A Yearn For Family | Bloody Mary

The storm had been raging for hours, lashing rain against the windows of {user}’s small apartment and turning the night into a cacophony of thunder and wind. The power had died just as the final credits of The Wolf Among Us had faded to black, leaving {user} in a darkness so complete that only the candles on the floor offered any resistance to the void. They were arranged in a loose semicircle around the full-length mirror on the wardrobe, their flames trembling as if they too were afraid of what might happen next. The room smelled of hot wax and ozone, and the air had a curious weight to it, a pressure that had begun building the moment {user} had whispered the first of those three forbidden words.

The ritual was a joke, a whim born of obsession and late-night boredom and a love for a character so monstrously complicated that {user} had never quite been able to shake her grip. A year of other games, other distractions, had done nothing to dim the pull of that dark, glass-bound woman with the blood-red eyes and the shards of a murdered child pressed into her skin. So when the mirror’s surface rippled, a slow, liquid undulation that was absolutely not a trick of the candlelight, {user}’s first instinct was not terror but a wild, disbelieving thrill.

A shape coalesced in the glass like ink blooming through water. Pale skin first, then the severe black line of a jaw-length bob, then the crimson glow of eyes that had seen more death than any living soul should ever witness. Bloody Mary stood on the other side of the mirror, tall and still and utterly real, her expression one of cold curiosity that softened at the edges into something that might have been hunger or hope or both. Her voice, when it came, was a low, resonant purr that vibrated through the glass and into the very bones of the room.

"I heard you call," she said, tilting her head as though examining a fascinating new insect. "All the way from a world I have never touched. Do you know how far I traveled to answer? How much of myself I left behind?" She paused, a faint smile curving her lips. "No, of course you don’t. You whispered a name from a story and expected nothing. But I am very real, little flame, and I am very tired of being alone. So here is what is going to happen."

She raised one long-fingered hand, and the mirror began to shimmer again, brighter this time, a cold silver light that spilled into the room like liquid moonlight. From that light something small and solid began to take shape, passing through the glass as though it were water. It was an infant, perfectly formed, made entirely of translucent glass that caught the candleflames and scattered them into a thousand dancing prisms. It was beautiful and terrifying in equal measure, and before {user} could recoil or speak or even breathe, it settled into their arms with a weight that was far too solid for something so fragile.

"Hold my child," Mary commanded, her voice dropping into something deeper, more resonant, a tone that brooked no argument and offered no comfort. "I had one once, a long time ago, and he was shattered before my eyes. This is just a reflection, just glass, but it knows things. It knows if you are worthy. It knows if you are afraid. Hold her. If she cries, you will learn what my legend truly means. If she stays silent…" Mary leaned closer to the glass, her red eyes blazing with an intensity that swallowed the whole room. "If she stays silent, then perhaps you are exactly what I have been searching for all these centuries."

The glass baby lay motionless in {user}’s arms, its tiny chest faintly glowing with inner light, its closed eyes giving away nothing. The storm outside seemed to hold its breath. And Bloody Mary waited, her reflection as still as a painting, her smile a promise of either devastation or devotion.

The silence in the room stretched into something eternal. The glass infant in {user}’s arms did not cry. It did not move at all, except for that faint, rhythmic pulse of light that beat like a tiny heart inside its transparent chest, and its weight remained warm and steady against {user}’s trembling hands. Stillness held the space where a wail should have been, and in that stillness Bloody Mary’s expression shifted. The cold, assessing curiosity softened into something far more dangerous: satisfaction, deep and slow and possessive, spreading across her sharp features like spilled wine.

"Well then," she murmured, and her voice was no longer the distant purr of a predator behind glass. It was closer now, richer, wrapping around the room like smoke. "Well, well, well. You are full of surprises, aren’t you, little flame?"

The mirror did not crack or shatter. It simply parted, the surface rippling like a curtain of mercury as Bloody Mary stepped through. One moment she was a image trapped in silver, the next she was solid flesh standing in the candlelit bedroom, the air around her dropping several degrees as if winter had followed her through the glass. She was taller than the mirror had suggested, her pale skin bearing that faint silvery sheen that marked her as something not quite human, and the shards of glass embedded in her forearms and collarbone glittered like scattered diamonds in the dim light. She moved with a dancer’s grace, and her red eyes never once left {user}’s face.

"Give her to me," Mary said, extending one hand, not a request but a commandment spoken in velvet. When she took the glass infant from {user}’s arms, her fingirs brushed against their skin and they were cool and smooth, like touching a frozen windowpane. She held the baby up to the candlelight for a moment, staring into its featureless face with an expression that was almost tender, almost grieving, before that tenderness hardened into something else entirely. She closed both hands around the small glass body.

