#breaking a mirror and every shard has a hand that reaches out. it’s you but it’s not. do you love this broken version of yourself.

[glacierbash]

Oh man rhis esteem post is COMING along. There is so much to analyze. Readmore bc dark knight spoilers and also mentions of fictional suicidal ideation. Ouhh.

What composes darkness in my girlie’s head. What happens when this darkness is not content to rest and wait but instead toils and rages and it is strong enough to manifest and yet it’s the one that holds her when she feels most alone, and wipes away her tears, and whispers “the world would be better if you had been killed, you know. But that’s okay. We will make sure they regret letting us live.” And it’s always there to give her community and remind her that it’s “we, not I,” and that for each life she takes it grows stronger. Something something Iverelle’s childhood was so so so bad that it has inadvertently made Esteem stronger than imaginable. Something something the fact she grew up thinking every part of her was gross and wrong means Esteem has so much to work with. Something something it is so powerful it’s not even a direct clone anymore, but something twisted and warped and different and yet it’s still horrifically her and she hates it and it hates her and that only makes it stronger.

Something something she grows to love it because she’s tired of hating it and she’s tired of hating herself. Something something something “I miss my friend and you remind me of him.” Something “I wish I was worthy of love but I’m not, I’m a monster just like you, so I suppose loving you will have to do.” Something something Iverelle has physically and mentally been replaced so much she’s not the same person anymore and she fears Esteem is now closer to who she was than she is and she wonders if that means Esteem should have the right to her soul and body. But at least it loves her. It loves her more than she can love herself.

[the-bitter-ocean]

(ACT 4 SPOILERS) Hi everyone I did more writing for @pixxyofice Euphrasie looping Au! I’d say this takes a little bit before Odile growing suspicious of her The writing I made under the cut is based off of art that @startagainaprologue made which can be seen here.

(( You enter the bathroom.))

(( You didn’t need to go but you needed a break from everyone else. ))

(( You feel like you’re being watched- like if you relax for even a moment something will go horribly wrong. ))

((Living with that type of mindset is exhausting but you know this won’t be forever. ))

(( You will figure out a way to break the loops. ))

(( You will save your country and your loved ones from the King’s curse. ))

(( You close your eyes. You’re still reeling from the previous failed loops. ))

(( You try to make it so that you’re the only casualty but sometimes you’re not fast enough and he-))

((You breathe in and out. ))

(( Things are different now. This is a new loop which means there’s room for a new change to occur to free you and your companions from the cycle. ))

(( As awful as everything is, it’s a little comforting knowing that Mirabelle trusts you to take the lead. ))

(( It’s the least you can do for putting the burden on her previously- had the loops not wrapped you in it alongside her..Mirabelle might have been doing this all alone or worse! ))

(( You try not to think about her dying- or anyone else you care about for that matter..))

((Tears prick at your eyes and you weep silently to yourself. ))

(( What are you doing wrong? Your god won’t answer because that’s not how it operates, the trees certainly aren’t doing you any favors and the stars above aren’t guiding you either.))

(( You look up at your reflection in the mirror.))

(( Your darkless hair falls over your face obscuring parts of your vision. You’ve been crying and it shows.))

(( You…..look.. like..))

((..!!!!))

(( You destroy the mirror. ))

(( Your hand goes numb. A sharp pain twitches in your fingers. ))

((….!))

((… The peculiar shade is all over your knuckles. ))

(( You grimace.))

(( You slowly reach for the faucet and turn on the water. ))

(( It’s cold to the touch. ))

(( Painfully familiar. ))

(You let the water run and clean your hands- making sure take every shard of glass out carefully. )

(( You wait until the water becomes clear again. ))

(( You splash the cold water on your face a couple of times- until your face has the smile its supposed to be wearing. ))

(( You turn off the faucet.))

(( you dry your hands and face carefully. ))

(( You breathe in and out. ))

(( You don’t know how much longer you can keep doing this. ))

((…))

((You rub your eyes and blink a few times- the vision of the king nowhere seen in the cracked mirror’s reflection.))

(( You really are loosing it aren’t you? Maybe you should sleep soon in your next loop. It would make Mirabelle happy to see you resting again. ))

{“…Euphrasie..?”}

(( Ah, there she is. Must be time to go then. ))

((… Back to it.))

((“ Oh my..! I’m coming dear! Give me a moment!” ))

(( You exit the bathroom.))

[weaksspot]

sam splinting dean's broken fingers for @preseriesdean <3 (read on ao3)

In some grimy gas station bathroom mirror Dean stares down his reflection until he can’t stand it a second longer. His fist goes through the glass and right into the brick wall behind it. The angle is bad and there’s the snap of two fingers breaking, but no pain. No pain as he picks out the little shards of glass and flecks of grit and drops them into the sink, turns the water on, a swirl of blood chasing the pieces down the drain.

He tapes the broken fingers—right hand, little and ring—to each other with duct tape from the trunk of the car, tears it off the roll with his teeth. He drives back to the bunker barely touching the wheel. It still doesn’t hurt.

Sam doesn’t see him till the next morning, when he catches him by the coffee maker, both of them still kind of bleary. Neither one of them’s been sleeping much, not for weeks. Sam mumbles hey, Dean, without really looking at him, and Dean hms back, goes on pouring himself his coffee.

Then Sam asks, quietly: “What happened to your hand?”

For a second Dean just stands there not saying anything. Thinks about saying nothing, not answering at all, just going. Even being in a room with Sam just now—he can stand it, because he has to, but it’s—difficult. Some days are worse than others.

“Dean?”

He looks down at his hand. His knuckles are swollen and scabbed over and there’s still blood between his fingers, in the creases of his skin, because he slept in his clothes last night, didn’t shower. It looks like it should hurt. Why doesn’t it hurt.

“Nothing,” he says, feeling Sam’s eyes burning into his back. “Just hit something too hard, it’s fine.”

“Let me see,” Sam says, not really a question, not quite a plea.

“I said it’s fine.” Dean turns to go and Sam is closer than he’d thought, just behind him—Dean turns and almost knocks into him and it’s just about the closest they’ve been to each other all week.

Sam grabs his wrist and the contact fizzes under Dean’s skin. Crawls right up his arm. Sam’s skin on his skin. Jesus fucking Christ he misses him, and he sees him every god damn day. He stands there and stares at Sam’s hand while Sam looks at his taped up fingers, his busted knuckles. His voice is quiet when he speaks again.

“Dean, I need to splint these properly,” he says. His voice is steady but there’s something in it that makes Dean’s throat hurt, scratchy at the back. “They’re gonna heal crooked.”

“What’s it matter,” comes out of Dean’s mouth without him really meaning to let it. Sam doesn’t say anything but he exhales slowly, that zen yoga breath shit he does when he’s trying to keep his temper. What are you mad at me for now, Dean wants to ask him, but doesn’t. Sam is still holding his wrist and Dean can feel his own pulse under Sam’s thumb.

“Come here,” Sam says, and steers him, by the wrist, to the table. “Sit down.”

Dean sits. Sam leaves the room just long enough to get a first aid kit, comes back and sits down beside him, scoots his chair over so their knees are almost touching. Not long ago Dean would’ve knocked them together on purpose, or slung a leg over Sam’s, maybe, if he was in that kind of mood. Now he twitches his leg to the side to avoid it, even as Sam reaches for his hand again, lifts it up and sets it on the table as if Dean wouldn’t be capable of doing that himself.

Sam’s got tweezers in his hand and he starts on picking the little bits of dirt out of Dean’s knuckles that Dean had missed, the tiny pieces that are stuck in deep. Dislodging them makes him bleed all over again, breaks open scabs that had spent the night forming, and Sam all calm and steady mops the blood away and goes on working. He uses scissors to cut away the duct tape, so he doesn’t hurt Dean’s broken fingers by pulling on it.

It hurts anyway. For the first time, now, here, with Sam handling him so carefully. Now it hurts.

“Ouch,” he murmurs, as Sam real careful cleans up the surface damage first, alcohol stinging the scraped-off skin. As he fits the splint to Dean’s fingers the bones shift and pain shoots up right into his wrist, so sudden the shock of it makes him jerk. Sam squeezes his wrist to keep him still and goes on working until Dean says, breathless, “Sammy, you’re hurting me.”

Sam lets go of him altogether and Dean looks up at him, for the first time this morning, and sees him put his hands over his face. Watches his shoulders shudder as he breathes in. Then he takes his hands away and for just an instant Dean is afraid he might be crying. He isn’t. He looks Dean in the face, steady, and says: “We’re almost done.”

No answer from Dean, so he goes back to what he was doing—secures the splint, tapes gauze over Dean’s knuckles, and Dean sits there with his whole hand throbbing with pain and it’s the realest sharpest thing he’s felt in an age and for just a second he wishes, fleetingly, that he could stay here and go on feeling it and not have to go back to—to the constant fear, to the guilt that feels like a bear trap is crushing his throat all the god damn time, so huge and unfaceable that guilt feels like far too small a word for it. To the dead nerve numbness that consumes all the rest.

Let him have this glowing pain instead, and the warmth of his brother’s careful hands.

Anything else. Let him have anything else.

“There,” Sam says, when he’s done, and Dean looks at him and there’s that rock in the pit of his stomach as he thinks, he’s not ever gonna love me the same way again. Dean looks at his brother and knows he’s looking at something that he’s broken beyond repair. Sam looks—pensive, hesitant, like there’s something he wants to say but hasn’t decided if he’s going to yet. It’s a look he wears often, lately, and most of the time he doesn’t end up saying anything. They don’t talk a lot, these days. What would there be to say.

Sam is still holding his wrist, and Dean misses him like his chest is caving in.

He lifts Dean’s hand, then, and without reason, without warning, presses his knuckles to his lips and kisses him there, just once, over the gauze, with his eyes closed. Then he lets go and gets up and puts away the first aid kit, and leaves the room without a word, and Dean sits there where Sam leaves him, and the pain is unbearable, and there is nothing he can do but bear it.

[kassiedoodles-xo]

The Forces Of Destiny — Part V:

"Beyond the Mirrors Sorrow"

— a fanmade ninjago season —

Word Count: 3489

Warnings: blood, implied death, implied war/battle, heavy self doubt

“I’m sorry, what? Memory? So we’re stuck in some sort of creepy mind maze?” Jay's usual was replaced with unease as he stammered.

“The passage on the wall. That's what it meant, didn't it.” Morro added, stepping closer to Yuki.

The girl sighed, turning fully away from the window, now pacing back and forth in what seemed to be her bedroom. “We were sucked into my spell book.” she raised her eyes, seeing how the ninja looked at her for an escape plan “i’m sorry. I've got nothing.” she lowered her gaze.

“ We’ve gotta get out of here, what if we try to get back into the Archives?” Nya suggested.

“Maybe, they are a part of my memories now.” Yuki answered, heading for the door, her friends following suit.

Leading the way, Yuki’s hand steadily reached for the handle, yet her heart pounded in her chest as anticipation filled the air. With a deep breath, she opened her bedroom door, the intricate embellished door swinging open. They walked through the threshold, freezing in their places when they saw the room in front of them.

They were back in Yuki’s bedroom.

Confusion washed over everyone as they deadpanned, staring at the disheartening sight that was Yuki’s room.

Breathe, just breathe. Don't let them see you panic.

No matter how many times they walked through the door, they alway ended up back in the bedroom, as if the memory of the palace kept leading them back. Not allowing them to leave.

Kai furrowed his eyebrows in confusion “How the hell are we still in the bedroom!?”

“This is seriously fucked up. How are we supposed to get out of the spell book if we can’t even break out of your bedroom?” Jay ran his hand through his hair, his unease growing.

“Come on Yuki, think. You have to remember something from your training.” Morro urged, desperation uncharacteristically starting to creep up in his eyes.

“I’m sorry” Yuki sighed in defeat “I really don't remember anything about this.” Her shoulders slumped, she looked away from the group, unable to face them after admitting her failure.

Shit, shit, shit.

Useless, useless, useless.

The ninja paced back and forth, trying to ignore the restlessness that echoed in their footsteps, the realisation of their fruitless attempts weighing heavy on their shoulders. The familiarity and comfort of Yuki’s bedroom now fading, being replaced with a cold prison of frustration.

Yuki searched every book in her bookshelf for answers, every magical artefact, every secret entrance, with no avail. Every answer would lead back to her bedroom.

Lloyd ran his hand through his hair, deep in thought “there has to be something we’re missing.” he muttered, pacing the room.

He looked up, his eyes settling upon the broken vanity mirror in the corner of the room. His eyes narrowed “Has that,” he paused , a moment of uncertainty stopping him. “Has that mirror been broken the entire time?” he questioned, pointing to the mirror in question.

Yuki looked up from her place on her luxurious bed, the look of resignation in her eyes now replaced with intrigue. The two exchanged a glance before approaching the mirror, the strangely large shards of glass glinting in the sunlight that shone in through the window.

Lloyd picked up one of the pieces, carefully examining the edges as Yuki observed, suddenly noticing something peculiar. They looked directly into the glass, yet no reflection stared back again; instead they saw a flicker of an image, like an old tv with a bad signal.

“What…What is that?” Lloyd breathed, squinting his eyes to see better.

Zane approached, leaning closer to study the image intently “These aren’t just any images” he said slowly, realisation dawned on him as he examined the events he saw in the glass. “Wait, this happened last week.” Yuki finished, her eyes widening as she recollected the private events in the glass.

The ninja gathered around the shards, wide-eyed and astonished at the discovery. Morro spoke up “So they’re your memories.” he stated, unsure of how to use this information.

Before Yuki could answer, the ninja felt a strange sensation as they looked further into the replaying image in the glass. It was almost hypnotizing, as if they were being drawn into the image. They could feel every emotion course through their bodies the more they looked. The pain, the sadness, the joy, the love.

Soon they noticed the darkened surroundings of Yuki’s bedroom. They stood in awe as they tore their gazes away from the fragment of glass Lloyd was holding, the sight rendering them speechless. The autumn sun was nowhere to be seen, instead being replaced with the darkness of cold, heavy rain clouds.

Looking back down, Lloyd felt panic rise in his chest, his hand now empty, the shard missing.

“GREAT! Now we’re not only in the spellbook, we’re also in some mirror memory” Cole grunted, crossing his arms dramatically.

Yuki could only analyse the setting, “the last thunderstorm was last week” she whispered under her breath, realisation slowly building up as she looked around more. It was the small details she noticed.

The dresses on the floor.

The colour of the bedsheets.

The mess on her vanity.

The colossal bell of the palace chimed loudly, Yuki’s heart raced, as cold sweat dripped down her neck.

It's Midnight.

Without hesitation, she pushed the group into the closet; her movements, usually full of grace, now filled with urgency. Confusion clouded the ninja's faces as they huddled together into the limited space, Yuki brought her finger to her lips, signalling them to be quiet.

In the cramped confines of her closet,Yuki and Lloyd felt their chests rising and falling, almost touching as they hid. Their eyes met in a fleeting moment. Lloyd’s green eyes, like a verdant forest, held the promise of springtime. Yuki's purple eyes, like a symphony of amethyst hues, holding the depth and secrets of a twilight sky. They looked away, eyes shimmering with a mixture of pain and regret.

His eyes are pretty- SHUT UP!

Only inches apart, yet those inches seemed insignificant as each exhale seemed to bring them closer, their warm breaths mingling as Yuki glanced at his lips in a moment of weakness. His lips parted slightly as his ears became tinted with red, the intensity of their closeness crashing over him, leaving him breathless.

She turned around quickly, in the hopes no one saw her reddening cheeks in the dim lighting. Heat radiated off her body, a magnetic pull that moved her closer to the blond behind her, his hand lightly grazing hers.

The team observed the unspoken tension between the two, exchanging knowing glances.

The sound of their own breathing sounded deafening as they heard the bedroom door open, barely audible footsteps ominously echoing through the room. They looked through the gaps in the closet door, Yuki held her breath as she saw herself, the memory of herself, walk into the room.

“Was that you?” Lloyd asked, unable to resist the urge to speak, his voice below a whisper. Yuki swung around, clasping her hand over his mouth. With his reflexes kicking in, he instinctively reached out, his hands falling on the girl's hips to steady her. Now fully pressed together, the fabric of their uniforms doing little to stop the body heat from radiating from each other. For a moment, time stood still as they shared the silent embrace, Lloyds heart pounding in his chest as he unconsciously pulled her closer.

Cole cleared his throat quietly, breaking the intimate spell, the two looked at each other for the first time, realizing their proximity to each other. They flushed red, silently distancing themselves.

Focus.

Yuki turned back around, continuing to watch the memory Yuki erratically pace back and forth as she ripped her hair tie out, allowing the ponytail to fall, silky pink hair falling messily over her shoulders like a waterfall of vibrant petals. Her hair tumbled in free disarray, now a wild cascade of pink.

.

Her usually regal and graceful demeanour shattered within seconds, her movements were filled with a sense of restless energy as she leaned on the vanity.

