Myra desperately wanted to leave the person she used to be behind.
Unfortunately, a remarkably embarrassing picture from middle school has found its way across her social media feed, and the fragile exterior she's built up threatens to break.
☆
Or, Rook Hunt literally could not care less what you look like.
also posted on ao3
TAGS:
Bad French
(I don't know french)
POV Original Character
Original Character is Not Yuu | Player (Twisted-Wonderland)
Pre-Relationship
No Spoilers
Light Angst
Self-Esteem Issues
Hurt/Comfort
Emotional Hurt/Comfort
Rook has rizz (somehow)
Friends to Lovers
We Die Like Meleanor
Rook Hunt Speaks French
Rook Hunt Being Rook Hunt
Fluff and Hurt/Comfort
Oneshot
Myra could barely think. Her mind raced as she stumbled through Pomefiore’s intricately decorated hallways. She really should return to Rosewood, but even getting to the mirror chamber felt like such an extra chore.
Her heart felt like a criminal within her chest, desperately fighting to break free as her hands shook, and her legs struggled to keep her grounded.
She hated the way she could feel eyes flicker to her as she fought to maintain some level of outward composure. They tracked her like prison lights, chasing her down like a convict. She certainly felt the part. Of course, the only crime she had committed was that of letting down her guard.
Coming to an open door to an empty room, Myra entered, pushing past the rows of spare uniforms and various other textiles. She gasped as she tripped over a box of jazz shoes, falling flat on her face.
The shock of the fall disappeared in an instant, melting into a cold apathy as she shut the door with her foot, the end of her heel clicking against the metal shelves. She layed there on the cold floor, swallowed by the dark, for what felt like ages.
For once, silence felt comfortable.
Maybe she broke her phone on the way down. Her bag lay just out of reach, taunting her. Maybe she’d twisted her ankle, or broken her wrist, or something, anything really that could give her an excuse. An out. From what, she wasn’t sure.
Who posted that picture? Who even had that picture to begin with?
Myra almost didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to sit up, pull herself together, look at her phone, and see the aftermath of the truth.
But she had to. So, she did, shakily pulling herself up and reaching out to her bag. The glow of her phone was glaring in the darkness, but Myra couldn’t be bothered to turn on the light (if the room even had one). Her eyes ached as she stared directly at the screen, but none of that mattered. What mattered were the hundreds of notifications exploding across every app she had. Madalyn was the most egregious, having spammed her with concerned questions. Philene had texted her a simple, “I was told something was wrong—What's going on?” that drew out a frustrated chuckle. Leave it to her to message so formally.
She dismissed them all and opened Magicam.
On her front page was her face.
Which sure, she’d gotten used to it by now. Not that the great Myra Vier would ever ego surf, of course! No, most certainly not.
The problem was that it was not a picture she ever wanted to see.
Herself, at thirteen, posing with another person whose face was cropped out. Herself, with her dirty-blonde hair frayed at the ends, uneven bangs, smudged eyeshadow masquerading as eyeliner, and gaudy red lipstick that matched nothing about her. Still possessing the baby face she wouldn’t grow out of for a few more years, acne following a trail where Myra would always brush her hair back. Round, soft, childish. The way an average 13-year-old should look, she knew. But Myra was not average, and she never should be.
Myra Vier should be a natural bombshell blonde, not an awkward tan bundle of frayed ends. She should be the perfect reflection of the current trends and standards, all well-packaged in a marketable bundle. That was what she needed to be—what she was.
But not back then. Back before she’d figured out that the best way to succeed was to look and act what the people perceived as “beautiful”. Before she mastered illusory magic, and how to maximize its effects without excessive blot generation. How to maintain a perfectly designed exterior with a little bit of magic, makeup, and fashion.
Closing the minefield that was her Magicam account now, Myra stood up and fumbled about in the dark storage room before finding a pull cord. A bar of weak lights flickered on, and she instinctively flinched away from the light. With a shaky sigh, she opened her camera, holding it up to her face.
Her reflection was everything she wanted to see. Glass skin. Golden hair that curled subtly at the ends pulled up into a thick ponytail. A defined, but gentle jawline that existed perfectly in the middle of “too round” and “too sharp”. Full round lips colored as pink as a mother-of-pearl. Eyes brown as mocha that shimmered in playful contrast with her crisp eyeliner and rosy eyeshadow.
