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lilacs-stars · 3 months ago

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shattered reflections

pairing: morgie le fay x fem!reader (requested) (note: reader is merlin's daughter) SUMMARY: you, the perfect child and student, have always been the epitome of righteousness. but what happens when you encounter a particularly annoying VK one night, when you're out doing something you're not supposed to? GENRE: pure, unbridled, heart-wrenching angst (I recommend a box of tissues), action scenes, some light humor, a bit of comfort, flirty banter CW: absent mother, neglectful father, family troubles, cursing, magical fighting, a bit of blood, threats, mentions of violence and stealing, heavy emotions WC: 15.2k (to those of you hungry for morgie fics…you have been fed) BACKGROUND: the mirror of ytirev is pronounced yih-tur-ev, the spells are all in latin (for anyone wondering)

A/N: this got a loooot longer and deeper than I thought it would...seriously how did we get here. I had fun adding some touches of light humor to offset the angst, and experimenting with different pov's was nice too. sooo go get comfy and settle down, and have fun reading this! (the ending is worth it I swear). thank you to the anon who requested this for all the details, I hope you enjoy! all feedback is highly appreciated, I'd love to know your thoughts and reactions!

A piercing clatter sounds from somewhere behind you. You whip around, eyes locking with snake-like slits glowing in the dark.

Shit, you think.

They finally discovered my secret.

“…can anyone explain to me the properties of goblin mucus?” the teacher of your Magical Artifacts and Antiquities class asks.

A hand shoots up, causing a smile to spread on her face as she calls on the student—only to be met with the reply, “Miss, it says in our textbook that there’s a highly powerful and dangerous artifact stored here, in Merlin Academy. What’s that all about?”

The teacher’s smile falters for a brief second, but she answers the question regardless. “Yes, every class today has asked me about that. It seems like it’s only the dangerous objects that attract students’ attention. Class, turn to page two hundred seventy-five, where there is a more detailed explanation.”

Everyone flips through the pages of their books, more eager to learn than they’ve been for the entire lesson. Your teacher waits a moment before continuing.

“As it says in your textbooks, the Mirror of Ytirev is indeed kept in this school, although it is locked away in a very safe and secure place. For everyone’s safety, and the Mirror’s security. Now, can anyone tell me how it was created?”

You raise your hand swiftly, already knowing the answer from having read this chapter before it was even covered in class, along with the next three chapters. “After the creator of the Evil Queen’s magic mirror originally made it, he accidentally dropped it on the floor, causing it to shatter. He reconstructed the mirror using the larger shards, which became the famed mirror that eventually ended up in the hands of the Evil Queen. But there were still many miniscule fragments left from the first mirror, so he melted them again and made a smaller, weaker version of the Evil Queen's mirror. The small mirror is known today as the Mirror of Ytirev.”

Your teacher beams again at your perfect recitation. “That is precisely correct, Y/N. Although I don’t expect anything less from the headmaster’s daughter, of course.

“This mirror has the ability to show its user exactly one truth, an answer to any question. But since its original form was shattered, its magic is no longer stable. That’s why it is covered in this chapter,” she continues to the class. “As you can see in the image in your textbook, it is a portable artifact, putting it in Category D, Type Three.”

You look down at your textbook, studying the picture of the mirror, despite having looked at it before. It depicts a vintage handheld mirror, encased in a detailed and ornate silver frame that surrounds the glass itself. The intricate carvings of the metal create symmetrical twin arches at the top of the mirror, ending in fancy loops. In these arches two bright red gemstones are set, their edges cleanly cut and shining brilliantly. The glass of the mirror looks almost cracked, although you know it isn't really.

Just as the thought passes through your mind, someone calls out, “Why is the mirror cracked? I thought the creator fixed it.”

The answer pops up in your brain before the teacher even opens her mouth, but you still patiently listen to her as she explains to the rest of the class. “It’s not really cracked, it just appears that way to anyone who looks at it. The only time someone can see the mirror’s smooth surface is if they’re staring directly in the eyes of their own reflection. When someone does this, it is rumored they will see the truest form of themselves, the truth they desire the most.”

Someone else raises their hand, and the teacher calls on them this time. “So,” they ask, “you can get the answer to anything from that? Like how to become rich or live forever?”

The teacher masks what you can tell is a rather displeased look with yet another—fake—smile. She turns to face the entire class, a telltale sign that the student said something wrong. “Now, as we all know, there’s always a price to magic. When it comes to this mirror, due to its unstable powers, there are many prices.”

She continues her lecture, one that provides you with absolutely no new information, but being the ever-diligent student you are, you continue to listen intently. “If you look at the next page, it explains that anyone who wishes to use the Mirror must first present an offering that is very dear to them. If the Mirror accepts the offering, it allows the person to ask their question.” “And if it doesn’t?” your classmate asked.

“Does anyone know the answer to that?” The teacher looks around the class, before her eyes land on you. “Y/N?”

You brighten up at being called on, before rattling off the information as if it was common knowledge. “If the Mirror doesn’t accept the offering, or if it becomes displeased for any other reason, it will drag the person’s soul not to enlightenment, but to eternal torment. They will end up losing their mind and going crazy, with any form of intelligent life getting absorbed by the Mirror.”

“Correct again,” your teacher praises, and you beam. “And if that's not enough to ward any of you off, keep in mind that everyone who has ever used the Mirror has gone completely mad. No one has ever obtained the answer they sought; instead, they were all lost to its evil spirit. And let me assure you, many people throughout history have attempted to use the Mirror, only to fail. Therefore, it was voted as too dangerous for any beneficial uses by the Department of Magical Security. That is why it is contained here, under the watchful eye of our very own Headmaster Merlin.”

At the mention of your father, everyone turns to stare at you, as if you’re somehow the reason the Mirror is locked up. Despite the stifling moment of silence, you shrug off the unwanted attention. After all, you’re used to this. Used to the looks that other kids give you when you receive special attention from teachers for being the smartest one, for always raising your hand, for answering questions perfectly, for acing every test and having every homework assignment completed—yet refusing to share your answers (“But if I tell you the answers, how will you ever learn?”).

Used to the whispers that follow you everywhere you go, rumors of your family life; how your mother must have left because of your father’s bad habits, or neglect, or because she was having an affair with another man. Constant reminders of the past.

Used to how everyone walks on eggshells around you, how they all put you on a ledge far away from them. How people’s conversations quiet as you pass by, afraid you’ll go and report them to your father at the slightest whiff of mischief. How they always eye you when they pass notes in class or plan a prank—as if you weren't already aware of what they were doing—sometimes even begging you not to tell on them.

Used to how teachers and adults in your life expect the absolute best of you. Even when there’s no more left of yourself to give.

How they expect you to be the absolute best, a paragon of righteousness. You always have to determine the right decision, make the right call, be the epitome of morality and virtue. This is your burden to bear, all by yourself; instead of worries over bad grades or boys, you suffer under the crushing weight of the expectations of everyone around you. The expectations of society.

Briiiiiiingg! The sound of the bell marking the end of class snaps you out of your musings. “Um, Miss?” you ask, raising your voice to be heard over the sounds of everyone packing their bags.

“You didn’t tell us what our homework assignment is for tonight.”

“Oh, that’s right! Thank you for reminding me, Y/N,” the teacher exclaims amidst a chorus of groans, along with a few colorful words directed your way. “Everyone, please finish up chapter three and be prepared to turn in your report on seventh century runes by the start of tomorrow’s class.”

After all, you’re used to how right they are about you.

…Or so they think.

“Oh good, Y/N! I was looking for you all over, you know,” a panting, all-too familiar voice calls out from behind you. You freeze in your tracks, grimacing. After a deep breath, you paint a smile on your face, before turning around.

A tall man, although much shorter due to his slouched posture, hurries towards you animatedly. His short, dark brown hair is matted against the top of his head, and a thick, bushy beard trails down from his chin, rounding above his mouth in a matching mustache. He dons a pair of thin spectacles that hang low on his large nose, dressed in a dark blue robe with faint golden embroidery and a waistcoat to match. A little brown stick juts out from a hidden pocket inside his robe, an object you can only assume to be his wand—which you are quite shocked he hadn’t lost today yet.

“Dad!” you say as enthusiastically as you can muster, but if anyone had been looking closely, they would have seen the way you ever so slightly cringe as he stumbles towards you. You silently thank the heavens that this man doesn’t pay much attention to anything. Not even to his own family.

Merlin clambers towards you, gripping one of your shoulders once you’re within arm’s length. He pants, leaning his weight on you as he catches his breath.

“Dad, what is it?” you ask him, trying your best not to fall over from supporting him.

“I-I…k-keys,” he wheezes.

“You lost your keys?” This certainly isn't the first time he’s come to you with this problem, and you definitely won't bet it'll be his last.

He nods, clutching his chest as his breathing finally evens out. “Phew,” he says, letting go of your shoulder. “My spare keys to my office…I can’t seem to find where I’ve put them.”

“You mean that big ring that has a copy of about every single key needed to unlock absolutely anything in this school?” you ask, incredulous at the way he nods feverishly. Honestly, how he doesn’t see the issue with what you just plainly pointed out is beyond you.

“Nope, haven’t seen them,” you reply. “Have you checked under the counter? Inside your desk drawers? In the little pockets sewn in the other pockets in all of your robes? On top of a clothing rack? Under the vase of orchids? In the fish bowl? In the left sock from your pair that has those reindeers on them?”

He nods at each one, sometimes hesitating as if recalling something deep in his memory , but then continuing to fervently nod nonetheless. You sigh again. “Well, I don’t know then. I suppose you’ve found someplace new to hide them this time.”

“Hmm…” he mutters, scratching his beard.

“Well, Dad, I don’t know if you heard, but I, uh, I made top student of my year last quarter. For the fifth consecutive time,” you mention, trying to ease into the conversation, albeit very tentatively and with great unease. Most people’s parents would applaud them and give them a prize for merely getting an A. Yours, on the other hand, barely remembers which grade you’re in.

Your father snaps his head up, staring at you with an eccentric haze in his eyes. You feel a small glimmer of hope; maybe he’s going to give you a pat on the back this time, or perhaps offer to take you out for a celebratory dinner. You wait for his response, completely still as if frozen in time, anticipation buzzing throughout every nerve.

“Wait…I believe I put it in the mouth of that owl statue…” He freezes erratically, brow furrowed in deep concentration, before releasing the tension in his body and going back to slumping. “No, I think I already checked there.”

You take a nice, long, deep breath, using up every last ounce of your carefully practiced self-control, which you had perfected through years of deploying in stifling social situations that made you want to crawl out of your own skin, to remain calm in this moment. “Well, I hope you find it.” Giving him one last attempt at even a semblance of a smile, you sharply turn back around on your heel, continuing down the hall to your first class of the day.

Watching the early morning rays of sunshine through the tall windows of the corridor, you think back to the discussion you had yesterday in your Artifacts class. You had answered every question correctly, every fact written in ink not only committed to memory but etched into the very foundation of your brain.

You wonder if he knows of all the hard work you put into school. All the grueling hours you spend studying, all the sleepless nights you spend fighting against your body’s very nature to stay awake and keep your eyes open just enough to read the page. Heck, you wonder if he even remembers that your birthday is coming up next month—or that you gave him your wish list ages ago to ensure that he gets at least one present you asked for, unlike other years.

No, of course he doesn’t remember, you remind yourself. He doesn’t care about me. He never did.

Just like he didn’t care about Mom when she disappeared.

“Ugh, my nail chipped again. I should find the girl who did these and squeeze her to death.”

A tentacle floating in midair tightens and coils around nothingness, miming the strangulation of an innocent soul with a disturbing nonchalance. A girl with dark skin and long locks in colors such as blue, teal, and yellow, done up in a small bunch on top of her head, checks the painted nails on her left hand with a scowl on her face.

“Come on, Uli, you’re getting your nails done like, every week,” the god of the Underworld replies, indifference practically seeping through his spiked leather jacket as he chews gum and gives the sea witch a look. “At least find yourself someone better.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Uliana snaps, dropping her hand exasperatedly as she huffs.

A sorceress with purple eyeshadow and two sleek, black horns protruding from the sides of her head rolls her eyes as she complains, “This is so boring.”

“Well, what do you suggest we do then, love?” a crisply accented voice asks, sounding from a boy with neatly parted brown hair and a golden hook that ends in a sharp, gleaming point.

“Did you hear that there’s a, like, super dangerous magical object being kept here?” Maleficent asks, somehow keeping her voice incredibly monotonous and deathly uninterested, even as her words themselves convey enthusiasm.

“Yeah, apparently it can tell anyone anything they want to know,” Hades replies. “I don’t know why they’re keeping it here, though.”

Uliana turns back to the group, a malicious glint in her eye. Even before she opens her mouth, the boy with powers rather similar to those of a snake can already guess what she’s going to say.

“How about we go steal it?” she asks, a wicked grin already twisting onto her features.

“You do realize that everyone who’s ever used it has gone mad, right?” Hook asks, raising his eyebrows incredulously as he gives Uliana a look of disbelief.

“We won’t use it ourselves, idiot,” she snaps. “But it’ll be fun to steal it and cause a panic. Right, Morgie?”

Morgie swallows, looking up at Uliana with wide eyes. “Of course! C’mon, you guys. Think of the mischief we can cause with it! We can make people think some kids used it and went crazy”—he leans in, excitement growing as he speaks, making wide gestures with his hands—“and everyone would be so scared! They’d probably cancel school, too!”

Uliana grins diabolically again. “Morgie, honey,” she starts, slipping one of her tentacles under his chin, lifting his face up towards her. “How about you do this one?”

“I-I, uh…” he stammers, uncertainty laced in his voice. He definitely wasn't expecting this turn of events.

“Come on, please,” Uliana pouts. “Do it for me? After all, you’re only stealing a little mirror. How hard can that be?”

Morgie glances up at her again, before tugging uncomfortably on the black scarf wrapped around his neck. “But…it’s super dangerous…”

“Don’t you want to be evil? Don't you want to wreak havoc and cause pain?” Uliana taunts. “Or, are you”—she lets out a faux gasp—“afraid?”

“N-no, not at all!" Morgie exclaims, trying to sound more courageous than he feels. “I’ll do it!”

“Perfect,” the sea witch coos, removing her tentacle arm. “You’ll do it tonight.” She turns back to the group, adding, “I hear that old troll keeps the most dangerous and evil artifacts locked up in a room off the east wing, on the third level.”

Morgie gulps, already trying to wrap his head around the fact that he’d be doing the heist tonight. Hook, jumping off a ledge, asks, “You mean the one guarded by different spells and magical alarms?”

Uliana grins wickedly. “Nothing a little bit of Kraken Powder can’t fix.” She holds up a small vial hanging from a string around her neck like a necklace. It's common knowledge how incredibly rare Kraken Powder is, which makes sense, given how potent its anti-magic properties are.

Everyone catches on to what Uliana's implying, causing the group to all laugh together at their evil plan. Morgie tries his best to join along, but he can’t quite seem to get rid of the uneasy knot already forming in the pit of his stomach.

“You remember the plan?”

Uliana’s slippery tentacles glisten under the moonlight, flailing around behind her in midair. Morgie nods, attempting to still his quivering hands before Uliana notices them. He tries, with a miserable sense of impending doom, to swallow the lump in his throat, but to no avail.

“Here, I stole these from Merlin’s office,” Uliana explains as one of her tentacles drops a large ring filled with probably around two dozen keys, each in various shapes and colors, straight into Morgie's open palm. “One of these has to fit the door. You didn’t forget what you need to do, right?”

Morgie clears his throat, choking out a meager, “Yep.” He pockets the keys, seriously hoping they don’t clink together and make too much noise while he moves. As Uliana already repeated a hundred times, “It’s crucial you don’t get caught.”

Morgie reaches up to touch the vial hanging from his neck yet again, making sure it’s still there—after all, better safe than sorry. Once more, he glances at the large grandfather clock in the common area where he and Uliana lurk in the shadows, waiting. Finally, its bells chime midnight, and Uliana turns back to him as the ringing reverberates around them.

“Go, hurry!” the sea witch urges, pushing him toward the door with a tentacle.

Morgie nods, hurriedly rushing to the exit. The first part of the plan—a plan he so diligently committed to memory—is for him to sneak out while the bells are still ringing, to mask the sound of the door opening and closing. Thankfully, he makes it out by the tenth chime, carefully closing the door to make sure the latch doesn’t sound by the eleventh.

Okay, I’m really doing this, Morgie thinks as he stares into the deserted corridor. He tiptoes around silently, but still as quickly as possible. Time is, obviously, of utmost importance in missions like this.

At last, he reaches his destination. The unassuming—and misleadingly so—wooden door looms over him, ominous through the lens of his knowledge of what lies beyond it.

An amateur villain would simply pick the lock and open the door, but Morgie is too experienced in such endeavors to make a rookie mistake like that (Uliana told him what to do, step-by-step).

He hovers his hand above the lock, taking a steadying breath as he summons the powers that reside within him. His pupils shrink into the tiniest slivers of blackness as a dark, magical smoke emits from his palm. He makes a faint hissing noise, reciting an old incantation in a tongue far different from what normal humans use, and the lock softly clicks as the door creaks open. Practically inviting him inside.

Morgie pushes it open the rest of the way, making sure to shut it behind him so as to not raise the suspicion of any night guards roaming the halls.

He turns back around, now faced with a dark, menacing hallway. Walking slowly down it, he looks around with a chilling captivation. Old suits of armor leer down at him, rustic and each coated with a thick layer of dust. Large spiderwebs cover every visible nook and cranny, which makes Morgie exceedingly grateful that the actual spiders aren't in his line of sight.

At the end of the corridor stands yet another large door, matching the first. This one, according to Uliana, has even more security than the other. Time to use my secret weapon, Morgie thinks, reaching to pull the vial of Kraken Powder out from under his shirt. He opens the cap and sprinkles a little of the finely grained dust into his palm, then blows it over the lock of the door.

At first glance, it appears the powder didn’t work, as nothing seem to change. But anyone with an affinity for magical energy can feel the spells placed on the lock of the door melt away without a trace. After the door is unarmed, Morgie fishes in his pocket for the keys. They clang horribly as he pulls them out, echoing up into the tall ceiling of the hallway. He freezes, listening intently for footsteps somewhere outside. When he hears none, Morgie begins the task of figuring out which key fits the lock.

He goes through nearly half the ring (Seriously, who keeps all their keys in one place?) before finding the one that fits perfectly. Twisting it with a swift movement, the door unlocks, and he creeps inside.

To his immense shock, there isn't a room behind the door filled with evil objects or piled with gold coins. Instead, there’s a…

…library?

Morgie walks inside, utterly confused. Had Uliana gotten the location wrong? No, there's no way. The doors were too guarded for a normal library.

He continues down one of the aisles, wondering why he's never seen this place before. It is extremely large, with arched ceilings meters and meters above his head. Tall bookshelves tower over him, so tall that he can barely see the highest shelves.

Lined against the walls and placed on the shelves are also glass jars and containers filled with seemingly normal items: a seashell necklace, a deck of playing cards, a cane with the head of a snake. But there's something sinister about them; some strange aura that hovers above each object. In fact, it fills the entire expanse of the library.

Morgie stops by one of the shelves, reading the titles. He brushes his fingers along one of the spines—and that’s when he feels it. An ominous energy rushes through his fingertips, electrifying his every nerve at it travels through him, causing him to realize that this is no normal book. It’s a book of dark magic.

He spins around in a circle, eyeing the entirety of the library. Now that he thinks about it, the whole place has the heavy atmosphere of dark magic. And that’s when it hits him: this is no normal library, and neither are the books. This is the room of forbidden artifacts. It just so happens that most of those artifacts are books, probably containing content deemed too dangerous for normal people to learn.

Morgie briefly considers taking a few of the books off the shelves and perusing through them, or maybe even slipping a couple in his jacket and taking them back with him. After all, all these forbidden books must have countless evil spells and potions. If he and the rest of his group got their hands on these…

However, after a moment of serious consideration, he decides the better of it. He's here for another purpose, and Uliana would be outraged if he only came back with a few meager books, no matter the contents.

Continuing through the labyrinth of shelves, Morgie looks around meticulously, trying to figure out a rhyme or reason to the order of things. No student has ever been in here, and he doubts many of the teachers have, either. Therefore, there were no references or guides to help him and his friends figure out where in the room the Mirror is located. Plus, he doesn’t think any of them had expected the place to be so colossal—he surely hadn't.

After a few minutes of stumbling around in the near darkness, he finally comes across a ladder leaning against one of the shelves. It’s so tall he can’t see the top of it, but deciding it’s his best chance at finding his bearings, Morgie begins the long climb up.

He isn’t really afraid of heights. Not in the way that some people refuse to go on anything more than a few feet off the ground. But he honestly doesn’t see how anyone couldn’t feel at least a little queasy at the high altitude. I must be a dozen meters off the ground, Morgie realizes as he glances down. I wonder what would happen if I fell—

He cuts the thought off before he can imagine the gruesome details. Instead, he looks back up and around the library. From all the way up here, he can see the top of the shelves, and he really was right: this place was designed to be a maze.

On the far side of the area, his eyes spot lots of glass cases reflecting the soft moonlight and flames of enchanted candles. That must be where most of the objects are kept. Chances are, the Mirror’s there too.

He mentally charts out a course through the labyrinth, trying to remember the directions for more than two seconds. Right, left, left again, forward, right, right again, left, forward—or wait, was it right? After a few minutes, he climbs back down the ladder, praying to the demons of the Underworld that he remembers the path correctly and doesn’t get lost.

