#Silver Carving Mirror Frame

[julymusings]

PORTRAIT

jason hates taking photos. it's a shame you find him so beautiful.

Jason Todd isn’t one to take pictures. Standing there with a fake smile, posing for a deceptively happy vignette of an unhappy reality feels awkward. He never knows what to do with his hands. He doesn’t like the way his face translates through the lens; the green of his eyes glows just this side of too spectral, his broad, stocky frame towers over that of his siblings, and the scars on his face bring memories of a darker time, an intentional carelessness for his life he used to carry. He leans away when others huddle together to smile. Pretends to notice something behind him when caught in the background of the lens.

Enter you. Only capable of looking at him with hearts in your eyes. Serving on a silver platter what he used to starve and scavenge for in dimly lit bars on the lips of women who only saw him as something to sink their teeth into and then spit out, never sticking around for longer than one night. Jason feasted at first, he’ll admit, stuffing himself to sickness on your unconditional adoration until it was almost too much to bear.

You take pictures of him and gush over them, telling him how pretty he is. How he belongs in a museum. He never believed you, never bothering to actually look at the pictures you take. But pretty soon he’s everywhere; you set him as your lock screen and screensaver, and print photos to frame on your bedside table. When your storage is maxed out, you steal Jason’s phone to flood his camera roll, and he finds that he keeps going back to stare at the photos you take. Selfies where you kiss his cheek and his mouth curves upward just enough to transform him from brooding to disarming; portraits where he looks, not at the camera, but just beyond and his eyes crinkle, the tips of his sharp canines peeking out over his bottom lip. He looks…different. Better. He starts to believe the things you tell him; his beauty is ancient. Michelangelo himself carved the contours of his body. The Trojans and the Greeks fought for a decade over him.

But what is it about this camera, he wonders, that makes his appearance digestible? Is it the way you frame him front and center, the backlighting sun rays extending in all directions behind him, encircling him with a holiness he doesn’t deserve? The scenery against which you capture him, busy nighttime streets under city lights, just dark enough to smooth out his rough edges? 

Or maybe it’s just you. Seeing himself from your point of view. Seeing himself as yours. His hooked nose, crooked from being broken one too many times, belongs to you for the early mornings when you trace down the bridge, around his lips, and up his jaw, drawing a portrait with your fingertips. His unruly hair, with streaks of white that make him stick out like a sore thumb, exists only for you to run your fingers through when he lays his head in your lap. His scars are for you to kiss on those difficult days until he can bear to look in the mirror again. He wants nothing more than to be a museum of all things you.

Jason Todd isn’t one to take pictures. But when you ask so nicely, showering him with compliments and promises of thank-you-kisses later on, how can he say no?

why are we as a society still striving for more definition and higher quality photos for anything other than, like, x-ray imaging and space exploration. I don't want 8k ultra-max hd in my phone that highlights every hair and pore and eye bag i want grainy and dark and fuzzy because it makes me look hotter and that's a fact. rant over

anyway he's so pretty i wanna take candids of him and kiss his face and squeeze his huge ti-*GUNSHOTS*

this is gonna be my last post for the next few weeks because i have finals. see you on the other side🫡 (born to be a farmer on a remote island, forced to study STEM) i'll be on requests as soon as i'm back trust

[lilacs-stars]

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

read more of my works here!

taglist: @4ng3l-ch1ld @astrynyx @0strawberrysorbet0 @ljaylmaoo @maggiecc @elltheawkward @eretsupremacy89 @dreamerofasgard @mabs04

just leave a comment if you want to be added to the taglist!

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!

do not plagiarize, translate, remake, or copy my works, including my writing and images, in any way.

[itsvelyria]

"sleepless nights w the f1 boys"

Charles Leclerc

his fingertips, rough and dry, are warm as they sketch circles into the back of your hands. you're uncertain of whether he's even aware of it — gaze lingers on your lover, distracted by his gentle charting of constellations in the midnight sky. his voice, a steady murmur, narrates the story of cygnus' lost love and delphinus' persuasion. the chilled air is held at bay as you remain nestled at his side. soon the night softens, inky blue yielding to pinks and oranges as you trade dreams and stories, your heart filling as fatigue settles into your bones.

Carlos Sainz

late-night drives through deserted city streets unfold like a poetic journey. the hum of the engine blends seamlessly with the laughter that fills the car. childhood stories are shared, echoing through the serene space beyond. with each turn, memories are etched into the fabric of the night, becoming invisible threads that linger in the quiet hours that follow. carlos’ handprint on your upper thigh tingles long after parking, sending sparks up your spine as you two head back up to your shared bed.

Danny Ricciardo

the moonlight casts a soft, clandestine glow, accentuated by the fairy light someone had left hanging. rusty bulbs flicker as danny pulls you up by the hands, the out-of-bounds rooftop transforming into an impromptu private dance floor. below, the city is sleepless and alive with its pulsating energy, serving as your silent witness. the faint notes of your paramour’s cologne, a blend of skin and soap, envelops your waltz as you rest your heavy head against his chest. he hums an all-too-familiar melody and in this suspended moment, time seemed to stretch.

George Russell

on cozy nights in, you both find yourselves entwined in a nest of blankets, a sanctuary of warmth. the orange glow from your nightstand delicately paints the walls, creating a cocoon that shields you from the chill outside. amidst the quietude, secrets and dreams are exchanged like cherished treasures. a small flame is kindled in the tranquil space you've carved out for each other — a haven where the moments hover, suspended in the the warmth of your shared breaths, as sleepless nights turn into timeless memories.

Lando Norris

in the realm of virtual gaming marathons, the hours extend into early mornings, a landscape illuminated by the lights of your screen. shouts of triumph and screams of anguish punctuate the air, interweaving with playful banter that colours the room. oceans away from the love of your life, his laughter still resonates through your headphones as he achieves a triple-kill. you cherish every digital heart he sends through your private chat, a reminder of the connection you share despite the physical distance.

Lewis Hamilton

in the tranquillity of midnight, a serene park becomes your canvas for shared introspection. the world transforms into a tapestry of silver and shadows as you two embark on a quiet stroll, hands entwined. conversations unfurl like the delicate petals of snow-white lilies, their fragility mirrored in the hushed murmurs. the night air carries whispers of dreams and aspirations that mingle with the rustle of leaves underfoot. in the hallowed stillness, your footsteps fall into cadence on the gravel path, heartbeats synchronizing like a ballet telling the story of forging connections.

Max Verstappen

beneath the vast expanse of twinkling stars, you both pitch your tents on damp grass. the crackle of a campfire and the rustle of pine trees create the soundtrack to this new chapter in your relationship. flickering flames cast dancing shadows on max’s face as he concentrates on roasting marshmallows. the stars above interrupt every shared gaze and every brush of your hands. the magic sparkling in the inches between your frames settles deep into your bones, destined to be a memory never forgotten.

[softlypaintedseafoam]

🍓ー thank you for your patronage at the strawberry witch’s bakery! here’s your order!

requested by: a lovely anon 🍓-> sir crocodile + strawberry cobbler (anniversary)

"Something wrong with your gift, dearest?"

Objectively ー no, no there isn't. There's nothing wrong with the 50 million berry earrings you're holding. They're perfect; gold-encrusted rubies and pearls that shine beautifully in the candle light. You purse your lips, fighting against the persistent urge for the corners of them to curve upward.

Crocodile doesn't have that problem. All too smug, as if he won the jackpot. "I'm happy we reached this compromise," his grin is wide, shoulders relaxed and violet twinkling. "It's like you said last year," he raises his glass of wine, nodding as he continues singing like a canary. "One meaningful gift selected with love is better than a dozen."

Despite your best efforts, you snort and Crocodile's grin widens. "I'm laughing but this isn't funny, Crocodile," there's no bite or bark in your tone. Nor does he take the amused glint in your eye seriously. "You know what I meant when I said that."

"Oh?" He leans forward, clearly enjoying himself. "Is this not a meaningful gift? I'm hurt," he's happy, far too happy with this sequence of events. How long has he been planning this? Probably as far back as your birthday last year; it wouldn't surprise you if that had been the case.

You love your husband, truly. That never stops the guilt from festering under the surface of your skin whenever a special occasion rolls around and he drowns you in extravagance. He never spares any expense, presents grander and grander each passing year.

Take your birthday, for instance.

Four pieces of huanghuali wood carved into a jewelry box, the frame of a mirror, a desk and an elaborate chair.

A blue diamond from the mines of Alabasta followed by seven sterling silver swan carvings merely because you offhandedly mentioned you found them beautiful. You're sure that if you even vaguely glanced at a building with interest, Crocodile would find a way to present it to you that day.

"They're lovely, honest," you insisted, fiddling with an equally grandiose bracelet on your wrist. "I just feel bad accepting so many and they're all so expensive. One meaningful gift with love is better than a dozen!" It was the beginning to a harmonious compromise; less of Crocodile's money thrown at your feet and there'd be no change in how much you adored your presents. Something tells me I'm fighting a losing battle, you sigh. "The earrings really are beautiful," you relent, fingering the the smooth gems fondly.

Your husband smirks into his wine, "you never said the amount I spent needed to decrease, did you?"

[jayaury]

Mistress of the Pale

Another short story from my patreon backlog https://www.patreon.com/JayAury.

Enjoy!

***

Ravel had considered himself fortunate to get an apprenticeship with Madame Moora. Every young wizard had been hoping to be selected to study under the mysterious mistress of the Ivory Tower, but it had been him she’d chosen and sent for.

Yet now, he wondered if it had been a blessing.

He wasn’t sure when the seeds of doubt had first sprouted, but perhaps it had been the very first day he’d arrived at the Ivory Tower, when he’d been greeted by the servitor. He still remembered that pale beauty. A woman of lovely proportions, her figure pale like she’d been carved of marble, and her only attire a loincloth with a belt of silver thread.

He’d stared, shocked at the topless woman, who merely bowed, her eyes lidded and dull as foggy mirrors. “You are Ravel?” she’d said.

“Uh, y-yes.”

“The mistress shall see you. Come.”

The servitor had turned, her perfect ass swaying as she walked away, leaving Ravel to jolt back to the present and hurry to catch up. They’d walked through marble halls so pure white they seemed to glow with an inner light. Other near naked servitors, men and women, wandered about, their expressions empty as they went about their tasks tending the grounds. Any question Ravel posed to his guide was met with blank silence, as if she never heard him, or even noticed him, but merely walked like some automaton along a set path.

They’d moved up through the tower and to a door framed with golden ivy. The servitor knocked twice, and then opened it without a moment more of hesitation, stepping aside and bowing. Taking the hint, Ravel entered.

The study of Madame Moora was a large room filled with tall, narrow lines. The thin windows rose along the back wall and tall bookshelves like pillars were here and there. Madame Moora herself sat in a rounded chair like a tilted ball cut in half, and at the sight of her, Ravel realized he had never seen a more beautiful woman.

Her hair was a deep black and her skin tanned a golden bronze. A slim cloth slipped between her legs from a gown cut so low it was a miracle or, far more likely, magic her curvaceous breasts did not pop out of them. Her face was strikingly beautiful, her eyes lidded, her finger slender as they held open a book before her. She looked up, and Ravel stiffened instantly at her lidded eyes. It was like her gaze had struck a silver pin through him, and a smile slowly alighted her lips.

“Ravel,” she said, rising with a whisper of her dark gown. “Finally. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. You may go, Lakia.”

“Mistress,” the pale woman said, bowing low, and Ravel couldn’t help but notice a quiver of pleasure seem to surge through her, the servitor’s thighs tightening as if she had nearly cum right there.

But he had no more attention to spare the pale woman, for in the moment Moora was moving towards him, her gown softly swishing in the silent chamber. “Let’s get a look at you,” Moora said, gently cupping his cheek and turning his head this way and that. “Hmm. Yes. Not bad at all. You are quite cute, my apprentice.”

He felt his cheeks burn at that. “M-madame, I uh…”

“Oh, but don’t worry,” she said, patting his blushing cheeks. “I didn’t decide to make you my apprentice just because you’re so adorably handsome. Oh no. I was very impressed by your new logistical theory of arcane usage. I always try and get my hands on the cleverest of new students. They have such… potential…”

Ravel swallowed hard, the way she lingered on that word making his heart race and jump. “I ah… I’ll t-try not to disappoint you, madame.”

“Good boy. In which case, shall we have our first lesson?”

“A-already?”

“We haven’t a moment to waste, apprentice. And I simply can’t wait to see what clever little ideas you might come up with.”

“Oh, well, I…”

“What’s wrong, apprentice? Shy? Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle.”

“Huh?”

She laughed, a full throaty sound that seemed to reverberate in his groin. “Don’t worry, apprentice. It’s a simple thing. A relaxation technique. Perfect for nervous new apprentices to the fold.”

“W-well…”

“Ah ah! Madame knows best. Now, let us feel the magic within you. Feel the channels of power that flow through you. Follow my finger, apprentice. Follow the sensation…”

Ravel nodded. That… that seemed fairly standard. Magic of course followed certain paths through the body, and certain techniques were common among sorcerers in order to ease the use of their powers.

But he’d never felt one like this.

His breath hitched as her finger slid along his arm, hairs rising in its wake in a wave of sensitive awareness. “Just relax, apprentice,” Madame Moora crooned, pushing in closer, her eyes gleaming like jewels. “Just relax… and follow my voice…”

Ravel realized she was easing him down, and he found himself lying back on a couch he hadn’t noticed before. Like everything in the room, it seemed strangely delicate. Tender. Like the stem of a flower ready to be snapped at the slightest force. Yet it took his weight easily, and Madame Moora’s as she knelt over him, her finger still tracing his body, drawing lazy spiral patterns that tingled and shocked through him like electric wires.

“M-Madame, I…”

“Shhh. Just repeat after me, apprentice. I am relaxed. In control. I am feeling good all over.”

“I uh… I am relaxed. In control. I…”

“Am feeling good all over.”

“Feeling good all over…”

And he was.

Ravel realized he was feeling good all over.

Feeling light, like the mana channels in his body were filled with fizzy water. Bubbles popping and sparkling and making his body tingle from end to end.

It felt good.

So very good.

“I am relaxed,” Moora said smoothly.

“I am relaxed.”

“In control.”

“In control.”

“I am feeling good all over.”

“I am feeling good all o-over.”

“Gooood,” the sorceress purred.

And Ravel sucked in a breath as he felt her hand move lower.

“Keep going, apprentice,” Moora cooed as her finger lazily traced circles around his bulge, spiraling up the swell of his pants.

“I-I am relaxed. In c-control. I am feeling good all… all over…”

“Keep going,” she murmured as her finger slid around his tip, teasing him as his balls throbbed, aching with need.

Ravel continued, his mouth moving almost automatically, all his focus trained on his cock. On how good it felt as her finger slid around and around and around. As she deftly undid the laces. As his cock sprang into the open, twitching and hard.

Moora’s smile deepened. Her delicate fingers wrapped around his length. “Mmm. It seems you still have some… tension here, apprentice. But not to worry. We can fix that.”

“O-ohhhhhh,” he groaned.

“Keep going, apprentice. Don’t focus on distractions. Focus on what matters. Focus on those sweet words. Try and resist, apprentice. Try and resist…”

“Y-yes. Um. I… I am… ah… I am relaxed. I-in con… controooool. I am f-feeling good all… mnn… all over…”

“Good apprentice. Keep going. Keep talking.”

Ravel obeyed, the words spilling out of him in a flood, gasped as her hand went up and down his cock, stroking him slowly. Drawing it out of him. And yet, strangely, he didn’t feel the painful urgency of orgasm. It certainly was there, but it was more like a dull ache of throbbing pleasure. Of teasing anticipation, relentless, constant, making him whimper and groan, wriggling while his mana channels buzzed with the clarity of the mantra.

But there was no way for him to resist forever. Not when a woman of such aching perfection was pleasuring him. Not when it felt so good. So perfect.

“I-I’m relaxed. In c-control. In… In… Ohhhhh!”

He shuddered as he came, orgasm bursting through him like a wave of heat, his mind going white with the pure pleasure that wrapped around him, squeezing him in its embrace.

He sagged upon the couch, panting, watching as Madame Moora’s eyes grew lidded, her lips parting as she breathed in deeply, almost as if she were joining him in his orgasm. She sighed, a shiver coursing through her as she lifted her hand and delicately licked his seed from her fingers. One. By. One.

Ravel watched in dull fascination as she sucked her pinky clean, then turned a radiant smile down upon him. “Mmm. Good, apprentice. I think you will make an ideal student. And no doubt a quick study. Now, I trust you will keep that mantra in mind while you’re in my tower. Right?”

“O-of course, mistress,” he said, chest heaving from his exertion of pleasure.

“Good boy,” she purred, her jewel eyes shining bright. “I think we’ll get along just… swimmingly…”

#

Training in the Ivory Tower was a strange experience for Ravel.

He didn’t have much to do other than practice his arcane currents, and Madame Moora insisted he perfect them before she trained him further.

“My methods are not to be taken lightly, my student. Your body must be prepared for my spells.”

And so he practiced.

And worked.

And trained.

It would have been dull, truth be told. But the longer he focused on his mana channels, the easier it became to just… zone out. He found himself almost floating about the tower when he focused on the mantra. It made him feel so light and empty and perfectly at peace.

But something still worried him.

Though he knew that Moora wouldn’t teach him magic until he mastered her first lesson, that didn’t mean he couldn’t study independently. Or, so he thought. But whenever he opened a textbook retrieved from the tower’s extensive library, he found the formulas so…

Confusing.

This made him uneasy. He’d always been a quick learner. In fact, it was what he’d been most praised for. But now, the words on the page just… slipped away from him.

It wasn’t that he didn’t understand them anymore. Instead, he grew bored with them almost instantly. No sooner had he read a word than his mind seemed to drift, and he would read the same paragraph almost six times before he caught himself. What was wrong with him?

Sitting at his desk, he slapped his cheeks and shook his head, scowling. He could do this. He could…

“Trouble, apprentice?”

Ravel gasped as he felt Moora’s delicate fingers on his shoulder. He looked back, and found himself staring at the firm curves of his mistress’s breasts, the plunging valley of her collar hinting the tantalizing truth of those bronzed orbs.

For a moment Ravel found himself unable to look away, as if enthralled by those perfect breasts as they gently rose and fell with her breathing, but belatedly he managed to shake it off and jerk his eyes to her face.

“M-mistress? I ah…”

She smiled and leaned over him, her finger touching the page, running along the words. The motion was slow, almost sensuous, and Ravel couldn’t suppress a shudder that seemed to reverberate in his groin.

“Hm. Studying? Now why would you need to do that when your arcane channels remain undeveloped?”

“This is fairly simple magic, mistress,” he said.

She gave him a tender smile, then glanced back at the book. “‘A demon,’” she said, reading as her finger slid along the page, “‘is that most notorious of creature. Their aim is, inevitably, to devour the soul of mortals, and they have any number of means to arrange that. They are powerful creatures, masters of temptation, and have a variety of methods to steal the souls of their victims. Once they have done so, their prey become little more than thralls to their whims. Mindless slaves to their new masters.’”

Ravel felt his blush deepen as she leaned forward, the back of his head nestling against the softness of her breasts.

“‘But though a demon is a creature far more physically powerful than any mortal, there are many ways to best them,’” she continued. “‘The most effective is a spell of sealing, which can be inscribed upon a piece of steel, and upon plunging into the demon’s heart, will banish them once more to the infernal plane.’ My my, apprentice,” she said, giggling softly. “Looking to become a demon slayer?”

“E-every mage should know how to defeat a demon,” he said uneasily. “It’s well known that demons love to devour not only the souls of mortals, but find the magic of mages delicious.”

“Putting our poor sorcerers in quite a state, true,” Madame Moora said, her hand slipping from the page to touch his stomach. Ravel gasped as her other hand joined it, her arms crossing over his chest, pushing him back and against her breasts. “Demons do love the taste of a mage’s magic. And they love the taste of a willing one’s far more. And yet, sorcerers still try and summon them. Do you know why, apprentice?”

“Because… because demons know much f-forbidden lore,” he gasped as her hands massaged his chest, her fingers teasing down him. “And can share it if… if bound properly…”

“But it’s so very hard to properly bind a demon, apprentice,” she crooned as her fingers found their way once more into his lip, teasing his cock through his pants. “So very hard. They’re so skilled at distracting. Tempting. So many sorcerers never even knew what they were doing. Do you know why?”

“I ah… I d-don’t…”

“Because they were too… distracted.”

Ravel moaned as she undid his pants, drawing out his cock and into her waiting hand. Her palms were warm as she began to stroke him, lazily pumping his cock as he gasped and quivered in his seat.

“They just couldn’t focus. Which is why, dear apprentice, we must repeat the mantras. Must ease the flow of mana. Can you do that?”

“O-of c-course, mistress.”

“Hmmm. I’m not sure I believe you. I think we should… test that… On your knees apprentice.”

“Mistress?”

“Obey.”

The word seemed to vibrate through him. Before he knew it, Ravel had slipped out of his chair and was kneeling on the floor. He looked up, dazed, only to find Moora sit on the edge of his desk, her legs parted, her finger teasingly opening the front of her slinky gown. His eyes widened as she brushed open her dress, revealing the lush folds of her pussy, her breasts nudging aside the fabric to reveal her firm, heavenly tits.

“Let’s test your focus, apprentice,” she said, smirking down at him, her finger gliding up and down her cunny, stroking herself slowly. “Show me you won’t easily get distracted. Lick me, nice and slow.”

“I… I…”

“Come now, apprentice. If you do, I’ll even teach you a binding curse.”

A binding curse? That was very advanced magic. Ravel hesitated, but then, many sorceresses had stranger methods of instruction, and learning such a potent magic would be a tremendous boon.

“Yes, mistress.”

“Good boy. Now, get to it.”

Ravel tried not to focus on how the words ‘good boy’ made him feel. He tried to distract himself by leaning in and running his tongue along her slit. Her taste tingled on his tongue, shooting down into him with a shock of ecstasy. He shifted where he knelt, his cock throbbing. He’d utterly forgotten it was jutting out of his pants until he felt Moora’s foot rubbed against his manhood.

