistic?"

"Maybe so," Vil chuckled, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "I promise to play the main character’s role next time. I’ll make them cry their hearts out."

As he walked away, Vil couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that his pursuit of perfection had somehow led him astray. He had become a prisoner of his own creation, trapped in a cycle of playing villains, his dreams of being a protagonist fading further with each passing day.

He wished he could escape the shadows, to step into the light, to be seen for who he truly was, not just the reflection of his dramatic roles. But as the weight of his ambition pressed down on him, he couldn't help but wonder: Was the hero's journey truly meant for him? Or was he destined to be forever the villain, the one who watched the happy endings from the sidelines?

[shamelessmagazineangel]

The Tales of Asher

Story One: Princess Anastasia Angel of Tansia

Let us begin this Tale properly. Heed ye that will, and those fools whom won’t. This is the story of the lost princess of a long felled kingdom, her name all but forgotten. She is said to be possessed by the Demon King Ezizh, and cast away from her time.

...the ground rumbles. The sky a dark, despairing red. And, with great misfortune, at the center of this calamity was a princess, shocked and in mortified awe of the scenario taking place within her throne room. Today was her official coronation as ruler, or it would be. Her parents lay sacrificed on their thrones, as a large, imposing demon stared down upon...

An undead fish lord. Or so he proclaimed.

“C’mooooon Ezzy! It’s my birthday!” The Undead Lord spoke in a raspy, hoarse voice, wearing nothing but a loose robe. The stench of death was powerful enough that it made Anastasia recoil from disgust, but never mustering the courage to run. The Demon- Ezzy, as the Undead Lord referred to it- spoke in a language unknown to Anastasia. The Undead Lord seemed to mope in disappointment, before speaking.

“No fun Ezster! Oh well.” He went to leave... before rapidly whipping around to where Anastasia stood. “What about you, girlie? You wanna come to my B-day bash?!” He spoke in crazed tone and used unfamiliar dialect. Anastasia, out of fear, did not move. “What is it, huh? Cat-boy-got-your-tongue?” The Undead Lord tilted his head, then made an O-shape with his mouth as he turned to the grisely visage of the Princess’s parents’ corpses.

“Those were your parents?”

Anastasia nods.

“Oof, sorry kid, too bad THIS PILE OF UNFUN-” he jerked his thumb in the vague direction of the Demon, “is suuuuuper stingy when it comes to summoning. Like, c’mon, who doesn’t like Orphan Gem Golems anymore? Those were all the rage a century ago.” He let his arms hang by his side, before continuing, “Welp! If mean ol’ Ezizh won’t go, I’ll just leave.”

And, in a brief flash of light (and poorly disguised footsteps), the Undead Lord took his leave. Anastasia collapses, in shock of the situation around her, tears falling down her face as she cried. The red sky was something foretold in legends.

They had angered the Celestial Gods, in some way. Her kingdom would be ruined. Her knights, soon to be consumed by either the monsters that came or by the destruction of the kingdom. Her retainer, Gation…

“Tell me, child.” A voice emanates from all around her… the Demon Ezizh looks upon Anastasia. “Do you wish to live?”

The Princess looked up stunned. Frightened, most likely alone, desperate to live…

She accepted the deal.

“Very well, child. You will serve as a vessel for I, Lord Ezizh, Demon of Gluttony, Consumer of Magic, the Abyssal Maw. Your name is no longer Anastasia. You will serve me as Asher.” Ezizh cackles as Anastasia- Asher- now stood. “A sacrifice is required.” The Demon of Gluttony forced Asher to outstretch her right arm… and he swallowed it whole, as Ashers’ vision blurred, and went dark.

----------------------------------------------------------

Felt a little cute thought I might send (part of) a backstory of a D&D Character.

[united-as-one]

THE GRAND SORCERER TURNED DETECTIVE - FANTASY/MODERN FANTASY AU

Age: 21 Occupation: Exorcist and Magician (Past) / Detective (Present) Powers: Elemental Manipulation (Fire, Metal, Ice), Spirit Guide Summoning (Peacock), Exorcisms, Immortality (Ageless) Favourite Hobby: Reading Romance Novels

Lore: Gok Chanyeol, former master sorcerer of an ancient order of mages and exorcists, he had lived a very long and fruitful life filled with adrenaline, danger and an air of unpredictability. He wouldn't have this any other way. Originally a simple stable boy of an ancient empire and ruler orphaned and living a life in relative poverty, Chanyeol was taken in by an order of mages after the master sorcerer in a chance meeting at the time found him to have a natural aptitude for the arcane and mystic arts. The Emperor gave him away after extorting funds from the Order, but in turn granting Chanyeol his freedom. Under this master's tutelage, Chanyeol rose up the ranks of the Order in record breaking pace, mastering techniques that would often take years to master. This natural talent, propelled him into eventually becoming the new Grand Master, succeeding his own teacher after encountering a demon of immense and terrible power at the cost of his life, the master sacrificed himself to allow Chanyeol to seal the demon away.

As Grand Master, Chanyeol became one of the chief protectors of Gojoseon, using his gifts and magic to protect the kingdom from threats both physical and supernatural. But in his pursuit of mastering magic, Chanyeol discovered a forbidden art that granted him immortality. His confidence and ego would be his downfall. Completing the ritual to grant him this boon at the time, he found it as a blessing maintaining his youthful visage and aptitude and slowing his ageing completely. But in the centuries that followed, it became his curse. Even a master of sorcery could not prevent the fall of his Order nor the fall of Gojoseon.

In the times that followed, he chose to not reform the Mystic Order that he founded, and instead took it upon himself to travel far and wide, choosing to live a life in helping others once more and forsaking the pursuit of the forbidden arts any further. He would write texts anonymously to other magical orders, warning them of the dangers that reading such texts could procure and in turn would direct them to follow the righteous path instead.

In a blink of an eye, Time would pass by Chanyeol. Kingdoms falling from left to right. countries born separate and unified. He would witness all these things, intervening when needed to maintain a balance within a world that has forgotten the spiritual and mystic. Today, Chanyeol works as a detective, and a mighty fine one at that. A private agency that knows of who works in their midst, an ancient sorcerer who has taken it upon himself to help others solve their missing cases or murder cases, but also in their more... spiritual cases. Gok Chanyeol, private eye, star detective of the exorcism branch of the Gojoseon Detective Agency. Pretty nice ring to it, wouldn't you say?

"In the face of Death, one can either look upon its grim visage with fear... Or one can laugh and spit in its face. I choose the latter."

[evemarielouis]

reid’s biggest problem with profiling isil is that he has no interest in knowing more. boy wonder only sees the surface in which she swims easily, calls it lake & is done with it. but there drowns his analysis, for one cannot read a book that has yet to be opened. the story hasn’t unfolded, fingers haven’t cornered the pages, lines haven’t been caressed in horror or in awe. only juno seems to have caught glimpses of her, but these too were watered down by lust & spit. cool girl, pretty girl, ditzy girl. she is a good time with a game face that never turns off. when they go out, she is with them, she gets them the good table & the right kind of cocktail. she introduces them to the barman, even though she’s been in the city for less time than most of them. and once the party is going & bonds are being weaved, one drunk confession at a time, they fail to notice that the girl is already long gone. ditzy girl, pretty girl, cool girl. already swallowed up by the crowd, buried between bodies of faceless companions. she is oh so fickle, barely a girl, so terrified of being bound that she can be seen gnawing at the rope holding them all together. calls it a hanged man’s rope, when truly it is only a necklace, one that most call family.

perhaps if reid had paid more attention to the whispers that have been going around the office, he would known that belonging to a family is of no interest for the girl who saw her mother murder each and every member of her cursed tribe. families are easy wounds to probe & she is not keen on repeating the process. oh, she remembers : even as a child, she understood that bodies were sacrificed at the altar of a wicked god and that her mother would blame her for it. rossi told hotch early on ; that girl is something else. he took it as a warning for her personality. in truth, it had and still has more to do with her abilities : it is that same shapeshifting trick that got her out of the village. visage bleeding from rock-inflicted wounds, “i’ll draw the devil’s mark on ya. ugly ugly daughter o’ mine.” walking across the soil that saw her bleed twice ; once as a girl & once as a corpse. there, the child attempted to make a promise ; found ungodly ways to keep it. child became woman and found that sex tastes like love if you keep it sweet & short. woman found that less personality means less affection, and so she became it ; cool girl, pretty girl, ditzy girl. never the one you’d imagine at the altar, never the one you’d find to symbolize home. oh, what terrible choices did she make, just so she wouldn’t suffer the same loss twice. but even that was not enough, for malborne’s body found its way to a casket and ishtar discovered that grief still tasted the same way as it did all these years ago : muddy & acrid. the lord god formed the man of dust from the ground & breathed into his nostrils the breath of life – ishtar throwed up all that dirt on her way out of the cemetery and vowed to never endure the same enchantment again.

perhaps if reid had paid more attention, he would have realized that she wants to replace him even less that he himself wants her to. all she desires is to get her hands on them so that she can learn the angles & curves of their beings. an easy way to learn how to make clay dolls of her memories, so that wherever she goes next she won’t have to go alone. it is difficult to be a living corpse. one must fill oneself to the rim with moments. only heavy memories keep you tethered – and ditzy girls aren’t the kind to get heavy.  

for the gift of her full attention, juno gets a toothy grin that curves around the pen. it is not rare for ishtar to suggest games ; riddles & dares that usually do not warrant any attention from the team. in quite the same manner as reid’s tangents, ishtar’s attempts at distraction tend to remain ignored. the few who play (penelope, derek, sometimes juno) usually get something for their gracious participation. be it files off their shoulders, gifts sent to their houses, or other gracious acts of service that remain anonymous, all is good as long as it gives them pleasure. her last deed was paying a month worth of penelope’s favorite treats & having them delivered to her house. the dare had been worth it : whatever she said in that phone got derek morgan so hot and bothered that he wasn't quick enough to avoid ishtar’s phone as she was taking pictures. with that kind of leverage on her phone, she was bound to get a few favours for the next month at least. so yes, ishtar was mischievous, but she was fair : and if juno was willing to play, then ishtar would make sure that there was something to win.

[bleakfated]

INTERACTIONS. HEADCANONS. VISAGE. IISMS. WISHLIST. OPENS. SC.

STATISTICS

BASICS: name: kyle terrance moore age: 40s-50s gender & pronouns: male, he/him sexuality: heterosexual faceclaim: timothy olyphant occupation: linguistic professor, art gallery owner location: palo alto, california

PERSONALITY: positive traits: compassionate, intuitive, gentle, intelligent negative traits: idealistic, impractical, sacrificing, credulous

APPEARANCE: scars: none tattoos: none piercings: none

VERSES

BIOGRAPHY

TL;DR

Kyle Moore was born to an affluent family in San Francisco, California. The youngest of four sons, the boys were always urged to pursue their true passions. Kyle's were art and language and he became fluent in nine languages and proficient in many others by the time he was 25. Kyle met the love of his life Clarissa Mattson early in his sophomore year of college when she pulled him aside to discuss a charity fundraiser with the art community on Stanford University's campus. He proposed during the middle of their junior year and they were married shortly after graduation. The two welcomed two daughters, Jessica and Alyssa, into the world and lived a rather picturesque life. That was until Jessica died in an apartment fire on Stanford's campus. When her boyfriend fled town and the FBI started asking questions, Kyle was always quick to defend the young man. He felt he could read people well and anyone Jessica trusted with her heart had to have a good one themselves. He and Clarissa followed Alyssa to Stanford, where Kyle is now a linguistics professor and owns an art gallery that showcases young artists, dedicated to Jessica.

FULL BIO

Kyle Moore was born to an affluent family in San Francisco, California on February 19, 1961. The youngest of four sons, there was rarely a dull moment in his household. His father, James Moore was the cofounder of a successful brewing company and his mother Cheryl Moore was a well respected psychiatrist. Kyle and his siblings James Jr, Mark, and Steven had plenty of time to explore the city they called home and pursue any hobby they set their mind to. From the second he stole a paintbrush out of his mother's hand when he was three, Kyle's hobby had always been the pursuit of art. Additionally, he picked up a love for linguistics from his father who had dual majored at Stanford University in both business and linguistics. His mantra was that he wouldn't give up the things he was most passionate about for the pursuit of money. Therefore, a lot of his father's free time was spent translating and teaching college courses around the city. Kyle was a quick study and always bugged his father for lessons on various languages until he could learn on his own.

Excelling in high school, he played soccer and ran track in addition to playing saxophone in the band and being involved in student council. He volunteered at retirement homes throughout the area on Saturday mornings, helping activity directors incorporate arts and crafts into their programming. All of this with the goal of getting into his parent's alma mater -- Stanford University. All of his siblings had went for various careers and being the unplanned runt of the litter, Kyle felt that it was duty to follow in his sibling's rather large footsteps. He got a part time job at a grocery store to help him save up for college. Juggling everything was extremely taxing, but he pulled through with nearly perfect grades. The very limited free time he had was immersed in art, studying the greats and developing his own style with his favorite medium: paint. Stepping out of high school with the valedictorian title and stepping on to Stanford's campus for the first time as a student with a full ride was well worth it.

From a young age he had agreed to live by his father's mantra. But he wasn't the same man. While his father enjoyed beer, business, and the languages Kyle enjoyed art, the languages, and teaching. His ultimate goal was to become a college professor of some of the nine languages he was mostly fluent in (with many others he only knew moderately well). In addition to that, translating scientific papers would be flexible money. The rest of his time would be spent devoted to art, with the hopes of opening his own gallery some day far down the line. He rushed Sigma Nu, the oldest fraternity at Stanford, his freshman year. Kyle couldn't deny the benefits of being involved in such a great, involved organization and was sure the association would help him throughout his life. It seemed well rooted, rather than an excuse to party, which he thoroughly enjoyed. He had no idea going in that he would meet the love of his life through its affiliation with Pi Beta Phi. At this stage of his life, having a wife and a family of his own was not yet on his radar.

That was until he met her. Greek socials were a great way to strengthen ties and brainstorm joint events that would make the university look good, which would in turn benefit the Greek organizations. This had been one of those events, a small social with a little bit of purpose that would dissolve a little bit throughout the night. Clarissa Mattson, he had heard the name tossed around a few times but hadn't gotten the chance to meet her. Not until she walked up to him and nearly dragged him out of a conversation he was having with his fellow brothers. Always determined, she had an idea for a charity fundraiser with the art department and Kyle took at least one class a semester and was president of the art club -- the obvious point of contact in the fraternity. The two ended up planning the bulk of the event together on their own. It didn't take very long for Kyle to ask her out on a date. After that, the two were basically inseparable. His more flexible schedule allowed him to find time amidst her countless hours of studying for her premed courses.

Kyle and Clarissa got engaged during their senior years at Stanford and married just a few weeks after he graduated with his degrees in linguistics and education. The pair had had many discussions over the past few years and decided that it was a good time to start their family. They wanted to start their family right away instead of lose the opportunity for a whirlwind of years while she was in medical school. Ultimately the decision was made that she would take a gap year before applying to medical school. The stress and unpredictability of making the pregnancy work out perfectly so that the baby was born during the summer wasn't something they wanted to risk her having to quit in the middle of a year. They soon discovered that they might have been able to swing the timing just right when Clarissa got pregnant nearly right away. Only ten months after their wedding, their first daughter Jessica Lee Moore was born on January 24, 1984.

