Astrial - Just A Lennabel Shipper

one more pearl & tilly for the road

so. how are we feeling...

yea....

Memory Lane Part 1: Riddled Mind

Characters focused on: Queen of Hearts!Riddle Rosehearts & GN!Reader

Word count: 1k

Summary: You're just an innocent isekai victim who got kidnapped by magic. If that wasn't weird enough, you somehow catch the eye of Riddle Rosehearts, the Queen of Hearts. After being ordered to have tea with him, you make a discovery that somehow makes a lot less sense than everything else you've been exposed to so far.

Or: You wander into another world and meet reincarnations of cartoon villains (who were REAL and also your friends in a past life). Riddle-centric chapter.

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AO3 Link

The room is so silent that you can hear the  sound of your calm heartbeat and even Riddle's breath from across the table. When you take another sip of your tea, the clink of the cup on the saucer is almost deafening. Even if you hadn't been watching him, you wouldn't have missed the way Riddle's eyes track the cup and the expressions on your face.

At this point, despite however many times you've wiped your face, you're convinced there's a stain or something that has him so fixated on staring at you. Or maybe it was just your horrendous table manners—the moment you sat down you had practically inhaled all the food on the table after all—but you're pretty sure that staring is pretty rude too, and if it mattered as much to you as it likely does to him, you would've called him out on it. Who knows, maybe staring at people is another one of his crazy rules. You don't feel like getting yelled at so you don't try to find out.

The air has been so still and silent that you jump in your seat when Riddle finally speaks.

"The food is to your liking."

His tone is unreadable. His expression is even more so with half of his face hidden behind his threaded fingers. His grey eyes remain trained on you. You're sure you would've been unnerved already if he didn't have such a soft-looking face.

Despite his steady voice though, you identify a slight lilt at the end of his sentence, as if he was asking a question.

You unconsciously raise a questioning brow mostly to yourself, completely unsure how to respond in a way he'd find acceptable. You take too long thinking and in an attempt to save face you bob your head in some semblance of a nod, to which Riddle's gaze expectedly hardens.

"When I ask you a question, you always reply with either yes, your majesty, or no, your majesty ."

His tone is cold and curt and he's straightened up in his seat, the very picture of authority. Despite his stern gaze though, you find yourself more irritated than afraid or flustered. This must show on your face, judging from the way the queen's eyes widen and his stiff shoulders falter ever-so-slightly.

"Do you want me to curtsy too?" you quip back, and without waiting for an answer, your chair is kicked back with an ugly squeal and you're standing and dipping at the waist with your hands raised in a mocking curtsy. "Why yes, your majestyyyy! The tea cakes were absolutely diviiiine."

You muster the most obnoxious, posh accent possible and enunciate each word with exaggeration. By the time you realize what you're doing, the words have already left your mouth and Riddle is leaned back in his chair with an expression of disbelief on his face. You pull up your own chair and sit back down awkwardly, more than a little mortified at yourself.

Were you even thinking, genius?!

Just. You're not sure where it even came from. You can be a bit impulsive sometimes—a complete idiot a lot of other times—but you never sass someone you just met , let alone a ticking time bomb of a queen who could and would literally behead you at the slightest offense (not to mention it was just plain rude). But what's stranger is that you would be more worried about the threat of disembodiment if you weren't so fixated on that sudden burst of... something ; a strange, overwhelming feeling of familiarity in your body that has you feeling loose and careless. It suddenly feels as if you were sitting with a close friend instead of having tea with a tyrant.

You're pulled from your thoughts by a sudden, high-pitched sound that once again has you looking up at the man sitting across from you. Riddle's shoulders are shaking, and he's bent over and... laughing?

"Oh, you really are the same as they were back then," he says as his giggles die off. He opens his eyes and where there used to be a building grey storm are now a gleaming silvery mirth. His lips are curled into a soft, dainty smile that lifts his cheeks. Looking at him like this, there's no better word to describe him with than… cute . "I was beginning to have doubts, but your demeanor is exactly like what I've seen of them in her memories."

When you met him a few hours ago, you never expected to see such a fond (?!) expression on his face. More unexpectedly is that, despite his reputation for being strict and temperamental (that you yourself have seen first hand), it doesn't feel out of place.

In your mind's eye, you suddenly see an image of an imposing woman donning a massive gown of red and black. A wide smile was stretched across her plump face as she sang songs and clinked teacups with rabbits and cats.

You blink it away, suddenly feeling lightheaded. When you look at Riddle, you feel... different. Out of nowhere, you're overcome by a sense of deja vu just like when you first set foot on the castle grounds with Grim, Ace, and Deuce. It was as if your mind was trying to point out something obvious to you that you can't quite grasp long enough to pin down.

It's not like it was a bad feeling, though. Frustrating, yeah, but not bad. Riddle is still smiling at you, so you suppose it's just a given that a sweeter expression on his face would put you more at ease.

"Sorry, who?" you blurt out and then blink again in an attempt to regain your bearings. "I mean—your majesty...?"

Riddle laughs a bit more into his hand. His smile is wide, thick eyelashes fluttering with each blink just like— and a feeling of genuine relieved warmth eases through your tense limbs unprompted.

"Who else could I mean?" he says in a teasing tone. "You, of course; before you were you."

You blink for the nth time in an attempt to clear your head, unsure if your brain is too muddled or if he was spouting some more Wonderland-brand nonsense.

Seeing your confusion, Riddle clarifies.

"Your past life?" You look at him blankly. His smile turns down into a quizzical frown. "You know... when you were the Beast Tamer?"

You... do not know.

You stare at him cluelessly, your jaw slack. As he stares back with a mirroring bewildered expression, you can only think of one thing to say:

"...That's not a Disney movie."

ᝰ𓂃⊹ ִֶָ SHE PAINTED THE HIGH RENAISSANCE ONTO HER BLANK CANVAS. . .ft. fyodor dostoevsky & dazai osamu

৻ꪆ RIASSUNTO. fata viam invenient...you attend a ball, fated to stumble upon two demons in disguise. you don't know whether it is for better or worse that you somehow already know them, all masqueraded as angels, regardless of how laughably far off that would be.

◞ OR ROME WAS TRULY THE PROMISED LAND, and you sought the art of chaos, rivalry, and seduction.

SERIES MASTERLIST. → ii. | PLAYLIST ♫. | wc. 9.6k+

৻ꪆ a/n. it’s FINALLY HERE !! get ready because there’s A LOT. i’ve poured sm heart into this so i hope you enjoy it as much as i do :) THANK YOU TO EVERYONE who was patient + reached out telling me how excited they are for this. this series is also my entry for @kentopedia’s love through the ages historical!au collab. thank u sm for putting this together <3

৻ꪆ info. fem!reader. renaissance!au. drama & romance. cursing. some suggestive parts. love triangle. arranged engagement. slowburn. lowk touch-starved. a lot of story buildup/complex character. suicide attempt from dazai. historical inaccuracies. bad poetry. religious imagery/symbolism.

— THE MONA LISA WASN’T REAL. And Vincenzo Peruggia was not, in fact, the person who stole the piece, contributing to the boom of its fame to the general public, but was planned in a way to frame him so that the origins of the painting would be a secret gossip only a group of the most successful artists knew about. 

The gendarmes were close. They were correct in assuming that another artist could’ve stolen the painting during the investigation. But they never suspected it could be the person the portrait was painted of herself—no, obviously not Francesco del Giocondo’s wife—but the original face who remained under the cover-up. 

An artist’s face, who later went under the alias of “Raphael” to conceal her contentious image and entanglements from the public eye—you. 

The crashing of ice-cold water on your skin amidst the summer air. The weight of your aspirations on your shoulders, and an unknown heart who vowed to drown you…

“My, miss, you’re already stirring up tons of drama, and you’ve only been here three days!” 

The past couple of months had felt like a dream. It almost seemed like yesterday when you packed your things into suitcases and moved to one of the most famous centers of the art world, Florence. 

Yet now, you entered through the gates of the ‘eternal city’ itself—Rome, a great privilege granted to you by the Pope himself. You almost cried when you received his invitation, commissioning you to paint the frescos in his private library. Of course, there were some strings pulled, like the person who recommended you…

“It’s all thanks to you, Ranpo,” you giggled mischievously. As the lead architect of the Vatican (but before that, your friend), he had told the Pope, “...she might as well become the best painter in all history. She may not be well known here in Rome, but say her name in Florence, and you’ll awaken the whole city. You’ll realize you’ve found a diamond among all the rubble. Trust me on this one; I’m never wrong.” 

“It was nothing,” Ranpo replied with a smug smile. “His Holiness, Fukuzawa never doubts my word.” He tapped his head with his forefinger and winked. “Not only does he recognize my talent in the arts, he also acknowledges my outstanding intellect! I’d be a detective in another life.” 

You chuckled before he continued. “The rest is all on you, princess. Again, you’re progressing quickly-” he pulled out a letter to summarize out loud. 

“-His Holiness was so impressed that he’s giving you the rest of the rooms to paint,” Ranpo said while you stared at him with widened eyes. “He…fired everyone else who was working on them. On top of that, he invites you to a ball happening in a couple of days to make an announcement on new projects. Other than you, he’s invited only the most influential artisans to attend alongside the aristocrats.” 

“No way!” You grabbed Ranpo’s hands in excitement. 

“Yes, way.” He let you spin him around on the pavement in eagerness, your long dress following along. “Though, I feel like you’re going to have to explain to him how you painted the library’s frescos so quickly.” 

Your turbulence of elation calmed. “Hm, you’re right. 

