i read chezka’s new fic and felt compelled to draw something right away ,,, ;__; <3 i had never read a hanahaki fic before but i cannot stress enough how much i enjoyed reading this one!
the song is hail to the victor by thirty seconds to mars and i did not intend for it to capture the vibe of this so well but it did skldfjlskd
tw: kinda graphic descriptions of murder, blood, misgendering/deadnaming- but the character doesn’t know what gender they are yet, assassination, drugs
Another life, another love
Viktoria was going to be Queen one day.
That was what she said to herself at least, pacing the halls of the castle.
She knew it was a lie. Her mother had been a maid, her father had been a servant, and she-
Well. She was the scum of the earth, it seemed.
The King’s daughter ran past the window outside. Her dress billowed in the wind as she ran, bare feet touching the ground only for a second before lifting off again, almost like a rabbit.
She was beautiful.
Viktoria hated her.
She had everything. She wasn’t avoided like the plague, she was revered and treasured and so pretty Viktoria nearly swooned every time she saw her and-
Viktoria hated her, she reminded herself.
She sighed. A knock at the door she was supposed to be guarding sounded, and she walked over to it, expecting another knight.
It was the Princess’s birthday today, and that meant she was working overtime to get everything set up and everyone in the castle.
She opened the door.
A hand reached out and covered her mouth.
She screamed.
Everything went dark.
Another kill, another drug
Viktoria tiptoed through the shadows.
Like the night, like the night, like the night.
Pressing her back against the door, she calmed her breathing.
In, two, three. Out, two, three.
She took another breath.
She turned the handle of the door. Holding her breath- don’t creak don’t creak don’t creak- she made her way into the room.
The door closed behind her with a soft thump.
The person in the bed stirred slightly. Viktoria padded over to them.
She didn’t know who they were. She rarely did.
She just followed orders.
She pulled a knife out of her pocket.
The person screamed. Blood. And it was over.
Viktoria wiped her knife on her shirt, and slipped back into the shadows.
Another touch, another taste
Viktoria was bored.
She idly twirled her spoon in her hand, mentally calculating the ways you could kill someone with it.
What? She was nothing if not handy.
She took a bite of the food in front of her. Wrinkling her nose- why was it so fancy- she took a look at her surroundings again.
Fancy party? Check. Knights at almost every exit? Check. One exit clear? Check.
She tried to calm her nerves. This job would be easy.
If it weren’t for the fact that she was supposed to kill the King.
Her nerves spiked again. Ha.
She got up. Time to play her part.
Making her way over to the King, she tipped into a curtsy.
“Good evening, my leige.”
The King looked amused. “Good evening-” He glanced at her name tag. “Astra.” He smiled. “What a lovely name.”
Viktoria gagged internally. “Yes, my mother picked it quite well. It means ‘stars’.” She did her best to smile politely back at him.
The King chuckled. “Yes, I know. I do study up on languages, you know.”
Viktoria seethed silently. “Oh of course, my King. How-” She gritted her teeth. “Foolish of me to assume otherwise.”
The King laughed again. “Oh, it’s quite alright, Astra.” He got a wistful look in his eyes. “You know, you remind me of my late wife- your Queen.”
Viktoria had never seen the last Queen, but knew enough about her to know she was nothing like her. Still, she nodded along. “How gracious of you to compare me to someone so lovely.”
The King seemed far away. “You know, she fought to her last breath.” He sighed. “So stubborn, that one.”
Viktoria shakily got a small flask out of her sleeve. She pulled the cork out, and upended the entire thing into his glass. Hastily shoving it back into her sleeve, she smiled. “She sounds perfect.”
The King turned back to her, eyes misty. “She was.”
He shook himself. “Well it seems I have-” He laughed, wiped at his eyes. “Gotten things a bit off track. Was there something you came to tell me?”
“Oh, just that the food was delightful.” She fibbed easily. “Give my compliments to the chef.”
