#and it's soft and lofty

[milkweedman]

A start on the leg warmers. My gauge is 8 stitches per inch, so its gonna take a while, but I'm liking how it's going so far. Decided to do cabled increases bc why not. I think it looks nice.

[ashertickler]

lasko moore is a wave to earth enjoyer send tweet

[imreadydollparts]

So Soft Lofty didn't need to be deflocked, either. She has a pretty severe hair cut.

[snowyvoid]

finally got around to cleaning these two

[number1spongebobfan]

Can you do another fanfiction of bob the builder please

Here it is. Sorry for the wait. Bob the Builder/G1 MLP crossover

Lofty the crane was just about done with his day. He was going to take a rest until a pale yellow feather dropped on his nose and startled him.

Lofty shivered, then turned around. "Who- who are you?" he asked worriedly. A pony with tiny wings was flying above him, giggling.

"Your name is Lofty?" she asked. "My name is Lofty too!"

"H-how do you know me?"

"That construction guy Bob told me all about you and your friends! He says you're reliable and that you can fix it! I'm reliable too!"

Lofty liked watching the pastel horse float around. He loved animals very much.

"What can you do?" he asked.

"I know how to operate a hot-air balloon." Lofty answered. She put her hooves down on the ground. The anthropomorphic crane stroked the pony's fur with his hook.

"Oh, you are so soft, little horsey!" he whispered. Her fur was plushy and good to the touch.

So-Soft Lofty wiggled her snout a bit. "Would you like me to show you my hot-air balloon?" she asked.

"Uh, no thank you," declined Lofty the crane. "I'm scared of heights."

So, the two Loftys played together until dusk. The End!

[grasponreality]

today's reblog theme is.... House Arryn/Ravenclaw vibes

[d-votion]

ᴛᴀɢ ᴅᴜᴍᴘ 𝟐 / ?

⊹⊱✵⊰⊹ ⸺ the perfected lord. ⦃ xianyun 𝐕.𝐈 ⦄ ⊹⊱✵⊰⊹ ⸺ from the sea of stars. ⦃ aether 𝐕.𝐈 ⦄ ⊹⊱✵⊰⊹ ⸺ celestial general. ⦃ jing yuan 𝐕.𝐈 ⦄ ⊹⊱✵⊰⊹ ⸺ space cowboy. ⦃ boothill 𝐕.𝐈 ⦄ ⊹⊱✵⊰⊹ ⸺ honorclad devotion. ⦃ argenti 𝐕.𝐈 ⦄ ⊹⊱✵⊰⊹ ⸺ immortal scrap collector. ⦃ xie lian 𝐕.𝐈 ⦄ ⊹⊱✵⊰⊹ ⸺ star of solitude. ⦃ hua cheng 𝐕.𝐈 ⦄ ⊹⊱✵⊰⊹ ⸺ the lofty (read: anxious) immortal. ⦃ shen qingqiu 𝐕.𝐈 ⦄ ⊹⊱✵⊰⊹ ⸺ white petals，black stamen. ⦃ luo binghe 𝐕.𝐈 ⦄ ⊹⊱✵⊰⊹ ⸺ ever stubborn，ever determined. ⦃ liu qingge 𝐕.𝐈 ⦄ ⊹⊱✵⊰⊹ ⸺ the untamed hero. ⦃ wei wuxian 𝐕.𝐈 ⦄ ⊹⊱✵⊰⊹ ⸺ forever loyal. ⦃ wen qionglin 𝐕.𝐈 ⦄ ⊹⊱✵⊰⊹ ⸺ the seeker with a keeper name. ⦃ g'dhezi 𝐕.𝐈 ⦄

[tojigasm]

Loveeee the idea of Bucky being super talkative when he's balls deep in your pussy

he brings a hand to the nape of your neck, supporting your head and bringing your gaze to watch his thick cock slip in and out of you with lidded eyes.

Bucky presses a long kiss to the top of your head with a choked groan, "Yeah, look at that," his balls press up against your soaked folds and you keen, brows furrowing and plush lips falling open at the delicious stretch of him.

"you okay?" he asks against your hair, still pumping into you.

you nod shakily, letting a soft moan fall past your lips, "feels so good." in the same moment, you reach down between your bodies to spread the lips of your cunt open.

Bucky moans from above you — "Oh shit, yeah, I like that."

you whimper, wrapping a small hand around Bucky's metal arm for leverage when he sinks alllll the way into your sopping heat.

Bucky presses his forehead to yours, circling his hips with a soft groan, "christ, you're tight," he leans back some to watch your folds hug his girth as he pulls out and pushes back into you, earning a squeal from you.

"Juuuusssst like that," the smirk is evident in his lofty tone, "ain't that right, sweetheart."

"Mhm," you pull your bottom lip between your teeth. Your tight walls squeeze around his length and you feel him shiver above you.

"You keep that up, and this isn't gonna last much longer."

You mumble a 'sorry,' that breaks into a heated moan when you feel his balls tap against your folds.

"Don't be sorry," he slips his thumb past your swollen lips, pulling your bottom one down, "just sit there and look pretty fr'me, 'kay?"

[bambiihee]

OFF TO THE RACES ˒˒ 박종성

♫ off to the races 一 lana del rey

you thought a punishment was what you wanted to cure how badly you missed your sugar daddy, but you slowly realize that your need for him ran much deeper than just that.

⧼ 📜 ⧽ 一 pairing。 ⸝⸝ park jongseong x fem!reader 𓄵 feat。 sim jaeyun (unamed)

genre。⋆ smut, pwp, sugar daddy!jay, sugar baby!reader, est. relationship, angst themes

warnings。⸝⸝ daddy kink, rough sex to soft sex, bdsm, hard to soft dom!jay, praise kink, degredation kink (slut, whore), unprotected sex, breeding kink, creampies, talks of marriage, jay is a bit of an asshole, squirting, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, whipped jay and whipped reader word count。3. 6 k ╱ ⧼ 🗝️ ⧽ 一 to library。

author's note。⸝⸝ this ended up being a wee bit longer than i intended... as usual... oops...

͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏   ͏  ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏  ͏ ͏͏ FEEDBACK 𓇼 REBLOGS APPRECIATED!

You know it makes you sound bratty and ungrateful, but sometimes you really hated Jay’s job. Sure, as the current CEO of his father’s old company he made enough money for you to stay at home without a care in the world, pampered and spoiled beyond your wildest dreams… but the sacrifices he made to keep you happy meant long hours at the office and constant business trips that could last anywhere from days to a month at a time. His grand, lofty penthouse just felt sterile and hollow without him inside of it, his california king bed like a wide, lonely island without him in it waking up next to you. Were all of these designer clothes and luxury brands even worth it, if he wasn’t there to enjoy them with you? Your friends had invited you to a club on one of the nights he had been out of town last, and while you felt dozens of eyes on you all night in your tight, expensive dress, the only eyes you cared to ever gaze upon you were the ones of your boyfriend’s. 

It was a dress he had picked out himself. In some odd way, it made you feel held by him. As you brushed off numerous advances from faceless, unimportant men and the irritated jeers of your friends as you turned down following them to the dancefloor, your thoughts were consumed only of him, how much you missed him, how badly you wished to feel his hot, heavy stare upon your back. 

Now Jay was back again, running off the plane and into your arms, if only to give you a kiss and to shove an invitation into your hands– another wretched business party for you to attend as his plus one, spending the entire evening bored out of your mind and clinging to Jay’s arm.

You’ve never told him that you hated the parties, partly because you feared bruising his ego, and partly because they were manageable enough with you able to drown your sorrows in free cocktails. You agreed with a tight-lipped smile and without much fight, though now as you stared down in the drink in your hand, you wish you had the courage to speak your mind. There was hardly any time for the two of you to enjoy being in each other's presence again before you had to get ready and go meet his driver, hardly got more than a hug and a few words before Jay, Your Boyfriend became Jay, The Businessman.

Two years ago, when your relationship was nothing more than an arrangement to get you through college, you couldn’t seem to ever get a moment away from him. Constantly blowing up your phone asking where you are or who you were with, showing up uninvited to your work or your school with lavish gifts that drew more attention than you ever wanted. Back then, you had half the mind to think you hated him. You only stayed with him because of his money.

That was the lie you told yourself, at least. That it was the money that kept you crawling back for more, not his chiseled, handsome face and how sexy he looks when he’s pissed off. It wasn’t because under that cold, aloof exterior, Jay was a hopeless romantic with a deep desire to love and to be loved. He showed it in everything he did, such a gentleman with you even though he didn’t talk like one.

Now you’re in too deep to lie anymore. You miss him breathing down your neck, his vigilant, protective eye over you, something you used to complain about when you were still simply business partners. It wasn’t long after you officially became his girlfriend did his father officially retire from his company and had Jay take over as the CEO. It was something that Jay had been anticipating for his entire life, but he still ended up far in over his head; his workload increased tenfold seemingly overnight, all of these meetings and deals keeping him in the office until late into the night. He makes more money than he ever had before, and he tries to make up for his absence with pricier and pricier gifts, but no amount of designer could ever make up for the way you long for his touch, the memory of his kisses haunting you in your dreams. You’d do anything for his undivided attention again.

The business party was a lot like your night out with your friends. You still felt just as lonely even with Jay there. He was constantly tugged aside by business partner after business partner, colleague after colleague, leaving you to wait alone at the bar. 

There was one particular colleague of Jay’s that he disliked more than the others. He’d never really explained to you why, though you suppose it may have something to do with the way he slid into the barstool next to you like he owned the place, the way he leaned in to introduce himself like you didn’t already know the names of all your boyfriend’s enemies. If Jake recognizes who you are, he doesn’t show it, boyish features staying bright and his smile toothy as he offers to buy you a drink. 

Warning sirens blared in your head, but you looked danger head-on with a flirty grin of your own; a plan was beginning to form in your head, one that guaranteed Jay’s attention whenever he wanted to give it or not. At least, it felt like a good plan at the time. With a rather large emphasis on felt, because with as many drinks as you had knocked back within those last few hours you weren’t doing much critical thinking at all.

You agreed with a sickenly sweet smile, and with another fruity cocktail on your painted lips it became easy to giggle at his unfunny jokes. Part of you knew this was a bad idea, screaming at you in the back of your mind, but you were far too gone to listen or care. The man stuttered and jumbled up his words when you placed a hand on his shoulder, but his grin grew from ear to ear, and he placed his own hand on your upper thigh. He was far too close to the hem of your dress for your liking, but it was exactly what you wanted to happen. Jay was somewhere in the vicinity, you were sure of it, never one to leave you unsupervised no matter where you went– he always insisted it was protectiveness, but you knew it was far more possessive than that. To see your hands on another man was one thing, but seeing a man touch you so intimately like this… sometimes a man standing a little too close was enough for him to see red. And that was when he was sober; you’ve caught him down a couple of drinks himself in the brief times you’d caught sight of him.

If you played your cards right, Jay would waltz back over and take you back home in no time at all. Then you could finally have him all to yourself, tangled in his thousand-thread count egyptian sheets and enjoying the feeling of his strong, firm body pressed against you.

And you knew him all too well, because within seconds of you placing your hand on his coworker you felt his presence materialize behind you, heavy and dark, his large hand cupping the small of your back and tracing the hem of your backless dress. You had him right where you wanted him, wrapped around your finger like always… but then you turned and took in his face, blank and unreadable except for his eyes. 

He wasn’t looking at you at all. Sharp as a knife, his stare was focused squarely on his colleague beside you, a certain glint in his dark irises that you don’t think you’ve ever seen before. Something wild, untamed. Murderous, even, enough to send a cold thrill up your spine even if you knew your boyfriend to be the softest man you’ve ever met underneath his cold exterior. 

“Jong, I–” you stammer, panic rising in your throat. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this angry. 

He grabs your wrist with a bruising force, tearing it off of his colleague and tugging you up out of the barstool and to your feet. “Get in the car.”

“Wait–!”

“I said get in the fucking car.”

“Do you just like pissing me off? Is that it?” Jay growls, tugging you straight from the car to the bedroom. “Acting like a whore in front of all of my colleagues. You want to get into their wallets too, huh? Or are you embarrassing me in public just over some dick?”

“No, Daddy, I-I’m sorry, I–!”

“If dick’s what you want, I’ll let you fucking have it.” he snarls, cutting you off. With a rough shove you’re practically thrown onto the mattress, landing on your back hard enough to knock the wind out of you. “That’s what you wanted, right, princess? You were letting that man touch all over you to get a rise out of me. I bought you a new dress, new shoes, and this is how you act? Spoiled brat. You want your daddy to punish you? I’ll give you what you want, you little whore. Gonna put you back in your place.”

He’s on top of you before you can blink, his rough and calloused hands tearing your sparkly new dress to shreds with ease. The paper thin fabric rips from your body loudly, cast aside onto the floor in an expensive, shimmery puddle. You open your mouth to protest, but it dies on your tongue; you fear what would happen if you provoke him any further, and besides, there wasn’t any point in complaining. He’ll just buy you another one. You went braless because of its scooping back, leaving you only in a tiny pair of black panties. He pauses for a moment to admire the dainty, intricate lacing before tearing them apart too. “I should have bent you over and fucked you right there at the bar.” he growls in your ear, “Shown him and everyone else just who you belong to, who fucking owns you. This pussy? It’s mine.”

You’re left completely bare beneath him while he’s only taken off his shoes and blazer, crisp white button up shirt and dark suit pants crumpled and disheveled from your greedy hands. One of his large hands comes down to cup your aching mound, long thick fingers sliding up between your folds to smear your dripping arousal around. “Fuck, you’re so wet and I haven’t even touched you.” Jay marvels with a groan. The rough pad of his middle finger wets your budding clit, encouraging it to peek out more from its little hood. “Who owns this pretty pussy, baby, hm? Tell me.”

It takes you too long to speak, your thoughts fractured and scattered about. Jay warns you in the form of a harsh slap to your pussy. “Tell me.” he repeats venomously. 

“Y-You! You do, Daddy! I’m sorry! Daddy owns this pussy, it’s Daddy’s, no one else's–”

Your near-incoherent babbling seems to be enough for now, your daddy rewarding you with a pleased hum and a roll of his fingers against your clit before his hands retract again to grab ahold of his belt. The clink of the buckle is enough to get squirming, thighs clenching together in an effort to soothe the ache between your legs as Jay makes quick work of undoing his pants. He doesn’t bother to undress himself any further, simply pulls his slacks down just enough to pull out his cock, thick and heavy spilling out from his unzipped fly. 

