degeneratewhores

[degeneratewhores]

Phainon — Meant to Be Yours

cw: royal knight!phainon au, fem!princess!reader, violence but not very detailed, usual shan stuff lol

went into amphoreus not caring about anyone, went out loving the cute golden retriever man. also, i've been hyperfixated on epic the musical lately, so i may or may not have been inspired by odysseus in the ithaca saga for some parts here lol

In the whispering winds of fate, it was always said karma had a way of catching up with you—silent, inevitable, like shadow hot on your heels. In a world that spins in circles, our deeds reverberate and circle back, a reminder that what goes around comes around.

So, it was never a surprise, not really, when your father—the king, draped in the shadows of corruption and tyranny—was torn from his throne in a storm of blood and fury, undone by the very hands he once crushed beneath his own. The storm of revolution, fueled by the flames of injustice and the cries of the downtrodden, descended upon the castle walls like a vengeful deity, casting the king from his lofty throne into the harsh reality of his own making.

In the unforgiving tides of change, the pendulum of justice swung without regard for innocence or guilt, and revolution—in all its fury—can easily blind you with its smoke. You never stood by your father’s cruelty; every protest smothered beneath his iron will, your voice swallowed beneath the weight of his crown. Yet, to the eyes of the enraged masses, you bore his blood, wore his sins like a second skin.

And so, you too, must burn.

But he wouldn't let them.

Your escape dissolved into a blur in your mind; Screams tearing through the air, a sea of crimson rage, and his hand gripping yours like a lifeline. In the other, his sword sang death, striking down anyone who dared raise a hand against his liege. His white hair caught the glow of the mobs' torches, almost golden in their flickering light. His blue eyes, usually so gentle, were now steel-cold with purpose. His once-pristine armor streaked with blood, icy to the touch, but his hand... his hand wrapped around yours is....

Warm.

Then, it hit you all at once.

The sudden, jarring shift from chaos to stillness.

One moment, the world was fire and fury—voices raised in furious chants, torches blazing, the glint of sharpened weapons amidst the mob.

The next, silence.

Heavy, almost sacred. The kind that presses into your ears like cotton, makes your breath sound too loud. The forest wrapped around you like a blanket soaked in earth and rain, grounding and unreal all at once.

And then—him.

A pair of blue eyes, wide and searching, locked onto you. Worry etched into every line of his face. Not just concern, something more akin to fear. Like he'd just watched you disappear, and wasn’t sure if you were really back.

"Your Highness?" Phainon’s voice breaks the quiet, low and cautious, like he’s afraid even the sound might shatter you. He doesn't move closer, just watches, eyes flicking over the slight tremble in your hands, the way your breath stutters like your body hasn’t quite remembered how to breathe in peace.

You’re pale, shaken, and at the sound of his voice, as quiet as it was, you finally look at him. No longer through him, but at him.

He takes a cautious step forward, each movement measured like he’s approaching a wounded creature, because in some ways, he is. You’re already so close to unraveling, and the last thing he wants is to be the thing that pushes you over the edge.

There was no point in asking how you were. It was written all over you; in the tight set of your shoulders, the haunted glaze still clinging to your eyes, the way you swayed slightly, like your legs weren’t entirely convinced they could keep holding you up.

So instead, he does what Phainon always does—chooses gentleness.

"May I carry you?" he asks quietly, his voice a breath softer than the rustle of the leaves around you. He doesn't reach for you, doesn't presume. He has never touched you without your explicit permission. That’s just who Phainon is. Always waiting, always asking.

Always yours, for as long as you'll have him.

"We need to find shelter for the night," he adds, glancing around the thick trees, the canopy swallowing what little light remains. "We’ll be safer here than anywhere else in the kingdom.”

You don’t say anything—just stare at him, eyes wide and unreadable, like you're still somewhere between this moment and the last. But then, slowly, your head moves in a small, almost imperceptible nod.

It’s enough.

Phainon hesitates for just a breath longer, searching your face one last time for any sign of protest. When he finds none, he steps closer and carefully lifts you into his arms. You don’t resist. You don’t flinch. You just let him. He holds you like you’re made of glass and memory, something fragile, something precious. Like a wounded creature he’s afraid to hurt more than the world already has. His arms are steady, though. Warm. Grounding.

"With my honor as a knight," he murmurs, barely above a whisper, his breath brushing against your hair, "I’ll protect you."

And with that promise hanging between you, he carries you deeper into the woods, away from the flames, the shouting, the wreckage of a day that nearly stole everything. Searching for somewhere—anywhere—you can finally rest.

You didn’t know how long he walked, only that the rhythm of his footsteps and the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulled you into a kind of daze. Time slipped sideways, minutes, hours, you couldn't say. You barely registered the way his arms tensed, his body instinctively bracing at the distant sound of hooves pounding against earth.

But you did notice when he began to lower you, gently, beneath the rough arch of a shallow cave. The cool stone met your back, and suddenly the thought of him letting go was unbearable. Your hands clung to the fabric of his cloak, your fingers trembling, eyes searching his like they could stop him from leaving.

He paused. Saw the silent plea in your gaze.

"Stay here," he whispered, his voice warm and low, as if it could wrap around you like a second cloak. His eyes held yours—steady, unwavering, like they always had. "I’ll be back."

Phainon stepped out of the cave, his movements measured, deliberate, planting himself firmly between the riders and the one thing he would not let them take, the shadows of the cave behind him concealing you. There was no fear in his eyes, only steel. A cold, quiet confidence etched into every line of his face.

"I’d like to believe no good men would pursue the royal heir to do her harm," he said, voice calm, almost conversational.

The riders stared him down, eyes narrowing, hands tightening around the hilts of their weapons. Their silence said everything, fury simmered behind their eyes—righteous, bitter. The kind that doesn’t listen. They were revolutionaries, that much was clear.

The one at the front swung down from his saddle, his boots hit the earth with a thud, knuckles bone-white, clutching around his weapon. 

"Step aside," he commanded. "The princess has to pay for her father’s crimes."

Phainon didn’t move.

"She’s done nothing wrong," he said quietly, the edge in his voice sharp enough to cut. "You’d punish a girl for her father’s sins?"

One of the other riders let out a bitter laugh. Disgust curled his lip.

"Not her mistake? That bastard’s blood runs in her veins. She is part of the throne. And you.." he spat, full of scorn. "What has become of you, Phainon? Some fallen knight guarding the tyrant’s daughter? You’d betray us? Turn your sword against your own people?"

Phainon didn’t blink.

"If protecting the innocent is treason," he said, "then yes, I'll proudly be a traitor."

His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.

"Kill her father. Burn the palace to ash. Do what you will, if that’s what your justice demands... but you will not lay a hand on her."

Silence followed. Heavy. Suffocating. The forest itself seemed to still, the only sound the restless whisper of leaves caught in the wind.

The riders didn’t respond, but they didn’t have to. Their expressions spoke volumes—feral and cold, eyes flicking between each other, weighing the cost of moving forward.

Because they knew who he was.

Phainon. The perfect warrior. The man whose blade had never faltered.

And here he stood, sword unsheathed not for the king or the palace…

But for the fallen princess.

"This is how you defend your people, knight?!"

The rider at the front steps forward, fury distorting his features into something near feral. His eyes burned with a hate that had nothing to do with justice.