“I hope the question slips his mind.”

You hadn’t actually told Ranpo, but it always seemed like he would figure out everything about you anyway. There was one reason why you had become so famous in Florence. You created masterpieces in what felt like seconds—it was almost like you were granted the touch of creation itself. No one had ever seen you paint, so the mystery of how you were able to produce your portraits in mere weeks—sometimes days remained a mystery to the entire world, no matter how fast science progressed. 

You called it an ability. To be able to visualize—a mental image in your head you wanted to come to life in the form of a still painting on a canvas was what you did. You conjured the concept yourself, freezing daydream into textile. 

You weren’t sure why you possessed something supernatural, or perhaps there were other artists you didn’t know who could also do the same thing, but firstly, you kept it a secret—it seemed almost inhuman to hold such a power. Yet secondly, it was even more the reason to follow in your father’s footsteps. 

He, too, was a painter in the courts of Urbino and would’ve liked to become a famous artist as well. Now, that dream lived on through you—you had studied and trained under his teachers and other artists until you mastered their techniques from the foundations to geometry. Your father was no longer alive, but you were sure he’d be proud of you for getting this far. 

“Oh, one more thing,” Ranpo said.

“The two angels of art are going to be there.” The brunette closed his eyes and rested his arms behind his head as if he already knew the shocked expression awaiting your face. “Your inspirations. Osamu Dazai of Milan and your fiancé, Fyodor Dostoevsky of Florence.” 

“Pardon me, Fyodor?” 

…

A long time ago, your uncle—your now legal guardian—arranged your marriage to Fyodor Dostoevsky. However, the same would’ve happened even if your father had been in charge due to his family’s good societal position. 

It was just meant to be, you guessed. 

Coincidentally, Fyodor had also taken an interest in art the few times you two saw each other when you were younger, and you eventually saw him go on to become the most talented sculptor in Florence. 

However, your path of similarities ran cold after that. You hadn’t seen him in years, and you weren’t even close. You were obligated to write to each other once a month, but each message almost seemed like business transactions rather than love letters. Fyodor was too aloof a person despite being well-educated and polite—though he checked off every other box (and you were sure any other woman would want him), you realized you would never be able to connect with him. He was just not interested. 

You couldn’t do anything to change the engagement, but as long as there was no set wedding date to look (dread) forward to, you were content with life for now. 

You didn’t necessarily like Fyodor, nor did you go to Rome to finally pursue him, but you admired him from a different standpoint. 

He and Osamu Dazai were truly angels of art; even gods, if the Church was not one’s forte. Everyone across the country knew their names—patrons and civilians alike worshipped them at the feet. Even the powerful Medici family, sought by every artist to be commissioned, held close ties with both. 

Clientages saved their money to have the two paint for them, upcoming artists aspired and envied their success, ladies came with their names rolling off their tongues to the horror of their husbands’ faces—they were rumored to be devilishly handsome, too. Self-portraits of the prodigies were yet to be made, but you didn’t doubt it one bit. If Dazai was anything like Fyodor, he had to be fanciable too. 

They had the world and heavens as masterpieces in their hands; one could say their names traveled as far as the badlands. You arrived in Florence right after they departed for Rome, and you studied the creations left behind to figure out how they made crowds swoon and create such huge impressions on people.

And you found their pieces were indeed the pinnacle of the renascene summer. You silently made them your mentors, incorporating what was successful for them into your own works. 

…

“And you’ll be there, right, Ranpo?” 

“Of course, so don’t you worry your pretty head about a thing,” he tapped his head with a smile. “Though, I have some work to finish first, so I’ll leave thee to explore Rome.” 

“Don’t take the wrong wagon this time,” you giggled. Ranpo was late to meet you on your first day because he kept taking the wrong passenger coach to get to you. For some reason, he was knowledgeable at everything but navigating transportation. 

“I’m taking a horse this time,” Ranpo replied. 

“Even worse! You better not fall off!” 

There was a tailor you had been recommended to by your aunt before you departed. You decided to head to his shop first to find a dress to wear for the evening. 

“Good day, my lady,” the couturier said with a kind smile. “I have multiple options of gowns for you tonight. Please do take your time selecting.”

“Gramercy,” you replied with a smile in turn. Your measurements had been sent to him a few weeks ago, so that you wouldn’t have to wait for your garments to be made. 

He brought out at least four cioppas. You didn’t even care to figure out how many in total because among all the regal reds, greens, and royal blues stood out a silk, off-white dress with gold accents. Your eyes were immediately drawn in, though you couldn’t put your finger on why. It wasn’t the most showy in the bunch, but that didn’t matter to you. It was like a rare gem among common stones—though you would need a good eye to really appreciate its uniqueness. 

You ran your fingertips across the fabric, closely observing its craftsmanship. You became fascinated with the opulent designs on the flowy skirt and the long sleeves. You guessed that if you didn’t take it, you’d instead dream of it for the rest of your days in regret and freeze it in one of your paintings for eternity.

“I think I’ll try this one first.” 

Your first choice proved worthwhile when you tried on the gown in the separate dressing room. You exchanged the simple front-laced bodice and plain cotton attire for the new, elegant piece sewn just for you. The fabric hugged and complimented your curves in all the right places, creating the most flattering look as you turned in front of the mirror. 

You imagined yourself with your hair styled and matching jewelry to accompany it—you felt like a princess. Perhaps this confidence was the only thing that would help you get through the ball this evening and perhaps your entire time here. You hadn’t been around so much aristocracy in years—though you grew up privileged, you preferred to live humbly and simply focus on your hobby (and you spared your change on those in need). You were lovely yourself, no doubt, and maybe that’s why you charmed many people of different social classes as you grew more popular. 

You studied yourself through the mirror again, and it was like the polarity of your dresses reflected the fate of this new chapter of life set against the one you left behind.

The weight of your aspirations on your shoulders and an unknown heart that vowed to drown you…you suddenly felt cold. You rushed to get out of the room. 

“It’s perfect on you,” the tailor said, unable to disguise his awe when you asked him for his opinion and to ensure all the sizing was correct. You nodded in curiosity when he asked, “Now, would you like to know the inspiration behind the dress?” You always looked forward to seeing how your tailors incorporated your personality and family style into their design. 

“It’s a play on a singular topic,” he said. 

“Angels. A dual purpose signifying both the type of art you create and how you give off an entrancing allure—they will be curious about your enigmatic yet enchanting importance. That will be your statement tonight among the darker colors.” 

The earlier thought of comparing your two inspirations to angels came to mind. You decided right then—you found no need to try on any of the others. 

“I’ll have this one sent for me tonight,” you said. “Thank you again.”

Rome was alive and busy with action at every corner you turned. You strolled down the streets with no set destination, admiring the liveliness of the city. There were markets and shops everywhere and merchants with all sorts of foreign goods. 

You discovered a ruella at the corner of one street, and the door was widely opened. You peered in to see a group of women inside, probably discussing various intellectual topics. 

You decided to go inside and socialize, having nothing better to do. As you stepped into the salon, they all turned to greet you. 

“Good day, miss,” a few of them said. 

“Oh, aren’t you the Florentine artist?” one of them asked. She moved to the side so you’d have a spot to sit.

I got recognized, you thought, and you couldn’t hide your smile. 

“My husband was there awhile back,” she continued as you sat beside her. “He couldn’t stop talking about how enamored he was with your style and was sure you’d make it here next. Looks like he was correct!” 

“I’m very flattered,” you responded, a warm tint in your cheeks. 

“Did you recently arrive?” she asked. “I hope your journey here went smoothly.” 

“Yes, it went alright!” you said. “The weather wasn’t too bad, and I enjoyed the views on the way. I even passed by some lakes…” 

You felt it again. A shiver ran down your spine. The crashing of ice-cold water on your skin that stood perpendicular to summer’s balmy weather. The intense feeling to stay alive—to save yourself and the soul you did not know…

Your journey had gone smoothly up until you passed by one of the lakes near Rome. It had been a peaceful day, and your coach driver suggested that you look outside. You lifted the curtain and were received with one of nature’s blessings—verdant grass and plants that thrived around clear blue waters. 

You could’ve painted it if you remembered the sight. You truly could have if the memory of the scene wasn’t tainted by what you saw seconds after. 

“Hey, is that a person?” you asked your driver, squinting your eyes—unblemished, untouched picture shattering in your head. The land on one side of the lake was vastly elevated, creating a cliff on that end, and a figure stood in the distance.

A moment passed. 

“…Yes, my lady.” 

Your eyes weren’t betraying you—there was a man dangerously close to the cliff’s ledge, and you weren’t born yesterday to not know what he was thinking of doing. 

“Stop the wagon,” you said, a slip of panic in your tone. Your driver looked back at you hesitantly, but you ordered once again. 

“Please stop the wagon. Don’t come after me. And don’t tell anyone about this.” 

The horses carrying you came to a halt, and you rushed out of the chaise. You weren’t sure what had gotten into you at that moment—there was a random person you happened to catch making more than a terrible decision, why get involved—but you couldn’t stop now as it was like your legs were carrying you themselves. You immediately took off east towards the cliff. It would take you a few minutes until you got to the man. 

What would you even tell him? Would you try to talk him out of it? Gaslight him into stepping away from the edge? Offer to paint him a custom piece for free?—“Oh, I’m actually a famous artist in the country, I can paint you whatever you wish. But I can’t really do that if you kill yourself.” You dashed past grass and rocks as you hurried up the hill.

You would definitely have to change once you got back—the bottom of your dress was already soiled, and you were sweating.

Splash!

