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zgvlt · 2 years

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the dust in your place vil schoenheit x reader

summary: in which you are cursed to stay inside a mirror for years, and Vil begins to treat you as a close confidant

author’s note: i've been wanting to write something different from the usual (again), and i've been toying with the idea of cursed! readers... as well as the right person, wrong time wrong place trope

tags: gender neutral reader, sfw, fluff, light angst, cursed! reader, hopeful ending, 9.1k+ words, not beta read (so let me know if any gendered terms for reader are used i will correct it)

you can also read this on AO3

When he looks into the mirror he is the image of perfection, but he wishes he could see someone else in its reflection.

Vil Schoenheit hates dust. The accumulation of dust represented the lack of cleanliness in an area; a lack of attention; neglect. Dust was what settled on things lost and things forgotten, the left behind and the cast away.

Nobody wanted the particles of dirt and soot, specks of fabric fibers and dead skin cells, surrounding them more than they already do.

It is why when Vil climbs up to his attic, dirty and dusty, he is covered head to toe, the bottom half of his face even covered with a mask. Hardly a fashion statement, and Vil would rather eat a spoon of mayonnaise than be caught wearing such attire — not that anybody would ever visit — would an attic be so dusty if a person were to frequent it? He himself had only planned on staying for a few minutes, for old books on potions that he was certain were hidden somewhere.

Dust aside, the attic was filled with numerous interesting things. Props his father must have taken home from one of his films, like a sword or a cloak; furniture, a rocking chair or gramophone no longer used but too sentimental to throw away; and what he had come for — shelves of books neither he or his father had thought they would read again.

He had only come for a book or two, but it was in the middle of searching for them that he found himself drawn to something nearly buried and nearly unseen — a mirror, specifically the handle of a handheld mirror peeking atop a pile of scarves and a feather boa.

Vil, applauding himself for having the foresight to wear gloves, quickly abandoned the shelves to retrieve it. It was a pretty thing — vintage, maybe even antique, gold, ornate — awfully dusty, but that was something easily fixed. Vil was not shy to admit he had numerous mirrors ranging from full length mirrors to compact ones that fit in his pocket, but a regal looking hand mirror certainly fit him, would it not?

Well, his father wouldn’t be missing a mirror anyway.

His fingers wiped the glass clean as best he could before trailing them along the embellishments, stopping at a heart-shaped gap in the space between the handle and the glass, clearly some missing gemstone or other, and upon further pulling apart the pile of fabrics he had found it — clear as crystal.

The thing is that Vil had not thought it would stick right away. He merely wanted to test if the size was truly right, then either get it fixed professionally or figure out if magic would do the trick.

But when he slipped the stone into the mold the gold had melded perfectly, and unexpectedly what was reflected was not him but the unknown.

And you, the unknown, had opened your lips, and thus spoke,

“I think you might be the most beautiful person I have ever seen.”

Vil’s not terrified. Magical artifacts have existed for centuries and will continue to exist, but color him surprised to find one just lying around in his family attic. Certainly surprised, for who knew he would ever come to possess a mirror that talked just like the Fairest Queen’s did! Not simply talked either, but one that possessed a seemingly corporeal form, physical if not for the fact that you were talking from within a mirror.

Truthfully, Vil’s a little excited.

“Is that so?” He tried not to show his pleasure, not that you would have known he was smiling with his mouth covered by a mask, “Even with this kind of attire, you find me beautiful?”

“Yes! I do suppose the attire is unusual. I have certainly never seen anything like it,” If he had seen until the upper half of your body before, now he could only see your head, as though you neared the glass to take a better look. “Still, no odd clothing can hide your beauty.”

“Never seen anything like it?” he repeated. It was a white long-sleeved shirt, a pair of gloves, and a disposable face mask. It was hardly a pretty outfit, but the items singled out were not at all out of the ordinary. From that alone, Vil was able to make an easy assumption. “How long have you been cursed to stay inside this mirror?”

He watched your throat as you swallowed before you spoke.

“I do not know. I think I might have been asleep for… years before you woke me up.”

“Well, isn’t that interesting?”

He had only intended to put the mirror down for a few minutes, quickly scan the bookshelf not only for that potion book, but for one about magical artifacts or curses, but you suddenly looked panicked as he began to walk away.

“Wait! Do not leave me alone, please!” you exclaimed, almost desperately. “Bring me with you! I am sure I can be useful to you!”

Vil had not planned on leaving the mirror — or rather you, that would take some time getting used to — here in the attic, but he was interested in what value you seemed to have for yourself.

“In what way? I’m sure you’re quite limited being stuck in there.”

You looked a little upset at the reminder and he could not help but sigh. He had not meant to be mean, he was simply stating the facts, but he supposed sensitivity should’ve been implemented considering your pitiful position. “Just so you know, I had no plans of leaving you here. I’m not heartless,” and the mirror was rather beautiful, but he did not know if you would appreciate hearing that.

That seemed enough to reassure you, the nervousness leaving your expression.

“If you ask me a question, I am cursed to only give you the truth.”

Vil knew of several people who would simply hate to ask you anything, the fear of the truth in favor of living in a delusion, but Vil was not one of those people. Empty compliments, lies told with good intentions — they held value lesser than the harsh truth, less than even a truth told with bad intentions.

As horrible as a fate as it was to be cursed, he could not help but smile, and although you would not be able to see it with his lips, perhaps you would through his eyes.

“My name is Vil Schoenheit. Let’s get along, shall we?”

When Vil had packed to go back to Night Raven College after the holidays, he had made sure to bring a certain mirror along with him. He did not always bring you around everywhere, you stuck somewhere in his room as he attended classes, but he did his due diligence to talk to you every day.

The connection between the two of you was admittedly strange — him asking for your honesty about his hair and make-up, you happy to be able to talk to anyone — but it was something mutual in the sense that you both got something you wanted out of the other. Not exactly a healthy friendship — would something like this even count as a friendship? — but a beneficial partnership.

Sure, your compliments and opinions were nothing unheard of, if only a little odd with how fascinated you could get about modern clothing and sparkly cosmetics, but he enjoyed hearing them with the added knowledge that it was honest and, quite frankly, he just enjoyed getting praise out of you.

Plus, there was the novelty of simply having a magic mirror just like the Queen he admired so much, although one not as powerful and clearly cursed, but that aside, conversations with you were always a good way to entertain himself. A presence distant enough to not bother him when he needed quiet and some time to himself, but present enough a presence for when he needed to talk.

“Vil, what was that thing you were talking about earlier?” you asked, “The thing you said you were acting in. A moving, was it? Is that what they call stage plays nowadays?”

“You were close. It’s a movie,” he corrected, wondering how to best explain it to you, plus storing some new information he had learned about you — you were cursed during a time before motion pictures had been invented. Would you even know what a photograph was?

“Imagine being able to watch the same play over and over again,” he explained, hoping his descriptions were enough to paint a clear picture, “and the actors never change. When you watch it for the first time, it’ll be the exact same the second, third, twentieth time.”

“That sounds wonderful!” you exclaimed. Vil notes how among all the new technology and entertainment he had introduced you to, this was what you were most interested in. Well, lucky for you, he knew a good amount about movies and he was actually willing to talk about it for more than a few minutes. “And you actually act in these movies?”

“It’s been a while because of school, but yes,” he replied with a short laugh, finding your amazement amusing to watch. For all you knew he could have been some background character and here you were, lauding him for something you barely knew anything about.

“And just what stories, characters do you act out?”

Vil paused before he answered, lips pressed tight.

“Movies can have any genre, theme, story. It’s even more versatile than theatre in some ways; you’d definitely be surprised at how different they all can be from each other,” and how bland and stale they could also be, but nothing wrong with only mentioning the good things.

“But, ah, just where can you watch a movie?”

“That’s the beauty of it — it can be watched anywhere these days. You can watch one at home on your phone — the device I told you about before, remember? — but the traditional way to watch one would be at a cinema… cinema basically being a theatre, but for movies.”

He had his eyes off you for a few minutes, busy cleaning his face to prepare for the night, so when he had his eyes on you again he was slightly intrigued by how wistful you seemed to look at the thought.

“It would be nice to see one…”

Vil was, for the most part, immune to being affected by sad expressions and pouty faces, but you did seem genuinely upset that you couldn’t so he supposed he wasn’t annoyed by it. On the matters of actually doing something to resolve it…

“Bringing you to a theatre is out of the question,” With his lack of free time, going to a cinema was impractical. Why would he do it for you? And having to bring a magic mirror, having to point you towards the screen, making sure you stayed quiet to avoid suspicion — all of it seemed like a hassle. However, “but… I suppose I could set up a device or something to play movies while I’m gone.”

“Really?! Could you do that?”

He wasn’t technologically inept so of course he could. All he had to do was make sure the volume was low enough and put on subtitles for you.

However, there was something in it for him. He wasn’t just going to put on some second-rate movie, or a reality TV trash fire that might risk you getting addicted to them, oh no, certainly not.

“The condition, of course, is that you’ll be going through every film I’ve starred in since I was a child. I’m sure you’ll be able to give me some good criticism and comments, no?”

“Ah, then I will work on making my comments as eloquent and detailed as possible! Just to show you how really grateful I am!” What I’m doing hardly requires any effort, he would say, but he won’t deny liking your sudden enthusiasm. Even with your constraints you were doing your best in whatever way you could, and that kind of quality was always something to be appreciated in a person.

Vil was having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. It was not a matter of simply waking up on the wrong side of bed, but a series of unfortunate events that made it difficult to hide his growing irritation.

It started with the blender not working. Health-wise he had already been feeling pretty off that morning, maybe he had accidentally consumed too much dinner the night before or something of the sort, so he had been looking forward to making a particular smoothie that would help him but no, the blender had been broken.

He would say that was alright, what was one missed smoothie when you can get one from the cafeteria, but breakfast was easily the most important meal of the day and it most definitely worsened his mood to miss it.

Then there was Epel. Sure, he had accepted that the boy would never be the definition of being prim and proper, inwardly rowdy boy that he was who seemed to secretly crave a fight, but that did not mean he was okay with his junior literally getting into a fight! Just what was he thinking? Was he not concerned that his dorm leader was going to get a heart attack just hearing it?

(Plus, if he was going to get into a fight, at least make it a clean and elegant sweep! And hidden too so nobody would ever know! Would his blood pressure have risen if Epel had managed to keep it a secret? Absolutely not!)

Then he was paired with someone much too clumsy when it came to choosing herbs for the potion — they clearly had different smells despite similar appearances; then there was the call from his manager, and not to mention-

“Vil, you’re back!” Unlike him, however, you always seemed chipper and cheerful, at least by how excitedly you seemed to greet him. It was odd, considering how you probably shouldn’t be so happy stuck in a mirror, but maybe that was just how you are.

“You know you- oh,” you trailed off, apparently noticing how dreadful he must have looked. Normally he would not have shown his true emotions so blatantly on his features, but he didn’t think you’d mind too much.

Plus, it was a good chance to try something.

“I look terrible, don’t I?” You blinked once, then twice, at the question, and then looked almost as if you were trying to hold back from what you actually wanted to say. Then, with a scrunch in your face, as if you were desperately focused on not sounding too mean, you replied,

“To be honest, a little bit. Your hair is out of place, your eyebrows are furrowed, you...” An awkward laugh escaped your lips as you continued, “you are still beautiful of course, no irritation is going to change that, but… you… you looked better yesterday than today.”

Vil just had to laugh at how intimidated you looked, when really that was the exact answer he was looking for. Oh dear, how adorable was it for you to be so concerned over how he received your words.

Unless you were one of those people who found negativity and messiness beautiful, he doubted you would find him the fairest of them all in this particular scenario. In fact, he was likely more beautiful in that cleaning garb than now — evidence of rising stress levels were unbecoming on anyone, even him. Thus, you actually giving an honest opinion, one that he could believe, as opposed to just another shower of praise, had resulted in him placing more value on you as a person.

“I was wondering whether you truly were telling the truth all this time,” Vil said, not failing to notice the way your eyes widened slightly. He’s not surprised considering he had never really let on that he might have not believed you.

“You might think I just want compliments out of you, but that would make you no better than the barrage of comments I get on MagiCam — I’ll explain what that is later — which while I appreciate my fans, most comments are hardly interpersonal and unwilling to critique me,” He extended a polished nail up to the mirror, pointing at the glass to make sure you really paid attention.

