Fool’s Gold

WHERE WINTER CROWS GO MENTIONED OMGGGGGG🗣️🗣️🎤🗣️🗣️🎤🎤🎤⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️

📑The games appearing inside (in clockwise order)📑

▸the kid at the back ▸Mushroom Oasis ▸文字化化 ▸14 Days With You ▸A DOUBLE SIDED MIRROR ▸Our Life Beginnings & Always ▸Where Winter Crows Go ▸Duality ▸Error143 ▸A Date with Death ▸MonsterxMediator

Thank you very much for the existence of these games; they have healed my soul (´-ωก`)

I have bad news for you...

My take on Luca Balsa

so i finally wrote down everything I think of him!

disclaimer: everything stated here is not canon nor do i claim it to be. it's just my interpretation, so if you hate it or don't agree please just keep scrolling, thanks!

When Luca arrives to the manor he is in his late 20s / early 30s. He's also a Balkan (Serbian) man.

Timeline: He leaves his home around 17–18 years old, joins Alva's research around 19-20, the incident happens, after being postponed with his death sentence a lot, he spends several years in prison, then he's bailed by the Baron, then he spends some time in the outside world, trying to survive (all of this to make him desperate to join game) and then he gets his invitation.

Appearance + body: he's 5'8, has dark green eyes, coarse straight dark brown hair, sometimes put in a neat ponytail (on his good days) or messy almost loose one (on his bad days), and tan skin (idk how it's properly called in English). His hands are rough from working with electricity. His injured eye is bloodshot, the surrounding bruise never seems to heal. He can see with his injured eye, but it's pretty useless. His body is littered with scars, malunion fractures and lichtenberg figures. On his bad days he needs to use a wheelchair or not move at all, and sometimes even on his good days he has to use a cane alongside his leg braces. He suffers with tremor, hyperkinesia and sometimes migraines. Because of his time blindness and poor hygiene, he usually has stubble. He tries really hard to maintain his neat appearance, but it's usually too much for him. His voice is quiet and hoarse after the incident, his screams are silent, his vocal cords are damaged. He is underweight and quite malnourished because of his lack of awareness of his health, his life in and after prison etc. Also, he has issues with his digestive system due to extremely sudden shift from nobleman to prisoner lifestyle.

Episodes - there are times when his body "malfunction" do he gets amnesia again, pretty bad migraines and cannot control his body properly. It's hell for him.

Character: he's extremely academically smart. He's naturally intelligent, well-educated (not only in engineering, but generally in natural sciences), enjoys art and literature. He's trying to be energetic, optimistic and extraverted, but it's just a mask from his life as a nobleman. Without it, he's quiet, focused on his work (sometimes to the extreme), doesn't require any human company, most likely uninterested in any romantic/sexual relationships, closed off and prefers to keep personal stuff to himself. He likes to help other people, he's kind, yet he does not trust people easily after all that went through. He doesn't feel guilty about Alva's death. He does not consider himself in the wrong or even think it all happened because of him, he thinks he might be wrongfully accused, and even when he thinks he might really be guilty, he does not feel any repentance. He was right, he could never be wrong.

Some random hcs:

He's extremely proud and thinks of himself highly, although it doesn't help him with self-loathing. He's better than most in the manor, he thinks, but still worse than himself in the past. He idolizes his past self a lot. He has violent outburst when something does not go his way (only when it's about his research) or he's getting closer to one of his episodes. Deep down he knows, that his research is doomed, and he cannot invent a perpetual motion machine, but he still continues, because he is too proud to admit that he's wrong and was wrong all of this time.

He HATES his in-game name. He sees it as extremely disrespectful. Everyone outside matches call him "Inventor".

He keeps a journal about everyone's "betrayals" (even if it was the most miniscule situation possible) as he turned extremely vengeful after the accident and is afraid he'll forget everyone's "misdeeds" if he doesn't write them down.

When he just got stuck at the manor, he avoided everyone. Several months later he became more used to people and even more social.

He remembers even the smallest details about everyone in the manor, because of his documentation in journals.

After Frederick's arrival in the manor, Luca refuses to play piano for others, as he was too annoyed with attention Frederick got with his first "concert" for them.

Luca's plush rat (from Identity V x Sunshine City Prince Hotel collab) was bought by him to sooth his anxiety and nightmares post-prison. He did bring it to the manor with his other belongings. It doesn't have a name, because Luca feels that it would be pointless to name an inanimate object. Andrew gave her a name later - Sabine.

That's pretty much it! Thank you for reading my ramblings. Stay tuned for Andrew + Lucadrew!!!

I still have no idea how tumblr works lmao..

have nikolai!

How do you think norton and a shy s/o would become friends in the first place? Or start talking in general? (if this counts as a request ignore me pls🙏)

I think it would partially depend on what the setting is! Ironically, I think a modern Norton would be the hardest to get close to. He's a loner, defensive and self-reliant. There's much less reason for any kind of forced cooperation.