“Goooood boy,” she moaned, the underside of her foot pressing his cock back against his groin and stomach. “That’s it. Lick mistress like a goooood boy.”

Ravel groaned as her toes slid around the head of his cock, rubbing and teasing his tip, his hips rocking to further pleasure himself against her. His face burned bright pink with the humiliation and pleasure he was receiving.

“The mantra, apprentice. Don’t forget the mantra. Keep you… mmm… nice and even.”

Oh, yes. Of course. He had to… had to repeat it. But not aloud. No. His tongue was… was much too busy. In his head. Yes. He could do that. Yes… He was relaxed. In control. Feeling good all over.

He moaned as the words echoed in his mind, his cock throbbing with new sensitivity. The words seemed to wash over him, soothing the tension in him, leaving him composed. Calm. Able to appreciate every wonderful moment of her foot rubbing against his cock. Every delicate tingle of her taste as he lathed her pussy with his tongue. He whimpered, squirmed, relishing every moment.

“Keep licking… apprentice…”

Yes.

Yes, of course. Must keep licking.

Licking mistress.

Adoring mistress.

Showing her what a good boy he was.

What a good apprentice he could be.

Because he was relaxed.

In control.

And feeling good alllll over…

His tongue lapped, loving, stroking, teasing, adoring her pussy. The mantra swirling in his mind, enabling him to focus so easily. To discover all of Moora’s favorite places. Every spot that made her gasp, jolt, quiver in sweet pleasure.

Yes.

Yes, he was relaxed. He was in control. And feeling so very good aaaaaall over.

“Yes. Oh pits yes. Apprentice. I’m so close. Cum with me, apprentice. Cum with mistress my good boy. My good toy. My… my… Ohhhhh!”

Her thighs tightened around his head, squeezing him as she came. Her juices splashed onto his tongue, the sharpness of her taste pushing him over the edge, Ravel groaning in utter pleasure as she gave him a taste of her orgasm. The sensation seemed to shoot from his mouth, crackling down his veins, bunching in his balls before… before…

“Mmmmm!” he groaned, tongue buried in her pussy as he came, his body bucking as his cock spurted, coating her toes, his shirt and his lap in his seed.

Moora cooed, lifting her foot from his lap and wiping her toes on his pants. “There we are. Excellent work, apprentice. I’m quite pleased.”

“Ohhhh…” Ravel groaned.

Moora chuckled and rose, turning about and grabbing his pen. She scribbled something on a sheaf of paper, then strolled away.

“Best of luck with your studies, apprentice,” she called over her shoulder.

Ravel wasn’t sure how long he remained kneeling on the floor, but when he finally managed to pull himself back to his feet, he found a spell of binding written on the waiting paper. He gaped at it, able to feel the power in that spell even as he held it. Remarkable! He smiled, moving back to his book, endeavoring to read once more.

And didn’t even mind that only the mantra echoed in his thoughts.

#

Ravel frequently wandered the halls of the tower when he hadn’t anything else to do. Still, Madame Moora hadn’t taught him any magic beyond the mantra and that one binding spell.

“Not until you’ve mastered the first lesson, apprentice,” she’d crooned.

And surely he was getting close. Madame Moora was training him almost every day. At any time during his studies he might suddenly find his mistress beside him looking to test him, gently pressing him down to his knees so he might show her how good he’d gotten at… focusing.

“Mmm…”

Ravel stopped, startled. He looked around himself, wondering where he was. He’d wandered far this night, and he realized was in the Hall of Pillars, the ivory rows lining the room like a forest of petrified trees.

“Ah…”

He blinked, realizing the sound had stirred him from his thoughts. Curious, he moved among the pillars, drawn to a soft whimpering and moaning deeper in the room.

“Ohhhh…”

Not sure why, Ravel halted behind a pillar and peeked around it.

One of the tower’s servants was pressed against a pillar, their slender body quivering, their simple attire loose around them and disheveled. It was a man, his eyes rolled back, his pale skin flushed hot with lust, quivering with ecstasy.

Against him was pressed Madame Moora, the lovely sorceress holding the man’s chin, her lips locked with his and her eyes lidded, gleaming gold with a fel inner light.

But that wasn’t what made Ravel gasp, suck in a breath.

No.

It was the horns growing from her hair.

Ravel’s jaw fell slack as he watched Madame Moora hum in delight, pressing closer to the quivering servitor, her lips moving against his and… and dear gods, Ravel could see it. A wispy essence passing from him to her, sucked into her hungry mouth in fluttering wisps.

She… she was drinking his soul!

Madame Moora broke the kiss with a gasp, licking her lips, catching the last teasing tendrils of essence. The servant slumped against the wall, breathing hard and fast, glassy eyes gazing up at her adoringly.

“Good boy,” she cooed, stroking the man’s chin. “Mistress is very pleased.”

Ravel’s legs buckled, the sheer power of her words sending a shiver of delight shooting through him, his legs wobbling as the strength threatened to leave him. He gasped, and saw Moora’s head turn his way. He jerked himself back behind the pillar, heart pounding. Had she heard him? Did she see him?

He heard no sound, then a low chuckle. “You were delicious, pet,” he heard Moora purr. “Mistress is most pleased.”

“Th-thank you… mistress…” gasped the servant.

Steeling himself, feeling returning to his legs, Ravel pushed himself off the pillar, hurrying away as quietly as he could.

A demon.

His mistress was a demon!

#

Ravel took a deep breath and stroked the etchings he’d made in the dagger.

It had been a nerve-wracking few days. He’d avoided Moora as best he could, trying to think of what to do. Reporting her would be a fool’s errand. She was far more powerful than him, and could easily track him down if he tried to run. The servants would be of no help. Now that he knew what was happening, it was clear their essence was being drained constantly, feeding the hunger of their succubi master, their minds lost in the ecstasy of their servitude to her.

He’d since seen the servant she’d fed on that night. He lived, so it seemed Moora left her pets a portion of essence, only drinking enough to reduce them to mindless obedience to her. They would be of no help. A thrall to a demoness would fling themselves on his sword before they’d let him harm her.

So he’d worked.

It had been hard. So very hard. The words to magic came only with the greatest of struggle to him, but his need compelled him until, at last, he’d done it. Finally he’d managed to carve a spell of banishment onto the dagger.

He picked it up, took a deep breath. It was time. He had to slay her. To let a demoness exist in the very heart of the mage’s circle couldn’t be abided. But he could do this.

He could.

Rising, clutching the sheathed dagger in his hand, he poked his head out the door of his chamber and glanced around. The halls were empty. Cold moonlight washed down through high windows to play along the ivory stone, making it glow. Slipping out of his room, Ravel hastened through the halls.

Moora’s personal chambers were high in the tower, but were unguarded. What need had she for guards in the very heart of her power? Uneasily, Ravel opened the slender, towering doors a crack and peeked through.

Moora’s bedchamber was a strange thing. It was a large, round room of pale stone, the only furnishing a large round bed that could sleep a dozen people, but only held one. Moora lay atop the dove-white sheets, sprawled lazily upon it, utterly naked. Utterly defenseless.

Trying to calm his pounding heart, Ravel eased open the door without a creak. Even the soft sound of his bare feet padding on the cool stone floor made him flinch, fearful Moora would awaken.

Yet he reached the side of her bed without incident. His heart pounding like drums in his ears, he climbed with the greatest of care onto the bed and moved towards her. He found himself looking down on Moora, her face radiantly beautiful, hair splayed out around her head in a careless wave of silver. Her full, plump lips parted. Her firm, ample breasts peaked with dark nipples rising and falling with her steady breaths. Rising and falling. Up and down. Up and down…

No. No! Focus. He had to focus! He yanked the dagger from its sheathe, raised it up.

And found her eyes open and looking at him.

The shock of it seized him. He trembled, staring down at her as Moora slowly propped herself up on her elbows, smirking at him. She tilted her head, glancing at the knife, the runes along its length burning red with sorcery.

“My my, apprentice. Is that for me?”

Ravel opened his mouth but nothing came out.

Lazily, Moora tilted her head back, her eyelids low, her smirk growing. “Well then, I suppose you must have discovered… this…”

Ravel sucked in a breath as Moora changed. As horns grew from her head and her pupils sharpened to cat-like slits against a background of molten gold.

“D-demon!” he gasped.

“So I am, my dear apprentice. So I am. And now, I suppose you must slay me. It’s the right thing to do, after all, and you even have that delightful dagger all made up. What a pity it would be to see all that hard work go to waste. So go on,” She said, pushing out her chest. “Do it. Seal me away, my sweet apprentice.”

She couldn’t be serious. Was she mocking him? That smirk seemed to say so. He grit his teeth, drew back his arm again to plunge his blade into her chest.

Between her… her big… soft breasts…

“Why, whatever is the matter, apprentice?” Moora cooed, pushing forward more, sitting up. She raised a hand, gently stroking his cheek, sending a shiver racing through him. “Do you perhaps… not want to seal me away? Do you not want to banish your lovely mistress from the material plane? Have you, perhaps, become too… obsessed with me?”

Ravel grit his teeth and pushed the dagger towards her. But it was like he was fighting against invisible weights. He didn’t even have to try so hard. He just needed to let gravity do the work. Plunge the dagger down. Impale this gorgeous unholy beauty.

“Don’t you want more?” she breathed.

Ravel sobbed, his dagger an inch from her heaving chest, her breasts rising, falling. So perfect. So firm. He trembled against the strain of it.

“Don’t resist it,” Moora cooed, leaning in closer, her infernal gaze like molten gold, seizing his eyes. “Just relax, apprentice. Just surrender. Just do… what you need… to do…”

Ravel shut his eyes tight, his head pounding. He was relaxed. In control.

And feeling good all over…

As those words rushed through him, unbidden, but irresistible, he felt the strength bleed from his arm. The dagger fell from his loosened fingers and hit the bed with a soft sound. His eyes lifted open.

And when he saw Moora’s smile, his heart soared.

“Good boy,” she cooed, leaning in closer. “My good… obedient… boy…”

Her lips met his, and Ravel groaned at the soft sensation. The gentle press moving against his own. Her tongue sliding against his parted lips and inside his mouth. Her skill put his own experience to shame, conquering him like a master swordsman against a child armed with a stick. He shuddered, arching as she rose further, her breasts pressing against him. Firm yet soft. The perfect contrast. Just like her. Beautiful. Desirable. Deadly. A suicide of ecstasy in her arms that he couldn’t back away from.

Ravel found himself toppling back, falling among the downy white sheets. Moora loomed above him, smirking, her bronzed body faintly glowing in the moonlight, her horns glistening like onyx as she arched over him, her hands pinning his arms down.

“Poor little wizard,” she crooned as she mounted him, Ravel whimpering as her pussy rubbed against his shameless bulge. “You came so far, but it was all for naught. But don’t despair, my darling boy. You came closer than any other of my many… many apprentices. Oh yes,” she laughed, her breasts lazily swaying as she ground him beneath her. “I’ve had a great many. All the servants in my halls had sought to learn the ways of magic from me, only to discover that their true purpose was to serve me. Their mind drained away by my power, their bodies and souls snacks in which I might indulge at my pleasure.

“And you will join them,” she crooned, letting a hand brush his blushing cheek, letting him feel the cool sensuousness of her touch. “Just another of my mindless slaves. My eager, obedient playthings, your mind filled with nothing but serving me. Your body a toy for me to indulge in. Feed on. And you’ll love every minute of it, my dear apprentice. You will adore it. Helpless to it. You didn’t know it, but you were mine the moment you saw me. And yet you had the pride to think you could stop me. The idea that you might resist me.” She giggled, leaned down. “How cute.”

“I… I…”

“Shhh,” she murmured. “Just obey, my sweet apprentice. Just give in… to your lovely mistress…”

Her lips again met his, and just the feel was enough to set him off. Ravel groaned, quivering as he came, surrendering and spilling his seed in his pants. The pleasure rocked him, drained him, sucked him down into the ecstasy of surrender.

Her heard her chuckle above him as her lips broke their torrid kiss, her tongue teasing over her lips. “Good boy,” she cooed. “But a slave should never wear more than his mistress.”

She snapped her fingers and Ravel gasped, his clothes incinerating in a flash, leaving him nothing but his nudity. His cock was instantly pressed against the warm groove of the demon’s cunt as she moaned, continuing to grind him beneath her, and even though he’d just cum, he felt his balls ache with more to give the salacious succubus.

“Mmm. There it is. Oh you poor, silly young mortal. You never had a chance. It was ordained you’d be mine the moment you saw me. But that’s okay. Some women love a challenge. But I savor the triumph above all else. And it’s time… to show you what I mean…”

She leaned down, kissed him again. And as she did so, her hips rose, his cock sprang straight up, and she lowered herself, sheathing him within her.

“Mmmm!” Ravel moaned, his eyes rolling back as the glorious warm, soft tightness of her pussy swallowed him. As she lazily rocked her hips, riding atop his aching, needy cock.

“Good boy,” Moora whispered between kisses. “Surrender to mistress. Surrender your soul. Feed it to me, my slave. Give mistress what she wants.”

He groaned in despair, for he knew he could not beat her. Not now. Not like this. Her lips descended upon him once more, her kiss seeming to swallow her world.

And even the chance to fight… slipped away.

Ravel moaned, shuddering, arching beneath her as her lips moved against his own. A numbness began to seep through him. A sense of loss as she kissed him, as if she were stealing the breath from his lungs with the intensity of that kiss. His head grew light. Spun. His vision danced.

But he was calm.

He was relaxed.

Because mistress was in control.

And as he remembered this, an ecstasy oozed through him like nothing else before. The sense of loss that seemed to steal from him instead filled him with a floating pleasure. As if every cell were buzzing with a sensitive delight. Overwhelming him in a wave.

“Mmmmm,” he moaned, his eyes rolling back as Moora rode his cock, fucking him into the bed. Taking her pleasure from him in rolls of her hips. His essence flowed into her. The misty gasp of his soul seeping from his lips as he was fucked to damnation.

And he loved it.

Loved it more than sanity.

Than freedom.

Than anything.

Moora lifted her lips from his, smirking down at him. “How was that, my slave?”

“M-mistress,” he gasped. “P-please. Mooooore!”

“More?” she cooed coyly, slowing her thrusts, grinding herself atop his cock teasingly. “But my darling, if I do, I’ll turn you into nothing more than my mindless slave. My helpless, hopeless thrall. Do you want that? Do you really want mistress to claim that?”

“Anything,” he gasped, quivering with desperation, his orgasm aching on the edge. “Anything! Please! Mistress! N-need it. Need you! Pleeeease!”

Moora laughed, and even her mocking mirth was like music to his ears. “Ah, well, if my pretty boy begs for it, how could I say no?”

And still smiling, her eyes burning like polished gold, she kissed him again.

And he came.

Ravel wasn’t sure if it was when she sucked out more of his soul or his orgasm that turned his mind white. That made him shudder with the high of pleasure unlike any he’d known before.

He didn’t know.

He didn’t care.

Because it felt so good.

It was like he was floating in a heavens of endless bliss. Sinking among white clouds that cradled him. Soothed him. A void of thought. Of will. Of anything. No suffering. No anger or fear or hate. Merely perfection. Merely pleasure.

And ss he descended, quaking with pleasure back into the world of reality, his vision cleared, and he saw…

The most wonderful, beautiful, glorious woman above him.

“Did you enjoy that, slave?” she cooed.

He shivered at her words, his cock throbbing anew, already hard with desire. “Yes, mistress.”

“Would you do anything for more?”

“Yes, mistress,” he gasped, smiling dumbly.

She laughed. “Good boy. Ah,” she sighed, smirking. “I do so enjoy you wizards. Just… delicious. And you’re quite the tasty one to be sure. I can’t wait until I can snack on you again, slave.

“Mmm. But until then, I’ll have to get you set up with your new loincloth. My slaves can’t be wandering around fully clothed, after all. That would be so very wrong.”

Ravel nodded eagerly. “Yes mistress. Wrong.”

“That’s what I thought. But you ruined my nap, slave. And I know you want to make it up to me.”

He nodded even faster. “Y-yes, mistress! Anything!”

“Good slave,” she said, rose off him and turned around. Ravel stared, enraptured as her perfect, soft bronzed bum hovered above his face. “Now, get to work.”

She descended atop him, and Ravel moaned in bliss as he was buried under the softness of her gorgeous ass. Instantly his hands were on her hips, pressing her down further as his tongue delved into the tightness of her rear, his lips lovingly kissing her, his tongue lavishing her puckered star with adoration. Slowly, steadily, pleasuring her like a good slave.

Because he was relaxed.

Under mistress’s control.

And feeling so very… very…

Good…

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

Love Story

Colette is an up and coming actor, Harry is an international popstar who fell in love with cinema. When the pair work on a rendition of Romeo and Juliet, their worlds collide as feelings develop.

CW: Brief mention of dying, Smut.

Word Count: 11,860

Colette stepped into her dressing room, a lavishly appointed space designed to echo the opulence of the Verona in which her film "Romeo and Juliet" was set. The walls were draped in deep burgundy velvet curtains, softening the room with a rich, warm texture that whispered of hidden secrets and dramatic declarations. Golden accents framed mirrors and furniture, reflecting the flickering light from several ornately carved silver candelabras positioned thoughtfully around the room.

As she entered, her eyes were drawn to the vanity, an exquisite piece of craftsmanship with an expansive mirror bordered by tiny bulbs that bathed the area in a gentle, flattering light. Upon the surface lay an array of cosmetics and brushes, each laid out with precision, their handles catching glints of light like miniature scepters waiting to bestow their magic upon her.

The air was filled with a subtle scent of roses and myrrh, creating an atmosphere that was both calming and invigorating, as if the very essence of romance and tragedy had been captured and dispersed through the room. A large window draped with heavy curtains looked out upon a secluded garden that boasted marble statues peeking through lush greenery���Juliet's own secret sanctuary.

Colette’s costume hung on a dress form; it was a stunning creation of silk and lace, the fabric dyed in shades of moonlight and adorned with delicate embroidery that mimicked the intricate patterns of an Italian tapestry. The bodice was fitted, designed to accentuate her figure while allowing for the dramatic movements required in her scenes.

Next to the dress stood a pair of custom-made shoes, their leather soft and supple, seeming almost alive, like they were molded from a piece of night itself. They were embellished with small pearls and crystals, which twinkled like stars against the shadowy backdrop.

On a small table beside her plush, velvet-covered chaise lounge lay her script, its pages worn from use yet handled with reverence. It was flanked by a quill and an inkpot—an affectation provided by the director to inspire connection to the era they were emulating—as well as a delicate teacup painted with scenes from Shakespeare’s works.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself amidst this feast for senses—a real-life canvas painted with details fit for royalty—Colette prepared mentally to step once again into Juliet's world: one where love defied reason and every corner held both beauty and sorrow. She sat at her vanity, poised to transform under the artful hands of her makeup artist, ready to breathe life into Shakespeare's timeless lover once more.

The door to her dressing room opened with a soft creak, heralding the arrival of Madame Laurette, the makeup artist whose skills transformed actresses into visions from another time. Clad in a smock splattered with the remnants of foundation and rouge from previous masterpieces, Madame Laurette carried an ancient-looking leather case, which she set down with a practiced grace next to Colette.

"Ah, my dear," Madame Laurette began, her voice a soothing melody, "today we paint the tragedy and triumph of young love upon your canvas." Her hands were deft as they opened the case, revealing rows upon rows of pots and brushes, pencils and palettes; tools of the trade laid out like a surgeon's instruments, each with a purpose to bring forth beauty from bareness.

With delicate fingers, Madame Laureette applied a light moisturizer to Colette's face, preparing the skin like a primed canvas. She then used a sponge to dab on foundation that matched Colette's complexion so perfectly it seemed as if it were but a whisper on her skin. As she worked, she spoke softly about the character of Juliet—her passion, her grace, her strength in the face of despair.

Next came the eyes—windows to Juliet's soul. Madame Laurette chose shades that reflected the hues of twilight; dusky purples and soft blues blended seamlessly to suggest a depth of emotion. The eyeliner was applied in a fine line, accentuating the shape of Colette's eyes, making them appear larger, more expressive. Lashes were curled and coated with mascara that made them flutter like the wings of a night moth.

Cheeks were next attended with a brush dusted in rose-pink blush that brought a gentle bloom to her porcelain skin, reminiscent of English roses in bloom. It was as if Juliet herself had paused in a garden, momentarily caught up in thoughts of her Romeo.

Lips were not forgotten—painted in a soft red that was bold yet not overwhelming—a color that whispered of promises and kissed by starlight. As Madame Laurette worked her magic, the transformation from actress to character was nearly complete.

Finally, Madame Laurette set everything with a light dusting of powder which seemed to pull forth an ethereal glow from within Colette herself. Standing back to admire her work, she nodded slightly as if granting approval to proceed with the act.

As Madame Laurette packed away her tools and bid her farewell with wishes of good luck, Colette took one last look at herself in the mirror. Now staring back was Juliet Capulet: tragic yet triumphant in her love—a young woman framed not only by curls dark as raven wings but also by an aura of timeless romance that would soon spill over onto the stage under countless watching stars.

Her movements were infused with an anticipatory grace that seemed woven from the very threads of the narratives she was set to embody. The costume assistant approached, a vision of focus and professionalism, carrying the garment that would complete the transformation: a dress that seemed spun from moonlight and gossamer dreams.

The dress itself was a masterpiece of historical accuracy blended with theatrical flair. Its fabric was a whisper-soft silk that flowed like water over Colette's form, pooling slightly at her feet in a shimmering cascade of sky-blue. Intricate embroidery adorned the bodice, featuring delicate vines and flowers meticulously stitched with silver thread, catching the light with every subtle movement and suggesting a lattice of morning dew. Sleeves of sheer chiffon draped elegantly from her shoulders, airy and almost translucent, giving her arms the appearance of being wrapped in wisps of cloud.

As she stepped into the dress, the assistant deftly laced up the back, pulling the strings tight enough to sculpt her waist without hindering breath—a crucial balance for any performer. The final touch was a delicate ribbon tied in a bow just below her collarbone, a nod to youthful innocence and burgeoning romance.