"You’d betray us, betray your oath, betray this kingdom, and the country you swore to protect… for some pampered little princess?!"

Something in Phainon’s expression shifts. The air grows colder around him, the atmosphere dense with a sudden, cutting stillness. Gone is the composed mask he always wears; what replaces it is anger, sharp and honed like the edge of his blade. His gaze narrowed, sharpened into something unforgiving.

"Don’t you dare pretend this is for the country’s sake," he said, voice low and laced with venom. "You’re not here for justice. You’re here for blood. You’re no different than the king you claim to hate."

The words land like a slap. The other riders stiffened, anger radiating off them in pulsing waves, but it was their leader who reacted first. 

"Don’t you dare compare us to that bastard. We’re trying to fix what he ruined. We’re trying to build something better." His sneer deepens, lips curling in disgust.

Phainon took a step forward, slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact.

"I don’t care what you're trying to do," he said, voice quiet, but sharp enough to cut. "Do what you must. Raise your banners. Burn the city. I don’t care..."

"...But you will not harm my liege."

The leader lets out a laugh, dry and mocking, tinged with disbelief.

"Your liege?" he spat. "She’s the tyrant’s spawn. And you, great knight? You've been reduced to a loyal lapdog, clinging to a dead order."

Phainon’s grip on his sword tightened, knuckles paling, the cold in his eyes enough to send out a warning for the rider to seize his comments.

"Watch your mouth," he says darkly. "I don’t care what your grievances are with her father. She is not him. And I will not let her suffer for his sins."

"She’s his heir," The leader snarled. "She’ll turn out just the same. She’ll sit on the same throne, make the same decisions, spill the same blood�� And a traitor like you will be right there at her feet, worshiping her like a good little mutt."

"You don’t know a thing about her." Phainon snaps, "She’s nothing like her father. She’s been silenced, like a doll on display, dressed up and paraded around as a symbol. If you think she’ll become a tyrant, you’re blind."

"Gods, don't tell me you've fallen for her?" The leader’s expression twisted, ugly and mocking.  "You really think she gives a damn about you?"

"Of course not," Phainon replies swiftly, flatly. "That doesn't matter."

The leader just laughs again, louder this time, leaning into the sound like it shields him from the weight of Phainon’s glare. His smirk grows wide, sharp, vicious.

"Then why, oh why, are you risking your life for her, hmm?" The leader’s voice drips with mockery, his posture relaxed, his amusement dripping into every word that slips past his lips.

"What do you get for defending the princess? Her favor? A smile, perhaps? Or something better…" He grins, teeth flashing. "Like her body?"

Something snaps.

In a blink, Phainon closes the distance—no hesitation, no warning. One hand fisting the leader’s collar, the other drawing his sword with a metallic hiss. He slams the man hard against the nearest tree, bark cracking under the force, the blade pressed to the vulnerable skin of his throat.

"Keep your tongue in check." Phainon’s voice is barely a voice at all, more like a growl ripped from deep in his chest. "Don’t you dare speak of her like that. Not another word. Do you hear me?"

But the leader only grins wider, unshaken even with a blade to his throat. In fact, he seems to revel in it.

"You protect a woman who’d throw you to the wolves the moment it served her," he spits out, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "You think you matter to her? You’re nothing. Just a pawn she’ll sacrifice to save herself."

"I’m not protecting just any woman." Phainon sneers, a rare sight for the kind knight. "I protect my liege. I don’t give a damn if she values my life or not. That’s not the point. You speak of things you don’t understand."

He presses the sword harder against the man’s throat, but still, the man smiles.

"You've been blinded," The man hisses, smirking like a man with nothing left to lose. "She doesn’t care about anything but herself. Just like her father. A pampered, selfish princess."

He leans forward just enough for his words to feel like poison he’s trying to inject right into Phainon’s veins. 

"And you? You’ve doomed yourself for her. She’ll stab you in the back the second her life’s on the line. Mark my words."

Phainon doesn’t flinch. 

"You don’t know her."

Phainon's words are quiet. More breath than voice, like a warning carried in the wind. He presses the blade closer. The tip bites skin. A thin bead of crimson wells up where the blade meets the skin of the leader’s throat.

"And I’ll cut down every last fool who dares to speak of her that way."

And then… he does.

One swift motion. 

Clean. 

Precise.

The forest falls silent.

The only sound is the soft thump of a body hitting the leaves crumpled on the ground.

A moment later, the man’s head rolls across the ground, eyes wide with the last expression he ever wore; that twisted smile, frozen in time.

None of them move.

Phainon stands over the body, sword slick with crimson, breath slow and steady.

No triumph. 

No rage.

Just duty.

The other riders could only stare, stunned into silence, eyes darting between their leader’s lifeless, decapitated body and the knight who stood above it. Phainon remained still, breath heavy, blade lowered but still slick with blood. 

"You… y-you killed him…" one of them whispered, the words cracking with disbelief.

Phainon didn’t even blink. 

"I did."

His words hung in the air.

The riders exchanged nervous glances, shifting in place. One man’s hand trembled as it hovered near his blade. Another backed toward the horses.

"You’re a murderer," one of them dared to say.

Phainon’s head turned slowly in the speaker’s direction, his eyes sharp and full of disdain.

"I am a knight."

He took a single step forward, slow, steady, like he had all the time in the world.

"And you..." He swept his gaze across them.

Chaos nearly erupted. One man lunged for their fallen leader’s sword. Another tried to mount a horse that reared up and shrieked in fear. Hooves thundered against the forest floor, the horses stamping nervously, catching the scent of blood. The rest froze in place, unsure whether to fight or flee.

Still, Phainon didn’t move. He simply watched. Detached. Unbothered. Like he was watching children flail through a game they didn’t understand.

Then, he spoke again. Calm, quiet, and chilling.

"None of you are going anywhere."

The words cut through the rising noise like a blade. And just like that, everything stopped. Horses snorted, pawing the ground nervously. The riders froze mid-movement, caught between instinct and dread. No one moved. No one dared breathe.

"Y-you… you’re going to kill us too? Just like him?" One of them, voice trembling, forced himself to speak.

Phainon’s eyes flicked to the corpse at his feet, then slowly back to the man.

"It’s nothing personal."

His voice was calm. Too calm.

"But as long as any of you breathe, my liege remains in danger."

Another step forward.

The air grew heavier. 

"We’re falling back," someone said quickly, hands half-raised, as if they could bargain their way out. "Our leader’s gone… we won’t hurt Her Highness anymore,"

But it was already too late.

Phainon gave no reply because the time for words had ended.

The forest was filled with the sound of quick, brutal justice. Thuds of bodies hitting the earth, gasps cut short, steel slicing through flesh. Phainon moved like death made flesh—silent, unstoppable, precise.

When it was over, the woods were quiet again.

Only he remained standing.

Him and the horses.

Phainon stood among the fallen, sword in hand, his breath steady once more. He wiped the blood from his blade on the tunic of one of the fallen men, then he turned back toward the cave, toward the only person who mattered.

Back to his liege.

You didn't say anything when his gloved hand appeared in your vision again. You didn’t flinch at the crimson streaks staining his armor, didn’t ask about the blood still clinging to his sleeve. You didn’t have to. The stench of iron lingered in the air, faint but unmistakable. And still, he looked at you with utmost gentleness.