“And because this is a partnership, I expect you to be more honest than you’re forced to be — that is, even when I’m not asking you a question, feel free to state your opinion. That’s how the curse works, right? The stipulation being that I have to ask you a question, but you’re free to lie as you wish elsewhere.”

“Right,” you breathed out, as if unable to say any more, with any less being utter silence, “however… this is a partnership?”

“I suppose we never discussed this formally, but I do believe so. You tell me exactly what I want to hear, and in exchange I offer you the fairest person in Twisted Wonderland as a conversation partner,” he said, and although you laughed he was only half joking, “and, of course, on the off chance I learn anything about your curse, I’ll let you know.”

“Wait, you will actually help me break free from the mirror?” More than looked, you sounded shocked, like you had not even thought that it was possible to break a curse.

“Now I didn’t say I would go out of my way to help you,” In the same way that the headmaster was helping Ramshackle’s prefect find a way back home, though he’d argue he would somehow end up doing even more than him. “However, curses all have something in common — they can’t be cast without having conditions setting it, conditions that can be fulfilled to break the curse. I’m sure there’s something out there to help you out.”

Sure, he wasn’t going to go out of his way, but the offer stood, and somehow that was more than enough for something to shift in you. Heavens, had you really not thought of it before? Was it a situation of lost hope, or a lack of opportunity? Unless it was a curse cast by one of The Seven, he was certain he could aid you if needed be.

“Now it feels as if I am offering too little, not that there’s much I can offer in this state — you would not happen to want my friendship, would you? I am a good listener!”

“That would mean I’d need to tell you my woes and worries in the first place. Do you really expect me to do so? I don’t give that kind of information for free.”

“Not right now, but who can say?” The answer is noncommittal, the likelihood of change hanging above you. “It is good to let the truth out sometimes, sometimes better than keeping it within, and what harm is there in telling a mirror? Who could I go to, who could I tell? Where would I even begin?”

You had a point there.

“Fine, I suppose I could let you in on a secret,” Vil said, smiling at how surprised you looked. So you really didn’t think he would say anything, hm? Of course, the secret was not so interesting a secret, but he had yet to verbalize it, and only to you he would.

“Today was a terrible day.”

He wondered if you would laugh at how silly it was before asking for the details, perhaps whine at how anticlimactic it had been and to tell you a real secret — that was the point of him telling you that, he had no intentions of pouring his deepest and darkest thoughts to you — but even though you smile and your eyes seem to crinkle slightly neither happen. Instead, you say,

“Thank you for telling me.”

Vil’s face is bare, unadorned with makeup. It’s not too big of a deal — makeup enhances his beauty, but he knows how pleasing he is to the eyes even without it — but it’s odd to be seen by someone without it, like a vulnerability he’d rather not expose.

It’s just you, though, and he hadn’t been wearing makeup either the first time you had met him. There was no real reason to have any on in the confines of his room as well, not when he could be putting on cleansers and toners and serums and the sheet mask you screamed at the first time you saw it.

You seemed to like the idea of it though, especially the cucumbers on the eyes.

“It would be nice if I could simply… manifest cucumbers with me, or have you pass me one through the mirror,” you said, wanting and whining, “It seems fun and relaxing.”

“Then add it to the list of things you want to do when you break your curse,” he replied, as if it was an inevitability. Vil honestly wasn’t sure, not when he hardly knew anything about how you ended up in this situation in the first place, but a possibility was worth being optimistic about on your end.

“First, watching a movie in a cinema-”

“-to see your movie in a cinema,” you interjected, and he could not help but laugh at that. The specificity is appreciated, particularly because he knows you’re not saying it just to flatter him.

“Then you’ll have to wait a while for that. I won’t have any for a while,” Unless luck struck and he landed himself a particularly desirable role, but his pessimistic — no, realistic outlook on life and the industry made him doubt that. “You’ll have to settle for the cucumbers.”

“Is it really settling if I desire it?”

He did not answer the question, rhetorical in its nature. He had a question of his own instead, one lingering in the back of his mind.

“Do you…” The question itself was completely valid, that is, if you really wanted some help in breaking your curse, but he could not bring himself to ask it. There must have been some reason you had kept a rather tight lip on any details of your past, and to ask you would mean you would be compelled to spill what could very well be the depths of your soul. With the nature of your curse, it hardly seems fair.

But when has that ever mattered? Fair he may be, but fair he was not.

“Tell me what you can about your curse.”

The wording is not lost on you.

“First and foremost, you must know that I was not exactly a good person,” you said, as though ashamed at the recollection. Vil raised his eyebrow, unaffected and unimpressed.

“Many people are not. In fact, goodness could be subjective rather than objective.”

The students of Night Raven College, as wonderful of friends they could be, were not exactly known to be “good” people to the general populace — and even if they were good deep down to their very cores, their reputations would claim otherwise.

He himself was not known to be good, and how hypocritical would it be for him to count on you being a good person? It was difficult to be good, much more good to everyone, when all that really mattered was that you were good to the people who counted — in this instance, him.

“Yes, well,” you laughed, “I wronged the wrong person… rather, being.”

“Meaning?”

“I was cursed by a fae.”

“A fae!” he exclaimed, before groaning at the thought. Now he was certainly impressed — just what exactly did you do to have a curse to this degree? On one hand you’re certainly not dead, neither have you ever claimed to be in any sort of physical pain, but to be trapped? Either the one who cursed you was incredibly petty, or you had greatly upset them, or both.

“In the first place, to get involved with a fae with enough power to plant this kind of curse…”

“It is a long story,” you replied, clearly unwilling to expound any further. That was fine, he had not posed it as a question purely so you could omit any details you wanted, but it only made him more curious as to how you even found yourself into that kind of entanglement. “Essentially, faes do not like being lied to, and I had to learn the difficult way.”

Oh, now he understood how your curse came to fruition.

“And because you lied a little too much, you wound up in a mirror, cursed to only tell the truth should someone ask you a question,” His conclusion was backed up with a nod of agreement on your part. Dishonesty, a mirror, and some fae you would not talk about — what was the relevance?

“Somehow, I think you got lucky with the conditions. At the very least you’re not forced to say the truth in every sentence,” Vil pointed out. “Thinking about it now, I wonder if you’ve ever lied to me.”

Now that he had more insight into your situation he certainly wouldn’t blame you if you had — self-preservation called for drastic measures, after all.

“I might have exaggerated a few times at first,” you replied, tone indicating some weight had left your shoulders, “but I have yet to lie. Never with you.”

He can’t tell if you’re lying — what would you even look like if you were? — but he chooses to believe it, believes he won’t regret it.

“Then I ask you — who’s the fairest being you have ever seen?”

Vil’s face is bare, unadorned with makeup, but just this once he thinks he might not need it, for he blooms like a flower when you reply —

“It is you.”

He chooses not to comment on it, but you both know he is appreciative — not just of the compliment, but for telling him as much as you had.

“Then, in exchange for your secret, let me tell you some of mine.”

He tells his secrets — still hardly real secrets, more simple things he would prefer not to spill for the sake of his image, but something kept to himself still counts as a secret — secrets told through a whisper, carried through a mirror.

And the mirror will hold your secrets; will learn of his.

It is not out of the ordinary for a Pomefiore student to look into studying up on curses. Pomefiore was known to house students excellent in both potions and curses, the expertise of the Fairest Queen herself, so Vil looking to read up on a few books outside the recommended reading was nothing to bat an eye at.

Or it should not have been, but Diasomnia’s Vice Dorm Leader seemed to think otherwise.

“There’s a faint trace of something on you.”

“What, my perfume?”

“Kufufu, I’m sure you know what I mean,” Lilia said, peering over the stack of books he had intended on borrowing from the library. “Just what is causing you to borrow The Complexities of Curses, Volume 2: Fae, Merfolk, and Other Creatures? Meddling with an artifact, a cursed human?”

“Both. I am both of those things,” he stifled a laugh as you spoke from inside his designer handbag, and then he realized something — it was one thing for Lilia to be able to sense you, but could Lilia perhaps hear you?

“Interesting,” Lilia did not wait for him to reply, smiling in that mischievous, almost all-knowing way of his. “I doubt you want me getting the way, so I’ll leave you to it! Who knows, maybe the answers you seek are easier to find than you may think!”

Before Lilia could fully leave his line of sight he had brought you out of the bag discreetly, giving you a peek of the fae’s retreating form.

“Just making sure, that’s not who cursed you, right?”

“No, he didn’t have black hair,” Then that crossed out Malleus as well, much to his relief. While he did not care too much about finding the perpetrator, the caster was hardly ever essential in curse-breaking, it would be troublesome if he was trying to break a curse cast by someone currently in the vicinity.

“You really do not have to put too much effort in looking for a way to break the curse,” you told him gently, for what might have been the third time today.

“This benefits me too. My signature spell has to do with curses, so any additional knowledge would be of help to me as well,” he replied. To himself he would admit that the main idea was to be of help to you, but the idea of being capable of not only casting curses but breaking them as well was enticing.

“Then just make sure not to rush. Even if you did succeed, what would happen to me? Where would I even go?”

Vil said the first thing that had popped up in his head.

“I’m more than capable of helping you out,” he told you, as if it was the inevitable next step. He had the money, and he was certainly interested in seeing you in some modern clothing, as well as the pampering you seemed intrigued by. He could always use another assistant, and he finds your company was pleasurable enough to the point that he would not mind having you around all the time — you technically already were so he doubted a physical form would change much of anything.

There was the matter of where you would reside, more than complicated if he broke the curse in school grounds as compared to back at home, but-

“Really, do not even think about it unless you plan on being in a new movie!”

“Quiet, we’re still in a library,” he hushed you, and though you had already been tucked back in the depths of his bag he imagined you were sticking your tongue out, maybe rolling your eyes at him. “Has anyone ever told you you’ve been a lot brattier lately? You used to be much nicer before.”

“But you don’t like nice,” you reminded him, “you said you like me best when I am being honest.”

“When I said you should be less conscious of trying to please me, I didn’t think it’d be like this. Sooner or later we might have our first argument,” He flapped a book open, looking through the table of contents. “Now, let me do some research while I have the free time-”

“But Vil,” you whined, “I’m bored… It's dark in here and I am sick of looking at your makeup products. What even is a primer anyway?”

Vil is as used to observing as he is used to being observed, and he knows you’re distracting him from actually diving deep into the pages of the books. He indulges you well enough, partly because talking to you is a joy he can indulge in, but mostly to keep you from complaining. He’s engaged, but not to the point that his full attention is on you.

There’s just something about you — your attitude towards your curse — that has him suspicious enough that he can’t simply shake it off. Since you’re doing so well in being honest, should he not extend that same honesty to you?

“You’re hiding something important. I know you are, and I know it’s something that can help you with your curse,” There was neither elegance nor subtlety in the question, very unlike him in phrasing, but he had figured that bluntness was better suited for the topic at hand.

You went silent, cutting yourself off from whatever it was you were talking about, but Vil was not having it; so he took you — the mirror, that is — out of the bag, staring intently as though you were his reflection.

(Hardly a difference when, these days, he looks at you as often as he does his reflection.)

You would not look at him, and when his fingertips glide atop the glass as a feeble attempt to grab your attention you merely shriveled up, shrinking, shameful, and shy like a touch-me-not.

“You don’t have to tell me, but it would be nice if you let me know if something was wrong.”

“But why?” you responded, “Why does it matter?”

Vil was unsure. He’s neither delusional nor in denial so he’s aware he’s come to care for you, although he’s unsure if it's a particularly good idea to care about someone stuck in a hand mirror, neither is he sure if the term friends applied to situations like yours and his— but yes, despite it all he does care for you.

“Because I want to help you.”

“Vil,” You smiled at him and he had wanted to smile back instinctively, but your reply stopped him from doing so.

“I do not think you will be able to break my curse.”

Vil had numerous ways of destressing, but picking up the hand mirror to talk to you had been his main way of doing so as of late. However, it was difficult to do just that when you were the one causing him distress.

It should not have been a big deal when there were numerous things he did before you came along — getting a massage, online shopping, yoga, lighting some scented candles, and even the rare cheat day were all things he could have done, but instead he found himself staring at the two not-cursed mirrors in his dorm room.

You were ridiculous, Vil thought to himself, because why could he not break your curse? Who else was capable of doing so? Who else would you turn to? What more would he have to do to become someone who could do so?