In the manor setting I use, a certain level of cooperation and understanding between survivors is necessary. You HAVE to understand each other's communication styles. It helps that Norton's introverted ness gives him perspective into what other people see as "shy." Like he gets not wanting to talk, and that makes it easier for him to say "alright let's get this over with" and approach you to build a base-line rapport. And after that it just builds slowly! There are plenty of opportunities when you're stuck in timeless not-hell.

In a modern setting, you'd have to either work together or have some REALLY specific, like rom-com level divide intervention stuff going on. Work is similar to the manor, you HAVE to communicate and that forces him to get to know you. With the other one...idk I guess fate and soulmates exist LOL

The Red Means I Love You (Edgar×Reader)

AN: This was supposed to be finished and posted on Valentine's Day. However, as you can see from the word count, that was a fool's errand. I wanted to delve more into yanderes since I find them fascinating in writing, and now, here we are. Staining White Day red, I present to you the most generic title for an Edgar fic you will ever see. (Btw, I apologize to Edgar fans- I might've massacred your boy but I swear I tried my best.) Word count: 4.9k words TW: Blood, violence, murder, yandere themes, and blackmailing. Summary: Accepting the invitation of a dubious letter sounds just about as bad as it actually was. Oletus manor is not a name spoken without notoriety, after all. Was that where it all began? Was this your first mistake? No, it was further down the line, wasn't it? Yes, perhaps it was when you became the muse of an artist with no inspiration.

Reality has disappointed you time and time again. The expectations of a life of peace was crushed easily under the hands of society. So, you fled. You fled inside your head, transporting yourself into worlds of fiction. Romance, mystery, fantasy, and the likes kept you alive. It was the only thing you could really call safe.

Among many genres, you favored one above the others. 

Horror.

There’s a certain comfort that comes from these fictional tales. You know they aren’t real, that the killer can’t find you, that these psychopaths don’t exist. Are there people similar to them? Sure, but they aren’t in your life. Thus, they merely stay as silly little people within a book.

But, it’s not quite enough. The thrill of words upon a page cannot compete with the real deal. While you weren’t stupid enough to seek out murderers or the like, you were still dumb enough for Baron DeRoss, apparently.

The envelope is white as a dove, a blood red stamp sealing it shut. It whispers promises and praise, false hope and rewards. It’s an enticing offer, truly. Would you let it guide you astray?

Well, you were never one to turn away from the call of the abyss.

-

“I really don’t get it. I know it’s game changing, but it’s not helpful for anyone else but me! Why do they want me to team up with them?” You huffed, resting your face on your palms. Edgar merely rolled his eyes, flicking his wrist. Focused on the canvas in front of him, he let the brush streak red through white.

“You said it yourself, your abilities are game changing. We don’t even know the full extent of your abilities– who knows? Maybe you could completely uproot the current meta. Besides,” He smirked, peering at you from the corner of his eye. “The hunters are terrified of you.”

You paused, letting your arms fall flat against the table.

“Scared? Of me? I’m just another survivor– what do they have to be afraid of?”

Edgar hummed, tapping the handle end of his paint brush against his lips. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t quite fancy being stabbed.”

Okay, yeah, that was fair.

Most survivors didn’t possess the ability to fight the hunter, not really, yet here you were. When Jack had first chased you, he had the reckoning of his life. You wince at the phantom feeling of stabbing steel into flesh and bone. That was, admittedly, not what you had expected to be your special skill.

You pouted, cheek against the cool wood of Edgar’s table as you glanced around. His room was an odd combination of an art exhibition hall and an actual bedroom. It was big and extravagant, but you wouldn’t expect any less from him. 

Well, kind of.

Edgar confused you. Intriguing, even among the sea of other unique characters within the manor. You suppose that’s why he’s your favorite comrade and closest friend, if you could call him that. He’s never kicked you out of his room or flat out yelled at you, so safe to say he didn’t hate you, at least. 

He’s neutral on all matters within the manor, composed regardless of what he faced. All he cared about was his art, nothing more and nothing less. Perhaps that was how he was unaffected by everything.

You suppose that’s natural for an artist. You can’t claim to understand it perfectly, but in a way, you truly understood.

“It’s like… you’re a moth drawn to a flame, right? Art is something you’re willing to give your life to, dedicate your whole body and soul to. Even if you have to sacrifice your time, energy, or health, for the perfect outcome, you’d do it.” You had said it off handedly, not thinking much of it then. In some respects, wasn’t his passion for art just like your obsession with thrill?

But then he had grabbed your hands, looking into your eyes with such fervor. His gaze burned, a certain desperation flickering within it. What was he seeking so fiercely? What was making Edgar, apathetic, snide Edgar, act like he had found an oasis in the desert?