“Keep those legs open.” He orders, prying your legs apart with a surprising amount of force, his deep raspy voice dripping with dominance. “Gotta remind you that this cunt’s not yours to whore around with, since you can’t seem to fucking remember.”

You have no choice but to obey, his grip like velvet-cased steel, forcing you open and laid out underneath him. His dark eyes rake over your most intimate parts, hungry gaze growing heavy as it travels from your perky breasts, bouncing from your heaving chest, down to your glistening cunt. The puffy folds of your pussy lips quiver and weep between your parted thighs, preening for attention. To get Jay angry was exactly what you wanted, yet it somehow felt wrong, his attention still hollow and detached. Regret and guilt eats away at your lust, makes you squirm beneath Jay’s touch as he drags his palms over the expanse of your thighs. What you really wanted was his love; the softer, gentler kind that held you close and whispered sweet nothings into your hair. You want his praise, want to be drowned in his adoration as he worships your body. 

Originally, what you thought you had wanted was to get fucked, hard. But you realize now that it was a lot deeper than that.

Jay picks up the shift in your mood immediately, his face softening in concern. He’s always been so in tune with your emotions, able to pick up the smallest shifts in your body language, the microscopic changes in your expression. It’s as if your thoughts were written out on your skin for him to read, something he’s read before; the notes of his favorite song, familiar enough that he can thoughtlessly pluck out on one of his many guitars. “What’s the matter, baby? He asks you in a soft voice, slowly retracting his fingers, “You don’t want your punishment?” 

You can’t stop yourself from pouting childishly, the tears that had been gathering on your lashes threatening to spill over when you shake your head. “I’m sorry Daddy.” you mumble pitifully, fighting a losing battle trying not to cry. 

Jay reaches up to cup your flushed cheeks in his palms, soothing your soft hiccups and cries with a gentle coo. “Shhh, don’t be sorry, sugar, what happened? Talk to me.” 

“I miss you.” you admit, the guilt and embarrassment eating you alive; you turn your face to hide in his hand, your cheeks wetter than you would like to admit. “I feel like I never even get to see you anymore! I know… I know you work hard, and I’m sorry, but I– I just want it to be like how it was before, when you had time for me. It’s not fair! Finally I’m really your girlfriend, not just your– your whore, and suddenly you’re too busy to spend any time with me! I just…. I just want your attention, Jay.”

Jay blinks down at you once, then twice. And then the realization comes down on him like a crashing wave, those dark eyes of his widening as they scan over your sad little face. “Oh, sweet thing,” he breathes, any lingering dregs of his domineering persona falling away completely, leaving him exposed and unguarded. He scoops you up into his arms and presses sweet gentle kisses to your forehead and temple. “I’m so sorry, sugar, I’ve been neglecting you, haven’t I?”

You burrow your face into his broad, muscled chest and sniffle. 

“My poor baby… she needs her daddy so badly, doesn’t she? Shhh, princess, Daddy’s got you. Daddy will take care of you…”

And one thing Jay will never do to you is lie. When he lies you back town to take you again it’s slower and gentler than he had ever done so before. He slowly and thoroughly stretches you open on his fingers even though you’ve been dripping for hours, doesn’t stop until the tears in your eyes were from pleasure instead of pain. It’s only after he makes you cum does he finally push himself inside of you, perfect and familiar like coming home. His cock is so thick that it still burns regardless of how much he’s prepped you, but the sting only adds to your euphoria. 

Jay slides inside in one smooth thrust, fully sheathing himself inside of you until his heavy balls press up against your cunt. He’s so deep you swear you can feel him up in your throat, body absolutely alight with the pleasure of being so fucking full. Your gummy wet walls grip his veiny shaft greedily, squeezing him tight enough to make him throw his head back and grunt. 

“Tight pussy,” he grits out between clenched teeth. His strained voice comes out in a rushed exhale. “Ffffuck, let me in. You need to open up for me, baby.”

He spit the words so filthily, making your tummy turn with desire. His thick fat cock spreads your little pussy lips apart and stretches you open so blissfully, your cunt gushes around his shaft and greedily sucks him in even deeper. Jay curses and grinds his cockhead hard against the opening of your cervix, a painful kiss that makes you gasp out. He slides himself out before you can recover, leaving only his flared cockhead inside to keep your hole gaping. 

“Are you ready, sweet thing?” he coos, gentle voice betrayed by the animalistic look in his eyes.

He steadies himself with his hand splayed out across your lower stomach, pressing down with the heel of his palm. You nod excitedly. 

The first rough, strong thrust into your pussy knocks the breath out of you. The ones right after it keep you from gaining it back, all of the air leaving you in the moans that Jay’s powerful rhythm tears from your throat. Soon the room is full of the sound of skin on skin, that filthy, pornographic plap, plap, plap of his hips slamming against your ass making your ears burn. Your pussy squelches loudly every time it welcomes his cock inside, dribbling cum and arousal down onto the bed sheets. 

You reach your second climax in what seems like no time at all, but Jay shows no sign of stopping– in fact, he seems to only pound into you harder and faster, focused expression on his flushed sweaty face like he was hunting something. 

“D-daddy, daddy, you gotta slow down!” you manage to stutter out between whimpers and whines, but Jay only answers you with his thumb and finger pinching your clit, the sudden shock of white-hot pleasure nearly making you scream. 

“Fuck, I can’t, love this pussy too much,” he groans against your neck, hot lips and tongue gliding against your needy skin. “Love the way you feel when you cum around me, babydoll, you clench down so fucking hard– need you to do it again, make you feel so good over and over. Give Daddy another one.” 

So you do, give him two more til you’re certain your cervix is bruised, til there’s a filthy, frothy white ring around the base of his cock like a wedding band. But that’s still not enough, not even after Jay’s cum himself, shot his hot sticky load deep inside of you and filled your empty little womb up to the point you’re dribbling it down the backs of your legs. The pleasure is so intense it’s almost painful, your poor abused cunt overstimulated beyond belief– the next time you feel another orgasm creeping up on you, it feels so much more intense than any other one you’ve ever had before, hot lava building pressure in your pelvis and only intensified by Jay’s hand pressed down hard on your tummy. You barely have time to warn him before the volcano erupts and you’re squirting all over his chest and abdomen, drenching his abs and his balls in your essence. 

Jay’s hips stutter wildly, his rhythm quickly falling apart into sloppy, staccato bucks into your tight heat. “That’s so fucking hot,” he whimpers like it pains him, his eyes rolling back in his head. “Marry me please.”

“Wh-what?” 

“I’m gonna marry you. I’m gonna make you my wife, all mine, gonna put that baby in your belly that you’ve been wantin’ so bad. What do you think, princess? My little housewife carrying my babies…”

You’re too fucked out to properly digest any of what he’s saying, sobbing and hiccupping with the pleasure that wracked your body. “Yes, yes!” you shriek– you’d agree to anything Jay said as long as you get to feel him flood you with his seed again. “Anything you want, Daddy, please!”

Jay just can’t help but spoil your pussy as much as he spoils the rest of you, and when you cum for a fourth and final time he drives himself as deep inside of you as he can and releases another load of hot thick cum into your greedy hole. You rake your perfectly manicured nails down his broad, muscled back as your pussy milks him of every last drop, your walls fluttering from the pained hiss he lets out when they break the skin. You know you’ll catch him admiring the marks you’d left behind in the mirror tomorrow morning, lopsided grin on his face from all the angry red marks.

“I meant it,” he mumbles into your hair when you both come down from your highs, laid tangled together on expensive sheets ruined and cum stained. “I’m gonna marry you one day.”

His cock is still buried deep inside of you, thick globs of cum seeping out from where you’re connected; you look up at him with eyes full of satisfaction and love, your makeup ruined and running down your face in dark sparkly streaks. There are smeared lipstick stains across Jay’s own face and down his neck and chest. 

“Okay.” you reply, stifling a giggle and cuddling deeper into his sticky chest. “It better be a good ring.”

[percheduphere]

LET'S TALK ABOUT LOKI'S SHOES (ACTUALLY, HIS WHOLE WARDROBE)

Production costs aside, clothes tell the audience about how characters think of themselves.

Loki's shoes in the S2 finale raised a lot eyebrows, but I find them quite fitting: they are comfortable, practical, and most importantly, they are humble. The camera brings this to our attention to communicate his evolution in character.

Loki has always dressed well, often times ostentatiously. Whether he is at war, passing as a Midgardian, or held captive as an Asgardian prisoner, Loki communicates his social class and sense of superiority through clothing. For him, clothing armors his fragile sense of self and against others' opinions of him. He intends to be perceived as deadly charming but ultimately unapproachable.

His attire in the first Thor movie is roughly equal parts green and gold, signifying his royal status. His style is dressed down for his brother's misadventures in Jotenheim, yet overall both silhouettes are lofty, princely, but not hardened or threatening.

In Avengers, Loki's look has more black and leather, with exaggerated emphasis on his shoulders meant to intimidate as he assumes the role of villain. The silhouette is very hard, heavy, and edgy. Gold detailing is prevalent as well. Combined with the goat's helm, this is Loki's most pretentious outfit, which speaks to an undercurrent of low self-esteem and a compulsive need to impress. There's no mistaking he is the main antagonist of the story.

In Thor 2, Loki's attire is similar to Avengers but the overcoat is exchanged for a less bulky version (perhaps conveying he is less guarded now that the effects of the Mind Stone are no longer influencing him). Loki's role likewise pivots from the harsh lines of a villain to the more flexible edges of a reluctant villain-turned-ally. This aligns with his character arc when he protects both Jane and Thor, seemingly sacrificing himself.

In Thor 3, Loki's silhouette is streamlined even further. The overcoat is done away with in favor of what appears to be a leather doublet, pauldrons, and vambraces. Gold accents are minimal. While stylish, Loki's attire is more practical than showy, and his helm serves the dual purpose of protection as well as weaponry. At this point in his arc, Loki has become a full antihero, joining his brother's side in rescuing as many Asgardians as possible, and eventually dying in a vain bid to protect Thor from Thanos.

The TVA does something very fun and interesting in taking away Loki's ability to dress himself. Since Loki cannot use his magic in the TVA, he is forced to wear the same clothing as his captor/advocate, who eventually becomes his best friend and peer.

Perhaps, on a subconscious level, this helped Loki to feel included. We know by his pwn admission that Loki fears being alone and desperately craves a sense of belonging. At the same time, he intentionally dresses to put people at a distance, thereby protecting himself from potential rejection at the cost of isolating himself further.

When Mobius gives him that TVA jacket for the first time, Loki seems uncharacteristically pleased. It is not an attractive jacket by any means, yet he neither scoffs at it nor refuses to wear it. Instead, Loki puts it on and is content when Mobius says it looks "smart" on him. He continues to dress like Mobius and, indeed, mimic some of his mannerisms such as placing his hands on his hips. Without clothing meant to push people away, Loki opens up, has more fun, and makes friends.

Loki's choice of attire as he assumes the mantle of God of Stories (and time) is fascinating. Setting aside the clear design inspiration from the comics, Loki's silhouette is soft, remarkably so. His colors are earthy hues of green, and the only bit of flare are the light gold trimming and crown. The look brings to mind the garb of sages and wise wizards rather than royalty or warriors. He's powerful yet approachable because there is humility in his bearing. And that humility springs from a well of healthy self-worth, self-love, and a deep love for others.

The shoes are not meant to be attractive. They are meant to help him ascend the throne, nothing more.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

more words for characterization (pt. 2)

Attributes of behavior: [A-D] abstemious, accident-prone, acid, acrimonious, adamant, affable, affectionate, agreeable, aimless, aloof, amuck, animated, anxious, arbitrary, ardent, arrogant, ascetic, attentive, austere, avid, backhanded, bad, barbarian, barbarous, beaming, belligerent, big, blindly, boisterous, bossy, brassy, brazen, brusque, cagey, calm, capricious, casual, cavalier, cheeky, chill, chummy, clumsy, cocky/cocksure, combative, comic/comical, compassionate, complaisant, compulsive, conciliatory, considerate, contemptuous, contrary, convivial, cordial, corrupt, courageous, courtly, cowardly, crabby/crabbed, cranky, craven, crotchety, cruel, cunning, daring, dauntless, debonair, decent, decided, defensive, defiant, deliberately, delightful, delirious, demure, detached, diffident, disagreeable, disarming, discreet, disgruntled, disinterested, disobedient, disorderly, disputatious, disruptive, dissolute, distraught, divisive, doctrinaire, dolorous, doting, double-dealing, draconian

[E-J] eager, easy, edgy, effervescent, emotionless, envious, equable, evasive, even-tempered, excitable, exuberant, faithful, fake, false, fanatical, favorably, fearful, feigned, ferocious, fervent/fervid, fickle, fiery, finicky, flamboyant, flighty, flirtatious, foolhardy, foolishly, forceful, forward, fractious, freely, fretful, frivolous, fussy, gamely, genteel, glacial, gluttonous, goody-goody, graceless, grandiose, gritty, gruff, gung ho, halfhearted, hardhearted, haram-scarum, headstrong, hearty, helpless, high and mighty, high-handed, high-strung, holier-than-thou, hot, huffy, humble, hypocritical, idle, ill-mannered, ill-natured, ill-tempered, impatient, impertinent, impolite, importunate, impudent, inactive, inconsiderate, ingratiating, inhuman/inhumane, innocuous, insidious, insubordinate, intractable/intransigent, introverted, invidious, irreconcilable, irreverent, jaded, jaunty, jazzed-up, jovial, jumpy