"Let’s keep going, Your Highness," he said, voice soft and warm again, like it hadn’t just spoken death into existence. He smiled, gentle and careful, as if that alone could soothe the storm in your heart, your mind.

And of course, you took his hand.

Neither of you spoke as he guided you deeper into the forest, looking for somewhere to stay the night. His grip is steady, his pace measured. The silence between you was no longer heavy, just there. Present. Like a companion rather than a burden. The first time the silence was broken was when the trees thinned and a clearing revealed itself, a meadow bathed in moonlight. Not ideal for rest, but safe enough for a fire. The tree line was distant enough not to catch if the flames rose too high.

Phainon didn’t hesitate.

He swiftly went to work, gathering timber and stacking firewood, his movements practiced, and you watched confusedly as somehow, someway, he coaxed a spark into a flicker, then into a steady flame—a pleasant warmth against the biting cold of the night, casting a golden light against his blood-slicked armor and you tried not to look too closely.

He turned toward you, eyes softening again.

"Please," he said gently, gesturing toward a nearby rock. "Have a seat, Your Highness."

The rock was jagged, uninviting, but it was better than the ground. And somehow, the offer didn’t feel like an order. It felt like kindness, one born out of genuine concern.

You sat.

Phainon got down on his knees before you, slow and deliberate, the firelight casting golden shadows across his face, his eyes meeting yours, those bright, steady blues searching for something, asking without words. For what, you weren't sure, but you trusted him enough to give him a small nod.

As you did, he reached for the hem of your dress, lifting it just enough to expose your feet, still in those heels. He handled them like something sacred, fingers brushing delicately over the worn straps as he undid the fastenings around your ankles. Then, the shoes slipped off with barely a sound.

A quiet sigh escaped him as he took in the damage: raw, red skin and blisters blooming along your soles. His expression twisted into something pained, like it physically hurt him to look.

"You should’ve told me," he murmured, the words barely louder than the crackle of the fire. His brow furrowed, soft and earnest, looking at you akin to a puppy kicked by its owner. "I would’ve carried you."

"It’s fine, really." You shook your head gently, trying for a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. "You've already done enough. I didn’t want to ask more of you."

"It's my duty to care for the princess."

"And I'm no longer one."

"You'll always be a princess."

You pause at his response, glancing to meet his eyes as he met yours with unwavering devotion, no hesitation in his voice, no doubt in his features.

"For as long as I live," He added, "You'll always be a princess to me."

The silence that followed was heavy, not uncomfortable, but weighty, like something unsaid hung in the air between you. You had to look away, unable to hold the intensity of his stare, you let your gaze drift back to the fire, its flickering light dancing across the clearing like it, too, was trying to avoid the weight between you.

Behind the veil of quiet, you heard the soft clatter of metal as Phainon shed his armor. Piece by piece, it hit the ground with dull thuds, leaving him in the worn fabric beneath. Then came the rip of cloth, sharp in the still night, and you realized he was tearing his shirt.

He didn’t say a word.

Just reached for your feet again, gently cradling them in his hands as he wrapped the makeshift bandages around the blistered skin, his touch impossibly careful.

"Phainon." You said his name softly, as he continued his current task.

"Why didn't you join them? Why didn't you kill me?"

That made his hands still.

His gaze flicked up to your face, searching. He was quiet for a beat, before responding.

"Killing you is never an option." Was his simple, yet blunt response. "I could never do such a thing to you."

You frowned, unable to make sense of it.

"But… of all people, you have the most reason in the kingdom to drive your sword through my chest," you murmured, "The only thing standing between you and your freedom is me. You don’t have to do this. Any of this."

There's the slightest hint of a sad smile on his face, chuckling softly at your words, but there's no humor in the sound.

"I don't 'have' to do anything, princess. I choose to protect you of my own free will." His eyes softened.

"But your oath-" You opened your mouth to protest, to remind him of his oath, of duty, of his supposed loyalty to the people.

"Was to you." He cut you off, quiet but firm. "Not to the King. Not to the throne, not the palace or its people."

He paused, voice dropping to something barely above a whisper.

"My oath has always been to you."

You paused at his words, trying to make sense of them. His loyalty… his devotion... it didn’t make sense. Not in a world that had taken so much from both of you.

"You’re the son of my father’s personal knight. From the moment you were born, you were shackled to me." Your voice softened further. "Our births are only months apart. That wasn’t a coincidence."

Phainon didn’t interrupt. He let you speak, his hands still and steady at your ankle.

"You were forced to train and to be my shadow since we were children, don't you ever wish to be free?"

"Forced?" he repeated softly with a smile, almost amused. "I’ve never been forced to do anything, princess."

"But you were." You looked at him fully now, your brows furrowed. "Just like your father before you. And his before him... and if the system hadn’t been dismantled… your children would’ve been bound to mine. The cycle would’ve never ended."

There was a long beat before he spoke again.

"My family never regretted our duty. We’ve protected every heir of your bloodline with our lives," he said, his voice quiet but sure. "And I’ll do the same for you."

Then something in him shifted. His features softened, the faintest of smiles tugging at the corners of his mouth—gentle, knowing.

"But... you’re wrong about one thing." He looked at you with a strange tenderness in his eyes.

You blinked, caught off-guard by the warmth in his voice. He didn’t look away. Didn’t even blink.

"My children...." he said slowly, voice laced with something unreadable, "...won’t be doing the same for yours."

"What do you mean?"

But all you got in return was that smile. That quiet, secret-laced smile, like he was tucking something important behind his tongue. He gave your ankle a gentle squeeze. Comforting. Familiar.

"You’ll understand later," he murmured, voice almost lulling.

"Don’t push yourself, Your Highness," he said softly, skillfully shifting the topic. "We’ve got a long journey ahead tomorrow."

He stood, gathered the remnants of his torn shirt, and moved to tend the fire again, like he hadn’t just shaken your world with a few quiet words.

"I'll try..." you murmured, your voice tinged with hesitation, your eyes fixed on his back as he knelt by the fire, tending to the flames with care, keeping it alive to somehow keep the coldness of the night at bay.

"Thank you... for everything."

Phainon glanced over his shoulder at you. Your weariness was plain on your face, carved into the way your body sagged slightly under the weight of the day.

“There’s nothing to thank me for.” His tone was quiet, like it always was, but beneath it was a quiet warmth that never seemed to leave whenever he spoke to you. “Get some sleep, princess.”

You didn’t protest again.

Despite the jagged rock beneath you, despite the ache in your limbs and the open sky above, it didn’t take long for sleep to claim you. The day had wrung you dry—body, heart, and mind—and the sound of the crackling fire, the distant rustle of trees, and Phainon’s steady presence nearby became the lullaby that finally allowed your guard to fall.

It wasn't until your breathing had evened out, deep in sleep, that Phainon stood up from the fire. The flickering glow cast long shadows across the clearing as he moved, silent as a ghost, towards you. He crouched beside you, eyes tracing your features like he was memorizing every curve, every eyelash. His fingers reached out, brushing a few strands of hair from your face with a gentleness that didn’t match the crimson stains still dried against his skin.

"My kids being the knights of yours?" He muses, a quiet laugh curling at the edge of his lips. "Don't be ridiculous... my kids wouldn't be doing the same for yours..."