The King beamed. “Oh, that was Flori!” He waved the Princess over. “She made everything! You know, she’s gotten into cooking lately, so I thought-”
Viktoria tuned him out. She needed to get out of here.
The King took a sip of his drink.
Viktoria panicked.
As the King finished his drink, she bolted upright, looking startled. Time to put her acting skills to use.
She hurriedly stood up, making sure to put a deer-in-headlights expression on her face.
The King stood up with her, looking concerned. “Astra?”
She inhaled sharply, turning to him. “I- I have to go.” She said, making sure to trip over her words- and her dress, as she turned to leave.
She sprawled across the floor, letting out a “Dresses.”- as she’d seen many of the more tomboy-ish nobles do.
The King helped her to her feet. “Why do you have to leave?” He asked her, the crease in his forehead deepening.
Viktoria lowered her voice, not quite low enough that it would stop the people now looking on to stop hearing her, but enough that they had to strain.
“Him.” She pointed across the room, making sure to look terrified when there was no one there. “Wait- where did he go?”
The King looked around worriedly. “Who?”
Viktoria bit her lip, made an attempt to look meek. “I'm… not quite sure. He’s been- almost- stalking me, and-” She shivered. “I- I think he might- have a knife.”
The King, despite having obviously seen much more than knives, still nodded seriously.
He led her outside, and when he collapsed, Viktoria did the only thing she could.
She screamed.
Guards came running, and she was escorted safely away.
A grim smile on her face, she put the mask of the scared girl she was playing back on.
Time to see how far she would take this story.
Another night, another war
Viktoria sat on a throne. It was almost hard to believe she’d come this far.
She sighed. She still hasn’t killed her last target.
She- she couldn’t make herself do it. She was loathe to admit it, but she’d fallen quite a bit in love with the Princess- Queen, she reminded herself.
But. Her superiors had ordered today as her last day with Flori.
Unless-
Viktoria shook the thought out of her head. No. She wouldn’t betray her group.
She could, a voice in her head whispered. It would be so easy, just a few slit throats and the job would be done.
She bit her lip. The option was becoming more and more tempting.
Her mind made up, she left the castle.
Another 'what are we fighting for?’
Viktor sat surrounded by blood. So much, it was hard to tell whose was whose.
He trailed a hand through it, thinking. If he could get back to the castle today, he could claim he warded off more assassins. They were all on their guard after the King's… “incident” a few months ago.
And it technically was true. Seeing as he was a part of the Royal family now- he bit back a smile- and they were going to come after him, it wouldn’t be a complete lie.
He set out for the castle.
Another lost to bitter pain
Viktor couldn’t breathe.
How could this have happened, he should have never left, he-
It was his fault.
Flori was dead.
And it was his fault.
Viktor sank into himself, and vowed to never let anyone else get hurt.
Is everybody out here crazy?
Anybody want a war?
Everybody out here crazy
Viktor sat on his throne.
They say he ruled with an iron fist- he knew he had everyone trapped with something much stronger than that.
Revenge.
Viktor smiled cruelly.
My turn.
Outside, people screamed. Viktor paid them no mind.
Note:This will be my last update for a bit, I’ll be focusing on some events for work next week so I’ll be off tumblr. Not to worry, I still am working on everyone’s requests, and I see all your lovely comments and asks! Just need some time to sort them out <3
Summary: When Prince Scaramouche picks you out of a random group of commoners to marry, your life is turned upside down. He’s mean, snarky, condescending and he doesn’t act like a proper husband or prince at all. However, when Prince Tartaglia from the neighbouring kingdom takes an interest in you, Prince Scaramouche finds himself even more annoyed than usual. This is the story of him and you navigating this roller coaster of a relationship.
Warnings: slow burn, does not exactly follow the genshin lore, AU, tw: blood, injury
Word Count: 2.2k words
Summary and a recap on the Royal AU plots are here.
If you thought that life had been miserable ever since you came here, it doesn’t compare to this week. You haven’t seen Scaramouche. Not before you sleep, not when you wake up, not even during your meals: breakfast, lunch or dinner.