[K-R] keen, kittenish, lax, lecherous, lethargic, liberal, lifeless, light-headed, litigious, lofty, loquacious, loud, loving, Machiavellian, maladroit, malicious, mannered, martial, mean, meat-eating, menacing, merciful, mercurial, militant, mischievous, miserly, mousy, munificent, naive, nasty, naughty, neglectful, neighborly, nervy, nomadic, noncompliant, nonconformist, nosy, obedient, obliging, obsequious, obtrusive, offhand, on edge, on purpose, orderly, ostentatious, overbearing, overwrought, parsimonious, passionate, peevish, pent-up, peppy, peripatetic, permissive, pert, petulant, philosophical/philosophic, phobic, pitiless, plaintive, playful, plucky, politic, pompous, pragmatic, precipitous/precipitate, predatory, presumptuous, prickly, prissy, profane, prompt, propitious, provident, prudish, puerile, pumped, puritanical, quarrelsome, quick-tempered, racy, raffish, rash, ready, rebellious, reckless, regardful, relentless, remiss, remorseless, renegade, repugnant, resigned, responsible, restful, restrained, retiring, revolutionary, rocky, rollicking, rootin’-tootin’, rousing, rude, runaway, ruthless

[S-Z] safe, sanctimonious, sassy, savage, scintillating, secluded, self-conscious, self-righteous, sentimental, serpentine, severe, shameful, sheepish, shifty, short-sighted, shy, simple, sincere, skittish, slippery, sluggish, small, smooth, snappy, snide, snooty, sober, soft, solid, sophomoric, spineless, spontaneous, sporting/sportive, sprightly, square, staid, starchy, staunch, stealthy, stiff, stingy, stoic/stoical, stony, strained, strait-laced, strenuous, stringent, stuck-up, suave, submissive, subversive, supercilious, supine, surly, sympathetic, tactful, tame, tearful, tempestuous, tender, tense, thankful, theatrical, thieving/thievish, thoughtless, tight, tipsy, touchy, traitorous, treasonous, truculent, true-blue, turbulent, two-faced, unaffected, unasked, unattached, unbridled, uncivilized, uncontrollable, uncouth, undependable, underhand, unemotional, unfriendly, unguarded, unintentional/unintended, unkind, unmerciful, unprejudiced, unreasonable, unrelenting, unruly, unseemly, unsettled, unsophisticated, unsympathetic, untoward, unwary, unwise, unworldly, uppity, urbane, vainglorious, valorous, vengeful, vibrant, vicious, vigilant, violent, virile, vital, volatile, wacky, wanton, warm, wary, watchful, wayward, well-bred, wicked, willful, wily, winning/winsome, witless, yellow, zany, zealous

NOTE

The above are concepts classified according to subject and usage. It not only helps writers and thinkers to organize their ideas but leads them from those very ideas to the words that can best express them.

It was, in part, created to turn an idea into a specific word. By linking together the main entries that share similar concepts, the index makes possible creative semantic connections between words in our language, stimulating thought and broadening vocabulary. Writing Resources PDFs

Source ⚜ Writing Basics & Refreshers ⚜ On Vocabulary ⚜ Part 1

[dadsbongos]

sweetnerd

@toxycodone / @maniacpixiedreamboy been waiting to post this one for ya (based on this post of his)

summary - daisuke -desperate for some release after months of passionless jerking- begs to eat you out one night.

1 k words / 18+! mdni

Recently, the lock on medical had been snapped off. Thankfully, you knew the culprit to be Swansea after a belligerent search for painkillers. And unfortunately, you were responsible for watching over the numerous drugs each night.

Well, you claim it’s a misfortune but really you placed the burden upon yourself. Anya insisted that she would sit with you -- seemed borderline inconsolable at the idea of you being there alone. Then she told you where she hid the ship’s gun.

You weren’t sure why a nurse and her assistant had access to the gun when even Captain Curly didn’t, but you also weren’t getting paid enough to ask. Besides, you’ve never had a reason to use it so why concern yourself?

As if sensing all such serenity, the Tulpar bangs outside. Then Daisuke is clambering inside, hands on the doorframe and cheeks flush. His knees are pressed together, his whole body bent like some cheap hanger. Hair tousled, strands upright in odd angles -almost electric in nature. If not for the utter strangling silence behind him and his heavy breathing, you might’ve thought the rest of the ship was on fire.

“Dai… suke..?” you sit up groggily, scrubbing exhaustion from your eye, “The hell’s wrong with you? Do you know what time it is?”

“Do you?” he shoots, abandoning the argument a second later in favor of quietly humming, “I wanted to ask you…”

“Yeah?”

“Uhm, ugh… It was easier in my head… earlier…” he mumbles, hand drifting down toward his pelvis. He scrunches the crotch of his sleep pants, a lofty sigh escaping at the squeeze, “Can you- I’m just, you get it? You’ve gotta,” he clenches his eyes, seemingly shaking away the humiliation that very instant and looking at you with the biggest, wettest plead you’ve ever seen, “Can you please sit on my face while I jerk off please? Please?”

The pinched look on your face does not scream disgust, which only relieves him slightly -- he hadn’t really considered what he’d do if you reported his question to Captain Curly. Head too hot with want to forethink something as trivial as a sexual harassment lawsuit.

“Why…?” you lean back, hesitant though not appalled.

“I need to get off, like crazy,” he stumbles forward, slow enough for you to roughly shove him back if you want to, “All I got is an old mag, and it’s junk!” you can hear the delirium thrumming through him the longer you keep him waiting, “You’re so hot, I just wanna eat you out… You don’t even have to do anything, just ride my face! I’ll be good, I promise. We can stop whenever, too, I don’t need to finish,” he swallows harshly before whispering something you’re not totally sure you were meant to hear, “Just the memory could make me cum anyway.”

“Uhm…”

“I’ll give you some of my sweetener stash!”

“I don’t want that, Daisuke…”

“Then forget you heard it!” his dark eyes scramble over your body, “What else can I give you?”

Your own gaze flips over his shoulder, out the still open medical door and down the hall. Empty. Quiet. You snag him by the loose collar of his spare Pony Express shirt, sunshine fabric pillowing between your finger, wrangling him into the bay.

“Just be quiet,” you hiss, “The lock’s busted.”

Daisuke’s rosy lips drawl upward, loose and loopy and disbelieving, “You’re serious?”

“Aren’t you?”

He nods hastily, jumping back onto one of the care beds before flattening across it -- pleading silently up at you with wet puppy eyes while scrubbing sweaty palms down his thighs. Crinkling the soft material until it’s ricketing down his knees; watching hawklike as you slowly strip. Then you crawl atop of him, he clutches you by the hips and blows out a wildly uneven breath.

Barely able to find the strength to blink -lest he be cursed to cut the sight of your bare skin from his eyes- Daisuke only just scrounges the wherewithal to assist you into kneeling over his scorched face.

Exhaling between your thighs, Daisuke winds one hand around your thigh -blunt nails digging into the fat- while wrapping his cock with the other.

Craning his neck, he approaches eating you out the exact way you assumed he would: eagerly and without forethought. Absent of technique, but so full of hunger; his tongue parting and swirling wherever he pleases in that moment. As rhythmless as he is, he’s overtly sloppy -- wet clicks livening the silent room.

Billows of loose breath echoing. You sigh as he whimpers into you. Your weight jostling over his face as he bucks wildly into his tight fist -the resulting gasp only makes him thrust up harder.

“Ah, Daisuke,” pure instinct encourages you to reach down and wrangle his hair, keeping him still for you to grind down and fuck his face. Swirling your hips for that wet friction and Daisuke puts up no fight: only moaning louder into you. Vibrations making you shudder and weep again, “Ah- Daisuke!”

He croons beneath the praise, thumbing the soaking head of his cock while tongue-fucking you open. Desperately stretching his neck to nuzzle deeper into you with his own mewls leakier than a broken faucet. The messy sound of his clenched fist rapidly working his cock grows louder -- you glance over your shoulder to find him shiny with precum. Hand a mere blur over his thick erection. Ruby head peeking at you with every thrust until pearly ropes are painting his knuckles -- some more ambitious shots flying onto your back.

You’d somewhat expected him to slide back like some content, melty goop.

Daisuke surprises you when he smears cum over you whole before using it as lube to slide in, nearing knuckle deep. He moans in time with you as if he can feel it -or maybe just because feeling you clench around him is that good.

“God,” he whimpers beneath you, fingers curling inside you, “I could die down here…”

It might’ve been alarming, if he hadn’t said it so dreamily.

Maybe you’ll let him go down on you more often, if he’s always going to be so eager.

[yanderenightmare]

TW: nsfw, noncon/dubcon, omegaverse/hybrid au, size difference, pet-play, predator x prey, collaring, drugging

fem reader

Thinking about a human collector who decides he wants a new pet to add to his collection...

The air of the animal shelter is polluted by whimpers, howls, and growling as he parades past all sorts of rareties locked up in their cages – all for him to pick and choose from. 

The warden is telling him about the new swan hybrid they wrangled a week ago, wings like an angel with the grace of royalty, a true prize jewel of any collection. 

He thinks it sounds promising before strolling past you.

Placed in one of the smaller cages on the floor, seemingly tucked away so as not to catch anyone’s attention. 

You’re a sorry sight to behold – all starved and shaking – the collar around your throat too heavy for you to lift your head, having to look up at him through your lashes as he crouches down in front of you.

Your eyes are wide like two moons as he sticks a finger in through the bars.

It’s thick like a carrot, and for a moment, you seem like you’re about to scurry away into the very back of your cage – but instead, you inch closer, sniffing at the digit before suddenly snapping at him.

He backs away with a hiss, drawing the warden's attention – who rushes back and knocks his cain against the cage with a growl in his throat, “Stupid critter.” 

You’ve narrowed your eyes, nose wrinkled in anger – something akin to a snarl forming your lips. It’s a funny expression to see on such a normally docile breed.

“I’m really sorry, sir. Bunnies aren't usually aggressive, but we’ve had issues disciplining this one for weeks.” The warden rushes out the apologetic excuse, expecting to be sued.

But the collector only chuckles – a deep sound that makes your soft fur stiffen. “That’s fine.” 

He pulls a handkerchief from his back pocket, all movements calm and collected as he wipes the spill of blood trickling from the small bite mark you’d left on his finger.

“It’s only a nibble, after all.” 

You spit the bitter taste left in your tongue out on his shoes with another sneer.

If it angers him, it still doesn’t show through the lofty smile he wears. His leer is just as poised and heavy as he looks down at you.

“Does she talk?”

The warden had turned to lead him towards the more desirable and tamed section but halted at the question.

He had a puzzled look on his face before he answered, almost in a question himself, “We don’t know.”

The collector scoffed out another small laugh, then pulled out his phone. “How much?”

The warden seemed appalled then. “Sir, we have exotic pets more up to your standard in the back. Are you sure-”

“I want this one.”

The warden looked snuffed at his firm tone. But straightened himself out after a moment. All business as usual. “We can’t guarantee she’ll behave. It could be dangerous-”

But he’s cut off yet again, this time with another rumbling chuckle.

“That won’t be an issue.”

And those dark eyes with that deeply dominating look within them were the last thing you remember seeing before becoming a sleepy heap on the floor of your cage – drooling with a blank stare as you’re carried to the trunk and driven off with.

The tranquilizer makes you fall asleep, waking to heat swallowing you as you’re lowered into a bathtub.

“Let’s get you groomed first.” The same man murmurs in a coo. Petting your head with a heavy hand when seeing your weary eyes try blinking off the sleep – but still left too drowsy to thrash.

Instead, you can just moan as he washes you with a tender smile on his face – his big hands coarse against your creamy skin, rubbing your plush limbs with soap and oil.

“My pets have been an awful handful lately…”

He’s talking about something, but you only catch bits and pieces of the words being said. Something about ruts and scratched furniture – someone’s been pissing in the sofa, and all the pillows are ruined.

He messages the lops of your ears, then rinses them gently.

“But it’s my fault. I’ve been neglectful.”

He cups your tits next, lathering them with the warm milky water, circling your nipples with the gritty pads of his thumbs until they perk.  

Then he delves under the water to find your puffy cunt, letting the hot water rush the sensitivity, making it swell with heat as he splits the lips and pets your clit. 

You buck your hips, and he awes with a light chuckle, crooning down at you. “It's okay, little bunny.”

His carrot-sized finger teases your hole before sinking inside you, filling you in slow and tentative pumps. Sitting next to the tub, just as composed as before, while your cunt squeezes his knuckles.

He hums, watching your body fight the tranquilizer as you seize up and ripple with release.

He retracts his hand, patting them both on the fluffy towel placed next to him. A content smile on his face. “You’re gonna do perfect.”

After he’s finished drying you, he fixes a collar around your throat and carries you out to the others.

“Gather ‘round, pets.” He announces, placing you down on the soft carpeted floors beneath.

Your limbs are still heavy, too weak to stand just yet. But that all changes with the adrenaline kick.

“Come say hi to your new rut-puppet.”

The stench in the air coats your skin with sweat.

“She’s a fragile thing, though, so make sure to play nice.”

Your big eyes skitter around. 

On your left, there’s a wolf, fox, and hyena who all lick their teeth at the sight of you.

Next to them lies a bear that wakens from his slumber. He licks his snout with a huff.

Drool drips from the hang in their lips as they start panting. 

And they aren't the only ones.

On your right, there’s a panther and leopard whose eyes all blackout into nothing but a deep pool of darkness.

Their tails slowly meander behind them as they arise from their beds to stalk you.

You whimper, backing up until your back hits the legs of your new owner.

You lift your head to look up at him, only to see him smiling down at you.

“Don’t be shy now. The smell of fear only makes them wilder.”

part 2

[merakiui]

moros's looking glass.

yandere!overblot!riddle x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, death, victorian era, obsession, attempted captivity, arranged marriage, threats of violence, restraints, non-consensual touching and kissing note - after the death of your husband, you are left to sift through his estate. you'll soon find some ghosts refuse to remain in their graves.

To the esteemed Lady of the Rosehearts Estate: It is with a shrouded heart that I write to inform you of Lord Rosehearts’s untimely passing. It is a most unfortunate occasion, and for such reasons I must implore you to return from your seaside retreat with great haste. 

Mrs. Rosehearts’s bare hand comes down so suddenly that you hardly have any chance to brace yourself before it makes contact with your cheek. A harsh smack resounds throughout the hall, echoing within your brain until it’s all you can process. The sting that follows warms your tender skin and, though you wish to soothe it with a gentle caress, you remain stone-faced and stiff before her, a mere statuette who has been frozen in time. 

