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alive-pancake · 3 days ago

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Trash Novel Chronicles: Gaslight, Gatekeep, Get Married || Deuce Spade

You get isekai’d into a garbage novel as the villain, so you take it as a sign that morality is optional now. So, you do what any reasonable person would: you set the world on fire (metaphorically… mostly) and somehow bag your knight, Deuce Spade in the process.

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You sat in absolute silence. Reeling. Processing. Dissociating. The book lay in your lap like the aftermath of a terrible crime, and you were its sole witness.

This was it. This was the literary phenomenon your friends had been screaming about. The novel they had sworn up and down was “life-changing,” “revolutionary,” and “the best thing since sliced bread.”

They had lied.

You had just spent the last twelve hours raw-dogging the most deranged piece of fiction known to mankind.

Your soul had been ripped from your body. Your IQ points had been forcefully extracted like an amateur lobotomy. You were but a husk of your former self.

A single thought floated through your shattered psyche:

I will never know peace again.

With shaking hands, you closed the book. The sound was deafening. A death knell for your last two remaining brain cells.

And then, like a corpse freshly risen from the grave, you stood.

This could not go unanswered. This could not go unpunished.

Your friends would explain themselves.

You stomped through the dark streets like a vengeful ghost, guided by pure, unfiltered spite. It was 1 AM. Civilization had long since gone to sleep. You didn’t care.

Your mind replayed the sheer buffoonery you had just endured.

The heroine: an overpowered dumbass with the survival instincts of a chicken nugget. She was supposed to be a Saintess, and yet she spent 80% of the book actively making things worse. Entire villages burned because of her holy powers, and she had the audacity to be shocked every time it happened.

"Oh noooo, I accidentally summoned divine lightning again!"

AGAIN. AGAIN.

Then there was the Crown Prince, the supposed male lead. A menace. A plague upon this world. He was in love with the villain but too emotionally constipated to deal with it, so instead, he had chosen the path of delusion. This man pursued the heroine not out of love, but out of sheer desperation

"If I can’t be happy, then no one can."

That was his entire character arc.

And let’s not forget the second male lead. The butler. The SPY. He was somehow working for both the villain and the heroine at the same time while also being madly in love with the heroine for reasons that science could not explain. This man switched allegiances like he was flipping through TV channels. You were convinced he woke up every morning and rolled a die to decide whose side he was on that day.

And then. The villain.

Your one hope. Your one saving grace.

A man who started the book as a calculating mastermind and ended it as a broken shell of a human being. You did not blame him. You were right there with him.

By the final chapter, he had stopped trying to kill the heroine. He had stopped plotting world domination. He had stopped everything.

He just sat there, staring into the abyss, wondering how his life had gone so, so wrong.

And honestly? Mood.

You reached your friend’s house.

You did not knock. No. That was for reasonable, rational people. You grabbed a rock from their garden and hurled it at their window with the force of a person unhinged.

A light flicked on. Your friend’s groggy, half-conscious face appeared.

“Holy shit, what the hell—”

“EXPLAIN YOURSELF.”

You pointed an accusatory finger at them, your eyes wild, your soul fractured beyond repair.

“Explain WHAT?” They blinked, rubbing their eyes.

“The book.” Your voice was hollow. “The—thing—you made me read.”

Their face lit up. “OH MY GOD, YOU FINISHED IT?? WASN’T IT AMAZING??”

You had never before in your life wanted to commit a homicide.

You took a deep breath. A slow, shuddering inhale.

Then, in the most broken, haunted voice imaginable, you whispered:

“…I need you to pay for my therapy.”

You stomped down the street, vibrating with pure, unfiltered rage. That book—that war crime bound in paper—had single-handedly destroyed your brain cells, faith in storytelling, and will to live. You couldn’t let your other friend get away with this. No, you were going to kick down their door too and demand compensation for the IQ points you lost.

Unfortunately, fate had other plans.

Just as you turned the corner, a man—no, a menace to society—came hurtling toward you at ungodly speeds.

On a unicycle.

Juggling three live pigeons and a tray of scalding hot coffees.

His face was locked in an expression of sheer, manic concentration, like a circus performer who had just realized—mid-act—that he had made a terrible career choice.

You had exactly 0.2 seconds to process this before he crashed into you at full force.

The pigeons exploded into the sky, shrieking like war victims.

The coffee—boiling, lava-hot coffee—doused you from head to toe, scalding your skin and soul simultaneously.

And the unicycle? Oh. The unicycle was the true villain here.

Because as you staggered back, reeling from the assault on your dignity, the wheel rolled perfectly under your foot.

And then—

You flipped.

Like a medieval peasant being yeeted off a catapult.

You did a full midair somersault, knocked over a trash can, ricocheted off a parked bicycle, and crashed directly through the window of a sketchy pawn shop, where you landed face-first into a display of cursed porcelain dolls.

Your last conscious thought before darkness took you?

This is less painful than reading that book.

At first, you thought it was a dream.

Someone was shaking you. Like, aggressively. Like a demonic chihuahua trying to alert its owner to impending doom.

"Five more minutes," you groaned, swatting at the offending hands.

But then your barely-functioning brain remembered something very important.

You lived alone.

Unless the dust bunnies under your bed had finally formed a rebellion and achieved sentience, nobody should be waking you up.

Your eyes snapped open.

A person.

A man, actually. A very serious-looking man in full medieval armor, staring at you like he was expecting you to start speaking in tongues.

You blinked.

He blinked back.

Your first thought: Wow, the Ren Faire is getting really immersive these days.

Your second thought: WAIT A GODDAMN MINUTE.

