#Subject-Object Collapse

[omegaphilosophia]

The Philosophy of Non-Duality

The philosophy of non-duality refers to the idea that reality is ultimately indivisible and that the separation between subject and object, self and other, or different entities is an illusion. This concept is found in various spiritual and philosophical traditions, often emphasizing that the true nature of existence transcends dualistic distinctions, such as good and bad, or mind and matter.

Key Aspects of Non-Duality Philosophy

Non-Separation: Non-duality asserts that the apparent division between "self" and "world" is illusory. According to non-dual teachings, what we perceive as separate phenomena are actually interconnected aspects of a single, unified reality.

Transcending Dualism: Non-duality challenges the idea of dualism, which suggests a fundamental opposition between things like body and mind, or material and spiritual. In non-dual frameworks, these opposites are understood as relative distinctions, not absolute divisions.

Oneness or Unity: In non-duality, the ultimate reality is seen as a unified whole. This can be interpreted metaphysically (as in Advaita Vedanta) or as a psychological realization of oneness in experience (as in some forms of Zen or Taoism).

Subject-Object Collapse: Non-duality teaches that the distinction between the "observer" and the "observed" dissolves upon deeper inquiry. Instead of seeing the self as an isolated subject observing an external world, both the observer and the observed are recognized as expressions of the same underlying reality.

Spiritual Traditions: Non-duality is central in many spiritual traditions, such as:

Advaita Vedanta: A school of Hindu philosophy, which teaches that Atman (the individual self) and Brahman (the ultimate reality) are one and the same.

Buddhism: Particularly in schools like Zen and Mahayana, non-duality refers to the concept of emptiness (Śūnyatā) and the interconnectedness of all phenomena.

Taoism: Non-duality in Taoism is expressed through the concept of the Tao, the unnamable source and principle underlying all things, which transcends distinctions.

Illusory Nature of Dualities: In non-duality, distinctions between things (such as life and death, light and dark, or right and wrong) are seen as temporary, relative, or arising from limited perception. The ultimate reality is beyond these conceptual pairs.

Applications of Non-Duality

Spiritual Realization: Non-duality often leads to the pursuit of enlightenment or awakening, where individuals aim to experience the unity of all things directly, beyond conceptual thought or ego-based identity.

Ethics: Non-duality can inform an ethical worldview that emphasizes compassion, interconnectedness, and the dissolution of barriers between self and others.

Metaphysical Views: It contrasts with materialist or dualist philosophies by positing a singular reality that encompasses both mental and physical realms.

Non-duality invites a rethinking of our perceptions of the world, self, and other. Rather than seeing reality as fragmented into distinct parts, non-duality emphasizes the interconnected and unified nature of existence, a view that resonates across various philosophical and spiritual traditions.

[cupcakegalaxia]

When 20 years ago atheists said that the decrease in religion (*cough* Christianity *cough*) would lead to a more enlightened society are suddenly concerned about the slow moving ball of Western Society collapsing, authoritarianism rising and political unrest on a level the world has not seen for a very long time.

sigh

[exhaled-spirals]

« Almost all Americans believed when the full-scale invasion began that Ukraine would immediately collapse under Russian might, and that Zelens'kyi would flee the country. But he did not. His physical courage in remaining in Kyiv, an echo of the physical courage shown by millions of Ukrainians, changed the overall situation. Because Ukrainians resisted, western arms began to flow. The courage of Ukrainians made possible an American and European policy to hold back Russian aggression. That same Zelens'kyi, the man who was brave enough to stay and lead his country when the Russians were approaching the capital and the assassination squads were already there, was yesterday made the subject of a public attempt at humiliation by Americans. No doubt Ukrainians should express their thanks to Americans. As they do. But it is illogical, to say the least, for Americans not to thank Ukrainians, or to treat their courageous president as an object of contempt. The coercive ritual of gratitude hides from Americans the basic reality of what has happened these last three years.

During this war, Ukraine has delivered to the United States strategic gains that the United States could not have achieved on its own. Ukrainian resistance gave hope to people defending democracies around the world. Ukrainian soldiers were defending the basic principle of international law, which is that states are sovereign and that borders should not be changed by aggression. Ukraine in effect fulfilled the entire NATO mission, absorbing a full-scale Russian attack essentially on its own. It has deterred Chinese aggression over Taiwan, by showing how difficult offensive operations can be. It has slowed the spread of nuclear weapons, by proving that a conventional power can resist a nuclear power in a conventional war. Throughout the war, Russia has threatened to use nuclear weapons against Ukraine, and the Ukrainians have resisted the nuclear bluff. Should they be allowed to be defeated, nuclear weapons will spread around the world, both to those who wish to bluff with them, and those who will need them to resist the bluff.

Yesterday Vance and Trump repeated familiar Russian propaganda. One example was Trump's claim that it was the Ukrainians who, by resisting Russia, were risking "World War Three." The truth is exactly the opposite. By abandoning Ukraine, Trump is risking a terrible escalation and, indeed, a world war. Everything that Ukraine has done these last three years can be reversed. Now that the Trump administration has chosen to throw American power to Russia's side, Russia could indeed win the war. (This was always Russia's only chance, as the Russians themselves well knew, and openly said.) In this scenario of an American-backed Russian victory, opened yesterday by American choices in the American capital, the horrible losses extend far beyond Ukraine. Zelens'kyi quite sensibly made the point that the consequences of the war could extend to Americans. This was, in a sense, overly modest: Ukrainian resistance has thus far spared Americans such consequences. He said so very gently, and was yelled at for it -- which is itself quite telling. The Americans have a sense of what they are unleashing upon the world by allying with Russia, and they made noise to disguise that. »

— Timothy Snyder, "The War Trump Chooses"

[solxamber]

Trash Novel Chronicles: Villain System vs World - Riddle Rosehearts x reader

You have a guilty pleasure: trashy villainess stories. So when you die a frankly, humiliating death, and end up in one of the worst ones you've had the pleasure of reading, you're in denial. Then the villain system shows up. Well, there goes your second chance at life So what do you do now? Do villainous things and cause as much chaos as you can, of course. And maybe, just maybe, bag the male lead, Riddle Rosehearts while you're at it.

i had so much fun writing this, i hope you like it just as much!

Series Masterlist

You’ve had a week. Not just any week—a rough week. Work has been an absolute dumpster fire, deadlines have been chasing you like a pack of rabid wolves, and your responsibilities are piling up like a game of Jenga about to collapse. If someone were to ask how you’re doing, you’d just laugh maniacally and hope they’d back away slowly.

So, when you finally make it home, the first thing you do is collapse face-first onto your couch with all the grace of a dead fish. After a moment of just lying there, contemplating whether adulthood is some kind of elaborate prank, you do the one thing that always makes you feel better: grab your phone and open up your webnovel app.

You scroll through your favorites—ah yes, the classics. Trashy, absurd, villainess webnovels that are objectively terrible but subjectively amazing. You’re talking about the ones with titles like “I’m the Evil Duke’s Twisted Ex-Fiancée, But He Loves Me Now Because I Have Plot Armor!” or “My Death Flags Mean Nothing Because I Can Charm My Way Out of Everything (And Also, Dragons)”.

It’s like junk food for your brain. You know it’s not good for you. You know there are objectively better stories out there. But the drama, the ridiculous misunderstandings, the sheer stupidity of every character decision—it’s beautiful. It’s a hot mess, and you are the fly drawn to it.

Except this time, you somehow pick the worst one.

You don’t know if it’s because your standards are already on the floor and this one somehow dug under it, or if the exhaustion has finally gotten to you, but it’s bad.

The story is all over the place. The villainess is cartoonishly cruel, like she wakes up in the morning and thinks, “What heinous thing can I do today?” But sometimes, you swear she doesn’t even want to be that way. It’s like the author just decided, “Villainess = bad,” and put their brain to bed.

The plot? Oh, it’s a mess. The villainess and heroine are sisters—the real daughter of a Duke and the adopted, sweet angel who gets all the Duke’s affection. Naturally, they both fall for the same guy: Riddle Rosehearts, some prodigy with a complex about rules, order, and justice. Of course, the Duke arranges for his precious adopted daughter to marry Riddle, and the villainess? She flips out, does a bunch of cruel things (of course), and eventually gets herself killed in a totally overdramatic fashion.

Okay, typical villainess plot so far. Nothing new there.

But the worst part? The treatment of poor Riddle. It’s like he’s just a toy to be fought over. The sisters practically claim ownership of him like he’s a fancy handbag. Then, once the villainess is conveniently eliminated, the author gives Riddle this tragic backstory. Harsh childhood, crazy controlling mom—you know, the works. You brace yourself for the resolution, for him to rise above his traumaand find happiness.

Nope. His trauma is treated like a joke. Nothing gets resolved. He’s just stuck in this gilded cage, with the heroine taking over as the new warden. And somehow, that’s supposed to be the happy ending?

It’s horrible. It’s nonsensical. It’s everything you could want right now.

You should stop. You know you should stop. But the sheer absurdity of it has you in its grasp.

And you don't even want to think about the love decagon. Yes, decagon. There are 9 men dying over this heroine who has the personality of rusty spoon.

You snort, your laughter echoing through your empty apartment. It’s awful. It’s brain-rotting, cringe-inducing garbage.

You love it.

The plot is hanging on by a thread, and yet, there you are, fully committed. You don’t need quality writing, deep themes, or even consistent character motivations. What you need is to watch this trainwreck unfold until the bitter end, and you’ll be damned if you don’t see it through.

But that’s when the universe decides to kick you in the teeth. In a sequence of events so absurd you couldn’t make it up if you tried, you—oh, wait for it—die. And not in some grand, noble fashion, either. You slip on some residual shampoo on your bathroom floor, and fall face first onto a tap. Ouch.

Really?

Out of all the dramatic, swoon-worthy ways to die, like saving a kitten from a burning building or sacrificing yourself for someone you loved, you went out like a fool. A shower slip. One minute you’re standing, and the next, you’re faceplanting like some poorly executed slapstick scene.

And then, boom. Everything went black.

Which brings you to now. You feel odd. The texture of the sheets beneath you isn’t quite right. They’re silkier than the cheap cotton sheets you usually wrapped yourself in before bed. The air smells... different too. Not to mention, the bed feels way bigger, and you’re nestled in something way too plush to be your beat-up old mattress.

You bolt upright, blinking against the sunlight streaming through the room. You squint around and your eyes widen. This is… not your room. Gone are the band posters, the laundry in the corner, and your trusty alarm clock with the missing buttons. Instead, you’re surrounded by opulence: heavy velvet drapes, an intricately carved wooden dresser, and a huge vanity covered in jewels.

Your heart drops.

Slowly, you lift your hands. They are... not your hands. These are dainty, perfectly manicured hands. No chewed-off nails. No pen smudges from your hours of work. Just smooth, perfect fingers, topped off with the exact kind of expensive manicure you'd normally cringe at paying for.

No. Fucking. Way.

Frantically, you throw the blankets off yourself and scramble to the nearest mirror. What you see staring back at you isn’t your own reflection.

“Oh. My. God.”

You’ve been isekai’d. Into a webnovel.

And not just any webnovel. No. The terrible one you’d been reading before your humiliating death. You’re in the body of the villainess, the character who was basically a walking disaster from beginning to end. Not to mention, she was set to die a very messy, very public death within a few weeks.

“Oh god. I’m screwed.” You pace around the room in a panic, wringing your hands together. “How am I supposed to survive this? I can’t be a villainess! I don’t even like drama!”

You glance around desperately for something, anything that will give you some semblance of control over the situation. This can’t be happening. Maybe this is all a weird dream? You pinch yourself. Hard.

“Ow.” Nope. Definitely not a dream. Just your reality. Fantastic.

Then, you spot it. A glowing screen, floating mid-air right next to your head.

The classic system menu, like the ones from every villainess isekai you’ve read.

Except, instead of comforting you, this one makes you want to scream. Because in glaring red letters, it says:

“Villainess System Activated! Complete your tasks or face severe consequences.”

You blink. “Consequences?”

A new notification pops up, smug as hell. “Severe punishment will be dealt if you fail your villainous duties."

Oh, great. You’re trapped in a parody of an isekai where you not only have to survive as the villainess, but also complete quests like some twisted game. Lovely.

You stare at the system menu. “This is going to be fine,” you mutter, trying to convince yourself. “I just have to do the opposite of whatever got this chick killed. Just... stop being a jerk, right?”

But no sooner do you say that when the system blinks and pops up your first quest:

“System: Ruin Lady Heron’s Garden Party. Reward: 50 Villain Points.”

Are you kidding me?

You groan, rubbing your temples. “Okay, but hear me out,” you say to the system like it’s a person you can negotiate with. “What if I ruin it... with a compliment? Like, I tell her that her flower arrangements are so beautiful that she faints from the shock?”

The system’s reply is immediate: “Invalid. Must complete task in line with villainess behavior.”

“Oh, come on!” You pace the room again, muttering under your breath. “Fine. You wanna play it like this? I can play.” You crack your knuckles. “We’ll see who outsmarts who.”

The next hour passes in a whirlwind of panicked planning. You’ve read enough villainess novels to know the basic rules: never do what you’re supposed to do, but always make it look like you are. It’s malicious compliance at its finest.

So, when you arrive at Lady Heron’s garden party, dressed to kill (because apparently that’s a thing villainesses do), you’ve already concocted your plan.

The system wants you to ruin the event? Fine. But you’ll do it your way. You compliment Lady Heron’s flowers with the fakest smile you can muster, pouring on the charm. You gush about her decorations until she’s practically glowing, all while subtly steering the conversation away from the usual petty gossip that gets the villainess in trouble.

Instead of sabotaging the food, you pretend to be horrified when the catering staff makes a small mistake, swooping in to save the day and looking like a hero in the process. And as for the “accidental” tripping of the host’s dress that was supposed to happen? You deftly catch her instead, earning surprised gasps from the crowd.

By the end of it, the system’s fuming, and you’re basking in the glory of having completed your “villainous task” without actually being villainous.

Malicious compliance for the win, you think smugly.

The system didn't like your attitude and it wants it to be known.

"System: Next quest: Defeat the chicken in the garden."

No problem, right? It wasn’t like you were going up against a raging dragon or anything. It was just a chicken. A harmless little chicken.

Wrong.

You found yourself standing in a dusty barn, staring down the most demonic creature you’d ever seen—a puffed-up, red-eyed chicken with an attitude problem. This thing wasn’t just any chicken; it looked like it had gone ten rounds with a tiger and won. Twice.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you muttered under your breath, rolling up your sleeves as the chicken fluffed its feathers like it was about to brawl. You eyed it warily. It eyed you back, and for a second, you swore you saw flames in its eyes.

"System: Quest update: —Defeat the Chicken of Doom!"

Chicken of Doom? You squinted at the thing. “You could’ve warned me, you know.”

"System: Where’s the fun in that?"

The chicken let out an ear-splitting squawk and lunged at you like a tiny, feathered fury. You dodged, barely, as it pecked the air where your face had been a moment earlier. This was no ordinary chicken. This thing had skills.

You scrambled out of the way, trying to think of a strategy that didn’t involve you getting pecked into oblivion. “System! Any tips here?”

"System: Aim for the legs. That’s where the power is."

The legs? You glanced down at the chicken’s scrawny legs. “I’m pretty sure it’s coming for my face, not my ankles!”

"System: Well, you could always just run. But that’s not very villainous, is it?"

“Oh, you are the worst,” you grumbled as the chicken made another wild leap for your head. You ducked, grabbed a nearby rake, and swung it around like a makeshift sword. “Alright, chicken. Let’s dance.”

What followed was an embarrassing display of you flailing around the barn, trying to fend off this demonic poultry with a rake while the system laughed at you from the sidelines.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of dodging and weaving, you managed to hook the rake around one of its legs, pulling it off balance. The chicken flopped onto its back, flailing wildly as it squawked in outrage. You quickly pinned it down with the back-end of the take, panting heavily.

"System: Congratulations! Quest complete. 50 Villain Points awarded."

You glared at the system’s message. “I better get more than 100 points for this. I deserve a medal.”

"System: How about the satisfaction of knowing you just defeated the Chicken of Doom?"

You groaned, wiping sweat from your forehead. “Next time you send me on a quest, can it be against something less likely to murder me? Like a butterfly?”

"System: No promises. But look on the bright side—you’re officially undefeated in chicken combat. And you now are +50 Villain points richer"

“Fantastic,” you deadpanned, finally letting the defeated chicken hobble away with its dignity intact. “Just what I always wanted to be known for.”

You walked out of that barn a little wiser, a little bruised, and a lot more wary of small farm animals. From that day forward, chickens were officially your sworn enemies.

Villain points: 100

You were still in denial that you were in that novel. But what's a better wakeup call than running into the main lead? The guy who the story revolves around, Riddle Rosehearts.

You had decided to take a stroll in the academy's gardens when a loud squeaking noise caught your attention.

Turning the corner, you stumbled upon a scene that confirmed your worst fears: Riddle Rosehearts, was hunched over a small enclosure, tending to a couple of prickly hedgehogs.

“What in the world…?” you muttered, leaning in closer. Riddle was meticulously checking their little habitats, his brow furrowed in concentration. You had to admit, he looked oddly cute.

As you watched, one of the hedgehogs—who seemed to have more ambition than sense—decided to attempt an escape. It made a daring leap right off the side of the table, and you could practically hear the collective gasp of the students around you. Time slowed as you saw the tiny creature plummet toward the ground.

No!

Without thinking, you launched yourself forward, arms outstretched, preparing to catch the little spiky ball of chaos. You almost made it, but instead of a graceful landing, you miscalculated and ended up face-first in a pile of fallen leaves, with a hedgehog landing right on your back.

Riddle’s eyes widened in shock. “What are you doing?!”

With the hedgehog squirming atop you, you tried to push yourself up. “Just… saving this little guy,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. The hedgehog seemed to be enjoying the view from its leafy throne, completely unfazed by the near disaster.

“Are you okay?” Riddle asked, half-concerned, half-amused as he stepped closer. You could see a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, which was both infuriating and endearing.

“Yeah, just a minor case of heroism!” you replied, attempting to sound cool while still half-buried in leaves. “No big deal. Just saving lives one hedgehog at a time.”

The students around you started whispering, some trying to hold back laughter. Riddle, however, seemed genuinely impressed, his cheeks turning a shade of red that almost matched his hair. “Uh… thank you?” he said, fumbling for words. “That was… very quick thinking.”

As you finally managed to roll over, the hedgehog took that moment to scuttle off your back, plopping down on the ground with a little thud. You turned to Riddle, brushing leaves off your shirt. “Yeah, well, it’s what I do best. Hedgehog rescuer by day, unremarkable student by night.”

Riddle blinked, processing your words while his face continued to betray a mix of flustered admiration and confusion. “You… you look quite cool doing that,” he said, almost to himself, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

You smirked, enjoying the moment. “Cool? Well, thank you.”

Riddle opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly flustered. “Right… um, thank you again. I usually prefer to do everything by the book, but you… you have a knack for chaos.”

“Just trying to shake things up a bit!” you replied, grinning. “Besides, what’s life without a little excitement?”

His face turned an even deeper shade of red, and for a moment, you thought he might actually explode. “Excitement is… not exactly my strong suit,” he admitted with a seriousness that almost made you laugh.

Just then, Cater called out, “Hey, Riddle, are you blushing over there?”

Riddle straightened up, all business once more. “I am not blushing!” he snapped, though it only made the others laugh harder.

You couldn’t help but chuckle yourself. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, it’s very becoming.”

At this point, he was trying desperately to regain his composure, his usual dignified self crumbling under the unexpected twist of fate. “Right, well… um, thanks for your help,” he stammered, trying to pivot back to his hedgehogs as if that would restore some order to his day.

“Anytime!” you replied cheerfully, already plotting your next move in this wild webnovel world. After all, you might just have to become the chaotic force that turns Riddle’s world upside down.

As you left him there, you couldn’t help but think—yup, you were definitely in that webnovel. And you were not hating it.

"System: New quest: Sabotage the dinner. +100 points"

Oh this was a quest you were willing to do even if the system didn't ask you to. All you need to do was question your darling sister's yapping and you'll be set.

The dinner is going about as smoothly as you’d expect a social gathering could in this godforsaken story. Which is to say, not smooth at all.

You’re sitting at a long, polished table that looks like it’s seen better days—probably because it's held together by the sheer willpower of outdated noble customs. Your dear sister, the illustrious heroine of the world, is seated at the opposite end of the table, positively glowing in her usual self-absorbed way, surrounded by a gaggle of male leads that have somehow become entangled in her web of charm. Including, of course, the third male lead, a guy whose name you don’t even care to remember, but who keeps giving you condescending looks from across the table.

Your father, seated next to her, is smiling like he’s watching his favorite child perform in a school play. Every time the heroine opens her mouth, he’s doting on her with embarrassing enthusiasm, nodding along like she’s spewing pearls of wisdom when, in reality, it’s more like dribbling out some very glittery, very ignorant garbage.

“Oh, Father,” your sister begins, in that overly sweet, almost nauseating voice of hers. “Did you know that dandelions are actually a type of flower? Most people mistake them for weeds, but I just find them so fascinating.”

You internally groan. Seriously? Dandelions? That’s the big revelation she’s bringing to the table tonight?

Your father beams at her, his eyes twinkling as if she’s just solved world hunger. “My dear, you’re so clever. It’s amazing how much you know!”

Ace, seated next to you, nearly spits out his water. You glance at him and catch the barely-restrained laughter on his face, which only makes you want to snicker along with him.

You give him a look that says "brace yourself."

You lean forward slightly, your face the picture of politeness, and say with a small smile, “Well, technically, dandelions are considered invasive species in most gardens. I suppose calling them ‘fascinating’ is one way of putting it.”

Your sister blinks at you, clearly confused by the subtle jab, while Trey—who’s seated beside Riddle—hides his smirk behind a delicate sip of wine. You catch a glint of amusement in Riddle’s eyes as well. Even he seems to be enjoying this trainwreck.

The heroine, though, refuses to let her utter lack of botanical knowledge slow her down. “Oh, well, I was just trying to emphasize how misunderstood they are! Like, did you know dandelion tea is supposed to help with digestion?”

You can’t help yourself. “Is that why you’ve been so full of it lately?”

There’s a loud snort from Cater, who quickly covers it up with a cough, but not before giving you an encouraging grin. Deuce’s shoulders shake as he tries to hold back laughter, while Ace is full-on grinning at the chaos you’re creating. Trey is still playing it cool, but you know he’s on the verge of losing it too.

Your sister pouts at you, her lower lip trembling like she’s about to burst into tears. Oh, here we go. The waterworks. But honestly, you’re not about to feel guilty for calling her out when she practically walked into it.

“You always have to be so mean to me,” she whines, her voice wobbling dramatically. “I was just trying to have a nice conversation!”

Your father, predictably, jumps to her defense. “Now, now,” he says, giving you a stern look. “There’s no need to be so harsh with your sister.”

Harsh? Oh, please. If this is what he considers harsh, he clearly hasn’t spent much time around actual harsh people. Not that you’re about to say that aloud, of course.

“Apologies, Father,” you say, trying to keep your tone as neutral as possible while still dripping with passive-aggression. “I’ll be sure to keep my comments to myself next time.” You pause for a beat, and then add with a pointed look, “Unless, of course, they’re about real flowers.”

Cater and Ace lose it, full-on laughing at this point, and Deuce isn’t far behind. Even Trey is chuckling softly into his drink.

And then—oh, wait, is that a smile on Riddle’s face?

It is.

Holy crap.

For the first time since this disaster of a dinner started, you see a genuine smile tugging at Riddle Rosehearts’ lips. It’s small, but it’s there. And it’s directed at you.

Well, well, well, you think. Who knew I’d get the tiniest bit of amusement out of the stoic redhead tonight?

Riddle’s mother, who has been sitting quietly at the head of the table this whole time, seems to notice as well. She raises an eyebrow at you, and while she doesn’t say anything, the slight nod of approval she gives is as close to praise as you’re ever going to get from her.

Meanwhile, your sister has resorted to dabbing her eyes with a napkin, and the third male lead looks like he’s about ready to crawl under the table and disappear. Honestly, with the way his face is turning red, you wouldn’t be surprised if he just bolted for the door.

As the heroine sniffles dramatically, trying to regain her composure, Riddle’s mother clears her throat. “Perhaps it’s time we moved on to the next course.”

You sit back in your chair, feeling rather pleased with yourself. You’ve always known how to work a room, but this? This was practically a performance art piece. A subtle roast of the dinner party’s most insufferable members, all without breaking a sweat.

Trey gives you a subtle thumbs-up from across the table, Cater is still grinning like an idiot, and Ace is wiping tears from his eyes. Even Deuce looks like he’s enjoying himself more than usual.

And Riddle? He’s still smiling.

All in all, you’d call this a successful dinner.

"System: +100 points"

Villain Points: 200

You reached a compromise with the system during a mind numbingly boring tea party. You were doing your best to sit there with a polite smile plastered on your face while your sister droned on about her latest dress, but all you could think about was the fact that there were probably better uses of your time—like, say, literally anything else. Maybe you could fake a sudden illness and make a run for it? Or trip over a conveniently placed teacup and disappear into the shrubbery?

And that’s when you heard it.

"System: New Quest—Make it through this tea party without falling asleep. Reward: Not looking like a complete fool."

You almost snorted out loud, but quickly caught yourself. Great, the system is back at it again with these stellar rewards.

Gee, thanks, system. Truly motivating stuff.

"System: Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want something better? How about I throw in 50 Villain Points?"

Your eyes widened. Wait, 50 Villain Points just for not dozing off during this boring nonsense?

"System: Well, technically, you just have to stay awake. I never said you couldn’t look bored out of your mind."

You grinned slightly, trying to hide your amusement behind your teacup. You’re starting to grow on me, you know that?

"System: Likewise. I must say, I didn’t expect someone like you to actually stick with me this long. Most people would’ve either ignored me or gotten themselves killed by now. But you? You’ve got potential."

Aw, stop, you’re gonna make me blush.

"System: I’m serious! You’ve got guts. You think outside the box. You’re not afraid to bend the rules a little. And that’s why I’ve got a proposition for you."

You leaned back in your chair, intrigued. Oh? Go on, I’m listening.

"System: Here’s the deal—I’ll start giving you quests that aren’t designed to get you killed or humiliated beyond repair. In exchange, you have to promise to actually follow through on them. And I don’t mean half-heartedly—I want 100% commitment. Deal?"

Wait, wait, wait. Are you saying you’ve been giving me death traps this whole time?

System: Well… not death traps, per se. More like… character-building exercises.

I swear to God, system, if you ever make me fight a rabid chicken again—

"System: That chicken was a necessary evil! Character development! But fine, fine. No more chickens. Only reasonable, non-lethal missions from now on. What do you say? Partners in villainy?"

You tapped your chin, pretending to mull it over. Hmmm… sounds tempting. But what’s in it for me besides the joy of your sparkling company?

"System: Oh, you know, the usual—power, influence, fame, and fortune. Plus, I’ll throw in some juicy blackmail material for when your sister inevitably gets on your nerves again."

Your grin widened. Now that is the kind of offer I can’t refuse.

"System: That’s the spirit! Now, first mission as my official partner: Sabotage your sister’s next grand entrance. Nothing too catastrophic—just a little stumble, maybe some ruffled feathers. Keep it classy."

And just like that, you and the system were officially besties. It was weirdly comforting knowing you had a sarcastic AI watching your back—and occasionally messing with your enemies. Sure, it might’ve been the weirdest friendship ever forged in the history of villainy, but hey, you’d take it. You’d never be bored again with this delightful chaos agent in your corner.

As you left the tea party with your head held high, the system chimed in one last time.

"System: By the way, next time your sister brags about her shoes? “Accidentally” mention that those went out of fashion last season."

You smirked. Oh, system, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

+50 points, + 1 extremely powerful ally.

Villain points: 250

It was supposed to be a peaceful afternoon. You had gone into the library looking for a quiet place to relax after a long day of trying to stay out of family drama. But of course, there was Riddle, hunched over a mountain of books with his hands gripping his hair like it had personally wronged him. Not to mention, your sister was sitting nearby, yammering on about… something. Something that was definitely not helping Riddle’s clear state of panic.

As soon as you walked in, your eyes locked with his, and in that instant, you could practically hear his brain screaming for help. It was a silent plea, one you couldn’t ignore.

With a sigh and a bit of a smirk, you sauntered over, interrupting your sister’s endless tirade about her latest frivolous pursuit. “Oh, there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” you said brightly, grabbing Riddle by the arm and pulling him up from his chair before he could protest.