Your face was struck in complete horror at the loud sound. You peered over the edge to see huge ripples cascading across the surface of the lake. 

Oh shit! 

You ran back down and then towards the shore. You thanked God that you weren’t using any heavy layers under your dress that day and prayed you weren’t going to end up killing yourself as well. You knew how to swim, but the man was far from the bank. 

Am I really going to do this? 

This might’ve been the most spontaneous thing I’ve done. And the worst.

You liked to think that if you saved him, you would be rewarded in some other way. A good Samaritan—you thought. It had to be worth it. You couldn’t die before your new life even began. 

You submerged yourself into what felt like frozen water, your clothing suddenly feeling uncomfortable around you. Still, you wasted no time swimming toward the man who jumped in. 

He was already sinking—of course, this lake has to be deep. You immediately grabbed onto his waist when you got to him, but not before you took a good look at his face. He was probably of the working class because he only wore a simple white shirt. You also noticed he was covered by an absurd amount of bandages. Soft waves of brunette hair framed the man’s profile, and he looked far more content and at peace than he should’ve been. In any other situation, you would’ve thought he was taking a pleasant nap by the way his eyes were closed, and his lips were slightly parted. 

You’d never seen anyone so pretty underwater. If you hadn’t seen him as a human above land, you would’ve thought he was a mermaid or some other foreign creature. 

Your thoughts and observations were interrupted when you realized you couldn’t hold your breath any longer. Trying not to panic anymore, you first tried to drag the two of you up above the water, but you weren’t strong enough to battle the weight of it against the two of you. 

You would have to swim to shore and didn’t know if you had enough air to return. 

Well, I need to make it work anyway, you thought. You wouldn’t let this mysterious guy you didn’t know cut off everything you wanted to pursue. 

You took ahold of one of the man’s loose arms and, with determination, tried to propel yourself the way you came from, kicking your legs through the water. You were more than correct in assuming it would be complicated—the energy in your body drained quickly. 

You were only halfway from where you started when you accidentally choked. But that caused you to completely seize up—water poured into your lungs like open floodgates, and you were unable to breathe. You tried to push yourself up to get air, but you were already too weak to carry even yourself.

The weight of your aspirations on your shoulders and trying to save an unknown heart that had led to you drown—you wondered if he was still alive. He would have to be resuscitated at this point, and you realized, you too. If anyone came in time to save you, that was. You shouldn’t have had ordered your driver to not follow after you. Or rushed into the lake unprepared. 

Or involve yourself with this man. It was his decision to jump off the cliff…and now you had tied his own weight onto your life. Maybe it was all too heavy to carr—

“I’m happy to hear,” the woman replied, oblivious to and interrupting the encounter you were replaying in your head. “I wish you the most success here.” 

“Thank you,” you replied. “You are very kind.” 

“I am a bit nervous,” you whispered. “I’ll be meeting His Holiness for the first time and other artists. Do I even compare to them?” 

It was evening now. You had spent the last couple of hours preparing for the ball after exploring town—you had on the classy cream-colored dress you selected earlier from the tailor, accompanied by a couple of necklaces. Your hair was put up in a complex style and fastened by a few pieces of jewelry. 

Your mind utterly conflicted with your appearance, though. Your thoughts were in chaotic peril—you tried to hide the fact that you had been pacing around your room in anxiousness right up until Ranpo picked you up. 

“Thou art second to none, miss,” Ranpo replied with a wink and a tight squeeze of your hand. It had only half the same effect as his bear hugs the viridescent-eyed would give you when you weren’t in public, but it was enough. “There’s no reason to be nervous. You fascinated him long ago—you might’ve even been his favorite if I wasn’t here!” 

“Maybe so.” You giggled at his lighthearted smugness. “Well then, let’s get going.”

Ranpo nodded and led you through the large doors of the ballroom. Immediately, you were greeted with the celestial light from the chandeliers contrasting the dark evening sky outside. 

Your eyes drifted in awe among the artigiani and aristocratici of Rome. It was almost chimerical—you hardly remembered you were still holding Ranpo’s hand. The scene looked like it came straight out of a painting. 

“Appealing so far?” Ranpo asked, guiding you down the stairwell. “Can it stand against the Florentine carnivals?” 

You slowly nodded, still focused on the liveliness surrounding you. “It feels divine.” It was more prestigious than any event you’d been to so far—most likely because this was held in one of the Pope’s courts itself. 

“You haven’t even experienced it yet,” Ranpo laughed before leading you into the waltzing crowd. “Shall we dance?”

You and Ranpo followed the movements of the other couples. When you were sure of the pattern of the steps, your eyes wandered again to admire the setting. Everyone was dressed to the nines—although, as your tailor said, they all wore darker colors. You pretended to not notice the looks you received from strangers—however, they were not insulting. They were out of captivation and marvel.

Multiple pieces of artwork were hung around the hall, too, and you wondered if the chosen artists who created them were here now. You considered if they knew of your name too, just as you recognized theirs. 

However, your heart almost stopped when you were reminded of a completely different topic. Ranpo noticed a moment of shock flash through your eyes but did not proceed to question you. (Thankfully, he knew when you would prefer him not to be nosy.) 

You saw the back of a man’s head dressed in pure white—his brunette hair in slightly messy, soft waves. 

There is no way. 

However, you could not confirm your suspicions because he approached a lady in a beautiful, deep red gown to ask for a dance. His face and figure became completely hidden as he waltzed with her at the opposite side of the room. 

“See someone you know?” you heard Ranpo ask. 

Of course he didn’t need to be nosy, because he figured out everything about you anyway. 

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” you responded quietly, still trying to get a glimpse of him, but before you could say anything more, a guard standing next to the entrance silenced the entire crowd. 

“Enter, His Holiness, Fukuzawa!” 

You immediately turned around, and once more was someone dressed in white—the Pope, Yukichi Fukuzawa. You glanced at Ranpo, who gave you a nod of reassurance before politely applauding with everyone else. 

“Thank you for attending this event today,” Fukuzawa started. “Our city has made much progress due to the collaboration and contribution of our artists, so I would like to take tonight to celebrate all of them. Ultimately, I want to reveal the next upcoming project.” 

After a few more words, everyone applauded again, and the party resumed activity. You and Ranpo moved away from the dance, him deciding it was finally time to do the thing you were dreading. 

“Look over there.” Ranpo urged his head towards two men in conversation standing a few feet away. 

If the ballroom really represented the heavens, surely these two were the angels. Even without Ranpo telling you, you knew them to be Osamu Dazai and Fyodor Dostoevsky, standing side by side, white suits further proving their empyreal position.

But your eyes widened, and if you hadn’t been careful, your jaw would’ve dropped, too. Obviously, you recognized Fyodor—tall, jet-black hair—handsome and intimidating as ever, but you didn’t dwell on him for too long. Your eyes quickly scanned the room in search of a woman from earlier with dark curls, dressed in deep red, and when you found her, she was no longer dancing with the brunette dressed in white. 

You looked back at the man beside Fyodor.

It’s him. 

And as if hell—fate, whatever wanted to taunt you further, Osamu Dazai noticed you and Ranpo first, pausing his share of thoughts with the ravenette. You locked eyes with him, and you immediately became embarrassed. 

What the hell? First, one of them is my fiancé, whom I don’t even say a word to, and then the second is…him? 

Perhaps we shall meet again, were the brunette’s words to you by that lake. You truly didn’t believe him then, but it wasn’t the first time you choked on your assumptions. 

In a split second, you pulled Ranpo out of sight. “Ranpo,” you pleaded. “I can’t meet them now!” Your fingers hastily ran through your hair, making sure everything was in place. “I’m not even sure what to say-”

“You’ll have to rip off the bandage sooner or later,” he said, tugging on you. “And I say the sooner, the better! I’ll introduce you to them!” You felt even more displaced at the fact that he offered to introduce you to your own fiancé. However, before you could even object (or say, “Ranpo, somehow I already fucking know both of them!”), he dragged you back—toward the two painters. 

“Good evening, my lords,” Ranpo said as you approached them. 

You didn’t miss how Dazai’s face lit up in a curt smile. Meanwhile, Fyodor had on a neutral expression—probably the only appearance you ever saw him wear. 

“Good evening, Edogawa, the darling of His Holiness,” Fyodor said, the slightest spite in his tone. He did not glance at you at all. 

“Still as cold-hearted as ever, Il Divino-Painter,” Ranpo replied with a chuckle, but it was apparent that he did not like the man.

“I am a sculptor,” Fyodor corrected, a bogus smile still plastered on his face. 

“Don’t mind him,” Dazai said, patting your friend’s shoulder. “He’s just jealous you’re in charge of planning out the entire Vatican palace. And also at the fact His Holiness had to force him into a suit!” When Fyodor gave him a look, Dazai turned to you. 

He had eyes of the sunset, paving the way of something between hell and earth—though in a perfect world, it should’ve been the other way around because he looked as if he had just come down from heaven. You felt your cheeks warm and an uncertain feeling in your stomach. 

“Good evening, my lady,” Dazai said, knocking you out of your reverie. You blushed again as he knelt to take your hand and kiss it, bowing before you—the single minute felt longer than nox itself.

Was this the same man you met at the lake a few days ago? 

He was the artist you admired all along? 

“Apologies for not greeting you first,” he continued as he stood up. “I did see you earlier. How could anyone not notice the angel of Florence who creates masterpieces in days, especially when she looks like one tonight?” You became even more flustered by his sweet words. 

He was familiar with my name all along.

“Ah, so you already recognize her?” Ranpo asked. 