Kyle was able to teach high school German and Spanish while he worked on his doctorate degree primarily through night classes. Clarissa spent her year off helping balance the schedule their infant and continuing to gain medical experience as an EMT and assisting one of her professors with research on campus. Before they knew it Jessica was out of diapers and Kyle was nearly finished with his doctorate while Clarissa embarked on her residency journey. It wasn't until Jessica was about to start kindergarten when the subject of more kids became more serious (partly due to their daughter's incessant begging). They wanted a bit of the craziness to die down with their own educations before adding another child to the mix so that they would be able to work around Clarissa's schedule. Her second year of residency seemed to be the best option because she had one with an awesome preceptor that would allow her to adapt her schedule more than most would.

Alyssa Rae Moore was born prematurely on December 28, 1989. Born at 31 weeks old, she was in the NICU for over a month and a half. That meant carting Jess back and forth whenever he could and sometimes fighting Clarissa home to get some sleep on a decent mattress or let him stay with her for the night. It was a challenge, but their little fighter came out of it strong with no health problems. With a great family beside them, Kyle and Clarissa were able to live out their aspirations and spend time with their children. Jessica took to art and had some great raw talent from a young age. Alyssa was more into dancing and soccer, both of which Kyle could admire since he was pretty sure he had stepped on Clarissa's feet every single time they had danced together. Both of his daughters excelled in school despite never getting pressured to do so by their parents. Perhaps they felt pressured on their own but Kyle liked to think that it was in their blood.

The family did everything together. Very outdoorsy, the couple was never afraid to use their vacation or sick days for hiking trips throughout the west coast where they had settled in San Francisco into their first home given to them by Kyle's older brother Mark, shortly after Clarissa finished up her residency. Trips to Stanford weren't uncommon either. They were decently charitable and would never miss the CalU football game (or the first home game if CalU wasn't played at the Stanford Stadium). This caused both Moore girls to fall in love with the campus, making it their goals to attend just as Kyle had at their age. It was an extremely proud moment to help Jessica move in in the fall of 2002. Pursuing the career of a pediatrician like her mother, Jess also vowed to stay involved in the art community on campus which prompted Kyle to give her his most enthused tour of the campus. Unfortunately, Jessica's admittance to Stanford would ultimately lead to the greatest tragedy for the Moore family.

At the tail end of Jessica's sophomore year, she started to date a boy named Sam Winchester. From what he gathered from Alyssa, he was 'the cutest boy on campus' that was a bit mysterious but was very sweet. They met Sam a few times on Stanford's campus and he had come home with Jess for one of the breaks due to Jess insisting that he couldn't spend the time off alone in his apartment. Instantly, Kyle could sense his kind soul and how desperately he cared for his daughter. Despite wanting to be critical, he liked talking with the law student and approved of him greatly. Nothing prepared Kyle for the call he got late at night in November 2005. Jessica had perished in an apartment fire that Sam was able to escape. The boy skipped town and never returned to Stanford, which Kyle could understand. It was difficult as hell to keep on living in the house he had raised his daughter in.

The family was lost in grief for over a year. Alyssa worked hard to keep going, always distracted herself. When she kept her stance to stay on track to Stanford, her father reminded her resolve. Maybe all of them were chasing ways to get closer to their Jessie. Shortly after Alyssa was accepted early decision into the university, Kyle and Clarissa resolved to leave San Francisco behind. Kyle gets a job teaching linguistics and languages at Stanford and Clarissa was hired at Stanford's Primary Care Office. Somehow, this wasn't enough. Kyle saved up for a couple of years and was able to open an art gallery that would display the art of young artists from the University and the general public in honor of his daughter. Currently, Kyle still teaches at Stanford and runs his art gallery, hoping to find something to fill the hole losing his daughter left in his heart and dumbfounded by the images of Sam Winchester floating around the news.

[violenthunted]

reid’s biggest problem with profiling isil is that he has no interest in knowing more. boy wonder only sees the surface in which she swims easily, calls it lake & is done with it. but there drowns his analysis, for one cannot read a book that has yet to be opened. the story hasn’t unfolded, fingers haven’t cornered the pages, lines haven’t been caressed in horror or in awe. only juno seems to have caught glimpses of her, but these too were watered down by lust & spit. cool girl, pretty girl, ditzy girl. she is a good time with a game face that never turns off. when they go out, she is with them, she gets them the good table & the right kind of cocktail. she introduces them to the barman, even though she’s been in the city for less time than most of them. and once the party is going & bonds are being weaved, one drunk confession at a time, they fail to notice that the girl is already long gone. ditzy girl, pretty girl, cool girl. already swallowed up by the crowd, buried between bodies of faceless companions. she is oh so fickle, barely a girl, so terrified of being bound that she can be seen gnawing at the rope holding them all together. calls it a hanged man’s rope, when truly it is only a necklace, one that most call family.

perhaps if reid had paid more attention to the whispers that have been going around the office, he would known that belonging to a family is of no interest for the girl who saw her mother murder each and every member of her cursed tribe. families are easy wounds to probe & she is not keen on repeating the process. oh, she remembers : even as a child, she understood that bodies were sacrificed at the altar of a wicked god and that her mother would blame her for it. rossi told hotch early on ; that girl is something else. he took it as a warning for her personality. in truth, it had and still has more to do with her abilities : it is that same shapeshifting trick that got her out of the village. visage bleeding from rock-inflicted wounds, “i’ll draw the devil’s mark on ya. ugly ugly daughter o’ mine.” walking across the soil that saw her bleed twice ; once as a girl & once as a corpse. there, the child attempted to make a promise ; found ungodly ways to keep it. child became woman and found that sex tastes like love if you keep it sweet & short. woman found that less personality means less affection, and so she became it ; cool girl, pretty girl, ditzy girl. never the one you’d imagine at the altar, never the one you’d find to symbolize home. oh, what terrible choices did she make, just so she wouldn’t suffer the same loss twice. but even that was not enough, for malborne’s body found its way to a casket and ishtar discovered that grief still tasted the same way as it did all these years ago : muddy & acrid. the lord god formed the man of dust from the ground & breathed into his nostrils the breath of life – ishtar throwed up all that dirt on her way out of the cemetery and vowed to never endure the same enchantment again.

perhaps if reid had paid more attention, he would have realized that she wants to replace him even less that he himself wants her to. all she desires is to get her hands on them so that she can learn the angles & curves of their beings. an easy way to learn how to make clay dolls of her memories, so that wherever she goes next she won’t have to go alone. it is difficult to be a living corpse. one must fill oneself to the rim with moments. only heavy memories keep you tethered – and ditzy girls aren’t the kind to get heavy.  

for the gift of her full attention, juno gets a toothy grin that curves around the pen. it is not rare for ishtar to suggest games ; riddles & dares that usually do not warrant any attention from the team. in quite the same manner as reid’s tangents, ishtar’s attempts at distraction tend to remain ignored. the few who play (penelope, derek, sometimes juno) usually get something for their gracious participation. be it files off their shoulders, gifts sent to their houses, or other gracious acts of service that remain anonymous, all is good as long as it gives them pleasure. her last deed was paying a month worth of penelope’s favorite treats & having them delivered to her house. the dare had been worth it : whatever she said in that phone got derek morgan so hot and bothered that he wasn't quick enough to avoid ishtar’s phone as she was taking pictures. with that kind of leverage on her phone, she was bound to get a few favours for the next month at least. so yes, ishtar was mischievous, but she was fair : and if juno was willing to play, then ishtar would make sure that there was something to win.

“good girl”, she murmurs. her gaze is unwavering, while her pen points at suarez, same as a sword would point at the anointed knight. “junie baby, my lap’s all lonely. come warm it up.” and without hesitation she taps her thighs three singular times, all perfectly timed for her palm to fall on her jeans as a new second ticks on the clock. there are details like that, few and scattered, that remind spencer of the fact that ishtar is not all she pretends to be. behind the chaotic everything, there is a small space for rigidity that he has never truly seen anywhere but in himself.

“an’ then it’s doc’s turn. ask me.” which she doesn’t actually let him do. ishtar’s game, ishtar’s rules. she knows she has his attention anyway : with each step juno is taking, spencer’s interest grows louder, stronger. jealousy? or something much worse. “i’ll take truth, darlin’. ‘ny question tha’s brewin’ in tha’ big brain of yours, consider it answered.”

    𝐭𝐨   𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡   𝐨𝐟   𝐭𝐡𝐞   𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐦’𝐬   𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐧   𝐚𝐧𝐝   endless   teasing,   spencer   enjoys   these   days.   when   they   are   able   to   come   back   to   the   office   and   enclose   themselves   with   papers   upon   stacks   of   papers.   it’s   a   good   way   to   unwind,   to   smooth   out   the   bundled   nerves   in   his   jaw   or   fingers,   by   just   skimming   over   a   phrase   and   writing   the   next   just   as   effortlessly.   yes,   it   was   strange   that   this   was   therapeutic   to   him   instead   of   going   home,   flipping   the   television   to   a   random   channel   (   perhaps   the   discovery   channel,   there   was   always   time   to   learn   new   things   )   and   fall   asleep   on   the   couch   with   a   book   on   his   chest.   

    he   will   not   mention   when   he’s   completed   the   task   because   it   was   about   an   hour   ago—and   he’s   more   humble   than   that—when   he   knew   juno   was   scribbling   her   edits   in   the   red   pen   she   favored   so.   while   he   noticed   ishtar   spinning   in   her   chair,   pencil   poking   out   from   her   hair.   spencer   would   stare   up   from   his   writing,   freshly   printed   copy   paperclipped   together   and   lying   flat,   ready   for   hotch’s   approval.   when   it’s   evident   he’ll   have   to   wait   moments   longer   before   either   of   them   are   ready   to   leave;   he   steals   a   book   from   his   satchel   and   flips   it   open   to   the   page   he’d   remained   on   in   the   jet.   he   would   have   finished   it   earlier,   much   earlier   because   it   was   just   another   reread,   if   it   were   not   for   ishtar   and   the   deck   of   cards   she’d   newly   acquired.   attempting   to   play   goldfish   with   emily   and   juno.   there   was   no   need   for   words   to   express   his   .   .   .   momentary   dislike   for   the   new   hire.   

    let   it   be   known   spencer   reid   can   burn   green   with   jealousy.   let   them   know   he   is   so   afraid   of   being   replaced,   of   his   intellect   being   of   no   use   to   them   any   longer,   and   suddenly   discarded   by   this   family   of   his   and   society   entirely.   a   toy   that’s   lost   it’s   jolly   tune,   a   trinket   which   has   cracked   and   its   colors   have   been   peeled   off.   this   was   all   he   knew,   all   he   had   been   groomed   for,   so   if   he   did   not   have   this   .   .   .   what   had   he   been   made   for?   the   answer   is   yes,   he   was   overtly   critical   of   agent   isil.   from   her   supernatural   esque   skills   which   only   bloomed   in   a   handpicked   moment,   to   her   ability   to   humor   derek   morgan,   the   toothy   smile   she   would   reveal   to   garcia,   being   able   to   dedicate   rossi   to   a   conversation   far   longer   than   he   ever   has,   to   warrant   emily’s   words   of   advice,   jennifer’s   undivided   attention,   and   juno’s   .   .   .   oh.   she’s   clicking   her   pen   again   and   she   must   know   how   this   irks   him   so.   click,   click,   click.   before   he   has   the   chance   to   face   juno   up   with   a   look   (   really,   that’s   all   it   took   nowadays   )   the   clicker   is   lodged   between   her   teeth   and   lips,   seemingly   no   longer   a   problem   unless   he   stares   a   second   too   long.   

    if   ishtar   were   to   press   any   further,   she   would   know   he   is   not   exactly   in   the   mood   for   games.   whatever   she   has   planned,   or   whatever   idea   is   circling   in   that   cuckoo   bird   brain   of   hers.   he   pinches   the   brink   of   his   nose   and   turns   back   to   a   world   full   of   book   burnings   and   complicated   relationships,   like   it’s   comforting.   bites   his   tongue   and   does   not   unleash   his   skepticism   onto   ishtar   anymore   than   he   already   had.       [   well,   he   couldn’t.   not   after   that   day   he’d   made   a   remark   to   her   while   they   were   building   the   profile   and   it   had   been   juno,   of   all   people,   to   corner   him   afterwards   and   ask   ‘   what   the   hell   is   your   problem?   ’   this   was   unusual,   he’d   never   seen   her   shaken   like   this,   never   made   her   like   this   and   somehow   seeing   her   in   this   way   was   lighting   a   thousand   matches   inside   of   him.   ]   

    all   of   this,   and   more,   might   be   clear   as   day   to   juno   suárez.   she   has   a   space   in   her   mind,   with   sealed   profiles   of   everyone   there.   much   like   doctor   reid   does   and   so,   it   does   not   take   much   for   her   to   see   when,   for   instance,   emily   prentiss   or   spencer   reid   are   distressed.   and   it   was   unusual,   it   always   was   when   they   added   new   faces   to   their   unit.   it   was   certainly   different   having   ishtar   around.   especially   as   the   team   grew   more   comfortable   with   her   presence   and   allowed   her   to   accompany   them   on   more   and   more   team   ups:   they   would   exchange   perplexed   looks   with   david   rossi   and   secretly   wonder   if   he   were   pulling   their   leg.   whatever   suspicions   they   had   earlier,   died   down   when   the   juno   became   more   perceptive   and   ishtar   popped   the   question:   if   they   were   looking   for   a   third.       [   ‘   who’s   y'all?   ’   she   desperately   tried   to   hide   the   lump   in   her   throat,   the   tremor   in   her   hand   while   ishtar   simply   stared   at   her.   a   smile.   ‘   ya   think   it   ain’t   obvious?   ’   ].       for   a   while,   it   seemed   ishtar   had   this   thing   dangling   over   her   head,   until   it   became   clear   everyone   in   this   office   was   holding   some   secret.

    “   hm?   ”   the   end   of   the   pen   rolls   between   her   teeth   and   juno   is   more   than   happy   for   the   distraction.   she’d   finished   her   filings   long   ago,   was   marking   up   a   case   file   penelope   had   handed   her   earlier,   one   she   kept   underneath   stacks   of   documents.   perhaps   her   relationship   with   doctor   reid   had   inspired   her   to   drown   herself   in   work,   trying   to   keep   her   mind   occupied   and   more   of   her   hands   to   herself   as   the   workday   continued   on.   besides,   there   was   always   something   new   to   be   learned.   “   let’s   see,   ”   she   looks   up   from   her   desk,   a   tired   smile   for   a   defeated   pout.   doctor   reid   could   be   fun,   but   there   were   certainly   times   when   he   did   not   wish   to   participate.   either   way,   this   might   mean   the   day   is   coming   to   an   end   and   something   more   worthwhile   is   going   to   begin.   she   collects   her   papers   and   neatly   presses   them   into   her   drawer,   pretending   to   be   in   deep   thought,   even   willing   to   add   an   exaggerated   hum   all   the   while.   

    completely   free   from   anything   office   bound,   juno   rises   to   her   feet,   body   turned   to   ishtar   and   leaning   against   the   ledge   of   her   own   desk.   in   a   final   attempt   to   sell   her   dedication,   unlike   reid,   tapping   a   finger   against   her   mouth.   “   dare.   ” 

[troublesometrollhunters]

Yandere GreenKnight

~ Arthur has lost everything. His Kingdom, His Subjects, His friends, Morgana, and Guienvere. So much has been taken from him after he sacrificed everything to protect what he loves. He cannot loose you. He refuses to loose you after all he's been through.