Your hands flew to your face—your very much not-your-face face. Your voice, when you gasped, wasn’t your voice. The tailored nobleman’s coat draped over your body? Not your clothes. The ornate bedroom you were in? Definitely not your apartment, where your furniture was 70% discount IKEA and 30% “found on the sidewalk.”

Dread settled in your stomach like a badly microwaved burrito.

Slowly, with the growing horror of a person realizing they've walked into a live horror movie, you turned toward the giant antique mirror across the room.

And fuck your life, you recognized the face staring back at you.

It was him.

The villain.

The villain from that absolute garbage fire of a novel.

You whipped around so fast you almost took yourself out on your own cape.

"You," you pointed at the knight, brain desperately catching up to reality. "What happened?!"

The knight—Deuce Spade, if you remembered correctly—winced.

"Uh," he started, rubbing the back of his neck, "the Crown Prince tried to lean on your shoulder, but, uh… tripped and accidentally drop-kicked you across the ballroom."

Silence.

Absolute, dead silence.

Your eye twitched.

"…What."

You almost died because some love-obsessed dumbass with main character syndrome missed your shoulder???

Your soul nearly left your body, and it wasn’t even because of an assassination attempt, a duel, or a curse—but because the male lead had the motor coordination of a newborn giraffe?!

Your knees buckled. Deuce lunged forward like he thought you were about to die again.

Honestly? Not off the table.

Fine.

If the world wanted you to be the villain, then so be it. Who were you to deny fate when it had already drop-kicked you into this absurd, brain-cell-destroying mess of a novel?

Because that was the only way to describe your new reality—an unhinged disasterpiece where the male lead had the grace of a giraffe on roller skates, the heroine had the problem-solving skills of a concussed pigeon, and the villain—you—was doomed to suffer through all of it.

At first, you'd been horrified. Who wouldn't be? One moment, you're in your normal, rational world, and the next, you're waking up as the antagonistic nobleman of a bargain-bin romance novel. The kind of villain who existed solely to sneer in the background while the male lead juggled his misplaced affections and the heroine flailed through life like a lost duckling.

And now?

Now, you were done.

If this world wanted a villain, then you would give them a villain.

You had wealth. Enough to singlehandedly disrupt the economy if you felt like it. And honestly? You were tempted. Imagine the chaos. The sheer financial devastation. Maybe you’d buy every bakery in the capital just to make sure the male lead could never have a romantic “we bumped into each other while buying bread” moment with you. Not on your watch.

You had power. Both in social standing and in actual, real-life magic. The kind that could level mountains, summon storms, or—more importantly—discreetly trip the male lead every time he tried to monologue. And who were you, really, if you didn’t abuse that privilege just a little?

And, most importantly, you had a loyal knight.

Deuce Spade. Unreasonably devoted, painfully adorable, and more earnest than a golden retriever at a job interview. The kind of guy who would probably cry if you gave him a gold star for effort. It was almost enough to make you feel bad about your impending villain arc. Almost. But hey, if you were going to be the villain, at least you had one (1) extremely dedicated dumbass on your side.

So.

Why not cause some chaos?

Why not live your best, most dramatic villain life?

You could weaponize rumors so ridiculous that even the nobility wouldn’t know what to believe anymore. “Oh, the male lead? I heard he serenades his pet goldfish every night.” “The heroine? Trained in mortal combat by a secret society of warrior nuns.” “Me? Oh, I eat diamonds for breakfast and only cry during perfectly aesthetic thunderstorms.”

You could throw lavish, over-the-top parties where instead of dancing, people had to duel for your amusement. Invitation only. Dress code: Regal Menace.

You could buy every single black horse in the kingdom just to ensure that only you could have a proper dramatic villain entrance. What would the male lead ride? A mule? A cow? His own sense of self-importance? You’d pay money to see it.

If you were going to be stuck in this nonsense world, then you were going to make sure it regretted ever summoning you.

The original villain was a man of principles.

And those principles included:

• Never lowering himself to the chaotic cesspool of idiocy that was the crown prince and his tragically uncoordinated heroine.

• Never attending frivolous social gatherings, especially ones that involved said heroine falling into desserts face-first every five minutes.

• Never acknowledging the crown prince’s deeply repressed and painfully obvious feelings for him.

But you? Oh, you were going.

Why decline when you could make things so much worse? Why ignore a golden opportunity for chaos when you could embrace your inner agent of destruction and ruin someone’s day?

So, with Deuce Spade in tow, you marched into battle.

And the game began immediately.

The second you sat down, the crown prince shoved a cup of tea toward you.

You blinked at it. Then at him.

He looked too casual. Too composed. Like he hadn’t been hovering near the tea table for the last five minutes, perfecting a custom blend like a barista going for his final promotion.

Oh, this was rich.

“Oh,” you said, already locked and loaded. “I don’t like tea.”

The prince, who had definitely memorized your preferences in secret, froze.

“Give it to the heroine,” you added, voice laced with malicious delight.

There was a moment of pure, unfiltered suffering.

He recoiled. He made a noise. The tea remained exactly where it was.

And then, after one (1) full-body existential crisis, he stood up, walked away—

And returned.

With coffee.

Which was exactly how you liked it.

“Oh,” you said, even sweeter. “You really didn’t have to.”

“I didn’t,” the prince snapped, gripping the cup with white-knuckled desperation. “I was just—there was extra.”

Sure.

Deuce, the most bafflingly wholesome person present, leaned in conspiratorially.

“You know,” he whispered, “I think he likes you.”

You turned and stared at him.

It was a look that said: Deuce. Buddy. Companion. Do you have even a single brain cell dedicated to social awareness?

“You don’t say,” you muttered, astounded.

“Yeah,” Deuce nodded. “You should put him out of his misery.”

You considered it.

You truly, deeply, wholeheartedly considered it.