“You get it?” He whispered, almost pleading. 

“Maybe,” You responded.

That had been enough for him. 

Since then, you and Edgar had become an odd pair. Not quite friends, but too close to be acquaintances. You gravitated towards him, as he did to you. More often than not, you’d ask him if he’d like to team up for matches. More often than not, he’d say yes.

You suppose that’s another reason why other survivors regard you with care.

Edgar isn’t the most difficult person to work with, but definitely not the easiest. He’s all too much and too little: haughty and snide, distant and cold. He’s a reliable teammate, not a likable one. 

Still, the playful sparkle in his eyes as he led the hunter straight to you made you beg to differ. You’d curse him out as you ran, glaring at him after the match was over, before begrudgingly thanking him for supporting you with a painting or two.

However odd it was, you wouldn’t trade your friendship for the world.

-

There’s a letter in your mailbox. 

That isn’t especially weird, considering that’s what a mailbox is for. Letters, mail, packages, whatever. Still, you can’t help but pause as you stare at it. A white envelope with a lovely red seal, the stamp itself in the shape of a camellia. The embossed flower is outlined in gold, shimmering softly in the low light of your room.

Gently, you pry open the seal, careful not to damage it or the envelope. Once you’ve successfully extracted the letter without destroying everything, you stare at it with uncertainty. 

It seemed like this was a love letter from the presentation alone, yet you couldn’t help but feel a bit unsettled. You couldn’t understand why, however. It was beautiful, but simple. It wasn’t overwhelming, nor alarming. So why, from the depths of your heart, was your subconscious screaming at you to run? As though you were about to open Pandora’s box?

You unfold the letter and read.

-

Edgar gives you the nastiest side eye you’ve ever seen. Perhaps you deserve it after the stunt you pulled. Then again, what else were you supposed to do? He was going to be sent back to the manor if you hadn’t let yourself go down.

In the end, thanks to your sacrifice, the potential tie had turned into a win. Sure, you were the one sent back to the manor instead, but a win was a win! Though, Edgar seemed to disagree.

“You’re an idiot.”

You would be offended if it weren’t for the fact that he was wrapping your wounds. The tender touches were barely there, like the flutter of a butterfly's wings. He was being careful, making sure you didn’t feel even an ounce of unnecessary pain. The concentration he was putting into taking care of you was something you had only seen when Edgar was painting. 

The subtle quirk of his lips, eyes barely narrowed, and relaxed shoulders expressed more to you than any words ever could. The guilt that pooled into his chest, made evident by the quiet sighs he’d let out, seemed to manifest itself as kindness and gentle care.

It made you really want to tease him.

“Ow!” You hiss, flinching slightly away from the man. Edgar freezes, staring at you with concern.

“Shit– sorry, I didn’t mean to.” The sincere remorse in his voice immediately makes you regret your decision.

“Wait, wait, wait, no, I– gah, sorry. I was just messing with you.”

The painter’s formerly soft expression faded into a scowl, a glare sent your way even as he finished wrapping you up. Edgar immediately stands up, leaving you scrambling to do the same as he leaves the infirmary.

“Ahhhh, wait, I’m sorry! Wait, Edgar, I’m sorry, I swear I won’t do that again! C’mon, don’t leave me like this! I–” You trip on something, stumbling as you lose balance. You fully expect to kiss the ground, what with one of your arms in a cast, when lithe arms catch you.

You glance up at Edgar with a sheepish smile, gazing upon the apathetic look upon his face. Apathetic, to anyone else but you. You can see the little curl of his lips, the faint swirl of amusement in his eyes.

He helps you reorient yourself, hands on your shoulders. Once you’re safely standing, Edgar turns and continues down the hallway. His steps are slower than usual. It’s probably the closest you’ll get to an invitation.

You grin, chasing after him once more.

“So does this mean you forgive me?”

“No.”

-

“How do you manage to stay sane, painting the same thing over and over again?” You ask, half dangling off a couch. Edgar’s room is still as grand as ever, but you can see the changes. It seems more lived in, more homey. There’s a table that isn’t covered in paint, brushes, or other art supplies. There’s shelves with books instead of art supplies. Then, those cabinets have, wait for it, something other than art supplies.

It seems like a small shift to others, though that’s probably because they don’t visit Edgar half as often as you do. The first time you saw the couch, you thought you were hallucinating. 

The Edgar Valden, using something other than a stool? Incredible, revolutionary, absolutely groundbreaking.

He did not appreciate your dramatics, or so he claimed, but you knew he was covering his mouth to hide his smile.

“I’m not painting the same thing, and I am, in fact, going insane.” Edgar responds, frown deepening as he mixes a few colors together. You hum, peeking at the canvas as much as you can from your position. From the sketch, you could tell it was a portrait. A rare occurrence, considering Edgar preferred landscapes.