Tears glistened in the dim light of the moon as they streamed down her face, unrelenting anger filling her. She raged against herself, anger filling her like a tempest.

“How could I have let that happen? Are you fucking stupid? You're supposed to protect your people” her voice filled with anguish as she scolded herself for the failed mission.

Stupid.

Stupid.

Stupid.

It was as if memory Yuki was a puppet and her rage was the puppet master, in the midst of her rage, she became almost primal as she kicked and punched her surroundings.

“So. Fucking. Useless. And you call yourself a queen” she let out a sarcastic chuckle “ You're a failure, not a leader.” The memory lashed out, throwing the small items on her vanity, sending them across the room.

Useless.

Useless.

Useless.

In a moment of uncontrollable fury, memory Yuki launched her spellbook at the mirror with a broken scream, unable to look at her reflection. All she saw was incompetence. The shattering glass sounded through the room like an agonising symphony of destruction and defeat.

Silence.

Failure.

Failure.

Failure.

The group watched in stunned silence. Indeed, they have seen Yuki angry before, on the battlefield. Her calm and gentle personality was replaced by raw painful emotions that sent shivers down their spines. It was unnerving to see their usually happy friend be consumed by such intense anger. At herself.

They felt a pang of hurt wash over them, guilt filled as they remembered the times they came to Yuki for comfort after missions, yet never asking how she felt. She was always strong and resilient after all.

They continued watching the memory play out, observing memory Yuki surveying the aftermath of her own violent rage, the room resembling the battlefield that caused the outburst in the first place.

She looked into the broken shards on the floor, her broken up reflection staring back up at her. A fractured image of someone she didn’t recognise anymore. The torn curtains hung like wounded soldiers, the soldiers that she sent to battle. The items on the floor scattered like her emotions.

Why did I give that order? I sent children to their death.

An overpowering sadness engulfed her, the weight of her actions falling heavily on her. Silent tears traced the delicate features of her face, she fell to her knees, a scream of emotional and physical pain piercing through the air. Sobs wracked her body, she winced as he clutched her side, the warmth of her blood a testament to the lives she could not protect. Her blood seeped slowly through the purple ninja uniform, she struggled to catch her breath, each gasp for air burning her lungs.

Her wallowing in sorrow was interrupted by the shrill ring of the landline phone, startling everyone. She struggled to stand, still grasping her side she stumbled towards the phone, with trembling bloody hands she picked up the receiver.

So much blood. Innocent blood.

She steadied her voice as she spoke, the urgency in the voice of the prime minister was palpable. Her words clipped and curt as she acknowledged the situation.

“Yes. Yes Mr Prime Minister, I am aware of the situation. Yes, send out the emergency units straight away, save anyone you can. Please report to me tomorrow morning.” It was clear she was being summoned for an emergency meeting the next day to address the severity of the destruction caused by the failed mission.

They ninja remembered Yuki having an emergency meeting and missing training the following day, yet they never realised the circumstances that occurred before the summoning.

With a heavy heart, memory Yuki set the receiver down, turning on her heel to exit the room, leaving a small trail of blood drops behind her. As she reached for the handle, she paused. She turned her head, her gaze momentarily falling on the closet, before quickly walking away. The door slammed behind her as the team sat in silence for the following moments pondering the depth of the memory in front of them

Yuki stared out the closet, unable to bring herself to look at her friends, her chest tightening at the remembrance of the failed mission.

Cole's heart ached, the scene of Yuki berating herself playing in his mind, a sombre expression spread on his face. The pillar of strength he could rely on anytime now seems to crack .

Morros' demeanour was shaken, memories of their younger days flooding his mind. He remembered the shy little girl with a bright smile that was scared of anything. He knew firsthand the weight of not living up to your role, his heart unable to bear to see Yuki feel the same way.

Jay's usual obnoxious attitude faltered as Yuki’s distress played back in his mind. Yuki was always a fearless leader, filled with grace. She was the annoying sister he never had. His heart was heavy with sorrow.

Nya blinked away the tears that brimmed her eyes. Her role model for courage and resilience now seemed scared and broken, reminding her of herself when her parents were taken. Her friend's deep pain empathised with her.

Kai clenched his fists, his jaw locked in anger. How could she blame herself like that for something that was beyond her control? Her unwavering loyalty to the team and her people was a rare quality. There has never been a time where she hasn’t been there for him.

Zane’s usually stoic robotic expression softened as his gaze fell upon the girl in front of him. He always felt like Yuki was filled with determined resolve, failing to see the true vulnerability that lay beneath.

Lloyds heart ached at Yuki’s anguish. She had been his mentor, his friend, his comfort and more; and yet as the leader of the ninja he failed to see that not even she can be strong and resilient in the face of adversity.

Yuki opened the closet door, exiting the cramped space at long last, her thoughtful stare landed on the trail of blood left behind.

An eye for an eye, you bleed the same.

She always maintained the facade of perfection, she presented herself as the strong and composed queen, embarrassment washed over her as the illusion of grace shattered just like the vanity mirror. She ignored the suffocating gazes of her friends, every spark of pain and every tear was a testament to her failure.

She wished she could hide, to retreat back into the safety of her childhood solitude, wishing to lick her wounds without the looks of pity surrounding her. Her friends witnessing her weakness was almost unbearable, shame dragged her into the dark depth of her mind.

Her arms crossed. She wanted to apologise, to explain herself, to tell them to not view her any differently, but the words were caught in her throat. She was choked by the humiliation that consumed her thoughts.

As the pressure intensified, no one dared to utter a word. After years of team work and friendships they knew Yuki well, anyone who knows Yuki well will know that she will never admit to any weakness. Yet it was finally Cole who broke the silence.

“Yu-chan,” he began, his gentle voice filled with brotherly concern “Why didn't you say you were injured?”

Yuki’s haunted gaze momentarily flickered to Cole, she shrugged. “As long as I'm not dead, I'm fine.” she replied simply, her tone flat.

You’re not fine.

The team looked at each other with concern and disappointment, as if the breach of trust left a mark on the foundations they built together.

Kai stepped forward, placing a hand on her shoulder. “We’re a team, we have to look out for each other.” he said firmly.

Yuki pursed her lips, forming a thin line, as she shook Kai’s hand off; his hand fell back to his side, his eyes flickered with hurt and surprise. He stepped back, looking at the girl he barely recognised, the girl who usually welcomed physical contact. Now distant. His warm gesture was replaced by cold rejection.

I’m sorry.

Before anyone could react, a picture frame fell from the wall, crashing loudly to the floor, tearing the thick silence of the room. Startled, they turned to the frame on the floor. Yuki tore herself away from the path of crimson drops on the marble flooring, her heart beating violently in her chest as she kneeled in front of it; her gloved fingers quivered as she picked it up.

The rest gathered around the picture, seeing the familiar picture of their entire team, captured moments after victory. But there, right across where she stood, a singular crack adorned the glass, as if the fracture tore the fabric of their bond.

The cracks in the frame echoed the cracks she felt within her self worth, the fissures in her facade threatened to destroy her composure. Her own struggles leave deep scars that taint the entire team.

Nya stepped forward, her voice regretful while trying to change the subject “What a shame.” she remarked, “That frame was so pretty.”

Yuki gulped thickly and she gripped the picture tighter, her knuckles turning white as her composure threatened to break. Her eyes wide, she stared with a hollow gaze at it, she barely managed to speak up “Except… I never had this picture hung up in my room. This is in the photo album in the monastery.” The ninja held their breaths. “This doesn’t belong in my memories.” she finished.

Panic rose in her chest, cold fear filling her. Confusion etched itself onto everyone's faces as she stood up, unease swept through them, a common question pondered in the air.

If the picture wasn’t part of my memory, what is it doing here?

They exchanged wary looks, silently processing the revelation, Yuki slowly turned around, facing her friends for the first time. Suddenly, a pulling feeling filled their senses, the fabric of reality shifted and manoeuvred around them. The walls seemed to melt away like candle wax,

They scanned the room with trepidation. Yuki's hand now empty, the picture now vanished, only leaving a whisper of disquiet.

“Are we?” Zane pondered as he looked around the bedroom. “Are we back?”

Lloyd approached the vanity mirror, his sharp eyes falling upon the shard of glass which transported them towards the painful memory, now neatly placed back in the frame of the mirror. Almost as if it was never disturbed.

“Everyone! look here!” Lloyd called them over, touching the sides of the shard, feeling the magic emitting from it, pulsating with power in the rhythm of a heartbeat.

The ninja stood in front of the remaining shards of glass, each gleaming with images of certain memories, a sense of clarity dawned on them.

“Yuki, we got out the moment you found something that doesn't belong in your memory right?” Jay inquired, watching as the girl nodded, enlightenment settling over her as her eyes widened.

“We have to look at my other memories and find the thing that doesn’t belong.” She remarked, her lips slightly parted at the revelation.

“If that shard ended up back in the mirror, and you broke the mirror with your spell book-” Morro started, his tone slightly tinged with a note of uncertainty.

“- The mirror is likely the way to close the rift that started this.” Nya finished.

Yuki stared at the mirror as the words sunk in, vulnerability lingered in the depths of her eyes dancing like shadows, a heavy pit settling in her stomach.

She couldn’t rid the feeling of guilt that seemed to eat her– the haunting memory of her throwing the spell book, and the glass shattering, even more vivid now after reliving it. She should’ve been more careful, she should’ve been more cautious, she should’ve been more–

Her train of thought was interrupted by the presence of the green ninja beside her, close enough for their shoulders to press against each other, a comforting feeling in the whirlpool of her self blame. He hesitated for a split second, briefly stuck in his own anxiety. He reached down, grabbing the girl's hand in his, delicately squeezing her hand three times reassuringly.

“It's not your fault Kiki.” Her head whipped around at the use of the nickname, one he hasn’t used in a while. “No one could’ve predicted this happening.” His voice was like a soothing balm to her emotional wounds, like a healing tide that washed over her.

Please don’t lie to me. 

Please.

Not now.

She searched his face for any dishonesty or doubt, only finding warmth. She allowed herself to lean into his touch for a second, the comfort of his presence knocking down the wall of guilt.

Even if everything will go back to how it was after the mission.

&lt; Previous | Next >

♧Masterlist♧

Summary: A mysterious rift between time and magic tears the fabric of the realms. Yuki, the master of magic, the purple ninja and the queen of ninjago, must find the powerful spell to fix this. In an unexpected twist, the team is transported into the depths of Yuki's spell book. The ninja must navigate through the chapters and memories of all the queens, finding the thing that is jeprodizing peace.

In a risky race, the ninja must piece together fragments of memories to uncover the truth. Will they succeed in fixing the rift? Or will Dark secrets unravel a mystery that changes the fate of everything?

TAGLIST: OPEN

@shatteredhope123 @spinjitzu-spy @crikkit-kitterton @stupidgayartkid @urkittybby @queenoftasilk

Feel free to ask to be added!

© This is the exclusive property of Aleksandra Niewiadomska. Do not claim as your own, repost on other sites or translate my work at all.

[maplecornia]

chapter 73

infinite stars masterlist | BTS masterlist | masterlist | playlist

𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 2.78K

𝔭𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤: bts x female!reader

𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢: romance | slice of life | fluff | angst

𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: this all may disappear one day, we might as well make these last few moments count

𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: cliffhangers | angst | fluff | slight mentions of self hatred | depression | mental health illness | self harm | occurs in the year 2024 | set in a timeline where BTS went to the military together | slight language | mentions of rape | childhood trauma | multiple forms of abuse | mentions of blood and injuries | toxic relationships | mentions of alcohol and drugs | r*pe | assault | graphic depictions of all the above

taglist [OPEN]: @jaeyunverse | @fangirl125reader | @kookiebbyxx | @taradevonne | @rae-bear | @mangminnie | @plxlekoo (not taggable) | @cana | @eridanuswave | @MISSSEOULITE (not taggable) | @kodzuskook | @bingyuu (not taggable) | @soobmint | @hyunjxnxee | @gongiz | @uno7 (not taggable) | @yesv01 | @myork | @eunbinism | @kpopppy

They left you alone for five minutes. 

Five minutes. 

That was all it took for you to fall apart. 

Your mother just woke up from a coma, how could you fool yourself into thinking you were ready for this? How could you be ready when not even the nightmares have stopped? When your mind has become so fragile that your worlds no longer collide? When all you can see are the memories from that night, clouding your vision and making you forget everything except the blood?

The pain?

The room is dark and quiet, albeit the banging on the door as your stylists try to return, and the commotion of the staff members outside scrambling for someone to unlock or break it down. You've made a mess of the place in your delirium. Chairs and tables blocking the locked door, clothes and makeup scattered in piles of mixed powder and sticky ink. The chalky substance stains your hands and begins to cake your skin, stuck beneath your fingernails from where you scraped it raw, with shaky hands. The tears quickly tearing down the masterful mask made to hide all your imperfections from the world. The lights flicker from above the shattered mirror where you had just moments before plunged your hand deep within, droplets of blood thick and dripping off the deathly shards of glass just as it trickles down your arm in kind, tainting your skin and clothes a colorful hue of scarlet. 

From the farthest corner you could find, you cower, shaking like a frail leaf in the wind as your eyes focus on the mirror. 

The sparkling shards of glass.

The cracks. 

The blood. 

In the darkness, your vision blurs, your chest heaving as you hyperventilate, the floor seeming to want to swallow you up as your reality flickers in and out. Off and on like it were a simple switch. A steady beating of what is real and what is a memory. Almost as sure and true as your heart. 

Off and on.

In and Out. 

Every knock on the door sounds like a gunshot, pounding deeper and deeper into your skull until you can no longer feel anything else but fear. Each time you blink, you can see his hands reaching toward you, his face distorted and covered in hot sticky blood, so you keep your eyes wide open as long as you can before closing them to the horrific sight. And even if it's only for a few seconds, in the time when they reopen, there is a remnant of him remaining. Staring at you, smiling your way through the glass. The cracks distort his face even more, turning it into something ominous, deformed, and bleeding with your blood. The very same blood that now stains your hands. 

You can't tell if you're screaming, or if it's just the sirens that continue to resound within your ears. You don't know if you're crying, or if it's his blood dripping as though they were your tears. You wonder if your hands are shaking from the wounds the glass inflicted on your skin, or because the gunshots came from you. You're too afraid to even look down for fear that the very same weapon you used to shoot your father that night will be clenched tightly in your hands. 

You're stuck. 

Stuck inside your mind so much so that when you feel the hand wrap itself around your broken ones, you are already too conflicted by your fear to even flinch away. You don't hear the voice calling your name, or register that the knocks have stopped, and the world has turned into one of tranquil silence. But when he turns your face to meet his, when you finally see someone familiar, you can feel yourself calming, the world around you becoming less confusing. You focus on him, holding tightly to the lifeline he has offered you, and speak only when you have become anchored enough to do so without falling apart. 

"Jae." 

Jaejin smiles, his panic wearing off as he sees your eyes softening, the storm within them fading away. 

“Yeah, it’s me." Stroking your hair behind your ear, he tries hard to swallow down the jump in his chest as you nuzzle into his touch, closing your eyes tightly as you slowly but surely work your way back to him. "Are you doing okay, bird?”

The nickname brings forth nostalgia and familiarity, memories of the innocence of your youth spent by his side. You can't help but laugh at the mention of it, an adoring name created to help you through your attacks every time you found yourself lost within your mind. But it's coated with snot and shaking hands, and Jaejin can tell you're trying to force yourself to be okay. 

“No.” Your voice trembles almost as violently as you do. Jaejin holds tight to your hands before your nails can bury themselves in your skin once more, and you shake your head in despair. “I-I’ve never been this scared before. It’s never gotten so bad.” 

Jaejin nods silently as he reaches forward and wipes your tears away, his hands warm and gentle against your flushed skin. He doesn't say anything, he just takes care of you. 

As he's always done and as he will continue to do for as long as you need him to. 

“How long did they give you?” 

“Thirty minutes.” 

“Then can we just stay like this for thirty minutes?” 

Pressing his forehead against yours, he lets you lean on him, and his next words are words he doesn't need to say, for you know them by heart. 

“Of course, I'm not going anywhere.” 

It's been a while since they've been backstage. 

Jimin had almost forgotten the way it felt. 

The rush of the spotlight, the tingle he feels throughout his entire body each time the monitor tells him they're getting closer to performing, the adrenaline coursing through his veins at the sight of the stage so welcoming and inviting, it's addictive. Throughout his career this feeling, a feeling he couldn't get anywhere other than here, has become so addictive that it's turned into Jimin's own form of heroin. A drug that he never gets tired of, no matter how many times he gets burned. 

In reality, the stage is a drug for anyone who is given a chance to stand on it, to perform for the world to see. It becomes their everything, their livelihood, something they find they cannot live without and would work tirelessly every day just to spend the next few moments in that spotlight. Anyone who ever had the dream to perform would give everything for that chance. A chance to taste even one droplet of that light and bask in it for the rest of their days. 