Morgie makes his way through the maze, growing more and more fascinated by the creepy and wonderful objects around him. He can’t stop thinking about how nice—and useful—it would be to pocket some of them, or maybe come back here and spend more time studying them. Every time he passes by something that intrigues him, his mind immediately wonders if it would fit inside his clothes.

Despite this, he resists the urge to steal things, as he can’t have anything weighing him down in case there are more challenges or enchantments he has to disarm before getting the Mirror. But perhaps on the way back…

His train of thought drifts away as he finally reaches a large area that is surrounded by glass cases, on tables and lining the shelves set into the walls. He never imagined there would be so many forbidden artifacts in total, much less in one place, although maybe that's because he's never really paid attention in class.

From the top of a shelf a few meters away, something catches his eye. A mysterious, eerie white fog pours from one of the highest shelves, dissipating as it cascades down the front of the bookcase. He remembers hearing something about mist related to the Mirror, and deciding it’s worth a shot, he moves closer to check it out.

And that’s when he sees it.

A dark flurry of movement from another one of the top shelves catches his attention. Morgie snaps his head up, brows furrowing as he squints, eyes trailing the structures above him. But he can’t quite make out anything, at least not in the faint light, so he hesitantly shrugs it off and continues towards the mysterious fog—albeit not being able to shake off the strange feeling he has that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

He takes a few more steps, and just as he's nearly convinced himself he’s only being paranoid, it happens again. Now that he’s closer, he can see there’s another tall ladder reaching up to around where the movement is happening, close to the Mirror. This time, his eyes register the shape.

A dark, human figure moves up the ladder, blending in and out of the shadows.

Morgie’s eyes grow wide, pupils shrinking back into snake-like slits as a reptilian hiss escapes his mouth. There shouldn't be anyone else here.

The figure freezes in place before turning around to face him, hanging halfway up the ladder. Although Morgie can’t see their face, concealed by a thick black hood, he can tell they saw him.

He stretches out his arms, summoning black magic that swirls around his hands and up to his elbows again. After but a second of him and the hooded figure staring at each other—which somehow felt like an hour—Morgie throws his arm forward, aimed for the figure.

A ball of twisting dark energy shoots from his hand and towards the hooded face. The figure ducks down, dodging the attack. Undeterred, Morgie hurls more swirls of dark magic. The figure dodges the first few of them, but they must have realized that merely ducking down won't be enough to win this fight, because they summon a shield of buzzing yellow electricity to block the next few attacks.

Morgie quickly becomes aware that he isn’t winning the fight like this; he needs a new strategy. And that’s when he spots it.

He puts his hands close together in front of his chest, gathering a potent sphere of black magic between his palms. The figure stands there, motionless, still hanging onto the ladder.

If you can’t knock them down, pull the carpet out from under their feet.

He thrusts both of his hands forward, sending the ball of magic not at the figure, but at the base of the ladder instead. By the time they realize what he's doing, it’s too late.

Morgie’s magic collides with the bottom rungs, exploding the material and sending wooden splinters flying everywhere. He watches as the figure falls, swiftly summoning a flash of lightning below them as they plummet, easing the crash as they hit the ground.

The aftermath of the explosion has Morgie ducking down and covering his face with his arm, barely being able to make out what happened to the hooded person. As the dust finally settles, Morgie spots the figure get up, gripping their head as if in pain. They stumble a little, then bush off their black robe as they check for other injuries.

As if abruptly remembering why they had fallen, they spin around to face Morgie. He stares, wide-eyed in pure disbelief, as the figure comes face-to-face with him. Even though they don’t seem to be too hurt, and definitely still alive, the force of the impact caused their hood to be knocked off their head.

Morgie’s mouth drops open as he registers the figure’s face.

There, in front of him, in the forbidden archive harboring some of the world's most dangerously powerful magical objects during the dead of night, stands the headmaster’s daughter.

Your grimace grows as you lock eyes with a boy with light brown hair, hazel eyes shrunk into slits resembling a snake’s, causing your head to throb even worse.

You watch as the realization dawns upon the boy’s face, cursing the skies for this little issue that you now have to deal with.

He knows your secret.

“Y-you, you, you’re the headmaster’s daughter,” he sputters out, disbelief still painted on his face, as clear as day. Seriously, if he keeps his jaw open like that, it’ll fall off.

“Yeah, no shit,” you spit back, not paying much attention to his stunned little face. Your mind is overwhelmed with a swirling whirlwind of thoughts and ideas on how to get rid of this new liability, each plan vying for your attention, each one crueler than the last.

After all, now that he knows who you really are, how you're not a rule-abiding goody-goody, there’s no point in keeping up your sweet, innocent facade. You finally let your mask slip off, the mask that you wear constantly in the presence of others. The mask that you only relieve yourself of when you’re all alone, with no one to see your callous, vindictive, cynical side. Your true side.

Ever since that day, at least. The day that forever changed your life.

“What are you doing here?” the boy stammers, as if it isn't already dreadfully obvious.

“The same thing you’re doing here.” “How do you know what I’m doing here?”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. Honestly, this kid could not be more of a dunderhead. “Look, I don’t have time for this. Either get out of my way, or I’ll make you get out of my way.”

At your threat, the boy, whose name you happen to remember from a class you took with him last year, changes his stance. Morgie widens his legs, arms fanned out besides him whilst summoning dark energy that clings to his skin, alive and breathing, yet submissive to its master’s will.

“Aren’t you like, a goody-goody?” he asks, face still scrunched in confusion. “I’ve heard teachers go on and on about how good your grades are, how polite you are, how you’re the perfect student.”

You roll your eyes, annoyed at his relentless questions. It 's already bad enough that he knows this much. You don't need him finding out more.

“Well, looks can be deceiving,” you respond as vaguely as possible, hoping that it’ll shut him up. Instead, he cocks his head to the side, shooting back, “I don’t really think so.”

You try your best to not encourage him and his irritating questions, but you can’t help but begrudgingly ask, “How so?”

Morgie looks at you for a beat with an intent gaze, before replying, “I always thought you were too pretty for a hero.”

Uh, excuse me, what? you think. Now it’s your turn to be shocked. “You don’t find me scary?” You had always assumed that people would be terrified if they saw your real, unfiltered side.

“No, not really. I mean, I’m evil too. If anything, I find you even hotter now that I know you’re not a goody-goody.”

Blinking hard, your eyebrows shoot into the air. There is no way he just said that. Your mind is uncontrollably reeling at his words, but only for a brief moment. Before you can read too deeply into it, your attention is quickly snapped back to the black magic still swirling around him, growing by the second. Ah, a ploy to distract me. Maybe he is more clever than he lets on.

“Listen, Morgie,” you snarl threateningly. “That mirror is mine.”

“Wait, you’re here for the Mirror too?” he asks, with far too light a tone for a situation such as this.

“Th-that was obvious the whole time!” you exclaim, unbelievably irritated. “What did you think I was here for?” “I dunno, a book or something.” He shrugs casually, before narrowing his eyes. “Wait, what do you want the Mirror for?”

“That’s none of your business,” you snap back, fingers thrumming with the rush of energy as you summon your own magic. Letting your curiosity get the better of you yet again, you add, “Why do you want it?”

“I’m a villain. I steal things for fun,” he replies, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “What does a goody-two-shoes hero want to do with a forbidden artifact?”

Barely listening to his words, you study him carefully, needing to know the extent of his powers if you’re going to win the inevitable fight that you can sense coming. You see how his ever-growing dark magic stalls temporarily as he talks, probably from getting distracted while speaking. That’s it. Deciding to buy yourself some time, you use this little weakness to your advantage.

“I want the Mirror because I want to use it.” Even though you’re planning on entertaining his pointless questions, you definitely aren’t going to give him information for free.

“Use it? To get an answer?” His magic hesitates again.

“No, to look at myself.” You see the way his eyebrows furrow in confusion, and you’re pretty sure you’re about to implode. “Of course to get an answer, you dumbass! Unlike you, I don’t go risking my life ‘for fun.’”

“What are you even going to use as an offering? You have to give it something, you know.”

You sigh, reaching underneath your shirt to pull out a small silver locket, its chain blackened from the trials of time. Dangling it from your fingers, you show it to Morgie.

“A locket?” he asks incredulously. “The offering's supposed to be something really special or precious.”

“It is really precious,” you hiss, tucking it back into your shirt. “It’s the most precious thing I own. If anything’s going to make the Mirror work, it’s this.”

“Well, you’re not going to get the Mirror anyways. It’s mine.” He widens his stance again, his magic continuing to grow around him. No, I need a little more time, you think, masking your growing panic with an insouciant eye roll.

“Why?” you question. “You’re not even going to use it.”

“I still need it.” “But why?”

“I won’t tell you if you won’t tell me!” he exclaims. Despite his little outburst, you can tell there’s something he’s hiding. After all, you are a master of concealing the truth yourself. “Plus, you know that everyone who's ever used the mirror has gone crazy, right? You’re literally sentencing yourself to a life of madness.” You give him an unamused look. “I’m the top of our year. Obviously I know everything there is to know about the Mirror of Ytirev.”

He gazes at you in a way you can’t decipher, but it’s softer, more sympathetic than his former glare. You notice that his snake eyes have disappeared as well, despite the magical energy still surrounding him. “Then why are you still doing this, despite the risks?”

You falter, for just a second, letting a sliver of emotion slip through. But as quickly as it happened, you patch it back up, returning to your cold, glowering face. “It’s a price I’m willing to pay.” You expect him to drop it after that, but he continues to press you. “You’re prepared to give up your morals? Your status as a hero? You’re willing to lose all your integrity for one answer?”

God, he talks too much. With a sniff, you throw your hands out in front of you, releasing a bright flash of crackling electricity that had been building up as you cry out, “I don’t care how evil I have to become, I will find the truth, one way or another!”

The lightning shoots forward without warning, hot as an inferno, piercing straight through his chest and flinging him backwards into a shelf like a ragdoll. He falls down to his knees, and for a split second, you wonder if he’s going to get up again. Clutching his chest, he wheezes yet still manages to stand up, summoning wispy black tendrils that shoot at you like arrows.

You tuck and roll, dodging them, whilst building up more crackling lightning between your fingers. The last tendril hits far too close to you for comfort, burning a hole in your robe. That would have been my flesh, had it hit me, you realize in sudden horror.

Seeing as how your opponent is summoning even more dark magic to hit you with, now engulfing his entire body, you break into a sprint. Black spears collide with the shelves behind you one after another, barely missing you, as you run past glass cases, each containing a different artifact that glistens in the silver moonlight. Something across the arena seizes your attention, and a plan begins to piece itself together in your head. You continue your dash towards the shelves behind Morgie. Once you reach a section with books instead of random magical objects, you slow your pace. Amidst Morgie's unrelenting attacks, you create a golden shield of electricity that sparks and crackles, almost alive, and which reaches as tall as you. You jog past the shelves, head craned as you scan the book titles as quickly as possible.

Morgie persists in launching balls of dark magic directly at you, smashing into your shield. Your panic rises as cracks begin to form, at first only small fissures, but growing larger and larger with each sphere that pummels your way.

You run parallel to the shelf, which boxes in the rest of the area in a rectangular shape, eyes frantically darting over words with barely enough time for your brain to comprehend them.

Glancing up as a whorl of blackness blasts the books resting directly in front of you, you duck down, yet continue to run. That’s when you see a thick tome, larger than the others and bearing a dark red cover, jutting out from a shelf a few meters in front of you. With your magical shield barely staying intact, you lunge towards it, snatching the book as you fall towards the ground and somersault behind a desk-sized wooden stand to hide. On top of it stands a glass display case, with faint candlelight illuminating the rustic, yet enchanted, metal shield contained inside it.

You crouch down, flipping through the pages of the book desperately, trying to find the incantation you know has to be in there. One time, on one of your random visits to the library—the normal one, not this hell of the most cursed items in the land—you had picked up a text that talked about the history of spellcasting. Detailed inside was a description of one of the first books of curses ever written, which had been banned from production shortly after its release due to the nature of its contents. There had been a small sketch next to the explanation, which just so happens to match the tome now weighing in your hands.

Morgie’s blasts of magic don’t stop, pounding the wooden stand and the glass case alike. You think he yells something, but you can’t tell; you’re too focused on squinting at the fine print on the page, eyes wildly scanning the names of the spells. The desk quakes with every attack, causing your hands to tremble as you rifle through the pages hastily, pointer finger trailing down the lists of incantations.

Finally, your eyes lock onto the one you want. “Obiectum impedit semitam,” you recite, gaze darting between the page and the glass case above you. It quivers vigorously, yet remains unscathed due to its magic-bulletproof nature.

“Evanescet a lumine irae meae!” As soon as the last syllable leaves your tongue, the glass case dissipates into thin air. Your hand darts up, clutching the shield and shoving it in front of you. Just in time, as the wooden stand protecting you explodes from the force of Morgie’s dark magic, blasting into a shower of mere splinters that rain down around you. The shockwave causes you to recoil, even as the shield absorbs the brunt of the impact.

Quickly regaining your bearings, you crouch even lower behind the metal. Thumbing through the book pages briskly, your eyes skim the ink, trying to find the first spell that can help you now.

“Inimicus meus, caveto tibi,” you mutter the incantation rapidly, trying your best not to stumble over the archaic words—who knows what sort of havoc that would make. “Transi me et in carcere gelido capieris.”

You peek your head over the shield as you say the last line, locking in on your target. He stands there, panting, worn from his latest, potent attack. Morgie barely has enough time to widen his eyes as the final word escapes your mouth, instantly creating ice stalagmites that burst forth from the ground, crisscrossing as they trap him in a prison of ice. They tower high all around while entrapping him in a circle, frost coating their sleek outsides, which narrow into dangerously sharp tips.

The air turns frigid, and you can see flurries of movement as Morgie thrashes within his glacial cell. Already, he’s trying to break out. Through the cracks between the icicles, you can see a swirling vortex of black magic fighting the freezingly cold charm. Even though it is a strong spell, you know it won’t last for long. Especially not with the dark energy that is slowly, yet surely, thawing out the ice.

Springing up again, you bolt to the shelves on the other side, jumping over small puddles forming on the floor. The book is still open in your hands as you wildly tear through one page after another, the minuscule words shaking and blurring together as you run. Honestly, what kind of asshole decides to print in such a tiny font? you internally rage. Flipping through the large sheets of paper filled with small text reminds you of reading a dictionary. In a way, the spellbook is a dictionary of sorts, with the way every curse is listed alphabetically, in a neat and orderly manner—much unlike your current frenzied state, with how your heart pounds against your chest as if trying to break free, and the adrenaline coursing through your veins cuts off any semblance of a coherent thought forming in your brain.

Twisting sharply to your right, you dart towards the shelf that the Mirror stands on. You stare up at it as you continue to run, eyes practically sending a silent plea while it sits on its throne undisturbed, watching the scenes before it unfold as if viewing a play from the highest seat in the opera house; somehow mildly amused, yet still condescendingly blasé at the same time.

Flipping to the L section of the spellbook, you scan the page for a spell that can help you reach it at last. Finally finish the last stretch of your journey.

The icicle prison behind you makes a dreadfully loud crack. Your heart only races even faster with a jolt, your breathing coming out only in sharp, erratic gulps that make you feel light-headed, as if you’re not getting enough oxygen no matter how much you gasp for air.

As you scan the page, this time with a renewed fervor that has your eyes darting across the words, too panicked to even finish a sentence before leaping to the next, you make a very interesting revelation indeed. For whatever reason, the genius who wrote this book decided not to add levitation to the list of spells, but instead included lignum pullelare, which roughly translates to “sprouting a tree”.

Another thunderous boom sounds again from the constantly fracturing icicles, a violent reminder of the ticking clock. You decide that this spell, no matter how absurd, is the best shot you have. Inhaling another sharp breath that burns your lungs, you cry, “Surge, virens gigas, de terra immunda,” your eyes glued to the page. “Ascendunt ad lunam et super caelos!”

A branch smashes into your chest, knocking the wind out of you—you really need to get used to how quickly these spells take effect—lifting you up as a colossal tree ascends from the ground, growing much more rapidly than even a beanstalk, much less a normal tree. The metal shield slips out of your grasp from the impact, your fingers desperately flailing in its direction futile as it falls and hits the floor with a dull thud.

Your get snapped back to the present from the momentary distraction as your body starts slipping off the branch, with how it's quickly growing into a thick, strong limb with no end in sight. You slide off the ever-stretching wood, scratches cutting into your arms as you frantically try to wrap them around the branch, until only your hands are still hanging on. Using the book, which remains gripped firmly in one hand, you fling it open and cling to each cover. The book's pages spread wide around the wood as you hold on for dear life.

You continue shooting upwards along with the tree, the bookcase racing past you, when a realization hits you like a strike of lightning. This tree won’t stop growing anytime soon, and when it does, you’ll be too high up��if you're still alive, that is.

Glancing above you, you spot the Mirror and the shelf it sits on getting closer, and getting closer fast. Making up your mind, or rather, making a brash decision fueled by your skyrocketing panic, you wait until the shelf you need to reach comes into view. Then, you jump off.

Flinging yourself towards the bookcase, you manage to latch on to a shelf, fingers wrapping around the ledge while your feet find purchase on another ridge a few feet below. The book remains clutched in one hand, your iron grip refusing to let it go. Realizing you can't do anything while holding it, you risk letting go with one hand. Gripping onto the shelf with your other hand, you tuck the book under your chin, angling your head down as you struggle to hold it between your neck and body.

You peer up at your grasp on the shelf, the unforgiving ridges digging into your skin, carving painful lines into your fingers. Your feet barely remain balanced, the ledge not jutting out as far as you’d like it to. Turning your heels in to stay on the little shelf space there is in front of the books, you wince as the ridges between your arms and legs bite into your body. The sweat coating your palms causes your grip to start slipping off, your eyes wide in sheer terror as you let go for a brief second, thrusting your hands further back and hooking onto the edge again.

Glimpsing back down, you see the Mirror resting in its glass cage a few shelves below you, the strange white mist slithering underneath the glass and pouring out over the bookcase like a waterfall. With your chin still uncomfortably positioned as to not lose the book, you release on hand and leg from the shelf, leaving you hanging in between life and death itself.

You move your free hand down one ledge below, then the corresponding foot, haltingly scaling your way down the bookcase. Each time precariously letting go of your grip or footing to blindly feel below yourself for another ledge to stay on. After a few iterations, your feet finally stand on the same shelf as the Mirror, right next to the glass case.

Another piercing boom echoes behind you, making you squeeze your eyes shut as you flinch against the bookcase, quivering breaths sending your heartbeat shooting through the roof. Your eyes dart down to the book you squeeze with your neck, then to where your hands are barely clinging on to the shelf. There’s no chance of using the book to make the glass disappear again. Cursing yourself for not memorizing the incantation earlier, your mind swarms with thoughts, each one so loud they drown out each other.

An idea forms in your head—or rather, slams itself into the sides of your brain like a wave crashing in a bottle while it screams for attention—as you warily lift one foot on top of the heel of the other shoe, maneuvering it off your foot.

Now with only a sock left, you press your toes against the glass container. Inhaling a sharp breath, causing your lungs to ache as they scream for more, you muster enough energy to summon a bolt of lightning, focusing all your attention on passing electrical current through your body and to your foot.

The hotness of the electricity heats up the glass, melting it until there’s a decent-sized hole the size of your foot there. Shuffling to the side and raising your shoeless foot to the ledge above, you draw back your other leg and smash it into the glass, causing the compromised structure to shatter everywhere.

Climbing down the bookcase farther, you come face-to-face with the Mirror of Yteriv at last. It looks exactly like it was depicted in that textbook, sporting an elegant silver frame and seemingly shattered surface, with the two rubies staring at you like glowing eyes.

A loud explosion rings behind you, resounding throughout the entire library. You snatch the Mirror with one hand, turning your head to the side as far as you can without letting the book slip, just in time to see Morgie demolish the ice prison as he breaks free.

It's clear that since now he's no longer bound by frozen spikes of ice, you’re his next target. Taking in an abrupt gasp of air—the only preparation you have—you let go of the shelf.

You plummet towards the ground for only a second before creating small thunderbolts beneath each of your feet, suspending you in midair. Already, you can see Morgie charging up another attack, aiming it straight at you. Book in one hand, Mirror in the other, you take off into a run through the air. Small platforms of electricity form beneath your feet with every step, dissipating again as soon as your foot lifts.

Balls of dark magic hurl towards you, and you already know you have no chance of winning this fight—not like this. But you don’t need to win. Glancing down at the Mirror clutched in your palm as you jump off a thunderbolt, right as it gets blasted by a black orb, you realize that you’ve already completed your mission. Now, all that’s left is to get out of here.

Your mind scrambles for a way out that doesn’t involve getting blasted into smithereens, eyes still fixed on the Mirror as you continue to dash around in midair. Watching the wispy tendrils of white smoke pour out of the artifact, a previous memory from something you read in a book hits you like a flash.

As the Mirror of Ytirev connects to its wielder’s soul, so do its properties, the book had said. The mist emitted by the Mirror fluctuates with the wielder’s emotions; the more powerfully one feels their emotions, negative ones in particular, the more smoke it produces.

A room filled with smoke? You can’t think of a more perfect cover to help you escape.