And then you did the exact opposite.

With all the deliberate grace of a seasoned actor, you picked up a fork, cut a tiny, delicate piece of cake, and hand-fed it to Deuce.

With the most lovesick expression you could summon.

Deuce, completely missing the emotional warfare in progress, chewed thoughtfully. “Oh, it’s good.”

The crown prince dropped his cup.

The sound was deafening.

He stood up so fast his chair screeched.

And then he stormed away like a scorned Victorian widow.

Checkmate.

The night was young, the chandeliers were gleaming, and the ballroom floor was filled with nobles pretending they liked each other. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, political marriages, and deep-seated dissatisfaction.

And you? You were bored.

So, naturally, you decided to ruin some engagements.

You adjusted your cuffs, took a sip of your (hopefully not poisoned) champagne, and set your sights on your first target.

Victim #1: Some Poor Fool with a Fiancée and No Survival Instincts.

He was standing beside his beloved, smiling like a man who had never known fear. So you approached him, flashing your most dazzling smile.

“You know,” you said, leaning in just a bit too close, “I always thought you’d end up with someone a little… taller.”

His fiancée, standing right there, gasped.

The surrounding nobles gasped.

He gulped. “W-What?”

You tilted your head, studying him with faux admiration. “It’s just—you have the posture of a man who could sweep someone off their feet. It’s tragic that you’ll only ever lift one person.”

His fiancée immediately looked down at her shoes like she’d just realized she was, in fact, shorter than him.

Engagement status: Cracking.

Victim #2: A Woman Who Was Already Looking for a Way Out.

She was sipping champagne and ignoring her fiancé, which meant she was exactly the kind of person who would enjoy a little trouble.

“Lady,” you greeted smoothly, plucking the glass from her fingers and taking a sip. “You have the eyes of a woman who’s tired of monogamy.”

Her fiancé, standing beside her, choked on his drink.

She laughed.

“You’re terrible,” she purred.

Her fiancé, pale, tried to recover. “H-Haha, what a joke—”

“It’s a shame,” you interrupted, brushing a nonexistent speck off her sleeve. “If things were different, perhaps I’d be the one at your side.”

Her fiancé turned a frightening shade of red.

She sighed dreamily.

Engagement status: Shattered.

Victim #3: A Man Who Looked Too Loyal to Be Swayed.

He stood with his hand in his beloved’s, looking like he’d rather die than betray them. But that had never stopped you before.

You smiled. “It’s rare to see a man so committed.”

His fiancée beamed.

You reached out, lightly tracing your fingers over his palm. “A hand like this… was meant to hold many hearts.”

His fiancée’s smile disappeared as the man leaned into your touch.

The crowd held their breath.

And then.

His fiancée fainted.

Engagement status: Annihilated.

At this point, Deuce—your ever-loyal, increasingly horrified knight—had begun to sweat profusely in the corner.

You waved at him.

He did not wave back.

But just as you were about to go for your fourth victim, you noticed something strange.

The prince—the male lead—was staring at you.

And not in the way one should stare at their supposed rival.

No.

He was staring at you like a man who didn’t understand his own feelings and was handling it terribly.

Deuce noticed before you did.

“Oh no,” he muttered. “Oh no no no.”

The prince stalked toward you, his jaw clenched, his eyes burning with repressed emotion and possibly indigestion.

“You,” he said, pointing an accusatory finger at you.

You raised a brow. “Me?”

“You cannot go around—” He waved his hands wildly, struggling to find the words. “—charming people!”

You blinked, feigning innocence. “Oh? Why not?”

He twitched.

A noble gasped. “Is he… jealous?”

The crowd whispered.

The prince turned red.

Deuce, watching from the sidelines, looked like he wanted to fling himself off the nearest balcony.

Then, just as the tension reached its peak—

“MARRY ME!”

The man whose fiancée just fainted, caught up in the whirlwind of drama and avant-garde societal rebellion, had dropped to one knee and grabbed your hand.

Silence.

Deuce inhaled so sharply he nearly passed out.

The prince’s eye twitched.

And you?

You smiled.

But before you could say yes, no, or something that would make the situation worse, Deuce lunged forward, grabbed your wrist, and hauled you away.

“YOU CAN’T JUST GO AROUND SEDUCING ENGAGED PEOPLE!” he hissed, physically dragging you out of the ballroom.

“Why not?” you grinned. “The nobles love it.”

“I—BECAUSE IT’S WRONG?!”

You hummed, thoughtful. Then, because you were a terrible person, you tilted your head, looked him dead in the eyes, and said:

“You’re kind of cute when you’re flustered.”

Deuce short-circuited.

The prince looked ready to challenge the concept of marriage itself.

And the night was, truly, a resounding success.

Deuce was the perfect knight.

Reliable. Strong. Steadfast. He never faltered in his duties, never hesitated to follow your orders, and—most importantly—he never questioned your absolutely necessary purchases, even when they were, objectively, not necessary at all.

Which was precisely why he was the perfect person to accompany you to the market.

The morning sun hung high in the sky, warming the cobbled streets as merchants called out their wares, their voices blending into a lively symphony of haggling, bartering, and excited chatter. The scent of freshly baked bread and spiced apples drifted through the air, wrapping around you like an old, familiar comfort.

And there was Deuce, ever-dutiful, ever-loyal, ever-patient.

The bags he carried had long since doubled in number, hanging from his arms like trophies of your victorious shopping spree. He bore the burden without complaint, as expected of a knight sworn to your service, though he did glance down at the latest purchase—a third bag of sweets—and furrowed his brow.

“That’s the third bag of sweets you’ve bought.”

You shot him a look, hugging your ill-gotten gains like a dragon hoarding gold.

“And?”