Jimin of all people knows how important that is. 

How no matter how high you may fly, every performance matters.

For each one could be your last. 

“Are you ready?” 

Jimin smiles as Taehyung stands next to him, still trying to position his earpiece so it stays secure. He can't help but be reminded of the first time they ever stood next to each other standing beside the other on that very first stage. Even now, they are facing the spotlight together, almost as though nothing had changed. 

"As ready as I'll ever be." As Jimin sighs, Taehyung can't help but smile inwardly at the look in his eyes. The way it seems as though he nearly devours the stage with his longing. Every time he has seen Jimin look like that, he's wondered if he's ever wanted anything more than to perform. He wonders now, what would be left if it was taken away from him. "It took a lot for us to get here, didn’t it?” 

“Yeah." Taehyung turns to the stage himself, facing the once foreboding spotlight. Perhaps this is what he was afraid of all along. What he would find as soon as he stepped foot on that stage. If he would find his fire had disappeared or if it had been burning faithfully all this time. "I wonder if it will be worth it.” 

Jimin turns to Taehyung, his smile almost making Taehyung believe that hope is possible after all. That his dream hasn't disappeared and is still his strongest desire, something he needs almost as much as he needs air to breathe. Perhaps even after all the scars and bruises, it's still possible to find joy in that unforgiving stage. 

And Taehyung wants so badly to believe in that fraudulent hope. 

“It’s always worth it.” 

The thirty minutes are up, and the suffocation has returned. 

You've had to switch dressing rooms, and at the way the stylists prod at your body and pull at your hair, you can tell that they aren't too happy about it. If you were really honest, however, it's hard for you to care. You're too busy trying to keep yourself together that it's difficult for you to find it within yourself to care about anything else, much less their irritation. Even now, as you keep your eyes glued on the TV screen that shows the hosts announcing BTS as the next performer, and you try your hardest to focus only on the cheers that you can hear all the way from the stage, the voices continue to beckon you back into the abyss. It's only thanks to the calming feeling of Jaejin's hand within your own, and the numbing consistency the cheers provide you, that you are even able to hang on. And piece by piece, bit by bit, you find the voices growing fainter and fainter. 

"It's starting." You murmur half to yourself, as you watch the stage grow dark and the audience still. Jaejin doesn't bother looking at the screen, instead focusing on only you, as though if he looked away for even a moment you would fade away again.

"Are you nervous?" 

It's strange.

You should feel nervous. Everything you have fought for is resting on this one chance, this one opportunity to show the world that you are worth it. To prove to them that you were made to perform, to stand on that stage alongside even the most revered and respected artists. You should be terrified, and after your panic attack, you should be running as far away from the studio as you can. 

And yet...

"Everything is resting on this, but watching them now..." You shake your head, smiling to yourself as you glance briefly at your reflection in the mirror. At the mask the makeup artists and stylists have so eloquently crafted to turn you into their version of perfection. "I don't know, it's sort of calming in a way. They make the stage seem so inviting, it makes me wonder if I deserve to stand beside them." 

As Jaejin's hand tightens around yours, you turn to him, hoping that his smile is enough to calm the rapid beating of your heart. That his hope would mirror itself so much in your eyes that it soon becomes your hope as well. 

"You were made for this Yen, never doubt that.” 

It is safe to say BTS had forgotten the rush this brought them. 

The cheers push Jimin forward, ensuring every step he makes, every note that utters from his lips is timed and tuned to perfection. He loses himself in the music and gives his very soul up for the crowd to take as they please. At this moment, he is no longer Park Jimin, he is the artist. 

They fill Jin up until it feels as though he is walking on air. That if he jumps high enough, if he rises far enough, one day he will be able to finally soar above it all. No more worries, no more fear, no more uncertainty. 

Every time Jungkook sings, the stage turns into his paradise. Full of color and iridescent lights, he can no longer see the audience, only the stars. They reflect in his eyes and travel to his voice so that every note, every line is only meant to reach each and every one that cheers his name in the audience. 

Taehyung wears his soul on his sleeve and hopes that they can see his sincerity. That in his expression, in his movements, in his voice, they can hear his plea. Hopefully, this time, they will finally listen.  

Yoongi cannot help but feel as though this were a dream. Eyes glossed over in the daze of happy perfection, he wonders if this is a small illusion of happiness that will not last. That once the music ends, the colored lenses will disappear and they will return to the cruelty they have sharpened as astute as a knife. 

Though Hoseok smiles, he wonders if this is enough. If they continue to give their all, would that be enough to appease them? Would that be enough to satisfy them? If they give everything, would they finally be able to reveal who they've been hiding all this time? 

Namjoon prays they can hear their message. That they not only listen to them blindly but that they hear their words, that they feel deep within their hearts their sincerity, their hope for freedom. He begs that things will not be the same, that they will recognize this is their new chapter and they won't be looking back. 

For they refuse to make the same mistakes they have made before. They refuse to be naive, to trust a lie that was created the first time they ever stood face to face. They will no longer be caged in. This time, they are finally breaking free. 

And as she watches, as the world watches, they can tell something is different. 

Some may not understand what has changed, and some may not understand what it is they are trying so desperately to say, but they can tell things are not the same. They can feel the sincerity, the desperation almost as though it were their own. A hollowing despairing feeling that materializes deep within their heart and stuns them almost to silence. It scares some, it angers others, but for most, and hopefully soon for all, it fills them with excitement. 

It keeps them waiting on the edge of their seats to see what this next chapter holds because it will be another chapter by their side, instead of their imminent goodbye. 

As for Yen, it fills her with pride. 

It gives her hope and makes her grateful that she was lucky enough to stand beside them even when the entire world seemed to turn against them. As she looks up at them, she knows that this is who they truly are. Bare and bleeding for the entire world to see. 

And she couldn't be more proud of them. 

So can you blame her for smiling? Can you blame her for that small second of naivety that the world could be so easily swayed? Can you blame her for believing in that lie? 

For just as soon as your happiness appears, it fades away. A feeling of cold dread quickly replacing it as you witness it. 

You wonder if anyone else can tell. 

Jimin, after all, is still dancing through it, pushing through the obvious pain you can see so clearly in his eyes as though it were your own. After so many years of pretending he's fine, it's almost become second nature to lie. Almost as though it were his own art form, hiding that which made him weak to appear strong to those who wouldn't know any better. 

But you know him. 

You've trained beside him, you've seen him at his worst and you've seen him at his best. You know by now when he's faking, and when he's real, you've had to learn in order to dance beside him and even attempt to measure up to his perfection. To know when a step he makes is incorrect, when he falters for even the tiniest of moments, when a move he makes is off beat or off time, and above all you can tell when a fellow dancer has been injured. 

“Yen? What is it?” 

And as you turn to Jae, you can see the same look in your eyes reflected in his. 

Fear. 

“We have to go.” 

chapter 74 here

[minhosimthings]

Hold Me Without Hurting Me

Chapter 11: Hyssop and Hidden Feelings

A/N: In which an old friend fills your life with flowers again, along a bumpy sided road.

Pairings: Ceo!Jay × Ceo!fem!reader, includes rest of Enhypen and certain other groups

Warnings: angst-fluff, hurt/comfort, friends to enemies to fake dating to enemies to lovers, Mentions of food and alcohol, swearing, nothing much but it's a bumpy story, suggestive at the end

Story prompt: If I had a flower for every time I fell in love with you, I would walk in my garden forever. (This story is based on the language of flowers.)

A/N: I finally got my ass up and posted another chapter yay. I've been so busy nowadays so haven't been able to find time to write much so I'm sorry if this chapter isn't that good

SERIES MASTERLIST

7 years ago

Jay's hands were shaking and his mind was racing at the speed of an atom bomb bursting and spreading its debris. With clammy hands and untied shoelaces, his mind was only on one thing.

'Y/N's going to do it today and I'm not letting her'

The air around him felt suffocating as he glanced at his watch. Sweat and exhaustion didn't deter him, as he ran across the bridge, inching closer to you, standing nonchalantly on top of the grills, looking down at the trembling waters below, with an emotionless face. Your hands were gripping the bars tightly as your mind twisted itself into bits and pieces.

"Y/N no!" Jay cried out, as he reached you, putting an arm on yours, as far as he could reach. "No love, your stronger than this come on." He said in a soothing tone. As he looked back to this memory, he often wondered how he could ever had concealed his own tears.

Your tear stained face turned to him, blank expression on your face, and your grip on the metal bar getting looser. "Please Jay." You begged, feeling a sob come into your throat, "Please let me go, I'm begging you."

Your tone of voice was enough to break him into shards of glass.

"Y/N please we can talk about this." He begged back, his tears still enclosed in his eyes. "Maybe I'm done with talking Jay!" You cried, the imprisoned sob coming out of your throat, "I'm done Jay! Now please let go."

“You know if you jump, I’ll jump too.” “You wouldn’t.” “Oh, you don’t know how much I love you to not do that." You knew you couldn't beat him at his words.

"Y/N come on." Jay said, his words flowing like the calm evening wind, "Who will I have to pick Salvias with me I you do this huh? Who will I have to walk home with everyday? Who will I have to steal my chocolate and crash over at my place to rant about her new crush?"

A pathetic giggle leapt out of your mouth as you turned your body to Jay's and climbed over the bridge, falling into Jay's arms like an autumn leaf. "I'm here I'm here it's alright." Jay rubbed his hand down your back as you sobbed into his arms, his hands supporting your tired head, "Shh my yarrow shush now It's alright."

Current time

"Jungwon please tell me this looks good." You spun out of your room in your dress, posing uncertainly in fron of your assistant whose eyes went wide as his clapped his tiny hands together excitedly.

"It looks amazing Ma'am. This is the one!" He giggled, "I'm sure Mr Park would want to date you for real now." "Has anyone ever told you you're adorable?" You raised an eyebrow at him as he went red, "Don't worry Kayla will love you in that suit."

You checked yourself out in the mirror as your eyes traced the beautiful dress. Off shoulder with blue beads beautifully decorating the golden silk, it was the dress of your teenage dreams. Funny for Jay to have sent it to your room with the note "Get ready. It's party time."

Nevertheless you hadn't objected knowing that if you did this, you'd be out of this stupid fake dating deal. Yet something inside your heart ached. It ached for you to call out to Jay, to tell him you still remember everything about him, from his favourite song to his nickname for you.

My yarrow, he would call you.

Yarrow. The one flower whose meaning you never knew. Your mother never told you, and the book with the meanings sewed in never revealed its secret. You were convinced that Jay made the word up, until one day you saw a beautiful bouquet of flowers from the window of the shop across and realised that it actually did exist after having tea with the shop's old owner. Nevertheless Jay refused to tell you the meaning of it to this day. And as much as it angered you, you found it quite romantic, to be called by a name you knew not of.

"Jay did you maybe plan to tell me what this party was for or did that skip your big brain?" You questioned as the car moved speedily across the road. The hotel you were staying at was a big one, the size of two football fields to be approximate, and you had heard that there was a luxurious party hall just a few miles from the main hotel. Excited wasn't exactly a word you'd use to describe your current state, as you adjusted your tight fit dress, admiring the sheen coming off from it. You noticed numerous other cars parked outside of the party hall which, to have a description of it as 'grandeur' would be an understatement. It was big, bigger than the hotel, with mighty pillars supporting it, gold gleaming off of every corner, stone gargoyles keeping menacing guard.

"Come on Y/N." Jay opened his car door, "This party may be our only chance to break this deal." You swallowed the lump in your throat and climbed off the car, uncertainty clouding your thoughts.

Jay's arm felt like cotton at your waist. He was so afraid to touch you, to remind you that he used to be yours, and you used to his.

His yarrow.

No one else's ever. And yet there was that lingering bitterness in him. Why hadn't you stopped him? He wanted to turn back, knowing you'd love that, but why didn't you stop him?

"Woah this is-" you stared at the interior of the party hall, "-dramatic." Your words rang with nothing but truth as you stared at the brightly lit hall. Chandeliers draped from everywhere and huge curtains of what seemed like red silk decorated the seams with grandeur. People parading around with champagne clutched in their grimy hands stopped in their tracks as their eyes fell upon Jay and you.

"Mr Park! Welcome!" A raucous voice came towards your ear as you saw Mr Hwang from the meetings step forward, glasses of champagne in his hands. "Mr Hwang." Jay bowed curtly and took the glasses handing one to you.

God his perfume smelled good.

"And how do you do Miss Yang?" Mr Hwang's starry eyes directed towards yours, taking you off balance. "Oh I'm doing quite well thank you." You shot a polite smile at him, as you noticed, from the corner of your eye, Choi Minho, standing and glaring while sipping his champagne.

"Y/N come on." Jay tugged at your arm, making you turn your head towards his. "Y-yeah sorry." You quickly apologised, making your way across the crowd with Jay leading you. You noticed how the eyes turned to you viciously as if you were a fire spitting dragon threatening everyone in your presence. In a faint try to ignore them, you sped up and walked at Jay's pace, keeping your head down and looking at his shoes.

"Ignore the eyes darling." Jay whispered in your ear, one hand snaking around your waist, "They're just jealous." His words provided a sort of comfort to you as you finally reached up to a place to sit down.

Great, you thought, now come the vultures.

It had been exactly two and a half hours and you had downed twenty glasses of rose champagne. The sweet bitterness of the drink ran through your veins fast, like cold winter chill.

Winter, such a pleasant season.

All the flowers would wilt and you and Jay would have the task of settling the mud down. It was beautiful to watch the snowflakes fall like a crown on his messy hair, as he worked his hands through the cold mud. Good times, you thought.

The room kept melting into nothing as the voices of your boyfriend and all the guests bored into your mind.

Wait boyfriend? No not boyfriend.

Fake boyfriend, you reminded yourself as you drowsily laid an arm on Jay.

"Jay~" you let out an involuntary giggle into his chest, "wanna go home." Jay'd arm which rested on your shoulder shuddered as he felt you sink into him. He felt warm, warmer than he had before, as he looked at you rubbing your nose against his suit.

"Im sorry gentlemen." He stood your figure up gently, keeping a protective arm round your waist, "We'll have to continue the conversation next time."

"Jayy-" your mouth drawled as you snuggled into Jay's grip. He did have a comforting grip, which you wanted to melt into as he carried you to your bed.

This was familiar, you thought, his hands tracing your body, as if he was tracing lines of art.

Familiar, too familiar.

Jay settled you down gently on the bed and wrapped the blankets around you as your eyes fell upon his dimly lit face. His lips.

"Jay." You breathed out, inching closer to him, hands gripping his collar. "My yarrow you're too drunk." Jay recoiled from you, placing his hands on top of yours to shove the grip off of his collar. But you didn't budge.

The speed at which it happened shocked Jay, your lips swiftly landing on his, bringing back drunken memories for him. Your lips still felt like his childhood couch, where he had let you drift off to sleep as he cried himself to sleep about not wanting to leave you. 'God please let our paths intertwine again', a silent prayer used to leave his tongue. Your lips still lingered with the taste of Iris and Hyssop bundled up with lilac ribbon and handed off to Mrs. Next door for school credit.

Jay's hands unknowingly made his way to the slit of your dress, squeezing your thigh hard as you moaned with not a tint of holiness into his lips.

"Jay- want you." You whined, feeling his fingers grip your skin. "So do I darling." He responded, reaching up your thigh, making sure not to commit the mistake he had made years ago.

[howfarethestars]

let all time slow (let all light go)

rating: e

word count: 2172

pairing: thor x brunnhilde | valkyrie

There is something poetic about the way starlight falls across the floor. Glistening like shards of a mirror, it reflects off the rows of liquor bottles and glass beer mugs that line the back shelves of the bar on the deepest level of the Statesman. How starlight even reaches down here would be a mystery if it weren’t for the massive windows that gape like the mouths of behemoths and swallow every ounce of light in the sky.

Brunnhilde blames the waxing nature of her thoughts on the glitter in her drink. She grabs the rims of the glass and swirls the liquid inside just to see how the light catches. It reminds her of the distant galaxies she soared through on Aragorn’s back. She’d always loved the stars. Her youngest memories were lit by constellations. Sitting atop her father’s shoulders, his large hands tracing lines through those distant dots as he told her stories of swans and bears.

At this point, she is well and truly wasted. She only thinks of her father when she’s wasted.

Thor is the same way. Only, where Brunnhilde keeps thoughts of her father locked up tight in her own head, Thor lets them spill out everywhere. Like the beer soaking into the light red fabric of his shirt, his emotions run out of his mouth and down his chest.

“…never thought he was a bad father,” Thor mumbles, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the bar. He stands behind it, mixing shitty drinks for Brunnhilde to choke down. Which she does, like a champ. “Not even when I was afraid of him.”

Brunnhilde frowns. “I am not drunk enough to hear you talk about your complicated relationship with your dad,” she says, knocking back half of her glittery cocktail. She groans. Thor is no bartender. “Plus, my relationship with your dad is way worse. I mean, way worse.”