“Such insolence is unforgivable,” she seethes, swiping her glove from her butler, who holds it out with his head bowed and shoulders hunched. She fits her hand inside the pristine fabric and flexes her fingers momentarily before turning her fiery gaze back on you. “You were well aware of the ailment that consumed my dear Riddle and yet you abandoned him in his time of need! You are the lady of this house. It is your duty to remain here! Must the implication be branded on your very bosom for you to recognize it?!” 

“My deepest apologies, madam.” You lower into a perfect curtsy. “I did not possess enough foresight to know that this might happen. For that, I am truly regretful.” 

He was already at death’s door. A sickly body is meant for the hands of higher powers, or so they’ve said. I suppose this is the inevitability of fate.

“I have always been of the opinion that you were inadequate for my son,” she snaps. “If it weren’t for your family’s status, I’d have had you pulled from his life before you could ruin it further like the vapid weed you are.”

With a huff, she strides past you.

You remain in the hall, comforted by the soft tock of the old grandfather clock.

It’s not my fault your son was sickly, you think, scowling at the floor tiles. But you refuse to allow this to darken your mood. Gathering yourself, you straighten your posture and smooth the sting in your cheek with a few consoling pats.

I am (Name) Rosehearts, lady of this fine estate. I shall not waver in the face of a monstrous mother.

Though your union was one of arrangement, it took some time to convince Mrs. Rosehearts. She only conceded after her son had, quite literally, begged her. Your parents’ social status and fortune were quite persuasive as well. It was your late husband who argued with her, day and night, for the right to wed you.

“Mother, I have fancied no other to the extent I do Lady (Name). Should you come between us, I shall take her and we will be wed elsewhere—with or without your approval.”

Not wanting to lose her pride and joy and faced with the boundless prosperity boasted by the arrangement, she submitted to his demands. Thus, you were wed. You shall never forget the disdain scrawled on her wrinkled countenance as she watched you from her place in the pews. She disapproved of your dress, your disposition, your very existence. There was no part of you that could please her, but she had no choice. For Riddle’s sake, she would have to acquiesce.

Now that he’s no longer of this world, you’re feeling the force of her frosty hatred more directly. She has, by her own standards, every reason to dislike you. You could not conceive an heir to carry on the legacy. You could not be there to assist Riddle while he was on his deathbed. You could not measure up to her lofty expectations of what a proper wife and lady should be. You could not be pretty enough. The list is endless.

“My lady, the photographer is waiting,” the butler pipes up, nodding in the direction of the room.

“I understand. Thank you.”

You inhale all of your negativity, allow it to fester within your lungs, and then you expel it in a long exhale.

You must stand tall and proud in the face of adversity. Do not falter.

This is the busiest you have seen the silent, despair-tinged halls of the Rosehearts Manor. Shadows creep along floral, cream-colored wallpaper, and the curtains do well to keep the sun from poking its rays through the gloom. Your grip tightens on your lace shawl as you’re led through the foyer, and when you view the vaulted ceiling it seems to spiral into never-ending darkness. Photographs are turned over to protect those in the film who are still living. The clocks are all stopped at three in the morning—supposedly the time at which Riddle gave his final breath. Every reflective surface has been enveloped in black cloth, and every funeral attendant you pass offers sympathetic bows and curtsies. Your nose crinkles at them, but you nod your acknowledgement and continue down the hall. 

Riddle is poised on the sofa, his arms folded primly in his lap. His face is colored in a sickly pallor, and he’s dressed in his best suit. If it weren’t for how deathly still he is, you’d think he was full of life. Glassy greys stare listlessly ahead. You peer into them. He does not blink or recognize your presence.

It occurs to you that he truly is dead.

Mrs. Rosehearts is quick to shoo you away. “Distance! You’ll pollute the air near my Riddle!”

You offer her a cordial simper. “Wherever shall I sit?”

She wrinkles her nose at you but gestures to the spot beside him. “You are his wife, so you must sit at his side here.”

“Very well.” You lower onto the cushion. Riddle is arranged to lean against you. He is cold and stiff, almost like a doll. His soft hair brushes your cheek. “And what of you, madam?”

“You are to be photographed first, after which I shall replace you. Then, we’ll both be photographed.”

“If it pleases,” you reply, looking towards the camera. Gently, you close your hand over Riddle’s gloved one.

Forgive me, Riddle. I should have returned from the sea sooner, but I was cowardly and could not bear to face you as you withered away. It is with great shame that I wear this mourning dress.

Your photo is taken. For the rest of the ordeal, you remain in your head. The shuffling of bodies is drowned out, for you focus only on your husband as he’s situated on the sofa beside his mother. 

Riddle wouldn’t have wanted that, you think, but then you pause. What would he want?

You can scarcely say.

Afterwards, Riddle is placed in his coffin, his eyes shut, and carried feet-first from the house. You accompany the procession, everyone following the solemn hearse in its travels. There is a hollow in the ground, where a group of men lower the death box. They work silently and diligently to shovel soil and fill the hole. You stand off to the side, watching from behind your veil. You don’t shed tears, but neither does Mrs. Rosehearts.

It is a chilly, autumn day devoid of birdsong and sunshine.

A laurel wreath is hung on the door following the funeral, and an ornament fashioned out of his hair alongside his photo are kept enclosed in a locket pin. You hold it in your hands at all times, tucking it beneath your pillow when you sleep, cherishing this piece of him. You visit his grave just as frequently as it is guarded. Every now and then, you expect the bell aboveground to ring, signaling life from below. It never does.

Riddle left his entire estate to you. His mother could fume as she pleased, but the validity of his penmanship could not be denied. He explicitly wrote: To my wife, Lady (Name) Rosehearts: You are granted all mortal possessions within my estate as well as ownership to the property. Do with it as you like.

Your relationship with Riddle, while not free of its strains, was mostly amicable. You played your parts well enough. Even so, it bewilders you that he would leave you so much. You always assumed he’d gift it to his mother, as she seemed to have a hand in every aspect of his existence—his death included. She planned the funeral and the burial well in advance, arranged the photographer, even the outfit he was to wear.

Now, dressed in black crepe, you wander aimlessly through a quiet, covered house and wonder what you should do with so much empty space. There are still rules you must follow, of course, each one aligning with mourning customs. But now that you don’t have your husband to enforce them, you feel…lost.

Illuminated by candlelight, your reflection follows you as you walk past an uncovered mirror, trapped in silent reverie.

And then you stop.

An uncovered mirror?

In a horrified panic, you set the candlestick down to gaze at yourself in the glass.

This can’t be! All of the mirrors must be covered! What happened?!

You scramble to shroud it, your heart pounding restlessly like a war drum. For a while you stand there, waiting for something. You anticipate a shout from the shadows: Don’t you know you are expected to cover each and every reflective surface in the wake of death? Do you want to be pulled into the grave next?! Nothing happens, though. The house remains perfectly still. 

You think you hear someone breathing shallowly, but then you realize that’s you. Your chest heaves as you take in big gasps of air.

No one will know, you remind yourself, gradually calming your frazzled nerves. The mirror is covered. That is the end of that.

The grandfather clock’s midnight chime echoes down the hall. Sighing, you lift the candlestick and carry on.

“I shall retire to bed,” you tell the darkness, climbing the stairs. Riddle’s room is kept sealed, a place stuck in permanence. You refuse to disturb his things, lest you dampen his spirit, and so you beeline for your room. It’s directly across from his. When he was alive, he insisted you sleep at his side despite the bed customs between couples. Stubbornly, you refused. You recall the dismal glimmer that darkened his eyes whenever you’d decline. He would always promise the same thing—

“Should you need the warmth of another body, I am here to receive you. Forever and always.”

Pulled from your reminiscing, you turn sharply on your heel and raise the flame to light the end of the hall.

“How strange. I was certain…” You peer over the bannister at the foyer below. “Riddle, have you come home?”

Silence is your only reply.

“Foolish,” you chide, contenting yourself with the facts. “He rests peacefully in his grave.”

Burrowing into your woolen shawl, you depart for your bedroom.

In an empty house, swathed in the quilted duvet, you drift off into dreamless slumber.

It’s not the clock or the cold that jerks you from sleep. Rather, it’s the screeching noise that grates on your ears. You blink through the dark, only to cringe moments later when someone drags their nails over glass. You almost allow yourself to fall back into the sheets when you realize there shouldn’t be any human disturbances here, for you’re the only one in this house.

A mouse, perhaps?

But even you know that’s impossible, no matter how much you want to believe such faulty logic.

Throwing the covers off, you search blindly for the candlestick at your bedside. You fumble with the match, shivering like a frightened fawn, but eventually flame brightens the space. Now equipped with light, you peek outside your room, searching either end of the hall just in case. No one’s there, but the scratching continues. Incessantly, almost maddeningly, as if whoever’s doing it is trying to escape.

Nails on…glass. On glass.

Glass.

It’s coming from Riddle’s room.

The mirror!

You shuffle towards the door, only to stop short just as your foot steps in something sticky.

You lift your leg and shine the light on it. A black substance that appears to be some sort of molten tar or ink drips from your sole. With a gasp, you drag your foot upon the floor in hopes of getting rid of it.

“Ugh! How filthy!”

Resolving to wash it later, you stomp over to the door, yank it open, and poke your head inside. A rush of cold air barrages your face, whistling through the crack and out into the corridor. You stumble away in a daze. The scratching persists, angrily now, in a desperate sort of fashion. 

“Riddle?” you call out, your voice subdued and shot through with fear. “I… I’m sorry for disturbing you. I’d like to warm myself with you, if you’ll allow it.”

Just like that, the house stills. Shakily, you hold the candle out to light a portion of his room.

“I never should have left you. It must have been terribly lonely here. Lonely and cold… I’ve betrayed you in life, but in death I will be here to look after you. Forever and always. So… So please rest peacefully.”

The tip-tapping of a sharpened nail against the glass almost startles you out of your skin. You realize then that the shroud has fallen away from the mirror. 

If I must look upon it… Oh, but I’d rather not… Oh, but I must!

Steeling yourself, you burst into the room and brandish the candlestick. Thankfully, there are no monsters or humans to scare you. No ghosts to be banished. No intruders to chase off. Instead, you see yourself in the mirror.

Or…an approximation of you. Not quite a doppelgänger in appearance. This version of you is wearing soaked rags, tattered and tired, but she has your eyes. They’re unmistakable as they stare back at you.

You set the candlestick on the bedside table and inch closer to the mirror.

“Peculiar,” you whisper, reaching for the glass just as your reflection does. “Surely this isn’t me. I look ghastly!”

Your fingers brush the surface and, in a stroke of shock, just as the grandfather clock below chimes the hour, your hand goes through. Before you can think to pull away, something on the other side tugs at your wrist, frigid fingers coiling tightly. With a shriek, you resist and claw wildly at the air, stretching to grab hold of the bed. You manage to grasp the edge of the blanket, which is pulled free from its neat placement, just as you’re dragged through the mirror.

All that’s left of you is the locket pin, having fallen to the floor in a clatter during the scuffle.

You open your eyes on a room colored black and white. It looks like yours, but something is different. It doesn’t feel like yours. It doesn’t even appear lived in. Almost as if it’s been sealed like a crypt, kept in pristine condition as it awaits an owner who will never return.

Where am I? you wonder, closing your hands around your shawl. It provides you with a modicum of comfort.

A book is lying on the vanity desk, the only thing that looks just slightly out of place in an otherwise tidy room. Curiously, you pick it up and open it to read the cover: Property of Riddle Rosehearts.

“Oh?”

You turn to a random page and skim through the words: I’ve waited ceaselessly for her return, so much so I’m beginning to lose count of the days. I’ve no inkling as to what’s real and what’s false. I see her in the stars, in the mirror, in my dreams… She is lost, I’m certain of this. No one will listen to me. They’ve condemned me to my solitude in this house, but soon I’ll swap places with him and then I’ll have her. It is only a matter of time. She will be mine.

This…cannot be my husband’s diary. Or was it? This is undoubtedly his penmanship.

Surely your husband wasn’t seeing another woman. He has always been honest and sincere. He has never raised his hand to you, nor has he ever threatened you. He is gentle, albeit rough and awkward around the edges, but he means well. Furthermore, you’ve never known him to keep diaries.

If he was embroiled in an adulterous affair, perhaps it was for the best. I could not hope to give him a child. I couldn’t bring him happiness or comfort. I am a failure of a wife, you think, running your thumb over the page.

You must stand tall and proud in the face of adversity. Do not falter.

Drying your eyes, you set the diary down and resolve to keep your strength for the exploration to come. Crying will not help you here. Not right now.

Never falter.

You push the door open and step out into the hall. The photographs are turned upright; mirrors are uncovered. The staircase is on the opposite end of the hall instead of directly around the corner like yours is back home. Even with the differences, the house reminds you of Riddle’s manor.

Strange… Everything is so similar and yet it’s not.

You creep down the stairs, eyeing the crystal chandelier hanging high in the foyer. In fact, now that you’re descending, you’re beginning to notice just how many reflective surfaces surround you. Looking glasses of all shapes and sizes. Crystal decorations that reflect in dozens… It’s overwhelming. At every angle, your face peers back at you.

When you peel the curtain away to glance outside, you find an unsettling white space stretching on endlessly.

Where have I found myself?

You trot down the hall, searching the portraits for any indication of the master of the house. Instead, all you see is yourself. The other faces have been blotted out in dark ink.

This is not my home, you realize with a shiver.

The further you venture, the clearer it becomes that someone lives here. Despite the manic decor, there is not a speck of dust or a hint of disrepair. Someone is here, and they’re looking after this property.

You round the corner, acquainting yourself with a semi-familiar layout, and that’s when you find him. Your husband.

He’s hanging up another portrait with meticulous precision. This is a painting of you. It reminds you of the one your Riddle had commissioned. Only this one depicts you in the same decrepit fashion you saw before you were coaxed through the mirror.

This can’t be… Do my eyes deceive me? Is this truly—

“Riddle?”

His hands fall away from the frame, and he turns to look at you. Ruby-red eyes widen in recognition and then delight. He swoops in like a falcon, covering the distance in quick strides to gather you in his arms.

“My beloved! Oh, what wonderful fortune!” he cries, embracing you tightly. “You’ve come back to me! At long last, you’re here… You’re really here in flesh and blood! Oh, my love, sweetest rose, welcome back.”

If you were to ever meet your husband again, you were certain he’d have an earful for you, a long lecture of societal and personal expectations husband and wife are meant to adhere to. But this Riddle is…happy. He doesn’t seem angry or disappointed at all.