Beautiful. Perfect. Constructed with surgeon-like precision by Myra’s own hard work. This was the face that made her succeed. This was the Myra who crawled her way to stardom, shifting as necessary and purging the past records and brushing any controversy under the rug. A flawless record, marketable, aesthetic. The kind of face you can put on billboards or set as your wallpaper. The face that millions had obsessed over. They had dedicated themselves to, had built fan spaces around. Myra knew her influence; after all, it was her job. It was her purpose.
But it was made that way. She made it that way. She felt better that way. Didn’t cringe away from the screen when she met her gaze.
She wanted to let it drop. To take a breath, stop the magic, see herself on her phone. But that felt wrong. This is her. It was all she knew, really. This was who she saw in the mirror every morning. This is who she was, day after day, for years now.
Myra Vier had not dropped her magic since she was 13 years old, and she certainly didn’t plan on doing so now.
Turning her phone off, Myra sat back down. She needed to start brainstorming. How should she respond to the leak? She could maybe frame it as a motivational glow-up. That is what hard work, and dedicated self-care could get you! Maybe a sponsor would even like that angle. Yes, yes, that’s what she’d say.
Or, no, that won’t do it. Surely the concern isn’t that she was ugly before—No, the issue was she might still be. That Myra Vier is perfectly average and using filters and surgery to look how she does.
Maybe some sleuth would (correctly) guess magic being the truth.
She couldn’t have that, under any circumstances. She would need to shut down that line of questioning, too.
A two-pronged approach, perhaps? She’d claim the leak to be fake and include “evidence” of what she looked like younger. Then she’d post a “#nofilter” picture where she tries to make it as natural as possible... To tone down any effects that look too much like makeup, like alterations...
Myra opened her camera again, held it up to her face, and stared at her reflection. Her lips quivered as she fought back against the sudden wave of emotions that threatened to break past her composure. No, she knew what she was doing, she was put together, she was perfect, she was--
Finally letting the magic fall, Myra looked at herself.
She flinched away, her phone slipping from her hands and landing against the floor with a loud thud that joined the ringing in her ears.
This wasn’t right. And it couldn’t be right.
Before her thoughts could spiral, the door creaked open, and out of instinct Myra put back up the wall that was beauty.
“Reine du Verre?” Rook’s familiar voice called out, and he peaked his head in the room. He studied her for a moment, where she floundered to find a proper response, and stepped into the storage room, shutting the door behind him.
“... Rook. Do you need something?” She finally answered, instinctively ensuring her uncertainty and anxiety were not interfering with her illusion.
Rook continued to look at her; his eyes focused on her with the intensity of a huntsman who’d finally found his mark. She hated it. It made her feel small, which she most certainly was not.
Then again, he could always be going for the prize kill. Myra could handle being a decoration.
“I only look to confirm you’re alright,” he explained, walking over to her. Myra stood firm. “Which you most certainly are not.”
Whatever concentration was delicately holding Myra together collapsed as she gave up. There really was no hiding when it came to Rook Hunt, was there? Crumpling back down to the floor, Myra covered her face with her hands, still gripping her phone in one. The screen was cold against her skin, an extra layer of protection from those eyes that always seemed to cut right through whatever perfectly constructed lie Myra had set up for the day.
Rook stayed silent, and she could hear the ruffling of fabric as he sat down across from her.
After a long moment of quiet, he spoke up again. “Why, pray tell, are you hiding in a storage closet?”
As if the answer wasn’t obvious. Myra looked up, hoping that her face would do all the talking.
Rook’s eyes widened, and... He smiled. He smiled.
“I still fail to see the issue, chérie,” he purred, resting his head in his hand as he met her gaze.
Myra wanted to be upset. She so desperately wanted to snap at him but couldn’t bring herself to do so. He had smiled. Looked at her—Actually, truly, looked at her—And seemed just as content to be doing so as ever. “Your eyes work perfectly fine,” she sighed. “You know exactly what the issue is.”
Rook frowned; his brow furrowed. “What? That you are simply a master of illusions? Is your magical prowess an issue?”
“Stop playing dumb,” Myra finally gathered enough annoyance to bite back.