Once dressed, Colette floated towards the full-length mirror, her steps tentative yet poised as though she were both discovering and remembering Juliet’s haunted grace. Her reflection seemed to transcend time; here was Juliet not as mere fiction, but resurrected in flesh and blood and silk, her eyes alight with both excitement and a hint of sorrow for the tale she was to live anew.

Taking a deep breath that lifted her chest slightly against the soft confines of her dress, Colette turned away from her reflection—away from Juliet's temporary shelter—and made her way out of the dressing room. The corridor outside was lined with flickering candles encased in glass lanterns hanging from ornate metal stands, casting shadows that danced like shy phantoms on the walls.

As she walked, her dress whispered secrets only she could hear, each step a murmur of silk. Exiting the building, she stepped out into an expanse that felt less like part of a film set and more like stepping through a wrinkle in time into Verona itself. The set designers had outdone themselves; cobblestone streets wound beneath balconies overflowing with ivy and blooms. Lamps glowed softly along pathways and a distant fountain murmured in melodious tones.

Here under the vast expanse of an artificial twilight sky beginning to pin itself with stars, Colette paused at the center of an old square waiting for Harry's arrival. In this moment suspended between reality and fiction—where night air kissed her cheeks as sweetly as any lover might—she was neither Colette nor Juliet but something timeless; a whisper of love’s eternal reverie waiting to be awakened by Romeo’s pledge beneath soft-footed shadows.

Colette felt eborn into another age and another life—her heart beating rapidly with anticipation and empathy for her character’s imminent joys and sorrows. She moved towards the set where artificial stars awaited their nightly audience and real emotions would stir under painted skies.

Just as the anticipation in the air reached its peak, Harry emerged from the shadows, a figure pulled from the very pages of Shakespeare. His costume was a masterpiece of Elizabethan artistry—velvet doublet embroidered with intricate silver threads that caught the light with every subtle movement, making him shimmer like a star newly born into the night sky. His breeches were of a similar rich fabric, hugging his legs with a precision that spoke of many hours spent in the tailor’s care. Upon his feet were boots made of soft leather that whispered against the cobblestones as he moved.

His hair, usually untamed and wild, had been tamed into soft waves that framed his face, echoing the romantic heroes of old. Around his neck, a heavy chain with a cross pendant rested against his chest, gleaming softly in the lamplight. His eyes, when they met Colette's, sparkled with a mixture of excitement and nervous energy—the perfect echo of Romeo’s own youthful vibrance and passionate soul.

As Harry walked closer to where Colette stood, waiting in her character's eternal reverie, his presence seemed to draw the very essence of the night towards him. The distant murmur of the fountain seemed to harmonize with his every step, creating a melody that resonated with the quiet rustling of Colette’s gown. Each element of the scene—the glowing lamps along the pathways, the soft rustle of ivy against stone—seemed to lean towards him, as if nature itself was eager to hear the tale these two star-crossed lovers would enact.

The square they occupied breathed with an air of ancient romance; it was as though they had truly stepped back in time and were no longer actors on a set but living embodiments of their characters. The buildings surrounding them wore age like proud badges, their windows darkened save for the occasional flicker of candlelight that suggested life continuing unaware inside. Above them, the crescent moon cradled stars that had witnessed countless tales of love and tragedy.

Harry reached the center of the square, his boots clicking on the cobblestones with a rhythmic certainty. He stopped before Colette, who remained motionless, her gaze fixed upon him with an intensity that belied the serene expression on her face. Her costume—a flowing dress of midnight blue, embroidered with tiny silver threads—whispered tales of bygone elegance as it caught the breeze, fluttering lightly around her ankles.

Clearing his throat softly, Harry began to recite Romeo's lines with a tender fervor that seemed to pull at the very air around him. "But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun." His voice rose and fell in perfect cadence, each word a brushstroke painting emotions across the canvas of the night.

As he spoke, an unexpected gust of wind stirred the leaves around them into a gentle dance, mirroring the turmoil brewing in Romeo's heart as he gazed upon his forbidden love. The scent of rose and old stone mingled together, casting a spell over the scene that was palpable. The director, hidden in the shadows beyond the set's makeshift lights, allowed himself a small smile at the authenticity of this moment—cinema magic in its purest form.

Colette responded in kind, her voice carrying back to Harry with equal parts longing and restraint. "O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?" She stepped forward slightly, her hands clasped before her as if to steady her racing heart. Her eyes never left Harry's, and in them flickered the fire of Juliet's love—a burning, all-consuming flame that acknowledged neither reason nor consequence.

The crew around them had ceased all movement; even those seasoned in film felt themselves caught in the spellbinding performance unfolding before them. The prop master forgot his duties for a moment, lost in the authenticity of Colette's accent and the palpable connection between her and Harry.

Above them, clouds began to drift across the moon's face slowly veiling and unveiling the celestial glow. This natural play of light added a dramatic flair to the scene below—an unwitting collaboration between man and nature that highlighted this poignant moment of shared solitude between two lovers cursed by fate.

Every detail was perfect, the way the lamplight flickered as though trembling with anticipation; how a distant owl hooted right at Juliet’s tender confession; the subtle shift of fabric as Harry moved closer to Colette—contributed to an atmosphere thick with drama and history. Even those behind cameras or holding booms felt as if they were no longer just creating but witnessing something transcendent; a story retold yet forever new in its telling.

As Harry delivered Romeo’s pledge of undying love beneath Juliet's window conceived anew beneath towering oaks and ageless stone buildings, it was clear this was not merely a recitation but an act of truth.

The director, normally a stoic figure shadowed by the breadth of his responsibilities, allowed a rare smile to creep across his face as the final words lingered in the air, trembling like the leaves around them. His approach was silent, reverent almost, as if stepping into a sacred space that the actors had conjured with their spellbinding talent.

"Cut!" he called out, but the word was soft, filled more with awe than command. The silence that followed was profound, filled with the collective held breath of the crew before they erupted into spontaneous applause. The clapping rolled through the set like thunderous waves, each member expressing their unbridled admiration for what they had witnessed.

The director raised his hands, beckoning for quiet, his eyes gleaming with both pride and something akin to gratitude. "That," he said, his voice steady but imbued with emotion, "was nothing short of magnificent. Harry, Colette—I've seen many a scene in my years behind the camera, but what you both have delivered today transcends performance. It reaches into the core of what it means to be human; to love, to despair, to hope."

He walked over to the actors, who were still nestled in their characters' final embrace, slowly returning to themselves as they listened to his praises. "Colette," he continued, turning to her with a respectful nod. "Your Juliet is both vulnerable and fiery; you’ve given her a depth that breathes new life into Shakespeare’s lines. And Harry," he turned with equal admiration to the young actor whose eyes still held a glimmer of Romeo's passion. "You’ve played Romeo not just as a lover but as a warrior fighting against the inevitable tragedy of his fate. Exceptional work."

The surrounding buildings and trees seemed to absorb his words, casting longer shadows as if in agreement. The director then turned towards the crew members who had captured every nuanced moment on film. "And let’s not forget the incredible work of our crew—lighting, sound, props—this magic can’t happen without each piece falling perfectly into place."

He clapped his hands together once more, this time signaling an end rather than silence. "Alright folks, let’s pack up here—remember this feeling of accomplishment. We’ve got early scenes tomorrow and we need to bring this same energy."

As they disbanded gradually, whispers of praise continued amongst them like quiet ripples on a pond at dusk; everyone shared part of the triumph. Juliet’s balcony scene would be remembered not just for its beauty and tragedy but for its vivid realness that evening under the shrouded moonlight—an echo of love carried softly by the wind through the leaves of those ancient trees.

As the crew began to disperse, the air filled with the clatter of equipment being packed and the soft murmur of satisfied conversations. Harry and Colette slowly walked side by side toward the dressing rooms, their costumes slightly less pristine than they had been at the start of the day but still radiant under the fading sunlight. The path was lined with ancient oaks, their branches gnarled and stretched toward the sky like silent watchers of countless tales unfolding under their gaze.

Harry glanced at Colette, noting how the evening breeze gently lifted strands of her hair. She looked ethereal, a stark contrast to the raw intensity she had displayed on stage just moments before. "You were truly magnificent today," he said, his voice carrying a warmth that lingered in the cool air. "It’s amazing how you transform so completely."

Colette smiled, a blush tinting her cheeks. "Thank you, Harry. You were incredible as well. There’s a certain ferocity you bring to Romeo that’s both thrilling and heart-wrenching."

They reached the dressing rooms, tucked behind a curtain of ivy that draped over the stone walls of the old stage building. Its doors stood like portals back to reality from the whimsical world they had just left behind on set.

Pausing by her door, Harry shuffled slightly, a mix of eagerness and hesitation playing across his features. "Colette, I was wondering, would you... perhaps care for some dinner? There’s this little place I know nearby, quite secluded, perfect for winding down."

The offer hung between them like a delicate promise; a chance to extend the enchantment of their shared performance into the evening. Colette’s eyes lit up with genuine interest. "That sounds lovely, Harry. A quiet dinner would be perfect." Her smile was inviting, bridging the gap between their on-set romance and off-set camaraderie.

As they walked towards Harry's car parked under a canopy of whispering leaves, they talked about everything from their interpretations of their characters to trivial anecdotes from their daily lives. The restaurant was nestled in an alley illuminated by strings of faint golden lights that created halos in the misty night air.

Inside, they chose a corner table surrounded by bookshelves filled with worn volumes and odd trinkets—a cozy retreat from the outside world. As they ordered, they continued to unravel layers of conversation, each topic a stepping stone deeper into each other’s thoughts and dreams.

The meal was delicious—simple fare but made with care—a reflection of the restaurant itself. They laughed over shared appetizers and lingered over wine that painted their thoughts in broader strokes. The candlelight flickered across their faces, casting soft shadows that danced to an unplayed rhythm.

By dessert, Harry found himself watching Colette with renewed appreciation as she articulated her ambitions for future roles and her vision for modern theatrical interpretation. She listened equally intently as he described his journey through being a musician and his aspirations beyond.

As Harry and Colette lingered over the last sips of their drinks, the cozy warmth of the restaurant began to feel like a protective cocoon against the crisp night air outside. They shared a quiet moment, smiling at the serendipity of their meeting and the depth of conversation it had spurred. But as they rose to leave, pushing their chairs back gently against the worn wooden floor, the surreal bubble they had enjoyed burst with abrupt clarity.

Stepping out onto the alley, they were met not by the quiet of the night but by a sudden burst of flashing lights and clamorous voices. Paparazzi, having caught wind of their dinner together, swarmed around them like moths to a flame. Cameras clicked and flashed relentlessly, capturing every gesture and expression, as reporters shouted questions trying to pierce through the veil of their private evening.

"Harry! Colette! Are you two more than just co-stars?" one voice rang out, sharper than the rest.

"Is this dinner a sign of a new Hollywood power couple?" another chimed in.

Shields up against this intrusive barrage, Harry instinctively placed a protective arm around Colette’s shoulders. He guided her gracefully yet swiftly towards his car, parked under the now ominous canopy of leaves that whispered secrets in a tone much darker than before. Each flash from the cameras cast stark shadows on the ground and painted their path in fast paced steps.

Colette kept her head down slightly, her smile replaced by a composed mask of cordial indifference; it was clear she was no stranger to these encounters but nonetheless hoped they might evade them tonight. Harry muttered a polite "have a good night" as he helped her into the passenger seat of his car.

Inside the relative safety of the vehicle, they exchanged a look—a mix of amusement and exasperation—and Harry let out a sigh as he started the engine. The lights outside continued to flash through the tinted windows as he maneuvered out of their parking spot.

The drive back was quiet at first, as if they were both processing the sudden shift from intimate conversation to public spectacle. Yet soon enough, Harry turned down the volume on an ambient tune that had started playing automatically when they entered.

"That was intense," he said, glancing over at Colette with an apologetic half-smile.

"It always is," Colette replied, turning to face him with a resigned smile. "But hey, part of our charming careers, right?"

Harry laughed softly. "Yeah, charm is one word for it."

As the car glided through the dimly lit streets, the silence between them grew heavy with unspoken thoughts. Colette broke the tension first, her voice soft but tinged with a hint of frustration.

"I sometimes wonder if this is what we signed up for, you know? The constant scrutiny, the invasion of privacy... Is it worth it in the end?" she mused, her gaze fixed on the passing city lights.

Harry nodded thoughtfully, his grip on the steering wheel tightening imperceptibly. "I ask myself that question too, especially on nights like this. It's like we're always under a microscope, every move dissected and analyzed by strangers."

A sense of comfort blossomed between them, a shared understanding born out of their parallel experiences in the spotlight. Colette turned to Harry, a spark of defiance igniting in her eyes.

"But despite all of that," she continued, her voice gaining strength, "we can't let them define us or dictate our every move. We're more than just their headlines and gossip fodder."

Harry smiled at her resolve, a flicker of admiration shimmering in his eyes. "You're right, Colette. We're artists first and foremost, creators of worlds and emotions."

Their shared conviction filled the car with a renewed sense of purpose, a quiet determination to reclaim their narrative from the prying eyes of the paparazzi. As they neared Colette's apartment building, Harry parked the car with a sense of finality.

"Thank you for tonight," Colette said sincerely, turning to face him with a genuine smile. "Even the chaos at the end, I truly enjoyed our conversation and dinner, it was really good."

Harry returned her smile warmly. "Likewise, Colette. We are more than just co-stars caught in a media frenzy."

As Colette opened the door to her apartment, the image of Harry in his Romeo costume flashed vividly across her mind. His appearance had been a perfect blend of vulnerability and valiance, his attire accentuating the expressive lines of his body as he moved with an almost ethereal grace on stage. The sheer, soft fabric of his shirt clung to him as if it were part of his own skin, and the way the stage lights had caught the highlights in his hair made him look like a figure from an old-world painting—romantic and heroic.

Inside her quiet apartment, everything seemed too still, too empty compared to the warmth of Harry's presence. She tossed her keys on the table absent-mindedly and moved towards her bedroom, her mind replaying their conversation in the car. His words echoed in her ears, blending with flashes of his smile and the intensity in his eyes when he spoke about their artistry. It was as if he'd stripped away all the glitz and scandal that so often cloaked their lives, revealing a raw, sincere connection between them.

Colette tried to settle into bed, pulling her covers close, but restlessness took over. Turning onto her back, she stared at the ceiling, her thoughts spiraling around Harry’s comforting arm around her shoulders earlier that night. She remembered how secure it felt, a protective circle that shut out the incessant flash of cameras and curious stares. The smell of his cologne, a subtle mix of bergamot and sandalwood—seemed to linger on her skin, transporting her back to their fleeting moments of privacy amidst the chaos.

The more she thought about him, the more details came flooding in. How his lips curved into a smile just before he laughed, how his eyes lit up when discussing a particularly passionate scene. Even the way he held himself during their performance—confident yet tender—seemed etched into her memory with surprising clarity.

A sigh escaped her lips as she turned again in bed, fluffing her pillow in vain search for comfort. The digital clock on her bedside table glowed 2:17 AM; time was slipping by slowly tonight. Every tick seemed to resonate within the quiet room, each one reminding her of Harry’s gentle demeanor and unspoken assurances.

Why was it so difficult to push these thoughts aside? Why did every tiny detail of him seem magnified tonight? Colette knew that sleep would be elusive as long as these memories danced through her head, a sweet torment but a torment nonetheless.

Realizing that fighting it was futile, she sat up and reached for a book from her nightstand. Perhaps diving into someone else’s fictional world could ease her back from hers filled with all too real emotions spurred by Harry. Yet as she flipped through page after page, Colette found herself reading without absorbing any words. Her mind was back with Harry, reliving each moment spent together that day.

Finally surrendering to the inexorable pull of those memories, Colette set the book aside and allowed herself to reminisce about every glance exchanged and every laugh shared with Harry until tiredness eventually claimed victory over turmoil—a bittersweet end to an evening that neither camera flashes nor gossip columns could ever truly capture.

As the first rays of morning light began to filter through her gauzy curtains, Colette felt a tentative peace settle over her. The unavoidable sunrise not only heralded a new day but also the unavoidable return to set where today's scenes awaited her—scenes that would force her to bridge the gap between reality and fiction, between Colette and Juliet, Harry and Romeo.

The day unfurled slowly, each moment stretching languidly as if aware of the weight it carried. Colette arrived on set, her heart thrumming a nervous rhythm against the cage of her ribs. The set was a meticulous recreation of Verona, the air perfumed with artificial blooms that lined the faux stone balconies. It was here, beneath a painstakingly crafted balcony, that she found Harry already immersed in his role, his eyes distant yet filled with an intense purpose.

As makeup artists fluttered around them like attentive sprites, dusting their faces with powder and painting their lips, the boundary between Harry and Romeo, Colette and Juliet blurred seamlessly. The director—a wiry man with a penchant for perfection—guided them through their positions with an authoritarian yet oddly paternal touch.

"Remember," he said, his voice low and urgent as if conveying a secret, "this kiss isn’t just about passion. It’s about discovery, wonderment. You’re unveiling layers of your soul to one another."

Taking their places, Harry extended his hand with a gallantry that could either be attributed to him or to Romeo—it was hard to tell at this juncture. As Colette placed her hand in his, their fingers tentatively entwining, she wondered if he felt the same electric surge that ran up her arm.

The cameras rolled silently, capturing every nuanced expression. Around them, the crew faded into obscurity; it was just Harry and Colette, Romeo and Juliet. As Harry spoke his lines—the words Shakespeare penned centuries ago—his voice wove around her heart like a tender vine. His gaze held hers captive and in that moment, under the watchful eyes of countless unseen spectators both present and future, fiction turned into a palpable reality.

With the gentlest of motions indicative of both apprehension and certainty, Harry drew closer. His breath mingled with hers—a sweet prelude to the imminent ballet of their lips. When their lips finally met in an embrace as old as time yet fresh like dew on morning leaves, there was a hush on set so profound that even the rustle of fabric seemed sacrilege.

The kiss deepened not out of direction but from an intrinsic need to explore the burgeoning emotion that had started off as an onscreen farce but had bloomed into something indefinably real. They existed in the breath between lines; in the silence between words—their world distilled into the small space between their intertwined fingers and mingling breaths.

As they parted—an infinity encapsulated in seconds—their gazes lingered longingly; not solely because the script demanded it but because their souls hesitated to disentangle.

"Cut!" The director's voice sliced through the thick curtain of emotion, abrupt yet not unkind.

Applause broke out among the crew, bringing Harry and Colette back from Verona to the soundstage. Yet something lingered in their shared glance, a spark that neither the stark lights of the studio nor the return to their own separate lives could dim. As they stepped away from each other, there was an awkward moment of hesitation, a mutual recognition of something undefined and new swirling between them.

The rest of the day passed in a daze of repeated scenes and whispered lines. Colette found herself more aware of Harry's presence, every look and every touch magnified under the scrutinizing lens of her newfound feelings. Off-camera, they joked and laughed, but there was an unspoken agreement in their smiles, a secret tucked away behind their lighthearted banter.

When filming wrapped for the day, Colette felt the exhaustion from emotional strain more than from physical demand. The carousel of her thoughts kept spinning as she drove home, the ghost of Harry’s touch lingering like a promise on her skin.

Back at her apartment, she knew she ought to eat something or perhaps review scripts for tomorrow's shoot. Instead, she found herself at her window, gazing out into the twilight cityscape, her mind replaying every encounter with Harry. It wasn't just their characters who had discovered new emotional landscapes; Colette feared she was standing on the precipice of a revelation herself.

Her phone rang, slicing through her silence. She hesitated before answering, half-hoping it was Harry. It was her agent instead.

"Colette! Todays news came in; you were absolutely sublime! Everyone’s buzzing about the chemistry between you and Harry," her agent enthused over the line. Though meant as praise, each word weighed heavy on her soul like stones filling her pockets.

"Thanks," Colette managed to say, her voice a mere whisper against the storm inside her. "That means a lot."

"Listen," her agent continued, oblivious to Colette's turmoil, "There’s talk already about future projects for you two—maybe even some endorsements together. This could be huge for your career."

Her career. Right. That’s what mattered. Yet as Colette ended the call and sat back against the soft cushions of her couch, she couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps this time, something else mattered more.

She finally allowed herself to consider the possibility that what was scripted for Romeo and Juliet might have woven itself into the fabric of reality for Harry and herself. Could life imitate art to such a degree? Or was it merely caught up in the whirlwind of creating something beautiful together?

The night deepened around Colette as she sat alone with her thoughts. She knew decisions lay ahead, decisions about how far she should let this potential off-screen relationship develop amidst their on-screen romance. Tonight though, she would allow herself one certainty: that in all her roles, both lived and acted, nothing had ever felt quite as dangerous or as genuine as whatever was unfolding with Harry.

The room dimmed further as the last strains of sunlight vanished, leaving only the flickering shadows cast by the streetlamps outside. Colette's mind, a whirlpool of longing and rationality, began to conjure vivid scenes of Harry reciting lines from their recent scenes. Each word, artfully delivered with his rich, emotive voice, seemed to echo through her now quiet apartment, filling the spaces between her scattered thoughts.

He had stood there on stage, beneath the opulent glow of the set lights, his eyes finding hers in the scripted moments that felt all too real. "But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?" Harry's voice had quivered slightly with a passion that transcended performance. Colette remembered how her heart had leapt at those words, how the scripted distance between them seemed to collapse in a singularity of shared emotion.

As Romeo, he had been impetuous yet earnest, his every motion weaving a spell of youthful ardor and desperate love. And now, alone, she let her mind replay those scenes—his beseeching gaze, his hands reaching not just for Juliet but for Colette herself. Could it be that each line he delivered was an arrow aimed directly at her heart? The balcony scene unfolded again in her thoughts: Harry's silhouette framed by the mock Verona backdrop they had on set. "With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls; For stony limits cannot hold love out," he had declared fervently.

Could stony limits hold her emotions at bay? Her career had always been a fortress of sorts—a necessity to keep vulnerability at bay. But Harry’s portrayal of Romeo dismantled her defenses brick by brick, not through sheer force but through the tender strength of shared vulnerability.

In her mind's eye, Colette wandered back to a moment during rehearsals when Harry had improvised—off-script yet profoundly resonant—speaking directly to her soul beyond the bounds of their characters. "And yet I wish but for the thing I have: My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite." How his eyes had held hers, unwavering!