"Because my kids will be yours too, princess."

His expression stayed soft, but there was something darker flickering beneath it—a quiet hunger, possession cloaked in tenderness. His hand moved again, hooking a single lock of your hair around his finger, bringing it close to his face. He breathed in, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, as though the scent alone grounded him, drawing it in like a man savoring something he believed— no, he knew belonged to him.

“Yours,” he whispered, “You hear me?”

The wind rustled gently through the trees, carrying his words into the night, where they vanished like smoke with no one else to hear them but himself. He stayed like that for a moment, eyes locked on your sleeping face, watching the faint shifts of your breath, the flutter of your lashes. You looked peaceful. Vulnerable.

"I'm sorry for what happened, princess. But you understand, don't you?" He questions you quietly, as if you could hear him, still making sure his voice is quiet, so as to not wake you.

"Your father was a tyrant, a dictator..." He murmurs, his fingers moving to caress your cheek, watching as you stirred faintly under his touch, but did not wake, "He was going to marry you off to someone else."

"Surely, you understand why I urged people and started the revolution, don't you?"

His fingers trail lightly down your cheek, pausing at your lips, his breath hitching ever so slightly as his thumb grazes over the soft curve of your mouth. He exhales shakily, as though even this contact is almost too much.

"The only reason I was born was to be yours,” he whispers, a quiet conviction in his tone. “And thus, you, in turn, have always been mine. Law of equivalent exchange.”

His voice is low, fond, but there’s an undercurrent of something far heavier—something dangerous—coiling just beneath. He inhales sharply, as if steadying himself, and glances away from your lips like a sinner resisting temptation.

"That old man never should’ve tried to interfere," he adds, almost as an afterthought, his jaw tensing like the memory alone is enough to reignite his fury—the same fury that led to your father's downfall.

His finger lingers against your lips, then shifts, trailing down to hover just over your abdomen, his eyes now fixed there, unblinking. The soft rise and fall of your breathing beneath the fabric of your dress seems to hold him captive.

"Once all of this dies down.." he murmurs, more to himself than to you, "I’ll take you somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one knows your name. A little house, tucked away from the world… where you’ll be safe. And then—"

His breath hitches again, this time heavier, filled with desire.

"Then I’ll give you my children. As many as you want."

His gaze darkens as it lingers on your stomach, and his lashes lower as he exhales through his nose, eyes fluttering closed like he can already see the future blooming there. His future. Your future. Your shared future.

"I’ve waited my whole life," he breathes, almost dreamlike. "And now you look at me like I’m your savior...."

There’s a pause, still heavy, and then his eyes open again, trained solely on your face. His expression softens at the sight of your sleeping features.

"It’s only a matter of time," he says softly. "Just a few more years... or months, if I’m lucky."

His thumb traces the corner of your mouth again, delicate and adoring.

"Right, princess?"

A soft chuckle escapes him, warm and hushed and laced with something that doesn’t quite sound sane.

"You don't need the palace, the crown, the throne.... I'm already here. I am all that you need." He murmurs, fully believing his own words.

"You're mine." He breathes out, a silent declaration with only the stars above as his witness.

"You will be mine."

[degeneratewhores]

money talks ft. aventurine

based on this post by @mewnbuns!! so kewl an aven post fr???1111!!

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[degeneratewhores]

kids are cute, let’s make one

# pairings: yandere sugar daddies x sugar baby reader

# synopsis: you’re eight sugar daddies are starting to want more from you. they’re envisioning a future with you. they want something that will chain you to them. what’s more perfect then a child.

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession, baby-trapping, and toxic behavior. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI.

# notes: reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated!

# parts: part 1 𖤓 part 2

# tags: @hopingtoclearmedschool, @yawnzzx, @hasty-desert, @enchantingarcadecreation, @cannyyyyy, @lianobody

something was shifting.

you started to notice a new pattern in their obsession—one that’s more invasive, more intimate.

they’re all talking about children.

elijah brings it up casually over dinner. "you’d make such a good parent," he says, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. "you ever think about settling down? having a little one running around? maybe… soon?" he grins, but there’s a look in his eyes that makes your stomach churn.

lucas leaves a baby magazine on your coffee table one day. you know you didn’t put it there. when you ask, he just shrugs. "just curious," he says. "wondered if you ever thought about a future. our future."

nathan jokes about it first. "imagine a little version of you running around. wouldn’t that be something?" but then he gets serious. "you’d look beautiful pregnant," he says. "really. you should think about it."

kai starts watching your cycle. you don’t know how he knows, but he always seems to know when you’re not feeling well. "we don’t have to use anything," he says one night. "i’d take care of you. both of you."

matthew starts buying vitamins. leaves them on your counter like it’s the most natural thing. "prenatal’s good for you even if you’re not pregnant," he says with a tight smile. "you never know."

leo gets quiet when you bring up birth control. "you don’t trust me?" he asks. the next time you’re together, the condom disappears. he just grins. "guess we’ll see what happens."

xavier's eyes never leave yours, a hint of something darker lurking behind his affection. "i’ve been thinking about our future," he says quietly, his hand resting lightly on your stomach. "a family... with you. we’ll make it perfect. just the way it’s meant to be."

damien doesn’t say anything at first. but he starts talking about names. baby names. casually, like it’s part of a normal conversation. you laugh it off until he hands you a list. "just in case," he says.

you feel trapped in silk—soft, golden lies that tighten every time you smile back.

but it doesn’t matter.

because they’re all dreaming of the same thing:

tying you to them. permanently.

soon, their suggestions turn to plans.

you catch elijah browsing baby clothes on his phone while you’re lying next to him. when you ask, he turns the screen away and says, "just looking." later, he offhandedly mentions how his apartment has a second bedroom. "could make a nice nursery."

lucas books a weekend getaway to a remote cabin and conveniently "forgets" to pack your pills. "you don’t need them all the time," he says. "you should trust me. we’d make a gorgeous kid."

nathan buys you a silk robe—one size up. when you laugh and ask if he thinks you're gaining weight, he just smiles. "you’ll grow into it."

kai starts talking about quitting your job. "you shouldn’t be stressed all the time," he says. "i’ll take care of everything. just focus on yourself. on… us."

matthew has taken to watching you sleep. one night, you wake up to find him staring at you from across the room. he’s holding a small, velvet box. inside isn’t a ring—it’s a positive pregnancy test. "just imagine it," he whispers.

leo starts leaving baby toys in your bag, your coat pocket, your purse. you find a rattle in your kitchen drawer. a bib in your laundry. all new. all tagged. all left without a word.

xavier starts talking to your stomach, even when you’re alone. "you’ll be a good mother," he says. "our child will be perfect. better than either of us."

damien starts recording you on his phone when you’re not looking. videos labeled with dates and times. you catch a glimpse of one named "first signs."

you’ve always felt like you were running the game. scripting the story.

but now, they’re writing their own chapters. and in every one, you’re a mother.

a possession.

a prize they plan to keep.

you don’t care about love. you don’t need it. you care about money. security. a life of indulgence. and as long as they’re giving you what you want—gifts, attention, wealth—you’ll keep playing the part. a baby? that’s not part of the plan. but the luxuries they promise? now, that’s something you can’t resist.

you knew they cared for you. at least, you thought you did. love, or at least the way they acted, was easy to ignore at first. fleeting glances, soft touches that felt almost like accidents. casual conversations. but lately? everything’s been different.

they’re not just affectionate—they’re obsessed. in ways you never expected.

elijah

you’re curled up on the couch with elijah, the room softly lit by the flicker of the tv. he’s close—too close—and you can feel the heat of his breath against your skin, but it’s not the comfort it used to be. there’s a shift in the air tonight, a subtle change in the way he looks at you, as if he’s seeing you for the first time. or maybe he’s just trying harder to convince himself of something.