“Of course I do!” You suddenly tensed—half expecting him to reveal your previous encounter with him that you did not want anyone else to know. (If Ranpo knew, you hoped he would keep his mouth shut for your sake.) It would cause too much trouble if someone decided to spread it, and even worse if your uncle found out. He was very strict on image.

But to your relief, he did not. 

“I am very fond of your style, my lady,” Dazai said, resting his hand under his chin. “Madonna del Granduca,” one of your paintings. “You capture human sentiment and emotion so well, even in the most simplistic pieces.” 

Finally, you were able to respond to one of his compliments without becoming a mess. “Thank you.” 

“...And sfumato, your technique,” Fyodor added. “Perhaps you like her style so much because she takes it from you.” 

It was only now Fyodor finally acknowledged you. 

He may just be the son of Nyx. His intentions were tucked away behind amethyst eyes, slumbering in the peaceful twilight he allowed mercy to while all else was caught up in chaotic darkness. Maybe no one else noticed that—if anyone did, Fyodor would not be as beloved as he was now—but you did. You saw through the three strands of malice that laced his following words. 

“Good evening,” he said softly. He kneeled in front of you with your hand, tormenting you with eye contact.

“It’s an honor to see you again, miss. Though I must ask, was Florence not enough? 

“Is grasping originality so tough?

“Are you here to copy more artistic concepts to boost your own depictions of seraph?” 

He delivered a deadly kiss to your hand before you could respond, and before he could see the puzzlement on your face. 

“Excuse me?” 

But you did not falter before him as he stood back up. He did not intimidate you. 

“I’m flattered.” 

For once, the slightest sign of curiosity seeped onto Fyodor’s face.

You gave him a poisonous smile of your own. 

“Sfumato—the blending of colors to create smooth transitions between them,” you explained, giving a nod toward Dazai. “I’m honored that you immersed yourself so much with my painting that you could observe such a detail.”

Ranpo pretended to look around the hall as if he wasn’t paying attention to what was happening, while Dazai couldn’t keep a snort from escaping his throat. 

You kept your eyes fixed on your fiancé’s violet gaze, trying to figure out whether or not you’d be dead after the night was over. Actually—he seemed like the type that could seduce someone into death. Stygian black hair framed against his pallid complexion—ethereal, no doubt, yet you would not be surprised if he turned out to be the Grim Reaper’s right-hand man. (And you were supposed to marry him!)

“I’m here because His Holiness summoned me to paint the frescos in his house. I feel that if he sensed plagiarism in my work, he would’ve not trusted me with this project. 

“What about you, my lord?” 

There was a pause; he was thinking. 

“I am simply searching for something important,” he replied. “An inspiration, if you want to call it. I need it to complete a piece I have been working on.”

“And you’re sure you can find it here?” 

“You can find anything in the promised land, solnyshka.”

The foreign word rolled off of his tongue like honey. He dressed his voice to sound like a lullaby, and you remembered why you thought of him as an angel before he decided to insult you. 

What a juxtaposition. 

“What did you say?” 

“Did you not hear me?” 

He wasn’t going to tell you what he said, nor what he meant in entirety. “Nevermind. I did. Good luck trying to find it.” 

…

“May I have this next dance, my lady?” 

The charming brunette extended his left hand out to you. You had become irritated with Fyodor after his apparent distaste for you—So this is how you treat me after years of not seeing each other? You thought you could at least try becoming acquainted with him to make your inevitable fate a bit easier for both of you, but it seemed like that wasn’t happening anytime soon. You left the conversation at the nearest opportunity and moved to the other side of the room, unaware that your other dilemma was following you. 

“Lord Dazai?” 

You noticed something new about him as he stood in front of you. Those sunset orbs also harbored a concept as far as the sun. There was something distant in them that felt like half of his mind was immersed somewhere else. You wondered where. 

“I don’t like Dostoevsky at all either,” Dazai chuckled. “Even though tonight’s given me another rival on my list, I like you way more.” 

“Don’t speak so soon,” you scoffed. “You’re going to hate me when I take all your customers.” 

“I don’t think I could ever hate you, bella.” You frowned at his attempt to flirt. “And besides, many of them are very loyal to me.” 

You hesitantly took Dazai’s hand as he led you to the floor, joining the circle of couples who had already lined up to dance the almaine. 

“I’m still annoyed with you,” you said quietly as the two of you lightly skipped across the floor on your toes, never breaking eye contact with his tawny eyes. That same look was there—it was like he was thinking of everything and nothing all at once. “I’m only agreeing to this so I could boost my status. You just caught me off guard back there. That’s why I acted nice.”

He dramatically pretended he was offended. 

“Why, tesora?” Dazai took both of your hands. You circled around each other gracefully before reversing to step in the other direction. “I saved you! If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be dancing here tonight and finally knowing the name of the poor soul who jumped into the lake!” 

“If it weren’t for you, I also wouldn’t have nearly drowned, idiota,” you glared. 

“Keyword: nearly!” 

You continued sulking at him while the dance went on, ignoring the rest of his defensive sentences and the friendly endearments he added to the end of them. 

“Ow!” 

Dazai had stepped on your foot during another turn. 

“What was that for?” you asked, silently observing how he made sure he did not catch your dress along too, so it would not ruin. 

“Hm? What do you mean?” Dazai spun you again; this time, he stepped on your other foot. 

“Lor- Dazai!” You disliked how much fun he was having with this. Now, he wore a mischievous gleam in his eyes that coupled an unmistakable, playful grin. 

He spun you one last time, and this time, you purposely stepped on his foot. 

“Hey—why did you do that!?” he pouted. 

“Thou did it first,” you replied dryly. “You’re a bad dancer, my lord. You can’t even keep up with the slow ballroom almain.” 

He smirked as the number concluded, and then he brought you to the center of the floor. 

You looked around to see at least half of the couples moving off, either to watch or go elsewhere. 

“Let’s see if you can keep up with this one,” he chuckled lowly. 

“What dance is this?” you asked.

“A galliard. The La Volta.” 

Your lips slightly parted to say something, but you didn’t know what. 

It made sense now why so many chose not to participate in this one. The La Volta was a bit obscene—first, the women were lifted up in springs and jumps, even though that was usually improper. It was also very fast—it would require skill to do it comfortably, especially with the long, heavy gowns you wore. 

Finally, it required close contact between the couples, which was…scandalous. Like a forbidden fruit. 

You had never danced it before. Nor had you planned to. You were engaged, after all.

I bet noone in this room, but Fyodor himself and Ranpo even know we’re to marry, though, you thought to yourself, even though you shouldn’t even be considering excuses. …And he probably couldn’t even care less.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Dazai said, a bit more seriously, leaving it up to your decision, but his eyes alleged something else. Like he was pleading to let you indulge. 

The forbidden fruit and its serpent. Why was this man always tempting you to things that could sabotage your name? It was as if his heart vowed to drown you to doom…

“No, I’ll do it,” you decided. 

…yet you had let him, again and again. The descendants of Eve never learned. 

“They call you the Renaissance Man, my lord? I’ll steal your title when I show everyone I can do more than paint…and outdo you in dance.” 

“Dance is a form of art, too, y’know,” Dazai smiled before he parted from you. “How about instead, you think of it like we’re creating our own special piece together.” 

“Competition,” you disagreed in one word, curtsying before him as the drums cued.

“Collaboration,” he bowed. 

You two rose, and a new tension was ignited in the room. Your eyes locked with his again, but this time more determined—more passionate, as you gracefully swept to the left while the brunette the opposite way. You continued that movement while also gravitating closer. 

Closer, until he was finally able to lay hands on your waist. 

“Look up, miss,” Dazai softly reminded you. “Too flustered that you’ve forgotten etiquette?” 

You didn’t even realize your eyes chased down to where he was holding you—no man had touched anywhere near your corset before. You felt nervous; it was supposed to be so wrong, so why did his hold feel so right? As if his fingers were always supposed to be wrapped around you, the final touches to a masterpiece of intimacy. 

You were falling for it—the serpent’s art of seduction. This wasn’t supposed to be a collaboration. 

“What happened to your confidence?” Dazai teased, whispering in your ear; you felt his breath tickling your skin.

Your eyes drifted back to his in embarrassment, but you couldn’t give your rival the entertainment of winning against you in something you proposed. Fighting against your nerves, you wrapped one of your arms around Dazai’s broad shoulder.

“Shut up.”

He lifted you by the hips to aid as you lept and turned around him, his left thigh pushing you upward, and that same nervous excitement returned to your stomach. It was as if pools conjoining both everything and oblivion at once lay physically on you. His gaze resembled hands—he caressed your shoulders; he traced your face like he wanted to paint every angle of you. 

He was gentle with his actual hold on you, too; Dazai carried you as delicately as the brush strokes he made on canvas. He carefully set you down with ease after every jump while still treating you like a porcelain doll, and there you made the mistake of wandering your eyes down to his lips, lightly parted—you realized this was the second closest time this man had come near enough to kiss you. 

His body was so warm, he could pull you flush against him if he wanted to. His breath was minty, the coolness of his mouth addicting, and if Eden smelled heavenly too, he had truly just slithered down, carrying the sweet, earthly scent along with him. All your senses were overloaded by the man standing before you like alcohol; you wondered if you’d even end up home by the end of the night. 

“You’re enjoying this way more than to simply boost thy status.” 

In that moment, you snapped out of your haze of dopamine, and the music faded into a new routine. You also realized that an entire audience had been watching you. That was not ideal. 