The only time you saw him was when you woke up in the middle of the night, groggy with sleep and eyes blurred with drowsiness. All you could see of him was his back, the gentle rise and fall of it. When you woke the next morning, he wouldn’t be there anymore, and wouldn’t show up for breakfast, Kuni would say that he was in his study, busy with papers first thing in the morning.
That was a lie, and you knew it.
You spent the week painting and drawing in the art room. Not only did you have no events this week, but you even declined Duchess Kokomi’s invitation to have tea with her. Somehow, last week’s events at the ball just left a sour taste in your mouth, you weren’t in the mood to see anyone.
As you settle in front of the easel on a Friday morning, your hand on the brush making big, upward strokes on the painting you were working on, your mind wanders yet again, causing your hand to stop and stall.
“What I did back there had nothing to do with you, in fact you can go right ahead and kiss him in private.”
Scaramouche was out of line, or so you thought. It hit you all over again, as you blankly stare forward.
He.didn’t.care.
Not one smidgen of understanding and love for you. You never asked for his heart, you knew you couldn’t have it. But, at the very least, some type of companionship, even something less than friendship, just civility towards each other and yet…it was so hard to obtain.
A week ago you were still grasping at hope. You were going to spend the rest of your life with him, there must have been some way to see eye to eye, to understand him a bit better. You thought that all you needed was time and perseverance, and at some point, you’d felt as if you were finally able to reach a little bit of him, finally able to see a part of him that wasn’t callous or self-centred.
But now, where there was once hope, there was nothing but despair.
You were wrong. Time or perseverance was not going to change anything. He made it very clear that night, scowling at you, ordering you to play your part, using you as an accessory.
You sigh, setting your paintbrush down when you notice that you’ve stopped painting altogether. Your head turns towards the large lattice windows, the light streaming through it drawing criss-cross patterns on your canvas. It was such a nice day out, and yet you sat in here on the inside gathering dust just as all the books on the shelves have.
The door clicking open nearly scared you to death. There was no knock, no announcements whatsoever, and Scaramouche just walks into the art room, arms crossed as your mouth falls agape. You hadn’t seen him in a whole week, and he decides to show up just like that.
The Ruthless Prince walks over to the armchair that he usually occupied on Fridays, and realizes that the tea you usually brew for him was not ready.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and you feel as if you’ve held your breath, wondering if you’re in trouble for not getting it out earlier. You just didn’t think he was going to show up, after all of that.
“…Where’s the tea?” He doesn’t look at you as he asks this, as if his eyes could only be glued to the table and were allergic to you. You let silence curtain the two of you, your body relaxes, yet it relaxes in a way that shows defeat. Your eyes linger on him, before you finally exclaim. “I didn’t prepare any.”
Quiet, and timid.
There’s a thin veil of uneasiness between the two of you, an awkwardness that was new. You hadn’t realized that those four weeks of him enjoying tea in the art room was already a glimpse of comfort with him. Now it was back to that painful and glaring silence.
“…You better go and make some then,” he huffs to himself, sinking into the armchair as if it was any Friday beforehand. You stand, with your feet heavy, you drag them all the way to the middle of the room, facing him, a few steps away from the armchair he sat on. “…I’m not preparing it for you,” you started, seeing him tense up a little, and his head finally moves the slightest bit, turning towards your voice, yet not daring to look at you fully.
“…I don’t feel like preparing it for you…It’s my free and private time so…I’ll do what I want with it,” was it petty? You immediately ask yourself. To take the words he threw at you and throw it back at him? The only difference was the eerie calmness in your tone. Scaramouche recognizes it, and when he turns his head to finally look at you, you can’t read his expression.
There’s no scowl, no glare, no smirk nor a grin. Just him, looking at you and waiting for what else you have to say.
“…I’ll teach Kuni and the maids how to brew it, you can ask them to prepare it for you,” Then, like a mechanical being, you stroll out of the art room quietly, but you walk out with a realization in mind:
I liked brewing it for you, I liked watching you drink it.