The thought brought an unexpected tear to Colette's eye—a tear for the uncertain future, for the potential hardships they might face together or apart, but also a tear for the beauty of a connection that might just transcend the ephemeral world of acting.

Colette rose from the couch and moved towards her window. Gazing out into the starlit cityscape, she pondered over these newly tapped depths within her heart. Perhaps tomorrow she would make decisions with consequences she couldn't yet foresee. But tonight belonged to dreams and whispered lines—a night where Harry's recitations from Romeo and Juliet swirled around her heart like a sweet yet potent incantation. Tonight was not about contracts or cameras. It was about understanding that what they might share could be as profound and real as any love story ever penned—an ode not written by Shakespeare but lived by two hearts daring enough to explore it.

As the hours ticked by, the city outside her window slowly transformed. The glaring neon signs dimmed to a soft glow, and the relentless honking of cars turned into a distant murmur, as if even New York herself had decided to catch her breath. In that serene quietude, amidst the gentle rustle of leaves and the occasional chirping of a late-night bird, Colette's mind kept returning to Harry—to his eyes, his voice, his surprisingly delicate touch on stage.

She tried reading a book, but the words blurred into meaningless shapes as her thoughts danced back to those moments onstage when the air between them seemed charged with an electric intensity. It was in those moments when Harry's voice would deepen just so, casting out lines like spells that wrapped around her heart, binding it inexplicably to him.

Restlessness finally got the better of Colette. With a sigh, she set aside her book and picked up her phone. Her thumb hovered over Harry's contact—for a moment she hesitated—but then, driven by an impulse she neither questioned nor understood fully, she pressed call.

The phone rang briefly before Harry's familiar voice filled the line. "Colette? Is everything alright?"

"I couldn't sleep," she confessed softly, the words feeling both foolish and necessary.

There was a pause—a thoughtful silence—and then Harry’s voice came again, quietly intense. "Come over, then. I’ve been trying to distract myself with scripts and lyrics, but it seems tonight is bent on being restless."

A small smile touched her lips; relief washed through her in gentle waves. "Give me twenty minutes?"

"Take your time," he replied with such warmth that it felt like a hug through the phone.

When Colette arrived at Harry’s apartment—a modest yet cozy space filled with stacks of books and paintings that spilled from every corner—she found him sitting on the balcony overlooking the twinkling skyline. He had two cups of tea steaming gently on a small table between them.

As she stepped out onto the balcony, he rose to greet her with an ease that belied his earlier restlessness. They didn’t speak much initially; words seemed superfluous as they sipped their tea and let the city’s nocturnal symphony envelop them.

It was only after both cups were emptied that Harry spoke again, his voice soft but clear against the backdrop of whispering winds. "You know," he began hesitantly, "tonight reminds me of our final act last week—the way Juliet looks at Romeo with such... such unguarded hope.”

"Yes," Colette whispered back, feeling that familiar pull in her chest—the inexplicable connection that seemed to thrive in shared silences and stolen glances rather than grand declarations.

"Sometimes," Harry continued, turning to face her more fully now, "I wonder whether we’re more than just actors playing parts—whether some scenes bleed into reality without us even noticing."

Colette reached out then, touching his hand lightly. "Maybe they do," she said simply. And for a long while after that, they sat there together—two figures etched against a sprawling cityscape—finding solace in each other's presence and in the quiet conviction that tonight was not merely about roles or rehearsals; it was about discovering truths hidden within lines delivered.

As the night deepened and the city's sounds ebbed into a lulling quiet, the conversation between Harry and Colette drifted from their characters' tragic romance to their own realities—careers that were as dazzling as they were demanding, personal lives constantly scrutinized by the public eye, and futures uncertain but full of potential.

"Sometimes I think about stepping away," Harry admitted, his gaze locked on the distant lights. "From the music, from the films—just to see who I am when the lights go off."

Colette nodded. The vulnerability in his voice resonated with her own unspoken fears. "It's as though we're constantly wearing masks, isn't it? Onstage or off, it's hard to tell where the character ends and where we begin."

"Yeah," he sighed. "Tonight though, being here with you—it feels real. No scripts, no audience." His eyes met hers with an intensity that sent a shiver through her.

She smiled, feeling a sense of kinship forge deeper between them. "No masks," she whispered.

They sat for a moment in silence, each lost in contemplation of the rare simplicity this evening had brought them—a stark contrast to their everyday chaos. Harry eventually stood up, stretching his arms towards the starry sky before offering his hand to her. "Come on, let’s take a walk. The night’s too beautiful to spend it all sitting down."

Reluctantly leaving their secluded spot, they wandered down quiet streets lined with barely lit cafes and closed bookstores, their steps synchronized in comfortable silence. Every so often, Harry would point out an old theater or a quaint little art gallery he’d visited during his tours. Colette listened intently, her heart swelling with an affection that was new and yet profoundly familiar.

As they turned back towards Harry's apartment, he stopped suddenly under a streetlamp’s soft glow. "I haven't felt this... peaceful in months," he confessed, looking at her with an earnestness that made her heart skip.

She reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. "Neither have I," she said. "It’s easy to forget what quiet feels like when your life is full of noise."

Harry nodded, his gaze lingering on her face as if memorizing every detail. "Do you think it's possible? To find peace amidst all the turmoil?"

"I think," she started, pausing to gather her thoughts under his attentive gaze, "it's about finding the right person to share in those quiet moments—the ones who hear the music in your silences."

A warm smile spread across Harry's face as he drew her closer. Underneath that streetlamp, amid the sleeping city and beneath an audience of stars, they found a momentary escape—not as Romeo and Juliet caught in Shakespearean tragedy nor as celebrities shadowed by fames relentless spotlight—but simply as Harry and Colette discovering solace within each other's company.

As they slowly headed back to his apartment, hands entwined with silent promises of more shared nights like this one, both understood that while their careers might pull them in different directions come morning, tonight was theirs—a night marked not by dialogues written by playwrights long gone but by honest words exchanged between two souls navigating through life’s vast stage together.

She felt the warmth of his hand in hers, the roughness of his skin against her own soft palm, sending shivers down her spine. She looked up at him, taking in the way he moved, so confident and yet so gentle at the same time. Colette couldn't help but feel safe in his presence. The sound of their footsteps echoed on the empty sidewalk, mixing with the distant hum of traffic and occasional howl of a lonesome siren. As they turned into an alleyway, she breathed in the scent of freshly baked bread from a nearby bakery, mingling with the stale smoke from a cigarette butt left behind by some passerby. The stars above twinkled like diamonds scattered across a midnight sky, their light guiding them home.

They walked hand in hand beneath the glow of the streetlamp, casting shadows on the brick wall behind them as they stepped forward. The rhythm of their stride became synced, almost like they were dancing to an unknown melody. Every now and then, Harry would point out constellations he recognized or make up stories about the ones he didn't, his voice deep and soothing like velvet caressing her ears. His laughter rang out when she teased him about his astronomical knowledge—or lack thereof—and she loved how genuine it sounded despite everything that surrounded them.

Colette paused for a moment to look at a painting on an old doorstep; it was beautifully executed yet marred by graffiti tags that told stories of love lost and hearts broken. Harry stood beside her, looking over her shoulder as if seeing it for the first time too. She noticed how his presence made even this decrepit alleyway seem somehow beautiful.

They continued walking, their steps echoing softly against the pavement as they neared Harry's apartment building. As they reached the front door, he stopped and with a flourish produced a set of keys from his jeans pocket. The metal jangled softly against each other as he unlocked it, and then they stepped inside out of the cool night air into the warmth of his cozy living room. Setting down her purse, Colette looked around at the familiar surroundings - the worn sofa, the bookshelf filled with favorite novels and framed photographs from past adventures, and the unlit fireplace waiting for winter evenings. The musty smell of old books mingled with freshly brewed coffee drifting from the kitchenette.

"Well," Harry began as he shut the door behind them, "I guess this is where our little adventure ends."

Colette's heart sank at his words but she forced a smile anyway. "Yeah... it was fun while it lasted."

"It always is," he agreed quietly, moving towards her and giving her one last hug before gently pushing her towards the door. "You should get some sleep though, early morning meeting tomorrow."

With one final wave goodnight, Colette slipped through the door and into the hallway, hearing it click shut behind her. Outside on the sidewalk, she took a deep breath of the cool night air and felt a slight shiver run down her spine as reality came crashing back in - work in the morning with its emails and deadlines and office politics. But for now, she allowed herself to linger on the memory of their night together: The taste of wine on her tongue still lingering; the soft buzz from alcohol fading; Harry's touch still lingering on her skin like tiny electric shocks. 

As Colette closed the door behind her, she could hear the familiar clicking sound filling her with a sense of finality. The night air was crisp against her skin, carrying with it a chill that sent shivers down her spine as she took in deep breaths of the city outside. Her mind was still reeling from the events of the evening; it had been an unforgettable journey into a world she never imagined existed. But alas, all good things must come to an end, and now she found herself standing on the sidewalk once more, back in reality. The neon lights from nearby stores cast an artificial glow upon the pavement as she stepped away from Harry's cozy apartment and began to walk towards home. The sound of footsteps echoed on concrete as cars honked their horns in the distance, creating a symphony of urban noise that surrounded her.

She could still feel Harry's embrace pressing against her back as if he were wrapping his arms around hers again, sending tingles up and down her spine with each step she took away from him. She could still taste the sweetness of red wine dancing on her tongue - its tartness mixing with the lingering taste of their passionate kisses as if it were a bitter-sweet symphony only they shared. She let out a soft sigh and looked up at the starry sky above; the sight always managed to calm her nerves but tonight it only served as a reminder that their time together was over.

The streets were empty save for a few late-night stragglers making their way home from parties or bars, their laughter and music fading into nothingness as Colette walked further down the block. A soft breeze rustled through trees lining the sidewalk, leaves whispering secrets only they knew while carrying with them.

Once Colette made it home she brushed her teeth and went into her cozy bed wrapped around in her favorite cotton pajamas, snuggling deep into the softness of her sheets. She reached over to her phone on the bedside table and saw Harry's name still glowing on the screen. A smile tugged at her lips as she remembered their last goodbye

As she drifted off, Colette imagines walking through Central Park once more. The crisp air rustled through trees, carrying with it the scent of autumn - earthy and musky. She could hear the sound of leaves crunching underfoot and see birds flitting from branch to branch overhead. They sat together on a bench, leaning against one another as they watched nature's greatest show for free. He held her hand closely, lacing fingers between hers as if they were always meant to be entwined like that. And then she felt a drop of rain on her nose, followed by another one on her cheek. They both laughed as they ran hand in hand towards his apartment; their shoes splashing through puddles left behind by an unexpected shower that cloud-covered sky promised earlier in the day.

Colette woke up with that same coolness brushing against her face but found herself alone in bed instead of curled up with Harry. The memory lingered like a fond dream but faded away with each blink until all that was left was reality.

Colette got ready and made her way over to the studio, today was the last day of scenes, and the scene where Romeo and Juliet meet their demise.

As she entered the bustling set, the weight of the final day pressed on her shoulders like a heavy curtain about to fall for the last time. The air was thick with a mix of excitement and melancholy, as everyone from the crew to the cast moved with a purposeful urgency, aware that this chapter was closing. Colette brushed past the props and costume racks, her mind still tangled in thoughts of Harry and the night that they had spent wrapped in each other’s company.

She found herself in front of her dressing room mirror, staring at her own reflection as she slipped into Juliet's intricate gown. Each layer of fabric seemed to wrap her tighter, not just in character but also in the realization that soon she would have to strip away this identity that had become a second skin over months of filming.

"Knock knock," came a familiar voice from the door. It was Harry, leaning against the frame with that charming smile that always seemed to disarm her.

"Hey," Colette replied, her heart skipping a beat. "Ready for the grand finale?"

"As I'll ever be," Harry said, stepping inside and helping adjust a loose strand of her hair. "It’s surreal, isn’t it? Feels like just yesterday we were stumbling through our first lines together and today we die together."

Colette nodded, feeling the corners of her eyes moisten. "I'm going to miss us—this."

Harry took her hand gently, squeezing it reassuringly. "The end of one story, Colette. Not the end of everything."

Together, they walked onto the set where the final scene awaited them—a beautifully tragic conclusion to Shakespeare’s timeless tale. The set was a somber array of shadows and light, perfectly crafting an ambiance befitting their last moment as Romeo and Juliet.

As they stepped into their marks, silence enveloped the set. The director called for quiet on set and slowly, every surrounding noise dulled into obscurity until there was nothing but the fictional world they were anchored in.

"Action!" came the resolute call.

The scene unfolded with an intensity that mirrored the raw emotions both Harry and Colette felt. They delivered their lines with a palpable passion, their voices laced with the poignant realization of both the characters' and their own impending separation. As Romeo, Harry took a vial of poison, his hands trembling slightly—a detail that added a layer of desperate realism to his performance. Colette, as Juliet, lay motionless on the stone-cold crypt, her chest rising and falling subtly, awaiting her final cue.

When it came time for Juliet to awaken, Colette's eyes fluttered open to meet Harry's gaze one last time. The sorrow in his eyes was reflected in hers; no longer just acting, they were living their characters' tragedy. As she spoke her last lines, a tear escaped down her cheek, blurring the boundary between performance and reality.

The potent mix of fiction and their personal goodbye charged through their final kiss, drawing a silent gasp from the crew around them. As Juliet drove Romeo's dagger into her chest, Colette collapsed beside Harry with a grace that spoke volumes of the artistry she had poured into her role.

For a few heartbeats after the director called "Cut!" nobody moved. The echo of their lines lingered in the air, heavy with the weight of finality. It was only when the applause broke out that Harry and Colette were pulled back from Verona to the stark reality of the studio set.

Still lying beside each other on the cold ground of the set crypt, they turned to look at each other one last time. The clapping around them faded into a distant murmur as Harry reached out to brush away another tear from Colette’s cheek.

“That was...” Harry started but seemed unable to find the right words.

“Beautiful,” Colette finished for him, her voice barely above a whisper. “And absolutely fucking heartbreaking.”

They helped each other up and took a bow to the crew whose cheers had now filled up space like light flooding into dark corners. It was over — their journey as star-crossed lovers had come to an end on screen.

Just then, the director, a tall figure with a rumpled look that spoke of endless days and sleepless nights, stepped into the circle of light. He adjusted his glasses, looking from Harry to Colette with an expression torn between admiration and the perpetual dissatisfaction of a perfectionist.

"Truly magnificent," he pronounced, though his voice carried a but that hung in the air unspoken. The crew quieted, sensing there was more to come. "However," he continued, casting a quick glance at the cameraman who nodded sheepishly, "we had a slight glitch with the lighting. One of our key lights flickered out right at the crucial moment."

A collective sigh rippled through the team, mixed with a few suppressed groans. Yet no one protested— they all knew the importance of getting it just right.

"We need to go for another take," the director declared firmly. The disappointment was palpable, but so was the resolve to perfect the art they were all crafting together.

Harry and Colette exchanged a look of weary determination. Without a word, they moved back to their starting positions beside the stone altar that served as Juliet's final resting place. 

As the crew reset their equipment, Harry glanced around at the towering set pieces that recreated Verona's gothic splendor. Artificial moonlight streamed through stained glass windows crafted from gel and plastic but beautiful nonetheless. Shadows danced along walls textured to look like ancient stone, casting eerie patterns that whispered of old secrets and timeless tragedies.

Colette smoothed her velvet gown—a rich crimson that pooled around her like spilled wine—and repositioned her hairpiece, tucking a stray lock behind her ear before she lay down once more on the cold faux-marble slab.

The props master darted forward to adjust the placement of the dagger—a replica so finely crafted it seemed as sharp as truth itself—before scurrying away as silently as he had arrived.

"Places everyone!" called the assistant director, a sprightly woman whose energy seemed inexhaustible. Her voice cut through the murmured conversations and last-minute adjustments, snapping everyone back to attention.

As silence reclaimed the set, encapsulating it in a tense bubble of anticipation, the director looked over his tableau one last time. Satisfied, he lifted his hand high then brought it down sharply.

"And... action!"

In a haunting moment, Colette delved deeper into her character, her eyes brimming with an unfathomable anguish originating not in physical torment but in the profound intertwining of loss and love. As she enacted plunging the steel through heart and bone with tragic precision, Harry’s response mirrored her intensity—his visage a masterful portrayal of despair and utter helplessness.

Silently, the cameras rolled, capturing each subtle nuance: the taut muscles beneath Juliet's delicate makeup; Romeo's trembling fingertips reaching across unseen barriers; Colette's quivering shoulders as she drew breaths heavy with sorrow. When she crumpled beside Harry once more, her descent seemed like a graceful surrender—a fragile leaf succumbing to its inevitable fall.

The seconds stretched endlessly until once again the director called out "Cut!" His voice broke through Colette’s final shuddering breaths and this time when he spoke there was no hiding his satisfaction. "Perfect," he said simply, nodding with fervor.

The applause that erupted was spontaneous and heartfelt, echoing around the cavernous studio like waves crashing against a shore. Crew members wiped away tears, caught in the emotional riptide of the scene they had just witnessed.

Harry and Colette, still entangled on the ground, finally allowed themselves a small smile—exhausted, relieved, and a little incredulous at the magic they had managed to recreate. As they stood up, their faces glistening with sweat and theatrical tears, they were enveloped in a series of eager hugs and congratulations from everyone around them.

The makeup artists hurried over with their kits ready to do touch-ups, but for a moment nobody touched Harry or Colette; it was as if their looks were sacred, perfectly capturing the essence of the poignant tragedy they had just embodied. The director approached them, clapping Harry on the back and kissing Colette on both cheeks.

"I couldn't have asked for more," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "You both brought Juliet and Romeo to life in a way I never could have envisioned when we first started this project."

Harry, catching his breath, nodded appreciatively. "It felt right," he admitted, looking down at his costume, stained with artificial blood that somehow felt all too real at that moment.

Colette brushed a tear from her cheek and laughed lightly. "I think I'm going to miss her," she confessed, referring to Juliet. "It's strange how a character can become a part of you."

As they made their way off the set, passing through the constructed archways and past the fabricated stone tombs, there was a collective sense of completion but also of loss; the world they had created was temporary, its dissolution inevitable now that the film was wrapped.

The wrap party later that evening was a lively affair held at a local venue adorned with replicas of props and costumes from the film. The mood was buoyant yet bittersweet as cast and crew mingled, sharing memories from months of hard work.

Colette found herself standing by a balcony overlooking the city lights, a glass of champagne in hand. Harry joined her soon after.

"It's going to be odd not seeing everyone tomorrow," he said, leaning against the railing beside her.

"Yeah," Colette agreed softly. "It's like saying goodbye to family."

They sipped their drinks in companionable silence for a moment before Harry spoke up again.

"What’s next for you?" he asked curiously.

Colette shrugged slightly. "A few scripts to read; maybe some time off. And you?"

"Same," Harry replied. "Though it'll be hard to top this experience."

They smiled at each other, sharing an unspoken acknowledgement of the journey they had shared. The night grew deeper around them as words gave way to shared glances and laughter from inside reached their ears—a soundtrack to endings and new beginnings alike.

“Why don’t we get out of here, go to my place for a while.” Harry said while looking over at Colette.

Colette glanced up at the stars twinkling above, considering his invitation. A gentle breeze ruffled her hair, bringing with it the distant sounds of celebration from inside. It felt like the perfect end to an intense and transformative day.

"Sounds like a plan," she replied with a smile that matched the lightness in her heart.

They excused themselves from the party, slipping away unnoticed among the throngs of well-wishers and fellow revelers. The city's streets were quiet as they walked side by side, their footsteps syncing in a comfortable rhythm.

Arriving at Harry's place, he unlocked the door and let them into his warmly lit apartment. Colette really examined the place. The space was tastefully decorated with various mementos from his travels and projects, each piece telling a story of its own. Colette wandered over to a shelf displaying several old cameras and script binders.

"This place has character," she commented, picking up a vintage camera and examining it closely.

"Thanks," Harry said as he went to fix them some drinks in the kitchen. "It's my little sanctuary away from all the chaos."

Returning with two glasses of wine, he joined her by a large window overlooking the cityscape. They talked for hours about everything—from their fears and dreams to trivial stories from set—each conversation thread drawing them closer, weaving a new layer into their friendship.

As dawn hinted at its arrival with a soft glow on the horizon, Harry poured them each another glass of wine. "To new beginnings?" he proposed, raising his glass slightly.

"To new beginnings," Colette echoed, clinking her glass against his. They sipped their wine in serene silence, watching as the city slowly came to life.

Harry's heart raced as he leaned in closer to Colette, his breath hot against her ear. "I have to do this," he whispered urgently, desperation lacing his words. Colette's eyes widened in surprise, but she nodded, giving him permission to continue. And with that, Harry pressed his lips hungrily against hers, pouring all of his pent-up desire and longing into the passionate kiss. Electricity crackled between them as their bodies molded together, fueling the intensity of their connection. In that moment, nothing else mattered but the taste of each other on their lips and the overwhelming need driving them both.

“I’ve been thinking about this since we filmed that scene.”

Colette's breath hitched at Harry’s admission. "That scene?" she inquired, her voice trembling with a heady cocktail of nerves and anticipation. He traced his thumb across the contour of her lips, nodding before reclaiming them with a renewed intensity that left no room for doubt.

"That damn scene," he murmured against the luscious curve of her mouth, his hot whispers making her shiver in response. His hands found their way to her waist, pulling her closer so she could feel every hard inch of him against the softness of her body.

Colette's heart pounded in her chest as Harry's thumb traced the contours of her lips, her eyes fluttering closed at the feeling. His hot whispers sent shivers down her spine, and she couldn't help but arch into him, seeking more contact.

"That scene," he murmured against her skin, his voice thick with desire, "made me want you even more." With that, he claimed her lips once again, his tongue diving deep into her mouth as his hands found their way up underneath her shirt. She moaned into the kiss, feeling his calloused fingertips brush against the underside of her breasts.

His touch sent electric shockwaves through her body, making every nerve ending tingle with anticipation. She whimpered softly against his mouth, clutching at his shoulders as he teased her nipples through her bra. "Harry," she gasped out between ragged breaths, her voice barely a whisper.