And not just that, but he had, in fact, caught onto the implication that you did have a clue as to how to possibly break your curse, maybe even knew exactly how to do it yourself! There was just some reason that you refused to tell him, refused to have him try; for the life of him he did not know why.

It was one thing to tell him to take his time with it, that was consideration, and it was one thing to tell him to not do it, that was a request, but it was another to tell him he could not do it. That he was incapable. How dare you imply that he could not do it! Worse, to have him wonder why he would not be enough?

Vil does not pressure you into telling him, not after the first time you told him you did not want to tell him the details, nor does he use your curse against you because he cares for you regardless, but he still seethes at the thought.

Despite there being no confession it feels like a rejection, a call for introspection; he wishes you would tell him what imperfection you saw within so he would no longer have to question.

He had thought the two of you good at communication, one of the best things about the two of you since he had the mirror in his possession, and yet… was he really going to wallow like this? He, who had always been called mature, slumped in dejection like this?

Was he worthy of being Vil Schoenheit if he continued like this?

“You,” Vil does not shout, he does not show his anger, because he is angrier at himself more than at you. Instead, Vil does something he never does — he pleads. “Tell me, please.”

“Why?” you ask. Lately, you ask more questions than he. “Why do you want to help me? You don’t have to help me, I never asked for it.”

“Because you have become dearer to me than should be normal,” he replies, exasperated, and draws himself closer to the mirror, “and it has never been clearer to me that, even with all your delays and denials, you would be far happier out here, curse removed from someone hardly even a sinner.”

You let out a little laugh, expression containing the same smile you had adorned in the library, and although he had thought in mocking in his previous perception, he now knew what it truly was — self-deprecation.

“To have become dear to you is a start, but I cannot tell if it’s enough,” you reply, a little ominously, and though he does not speak, the look in his eyes is pressing enough to get you to continue. “It is never good to lie to faefolk… especially worse to mess with their feelings, to take their love for granted.”

The missing link. That information you hid was all it took for it to click.

“Someone has to fall in love with you,” he guessed, “even with you being in a mirror, even with you being cursed to tell the truth when asked.”

He isn’t surprised of the nature of the curse, fae have been known to craft their curses around love and intimacy of all things, but what he is surprised by is that such a thing had been bestowed to you, how you seem to think you have earned it, and —

“Did you not want to try?” Vil asked, “Did you not want to try to get me to fall in love with you? Did you not say you weren’t a very nice person? Unless I’m wrong, you don’t have to return anyone’s feelings to break the curse.”

“I tried to do that, twice,” you admit, looking the most ashamed he has seen you, “not with you, but two other people who had the mirror before you. I suppose I just gave up at some point; I just wanted to try to be a nice person with you.”

Vil had not even entertained the idea that there would be others before him, but now that he thought of it, it simply made sense. But that begged the question… What happened to the others?

“Did they ever try to break your curse?”

“Yes. The first one actually figured out how to do it. Begged him to help me, and he liked me enough to try,” Which was why you were in no rush to try to figure out how to break it — because you already knew, and you knew, as he was, just like the ones before him, he would not succeed.

“Vil,” It’s your turn to plead with him, “you don’t have to do anything with this information. I told you because I don’t want to force you — I don’t want to force anyone anymore.”

“You—”

“Do not make yourself love me.”

You might not think yourself a good person, but Vil thinks he might be worse than you.

Since learning the full details of your curse, or as much about it as you yourself know, he had been more conscious of you, in the sense that he was actively trying not to fall in love with you, even the slightest degree.

Of course, Vil doesn’t get what he wishes for, because despite you not pulling any stunts and him trying not to entertain the idea, his perception of you changes — he isn’t sure if it’s love, but if it is, it is terrifying.

How does one measure love? Is something that’s only beginning to bloom, neither nectar nor fruits of harvest available for collection, counted as love? Would his feelings be casted aside for not nearly being enough, not something worth writing scripts about, not worth the poetry of the greats?

Ironically, Vil tried to not fall for you simply because he had grown to love you, somehow, someway, maybe not to the point that would be needed to break the curse but it was there.

It is not that he cannot see himself loving you with his entire being, you are a person worth loving, but among all other things it is the uncertainty of the effects thereafter that gives him pause.

One, he attempts to break the curse, and whatever magical conditions were set had decided his feelings were not real enough, then you would end up in some other being’s attic, still stuck in the mirror and as cursed as you had left off. For him, that would mean losing contact with you, likely for good, and for you, it would mean you would have to start over.

Two, say he did attempt to break the curse, and unlike the past two people who had come across the mirror he did manage to succeed… then that simply opened a whole other realm of possibilities. The good thing, the best thing was that you were free from your curse, but where would you end up?

He had talked of still having you around as company, helping you settle into a new time and a new place as if it was a pre-written end goal, but that was easily the best case scenario. As if it was a given, he had fashioned a place for you right by his side. But what if you returned to your original time from some years back? What if you get transported to some other world, just like Ramshackle’s prefect was?

He has his worries, he has his feelings, but he chooses not to keep it to himself for too long; he has learned from the last time to simply share it with you, especially because it had to do with you.

“Truthfully, I am just happy you have come to care for me this much,” He cannot blame you for thinking such a thing, even he thought it had been an odd turn of events, but he supposed odder things have happened to him before, things far more unpleasant. In his time with you, he has felt nothing less than pleasant.

“I am more than grateful for even that much love,” you tell him, “because at least, a small amount that is true is better than immense amounts falsified and forced.”

“I still wish I could love you a little more,” because it gave him more security that he could properly break the curse, because you deserved it, but he knows he could not show you the love you deserved like this. Still, it brings him comfort that you at least feel the same way.

“Right now… you’d easily be my whole world,” you admit, “so I can’t really tell if the love I have for you… I want to try, I want to confirm it, but not like this.”

“But not like this,” he agrees.

Thus, a date is set.

“Vil, if this works…”

“It will work,” he insisted, hoping it would not be wishful thinking on his behalf, “it will work, and then I’ll take you to the movies, and I’ll finally introduce you to my friends and my father, and then-”

“-then we can try this love thing again. Properly this time,” you said, uttering a small laugh to try and break the serious atmosphere. It did not work. “I was pretty lousy at trying to get you to love me, was I not? I know you said I could try, but I just could not-”

“No, you did not have to do anything in particular,” Because Vil never had a moment, nothing like the films the two of you would watch on slower, lazier days. One day he just looked at you and realized he would do anything for the chance to break your curse, even if it meant he might never see you again. “But you’re welcome to try. I think I want to see you try.”

“Then you have to wait for me,” you told him, wishing to share a promise with him “I don’t know where I’ll be in the world, when it’ll be, but I’ll come looking for you. Even if I somehow get thrown back hundreds of years from now, I’ll… I’ll find a way to become immortal! I’ll even go make a deal with-”

“No more getting entangled with fae, please,” he bemoaned, before letting out a huff of laughter.

“Just wait for me,” you repeated, before momentarily looking away, “or, if it’s too much to ask, then just don’t forget about me.”

As if he could ever forget you.

“I’ll wait for you, I will,” Vil promised, “and then I’ll show you just how it feels to carry the affections of the Vil Schoenheit — actor, supermodel,” and occasionally selfish fool.

What is a promise if not a vow, and what are vows exchanged between two people without a sign, a symbol, a gesture to seal everything together.

He is like a narcissus, the flower which kisses the river, and you, the reflection, comes as close as he goes. Two fingers press against the mirror to emulate petals, the shape of lips, and though the glass is cold itself there’s a warmth that it inflicts.

When Vil readies himself to smash the gem, he cannot look at you, but belatedly he will wish he did, for it will be the last time he will see you in a long, long while.

“I’ll see you soon,” Those are your last words to him. Not goodbye, not farewell, for you carried enough hope for both him and you that winter will come to pass and spring will cause the wilting flowers to bloom again.

Crack. When he hears the noise the eyes he had not realized were closed open instantaneously. It had cracked — the heart had not fallen off, but cracked, fractured into several pieces. That had to mean it had worked, that the curse had been broken, and yet… and yet you are nowhere to be seen — not in the mirror, not in the room, and not by his side like he had hoped.

It had worked, and you were gone.

He misses you, yearns for you, faster than he expects.

It is his yearning for you that he cracks the gem, but it is that same yearning that he finds his hand hovering above the pieces, wanting to piece the heart back together. He picks up a piece, but it crumbles immediately, disintegrating at the tips of his fingers — no, he had not expected that it would ever work regardless, but in his shock he looks down and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He never should have tried it — he has never been uglier than at that moment.

There is dust left in your place, as if nothing had really changed when really, everything had.

Vil is an actor, a professional, so it’s easy to pretend that everything’s back to normal, as if you had never existed, because you hadn’t — not to the rest of the world who knew nothing about you, never with he who had never, and for as long as he could help it would never, say anything about you. Maybe a few people had noticed something was off at first, but concerns were quickly forgotten as they had their own troubles to deal with, chalking it up to some vague career frustration on his end that they could never truly understand.

Even if he explained it, he doubted they would understand.

Vil, himself, tried to not spend more than a minute thinking about where you could be, but when he stares at the mirror looking for traces of you he knows it to be an impossible task.

Nothing had even happened, he reasoned, feelings that had barely bloomed and had no time to cultivate, and yet he mourned something that never was, doing so despite not knowing if he should even be allowed to.

How can he properly mourn the disappearance of someone he has never truly seen even once?

Perhaps absence did make the heart grow fonder.

But it had been the right thing to do, Vil would always conclude in the times that he had doubted, maybe not what he would have thought of as the right decision because what did righteousness have to do with anything, but it was what was best for the both of you — both of you had agreed as much.

(Yet he still thinks of the what-ifs. What if you were out there, somewhere in the world and at the same time as him, waiting to be found, even searching for him; consequently, what if you had forgotten him, or returned to the time you originally belonged? What if he spent a little more time with you, and what if he had met you in different circumstances — what would have become of you and him?)

It was okay for the heart to grow fond, but all was said and all was done, what-ifs will stay as what-ifs, and he has to move on. Forcing himself to forget is out of the question, so he allows you to live in the back of his mind, and although he looks at the mirror and fails to find you there, the self-criticism and praise sounds like you in his head, as though you had never left.

In some ways, it’s better this way. He has always been harsh on himself, harsher than he needed to be, but when it’s your voice he imagines the comments are more than pleasant, criticism not hateful, not expected but suggested.

He allows himself to look at the mirror once again — cleans it dutifully so that no dust would ever rest atop it. The crystal that once decorated the antique is gone, but even when it is clear something is missing he feels a little less so just by clasping the handle in his hands.

(It is said that he is often seen with that mirror, tucked somewhere in his bag or even used as an accessory. Nobody bats an eye because it’s Vil Schoenheit, of course he would look at a mirror constantly… but they do find it odd when he murmurs from time to time, as if speaking to it. Nobody has the guts to call him out, though.)

A little later, near the end of his fourth year, Vil gets an offer to star in a movie. It’s not from some director who’s made hit after hit, nor is the franchise particularly popular or known — in fact, he’s surprised his manager even let him know of the offer without rejecting it outright, that is, until he hears the details himself.

Lead. Not just the main character or protagonist, but the hero. A little morally grey by the looks of it, but that aside it was enough to catch his interest. He knows what he’s best at, how he’s usually typecast, but he’s always wanted to play the lead, and you wished it for him too.

When he takes the opportunity it’s primarily for himself, but he would not deny thinking of how you would undoubtedly support the decision, how you would have likely celebrated with him.

At the very least, he hopes you’ll be out there, somewhere, watching him on the big screen like you’ve always wanted to.

And time moves on once again, fast and in a flurry that Vil himself had hardly noticed it.

It’s been a while since he had taken to actually going to a cinema, and a public one at that, but he supposed the nostalgia had gotten to him — when had he last visited the remote island where his alma mater resided?

When had he last seen that poison apple of his, all grown up but still a baby potato in his eyes; the prefect, well adjusted but still getting dragged into trouble; Jack, infinitely taller where even his heels couldn’t compare; even his favorite hunter, who had dragged them all to the movie theatre in the first place?

He looks at the poster, his name being the first name printed out, and he thinks of you again. Even now he carries that mirror, and even now he wonders where you could possibly be. Selfish wishes aside, he just wishes you were safe, and that you were happy.