“I would never do such a thing,” he corrected, and Myra hated that she knew it was true. You could not lie to him, and he most certainly would not lie to you. Even if it hurts. “I truly see no problem before me. If I may dare, you are far more beautiful like this.”
Myra’s heart quivered at the way his voice softened into something almost dreamy as he continued to stare at her. She wanted him to stop talking already.
“You have such lovely eyes, Reine du Verre. And you accent them so well. How long did it take to get your eyeliner so clean-cut?”
Stop it.
“And your hair looks splendid. I know you prefer it up, but I believe it would suit your face shape very well to let it down.”
“Rook--”
“And those hands! How robust! Hard-working, and you can tell.”
“Rook--”
“Yes, of course! Your lovely voice. That hasn’t changed at all... Bright as a silver bell. I could listen to you speak forever,” he paused, sitting up. “I’m curious—Did you take vocal lessons when you were younger, or were you self-taught until recently?”
“Rook, how is that even remotely relevant?!” Myra cried out, exasperated. He was complimenting her, technically, but he had to know just how much it stung.
He didn’t know how many times she’d had to wipe off her liner and do it again that morning. How she hated the way her hair looked down because she could never get it to settle right. That she wished her fingers were longer and more elegant. How she had been told repeatedly that she would never make it big. That a person should either be pretty, talented, or both, and she was neither. How often had she sung in her closet, trying to dampen the sound so she wouldn’t bother anyone.
Or maybe he did. The wiry smirk that snuck onto his face taunted her in the best way possible. “Because chérie, those are the things that matter,” Myra opened her mouth to respond and was swiftly interrupted. “You’re beyond beautiful. And you’ve worked very hard to achieve that. You are perfect, not because you are flawless, but because your dedication to the art is.” Rook stood up, offering her his hand.
She hesitated, but took it, and stood up. Her hand moved on instinct to lift her phone, to turn it on and check her notifications, but she couldn’t bring herself to look away. She stood at eye-level with Rook, and that brought her pause. Myra had spoken to him on occasion a multitude of times, but it wasn’t as if she’d ever truly taken the time to pay close attention to him or his apperance.
His lips were permanently crooked at the ends, which created the illusion of a permanent natural smile, even while resting. His hair, which he clearly took the time to try and style crisply, still managed to break away in rebellious strands that drew her eye everywhere else. To his laser-focused green eyes, his sloping jawline, the way the fine-pressed collar of his uniform sat against his neck and collarbones...
“Something still on your mind, chérie?” He asked, running his thumb along her knuckles instead of letting go of her hand. “Why don’t we head outside? I—”
“You said that again,” Myra interrupted. “What does that word mean? How did you pronounce it... chéri?”
Rook shook his head, grinning. “Mmm, close! Chérie. Slightly different,” he ignored the core question, starting to walk forward, gently guiding her out of the closet.
“That’s not a real answer. What does it mean?” Myra wanted to know what language it even was, as Rook was the only person she had ever heard speak like that, but decided that would have to be a question for later.
He paused, tilted his head, and murmured, “Darling.”
✧.* Welcome to my blog! I'm Purez (or Lotus, whichever).
✧.* Any pronouns
✧.* This is my alt, where I specifically share writing + reading related content! This means my WIP, books I like, and most importantly, take fic requests!
✧.* Tags for sorting: LotusOC (For my OC writing), LotusFandom (For my personal fic writing), LotusReq (for fic reqests), LotusReads (For yaps, usually), LotusWrites (for all writing related things if you don't care about what category it is), LotusFreak (NSFW/suggestive posts) Things like specific series will have individual tags in the Masterlist.
✧.* I'm also active on ao3!
✧.* Request rules + Masterlist below!
REQUEST RULES
✧.* Obvious things out of the way first: I will not take requests the following things:
Incest
Adult/Minor
Suggestive Content of underage characters*
Most extremely triggering topics such as: s/h, suicide, eating disorders, etc.
*NSFW request rules are HERE
Now that doesn't mean I won't potentially write at all about these things; just that I won't take requests for them. If I write about them it's of my own accord (I say this last bit mostly about the last option- The first four are off the table all together).
✧.* I write both headcanon lists and one-shots at request, so please be specific with what you want when asking!
