#the title for this one would be morir contento e innamorato btw.

[youssefguedira]

ALSO necromancy ? (diabolik) what is thattttttt

my necromancy diabolik fic is the result of me listening to ballata dell'amore cieco (o dalla vanità) one too many times in a day and brainstorming a fic that is, essentially, what it says on the tin, i.e. the highly canon non-compliant scenario that diabolik Dies on a heist and eva goes slightly off the rails trying to necromance him back to life. fun to think about but i think i need to rework it a bit because the situation itself is very. non-diaboliky.

anyway here's a snippet i wrote when it was consuming my brain entirely:

She doesn’t believe them when they come back two days later and tell her he is dead, that they will kill her too if they do not get what they want. No, instead she laughs and laughs and laughs, because he cannot be killed, she has seen him escape death more times than she can count. Black spots swim across her vision: one of them says something about reducing her dose, waking her up, she’s no use to us like this. She keeps laughing, even when they leave.

They’d taken the cuffs off him to lead him away. That was their first mistake.

She doesn’t believe them even after they stop giving her whatever they’d been using to keep her calm, shivers through the withdrawals for days and shakes her head whenever they tell her he is dead, nobody is coming for you, don’t you understand? He’s dead. You’re alone. Tell us what we want to know.

She doesn’t believe them when they show her the pictures, either. She knows well enough how easy it can be to fake someone’s dead body for photos. The two of them have done it countless times before.

She doesn’t believe them when they take her to see him two days after they tell her he’s dead, not even when she looks at his eyes, staring sightlessly up into nothingness. There is blood everywhere: creative, but slightly too much to be convincing, she thinks. The drugs haven’t quite left her mind completely: she’s dizzy when she stands, when she walks.

She doesn’t believe them until they let her touch the body. She knows well enough how to tell the masks from skin – they’re almost indistinguishable, save for a few tiny details. She knows when she touches the body’s face, brushes its hair back from its forehead where the blood has dried, and her heart stops.

Only then does she believe them. 

She is silent for one terrible minute, unable to tear her eyes away from the body in front of her.

Then she starts screaming, and doesn’t stop.