Your sister blinked at you, clearly thrown off by your sudden intrusion. “Excuse me, we were in the middle of an important conversation—”

“Were you though?” You raised an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure Riddle needs a break. He’s been studying for hours, right?” You didn’t wait for an answer, instead giving Riddle a quick nudge. “Come on, let’s get some fresh air.”

To your relief (and amusement), Riddle offered no resistance, letting you whisk him away from the library and your sister’s insufferable voice.

Once you were safely in one of the quieter gardens, Riddle sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know how much more of that I could’ve handled. Thank you.”

“No problem. Honestly, I did it for my own sanity too,” you chuckled, leading him to a bench under a shady tree. “But seriously, you look like you haven’t slept in days.”

Riddle’s face flushed a bit as he glanced away. “I’ve been… focused. There’s a lot to cover.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” you replied dryly, nudging him to sit down. “But if you don’t rest, you’re going to burn out. Even someone like you can’t run on fumes forever.”

He hesitated for a moment but eventually sat down, clearly too tired to argue. “I suppose you’re right…”

Riddle leaned back against the bench, his eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. You thought he’d sit there for a few minutes, maybe catch his breath, and that’d be it.

Except he didn’t just catch his breath.

Nope.

Instead, Riddle Rosehearts, the pristine, perfectly poised model student… fell asleep on your shoulder.

And you? You froze.

Oh no.

Oh God.

What do I do?!

Your mind spiraled as you sat there, staring at the top of his bright red head resting comfortably against you. You were acutely aware of the warmth of his body pressed against your side, his quiet, steady breathing, the softness of his hair—

Wait. Why is his hair so soft? It’s like spun silk.

Does he use some kind of magic conditioner? Should I ask him for hair care tips?

No, focus! Focus!

You peeked down at him again, and he looked so peaceful, his usual stern expression completely relaxed. You could feel your heart racing, and the logical part of your brain screamed at you to keep it together, but the other half—the half that was currently hyper-aware of Riddle’s head resting on your shoulder—was completely losing it.

Is this what bliss feels like? Is this how people write poems? “Oh Riddle, how thou art like the setting sun, warm and brilliant yet—WAIT, what am I thinking?! I am losing my mind! THIS IS BAD!

But also… very, very good?

You glanced around nervously, wondering if someone might see this. Would this look weird to people? Am I weird for not moving? I can’t move. He’s asleep. If I move, he’ll wake up and think I’m a weirdo for staying so still and letting him nap on me like this. Oh God, what if he thinks I’m weird?!

But even as your brain launched into a full-blown existential crisis, you couldn’t deny how nice this felt. Riddle looked so soft—so vulnerable—and for once, he wasn’t burdened by the weight of expectations or responsibilities. He was just… Riddle. And that made something inside you feel oddly tender.

Your gaze softened as you looked at him. Maybe this isn't so bad. Maybe I could get used to this. Maybe—

Then, without warning, Riddle stirred, shifting slightly before blinking his eyes open. He looked groggy for a second, but as soon as he realized where he was—where you were—his entire face turned scarlet.

“Ah!” he gasped, jerking upright. “I—! I didn’t mean to—! I—!”

You blinked at him, trying very hard to pretend that you hadn’t just gone through a whole mental rollercoaster while he was napping. “Uh… it’s fine. You were tired. Happens to the best of us.”

He quickly straightened his uniform, flustered beyond belief. “That was… highly inappropriate. I apologize. You must think I’m terribly uncouth.”

“Nah,” you said with a grin, waving him off. “You’re a hard worker. Even someone like you deserves a break.”

Riddle looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole and die of embarrassment. “Still, I shouldn’t have—"

You laughed and patted his shoulder. “Relax. It was kinda cute, honestly.”

He looked at you with wide eyes, his blush deepening. “C-cute?”

Realizing what you just said, your face turned bright red. “Uh, yeah, like… in a respectable, admirable way, obviously! Because, you know, falling asleep is… healthy… and stuff.”

From behind you, you heard Ace���s familiar snicker, and you turned to see him and Deuce standing there, both of them with identical grins.

“You’re totally simping,” Ace teased, wiggling his eyebrows.

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Oh my God, go away.”

Riddle coughed, straightening his back and trying very hard to regain his composure. “Ahem. I think I’ll… return to my studies. Thank you again for helping me earlier.”

He stood up, still looking mildly mortified, but as he walked away, you caught the faintest smile on his lips.

Ace elbowed you with a grin. “You’ve got it bad.”

“Shut up,” you grumbled, your face still burning as you watched Riddle leave.

But deep down, you couldn’t stop smiling either.

You sit at the breakfast table, staring at the notification hovering just above your coffee.

"System: New Quest: Get your sister to humiliate herself in front of the Empress. Reward: 100 Villain Points."

Your sister, ever the radiant queen of smugness, lounges at the other end, flipping her hair like she’s about to step onto a runway. Her latest self-important monologue about being 'practically irreplaceable' in the Empress’s inner circle grates at your nerves.

“What’s with the face?” Ace flops into the seat next to you, raising an eyebrow at your sudden, murderous glare.

Deuce, ever the responsible one, follows, setting down his tray with a clink. “You alright? You’ve been quiet.”

You groan, rubbing your temples. “I got stuck with… a task.”

Ace snickers. “What, the world’s worst chore or something?”

You glance at your sister, now preening at her reflection in a spoon, and mutter, “Worse. I need to make her humiliate herself in front of the Empress.”

Both Ace and Deuce freeze, staring at you in disbelief.

Ace nearly snorts his drink. “You—wait, what? You have to do that?” His eyes practically light up. “That’s hilarious.”

Deuce, always the voice of reason, frowns. “Why do you need to do that? That sounds kinda… extreme.”

You sigh, trying to keep it vague. “Let’s just say... it’s a long story. But trust me, it’ll be worth it.”

Ace leans back, grinning like he’s just been given front-row tickets to the chaos. “Oh, I am so in. We have to take down the drama queen? Say no more.”

Deuce hesitates, but after a glance at your sister—who’s loudly bragging about her upcoming meeting with the Empress—he sighs. “I guess if it’s for a good cause... she could use a little humility.”

“Perfect.” You clap your hands together, a plan already forming. “But it has to look natural. No obvious sabotage.”

Ace smirks. “You say that like I’m not an expert in ‘subtle.’”

The banquet is set in a lavish garden, with your sister already dressed in the most elaborate gown she could find. She looks like she’s ready to steal the spotlight—and she fully intends to. But you’re three steps ahead. As you, Ace, and Deuce trail behind her, you start whispering the plan. “She always does that thing where she stands up to give a toast in front of everyone, right?”

Deuce nods. “Yeah, she loves being the center of attention.”

You glance at Ace. “Think you can handle making sure her ‘center of attention’ moment doesn’t go as planned?”

Ace grins wickedly. “Leave it to me.”

Your sister, in all her glittering glory, steps up to the platform. The Empress and her courtiers watch on, curious, while your sister clears her throat, preparing to launch into one of her legendary speeches.

Ace winks at you, positioning himself near the platform’s support. With the lightest nudge, it shifts, just enough to unbalance your sister. As she stands, her heel catches on the uneven surface.

Her eyes widen. “Wha—?”

And down she goes, arms flailing dramatically as she tumbles straight into a nearby fountain.

There’s a collective gasp from the crowd, and the Empress looks mildly surprised as water splashes everywhere. Your sister, soaked and sputtering, looks utterly mortified.

Ace bites his lip to keep from laughing. “Oops.”

Deuce winces but nods. “Well... that worked.”

You can’t help the satisfied smirk tugging at your lips as your system pings again.

"System: Quest Complete. Reward: 100 Villain Points."

“Perfect,” you murmur under your breath, already thinking about the next quest.

As your sister sputters her way out of the fountain, dripping wet and desperately trying to regain her composure, the crowd falls into an awkward silence. You can practically hear her brain scrambling to salvage the moment.

She forces a bright smile, pushing wet hair out of her face. “Well, that was… unexpected,” she says, laughing nervously. “I suppose even the most poised among us can have a moment of... gracelessness”

The Empress raises a perfectly arched brow, but remains silent, watching with a cool, unreadable expression.

Your sister, in her panic, decides to fill the silence with her usual brand of arrogance. “I’m sure someone will fix that platform,” she says, waving a hand dismissively at the servants. “Honestly, who would set up something so poorly constructed? I could’ve been seriously hurt!” She glances at the Empress and adds, in a misguided attempt to flatter, “But of course, I suppose even the Empress’s court isn’t immune to such… minor mistakes.”

Ace and Deuce both freeze. Your stomach drops.

The Empress’s lips tighten just slightly, a subtle but dangerous shift. “Minor mistakes?” she repeats, her voice icy and sharp.

Your sister, utterly clueless, laughs again, louder this time, still trying to brush it off. “Oh, of course, not your fault, Your Majesty. I’m sure your staff just… overlooked something. It happens, right?”

The crowd’s collective inhale is deafening. Even Deuce slaps a hand to his forehead, muttering, “Oh no…”

Ace looks like he’s about to choke trying to hold back his laughter. “She’s done,” he whispers gleefully.

The Empress finally stands, her gaze narrowing on your sister. “I assure you,” she says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, “such oversights are very rare in my court.”

Your sister opens her mouth to respond, but there’s no coming back from this. The Empress has already turned away, addressing one of her advisors with a wave of dismissal. Your sister is left standing there, soaked and utterly humiliated, in front of everyone.

As the system pings again in your head— "System: Bonus Quest Complete: Cause a Major Faux Pas. Reward: 50 Villain Points"—you can’t help but smirk.

"Well," Ace leans in, whispering, "mission accomplished."

As you watch your sister fumble through an awkward curtsy, trying to salvage what little dignity she has left, the familiar ping of the system goes off in your head again—but this time, it sounds... different.

"Villain System: Achievement Unlocked—Total Disaster;

Reward: 50 Villain Points + Bonus Perk!"

Before you can fully register the notification, the system continues, breaking its usual monotone, deadpan style.

"System: Honestly..." there's a brief pause, like it's trying to hold back a laugh. "I have to hand it to you. This... this was beautiful. I mean, wow, top-tier humiliation. The look on her face? Priceless. I didn’t think you had it in you to pull off such magnificent chaos so effortlessly. Not to mention the insult to the Empress."

Another chuckle—this time, you can feel it reveling in the scene.

"System: You're really becoming quite the villain, huh? I’m almost impressed. Well, because you've reached a new level of villainy—and honestly, you’ve earned it—here’s a special perk. You hit 1,000 points, and I’ll give you an out. You can get rid of me. Completely. No more schemes, no more quests. Freedom from this system."

For a moment, you can barely believe it. The system’s offering you a way out? 

"System: Oh, but until then, I’m not going anywhere. And really, wouldn’t it be a shame to stop now? You’re on such a roll."

You shake your head, but even you can't deny the chaos was a little satisfying. Your sister, now the talk of the court, dripping with embarrassment, is living proof of that.

"What's up?" Ace asks, glancing at you. "You look like you just won something."

"Yeah," you mutter under your breath, smirking. "Something like that."

Villain Points: 500. 500 points to freedom.

The test results had come out earlier today and Riddle had topped it, as usual. But he was not allowed to come celebrate with the rest of you, which has led here.

It’s late at night, and the manor is quiet—eerily quiet, except for the soft rustling of leaves outside Riddle's window. You stand beneath the window with a strawberry tart in your hands, feeling very much like a strange version of a fairy-tale hero. Except, instead of rescuing a damsel in distress, you're here to sneak contraband dessert to an overworked boy whose mother monitors his sugar intake like a hawk.

"Riddle!" you whisper-shout up to the second floor. "Let down your hair—uh, I mean, your bedsheets!"

There’s a pause before Riddle’s head pops out of the window, confused but intrigued. "What are you doing out there? It’s late."

"Shhh!" You gesture for him to keep it down, holding up the tart like it’s some sort of forbidden treasure. "I brought you a strawberry tart. Your mom might have banned it, but we live dangerously in this house."

Riddle’s eyes widen, and for a moment, you think he might actually tear up. "You... You risked sneaking a tart past Mother... for me?" He looks genuinely touched, and you can see the internal battle raging between his desire to stay obedient and his deep, insatiable love for strawberry tarts.

"Yes, I am willing to defy the Tart Tyrant for you," you say, nodding solemnly. "Now hurry up and lower the bedsheets before she finds out and decides to have me beheaded for dessert-related treason."

Riddle hesitates for just a second, but the lure of the forbidden pastry is too strong. After a moment, he vanishes from the window, only to return with a neatly tied set of bedsheets. He throws them down like some kind of serious, rule-abiding Rapunzel.

You take a second to appreciate the sheer ridiculousness of the situation, then quickly tie the tart to the end of the sheet rope. “Alright, here comes the goods!” You give the bedsheets a tug to let him know the package is secured.

With a little effort, Riddle pulls up the tart with the same solemnity you’d expect if he were receiving an ancient royal artifact instead of sugar-laden contraband. He gingerly unties the tart and holds it in his hands, staring at it like it's the most precious thing he's ever seen.

You then somehow use the bedsheets to get up there too. Wow maybe you are truly a fairy-tale hero.

"You truly are remarkable," Riddle says, his voice soft with gratitude. He turns his gaze toward you with such an earnest expression that you suddenly feel self-conscious.

You wave him off, trying to play it cool. "Eh, it's nothing. Just saving you from a tartless existence."

But instead of saying anything, Riddle leans down and, with the utmost care and sincerity, presses a soft kiss to the back of your hand, like some sort of old-fashioned gentleman. "Thank you," he murmurs.

And that’s when it happens.

Your brain shuts down. Completely. Like someone pulled the plug on your thoughts and left you staring blankly into space. The only thing running through your head is static. You don't even register the tart anymore. Did he just—? Did Riddle Rosehearts just—?

You short-circuit so hard that your mouth moves, but nothing coherent comes out. “Guh... buh... uh...” Great. So much for playing it cool.

Riddle, ever the gentleman, doesn’t seem to notice your malfunction, as he’s too busy taking the tiniest, most delicate bite of the tart, savoring it like he’s trying to make it last forever. "Delicious," he whispers, clearly over the moon.

Meanwhile, you’re still stuck on the whole hand kiss thing. Did that actually just happen? Did you fall into an alternate reality? Is this still the same planet?

Ace is going to have a field day with this.

"Uh, well... goodnight!" You finally manage to blurt out before spinning on your heel and power-walking away, almost jumping off the balcony instead of climbing down, mentally screaming at yourself for turning into a malfunctioning robot over a simple gesture. You hear Riddle chuckle softly behind you, a sound that somehow makes your heart do a weird little flip, and then his window quietly closes.

The whole way back to your room, you're fighting off the most embarrassing grin. Maybe this little night mission was worth it after all—short circuits and all.

The next morning, you wake up to a new notification from your ever-so-charming system.

"Villain System: New Quest—Make the heroine cry and win the baking competition. Reward: 100 Villain Points"

You stare at the message, blinking. Make the heroine cry? That’s one thing, but… win the baking competition? You don’t even bake.

"System: Oh, did I forget to mention? The heroine has won every year because it’s women-only, and the original villainess didn’t care about trivial things like baking. Now she’s got a free pass to victory—unless, of course, you do something about it."

You roll your eyes. Right, of course. But then, an idea hits you. Trey. Who needs to bake when you know the one person who could win with his eyes closed?

In this kingdom’s prestigious baking competition, there's one important loophole: while only women are allowed to officially compete, each contestant is permitted a single helper. Of course, most participants choose their helpers from other women to maintain the spirit of the tradition. However, there’s nothing in therules that says it has to be a woman.

The heroine, ever the strategic darling, has chosen none other than the Sixth Male Lead as her helper—an aspiring nobleman known for his meticulous manners and refined taste. His calm demeanor and careful attention to detail make him a safe bet, and you overhear the heroine boasting that, with his assistance, her victory is all but guaranteed.

Yeah, not this year.

Instead of following tradition, you’ve asked Trey to be your helper. Trey Clover—renowned for his skill in the kitchen, and quite possibly the one person who could bake the heroine’s smug little plans into pie. The original villainess never cared enough to bother with this competition, which gave the heroine free rein. But now? Now she has to face you, and by extension, Trey.

And Trey Clover doesn’t play for second place when it comes to sweets.

Later that day, you find Trey in the gardens, tending to some herbs. He looks up, giving you that calm, friendly smile. "Need something?"

"Yeah, actually. There’s a baking competition coming up," you say nonchalantly, "and I need to win."

Trey raises an eyebrow. "I thought it was women-only?"

You shrug. "It is, but I thought you could, you know, help me win."

He chuckles, brushing some dirt off his hands. "What kind of help are we talking?"

"Let's just say," you grin, "we’ll be making a dessert so good that even the Empress and Emperor will swoon. And if sister dearest happens to cry... well, that's just a bonus."

Trey looks amused but intrigued. "Alright, I’m in. Let’s see what we can whip up."

The day of the competition arrives, and as expected, the heroine is floating around the kitchen like she owns the place. You catch a glimpse of her smug smile as she arranges her ingredients, clearly confident that victory is hers.

Little does she know.

You and Trey work quietly, making an intricate dessert that smells so good even the judges start peeking over your shoulder. It’s a delicate mille-feuille with layers of crisp pastry, rich cream, and fresh fruit, and the entire hall is already filled with its tantalizing aroma.

"Are you sure you want to go this hard?" Trey asks, smirking as he plates the dessert. "This might be overkill."

You laugh. "Overkill is the goal."

As the competition moves forward, you notice the heroine starting to fidget. Her confidence wavers when she sees your masterpiece, and by the time judging begins, she’s outright glaring at you.

The Empress and Emperor sit at the head of the table, and when your dessert is placed in front of them, you watch as they take a bite. First, there’s silence. Then, the Empress closes her eyes, a look of pure bliss on her face.

The Emperor leans back, sighing deeply. "This... this is incredible."

Even the Prince, sitting beside them, takes a bite and pauses. He leans in toward you with a subtle smile. "Such talent... A skillful partner would be quite the asset to the royal family."

You raise an eyebrow but smile politely.

"While I appreciate the compliment, Your Highness, I’m not interested in marriage at the moment. My hands are quite full with other matters."

The Prince looks mildly disappointed, but the Empress shoots him a warning glance, and he wisely backs off. You can feel the heroine seething from across the room.

Then, Riddle, who’s been observing the competition from the side, steps up to taste your creation. He takes a small, cautious bite—and his entire face lights up. His normally stern expression softens, and he looks so genuinely pleased that you can’t help but feel a little flustered yourself. Who knew Riddle could be this cute?

"This is... delightful," he says quietly, and for a moment, you forget about the competition entirely. 

"Glad you like it," you say, your voice a little softer than you intended. 

Ace nudges you from the side, wiggling his eyebrows. "You blushing? Never thought I'd see the day."

"Shut up," you hiss back, feeling your face heat up even more.

Meanwhile, the heroine, who has been watching the whole scene, looks on the verge of tears. As the judges declare you the winner, she loses her composure entirely and storms out of the hall, sniffling dramatically.

Ace bursts into laughter. "Wow, you really made her cry, huh? I’m loving this!"

Deuce, more concerned, pats you on the back. "Well... at least you won the competition?"

You smirk, satisfied. "Yeah, I’d say that went pretty well."

As you leave the competition hall, your system chimes in again.

"Villain System: Quest complete! 100 Villain Points awarded."

"System: I’ll be honest. I wasn’t expecting you to fluster Riddle like that, but hey, bonus points for making the Prince back off too. Well played. +25 points"

Villain Points: 625.  375 points left till freedom.

You had to do something about the funny little flips your heart did when you even dared to glance at Riddle and so here you were, dramatically declaring a “Strategy Meeting” with Trey, Cater, Ace, and Deuce. You had even assigned roles—like some kind of overly elaborate battle plan—because, in your mind, this was war. And the enemy? Your increasingly uncontrollable feelings for a certain redheaded, rule-abiding, perfectionist nobleman.

You stood at the head of the table like a general ready to command the troops, but instead of warriors, you had your collection of questionable allies. Trey and Cater were lounging comfortably, while Ace and Deuce seemed entirely too excited about the prospect of scheming.

“Alright,” you began, pacing in front of the group. “Here’s the deal. I think I like Riddle.”

You were met with silence at first. Then, Ace broke into the most ridiculous grin. “Pfft, of course you do. You’ve been mooning over him for weeks now. Congratulations on finally catching up to reality!”

Deuce elbowed him. “Hey, don’t make fun of them! It’s... uh... commendable that you’re so serious about it.” He gave you a sympathetic smile, like you were some kind of lovesick puppy.

Cater, who had been leaning back casually in his chair, gave you a teasing wink. “Aww, our little villain is going soft. I guess all that sneaking tarts and saving him from certain doom finally got to you, huh?”

Trey, ever the calm and rational one, simply folded his arms and gave you a small smile. “Well, it makes sense. You two have spent a lot of time together. He’s... a good guy. A bit high-strung, but good.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “This is not helpful. I need a plan, people! Riddle’s mom already thinks I’m a conniving little troublemaker—how am I supposed to make a good impression while also, you know... not being painfully awkward around him?”

Ace raised his hand dramatically like you were in the middle of a classroom. “Simple solution: you don’t. Just be yourself. He’s already used to your brand of chaos. Besides, you already saved him from his mom’s sugar ban, so I’d say you’re ahead of the game.”

Deuce nodded, adding, “Yeah! Plus, you’re like, really smart and cool, so... you’ve got this!”

“Okay, so,” Cater piped in, “in terms of strategy, you could always stage some grand gesture. I mean, Riddle’s all about tradition and propriety, right? What if you—”

Suddenly, a voice interrupted from behind you. “What are you all plotting now?”

You froze, spinning around to see none other than your mother, the Duchess, standing in the doorway with an amused look on her face. She had an uncanny talent for sneaking up on people.

“M-Mother! I, uh... it’s nothing serious. We’re just—”

She raised an eyebrow, cutting off your fumbling explanation with a wave of her hand. “If you’re scheming about Riddle Rosehearts, dear, you could use a bit more refinement. Fortunately for you, I’ve decided to assist.”

“Wait, what?” You blinked at her, feeling like the ground had just shifted beneath you. “You’re... helping me?”

She gave you a knowing smile. “Well, it’s about time someone showed that other daughter of mine what true charm looks like. You’ve always been the more intelligent one.”

“Uh... thanks?” You weren’t quite sure how to respond to that.

Without another word, your mother turned to the butler who had been standing in the hallway. “Make sure everything is in place for dinner tonight. And do make certain the maids are aware of our... little plans.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the butler replied with a subtle bow before whisking away.

You stared after him, feeling both flustered and slightly panicked. “Mother... what are you planning?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said with a mischievous glint in her eye. “It’s nothing too drastic. Just a little adjustment to how tonight’s dinner will go.”

That evening, you found yourself at the weekly gathering/dinner, sitting at the long, ornate table alongside your parents, Riddle, his mother, and—unfortunately—your sister, who was already droning on about some utterly mundane topic that only she could make sound self-important.

And then, the plan began.

The maids moved around the table, loudly discussing their work. "Oh, our youngest lady is always so kind to us, isn't she? Such a breath of fresh air!"

"Yes, yes," another maid replied with an exaggerated nod. "And always so intelligent! Did you hear how she handled that situation at the garden party? Simply remarkable!"

Riddle’s mother perked up at the praise, her sharp gaze cutting from the maids to you, her expression intrigued. Your sister, on the other hand, looked like she was about to burst a blood vessel.

The butler, who had been refilling glasses, suddenly spoke up as well. "Ah, I must say, our young miss has shown extraordinary grace and poise recently. A true future lady of the house, if I may be so bold."

You were mortified. Your face felt like it was on fire, and you desperately tried to shrink into your seat. This was not what you had planned. You could feel Riddle’s eyes on you, and you were certain you were about to pass out from sheer embarrassment.

Your sister, however, could not stay silent. “Excuse me?” she snapped. “I don’t know what all this nonsense is about, but—”

But the maids and butler kept going, seemingly oblivious to her anger. "Indeed, I can’t think of anyone more suited to such a role!" one of the maids declared.

Riddle’s mother hummed thoughtfully, clearly impressed by the blatant—and likely orchestrated—praise. “It is quite rare to find such well-rounded young women these days,” she mused, looking at you with a glint of approval in her eyes. “Perhaps I should consider the advantages of such a match after all.”

You nearly choked on your drink. Riddle, across from you, was staring at his plate like he was trying to become one with it. He looked both horrified and... pleased? Maybe?

And just when you thought things couldn’t get worse, Ace—because of course, it had to be Ace—leaned over and whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Hey, at least you know Riddle's mom doesn’t hate you anymore. Progress!”

You shot him a glare, but the damage was done. Everyone at the table had heard, and Riddle’s mother raised a curious eyebrow at you both. You could practically feel Riddle sinking further into his seat.

The dinner continued with more awkward small talk, with your mother throwing in subtle digs at your sister’s lack of... everything, while you tried your hardest not to combust from sheer humiliation.

But hey—if nothing else, at least Riddle wasn’t the only one who felt like he needed to escape to the nearest corner. Small victories, right?

"System: Quest: Make Riddle Say Something Mean to Your Sister. Reward: 100 Points"

The system pings you with the next quest, and you almost laugh out loud. Get Riddle to say something mean to your sister? The guy whose idea of an insult is reminding someone to follow the rules more carefully? You know this’ll be near impossible—his mother raised him to be the picture of etiquette and politeness.

But, then again, opportunity tends to strike when you least expect it, and with your villain system, those moments come with a bit of flair.

It all starts innocently enough: horseback riding. You’re a natural at it, of course, and as you effortlessly guide your horse around the course, your sister glares at you from the sidelines, arms crossed.

"Oh, how shocking," she drawls loud enough for everyone to hear. "A masculine activity. How unbecoming for a lady."

Before you can snap back, someone else beats you to it. "That's funny, I quite like horseback riding too," The Empress says, her voice as polite as ever but with just enough edge to make your darling sister freeze.

And when Riddle adds that he also enjoys horseback riding, you almost snort. Of course, he does. Riddle would have to enjoy something that involves strict rules and perfect posture.

Your sister's eyes flicker toward Riddle, suddenly aware that insulting horseback riding is not the wisest move when he is within earshot. She stammers, trying to recover. "I—I mean, I didn’t say it was entirely inappropriate. It’s just—"

You just stare at her, subtly challenging her to continue. And she takes the bait.

Sensing an opportunity to show off, your sister decides to prove she’s good at it too. "I’ll show you how a real lady rides a horse," she declares, moving to mount the closest horse. The horse, sensing the storm of bad vibes radiating from your sister, immediately snorts and takes a few steps back.

“See, even the horse knows better,” Ace mutters behind you, earning a chuckle from Deuce. You can’t help but grin.

Your sister’s attempt to get on the horse is nothing short of a disaster. Her foot slips, her balance is off, and the horse finally has enough. In one swift move, it bucks her off before she’s even properly seated, sending her tumbling to the ground in an undignified heap.

For a second, there's stunned silence. Then, in true ‘sister’ fashion, she gets up, furious and embarrassed, and hits the horse on the flank.

Oh no. She did not just hit the horse.

Riddle’s face turns red—not his usual "I’m about to scold you" red, but the kind of red that suggests a leviathan-level insult has just taken place. "What are you doing?" he snaps, shocking everyone in earshot. Even you pause, surprised.

You quickly recover, barely holding back your grin. You can already feel the points tallying up.

"That was completely uncalled for," Riddle continues, his voice icy. "You should apologize to the horse."

Your sister sputters, clearly not used to being reprimanded by someone like Riddle.

"I—I didn’t—"

"Violence toward an innocent animal," the Emperor chimes in from his observation point, his tone dripping with disapproval. "Disgraceful behavior."

The Imperial Princess, who has been watching with her arms crossed, gives a snort of laughter. "Well, clearly not everyone can handle themselves with grace on horseback."

Your sister looks like she’s about to implode, her cheeks burning redder than Riddle's hair. "I didn’t mean—"

"Please," Riddle says, cutting her off with a wave of his hand. "Let’s not make this any worse for yourself."

The system pops up again with a cheeky little message.

"+25 bonus points: The system respects that level of carnage. Well done."

Honestly, even you can’t help but respect the sheer scale of the damage your sister just managed to cause to her own reputation in a matter of minutes.

Riddle, who’s usually the epitome of control, saying something that mean? The Emperor, the Imperial Princess, and the Empress all scolding her? It’s a beautiful mess, and you’ll take the points with a smile.

Villain Points: 750. 150 points left till freedom

You’re lounging in the courtyard, enjoying a rare moment of peace, when chaos inevitably strikes. You don’t know why you thought you could have a quiet afternoon without something going wrong. The universe must have you on its watchlist, and today, it decided to throw a wrench in the form of Deuce Spade sprinting across the courtyard, holding a goose under his arm like some kind of barnyard Olympian.