He wishes he had brought you to the movies just once — even if it wasn’t starring him.

He sighs wistfully, belatedly noticing someone sidling up next to him.

“Excuse me, could you recommend a movie for me to watch?”

He knows that voice, has never forgotten that voice.

Vil is an actor by profession, but it’s difficult to hide the surprise that seeps into his expression. Then again, he doesn’t even bother hiding it, the fact that he was in public and in the company of friends is the farthest thing from his mind.

“You-”

“Perhaps this is silly of me to say, but I have never been to a cinema before to watch a movie, so this is all new for me,” you laughed, and Vil, just to himself, weeps a little — at how your smile is unchanged, if not a little brighter, and at the sheer audacity of how ridiculous it was that you made him wait this long.

Really, you had no shame! Could you not have at least found a way to let him know where you were, that you were in the same timeline, but most of all that you were alive and okay?

“You’ve waited that long?” Exasperation dripped from his voice, but the eyes were the windows to the soul, and nothing could hide the joys, the relief that laid within.

“It is your fault for taking this long to be a part of another movie,” you said, huffing playfully as you directed the blame at him. “And even then, it is so difficult to find you! You have the money between the two of us, you should have been the one looking for me!”

Vil could not help himself then, dropping all pretenses and laughing — at you, at himself, at everything.

Heavens, he had missed you.

“Do you remember our promise?” There were numerous other places he could have brought that up, but the lingering fear of you just disappearing into thin air compelled him to simply speak of it. Eavesdropping friends, if they were trying to do so, be damned — he needed to get something out of his chest now.

“I have never forgotten.”

“Then let’s try again this time,” he tells you quietly.

Maybe things won’t work out this time around again, but he had wanted to give the two of you a chance — to get to know each other better, to catch up with each other’s lives, to see that now that the circumstances were finally right, maybe you two could make lingering feelings flourish into something beyond the two of you.

From dust, you return.

#twst x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #vil shoenheit #twst imagines #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #nathya twst writing

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milqueandsugar · 4 years

Text

🏵 Your Tea Is Ready 🏵

Parts:

https://milqueandsugar.tumblr.com/post/643788553154920448/can-you-techno-with-a-reader-who-is-constantly

https://milqueandsugar.tumblr.com/post/643889114110918656/idk-if-this-is-where-you-put-requests-but-do-you

Warnings: mentions of violence, blood, injury

Genre: Angst

| Hear No Evil, Do No Evil |

After your second kind of a date kind of not a date your very cateful around Techno

Every part of you tells you your being paranoid, but the other knows that theres something he isn't telling you

You know the piglin to well not to know when he's lying

And you care to much to ignore it

Convinced he's done something to upset you Techno doesn't search for your company like he used to

Something both him and the voices aren't very happy about

Being in love is a new emotion for him, he loves Philza sure, he loves Steven but he's never been IN love

He never realized how different those statements were before

Just like when he goes to many days without a kill the voices begin to get louder and louder, only this time he had no idea how to please them

Before he had lost everything he could lose he used to lock himself away during these fits

Know that he knows himself better, and how to control himself, he just goes around slaying any animal that crossed paths with him

Not the most elegant solution but it brought more peace to his mind

Now with no idea how to get the voices quiet he's resorted to quite literally trapping himself in his bunker

He know's your upset

He's convinced himself it's because of him

Theres no way in hell he's going to see you when all he can think about is how good you smell, how your smile makes his frozen heart melt, how soft your skin is compared to his own, how lovingly you adjust his clothes or armour after battle

All the while he scars the stone ground with his claws, chanting mantras alongside unheard voices

It had been a good two weeks since you had heard from the piglin. Not entirely unusual for you, as you rather detested the cool weather up in the arctic. However knowing there was some sort of conflict between you and your best friend made you restless at night, you couldn't keep ignoring him. He didn't deserve that, plus you missed Philza's morning tea, the smell of campfires that clung to everything in his house, the way Steve would bring sticks for you to toss. You missed the magnificent bastards that made up the Antarctic empire. More importantly, you missed Technoblade.

By the time you reached the cabin you had noticed it was unusually still. Steve and Carl were out in the yard, mosing about but there was no sign of Technoblade or Philza. They were both pretty hard workers, stubborn as hell as well, seeing as it was half past twelve you would expect the two of them to be running around doing chores. Surprisingly however it was still, perhaps they had things inside to do? Or maybe they took your suggestion for a lunch break a bit more seriously then expected.

Entering the cabin you call out for them, nothing, looking around you couldn't help but notice how much of a mess everything was. You had only ever seen the house in this much disarray before they traveled, or that time Phil let a creeper into the house and things got fucken wild. But, if traveling was the case why was Carl out front? And why was Techno's sword hung up on the mantle.

And unsettling feeling began to creep over your shoulders as you slowly begin to pick up the clutter. You couldn't come up with a reasonable explanation for things, so you decided to wait until you could come up with one or was given one. The sun had long set before Phil arrived at the house, clearly surprised to find you still sorting through chests. Clearly worried as well.

You turn to greet the man but are quickly cut off, "what are you doing here?" He ushers quickly shitting the door behind him. "I was looking for Technoblade, why is something happening? Is the butcher gang back?" You explain, chest tightening with unease. Something was seriously wrong. "No, no nothing like that we aren't in any danger. Technoblade is having another fit, he's not doing very well at the moment. It might be best for you to leave" Phil warned, his usual cheerful voice dripping with a nervousness you hadn't heard from him in a long time. You wave off the older gentleman scoffing, "Phil you're forgetting I used to go hunting with him I've seen him pretty bad-" "He's locked himself in his bunker. He doesn't even trust himself anymore, he won't eat nor sleep, whatever he has going on in his head is far more then the two of us can handle at the moment" Phil cut you off. You stood in shock, he locked himself away? Technoblade hasn't done that in.. years! What the hell was going on with him.

You wanted to believe Phil was lying to you, that Technoblade was off terrorizing villagers and he was just buying his companion time. But the genuine look of fear in his emerald eyes made your stomach sink. "He's not well Y/N, I certainly don't want him to come back to you dead or injured. He'll come through eventually, just not right now. " The blonde approached you and wrapped strong arms around your shoulders, you hadn't even realized that you were crying until he began to shush you.

"Listen, listen, stay the night here. It's too late for you to travel especially in this sort of weather, in the morning I'll take you back home, I'll let you know immediately when hes better" He assures you, pulling away to cup your face in his hands and wipe your tears with his thumbs. "Let's get you to bed, come on, let's go." Fatherly wasn't something you saw much in Phil anymore, but you couldn't deny how comforting it was, if not a bit embarrassing to have the man tuck you into Techno's sheets before turning out the lamp.

As you lay in the blood God's bed, listening intently to the sound of the howling wind you began to scheme. Something you did best was planning, and this night was no different. You had no idea how long Techno had been like this, if you had the time to curse yourself for avoiding him you would, but for the moment you just needed to make sure he wasn't dead. Slipping from his bedroom and past Phil's you gather a plate of rather light food, knowing he'd get sick if he ate something to heavy.

Stealing one of the Piglins cloaks you shield the food with your arms as you sneak our of the house. You knew Philza only had your best interest at heart, but he should have known better then to tell you your friend was in danger. Especially when that friend was less then a brisk walk away. By the time you get to the false wall your already shivering, the wind nipping at anything it could get at. Your nose was already beginning to run as you hit the disguised button and the wall drops.

At first you see nothing, the darkness and the snow fall blinding you to the scene in front of you. Stepping into what little shelter the cave provided you struggled to steady yourself after stepping on what looked to be the remains of a netherite chestplate. Hung up on the fact that he broke netherite with supposedly his bare hands you don't realize the Piglin lunging at you until your buried in the snow. Plates long discarded and broken you stare the husk of the man you knew in his wild eyes.

Almost like you could read the voices chants of your demise in the pools of ebony fear seemed to strike you harder then his fist. You heard your ribs breaking before you felt them, thank God for adrenaline. You felt nauseous, sick even as you blindly scratch and push at the weight on top of you. Grabbing a tusk by its base you pull left as hard as you can, taking his moment of unbalance to scramble away. Your hands grope for any sort of hold in the snowbank, desperate to get away from the beast on top of you. You dont make it far however before claws tear at the clothes and skin around your ankles, pulling you towards them with little care. Your screams of pain and/or fear are cut short by clawed hands tightening around your throat. Your pathetically small ones meet his, scratching desperately at the exposed hand with one while the other grabs a fist full of snow and smashes it into his face.

The white of the snow falling around you seemed denser then before, you felt cold, to your very bone under him. Under his stare. You've looked death before in the eyes, more then on one occasion, and you had never remembered them being so beautiful. For a split second you swear you hear another voice being carried by the wind, peeling your tear welled eyes from the piglin on top of you the fall towards the direction of the cabin, then at the shards of netherite. You had looked death in the eyes before, and you had yet to die. You weren't going to now.

Grabbing the shard and effectively slicing your hand open in the process you blindly begin to swing. Your chest burns, your skin burns, your vision is beginning to dim to nothing, all you can hear is the wind. Your stabs, or attempts at stabbing does little, with what minuscule amount of consciousness you have in yourself you get one finally blow, to somewhere before you cant feel anything anymore. You had never imagined death to feel so cold.

Technoblade's eyes begin to fall back into focus, pain driving the voices in his head silent as he looks down at the shard of netherite in his arm. More importantly his eyes fall onto a golden ring on the hand belonging to his attacker. A bear etched into its surface. That was Y/N's ring, he had given it to her for christmas. Anger flooding his chest he grinds his teeth, hands tightening around their neck. What right do they have to be wearing your ring? Dark eyes fall back down onto their attacker, bloodied and bruised.. and Y/N. His heart sunk faster then an anvil in a lake, scrambling backwards from your limp body he cant decide whether to look at you or his hands covered in your blood. No, no it couldn't be you, you were.. you were mad at him why would you come up? Why would you attack him?

Crawling to his side he lifted you into his arms, inspecting you closely. This had to be some sort of trick, some sort of lie? No, no you would never attack him you loved him, he loved you! That's why he was like this he was like this because he loved you! Scared lips began to quiver, and tears began to fall and subsequently freeze to his cheeks. No, no, no.

He couldn't think, his mind flooded with the screaming of the voices in his head, begging him to save you, to help you, to hold you. For once in his life he didnt know how, he couldn't save you. He had always been your knight in shining armour, and he cant save you.

He can't save you.

#blood for the blood god #mcyt x you #mcyt x y/n #dsmp x you #dsmp x reader #dsmp imagine #technoblade x you #technoblade x reader

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animesllut666 · 3 years

Text

Little thing for my man Nanami ❤️

Not proofread! Mild cursing.

Imagine being Gojo younger sibling, and Nanami never fucking knew. But he was best buds with you, like come over to his house kind of buds, hangout at his favorite bakery, he helps you out, you guys get drinks, hell even spent the night at his place a few times.

One day, your walking side by side, and he says "I have something to say," and your thinking "omfg .... He likes me." So you start to panic, cuz you LOVE Nanami to death, but not in that kind of way, or maybe you do???

So while your stuck in your head, he is trying to find the right way of telling you about his past youthful years at jujutsu high, and how to properly explain to you that there was a LITTLE CURSE FOLLOWING YOU. Though, it wasn't causing harm.

He wanted to be honest with you, and he knew he could trust you, and possibly hoped you didn't think he was crazy.

Cuz your a rational kind of person.

"I see things, that others or very few can't see," he just spits out, catching you off guard. You give him the most twisted and confused face ever, like did... Did he not know who you were??

Then it hit you, this guy, this FRIEND FOR THREE YEARS. HAD NO IDEA WHAT YOUR LAST NAME WAS, HOW IDK..

"My last name is Gojo," you blabber out, now CATCHING HIM OFF GUARD, his face twisting in straight dispear. " Please tell me your lying."

And that's when he heard him, the over joyous and annoying, barely does his work, voice, shouting "Y/N!! BABY SIBLING! Wh-Nanami!?" Satoru gasped in complete shock, it all made sense now why Nanami was always bitching about a past friend, that was slacking, gave his missions to his students, wouldn't leave him alone and found joy in the humiliation of others.

It fit your brother just perfectly, "No.. your joking." Nanami, stock and stone face Nanami, was surprised it was all over his face. And you just had to take a picture, while giggling, "Na! I've never seen you like this before."