Rather woodenly, you wrap your arms around him. “You’re…not cross?”

“Whyever would you think that?” He pulls away from you and runs his hands up your arms, as if to assess the authenticity of your appearance.

You stare at his face. He looks like Riddle. But… Well.

He doesn’t feel like Riddle. Your Riddle—the grey-eyed Riddle—was awkward in his affections. He would never hug you so openly. He would never touch you without your approval first. He was considerate and well-mannered. Furthermore, he never called you by any endearing terms. You were always Lady (Name) to him.

Your hands close around his face to hold him still. “Your eyes—”

He blinks and suddenly the red was never there. “My eyes?”

Am I dreaming?

“Are you certain this is real?”

He smiles. “You must still be clinging to the vestiges of sleep. I assure you this is all very real.”

“So you’re truly Riddle? My Riddle?”

“Your Riddle. Always and forever.”

Tears well up in your eyes. You sink to your knees. “Oh, Riddle… Riddle, I’m so sorry. If I had just come back sooner… If I hadn’t been so scared—I couldn’t face you! I didn’t want to. I…didn’t wish to see you suffering so. It hurts…”

“My dear…” He lowers to your height and brushes your tears away with his thumb. His eyes soften with an intense fondness. “How fervently I’ve missed your voice. How desperately I’ve longed to hold you in my arms.”

“I can’t fathom it—how can it be?” you mutter, hesitant to touch him again lest he be turned to dust before your eyes. “You… You’re alive?”

“I’ve always been alive.”

“But you—your condition! You’ve been ill. It…” You inhale a sharp breath. “Your ailment worsened when you married me.”

“Do you blame yourself?” Before you can answer that, he takes hold of your chin and tilts your head. “Don’t. The fault does not lie with you. It never has.”

And then he fits his lips on yours in a kiss so sweet and soulful it momentarily rekindles your hope in romance. Shocked, you stumble back on the floor, but he just surges forward to continue kissing you. It’s passionate and hungry; he nibbles at your lip and licks into your mouth, leaving you panting and scrabbling for purchase. You cling to his suit—the same suit he was buried in.

He breaks away for breath, and you inhale mouthfuls of it. “Wait—”

Another kiss, this one longer than its predecessor. Your fingers curl into his shoulder. He pulls back.

“Riddle—”

He tugs your shawl from your shoulders in lustful impatience. You yelp when you feel his hands on your thighs, slyly sliding beneath your dark nightgown.

“Riddle!” You gasp, scandalized, and push him away. Breathing heavily, you yank the strap of your gown over your shoulder. “Just what’s gotten into you?!”

“I’ve missed you,” he confesses, gathering your hands in his. “I’ve waited for your return for so long—too long! And now you’re finally here… You’ve finally come back to me.”

My Riddle was never this forward.

“You must know I cannot give you what it is you want. I’m dead inside, a tragedy your mother is all too keen to remind me of.”

A frown tugs at his lips. “Unfortunate as that may be, it does not offend me in the slightest and it shouldn’t. I love you, with or without child.” He lifts your hand and places a gentle kiss upon the top of it.

You stare at him, horrified.

“S-Say that again, if you would…”

“I love you?” He raises his brow at you, confused. “With or without child, I love you. Always and forever.”

You drag your hand back, clutching it as if it’s injured. “I think…I might go for a stroll.”

He blinks back at you, one eye at a time. “Oh! Allow me to accompany you. It’s howling a gale out there. You would do well to change into attire fitting for the weather.”

“Of course. I’d love nothing more than to walk through the rose gardens with you. I do hope they haven’t started wilting.”

Riddle helps you up from the ground, drapes your shawl over your shoulders, and sends you on your way. You offer him a smile and turn to walk stiffly down the hall. The minute you’re out of sight, you sprint for the stairs, taking two at a time, and throw open the door to your room.

Your reflection meets you at the mirror. Without wasting another moment, you reach for her. Someone catches your wrist on the other side and tugs you through.

You’re spat out in Riddle’s bedroom in a heap of tangled limbs, your heart in your throat. The mirror shimmers with the real you. When you press your finger to the glass it doesn’t go through, but your finger touches its reflection.

“That was…strange,” you whisper, drawing away. You find the locket pin lying inches from your foot and you scramble for it, hastily prying it open to check its contents. The photo and lock of red hair remain untouched. “It was just a dream. A wild, whimsical terror.”

You rise to your feet and, after fixing the disturbed sheets, bid a final farewell to the room.

“Rest peacefully,” you say, shutting the door behind you. 

That was not my Riddle. My Riddle has never said he loves me before.

Following that night, you busy yourself with the curiosities of Riddle’s estate. In the three years you’ve lived here, you were unaware the house had so many secret spaces. Hidden doors that open into narrow passages and stairs. You’ve never had any servants, so you’re not sure why Riddle would need any of this. The house has been in the Rosehearts family for decades. As the legend goes, it was burned beyond repair and rebuilt with a better layout. A safer layout, Riddle would tell you when you questioned the tale.

“Safer for what?” you mutter, peeling wallpaper back to reveal the door to a thin crawl space. There’s never anything sealed within these rooms, but their existence is proof enough. If not for servants, these passages were meant to house secrets. “Did he know about this? He must have.”

Would Mrs. Rosehearts know? Oh, but I dread the thought of wasting ink on that insufferable woman.

You lower to your knees and peer inside the crawl space. “Hello? Is anyone home?” And then you laugh to yourself. “Are you hiding in there, Riddle?”

You receive no reply.

A Riddle with red eyes… I must have been so feverish that night, to dream a vision so crooked.

You stretch your arm inside and feel around for any hidden treasure. You expect to come away with cobwebs and spiders, not a leather-bound book.

“Huh… Perhaps I’ve been away from the manor much too long,” you mutter, sitting with your back to the wall. You open the book, wondering what its contents could be that would merit this treatment.

Books ought to be treated in the same manner we treat each other—with respect. They are filled with boundless knowledge, and they provide insight into fascinating wonders we may yet comprehend, Riddle used to say.

“‘To destroy them would be to destroy the wisdom they offer,’” you say, finishing the rest of his quote. A smile pulls your lips up. “He loved books. Riddle would never seal any away.”

You peel it open to the first page, where you find four unsettling words.

Property of Riddle Rosehearts.

It’s a diary. Riddle’s diary.

Suddenly, the house is colder and unwelcoming, as if the very foundation disapproves of what you’ve just unearthed from its bowels. You’ve never known Riddle to keep a diary. And yet…

Tentatively, you flip through the pages. It’s a log of his condition, you realize. He details his symptoms daily, every event outlined in neat, waltzing script. You weren’t aware of just how morbid his condition was. At some point, though, he begins to catalogue other happenings.

I’ve coughed up quite a monstrous thing, he writes. I cannot fathom what it is, but it has the consistency of ink, almost. It is thick and foul in my mouth. It stains my sheets and colors my teeth. Next time it happens, I shall gather enough to test whether it truly is ink.

Then another page: I cannot employ servants because I fear he will tip poison into their ears. Thus, I’ve deigned to do everything myself. I’ve mustered enough strength and willpower to stand and cover most of the mirrors. So long as Lady (Name) stays away…

And another page: He is looking at me again, knocking at the mirror. Even as I write this, I must remain vigilant. You must wonder why I don’t shatter the mirror and put an end to this madness. Rather than sever the connection, I fear it would only provide an opening into our world. I hear him every night just as the clock tolls out the Witching Hours. He speaks of a malice most concerning. It is tiring and I think fondly of submitting, but I must protect Lady (Name).

And the final page, penned just days before his death: I fear the worst is happening. I cannot continue to research the face in the mirror. It has rendered me too frail. He has been studying me in the meantime, following me through the glass. He is a perfect reflection now, an expert copy. I’ve no inkling what this implies, but I suspect it cannot be anything pleasant. I’m going to seal my findings away with what little strength I have left so that it never falls into his hands. There must be some way to stop it… this infernal ringing in my ears… the blood filling my eyes…

A dried splatter stains the page, obscuring whatever was left of his words. You leaf through a few pages, searching for a proper explanation.

The face in the mirror? A perfect reflection? What is all of this? Just what was Riddle doing while I was gone?

You find it then, a list of what he believes to be fact, all outlined in an organized fashion.

Evidence of Fact

It is confined within reflective surfaces. It cannot step out into the mortal realm (or so I’ve yet to witness), but it can follow through mirrors so long as you look into it. Though the original must remain intact.

It is most active during the hours of midnight through three o’clock in the morning. To be referred to from here on out as the Witching Hours.

It has my voice and my face, but it is not me. You must remind yourself of this when you feel yourself losing control: He is not me, nor is he the shadow I cast.

It sees with red eyes and reaches with nightmarish claws. (A devil, perhaps?)

The substance I have been vomiting ceaselessly is indeed ink, but the reflection in the mirror refers to it as ‘blot.’ It is black and viscous. It reeks of rot.

It is undoubtedly after Lady (Name).

It calls itself Riddle.

You don’t really know your husband. You’ve never known him, in fact.

He was shouldering such a heavy burden all this time… All for my sake.

You hold the diary close to your chest.

If what he writes is true, then what I experienced that night… It wasn’t a dream but, rather, a supernatural occurrence. The reflection in the mirror calling itself Riddle—that must have been the Riddle I met. The one with red eyes. For a moment, I almost thought it was my Riddle. You run your finger over the cover of the diary. If that thing is the reason my Riddle is dead…

You don’t dare think any further.

Riddle noted that Reflection Riddle is most active during the Witching Hours. If you follow that logic then the mirror should open up between midnight and three every night, allowing you to cross into a world that reflects your own. You wonder if it’s the same for the other side. If it was, wouldn’t that mean Reflection Riddle could step out at any point and enter your world? You certainly hope he can’t.

Moros’s Looking Glass, reads the bookmarked tome in Riddle’s study, a (thankfully) mirrorless space that grants you total privacy, is said to be a powerful mirror that connects the mortal realm with that of the spirit realm. It is said that mortals who look upon Moros’s Glass are bound for death and should tread carefully when they hear three consecutive knocks from within their home. 

Not if but when. A certainty.

You turn to the chapter on Moros. “‘Gave people the ability to foresee their death…’” you read, frowning deeper as the text goes on. “‘Moros is a word meaning doom or fate. It is said that once you take Moros’s hand you can never turn back, for your death is already weaved into fate.’ No escape… Could that Reflection Riddle be Moros? That might give reason to why my reflection looked so twisted.”

You slump in the chair and sigh. “I’m sorry, Riddle… I never should have left you. I should have stayed. Perhaps then we could have worked together to understand this.”

Gritting your teeth, you wipe furiously at your eyes.

All this time, he was suffering and I ran away. All this time, he was thinking of me and my well-being, and I ran away.

Before you can openly bawl in his study, you remember the notes in Riddle’s diary.

It wants me. To what extent, I’m unsure. But if it truly does love me as it claimed… Surely it wouldn’t hurt me.

You don’t want to return to that strange world with its strange Riddle, but you need answers. If it killed your Riddle… You shut the book and place it back on the shelf.

You must stand tall and proud in the face of adversity. Do not falter.

Stringing the locket pin on an empty chain, you fasten it around your neck. That way, Riddle will always be close to your heart—a reminder that you are not alone. You rifle through your closet for appropriate attire, casting corsets and crinolines aside in favor of clothing that grants more freedom.

But I mustn’t look suspicious, you think, debating whether you should wear a chemise or a longer gown. You pull a pair of loose-fitting trousers from a drawer next. Perhaps… Oh, this will seem so indecent! If Riddle were here, he’d advise against it. But these will allow for movement should I need to flee fast. 

Seeing no other option, you choose the bloomers and a simple blouse, both in the classic color for mourning.

Ideally, I would prefer to never go back again, but I suspect I’ll be visiting more than once. Tonight, I’ll attempt to search for a weakness. There must be something I can exploit. A tension or a spot of blindness, perhaps? There’s that white space surrounding the manor. Perhaps I ought to try stepping outside?

You change in your room in front of a covered mirror and read through Riddle’s diary to refresh yourself on the foe you’ll be facing.

When the grandfather clock’s midnight toll reaches upstairs, you hide the diary under your pillow and cross the hall into Riddle’s room.

I refuse to call that thing my husband, you think hatefully. You are not Riddle. You will never be Riddle.

You kneel before the floor-length mirror and press your palm to the surface. A cold hand pulls you through.

I must remember not to overstay my welcome. You lift your trousers to peer at the pocket watch tied around your thigh. It is fifteen minutes past twelve. The window closes at three.

Throwing the closet doors open, which is packed full of well-tailored dresses and skirts, you grab a long woolen coat and fit your arms through the sleeves. You slide your feet into a pair of low-top heels. When you admire yourself in the mirror, you spy your waterlogged reflection looking back. She vanishes in a blink.

Descending the stairs, you call out for Riddle. “I apologize for the delay. I’m ready if you are.”

He pokes his head out from around the corner, a delicate smile gracing his pale features. Meeting you at the very bottom, he offers his arm.

“I’ve waited years for your return.” He laughs. “I can wait a few measly minutes.”

Minutes? Does time work differently here? Every clock aside from the watch fastened to my thigh is stopped at Riddle’s time of death. Perhaps this world’s sense of time is warped because of that. Or maybe Moros truly has no concept of time…

“Patience is a most admirable virtue, or so they say.”

“They speak the truth.” He leads you to the door. “You’ve come at a wondrous time. The roses are still in bloom. Though, regrettably, most of them have already closed up.”

“What little is left, I will be sure to cherish.” You pat his arm and smile. “Thank you for always taking such diligence to care for them.”

If there exists a reflection of Riddle, why haven’t I seen my reflection? Surely she isn’t just confined to the mirror…

The door opens and you brace yourself for the blinding white space. Instead, you’re greeted to the sight of a flourishing front yard. It looks nothing like your own, which leads you to wonder if Moros can only replicate the scenery within the house due to the limited field of sight provided by the mirrors. The rest of this—the gardens, the stone pathway, the hedges—it’s his imagination filling in the blanks.

“Oh, it’s beautiful!” You tug him ahead, your hand easily sliding into his. “They’re quite red!”

“Aren’t they just?”

