#the function of the Dark Side is read

[coldgoldlazarus]

The discourse over the Jedi is a symptom of an underlying discourse over the Force, which is itself a symptom of an underlying tension between the oriental inspirations and christianized interpretations thereof that it pulls from.

[thestuffedalligator]

The way necromancy works is this: Everything in your body — meat, bones, skin, blood — has something like a memory. They remember, in their own way, what it’s like to be alive. Skin remembers the sun. Bones remember what shape they’re supposed to be in. Muscle memory is more than just an idiom.

The way necromancy works is that the caster puts a little bit of their willpower into a corpse to order it to remember how it functioned in life and obey. This is easiest to do with bones, which are easy to trick, and becomes increasingly difficult the more of the original body remains.

To reanimate a full body to your command, you have to have a lot of willpower.

The necromancer checked the map. She checked the map again. She squinted up at the stars, lips moving silently. Then, taking the lantern off its hook, she peered over the side of the little sailboat.

There wasn't much to see. The sea was dark and still as glass, except where the lanternlight turned a patch of seawater a yellowish-green. A tiny fish flitted into the gleam, attracted to the light, and then vanished into the murk again.

The necromancer chewed the inside of her cheek. She sat down again, the boat bobbing gently with the movement, and checked the map one more time. Then she opened the little wooden case on the floor of the boat, which unfolded into a neat arrangement of drawers.

There were. Things. In the drawers. Some wriggled. Others twitched little beetly legs into the night air. A few of them made noises, which ran together into a squeaky, wheezy squeal of horror.

The necromancer twiddled her fingers over the display as she considered her options. Then she grabbed a few of the twitching, wriggling things, held them in her palm and squeezed her hand into a fist as tightly as she could with a squelching noise.

She opened her hand to inspect her work. She breathed the spell into it, and then, holding her hand over the edge of the boat, dropped the spell into the sea.

And that seemed to be it. She sat back in the boat and closed the little wooden case. After a moment she started looking over the map again.

There were a lot of handwritten notes on the map. Each one was connected to a mark and some coordinates; some of them said, "Storm 1457," or "Struck a rock 1483." Others said "Total failure," or “Completely dissolved.”

The note the necromancer seemed most interested in was the one that read, “Battle of Salzstein, 1501.”

The necromancer checked the map. She checked the map again. She squinted up at the stars, lips moving silently, and then she was suddenly thrown down to the floor of the boat as though a giant, invisible hand had crushed her.

Her mouth opened in a noiseless scream.

Two minds were fighting for control of the corpse; on one side was the mind of the caster, and on the other was the memories of bones, of flesh, of skin, trying to drive the caster out.

The weight of that mind was incredible.

Sweat poured off the necromancer’s brow; darkness whorled across her vision. Then slowly, every movement a bone-breaking agony, she pushed herself onto her hands and knees, lungs straining.

The trick was that this mind knew how to obey.

The necromancer stood, wobbled, steadied herself and poured her willpower into the sea. She tried to make hers the full willpower the thing had obeyed in life, the will of the wind, of the sea, of the rigging and the wheel.

Because of course it had been alive. In a sense, they were all alive. Sailors talked of them like they were alive, gave them names, called them “she.”

Sailors knew they were alive.

It was the cessation of that life that interested her.

The necromancer reached out with her power, seized the mind in her hands and pulled, blood and foam flecking out the corners of her mouth as she ground her teeth together with the titanic effort and ordered it to obey.

The sea roiled, hundreds of tons of water moving fast as something deep below boiled to the surface.

A bowsprit sprouted from the water. Then a wood-rotted figurehead of a mermaid. Then inch by inch, yard by yard, the huge barnacle-encrusted bulk of silt-stained timber rose out of the deep, seawater streaming out of every gunport.

For a moment the warship hung in the air like a monstrous fish held by the gills of a colossal fisherman. It dropped into the sea with a sound like a depth charge; the little rowboat lurched in its wake.

The necromancer released the spell. Then she threw up, and passed out.

———

Later, once she had woken, gathered together the tackle box, the lantern, and the map and had scrabbled aboard, the necromancer inspected the undead ship.

There was a hole in the hull where a magazine charge had exploded. This was, admittedly, fine. Undead men could walk with a hole in their bellies; an undead ship could sail with one as well.

Really, she thought, despite the discomfort the spell had worked masterfully.

It was a perfect start.

She unfolded the map on the soggy floor of the quarterdeck, sucked the end of a pen, and next to the last marker wrote “Total success.” Then her finger began to trace down the page to the next.

And the undead ship — unbidden and obedient — shifted its sails and began to move south.

[solxamber]

Trash Novel Chronicles: Please Let Me Live - Vil Schoenheit x reader

You get isekai'd into the worst novel you've had the misfortune of reading because apparently your life is a cosmic joke. Now all you have to do is not act like the character you've possessed and it'll be fine, you think? Your fiancé being Vil Schoenheit makes it a little harder to behave like a human being with functional braincells, but hey, atleast he likes you, you think?

Series Masterlist

You'd avoided it for so long. For months, your best friend had been pestering you to read the shoujo isekai novel of the year. According to them, it was the epitome of romantic drama, the kind that would "turn your heart into a mess of feelings" and "change your life." So, finally, after a particularly grueling week, your willpower hit rock bottom. You caved. You bought it, poured yourself a drink, and figured, "How bad can it be?"

Turns out, really bad.

You’d barely made it past the first few chapters before your brain began to leak out of your ears. Every overused villainess plot point imaginable was crammed into the story like a contest of "how much nonsense can we fit in here before the reader gives up?" The evil fiancée everyone inexplicably hated? Check. The perfect cinnamon roll male lead everyone adored even though he had the personality of wet cardboard? Double check. The heroine who was so pure that even her sneeze would be enough to unite warring nations who also happens to be the saintess? You had to put the book down and take a moment when she gave a speech about friendship that was so saccharine, your teeth hurt.

Grumbling and filled with regret, you got up to refill your drink… only to slip on bubble wrap you swore yesterday that you were going to pick up later, fall face-first into the kitchen counter, and began to bleed out.

It was a comically stupid way to die. You knew that as you lay there, watching the light fade from your vision, your last thoughts being, This is the dumbest thing that’s ever happened to me.

And then, darkness.

You woke up with a groan, your head pounding. As your vision cleared, you noticed you were lying in a very, very fancy bed. Silk sheets, gold trimming on the canopy, the works. And you were dressed in something frilly, layered, and far too complicated for someone who just woke up from a near-death experience.

"What the…"

You sat up, rubbing your eyes, only to freeze as the realization hit you. This was not your bed. This was not your apartment. This was… Oh god, no.

You whipped your head around the lavish room, recognizing it from the novel you’d been hate-reading just last night. The massive mirror above the dresser, the tapestry with an overly detailed family crest, the obnoxiously large bouquet of roses that smelled way too sweet.

You’re in the book.

Panicking, you scrambled out of bed and rushed to the full-length mirror by the wall. The reflection staring back at you was not your own. Instead, you saw an unfamiliar face—her face. The one mentioned once, maybe twice, in the whole novel before being discarded like an old shoe: the betrothed of the villain.

The fiancée who dumps him for the male lead. The fiancée who gets themselves killed in the process.

“Oh, come on!” you groaned, slapping your forehead. “I’m the villain’s betrothed? I’m that idiot who leaves Vil Schoenheit because I fall for the human incarnation of a sugar cube?”

But there was no escaping it. You were now stuck in the body of a side character so irrelevant that even her death was treated as an afterthought. The one who leaves her handsome, ambitious, gorgeous fiancé for… Neige.

No. No, no, no. You were not about to die over a soggy cinnamon roll.

Determined to change your fate, you gathered your wits and opened the door to leave the room. But of course, you ran headlong into a tall figure, knocking you both back.

“Oof! Careful there!” a smooth, yet stern voice said. You looked up—and froze. Standing before you, looking like something straight out of a high-fashion magazine, was Vil Schoenheit. The man whose heart you were supposed to break, the villain who would later descend into madness after you ditch him.

And wow. In person, he was even more stunning than the novel had described. His golden-blond hair shimmered in the sunlight pouring through the window, his purple eyes were as sharp as they were beautiful, and his posture screamed confidence.

You blinked up at him, utterly dumbfounded. You’re supposed to leave him? For Neige? You nearly gagged at the thought.

Vil raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by your wide-eyed staring. “Is something the matter?”

You gulped. Right. You were supposed to be cold and dismissive toward him, weren’t you? But how? This man looked like he could make the heavens weep with his beauty. How had your character ever even considered leaving him?

“No, nothing’s the matter!” you blurted out, a little too enthusiastically. “Actually, everything’s great! You look fantastic! I mean, not that you don’t always look fantastic—because you do—but, you know, extra fantastic today!”

Vil’s eyes narrowed. “You’re acting strange.”

Abort. Abort!

You quickly cleared your throat. “Uh, I’ve just been… thinking. About us.”

His gaze became sharper. “About us?”

You nodded, plastering on your most sincere smile. “Yes! I’ve realized… I haven’t been very, uh, appreciative of you lately. And I’m sorry for that. Really, I am. So from now on, I’ll be the most appreciative fiancée ever!”

Vil looked at you as though you’d just told him the sun was cold. He clearly didn’t trust this sudden change in attitude. “What exactly brought this on?” he asked slowly, suspiciously.

Time for Plan B. “Oh, you know, just… reflection! Self-improvement! I thought, ‘Why would I ever look anywhere else when I’ve got someone like *you* right in front of me?’ You’re… amazing, really.” You cringed internally at how corny that sounded, but Vil didn’t seem entirely put off.

“Hm,” was all he said, but his piercing gaze stayed locked on you, watching for any sign of deceit.

You were sweating bullets, but at least he wasn’t storming off. Yet.

You knew from the moment you read the back cover that this novel was going to be a dumpster fire of clichés, but you were not prepared for the sheer chaos of it all.

So, first off, we have the heroine—the Saintess—who has somehow never faced a single hardship in her life, despite the fact that she’s supposed to be the kingdom’s beacon of virtue and a symbol of overcoming hardship. She’s engaged to the crown prince, who conveniently disappears on a diplomatic mission and dies offscreen, probably to make room for her new love interest, Neige LeBlanche. Neige. That sparkly ray of sunshine who is so perfect and pure that you feel like you need sunglasses whenever his name is mentioned. Because apparently, what’s more romantic than falling for a guy immediately after your fiancé kicks the bucket?

Then there’s the second male lead, the brooding Duke of the North, who checks all the boxes: tall, brooding, handsome, tragic backstory—yawn. Of course, he’s madly in love with the Saintess, and like any self-respecting second male lead in a trashy romance, he sacrifices himself for her later. Because nothing says “I’m irrelevant” quite like noble self-sacrifice.

And don't even get started on the heroine's best friend. She’s basically there to fawn over the Saintess and then inexplicably fall for Vil, the Grand Duke, after she pressures him into apologizing for insulting the heroine's dress. Like, why? Was his dress critique that alluring?

Now, Vil Schoenheit. The Grand Duke. The guy you’re currently stuck with as your fiancé. He’s actually a decent character—powerful, intelligent, not falling over himself to worship the Saintess like everyone else. But in the novel, he’s wasted. Why? Because he’s engaged to the character you’re now possessing—Miss Mean and Cold—who treats him like dirt because she’s too busy fantasizing about Neige. You know, the guy she has no shot with because he’s destined to fall for the Saintess. Then, when your character eventually dumps Vil for Neige, she dies in a freak accident. Vil, who actually loved her (for reasons no one understands), is so heartbroken that he turns into the main villain.

Yes, that’s right—this whole mess of a plot ends with Vil going full villain mode because the love of his life ditched him for the living embodiment of a children’s snowman and then died in a way that no one can explain. Cue the Saintess and Neige teaming up to defeat him and live happily ever after.

And that’s the story. A tangled web of nonsensical relationships, conveniently dead characters, and more emotional whiplash than you can handle. And the cherry on top? You're stuck in it, watching everything unfold firsthand. It's honestly a wonder the book didn’t end up as kindling.

A few days passed, and somehow, miraculously, you managed to keep up the act. Every morning you would wake up, still half-expecting to snap out of this bizarre isekai nightmare, but instead, you were met with Vil’s meticulous morning routine and the low hum of his voice offering helpful reminders about skincare.

And the more time you spent with him, the more baffled you became.

How the hell could the original character have messed this up?!

Sure, Vil was particular—okay, maybe borderline obsessive—about appearances. His lectures about proper sunscreen application could rival the length of the Odyssey. And yes, the daily inspections of your outfit choices felt a little like going through customs at a royal border.

But… he was kind? Like, actually caring?

Every meal was an event because he made sure you were eating properly and not just shoving random food into your mouth like the gremlin you clearly were before. He listened when you rambled about your day, offering advice with this gentle patience that honestly made you want to weep. How could anyone leave this?

You found yourself in front of a mirror one afternoon, pacing and gesturing wildly at your reflection, as if you could summon the spirit of the character you’d possessed. "What the actual hell was wrong with you?!" you hissed at the glass. “What kind of brain rot would make someone ditch a man like Vil?! Are you missing brain cells, or was your skull just a rental with nothing in it?!”

You paused, glaring at your reflection as if it could offer answers, but nope. It just stared back, helpless.

“Like, hello?!” you continued, throwing your hands up in exasperation. “You had a golden opportunity here! He’s literally gorgeous! He’s got hair that looks like it was hand-spun by some ancient beauty god, his fashion sense could kill a lesser mortal, and he—*gasp*—cares about your well-being?!”

You slapped your forehead dramatically. “How did you mess this up? Were you allergic to good things? Did you wake up every day and choose to be a feral raccoon instead of, I don’t know, appreciating this actual masterpiece of a human being? What, did you look at his perfect face and go, ‘Nah, I’d rather yeet myself into self-destruction?’ Because clearly, that’s what happened!”

Your reflection remained silent, offering no help, which only fueled your rant further.

“You absolute donut! You ridiculous bottle of poorly mixed potion! You—” You stopped mid-sentence, running out of sufficiently creative insults to throw at the former owner of this body. Because seriously, what kind of fool would’ve thrown Vil away?

You gripped the sides of the vanity table, leaning forward, narrowing your eyes at your own reflection. "If I find out that you gave up on this because he once asked you to wear a face mask or told you to drink more water… I swear, I'm going to find a way to repossess you just to kill you again for making me deal with this."

A soft knock at the door startled you out of your self-directed tirade. You nearly jumped out of your skin, spinning around to see Vil standing in the doorway, one perfectly groomed eyebrow raised in amusement.

“Talking to yourself again?” he asked, his voice smooth but with a teasing edge. “You know, that’s usually a sign of stress. Perhaps we should revisit that meditation routine I mentioned.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed and speechless, wondering how much he’d overheard. But then you caught sight of that soft smile he reserved just for you, and your brain short-circuited all over again.

Right. The original character was definitely an idiot.

The first major hurdle hit you when you least expected it.

It all started with what should have been a calm afternoon—a brief moment of peace where you and Vil could actually spend time together, no schemes, no weird confrontations, just enjoying tea. You were finally getting comfortable with each other, slowly building the trust that had been so fragile at the start. Finally, you thought, things were moving smoothly.

Then the overused villainess trope decided to rear its ugly head.

Vil was talking about an upcoming event he’d be hosting, his voice calm, his usual stern features softened just slightly by the moment of peace. You were finally letting your guard down.

That was until the door creaked open and in waltzed the heroine’s best friend, a girl with wide, doe-like eyes and a penchant for stirring up unnecessary drama. Behind her, looming in the doorway, was the second male lead—your eternal source of frustration from the novel. He was tall, brooding, and always, always popping up at the most inconvenient moments. A defeated looking Epel walked in behind them, with a look that screamed 'trust me I tried to stop them.'

“Oh no,” you whispered under your breath, recognizing this scene before it could even play out. You knew what was coming, and you braced yourself for the utter absurdity of it.

Vil’s sharp gaze flicked from the two intruders back to you, his brows furrowing in mild irritation. “What is it now?” he muttered, already sensing the impending nonsense.

The heroine’s friend, ever the bringer of chaos, marched right up to your table with a dramatic flair that could only come from someone who believed they were the only purveyor of justice. “I can’t stay quiet any longer!” she declared, pointing an accusatory finger in Vil’s direction. “Vil, how could you treat the heroine this way?! You’ve been so cold, so distant—and it’s clear that you don’t truly care for anyone but yourself!”

You blinked. Excuse me?

Vil’s lips pursed, the irritation growing on his face. “And what, pray tell, did I do?”

“You know what you did!” she exclaimed, crossing her arms like she’d just delivered the most damning statement in history. “You’ve been ignoring her, brushing her off, and acting like she doesn’t even exist. She’s heartbroken because of you!”

You groaned internally. Oh no, this was that scene. The one where, because Vil once made an offhand comment about the heroine’s poor choice in dresses at a ball, suddenly he was painted as some cruel villain who was emotionally tormenting the delicate heroine. It was such an incredibly stupid misunderstanding that you distinctly remembered wanting to throw the book across the room when you’d first read it.

To make matters worse, the second male lead, standing silently but brooding in the doorway, was glowering at Vil like he was ready to challenge him to a duel at any moment. Because of a comment about a dress.

“Are you serious?” you blurted out, the frustration bubbling up before you could stop yourself.

The heroine’s friend gasped, her eyes wide. “Excuse me?!”

“Let me get this straight,” you said, rising from your seat with a groan, “you’re upset because Vil, what, didn’t shower her with praise at the last event? And now you’ve decided to come in here, storming into our tea time, to complain about it?”

The second male lead’s brooding scowl deepened, his jaw tightening. “Vil has been cruel—”

“About a dress.” You cut him off, waving your hand dismissively. “Vil made one comment about her dress. That’s it. And now we’re doing this whole song and dance like he’s some kind of evil tyrant?”

The room was already tense, the heroine’s best friend visibly fuming, but you couldn’t help it. The words just came out before you could stop them.

“And while we’re at it,” you said, your voice dripping with mock innocence, “let’s talk about that dress. You know, the one you’re all so upset about. I mean, I’m no fashion expert, but who in their right mind thought wearing that shade of mustard-yellow was a good idea?”

The friend’s mouth fell open, but you weren’t finished. “I mean, she walked into the ballroom looking like a sad banana trying to go to a high society function. I get it—saintess and all that—but there’s no reason to dress like the interior of an overripe cantaloupe.”

Vil made a choking sound next to you, and you dared to glance at him. His eyes were wide with shock, but there was an unmistakable glint of amusement. Oh, he wasn’t pleased with the crudeness, but he definitely wasn’t going to stop you either.

“And you,” you said, turning to the second male lead, who had been standing there like a silent, brooding statue, just staring at the two of you menacingly. “What’s your excuse? You came in here with all this brooding energy, acting like you’re about to duel someone over the fate of the heroine. But seriously, what’s with your whole tragic hero act? Is your personality just permanent raincloud or do you practice that in the mirror?”

Vil covered his mouth with his hand, and you could see his shoulders shaking slightly. He was losing the battle to keep his composure, but he was trying—for dignity’s sake, of course.

Epel, on the other hand, had completely given up. The moment you’d said “sad banana,” he had fallen off his chair, doubled over in laughter, his face red as he clutched his sides. You weren’t sure if it was your insults or the second male lead’s thunderstruck expression, but either way, Epel was in hysterics.

“I—” the heroine’s friend sputtered, but you interrupted her again.

“Oh, and you.” You looked her up and down with a condescending smirk. “You really want to talk about fashion? Because I don’t know who told you that wearing ruffles with plaid was a look, but they were wrong. You’re out here looking like you got lost in a fabric store and fell into the clearance bin.”

This time, Vil snorted. Actually snorted. The sound was so out of place that it almost derailed your tirade, but you powered through, buoyed by his reaction.

The second male lead looked like he was ready to explode, his aura now bordering on murderous. “You can’t just—”

“Oh, can’t I?” you shot back, crossing your arms. “Because it seems like all of you came in here with the intent to stir up drama over something as trivial as a constructive remark. If you’re going to go to war over fashion, at least wear something that doesn’t look like you picked it out with your eyes closed. Scratch that, I couldn’t imagine picking that up even with my eyes closed.”