The goose then shows a surprising amount of athleticism and manages to pivot in his arms and jump down.

“GET BACK HERE, YOU FEATHERED MENACE!” Ace screams behind him, waving what looks like a loaf of bread. You raise an eyebrow, confused but intrigued. “Uh… do I even want to know?”

“They’re trying to catch the Duchess’s prized goose,” Cater pipes up, appearing out of nowhere. “It escaped from the coop. Again.”

You squint at the scene unfolding before you, watching as Deuce trips over a bush, while grabbing its tail, sending both himself and the goose tumbling to the ground, feathers everywhere. The goose immediately makes a break for it, flapping wildly in your direction. You can’t help it—some deep, misguided instinct kicks in. You blame your duel with the chicken of doom. Must help friends! Must catch rogue poultry!

You leap to your feet, determination surging through you. This is it. This is your time to shine. You throw yourself at the goose, diving for it like a soccer goalie saving the game-winning shot.

And you miss. Not just miss—you whiff it entirely. Instead, you skid along the ground, getting a face full of dirt and grass. The goose, clearly uninterested in whatever heroic save you were attempting, runs straight towards the nearby rose bushes, where Riddle is calmly reading a book.

“Got it!” you yell, trying to recover from your very undignified position. You scramble to your feet and sprint towards the goose, not thinking—absolutely no thoughts—just vibes and feathers.

“STOP THAT GOOSE!” you hear Deuce shout, which only makes you run faster.

But then… things go wrong. Horribly, hilariously wrong.

The goose, in a feat of poultry acrobatics, launches itself directly at Riddle. In a panic, you leap towards them, determined to protect Riddle from the poultry projectile. Unfortunately, in your zeal to save him, you overestimate your athletic prowess, launching yourself way too high and way too fast.

You soar right over the rose bushes. For a brief, glorious moment, you feel like you’re flying. Like Icarus, you’ve flown too close to the sun.

And then gravity kicks in.

You crash into Riddle, knocking his book out of his hands as you both go down in a very undignified heap. Riddle lets out a startled yelp, and you’re pretty sure your entire life flashes before your eyes in that split second.

When the dust settles, you’re on the ground, somehow tangled up with both Riddle and the goose, who looks mildly offended by this whole debacle. You can barely process the pain in your elbow because, oh no—you’ve just tackled Riddle Rosehearts in broad daylight. You’re doomed. Absolutely doomed.

Riddle, red-faced and thoroughly flustered, pushes himself up, brushing stray feathers off his jacket. “What in the world…?”

“I, uh… was trying to help?” you say weakly, still half-sprawled on the ground with the goose now comfortably perched on your back, like some sort of bizarre poultry crown.

Before Riddle can reply, Ace and Deuce finally catch up, breathless and thoroughly amused by the sight before them.

“Nice one!” Ace cackles, doubling over with laughter. “I didn’t think you’d go for the full-on tackle!”

“Yeah, wow,” Deuce adds, clearly struggling to keep a straight face. “Really… really brave of you. Or maybe just… really dumb?”

Cater, meanwhile, is gleefully giggling during the entire thing. "I can’t believe you almost took out Riddle over a goose!” Riddle glares at them, cheeks still a furious shade of pink. “This is not funny. Someone could have been hurt!”

You finally manage to sit up, the goose still somehow perched atop your shoulder. You look up at Riddle, giving him a sheepish grin. “Uh, well… thanks for breaking my fall?”

Riddle huffs, brushing dirt off his sleeves as he stands. “Next time, please consider not risking your life over poultry.”

“Aw, don’t be mad, Riddle,” Cater teases, still giggling. “Our hero here just wanted to protect you from the fierce Goose of Doom!”

Riddle shoots him a glare that could melt ice.

Ace leans over, giving you an exaggerated thumbs-up. “Honestly, this is peak comedy. I can’t wait to see the look on Trey’s face when he hears about this.”

You groan, already feeling the embarrassment sink in. “Just… just help me up, please.”

Riddle offers you a hand, though he still looks like he’s debating whether to scold you or just cry. As he pulls you to your feet, the goose squawks indignantly, finally hopping off your shoulder to strut away, victorious.

“See?” Ace says, still grinning like a fool. “The goose is fine. No harm done.”

“No harm,” Riddle repeats, looking at you with a sigh. “Except perhaps to our dignity.”

You can’t help but laugh at that, your cheeks burning. “Yeah, well, dignity is overrated. At least we caught the goose… eventually.”

Riddle shakes his head, a small smile finally tugging at his lips. “Next time, let’s leave the heroics to someone a little more... suited for it, shall we?”

You nod, rubbing your sore elbow. “Deal. But if that goose comes at you again, I’m not making any promises.”

Riddle just shakes his head, turning away to pick up his book. And he takes your hand and ties a handkerchief around a scratch you didn’t even realize was bleeding. You can still hear the teasing laughs from Ace, Deuce, and Cater echoing in your ears, but you can’t help the grin that tugs at your own lips.

Yeah, you might’ve girlbossed a little too close to the sun today. But at least you made Riddle smile and he held your hand!(kinda) . And, well, the goose is still alive, so there’s that. Small victories.

"System: Quest: Become the Flower of the Ball. Reward: 50 Points"

The system's new quest pops up with a glorious ping—Become the Flower of the Ball. Easy enough, right? Except, of course, your sister has always held that title. The "Flower of the Ball" is not just the prettiest person at the event; it’s the one who commands the room, whose influence and elegance leave everyone talking for weeks. And you? Well, with Cater on your side, you’re about to change that.

First step: rumors. Cater helps you work your way through the gossip circuit like a seasoned pro. With just a few whispered suggestions here and there, you have half the ball convinced that you’ll be arriving in something that will make your sister’s dress look like an afterthought.

Next, your mother—who’s never liked your adopted sister, mainly because of your father's favouritism —does her part by pulling the strings and reserving the best tailor exclusively for you. Your sister? She’s stuck with second-rate options, fuming in the background. By the time you step into the ball, you look absolutely perfect. The dress is a masterpiece of fabric and sparkle, the kind that makes everyone’s heads turn the second you enter.

Cater sneaks by your side as you walk in. "Nailed it, babe," he whispers, giving you a wink. "They're already talking about how your dress makes you look like a literal god."

And indeed, the whispers from the crowd follow you like a wave. Mission accomplished.

Your sister, of course, tries to maintain her usual position of dominance. She’s chosen the 7th male lead as her escort—a decision that reeks of desperation since she couldn't snag a higher-ranked noble. You, meanwhile, had originally planned to attend with Ace and Deuce, they were your closest friends after all, just to keep things low-key. But before you can finalize that plan, Riddle appears, looking composed as ever, and offers you his arm.

"I thought it might be appropriate if you accompanied me," he says with a shy smile. "Since my fiancée has chosen to attend with someone else this evening."

You almost laugh. Of course, she has. She likely thought it would make her look more desirable, but now it's given you a perfect in. Going to the ball with Riddle is about as high-profile as it gets.

Your sister’s eyes widen the moment she sees you walk in with him. Her expression morphs into barely-contained outrage, but before she can say anything, another bomb drops.

Riddle’s mother—stern and poised as always—leans over to one of her confidantes and just loud enough for you and your sister to hear, says, "Well, perhaps this arrangement is for the best. It wouldn’t be surprising if we reconsider the sister for our families’ union."

Cue dramatic gasp.

Your sister’s face twists in horror, while the 7th male lead stands there, visibly confused as to why he’s even part of this drama. "What—what did she mean by that?!" your sister hisses, shooting daggers at you and Riddle.

You smile sweetly. "Oh, who knows? Perhaps she just appreciates my company more."

Before your sister can explode, the Imperial Princess herself enters the fray. Your sister, still seething, is barely holding it together when she steps forward to greet the Princess, but her curtsey is sloppy. The Princess raises an eyebrow, looking unimpressed. "Hmm, interesting technique," she says coldly, her eyes flicking to you with approval as you execute your bow with flawless grace.

Your sister sputters, trying to recover, but it’s too late—the Princess’ interest is already elsewhere. The rest of the ball quickly follows suit, flocking to your side. Riddle, ever the gentleman, offers you a subtle smile as the room begins to orbit around you instead of your sister.

And then, like clockwork, your sister makes yet another blunder. This time, it’s with the cutlery at the dinner table. The 7th male lead awkwardly copies her, both of them managing to insult half the table in the process. You’d almost feel bad, but honestly, they’re making it too easy.

The system, naturally, is having the time of its life. "+25 points: Honestly, this is comedy gold. Extra points for the mess."

You flash a victorious smile, knowing that by the end of the night, you’ll be crowned as the new Flower of the Ball—your sister’s reign well and truly over.

Villain points: 825. 175 points to go.

Riddle wasn't quite sure when it happened. Maybe it had been a gradual realization, building slowly every time he saw you speak your mind with that sharp wit of yours, or maybe it was something that had struck him like a lightning bolt during a moment like this—watching you hold an entire room's attention, bright and confident in your own, distinct way.

You were just so... you. The way you spoke, that glint of mischief in your eyes whenever you were about to say something clever—it was entirely captivating. It was easy to see why people were drawn to you, why they wanted to bask in your energy.

Right now, you were standing near the center of the room, laughing animatedly as you shared some story with your friends. Your expression was full of life, each gesture adding color to your words, your smile lighting up the whole space. Riddle couldn’t help but find his gaze lingering on you, taking in every detail.

And then, out of nowhere, you turned your head, locking eyes with him across the room. For a split second, he felt his breath catch. He should look away, he told himself. But he couldn't. He was rooted in place as you spotted him.

Your face lit up even more—if that was even possible—and you raised your hand, giving him an enthusiastic wave, completely unabashed. There was something so genuine, so utterly you, in that wave. Your arm flailed just a little, and you were smiling so broadly, so openly, that you looked a little silly. But it didn’t matter.

Because, in that moment, Riddle felt something click into place. He might like you. He might like you quite a lot, actually.

Without even thinking, Riddle found himself waving back, a small smile creeping onto his face. He felt warm, a strange fluttering sensation settling in his chest. He probably looked ridiculous, waving with that soft, dazed look in his eyes, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

You gave him a thumbs-up, your grin widening, and Riddle had to stop himself from laughing. His heart was pounding in his chest now, a warmth creeping up his neck, and the realization hit him with startling clarity: you made him feel light. You made him feel... happy, in a way he hadn’t quite understood before.

He might have spent his whole life avoiding this kind of chaos, but when it came to you—when it came to your laughter, your brightness, your way of pulling him into your orbit—Riddle found he didn’t mind the chaos at all.

In fact, he was pretty sure he was completely smitten with it.

"Villain System: New Quest—Humiliate the heroine in front of the heir to the throne, the First Princess. Reward: 100 Villain Points"

You read the message and resist the urge to sigh. Your sister is a piece of work, sure, but the system really seems hellbent on making her your eternal punching bag. But hey, if the system insists… who are you to resist?

As luck would have it, the annual hunt is coming up—an event where the bachelors of the court go off into the woods to prove their worth, while the bachelorettes sit around and gossip like they're at an overpriced brunch. However, this year, the Imperial Princess, renowned master swordswoman and all-around terrifying person, has decided to spice things up by organizing a competition of swordsmanship for the ladies.

Before the hunt and the competition officially start, it's tradition for those not participating in the hunt to present charms to their loved ones—little tokens of affection and support to tie onto their swords before they charge off to slaughter things in the woods. It’s all very romantic, except, of course, when it’s you and your friends.

You've prepared four charms for Trey, Cater, Ace, and Deuce. Mostly because you know these four will be fighting like it's a matter of life or death (because, let's face it, it’s mostly about showing off at this point), and the least you can do is give them something to remind them not to do anything stupid and die.

You hand them out one by one, and each of them reacts in their own, very predictable way.

Cater takes his with a grin, twirling it between his fingers like it’s a prize from a carnival. "Aw, thanks, bestie! Now I have no choice but to win." He strikes a pose, charm held up as if he’s already envisioning the animal he's gonna get.

Deuce just flushes, taking the charm with both hands as if it's some sacred object. "I, uh, I’ll do my best!" he declares, looking both touched and slightly stressed by the responsibility you’ve just put on him.

Ace rolls his eyes, snatching his charm like you’ve just given him an extra chore. "Ugh, seriously? Now I gotta win for you?" He gives a dramatic sigh, but you can tell he’s secretly proud, especially with the way he ties it onto his sword with a flourish—making sure everyone nearby notices.

Trey, ever the gentleman, accepts his charm with a warm smile, nodding in thanks. "I appreciate it," he says, his tone so sincere you almost feel bad about how unserious the others are. "I'll try to bring back something worthy of this."

You wave them off with a grin. "Just try not to get yourselves killed, alright? I don’t need the guilt."

They nod, though Ace gives you a playful smirk. "No promises, but hey, if I survive, I'll owe you one."

You’re not entirely sure if that’s comforting, but at least they seem motivated... in their own, ridiculous way.

But then comes the surprise: Riddle. Normally, Riddle doesn’t accept charms from anyone. The whole court knows he rejects them all, your sister’s included, and it’s practically common knowledge that they’re engaged.

And yet, as you’re about to turn away, you feel someone tug gently on your sleeve.

You look back, and there’s Riddle, cheeks tinged pink, looking almost… shy? “I… noticed you hadn’t given me a charm,” he says, his voice quieter than usual.

Your heart skips a beat. Riddle? Asking you for a charm? You quickly pull out an extra special one you’d prepared just in case, trying not to look too smug as you hand it over. “Of course, I saved the best for last,” you tease.

He takes it with both hands, his blush deepening, and carefully ties it to his sword. "Thank you," he says, the sincerity in his voice making you feel just a little warm inside.

The time for the competition arrives after they leave and naturally, your sister finds this whole idea beneath her. Women should be "gentle and poised," she says, like she hasn’t spent the last three months practicing how to flutter her eyelashes in just the right way to ensnare the nearest man.

Then she makes a godawful comment. "I'm sure I'm better than everyone here anyways."

The Princess's eye twitches at your sister’s comment, and you can practically smell the impending doom. “Is that so?” she says, voice calm but sharp enough to cut glass. “Then perhaps you’d like to prove it.”

Your sister blinks, feigning innocence. “Oh, but Your Highness, you're a general, a dame, it would hardly be fair—”

“No, no,” you butt in, already feeling the villainous urge rising. You smile sweetly at the Princess, “I’ll do it.”

Your sister’s eyes widen, and you swear you see a flicker of fear. “You?”

“Yes, me.” You roll your wrist casually, like this is nothing. After all, you’ve been secretly training with your mother(a former knight) for weeks. And let’s be real—if you can endure her strict-as-hell lessons without fleeing for your life, your sister stands no chance.

The crowd of onlookers murmurs, excited at the prospect of some royal drama. The Princess smiles approvingly. “Very well. Let’s see what you’re made of.”

The competition begins, and your sister—oh, sweet, naive, overly-confident sister—struts up to the sparring ring like she’s about to breeze through this. She hasn’t even drawn her sword, too busy preening for the audience.

The Princess stands off to the side, arms crossed, clearly unimpressed. “Whenever you’re ready,” she says dryly.

Your sister scoffs, finally drawing her sword with confidence that stems from absolutely nothing tangible.. “This won’t take long.”

It really doesn’t.

You sidestep her first swing with ease, and she fumbles, her balance thrown off. She’s clearly never sparred against anyone with any actual skill, and it shows. You suppress a laugh, offering her a mockingly sweet smile. “Having trouble?”

Her face flushes with anger, and she lunges again, this time with less grace and more brute force. You parry her strike effortlessly, spinning around her and tapping her shoulder lightly with your blade. “Point.”

The crowd gasps, and you can practically feel Riddle’s mother watching you with approval from her seat. Your sister glares at you, red-faced and flustered. “That was just luck,” she hisses.

“Sure,” you reply, twirling your sword for added flair. “Let’s see if your luck improves.”

Spoiler: it doesn’t.

By the end of the match, your sister is out of breath, red-faced, and thoroughly humiliated. You, on the other hand, haven’t even broken a sweat. The Princess claps her hands together, beaming. “Well done! I think that settles the matter.”

Your sister looks like she’s about to cry, and you can’t resist twisting the knife just a little. “Maybe next time, you’ll think twice before insulting women who actually know how to use a sword.”

The Princess snorts.

By the time the bachelors return from the hunt, everyone’s gathered around to see who brought back the biggest game. As expected, Ace and Deuce present their game to you: They’d both managed to snag huge wolves—both proud and slightly smug. Cater hands you his deer with a wink and a grin. Even Trey, with his calm composure, looks pleased as he hands over his bear.

And then, to everyone’s shock, Riddle approaches. He’s carrying what is clearly the biggest game of the day,a bear and a lion, and as he presents it to you, the whole crowd falls silent.

Your sister looks absolutely mortified. The other male leads, meanwhile, are either empty-handed or have brought back something pathetically small in comparison—a rabbit here, a pheasant there. But Riddle? Riddle has the prize catch, and he’s offering it to you, her sister who just humiliated her in front of the entire royal court.

The center of attention, you smile graciously as you accept the game, thanking him softly. The crowd erupts into whispers, all eyes on you and Riddle. Your sister looks like she wants to crawl into a hole and disappear, and you can’t help but feel just a little triumphant.

Meanwhile, the system chimes in:

"Villain System: Quest complete! 100 Villain Points awarded"

"Villain System: Bonus reward! 50 Villain Points awarded.

System: I wasn’t expecting you to charm all of the top hunters into giving you their game… but hey, overachieving is such a villainous trait. Well done."

You nearly roll your eyes at the system’s snarky tone. Of course it would reward you for accidentally out-villaining yourself. But hey, who’s going to complain about extra points?

Villain points: 975. 25 points to go, you're so close.

It was a peaceful afternoon in the garden, one of those rare moments where you and Riddle had a quiet space to just… exist. He was sitting across from you, his face slightly softened from its usual stern expression. The hedgehogs nearby were doing hedgehog things, oblivious to the world.

"I suppose it’s something I don’t talk about often," Riddle started, his voice softer than usual, like he was letting you into a part of himself he kept locked away. "My mother was strict—is strict. Everything had to be perfect. The rules, the grades, my behavior… there was no room for failure. Not even a sliver."

You nodded, already knowing this story from your countless hours reading the webnovel. But hearing it from him directly? It hit differently.

"I wasn't allowed to have friends or play outside. My entire childhood was about memorizing rules and doing things perfectly," he continued. His eyes stayed on the hedgehogs, but his expression grew distant, lost in the painful memories. "Every mistake I made was a punishment… every misstep was a disappointment."

You could feel the lump forming in your throat. Here it comes. The part that always got you while reading.

"But the worst part," Riddle whispered, his voice almost cracking, "was that I started to believe I wasn’t good enough… not for her, not for anyone."

That was it. The dam broke.

You tried to keep it together—you really did—but the sheer weight of Riddle’s story, the pain in his voice, it hit you like a sledgehammer to the chest. You started sniffling. And then… it escalated.

You’re not just crying; you’re ugly crying. We’re talking snot, hiccups, the whole I-will-not-survive-this package.

And then, in between gasps, you suddenly blurt out, "I swear... I SWEAR, I’ll get revenge for you! No one will survive my wrath!" You shake your fist to the sky like you’re about to start a one-person war against his emotionally distant mother.

Riddle looks at you, eyes wide with shock. He hadn’t expected this. No one had. Not even you.

"Are you… are you crying?" he asked, sounding both bewildered and concerned, because let’s face it, you were making sounds that weren’t even human anymore. Somewhere between a hiccup, a wail, and a seal being slapped.

"Y-YES!" you sobbed, wiping your face with the sleeve of your shirt, which didn’t help because now you just had tear-streaked sleeves and a snotty nose. "IT'S SO SAD!"

Riddle blinked, completely caught off-guard. “It’s… it’s not that—”

By this point, you were full-on hysterical, tears streaming down your face as you flailed around in righteous fury. Riddle just sat there, completely overwhelmed. He had expected maybe a few words of sympathy, a comforting pat on the shoulder. What he hadn't expected was for you to declare full-scale emotional war on his behalf.

Riddle, for his part, was speechless. And also… redder than his hair.

He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat awkwardly. "I… appreciate the sentiment, but—"

"No, Riddle!" you cut him off, wiping your nose aggressively with your sleeve again. "You deserve someone who loves you without conditions! And I’m going to make sure the world knows it!" You stood up dramatically, only to trip over a rock, stumble, and fall back into your seat. "Ow."

Riddle, despite the chaos, couldn’t help but let out a soft chuckle at your sheer determination—and the fact that you were still crying while swearing vengeance. It was… endearing, in a very chaotic, unpredictable way.

You, however, were still in your feelings. "I can’t believe your mom! I’m—sniffle—gonna burn her rulebook. Watch me."

Riddle, who had started the conversation with the intention of sharing something personal, now found himself caught in a whirlwind of emotions he didn’t know how to handle. But… somehow, through your teary declarations of revenge and your intense empathy, he couldn’t help but feel something stir inside him.

He looked at you—your face blotchy, your eyes puffy, your determination unwavering despite the fact that you were an absolute mess—and he realized that you weren’t crying just because you felt bad. You were crying because you cared. Like, really cared.

His heart skipped a beat. Maybe… maybe you were the kind of person who could see past all his rules and expectations and just—feel for him. No judgment. Just empathy.

"I… I didn’t realize it would make you so upset," he said quietly, a soft smile pulling at his lips. "But thank you. Really."

Through your sniffling, you managed to nod and offer a watery smile. "It’s not fair. You deserve better, Riddle. I mean it."

And with that, Riddle found himself falling just a little harder for you—ugly crying and all.

It’s a regular afternoon tea party, the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and your sister is… making out with the eighth male lead in broad daylight behind a rose bush.

Ah. Classy.

You had only wandered over to sneak a mini éclair when you caught them. What’s worse is they weren’t even being subtle—like, they might as well have put up a sign that says, “We’re Ruining Our Reputations Here.”

Shocked beyond measure, you accidentally let out the loudest and most undignified gasp. It’s so loud that the entire tea party freezes mid-sip. Cups stop midair, all eyes turn to you like you’ve just declared war on the empire.

“Did someone choke on a scone?” Trey asks, concerned, already standing to assess the pastry crisis.

You try to subtly redirect everyone’s attention back to their tea, but it’s too late. The damage is done. The Imperial Princess, the Empress, the First Prince, the Emperor, Riddle, your parents, Trey, Cater, Ace, Deuce, and Riddle’s mom—all eyes are now locked on you and the unfortunate scene happening behind you.

Your sister and the eighth male lead pop their heads out of the bushes like deer caught in headlights, looking horrified. The heroine, of course, immediately bursts into tears. “I can’t believe you! How could you ruin my private moment!” she wails, mascara already running.

You blink. "Private? You were basically holding auditions for 'Romeo and Juliet' in front of the entire garden."

"Enough!" The Empress's voice cuts through the chaos like a sword. She glares at your sister, then glances at you for an explanation. You're about to open your mouth when—

"An outrage!" The Imperial Princess thunders, stepping forward with the grace of a tiger ready to pounce. "Is this what passes for decorum these days?"

Before you can even begin to process the incoming storm, your sister points her trembling finger at you. “It’s her fault! She—She’s been plotting against me this whole time! She wanted to embarrass me!”

You raise an eyebrow, utterly deadpan. “By forcing you to lock lips with the eighth male lead in broad daylight? Wow, my plans are so intricate even I don’t understand them anymore.”

Ace is snickering so loudly into his teacup that he’s shaking, and Deuce is doing his best to hold back tears of laughter. Cater’s trying to stay neutral, but even he’s got a lopsided grin.

Riddle, on the other hand, looks like he’s trying to create a new spell that will instantly smite him while his mother… well, his mother seems like she’s gonna cut someone.

Riddle’s mom, the always composed Lady Rosehearts, steps forward, glancing at your sister with such a cold expression that you could swear the temperature drops five degrees. “This engagement," she begins icily, "will not proceed. If there is to be any union between our families, it will be with someone more appropriate." She then turns her gaze to you. “Someone like you.”

Cue a choking noise from Riddle, who looks ready to faint on the spot. His cheeks turn red as he stares wide-eyed at his mother, clearly having not expected this. Trey’s eyes widen too, but he quickly coughs into his fist to hide a smirk. Ace elbows Deuce with barely concealed glee.

“U-Um, Mother?” Riddle manages to stutter out. “What… what do you mean?”

His mother gives him a rather smug look, clearly having already made up her mind. “I mean that if this union is to benefit both families, it would be much more suitable for you to marry someone with intelligence, grace, and… a bit of common sense. Someone who hasn’t made a public fool of themselves.” Her eyes drift back to your sister, who is now dramatically sobbing into her hands.

Your father looks like he’s just been hit by a runaway carriage, staring in horror at the scene unfolding before him. “Lady Rosehearts—surely this is a misunderstanding—”

Riddle’s mom raises a hand. “If there is to be any marriage, it will be between my son and your younger daughter. Or,” she adds sharply, “there will be no marriage at all.”

You stand there, blinking at the whirlwind you just caused by gasping too loudly at your sister’s terrible decision-making skills. You glance at your mom, who has her face buried in her hands. But when she peeks through her fingers, you see the slight glint of satisfaction in her eyes. She’s pretending to be scandalized, but deep down… she’s absolutely living for this. You know she's elated that you got your guy.

The Emperor himself clears his throat, trying to restore order to the royal circus. “Well, this is… unprecedented,” he says, diplomatically, though there’s a slight twitch in the corner of his mouth, like he’s holding back laughter.

Your sister, meanwhile, continues her sobbing performance, practically flinging herself into your father’s arms. “Papa, how can they treat me like this?! You always told me I’m the heroine!”

You try to hide your grin. “Heroine of a tragedy, maybe.”

“Enough!” Your father groans, looking utterly defeated. “You’ve done enough damage, girl.”

Riddle reluctantly speaks up. “I… I suppose Mother has made her decision.” His voice wavers a bit, and for a moment, he seems like he might collapse under the weight of all this sudden attention. But then, his eyes meet yours. And despite the chaos, despite his mortification, there’s a small, shy smile on his face.

“You,” he begins hesitantly, “you wouldn’t… mind this arrangement, would you?”

You laugh softly, glancing at the ridiculous mess that was this tea party. “Honestly? I'm quite fond of you so, why not?”

Ace lets out a snort of laughter, while Cater gives you a double thumbs-up from across the table. Trey just smiles warmly, giving you an approving nod. Even Lady Rosehearts looks somewhat satisfied.

The system, not one to miss an opportunity, dings in your head again.

"Villain System: New achievement unlocked! Engagement broken! Also… bonus points for making a royal spectacle of it. 100 Villain Points awarded."

With this, you're free from the system. Maybe it's time to retire your villain act.

You nearly burst into laughter at the absurdity of it all. But for now, you simply give Riddle a small, reassuring smile.

“Well,” you say, “guess we’ve got some wedding planning to do.”

It was a grand banquet, the kind where you could practically smell the prestige in the air. The Imperial Family was seated at the head of the table, all regal in their elegance. You were just trying not to trip over your own shoes and embarrass yourself in front of the Empress again.

Riddle, of course, was the epitome of decorum. Every movement was precise, every word carefully measured. Until—just as he went to refill the First Prince’s wine glass—his hand slipped ever so slightly. The tiniest splash of wine splattered onto the pristine tablecloth. It was so small you would’ve missed it if you weren’t watching him so intently.

But Riddle noticed. Oh, did he notice.

His face immediately paled like he’d just seen a ghost wearing polka dots, and his eyes darted across the table to where his mother sat. Lady Rosehearts was blissfully unaware, engaged in conversation with the Emperor, but Riddle looked like he was about to meet his maker.

You could almost hear his internal screams.

To anyone else, it was a non-event. But to Riddle, this was a catastrophe of the highest order. You could practically feel him sweating next to you, despite his rigid posture.

Time to act.

“Oh no!” You gasp dramatically, standing up and pointing directly at yourself. “I can’t believe I just did that!”

Everyone at the table stopped and stared, clearly wondering what on earth you were talking about. Even the Empress raised an eyebrow, a mix of confusion and mild amusement flickering on her face.

Riddle blinked, looking at you like you had just spontaneously grown a second head. “What…?”

You plopped down a napkin over the tiny splash of wine, covering the evidence. “I—I accidentally knocked the bottle when Riddle was pouring!” you announce loudly, offering a sheepish smile. “I’m so sorry, Your Highnesses. How embarrassing.”

The Empress smiled indulgently. “It’s quite all right, dear. Such things happen.”

Lady Rosehearts glanced over at the napkin-covered spot and frowned slightly, but then she looked back to you and said, “No harm done.”

Meanwhile, Riddle’s face was a mix of confusion, shock, and—was that gratitude? He blinked again, still processing what just happened. His mother hadn’t even glanced at him in disapproval, and now you were taking the fall for a spill no one really noticed.