Mother fucker just straight up walked back home, leaving both yourself and Satoru just standing there.

Highly amused, and entertained by what was going on, reliving the whole ordeal.

Making Nanami start to realize, that you two were a like in the enjoying humiliating others or rather the sheer joy of shock factor.

But he ends up favoring you more then Satoru, in the end. And you tell him later on, that the curse following you was something Geto had manifested for you. Why? Who knows, not even you.

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

I got bored, and wrote this out.

#jujutsu kaisen imagines #drabble jjk #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #jjk imagines #jjk x reader #jjk satoru #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen #jjk nanami #reader x nanami #jujutsu kaisen nanami #nanami kento

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nakachuchu · 4 years

Text

Medusa | Miyazawa Kenji

chapter eight of the Fairy Tales and Myths series

SYNOPSIS: Medusa inspired AU.

READER: female

WORDS: 1006

WRITTEN: 03/02/2021

Kenji lived in a small village where all the folks were nice to each other. There was the occasional bad seed, but they'd simply get sent to the dark cave in the part of the mountain that no one went to—except for Kenji.

He heard rumors and legends of a woman who turned men to stone. You were never seen leaving the cave, but you did at night to hunt for food.

Kenji decided to visit you. No one in the village knew because he knew they would try to stop him.

He brought a basket full of fruits and meat as an offering to you because he thought it would be a nice housewarming gift.

"Hello?" he called out.

He had his eyes closed because he heard that her stare was deadly. He could hear the hissing of snakes.

"You shouldn't be here. Are you a criminal?" you asked.

"No, I'm here to bring you food! I thought you'd be hungry and lonely," said Kenji.

"What? Why would you do that?"

"Because it's a nice thing to do. Plus, you must be lonely. I would be if I had to live in a cave all alone."

"I don't have to. I just prefer to," you said.

"Why?" he asked as he took a step forward.

"Don't come closer. I simply don't like men. That's it. Please leave. You seem like a nice person, so I'd rather not have something happen to you."

"You seem like a nice lady! Let's eat together," he said as he sat down on the floor, mindlessly opening the basket and taking the food out.

"Wha—Did you even listen to me?"

"I should be fine as long as I keep my eyes closed, right? Easy peasy."

"You're not listening to me at all," you muttered.

You gave him a wary look and your snakes hissed softly as you sat in front of the young man. He seemed innocent with his dirty and ruined overalls and the straw hat strapped around his neck.

"Here ya go!" he chirped as he handed you an apple. "My neighbors grow these apples and they're super tasty."

You took it from his hand and sniffed the apple for any poison. When you determined there was none, you bit into the apple.

It was sweet like he said. You didn't get to eat much fruit since it only grew in the village. You mainly ate bush berries and animal meat you hunted yourself.

"Why don't you come down to the village?" he asked.

"People aren't very fond of me, but neither am I of them," you said.

"How come?"

"You aren't afraid to ask questions, are you?" you asked.

"Nope! You seem like a really nice person to me."

"Peculiar," you murmured.

You weren't comfortable around men. They had ruined you in the past and laughed at your pretty tears as they had their way with you.

You had been cursed by the gods when you killed those men with a rock nearby. It was an atonement, they said.

You scoffed whenever you thought about it. You were protecting yourself but received a punishment instead.

From that day on, Kenji came at least weekly, if not every day. He would tell you stories about his day and his childhood, then ask you about yours.

You rarely responded at first but started opening up. Even a few of your snakes greeted him whenever he came by.

You found yourself waiting for him every day, and you even made a blindfold out of your clothes for him.

You didn't want to take the risk of him opening his eyes for any reason. You learned Kenji was not like those men. He was much more pure and happy, like a cute pup.

"Can I touch you?" he asked.

"I'm sorry?"

You were bewildered by his question and didn't know how to respond. You weren't ready for that.

"I want to picture what you look like," he said. "Can I touch your face?"

"Oh, yes, you can," you said as you tried to calm your racing heart.

With the blindfold on, he reached for your face. He patted your cheeks, silently in awe at how cool you felt.

He could feel a few patches of scales on your jawline and cheeks. He twitched when a snake bumped its nose onto his hand but continued to feel your face.

"You're so pretty," he breathed.

"I'm not," you retorted.

He shook his head. "You're the most beautiful person I've ever met. I wish I could see you."

"You can't," you said. "But...thank you. You're pretty too."

He smiled, retracting his hands. "Thanks!"

He didn't come to see you for another few days. You wondered if something happened to him, but forced yourself to wait.

Whenever you were feeling sad, your snakes would nudge their noses against your cheeks for comfort.

They were part of your curse and your friends at the same time.

On a particularly windy night, Kenji came by. The snakes heard him before you saw him, and you were happy to see him until you turned around.

"Kenji, what have you done?" you asked, taking in his bloody appearance.

"I killed everyone, Y/N. Now, we can be together in the village! You won't have to worry about anyone else ever again. I'll protect you," he promised with a closed-eye smile.

“I didn't ask you to. I never wanted you to get your hands dirty.”

“I don't mind. This is the least I can do for the person I love. Besides, look on the bright side, Y/N. You don't have to live in this cave anymore. We can grow fruit together and raise pets together. Maybe we’ll even have children,” he added.

You didn't know what to do. You had killed many men because of your curse and you never felt bad about it.

“You're right,” you murmured.

You had lived in the cave for years by your lonesome, but now you had someone who loved you regardless.

#bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd #bsd x reader #headcanon #imagine #Miyazawa Kenji #Miyazawa Kenji x reader #Kenji Miyazawa x reader #Kenji Miyazawa #bsd kenji

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janekfan · 4 years

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I'm a little hesitant about this prompt, because it might need a longer story to fill it, but based on reading your fics it may be to your taste for h/c? I've seen a few Geraskier stories where Geralt is cursed to lose his sight and hearing, but I'd be interested to read one where it's Jaskier who's cursed instead. You seem to like exploring growth in stories, and I could see Geralt having to step outside his comfort zone, learning to help and support Jask while they try to break the curse.

I was inspired by this prompt because in my youth, when families go to water parks and things, my mother insisted on holding my glasses so I wouldn't lose them, not realizing I cannot see hardly ANYTHING without them, just colors. She left me like half a dozen times in a throng of people and it was scary. And even though I kept telling her I couldn't SEE HER, she wouldn't listen. I felt scared and stupid because I couldn't keep track of my family.

So I hope you enjoy :D

Thank you for the prompt! @obscurebookwyrm

Sankofa

https://archiveofourown.org/works/25965268/chapters/63119659

“Geralt.”

“Hm.”

“I. What do you want me to say?” Jaskier’s grip on his lute tightened and he had to forcibly relax himself so as not to snap it in twain. “That you should have gotten hit with it instead? That you should be the one waiting for the effects of a curse to take hold so that I? The mighty bard can be the one to protect us both?”

“Hm.”

“Need I remind you that had you not pissed her off, we wouldn’t even be here?”

“Hm.”

“Fine. Leave me at the next village and I’ll just succumb to whatever this ends up being while you continue witchering or whatever.”

“Hm.” Roach picked up her pace and he could hear Jaskier curse Geralt’s stubbornness as he loped after them.

Geralt was angry. Angrier than usual with the musician and definitely not impressed with his self sacrifice because now, if anything, he would be an even bigger liability. It was bad enough he fumbled along behind him, constantly jabbering, writing the most ridiculous songs. But now, Geralt had to wait and see what would become of him now that he’d been hit with some unnamed affliction. Geralt refused to admit that Jaskier was right. That it was better that the stronger of them was curse free and able to continue on unimpaired.

But he was now an even larger inconvenience and Geralt hadn’t thought that was possible.

And yet.

As brave a face as he was putting on, he could smell the sour scent of anxiousness as Jaskier filled up the silence with more talk about inane things, stray lyrics, random observations, all because he was nervous.

Nothing happened yet. Maybe nothing would happen at all.

“Geralt.” Even and steady, Jaskier’s voice hovered somewhere to the left of him. There was something strange about the quality of it and it immediately set Geralt on edge.

“What?” He couldn’t help the exasperation, it had been a long few days, and he felt Jaskier tense beside him on his bed roll.

“There.” He paused and Geralt knew if he turned to look at him he’d be worrying his lip between his teeth.

“What?” They were late as it is, the sun three fingers above the horizon already.

“There are no stars.” His whispering was shaky and trembling. Fear. It was flooding Geralt’s sensitive nose. What was this lunatic on about? Of course there weren’t any stars.

“It’s late morning. Of course there aren’t.” He rolled his eyes and began packing up camp. They’d eat on the move to make up for lost time. He nudged Jaskier with the toe of his boot. “Get up. You’re wasting daylight.”

“Daylight.” His hand was hovering over his face and he kicked him a little harder.

“Yes. Daylight. Move or stay here, but I’m leaving.” Instead of following his directions, Jaskier swallowed a few times, blinking hard and staring at his palm in between. “Jaskier.” Growling, grabbing the collar of his chemise and slinging him to his feet himself, confused when his arms shot out for balance and he nearly fell. “What are you--are you drunk?” No. He’d smell it. But it was all becoming a little too clear and Geralt didn’t want to be the one to say it aloud.

“No.” A weak exhale, a disbelieving laugh. “I’m. I’m blind.”

Blind.

The curse.

“Are you sure?” Geralt was a hair's breadth away from his face, examining his eyes, blank and vacant and staring off into the distance despite their proximity. There was nothing wrong that he could tell. Still the same cornflower blue he was so familiar with.

“I think I’d know.” He scoffed.

“Then we’d better get moving.” Geralt couldn’t help it, the thread of anger twisting around his words just happened. All Jaskier seemed to do was slow him down and get in the way. “Find a way to break this thing.” It took the bard three times longer to pack his belongings and Geralt became more impatient every time he dropped something or stubbed his toe or lost his balance. He knew it wasn’t fair. But this was all the bard’s fault in the first place and he’d have to deal with the consequences.

Jaskier played his lute even more and was even slower, not yet sure on his feet without the advantage of sight. Geralt saw that he kept his ear canted towards Roach’s hooves crunching on the stones, using her as a guide and he wondered if maybe Jaskier should be riding her instead. The music he was picking out on his strings was simpler and felt more like practice than anything new and he realized that he was comforting himself with easy exercises and wondered how long he’d insist on doing it.

All day, it turned out, and Geralt was just about on his last nerve, turning his irritability into action by setting up camp and batting Jaskier out of his way, finally just sitting him in the dirt. He stoked up the fire, tossed down Jaskier’s bedroll and stalked off to find dinner and clear his head before he started yelling.

When he returned with a brace of rabbits, Jaskier was gone and Geralt swallowed down the spike of panic in his throat, dropping his catch and looking for signs of a struggle and instead finding odd marks that looked like Jaskier had crawled across the ground. And he found him, cowering amid Roach’s legs, a dangerous spot for probably anyone else, but she was as calm as ever, letting him stroke the length of her forelimb. There were drying tear tracks on his face.

“G’Geralt?” His voice was small and wavering, barely above his shaking breath.

“Who else would it be?”

“I didn’t know where you’d gone.” He didn’t leave the horse. “I, I called out. But. And then. There’s a lot of noises in the woods at night.” This laugh was self deprecating, as though he knew how ridiculous he was being, like a child hiding from shadows.

But his whole world was in shadow.

“You’ve camped before. It’s foolish to be afraid.”

“Y’yeah. Of course it is.” He extricated himself from his position beneath Roach, petting her neck, and Geralt let it be. “Thank you for your protection, good lady.” She lipped the collar of his doublet and he rested his cheek on her velvet nose for just a moment before stumbling back to his bedroll.

“Here.” Jaskier looked confused. “The rabbit. Dinner?”

“Oh, uh.” He reached out, drawing his hand quickly back when he burned the tips of his fingers and slipping them into his mouth for a second. “Ha, it’s hot.” Geralt yanked his wrist and pressed the stick he’d roasted the meat on against his palm and watched Jaskier’s fingers wrap around it reflexively.

“Just eat. We’ll figure this out tomorrow.”

They didn’t. Not the next day, nor the day after that, but Jaskier was trying to adjust more and more each day despite how he seemed to be withdrawing. It was easy to forget he was blind and Geralt was easily frustrated by his sense of direction, or rather the awful lack of it. More than once, he’d misjudged the path and toppled into the bushes. Twice, Geralt had come back from a hunt to find him trapped in the corner of their rented room. He’d gotten turned around and hadn’t been able to figure out how he was boxed in by the bed, the small table, a chair. Jaskier laughed it off.