~ After the battle of Killahead he wakes up confused. Something in him feels off... Something is lost. When the Order greets him he remembers you and demands to know where you are before he agrees to anything. They promise your alive and well and when this war is won he will see his beloved again. He can't have Guienvere but he can have you.

~ Something is missing and he doesn't know what. He has seen himself without his armor on and he hates how he looks now so he hides under his mask. Guilt, shame, remorse, and anger keep him awake at night as he follows the Order obeying their commands. If he just follows them a little longer he will have you. You must be what he's missing. You must be what can fix him.

~ While working under the Order he learns something he never could have expected. Magic flows through you as ancient and old as the Order itself but your unable to use it, it simply lays within you dormant. Merlin knew but never said anything. His most trusted advisor never told him anything. For weeks Arthur goes into a rage and the Order does not disturb him as he screams into the night tearing down trees and destroying acres of randim land.

~ When he comes out of his haze the Order inform him you and Merlins champion have been found and soon they'll all have what he desired. Alone one night staring at the broken Excalibur hes thinking of you and how it'll feel to hold you in his arms again. He never realised how much time had past since waking up but now he knows its been centuries. You've been alive and alone and probably confused for Centuries. You need him and he needs you.

~ You survived the Fall of Camelot despite not having access to you powers and since then you have been living your life as an immortal being. You never get sick and you haven't aged, you've simply been moving from place to place avoiding suspicion. The Order have found statues, portraits, pictutes, and article's of you spread over the centuries. Using your poorly hidden past to track you now. Arthur treasures these things in his room, no one else would look for it, look for your face repeated over and over but he would. Surrounding himself by your visage calms him and he hopes when he takes you home you will appreciate all he has done.

~ You settled in America a few hundred years ago before moving to Arcadia about the time Merlins new champion was picked and now you stand with him and the other Trollhunters.

~ Arthur feels overwhelming joy knowing you'll be found soon but blistering fury knowing you side with those against him. He believes your brainwashed or being tricked or manuiplated and makes it his life's mission to hurt the Trollhunter and show you how wrong you've been. Merlin was a fool and Arthur never should have allowed him or his magic to infect his people and his family.

~ King Arthur may not be the man he once was but he is still a warrior as well as a ruler. He may not have his kingdom but someday with you he will rebuild it. He has lived a long life and he has suffered through countless tradegies. He's only more intelligent and stronger than when you met last. When the time comes he will take you and there will be nothing you can do to stop him. With the Order on his side Arthur wants the world to burn so he may rise from the ashes with you.

~ He is deluded having gone completely insane from the corrupted resurrection and the Orders influence. He only has his anger and you to drive him and these goals have driven him to madness. Arthur loves you he does but he no longer knows what love is. He promised once he has you he will keep you safe from the world and you will rule when it restarts but he does not understand the horror of his words or the complete control he wants over you. Times have changed, you have changed. And so has Arthur, but not for the better.

~ When he first sees you again he is enamored. You are still as firey and beautiful as you once were but your also different. Years of being alone have changed you. They've made you become a better person, and now you are who you are, and Arthur was not there to witness it. He doesn't know you anymore but he thinks he does.

~ He boils in rage watching you fight with Merlins champion against his magically created allies. It was the child who took you away. The amulet in all it's forsaken glory! Merlin had made the Hunter go after you and now they were psoisoning your mind. He wouldn't have it!!!

~ You fight against the magic minions the Order sent and you are a force to be reckoned with. You may stand with his enemies but when he takes you all will be forgiven. Your simply confused. You've been tricked to fight on the wrong side of the war but he will show you the true way and with him no harm shall ever befall you again.

~ In the heat of battle he steals you away. Merlins champion is busy fighting a different minion and the trolls you've aligned yourselves don't see as he takes you. You may still in his arms and he tenderly cups your cheek, taking off his helmet and mask to steal a kiss.

~ As you sleep in his arms he holds you close not believing your with him. He has plans on what he'll do to Merlin, the boy, and the mage but for now he holds you tightly eyes shut as he presses you to his chest. You are with him. Nothing is wrong. He is whole... even if a tiny voice in his head tells him he's not, craddling you he knows he is.

[kodzumie-archived]

OMGOMGOMGOKOKOK SOOO CAN I ask for a gentle vampire komaeda who has a crush on a very apprehensive and easily scared fragile girl who’s kind of scared of him at first but then after seeing how kind and soft he is, eventually comes around to like him? Also, he protects her bc vampires are vv strong 🥺 THANK YOU ILY DUDE <3

❝SERENDIPITY❞

Synopsis; Against the unruly clutches of chance, could the blossoming of a bond between two fundamentally forbidden species piece itself together?

Featuring; Nagito Komaeda x Fem! Reader

Warning(s); Vampire Komaeda, blood, alternate universe (AU), injury description, slight gore, and themes of predator/prey.

Kodzumie’s Note; This was so fun to do! Thank you so much, dear, for the request! Aah, vampire Komaeda is forever welcome on this blog. Thank you for bringing this idea to life, I love you so much!! Muah, muah! <3

➤ NAGITO KOMAEDA

⤷ The inception of adoration is an enigma. A blossoming of a passion so seemingly fantastical, yet ever-so ontological. Love―in its most bare form―is unpredictable.

⤷ You’re meek; the glorious crumb of bread dropped in a fish pond. But life is much more unforgiving to those who are unfit for the calamities of the world. Reflecting upon existence in a metaphorical sense, that fish pond could only wishfully have been inhabited by mere Koi, but rather barbarous piranhas.

⤷ In this bitter life, the chains abide only by those who are fit for survival. A population divided into two―humans and vampires―you’ve been subjected to the former; necessitating hospitality and the protection of another.

⤷ If not by mere chance, you’d have met your doom inevitably. It’s alarming; your fate cradled by the clutches of chance itself. But, as cruel as life proves itself to be, you harbor no command over your own providence.

⤷ And chance, as it has instilled within you relentlessly, prefers to plays it’s promiscuous games unfairly. Which you are reminded of once more as you find yourself cornered. Yet again, you are the helpless prey.

⤷ Your heart pulsates; a beating that rings amongst your ears almost deafeningly. The sound nearly drowning out the malevolent growls of the vampires seeking victuals of whichever foolish, helpless victim to feed upon. If only the thumping of your heart could drown the tantalizing realization that you are the pathetic victim.

⤷ In the mere blink of an eye, eclipsed figures sprint towards you. Hauntingly, their footprints seemingly inaudible as though they were flying. But if only you’d known better. You were human; weak and delicate. Whatever fragmentations of survival chance had provided seemed void in that instance.

⤷ Even by the grace of your legs carrying you as fast as they could possibly go, the odds were tauntingly against you. Granted, you likely wouldn’t even have time to accept the bitter reality of your predicament; you weren’t going to make it out of this alive.

⤷ Your breathing is erratic; uneven and forced out in puffs of desperation. But there’s a will within you. Though the poignant truth encapsulates your hope in shackles, you continue to fight. For every breath you take, you push yourself to run faster, dodge the clawed hands reaching for your feeble body, and to do whatever it takes to survive. 

⤷ It’s a humane instinct; to fight for a continuous existence despite fate’s stamp of undeniable death. You were steadily approaching your due date, and predictably by the end of the night, you’d be nothing more than the feed of the pack of vampires.

⤷ After a sharp turn, jabbing your heel into the ground as you whirl your body to turn; the air resistance inducing your eyes to clamp shut. It was a turn too fast for your body to handle, stumbling forward sporadically, but it was enough to throw the famished vampires off of your tail, even momentarily.

⤷ Run, run, run! Dumbified by the desolate venom of oncoming death, you leap forward, narrowly avoiding what would’ve been a climatic fault; tripping over the thick roots of an unforgiving oak tree.

⤷ The night air in which you once believed was refreshing and serene now plagued with the tang of your own demise. It’s suffocating; feeling fear for your life and yet unable to provide some sort of protection for yourself. You were cowardly, and you were weak. Yet in this bitter life, the chains abide only by those who are fit for survival.

⤷ And life doesn’t make exceptions for anyone. You, just as much as anyone who finds their fate at the mercy of chance, were no exception to its cruel deduction as a pair of arms envelope your form.

⤷ At long last, the chase has concluded. Of all nights you’d spent tossing and turning in a pitiful attempt to subdue the remanence of a nightmare―a lucid illusion of your innermost fears―nothing of that caliber could begin to compare to the piquant dread settling within you. You’ve been caught.

⤷ But even as the sinking anxiety pricks at your delicate heart, the tendrils of terror stabbing into your mind, you thrash. Kicking and scream, you fight against the figure engulfing your form, pressing your back against their abnormally cold front.

⤷ You, yourself, weren’t quite aware of why you kept insisting on resistance. Perhaps it was the hope residing within you; the hope that there’s even the slimmest of probabilities that you’d find a way out. Or perhaps that, itself, was the naked core of the human will.

⤷ Sobs tear through your throat, ripping your vocal cords raw as you screamed for help. Your desperate pleas for somebody―anybody―to help you. But even if they managed to hear you, who would be dumb enough to put their own life at risk for the sake of yours?

⤷ Such is life; we live, and we die. Those who are unable to fend for themselves are sacrificed to the grip of gravel as their corpses rot amongst the cycles of parasitism; cells feed upon your body until you’re nothing more than a husk of what once human; what was once alive.

⤷ Yet, even as you thrash and cry, begging for some sort of escape to the Hell you’ve been forced to witness and endure, you find that as moments pass, the anticipated pain of claws tearing into your plush skin as teeth sink into the conjunction of your neck never come.

⤷ You should be wary, you should expect for life to expose its cruel, ugly face to you in its hideous nudity. But such is the fragile mind of someone as meek as you; truly, you were what the world deemed as unfit for existence. You believed what embodied the hope towards a unified tomorrow. And that, in itself, was fatal.

⤷ As you calmed your body, easing the subtle tremors, you crane your head to meet eyes with your captor. Ghostly green hues interlock with yours as you gulp. It’s a man, an alarmingly paled young man.

⤷ His skin powdered in thin layers of dirt as he reciprocates your fearful gaze with a gentle grin. Features ever-so delicate you almost assumed that the mere flick against the plush would result in scarring. He was gentle and, at that moment, you felt as though you could trust him.

⤷ But trust is fatal in this world. And as you meet eyes with him, you finally push away with a shove of your shoulder against his throat. He chokes momentarily as you stumble back, albeit tripping over your own feet and landing on your rear.

⤷ Could it be that he’d come to aid you? Could it be that for once in the hauntings of this unforgiving world, you were provided with a temporary protector?

⤷ No. You’d be a fool to believe such audacious hospitality from the likes of what had damned you to such a corrupt fate; caught amidst a forest of brambles and blood-thirsty monsters, seeking to drink upon your viscous fluids.

⤷ As you continue to meet eyes with the boy, you manage to stutter a question that rang much too loudly for your liking. Yet you needed to stay assertive. One crack in your visage and you life would be taken before you could even comprehend it yourself. Who are you?

⤷ Truthfully, you didn’t even know if he’d muster a genuine reply. For all you knew, he could leave you with a cold shoulder and put an end to your miserable life. But, much to your surprise, he manages to croak out a choked answer; “I’m Nagito Komaeda.”

⤷ Though as soon as his name escapes from his lips, he shrinks his gaze away as he bows to you. A gesture that startled you as you quickly realized who he was. Or rather, what he was.

⤷ As he voiced his name, baritone voice resonating against the hollow oak, his fangs barely showcased themselves from within the caverns of his mouth. You, really and truly, were in a predicament. And one that would seemingly result at the end of your life; an unfathomable death.

⤷ He lifts his head as you shriek, finding your figure to be rapidly crawling away from his in desperation. There was no way in Hell you were going to stick around if it meant being in the presence of the one who―you were certain of―would take it upon themselves to feed on you.

⤷ “H-Hey, where are you going?” He questions, beginning to pace after you. How belittling. His jog was quick enough to synchronize with your frantic crawls. You stood no chance. You were at his mercy.

⤷ Lifting your head once more, a frustrating cry escapes. “You’re one of them!” Your tone sharp despite your countenance openly conveying your vulnerability. Even to him, it was blatantly clear that you’d dubbed your fate as under the terrorizing control of his will.

⤷ “I don’t mean any harm to you.” He admits. His voice a mere whisper amongst the chirping of the nocturnal melody the crickets sang. Ghostly green orbs glossed with earnest intentions as he respectfully kneeled before you, holding his hand out towards you.

⤷ It’s strange. This―in every way imaginable―was abnormal. A taboo, even. His lips curled into a smile that genuinely expressed his yearning to assist you was wrong; it shattered every miserable rule this corrupted cycle of life instilled.

⤷ And yet you still place your hand within his, allowing him to help you up to your feet. He even went as far as to pat down the front of your garments, ridding you of the accumulated dirt from your attempted escape. It unnerved you. Why is he acting as though he truly wants to help you?

⤷ “You were running away from a pact of vampires, weren’t you?” He asks, stepping away from you. The space allowing you personal room to breath yet enough closeness to ensure you’re within arms-reach. With a shaky nod of your head, you agree to his inquiries.

⤷ Yet you’re still cautious. He’s a vampire, he’ll easily be able to overpower you and strip you of your life, leaving you with the travesty of what you fear would only be momentary trust.

⤷ “Why are you helping me?” It’s a direct question, and one you prayed he wouldn’t dodge. You had to know; you needed to know. But were you truly prepared for the truth? Were you prepared to hear what the embodiment of your fate had to say over your very own survival? A confirmation of your death?

⤷ You almost managed to interrupt him and admit you don’t want to know, but he beats you to it. Truthfully, it takes a moment to register. You almost don’t believe it, but the haunting vivid reality of his lips moving as each word escaped his lips leads you to believe that it’s real.

⤷ “I couldn’t sit back and allow someone so hope-filled to be mauled by the obscene, hideous hunger of despair. I want to help you. I want you to survive.”

⤷ With a dazed mind, you begin to question whether or not you’d managed to hit your head previously. Was this an illusion? It’s against the principles of this perpetually miserable world to allow unity between the two ruptures of the population; vampires and humans.

⤷ But it was real, real, real. The ontological sensation of his hand cradling yours as he helped you up, that was real. His arms encapsulating you as he put a halt to your sprints of flee, that was real. This entire situation was so hauntingly real. Yet how could he insist on something so unworldly?

⤷ Though you weren’t allowed to voice your perplexed distrust as he ever-so gently takes your hand within his once more. The soft, alarmingly cold skin of his hand figuratively melting against yours; in which your body regulated to remain at a forgivable body temperature.

⤷ He tugs your hand to signal for you to follow him, his eyes glistening with the reflection of the moon as he smiles. The curling of his lips oozing with a foreign sincerity you’d never have guessed to be found from someone like him; someone you’d predicted would be the death of you.

⤷ “Come on, I know a place where you can hide. They’re not going to find you there, I promise.” It’s a voiced assurance; a promise of your survival. Or, at the very least, for your protection.

⤷ But did you really have any option other than to rely on him? Rejecting his offer could insinuate a possible rage and result in his teeth sinking into your flesh. Yet abiding could, too, result in the findings of your hideout and fatally subject you to the mauling of multiple slobbering, fanged mouths.

