Hi! My name is Raven, but you can just call me Ray. I’m 20 years old, and my pronouns are she/her. I am an aspiring writer, and currently, I am writing my own fanfiction for the Disney: Twisted-Wonderland and Ikemen Vampire fandoms, but with some changes to the storyline.
Don't be surprised if there is some slight OOC in my works, as I try to bring logic and realism into the canon.
My ask box is always open! I would absolutely love to use it to chat with all of you, discuss the fandoms, theories and characters, talk about my fanfics, or just ramble about anything else. Feel free to drop by!
Disclaimer: Marfa and Victoria are entirely my own Original Characters (OCs)! They have absolutely nothing to do with Yuu and Mitsuki! Also, I do not claim any ownership over these games or their characters! They belong completely to Aniplex and Cybird!
A/N: Please keep in mind that I don’t speak English fluently and use translation tools to write this. I put a lot of effort into making my stories readable and capturing the characters' true personalities, but there might be occasional typos or minor grammar slips. Thank you for your patience and understanding!
❝\\ Requests: OPEN. //❝
❝\\ My fanfiction. //❝
Twisted Wonderland:
Prologue. Chapter 1.
Ikemen Vampire:
Prologue. Chapter 1.
❝\\ RULES. //❝
Fanfics Only: I only write full-length, plot-driven fanfiction, multi-chapter stories, theories and incorrect quotes.
No Headcanons/Reactions/Scenarios: I do not write headcanons, bullet-point scenarios, or short reaction posts. Please do not send requests for these.
Original Characters (OCs): Most of my stories will feature my own Original Characters instead of the standard main characters or "Y/N" (Your Name). Their images are posted under the first chapters of the fanfics, so don't you dare steal them or post them on other platforms and pass them off as your own!
Be Respectful: Constructive feedback, theories, and polite thoughts are always welcome and highly appreciated! However, any hate, rudeness, or bashing of my OCs, writing style, or adaptations will be immediately blocked.
Tagging/Asks: If you want to be tagged in future chapter updates, just send me an Ask or leave a comment! My Ask Box is always open for discussion about the plot and characters.
Do Not Repost: Please do not copy, translate, or repost my works on other platforms (AO3, Wattpad, etc.) without my explicit permission. Reblogs on Tumblr are always welcome!
Fandom: Disney: Twisted-Wonderland.
Word Count: 3146.
Description: The situation I found myself in was bizarre, to say the least. But no stranger than the world I managed to end up in by some ironic twist of fate. Sure, I’ve read stories like this, but I never imagined I’d actually end up in one of them and get sucked into my favorite game.
Besides, this college is in desperate need of a therapist—there are way too many unhinged people here. And why exactly did the honor fall to me to deal with their personal baggage and become an exorcist?
A/N: Please keep in mind that I don’t speak English fluently and use translation tools to write this. Some sentences might sound a bit awkward or lose their original meaning. Thank you for your understanding!
Prologue. Chapter 1. "Welcome to the Villain's World"
The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was absolute darkness. I had no idea where I was at that moment or how I got there, but the desire to get out as quickly as possible planted itself deep in my mind.
I tried to make out something, but I couldn't see anything except the impenetrable pitch black before my eyes. The sheer uncertainty filled me with a mix of tension, excitement, and curiosity. My heart was pounding like crazy, a shiver ran down my spine, and goosebumps covered my skin.
Where the hell am I?
Finally, a dim green light appeared ahead, illuminating almost the entire space. I noticed floating coffins all around and a similarly hovering mirror, beneath which sat a small waterfall flowing with a toxic-green liquid.
Green flames flared up inside the mirror, making my whole body flinch in surprise and drawing all my attention toward it. I felt a mess of mixed emotions. However, they all dissipated the moment I heard a mysterious, unfamiliar voice that seemed to echo from the mirror itself:
"Ah, my dear and esteemed benefactor..."
The words made me raise an eyebrow in bewilderment.
What? Is he talking to me right now?
I was completely baffled by such an unexpected declaration. Naturally—no one had ever said such words to me before. While I stood there, trying to process the fact that someone was suddenly throwing pompous confessions my way, the voice continued:
"My lovely and noble flower of evil.
Truly, you are the most beautiful of all."
Hearing those words, a nervous laugh involuntarily escaped my lips. I had heard these exact lines at the very beginning of the game Disney: Twisted Wonderland when I first started playing it.
Have I gone crazy, or am I just hallucinating from my recent lack of sleep?
"O Mirror of Darkness, I call upon your wisdom.
Reveal to me the visage I seek..."
I tried with all my might to catch even a glimpse of the man's shadow, but I saw nothing but the blazing green fire.
Not surprising. Crowley tries so hard to keep himself hidden, but I saw through him a long time ago. I know Yuu ended up here because of you.
"O one guided by the Dark Mirror...
If your heart so desires, take the hand reflected in the glass."
Night Raven College, Heartslabyul, Savanaclaw, Octavinelle, Scarabia, Pomefiore, Ignihyde, and Diasomnia—all these emblems began flashing in the reflection, replacing one another in rapid succession. Everything looked so sharp and familiar that it was impossible to doubt the reality of what was happening.
I involuntarily took a step back when the reflection in the mirror—not allowing me to reach out to my chosen dorm—suddenly darkened, and a hand clad in a black leather glove slowly emerged from it. Taking a deep breath, I extended my own hand, trembling slightly from nerves, toward the stranger's open, inviting palm.