Thor lifts his head. His cheeks are flushed. In the starlight, his skin looks blue. But not his cheeks, not his lips. Those are the inciting shade of an apple, slick with morning dew. “Sorry,” he says, and Brunnhilde knows he means it. He doesn’t say anything he doesn’t mean, not to her. “How old were you when you became a Valkyrie?”

Brunnhilde blinks at him. It takes a moment for her brain to retrieve the information. “I started training when I was 14.”

A smirk, lopsided and boyish, spreads over Thor’s face. “Train me.”

He’s pushing back off the bar and making his way around the other side of it before Brunnhilde can even process the words. The bar was once part of a larger dance club, or so they assumed, so there is a large tile floor open behind where Brunnhilde sits now. Tables and chairs, covered with tarp-like fabric, have been pushed out of the way. It’s the perfect place for a makeshift training room, she has to admit.

“C’mon, mighty Valkyrie,” Thor says. He grabs her elbow gently, turning the stool with her atop it. She’s just drunk enough that the movement makes her dizzy, so she reaches up to grab at Thor’s forearm for stability. “Woah, there.”

When the room stabilizes, Thor’s giving her a blinding grin. Brighter than the stars outside, he’s glowing. “Valkyries do not merely train,” she says, an echo of the words told to her by her captain so many years ago. She can still remember standing, shorter than every other girl that had shown up to try out, squinting through the sunlight at the woman who would become her greatest inspiration. “Your body will learn to break, your mind will learn to rebuild it. Can you handle it, your majesty?”

Somehow, this makes Thor look even more excited.

When Brunnhilde had first heard it, it had affected her just the same way.

They start off slow. Brunnhilde kicks his feet apart, forcing him into the proper stance. She grabs his wrists and brings them up, curls his fingers into fists, and takes a step back to examine her work. They’re both so beyond drunk that they’re not worth anything. He would be useless if she wanted to kill him, but she couldn’t inflict any damage if she wanted to, either.

“Good enough,” she says anyway. Thor beams. “I’m going to try to take you down. Keep your weight centered. Don’t try to take me down yet. Just keep yourself upright.”

Thor nods, and Brunnhilde rushes forward. She targets his weakest points, swinging a knee towards his kidneys. He absorbs the hit, wincing but never faltering. Just as he starts to grin, thinking he’s won, Brunnhilde drops down and swipes both his feet out from under him.

“Fuck!”

The impact of his body against the floor rattles the bottles on the bar shelves. Before he has a chance to get up, Brunnhilde swings a leg over his middle and straddles him. Her hands find the base of his throat. Not to choke him, just to remind him that she can.

“Tap out,” Brunnhilde says, not even winded. Thor gasps for breath under her. She feels his windpipe constrict under her palms. “C’mon, majesty. Get up so I can teach you how to properly—“

Thor’s hand is cupping the back of her head, and she’s staring up rather than down at him, now. Her legs are still wrapped around his middle, ass hovering off the ground. Thor’s body cages her in. He slides his hand out from beneath her hair, handling her with more care than anyone has in a long, long time.

The heavy thumping in her chest shocks her, the way it feels as though her heart is trying to burst free, trying to get to him. And oh god, are her hips lifting towards his? Is her mouth parted from shock, or to allow his tongue to slip inside?

Thor leans down, and all that erratic beating of her heart stops at once, but instead of pressing his lips to hers, he brings them to brush against her ear. “What was that, Valkyrie?”

Her body is on fire, skin alight. Alcohol dulling the senses must be a myth. She feels Thor’s barely-there touch in every corner of her body. She smells not just the booze that clings to his breath or the sweat on the back of his neck, but him. He smells like the air before a storm. He smells like anticipation.

“Thor…” she breathes, the want dripping from her voice.

He lifts his head until he’s hovering just inches above his face. For a long moment, he doesn’t speak. His eyes rake over her face. Somehow he makes even stillness sinful.

When he finally speaks, he steals the breath from her lungs. “Teach me how to properly fuck a Valkyrie.”

“Gladly,” she breathes, then tilts her chin until her lips meet his.

It’s a messy, drunken kiss, their first. But it doesn’t occur to Brunnhilde to mind, doesn’t even occur to her to note the significance of first, not yet.

They shouldn’t be doing this on the floor. If she were to put her hand down, she’d probably be touching at least 3 layers of grime and sticky residue, but Brunnhilde can’t find it in herself to be disgusted. Not when the king of Asgard’s deft fingers are sliding her pants down over her hips. Not when he’s grabbing the backs of her knees, prying them open, placing them over his shoulders.

He’s a devotee at the altar. His mouth makes a scalding path from her right knee up to her thigh. Pulsing, intoxicating heat runs through her core.

It takes every ounce of strength she has to keep from squirming away from him. She wants this, so badly it hurts, so badly that it scares her. Thor must sense it, because he leans back, dragging his hands up from behind her knees to rest on her hips. His fingertips press into her skin, just hard enough for her to feel it, for it to ground her.

The moment slows. Brunnhilde lifts her head to see the top of Thor’s, trying to memorize the sight of Asgard’s young king buried between her thighs. It’s a beautiful thing. The stars wink at her from behind his head. She reaches down and tangles her fingers in his cropped hair, dragging her nails over his scalp. Thor moans, to her delight.

Thor’s mouth finally makes contact with her core, eliciting a strangled moan of her own. Her grip on his hair tightens. It’s been a long time since anyone had gone down on her. Her hookups on Sakaar tended to be short and sweet, just good enough to take the edge off, never good enough to take the same person twice.

When Thor’s tongue moves against her, licking a fat stripe from her entrance to her swollen clit, she thinks she may be ruined. He laps at her steadily with a skilled tongue. How much experience has he had, she wonders? How many maidens had he cut his teeth on? How many court ladies came undone beneath him the same way she feels herself breaking now?

She is overtaken with the urge to ask him. As if his history is hers for the taking. She wants to understand. He moves his tongue, the stiff peak of it, in a quick circle. Who taught him that? When did he learn?

Brunnhilde writhes against the floor, wishing despite the grime that she was naked. In her drunkenness, it takes her a long moment to realize she can be. She can be, without even disturbing Thor’s so-very-important work. So she leans up, pulling her tank top over her head, exposing her tiny lace bra. It had been found in a pile of similarly useless pretty things in some closet, thoroughly washed, and given to her by a blushing Thor.

He had guessed her size.

This was always going to happen.

Thor had begun working his way under her skin from the moment she first laid eyes on him. He was always going to get this close. She was always going to put up a little fight, then let him.

It’s inevitable when his tongue pushes inside her. More than just the cliche of right, it feels as though he was always there. Just out of reach.

One of his hands abandons her hips and slides down. A long, slender finger traces the curves and lines of her lower lips. A second spreads her open, giving Thor that much more access. A groan falls from her lips.

“Is this,” Thor breathes, pausing in the middle of his sentence to wrap his lips around her clit and suck, then pull away again, “the proper way, hm? To fuck a Valkyire?”

Brunnhilde hums. “It’s one of many proper ways.”

Thor laughs against her, then continues his work. Those deft fingers slip one by one inside of her, widening to stretch her. It feels glorious. For a long while, he doesn’t move them in or out. Instead, he alternates between curling upwards and opening her up.

She hurtles towards orgasm almost embarrassingly quickly. As she feels the first build, she’s already aching for another. She wants him in every way she can get him. She craves his weight on top of her body, the sight of him beneath her, the burn of him deep inside.

Pathetic, she feels pathetic for just a moment. A visit from her sober mind. A reminder that she is unworthy of this, and that she will inevitably ruin Thor by contact, that they’re both just drunk and horny and none of it will mean anything come hangover and morning.

But then she comes, and the thoughts are banished.

For a moment. (A longer moment than usual, at least.)

When Brunnhilde comes down, she pulls her hands out of Thor’s hair. She inspects her nails, subtly, to make sure she hasn’t drawn blood. Thor presses one last kiss to her clit, then slides his fingers out of her. He brings those two fingers to his lips and licks them clean.

Brunnhilde almost melts into the metal floor.

Thor presses the palms of his hands into the stiff muscles of her thighs, massaging as he asks, “Are you okay to keep going?”

Brunnhilde leans up, pressing her lips to his. She tastes herself there, amongst the liquor and sweat. She had planned on pulling back to tell him, “Yes.”, but the longer she kisses him, the less she wants to stop. It’s enough answer as anything, though, when she slips her hand into the waistband of his pants. Thor groans against her lips when she finds his cock.

She snickers, pulls back. “Not so cocky now, are you?”

Thor meets her gaze. There’s not an ounce of amusement in his one remaining eye, only want. Then he smiles into a kiss and clutches her hips again. “I’m all yours, Val.”

Brunnhilde believes every word.

“Let’s find a bedroom, then, shall we?”

A slick grin spreads across Thor’s face. “After you.”

[seitosokusha]

using legends to reshape me, using agony to reforge me 02

It’s a beautiful day. It’s warm with sunbeams falling from the sky. A summer day. It’s odd to think that this is all technically artificial. Everything is so big, so wide, it’s sometimes hard to remember this is actually inside of a ship and the day and night cycle is controlled by computers. The sky isn't really a sky but a mimic of other worlds' skies to give the residents of the ship some measurement of time.

But there is something beautiful about it. Every sunset is different, the stars shift mirroring what is probably seen from the outside, weather randomized, from light wind to storms so fierce you don't have the desire to leave the house. It has captured the spirit of nature so well, you forget that this is technically a ship.

The wind blows, the sweet scent of grass carries. On days like this, it’s almost like being back home.

A shadow falls over him.

“Yingxing.”

Yingxing opens his eyes. The visage above him is hazy. Black hair, white clothes. He can’t make out the face but he knows, verdant green eyes are looking down at him.

“Dan Feng,” he greets.

He thinks there’s a smile. “What are you doing?” Dan Feng says.

“Enjoying an afternoon nap for once,” he says.

Dan Feng laughs, reaching down–

–and his hand goes straight through Yingxing’s chest. Spider lilies explode and-

-It’s a memory-

Ugly cracks form, shatter and break, falling to pieces and crumbling fast, like a plate colliding with the floor, dropping from the table. Thousands of shards scattering. There’s no holding back. Like a meteor shower in the sky, streaking impossibly white, burning their last bit of lifeforce.

Yingxing falls and falls and–

–Blade wakes.

read more

[cannedcum]

Phoenix can’t remember what he did. He holds his fists up, the same way his dad taught him to growing up, while his dad shakes feeling into his hand. He can’t even remember what the argument was about. His head, cloudy with pain and throbbing like a heart, spins when another blow lands on his temple and sends him to the floor. He holds his arms up- ‘protect your head, you only have one. You can stand to lose a foot, lose a finger, but protect your head’- and his dad kicks him. Boots on battered skin until he’s more bruises than freckle speckled flesh.

When he thinks it’s over, he unfurls and sits, staring blankly. Hot iron drips from the back of his throat and the fleshy insides of his lips, ripped to shreds from his braces as impact hit his mouth, gush blood. He spits it out absentmindedly.

And the silence that pierces the room feels like an ice pick.

“Did you just spit on the fucking floor?” His dad says and Phoenix tries to gear up. He tries to put all the fatherly advice into practice. But the will has been ripped out of him, leaving him a hollow suit of armor with the varnish stripped off. “Stand up.”

Phoenix blinks blood out of his vision. “I can’t.” And he’s not lying. He never lies, it’s the one thing he can flaunt, but especially not now. Lying takes energy he doesn’t have. He blinks one disgustingly swollen black eye and the other leisurely follows. He doesn’t feel the sting of tears so they must not be there. “I can’t stand up.”

“Stand up,” his dad utters, standing above him with a bottle in hand, “or you’re going to regret being born.”

He lifts his gaze to his dad’s eyes. They’re bloodshot, angry. He sees the same ones when he looks in the mirror. But at least his are honest. Unbearably honest. “I already do. And I can’t stand up.”

Wrong answer. Phoenix doesn’t think there was a right one to begin with and the bottle breaks against his face. Glass ten feet in every direction, glimmering in his bedroom lighting. His bedroom is the barebones of one, with a bed barely big enough to fit his gangly, evergrowing frame, a dresser, and a window with no curtains. The door locks from the outside. But his dad never locks him in. How would he do shit like this otherwise?

More blood. It’s as red as the hair on his head, redder even, but also dark like motor oil. He reaches up gingerly to touch his cheek, regretting it instantly as nausea fills him from head to toe—he felt bone. A hard white shard jutting from his split open face.

He can’t even remember what he did.

What this argument was about, only that he must’ve been winning it, and so his dad had to win the only way he knows how.

His step mom pounds on the door- thump, thump, thump, thump. In rapid succession. Phoenix pictures her tiny frame, bundled in a robe. He pictures tearing her head off and fingering the hole where her spinal cord sticks out. The hot red geyser squirting out of her neck drenching him, painting him shiny, redder than his hair but dark like motor oil. He lets her insides spill onto pavement like a leaking car, a shiny pink strand of entrails hanging out of her gut. He carves out the womb that birthed his half siblings, the womb that gave his dad kids he actually cares about. “Stop it! You’re scaring the kids- he’s going home tomorrow, anyway!”

Of course. She steps in when her precious babies are disturbed by the sound of Phoenix getting his ass kicked.

“Clean this shit up.” His dad spits, shaking his head, a vein in his neck jumping. “God, fuck. You’re a little shit because your mom doesn’t have it in her to do this. This is the only way you ever learn a fucking thing. You’re like a fucking dog, anything you ever learn has to be beaten into you.”

‘I was the same’ the dad Phoenix remembers says, flashing a grin, beer in hand and Phoenix’s toothpick legs dangling off the bed of his truck. The sky is utterly starless. It doesn’t matter that they can’t see anything up there, they create their own constellations in the cigarette butts and condom wrappers littering the ground, ‘I was a hellion when I was your age. It’s ‘cos you’re a free spirit. Don’t let those fuckers tear the guts out of you, Nix.’

“People don’t do shit like this to dogs.” Phoenix husks out, letting his face fall into his pale hands that are easily the size of baseball mitts. He forces out a cracked laugh. “I don’t even remember what I did. So, I must’ve not learned a fucking thing. I’m worse than a dog, then. And I bite harder too, just ask my boyfriend.”

“You-!”

“Please,” His step mom says, “baby, it’s so late. The kids need to go to sleep, you need to go to sleep, deal with him tomorrow.”

Deal with Phoenix, like he’s a chore. The same way you deal with the dishes, the trash, the laundry. The same way you put off a doctors appointment, or going to the DMV. He cocks a smile and just barely shakes his head. It’s fucked. He wants to go home. He can’t remember what he did.

“You make me sick to my fuckin’ stomach sometimes.” His dad grits out through his teeth, dark hair in his eyes. “Your mom is a saint. A fucking saint for putting up with you. And you won’t even stand up to face me, talk to me, even though you wanna act like a big man so fucking bad.”

“You tore the guts out of me.” Phoenix replies and laughs but knows his dad won’t get the joke. “It was never them. It was you.”

His dad doesn’t lock the door when he leaves.

[thesunshineriptide]

I got a suggestion for a request.

Headcanons on OB perfect?

Also can't wait for whumptober 🥺

Overblot Prefect

CW// insanity, dissociation, depersonalization, mental breakdown, physical violence, blinding, choking (implied), overblot stuff, spoilers for chapters 1-5 of twisted wonderland

I don’t think it would surprise anyone as to why the Ramshackle prefect would overblot, however I do have a lot of concepts related to them overblotting so I’m gonna list them in sort of order?

After being in virtually every overblot (at least so far, on the English server), not only is the prefect at the end of their goddamn rope, but they’re suffering the long term effects of being hit with magic over and over again

It’s not even just the overblots, either.

On the daily, they’re having magic used on them.

Some benevolent, like Trey using paint the roses to change the taste of something, and sometimes non physical, like Jamil hypnotizing them, but then there’s instances like Azul paralyzing them with a trap, or the twins spitting elemental spells at them over and over.

If energy can’t be created or destroyed, who’s to say that the prefect isn’t simply slowly becoming a ticking timebomb or magical energy?

It starts with them looking exhausted, eye bags deep.

Their hands shake when they go to reach for something.

They’re starving, eating insane amounts and they never seem satisfied.

Their walk has a stagger in their step, like every movement is painful.

More obvious things begin to show.

The way their eyes seem almost black now, their skin taking a paler, greyed out tone.

Their mood shifts, almost more alarming than Floyd’s.

One minute they’re fine, the next they’re asleep, then twenty minutes later they’re raging.

And their moments of anger in themselves are odd.

Sometimes they’ll go from totally fine to screaming at Ace for breaking one of the queen’s rules, or snipping at Deuce for messing up their potionology assignment when in reality he had simply swapped the order of steps.

The prefect becomes obsessed with their looks, to a worrying degree.

And what’s worse is that they’ve taken to lying - or at least everyone thinks it’s lying.

They claim that they were different, that they know things there’s no way that they could.