You scooted back right after Dazai released his hold on you, looking down in coyness. “Maybe I’m just a good actor.” 

“You’re a terrible one,” he chuckled, following you out of the crowd. “You can’t even look at me to sell your lie!” 

You glared at the brunette once more. “I don’t have to look at you to tell you the truth.” 

“So cold-hearted,” he sighed. “Even after a dance to loosen you up. Guess I need to work harder to ask you out.”

“For what, a double suicide?” You once again recalled some other things he had said during your weird, fated meet at the lake. 

“Exactly! You remember!” 

“Well, sorry, that’s not happening,” you responded. “Go find some other lady to ask. I’m sure you do this all the time anyway.”

Because how did he touch you so perfectly? How did he dim out every other person in the room to make it seem like it was just you two?

He paused. “No, I don’t. You’re the first person I danced this galliard with. You realize we were even in skill, right?” 

“Didn’t seem like it. And I don’t understand why you chose me.”

“You fascinate me, angel of Florence,” Dazai said. “You did save me in a way. Sure, we’re rivals. But one day, I’ll paint you myself. 

“You’re too beautiful to not.” 

…

“I hope you all have had a lovely night,” Fukuzawa spoke over the room. “To conclude the gathering, I would like to announce what the Vatican’s next project will be.” 

Artists all around you waited in anticipation, for good reason. You and Dazai looked at each other too. You’d already experienced it for yourself—a commission from the Pope himself guaranteed immediate, enormous success (and money; your job from him was your biggest pay so far). Whatever he proposed required another artist, and it could be anyone in the room. 

“The Sistine Chapel,” Fukuzawa said. “The large crack that has formed along the ceiling is to be repaired in the upcoming year.” 

There were a few chatters after that. The chapel was insanely impressive—the interior of the large building was covered in stunning frescos by some of the great artists who had come before you. Even though the Pope hadn’t even said what the job was to be, anyone working on things concerning it would have to be just as good as its predecessors. 

“Along with reparations, its panels shall be painted.” 

There were a few gasps from the patrons. Was that even possible? How could someone even paint the ceiling without it being taken off of the roof? And it was so large, too, like a mega-sized canvas. 

It was unheard of. 

“I have already selected the person I would like to work on this,” Fukuzawa continued. There was silence again. 

“It’s probably Dostoevsky,” Dazai said to you. 

Fyodor? “Why do you think so?” you asked. 

“He completely stole the spotlight with that statue of David he finished this year,” he dryly chuckled. “Well deserved, I’m afraid. You saw it too when you were in Florence, did you?” 

“Yeah,” you replied. You had to acknowledge how impressive it was for yourself. It was like the man turned hard stone into pliable clay. 

“But that’s sculpting, not painting.” 

“Oh? Do you think you’d be a better candidate?” 

He was smiling again. “No, I never said that,” you scoffed. “I was going to say maybe you’d have a chance-”

“Fyodor Dostoevsky,” Fukuzawa said.

Oh.

You paused, scanning the room to see where he was. 

He was on the other side, intently making his way to the Pope. 

“I request you to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.” 

Fyodor stood in front of him and then bowed. 

“...I offer my sincerest gramercy for this opportunity, Your Holiness,” the artist said.

There was a pause.

“…I would like to discuss the rest of what this entails in private.” 

Your brows furrowed. That was almost a bit…rude. Sure, he hadn’t declined the offer, but for whatever reason, he also didn’t accept it. 

“Very well,” Fukuzawa replied without a change in his tone. “I adjourn this party. Bonam noctem.”

There was a final applause for him and the city’s next project, and then everyone began filing out. 

However, you and Dazai stayed in place until Ranpo suddenly tugged on your arm. 

“There you are! Let’s go!” 

“W-Where?” you asked as he started to drag you away. 

“Goodnight!” you heard Dazai say before disappearing into the crowd. His small smile remained in your memory, and a part of you wished you could give him a proper goodbye.

“To eavesdrop, duh,” Ranpo replied as he sifted you through everyone moving the opposite way. “Don’t you also want to hear what Fyodor has to say?” 

“I don’t understand why he didn’t just accept the proposal,” you said. “Anyone else would do it in a heartbeat!” You were sort of jealous; that job was given to someone so ungrateful! If you were the one who recieved it, you would’ve put your entire effort into transforming the ceilings right away. 

“I don’t know how he’s so beloved,” Ranpo continued. “Not even His Holiness likes him that much; he just doesn’t show bias when choosing people to paint his architecture. Did you know Fyodor was supposed to produce his tomb?” 

“What happened with that? I thought it was being worked on by a few other artists.” 

“He kept clashing with His Holiness about it,” he said. “Until the plans got so messed up, Fyodor called it a ‘tragedy’ and left Rome for a while. Quite literally abandoned it.” 

What an asshole! Especially in front of His Holiness!

“I don’t like him at all,” Ranpo squeezed your arm. It had become quite apparent to you that Ranpo admired Fukuzawa—not just because he was his so-called favorite or because he was the Pope, but something else. You had seen them together during the party earlier, and you were reminded of father and son. “He has a nasty ego, and I can’t figure out his intentions. I feel off every time I meet with him.” 

“Intentions? For what?” 

“Don’t be stupid, miss,” Ranpo said. “He told you himself, he’s here for something. It’s just so annoying! He hides it all behind those stupid, purple eyes…” 

You approached the entrance to a hallway at the very back of the room, and you heard two familiar voices outside. 

“...I carve marble, not paint.” 

“You discredit your skill with a brush too much.”

“Your Holiness, we had very different views during the last commission you gave me,” you overheard Fyodor say. “I simply don’t want to cause another commotion with this.” 

You only peeked through the large doorway to hear more clearly, but Ranpo continued walking right in as if they wouldn’t notice. 

“R-Ranpo!” you whispered harshly.

Immediately, Fukuzawa and Fyodor looked at you both, and you scrambled behind Ranpo. 

“I’m so sorry, Your Holiness,” you replied, accidentally locking eyes with Fyodor, who looked at you unfazed as if he had already noticed you two a mile away. You couldn’t even think of an excuse to explain what you were doing there, but then Fukuzawa resumed the conversation without a care. 

“I see then,” he replied and then gave it some thought. “I felt you were the only one who was fit for the matter, but perhaps I could just hand it to-” 

Fukuzawa looked at you, and Fyodor looked at him before looking at you. 

“Ah, what I said was just a concern,” Fyodor interrupted to your dismay. “I’ll accept your commission on one condition.” 

The three of you waited. 

“On the contract, it shall be stated that noone shall view the inside of the Chapel until it is completed,” Fyodor stated. “Including yourself, Your Highness.” 

He thought for another moment. 

“Very well, Fyodor. It will be arranged.” 

What a rat!

It had been a few weeks since that eventful ball. You had started work on painting the rooms in the Pope’s chambers—there were sketches of concepts scattered all over your desk. Coupled with your thoughts—thoughts reliving all the situations you were thrown into that night. 

You hadn’t seen the two angels since then. Well…would you even call them that anymore?

Knock, knock, knock!

“Hey! Let me in!” You heard Ranpo’s voice from outside your house. You were still half-asleep, trying to make breakfast, but you immediately rushed to open the door. 

“Ranpo!” You were startled. “What are you doing here so early?” 

“Stop complaining. You’re going to love this.” 

He stuck his hand into his pocket and then revealed a set of shiny keys. 

“Sitting in my palm are the keys to the Sistine Chapel.”

“No way.” It was like the sight fully awakened you, like caffeine. “Ranpo…how?!” 

“Hmph!” He shook his head. “You underestimate me so much when you quite literally depend on me!” When you laughed, he continued. “Lord Fyodor’s on a business trip until next week. Do with that info as you wish.” 

“You’re a genius,” you replied with a mischievous grin as he threw you the keys. 

“Of course I am! I despise him, but I’m too lazy to mess with him right now, so I’ll just leave it up to you. After all, he didn’t want to do it initially because he thought you set it up.” 

“By me?” you asked, shocked. “He hates painting so much that he thought I had a hand in it? Imagine giving away the Sistine Chapel.”

He was really something else. Was dead set on declining the offer right until His Holiness debated giving it to me…

…

Ranpo sat at the dining table eating the remaining tarts left over while you finished washing the dishes in the kitchen after your meal. Your move had gone smoothly, and you were pleased with the home you created for yourself—the windows in front of the sink were opened, letting air and the sounds of nature in as you looked outside. 

“His Holiness instructed me to paint over the previous works in the Palace when I first walked inside because he deemed what I could produce more important than what was already up there,” you told him with your own dash of pride. You couldn’t contain the bright smile that flashed on your face. 

“Just as I suspected,” he replied, pleased. 

“...But social-wise, I think I dug a hole for myself.” 

“Definitely!” Ranpo said with no hesitation, popping another dessert into his mouth. He already knew what you were going to talk about. You gave him a look before sighing, realizing that he probably was right.

“A few days ago, I overheard people in the salons saying that…I have a special thing going on with Lord Dazai. It’s not true! I don’t know why he was being so friendly with me!” 

You hadn’t even seen him after that night. Maybe you were a little disappointed, but you should’ve seen that coming anyway. He was known as a charmer, but he hadn’t committed to anyone. And regardless, you were to marry Fyodor one day. 

Ugh, Fyodor.

“And you were friendly to him in return,” Ranpo replied. “You could’ve shrugged him off like normal rivals do. But it looked like you were completely enraptured with him.” 

Enraptured?! He was completely enraptured with me! However, you couldn’t describe to Ranpo how exactly he was—how the brunette’s eyes pleaded with yours to follow him into the eventide, how he made you feel like the only person that existed in the large crowd of people…maybe Ranpo would have his point proven.