“Why the sudden interest in portraits?” You ask, sitting more comfortably on the couch. Glancing at the shelves, you skim through the books. Edgar wouldn’t mind if you read one of them, right?

The man pauses, his expression almost bashful. It’s so bizarre you can’t help but raise a brow. Edgar has never been afraid to draw attention to himself. He’s no pushover, willing to fight for what he wants while still remaining relatively neutral. To see him like that, a dust of what can only be blush upon his cheeks, twists something in your heart.

Before you can untangle what exactly you were feeling, the painter coughs.

“Well, I tried talking with Victor about expressing oneself. He suggested letters, or other mediums I’m comfortable with. So…” Edgar stares at his canvas, his smile more so a grimace. “I’m trying out his suggestion, I suppose.”

You tilt your head, humming to yourself as you nod. Sliding off the couch, you grab one of the books on Edgar’s shelf. “Well, then I wish you the best of luck.”

His eyes linger on you, closing softly as his expression relaxes. When he opens them again, he starts creating new hues with more focus.

-

“I’ve been getting letters recently.” You mention, flipping another page in your book. Edgar paused, turning to look at you.

“And?”

You closed your eyes, contemplating. This really wasn’t something you had to tell him. But, well, nothing too interesting has been happening lately. The matches have finally grown duller, the thrill fading as you stayed longer. You were running out of things to ramble about, so why not?

“They’re love letters. Nicely decorated, with neat handwriting. If I had to guess, someone born into privilege.” You think Edgar flinches at that.

“It’s really sweet, honestly. A shame they’re anonymous.” You skim over the words on the page, brows knitting themselves tight. The main character was oblivious to the danger so close to them. How frustrating. 

“A shame, really.” Edgar echoes back, delicately brushing shadows along the red camellias. His painting seemed nearly finished, if you only stared at the beautiful flowers. The rest of the canvas was rather barren, a figure still not yet painted whole.

“C’mon, theorize with me! Who could it be? I put my bets on Jack.” You sighed dramatically, head thrown back with your hand on your forehead. 

You received no response, however.

“Hear me out! He called me darling, dear, and tried to kill me. Obviously, he fell for my sick kiting skills and great looks. I rest my case.” Still, nothing.

You were getting really worried with how unresponsive Edgar was being. Usually, when you started overexaggerating like that, he’d make a snarky remark. Something like “please, you get terror shocked at 5 ciphers” or “you make amphibians look appealing.” 

The silence was really getting to you.

“I mean, he’s got confidence in spades so it probably isn’t him. Still, I kinda hope it is, he’s rather attrac–” SNAP!

Your head snaps up from your book, turning to Edgar so quickly you nearly give yourself whiplash. There, in his hands, are the remains of a broken paint brush. Blood oozes from his tightly clenched hands, slowly trickling down his palm and under the cuff of his shirt. That was reason for concern as is, but the most startling thing of all was his eyes.

Blue, like the sky. Blue, like the sea. Blue, like the wings of a morpho butterfly.

Blue, like the swirling vortex of the night sky.

You rush over, grabbing the first aid kit you know he keeps for you, before standing next to him. You’ve never seen him like this, eyes so dark and blank. It’s honestly scaring you a little, but that means nothing when he’s hurt.

So, you kneel, pulling out tweezers, disinfectants, and bandages. Gently prying his hand open, you discard the larger pieces of the brush. With the tweezers, you pick out splinters of wood embedded in his skin. You whisper apologies as you do, knowing this definitely hurts, but he doesn’t so much as flinch.

By the time you finally disinfect his hand and wrap it, Edgar seems a lot more like himself than before. He gazes at you with quiet consideration, blinking slowly. Languid, calm, almost cat-like.

“Are you okay?” You ask, holding his hand. In all the time you’ve known him, you’ve never seen him react like that. The kinder side of you hopes it’ll never happen again, if only so he won’t needlessly hurt himself like that. The morbid side of you wants to see him like that again, what you can distinguish as cold, searing rage threatening to consume him whole.

Edgar leans his head forward and onto your shoulder. The scent of citrus, chamomile, and something chemical tickles your nose, brushing against you as the painter sighs. He seems… tired.

“Let me rest my head, just for a bit.”

You don’t have the heart to say no.

-

The next few letters you get are… odd. Passionate as always, but far more obsessive. The first few had been sweeter, more tender. This was escalating in a weird direction, and as much as you loved yourself a good horror story, romance and horror never mix well. They were starting to threaten you, saying they’d hurt the people around you, and that was where you drew the line.

So, you start ignoring them. It sounds foolish, especially for a connoisseur of all things freaky, but life is more mundane than fiction. If this person doesn’t have the guts to confess to you, does it make sense that they’d have the guts to actually go through with their threats? Logically, no. 

