#Reckless I: The Petrified Flesh

[guide-to-galaxy]

Top 5 (overdue arcs) Tuesday

I have… too many arcs. And Meeghan @ Meeghan Reads said today’s prompt is a freebie ! So I decided to show you 5 arcs that I have YET to read and review today. Well, here we go! 📚🚀📚 The Merciful Crow by Margaret Owen (GR/SG) – One way or another, we always feed the crows.A future chieftainFie abides by one rule: look after your own. Her Crow caste of undertakers and mercy-killers takes more…

[poppy-bindery]

Well...🥲 Patience and stuff, am I right?

[monstersdownthepath]

Monster Spotlight: Xoveron, Demon Lord of Gargoyles

CR 27

Chaotic Evil Huge Outsider

Adventure Path: Wrath of the Righteous: The Worldwound Incursion, pg. 84-85

Originally a fairly obscure Demon Lord, the death of Aroden and the resulting Age of Lost Omens has seen a surge of humanoid faithful swarming into the Lord of Ruins. Madmen, bandits, destructive villains, and gluttons alike now pay tribute to Xoveron, the abundance of sacrifices and new worship drawing his full attention to Golarion, and for the first time since his birth he’s beginning to make long-term plans. Already having an impressive collection of destroyed cities plucked from all over creation, Xoveron seeks to expand his empire of ruination until it encompasses the entirety of Golarion... even if it means working with Deskari, Baphomet, and--most dangerously--Nocticula to do it. But if he betrays them first, it’ll totally work out, right...?

Due to having a vested interest in destroying the world, he is wisely kept at arms length by all the Demon Lords who wish to conquer it. So far at arms length, in fact, that references to him are completely omitted from the video game translation of the Wrath of the Righteous AP, something I personally find offensive but can understand given how many other Demon Lords of varying levels of obscurity are mentioned by name... But perhaps the biggest kick in the nads is that his role as commander of the gargoyles that frequently run raids and the slavering Nabasu demons are instead attributed to Kabriri. On the other hand, though, Kabriri doesn’t have a statblock and Xoveron does, so who’s the real winner?

Xoveron is one of the more direct Demon Lords we’ve seen, fittingly enough for what is essentially a god of destruction and reckless gluttony. He performs well in the game of rocket tag that high-level Pathfinder becomes, often initiating battles with either his Shockwave or Roar, both of which can spell death for a party the moment initiative is rolled. The former is simple: if the Horned Prince begins a charge in the air and ends it on the ground, he creates a thundering pressure that can potentially knock everything within 30ft of him prone unless a DC 40 Reflex save is made. The latter has some complexity to it, but it makes for a hell of an alpha strike: Once per hour, Xoveron can belt out a devastatingly loud roar that damages all creatures and unattended objects within 60ft of him for 30d10 Sonic damage. All creatures within range can make yet another DC 40 Reflex save to avoid being blown apart and take only half damage, but anyone who fails the save is also stunned for 1d6 rounds!

Off to a good start! And those are just his openers!

You’d expect Xoveron, Lord of Ruins, to have a lot of wide-reaching abilities that cause extreme collateral devastation, and you’d be right! He has both Earthquake and Reverse Gravity available to him 3/day, both of which he cannot be inconvenienced by thanks to his massive size and ability to fly. Everyone else? Well, you all can fly, right? Everyone by this level has SOME ability to fly, right? One that he can’t with his at-will Greater Dispel Magic, hopefully!

While not entirely immune to mind-affecting effects as most endboss monsters are, Xoveron does remain impervious to charm and compulsion effects, as well as death effects, energy drain, Acid and Electricity damage, and--obviously--petrification. The last of those is something he loves handing out, as one may expect; he not only has Quickened Flesh to Stone available to him 3/day, but a sting from his whipping tail (which also deals 1d8+17 damage) transfers a poison that quickly begins to calcify the victims’ tissues. It requires a DC 40 Fortitude save to avoid the poison, and failing it means the victim will have to successfully save three consecutive times to avoid it. If you’re unable to do so, you take 1d6 Dex drain each round for 6 rounds, and falling to 0 Dex petrifies you.

Being petrified around Xoveron is even more dangerous than normal, because not only is it death for the enstoned character, but it’s death for everyone else, too. A strike from any of Xoveron’s nine natural weapons can Shatter Petrification, instantly killing the victim unless they succeed a DC 43 Fortitude save after every blow and scattering razor-sharp rock fragments 10ft in every direction. The Demon Lord himself is unharmed by any of these explosions, but everyone else takes 10d6 slashing damage from the shrapnel. Notably, this effect does not seem to trigger if he destroys the target through damage, accidentally or on purpose, only if they fail the save! So try and get petrified at low health, for the benefit of the party!

Yes, the fact that he has FtS as a Quickened spell means he can just petrify someone and then take a Full-Attack, potentially instantly killing them without any possible response from the rest of the party. Even if they somehow resist make the Fort save against all nine of his attacks in a row, their stoned form is likely gone anyway. The damage on each of his attacks is relatively low, but there’s a lot of them, and all of them critically strike on a 19 or 20 (with Bleeding Critical for extra damage); his four claws deal 1d8+17 damage, four bites dealing 2d6+17 each (and Rending for 2d8+25 if two of them manage to hit the same target in one round), and his aforementioned sting for 1d8+17. The low individual damage does come with the unfortunate downside that if you manage to kite away from the hulking Demon Lord and stay out of his reach (15ft space + 15ft reach is considerable, though), or even just stagger him, his damage flatlines pretty harshly.

But don’t worry too much for him! Because Paizo thought of that! They gave him an even better, built-in version of Greater Vital Strike called Devastating Blow. As a standard action, Xoveron can swing all four of his claws down on a single target at once, and if the attack hits it deals 8d8+68 damage! Any unlucky sucker smashed by this damage has to make a DC 43 Fortitude save or be both knocked prone AND staggered for 1d4 rounds... and he can chain these together as many times as he wants, as Devastating Blow has no cooldown and can be used any round he has his standard action available. DB also has an additional bit of non-combat potential, as it ignores hardness when used, letting Xoveron rip through more or less any barrier that’s not outright invincible. 

While Xoveron may seem like a pure brute plagued by impatience, there’s a strange, bestial cunning within him that may come to take the other Demon Lords he’s allied with by surprise. While he is, statistically, the least Intelligent of all Demon Lords (at 24; still superhuman), he has something none of the others have: the ability to Feed on information. Any other lord can coerce bits and pieces of knowledge from a victim, or utilize Dominate to make them spill their guts, but all Xoveron needs is a full-round action and access to the victim’s corpse. This gruesome, messy feast invigorates the Lord of Ruin’s body and mind, restoring him with a Heal spell and affecting him with Haste... but more importantly, he fully assimilates every memory and ounce of knowledge the victim once had in their mind. It doesn’t matter who or what they once were, this ability has no per-day or alignment restriction, nor does it grant any opportunity to keep a secret from him. It is unambiguous: if he eats your corpse, he knows everything you once did.

Bit by bit, piece by piece, death by death as his scavengers pluck choice corpses and survivors from the devastation left behind by other Demon Lords, Xoveron’s knowledge grows. Every time he devours a fallen rival, he learns. Every time a spy is found in his midst and is stomped to paste, he pieces together better ways to overcome the plans and plots of both enemy and ally. 

Maybe one day, after feasting upon the corpses of other Demon Lords, he’ll figure out a way to join Lamashtu in divinity.

You can read more about him here.

[balladetto]

directly referring to this / @gloryseized

     There's a part of Kane that's been preparing for this, he thinks.

     Because without it, he's not sure he'd be entirely upright. Entirely conscious. He's not sure he'd be here: heart thudding a dull rhythm in his ears, hand outstretched and grasping at nothing, forehead tingling from the last touch it knows and will know from his brother. He blinks — blinks again, and keeps blinking like something is wrong with his vision, like if he just opens and shuts his eyes enough times, Shion will be there again. Shion will be there, sword poised high, and Kane will have the time and wherewithal to stop him from severing the one thing tying them together.

     Kane only has time now.

     He will only ever have time now.

     His chest collapses in on itself, bones shattering and piercing through flesh with all the force of a terrible, terrible grief. He chokes on the blood that bubbles up, chokes on the petrified tears that've turned his voice into screaming silence — and isn't that funny? That they are petrified. That they aren't sobs that hollow him out, that scrape out all the insides of his veins to fill them with a poison seeping to the core, but rather sobs that are still holding out for something.

     I will be safe, Shion had said. Had sworn, as if that promise hasn't been broken a hundred times over since they woke up to a fairy who belonged to no one. Kane drops to his knees, a hand pushed against his lips and the awful sounds coming from them, because there's a thread in all that he is — pained and undone — that's blisteringly furious. It tunnels into: what about him? Demands: what about me?

     But it's never been about him. It's never been about him. There is no room for it to be about him when his brother is the Hero of Time, when his brother's the one who saved everyone, when his brother's the one who had to sacrifice everything. Kane remembers clasping him in his arms, a quivering hero that needed to not be a hero for a breath's respite — and Kane remembers his tunic ripping out from his grasp, a hero that no longer knows how to be anything else.

     He almost expects the world to rupture. To really end. Shion has been the linchpin to it for his whole life that it feels — now that he's gone and faded into a column of light, more than merely absent — an inevitable outcome. Kane cannot hold his breath against the gasps rippling through his body, but he looks at the fucking Master Sword and dares it to suddenly fall to pieces like smashed glass.