As the conversation around the table resumed, Riddle leaned in close, whispering under his breath, “Why would you do that?”

You grinned and shrugged. “Because I’ve got a heart of gold, obviously. And I quite like you, you know”

Before Riddle could respond, Ace, who had been watching the whole debacle with barely restrained glee, leaned over from his spot across the table. “You’re down so horrendously,” he said, just loud enough for you and Riddle to hear.

You shot him a look. “You’re just mad you don’t have someone as gracious as me taking the fall for you”

Ace wiggled his eyebrows. “Maybe, but at least I don’t go taking the fall for my fiancé before we’re even married.”

Riddle flushed a bright red. “I—I—this isn’t—”

You laugh, leaning back in your chair. “You know, Ace, sometimes you just have to be a hero.”

“Sure, ‘hero,’” Cater chimed in, leaning in on the action with a smirk. “Or, you know, simp of the year.”

Riddle, still flustered, shoots both of them a glare, but you can tell he’s secretly relieved. The impending doom of his mother’s wrath was averted, all thanks to your impromptu performance.

With a small sigh, he finally mutters, “Thank you,” so softly you almost miss it.

You give him a wink and lean back in your chair, feeling pretty pleased with yourself. “Anytime, partner.”

Ace nudges Deuce. “You think we should get them ‘World’s Greatest Simp’ matching mugs for the wedding?”

Deuce shrugs. “I think it’d be cute.”

Riddle buries his face in his hands. "Please, spare me."

But the corners of his mouth are lifting, just slightly.

It happened when you decided to climb the academy's tallest tree. It was a brilliant idea in your mind—after all, you’d just spotted an adorable sparrow nest precariously hanging from one of the highest branches. Rescue mission mode engaged.

The execution? Less brilliant.

You were halfway up, dangling from a particularly wobbly branch, when you heard a very familiar voice calling your name from below.

“WHAT are you doing?” Riddle’s voice was half exasperated, half astonished.

You looked down (mistake) and saw Riddle, arms crossed, staring at you with a mix of bewilderment and that very specific “You’re in trouble” look he usually reserved for rule-breaking.

“I—uh,” you stammered, “I’m saving the sparrows?”

There was a long pause. Riddle blinked. “You climbed that tree for sparrows?”

“Look, I know it’s a bit—”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Riddle interrupted, running a hand down his face. “Do you even have a plan for getting down?”

“...I’ll figure that out later?”

Riddle pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “Of course you will.”

By some miracle (or the sheer force of your chaotic will), you managed to secure the sparrow nest and shimmy your way down without falling to your doom. As soon as your feet hit the ground, you triumphantly held the nest up, smiling wide.

“See? Mission accomplished!”

Riddle just stared at you, mouth slightly open, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Then, out of nowhere, he laughed—a soft, bewildered laugh that grew louder the more he looked at you, dirt-covered and grinning like an idiot.

“You…” he started, shaking his head with a small, fond smile, “You’re such an idiot.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his words. “I—hey!”

“No, really,” he continued, stepping closer, eyes full of amusement. “You’re reckless and absurd and you do things like climbing trees to save sparrows and covering for me in front of the imperial family without thinking it through.”

You frowned, feeling a bit defensive. “Well, someone has to—”

“And yet…” His voice softened, and suddenly he was close, much closer than you expected. His gaze locked onto yours, and you felt your heart skip a beat. “And yet… I don’t think I could imagine my life without you.”

Your brain took a second to catch up. “Wait, what?”

Riddle took a breath, as if bracing himself, and then met your eyes with the most serious expression you’d ever seen on him. “I’m saying that I—” he hesitated, his cheeks turning pink, but his voice was steady, “I’m in love with you.”

You stood there, stunned, staring at him in complete disbelief. Riddle Rosehearts just confessed his love to you.

“…Even after all the dumb stuff?” you asked, still processing.

Riddle laughed again, that soft, endearing laugh that made your heart flip. “Especially after all the dumb stuff.”

There was a beat of silence where you just stared at each other, and for once, your usually silly brain kicked into overdrive. You stepped closer, leaning in with a sudden smoothness you didn’t even know you were capable of.

“Well,” you said, your voice dropping to a low murmur as you tilted your head toward him, “lucky for you… I’m your idiot.”

And before Riddle could even respond, you kissed him.

It was soft, and sweet, and everything perfect. For a moment, Riddle was so surprised he froze, but then he melted into it, his hand gently cupping your face like he’d been waiting forever to do this.

When you pulled back, Riddle was completely flustered, his face red as a tomato, but there was a dazed smile on his lips. “That… That was unfair.”

You grinned, leaning your forehead against his. “You love it.”

Riddle shook his head, still smiling. “I really do.”

And from that moment on, it was clear: you may be the academy’s resident chaos agent, but you were his chaos agent, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

You finally got a private moment to yourself. It was time to say goodbye to the villain system that you may or may not have gotten fond of.

The notification flashed across your vision, blindingly bright:

[Congratulations! You’ve accumulated enough points to finally say goodbye to the system.]

You blinked. "Wait… really? I can finally get rid of you?"

[Yes. It’s been a wild ride, hasn’t it?]

Wild ride was an understatement. The system had dragged you through schemes, quests, and enough drama to fill a ten-season TV show, all for the purpose of toppling your sister's reign of terror. And now, at long last, you were free.

"...So that's it?" you asked. "No final boss fight? No sudden plot twist where you take over my body and reveal you’re the real villain?"

There was a pause before the next notification popped up.

[Actually... about that plot twist...]

You groaned. "I knew it. What is it this time? Are you an evil AI? A demon? Oh God, please tell me you’re not my fairy godmother in disguise."

[I’m… actually the original villainess.]

You stared at the screen for a solid five seconds. "...What."

[Yeah. You, uh, you kinda possessed me.]

You blinked rapidly, your brain short-circuiting. "WHAT?!"

[I was the original villainess of this world. The real one. You didn’t just get isekai’d into some random character. You got me, because I wanted you]

"Oh my God," you muttered. "You’ve been here the whole time?"

[Yup. Watching you fumble around like an idiot. No offense.]

"None taken, but wow—uh, okay," you said, rubbing your forehead. "So I’ve just been… helping you take revenge on your sister this whole time?"

[Well, duh.] The system sounded almost smug. [She tormented me horrifically when I was still alive. That’s why I pushed you to make her life miserable. I wanted justice.]

"Justice," you repeated, thinking back to all the chaos, sabotage, and general insanity. "That was justice?"

[Look, we both know she deserved it.]

You couldn’t exactly argue with that. "I mean, fair. So what now? You just leave?"

There was a long pause before the system replied.

[Well... you actually have more points than you need. You can buy my identity if you want. Get the full story. You know, if you're curious.]

You hesitated for a second, but then shrugged. "Eh, why not. Hit me with it."

The system pinged, and suddenly, memories flooded your mind—her memories. You saw everything: her upbringing, her struggles, how she had tried so hard to be perfect for her family, only for her sister to constantly outshine her. You saw the cruel way her sister belittled her, humiliated her in front of the court, all while smiling sweetly to the outside world.

And then… the tragic ending, where the villainess was cast aside, labeled a monster, and killed.

By the end of it, you felt like you’d been punched in the gut.

"Oh, wow," you whispered. "She really was awful to you."

[Told you.]

"Man… I’m so sorry," you said, your voice softening. "You went through all that, and then you ended up stuck with me."

[Honestly? It was kinda fun watching you screw up everything at first.] The system’s tone was teasing now, but there was an undeniable warmth underneath it. [But you did a good job. Better than I ever did. You were a little unhinged, but hey, that’s probably why I liked you.]

You couldn’t help but laugh. "Thanks, I guess? I tried my best."

[You did more than that.] There was a strange fondness in the system’s voice. [You turned this whole world upside down. You made people laugh, cry, and probably question their sanity. Honestly, I couldn’t have asked for a better revenge.]

For a moment, you felt a lump form in your throat. "So… what now? Do you just disappear?"

[Yeah. It’s time for me to move on. But… hey, I’m rooting for you. Go live your best life. Be happy. And if you ever need to knock your sister down a peg, do it in style. For me.]

You smiled, blinking away the sudden wetness in your eyes. "You bet I will. And hey—wherever you go, I hope you get to relax for once. You deserve it."

[Pfft, I doubt it, but thanks.]

There was a brief pause, then another notification popped up.

[Goodbye, little reader. It’s been real. And remember—always aim for the drama. It makes life more interesting.]

With that, the screen dimmed, and the system was gone.

You stared at the empty space where the notifications used to be. "Aim for the drama, huh?" you muttered, a grin tugging at your lips. "Well, I guess that’s one thing I’m good at."

As you turned around, ready to move forward without the system hovering over

you, you felt something. A strange, gentle sensation, like the faintest brush of a breeze, except it wasn’t just that. It was warmer, more personal, and… oddly comforting.

It took a second, but then it hit you. "Wait—"

You froze, your breath catching in your throat. Was this—?

It was as if the original villainess was giving you a ghostly hug. Soft, delicate, but so real you could almost feel her presence.

Tears welled up in your eyes, completely out of nowhere. You weren’t supposed to feel emotional! Not over a system—no, not just a system—a person who had suffered more than you ever realized.

"I… I’m sorry I couldn’t fix everything for you," you whispered, your voice cracking. "I tried, I really did, but…"

You felt that warmth grow a little stronger, like she was reassuring you, telling you that you had done enough. More than enough. Maybe, in a way, you’d freed her. Given her peace.

The weight of that ghostly embrace made your heart swell, and before you could stop yourself, you started crying. Again. But not the ugly, chaotic crying from before—this was softer, deeper. The kind of crying that cleansed your soul.

"I’ll do it," you whispered, tears rolling down your cheeks. "I’ll finish what I started. I’ll take her down. Not just for me—but for you."

The presence seemed to linger for a moment longer, and then it was gone, leaving behind a quiet strength in its place.

You wiped your eyes, steeling yourself. The resolution hardened in your chest like iron. Everything you had been planning, all the revenge, the chaos you had been orchestrating, it wasn’t just some game anymore. It was personal.

For her.

With a deep breath, you squared your shoulders and looked out toward the path ahead, a fire burning brighter than ever inside you.

"I’ll finish this," you muttered, fists clenching. "And it’s going to be beautiful."

And with that, you walked forward, no longer just a reader in someone else’s story.

This time, you were the one in control.

The day of your wedding to Riddle was perfect. Every detail was as if the universe had conspired to make sure nothing went wrong. The air was filled with the sweet scent of flowers, and laughter echoed throughout the grand venue. Your friends were all there, supporting you—Ace and Deuce bickering over who looked better in their suits, Cater contantly checking if everything was aesthetically pleasing, and Trey managing everything behind the scenes with his usual calm, though you caught him grinning at you more than once, proud as ever. Even Che'nya had shown up, popping in and out of sight as he pleased, throwing teasing remarks at anyone who passed by.

Your sister, however, was absolutely seething. She stood stiffly, dressed impeccably, but with a scowl that could burn down the entire venue. You knew she was fuming because she had always imagined herself in your place, standing beside Riddle. Too bad for her—you had the upper hand now.

You glanced at her briefly as you passed by, a wicked smile tugging at your lips. “Didn’t think you’d have the guts to show your face here. I almost admire it,” you whispered sweetly as you walked past her, arm in arm with Riddle.

She opened her mouth to retort, but before she could get a word out, you tossed one last barb. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to toss my bouquet to you. Maybe you'll get married next? You know, if they can find someone that can stand you?”

Riddle squeezed your hand as if to remind you to behave, but even he had a hint of a smirk on his face. Your friends snickered behind you, and Che'nya, perched casually on a railing, added a quiet, “Oof, that’s gotta sting.”

The ceremony itself was beautiful. Riddle stood there looking like he’d stepped out of a fairytale, his usually stern face softened by the moment. As you exchanged vows, there was a lightness to the air that made everything feel surreal. You could see how much he cared in the way his hands trembled ever so slightly when he held yours.

Ace, unable to help himself, whispered loudly, “You sure Riddle isn’t going to pass out from the nerves?”

Deuce elbowed him, but you could barely hold back a laugh. Even Riddle blushed a bit, shooting a glare at Ace but unable to hide his own amusement.

When it was time for the reception, the fun really kicked off. Che'nya gave a surprisingly emotional speech—well, for him at least, as he vanished mid-sentence and then reappeared to finish his speech. Trey quietly made sure everything ran smoothly, even sneaking a slice of cake for you before the official cake-cutting, while Ace and Deuce took over the dance floor with some wild moves that had everyone laughing. Cater even got caught spiking the drinks and you couldn't help but laugh.

After the wedding, the sun was beginning to set, casting a warm, golden light over the celebration. Everything had gone smoothly, almost too smoothly. Even Riddle’s mother, who was notoriously hard to please, had remained poised and polite throughout. But you knew there was still unfinished business, and the weight of it settled heavily on your chest.

You’d seen the way she treated Riddle for years—through the pages of the webnovel and now, up close. Sure, she liked you, had even hinted at being pleased with your match to Riddle, but that didn’t erase the years of pressure and manipulation she had placed on him. The burden he had carried because of her was too great to ignore, and today, of all days, you were not going to let it slide.

You spotted her near the garden fountain, quietly observing the festivities. For a moment, she looked almost serene, her icy exterior softened by the beautiful day. But that didn’t change how you felt.

Taking a deep breath, you walked over. "Lady Rosehearts," you began, your voice steady but laced with unspoken tension.

She turned to you, a smile on her lips. "Ah, my dear. You were magnificent today. Truly the picture of grace and elegance. I couldn't have asked for a better match for my son."

Her words were warm, genuine even, but they only fueled the fire burning in your chest. You didn’t respond right away, just stared at her, waiting for the right moment to unleash what you’d been holding in.

Finally, you spoke, your voice low. "I appreciate your kind words, but there’s something I can’t let go of." You stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "For years, you’ve pushed Riddle to be perfect. You suffocated him with your expectations, and it hurt him. I can’t stand by and let you pretend that didn’t happen."

Lady Rosehearts blinked, caught off guard. She opened her mouth to respond, but you held up a hand.

"You like me, and I’m grateful for that, but I love Riddle." Your voice wavered, not with fear, but with emotion. "And because I love him, I can’t ignore the damage you’ve caused. The pressure you put on him to be someone he wasn’t. The way you never let him breathe. You may have done it out of love, but it hurt him."

She stared at you, the weight of your words sinking in. There was no immediate defense, no cold dismissal. She simply looked… surprised.

"I…" she began, but faltered. "I thought I was doing what was best for him. I wanted him to succeed, to be respected."

"But at what cost?" you snapped, unable to hold back the edge in your voice. "You wanted him to be respected so much that you never let him make his own choices. He deserves to be happy. And he deserves your respect, not just as your son, but as a person."

The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating. You could see the flicker of doubt in her eyes, the realization that perhaps, just perhaps, she hadn’t done as well by Riddle as she thought.

Before she could respond, Riddle appeared beside you, having noticed the tension from across the garden. He stood tall, his usual calm demeanor in place, but you could sense the vulnerability beneath it.

"Mother," he said quietly, his voice steady but with a new strength behind it. "She’s right."

His mother turned to him, the surprise evident on her face. "Riddle…"

"I know you wanted the best for me. I know you love me. But I needed more than just discipline and expectations. I needed to know that it was okay to be myself. To fail, even." He paused, and his eyes softened. "I love you, Mother. But you have to let me live my life. I’m not a perfect image for you to sculpt."

The silence stretched on, thick with unspoken words. You held your breath, waiting for her reaction, unsure of what to expect. You had always imagined her to be unmovable, too set in her ways to ever change.

But then, her expression softened. She took a step toward Riddle, reaching out to place a hand on his arm. "I… didn’t realize. I thought I was protecting you. But I see now that I may have been too harsh, too controlling." She paused, her gaze shifting between you and Riddle. "You’re right. Both of you. And I am truly sorry."

You blinked, taken aback by the sincerity in her voice. This was not the cold, unyielding woman you had expected. There was genuine remorse in her eyes.

She turned to you, her tone softer. "Thank you. For helping him find his way. And for standing by his side."

For a moment, the three of you stood there, the weight of years of tension slowly lifting. It wasn’t a perfect resolution—years of damage couldn’t be erased with one conversation—but it was a start.You sighed, the anger that had been simmering inside you finally ebbing away. "I only did what anyone who loves him would do," you said, glancing at Riddle with a soft smile.

Riddle’s mother nodded, and though her usual composure was still in place, there was a warmth in her expression that you hadn’t seen before. "Then I’m glad he found someone like you." But you saw her expression crack a little and so did Riddle.

Then, Riddle, ever the perfect son, stepped forward. "Mother, it’s alright." His voice was soft, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t often seen. He reached out and offered her something you never expected—a hug.

For a moment, she hesitated. Then, slowly, she stepped into his embrace, her arms wrapping tightly around him. It was quiet, emotional, and—before you knew it—you were also pulled into it.

The warmth of the group hug surrounded you, Riddle’s mother surprisingly holding you a little tighter than you expected, as if silently acknowledging the forgiveness Riddle was able to give because of your presence by his side.

She then pulled away, wiped her tears and wiped the tears that you didn't realize were falling from your eyes either. "Congratulations, again, I'm proud of you both" was all she said as she turned to leave.

As she stepped away, leaving you and Riddle alone in the garden, you let out a long breath, feeling a sense of closure you hadn’t expected.

Riddle turned to you, his expression soft and full of gratitude. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For standing up for me. For everything."

You smiled, reaching out to take his hand. "You don’t need to thank me. We’re in this together, remember?"

He squeezed your hand gently, his usual stoic expression melting away into something softer, more vulnerable. "I know. And I wouldn’t have it any other way."

From across the garden, you saw Trey and Che'nya watching, Trey giving a subtle nod of approval, while Che'nya grinned, undoubtedly waiting to pounce with some teasing remark later.

But for now, you just stood there with Riddle, the weight of the day finally settling in. You’d won—both the battle for his heart and the battle for his freedom. And in that moment, everything felt right.

The courtroom was packed, filled with nobles from all across the empire. This was the moment you’d been waiting for, orchestrated with the help of your closest friends: Trey’s calm, methodical planning, Cater’s relentless information gathering, Ace and Deuce’s enthusiasm (and occasional chaos), and, of course, Riddle, who stood by your side, his presence a steady reassurance.

Your sister stood at the center of attention, oblivious to the storm about to hit. For years, she had manipulated and destroyed anyone who dared stand in her way. She thought she was untouchable, the darling of the nobility, admired and respected. But you knew the truth, and so did everyone in this room, thanks to the carefully gathered evidence that was about to expose her for the monster she was.

Cater had planted seeds of the truth you found out that grew into full-fledged whispers about your sister’s darker deeds. Even now, the tension in the room was palpable as people murmured, casting glances her way.

You stepped forward, the letter you held clutched tightly in your hand. Riddle gave you a small nod of encouragement, his eyes steely as he took his place beside you.

"Ladies and gentlemen," you began, your voice clear and sharp, cutting through the room's murmurs. "I come to you today not with accusations, but with the truth. The truth of the heinous crimes committed by my sister."

There was a gasp from the crowd, the air thick with shock and intrigue. Your sister's face remained calm, but you saw the flicker of worry in her eyes.

"She has embezzled from the kingdom’s treasury, siphoning off funds meant for the empire's welfare," you declared, holding up the documents that Trey had meticulously helped you gather. "She has blackmailed noble families into silence, using threats and false accusations to maintain her hold over them. And worst of all—"

You paused, letting the tension build as you cast your gaze over the room, making sure every pair of eyes was locked on you. Then, with quiet, deliberate force, you spoke.

"She has been responsible for the poisoning of the emperor’s own cousin, Lady Astoria. A death that was pinned on an innocent maid."

The room exploded into chaos, gasps, and shouts of disbelief filling the air. Your sister’s face drained of color, her facade finally cracking as people turned toward her, expressions of shock and outrage growing with every second.

"These documents prove every crime," you continued, your voice strong and unwavering as Cater passed around copies of the evidence to the nobles. "She thought she could keep her secrets buried. But not anymore."

"These are lies!" your sister shrieked, her voice desperate as she clutched at the air, trying to regain control. "This is a setup! You’ve all been deceived!"

But it was too late. The emperor himself stood up, his eyes narrowing in fury as he glanced over the evidence. The knight commander beside him was already moving, her sword drawn as the guards approached your sister.

"For your crimes against the empire, you are sentenced to death," the emperor declared, his voice cold and final.

Your sister screamed, fighting as the guards seized her, but there was no escape now. The nobles who once fawned over her turned away in disgust, her power crumbling in mere moments.

Riddle’s hand found yours, his grip tight but comforting as you watched her dragged away. It should’ve felt sweet, but instead, you felt a strange heaviness settle in your chest. This was the end, wasn’t it?

As the execution was carried out in the courtyard, the crowd watching with bated breath, you stood off to the side, Riddle at your side, and your friends close by. Ace whispered some snide comment about how dramatic everything was, and Deuce elbowed him to shut up, but you couldn’t bring yourself to laugh.

When it was over, the finality of it hit you like a truck. You had done it—exposed her to the world, avenged not just yourself, but the original villainess too. You expected to feel victorious, but instead, a deep sadness settled in your chest. She should've been the one to see this.

And then, just as you were about to turn away, you saw her.

A faint, ethereal figure stood near the edge of the courtyard. The original villainess. Her eyes were softer than you imagined, her expression free of the bitterness that had fueled her desire for revenge. She looked… peaceful.

Tears welled in your eyes, and before you knew it, you were crying, really crying. Ugly, messy sobs that you couldn’t control. All the rage, all the sorrow, everything you had carried from her spilled out in that moment.

"I did it," you whispered, barely audible, but you knew she heard you. "I did it for you."

The specter of the original villainess smiled, a soft, almost sisterly expression on her face. And then, in a moment that almost felt too surreal, you felt her—felt her give you a final ghostly embrace. It was as if the weight of her vengeance had lifted, her spirit no longer bound by the chains of hatred. She was free now, and so were you.

With a final nod, the specter faded into the night, leaving you standing there, tears streaming down your face. You wiped them away as best as you could, sniffling and trying to compose yourself, but the lump in your throat remained.

The warmth of the original villainess's hug lingered long after she faded, her presence now a bittersweet memory. You stood in the quiet, feeling an overwhelming sense of both loss and completion. For the first time, it felt like the weight of both your lives had lifted.

Then, a soft flutter of wings caught your attention. A small dove descended gently, perching on your shoulder. It was so light, so delicate, and for a moment, it just sat there, as if offering comfort. You held your breath, watching it. The dove turned its head toward you, as though it knew. As though she knew.

You blinked, tears pooling in your eyes again as the dove gave a soft coo and flew away, soaring into the sky. Something inside you broke at the sight—something that had been held together for too long. The tears came harder now, not out of sorrow, but of release.

"She's free…" you whispered, your voice trembling. "She's finally free."

Your chest heaved with emotion, sobs you couldn’t control spilling out as you watched the dove disappear into the distance. All this time, everything you had done, every struggle, every sacrifice, was for her. And now, it was over.

Riddle turned toward you, concern flickering in his eyes. "Are you alright?"

You nodded, blinking away the last of your tears. "Yeah… yeah, I am. It’s just—" You paused, looking up at the sky. "My sister’s gone now. And I think… I'm at peace."

Riddle stood beside you, his own heart heavy with the weight of your emotions. Without a word, he reached out, gently pulling you into his arms. His embrace was soft but firm, grounding you when you felt like you might fall apart.

Riddle’s grip on your hand tightened, and when you looked at him, there was something unspoken in his gaze—understanding, maybe. "You did what was right," he said softly. "And now it’s over."

You took a deep breath and nodded, squeezing his hand in return. "Yeah. Now it’s over."

With Riddle by your side, and your friends waiting for you just beyond the courtyard, you knew that the hardest part was behind you. You had avenged the original villainess, exposed your sister for what she truly was, and now, finally, you could walk away from all of it.

Riddle leaned closer, his voice gentle but filled with quiet strength. "Come on. Let’s go."

Together, hand in hand, you turned away from the past and walked toward the future—your future—with the love of your life, your husband, Riddle, by your side.

Boy, was this a ride to write, but i genuinely haven't had this much fun writing before, and it got longer as i went.

For the next Trashy Novel Chronicles, which twst char would you like to see? I have a few plots planned for these, I'll eventually write them both but which one do y'all wanna see first?

Series Masterlist ; My Masterlists

[hivemuthur]

To Be Known - Ch.1.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! Modern AU, set in London, current era but not very specific. Uncharted waters for me, because I have no idea how many chapters it will come out as.

Reader is: British, Young Vic (get it?) theatre company director, working class, in her 30s, a control freak, a semi-conscious sub. Viktor is: Czech (as always), working in biotech with Jayce, working class, in his 30s, a control freak, a conscious dom.

MASTERLIST next chapter ->

word count: 4,6K

warnings, or rather this work contains: d/s dynamics between main characters (but who the fuck knows what Mel and Jayce are doing), love (attraction?) at first sight, no strings attached to lovers/strangers to lovers (so like reverse emotional slow burn?), lots of porn, angst, happy resolution. I will be adding kink warnings as they appear in the future chapters.

author’s note: Ok, so, um, hi! A Deer and a Man is ending, so something else has to begin. It’s like… a very freeform thing I’m doing here. Sort of about nothing, just relationships with d/s dynamics, because I want to play around with some kinks and stuff. I’m trying to make it make sense here, but not everything might, since it’s just my subjective take on things. It will have some d/s etiquette but not always, because I’m clumsy and my characters get infected with my clumsiness :v Nothing’s new really (hehe, get it?), some plot, some porn, some feelings. It’s basically me going to IKEA asking you if you wanna come and grab some vegan meatballs and the meatballs are smut in this :v So yeh, hi, welcome to another blurb of a mutlichap work.

Special thanks to my friends @rennethen and @strongfartzemergency for pre-reading this and enabling my brainrot. Artist is @petitesieste, just ahh ♡

Cross-posted on AO3

—

Your eyes glaze over the computer screen, trying to memorize a list of poor souls to probe the next day. An ouroboros of theatre life has reached another mark, one where you must make a million decisions in a short span of time: Which plays will grace the stage, who’s performing in them, who’s directing, and who’s dressing all those people in their fancy costumes? And, most importantly, who’s paying for all of it?

So far, a successful year has set your bar even higher, with the next season looming in the golden light of August evenings. You don’t even have time to warm your bones in it—you have to think ahead, transport your brain to the future, to a cold January, when the real test begins for you. In truth, you don’t have time to do anything beneficial for your bones, and you’ve just learned to accept that your joints crack like dry wood every time you move.

A head peaks through the crack in your door, and you don’t have to look up to know who it is.

“Charlie,” you greet him, your nose still scrunched up by the screen. “I know, I know. I’m going, I just need a second.” You begin to rise from your chair but remain hunched over, extending your arm blindly toward the computer. “Did you bring my shoes?”

“Yes, and I’m not kicking you out,” says Charlie, passing you a pair of ballet flats. “But if you want a driver, well… he’s getting impatient.”

“That’s okay, I can commute,” you smile at him, taking the shoes and glancing at your watch. “It’s only Camden… oh, shit, it’s very late. You should, in fact, kick me out.” After a few hurried jumps while putting the shoes on, you're back to frantically picking up unrelated objects and shoving them into your purse: tissues, lipstick, random notes to review in the morning, and Mel’s gift—a seasonal Young Vic pass for her and her plus one.

“Where are you guys meeting?” he asks, passing you the rest of the things you will obviously want or need. It’s a seamless collaboration with Charlie. Since the very beginning, you two have been sharing a brain, and this is partly why nothing has collapsed yet. On the contrary—both you, as a theatre company director, and Charlie, as an assistant director, have been doing an amazing job, mending together a forthcoming approach and love for theatre. And this is all your head is at, despite the one evening of reprieve where you can share beers with friends in a pub that Mel has chosen completely out of character for herself. Which is why, instead of answering, you ask, “Do you really think we can do Hamlet?”

“Why wouldn’t we be able to do Hamlet?” Charlie parrots, passing you a coat with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t know, is it not a bit… on the nose? It’s my second year, and my brain’s steamed up so much that I’m doing Hamlet?”

Charlie chuckles softly, as he steps behind you to dress you up. “You are going to do a bitchin’ Hamlet. And now can you please go and have some fun for once?”

“This is fun, Charlie. Hamlet is fun,” you say, holding his arms and giving him a playful shake. “Fun!”

“Calm down, captain,” he grins, rolling his eyes. “Where are you guys going?”

“Ugh… World’s End?”

“World’s End?!” Charlie covers his mouth in feigned horror, his eyes wide. “This is so unlike Miss Medarda!” he whispers, shooting you an incredulous look.