And he sits at the armchair, unmoving as the door clicks close, having a thought that he had already known for weeks on end:
I liked it when you brewed it for me.
The following day of Saturday had the two of you struggling to even look at each other during the ball you attended, and still, in front of all the others, you were the stellar conversationalist and everything seemed as it was.
Play the part, as he said.
Kokomi had been there, and it was your one saving grace during that ball, having her to really converse and catch up with. You’d left Scaramouche’s side to greet her, and stayed to talk to her for the most part.
Scaramouche didn’t stop you, but he did watch you from one of the various drinks table. You looked so…animated. So different from when you stood next to him. What did he expect, after that tirade last week? Why was it affecting him so much? How did it change your attitude towards him so drastically? Why was he only seeing it now? Was this the cold shoulder? And he thought it was bad before, now it was just…
Unbearable…
He downs the drink he has in his hand, just in time for the arrival of Prince Tartaglia to be announced. He half grunts and half growls under his breath, as if things weren’t bad enough already. He picks up another drink and starts on it, not even bothering to clap or turn around when the Snezhnayan Prince arrives.
Come to think of it, Tartaglia was supposed to be here for a few weeks. It wasn’t often he came around, but when he did, it was usually to check on the trading agreements and to make sure his imports and exports were in order. And of course, Scaramouche had an impression that Tartaglia just loved to annoy him, so, instead of the actual king coming to check, it’d always been Tartaglia.
When the applause settles down and when a few minutes pass, Scaramouche yet again opts to scan the room for you. As he suspected, Tartaglia now joins your group of two with Kokomi. Nevermind that Kokomi looks just as amused as you at whatever story Tartaglia’s performing, but you looked as if new life had just been breathed on to you, listening to and laughing at the Snezhnayan prince’s comedies.
Scaramouche catches his own frustrated sigh, holding it in and just…trying to let everything go.
When did it become like this?
He wonders.
Not the fact that you had gone cold and wary of him–he knew exactly when that started–but when did he start feeling a sense of unease whenever you weren’t by his side? When did he start wanting for you to look at him like that too? He’s inclined to believe that his outburst last week…was not all that it seemed to be. He felt ridiculed, he felt that his sense of authority was threatened, but…could there be any other reason he felt angered like he did?
It takes seconds for him to realize that you’re back at his side. He blinks, and raises his eyes to look around, seeing Kokomi and Tartaglia still engaged in their small talk, then his eyes drop to you. You looked…absolutely miserable next to him, forced smile and tense shoulders and all.
How can I make this bearable again?
He suddenly asks himself, then instinctively passes a drink to you. You casually receive it with a small thank you, but other than that, there were no other words from you.
The night goes on as such, more small talk with the nobles, more of you conversing with people he didn’t even want to look at, up until it was time for the two of you to leave.
Briefly, just before the two of you depart, you find yourself seeking out Kokomi and Tartaglia again, saying a brief goodbye to the two people who have made the night the slightest bit enjoyable. Scaramouche observes as you do so, but doesn’t say anything about it.
He doesn’t say anything at all, as usual, on the carriage back. You, on the other hand, perhaps because your mood was a little better than it was after talking to Kokomi and Tartaglia, and maybe because you thought that this cold war had been going on for too long, a casual “Are you having dinner with me today?” slipped past your lips.
Though, there was no expectation laced with it at all. Just a question, no desire whatsoever for him to join you, nor a trace of hope for him to reply nicely. Merely to ask if he was going to leave you alone for the rest of the night.
His head jerks towards you at the sudden question…the first thing you had uttered to him in a week. Well, the first semi-nice thing, after that incident with the tea. He’s confused as to how to answer. Does he ignore the question, and continue with this strange atmosphere or does he say–
“Yes,” he says it before thinking about it fully, as if it was the only sensible answer. From his peripheral vision, he sees you nod, and that was the only conversation you had with him in the vicinity of the carriage.