⤷ You nod, deciding to agree. “O-Okay.” It was faint, but induced the softening of his gaze as a breathy chuckle escaped him.

⤷ “It’s not the best place around, but it’s the most scum like me could find. Sorry I can’t give you anything more adequate.” He apologized. It was a charming apology, yet unnecessary. Truly, you’d have never expected him to provide a location for you to seek shelter within.

⤷ “No, it’s fine...” You trail off, eyes narrowing on your intertwined hands. He was abnormally cold, yet you still seemed to feel strangely warm. A flurry of fondness smothering your chest as you suppressed an oncoming smile, finally tearing your gaze away from your joint hands.

⤷ “Thank you, Nagito.” Amidst the crescendo of nocturnal chirping and the gust of the nightly breeze, you voice a mere echo. Yet it still is audible and resonates within the pointed ears of your fanged potential ally.

⤷ He turns to you with a momentary visage of bewilderment. It seems that he, too, is susceptible to shock despite the loops of flummox he’s thrown you in for the night.

⤷ After a moment, his confusion melts into his fond smile that you’ve rapidly grown fond of. This meeting, by all odds, was due to the clutches of unapologetic chance. As he squeezes your hand within his, you’re reminded that this is inexplicably irredeemable.

⤷ Hand-in-hand, the two of you fragment the shackles of taboo; the perpetual division of your diverse species. It’s by chance that a vampire has taken it upon themself to assist a human. And it’s by chance that what life’s fundaments deem an impossible allegiance is the blossoming of your potential bond.

⤷ But there’s a chance―an undoubtable hope―that a unified future between the two unaligned. It’s a slim probability. But when has life―when has chance―ever proven itself to be fair?

[zutarasecrettunnel]

OK I did it I updated my Zutara Week chapter fic. This idea was inspired by the Day 6 prompt for this year, "Spirits".

Story summary:

The war is over for everyone but Katara, who keeps seeing the scarred face of the boy who sacrificed himself for her and for the world everywhere she looks. When she finds out why she is experiencing these so-called hallucinations, she may be led right into a trap centuries in the making.

Here's chapter 2 of Your Face, I See. 

You can also read it on AO3.

Teardrops marked her path like breadcrumbs as she made her way through the empty streets of the Fire Nation capitol. She raced toward the palace, desperate to believe that what propelled her was just another hallucination, albeit much more terrifying this time. She wasn't even sure the voice that sounded so much like Yue had been real. Why had she talked about Tui and La? Why had her visions of Zuko intensified? Why could she now hear his voice? She was convinced that her mind was lost, reduced to ash by the flames of Sozin's comet.

Katara threw open one of the grand, heavy doors of the palace. Her feet pounded into the lacquered wood floor, aching with each impact. Her breath was frayed, lungs inflating jaggedly as she struggled to take in the breaths needed to recover from her long, swift escape. Her passage through the daunting royal halls was blighted by tears and dim torchlight. She wiped at her eyes pointlessly as she pressed on.

The many-legged monstrosity had not followed her. She ran from her fear, her grief, and her doubt. She ran aimlessly, toward nothing in particular. She ran straight into something solid but soft.

"Master Katara?"

At first she didn't want to hear another voice, but when it's owner registered in her mind, she turned her chin upward to meet the surprised gaze of Fire Lord Iroh. His face was gaunt but kind, his half-illuminated expression full of concern. She blinked slowly, finally able to gain some clarity in her blurred vision. This was the first time she had seen this man since the joyless coronation ceremony held shortly after the end of the Hundred Years War. He had used the duties of the crown to avoid the younger war heroes almost completely, only holding audience with Aang and even then infrequently. The reluctant ruler had lost his lust for life with the loss of his nephew. He operated only in duty now.

He gazed at her, confused at her sudden appearance in a misplaced palace hallway. At her silence, he tried again.

"Master Katara? What are you doing in this part of the palace, especially so late at night?" His tone was doleful and flat, but not accusatory. He sounded tired, and uncharacteristically old.

She tried to maintain the facade she had so carefully cultivated over the recent months. She tried to reinforce the levies of her fears and sadness. With the sound of Iroh's broken spirit, the waterbender was overcome. Her emotion spilled over the dams she had built like a tidal wave.

She launched herself at the man's midsection, burying her face in the silk of his robes. She soaked them with all of her pent up mourning, all of the anguish, consternation and madness. Iroh stood for a moment, unmoving, before finally pulling the crying girl into an empathetic embrace. She sobbed, openly and fiercely, the sounds eventually trying to form words that were finally ready to come out.

"I can't stop seeing him."

Iroh resisted the urge to pull away from the soggy girl at her admission, instead placing a hand reassuringly on her shoulder. He waited a moment before calmly asking the question he wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer to.

"Can't stop seeing who?" It was at that point he felt her tug, removing herself from the sleeve of his robe to look directly at him.

"Zuko."

Iroh took a small step back, regret clear in his features. The suspicion had been present in his mind since the girl spoke her first sopping words to him in the darkness, but to hear it caused his latent guilt to come roaring back to life like a tigerdillo. At the same time, the tidal wave of emotion in Katara had begun to recede. She couldn't continue to meet the old man's forlorn gaze. Her wind-tangled hair fell around her shoulders as she studied the floor.

"He's been haunting me ever since. . ." she paused, sniffling hard, before continuing quietly. "About a week after he. . .after he died."

The aged Fire Lord pondered for a moment. Silence hung between the two figures huddled in the opulence of the royal chambers like the fine tapestries on the wall. Iroh was slow in his words as he responded, returning to the sagely demeanor that had defined his character prior to the end of the war.

"Grief. . .does many things to people," he started, stroking his beard. "It can often feel like a negative spirit hanging over you, or a curse. You most of all were connected to the. . ." the older man lost his words at this point, but regained them after a moment, "the loss we all suffered. You were there. You were. . ."

Katara didn't lift her head or move from the spot as Iroh found himself unable to finish his statement. "In any case, I'm sure you wi-"

The water tribe peasant demonstrated her knowledge of and respect for Fire Nation customs as she pointedly interrupted it's ruler.

"I only see his face, always just staring at me. But tonight he called my name, asking me to help him. Begging me. But this time there was a monster and-" the words tumbled out of her as she faced Iroh again, only coming to a halt when he grabbed her by the shoulder.

"What kind of monster?!" His whisper was a shout in disguise.

"I-it crawled. It had so many legs, like a giant centipede. But it had his face," Katara felt her eyes stinging again as she recounted the features of the miscreation that had poached the scarred visage of the fire prince. "I don't know," she shook her head, hands on either ear, "I didn't look at it too long. I ran straight back here."

The already feeble posture of the lament-laden Fire Lord continued to cave. It was as if Iroh had lost his footing on the thick wood of the palace hall.

He uttered one syllable, his eyes unfocused. "Koh."

Katara let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding on to.

"Who-what is Koh?" she hurled her question more forcefully than she meant to. The possibility that she may not just be going insane had slipped from her weeks ago.

Iroh turned from her, waiting before speaking. "The face stealer, a nefarious spirit," he replied. The wizened old firebender muttered to himself quietly while Katara attempted to process what had already been said.

"A face...stealer?" the information settled into the young girl like a stone in a lake. "You mean it. . .he. . .Zuko. . ."

The waterbender quieted, a different kind of storm brewing inside of her. Her voice was a low rumble when it came from her next.

"Do you mean to tell me that this. . .Koh. . .stole Zuko's face in the spirit world and has been haunting me with it ever since?"

Iroh placed a palm on the crimson painted wall of the palace hallway, steadying himself on this renewed grief.

"It would appear so," he replied softly, sadly.

"So how do we save him?" Again her inquiry was hushed, a murmur of hope too scared to make itself known.

"We don't."

The Fire Lord's voice was a scratch in the darkness as he uttered the short response, as if the words themselves burned in his throat like his element uncontrolled.

The growing thunder in Katara rumbled louder.

"What do you mean 'we don't'?"

"Master Katara," Iroh began, "this spirit is dangerous."

She stared intently at the older man, her lips a thin quivering line of a response not yet ready to be released. In its stead, the tired ruler continued.

"When I was a younger man, after I lost Lu Ten, I entered the spirit world to find him, to bring him back. It took many months of study, and in trying to find my way in, I also found knowledge of Koh the face stealer, a spirit who can take your face if you show any hint of emotion in his presence," he explained, "If you go after him, it will only be to give him your face, too. I do not know of a way to defeat him."

Katara stood firm. The sadness that had hovered over her like a stormcloud for months finally snapped, and the waterbender unleashed the full power of the anger that now coursed through her like the lightning that had been its origin.

"Dangerous? I've been haunted by this spirit for months. I've been seeing Zuko's face everywhere, and I thought it was just guilt, just sadness, just me going crazy because he died saving me. He died saving me and for what?" she cried, her emphatic syllables echoing through the chamber. "For me to do nothing? For me to be afraid? Even if I can't bring him back, I can't leave his spirit like that. He risked it all, his country, his future. . ."

Her words slowed as the tempest within her drained itself. Her voice broke and quieted again as she finished her thought.

"I can at least risk my face. I can at least. . ." She felt her own fingers lightly touching her left cheek as she trailed off.

Her companion waited, ensuring the storm had passed before issuing his decree.

"I forbid it."

The assertion was strong, an uncharacteristic order more suited to the Dragon of the West than the grief-stricken old man he had become.

"You will lose yourself in this doomed quest. Do not try to go after Koh, Master Katara," he softened, adding one final thought to his order. "I will have the fire sages and the healers work to find you a remedy for this influence. You shouldn't see him again."

Tears flowed freely from the girl's eyes as she refused to allow them to look up at the man in front of her.

"I will go to them in the morning, Fire Lord Iroh," she responded weakly, "now I am tired. May I please be excused to my chambers?" He bid her the leave she requested, but not before placing both hands on her shoulders in a gesture of comfort to the wounded girl.

"I promise you will have peace, my dear," he said calmly, his own pain present in his tone, "the sages have access to vast libraries of spiritual knowledge that will be used to heal you of this affliction. "

He barely heard her mutter a thank you before she bowed and quickly made her way down the grand hallway.

[du0tine]

𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 | 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐄 𝐀 𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄!

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 1,803 | 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: below the line!

angst. self-intoxication, use of alcohol. hallucinations. unrequited love. dark best friends to lovers au. mentions of murder. drowning. light description of blood and gore. mentions of rigor mortis and rotting flesh. viewer descretion is advised!

“Remember when we were young? Too innocent for this world with simply no fucks to give?” You say, your voice is painfully hoarse as you take a long and painful swig from your whiskey. Cringing you whine from the burning sensation that ripped at your throat, you didn’t even like whiskey and yet here you were drinking your sorrows away. This wasn’t anything new though, it was routinely for you to rip yourself apart on this night every year. The night he left you. 

There wasn’t anything special between you besides the fact that you’d grown up together and were best friends. Having such a bond made it inevitable for feelings to arise. Whether it come from one of you or both, it seemed to have happened and unfortunately it only came from you. Your feelings for the boy were strong, you loved him with everything you had. At one point you were even willing to die for him and you did. Not physically but mentally a large chunk of your heart dispersed, your soul died having sacrificed itself for him. He fell in love with someone else and you lost a part of yourself in acceptance of that. 

“Would it be that hard for you to return my feelings?” You ask out, your voice echoing into the void. It was always silent, every night was simply like the next. You gave your heart to him and in return you were met with an eternal silence. You’d never learn to love again, not after him. 

Silently you expected there to be another voice, his voice. You knew there would be no reply and yet you wanted one. All you wanted was to hear his voice one more time and yet you’d come far enough in life to simply end up alone without him. Surely at the age of 26, graduated with a degree in business and running your empire up the stock market, you’d become successful. You were living the life you always wanted but what was it without him? At moments like these all the money in the world meant nothing without Jaemin by your side. 

Sighing to yourself you kick off your shoes, your feet slapping against the marbled floors. The coldness making you shiver lightly as you take another swing from your drink. The bitterness of the alcohol warming you up, you could feel yourself sweating up as your vision become hazy. You could feel yourself getting drunk in memory of him. 

Holding the glass bottle in front of yourself you slush the liquid around. You felt confined like this as if you were the liquid contents inside this beautiful glass bottle of poison. Self intoxication of alcohol being your only escape during times like these. You were simply drowning yourself in your own issues, swimming around in your problems. At this rate you were slowly killing yourself. The mix of loneliness and the harshness you suffocated yourself with was draining you of life. There was simply no future for you like this. 

Pushing past the balcony doors you hoist yourself onto the balcony railings, the coldness of the night air blowing roughly past you. Whipping at your skin as goosebumps arose, littering your skin. Bringing the bottle up towards the sky you hold it next to the moon, watching as it slowly disappears behind the cluster of dark clouds. It was almost as if everything and anything wanted to disappear in plain sight of you, just like him. 

“Jaemin, tonight we toast to you,” Raising the bottle up higher in salutation to the night sky before bringing it to your lips and emptying it’s contents. The empty bottle feels much lighter in your hands as you feel your head spin. The world seems to be speeding up as your body slows down. Sauntering back and forth on the railing you struggle to keep your balance. 

Once, twice you stagger back and forth. A cluster of hysterical laughs bursting past your lips as you through your head back in amusement. Finally, you felt like you were letting yourself go. 

“Honestly, maybe life will be better without you,” You ponder to yourself as you playfully stick one foot off the railing. “Either way if I were to fall you wouldn’t catch me would you? You didn’t have my back in the past so it’s a good thing you aren’t here now too. You wouldn’t dedicate yourself to me the way I did to you.” 

Momentarily you stand still, your chest heaving heavily as you gaze out at your backyard from above. Its calm and serene, the pool that lay directly below is still. The water reflecting the dark skies colours showcasing a murky, dark blue and black. It was almost like an abyss. Your mind strays off and you mentally note to yourself to have the contractor come and install pool lights. Maybe that would clear up your life, you couldn’t swim in your problems anymore. If you found some sort of light in your life perhaps then you could finally be free and instead of drowning, you’d be floating on the surface calmly. 

“Everything is just too dark, maybe that’s why I’m so clouded up.” 

“No it’s not, you have me here,” Replies a voice.

You feel the hairs on the back of your neck raise up in fear as you whip your head in the direction of the voice. Turning around you see a dark silhouette, his silhouette. He’s standing there in the dark and yet somehow you can just tell by his tall, slim figure and broad shoulders that it’s him. But how? There was no way he could’ve entered your home without you letting him and certainly without the security alarm going off. Overall though, he was gone. So how was it that he was back?

“Who are you?!” You confront the figure, your voice is rather shrill, laced in fear.

“You already forgot? No— you definitely know who I am. You’d never forget me,” He replies, his voice is different from the usual soft tone he once used with you. This time it just sounds much more menacing and much more evil. 

Then you finally see his face as he steps out from the shadows. Shrouded in darkness you see his visage, his features are still the same except for the painfully discomforting smile plastered on his face. His eyes are glassy and cold, no longer sparkling with warmth. The black tufts of his hair blow in the wind, brushing past his forehead and flying up into the air. There you see it, the small circular hole in the middle of his forehead. The wound seems fresh as the dark crimson blood slowly begins to seep out. Drifting down his t-zone and past his nose bridge. 

“There’s just…no way you could’ve forgotten,” He continues as he slowly inches his way towards you, “I mean after all you did this to me, remember?” 