He sighed. “Nothing, I guess.”

Good. That was the correct answer. This was a judgment-free zone.

Everything was going well. The two of you meandered through the market at an unhurried pace, pausing to browse through silks, admire trinkets, and—most importantly—glare at the latest portrait of the crown prince displayed in the town square. It was a routine you had come to enjoy, something almost peaceful in its predictability.

And then—

Deuce stopped.

It wasn’t a gradual pause. It was sudden, abrupt, a full-body halt that nearly sent you crashing into his back.

“Hey—?” you started, but he was already moving, already reaching for his own coin pouch, already stepping toward—

A flower stall?

You blinked, watching as he carefully selected a single bloom, one of the freshest ones in the bunch, its petals full and vibrant. You stood there, bewildered, as he handed over a few coins, nodding his thanks to the merchant.

And then—

Before you could even begin to process what was happening—

He turned and held the flower out to you.

The world tilted.

You stared.

At the flower, at Deuce, at his outstretched hand.

At the way he looked at you, open and earnest and so painfully sincere that you felt something deep in your chest twist.

“…Why?” you asked, voice caught somewhere between confused and breathless.

Deuce tilted his head slightly, a sheepish sort of smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I dunno,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just—thought you’d like it?”

Thought you’d like it.

That was it. That was the entire reason.

Not out of duty, not because he had to, not because of some unspoken obligation—but because he wanted to.

Because he saw something and thought of you.

Your fingers curled around the stem almost too tightly, as if the delicate flower might vanish if you weren’t careful. The petals were impossibly soft beneath your touch, fragile and fleeting, and your heart did something suspicious in your chest.

Deuce had already turned away, already resumed walking, already moved on as if he hadn’t just unknowingly unraveled you.

And you—

You lingered a second longer, staring at the flower in your hand, your face growing entirely too warm under the summer sun.

Then, swallowing against the sudden tightness in your throat, you hurried after him, grateful that he wasn’t looking back to see the ridiculous, helpless smile you absolutely couldn’t fight off.

It started with a passing insult. Something entirely unoriginal, really—one of those tired, rehashed attempts at wit that nobles regurgitated when they had nothing better to do.

You weren’t even offended.

But you were bored.

So, naturally, you smirked, sighed dramatically, and placed a hand over your heart.

“Wow,” you mused, voice dripping with mock despair. “If only I had a loyal knight to defend me. Sigh.”

Deuce didn’t hesitate.

He didn’t even pause to think.

He just whipped around, locked eyes with the offender, and threw down the most aggressive glove slap in recorded history.

“DUEL ME.”

The noble flinched. The entire gathering flinched.

Even you, for a moment, wondered if you’d just summoned an unstoppable force of nature.

Deuce stood there, rigid with unwavering loyalty and violent intent, hand hovering over the hilt of his sword like an Old West gunslinger about to end someone's bloodline.

The noble stammered, looking around as if waiting for someone to intervene. No one did. The nobles had all collectively agreed to stand back and watch this disaster unfold.

You, however, recognized an issue.

“Deuce,” you started carefully. “Buddy. Pal.” You placed a hand on his shoulder, a gesture meant to calm him down.

It did not calm him down.

If anything, his conviction doubled.

“You don’t actually have to fight for my honor—”

“Yes, I do.”

He didn’t blink.

You blinked for him.

The realization sank in with all the subtlety of a grand piano dropping from a three-story window:

Deuce would throw hands for you. Without question. Without hesitation. It was pure muscle memory at this point.

You had too much power.

The nobles were whispering.

The prince was watching.

Some fool in the back had already started placing bets.

And Deuce?

Deuce was ready to kill a man.

“Okay,” you muttered under your breath, “I may have created a monster.”

The noble, sweating profusely, waved his hands. “I—I think there’s been a misunderstanding—”

“There’s no misunderstanding,” Deuce gritted out, stepping forward. “You insulted them. Now, we settle this properly.”

By all accounts, Deuce had just challenged a man to medieval combat over you.

It should have been a simple duel.

Just a normal, everyday case of your overly loyal knight throwing hands because someone vaguely insulted you.

A Tuesday, basically.

And yet, somehow, by the time you arrived at the dueling grounds, it had turned into a full-blown public event.

The stands were packed. Nobles gossiped in hushed whispers. Vendors had set up food stalls. Some particularly enterprising soul was selling commemorative handkerchiefs embroidered with Deuce’s face.

And standing right in the middle of this absolute circus were Riddle and Ace—your reinforcements, arriving at maximum velocity to make your life more interesting and significantly more stressful.

Riddle’s expression alone had the same effect as a guillotine blade. His hands were clenched into fists, his face a vibrant shade of red, and the moment his sharp, judgmental gaze landed on you, you had the distinct feeling that your days were numbered.

Ace, meanwhile, looked like he was having the time of his life.

“You. Absolute. Menace.” Riddle bit out, his words dripping with disappointment and barely-contained rage. “I leave you alone for one week and suddenly you’re challenging people to duels, seducing engaged nobles, and destabilizing the entire social order?!”

“Okay, first of all, I didn’t challenge anyone. That was Deuce.”

“Because you provoked it.”

“Debatable.”

“No, it’s not!”

Ace clapped a hand on your shoulder, beaming. “Don’t listen to him. In fact, I’ll actually pay you to keep this up.”

Riddle’s head snapped toward him, betrayal written across his features. “You’re paying them?! You’re encouraging this?!”

“Duh?” Ace grinned. “I’ve never had this much fun in my entire life. If it means watching them do more insane things, I’ll move the entire city to accommodate them.”

Riddle made a noise that was somewhere between a strangled scream and an impending aneurysm.

You, feeling very smug, turned back to the main event.