     The sword does not break. The world does not rupture. Because the world has never only just been Shion; Shion's only just been Kane's world.

     His fingers touch the Master Sword's hilt for the first time. Nobody but Shion has been allowed this cursed honour. They wrap around it tight, desperate, pleading as he braces his weight against the plinth and tries to stand. He can't. He can't. He can barely lift his head because he's ten again, his world upended as the Door of Time slid shut behind him — he's ten again, small hands still soft from unpracticed combat pounding on the stone with a reckless ferocity, begging for his brother back. Begging, and begging, and begging.

     The dead must find solace in the noise torn from the remains of his throat, because there are several answering ghastly wails. Or that's just the Temple of Time's marble walls, reflecting his anguish back at him: that's just him, echoing so intensely he half-hopes it'll reverberate across timelines to reach his brother.

     There is a Kane out there who will have his wish granted. There is a Kane out there he should be deliriously happy for.

     There is a Kane out there he loathes with the kind of teeth-sinking resentment he wants the ground to swallow him whole for.

[j4degoyl]

will + his brother jacob

note : This is mostly an exploration of Will's perspective & a deep dive into certain quotes, mainly from the first book. if anything is unclear or you want me to elaborate just let me know!!

Little brother. Will followed him like a puppy, and Jacob protected him in the schoolyard and in the park. Sometimes he even managed to forgive Will that their mother loved him more. (Reckless: The Petrified Flesh, Chapter 1 "Once Upon A Time")

Nothing had ever been able to shake Will’s trust in him, not even all the years during which Will had barely seen him. There had been too many times Jacob had protected him on school yards and playgrounds, Will and the injured birds and stray dogs he found everywhere. And all his friends who, equally gentle and wide eyed, were so easily pushed around by bullies. ‘I get my brother. He is not afraid. Of anything.’ Everybody is afraid of something. But that wasn’t a truth to reveal to one’s little brother. (Reckless: The Petrified Flesh, Chapter 6 "Truth or Lie")

As a younger sibling (at least in my experience) there is usually a pivotal trust in the older one, a sense of safety that comes with the conviction that you have someone who looks out for you & guides you. Will certainly feels that in regards to his older brother Jacob. Jacob has always been there for them, helped them through so many little injuries & nightmares. The two of them seem so vastly different in both character and appearance, with Will being the splitting image of their mother, while Jacob takes after their father & yet they are close. But their bond gets disrupted violently when their father leaves the family (Will is 7 years old at that point). Jacob's way to deal with the grief is running away to a different world. He only occasionally returns with gifts & new fairytale stories for his sibling, though the rift between them is unavoidable. The visits become more sparse & Will is left alone to deal with his own pain & his mother's. & while they shove down their darker emotions, a part of Will keeps clinging to the childish belief that Jacob will come. Is it genuine trust or more out of habit? Will themself can't tell anymore. I'm convinced that him entering the mirrorworld that Jacob keeps disappearing to is also a sign of Will giving up. Their brother won't take them with him, so Will is going alone - leading to the fateful encounter with goyl & Will's skin turning into stone as a result.

Jacob. Even his brother’s name sounded different. How was it possible that he had never noticed how much pain clung to it. Had he forgotten how often he had called that name without receiving an answer? Empty rooms, empty days. He had left them alone, him and their mother, like the man who called himself their father. All those years in that vast empty apartment. Waiting for his brother, who came and left as he pleased, until more and more often he had wondered lying in his bed whether he had just dreamt him up. His fearless older brother, who would come and protect him from the bad dreams that kept him awake so many nights. But he hadn’t come and sometimes Will had lain awake all night waiting for him. (Reckless: The Petrified Flesh, Chapter 18 "Whispering Stone")

While the earlier quote shows Jacob's side & him still being sure of Will's trust, this one shows the other side of it & that Will does actually struggle with the conflicting emotions regarding their brother. Yes, there are all those memories of Jacob being present & protecting him, but those are now displaced by the absence, by the memories of utter loneliness. & due to the transformation this anger is finally coming to the surface & Will is forced to confront it. Yes, the love will always be there, though they can no longer play the part of the younger sibling with complete faith, because that has been shattered. At this point Will snapping is pretty much inevitable.

“Fight it!” he said. “This time I can’t do it for you.” Will got to his feet. His movements gave away his growing strength, and it was a long time ago that he had barely reached up to Jacob’s shoulders. “Do it for me?” he repeated. “When did that last happen? When I was seven? You still believe mom and I had a fairy tale time while you were hunting for glass shoes and Witch combs, don’t you? I guess I was quite good at making you believe we did. But what about her?” There it was again. The anger. An anger Jacob didn’t know in his brother. Or had he just not seen it? (Reckless: The Petrified Flesh, Chapter 21 "His Brother's Keeper")

I think this scene is so important in the development of their relationship, because Jacob is now forced to see the truth and face the guilt he'd always felt about leaving Will behind. Guilt being a stronger motivator than love is a big theme throughout the books and it definitely plays a big role in them trying to find a cure for Will's transformation. Jacob feels very much responsible for what happened & deep down he & Will are both aware of that being a motivation. & their relationship becomes in a way even more complicated after the curse is lifted and Will is turned back into a human. They never wanted Jacob to give his own life & a part of them is also angry about not even getting a choice in the whole matter. Plus Will feels like that big gesture is supposed to absolve his brother of his past mistakes & that just doesn't sit right with him, no matter how much he wishes to go back to what they once had.

For most of the books the brothers are on their separate journeys (which is very important, since they both have different things to work through individually), but a moment I also keep coming back to is their reunion in "The Silver Tracks" (book 4):

He hesitated for an incredulous moment as he realized who was coming toward him. Then he walked up to Jacob and hugged him as tightly and as long as he had as a child. (Reckless: The Silver Tracks, Chapter 2 "Brothers")

Like yes, there's a lot between them, a lot of pain and bitterness. But at the end of the day they still do love each other & Will is so glad to see Jacob alive and well. For the next book I just want them to get a chance to actually talk through everything properly.

[haveyoureadthisfantasybook]

Hi ! I'd like to submit :

The Circle (Sarah B. Elfgren and Mats Strandberg)

The Starless Sea (Erin Morgenstern)

The Night Circus (Erin Morgenstern)

Piranesi (Susannah Clarke)

Reckless (Cornelia Funke)

hello! the Elfgren/Strandberg, Morgenstern, and Clarke have all been queued.

I initially assumed that by Reckless you meant the first book in the series (released under that title in English translation in 2010), but after a bit of confusion while trying to find cover art I realized I should ask to clarify — did you mean to request just the first book in the series (originally released in English as Reckless, later rereleased as The Petrified Flesh), or the entire series?

either is fine, just let me know which you’d prefer!

[goylempire]

I was talking to my mom yesterday, and I mentioned how a lot of people don't really like Hentzau that much....or at all. And she was all "yeah, I can see that."

And I get it. I do. He isn't the nicest character. Especially to the main characters in The Petrified Flesh. And he's not exactly nice to Nerron. Or pretty much anyone who isn't Kami'en or Nesser.

But, and I'm not even being dramatic, that character saved my life.

So, he could literally murder everyone and set the world on fire, and I'd be like "man, that sucks that he did that, but that's my man."

Also, with this fictober thing, y'all may end up with some Hentzau x fem!reader stuff because... not having a name is gonna make future ones a little difficult. So, we're all just gonna have to pretend to love him while I self-indulge. 😂

[mirrorworldmirrorworld]

Alright, how stupid was I to forget about him and not make the connection 🤦🏻‍♀️😂

[nagipops]

hi!! i think the ask box is open right now but what about a fem! reader that was kinda adopted by all the hashiras when she was small, and on her first mission, she gets turned into a demon? and like they're all conflicted but it's kinda sad how the reader wants to die because she was turned :( if you can't write it it's okay! i love ur works sm <3

SWEET NOTHINGS, BITTER ENDINGS PART I.

SUMMARY: in which your overwhelming tenacity leads you to suffer a demonic fate.

WARNINGS: blood, profanity

A/N: thank you darling! this got a bit long so i’ve split it into two parts— the second part will be posted very shortly! link to part two

“(Y/N)!” Giyuu barked. “Get back!”

You steadily held your nichirin blade in front of you with both hands, staring down the towering demon in front of you. Three veiny arms sprouted out from each side of its body, taunting your group as its flaring yellow eyes locked onto yours.

Clutching the handle of your blade tighter, you panted heavily to control your breathing, clenching your teeth. “I’ve got this!” you hollered back, your knuckles turning white.

You heard a clink of metal and the whirling of a sword as a short purple-haired hashira stepped in front of you. “It’s too dangerous.” Her typical honey-sweet voice was darkened with concern and anger. “Please, (Y/N).”

You were shaking with anger, and... envy? All you wanted was to be strong. To bring home a kill on your first mission. To not be seen as a child anymore by the nine pillars who had taken you under your wing when you were just a baby.

I’m not a kid anymore, you wanted to scream. I want to show you what I can do.

“Go,” Giyuu commanded, casting a glance at Shinobu before briefly locking eyes with you. “We’ll handle this.”

Biting your tongue, you glared at the demon for a moment longer before turning on your heel and retreating to the rest of your squad.