“Positively beaming with color,” you exaggerate even though you can’t see a speck of red. Everything here is black and white. The only red you’ve seen so far is the red in his eyes.

You gaze at the iron gates at the end of the property. “Riddle, dear, have we always had those gates?”

“We have.” His hand slides over yours. “To keep beauty in and filth out.”

“Filth?” You look at him incredulously. “What sort of filth?”

“Those who think it wise to flout the rules. I will not tolerate such flagrant displays of disobedience.” He squeezes your hand. “I’m sure you understand, my rose. There is no greater peace than that which is attained through order.”

“And what of exiting?”

“You’ve only just come back to me and now you speak of leaving?”

“I wouldn’t go alone. Do you not want to go into town? I quite like the circus.”

“You have everything you need here.” He kisses the top of your hand. “With me.”

So the boundary is the gate. Very well.

“I suppose that’s true. There is no greater bliss than seeing you again after so much time apart. Why would I ever want to leave?”

“Indeed. You shall never leave,” he murmurs, smiling.

Riddle takes you on a tour through monochrome gardens, pointing out all manner of delightful flora. You voice your acknowledgement when it’s necessary, but your mind is elsewhere.

I should find his diary again. I don’t believe I saw it on the desk when I came through the mirror.

You peer at Riddle’s face. He is not a fool. My Riddle was so bright. If Moros can replicate his physical form so seamlessly, then surely he knows of his intelligence.

“Riddle.”

“Yes, my rose?”

“I love you, too.”

His eyes widen. The admission must have genuinely shocked him, for his grey irises explode with red. But then he blinks it away and they’re back to grey. In these quiet gardens, he pulls you closer and presses a chaste kiss to your lips.

“And I love you. Most ardently.”

You smile and then you giggle. “Why did I leave you in the first place? It’s patently absurd.”

“A question I asked myself in cycles.” He drags his knuckle along your cheek. “Can the sea truly cure the morbs? Wouldn’t it have been better here? What can the sea offer that I don’t already have?” He clenches his jaw. “Why would you leave? Why?”

“Riddle… R-Riddle, you’re hurting me!”

He comes to his senses then and gazes at his hand closed tightly around yours. “Ah… Forgive me.” He loosens his hold and tries a relaxed smile. “Your arrival is most important. Anything that came before that is wholly insignificant.”

“Of course it is…”

He must know of my trip from Riddle. Perhaps it was mentioned in passing. I’m certain Moros doesn’t have Riddle’s memories. Despite being reflections, they are still separate entities. Or so I hope.

You return inside on account of being famished. Riddle insists on preparing dinner, claiming he’s practiced tirelessly in your absence and has been awaiting a chance to boast his skills. You allow him to do that and, while he works in the kitchen, you slink upstairs to check the time. It’s half-past two.

Just before you exit through the mirror, you poke around the room in search of the diary. It isn’t there.

Perhaps it’s in Riddle’s room?

You refer to the watch once more.

I have time. Just five minutes and then I shall be on my way.

You creep over towards Riddle’s room and, slowly, so slowly, reach for the door. Riddle’s voice permeates the air just then, calling up to you from the bottom of the staircase.

“(Name)? Dinner is almost ready!”

You press yourself against the wall just in case he can somehow see you. “Yes, thank you! Just one moment.”

Stuffing the coat and shoes inside the closet, you spare one final glance at the door before stepping through the warped surface of the mirror.

You emerge just a few minutes before three.

Much too close for my liking. You shut the pocket watch and run your hands through your hair. But that was enlightening. While not clear in its entirety, I understand the world I’m grappling with just a scintilla better.

In the coming weeks, you travel between worlds to gather as much information as possible. Riddle receives you with immense adoration every time, seemingly none the wiser to your periodic disappearances. The last time you went snooping around the second story, you realized the rooms were mostly empty and Riddle’s bedroom was locked.

You write your findings down in the empty pages in your husband’s diary: If the door is locked, he must know that whatever’s inside is of great importance. Therefore, he’s done well to keep it safe. Additionally, he appears to learn from my actions. When he’s startled, his eyes can’t remain grey. Now it’s as if he’s anticipated the shock and has taught himself to keep the façade. It is a most peculiar act. No weaknesses to detail as of yet.

You return to Riddle’s entries once more. Surely I’m missing something. There must be a weakness.

Briefly, you consider shattering the mirror. Riddle didn’t test his hypothesis regarding this method. Perhaps nothing will come of it and you’ll be rid of this menacing reflection. But then you’ll never know why your reflection looks the way it does. You’ll never know what killed your husband. You’ll never know who Reflection Riddle really is—though you certainly have your suspicions.

I must return.

When the clock announces the arrival of midnight, you step through the mirror. Only this time, when you step out of your room, Riddle is there and he doesn’t look pleased.

“Oh! Riddle—”

“What were you doing?”

“I…” You shut your mouth and fish through your brain in an attempt to recall what you said you’d be doing last time you were here. “I was changing.”

He scrutinizes you with narrowed eyes. “Into your night clothes? Did you not wish to take a stroll?”

“Oh, you must forgive me. I have been so weary… If it pleases you, perhaps we can have our stroll tomorrow?” You glance past him at his bedroom door and then reach for his hands. “Shall we sleep together?”

Riddle watches your face a moment longer. The tension in his figure relaxes, and he eventually smiles. “Nothing would make me happier.”

He guides you to your bed, but you stop him. “Your room. I’m most comfortable in your bed.”

“Is that so?”

“Verily.”

For a moment you think he’ll find some way to slither out of this, but then he’s pulling you through the door towards his room. His hand ghosts over the knob and it unlocks just like that. “I must warn you. It’s not in the…cleanest condition. I admit it was a reflection of my mind in the wake of your absence.”

“I’m certain it isn’t so terrible,” you assure, rubbing his arm consolingly. “Although… Riddle, if I may, what happened to me?”

“To you? Why, you left.”

“Yes, that is an irrefutable fact. But… It couldn’t have been the morbs.”

Riddle smiles thinly. His eyes fog over with an unrecognizable emotion. “I thought I lost you,” he explains, his hand on the knob. “I was certain you would never return.”

“But I’m here now. Whyever would you think that?”

“You died,” he says, his voice cracking. “A-At sea. You threw yourself into the sea.”

I…did that? Truly? But then it makes sense. The water dripping from your reflection. Her tattered dress. The strands of seaweed. But why? Why would I do such a thing?

“That’s why I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw you. When you came back to me, perfectly whole and in one piece, warm and alive… I was so relieved. I’ll never let you go again.”

He opens the door and it becomes clear to you when you see a roomful of portraits and letters scattered everywhere. Your letters. Your pictures. Even your belongings. These aren’t mirror reflections. These are genuine artifacts from your world. The breath sticks in your throat. All of the letters you sent Riddle while you were away, never to receive a single reply, they’re all here, tucked away in their respective envelopes. And you know they’re yours because your signature dots each and every one, each stamp pasted on by your careful hands.

Lying on the bedside table is Riddle’s diary, where the passage you first read must be penned. The one in which he notes how long he’s waited. How very soon he’ll swap places with your husband and have you all to himself. How they’ve condemned him to this prison. They. Who is they? 

You understand it now. The sticky substance you stepped on the first night. The reflection of the other you. The Riddle who you thought couldn’t stand you and was having his silent rebellion disregarding all of your letters. It was the thieving reflection who crept into your world!

Your other self died so that you could take her place. And you know this is true because she is you, and in the midst of your melancholy back in your world you considered surrendering yourself to the sea.

“Riddle…”

“Sleep! Do pardon the dreadful state of this room.” He smiles and tugs you down onto the bed to tuck you in. “It’s late. You’ll never function properly if you neglect the moon’s call for bedtime.”

“Riddle!” You seize his wrist when he climbs into bed beside you. He blinks at you, one eye at a time. “Who…are you, exactly? You’re not my Riddle.”

He tilts his head at you. “But of course I am.”

“No… No, you’re not. My Riddle is—” you inhale shakily— “dead.”

His eyes rove over your features, flicking down to watch your hand curled around his wrist. He chuckles. “You must be so tired, my rose. Sleep. Come morning, all of this will have been a daydream lived in a daze.”

He pats the pillow and you lower yourself slowly. He follows your lead, wrapping the both of you in the fluffy blanket.

“I have always been your Riddle. Always and forever.”

“Right… Yes. Yes, of course. How…” You swallow thickly. “How foolish of me to think otherwise.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping he’ll inevitably fall asleep. The pocket watch tied around your thigh continues to count out the minutes. You’ve no idea how much time has passed, but the longer you spend here the slimmer your window of escape gets. And Riddle just won’t fall asleep! His eyes remain open, observing you as you shift in and out of faux sleep. Eventually, you turn your back on him.

I cannot fall asleep here. I’ll be trapped.

“(Name)…”

Why won’t he sleep? Surely he’s tired… Do reflections feel exhaustion? They must!

“(Name)…”

You force yourself to remain calm, contenting yourself with the fact that he has to fall asleep soon.

But then there’s a hand on your arm, climbing up your shoulder like a spider on a web. His fingers drum along your sleeve.

“You’re not truly sleeping, are you?”

His voice is right in your ear, and you can hear the twisted smile in it.

You roll over onto your back. Riddle blinks down at you, still smiling that sticky, self-satisfied smile.

“You were anticipating my slumber, were you not?”

“In the hope that we might rest together, yes. Are you not tired?”

“How could I rest when I know you’re just going to slip away again?” He yanks the covers off and moves to grab the hem of your nightgown. In a panic, not wanting the watch to be revealed, you push him away, falling off the bed in the process. Landing with a thud, you pick yourself up and glimpse the time. Just ten minutes until three. You gasp and stumble towards the door.

“Stop!” he shouts, reaching for you. “Come back here! Don’t leave me!”

You yelp as something slimy coils around your ankle. You fall flat on your stomach, pulled back into the room without mercy. You thrash, kicking out blindly in hopes of untangling whatever’s found itself attached to your leg.

“Unhand me!” You grab at the door frame and pull yourself forward, grunting with the effort. “Don’t touch me!”

“You don’t get to leave! Not when I finally have you!”

You turn to look at him and bite back a terrified scream at the sight of him. He’s monstrous! The odious stench of death hangs heavy in the air. There’s that black substance again, oozing from his pores like an overfilled, soggy rag. He’s dressed differently, too, in clothes that bring forth images of decapitated royalty. The inky crown on his head and the spade-tipped Medici collar only cement this imagery. His hands are splayed with razor-thin claws, and suddenly you’re brought back to the night of that ominous tap-tapping against the glass.

The tendril coiled around your leg, you now realize, is an ebony, thorny stem.

“W-What are you?”

He grits his teeth. “Your husband.”

You reach for the stem and, pulling it taut, bite down roughly. Blot spatters your maw and it tastes rancid, but you chew through in spite of the taste. Riddle hisses at you. You manage to sever it just in time. Another vine shoots out after you and you slam the door shut before it can ensnare you.

“(Name)!” he roars from behind the door, his voice deeper and angrier. “You step through that mirror and I’ll tear you to shreds the next time you return! Do you hear me?! I’ll slaughter you!”

“I wish you luck in that endeavor because I won’t ever be back!”

The door is torn off its hinges then. When Riddle lunges for you, he narrowly misses your nightgown, instead grasping the chain around your neck. It snaps and the locket pin smashes to the floor.

“No!” You swoop down to grab it, but Riddle’s already swiped it for himself. Looking between that and the mirror, you scream a colorful word and dive for the mirror just as the clock below chimes out the hour.

You somersault into Riddle’s bedroom, your heart pounding wildly in your ribs, and feel along your body for the pendant. It isn’t there.

“No… No, no, no! Blast! I can’t… I need that locket!”

You whirl towards the mirror and this time it isn’t your reflection peering back. It’s that monstrous fiend!

He holds the chain up for you to see, grinning all the while. The locket twirls idly on the broken link. It’s an obvious taunt: If you want it, come and get it.

Your fingers curl around an iron candlestick, but you stop yourself just before you can bring it down against the glass.

I can’t break it. I need to get in, and he wants to get out. We both want something we can’t have.

You scowl at the mirror just as Riddle vanishes, and then your reflection—your real reflection, broken and despairing—is staring back. Falling to your knees, you hold your head in your hands and sob.

The next few days trickle by like the seemingly never-ending rainfall outside. You pen countless letters to friends, Mrs. Rosehearts, even Riddle himself, but they’re all ripped to shreds before you can sign them. You visit his grave, dressed in all black, crying behind your veil. 

“What am I to do, Riddle?” you whisper, clutching your parasol to shield yourself from the winter sun. “It’s an impossible foe. There is no weakness to be found…”

Your choke on your sniffle. No weakness but me. He would do anything for me, would he not? And if he can’t have me… At once, you shake your head. No. I’m not going to resort to such drastic, harmful measures. In the face of adversity, I shall stand tall and proud. I will never falter. I will never waver. That monster killed my husband. I refuse to be cowed into submission by such malevolence!

You bend down and place your gloved hand over the soil. “I never did thank you, Riddle.” A small smile pulls at your tired, sleep-deprived face. “Thank you for all that you have done. You may rest in ataraxy, for I shall put an end to the beast who tormented you in such unspeakable, barbarous ways.”

Smoothing down your skirts, you depart for the Rosehearts Manor.

After eating as much as you can stomach, you spend the rest of the day catching up on lost sleep. With your body and mind now refreshed, you approach the problem from a new angle. A physical altercation is impossible, and you’re certain it will be impossible to truly kill him. If you can’t fight, then you shall talk instead. Riddle was a logical man. Though that monster will never be your Riddle, surely he holds some shred of logic.

And in the event that he can’t be reasoned with…

You touch the pointed tip of a knife and frown. Can I bring myself to wound the creature who wears my husband’s face?

Even though you’re doubtful, you stow it in your satchel with the rest of your tools and trinkets.

This ends tonight, once and for all, even if it kills me.

You sit in front of the mirror and await the tell-tale chime of midnight.

When the mirror’s surface warps and twists, you harden your nerves into that of unbreakable steel.

In the face of adversity…

“Blast it! I’ll kill him,” you snarl and step through the mirror.

It is eerily quiet when you exit on the other side. The house is in shambles, as if a nasty storm has come through and torn up everything in its path. The wallpaper is peeling in thin curls, the portraits are hanging crooked, the mirrors are shattered, and blot paints everything in black. It drips from the ceiling like saliva from a mutt’s mouth.