Deuce, your knight, your absurdly loyal human wrecking ball, was already standing in the ring, eyes burning with righteous fury.

The poor noble who insulted you was sweating bullets.

The duel started.

The duel lasted five minutes.

The duel ended spectacularly.

Deuce dismantled the guy so thoroughly, so efficiently, that entire bloodlines were probably questioning their place in the universe.

And then, with a smoothness you had not thought possible, Deuce turned, knelt before you, and bowed his head in silent, knightly devotion.

Which was horribly unfair.

Because, up until this moment, you had been so certain that nothing in this world could ever make you weak in the knees.

But this?

This was a problem.

Because the combination of Deuce being stupidly strong, stupidly devoted, and now stupidly attractive in the aftermath of his absolute annihilation of a noble in your name was doing something deeply unsettling to your brain chemistry.

You, a seasoned chaos gremlin, had not been prepared for the sheer level of attractiveness that came from watching Deuce absolutely demolish a man in your honor and then kneel like you were some kind of divine ruler.

And absolutely no one in this arena could be allowed to witness that.

Which is why you did the only logical thing—

You grabbed Deuce by the collar and dragged him the hell out of there.

“We’re leaving.”

Deuce, stumbling after you, genuinely confused: “Wait—? But—?”

“No questions.”

Behind you, Ace hooted.

Riddle yelled something about propriety

The crowd was whispering in scandalized awe.

And the noble who insulted you?

He was probably questioning every life choice that led him to this moment.

Congratulations.

You had once again caused a spectacle.

You had always known that your butler—the tall, brooding, vaguely tragic second male lead—was spying on you.

You just hadn’t expected him to be this bad at it.

At first, you thought he was just terrible at being subtle. The way he lurked behind obvious cover, like a potted plant that was two sizes too small for him, was almost insultingly blatant.

But then, after watching him trip over his own feet and drop his little spy notebook in front of you, you had a stunning realization:

He wasn’t just bad at this.

He was disastrous.

And you—being the responsible, morally upstanding villain that you were—decided that it was your duty to take full advantage of this situation.

So when he inevitably got caught, you gaslit the absolute hell out of him.

“You failed the test,” you sighed, shaking your head with deep, world-weary disappointment.

He froze. “Test?”

“Yes, a test,” you said, folding your arms. “Did you seriously think I wouldn’t notice one of my own subordinates spying on me?”

He blinked. “I—I don't work for the heroine.”

You smiled dangerously. “Don't you?”

The silence that followed was long, painful, and deeply existential.

“…I don't?,” he said, but there was now a distinct lack of confidence behind his words.

Deuce, who had been standing off to the side, vehemently disagreed with everything that was happening.

“You knew about this?” he asked, looking at you like you were a criminal mastermind unveiling your latest scheme.

You ignored him.

Instead, you rested a hand on the butler’s shoulder, offering him a kind, understanding smile.

“Since you are so clearly loyal to me,” you said, gently, “I’d like you to deliver a very special report to the heroine.”

Deuce let out an exhausted groan.

The butler stared at you warily. “…What kind of report?”

“Oh, you know,” you mused, smirking. “Just a few details about my daily routine. The way I conduct myself in my estate. My methods for staying eternally youthful.”

The butler squinted.

“What do you mean, eternally youthful?”

You grinned.

The heroine stood in your ballroom, pointing an accusing, trembling finger at you.

“You’re a witch.”

You grinned.

Then you turned to your butler—who looked increasingly uncomfortable—and hummed, “I see you did your job well.”

Deuce pinched the bridge of his nose. “What did you make him tell her?”

The heroine narrowed her eyes at you, vibrating with righteous fury.

“You—you bathe in your servants’ tears to stay youthful!”

You tilted your head.

“That’s an odd way to phrase ��providing an excellent workplace with fair wages and health benefits,’ but okay.”

The heroine was not having it.

“And—and you drink phoenix blood to maintain your strength!”

“Well, now, that’s true,” you admitted. “It pairs nicely with a dry red.”

The heroine let out a horrified gasp.

Deuce stared at you like you had personally betrayed him. “You made him tell her you drink what?!”

“I was curious to see how far he’d go.”

The butler, now pale and visibly sweating, looked like he had experienced a crisis of faith during his conversation with the heroine.

And when she reached the final, most egregious offense, he seemed to finally, fully break.

“…And I was told,” the heroine whispered, voice trembling, “that you—” she took a deep breath “—have personally seduced your own knight, corrupting him with your villainous ways.”

You glanced at Deuce.

Deuce turned bright red. “What did you tell her?!”

Your butler, who had finally reached his limit, just turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

“I quit,” he muttered.

Success.

You had been accused of many things since you woke up in this absolute joke of a world as the villain.

Corruption? Sure.

Scandal? Naturally.

Inducing moral panic in the aristocracy because you decided to flirt with engaged people at a ball? Absolutely.

But today was new.

Today, you had apparently brainwashed Deuce Spade into a life of crime.

"You’ve brainwashed him!"

The heroine’s voice rang out across the royal gathering, loud and full of self-righteous fury, as if she had just caught you mid-scheme, cackling over a bubbling cauldron, weaving a spell to turn Deuce into a mindless delinquent henchman.

You, who had been mid-sip of your expensive champagne, slowly lowered the glass.

Deuce, who had been standing beside you like a human wall of pure knightly devotion, blinked in further confusion.

The heroine took a dramatic step forward, looking at him with heartfelt sadness, like she expected him to suddenly start frothing at the mouth and looting everyone in your name.

“Sir Deuce,” she said, voice trembling with emotion, “It’s not too late. I can save you.”

Deuce tilted his head, utterly lost. “Save me from what?”

