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chucapybara · 9 months

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reference. [a donna beneviento x maiden short, part ii]

speedran the second part, oop! it's much longer than the first, so enjoy :) for reference the first short ended at 900 words and this one stretched to 2.3k haha! heisenberg is mentioned in this one but does not appear himself.

bringing the tray up the lift is an easy enough feat on its own. after having spent a number of years in your lady's company, the motions are, in essence, routine: a pattern in your mind already drawn by your thoughts before you so much as act upon them.

that ease would be the case, of course, were it not for the presence of a certain doll pestering at your ankles. grabbing at the fabric of your trousers and scaling the back of your blouse, angie swiftly makes it her business to climb you like a tree.

and, well, to a degree, it was angie's business. that, you couldn't argue. after all, it was by her suggestion that you were occupied by all this preparation in the first place, with your journal tucked in your pocket—awaiting an opportunity for the 'real thing', as angie had put it.

“miss angie, please don't test my balance,” you say, as you elbow the up button. “it would be a waste of tea if all this fell over.”

angie grunts with effort as she settles onto your shoulder, the folds of her dress stealing a third of your vision. “angie!” you sigh, holding tighter onto the tray. the elevator doors click into place, gears rumbling as the car rises up the shaft.

“it's a good view up here! all the better to see your faces!” angie cackles, jaw clacking while she wraps a metal-jointed arm around your face. you grumble a futile protest, going unheard by the doll obscuring your view.

once upon a time, being in such a confined space unsettled you. the gate, when shut, almost felt a cage, and you worried that the age of the manor would inadvertently show itself while you rode alone in service of the lady's wishes. but not long after your arrival to house beneviento, a man had come by as you worked the gardens.

'gear-gnasher', angie had called him. when you rose to your feet to welcome the visitor, sunglasses and trench coat and fedora and the stench of cigar smoke and machine oil and iron steel on him, he'd introduced himself as lady donna's brother—lord karl heisenberg.

he was friendly, if not a little overly so: hand on your shoulder, firm pats on your back that you swore almost dislocated your ribs. glad to see that his sister finally had some manner of company that wasn't just her crafted creations, heisenberg found joy in getting up close and personal, taking great interest in the beneviento's new maid; and while you tried to reciprocate out of respect to the lord, you found a little trouble in doing so with his smoky breath so close.

the fragrance of orchids and roses broke the two of you apart when a fourth, looming presence presented herself. it was a scent you had since come to love and associate with your lady, and justly so, as it seemed that donna herself had come to collect heisenberg.

angie told you later that day of the lord's work, while you smoothed out and cleaned her dress. he was to maintain and repair some of the mechanisms around the home to ensure its occupants' safety, all arranged by the head of the house.

(and then angie proceeded to whine about how such measures were unneeded, considering herself and donna had no problem getting from one floor to another with the rickety elevator as they were—but it was the first time you'd ever known such a gesture of rather affectionate precaution, made on your behalf from the lady beneviento. throughout the years, you found, it was certainly not to be her last.)

you take great care in balancing both angie and the tea tray as you exit the lift on the main floor. angie prods your face, her legs swinging, dubious acts you can't help believe are meant to displace your steps; you hold fast, however, almost disappointing angie when you manage to make it out the front door without spilling a drop.

”angie.” a voice chides, soft. your heart skips simultaneously with angie's disgruntled grumble, and the cool sun is once again made visible to you as angie hops down from your shoulder.

donna sits at the porchside, one of her smaller fabric projects cradled in her lap. her veil is abandoned on the table beside, and while a soft fluster colours at her pale skin as your eyes meet hers, the ease in donna's gaze and the slightest curl of her lip speaks much regarding the comfort your lady has found in laying her face bare for you to see.

“some tea, my lady?” you offer, placing the tray on the table. with the afternoon temperatures moderated well by the waterfall on the rearside of the manor, you well look forward to the peace of having a break, made better with donna's company.

”thank you, mio dolce.“ donna says warmly, and peers at the plated snacks. you can't help puffing up with joy; it isn't often that donna speaks, even around you, and so every gently spoken phrase is nestled in your heart heart, cradling it there with the same delicacy that donna now holds angie in her lap. “what are these?”

“croquettes! i made pancakes, too,” you smile as you take your seat opposite the pair. angie has already taken one of the treats, chewing on it—you've come to simply accept giving yourself the benefit of the doubt as to where the food goes. it's a wonder that angie hadn't snuck one for herself while on the elevator.

(or maybe she did, and her dress in your face concealed the crime from view.)

donna is more mannered, forking one of the croquettes and bringing it close for a bite while you pour tea for the two ladies. you fail to notice her inquisitive glances, as though wanting to raise a query to you.

“you've… become quite the cook,” lady beneviento hums. she clears her throat, gratefully taking cup and saucer and lifting them to her lips. you can't help studying every graceful motion, delicate movements, committing each detail to mind.

“i'm glad you enjoy it.” you beam. you're fixated on the curve of donna's jaw, the bumps and marred skin of the scar that has claimed her right eye, the lines connecting the whole of your muse's image together.

many times have you done this, as subtly as you could—but each occasion has never made your sketches of donna any easier, as though the picture of your lady in your mind and in reality is simply beyond what your hands could ever recreate.