Grip tightening even further around the Mirror as you leap to another lightning platform, dodging a new attack, you rack your brain for every negative emotion you have—which turns out to be a lot. The adrenaline pumping through your veins as your life flashes before your very eyes from every near-death experience. The way your heart shatters a little more every time your father overlooks your accomplishments, not paying any mind to how hard you strive to please him. Just to get a single smile, a pat on the back, a meager look of pride in your direction. One simple “That’s my daughter!” sent your way.

The anger deep inside you starts to bubble, pure rage sizzling and growing hotter every second you spend lost in your emotions. A fury that is always there, making every breath a little shorter, every happy moment a little duller. A dormant feeling that is usually left undisturbed, except for when it's triggered. Then it becomes a fire that burns hotter than any flame in the depths of hell.

The emotions and thoughts and memories that you keep suppressed in a corner of your heart all coming flooding out, like a dam finally bursting free. How could everyone strand you like that? Leave you all alone to suffer through your grief, while always expecting you to be kind and cheerful. They know what happened, and they have to know how badly it hurts. Yet not a single one cares. Not your dad, not your teachers, not your friends. No one in the entire world ever so much as offered a shoulder for you to cry on or gave you a comforting smile. Not one “I’m here for you” or “It’s all right, take your time.” No, all they did was raise their expectations, setting the bar so high until you’re barely clinging to it, trying to pull yourself up despite your weary arms. Lifting it to such heights that losing your grip and falling would mean certain death.

You think of the snarling, twisted animal that resides deep inside you, embedded into your very being, clawing at the aching hole in your heart left by the absence of your mother. Finally letting it break free after being caged for so long, you feel, oh-so agonizingly, how it scratches its way up your throat and escapes you in a wretched sob.

Why did she leave me? How could she leave me? I’m her daughter, for fuck’s sake. Who can abandon their child like that? Does she not care about me?

Did she ever even love me?

Painful thoughts consume your head as a few stray tears run down your cheek. You grit your teeth, sucking in shaky gasps of breaths. Smothered by your anguish, submerged in emotion.

Yet, despite all this, it works. Remembering the entire point of your self-inflicted despair, your head snaps down to the Mirror. Although your legs burn and throb from all the incessant running, you can’t stop. At least not yet.

Thick fog exudes from the Mirror, rapidly engulfing the whole of the arena. Within a few moments, everything is covered in the dense whiteness, so heavy you can barely see your hand, even if you hold it directly in front of your face.

Morgie disappears in the fog as well, to the point where you can no longer see nor hear him. Assuming that he’s no longer a threat for now—if you can’t see him, he can’t see you, and if he can’t see you, he can’t attack you—you summon a staircase of thunderbolts and walk down it until you safely step onto solid ground.

Your legs practically give way at the first touch of hard floor, the urge to collapse and lie on the ground excruciatingly strong. Mustering up the last of your strength and willpower, you force your feet to step one after another, desperately trying to distract yourself from the fire burning in your muscles at even the strain of supporting your own weight.

Almost done. Almost.

Practically rendered blind by the all-encompassing mist, you keep one hand outstretched, making sure you won’t collide with anything—especially Morgie. Pocketing the Mirror, you continue through the fog. You had made sure to note your direction in relation to the exit before everything became completely invisible as to help you easily find your way out without getting lost. But after a few minutes in the overwhelming whiteness, you start to doubt yourself.

What’s even worse is that there’s no sign of Morgie. You’re not foolish enough to expect him to pop up right in front of you, but you don’t hear him making any sounds either. No footsteps, no breathing, nothing. Your strides are far more muffled as you take your other shoe off too, annoyed at the limping effect the difference in heights causes. But nothing from him.

Your mind starts wandering to what happened to him, refusing to admit that the smallest part of you feels the tiniest bit concerned. Does he need help? Is he still alive? Your intentions were to steal the Mirror and disarm him, not kill him. You’re not evil enough for that.

Not yet, anyway.

After stumbling through the murky fog for a bit longer, you start to notice that now, you can see your hand extended in front of you. The fog is thinning, you think, which means I must be nearing the edge of this area and heading towards the bookcases.

A little bit further, and the fog disperses to all but a thin mist. The bookshelves in front of you come into view, the rows and rows of them finally visible as they expand into the distance. Follow those, and you’ll find the door you came in through.

So, so close…

You take a few more steps, the heavy spellbook still in hand as you reach into your pocket with an unusual, yet profound, sense of paranoia, ensuring the Mirror is still there. Out of nowhere, you feel a strange sort of chill cover your feet. You chalk it up to your lack of shoes, but, not being able to resist the urge, you glance down.

That’s when you see strange feathery tendrils of black smoke on the floor, in stark contrast to the thin mist that hangs in the air. They slither and wrap around your feet as they move, condensing together in front of you and rising up a meter off the ground in the shape of a hissing black cobra.

The cobra flares out its hood whilst flicking its tongue at you, swaying side to side as it stretches to its full height. You stumble backwards, hesitating for only a second too long before it dawns on you where the snake came from.

Behind you, a brooding voice sounds. “Going somewhere?” Morgie asks.

You spin around sharply, dismay and a special breed of horror painted on your face as you turn to face him. “I don’t care what you do, the Mirror is mine,” you growl, shooting him a lethal glare that truly could kill.

“I don’t think so.” He gathers more black magic around his palm, creating an orb that whirls around like a dark, spherical tornado. You both stare into each other’s eyes for a moment, a fracture in time, trying to decide your next move—when he suddenly throws his hand forward.

You flinch away, yanking the book in front of your face as a shield. After a second, when you don’t feel anything, you open your eyes, turning back in his direction in confusion.

And that’s when you see that you weren't the target of his attack.

The book in front of you was.

The dark magic gnaws at it from the back cover, where it hit on impact, eating away at the pages. “No!” you scream, desperately flipping through the paper as the magic destroys it. Your own magic may be quite strong, but since you're barely allowed to practice it, it’s nowhere near the son of Morgana’s abilities or prowess. This book was your only chance at defeating him.

Frantically rifling through the pages, a look of pure horror on your face, you try to scan the spells for something to save you. Teleportation is soon gone, as well as fireball. As soon as you catch a glimpse of a spell name that could be helpful, the incantation is instantly obliterated.

Panic building faster than even the speed of the dark magic, you flip to the front of the book, trying to find a spell at the beginning of the alphabet so you have enough time to actually read the incantation.

But apple is of no use, and neither is bridge. Morgie stands there, gaze transfixed on your struggling form, wickedly smiling with an amused raise of his eyebrows. Guess he really is a villain after all.

The black energy eroding the book spreads across both covers, demolishing the tome as you hold it in your feverishly trembling hands. Your eyes race across the letters, desperate to find one that could even have a chance at saving you.

Dragon, no.

Claws, not that.

Chasm, not that either.

None of these will help me! your internal voice screeches, the book dissipating as you hold it. Then, your eyes snag along a word.

Chains. The perfect spell.

“Ut qui inritat, catenas sentiat iras,” you wildly spit out, heart racing, tongue unable to move fast enough. Your eyes dart frenziedly ahead of your mouth, running on sheer panic as you try to memorize the words in case the book does disappear. “Pati in compedibus, ut solvas pretium peccatorum tuorum,” you continue to cry out.

As the last fibers of the pages evaporate in black fumes, you thrust a hand in Morgie’s direction, yelling the last few words. “Eris enim sine fuga ligatus!”

Nothing.

Then, boom.

The residual magic from the demolished book, no longer contained in a physical form, explodes, the force sending you flying backwards. You soar for a couple feet before colliding with a shelf behind you, your head slamming against a sharp edge.

You crumple to the floor, body bruised, beaten, and bloody. The world spins, your head throbs, and you feel so generally shitty that you want to crawl out of your body and leave this physical hindrance behind.

Your head feels too heavy to lift up, and so it falls forward, swaying back and forth. A warm sensation on the back of your skull draws your senses back to the present, and you lift one weary hand to the spot. Bringing it back down in front of your face, you see a whole lot of red smothered on it, just as more trickles down onto the base of your head and neck.

Groaning, you lift your face to scan your surroundings as the dust settles yet again. The fog is now almost completely gone, allowing you to see rather clearly. Sight still blurry, you barely make out the figure a few meters in front of you as heavy chains whip up from the floor, wrapping around his arms.

More spring up around his legs, dragging him down and causing his knees to buckle. He fights against the metal, but they only tighten as even more encircle his torso, tethering him to the ground. He leans forwards, now kneeling before you, arms spread out and chained to the floor on either side.

In front of him, halfway between you two, lies the Mirror of Yteriv, face-up on the floor.

Scrambling to get up, you slowly manage to stand, leaning your weight on the bookcase behind you. The ground sways underneath your feet, but you don’t collapse. One shaky step after another, you make your way over to the mirror.

You practically crumple to the floor as you lean down to snatch it up, the sounds of chains rattling against each other echoing through your head as their prisoner resists his bonds.

You straighten again, running your fingers over every millimeter of the Mirror’s surface to ensure that the cracks reflected on it are only part of its usual appearance and not actual damage caused during the explosion. Once you're sure of its safety, you look down at the figure shackled in front of you.

Morgie looks up at you, hair disheveled and face bruised, a few drops of blood spattered on his cheek. His eyes are a storm of anguish and a wounded kind of sorrow, his jaw clenched tight. You’d like to think that he isn’t peering up at you, body tied and bound, with resentment etched into his features, but you know you’d be lying to yourself.

He gives another violent tug against the chains, but to no avail. Neither of you speak a word, remaining in complete silence, yet somehow saying a thousand things through your eyes. You stare down at him, at the way he can barely lift his head due to his restraints, the agony swirling in his eyes tugging at your heartstrings in ways that make you ache through your core.

But you’ve already come this far. You can’t turn back now.

The deafening silence remains as you raise the Mirror up in front of yourself, the white mist wrapping around you as if beckoning you closer. The red eyes glow even brighter, their judgment intensifying as your reflection begins to appear in the glass. The cracks on the surface slowly fade away as you come into view, until finally revealing a completely smooth and unmarred image as you gaze into your own eyes.

Except they aren’t yours.

Your reflection in the mirror is not of yourself, but of a younger version of you. She smiles effulgently, a pure, innocent sparkle of wonder in her eyes. A look of untainted bliss painted on her face as she beams.

A look you haven’t seen in your own reflection for a long time.

“Mommy?” her young, high-pitched voice calls out. “Mommy? Moooommy? Where are you?”

A sob gets caught in your throat as you gasp, tears framing your vision. As if the memory finally gets uncovered in your mind, after being hidden away all these years from your brain deeming it too painful, you realize when this is—or rather, what this is.

“Mommy?” she calls again, her smile faltering as her little brow furrows in confusion, her face scrunching ever so slightly. “Mommy?” She turns her head to the side, looking at something out of view before asking, “Daddy, where’s Mommy?”

Your chest heaves as a sharp cry escapes you, the pain taking a physical form in the tears streaking your cheeks, your face contorting as you weep. In the background, a man’s faint, shaky sobs sound.

The mirror slips from your fingers, landing on the ground with an echoing thud. You whimper, uncontrollably trembling breaths causing your chest to jolt back and forth. You don’t move, can’t move, empty hand still suspended in midair.

You feel numb, yet like you're experiencing every emotion all at once. Your brain can’t wrap around this, around any of this, can’t comprehend your own thoughts. Can’t process what you feel. You’ve shoved your emotion down for so long, that now that they’re no longer bottled up, you don’t know how to deal with them.

“I’m sorry.” The voice cuts through the thick silence, snapping you out of the raging war inside your head.

You glance over at Morgie, still wrapped in chains. His eyes no longer hold the same animosity and misery, but instead a soft sort of sympathy, an underlying look of understanding as he peers up at you, head slightly raised.

“I don’t want your pity,” you sniff indignantly.

“I’m not pitying you.”

You look down at him, your chest heaving, eyes bloodshot. Taking shaky gasps of breath through your mouth, your body quivers as you wait for him to continue.

“I didn’t know about your mom, and you’re totally justified for wanting to know what happened to her,” Morgie continues. “You can take that Mirror and walk out of here if you want.” You keep on staring at him, not saying anything, frozen with anticipation as he carries on. “But are you really going to risk your future for knowledge of the past?”

You gulp before responding, voice hoarse and eyes half-lidded, voice cold and numb. “Would you still hesitate to take that risk, even when it means it could make your future finally be one worth living?”

“Your future is already one worth living,” Morgie replies. “You may not see it, but you’re talented, and smart, and pretty, and you’re a good person. You have a bright future ahead of you.” He shakes his head, eyes still boring into you. “Don’t ruin it like this. Blinded by your pain.”

Sniffling, you inhale a shuddering breath. “And how do you know my pain is blinding me, and not making me see clearer? Clearer than I have in my entire life. Clearer than she did.” You jut your chin towards the mirror lying on the floor.

“I don’t. But what I do know, from seeing my own mother, is that pain like this gets you nowhere. Letting the people who were supposed to love you instead turn you bitter and cynical never fixes things. You may think that becoming evil is the solution, but it’s not. It’s not worth it. You’re not worth it.”

You stare at him intensely, a raw kind of pain displayed on your face, one that no one has ever seen before. A thousand emotions flicker through your eyes, your lips twisting into a whimpering attempt at a smile as you cry again, the sob wracking through your body. “You really think so?”

“I know so.”

Hope flashes in your eyes, reflected in his. Your gaze softens, looking at him as if he’s the beacon of light at the end of the tunnel. A small grin breaks his steady demeanor, looking at you with optimism shining through the glimmer in his eyes.

You reach down, picking up the Mirror again. You stare at it, although not directly at your reflection this time. He peers up at you, still shackled to the floor, eyes wide with anticipation.

You slip the Mirror into the pocket of your cloak once again before turning around, your back to him. Twisting your head to the side so he hears you, you say, “The chains will disappear in an hour.”

Turning your head back, you walk away and leave him behind, black cape flickering in the dark night.

Unclasping the back, you slip off the locket, placing it in front of you. The rusty metal is reflected in the mirror in front of it, along with the tears that splatter on its surface.

It had belonged to your mother, the only thing you had left of her. She had given it to you when you were a little kid, not too long before she left. It was old and weathered, the silver having tarnished over time. Still, you religiously wore it every single day, never taking it off as if it's a part of your body. And sometimes, if you stare at it hard enough, you can almost trick yourself into believing she's still there.

Safely back in your dorm, all alone, you had set the Mirror down, flipping to the notebook page where you had transcribed the incantations for the ritual, without a second thought.

Now, sitting on the ground, the Mirror leaning against a leg of your desk with your locket as an offering in front of it, you start to hesitate. Your face twists in pure agony, features scrunched up, lips quivering uncontrollably as a waterfall of tears splatter onto your hands and lap.

It’s too late to turn back now.

Taking another shaky breath, you extend your hands forward to the Mirror, placing one thumb on each red gemstone embedded in the intricate silver design. The jewels watch you, scorning your every action. Just like everyone else.

Your eyes flutter closed, letting out the steadiest exhale you’ve had all night. “Speculum, speculum, in conspectu oculorum meorum,” you whisper, feeling the way the rubies press into the flesh of your thumbs. Already, the Mirror starts discharging more fog, enveloping you as it grows denser with each syllable. “Accipe donum meum et veritas libera me.”

You open your eyes as the last words leave your tongue, staring straight into the eyes of your own reflection.

The red gems glow radiantly, emitting a bright light that nearly blinds you. You squint, yet still unrelentingly stare into your eyes—or rather, your younger self's eyes. The fog swirls around you, swallowing you whole. You can’t see anything anymore, can’t even tell where you are. You feel as though your soul, your life’s very essence, gets sucked out of your body and into the Mirror.

You have the sensation of being shoved forward, but you don’t fall. In fact, you don't have a body anymore, no physical vessel to hold you. You try to look down, but you're greeted by the absence of your legs, sheer nothingness filling the space beneath you. You can’t really move around either, not in the way you’re used to. All you can do is simply float, your existence diminished to an untethered life force, with some semblance of what you once were.

Looking around, everything around you is white like before, but not in the suffocating way the fog was. Instead, you stand in a wide expanse of whiteness, a vast field of empty space. It stretches on forever, with no end in sight. It’s as if you’re stuck in a blank canvas, waiting for a painter to bring you to life.

The sound of wind whistles all around you, but not so much as a breeze actually comes. In fact, everything is completely unmoving. Despite the stifling stillness, you remain listening to the sound of the wind. If you strain hard enough, you can hear something almost like faint whispers filling your senses.

You look around again, ignoring the eerie voices. According to all the texts you read, after the Mirror accepts the wielder’s offering, they can ask for their answer. You’re not quite sure if this field of emptiness means your offering’s been accepted, but seeing as how you don’t feel insane yet, you think it’s safe to presume so. Still, your brain can’t help but point out that crazy people probably don’t feel like they’re crazy either.

Shaking off your doubts, you decide to continue with the process. After all, it is the only shot you have. You had memorized all the incantations for this particular spell earlier, repeating them over and over again until every word was engraved into your mind.

“Scire volo verum,” you recite. “I wish to know a truth.” Nothing happens.

You take a deep breath. “I wish to know why my mom left.”

The wind around you grows louder, howling even in the still air. The whispers increase in volume, once seemingly non-threatening and benign, now forming a cacophony of overlapping, chaotic voices. They grow distorted and grating, pushing in from every side, wrapping around you and slithering into your brain. You can’t block them out, no matter how hard you try; can’t swat them away, can’t make them leave, leaving you trying to tear them out of your head, despite not having hands anymore.

Suddenly, the white vastness turns a dark gray, and you start getting pulled downward towards something, like moving towards the center of a black hole. The whispers grow claws and fangs, clawing and scratching at your chest as they drag you down, making it hard for you to breathe.

You try to fight back, but the voices now in your head keep pulling you down. They’ve taken over you, consuming you whole, and it’s impossible not to succumb to their will.

As they continue to drag you down into the abyss, you turn around—or rather, focus on the other side of your vague form of spiritual energy—and notice a tiny black dot very far down, but steadily growing bigger as you move towards it.

The whispers are screaming now, cries of agony of those who came before you, encompassing you whole and forcing you to the depths of this dark chasm.

And that’s when it hits you.

The others who used the Mirror did all end up getting the truths they sought.

And the truth was what drove them to madness.

You panic, trying to shake off the invisible hands of the whisperers, but they only tighten their hold around you. No matter how hard you fight them, they don’t relent in their endeavor of pulling you towards damnation.

“Are you really going to risk your future for knowledge of the past?” Morgie’s words echo in your head out of nowhere, haunting you with regret. You absolutely despise admitting it, but fuck, he was right.

Your last conversation with him replays in your mind, reminding you of your foolishness and idiocy. You had been so focused on getting what you wanted that you were indeed blinded to the truth that had been right in front of you this whole time.

“Your future is one worth living.”

His voice swirls around in your brain, drawing your attention away a little from the screaming voices in your head.

“You’re talented, and smart, and pretty, and you’re a good person.”

You realize these are probably the last words you’ll ever hear.

“You have a bright future ahead of you.”

You feel like crying again, the despair that’s taken root in you fighting to escape. Still, you don’t have an actual body in this dreamscape, so crying is impossible.

“It’s not worth it. You’re not worth it.”

You look back up the other direction and away from the black dot, resigned to your fate as you get dragged down into the chasm, deeper, deeper, deeper. At first, you think you’re imagining it; a mirage created by your mind to distract you from your pain. But as the descent continues, you begin to realize that it may not be an illusion after all.

In front of you, from the direction you came, a faint golden thread, seemingly made of pure light, stretches from your form of consciousness and ascends, up, up, up, all the way to the never-ending sky. With each of Morgie’s words you repeat in your head, the string of light grows stronger, brighter.

“You’re talented.”

The thread becomes thicker and more luminous, and you begin to realize that your descent has slowed down as well.

“And smart.”

The thread grows again, and you slow down a little more.

“And pretty.”

Your eyes follow the string upwards, and now, you see there’s a faint patch of white amidst the murky gray surrounding you.

“You’re a good person.”

The thread, still shooting out straight from your form, gleams with a shimmering golden light now. You notice that you’re no longer getting dragged downwards, but instead up, towards the whiteness. The screaming voices aren’t as insufferably loud anymore, either.

“You have a bright future ahead of you.”

You keep ascending, getting drawn faster and faster up. Morgie’s words serve as your lifeline, saving you from insanity.

“You’re not worth it.”

Now, you see that the white patch is actually an opening, an escape from this hell. The thread leads to it, its blinding brightness concealing whatever lies beyond.

“I know so.”

The last of his words give you the final push you need, sending you straight into the white light.

Your head snaps up with a sharp, terrified exhale. You look down, taking a moment to register that you’re back in your room. The locket dangles from one of your hands, the Mirror clutched in the other.

Fresh tears replacing the dried ones on your cheeks as you let out a sob of excruciating heartache, a sound of pure agony. The kind that no one should have to go through.

You look down at the cracked surface of the Mirror—a feeling of raw, unbridled anger set in the way you clench your jaw, and the way your face contorts with your cries—staring straight at the evil red eyes still gleaming at you.

With a swift motion, you lift your hand above your head, still grasping tight. Mustering together all your might, you hurl the Mirror towards the ground, watching as it shatters into a sea of glittering pieces.

“You’re late.”

You lean against the rough brick wall of an empty corridor, arms crossed, your figure partially obscured in shadows.

“And I’m surprised you’re still here,” Morgie quips, walking towards you. “Why’d you even want to talk with me? Especially through leaving that threatening note next to my nightstand for me to find when I woke up.”