“(Y/N)-chan!” Mitsuri wailed, throwing her arms around you. Over her shoulder, you spotted a fuming Obanai glaring daggers at you; whether he was jealous of the pink-haired girl draped over you or angry at your reckless actions, you couldn’t tell. “We were so worried about you!”

“No, we weren’t,” Obanai hissed. “What you did was idiotic and careless. You were putting everyone in danger.”

“Iguro-kun, always so protective!” Mitsuri giggled, patting you on the head before releasing you from her surprisingly tight hold, her expression growing serious. “Tomioka and Shinobu might need our assistance. (Y/N), go find Sanemi and see if he needs help. Iguro, come with me!” She quickly flounced off with a seething Obanai in tow.

Huffing a sigh, you entered the mass of trees behind you to search for the white-haired hashira.

Lofty, swaying pines loomed over you as the sounds of battle crashed throughout the forest. A flock of crows frantically flapped out from the canopy, shooting into the sky as their noisy caws rang through the air. Frigid winds whipped all around you as you hunted down the wind pillar.

A piercing clink of metal, not unlike the noise of a nichirin blade, sounded from your left. Sanemi? Cautiously drawing your sword from its sheath on your hip, you slowly made your way to the source of the noise.

As you neared a small clearing, the sound grew louder and louder, but you still could not locate any hashira or any demons for that matter. You spotted a thick tree to your right and fled over to hide behind it while you scouted out the area.

The clinking continued, and as you listened more closely, it seemed to be coming from...

Above?

Your heart went cold as you realized you didn’t hear any human voices around you.

At all.

You slowly slid your gaze upwards, not daring to move a single muscle.

And there it was. With a rotting arm clutching a chipped, bloodied blade, carving out the remains of a tattered corpse, three feral red eyes piercing through the dark shade and locking onto yours...

A demon.

Fear pooled instantly in your stomach as you felt bile rise in your throat. The putrid stench of rotten flesh and blood nearly made you hurl on the spot, yet your horror kept your nausea at bay.

Were you going to die here?

You felt your terrified breaths grow shallow as the demon above you licked its lips, tossing the corpse down in front of you with a thud.

“N-nemi?” you whispered in fear, praying, praying to the gods that this wasn’t one of your brothers. You quickly studied the corpse and your surroundings, searching for any sign that this bloodied body wasn’t him. You searched for his sword hilt, his white hair, his signature haori, but the darkness of the deep night made any hint or clue futile.

Glaring at the bloodthirsty demon above you, you were petrified with fear. Your heavy feet were locked into place. Your thumping heart nearly burst out of your chest. But you stared the beast down with all your might, slowly reaching your blade out to the corpse in front of you in attempt to retrieve the scrappy remains of what was left of it.

Inch by inch, your gaze unwavering with the demon’s bloodshot eyes, you dragged the body closer and closer to you until it was just within arm’s reach. Steeling yourself, you swiftly grabbed the body and darted away.

You had no time to check whose body you were holding. All you knew was that you had to—

“Kff!”

All of a sudden, your back hit the ground. Hard. With the wind knocked out of your lungs, all you could see was black. You felt your blade slip out of your grasp as your spine seared with red-hot pain. Once you regained your senses, you opened your eyes...

Oh, shit.

Impossibly sharp fangs loomed over you, dripping with foul saliva that oozed onto your heaving chest. Crazed yellow eyes speckled with pumping red veins latched onto yours, a rotting jade-colored head thrashing back and forth as its piercing claws pinned you to the ground. Its breath was the most vile scent you’ve ever smelled in your entire life, reeking of blood and flesh and who knows what else.

And it was just mere inches away from your face.

Stifling a wave of nausea, you swiftly pulled your knees up to your chest and pushed, kicking the demon backwards by its torso as hard as your body would let you.

Darting over to your blade which had fallen to the ground just a few feet away from you, you picked it up and pointed it at the snarling demon who was picking its burly body off of the forest floor.

“You!” you shouted, wiping your slimy face on the sleeve of your uniform. “I’m not scared of you!”

The demon responded with a warbling noise, something that sounded like... laughing?

Your nerves set on fire. Oh, that’s it. You would end this vile monster right here, right now.

“Leaf Breathing, Second Form: Whirlwind of Fronds!” Exhaling sharply through clenched teeth, you felt cool winds start to whip around you, picking up speed as leaves and needles rapidly gravitated towards you as though you were a magnet.

Now!

Growling with fury, you charged at the gremlin with all your might, the swirling flurry of foliage honing in on the center of its chest. Each leaf transformed into sharp, miniature daggers, piercing through the demon’s grayish skin and buying you just enough time to move in close. Wielding your blade with both hands, you raised it above your head before forcefully slicing downwards with a roar, aiming for the neck.

But your opponent was nimble, and it barely dodged its head out of the way, landing you a clean shot down its shoulder to its flank. Shit, the arm can just regenerate itself, you cursed, quickly angling your sword laterally for a slice through the neck as the demon howled in pain.

You slashed your sword as hard as you could, but instead of cutting through soft flesh, you were met with thick, gnarly bone. The demon had raised its other arm in defense, keeping your lethal blade at bay. Struggling to push back against the sturdy bone, you gritted your teeth as you attempted to release your sword from its muscle.

But the demon had already beaten you to it and whipped its hefty arm outwards to shake you off, hurling you across the clearing.

“Hkk!” You landed straight on your back once again with a heavy thud, but you noticed that your blade was still lodged into the creature’s arm. Perfect. Even though single nerve in your body was screaming in pain, even as your limbs trembled as you shakily picked yourself up off the ground, you would never back down from a fight. “Hey, ugly! Let’s finish this!”

The demon howled furiously, clamoring to rip your blade out of its arm.

“Third Form: Drill of Needles!”

Hundreds of thousands of pine needles descended from the midnight sky at your command, whirling into a tight cone while speeding towards the neck of the monster. You heard the earsplitting drilling of flesh and wood followed by a deafening groan and huffed in triumph as the pent-up exhaustion began to release throughout your body.

You nearly hit the ground for the third time when you caught some movement out of the corner of your eye.

Oh, hell no.

There was the same demon, its bright yellow eyes even more furious now, perched high up in a tree.

“B-but...” your mind and vision grew hazy as you noticed the gaping hole in the demon’s chest, with its neck still intact. I missed? You cursed sharply at the sight of your chipped blade thrown carelessly on the ground a great distance away from you.

What do I do? Giyuu, Shinobu, what do I do? Mitsuri? Obanai? Is anyone there?

Your felt your body begin to admit defeat, your legs shaking as they threatened to give out from underneath you, your heaving lungs burning and aching for rest.

The corpse.

Where was the corpse? The same one that got you into this mess?

Sanemi?

You struggled to keep your vision trained on the demon high above as your body started to wobble in exhaustion. “Hey,” you slurred. “Come out here! We’re not— kff! We’re not done yet!”

A snarl sounded from over your shoulder as the familiar stench of rotting flesh flooded your nose once again.

This time, you plummeted to the ground face-first, hearing your nose crack in the process. But your body was too drained for you to properly register the pain.

You were so numb.

Groaning, you slowly rolled onto your back and gazed into the eyes of the demon hovering above you hungrily. Its arm that you had sliced off had already fully recovered, while the other arm choked your neck with an iron grip.

Your vision was nearly white now, your oxygen supply running low as blood trickled out of your neck where the demon’s claw had pierced the skin.

Die. Die. You were going to die. On your first mission. Without a single kill under your belt.

Forcing a smirk onto your face, you squeezed your eyes shut as you endured the pain as best you could. “Hey, now— hck... If there’s anything that Sanemi taught me... it’s that humans... always get the last laugh...” You cracked open one eye, staring straight into the demon’s yellow orbs.

“Noxious... nectar...” you gasped out one last command, watching the bloody pinpricks dotted all around the demon’s greying skin transform into purple specks of poison. The monster thrashed around, violently clutching its head at the pain seeping through its entire body. You watched as your first and last kill take place right in front of you as your vision began to fade.

But not before the demon’s deadly blood dripped into your open wounds.

link to part two.

if you enjoyed this post, likes and reblogs are much appreciated :) feel free to request here, and make sure to read the rules first! have a lovely day everyone <3

[the-wolf-who-kissed-the-moon]

• Lady Dimitrescu x female reader 💋 (featuring the Dimitrescu daughters)

• Warnings: strong horror elements, violence, attempted sexual assault, physical assault, blood, cannibalism, mental abuse.

glass angel, part XII.

Pure evil seemed to seep from beneath each locked door you passed in your rush for salvation. Those tall walls closed in on you, like a gaping mouth with sharp teeth erupting from its edges. Your bare feet were covered in bruises and open wounds; each footfall left an imprint on those expensive floors, which the devil used to pursue you. Childlike cackles haunted you at every corner, deafening and morbid, until you collapsed to your knees and covered your ears from that painful sound.

‘P-please…’

Tear-filled eyes begged you for divine aid, hollowed and leaking blood.

‘please…I don’t want to be punished!’

The maid’s mouth hung open in a silent wail as life was ripped from her throat. You could see her chest convulsing violently until the last beat of her heart – save me!!, she screamed from beyond the grave.