“Well, other than that, I’ve got thee settled in Rome well enough. I’ll be here for the rest of the unwise decisions you’re going to make, but from here on out is on you, princess.” 

“Thanks, Ranpo,” you sarcastically replied. “Seriously? Unwise decisions? Rome is just different from everywhere I’ve been to before. I’m learning.” 

“Exactly, there are arts of everything,” he said. “Thou better grasp them quick or fall behind.” 

Dance. 

Deceit.

Dreams. 

Only a few you had discovered so far. 

“You fascinate me, angel of Florence. You did save me in a way.”

You couldn’t even grasp,

Dazai.

You didn’t know how long you were out. All sense of time was lost when you gained consciousness again, and you realized you had been washed up on land. 

Did God stay true to your pleas? Did an angel really come down to rescue you?

That was certainly what it seemed like in the first few seconds because you were blinded by light when you opened your eyes. You heard insects buzzing off in the distance and maybe even a bird chirping as you lay on lush grass. Perhaps you were in heaven instead, and this was your first taste of peaceful paradise. 

But all was ruined when your eyes finally focused, and a face obstructed your view. (Why was he always ruining your flawless moments?) He hovered on top of you, and the first thing you became aware of was that his mouth was dangerously close to yours. 

You immediately coughed—out of both shock and the need to. Lake water gushed out of your mouth, causing you to sit up without warning. The brunette was flung off of you, landing harshly on his bottom.

“Ow!”

You paid no mind to him as you coughed again. And again. 

When all the water was finally out of your lungs, you looked at him in utter confusion.

“Why the puzzled look?” he asked as if he wasn’t the one who was drowning and you weren’t the one saving him (and less importantly, it hadn’t looked like he was about to kiss you).

Now he sat beside you, almost perfectly fine if it weren’t for his clothes that were soaked. 

“But…you—we were drowning?” You turned to see if anyone else was in the distance because who was it that saved both of you? 

“Yeah, I was drowning,” the man replied, and you now noticed the honey color of his eyes that had been shielded behind closed eyelids and pretty eyelashes earlier. “And this time, it almost worked! Until you decided to rescue me!” 

“Um, what?” You asked sharply, even more bewildered at the way he tried to make your efforts sound negative. 

“At first, I thought maybe thou were a lovely lady who wanted to commit double suicide with me! But I realized that wasn’t the case when you started fighting to get some air…” 

“Are you crazy?” you asked, not caring whether you were speaking impolitely or not. “Double suicide? Why else would I dive into a cold lake to join a stranger? And you were aware of what was happening all along?” 

“Maybe! Women have done a lot to try to get close to me.” You didn’t believe him. “And, well, yeah! Obviously, I couldn’t continue because of two things. The first was you because I couldn’t let an innocent involved be harmed along with me! I had to save you, of course.” 

You became even more irritated. “You wouldn’t have had to if you didn’t pretend you were drowning! I had to use all my strength to rescue you, y’know! I could’ve died as well!” 

“But you didn’t!” the brunette replied. “There was no way I was going to let someone so beautiful drown.”

You scowled at him before you stood up. “You’re ridiculous. What’s your second reason?” 

“Drowning in a lake ended up becoming uncomfortable.” You wanted to punch him in the face—uncomfortable was an obvious understatement. “I didn’t like the feeling of suffocation that set in, so I just decided to give up.” 

“It didn’t even look like you had any air left in you,” you muttered, facing your back towards him, remembering his placid expression earlier. “How were you conscious if you weren’t even holding your breath?” 

“Party trick,” he responded, and when you dared to glance back, he wore a smug grin. 

“Oh…are you leaving me then?” he asked as you started walking away, saying no more. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” you scoffed, not stopping. “I’m completely soaked, and I don’t know about you, but I have important things to get to.” 

You heard a chuckle from him. “Is that so?” he asked. His voice was getting farther, meaning he was no longer following you. “Where are you headed?” 

“Rome.” 

“I live there. Perhaps we shall meet again. And then, I could ask you—properly—if you would like to commit a double suicide with me.” 

“I doubt it,” you replied, assured you were never going to see this man whose face looked kissed by Aphrodite herself again. Perhaps you would’ve found him handsome if he was in a less disheveled state. 

As if you did not already. 

“Why do you seem so sure? Anything can happen.” He chuckled once again. 

Well, I am a painter, and you don’t look like someone who would even have an eye for art, is what you wanted to say. But you didn’t want to open more doors to curiosity and stay there even longer. 

“Maybe you’re right,” you stopped. “Okay, then.

“If you think you’re going to see me again, can you promise to not kill yourself until then? Until I agree to you?” 

You figured you would just give him some hope so that your efforts to save him would not be in vain. If he would actually keep your word, anyway. 

When you turned around, the brunette was still standing on the shore, and he had a smile on his face. 

He really did carry the setting sun in his gaze. It was still midday, but the man’s soul seemed to prefer the softer shades of light that appeared just before the cool shades of night. 

And you felt his eyes tenderly cupping your face, even though you were feet away from each other. You weren’t sure if you were so lost that you were imagining things—but he looked at you as if he’d known you a hundred lifetimes, longing to touch your soul once again. 

“I pinkie promise,” he said. 

You thought that finally ended the conversation, but he asked one more thing. 

“Your name?” he asked. 

“Do you really need it?” It was unlikely, but you didn’t know if he would recognize your name. You didn’t want to risk anyone knowing about this encounter. 

“I saved you,” he said. “I almost thought you were done for. You still weren’t breathing when I performed chest compressions, so I had to—” 

“Okay, stop right there!” you interrupted, becoming flustered. You didn’t need to hear the rest. You imagined the stranger’s mouth on yours—trying to give you oxygen, of course, but his mouth on yours regardless. 

You told him your name. “Don’t bother with yours. I’ll figure it out if we run into each other again.” 

His grin was smug. “Fare thee well, mia belladonna.

“Until we meet again.” 

…

“You can find anything in the promised land, solnyshka.”

ur man of choice (or both if u’d like) dances with u during the ball if u rb; reblogs are incredibly cherished; they are what support me the most. <3

WE DID ITT !! i hope this was decent, tbh i’m rly nervous HAHA ᡣ𐭩 dazai rly got most of the love here, but i promise there’s waay more to come.

+ check THIS FOR EXTRA INFO/LORE, it’s cool ;) comment on the masterlist to be added to the tagslist !! & ilu if you made it this far, thank you so so much for reading ᰔ

TERMS & DEFINITIONS:

CIOPPA - outermost layer of a dress

RUELLA - salons/social gatherings

ALMAINE - slow court dance; GALLIARD - fast court dance (in the renaissance)

TRANSLATIONS: (not all bcz they wanna be mysterious)

gramercy - “thank you”

artigiani; aristocratici - artisans; aristocrats (italian)

bonam noctem - “good night” (latin)

© AUREATCHI 2024. no reposts or translations. do not steal. support banner + animated line divider by cafekitsune. header + series dividers mine; DO NOT SAVE.

Backwards reflection

Summary: Coriolanus deals wiht the war inside his head. You might be too alike after all, but maybe that's why you need each other. Facing the ugly sides is a mirror you have grown to love.

Pairing: Sub!Coriolanus Snow x Dom!reader

Warnings: Coriolanus and reader (edge lords who are a bit fucked in the head), angst, making out, fighting, lots of inner angst and bad emotions for both parties, brief fight, kissing, technically some nudity(nothing happens just touch starvation)

A/N: this tired me out emotionally and physically but I live making this man pathetic. Part three will include smut.(finally)

Word count: 3.2k

[Part 1] [Masterlist]

Coriolanus Snow who never acted out after the incident. Sure there were times where your behavior got on his nerves but you'd grown familiar with his responses and moods so you soothed his anger with a loving touch and he as always gave in.

Coriolanus Snow who had never realized how good it felt to be spoiled. He had never allowed himself the thought of relinquishing his control in any way to someone, it was all he had during the harder days. But with you here? Sure you hadnt given him much of a choice in the beginning, but you cared for him in the transactional way he did for you.

You loved each other the only way you could, and most days that was enough.

Most of his time was still spent juggling the Academy and keeping his reputation pristine but there was no need to be as obsessed with it as before. He'd give himself a breather sit and smell the roses(literaly). He'd sit in parks and indulge in using the lavish Capitol public transport with the card you'd given him. He discovers how limited his world has been, it hadn't occurred to him to think about the spaces inbetween the Academy and his home. He visits parks and gardens, cafes and restaurants. He meets a lot of his classmates outside of school, albeit it involuntarily, but still he indulges in their company now that the look of their inherited riches doesn't make him sick. He strengthens his bonds and positions. He feels good.

☆Coriolanus Snow who enjoys life under your thumb. You are aware of everything he does, who he meets and where he goes, what he buys. He never asks from where you get your information, you never answer anyways. He is behaving himself for now, so you alow him to roam freely but both of you know you'll clip his wings faster than he could comprehend if it came down to it.

☆Coriolanus Snow who spends most of his free time with you. At first it felt obligatory to be seen with you but now seeing you, talking with you, eating praise at the palm of your hand it felt like second nature.

You'd attend parties together, matching clothes in reds and whites. At first you'd allowed for his tailored clothes to show the symbol of his family but slowly you'd started to incorporate the crest of your family on it instead. Soon enough he was walking around branded as yours.

☆Coriolanus Snow who on good days felt triumphant, like he had won the lottery with this deal. Who would beam at you as you'd eat in some fancy restaurant, intertwining your hands together and going as far as to feed you from his plate if he deemed the dish so good.