By now, Epel was rolling on the floor, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. “C-couldn’t pick it out… with your eyes closed!” he wheezed, slapping his knee.

Vil, despite himself, let out a low giggle, shaking his head in disbelief. “Well,” he said, his voice steady but filled with mirth, “I suppose subtlety was never your strong suit.”

The heroine’s friend, now red-faced and flustered beyond belief, grabbed the second male lead by the arm and yanked him toward the door. “This isn’t over,” she spat, glaring at you. “We’ll see who’s laughing when the heroine—”

“Yeah, yeah,” you waved dismissively, “when the heroine what? Realizes she’s been pining for someone who can't tell mustard from elegance? Trust me, I’m not worried.”

With that, they both stormed out, slamming the door behind them in a huff of embarrassment and frustration. The second they were gone, you let out a breath and sank back into your chair, grinning at Vil, who was now openly smiling.

“You really didn’t hold back, did you?” Vil said, his amusement evident despite his usual calm demeanor. “I don’t approve of such… crude insults, but I must admit—” his lips twitched— “it was rather effective.”

Epel, still recovering from his laughing fit, managed to haul himself back into his seat, wiping tears from his eyes. “That was… that was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen,” he said between gasps for air. “I can’t believe ya said that right to their faces!”

“Glad to be of service,” you said with a grin, though your heart was still pounding in your chest. You couldn’t believe you’d actually said all of that out loud. But judging by Vil’s pleased expression and Epel’s ongoing laughter, it had been worth it.

Maybe surviving this trash novel wouldn’t be so bad after all.

You’d barely had time to process how bizarrely normal your life as the villain’s fiancée had become when the next absurd isekai plot point decided to rear its ugly, trope-filled head again.

It all started at yet another lavish tea party. Honestly, you’d begun to lose track of how many of these events you were forced to attend. They all blurred together into a haze of polite smiles, floral patterns, and far too much sugar.

This time, you were seated next to Vil, who, as always, looked like he had just stepped out of a renaissance painting. You, on the other hand, were trying not to spill tea on the new dress he’d insisted you wear. The dress itself was lovely, of course—Vil had impeccable taste—but the whole setting made you feel like you were constantly walking on eggshells. Especially since she was here. The heroine.

Today, though, you were determined to get through it without any drama. Just smile, nod, and let the heroine do her thing. Easy, right?

Wrong.

Everything had been going smoothly, too. The heroine, in all her sunshiney glory, was seated at the table, surrounded by her usual group of admirers. You had been doing a great job of fading into the background until someone—the hostess, perhaps?—brought up your previous adventures.

“Oh, didn’t you once accompany the Grand Duke to deal with that bandit problem on the eastern border?” the hostess asked, fanning herself with interest. “What a thrilling ordeal!”

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, feeling the weight of too many eyes on you. “Well, I wouldn’t say thrilling exactly…” you began, trying to downplay it, but your nerves had other ideas. “I mean, the heroine here was probably off rescuing some poor lost puppy while I was just, you know, holding down the real danger.”

The air went cold.

The moment the words left your mouth, you froze. The table fell silent, save for the quiet clinking of teacups being set down. Every eye was on you. The heroine’s wide, eyes blinked at you, full of hurt and confusion. And across from you, the second male lead—Mr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding—looked like he was ready to leap across the table and strangle you on the spot.

Oh no. Oh no no no. Why did you leave your filter at home?

You opened your mouth to apologize, but before you could, the second male lead slammed his cup down on the table, the porcelain rattling ominously. “You dare insult her honor?!” he roared, rising from his seat like some kind of vengeful storm cloud. “I will not stand for this!”

*Why did I say that?* You cringed internally, face turning a bright shade of crimson. "I-it was a joke—"

“No,” he declared dramatically, pointing a finger at you. “I demand satisfaction! A duel for her honor!”

You were still too stunned to respond, your brain scrambling to make sense of the situation. A duel? Over this? All you’d implied was that the heroine wasn’t exactly… battle-hardened. Surely that wasn’t duel-worthy? This man was acting like you’d called his mother a turnip or something worse.

The heroine, ever the epitome of grace, tried to intervene. “There’s no need for—”

But Mr. Broody wasn’t having it. “No! Her honor has been besmirched, and I shall defend it with my life!”

Vil, who had been watching this spectacle unfold with an expression of mild disgust, finally rose from his chair. His cool gaze swept over the table, landing on the second male lead with all the intensity of a snake about to strike.

“If anyone’s honor has been besmirched,” Vil said icily, “it’s mine. And I will not allow my betrothed to be disrespected by the likes of you.”

You blinked up at Vil, stunned. “Wait, you’re going to duel him? Yourself?”

Vil turned his piercing gaze to you, and though his face remained calm, there was a glimmer of something softer in his eyes. “Of course,” he said. “I would never entrust such a matter to anyone else. Besides…” His lips curled into a smirk. “It’s been a while since I’ve put an upstart in his place.”

You gulped, suddenly feeling a bit light-headed. Was it getting hot in here?

The second male lead, apparently unaware of just how screwed he was, smirked triumphantly. “Very well! Let’s settle this once and for all.”

The duel was set for the next day in your estate gardens. You spent the time leading up to it pacing back and forth in your chambers, wringing your hands in nervous anticipation. Somewhere along the way, you’d decided that you needed to do something—anything—to support Vil. So you had spent hours learning how to embroider a handkerchief, your fingers aching from the effort. By the time you finished, you were practically shaking, but you were proud of the result.

You didn’t expect Vil to be touched, let alone notice that you’d worked so hard. But when you handed him the handkerchief just before the duel, his eyes widened in surprise.

“You made this?” he asked, holding it delicately between his fingers, as if it were some priceless artifact.

You nodded sheepishly. “I figured, you know, for luck. Or to rub it in his face after you beat him. Whichever.”

Vil chuckled, his usually sharp expression softening. “Thank you,” he said, his voice low. He then noticed the small needle marks on your hands and frowned. “You hurt yourself.”

You quickly hid your hands behind your back. “It’s nothing! I mean, I’m fine. Just a few pricks here and there.”

Vil’s expression softened even further, and for a moment, he looked almost… touched. He carefully tucked the handkerchief into his coat pocket, a small but genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’ll be sure to put this to good use.”

You didn’t swoon. Well, maybe just a little.

The duel was, in a word, ridiculous.

The second male lead strutted around like a peacock, his sword gleaming in the afternoon sunlight as he swung it dramatically for the small crowd that had gathered. “Prepare yourself, Schoenheit!” he bellowed, pointing his sword at Vil.

Vil, on the other hand, looked utterly unimpressed. He barely glanced at the man before calmly removing his coat and handing it to you. “Hold this, will you?”

You took the coat with a nod, trying not to pass out from how effortlessly graceful he looked even in the midst of preparing for a fight.

The second male lead lunged forward with all the finesse of a drunken ox, his sword clashing loudly against Vil’s. For a moment, it looked like a real duel—until Vil, with a single fluid motion, disarmed the man in one clean strike. The second male lead’s sword went flying, landing in the bushes several feet away with a pathetic thud.

The crowd gasped, and you had to stifle a laugh. It had barely been five seconds, and the duel was already over.

The second male lead stood there, stunned, his hand frozen mid-air where his sword had been. He blinked once, twice, then turned bright red with embarrassment. “W-what?!”

Vil, ever composed, didn’t even break a sweat. He sheathed his sword and gave the man a cold, dismissive look. “This duel is over. Consider your demand for satisfaction... fulfilled. Now, kindly leave before you embarrass yourself further.”

You bit your lip, trying not to giggle as the second male lead sputtered and tried to come up with an excuse, but it was clear to everyone that he had been utterly humiliated. Even the heroine, standing off to the side, looked like she was struggling to keep a straight face.

As the second male lead stumbled off, defeated, Vil turned to you and offered his hand. “Shall we go?”

You took his hand, still trying to process how easily he had won. “You were amazing,” you blurted out, your heart fluttering as you gazed up at him. “Seriously, that was… wow.”

Vil smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement. “Of course I was.” He then leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper. “And I expect a proper reward later for defending your honor.”

Your face went beet red, and you were pretty sure you’d forgotten how to breathe.

Yep, you thought as he led you away, his hand still in yours, surviving this trash novel might not be so bad after all.

It happened at one of those overly extravagant banquets the royal court liked to throw. You spotted Neige from across the room, all bright eyes and an innocent smile. He was the epitome of purity, as if his very presence could summon woodland creatures to frolic at his feet.

And you hated him on sight.

You watched in disbelief as everyone around him melted into puddles of admiration. He was practically glowing, and his overly cheerful, squeaky voice was grating on your ears.

The overly saccharine male lead stood there, looking like a cross between a baby bunny and a sentient cupcake. Everything about him screamed "pure-hearted." You nearly gagged on your drink, hoping no one noticed your grimace.

Vil noticed your sour expression and leaned in. “Is something the matter?”

“That’s him, isn’t it?” you said through clenched teeth. “The one I used to follow around?”

Vil followed your gaze, and for a moment, his lips twitched in the faintest show of amusement. “Yes. That’s Neige.”

You snorted. "I can't believe anyone in their right mind would prefer him over you."

Vil's lips curled into a smirk, and he tilted his head slightly. “Oh? Is that so?” His voice was silky, dangerously low, but you could see the flash of satisfaction behind his eyes.

“Yeah,” you muttered, still glaring in Neige's direction. “I mean, look at him. He’s so… good. And not in a ‘wow, what a decent person’ way. It’s like he’s one bad haircut away from sprouting fairy wings and breaking into song.”

Vil let out a low chuckle, right next to you ear, (Lord, have mercy) the sound sending shivers down your spine. “I never thought I’d hear you speak this way about him. You’ve been fawning over Neige for as long as I can remember.”

You rolled your eyes, throwing your hands up. “That was the old me. The dumb me. I mean, have you seen you?” You gestured dramatically toward him. “How could anyone even look at Neige when you exist?”

Vil was quiet for a moment, watching you intently. His violet eyes glinted with something unreadable, but you could tell he was pleased. Oh, he was very pleased.

“You certainly have changed,” he murmured, the smirk never leaving his lips. “And I must admit, I find it rather… delightful.”

Before you could respond, a very familiar voice rang out from behind you. “Ah! What a beautiful reunion this is! A moment filled with l’amour, sparkling like the stars in the sky!”

You nearly jumped out of your skin as Rook Hunt appeared seemingly out of thin air, his hands dramatically clasped together as he beamed at you both. “I have seen many couples in my lifetime, but none quite so radiant as you two.”

You blinked, trying to recover from his sudden appearance. “Rook… were you just… hiding in the curtains again?”

Rook, ever the dramatist, placed a hand on his heart and smiled wistfully. “Ah, but how could I stay away when the beauty of your love draws me in like a moth to a flame?”

Vil raised an eyebrow. “Rook, you’re not helping.”

“Non, non, mon ami,” Rook insisted, twirling in place with a flourish. “I am merely basking in the glow of what is surely a love for the ages! The way your eyes meet, the subtle tension in the air—it is magnifique!”

You sighed, shaking your head, though you couldn’t help but chuckle at Rook’s antics. Meanwhile, from the other side of the ballroom, Epel was watching the scene unfold with barely concealed amusement. He caught your eye and shot you a grin, raising his glass as if to say, Good luck with this.

But the fun wasn’t over. Oh no. Neige, the human embodiment of a children’s choir, started making his way toward you. As he approached, his bright eyes locked on yours, his smile so innocent and wide that you almost felt bad for what you were about to do.

Almost.

“Good evening!” Neige greeted you, his voice as sweet as sugar. “I don’t believe we’ve had the chance to properly meet.”

You stared at him for a moment, unimpressed. “Yeah, uh-huh.”

Neige blinked, clearly taken aback by your lack of enthusiasm. He probably wasn’t used to people not immediately falling at his feet. “It’s truly wonderful to meet you! I’ve heard so much about you.”

You squinted at him. “Mm-hmm.”

Vil, standing beside you, looked positively elated. You could practically feel the smug energy radiating off of him. He wasn’t even hiding his smile anymore.

Neige continued, oblivious to your complete disinterest. “I’m so glad we’ll have the chance to spend time together in the coming months! I hope we can—”

“Yeah, no, I’m good,” you interrupted, turning away and pointedly ignoring his very existence.

Neige blinked again, looking like a lost puppy. You almost felt a little bad. Almost.

Vil, on the other hand, looked like Christmas had come early. His arm slipped around your waist, his touch gentle. “I must say,” he murmured into your ear, his voice laced with amusement, “I’ve never enjoyed one of these balls quite so much.”

Yup, maybe this novel isn't that trashy after all?

Everytime you think this novel might not be that bad, it manages to prove you wrong.

The day had finally arrived: the Founding Day Ball. The event to end all events, where the kingdom’s most distinguished were honored in a grand ceremony. And, of course, at the top of the list of honorees was Vil, who might as well have been carved into the actual history of the kingdom itself with how perfect he was.

As his partner for the evening, you were dressed to the nines, dripping in elegance you didn’t even know you were capable of. When you caught your reflection in one of the massive ballroom mirrors, you had to do a double-take.

"Who is that?" you whispered, eyes wide. "Oh. It’s me."

Honestly, if there was a chance of impressing anyone here, you were impressed with yourself.

The ceremony went as expected. Vil was awarded the highest honors, his name met with thunderous applause as he gave a speech that left the crowd swooning. You found yourself half-clapping, half-gawking, wondering how this man kept getting more perfect. Like, was he actually human?

But as the evening progressed, the dreaded scene you despised the most crept into the evening, like a bad smell at a gourmet dinner.

After the ceremony, it was time for the opening dance. Naturally, Vil, being the epitome of grace and nobility, was the prime candidate to lead it. You were fully expecting him to ask you, but before he could even turn in your direction, the heroine — yes, that heroine — appeared out of nowhere, like she was materializing straight from the pages of the worst romance novel ever written.

“Vil,” she said in a voice that sounded like honey and broken promises, “I trust you’ll grant me the honor of the first dance.”

You blinked. *Excuse me?*

She said it so confidently, as if it were a foregone conclusion, like she was used to the world revolving around her whims. It was the equivalent of someone just cutting the line in front of you at the store and expecting applause for their audacity.

Vil, for his part, didn’t even flinch. His expression was as cool and elegant as ever, but you could see a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“I’m afraid,” he said, voice smooth and polite, “I already have a partner for the first dance.”

The heroine’s face froze in a way that almost made you choke on your own breath. “W-What?” She blinked rapidly, as if her brain couldn’t process the fact that someone had just told her no.

You, too, were a little stunned, for a seperate. Was she actually planning on throwing a tantrum right now? In public? At a literal state function?

“B-But you always dance with me,” she stammered, voice rising in disbelief, her face turning an alarming shade of pink. “I’m supposed to be your first dance!”

You physically had to stop yourself from snorting. Always? He has never even looked at her for longer than five seconds! You couldn't recall a single time Vil had given her anything beyond basic pleasantries. The only reason she’d be in his line of sight was because she was constantly putting herself there.

Vil’s lips twitched slightly, though whether it was out of irritation or amusement, you couldn’t tell. “I don’t recall ever dancing with you,” he said calmly, as though she were discussing someone else entirely.

The heroine blinked, clearly taken aback. “W-What?”

Vil’s voice dropped to an even icier tone, leaving no room for misunderstanding. “In fact, I dislike the very idea of it.”

The heroine made a strangled sound behind you, like a baby bird trying to scream.

You looked around the room, half-expecting hidden cameras to pop out, because this had to be a prank. Who acts like this?!

And as you floated onto the dance floor with Vil, you couldn’t help but marvel at the absolute insufferable nature of the scene you’d just witnessed. This was, without a doubt, the moment that solidified your hatred for the trash-tier novel world you’d been trapped in. People like her actually existed here?

Behind you, the heroine stomped her foot like a petulant child, completely ignored by the crowd. It would’ve been almost sad if it wasn’t so ridiculous.

And as you twirled under the chandeliers, feeling Vil’s warmth beside you and the heroine’s tantrum echoing faintly in the background, one thing became crystal clear:

This novel may have been trash, but at least you were the one dancing with the prince of perfection.

It hit you like a ton of bricks one day—completely out of nowhere. You had been sitting in Vil’s study, watching him work. He was meticulously going over some documents, his brow furrowed in concentration, his golden hair falling perfectly in place despite him having been there for hours. You were supposed to be reading through some kingdom protocol book, but instead, your gaze kept drifting over to him.

He’s so… beautiful.

You blinked, the thought suddenly snapping you out of whatever trance you’d fallen into.

Wait…

Your eyes widened. Oh no. Oh no no no no no.

You slammed the book shut, startling Vil from his work as you stood up abruptly. “I-I need some air.”

Vil raised an elegant eyebrow, clearly amused by your sudden panic. “Something the matter?”

“No! Nothing’s the matter!” you said, far too quickly, your voice an octave higher than usual. You stumbled over your chair in your haste to get out of the room, nearly tripping on your own feet. “I just—need to—um—fresh air, yes, exactly!”

Before Vil could say anything else, you bolted from the study and down the hall, your heart racing as though you’d just run a marathon. You darted into the nearest empty room and pressed your back against the door, your mind swirling with confusion.

Am I falling for him?

You slapped a hand over your mouth, horrified by the realization. “No… no, this isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. I’m in love with a character from this awful, brain-numbing novel?”

You slumped against the door, groaning as the full weight of the situation sank in. How could this happen? How could my first true love— you gagged at the phrase —be from this trash novel?

There was no escaping it now. The butterflies in your stomach every time Vil looked your way, the way your heart skipped a beat whenever he smiled, the fact that you wanted nothing more than to be close to him… it was all painfully obvious.

You buried your face in your hands. “I’m going to die. I’m going to die of embarrassment in this ridiculous world.”

And the worst part? It wasn’t even one of the good isekai novels. You’d somehow gotten stuck in what could be considered objectively the worst one, and yet here you were, head over heels for a character who—against all odds—turned out to be the most amazing person you’d ever met.

“Oh god,” you muttered to yourself, sliding down to the floor, your head falling back against the door with a thud. “I'm in love with Vil. I’m doomed. Completely doomed.”

“Mon Dieu! What a revelation!” a voice suddenly rang out from the shadows.

You yelped, whipping around to see none other than Rook Hunt—perched in the corner of the room like some kind of overly dramatic bird of prey, his hat casting a mysterious shadow over his eyes. His entire being radiated excitement, and you swore you saw actual sparkles in the air around him.

“Rook?! How long have you been there?!”

“Long enough, my dear,” he said, voice hushed with reverence, as though you had just confessed your deepest, most tragic secret. “Ah, love! The torment, the longing! The exquisite despair you must be feeling!” He took a step forward, eyes gleaming with unbridled enthusiasm. “But fear not, mon ami, for I, Rook Hunt, shall be your faithful cupid! Together, we shall make Vil see the truth of your affections!”

You blinked, stunned. “Uh… I’m not sure that’s—"

“Ah, but you must!" Rook declared, swooping down to kneel dramatically before you. “Love, once realized, must be pursued with all one’s passion and determination! Do not let this opportunity slip through your fingers like sand in the wind! I shall assist you!”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the sheer intensity of his expression made you falter. Rook was looking at you like this was the most important mission of his life.

Honestly, what did you have to lose at this point?

With a deep, exhausted sigh, you muttered, “Fine. Fine! I’ll do it. Help me, Rook.”

Rook’s grin stretched so wide it was borderline terrifying. “Excellent! This will be an adventure for the ages!” Before you could even process what you’d agreed to, Rook leaped to his feet and clapped his hands together. “But we will need more help. A certain someone with a youthful spirit and just enough mischievousness to add that je ne sais quoi to our plans.”

Oh no.

Cue Epel.

“What the hell are you ropin’ me into?” Epel grumbled as Rook dragged him into your predicament not five minutes later.