You hid your head in your arms and let out a terrified sob, desperate to escape the ghastly image of the woman whose death you’ve just witnessed. Guilt shackled you to the ground, pinning your tired legs in a merciless grip. You shivered uncontrollably as large teardrops stained your white satin gown, pooling in your warm lap. The sound of footsteps echoed from all directions, and soon, three silhouettes loomed over you, illuminated only by the flickering lights of a few candles. You knew that you were cornered and yet you had no strength left in you to run.

She died because of you;

because you didn’t listen.

“Heeere you are ~ !” A sickening voice sang to you, twisting the knife in your already broken heart. Heavens, how could she be so cheerful after slitting a woman’s throat open? Afraid, you curled into yourself and tried to hide from those horrifying nightmares, but you found yourself pulled to your feet by a ruthless grip in your hair. You recognized the face of your assailant – it was the same heathen who almost successfully drowned you in the bathtub. She was tall and towered over you, much like her sisters. You were naught but a poor lamb in a wolf’s den.

“Give her to me! I want to play!” An even louder voice protested.

You were pushed and tossed around in vicious arms that left you in bruises and nearly broke your frail bones. Feral laughter echoed in your ears, mocking your frailty as a ‘human', threatening to slice your flesh open and peel your skin whilst you’d be still alive.

Threatening to take away your purity.

You were petrified, barely able to stand as they manhandled you, and many times you met the floor, only to be roughly pulled back to your feet again. Their crazed eyes lewdly sought your battered body, their touches invading your intimacy with violent intentions. And when you felt them rip and tear your dress off, you begun to scream for your life.

“Someone help… Help me!!.. HELP! HELP!!!”

Harsh slaps met your tender cheeks and mouth in a reckless attempt to silence you as you were pinned to the floor. But your loud, terrified yells alarmed the entire castle's staff, thankfully, just in time to stop whatever heinous intentions those monstrous women had with you. Maids of all ages and status rushed to your aid, but none were brave enough to actually intervene. A swarm of aggressive insects kept them at way while you were being assaulted –

was this your punishment for running away, and leaving that poor servant girl to die?

You heard the old maid plead and beg for your torture to stop, but only when a booming voice shook the stone walls did the three women abruptly quit. Everything was still for a moment, as if a god had stricken everyone at once. Then, right before your terrified eyes, your attackers morphed into large, buzzing insects and dissipated into the darkness. All you could do was lay there, aghast, in a puddle of your own tears and blood.

Three names resounded in your ears – Daniela, Cassandra, Bela. Three names which would keep you awake for the next several days and nights.

You were taken back to the bedroom, where sympathetic maids tended to your wounds and bathed you carefully. You felt filthy after being touched by those disgusting hands, even though all they managed was to physically assault you. Their intention, however, was enough to make you feel nauseous, to make you repeatedly bathe until your wounds were swollen and sore. Claw marks vividly stood out on your arms, your shoulders and your throat, reminding you of those moments every second.

But most of all, what weighted you down was the death of that innocent maid. You cried uncontrollably, for yourself and for all the young women who must’ve met their end in this God-forsaken place. Daylight was barely peeking from behind the snowy horizon as you knelt beside the royal bed and clutched the bedsheets in your weak, trembling hands. What had you done to be punished like this?

Alcina…

Oh, that cursed woman. How you longed for her. And as if she could feel your desire, she came to you.

A large palm rested tenderly over your shoulder blades, with fingers slowly combing through your beautiful hair. The touch was comforting, almost instantly taking your pain away. Startled, you turned to look; her enthralling gaze was upon you, looming and yet pulling you in. In a moment you had your arms around her neck, greedily breathing in her perfume as you wept into her soft chest. She embraced your lithe body, holding you as if you were but a feather, small and delicate.

That cursed woman.

Days ago you wanted nothing more than to confront her, to stomp out of her house, and now – now you couldn’t bear a moment without her. Your heart raced as she enveloped you in the dark veil of her vampiric charms. She could’ve been Lucifer incarnate and you’d still worship her more than you piously loved your God.

“There there…”

She murmured, peeling away the last layer of your sanity. You refused to move your head from the comfort of her chest, even as she stood to her magnificent height and lifted you in her arms, far above the ground. Wherever she’d take you, you’d gladly go. Anything as long as you were with her; anything as long as you weren’t alone.

-          To be continued…

* part XIII.

[siriusmydeer]

hey bestie, how about fluff prompt 10 with ron or harry?😁😁😁

the spiral of weather

ron weasley x reader

summary: you and ron share a rain kiss.

word count: 1.7k

warnings: self doubt, insecurity, swearing, weird teenager awkwardness, swearing, kissing, mentions of being sick

a/n: i hate this, thank u isa for inspo without u i would be crying rn, u can so tell this is rons pov by the amount of times i used the word ‘bloody’

ron he had a problem— not a problem, one might say. instead he had a nagging pronouncement that he couldn’t dismiss no matter how much he desired to do so in that halfwitted mind of his.

he had never felt the emotional wave of burn or passion in his lifetime as a teenager, that was till his eyes were strictly met with yours for the very first time. you’d think an eleven year old could possibly decipher feelings of yearning and endearment but, here we are years later.

books, movies, and even life normally if you were someones best friend the relation between the two parties happened to remain completely platonic. unless you were the cobalt-eyed, red-headed boy who happen to be the youngest son of the weasley family.

then that is in fact, not the case.

across the library you were irritatingly endeavouring cormac mclaggen with charms, attempting to explain how to flick your wand in the correct direction of a cheering charm. he took it upon himself to grab your hand and guide your hands together in the motion of his hand holding your hand, that was grasped on the wand.

classic bloody flirt.

ron was coerced persuaded, by hermione to finally catch up on the arithmancy homework that had been buried beneath his four poster messy bed stuffed in a sweaty quidditch bag. whilst hermione was attempting to explain the newest lesson from the class that ron could not be less bothered with.

his gaze could almost set a ring of fire into cormacs left sleeve on how strict his gaze was. the weather out earlier was ideally sunny, idyllic to hang out with your friends outside and possibly for a swim in the black lake. that was rons plan to pose towards you, maybe harry and hermione as well; but mostly you.

now the sky had ombré shades of washed-out dreary grey and depressing indigo. if the weather channel had existed in wizard culture it definitely would’ve called for overcast and a high percentage of downpour.

but when it came to romance hermione could be a bit numb in the head and decided to whisk him away from you, giving yourself a sweet opportunity for a free day that cormac just swooped right in an took it to his bloody advantage.

he was contemplating— he was contemplating so hard his brain could blow to bits if was possible. i mean he was a wizard after all, what wasn’t possible?

hermione clapped her smooth hands in front of his grimaced face, paying almost no mind to her peers that had glared in her direction from the disruption of noise.

“bloody hell, ‘mione! be anymore subtle would you?” rolling his eyes in the direction of the brunette who offered a ‘hermione scowl’ as ron and harry would say, in response.

“be anymore subtle would you?” she mocked. “you look like your about to go over there and snap his neck for godric’s sake! just talk to her, your so oblivious ronald.” she chastised, completely aware of his feelings towards you.

hermione knew? how would she know? who else knew... did you know? was he to obvious? should he have made a move? his brain could’ve been moving atleast a billion miles a minute on his overwhelming questions surrounding your possible reviprocations of feelings.

he looked at the smirking brunette for a moment, extremely bewildered but her bluntness. he raised a scarlet-brow in thought; if he was feeling gryffindor, reckless and impulsive or ron, some-what sensible and hidden.

he was a gryffindor after all.

getting up from his sear, the chair making a a smell reverberate at the sudden friction between the oak-wood floor and the cherry-coloured chair. clacking his shoes against said-oak floor creating a beeline directly to your sat figure with mclaggen.

your brows creased at the noise, diverting your eyes around the library and seeing the towering redhead walking directly over to you. your eyes widened for a moment, your (e/c) irises perfectly clear for viewing.

before you could even stutter out a word he got a grasp on your forearm, rapidly pulling you out of the library and into the somber courtyard. “merlin, christ, ron! give a girl a damn warning first, nearly gave me a heart attack!” your breath extremely rigid at his swift pace when guiding you away from peering eyes of both of your schoolmates.

“do you like mclaggen?” his voice was sputtered, almost like he said the question before he could even muster it as a thought.

if you’re eyes were wide before, now they looked like they were bulging straight from your eye sockets. “are you drunk? high? under the influence? potioned—“

“answer the question!”

“absolutely not, i would rather have offed myself than have feelings for someone else. plus i’m interested in someone else...” you trailed off in sentence, accidentally letting it slip that you in fact fancy someone.

paying no mind to the fact that you basically had confessed your feelings he nodded his head in a forward direction, offering a walk. you shrugged once before keeping in step with him around the courtyard.

“lavender brown, hmm...?” you offered, attempting to create a conversation with him; possibly making it more awkward.

why would he flip if you liked mclaggen? he was... alright looking, played quidditch, and an alright student. i mean there’s no big deal or anything of a sort.

“oh no, i fancy—“ drop.

oh.

oh?

drop.

it was raining.

“we should probably—“

“err, yeah....”

both of you peering up at the gloom sky above, small raindrops quickly pattering down on the both of you. you sped up your pace as well as ron attempting to get shelter in the downpour that was rapidly approaching as the both of you.

the continuous patter on the ground cause a few absent puddles into curvature of the grass surrounding the castle, causing small muddy hollow patch right beneath your left foot.