"Flames that turn even the stars to ash.
Ice that freezes even time.
Great trees that swallow up the very sky.
And yet, fear not the power of darkness—
Rather, step forth and demonstrate your power."
Suddenly, the light glowing around the coffins began to dim, gradually fading away. The only light source left was the mirror I stood before. It grew much darker, and a fleeting thought crept into my head that everything would be over soon. I turned out to be right; the stranger's hand abruptly pulled me right into the mirror, and a wave of light drowsiness washed over me.
"For me. For them. For you.
We are all running out of time.
No matter what, never let go of my hand."
Those spoken words were the very last thing I heard before I finally plunged into darkness.
Barely forcing my eyes open, I was met with the exact same darkness. However, the sensation was entirely different this time. Rubbing my eyes, I began to scan the space around me to figure out where I was. It felt like I was locked in some kind of closet, with my backpack digging uncomfortably into my back.
Aha, and here's the fabled coffin. The exact one the protagonist is stuffed into at the start of the game. I need to get out of here ASAP before that oversized furball decides to cremate me.
Sighing, I raised my hand and began to push against the lid, but it wouldn't budge. Next, I tried pounding on it a few times with my fist—still nothing. Rolling my eyes with irritation and letting out a huff, I kicked the damned lid with all my might, throwing my fists into the mix again, but achieved absolutely nothing. Anyone else in my shoes would have panicked or cried out for help, but the chances of anyone hearing me here were practically zero. Besides, claustrophobia had never bothered me, so I could cross that first option off the list.
My futile attempts to escape were cut short by the loud slam of a door. I instantly froze, straining my ears. I caught the sound of faint footsteps, followed by a voice that sounded anxious and strangely familiar.
"Shoot! People are gonna start gathering any minute now. I need to hurry, where's the uniform..." I listened in silence to every word, already guessing who it was. Suddenly, something began scratching at the outside, clearly trying to pry the lid open. "Ugh! This thing is so heavy. Time for... Plan B! Fumu~ Take that!"
The coffin suddenly heated up, and the lid blasted right off. Overjoyed and desperate to escape, I didn't think twice and scrambled out.
Blue flames were still flickering against the backdrop of the dark room, so I discreetly backed away a couple of meters. Scanning the space, I noticed the all-too-familiar green lamps on the pillars, a crystal chandelier, coffins identical to mine, and the Dark Mirror standing right in the center.
My suspicions were officially confirmed. I had genuinely ended up in an Aniplex game featuring humanized Disney villains, created by Yana Toboso.
It took me a few more minutes to fully process that I was standing in the actual reality of the game. The situation was mind-blowing, but I simply couldn't find any other explanation. I’d never believed in isekai or portal fantasy tropes—I always considered myself a rational person. Yet, here I was, an actual isekai protagonist. At first, I thought it was all a dream, but the sensations felt entirely too real. I even pinched myself just to be sure.
Looking down at myself now, taking in the painfully familiar purple-and-black ceremonial robes, and recalling the exact circumstances of my awakening, I was finally convinced that everything around me was real.
"Hey, gyaaa!!! Why are you awake?!"
Glancing down, I saw the familiar grey cat standing before me, flames spitting from his ears and a tail shaped like a trident.
Wow, he looks way more impressive in real life than in the game. Exactly like he was drawn in the anime.
Here was yet another confirmation of my theory. Right in front of me stood the cutest, yet most annoying character in the game—the one who drives the plot forward and the one we'll have to face at the very end. He’s basically TWST's version of Paimon from Genshin Impact, just with a major case of ants in his pants and a "cat-astrophic" attitude.
At the start of the prologue, back when I first launched the game, he constantly grated on my nerves. He insulted everyone he met, tried to set everything on fire, and acted like a smug little brat. But after clearing a few chapters, I grew fond of him and even laughed at his antics. He just made the story so much funnier, and ultimately, I got incredibly attached to this fluffy little rascal.
I was especially touched by how he cried in Ignihyde's Chapter 6, ridden with guilt for scratching us because of the blot rocks' influence, desperately wanting to come back home to us. That completely won me over, making me forgive him for—if not everything—then at least a whole lot. Sure, a lot of players dislike him and judge him for his personality, but to me, this little furball became just like Cheka: a sweet, beloved side character.
"How dare you ignore me when I'm standing right in front of you! You should count yourself lucky just to gaze upon the Great Grim-sama!"
Classic. Entirely in character. Reminds me of Ayato Sakamaki with his god complex.
"Anyway, you'd better hand over there robe. Otherwise... I'll roast ya!" The sudden burst of fire from his end was a clear warning and proof of his threat, but I wasn't about to let myself get scared.
"Do you seriously think my robe would fit a little upstart like you?" I smirked.
"How dare you! You are looking at the future Great Wizard, Grim-sama! Apologize right now if you don't want to get toasted."
Though, maybe I shouldn't have talked back to him like that, considering he could easily turn me into a human barbecue. If that happened, Crowley's entire grand plan would go out the window, straight to Narnia. I had absolutely no desire to get hurt on my very first day in the game, so I spun on my heel and bolted for the exit.
"Hey, you! Hold it right there!" That was the last thing I heard as I burst out of the room, running for dear life without looking back.
My heart pounded like a drum in my ears—the only sound I could hear as I desperately tried to lose the screaming cat chasing close behind.