He stops in front of you, leaving you to glower at him. Suddenly, with no warning, you lunge towards him, seizing the collar of his shirt and pushing him against the wall, your other hand summoning a rod of crackling lightning.

His eyes widen with a startled gaze, but he doesn’t look quite as fearful as you want him to be. “Now, listen here.” You press the tip of the lightning bolt against his neck. “If you say a word of what happened last night to anyone—especially my father—I will kill you.”

Although you try to sound as menacing as possible, Morgie is unfazed. An amused smirk spreads across his face as he replies, “Alright, relax. I wasn’t planning on telling anyone anyways.”

His eyes trail down from your gaze to the locket dangling from your neck. He reaches out a hand, brushing his thumb along the tarnished metal as he softly says, “You didn’t go through with it, huh?”

You pull away, frustrated at his compassionate tone. “No. I decided…it was too risky. After all, what’s the point of figuring out the past if I can’t ever use that information, right?” A small smile spreads across Morgie’s face, that sympathetic, delicate look in his eyes again. Your irritation rising at this, you add, with a growl, “Although I will find a way to get my answer. I don’t care how bad I have to become, if you, or my father, or anyone stands in my way, you’ll truly see how evil I can be!”

Morgie keeps his unfettered appearance up. God, he’s so annoying! you mentally scream in frustration.

“Why are you so fixed on this?” he asks, tilting his head sideways and furrowing his brow as if trying to look past your cold, vengeful, rancorous mask and figure out the scarred little girl buried underneath.

You roll your eyes instead of answering. Never one to express emotions, the thought of opening up now about your years of pain feels terrifyingly vulnerable. It’s so much easier to just build walls around your heart and shut everyone out.

“Tell me this, and I promise I won’t tell a word of what happened last night to anyone,” Morgie bargains.

You narrow your eyes. “You already said you wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“Well, now I’m having second thoughts.”

You raise your arm again to summon another bolt of electricity, and Morgie lifts his hands, palms facing forward, in a gesture of surrender. “Relax, I won’t say anything, fine. But I just want you to talk to me. Bottling up your emotions like this isn’t healthy. Last night should be a good example of that.”

You shoot another glare at him, but can’t deny the fact that he’s right. Still, you hate the idea of how exposed and weak you'd be if you actually told someone how you feel.

“I’m not going to leave you, you know.”

You peer up at him, eyes wide in shock, as he continues. “I’ll stay by your side. You don’t have to worry about me abandoning you.”

Gulping, you nod, averting his gaze. Instead, you choose to look down at your shoes, studying the laces as you speak. “I…when my mom left, it was so sudden. No goodbyes, nothing. It was like one day, she just vanished.”

Your voice cracks, and Morgie places a reassuring hand on your shoulder, unknowingly pulling you closer to him. You swallow, hesitating for a moment before continuing. “My dad didn’t even care. It was as if she never existed. And everyone else…they all knew what happened. But they paid no attention whatsoever. They expected me to act normal, be all nice and sweet as if nothing changed. It made me hate them, hate all of them.”

“Do you hate me?”

Morgie’s voice rings in the empty corridor, quiet yet speaking louder than a thousand shouts. You look up at him again, his image slightly blurred by the tears welling at the bottom of your eyes. You look up and you see the boy that stood by your side at your worst, who didn’t get scared or run away when you showed him your true colors.

The boy who said things no one’s ever said to you, whose words saved you from destroying yourself.

The boy who stands here, a concerned crinkle on his forehead as he awaits your answer. He doesn’t have to be here, listening to your problems. He doesn’t have to care.

But he does.

“No,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “No, I don’t hate you.”

In the suffocating sea of fake smiles and stifling pressures, Morgie is like a breath of fresh air. The first gulp of oxygen that you take as your head breaks free from the water.

“That’s a relief,” he responds, a trace of a smirk ghosting his features.

You give a small, bittersweet laugh. “Ever since my mom left and my dad stopped caring about me, I’ve never had anyone to talk to. No one seems to care about my emotions, or ask me how I’m doing. It’s as if I’m not a real person who has actual feelings.”

You’re on the verge of tears again, and Morgie must realize this, because he tries to lighten the mood by attempting—and failing—to inconspicuously wrap an arm around your shoulder as he says, “So, what I’m hearing from all this, is that you need a strong, reliable figure in your life to lean on, right? Like…a boyfriend or something?”

You duck under his arm, moving a good few feet away from him while fixing him with another glare. “Yeah no, I’m good.”

“Come on, that was smooth! You’ve got to admit it,” he whines, drawing out a small giggle from you.

It’s been a long time since you’ve laughed like this: a true, heartfelt laugh, not the fake one that you do to appease other people under the pressure of society's expectations. It feels nice, like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders.

All because of him.

“I don’t know, maybe I'll consider it with some time, if you treat me well,” you joke as you turn your head away with faux indifference.

“Hey, a slim chance is better than no chance at all, right?” Morgie moves closer to you again, as if he can’t stand having so much space between the two of you. “I can see I’ve made some progress since last night, when you tried to kill me.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill you,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes at him.

“Oh yeah? Tell that to the bruises on my body.”

“It’s not my fault you’re so weak and sensitive,” you retort with a grin.

He nudges you playfully and you laugh again, shaking your head with an amused look. “Hey, I was wondering,” he asks, locking eyes with you, “what did you end up doing with the Mirror?”

You give a knowing grin, masking the undercurrent of what’s left unsaid. You vaguely respond, “It’s in a better place now.”

“If you say so,” Morgie replies, his smile returning to his face and lighting up his features once again. He continues to tease you, and you oblige him, keeping up the friendly banter as he walks you to class.

The Enchanted Lake glistens, reflecting the sun’s gentle rays with a bright shimmer. Deep down, under feet of clear blue water and various forms of aquatic life, in a far corner of the lake, lies a bag of glass shards. Next to it floats an ornate metal carving with a hollow center, reminiscent of something once set there. And at the top, two glowing red gemstones briefly flicker and die out, like watchful eyes finally closing.

end x

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a/n: how did this get so long...if you're still here, and if you actually read that entire thing, thank you so so soo much! I'm sending you a virtual cookie and a hug (if you're comfortable with it ofc) because you're absolutely awesome! <3 hope you enjoyed reading!

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7s3ven · 10 months ago

Text

POPULAR. luke (pjo)

( master list )

IN WHICH… Y/N is tired of being bullied her whole life so she makes a deal with Luke. As long as she does his bidding, he’ll make her popular.

“Beggin' on her knees to be popular. That's her dream, to be popular. Kill anyone to be popular, sell her soul to be popular.”

Warnings : toxic! luke + y/n (but they’re lowkey iconic together), gore, death, manipulation if you squint, dark themes, y/n + luke are both pretty messed up, pretty gruesome near the end, not proof read

A/N : Me when I wanna write toxic one shots to express my feelings but I've been in toxic relationships and writing fluff is how I comfort myself :c

—

Years ago, the young Y/N would’ve scoffed in her face. Maybe even spat at her if she was feeling bratty enough. Why make a deal with Luke? It was like selling your soul to the devil.

Camp Half-Blood loved Luke, adored him even. But under all that courage and glory was a monster. Y/N had seen it first hand when he turned his head for a split second during a duel, his eyes going dark and his lips curling into a cruel sneer.

Nobody except Y/N ever noticed that hidden darkness behind his soft kindness. It wasn’t her fault she made that wretched deal. He approached her first, staring so longingly into her eyes and speaking with a voice so charming that she hung off every word.

The first time he talked to her was when she was eating breakfast, isolated from the rest of her chattering siblings. Ares was her father, which explained all her retrained anger towards the world. She was the lowest of the bunch, never socialising with anyone and avoiding all group activities to the best of her ability.

She was skilled with a spear but did anybody notice? No one did. Except Luke. In a way, he was her saviour in this eat or be eaten world. Y/N was a tough cookie to crack but getting her head shoved into toilets every day could wear down anybody.

Luke wasn’t usually one to take an interest in girls. He had plenty fawning over him for his attention but none of them could catch his eye like Y/N. There was something about her precise aim with the blade of her spear and the way she gulped down her ice cold water without a second thought. Call it creepy, but Luke found solitude in secretly watching Y/N train.

“Y/N.” Was the first thing Luke had ever said to her. She looked up in surprise and Clarisse’s face turned sour at the sight of the Hermes boy. Her beady eyes narrowed as his hand brushed against Y/N’s shoulder.

“You’re pretty good with a spear.” He quietly whispered in Y/N’s ear so none of the other Ares kids could hear him. “If you ever need a sparring partner, I’m right here.”

Y/N lips parted in shock as she watched him slink off towards his own table. Her siblings stared at her in curiosity before turning back do their food, scoffing at her.

Every minute, Y/N would steal small glances at Luke. And every time, he caught her and gave her a knowing smirk. She looked down at her plate after being caught for the fifth time, her cheeks flushing red and turning hot. She no longer felt hungry.

Y/N stood up, scraping the rest of her food into the fire. She felt a presence behind her but she paid no mind to it until they spoke it.

“So, did you think about my offer?” Of course it was Luke. Y/N flinched, almost dropping the porcelain plate into the fire to join her discarded meal.

“Why me?” She asked, her voice nothing but a quiet whisper that barely reached Luke’s ears.

“Why not you?” He replied, cheekily tilting his head.

Y/N could come up with many reasons to that question. She always took Luke as someone who carefully picked who he interacted with, especially when it came to girls.

“May’s prettier.” She said, nodding over to the bright brown-haired girl tucked in the middle of the Aphrodite table.

“Yeah, she’s pretty but you’re prettier.”

“Vivian’s smarter.”

Luke glanced at the Athena girl with not much interest, shrugging. “Not my type.” Vivian’s was everybody type with her sharp-witted mouth and perfectly cut bob.

“Why are you talking to me, Luke?” After a while, Y/N cut straight to the chase. She furrowed her brows in confusion, a little uneasy with how close Luke was and how girls were glancing over at her.

“I’ve seen you fight.” Luke continued to avoid her questions, much to her annoyance. “Like I said, I’d be happy to be your sparring partner. Today, five pm. Does that work for you?”

Y/N stared at him, hesitating for a moment before she slowly nodded. “Yeah… I’ll see you then.” She briefly smiled before rushing off, dumping her plate somewhere else.

Luke wasn’t expecting much when he showed up at the arena, holding his newly sharpened sword. He figured that if Y/N didn’t end up coming then he could at least get some solo practice in.

But no, she was sitting on a bench inside the arena, fiddling with her spear. She lifted her head, her eyes locking with Luke’s.

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise. I didn’t know you’d actually show up.” He dropped his sword in front of her, grinning.

Y/N shrugged. “It… seemed rude not to.” She muttered, looking down at the ground around.

“I’ll be honest, Y/N. I didn’t just want to spar with you. I’ve come to make you a deal. I’ve noticed that a particular someone keeps shoving your head into a toilet.” Luke smirked when he saw Y/N stiffen. He crouched down in front of her, “What if I told you… that I could make it all go away? Just like that.”

He snapped his fingers.

“I can make you popular, Y/N. So popular that no one, not even Clarisse, will mess with you again.”

Y/N gave Luke that same narrowed glare that Clarisse often sent his way. “What’s the catch?” She asked, causing Luke to chuckle.

“Smart. The catch isn’t that big. All you have to do is whatever I tell you to.”

Y/N’s eyebrows raised slightly as she finally made eye contact with Luke again. He charmingly smiled at her. She thickly gulped, weighing out all her options in her head. She could reject his offer and be the victim of relentless bullying… or she could accept and never get hit by Clarisse again.

Luke frowned at her hesitation. “The choice is your’s.”

Y/N’s eyes flickered to look at everything but him. She slowly nodded. “Okay.” She whispered. “Okay. I’ll do it. Deal.”

It started off small. Steal someone from Clarisse, easy enough. Y/N was almost as cunning as Hermes himself, which slightly impressed Luke. He gave her a nod of approval after she dropped Clarisse’s beloved spear in front of him. As promised, he stopped the bullying, but in a way Y/N never expected.

After yet another failed game of capture the flag, Y/N was walking towards the large crowd of demigods when Luke abruptly picked her up and kissed her. Dating or even being around Luke Castellan was guaranteed to make you popular and Y/N had somehow been roped into it without her knowledge.

Her tasks weren’t too difficult until Luke told her to do the unthinkable. To pick a target and violently murder them as a warning to the camp that bad things were coming.

“Luke… you know I can’t.” She muttered as she hid behind the Hermes cabin with him. She was clutching onto his arm, begging him to give her another task. Luke stared down at her in annoyance.

He rolled his eyes, slightly sneering. “Come on. It’s easy. I’ll even show you.” Y/N peered at him through her lashes, looking like a deer in headlights. But she couldn’t say no. She could never say no to Luke when he had his lips pressed so firmly against her’s and when his fingers traced delicate circles around her waist as he lifted her shirt.

After that short conversation, Y/N’s nights consisted of sneaking out to meet Luke. He taught her how to wield an ax, how to knock someone out, and even explained how to dismember a body. Clearly, he had studied these dark topics.

Y/N lay on the forest floor, staring up at the stars. Luke was nearby, his arm lazily slung around her waist and pulling her closer towards him.

“We have to be careful.” He whispered in her ear, tucking a strand of her hair away. Y/N knew that if Luke went down, she’d be forced with him and vice versa. He pressed a light kiss to her neck, inhaling the smell of her floral perfume.

Luke had a twisted obsession with the idea of murder. It thrilled him. The vivid image in his mind of blood splattered across the floor and limbs bent at awkward angles made his stomach churn but... it was exciting.

"Luke... what are we doing with our lives?" Y/N muttered, turning to face him. When had everything gone downhill? When did they suddenly turn into borderline murders and sadists? Perhaps Luke was always like this and he infected Y/N with his disease. But if she was willing to do anything to become popular, even drive a knife through someone's heart, then it just showed Luke that she might be as abnormal as him. “Princess,” Luke’s voice was barely a whisper as he handed her a cigarette. He often kept them hidden under his mattress, only taking them out when he needed to destress. He lit the tip for her and watched as she slowly took a drag, blowing out a mouthful of smoke.

The pair stared down at the body in front of them. They weren’t dead, merely knocked out. Outside, the wind was relentless. It smashed against the wooden walls of the abandoned cabin, as if warning Y/N and Luke to stop whatever madness they were about to commit.

BORN IN GRIEF,

“Do you ever think it could have been different if the gods gave a fuck about us?” Y/N asked, tilting her head to the side. She took another drawl from the cigarette before passing it over to Luke. “Would we be less… messed up if they actually cared?”

Luke shrugged. “Maybe. But this is who we are, we can’t change that.”

RAISED IN HATE,

Y/N would never admit it out loud but she and Luke were sick. Sick for even thinking of doing this and suddenly, Y/N’s stomach lurched. A tiny morsel of her personal morals held her back from approaching the body but she was also curious. How long would it take until the demigod before them realised their doom?

HELPLESS TO DEFY THEIR FATE.

They stirred but their eyes never fluttered open. Luke and Y/N exchanged a look before he gestured her forward. She held the wooden handle of the ax tightly, dragging it along the floor as she stepped towards the unconscious body.

Y/N was unusually calm when she lifted the ax, the sharp blade glinting in the moonlight. Suddenly, the demigod awoke with a desperate gasp. They scrambled back at the sight of Y/N.

LET THEM RUN,

“Please, don’t… what have I ever done to you? Don’t kill me! I haven’t even completed a quest or been claimed yet!” The demigod clasped their hands together, begging for sweet mercy. Y/N merely gazed at them, wide-eyed and unmoving.

“I’m afraid she won’t listen to you.” Luke made his presence known. The demigod’s eyes flickered over to him and they let out another gasp. They couldn’t beloved that Luke, the son of Hermes, the heartthrob of Camp Half-Blood was sitting idly on the sidelines while his companion was staring at them like they were an experiment. Simply a hypothesis that needed to be tested.

“She works for me. She’d kill her best friend if I told her to.” Luke gestured for Y/N to continue. The ax was raised above her head, ready to pierce the heart. Y/N swiftly swung the blade down. It buried itself in the demigod’s chest and a drowned-out scream slipped past their lips.

LET THEM LIVE,

Y/N’s eyes shook as she stared at the body in what could only be described as desperation. Desperation to land another sick blow.

Y/N lost count of how many times she raised the ax up and swung it down. All she could think about was the euphoria and giddiness rushing to her head. Blood stained her skin but she didn’t stop until the demigod was nothing but a mangled corpse, unable to be identified just by looking at their gruesome face.

Thunder crashed and lightning flickered. Rain poured down, the gods’ way of expressing their grave disappointment.

BUT DO NOT FORGET WHAT WE CANNOT FORGIVE.

Luke blew out another cloud of smoke, gazing at Y/N with his own twisted version of love. “Red looks good on you.” He uttered, spinning her around like she was in a beautiful ball gown and he was her date to prom.

Y/N laughed, the thrill of killing taking over. Luke’s lips curved into a smile. He had never heard the sound of her laugher before. And he was already intoxicated. Her lips tasted like smoke and tangy metal and he pulled her closer.

THEY ARE NOT ONE OF US, NOT OUR KIND.

PJO TAG LIST : @lostinhisworld @julielightwood @outerbanks-stuff @jennapancake @csifandom @evrybodydies1 @kkrenae @s0ulsniper @annispamz @justanotherkpopstanlol @soraya-09 @simpforeveyone @papichulo120627 @corpsebridenightamare @lilacspider @prettylilsimp @urmomsbananabread @ur-lacol-dsylexic @hottiewifeyyyy @kamiliora @be-bap @finnickodaddy @th0tblckgrl @shoyofroyoyoyo @uniquely-her @imafrkinsimp @syraxesrevenge @ahh-chickens @dracoslovergirl @midnightstar-90 @8812-342 @liv1104 @krkiiz @arialikestea @ch16rles @lizziesliz @maryclx01 @lukecastellandefender @yuminako @coryoskywalker @julielightwood @crybabysbakery @jsbaby @liviessun @p3pperm1nttea @angie-esc @purplerose291 @prettylilsimp @10ava01 @froggiesstalks @happy-jj @czennieszn @gisellesprettylies @loveyava @csifandom @luvvfromme @mashiromochi @kamiliora @yorksyree @mqg125 @jamesmackreideswife @niktwazny303

#luke castellan x you #luke castellan x reader #hermes pjo #ares pjo #ares percy jackson #percy jackson fanfiction #luke castellan #luke castellan pjo #percy jackson show #pjo tv show #rick riordan #annabeth chase #grover pjo #grover underwood #oneshot idea #hades greek mythology #greek mythology #mythology and folklore

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mynameisjag · 3 months ago

Text

Because I gotta.

Give me the feral man, give me the beastie who has probably been avoiding human contact as much as possible except to get drunk off his ass. This man has no idea of his own universe's tech, you think he has a chance understanding the one he has been kidnapped into? No. Bastard stinky man, feral, sad looking fucker…I adore him.

He needs to be more animalistic.

One would think by now, Wade would have experienced and seen what the multiverse had to offer.

Working with people over seeing different timelines did that.

So did being aware of the ‘audience’ and their many eyes.

Still, watching an almost naked knockoff werewolf scuttled across the room on all fours with what appeared to be a bloody carcass of some kind of animal in his mouth while growling like a demented cat, it was surprising.

“Well, chat, can I ask, what is this r rated looney tunes bullshit? Hey, Tasmanian Devil’s estranged cousin, you better be cleaning this up soon! We just got these floors!”

And Logan was already in the bedroom with his catch, probably hunkered down in his hammock and going to town some poor innocent creature’s remains.

“Whatever, I do cocaine, I have no room to judge.”

Sure enough, stepping over the trail of blood and pushing the door open revealed what he already expected to find. The crunch of bones and squelching of raw meat being chewed on, blown out brown eyes were glaring at him and a gutteral snarl giving warning.

“Easy there, boy, just checking up on ya, seems you brought home dinner for yourself tonight, didn’t even get me anything?”

The snarling stopped and the bloody remains were held out to him, the little head tilt would be cute if not for the smear of gore across his concerned face.

Actually it was still cute.

“Awe, thank you! But I’m good…and he’s going back to eating that, well…I’m going to go throw up now and contemplate the merits of becoming a vegetarian…so…how about a time skip for everyone's sake?”

With a time skip activated, cleaned floors appearing and a still half naked Logan chilling on the couch scratching Mary Puppins behind the ears as she chewed on bone with drool going everywhere.

Some of that drool might be Wade’s but who could blame him, but he had to pull himself together and not be distracted by the feast for the eyes and focus on the feast of the flesh that happened in the bedroom and not the fun type.

“Hey, honey, can we take a minute away from the,” he glanced at the show, “huh, didn’t think that was still going…no, focus Wade…right, Logan, my little murder puppy…the fuck did I just witness?”

“Got hungry, went hunting, ate.”

“Right, and the, not that I’m complaining about the view because I should be taking pictures, but why were you half dressed on all fours, should I be concerned?”

“Easier to hunt…comfortable…”

“Alright…”

Okay, let’s give the big guy a moment…

Shrugging before plopping down nearly on top of the man, Wade just grinned at the sharp look sent his way as Dogpool jumped down and carried her prize off somewhere.

It took two episodes in before Logan huffed, voice barely audible over the TV as he finally spoke.