You can’t breath, your chest feels tight and your throat simply won’t budge. You can’t even bring yourself to scream, simply just standing there in fear. Your eyes wide displaying all the emotions of fear you had deep inside of you. Within moments he’s standing in front of you, looking up at you. His skin is pale, as the blood continues to seep out of his forehead splashing him with the only colour of life he had. 

Reaching forward slowly his arms snake towards you as he wraps them around your waist and hugs you tightly. He feels like cement, his skin is hard and freezing and he simply just won’t let go. You snap out of your trance, your fight or flight kicking in as you try and get him off of you but no, he won’t let you go. Not now but isn’t that what you wanted? 

“I didn’t leave you silly,” He says, his breath is cold against your skin. The smell of death omitting from him as it feels like his aura is making the world around you feel polluted. “After all you killed me in fear of losing the one you loved most, me,” He continues as his places his head against your chest, you feel the blood pour onto your skin. It feels wet and damp as you start to hyperventilate squirming in his arms as you struggle to pry him off. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! You left me for her!” You scream in frustration as he simply hugs you tighter. It feels like you are being molded into place within his arms as he leans against you, pushing harder and harder making you feel heavy. 

“Well I’m here now, isn’t that what you wanted? You’ve always been greedy haven’t you,” He says once more as you drag your finger nails against his skin, peeling his skin off as a result. His flesh is rotting as he shows no reaction simply holding you tighter. Screaming in fear you feel his skin caught up within your finger nails. You try to push him off once more but this time he fights back. Hoisting you up onto his shoulder as he pushes you off the edge of the balcony. The two of you falling into the dark pool. The water feels suffocating as it pulls you both towards the bottom. His figure floats over you, his hands on your waist as he helps push you down. 

“Remember when we were young?” He asks, the bubbles blowing past his lips as he speaks out loud to you, his voice echoes slowly inside the water. “You promised that we would die together, in order to spend the rest of eternity with each other. You know? Best friends forever?” 

Your gaze feels hazy as you struggle to breath, your vision is cloudy. All your sense draining from your body except for the feeling of his touch against your skin. 

“You couldn’t let me live in happiness couldn’t you? So I’ll take you with me and now, we can be happy together.” He says as he closes the distance between you both, engulfing you in a hug. Suddenly the coldness doesn’t bother you anymore. The life is slowly leaving you as he presses his forehead against you, the tip of his nose brushing against yours as he kisses you tightly. “With your death, I’ll accept your feelings since you couldn’t bare me loving someone else,” He says as your eyes shut once and for all, the water has long filled up your lungs and you are no longer alive and now Jaemin feels like both you and him can rest peacefully. 

Your unrequited love being accepted by him, once and for all. The only price you had to pay was with your life since you’d so greedily stole his. 

𝑨𝑳𝑳 𝑹𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻𝑺 𝑹𝑬𝑺𝑬𝑹𝑽𝑬𝑫 ©︎𝑫𝑼0𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑬

[kissofthemuses]

Hera’s Verses

ON THE EDGE OF FOREVER                   TITANOMACHY/PRE-MARRIAGE

Hera is a young goddess, not yet come into her own, not yet Goddess of Marriage or Queen of Olympus. She is just Hera- newly freed from the prison of Kronus's stomach, trying to prepare for a war that they all know is coming sooner rather than later. Angry, impulsive, confused, and lost, Hera is trying to navigate a world she knows nothing about. But her curiosity is as endless as her rage and it's as likely to find her brawling as to find her pouring over a book or exploring the mountains around them. (Set from the time Zeus set them free, through the Titanomachy, to her marriage with Zeus).

PARADISE PROUD AND PRETTY                     ANCIENT TIMES

It's the golden age for the Olympian gods. They're at the height of their power, with worshippers giving them a place in their daily lives, praying, sacrificing, and holding festivals in their honor. Hera is known for her rage and vengence against Zeus and his lovers. Fearsome and cruel, Hera rules her pantheon the best she can. But, with such unruly and foolhardy subjects, how much can she really do? And yet, she is not so powerless as some would think.

GODS OF A MODERN AGE                       MODERN (MAIN)

Their stories have all but faded into only myths. Hera herself has become a mockery of what she once was, the very model of Wicked Step-Mother, an Evil Queen to most. And still, the Greek gods soldier on. The modern era has given the Olympians more power than they had in the recent past. Modern worship has increased and, though there are many misconceptions, Hera is still happy to answer the call of any who call to her. Though she still lives on Olympus, she spends much time on Earth, running shelters for battered women and helping council them. Her marriage is no less tumultuous, no less filled with betrayal and hurt and rage, but the love has not waned.

PARADISE LOST                            TRIALS OF APOLLO

Apollo wasn’t the only one that got blamed for all that happened with Gaea. Zeus was furious with Hera for her complete disregard for his decrees. She deliberately and openly defied him at almost every step, unable to understand his ‘head in the sand’ "tactics”.

And then, in a surprising turn, when Zeus decided that Apollo should be punished, Hera stood up for her stepson. As many issues as they had, Hera knew that it was not his fault. But this brought up an old paranoia of Zeus’- the last time Hera and Apollo had worked together, they had tried to over throw Zeus.

With his paranoia creeping in, Zeus felt that something like this could be happening again (after all, they had both defied him). To preemptively put a stop to any such rebellion, Zeus decided that Hera needed to be taught a lesson too. If she wanted to stick up for Apollo, then, fine, she could do it, and she’d do it on the same playing field as Apollo- as a human.

Stripped of her immortality and most of her power, Hera was also stripped of something that would give her authority and help in the outside world: her visage. Like Apollo, Hera was given a new appearance and name. Though, he wasn’t as cruel in that regard with Hera as he was with Apollo. She finds herself in the body of her youth and with a licence putting her at just over 20 years old, under the name of Cora Papadopoulos

WE DANCED OUR YOUTH IN A DREAMED OF CITY                                ROYAL FAMILY AU

Kronus never swallowed his children, instead they were allowed to live and grow and learn as normal kids. Hera is a young goddess and princess. She loves her parents and her siblings dearly, though she' grown particularly close to her father. A wild thing, still, she's more interested in enjoying herself than her duties and studies. She's taken up a courtship with Prometheus, who she adores entirely.

YOUTH OF THE NATION               HIGH SCHOOL

Hera's parents are divorced and Hera lives with her father, her mother off with a younger boy-toy. She loves her father dearly, but, the divorce and the feeling of being unwanted by her mother, makes her a bit more troublesome than any other loving daughter. She's a handful and a wildchild with a habit for bad habits and bad boys.

LIFE'S MORE FUN ON GREEK STREET                  COLLEGE

Free from her parents and their drama at last, Hera is intent on enjoying her time at University. She's a Sorority sister and a known party girl who has a bit of trouble-making streak. She's there on daddy's money and thinks that daddy will get her out of any scrape. Despite her rather abrasive personality, Hera's pursuing a degree in psychology/counseling.

GENERATION HEX                  HARRY POTTER

(Can take place in any era)

Hera is a pure-blooded witch. Her family is from Greece and they claim to be decendants of the sorceress Circe (though this claim has never been substanciated). In constrast to her treatment of people, she has an absolute love for magical creatures. Perhaps owing to her alleged origins, Hera is skilled at transfiguration.

*In verses where she goes to Hogwarts, she was sorted into Slytherin.

After she leaves school, Hera is continually pressured to marry another pure-blooded wizard. But, not quite ready to settle down, she travels in search of herself more than anything. She is a cunning and devious thing, and, while she wouldn't consider herself a user of the dark arts, she doesn't turn her nose up at them either.

THE BLOOD ON OUR HANDS IS THE WINE              STAR WARS

Hera was part of the Jensaarai, an order of force-users who were taught using a mixture of Jedi and Sith philosophies. However, unwilling to remain in isolation and hiding, she left Susevfi to travel. In her travels, she fell into bounty hunting to make money and made herself a name in the business.

She tries to keep her use of the Force to a minimum, trying to stay under the radar of any one or side that would use or kill her. What she covets most is her freedom and she'll do almost anything to keep it.

Though she doesn't use them very often she has two turquoise lightsabers, each one has a sharp claw on either end of the pommel.

In Prequel-era time lines Hera is one of the Jedi Knights that followed Nikkos Tyris when he left the Jedi Order. Though, in truth, she'd been on the path away from the Jedi long before then. She questioned too much, was too swayed by her emotions and passions. She followed Nikkos until his end. She fought along side him in the fight against the Jedi. She was injured severly in the battle- indeed everyone believed her to be dead. But she managed to keep herself alive long enough to get away secretly and heal and find her own way in the galaxy.

VENUS IN FURS WEREWOLF/TEEN WOLF

Hera is a born werewolf, part of an ancient bloodline that traces their lineage all the way back to the first werewolf- King Lycaon of Arcadia.

The story goes that the king wanted to test Zeus, king of all the gods, who had laid with his daughter Callisto. Impious and irreverent, Lycaon and his sons conspired to test Zeus by killing the son of Callisto and Zeus and preparing him as a meal to the god. Zeus, all knowing as he was, knew what was set before him and, enrage by it, overturned the table and, turned them into the form that befit their murderous hearts: wolves.

The family legends say that if any of them could go without tasting flesh for 10 years, then, the god’s curse would be lifted and they would be returned to the form of man that they once were. Only 1 of Lycaon’s 50 sons was able to accomplish this. When he finally regained his human form, he was able to put together a new life, even married and had kids of his own. But, the gods never forget and rarely forgive. And Zeus never forgot how they had tried to feed him his own son. The wolf-curse was never really reversed, it just lay dormant. So, when his children were born, the curse passed to them- when they reached manhood, and when Selene was high and at her full, they would turn into wolves. The first time his children turned was undeniably bloody. They turned on their father and devoured him.

And so the curse was passed on down the line, not just the lycantrophy, but the bloodlust and tendency to kill one’s own family too. Whether Zeus forgot or still held on to his grudge or just didn’t care, no one knew. All they knew was that they bore the curse, and they alone knew the truth of the supposed myth. No one has been able to find a cure.

Hera, for the most part, has never been interested in the family history, or in the gods, for that matter. But, she knew enough to know that she would not let the curse get the best of her. She would not fall victim to it like her mother and cousins had. She would not be a murderer. As soon as she was old enough, she ran away from home- she couldn’t kill her mother if she never saw her. But, the bloodlust thrummed in her veins, the monster that Lycaon and his sons were lurked just below the surface, just waiting for the chance to strike.

TASTE THE NIGHT                   VAMPIRE

There was a reason the ancient gods demanded blood sacrifices and offerings: they fed off that blood, not the prayers.

Hera is one of the oldest vampires in existence, along with her siblings- the figures the ancient Greeks had worshipped as gods. She tends to keep a low profile since worship of her and her kind fell out of favor. She has a few other vampire contacts, but, no one knows how old she is- some think she's younger, some have their guess.

GHOST OF A ROSE                     FAE/A COURT OF THORNS AND ROSES

Hera Valdaros is a high fae of the Autumn Court. She is the eldest daughter in her family. Cunning and cold, Hera will do whatever she has to in order to get what she wants. She’s well known for her temper. She holds the power of pyrokenisis and can speed up decay.

DIAMONDS AND RUST              VICTORIAN

Outwardly, Hera represents the ideal woman of the time: a devoted wife who keeps her focus on the home and children. However, behind the facade is a woman who is strong willed and who has as much strength as her husband. Not as innocent as she seems, Hera has a checkered past that she’ll do anything to keep hidden.

< In her past, Hera, known then as Juno, was a prostitue. She worked at a rather famous brothel and was set to take over from the Madame that ran it. However, her life took a bad turn when she fell in with an even worse crowd- a killer by trade, and a powerful one at that. She was taken by him from the start, his charm, his command, his power in all things. She was drawn to him and, soon enough, made herself his. It is no leap to say that she fell for him, even knowing what she was. But, one night, everything changed when she was forced to kill and kill again to save him. A whore she was, and in love with power, but she was no killer. It terrified her, weighed heavily on her. So she ran. She changed her name and reinvented herself to make a new start. And it was in this new start that she met and married her husband.

THE 7 SEAS WILL BOW TO ME              PIRATE

Captain Hera Stravos and her crew terrorized the seas. She was a fierce pirate who was as ruthless to her enemies as she was beautiful. Charismatic and strong, Hera inspired loyalty among her crew- she rewarded that loyalty while any dissent was swiftly punished. She was a woman hardened by loss and by life at sea. From a young age she learned that if you wanted something, you had to get out there and take it and often fight for it. And that’s what she did, she took what she wanted and it didn’t matter from whom. Though she is selfish and petty, she will not turn her back on one of her crew so long as they remain loyal to her. Mutiny is intolerable and dealt with harshly and loudly to ensure that it does not happen again.

THE PRICE OF MAGIC         THE MAGICIANS

Hera Stavros is a Physical kid at Brakebills. She’s a trustfund baby and her foster parents think she’s at some highly selective foreign school, completely unaware of her magical abilities. She’s a skilled magician with a discipline in molecular manipulation.

IN HONOR AND BLOOD                MAFIA

Hera is a Boss of the Vlanti crime family, along with her husband Zeus. Their family runs the city of NeoArta and have their hands in everything. She wants the city to thrive and, despite some infighting, wants her family to thrive and be happy too. Hera is the force behind the family, ruling and manipulating from behind Zeus' public face.

WICKEDNESS IS NEXT TO GODLINESS          THE WICKED & THE DIVINE

Hera has come to Earth as one of the Pantheon. She in exactly what everyone expected for the Queen of Olympus. But she is graceful and deadly and, indeed, full of violence and rage when her husband's eyes and hands wander to others. Her songs are tragies, are broken hearts and broken bones. She can make her audience weep or rage as she has done for so many thousands of years.

THE MOST POWERFUL PIECE           KING HERA

Hera grew sick of Zeus's tryanny, his calousness. So, she recruited gods to her side, gods she knew could be of use to her, gods she knew who were growing tired of their king as well. With a small army on her side, Hera rebelled against her husband. It was a civil war among the gods. And Hera's side won. She bound her husband in unbreakable chains and locked him in the dungeons below. Now, Hera is the sole ruler of Olympus. Her allies are richly rewarded while those who would rise against her are dealt with harshly.

ONLY THE STARS REMEMBER            REINCARNATION

The Queen of Olympus is gone. Olympus rocks from the loss of one of their own, their queen no less. What happened to her and where she went, no one knows. Not even her loyal Iris can find her.

Hera lives in a human body now with no memories of the godly soul that sleeps within her. Cora is a journalist and blogger who volunteers at a woman's shelter. She has yet to find love for herself, but, that's hardly a bother to the rather jaded woman who is married to her work.

VALOUR AND VANITY             REGENCY/PRIDE & PREJUDICE

Hera’s family was once quite wealthy but now, due to gambling debts, their fortune has dwindled quite extensively. It’s a fact that the family is doing their best to hide. Their best hope is to find Hera a good and wealthy marriage before scandal ruins them. But though Hera is attractive, she is entirely too harsh on would-be suitors (or too proud some would say).

A WOLF IN NOBLE'S CLOTHING          WOLF'S RAIN

Hera is a wolf who has been on her own for a long time, abandoned when she was still young. She learned to survive, glamouring herself like all wolves know how. But, as she grew older, she grew smarter. It was surprisingly easy to slip into the world of the Nobles, unnoticed as what she really was. Of course, she kept to the lesser nobles, not brushing too close to Lord Orkham himself, but those he surrounded himself with. She’s been afforded an amount of luxury most would never know. Orkham has grown slightly suspicious of her, but, she’s sure to keep her distance. As a wolf, her coat is black and dark gray (here).