☆Coriolanus who nuzzles his cheek into yours and the tip of his cold nose brushed yours and he laughed. A pure and beautiful sound you don't hear too often, you'd buy it if you could, alas it was too priceless.

☆Coriolanus who viewed you as his in his own way. You had become the center of his universe(on purpose) and he enjoyed it. Always having a gentle soft hand on your lower back, not so much guiding you but holding onto you. Coriolanus who held you tightly on the new matress you'd bough together as a form of shopping date, like you were his personal stuffed toy. You wouldn't admit you enjoyed it. But you did.

☆Coriolanus Snow who on good days relishes into the feeling of being known wholly and still accepted. Who enjoyed walking around without the weight of a bravado or mask. Coriolanus Snow who loved you without fear.

✹Coriolanus Snow who on bad days lived in constant fear that he wouldn't live up to the transaction and you'd leave him. He'd seen hiw fast you cut other people, how fast and with no warning you left him when he stepped out of line.

He comforts himself with the thought that you'd spent way too much money on him to just dump him out of the blue, as long as he behaved. That you could fix him, mend him, shape him however you liked and he'd let you. He'd let you shatter him if it meant you'd continue to (love) support him.

✹Coriolanus Snow who on bad days would study and work hard even harder than before. A part of him hated hiw easily he had slipped into your trap. How vulnerable to your whims hr had become, how dependent he was. He was scared you'd pull the rug and all would fall apart underneath him, his last chance at a future outside of poverty.

His whole demeanor would be off and you could tell immediately that it was one of his bad days even before he answered your daily calls on the phone you bought him. When he got into his fits of studying out of misery he became almost unreachable, he knew you were the one calling. I mean, no one else could call him.

He'd answer eventually and you'd invite hik to dinner in your house. Sometimes when he really had to study for a test you wouldn't force him to come, you still wanted him to actually have good grades, its among the things you like most about him. But now you know by the tiredness and lack of emotion in his short answers that he was simply not in a good place.

And he'd come at the designated hour, politely knock and make small talk with your parents. They weren't fully aware of your deal, they could see the indent of the money in your bank account but also it was money they had given to you to use however you liked so they didn't ask too much questions. If all of you started poking your nose in each other's business your family would fall apart.

Your parents liked Coriolanus, that meant they didn't mind you spending time with him or spending money on him. They also didn't mind it when you excuse the both of you from dinner in the grand hall and lead Coriolanus up to your room where a small feast was organized.

You'd walk ahead even if Coriolanus knew the path by heart, he spent a lot of time here. While his apartment had gotten a few renovations it was still showing all the signs of his finances demise, how he truly didn't belong in the world he was trying to be in. His envy and pride had kept him going blindly for uears to come, it's not like he had much choice. It was that or giving up and letting all the two people he cared about die with him.

In all his years he hadn't allowed himself to stop, to weaver, to be shaken for long from his future position, almost like it was promised to him. His circumstances didn't allow for anything else. Now he had too much time to sit with his own thoughts. Too much time to reminiscent about how much he had taken from Tigris'es youth, to notice how old grandma'am had become. How fragile his little world was.

Coriolanus'es heavy monotony steps echo behind you, you walk with your chin high and fight the urge to turn around to look at him. You know he is there. But you still want to see if he is with you, or lost in his own self made prison by your doing.

You reach your room and Coriolanus goes to open it by muscle memory. His gaze is still unfocused and far away and the thin layer of skin around his eyes seems worn out and raw. It makes something stir inside you, anger. He is wearing one of the cotton shirts you had given him, plain and simple with some blue pants that reached hus ankles. The necklace you'd given him for your first supposed "anniversary" sat prettily on his collarbone. It was a simple rose gold chain with a small pendant of your family's crest: the version was simplified but the branches of the walnut trees that made up a circular frame and the small image of lion stood proudly in its middle, teeth bared. The chain wasn't long, and it made it accidentally(completely on purpose) seem like a collar. The sight puts you a bit at ease.

You both enter your spacious room, it smells faintly of the perfume you wear. On the large bed lay multiple trays with lavish dishes all unique, with different protein or no protein, depending on what the both of you would prefer. Corio rarely would turn up his nose at something, for reasons that were never spoken but understood. You watched him suffer through a bean based dish once and decided not to do it again.

Usually by this point the sight and smell of your signature scent, the warmth of your room and the aroma of food would calm his mind and bring some light back into him, but today he seemed too far gone.

Even as you both sat on the bed, the matress dipping under your weight, he ate a few bites and most of the time simply keep his gaze occupied with something else. It made some sort of anger rise in you. You tell you're you are angry because he isn't cooperating, that you've spent so much on him and he doesn't enjoy it, that he is being selfish. The soft metal of your fork seems entirely too bendable in your tight fist. You tell yourself you hate it when he isn't acting like you want him too, it's not being you hate your own powerlessness, that you can't fix this by throwing money. You could lie, but you don't.

The whirling of emotions claw its way from your gut through your lungs and throat, where it begs to be released in harsh words and imbalanced actions. Your mind grows dull of reason and your tongue sharpens. But you are better than this. You have self control. You have the control.

"I have not poisnoned the food, no need to check it."

You bite out as coldly as you can, if you don't you might burn him with your own powerlessness. His gaze momentarily shifts upwards and to you, his eyes have a yellowing touch to them and the veins are prominant and red, eyes glassy hopefully from reading and writting for so long.

"I never thought you had."

"Is there another reason you arent eating then? Perhaps the food is not up to par?"

You can hear the barely hidden venom in your voice. He can hear it too. The air feels tense and almost weavers as you both look at each other. Corio as always reads you as well as you read him and quickly becomes defensive from his own powerlessness.

"The food is lovely."

He spats back at you with a forced angry smile. This was it. You were getting tired of him and his leaching off of you. The same way the charm of a Christmas puppy would wear off after a month or two so had his own twisted charisma. He would be thrown out in the cold and left to starve, quite literally like a dog. The betrayal made his chest flare up, it set something ablaze.

Both of you stand there the embodiment of pride as all can be heard is the faint sound of the ambient music from downstairs piano and the sound of both of your breathing. That and the blood rushing through your ears. Both of you stoically and pridefully guard their response and face, force of habit from the years of play pretend.

This was the hard thing about this comrades, deal, relationship of yours, you were the same. This puzzle pieces etched from the same wood that fit together in a way no one else could. But once theatching ugly sides were facing you couldn't even be close.

His brows scrunch firtger together and he seems to be loosing the inner fight with his head just as you are. Emotions got the best of him. The best of you.

So you pulled him by the chain and smashed your lips against his.

The unspoken argument was still hot on his lips but so were your own as then mended together. His lips were as soft as you had imagined on one occasion. At first he didn't respond, not expecting for you to allow him to stay. He thought you'd finally force him to leave.

His lack of response doesn't stop you, you double down and place your hands on either side of his jaw, digging your short manicured nails into the warm flesh under where his ear and jaw meet. You were going to keep him here with you, not his stupid head, not his hatred and fear, not inside the prison of his mind, with you.

It seemed to snap Coriolanus back to life. In a flash his eyes close and his lips move against yours, the kiss is slow but very raw. His teeth brush against yours and his lips redden and glisten as they dance with yours. It's not a fight for dominance like you'd expect, it feels like you are trying to consume each other until you are one. His hands dig into the cotton material of your house clothes. They lacked the usual designer brand and rich material you usually sported, it made him feel a bit better, it made you feel barer.

His nails dig crescents into the skin of your lower back, his warm hands had found their anchor underneath your shirt and on your body.

You were warm, so so warm. And he felt like he was dying of the cold, in his apartment, in his bed, in his body. He felt cold. He wanted to be warmed by you, that's all he wanted.

You take a step closer and now your clotyed chest is against his, your hands have found their way in his hair and his own are resting in a tight embrace on your back underneath the cloth. You pull off of the kiss breathless and a bit hazy minded, you'd never done that before and judging by the disheveled boy woth dilated eyes and lips redden by your chapstick he was feeling the effect of making out for the first time.

It proved more addicting than you had expected and after quickly putting the trays with almsot untouched food on your vanity you quickly crawl on the bed to continue. It was head-spinning and electric, it made your body shiver as you got lost in it. Maybe a more rational part of you would have done things differently, made you the seductress, made you the one in control, but your hormones were raging and Coriolanus was kissing you like he's trying to fry his brain up and fill the black hole in his chest. You couldn't pull away, it felt like all the barriers set up by society, yourself, your image and even the physical form were blurring and evaporating, especially as Coriolanus's lips trailed lower and kissed and nipped at your jaw and neck.

The movements were desperate, like he was trying to crawl in your skin. You weren't much better as your hands skimmed up and down his back, underneath the layers to feel his hot back, he felt like a furnace against you.

"Coriolan-"

"Corio, please call me Corio"

He muttered into your neck, his body weight was almost fully on you, only held up by his knees on either side of your hips and one hand that squished the pillow next to your head. It made your brain go quiet for a few seconds but you didn't want that. This was all going wrong. You are supposed to be in control.

So you grab him by the neck, you nails leave pink marks on the sides of the sweaty flesh and you make him look in your eyes and stop lavishing your neck.

"Who do you belong to, Corio?"

Your voice didn't carry the same steelness to it as ususal but it came out as a threats hiss and that was enough for you. At first he didn't react his wide pupils made his eyes seem almost black. Then he opens his mouth and wrapped his lips around words he couldn't stomach before.