“I have volunteered you for a most noble cause, mon petit pomme,” Rook said, not even breaking stride as he swept Epel into the room. “Our dear friend here is head over heels for our Vil, and we are going to help them win his heart”

Epel paused, blinking at you in disbelief. “Wait, Vil? That Vil?” He gestured vaguely in the direction of where Vil’s office was.

“Yes, that Vil,” you said flatly, already regretting every life decision that had led you to this point.

Epel gave you a dubious look. “And you agreed to let Rook help you?”

You groaned, dragging a hand over your face. “Don’t remind me.”

“Alright, fine. I’m in.” Epel shrugged, a wicked grin creeping onto his face. “If we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna do it big.”

Thus began the most absurd, over-the-top, and borderline catastrophic schemes in an attempt to prove your love to Vil Schoenheit.

It started innocently enough. You wanted to make Vil his favorite tea. Simple, right? But Rook insisted that it couldn’t just be any tea. No, it had to be presented with an air of mystery and allure.

“Bring it to him while reciting a sonnet of devotion!” Rook suggested. “Declare your admiration with each step, so that he understands the depth of your feelings!”

“I’m not reciting a sonnet, Rook.”

Epel, on the other hand, was far more pragmatic. “Or you could just… write him a note and leave it with the tea?”

That seemed normal. Rational. You’d take Epel’s advice. So, you snuck into Vil’s room, left the tea and a note on his desk, and slipped out before anyone noticed.

The next morning, Vil eyed you suspiciously over breakfast. “Did you leave tea in my study last night?”

You nodded, trying to play it cool. “Yeah, I thought you’d appreciate it.”

Vil’s eyes narrowed, but you swore you saw the corner of his lips twitch into the faintest smile. “I see. How thoughtful.”

Then came Operation: Compliment Vil at Every Opportunity.

Rook, of course, insisted you be poetic. “Tell him his beauty rivals the very stars in the sky!”

“I’m not saying that.”

Epel chimed in with a much more straightforward approach: “Just tell him his hair looks nice. It’s always nice.”

But Rook’s enthusiasm was contagious, and before you knew it, you found yourself blurting out, “Your radiance is blinding today, Vil! Truly, I must shield my eyes from such ethereal beauty!”

Vil, who had been in the middle of inspecting his reflection, froze. His eyes darted to you, and he gave you a strange look.

“Are you… feeling alright? Did you perhaps get bitten by a stray Rook?”

You shook your head vigorously, your face heating up from how ridiculous you sounded. “Totally fine! Just… appreciating your beauty! Yep. Normal stuff.”

Vil didn’t say anything, but you could see a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. He looked amused—and maybe a little pleased—but more than anything, he seemed confused.

At least he didn’t think you’d lost your mind. Yet.

You were convinced this novel had it out for you from the beginning, but this? This was a new low. The memory loss trope, the final attempt to make your life as ridiculous as possible, had arrived—right on schedule.

You knew how it was supposed to go. You’d hit your head (a complete accident, obviously), wake up with no memory of Vil, and immediately make the worst decisions possible, like falling for that knockoff prince, Neige. Cue dramatic heartbreak, public humiliation, and eventual abandonment. Classic trashy novel shenanigans.

But apparently, the universe—or whatever cosmic force was in charge of your suffering—had decided to take a vacation after all the work it had been putting in. Because when you opened your eyes and saw Vil leaning over you, worry etched into his perfect face, instead of forgetting him, you were… immediately smitten?

What?

And it didn’t stop there. When he took your hand in his, gently kissing your knuckles in that heartbreakingly tender way, it was like a light switch flipped. Your memories came rushing back, completely bypassing the whole convoluted plot about amnesia and bad decisions.

Because of course in this disaster of a novel, the solution to everything was true love's kiss. The most overdone, eye-rolling cliché in the history of romance, and yet here you were, living through it.

You almost laughed out loud. Of all the tropes this novel had thrown at you—evil fiancées, jealous heroines, duels for honor—this had to be the funniest. It was as if the universe had taken one look at your situation and said, “You know what? Let’s skip the suffering and go straight to the ridiculous happy ending.”

True love’s kiss. Really. This novel is mocking me at this point, you thought, fighting the urge to scream. But hey, at least you didn’t have to deal with more drama. And as Vil’s concerned gaze softened into a relieved smile, you couldn’t help but think that, maybe, this was one trope you didn’t mind after all.

You'd almost given up on confessing. Maybe you'll just live like this forever, your fate was sealed. The novel clearly doesn't want you to tell him how you feel.

But there was another ball (because apparently that's the only place that nobility had be at in this novel. What was this? the 108th ball of the year?) You'd decided that you'll ask him for a stroll under the moonlight and just tell him.

Of course, the novel is not on your side. What's new?

The ball was going well—well, for you and Vil, anyway. You’d just finished dancing, and he looked absolutely stunning, as usual. You were basking in the afterglow of all the whispered praise and envious stares. That is, until you overheard someone bad-mouthing Vil.

Of course, it had to be the heroine’s best friend, who was apparently using this grand occasion to air her grievances.

“I just don’t understand why Vil is always so cold to her,” she whined, loud enough for everyone within a three-mile radius to hear. “She’s the saintess! She deserves kindness and adoration, not disdain.”

Cue the dramatic gasps from the crowd. Ah, here we go.

You shot Vil a look, but he merely shrugged, rolling his eyes. He clearly didn’t want to start any trouble. But you? Oh, you were about to flip the table on these idiots.

“Excuse me,” you began, stepping forward, the crowd parting like the Red Sea as you made your way over. “I couldn’t help but overhear your incredibly loud complaints about my fiancé.”

The heroine’s best friend froze, clearly not expecting you to get involved. You smiled sweetly, but your eyes were throwing daggers.

“Let me set the record straight. Vil isn’t cold to her because she’s the ‘saintess,’” you air-quoted the title, “He’s cold to her because she’s an insufferable brat who’s so used to getting her way that she throws a tantrum every time someone says ‘no.’”

More gasps from the crowd. You could see Neige stiffening across the ballroom, already sensing where this was going. But there was no stopping you now.

“And don’t get me started on you,” you pointed at the best friend, your tone dripping with sarcasm. “You’re out here defending her honor like you’re some knight in shining armor when, let’s be real, you’re just as bad. You fawn over her like a lost puppy, expecting her to shower you with praise when all you do is enable her delusions.”

Vil, somewhere behind you, was probably trying not to laugh. But you weren't done.

“And as for your precious Neige over there?” you tilted your head toward the prince-wannabe, who was looking more and more uncomfortable by the second. “He’s not some perfect angel either. He’s just a guy with an unsettling talent for showing up at the most convenient times, with that same doe-eyed, clueless expression, making everyone feel sorry for him.”

You didn’t stop at Neige.

"And as for you," you said, spinning toward the brooding Duke of the North, the infamous second male lead, who had been leaning against a pillar, looking every bit the tall, tormented, handsome cliché. “You’re not fooling anyone either. You’re the king of melodramatic entrances. Always lurking in the shadows, trying to look mysterious, but really, you’re just sulking because no one’s paying attention to you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—are you brooding? Again? Let me guess, you’re thinking about some dark secret that you’ll drop at the most inconvenient moment to make things worse for everyone, right?” You mimicked his deep, serious voice. “‘It’s the burden I must bear… alone.’” You threw your head back in mock agony, hands dramatically placed on your chest.

He straightened up, clearly offended, but you didn’t give him the chance to speak.

“And stop pretending like you’re some tragic hero,” you added, lowering your voice with a sharp edge. “You’re just a guy with commitment issues who sacrifices himself because you can’t handle the fact that the heroine doesn’t want you. Let it go.”

There was dead silence. You half-expected a chandelier to drop just for the dramatic effect. Even Vil had to look away for a moment, probably to hide the fact that he in tears, about to burst out laughing.

The heroine was slack-jawed, her best friend looked like she wanted to melt into the floor, and Neige… well, Neige just looked confused. As always.

Satisfied, you dusted off your hands and turned back to Vil, who was looking at you with a mixture of shock and awe, as if he’d just witnessed some divine intervention.

You let out a satisfied huff and turned to leave. "Come on, Vil, I can't stand to be in the same room as these second-rate characters any longer, let's bounce"

Once outside, you saw Vil was still recovering, a smirk pulling at his lips. “I think you may have traumatized half the ballroom.”

“Good,” you huffed, crossing your arms. “They deserved it. Especially that brooding Duke. ‘I sacrifice myself for the greater good.’ Ugh, give me a break.”

Vil chuckled, sliding his arm around your waist. "Still, you didn’t have to go to such lengths for me."

You stopped in your tracks, spun around, and looked him dead in the eye. “Of course I did! I love you, Vil. I couldn’t just sit there and let them trash you like that.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you froze. Oh. Well. There it was.

Vil’s eyes widened, a rare, unguarded expression crossing his face. For a moment, he just stood there, taking in your words. Then, without a word, he cupped your face in his hands and kissed you, soft but sure, like he’d been waiting for this moment as much as you had.

When he pulled back, his smile was the softest you’d ever seen. “You love me,” he repeated, almost like he couldn’t believe it.

You nodded, a bit breathless from both the confession and the kiss. “Yes, Vil. I love you. Even with all your ridiculously high standards and obsession with skincare.”

Vil laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.”

Vil pulled back slightly, his hands still resting on your waist, and asked with a quiet, almost teasing tone, "Well then, since you love me so much... should we get married?"

You blinked, your brain taking a second to catch up. "Wait—what? Married? Like, right now?" You stared at him, heart racing, before suddenly, an idea lit up your face like a firework. “Oh my god, yes! Let’s do it. Let’s get married ASAP. Like, today. Right now. Do we even need a ceremony? We can find an officiant and—boom—done. Just tell me where to sign!”

Vil’s eyes widened, taken aback by your sudden enthusiasm. “Are you… serious?”

You grabbed his hand, absolutely buzzing with energy. “Of course, I’m serious! Why wait? This dumbass universe keeps throwing garbage tropes at us, and honestly? Getting married right now is the perfect way to flip the script! Take that, fate!"

Before Vil could respond, an overly excited voice erupted from behind a nearby pillar. “Oh là là! Mon cœur can hardly handle this romance!” Rook leaped out from the shadows, practically sparkling with joy, as if he had been waiting for this very moment all his life. "The passion! The declaration of love! And now, a spontaneous wedding? Magnifique!”

“Rook!?” Vil’s voice was a mix of amusement and exasperation. “Have you been spying on us?”

“Spying?” Rook gasped dramatically, placing a hand on his chest. “Non, non, Vil! I was merely ensuring your well-being as any devoted friend would!” He gave a wink, clearly pleased with his role as an unintended audience.

“Me too!” Epel poked his head out from behind another pillar, grinning sheepishly. “I mean, who’d wanna miss out on somethin’ like this? Y’all are gettin’ married!”

Vil let out a long, tired sigh, but you could see the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I can’t believe this is happening,” he muttered.

“Oh, it’s happening,” you said, grabbing his arm again and dragging him forward. “We’re doing this, and it’s going to be the best wedding in this entire stupid book, Rook, Epel, you’re both invited. Wait, scratch that, you’re both in the wedding party now!”

“C’est incroyable!” Rook twirled dramatically, hands clasped together, already imagining his outfit for the occasion. “I shall be the most loyal and stylish groomsman! Oh, l’amour!”

“And I get to wear somethin’ fancy, right?” Epel asked, already envisioning something much cooler than his usual attire.

Vil was now fully grinning, his initial surprise turning into genuine amusement as he looked at you with sparkling eyes. “You really are something else.”

“Yeah, and now I’m gonna be your something else forever.” You beamed up at him, still holding onto his hand like you might drag him to the altar yourself right now.

“Well then,” Vil sighed, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Let’s get married.”

Before you could even start plotting where to drag Vil to find someone to officiate, Rook suddenly gasped, clasping his hands together dramatically. "Mon dieu! How could I forget? I am more than prepared for this moment!"

You and Vil exchanged puzzled looks. "What are you talking about, Rook?" Vil asked, raising a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

Rook grinned, remviong his hat and and dramatically pulling out a folded piece of parchment. "Behold!" he announced, waving the paper with a flourish. "A certified license to officiate weddings. I took the liberty of acquiring it long ago, knowing that one day I’d be the one to unite you and your beloved. C’est le destin!"

“You’re… licensed?” Vil blinked, looking at Rook like he had officially lost it. "And you're walking around with the license in your hat?"

Rook nodded with a dazzling smile. “Why yes, I’ve been preparing for this glorious day! Every flower petal, every gust of wind, every glance of love I’ve witnessed between you both has been leading to this fated moment!” He struck a pose, the parchment still dramatically held aloft.

You stared at him, then back at Vil. "Okay, I know this is ridiculous, but honestly? This is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard, and I kind of love it. Let's just let him do it."

Vil put a hand to his forehead, trying to suppress a chuckle. "Are we really doing this?"

“Yes!” you declared, squeezing Vil's hand. “If we’re going full chaos, we’re going all the way. Rook, officiate the hell out of this wedding!”

Epel, watching the entire spectacle, burst into laughter. “Only in this house, I swear…”

Rook practically sparkled with joy, bouncing on his feet. “Oh là là, it will be my greatest honor! I’ve been rehearsing my officiating speech in front of the mirror for months”

“Months?” Vil repeated, a mix of disbelief and exasperation in his tone.

“Mais oui! Every day, I’d wake up and say, ‘Today could be the day!’” Rook sighed dramatically, already tearing up. “And here we are. It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of. Now, shall we begin? I have the vows prepared, unless you have your own?”

You leaned into Vil, barely holding back laughter. “I have zero regrets about this. Absolutely zero.”

Vil sighed again but couldn’t stop smiling. “Only you could make something this absurd seem perfect.”

Series Masterlist ; Masterlist

Okay, this became way longer than I expected it to be but to be fair, i was on an extreme caffeine high and i'd just finished an assignment that had been beating my ass

also sorry for the neige slander, I don't hate him but vdc broke me

[chaussetteblanche]

and they were roommates pt. 4

pairing : Spencer Reid x fem!student!roommate!reader summary : 2.3k word count : your experience with the unsub warning : canon-typical violence (it gets a bit gory, torture-ish, implied sexual violence), swear words > read at your own risk, you are responsible for the media you consume A/N : thank you all for the support and love on this omggg <333 Emily's a tiny bit of a bitch in this one, whoopsie. y/n cries the whole time, I figured that was what I would do. would you guys like a part 5, maybe Spencer taking care of y/n after such a traumatic experience? some comfort after hurt?

part 1, part 2, part 3

The first thing you noticed when you came to your senses was the throbbing in the back of your head. Your first reflex was to bring your hand up to where you were sure to find blood, but you couldn’t move either of your arms. Opening your eyes wearily, you noticed that your wrists were restrained, binding you to an old wooden chair.  “What the-“ Your heart rate picked up as the memory of being hit over the head came back to you. Frantically looking around, your breathing started getting short and ragged when you realised your surrounding were wholly unfamiliar to you. You jerked your wrists to the sides, hoping that maybe the tight ropes would untie themselves. 

“Don’t tire yourself out,” an icy voice drawled from a dark corner. You could barely hear over the sound of the blood rushing in your ears. You cursed yourself when he stepped out of the shadows, greasy locks pushed behind his ears. You should have told Spencer. You should have known.

His face was barely visible in the dim light. The smell of dust and mold which clung to the room suited him well. His gaze on you made you feel dirty and you hated it. You examined the enclosed space you were in and realised you were in an abandoned art room on campus. You'd discovered it once with your friends by accident, years ago. Art supplies, canvases and desks were strewn about in a careless manner. You tried not to think too much about the blood dotting the floor in multiple places.

"Why did you bring me here?" you asked, doing your best to remain calm. He was clearly unstable and you didn't want to trigger him if you could help it. “Don't worry about that, just know you’re not getting out of here any time soon, honey.” He smiled, a frightening grimace, and licked his lips. Nausea clouded your senses for a second. Tears gathered on your waterline. “Oh yes, I will.” Your voice shook as you spoke and you hated how weak you sounded. His brows raised and he let slip a little, mocking laugh. It made your skin crawl. A tear slipped down your cheek and, humiliatingly, you couldn't wipe it away. “And why do you think that?” he asked, feigning interest. You scowled at him. “The FBI is going to find you, you sick fuck. If they couldn't before this, they definitely will now." 

Your head whipped to the side as he slapped you across the face. He bent down, placing his face mere centimetres from yours. Another tear fell from your eye as you felt your cheek sting and then get uncomfortably warm. “You stupid bitch,” he snarled. “You better watch your tone. You actually think they’ll find you? That's cute." You swallowed, opting to stay silent.

Spencer knew something had happened as soon as Hotch stepped into the room. Over the years, he'd learned how his boss functioned and how to separate all the micro-expressions he used before assembling them back together and interpreting them. Today, he could tell something was seriously wrong.

He hadn't even thought of you at first. In his mind, you were safe. The unsub had been arrested and proof was being searched for. The guy fit the profile and the profile never lied. So why did Hotch ask him to sit down?

"W- what?" "I think you may want to sit down for this." Spencer was getting agitated, he didn't like being kept out of the information loop. "Hotch, just tell us what's going on," pressed Morgan, brows drawn together. "You know how we asked all the professors to contact us immediately if anyone fitting the victimology didn't show up for class?" "Yeah," Emily nodded, urging Hotch on. "We got a call." The Unit Chief's eyes fell on Spencer and the latter knew what he was going to say before the words were uttered. "Spencer, Y/N's professor said she didn't show up to class this morning."

"O-okay, wait, that doesn't mean anything, we arrested a guy, she could just not be feeling well," Emily spoke hastily, concerned about the look on Spencer's face. "No, we must have the wrong-" Spencer was interrupted by Morgan: "Wait a second, the profile says-" "I don't care what the profile says, Morgan! Y/N's first class today is Germanic Ethos and Christian Faith in Medieval Literature, that's her favourite class, she's never missed it in the entire semester! And she was feeling well this morning, we had breakfast together and she would have told me if not! Clearly, we have the wrong guy!"

Silence reigned for a short moment after Spence's outburst. The entire team was left speechless by his behaviour, which was entirely unprecedented. Spencer ran a hand through his hair, letting out a small sigh. "I- Can you try calling her at least? Before we jump to any conclusions." Emily crossed her arms over her chest. Spencer sent her a dark look before whipping out his phone and pressing on the first name in his contact list. He put it on speaker and let it ring.

"No, no, please," you sobbed, "no more! Please! No, stop!"

Your voice was raw from screaming. Judging by the three shallow cuts he left on your right shoulder, the unsub enjoyed seeing your blood pearl and run down your skin. He also revelled in watching you writhe and scream in pain. "What did I tell you? Shut the fu-" He raised his hand in the air and you flinched away by reflex only to find the blow never came. You held your breath.

"I'm breaking dishes up in here all night, uh uh! I ain't gon' stop until I see police and lights, uh uh! I'm a fight a man tonight, I'm a fight a man-"

Oh, the irony. You didn't know whether to bless or curse Rihanna. "What the fuck is this?!" he roared, swivelling sharply on his feet to press the blade of his bloody knife into your cheek. You whimpered quietly. You couldn't help but think of all the infections you would be vulnerable to because of his dirty and rusted weapon. How could someone have so little care for basic hygiene? "It's- It's my ringtone! It's just my ringtone!"

"A man, a man, a ma-a-a-an! A man, a man, a ma-a-a-an!"

"You little bitch," he hissed, quickly untying your hands and grabbing your throat. He lifted you up by the neck and slammed you into the nearest wall, yelling about what a deceiving, conniving whore you were. You cried out in pain, desperately pulling at his hand which was wound tight around your throat. "You think your little friends are going to come and get you?!" he mocked, smushing your cheeks with his other hand. "Tough luck, doll, you're all alone and you're going to-" "Wait!" you spluttered, "Wait!" Your vision had begun going blurry but your mind remained intact. "If- If I don't answer, they'll know something's wrong! And then they'll send everyone out looking for me, for you!"