“…people hated me back home…when they hate you…you tend to be unwelcomed in most if not every place…hotels…bars…stores…”, bare hands were flexing, dark fingernails just slightly pointed and severely cracked, “you get used to the surviving…you get used to avoiding those places…”

Wade reached over to grab one of the hands, flipping it over to trace a pattern in the rough palm, “but they don’t hate you here? You can go in and if they try to stop you or have anything to say about it…then they won’t have a choice in the matter after I visit them.”

The smirk he sent to the ex X-man, wasn’t that a strange combination of words, was met with huff.

“…it’s the crowd of people, the smells, the sounds…it brings back the memories…but staying inside is like a slow torture…hunting and losing myself made it easier to cope.”

“Trust me, if anyone knows anything of trying to make yourself disappear using whatever is available for just a moment of not having to think of what kind of shit haunts you…its me…”

“Hmm…”

“So if being the feral little man you are makes you feel better, just little heads up next time, your hammock is still dripping blood on our new floors.”

#jag is in a mood #speed wrote this #like i was possessed #so please excuse the flow #wolverine #deadpool #deadpool and wolverine #ficlet #enjoy this so its no longer in my head #feral bastard man needs to be more feral #poolverine

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94badbye · 9 months ago

Text

Gotham mourns the day of Jason's death, and Tim Drake should too, but he can't.

It's a day of pain and sorrow in many, many ways. Bruce wakes up earlier and leaves earlier, and Alfred speaks softly and quietly, as if there's real grief in the air.

(There is. Tim knows. He remembers finding out about Robin, about Jason Todd, and then realizing the bitter truth behind it all. Robin is dead.)

In the beginning, people used to call Jason a street kid, a rat. Tim's memory has always been fantastic, and he remembers people's harsh words about that young, young boy, and how Bruce Wayne was fraternizing with poverty, while others were kinder, gentle and sweet, because if even a rich man like Bruce can do such a thing, then there's still hope. It was stupid, and Tim still can't understand how people can be so shallow.

Such a young boy, and Mr. Wayne was a hero by adopting him, by taking him under his wing, by treating him like his son.

It's been months, and yesterday Wayne Enterprises made a big donation to some shelters of homeless kids that is definitely going to be in the news, something about Bruce Wayne remembering his dead son's life.

Bruce took the day off.

It's weird. Every year, Bruce will mourn like Jason was just killed again.

Maybe. Maybe the Jason Todd he knows really is dead forever, and this version of him is what was left, something different and twisted.

If Tim tries hard enough, he can feel the scar on his scalp, the ugly pattern on his skin, close to his nape. And he can hear the shouts. And the screams. And the sound of broken glass being stepped on. Everywhere. And blood blood blood, a red mask standing over him, fists clenched and hoarse voice.

He feels like throwing up when he thinks about it. It's kind of hidden in his mind, but not exactly—a blurry memory.

Sometimes, he closes his eyes and has a flashback of a bloody uniform. A memoir. The uniform of a young soldier.

For some reason, the second Robin was known for being ruthless. Sometimes, in the past but not that long ago, Bruce would call Tim by Jason's name, and wouldn't even notice his mistake. Tim wouldn't correct him either.

Today, on day of Jason's death, Red Hood is nowhere to be found.

Big boots, strong arms, a gun. Sticky blood.

Replacement, Replacement, Replacement.

Now, they're in the Batcave, high-tech equipment everywhere around them. Tim is standing but Bruce is sitting down, typing something in one of the computers, because a day off as Gotham's bachelor doesn't mean a day off as Batman.

"B," Tim says. Soft but not too soft, because Tim isn't supposed to talk about today, not like that, not like it's easy.

Robin was created to save and to smile, never to suffer or to die.

"Hm."

"Are you okay with patrolling on your own?"

Say no, so I'll stay. Please. I'll sleep here, in my room, and we'll wake up tomorrow like this day never happened.

Please.

"Of course. You should go, Tim. It's late."

Never too late. He wants to stay. Bruce is big and tall and Tim wants to hug him and tell him about the scar that is never going to fade away and the blood and the glass.

Look what he did to me. I mourned too, but look what he did.

Anger is something no Robin should feel, and yet—

Tim's cheeks are suddenly warm and he looks away from Bruce.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Alfred can give you some food so you can eat when you get home."

"I'm not hungry. And I can cook, you know?"

Blue eyes, just like Tim's and Jason's, but Jason's are also kind of green. Tim wonders how much of a father figure Bruce used to be—did he buy Jason books and toys and watch movies with him? Did Jason have nightmares just like Bruce still has? If so, did Bruce hold him through it?

Tim's parents are traveling. They're coming back next month.

Bruce isn't there to hold him when he wakes up in the middle of the night, but why would he be anyway?

And Tim knows Bruce asks his next question more because he needs to than because he wants to, "You know you can stay the night whenever you want, right?"

Even tonight?

"Yeah. Yeah, I know, B. But I have school tomorrow, so… I should—I should go. See you tomorrow, kay?"

Tim doesn't even talk to Alfred about the food. He just leaves.

#batfamily #drabble #ao3 #tim drake #jason todd #bruce wayne #i wrote this a long time ago but never really finished it #english is not my first language #94badbye writes

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thebottomfromhell · 8 months ago

Note

We don’t get enough Zohakuten content so I was hoping you could make some. I was hoping for something like Zohakuten has a friend. Like what would they do? How did they met? How would their friendship start out as? You can make said friend be human or demon, whichever you’d like! Anyways have a great day/night! :)

Let's give Zohakuten friends! With Zohakuten's character it is easier for me to make demon reader in this one. Honestly, I have the personal HC that if it wasn't because of them being enemies, he and Muichiro would be nice friends, if both were demons or both were humans, they would be like Barbie, The princess and the pauper song, but that is a silly idea of mine. I hope you like the work and sorry for having it so late.

GN Demon Reader and Zohakuten become friends

Warning: Cannibalism, Implied body dysphoria (for demon transformarion and age), Mentioned non-character human death

You are in a weird state, you are young, you feel young in every possible sense. Your mind and emotions feel inexperienced, no matter how many years pass, as if time stopped for them just the same it did to your body, that has no aches, no sting, no harm or wrinckle. It's forever... young, almost childishly fake. In that sense, you also do feel lonely, because it's hard to tell of other demons feel like you. If there is something within them saying that it's time to grow up just to be unable to, and not even knowing why. It's the only ich you are allowed to have, that need of growing up fast against the inability to do so.

You lack some sort of awareness, it's not that you are dumb, but you have a harder time to acknowledge certain realities over your original thoughts on any matter. Similar to a child's innocence, but your body does feel experienced. And it is, having already survived thing no human would, from battling men trained with swords to going long periods without drinking water and sleep. Are you an adult in a child's body? Or a child in an adult's body? Do demon even have such a theing as different body types to tell them apart?

It takes you to meet another kid, even if you yourself don't completely feel like a kid, also a demon, to realize... you actually can tell with other demons. You can tell at one gaze "yep, that is a child", for some oddly reason, even with the fact that you have seen demons that literally look like deformed babies and still were able to tell them as an adult. Is it something among all demons or just yourself? You have to wonder that. Still, at first you couldn't move because of the preassure of this kid's presence, and when he looked at you, you were able to figure why.

Upper Four, a rank inside their eyes, his favor. There are a couple seconds of silence where all you can sense in that tiny body, smaller than yours, is hatred. Then, he speaks, his voice not really matching with his aparent age, more mature than you expected, filled with that feeling his hole body expresses. "Do you have any problem with me? Come and say it out loud." You were not expecting to find this, now realizing there is some blood in his mouth and hands. That fact is enough to make you look around for corpses, a squad of slayers not so far, spread all over the place. A mess of blood, organs, limbs and bones, there are at least 5 people in this, you have to wonder you you didn't notice before. Is this the power of an Uppermoon?

"I'm not looking for trouble, just passing by." You say as your mouth get wet, looking away in embarrasment as you swallow your saliva in order to not drool. When was the last time you ate? Now with so much food you feel so hungry, needing to sink your teeth into the pieces of flesh and lick the red juices of the body. More blood, more blood. But... you are not dumb enough to try and fight a kizuki for food, to take away their prey. You feel your stomach ache as it tights up, yearning for the feast in front of you, even growling a bit. It hasn't done that ever since you turned, why now?

The other demon notices, arching his eyebrow, or trying since it's mostly opening one eye and half-closing the other. Then he turns to the masacre behind him and grabs a liver, still attached to a main arterie and with pieces of stomach, shedding some of the inner liquids. By the time you notice, Upper Four is in front of you, still frowning, but offering the piece. "You want some?" You look at him for some seconds, processing the kind gesture. "Are you not going to eat it?" After the question, his frown deeps in as he face contorsts in disgust. "No, I don't like them like this. It doesn't smell sweaty enough and the body was too small, bad quality of growth." .... a picky eater, you can tell by his face and comment. Still, slowly, with no sudden movements, and barely touching the other demon, you take the piece he is offering you before esting it.

He looks at you, gaze softening as you devour the meal, as if enyone would take it away from you. You love the taste, bold in the mouth. Gamey and methalic, and soon after there is an iron-filled sweetness left in your mouth. After seeing you eat, the kid sits, more relaxed, showing no sighs of aggression. His legs are crossed and his arms are resting on his legs. "What is your name?" He asks, curiosity in his eyes, as if you were something different, something he isn't used to. "My name is Y/N." He stays quiet again before saying what you think is his name. "Zohakuten." Zohakuten, really? Who is called "Hatred"? Then again, it's not the worst name you have heard in your long life.

That is a start, you relax, too. At first, it shows when you start eating more, going for the pieces of flesh. Then, you also sit, once you feel satiated enough to not eat, feeling a bit tired and hot with your stomach full. Then, by the time you realize... "Hey, YN, do you have any Demon Blood Art?" You both start talking to each other. The introductions go to chit chat, chit chat goes to laughing, and laughing goes to promising to meet again. "I had fun with you, Y/N. Hope we see each other again."

It's every once in more than 20 years, but you do see each other again, several times. You feel that times pass, at some point, missing talking to Zohakuten. Besides feeling the time he is gone, when you are bored and have nobody to talk to, you... really don't notice. You don't follow a calendar anymore, nor have anything to do bit eat and survive. But besides that, you don't feel... you don't know, change? Probably that is it. Nothing is new, your body and mind remain the same. You don't get new perspective nor any new stimulatioms in your system. But, you do get hypes, you do feel the same as always, there is just nothing new. Maybe that is why you are obssesed with talking, and even playing, with Zohakuten. It does keep your system alive and working at the same time you are good moments with him, and with how rare those moments are, they are always like new.

"Humans are such a bullies, always hoing after such a tiny body. He is smaller than my hand!" He complains, today is just a regular day, but... sometimes he confides on you. On how he feels about the other clones, or the fact that he barely exists, literally, he is only alive when the already separated clones fuse, and other themes. You also discover he actually likes to listen to different sounds a lot, that he likes drums and dragons, he loves to ramble about those. You also get to tell your part, the things you like, the things you don't like, one or another burden and... It's less lonely like this. And times seems to matter less because of that.

"I swear, if I was half as strong as you I wouldn't have to worry in life. Hunting and evading slayers would be easier." Zohakuten looks at you. "Hantengu wouldn't mind having more company, you could stay around, that way I won't have to look for you everytime the others fuse." He offers but you deny, you really doubt it would be any safer to be around a literal Uppermoon than on your own, specially since you met the old man... he is not really hurting you, but by the way he screams and cowers everytime you get close, you can tell he doesn't like you. "Yeah, I'm not sure about that buddy." He looks annoyed for at the answer, pouting a bit. "Fine, but promise me to never die." He says, and... you are not sure if you can promise that... "I can promise to always be your friend." He seems to think about the offer a bit.

"Ok, let's be friends forever, then." He says before leaving, knowing he needs to go back to Hantengu, who ran when he saw you. He always does that, but you smile at the direction the small body left. A friend. "That sounds nice."

#demon slayer #kny #upper moons #zohakuten #hantengu #the demon kids #demon reader #reader-character friendship #character-reader friendship #i love the kid #even if he is a jerk

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fantomette22 · 6 months ago

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Do you have any recommendations of bloodborne fan fiction? :3 I'm getting hungry for Laurence 👀

Heya!!! I'm very honoured you are asking me of all people! 👀 I mean maybe you did ask other people too x)

Hm I will try to put here a few links! But that really depends what you want to read 🤔

Do you prefer Fanfics very Laurence-centric? Some where he's just a character between many others? Do you want actions based fics? Something more calm but who are very thoughtful? Something very tragic where Laurence die or when he start to loose it maybe? At which moment of his life? Or do you prefer fics more based into relationships with other characters? And in this case which pairings? Are you more comfortable with something soft where there's just tension or maybe something more intimate? Are you alright with something more graphic and mature perhaps? (there's some very wild fics if you take the time to read some tags on ao3 but I really can't bring myself to read them XD).

Or are you the type of person that will take almost ANYTHING because you are so desperate for the slightest thing? 😂

So yeah it really depends what you are looking for.

But anyway if you are asking ME for recommendations should I understand it's really the ones I read and like? Well I was kinda busy this last few months to read fics. And when I did, I really tend to focus my time to read some featuring particular characters (like gehrman for ex). Fics focus on Laurence aren't my thing except in a few cases (even if he's in my top 5 characters)

But now I will have more time to read and finish written mine as well! That make me think...

Before I sent many link with fics mainly focused on Laurence I know I guess I need to put mine and my friend fic there as well x) They are mostly centred around Maria I supposed but also many other characters as well.

Christened in Blood written my dear friend @heraldofcrow

It's mostly focus on Maria & Bloody Crow backstory + her interpretation of how the lore went. Laurence is there a bit too XD he might show up more later as well.

My own fanfiction, A scholar's dream. It's one of my more complete headcanon/interpretation retracing all the events of the lore before the game. At least 1/4 of it for this first fic, that I haven't finished yet. It's mostly based on how the old blood was discovered by Byrgenwerth, how the healing church was founded, many characters backstory on how they meet. And university shenanigans. (I have 2/3 of chap 7 completed I will try to continue soon). It's focus on many characters and well Laurence is quite an important figure there. Not the most important but still important enough.

Alright now I tried to re find a few fics with Laurence as a main character i remembered reading too. There's some i didn't had time to read yet but are mainly focus on Laurence and written by a few people I know as well. or generally have many people on Tumblr who read them.

Bloodorne fanfictions by @mrslittletall like the Crazy Cat Vicar

Fics mainly focus on Laurence/Micolash :

Bloodborne fanfictions by @karnaca78

Bloodborne Fanfictions by @synthwayve

and fanfictions by @kiybee

---

@subzeroparade have written many fics where Laurence is the focus as well.

There's a lot of other fics focus on Laurence/Ludwig or with Laurence/Brador as well, even caryll/laurence. I had to dig in ao3 a little but go check it out you might found cool things! (sorry didn't had time to read them all for sure) there's also many little oneshots, focus with only Laurence or even bigger multi chapter fics with Laurence being a main character or not.

I remember reading Synchrony a while ago and it was cool I think. It's mostly focus on Ludwig and his adventures at Byrgenwerth.

I think there were why very cool entered around Laurence at Byrgenwerth as well + gehrman and fanfic.net. I tried to found it again but failed.

I can't just put the entirety and fanfic.net, ao3 and many others so I will stop there I think x) sorry I forgot anyone ;-;

If you want others based on other trope/characters please let me know I will try my best.

#my asks #bloodborne fanfiction #laurence the first vicar #I'm sorry I wrote this quite late I hope my post and explanation made a bit of sense at least. Maybe I was a bit too enthusiast but I hope #-you will find something you'll enjoy.#I hope my @ didn't bother anyone as well. I will gladly delete those if it bother anyone #if I remember others I will add them

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swoomoo · 1 month ago

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I might be biased but I love it when the group malk isn't actually Malkavian, the Amare change is really cool!

I'm going by some ask games you've posted that sound fun because I am bad at phrasing questions but I don't know if you've answered them -

* What's something about your OC that people wouldn't expect just from looking at them?

*What is your OC's weapon of choice? Have they ever actually used it? (And story of the jrpg sword perhaps? Bc I love the art of sword-Amara).

*Does your OC have a faceclaim? If so, who?

*If you met your OC, would the two of you get along?

And this one is just for fun and for Vesper - How many times have the poor guy been blood boiled so far across all chronicles?

No problem, I am totally okay with answering stuff again, some insight might change and I really appreciate it! Malkavians are awesome and are easily one of, if not my favorite clan.

What's something about your OC that people wouldn't expect just from looking at them? Amare has two daughters both 8 years old. She is a family-oriented woman and wants nothing more than a sense of community and to feel wanted.

What is your OC's weapon of choice? Have they ever actually used it? (And story of the jrpg sword perhaps? Bc I love the art of sword-Amare). Amare likes blades of all types. She gets satisfaction from severing things with blades (Idk why I went here but like yea it is canon). She has used her weapons a lot. She was an infiltrator in the Sabbat and liked how quiet and personal it was. She is now training to be a scourge. She started the game with a bowie knife and now has a custom French cavary sword and a claymore. The cavalry sword was a gift from the Giovanni in our game and the claymore was "kept" from the ministry after an event they had. She cannot use the claymore unless she prepares an abyss mysticism ritual as she is much too weak to normally use it.

Does your OC have a faceclaim? If so, who? So she did not originally have a faceclaim. I did see a random picture of a dudes mom from the 80s and was like, oh shit that is exactly what I envision for this character, so I guess some random dudes mom on reddit. (Posted the link to the page but I am never going to use that image since idk who that is.)

If you met your OC, would the two of you get along? Yeah, Amare is really chill tbh and I am too. Even if she got like really hungry I don't think I would be in any danger unless she frenzied. If we actually spoke I think I would be really anxious though since she has no filter and I would probably get flustered by her being so forward.

And this one is just for fun and for Vesper - How many times have the poor guy been blood boiled so far across all chronicles? I spoke to @informaltorching (Vesper's equally as cute player) and he confirmed Vesper has only actively been blood boiled once but when he was a human hunter his hunting partner was blood boiled and he panicked and tried to resuscitate her which resulted in a nasty bit of melting flesh on his palms that are still scarred in his unlife.

#amare #vesper #ask game #thanks for the ask

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chackyxyooj · 2 months ago

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Your Excellency

╭──────────.★..─╮

Description: You are the Queen and Zenix is one of your several consorts - but he doesn't particularly know why. || ONESHOT, SMUT (bratty Zenix, brat taming).

Pairing: Consort!Zenix X Queen!Reader

WC: 3.4k

CW: Strong Sexual Themes | NSFW

Series Masterlist

╰─..★.──────────╯

Sexual Content Ahead: If uncomfortable with this type of content, DNI! - Minors & Ageless Blogs DNI!

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It’s not uncommon for Kings or Queens to establish a royal consort when they become the primary ruler of their kingdom. In fact, it’s often encouraged for the ruler of a kingdom to have multiple consorts as a means to ensure the strength of their next of kin. You were no exception to this. Thus, as you ascended to your place on the throne you were expected to have a set of consorts established as soon as possible.

To be completely honest, Zenix isn’t sure why he’s here. It’s true that he supported you when there was a dispute over the throne but any decent person who ever shared a conversation with you would know to take your side - and Zenix has had the pleasure of sharing many a conversation with you whether he wanted to or not.

The two of you go far back. Not ‘childhood friends’ levels of far back, but far enough that Zenix has experienced the pleasure of seeing your… hidden traits.

He’s seen the woman behind your pleasant smiles and passive facade. He knows that you will stop at nothing to get what you want. It’s lucky that the things that you want are for the betterment of your kingdom, hence is the reason why he took your side in the first place, but then why did you have to go and bring him here?

First you give him a title in your court, and then you extend an invitation for Zenix to be part of your personal harem. It’s suspicious! You must be up to something!

Maybe you’re trying to set him up - trying to make it look like Zenix has some information on you and is forcing you to raise his social standing! But logically speaking there’d be no merit in building him up just to tear him down, so that’s probably not it…

It’s definitely the other way around! You may be known amongst the nobles as a princess who valiantly fought for her kingdom, but Zenix was a boy who came from humble beginnings - born and raised in a little village that scraped together enough money to send him to a fancy school for academics. Even if he was known as a peasant amongst the other snot-nosed nobles, his wits rivalled that of the kingdom’s princess! So much so that his mere support of you prompted a shift in the most skeptical of people.

Yes… it was all coming together now. Zenix could see through your plans - see through the jealousy that he knows you’ve always harboured - and would undoubtedly break them down!

“Care to tell me what you’ve been up to?”

Zenix snaps up from his seat in a fright and sees you standing in his room. “Y-you?! How did you get into my room?”

You nod your head toward the door, a hint of amusement pulling at your lips as you turn back to face the boy. “Your retainer was more than willing to let me in. Now, back to my question.” You begin to cross the room to reach Zenix, only stopping when there’s but an arm’s length of distance between your body and his. “What sort of endeavours have you been partaking in?”

“M-me? Nothing!”

“Nothing? Then why did you refuse to meet me for dinner this evening?”

Zenix frowns slightly and attempts to slip around the couch he’d just been sitting on. “N-nothing that you need to worry about. I wasn’t hungry.” The boy holds his breath as you take a step forward and cut off his path. He’s stuck between your body and the arm of the couch.

You raise your hand and grasp the boy’s chin, pulling his attention down to where you stand. “Do you take me for a fool, Zenix?”