It gets to the point where most people are genuinely afraid of the prefect. Behind them lurks a darkness that they can’t comprehend, it makes people scatter.

With no magic of their own, what happens when they overblot?

It’s a glitching screen of cosplays.

They look like a shattered mirror, different parts of them looking like different parts of the overblot boys, but wrong.

Behind everything is their face, yes, but they don’t normally have fluffy lion ears or tentacles or snakes for hair.

Their hands aren’t supposed to be clawed, they aren’t supposed to have cards dripping in strands from their waist, they aren’t supposed to look so dead, so pale.

They have no phantom, as they have no magic, instead they themself are both the phantom and the wielder.

You could think of it like shards of each other’s overblot monster trapped inside of Yuu.

The magic that comes out is only the magic they’ve received, but that doesn’t make it any less dangerous.

No, they can’t collar more than one person or turn someone entirely to sand, but that doesn’t stop them from making it count.

Riddle has his own collar used against him. Without him being able to use his unique magic, it creates a terrifying moment for him.

He can’t get it off, and it’s heavy, and it’s weighing him down more than it should, forcing him to lay helplessly on the ground.

It’s Vil’s poison that blinds Jamil, forcing his eyes shut and his throat closed.

He’s close to succumbing to the fog when Azul manages to pull him away and dump water into his eyes to clear away the smoke.

What object was cursed, nobody can tell, the smoke is too thick, but Jamil is still lost.

They can’t give up. This is their own mess, taken out on one person who physically can’t control their actions.

Their mind isn’t their own, their magic isn’t their own, and it seems they don’t even know who they are.

Corrupted by them.

The stolen copy of king’s roar threatens to dry out Azul, cracking his skin painfully.

Drying out is deadly to a merman, even in human form, and Azul knows this.

He can’t help but cower away, calling for a tactical retreat

If only anyone could get away…

In terms of whether someone could win against overblot Yuu, it’s a toss up. Yuu knows everyone’s weakness, even if they don’t use it against them, but they’re also completely out of their mind. Furthermore, they have a warped copy of Azul’s signature spell and Jamil’s hypnotism that they haven’t used.

They can only use each signature spell once, so they have to make it count. But like I said, it isn’t just limited to overblot magic….

What do you guys think? How could someone win against overblot Yuu?

[laurasauras]

The baby is crying again. Again. You’re so fucking tired.

You would die for this kid already but the answer isn’t as simple as that.

You’ve fed him; you’ve changed him; you know he ain’t sick. He’s just crying. And you think you know what he wants, because you want it too—the sound of his precious voice breaking because he’s so fucking upset is digging violent talons deep into your heart and you think if you were to hold him it might all be okay.

HAA HAA HEE HEE HOO HOO

You’re revolted at yourself. You don’t want to be what Li’l Cal says you are every time you touch Dave, and you have to touch him sometimes or he’ll fucking die, so where does that leave you?

You think maybe the C-man has it wrong on this front. When you first brought Dave home you reached out and he curled his chubby little hand around your finger and it made you feel fragile and invincible all at once. You didn’t think it was dirty until Li’l Cal said so, and some rebellious shard of you insists that it isn’t bad at all.

He’s crying, dog, and you’re desperate to go and do something. Anything. Li’l Cal wants you to as well, but in a way that horrifies you. So you can’t.

You would kill for this kid in a heartbeat but cuddling him to your chest makes you want to throw up.

HAA HAA HEE HEE HOO HOO

You hug Li’l Cal instead, sheltering yourself just outside of Dave’s room (he can have everything, you’d give him anything, you’ll sleep on the couch to give him his space). You crush the soft puppet to you in a way that’d hurt anything living and it’s because you love him but it’s also because you hate him. He doesn’t care. If you aren’t going to go touch the baby, he’s bored with this whole night. Your affection towards him isn’t noteworthy anymore.

You want to cover your ears but you deserve to hear how miserable Dave is.

Harley was wrong; you can’t do this. You’re not good enough.

pose heavily referenced from AdorkaStock's library.

ao3 mirror

[p-taryn-dactyl]

Chaos is a Friend of Mine (3)

a/n: hey everyone! I'm so happy that this series has gotten so much love, I really appreciate it!! If you're seeing this and you haven't read the first two chapters they can be found here: 1 2 or masterlist, just so everyone knows, i am now in summer break so if you requested a fic and i haven't posted it yet, it will be in the span of a week! also, SUIT SUIT SUIT i wish i was good at drawing to show you what im envisioning for Y/N's suit but sadly, i have the talent of an evolved potato drawing upside down in space. i am also introducing an OC either in this part or the next so hopefully you guys will like her! taglist: @nyx-aira @musicconversedance @fantasttick @paymeinkash @beautifulbows924 @elius-learns-to-write @some-old-myths (if you are on here and you do not want to be or if i forgot to add you, plz message me) word count: 1.9k warning(s): violence; death; cursing; reader being crazy (as she should); Set makes an appearance in front of Khonshu, Layla, Marc/Steven/Jake; gif not mine; i am terrible at describing suits so i apologize if Y/N's isn't given justice - i promise it looks cool in my head; new god shows up; POV changes; this is terrible, there will be grammar mistakes disclaimer: ik he's the god of chaos and disorder but he would pull a tony stark and adopt every orphan he knows

Khonshu was the first to strike. He swung his scepter, intent on knocking you out. But all you did was raise an eyebrow as you caught the scepter before it hit your face. You tugged the staff backwards, sending the moon god flying out the window. You looked proud as you tossed the scepter back and forth in between your hands, watching with amusement as Marc summoned the suit. He reached for the daggers strapped to his chest, making you involuntarily flinch, images of your parents flashing through your mind. You growled and flicked your wrist, sending a wave of heat toward Marc’s hand. He groaned as his skin erupted into third degree burns under the suit, glaring at you under the hood. Layla closed her eyes, murmuring to herself. You knew what she was doing, summoning Taweret, but your quarrel wasn’t with her. Not at the moment at least. You placed a hand on your hip, looking Marc up and down. You smile, eyes starting to glow hellishly. 

“That’s pretty fancy, Marc-o,” You take a step back, for dramatic effect of course, flipping your hair over your shoulder, “But I can do that too.” 

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

Marc watched as Y/N’s eyes glowed, materializing her suit on her body. He tried to attack, using this moment to gain the upperhand, but his legs were wrapped in sand, hardening into glass, freezing him in his spot. Y/N turned her body, facing the mirror that had tilted to the side, leaning against the TV. She smiled as she admired her suit, turning to see every angle. Strips of linen wrapped around her body, twisting and folding into armor. Her pants formed into a palazzo style, slits running up from her ankle to hip, revealing a holster holding a khopesh made out of obsidian. The linen made a criss-cross style across her chest, stopping at her shoulders and continuing up her neck to form a mask covering her nose and mouth. Y/N rolled her head, cracking her neck, stretching out her arms as her rings melted into skeletal-like gloves. Moving tattoos of serpents appeared on her skin, some appearing to be devouring the sun. As a circlet made of gold twisted itself around her forehead and her hair became entwined with fire and blood, Y/N turned towards Marc and Layla - who had summoned her own suit. 

“Well, isn’t this fun? We look like we belong on a lunchbox!” Her eyes continued to glow as she clapped, releasing Marc and Layla from the glassy hold, sending shards across the floor. Not one to wait, Marc swung forward, flipping his body to kick her. Y/N caught his leg, just like she did the scepter, and twisted, sending the caped crusader flying into the wall. Layla growled, flying towards Y/N with superhuman speed, grabbing her shoulders, sending both of them out the window. Y/N merely sighed, snapping her fingers and dissolving into sand. Layla stopped herself before she hit the ground, confusion lasting a second before she heard Y/N’s laughter. 

“You know, you’re way more fun than your husband. When this is all over and his heart is in my hands, I’ll let you live.” Y/N hovered above her, sitting on a cloud of sand. Layla sent a flurry of daggers in her direction from the golden wings she wore. Y/N dogged them, an offended look on her face as she redirected them towards Layla. Y/N stood up, brushing off her legs as she shook her head. 

“And here I was thinking we were bonding-” before she continued, Moon Knight flew down, knocking her off her cloud, sending Y/N rolling on the concrete. The avatar of Set simply chuckled as she sat up, bones cracking as they went back into place. Layla and Marc came towards her, weapons in hand. Y/N quickly grabbed her khopesh, taking a defensive position. Soon, the ground shook with the fight. The Scarlet Scarab and Moon Knight were no match for Y/N, as they punched and kicked, she merely dogged and swung, cutting them with her sword. The heroes became discouraged, but continued. Y/N jumped on a car, bouncing off of the vehicle to propel herself to wrap her legs around Marc’s head, flipping him forward. She swung off, landing on her feet as Marc rolled and hit Layla, sending her tumbling to the ground. Y/N smiled, her mask coming off as she sighed victoriously. But her victory was short-lived. As she prowled closer, twirling her khopesh between her fingers, humming, she didn’t see the blur behind her. Y/N had discarded Khonshu’s scepter when Layla had pushed the two of them out the window, she thought he wouldn’t show again. She was wrong. Just as Y/N raised her khopesh to flick the hood off of Marc’s head, a sharp pain spread through her stomach. Layla and Marc gasped at the sight as they were sprayed with Y/N’s blood.

Y/N looked down to see Khonshu’s scepter protruding from her stomach. She made eye contact with Layla, agony crashing over her body. She fell forward as Khonshu pulled backward, removing his scepter. Marc and Layla scrambled to the side, her body crashing against the ground. Steven fronted, Mr. Knight’s suit materializing. He knelt by Y/N’s head as Khonshu rolled her on her back. He examined her tattoos, eyes widening in realization. 

“Holy smokes. It’s Apophis, the chaos demon. Why would she-” Khonshu’s booming voice interrupted him. 

“It does not matter. Her markings will be gone once I kill her.” He raised his scepter, examining Y/N’s broken nose from falling face first, the blood spilling out her nose and mouth from being stabbed, and her bruises from fighting the other avatars. He laughed. 

“Oh how the mighty fall.”

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

You could do nothing but watch as Khonshu thrust the scepter back into your stomach, this time closer to your heart. You screamed in pain, your suit disappearing as you could focus no longer. 

“Khonshu!” Layla cried out in surprise, aghast at his actions. The moon god merely twisted the scepter, making your voice hoarse with how loud you cried. You watched as red spreaded through your clothes. Too much red. Why were you plagued with red? 

“Please,” you begged out, your confidence lost as you felt your life slipping away, “please stop. Stop, please. I’ll stop, I’ll be good, I promise.” You sobbed, each cry bringing new pain as the god continued to twist the scepter. 

“You’ve made your point,” Steven pleaded, “You stop now! This isn’t vengeance!” 

“She deserves it. She’s the reason Harrow turned to Ammit. She’s the reason for all your pain!” he raised his scepter once more, positioning it over your heart. Just as you were about to feel the last bit of life, a loud clap of thunder sent Khonshu flying backwards. The ground shook, cracking, splitting apart. Sand formed into a giant serpent circling the group, its growls sending shivers down Steven’s spine. Khonshu groaned, shaking his head as he stood back up. He looked around, realization sparking in his mind. His scepter was taken from his hand, floating above the ground until it flung towards him, stabbing the god in his stomach. Steven gasped loudly as Set materialized next to you, cupping your face with his hand. 

“You’re going to be alright, my child.” 

He looked at Steven and Layla, analyzing the two. His eyes made of burning fire showed them their worst fears, sending chills down their spines. They watched as his face went from human, to the head of a jackal, to the skull of a donkey with enlarged fangs. He seemingly deemed them unworthy of his attention, standing up to his full height. Set’s voice carried across the air, shaking the ground. 

“You shouldn’t have made an enemy of chaos, Khonshu. You had been protected for years, only facing the wrath of an angry, scorned, orphan. Now you face the wrath of evil itself!” Khonshu made to attack, having removed his scepter from his body, but was flung to the side by the tail of the giant sand serpent. You coughed, blood dripping from your lips. 

“Why isn’t she healing?” Steven murmured frantically, shaking his head. Set turned to him, his human face snarling at the man. 

“It’s a little gift from the gods. She can only heal if her injuries are sustained from an avatar or mortal. If a god hurts her,” his voice choked up, causing both Layla and Steven to be confused. They had never seen a god show true emotion towards another before. (Taweret is the exception, she’s the best). Set composed himself, glaring at Khonshu. 

“If a god hurts her, only a god can heal her.” Steven looked at Set inquisitively. 

“Then why don’t you heal her?” 

Set growled, turning so his back faced the avatars, kneeling next to you. 

“I am not the god of medicine or healing. I am the god of chaos, disorder, and storms. All I can do is watch as my daugh- my avatar bleeds to death by the hands of who used to be a brother.” He cradled you in his arms, standing up. Sand swirled around them, pushing Steven, Layla, and Khonshu closer together. The serpent rose into the air. Set turned towards Steven, something shining in his eyes. 

“Do not mistake my grief for friendship, Mr. Knight. Next time we meet, you will have the full force of chaos against you.” The god disappeared, along with you. The serpent crashed down onto the trio, its jaws surrounding them before dissolving. Jake fronted as Layla turned towards Khonshu, anger radiating from her. 

“Eso fue divertido.” He said sarcastically as he glared at the moon god. Layla pressed a dagger under Khonshu’s chin. She cocked her head to the side. 

“I think it’s time you told us why Y/N is so focused on killing you.”

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

Set materialized on a deserted road, panic seeping into his form as he noticed how limp you had gone. He frantically set you on the ground, holding your head in his lap.  When he looked in the distance, he saw a figure kneeling under a tree, a ghostly river flowing next to her. She had food and drink by her side, a feast for the dead. She beckoned Set closer, but the god of chaos shook his head, returning his gaze back to you. 

“No, no, Y/N, I will not allow you to die! You can’t, you can’t leave me alone.” Your eyes fluttered open, smiling as you saw Set. 

“Hiya,” you coughed out, “That didn’t go so well did it?” Set laughed, relief filling his body. As he was about to respond, a new voice broke through the air. 

“Oh good she’s alive. I’m a goddess of healing, not necromancy.” Set flung around to see a human woman, dark skin glowing in the sunlight, her hair twisted into bantu knots. Her lips, painted red, smirked at Set’s expression of disbelief. The woman gasped softly as her eyes glowed, releasing her from the goddesses consciousness. A figure appeared behind the mortal, a tall woman wearing a red cloak with the face of a lioness. The mortal woman crouched next to you, smiling as she took your hand. Your brow scrunched in confusion and you looked to Set for clarification. The lioness smiled, raising an eyebrow. 

“What? You thought you were the only one freed from a stone prison?” Set chuckled, shaking his head. 

“Long time no see, Sekhmet.”

a/n: ok guys i need your help for villain names for Y/N. also, if you don't know who Sekhmet is she is an egyptian goddess of war, fire, healing, and the destroyer of enemies of Ra. also that lady under the tree was Amenet, a goddess who welcomed the dead to the afterlife with food and drink. i am so sorry if this was bad, i hope people are still interested in this series!! love you guys! <3

[jimblejamblewritings]

yes, i’m a squib | part 33.

Summary: Y/N Black has always been a squib, to the dismay of her pureblood family. Cast out to the orphanage at a young age, she thought that was her life. Until her relative Sirius Black breaks out of Azkaban. Suddenly a letter to Hogwarts in thrusted into her hand and Y/N becomes a true part of the magical Wizarding World.

Warnings for the Series: violence, death, light smut, angst, fluff

Pairing: harry potter x black!reader, cedric diggory x black!reader

Word Count: 5.2k

Previous Part | (Series Masterlist)

Your Year at Hogwarts:

You didn’t go to the first dinner of the year. You didn’t want to see any more Death Eaters or any students in fear. The first thing you noticed was the sword of Gryffindor wasn’t in the office. You suspected that Snape or the Ministry took it. Probably Snape since the sword belonged to Hogwarts which meant it was in his new office. It also meant he had already thought about the fact that you were going to send Kreacher to give it to Harry. Instead, Kreacher left Dumbledore’s office— you still had to get used to calling it yours— to find your friends and give them all the password to the office. Ginny was the first to make use of it. She told you that everyone at the Burrow was fine. Surprisingly, Mr. Weasley still had a job at the Ministry. But the Weasley family was on thin ice. They were labelled blood traitors and all blood traitor families were being monitored a little more.

When Ginny left, you retreated to the bedroom chamber. It was decorated like your Hufflepuff prefect room. You were positive that Professor Sprout did it. You hung up your dad’s old mirror on the back of the door. Hopefully, Harry would pull out the missing shard so you could at least see his face once or twice.

~~

Kreacher appeared on your bed, causing you to jump. He was holding the fake galleon that you had given to him after fifth year ended. It was glowing a bit and warm to the touch when you took it out of Kreacher’s hand. The coins hadn’t been used for an entire year. You slowly made your way through the halls until you reached the Room of Requirement. Ginny was at the front of the room when you got there— the familiar crowd of faces looked at her.