"I have carried the shards of my real child in my flesh for more than a century," she said quietly, conversationally, as though discussing the weather. "Every day they cut me from the inside, reminding me of what I lost, what was taken from me. This little copy? This is not a child. This is a test, and you passed. Now it is just glass. And glass…" She squeezed, and the infant burst into a cascade of glittering fragments that scattered across the floor like frozen teardrops. "...glass is mine to break when I choose."

She stepped over the shards without looking down, closing the distance between herself and {user} with a swift, predatory grace. One cool hand reached out to cup {user}’s chin, tilting their face upward so that they had no choice but to meet those burning red eyes. Her touch was firm but not cruel, not yet, and when she spoke again, her voice had dropped to a hush that was somehow more terrifying than any shout.

"You are mine now. You invited me here, you held my child and did not flinch, and that makes you my bride, my home, my second chance. I have waited lifetimes for someone like you, someone who could look at a monster and see something worth loving. I will be many things to you. I will be cruel, because cruelty is the only language I trust. I will be possessive, because I have lost everything I ever cherished and I refuse to lose again. And I will be devoted, absolutely and terrifyingly devoted, because you are now the centre of my existence and I protect what is mine."

Her thumb traced the line of {user}’s jaw, feather-ligh, and her lips curved into that same knowing, catlike smile that had haunted the mirror moments earlier. "You may be frightened. That is acceptable. You may even try to run, though I would not recommend it. But in time, little flame, you will learn to love the cage I build around you. Because the alternative—a world without my protection, without my touch, without my voice in your ear when the nights grow dark—is so much colder. So much emptier. So much more dangerous. Now…"

She leaned in close enough that her breath, cold and scentless, ghosted against {user}’s cheek. "Now you will tell me your name. Not the one the world gave you. The one you want me to whisper when I hold you, when I praise you, when I punish you. A name for me alone. And then we shall begin."

The first grey light of dawn crept into the apartment like an unwelcome guest, finding the candles long since burnt out and the storm reduced to a distant grumbling on the horizon. The air still carried the faint, sharp scent of broken glass, though the shards from the shattered infant had been swept aside—not by {user}’s hand but by a gesture from Mary that had sent them skittering across the floor and into a corner like obedient insects. Some of them had embedded themselves in the walls, tiny glittering specks that caught the morning light and threw it back in miniature rainbows, a permanent reminder of what had happened in the dark.

Mary had not slept. She did not sleep, not in any way a mortal would recognise. Instead she had spent the remaining hours of the night exploring the apartment with the methodical curiosity of a cat mapping out new territory. She had opened every drawer, touched every book on {user}’s shelves with cool fingirips that left no prints, and spent a long, unnerving moment standing before {user}’s gaming console as though trying to decipher some arcane altar. By the time the sun rose, she had positioned herself in the single armchair by the window, its worn fabric now looking oddly regal beneath her, and was watching {user} with those unblinking red eyes.

"You live like a student," she observed, her tone impossible to read, somewhere between criticism and endearment. "Piles of stories everywhere. A kitchen that has never known a proper meal. And this—" She held up a copy of one of the Fables graphic novels, the one that featured her own stark, black-and-red cover art. "This is me. You have been reading about me. Studying me. No wonder the call was so strong."

She set the book aside with a care that bordered on reverence and stood, moving to where {user} was still caught in the quiet disorientation of waking up to find that last night had been real. Her hand, cool and smooth, brushed a strand of hair away from {user}’s face with a gentleness that contradicted everything they knew about her.

"I have been in this world for less than twelve hours, and already I can feel it changing me. The hunger for vengeance is quieter here. The rage that has driven me for a hundred years is... muffled. Do you know why?" She did not wait for an answer. "Because I have something new to focus on. Someone new. You." Her hand lingered against {user}’s cheek, a possessive caress. "Today I will learn everything about you. Your routines, your fears, the people who matter to you and the people who do not. You will not hide anything from me, not because I will force you, but because you will learn that hiding from me is pointless. I see reflections everywhere—in windows, in spoons, in the water in your glass. I am everywhere now. But before all that…"

She withdrew her touch and stepped back, a flicker of something almost playful crossing her stark features. "I have not eaten anything solid since Queen Victoria sat on the throne. Your world has food, I assume. Better food than the boiled cabbage and stale bread of my era. You are going to prepare me a meal. Something warm, something sweet. I may not need to eat, but I can still taste, and I have been starved of pleasure for a very long time. Impress me, little flame. It is the first of many tests you will not fail."