Following the game's canon, I started running toward the library. But since it was my first time actually being here, I kept getting lost in the corridors and taking wrong turns. Anyone else in my shoes would have looked for a passerby to ask for help, but since I hadn't bumped into a single soul, I decided to scrap that idea.
Finally, after a few minutes of running around, I stumbled upon the coveted courtyard. The familiar apple trees were growing there, along with the old well. To be honest, while playing through the game's story, I noticed more than once that the college's design was inspired by two fairytales simultaneously: Snow White and Sleeping Beauty.
If you looked closely, the apple trees, the well, and the Dark Mirror were direct references to the Evil Queen from the first fairytale. Also, let's not forget what Epel mentioned in one of his interviews—how he stumbled upon some basement in Pomefiore.
Well, that's not surprising, considering what Vil said: Pomefiore is the oldest and very first dorm in the college. However, I firmly believe that Ramshackle Dorm is much older due to its dilapidated appearance. It might even be older than Night Raven College itself.
As for the second fairytale: the thorns that open and close character cards during a Groovy; the flames appearing in the Dark Mirror; the lamps, and even the windows on the coffins were all green. All this symbolism was clearly connected to Maleficent.
It’s also worth adding that in the first anniversary anime trailer, during the fast-paced final frames, there was a bitten apple lying on the floor and a spinning wheel entwined with thorns. These seemingly insignificant details might carry some hidden message from the developers that not everyone would notice.
Let's be real: both of these women even had their own pet ravens. And it's worth noting that both fairytales were written by the exact same authors—the Brothers Grimm. Surprisingly, the authors' surname sounds exactly like the name of the cat accompanying us in the game, except the latter is spelled with only one "m", whereas the authors' name had two and was a surname.
Perhaps this was done on purpose, because in Twisted Wonderland, nothing is ever done just for the sake of it.
Somehow, I managed to spot tall silhouettes in the distance and breathed a sigh of relief. Without a second thought, I headed straight toward them in hopes of getting some help.
"Hey! Wait up!" After running up to the guys and instinctively grabbing one of them by his blazer sleeve, I was finally able to catch my breath.
Due to the shadows cast by the well and the tree, I couldn't immediately make out who I was talking to. But once I got close, there was no mistaking those horns and the long, flaming blue hair. Looking up, my eyes met glowing green ones with vertical slits—and I admit, I found myself staring.
The situation quickly turned into a stalemate the moment I remembered who those mesmerizing eyes belonged to.
"I-I'm so sorry, but I desperately need your help. I'm being chased by a fire-breathing cat who's threatening to roast me!"
"A talking tanuki?" Malleus, much like Idia, looked utterly perplexed, raising his eyebrows as he stared at me.
The hood of my ceremonial robes had slipped off my head a while ago, leaving my messy hair exposed, and the lopsided robes did nothing to hide my figure. That was probably why they looked so shocked.
"A g-girl?! Here?! But Night Raven is an all-boys college!" Even though Shroud wasn't addressing anyone in particular, Draconia decided to reply to his outburst:
"Why not ask her yourself?" Even while speaking to the Ignihyde student, Malleus never broke eye contact, examining me as if I were some undiscovered scientific specimen. Considering the circumstances, he wasn't too far off the mark. "Still, I am rather curious about what you said when you first approached us. What did you mean when you claimed you were attacked by a tanuki?"
Glancing back and forth between the two of them, I began my story. I tried to speak quickly and clearly, conveying the gist of it so as not to waste any time.
"I... honestly don't understand much, and I don't remember a whole lot either..." I didn't want to lie, but I couldn't tell them the whole truth without derailing the plot. "Well, except for the fact that I woke up in a coffin."
"Only students invited to the college have access to the mirror." Idia thoughtfully brought a hand to his chin, quietly muttering his thoughts aloud—though if you listened closely, you could still hear every word. "Which means the black carriage must have come for you," he concluded. Glancing at me, he explained, "Every coffin is connected to a mirror that the black carriage transports."
Lifting the corners of my lips, I gave Shroud a grateful nod. He immediately grew flustered and looked away, only to snap his attention right back.
"W-wait, hold on. If you woke up inside one of the coffins, how did you get out?"
"The coffins are enchanted so that none of the incoming first-years wake up before or after the ceremony. The Headmage cast the spell himself; only second- and third-years know how to dispel it." To the surprise of us both, Malleus chimed in, taking the initiative in the conversation, which made the blue-haired boy flinch.
"That cat just set the coffin on fire, blowing the lid clean off, so I was able to crawl out," I explained with a hint of irritation. "Logically, seeing a talking animal that also happens to spit fire for the first time, I decided to run for the hills to stay out of trouble. Then I saw you guys, and, well, you know the rest."
"I see." The fae closed his eyes for a second before continuing. "Should we not inform the Headmage that a dangerous tanuki is roaming the campus and attacking students?"
"A boss spawned right before the annual entrance ceremony? Welp, the newbies are in for a wipe." A mocking smirk flashed across Idia's face for just a second, but I managed to catch a glimpse of his sharp teeth. The blue-haired boy spoke just as fast as his moods shifted, and right now, I could see the anxiety creeping back onto his face.
"I think he's a bit busy at the moment," I said, lowering my head and pursing my lips.
Both guys stared at me after I said that, but I hardly cared. The Diasomnia Housewarden had remained silent for most of the time, pondering something, just like I was.
It was a little weird bumping into these two in the courtyard, as this twist wasn't in the game's plot—Yuu met the Headmage in the library. However, remembering that Idia's Ceremonial Robes vignette featured a similar moment in the courtyard where Shroud was chatting with Draconia, I concluded that I must have woken up earlier than the plot dictated, allowing me to run into them.