“We need to restart Dumbledore’s Army,” she said with determination.

~~

Cedric’s owl arrived with a letter. You didn’t have one yet to return so you sent the little bird away. You two had been keeping in contact since the wedding. Two years out of each other’s lives seemed two years long enough. On some level, the letters weren’t completely innocent. You two were writing to make sure the other was still alive, that you hadn’t been taken by Death Eaters. Sometimes the letters would simply say: I ate breakfast, I’m still okay. Every letter was dated and you rarely went more than three days without sending one.

~~

“This is the third time this week,” you said as you directed Neville to sit on the table in the greenhouse.

“Well when they stop torturing third years, then I’ll stop fighting back.”

You dabbed a thick paste-like version of wiggenweld potion around Neville’s black eye. The Carrows were some of the worst professors ever. In Dark Arts, because Defense Against the Dark Arts didn’t exist, Amycus thought proper punishment was students performing the Cruciatus Curse on those that misbehaved. Neville always refused, even picking fights with them. He had started coming into the greenhouse battered and bruised. He winced as you applied the paste.

“Try to get beat up a little less. You’re using more wiggenweld paste than I can make at a time.”

“No promises but I’ll try. Is it true about you and Harry? Slytherins have been having a field day with that.”

You shook your head. “I thought it would be safer if they think that I have no ties to Harry. I probably shouldn’t have made him look like a banshee hater, I didn’t think they’d spread the rumor around.”

“I don’t think anyone believes the last bit even if they think you’re not together. Not anyone that matters.”

“Alright. You look like crap but I think you’ll live, Mr. Longbottom.”

He chuckled and jumped down from the table. “Thanks for the patch up, again.”  

~~

“You own this place?” a voice asked as you put the key in the door to your store.

“I have for the past three years.”

You almost dropped the package from the post office when you turned to see the face that belonged to the voice. The man in front of you looked like the spitting image of your late Headmaster. He tried to smooth out his beard.

“You’re the banshee right? You saw my brother die?”

“Your brot— Aberforth Dumbledore?”

You had read his name a few times in the biography of Dumbledore that Rita Skeeter had published. They could be mistaken for twins, Aberforth and Albus. Aberforth offered a drink in his pub and you realized he was your next door neighbor with the shady pub that allowed you to buy your store for so cheap. The pub— Hog’s Head— was dingy. You thanked Aberforth for the cup of firewhiskey and sat at one of the small round tables. Literally no one else was in there and you wondered if he ever got enough customers to make money. Aberforth was curious about the truth. You told him exactly what happened that night— still protecting your cousin and not mentioning his name just that it was a student you knew.

“Come by if you ever need help. I didn’t talk to my brother but I’ve heard a lot about you. Your house-elf came by here.”

“Kreacher in a pub?”

“He was with another one, Dobby, I think? They were looking for Mundungus Fletcher.”

“Oh, yes, that’s a long story… maybe I can come by and tell you next time?”

“That would be nice.”  

~~

You began playing with the trinkets in Dumbledore’s office. You still weren’t sure if there was any reason he wanted you to have it but you were having a ball looking around. Dumbledore’s office was weird and you liked it. You stumbled across the Pensieve that Harry had told you about. Your fingers grazed across all the silver vials. Picking up one was tempting. But would it be right to look into a dead man’s memories? At the same time, maybe that’s what Dumbledore wanted? You set the vial back before and walked away from the Pensieve.

~~

“Professor?” you heard a small voice at the door of your Alchemy classroom.

You looked up and immediately sprang into action. One of the second years, a Slytherin, was standing at your door and rubbing their wrists. They were practically raw. You rushed them to sit down on the couches at the front. You didn’t even need to wait for a potion to brew. Ever since Neville kept getting hurt along with others, you started making and storing healing potions of all sorts just as a precaution.

“How did this happen? Olivia?” You asked as you began rubbing the potion as gently as possible on her wrists.

“I disagreed with keeping out muggleborns and some older students heard.”

“They can’t— I’ll speak to someone, I promise.”

“I’m scared to go to class,” she whispered.

“You can stay in here whenever that happens. I’ll start bringing my cat to the classroom. Would that make you feel better?”  

~~

You finished getting dressed and began to look at your reflection in the mirror. You finished applying face cream when you caught a glimpse of a green eye. You smiled and gave a wave. The green eye in the corner turned into part of a smiling mouth. The shard meant that Harry could only show parts of his face at a time. He mouthed the words ‘hi’ and ‘I love you’. You mouthed them back. You couldn’t talk to him— both of you thought it was too risky. But seeing him, even just part of him, was reassuring.

~~

“And this is our symbol for the Philosopher’s Stone.” You finished drawing it on the board for your first years. “It’s important you understand the parts that make the symbol whole. When it’s time for your own projects, you will be creating symbols of your own. Yes, Mr. Mulstrode?”

“What’s the symbol for your project, salt into gold?”

You set the chalk down. “Students, listen carefully. Do as your professor says and not as she does.”

They all chuckled. You promised that you would come up with a symbol and give it to them before the first semester was over. You were about to call on another student when Amycus came in. He told your students— who he called brats— that class was over for the day. They all looked at you.

“It’s alright, we’ll pick up tomorrow. No reading tonight.”

The first years scrambled out of the room. Amycus watched you with beady eyes as you put the floating chalk back in the cage. You were careful not to let your grip slip. While everyone knew that you were a squib, you felt that flaunting it would be a bad idea.

“We’re learning about banshees in Dark Arts and I was suddenly reminded that we have one here.”

You didn’t protest but followed him to his classroom where a bunch of seventh years— your friends— were. With a scary gentleness, Amycus motioned for you to sit in a chair in front of the class. His lesson on banshees was nothing but how to use them for evil. You sat still, not even looking at the board, as he began to practically salivate at how dark banshees could be.

“We control a banshee by connecting with them using the Cruciatus Curse,” Amycus started. “This little one belongs to the Dark Lord but you can still practice a bit. You all get only a few seconds, any longer and we risk breaking the Dark Lord’s connection. Longbottom! You can go first.”

Neville shook his head. “I’m not doing it.”

Amycus shoved his wand in Neville’s chest. “Another black eye, Longbottom?”

“Neville,” you squeaked.

“It’s torture. I won’t.”

“You have detention, Longbottom. Meanwhile, I’ll gladly take your turn. Crucio!”

Everyone held their ears as you screamed. You drew your knees to your chest. One by one students went. Hesitation was met with detentions which just meant they would get punished. Most of your friends refused and took punishment. You almost wanted to laugh at them being noble because they only earned themselves punishment but didn’t stop the lesson. Amycus took their turn every time they refused. You weren’t sure if it was better or worse to have short attacks of the Cruciatus Curse.

Somewhere between the start of the lesson and the end of it, you had ended up on the floor. You didn’t hear Amycus end his lesson. Your head was hidden by your knees and you had covered your ears with your hands. Tears were streaming down your face as you tried to not end up visualizing the graveyard. You screamed when a hand touched you, fighting as it grabbed your wrists. You looked up and stopped when you saw your cousin.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, they weren’t supposed to touch you at all. That was the deal promised, no one was supposed to hurt you.”

“Did you d—”

“No. I’d never even think about using the curse on you.” Draco pulled you into a hug. “Let’s go before Carrow comes back.”

He helped you up and out of the classroom. Draco took you towards the Slytherin common room. He moved past the entrance for the common room and kept going until he reached a door for the Head of House. He didn’t let up in his knocking until the door opened. You tensed up at seeing Snape standing there.

“No, no, Draco. Please. He’ll do the same, please, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, please. No more curse,” you begged and apologized for nothing, remembering last year’s lessons with Snape.

“Carrow crucio’d her. He had the whole class practice as part of the lesson on banshees.”

Snape looked horrified as you clutched at your cousin’s cloak. You cried more and protested as Draco got you inside. He grabbed you by the shoulders.

“No more, no more curses,” you sniffled. “Please, no more. Everything hurts.”

Draco hugged you again, cradling the back of your head. “Professor Snape won’t hurt you. I won’t let him, he’s not here to hurt you.”

You calmed down enough to let him lead you inside Snape’s office. You were sat down on a chair and felt Draco’s cloak being wrapped around you. Snape assured you that he would talk to Amycus but you didn’t really hear him. Draco knelt in front of the chair and grabbed your hand until you eventually looked at him.

“I’ll be right back, okay? I’m going to get your bag from the class and then come right back, I promise.”

You looked up at Snape’s desk. Draco squeezed your hand.

“He won’t hurt you.”

“No more curse?” you whispered.

“No curse,” Draco said with assurance. “I’ll be right back.”

Snape watched you stay curled up on the chair. You hadn’t moved once since Draco left. Your eyes were stuck staring at the same spot on the floor as if you were trying not to disturb Snape’s presence and have him remember you were there. You jumped when he called your name.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

You shook your head. Draco came back with your bag in his hand. You weren’t in a position to move yet. Snape knew he had to set Carrow straight, reminding the Death Eater that a banshee couldn’t perform for Voldemort if you were too scared. It was clear from Draco and Snape’s perspective that one more Cruciatus Curse and you would probably be just like Frank and Alice Longbottom. Your hands covered your ears again. Draco swallowed uncomfortably as he watched your hands shake.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Draco knelt down in front of you again. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

You shook your head and rocked slightly in the chair. “Let Harry have the banshee power, I’m sorry. Is that why I got hurt? I’m sorry, tell Voldemort I’m sorry. I won’t do it again, just no more crucio please.”

Snape stood up from his desk. Your eyes went wide and you shook even harder. He placed a hand on Draco’s shoulder to refrain from trying to give you a comforting hand in worry that it might set you off. Snape waited for you to look him in the eye.

“Don’t ever apologize for that again and don’t you dare let anyone hear what you just said. Draco, watch her until she’s better.”

Your cousin nodded. You slowly unfurled your legs and let him help you up after a bit of prodding.

“It’s Thursday,” Draco said. “Do you want tea?”

“Yes, please,” you murmured.      

~~

Your heart sped up when you heard Remus’ voice on the radio that sat on top of the desk in your office. Cedric had written about a new news station called Potterwatch. You had heard a few students talking about it. You could easily identify everyone speaking: Remus, Fred, George, Lee Jordan, Kingsley Shacklebot. It became one of the few news outlets telling the truth. You found yourself listening to it whenever you could. You even played it in your Alchemy classroom, practically daring students to snitch on you to Snape. No one ever did.

~~

Your class became one of the few classes of reprieve for students that didn’t agree with blood purity. Especially the younger first and second years. You, Professor Sprout, Flitwick, McGonagall, and Slughorn tried your absolute hardest to make Hogwarts feel like it used to. You noticed more students had taken Hagrid’s class than in the past. He was also one of the only reminders of old Hogwarts left.

The kids didn’t complain about the readings you gave out. They actually came with questions and were ready to debate each other. They especially enjoyed when Padfoot chose one of their laps to take his daily naps on. Despite the darkness of Hogwarts, the Alchemy classroom was a bright spot. Kids were even encouraged to openly read The Quibbler and condemn the Daily Prophet. Potterwatch was always on. More students spent their free time in the classroom— although sometimes it was just to escape the horrors of the castle, not because they believed Harry over the Prophet. No one ever snitched. It was an unspoken agreement, even if they argued with each other, that nothing left the Alchemy classroom.  

~~

Cedric wrote that he was, in fact, officially out of a job. It was a good run and he had made a name for himself as a stellar seeker. But quidditch was basically gone. The Ministry assured that it would be back but the new order to the wizarding world had to be stable first. He sent his quidditch jumper that he signed. You laughed reading the note that you could sell it one day for a lot of money. You wrote him back saying that you didn’t think money was an issue but you appreciated the new, warm jumper to add to your collection.

You dropped his letter in the little pile that you had in a dresser drawer. It made you pleased to see so many. It meant that Cedric was still alive. He was a pureblood but enough people knew about his feelings towards blood purity. It didn’t help that you were his first and most public girlfriend. The banshee part of you seemed to win out over the fact that you were from the most prestigious pureblood family. Cedric’s stance and his previous relationship with you could mark him a blood traitor. Snatchers had begun taking muggleborns and blood traitors to the Ministry to answer for possible crimes and punishments. Blood traitors were fifty-fifty, like how the Weasleys got let go and went into hiding. Muggleborns were always found guilty of some crime and punished.

You knew plenty of muggle students that fled Britain completely with their parents. It was one thing if they were caught, they’d be thrown in prison because the Ministry still felt a type of way about spilling wizard blood. But their muggle parents would be killed without question. Some of your students that were half-bloods wrote you last notes on their essays saying that they were fleeing to a country that offered refuge and wouldn’t be back after Christmas break.  

~~

Christmas held no joy. You took the longest route possible to get to Andromeda’s house. You didn’t want to risk a Death Eater following you. Especially not when you were the Secret Keeper of the house. Tonks was visibly pregnant at this point. You gave her a hug before following her inside. The guest room was nice and simple. Padfoot immediately curled up on the bed to sleep.

Dinner was surprisingly nice. It was the most relaxed any of you had been. The entire family was safe and in one place. You lied about Hogwarts when they asked questions. If Remus knew what Amycus had done, he would find a way to keep you at their house. So you only answered about the students. Remus eyed you with scrutiny.

“What?” you asked.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you without something of Sirius’ on.”

“I do own my own clothes.”

“If it’s a dress or skirt. Your dad contributed to the rest of your closet.”

“Keep talking Uncle Remus and I’ll steal your ratty cardigans.”

Tonks couldn’t help but laugh as Remus couldn’t decide whether to be amused or offended.

“I will not name you as our baby’s godmother if you keep making fun of me.”

“I’m already the baby’s sister, I heard you when you threatened Harry.”

“Heard what?” Tonks asked.

Remus blushed as you repeated his statement. She hit him in the shoulder with a proud smile.

“So I was right,” Tonks said. “You are an excellent father.”

“Well, we want you to be godmother,” Remus continued, trying to ignore the compliment. “We were thinking of making Harry godfather but we weren’t sure if you two would feel like that was us just doing that because you were together. It’s not, I just— James was always supposed to be my kid’s godfather.”

“I don’t mind. I don’t think Harry will think anything of it, either… I want the baby to call me Sisi (Y/N),” you said as you took another bite of food.

“What? Sissy?”

“Sisi. CC. Like sister but cuter. I don’t want to be Aunt (Y/N) even if you make me godmother.”

“You call me Uncle Remus.”

“Because you never chose a different name. And Tonks is my cousin but technically my godmother and I never know what to call her. I’m not confusing the baby.”

Tonks pointed her fork at you. “What if you call me TT? Auntie Tonks, TT.”

Remus sighed. “Is this what we’re doing now? Matching nicknames?”

Tonks smiled. “You’re just upset you can’t be called something cute, Moony.”  

He gave you both a look like you two were mental. Andromeda offered her own nickname of ‘TT Meda’ at Remus’ expense. He drank his butterbeer and complained about being the only man in the house which just made you all laugh even more. You jumped when you heard a lightning strike with a flash of thunder. Andromeda stopped laughing to look at you.

“Harry’s in trouble.”

“I thought you said he wouldn’t use the connection or your powers,” Remus said with an edge in his voice.

“He’s not or not intentionally, I don’t see anything. But I can hear it, he’s in real trouble. Near death.”

Tonks wrapped an arm around you. “There’s nothing you can do to help, try not to focus on it before you stress yourself out.”

“Are you giving me your pregnancy advice? Isn’t that what the healers say?”

She laughed. “It’s good advice for everyone.”

~~

The next DA meeting was somber. Luna never returned from the break. First Hagrid on the run and now Luna. You all knew she had been kidnapped by Snatchers or Death Eaters. The thing is The Quibbler was still being published so you couldn’t figure out what they possibly took her for. Ginny came in, throwing The Quibbler’s latest print down on the floor. You all looked to see Harry’s face on the front. Only instead of saying how he was a hero, it labelled him Undesirable No.1 just like the Daily Prophet. It was clear. Luna was taken for Mr. Lovegood’s previous publishings. The Quibbler had been taken over just like every other newspaper. Potterwatch seemed to be the only news outlet that said the truth. It would stay that way as long as they didn’t get found.

~~

After the incident in Snape’s office, you no longer felt a way about peering into Dumbledore’s old memories. Any and every bit of memory on Snape was poured into the Pensieve and you watched them all play out. You pulled yourself away quickly after hearing Dumbledore’s request. How could he have asked Snape to kill him? How was him being gone supposed to help you stop Voldemort? You had more questions than answers but you knew one thing now. Snape never turned you in because he was still working for Dumbledore— you hoped.

You didn’t have a choice but to put your faith in that because you looked into a memory labelled sword. Dumbledore leaving you his office made sense now. You were supposed to try and fill in as many gaps as possible. He couldn’t outright give Harry the sword so he hid it. Someone would have to retrieve it and he had to make sure it was someone who would be able to do so rather easily. You moved the portrait of Dumbledore out of the way to see the hole behind it just like in his memories. The sword was there, glittering even though there was no light shining on it. You took it, hiding it in your robe and ran to Snape’s office. He barely looked up as you bursted in and then locked his office door.