His grip on your throat lessened and you coughed, forcing air back into your lungs. Your eyes burned with tears. "What does it matter to you?" "Look- I- It doesn't matter, my ringtone is about to stop! And they'll come for sure!" Making a split-second decision, he stomped over to where he'd thrown your bag and sweater carelessly on the ground. You slid down onto the floor, wiping at your eyes. Hastily ruffling through your bag, he pulled your phone out after a second. You lamented all the flyaway papers you'd annotated with bright and lively colours now most likely stained with grime and blood. The unsub answered the call and roughly pressed the phone against your ear. You winced.

"O-Oh, Y/N! It's Spencer, are you alright?!" Big, fat tears rolled down your cheeks at the comforting sound of Spencer's voice. You wanted nothing more than to be near him, away from this living hell. If anyone could understand a message and find you, Spencer could. You were painfully aware of the little time you had left before the unsub got on with his routine and got rid of you. You cleared your throat, wanting to appear natural. "Hey! Yeah, I'm- I'm fine, I'm heading for my Wax Tablet Workshop, we are going to look at how writing on wax is art which has been abandoned by scholars, like universities." "O- Okay, sweets, I'll come get you after class okay? We can go for a coffee together!" "Sounds great, Spence!"

The unsub threw your phone onto the ground next to you and crushed it with his foot. You let your tears fall freely. Spencer had understood. He was coming.

"That was a hidden message, she doesn't have a Wax Tablet Workshop. It's not even a course the university offers." Spencer's brain was working even faster than usual. The BAU team had never seen him like this before. "Garcia, look for all abandoned locations on university campus. Maybe a classroom?" he urged.

The sound of a keyboard typing incredibly fast was heard on the speaker. "I've got one." Penelope's voice was urgent and contained no trace of its usual lightness. "There's an abandoned art studio on the East side of the campus. I'm sending you the address now."

"Let's go," ordered Hotch.

You'd never wear shorts again. Exhausted, beaten, bruised and tied to a chair, you didn't have the energy to do anything more than move your knee when he trailed his finger along it. You were starting to lose hope. There was no clock in sight, but you could guess your time would soon be up. Some part of you wanted to give up. You knew if Spencer were here, he'd tell you to keep fighting, to keep hoping. But you were tired, so, so tired.

You suspected you had a concussion from when he'd knocked out and when he'd slammed you into the wall. Your vision was blurry. Although, maybe that was due to the tears. They hadn't stopped coming since he'd first slapped you. But when his cold hand found your thigh and squeezed it roughly, the kindling fire in you regained strength. No. You would rather die than suffer whatever else he had planned for you. As he started moving his repulsive mouth towards you, you jerked your knee upwards, hard, right into his groin. He roared in pain and doubled over, stumbling backwards.

"Stay the fuck back!" you screamed hysterically. "Don't you dare fucking touch me, you psycho!" He met your eyes with a frenzied look you'd never seen before and pounced on you. The chair you were sitting on shattered with a loud noise and you screamed, finding yourself lying on top of splintery wood pieces. As he brought his arm upwards, knife facing downwards, towards you, you closed your eyes. You didn't want him to be the last thing you saw. You thought of all the good things in your life, your family, Spencer, Geoffrey, Spencer, your friends, Spencer,...

"Put it down!!!" bellowed a familiar voice. "Put it down now!" You opened your eyes. The door behind you had been broken down. FBI agents flooded the room, all aiming their guns at the man on top of you. His eyes darted frantically between Agent Morgan, whose voice you'd recognised, and two other agents you couldn't see.

"I want a deal!" the unsub cried out, "I want a deal!" "No deal," a deeper, more authoritative voice spoke. The unsub raised his arm again, preparing to strike. You closed your eyes.

BAM!

To this day, you didn't think the unsub expected to be shot. You figured he was expecting to be imprisoned. You didn't see the look on his face when he was shot, only felt the dead weight of his body falling on top of you.

Shrieking hysterically, you struggled frantically to move his corpse off you. Someone shoved him off you, promising you in a soothing voice that you were safe.

"Spencer." His name had never been spoke like that before. It was a haunting sob, a cry for help. He was at your side immediately, ridding you of the ropes around your wrists and pulling you away from the broken chair.

It was only when he called your name a third time that you finally found your grasp on reality again. Spencer pulled you into his arms, being careful not to squeeze you too tight. You wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in his shoulder. The comforting smell of him, of home, engulfed and grounded you. "It's okay," he cooed softly, lips brushing your ear, "you're safe now, he can't hurt you anymore." "Call an ambulance," you heard someone order in the distance. Sobbing hard into Spencer's shoulder, you pulled him impossibly closer to you. "I'm so sorry," you bawled, "I had seen him before on c- campus, like- like your boss said but I didn't want to tell you! I thought he was an- an exchange student!" Spencer shushed you, hands still shaking from taking the shot he took with no hesitation. This would be one of the kills he wouldn’t loose any sleep over. "You have nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart, you did everything right, I promise you."

"I- I didn't do what you always say," you hiccuped sadly, mouth moving against the material of his sweater vest, staining it with blood and tears. It was an article of clothing which would be ruined for both of you. Spencer would give it to charity a week later, you wouldn't miss it. "I didn't play into his fantasy, I kept telling him you were going to find me, and he was so angry!" "Baby." This was the first he'd called you that. It stopped you in your tracks. "Listen to me, you did everything right. You may not still be alive if you'd played into his fantasy. You were perfect, I promise. Just breathe, now, alright? You’re okay." "Are- are you sure?" "Yes, baby, I'm sure."

Taglist : (thank you for the support my loves <3) @princess-ofthe-pages @usuck @theylovemelody @empressgraytea @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @lillianacristina @venomsvl @user-3113s-blog @pumpkin-cake @redros3y @faunrasthewinterelf @puppykinsthepotato @bookishnerd1132 @bonza-bear @teeshamcbeesha @hades-disappointment-child @princesssparkle2024 @darlingcharling-blog @yasmin12312 @khxna @jamieeboulos @addyyodaddy @lunavelha @scottybitch @rivwritesiguess @lunagalaa @solacestyles @mgg55lovr @salty-sister @angrygalaxyduck @kayybay @arusio @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @perfectmilkshakeruins @pleasantwitchgarden @slutforwordsfr @chicaconfundidaycuriosa @bippityboppityboob1tch @navs-bhat @amethyst0532 @theamuz @gretaandthatsit @digitalhearts

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

More of Stanley's sketchbook because he makes me sick /pos

(Just imagine he was looking in a mirror at the subway to draw this anshfhwj. The london bus ticket is unrelated, it's just a random knick knack he had lying around<3)

People weren't the only ones Stan met on the streets.

------

+ this is an absolute fucking batshit WILD oneshot I initially wrote for these drawings that got WAY out of hand, if you feel like reading that.

The oneshot below is a stand-alone now, and in no way is related to the drawings above, but I just wanted to show you guys because Jesus Christ

------

Winter of 1981, at a subway station Stan doesn't remember the name of-

The sorry excuse of a transport system that this hellhole of a city called a functioning subway was hardly anyone's first choice of a warm place to stay the night. And yet, here Stanley was; standing like an idiot in the middle of a small bustling stairwell that led down to the full screeching chaos of a train stop on a Tuesday evening. A rowdy crowd of exhausted office workers streamed out like a tidal wave from the entrance of the station, the bustle of their footsteps all too eager to go home and relax after a long day of work.

The faint, stuffy stench of old piss and sweat followed the crowd to the surface from the deep depths of a less than sanitary and overcrowded train station. The pungent smell intermingled with the crisp stinging winter air in a cocktail of shitty city gloom often associated with this time of the year; when the holidays were too far away and the sun seemed to come and go with practically the same 9 to 5 schedule as the workers had, leaving them going to work in the pitch dark and coming back out in the inky black as well.

He might have looked like he belonged there, depending on how one would want to look at it. He stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the sea of prim, pressed suits and neart uniforms. His ratty old jacket and generally unwashed appearance certainly didn’t help his case, but he also knew that stations like these also tended to shelter quite a number of homeless wanderers like him, especially during the winter. So, it wasn't exactly uncommon to see other sore thumbs seeking reprieve from the biting cold and the dangerous likelihood of frostbite from within the enclosed walls of the subway station.

Heck, if most of these underground kingdoms didn't also happen to be a breeding ground for several illicit activities, he might even have followed their lead. But, believe it or not, Stanley's already had enough experience with illegal activities to last him a last time, and he isn't looking for a new fill. He was satisfied with what meager shelter his trusty car offered him, as little a difference it might make in terms of safety.

Stanley's obstruction of the already narrow stairs with his loitering went unappreciated, as shoulders roughly shoved past him and swinging briefcases repeatedly bumped into his sides, usually coupled with a nasty glare and a snide comment or two. He paid them no mind, however. He wasn't here to start a fight with some random bum with a dead end job, as much as he thought it would probably do them both some good to duke their stresses out on one another.

The hours ticked by with wave after wave of new crowds being dropped off by a train and left to pour out of the station into the streets. By the time the streetlights turned on and the pale pink in the sky slowly faded to make way for the stark glittery black of the night sky, the tide of people had slowed to a trickle and rush hour was long since over. He was now the stairs’ sole occupier, with a few occasional stragglers stumbling up the steps and hurrying past him without a second glance.

Stanley did not move from his spot, however. He stood resolutely in the middle of the stairway, fervently rubbing his arms and stamping his feet in a futile attempt to try and regain feeling in his extremities as he waited. Rocking on his heels, he titled his head backwards to let his eyes roam the constellations that carpeted the endless expanse of the sky stretched out above his head, almost losing himself in the scintillating canvas of stars.

It reminded him of old times; of the sparkling beach sand twinkling in the dim moonlight, and the soft sound of lilting waves hovering in the background as he lay back on the cold wooden deck of his ship and watched the stars dance.

He still remembered every name his brother had once recited to him time and time again as he pointed out each star and galaxy from the night sky.

Then, like clockwork, he was broken out of his reveries by a telltale meow coming from below. The sound was a familiar blanket that immediately melted away the tension that had begun to build in his chest as he practically sagged with relief.

His body moved almost automatically as he leaned down to detach the frail tabby cat that was attempting to literally fuse with his legs, purring up a storm and rubbing her head against his pants as though her life depended on it. The cat gave a soft chirrup of dissatisfaction at being manhandled, which Stanley absentmindedly replied with a chiding click of his tongue as he lifted her up his chest and gently tucked her into his jacket in a practiced motion.

She thankfully remained blissfully limp in his grasp as he shifted around some more so that she was nestled comfortably inside the dark pocket of warmth inside his ratty jacket. The tiny warm lump that rumbled contently against his front radiated with heat, and his fingers finally began to feel like actual fingers rather than useless stiff frigid lumps of meat and bone attached to his palms.

A pointed cough startled him from his clumsy wriggling to get the cat to settle down. An oddly familiar security guard stood at the entrance of the station at the bottom of the stairs, leveling Stanley an unimpressed look with the metal gate in his grip already halfway closed, ready to seal the subway for the night. He must have been a comical sight; caught awkwardly bent over while trying to get his newly acquired cat to stop kneading biscuits on his stomach, with said cat peeking out from the gap between his collars.

Stanley faintly recognized the guard. He was a much older man, with a shock of thinning white hair neatly tucked underneath a dark blue cap and a strange depth in his eyes that reminded Stanley of the sea; with countless unspoken truths lurking far beneath the surface, but no less grand and knowing of all that the universe had to offer, as though he had already lived a thousand lives before this one.

He had seen the man around before, at another station, doing the opposite of his job by ushering stray buskers and homeless stragglers from the streets and into the (relatively) safe walls of the subway, instead of doing what any other law-abiding security guard would do and kick them out into the elements. He wasn't sure what the older man was doing here, of all places, since all the previous stations he'd seen the man at had been several states over, practically on the other side of the country.

A brief spark of panic shot through his spine at the thought that this man could be following him, but he quickly discarded the ridiculous notion as soon as it entered his mind. He had never even seen him before, and hardly ever even interacted with him; there was no reason for there to be any sort of bad blood between them. Unless he happened to be related to one of Stanley's many, many enemies, then perhaps his fear was a little warranted.

However, the old guard made no move to attack or do anything other than stare judgmentally, almost expectantly. For the first time in a long time, Stanley felt like a child being caught doing something he wasn't supposed to do. He tried his best to keep his uncomfortable squirming to a minimum under the unrelenting gaze, stubbornly returning the man's gaze with his own wary glare. His cat’s muffled whining came from inside his jacket. The traitor, she was leaving him to deal with the old man on his own.

With an exasperated jerk of his head, the security guard gestured towards the inside of the station. For a moment, Stanley stared dumbly, uncomprehending of what the old man could possibly want from him. Rolling his eyes, this time the man gestured more insistently at the small gap that still remained between the metal gate and the entrance, his arm sweeping the air in a low arc as he dramatically urged Stanley inside. Suddenly, it clicked, and Stanley shook his head.

“I have a car,” he said plainly, his voice echoing loudly in the desolate silence of the winter night that surrounded the unlikely pair.

He wasn't sure why he was so nervous, it wasn't as though he was lying. He did have a car, his trusty Stanley-mobile was parked safely away in the corner of an unassuming alley that wasn't often frequented by anyone. There was no way he was reaching it tonight, though; it was practically on the other side of the city, much too far away for him to arrive at a reasonable time. His nightly excursions to meet his small friend unfortunately left him with no other choice than to leave his car behind, the hunk of metal far too unwieldy and noticeable to drive around openly on the streets. He never knew who could be watching, after all.

He had simply been hoping to find himself a dark corner to tuck himself into with his cat, just for the night, but it seemed as though the universe had other plans. Or rather, this strange old man had other plans.

Although, if Stanley thought about it, the subway wasn't such a bad suggestion. This was one of the safer stations in the city; and with the rich neighborhoods being so close by, no rogue criminal or dealers dared to come near this area unless they wanted to be slapped with a hefty fine or face a higher potential to be arrested. And of course, there was the obvious shelter from the unrelenting cold that now seemed to permeate his bones, even with the purring warmth that was nestled inside his jacket.

So, that was how he found himself hunkering down for the night inside a shabby old subway station, with a satisfied cat still rumbling away against his chest and a strange old security guard locking down the gates behind him. The man said nothing as he hooked his keys back onto his belt and gave a firm pat on Stanley's shoulders as he walked past him, pausing to scratch his cat behind her ears before moving away. His footsteps bounced off of the grimy tiled walls with an odd reverb as he turned a corner.

“You'll be safe in here,” the man said, voice sage and gravelly. The words had a weight to them, and seemed to hang in the air with such a presence it was as though the old man had never even left his side.

The subway was empty, quiet. It was such a stark contrast to the loud rowdiness of the rush hour crowd these halls once held. Stanley hadn't yet registered the utter silence of the station as he aimlessly made his way down the winding, deserted halls of the ancient station. He mindlessly walked past the aged and peeling advertising posters plastered on the walls, his nose becoming accustomed to the stinging stench of the subway. The quiet seemed to swallow the sound of his steps as he explored the branching paths and endless tunnels. They were almost kaleidoscopic, dizzying, nonsensical. There were doors where there shouldn't be, and deadends where it didn't make sense.

The silence only began to truly settle in his bones the more he walked. He suddenly wished that he would head the telltale footsteps of the old security guard again, just to hear another sign of life in this underground hellscape other than himself. The ghostly memories of screeching trains and bustling crowds haunted the halls; now, only nothingness reigned supreme. He glanced down at his small feline companion, who slumbered away against his chest, blissfully unaware of his jackrabbiting heartbeat threatening to burst out of his ribs. The silence seemed to permeate every inch of space and crush the air out of his lungs. He couldn't breathe.

Stanley’s steps grew faster, more frantic as the walls and ceilings seemed to close in on him. They grew smaller, tighter; squeezing, trapping. He hardly even registered his cat's complaints as she was jostled around in his grasp, breaking into a full out run. His breathing sounded loud, too loud, and the world was collapsing around him.

When he finally broke out into a large, open platform, he could finally breathe again. He had arrived at the tracks, the empty tunnel where the trains would pass an empty, gaping maw in the wall that seemed to swallow all light around it and beckon him closer. He felt his cat wriggle out from within his jacket and hop out with a displeasured yowl, scampering away and disappearing behind a corner much like the old man had. True silence pierced his ears and thrummed like a deafening pressure in his temples. He was alone.

Stanley was stuck in that subway station for years.

[kaetastic]

Goodnight Prank

pairing: Ex-Husband!Aaron Hotchner x Reader

summary: After being inspired by the TikTok trend of calling your exes to wish them goodnight, Aaron Hotchner is surprised with a call from his ex-wife.

word count: 1.3k

warning: straight up fluff

note: Also, this wouldn't be me because I would've never let go of him sooooo

Even though exhaustion hadwrapped around his muscles, his body ached to be scrubbed off in the shower and melted back into the comforts of his bed, Aaron could not give in just yet. It might've not been a day where they were on the field, an uncommon occurrence really, but he'd rather tackle down an unsub than do paperwork.

A heavy sigh left his lips as he glanced to his side. His eyes met the darkness that shadowed the empty tables of his team. Stacks of folders and valuables documents sat as piles on their desk. Looking back at his table, his stack had decreased significantly from what seemed impossible. However, it did force him to stay longer than he had intended to—2 hours past his usual clock-out. Some days fell inevitable.

The folder he laid across his table stared up at him, waiting patiently for him to wrap it up. Rereading the sentence he had read at least four times already, the words were a jumbled-up mess, Aaron repositioned himself on his seat to get back into the mood he started with. Just a few more. With his ink pen ready in hand, he was ready to scribble the same signature he had jotted down more than twelve times already.

RINGGGG. The abrupt noise cut through the empty air. Eyebrows furrowed in confusion, the phone buzzed, screaming for his attention. Aaron snatched it. Was it another emergency case? He hoped not, because he didn't want to deal with the hassle of calling his team. All the dreaded thoughts about another mission left his body once his eyes read the caller’s ID. A relieved exhale calmed down his nerves. It was just Y/N. But then like a cracked open dam, his heart picked up its pace. Nervousness from anticipation. Why is she calling? Is she in danger?

Not allowing the phone to cycle through another ring, Aaron interjected midway—silencing its cries, “Hello Y/N.” He was up from his seat. More like shot up, and that usually meant business.

"Hey Aaron," She responded. Sitting cross-legged on her sofa with a blanket thrown over her lap, Y/N played with the cold metal of her bracelet. It had been one of those self-care nights: hair wash day, body shaved, skin shining from body oil, and teeth shining from whitening strips—she felt like she could take over the world. Maybe because she had already miraculously won the battle in the shower, to end up in her best pyjamas under her fluffiest blanket. "Am I disturbing?"

The unit chief shook his head—forgetting that he was behind a screen and that she could not see him. She had that effect on him. "No, not at all." Clearing his throat to remove the obstruction in his throat, his mouth suddenly forgot how to function. "You okay? You... don't usually call."

A small chuckle pressed into his ear, "Yeah. I don't, huh?"

Playing a soft smile on his lips, Aaron played with the pens that sat on his desk—arranging them in their organized, proper way as his mind focused every second of the call. Anything that he could get from her. Every breath, every laugh.

"Whatcha doin'?" Y/N inquired, reaching for the TV remote.

"Working, you know—the usual." Aaron sat on the edge of his desk, readying himself for the lecture he just dragged himself into. He could've lied. He could've said he was in bed, just reading a little bit before hitting it off to snooze land, but a small part of him wanted this, wanted to hear her lecture like old times.

"What?" All it took was to glance at a clock. "Aaron, it's twelve in the morning and your ass is in the office?" Even though they'd had this conversation more than she could count, Aaron was stubborn. She remembered strange hours of nights when she drove herself to his office just to drag him back home. Home. Suddenly, the walls of her house caved in. Short core memories they shared knocked on her door, flooding her thoughts. A glance was thrown to the empty side of the sofa he would sit at, the sofa they had bought together.

All the exhaustion he had felt not too long ago had left his body. Other men would let out the heaviest sigh and end the call—especially when it was a call with their ex-wife, but not Aaron Hotchner. No, he grinned. "Yeah? Guess I lost track of time."