“I could ask you the same thing. What’s the deal?” Zenix asks, his eyes watching your movements carefully. Despite how being around you made the boy’s blood boil, charms and your wits were never something you lacked.

You tilt your head to the side with the charming smile Zenix has become used to seeing you wear. “Whatever might you be referring to, Zenix?”

Zenix swallows the lump that begins to form in his throat, pushing down the feeling in his chest that started bubbling up to the surface. “Don’t give me that. I’m smart enough to know that you don’t do ‘nice things’ for free. What’s. The. Deal? Why did you take me as part of your harem?” The tone Zenix takes is oddly defiant, but not something unexpected of him.

For as much as Zenix claims to know you, he knows you know him twice as well. And if your expression is anything to go off of, this outburst is something you’ve been expecting for a while.

“So this is why you’ve been disobeying me, is it?” You hold Zenix’s gaze with the same amount of conviction he meets you with. “You’ve come to believe that your place in my court is driven by ulterior motives. I’ll tell you that you’re not wrong to suspect my reasons, however, I think you will be equally surprised and disappointed to hear my reasons.”

“Try me.”

You exude a quiet laugh and trail your hand from Zenix’s face to his collar. “First of all, it would be unwise not to take you as one of my men. You’re determined, well educated and full of honesty.” Zenix opens his mouth to retort but you quickly cut him off. “However, your honesty is tactless and comes off as blunt, not to mention how your sharp tongue will most definitely get you into trouble. Other nobles will deem you unfit for your title and push you down to the bottom of high society.”

“So is your plan to put me in your harem so that you can hold my rank hostage?” Zenix asks in retort.

“Of course not.” Your eyes travel across Zenix’s figure and settle on his collar. Your fingertips glide along the top of the boy’s collar and brush against the sensitive skin of his neck. “It’s quite the opposite, actually. To have you as a part of my harem will solidify your place amongst my court. I’m doing this because I want to see you succeed, Zenix.”

“You…” Zenix stops himself, his cheeks becoming flushed in embarrassment. “I don’t buy it. You’ve had it out for me since the academy. There’s no way you would ever do something like this because you felt like it. I know you. You’re not that kind of person.”

“So what kind of person do you take me for?”

Zenix scoffs before spouting whatever he can think of off the top of his head. He pays no attention to the way your hands carefully trail behind his head, nor how you start to pull him down toward you, but nothing could’ve prepared him for the feeling of your lips on his.

Though his first instinct is to pull away from you, Zenix can’t seem to do it. There’s something so captivating in the way your lips move against his that he can’t get enough of. It’s as if you’ve cast a spell on the boy that leaves him helpless against your touch. It all but leaves him standing awkwardly as you pull him into your embrace.

Before he has a chance to gather his bearings you pull away from the boy with a satisfied look. Judging from the warmth in his cheeks, Zenix can only imagine how flushed his face has become.

“W-what’s with that look?” Zenix questions, the look in your eyes sending a shiver through him.

“What look?”

“That look! It’s weird! Not to mention how you just kissed me out of nowhere. What are you planning?” The boy’s mind is going a mile a minute. He’s not even sure if he can focus enough to hold a proper conversation right now, let alone answer your question coherently.

“Oh my...” You grin and trail one of your hands around to the boy’s face, your fingers gently caressing Zenix’s face. “Is someone embarrassed because they enjoyed being kissed like that?”

“What?! Of course not! I hardly even enjoyed it.” Zenix pushes your hand away in a fit. He wasn’t entirely lying either. Your kiss came and went so quickly that Zenix’s mind kept racing back to it. If that wasn’t a testament to how fleeting it was then… okay, he didn’t what it was a testament to but it wasn’t a testament to anything good.

In what seems like a complete contrast to how Zenix is feeling, you smile. “That’s another thing that prevents your success.” You muse while trailing your hands down the boy’s torso. “You never ask for the things you want. Shall we work on that?”

“What?”

With a harsh shove Zenix suddenly finds himself toppled over the arm of the couch and laying flat against its cushions. The boy props himself up with his elbows and looks up at you. His legs still dangling over the arm of the couch, Zenix watches as you gingerly push his knees aside and climb into his lap.

At first you settle against the boy’s hips but he shifts further up the couch. Despite how he shifts back, he quickly finds himself entranced beneath your gaze. He’s become so familiar with looking down at you that looking up feels… thrilling.

Zenix unconsciously reaches forward to push back some of your hair but you’ll have none of it. You catch the boy’s wrist and pin it back against the arm of the couch.

“Hey! What gives?!” Zenix frowns, though to you it looks more like a pout.

“I’m teaching you a lesson.” You quip in reply. “If you desire something then you’d best be ready to ask for it.”

“If you’re trying to get me to beg then you have another thing coming, you-”

“Your Majesty.” You cut the boy off.

“I’m not calling you that.” Zenix scoffs with a smug look. “...Your Excellency. That’s the best you’re gonna get.”

“It would be wise of you to learn and address people by their proper titles. Especially the title of your queen. However…” To his surprise you take Zenix’s words in good jest, laughing as you lean down against the boy. With your free hand pressed against his chest, you trace your fingers across the surface of his shirt. “...I suppose it’s best to take things one lesson at a time.”

You leave a trail of kisses from his jaw down to his neck. A quiet shudder escapes the boy as you pull back the fabric of his collar and gently nip at the skin beneath.

A quiet hiss pushes past Zenix’s lips, his pinned hand twitching beneath your grasp. The boy doesn’t even realise that he has his eyes closed until he’s forced to open them. You’d pulled away to admire the boy’s expression, but now you dip back down to kiss his lips.

You kiss Zenix slowly. Far too slowly for his liking. He desperately wants to touch you, to pull you close and feel your body flush against his, but he refuses to ask. It would be an insult to all that he’s done to get this far! But as you continue to kiss and tease the boy’s lips, Zenix knows his resolve is beginning to waver.

Zenix closes his eyes and lets out a ragged breath, his grip on nothing growing tighter as he tries to calm his growing desire. "You're... you're driving me crazy!" He mutters, his voice a rough, ragged whisper.

"Then give up your pride and ask me for what you want." You utter in reply, pulling away from the boy and sitting up against his lap. "And if you truly desire it, you may want to consider saying please."

Zenix laments the loss of your touch. He tries to subtly pull you forward with his free hand but you quickly put a stop to it by trapping his hand between your knee and the cushion. Zenix groans in protest and grits his teeth. The last thing he wants is to be reduced to begging, not even for the likes of you, but as you run your free hand beneath the hem of his shirt Zenix finds himself reaching his breaking point.

“I… fuck.” Zenix tilts his head back in frustration and briefly bites down on the inside of his cheek. “Can I touch you?”

An amused grin pulls at your lips. “Should I really grant you leeway to do such a thing?”

“But I did what you-!” Zenix stops himself as you raise your brow. Through gritted teeth he swallows his pride. “Will you let me touch you, Your Excellency? Please?”

“Once more for good measure.” “You’re driving me fucking insane here! Please, Your Excellency, please let me touch you!”

“Your tone of voice could use some work, but you’ve done all that I’ve requested of you. I suppose you can have what you want.” You hum and free Zenix’s hands from your grasp.

Zenix grabs your hips the moment you grant his hands their freedom. His grip on you is tight as he desperately moves his hips in hopes to relieve the tension in his pants. Just the feeling of grinding against you sends a shock of pleasure through his body. The boy doesn’t even bother to open his eyes as he focuses on the feeling of your body against his.

The hand that previously held Zenix slowly trails down his torso and dips below the hem of his pants. The boy moans out as he feels your hand trail along his body. He shifts his hips, arching upwards at the feeling of your hand tracing so close to where he desperately craves your touch.

“Your Excellency…” Zenix groans as you lean forward and tug at the collar of his shirt. He opens his eyes when he feels you peeling back the fabric to expose the skin of his chest.

You admire the sight of the boy beneath you before dipping down and pressing your lips against the newly exposed skin, humming quietly in acknowledgement when you hear him address you. The vibrations of your voice spark a sudden desire in Zenix and he shifts beneath your touch.

“I… I want to feel more of you.” Zenix confesses. He reaches up and undoes the buttons of his shirt while you watch. You flash the boy a coy smile, causing him to subtly avert his gaze. “C-can you touch me more?”

“Of course.” You gingerly push Zenix’s shirt aside and run your hand against the skin. After trailing a few kisses along the boy’s collarbone, you bite down on his shoulder and pull a quiet hiss from his lips. You make sure to smother the affected area with a slew of kisses before moving your lips across his skin and biting down again.

The combination of your lips and the hand that traces across his v-line is really getting to Zenix. His grip on you tightens as he grinds up into you, desperate for some sort of release from all the tension in his body.

"Where do you want me the most?" You mutter between kisses and bites.

A snide little grin tugs at Zenix’s lips. “I want your lips around my cock, Your Excellency.”

“Are you sure that’s all you want?”

Zenix nods, prompting you to pull back and adjust your grasp on him. Your fingers curl around the hem of his pants before dragging them down his leg. As you trail your hands back up his legs, Zenix finds himself waiting for your touch with baited breath.

He wants you. He wants you so badly it hurts. And when you finally take the tip of his length into your mouth he doesn’t even bother to mask the pleasured groan that pushes past his lips.

“Fuck that’s good.” Zenix groans and subtly rolls his hips upward into your mouth, briefly catching your gaze when he moves beneath you. His body tenses slightly and trembles, his mind starting to fog over from the feeling of your mouth. It's been too long since he's felt this. He's craving it - desperate for it. He moans, his voice bordering that of a whine. “Right there… just like that.”

Zenix tangles one of his hands into your hair and grips you tightly. His hips continually jerk up as he craves more of your touch. The warmth of your mouth around his cock only makes his need for you more prevalent. He needs you. He needs you more than he’s ever needed something before, and you give to him oh so freely.

Eventually the boy finds himself teetering on the edge of his release. As if reading his mind you pull away from the boy’s length and look up at him.

“You needn’t hold yourself back.” Your hand quickly takes the place of your lips around his length and Zenix eagerly thrusts against your grasp. Hearing you give him that permission sends a shiver down his spine, his body tensing up as he gets closer and closer to the edge. All of the tension and need he's been holding back is about to release and it's all because of you - because of your touch.

When Zenix finally feels that final wave of pleasure washing over him, he tilts his head back against the couch and releases a low, needy groan. As the boy finally starts coming down from his high, his breathing ragged and uneven, you carefully pull your hand away and press a kiss against the underside of his jaw.

“See? Asking for what you want isn’t nearly as hard as you make it out to be.” You remark in amusement.

Zenix lets out a quiet huff and rolls his eyes. “Easy for you to say. You’re the queen of this kingdom, not some noble-nobody who randomly stumbled into power like me.”

“You shouldn’t regard yourself as unremarkable.”

“And you shouldn’t-” Zenix cuts himself off, taking a long breath before letting out a quiet grumble. “Don’t waste your time trying to make me feel better. It’s not important.”

“And why do you get to decide what I deem important?”

“Because I know you.” Zenix frowns slightly as he looks away from you. “You don’t do things ‘just because.’ You’re only here with me now because I-”

“Zenix.” You grasp Zenix’s chin with your hand and force him to meet your gaze. Your voice is oddly stern compared to the soft expression on your face. “I’m going to say this once so I want you to listen to me carefully. You’re not just some noble-nobody I placed in my court and harem, you’re my husband. I’m here with you now because I care for you dearly. No amount of begging will ever change that fact.”

“So I… you mean you-” Zenix clears his throat, his face growing more flushed the longer he stares into your eyes. Despite how being around you makes his heart stir in strange ways, you’ve always been such a deceptively honest person. “You’re so different.”

“Different? How so?”

“Well sometimes you're pretty damn cunning, but then there are times when you're soft. It’s so weird.”

“So are you.”

“I’m not weird!”

“Apologies. I wasn’t trying to say that you’re weird.” Your smile softens as you caress the side of his face with the tips of your fingers. “I was saying that you’re soft.”

The boy scoffs and subtly rolls his eyes at you, feeling slightly offended by your teasing. Although, the more he thinks about it the more he realizes you're right, and he finds himself having a hard time denying it. "Shut up... I'm not soft..."

“Being soft isn’t a bad thing.” You state. “I daresay that it is but a privilege. Few people are raised with gentle hearts, and fewer still are those who may act on it.”

“A privilege…?” After a brief moment of silence Zenix wraps his arms around your waist and pulls your body flush against his. He tucks his face into the crook of your neck and hides his expression from your view. His heart is beating so hard that he’s sure you can feel it. And perhaps, as you gently press your hand flat against his chest, you do.

“Zenix, is there something-?”

“Are you gonna sleep here tonight? I mean- I want you to stay, so can you stay the night with me, Your Excellency?”

Zenix holds his breath as he awaits your reply. In all your glory you breathe a quiet laugh and bring your hand around to comb through Zenix’s dark locks, subtly pulling the boy closer in your embrace. “Of course I’ll stay.”

#mystreet x reader #mcd x reader #zenix #zenix x reader #fluff #smut #oneshot #technically a connected oneshot

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hiuythn · 4 months ago

Note

"What do you think are x and y’s greatest personality strengths and weaknesses? Why? What do you love about their dynamic?"

So, just found this kinda ask for various ships, I was thinking to ask you (one of my all time fav fics writer), if you don't mind and have free time, of course.

For your fav ships: Iwaoi, Klance, Kiribaku, Ranwan or Bingqiu (feel free to pick whichever you want to answer). 🌻🌷

I pick them all because Im physically incapable of shutting up:

iwaoi: greatest strengths gotta be their hard work, passion and drive. they're extraordinary in their mundanity, not to say their story is more boring compared to others, it's just more grounded in reality. they're good role models (despite oikawa constantly being voted no.1 anime villain of all time). individually, iwaizumi is just a Dependable Guy and I feel like all his juniors have intense admiration for him. I'm about to wax poetic but I can't seem to find a major weakness for him. if he had some sort of insecurity about not being able to go pro like oikawa (insecurities that are common in friends/rivals like reki/langa or klance), then I'd say that's a weakness, but instead iwaizumi had the sheer manliness to make a whole speech to oikawa on their walk home about how insanely proud he is and how he knows oikawa is gonna make it big. Dude literally is perfect I'm so biased i don't even care. maybe his feet stink or sth, idk.

oikawa on the other hand is so. he's so. he's my favourite little ball of complex emotions, dude feels so much and his desperation is so palpable in everything he does that it makes my molars ache like I'm about to bite down on something. on the surface he's an ikemen flirty guy with an unyielding sense of pride and a competitive streak 50 miles wide. He's the best setter and he knows it—but he also DOESN'T know it. he's so afraid of pausing for one second and getting overtaken by natural geniuses. so he won't stop. he keeps going, keeps eating volleyball up morning midday and night. it's that hunger that makes him such a formidable opponent. like baby you're so hungry I know you want to trample all these players under your feet and i feel like I have an alien infant that I'm panicking and rushing to feed it enough food. like I love him but he scares me a little. but he's also a testament to the indomitable human spirit in the fact that he wasn't gifted the talent that seems so prevalent in the people around him. he's on their level from willpower alone but he's STILL not satisfied. is this a weakness or a strength, is it both, can I even articulate my thoughts about him coherently???

klance: Keith why wasn't the world kinder to you. why did it take your mom and your dad and your brother and why did it trade you all that for your role as a protagonist, when I know you would've been content as a normal kid. Keith was drafted for the spotlight. he's cool, he's red and black, he's scowling and fights with knives and he's resourceful, resilient, he can survive off the land on any planet in any galaxy, he's a (lone) wolf and he's everything you could want in a character who's only concept is "You're strong, you're stronger alone, you're on your own." He's got the adaptability, the tenacity, the mindset, the spit-blood-out-of-my-mouth-and-hit-them-back-harder type thing. he's never relied on anyone to make it another day. isn't he so strong? but how could I laud him for it when it almost led him to self-sacrifice?

thinking back on Lance makes me so irritated. he was such a roiling, lashing tumble of growing pains and teenage insecurities. he has so many things going against him. you could say he was too loud, too joking but I wanted to watch him unravel himself. wanted to see him unspool and knit himself into a bigger tapestry than the show painted him as. isn't he a soldier drafted to a millennia-galaxy-spanning war? why are you telling me his only concern is still girls and romance, when he should be facing death and disappointment every time he gets into his lion and everytime he limps out of it after a battle thinking "am I even suited for this". why didn't I get to see him realize that Keith's strengths aren't his, that they don't NEED to be, that his own disregard for his own skills and constant need to acquire what others have, is what held him back from leaning into what he's good at? he's good at being water he's good at gluing and cooling and directing a blocked stream to find a way past this mountain. he had everything you could want in a right-hand man, had all the pieces laid out right there, but I never got to see it built up to the foundation it could've been.

kiribaku: there is not a single fic I have written about them that isn't obsessed with their flaws and strengths. it's all I think about constantly when it comes to them. how can there be a pairing that clicks together so easily like lock and key? what insightful thing can I saw abt them that I havent already written lyrical about in my fics, they make me so speechless. sometimes I'm afraid to look at kirishima head-on and sometimes I can't help basking in his warmth. he reminds me too much of the terrifying feeling of being left behind, of being mediocre. dont we all remember wanting to make a difference, wanting to stand out? he reminds me of all the things I used to be afraid of, seeing myself in his insecurities and wavering middle school presence, and the way he tries desperately to stuff that past under his bed. and yet, he's so warm. he's such a comfort. it puts me at ease, to see someone so familiar to my own hurts and fears manage to grow past what he used to be, that he could become almost unrecognizable in his brilliance. he's just a kid. he's just a boy, but he grew and cultivated his future self so painstakingly that I can't help but be proud and admire him for it. if you can't be a natural hero, homemade is fine too.

if I were to list all the strengths and weaknesses that bakugou embodies, we'd be stuck here until Luffy finds the One Piece. never have I seen a more baffling character. there's a reason he's been voted no. 1 in every single popularity poll held. he's so complex that sometimes he seems more real than myself. where he used to be callous and derisive, dismissive and self-centered, he's now pensive and self-reflective. he's still ambitious still driven but now he's opened up enough to utilize the connections he's built with others to achieve the best possible outcome, instead of believing that only he is worthy of results. he's lost his blinders, his self-focus, and he's all the better for it. he's not diminished or nicer or sweeter in any way, his sharp tongue and temper are still there, but still you can see that's he's grown so, so much.

ranwan: I want to tear my hair out when I think about chu wanning. surely, I agonize, he's the most pitiful character I know. and then I turn my head and mo ran is right there and then I scream and actually tear my hair out because he's suffered so much too and the thought of both chu wanning and mo ran's combined agony is enough to eclipse the Andromeda Galaxy. chu wanning...do I even need to go into his weaknesses when he already rips himself up for slights only he can perceive? "ugly, old, cold and rigid"??? the only rigid thing are his morals, too upright and sincere for the world he was made into, and nobody likes a nail that can't be hammered down. his sense of duty, his quiet care and attention, his intellect utilized for the common man—am I supposed to take his ascerbic tongue seriously as a weakness when his personal character is so...good? maybe his only fault is that he took every injustice too seriously. that he cared too much too young and when thrown into the world his Shizun didn't prepare him for, he was torn up until he turned cold just to save himself the disappointment. maybe his only fault was being too scared to open his mouth and ask for comfort, to make known his own humanity.

mo ran the world owed you everything and by god you took it. who am I to blame you. let the one without sin cast the first stone and all that. good intentions pave the road to hell and all that. you just wanted save your Shizun from a flower. why did the world take all your sweet consideration for itself, for its rain and its earthworms, and decide to put you in harm's way? you had the mind to thrive, to build a legacy and live well, and it made you turn all those strengths towards scorching the earth anew. you're so strong for trying to protect others, how could I call your mind weak for succumbing to years of induced violence? I can only call you strong for bearing 2 lifetimes of suffering.

bingqiu: Shen Yuan you motherfcker please stop embarrassing yourself stop making jokes when the situation is serious people are going to take you at face value and say you don't care about the people around you. you offer yourself on a platter to your would-be murderer to protect your sect and then die for your murderer to make him happy (???) and you'll call that nothing. you'll put no worth in it while your people cry over your corpse. how are you going to treat them with unrelenting cheer and care, then turn around and assume they'll continue on their predetermined path as novel characters, how could u be so kind and so cruel, to both love them and disregard them like that? how do you manage to not see them at all Shen Yuan do you mean to hurt your loved ones when you don't hold them accountable for their actions, when you don't see their actions as their own but just the will of the system just because they're novel characters because they don't know that they're all scripted Shen Yuan how can you look at these people and their earnest pleading to keep yourself safe and say that they're predetermined cannon fodder Shen Yuan please won't you just look at them for once??

binghe (bing-ge)? well there's nothing wrong with him. don't you know he's the protagonist? don't you know he's unbeatable. he's handsome and strong and smart and merciful and every wrong he commits is just to right a slight made against him. it's only fair. it's only what he was taught. if he can't be given something, he'll just take it. he will take everything he wants. see, if he's kind and sweet, if he sticks to what his mother taught him, if he stays filial and loyal, eager to learn and help—what does that get him? nothing. whether his Shizun whips him or treats him with care, in every world he gets nothing. so he should take it instead, should exchange his steadfast dedication for a relentless pursuit, his painstaking attention to care for a exacting manipulation of every situation. maybe then he'll achieve something worth his suffering. maybe then he'll be able to say that it wasn't him, that the problem wasn't him, that there's nothing wrong with him at all.