MEAD, GOLD, AND BLOOD        ASSASSIN

She may be young, but, Hera has already made a name for herself as one of the deadliest assassins in the land. She clawed her way into the position from an orphan living on the streets, stealing just to survive. Except, one day, she stole from the wrong person. He was, without a doubt, the most feared assassin. And Hera almost got away with it. Almost. He tracked her down just moments later to intimidate her, possibly punish her for the theft. But, he saw something in her that day, the way she refused to back down or be intimidated, and decided to take her under his wing.

Under his tutelage, Hera thrived and became an assassin to practically rival him. But, he had groomed her to his making and Hera loved him for giving her a life she never thought she could have.

LOVE AT THE END OF A GUN           NOIR

Hera is an up and coming actress who has always had the extraordinary luck of her competition in life, love, and fame just falling off the map. She’s beautiful, but, has a reputation for being both difficult to work with and having a temper. There are a lot of rumors about her, one of her male costars, and the women that may or may not have gotten in her way, but, there was never anything to actually tie her to those accidents.

THE RUNAWAYS ARE RUNNING THE NIGHT            CIRCUS

Hera pulls double duty a knife thrower and a fire dancer. She started as just a knife thrower. She developed the talent and fondness for knives during her time on the streets. Trying to make a living, she ended up falling in with a gang. They started small, but as they got stronger and bolder, the police started to take notice. And, when her leader went down, Hera disappeared, eventually finding work in the circus. Later, she took an interest in fire-breathing and learned from her circus’s fire breather. Also drawn to playing with dangerous toys, she started experimenting with different ways of using the fire. Slowly she developed her skills and, eventually, the ring master turned it into an act. It took time for Hera to trust anyone in the circus, for quite some time, she kept to herself, earning herself a lot of scorn from the others. But, slowly, she learned to open up, to trust them. Eventually, she came to view them as her family and would protect them fiercely. Despite her rather calm lifestyle now, knives being used to entertain now, she can still use them to harm and kill quite easily.

LIPS RED AS BLOOD, HEART BLACK AS EBONY             ONCE UPON A TIME

Hera is the Queen of a smaller kingdom known for their military, their skill and brutality in battle. This is perfectly examplified in Hera, who learned well from her late father, the king. With no other heir apparents, Hera inherited the throne, though it wasn't easy. There was some debate among the men of the court in the wake of her father's death, about her having to marry or some other male take the throne. But, Hera swiftly and coldly squashed that and took the throne.

Though she is a hard woman, Hera cares deeply about her country and tries to do right by the majority.

ROYALTY AU

Hera is the youngest princess of a small kingdom known for their military, their skill and brutality in battle. Though the women, especially those in the royal household, are taught to fight and defend themselves, they are still the ones expected to take care of the home. This is especially true of the princesses, who are required to be well versed in all things domestic and even less of the ways of warfare than the average woman.

As a girl, her father indulged her interest in fighting more than he should- happy to have at least one child who was interest in it. But, as she grew older, it became apparent that that indulgence would lead to a young woman who was not very princess-like, and would damage her prospects of a fortuitous match. So, Hera’s parents eventually forbade her for learning any more of the martial arts.

Hera, however, is stubborn and cunning. And, though she tries very hard to be, or at least appear, the very model of a princess, she still sneaks off to train and fight. And, as she grows older, she even takes up a disguise and sneaks into the seedier places in the capital city to fight those she can.

IN A LAND OF MAKE BELIEVE THAT DON'T BELIEVE IN ME               AMERICAN GODS

[narcoleptic-drag-queen]

Hogwarts au 37 branjie!!!

I love this au SO MUCH AHH!!! This was so much fun to write!! The previous installments can be found here and here. This is set near the beginning of sixth year, very close to when I imagine them finally getting their shit together.

37 - “So…this is happening?”

G - Hogwarts AU

-

Brooke doesn’t think she’s ever giggled this hard in her life. And that’s including the time someone charmed Peeves to zip around the castle like the air left out of a balloon.

“So… this is happening?” she asks, her voice a little loud with nerves.

“Shhhh,” Vanjie says, although she’s giggling just as hard herself. “You’re gonna get us caught!”

“I can’t believe you got us in here,” Brooke whispers, her heart threatening to beat out of it’s chest. “The doors are supposed to be resistant to spells.”

Vanjie shrugs, still laughing. She pauses in her search for Felix Felicus to give Brooke a proud grin. “I have my ways,” she says airily, turning back, and Brooke rolls her eyes fondly. “What I can’t believe is that I got you to come with me! Getting you to break the rules is like… is like trainin’ a skrewt, or somethin’.”

If it’s you, it’s easier than you think. “A skrewt?” Brooke laughs, and Vanjie waves her away like a bad smell.

“They’re hard to train, bitch!” she says, her voice creeping just on the edge of too loud, and Brooke hushes her, her shoulders shaking with mirth.

“Well, I can’t exactly break the rules of Truth or Dare,” Brooke says, and Vanjie purses her lips at her, clearly amused.

“So it was one rule or the other, huh?” she says skeptically. She takes a step back from the shelves, looking up, and Brooke holds her breath as she comes close enough that her skirt brushes against Brooke’s hand. “And you chose to follow the ones of a party game?”

“Yep,” Brooke says, a little breathlessly. 

“Well, who knew!” Vanjie says, turning to give Brooke a surprised look. “Little Miss Prefect can be fun!”

“Shut up,” Brooke groans, and she shoves Vanjie lightly, pretending like the contact doesn’t make her heart jump, a little. “Go look for the potion and stop wasting time.”

“It takes two to tango, Miss Brooke,” Vanjie shoots back, but she steps back towards the shelves, narrowing her eyes at them. She points to one of the top shelves, humming. “I think I see it up there. I need to climb a little - hold me?”

Before Brooke can respond, she’s clambering onto the shelf second from the floor, wobbling dangerously as she straightens her legs and clings desperately to the shelf at her chest. Brooke rushes to hold her waist, steadying her and pretending like her face isn’t bright red and like her heart isn’t now permanently wedged in her throat.

“Thanks!” Vanjie says brightly, and there’s the sound of glass bottles being moved around and against each other. This girl is definitely going to be the cause of Brooke’s death.

“I’m taller than you, you know,” Brooke says, so that they’re not standing in silence that probably only she finds tense. Vanessa’s waist is so small in her hands. “I probably could have gotten it.”

“Even your Giant ass couldn’t reach this high,” Vanjie says, and then she hisses in victory. “Got it!”

“You sure?”

“What else is in a little tear drop bottle?”

“Maybe it was decorative!”

“Bitch, he did the demonstration today. He ain’t movin’ things around that fast. Now, help me down.”

Brooke holds Vanessa as she turns around to face her, a small crystal bottle clutched in her hand, and she guides her down, holding her waist as she jumps back down to the floor. Vanessa lands so that they’re just barely two inches apart, and Brooke freezes, staring back at Vanjie when she looks up at her.

“Hi,” Vanjie says. Brooke can hardly breathe.

“Hey,” Brooke whispers, and they stare at each other for a few agonizing seconds, breathing in the tense air.

Vanessa’s visibly takes a deep breath, her eyes flickering down to Brooke’s lips. Brooke leans an inch closer.

Everything within her starts screaming as Vanjie starts leaning up, a strange expression in her eyes, and Brooke is just about to close the distance when a sharp knock at the door has them leaping apart, Brooke tripping and crashing into a small stack of books.

“You’re not allowed to be in there!” a sharp voice says, and Brooke’s heart drops. Visage. She sounds pissed. “Why does this happen every time they-- come on out!”

Brooke stares at Vanjie, who stares back, wide eyed with panic. She could lose her Prefect status for this. She will lose her Prefect status for this. Which means she won’t get to be Head Girl, and she’ll have a blot on her record, and--

“Don’t even bother pretending you’re not in there!” Visage calls, rapping on the door again. “I can’t believe you locked this door - whoever’s in there, prepare yourself for a lot of owl cages!”

Vanjie makes a face. “Ugh,” she whispers. “Those are the worst. Shit.”

Brooke is too frozen with fear to make the obvious joke, reflexive anger instead making her all too willing to snap back at Vanjie. “Don’t act like--”

“If you make me break in there, consider a nice trip to the boys’ bathroom being added on to your stay,” Visage says severely, and Vanjie grabs Brooke’s hand, pulling her over to the back of the closet. 

“Here,” she hisses, pushing some boxes aside to reveal a small door. “Go through here. She don’t know who’s in here, so it can just be me and she won’t know the difference.”

Guilt shoots through Brooke, the fact that she’d just been about to blame Vanjie for all of this sitting uncomfortably in her stomach. “I don’t--”

“Just go!” Vanjie snaps, and she opens the door. It leads out to the dark hallway - Brooke can just barely see the corner of one of her favorite paintings. 

The lock jiggles on the main door. 

Vanjie starts shoving Brooke through the doorway. “Go!”

Brooke obeys, ducking through the door and whirling around to look at Vanessa one last time, but she’s slamming the door shut before Brooke can say anything, leaving her out in the darkness of the hallway, her heart pounding loudly in the silence.

Should she--? No. Vanessa can handle herself, no matter how badly Brooke wants to handle it for her. 

She wastes no time sneaking back to the Slytherin dorm, thanking Merlin that it’s so close to the Potions classroom. Vanjie just sacrificed herself for her. And right after they’d almost--

Brooke can hardly comprehend it. 

She gets to the dorm entrance, whispering the password and quietly creeping down the stairs, making her way to her bed as quickly as she can. She tumbles onto the mattress, noting the lack of Yvie’s soft snoring. She wonders if she’d had her own little escapade tonight as well, with Scarlet and the snakeskin dress she’d worn to the game they’d been celebrating. She tries not to be envious. She also tries not to think of Vanjie going to detention (to clean owl cages) because she’d decided to save Brooke and her stupid reputation.

Brooke wonders if she would sacrifice herself for Vanessa, even though she has a lot more to lose by getting in trouble. If she would give up her dream of becoming Head Girl just to see Vanessa look at her like she’s her hero.

It’s probably the adrenaline talking, but she thinks she might. 

And if not, then she can just abuse her Head Girl powers to get Vanjie back out of trouble. It’s a win/win. She gets to keep her perfect record, and she still gets the girl she loves to smile at her.

Brooke’s heart drops into her chest a few moments after she thinks it, more adrenaline rushing through her as she sits straight up in bed.

Fuck. She loves Vanjie.

Fuck.

[theholycovenantrpg]

In the beginning was LUCA RICHE, a RESURRECTED loyal to the cause of the MORTALS. He is said to be THIRTY and uses HE/HIM pronouns. In this New Testament he serves as a MEMBER of the ROUND TABLE and is THE REINCARNATION OF ABEL. Blessed be his name.

THE INDELIBLE MARK.

The Riche name has by and large been revered as something formidable -- as great and grand as it was spat upon and cursed. It was due to its rather harrowed legacy, having been one of the reasons why the Holy Land was acquired by the angels and demons to begin with, but at great cost. It was Luca’s ancestor that ordered battalions to batter the gates of the Heretics, resulting in a pyrrhic victory that could have been avoided had they simply sought the aid of their celestial allies. Luca’s own absentee father was renowned for his determination to obtain glory, the soldiers that he commanded knowing that the odds of returning with legendary tales was great, but the possibility of inglorious deaths was perhaps even greater. Luca has since taken the family name and cast it in a new light, painting it in hues of valiant gold. Though there have been whispers that his brother might undo it all with his rather macabre practices and his darker inclinations, casting shadows where Luca only ever seeks to illuminate and shine. They are brothers, though, bound by blood; when they rise, it is together. When they fall, it will be together as well.

THE HISTORY.

When he was born, his mother said, wailing and screaming with his red cheeks -- it was as though he beckoned the sun with his newborn song, until it had no choice but to drift closer and kiss his brow with its warm, golden light. None could blame the sun for daring to scorch the earth with its rays if it meant, for one gleaming moment, that it might bask in the gaze of Luca Riche. None so pure, so beautiful had ever been born to this world; none with a smile that rivaled the beauty of dawn, none with a heart that could have set a condemned man on the path to redemption. All saw this, all knew this -- and they loved him for it, too enthralled to have envy on their mind, too enraptured to ever think to covet what he had. What an idyllic childhood that he had, as though the blessings he was granted -- seemingly through the grace of what god there was, whether they have a hundred eyes or more -- and only sought to reap in more, so that all might share in the goodness and beauty that life had to offer. And each night, he would fall asleep with a smile upon his face, tucked under his mother’s arm while she combed his hair back and weaved for his sleep-ridden mind tales of adventure and glory, with a hero bedecked in gold that was forever destined to indulge in the fruits that life had to offer with his lover by his side. There was no place for shadows in the sun-drenched household of Luca Riche and his mother, no, there was only room for laughter so loud it could rival a bell’s toll and sweet sighs of contentment.

But the sun must set even on its most beloved of children -- and soon the bells tolled in memoriam of his father whose visits were few and far between, and the sweet sighs turned into mournful sobs that never seemed to make the wide maw of emptiness in his heart abate. All for a father he never knew, for a man that was more fables than memories. But even while stumbling through the darkness of loss, he was able to find a burning torch to pierce through the fog -- to guide him. This guiding light came in the form of a boy, as gangly as he, with shrewd eyes and a wicked grin -- when others were granted the great blessing of witnessing it. To Luca, this newfound brother was the closest thing to salvation; someone to share adventures and glory, triumphs and conquests. It was a rather difficult thing to do, though, when one shines in the light of the blessed son, adored and blessed, while the other seems to cling to the shadows that are his intimate companions. It is made even more difficult when his mother, so gentle and sweet, seems to spit venom as savagely as a viper when his brother draws near -- the woman very well recoiling at his very presence like a snake, tail lashing and fangs poised. No matter how sweetly he beckoned her to have mercy upon his brother, so shrouded in darkness -- clinging to it because he knows no better. But when has a snake known to do anything other than strike?

Still, Luca chased after his brother, intent on ensuring that the stories told of their great triumphs and conquests would speak of the two as though they were one. Like the sun, he chased after Jasper, the moon of his life -- intent on perpetually being just out of his brother’s reach. Luca followed his brother to the flourishing Holy Land, joining Jasper in his endeavor to become a soldier. Together they trained until their muscles ached and groaned, until their bodies were sore and bedecked in hues of purple and blue, rising before the dawn and sleeping in the barracks long after the stars danced in the night sky. The name Riche was a formidable one, a legacy name that was established by their father -- an infamous captain loved and hated in equal measure, and it was with no small amount of trepidation that Luca shouldered the burden of his father’s fallen reign. He sought to right the trespasses that had been committed against the undeserving, to do better than the blood-stained legacy that had been left to him. And the people of the city saw how determined he was to carry the weight of the world upon his back, mortal though he might be -- and they revered him for it, his name a call of justice and salvation upon their lips. The son of the sun; the scorching rays that purged any darkness or discord away. It was not long before he sat at the table of the elect, among the glorified and elite of the city, a boy that was born in a village, now a lord, a knight...a near king.