Oh well. At least now I wouldn't have to play the idiot who had no idea who Malleus Draconia was. Though I did kind of want to give him a nickname.
Sure, it was hard to be happy about anything in my current predicament, but looking at two of my favorite characters—rendered in a gorgeous anime art style, no less—it was impossible not to be. Thank goodness I know how to control my emotions. Otherwise, the guys would have been treated to the sight of a random girl happily skipping around them, screaming her lungs out from sheer joy because she'd achieved the impossible: crossing over into the world of her favorite characters.
Hell, after a stunt like that, even Grim would admit I had him beat in the "Most Unexpected Debut of the Year" category. Malleus would start wondering if it was time to convert the college into a monastery, and Idia would dive straight into the game's code to look for a bug.
Seemingly realizing the gravity of the situation (or just realizing he was talking to a complete stranger), Shroud stared at the ground with a look of mourning and sheer panic, quietly mumbling something under his breath.
I kind of wanted to pat his shoulder in support, but given the circumstances, I doubted he’d appreciate sympathy from a random stranger. So, the best option for me right now was to keep my mouth shut and turn my attention to the other gorgeous character.
Speaking of the brunette…
Completely bewildered, Malleus shifted his gaze back and forth between me and Shroud, though his eyes lingered mostly on me. The awkward atmosphere grew even more awkward thanks to Draconia and his sudden question:
"Excuse me," he frowned, glaring at Idia like a deeply disgruntled man. "But why do we have new students?"
Looks like everyone forgot to invite Malleus to the entrance ceremony. Again.
I’d be absolutely thrilled to hear your thoughts on the fic and Marfa! Feel free to drop your comments below or head over to my ask box — I’d love to chat and ramble about the game and the characters with you guys. If you want to be tagged in future chapter updates, just an leave a comment!
Fandom: Ikemen Vampire.
Word Count: 3580.
Description: Victoria came to Paris chasing a sensational scoop, not a one-way ticket to the past. But who could have guessed that her attempt to expose a suspicious art patron would turn into a trap? Stepping through a mysterious door in the Louvre, she is thrust from the 21st century straight into late 19th-century France. Now, she is locked in a lavish mansion filled with legendary historical figures who, upon closer inspection, turn out to be... actual vampires.
It looks like this assignment risks becoming the most challenging of her career. That is, if she survives to write it.
A little background on this fic: This story is my personal revenge on canon for the main character. For all my love for Ikemen Vampire, this game has one fatal flaw, and her name is Mitsuki. Like most Cybird MCs, she suffers from chronic "good girl" syndrome, an acute savior complex, and sometimes straight-up Stockholm syndrome. She firmly believes that a partner's toxic traits can be magically cured by the power of all-forgiving love.
While reading the translations, I was genuinely outraged. Seeing these brilliant minds who left a colossal mark on world history, suddenly lose all their IQ points and fall for an absolutely cardboard and "convenient" Mary Sue just because she's nice and believes in miracles is exhausting. Honestly, the phrase "so beautiful, yet so dumb" was definitely coined for people like Mitsuki.
There will be no damsels in distress or convenient plot armor in this fic. So buckle up: my Victoria actually knows how to use her brain, doesn't faint on schedule, and possesses a solid survival instinct coupled with a healthy dose of selfishness.
A/N: Please keep in mind that I don’t speak English fluently and use translation tools to write this. Some sentences might sound a bit awkward or lose their original meaning. Thank you for your understanding!
Important: "Jean-Michel" is the Count of Saint-Germain's alias in the 21st century!
Prologue. Chapter 1. "The Louvre, Espionage, and a Door to the Past"
Paris, France. Present day.
The sun flooded the Cour Napoléon, turning the Louvre's glass pyramid into a blinding trap for thousands of tourists. Sharp rays bounced off the glass facets, beating down mercilessly, forcing people to squint and shield their faces with their hands. But even the scorching heat couldn't cool the crowd's fervor: the square literally buzzed with a multilingual hum, endless camera flashes, and an excited clamor that drowned out the shouts of street hawkers.
Surveying this quest called "survive the line to the Louvre and don't turn into a living exhibit," I simply adjusted the bag on my shoulder and irritably brushed a stubborn strand of hair from my face. Only one thought hammered in my head: why the hell did I even drag myself here? Ah, right. Work. While I tried to switch on my bloodhound mode, my inner Swiss was already having a quiet meltdown, demanding I immediately arrange this crowd into a perfectly straight line and force the metro to run on a schedule, rather than on the train driver's mood. But Paris honestly didn't give a damn about my suffering: it clearly lived by the principle of "if we're going to hell anyway, let's at least make it aesthetic—set to Lana Del Rey's melancholy and with a glass of something more expensive than my entire higher education."
My name is Victoria, and if I, an investigative journalist from Geneva, came to Paris, it certainly wasn't for dates by the Eiffel Tower—I've seen enough of that pile of rusty iron on postcards. My editor-in-chief didn't go to all that trouble to secure the budget for this business trip just so I could spend my time admiring the local sights. I'd have to pay off the cost of this trip with blood and sensational scoops. And in our newsroom, there was always a line of people eager to trip me up in the race for those.