(after all, what mortal hands could ever come close to sculpting a portrait of the divine?)

you've yet to take from the plate of treats you've made, or sip from your own tea. you reach into your pocket, keeping your journal in your lap under the table, out of donna's sight.

perhaps this would be your chance to capture that long-awaited accuracy you've been desiring for some time.

though you aren't the best of actresses, neither is donna, and the longer you have the pages propped open under the table, the more you begin to feel that donna is suspecting your intentions with the snacks and the tea.

these breaks are a regular part of your routines, of course: a precious time away from your work and your lady's to spend in one another's company, a welcome breather from the monotony. yet, with all the knowledge you keep on one another, it isn't so difficult to discern when something has shifted in the air.

you spend so long staring hard at the pencil lines that you hardly register movement across from you, in the form of an ebony dress skirt rising from a chair, its figure drawing close. it isn't until you hear a curious gasp from your side that you startle, pencil almost flying from your grasp as you snap your head upwards.

it's too late to shut your journal closed, but you do so anyway with the fury of red-hot embarrassment warming your cheeks—and donna's, you find.

(not like you were making a point to be overly secretive, anyway. angie has been biting her non-existent tongue from remarking on your shared glances, not so different from skittish lovebirds.)

“were you… sketching me?”

donna wrings her hands together, and for a moment, the curiosity in her eye flickers between a sudden apprehension. you set your journal and pencil on the table, and reach to cup donna's palms in yours.

angie takes this moment to make a sound not at all unlike gagging. she swiftly excuses herself from the premises; “when i come back, you better draw me too!” angie demands, words you can only laugh at with the predicament you've shoveled yourself into.

“yes, i was,” you can't help the sheepish smile on your lips as you squeeze donna's hands. neither smooth nor too rough, a part of you knows that this touch you cradle are those of a most experienced dollmaker, an artisan—even as your heart whispers, 'an angel. you hold your lady, a lady of creation, someone incandescently wondrous, in this village of mold and the craven undead.'

“i could never get it right the previous times. it drove me up the wall! so i thought i'd take the chance to sketch you while you were busy with the snacks.” the warmth of your shame does not vanish from your features, but you cannot do any less than smile for your lady. “you look positively beautiful, my lady. forgive me. i can rid of the sketch if you wish—”

“no, no.” donna shakes her head. she releases your hands, and for a moment you find yourself aching to hold them again, to bridge the distance between artist and muse.

donna reclaims her seat, to the muffled sounds of what is surely angie messing about inside the manor. your lady straightens up, posture rigid, as though preparing to be painted, as she once had been with the portrait of herself and angie on the foyer wall.

she's posing for you, you realise; and once more does your heart skip a single pace, as donna's own countenance colours a darker rose.

you chuckle again, a sound lacking malice or mockery, as you bring your pencil back between your fingers. “oh, be at ease, donna,” you murmur kindly. “this is not so formal. do as you like, and don't mind me at all!”

returning to the hastily-enclosed page, you begin a second time, more aware now as donna slowly relaxes, ashened iris centred on you.

from one artist to another, being under donna's visage this way makes you feel almost like the object of study. not that you minded, of course.

there's a clatter of donna's fork preceding the bump of something bready against your lip, and you look up, noticing how your lady holds out a croquette. with another smile of thanks, you close your mouth around it, plucking the treat off the tine.

(lady beneviento was quite right, indeed. your cooking has improved.)

you eat as you sketch, your lines more confident now as you pencil in the dark of donna's dress, her sleeves, her bunned hair. you have some trouble with her scar, with the current angle of her face.

reaching across, your fingertips delicately brush against donna's cheek, tender and gentle. “my lady. excuse me,” you whisper, nudging her chin with the intent of getting a better picture of donna's face—but instead, your hand lingers, as if not wishing to let go.

you can feel donna's warm breath on your palm, the surprise in her expression softening, as she seeks out more of your touch. there's a whisper on her tongue, and you vaguely think it is your name, glued as you are to donna's eye, and then to her lip.

you brush your thumb, there. your throat tightens, just the slightest bit.

“perhaps,” your lady voices, and it moves you from your reverie with a fluster, “i could persuade you to let me capture your likeness, as well.”

“in a doll?”

“in whatever you would like it to be.”

“and how would you go about such a thing, my lady?”

though you make to withdraw your hand, to return to your sketch, donna's grasp is firm around your wrist when she tugs you back. the table clutters with the movement, and even with the lady beneviento's gentle hold, you have almost forgotten the power of this spell donna wields over your heart.

your faces are close, too close, but you care little for the way the tablewood digs into your hips. all you know, all you see here, is her.

“i have my methods,” donna muses, and she nudges her lips to yours.

petals harken her name, flourishing under delight and sun and mist as donna beneviento kisses you, and it is as true as it is indeed divine. eyelids fluttering shut, you will yourself to her command, sighing with the fluttering beat of your ribcage, thrumming in your ears.

in parting from her comes a wish of wanting, but you steel yourself, before greed takes hold of you any further. the cool air barely suffices in restoring the breath taken from, shared with you, and it's easy to forget what you were even doing before it.

donna adorns an expression more shy than it is bold, an irony considering her forwardness mere seconds ago.

“does that suffice to convince you?” she asks, amused in her tone.

you move your chair closer to her, an elated grin plaguing your face.

“oh, more than, my lady.”

”FINALLY!“ a triumphant, high-pitched bellow echoes, as the door slams open. out trots angie, having returned for her demand. ”is it my turn now? it's my turn!“

you laugh, and with donna's own melodious joining, you cannot quite remember why you were so worried in the first place. to be closer to your muse, after all, rewards the most accuracy—and how could you ever think of being any more farther apart?

#🌕 chuca writes #donna beneviento #angie beneviento #resident evil village #donna beneviento x reader #i really got a single nice comment and i sat down and found my motivation to give the first part a good conclusion #i hope this is good :)#i understand what keeps some fic writers going now #also i apologise if some quotations are funky i wrote these on stimuwrite

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