The gilded knight, whose visage might very well be etched in gold, rose from his humble beginnings -- perpetually seeking to cast his light in even the most despondent sanctuaries of darkness. They harken him as a saint, as a savior, and truly it is all he has ever known; how to save those who do not have the means to reach salvation, how to rise up from the ground when he has been beaten time and time again. But there are moments, when the moon shines bright and he is left to his own devices, that he can’t help but wonder what more could there be for his destiny? How much would be asked of him to cauterize or give away? As the city sits on the precipice of an age that might render only anarchy or harmony, it becomes more clear to Luca that the only way to usher in an age of peace is through sacrifice and loss. No great story that he has ever been told allowed the hero to continue on his way without sacrificing something great, whether it be an eye for all the knowledge of the world or their life for the redemption of the world. There is no doubt in his mind that, should they ask for it, he might very well tear his heart from his chest and give it to the people of the city if they told him that it was the only kindling that could offer them any warmth. He was a boy that was kissed by the sun -- he was destined to only ever burn in a glorious crescendo of ash and flames.

THE CONNECTIONS.

JASPER RICHE: Half-brother.  What a treasure it is, to have a brother -- he had always thought himself to be so alone in the world until blood called to blood, binding the two Riche men together. Though they are at odds in nearly every way imaginable, there is no one who Luca would rather have at his side. Did not the day complement the night? Did not the stormy sea crash against the immovable rocks? The glaring differences that they were faced with only seemed to Luca like the natural balance of the universe for a spirit as bright and inexhaustible as his. They contrasted one another and in doing so only served to highlight one another’s strengths while compensating for the flaws that they were too blind to see in themselves. One would think that with the second chance awarded to him by Fate that he would have finally seen that love does not drive everyone. And if it is the singular thing that drives him -- and him and his brothers serve to contrast one another, what would drive his brother? What is the opposite of love, save but the absence of it?

ROMILDA ALTIER: Kindred Spirit. It was inexplicable, what drew them to one another so innately -- yet neither of them has ever thought to question it. Why should they ever think to question what is so clearly a blessing? What is so clearly something to horde and keep safe when Fate was so benevolent as to grant it? They are two blistering, burning souls that dance around one another in perpetual harmony, laughter ever present on their faces, secretive smiles shared as they glance at one another from across the Round Table. What is between burns so bright that it comes as no surprise that they are blinded by their devotion to one another -- for the most part. Romilda sees the shadows that hound his steps, that seek to leech from him the peculiarly unique light that he exudes. She is no stranger to the different forms monsters can take -- how they might take on the countenance of those you care for. Unlike her counterpart, though, she has no problem vanquishing them before they seek their teeth into the flesh of someone that holds her heart.

CAPHRIEL: Enchantress. She harkens to him, calling out for his attention, his devotion. It wraps around him like a shroud, until he knows nothing but the warmth of her voice, the sweetness of the song that she sings for him and him alone. He knows how the others might interpret this formidable thing that has spawned between them, but who is he to fight what feels like the entirety of the universe drawing them together? What transpires between them is the stuff that ballads are made of; epics so long that the bard’s voice grows hoarse before he reaches the tail end of it. She is his siren song, and he longs for nothing more than to fling himself to the abyss of the sea and let the waves take him where they may, whether it be the depths of the ocean or to an island far away. But for once, he is practicing restraint -- for once he is determined to see past the adoration that blinds him. He prays that this does not cost him what very well might be a gift from the Hundred-Eyed God.

SAMAEL: Curse. It is rare that creatures leave a bitter taste on Luca’s tongue -- and yet here Samael is, the singular exception that proves the rule. It is not easy, shirking the way that the demon’s gaze slithers along the plane of Luca’s face so familiarly. Nor is it easy for the mortal to bite on his tongue when Samael regards him in a far too familiar fashion. What’s worse, though, are the restless nights that he suffers long after their encounters -- headaches plaguing him and clamoring against his mind with no reprieve. With them come a barrage of memories that are not his, that root themselves out of the chasms of his mind, making themselves unnervingly at home. Yet when he awakes, he is filled with longing. So much so that he finds Samael’s presence and endures it again and again in the quiet hope that these pains might make sense of themselves and show him what might be his Fate.

Luca is portrayed by Daniel Sharman and was written by ROSEY. He is currently TAKEN by HAYLEY.

[justicebled]

" leave me alone ! " // from rita <3 / @bonescribes​

“ i’ve had just about enough of this stunt you’re pullin’. “ 

it’s a snap. harsh and merciless.  while his grip on her arm as he inspected her wound; perhaps something she’d been nursing in private in her obssessive level of research that had picked up especially since the emergency leave at dahngrest, the entelexeia who had condemned estelle . . . she was pushing herself too far. normally he wouldn’t coddle people who had to figure it out themselves, but she wasn’t by herself. she had everyone. 

..she had him.

but yuri’s temper is at its limit after weeks of this behavior.  finely composed as he is in demeanor usually; cool and unflappable. but this is a baritone snarl that escapes the way a predator encircles his prey. not like the usual mien; eerily done in the deadliest of situations. but now he’s caught her limping away; he has no intentions of letting her go. anyone knew that once yuri pursued anything he never relented. images of ragou’s murder flash through his mind; a burden still tightly kept locked inside his chest; a future sacrificed for the sake of others and the enactment of true justice.  

                                  “ stop being stupid. “ 

he hisses in her ear; turning her to face him with a small measure of fierce authority; careful of her tiny frame even in his wildness, after lying about caring about her to judith in ghasfarost, it seems utterly pointless playing the unflappable man who didn’t care when he cared more than anyone much less the exasperated  babysitter now. the unlikely leader who felt more at times like a big brother of reckless kids. not that he had room to even talk. 

“ i’d leave you alone if you were alone. but you aren’t. you’re in a group so quit being a brat. this isn’t about you anymore so think of how you’re endangering others. endangering your idiot self. “ his eyes are dark as a pit; sparks of violet fire flaring but otherwise his mien darkens in anger. he knows his words are harsh, even cruel, but he can’t stop, there was no point in gentle, falsehoods in the face of brutal and faithful truth or he wouldn’t care at all. 

and he did. he cared too much. without realizing rita was one of them.

at this point rita would kill herself with either the formula she kept mumbling about with black-circled eyes or get them killed by how close she kept skirting and breaking formation, still thinking it was only her in the group. 

“ you want to help estelle? i get it. you think we all don’t?! that’s a load of shit. what you’re doing right now is selfish! you’re endangering the entire group by not doing your damn part and thinking you can operate like you did before you ever met her or me, or karol or anyone!  “ another baritone hiss echoes; concern despite his fury glinting like sparks in his eyes. he pulls her sleeve back to see the myriad gashes. 

dark orchid-violet shrouds his gaze; dark and furious and echoing snarl silenced. a long, long,  pause. voice eerily cold and calculated, almost emotionless if not for the seething edge underneath. 

“ you aren’t doing anything for her like this, you hear that? nothing. you as you are right now are making things worse. if she saw how you were right now you honestly think she’d be happy? she’d be suffering even more! i don’t give a damn what you think about me, i know it ain’t much, and that’s fine, resent me all you want,  but i’m not having you work yourself or endanger the group either way. 

we’re getting you treated. you aren’t considering anyone! if you were acting on your own i’d leave you alone just fine, trust me! i’m also not gonna let you sit here no matter how smart you are and still somehow be so damn stupid. “ 

he knows his words hurt; pierce the way his sword cleaved magistrate ragou into the river. but they’re words she needs to hear. 

“ if you want to be left alone you know the answer to that more than anyone. you make yourself alone. that what you want? don’t act like you don’t smile and laugh with the rest of us. unless you’re planning on hightailing it, get your shit together rita.“ 

it’s frosty and brutal as he looks down at her; the hidden warmth and amusement twinkling often in his eyes hidden by a vestige of concerned frustration and deadly, finally unleashed anger for her sake and the others. especially hers. how it had come to this, he didn’t know. how he’d come to care, he didn’t know either.

rita for all her stubbornness and brilliance in equal measures, her callous nature, her hidden kind side, her willfulness so similar to a boy in the lower quarter with teeth like a wolf’s easily at an early age... 

this was enough.

he doesn’t brook to her how tired he sounds inside. how it feels like she just wants him to give up on her when he can’t.  but he won’t. if only out of defiance he won’t. he doesn’t even know why he gives a damn, but for some reason he does and that bleeding heart that has no concept of its own long held wounds before others’ pain continues to bleed anyway. 

tugging on her hand lightly but with a vice-grip; knowing full well she could burn that arm; yuri drags her with a darkened visage that is oddly...frightening towards his room. 

“ i’m bandaging it myself. estelle, karol especially don’t deserve to see what you’re doing to yourself. and hate me all you want, but you need to hear it: what you’re doing to everyone else.  “  what you’re doing to me, too.

turning his back but not once relinquishing his iron grip he thinks in equal measures after finally losing his temper and equal measures how the idea of rita not being there bothers him to the point of annoyance he finds himself good at burying himself. he always has. 

with a sharp click of his door at the inn; he seems to scour her entirely with those darkened eyes; like burning coals where they otherwise were a dark silver-grey; tinged in purple like his hair. there is nothing comforting about it. 

“ sit down rita.“ it’s cold and emotionless as he reaches into his small bag and begins to fish for bandages. she wanted to make this a struggle? 

challenge accepted.

so be it. as long as she was alive...

................he really didn’t give a damn. 

                                 he was the big bad wolf, right?

[goldleafacrossyourlips]

Uneasy Lies the Head - Dark Lord/OC - Chapter 4

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

Chapter 4 - Thyme and Glamour

Samara didn’t get to attend many weddings. She didn’t have many friends outside of her family. Any she had made during the Academy were lost when she began homeschooling. The Witch community in Vail wasn’t as large as the Greendale one and besides, Witch communities weren’t fond of bringing in outsiders. So as she sat amongst her former Coven members Samara faintly wished she was a part of a community as large as this one.

She tuned out most of what Blackwood was saying. He stood before them in his ornate robes and rambled on about their loss of the Anti Pope. Samara smoothed her black lace dress over her knees, picking off some stray fox hair as she went. She’d spent the morning getting ready and brushing Phlox. Her Aunts had been away at the Academy, Ambrose was still in hiding and Sabrina was with Nick. She had wanted to arrive at the Academy early and help her Aunt Zelda prepare but when she’d called she was told to simply arrive with the rest of the guests. So she’d busied herself at the Spellman house and waited until the time arrived to head to the Desecrated Church. It had felt odd to leave Phlox behind since he’d been stuck to her hip since she’d moved to Vail. She felt uneasy being alone but her Shadows were often to remind her they were still with her.

The deep rumbling of drums caused her to turn and look towards the doors of the Church. She felt her eyes prick and blur as she caught sight of her Aunt Zelda. Aunt Hilda was beautiful as she marched down the aisle in front of her sister, a grin gracing her face as she went forward. Samara was slightly confused as to why there was a strange girl walking in front of them but assumed she must have been related to Blackwood in someway to be a part of the wedding.

Aunt Zelda was a vision as she glided at the end of the small line. Her black and ruby dress accented her figure beautifully. The golden crown she wore was draped with a black veil both which caused slight want to well within Samara. Gold and black had always been her two most favourite colours. To see her Aunt adorned with them made her warm. Within her Aunt’s hands was the ceremonial blade. An intrinsic thing of beauty in and of itself. Never to be wielded for harm or battle, it’s sole purpose was for rituals like it attended now.

“In the name of Satan I call forth the demons who rule marriage and lust. Astaroth, Furfur, Hathor, and Ishtar. Saleous, Uvall, and Vassage. Be here and forge this union like fire forges the blade. Demons of the deep, accept this gift of blood.” For all that Samara hated the man, Blackwood could command his power like no Warlock she’d met. His voice reverberated throughout the Church and demanded unerring attention. 

Samara kept her focus off of him and instead continued to look at the visage of her Aunts. Aunt Hilda stood proudly by Aunt Zelda’s side. She made eye contact with Samara and her grin grew bigger. Samara could tell she wanted to wave, but couldn’t break the ritual. Aunt Zelda looked regal and proud. Her head craned high and a pillar of beauty. Her gaze was locked ahead. Samara knew that her Aunt was nervous and this was why she refused to glance around the crowd.

She saw the girl that had walked up the aisle take the dagger from Aunt Zelda. Samara watched with dispassion as she slit the throat of a dead animal and let it bleed into the chalice below it. As she handed the chalice to Blackwood, his words once again rang through the air.

“My bride and I will fortify our physical bodies with the blood of this sacrificed being.” Faustus and Zelda each took a sip from the chalice. Samara held in a squirm at the thought of having to drink straight blood. 

“The hand of my bride will now be sheathed with mine under the skin of a mortal. Hilda.” Samara’s Aunt Hilda wrapped the piece of flesh around Aunt Zelda and Faustus’ hands. Samara wrinkled her nose as she could hear the flopping and squelch of the flesh.

“Now, Sister Zelda, in the name of Satan, you shall respect me, obey me and submit to me. As Lilith served Satan, so will you serve me. You will forsake all others, lift me up and exalt me for all eternity. And now by the onholy power invested in me-” Samara felt her teeth grind at how misogynistic the vows were. But before Blackwood could finish his vows he was interrupted.

“Murderer!” Samara whipped around at the familiar voice that shouted. She felt all the blood in her body rush towards her feet and her chest seized with grief and disbelief. Her believed dead Uncle and Aunt, soaked to the core with water and faces pruned almost beyond recognition, stormed through the doors of the Church. She heard mutters of astonishment around her.

“It is I, Edward Spellman, returned.”

“And I, Diana Spellman, returned.” Samara once again felt tears threaten to fall as her hand rose to her lips. Their voices were just as she remembered, even if they held anger within them now.

“I accuse Faustus Blackwood, who brought down our plane that took our lives. I accuse Faustus Blackwood who killed the Anti-Pope while he slept under the very same roof. Confess Blackwood, or face my wrath!” Edward’s voice held just as much power as Blackwood’s. Samara could sense why her Uncle was held with such great esteem. The congregation murmured around them.

“Your wrath….Indeed. You forget girl. I knew your father. And whatever the circumstances, Edward Spellman would never disrespect our ceremonies and traditions as you do. And so this petty trickery comes to an end. Detegant istos ostenderet falsa.” Where Diana and Edward once stood, now stood Sabrina and Nick. Samara felt some betrayal cross her heart. Blackwood was right for once in his life. Even though Samara despised that her Auntie was marrying the worm, never would she think to sabotage the ceremony. To do so was to only invite in bad karma. Samara knew that Sabrina was raised with better judgement and respect than what she was currently showing. 

Samara watched the shock cross her Aunts’ faces as her cousin was revealed. She too felt shock as Blackwood called for his lackeys to seize both Sabrina and Nick. Satisfaction curled within her at Nick warning the boys off to protect both him and his girlfriend.

“I am Sabrina Spellman. I shall speak and I shall be heard. You, Faustus Blackwood, are a fraud.” Sabrina’s voice rang through the Church. While Samara was irritated with her cousin’s actions, she felt a low sort of elation as her cousin called out the man.

“Sabrina, what are you saying?” Samara felt herself cringe at the barely concealed rage within her Aunt’s voice. She grasped her dress that laid against her thighs and held it within tight-knuckled fists.

“I’m sorry, Auntie. But it’s true. He killed my father and mother, and I believe he killed the Anti-Pope too.” Sabrina’s words only caused Samara’s thoughts from the night before to feel more solidified. Again the Church was a buzz with murmurs.