✧.* I am currently open to writing for OCs; however, I am more likely to deny requests of them. This isn't personal at all. I just want my writing to be fun and accurate, and if I'm stressing about keeping them from being ooc, it stops becoming fun. Again, this doesn't mean I'll always reject them! It's just more about how I'm feeling the moment. A few things that will help make the process easier if you're requesting oc works from me:
Please give me as much detail about your OC as you can! Try to be as specific as possible, and if you have a certain scenario in mind, tell me as many details of how you want your OC to act as you can. I know it might seem like you're "talking too much", or "asking for too much", but the more information I have, the better it is for us both!
Don't be surprised if the work isn't 100% accurate to what you were envisioning, especially if you didn't tell me you wanted certain details. I cannot read your mind, but I'll try my best to keep the fic from being too ooc!
Time. These requests might take a little bit longer since I'll be trying to adhere directly to what you're telling me about your character, as opposed to other requests where I have more free reign.
✧.* In the same vein as OC/Canon (or general OC work), I am willing to write character/character, mostly because I find it fun to explore different character dynamics! This does mean that if it's not something I personally ship nor am interested in writing for in that moment, I'll likely reject the request. Please know that me rejecting a request is NOT because I hate your ship, or you, or anything of the sort. I just write for fun, so that means taking requests that I find interesting. Again, I am more than willing to write for things I don't ship, so I'm not going to include a list of "ships I'll write for" or anything of the sort (as of this moment, if I ever feel a need to in the future I will).
✧.* Character/reader works are 100% open. However, the more specific the reader-insert gets, the closer it becomes to writing an OC fic in the second person. As an example, "Could you write a Lilia/Reader fic where x thing happens? Reader is x personality/physical trait and maybe does x thing in response" is very different then "Write a Lilia/reader fic where reader has perfectly straight blonde hair, is 20 years old, likes etc etc, does etc etc has this 1,000 word backstory, etc etc". I'll take your specific x readers, but again at that point, OC requests are open so just send it there please :3.
✧.* I love writing AUs! I'm notorious for always turning things I like into superhero/royalty AUs, or connecting them to another piece of media I like (*ahem* like the Diasomnia Tuck Everlasting fic *ahem*). So big time YES on including these in other requests, or as their own ideas!!
✧.* Songfics. I just love collecting music, if I gotta write something to go with it, that's a bonus more than anything.
✧.* Fandoms I write for. These are fandoms I'm willing to write for as of this moment. If your fandom isn't in this list, it doesn't mean it's a guaranteed no! Just like anything else you have questions about regarding this list, feel free to reply to this post (or if you'd rather the question is private, dms are currently open. Please don't abuse that privilege, though) before you send the request!
Twisted Wonderland
My Little Pony
✧.* In line with the last note, please send your requests through the askbox, not through dms. This is just to help keep things organized for me. If you send a request (not a question) to my dms, it will be ignored. Thanks for understanding!
✧.* If I don't respond to your ask, that doesn't mean I denied it/am not working on it! If I don't want to take a request, I'll answer it to let you know.
✧.* And as a final reminder: This is not an exhaustive list! Please feel free to ask further questions and request what you want. Even if you think your idea is silly or dumb, I want to hear it.
Myra Vier has spent years crafting an image the world adores—flawless, untouchable, a rising star destined for greatness. Yet, one whispered line on set—three simple words—shatters the boundary between fiction and reality: I love you. It's a lie, a performance, she knows. But she can feel the glass of her sensibilities cracking.
☆
Or, Myra has a crisis because Vil Schoenheit is unworldly beautiful (we've all been there)
also posted on ao3
TAGS:
Mutual Pining
Unresolved Tension
of all the kinds
romantic/sexual/emotional/all that jazz
Daydreaming
Original Character(s)
Vil Schoenheit is Bad at Feelings
Developing Relationship
POV Original Female Character
Myra shut the door of her dressing room quietly before collapsing onto the lounge chair, her illusion of perfection shattering. Her head was spinning, her blood rushing to her head as her heart raced in her chest. Fumbling for her phone, her hands shook as she turned on the screen, the blue light jolting her thoughts back into line.
She needed to get herself together. There were still responsibilities for the day, even if filming for the evening was wrapping up. She needed to leave; to somehow satiate the burning need that pulsed under her skin and brought her temperature to a boil. A need for what, she didn’t know—Or, no, she knew; she just wished she didn’t.