Swallowing your disgust, you tiptoe out into the hall. Riddle isn’t in his room. In fact, there isn’t much of a room to admire. The door has been thrown against the wall, and everything is tattered. It occurs to you that this Riddle’s love is wrong. It is not love. It is an obsession driven by the greedy desire to possess. You gather what letters you can salvage and stuff them in your satchel, even the ones from Riddle you never received.

What iniquitous meddling. To intercept our communication in such a way… You are nothing more than a parasite that must be snipped away.

Your journey takes you down the stairs. You’re careful to avoid the blot sticking to the steps as you descend, gracefully maneuvering around it. The deeper into the house you venture, the thicker the air becomes. You pinch your nose and squint through the dark haze, pushing aside low-hanging branches and vines. Inky roses sprout from the walls, twisting towards you as you approach. You duck to avoid them.

Moros is waiting for you at the dinner table. It’s set for two. Flowers twine around his seat. It looks more like a grand throne. Yours is much the same.

A Queen needs a King, even when both are destined to fall.

“Riddle.”

“If you would, have a seat. I believe we have an exchange to make.” Your locket drops down in front of your face, dangling from a stem. You reach for it and it shoots back up towards the ceiling. “No, no. That’s not how reasonable conversations are had, (Name). If you think yourself wise, sit down and listen.”

You scowl at him. “What do you want?”

“You’re an intelligent lady. My counterpart fancied that side of you most ardently. He wrote about you often, spoke of your marvelous brain.” He rests his elbows on the table and props his chin on his folded hands. “So you must already know what it is I seek.”

“You… You murdered my husband.”

He slams his hand on the table. The plates clatter from the force. “I didn’t kill him! He withered away of his own accord!”

“What did you do?”

“Sit down.”

“What did you do?”

“Sit. Down.”

“What in blazes did you do to him?!”

“I said, sit down!” Vines shoot out from the darkness. You’re tugged into your seat and held still, posture perfect. A smile twists itself onto his ink-stained lips. “Was that so difficult?”

He waves his hand and more vines come down from the ceiling to grasp the cutlery. You watch as they cut a portion of whatever shapeless filth is on your plate. Refusing to comply, you keep your mouth shut.

“Not hungry? A shame. It’s strawberry. You enjoy strawberries, do you not? Ah, and I suppose that husband of yours fancied them something fierce.”

“Please…” You look at him helplessly, tears shimmering in your glossy gaze. “What did you do to my Riddle? Why did you hurt him?”

“Two cannot exist within the same space. I was never going to be allowed to stay in your world with him around. He was already bound for the grave.” He chuckles to himself. “Rather, it was quite fortuitous that you left for the sea. If you had stayed, I wouldn’t have been able to work so efficiently.”

“So you—you’re the reason he—”

“My (Name) left me stranded here in this hell, but you… You’re perfect. Your love is pure and soft. You are the one.”

“So what are you, truly? You’re not Riddle.”

A flower unfurls before you, its petals drying your tears. He hums.

“You’re mistaken, my rose. Who else am I if not the Riddle you cherish so dearly?”

“You’re Moros, are you not?”

He tilts his head, and you can hear the audible crack of his neck.

“Moros, an entity of doom—of death. Riddle saw you in the mirror when—”

“Not me,” he corrects. “He saw himself—what was to become of him, at least. He also saw you, here with me. This is the very outcome he was hoping to prevent.” Moros barks out a cruel laugh. “And look where it got him! A wooden bed beneath the soil. Oh, but I do understand, though. You’re worth fighting for. Dying for, even. He loved you sincerely, but I shall love you perfectly.”

“You’re a monster.”

“Nooo.” He waggles a vine at you. “I’m your husband. There’s a difference. One is imperfect, a failure. The other… The other is better, an improvement.”

“Oh, forgive me. A parasite.”

“No,” he says, stressing the word. “Try again.”

“A fiend.”

“(Name), my patience is thin as a hair.”

“I will never call you my husband, Moros.”

The vines tighten their grasp just as his face reddens with frustration. His vermillion eyes flash dangerously. You wheeze as the life is squeezed from your lungs.

“S-Stop—I can’t—can’t breathe! Please! R-Riddle… Riddle, please!”

At once, your flowery restraints retreat. He tries a smile next, but it’s tense. As if he could snap at any moment.

“There you are. (Name), my rose, I must say, it is dreadful manners to call your husband by another man’s name. So dreadful, in fact, that it incites the cold-blooded rage in my very veins. If I wished, I could paint these walls in your red. If I wished, I could tear you apart, limb from precious limb, and string you up among my flowers. But I won’t because I love you, and it would cause me immeasurable grief to lose another (Name).”

“Enough prattling. I want my locket.”

“And I have told you before that is not how you negotiate, my dear. Proper etiquette at the table dictates that you must maintain respectable eye contact, and you must never slouch. Nor should you chew with your mouth open, and if you wish to speak you must not mumble or twiddle your thumbs. You must not whine like a petulant child either. If you wish to have your locket—and I cannot fathom why—you must outline your terms. I do realize you’ve been away from your husband far too long, so perhaps he never taught you any manners. Under my rule, that shall change. Under my rule, you will be perfect just as I am.”

You tamp down a foul-mouthed tirade. “Very well. In exchange for the locket, I will give you myself.”

“In what way?”

“In any way you please, but you must first answer my questions. Truthfully.”

He eyes you dubiously. “What might those be?”

“Can you leave through the mirror?”

“I can, but only when you’re asleep.”

“What’s stopping you from existing in my world now that Riddle is gone?”

Moros smiles and the locket falls onto the table, right in front of you. “Your mourning ornament. So long as a piece of him exists in those walls, I am trapped here. As you can imagine, it’s immensely vexing.”

“And who trapped you here?”

“Why, it’s been so long I’ve no recollection. Perhaps a clever witch or a simple mistake… I do so detest living within this dull looking glass.”

“So even if I’m to keep my locket, you wouldn’t be permitted to cross over.”

“Correct. But why do that when you’re already here? You can keep those measly strands of hair. I don’t want your world if you’re not in it. So long as you’re here with me, I can stomach these colorless, glass confines.”

“Then… You’ll give me the locket and I’ll stay here?”

“Indeed.”

“And you’ll release me? I won’t be imprisoned in this…grotesque garden of yours?”

“Will you flee? Ah, but I surmise you couldn’t manage that. Not after three.”

“One more question.”

He narrows his eyes at you.

“What happens if the mirror breaks?”

“No further questions.”

“Answer me! What happens if the mirror breaks, Moros?”

“That’s not my name!”

“Tell me, or else I’ll—” You stop yourself, lower your voice, and soften the anger in your face. “Riddle, dear, please… I don’t want to argue with you.”

He studies your expression for a moment. “Why do you wish to know?”

“Riddle assumed it would give you the means to free yourself.”

“Well, he’s partially correct. If I’m to truly free myself, there must be part of me in your world, much like the hair in that locket. So that, even when the mirror shatters, I can slip out from the remaining shards and cling to that part of my existence.” His red eyes flick to your stomach. “It is a shame you cannot conceive. Even if you escaped my grasp, I could simply follow you if you were—”

“Even if I could, I would never,” you interrupt, tone clipped. “Never. Not with you.”

“Then it is very clear where we shall live from now on. You must forgive the state of our home. I’ll be sure to tidy it soon enough. If we’re to live in perfect harmony, our home must reflect that, yes? You will learn to keep house so that it never falls into ruin.”

“Yes… Yes, I understand. So… So may I—the locket?”

The vines holding you hostage slither away to the shadows, and your locket drops into your outstretched hands. You breathe a relieved sigh and pry it open to check its contents. Both are still intact.

Oh, thank you. He’s okay. He’s safe!

“Now then…” Moros offers an inky hand. “Shall we?”

Tying the broken chain around your neck, you hesitate. Eventually, you place your hand in his. “We shall.”

He sweeps you into an elegant waltz. Thick, gnarled roots shift to allow the two of you passage. He lifts you into the air just before you nearly trip over one of them. If you allowed starry adoration to shroud your sight, perhaps you would have been content remaining in this world. But this wicked place is far from a comfort. Even if your world is devoid of Riddle, it is still infinitely better than this one.

Moros twirls you effortlessly, a smile widening on his lips. “You’ve made me the happiest man, my rose. I am forever honored to have you here with me. You’ll never know just how long I’ve waited, day after day, night after night… Now we can be together forever.”

You cradle his pale face, swiping the murky ink that leaks from his eyes like tears. “Forever and always.”

The musicless dance comes to an end. His hands rest at your waist, unwilling to truly part.

“Wasn’t that just grand?”

You nod along. “I apologize for my previous behavior. It was most unbecoming. Perhaps we might begin anew? Put this mess behind us, yes?”

“My rose…” Vines slither through the shadowy brush, coiling up your legs to root you in place. His grip tightens, and a manic glint darkens his gaze. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“You are no fool, Moros.” Your hand creeps into your satchel, fingers fishing for the handle of your knife. “But you were foolish to take the face of my Riddle, and for that you have brought misfortune upon yourself. It’s unforgivable!”

You yank him towards you via the belts laced around his torso. He’s caught by surprise when you crash your lips against his, whisked away in a rush of ardor. The vines slacken just so as he melts against you, pinned in place by the blade you thrust into his stomach.

And then you’re stumbling away, pitch-black blood stringing between your lips. You wipe the filth away with the back of your hand and turn from the dining room. With trembling hands, Riddle touches the handle wedged deep in his gut. There’s a flash of innocence on his face, a betrayal that carries a somber sort of pain. He looks pitiful for a second before that fearsome temper contorts his expression into something frightfully abominable. Weeds and roots thicken in retaliation, diving right for you.

“You deceitful, ill-mannered cheat!” he fumes, tearing the knife from his abdomen. Blot spatters the ground in a grisly splat. When he flings the knife across the room, blot-blood follows in an arc. “Do you not understand that this is where you belong? This is your home. I’m your husband and you’re my wife—mine! All mine!”

“I’ll never be yours!”

He grits his teeth. “You’ve scorned me for the last time! Get back here or I shall drag you through these halls—dead or alive, with or without your head attached to your shoulders!”

You shriek when he, accompanied by a following of frightful flora, lunges after you. His claws drag against your arm, almost breaking skin, but you manage to shake yourself free, just barely avoiding the vines that reach for you with thorny fingers. He slams into the wall and the whole house seems to shake from the force of it. You catch him clutching his stomach just as you jump over a rose bush sprouting from the cracked tiles.

“Stop! I implore you!” He reaches desperately, eyes wide and terrified. You almost hesitate, but then you remember this is the monster who killed your Riddle—who is trying to imprison you in this corrupt cage. “You can’t leave! I forbid it!”

Shunning him, you bound up the stairs. A stem curls around the bannister and shoots out to seize your ankle, tripping you. Your chin smacks against the steps. Blood fills your mouth shortly after, and you realize you’ve bitten your tongue. It hurts, but you must push through.

“You’re stark raving mad!” You shake your leg free of the vine, but another captures your wrist. “No! Release me!”

“Once you’re in my arms—where you rightfully belong—you shall learn proper discipline so that you conduct yourself in a manner befitting your station!”

Your eyes dart around the hall, searching for a means to escape. There must be something—anything! You can’t let him drag you down these stairs. The moment your foot touches the floor, you’ll never make it back up.

“You’ve yet to see how perfect we’ll be, but in time it will become clear,” he’s saying, watching you from the bottom of the stairs. “Soon… Soon, you’ll understand. Then we shall be wed and you will be mine for all of eternity. I shall employ any means necessary to ensure you remain here at my side, even if it means I must terrorize you only slightly.”

Scrambling with your free hand, you rifle through your satchel for anything useful. Your fingers brush the edge of a little box and the beginning of an idea sparks in your brain.

“I may not have done everything perfectly. I’ve made countless errors in my life and I will make countless more. I’ll never be what you want me to be—what his mother expected from me. But, if nothing else, I will right this wrong.”

You manage to loosen your other arm just enough to pull the matchbox free. In a wild frenzy, you grab hold of one and strike it against the surface of the box.

Moros lurches up the stairs, but you’re prepared. You kick him back down, your sole colliding with his face, and it brings you overwhelming delight to hear him groan in pain. Quite satisfied with yourself, you watch him tumble down the stairs, caught only by his weeds at the very bottom. 

The flowers, vines, and roots retreat, shying away from the flickering flame in your hand. You shimmy out of the last one wrapped around your waist. Shrugging the satchel off, you offer the letters stuffed within an apologetic frown before dropping the match inside. The satchel and the now smoldering envelopes land right before Moros’s feet, smoke curling out from the flaps.

You hurry to procure another match and, just as he scrambles to put the first one out, flick it down the steps. The leaves and petals shudder in the heat. Soon enough, they’ll all be caught in a fierce blaze.

“No…” he laments, looking between you and the withering plants. “No! No! No!” His gaze hardens, odium burning behind those malicious red eyes. “Not another step! Do you hear me?!” 

You do. You just choose not to listen.

You scurry the rest of the way, stumbling over your clumsy feet, and burst into the bedroom. Your sopping reflection is beckoning you forward with silent urgency. Seaweed hangs from her arms like a cloak. Her skin is bloated. In spite of everything, you trust her wholeheartedly.

A most haunting cry resounds from the hall. It’s filled with indescribable agony, tinged with rage and…fear.

“Don’t leave me! The world out there offers you nothing but misfortune and melancholy. You’ll never survive! You need me!” His shadow is stark against the wallpaper, illuminated by a gradually growing fire. “I can’t—won’t do it again! I refuse to be alone! I refuse! I’m right… Always right… And yet…”

Clutching the locket secured around your throat, you take hold of the hand offered in the mirror. She pulls you through for a final time just as another anguished scream pierces the air.

You fall out of the mirror on your hands and knees, chest heaving with exhilaration.

“I… I’m free. Free from that monster’s grasp!” You check yourself over just in case and, finding all to be well, breathe a relieved sigh. “It’s over…”

A thump against the mirror startles you. You turn back to see a thin, spidery arm reaching for the glass. His clawed fingertips touch the surface, but they don’t pass through. Instead, they tap a steady rhythm.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

Within minutes, he’s pounding a fist against the glass. You jerk away and hold tightly to the locket pin. It occurs to you that you’ll never truly be rid of Moros unless you destroy him. He can still slip out of the mirror when you’re slumbering, even if only for a few hours.