"i was just thinking about something," he says, his voice unusually soft. his fingers idly trace the rim of his mug, but his eyes are glued to you, like he’s waiting for a reaction. "do you ever think about the past? i mean, really think about it? like, when everything felt right. simple."

you feign a thoughtful expression, though your mind’s already calculating how to play this. he’s nostalgic, searching for meaning, and you know exactly how to feed into it. you smile gently, nodding, your tone light but smooth as you reply, "yeah, i’ve thought about it. a lot of people wish they could go back to those simpler times."

his eyes brighten a little, encouraged by your response, and you can almost feel the trap snap shut. he’s already entranced by the fantasy, the idea of a perfect, easy life. you let him run with it.

"my grandmother’s house," he continues, drifting off into his memory. "it was always so warm, so... safe. i remember her kitchen, the smell of fresh cookies, and how she’d always hum little tunes when she baked. i used to sit on the counter, and she’d tell me stories about love, about how everything just... works out. back then, i thought maybe she was right. maybe things really do just fall into place."

you notice how his voice wavers, just a touch, and a small part of you feels a flicker of guilt. but the larger part knows this is your opening. you let him paint his picture, nodding with a gentle smile, your eyes softening just enough to keep him talking. you want him to keep going, to believe in this idea of a perfect future with you in it.

"i think that’s what i want," he says, his voice quieter now, almost intimate. "a life like that. the family, the love, the little moments. a house full of laughter, a kid running around. maybe it’s silly, but i picture you there. i picture us together, raising our little one in a place just like that."

you feel the weight of his words, heavy with his expectations. he’s already imagining you as a part of his dream, as the perfect mother in this idealized life. and you—well, you’re simply here for the luxury he promises, for the status, for everything he thinks you want. a baby, though? that’s not part of the plan.

you let your smile stretch just a little wider, a calculated mix of warmth and consideration. "let’s just enjoy our time together first," you say, your tone soothing and playful. "we’ve got all the time in the world to figure things out, right?"

but you can tell by the way his brow furrows, the way his gaze stays glued to you that he’s not hearing the subtle dismissal in your voice. elijah’s too wrapped up in his fantasy of a future with you—too blinded by the image of a picture-perfect life. his smile falters slightly, but only for a second.

"i know we do," he says, though there’s a small crack in his usual charm. "but i just… i keep thinking that we’re meant for something more, something bigger. you and me, building something real, something lasting."

you can feel the pull of his sincerity, and for a moment, you wonder how far you can lead him. how much you can take before he realizes you’re only here for the perks.

you lean closer, your hand brushing lightly against his, the perfect image of affection. "you’re right," you say, your voice low, almost teasing. "we’re meant to have it all."

and that’s exactly what you plan to get.

lucas

lucas stands at the edge of the room, watching you scroll through your phone with that lazy, practiced smile he’s grown used to. you don’t even need to look up to know his eyes are on you—he’s always watching. always assessing.

“you ever think about what comes next?” he asks softly, voice barely above a whisper.

you glance up, feigning curiosity. “next like… what?” you already know.

“a real life,” he says, moving closer, his hands tucked in his pockets. “something solid. a family.”

you tilt your head, studying him. you know what he wants—what he’s been hinting at for weeks. he’s too careful to say it outright, too controlled to beg for it. but it’s written in the way he starts keeping extra toothbrushes in the bathroom. the vitamins in the kitchen cabinet. the way he holds your waist like you might vanish.

“with me?” you ask sweetly, tilting your head in mock innocence.

he nods once, slow. “yeah. with you.”

a pause.

“i think you’d be good at it. being a parent. i see it.”

you smile, soft and distant, the kind that keeps him guessing. of course he wants a child. a future. something permanent to anchor you to him. but you? you just want the stability, the luxury, the money. you don’t care about late-night feedings or milestones. what you care about is the black card in your purse and the name on the lease.

“let’s take our time,” you say, your voice smooth and sweet like honey. “we’ve got everything we need right now, don’t we?”

lucas watches you for a moment, his expression unreadable. but you can tell he’s clinging to hope. clinging to you.

“yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “we do.”

you lean forward, kiss his cheek like a reward. because that’s all this is—a game. and the deeper he falls, the more you win.

nathan

you find nathan in the kitchen, hunched over the stove with a recipe book cracked open beside him. the scent of something overly sweet lingers in the air—his attempt at baking again. it’s endearing, in a clumsy sort of way. he looks up when you walk in, startled like he always is, cheeks already flushed.

“hey,” he says, brushing flour off his hands. “i, uh… i made something. thought you might like it.”

you smile, amused by how nervous he gets just offering you dessert. “how thoughtful,” you say, stepping closer, letting your fingers trail along the counter like you own the place—which you practically do by now.

he watches your every move, eyes wide, anxious. “i was thinking, um… it’s kinda dumb, but…” he hesitates, then blurts, “do you ever think about kids? like, maybe someday?”

your smile doesn’t falter, but inside, you’re rolling your eyes. he’s been skirting around this topic for days now—staring too long when you walk past, buying things he thinks you might need “just in case.”

you lean against the counter, all soft glances and false affection. “you really think i’d be good at that?”

his face lights up like you handed him the sun. “yeah. yeah, i do. you’re already amazing. you’re everything i ever… i mean—” he stops himself, voice trailing into nothing.

you tilt your head, feigning interest. “maybe someday. just not right now.”

he nods quickly, eyes cast down. “of course. no pressure. i didn’t mean to rush anything. i just… i like thinking about it. about us.”

you reach out and touch his hand lightly, just enough to keep him hopeful. he melts under the contact, bashful and grateful, clinging to the fantasy he’s built around you.

you take a bite of the too-sweet dessert and smile. not because it’s good—but because it’s working. he’ll give you everything. and all you have to do is let him believe.

kai

you wake up to the sound of kai pacing the bedroom. the curtains are still drawn, the room bathed in that pale gray light that makes everything feel dreamlike. he’s muttering to himself, barefoot, shirt half-buttoned like he forgot how to finish getting dressed. when he sees you stir, he lights up like a fuse.

“you’re awake,” he says too fast, too excited. “i was thinking. we should just do it.”

you blink, still groggy. “do what?”

“get married,” he says, stepping toward the bed. “why are we waiting? we don’t need a big wedding. we could just go. right now. vegas. or a courthouse. something private. something just ours.”

you stare at him for a second, then sit up slowly, letting the sheet slip just enough to keep his attention. “kai, it’s six in the morning.”

he laughs, a shaky little sound. “i know. but i couldn’t sleep. i kept thinking about it. about you. about us. it’s not just about love anymore. it’s about making this real.”

you tilt your head, watching how his hands tremble slightly. he’s always running too hot—too much energy, too much emotion. and he dumps it all into you.