The thing is, my department affectionately dubbed me an "upstart"—apparently, that was my colleagues' way of masking their jealousy over the fact that at twenty-four, I can smell a lie faster than they can sniff out cheap cognac at a buffet. But the status of the best bloodhound came with obligations: if someone appeared in the art world capable of leading France's entire elite expert community by the nose, it was up to me to deal with it.
The reason for the trip materialized faster than I could curse my career choice that morning. Over the past year, a certain patron of the arts named Jean-Michel had practically put on a spectacle of unprecedented generosity for the Louvre, causing a collective nervous tic among Swiss experts. Fabulous wealth, an impeccable reputation, and knowledge of the secrets of private collections—it was too perfect a package not to raise red flags.
His gifts to the museum—ranging from incredibly rare artifacts to canvases by great masters—looked suspiciously fresh for their venerable age. They completely lacked the noble wear of centuries: frames remained without a single crack, and ancient blades were untouched by corrosion. Looking at these exhibits, it was hard to shake the feeling that they had been created quite recently, miraculously replicating lost technologies of the past.
Thinking about this, I involuntarily caught myself giving a skeptical smirk. I didn't believe in miracles, preferring facts, logic, and common sense. And that meant there were only two explanations left: either this man had found a time machine, or I was looking at the most brilliant forger whose cases I'd ever had to unravel.
My task was as simple as a Swiss watch and as unpredictable as Paris itself: get as close to Jean-Michel as possible, record any detail that could expose his scam, and write an article that promised to be the loudest sensation of the decade.
Leaving the scorching square behind, I descended beneath the glass vaults of the Pyramid, passed security in the spacious Hall Napoléon, and, flashing my press pass, confidently stepped into the Denon Wing. It was much easier to breathe here: the massive walls reliably muffled the street noise, tourists' footsteps echoed softly, and the air was steeped in the scents of old stone, expensive perfume, and museum polish.
I navigated between tourist groups with an agility honed by years of chasing scoops. While the gawkers stared spellbound at the painted ceilings, I looked only forward, picking out my target from the stream of people. A man like Jean-Michel doesn't dissolve into a crowd—he subjugates it, silently creating an exclusion zone around himself that random passersby instinctively avoid.
It was exactly this strange lull in the center of the noisy hall that served as my beacon. I found him in front of the giant canvas "The Coronation of Napoleon." Against the backdrop of David's pompous masterpiece, his figure initially seemed almost modest, but that was a mere illusion. Jean-Michel stood absolutely motionless, hands clasped behind his back, looking at the canvas as if he wasn't studying a great work of art, but rather meticulously comparing it with his own memories.
I stopped a few meters away, pretending to check the route on my phone while stealthily studying his profile. The flawless cut of his jacket, manners that couldn't be bought for any amount of money, and an aura of monumental, almost frightening calm. He didn't just blend into the surroundings—it seemed time itself thickened and slowed down around him, adjusting to his personal rhythm.
I slipped my phone into my pocket and took a few confident steps, deliberately positioning myself slightly to his right. One glance at his face was enough for me to catch the exact moment this perfect mask would crack, if I managed to provoke him.
"The scale is impressive, wouldn't you say?" I remarked without turning my head. I diligently pretended to be completely absorbed by the painting, while catching his every movement in my peripheral vision. "Though, I must admit, David flattered Joséphine a bit here. In reality, the ceremony was much more... chaotic. The Emperor was nervous, the Pope could barely hide his irritation, and the crown, if eyewitness memoirs are to be believed, turned out to be devilishly heavy."
Jean-Michel slowly turned his head toward me. For a moment, I even forgot my rehearsed role: he looked as though he had stepped right out of one of the paintings adorning these walls. A flawless three-piece suit, a long beige coat carelessly draped over his shoulders, and leather oxfords polished to a mirror shine. His entire appearance practically screamed wealth, but it wasn't the vulgar luxury of modernity; rather, it was the restrained taste of a man accustomed to existing outside of time. However, the most alarming thing was his skin: too smooth, without a single flaw or wrinkle that time should have inevitably left on a man with his experience and reputation.
When our eyes met, I felt a chill run down my spine. His gaze—heavy and somehow unnaturally golden—flared for a moment with genuine interest. To be honest, I had never seen eyes like that before. In their depths, the chill of centuries seemed frozen—centuries that had witnessed far more than any human was meant to.
"You speak of this with such certainty, mademoiselle..." he paused barely noticeably, delicately inviting me to introduce myself.
The daze lasted only a second, but that was enough. Shaking my head as if to cast off a spell, I forced myself to blink and regain control over my body.
"Victoria," I finally turned to face him, plastering on my most polite yet impenetrable mask of professional interest. "I just love the details that are usually omitted from guidebooks. And you, I see, are not just a patron, but a true connoisseur? Word has it your recent gifts to the museum made the experts quite nervous and forced them to rethink a few historical dogmas.”
Jean-Michel smiled faintly. His manners were impeccable, but there was something frighteningly old-fashioned seeping through that flawlessness. Modern billionaires don't behave like this; this was how aristocrats from old black-and-white newsreels held themselves, where courtesy was merely an elegant form of superiority.
"History is full of secrets, Victoria," he replied. His voice, deep and velvety, seemed to be a blend of multiple accents that couldn't be pinned down to one specific country. "Sometimes objects are preserved far better than the people who created them. I am sure it is precisely this... unnatural preservation that led you to me, and not at all a love for informal guidebooks."
After those words, I mentally dropped the mask of an enthusiastic tourist—that trick clearly wasn't working on him.