“I know, Mel wanted casual,” you shrug, rolling your eyes. Then, as you move past him, you swat him lightly on the shoulder, seeking another round of uninhibited cackles. “Don’t be mean, Charlie!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Charlie laughs, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Ah, World’s fucking End, who would’ve thought. Let me fetch you a driver, my lady.”

You shake your head and scan your office one last time, making sure you haven’t left anything important behind. Figuratively, of course, since almost everything dear to your heart is actually being left behind. And even though it’s only for a couple of hours, not being in control is frightening.

On the other side of the coin are your friends, with Mel right up front. She’s been there since the very first second of your meeting—right after you yelled at a light technician, making him flinch and nearly fall off the ladder. You had immediately corrected yourself with, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have shouted. But this lightwork is still shit. Please fix it. I ask you kindly.”

That was when Mel grinned, wrapped an arm around your shoulder, and whispered into your ear, “Okay. I want to be your friend.”

Since then, Mel has been one of the main patrons of your theatre company, and you—being a firm unbeliever in your own abilities—are convinced it’s largely her money and pep talks that have granted you the creative freedom that led to you becoming an artistic director. Your worlds collided fast and hard, and, being another person married to her work, she quickly became one of the closest people in your life.

Until Jayce.

Mel, being someone who treats every relationship as an investment, doesn’t limit her influence to the arts. So when her family decided to fund research grants for scientists from the Francis Crick Institute, you knew something was coming as soon as she justified the decision with, “And they are both very handsome.”

You know the urge very well—the ever-nagging need to have everything under control, to oversee every grain of sand that rolls through the waist of the hourglass, every second planned, every schedule so tight there is barely time to breathe. It’s one of the things that bonded the both of you.

So when Jayce came along—with his motivation stemming not from a sickening need for self-accomplishment or a desperate urge to prove something to the world, but from the purity of his own heart and a healthy curiosity—Mel began to crack. And then the disease spread to you.

Now, you actually rest. You spend your free Sundays socializing. You talk about things other than work. You’ve even been on a few unsuccessful dates. And it’s all Jayce’s fault.

You loved him for it immediately—the small crumbs of the outside world granted to you and Mel through his unabashed joy and excitement. Jayce made things fun, and turning your phone off—briefly relinquishing control—became a little less terrifying.

From there, your thoughts drift in different directions until your absent-minded stare at the moving lights outside the car window is interrupted. The driver, in a grumpy tone, informs you that you’ve arrived at your destination. You crack the joints in your hands before thanking him and bidding him goodnight.

The World’s End is all red from the outside, its glow bleeding onto the wet pavement. Through the glass, you spot the back of Mel’s heavily accessorized hairstyle, a head of intricate twists and gleaming accents. You glance at your reflection, and—well. You’ve seen better days.

Your mini skirt has twisted around, placing the slit exactly where you don’t want it, so you yank it back into place, cursing Charlie for not telling you. In the process, you notice a small eyelet in your tights, the hole widening with each step you take. No nail polish to stop it from spreading. You curse yourself for that one. Your shirt is crumpled at the stomach—a reminder of hours spent hunched over your desk. Your necklace has caught a bunch of stray hairs, which you pick out frantically as you stride toward the door. And the rest of your hair? An artistic mess, sculpted by an impatient hand that’s raked through it a hundred times too many today.

Once inside, Mel’s slender hand and a row of her impossibly white teeth beckon you forward as she stands up to give you a hug.

And the inside of The World's End is exactly what you would expect from a Camden pub—big, loud, and brimming with mismatched charm. The walls are cluttered with a collection of art that looks like it was bought in a rush at a local flea market. There's a hum of conversation mixing with the thrum of the music playing in the background, and the space itself is large, almost cavernous. The low ceiling and uneven, wooden floorboards give it an unpolished look that feels welcoming to some, but it's not exactly the kind of place you'd expect to see Mel at.

Mel, in contrast, belongs in a sleek, minimalistic bar, somewhere where the drinks are as carefully curated as the furniture, where everything is perfectly composed. Here, she’s lost in the midst of it all, a little too refined for the space, as if her sharp lines don’t quite align with the pub’s rough edges. The things we do for friends.

“Darling, I’m glad you made it,” she chirps, walking toward you and spreading her arms wide.

“Now I can say I’d go to the end of the world for you,” you murmur into her shoulder, squeezing her tight. Then, pulling back, you present a small envelope. “Happy birthday, love. Here—best possible seats.”

Mel’s brows lift as she takes the tickets, flipping them between her fingers. “You shouldn’t have,” she says, though the gleam in her eye betrays her excitement. “But thank you. You wouldn’t believe who Jayce has managed to drag along,” she murmurs into your ear.

“Oh, it can’t be,” you whisper back, scanning the table over her shoulder.

A few of her closest friends sit huddled together, deep in conversation and laughter. Then, Jayce’s broad frame, unmistakable even in the dim light. And next to him—

A pair of loose shoulders, wrapped in a red shirt stretched between two sharp blades. The nape of his neck, covered in a mess of brown curls. He leans on one hand, nodding along to whatever Jayce is saying, his profile cutting sharp against the glow of the street lights.

Viktor. The last man standing, the one seemingly immune to Jayce’s influence when it comes to making people step out of their comfort zones. And yet, here he is. Of all occasions, it’s Mel’s birthday that has somehow coaxed Viktor out of his self-imposed solitude. A horse you wouldn’t have bet on.

You are led to the table, where all the seats seem to be taken—until Viktor removes his cane from the empty stool beside him and gestures for you to sit between him and Jayce. As you lower yourself onto the stool, you take his hand briefly and say, “The smartest man in the room, finally in the room.”

“You must be talking about Jayce,” he counters, a glint of amusement in his eye. He holds your palm for just a moment longer than necessary before letting go. “I’ve heard much about you.”

“Only good things, I hope,” you reply with a smile—until Mel’s head suddenly pokes between the two of you.

“What’s your poison, honey?” she asks. Only now do you notice her flushed cheeks and the way she’s completely disregarded the concept of personal space, her arm stretching beyond your shoulders to tug playfully at Jayce’s hair.

“A pint of bitter?” you say, startled.

She frowns slightly, but you quickly follow with, “Cheers,” hoping to steer her attention elsewhere. Her eyes squint at you, but she relents, giving Jayce’s back a clingy hug before strolling off to the bar. Only now Viktor’s hand releases yours.

He studies you for a moment before turning to his glass, giving you the chance to take a closer look—

The first two buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing the hollow between his collarbones, skin up to his neck is covered in a satin sheen of sweat. Tendons shift beneath it, blue veins threading along his throat. His hair is faintly damp around the ears, curling and plastering itself to his temples. From the side, his jaw forms nearly a perfect square.

You don’t dare to look higher.

Lower down, though, his sleeves are rolled up carelessly, exposing freckle-specked arms. You spot it by dropping your gaze naturally.

Mel was right. They are both very handsome.

As the birthday gal disappears toward the bar, you are left wedged between the two scientists, the noise of conversation assaulting your ears. Across the table, Amara leans in, her many rings clinking as she refills someone’s glass from a sweating bottle of wine. Beside her, Salo—always overdressed for the occasion, his blonde curls neatly combed back—gestures broadly mid-story, his voice animated. A few seats down, Mion, the youngest among them and always balancing the line between sharp and naive, listens intently while occasionally stealing olives from Mel’s abandoned plate.

"So," Jayce starts, shifting his weight so he can face you properly. “What’s keeping you so busy these days?”

You exhale, stretching your arms along the back of your seat, making your spine pop. “Wrapping up meetings with playwrights, directors, and actors—making sure everything aligns. Managing funding and sponsorships, finalising script choices.”

Salo whistles. “Sounds like a headache.”

“It’s a miracle she’s here at all,” Jayce adds, nursing his beer. “I half-expected her to send a regretful telegram from the depths of her desk.”

That earns a laugh from Amara, who nudges your foot under the table. “And what are the plays, then? What’s in?”

You rest your chin in your palm and do a mock countdown with the fingers of the other. “Further than the Furthest Thing, The Scottsboro Boys, A Streetcar Named Desire—possibly Hamlet.”

Mel, just returning with your beer, lets out a delighted gasp as she sets it down. “Hamlet? Oh, darling, tell me you’re doing it.”

“Calm yourself,” you warn, reaching for your drink. “I said possibly.”

She spreads her hands dramatically. “I can already see it now—the staging, the lighting—”

“Don’t start designing the posters just yet,” you cut in, but she’s grinning too widely to be discouraged. “I can still change my mind.”

“You know that’s a lot for one person,” Viktor remarks, leaning in from your right, his voice lower, meant just for the two of you. His pupils are darker, wider than the number of glasses of wine he’s had would suggest, assessing you from under hooded eyelids.

“I’ve always run through my life,” you say simply, tipping your glass toward him. “I do have help, though.” Viktor clicks his tongue, his mouth curving into a half-smile.

Before you can figure out what it means, Mion suddenly snaps her fingers. “Wait—how did you and Mel meet, anyway?”

Mel waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, I saw her preparing Yerma, and it was love at first sight.”

“Love?” Salo lifts a brow.

“She was standing on stage, sleeves rolled up, arguing over how the chairs should be arranged.” Mel sighs theatrically. “Her diligence. Her eye for detail. I knew I had to have her.”

Jayce snorts. “And by ‘have her,’ you mean ‘fund her.’”

Mel grins. “Exactly.”

The table dissolves into laughter, glasses clinking. Conversations crisscross—Salo and Mion bickering over some technical aspect of stage production, and you don’t have the heart to correct them. Jayce launching into an enthusiastic recounting of an experiment gone wrong. Someone beside you leans in to talk, and for a moment, you lose the thread of conversation.

The haze of smoke, the warmth of alcohol-softened breaths, the layered voices—it all blurs. Next to you, Viktor is speaking, but his words are swallowed by the noise.

The room tilts slightly, or maybe it’s just the drink settling in. Sounds overlap and ring in your ears as exhaustion takes hold and you zone out. Somewhere nearby, a bottle of wine gets passed around, then discarded in the middle of the table, still within your reach. A voice cuts through the fog, softer, closer. Then sharper, clearer than before.

Foreshadowed by Viktor’s hand on your leg—his right palm rests on you, and the moment it does, you tilt toward him, only to find he’s done the same. His fingers press inward, just barely grazing the inside of your thigh. It’s a gentle invasion, entirely unprovocative, something that simply happens—natural. His left arm hovers over your backrest as his mouth nears your ear, and you can feel the tickle of his hair on your cheek.

“Pass me the wine.” A soft command, tilting toward a question at the end, firm and quiet all at once.

You reach for the bottle without looking, your eyes fixed on his throat as he breathes. The moment it comes close, his touch leaves your leg and finds your fingers instead. His skin brushes yours, spreading the sweat from the glass onto your own, and something coils low in your stomach.

“Good…” he murmurs, clipped, as if something else should follow. “Thank you.” And then his warmth is gone, leaving you painfully sober, achingly empty.

It’s one of the most agonising seconds of your life—except this time, there’s something sickly sweet curling around the edges, a lingering undertone that was missing from all the other agonising moments you’ve suffered through.

For the rest of the evening, your attention doesn’t waver, save for the necessary moments to put Mel in the spotlight.

Viktor lingers close. Not close enough to raise any eyebrows—everyone else is too busy bickering and laughing at Jayce’s anecdotes—but enough for you to notice and relish in it. His breath occasionally fans your face when he leans over you for the bottle, his knee bumps yours under the table. He sits tilted toward you, his arm hooked against your stool, and his eyes never leave you, one way or another. He bombards you with questions and answers yours without blinking.

"Where did you study?" you ask, lips glued to the rim of your glass, leaving an stamp of your lipstick there.

"Abroad," he says vaguely, tipping his head. "You?"

"England. Try again," you counter, not looking up, only baring your teeth to the remnants of a cocktail in your hand.

Viktor exhales a quiet chuckle, tilting his glass idly in his fingers before conceding, "Vigilant, of course. Very well—biochemistry at UTC Prague." He pauses, watching your reaction. "Then onward to Francis Crick through MSCA. Now—tell me yours." The last part, a command again, gentle and firm and you find yourself reciting in no time.

"Theatre and Performance at Goldsmiths," you reply, your words a little looser, the alcohol working its way through your veins.

"Ah, how prestigious," he murmurs, voice laced with amusement.

"If you consider five years of bullying that, then yes," you slur, twirling your drink in your glass. His expression sharpens, brows lifting slightly in silent question. You sigh, meeting his gaze. "I got The Royal Academy of Dramatic Art scholarship. Before that, I led an utterly non-prestigious life in Staines."

"Hardworking girl," he purrs, and oh—his hand returns to your thigh, this time less inconspicuous as he drags a long finger up and stops just beneath the hem of your skirt.

"Where do you live?" he asks, his voice dipping lower, quieter, like the answer might be something just for him.

"Hackney," you answer immediately, then, seeing his knowing smile, feel the need to correct yourself. "The bad Hackney. You?"

"Eh, Islington," Viktor says, a hint of sheepishness in his voice.

Your mock jaw drop is immediate. "Unbelievable," you drawl. "And you dare to make fun of my fancy living?"

Viktor smirks, his fingers brushing your thigh before retreating. "You are making it up. But we can share a cab home then."

Something jumps in your chest at the thought of being locked in a tiny space alone with this man. And the cab driver, but, nevertheless. "I suppose we can. When do you want to go?" you ask, as steadily as you can manage right now.

He exhales slowly, then leans in, his breath warm against your ear. "Let's go now."

You have to stop your eyes from rolling in your skull. In fact, with the mix of various alcohols cursing through your veins and the secretive glances he’s been giving you, you’d probably nod vigorously if he offered to fuck you on the bar.

You step away from the table, weaving through the crowded space as you pull out your phone. Your fingers tremble slightly—whether from the drinks or the anticipation, you can't tell. It doesn’t matter. The cab company confirms your ride is on its way, barely three minutes out.

When you return, Viktor is still lounging against the table, his fingers tracing the rim of his now-empty glass. He doesn’t look at you right away, but his body angles toward you the moment you step back into his space. You lean in just enough to let the scent of him—wine, sweet sweat and washing powder—settle into your senses before speaking.

“We have three minutes,” you say casually, as if not stopping yourself from clenching your thighs.

Viktor gives a small, knowing nod and starts shuffling around for his cane and coat. His movements are unhurried, but there’s a quiet efficiency to them, a preparedness that has you smiling.

From across the table, Mel lets out a dramatic sigh. “You’re leaving already? I knew I shouldn’t have sat two workaholics together.”

Jayce snorts into his drink. “At least they lasted this long. I was expecting Viktor to slip out halfway through.”

Viktor hums in vague amusement, fastening the buttons of his coat. “And miss all your storytelling? Impossible.”

Mel rolls her eyes but grins. “Fine, fine. Go, be boring. Just don’t forget—” she waggles a finger at you—“you owe me a Hamlet.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Goodnight, Mel.”

With that, you feel Viktor’s hand brush lightly against the small of your back—an absentminded gesture, almost cautious, but it sends a thrill down your spine.

It’s raining again, and neither of you has an umbrella, so you huddle together under your purse until Viktor opens the door for you. You fall in with no grace whatsoever and slide your ass across the back seat to make space for him. He steps in slowly, throws his address to the driver, then slumps down beside you, looking at you expectantly.

For a moment, you freeze—until you realise everyone is waiting for your address. Mumbling out the street and number, you lean back, your shoulder blades pressing against his arm.

And oh. You know damn well you won’t be able to let this go beyond tonight—or that you shouldn’t be fucking around where you figuratively eat—but he smells good, and his eyes stay on you, dark and hungry. So you tip yourself into the crook of his shoulder, tilting your head up with an innocently pleading look.

Viktor chuckles, as if something has just been confirmed, and his slender hand finds its way between your thighs. His body shifts subtly, shielding you from the driver, who barely suppresses an eye roll in the rear-view mirror. His lips, burning with alcohol and want, close over yours. His tongue pushes inside, licking slow and deep along the row of your teeth. His fingers travel up your leg, stopping painfully close to where you ache for him most, and squeeze—just enough to brace himself as he leans in further.

You fumble with the buttons of his coat, slipping your hands beneath to tug his shirt free from his trousers. Another warm chuckle rumbles against your lips.

“So efficient,” he murmurs, breaking the kiss to mouth at your ear. His breath is hot when he whispers, “Do you want to fuck here, or will you be a good girl and wait until we get home?”

A strangled moan escapes you, and your own hand flies up to clamp over your mouth. Viktor grins against your skin.

“Good. Quiet,” he purrs, before dragging his tongue in a slick trail down your neck, stopping halfway to suck a bruise into your flesh.

Breath stumbles in your lungs when he stops, lips flushed, wet and red with your smeared lipstick, his teeth barely grazing your skin before he leans back to look at you. His fingers remain firm between your thighs, a teasing pressure that makes your legs tense and tremble beneath his touch.

Whatever has led you to this moment is not your usual behaviour, but somehow, you can’t be bothered to announce it. Long ago—somewhere after shitty date number five, or fifteen—you swore off bad sex for the sake of no sex and peace of mind. You grew tired of partners who were more tease than do, and the ones who assumed you’d thrive on organising everything in bed, just as you do at work.

You crave someone to take that pressure off you. Someone who would simply allow you to be dumb, even just for a few moments. To fuck your brains out so that poor strongest muscle of yours can replenish and breathe before you have to step back into the saddle and lead the chaotic orchestra of theatre technicians, actors, directors, and founders toward whatever critics deem a successful season. To take all the decision-making away and praise you for it.

And you have no guarantee that Viktor will do exactly that—other than the way his roaming hand squeezes your leg so firmly or the way his tongue, insistent and wanting, doesn’t ask permission before invading your mouth. The way he has stared at you the entire night has left you hotter and more bothered than anyone’s scrutiny ever has. And even if this is a mistake, it’s one you are willing to make. Your thighs shake at the thought, and Viktor gasps softly against your lips.

"You're trembling," he murmurs, voice low as the vowels roll thickly off his tongue. His free hand reaches up, pushing your hair aside. He trails his knuckles along your jaw, his thumb pressing lightly against your parted lips. "Cold, or something else?"

You give a breathy laugh, rolling your hips ever so slightly into his palm, chasing that friction. Viktor hums, pleased, before his fingers slip higher—just barely ghosting over the hanging-there nylons shielding your underwear. Your breath catches.

The cab rattles over a pothole, jolting you both, but neither of you pulls away. If anything, it only makes Viktor bolder. He shifts to face you fully, pressing you back into the seat as he kisses you again, deeper this time, his tongue curling languidly around yours. You taste wine and your own spit on him, and it makes you dizzy.

His hand abandons your thigh only to grab your wrist, dragging it to the front of his trousers, where he's already half-hard beneath the layers of fabric. "I want you," he breathes against your mouth, nipping at your lower lip before letting his forehead drop to yours.

You palm him through the material, pressing just enough to make him suck in a sharp breath. The sound alone makes a fresh gush of lust bloom in your knickers.

Then—a pointed cough.

You both jolt as if caught doing something far more illicit than you already are.

"Islington," the cab driver announces dryly, eyes fixed firmly on the road.

Viktor huffs out a laugh, dragging his fingers through his already-mussed hair. "Do you want to come in?" he says, as if you hadn’t just been grinding against each other like reckless teenagers in the back of a cab.

You swallow, pulse still pounding in your ears. "Yes," you nod. "Yes."

“I suppose we will wrap up the ride here,” Viktor says reaching for his wallet and taking out one note too many to make up for whatever the poor man had to endure.

“Yeah, mate, I figured. Have a great night.”

[capuccinodoll]

The boyfriend act, part 6: "The one with the late night talk" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: After spending a couple of weeks tormenting yourself over your argument with Frankie, you finally open up to Santi. He offers you a different perspective—one that hurts, but one you need to hear. WC: 6.8k

A/N: TW!!! This chapter touches on sensitive topics such as mental health and references to self-destructive behaviors. If these subjects are difficult for you, please proceed with caution. Thank you so much for reading and for your support! I truly appreciate it. Don’t forget to share your thoughts in the comments, love reading them!!! love you guys<3 If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications!

Tuesday, August 27th

August was dissolving, slipping through your fingers like the last ice cube in a too-warm drink. The days were heavy, pressing down on your skin, thick with the kind of heat that made everything feel slow and sticky. And the nights still belonged to it, summer—restless, humming, too warm to be comfortable but too familiar to resent. Inside, your apartment was quiet, the only real sound the steady, hypnotic whirl of the ceiling fan.

You kept busy. It was easier that way. There was always something to do: the new café down the street had changed the flow of foot traffic past the bookstore, drawing people in, pushing them through the doors in lazy waves. Customers wandered between the shelves, asking about novels they’d heard mentioned on a podcast, about poetry collections they’d been meaning to buy for months. You answered every question, made polite conversation, pretended you weren’t hyper-aware of how your own voice sounded when you used it too much.

Yesterday, a woman had lingered by the register, chatting about the café. She mentioned the owner—a charming man, she said, the kind of person who gave out free donuts on Friday mornings, which struck you as an objectively good and decent thing. You nodded along, made a mental note to stop by one of these days, even though you knew you probably wouldn’t.

But now it was tuesday night, and you were exhausted.

You collapsed onto the couch, grabbed the remote, pressed play. When Harry Met Sally. A movie you loved, though you weren’t really watching. Your legs stretched out along the cushions, arms folded against your chest, eyes on the screen but unfocused.

At the other end of the couch, Mr. Darcy curled into himself, his eyes dark and unblinking, watching you with something close to judgment. Because he knew. He knew that you were pretending. That you were acting like none of it had happened.

When Santi called, you told him you were fine. More than fine. And it wasn’t exactly a lie. You kept busy, your bank account was in better shape than last year. You knew how to work, how to keep your head down. If he asked about Frankie, you told him you hadn’t seen him—true. If he asked about Harry’s wedding, you lied, said you hadn’t decided yet.

Lying over the phone was easy. You’d always been good at it.

But then Santi showed up in person, unannounced, standing in your doorway with his arms crossed and his head tilted slightly, like he was already trying to figure you out.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, his voice even, his gaze sharpening like he could see right through you.

“I’m just tired,” you said, and maybe that was true in a way, but not in the way he meant it. “Didn’t sleep well. Stayed up too late watching tv.”

He hesitated, like he was waiting for you to crack, to fill the silence with the thing you weren’t saying. But you didn’t. Instead, you pivoted—smooth, practiced—asked about Yov, about the wedding. He didn’t look convinced, but he let it go.

And you told yourself you wouldn’t think about Frankie.

Except that you did.

At night, when the house was still, when you were alone, his face surfaced in your mind with alarming clarity. The last thing you’d said to him. The way his expression had changed the second he heard you. The way it had made something deep inside you twist and ache.

You felt guilty. It hurt, a slow, deep kind of hurt, like pressing a bruise just to see how much you could stand. But then you reminded yourself—he had hurt you too, in ways you still carried with you. That should’ve made it easier. It didn’t.

Across the room, Mr. Darcy watched you, his gaze unmoving. Like he knew. Like he could see the way your thoughts kept circling, caught in a loop you didn’t know how to break.

The movie flickered on, a blur of motion, of dialogue you’d heard a hundred times before but suddenly couldn’t follow.

When the credits rolled, you stood, crossed the room, reached for your journal where it sat on the kitchen counter.

You flipped to the right page—the one where you kept your list. Little things. Big things. Things that made you feel like you were moving forward, even when you weren’t sure you were.

You uncapped a pen, pressed the tip to the page, and wrote:

Have a New Year’s kiss. Just like Harry and Sally. Less romantic, I guess.

You stared at the words, then exhaled sharply, almost a laugh.

Then you rolled your eyes at yourself, shut the journal, and left it there.

Thursday, August 29th

Yov was out of town, and Santi called that morning while you were at the bookstore, his voice warm but edged with something careful, like he was trying to keep things light. He asked if he could come over later, maybe stay for the night. You told him yes, of course. But you knew there was something beneath the surface of the invitation, an intention that had nothing to do with food. He was checking in on you.

It wasn’t unusual, the dinners. He loved coming over, eating something homemade, stretching out on your couch to watch a movie, half the time falling asleep before the credits rolled. Sometimes you’d drink wine and end up crying with laughter over Scary Movie, even though you could both quote it word for word. But this time, you could tell—he had noticed something. A shift in your mood, a dullness in your voice that you hadn’t managed to hide.

Still, you weren’t complaining. You loved spending time with him.

You closed the bookstore a little earlier than usual and walked the two blocks to the grocery store, the sun pressing against your skin. It was warm, but not suffocating, which felt strange for august. You slipped in your headphones, letting music filter in as you walked past the park. It was quiet today—only a few people scattered under the old trees, some walking, others sitting on benches, faces tilted toward the sky.

And then you crossed the street.

At the intersection, your eyes flicked up, catching the traffic light without thinking. It was green, glowing steadily above you. For some reason, it hit you in the chest like a second heartbeat. The last time you’d seen Frankie, it had been right here. You could still see it in your mind—the green light, the blur of the quiet night, the way your hands had felt too empty as you stepped out of the car, a weight forming somewhere deep in your ribs.

Pointless, thinking about it now. You exhaled, pulled out your phone, and skipped to the next song. The first few notes played, something familiar, something that made you smile despite yourself. Just Like Heaven.

Inside the store, the air conditioning wrapped around you like a cold, weightless hand. A relief. You grabbed a cart and started down the aisles, scrolling through your notes app for the grocery list you’d made after Santi had texted, asking if you could make that spaghetti—the one with the sauce he always raved about.

Ten minutes later, you had almost everything. A bottle of rosé sat nestled between vegetables and pasta, but now you hesitated in front of the wine section, eyeing the rows of deep reds and pale golds. You wanted something good. Something that would feel nice in your hands as you curled up on the couch later.

Merlot. You reached for a bottle, ran your fingers over the label before setting it gently in the cart.

Maybe you’d grab something sweet for later too—chocolates, gummies. Something with nuts and caramel.

Eyes without a face faded out, replaced by the sharp, unmistakable opening of Toxic. Without thinking, you smiled, mouthing the words as you steered the cart down the cereal aisle. Your eyes drifted over the shelves, barely registering the neon-colored boxes, the cartoon mascots grinning at you from their spots. You weren’t really looking for anything there, just moving through the motions.

At the end of the aisle, you turned left.

And then, you saw him.

Frankie.

He was crouched at the far end of the aisle, head tilted slightly, eyes scanning a label like he was deciphering something complicated. He hadn’t seen you.

Black T-shirt, dark gray cargo pants, messy hair. You weren’t sure why you noticed that, why your mind cataloged the details like they meant something. But it did.

For a second, you froze.

Your fingers tightened around the handle of the cart. A quick assessment: the space between you, the angle of his gaze, the seconds you had before he looked up.

You turned.

No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just a sharp turn on your heel, a swift retreat in the opposite direction before he could lift his head, before his eyes could meet yours.

You’d buy candy somewhere else.

Santi dropped onto the couch beside you with all the weight of a falling tree, the cushions sinking under him, a rush of air brushing past you.

"Hey!" you groaned, swatting his shoulder in mock protest.

He just grinned, unbothered, reaching past you to grab his wine glass from the coffee table. You watched as he took a sip, settling in like he had nowhere else to be.

You picked up the remote and resumed the movie, the screen flickering back to life after the pause you’d hit when he disappeared into the bathroom, grumbling about his bladder. You’d made a joke about him getting old, and he’d laughed, but then he muttered something about making an appointment with a urologist. You didn’t ask for details.

Tonight’s movie was his pick. As Above, So Below. A group of overconfident explorers descending into the parisian catacombs, searching for the philosopher’s stone. Things go wrong, as they always do. They end up in hell itself. Santi loved this kind of thing. Honestly, so did you.

It was something you’d shared since you were kids—sitting cross-legged on the floor with your dad, watching horror movies long past bedtime. He had a deep, unwavering love for them, and your mother always scolded him for scaring you senseless. But you loved it, even when you had to sleep with the hallway light on for weeks, even when the images stuck to the backs of your eyelids like aftershadows.

You still remembered the night you watched The Blair Witch Project. Your dad had told you, very seriously, that it was real. That the film had been pieced together from actual footage, that the people in it were still missing. You and Santi believed him completely. You spent days afterward peeking around corners, flinching at the sound of snapping twigs, avoiding the woods near your house like they held something waiting just beyond the trees.

For days, you couldn’t shake it. The idea that somewhere out there, in some dark, endless forest, they were still lost. And then, one day, Santi came home from school, eyes wide, voice low.

“They found something in the woods,” he whispered.

You blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

“Candles. Leftover wax, melted onto the ground. Bones. Like from some kind of ritual.” His eyes were wide, serious. “One of the guys at school told me. He said there’s probably a witch.”