"You always lose track of time, Aaron Hotchner, you can't be doing this." Y/N scolded, rolling her eyes. "I can hear your joints creaking all the way here."

Shaking his head at her audacity, Aaron let out a laugh, already expecting her to say that. However, she had him beat as she said it before the 1-minute mark he had expected. A con of being a profiler. A curse and a blessing. He responded, "Alright, don't be mean now. I'm not that old."

"That's not what you said when we first met."

Aaron huffed, "Maybe I should ask you then missy, why are you up at this time?"

"Wouldn't you wanna know, weather boy?" Before he could interject and question, she cut him off. "Cleaned my whole place today. I think we might have matching joints now."

"Welcome to the club," God, Aaron felt his cheeks pinch and sting from how much he was smiling. Maybe it wouldn't have hurt as much if he had smiled more. He thought he couldn't grin wider, but he did once he heard a laugh from the other end. "Well, you needed me?"

An 'oh' came from her lips as she realized why she called him. Repositioning herself on her seat to lock back in, she rested her feet on the sofa. She inhaled a bit before she got to the fun part, "I just wanted to say goodnight."

Aaron blinked, processing her words, "Goodnight?"

She hummed, "Yeah, I'm ready for bed and jus' wanted to say goodnight before I snooze off." It took a lot from her to not let a laugh escape because she knew if one wrong breath went out—she was done for. She would blow her cover.

Aaron wasn’t sure if it was the lack of sleep finally catching up to him or if his age had caught up to the point he might’ve lost his hearing because he truly could not comprehend what was going on. He picked up on the small laugh, “Are you okay?” He asked. “Are you drunk? Do you need me to come over?”

She couldn’t help the laughter from escaping. After gathering herself back, she responded, “I’m fine Aaron, really, and I’m not drunk. Just wanted to wish you a goodnight and sleep tight.”

Aaron took time to process her words, still unconvinced with her words, “Are you high?”

“What?” She half-screamed, fully amused at his accusations. “Aaron, I am perfectly fine. I have not had any sip of alcohol, I am not smoking a blunt right now, and I am also not doing coke. Can a girl not wish you goodnight?”

“Of course, you can,” Aaron responded, his tone as if she had asked a rhetorical question.

“Alright then," Y/N beamed, expressing too much energy for someone at midnight, especially after claiming victory in her bathroom. "Goodnight Aaron.” The words sounded coy, almost as if there was an underlying intention.

Aaron smiled, rounding to the seating side of his desk, and pulling open the drawer to reveal his wedding band that he shared with her. He felt like a high schooler again, “Goodnight, missy.”

“Byee,” Y/N sang softly, picking at the unravelling threads of her blanket. The call had dragged on longer than she had expected, filled with comfortable silence, and Aaron Hotchner still had remaining files waiting.

“Bye, Y/N.”

Silence stretched, familiar and tranquil.

“...Okay, bye Aaronn.”

“Bye, Y/N.”

Squinting at her screen, seeing the number increase with every quiet second, she laughed, “Why aren’t you ending the call?” God, she felt like a middle schooler as she raised the blanket to her face, covering her joyous face.

Aaron shrugged, taking out the gleaming ring onto his palm, “Maybe I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“You’re so dumb.”

“Am not.”

Another silent beat.

“Bye Aaron!”

“Bye Y/N.”

Then as if another caller, silence entered their call. The type of silence that you enjoy just listening to their breaths. She could feel her heartbeat pick up as she blurted out, "I made cookies."

"Hm?" Aaron fidgeted with the silver ring between his fingers, his body moving on its own will as he slipped it on where it used to sit.

Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, "Wanna come over?"

Aaron's grip on the device tightened, "Fifth floor?"

With a 'yeah', the call ended. That was all it took for her to jump from her couch to spray her house with whatever house spray she could get her hands on. The ones Aaron liked. Maybe she would win another battle, this time in her bed.

[astrolook]

⚡Natal Aspects Observations⚡

Note: These are all based on my personal observations and patterns I’ve noticed over the years. Western astrology based. Let me know in the comments if any of this hits home for you! And feel free to leave what doesn’t resonate.

Moon square Pluto - You wear your heart on your sleeve, but...it's a sleeve made of barbed wire. Your emotions are intense like an overcharged battery and when you feel threatened, you would go nuclear. Tests people to see whether they will stay through your bad times. Can be a control freak, in some cases.

Venus conjunct Ascendant - People feel your vibe before they see you like a song they recognize but can't name. Keeps part of yourself hidden. Both magnetic and invisible at the same time. Love in silence or from a distance where you can't be fully known. On the flip side, you're the one they dream about but you're out of their reach.

Sun trine Moon - Emotionally stable but secretly tired. Your head and heart usually agree. People assume you’re chill because you don’t scream in public, but they miss the eye twitches. The world would be burning and you would still stay calm and composed. A functional person.

Sun square Pluto - It is like trying to live your life with a volcano constantly humming under your skin. By age 25, you have already buried 5 versions of yourself for the better. Might intimidate people. Self-protection level 999.

Moon opposition Mars - You react fast, feel hard, and cool down way later than you’d like to admit. You hate being told to “calm down” because it makes you ten times louder. You want closeness, but the second something feels off, you're snapping or shutting down. Holds grudges and waits for the right time to show it. Expressive face.

Venus trine Uranus - Sometimes you’re a mystery, sometimes you’re the life of the party. You’re drawn to unconventional love and beauty, and you’re the type who’ll fall for someone who’s “different” in all the right (or wrong) ways. Gets bored fast. You probably have a thing for experimenting with style or constantly shifting your vibe/style.

Uranus trine Ascendant - Basically your “I was born this way” energy on steroids. You don't follow trends. You always think one step ahead of us. You’re a bit of a wildcard, but you don’t make a show of it. Leader, not a follower unless it's a dark place.

Moon square Neptune - You can sense everyone’s moods but have trouble deciphering your own. You’re looking for magic in a world that’s mostly mundane. Sleeps too much when depressed.

North Node conjunct Mercury Rx - It is like being handed a map and told to navigate, but the map is upside down and missing half the directions. Communication feels like a game of broken telephone; you’ll get the message, just not without the detours and delays. Your ideas are constantly evolving. Repeats the same old mistakes 10 times until reality checks in.

North Node conjunct Lilith - You're meant to own your badass side in this lifetime even if the society tells you to tone it down. Might raise a few eyebrows along the way but some rules are meant to be broken.

Venus square Saturn - Your heart wants to give, but your brain keeps reminding you about all the reasons why it’s a bad idea. Wants intimacy but build walls like a maze. An underrated or underappreciated person.

Mars trine Jupiter - You have a built-in engine that just never runs out of steam. Your laugh is contagious probably. When things get tough, you bounce back faster than most as you're not the type to sulk for long. You might occasionally bite off more than you can chew.

Wanna go deeper into the layers of your placements? DM me for a complete astrology reading or a 5 year/8 year marriage report or synastry reading🌙💬 and check out my pinned post for pricing + details 💫💸

Let’s decode your cosmic chaos together ⭐

[delilahsturniolo]

⟡ ݁₊ welcome to the end of the world! (please leave your sanity at the door.)

𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 . . . four friends: nick, matt, chris, and you—find themselves stuck together at the end of the world, trying to survive a zombie apocalypse with nothing but their wits, a questionable supply of snacks, and zero emotional maturity. you’re just trying to stay alive without losing your mind—or falling for someone on the team.

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 . . . kinda dark humor, cursing, mention of weapons, slow burn, reader x matt.

CHAPTER ONE: LIEUTENANT WHISKERS.

read more parts here

you wake up with a half-eaten granola bar in your mouth, one sock on, and a very loud alarm going off outside. it’s not your alarm. your phone died three days ago, and even if it hadn’t, the lack of wifi really killed your will to function. there’s a mosquito bite on your neck that may or may not be a zombie hickey (probably not, but you checked it three times anyway), and your hair is doing this weird apocalypse-frizz thing that no amount of dry shampoo can fix.

the room smells like moldy hope and whatever deodorant chris found at the last gas station. you’d complain, but you’ve smelled worse. you’ve been worse. yesterday you slipped in a puddle of what you hope was expired tomato soup and landed directly on your dignity. it’s probably still there, lying between a crushed can of green beans and a questionable boot.

“you’re finally awake,” says nick, poking his head through the busted doorframe like a dramatic woodland creature. his hair’s sticking up on one side, and he’s wearing a tactical vest he definitely didn’t know how to use before the world fell apart. “you were snoring so loud i thought you were one of them.”

“how do you know i’m not?” you mumble, pulling the granola bar out of your mouth and blinking at him like a crusty-eyed cryptid. nick squints. “mmm. if you were a zombie, you’d have better posture.”

rude.

nick is the strategist of the group. in a past life, he played too much chess, hoarded survival gear “for fun.” and absolutely had a reddit thread on “how to escape civilization when it inevitably collapses.” now he’s thriving. he has spreadsheets. spreadsheets. in the apocalypse. the rest of you would probably be dead without him, but you’d never say that out loud. he’d get smug. like, “i-told-you-so” smug. nobody needs that energy in a world full of rotting corpses.

you groan and swing your legs off the couch, or what’s left of it. the springs poke you with the subtlety of a drunk raccoon. you’re about to ask where the others are when someone tosses a half-empty water bottle at your face. “hydrate,” matt says.

he’s standing there, wearing fingerless gloves and holding a crowbar like it’s just an extension of his soul. his shirt has one tear down the side (not on purpose, probably), and there’s a smudge of dirt across his cheek that makes him look exactly 17% hotter than any reasonable person should be during the end of the world. unfair. you would never admit this to his face, though.

matt is the muscle of the group. not in a gym rat way—though, yeah, his arms could probably bench press a vending machine…but in a “i will defend you from zombies and emotional damage” kind of way. he’s quieter than the rest of the group, brooding in a way that’s not annoying, just… kind of intense. but also? kind of (very) hot. which is inconvenient because you’re literally trying not to die out here.

“where’s chris?” you ask, chugging the water like there’s no tomorrow. which honestly, there most likely isn’t. “probably doing doing dumb shit on the roof again.” matt mutters, looking out the shattered window. right on cue, chris drops into the doorway from above.

“roof’s clear!” he says, brushing leaves off his hoodie like they personally insulted him. “also i found a cat. his name is lieutenant whiskers now. he’s our son.”

you blink. “you were gone for fifteen minutes.”

“a lot can happen in fifteen minute.” chris says, holding up the cat like simba. the cat looks mildly pissed off but accepts its fate.

chris is chaos incarnate. if you gave him a sword, he’d swing it around before accidentally stabbing a zombie in the eye and pretending it was on purpose. he’s the wildcard of the group—completely unpredictable, usually hilarious, and somehow always finding the weirdest loot. one time he came back with a working slushie machine. no one asked questions. you just drank the mystery-blue sugar water and moved on.

nick appears again, this time holding a clipboard. a clipboard. where did it even come from? did he have it this whole time? has it been living in his vest? “okay,” he says, tapping it with authority. “today’s objectives: one, scavenge the convenience store down the street. two, avoid dying. three, find duct tape.”

matt frowns. “duct tape’s not a priority.”

“everything is a priority when you’ve got this much falling apart,” nick says.

“matt,” you say, “remember when your backpack strap broke and you carried your bag like a baby for six miles?”

“…that was a tactical decision.”

“sure it was.”

matt glances at you, mouth twitching into a tiny, unfair smile. it does things to your stomach that you do not have time for.

the four of you gear up, which mostly means putting on mismatched layers and checking your pockets for snacks. matt hands you a knife without saying anything. it’s not fancy, but it’s sharp and kind of comforting. you don’t thank him out loud. instead, you nudge his arm lightly and he bumps yours back. it’s small. stupid. but your heart does a little weird fluttery thing and you hate it. you all move out like a heavily armed band of garbage gremlins. nick’s in the lead with his clipboard (which somehow feels like a weapon), matt takes the flank with that crowbar, and chris is already ten feet ahead, trying to teach lieutenant whiskers how to detect zombies.

the streets are quiet. too quiet. like the undead are all in a meeting somewhere discussing new strategies. “do zombies strategize?” you ask quietly.

“no,” nick says.

“absolutely,” chris says at the same time.

“i don’t care,” matt mutters. “they die the same.”

you’re just about to make a joke about zombie politics when you feel a prickle down your spine. a shuffle. a groan. a smell.

“zombie at two o’clock!” nick yells, snapping his clipboard shut like he’s about to use it as a shield.

and suddenly it’s all chaos.

matt steps in front of you with his crowbar like it’s a natural reaction. chris hurls a can of beans like a grenade and screams at the top of his lungs. nick mutters something about “this is why we make plans.” and dives behind a mailbox.

you draw your knife, your hands shaking just a little. matt glances at you—quick, sharp, eyes checking to make sure you’re okay. you nod, just once. he nods back.

and somehow, in the middle of all this madness, with the groans of the undead echoing through the street and chris trying to name every zombie after a disney villain, your heart thuds way too hard for way too many reasons.

welcome to the apocalypse.

try not to fall in love.

or do.

it’s the end of the world, after all.

© delilahsturniolo

💌: do we fw this or no

[zepskies]

Wake Up Call

Pairing: Sam Winchester x F. Reader

Summary: Sam often gets up before you in the morning. He enjoys luring you into the waking world. 

AN: Surprise! After writing Rest for Dean, equal parts hurt/comfort and fluff, I’ve been itching to do some “early morning” fluff for Sam…

Word Count: 700

Warnings: 18+ only for smuttishness. Fluff and feels.

Unlike Dean, Sam isn’t one to be sentimental.

It doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. On the contrary, he hordes and treasures memories in his mind, rather than on his shelves.

It also means he’s not one to collect things just to have them. There has to be a practical use, like the way good books can be read again. Even his dad’s journal is a useful resource, not just a record of the man’s most significant words, and in some ways, his legacy.

Sam’s room is function, not fluff.

That is, until you invaded.

Well, less invaded, and more invited, but still. He sees traces of you everywhere, in the half-drunken mugs of coffee and tea piling up across his nightstand; in the shelves you’ve put up to showcase his books, alongside yours (complete with “cute” little bookends you found at a flea market in town); and in the extra fuzzy blankets and smaller pillows you’ve bought, not only because they’re comfortable, but because they help “pull the room together,” in your words.

Sam had to snort at that one. Somehow, he doesn’t think a few decorative pillows and a lamp from Goodwill are going to make a windowless bedroom in a bunker look like a page out of a Pottery Barn catalog.

But he humored you then, with the same smile he looks down on you with now. It's early in the morning as he sits up beside you in bed with his coffee. He has a fresh mug ready for you on the nightstand. (He's also brought the army of old ones back to the kitchen sink.)

He spares a moment from his laptop to brush your hair away from your cheek as you sleep. His hand drifts down your bare shoulder, as far as he can reach down your arm. Finally, his touch stirs you. Your breathing shifts with a little hum as you creep closer to wakefulness.  

“Awake already?” you grumble at him.

“Yeah. Waiting for you.”

“Hnnmmmmm.”

Sam smiles. You can be so grumpy in the morning.

He takes another sip of his coffee and sets aside his mug and his laptop. He gets up just to raise his side of the blankets, sliding back in and slotting himself behind you. You sigh after his arm has slipped beneath your head, and the other around your waist, pulling you comfortably warm against his chest.

He issues his first plan of attack, laying soft kisses behind your ear, along your jaw. Even with your eyes closed, you smile as his long hair tickles your cheek. He pays special attention to your pulse point, nipping and sucking gently. A shiver tingles down your spine.

“No fair,” you breathe out, reaching back a hand to card through his hair. Your fingers tangle in the dark strands as he smiles against your skin.

He continues his tantalizing path down your neck. His hand moves under the sheets, under your borrowed sleep shirt. His thumb brushes the underside of your breast, earning a pleased hum from you. It encourages him to palm the round softness with his big hand, pebbling the nipple under his nimble, rolling fingers.

Uttering a soft whine, you begin to subtly writhe against him. Your ass presses back into him, accidentally-on-purpose. His arousal rises to meet you, a low-burning fire crackling to life.

Sam’s kisses become more insistent with the brush of his tongue against your skin. His hand moves from playing with your breast, down the soft length of your body. Every move is a form of delicious persuasion, especially when his fingers slip under the waistband of your panties.   

“You awake yet?” Sam teases, his lips moving against your cheek.

Your smile grows. You finally open your eyes and tangle your leg with his under the covers.

“If I’m not, this is one hell of a dream,” comes your cheeky reply.

Sam chuckles. His fingers dip between your legs, into your wet heat. You suck in a breath.

His voice in your ear is enough to raise the hair on your arms.

“Baby, we haven’t even started yet.”

AN: 😘 Hope you enjoy! I haven't written Sam in a while, but I do love him too. 💜

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[mirathescientist]

pairings: Onyankopon x black reader

warnings: Jean slander, smut 18+

Need you

“And then the bitch scoffed and rolled her eyes like I didn't just apologize. I need to find a new place asap cause I swear next time she try me Imma fuck her up- “

“What I tell you bout cussing?” Ony’s deep voice filled the room, dark eyes piercing into yours as a warning.

“Anywaysss” You rolled your eyes, ignoring the side eye he was giving. “You’ve been awfully quiet since I came over. What’s going on?” You put your freshly manicured feet in his face.

“Nothing you’ve just been yapping the whole time.” He smirked.

“Rude” You gasped, nudging him with your toes.

“Nah I'm just chillin’. You know I like listening to you talk.” He shrugged, placing your legs into his lap. Lighting the blunt he just rolled, a cloud of smoke surrounding him as he took a hit.

“Whatever” You smiled as he passed it to you.

You and Ony often had moments like these, a smoke sesh usually spent with you talking about your week as he massaged your feet. Your relationship with Ony was…complicated. Ever since Sasha introduced you two, y'all were inseparable, constantly getting mistaken for a couple, and who could blame them?

Most thought this because Ony always had to be touching you, whether it was holding your hand, an arm around your shoulder, or a tight grip on your waist. However, for some, it was how you two would always disappear during the function. Claiming you were only talking, but the slight sheen on Ony’s lips and your slightly ruffled clothing told otherwise.

You weren’t quite friends with benefits. At least that's what you told yourselves. The whole ordeal just kinda happened. You were stressed over your midterms and Ony of course offered to help you study. Though after hours of reading flashcards and practice tests, you were still stressed and on the verge of tears when Ony offered another way to help you. That night you ended up with your legs in the air as Ony sucked the soul out of your pussy. Ever since then any inconvenience one had, the other would do their best to help relieve the stress. Your roommate upset you? Ony fed you long deep strokes, pampering you with soft kisses while he whispered in your ear. Ony was pissed that his supplier flaked on him? Ony would have the tightest grip on your hips as he drilled into you from behind, claiming the waves of your ass hypnotized him into forgetting what he was upset about. Some days neither of you needed an excuse. Some days you just craved each other.

Despite your unique relationship, you remained friends allowing the other to do what they pleased, though neither you nor Ony slept with or saw other people. Your dynamic was good and worked for both of you. That was until you started seeing Jean.

“You n that nigga Jean still fuckin around?” He broke the silence, waiting for your answer as your eyes met his.

“Ony” You groaned, the tight grip he had on your ankles preventing you from moving.

“What? I can’t ask you questions now?” He kissed his teeth, putting out the blunt.

“No, because any time you ask about Jean we end up getting into an argument and I’m really enjoying my time with you right now. So no, you cannot ask.”

“Whatever. I’m just tryna figure out when you gon stop playing in my face nd be with me instead of his bitchass.”

“Onyankopon '' You shrieked. You never understood why Ony hated Jean till a few weeks ago when Ony drunkenly confessed his feelings. At first, you thought he was joking but the look on his face told you otherwise. For a minute, you were happy. Ony was everything you had wanted in a boyfriend and you two had practically been in a relationship just without the labels. It wasn't till Jean texted you that you got upset. Why confess his feelings when you're finally in a relationship? Deciding it'd be best to forget about it, you put Ony to bed, hoping he'd also forget about his confession. Clearly, you were wrong.