"I'm looking for the truth, monsieur. It's my job." I looked him straight in the eyes, searching for even a hint of deceit, but to no avail. I read the same chilling serenity there as in my cat's eyes a second before it knocks a vase off the table. "You see, the Swiss insurance syndicates are currently having a collective meltdown. Before issuing a policy for your collection, they demanded an independent audit. And the experts in Geneva are downing valerian by the liter: according to them, the paints on your canvases have the exact same chemical composition as they did three hundred years ago, yet the canvases haven't aged at all. It's as if time ceased to exist for them. The Louvre can enjoy your gift all it wants, but my compatriots are used to trusting only numbers and spectral analysis results."
Jean-Michel took a smooth, almost predatory step toward me. His proximity brought a faint scent of expensive perfume and old paper, along with a bone-chilling, completely unnatural cold. I instinctively tensed, digging the soles of my ankle boots into the marble floor so I wouldn't allow myself to flinch back. His long, almost sculptural fingers paused for a fraction of a second dangerously close to my face, then immediately retreated. My heart traitorously skipped a beat, but I stubbornly tilted my chin up, refusing to look away. On his part, it was a perfectly calculated provocation, one I wasn't going to fall for.
"Time is an incredibly elastic substance, mademoiselle," he said with a soft, almost lazy smirk, making me barely suppress the urge to roll my eyes. "Perhaps these canvases were simply waiting for the right moment and the right person to come to light once again."
He let his gaze linger on my face for a moment, sending another shiver down my spine. It seemed he saw right through me—not as a woman, but as a complex clockwork mechanism that he was unhurriedly trying to figure out in his head.
"You have a sharp mind, Victoria. And a wonderfully... lively gaze. That is a rare stroke of luck these days," he stepped back, instantly restoring that invisible but insurmountable distance between us. "But I'm afraid I must go. I have a scheduled meeting that would be impolite to postpone."
Jean-Michel gave me a shallow, elegant bow. In modern Paris, such a gesture would look ridiculous on anyone else, but on him, it looked as natural as the gold on Napoleon's frame.
"I was delighted by our chance meeting, Victoria. Adieu."
Jean-Michel turned and walked away toward the side halls of the Denon Wing. I waited just long enough not to seem intrusive, then followed him. My "curious historian" mode had officially switched to spy mode. A meeting in a closing wing of the museum? Too convenient to be true. If this "ghost of the nineteenth century" thought I would just let him fade into history that easily, he clearly overestimated his much-vaunted insight and underestimated my need for a bonus. The main thing now was to avoid giving myself away with the clatter of my shoes and not lose him in the crowd.
The man turned into an inconspicuous passageway leading away from the popular routes. I followed him calmly, trying to stay in the shadows of the columns, and noticed that this wing of the museum was suspiciously quiet. It was right here, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket mid-stride, that Jean-Michel made a blunder that completely clashed with his image of a flawless gentleman.
With a dull, metallic thud, a gold pocket watch on a chain dropped to the parquet floor. Jean-Michel seemed so lost in thought that he didn't even pick it up. Without breaking his stride, he swept forward and vanished behind a heavy velvet curtain in a wall alcove.
I froze, pressing myself against the cold stone. The golden disk of the watch gleamed dully on the floor, like a thrown gauntlet. For a man who "compares memories" with David's masterpieces, such carelessness looked almost staged. My inner skeptic sounded the alarm: this was either incredible luck or a perfectly laid trap. But before common sense could take the wheel, I was already heading toward the prize.
Crossing the distance between us, I crouched down to pick it up. My fingers closed around the gold casing, and I barely stifled a gasp—it was surprisingly hefty and impossibly, wrongly ice-cold. Not just cold from the museum AC, but freezing, as if it had just been pulled out of liquid nitrogen. This deathly chill literally burned my fingertips, making my muscles clench reflexively, but I managed to hold onto it. On the flawlessly polished, gleaming lid, completely free of scratches or tarnish, there was an intricate, ominous engraving: an hourglass tightly entangled in thorny briars. It looked as though the plant was strangling time itself.
"Hey, wait! You dropped..." I called out, darting toward the alcove, but the heavy velvet curtain swayed one last time and stilled, cutting off the path.
I stood rooted to the spot, gripping the icy metal until it hurt. The watch in my palm ticked slowly, hollowly, with some unnatural rhythm reminiscent of a heartbeat slowed to its very limits. Common sense and self-preservation chanted in unison: "Hand the find over to administration and go get your well-deserved croissant, Victoria. Your work here is done for the day." But the journalist in me was already stringing together another, much more tempting chain of events: a suspicious door in a closed section of the Denon Wing, a mystery patron, and a watch that blatantly spat on the laws of thermodynamics.
If I let him slip away now, I’d never forgive myself for the rest of my career. After all, back in Geneva, they didn't call me the best bloodhound for my ability to blindly follow the rules.
Shifting my bag for a better grip, I resolutely flung back the heavy fabric. Hidden behind it was a massive double door set into a light stone archway. It looked as if it had been transported here straight from some French Renaissance château: heavy dark wood with intricate carving, sturdy metal hinges, and austere handles.
But there was one detail that made my inner skeptic stand at attention again. There wasn't a single speck of dust or a trace of restoration on it. No electronic card readers, motion sensors, or the omnipresent Louvre cameras—just solid, monumental antiquity, polished to the same suspicious perfection as everything else Jean-Michel touched.