“i want a life with you,” he says, crouching next to the bed now, his eyes wide and bloodshot. “a family. a home. i wanna come home to you every day, and know it’s permanent. no doubts. no distance.”

you reach out and brush your fingers along his jaw, your expression soft and practiced. “that’s sweet, kai. but maybe we should talk about it when you’re not… so worked up.”

his face shifts—hurt flickering across it like a crack in glass. but he nods anyway. “yeah. okay. yeah.”

you already know he’ll bring it up again—probably tomorrow. he wants to trap you in love, in rings and contracts and babies. and you? you want the penthouse, the trips, the wild, obsessive devotion he throws at your feet like offerings.

“come back to bed,” you say sweetly, tugging him by the wrist. “we’ve got time to figure it all out.”

he lets you pull him close, curling around you like a storm ready to break.

and all you have to do is keep him just unsteady enough to never question a thing.

matthew

matthew’s already in the kitchen when you step inside, sleeves rolled, apron spotless, breakfast lined up like it belongs in a magazine. the scent of lemon and herbs is sharp in the air, too clean for this early.

he doesn’t greet you—just gives you a once-over with narrowed eyes and pulls a chair out. “you look pale,” he says. “have you been sleeping? i told you to take the vitamins. the ones in the glass jar, not the white bottle.”

you sigh dramatically, dragging your feet a little as you sit. “i took something,” you lie.

he frowns, already moving to pour you a glass of water. “not something. the right thing. consistency matters, especially now.”

he sets the water down with a quiet clink, then brushes a hand over your forehead like he’s checking for a fever. you don’t pull away. you’ve learned not to.

“you need to be careful,” he says. “i’ve been doing research. early nutrition, hormone balance, sleep cycles. i’ll start meal-prepping. no caffeine, no stress. we’ll take it day by day.”

you arch a brow. “we?”

his jaw tightens. “you’re not doing this alone. this isn’t just about you—it’s about us. about the baby.”

you blink, slow and calculated. “matthew,” you murmur, voice soft and lilting, “i’m not even—”

“yet,” he cuts in. “not yet. but it’s going to happen. i’ve already cleared out the guest room. i’ve got names written down. and i want you resting more. no more of those late nights with your friends. they’re a bad influence.”

you stifle a smile behind your glass. “you’re serious.”

he steps closer, brushing invisible lint from your shoulder, fixing your collar like you’re a doll on display. “i’m always serious. this matters. you matter. and our child will have everything. structure, calm, care. they won’t grow up in chaos.”

his fingers linger at your wrist, possessive without pressure.

“you don’t have to think,” he adds, almost gently. “just follow the routine. i’ll handle the rest. you’ll see—it’ll all fall into place.”

you meet his eyes, innocent and trusting, masking the truth beneath practiced sweetness. you don’t want the baby. never did. but he wants this so badly he’s practically trembling from the pressure of his own devotion.

so you nod, just enough to keep him content. let him dote and micromanage, let him spiral deeper into the fantasy. because as long as he thinks you’re on board, he’ll do anything for you. and you’re not about to give that up

leo

leo sits on the couch, his body slightly hunched, nervously fiddling with his phone. he’s been texting you for hours, sending small, pointless updates about his day. the moment you step inside, his whole face lights up, and his eyes immediately scan you up and down as if checking for anything wrong.

“hey, are you okay?” he asks, voice filled with concern that makes him seem like a lost puppy.

you shrug, brushing past him toward the kitchen. “just tired.”

“no, you don’t look tired. you look…” leo follows you, but stops at the doorway, his hands wringing in front of him. “you look… stressed. do you need to sit down? i can make you something. i know you like that chamomile tea. i remember.”

you roll your eyes, a small smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “leo, I’m fine.”

he’s quiet for a moment, but his gaze doesn’t leave you. it’s a soft, almost pleading look, like he’s waiting for you to need him in some way. the truth is, you know exactly how to manipulate him. you’ve been doing it for a while now. every word, every glance, feeds into the desperate need he has to take care of you.

he bites his lip, still standing in the doorway, his words slow, cautious. “you know… i was thinking about us today. about what comes next.” he steps closer, a nervous energy radiating off of him. “i want us to be… more, you know? i want us to be together forever. i know we can have something special. i… i want to build a life with you. a family, maybe. i know it’s a lot, but i’ll do whatever you need. we’ll have a nice place, a perfect home. you, me, and our future.”

he trails off, waiting for you to respond, but you can see the unease in his posture, like he’s afraid to push too hard.

you can almost feel the weight of his hopes pressing down on you, and yet, the more he talks, the more your mind drifts, calculating how to keep him hooked without giving up too much.

you glance over at him, your voice dripping with reassurance. “we’ve got plenty of time to think about that,” you say sweetly, taking a seat at the counter. “no need to rush into things.”

leo visibly relaxes, though his gaze stays on you like a hawk. “yeah, but… i just want to make sure you know how much i care. you’re everything to me. i’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you’re happy. i want to be the one who takes care of you. i can’t imagine my life without you.”

his words are almost desperate, and it’s clear he means them with every fiber of his being. leo’s never been good at holding back his feelings, but it makes him easy to manipulate—he’s so emotionally dependent on your approval that you don’t even have to try hard.

you let your eyes soften, making him feel like he’s won just a little bit. “i know, leo,” you say, your voice kind and warm. “but there’s no rush, okay? let’s just enjoy what we have now.”

he nods enthusiastically, almost too eagerly, as if your words were the reassurance he needed. his hands twitch at his sides, wanting to do something for you, to prove his love and devotion. but you know what he needs most is your constant attention, your affirmation, and you’ll give it to him as long as it keeps the luxuries rolling in.

he moves closer, gently brushing your hair from your face with a tenderness that’s almost suffocating. “whatever you need, i’m here. always.”

you smile, just enough to keep him believing that the fantasy he’s built in his head could actually come true. in reality, you don’t want the future he dreams of. but for now, his affections are just too easy to accept, too useful to ignore.

“thanks, leo,” you say, leaning into his touch. “you’re too sweet.”

he beams at your words, his face glowing with happiness, but you can see the cracks of insecurity hidden beneath the surface. he’s so ready to give you everything, but he still needs to hear you say it. you don’t say the words out loud, but the smile you flash is more than enough to keep him wrapped around your finger for now.

he steps back, still hovering in the doorway like he can’t quite pull himself away. “anything you want. just say the word,” he murmurs, his voice full of quiet desperation.

and you know you’ll never have to say much. he’ll keep offering, keep giving, as long as you keep playing the part.

xavier

xavier leans back in his chair, watching you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. he’s usually so confident, but tonight there’s something different in his eyes—something raw, almost vulnerable.

“i’ve been thinking about settling down,” he says, his voice lower than usual, almost thoughtful. he doesn’t take his eyes off of you, waiting for a response. “i’ve got everything—money, power, success. but none of that matters without someone to share it with. someone who’s truly in this with me. someone i can count on.”

his hand rests on the arm of his chair, fingers drumming slowly as he watches you closely. "you know, i’m not getting any younger," he says, as though he's thinking out loud. "i’ve built everything i need. money, power, status… but it’s all meaningless without someone to share it with. someone who’s in it for the long haul. and that’s where you come in."

he pauses, his gaze softening as he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “i’m done with the games. i want a life. i want a family. i want you. i want us to build something real. a future. a home. kids.” he looks at you with a seriousness that makes your pulse quicken. “i want to settle down, but only if you’re in it with me.”

you lean back, your fingers drumming on the edge of your glass, taking in his words. there's no hint of hesitation in his tone, no doubt in the way he speaks. everything he says sounds like it’s already planned, already decided.