“What? I don't understand what you see in him. He's annoying as fuck, and I'm pretty sure he has 4 brain cells. Maximum.” He rolled his eyes at the thought of Jean. “Why won't you give me a chance when I'm the one for you?”

“We've talked about this Ony.” You sighed. Conversations like these were becoming frequent and they were so tiring.

“No mama you've talked nd I've listened.” You thought about it, he wasn’t exactly wrong. Silently praying this wouldn't end up in an argument you gave him a chance.

“Okay. I'm listening.” You whispered.

“C’mere,” He released your ankles.

“Ony I’m not gonna-”

“[☆]” The dominance in his tone had you clenching around nothing.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you did as he told. The moment you sat on his lap you just knew how it was going to end.

“Why you with him instead of me? And don't feed me no bullshit” His large hands were rubbing up and down your thighs getting dangerously close to your pussy that desperately ached for him.

You tried and you tried but there wasn't any good reason as to why you were Jean. Sure he was cute but he had no idea how to make you feel special and overall just couldn't please you. In multiple ways. The main reason though was that he wasn’t Ony. He just asked first.

“I don't know, Ony” You finally sighed, looking everywhere but him.

Any discipline you had when it came to Ony vanished when his hand wrapped around your throat, the slight pressure on your carotid causing your brain to go fuzzy and your panties to get damp “Look at me”

“Be real. Please” Ony released his hold on your neck to grip your thighs.

“You had the longest opportunity to ask me to be with you but you never took the chance, yet when I'm finally in a relationship you suddenly wanna give up everything and take a chance to be with me and I feel like that’s not fair to me Ony.”

He rubbed his hands down his face with a sigh. “You're right.”

"I did have that opportunity and always hesitated. I always assumed it would be just you and me, that you wouldn't pursue other relationships because of our bond. Since the day we met, I've wanted you. I know this is unfair and I'm so sorry princess, but I can't ignore my feelings any longer. Jean can't possibly be the man you want, the man you deserve. But I can. I promise to take the chance if you just give me another opportunity, and I'll do everything in my power to make you proud. You’re my best friend, my favorite person in the whole universe and I'm determined to be the person you need. I love you [☆].”

“Ony” you huffed, feeling as if all air was being vacuumed out of your lungs at his confession.

“Please. Lemme show you how much I love you.” He whispered, closing the distance that separated you. “Please” He captured your lips, his usual sweet taste with a hint of spiciness from the weed clouding your thoughts. Oh, how you missed this. Missed him. The kiss was intimate and familiar, the passion growing with each second. Ony’s hands roamed your body, gripping the soft flesh of your thighs before traveling to your ass, taking pleasure in the soft moan you let out, and using the opportunity to slip his tongue past your lips. On instinct, your hips rocked down onto him.

“Fuck, baby. I missed you” He groaned, flipping you onto your back.

“Ony we can’t” You huffed, despite the wetness growing in between your thighs. God he looked so good. His muscles bulged as he took his shirt off, your eyes trailed down his torso, mouth watering at the prominent v-line peeking from his low sitting sweats.

“Do you want this? Yes, or no?” His tongue traced lazy patterns on your skin as he littered your neck with kisses.

“Ony I-”

“Yes or no [☆]?” He nipped on your earlobe, hand dipping below the waistband of your leggings.

“Fuck, Ony” his hand slipped beneath the thin fabric of your thong, fingers slipping through your folds. Gathering your arousal before circling your clit in tight circles. “Yes, please”

“Then shut up and lemme show you how much I love you” He murmured as he undressed you. Replacing his fingers with his tongue, he lapped at your folds like a starved man, his tongue repeatedly flicking your clit. “Missed you so fucking much. Don't ever give my pussy away again. You hear me?” He muttered, sliding two digits past your entrance. The action was easy with how wet you were.

“Ony” Your thighs threatened to close around his head.

“Answer me or I'm stopping” He slowed his movements, leaving you needy.

“It's yours. I'm yours pa, I promise” Your legs shook as he continued to give you slow strokes, the addition of another finger having you seeing stars. “O-Ony wait” You panted, attempting to push his head away but he refused to let up on your pussy, never wanting to stop till he and his couch were soaked in your essence as he lapped at your clit.

“Ony I’m so-fuck I'm so close” Your words encouraged him to speed up as he repeatedly hit the spongy spot of your walls. “Ony” Your walls clenched around his fingers, leaving little room for his fingers to continue as you reached your peak.

Despite your thighs tightening around his head he continued his assault on your pussy. It wasn't until he was finally satisfied with slurping up your arousal, that he pulled away pressing gentle kisses on your throbbing clit as he pulled his soaked fingers out of your walls.

“Missed you so much” He mumbled, giving you the nastiest kiss ever, your arousal all over his lower face.

“I missed you too”

“Yeah?” He grabbed your hips, positioning you on all fours.

“Ony” You whined, pout forming on your lips as you looked back. His dick standing tall now that it was no longer confined. God, please let me have feeling in my legs tomorrow.

“I know you ain't think I was done. You played in my face and let another nigga hit and think I'm not finna put you back in your place? Nah, both you and this pussy need a reminder of who you belong to” He slid his dick through your folds, your cream acting as lube.

“Matter a fact” He lined up at your entrance just as your phone started ringing ‘Jean baby’ flashing on the bright screen.

“Lemme show this nigga too.”

first time ever writing smut nd even though it was short it took me foreverrr but i think it turned out okay. also so sorry for all my Jean girlies out there lol. anyways i hope you enjoyed nd any feedback is greatly appreciated. mwah

[estrellogy]

Astro Notes Pt. 2

- IN DEFENSE OF LIBRAS. I often hear people say that Libras are pick-mes, but that’s only the underdeveloped ones. I think Libras do get along with the opposite sex really well. The mature ones genuinely connect with the other side because they’re a good balance of both masculine and feminine energies.

- However, I do see SOME Libra men take advantage of this ability and be quite promiscuous. Libra SUN in particular since it comes so naturally to them. Libra Venus men, on the other side, prefer to be monogamous and just pour all their romantic energy into one person. If they have grounding placements like Venus/Saturn positive aspects or earth placements, they’re definitely the type to look for THE ONE™️

- Scorpio and Capricorn placements humor is so under appreciated. People often see these placements as intense alpha males who never show emotions like they’re just 😐. Mfs have perfected dry humor and comedic timing.

- Aries Sun have an easier time maturing than Aries Moon. Since the Moon is such a primal and sensitive place for Aries to be in, the impulsive side of Aries is amplified. Meanwhile, Aries Suns can channel its aggressive fire energy more consciously.

- Leo Suns with 12th house moons can create a lot of internal conflicts. The natural inclination to shine versus the need to completely hide your nature and be intensely introspective.

- Mars in 6th house people really benefit from incorporating exercise into your routine. Everyone does, but Mars in 6th house people in particular can accumulate a lot of stress and tensions so they need to move their bodies often to avoid burn out (speaking from personal experience 😭)

- Scorpio placements are lusted after, but CANCER placements are often desired both physically and emotionally. People want to have a taste of Scorpio placements but often become overwhelmed by their intense nature. Cancers, on the other hand, seem more gentle even though they’re equally insane intense. That’s why Scorpio is often associated with seductresses/siren archetype while Cancer is the “wife”/divine feminine.

- Again, Cancer placements are underrated because the moon energy seems more familiar compared to the mysterious and ethereal nature of outer planets like Neptune and Pluto. But the moon quite literally controls water and has the most direct impact (night vs day) on the actual functions of Earth. Plus, the moon is also a symbol of mystique, beauty, and literally the ‘dark side of the moon’ as a metaphor for human psyche. I can do a whole post about why Cancer placements are really the beauty indicator/archetype in astrology if you guys want 😭

Thank you for reading! Let me know if you guys enjoy these notes and I’ll do more 🤍

[aliceinborderlandsquidgame]

Wrong move | The Salesman x Fem!Reader

Summary: He thought you were in love with him....maybe he needs to show you how much you need him.

Warnings: SFW - Possessive!Salesman - Obsessive!Salesman - Controling!Salesman - Red flag basically - Unhealthy relationship - Power imbalance - DARK!Salesman - grammar mistakes -

Note: Not part of "Home Bliss", this is a different universe.

"No"

These were the words that have been in the Salesman's mind for a week now. His aparment, a place he used to love coming to since you were here waiting for him now felt like a empy box. Walls too grey to look at, too dull. The food did not have teaste and his bed felt too big.

When did things go wrong ? He did everything right.

Saw you one day at the local park, got enamoured by you. Followed you around, got to know your schendelure so he could see you from afar. Was able to hack your phone to know every last detail. Your social media were poorly secured. He got to know you like he knew his own skin, when he finally did approach you, you were already his.

And after two years, two years of beautiful moments together, perfectly crafted by him, each one calculated and made so you would fall more and more for him. He got you to move in with him, he was accepted by your friends, your family loved him, and saw him like part of it.

He was sure, centrain that this was the right moment. The perfect one. This was your favorite season, favorite month, perfect hour of the day and a well secured place so you would not feel pressure over it.

Some part of him wanted you to come to him willing.

But your words were marked liked fire. The exchange and after events lived rent free inside his head.

How he had managed to keep his facade he has no idea. The aparment (after you refused to get back) was the one that suffered his rage. All the expensive forniture was destroyed by him, some walls had blood by how much he had punched them.

He was a mess, a disaster. How could yo do it  ? After everything? Weren't you two the perfect match ?

A ding from his phone, the ding he had set just for you sounded.

"Sorry, I think its better if we stop seeing each other. I will pass to get my things soon"

The phone went flying. Were you breaking up with him by text ? When he had read all the exchange with your friends  ? Like how scared you were and how fast it felt. Why were you doing this?

And your doubts ? He never saw them, you seemed content by his side. And loved him like that.

But your personal diary on your phone said different. You felt trapped, like he knew too much, like he was not being honest.

Maybe he should have been more...severe? Showing you just how bad he could be, maybe he let your leash go too large and now he was paying the consequences.

But would he give up ? No. After all you were just confused, and scared, you just needed a reminder of how much you needed him. How he could be the only one for you.

He took the phone back, the screen broke but other functions working. He ignored your message and instead went to his contacts. He had many friends, friends that could ruin you completly.

"I need a favor"

Leaving him was the start of your nightmare.

~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~

At first the relationship was fine. How does peopel put it ? Honeymoon? Well you two had it for very long.

He was the man any woman could ask for, gentle, caring, doting, never forgot a special date. And would get your favorite things.

But something was off. His eyes, the same dark eyes that sparked when he saw you, these eyes would change to sharp and cold around others. You felt like he was always on you, even when being away for work, he would just know when to send you a message or call you.

Would meet you randomly on the streets, knew when you wanted to do something even when you never mentioned it.

Something was wrong. Your gut told you to run from him but you did not know how. After all on the eyes of everyone he was perfect.

Then he asked to marry you, and you saw your chance. You could say you got scared and that things just did not work out after it.

But it did not go that way.

Once you had got your things from his aparment your Boss called, he had said how sorry he was but the company was cutting off some employees and you were one of them.

Your work, your dream work. The one you had passed years preparing yourself, tears and blood for it. The one that made your parents proud.

Ripped out from you with one call.

Then it came your social circle. Slowly your Friends stopped meeting with you, some removed you from their social media, and some blocked your number. You never got to know what was wrong, or what you did.

And later your parents, it was a shame losing your job, it was worse not being able to get another one.

"Sorry we are looking for something different"

"Your solicitude was read but right now we need another thing"

"We will call you"

Rent became impossible, and so you had to move back with them. Your mother was not happy, telling you how much of a failure you were, how your brother was making money overseas and how your sister had made a family.

Your father did not even look at you. Like he felt guilty, not even the company he used to work for would take you in.

Your days became a circle of sending out curriculums and doing your best to keep your parents happy even when you knew they did not want you there.

And some days you would go to the park and cry. Not caring if others saw you, your life was ruined, you had nothing. Maybe....maybe if you had said yes....

Checking your phone you saw the contacts, mom, dad, brother, sister and him. You were sure you had removed his number but it kept coming back. Maybe you were getting sick because of the stress.  Your finger went over the call buttom till you finally hitted it.

~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○

He never wanted to see you like this, so broken, so out of life. Maybe he had insolated you too much. Let some lies to your Friends and mother that grew and now they hated you. Your father was a rough one, he had used some...other methods for him. But did coperate at the end.

"You dont seem so good" Were his first words and you looked down at your lap.

"Im sorry for have called you.., after everything"

"Dont say anything. I was glad I got your call. I wanted to know how you were doing" He lied, he knew you were miserable.

Only him could fix it.

"I have...well things have been bad" You addmited "I dont want to burden you with it, maybe this was a mistake"

You went to get up and leave but a firm grip on your hand stopped you. His eyes, cold and sharp like he was seeing his prey.

You, you were his prey.

"Sit" It was an order not a request "Lets talk for a bit more, maybe I can help you, for the old times"

~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○

"Are you sure? (Y/N) you can still go back and say no" Your fathers voice cut off.

You were wearing a beautiful weeding dress, outside from a ceremenoy to take place.

"Dad...you have been saying that since I told mom and you that I was getting married. This is good, we actually made up and I even got my work back, with double pay. Was not what you wanted for me?"

Your father did not respond. He still remembers that night. The night your "perfect" boyfriend appear. When he told him how your life would be so bad you would be wishing you were gone.

"And if thats not enoguh, maybe leaving her limp like you will do the trick"

He had tried for many months to hide his injury, the injury that man had caused him and promised to do the same to you.

"Dad? Its your leg hurting? You are crying"

"No dear, im fine. A little emotional to see you go"

When the doors opened and he walked you in and saw the monster you were going to marry he felt like dying there. When he gave you to him he could see it, he was liking his pain.

"I will take good care of her" Were his only words, and by the time his eyes were on you it had changed.

Love? Obsession ? A twisted sense of care ? No one could tell, no one dared to ask.

Him ? He was just happy you finally accepted what was best for you.

Him, he was the best for you.

"Till death do us apart"

Not even death would be able to separate you from him.

[littlelovelunette]

Teacher sevika getting jealous because reader was distracted in class while talking to someone,usually reader pay attention and have eyes on her at all time. She keeps reader after class to eat them out on the person desk who was distracting reader. Sevika then decorates their skin with hickies even in the places where others can see. Reader slowly stops worrying what other people will say if they see it, because it feels good. Pls make it so that sevika is possessive,condensending and manipulative

Improving Percentages (3)

Should I make this a series?

Contains mild smut, biting, hickeys, degradation, grinding

It was a normal business class, and you could feel the stare of your teacher burning into your skin, because well... You both had a... An affair.

You were shaking your legs from under the desk in anxiety, thinking what if your parents found out or what if the other teachers found out and the authorities got to know?

She could lose her job from it or worse gets her teaching license terminated or something.

Wait— did teaching license even exist? You didn't know and right now your head wasn't even functioning properly. You're snapped out of the train of your thoughts when a girl poked you from beside you.

"You gotta write down your notes faster than that, y'know?" She smiled warmly, "Also, can I borrow a pen?"

"Oh- yeah, sure," you gave her the pen you were using so you could just reach into your bag and grab another one.

As you resumed writing, the girl asked you, "I can't even read Professor Sevika's handwriting properly. I mean, cursive is pretty but a little tricky to read."

"Trust me, I get you, even my sister writes cursive," you giggled a little, "And I cant read a word..." You paused before adding, "Professor Sevika's handwriting is fine though."

"You're cool," the girl said before you both went back to writing the notes down from the board.

As the rest of the class finished copying it down, so did you.

"That's it, class, just make sure to keep your notes with you tomorrow when I give the lecture and will open the floor for questions," Sevika turned the multimedia off, students started filing out.

little note: continuing this on my tablet rn bc i can't sleep and need to get myself tired

you stayed back like the usual, watching as sevika trapped you against your chair and desk, leaning down, "nice friend you got there quite cozy," sevika said, her tone taunting.

"ma'am... it's just a—"

sevikas hand came around to grab your neck, squeezing slightly, "you're all mine you get me?"

"y-yes ma'am," you managed to choke out making her only smirk at your pathetic form. "oh, yeah? you were really warming upto her weren't you? tell me little bitch do you cream on her fingers or mine?"

sevika pulled you up and pinned you to the girl's desk, pulling the buttons of your blouse undone, leaving kisses along the side of your neck.

"you always make me feel so good and make me cream on your fingers ma'am," you stuttered out and moaned a little as she nipped at a certain sensitive spot.

sevika abused the spot on your neck until she left it to mark more on your collarbone, hues of red and purple littering your neck even in places usually visible to the public eye, to your parents and friends.

it made you worry what if others saw them? what if the authorities saw them? yet you moaned shamelessly when she sucked a dark purple mark on the front of your throat

wetness soaking your panties by now as you continued to lean your head back giving your professor more access to your neck. it was as if you needed it. needed to be reminded who you belonged to.

"o-oh, goodness," you could only whine pathetically and grind your hips against sevikas thigh but she didn't let you get off on it.

sevikas hands held you in place and you gripped onto her muscular biceps, fingers digging deep into the flesh as you bit your lips so you wouldn't moan too loudly.

"you're my little doll, my little toy to fuck around and play with, my little bitch to slap and pound silly, got it?" sevika basically growled making you shiver a little.

"y-yes ma'am... I'm sorry ma'am I'll be better I swear," you whimpered and that made sevika smile.

"good girl," she kissed your forehead, "text me when you get home."

[animasola86]

🚩 FORCED: 02+03

After "agreeing" to an "offer" you couldn't refuse, you wake up in quite the predicament, bound and gagged and blindfolded, with a lot more surprises waiting for you.

a morally gray man!your new master ✖️ female!reader

WARNING: This is a DARK FANTASY EROTICA! Beware of the following tags: Dead dove: do not eat! Explicit sexual content! Noncon! Master/servant dynamic! Bad BDSM etiquette! Predicament bondage! Gags/blindfolds/anal hook! Oral sex! Anal sex! Hurt/No comfort! Fucking machine! Double penetration! Forced orgasms! Squirting! Overstimulation! (🚩Please do not read/engage if any of these tags are triggering to you!)

WORDS: 4k 🚩 READ ON AO3!

A/N: Have the short version of my lengthy notes from chapter 1: This is dark and rough and basically a dumping ground for the most depraved kinks I could think of. Mind the tags!

And speaking of tags, yes, this is again tagged for various fandoms, even though this is not about your favorite blorbo. This is an original, "make the male lead your own blorbo" kind of story. It's also more focused on the Reader character in these chapters (who, by the way, has female genitalia and hair long enough to braid and is referred to as Doll).

For more information, check the Author's Notes on chapter 1.

Also: these are two chapters put into one post because they were so short (I uploaded them individually to AO3 though). But they are no less intense. Be warned!

Chapter 1 🔻 Chapter 2+3 🔺 Chapter 4

You woke up with a deep gasp, your body resuming the frantic attempt to get air into your lungs. Your jaw was aching, and you realized your mouth was open, a steady stream of drool dripping down your lips and your chin, gathering in a puddle beneath your head. There was something holding your lips apart, something rigid, hard, tasting of cold metal and earthy leather. Your tongue could move freely, tracing the contraption with a morbid fascination. You tried to swallow all the spit pooling in your mouth, but it hurt until you figured out to press your tongue against your gums.

Panic flooded you nonetheless as more of your body resumed its functions. You realized you were lying on your stomach, bent slightly, with your ass raised, and your head turned to the side, resting on something soft but cold, more leather, you assumed. It was dark, and it wasn't that there wasn't any light, it was something covering your eyes. A blindfold, and you felt it bound together behind your head, along with that thing that held your mouth open. Your hair seemed to be pulled back into a braid, the fray ends tickled between your shoulder blades. Of course you were still naked.

You tried moving your arms, but found yourself unable to. They were hanging off the edge of whatever furniture you were lying on, straight down, and when you moved your fingers, they brushed against something solid, and it felt as if you were held down by thick leather straps, making it impossible to move. The same was happening to your legs. Additionally, they were spread far apart, and you could feel the cool air of the room on your warm sex, exposed and vulnerable as it was.