He pulled back slightly to look down at her flushed face. "Tell me you want this," he growled lowly, eyes dark and intense as they bore into hers. Colette swallowed hard before nodding frantically. "I do," she whispered back in a voice that shook with need.

Without further hesitation, Harry scooped Colette up into his strong arms and carried her over to the nearby bed. He set her down gently before kneeling down between her spread legs and gazing up at her with a hungry glint in his eyes. "You are so so fucking beautiful," he murmured approvingly as he ran his roughened hands up along the insides of her thighs until they reached their final destination: the lace-covered mound of between them.

Groaning lowly, Harry pressed his fingers against the damp material covering Colette's core and pushed them through the fabric to slide along her wet folds. She cried out softly as sensations she hadn't felt since that fateful day on set washed over her once again—sensations that only seemed to intensify now that they were alone together like this .

Harry's fingers slid deeper into Colette's wet folds, finding her swollen clit and circling it gently. She moaned loudly, arching her back as the sensations overwhelmed her. "You like that, don't you?" he growled, his voice thick with desire.

"Oh god yes," she whimpered, her eyes fluttering closed. "Please, Harry. I need you."

He pulled his fingers away from her core and stood up, pulling her with him. She stumbled to her feet, feeling unsteady from the intense pleasure he'd just given her. He backed her up against the wall, their bodies flush from chest to thighs. His hard cock pressed against her stomach, making her even wetter.

"You are so pretty, love.," he murmured again, his lips brushing against hers in a featherlight kiss. His hands roamed over her body, squeezing her ass cheeks and pulling them apart to reveal her tight little hole. "I want you to feel every inch of me inside you."

Colette shuddered at his words, imagining how good it would feel to be filled up by him. She reached down between them and took hold of his cock through his pants, stroking it slowly as she looked up at him with pleading eyes. "Please," she whispered again.

Harry groaned deeply and grabbed hold of her wrists, lifting them above her head and pinning them against the wall next to her head. His other hand slid down between their bodies once more, pushing aside the fabric of their clothes until he could position his cockhead at her entrance. He looked into her eyes for permission before thrusting forward powerfully into her tight heat.

She cried out in shock and pleasure as he filled her completely in one swift motion. He began to move inside her slowly at first, watching as she adjusted to his size. But soon enough he picked up speed, slamming into her over and over again with a roughness that made Colette's legs shake uncontrollably beneath him."Fuck yes!" she screamed breathlessly as he took control of their coupling completely."

She could feel every inch of him, stretching and filling her while also leaving her wanting more. His grip on her waist tightened as he picked up speed, slamming into her so hard that the bed shook beneath them.

"You like that?" he growled, his voice hoarse with lust.

"God yes!" she moaned back, arching her back to meet each of his thrusts. Her nails dug into his shoulders as she clung to him, unable to resist the overwhelming pleasure coursing through her body. He reached down between them and rubbed circles around her clit with his fingers, sending shudders of delight through her entire being.

"You're so fucking tight," he grunted, leaning down to capture one of her nipples in his mouth and sucking hard. The sensation sent electric shocks straight to her groin, making her even wetter for him. She cried out his name as he hit a particularly sensitive spot inside her, causing an explosive wave of pleasure that left her breathless.

Colette found herself begging for release as he continued to thrust into her unmercifully. "Please... I need you to cum with me!" She could feel herself getting closer and closer to the brink but didn't want it without him by her side. In response, he picked up the pace even more, driving deeper than ever before as they both neared their climaxes together.

Their bodies moved in a frantic rhythm, the sound of their heavy breathing and the soft thuds of flesh meeting flesh filling the room. Colette felt the coil of tension winding tighter and tighter within her, her entire being focused on the overwhelming sensations Harry was eliciting from her.

Just as she thought she could take no more, Harry’s movements became even more purposeful, his strokes deepening, each pushing her further towards that edge. His mouth left her nipple with a wet pop, traveling up her neck, leaving a trail of kisses until he reached her ear. His hot breath against her ear sent another shiver down her spine as he whispered, "Let go for me, love. I’ve got you."

And with those words, Colette felt the dam break. A powerful orgasm washed over her, waves of pleasure pulsating through her as she cried out his name, her body trembling uncontrollably. Harry followed soon after, his own climax overtaking him with a groan as he buried his face in her neck, his body shuddering against hers.

As they both regained their breath, Harry slowly pulled back to look at Colette, his eyes soft now with a tender glow. Gently, he pressed a kiss to her forehead before easing out of her and helping her lay down on the bed. He lay beside her, pulling her into his arms and wrapping her up in his warmth.

They lay there in silence for a moment, neither needing words to express what had just transpired between them. Finally, Colette turned to look at him, a shy smile playing on her lips. “That was…” she started but seemed lost for words.

“Everything,” Harry finished for her, smiling back. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear gently. “You were everything, my Juliet.”

Colette snuggled closer into his embrace, feeling an unfamiliar sense of peace wash over her. What had started as an undeniable attraction had blossomed into something far deeper in these moments alone together. They both knew that what was happening between them wasn’t just fleeting passion; it was something that might just redefine their understanding of connection and desire.

As the night deepened, outside the confines of their intimate world, the city's sounds blended into a distant hum, almost like a lullaby meant to soothe them in their post-climactic serenity. Harry lay there, feeling the gentle rise and fall of Colette's breathing against him, his thoughts meandering through the events that had led to this moment.

After what felt like an eternity bathed in silence and warmth, Colette stirred slightly, breaking the magical spell that had enveloped them. She lifted her head to meet his gaze, her eyes reflecting a mix of wonder and a hint of vulnerability. "Harry," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the quietude. "What does this mean for us? For tomorrow?"

Harry’s heart tightened at her words. Tomorrow. With their lives so deeply entrenched in public scrutiny and their careers always on the line, the weight of reality began to dawn on him. Yet looking into Colette's hopeful eyes, all he wanted was to delay those worries, to live in this bubble for as long as they could.

He brushed his lips against her forehead softly, choosing his words with care. "Let's not think about tomorrow yet," he murmured softly. "Tonight, it’s just you and me. No labels, no expectations. Just... us."

Colette nodded slowly, nestling back into his chest. "Just us," she echoed, allowing herself to be enveloped by the warmth of his promise.

They stayed like that for a while longer until sleep began to claim them, their bodies entwined in a quiet promise of the now with thoughts of tomorrow held at bay. 

[tainted-liquor]

⟡'Big Ass Attitude ☆ [21.10.23] - ft. Earth42 Miles G. Morales

☆彡 Ingredients: sugar, kisses, n a lil bit of smiles!

"Mamita, date prisa! Vamos a llegar tarde!" Miles called from downstairs, struggling to make his tie look normal. You groaned, adding the finishing touches to your makeup and gently gracing the shimmery silver brush across your nose and cupid bow. "Uh, yeah, Miles! I can't beat my face any faster," you groaned, throwing your brush back into its drawer with a little more force than you'd like to admit. "Please don't start, lil' girl," Miles replied, his low and slightly irritated voice filling your ears as he made his way up the steps and into your room. He leaned against the door frame as he looked you up and down, analyzing your beautiful red dress before turning his attention to his white collar.

"Oh sure, I won't start! Miles, get the fuck out of my room," You huffed, raising yourself from your ivory desk chair and making your way over to Miles. He gave you a sharp glare, eying you up and down with his mismatched emerald green and deep hazel eyes. "What did I just say?" he warned, rolling his eyes ever so slightly before stepping aside, giving you full access to the black-rimmed mirror on your bedroom door. "Mhm, whatever you say Gonzalo!" you muttered, nodding your head with faux compliance as you smoothed out the smooth and shiny fabric of your red dress. "Where'd you say we were going again love?" You asked, doing a half-turn in the mirror to see what your dress looked like from all angles.

Miles chuckled lowly at your usual snide remarks. It's not that he didn’t care, you just always wanted the last word and he thought it was funny. The way you’d stop him mid-sentence, pressing an unwavering finger to your lips as an indication for him to stop talking. He never got bored of the way you’d grab whatever it was you wanted, eagerly gesturing to whatever the new item of interest was before asking, no, telling him that you were gonna get this one. IT worked out perfectly, with Miles being fine with virtually anything while you dragged him along with you for every bumpy ride you had in store.

The red glittery material twinkled under your room's industrial white lighting, casting soft red highlights on the warm white of your bedroom walls. You fluffed out your curls, leaning on one leg as you gave yourself a final look through the reflective glass. While waiting for Miles to answer, you eyed him through the mirror, watching as his eyes became transfixed on your dress. He watched as the shimmery fabric found purchase on every ounce of skin it could find, highlighting every beautiful imperfection in its shiny path. Dear god, he won.

"Well damn, you wanna borrow it next?" you chuckled, turning around to face him before grabbing your bag from off your vanity desk. He cleared his throat, snapping his eyes shut before letting out a half-amused sigh. "I got tickets to this fancy-ass theater from my coach...something about MVP," he shrugged, holding your upper waist like the most precious gem in the world. To Miles, you were nothing short of something carved and molded from angels; their gentle and heavenly hands spent years perfecting their craft to give birth to the most gorgeous model to ever walk the clouds above. You were too beautiful to walk the heavens, so here you breathe, blessing the world with your beauty.

"You ready to go? We got like 35 minutes, 'n I still wanna watch out for traffic” He reminded, putting away most of the makeup you left open on top of your maple oak vanity. "Yeah, c’mon,” you nodded, quickly shoving your perfume, lipgloss, house keys, and phone into your small handbag. You gasped when you reached the car, earning a soft and concerned glare from your boyfriend. His beautiful face glowed under the soft glare of the moonlight and New York neons, properly illuminating the depth in each of his facial features. “¿Qué pasa, qué necesitas?” He queried, instantly turning around to see what was wrong. 

You looked up at him, deep black irises shining and glittering under the ghostly hue of ‘spotlight’, placing your delicate hands on either side of Miles’s shoulders. “I left my bracelet in the house…can you get it for me pleaseee~?” You whined, leaving a soft trail of delicate kisses along the side of his jaw and right next to his lips, barely ghosting his now-prominent dimple as a love struck smile creeped up on his face. He nodded drunkenly, eyes filled with nothing but adoration as he ran back in the cozy apartment to look for your glimmering rose-gold bracelet. He made quick work of tearing up the entire house, not stopping until he came across the gorgeous piece of jewelry then darting back out the door. Everyone else may know Miles to be a stoic and quiet young man, but that well-kept façade always seemed to crumble when faced by you.

“Thank you, boo!” You chirped, climbing into the passenger seat of Miles’s all black Tesla, courtesy of his uncle for his 17th birthday. The seats were ice cold, creating a numbing clash against the body heat of your skin as you felt goosebumps grow across every inch of your uncovered skin. This didn’t go unnoticed by Miles, who wasted no time in taking off his suit jacket and draping the soft silk across your shoulders in a heartbeat. “¿Estás bien?” He questioned, quickly starting up his car to jumpstart the heat as he reached to connect his phone to the car radio. You nodded, quickly smacking his hand away as you connected your phone to the speaker system instead.

“I give you my jacket…and you smack my hand?” He chuckled, giving you a small eye roll as he used one hand to guide himself out the crammed parking spot. You nodded, smiling at him brightly as you let the bass of ‘Not My Job’ by Flo fill the empty space of Miles’s car. “You always play like…CD osama or something-“

“DD Osama, love” he sniggered, biting back a louder laugh that threatened to leave his lips. You rolled your eyes, gently smacking the nape of his neck as he giggled louder. “Miles shut up you know what I meant” you scoffed, pretending to be annoyed and leaning against the passenger door, watching the city pass you by as your boyfriend broke into a fit of laughter. “Yes ma’am,” he corrected, using his free hand to hold the back of your seat's headrest, gently patting the plush leather to the rhythm of your playlist as you talked his ear off about your plans for the future. “And then, I wanna go into theatrical arts. We should buy a cute lil house for the two of us when we graduate! I’ll decorate it, and it’ll be soooo fuckin’ cute,” you rambled, scanning Miles’s features every now and again to check that he was really listening, and he was.

He clung to every word like a mother clinging onto her energetic baby; filled with pride and joy as her beautiful baby girl scoped out the world around her and mapped her way through the fog. He nodded along, keeping his eyes on the road but still sparing you attentive glances while you ranted about your sudden surge of baby fever and hopes for your future. It hadn't even occurred to you that the bumpy and traffic-clad ride was now long over, with you and Miles having found a spot in the parking lot over 15 minutes ago. Miles was leant over the cushioned arm rest, one hand supporting his head while his other wrist rested on his arm. “Oh shit, Miles, why didn’t you tell me we were here?” You gasped, quickly grabbing your things as Miles ran to open your car door.

“Sorry. Didn’t wanna interrupt you” He beamed, taking your hand in his as he led you out of the ink-stained vehicle and closing the door behind you. You lead Miles forward to the entrance, almost like you had been to the unfamiliar establishment before while your boyfriend followed closely behind you. He chuckled, resting his chin on your shoulder while he mumbled dangerously close to your ear. 

“I’ll let you know next time. I love you”

Taglist !♡

@ashsostrange @chessbox @janaeby @faeriesoiree333 @fivestardior @an1bara @bachirasegoist @milesnanana77 @niaurluv @sp1derw1re @ban-al3x @we-loveebony @kae2kaee @dxrlingcc

[rubberizer92]

He stands like a statue brought to life, every inch of him radiating power, elegance, and timeless allure. 🖤✨ Clad in a flawless suit of liquid silver latex, his body is a work of art—muscles carved with precision, each line reflecting the golden glow of the opulent room around him. The suit hugs him perfectly, sculpting every curve and flex, making it impossible to tell where the man ends and the latex begins. 💪🔥

His piercing gaze, framed by a perfectly groomed silver beard, carries the weight of someone who has seen it all—every challenge, every victory. His silver hair glints under the light, as regal as a crown, marking him not just as a man but as an icon. 🖤 This is no ordinary figure. He is strength and sophistication wrapped into one, a living legend whose presence fills the room.

The mirrored walls reflect his commanding stance, amplifying the intensity of his aura. His chest rises and falls in a calm, controlled rhythm, his body poised for action yet perfectly at ease. His fists tighten ever so slightly, veins bulging through the sheen of the latex, as if ready to command, conquer, and claim. 🫦 Is he a guardian of this golden sanctuary, or its ruler? Either way, there’s no doubt—he’s untouchable.

What’s his story? Is he a mentor, guiding others into this polished world of perfection? Or is he a symbol, a reminder of what devotion to strength, discipline, and allure can achieve? The answers lie in his gaze, but to meet it is to risk losing yourself entirely.

Would you dare to stand before him—or kneel in awe of his perfection? Create your world of power and allure today. 🔗

https://ko-fi.com/rubberizer92/commissions

[peachesyeo]

Player 1117 ── ATEEZ OT8 0001 ─ into the game

THIS SERIES IS MATURE! MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED!

⊹ 2k words ⊹ gamecharacters!ateez x fem!reader (ft. txt) ᭡ fantasy au, dark romance au, obsessive/yandere elements.

✧ a/n: i know you guys don't read my author's note so have fun. /: thank you @sousydive for beta reading.

✦ network: @newworldnet

⊂ warnings: -

:̗̀➛ 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭? :̗̀➛ 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐚𝐠𝐞? :̗̀➛ 𝐣𝐨𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭? (for all works)

This cannot be true.

You stared at the young girl in the mirror before you. She seemed no more than twelve years old, her raven hair cascades in soft waves around her shoulders, framing her face like a midnight veil. Her eyes are pools of dark brown, with mesmerizing purple swirls dancing within her pupils. 

Her skin is fair and smooth, like porcelain, with a delicate rosy hue on her cheeks that speaks of youth and vitality. Her features were exactly of the Y/n in Utopia - a small button nose, full rosy lips and high cheekbones. She wears a silky sleeping gown, one that looks exactly the same as the one you are wearing right now. 

You raised your hand to touch your face, and so did her. 

You have read many novels about transmigrating - but novels are fiction. And this is real.

“I’m… in the game?” You whispered, your shaking fingers reaching to touch the mirror. But the cool touch on the tips of your fingers told you that this is not a dream, that everything is real. You looked around, the room you were in is spacious, with high ceilings adorned with intricately carved moldings and delicate crystal chandeliers. Sunlight streams through tall windows draped in dark amethyst curtains, glowing down on you.

The walls, floors and pillars were made of the finest marble, covered with sumptuous silk tapestries of flowers. You walked towards the nearest wall, running your fingers along the fine threads that form the images that seem to come alive in the flickering light of the candles and fireplace. 

In the center of the chamber sits a four-poster bed, its canopy draped in sheer silk curtains. The bed is covered in luxurious lavender silk sheets, embroidered with the finest silver thread. You walked over to them, taking a seat. They were soft and light, like you were sitting on a cotton cloud. You stared outside of the window, trying to digest the fact that you are in the game. 

But who are you?

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. You watched as a maid entered, bowing to you. “Greetings to the Star of Eternity. The Moon and Eclipse have requested your audience.” 

You nearly let out a squeak; the maid had answered your question. As two young boys walked in, you were even more certain of it.

You are now Choi Y/n, Star of Eternity, Princess of the Eternity Kingdom.

"Y/n!" The shorter one ran towards you, lifting you up in his arms as though you weighed nothing. "How is our little Star feeling today?"

"Beomgyu! Y/n's twelve, stop carrying her like that!" The taller one chided, as Beomgyu rolled his eyes, sticking his tongue out at his older brother in response. You wrapped your arms around his neck for support, staring up at your third brother's face.

Choi Beomgyu, the Eclipse of Eternity. He is the third Prince, known for his gift of creating illusions. Utopia did not have much of Y/n's backstory, but you knew that Beomgyu was the only person spared under Wooyoung's sword, and took over Eternity as the new King.

The Beomgyu holding you has long black hair that falls into his shoulders. He pressed a kiss onto your temple, rubbing his cheek against yours like a cat. "My little Star, so precious." He cooed, ignoring the exasperated sighs of your other brother across the room. "What would I do without you?"

You looked over to your other brother for help. He put his hand on his forehead tiredly. "Let Y/n down, Gyu. Please."

"You're all work and no fun, Soobin hyung." Beomgyu pouted unhappily, placing you gently back on the bed. "Is our little Star excited to meet her new friend?"

Choi Soobin, Moon of Eternity, the second Prince born with the gift of manipulating water. He would later become the War General of Eternity, dying to San in a battle.

Soobin shared the same raven hair as the both of you, his fringe falling in front of his eyes. He seemed to have had enough of Beomgyu, sighing loudly and flexing his right arm before casually delivering a loud smack on the back of Beomgyu's head. Ignoring Beomgyu's over-dramatic whines, Soobin approached you, kneeling on one knee to be at the same eye level as you. Taking your hand into his, Soobin had a simple dimpled smile on his face.

"Y/n-ah, remember when Mother mentioned that we have guests over? They are very important people, so remember to behave yourself, okay?"

You tilted your head in confusion. "How important are they, Brother?"

Beomgyu stopped whining and exchanged a look with Soobin. The other lifted his thumb and index, slowly pulling them apart. "It’s this important, Y/n-ah."

"The point is," Beomgyu interjected, earning a disapproving look from Soobin. "They will be arriving before dinner. Yeonjun hyung had already gone to welcome them along with Mother, so we have an afternoon for you to get ready, Y/n." He grinned, one that made you nervous for no reason. "Our little Star must be pretty too."

You glanced at Soobin. The older man nodded, wearing a satisfied expression on his face as though Beomgyu finally made sense. "I got you many dresses to try on, Y/n-ah. Shall we go?" He smiled, offering his hand to you.

You were bathed by the maids before they dressed you into a lavender dress with puffed sleeves and the hem fell gracefully to your knees. Beomgyu picked a purple silk ribbon, tying it to your hair while Soobin knelt on one knee, fitting a pair of white shoes with amethyst crystals onto your feet. When you were done, Beomgyu gushed in delight, showering you with compliments after compliments.

"Our Gem, our little Star," Beomgyu cooed as your face heated up at the praises. "Looking so pretty... I mean, you are always pretty, my Star, but right now, with my magnificent sense of fashion-"

"Our Star!" A loud voice boomed, sending everyone in the room jumping. A tall, blonde hair male barged in, his eyes lighting up the moment it landed on you. You hear Beomgyu mutter a curse under his breath while Soobin puts his hand on his chest. "Yeonjun hyung, at least announce that you're here!"

Yeonjun ignored him, making a beeline towards you and dismissing the maids in the process. "Our Star, so bright and... Why is she so purple?" His face scrunched up at the sight of the little purple crystals adorning your hair, which Beomgyu had 'generously' clipped onto your hair. "Take it off, take it off. The ribbon is purple enough; Y/n doesn't have to be a grape for the Kims to see."

Choi Yeonjun, Sun of Eternity, heir to the throne. He is the oldest out of the four of you, with an ability to soothe feelings. Your face fell slightly, remembering how Yeonjun had died when you played Utopia as the heroine. He was stabbed by...

Who was it?

"You don't know fashion at all, hyung." Beomgyu grumbled, cutting you off your thoughts. Soobin and Beomgyu had been quarreling over the hairclips, and you did not want to pick a side. Yeonjun removed all the crystals in your hair, leaving only the ribbon. "There, our Star shines bright enough like this."

"Thank you, Brothers." You smiled sweetly and the three cooed in response. Beomgyu had his hand dramatically held over his heart, Soobin covered his blushing face with his gloved hands and Yeonjun proudly grinning. "Wait until Mother and Father see you, little Star. Now, shall we run along?"

You took Yeonjun’s hand and allowed him to guide you to the banquet hall with Beomgyu and Soobin trailing behind you two like bodyguards. You could hear the activity in the hall from outside, and you gripped Yeonjun’s hand nervously.

"Announcing the arrival of the Sun, Moon, Eclipse, and Star of Eternity!" The voices of the guards boomed. Yeonjun squeezed your hand as the doors opened, revealing a quiet banquet hall. You could feel many eyes staring at you, but you remained composed, walking alongside Yeonjun to the King and Queen of Eternity. The nobles you walked past bowed respectfully, and when you finally reached the throne, Yeonjun let go of your hand.