Melting into the plush seat, Myra leaned her head backwards, her meticulously styled hair falling off the back like a golden curtain. Think. She needed to think through everything, put it all in a neat little box to never re-open. Once she’d packed all her scattered emotions up, she could walk out and be done for the night.
Myra stared at the ceiling for a minute longer before sitting up, walking over to the well-lit vanity. She traced her fingers along the golden ornamentation, following the trail she carved with her hands before finally staring at her reflection.
She certainly didn’t look like the mess she was. Aside from the smudged lipstick from her worrying her bottom lip as she thought. She reached up to touch the red stain. Oh, how easily it could have been anything else. Perhaps a kiss, messy, and loving.
A kiss, planted there in determination, smudging the beautiful glass persona that made up Myra Vier. A kiss with no care for appearances, stolen off the sides of a film set or a party. He’d pull away, lips the same shade of burgundy, a smirk reaching those all-seeing violet eyes. An expression as natural and elegant as breathing, each movement intentional, done to drive her insane, and--
“No, no no no!” Myra exclaimed, covering her face with her hands. That was her problem. Those damned eyes. That name felt so sweet on her tongue. Vil Schoenheit, in all his regal glory, had thoroughly wrecked all sensibility. Lowering her hands, Myra looked at the mirror again, at her flushed expression, eyes blown wide; lips pressed together in embarrassment, or annoyance, or something else along those lines that she couldn’t name. “Be rational,” she told herself. “You are Myra Vier, a rising star of the beauty industry. This is your first theatrical appearance. This is your moment. Your breakthrough. And you are not ruining that for the first guy with pretty eyes you meet.”
She groaned. Lying was easy for a camera, on a stage. It was much harder to lie to herself. There was something so tantalizing about the way Vil looked at her, even if it was just for the sake of the film. Maybe that was part of it. That she could relish that pretty little lie packaged up in scripted dialogue and a director’s blocking. She of all people should understand the feeling; after all, it was a large part of her appeal. The intrigue of where celebrity PR started and ended. What reflection was Myra, and which was the new star.
He’d leaned in close, lifting her chin and pulling her flush against him. His smile was hungry, desperate, and villainous. Predatory. But at that moment, Myra wasn’t acting when she thought of how she truly didn’t mind being the prey. To be chased down by Vil—Or his character—would be a miracle she’d die for. He was supposed to whisper to her, but it didn’t matter what he said, since it wouldn’t be picked up by the microphones. He could have said anything. And that saccharine-sweet voice played on the loop in her head.
Vil had leaned in, and with his breath hot against her ear, murmured, “I love you.”
They were three words. Simple. Said for the sake of a role, one of many under his belt. He probably had already forgotten them, shrugged them off as an easy improvisation. But they haunted Myra, a ghost of what she so desperately needed to be true.
She’d spent the next three hours doing her best to pretend nothing had happened, like she wasn’t falling apart at the seams. Myra was supposed to be getting out of makeup and into her street clothes before going home for the night, but here she was, wasting time with shaking hands and racing thoughts.
Her pulse had finally started to calm down, now that she’d let herself settle. Myra stood up and grabbed her phone again, opening her camera and posing in front of her vanity.
Day 20 of filming complete! Halfway through! She titled the post, following a carefully selected group of hashtags related to the movie. After editing the photo lightly, shifting lighting and covering up her smudged lipstick, she posted it to Magicam, sighing as she watched it load. This was routine. This is how her day goes by. No interruptions, or changes to her schedule. She was put together, a skilled actress, influencer, whatever. She was Myra Vier, and--
A brief knock on her door startled her, and she stumbled to her feet. She didn’t expect anyone, especially considering everyone else should be just as exhausted as she was after twelve hours of filming. If they were here instead of going home, it would have to be important. “Come in!” She answered.
The door opened, revealing Vil standing in the entrance. He managed to make a casual look into something regal, a black top and cardigan styled with the same precision as a suit or ballgown. He studied Myra with those judging eyes, searching for a crack; she had to guess. But no, she’d cleaned herself up. She was as put together as he was, or as best as she could be. “Are you leaving?” he asked, closing the door behind him as he stepped inside.