“From this!” She gestured wildly at you, as if you were some demonic manifestation of lawlessness, corrupting poor, innocent knights into a life of wanton villainy and casual public indecency.

The male lead, who had been hanging around in the background like a disgruntled ex, suddenly perked up at this. “Wait, are you saying we can steal Deuce?”

“Not steal,” the heroine corrected, with the solemnity of a saint bestowing divine mercy upon a lost soul. "Rescue."

And then, in a stunning display of completely unfounded confidence, she pulled out a golden envelope and extended it toward Deuce.

“A direct invitation,” she declared, eyes shining, “to serve under His Highness.”

There was a deafening silence.

Then—

“No.”

The refusal was instant.

No hesitation.

Not even a single second of consideration.

The heroine’s jaw practically dislocated.

The male lead looked personally victimized.

Ace, who had been standing off to the side with Riddle, slowly turned to face him, nudging him with his elbow before whispering something so profoundly stupid that Riddle physically winced.

Then, as if processing a truth he had been avoiding all this time, Riddle sighed, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Ace, meanwhile, had the absolute audacity to look like he was having the time of his life.

The heroine, still struggling to process this complete failure, managed to find her voice again.

“I—I don’t understand.” She looked between you and Deuce, visibly distressed. “Why? Why would you refuse?”

Deuce gave her the most straightforward, obvious look in existence.

“I don't want to.”

The heroine gasped.

The male lead looked like he had been personally slapped.

Ace, meanwhile, had the absolute gall to let out a quiet, knowing cackle, like he had figured out the ending of a dramatic novel before the characters did.

“I fear he’s too far gone,” the heroine whispered, mourning the loss of Deuce Spade as if he had already perished.

You, meanwhile, had been too busy enjoying the absolute disaster unfolding in front of you to process what just happened.

Not until much later, when the two of you were walking back from the gathering, and you finally turned to him with a frown.

“Wait,” you said, still trying to wrap your head around it, “Why didn’t you take the offer?”

Deuce looked at you like you had just asked him why fire was hot. “Because I’m your knight.”

Oh.

That was—

That was kind of—

Warm.

An unpleasantly warm feeling spread in your chest, like you had just accidentally drunk an entire cup of molten sentimentality.

You didn't like it. You didn't like it at all.

ABORT. ABORT. ABORT.

You cleared your throat, deadpan as possible, and said, “Right. That makes sense.”

Then, with all the grace and subtlety of a spooked alley cat, you turned on your heel and walked away at high velocity, because you were absolutely not dealing with this today.

It doesn’t matter what you do.

You could ignore him. Insult him. Dramatically throw a glass of wine in his face and accuse him of high treason.

Nothing works.

The male lead only seems to fall harder.

And tonight?

Tonight, it’s worse than ever.

Now, he was finding excuses to touch you.

You had arrived at the royal ball with the intention of causing mischief—maybe ruining a few engagements, maybe flirting with people’s spouses just for the fun of it, maybe convincing a few nobles that you were an ancient demon cursed to live among them in disguise—you know, the usual.

What you hadn’t planned for was the crown prince himself swooping in like a predatory falcon, seizing your wrist, and dramatically pulling you onto the dance floor.

There was no escape.

And the worst part?

The entire room was watching.

Which meant you had to grit your teeth and endure it.

The music began.

You stepped forward. He stepped forward.

You tried to maintain a respectable distance.

He?

He did not.

Instead, he pulled you closer—his grip firm, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable as he held you just a little too tightly.

And then—oh, and then.

You felt it.

The slight intake of breath.

The subtle tilt of his head.

The near-invisible shudder that ran down his spine as he inhaled deeply, as if committing your scent to memory.

Your entire body locked up in horror.

What. The. Hell.

Was he—

Was this bastard—

Was he sniffing you?

You immediately tried to pull away, but his vice-like grip did not relent.

“I—” His voice came out a little strangled, and his eyes darted away suspiciously. “You—” He swallowed. “I was just making sure you didn’t smell like poison.”

You stared at him.

Poison.

He said that with his whole chest.

Like it was a normal thing to do.

Like it wasn’t the most deranged, lovesick, absolutely unhinged thing you had ever seen in your entire life.

“You think someone poisoned me?” you deadpanned.

“Yes,” he said, nodding a little too quickly. “I thought—I thought maybe one of your enemies slipped something into your drink.”

“So your first instinct was to smell me?”

“YES.”

The sheer delusion in his voice was astounding.

You pushed him off you the moment the song ended, practically flinging yourself across the room in search of sanity, reason, and possibly a priest.

The moment you reached Ace, Riddle, and Deuce, you collapsed into their presence, gasping like you had just escaped the jaws of death.

Riddle took one look at your disheveled state, grimaced, and immediately handed you a handkerchief, as if he could wipe the entire experience off you.

You snatched it up and aggressively scrubbed at your neck.

Ace?

Ace was dying.

He was bent over in laughter, hands on his knees, completely losing his mind.

And Deuce?

Deuce looks like you just drop-kicked his puppy off a bridge.

He is staring at you like you personally betrayed him, his ancestors, and the entirety of knighthood as an institution.

Ace sees an opportunity and takes it.

With zero hesitation, he grabs Deuce by the shoulders and shoves him closer to you.

“You gonna let that slide, man?” Ace teases, grinning like a madman.

“I—” Deuce blinks, still looking dazed and vaguely devastated.

Ace pushes him again. “Dude, do something! Your boss just got publicly defiled.”

Deuce finally snaps out of it, reaching for his own handkerchief—the one with his knightly crest embroidered on it—and gently, carefully wipes at your neck.

It was different from Riddle’s.

Riddle had handed you his like a noble disgusted by filth.

Deuce, however?

Deuce was careful.