“And why would I have done that?”

“Because you were afraid His Eminence wouldn’t approve your repugnant, misogynistic reformations.” Sabrina spat her reply.

“Which you haven’t even read, have you? Hm. Let it be known there is no proof to any of this. Yet your very own cousin was covered in His Eminence’s blood.” 

“Ambrose Spellman is innocent!” The shout echoed throughout the Church. The silence that followed was quickly cut short by the man in questions materializing on the altar himself.

“Die Blackwood! Die!” Ambrose looked like a crazed man with blood still saturating his clothes and a dagger in hand. The girl at Blackwood’s side froze Ambrose before he could commit the act he arrived to do. Blackwoods lackeys were quick to tackle and subdue Ambrose. 

Samara jumped to her feet and began to stagger forward to help her cousin but Nick grabbed her arm before she could continue. She looked on helplessly as they escorted Ambrose out of the Church. She wanted nothing more than to free him, but his recent actions only confirmed many suspicions the Coven held. It would take an Unholy miracle to help him now.

Samara stood at her Aunt and Sabrina’s side as they sat outside the High Priest’s office at the Academy. Her black coat was draped over her arm as her other hand picked at the skin of her thumb. Her gaze was locked on the carpet before her. Her thoughts were lost in remembrance of what happened the last time she was near this office. She felt her Shadows nudging against her back that was resting against the wall. She splayed her hand against the wall in reassurance to them. Before she could get lost in thought again, her Aunt Zelda stalked out of the office.

“Congratulations. You ruined my wedding day, Sabrina.” Aunt Zelda’s eyes were full of fire. Samara felt herself shrink away and her Shadows rise to shield her. Samara never dealt well with reprimand from her family. 

“Aunt Zelda-” 

“A day of greatness for the Spellman family shall now, instead, go down infamy.” Aunt Zelda always held public image on a pedestal. She was constantly worried about how the Spellmans were perceived in the Coven.

“Where’s Ambrose, Aunt Z?” Samara kept her voice soft as she peered at her furious Aunt.

“Your cousin has been thrown in the Witch’s Cell for his treasonous crimes.” Aunt Zelda’s voice was steady but Samara could detect a small amount of sorrow for her nephew.

“No!” Sabrina cried out.

“What of Sabrina?” Aunt Hilda finally spoke. Samara stole a quick glance at her cousin before focusing back onto her Aunts.

“She and Nicholas have been expelled from the Academy of Unseen Arts. And they deserve it. It was all I could do to convince Faustus not to lock you in the dungeon too.” Aunt Zelda’s words held all the disappointment she surely felt. Samara could only imagine how upset her Aunt truly was. 

“Well at least I stopped your wedding.” Samara closed her eyes at her cousin’s words. Some tact would’ve been nice at the moment but Sabrina had always been a bit thick-headed when other’s feelings were involved. 

“Oh! Stopped it? Sabrina, Faustus and I were just married in his office.” Aunt Zelda stalked away to the office as she finished her sentence. Sabrina, Samara and Aunt Hilda all stood, shock freezing them from moving.

[belzinone]

SEND ME A WORD! || LEARN ALL ABOUT MY MUSE'S PHYSICAL FEATURES!

// @wolfstillhasclaws // @hunting-songs //

// y’all really cleaned me out here, huh? jasdfnkajnfkan i love you both~<3 (this is also nice bc i can describe her better than i can draw her; aaaaaand i been chipping away at this forever oh dear. ah well. i finished an assignment. i deserve to post this now <3

[EYES]: not just the colour, but the shape, the length of their eyelashes, whether they're alert or usually half-closed, large or small, sunken into the face, ringed by bags, etc.

// sharply angled almonds surrounded by corner folds of age, stress, & restless nights. lashes thickly line their corners like fine fur, emphasized by the way her lids are drawn under the weight of contemplation. small & narrow in shape, but nonetheless quickly to light, soften, & warm at the sight of the things she loves. small pupils are bathed in a bright amber bath sprinkled with green in the candlelight, not much different from the sun’s rays through a forest canopy in the daylight. stern but forgiving, sharp but soft. more of a window to her soul than her mouth would probably ever communicate.

// her brows are drawn but expressive, usually level in furrows but quick to relax & raise. full & average thickness as they taper to the edges of her face, they have soft angles but a sharp beginning. a burn chars the follicles of the left side of her left brow later in life, leaving a break in its length.

[HAIR]: length, colour, texture, whether it grows quickly or slowly, how manageable it is, whether it requires lots of styling, do they leave stray hairs everywhere, is it present on their face, is it present on the rest of their body, etc.

// cut & grown as necessity & identity fluctuated throughout her life. a short crop as a small girl, grazing her ears & off her nape to best pass as a boy. as she matured, her mother insisted she grow out her long tawny waves & she obliged, subject to the pressures of not insisting she knew better. though relatively thin & not well kept (a luxury lacked by many underground residents), long, beautiful hair was key to landing a rich husband.

// as a civilian, she tied up her hair in a number of ways for many occasions, having more time to spend on her appearances than as a soldier. her go-to became a loose, sideswept braid she kept for the beginning of her military career. after sacrificing length for life, she donned herself the popular soldier’s undercut, though leaving some length on the shave & a generous head of curls that fall to the side. she never felt more like herself.

// she leaves strings of twisted burnt copper everywhere she rests, easily caught by dark fabrics & generous sunlight. lovers & comrades given permission to roam her body would find soft, thin hairs nearly invisible against the rich, ashy undertones of her skin. they concentrate in a combination of wolffian & müllerian patterns: under her arms, on her lower back, down the line of her stomach, as well as sparsely covering her genitals, arms, & legs.

// as soon as she gets her hands on body-scaping luxuries as a soldier, she makes a habit out of maintaining her body hairs on a regular basis. not for presentation, but function as skin-tight uniform pants & full body straps make staying au natural rather uncomfortable. regardless of her upkeep, the hair in areas most impacted by her uniform have steadily lost its volume to friction.

// as she started to lose herself after her injury, she grew out the hair on her head but couldn’t bring herself to stop maintaining her military undercut entirely. as personal hygiene became difficult, her body-scaping became lax & revealed patterns of war through her uniform & scars.

[MOUTH]: are their lips always drawn thin or are they plump and kissable, what's their "default expression"/resting face, do they have all their own teeth, do they use their teeth to smile, etc

// small, full, & pursed in stress until her sights are set upon a dear face. in situations of calm & camaraderie she wears the slightest grin as a neutral expression. a pronounced cupid’s bow with a crooked edge when she smiles. a natural smirk without the airs of arrogance.

// though her jaw is usually tense, she hides her teeth (unremarkable & average for someone of her stature) until rare instances of unrestrained joy overwhelm her consciousness.

// if she could choose a color, she’d enjoy a lively, perhaps even icy pink rather than rouge regardless if it “matches her skintone” or not

[FACE]: what is the shape of their face, do they have pronounced cheekbones or a strong jaw, what's the size and shape of their nose, what's the size and shape of their ears, do they stick out, are they pointed, etc.

// the only part of her that never seemed to mature. short & small in shape with round cheeks yet capable of feral expressions. perhaps a heart shape with a small yet pronounced chin. her nose is small as well with a pronounced button shape compared to the rest of her peers, much like armin. her age shows in the rest of her features, from the folds of her eyes to the wrinkles between her brows. identifying features include her pronounced widow’s peak & nearly invisible freckles, as well as a couple facial moles: a left monroe & another below her right brow.

// her ears stand out, but not in size or angle. they’re comparatively small, round, & easily hide in her hair, but her detached earlobes are undoubtedly foreign as the rest of the eldian population seems to sport attached earlobes. her mother taught her to hide this, but they’re regardlessly easily unnoticed.

// the way she wears her visage is kind, welcoming, & maternal, unhardened by the throes of battle but nonetheless changed throughout her life & adapt to circumstances. as a cadet she carried a lot of secrets & communicated a demand for distance through a resting bitch face, unraveled by the love & understandings of her late garrison squad. though not incapable of being stern & able to sway most others through a Look:tm:, she much prefers not to convey authority & would rather communicate airs of openness, a manifestation of democratic leadership expressed by levi & other philosophies of the scouting legion she admires.

[SKIN]: obviously colour, but also if they're inclined to run hot or cold, do they have any blemishes or unusual markings, are they inclined to blush, are they freckled, do they tan, what does their skin feel like, etc.

// her ancestors weren’t from the walls. she looks a bit out of place much like the others who hailed from across the continent, most notably comparable to ymir who hailed from a poor, remote land. fair to medium tone, olive & ashy in undertone.

// faint, full-body freckles despite being easy to tan, a trait rare to those who spend the beginnings of their life underground. her skin reflects the sun she catches after moving above ground, a soft & subtle sun-kissed glow that gently darkens throughout her career, especially as she catches direct sunlight ontop of & beyond the walls. (lowkey inspired by my very elementary coloring skills. i’m getting better & applying my growth to her development bc we’re in this together) as a result, she doesn’t need much sun protection & does very much enjoy sunbathing

// warm to the touch, but reluctant to blush. she has thick skin & an elastic heart. most parts of her are hardened, calloused, dried, & bruised save for the intimate parts of her including her inner joints & limbs. the softest parts of her are her inner thighs surrounding 3dmg wear, surprisingly luxurious for such a hardened soldier often subject to harsh medicinal chemicals.

// also on par is a freshly shaved pussy but i believe that’s pretty universal with the right skincare. also pretty average of her: she has rough, dry, & slightly darkened elbows.

// the texture of her neck is unsettling at the very least, a result of scar tissue buildup in an area with such thin skin. it’s very odd & generally off-putting, causing her to regard the area with a lot of defensiveness & self-consciousness. (marked bc probably one of her most characteristic physical traits)

[BUILD]: are they skinny and petite or do they resemble a body builder, are they tall or short or average height, are they lean and wiry, are they overweight, are all of their features proportionate, etc

// her body betrays who she feels she is, even as she works to manipulate (& privately enhance) its shape & volume. she doesn’t feel like it belongs to her, but it is.

// petite & heavyset, small but mighty with generous work-muscle, most notably in her back, thighs, & upper arms. she has a strong core, but her abdominals will never be as pronounced as a result of the significantly müllerian way her body retains fat. four pack for life. it pains her.

// pronounced hourglass figure, deceptively top-heavy. small, but strong & widened shoulders support large breasts that are bound in sarashi-like fashion under her scout uniform, a way meant to be safest for support as well as long-term wear, but nonetheless restricting & potentially dangerous if not done correctly.

// properly bound & suited, she could pass as male just as well as she could when she was a child. androgyny feels most natural to her, but genuine femininity is a high-hanging fruit she may never taste regardless of the sensuality of her body when enhanced with her favorite lingerie. in private, she indulges & finds comfort in playing up her femininity and exploring aesthetic sensuality (marked for key characterization of her sexuality/gender identity)

[HANDS]: are they large or small, do they have pianist's fingers or short stubby ones, do they tend to get sweaty or are they always dry, is the skin rough or delicate, are the nails painted or chewed or sharp, etc.

// hands small enough to meticulously craft detail, deceptively rough with work. short, but nonetheless artisan fingers. short & kept nails, though mechanical oils, debris, & blood sometimes persist without her noticing. more often when she’s distracted, but she’ll take care of it asap nonetheless.

// they’re always warm, ready to hold, ready to work, ready to comfort. but they are dry, especially the tops of her hands. they’re always in need of repair, moisture, & upkeep.

[LEGS]: are they solidly built, short and stubby, or long and graceful, do they have knobbly knees or rounded knees, what's their gait, etc.[feet]: do they have a habit of going up on their tiptoes, what's their usualy stance, do they tend to shift their weight to a preferred side, etc.

// they do nothing for her height, wide with secondary müllerian fat deposit & definitively shaped with the muscle of a workhorse. yet they can move her with skillful grace, artfully bending and swaying as led by her hips in the midst of her dancing.

// in this vein, she has an extraordinary sense of balance. whether or not she consciously keeps this in constant check is up for debate, but her legs ground and carry her well. she’s also very flexible & can do a myriad of splits.

// she often leans towards her left when standing, later shifting to her right and alternating to keep the blood flow alive. bel also has a tendency for wide, masculine stances to keep her on her toes in action as well as situations that call for her bluff.

// her most natural, comfortable position is on her knees. level with her patients in their environment of need, ready to tend. she very much prefers the ground and can kneel for very long periods of time without losing her sensations. she’s learned to strategically carry and shift her weight in order to accomplish long sessions.

[OTHER: CLOTHES STYLE]: any other obscure feature or tiny detail that the asker is interested in, materials, style, details, freshly new bought or old an worn down, full of dirt or always washed, preferred colour

// as a child they were little more than rags, but nonetheless carefully tailored & decorated with the love of a homemaker mother. it was more as a means of protection rather than inevitability, as flaunting wealth in the dangerous subterranean city was a death sentence.

// as soon as she reached adolescence, her mother instructed her to dress as a lady & slowly began to bestow upon her the racy garments she used to wear as a Wallflower. subdued skirts & bodices became more & more audacious as they grew closer to the surface. risa’s wears were optimized for wiles as much as work, with hidden inner drawstrings easily controlling length, bell sleeves skillfully tied back, corsets carefully constructed to allow stretch as much as shape.

// this stage of life for bel, however, was even more fraught with denied freedoms, fostering a growing complicated relationship between herself & her gender expression. even as she grew into a young adult, she still lacked the bodily function to menstruate, still found herself under the pressures of her mothers dreams to marry into the capitol & retire as a socialite.

// it wasn’t what she wanted, so bel soon began shedding her compromises. with her uniform she donned a laced undershirt over bustiers, not ideal for service but not so stifling either for the lax garrison regiment. her comrades gifted her her switchblade as well as a red ribbon, which she wove & tied into her usual braid.

// following the battle of trost, a bone from her bodice close to puncturing her lung prompted her to make a change. for the first time in years, she reached for the bandage & bound her chest, feeling more powerful than ever. when an Underground scuffle gave her a neck scar, she traded her lace for a sleeveless number with a cowl to cover it. it’s soft material closely resembling a sweater & is perhaps the first garment she bought for herself without tailoring.

// i put her in dark mauve for no reason other than it’s a color i like. maybe it hides bloodstains. maybe she indulged in a higher class color as homage to her mother’s lost dreams. the latter is the most likely option, even though i just thought of it at the moment of writing this. so it goes. she chooses rich colors because of her mother. not just because i like it. (it also compliments the olive in her skin, i think)

// while out on the town or in casual wear, bel lets herself indulge in her femininity, treating it as a special occasion. her style choices are still more audacious than the average woman on the street, more so when she wears her dance costumes under a cloak on the way to a sidejob. out of uniform, she’s likely to turn heads & instigate judgements. she nonetheless enjoys it, as being perceived as a feminine (as well as sexual) being eases her feelings of dysphoria as well as her trifles with asexuality. though she won’t demand it verbally, she’s very much a statement Attention Whore.

*BONUS, bc may as well top it off lol* [FEET]: do they have a habit of going up on their tiptoes, what's their usual stance, do they tend to shift their weight to a preferred side, etc.

// her weight is always on the balls of her feet, remnant of her training as a dancer before soldier. she can balance on her tiptoes like rose from titanic & is very good at it. there’s not much else about her feet worth noting at the time. headcanons may come later.