#ask #fair warning: dont send me asks like this unless you want a word vomit every time #thank u for the ask i was kicking my feet in glee

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mango-bango-bby · 2 years ago

Note

CAN YOU MAKE THE BACKSTORY OF THAT VAMPIRE TOMURA AND THE READER!!!???

Like how they met and stuff.. sorry I just really liked the stort😥😥

♡ The Day He Fell in Love ♡

(A/N: I really love writing for fantasy type au’s so much 😭😭 And don’t apologize, I’m really glad you enjoyed it!! 🥺🥺🥺💖 Also I’m not sure why I’ve been getting so many Shigaraki requests lately but I like it lol!!)

Content Warning ⚠️: Yandere, vampire au, soft of fantasy au, mentions of blood and injury, mentions of readers death in a past life

Summary: Tomura recalls the day that he fell in love with you (Yan!Shigaraki x GN!reader *reader is described as wearing a dress though, so be aware!!*)

Last Part ➸ ♡

Masterlist ➸ ♡

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

You grew up in a wealthy, well respected family in the community. You grew up with staff in your home, you were used to it and you knew every single maid and butler as you always wanted to greet them. So of course you knew Tomura, although he kept to himself every single time you tried to talk to him.

You never really enjoyed the extravagant parties your family put on. It wasn’t normal to leave the home until married so you stuck at home with your parents. You walked out of the party room, not exactly enjoying the finger food and small talk you had to make. You sigh, finally finding a secluded hallway where you could relax only to be interrupted by the sound of shallow breathing.

“Hello?” You called out, turning the corner to see Tomura on the floor. He looked so sickly. “Are you alright?” You asked, reaching out to him only to immediately pull your hand back when his bright red eyes flit up at you while he has a scowl on his face. You gasp and step back at the sharp fangs that are showing.

You had heard tales of vampires since you were a child. You were told to fear them, report one if you even encountered one so they could be eliminated. But you knew you couldn’t bring yourself to do that. Tomura wasn’t really to worried, being a vampire with a unique ability to disintegrate things with one touch so if you were to try and call out for anyone it wouldn’t be to bad. But he weaker, he hadn’t fed off of anyone in weeks.

“Are you alright? D-Do you need anything?” You ask frantically before it hit you. “Are you hungry? You need blood, right?” You ask nervously, as though you’re scared. But not scared of him, rather scared for him. It seems his silence confirmed it to you that he needs blood.

You don’t think before grabbing a decorative vase from a nearby table, immediately throwing it onto the porcelain floor. The vase shatters across the floor, you immediately grabbing a piece and shocking Tomura with what you did next. You grabbed a small sharp piece of the vase, whimpering as you cut into the tip of your finger.

You sit on the floor in front of him, your extravagant dress for the party spreading across the floor. You hold your hand out to Tomura, offering the blood dripping to him. You weren’t scared. You wanted to help him.

♡ ♡ ♡

That was the exact moment Tomura fell for you. Such a kind and soft-hearted human, helping out a monster like him. Out of the century’s he’s lived, that was his favorite memory. After all these years, that moment stuck with him. You two fell in love after that. Although when the towns people found out he was a vampire, they decided to punish you.

He was the reason you were taken from him. It was his fault for not turning you into a vampire when he had the chance. But after living for so long he knew people got reincarnated. He knew he’d find you again, even if you didn’t remember him. He would see you again.

He remembers that as the day he fell for you, hard. That day and the day you died specifically stuck in his mind. You promised him you’d see him in the next life, right before your execution.

He knew you wouldn’t remember him, but he had found you again. Tomura wasn’t going to mess up again. It didn’t matter how much you cried aunt screamed for him to let you go.

He couldn’t let you get hurt again.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

Thank you for reading, darling!!

#yandere vampire au #yandere bnha x reader #yandere bnha #yandere shigaraki x reader #yandere shigaraki #yandere!shigaraki #yandere tomura x reader #yandere tomura #yandere!tomura

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lonelinessmademecrazy · 4 months ago

Note

You said you've been writing down (or rather, typing up) whatever comes to your head when you first wake up. Would you be comfortable sharing some of the things you've written?

Sure, I see no harm in that. Some of the dates are a bit off due to me forgetting what days I had or had not accounted for.

Also, this will probably have a “read more” section bc this is LONG.

6/1/24

pasta would be better without the wait time. Why can’t it be packaged like udon?

6/2/24

No, I’m not paying for your tax write-off of a vacation

6/3/24

I’m not a monster. I’m not a creature. I’m not a god. I’m human. I’m normal. I’m perfectly normal.

6/6/24

Just like the coocoo bird effect,I killed my false parents. Dug my teeth into their flesh and tore and shred until there was nothing left. Only blood and bone shards.

6/7/24

cheese. not celery. CHEESE. Worst salsa de queso ever

6/9/24

I want chocolate

6/10/24

Feigning humanity only starves me further.

6/11/24

They worship the very thing that will kill them. They know it’ll kill them. Why do they expect appreciation from an old deity?

6/12/24

el conejo es muy delicioso

6/13/24

Tear, rip, shred, filét, slice, stab, scratch, do what I want. I’m so hungry and so angry.

6/15/24

Need to make friends. I’m so lonely

6/16/24

You’re a fucking liar. Go kill yourself.

Better yet, let me do it for you, pathetic waste of flesh.

6/17/24

I’m not a monster. I’d never eat that. I’d never do that. Nobody should worship me.

I’m just a normal human.

6/18/24

Kitty cat!! In car!! I want a pet kitty!

6/21/24

Those macarons were so fucking good. I should go get some more. Vanilla and pistachio

6/22/24

Beach

6/23/24

Water would be nice. It’s so hot

6:24/24

Mayonnaise is such a weird condiment

6/28/24

Cookies and cream flavored milkshakes are the best thing to grace the shelves of my fridge.

6/29/24

How much could a creature possibly need to eat? So many lives lost.

7/1/24

Sleep is for the weak

7/2/24

God, please let me sleep

7/3/24

Sleepy time tea

Check the mail

7/5/24

Cult. It’s a cult. They’re in fucking cult.

They worship the same thing that warned me about them

7/7/24

Don’t let them know

I know

I’m starving

7/9/24

Cake pops would sell so good on campus.

7/10/24

What do you mean you want a cheeseburger combo with no cheese. That’s just a hamburger combo.

No, a combo is just the burger and fries, you’re thinking of a meal. The meal has a drink with it.

7/11/24

I fucking hate fast food, oh my god

7/12/24

My thoughts get louder at night. Just when I think things are changing.

My thoughts get louder at night.

The insistent need to tear and rip and shred. I’d never, though.

I’m not a monster.

Right?

7/13/24

Shut up, you can make your own damn french fries.

7/14/24

I deserve a pay raise

7/15/24

That guy is not even real. Why does everyone think he’s stalking me?

7/18/24

It’s raining so much. I hate hurricane season

7/19/24

Can I PLEASE make it to work without driving through a literal flood??

7/20/24

Burger

Fries

Milkshake?? Eh, ice cream is better

7/21/24

Hunger. It’s all I feel. No matter how much I eat, I’m always hungry.

Maybe I’m not eating the right thing.

7/22/24

My teeth itch every time one of you talks. You’re all so annoying, I just wanna bite out your jugulars.

7/23/24

Bacon jerky

7/24/24

Something claws from deep within, begging for just a taste. Just a drop, a shred, a chunk, a bite.

I don’t want to eat that. That’s gross. But my brain tells me otherwise.

7/25/24

I’ve been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet

A pawn and a king

7/26/24

How many lives did they truly live? How many times did they all repeat that same, vicious cycle.

How lucky am I to be an outside viewer.

An observer

7/27/24

Kimchi jiggae and a big ass bottle of strawberry caplico

7/28/24

I want strawberry milk

7/29/24

He’s not the guardian. He’s the voyeur. That fucking liar. You’re just as bad as your captor.

8/1/24

Mmmm steamed egg

8/2/24

Vanilla ice cream

No, strawberry

#alternate reality game #arg #rpg #slenderverse #slenderverse inspired #unfiction #unreality #everymanhybrid inspired #everyman hybrid #everymanhybrid #tribetwelve inspired

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tamorisana · 2 years ago

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thank @mylarena ty for making me have gay about vampires thoughts.

okay. so we where talking the other day (literally 10 minutes ago as i write) and she said "having your blood drinken, giving a right to drink your blood is homoerotic" (not literal quote). AND I AGREE.

now come closer and listen. ill take alerudy because im starting for them and it will not cause much problems for most of people and make them see my point but i see rudy as a vampire who was raised in a foster human family. where he was dismissed for his needs (literally why adopt vampire.) and he just grew up like so, always hungry, smaller from not having a constant flow of blood in his body which causes health problems

and he meets alejandro

now, rudy is about 10 and ale is about 12 and the first one has like no friends except for his brother and brothers friends, who to their credit really did try to include him in almost all activities they had despite the age gap or he would sit with them listening while they talked about a game or smt and feel nice bc they let him enjoy the company, and ale is a type of kid to know everyone but having just a couple of kids who are considered friends.

and they meet and they don't hit it off immediately. alejandro is terrified of vampire because of stories about them as well as thinks the younger just wants his blood and rudy hates it. he hates being seen as nothing but a blood sucking monster so he just turns around, leaves angry ale to stand silent and shocked. its a way he solves this problem. very effective one, most are just too stunned to continue speaking. at this point you look at me up and down and think "fucking idiot! what are you doing?? what are you doing!?! how will they be with together if you refuse to make them friends??" yes they aren't friends right away.

but such reaction sparkes something. ale expected the boy to scream at him, be angry and jump on him, bite him. but he didn't. he looked more upset than disappointed and he just turned away and left. he may have left physically but still present in the back of his head.

and its a start, he looks out to him every time he can to ask why? if alejandro intrigued he will get and know anything he wants. the next time its cloudy he searches narrowly for rodolfo (pretty name. he had an uncle with same name and he was the best) and finds him quickly. he apologizes, gives rudy a candy his Abuela bought for him and a little cartoon of coconut milk.

and thats a start to them.

in a few weeks they are inseparable. in years basically glued to eachother. there are no alejandro without rodolfo and there is not rodolfo with out alejandro. they are 15 and 17 when rudy runs out of coconut milk and is about to close himself in basement until his parents finally buy some when his partner in crime says:

"why dont you drink from me?"

and is met with absolute no. he wont do that. he wont use him for blood. ale is a brother a friend, a dearest one and he does no such thing only of hunger. warm hands grab his shoulders to bring back to earth.

"rudy. look at me, i asked only because i trust you and with your control. idiot. i offer because i want you nicely fed and shit"

and they make an agreement. rudy gets his blood when absolutely needed and alejandro gets the language and math homeworks and help if he needs one. this goes on for years. even when they join the military.

i got distracted and lost the thought. ill continue this one day with these characters or other ones. i also have many siren!rudy and human or werewolf!ale if anyone wants them

#cod #call of duty #cod mwii #mw2 2022 #alejandro vargas #rodolfo parra #alerudy #alejandro mw2 #aledolfo #alejandro x rodolfo #rodolfo cod #rodolfo rudy parra #rodolfo mw2 #vampires

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reallyverysane · 7 months ago

Text

How I Wonder

Pairing: Astarion x fem!Tav, Drow, OC with backstory

Summary: Astarion deals with hunger of a couple different types. Tav offers her wrist but wants to offer more.

The road into the Shadowlands is full of spiders and flashbacks. Some tadpole assisted backstory, tender moments.

Warnings: Mostly plot, yearning, confused feelings, trauma babies doing the trauma tango, PTSD flashbacks, some world-appropriate violence, kidnapping, culty rituals, bodily harm, dissociation, just a bit of physical contact, nothing spicy.

Word Count: 7k oops

A/N: This is a continuation of Blush but can be read on its own too. This Tav has me doing so much research to make her backstory accurate to dnd lore, she is taking over my life a bit. There will eventually be actual spice in this series, but even though I've got outlines and plot points to hit, they just keep wanting to talk and form bonds with each other. Hope you enjoy!

The night air was crisp against his skin. The wind brought scents of dry stone and pine to him, along with the fragile note of a night blooming flower. Far in the distance Astarion could hear the staccato sound of laughter and off key singing as his companions settled in for another night at camp. Their narrow escape at the Githyanki creche and Lae’zel’s crisis of faith had left them rattled, but as they retraced their steps up the mountain toward the pass their spirits had lifted with the altitude. They would soon reach the shadow cursed lands and Halsin, knowing the despair they would face there, was aggressively trying to manufacture one last night of raucous mirth for the party. As they had begun making camp for the night he had taken up his lute and bellowed out bawdy tunes with distinctly druidic themes. “The Bear and the Maiden Fair '' had brought Karlach to the ground with laughter, her exhaust ports singeing small fires in the grass as she choked on her joy.

Astarion could not quite bring himself to join in the merriment. His legs were aching from the climb and he was hungry. He had fully drained the gith doctor for what she had tried to pull with the Zaith’isk, but they had fought hard to get out alive and his trance had been rudely interrupted by Voss and the faith-shattering revelations he had brought them. He did feel sorry for Lae’zel, he knew what it was to have one’s deepest beliefs shaken to the core. Perhaps that was why he sought the solitude of this high precipice.

He sat on the cliff, his legs dangling off the edge over vast leagues of emptiness. The sun sank slowly over the temple in the distance and he felt a chill thinking of all the bodies inside. Yet another hoard of enemies taken down in their pursuit of a cure. He never used to care about the violence he inflicted, still relished the choreography of a good kill, the music of his blades expertly dispatching a foe before they even knew he was there. But traveling with this group of disparate weirdos had seemingly started to make him go soft.

His thoughts crashed into each other, contradictory and chaotic. He was beginning to care for these people, something he truly never believed he’d feel again, but his apprehension for any kind of vulnerability mocked him for his twee little feelings. His survival had depended for so long on walling himself off to anything real. To anyone at all. He had learned too many times over what it cost, that warmth of closeness. It always ended in blood.

And yet, he felt himself drawn like a moth to flames. He so desperately wanted to be let in, to be part of the crew. They were all so bonded, sharing stories of their pasts, consulting each other on their worries, finding small comforts in the warmth of an embrace. He longed to reach out to someone, anyone, as easily as they had. His years of captivity and pain had carved a deep chasm in his heart, one he was desperately trying to claw his way out of.

Of course, she had seen right through his facade. Their alluring, ruthless leader had taken one look at him the morning after their tryst and had somehow pierced the defenses he had honed over more than a century. Her ice and onyx eyes had bored holes into his back as he tried to play the carefree rake. When she had asked about his scars he had spat the truth at her, almost as a challenge, uncomfortable and exposed in the sunlight. He had made an attempt to divert her attention to anything other than his screeching, agonized soul, and she had let him. Still, he knew she saw more of him than he intended and it terrified him. He had nearly bolted from the sunlit glade the second she acquiesced to his deflection. It had been nearly a month since then and he still couldn’t get a read on the enigmatic drow.

Tav was a mystery to him. Her sweet, generous disposition belied a shrewdness and pragmatism he found fascinating. She had divulged some of her past, her childhood as a cutpurse in the bowels of the City of Spiders, her frenzied and daring escape to the surface as a tunnel collapsed below her, but she had been sparse on the details. He had seen her expertly skate around specifics when their companions would inquire about aspects of her time in the Underdark. She had an electric way of weaving details of the Drow culture into her stories, distracting her listeners from the fact that the focus was rarely on her.

That was not to say she seemed unwilling to connect with the others. She had formed a fast friendship with Karlach, trading awful jokes in between impassioned discussions of their best kills. As a parentless nobody alone in the heart of Menzoberranzan, Tav had learned quickly the art of survival. While she hadn’t spoken much about the devastating Storm Sorcery she wielded, she had regaled them with tales of her younger self and the warring factions of street urchins she had run with. The brutality of Drow society had been shocking to all but Lae’zel, who had greatly approved, saying that it had molded Tav into a strong and cunning warrior with great prowess on the battlefield. Tav had thanked the Githyanki enthusiastically, as though she truly appreciated the validation from one who actually understood the violence she had known.

Astarion puzzled on the matter, retreating from the cliff edge as the first stars winked into being in the purpling sky. She had a hardened and remorseless attitude toward killing, yet her actions with the grove and her gentle handling of the members of their band proved she had the capacity for kindness he had never possessed. His had always been the way of self serving manipulation and guile, even before his foray into undeath. She truly did intrigue him, though he had kept her at a safe distance since the morning he had awoken, nestled in her arms, clinging to her like a castaway to driftwood on an open sea, with the taste of bile in his mouth.

He had disentangled himself as quickly and smoothly as he could before sprinting out of the clearing to wretch her blood onto the base of a great oak. Her touch had felt like crackling lighting across his skin, setting him ablaze in ways he had not felt for decades, but the moment the storm had lulled, his memories had flooded back in nauseating waves. He had acted on instinct, used the only tool he had left to him, and he hated himself for it. Though he knew it was a necessary step in his plot to curry her favor and protection, he found he was surprised by how disgusted he felt with himself.

The smell of roasting meat and fire shook him out of his dark reverie and he returned to his senses with a jolt. The sun had sunk just below the horizon and the glow behind the mountains was echoed by the campfire on the opposite peak. His hunger twisted, a cruel fist grasping in his chest, as the aromas of wafted down from where the group busied themselves making dinner and setting the camp. His mouth watered and his mind wandered to a vision of Tav’s smooth, ebony neck, the two delicate scars his fangs had left the first night he fed from her. The memory of her blood, the first non-rodent thing he’d fed on in decades, threatened to overwhelm him.

“Godsdamnit!” he cursed aloud, turning with balled fists to trudge up the path to camp.

He needed to feed, and she was his only option on this high mountain pass full of nothing but uppity eagles and dead Githyanki.

~~~

She watched him stalk into camp, just outside the circle of firelight, his face a hollow shell concealing the thoughts within. As he scanned the camp his gaze locked with hers, a near imperceptible jolt running through him. He pulled his features into a semblance of nonchalance and strode animatedly across the clearing to drape himself onto the ground beside her, back against the fallen pillar she was using as a bench. They had made camp in the long ruined husk of a stone temple, a protective brace against the wind that constantly howled at this height.

Astarion began languidly trailing a finger along the outside of her calf, not turning to look into her face.

“You know, darling” he drawled in a voice that reeked of duplicity, “it’s been ever so long since we were able to enjoy each other’s talents.”

His finger traced up along the top of her knee, reaching towards the inside of her thigh. She swatted it away, quick and light as a dragonfly striking. He pulled his hand back with a sharp inhale and whipped his face to hers, eyes indignant and a snarl threatening to pull through his lips. She watched, bemused, as he fought to reign in his irritation and plaster a veil of pleasantness over his features. She saw the ragged glint in his eye and knew he was hungry and desperate to feed, his gaze subtly drifting to the pulse in her neck.

“So your hunt didn’t go well, I take it?”

“What? Uh…Whatever makes you say that? Can’t a man seek the company of a ravishing sorcerer of an evening?” His eyes narrowed, wary, clearly unaware that he practically radiated with the grace of a predatory animal on the prowl. Though his air had been light and casual, Tav knew a hunter when she saw one. His movements were just the smallest bit too practiced, a dance he had done a thousand times before.

“If you’re hungry, Astarion, you only have to ask.”

She didn’t begrudge him his mask, his choreography, she simply wanted him to see that she needed none of it. She had seen herself reflected in him so many times. The way he watched, always vigilant to the most minute changes in the attitude of a room, his body a figure study in relaxation while his eyes scoured his environment for threats.

When she had seen him flinch from her touch the morning after they had come together, her hand trailing too close to the raised scars on his back, she had felt the echo of his recoil in her own skin. She hadn’t picked up physical scars as brutal as his, but she felt the wounds on her soul ache when she heard him speak of his time with Cazador. When she had offered her sympathy he had rebuffed her, not believing she could understand the half of what he had been through. And maybe she couldn’t, but she carried the weight of her own pain, her own fear, and she had grown strong from the burden. Strong enough, perhaps, to help him shoulder his.

His eyes searched hers, incredulous, their feline slant softening as he began to take in her face. She wore an expression of warm amusement, not a hint of judgment in her captivating gaze. One corner of her mouth pulled up slightly into a coy grin as she extended her wrist in front of him.

“Go ahead, the rest of us already ate.”

He started, gaze shifting rapidly from her eyes to her wrist and back. With slow, hesitant movements he grasped her wrist in both his hands and pulled it to his mouth. The smell of her skin, the blood so close to the surface, was intoxicating. Pulling in a deep draw of her honey and juniper scent, his eyes rolled and he let out a sigh against the taught skin of her wrist. She felt his cool breath like a caress, sending a shiver down her spine. He glanced at her again, as if to confirm it really was alright for him to bite her, and she nodded, her grin spreading to pucker a tiny dimple into her cheek.

~~~

Eyes shifting warily around the camp, grazing over the figures of the others readying to bed down for the night, he searched for signs that this was all some elaborate trap. Surely this open generosity, this act of profound trust and vulnerability, must be designed to lull him from his defenses. It had happened time and again, with his siblings, his master. Some small kindness offered, only to be retracted at the last second and replaced with the scourge of a blade or a balled fist. He pushed the panic down, trying to relax the coiling knot between his shoulder blades.