Another flood of ice cold panic crashed through you, and you squirmed, urged out words that couldn't form with how your mouth was held open, thrashing your head, and it was then that you felt the painful sting. Freezing mid-motion, you let out a whimper when you realized there was something attached to your hair, to the end of your braid, and whenever you moved your head, that something pulled taut and made something else press hard against your insides, forcing your tight muscles apart.

You saw the hook-like metal thing before your eyes, lying on the soft velvet, with its ball-shaped bumps, and now you could feel it inside your ass, deep inside you, cold and heavy and hard, held in place by a rope attached to your braid. A fucking anal hook. You groaned, or tried to, stiffening to not cause yourself any more discomfort. It felt weird, especially since you'd never had anything up your butt before. It was wrong, and the way it was connected to your head, moving whenever you moved, made you feel sick to your already cramping stomach.

But it gave you enough leeway to rest your cheek on the soft leather, if you bent your neck just right. Breathing harder, trying to ignore the drool gathering on your tongue and pooling beneath you, you forced yourself to think through the panic clouding your mind. You were trapped, strapped to a table or bench or whatever sick kind of contraption. You were naked, spread wide open, impaled by a metal hook, gagged and blindfolded, and despite trying to see a silver lining or any possibility of escape, you couldn't find it. There was no way you could escape from this.

And now you were crying on top of anything else, big fat tears soaking into your blindfold until they were rolling down your face, dripping into your open mouth, burning on your hot skin, your throat closed up, your nose felt stuffed, it was harder and harder to breathe. This was hopeless! What did you do to deserve this? Hiccups shook your bound body, letting the hook dance in your ass, and you whined and wailed, spiraling deeper and deeper into the bottomless pit that your life had turned into.

In the midst of your despair, you suddenly heard footsteps, and the noise made you pause mid-sob, your heart racing and echoing loud in your ears. Fingertips traced along your hips, making you shiver, before you felt them lifting your head up by pulling on your braid. Breathing harder, face soaked in tears and sweat, snot and drool, your neck was angled up slightly, a strange pressure on your scalp as the rope connecting your hair to the hook in your ass was pulled tighter, and when the hands retreated, you found yourself stuck in that position, unable to move your head, and as you tried nonetheless, the thing in your ass moved, hard and unrelenting, pulling on your tense muscles.

You whined softly, trying to swallow the saliva that now pooled on your tongue. The hands were back on your shoulders, circling your face, holding your chin, wiping at the wet mess on your skin. A finger pushed into your mouth, right onto your tongue, and you flinched away, causing you to pull on the hook, coaxing another whimper out of your throat. One finger became two, and both digits moved in and out of your open mouth, slipping deeper, teasing at the back of your throat. And you couldn't move away without hurting yourself, so you held your breath, squeezing your eyes shut under the blindfold, and endured.

Or tried to, before the fingers made you gag violently as they pressed deeper into your throat. Your whole body jerked against your restraints, the hook in your ass pressing against your tight muscles, pulling at your hole, and you felt it clenching around the metal item, trying to get to terms with it. The fingers continued to probe at your throat, and you wanted to close your mouth, bite down on them, but the gag holding your jaw open kept you from doing anything. You were utterly helpless.

New tears burned under your eyelids, muffled gurgling sounds erupting from deep within you. Then the fingers were gone again, and you wanted to take a much needed breath, only to find yourself stuffed with something else. Bigger than fingers, wider and hotter, longer too as it pushed straight into your mouth, right against the back of your throat, something pulsing against your tongue, soft skin with a hardened core, and as hard as it was, it kept pushing, nudging, prodding, until you had to gag again, spit filling your mouth, when the spongy tip forced deeper into your throat.

Your head was spinning, empty and full at the same time, there was no coherent thought, just an overall panic, a need to breathe, and you got only granted a few seconds before it all happened again. In and out it went, and you knew by now it must have been a cock even though you can barely remember the last time you had one in your mouth (due to you only letting go when drunk), especially not one this big, the way it felt on your tongue, warm and throbbing, hard and also slightly soft, filling your mouth, bending, molding into the shape of your throat as it fucked your face over and over again, always pushing deep, making you gag with every attempt, until you felt too drowsy to fight the intrusion any longer.

There was a hand under your chin now, holding your head up as it got too heavy and you threatened to rip your hair out with how it pulled at the hook in your ass, but the motion continued, in and out, using your mouth like a hole whose only purpose was to be used like that. It wasn't a mouth, just a hole, with a tightly contracting throat squeezing the thing slipping into it time and time again, bulging your neck, finding space where there shouldn't be any. You felt sick, but too tired to retch any more, drool and something warm and sticky dripping from your chin, obscene gurgling and squelching sounds filling your ears.

The movements became quicker then, the hand slipped lower to grab at your throat, tightening your airways even more whenever the cock slipped particularly deep. Rough hairs tickled your nose and something firm and equally squishy pressed against your chin. Fingers squeezed your neck, squeezed around the cock in your throat, held tightly, and you couldn't do anything, couldn't fight the black spots dancing in front of your already obstructed vision, couldn't fight the urge to breathe, the vertigo, the panic, the fear.

Before you could fall over the edge into blissful nothingness, or so you hoped, you were released, and something hot and sticky hit your face, landed deep in your mouth, salty to the taste, piling up more and more, and you were too delirious to swallow, you just wanted to let it drip – if it wasn't for the hand pressed to your open mouth.

“Swallow,” came the low command, hoarse and demanding, and you let out a strangled whimper before you pressed your laden tongue to your gums and swallowed, feeling it slide down your hurting throat, the motion only adding to the overall pain you felt.

Your head was still held up by the rope connecting it to the hook, and when the hands fell away, you whined, wanting nothing more than to lie down fully and preferably just die, but then you felt the pressure easing on your braid, and without warning your head smacked down on the leather surface you were bound to, a groan escaped you, stars dancing behind your eyelids.

It numbed the pain that was now centering on your ass as the same hands that almost choked you were now playing with the metal hook, pushing it in and out, teasing your tense muscles, and it got worse when they pulled it out, slowly, so excruciatingly slow you could feel every single bump passing by your tight rim, until it was gone, leaving you aching and gaping.

For a few minutes nothing happened. You had time to relax, breathe deeply, try to ignore the soreness in your throat, and as you fought the vertigo overtaking you, you felt something nudging against your sphincter. A muffled cry escaped you, and you squirmed, pushing against your restraints as something warm and wet pushed into you. Slow little nudges, forcing your muscles away, and when it slipped in, you wailed soundlessly.

It was so much bigger than the hook, not as hard and rigid, but filling you out even more as it prodded deeper and deeper, with slow snaps of hips pressing against your rear. A sudden slap on one of your ass cheeks made you jump, a new kind of pain crashing through you, then it happened again, on the same spot, and you howled breathlessly, and the cock pressed deeper while your muscles protested, but to no avail. You were full of it now as it bottomed out, resting deep within you, before two strong hands gripped your hips, and the pressure loosened slightly when he drew back – only to slam into you again with even more force.

It was a sickening rhythm of drag, slam, whine, as he pulled out slowly, ramming back in, causing you to wail every time he seemed to rearrange your guts. Lewd slurping noises echoed in your ears as your ass grew more and more accustomed to the strange intruder, the friction was still bad, a horrible burning sensation as the cock dragged along your tense muscles, but the motion became easier to handle the faster it got.

You felt every hard thrust, and with your body strapped to whatever surface you were bound to, held in place by tight leather straps cutting into your skin, you couldn't move away, you could just take it. And take it again and again and again... until you thought you couldn't take any more, but he still gave you more, a fast rutting, a heavy pounding, slaps and stabs, bullying your muscles, pushing deep, stretching your limits, occupying every single inch of available space and beyond.

It was almost a relief when he finally stilled inside you and came, shooting thick ropes of cum into your abused depths, a strange warmth that eased the aching of your insides at least a little bit. But when he pulled out, the resulting emptiness was even worse. Cold air hit exposed flesh, making you shiver, your hole clenching in vain as his seed started dripping down your skin. You felt it and you still tasted it on your tongue, it was all around you, warm and sticky, degrading and humiliating, and you succumbed to the cold feeling of disgust, of fear and pain, of helplessness, of defeat.

Sobbing quietly, you were left alone, in the darkness, in the void of your own misery.

[READ ON AO3]

You must have fallen asleep again, because when you woke up, you were in a new position, lying on your back, legs raised and spread far apart, held in place by a new set of thick leather bands. And this time, you could see (and you almost wished you didn't), your frantic eyes searched the dark room you were in, you could make out shapes of benches and chairs, but nothing more. The light came from somewhere behind you, but you couldn't stretch your neck to be able to see it. You could barely lift your head to begin with.

There was another kind of gag in your mouth, a ball this time, something to bite down on if need be, and need was certainly there. Your arms were bound together somewhere above your head, wrists tied with thick ropes, your fingers tingling from how tight the ropes dug into your skin, slowly cutting off your circulation. Something was holding your arms up, like a metal hook that wasn't in your ass this time. There was something else in there now, you could feel it before you could see it, along with something similar poking into your cunt: two large dildos attached to some sort of machine prodded at your holes, just resting there, the tips barely penetrating you, but you were already fearing for the worst, your heart beat accelerating as you stared down between your spread legs.

They looked big and girthy, cock-like in a horrifying way, and you could already imagine the stretch and how deep they would plunge. Shuddering badly, your breaths turning into frantic little puffs that barely made it out of your nose, you watched your chest rising and falling faster, your heart thundering beyond, panic settling back into your restrained limbs.

The light got more for a moment before a large shadow fell over you. You stiffened, eyes widening, breath hitching. The man walked by, still in the fancy suit you'd first seen him in, completely ignoring you, then stepped to the machine between your legs. He didn't even look at you when he pressed a button and a whirring sound echoed through the room, followed by the rhythmic noise of the dildos pressing back and forth, and you gasped into your gag, straining and struggling, fruitlessly trying to get your hips away as the phallic items alternated between poking into your ass and poking into your pussy. In and out, a sickeningly slow rhythm, stretching you relentlessly.

The man pressed a few more buttons and the motions grew quicker, the whirring sounds louder, and the in and out got all the worse. They plunged deeper, their force relentless, poking at your soft flesh, at your tense muscles, forcing their way into you, while you wailed soundlessly, your muffled noises barely audible over the sounds of the machine. The constant in and out, drag, push, drag push, dragpush, one going into your cunt and the other moving out of your ass, out of your cunt and into your ass, back and forth, over and over again, in speeds that weren't normal, had your mind spinning and caused your stomach to tense up something awful.

A strange warmth built up inside you, filling you, expanding, urging to be released, and you groaned, squirming as best as you could with how you were bound to the bench, but you couldn't even lift your hips properly with that leather strap pushing down on your abdomen, couldn't escape even if you wanted to. And eventually, you didn't even want to. You wanted more. For them to move faster, hit different spots, drive you over the edge, but they kept their lazy rhythm, in, out, and there was no other stimulation.

Your eyes were unfocused but you still tried to throw a pleading look towards the man who stood beside you, watching you with an impassive gaze. A garbled noise escaped you that should have been a please, but of course nothing came past the gag in your mouth. Besides more drool. He moved then, and you wished he didn't after all. The dildos moved faster, no longer alternating, but pushing in at the same time, in, in, out, out, so fast the whirring noises were deafening.

You screamed through your gag, eyes rolling back, as they plunged deep and pulled and stretched your muscles, invading further than before, further than they should reach. You felt awfully full, and hot, your whole body covered in a fine sheen of sweat, as your heart beat faster and your breaths came through your nose in frantic desperation. It was all too much, and not enough at the same time. The machine pounded into you, unrelenting, unaware of your discomfort, programmed to push and pull.

Hot tears mixed with sweat and saliva as you cried helplessly, your stomach tensing even more, the heat burning within you almost unbearable. And then there was a click, and it got even worse. They moved faster, really pistoning in and out at an inhuman speed, attacking your holes with full force. Muffled screams and whines and whimpers echoed through the room, barely audible over the machine's loud whirring.

They stabbed you, and they stabbed you deep, the one in your cunt prodding at your cervix, and each time it did, which was every second or quicker it seemed, you shuddered and cried out, and that strange pain slowly turned into something else. The warmth built up, that coil in your stomach wrought so tight it was almost breaking, and then... it broke, and everything else broke loose too, and you came hard.

Your body spasmed and convulsed in its restraints, something warm and wet sprayed past the intruders, splattering to the floor, and you kept trembling, head thrashed back, mind empty and full of cotton at the same time, a million little lights dancing behind your eyelids. The machine kept going, the dildos held their insanely fast pace, loud squelching sounds mixing with the mechanical whirring, and you felt that tension building up again... and again... and you came once more, overwhelmed and unable to stop it.

You stopped counting after the fifth time it forced you to orgasm, and you were exhausted, barely able to breathe, barely able to function. You were just a body strapped to a bench with your legs held up in strange stirrups, your arms tied above your head, and a fucking machine assaulting your holes without mercy. It hurt so bad, you were sore and tired, but the spasms kept coming, and you kept coming, and you were so close to just give in, so close to the edge of the void that promised to swallow you whole.

But then it all stopped, and an eerie silence fell over you. It was just your frantic breaths, the drumming of your heart in your ears, the squeaking of the bench whenever you jerked involuntarily against your bounds. And the dildos rested inside you, all the way in, filling you, keeping you plugged up, holding you in place. You couldn't move, couldn't think. It doesn't matter. It's over. And you calmed down, head lolled to the side, eyelids fluttering shut.

A hand moved along your neck, fingers pressing against your pulse point, then came a little grunt, and a palm slapping hard against your cheek causing you to whine out loud, your eyes flying open. The man stood over you, his gaze dark.

“You are not done yet,” he told you ominously, and you frowned, trying to plead with him, but he retreated and walked back to the machine.

You couldn't fully see what he was doing, but he somehow added something to it, another arm with some sort of attachment, and you gasped into your gag when you felt it. A constant buzzing, pressed straight to your swollen clit. He clicked some more buttons and the vibrations grew in intensity, making you thrash your head and pull on the bounds of your arms, which in turn seemed to pull you further up the bench. But the strap around your stomach kept your body from moving, so you just stretched your torso, and your joints started hurting. It felt as if your shoulders would be ripped right out of their sockets, and you whined, stopped moving, tried to anyway.

“Stay still,” his low voice came to you, barely audible over the humming of the vibrator and your own heartbeat in your ears.

You sniffled, new tears spilling from your lashes, your nose clogging up badly. You could barely breathe, your lips fluttering around the ball in your mouth, jaw aching under the strain to open further, but the item between your teeth was too big to allow for air to rush past it. Your eyes widened in panic as you realized that.

He sighed, shaking his head, then fumbled with the leather strap holding the gag in place. To your growing surprise, he actually removed it, though he kept his hand like a vice on your jaw, staring down at you. You blinked, a gurgled wail escaping you. He reached for something under the bench, and a pathetic whimper slipped from your swollen lips. It was the ring gag again.

He forced the metal ring between your teeth and attached it to your head, and even though you could breathe through your mouth now, it didn't stop the drool from dripping down your chin. Turning your head to the side, he patted your cheek before stepping back. You inhaled sharply, rapid breaths to fill your aching lungs, snot and saliva mixing with your tears and sweat. You felt miserable, but never bad enough to be able to ignore the buzzing against your clit. It made your vision blur, your stomach tense up all over again, and it got even worse when he turned the machine back on.

Now it was moving in its lazy rhythm, alternating again, never leaving you empty as the dildos pushed first into your cunt and then into your ass, cunt, ass, in, out, slow and steady, with their tips always holding you open.It would have been lulling if the stimulation of your sensitive nub wouldn't still be on the forefront of your mind. It kept you alert, balancing on the edge, always too much, but also never enough. You squirmed, tried to get more out of it, but it only earned you another slap to the cheek, which was burning, pulsing heavily against the leather strap of the gag.

You sniffled, squeezing your eyes shut against the pain that slowly bled into the overwhelming pleasure building up inside you. A click and the machine moved faster while the vibrator toned down, and you whined pathetically. So close. Another kind of vibration buzzed in the air, and you saw him pulling his phone out of his suit jacket. Your mind was too clouded to understand anything, but when he walked closer to you, his hand warm and big on your jaw, you blinked into attention.

“I gotta go for a bit, doll,” he told you, and your eyes widened as you struggled frantically in your restraints. “Don't worry, I'll leave the machines on. Just for you. See you soon.”

And then he just left, and you were alone with the two large dildos fucking your holes and the vibrator thrumming against your clit, hopeless and helpless, forced to endure. Overwhelmed and exhausted, covered in sweat and tears, snot and drool, and your own juices dripping down your ass. You tried to relax into the motions, but you never could, you remained on edge, so close, but never enough.

This time, the pleasure built up slowly, just a warmth within you, with your muscles contracting lazily, your stomach tensing, thrust after thrust, buzz after buzz, and it still felt like being thrown before a bus when you tipped over the edge. Your cries were muffled, tears spilling from your eyes as you squeezed them shut, that wave of bliss pulling and pulling you up up up, the constant movement of the toys pulling you down down down, and you were tossed around like a leaf in the storm, suffocating, drowning, pulled under.

There was no end or beginning anymore, it was all the same, too much for your spasming body, your twitching limbs, your curling toes, stomach fluttering, cunt clenching, ass tightening, while the dildos pushed in and out, in and out, over and over again, keeping you afloat, fueled by the humming of the vibrator, your clit throbbing, swollen and raw, too sensitive to handle anything anymore.

Eventually, fortunately, the room fell into darkness, but the whirring of the machine followed you into the depth.

Chapter 1 🔻 Chapter 2+3 🔺 Chapter 4

End notes: Aaaand she fainted again, the poor thing. Have I mentioned this story is dark and depraved and has no comfort? Sorry, I did warn you. And it'll only get worse from here...

New chapter every Saturday at around 9pm CEST!

Thank you for braving this depravity reading!

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[absdollievu]

Taken with ease

Part 2

Cowgirl!abby x bucklebunny!reader

Warnings: strap usage, straight up sesbian lex (both r!receiving)

Part 1

The next morning, your phone buzzes just after eight.

Abby Anderson:

Good morning. I hope you rested well and that your legs aren’t too sore from the dance floor. It was truly a pleasure seeing you last night.

You blink at the screen.

The phrasing. The punctuation. Truly a pleasure.

It reads like she wrote it with a fountain pen in candlelight. It’s a little cringe—but also kind of sweet. Like she’s trying. Like she meant it.

You don’t say anything. Just grin a little and type back:

You:

Morning. Legs are sore but still functional. Last night was worth it.

A few minutes later:

Abby Anderson:

I’d really like to see you again. There’s a place in town—quiet, nicer than the bar. I made a reservation for tomorrow night. If you’re free.

You pause. She’s… kind of intense. But in a way that feels like gravity, not pressure.

You:

I’ll find something to wear.

⸻

She picks you up. She stands by the passenger side when she sees you, tall and sure in a dark blazer over a clean black shirt, sleeves cuffed at the wrist. Her hair’s pulled back, her eyes tracking you from the front door of your house to her car like she’s taking you in all over again.

“You look…” she trails off, letting her gaze linger. “…exceptionally distracting.”

You laugh, brushing past her as she pulls open the car door. “You’re not exactly blending in either.”

You guys arrive, Abby pulls out you’re chair. Dinner is unhurried, intimate. She orders confidently—like she’s been here before, though when you ask, she admits, “First time. Figured I’d take a risk.”

You trade stories between courses. She’s surprisingly funny when she relaxes—dry, deadpan, occasionally mischievous. You find yourself leaning in more than once, elbows brushing. Her fingers graze yours once while reaching for her glass and neither of you pulls away.

“So,” you say toward the end, twirling the last bit of wine in your glass, “is this your usual second date move? Candlelight and filet mignon?”

Abby shrugs with a half-smile. “No. Usually it’s burgers and a beer. But you looked like you’d be worth upgrading for.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And?”