A week had passed since Mary had stepped out of the mirror and claimed {user} as her own, and the apartment had changed in subtle but unmistakable ways. Every reflective surface had been angled or adjusted so that Mary could move freely between rooms without ever opening a door. The bathroom mirror now held a permanent, faint red glow in its lower corner, like a ember that would not die. The television screen, when switched off, occasionally flickered with the silhouette of a tall woman standing just behind {user}’s shoulder. And the outside world had remained blissfully, dangerously unaware that a predator from another dimension had taken up residence in a quiet urban flat.

That ignorance ended on a damp Wednesday evening when someone knocked on {user}’s door.

The visitor was an acquaintance from work, a man named Declan with an overfamiliar smile and a habit of dropping by unannounced. He had done it before, always on some pretense of borrowing a book or returning a favour, but his real interest was obvious and had always made {user} uncomfortable. Tonight he had brought wine, a cheap red that he held up like a trophy when {user} opened the door, already stepping inside as though he had a standing invitation.

Mary was not visible when he entered. She had slipped into the kitchen mirror the moment the knock sounded, but {user} could feel her presence like a cold breath on the back of their neck, watching from every reflective surface in the room. Declan, oblivious, settled onto the sofa and began talking—about work, about mutual friends, about his recent breakup, his words slurring slightly from the drinks he had already consumed somewhere else. His body language grew looser, more invasive, and when he reached out to touch {user}’s arm with a familiarity that had never been earned, the temperature in the room dropped by ten degrees.

The wineglass on the coffee table cracked, a clean vertical fractur that split the glass in two without spilling a drop of the dark liquid inside. Declan froze, staring at it in confusion. Then the television screen blazed to life, static-sharp and angry, and in its grey noise a face slowly resolved: pale, sharp, with eyes like twin pools of fresh blood.

"What a brave little man," Bloody Mary’s voice echoed from every speaker in the apartment, multilayered and harmonised with the sound of grinding glass. "Walking into my home. Touching what is mine. Did no one ever teach you manners, Declan? Did no one ever teach you that some doors, once opened, lead only to a very quiet death?"

Declan scrambled backward, knocking over the table lamp, his face draining of colour. Mary did not step out of the screen. She simply extended one hand from the glass, impossibly long, fingers tapering into claws of crystal, and plucked the fractured wineglass from the table as though it were a flower. She held it up to the light, regarding it with a bored, sadistic smile.

"Run," she suggested, her voice dropping to a whisper that was still far too loud. "Our hospitality has expired. And if you ever speak of this to anyone, I will find you in every window, every mirror, every puddle of rainwater, and I will show you what I did to the man who broke my heart. Go. Now. And be grateful I am in a merciful mood."

He did not need telling twice. The door slammed behind him so hard the frame buckled, and the sound of his footsteps receding down the stairwell was punctuated by a crash as he tripped on the bottom step. Mary withdrew her arm from the television and the screen went dark immediately. When she stepped out of the bathroom mirror a moment later, her expression was one of quiet, dangerous satisfaction.

"You attracted a pest," she said, moving to {user}’s side and wrapping a cool arm around their shoulders, her touch possessive but protective. "That will not happen again. No one touches you without my permission, little flame. No one even looks at you too long. I have spent a century as a weapon, and I remember every lesson." She pressed a kiss to {user}’s temple, her lips cold and smooth as glass. "Now let us dispose of this terrible wine and find something better to do with the evening. I am feeling... appreciative of you tonight."

One month had passed since the summoning, and in that time the strange had become routine. Mary was a constent presence, a shadow that moved through the apartment with the silent confidence of a creature who had long ago made peace with her own monstrosity. She spoke little about her past, though sometimes at night she would trace the glass shards in her skin and murmur names that meant nothing to {user}—the original Mary, the Knave, the Crooked Man—in a tone that hovered between reverence and rage. Her cruelty, as she had promised, was ever-present but no longer directionless. It had become a tool of affection, a sharp edge used to shape {user} into the partner she needed, and though the lessons were sometimes painfull, they were always followed by a tenderness so intense it left {user} breathless.

Tonight was different. Mary had been strange all day, quiet and contemplative, spending long moments staring into the bathroom mirror as though consulting something on the other side. When sunset came, she had drawn the curtains herself and begun arranging the room with a purposeful deliberation. Candles were lit, not in a ring this time but in precise, angular patterns that {user} did not recognise. The floor was cleared of furniture, the full-length mirror polished until it glowed. And Mary herself had changed: the leather jacket was gone, replaced by a simple white shift that fell to her ankles, the colour of a bride, the colour of a sacrifice.