His touch was light, his eyes too focused, too serious as he dabbed at the place where the prince’s lips had nearly brushed against your skin.

He was not just cleaning.

He was removing.

It was as if the very idea of another man touching you physically revolted him.

So, in a desperate attempt to make the moment less weird, you forced out a mocking smirk and teased,

“Aw, Deuce. What’s wrong? You don’t like it when he touches me?”

Deuce, sweet, earnest, painfully loyal Deuce, did not hesitate.

“No."

Oh no.

Bwcause something in your stomach flips and your face feels suspiciously warm.

It was bound to happen.

Honestly, with the way you had been leaning on him lately, whispering too-close teases in his ear, and throwing casual flirtations like daggers at his heart, it was only a matter of time before he cracked.

But you—oh, you hadn’t expected it to be like this.

You were lounging on him again today, your head resting against his shoulder, basking in the solid warmth that only Deuce could provide. He had long since stopped complaining about it—stopped stiffening up every time you got close—and instead, he had simply accepted his fate as your personal resting post.

Which, of course, meant it was your duty to push your luck.

So, you did.

With a slow, lazy grin, you tilted your head, let your lips brush a little too close to his ear, and murmured,

“Y’know, Deuce… you’re kind of my favorite.”

It was supposed to be a joke. (kinda)

It was supposed to be just another tease, another drop of fuel onto the fire just to see him sputter and turn red like he always did.

But this time?

This time, he didn’t laugh.

Instead—

He froze.

His entire body went rigid beneath you, his hands clenching into fists, his breath coming sharper, heavier, like he was wrestling with something too big to contain.

And then—he exhaled.

“Are you playing with me, too?”

The words were low.

Rough.

Like he had been holding them back for too long, like they had been simmering inside him, growing heavier with every glance, every touch, every stupid, careless flirtation.

You blinked. “What?”

Deuce shifted, just enough to look at you head-on, and oh.

Oh.

There was something in his eyes—something raw, something vulnerable, something that made your stomach flip in a way you weren’t prepared for.

“You keep doing this,” he muttered, his voice tight, frustrated. “You flirt with me like you do with the other nobles. You—you act like it’s all just a game. But I—”

His breath hitched.

And then, with a quiet, almost desperate laugh, he whispered,

“You know I love you, right?”

Your heart stopped.

“I—”

“I do,” he interrupted, the words spilling out like he couldn’t hold them back anymore. “I do. I’ve been trying to ignore it, trying to be just your knight, just your friend—but every time you look at me like that, every time you say stuff like this—” His jaw clenched. “—I feel like an idiot. Because I know you don’t mean it. I know you’re just playing around. But I—”

He swallowed hard.

“I can’t take it anymore.”

The air between you went still.

Your heartbeat was too loud, your pulse a slow, insistent drumbeat in your ears, and oh.

Oh, this was real.

He was serious.

Deuce squeezed his eyes shut, inhaled sharply, and then met your gaze once more, firmer this time.

“The next time you flirt with me,” he said, voice low, steady, “I’m going to take it seriously.”

“I mean it,” he continued, as if warning you. “You—you don’t get to joke about this anymore. Not with me. Because I’ll—”

His fingers trembled at his sides.

“I’ll take responsibility for it.”

It took you a second to process the words.

Oh.

Oh, he was adorable.

Because even now—even after basically confessing, after baring his heart to you like this, he was still looking at you like he was waiting for permission.

Like he needed you to say it first.

Like he needed to be sure.

And, well—

Who were you to disappoint your favorite knight?

With a slow, lazy grin, you grabbed him by the collar, pulled him close, and whispered,

“Deuce.”

His breath hitched. “Yeah?”

You leaned in, close enough that your lips brushed against his cheek, and murmured,

“Do you want my last name?”

The moment the words left your mouth, his entire body locked up.

And then—

Then he kissed you.

It was clumsy, heated, desperate in the way only Deuce could be—like he had been holding this back for too long, like he was afraid you’d slip away if he didn’t take you now.

And you—

You melted into it.

Because of course he was serious.

Because of course you had always known what you were doing to him.

Because—

Because you wanted it, too.

The ballroom is packed, glittering, expectant.

The chandeliers glow like stars, the music swells in the background, and every noble in attendance is on the edge of their seat, waiting for whatever ridiculous display you’re about to put on this time.

And, oh, are you about to deliver.

You stand tall, your hand resting comfortably in Deuce’s as you make the grandest announcement of your life.

“We’re engaged.”

The room erupts—gasps, whispers, the sharp clink of dropped silverware.

Deuce, standing proudly beside you, looks both smug and overwhelmed, like he’s still processing the fact that you actually said yes and also fully prepared to duel anyone who disagrees.

Ace is counting coins, no doubt because he made a bet about this happening.

Riddle looks like he’s two seconds away from both congratulating you and strangling you for causing another scene.

And the male lead—

Oh, the male lead is not handling it well.

He’s standing there, frozen, his eye twitching ever so slightly, his mouth opening and closing like he’s trying to form a sentence but can’t because his brain just blue-screened.

The male lead—in all his tragic, oblivious, love-stricken glory—then has the nerve to act like he’s concerned.

“I just think it’s irresponsible, the difference in your status.” he says.

The words hit you like a divine insult.

Like the heavens themselves have chosen this as your actual villain origin story.

There is a moment of stillness.

It’s the kind of moment you read about in dramatic novels—the eerie, anticipatory silence before an executioner swings his blade. The nobles are motionless, caught between the sheer audacity of your engagement announcement and the dawning horror of whatever is about to come next.

Because they can feel it.

They can feel the storm brewing inside you, the kind of apocalyptic fury usually reserved for fallen kingdoms and plagues of locusts.