She meets your gaze with something quieter, steadier. “Definitely worth it.”

The server returns with the bill, and Abby reaches for it without hesitation. She signs the slip smoothly, and you catch a glimpse before it disappears into the little leather folder.

You blink.

Holy shit

It’s not like you were in it for the money, but—damn. That was a statement.

You glance at her as she slips her card back into her wallet like it’s nothing.

“You really didn’t have to—”

“I know,” she says simply, already rising to help you with your coat. “But I wanted to.”

There’s a silence in the air between you as you step out into the night. Not awkward. Anticipatory.

She walks to her car, you following beside her. Doesn’t say much. Doesn’t have to.

When you stop beside the passengers side, you look up at her. “So what now?”

Abby leans a little closer, her voice low. “Well… I still owe you dessert.”

You smile. “That so?”

She nods, she opens the door for you.

You don’t even hesitate.

⸻

Abby’s house is quiet when you arrive—dim lighting, the kind that feels like a secret. She unlocks the door with one hand and pushes it open with the other, nodding for you to follow.

“Make yourself at home,” she says, then disappears into the kitchen. A moment later, she returns holding two spoons and a pint of Häagen-Dazs, the classic vanilla flavor catching the light.

“You like vanilla?” she asks, giving you a look that’s all cheek and subtle challenge.

You smirk. “I do now.”

She sinks into the couch beside you, close—but not too close. The movie’s already playing, some quiet drama with soft lighting and even softer dialogue. Neither of you are really watching.

You each take small bites of the ice cream, passing the container back and forth. Her knee brushes yours once, and she doesn’t move away. You glance at her out of the corner of your eye, and catch her doing the same.

Neither of you says a word, but the shift happens anyway—like gravity pulling you slowly toward the inevitable.

By the time you lean forward to set the now-empty carton on the coffee table, while Abby leans forward to put her spoon on the table, the space between you has narrowed to inches.

Your breath catches.

She looks at you, her eyes lingering on your mouth, your jaw, your throat. Her hand moves to your thigh—slow, firm, steady. A quiet grip that says everything without a sound.

You lean in. She meets you halfway.

The kiss starts soft. Curious. But it deepens fast, all breath and heat and the kind of urgency that’s been simmering since the night you met.

Her hand tightens on your thigh, pulling you closer.

Without breaking the kiss, Abby stands. You wrap your legs around her instinctively, arms around her shoulders as she carries you through the hallway like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

She takes you to her bedroom and she lays you down gently on the bed, hair falling loose as she hovers over you, breathless. Her hands slide to the dresser drawer beside the bed, pulling it open carefully.

She pauses, her eyes searching yours.

“Can I?” she asks, voice low—barely more than a breath.

You nod. Once. Then again, quicker.

“Please,” you whisper.

Abby kisses you again—slower this time, reverent—before reaching for what she needs.

The drawer slides open with a soft clack, and Abby doesn’t look away from you as she reaches inside. There’s something commanding in her silence—assured, deliberate. She pulls out the harness with practiced ease, setting it beside her on the bed before turning back to you.

“Clothes off,” she says, voice low—controlled, like she doesn’t need to raise it to be obeyed. Abby slips off each piece of her clothing, then slipping into the harness.

Your pulse jumps, heat blooming across your skin as you sit up, peeling away the layers between you. She watches, not rushing you, but not pretending to look away either. Her gaze is heavy, searing. Focused.

Once you’re bare beneath her, she leans in, one hand braced beside your head, the other slipping along the inside of your thigh with a confidence that says she already knows exactly how you’ll respond. Her mouth brushes yours—teasing, almost soft—but her grip is anything but that.

“You tell me to stop,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper, “and I stop. Otherwise…” Her hand tightens. Her eyes flick down, then up again, locking onto yours. “Let me have you.”

You nod, a little breathless. “Yes.”

“No,” Abby says quietly, tilting her head. “Use your words.”

“Yes. I want you.”

That’s all she needs.

She rises, stepping away just long enough to tighten the harness, tightening the straps without breaking eye contact. Every movement is fluid—controlled and exact, like she’s done this a hundred times, but still wants you to feel like the only one it’s ever been for.

When she climbs back over you, she doesn’t ask again. She just guides you back against the pillows with one firm hand and lowers herself between your thighs, mouth brushing against your skin, breath hot, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp.

The strap presses against your center—solid, sure, perfectly aligned—and she doesn’t rush. She makes you feel every inch, every slow push and drag, until your back arches and your fingers clutch at the sheets.

“You take me so well,” she murmurs against your ear, her pace steady, deliberate. “You were made for this. You feel that?”

You answer with a gasp, a nod, a whisper of her name that pulls a low groan from her chest.

Abby moves like she’s claiming every part of you—body and breath, sound and surrender—and you give in completely, letting her take the lead.

And she does—fully, fiercely, with control and care tangled up in every movement, until nothing else exists but her voice in your ear and the way she holds you like you’re hers.

She holds you there—her hands are firm on your hips, controlling the pace, her body hovering above yours with a grace that makes everything feel slower, deeper. The strap presses against you with purpose, every movement careful, calculated. Abby’s eyes never leave yours, her gaze dark with desire, and there’s something in the way she watches you—focused, intense, like she’s drinking you in, seeing every inch of you, every reaction you give her.

Her hand snaking down to your clit, rubbing it in slow circles to release some pressure

“You’re doing so good,” Abby murmurs, her voice thick with satisfaction as she bends down just enough to kiss the curve of your neck. The warmth of her breath against your skin sends a shiver through you, and she feels it, pulling you closer, pressing into you as she shifts her rhythm. “God, you’re incredible.”

You can’t hold back the sound that leaves your lips—soft, almost a plea, but more desperate. “Abby…”

She smirks against your skin, clearly enjoying the way you unravel with every inch of her. “What is it, baby? Want me to go faster?” Her voice drops lower, more commanding, testing you.

You don’t need to answer. Your body betrays you, legs tightening around her waist, pulling her in deeper. The sensation is almost too much, but you crave it, want her to push you further, to lose control together. Your hands slide along her back, tracing the hard muscles, feeling the way her body tenses with each movement.

Abby doesn’t break her rhythm. She keeps her pace steady, deliberate—her every thrust bringing you closer to the edge, but never quite over it. She watches you, eyes locked on your face, studying your expressions like she’s reading every thought, every breath. She’s relentless, but patient.

The way she grips your thigh, her fingers digging into your skin, makes you gasp. You feel the heat of her body, the strength behind each of her moves, and it’s overwhelming in the best way possible. There’s no doubt in her—she knows exactly what she’s doing to you, and you’re lost in the power of it.

Her mouth finds yours again, pulling you into a kiss that’s everything and nothing at once. It’s messy, heated, desperate, as though you can’t get close enough to each other. The kiss deepens, and Abby’s tongue dances with yours, both of you breathless, exchanging quiet moans between heated kisses.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Abby whispers against your lips, her voice strained but full of praise. She moves in, kissing you again, pulling you closer, making sure there’s not an inch of space between your bodies.

It’s too much to keep up with. You’re almost drowning in the sensation, your body aching with need, but you don’t want her to stop. Not yet. Not ever.

Her pace quickens, no longer giving you time to adjust between each deep thrust. She’s taking what she wants, but with the most careful, deliberate control, making sure you’re right there with her. Every inch of you is on fire.

“I want you to come for me,” Abby growls, her breath ragged in your ear. “You feel that? How much I need you?”

You can’t answer—can’t form words. The pressure inside of you is building, your body taut, trembling beneath her. The heat and desire are too much to contain.

Abby doesn’t stop. She moves with purpose, her hand sliding between your bodies, pressing against you in all the right places, coaxing you to the edge. You can feel yourself getting closer, your breath shallow and fast, your heartbeat thundering in your ears.

“Let go for me,” she commands, her voice low, just above a whisper, as though her words are the only thing holding you together. “I want to feel you.”

And then it happens—your body tightens, your back arches, and a broken moan slips from your lips as you come undone beneath her. Your world narrows down to the pulse of her movement inside you, her name on your lips, her hands gripping your body as you lose yourself completely.

She doesn’t slow down, doesn’t give you a moment to breathe, taking you through it, making sure you feel every second. Your body quivers, unable to do anything but hold onto her as she continues her rhythm, her breath just as uneven now, her own release building.

When she finally does still, it’s almost imperceptible. Her movements slow, then stop, and she collapses beside you, her body shaking from the intensity, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she drapes her arm across your waist, pulling you close to her chest, your head resting on her shoulder.

There’s a quiet moment between you, just the two of you breathing, coming down from the high, your hearts still pounding in rhythm. You can feel the warmth of her skin beneath your fingers as you gently trace the line of her jaw.

Abby’s fingers find your hand, intertwining them slowly. Her voice is low, but it’s soft now. “You were amazing,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I hope you know that.”

You smile against her skin, your body still buzzing from everything that just happened.

Her soft laugh fills the space between you, and you both lay there in silence for a while, content, wrapped up in each other.

Eventually, Abby shifts, pulling the blankets up around you both, her thumb gently tracing the side of your face.

“You want to stay?” she asks, voice low and filled with warmth, a different kind of softness now.

You nod without hesitation. “Yeah. I want to stay.”

And so, you do. The rest of the world fades away as you settle into her, the night stretching on with the promise of more to come, but for now, you’re just here—together.

[dollyswishingwell]

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ I’ll think for you

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ yandere, manipulation, dependency, power imbalance, forced domesticity, isolation, a tiny bit infantilisation, this is me getting yall slowly used to dark content

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ They shaped you to be exactly how they want

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You used to be so independent. So opinionated, so decisive. A skilled hunter of the Deep Space Hunter Association, Graduated top of the academy. And now?

You’re a delicate little thing wrapped in lace and pearls, sitting in Rafayel’s lap at a velvet booth in the most exclusive restaurant in the city. His hand strokes slow circles on your bare thigh, keeping you calm as your wide, pretty eyes flit nervously over the menu.

Not because you can’t read it. But because, “Raffy,” you whisper softly, pressing your cheek to his shoulder, “…I can’t pick..”

He beams. Oh, you sweet, helpless thing. “Mm, my baby wants the saffron lobster risotto,” he murmurs against your temple, curling a lock of your hair around his finger. “You always get pouty when the rice is undercooked anywhere else, remember?” He tucks the menu away without you even touching it. “And we’ll share the strawberry mille-feuille after. No cherries. I’ll kill them if they bring cherries again.”

You nod obediently, letting him order for you, your fingers fidgeting with his sleeve like a lost child. You don’t even notice the way the waiter looks at you with pity. Or is it fear?

Rafayel doesn’t mind. He lives for this. For your dependency. For the way you look to him like he’s your entire world, because he is.

You don’t shop anymore unless he’s there to tell you what’s pretty.

You don’t eat unless he feeds you the first bite.

You won’t even open the curtains without asking him if it’s okay today.

And when you’re home, swaddled in your frilly little outfits, toddling after him barefoot in your designer slippers, asking “Raffy, can I put ribbons in my hair today or are we staying in?”, he nearly collapses from how cute you are.

You can’t function without him anymore. And he made sure of that. Sure, It took a while to get you to this state but he managed.

Rafayel hums softly as he spoons the first bite into your mouth. “That’s it, sweet girl. Good, isn’t it?” His smile deepens when you nod happily, your lips still parted a little for another bite. “See? You don’t need to worry about anything. Just let Raffy take care of it all.”

His voice is so soft, so gentle. But beneath it is that familiar edge of obsession.

If you ever did try to choose something without him now,

If you ever said, “I think I want—” instead of “Raf, What should i—?”

he’d smile at you just the same.

But the look in his eyes would turn terrifyingly cold.

Because you’re his. Utterly, helplessly his.

And he won’t let you survive without him.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

Your life is so easy now. No stress, no pressure. Just floating through luxury in silk nightgowns and diamonds, curled up in Zayne’s lap in the garden pavilion or lounging in the marble tub he has drawn for you daily at 7pm sharp. He handles everything. He decides everything.

You don’t need to worry your pretty little head about anything anymore.

And he made sure of that.

⸻

You’re out for dinner with him, very rarely, only when he says it’s safe enough, and you’re clinging to his arm, face half-hidden in his shoulder as the waiter approaches.

“Have you two decided?”

You blink at the menu like it’s written in another language. You didn’t even read it. You looked at Zayne the moment you sat down, your hand resting lightly on his thigh under the table, eyes wide and waiting.

He glances down at you briefly, one of his hands sliding protectively behind your back. “She’ll have the roast duck. Glazed, no herbs on the skin. And the red wine reduction on the side, she doesn’t like it poured over.”

He doesn’t ask you. He knows.

You give a little hum and lean into him, relaxing instantly. “Thank you, Zaynie…” you whisper against his collarbone.

The waiter leaves. Zayne stays silent for a moment, sipping his drink, then gently shifts your chair a little closer to his. Always keeping you within arm’s reach. Always watching you.

“You didn’t even glance at the menu,” he murmurs, tone unreadable.

You blink up at him like a kitten caught doing something wrong, but you can’t tell if he’s displeased.

Zayne watches the way you shrink slightly, how your lips pout just faintly. His hand reaches under the table and settles possessively on your thigh.

“…Good,” he says after a long pause, his voice soft and deep. “You shouldn’t be thinking about things like that anymore.” He brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear, lips ghosting across your cheek. “You’re not built for decision-making. Let me handle it.”

And you do. Always.

You wake up when he tells you.

You eat what he places on your plate.

You wear what he’s laid out on the bed each morning, with the jewelry box open for you like a princess.

When you feel anxious, you bury your face in his chest and ask softly, “Zay, what should I do…?” — and he holds you like you’re breakable, whispering, “Just follow me. That’s all you ever have to do.”

He’s spent years making sure you rely on him so fully you wouldn’t last a day without him. And the way you smile when he decides everything for you? Like being cared for is the only thing you’ve ever known?

Zayne would never admit it aloud, but he lives for that look.

You’re not just his housewife. You’re his porcelain doll, the soft and helpless girl he locked away from the world just to protect and control.

And he loves you like that.

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

It’s subtle, with Xavier.

So soft you don’t even realize how deeply you’ve sunk into him, how utterly dependent you’ve become.

You don’t remember when it started. When your “What do you think, baby?” turned into “I don’t know unless you tell me.” When your curiosity, your opinions, your sense of direction, all slowly dissolved into him.

Now, you’re just his. A sweet, soft-spoken housewife who waits by the window for him, dressed in his favorite pale colors, your hair styled just the way he likes, your entire world revolving around when he comes home.

You don’t even know what you like anymore unless Xavier whispers it in your ear.

⸻

You’re out with him, rare, but he allows it. Only in quiet, secure places. Tonight, you’re seated across from him in a secluded booth at a lantern-lit garden café in the upper rings of Skyhaven.

There’s a pretty dessert menu in front of you. You tilt your head at it like it’s written in another language.

“Xavi,” you murmur softly, tugging at his sleeve with both hands, “…what do i want?”

He smiles at that. Not in mockery. Not in amusement. In devotion.

“You want something warm,” he murmurs gently, sliding the menu away and taking your hand, long fingers threading through yours. “Something gentle. Not too sweet.”

He strokes his thumb along your wrist as he places the order. You lean forward, pressing your cheek against his hand as if to say thank you for thinking for me, again.

You always look to him before making any move. You won’t even stand up without asking, “should I follow now?”

He picks your dresses.

He braids your hair in the morning.

He brushes your teeth for you when you’re sleepy.

And when you’re nervous about anything, even something as small as picking the scent of the room diffuser, your first instinct is to turn to him and whisper, “What would make you happy…?”

And he always gives you an answer. Always, so quietly. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to guide you.

Because you’re his pretty housewife. His soft little wife who doesn’t need to think. He’s the one who bears the burden of decision. You just have to smile, stay close, and let yourself be loved.

“You’re happiest when you let me think for you,” he whispers against your temple one evening, as he tucks you into the massive bed in your penthouse. “Don’t worry, sweetheart… I’ll never let the world confuse you again.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

You don’t make decisions.

You don’t even pretend to anymore.

You flinch when someone asks you, “Paper or digital receipt?”

You hesitate in boutiques, waiting for Sylus to tilt his head before stepping toward the display.

Even at home, you sit quietly beside him, legs tucked under you, waiting for him to decide what you’ll eat, wear, watch, or do.

Not because he forbade you.

But because he’s so perfectly, ruthlessly conditioned you not to.

⸻

Tonight, you’re seated beside him at a private luxury tasting hosted by an ally syndicate. Glittering cityscape behind you, violins playing faintly. You look divine in the dress he chose. The one with the daring back and delicate sleeves that makes you look more like a prize than a wife.

A waiter steps forward. “And for the lady?”

You blink, clearly startled. You hadn’t been paying attention, just tracing lazy shapes on Sylus’ thigh, face resting against his shoulder.

Sylus doesn’t even let you speak.

He lifts his wine glass without looking at the man. “She’ll have the truffle risotto. No onions. She won’t touch it if she smells even one.”

The waiter hesitates, eyes flicking between the two of you. Sylus gives him a single glance, cold, razor-sharp. That’s all it takes. The man practically bows and disappears.

You blink up at Sylus. “I didn’t even realize I don’t like onions…”

He smiles, so smug, so fond, so terrifyingly pleased. “You don’t. You used to pretend you did. For appearances.”

You didn’t even remember that.

But Sylus did. He remembers everything. He’s constructed your new life down to the minute. You don’t have to know anything. He’s already decided what you should.

And it’s so easy to let go.

⸻

You once stood against him as a force. A powerful figure with opinions, ambitions, sharp edges. Took him a while to break you down but now you’re a perfect little thing in designer heels and soft perfume, standing half a step behind him and gripping his sleeve like a doll.

And he loves it.

“You used to challenge me,” he’ll murmur while brushing your hair, voice velvet-slick. “Now you ask me which hand to wear your rings on. How far we’ve come, my little bride.”

You’d never survive without him. Not because you couldn’t try.

But because he made sure you wouldn’t want to.

Why would you?

When Sylus gives you everything you could ever want, except freedom?

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

You’ve been his since you were four years old.

Even then, Caleb was the one who brushed your hair, tied your shoes, and chose which dress you wore on school days. Even when he was just six, he took responsibility for you in a way that was unnatural. Fierce. Obsessive.

So now, as his wife, you don’t lift a finger without him.

You don’t have to.

Because Caleb has spent every waking moment of his life making sure you wouldn’t know how.

⸻

You’re seated beside him in the Skyhaven Officer’s Club, plush and extravagant, your legs swinging beneath the table, perfectly dressed in the soft pearl chiffon gown he picked out for you. His gloved hand rests on your lower back, keeping you steady and close.

The menu sits untouched in front of you.

“Baby,” he says lowly, voice calm, “read it.”

You blink at him, lashes fluttering. “I don’t know what I want,” you murmur shyly, fingers twisting in your lap.

“No.” His purple eyes cut to you sharply. “You don’t make decisions. I do.” He places a single gloved hand over the menu, slowly sliding it toward himself. “But I want to see if you even remember how.”

You go quiet. Embarrassed. Eyes wide, lips slightly parted.

He stares at you for a moment longer before softening, sighing under his breath. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, low and satisfied.

He orders for you. Cuts your food into bites for you. Swaps your glass of water when he sees the condensation has made it too cold. When the waiter brings a side dish that has even a hint of spice, he narrows his eyes and says, “My wife doesn’t eat that. Fix it.”

And you, so sweet, so dependent, you look up at him after every bite like you want praise for just chewing. It makes his chest tighten. He lives for this.

You ask him what to wear.

You ask if it’s okay to sit on the balcony.

You even ask if you’re allowed to use the pink lipstick he bought you.

He trains you into this kind of helplessness. Not through cruelty, but through constant, overwhelming control. Quiet discipline. Every time you make a decision on your own? He gently corrects you.

“Pips, that’s not your job,” he’ll say, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Your only responsibility is to look pretty and wait for me.”

And you do. You really do.

He’s raised you into this. His good girl. His housewife. His soft little thing that wouldn’t know how to breathe without him reminding you.

And that’s exactly how he wants it.