"Greetings to Your Majesties," Yeonjun said, bowing to both the King and Queen of Eternity. You curtseyed, while Beomgyu and Soobin bowed behind you. “May peace be ever in your grace.” The King, your Father, nodded. “You may rise.” The King of Eternity is never shown in Utopia, but you knew that like Soobin, he died under San’s sword. You scanned the man on the throne. He seemed to be in his forties, with the same platinum blond hair as Yeonjun and a kind-looking face. 

You didn’t miss the subtle wink the raven-haired woman beside him gave you. Sending a sweet smile towards your Mother, the Queen of Eternity, you turned your attention to the two other presence in the banquet hall. 

Yeonjun turned towards them. “Greetings to the Queen of Mist, and Prince Hongjoong. May peace be ever in your grace.”

You froze slightly at the name, but quickly recovered when Yeonjun gently tickled your side, telling you to bow. When you straightened back up again, your eyes met a pair of golden slits. Kim Hongjoong gave you a soft smile, but you quickly looked away, your heart pounding.

Kim Hongjoong, the Prince of Mist. The one who the original Y/n had fallen in love with, and lost both her life and her kingdom to. When you played as Jiwon, Hongjoong seemed to be a normal, sweet Prince who was loyal and polite to her even if she was a commoner. However, when you played as Y/n, he was evil, nasty and horrifying. 

The Queen of Mist inclined her head slightly. “Greetings to the Sun, Moon, Eclipse and Star of Eternity. May peace be ever in your grace.” She turned to look at Hongjoong, who too bowed, echoing the greetings. When he was done, you grabbed onto Yeonjun’s sleeve, hiding your face in it. 

“Seems like the Star is a little shy, Mira.” Mira is your mother’s maiden name. Yeonjun patted your hair consolingly as your mother laughed. “Oh, Ayang. She'll recognize you soon, you even carried her as a baby.” 

The Queen of Mist and your mother seemed to know each other, seeing that they were addressing each other by a first-name basis. You peeked out from behind Yeonjun, avoiding Hongjoong’s gaze as you looked towards the Queen of Mist. She chuckled at your cute reaction, beckoning you. “Come here, little Star, let Auntie have a good look at you.”

“It’s not fair!” Beomgyu burst out dramatically. “You always favored Y/n, Auntie Ayang!” 

You blinked, confused at the turns of events. What is happening? Didn’t Beomgyu and Soobin say that they are important guests? And why is your Mother now walking towards the Queen of Mist, holding her hand as she speaks?

“Here.” Yeonjun pushed you out from his side gently. “Go say hi.” You carefully took a few steps forwards, still refusing to look at Hongjoong as you grip your dress tightly. “Y-your Majesty…”

“It’s Auntie Ayang for you, my little Y/n.” The woman bent down slightly while your Mother stood next to her, smiling. “I am your Mother’s best friend, little Star. This is a family event, we can be casual with each other.”

Your heart thumped loudly at this piece of information. So Y/n and Hongjoong had already known each other before Y/n went to the Kingdom of Mist for… For what?

Why.. Why can’t you remember?

“Now, shall the dinner start?” Your Father’s voice pulled you out of reality. You blinked rapidly, and quickly followed Yeonjun as everyone settled down on one table. Unfortunately for you, Hongjoong took the seat next to you. 

“Hello, Y/n. I’m Hongjoong.” Hongjoong introduced himself in a small, shy voice, his golden, snake-like eyes upon you. “I hope we’ll be good friends with each other.”

You stared at him, your brows furrowing unconsciously. Then you blurted out, “I don’t want to.”

“Don’t want to do what, Y/n?” Yeonjun didn’t catch the whole conversation and had fetched a napkin for you. You frowned at Hongjoong, your lips forming into an adorable pout. 

“I don’t want to be friends with Kim Hongjoong.”

previous // next

➳ series taglist: @tenebrisirae @mayonnaise-on-toast @lavishloving @hrts4hanniehae @sousydive @ddaeing @huachengsbestie01 @icouldntcareless22 @anxiousskylar @devilzliaison @saintriots

➳ pernament taglist (ateez): @watermelon2319 @levishun

➳ pernament taglist: @sousydive @yeodeulz @oddracha @jaerisdiction @yukichan67 @evidive @onysmamas

[the-fiction-witch]

By The Fire

Media - Rings Of Power Character - Elrond Couple - Elrond X Reader Reader - Y/n Rating - 12 Word Count -1250

Fictional Advent Day Twenty Five

Elrond stood before the ornate mirror, carefully finishing his preparations for the evening. He slipped into his fine garments, the rich fabric of his deep blue robes shimmering slightly in the light. The white accents along the edges of his attire, highlighting the intricate patterns woven into the cloth. As he pulled on his tall, polished boots, the soft leather hugged his calves snugly.

Once properly dressed, he moved to the dresser, where he selected his prized pin brooch. It glinted in the firelight, and he attached it to his robes with a steady hand. Next, he turned his attention to the bedside table, where several rings lay waiting. Each ring was unique, adorned with different gemstones that caught the light and sparkled as he slipped them onto his fingers. With a final glance in the mirror, he ensured his hair was perfectly arranged.

“Are you almost ready, my love?” He called out,

Elrond turned and found himself unable to hold back his wide smile,

The chambers were enveloped in a warm and inviting ambience, thanks to the multitude of sweetly flickering candles that adorned every surface. Their soft glow danced across the room, casting gentle shadows that wavered like whispers against the intricately carved walls. The fire in the grand hearth crackled with vigour, sending sparks into the air as it devoured the seasoned logs, its warmth spreading throughout the space and wrapping it in a comfortable embrace.

Beyond the leaded glass windows, the enchanting elven city lay cloaked in midwinter snow, a blanket of glistening white that softened the edges of the towering spires and delicate rooftops. The snowflakes twirled and swirled gracefully as they descended, creating a delicate ballet against the backdrop of the city's majestic architecture. Icy tendrils of frost framed the stained glass windows, where vibrant depictions of the sea and sky came to life, the colours glowing like jewels under the ethereal candlelight within the chamber.

Y/n settled comfortably on the plush couch, her shoes elegantly set aside, her flowing gown that cascaded around her. The fabric, a beautiful blend of deep blue and pure white, mirrored the attire worn by Elrond. Adorning her neck and wrists was an array of silver jewellery, each piece delicately crafted, glimmering softly against her skin,

Her hair was a masterpiece in itself, styled into luxurious curls and intricate braids that framed her face. A stunning golden branch hairpin held the tresses away from her features. With gentle hands, Y/n cradled her swollen baby bump, her fingers moving in soothing circles, instinctively comforting the little ones nestled within her.

Elrond scoffed as he went over kneeling in front of her and resting his hands on her own to feel her bump’s movements. “Why must you do this?”

“Do what?” Y/n laughed,

“Look so distractingly gorgeous.” He chuckled kissing her nose,

“I cannot help it,”

“I know you can’t,” he smiled, “But with your sweet bump you’re utterly irresistible.”

Y/n chuckled and allowed him to savour his time stroking the bump, “Must we go?”

“What?” he chuckled,

“Must we go today? I’m sure my father wouldn’t mind if we didn’t attend, just say the baby is too tired.”

“As adorable as that would be, you know we can’t my love.” He cooed, “Come, you know you’ll enjoy yourself.” He smiled taking her hands and helping her to her feet, “And you know how they love the snow.” he chuckled giving her bump a kiss,

Elrond smiled and helped her into her warm boots and wrapped the thick robes around her,

“Elrond! We’ll be fine.” she laughs,

“I still worry,” he cooed kissing her forehead, “Shall we my love?”

“We shall,” she nodded as she wrapped her hands around his bicep, laying her head on his shoulder and snuggled up,

Elrond grasped her hand firmly, their fingers entwined as they stepped out of their chambers. Together, they meandered through the serene, snow-covered city, the world transformed into a winter wonderland. The towers rose majestically, their spires resembling the peaks of an elaborate cake, each adorned with a delicate blanket of powdered sugar-like snow. Fluffy flakes danced gently from the sky, settling softly on the vibrant plants, ancient buildings, and the wise, weathered elven statues that stood sentinel, their features softened by the snow's embrace.

As they walked, warmth glowed from within the cosy windows of nearby homes, casting flickering shadows that played upon the pristine landscape outside. The air was filled with a tranquil hush broken only by the sound of their footsteps crunching softly on the thick carpet of snow. Together, they savoured the quiet beauty of their surroundings, a perfect reflection of the peacefulness in their hearts.

Finally, they arrived at the grand gardens where many high elves gathered savouring the traditional midwinter wines as they prepared for the feast. Musicians plaid the soft and knelt yule songs as the snow fluttered down.

Many lords and ladies came to greet them wishing sweet futures and cooing at Y/n’s bump. Many of these lords and ladies had never spoken of much less to Elrond on account of his birth and social status but all now flocked to them with warmth and joy to hear tales of her pregnancy and any news of names, kicks and arrival dates for their children.

But Y/n and Elrond staid close never leaving each others arms happy to discuss their children till dawn if needed.

The feast was soon called,

“My Daughter,” Gil-galad called opening his arms to pull Y/n into a strong hug,

“Father,” she cooed,

“How are you fairing?”

“Just fine Father, they're very happy and excited.” she cooed stroking her bump, “And Elrond is taking very good care of us,” she smiled clutching Elrond’s arm once more,

“I do my best, my love.” He smiled giving her forehead a soft kiss,

“I admit I have concerns, how well a half-elf can aid such a-”

“Father.” She warned, “He aids us perfectly,”

“That brings me peace.” He nodded,

Everyone sat at the large carved table enjoying the treats and rich meats ceremonial for this time of year. All engaging in idle chat about the festivities for the whole of the long and slow meal.

When darkness truly came to fall, all the high lords and ladies gathered in the garden before the large tree that had been growing since last yule, Elrond wrapped his arms around Y/n and set his chin on her shoulder, his hands on hers as they sat on her bump as they stood by the fire. 

They shared some tender kisses watching as the tree was set aflame and the high lords and ladies began to celebrate, they watched as the flames engulfed the tree sending the bright light into the sky and causing the snow to sparkle and glitter like diamonds, 

“Y/n, My love?” He cooed,

“Yes, Elrond darling?” she smiled,

“The next yule we have, they will be with us.” He whispered into her ear, giving her bump a soft stroke,

“They will,” she nodded, “next yule we’ll get to hold them up to see the yule tree.”

“We will. I’ll happily sit them both on my shoulders every yule for the rest of my life if I must.”

“You will?”

“I will, my love.” He nodded, “And perhaps in a few more yules I’ll get to hold your sweet bum again?”

Y/n scoffed, “We’ll see, at least let me get these two out first!” She chuckled,

“Of course,” He cooed, “Happy Yule my Love,”

“Happy Yule darling,” she smiled

The two shared, a soft and tender kiss, and a warming stroke to her bump. 

[dualdeixis]

[Image description: Two digital drawings. The first features Temenos Mistral and Aelfric in a medieval-style composition. The second features Kaldena and Temenos posing together in a study. There are full descriptions of both drawings under the cut. End image description.]

godsbride / goodwife

happy birthday @maverickflare <3

[Image description: In the first drawing, Aelfric sits on his stone pedestal outside the Flamechurch Cathedral at night. He wears a flowing white dress, a black long-sleeved undergarment, and a teal cloak. He also wears a gold belt and bracelet, and the medallion on his cloak depicts the Sacred Flame. His face is almost entirely eclipsed by a shining white halo; only the outlines of his narrowed eye, lofty smile, and long, curly hair can be seen. In one of his hands burns a blue flame, while the other hand cradles Temenos Mistral's face. Temenos looks up at Aelfric with an expression of dread and reverence, sweat beading on his cheek. The illustration has a border of gold and lapis lazuli that includes medallions at its corners and midpoints, which depict various other characters. At the top center is Crick Wellsley, holding up a red book so that it covers the lower half of his face; he looks directly at the viewer with a shadow over his eyes. On either side of him, as well as at the bottom center, are three angels with shackles around their necks. They smile placidly and hold their hands up in supplication as they gaze at Crick. At the middle left is Pontiff Jörg, looking tiredly off to the side. At the middle right is Roi Mistral, looking downwards with a troubled expression. All of them are drawn with blue haloes. The bottom left medallion shows Aelfric's hand reaching around Temenos's neck; his eyes are hidden, his face is flushed, and his mouth is slightly open. The bottom right medallion is shattered. Between each medallion, a poem is written in Orsterran script and framed by arabesques. The red background beyond the border, decorated with eight black, winged, haloed Sacred Flames, completes the poem. It reads: "THE FACE OF MY LORD / is a devouring fire / THE FACE OF MY LORD / is a destroying angel / THE FACE OF MY LORD / disturbs slumberers in the night / THE FACE OF MY LORD / menaces children at church / THE FACE OF MY LORD / does not appear / THE FACE OF MY LORD / cannot appear / THE FACE OF MY LORD / is a wreath of tears / THE FACE OF MY LORD / is a broken mirror"

In the second drawing, Kalenda sits at a desk in an intricately carved wooden chair. She wears a plum-purple tailcoat, wine-red waistcoat with a dotted pattern, black trousers, and a white shirt with ruffles at the wrist and a black ribbon at the collar. On her left hand, she wears three silver rings; on her right hand, she wears a gold ring on her ring finger. A flower-decorated bowl holding a pomegranate, plum, and grapes sits on her desk. In her right hand is a lychee. Temenos stands behind her, bracing his left hand on the chair and resting the other playfully on Kaldena's head, seemingly reaching for the lychee. He wears a white shirt, black waistcoat, yellow-green waistscarf, and teal trousers which are heavily embroidered with nature imagery. He also wears a pearl earring; a matching gold ring on his right ring finger; and a gold necklace with a pendant of Crick, who is haloed and holding his right hand up in a gesture of blessing. Kaldena and Temenos are both looking at the viewer and smiling. The simplistic background shows an entrance to another room as well as a tall bookcase, with the top shelf holding a vase and two figurines of a griffin and winged serpent. End image description.]

[cod-thoughts]

Day 29 of 31 days of COD

Word count: 1.8k

Relationships: team as family

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, growing old, soft tf141

It’s the sight of Price that really does him in. They’re sitting around the table after a long mission, the kind that leaves them bruised and weary. Price stands up to grab a coffee, and there’s a subtle wince as he does, a hand going to his back to steady himself. Ghost watches him, and something inside him breaks, the gratitude and sorrow twisting together until it’s unbearable. He feels the tears welling up, uninvited and unstoppable, and he bows his head, trying to hide it. - Ghost notices signs of his age in himself and his team, something he never thought he'd see on himself let alone surrounded by others Keep reading under the cut or on AO3

Ghost notices it one morning, in the small things first. The stiffness in his knuckles when he closes his fist, a resistance that wasn't there before. He’s still strong, still capable, but the ache is undeniable, lingering like a memory. He catches himself in the mirror—a rare occurrence, as he’s long stopped staring at his own reflection. There’s a streak of silver in his stubble that surprises him. It’s not something that alarms him, not anymore. Just something he acknowledges with a nod, an almost-smile.

But today, the recognition of age hits deeper. He’s standing there, staring at his reflection longer than usual, and the realisation creeps up on him, unexpectedly heavy. It’s not just the silver, it’s the lines, the way his shoulders sag slightly, the quiet exhaustion that seems to settle in his bones. He blinks, but his eyes start to sting, and he feels a tightness in his chest. Ghost never used to think he’d make it this far. He always thought he’d go out young. After everything he’s been through—all the nightmares, the trauma, the losses that carved holes in his soul—it felt inevitable. The missions that pushed him to the edge, the times he came back with blood that wasn’t just his, the faces of those who didn’t make it—all of it convinced him that he’d never live to see anything beyond the fight. The fact that he’s still here, marked by time, is almost overwhelming. He’s lived through hell, and somehow, he’s survived it all.

He turns away from the mirror, but the feeling follows him like a shadow throughout the day. Every little thing seems to magnify it—the subtle groan of his knees as he stands up, the slight hesitation before moving too quickly, the way the scars on his body pull just a little more with each passing year. He tries to push it down, to focus on the mission brief, on the plans for the day, but it lingers, gnawing at him, an uncomfortable reminder of the years gone by.

When he steps into the common room, he sees it in his team too. Soap's laugh lines have deepened, framing the grin Ghost has come to rely on. Johnny’s hair has begun to fade at the temples, just a little, as though age itself has a gentle hand on him. Price’s eyes are as sharp as ever, but Ghost catches how he rubs at his lower back when he thinks no one is watching, easing a pain that probably won’t ever quite go away. Gaz, still the youngest of them, has his own small signs—a weariness behind the eyes that speaks to the miles they've all walked, the weight they've all carried.

They’re all still so capable, so strong. But it’s there. The years have left their mark on each of them, etched lines into their skin, carved aches into their bones. Ghost can’t help but watch them today, his gaze lingering longer than it should. He notices the way Soap's laughter fades a little more quickly, the way Price takes just a moment longer to stand up. These are men who have been through hell and back, and they carry it with them in every movement, every breath.

It’s the sight of Price that really does him in. They’re sitting around the table after a long mission, the kind that leaves them bruised and weary. Price stands up to grab a coffee, and there’s a subtle wince as he does, a hand going to his back to steady himself. Ghost watches him, and something inside him breaks, the gratitude and sorrow twisting together until it’s unbearable. He feels the tears welling up, uninvited and unstoppable, and he bows his head, trying to hide it.

He’s lost in his own thoughts, the emotions hitting him in waves. The gratitude that they’re all still here, the sorrow for the years that have passed, the fear that someday, one of them won’t be. It’s all too much, and before he knows it, he’s trembling, the tears spilling down his face. He’s fought so hard to keep it together, but here, surrounded by his family, it’s impossible.

Soap is the first to notice. "Ghost?" he says, voice tinged with concern. Ghost doesn’t respond, his shoulders trembling slightly. The room goes quiet, everyone turning to look at him. "Hey, you alright, mate?" Soap tries again, softer this time.

Price, still standing by the counter, turns, his brows knitting together in worry. He’s rarely seen Ghost like this, even in their darkest times, and it shakes him to the core. He crosses the room, kneeling down beside Ghost, his hand resting on his arm. "Simon," he says gently, using Ghost's real name. "What's going on? Talk to us."

Ghost lifts his head, eyes red, tears streaking down his face. He takes a shuddering breath, trying to find the words, but his chest feels tight, his throat constricted, and the words seem to stick there, refusing to come out. Slowly, with trembling hands, he reaches up and pulls off his mask. The room seems to hold its breath as Ghost reveals his face—the redness of his cheeks from crying, and the way his lips tremble as he tries to hold it together—evidence of just how much he's feeling. He bows his head again, his shoulders shaking as the tears spill freely now. He tries to speak, but it comes out as a broken sob, his voice caught in his throat.

Price moves closer, concern etched deeply on his face, his hand finding its way to Ghost’s back, rubbing gently. "Breathe, Simon," Price says softly, his voice a steady anchor. "Just breathe, son. Take your time."

Ghost tries, drawing in shaky breaths, but the emotions are too much—too raw, too heavy. All the trauma, all the pain, all the years of fighting and losing, all the moments he thought he wouldn’t make it—it all crashes over him, wave after wave, until he feels like he might drown in it. Price pulls him into a hug, strong arms wrapping around Ghost, holding him tightly. Ghost clings to him, his fingers digging into the fabric of Price’s shirt as he lets out another sob, burying his face in Price’s shoulder.

"That’s it," Price murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "Let it out, Simon. We’ve got you."

Soap and Gaz exchange a glance, both of them rising from their seats. Soap moves closer, his hand resting on Ghost's shoulder. "We’re right here, LT," Soap says, his voice thick with emotion. "Take your time."

Gaz sits down next to Ghost, leaning in closer, his eyes filled with empathy. "You know, Simon," he says quietly, "I think we all feel it sometimes. The weight of it all. And it's okay to let it out. We're here." His voice is gentle, filled with sincerity, and Ghost can hear the echoes of his own fears in Gaz's words.

After what feels like an eternity, Ghost manages to steady his breathing. He pulls back slightly, his face flushed and eyes puffy, but there’s a determination there now. He swallows hard, and then, with a shaky grin, he manages to get out, "I’m going grey." The words are soft, almost a whisper, but genuine. The grin fades as his voice trembles, his eyes glistening. He swallows again, trying to hold it together.

"I just..." He pauses, his voice breaking. "I never thought I'd get here. Any of us, really. After everything…" His voice cracks, and he looks at each of them, tears spilling once more. "I see it in all of you—the age, the years. And it’s... it's beautiful, but it scares me. I’m so damn grateful that we’re still here, that we’ve lived long enough to see this. To see each other start to grow old."

Soap reaches across, placing his hand over Ghost’s. "You’re not alone in this, LT," he says, his voice thick with emotion. He doesn’t let go, his grip firm and steady. "We’re in it together. Every damn wrinkle, every ache. We’ve earned it."

Gaz shifts closer, nodding, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "We’re family, Ghost. And every grey hair, every sore muscle is proof that we made it—together. And that’s something I wouldn’t change for anything."

Ghost looks at them, his vision blurring with tears again, but this time they’re not from sorrow. They’re from something warmer, something softer. He nods, swallowing hard. "Yeah," he whispers. "Family."

There’s a moment of silence, a heavy, poignant pause that hangs in the air. Price pulls Ghost back into his arms, his own voice trembling ever so slightly as he spoke. "You made it, Simon. After everything—after all you’ve been through. You’re still here, and we’re still here. And we’re not going anywhere." He releases Ghost, then adds softly, "Why don’t we take tonight to just be together? No rush, no pressure. Just us."

Soap claps his hands together, the sound loud in the quiet room but somehow comforting, breaking the tension with a grin. "Right then, let's see if Price's got any of that old whiskey left, eh? Something to toast to getting this far." Gaz lets out a soft laugh, wiping his eyes as he nods in agreement. Price smiles, getting up slowly, giving each of them a nod before gesturing towards the cabinet. "Alright then," he says, his voice softer now, almost tender. "But none of you lightweights better fall asleep on me. Tonight, we’re celebrating."