Deuce grips your hand a little tighter, as if sensing the catastrophic levels of rage that are about to explode from your very soul.

And then—it happens.

You let out a slow, incredulous exhale.

And then, at the top of your lungs—

“OH, MY GOD.”

The chandelier shakes.

Somewhere in the back, a noble collapses onto a couch.

A waiter drops an entire tray of champagne glasses.

The heroine, bless her soul, gasps like she’s just watched someone get impaled.

And the male lead?

The male lead flinches.

But he does not back down.

Which is his second biggest mistake tonight.

His first was being born.

You take a deep, suffering breath, and then—oh, you absolutely let loose.

“JUST SAY YOU’RE JEALOUS, YOU PATHETIC, EMOTIONALLY CONSTIPATED DISASTER.”

There is an echoing thud.

Ace has fallen to the ground.

He is actively pounding his fist against the marble floor in a fit of laughter so violent that one of the nobles attempts to call a doctor.

Riddle is gripping his temples, already mourning the loss of his peace.

And Deuce?

Deuce nods along.

Like, yeah. That makes sense.

But you are nowhere near done.

You take an intimidating step forward, pointing aggressively at the male lead’s absurdly symmetrical face.

“Do you think I don’t know?!” you demand. “Do you think I don’t notice when you materialize out of thin air whenever I so much as sigh?? Do you think I don’t see you hiding behind pillars, staring at me with the same expression as a neglected golden retriever!?”

The male lead opens his mouth—probably to deny it.

But you immediately cut him off.

“DON’T EVEN TRY ME, YOU NOBLE IMBECILE.”

The heroine physically recoils.

A duke mutters a quiet prayer.

Ace has fully ascended to the next realm.

“I have proof!” you declare, waving an accusatory finger. “Every time I enter a room, you’re already there, lurking in the shadows like a deranged, overgrown bat. Do you think that’s normal behavior?! Do you think people don’t notice?! I HAVE SEEN THE TOWN CRIER TAKING NOTES.”

Riddle’s entire body twitches.

Because, unfortunately, that is not an exaggeration.

The town crier really has been chronicling the male lead’s unhinged pining in weekly installments.

You take another step forward, voice rising.

“Just admit it! Admit that you have absolutely lost your mind over me, and you’re just mad that I don’t give a single, microscopic shred of a damn!”

The male lead is visibly sweating.

But you are still not finished.

“Listen to me,” you say, voice lowering into something cold, absolute, and devastating. You step forward until the male lead is cornered against a column, towering over him like a vengeful god.

Then, with as much venom as you can possibly summon—

“I value you less than a piece of moldy bread.”

Carnage.

The room erupts into madness.

The male lead physically staggers.

His soul leaves his body.

His knees tremble like he’s about to collapse.

Ace is choking on laughter, beating the floor like a medieval peasant begging for mercy.

Riddle has his hands over his eyes like this is the most humiliating thing he’s ever been forced to witness.

The heroine is looking at the male lead like he’s a dying animal.

And Deuce—sweet, loyal Deuce—just crosses his arms, nods approvingly, and says,

“Yeah. What he said."

You smile, victorious.

You dust off your hands like you’ve just completed a particularly satisfying chore.

Then, you turn back to Deuce, loop your arm through his, and promptly walk out of the ballroom with your beloved knight at your side.

The sun melts into the horizon, casting the ocean in gold and rose, waves curling onto the shore. A warm breeze rolls through the open balcony, carrying the scent of salt and flowers and Deuce Spade trying to subtly overthink again.

Which is unfortunate.

Because you had expressly banned thinking on this honeymoon.

Yet here he is—Deuce , your devoted, beautiful, terminally self-doubting husband—standing by the railing, arms crossed, jaw clenched, deep in Thought.

You know that look.

It’s the look of a man about to say something stupid.

And indeed—

“Do you regret it?” he asks.

You blink. “Regret what?”

Deuce doesn’t look at you. His gaze is on the horizon, all noble knightly brooding, except it’s Deuce, so it just makes him look like a golden retriever contemplating the meaning of life.

“Choosing me,” he clarifies. “I mean, you—you could’ve had anyone. A prince, a noble, someone with status. Someone who actually deserves—”

You physically grab him.

Like, you latch onto him like a barnacle and manhandle him around to face you, because this is quite possibly the dumbest thing he’s ever said, and you refuse to let him say another word.

Deuce, being Deuce, just lets you do it.

He stares at you, startled, lips slightly parted, eyes big and blue and breathtaking.

And you sigh.

“Sweetheart,” you say, voice dry, “you are the densest person I have ever met.”

He blinks.

You take his face in your hands.

“I love you, dumbass.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

Deuce grins.

It’s small at first, hesitant, like he’s still processing the words—like some part of him is still convinced he’s dreaming, that any moment now, he’s going to wake up in the barracks and realize none of this is real.

But then, you thumb over his cheek, gentle, certain, grounding him in reality.

And that’s when it happens.

That’s when his grin breaks into something helpless and bright, something that crinkles the corners of his eyes, something that is so very Deuce that your heart trips over itself.

He hides his face against your shoulder.

“Shut up,” he mumbles, muffled against your skin, voice warm, embarrassed, happy.

You laugh, wrapping your arms around him, pulling him closer.

“Make me.”

His arms tighten around you, and for a while, neither of you move—just standing there, on the balcony of some faraway villa, wrapped up in each other, with nothing and no one to interrupt.

No scheming nobles.

No pushy male leads.

No ridiculous duels or political scandals.

Just you, Deuce, and the rest of your lives ahead.

Series Masterlist ; Masterlist

#Your insults ❤️#Genuinely howwwe do you come up with theseeee #reblog #amazing #mwahhhhhh

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