“oh!—“ you suddenly spoke, grabbing into the nearest surface your hand could grapple at; rons ashen coloured sweater.

his hands caught onto the curvature of your torso, holding you into a dip-position. one of your hands had grasped onto his bicep and the other on the bend of his muscular shoulder.

“well that was... quick?” clearing your throat awkwardly, looking into the sheen-cobalt irises of your best friend.

“i fancy you.” he spoke briskly, nonchalantly telling you how for the past five years he has been irrevocably besotted with you and essentially how he would die without not mowing if you reciprocated those feelings.

that was a bit melodramatic, but you understand the idea.

“you fan— wow that was fast, i didn’t even get a moment to like— think, maybe?”

oh my god, are you an idiot? i mean, who responded like that, like ever? the boy you had single handedly, pined for just admitted that and you say, ‘wow that was fast.’

he madly spun you onto your feet, both of you completely drenched from the recurrent downpour looking upon both teenagers. clothes anxiously sticking to your skin, and attempting to maneuver you hair behind your face.

“ron, why’d you— why would you want someone like me? i mean have you seen yourself, compared to me? ‘m just— ‘m not good enough.” you trailed between sentences, panting like you were out of immense breath but only overwhelmed trying to differentiate your thoughts.

maybe ron had drank to much butter beer, maybe he had an epiphany, but he was truly not taking no for an answer today and did all the work himself. he clasped both of your cheeks in his freckled palms, forcing your eyesight into his stare.

“have you gone absolutely mad? what do you mean, ‘i’m not good enough.’ i mean you’re one of the smartest people i know! and you’re always helping people, you don’t slap me across the face when i’m stupid most— stupid all the time! i mean i’m a bloody git and you still put up with me, i truly don’t know how, but you do! and y’know you make me want to be a better person and all that bloody crap, but y/n, you are worth it! so don’t tell me you’re not.”

the boy huffed in one sentence, trying to prove your worthiness not only to you but what was standing right in-front of you. not only just ron, but the way this would effect your relationship. after all that, even if you rejected him for his sake, the friendship would never be the same. could you take a risk? put it all on the table, for the first time in your life and possibly make something worth it?

you stood there frozen, but your eyes moved erratically to study his face. his pale ivory flesh, slightly down-turned pointy chin, full salmon-coloured lips. the study could go on, how you memorized every micro-detail of the boys face.

normally the scarlet-haired boy would’ve been the one in doubt; over himself, his peers, his schoolmates, his friends, and most-likely his family. but right now he didn’t have one single doubt in his mind, his only thought was wanting you.

you may not have been godric gryffindor himself, but you were impulsive on decisions, even the ones that you were petrified to make. so you kissed the boy, slotting his slightly chapped lips with your smooth strawberry tasting ones.

feeling the new and odd comforting taste of pumpkin juice, and spearmint bleed onto the curvature of your tastebuds. one of his hands taking a grasp at your hip, kissing you with all the vitality he had left. feeling the blearily daze of adrenaline scamper right through his veins, going immediately to his head.

he was completely, and hopelessly in love with you. the amount of intimacy he felt kissing you beneath a brewing storm was unmatched to anything or anyone else.

you pulled away for a moment, seeing how his lips tried to reattach to yours in such a quick paced moment. you snickered for a moment, the dread leaving your system second by second.

wanting to feel the eternal warmth and happiness the boy granted you, were you still a bit unsure, yes. but ron would spend his last dying breath proving himself to you.

“if we stay kissing in the rain, one of us will catch a cold.” your whisper was barely coherent over the boys pants, and the repetitive rain patter that beveled from the sky.

“i’ll take care of you.” he offered with a slanted smile, his vision bleary from admiration.

“‘course you will.”

of course he will.

taglist: @ronbrokemyheart @georgeswh0re @amourtentiaa @famdomhideout @hufflepogue

[tom-riddle-haunts-me]

Not a new chapter but a mini fic I felt like writing. I'm a little stuck with the "main story", so I hope you'll enjoy this little drabble. I'm warning you, this shit gets sad and ugly.

Abigail 🐍✨

-------------------------------------

Tw: angst, gore, blood

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Reader

-------------------------------------

It Hurts

"Who are you?"

"What do you mean, Y/n? It's me, I'm... I'm Tom"

"I... I don't know you"

Tom stepped back. Locking eyes with you had never felt so terrifyingly unreal to him.

"Y/n..."

Why you? Anyone. Fate could've taken anyone away from him, but you?

"Oh, Mr Riddle!"

Dumbledore. He would've helped him.

"Professor! Y/n is actin-"

"-our biggest disappointment."

Another step back.

"Who is this, Professor?"

Your voice echoed heavily in his ears, crawling up to his brain and piercing through it like a long blade. A thin, cold metal string slowly lacerating his cerebral matter, a wicked torture that left behind nothing but an even colder nothingness and blood, too much blood. Tom could feel the thick crimson fluid run down his neck, anxiety taking hold of the sticky substance and guiding its goopy drips around his own throat, suffocating the tired wizard.

"Y/n, it's me, IT'S ME."

"Who are you?"

The sound that somehow managed to reach Tom was muffled and eerily calm, almost lifeless. It wasn't your voice. The figure standing in front of him, that was you, he knew it, but he was hearing something else rather than your voice. It was painful listening to such an abomination.

Grotesque. Putrid. Writhing. Cruel words pooling around him.

Far, far away.

"Who are you? Are you okay? You look pale"

As your hand reached his face, Tom couldn't bring himself to melt into your touch as he habitually would. Couldn't you see the blood?

"He's about to die, Y/n."

"Oh... Alone? Like this? I'm sorry"

"Y/n I'm... I'm not dying"

As the teacher withdrew your hand from his face, panic tightened the pressure around his neck. Oxygen was struggling to flow through his lungs, his organs protesting as they were starting to feel the lack of air.

It hurt.

"Can we save him?"

"Yes, but we won't"

"Okay"

Words were failing the usually composed wizard, hopelessly stuck in his guts. His eyes were fixated on his dearest friend, the only person in the entire world who could make him feel something else rather than just anger and bitterness. His loneliness felt a little warmer with her, his thirst for power a little less cruel, his fears a little more bearable. Sitting under their dead tree by the Black Lake was something that brought comfort to him in times of distress, still, it was hard to believe the ones staring at him were those same eyes, the e/c gems that he got used to see smile every time they were to meet with his. In the mean time, your hugs were crumbling into mere memories in the back of his mind and Tom felt powerless for the first time since forever. Now the orphanage would be cold and desolate again, silence would come back to fill his empty room and days.

He needed to stop. Stop thinking, feeling. He hated that. He hated you. He was embarrassed with himself for he shouldn't have perceived such stupid things.

His pale hand traveled to his petrified face.

Tears.

Rotten fury exploded in his stomach like an erupting volcano, resulting in an aberrant sickness disturbing his already devastated self. Now nothing had to matter, not anymore. Not your giggles, not you nervously playing with your hair. What would happen to your smile, the one you had promised was only his, had to be none of his business. Letting it go should've been easy, he knew far too well how to block out anything useless to his goal. His exhausted mind slipped to your now blank eyes, your toneless voice.

You body, barely covered by the white dress you were wearing, looked consumed by a melancholy he couldn't define, deep buried in your eyes, flat and washed-up as much as the pale fabric flowing around you.

His chest stung.

"Tom"

Dumbledore's skinny hand found its way to your shoulder, like a caring parent, yet it had an ugly something in it.

Tom thought about your tone, your real one. He thought about the times it had reassured him, soothed his nerves down. That one time it had slightly raised with boldness to defend him from Dumbledore himself. Your promises. They flowed back like a swollen river. The darkness in your eyes when you declared that you were to come for whoever ever dared to wrong him, now gone. How, how he would've liked to tell you about your beauty. Harmless to sight, dangerous to the reckless. Just like a rose.

His rose.

Twisted sparkles in your eyes, shadows that still felt warm and pure. Innocence.

Horror.

Terror drowned his heart, need overwhelming his confused mind.

Where were you?

Uncertainty danced under his skin.

Not enough. Was he? Evil could never bloom into a rose. Its fruits would rot and fall into darkness, dragging down every little drop of light they'd ever reach.

The hand that was touching you, he hated that. And now, now it was rotting, the meat melting right onto your oblivious self.

Bones.

"Yes, Y/n?"

His tears kept on running dow his face, the skin under the salty guilty stinging while stretching into the smallest, surrendered smile.

You had no idea who he was, didn't you?

Time slowed down in the most excruciating way right before Dumbledore's skin began to shed off of him like a used robe. Dirty, now useless, distressed.

Large wings spread through the thick air of the Dark Forest, Lady Death herself raising up behind Y/n, her delicate face was now painted with a content smile and peaceful tears, mimicking his own.

"It hurts"

Before Tom's mind could gave birth to any sort of though, the Hooded Dame slid back, his beloved rose obnoxiously secured to Her chest in a possessive way. And at the same time they backed away, the ground faded unhurried into nothingness. An abyss was now opening its jaws under Y/n's beaten body, and it started to swallow her whole in slow-motion.

Tom stood frozen, the cruelty of his condition giving him all the time in the universe to process Y/n's flesh breaking into bloody, gruesome chunks, her organs easily finding their way out of her abdomen, down, into the merciless void with a dreadful, wet moan.

Tom threw himself in the emptiness of your end, reaching for the parts of what his delirious mind hoped could be sewed up together again. Was is it losing you that drove him crazy?