The mood shifts, the heaviness lifting as they gather around, passing glasses, clinking them together with shared smiles, and letting the warmth of each other's presence settle in. They share quiet jokes, some of them whispered, some louder, their laughter weaving into the fabric of the night. The night stretches on with stories—some true, some wildly exaggerated just to get a laugh—and laughter that feels almost healing, like a balm for old wounds. They let themselves relax, let their guards down, knowing that in this moment, they were safe, and they had each other.

Later, as the room grows quieter, Price leans back in his chair, looking around at his team. He catches Ghost's eye and raises his glass. "To surviving," he says, his voice rough but filled with warmth. "To the years we weren't supposed to have, and the ones still waiting for us." Ghost raises his own glass, his hand steady now, and the rest follow.

"To us," Ghost adds, his voice soft but sure. They drink, and for a moment, it feels like time itself pauses, allowing them to bask in this one perfect moment.

As the fire crackles in the corner, they settle into a comfortable silence. Ghost leans back, feeling the fatigue in his bones, but also the comfort of the people around him. Soap nudges him, a small smile playing on his lips. "Bet you didn't think you'd be sitting here with us old bastards, huh?"

Ghost huffs a quiet laugh. "No," he admits. "But I'm damn glad I am."

[senqv]

HOUSE OF KINGS.

blue lock ! royal / fantasy au series featuring : michael kaiser x fem! reader

warning(s): 1.1k , asshole ism , more traditional feminine roles , arranged marriage , lmk if there are more !!

a/n: how r we feeling

next.

ONE. CHILD OF PROPHECY

in the reign of the first emperors, or so said the tales, the child of god is born — in silver moonlight and touched with the whisper of divinity.

they said that in his birth, the muses came and told it to his half-nymph mother, a beloved daughter of the water gods. they landed kisses on her sweat-sheened temple and sang each unravelling prophecy with the golden strings of their lyres; chosen by god, they purred, the emperor of kings.

they did not stay for long, but they had no need to. word travels swiftly in the whirling halls of the palace.

michael, gift of god, whom the divine had gingerly formed in their image, golden and jewel-eyed. the one who will fell men like wheat beneath a scythe and have them all crouching at his heel.

a godly son means haste to find a wife to carry on the bloodline, hungry in hopes that the gods will shine their divine light again with each beautiful son to come. and thus, the one they chose is you, daughter of house adalheidis, rumoured to have had divine blood from a sea nymph mixed in aeons ago. a nymph is the least of the lesser gods, but still a god, nonetheless, and divine blood purified the muddy dust of the human race to mould saints and heroes.

the divine blood of your house has long been watered down, with no traces of any deific features that might make an appearance in fables or folklore. but still, it is enough.

nymph, in the olden languages, is the same word for bride.

so perhaps your fate had been preordained long ago.

and so, when you first meet god, you are just short of thirteen years old.

they twine your hair with ribbons and strings of pearls, silent tittering as they dusted a pearly powder over your cheeks, an incandescent glow illuminating against the bronze mirror. your head lolls to the rhythm of their chatter, following the direction your hair was gently tugged at, eyes slow and blinking, not quite shed of the silvery sleep.

when you arrive, the sun shines brightly in the transparent sky, casting a golden glow over the white plaster of the palace architecture. banners hang from the ceiling, a royal blue, fluttering in the wind; your gaze climbs upwards, following the inscriptions of ancient fables, the effigies of the gods carved into the ceiling. the sunlight dancing in the curve of their marble eyes was so fervid you tore your gaze away in fear they might come alive.

a servant you had not caught the name of led you through the halls. he looked your age, maybe slightly older; not quite grown out into his lanky frame, eyes downcast and shy.

the emperor was not present, he had told you with nervous hands, and so you were being brought directly to the son of god himself.

your steps halt at a side door in the northernmost part of the palace. from what you could see, it was not as grand as the throne room you had passed by earlier, but it was obvious how pampered this boy prince was; before you, arched pillars loomed over the doors of imported oakwood, engraved with gentle carvings of even more obscure fables of prophetical sons and warrior kings.

he is lying on his side on a wide, pillowed bench, thick furs strewn all over the velvety couch. his eyes were half closed, lashes fluttering against his cheeks each time he blinked.

at the purposeful scuffing of your sandals against the floor, he glanced up briefly, lolling his head to the side to look at you.

lazily, his hands stroked the majestic forest cat on his lap, golden fur streaked like a lion, mirroring its owner. but no — it would be wrong to compare it as such. his hair was entirely different, lit by the sun with a spring honey lustre, spun from threads of gold. if you looked closer, within it glints the golden circlet of a prince, nearly black against the brightness of his hair.

you felt your breaths slow, gaping at the cold shock of his beauty. he was not much older than you, but incomparable with the boys your age; of jewel blue eyes sharp as a beast, cheeks and mouth tinted a cherubic rose, painted by the careful muses themselves.

if you were not a child of noble birth, you're quite sure your jaw would have been hanging slack by now. instead, you pressed your lips together and tore your gaze to the floor.

you can feel his eyes on you, and hear a slight shuffle of him leaning more forward to regard you. "what is your name?" his voice is silken, tinged with the slight crackle of sleep and boredom. you keep your gaze screwed to the ground out of spite, a muscle in your jaw ticking. your family was one of the great pillars of the empire, flourishing in trade and commerce. you were his arranged bride, to be the empress of his nation. and yet he still did not know you.

now, he sits up completely, cat yowling faintly in his lap. he speaks again, louder, clear as the glacial waters of the north. "what is your name?" the first lapse of silence was excusable, perhaps you had not heard. now, the boy prince demands an answer.

and so, you level your gaze with his, staring with all the conviction and animosity of a noble girl who had never experienced such blatant disregard. you speak your name as if casting a spell, each syllable strong and resonant, muttered with intention — to engrave your name in his mind, to make sure he could not forget it even if he wanted.

"of house adalheidis," you added in finality.

he's focused on you now, silvery blue gaze as cutting as a knife. he tips his chin up, staring downwards. "my name is michael," he purrs, "kaiser." the side of his mouth quirked slightly at the intensity of your stare. from the corner of your eyes, you faintly notice the dimples appearing at the sides of his face.

you both held the other's gaze in silence. the amusement on his face was obvious, and your brows melded together in confusion for a split second.

then he blinked, mouth cracked open like a yawning cat, mirroring the feline on his lap.

kaiser's interest came as quickly as it left, as if everything was a divine comedy preened before him to garner his delight. he no longer was looking at you.

"welcome to the palace."

you were raised in court, and you knew dismissal when you heard it. you lowered your head with clenched fingers, bruising the crushed silk of your dress.

[aqua-the-smiter]

Velvet Parasite There's something on Ferrus Manus's neck that should not be there Content warning: Gore, body horror, parasites Song - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VNPKlVq0z2Y&t=366s Divider by the ever lovely @squishyowl

There was a weight on his throat.

The weight wasn’t heavy but it felt like a cinder block was resting there all the same. It clung to his flesh. What felt like spindly legs wrapped around his neck to hold it in place, with tiny spines digging deep. At the apex of his throat where his larynx was he could feel…a mouth. That was the only way he could describe it. A mouth full of teeth suckered onto his throat like a lamprey, held pinned by mandibles. Trickles of hot blood ran down his neck and chest and the scent of his own coppery vitality filled his nose.

It hurt like mad, and it wasn’t merely sitting there. It was feeding off of him. He could feel it pulsing as it drank the lifeblood from him. Greedily feasting from his very veins, cleverly staying away from his major arteries so it could instead just sit and grow without risk of killing the host. Growing bigger and fatter and heavier, making it harder to breathe.

A parasite. He had a parasite.

Ferrus sat up, and looked around. It was dark, wherever he was. Nothing was immediately apparent. The room was empty, and the air was stale and scentless aside from the reek of his own blood. He sat on a bare cot decorated with fresh red droplets. On the far side of the room was an open door letting in pale grey light. 

Peering around the doorway revealed an equally bare and spartan hallway. Tall and narrow, with clusters of flickering candles scattered on the floor. Windows let in that silver light, mingling with the dim amber flame.

He made to take a step forward to head out. There was nothing for him in this room. The thing on his neck made its displeasure known, squirming and squeezing his neck in short, sharp bursts, digging its spines into sensitive skin and muscle. Ferrus winced, and stepped back. Or maybe not. There was a bed in here. It was warm and oddly comforting. Familiar. And there was a bone deep weariness that crept through his whole body. It would not be so bad to lay back down and rest.

There is something using you as a feeding ground.

The thought shoved its way to the forefront of his mind and instantly his desire to stay evaporated. Ignoring the thing at his throat, he stepped over the threshold and made his way down the hallway.

There was nothing outside the windows except the darkness of night. No further lights or skyline to give him an idea of where he was. Maybe he was nowhere at all. His bare feet padded silently down the cold stone, chilling the rest of him. His skin prickled with gooseflesh. The thing on his neck punished him for it at first, laying into him with its spiny legs and mandibles. He ignored it, although something was keeping him from tearing it off entirely. Some old memory, some friendship he had with it from days long past. Eventually it could tell its protestations were fruitless, and the tantrum stopped. It really was a tiresome, childish thing.

At first it seemed like this hallway was endless. Maybe he should have never left the warm, dark, familiar room after all, and just gone back to sleep. But as he continued to walk further, in the distance the shape of another door grew clearer.

It was made of some old, dark wood, banded with wrought iron and tall enough to admit him easily. Smelling of the forest and varnish. Grabbing the handle, he found it was not locked, and pushed it slowly open. It creaked with age and disuse. 

Inside, without any fanfare of explanation stood a solitary, full length mirror. Set in a gilded frame, tall enough that he could see himself from toes to head. He took a step back in shock.

His own visage stared back at him. A face carved out of mountain rock, masculine, rough, and pale. His crooked nose, pugilist’s ears, and silver eyes. Short, cropped hair as black as shale. He looked tired. Blood dripped down his neck and chest, trickling in rivulets down his bare stomach.

Slowly he forced himself to look down.

The thing on his neck was vaguely insectoid in appearance. Not only were its legs covered in spines but the underside of it was too. It was partially sunk into the flesh of his neck, embedded in it like a jewel in a ring. It’s body was huge. Distended, fat, and grotesque. Pulsating and segmented. It was colored a shimmery purple. Each of its segments was edged with gold. The tail hung loose, wriggling with enjoyment as it fed.

By all the dead gods of Medusa.

His hearts started to pound as he watched it. This was wrong. No. This was vile. It was disgusting, watching the creature grow swollen on his lifeblood. Off of his back. Nausea twisted around in his guts and he had to choke back a retch. 

Ferrus raised his hands to his throat. There wasn’t anything he could use to pry it off but he would tear it off.

“Wait!”

He froze as he heard the voice in his mind. It was familiar although he couldn’t pin exactly where he’d heard it before. It was a voice that did not fit the creature at all though, far more smooth and soft than he would have expected from such a revolting thing. He looked in the mirror again. It had eyes. Six snakelike yellow eyes were staring up at his chin in a pleading manner.

“Please, wait!” It begged again. The voice was decidedly male but Ferrus refused to let it humanize itself to him.

His silvered hands shook. “Why should I? Why should I let you stay? You are feeding off me, hurting me.”

“Ferrus, don't you recognize me?” It whined. “We’re friends. You are my friend.”

“I don’t know who you are.” He replied through gritted teeth. “But you are drinking my blood. Like a tick. That is what you are. You’re a bloated tick.”

It sounded hurt. “We have been friends for so long, though. I am your best friend. We’re like twin brothers, like we shared a womb together. Surely you can’t have forgotten. Why don’t you remember me?”

“I don’t know who you are! I don’t know who you are and I don’t care! You’re a parasite! You feast upon my lifeblood like a vampire. I am a Primarch, not the prey of a repugnant creature such as yourself!”

“We were friends once, Ferrus.”

“If we were ever friends, you would not be like this.”

“I wasn’t always like this, it’s true.” The parasite admitted. “But change is natural, after so much time. People change, friendships change.”

“Do they really change like this?” 

In truth Ferrus was starting to remember. Not fully, but small flickers of warmth, brotherhood. Someone he had cared about, considered his closest family. It made him hesitate, and retract his hands. He was a loner, among his brothers. Praised and admired for his strength and skills but not many were close. Had he made himself unapproachable? He didn’t know, but he was lonely. It was nice having this friend. A comforting familiarity. 

“You were not always this way. You were different, not agonizing to be around. But now when people see me all they can really see and think of is you. Clinging to me.”

“It is not so bad. Some changes can be hard to accept, I understand. But we’ve been through so much together. You’re my best friend too. It would be silly to throw everything away just because things are a little different.”

It seemed more hopeful now.

“This is not just ‘a little different’. We are not one creature, you and I. I am myself and you are you. We’re not bound together.”

“But we are, in a way!” It argued. “Don’t you remember when we met? How closely we bonded so quickly. Like we were twin brothers.”

“But we are not twins, are we? We are each our own.”

“Pfft. Does it really matter what we are or aren’t? A friendship like ours is hard to come by. Both of us are so different yet in the end we got along so well. Don’t you remember that, at least?”

“I do remember.” He answered, truthfully enough. Although the memories were vague, and far away they carried a warm coating of nostalgia for him. “But that was such a long time ago. I feel like now when people see me they only see you.”

“Oh that’s normal. Come now. That’s why I kept bringing up twins. Some people are just that close. And just because I’ve changed doesn’t mean I’m not your friend. Like I’m the only one who understood you then, and you were the only one who really understood me. This is a good thing, you’ll see.” 

Ferrus could feel the lethargy starting to creep into him again. Maybe he really should have just stayed in bed. “I suppose you have a point.”

Even the pain and pressure on his neck felt lighter.

“Removing me now would just cause more problems anyway. And things aren’t so different now as they were then. I am only here because you allow me to be. You’ve always let me before. It shouldn’t be any different now.”

He sighed. “Maybe you’re right. This all was an overreaction. I will let you remain.”

All he wanted now was to go back to sleep. The parasite hissed with glee and dug its fangs back into his neck. He could hear the suckling and slurping noises it made while it greedily drank from his veins.

He turned to go, when his reflection caught his eye again. From the side this time. He blanched. It was even more repulsive from this angle. Giving him a perfect view of just how bloated it was. How it rippled as it nursed off of him.

The creature followed Ferrus’s eyes. “You would have been alone had we not met.” It said unprompted. “You brothers don’t care about you, they care about what you can do. That’s why nobody knows you as well as I do.”

But he heard a coloring of nervousness in its voice.

“Who says? Maybe it was my own doing. I am used to being alone. I grew up alone. It is hardly the worst thing I experienced. Sometimes I miss it.”

“Miss it?!” The creature scoffed. “What do you miss? Being ignored? Being overlooked? Because you have me, others actually give a damn about you. I’m the reason anyone cares. I’m the one holding you up, not the other way around. You’d be forgotten otherwise.”

Its words actually stung. That had been something nagging Ferrus for some time. On Medusa he was a god among men. With his brothers, other Primarchs, he was a god among gods. They all had their role to play, but in the quiet moments he craved to stand above them all. To prove to both them and the Emperor that even though all of them were powerful that he was the strongest. He was taller than all of them, and physically the strongest but it wasn’t enough. 

But…

He had other friends among his brothers. Not many, but he had them. And he was admired for what he could do. Him alone. His desire to prove his strength hadn’t gone unnoticed.

He ground his teeth as its voice chimed in his head once more.

“Come on now. Don’t let such a small change get between us. Don’t forget how long we’ve known each other. Please Ferrus. I care about you, I really do.”

It was a parasite. Of course it was a liar, of course it would do everything in its power to prevent the host from removing it. From healing.

“You are hurting me. I can feel your mouth suctioned to my flesh, your manbiles trying to clutch around my larynx. The spines on your body and legs are digging into me. You are fat and heavy, and you make it difficult to breathe with the way you hang off my neck yet manage to crush it at the same time. You feel like a tumor.”

“But-”

“Even ignoring all that, I cannot ignore the fact that you are feeding off of me. You are filth.” He said calmly. “You say others only care about what I can do and not who I am, but you are the same. You only care about the fact that I feed you.”

“Wait, Ferrus-” It pleaded.

But Ferrus didn’t wait. He gripped the parasite and pulled. It squealed, holding onto him tighter, trying to dig in deeper. Trying to get in deep enough to clutch around his windpipe. But Ferrus was the strongest of all his brothers, and his hands were bound in iron. It was fruitless. He pulled harder. Wriggling the mass of the thing. Loosening it slowly even as it tried to hold on. With the squelch and tearing of rending flesh he finally ripped it free of his neck. Blood splattered on the pristine glass of the mirror and ran down his front. The hot stench filled his nose.

It was agonizing but the relief of the weight on his neck was ten times sweeter. He even relished the pain, knowing that it meant freedom. He stood panting, sweat running down his face. The lethargy slid off him like a heavy blanket, and his mind was clearer, sharper. The wound was bad, but it would heal. A deep groove of raw, bleeding flesh with a large circular chunk taken out where its mouth had latched onto him. Small holes on either side marked where the spines and mandibles had anchored themselves. But he was a Primarch. His body would heal from what was ultimately minor damage. This was nothing to him.

The creature screamed. Now that it was off he could see how long the spines on its body were, how it had managed to burrow so deep. It wriggled and thrashed in his grip, legs flailing, lamprey-like mouth desperately gnawing and gnashing at empty air sending flecks of blood and spittle flying from its rounded jaws. Chunks of his flesh were stuck between its teeth. That proved to be too much even for him. He doubled over, kneeling on the ground with his mouth full of spit and his stomach heaving a few times before emptying itself.

He stayed like that for a while, shivering and breathing hard. It really was a disgusting little thing. Its serpentine eyes stared up at him, wide and pained. Its voice was back in his mind, babbling and begging with him, but he was numb to its cries. 

“I am not your yolk sac.” Ferrus spat. “I am not here to nourish you. To prop you up and keep you alive. I am my own.”

He drew himself to his full height.

And slammed the parasite down into the cold, hard stone floor as hard as his strength would allow him.

It yowled in pain and its legs flailed, stuck in a small crater of broken stone. Ferrus knelt down again and drove his fist into the crater. Over and over and over again. Until nothing was left but a red pulpy mass of dead meat.

Slowly he stood. Breathing hard, his hearts hammering against his ribs, shaking the crimson off of his silver hand. But it was done. The parasite was no more. Looking in the stained mirror, he could see his neck was already starting to close the wound. Soon it would be like it was never there. Maybe one more scar to add to his impressive collection. He was free.

He closed the door behind him as he left. Let the creature be left in there, and forgotten. This time he could see stars glimmering in the sky beyond the windows as he made his way back to the room he had left. The candles guttered and flicked as he passed by. The walls hung with black silk banners that bore his sigil.

The room was as he’d left it. Warm and dark and comfortable. And he could have peace. He could rest. It wasn’t numbness or lethargy now. All he needed was a good night’s sleep. 

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

Ferrus sat bolt upright in bed, his head darting around and hearts pounding. He was tangled in his sheets and drenched in sweat. But the claws of sleep quickly let go of him, and the world of his sleeping faded away back into reality. 

This room was dark but it was his, actually his. A hand fell on his neck but there was no wound, no blood. Just unbroken skin. 

It had all been a dream. 

While most dreams had a habit of being vague, this one was on the nose. Ferrus had a sinking feeling deep in his gut that it would be wisest to heed its advice. It might hurt, but he was no stranger to pain. To struggle, to fight. It was what he was made for.

He would remove the parasite.

[prythianpages]

WIP Wednesday

Here's a sneak peak to the next part from my Cas x Love Witch series:

“Lovely,” you murmured as the flickering sign finally glowed steadily once more.

Cassian descended with a satisfied grin, and a wave of warmth fluttered through your chest. It spread through your veins, radiating out to your fingertips, where it ignited the long match you held, setting it ablaze with a vivid pink flame.

“Thanks,” you said, extending the match toward him. Cassian took it with a curious look. “Since you’ve helped me out, let’s see what the love gods have to say today!”

You were already making your way toward the section of your shop dedicated to the altars. “Oh, and don’t light the wrong altar this time!” you called over your shoulder, your grin barely contained from the memory.

Cassian followed, casting a quick glance at Honey. The fluffy white cat had been the cause of his previous mishap. He was relieved to see Honey was nestled comfortably in his heart-shaped bed, blissfully snoozing.

The altar dedicated to the romantic aspect of love was a vision of grace and beauty. It stood on a pedestal carved with intertwined hearts and glittering chains of stars, each detail highlighted with a soft sheen. The pedestal was draped in a deep crimson velvet cloth like the rest of the altars. At its center was a large candle, its soft pink wax glowing with a light that seemed to pulse with its own gentle heartbeat.

Surrounding the candle were an array of romantic symbols: tiny heart-shaped charms, miniature silver keys, and delicate locket necklaces. The altar was further adorned with rose petals, small heart-shaped candles, sparkling crystals, and sweet-smelling oils that filled the air with a tantalizing fragrance.

As Cassian lit one of the smaller heart-shaped candles with the match, he caught his reflection in the small, framed mirror hanging at the back of the altar. He gazed into his own eyes, concentrating on his deepest desires, just as you had instructed.

Love. A partner. Someone to share the rest of his life with.

The moment the heart-shaped candle ignited, its flame danced into a vivid heart shape. Cassian instinctively stepped back, his wings twitching.

“The candle burns in your favor,” you said softly, the reflection from the flames dancing in your own eyes. Your thoughts were swirling with excitement and inspiration…

 “I have an idea!”

[feeling-pushy]

Upon a Wishing Star Part One

This is my first big fic!! Thank you so much to @grandesteartherquakedreamer for this amazing commission! I had so much fun writing this story and I hope yall love it as much as I do! And I hope I get to write for this person again!

~5k, fpreg, pirates, magical pregnancy.

The deck of the Jolly Serpents, was alive with celebration. Lanterns swayed in the gentle breeze, casting a warm glow over the jubilant crew. Music and laughter filled the air, mixing with the scent of salt and the sound of waves lapping against the ship’s hull. The stars above twinkled across the dark velvety sky, providing a perfect backdrop for the festivities.