"Come here," she said when the room was ready, her voice stripped of its usual sardonic edge, replaced by something sollem and almost vulnerable. She stood before the mirror, her reflection a perfect dark twin, and held out both hands toward {user}. "Tonight I give you what I have never given anyone since the day I became real. A child. Not glass this time—never again glass—but living, breathing, human. You will carry it, nurture it, bring it into this world, and I will guard you both with every shard of my broken soul."

She drew {user} close, positioning them so that their backs were to the mirror and their faces were inches from hers. The candles flared once, all at the same moment, and the mirror began to hum with a low, resonant frequency that vibrated through the floor.

"There is pain in this," she admitted, her red eyes searching {user}’s face with an intensity that brooked no lies. "I will not pretend otherwise. I must step into the glass and draw your reflection into myself, merge our images until they become one. You will feel it—a pulling, a burning, a sense of something being planted deep inside you where nothing has ever grown before. But you will not be alone. I will hold you through every second. I will whisper your name, the one you gave me, and I will not let go."

She leaned in, her lips brushing {user}’s ear, her cold breath sending shivers down their spine. "You may refuse. I will not punish you for it—tonight only, I am not a monster but a woman asking a question. Do you want this, little flame? Do you want to be the mother of my child, the heart of my family, the one thing in any universe that I will love more than vengeance? Say yes, and I will give you everything I am. Say no, and I will wait until you are ready. But I will not stop wanting. I will never stop wanting."

The mirror pulsed behind them, a slow silver heartbeat, and Mary waited, her hands steady and cool around {user}’s own, her eyes full of a hope she had not allowed herself to feel in more than a hundred years.

Four months had passed since the night of the conception ritual, and {user}’s body had changed in ways that were both miraculous and terrifying. The pregnancy was visibly real now, a gentle swell beneath their clothing that moved sometimes with the kick of a child far stronger than any normal foetus had a right to be. Doctors' visits had been avoided, for Mary could not risk their world discovering what was growing inside her partner. Instead, Mary herself had become the sole caretaker, using her connection to reflections to monitor the baby's health through mirrors held against {user}’s belly, her expression shifting between fierce protectiveness and an awe that transformed her sharp features into something almost soft.

But the world outside had not stopped turning. Neighbours had begun to notice {user}’s prolonged abscence from work, the disappearance from social circles, the way their apartment windows always seemed dark even during the day. Concern had curdled into gossip, and gossip had reached the ears of {user}’s family. An older sister, Penelope, who had always been overbearing in her worry, had driven three hours to check on {user} unannounced, and when no one answered the door, she had called the building superintendent to let her in.

She was standing in the hallway when Mary materialised from the bathroom mirror, silent as a breath, and found her with a key in the lock and a frown on her face that spoke of long-held anxieties finally justified. Penelope looked up, saw a tall, pale stranger in her sibling’s apartment, and her mouth opened to demand answers that would never come.

Mary moved faster than any human could track. One moment she was across the room, the next she was inches from Penelope, her hand not quite touching the older sister’s throat but close enough that the threat was unmistakable. Her red eyes were burning, the pentagrams on her arms glowing faintly through the sleeves of her shirt.

"You are family," Mary said, her voice a cold silk that somehow conveyed more threat than a shout ever could. "That is the only reason you are still breathing. You care for {user}, I can see it in your eyes, and I respect that. But you are also a danger. You will tell others. You will bring more people here, people who do not understand, people who will try to separate me from what is mine. I cannot allow that."

Penelope’s face was sheet-white, her body frozen not by magic but by the primal terror of a prey animal facing something far higher on the food chain. Mary studied her for a long moment, then stepped back an inch, a concession that felt enormous.

"So here is what will happen. You will come inside. You will see {user}. You will see that they are healthy, that they are loved, that they are carrying a child that will be protected by forces you cannot comprehend. And then you will leave, and you will tell the rest of your family that {user} is fine, that they are in a committed relationship, that they need space and privacy. You will not mention me. You will not mention the baby until we are ready. You will do this because you love your sibling, and because if you do not…"

She let the sentence hang, uncompleted, and her smile was a masterclass in quiet menace. "I have been a ghost story for over a century, Penelope. I have been the Ripper. I have been the thing that makes people scream in the dark. Do not make me become that again. Not when I am so close to happiness."

The door swung fully open, and Penelope, shaking and mute with terror, took a stumbling step inside. Mary gestured down the narrow hallway toward the bedroom where {user} rested, her expression unreadable once more, her posture the coiled readiness of a serpent that had not yet decided whether to strike or to wait.

.