You dread to imagine what wretched feats he may be capable of when you submit to the land of dreams every night.

So you lift the heaviest candlestick you can find and, just as the tolling of three o’clock calls up from below, smash the mirror to pieces. The last you see of Moros is his frightful countenance awash in firelight. He looks more like a demon than a replica of your husband, inhuman features elongated like taffy stretched too far.

You’re not sure how long you spend destroying the mirror frame, but in the aftermath you allow the candlestick to fall from your hand. You deflate against the floor, gazing at the ceiling.

“It’s finally over. No longer shall we be tormented by that fiend…”

You gather the shards and stow them in a box. Come tomorrow, it will be filled with rocks, locked and bound in chains, and tossed into the river.

For now, you climb into Riddle’s bed and, soothing yourself with the warm memories you have of him, slowly succumb to sleep.

Moros’s Looking Glass is no more.

“Oh, if you could only hear his death wail!” you recount to Riddle’s grave over tea and biscuits. There’s a cup and plate set for him, placed just near his headstone. “Shrill as a squall. I was so certain it might fill my ears with blood if it went on any longer. I should hope to never encounter another sound more thunderous.”

You hum around the porcelain rim. “If you were with me today, I suspect we’d have a grand celebration. Only the victors delight in the secret spoils of a battle hard-fought.”

The sun is peeking out through feathery cumulus today. Warmed beneath the rays, boasting the locket pin on your breast, you don’t seem so gloomy in your mourning wear. Rather, you’re hopeful. Riddle can finally rest.

“Oh! I never did have the opportunity to recount my travels. The seaside is marvelous. Simply exquisite, my dear. Full of enchanting mystery. The sailors at port spin all manner of tales! I fear it may have haunted my head for the rest of my stay, for I was certain I saw shimmering tails out by the rocks. Ah, but these grotesque sirens could never hope to impress a jot of fear in me.”

I’ve endured far worse.

“Riddle…” You rest your hand upon the grass, smoothing out verdant blades beneath your palm. “I adore you.”

A gentle breeze whistles through the churchyard. You smile.

If you strain your ears, you can almost hear his voice on the wind, reciprocating the sentiment.

Five Years Later.

At the bottom of the river, stowed away in a box with rocks, shards of glass have been laid to rest.

A single red eye blinks open in the dark, trapped within the reflective surface.

Hands bring the box up onto shore, where three children crowd around it.

“What you’ve dug up this time?” the little girl asks, kneeling on the shore.

“It’s a treasure chest!” one of the boys exclaims.

“Is it truly?”

“Look, see!” The other points.

Together, they drop a particularly heavy stone onto the rusted, water-worn chains. They break apart seamlessly.

“Blast. No key.”

“Surely we can break it in?”

“Let’s give it a go.”

It takes some effort, but soon enough they’ve dented the mechanism. The box pops open, revealing shards of glittering glass. With a disappointed grumble, one of the boys lifts a chunk towards the sky. The sun catches it, reflecting its rays beautifully.

“Nothin’ but mess. Worthless.”

“Ya think? If we patch it up, it’ll sell for a few shillings. I declare thee: Magic Mirror of Mystery.” He turns towards his friends and grins. “What do ya reckon?”

“This isn’t even worth a week’s bread. Throw it back.”

“It could be worth something small.”

“Hmm. No. I reckon I’ll keep it. Let’s make it a gift.”

“Who for?”

“Lady Rosehearts! She’s always givin’ us our share for survival. We gotta pay it back. Mummy always said you pay kindliness with more kindliness and you’ll never go hungerin’.”

“Oh, that’s marvelous! I shall make a necklace out of the smaller pieces! It’ll be so pleasing.” The little girl giggles in delight, admiring the shards sparkling in the box.

“And I’ll put the pieces together into somethin’ sturdy.” 

They exchange eager glances and then gather the shards, leaving an empty box in their wake.

[dragon-ascent]

There are plenty of ways Zhongli would make it up to you after an argument. I've already mentioned how he might transform into his lofty form and fetch a piece of the moon for you if you so asked, or how he might go gather precious riches and jewels to ameliorate the situation.

But when Zhongli is being a particularly wet cat, he might appeal to your heart in his tiny chonk form.

You'd be sitting in your room, door shut because you'd like your maelstrom of emotions to be contained within four walls, ignoring all the times your husband knocks on the door to get you to come out. It's a while until you hear a faint scratching sound at the door. You turn, head tilted. The scratches continue. Rolling your eyes, you make your way to the door. "Zhongli, I really don't care what antics you want to get up to-"

You pause. There's nobody at the door--unless you look down at the floor, where Chonkli is curled up, just a pathetic little ball of fur gazing up at you with two black glistening gems for eyes.

"Mrow," he peeps, whining softly.

"Oh, you..." A sigh, then you pick him up. He's even tinier than he usually is in this form.

He paws at you and whines again, then licks your cheek. "Mrrrp?" he asks.

Your jaw ticks, but you sit in bed and cradle him anyway.

The happy purrs that result buzz through your chest. He won't stop nuzzling you, but at least he's soft. And warm, and cuddly.

You're still mad, though.

[janecafe]

future spouse's pac: getting to know them in deeper way

uno - dos - tres

˚⊱🍀⊰˚

to book a personal paid reading here

this reading was based on the tarot & oracle cards itself. it not totally foretells the future outcome however everything is yet not set into the stone, the reader is advised to read at their own risk. we still have the rights to make our own dreams and faith. peace!

i will use him or her, she or he as a general point of view of this reading from which is the strongest energy i'm gonna pick up for each pile. regardless of the gender, you can still view or change the pronoun by your preferred gender.

©janecafe 2025

POV: kudos to all hardworking tarot readers out there, it was my first time to read this big pack of energy and i never knew it would drain the hell out of me. it also took me weeks to complete and finished this reading so a big salute! 🍵

sections ⋆

- overall personality, traits & quirks

- physical appearance

- mentality, beliefs or habits

- zodiac signs, letters & relevant numbers

- places and directions

₊˚ʚ 𝐔𝐍𝐎 🌱 ₊˚✧ ﾟ.

i. overall personality traits & quirks

he is focusing on himself more onto his financial needs. he is probably busy working on things he needs, despite the doubt, the percentage of faith is higher. i can't totally say, he is afraid to fail but he strongly wants to build stable finances and establish a name on his career.

he is probably someone that is highly respected in his career. someone who maybe abuses power somehow in his job and career. he got the position that is influential, leading or top-level. one of the reasons are- this is his way to protect his bubble, he worked hard for that. it probably took him years to build and achieve that position and life.

however looking on the brighter side, he is detail oriented, career focused, dependable and is willing to work collaboration with his co-workers and teammates. he wants his skills and experiences to contribute to the company for a better and productive work environment. high chances he may also be a business owner and entrepreneur.

i think people have harsh opinions and may have false accusations with your person. as you can see, he exudes a negatively impact from people's perspective.

he also has an obsession over his hair. for him, it must be clean and neat. (came out of nowhere ehihi✌🏻)

this person, is the one that will encourage and support you a lot but it seems like you were just numb enough to think of that, like to think that he likes you at first because you've heard people's opinions towards him that affect on how you look with this person.

you may work with this person, maybe a boss, a mentor or whatsoever it is, but the important recipe here is that they're known to your work and well-experience.

i can say that the connection may start as casual and hostile from the starting months or even years.

he also likes to yell at tv, it was the show he was yelling at as if he was going to be heard.

another description of him is- he is a cold-fish person but also a lone wolf.

signs you can look: feeling charismatic. being more creative than before. new friendships. felt satisfied with your own. a big house celebration. trust issues. desperate to live on your own. desperate to move.

ii. physical appearance

he has an immaculate appearance, even if he wears rags it's an A1 as it is. his hooded pair of eyes fits perfectly to his face. if i were to describe his eyes language it's beady and heavy, it more has sad emotions that describe his entire aura and mood.

as i said, the hair will be neat and clean. it is also thick and soft.

he may have dry and chapped lips. but the teeth are also prominent, maybe there's a gap between his teeth or like a vampire/fang teeth. his height is intimidating, someone who is gifted kinda lofty. (this is how i describe him bcs i am smol ehihi ✌🏻)

let's see what i can get more here. ohh, body yes. it's obvious that it's not attractive enough for most but i think it's healthy and i can't say that his body is very muscular but his chest and stomach is fine. it's not too thin nor fat.

iii. mentality, beliefs or habits

he is a volunteer of a new perspective and trials in life. he is a family-centric person, building a peaceful household is one of his goals and beliefs. i think, it's important for him to choose the right partner.

he is the type of person that won't get immediately in a relationship despite the connection and feelings may build he would likely withdraw or run away from it. it's like he knows himself very well, he knows when he's in love "he gives and risks it all"- so that's his way to avoid the ache feeling. he is knows he's boundaries.

he believes in learning and continues the improvement of every individual. he believes that there is kindness despite people's harsh opinions of him, he can't blame them if that's what they think or perceive him.

he is a thrifty person but is willing to spend money for branded things and important people in his life.

iv. zodiac signs, names, letters & relevant numbers

gale, abigale, francis, francisco, frank, kath, cath, kaye, kate, cecil, cecilia, maria, marian, marie, rich, richard, ed, edward, edwin, eddy, brent, bench, robert, romeo, rob, rock, julie, jillian, julia, julian, james, rey. that's all the names i've got. ✌🏻

6, 37, 28, 10, 19, 12, 88, 22.

scorpio, virgo, sagittarius (2x), aquarius and taurus (3x)

v. places and directions

park, office, lake, grand parents house or old (haunted) house, small town, simply north.

★ back to the main list

₊˚ʚ 𝐃𝐎𝐒 🌱 ₊˚✧ ﾟ.

i. overall personality traits & quirks

she is a carefree person. someone who looks after a bigger picture. i think she knows how to appreciate things, she's just happy whatever life and people treat her. she has a very pure soul. it's like kindness is never a wrong choice, but for her perspective, it's priceless to receive kindness from others as well.

she's too optimistic. she's not that kind of person who bluffs and talks negatively to others. she's not into that negative vibe. she's balanced and mindful when talks.

her intelligence and fair treatment to others is absolutely beautiful.

as well, she loves to inspire others. when she works she's determined and goal-driven. she's loyal to those people who gain her trust, her selflessness shows no personal agenda. if she thinks you are trustworthy then you are worth risking.

i think she has an oily or sweaty face and body. well that's normal though maybe this is one of the reasons why she's always carrying tissues.

she has a deep love for nature, animals and rain.

just another secret to add, she likes to sing but i can say that her voice is good to hear. 😅

ii. physical appearance

okay, with the tower card. if i'm not mistaken, she's tall and this makes her incredible to people's point of view asides from her personality of course.

her eyes had a tinge of freedom and power, on the outer it's large and has a gentle expression.

her side profile and lips are perfectly fine. her overall aura is very zen energy. (jennie song, ehihihi ✌🏻)

i think she has brown skin or may have a dark complexion.

iii. mentality, beliefs or habits

she believes that passion is the one that makes us successful. if you love and enjoy what you are doing you are considered successful from her perspective.

she believes that love comes in the most unexpected way. the type of love that is slow burn- letting the faith unfold its unexpected moments because for her love will leave a big impact on life. those love that's hard to predict, that the divine intervention and power has do it's own timing to find her by grace and truth.

she also has an optimistic mindset.

iv. zodiac signs, names, letters & relevant numbers

names; sophia, susie, jake, jan, john, julie, jennifer, jen. biblical names like david and aaron.

moon and venus. libra(2x), pisces(3x), taurus, aries, cancer (3x)

18, 7, 169, 8888, 48, 9, 4, 25.

v. places and directions

cinema, library, cafe, street, under the table, under the tree, church, lake, underground, balcony, party, cosplay event. a place where most of the weather is scorching hot or summer in simple terms.

★ back to the main list

₊˚ʚ 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐒 🌱 ₊˚✧ ﾟ.

i. overall personality traits & quirks

this is someone who trusts the flow of life. he is not afraid of what comes next even if it does not turn out well. he thinks that conflict, errors and challenges are a normal part of living. he understood of pushing himself through hard for the best because that's how he gets stronger.

he is uncommunicative about his plans and goals that somehow people seem to wonder what life he could have behind those eyes. his voice is all that matters to him.

anyway, he laughs a lot too. if you will personally know this person, you would think that they're the smartest, coolest and most beautiful person you've ever met.

he may have small eye glasses. he is interested in writing, reading and painting one of these might be his daily routine habits.

this person has a deep love and interest in historical places and the supernatural. to simplify, he is interested in the occult but not in black magic especially those called ritual to lure someone. he is not a big fan of that. he thinks love comes in a natural way and in divine timing.

he is not a typical person that gets carried away by his emotions. he is serious about handling his life, perhaps, time is important to him too. he doesn't waste time in a senseless chase.

ii. physical appearance

for his physical appearance, i think he is not into trendy, nice and branded clothing. he is more into casual and plain.

he has a round and cute face shape. there's some prominent detail on his whole body- it can be moles, scar or tattoo.

his hair is short and spiky or curly, it structured his head bone. i also think he has thick eyebrows that compliment his whole face. it was the first one to get noticed by people.

he is mature and old compared to his age, people get shocked knowing his real age because it seems like his appearance is not applying for his age.

overall, he is an attractive person.

iii. mentality, beliefs or habits

i think he's into smoking, lighting a candle or incense he may believe it will bring peace and knock senses.

he believes in organizing and cleaning workspaces because it helps him to determine and focus on work.

he may also be into chewing gum, it's just a habit of him that you can't take away.

iv. zodiac signs, letters & relevant numbers

sun and rising. capricorn (3x), pisces, aries(2x), gemini, scorpio, cancer.

harry, henry jacob benjamin blake juana olivia oliver ava amelia amira akira emile akasha aisha anne ann diane diana summer sophia sophie sai sey atasha, joseph, sky, ryan.

34, 13, 11, 9,5, 20

v. places and directions

cafeteria, school, hotel, casino, bat, beach, zoo, police station, lobby, hallway, south direction.

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