Captain Taro stood at the heart of the revelry, her purple captain's coat flaring out as she spun in a merry dance. Her hair, neatly tucked in a bun with bangs framing her face, bobbed with each movement. Her wooden prosthetic, carved meticulously to resemble a natural foot, tapped rhythmically against the wooden planks. Her crew, a motley collection of men and women, mirrored her energy, their faces alight with joy and triumph.

As she danced she held up in her hand the centerpiece of the celebration: a shimmering pendant, The pendant was made of exquisite silver, skillfully crafted into the shape of a star with softly rounded edges that gleamed in the flickering lantern light. In the middle of the star was a circle made of similar silver, encrusted with tiny diamonds that sparkled like captured starlight. Each diamond was meticulously set, catching and reflecting the light in a dazzling display.

At the center of this circle lay a yellow stone, its surface smooth and polished to perfection. In the light of the lanterns, the yellow stone appeared to glow faintly with an otherworldly light, casting a soft, ethereal radiance that made the pendant seem almost alive.

The pendant's beauty was mesmerizing, and as Taro held it up, it caught the eyes of everyone around her, drawing gasps of admiration and awe. It was the prize of their most recent adventure, the fabled ‘Wishing Star’ which was a magic wish-granting pendant that had already become the stuff of legends among her crew.

"To Captain Taro!" one of the crew shouted, raising a mug of ale high in the air. The cheer was echoed by everyone on board, mugs clinking together in a symphony of camaraderie. "To us all!" Taro responded, her energy matching theirs as she raised the pendant above her head, the lights reflecting off of the yellow stone. The crew roared in approval, the sound carrying out across the open sea.

As the festivities continued, Taro moved among her crew, sharing laughter and stories of their latest exploits. She clapped shoulders, exchanged hearty embraces, and basked in the glory of their latest adventure.

Taro raised a tankard of ale, catching the eye of Briggs, the old sailor who had served with her for years. His gap-toothed grin was wider than ever, and he approached her with a raised mug. "To our fearless Cap’n!" Briggs shouted, his voice carrying over the noise of the celebration. "May the winds always be at your back and your enemies always on the run!"

Captain Taro clinked her tankard against his. "And to the best crew on the seven seas! Without you lot, I'd be adrift!" She took a hearty swig, the ale cool and refreshing after the day's exertions. "Briggs, you old sea dog, how's the leg holding up?"

Briggs laughed. "Lot better than yours ever did, Cap’n." Briggs playfully teases, Taro scowls, equally playful, “I ought to make you walk the plank for such talk you old hobby horse!” Briggs merely grinned wider, white mustache curling up with his lips, extending it, “And then who would manage your sails? Hm?”

“I could find a replacement for you in a moments notice, and they’d be far more spry.”  She challenged with a smirk. Briggs leans in and gets in her face, “You hire some green hand and this ship is sinking within the hour.”

Both them pull away laughing. Captain Taro slapping Briggs on the back and sending him on his way to keep celebrating. Just then the music picked up pace, and Taro finds herself pulled into yet another lively dance by a fellow female pirate, a young deckhand who’s cheeks were flushed with excitement and drink, and her eyes sparkling with admiration for her captain, “Come dance with us Captain!”

Taro laughed, her wooden foot tapping in a clumsy rhythm with the music. "Alright, alright! Just don't expect me to be as graceful! I've got two left feet and one of them wooden!" that earned her some laughs by the nearby crew members as she engages in a dance with the female deckhand.

The crowd cheered as Taro and the girl moved in sync with the music, their steps quick and as precise as bibulous pirates could be. Taro’s purple captain’s coat flared out with each twirl, and her captain’s hat stayed firmly in place, adding to her commanding presence. The deckhand’s light steps complemented Taro’s more grounded movements, creating a dance that was both captivating and full of energy.

"Captain, you dance as well as you fight!" the young lady exclaimed, spinning Taro around. “Not as well as you my dear!” Captain Taro states making the young woman flush from the flattery.

The music reached a crescendo, and Taro led the young woman through a series of spins and steps that left the crowd cheering and clapping louder than ever. As the dance ended, Taro who was now a little out of breath, gave her a bow and the deckhand curtsied in returned.

Exhausted and a bit dizzy, Captain Taro makes her way up to the upper deck to catch her breath. Eventually she ran into her First Mate, who unlike their captain who was already half sloshed on ale and dancing her cares away, still stood back from the festivities and kept a generally professional appearance to them as they oversaw the celebrations with a watchful eye. Taro approached, a playful grin on her face.

Taro’s First Mate had always been a person who was methodical and composed, and while some would think such a uptight figure would clash against Captain Taro’s carefree spirit, which it sometimes did, their demeanor had always been a steadying influence on the entire crew and had always helped to keep the Captain in check when she got carried away. She always admired her First Mate for that and appreciated their ability not to pull back on their criticisms. She’d honestly be lost without them.

"First Mate," she said, clapping them on the shoulder, “Captain” the First Mate greeted almost formally. Taro leaned on them a little, her feet somewhat unsteady, "Aww come on, why so stiff? It's a night for revelry!"

First Mate gave them a bemused expression, though their eyes remained vigilant. "Someone has to keep an eye on things, Captain. Besides, it's good to see the crew so happy. They deserve it."

“Ahhh come now First Mate! You know you can always just call me Taro! How long have we traveled together??” she slurs a bit, her head feeling pleasantly fuzzy and light.

“Yet you only refer to me as ‘First Mate’” they pointed out dryly. Taro grinned somewhat mischievously, “Only because you hate it when I call you by your first name. Isn’t that right J-” she begins to say. The affect was immediate as a sour expression crosses their face and they hold up a finger to her lips to stop her.

“Captain Taro. I think you may have had more than your fair share of drinking tonight. I think it’s best you start to sober up. You still need to lead by example you know.” They cut in, scolding Captain Taro as they often do when she gets like this.

“I’m finneee!!” She protests. Her First Mate stands there and crosses their arms. They then proceed to stare her down with a disapproving look. Taro tries to avoid eye contact for a moment, knowing she was weak to their disapproving stare, but even while not making direct eye contact the weight of their stare gets to her and she soon sags a bit in defeat, knowing better than to argue with them. “I suppose some water wouldn’t hurt.” She mumbles. Her First Mate gives her a little smile and rests a hand between her shoulder blades, silently leading her off to go sober up.

The celebration continued late into the night, the crew eventually winding down, one by one, as exhaustion set in. Taro remained awake, a sense of contentment settling over her. She looked around at her crew, now sprawled out across the deck in various states of slumber. Her First Mate was also nowhere to be seen, though she knew they’d most likely had turned in for the night.

With everyone else now asleep, Taro found herself alone, leaning against the ship’s railing, gazing out at the starlit sea, the pendant clutched in her hand. The pendant's cool surface rested in her palm weightily, as she rubbed her thumb across the smooth surface of the yellow stone in the middle. It was just a yellow stone, but even now a bit further away from the lanterns’ lights it still seemed to pulsate with a gentle glow. She turned it over, marveling at the intricate designs etched into the surface of its back, etched with symbols of an ancient language she couldn’t read.

“The legends say you can grant wishes." she mused aloud, talking to the pendant, there was an obvious hint of skepticism in her voice. "But I've seen too many tricks and charlatans to believe in such fairy tales. Still, you will fetch a king's ransom in gold I’d say."

The legend states that the Wishing Star, has the power to grant the deepest, most heartfelt wish of its bearer. The pendant can grant only one wish per person. Once a wish is made, the pendant’s magic will not work for that person again, but it could only grant a wish if the bearer's desire is pure and true.

No one knows where it comes from, or who made it, that information was lost to history. And while the silver was fancy, it was the yellow stone that was the true power of the pendant, it was said to be a fragment of a fallen star, giving it a connection to the heavens and granting it it’s power.

All of this was just rumor though, all folk tales meant to hype up what was most likely just a fancy pendant worn by some royal or a priest in some lost religion. Still, for a moment, she let her thoughts drift away from the noise and excitement. The pendant's glow seemed to intensify, reflecting in her eyes.

Her thoughts drifted to her crew, the loyal men and women who had become her family over the years. Each one had a story, a past, and dreams that had led them to her ship. She cherished them all, from the seasoned veterans like Briggs to the eager newcomers. Together, they had faced countless dangers and celebrated numerous victories. Yet, despite the deep bond she shared with them, there was a lingering emptiness in her heart.

Taro sighed, feeling the weight of her unspoken desires. She had everything she could have asked for: a ship she loved, a crew that respected and adored her, and a life filled with adventure. But there was something missing, something that all the treasure and glory in the world couldn’t fulfill.

“I have the best crew anyone could ask for,” she murmured to herself, her eyes fixed on the pendant. “They’re my family in every way that matters. But... it’s not enough. I want more. I want a family of my own, a child to raise and teach, someone who looks up to me not just as a captain, but as a parent.”

The thought of having a child stirred a deep longing within her. She imagined holding a tiny, fragile life in her arms, teaching them the ways of the sea, sharing the wisdom she had gathered over years of piracy. She saw herself comforting them during storms, telling them stories of her adventures, and watching them grow into their own person.

Taro chuckled softly, the image in her mind both heartwarming and bittersweet. “I want a child,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the gentle lapping of the waves. “A child to call my own, to love and protect, to teach everything I know.”

With a deep breath, she held the pendant up to the sky, the starlight making the yellow stone glow even more brilliantly. “They say you grant wishes.’ she said, her tone a mix of skepticism and hope, ‘I don’t know if it’s true, but if there’s any magic in you, hear my wish. I want a family. I want a child.”

With a deep breath she slipped the pendent around her neck and she closed her eyes. As she stood there, coat being pulled by the gentle breeze of the sea, a warmth spread through her body, and she felt a strange sensation, like a gentle tug deep within her, and for a moment her heartbeat quickens as she thought for a moment that maybe that was a sign.

But it was a fleeting sensation, gone as quickly as it came and with a sigh she let herself come back to reality, dismissing it as the lingering excitement of the night and hopeful thinking. With a small sigh, she decided it would be best to turn in for the night.

The pendant, now resting against her chest, seemed to hum softly, its magic quietly at work as she made her way to her cabin to rest. As Captain Taro drifted off to sleep that night, the Jolly Serpents rocked gently beneath her, carrying its captain and crew into the promise of a new dawn.

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

The dawn’s light bathed the Jolly Serpents in a warm glow, illuminating the deck as Captain Taro made her rounds. She moved with her usual confident stride, her purple captain's coat fluttering slightly in the morning breeze and her wooden prosthetic clicking rhythmically against the wooden planks. She nodded and exchanged greetings with her crew.

Most of her crew treated her as they always had, with respect and camaraderie. They shared jokes, stories, and plans for their next adventure, their trust in her leadership unwavering. However, some newer or more cautious members of the crew seemed to hesitate, their eyes lingering on her a moment too long. It made a few of them act as if she were made of glass.

"Morning, Cap’n," said a young deckhand, his voice laced with a nervous undertone as he attempted to offer her assistance down a small set of stairs. "I can manage, thank you." Taro replied, her tone firm. A quick glare from her sent the boy scurrying back to his duties, properly chastened.

She approached another crew member, the older sailor Briggs, who was busy securing a rope. "How's it looking, Briggs?" she asked, her tone brisk but friendly. "Ship's in fine shape, Cap’n." Briggs replied with a gap-toothed grin. "We'll be ready to set sail on your command."

"Good to hear," Taro said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Keep it up."

As she continued her rounds, she noticed another crew member, the young deckhand she danced with at the party, who she later learned was named Lila, struggling with a heavy barrel. Taro approached and grabbed the other side of the barrel. "Let's get this done together."

The young woman seemed relieved at first, but then her eyes seemed to bug out in slight panic once she realized who was helping her, “Ah Captain! are you sure you should be helpin’ me-?”

“Let’s just get this done quickly.” Taro said giving her a look, the young woman, properly cowed just nods and they quickly lifted the barrel into place. "Ah, t-thank you, Captain.’ The woman says as she wipes some sweat from her brow. ‘I was just about to ask for help…"

"Don't hesitate next time." Taro replied. "We're all in this together." Lila nodded, a look of gratitude and slight apprehension on her face. Taro moved on, but not before noticing a few other crew members casting curious glances her way. She ignored them, focusing on the tasks at hand.

Eventually, she made her way up to the quarterdeck, where her First Mate stood, overseeing the preparations for their next voyage. "First Mate." Taro greeted, "Captain." the First Mate replied with a nod. They looked to be as composed as always, "Everything is ready for our next adventure. The supplies are stocked, and the course is plotted."

"Good." Taro said, satisfaction evident in her tone. She glanced out at the horizon, the sea calling to her as it always had. The First Mate, in rare form, seemed to break their normally stoney exterior to look at Captain Taro with concern, and hesitates for a moment before speaking again. "Captain, I again must wonder if it is wise for you to travel the seven seas in your condition?"

It was only then that Captain Taro glanced down at herself and the full extent of her situation was revealed. Captain Taro was heavily pregnant, her large, rounded belly clearly visible for all to see.

The pendant itself was long gone, it had been sold for a substantial sum and allowed Captain Taro to buy herself plenty of supplies for her crew, plus a bonus in their pay which had been a big hit among them. But it was clear now that the rumors of its magic had not been as ludicrous as she had believed them to be. The idle wish she had made the night of their celebration having taken an effect on her and irrevocably changing her life.

Taro placed a hand on her belly, feeling the gentle movements within. She turned to her First Mate, her eyes fierce and determined. "The sea has always been my home, and I won't let anything stop me from sailing it. Besides, this child will be born with salt in their veins. We'll be fine."

The First Mate nodded, though concern lingered in their eyes. "As you say, Captain. But I still suggest you hire a midwife or a doctor of some kind to accompany us on this journey.”

“I don’t need any doctor First Mate! I am perfectly capable of handling it myself.”

“And then are you expecting me to help you deliver the baby?” they ask wryly. Captain Taro shrugs and looks a bit away, “Would that be such a bad thing? I certainly wouldn’t mind you being there…” she mumbles, her cheeks heating up a bit at the subject matter. Her First Mate merely raised a brow at that, “Well as, flattering as that is, I am unfortunately not a doctor and I have no such expertise. So I don’t know what you’d want me to be there for.”  

Captain Taro was unhappy with that answer, seeming to expect or perhaps hoped for a different response, as she huffs angerly, “Fine. You can see about hiring a doctor before we set off then.” She then seems to stomp off, much too the First Mates confusion.

They scratched their cheek a bit, still not accustomed to her seemingly sudden shifts in moods. It definitely kept them on their toes a lot these days, but at least with the permission they’d been hoping to get, they then quickly set about on finding a doctor for the captain.  

By the time the afternoon came, a doctor had been hired and the ship was ready to set sail. The First Mate approached Captain Taro who seemed to be a lot calmer now, “We're ready to set sail Captain." Captain Taro gave a  nod of approval and turned her gaze back to the sea, it’s horizon stretching out before her, “Then lets get going.”

With her crew behind her and her unborn child within her, the Jolly Serpents sails unfurled and soon they were leaving port, the waves ready to carry its captain and crew into whatever the future held.

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

By evening, the ship was gliding smoothly through the ocean, leaving a trail of white foam in its wake. The crew was settling into their routines, the excitement of the journey tempered by the familiarity of their tasks. The stars began to twinkle in the night sky, casting a serene glow over the ship, while the moon, a silver crescent, hung low on the horizon.

Captain Taro had since retired to her cabin, the day's events weighing lightly on her shoulders. She closed the door behind her, shutting out the noise of the crew and the wind. The cabin was cozy, filled with personal mementos and maps that spoke of countless adventures. Shelves lined with books, trinkets from distant lands, and a large, intricately detailed map of the seven seas covered one wall. A small table held her navigational tools, charts, and half-finished letters to various contacts and old friends.

She made her way to her bed, sinking onto the soft mattress with a sigh of relief. The room was dimly lit by a lantern, casting a warm, flickering light that created dancing shadows on the walls. As she sat on the edge of her bed, she idly dragged a finger across her rounded belly.

She smiled as she felt her child follow the movement, pressing against her skin from within. It was a game she often liked to play with her little stowaway when she had a moment alone, it never failed to amuse her. However, she noted that the baby seemed to follow her finger less easily than before, a sign they were starting to get cramped in there. She knew she was getting closer to her due date.

Leaning back in her bed, Taro closed her eyes and let the natural sway of the ship relax her. The gentle rocking of the Sea Serpent was a comfort she had known all her life, a lullaby that had always soothed her restless spirit. As she lay there, her thoughts turned inward.

She had always been a daring captain, her love for adventure and the open sea driving her to take risks others would shy away from. Memories of past exploits flitted through her mind: daring raids on enemy ships, navigating treacherous waters, and outsmarting foes who underestimated her. The thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of a well-executed plan, and the camaraderie of her crew were what she lived for.

But now, with the unborn child growing inside her, the stakes were higher. She knew that continuing her pirate's life was risky. It was already a dangerous lifestyle, but it was even more so while being heavily pregnant. She had often told herself in the past that when she was ready to have a family, she would settle on land where it was safe.

And to her credit, she did try to do that. For a month after she discovered her pregnancy, she had found herself a quiet coastal town, along the usual route taken by her ship when they needed to stock up on supplies, and bought herself a little cottage up the hill with the money from her personal treasury. She then left the ship in the capable hands of her First Mate, then she settled down for a while, and for a while it had been peaceful.

She had taken long walks on the beach, enjoyed the calm, and tried to imagine a life without the thrill of the open sea. But it hadn't taken long for the restlessness to set in. She missed the salt air, the sound of the waves crashing on the beach bringing up a longing to be in the middle of the beautiful sea, and, most of all, she missed her crew. Missed her First Mate and the other members of her crew who had made up the little family of friends.

Her time on land had been filled with restless nights and days that seemed to stretch endlessly. She remembered sitting on a quiet porch, staring out at the sea, feeling like a caged bird. Desperately she wanted to spread her wings and ride the ocean currents like the many gulls she’d seen.

She had tried to convince herself that it was for the best, that she was doing the right thing for her child. The sea was no place for a baby after all. But the call of the sea was too strong to ignore. So she had found herself coming back.

The day the Jolly Serpents docked for a resupply at the port of that small coastal town. She was already waiting at the docks for them. The moment she stepped back on the deck of that ship, she felt a sense of relief and belonging that she couldn't find anywhere else. The crew, while surprised at first, had welcomed her back with open arms, their loyalty unwavering. Even her First Mate seemed to had missed her, as they gladly stepped down from the captain’s position unchallenged and took their place back by her side.

Ever since then, she hadn't turned back, and despite the dangers, she knew she had made the right choice. Everything just felt right.

As she lay in her bed, Taro felt as if her little stowaway was trying to get comfortable themselves, stretching their cramped limbs out in order to get settled. It made her chuckle as she placed her hand on one of the lumps on her belly which she was sure was a foot, slowly rubbing it to help them get settled. Soon the lump disappeared and the child seemed to finally get comfortable inside her, going still again.

Once again Taro found herself making the same silent promise she always did to her unborn child. She promised that she would keep them safe, no matter what. She would teach them the ways of the sea, and show them the wonders of the world. But she would also find a way to balance her love for adventure with the responsibilities of motherhood.

The cabin grew quieter as the night deepened. The sounds of the crew's laughter and conversations eventually fading, soon replaced by the rhythmic creaking of the ship and the distant calls of seabirds. The soft lapping of the waves against the hull was a comforting sound, a reminder of the vast, untamed world beyond.

Taro's thoughts wandered to the future, imagining her child growing up on the Jolly Serpents. She pictured a small figure running across the deck, learning to tie knots, and listening to the tales of the crew. She couldn’t yet imagine their face, but she figured that would come in time once she was able to finally meet them. She imagined the pride she would feel, knowing that her child was growing up surrounded by the same wonders that had shaped her own life. Captain Taro then let the familiar, rhythmic sway of the ship lull her into a peaceful sleep, dreaming of the adventures that still awaited them on the open sea.

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

As the Jolly Serpents rocked gently with the rhythm of the waves, Captain Taro lay asleep on her bed, her body curled protectively around her belly. The soft light of the moon filtered through the small window, casting a gentle glow over the room and highlighting the serene expression on her face.

Just then the door to her cabin creaked open, and the First Mate slipped inside, they then turned and closed the door behind them, with a gentle click before moving over to her. Their movements were soft and careful to avoid disturbing their captain as they went to check on them.

They had found themselves getting into the habit of these nightly visits, being spurred on by their deep concern over the safety of both Taro and the life growing inside her. Despite Taro's fierce independence and formidable strength, the First Mate couldn't help but worry, knowing the dangers and challenges of their life at sea.

As the First Mate approached the bed, their steps light and careful, Taro’s face was relaxed in sleep, her breathing steady and calm. The First Mate took a moment to study her, she seemed alright, peaceful even, as she lightly snored.

They noticed that Taro had kicked off her blanket in her sleep at some point, the cool night air touching her exposed skin and making it raise with a few goosebumps. With gentle hands, the First Mate picked up the blanket and draped it over her, ensuring she was warm and comfortable. As they did so, their eyes were drawn to her belly, which rose and fell with each breath.

For a moment, the First Mate hesitated, their hand hovering above Taro's bump. The urge to place a hand there, to feel the life within, was strong. They wanted to offer some form of comfort, to silently communicate their support and care. But they pulled back, respecting Taro's personal space and the boundaries she had set. Taro had stated on more than one occasion she did not want others to touch her belly, and they respected that decision.

The First Mate stood there for a moment longer, watching over her with a tender gaze. Taro’s long hair, that was usually tied up in a tight bun, was now laying loose and free on her pillow, looking like the familiarly gentle waves of a calm sea, her bangs perfectly framing her face. The sight stirred a mix of emotions within them, mostly admiration. No doubt this pregnancy had been harder on her than she let on, the role of leader was stressful and yet she carried on, supporting both her crew and a new life.

Their face softened with a deep, unspoken affection as they watched a moment longer. Finally, they stepped back, moving towards the door with the same quiet care they had when they entered.

Just before leaving, the First Mate turned back, their voice barely above a whisper. “Goodnight, Taro,” they murmured, a small smile gracing their lips before closing the door behind them.

With a soft click, they closed the door, leaving Taro and her unborn baby to their dreams of adventure and the sea.