Or did the seed of madness just finally bloom in his now blood covered hands?

When did they got stained with crimson?

"Why didn't you save me, Tom?"

"Tom?"

"Tom"

"Tom!"

<TOM!>

The Slytherin's dark eyes shot open only to find e/c ones stare right back at them, red and swollen by tears still freshly oozing down s/c skin.

<What the FUCK, Tom! I couldn't wake you up!>

You felt so broken to his ears. So stressed to his eyes. As your finally sweet tone caressed his hearing again, Tom still found it difficult to move. Reality was just starting to settle in, his brain still processing the gruesome images that'll be now forever carved in his mind. You were screaming at him, but he couldn't hear you.

He looked to the left.

His diary.

Tom was in his dorm room, again, his soulmate straddling him in the most innocent way.

Crying, shaking.

Were you angry at him?

<Malfoy came running in the common room and he was in panic and then I was in panic cause he told me that you wouldn't wake up and kept on screaming so I dashed here and I panicked again and what the fuck Tom, bloody hell I- >

Tom did not have sufficient energies to keep his cold act up. Time was not wasted, and his arms laced around you as fast as possible, bringing you as close to his chest as they could. He'd probably crush your bones at a certain point, still he knew none of you cared, not when you were squeezing him the same way.

<Don't you dare do it again, Riddle. You scared the life out of me.>

He was not aware of his muscles being that tense until that very moment. The second your skin collapsed into his, everything was swept away, like smoke in thin air. The room was empty, the clock on its wall claiming the dead of the night to be the time your scene was playing.

<Malfoy went to Black and Evergreen's room>

You didn't really need to say more. Your body just slipped on the mattress, right beside Tom, letting enough space for his worn out frame to curl up to it. Your fingers began to play with his locks, actually unusually sweaty and almost dry, nothing like his usually silky ones. You'd swear you could feel his shattered mind under your fingertips, if only it was possible you'd seek for its scars and heal them one by one.

If only it was possible.

<Y/n?>

Tom's breath slowed down gradually, just like his heart rate, lulled by the quiet tone you were humming.

<Yes, Tom?>

The clock was almost too loud, you were afraid its ticketing would disturb him. Was keep staring at it enough to silence the noise?

Drowsy murmurs left the young wizard's lips, falling in your lap like dead petals but failing to reach up to your ears.

<Come again?>

You bent over, just a little, at least enough to trace out his confused mutters. It reminded you of your days at the orphanage, when you both were too young and scared. It brought your mind back when Tom used to tell you his secrets, when you were his one and only. When he was still just Tom.

<What... What does it feel to jump into the void?>

H/c hair gently fell over your shoulders as your head found rest on the wall.

Air was cold against your now wet cheeks.

"Can we save him?"

"Yes, but we won't"

The steady rhythm of Tom's chest raising up and down told you he was finally long gone into a gentle slumber, safe from himself.

<It hurts>

[whump-a-la-mode]

Um hi, I don't normally send prompts but I had an idea, so…anyway, basically the prompt is a villain's young sidekick who shows up at the villain's doorstep in the middle of the night (villain is a nice person; more unlawful than evil, idk) really injured, and when the villain patches them up, they end up accidentally revealing that they live with an abusive family? Idk, sorry if this is a weird idea.

With ideas as good as this one, you should send prompts more often ^^ It's not weird at all, I absolutely love this. I tried really hard on this one, so I really hope you enjoy!

Please note that this work contains descriptions of the aftermath of physical child abuse. If this would upset or distress you, please avoid reading this work.

CW//Child abuse, physical child abuse, verbal child abuse, being called a 'freak', death of a spouse, blood, bacteria (in a scientific setting)

Villain had never been much of a fan of children.

They wouldn't exactly describe it as a dislike. Kids were... fine. Annoying on occasion, and endlessly confusing with their new trends and habits, but fine. Those who brought them into the world and raised them provided a precious service, but their talents were far more useful elsewhere.

They squinted their eye, the eye pressed up against the lens of their microscope. With a tiny twist of a knob, the image below focused, displaying in full detail a million squirming lifeforms.

The culture was developing as expected. They removed the slide and returned the bacterial colony to its petri dish.

They'd thought about having a family, when they were young. A juvenile, clueless thought, but a thought nonetheless. There was something that warmed them about the concept of a home that was never empty.

Nowadays, they shared their home with no one but the bacteria, and they weren't exactly the best conversationalists.

Villain moved across their lab, soft socks muffling the thudding of their feet on the tile. With practiced accuracy, they returned the petri dish back to its tray, where it belonged.

They couldn't help but glancing just to the right. To the rabbit cage, sitting empty as it was. The light above it was still glowing bright, illuminating the stale hay below, and the toilet paper roll where the cage's inhabitant's teeth had once gnawed.

Now, the habitat sat empty.

They couldn't bring themself to clean it out. That was Spouse-

That was Spouse's job.

Villain bit their lip, taking another petri dish from the tray and returning to their microscope.

They growled and swatted at the thoughts that fought to enter their brain, but it was no use. No weapon could have fended them off.

Because... Because...

Because Spouse had loved kids.

They had always talked about the concept in dreamy, wistful tones. The idea of having a family, of creating something together that wasn't borne of chemicals in a lab. And Villain had agreed. But it was always simply a plan. Something that would be done sometime in the future. When the world wasn't so hectic. When there wasn't work to be done. When...

Villain bit their tongue hard enough to draw blood, gazing as intensely through the microscope's lens as they could manage.

Now that Spouse was gone, the laughter of children would never light the dreary home. There would always be a spare bedroom.

Their home would always be empty.

Maybe that was why they had taken Sidekick in.

It was something they'd wondered so often, not that they'd ever admit it to the teen they had taken under their wing. The relationship had started so uneventfully-- a powered kid with just enough spunk and reckless abandon to find their way into the world of heroes and villains.

At first, Villain hadn't even thought of them as a sidekick. They were just a kid that they trained in their free time. A future ally who needed someone to show them the ropes.

Then, they'd started coming with them on missions.

And fighting at their side.

And now, Villain couldn't help wondering, whenever they laid in their large, empty bed, what Spouse would have thought of their protege. If they were still around, then Sidekick's 16th birthday cake wouldn't have been so shitty. But, hey, no one could say that Villain hadn't tried.

Damn, did they miss that kid. Even when they called them a dinosaur and laughed when they didn't know what Tock-Tic was, or whatever they'd said. They'd been gone almost a whole week, now.

It wasn't the first time, of course. No teen had the time to be a full-time sidekick. They had their own life. They needed to go to school and hang out with their friends and be a kid. And do whatever kids did on Tock-Tik. Villain was certain that they would come back when they were able.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

By the time the knock on the door came, Villain was almost done with their inspection of the bacteria colonies. Their tired eyes flitted to the clock on the wall: Three in the morning. Had it been that long?

And who the hell was at their door at three in the morning?

The knock sounded again, yet, this time, it was distinct. Three sharp taps, then a fourth two seconds later.

Sidekick's knock. The one they'd practiced, to notify Villain when they arrived. But... They looked at the clock again. Their eyes had not deceived them. It was the dead of night. The kid should have been asleep hours ago!

Without care, they tossed down the petri dish in their hands on the nearest countertop, not so much as bothering to shrug off their lab coat as they hurried to the front door. They expected to hear the knock again-- the kid was always so impatient-- but there was no such noise. Only heavy, shallow breathing.

Other villains would have bemoaned their recklessness, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that their kid was here.

Villain flung open the window. Sidekick leapt back.

Sidekick...

They stood in the doorway a moment, liquid shock and terror battling for dominance within their bones. When they finally recovered, they spoke no words, only bustled their protege through the door and locked it behind. The kid stumbled all the way to the lab's exam table, which Villain practically threw them upon.

The terror in their bones had settled firmly in their stomach.

"What in the world happened to you?"

It was with the gaze of a parent rather than a doctor that they scanned the kid from head to toe.

The sheer volume of blood made it difficult to pinpoint their wounds. Yet, it was clear to see that the side of their head was still pumping scarlet, and the crimson dribbling down their leg was already dripping onto the pristine lab floor.

Villain gulped. The idea of taking their eyes of the kid for a split second was petrifying, but they relented, rushing off to returning a moment later with handfuls of rags. They shoved one into the kids hands.

"Hold this to the wound on your head, as tight as you can. I'll clean off your leg."

Even with trembling hands, the kid obliged as Villain knelt down , drenching rag after rag in blood until the leg was finally clear. At the very least, the wound upon their knee seemed to have stopped weeping scarlet. It was a messy thing, blunt trauma with enough force behind it to tear straight through the skin. The villain's practiced fingers tied a tight wrapping of gauze around the joint, standing to their feet.

Blood had seeped between Sidekick's fingers, but it seemed to have begun to dry. The head wound had stopped bleeding.

"Good." Villain pried the soaked rag from the kid's hands, tossing it aside. They could clean up later. "Where else?"

Sidekick averted their gaze, shoulders winding up taut.

"You need to tell me where you were hurt. Please."

After a few moments of trembling like a leaf, the kid gestured to their side.

"Okay. Can you take your shirt off for me, please? I need to get that cleaned."

"Okay..." The kid whimpered, obliging. Villain tossed aside the bloodied garment with little care, adding it to the pile of dirtied fabric.