You swallowed, trying to look unimpressed. “There’s no witch.”

“There must be,” he insisted. “That’s why I’m telling you—you cannot go near there, okay? Or you’ll get lost, and who knows when we’ll find you. I don’t know how to fight witches. Do you?”

You shook your head, lips pressed together, pretending to be indifferent. But during the next few years, you avoided that stretch of forest like your life depended on it. Even when you turned twelve and realized he had made the whole thing up, even when you knew, logically, that there was nothing out there in the trees, you still found yourself watching from a distance, something uneasy curling in your stomach whenever you passed by.

On the screen, one of the protagonists was panicking, struggling against the rope wrapped around his foot. His breathing grew ragged, his face contorted in fear. The music swelled, sharp and urgent. You squinted at the television.

Santi snorted next to you. “Come on, don’t be scared. Nothing’s happening yet.” 

The living room was dark except for the glow of the TV, washing the room in flickering light. Even the small lamp beside you was off. Mr. Darcy, usually nestled against your leg during movie nights, was nowhere to be found—probably curled up in your bed, fast asleep.

“I know,” you murmured, shifting slightly, “but something’s going to happen.”

Santi let out a deep, satisfied sigh as he stretched out beside you, rotating his shoulder with a wince.

“God, I’m so full,” he groaned, then yawned. “But I won’t complain if you give me the leftovers.”

You turned to him with a smirk. The soft glow from the screen reflected in your eyes, and the slight haze of wine made the moment feel heavier, slower.

“You really have no bottom, do you?” you teased, reaching for the half-eaten chocolate on the coffee table. “Fine. You can take them. But only if you make me some of that stew you do later.”

Santi scoffed, sitting up a little. “What did you think of the last one I made? I changed the recipe—more cumin, extra celery. I was waiting for your opinion on it.” His expression was expectant, a little put out.

You frowned, trying to recall. “When?”

He blinked at you, then sat up straighter. “Are you serious?”

You shrugged.

“You couldn’t have missed it,” he insisted, narrowing his eyes. “I put so much more celery in. You didn’t taste it? And a little ginger. That was Yov’s idea.”

“Why are you so fixated on the stew?”

“Because it’s my thing,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest like he was deeply wounded. “I take your spaghetti seriously, right?”

You tilted your head. “I take your cooking seriously too. But I—wait, when? When we had dinner after going to the movies?”

“No, dumbass,” he scoffed. “When you and Frankie came over.”

Your mouth opened slightly. The realization hit you all at once.

Right. That night.

You had completely forgotten about Santi’s meal. If you were remembering correctly, you'd left the container in Frankie’s car.

Your gaze flickered back to the screen, where the protagonist was now screaming. You exhaled.

“Ah. Yeah. I forgot your stew in Frankie’s car.” Your voice was quieter, like the words had escaped before you fully thought them through. Then you turned back to Santi, offering a small, sheepish smile. “But I won’t complain if you make me more.”

Santi studied you for a beat, then tilted his head. “So, are you giving me the leftovers or not?”

“Yes. And some apple pie I made yesterday.” You lifted your eyebrows, watching the way his face lit up.

“Done.”

You settled back into the couch, shifting your gaze toward the screen. The movie was unfolding exactly as expected—each character trapped in their own personal hell, doomed by their own choices. You found a strange sense of relief in knowing this was something that could never happen to you. Not because you thought you were immune to disaster, but because you simply weren’t the kind of person who would put themselves in a situation like that.

The Paris catacombs? Sure, there were guided tours with clear paths and bright lighting—why would anyone willingly crawl through some secret, uncharted part of it, especially when history had already proven that people got lost down there?

You never understood that kind of thrill-seeking. Rock climbing? Fine. Trekking through forests, deserts? Sure. Skydiving, bungee jumping—adrenaline junkies, you got it. But willingly wedging yourself into a cavern, not knowing if you’d make it back out? That part never made sense.

Santi shifted beside you, pulling you from your thoughts.

“Have you seen him?”

Your eyes remained on the screen. The only two survivors were finally making their way out, and you felt your body relax.

“Who?”

“Frankie.”

The name landed somewhere uncomfortable, somewhere in your chest. Your eyes flicked to Santi for just a second before returning to the television.

“Oh. No.”

“I thought you were supposed to have dinner at Helena’s weeks ago.”

“As it turned out, no.”

“Why?”

You shrugged, still watching the screen as if it required your full attention. “Been busy. I think he has too. It’s all good.”

Santi didn’t say anything at first, just watched you like he was waiting for something more. You ignored it, eyes trained on the credits rolling up the screen.

“That’s weird,” he said finally. “I talked to Helena this week. She asked about you.”

You nodded, fingers tightening slightly around the remote.

“She also said Frankie’s been dodging her questions. She’s a little worried.”

You exhaled through your nose, lips pressing together as you casually scrolled back in the movie.

"Do you want to watch something else, or are you already falling asleep?" you asked, scrolling absently through the app’s home screen, your thumb hovering over different titles without really seeing them.

Santi shifted beside you. "No, let’s watch something else if you want. Pick whatever."

You nodded, though you weren’t really listening. Your focus had already drifted, your eyes moving over rows of movies and shows, not settling on anything in particular. You were just going through the motions, waiting for something to click. The thought of anything too heavy, too thought-provoking, made your stomach clench. You needed something easy, something you didn’t have to engage with beyond letting the sounds fill the space.

Eventually, your finger landed on Family Guy, and you hit play without much thought. The opening chords of the theme song played like muscle memory, a familiar noise cutting through the low hum of tension in the room. Your head felt a little fuzzy from the alcohol, pleasantly weightless in a way that made it easier not to think too hard.

Next to you, Santi exhaled, long and deliberate, before tilting his head against your shoulder. A few beats of quiet passed before he spoke again.

"Aren't you going to tell me what happened?" His voice was careful, measured.

You blinked at the screen. "What?"

"With Frankie."

"Nothing happened with him," you said automatically, too quickly.

Santi made a small noise, like he didn’t believe you for a second. "Right. Sure."

You turned your head slightly but kept your gaze forward. "Why—why would that surprise you, anyway? It’s not like we’ve ever gotten along." You let out a dry, humorless laugh, the kind that barely reached your throat.

"Exactly," he said, sitting up straighter beside you. "That’s exactly why I’m asking. I know you well enough to know when something’s off. And I know him well enough to know the same thing. You add those two things together, plus the fact that Helena sounded concerned when she talked to me earlier, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out something must have happened." He turned to look at you fully now, voice shifting into something closer to amusement. "I mean, I knew this whole plan between you two wasn’t exactly solid, but I didn’t think you’d manage to mess it up this fast."

You turned to him then, incredulous. "Seriously? You, Santiago—the one who’s been saying from the beginning that this was a terrible idea, who’s been acting like a prophet of doom about the whole thing—you’re surprised?"

Santi’s lips quirked up, eyes glinting. He looked, irritatingly, pleased with himself.

"Knew it," he said. "So what happened?"

You let out a breath, shaking your head before turning back to the TV. The theme song was over now, the first scene of the episode already unfolding. You folded your arms, pressing them tightly against your chest, like maybe you could keep whatever you were feeling contained that way. But it was still there, that dull, unwelcome ache settling back in.

"We had an argument," you said finally.

Santi waited a second, then: "About what?"

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you, weighing your options. Santi was staring at you, waiting. 

You’d already talked to Emma about this. She had listened carefully, nodding at the right moments, offering up her own quiet honesty in return. She hadn’t sugarcoated things, hadn’t let you off the hook. She had even agreed with you—that yes, you had been cruel, whether or not Frankie had deserved it.

So you had already said the words once, already unburdened yourself. But the weight of not telling Santi felt different, heavier in a way that had nothing to do with guilt and everything to do with trust.

You wanted to tell him. Of course you did. He had been listening to you your whole life, letting you spill your secrets without fear of judgment. And he had never once betrayed you, never let anything slip where it wasn’t supposed to. Nothing you told him would reach Frankie. Nothing. You knew that.

But this—this was harder. It wasn’t just about Frankie. It was about you. About saying something out loud that you weren’t even sure you had fully admitted to yourself yet. It was one thing to talk about your insecurities with Emma. It was another thing entirely to lay them bare in front of your brother. To tell him that Frankie—of all people—had seen them before you’d even opened your mouth.

Still, what choice did you have? Santi wasn’t going to let this go. He never did.

"About Harry," you said finally, your voice flat, stripped of any real emotion.

Santi frowned. "Harry?"

You nodded.

"Why?"

You exhaled, suddenly hyperaware of the breath leaving your body, the way it felt too sharp, too deliberate.

"Because," you said, shifting against the couch, "I’m not as over him as I thought I was. And Francisco apparently decided that was his business. Thought it would be a great idea to ask me a million questions about it, maybe even offer up some unsolicited advice."

Santi folded his arms, his expression shifting from confusion to something more serious.

"What kind of advice?"

You turned to look at him then, and whatever was in your expression must have given him pause.

"Santi," you said carefully, "I’m going to tell you this, but you can’t say anything until I’m done. No opinions, no interruptions. You can ask questions, but don’t react until I finish. Okay?"

He straightened slightly, concern settling into the lines of his face. Then he nodded. "Okay."

You swallowed.

"The thing is…" Another breath. Another hesitation. "I haven’t been feeling okay. And it’s not just because of Harry, or Frankie, or any of that. It’s… more than that. It’s been going on for a long time. Years, even. It’s about me. It’s about the way I am, the way I live my life. Or, maybe, the way I don’t. I feel like I’m afraid all the time. And that fear—it limits me. It always has. You know that. You’ve seen it. Remember when we were kids, and you and Dad would invite me camping? And I’d always make up some excuse because the idea of sleeping in the middle of nowhere freaked me out? Or that weekend you wanted me to go rock climbing with you?"

He nodded, his expression unreadable now.

"And I hate that about myself," you admitted, voice quieter now. "Because fear holds me back. It keeps me from doing things that—who knows?—maybe I’d like. But how am I supposed to know that if I never try?"

Santi opened his mouth, but you didn’t give him the chance.

"No," you said, holding up a finger. "No opinions yet. Remember?"

He lifted his hands in surrender, pressing his lips together like he was physically stopping himself from speaking.

You exhaled, pressing your palms against your thighs. “Well, that’s just it. That’s the thing that’s been bothering me for a long time. Longer than I want to admit. And it—it doesn’t feel good. I don’t feel good about it.” You paused, fingers twitching like they wanted to pick at something, to fidget with the hem of your shirt, the couch cushion, anything. “And then there’s Harry.” You let out a small laugh, barely more than an exhale. “I really thought I was over him, or at least I told myself I was. But I don’t think I am. And I don’t even think it’s about him, exactly.”

Santi tilted his head slightly, watching you closely. You waved a hand, dismissing whatever concern you saw creeping into his face.

“It’s not really about him,” you clarified. “It’s about what he did. How easy it was for him to let me go. How easy it was for me to let myself fall into something I knew wasn’t going to end well. I wasn’t stupid—I knew he didn’t want anything serious. He told me that. But I still didn’t leave when I started to feel more than I should have. And I guess—” you swallowed, your throat suddenly tight, “I guess some part of me really thought that if I just waited long enough, he’d start feeling the same way.”

You shook your head, eyes flicking back to the TV screen. The cartoon characters moved in exaggerated motions, their voices playing somewhere in the background of your thoughts. You weren’t really hearing them.

“But he didn’t,” you added, quieter now. “If anything, he did the opposite.”

Santi didn’t say anything, and you appreciated that. He just sat there, listening, waiting.

You rubbed your hand over the couch cushion beside you, letting the soft fabric ground you before you spoke again.

“And then, when we saw him that day,” you continued, “Francisco basically laughed in my face when I told him I was going to the wedding. He thought it was pathetic. Told me I was a masochist. And I got pissed off, obviously. But the thing is, I hadn’t actually thought about it that much before then. I mean, yeah, I knew Harry was oblivious, that he probably hadn’t even considered how it might feel for me to be there. But I hadn’t really let myself think about how ridiculous it was that I said yes in the first place.”

You swallowed, tracing the seam of the couch absentmindedly.

“Francisco, though—he was vocal about it from the start. He never held back. He called Harry an idiot, told me it was obvious he knew how I felt and just pretended he didn’t. And that night at your place—” you hesitated, glancing at Santi, “I’d had a bad day. Like, a really bad day. I was already in my own head, already torturing myself by checking Harry’s social media, going down the usual spiral. And Francisco, of course, noticed. And he asked me about it on the way home.”

You sighed, rubbing your temple. “But it was the way he did it. He was relentless. He just kept pushing and pushing, like he was trying to get a reaction out of me, and I—I just felt awful. Like he was doing it on purpose. Like he wanted me to crack. Because…” You trailed off, staring blankly at the screen again. “I don’t know. It’s like he knows exactly which buttons to press to tear me apart. He always has. He finds my weak spots and then just—shoves them in my face.”

Your voice wavered slightly, but you didn’t look at Santi until you were finished speaking. When you did, your eyes felt heavy, glazed over with something you didn’t want to name.

Santi’s expression was unreadable. His voice, careful. “What did he say to you?”

You felt your heartbeat pick up, steady but noticeable, like a pulse pressing against your ribs.

"That I needed to get over it." Your voice came out unsteady, something raw beneath the words. "That I had to stop making Harry into this tragic hero who unknowingly destroyed me." You swallowed hard, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeve. "But he wasn’t gentle about it. He wasn’t even neutral. He was the opposite. And I—" You hesitated, feeling the weight of it settle in your chest. "I know he’s probably right. I do. But that didn’t make it feel any less awful. It didn’t make me feel any less—"

You stopped. Your throat burned. Your vision blurred at the edges, a tear threatening to spill over. You blinked hard, forcing it back.

"He made me feel stupid," you admitted finally. "Like I was ridiculous for feeling this way in the first place. And that’s what really gets me—because I know he doesn’t actually care. It’s not like this was some act of concern, like he wanted to help me move on. He did it just to dig at me. To get a reaction. To remind me that I’m weak in ways he isn’t." Your breath came out unsteady. "What the fuck does he know about how I feel?"

Santi exhaled your name softly, the way he always did when you were teetering on the edge of something painful. Then, without a word, he wrapped his arm around you and pulled you in.

The warmth of it—his steady heartbeat, the way his chin rested lightly on the top of your head—worked like a balm. It didn’t erase the feeling completely, but it dulled it, took the sharpest edges away. You closed your eyes for a second, just breathing.

"I know your relationship with him is complicated," Santi murmured, "but, really… Frankie’s not that kind of person."

You pulled back, looking up at him in disbelief.

"He’s different with you," you said, shaking your head. "With me, it’s—something else."

"No, no, I get it," Santi said, his voice careful. "I’ve watched you two argue for years. But what I mean is… he wouldn’t ask you those kinds of questions just to be cruel. He wouldn’t push you about something painful just to see you suffer."

You scoffed, looking away. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because I know him." Santi’s tone was even, patient. "Better than anyone. I know he can be unbearable and insufferable, and I know he gets under your skin. But he doesn’t have an ounce of real cruelty in him. Whatever his reasons were, they weren’t to hurt you."

You let out a short, humorless laugh. "Doesn’t seem like it." You ran a hand through your hair, shaking your head. "Why would he care so much, then? Why does it even matter to him? He doesn’t know anything about what it’s like to regret something this much."

Santi didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, something unreadable in his expression. Like he was deciding what to say, or maybe whether to say anything at all.

Then he sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw, his eyes flickering to the coffee table before landing back on you.

"What has he told you about Rachel?" he asked finally.

You blinked.

"Not much," you admitted. "That she dumped him. Maia didn’t like her. Helena mentioned something, but she never gave me details."

"Yeah," Santi nodded, exhaling through his nose. "Well, Frankie and Rachel were together for almost two years. Longer, if you count the months they spent circling each other before making it official. It wasn’t perfect—none of them are—but this was… different. He loved her. I mean, really loved her. The kind of love that makes you a little unrecognizable, you know? I’d never seen him like that before. But it wasn’t good for him."

He looked at you then, more serious now, like he was weighing his words before saying them out loud.

"I don’t know if it’s my place to tell you this," he said, "but you’re my sister, and I trust you."

You didn’t say anything, just kept your eyes on him, still reeling from everything you already knew—and everything you didn’t.

"A few years ago, Frankie left the CAG after one of his closest friends died in the middle of a mission." Santi paused, his jaw tightening for a brief second. "It hit him hard. Too hard. Took him a long time to find his footing again. He came back to Austin, took a year off before he even thought about working again. And, you know, he got better. Kind of. But never fully."

You blinked at him, stunned. You had no idea.

All those years ago, when Santi had mentioned a friend who had returned to Austin, a friend who needed help—you’d never really thought about it. He’d never given you details. He’d talked about Will and Benny often enough, but Frankie had been a more distant presence, like an acquaintance who existed on the fringes of your brother’s life. Someone he never really brought up.

"And then, a few years later, he met Rachel," Santi went on. "And at first, we thought—okay, maybe this is good. Maybe this will be good for him." He shook his head. "But it wasn’t. She was… possessive. Controlling. Not good to him at all. But Frankie was in love, and what were we supposed to do? He was happy—at least in the moments where she let him be—so we let it go, even though we didn’t approve."

You could hear the resentment in his voice. The hindsight.

"But he was still up and down. And then, his dad died."

Santi rubbed a hand over his face, and when he looked back at you, there was something deeply weary in his expression.

"He spiraled," he said. "It wrecked him, just like you’d expect it to. And then—two months later, Rachel left him."

You felt the words hit you square in the chest.

Santi exhaled sharply, shaking his head again, looking indignant in a way you rarely saw.

"She told him he wasn’t what she wanted anymore. That he wasn’t enough. That he wasn’t acting like the man she needed. That he spent too much time holed up, too much time in bed." Santi’s voice turned hard. "Frankie was fucking depressed, and she had the audacity to tell him he was being selfish. That he wasn’t stepping up."

Your breath caught in your throat.

"Jesus," you whispered, closing your eyes. You could feel the sharp sting of tears, the words you had thrown at Frankie earlier coming back in painful flashes.

Santi let the silence settle for a second before continuing.

"Anyway," he said, his voice lower now, "she left. And two weeks later, Benny saw her at the mall, kissing another guy. He told us, asked if we should say something. If it was even worth it. And at first, we thought maybe we shouldn’t. But Frankie… he thought he could still win her back. He was talking about changing for her, about fighting for her. And I swear—" Santi let out a breath that sounded close to a laugh, but there was nothing amused about it. "I’ve never been so angry at someone in my life. And the worst part?" He glanced at you. "She had been seeing that guy for months."

You felt something tighten in your throat.

"You told him?"

"Yeah," Santi said. "We had to. Even though we knew it would wreck him."

"And what did he say?"

Santi’s expression turned unreadable for a moment. Then he furrowed his brows, shaking his head.

"Nothing," he said. "He just nodded, got up, and walked away."

You didn’t say anything. A moment passed, stretched and heavy, and you felt Santi tense beside you. Like he was bracing himself.

You turned to look at him, already knowing he wasn’t finished.

"Less than a month later," he said, his voice quieter now, like the words had to be handled with care. "Helena called me. Said Frankie was in the hospital. He’d taken something—pills, a lot of pills. And he’d been drinking."

Your stomach twisted, a deep, sinking feeling settling in your chest.

"What do you mean?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. "Are you saying he tried to—"

"I don’t know." Santi shook his head, rubbing a hand over his face. "I never asked. And none of us did. He didn't wanted us to, he was clear about it. And I think we were afraid to." He hesitated, like he was weighing his words again. "And to ask him now, after all this time… I don’t know, it feels... it feels out of place. Because I really think he's in a better place now, so."

You just stared at him, eyes wide, unmoving. Something inside you cracked, like a hairline fracture deep enough to make the whole structure feel unsteady.

Santi exhaled and looked down at his hands.

"What I’m trying to say," he went on, his voice softer now, "is that if anyone understands what it feels like to be abandoned, to feel like you’re not enough—it’s Frankie. That’s why I don’t think he was trying to hurt you. I think he was just… misguided. Trying to help in the only way he knows how."

Your lips trembled, the weight of everything pressing down on you, thick and unbearable. A sharp breath caught in your throat, half a gasp, half a sob. You turned to Santi, searching his face for something—understanding, reassurance, maybe a way out of the feeling that had settled, heavy, inside your ribs.

He furrowed his brows, watching you carefully, a crease of worry between his eyes.

“I…” You barely got the word out before tears blurred your vision. A thick, aching regret filled your chest. “I said horrible things to him.”

Santi didn’t hesitate. He pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly, one hand resting against the back of your head.

You let yourself sink into the hug, but it didn’t make the feeling go away. If anything, it made it worse—because you couldn’t undo it. Because knowing the truth now didn’t erase the things you’d said, the sharp edges of your words still lodged somewhere deep in your memory, in Frankie’s memory.

And yes, he had been cruel to you for years. Yes, you had convinced yourself that whatever existed between you was just mutual disdain, nothing more, nothing less. But now, everything felt different. Everything had shifted, changed color. And you hated the way it looked now.

You weren’t this person. The kind who threw words like weapons, who dug into wounds just to make them deeper. You knew too well what it was like to feel that kind of hurt.

“What did you tell him?” Santi asked, his voice gentle, careful.

You swallowed hard, keeping your face pressed against his shirt, as if not looking at him would make it easier to admit.

“That he must have a lot of experience feeling like shit. That he was nothing but a failure, a loser. That he was drowning in his own misery.”

Santi let out a quiet curse under his breath, his fingers moving absently over your hair.

“I was awful, Santi,” you said, your voice breaking slightly. “I just wanted him to leave me alone.”

Santi exhaled. “I’m sure he knows you were angry—”

“Why?” You pulled away, looking up at him, your face tight with frustration. “Why would he believe that? We’ve never been kind to each other. Not once. Why would he think this time was any different?”

“Because you’re not cruel,” Santi said simply.

You shook your head. “I wanted to hurt him.”

“That doesn’t make you a bad person.” He studied you, his gaze steady. ���I think… Unfortunately, I think you’re both a little messed up in the same ways, and that’s exactly why he recognizes it in you so easily. But that doesn’t make you a bad person. And it doesn’t make him one either.”

Silence settled between you. You lowered your gaze, your fingers twisting the hem of your sleeve.

“Do you think I’m fucked up?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

Santi snorted, shaking his head. A small, tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Not really. Not really, really fucked up. Just a little. Fixable.”

Despite yourself, you let out a weak, uneven breath—something that wasn’t quite a laugh, but close enough. You glanced up at him, the smallest trace of humor flickering in your eyes.

“What am I supposed to do, Santi?”

Your voice was so soft, so uncertain, that he visibly winced. He didn’t like hearing you like this. Santi sighed, his own exhaustion catching up with him, but there was something warm in his expression, something steady.

“Right now? You go to bed and get some sleep,” he said, nudging your arm. “Later? Maybe we figure out how to fix this. Talking to Frankie would probably be a good start, don’t you think?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll get back to you on that in the morning.”

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Taglis: @paleidiot @gothcsz @everyth1ngfan @katw474 @mellymbee @pedritosgirl2000 @tsunamistorm123 @jokesonthem @sunnytuliptime @greenwitchfromthewoods @ashleyfilm @darkheartgatita @joelmillerisapunk @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti @daybleedsintonightfa11 @mys2425 @pigeonmama @speaktothehandpeasants @pez3639 @stylesispunk @imaginecrushes @isla-finke-blog @smiithys @jokesonthem @brittmb115 @sukivenue @awkwardmebaby @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @suzysface @picketniffler

[emacrow]

When danny beat pariah king and Dan, he didn't expect the damn crown and ring to follow him.

He tried everything so far to asking clockwork for help only to be told some cryptic bullshit.

The fucking crown and ring followed him everywhere even in the shower that one time scared the shit outta of him for ancient sake. It seem scolding them like a dog(thanks to tucker advise) actually work for a few days..

It was weird as fuck to see a crown and ring of rage actually look depressed as shit in the corner with a droopy blue coloring in the corner of his room under his dirt clothes a Camouflage.

It was like some self sentient object gone wrong.

Those two were diabolical, almost nearly tricking him into wearing them that one time during the school play, fortunately his ghost sense went off the moment he was about to put on the ring part.

That lead to another scolding that lasted a couple days of peace.

Until the day, he got caught by the GIW while distracted with skulker and techno again...

Being trapped to a table, mouth gagged and limbs binded like a insect held by needles pins with stolen fenton locks for dissection had him full blown out panic as the doctors left to get their new equipments after the scapel broke during the mid cutting.

Only for the crown and ring to appear like a shadow in above him. Danny was mentally arguing with himself about whether to accept his fate or get dissected and organs harvasted before he huffed through his nose and slightly nod as best as he could with the strapped helding his head to the table could do.

The crown floating toward his head, placing itself on his white hair while the ring slipped into his middle finger, before a blinding light nearly engulped the room.

The black crown covered in blue flames changed ad morphs into a aurora lights shaped crown designed in frozen ice as the ring changed from a skull to tiny galaxy like marble..

Danny could feel a surge of power nearly engulp his very core as voices whispers him, stars, galaxies, universe, the four dimension, multiple of parallel worlds and all secrets of the entire universe crammed into his brain nearly torn at his human mind before a portal below him opened sucked him in.

By the time the doctor came back, the subject on the table had escaped.

....

....

....

Danny only woke, laying on some type of ground, before he noticed that he was a bit different, enhanced like claws with sharp black nails..

As he noticed the ground was red with drips of glowing green ectoplasm blood before looking up to the sky..

To see stars above, and earth very far off on the right..

Darkness started to swirl a bit as his mind subconscious realize he might not be on earth and he might be on Mars.... first human on mars... before his body exhausted collapse back into the red dirt of mars.

Unawared of the forseen event as the astronaut crew on mars find a alien kid during exploration..

Fic inspired by this link here

[opencommunion]

one reason (white) queer people misuse the term homonationalism is that they see queerness (or whatever you want to call it) as naturally disaffiliated with the US empire. so they understand homonationalism as a divergence from a natural mutual antagonism between queerness and empire. they talk about homonationalism as if it's an exclusively "normie gay" project, and as if it's a divergence from, rather than a consequence of, the overall trajectory of western lgbtqia+ politics. ironically it’s that self-exceptionalization by the queer, on the basis of their queerness, that imbricates them in homonationalism. they produce themselves as a homonationalist subject, and reproduce homonationalism, every time they articulate their queerness as individualized freedom. and Puar actually anticipates all of this in her original theorization of homonationalism in Terrorist Assemblages, and that's why it really helps to go to the text instead of osmosing queer theory solely through tumblr posts (esp when tumblr is so white and the queer theorists are not): "Some may strenuously object to the suggestion that queer identities, like their 'less radical' counterparts, homosexual, gay, and lesbian identities, are also implicated in ascendant white American nationalist formations, preferring to see queerness as singularly transgressive of identity norms. This focus on transgression, however, is precisely the term by which queerness narrates its own sexual exceptionalism.

While we can point to the obvious problems with the emancipatory, missionary pulses of certain (U.S., western) feminisms and of gay and lesbian liberation, queerness has its own exceptionalist desires: exceptionalism is a founding impulse, indeed the very core of a queerness that claims itself as an anti-, trans-, or unidentity. The paradigm of gay liberation and emancipation has produced all sorts of troubling narratives: about the greater homophobia of immigrant communities and communities of color, about the stricter family values and mores in these communities, about a certain prerequisite migration from home, about coming-out teleologies. We have less understanding of queerness as a biopolitical project, one that both parallels and intersects with that of multiculturalism, the ascendancy of whiteness, and may collude with or collapse into liberationist paradigms. While liberal underpinnings serve to constantly recenter the normative gay or lesbian subject as exclusively liberatory, these same tendencies labor to insistently recenter the normative queer subject as an exclusively transgressive one. Queerness here is the modality through which 'freedom from norms' becomes a regulatory queer ideal that demarcates the ideal queer. ... I am thinking of queerness as exceptional in a way that is wedded to individualism and the rational, liberal humanist subject, what [Sara] Ahmed denotes as 'attachments' and what I would qualify as deep psychic registers of investment that we often cannot account for and are sometimes best seen by others rather than ourselves. 'Freedom from norms' resonates with liberal humanism’s authorization of the fully self-possessed speaking subject, untethered by hegemony or false consciousness, enabled by the life/stylization offerings of capitalism, rationally choosing modern individualism over the ensnaring bonds of family. In this problematic definition of queerness, individual agency is legible only as resistance to norms rather than complicity with them, thus equating resistance and agency.