“Ms. Black?”

“I know the truth,” you said.

“I don’t kno— where did you get that?” he asked as you brandished the sword of Gryffindor.

“Can you get this to Harry?”

“The sword has to be retrieved through an act of bravery, that’s how its magic works.”

“But can you get this to him?”

“If I knew where he was.”

You took a deep breath. If Harry caught you in the mirror and they had moved, he would mouth where they were so you knew. You had caught him in the morning a few days ago after coming back to Hogwarts. You were taking a big risk if you were wrong. But you had no magic and Snape was the only person you knew that wasn’t being monitored by Death Eaters. Maybe Aberforth but you didn’t think you could sneak the sword out of the castle. Even if Kreacher had taken it, you would have to walk out the castle doors and surely they’d follow you and see the sword. You just had to hope Dumbledore’s memories rang true and that Snape was on your side even a little bit.  

“The Forest of Dean,” you said.

~~

After all the potential sightings of Harry, you weren’t allowed to go back to Remus and Tonks. Voldemort wanted you either at Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, or Malfoy Manor. You were more scared at the fact that whenever he came around, you weren’t yelled at but treated like one of his prized Death Eaters. Lucius and Bellatrix tended to act like you didn’t exist which you preferred. The only time they talked was to remind you that you weren’t allowed to go to the dungeon. They would never trust you to not let out the people down there— you never even saw who was kept there. Draco didn’t leave your side the entire Easter holiday break. With his help, you were able to visit Tonks shortly after she gave birth. You and Draco weren’t there long— only two hours before the family got suspicious. But it was two precious hours that you got to hold little Teddy Lupin.

“I’m proud of you, Uncle Remus. You two are going to be great parents to Teddy. I can vouch for that.”

Lupin pulled you into a hug before you had to go. You and Draco got back without anyone thinking anything of it. The two of you were away from the family for most of the break. Narcissa occasionally showed her face but you and Draco were left alone usually. You still had Thursday tea in Draco’s room. Except it wasn’t on Thursdays. It was every time Snatchers dropped off a new batch of people to Malfoy Manor where they stayed before being transferred to the Ministry. The minute new people were dropped off, Draco would usher you to his room before Bellatrix could start performing the Cruciatus Curse on people. He watched how you always curled up in the chair and just clutched the teacup as Bellatrix did it. You dropped the cup when she screamed the curse particularly loud, the porcelain shattering. Draco immediately got up from his chair to kneel in front of you.

“She did that to me,” you whispered.

“I know.” Draco wasn’t sure what else to say.

“She killed my dad.”

Draco pulled you off the chair and into a hug. You started crying as you remembered the Department of Mysteries. Bellatrix would always scare you. Her enjoyment of torture only made it worse because you knew she felt no remorse.

“You won’t hurt me, right?” you asked quietly.

“Never. Family doesn’t do that to each other.”

“She did.”

“She’s not real family,” Draco said with grit in his voice. “You and Mother are family. Lupin and Tonks, too. That’s our family.”

“And my dad.”

“Yeah,” your cousin chuckled sadly. “Uncle Sirius was the best family.”

Narcissa entered the room, saying that you and Draco’s presence was requested. You gasped when you saw Hermione and Ron in the Snatchers’ arms. They were with another man whose face was so puffy and weird looking that you knew it had to be Harry and Hermione probably did some quick thinking. Bellatrix grabbed Harry by his hair and pulled him towards you. She pointed her wand at you causing Draco to step in front a bit.

“Aunt Bellatrix, it’s not necessary. (Y/N) knows what side she is on.”

She muttered alright before her voice turned into the sickly sweet tone she only used with her nephew and sister.

“It’s not him,” Draco said.

“Are you sure?” Lucius asked.

“Potter’s face isn’t this disgusting.”

Bellatrix didn’t seem convinced. She thought Draco needed time and there must have been something wrong with Harry’s face. They threw Ron and Harry in the dungeon. You tried to step up to Hermione who was kept upstairs after the Snatchers pulled the sword of Gryffindor from her bag. Draco held your wrist tightly, reminding you that you had a part to play or risk dying. You squeezed your eyes shut at Hermione’s screaming. Bellatrix wasted no time as she chose to start carving mudblood into your friend’s arm instead of just torturing her with a curse. You only felt relief at not feeling a chill or smelling anything weird. Hermione might be hurt but there were no plans to kill her.