Their torso...

The wound on their side, just above the hip, did not bleed nearly as bad as the other two. But...

With the sheer amount of bruises littering their flesh, Sidekick's skin may as well have been blue.

Villain took a clean rag, pressing it to their side.

"Who." They spat. "Who did this?"

Their mind began to run with such speed that, had it been a computer, its fans would have been on overdrive. What heroes were active around Sidekick's neighborhood? A few came to mind, at least one or two that were far enough outside the law that they wouldn't have put much thought into doing this to a kid.

But Sidekick did not speak, instead staring at their own shoes, dangling off the exam table.

When the hip wound was dried and wrapped, Villain whirled around, grabbing their phone and flicking to the contacts page. Which of their fellow villains was near the kid's home? They could think of at least a couple. Even if they were little more than acquaintances, someone who would hurt a kid was the common enemy of all.

"I need a name, kiddo. A name. Was it Viper? Sunstorm? The Twilight Reaper? I have friends, lots of friends. We can make them regret this."

No reply. Villain bit their lip, selecting a contact, moving their finger towards the call button-

"Wait!"

The kid at last cried.

"It wasn't a hero. My dad's not a-"

Villain whirled around.

"Your dad?"

Sidekick flushed.

"U- um, no, I, um-"

"Did your father do this?" They stormed to the exam room where the kid sat. "All of this?"

"I- I-" Their voice was choked by tears, carving down their scarlet-stained face.

Villain placed their hands on the kid's shoulders, turning their gaze towards them.

"Please. Please, kid."

The falling tears turned to full-on sobs.

"H- He said I was a- a freak!" They wailed. "I was training, I- You said I needed to practice my flying, in bird form. And I was practicing, and I didn't think anyone else was home, and then he walked in and-"

A sob broke their voice.

"They told me never to use my powers. He doesn't know that I- I stopped taking the pills. The ones that suppress them. And he got m- mad, and, and-"

"It's okay, it's okay."

Villain threw their arms around their child, embracing them while taking care not to disturb their wounds.

"I didn't know where else to go." Sidekick's words were strangled. "I'm sorry, but I didn't want to go back home and..."

"No, no." They tightened the embrace. "No. You don't have to go back, never. Not if you don't want to."

They broke off the hug, picking their phone up again once more.

"Talon has kids your age, she would take you in. Alya, too. Swan Dancer is a teacher..."

"Um." Sidekick seemed to have run out of tears, leaving them with only a broken, low voice. "I... That's all fine. But, um, I thought you mentioned having a spare room?"

Despite their parental terror, Villain let their face break into the smallest smile.

Spouse's room.

In a way, maybe they would get to meet Sidekick, after all.

[aprilsrant]

Start Over | Oliver Wood x Slytherin!Fem!Reader.

SUMMARY: (Y/N) has anger issues and a bad reputation that follows. Oliver seems to be the only one who hasn’t been on the receiving end of her outbursts and there might be a hidden reason for it.

WORD COUNT: 2,3k.

WARNINGS: Marcus Flint being an idiot and a missoginy brat, it’s kind of angsty towards the end. Maybe a curse word or two. There is a fight and a duel too. (If I miss any, let me know!)

REQUEST: can’t find it, but yes, this was requested.

A/N: This took me so long and I’m so sorry, but for some reason I couldn’t get this finished. Hope you enjoy it! Like, reblog or leave comment if you like, feedback is always appreciated!!

Also, I made the reader have a holly wand because details are important sometimes.

English is not my first language, there could be mistakes!

Gif is not mine!!

MASTERLIST.

For whatever stupid, possibly misogynist, reason, Marcus Flint never allowed girls to tryout for the Slytherin Quidditch Team, not even when he, and everyone else present, knew of their talent and how much it would benefit them. Now more than ever, with that Harry Potter kid catching every single Snitch flying round him, Flint’s team needed new members. And members that actually knew how to play and not those who would pay their way in. 

Once again, (Y/N) was waiting in the stands for the Slytherin Captain and the whole group attempting to grab themselves a spot. Arriving before them gave her an “advantage” and that was not being completely disregarded the minute Flint saw her in the midst of the line up following him like some kind of lost puppys. 

With nothing else to do than just stand round the edge of the Quidditch Pitch, (Y/N) looked up and watched as a few Gryffindors threw the Quaffle towards one of the three hoops. She didn’t even know why people kept trying out to be a Chaser in Wood’s team when the current three were the best they had. And they were all women. Who would have thought that girls could play that well, right? 

(Y/N) didn’t know why she continued to insist when she was aware that Flint would never let her be on the team. Maybe because it was her last year, or because she had a tiny spark of hope inside of her that something, pretty much a miracle, would happen and the boy’d change his mind, finally acknowledging that (Y/N) was better than the two Slytherin beaters together. 

“What are you doing here, (Y/L/N)?,” the voice of the Slytherin Captain brought her back from the train of thoughts. Glancing towards the Pitch, she realised that it was empty, the only Gryffindor there was Oliver Wood, seating in the opposite set of stands with a notebook and a pencil in his hand. Upon seeing Flint and the trail of Slytherins behind him, he rolled his eyes and quickly left his spot, steps faltering after hearing Marcus’s irritated tone. “I told you, multiple times may I remind you, that I don’t want girls in my team, and especially not those who want to be beaters.”

This was something she saw coming, of course, and she’d tried to assume it for the last couple of days every time the image of being rejected, again, would pop into her head, replaying the times were she had actually been rejected as if her own mind was trying to torture her.

She had also seen the other part coming, and she had tried to stop it. But in her defense, when Professor Snape interrogated her an hour later, Marcus Flint kind of deserved it. 

“Why not, Flint? I’ve been trying to get in the team ever since you became Captain and decided I wasn’t good enough after our fourth year,” (Y/N) had said, voice raising after more words left her mouth. With her broomstick in hand, she stepped down the stands and marched towards him. 

“You said it yourself, (Y/N), you weren’t, and still aren’t, good enough,” Marcus responded while shrugging his shoulders arrogantly and walking past her. 

“I was good enough, you prick, I was better than just good enough and you fucking know it.” All of the group that had gathered to try out turned their heads in her direction when she started to scream, whispers and shared glances expectant of the outcome of the argument. Pushing a third year in front of her out of her way, she kept walking, stopping only after she was face to face with Marcus. “And how can you be so sure I’m not adequate? You haven’t even let me fly around the Pitch for the last two years.”

Ignoring her, Flint commanded the two boys carrying the box full of equipment to leave it on the floor and start to warm up. 

“Can you… Can you, please, let me try this one time?,” (Y/N) whispered, burying her pride and dignity in the same coffin after the word please escaped from her mouth. 

“Now you’re begging, you are pathetic, (Y/L/N), and they say you’re supposed to be dangerous” the boy exclaimed, clearly enjoying seeing her so desperate. He walked towards her, his taller figure towering over the girl. “Let me tell you something. Both of us were on the team, right now one is the Captain and the other one… Well, I’m pretty sure you know your exact position in this whole thing. And that’s why you are not in my place, because you are not good enough.”

Her teeth, jaw and fists clenched at the same time, the rest of her body shaking slightly, lighting up on fire with every sentence Marcus sneered at her. 

From a young age she had people question her, her interests and her decisions, even her place in the House of ambition, many believing the girl to be “too soft” at first. That had changed after the start of her second year. If they wanted her to be violent, rash and reckless, that’s what they got. Now, every time her name was mentioned around Hogwarts, whispers and rumours would be shortly behind. Most of the things people said about her were incorrect, not even close to the truth, but she accepted them anyways. She took each one of the rumours and turned them into her truth.

For some (Y/N) (Y/L/N) was on the right path to become a Dark Witch, a pureblood longing to take on Lord Voldemort’s place and rule over the Wizarding World, torturing muggleborns and blood traitors. To others, she was the Devil’s offspring in the flesh, waiting for the right moment to raise the forces of hell upon Hogwarts. And they were the ones speaking of her mental state while coming up with ridiculous theories. Nonetheless, she had to admit it was a new kind of entertainment seeing the first years getting warned about her, bombarding them with false information and stupid allegations. But the laughs she would have from it on her own company didn’t erase the loneliness and the solemn feeling of having no one. 

Like the symbol of her house, (Y/N) was a creature of instinct. And like what people murmured about her, (Y/N) was also a creature of violence.

As only one can imagine, no one was shocked from the response Marcus Flint got. Not in words, or insults, which were regular, but in the form of a fist connecting with his cheek (although she had intended to hit the nose). 

One would think anger makes people a better fighter, all that pent up rage coming from nowhere and lashing out against your opponent it’s more damaging to you than the person you are fighting. Now, this was not (Y/N)’s first fist fight but that didn’t mean she knew what she was doing. Every time she had punched someone it had happened in the midst of uncontrollable wrath growing, attaching itself to the girl’s body, controlling her limbs, numbing her mind.

For a moment she closes her eyes, one thought in her mind, vanishing as quickly as it appeared, — I did it. Again —. When (Y/N) opens them, she notices the change of scenario, or positions. She is no longer standing on her feet, she is several metres away from her housemate, the back of her body on the receiving end of the harsh floor; the loud beating of her heart thundering in her ears, almost giving her a headache, swallowing the spell Flint had used on her. 