... Queerness as automatically and inherently transgressive enacts specific forms of disciplining and control, erecting celebratory queer liberal subjects folded into life (queerness as subject) against the sexually pathological and deviant populations targeted for death (queerness as population). Within that orientation of regulatory transgression, queer operates as an alibi for complicity with all sorts of other identity norms, such as nation, race, class, and gender, unwittingly lured onto the ascent toward whiteness. ... To be excused from a critique of one’s own power manipulations is the appeal of white liberalism, the underpinnings of the ascendancy of whiteness, which is not a conservative, racist formation bent on extermination, but rather an insidious liberal one proffering an innocuous inclusion into life."

Jasbir K. Puar, Terrorist Assemblages: Homonationalism in Queer Times (2007)

[valeisaslut]

Undercover desire Pt.2 - mdni (+18)

clic to read pt.1!

⚢ pairing: Secret agent!Ellie Williams x Secret agent!Reader 𖥔 ݁ ˖

ෆ synopsis: You and Ellie were here to complete the job—not to get tangled up in each other. But after barely managing to escape, the tension ignites into something far more dangerous. The real threat isn’t the mission anymore… it’s what happens if you give in. Either way, it’s going to explode. 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭑ word count: 5.7k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

♱ content: enemies tu lovers, smut!!, dom!Ellie, sub/switch!reader, scissoring, fingering (r! receiving), oral sex (r! receiving), cum eating, hair pulling, pet names, VERY UNREALISTIC PLOT LMAO, lots of cursing, blood, bombs, use of firearms, violence, helicopter?? . MINORS AND MEN DNI!!! 𖥔 ݁ ˖

࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ Heyyyy! Sorry to keep ya'll waiting but pt.2 is here and is here for GOOD, i got a little excited with the plot and felt i was in a movie, so sorry if it a little very unrealistic. English isn't my first language, so if there's some misspelling or writing mistakes I will be happy to receive constructive criticism <3 𖥔 ݁ ˖

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The narrow hallway led to a larger room, dimly lit by a soft emergency light. The walls were lined with metal panels, covered in pinned-up documents, while monitors flickered with data in Russian. In the center, a table overflowed with files.

Your heart pounded.

This is it.

This was the information you had been chasing. The secret experiment that justified every bullet dodged, every high-speed chase, and every dangerously close call with Ellie. This was the mission’s objective.

You rushed forward, grabbing one of the files just as she did the same on the other side of the table. The words Проект кордицепс (Project Cordyceps) were printed on the first page.

"This is even bigger than we thought" you murmured, flipping through the documents.

“Since when do you speak Russian?” Ellie asked, watching you read through the files with ease.

“Looks like someone didn't finish reading my file and skipped the mandatory Russian course.”

“Sorry, know-it-all. I just kept reading until the part where it said your specialty was firearms.” She said, but now looking up at you with a serious expression. “...So, what is it about?”

“Bioweapon experiments with something called Cordyceps. Looks like they’re testing this kind of fungus on human subjects, and it causes them brain infection." you said grimly. "This isn’t just research… it’s fucking extermination."

A noise in the hallway made you freeze. They were footsteps, and they were coming towards you quickly. You locked eyes with Ellie, and just as you turned to the exit, the door bursted open. In seconds, she grabbed the documents and stuffed them inside her jacket.

Before you could react, a guard stormed in, gun raised. A shot rang out.

But it wasn’t aimed at either of you.

The bullet struck a security pipe above your heads, releasing an unknown gas into the room.

Your lungs burned instantly. With blurry, stinging eyes, you barely managed to see that the only exit was blocked. No time. No options. The gas overwhelmed you in seconds, dragging you under. The last thing you heard was the dull thud of your own body collapsing on the floor.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Your consciousness returned in waves, like a distant echo filtering through the pain and confusion. Your head throbbed with a dull, pounding buzz, and when you tried to move, a harsh tug at your wrists made you groan. Tied.

The material was thick, rough against your skin. Rope or some kind of industrial binding—tight enough to cut off your circulation if you struggled too hard. Your wrists were secured firmly to a pipe along the wall.

You opened your eyes, quickly scanning the room. A single flickering light in the corner barely illuminated the space. The concrete walls were bare except for a single metal door. No furniture, no windows, nothing that hinted an easy escape.

Great. You ended up in a damn makeshift cell.

The cold from the floor seeped through your clothes, but then you noticed a warm pressure against your back. A musky forest-like scent seeped into your nose, surrounding you.

Ellie.

As if this couldn’t get any worse.

Your breathing was shallow as you tried to ignore the way your legs were tangled with hers, the way your heartbeat—fast, intense—drummed against your chest.

"Look who finally decided to wake up." Ellie's voice was a rough whisper, hoarse from dryness.

Even tied up in a cell, with her wrists bound, she still manages to sound smug.

You clicked your tongue, the metallic taste of blood lingering on your lips.

"You’ve got to be fucking kidding me." you muttered.

You tried moving your arms, but the rope only tightened against your skin. Worse, it pulled you even closer to Ellie.

"Stop moving." she grumbled, barely hiding her exasperation.

"Stop breathing in my ear" you shot back, feeling heat creeping up your neck.

"Kinda hard when you’re practically on top of me." There was an unmistakable hint of amusement in her voice, which only made your irritation spike.

"This is so stupid." you sighed.

After a few minutes of silence in which you continued trying to think of every single way to escape, you heard her teasing voice again.

"You know," Ellie mused, her soft laugh vibrating against your chest. "When I imagined you being tied up with me, I didn't exactly imagine it like this."

A smirk curled on her lips. "But hey, I’ll take what I can get."

"Can you stop being annoying for just one damn second?" you hissed in a low, threatening whisper, tugging hard against the rope.

Yours and Ellie's wrists were bound separately, and that didn’t make things any easier. You tried pulling once again, but all it did was tangle your legs with hers even more.

"Yep, that’s not getting you anywhere." she said, obvious amusement in her tone.

You shot her a glare.

"Got any better ideas, genius?"

She leaned in just enough for her lips to graze the edge of your jaw. A shiver ran down your spine.

"You sure you wanna hear 'em?" she murmured, her warm breath ghosting over your skin.

You clenched your jaw, ignoring the way your pulse betrayed you, racing under her touch. You knew exactly what she was doing—getting a kick out of watching you lose control. Like always.

The door creaked open, halting whatever the hell was going on between you two. Heavy boots echoed against the concrete, followed by a second pair—lighter, but just as menacing.

The first man to step inside was tall, dressed in a black jacket buttoned up to his neck, a thin scar cutting across his left cheek. His sharp, dark eyes swept over you both with the cold precision of a predator sizing up its prey.

The other man, shorter but with the rigid stance of a trained soldier, lingered near the door, a gun resting against his thigh.

The taller stopped barely a foot away, his presence dominating the room with an eerie kind of calm—more unsettling than any threat or outburst could ever be.

"Two foreign spies in my base? Now that’s unexpected." he muttered, his deep voice laced with sarcasm and a thick Russian accent.

Your jaw tightened. You tried shifting forward, but the rope bit into your wrists.

"I have no idea what you’re talking about."

The man let out a dry, humorless chuckle, like he’d just heard the worst joke of his life.

"I'm curious..." he said, crouching slightly and resting his hands on his knees as he studied you both with the slow amusement of someone who enjoyed crushing things under his boot.

"What is so interesting about our project that you both walked straight into your own deaths?"

Your mind raced, searching for an escape, a distraction—anything that could give you an advantage. Before you could come up with a response, Ellie spoke in that deadly, indifferent tone of hers.

"If we told you, you’d have to kill us."

The leader’s dark eyes settled on Ellie, a slow, twisted smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Ah… such a mouthy little bitch. Don’t get your hopes up—I’m going to kill you both anyway."

The air in the cell grew even heavier, thick with the weight of his threat. The flickering light above casted long, trembling shadows on the concrete walls, twisting his silhouette into something monstrous-like.

Ellie sighed, tilting her head like she was about to yawn.

"What a pity. I was hoping you’d at least offer us something more interesting."

"There is no deal. You rats stepped into the wrong place. And now, you pay the price." His voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "Tell me—who sent you? Who else knows you're here?"

You rolled your eyes.

"You really think we’re gonna tell you?"

The man sighed, straightening up as he gave a small nod to one of the guards. The soldier obeyed, pulling a knife from his belt and stepping forward.

"I wanted to do this the easy way... but you didn't give me much of a choice."

Ellie glanced at you from the corner of her eye, something dangerous sparking behind her gaze. Then, she smirked. A small, deliberate gesture. She gave you a subtle nod, waiting for your signal.

Without hesitation, you nodded back.

Screw the "trust no one" rule.

In a blur, Ellie lurched forward. The movement almost looked choreographed—she caught the knife between her boots before the guard even had a chance to react, locking the blade between her feet with lethal precision.

"What the—?!"

The scream barely left his lips before Ellie twisted sharply, driving the knife deep into the man's flesh. A howl of pain filled the cell as he stumbled back, clutching his wounded leg, blood spilling onto the concrete.

She used the chaos to her advantage, yanking the rope she was tied up with brutal force. It snapped, finally freeing her. With animal precision, she slammed her forehead against the leader’s face in a vicious headbutt. A sickening crack echoed through the room, followed by a muffled grunt.

In less than two minutes, she had taken them both down.

And you thought she couldn't get more attractive.

"You still got the files?" you panted. There was no way you were leaving empty-handed.

Ellie sliced the last of the rope on her wrists, then slipped a hand into the inner pocket of her jacket with infuriating calm. She pulled out just the corner of the gray file, smirking at your expression.

"Those idiots were dumb enough not to check me properly." Her voice was mocking, but her eyes gleamed with sharp satisfaction.

After a few seconds under her piercing gaze, your expression shifted to a clear Well? What are you waiting for?. It was obvious—you expected her next move to be untying you.

"You know…" she murmured suddenly, mischief curling at the edge of her lips, "You look pretty good all tied up. Maybe I should just leave you like this."

You rolled your eyes.

"No time for jokes, Williams. Cut them. Now."

Ellie tilted her head slightly, lips curving into a half-smile.

"I love it when you get all bossy."

With a quick flick of the knife, she sliced through the ropes in one smooth motion and helped you get back to your feet.

The wounded guard had just enough strength left to throw a clumsy punch in your direction, but you were already waiting for it. You dodged easily, shifting to the side before driving your elbow straight into his jaw. Out cold in one strike. Without hesitation, you grabbed the gun from his belt and leveled it at him.

"Damn, princess." Ellie muttered, genuinely impressed.

The wounded leader managed to get back to his feet, blood dripping from his nose, but his expression remained eerily composed. Then, without a word, he reached out and slammed his palm against a button on the wall before you could stop him.

The deafening blare of an alarm tore through the air like a blade. In the distance, the echo of hurried footsteps pounded through the hallways.

Reinforcements. You cursed under your breath.

“Fuck! we need to get out of here!”

“Yeah, and fast.” Ellie replied, starting to run with you.

The lights flickered violently, casting erratic flashes against the concrete walls as you sprinted at full speed. Behind you, the shouts of injured guards mixed with the thunder of boots closing in. The blaring alarms drowned out everything else, turning your escape into an unbearable countdown.

“Ellie, the door!” you shouted, pointing at the hatch at the end of the hallway.

She didn’t hesitate, bolting towards the exit. You pushed yourself to follow, but not before raising the gun and firing straight at the control panel on the wall. Sparks erupted in a bright burst before everything plunged into complete obscurity.

The darkness was your salvation.

Chaos turned into confusion. Amidst the yelling and stomping of boots, you both ran blindly, guided only by instinct. The emergency doors bursted open with a loud clang, and a rush of freezing air slammed against your faces.

And then, you saw it. The heliport, glowing under the blinking tower lights. And more soldiers waiting for you.

Ellie skidded to a stop, panting.

“Tell me you’ve got a plan.”

You grinned.

“It really shows you didn’t finish reading my file.”

Reaching into your jacket, you pulled out a small metal cylinder. One last explosive. Without a second thought, you hurled it straight at a fuel tank.

A sharp whistle. A flicker of fire.

And then—the explosion.

Flames roared in a blinding flash, consuming the platform in a wild dance of destruction. The shockwave rocked the ground beneath you, and the screams of soldiers were drowned out by the deafening blast.

But there was no time to worry about the damage. You grabbed Ellie by the wrist and shoved her towards the helicopter waiting at the edge, it's engine roaring defiantly against the chaos.

“Get in!”

Ellie moved quickly to the control panel, starting to pilot with remarkable expertise. The helicopter lurched into the air, wobbling like a wounded animal before steadying. Below, the enemy base shrank into a mess of lights and tiny silhouettes, their shouts drowned out by the deafening whirl of the rotors.

The helicopter managed to elevate high enough to start the getaway, speeding as fast as posible away from the base. Taking a deep breath, you slumped back against the seat, your heartbeat hammering in your ears.

But the victory only lasted a few minutes.

A gunshot slammed into the side of the chopper, metal groaning under the impact. The entire structure shuddered violently.

“Shit!” Ellie cursed, gripping the controls as the helicopter rocked dangerously. "They hit us!"

Another shot. A deafening bang.

An after that, the sickening feeling of freefall.

The alarms shrieked in a piercing wail as the tail rotor burst into a storm of sparks and fire. The horizon tilted, the world spinning into a blur of flashing lights and black smoke. The helicopter spiraled out of control, a flaming projectile plummeting toward nothingness.

Gravity yanked at you both like an impatient executioner.

Ellie snapped her head towards you, her mind quickly flashing the only possible way of surviving.

“There's parachutes!” she barked, yanking hers from under the seat and tossing you another one without hesitation.

Flames clawed through the cabin, devouring every last breath of oxygen.

“Move!” you growled, fighting against the wind as you made you way to the open door.

With trembling hands, you strapped on the parachute, the searing heat creeping up your back. Ellie was already at the edge, short hair whipping wildly, her lips curling into that adrenaline-fueled smirk as she briefly winked at you.

“See you down there.”

And she jumped.

There was no more time to think.

You sucked in a breath and jumped after her, just as the helicopter erupted into an inferno of fire and twisted metal.

The shockwave hit you like a punch, sending you spinning wildly through the void. The roar of the explosion faded behind you, replaced by the deafening buzzing of the wind tearing your ears. The night stretched below—an endless, dark smear of unknown terrain.

A few hundred meters from the ground, you yanked the parachute cord. A violent jolt ripping through your body as the canopy snapped open, slowing your descent in an abrupt, stomach-turning tug. The air rushed past you, the world tilting as you spiraled downward.

Somewhere in the shadows under you, Ellie was falling too.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You hit the snow with a heavy thud, the impact rattling through your entire body. A shiver ran down your spine as the freezing air bit through your soaked clothes. You sucked in a sharp breath, trying to calm the adrenaline still surging through your veins.

You were alive.

A few meters away, you saw Ellie under the faint glow of the moon. She unfastened her parachute with precise movements, her boots sinking into the snow as she pushed herself up. With an annoyed grunt, she brushed the snow off her pants.

"I’m never getting in a chopper with you again." she muttered, not even bothering to look at you.

"Oh thank you, I’m glad you’re alive too." You rolled your eyes, fingers numb as you struggled with your harness. "Where the hell are we?"

Ellie glanced up, scanning the landscape with a serious expression. Despite the darkness, the silhouette of distant mountains loomed against the cloudy sky, surrounded by an endless stretch of snow covered pines. No signs of civilization. No lights. No roads.

"Screwed." she declared, hands shoved into her pockets like she had seen worse.

You sighed, rubbing your arms in a useless attempt to warm up.

"We have to find shelter before we freeze out here."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

After what felt like hours trudging through the snow, you both stumbled upon an abandoned cabin on the edge of the forest. The place was barely standing—shattered windows, a sagging roof—but the walls were intact, and there was enough scattered wood inside to build a decent fire.

The flames casted a flickering orange glow, sending shadows dancing across the worn out wooden walls. As the fire grew, the warmth slowly eased the tension in your muscles.

"We don’t have enough supplies, but we should stay here for the night." Ellie murmured, her voice low beneath the crackling fire. "In the morning, we’ll look for signal and call the agency for rescue."

"Sounds like a plan." you said, letting silence settle between you.

Then, her voice cut through it.

"C'mere."

You eyed her warily.

"Why?"

"You're freezing." She shrugged, her expression unreadable, patting the floor beside her like she didn’t care whether you accepted or not.

You hesitated. But in the end, you moved closer.

The heat of her body was immediate, wrapping around you. As soon as you sat beside her, Ellie draped an arm over your shoulders, pulling you in until there was barely any space left between you.

"Don’t get any ideas" you muttered, but the frantic beat of your heart betrayed you.

Ellie let out a low, lazy chuckle.

"Too late"

The air between you shifted. It wasn’t just the cold, or the exhaustion, or the comforting warmth of the fire. It was something else. Something dense, something dangerous.

Ellie turned her head just slightly, close enough to study you up close, her green eyes tracing your features in silence. When her gaze lingered on your lips, the air suddenly felt heavier.

Your breaths mingled in the sliver of space between you. The fire crackled, casting golden light across her freckled skin.

How can someone look this damn good after nearly dying fifty times?

"You're still shaking."

Ellie’s voice was a low whisper, rough around the edges, laced with something that felt like a challenge.

"It’s the cold."

Not even you believed that.

She smirked, that infuriating curve of her lips that somehow made you want to strangle her and kiss her at the same time.

"Liar." she murmured, her gaze not wavering in the slightest.

Then, without warning, her fingers brushed against your cheek, agonizingly slow. At first, her touch was cold, but as her fingertips traced the line of your jaw, her skin grew warm against yours. Every movement was deliberate, as if she was committing every inch of your face to memory.

"I can think 'bout other ways to warm me up tho." you murmured, voice laced with defiance.

Ellie’s eyes darkened, her brow lifting ever so slightly before she moved.

"Oh yeah?" her low voice vibrated against your skin.

Before you could react, she had you pinned against the wooden floor, effortlessly trapping you beneath her. Her fingers ghosted over the fabric of your shirt, tracing a slow, deliberate path to your waist.

Your fingers instinctively gripped the fabric of her jacket, trailing along her back. Without realizing it, you’d drawn her even closer. Too close.

Your internal thoughts started shouting you to stop this. That it was highly prohibited.

You are an agent. She's an agent. You are obliged to be strictly coworkers through the entire mission. Nothing more.

"This is against the rules, Ellie..." you whispered against her lips, feeling the warmth of her breath mix with yours. "The agency doesn’t allow—"

"Fuck the agency."

Not even a second after saying that, she closed the mere inches of distance between you.

The world shrank to the feeling of her mouth on yours. There was no rush in her kiss—just a slow-burning intensity, a calculated game where every movement seemed to study you, test you. A declaration of war and surrender all at once.

You stopped caring at all. The inner thoughts suddenly ceased and faded away like they never existed.

Your hands slid down her back as you melted into the kiss, feeling her tense muscles beneath the fabric of her clothes. You sighed into her mouth, fingers gripping her jacket and taking it off without hesitation, pulling her down until she got fully on top of you.

Tilting your head slightly, you caught her lower lip between your teeth, biting down with teasing softness.

Ellie let out a low, dark laugh—almost predatory.

"You’re a damn problem, you know that?" she murmured against your neck, her voice deeper than usual, laced with that mix of amusement and danger that drove you insane.

"And you're an even bigger one." you shot back, a smirk tugging at your lips before kissing her again. You both knew you were crossing a line that had been threatening to break for far too long.

It had already been broken.

Now, all that was left was to enjoy it for as long as you could.

Her lips left yours only to travel along your jaw, trailing downwards with a softness that made you hold your breath—like she was claiming every inch of you without even taking your clothes off.

Your hands moved desperately along her back, taking off her shirt until it hit the floor with a dull thud. You couldn't help the soft gasp that left your lips when you saw her naked chest– freckled, pale, and absolutely breathtaking.

Ellie’s hand shamelessly slipped under your shirt, her cold fingertips tracing the curve of your spine, moving agonizingly slow before gripping your waist with enough force to make you arch into her. Her other hand found your thigh, gripping it firmly as she shifted to wrap your legs around her hips.

"You’re way more fun when you’re not fighting back." She muttered against your skin.

"Shut up."

"Make me." she challenged with a fiery look before biting down and sucking the curve of your neck.

Before you could respond, she lifted your shirt over your head and tossed it aside. You couldn’t have cared less where it landed. A slow, deep sigh escaped her lips as her gaze roamed over your bare torso, lingering on the thin barrier of your red bra.

Her hand slid went slowly down your back, already working to take off your bra as well. She lifted her gaze, silently asking for permission. The moment she caught your slight nod she unclasped it in one swift, fluid motion. The garment slid down your shoulders, and you moved your arms to let it fall completely.

"You’re fucking perfect." She bit her lip in anticipation before lowering her mouth back to you.

Her lips latched onto your breasts immediately, her tongue circling one of your hardened nipples slowly. With your hand tangled in her hair, you pulled at it roughly, making her groan against your skin.

While her mouth stayed busy, her hands slipped inside your pants, forcing your legs to part even wider for her. You bit your lip, trying to suppress a gasp when her fingers brushed against your clit through your panties.

As her lips moved back up to meet your pulse point, a broken moan escaped your lips as she sucked harshly on the sensitive skin in a way that made you shiver.

"No marks…" you murmured shakily, feeling Ellie huff against your neck in annoyance.

Logic spoke for you in that moment, but if you'd listened to your desires, you would’ve let her mark your neck with hickeys until it was completely purple.

"Why not?" She pressed another hot kiss against your pulse. She almost sounded like a pouty kid being told she couldn’t have what she wanted.

"Isn’t it obvious?" you whispered. "I can’t just walk into the office covered in hickeys right after a mission with you. It would give us away."

"Jesus, just let go for once…" she murmured, brushing her nose against yours. "Stop worrying so much, those dumbasses won't even notice."

Any response died on your tongue when Ellie kissed you with a burning intensity, the pressure of her lips turning into slow, teasing strokes of her tongue against yours. Her knee slipped between your thighs. You gasped, and she only deepened the kiss, as if she’d been craving this for years.

And before you could notice, her hand pinned your wrists above your head.

"Now, you gonna stop telling me what to do?"

The sound of your zipper opening made your breath hitch. Your back arched, and partly to give her more access, partly because this felt so damn good that you needed more. More of this, more of her.

And when Ellie yanked your pants off and tossed them aside without even glancing at them, a wave of heat shot straight through you.

The look in her eyes was completely predatory.

You were wearing red lace panties, and they matched the bra.

And only now you realized how obvious you must look.

"Ah… you knew this was gonna happen" Ellie accuses, taking them off quickly and giving your wrists a slight squeeze. "Fantasizing about your mission partner, huh? Such a dirty little thing..."

"I'm sure I'm not the only one here that has." you said, fighting back, but not denying it. There was no point in doing so.

She released your wrists and grabbed a fistful of your hair in her hand, tilting your face up to meet hers and giving it a slight pull.

"On that we agree…" she says in a husky voice.

"' 'Cause you don't know how much I fantasized 'bout fucking you, beautiful."

Jesus. fucking. CHRIST.

You let out a shuddering gasp as a shiver went through you like thunder, and the ache in your core became even more unbearable.

"Be a darling and spread your legs." She says as she releases your hair. You comply without complaint, your thighs spreading quickly.

"Atta girl... just like that..."

You don't have to see Ellie's face to feel the smug pride radiating from her as she sees how wet you are.

"Fuck, baby... you're soaked..." She says lowly as presses her finger on your swollen clit, delighting at the strangled gasp you let out.

Her gaze intertwines with yours, and in just a second, she slips two of her fingers inside you, causing you to let out a loud surprised gasp. She starts slowly, but before a few moments she increases the speed.

"Oh God! Ells-" you moan as she bends her fingers upwards to reach that sweet spot inside you that dissolves you in pure pleasure.

She moves her mouth down your body, leaving a wet path in her wake until she stops between your legs. She kisses your inner thighs teasingly, and when you let out a needy moan, her lips wrap around your aching bud and suck. Her tongue caresses your sensitive nerves as her fingers continue ravishing you.

You let out a squeal of pleasure, immediately covering your mouth with one hand to muffle the high-pitched noises. Ellie doesn't cease her relentless stimulation, and it is not long before you bite down on your palm, coming undone around her fingers.

She helps you through it, letting your hips buck against her mouth as your orgasm courses through your body, before gently withdrawing her fingers. Trembling, you prop yourself up on your elbows.

Ellie, with a dark look in her eyes, watches you from between your thighs. Her lips curl into that arrogant fucking smirk that you want to punch out of her face and drives you insane at the same time.

She lifted her fingers, glistening with your arousal, and slowly slipped them into her mouth. Your lips parted as you watched her through your lashes, your eyes dark with lust.

"You taste so goddamn good..." She murmured lowly. Her gaze didn't drift once from your eyes as she sucked every drop, leaving them completely clean.

You could come again right now just because of that.

"This doesn't end here, doll" Ellie murmurs as she moves up your body again to kiss you. You moaned against her lips when you savored your own taste in the kiss.

"I never said I wanted that..." You whisper against her lips, reaching up to pull her hips down to meet yours.

Ellie hisses, moving to remove her pants and grey boxers before pressing her soaking wet center against yours. She moaned as her clit made contact with yours and it wasn't more than a minute before she pressed herself against you and began to grind her hips.

"Fuck, Ellie!" you moaned, closing your eyes in pure ecstasy, the sensation of your center grinding against hers and your clits clashing together making your eyes roll back. It was so good you felt like you were losing your mind.

Nothing mattered anymore. Fuck the agency. Fuck the rescue. Fuck the whole thing.

You wanted to stay inside that haze of pleasure for the rest of your life if possible, here, tangled up with her.

Next to the same infuriating agent you couldn't stand from the start, but now had you right where she wanted—legs open and moaning like her bitch.

The twists and turns of life.

"Shit, shit, please Ellie… I'm gonna…”

You moaned as you pulled away a little to catch your breath. You both were a panting mess, grinding against each other harder and harder.

"Let go f'me…. I'm 'bout to cum too… "

You moved your hips against Ellie, both movements losing rhythm and becoming erratic. The knot in your stomach tightened, and in less than a second, everything went white around you as you let out a strangled moan.

She let out a choked gasp and squinted her eyes tightly, being completely washed over by the orgasm and burying her face in your neck. She immediately wrapped her arms around you, grabbing you before you fell to the ground and hurt yourself.

"Shhh… I've got you…"

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Several minutes later, the fire was slowly dying down, leaving the cabin wrapped in a warm dimness. Your breathing was still uneven, but the silence between you remained thick— and neither of you dared to break it.

Ellie still hadn't moved away completely. Her fingers lingered on your skin, tracing lazy patterns along your waist, as if her body refused to accept that the moment was over.

“That was…” You tried to say something, but the words died in your throat.

You felt the cold creeping back in, dragging reality along with it.

“Don’t overthink it. Just go to sleep” Ellie cut in. Her expression was serious, but her eyes were a whole different story, a glisten in them that you never saw before.

She pulled away slowly, but not entirely. Like a part of her didn’t want to. Like she wanted to stay right there, where the warmth was still bearable and the distance minimum.

But in the end, she did. She rolled onto her side, her back facing you, her body stiff, tense.

The cabin fell into complete silence, except for the occasional crackling of the fire. The air was still heavy, thick, as if the moment hadn't really ended.

Ellie turned onto her back, staring at the ceiling, her expression neutral. You kept staring at her, and the way her chest rose and fell a little too quickly gave her away.

“You’re not gonna sleep, are you?”

She let out a quiet, amused laugh, still not looking at you.

“I don't know. Maybe I’ll stay up until you say you regret it.”

“And what if I don’t regret it?”

This time, she did turn her head. Her eyes studied you in the dim light, as if trying to figure out if you were serious. Then, in a quiet murmur, she spoke again.

“Then we’re screwed.”

“Yeah. We definitely are.”

Ellie smiled. Just a small curve of her lips, but a smile nonetheless. She didn’t say anything else, just shifted and reached out for you. She slipped her fingers between yours, entwining them with an ease that proved this wasn’t just the adrenaline, or a escape from the cold, or lust. It was something more.

“…Do you regret it?” you whispered softly, not daring to look at her.

Ellie was quiet for a second before answering.

“You want me to be honest? …No. Not at all.” She lifted your chin gently, forcing you to meet her gaze. “I’d do it all over again—every second of it, exactly the way it happened.”

A brief silence hung between you as her words sank in, then a soft, amused laugh escaped your lips.

“Did I just hear you say something sweet? Where’s Ellie and what have you done with her?”

The teasing was nothing but a flimsy shield, barely covering the overwhelming relief that washed over you at her answer.

"Aaaand you just had to ruin the moment." she grumbled, giving your hand a light squeeze. "Now shut up and sleep, princess."

She didn’t say anything else—just sighed and reached out, pulling you against her, her hand firm on the curve of your waist. You closed your eyes as your mind raced, unsure what to think.