"A secret vault? Or a personal Narnia for eccentric art patrons?" the sarcastic thought flashed through my mind.
I pulled hard on the austere metal handle, and the hinges yielded without a single sound. Through the resulting crack, the muffled light of antique sconces spilled into the darkness, revealing rows of grandfather clocks and glass display cases out of the gloom. This looked absolutely nothing like a faceless utility corridor with mops and spare fire extinguishers. More like a secret archive of time, whose existence had been forgotten even by the omniscient curators of the Louvre.
Yielding to my bloodhound instincts, I stepped inside, and the heavy door clicked softly shut behind me, completely severing the hum of the museum crowd. The corridor turned out to be intimidatingly long. My footsteps sank without a trace into a thick crimson carpet, and the dark wood-paneled walls faded into some otherworldly, violet twilight, as if compressing the space. There were clocks everywhere—wall clocks, grandfather clocks, mantel clocks. Their glass dials gleamed dully in the shadows like blind eyes.
The air here changed instantly: it became thick, crypt-cold, with a sharp tang of old varnish and long-snuffed candles. But the creepiest part was the oppressive silence. Not a single one of the dozens of mechanisms around me was running. They were all dead silent, except for the icy trophy in my hand, which, conversely, began to tick faster and more aggressively, echoing like an anxious pulse right in my veins.
Jean-Michel was nowhere to be seen. I picked up my pace, eager to push through this surreal clockwork cabinet of curiosities, but the gloom at the end of the corridor suddenly exploded with a blinding white light. It turned into a solid veil that didn't just hurt the eyes but felt almost tangible. The air around me thickened in an instant, turning into an invisible, elastic wall. It resisted my every movement, as if space itself refused to let me go further, trying to spit me back out into the safe wing of the museum.
"What the..." I tried to take a deep breath, but my chest felt squeezed by an invisible press, like a sudden drop in cabin pressure.
My ears popped painfully from the change, making me instinctively squeeze my eyes shut, feeling the floor sway beneath my feet and vanish for a split second. It felt like dropping into a deep air pocket—a brief, terrifying sense of weightlessness before the soles of my boots met solid ground again.
When I finally forced myself to open my eyes, the world around me was still a corridor, except... it was absolutely, unequivocally no longer the Louvre.
Instead of a cramped service passage, I found myself in a spacious gallery bathed in warm golden light. It looked aggressively expensive: walls upholstered in deep burgundy velvet, rows of tall polished dark wood doors, and massive bronze chandeliers whose glow shattered across the lacquered parquet. On one side stretched an endless enfilade; on the other, enormous windows draped in heavy scarlet velvet to match the walls.
Taking a few hesitant steps, I grabbed the edge of the fabric and yanked it back, expecting to see the familiar Parisian smog and the crowds by the Louvre pyramid.
Except…
Behind the glass reigned a deep, absolute night. Billions of stars were scattered across an ink-black sky, surrounding an unnaturally bright, sharp crescent moon. I froze, almost mechanically dropping my gaze to the screen of my phone, which I had managed to pull out of my bag. 14:21. The middle of the day.
"Solar eclipse? No, that's bullshit," I whispered. My voice sounded hoarse, drowning in the hall's soft acoustics. "Am I in a basement? A windowless pavilion? But here it is..."
I pressed my palm against the glass. It was real—smooth, frighteningly icy, and vibrating from the night wind. I watched as clouds slowly drifted past the moon, veiling it in a translucent haze. My brain, desperately clinging to the remnants of rationality, started throwing up barricades: A secret immersive show? Ultra-high-def screens instead of glass? Or some experimental hallucinogenic gas leaking straight from the fire suppression system?
I spun around, intending to go back out the way I came, but the massive door I had walked through a moment ago was locked. I yanked the handle—it wouldn't budge. I shoved it with my shoulder—the wood didn't give way, as if behind it lay not an empty corridor, but a solid brick wall.
With trembling fingers, I unlocked my phone screen again. "No Service." Right in the center of Paris, in a building stuffed to the gills with routers and cell towers, the signal bar was as empty as my wallet after paying rent in Geneva.
"Okay, Victoria, calm down. This is just a very expensive and highly illegal escape room," I took a deep breath, trying to soothe my racing heart. "Find an exit, find people, and then sue the Louvre for kidnapping and emotional distress. It's a great plan. Almost genius. Now I just need to figure out what kind of nowhere I've ended up in."
I looked around again. Everything around me—from the gilded candelabras with real, flickering candles to the heavy, suffocating smell of wax and old wood—screamed that I was no longer in the twenty-first century. In this silence, there was no hum of ventilation or beep of security cameras. Only a deathly, frozen stillness.
Suddenly, this oppressive silence was shattered by the distinct sound of footsteps and a voice ringing out right nearby:
"What are you doing there?"
The voice was commanding, sharp, and nothing like Jean-Michel's soft baritone. It carried the tone of someone used to giving orders that are not up for debate. I whipped around, already armed with my most withering tirade about human rights and the illegal detainment of journalists. Hell, I was even ready to yell loud enough to make Napoleon's ears pop in the next hall over, but the rehearsed words instantly decided to commit suicide right in my throat.
I’d love to hear your thoughts on the first chapter and your impressions of Victoria in the reblogs or comments! If you have any questions or prompts, feel free to drop them in my ask box. If you want to be tagged in future chapter updates, just an leave a comment!
MC vs. History: How One Night at the Mansion Ruined Everyone's Reputation.