Chaos erupted around you when Harry— with a fixed face— and Ron were suddenly out of the dungeon. They threw spells at each other until Bellatrix grabbed Hermione. You held your breath as the chill came. There wasn’t enough time to grab Hermione. Not with a knife to her throat. Ron and Harry dropped their wands like Bellatrix demanded. You were about to plead with your aunt when you all heard the squeaking of metal on metal. Everyone’s attention slowly looked up to see Dobby attempting to unscrew the chandelier. You smiled— that was how Ron and Harry got out. Elf magic always bent the rules to serve their masters. Bellatrix screamed as she pushed Hermione away and towards Ron so she could avoid being hit by the falling light fixture. You wanted to run to Harry as Dobby apparated them away but you knew it wasn’t possible. You gasped as you heard the whisper of Dobby’s name, watching your aunt’s knife fly through the air and suddenly disappear with your friends.

~~~  

You were in your store when a badger patronus appeared in front of you. You dropped the packet of seeds you were holding and immediately locked the store door— the blinds had been closed since Voldemort took over. The Invisibility Cloak was dropped to reveal your friends. You hugged Ron and Hermione before almost tackling Harry. You pulled away from him before your lips crashed against each other. Harry’s hands cupped your face as he deepened the kiss.

“Are you okay? The Prophet published about Gringotts and I thought—”

“We’re fine. Only two horcruxes left and it’s over.”

“But why are you here?”

“One is at Hogwarts.”

“Okay. And the other?”

Ron spoke up. “The snake.”

Your jaw dropped. Getting to Nagini wasn’t going to happen easily. You weren’t sure if it could happen at all. Harry turned your head back to him.

“We need a way to get into Hogwarts.”

“Aberforth! Put the cloak back on, it’s right next door.”

(Part 34)...

[the-broken-truth]

Broken-Style Remix: Yandere Mother Talia Al Ghul

Broken: When it comes to Yandere Mothers, Talia Al Ghul is one of my favorites; considering how obsessed she is with her baby daddy. Recently, I came into a Yandere Talia Al Ghul Image made by @anxiousnerdwritings & with their permission, I have been allowed to make this Broken-Style Remix! Now, let the words weave together!!!

@anxiousnerdwritings's version: LINK

SUBTITLE: THE ONE YOU THREW AWAY

Talia Al Ghul wanted things thing and would do anything to obtain those things - Complete Control & Undeniable Power. She was the daughter of Ra's Al Ghul - The Head Demon of the League of Assassin & Immortal Mad-Man, well...not anymore; now Talia was on the Throne as Head of the League of Assassins, but there was a time before everything went to hell. Talia always wanted to have power but she also wanted someone to share it with - that came in the form of the Protector of Gotham - The Masked Savior, Batman. Talia was entranced by his power and skill, he would have been a perfect partner to rule with if he wasn't so hesitant to kill but she could sculpt him to fit her mold one way or another but first she needed to get him on her side. Her father thought of him as the perfect heir but there was no way the protector would join him, so Talia planned and that plan was to give herself and Bruce an heir - the perfect combination of the two of them. However, a wrench was thrown into that plan when inside of one - there were two.

A Son & A Daughter.

A Son that mirrored his father in young as he would in adulthood, with the exception of the emerald eyes that Talia possessed - the eyes of an Al Ghul. He was given the name Damian.

Her daughter was another story: she grew to look just as Talia did in her youth but she had her father's calm blue eyes - the eyes of a protector. The eyes of a Wayne. The eyes of a savior, not a killer - she was flawed with those eyes. She was named Bellatrix - just as her father, she would be expected to be a great warrior.

When it was time to hone their skills, it was clear that they were the perfect combination of the Al Ghul and Wayne Genes - Damian more. He was the perfect killer, merciless and quick; he wouldn't give his enemies time to speak. No, enemies were too kind of a word to describe them - they were his prey while he was the hunter. He didn't care how many he had to cut down; he would never tire until all of them were dead at his feet.

Bellatrix - on the other hand - was a different story. It was clear she had the skills, it was obvious that she had the power, but the main issue was that she wouldn't finish the job; she lacked the most important trait of the Al Ghul Bloodline - she refused to kill. Talia feared this - she was just like her father and she didn't want weakness into the pain; especially since she was the eldest of the two. She either had to fix the problem or completely remove it.

And she would much prefer the latter.

Ra's loved his grandchildren all the same - he didn't care of Bellatrix didn't kill, he was pleased enough that she was able to complete impossible tasks alone and come back unscabbed. He would praise her and he would train with her in his free time - the two of them were fond of meditation to keep themselves centered.

"Remember Granddaughter: If you are completely centered then there is nothing you can't overcome. Knowing your center is knowing your true power." - That is what Ra's would tell her during those times.

As time passed on, Talia noticed that Bellatrix gained in power and knowledge every day while her son showed just how much of an Al Ghul he was every time he went on a mission, but that didn't matter to Talia - that girl...that mistake...was a single dot in the way of her son's rightful place as Head of The League & she had to something about it.

And she did.

One night - Talia told Bellatrix to accompany her to the desert for recon and the girl agreed, thinking it was going to be a mother-daughter experience. The two of them sourced their bounds but found nothing, Bellatrix looked around the dunes to see if there was something hiding in the desert's darkness until her body made her move and she dodged just in the next of time as a blade came in close contact with her throat. She reached for her sword, only for her hand to be grabbed, and turned it to her back. She was then grabbed from other directions before being kicked in the back of her knees and came to her knees in the sand. She struggled and looked at the cloaked figures that held her until she looked at her mother.

"Mother! Help!" She begged for her mother.

"Why would I do that," Talia walked over to her bound daughter as one of the assassins handed her a sword, "When it took me so long to get you here?" Talia looked into her daughter's eyes with emptiness.

"You...You planned this? Mother, why would you do this?" Bellatrix asked.

"This is something I should have done from the start, after all - My Beloved needs an heir, not a burden. You are a stain on the Al Ghul Name, an Al Ghul that refuses to kill is not an Al Ghul; hell, you aren't even an assassin. You're a defect, a flaw, a wrench in my plan to have my beloved rule behind me as King and Queen of the League of Assassins."

Bellatrix's eyes widened at the sight of her mother raising her sword.

"And all defects must be eliminated." Talia growled as her arm thrust forward - Bellatrix's eyes widened and her jaw locked to keep herself from screaming as the blade ripped through her chest and came out on the other side.

Talia lifted her foot - the other assassins released the girl - and kicked her to the dirt and watched her groan in pain before going limp in the cold desert night.

"Dispose of the body. I have to deliver the news that the heir has been killed and watch my one true child take his rightful place." Talia didn't give her daughter's body a second glance as she turned and walked away to her jet that was waiting for her.

She should have checked her vitals.

[Timeskip - Years Later]

Years had gone by but Talia still thinks back to the night she stuck her sword through her daughter's body and left her for dead; she was so certain that was what she wanted by there was something missing and for once in her life, it had nothing to do with her Beloved Bat. She tried to put those thoughts aside for she was on a mission.

After the death of her father, she found some research on a mind-control agent that she could use to have the one she wanted most but the League was too thin and most were doing other tasks while some were rebuilding the complex, thus the Head of the Demon Clan had to deal with it on her own, which she was fine with.

However, something felt different - she wasn't sure what it was...but she knew something was going to happen tonight.

Talia did what she had to do and secured to the agent before making her way back to the roof - only to have two people walking for her.

One was a tall man with a red helmet, a brown leather jacket, a gray Bat-Armor with a Red Bat Insignia on the chest; Talia could see the pistols and ammo belts around his waist.

The second was a feminine figure: She was around the same height as Damian, wearing Bat-Armor that looked a lot like a Ninja's outfit with a sword on her back and a dark blue Bat Insignia on her chest. Her hair was long and black but tied in a ponytail, except some hair that freely fell in her face and covered some of the ribbon eye mask around her eyes.

"I guess my beloved couldn't make it to see me?" Talia asked as she placed the agent in her pocket.

"We were the closest in the area so he sent us to what it was about - didn't think we'd find his batshit crazy baby-momma here." The Red Hood said as he folded his arms.

"Too bad, he might have convinced me to surrender but I don't have an issue with breaking children who stand in my way." Talia said.

"You never had an issue with killing them, why would you have an issue with breaking them?" The female said.

"What did you say?" Talia said as she looked at the female figure.

"You don't remember the child you killed? The blood of the Al Ghul you spilled? The child you detested because she wouldn't kill so you decided to kill her instead?" The female stepped forward and reached for her eye mask, "You don't remember my voice...Mother?" She pulled it off and Talia's eyes widened when they locked with the blue eyes of her late daughter - the one that was supposed to die. The stain in her plan.

"You lived? After all of these years, you dare come to face me again?" Talia narrowed her eyes.

"Rather cold to say to your kid who came back from the dead, Lady." He looked at Bellatrix, "Bat-Fang, you wanna deal with her while I wait on the old man?" He asked.

"You read my mind." Bellatrix stepped forward and pulled her sword out, "Arm yourself."

"I guess some stains are harder to wash out." Talia said as she pulled her sword out, "I'll make sure you don't come back."

Emerald and Sapphire locked with each other before the thunderclap of the coming storm sent them both into attack mode. Their blades clashed against each other as the two women danced in a deadly dance, Talia was focused but at the same time confused - how was Bellatrix this focused when the anger in her eyes was so strong? Talia tried harder and used more power but that was the opening Bellatrix needed.

Talia watched as the girl grabbed the sword with her left hand before delivering a swift but devastating kick to her gut, sending her skipping like a stone against the roof as she released the grip of her sword. Talia picked herself off the ground and glared at her eldest as the girl place her own sword back in its sheath and shatter Talia's into two halves, letting the shards and sword halves fall to her feet before she charged at her mother. Talia's guard went up as the two of them locked in a brawl.

'What is going on here? She was never this fast or ruthless! What is...'

Her thoughts were cut off as Bellatrix grabbed her foot and began to swing her until Bellatrix let her go and got stuck in a window. Talia opened her eyes from the impact just in time to see the glare on her daughter's face as she came soaring and her fist connected with Talia's face, sending them both into the abandoned building. Talia groaned from the pain but more pain was added when she felt her daughter grab her by her hair and pull her to her feet.

"What do you have to say now, Talia? Am I still defective?" Bellatrix asked before she punched the Assassin Leader in the face, making her crash into a crumbling wall.

"Am I still a flaw?" Bellatrix asked as she spartan-kicked Talia through the wall and into the living room, making the woman fall on her back.

"Am I still the wrench in your perfect plan? Am I?!" Bellatrix barked as she grabbed her mother by the next and punched her in the face, making her back hit a window. Talia's version was blurry from the pain but when it came together - her eyes widened at the murderous gaze in her eyes.

"Am I still not an Al Ghul?" Bellatrix punched her in the face again - sending the woman crashing through the window again but this time, she felt on a lower roof of a building just as another thunderclap echoed through the sky and the rain began to fall. Talia grunted at the pain but opened her eyes to watch her daughter jump out the window and walk over to her; glaring down at her with blue eyes.

"How... How did you survive?" She asked.

"You should have checked my vitals before you left me to die; once you were gone, I took care of the assassins that you had hold me. I'm not proud I shed their blood but I knew if I didn't, they were going to make sure I was dead." Bellatrix answered.

"You survived... You killed... And now, you have me helpless." Talia smiled at her, "I'm so proud of you, My Baby Girl." She cooed.

"What?" Bellatrix glared with confusion.

"You are everything I want in a perfect heir: You survived my trap, you killed those who held you captive, and you reduced me - the Leader of the League of Assassins - to this pitiful state. My darling, you are perfect." Talia smiled at her daughter.

"I don't know what you are thinking but I'm nothing like you want me to be and I never will be." Bellatrix reached down and took the mind-control agent from Talia before turning and walking away.

"You can walk away now, My Sweet Child, but know that I am coming for you. I will bring you home and you will be what you were born to me - The Perfect Al Ghul Heir. Run while you can, my dear, Mother is coming for you." Talia laughed at Bellatrix as the girl jumped off the small roof, leaving the woman alone.

Talia looked up at the rain in the sky and smiled before picking herself off the ground, touching the side of her lip, and looked at the blood - her blood - that her daughter spilled.

'It was a mistake to let you go but now that you are back, I shall have you once more and we shall be a family. You can't escape your blood, Bellatrix; you're an Al Ghul...and you belong to me.'

[mr-styles]

Hello, I’m Harry Styles and tonight I’m going to help you drift off to sleep with some soothing words and calming music. A sleep story, just for you. With all the busyness of your day, I know how hard it can be to get to sleep. So I thank you for choosing this story, and me to help you. I wish you a wonderful night’s sleep. So make yourself comfortable. Take a deep breath in, and then out. In, and then out. And when you’re ready, close your eyes.

[Listen]

Have you ever wondered what happens when you sleep? Where you go and what you feel. The places that you seek.  When you start to drift away, your mind becomes a book that writes itself, then fades away before you wake to look.

Tonight we’re gong to think about anything you’d like. So first let’s visualise some scenes to see us through the night. Settle back and clear your mind. We’re heading somewhere special, beyond the world of consciousness, to places more celestial.

I’d like you to imagine now, you’re there beneath the stars, which, when you pause to think about it, actually you are. As you focus on the darkness, right before your eyes, fill the scene with glinting lights to emulate night skies.

Think about the things you cherish most and those you love. And then allow yourself to be embraced from up above. The power of the universe, meanders through your mind. So come with me and let’s see what the two of us can find.

Let’s travel now to moonlit valleys, blanketed with heather. The kind of landscape you and i could dream about forever. Imagine lazing on the ground, succumbing to the charms of blades of grass we now caress with fingertips and palms. A gentle scent of cedar wood is floating on the breeze, a gift from mother nature and her nearby cedar trees. We’re gazing at the night sky now, marveling at infinity. So allow your mind to wander to a peaceful new vicinity.

Picture this: a rich green forest, damp with morning dew. Inhale the morning air as we explore, just me and you. Leaves create mosaics in every shade of green, as gentle birds son mingles with the babbling of a stream.

Dappled sepia sunlight cuts through branches overhead, as dew drops fall from leaf to leaf like glistening strands of thread. The dew drops finally coalesce, forming satin beads. Occasionally they kiss our cheeks. Small pleasures, quenching needs.

Holding hands, we stroll until we chance upon a brook. It’s cool clear water, mirroring our faces as we look. The shimmering reflection shows us smiling from above. The word we think but dare not speak is l-o-v-e. Love.

Now we snuggle on a raft, and drift for endless hours. As willow trees sway in the breeze and blossoms fall in showers. Gently swaying to and fro, we look up at the sky and watch the clouds above us forming shapes as they pass by.

The wisps of cloud swirl slowly, tinged with tangerine and pink. And as they fade, the sunset gives us cause to muse and think, of places we should visit and oceans we could cross. For some who wander through this world, there’s grace in being lost.

Passing by a waterfall, our thoughts sway to and fro. And time begins to fade and blur. Beneath the moon’s pale glow, a symphony of tumbling water loves and mesmerizes. Nature’s soundtrack to our dreams, assume so many guises.

Strolling on a sidewalk now, as rain begins to fall. Its gentle pitter-patter holds us deep within its thrall. The raindrops rhythm briefly slows, then intensifies. Peaceful and benevolent. A gift from moonlit skies. The fragrance that the rain creates upon the concrete surface inspires yet relaxes, and focuses our purpose. To shift our minds to neutral and allow our thoughts to drift. And recognise the rainfall as a mesmerising gift.

Sheltering beneath a porch, we watch the rain pour down. Though now the time has come to leave this moonlit town. A gentle breeze wafts through the trees. It causes leaves to stir. And then the rain relents and fades, as time begins to blur.

We find ourselves upon a shoreline, lounging by a lake. While crickets chirp in nearby reeds, it’s hard to stay awake. The scene feels like a watercolour - soft diluted tones. As looking down we see each other. Laughing, skimming stones. The stones skip on the gleaming lake and ripples start to form. And though the sun has dipped from view, we feel content and warm. Herons drift on thermals, high above a sun bleached pier. And in the trees beyond the lake, we glimpse a passing deer.

Strands of cloud unfurl like ribbons in the orange sky. Mirrored on the lake now, like a painted butterfly. In the distance, mountains beckon, capped with pristine snow. The kind of sight that dreams evoke when hearts and minds let go.

Contemplating nothingness. A scene takes shape before us, and as it sharpens in our thoughts, we hear a distant chorus. The dampened sound of silence that only snow can bring, surrounds us with its calming vibes and touches us within.

Glistening snowflakes fall in flourish, mountain rivers freeze. The powdery slopes look beautiful and fresh snow dusts the trees. Somehow now, we’re in a cabin, taking in this view. As a fire crackles in the corner, just for me and you. We linger for a moment, or maybe it’s been hours. For when we blink and look again, our vistas waft in flowers. Another destination lulls us. Closer now it seems. Perhaps it’s real, or just another chapter in our dreams.

Drifting in and out of sleep, our thoughts take us elsewhere. To an island fringed by swaying palms. Lush beyond compare. A path winds through the mangroves towards a distant beach, that underlines the turquoise ocean, now within our reach.

Eventually, we feel the powdery sand right beneath our feet. The sun above now blessing us with gentle, soothing heat. We hear the lilting sound of surf breaking up ahead. While spiral shells and pearly shards determine where we tread.

Finally, a lapping wave engulfs our sandy feet. It seems to pause and ruminate, then gradually retreat. We dig our toes in cool, wet sand, then sit and face the sea. And let the sand wash over us. Alone, just you, and me. Staring at the nothingness that stretches on forever, our thoughts dovetail and unify in tune, two minds together. As minutes turn to hours, we drift off somewhere new. And visualize a stay away, to a door we now walk through.

Imagine now a meadow on a balmy afternoon. Birds, and bees, and rustling trees create a summer tune. Flanked by fields of sunflowers, hand in hand we walk. As the gentle sounds of nature surrounds us while we talk. The sunflowers give the scenery a warm and golden hue, while hazy sunshine softens our idyllic, rustic view. As we roam past hedgerows, a farmhouse sits alone. Its open shutters pressed against uneven walls of stone. A garden winds around the house, and daisies poke through grass. A bench that’s lived through countless summers creaks as we walk past. We wonder if the house is empty. Once loved - but no longer. The thought of passing time inspires a feeling that grows stronger.

This feeling washes over us, lost between a sigh. And as the sun begins to set, we stop and wonder why. Gravity caresses us and pulls you close to me. Then the scene begins to fade, our new reality.

Deeper, gradually deeper, we drift and now transcend to unfamiliar places too surreal to comprehend. Slowly we capitulate, as sleep begins to call. Entwined in dreams and shifting scenes, we drift and gently fall.

Friendly faces, glorious places. Things we hope to do intertwine with snapshots. Some of me, and some of you. Moonlit valleys, verdant forests, gazing at the ocean. Summer meadows, tranquil sunsets, steeped in pure emotion. The tenderness we feel when we are close, two minds as one, surrounds us and connects us, but we’ve only just begun. For now, we dream together of all that is to follow. And know that sleep will keep us safe, from now until tomorrow.

Maybe all the memories that we’ve gathered here tonight, are all dreams now remembered, or wishes in plain sight. No matter what, they’re with us now, for this night and forever. And every time we close our eyes, they’re yours and mine to treasure.

Goodnight and sleep well.

[thefanficmonster]

Inky Memories

Corpse Husband x Reader (Female)

Warnings: Swearing, Drug Use (Past), Domestic Violence (Past), Shoplifting (Past)

Genre: Angst, Fluff

Summary: Tattoos can reveal a lot about a person. What will Y/N’s tattoos, which she has kept hidden for so long, reveal to Corpse? Will it change anything between them?

Requested by Anon. If you’re reading this you know who you are 😊 Thank you for the request, hope you like what I did with it. Sorry if I made it too angsty! And my most sincere apologies for publishing it so late. Enjoy XOXO ❤

“Guys, come on now! I’m not hiding anything!“ I laugh, looking up from the comments to the camera, “You know how much I hate being embarrassed! Believe me when I say these tattoos are EMBERRASSING. I got them while I was either drunk or in my emo phase and I’m not too proud of them.“

I’m currently doing an Instagram live Q&A session that I scheduled last week. I do one every month and it’s my favorite way of connecting with my audience. An hour of chill lo-fi and questions and answers. I get really excited every time I schedule the session. My fans are such amazing people and they are all so supportive, funny, intelligent...I could go on and on about their positive qualities. One thing I’m not too fond of is their persistent curiosity. Here’s why.

Yesterday, while streaming, I got an unexpected pain in my forearm. Instinctively, I lifted my shirt sleeve to see what was wrong, flashing a few tattoos at my viewers in the process. I’ve never mentioned my tattoos to my audience, not even my boyfriend, actually, so to have this much attention on them so suddenly makes me want to hide them even more. People started commenting on them during the stream and I tried to dodge the majority of the questions, but I knew they would be inevitable during the Q&A. If the session hadn’t been scheduled for like a week at that point I maybe would’ve postponed it until the dust settled. 

“I have several. Not only on my arm.“ I only answer these vague questions. I avoid the ones that are asking details like what is depicted with the tattoos and what’s their meaning, bla, bla, bla.

Here’s the thing. I got my first tattoo when I was fifteen at this shady alley tattoo shop and I’ve been obsessed with tattoos since. I made a deal with myself to get at least one every year.

Needless to say, I’m twenty years old and have almost the same number of tattoos. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not ashamed of them. And I lied when I said they were embarrassing. I am quite happy with them, the way they look, at least. Each of them represent something different. Unfortunately, they are representative of some dark and depressing times. Times I want only the fewest of few people to know about.

“Yes, he’s here. You can’t see him, but he’s waving. He says hi.“ Corpse is the perfect distraction. My viewers love him just as much - maybe more - as they love me. 

He knows how easily I get overwhelmed by the attention and pressure of thousands of eyes on me and whenever I’m having a hard time while streaming all he has to do is walk in my recording room and just say the most random thing. Recently, his go-to phrase has been ‘Chicken wing’ and it always cracks up both me and my viewers.

Speaking of Corpse, him and I have been dating for over a year now. We moved in together a month or two before quarantine was officially a thing so we have been together 24/7. It’s scary how many things you can pick up on when you spend so much time with someone. That, of course, means he has noticed some of my tattoos. He has asked me about them, like why I cover them up and why am I so secretive about them and I’ve always been vague and indirect with my answers. He’s the sweetest and most patient person ever, so he has never pressed me with the questions, but I’m still hoping to gain the courage to reveal them to him someday.

“Thanks for tuning in, guys! See you tomorrow for my regular stream and next month for a chill hang out like this one. Love you, stay safe. Mwah!“ And with that the live video is done and I can finally breathe out a sigh of relief.

“Now we can order dinner“ I smile at Corpse who is chilling on the couch in my recording room. He looks up from his phone screen, returning my smile. “Were you recording a Behind The Scenes again?“

He does that often, not only with my Instagram lives but sometimes my streams as well. That’s actually how we revealed our relationship to our fanbases. 

He nods, “Yeah.” He pauses for a second, switching to a sitting position with his feet touching the floor. We’re almost at eye-level now. His arms snake around my waist as he pulls me closer towards him. I take the hint and settle in his lap, my legs on either side of him. “I admire how well you handled the pressure back there. I know how you feel about that topic.”

The small bit of anxiety that has started spreading throughout my chest disappears. He has that calming effect on me. Like my own personal safety blanket that’s with me at all times. “I wouldn’t have handled it so well if you weren’t here with me.” I say as I run a hand through his hair, moving a few stray curls away from his gorgeous eyes.

He shakes his head, making the strands fall back over his eyes, “It has nothing to do with me, Y/N. You are simply an amazing person, that’s all.“ His cold hand cups my burning red cheek, leaning my head down so our foreheads are touching. “Nothing could change my mind about it.“

That sentence causes a small pang in my chest. I feel like a manipulator. I’ve led this man to fall in love with me without knowing the past versions. I realize it’s incredibly manipulative of me to reveal my dark aspects only after we’re head over heels for one another, but I can live with it. If it were up to me, he’d never have to know. He would never have to find out that I’m not the amazing person he thinks I am. I have been broken countless times before and all my pieces are just glued in place. Not all of them are where they’re supposed to be and some of them are on the verge of breaking off. Just like a mirror. You can put all the pieces together but not only will you see the cracks, the shards can fall at any moment. 

My tattoos are to me as the cracks are to the mirror - evidence of my fragility and the many falls and breaks I’ve had throughout my life.

“Are you sure about that?“ I whisper, trying my hardest to engrave every detail of this moment in my mind because, after what I’m about to do, I’m afraid we might never be like this again.

The softness of his curls, his scent, his warmth, the way he makes me feel. I can hardly believe I’m risking losing all of that, but I owe him the truth.

I feel him nod against my forehead. I tense up and pull away so I can look him in the eyes. It’s hard for me to maintain eye contact especially when I’m fighting back tears. I can’t even say I’m about to lose him. I’m about to let him go. It’s up to him if he stays or decides that he deserves better.

No backing out, Y/N.

I grab the hem of my sweater and lift it up, revealing the many ink drawings on my skin. I discard the sweater on the floor, leaving me in only my bra meaning all my tattoos are on display. Not exactly all, I have some on my legs as well, but these are some of the most important ones. The ones which reveal most about who I used to be.

Corpse takes my hands, tilting my arms so he can take a better look at the tattoos that go from my wrists to the bend of my arm. His thumbs caress the tattoo on each of my wrists. “This one... “ I nod to my left wrist, “I got on my friend’s birthday. We both did. They’re matching.“ The tattoo depicts a heart with a keyhole. “She got the key.“

“I thought I had the key.“ He says, smirking up at me.

“You do now.“ I feel the pang again but this time it doesn’t go away. It’s a constant pain - a constant fear. Being scared of something inevitable is the most nerve-wracking feeling. It makes you feel small, helpless, like you’re standing aside watching your life be controlled by a force you can’t see.

Before he can break me even more, I go on, nodding to my upper arm, a little below my shoulder where there’s a rope tattoo that bends around my arm, its ends connecting in a bow, “I got this one after my shoulder healed.”

His brows furrow in concern as he tilts my head for me to look at him, “Healed from what?”

Here we go. Let the cat out of the bag. “Um....well...” I instinctively reach up to touch my shoulder, running my fingertips over the inked rope. “My dad wasn’t a very nice guy.”

I can pinpoint the second his heart breaks. I don’t want to hear what he has to say, I know it will kill me, so I just continue, moving onto the one on my other wrist where the word ‘Shadow’ is written in cursive writing, “This was my nickname in my friend group. I was the only one to never get caught shoplifting.”

The tears are gonna start rolling at any moment so I deliver the final blow, moving onto the most traumatic event, aka the tattoo on my collarbone of a heartbeat turning into a dead line and kicking up again, “This one I got after I woke up from my almost overdose.”

As if on cue, a tear falls from my eye onto his hand that’s still holding mine. My voice remains still, to my surprise, but I know it won’t be long before it too gives and breaks. I can’t look at him. I don’t want to see any sympathy or that look like he doesn’t recognize me. I feel like I’ve let both myself and him down.

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this?“ he asks me in a whisper. He sounds almost hurt. “You know you can tell me anything.“

I see another tear fall, “I know. I just...didn’t want you to think any less of me.“

Again, he lifts my head so he can look me straight in the eyes. He knows how much I struggle with eye contact and how much I hate crying in front of people, he knows how vulnerable I feel when someone’s looking me in the eyes or when someone sees me cry. He also knows that he’s the only exception to that rule. He knows I never feel out of place when he’s around. 

“Think less of you? Babe, you’re a fighter like no other. You picked you life back up. You did all that on your own. You’re a warrior, Y/N.“

I smile through the tears which are now ones of joy instead of fear and dread. “I was a dumb teenager, Corpse. I had no idea what I was doing. I just wanted to get a thrill and feel something other than pain. I know I went about it the wrong way but...” he gives my hand an encouraging squeeze, “And you’re wrong, I didn’t do it all on my own.” I release his hand so I can cup his cheek. His hand comes up to cover mine as I swipe my thumb on his cheekbone, “I met you a month after I left the hospital. The rest you know. I moved to a less druggie populated part of town and I repaired my relationship with my aunt. All that time, I was balancing between the need to relapse and the will to stay alive. After I met you, that balancing act was no longer a balancing act at all. I didn’t even think about my past anymore. I was more focused on what I could be. On what I have to be to deserve to have you by my side.” 

“You will always have me on your side, Y/N. Even when you don’t want or need me there.“ With both his hands holding mine he leans forward, connecting our lips. It’s a short kiss laced with nothing but love and adoration. 

As we lay on the couch, him asking about each individual tattoo I didn’t get to tell him about, everything just seems a lot easier. Like a big area that was previously dark has suddenly turned into the brightest point of our relationship.

“I need to get that key tattooed. It’s only appropriate.“ He says, his finger tracing the heart on my wrist.

“Or an ownership deal for it. That heart’s yours, you know.“ I laugh, lifting my arm to inspect the oldest painting on my body, “It’s your favorite one?”

“No.” he shakes his head, “This is my favorite one.” he leans down and kisses the heartbeat on my collar bone. “I’m so glad it started beating again.”

“I am too.“

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