He’d been upset each time.

At the market the next day, Geralt told him off handedly that he was heading to the blacksmith, and to catch up when he was ready, because usually he wanted to dither about at the stalls looking at some trinket or another. When he’d finally realized, tapping his foot and waiting for a blind man who didn’t know his way around this village to somehow find him, he followed his scent, laced with terror, to an alley where he’d pressed himself up tight to the wall, protecting his back. They didn’t speak, Geralt just grabbed his wrist and dragged him back to the room. Told him to stay there if he couldn’t figure out how to find his way around.

The hurt on his face cut like a blade.

“Get down and stay down.” Geralt shoved Jaskier’s face into the dirt, both of them narrowly avoiding decapitation when the beast attacked out of nowhere. Caught flat footed, Geralt found himself pinned to the ground, struggling under the weight of it and hooking his thumbs in the corners of its maw to keep the teeth from closing around his head. Fetid breath came closer and closer and he thought for a moment this might be it when the resounding crack of a tree limb colliding with the side of its skull stunned it enough for Geralt to kick it off him. He used the momentum to roll and draw his steel sword, cutting off its head with a wet and sickening squelch.

“Geralt?” Jaskier, covered in black ichor and mud, stood swaying in the road, clinging to a length of splintered wood, blind eyes wide with shock. And then, panting with horror, Jaskier fainted dead away.

He’d lost him again.

“Fuck.” Geralt didn’t know where or how long ago and began retracing his steps, scenting the air and picking up the faintest traces of the oils he’d used last night in the bath. It was tainted by the smell of fear, acrid and sharp, and he ran.

Saw Jaskier pinned up against a wall by a larger man than he, a broad, ugly hand clasped over his mouth and a knee between his thighs. He was struggling to breathe, high pitched whimpering slipped from behind his attacker’s palm and he grabbed a fistful of hair to slam the back of Jaskier’s head into the wall behind him.

The brute didn’t notice the knife slipped between his ribs until it was too late. He’d die in this place and Geralt wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it.

“Who--” He sobbed, choked. “Geralt?” Tears cascaded down his cheeks, slipped off his chin.

“Who was that?” Why couldn’t he be kind to Jaskier when he needed it most? Why did he let his own fear of the situation manifest as blame?

“He’d. Solicited me in the tavern and I told him no.” He shuddered. “I thought he might be following but.” He swallowed with a wet click. “You were walking so fast, I lost the sound of your steps.” Drawing a sharp intake of breath he swept a hand through his tousled hair, trying to calm himself down. Geralt could hear his heartbeat hammering madly away behind his breastbone.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jaskier flinched at his volume, hugging himself around his middle and casting his face to the ground, and if Geralt was a stronger man he would tell his bard that this was not his fault. That he was scared of what he almost let happen.

“I. You were angry.”

“What?” With the heel of his hand, Jaskier scrubbed at his face. His bruised face, the imprints from where he was held darkening around his mouth and neck.

“You said I needed to figure this out and. I.” Had been snatched off the street by a predator and very nearly badly hurt. “I forgot my dagger back at the inn.” He took a deep breath, and then another. “I’m sorry, that was. That was stupid.”

“Hm.” It wasn’t. He should have been safe with Geralt in broad daylight. This time he took his hand, laced their fingers together and squeezed. “Let’s go.”

Exhausted from his earlier panic, Jaskier could barely stand when they reached the room, and Geralt helped him the last few steps to the bed, divesting him of doublet and chemise to expose even more bruising. He should have killed the guy slower. Much slower.

“Sorry. I’m sorry you have to do this.” Barely above a whisper. “I shouldn’t have. This curse.”

“Hush.” Geralt wrung out a cloth in the wash basin, touched it to his face and caught him when he jerked away in fear and surprise. “It’s alright. Just me. I’m going to get you cleaned up, Jaskier.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Muttering, he reached for the flannel.

“I know. Just. Relax, alright?” He swept it up his arm, lingered at the space between his neck and shoulder. “I’ve got you. I’m. Going to do better, Jaskier.”

“What do you mean?” This time, he allowed the touch and Geralt dabbed at a cut on his lip before rinsing and wringing again.

“You’ll ride Roach. In towns, I won’t let you out of my sight.” Jaskier was relaxing, blinking sleepily.

“You can’t babysit me all the time, Geralt.” Though he detected the hope that he wouldn’t have to keep doing this alone beneath his voice.

“No. But I can take care of you until we find a way to break this. Like I should have been doing from the start.” Jaskier’s head was nodding as he fought to stay awake. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

Geralt let Jaskier sleep in. The man was dead to the world, bruises stark on his pale skin, and no doubt exhausted from the day before and trying to manage as a newly blind being basically traveling alone. They had to get moving. Maybe Yennefer would understand how to break this curse or at least point them in a direction. But they had to find her first.

“Jaskier.” There was no response, not even a twitch, and Geralt spoke his name louder, and louder still before shaking him awake and dodging his flying fist. “Jaskier!” Nothing but panic in his face and Geralt was tired of seeing that there. He settled his hands over his shoulders, cupped his neck on either side. “Jaskier, what is it? A bad dream?” That wasn’t uncommon after an experience like he’d had.

“Geralt?” His breathing picked up, tears lined his dark lashes. “I.” The witcher snapped his fingers on either side of his head and watched his stricken face stay the same. “Geralt?” This time he drew Jaskier into an embrace, hugging him tightly and allowing him to do the same.

Because he couldn’t hear.

#prompt #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier #Jaskier #Geralt #Blindness #Deaf #Curse #hurt comfort

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vimesbootstheory · 3 years

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Stressed out that this batch of books (eps 141-150 of the Overdue Podcast) took me two months instead of one lol. I'm three books behind to read 100 books in 2021. Any here's what I thought of these books.

Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier [4.0 stars] -- I had to read the first couple pages multiple times before I could properly get into this book, but once I was in, I was IN. Some excellent unreliable narrator stuff going on here, reminds me of The Turn of the Screw a little that way. The unnamed narrator is a realistic portrayal of self-involved anxiety and a weak will without being frustrating. Mrs. Danvers is terrifying while being pretty understandable. Rebecca's a stone-cold bad-ass, love her. Oh, and Beatrice! She's great too. As I write this I'm realizing the female characters were definitely better-realized than the male characters -- Frank kinda went nowhere and Maxim's pretty useless when he's not being an asshole. I will say that the story went downhill once The Reveal happened, then it turned into kind of a court procedural with endless ups and downs, made me feel jerked around. Good book overall, though. The Last of the Wine by Mary Renault [3.5 stars] -- This was very dense, ultimately a good read but a challenging one. I didn't know much about Greek history reading this, and I believe that's a disadvantage when reading this book. The book details real events and real people throughout, and to me the majority was nothing more familiar to me than fiction, with the exception of a couple of names, like Sokrates (as it is spelled here) and Plato. The most interesting thing about this book is its portrayal of Alexis and Lysis. I think they would have been more difficult to digest had there been any sexual content in the book about them. I assumed that they probably were in a sexual relationship, but that was entirely off-page. As it is, they read more like an asexual romantic relationship or just best friends who take the concept of "best friends" very seriously. There is no real modern equivalent. There is little internal introspection, not a lot of opportunity to get to know anybody. (Also, requisite mention, there are almost no female characters and the relevance of all female characters are just as supporting family members/sex workers/love interests.) It's hard to believe that the Greeks actually spent THAT much time philosophizing, but what do I know? Maybe there just wasn't anything else to do. A Good Man is Hard to Find and Other Stories, by Flannery O'Connor [3.5 stars] -- I think this would have been better consumed one story at a time, instead of reading the entire collection from start to finish. You definitely start to notice a trend in how the stories end, such that they begin to become predictable -- usually some unlikely victim's personal journey is interrupted by a cruel and abrupt death or severe misfortune, some post-Civil war southern US white people are casually racist, some religion thrown in. I've always thought I'd like Southern Gothic literature but I think I thought there was some spooky element to Southern Gothic, not like ghosts-and-goblins kinda spooky but like... foreboding swamps and cursed lynching sites. This is just crotchety racists, not sure I'm as compelled as I thought I'd be. The story endings were definitely the best part. Catch-22 by Joseph Heller [3.25 stars] -- This was the best case I've ever seen presented for preferring print books to audiobooks. I consumed this via audiobook, and please take that into consideration when you read my impressions of Catch-22. The audiobook I listened to was awful, really genuinely terrible. But I won't get into that, because this is a review of the book, not the audiobook. I like humour books, in fact statistically it might even be my favourite kind of book (though Pratchett wrote 40+ of my favourite books adn should not have been counted). I can't even decide whether this book was funny or not. I found it obnoxious most of the time, but when I focused up and took the words as they were and not how they were being read, sometimes I found it funny. This is making me sound like a broken record, but this book is incredibly misogynistic, all the female characters are seen as opportunities for sex or sexual violence. A Confederacy of

Dunces, by John Kennedy Toole [3.0 stars] -- This book grew on me, though that does say a lot since, when I started, I was pretty sure it wasn't my kind of book. Maybe it's more accurate to say that Ignatius grew on me, as detestable as he's painted to be. Yes, he's incredibly selfish and very rude to his mother, but I liked how he kind of took a circuitous route around his bull-headedness to arrive upon progressive ideas by the back way. A lot of people point to this book as being very accurate in portraying its setting, but maybe it's one of those setting accuracies where it mainly resonates if you already live there. It just felt like any ole American town to me, outside of the demographic make-up. I read this via audiobook and the audiobook narrator somehow made this book MORE racist by doing a "black voice" for all the black characters, made me wince every time it happened. Possibly the portrayals of black people are just as cartoonish in print, I don't know. Things Fall Apart, by Chinua Achebe [2.75 stars] -- This made me think about how I can divide up a book's value to me personally in roughly two categories: books I'm glad I read because it exposed me to something valuable for me to experience, and books I enjoy. The ideal is for a book to be both, obviously. This book is firmly the former. I can't discount the value of reading a book about a culture I know very little about. At the same time, I can't honestly say that I looked forward to picking this up again after each reading sitting. It has a lot of emotional distance from its characters and doesn't really allow for growing to know them. I don't think it's worth the time criticizing the main character for his clear misogyny and violence because it's pretty clear to me that that is part of the point of the character, that was intentional and the narrative condemns him for it. I didn't care for the infrequent glimpses into "redeeming" parts of his inner world, where it was like "but he loved his surrogate son really he just didn't show it" like show me why I should give a fuck if it never impacts what happens lol. It's weird as a white person reading the author's very "both sides are bad and both sides are good" perspective re: the white Christian colonizers. Not that that's invalid just like... I'm not sure how to explain it. Re: my personal digestion of the material (which is a tangent from this ostensibly being a review of the book, I recognize), I wouldn't feel comfortable adding that perspective to my understanding of racial dynamics in any kind of fundamental way because I don't think it would be helpful for unlearning racist socialization. Hope that makes sense. Wuthering Heights, by Emily Brontë [2.75 stars] -- If we're keeping track (and I am), so far Anne is my favourite Brontë sister. Haven't read any Charlotte yet, but Emily has lost out of the top spot. There were long stretches of this where my eyes just glazed over and I had to force myself to digest any of it. I didn't really start paying attention until Catherine Sr was on her deathbed. I went into the book knowing that Heathcliff was regarded as a dark and brooding romantic figure, but one that people kind of make fun of because he's violent and grumpy and terrorizes everyone. I feel like I got all of that except the romantic part, there was much less focus on him and Catherine than I was expecting. The bright points for me were Cathy Jr's respective romantic relationships, because they weren't nearly as melodramatic... or maybe they were just as melodramatic, but she's a child so it didn't seem as overblown. Around the World in Eighty Days, by Jules Verne [1.75 stars] -- Wow! Now That's What I Call Racism! Arguably the most significant value of this story is a window into the colonialism-loving perspective of people with Verne's background in the late 1800s. Sure, I could have guessed it was pretty much like this, but it's one thing to imagine and another to read about the supremacy of English culture in black ink on white page. I feel like this book skates by for some on the fact that

it was written in old timey-times, but like. The 1870s weren't THAT long ago. Moby-Dick was written decades before and, though not perfectly racially sensitive by any means, was certainly better than this. I really don't get why a writer would choose to write a main character like Fogg. It's just not a great idea. A book with a tight time limit SHOULD be terrifically tense, but Around the World completely lacks tension entirely because of Fogg's iron certainty and unfailing exactitude. He's always right, so we as readers never doubt that he will ever be wrong. Sure, by narrative conventions we know that he will probably make it around the world in 80 days, but because of that, the characters MUST bear the tension to make the time limit compelling. And they don't. Passepartout gets a lil stressed sometimes but he's portrayed as foolish for doing so. Also the twist at the end was obvious, with the whole foreshadowing bit with the watch, the whole time I was like "OK but they're fine because they're travelling east so they have a day's buffer time". Fifty Shades Freed, by E.L. James [1.25 stars] -- The extra quarter of a star is my relief at having finished. It's not so much Fifty Shades who's freed, but me! I don't have to go through any more self-imposed agony! I never did HAVE to but if there's any challenge I can't refuse, it's my own. Don't ask me to have too many actual thoughts on this. It's Fifty Shades, we're not expecting much here. Hilarious how the book crams in just a smidge of actual plot at the end, with manufactured character drama. Would have preferred an ending where Ana woke up to how abusive her husband is, and just smothered the guy in his sleep. Unfortunately, it's happily ever after for them.