“settling down? that’s not exactly what i had in mind,” you reply coolly, trying to keep your voice even. inside, though, you're calculating. the future he’s offering sounds tempting, but it comes with too much weight, too much commitment. it's not what you need right now.

xavier’s smile falters, just slightly, before he recovers. “but think about it,” he urges, his voice low and persistent. “we could have it all—kids, a future, everything you’ve ever dreamed of. i can give you that.”

you tilt your head, pretending to consider it, but your mind is already elsewhere. a family? that would tie you down, take away your freedom, your ability to move freely in the world. the money, the luxury, the life you crave—that’s what you want. the rest is just a distraction.

“i don’t know if that’s really my thing,” you reply with a forced smile. “i like things the way they are now. no strings attached. freedom.” you shrug slightly. “you know, enjoying life. luxury. i’m not really ready to jump into something so… permanent.”

xavier’s smile drops, just a little, but he recovers quickly. there’s a flicker of disappointment in his eyes, but he doesn’t push. instead, he leans back, crossing his arms and watching you, a calculating look now in place.

“i see,” he says slowly, his voice steady, though there's a hint of something else beneath it. “i guess we’ll just have to see where this goes, then.”

damien

damien looks at you with that soft, almost pensive gaze, as if he's carefully choosing his words, not wanting to overwhelm you. his presence is calming, but there's something undeniably serious in the way he speaks tonight.

"i’ve been thinking," he starts, his voice steady but filled with a quiet emotion. "about the future... about us, and how we could build a life together." his hand finds its way to yours, gently holding it as if grounding both of you in the moment. "i don’t just want a relationship with you. i want everything. a life. a family."

he leans in closer, his eyes never leaving yours. "imagine it," he continues, the words slow, almost like he’s picturing it in his mind. "a home, just the two of us and our child. a place where we’re not just living—where we’re really building something, a legacy. i want to be there for you, always. i want to take care of you, provide for you and our child. i know i can make it happen. i can give you a future, a real one."

his hand tightens just slightly around yours, not possessively, but with a sincerity that catches you off guard. "i see us growing old together, you know?" he says, his voice soft but confident. "building our lives, raising a family. you and me, together in this life i know we could have. everything would fall into place."

he pauses, his eyes searching yours, like he’s waiting for some sign that you see it too, that you can picture it as clearly as he does. "i know it’s a lot to ask," he admits, his tone slightly vulnerable. "but i believe in us. in what we could be. and if you’re willing, i want to share that with you."

there’s a weight to his words that feels different from the others. it’s not a plea or demand, but a quiet promise, a glimpse into the life he’s hoping to build with you. and as much as you try to push the idea aside, you can’t help but wonder—could this life he’s imagining be what you’re looking for, too?

but the truth is, it’s not the child he offers that catches your attention. it’s the luxury, the comfort of the future he’s offering you, that glimmers in your mind like a shiny, new prize. but you stay silent, hiding your true intentions, letting him believe you’re on the same page.

each one of them is so sure. so certain. their love, their desire to make you a part of their future, feels real, genuine. their words are sweet, full of promises, of things you’ve never allowed yourself to imagine. they see you as more than just a passing moment—they see you as the center of their world, as the one who will carry their legacy, their love, their future.

and yet, despite all their tenderness, all their devotion, a feeling creeps inside you—one that’s hard to shake. they love you, yes, but they love you in a way that isn’t quite healthy. it’s possessive. it’s consuming. and somewhere beneath the softness of their words, you can feel the pressure building. they’re not just asking for your love—they’re asking for everything.

they want to tie you to them, forever.

and with each passing day, it becomes harder to breathe

you woke up one morning to find your birth control missing. not just one pill—the whole pack. you check your nightstand, your bag, the bathroom drawer. it’s gone.

you’re careful with things like this. you have to be, with eight different men orbiting your life. there’s no room for error.

you try not to panic. maybe you moved it. maybe it slipped behind something. but the longer you search, the more certain you become. someone took it.

your mind flashes back to nights you wish you could rewind. moments where you weren’t as guarded. where one of them stayed over a little too long.

nathan, maybe. he insisted on staying. said he missed you. said he wanted to be close again.

he held you tighter than usual. kissed your stomach. whispered things you brushed off at the time.

"you’d look good round," he said, voice thick against your skin. "glowing. soft."

you’d laughed, unsure how to answer. now you wonder if you should’ve taken it more seriously.

later that week, leo asks if you’ve been feeling okay. his tone is too sweet, too knowing.

"you’ve been looking different lately," he says. "in a good way. like you’re changing."

you keep your face calm. smile like always.

"i just want you to be healthy," he adds. "you are taking care of yourself, right? eating enough? sleeping?"

you nod, but your stomach turns.

that night, you go to buy a new pack. the pharmacy clerk gives you a funny look, says, “didn’t you just buy these a few days ago?”

you didn’t.

someone did. someone pretending to be you.

your phone lights up again. it’s xavier this time.

have you been thinking about the future?

then kai: if something happened—something big—you’d tell me, right?

they don’t know about each other. they’re still in the dark, still convinced they’re the only one who matters.

but something’s shifted.

they’ve stopped talking like lovers. they’ve started sounding like planners.

you check your cabinets again and find a fresh box of prenatal vitamins, tucked behind your cereal.

you didn’t buy those.

you try to steady your breath.

they’re still oblivious to each other.

but not to you.

you’re the one thing they all want to keep. and they’re ready to make sure you never leave.

lately, they’ve been acting strange. clingier. needier. but it’s not just about where you go or who you’re with anymore.

it’s about what your body could give them.

their obsessions are mutating. no longer satisfied with your time, your attention, your presence—they want permanence. blood. legacy. a way to keep you tethered.

and they all have the same idea.

your phone buzzes, another string of messages lighting up the screen.

"you’re not answering. are you with someone else?"

"i had a dream you were carrying my child."

"come over. now."

they’re getting bolder. and richer.

luxury handbags, wired deposits, fine jewelry—all gifts, all apologies wrapped in money and obsession. you take them. you always have. you let them believe they can buy you, that their love is currency. but now the stakes have changed. they don’t just want to own your time. they want to own your body. your future.

when you step out of your building that afternoon, kai is already waiting at the curb, grinning like he belongs there. he opens the car door. "i found us a place. quiet. private. with room to grow."

that night, you catch elijah slipping something into your drink. he smiles when you confront him. "it’s just a supplement. good for fertility. you said you felt tired lately, remember?"

nathan leaves a black card on your vanity with a note: "for you and the baby. when you’re ready."

lucas starts asking questions about your family history. medical things. subtle at first, but then specific—like he’s researching.

matthew hands you a shopping bag with designer clothes for "future stages," as he puts it. "don’t worry about money. you’ll have everything you need. forever."

leo shows you a bank account he opened in your name. "for emergencies," he says. but there’s a clause at the bottom: joint parental use only.

xavier holds you longer after sex. "i’d give you the world," he murmurs. "you’d never want for anything again. just give me this."

damien starts sleeping over more often. always watching. always touching your stomach.

they don’t want you free. they want you claimed.

and you’re beginning to wonder if they’d rather trap you with comfort than fear.

money can be a cage, too.

a beautiful one. a quiet one.

and this time, it's holding a threat of diapers and diamonds.

there’s a knock at the door.

soft. then louder.

then a voice through the wood—low, familiar, insistent:

"open up, baby. we need to talk."

you freeze.

because it’s not one voice.

it’s two—one from the front door, one from the back entrance behind you.

and they both call you the same thing.

but neither knows the other is there.