A redundant question. Everyone was heading out. He surely had a different need. Just imagining what could possibly be dangerous, Myra elected to try and keep her head as clear as possible. Ignore his glossy lips, or neatly folded hands. His smooth skin she’d love to ruin, to-- Fuck, no, focus. “Of course. Do you have plans tonight?”
Vil smiled, if it could be called that. Just the smallest lift of the corners of his mouth as he responded, “No. Do you?”
For once, Myra didn’t mind the song and dance of conversation. “No,” she said, picking up her handbag and walking over to Vil. “But I was considering getting dinner.”
Reaching out for the door handle, Vil caught her hand, head tilted to the side. “That sounds wonderful. Can I talk to you first?”
Myra’s eyes widened, gaze falling to where his hand met hers, warm and soft. Comforting, gentle, but strong. Far too intimate for their surface-level companionship, and almost certainly on purpose. Myra hadn’t known Vil for long, but she could say with confidence that every motion of his was thought through. “O-Of course,” she stammered, wincing at how her voice broke. “Is something wrong?”
Vil dropped her hand, shaking his head. “I was going to ask the same question. You’re distracted by something, I can tell. And it’s impacting your performance.” He critiqued, his voice almost scolding. Sevens, she wanted him to talk to her like that more. And he wasn’t wrong, either. She was distracted, but she thought she was hiding it well.
“What do you mean?” It sounded like feigned ignorance, but Myra really didn’t know what he was getting at. “I felt today went well.”
“On paper, sure,” Vil assented. “Textbook acting. And that is the issue. You’ve done better than that. I’ve seen it over the past few weeks. Yet today, it felt like you were just following the script, instead of feeling the scene as you usually do.”
He’d been paying that close attention to her acting? Why? Myra hated how accurate his analysis was, the bitter truth of her falling into habit today. If she hadn’t, it would have most certainly ended worse. She was getting dangerously close to losing that careful control, standing her alone with him, so close and yet oh so far. She wanted to touch perfection, to mark it as hers, to see the vulnerability beneath it. To talk to Vil casually, instead of in this formal script as always.
“You’re not listening again,” he chided, eyes narrowed as he stared down at her. “And stop staring. You clearly have something to say, so say it.”
“It’s nothing,” Myra assured, forcing a dismissive smile. “I’m just tired, is all.”
“A weak excuse.”
Myra winced. But again, she couldn’t just go out and tell the truth to him, could she? That would be even more foolish. He was elegant, perfect, the fairest of all, and she had to match that energy. Not crumble to pieces under his gaze or at his touch. “What do you want me to say?” She muttered, annoyed. What else was she supposed to do? Vil needed something from her, that’s why he was pushing the topic, and she couldn’t read what it was.
Vil frowned, considering his response before looking back at her. He met her gaze, leaned forward, lifting his hand before returning it to his side. For a fleeting moment, that level-headed, well-maintained veil of self-control flickered away, and Myra realized she wasn’t alone in needing to fall apart in this personal dressing room. It was daring, and probably stupid, but she reached out to pull him in, running one hand up his spine, memorizing the feeling of the fabric, thinking of how it must feel without it.
He shuddered, taking a steady breath. He opened his mouth to speak, to answer her question, to move the conversation along, but he said nothing. Myra paused. How impulsive was she allowed to be here? She’d known Vil for—what, a month? She’d spent days out with him, sure, got dinner, but that was just to get to know him. To make all the on-screen tension less awkward. Right? That’s what this had been, this whole time, right? At what point had she stopped acting and started meaning the lines she read? When did her character’s love become her own?
Sevens, was she really this dense? This whole time she’d been pining, keeping her thoughts to herself, had Vil been doing the same thing? Was this where she was supposed to put an honest confession? Or was that not what he wanted? Should he say something, or just let the moment happen and deal with the aftermath later?
She’d wasted her time thinking, and Vil pulled away. “I’ll go,” he opened the door. “We can schedule dinner later. It’s been a long day.”
Myra nodded and watched him walk out the door.
And for the second time that day, she closed the door, collapsed into her chair, and stared up at the ceiling.
So I've been trying to figure out what character to pair my OC Myra with and. And I think up these fun dynamics and go, "I love that!" And then... and then the evil yuri... it shows up...
Everywhere I go the concept of Myra/Allison toxic *and* doomed yuri haunts me