His lips brushed the skin of her wrist in a featherlight kiss before he pressed his fangs in as gently as his hunger would allow. The rush of her blood into his mouth surrounded him in the heady smell of her. It overtook his senses as he drank, blurring out the rest of the campsite and flooding his vision with a haze of indigo shot with silver. He focused on her pulse, strong against his lips, hammering in his ears. As he shifted his hands to hold her arm closer to him, fingers sliding around the back of her elbow, he felt her pulse flutter ever so slightly. Her fingers splayed, grazing through his curls and he heard her hiss. He worried he was hurting her and began to slow his pace when a soft moan escaped her slightly parted lips. His eyes darted to hers in surprise and found she was staring, lips parted and pupils blown, directly at him.

Smiling to himself against her wrist, still sucking her flowing blood, he pulled her down from the pillar. He twisted with her slowly so as not to break the seal against her skin. She flowed into his lap like a cat, curling herself around to rest half leaning on his chest. He brought an arm around her ribs to steady her, his hand snaking up the back of her neck to rest in her bright silver and gunmetal hair. She leaned her head into his hand and her eyes fluttered closed. With her this close, senses drowning in the redolent perfume of her skin, he began to draw longer, covetous pulls from her wrist.

Her blood sang in his veins. The pulse under his lips fluttered as she drew in a ragged breath, her back arching against him. Rolling her head forward to nuzzle into the slope of his neck, he shuddered as her lips brushed the underside of his jaw. He felt her breath on his skin like the heat of a campfire. She moaned low in his ear, a breathless, intoxicating purr. He was about to break the latch he had on her wrist to claim her berry mouth in a bloody kiss, when he heard a throat clearing behind him.

“While I do understand your fervor, Astarion, would you kindly un-wrist our dear leader before you drain her like a particularly fine wineskin?”

Astarion growled into her wrist as Tav seemed to shake out of whatever haze she had fallen into and chuckled.

“I believe you’re right, Gale” She conceded, “ I do feel somewhat... lightheaded.”

His arm remained wrapped around her shoulder, fingers twining into her hair of their own accord. He pricked his tongue with a fang and ran the bead of blood over her wound, closing it. Before letting go of her wrist, he kissed it again, this time in earnest, turning his eyes upward to meet hers. She stared down at him with the look of someone who has just awoken from a captivating dream, lids heavy and eyes shining with a secret glee.

“Thank you” His voice ragged and thick through the fog of his bloodlust. “Truly.”

He willed his hand to release its grip on her hair, glaring at the wizard for his obvious ploy to interrupt. As she slipped out of his arms and stood she leaned forward and brushed a soft kiss against his cheek. His other hand trailed down her arm as she rose, his fingers reflexively hooking against hers in a traitorous attempt to hold her with him just a short time longer. She hooked her fingers back to his for just a moment, long enough to pull his arm taught behind her as she retreated. As her fingers rolled off his he was left with his hand hovering in front of his face, frozen where she had left it, the feeling of her skin reverberating through his fingertips.

“Any time Star!” She called over her shoulder with a grin as Gale pulled her into a discussion with Halsin about the properties of some mushroom or other. He sat, stunned, pulling the hand she had released to the heated spot where her lips had brushed his face. She had never called him that before.

Nobody had called him that since before his life ended.

* * * * *

Bathed in the yellow light of the Blood of Lathander, the group moved slowly through the cursed darkness of the shadowlands. As the company entered the region from the high mountain pass they had been greeted by a welcome party from Moonrise, sent to escort the ‘True Souls' to the Absolutist stronghold. The plan had been to play along, acting as though Halsin was a prisoner they were keen to return to face punishment. That plan went straight out the window as the eerie blue light of the moonlantern revealed the aberration that was Kar’niss, the drider. Swallowing his unease, Wyll managed to learn the direction of the tower from the monstrosity as the rest of the group filed down the narrow passageway into the darkness, Tav bringing up the rear with Scritch and Scratch.

Before any of the others knew what was happening, a savage roar ripped through Tav, a sound like her soul tearing. She leapt forward, her lightning magic crackling over her skin like a shroud, to bring a violent storm down upon the group of cultists. Tongues of lightning battered the drider, his many limbs giving out beneath him as the electricity shot through his nerves. Not expecting an ambush, the other cultists stood frozen, surprised, while the smell of scorched ozone grew with each new strike of lightning.

“Alrighty then, guess we’re doing this the fun way!” Karlach was the first to surge forward, swinging her greataxe into the side of one of the cultist’s heads. The figure crumpled like a marionette with cut strings, and as she wrested the axe from the ruin of its face, a wild grin broke across the tiefling’s lips. “So much for diplomacy, eh Sparks?”

Tav merely growled in response, her eyes lit a blazing white from within, never leaving the writhing form of the drider. As the rest of the group made short work of the band of cultists, Tav stalked forward, the lighting of her power coalescing into her palms. Walking into the swirling heart of the storm she had created, she loomed over the crumpled body of the monstrosity, teeth gritted and body trembling with emotion. She went to one knee beside the wretched creature, still being slashed through with forking lightning, and bent low to be heard above the cacophony of the tempest.

“I swore I would never suffer another one of your kind to live, drider.” Her voice a dark snarl, she spat in disgust. “Give my regards to the Spider Bitch.”

The abomination sent up a wordless cry of agony, its face turned to hers, pleading for her mercy. Her mouth twisted into a crooked grin, savage and deadly, as she held her sparking hands on either side of the drider’s face. Her magic scorched the air as lightning arced between her palms, straight through the brain of the creature, its numerous eyes briefly blazing in an ice-white echo of hers before darkening to a lifeless black. With a shudder of disgust she rose, kicking the face of the drider away from her and breaking the concentration she held on the small tempest above them.

The final crackling of lightning sounded and their ears rang in the unnatural silence. Tav stood, trembling, shoulders hunched, in a circle of scorched corpses. As though a spell of silence had been cast over the group, they stood rooted in place, none daring to speak first. A ragged sob tore out of Tav as she brought the heel of her boot down against the temple of the twisted creature, caving in the pale face with its many empty eyes. She was shaking violently now, her sob morphing into a stuttering, wordless wail.

At the sound of her pain the spell seemed to break, and Astarion found himself moving to her, body reacting before caution could hold him back. He called her name gently as he approached, so as not to startle her. She turned to him, her face streaked with tears and black blood, and nearly fell into his waiting arms. She buried her face into his neck, his arms coming around her back, crushing her to him and holding her upright. Her sobs were an echo of his own desperate soul.

“I’ve got you.” HIs voice sounded hollow in his ears as he pressed the words into her hair. “It’s over, you’re safe. I'm here.”

She continued to pour tears into the collar of his leathers, body quaking with silent sobs. The group surrounded them, anxious faces stricken with concern. Astarion waved them back, silently meeting their eyes with a challenge. Do not intervene.

The druid was the first to speak, ushering the group to begin searching the bodies for valuables or missives from Moonrise. They retrieved the strange lantern the dryder had carried and began to move off down the path to give Tav some space. As the eerie blue glow of the lantern receded, Shadowheart rushed back to hand the glowing mace to Astarion.

“Take your time.” She placed a gentle hand on Tav’s shoulder and gave a light, reassuring squeeze. She shot Astarion a look of skeptical amusement, as though she couldn’t believe that he, of all people, would be the one to offer comfort and care to the drow. She cocked an eyebrow and mouthed good luck to him before scampering back to the circle of lantern light and following the group down the path of the broken road.

When they had disappeared from view and he could no longer hear their voices, Astarion gently peeled Tav away from his chest. Her face was a mess of tears and inky drider blood. Her normally piercing eyes red and puffed from the tears, she wouldn’t meet his gaze as she sniffed and wiped her face with the sleeve of her robe. He felt a stab of grief reverberate through him, his mind flashing through an endless slideshow of painful memories. Gently raising her face to him, he saw the reflection of his own sorrow in her eyes. Her gaze darted wildly, an animal trapped in a cage, desperate for a place to hide.

Astarion cradled her cheek with his large, cool palm, his crimson eyes capturing hers, forcing her to focus on him.

“Breath, darling.”

One arm still around her waist, anchoring her, she heaved in a rough breath. She leaned into his palm, letting it go in a protracted sigh. The jagged edges of her mind began to smooth, her consciousness slowly sliding back into her body. Only when he felt her pulse begin to slow and her breathing return to normal did he release her from his hold, stepping back and allowing his hands to fall to his sides.

“Thank you, Astarion.” Her voice was croaky and low, her throat aching from the guttural screams she had uttered. “That was… I …” She trailed off, not knowing how to continue. Seeing a drider again for the first time since her escape from the Underdark had plunged her into a rage and fear she had tried desperately to leave behind. The sight of the hulking abomination had transported her into memories of chitinous legs pinning her to cold stone, white hot lightning arcing through her as the chants of cultists drowned out her screams. Her body had acted in pure instinct, moving to slaughter the cause of her suffering, pulling on the twisted power she had gained as a means of survival. Now, she only felt a dull, empty ache at the center of her. She was so tired.

Astarion searched her eyes as she stood in front of him, miles or years away. She had always been somewhat volatile, a simmering anger beneath the surface of her placid demeanor, but this was the first moment he came to realize the truth. Her temper was not borne of pride or bravado, but was merely the instinctual defense of a person like himself. Someone who had, too many times, been presented with the choice to either fight or die. The frenzied way she had taken the drider down, her instant switch from sentience to instinctual brutality, these were the hallmarks of one who knew the truth of suffering. He felt his heart ache for her. A kindred damned soul.

“You don’t have to explain…” His voice held none of its typical music, his tone flat and serious. “There are some things we carry with us, no matter how far from them we truly are.” He extended his hand to her, and she took it with fingers that trembled ever so slightly.

“I will… I just can’t, not here.” Her eyes darted over his shoulder to the mangled body of the drider, legs curled in on itself grotesquely, face a black pulp. “Can we go?” Her eyes flashed with desperation and he squeezed her hand, pulling her with him away from the carnage. They headed down the path after the rest of the group, the hungry shadows held at bay by the light of Lathander.

When they spotted the glow of the campfire ahead, Astarion stopped. They had walked here silently, fingers laced together, the heat of her skin gradually warming his hand. She turned to him with a deep sigh, eyes trained on the small circles he was rubbing into her skin with his thumb.

“I can’t go back just yet. Too many worried faces, everyone holding back questions and treating me like I’m breakable.”

Astarion scoffed, “Nobody thinks you’re breakable. You should’ve seen yourself back there!” he gestured up the path they’d taken with a nod of his head. “ You were positively lethal.”

“Yes, and then I went mad and sobbed in front of everyone.”Her voice was a rasping whisper as she clung to his hand. “I can’t stand to see their pity, it just makes everything worse.”

“You’ll get no pity from me, darling. I don’t pity those who could call a bolt down and roast me where I stand.” His attempt at levity fell flat between them, a sly smile dying on Astarion's lips as she finally looked into his eyes. His breath caught at the sight of those deep onyx pools slashed with streaks of white lightning. He saw the haunted, anguished stare all the spawn in Cazador’s house had worn. Though he hadn’t seen his reflection in centuries, he knew his own eyes must carry the same look now and again. He dropped his gaze from hers, feeling as though she could see straight to the core of him.

“You and I are more alike than I thought.” His voice was low and serious, a tone she had rarely heard him use. He paused thoughtfully, bringing their hands, fingers still intertwined, to his lips. “If you want to stay out here a while, I’m in no rush to get back.”

Tav’s thoughts blurred at the feel of his lips on the back of her fingers. She felt the familiar pull to throw herself on him, shutting down any questions he might have with her tongue in his mouth. Why was it so easy to let him into her body but not her mind? She knew she could make it all disappear, the pain of the memories, the insatiable rage she felt for her past self, the fear. She could melt it all away with the touch of his cool hands on her body. He could pull her out from the chaos in her mind and keep her rooted firmly in the feel of him.

She knew this was her mind’s way of running from the truth. She had to face the part of her past she was running from. In a guarded, secret place inside she knew that her feelings for Astarion could be so much more than an escape. Terrified as she was to admit it, she saw clearly who he was and it left her in awe of him. His past was laid bare in the jagged scars on his back. While she knew he was still hiding much from her, he had let her in in small ways, each time revealing more of himself. She knew he deserved the same. That she couldn't wear the mask for him anymore.

Tav leaned her forehead into Astarion’s, their noses brushing together and mingling her warm breath with his cool one.

“Will you let me show you? I don’t think I can explain it all without bolting for the hills.”

He nodded against her, stepping closer and gripping the back of her neck. He pulled her into a gentle kiss, lips almost reverent in their explorations. She fought the urge to deepen the kiss and flee into his arms. A soft moan of protest escaped his lips as she pulled away, but she did not fully retreat, allowing him to hold her in the circle of his arms.

She reached out with her tadpole and connected to his with a spine chilling jolt. In this connection their thoughts flowed together with no need for language. Her memories flashed in a dizzying wave, showing him the truth of her youth and the years she spent numb and cut off in a pleasure house. She felt his surprise as parts of her story became enmeshed with his own, seeing a double image of them both languishing in separate beds, strangers between their legs. He felt her memories as if they were his own, understanding the depth of the emptiness gnawing at her soul in those long decades of service to the Trade. She poured into him all the years of petty betrayal among the courtesans, the insipid dramas that nonetheless endangered her very livelihood. He answered with the squabbling between the sibling spawn. The backstabbing and conniving to gain a pittance of favor from their master.

Tav pressed herself against him, yearning to somehow feel even closer as they clung to each other in the whirlwind of her memories. She balked as her thoughts delved deeper, wincing away from the pain of her deep buried past. Astarion’s presence in her mind remained unshaken, a questioning desire to know what she was trying to hide. She felt his arms grip her ever tighter, his hands balling into her hair and her tunic, a physical tether. She opened to him, tumbling down within her mind to the dark and jagged center of her torment.

Her friend, or so she had believed, set her up. She should have known the posting was too good to be true. A live-in concubine for the heir of house Baenre. She had gone through the proper channels to verify the assignment, but the woman knew the procedures well and managed to dupe even the management at the pleasure house. Tav thought she was heading to a lavish apartment in a noble house for a year, maybe three. Instead she had been taken, snatched from her carriage like a mouse caught in the talons of a silent owl. She had hated herself then for allowing her instincts to become dulled and her reflexes slow. Through the tadpole Astarion saw how the shrewd cutpurse she had been in her youth berated her captured self mercilessly. Eighty years in the fog of distraction and numbness of a life without purpose had stolen her acumen for survival.

Astarion’s heart bled for her, hearing the echo of his own self-hatred in the venomous words she berated herself with. Stupid. Naive. Worthless. He reached his mind into the cyclone of her anger and tried to sooth her with all the things he wished someone would say to him. Capable. Beautiful. Worthy. She shuddered in his arms and he was vaguely aware of his body pulling her down to sit on the ruined earth. Still holding the connection with the tadpole, her body almost lost to her in the swell of her grief, she pulled herself into his lap and he wrapped his arms around her like a shield.

The next memories she flew to were tinged with a deep indigo haze, as though a part of her brain would not allow them to fully realize. Her captors had brought her far from Menzoberranzan, trussed in a wagon like a lamb for slaughter. She had begged for release, explanation, anything, and had earned herself a stinking sock for a gag. When they finally arrived at their destination, her horrors had only worsened as she was led into the crumbling throne room of a long abandoned stronghold to see a monster atop the throne before her.

The drider loomed massive in the torchlight of the hall. He towered over the cowering servants at his feet. His torso, grotesquely morphing into the abdomen of a spider, was covered in black patches of coarse hair and chitin. Skittering toward her on eight segmented legs, he pulled her off her feet by her neck to bring her face closer to his. He was supernaturally strong, nearly crushing her throat in his grip. When he tossed her aside she crumpled into a heap on the cold stone slabs. He spoke to his attendants in a language she couldn’t understand and she had been hauled away to rot for months in a cold cell. She could hear the cries and lamentations of the other women in the cages, though as the weeks went by the voices started to go silent one by one. She grew to hold the understanding that she would die, shivering and afraid, in this dank cavern, with nobody to blame but herself.

When her turn came to be dragged before the drider once more she resigned herself to the fate, hoping she would find a way to end her own suffering early. She had listened as the agonized screams of the other women had echoed off the dripping walls of the cave. They had begged and wailed to every god in the pantheon. None had listened. The hooded attendants had led her, bound at the wrists barefoot, into a bright circle of light cast through a moonhole to the surface. She turned her eyes skyward, squinting through the long tunnel of stone to see the full, cold moon and bright, distant stars. It was the first time she had ever seen them, and she had chuckled ruefully to herself that it would also be the last time.

The ritual was built off ancient magic in languages long lost. She couldn’t guess the specifics, but as the cultists wound silk ribbons around her shivering frame the drider appeared from the shadows of the vast cavern, scurrying to her and caging her in with his revolting legs. His carapace covered body hung over her and his drow face leered down at her, sharp teeth displayed in a manic grin. The cultists circled around them, each standing at a point in an eight pointed star. They began a chant that shot ice through her veins. The drider above her pushed her down onto her back, pinning her with one leg as he used another to slice through the tattered dress she had been wearing since her capture.

At this, Tav felt her mind lurch away, the indigo haze over her memory growing ever darker, obscuring the truth of her agony even from her. Her memory shrank to the tiny circle of light she could see through the moonhole on the high ceiling of the cavern. As she watched, detached from herself wholly, a dark silver cloud passed in front of her circle of light. She raged then, that her only means of focus had abandoned her.

The chanting rose to a deafening clamor and she began to feel her body ripping apart. The ice that had started spreading through her veins now formed into shattering crystals. Her body arced with the pain and rage and fear. She had begged then, wordless cries tearing from her throat until she coughed blood. She had called in the primal language of pain to any god who might hear. She tore her throat raw, and heard nothing echo back in return. She wished only to die and have the agony cease.

The anguish had shifted then, from a cold, scraping, ache to the white hot electricity of lightning. The last thing she had seen before the storm claimed her was the silhouette of the moon, shrouded in deep indigo clouds, with a crackling halo of ice-white lightning. The element had ripped through her, sparking from every nerve and out her skin to drive her attackers back, frozen in a tableau of torment as the lightning arced from one to another, connecting the points of the star around her. Then her vision had gone white and the smell of burning ozone had flooded her senses. She had called the storm down around her, lashing into the cultists and impaling the drider on a spear of pure, crackling, energy.

Mad with pain and power, she had leapt skyward, following the light of the silver moon above her, the only thing she could see through her flash-blind eyes. Somehow, she assumed she would never know, she had ascended to the base of the moonhole where it opened into the cavern. Grasping with desperate fingers, the tattered remains of her bindings smoldering on her wrists, she had clawed her way up the crumbling wall of the tunnel. Her only goal to reach that beckoning orb sparking with power. She ascended as the ground gave way beneath her, scrambling to pull herself ever faster toward the surface.

Her arms nearly gave out from the strain of the climb, and when she finally broke the surface, gasping and shaking, shredded dress hanging off her in ribbons, she had rolled on her back and shrieked her laughter to the bright moon. The stars seemed to laugh with her, twinkling in and out of focus as she bled out on the cool grass.

She had awoken days later in the care of an elderly tiefling couple on the outskirts of Baldur’s Gate. They had heard her maniacal laughter and rushed to help before she slipped away. The man had been a healer once, and had been able to staunch the bleeding from a deep, eight pointed wound where her womb had been. She had stayed with them a month or so before moving on, grateful for their kind help but wary of any who would offer aid to a stranger. Her fear and paranoia had driven her into the sewers of the city, the only place she could escape the bright, noisy bustle of the streets, so unlike her existence in the Underdark.

Astarion’s presence came forward once again in her mind. He had receded while her memory had relived her most wretched moments, observing in horror and wishing there was something he could do to lessen the pain. He held her in his lap, sobbing again softly into his shoulder, and severed the connection with her tadpole.

“Oh, darling,” He whispered as he stroked her hair and clutched her to him. “I’m so sorry.”

“NO!” She gasped, frantic, “Don’t you dare pity me!” Her face turned up to his, defiant, but the shattered and broken part of her soul looked out at him from the depths of her onyx and ivory eyes.

“Never.” He cupped her face in his hands to steady her gaze onto him. “Tav. I will never pity you.”

She shuddered, tears streaming down her cheeks onto his fingers.

“You survived.” His voice was stern but soft. “You fought, and you won, and now you’re here.”

She gave a tired nod, and a brutal sigh wrenching through her.

“You’re godsdamned right, I survived.” Her hands came up to cover his and she leaned toward him, knocking his forehead with hers. “And so did you, Star.”

“Tav?”

“Hmm?”

“Would it be altogether inappropriate if I kissed you right now?”

“Yes, but do it anyway.”

He obeyed, hungry and desperate. They melded together, each searching for absolution in the other’s touch. He felt for once that he was kissing her just for himself. Not for a master, or a plan, or even just to satisfy an urge. He kissed her because he wanted her to feel his care and adoration for her. Because he felt as though his body would catch fire when she touched him. Because in those moments when she had allowed him to see her deepest hurt, he had felt she saw him too. He was moved by the vulnerability she had allowed him to share. He knew hope was for fools, but he couldn’t deny the warmth in his chest as his tongue gently parted her lips and she met him with equal fervor. Their bodies entwined, the light of Lathander bathing him in the warmth of a false sun, he felt real for the first time he could remember since his heart had beat its last.

She was going to be the ruin of him, and he thought perhaps he would just let it happen.

#astarion x tav #baldur's gate 3 #astarion #fluff #my tav #growing closer #now kiss #inner turmoil #backstory #oc lore

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