Scaramouche doesn’t offer his hand when you step down the carriage at arrival. He hasn’t done that in a while. However, a strange feeling overcomes you as you step down, a prickling at the back of your neck urging you to turn around, just as the carriage leaves, giving you a clear view of the deep forest surrounding the castle edges.
What possessed you or told you to turn around, you’d never know. Instinct, you might call it. A gut feeling. You thought that your eyes were playing tricks on you, when you see a slight billow of black among the trees. It’s dark, but there was movement and there was enough moonlight for you to catch it.
“Scara–” a cloak, that’s what it was. A glint and the sound of something snapping through the air had you clumsily tackling Scaramouche down to the pavement leading up to the castle. He falls on all fours, shocked at the action and finally thinking to himself ‘Are you that mad at me?’
He’s had enough. He turns toward you with the same snarl as last week, looking like a lion devouring his prey. “What the hell do you think you’re–”
Blood.
Soaking through the dress from your left chest, an arrow sticking out from your front. You, just kneeling there and looking at it, startled and unable to grasp the severity of the situation. Everything is so hazy now.
“Y/N–” Scaramouche’s voice mixed into one of confusion and horror, his eyes tacked on to the way the arrow pierces through your dress, sinks into your flesh and blooms red dangerously close to your left breast.
Scaramouche snaps out of it when you start to fall backwards onto the pavement, he jolts forward and catches you. His eyes dart up towards the trees, purple veins of electricity on his free arm, a loud, thunderous crash of lightning decimating a whole portion of trees, painting the area purple for a split second before the trees caught fire with a raging orange, hoping to catch the perpetrator off guard.
The knights were alerted by now, and Scaramouche doesn’t quite remember what orders he barks at them.
All he can remember was the trembling of his breath as he hoists you up into his arms.
All he remembers is the unfamiliar feeling of dread introducing itself to him for the first time.
I hope y'all have your mature content filters on… This is my first NSFWish piece… it’s inspired by Cabanel’s painting, Fallen Angel and, of course, that scene in Big Trouble in Little Sanchez… The idea just struck me and I had to make it. Hope you enjoy some… tasteful (?) violence…
“Excuse me, are you lost?” ————————————- “You look a bit pale.” ————————————- “Is that blood?” ————————————- “You look as though you have seen a ghost.” ————————————- “You don’t seem like your usual self.” ————————————- “Should I be concerned?” ————————————- “Does anything hurt?” ————————————- “What’s going on?” ————————————- “Is this a normal thing for you?” ————————————- “I am here if you want to talk.”
The breaking glass was the first thing Yves heard, followed by a scream.
“Yves!!”
The vampire dropped the dustpan and brush he’d been using and ran, taking the stairs two at a time and bursting into the Mistress’ room.
“Yves- Help!!” Miss Edith was standing in her nightdress beside her bed, grey hair sliding out of its neat bun, swinging a broken table lamp like a bat, inexpertly but with the energy of terror. Her crossbow was over the mantle, and she couldn’t get to it.
It was the other figure in the room, between Edith Nightley and her crossbow, who had Yves’ full attention- a barefoot man in raggedy clothes, with a bloodstained shirt and fingernails like claws. A feral vampire.
some photos of chandler, the lastest whitetail deer ive found as roadkill. hes got a peculiar white stripe on each of his hooves ive never seen before. his winter coat is also so soft and gorgeous. ill do my best to honor every part of him i can. ☘
Got this guy today hoping I could find his other antler. I was unable to locate it and upon further inspection of him, his skull was very broken! I just cut his antler off after that.
Another roadkill fatality but I was too late getting to him to save his meat!
Title: Bloody Shirt Fandom: Welcome to Night Vale Music:“Bloody Shirt (BASTILLE Remix)” by To Kill A King Rating:PG-13 Warnings:Blood/gore, bugs, body horror, horror in general Summary:Cecil wasn’t the first Night Vale radio host, after all. Notes: Thanks to Alex/maladyofthequotidian for encouraging me from the very beginning to make this and scribe for being the one to actually get me to finish it.