Listen up! I recently stumbled across a post by @y4h3l1n and fell down a rabbit hole of awkward historical facts. Honestly, I found stuff that makes it impossible to look at the IkeVamp boys the same way! I know the fandom is quiet right now, but I desperately need someone to write a fanfic based on this!
The Scenario: A grand banquet at the Count’s mansion. Arthur and Dazai somehow get a newspaper from the future and announce the "breaking news": during Napoleon’s autopsy in 1821, a doctor cut off his "relic" (yes, THAT part!), which now gathers dust in a private collection in the USA. While the room roars with laughter and Napoleon is ready to declare war out of pure shame, MC decides: “Oh, really? Hold my drink.” She starts systematically destroying everyone's reputation with facts they’d rather keep in the grave:
Arthur: Unironically believed in the "Cottingley Fairies." Two teens cut out paper fairies, pinned them to bushes, and took photos. Arthur didn't just believe it; he wrote a book about it and spent a fortune proving they were real.
Dazai: Desperately wanted the Akutagawa Prize. When he didn't get it, he harassed the judges with insane letters. After being snubbed a second time, he threw a massive tantrum in the press.
Mozart: Was obsessed with... uhm... "bottom" humor. He wrote letters to his cousin full of dirty toilet jokes and composed a 6-voice canon titled "Leck mich im Arsch" (literally "Lick me in the arse").
Newton: Was so obsessed with light that he once stuck a large needle behind his own eyeball just to see how it affected his vision. He nearly blinded himself out of pure curiosity.
The Count: The immortal enigma who became the face of laxative elixirs and "Violet Flame breathing" courses for online fortune tellers.
Leonardo: A prostration king. When commissioned for a church altarpiece, he stalled for 25 years. The clients sued him, and he still delivered it unfinished.
Vincent: A gift shop brand. Modern students erase their mistakes with erasers shaped like his severed ear.
Theodorus: If he didn't send money on time or (God forbid) tried to date, Vincent would send suicide threats. Poor Theo literally couldn't go on a date without a letter saying: "If you marry, I’ll die in a ditch."
Shakespeare: Half of historians are convinced that he never existed, and that someone smarter wrote for him — aristocrats, a group of poets, or even Queen Elizabeth. Simply because the son of a glove maker supposedly couldn't have been that smart.
Vlad: Became a purple puppet who teaches kids to count. “One stake! Two stakes! Three stakes! Ha-ha-ha!”
Faust: Once, he convinced a group of peasants that if they buried their gold coins in fresh manure, a "golden tree" would grow by morning. While the peasants slept and waited for the miracle, Faust dug up the money from the filth and ran away.
Charles: The fashionista executioner who sold ointments made from the fat of his victims.
Drake: The King of seasickness. His namesake strait is the most stomach-turning place on Earth. Also, Europe's "potato sponsor."
Galileo: His middle finger is on display in Florence, literally flipping off the entire world from his glass case for 300 years.
Recently, I became interested in the game Ikemen Vampire again and decided to read the translations of the routes I found. As a result, I read the routes for Leonardo, Vlad (up to chapter 15), and Galileo. I really liked the idea behind the game, but I felt that the routes lacked drama and angst. It was like reading a story rated 12+ with the most vanilla heroine possible. I have nothing against Mitsuki. However, all the MC created by Cybird are the same and boring, and this is entirely the fault of the creators, who don't develop their characters. Perhaps it's because the game is quite old, but I was hoping that Galileo and Drake's routes would be better and more dramatic, but in the end, it was like reading a regular romantic fairy tale. Even the characters' tragic pasts didn't make me feel any pain or bring me to tears. Maybe it's because they only spent a short time on it, and the conflict between the MC and her love interest wasn't that serious and seemed childish. It's like Cybird has already lost interest in ikemen vampire and is just releasing new routes for the sake of it. By the way, I saw a post on Tumblr where a user was worried that this game would be shut down, just like Ikeman Revolution. Honestly, I wouldn't want that, as there are many historical figures in the story. Besides, when I found out that the progenitor of vampires was in the Galileo route, I thought that we would get his route to play in the future. However, it turned out that he is just an old man who constantly changes his body and is to blame for a future catastrophe. What do you think about the game and its routes?
While watching chapter 7, I learned that the black substance that appeared because Sebek and Silver almost overblotting is actually darkness. So the clusters of stains are not ink, but darkness? I wonder what will happen if Idia finds out about this. Maybe he'll be the first of the Shrouds to rid wizards of the overblot
"Warning: I don't write English well, so there may be mistakes in the post!"
It was mentioned in the story that black stones are extremely toxic and dangerous. Also, if the wizard touches the ink, he will stain himself. We also know that Grim ate 7 black stones and after he eats Malleus' stone, he will become the monster we saw at the beginning of the prologue.
I've often seen videos and artwork where MC or Yuu were affected by black stones and suffered. I've read headcanons where their overblot happened even though they had no magic. It was repeatedly stated in the story that an overblot could only happen to a wizard. Also in the game and manga, Yuu was never affected by black stones.
I had an idea, what if Yuu could absorb and control black stones? Imagine if instead of harming Yuu, the black stones could give him superpowers. Like umbrakinesis. He could release ink from his body, which he could use to fight Phantoms. He also had the abilities of telekinesis, telepathy, teleportation, and superhuman strength. Since Yuu didn't have magic, he could get the abilities from the black stones. He would be the only one who wouldn't be negatively affected by the stones.