#erin reads overdue books #rebecca #the last of the wine #flannery o'connor #catch-22 #a confederacy of dunces #things fall apart #wuthering heights #around the world in eighty days #daphne du maurier #emily bronte #jules verne

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levbug · 4 years

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𝐒𝐀𝐅𝐄— 𝐚𝐤𝐚𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢 𝐤.

#pairing ー akaashi keiji x royal! gender neutral! reader

#warnings ー royalty au! a few curses here and there. also a mentioning of being locked up, not getting fed enough, arranged marriage (its the plot do beware), marriage to men older than 50 to a younger person, death of natural causes

#wc ー 2.2k

you lay on the grass with akaashi, enjoying the view of the stars above you. it had been months since you two have done this, and you could never tell when the next time would be, so you just savoured the rare calmness you only felt when you were with the boy.

as each day passed and your arranged wedding was nearing, you and akaashi found yourselves getting busier and not having enough time to spend with each other. it broke both your hearts' that, soon, you'd be married and it wouldn't be to him.

you desperately wished to be wed to him, but you were from different worlds: you being royalty and akaashi being the prince's, your brother's, most trusted servant. it wasn't acceptable in the eyes of others.

"so what if it isn't? it's not anyone's business on who i fall in love with. let them say whatever." you had responded angrily to akaashi after he brought it up. he shook his head and held your face gently between his calloused hands.

"i know, your highness, but it's not as simple as it sounds." he kissed your forehead. you relaxed as his lips touched your skin, smiling as you heard him address you by your royal title. his silly nickname for you made you forget about your anger. akaashi was the only one who could do that to you.

the consequence of marrying a commoner seemed like nothing, but it was everything. you would lose your royal status and be forbidden to ever see your family again. it was a cruel punishment, but you were tempted to disobey the rules and do it. maybe even start your own family with akaashi and live in the town.

but every time you saw koutarou's infectious grin, or heard your father's booming laugh that couldn't help but make everyone around him chuckle as well, or caught glimpse of your mother's soft (eye colour) eyes that matched yours, you would second-guess yourself. you loved your family, but you also loved akaashi.

akaashi had convinced you to stay with your family, despite wanting nothing but to go to marry and live the rest of his life with you. he had seen how torn you were and and decided to be selfless, saying he'd be happy to just be able to see you everyday surrounded by those you loved.

koutarou knew of your situation, but there was nothing he could do. he wouldn't become king soon enough, definitely not in time for your wedding, so he couldn't change the rules or call off the marriage. he knew how much you loved akaashi, just looking at you he could tell, and it saddened him that he was helpless in this situation.

your betrothed was the king of seijoh. he was a sleazy old guy with a bad temper and horrible manners. he was at least thirty years your senior and you'd be his sixth spouse. he disgusted you to no end. he touched you inappropriately on the first night you met and when you called him out on it, he dismissed it as a good ol' joke.

he had only chosen you to be his spouse because he saw a painting of you and deemed you physically acceptable. you knew if he found out about your courtship with akaashi, he'd have you executed, as he had with his last spouse. he was globally revered and he knew it, using it to his own advantage.

"keiji?" you called to him softly. he looked down at you with his beautiful dark blue eyes, awakening the butterflies in your stomach. 'gosh, keiji, you never fail to make me feel this way.' you thought, staring back up at him, cheeks heating up under his soft yet intense stare.

"yes, love?" he said softly, voice barely above a whisper. your heart rate sped up a bit at the nickname, as it was rare for him to call you anything but your given name or 'your highness'.

"i don't want to get married to that creepy old fucktard." your sudden statement caught akaashi off-guard and he couldn't help but chuckle. he found it amusing how even if you were raised to be 'proper' and speak only the politest words, you would do the exact opposite.

"well, you don't have much of a choice. when the king says he wants you, it's you he's gonna get." akaashi said, sitting up so he could look at you. "no matter how disgusting it sounds, it's our reality."

"i know, i know...it's just surreal how someone can just choose who they want to marry and the other has no choice but to accept, because if they didn't, it would possibly result in war." you sat up as well, glaring at the ground in frustration. akaashi noticed how riled up you were getting and held your hand in his, tracing small circles on the back of it.

"you know i love you, right?" he said, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. "if i could, i'd fight that sorry excuse of a king for your hand in marriage."

smiling at his sincerity, you scooted closer to him and leaned you head on his shoulder. you felt tears well up in your eyes as you thought of all those days and sleepless nights you had spent imagining your future with the boy who sat next to you.

"i wish i could stay and keep the life i made with you." you sighed. akaashi closed his eyes and just listened to your soft voice. "it's true, i'll never be over you because i've built a future in my mind with you and now hope is gone. there's nothing left for me to do."

akaashi's eyes opened as he heard this. "that's not true. as much as i hate to think of a life without you, you don't need me. you're wonderful, bright, and young. you don't need my love to continue living. and don't bother arguing, because we both know i'm right."

tears threatened to fall from you eyes and it took everything in you to not cry. "listen, (first name), i hope you know i love you, because i really do and i can't say it enough, but with the king, you'll survive. you'll be safe with him, and i'll be content knowing you are."

the tears you had been trying to stop earlier were now falling freely from your cheeks. akaashi took you into his arms and hugged you tightly, rocking you back and forth in attempts to calm your crying.

when your sobbing had been reduced to small whimpers and sniffles, akaashi held you at arm's length to look you in the eye. "k-keiji, puh-please promise me you'll al-lways love me." you hiccuped, your puffy red eyes staring at him desperately.

"i promise. and you promise to always love me?"

"i suh-swear."

akaashi had been wrong about one thing; you were not safe with the king. it had taken years for you to return to your home because the king had forbade you from ever visiting fukurodani when he found out you and akaashi had been exchanging letters.

the old sleaze had treated you like a prisoner, only letting you out of your room when there was an event or when there were visitors and he needed eye candy.

his son, tooru, had been much kinder to you. he was a year older than you and was extremely attractive. you thought you would've fallen for him if you weren't already head over heels for akaashi.

tooru would sneak up to the tower you were locked in and bring you some food, knowing that they didn't feed you enough. you were eternally grateful for him and constantly let him know.

one day, though, tooru was earlier than he usually came and this time he was accompanied by two guards. you recognized one as iwaizumi, as he had also occasionally given you extra food, but the other one had pink hair and you weren't familiar with him.

"tooru, is everything alright?" you asked the taller male as you heard keys jingling in the cell's lock. you were sure there was no event tonight, since usually a handmaid would be the one at the door, never the prince. "did something happen?”

"i'll explain it to when you get out." his usually cheery voice was devoid of all emotion. the door swung open and you jumped back, startled. the two guards helped you stand up.

you were a bit wobbly on your feet, as you hadn't been let out in a month. the guards noticed though, and held you by your arms gently as you walked down the stairs.

a million thoughts rushed through your head as you descended down the tower. was koutarou alright? was this about your family or fukurodani? were you being sent to execution? tears welled up in your eyes at the last thought, knowing full well that the king was merciless enough to kill you for no reason.

when you had made it down the last flight of stairs, you were sat on a soft, plush couch which contrasted to the cold, hard stone floors in your tower. tooru sat in front of you with a somber expression.

"my father is dead. he died last night of natural causes." he said grimly. as much as you hated the king, he was still tooru's father and you couldn't help but sympathize with the grieving man. the king had taken so much from you, but your humanity was not one of them. "you can go back to your kingdom, now."

"tooru, i...i'm sorry about your father." he nodded, and you knew those weren't the right words to say. you couldn't grasp the idea that the king was dead and you were just stunned at the fact that you were free again. "when will your coronation be?"

"friday." he responded with not an ounce of emotion. his usually bright brown eyes were dull. you pitied the poor man and suddenly embraced him. he was surprised by this but didn't pull away. soon enough, soft sobs could be heard from him.

you had decided to stay until tooru's coronation and then head home. the brunette appreciated your thoughtfulness immensely and promised he would visit you whenever he would have the chance.

when you arrived to fukurodani, you were immediately swarmed by journalists and reporters on the docks. they asked questions about your time at seijoh and what it was like to marry an older guy like the late king. it was nerve-wracking to be surrounded by so many people after being isolated for so long and you felt your anxiety building up within you.

luckily your guards had gotten you out of their reach and now you were on your way to the palace. your home. where your family resided. where akaashi was.

keiji.

everyday for four years you had daydreamed of what your life would have been like if you had married him instead. everyday for four years you wished to see his face and hear his gentle voice. everyday for four years you longed to be in his embrace.

when you had stepped through the palace doors, you had immediately run into your brother's arms. the king had been surprised by your informal greeting, but hugged you back, as he had also missed his sibling.

one you had pulled away from koutarou's embrace, you caught sight of the familiar messy black hair and gun-metal blue eyes you had fallen in love with.

you ignored koutarou's protests as you sprinted into akaashi's arms, making the boyーer, manーgrunt from the force of impact and stumble a bit before catching himself from falling.

as a result of so many years of not getting enough human contact, you had become a touchy person, constantly hugging others or touching their hands or arms as if to remind yourself that they were real. that this wasn't some concocted reality. as if looking for comfort.

when akaashi wrapped his arms around you though, you felt a heat flood through your body. it made you feel human, after years of being treated lesser than a pet. it was like a warm blanket placed on your shoulders after jumping into a cold lake. it felt like the feeling of sipping hot cocoa near the fireplace after playing in the snow for hours.

it was like waking up from a bad dream.

akaashi felt you shaking, hearing you sob breathlessly between his arms and looked at you concernedly. but he noticed that you weren't crying because you were sad or scared, you were crying in relief.

he wondered how awful the king had treated you. it angered him that he could hurt you so much. you noticed akaashi's furrowed eyebrows and the dark look in his expressive eyes, telling him to relax because it was fine now. everything was good. you were okay. you were fine.

you were safe.

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literary-spirit · 3 years

Text

Chapter 5

The next day after first meal Bjorn, Torvi, and Bonnie cleaned out Rollo's old keep. The place was filthy. Rats the size of small puppies had made the place home and she wasn't entirely sure they weren't leaving without a knock down drag out. Aside from the rats, cobwebs and huge furry spiders dominated every crack and crevice in the structure. The situation was so dismal, she'd begun to have second thoughts. By the smug expression on Bjorn's face, she could tell he already knew she was about two seconds away from begging him to stay. Yet, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Not even if she had to accept canine inspired rodents

and tarantula like spiders as her new housemates.

Once they removed most of the dry rotted furniture and she'd thoroughly scrubbed the wooden plank floors with the same lard soap they actually used to bathe with, Bjorn said they were done for the time being. Since several hours of sunlight still remained in the day, Bjorn opted to go fishing at the harbor, while Torvi went off to train with the keep's other shield maidens. Bonnie decided to remain behind to work on a spell that would transform the ingredients she gathered the day before into things needed for her hygienic care.