After rising from the grass, (Y/N) marches towards him, holly wand in her hand shooting hexes, barely missing its target. She’s about to whisper the Stunning Spell when someone from behind grabs her wrist, holding her back from trying to curse Marcus, whose responses are getting slower and scarcely protecting him. An arm sneaks around (Y/N)’s figure, distancing her from the Slytherin Quidditch Captain. 

Her elbow moves almost instinctively and hits the person behind her in the stomach, the arm around her waist retreating fast enough for (Y/N) to cast a protection charm and petrify Marcus Flint. 

Turning around, she sees none other than Oliver Wood, bending over his stomach with a hand clenching his right knee and gasping for air.

“What the bloody hell was that, Wood?”

“I was trying to help you!,” he manages to say while looking up at her.

“Help me? You were trying to stop me, you twat.”

“Exactly!,” Oliver shouts, making her move backwards, “Do you want to get yourself expelled, (Y/L/N)? Because if that’s what you want, you are doing an excellent job.”

She should have hexed him right there, no one else was on the Quidditch Pitch with them, except the handful of Slytherins and those weren’t the snitching types, but she didn't, surprising herself and everyone else watching them.

||| 

Later that night, after finishing the horrendous detention Snape had put her in —reorganizing his entire cabinet claimed by suspicious ingredients and potions with terrible smells, making the small space smell like rotten eggs and the Gryffindor Quidditch robes after a rough match—, looking at the moon and the landscape surrounding Hogwarts from the Astronomy Tower, she thought about the reasons to why she hadn’t raised her wand, or fist, to face Oliver. 

He wasn’t special. Yes, he was a great wizard, with problems in Potions and History of Magic, still quite good at Defensive spells but not that good to beat her if she was fully focused, he would be easy to defeat especially after Quidditch tryouts. So, why? Why did she just walk away?

“I knew I could find you here.”

(Y/N) turned around, quickly taking hold of her holly wand and raising it towards the tower’s entrance. The thundering in her chest calming, her breathing going back to its normal pace when she realised it wasn’t Sirius Black, the murderer that had escaped Azkaban and was said to have roamed through the castle. 

“What are you doing here, Oliver?”, she addressed him once the moonlight illuminated his tall figure.

“I wanted to apologise,” the boy admitted, his voice faltered just like his approach, as if he was trying to make peace with a beast; as if he was telling a snake that his feet would not come close to its head, “for what I said earlier. It wasn’t fair because I know how you…”

“How I what? How I tend to react when I’m angry?,” (Y/N) interrupted, the hand holding her wand still facing Oliver, “don’t try to act like you know me.”

“But I used to,” he murmured.

Neither of them said anything, both of their minds desperately trying to find the right words, one to plead for forgiveness once again and the other to accept it if the plea ever escaped his mouth.

The distant sound of creatures soaring through the night sky and the flip of their wings was all they heard for minutes, minutes that had felt like hours; she would dare to say days if the sky wasn’t still dark, filled with bright stars circling a full moon. 

“Why don’t we get to know each other all over again? We can start over, please.”

There it was.

And then it came.

“That’s such a great idea, Oliver!,” (Y/N) answered with a big smile on her face, the quick change of demeanour unsettling Oliver. They hadn’t talked in years but he was still amazed at how much he remembered of her, and how this didn’t mean any good. “We can get to know each other like all those years ago and then, you can abandon me like all those years ago”. The grin on her lips transforming into a scowl right after she pronounced the last part of her sentence.

“Why are you even here, Wood? You felt guilty and now you’re trying to make it go away? Or is it charity?,” the Slytherin kept ranting,” or better yet, someone challenged you to do this? I’m putting all my money on the Weasley Twins. 

“N-No, no, it’s nothing like that,” Oliver explained while moving his hands and walking the final steps leading him to (Y/N),“ I just- I never- I, I never wanted this, I never expected it but everyone was talking about you and-and they were saying horrible things and…”

“And you believed them,” (Y/N) stated, turning around to stop facing him and his hurt expression,” I don’t blame you for doing it. It’s quite funny if you think about it.”

“What’s quite funny?,” his gaze still on her when he asked.

“Most of the things you and the rest of the school heard were invented by me, so people would just stop bothering me,” she pretended to confess only to the stars, for if she didn’t, she would never admit it to him,” you can say I planned my entire doom. And it’s quite funny because, in the end, you still believed me.”

“You could have told me, (Y/N). Why didn’t you?”

“You believed the rumours, I’m sure not the craziest ones though, but that tells me that you thought I was capable of actually doing all the terrible things I said about myself.”

“I’m sorry, I am, (Y/N), truly.”

“Sorry doesn’t mend it,” she murmured, now forcing herself to look him in the eyes and act as if the pain never happened; as if she hadn’t missed his company and his random, permanently out of place Quidditch facts.

“I know, but it’s everything I have right now and I hope you can forgive me one day.”

“I have already forgiven you, Oliver, but I was too proud to reach you.”

“Typical you, (Y/N). I should have expected it.”

A small smile formed in her lips and for a moment she forgot their broken friendship, the reputation that had become her shadow and the future awaiting after Hogwarts. It was only them, (Y/N) and Oliver, with the moon glowing down on their faces and the feeling of being eleven year olds settling over their minds.

taglist: @gcdric​ @lilac-wrists​ @cappsikle​ @aesthetically-hailey​ @shadowsinger11​ @slytherinsunrise​ @theweasleysredhair​ 

If you want me to add you to the taglist, send an ask or dm me!!

[vaatistrife-purplemage]

The fourth MirrorWorld / 'Reckless' novel in the MirrorWorld / 'Reckless' novel series

Today I finally got the fourth Reckless novel ''The Silver Tracks''.

After 6 years and 4 extra days of waiting (originally it was released November 4, 2021, but my copy's arrival kept being pushed back twice) I finally got it.

But, as much as I love the novel series there's one thing I'm not overly fond of.

The overall appearance of the novel.

Just let me do a quick comparison down here below:

On the left we have my 2016 revision of the first novel in the series The Petrified Flesh, released by Breathing Books (the author's own publishing company at the time which is discontinued by now). On the right there's the 2021 English edition of The Silver Tracks.

What doesn't sit well with me are several things:

1. Different publishers; Cornelia Funke, the author would always put a golden ribbon in her novels published by Breathing Books. When it comes to Pushkin Press which published the book for her instead of herself, there is no ribbon to be seen at all. And I'm going to miss that ribbon. Badly.

2. Height difference: notice how Reckless 4 somehow doesn't fit in height because again different publisher. It's so small.

3. Pages; So far all my MirrorWorld novels began at page number 1. Why the heck should it be different for the newest installment and start at page 9??? What's the reason behind that?

4. Table of contents; This is fine I suppose since no MirrorWorld novel appears to have one except older versions?

5. Feel of the cover: All the covers of my MirrorWorld novels so far feel smooth whereas the Reckless 4 On The Silver Tracks one feels kind of rough?

6. Shimmer: The previous reckless novels are shinier and have a specific shimmer. When looking at the German edition of Reckless 4 the Kitsune's tails are golden. Whereas the English one has no to little shimmer.

7. Taking the dustcover off; so far every installment that has a dustcover has a similar cover underneath. Reckless 4 is just

blank

I don't get that not at all.

Seven massive complaints aside about the appearance of this novel, I'm going to love the story plot once more I'm certain.

Just not the novel's appearance which is pretty much a thorn in my eye and I'm not alone in that.

In short I honestly really miss how Cornelia Funke's Breathing Books publishing company (run by her along with Mirada) used to publish the novels.

Not only was it a treat for the bookworm heart to read but also a treat for the eye.

I won't stop reading these series regardless of how Pushkin Press approached the fourth novel's appearance.

[the-bastard-and-the-pup]

Reckless the screenplay pt.2 (The Petrified Flesh)

(For @goylempire​)

Scene: the aftermath of a battle. we see dead horses and the bodies of men in white uniforms. the dead bodies under the grey uniforms are slightly cracked and made up various stones. the camera pans over the scene until we see the profile of a Goyl. Hentzau's skin is brown jasper stone and a scar runs down his cheek through his white eye. both his face and his uniform bear traces of dry human blood. a cracking noise makes him turn his head, giving us a view of his other eye, the gaze golden and piercing. a predator on the hunt.

Hentzau steps over bodies, including one of a woman who looks like an opal statue. he gestures towards the body. a Ruby Goyl arrives with a hammer and a chisel, which he places against her neck and gets to work. Hentzau makes his way over to a Human Soldier, who is crouched shaking on the ground, looking up at Hentzau. Hentzau looks back, contempt clear in his eyes.

Soldier: I surrender, I surrender. Please, just... let me go!

Hentzau: The way you would have done one of our soldiers the same favour?

close-up on a collection of stone fingers of various kinds dangling from the soldier's belt.

Soldier: Yes, yes of course!

Hentzau stares at the soldier, obviously not believing a word. the Soldier realises this and starts sobbing.

Soldier: Please! Show some humanity- his voice falters, looking at the Goyl in front of him. we see how not human Hentzau is.

Hentzau: Alright then. Go. I will show you humanity.

the soldier frantically scrambles to his feet. he takes of, running towards the camera.

a shot roars through the silence. the Soldier falls to the ground, dead. behind him, Hentzau comes back into view. he hands his rifle back to Nesser, a soldier standing next to him. Hentzau kept his promise by shooting the soldier, who thought he was safe, in the back. he showed him humanity.