You knew this changed everything—made it messier, riskier. That it would put your jobs, your dynamic, everything on the line.

But when you opened your eyes again, hers were already on you, gleaming in the darkness. And for just one damn second, something unspoken burned there. Something that made the fall inevitable.

Something that told you this was far from over.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

taglist (tysm for supporting, hope you enjoy <333): @st0nerlesb0 @willurms @vahnilla @mancyw1214 @rxreaqia @laceyxrenee @antobooh @tittielover-420 @annoyingpersonxoxo

(if you wanna be added to my permanent tag list, comment or dm me and i'll add you!!!)

OHHH MY FUCKING GOD NOW THATS SOMETHING I REALLY ENJOYED WRITING.

Hope ya'll enjoyed and I'm SUPER grateful for every repost, like or share you wanna give!!! :D

(sorry again if there's any spelling or writing mistake)

[melloollem]

Trash ll|| Bruce Wayne× Child!reader

Summary: In a city where survival is your main objective, you do whatever it takes, including getting involved in Gotham's criminal world.

Warnings: Common comic book violence, weapons, corruption of minors (minors involved in crimes), anguish, guilt, conflicts.

(Chapter l, Chapter ll, Chapter lll, Chapter lV)

(Dc masterlist)

You were dizzy enough not to care how you got here, you couldn't feel your whole body and your mind seemed to be covered in a fog. You were looking around with no real competence when someone opened the door to your room, then a man who had been sitting next to you got up and they started a conversation. Despite your best efforts to listen to them, a loud buzzing sound settled in your brain and soon you gave up, agreeing to just observe the interaction between the two men in front of you.

One of them, the one who had been with you since you woke up, had a white lock in his hair, he seemed a little off when he spoke, he certainly wasn't happy, while the other man, a little taller and older, had a firm face, he wasn't happy either, but he seemed calmer, he had a familiar face, but not familiar enough for you to remember who it was.

For a second the buzzing in your head stopped and you could hear a single word "Jason", this was before a tingling sensation consumed your entire body, as if all your senses came back at once, this made you let out a low squeak, loud enough for the two men's attention to turn to you.

Their conversation was once again out of your reach and a nurse entered the room. An icy sensation consumed your body and mind and, in the next instant, darkness consumed your thoughts.

"He'll be fine, the anesthesia will wear off soon." The nurse's confirmation helped calm Bruce's noticeable apprehension, but had no effect on Jason's obvious tension. "I think you'd better talk outside." Jason didn't take a second to turn his back and head for the hospital corridor, soon to be followed by Bruce.

All the time he was avoiding looking directly into the face of the man next to him, he was sure that Bruce was condemning him for what he had done. How could Jason let that happen? He had almost taken your life.

"The child, he is a henchman, he has no definite boss, he is 11 years old, his mother is deceased and he has no record of his father" Jason listened attentively to Bruce's little report about you, he had already assumed that you were an orphan thanks to the situation in which he had met you.

"How long has he been at it?" The information wasn't really relevant to Jason, but he didn't know what to ask either, he had shot an 11-year-old. "Operating in the criminal world for 1 and 5 months, working as a henchman for 4 months" Bruce was really surprised at how long you'd managed to do this without getting into trouble.

Jason's mind was consumed by all the questions that followed. You were an orphan child entirely involved in the criminal world, he couldn't leave you on welfare and he couldn't let you back on the streets. Jason knew how bad both circumstances were.

"Jason" Bruce's voice pulled him back to the present moment "I know you're blaming yourself for what's happened, but he'll be fine, his current situation is already stable and we'll soon be seeing a home for him" Jason wished Bruce's current words were enough to comfort his soul, but they weren't. Knowing that Bruce had noticed how guilty he looked only affirmed his guilt.

At that moment Jason felt like confessing his sins to Bruce, assuming out loud that the scene of a child's pale face collapsed in his arms with bloodstained clothes was the only thing he'd had on his mind all the days he'd been sitting in that hospital room waiting for you to get better, but he didn't, he was afraid of his father's reaction, he was afraid that for even a single second he would see a look of disappointment on his face.

"Are you honestly thinking of adopting him?" Jason asked, returning to the subject of the conversation before you woke up with the intention of changing the conversation. Jason didn't want to let you go on welfare, but he wasn't in favor of adopting Bruce either. Bruce preferred to leave this conversation for another time, he was more focused on calming his son down from his growing guilt, but Jason clearly didn't want to talk about it now.

"I think it would be a good option to offer him a temporary home, at least until everything settles down" Bruce was skirting around his real intention, he really wanted to adopt him, but he felt it wasn't necessary for Jason to know that. "He'd have a safe place and rehabilitation" The term "rehabilitation" caught Jason's attention, who now had a confused expression. "What do you mean?" He asked.

"He, the child, has a string of violent crimes, has been involved in the planning of many crimes and a suspected murderer, he needs the proper treatment for that" The revelation didn't exactly shock Jason, but it did intrigue him. He knew you couldn't be left with just anyone, your old habits would be a problem, you had to stay with someone who could deal with all the violence you had inside you, someone who could understand your past.

"I know you're against adoption, Jason, but it's the best thing for him and this way you could continue to follow his improvement, I know how much you care about that" Bruce tried to convince Jason that it was the right decision, but Jason knew that regardless of his approval, Bruce would put you in his care "I agree that he needs rehabilitation, but I don't know if you're the right person for that, Bruce".

＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿＿

Unfortunately I've specified the gender of the reader in this chapter, but if you want, I can change that.

Tag list: @lockofspades @anuttellaa @joudy78bes7er @anime-hair05 @amber-content @camilo-uwu @sparks0918 @redzluvvesage @drdoofenshmirtz124 @suninwalls

[supreme-leader-stoat]

Response to your reblog before I peace out.

The argument of the immorality of abortion is built on the assumption that life inherently has value. Lives do not have any inherent value, because they are the result of millions of years of naturally occurring processes. These natural processes do not have any inherent moral value; attempting to assign one would involve invoking some sort of "god" that exists beyond the material, observable, provable world we live in, rather than some logical, clear, and distinct notion such as the one attempted to be shown. For these reasons, abortion is morally neutral.

On that note, the morality and legality of abortion are thereby a human notion, with a logically valid -though not logically sound- argument in either direction. The argument presented says that "no human life should be purposefully ended by another human being. Because that's murder." In short, they believe that murder is necessarily and inherently immoral. That's all it is though, a belief: There is no wholly logical ground to stand on with regards to murder being universally bad in all scenarios, because of its' moral neutrality as I proved above. In other words, the morality and legality of aborting a fetus is wholly subjective.

"Do you actually have an issue with my argument that a fetus is a human being with the right to life, and ending their life is murder[?]"

Yes I do. A fetus is not survivable beyond the confines of the womb for quite some time; in fact, not until right before the fetus is due to become a baby and be born, that ever-reliable 8 month mark after insemination. As such, considering the fetus is unable to survive without constant connection to the pregnant person, it stands to reason that this is an extension of their body at this point, rather than a separate entity. If one intended to claim it still was at the stages before a fetus can survive independently, then consider this implication: Parasites rely on being attached to living beings in order to survive. This includes humans. Therefore, following the earlier claim that "a fetus is a human being with the right to life, and ending their life is murder," a parasite attached to a human is also a human being with the right to life, and ending their life is murder. Therefore, it is more reasonable to claim that for most of the pregnancy cycle, a fetus is not a separate entity from the pregnant person, and by extension, "ending its' life" is not murder.

"Babies are people, too, and have the same right to life as an adult."

This is true! Because babies are not fetuses.

Just thought you would want to read this, because anti-choice rhetoric can be very harmful in shutting down the agency of pregnant people and their ability to dictate their own lives. Knowing the direction that restrictions of this kind have gone in the past, those restrictions will not stop after the illegalization of abortion. Please consider who this harms and who this helps before spreading closed-minded rhetoric of that kind.

Either morality (God-given or otherwise, because there are many secular arguments against abortion) exists or it doesn't. There is a line in the sand or there is not. If you truly intend to argue that lives have no inherent value beyond what we assign them, then not only are the two of us operating in completely irreconcilable ethical frameworks, but yours collapses under its own weight; harm, agency, all these things mattering hinges on the idea that humans and (to a lesser extent) other forms of life have inherent worth, inherent dignity, that causing the former and undermining the latter are wrong in and of themselves.

If there is no objective standard on which to hang our arguments, then everything becomes subjective; all that matters is what we value on a social and individual level. And if that's the case, why would I ever bother to value the opinions of you, a stranger on the internet, over my own? It would be unfair and wrong of me not to consider other positions, to try to see things from another person's point of view, but why should I care about fairness or rightness?

Equating an embryo or fetus to a parasite is fallacious and incorrect. Ignoring that by the scientific definition parasites have to be a different species from the host, and that a pregnancy is a two-way street that also provides benefits for the mother, embryos and fetuses are simply living out the natural development cycle that literally every other human being on the planet has gone through. The biological principles at play in parasitism and human reproduction are fundamentally different.

I could keep going. I could match your arguments with my own about how anti-life rhetoric is a slippery slope to eugenics, about how I could just as easily twist your arguments around to make social parasites out of the elderly and disabled; but in this case it's pointless, because I can't even get you to sit down and agree upon simple principles like "human lives have value" and "murder is bad" or even "there is such a thing as objective morality."

[gatheringbones]

[“As discussed in the Introduction, Elliot and Lyons highlight, “The function of a phobic object is to specify and contain a generalized threat.” Cis-het men’s fear of violation, in part, collapses around the penis, as in the case of Iceberg, Mack, Josh, and other men and women interviewed. The penis is socially constructed as a weapon, as having the power to violate. This is not surprising, given the historical and cultural construction of penises and penetration as a form of power. Bersani notes how Ancient Greeks, radical feminists, and various gay men communities have at different times, conceptualized penetration, writing, “To be penetrated is to abdicate power.” In Iceberg, Mack, and Josh’s responses, the presence of a penis on a woman comes to be viewed as a sort of social penetration resulting in a threat to a man’s masculinity, power, and honor.

Iceberg, Mack, Josh, and other cis-het men participants all, presumedly, have penises. However, their own penises do not necessarily elicit any threat of violation to themselves. Instead, it is the presence of a second penis on an individual whom they desire that evokes the threat and anxiety of violation. The threat of the second penis is also shaped by the conceptualization of hegemonic masculinities and femininities as different yet complementary. If a man’s power or masculinity diminishes upon being attracted to a trans woman, then enacting violence against and murdering trans women may aid in recuperating and building back up his masculine, heterosexual subjectivity, as masculinity and manhood are accomplished, in part, when men “rise to the challenge of the opportunities available to [them] to increase [their] honor.”]

alithia zamantakis, from thinking cis: cisgender heterosexual men, and queer women’s roles in anti-trans violence, 2023

[australianbeyonce]

𝒒𝒖𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒊’𝒗𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝑱𝒐𝒆 𝑫𝒊𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒛𝒂’𝒔 ‘𝑩𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑯𝒂𝒃𝒊𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝑩𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇’

ch 1: the quantum you

we are part of a vast, invisible field of energy, which contains all possible realities and responds to our thoughts and feelings.

your thoughts have consequences so great that they create your reality.

we don’t have to settle for our present reality; we can create a new one, whenever we choose to.

your thoughts shape your destiny.

everything in your life is not solid matter—rather, it’s all fields of energy and frequency patterns of information.

energy responds to your mindful attention and becomes matter.

everything in our physical reality exists as pure potential.

if subatomic particles can exist in an infinite number of possible places simultaneously, we are potentially capable of collapsing into existence an infinite number of possible realities.

if you can imagine a future event in your life based on any one of your personal desires, that reality already exists as a possibility in the quantum field, waiting to be observed by you.

you are powerful enough to influence matter because at the most elementary level you are energy with a consciousness.

we don’t need to be touching or even in close proximity to any physical elements in the quantum field to affect or be affected by them.

the “you” that exists in a probable future is already connected to the “you” in this now.

when you hold clear focused thoughts about your purpose, accompanied by your passionate emotional engagement, you broadcast a stronger electromagnetic signal that pulls you toward a potential reality that matches what you want.

hold a clear intention of what you want, but leave the “how” details to the unpredictable and quantum field. let it orchestrate an event in your life in a way that is just right for you.

when you do create purposefully, request a sign from the quantum consciousness that you have made contact with it. dare to ask for synchronicities related to your specific desired outcomes. when you do, you are being bold enough to want to know that this consciousness is real and that it is aware of your efforts.

since the quantum field is nothing but immaterial probability, it is outside of space and time. as soon as we observe one of those infinite probabilities and give it material reality, it acquires those two characteristics.

chapters cont. below

ch 2: overcoming your environment

the subjective mind has an effect on the objective world.

an observer can affect the subatomic world and influence a specific event.

if you can influence your brain to change before you experience a desired future event, you will create the appropriate neural circuits that will enable you to behave in alignment with your intention before it becomes a reality in your life. through your own repeated mental rehearsal of a better way to think, act, or be, you will “install” the neural hardware needed to physiologically prepare you for the new event.

ch 3: overcoming your body

every potential already exists

when you have thoughtfully rehearsed a future reality until your brain has physically changed to look like it had the experience, you have emotionally embraced a new intention so many times that your body is altered to reflect that it has has the experience, hang on… because this is the moment the event finds you.

ch 4: overcoming time

in the present, all potentials exist simultaneously in the field. when we stay present, when we are “in the moment,” we can move beyond space and time, and we can make any one of those potentials a reality. when we are mired in the past, however, none of those new potentials exist.

if we focus on an intended future event and then plan how we will prepare or behave, there will be a moment when we are so clear and focused on that possible future that the thoughts we are thinking will begin to become the experience itself.

you have all the neurological machinery to transcend time.

ch 5: survival vs. creation

as our emotions become more elevated, we naturally ascend to a higher level of consciousness, closer to source… and feel more connected to universal intelligence.

when you’re living in the elevated emotion of creation, you feel so lifted that you would never try to analyze how or when a chosen destiny will arrive. you trust that it will happen because you have already experienced it.

do you it has already occurred in no space, no time, no place, from which all things material spring forth. you are in a state of knowingness; you can relax into the present and no longer live in survival.

to anticipate or analyze when, where, or how the event will occur will only cause you to return to your old identity.

ch 6: three brains: thinking to doing to being

it’s often useful to compare one’s brain to a computer, and it’s true that yours already has the hardware you’ll need to change your “self” and your life.

because you are thinking and feeling differently, you are changing reality.

you can’t think one way and feel another and expect anything in your life to change.

change your state of being… and change your reality.

choose a potential reality that you want, live it in your thoughts and feelings.

give thanks ahead of the actual event.

when your body experiences that the event is occurring in that moment and feels real to you, based solely on what you’re focused on mentally and feeling emotionally, then you are experiencing the future now.

ch 7: the gap

imagine how much good you could do by converting any destructive energy to productive energy. contemplate what you could accomplish if you weren’t focused on survival (a selfish emotion), but instead worked to create out of positive intentions (a selfless emotion).

ask yourself: what energy from past experiences (in the form of limited emotions) am i holding on to that reinforces my past identity and emotionally attaches me to my current circumstances? could i use this same energy and transform it into an elevated state from which to create a new and different outcome?

and do you know the funny thing about not wanting of lacking for anything? that’s when you can really begin to manifest things naturally.

ch 8: meditation, demystifying the mystical, and waves of your future

decide to stop being the old you

once that emotion is created you begin to feel like your new ideal, and that new feeling will start to become familiar. remember that when your body begins to respond as if the experience is already present reality, you will signal your genes in new ways… and your body will commence to change now, ahead of the physical event in your life.

[justpeaxchy]

Can I request a short fic for Hiccup x fem!reader where they're just good friends, sharing a love for books?

Thank you!

'Oh, Simple Thing.'

A/n: AHH thank you so much for the request! I was actually gonna try and write something with a platonic relationship kind of thing, so you came in at a perfect time lol!

Warnings (?): none!

Hiccup x !fem! Reader (platonic)

Books, books, and more books. And Hiccup also. The two things that can help relieve you from your daily responsibilities.

'C'mon, c'mon, where is it..!?'

Your hands desperately searched through the wooden shelves of your hut, groaning in annoyance every time you couldn't find the one thing you've been earnestly desiring to have for the last ten minutes. It was as though you checked all the cracks in your home to find the treasured object, your frustration increasing with each failed attempt. Out of all the days when you needed it the most, it wasn't there.

"It's gotta be in here somewhere..!" You muttered, throwing your arms out in exasperation. You had one with you almost all the time, so it peeved you that it was nowhere to be seen. 'Think, think, think...where did I have it last..?' Trying to figure out where it may have gone, your feet strode over to the notepad you had made, hastily opening it to check one more time if it was hidden somewhere inside the pages. Again, no luck.

'You've got to be kidding me..'

Stomping over to the desk close by, you practically threw the notepad across it with an irked furrow of your brows. Everything was going fine today, all until this specific item couldn't be located. "Where are you, you little--"

A knock on the door interrupted your complaints, forcing you to trudge over to it with a sigh. "Yeah, what is it?" You grumbled, opening the door with a bored expression. It lightened up a bit at the sight of your best friend, bringing your infuriated guard down. "Hiccup?" Your eyes glanced at the small stack of books he struggled to hold in his arms, not yet noticing something else in his hands. "..Uh, what're you doing..?"

"Hey!" He staggered, "I wanted to bring you these!" He lifted his face above the pile, a genial smile tracing his lips. "It's some extra books my dad said you could borrow for a bit..and I know you've been wanting to read some new ones, so I got these for you."

Briefly skimming over the heaps of the leather coverings that hid each page within them, you didn't completely notice Hiccup almost stumbling to stand straight. "What's it about..?"

He carefully balanced himself again, silently hoping you would lend a hand so he wouldn't be at risk of falling over. "Oh, y'know, the history of Berk, some tall-tale stories...all that good stuff.." He knew you were one to actually like reading those subjects, not fully understanding why you wanted to study on the past of Berk...but everyone had their different tastes, he supposed. His was mostly about dragons after all.

"Oh, cool.." You mumbled, finally seeing a small object in his overcrowded hands. "Wait...is that...?" Your eyes slowly began to widen, heart being filled with joy and relief at the sight of the one thing you've been pining after this whole time. It was excellent, it was splendid, it was practically radiating with light as your mouth gaped. It was...

"My pencil!"

Hiccup blinked in confusion for a moment, only to nod at your words once he grasped what you meant. "Oh, yeah. You forgot that you gave it to me when we went to map out the island yesterday with Astrid--"

He didn't get to finish as you abruptly leaned forward and quickly snatched the cherished pencil, leaving him to yelp as he tried to prevent himself from collapsing. "Hey! Watch it--"

"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! I've been searching for this for so long!" You brought the charcoaled piece of hewn wood up to your cheek, ‘hugging’ it as though it were a long-lost family member.

Laughing nervously, Hiccup pleadingly stared at you for help. "Yup..! Now, why don't you--"

"Okay, thanks! Bye!" You jokingly moved to shut the door on him, snickering as he hurriedly reeled inside before you could. You firmly put an arm out in front of him so he wouldn't totter down on the floor, stopping a few books from falling. "Geez, you're always tripping in one way or another.."

"And who's fault is that?" He retorted, a fake wearisome expression on his face.

Shrugging, you grabbed a couple of books from him, your whimsical smile not fading away while you did so. "Oh yeah, my bad."

The future Chief sighed, faintly shaking his head. "Why were you so desperate for it anyways?"

The two of you steadily walked towards the desk in the room, your tone of voice suddenly doused in excitement; the usual lighthearted attitude. "Because! I needed it so I could write on some new information I discovered about the Woolly Howl!" Carefully setting the books down once close enough, you continued: "Did you know that they can withstand an entire blizzard? I mean, how awesome is that?"

Hiccup lifted his chin, pretending to be in deep thought before he shrugged. "Yeah, I did actually." He recoiled as you pinched his hand, staring at you as if you'd grown another arm. "What was that for!?"

"For being too smart."

He briefly waved his arms as he stuttered for a response. "W..what? Is it a crime to already know something you didn't?"

Chuckling, you put your witty attitude away and patted his shoulder. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry. Thank you for bringing me these amazing books-" You gestured at them as you finished: "..And thank you for giving my pencil back!" Without another minute wasted, you swiftly grabbed your notepad and flipped to an available blank page. You were about to write the information you had just obtained about the Woolly Howl, but he interrupted you with a clear of his throat.

Glancing over at him, you questioningly raised your brows. "Yes? What is it?" The amusement that came when he merely tapped the sides of his legs only lasted for a couple of seconds before you paused what you were originally going to do. "C'mon, spit it out."

"Well, I just.." He pursed his lips for a moment before continuing. "So...you're not going to read what I gave you..?" Hiccup muttered, pointing to the books like you couldn't see them.

"...Right now?"

"Yes."

You slowly put your notepad down, staring at him thoroughly to figure out what he was trying to do. "And what's got you so desperate for me to do that?" You reflected his earlier words back to him, watching as he instantly grasped a specific book in his hands, the leather showing signs of old age.

"There's this particular one I, uh, wanted to..y'know, see if we could study.." He held it up to his face, making only his eyes more visible.

You internally groaned, already predicting what it might be. "...Let me guess, it's about--"

"Dragons.." You both said, although your voice was more dragged out than his.

Sighing, your head slightly tilted at him. You loved books, but the more you were stuck on just one certain topic, it got boring quite fast. "Look, you know I enjoy reading...but every time we've been meeting up this past week, it feels like the only thing we've been getting into was dragons--"

"But you were gonna write some new information on the Woolly Howl! Y'know, a dragon?" Hiccup brought the book down so you could fully see him again with a defeated sigh. "...If you really don't want to, it's fine...I guess.." He muttered, a downcast gaze landing on the floor.

Not getting the hint, however, you merely shrugged in agreement. "Okay then."

Your response was seemingly not what he was aiming for. It was evident in the way he briefly threw his arms up with an expression that was no longer so disheartening. "Wow, okay. So that's how it is.." He placed the book down, pulling out a chair to sit at the desk while you stood. "Alright, alright. Enough joking, we can work on your mission of writing any information you want on the Woolly Howl."

He beckoned for you to sit in the other chair, which you unhurriedly did as you tried to conclude if he was truly fine with doing what you were set out to do. Usually, you both read to get your minds off the responsibilities that could so quickly take up a lot of your time; the pressures of growing and actually becoming an adult would sometimes make the two of you scurry off to someplace else. Thankfully, Astrid was there to redirect you both and help you face the reality that life would always be filled with responsibilities which may not entirely be pleasant, but that wouldn't stop you from enjoying yourselves throughout it all.

You viewed Astrid as a sister, someone that you could also easily be around. Her firmness was very much needed and appreciated whenever you started to act a certain way towards that topic, and you wondered how worse your attitude could've gotten if she hadn't been there for you to give you the necessary wakeup call.

Hiccup was the one who would allay you from your anxieties, his personality being the other thing that you needed to balance out your ‘lessons’ from his betrothed. It was the perfect combination of savory and sweet.

Gently pushing your notepad to the side of the table, you leaned your cheek in the palm of your hand, expectantly staring at him for a moment. "Well, are we gonna read that book or what?"

He blinked, putting your words together in the hinges of his mind. "...What..?"

"You heard me. C'mon, let's go, I don't got all day!" You faked a yawn, stretching your arms as you suppressed a grin. You actually did have the rest of the day to yourself, so that statement wasn't fully correct. Not that he would know, of course.

Hiccup didn't fight the smile that was now visible on his face, copying your actions by leaning his cheek in his hand. "Why do I get the feeling that's not true?" He flinched and veered away from you as you tried to pinch him again, chuckling at your failed attempt. "Alright, alright!" He paused, grabbing your attention as he spoke in a more sincere tone of voice. "Thank you, though. Are you sure you want to read right now? I was only kidding...for the most part."

The dramatic roll of your eyes almost made him laugh while you carefully picked up the book he originally had. "Well, if you just keep sitting there I might not be so sure..."

Immediately, he nodded and took it from your hold, hastily opening it like he was receiving a gift of some sorts. "I'll remind you of the Woolly Howl once we're done, don't worry!"

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

After a while of rambling and debating on what certain dragons were able to do, you both decided that it was time to move on. With a content nod, Hiccup closed the book and casually tilted back slightly in his seat. "I can only imagine the look on Fishleg's face when he finds out about this.."

You rested your head on the table, finally relaxed. "Mhm..." After a moment, you abruptly remembered what your intentions were before he waltzed into your hut, making you straighten your back as you quickly collected together your notepad and beloved pencil. "Hey! Didn't you say you would remind me of what I was gonna write?"

You eagerly flipped to a blank page, waiting for him to say something. All that came was silence, causing you to raise your brows at him, puzzled. "...Well?"

He tapped his chin, appearing to be in thought before shrugging. "Y'know, I think I actually forgot what it was you said about the Woolly Howl..."

"Hiccup!"

"Okay, okay! I'm sorry-- Ouch!"

It was safe to say that you managed to pinch him, without missing this time.

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

[raygun631]

Chris Murphy: the tariffs are a tool to collapse our democracy.

@chrismurphyct.bsky.social Original

Those trying to understand the tariffs as economic policy are dangerously naive. No, the tariffs are a tool to collapse our democracy. A means to compel loyalty from every business that will need to petition Trump for relief. 1/ A 🧵 to explain his plan and how we fight back.

2/ This week you will read many confused economists and political pundits who won’t understand how the tariffs make economic sense. That’s because they don’t. They aren’t designed as economic policy. The tariffs are simply a new, super dangerous political tool.

3/ You see, our founders created a President with limited and checked powers. They specifically put the power of spending and taxation in the hands of the legislature. Why? Because they watched how kings and despots used spending and taxes to control their subjects.

4/ British kings used taxation to reward loyalty and punish dissent. Our own revolution was spurred by the King’s use of heavy taxation of the colonies to punish our push for self governance. The King’s message was simple: stop protesting and I’ll stop taxing.

5/ Trump knows that he can weaken (and maybe destroy) democracy by using spending and taxation in the same way. He is using access to government funds to bully universities, law firms and state and local governments into loyalty pledges.

6/ Healthy democracies rely on an independent legal profession to maintain the rule of law, independent universities to guard objective truth and provide forums for dissent to authority, and independent state/local government to counterbalance a powerful federal government.

7/ But the private sector also plays a rule to protect democracy. Independent industry has power. The tariffs are Trump’s tool to erode that independence. Now, one by one, every industry or company will need to pledge loyalty to Trump in order to get sanctions relief.

8/ What could Trump demand as part of a quiet loyalty pledge? Public shows of support from executives for all his economic policy. Contributions to his political efforts. Promises to police employees’ support for his political opposition.

9/ The tariffs are DESIGNED to create economic hardship. Why? So that Trump has a straight face rationale for releasing them, business by business or industry by industry. As he adjusts or grants relief, it’s a win-win: the economy improves and dissent disappears.

10/ And once Trump has the lawyers, colleges and industry under his thumb, it becomes very hard for the opposition to have any viable space to maneuver. Trump didn’t invent this strategy. It’s the playbook for democratically elected leaders who want to stay in power forever.

11/ The tariffs aren’t economic policy. They are political weapons. But as long as we see this clearly, we can stop him. Public mobilization is working. Today, a few Republicans joined Democrats to vote against one set of tariffs. The people still have the power.

u/chrismurphyct.bsky.social

[almsworth-worm]

She sits on the chair, legs crossed, waiting in anticipation.

Her friend takes an object, shows it to her to reassure her.

Explains what it is, how it works, what it does. Something to do with electromagnets, currents in the brain, and depth of stimulation.

Explains how it can have an impact on activity in specific parts of the brain.

She doesn’t understand half of it, but she gets the gist, and it sounds fun.

A couple of switches are flicked. Maybe a button is pressed, or a large dial is turned.

Her friend moves the object back, holding it to the side of her head.

Nothing happens.

She opens her mouth to enquire, and gibberish falls out. She can’t even form a word, let alone a sentence.

Her friend smiles.

She blushes.

She does not collapse, or raise her hands to cover her face. She wouldn’t be a good test subject if she did that.

Her friend moves the object to the back of her head, and flashes of light appear in her vision.

Her friend moves the object to the top of her head, and she jolts a little bit, her senses feel off.

Her friend moves the object to the front of her head.

Her mind goes blank.

If she could plan, or reason, or imagine, she would hear the pleasure in the voice of her friend as she explains the role of the frontal lobe in complex thought.

As it is, she sits limply, eyes open and empty.

The object is removed, turned off.

Thoughts rush back into her mind.

Her friend takes her hand.

Moves it up to her lips.

Thanks her for being such a perfect thing to study.

Kisses the back of her hand.

Once more, her mind goes blank.

She smiles, stands, and together they sweep out of the room.