"Im yours, Im yours, y/n. Let me be yours, please"

It's whiny and desperate, a bit tearfully if you listened closely. It soothes something deep inside of you but your expression doesn't let up, scrunching into an deadly grimace, the hand at his neck tightens until you can feel his thriving heartbeat against your palm.

"If you think there is some way for you to escape from me you are wrong. No one can help you, no man, no woman. You are mine, and you will like it"

You gritt out and you can feel a vein pop on your face as you stare unforgiving at him, as if it will drill it in his head and keep him happy. Because you wanted him happy.

His lips are half open and his eyes are doe wide, maybe it's the fact this sick proclamation soothes him, or maybe it's the fact he sees the weakness inside of you that makes him feel better. He doesn't know. He hasn't been thinking straight since he crawled on your bed. He leans down and a stray curl of his blond hair coiled and brushed against your forearm. His lips meet with your wrist and he places such a delicate kiss there you almost believe he cares about you. It halts your bravado and gives him enough time to lift his gaze you and look at you through his lashes.

"You are all that matteres to me. You are everything that i have. Let me be yours."

He says and drops his hand down so his forehead lays at the back of your hand. His words and the shock from there seeming sincerely makes your hold loosen. His lips are at your knuckles and he holds your smaller hand in both of his like he is praying at deity. For all he cares, you are his religion and sacred salvation. The closest his soul will get to accending is when he is pressed so tightly against you he confuses what is his and what is yours.

"i love you the only way i know how to. I'll make it be enough for you. Ill be enough for you."

You don't know what to say. No response cokes and you are scare of what will come.ojt even if it did. You have no words for hik to soothe his longing, you don't know how. Your armor stands shining as he bears himself for you.

You press your lips to the crown of his head and keep them there, you envelope his head in your hands and bring him back to you. He eagerly let's you move him as you like and when he rests his head against your now bare chest It makes something click in his brain. He takes off his won shirt and lays back down with you.

You can't say if he simply clinging to you or the otger way around. All you know is that you feel warm. You feel good. The cold ess is gone and you are here with him. With Corio, with your Corio who you love, you don't know how or where to even begin to understand this twisted version of something supposedly innocent. All you know is you belong with him.

He belongs to you. He isn't going anywhere and judging by how comfortable he is underneath your heavy duvet and in your arms, nestled on the warm skin of your chest, he doesn't plan on going anywhere either.

In the end you got what you want.

Coriolanus wanted you willingly, even if this wasn't the path you thought it would take.

Doesn't matter, you always won in the end. Right?

(Im gonna make them both suffer yall)

May i ask if luke and percy are the possible love interests in waking up in pjo or im reading the lines wrong? I love your work! Thank you for the works u put out <33

Thank you for reading! I’m glad you’re enjoying it so far :)

It depends on the perspective. I think from Luke or Percy’s perspective, yeah, they totally consider (Y/N) as a love interest.

(And I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I think I’ve hinted at it, but because (Y/N) is a fertility god everyone around them gets a little i faulted with them. It’s purely instinctual, like pheromones and vibes and body chemistry, nothing anyone can explain with science. But everyone has a crush on them. And it’s really confusing because they’re a child of hades.)

But for (Y/N) I do feel like it’s a little different. For one they’ve been alive for so long. Literal lifetimes worth of experiences. So for them, Percy and Luke and Annabeth and Clarisse are literal children. They feel like they have to take care of them and protect them, and they are friends, but I’m not sure if seeing them romantically is possible. But they’re also a child, and being a child physically affects your mental state too. Especially when you’re surrounded by beings that have been alive for centuries. Much longer than you have.

So it’s really confusing for them, and I don’t think they really know how they feel.

Deeply fucking unsettling things about the Honored One himself, Satoru Gojo

Thanks to his ability to fuck with gravity, you put him in a blank, empty room with identical walls, floor, and ceiling with no doors or windows, he'll quickly lose track of which way is up. Realistically this situation would probably never happen, but the concept freaks him out ever since Geto made a joke about it once.

Gojo's body maintains a perfect thermodynamic equilibrium, making his skin creepily cool to the touch. He can go out in a blizzard with shorts on, and between that and Infinity, he'd be perfectly fine. It makes for a cool party trick, because he can stick his hand in a candle flame or put cigarettes out on his arms with no ill effects.

He's unsettlingly clean at all times, because dirt can't touch him. Gojo hasn't needed to use stain remover on his uniform in years.

He quite literally has six eyes. He keeps four of them shut and all of them hidden most of the time, though, because a) looking into all six at once would liquefy the brain of your average human, and b) his Six Eyes are constantly feeding unfathomable amounts of information into his brain every second. Even with his tolerance to his powers and mastery of the reverse curse technique, there's only so much stimuli a human brain can process without completely shutting down, and Gojo doesn't want to find out what that'll do to him--in a nutshell, just because he can see things that mankind can't even hope to comprehend doesn't mean he wants to.

He can perceive the entire electromagnetic spectrum, meaning he can see shrimp colors. Everyone else desperately wants him to describe the shrimp colors. Gojo continues to smugly refuse.

Because of his reverse curse technique constantly refreshing and regenerating his body, he just. doesn't really need to eat anymore. or drink. or even breathe. His body is basically frozen at peak physical condition, and it's very likely that he is functionally immortal.

Sometimes, Gojo forgets what pain feels like, because nothing can touch him. Pain feels almost like pleasure to him, because nothing can hurt him. Nothing can even touch him, and Gojo has secretly developed a perverted interest in seeing how badly he can mutilate himself before he's forced to reengage his technique and heal.

Gojo can bend and contort himself in ways that aren't humanly possible, run faster and farther and lift heavier objects than anyone alive, because his body can repair itself almost as fast as it's damaged, depending on how severe the injury. Basically, he has permanent hysterical strength, letting him push his body past its limits to perform feats that would kill a normal human with no ill effects.

Gojo doesn't sleep. He literally can't unless he releases his technique, because his body is constantly being refreshed and doesn't need to shut down. Oh well, it's for the better. He's most vulnerable while he's sleeping anyway, and it opens up his schedule by a lot.

His teeth grow now, almost like a rodent's. He has to file them down to be able to open and close his mouth properly, along with much more frequent trimming of his hair and nails.

His skin is oddly smooth, and unnaturally pristine. Gojo hasn't recieved a single scar since Toji sliced him open, and all the ones he'd recieved before are healed flawlessly at this point. His hands are so soft they make it look like he hasn't fought a day in his life, because calluses aren't able to form anymore.

Gojo's been around the world countless times now. He can go wherever he wants with a thought; the only cost is his sanity. Warping himself across the Pacific for lunch in San Francisco is fun, but he can only do it a few times a week if he doesn't want to have another... ah, episode.

These episodes involve blackouts, gaps in his memory where his powers manage to slip their leashes from overuse and literally short-circuit his brain. He's only had a few so far, and every time, he wakes up in the infirmary completely unscathed, with blood all over his clothes and an awful fucking migraine. Nobody knows what happens or where he goes, and all Shoko's been able to tell him is that when it happens, he seems to go into a giddy fugue before blasting his way out of the compound and vanishing for anywhere from days to weeks. Gojo's absolutely terrified of these episodes, because he's wholly aware that if he lost it for real, nobody would be able to stop him.

He looks human enough, but if you look closer, he quickly starts to set off the uncanny valley effect. It's like a wolf in sheep's clothing--because you know how dangerous he is, even though he appears relatively harmless at first. Everyone who meets him has the same fear response clawing at the back of their mind as their hindbrain screams at them to fucking run, because Gojo is an apex predator in the body of a prey animal. His very presence awakens primal fear that's been entrenched in every human since the dawn of time--the fear of things that go bump in the night, of cosmic horrors beyond what mankind can even hope to comprehend.

His eyes glow all the time now, and the energy crackling in the air around him feels like the static that comes before a lightning strike. Satoru Gojo is insistent that he's still human even though he's the strongest, but... is he, really?

Demi-gods; yeah their hades favourite pawn. I bet he doesn’t even care for them

Meanwhile hades: dear gods are they alright?!? Did I pack them enough ambrosia?!? Persephone was 2000 gold enough?!? I’m a terrible grandfather I bet they hate me.

No but the way you captured the whole dynamic in three sentences - chefs kiss

But for real though, Hades is 100% the type to wear a disguise and stalk their grandchild while they’re running an errand to the dry cleaners or the store. Like this man was born to raise children and he’s just so happy to finally have a grandchild he can spoil who likes him more than Persephone.

But like, I also get it from the other side you know? Because for all the kids camp know, your ‘dad’ is a jerk. First of all, he couldn’t keep it in his pants and he brought you into the world when he swore to not have any more kids. Then, he sends you on a quest where you risk your life, to save his other full-god child (Zagreus). And then if that wasn’t enough he lets his whole extended family bully you into doing quests for them. The muttered grumbles Luke emits every other day about how Hades treats you doesn’t really do much to lighten this perspective.

Meanwhile Hades is in the underworld showing Sally Jackson all your baby pictures.

“And this is the picture during their blessing ceremony with me, they say you don’t need a ceremony but it doesn’t hurt. And this is the picture from their first day at pre-school, I transformed into a crow and took it (it was very difficult do not ask), ah and this is the picture from when they were eight and they had a pomegranate for the first time, I had to wait at that park all day with Cerberus to catch them when they got out of school.”

Honestly, I think the only reason Sally got that job in the underworld is because she’s a good listener and doesn’t report hades for stalking.

What a time to be alive!

New years celebration in the winner's waiting room.