From the first incantation, she could tell something was off. To say something was different with her magic would've been an understatement. Kind of like calling the sun sort of hot. Yeah, she'd always been powerful, thanks to her lineage, but there was altogether a new level of potency to her sorcery. Even the aftereffect of her spell presented in a way it had never done before. This new development caused simple enchantments that had become second nature to her, to get all twisted. And after about an hour of dealing with the same results over and over again, the frustration was fucking real! She slapped some of the ingredients off the stone table.

Damn it! She hadn't had a bath in almost four days. Pretty soon, she would be looking and smelling like who did it and why the hell you let it happen. "Shit, I wish I had my L'Occitane Almond Shower Scrub Duo from home in my hands right now!"

A tingling sizzle tickled the palms before the body scrub duo materialized in her hands. Shock nearly drove her to drop the containers, but she recovered in time and placed them on the table. Holy hell? What is happening? She stared at the half-used bottles from her and Niklaus' master bathroom. How the hell did she conjure these? She wasn't a conjurer. But then again, did she really conjure them or wish for them? Wait! Then did that mean she'd somehow fucked over the immortal witch spell and now she was a got damn Jinn?! She didn't wanna be a Jinn!

Shit! Stay calm. She shouldn't panic and since Jinns couldn't make wishes themselves there's no way she could be one. Hell, she could prove she wasn't a Jinn and correct one of their latest fuck ups in the process.

She closed her eyes and whispered, "I wish I was home." Slowly, her lids lifted to reveal the same hovel she stood in before she closed her eyes. An ache cracked her chest wide, "I don't understand. Why am I here?"

"To save my sons," an imperious, but deferential voice said from behind her.

She spun around to find the Queen of Kattegat, standing in her little hole in the wall. "Queen Aslaug." Her head dipped in a bow.

"Please, do not bow to me. It is I who should bow to you," she swept down in a graceful bow. "The sorcery within demands that I must. The mystical energy that surrounds you overwhelms and amazes."

Not knowing what the hell else to say, Bonnie focused on the Queen's prior admission. "Why'd you say I'm here to save your sons?"

"Because it is the truth. I dreamt of you, before you arrived," Queen Aslaug moved around the stone table, eyeing the shower scrub duo as she went. Once in front of her she stopped and clasped hands with her. "Your presence balances the scales against the many calamities waiting to wreak havoc on us all. I've foreseen it."

"Queen Aslaug-," she began.

"Let us not provoke the gods by further talks of this nature," she squeezed Bonnie's hands before releasing them. "You should go sit by the water in the cove before second meal."

Bonnie grabbed her shower duo from the stone table and placed them in the now empty basket. "Well, I did wanna wash." She gathered her last day dress, which was stiff, rough, brown, and barely grazed her ankles. It, however, was clean.

"Then wash you must," Queen Aslaug cosigned. Her gaze darted around the keep, "Bjorn, informed me you'll be residing here." She turned back to face Bonnie. "I'd offer for you a bench in the great hall, but I believe you to prefer privacy over comfort."

Bonnie gripped the handle of the basket with both hands. "That's true."

Queen Aslaug nodded. "While you're gone, I'll have thralls come finish putting your keep to rights."

"Thank you," Bonnie said.

"It is the very least I can do," Queen Aslaug said before turning to leave.

****

After her shower under the waterfall Bonnie felt more like herself. Though she was still confused by all that had transpired since she fell backwards in time at least she'd gained some stability. Now she'd be able to start gathering the pieces and putting things together. Once she finished oiling her body she redressed and headed back into the woods. Not long into her trek she realized she was being stalked. The sun had begun to make its descent. She didn't have long before darkness fell and whatever stalked her attempted to turn her cakes into a meal.

She thought about making a run for it but every show she'd ever seen on animal planet cautioned to never willingly offer chase to a predator. Yet, she was a melanin gifted woman in a melanin challenged land, slasher flick rule numero uno demanded that she haul ass. Decisions. Decisions. Decisions.

Bonnie released a harassed sigh. She neither wanted to get sweaty or bloody, "Look, you and I both know you're there so come on out. If you're gonna try and kill me you can at least face me before you carry out the deed."

A collection of seconds turned into a minute before she finally saw movement in the multiplying shadows. Moments later a shit ton of wolves varying in sizes and color inched forth on their bellies into the fading light of day.

Each kept their heads resting on their front paws and their eyes downcast. A wolf the size of a small pony covered in golden white fur with a pair of crystal blue eyes

continued to creep forward until his snout practically touched the toe of her shoe. Werewolves? In the Viking era? Of course, there are because no matter what the weird and freaky better known as the supernatural always seemed to know exactly where to find her! She was a fucking beacon for the strange and unexplained.

Bonnie squatted to trail her finger through the tufts of fur between his ears. "How are you all in your wolf forms when there hasn't been a full moon since I arrived. Either you're hybrid or cursed and since it'll be over another hundred years before the first hybrid is made, then you must be cursed." She trailed her hands over the length of the wolf's body. Though she sensed wild but potent magic, she didn't sense any dark energy it would take to invoke a curse. "Yet, I don't sense any dark magic." She stared into the wolf's eyes, "You fur babies must be something else altogether."

The wolf shimmered from canine to man, and then stood. One minute a gorgeous animal sat facing Bonnie, and the next all she saw was a slab of meat wearing a turtleneck of golden hair. She glanced up into a face that was cloaked in shadows by the light of the sun. For a moment, her next heartbeat refused to pound.

"Klaus?" She whispered.

A hand reached down to help her up. "I'm known as Ansel, Goddess."

"Ansel..." Wait, could he be..., "Why did you call me goddess?"

He laughed and the corners of his eyes crinkled the way Klaus' did when something genuinely amused him. "Because that is what you are, the Goddess of Twilight."

Her eyes popped. What in the Stephanie Meyer madness was he talking about? "E-excuse me who?"

"The prophecy foretold your arrival," Ansel said, still clasping her hand in his. "It was divined, your appearance would relink the descendants of Fenrir with their witchery lineage thereby affording us control over our shift."

This sounded like some sun and moon curse mumbo jumbo. Disregarding his nudity, she stepped closer. "Who spoke of this prophecy to you?" Maybe this person was a millennial throwback as well.

"We've always known of this foretelling," Ansel said, punching holes through the hope she'd managed to gather, "but the one who came before you did confirm the prophecy would come to past."

"The one who came before me?" She questioned, practically dripping desperation.

"Yes, the dark woman," Ansel answered, his eyes searching hers. "She lives deeper in the forest. Not many non-shifters venture that far into the woods. For those who have a mind to try, there are spells and curses in place to ensure no one unwanted reaches her."

"Ansel, I have to speak with her," she dropped her basket and covered both of their hands with her other, "Can you take me to her?"

His head bobbed. "Come," he knelt and picked up her basket, "it'll be quicker if you hoist yourself on my back."

****

By the time they made it to the tiny shack deep in the forest, night had fallen. Yet, the zillion twinkling stars in the black velvet sky were able to pierce the canopy of leaves and provide an adequate amount of light for Bonnie to see. Ansel placed her on the ground a foot or so away from the door of the shack. The familiar energy wafting from the keep embraced her. She knew this magic. This was the magic of her ancestors. It was Bennett magic. Her magic.

The cloth barrier to the dwelling shifted and out stepped Ayanna Bennett.

She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, but she could've been older. Bonnie had come to know her well during her brief afterlife on the other side. "You have the look of my mother. I don't even have to sense it to know you're my own."

For the first time since she'd been dropped in the middle of time Bonnie broke. She tumbled into Ayanna's arms and fell to pieces.

"Help me," she whispered.

"You're the answer to all of our cries," Ayanna whispered next to her ear. "The Goddess of All would not have sent you to us lacking. Whatever is needed you already carry with you. Come, we have much to discuss."

Once inside, Bonnie sat on a wooden bench next to a stone alter.

Ayanna handed her a smoldering cup of tan liquid. "Drink, it's an herbal concoction meant to ease fits. It also aids in uncluttering your third sight." Without further urging, she sipped the tea. "Now, tell me all."

"It all started with this ancient evil and an immortal man willing to sacrifice his eternity to save his child," she began, "and the sacrifice his lover made so he wouldn't have to." For the next several hours Bonnie recounted the entire twisted tale of her and Klaus. By the time she was finished, she could barely keep her eyes open.

"So, why do you believe this Niklaus is the Viking to which the prophecy refers?" Ayanna questioned.

Bonnie laughed like Ayanna had out joked Kevin Hart. "Who else is of Viking descent and stronger than Klaus?"

"Who else indeed! Seems to me, all you have to do is march back to Kattegat and tap one of the many Vikings there on the shoulder. I wager any number of them is stronger than this Niklaus," she said, waving a hand as if she was waving off the very thought of Klaus. "And why would you want to form a mate bond with him? The same disrespectful dolt who places other witches over you in his regard. As if anyone other than a witch of our familial line could shoulder the burden of being the eternal witch."

Bonnie's eyes closed and remained so. "Did I mention Ansel's his father?"

"Ansel?"

Klaus' fathers name is the last thing Bonnie heard Ayanna speak before sleep claimed her.

****

"We have to get her back. The sons of Ragnar Lothbrok is ripping away the forest looking for her," Ansel's voice penetrated the thick fog of sleep that held her captive.

She heard a clucking sound, then Ayanna. "Calm yourself. They'll never make it past the first line of magic."

"That is what I'm trying to tell you, woman," Ansel bellowed. Frustration clear and plain in his tone, "they already have."

"What? How is that..." Ayanna's voice trailed off. "It's her. Her magic shields them. Why is this so?" A moment past, and then she felt Ayanna's lips at her ear. "You've learned many things on your spiritual voyage last eve. Things which must be considered. You have to return, Bonnie. For not only have you and your wolf achieved the goal you sought, but you've also attained so much more."

When next she opened her eyes, she was laying on a pile of fallen leaves and wildflowers. Her basket sat next to her head, while every last son of Ragnar stood staring down at her with varying expressions. Actually, everyone except Ivar who more or less leaned over her shooting her a unit inspired with nothing but ill intent.

"Um, good morning," she said, lacking anything of note to say.

****

"I thought you'd been raped and killed by Skogarmaors!" Bjorn yelled in her face as she drooped on a bench in the great hall.

Queen Aslaug's eyes rolled at Bjorn's antics,

while his brothers peered on in silence. Their faces giving nothing away.

She had a banging headache and Bjorn was nowhere close to easing her pain. "I'm sorry, Bjorn. It wasn't my intention to worry you are your family."

"Ack! Loki take your intentions," He threw up his hands and turned away from her, "I have no worries for your intentions. For all I know they're harried paving a path to Helheim."

"Where were you, hmm?" Ivar questioned. His stare unwavering as always. "Your appearance speaks of you being sheltered from the elements. So, who sheltered you?"

"On my way back from the Cove I met someone in the woods. He told me some things that lead me to believe he knew someone who could understand the reason I've come to be here," she said, attempting to be as honest as she could without placing Ansel or Ayanna in danger.

"You said, he told you," Bjorn turned around to face her.

She gave him a slow nod, "yes."

"Name this man," Bjorn demanded.

Reluctantly, she shook her head. "I'd rather not."

"I've heard sagas of a dark woman dwelling in the deep of the forest," Ivar said, while his steady gaze tracked each expression that crossed her face. "Many have spoken tales of her being a witch."

Queen Aslaug laughed. "Ivar, halt with your tales of spirits and witches. You're being distressing."

"Did you allow yourself to be plowed by this man?" Sigurd asked, straight facing the hell out of her.

"Sigurd!" Queen Aslaug released a heavy sigh before taking a sip from her cup.

"What? I'm sure that was Bjorn's next line of questioning," he defended.

"No," Bonnie snapped, chopping Sigurd up with a unit meant to leave him DOA, "There was absolutely no plowing going on between me and this man." To her surprise, Bjorn exhaled a sigh that appeared to be motivated by relief. She stood and walked over to Bjorn. Placing a hand on his arm, she gazed up at him, "the only reason I followed him is for answers. That's all, Bjorn. I swear it upon our oath."

She watched the anger and tension drain from his face as he reached up to cup her cheek. "Did you learn anything?"

"No," she emphasized with a sad dejected shake of the head, "I was given some kind of herbal concoction while there and I fell asleep before finding out anything. When I awakened, you guys were standing over me."

"I'm sure in time you'll have your answers," he allowed his thumb to trace the path of her cheek before returning his hand to his side.

She gazed out the great hall door toward the forest and prayed to the mother of all he was right.

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