Besides, even if they did, the people of the manor are strong. They can hold their own. Even if they can't, that person will get outcasted for hurting a survivor, regardless of if they’re a hunter. “No violence outside of matches,” that was the first rule both factions set.

So, it was safe to assume you had nothing to worry about. You have more important things to deal with, anyway, especially with a new survivor arriving. His name was Orpheus, a novelist. You were thrilled, especially since he was the author of some of your favorite series.

You were busy with preparations, practically skipping with joy. The other survivors poked fun at you, both for your enthusiasm and the lack of a certain painter at your side.

Edgar was concentrating on his art, as per usual, and you didn’t want to bother him. He seemed a little lonely, though, so you tried to convince a few people to talk to him. They all just looked at you as if you grew another head. 

“Are we… looking at the same person?” Mike asks, smile strained. You frown, turning away from the banners you were fixing. 

“Yes! Edgar Valden, our resident painter, our sassy rich boy, our lovely old friend. I say he is lonely, and I think you should talk to him. I mean, you’re easy-going, fun, and silly. Who wouldn’t like you?” Even if half of it was an act. Still, Mike was one of the people Edgar tolerated better than most. Perhaps it’s because he’s another form of an artist?

“Why can’t you just, I don’t know, talk to him yourself? You guys get along just fine.” Mike looks away, fiddling with his hands. You narrow your eyes at the sight.

Mike Morton, local funny man, someone with dedication and deceit running through his veins, nervous? It’s not faked, the sweat rolling down his neck and the faster breathing all indicating he was genuinely nervous. Maybe even scared.

“Edgar, I really do love him, but he needs more friends. I think the only people who talk to him on a regular basis are Luca and I. Adding a few more people to that list would be nice, so…” You bring your hands in front of you, clasped tight as if you’re about to pray. “Could you please talk to him?”

Mike deflates, sighing as he nods. You smile brightly in response, promising to make it up to him.

-

“Hey bestie! You excited for the new survivor?” Demi croons, grinning as she tosses an arm around your shoulder. You laugh in response, leaning into her.

“That’s about the dumbest thing you could ask me. Of course I am! He’s written so many good books. God, I don’t know how I’m supposed to act around him. He’s made some stories that have basically shaped who I am now!” You sigh, smiling so widely your face hurts.

“Well, don’t forget your boyfriend in all the excitement! I can see he’s basically seething with envy.” 

You pause, turning to look at Demi.

“Who?”

Now, it’s Demi’s turn to look confused.

“Uh, you know, Edgar? Are– are you guys not together?” She asks, genuinely shocked. You feel your face heat up, your hands itching to cover your blush. 

“Wh– no! We are not! Why would anyone ever think that?”

Demi gives you a deadpan expression in response.

“You two are basically glued to each other’s side, go into every match together, hang out almost every day– Hell, you’re the only one Edgar has allowed in his room without it being necessary!” 

Well, that’s news to you.

You furrow your brows, blinking in shock. Sure, you two hung out a lot, but it wasn’t like you guys were friends exclusively with each other. You had Demi, Mike, Melly, and even Violetta while Edgar had Luca, Victor, Andrew, and Galatea. It wasn’t like you… hung out… every… day…

“Oh fuck, we really do look like a couple.” You mutter, having half a mind to smack Demi as she laughs. She’s completely unapologetic about it, struggling to breathe as slowly calms down and giggles.

“So, you two aren’t dating?” She asks, wiggling her eyebrows. You huff, fighting back a smile.

“Nope, not at all.”

“Then in that case, I’m allowed to flirt with you as much as I want!” Demi cheers. She spins you around, causing a laugh to bubble up from your throat. The two of your twirl around in a silly dance, the faint sound of Frederick playing the piano the only background music.

At the end, she dips you down, smile upon her lips. She leans close to your ear as your smile is wiped away.

“Be wary of him.”

-

With Edgar, it’s like you’re taking three steps forward, then five steps back. Just when you think you’ve got him all figured out, he throws a curveball at you.

That desperation he had in his eyes the day you became his friend, flickering like a brilliant flame, you understand it now. However much he claimed he didn’t need people to understand him, how he didn’t need to understand others, it didn’t mean much. He still craved it, to be understood. To not have to be questioned, to not be approached with dishonesty, with intentions that lied beyond just him being him.

You suppose that’s exactly why you got along. You wanted to understand him, and he wanted to be understood. A match made in Heaven, you suppose.

It’s why it miffed you a bit that you really can’t understand Edgar at the moment.

He hates drawing portraits, yet he draws a figure, the same exact one, in every one of his new pieces. They look familiar, a lot like you, but you’re pretty confident Edgar would rather die than paint you. You’d tease him to Hell and back, all while he complains and swears up and down he’s never being nice to you again.

The landscapes, adorned in reds of all shades, always have that figure in each one without fail. Is he in love with someone? That would explain why he’s so weird lately.

Edgar’s odd behavior was already messing with you, but on top of that, the letters were getting worse. Instead of being slid into your mailbox, they were flat out in your room now.

Normal people would think someone just slipped it under the door. Reasonable assumption. However, unless that person has not only a very thin arm, but a long one, you don’t know how they’d manage to get it all the way to your desk.

You stare at the white envelope, stamped shut with a red seal in the shape of a camellia. The outline of the flower is in gold, though the beauty of the letter and the seal means nothing. Not when it got into your room. Not when it clearly has a splotch of dark red glaring at you.

Your hands are shaky as you open the envelope, a familiar curl of thrill fighting with your new found protective instincts. The letter is white as a dove, the red tainting it made all the more stark.

With adrenaline coursing through your veins, you read.

‘I didn’t imagine love would be like this. Wonderfully warm, like the rays of the sun in winter, and unbearably painful, like a knife in my heart. Do you just like hurting me? No, I know that isn’t true. After all, you always look at me with concern when I’m injured. Still, it’s hard to believe you’re this dense.

These past few weeks have been driving me mad. Your attention has been solely on the arrival of the new survivor. You’ve been ignoring me so much I can barely stand it. Can’t you spare even a moment for me? Is that novelist really that important? Seeing you look at him with stars in your eyes… it makes me want to rip his head off his shoulders. He doesn’t deserve your attention, nor your admiration, not like I do. I’ve known you longer, loved you for longer. He doesn’t deserve anything from you, yet he gets everything I could ever want and more.

Did you know? When you’re excited, your smile turns bigger, more genuine, till dimples show. Your eyes crinkle just a little, your hands moving to curl in front of your chest. You stand taller, you shine brighter.

It’s such a beautiful sight, I hate that I have to share it. Sometimes, I wish I could just put you in a cage and never let you go. Then, you wouldn’t look at anyone else but me. You wouldn’t think about anyone else but me. But, that’s not how you should live. You deserve to be free and happy. So, I’ve decided to get rid of anyone that doesn’t deserve to be around you.

I think I’ll start with that novelist.’

Your blood runs cold.

Fuck.

FUCK.

Just who is this? Who are they and just why are they so obsessed with you? Get rid of those who don’t deserve you? Who gave them the right to decide that!?

You take a deep breath, desperately trying to calm your nerves. Your heart is racing, and for the first time, the thrill in your heart turns into true fear.

You’ve never minded being the one hunted. In fact, you practically adore it, the addicting rush of adrenaline pumping through you. It’s why you came to the manor. But your friends? They’re not the same, and you wouldn’t want them to be. You want them safe and happy, not hunted down by some freak who thinks they “aren’t worthy of you” for whatever sick reason.

“Fuck, fuck… Orpheus, I need to find– no, it’s probably too late for him, there’s blood on the letter. Okay, okay, stay calm, stay fucking calm. Who would be the next victim? Mike? Melly? No, it’s probably Ed–” You pause.

Almost comically, everything clicks in place.

Camellias.

Red.

Ignoring them.

Edgar.

You bolt out of your room.

-

Normally, you’d knock. You know Edgar hates it when people barge into his room. However, considering the circumstances, you think that’s the least of your concerns.

You can’t help but pray in your mind. To whom? You don’t know. You don’t think anyone can truly help in this situation. It couldn’t be anyone else but Edgar, but still, you prayed. You hoped against all hope that your conclusion was wrong. 

Edgar would scold you for barging in, sigh, before smiling and asking if you were really that desperate to see him. Everything would be fine. It would all be just a cruel joke.

But just as life is more mundane than fantasy, reality is far cruller than fiction.

The large windows to Edgar’s room let in the light of the falling sun, casting the room in many shades of gold and orange. In the middle of the room, in all his glory, is Edgar. His back is to you, paint brush in hand. You’re hit first by relief, then with the heavy scent of iron.

You shake, hands covering your mouth as you finally process what's around Edgar. Orpheus, drained of blood, head sat on a chair, body left haphazardly on the ground. Jack, ghastly white and face twisted, his horror eternally memorialized in death. Demi, eyes closed and serene, seemingly asleep if not for the purple veins that roam along her arms.

You fall to your knees, the shock hitting you so strong you can’t stand up any longer. He was your secret admirer. The one who kept sending letters. The one who went into your room just to place them on your desk. The one who threatened to kill your friends. The one who did kill your friends.

Edgar, finally, turns around. His cheek has splotches of blood on it, his hands no better. It’s startling just how much of it is on him, but worse yet, you know not all of it is on him. There’s a lot of blood in a human body, much more in two, so where was it?

When he smiles, it’s just as sweet as it was yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. Was this really your friend, or a demon in disguise?

His smile, ever so sweet, only serves to unsettles you, looking more like a nightmare.

“Ah, you’re here! Come, I need to show you my newest masterpiece.” Edgar steps closer to you, dragging you by the hand to a canvas you hadn’t noticed before. He was standing in front of it, so it was only natural.

You numbly follow, heart in your throat. You’re grateful, distantly, that the “masterpiece” is not the corpses of your friends. You think you’re going to throw up, eyes trying to look at anything but them.

So, you gladly look at his so-called masterpiece.

You really wish you didn’t.

There, on the canvas, is a portrait. This time, it’s so painfully obvious it’s you that you can’t even deny it. Surrounded by red camellias, hands curled in front of their chest, with a smile so genuine, dimples showed. Eyes crinkled, back straight, and God, did it have to be so accurate?

The red of the camellias are familiar, as is the red of your blush, the colors of your clothes, your hair. 

It’s all been painted using your friend’s blood.

Edgar comes behind you, his arms circling your waist. A content sigh leaves him, his chin resting on your shoulder. His hold is gentle, but firm, possessive in a way you never thought him capable of. His lips brush against your neck, a kiss much like a collar pressed into your skin. You can feel them curl into a smile.

“What do you think, my muse? The red means I love you.”

Can I rq some nsfw mike morton hcs? Thank u!! 💕

☆ mike morton ; general sfw & nsfw headcanons

pairing / mike morton x afab gn! reader

disclaimer / kinkwear, strap-ons, mentions of roleplay, food play

word count / 1,369 words

author's note / i went a bit overboard while writing up the draft of this so i included the sfw headcanons (he's my main in identity v so i was super happy to get this request, thank you anon.). this man is KINKY. he'll be the type to go "zoo wee mama!" when you take off your top and i'm a adamant believer of that.

☆ mike morton, with his impressive set of skills showcasing for all to see. everyone can agree his ability of an acrobat is far too overqualified as each show, there is always a different sort of opening act that mike produced. and yet, that is all there is to him people would say. as the true star, sergei, the backbone of the circus. and with this information that everyone knows all too well, there comes insecurity.

☆ mike is an insecure man, despite not showing it. even he refuses to acknowledge that fact that really, every fiber of his being is burning with jealousy and the fear of abandonment. he will do anything to keep his stability and position at the circus.

☆ that doesn’t mean mike isn’t naturally a lively, bright faced man. in fact, that personality of his is why many can agree he’s very easy to talk to, very outgoing. someone who’d always include you in the conversation if he notices you straying to the side. he is one to be around, but many are hesitant to get close to him. after all, a friend to all is a friend to none.

☆ getting to know him was quite easy. he’s practically an open book and is not one to hide his insecurities. after all, he’s always scrambling for ideas on how to liven up this performance. whether it be adding explosive balls on stage and experimenting with nitrate bombs, anything dangerous to keep his place of an acrobat.

☆ you caught his attention while attending one of his performances, you, all the way up in the front with your eyes all on him. he could feel that intentive gaze and was flustered by your stare, causing him to nearly mess up on his performance and almost caused an explosion with the bomb he was juggling with.

☆ you’ll see him chasing after you after the after party of the show, with his hand waving for you. “please! a moment of your time!”

☆ after that, he would frequently visit you in town. always talking about his day before asking you of your own, getting lost in the tiniest of the smallest details to tell you of, filled with lots of jokes. just to see your lips curl into a smile or even a laugh from you that he values. those quips would turn into flirtatious comments to an invitation for a date.

☆ he’s an affectionate man and loves any form of physical touch from you and all types of kisses that you present to him. he’d always surprise you with his sudden kisses, whether it be neck kisses, nape kisses, or even your ear. he especially loves it when you kiss his cauliflower ears, something he’s been very insecure about after an accident in producing one of his props. he’s such a dork he once tried to spiderman kiss you as you try to find him in his dressing room, completely catching you off guard and him failing as he immediately lost balance and fell.

☆ mike is fairly muscular. even if you aren’t on the strong side, he'll love to sit on your lap, staring down on you and his hands wrapped around your shoulders as he whines and babbles on about just everything. “i missed you so much oh my god you have no idea what happened today.”

☆ mike morton, who’d perform to the crowd with his compelling acts but behind the stage, he’s imagining ravaging you after the show.

☆ the entire time is full of him poking fun and teasing you. you’ll be taking off your clothes and he’ll be laying down, whistling. “yoohoo, hey handsome! damn, that bodyyyyy!” in other instances, when he’s desperate for skinship, he’ll be hurriedly taking off your clothes whilst still admiring. “you’re such a cute birdie.”

☆ he just loves to destroy the mood with his big mouth, doesn’t he? (it’s all in good fun, swear) he loves to tease you with not only his words, but his actions. he’ll be blowing hot breath on your ear, just to see your cute little shiver, drawing circles on your clit. beg him to taste you, put it in, do anything to you. as long as you beg him. he loves to feel and be wanted, especially from you.

☆ mike has a length of 6 and a half or so inches, his width a pretty substantial amount. he’s not a very a p and v type of guy, he’ll prefer other methods of pleasuring. overstimulating one area, having you sucking down on him or giving you oral. he loves to just taste.

☆ he’ll be the type to be very verbal in bed, he has no shame at all. he’ll be moaning and groaning so many types of phrases, slurring out his words. “oooohhhhh yesss bbabyyyyyy.”

☆ giving him head, he loves when you hollow out your cheeks. he’ll be pulling your head, leading your head on where to go. even in instances, he’ll be so lost in it, tears are brimming this lashes and he’ll be pushing your head to the point he’s choking you with his cock.

☆ while he’s down on you, praise him on how well he did on stage today. tell him how you couldn’t keep your eyes off him, how creative and funny he is. how nobody will ever make you feel this good but him. scrunch up his curls and don’t be shy to be verbal, he loves any sort of validation to know that he’s pleasuring you well.

☆ he’s very sexually expressive in bed and loves to experiment, which can range from strap-ons, roleplay, and food play. he’s very open minded and always open to new ideas coming from you, he’ll love to fulfill it!

☆ speaking of kinkwear, he loves to stiletto heel boots with lingerie and loves it especially when you wear lingerie was well. just the sight of you in leather and lace and him all dressed up for you, it’s almost like you’re preparing for a performance with him.

☆ adding on to food play, he loves to fill your entire body (especially your nipples and bottom) of cream and to just suck and lick you alive. he swears you’re already so sweet but to taste all his sweets altogether, he loves it. he’d make cute little swirls on your nipples of cream, lapping it like a dog. "oh boy! what are we having! carrot cake? strawberry shortcake? COTTON CANDY?”

☆ he loves straps-on, even making one for you to wear to sink him in. just the fact that you can fulfill him with all and any types of love makes him emotional.

☆ mike is an extremely emotional man, driven by his feelings. he loves to go fast but he’s an equal sucker for a slower pace, to ravish this beautiful time together with you.

☆ aftercare with him would be bathing together, your bodies pressing together. just to feel the warm water and your warmth, he simply just wants to be held by you. he’s so safe that truly, he doesn’t want to entertain the idea of this ever ending.

☆ he doesn’t particularly clean up after, in fact, after finishing your guys’ shower, he’ll urge you back in bed with him (the sheets all soaked with cum). he’ll fall asleep with his hands around your waist, his head buried on your chest. he wants to be enveloped by you, to know everything is alive. that you’re alive and everything is real.

☆ waking up, you’ll always see him still asleep. in reality, most of the time he wakes up much later than you but far too comfortable to want to get up. he’s a man child like that. you’ll always find his arm to be draped over your waist in a tight hold, he’s far too content to get up to go to morning practice.

☆ mike morton, as everyone says, is a magnificent acrobat. too overqualified but too in love with hullabaloo. he is an impressive man with the possibility of being thrown away at any given moment. he will do anything to stay important to you.

midori's denial of his humanity isn't simply limited to physical dimensions, advantage in the game, or even symbolic meaning. it's what makes him so difficult to analyze. any time he gets even remotely close to revealing any sort of information about himself, he immediately covers it up. any time he appears even a little vulnerable, even a little human, he immediately backs it up with something that makes you doubt the momentary sympathy you had in him. it's difficult to tell whether his actions are because he has severe mental and emotional scars, or because he just is that way. his repeated and emphasized dehumanization of himself makes you second guess yourself, which means he becomes harder to understand. it's quite meta, because this must be what shin felt. you think you can understand him, an opening appears, only to instantly disappear because he simply wont allow himself to exist, evident from shin's dialog in his flashback. is he a sympathetic character? or is he just really, truly evil, plain and simple? it's near impossible to know. then you start to withdraw. and that's exactly how he keeps people at arm's length.

Something that I noticed is just how touchy Alastor is, despite the fact that he himself does not like it when other invade his perosnal space.

But when it comes to you, nothing is off the table.

You do not understand what the Radio Demon sees in you. You joined Charlie in her quest out of the pure desire to help out a friend and maybe, just maybe, make things right. You were in Hell for a reason and Charlie had a just cause - there was no reason for Heaven to turn down her proposal.

And Alastor did say that the only reason he was even bothering with you plebs was because of his own sheer boredom. And in no time, you became his abolute favorite plaything.

He was a strange mix of both polite and condescending, understanding but cruel. He always made a show out of messing with you - be it some snarky comment, a lingering touch which lasted for too long for comfort. He never touched you inappropriately, no, but his mere presence made you feel week in the knees. Whenever he would whisper wild horrors in your ears, it always set you on edge.

This demon could tear you down at any given moment. He could kill you, obliterate your pathetic little soul. You were weak and powerless. That was one of the many reasons why Alastor liked you so damn much.

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