[degeneratewhores]

I rather have your hate than your indifference.

[degeneratewhores]

Blot!reader pt. 7

Part 7 to this

This is a darker story. I suggest you refrain from reading it if you're in a fragile mental state or unable to handle darker themes.

The entire cabin sat in suffocating silence, the air thick with grief, pressing down on everyone like a heavy blanket. Though each person reclined in the lounge with eyes closed and limbs still, it was only a performance—none of them could sleep. Not really. The loss was too sharp, too fresh. Everyone processed it differently, but one truth echoes in their hearts: the tragedy hadn't begun the night you died. It had taken root long before. By the time they truly knew you—truly loved you—you were already gone.

Yuuka took it especially hard. She had always seen you as family, someone irreplaceable, and yet, she hadn't been able to do anything to save you. She sat, hollow-eyed, looping over every memory in painful detail, desperately searching for a moment she'd missed—a sign. Was there a day you came home different? Later than usual? Quieter, colder? She tore herself apart wondering if she had ignored the moment your light began to dim.

Ace wrestled with a different torment. His guilt ran deep. He had known you from the very beginning, or at least, that's what he'd convinced himself. In truth, he saw you—passed by you—but never really looking until it was already too late. You were forgotten the moment you weren't in the room. The thought haunted him. He should have known you better. Should have seen the signs. Should have asked more questions. Lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling, he kept repeating that same aching mantra: I should've done something. I knew them. I should've known.

You never spoke about the neglect you endured, not directly. But in the aftermath, the pieces fell into place. It became clear to those who mourned you that something had been very wrong. Whatever deal you'd made to rise so suddenly in the eyes of the world—whatever force had pulled you from the shadows into the spotlight—must have come with a price. And so they wondered, each in their own quiet despair: What final blow pushed you over the edge? Who, in their carelessness or cruelty, handed down your death sentence that night?

When you told them about the Blot—about everything you knew and everything you felt they needed to know—their responses were varied as they were heartfelt.

Kalim, Ace, and Yuuka held onto you with unwavering faith. They clung to the belief that you were still you, that the Blot didn't change who you truly were. They hoped, desperately, that it might fade, or be cured. That things could somehow return to normal.

But others—Vil, Leona—responded with wariness. They had seen what the Blot could do, had felt the darkness clawing at the edges of control. To them you were walking a dangerous line. They didn't say it outright, but the fear was there, unspoken but heavy: Had you been building this Blot inside you for months unnoticed? Were you already a ticking time bomb?

And the unthinkable loomed in their thoughts: If you were to overblot... if the darkness overtook you completely... would they even be able to stop it?

None of them could say it aloud, but the truth lingered in every glance exchanged, every tense silence.

None of them were sure if they could raise their pens against you.

Not if it came to that.

When the talk turned to the possibility of breaking the contract, of severing the tie that bound you to the Blot, the group was split even. They knew, perhaps more clearly than you did, that the Blot wasn't just a threat—it was also your lifeline. Whatever bargain had been struck, however dark, it was keeping you here. Keeping you alive.

Leona, ever pragmatic, offered to try. He mentioned his Unique Magic—how he'd broken so-called unbreakable deals before, even Azul's ironclad contracts. Nothing was truly unbreakable, he said.

And so, with quiet determination, he reached out and took your lifeless hand in his. The moment his fingers brushed the ring, the temperature plummeted. The metal, already ice-cold, turned searching. It burned your skin with such intensity that you cried out, jerking away. A small yelp—but it was enough. Enough to freeze everyone in place.

A warning.

That was the last attempt. They decided then and there—spoken or not—that they wouldn't try again.

Especially not if removing it meant risking your life.

It was unmistakable now; the Blot did not intend to be cast off. it had clung to you with possessive desperation, punishing even the suggestion of separation. It lashed out—not with fury, but with something: quieter. Sharper. Intentional.

Even in sleep, where you should have found escape, peace eluded you. Your dreams were restless landscapes of whispered arguments and echoing what-ifs, and always, always, you felt watched. The Blot's presence lingered like static in the air, wrapping around you—and them—with a warmth that was oppressive now. it pulsed with something old, something aware.

They felt it too. All of them.

This thing, this force that had given you life again, now seemed to loom like a second shadow. To you, it hummed softly—a low thrum that followed you into sleep. A presence. A heartbeat.

The ring itself pulsed faintly now, like something alive. At first, it was steady, a subtle rhythm you barely noticed. But tonight—tonight it was faster.

Uneven. Anxious.

Almost... afraid.

The world you found yourself in was a place that refused to stay still, a kaleidoscope of shifting shapes and colors, constantly rearranging itself. It couldn't decide what it wanted to be, but there were a few constants—persistent patterns, repeated hues and forms, that twisted in ways you couldn't make sense of.

Then, you hear it. A voice. Ortho? Malleus? Someone else?

The syllables stretch unnaturally long, each word mangling into the next. The rhythm of their speech is off, warped, the tone repeats your name—but something's wrong. Too many echoes. Too many wrong echoes. You blink, and the voices morph into your own, distorting, mocking, mourning. They plead with you in voices that sound like they belong to someone else, but their sharp edges make you flinch, as if they're cutting into you from within.

Are you dreaming? You can't tell. You're not sure of anything here.

You're not sure of yourself.

As you move through the space, you catch glimpses of your reflection—though it's never whole. Shattered glass splinters at your feet, distorting the image in jagged pieces. In broken fragments, you're not what you remember. You're something else. Your flesh is gone in places, hanging from exposed bone, rotting, decaying. Your neck is bent at an angle recognized as impossible and inside you, insects crawl—skittering through the hollow where your heart should be, where your life should still pulse.

The sight is too much. It's suffocating.

You can't bear to look any longer, but the reflection clings to you, mocking you with every step. You stumble backward, heart pounding, your body aching as if each moment is strenuous. Your legs are unsteady, as if the ground beneath you is not quite solid, and you twist around, turning on your heel.

You run.

But it's difficult.

Breathing is a struggle. The hollow ache in your lungs is a cruel reminder there is no air to pull in.

When you look down, the fragments of your reflection remain—clothing torn, tattered, beyond recognition, and the sight of your chest, cracked open like a broken shell, takes the last of your strength.

The world is wrong. Everything is wrong.

No wonder you can't breathe; you don't have lungs anymore.

The gravity of the place feels distorted, pulling in strange directions that you can't describe, warping the space around you. The world is devoid of color, but your eyes are assaulted by a dizzying array of hues—too many, too fast, too intense to comprehend. It's as if the colors exist beyond the spectrum you know, beyond the limits of your perception.

The Blot's voice—its presence—flooded your ears, your mind, seeping into every corner of your thoughts. It shuddered around you, writhing, as though the dream world itself couldn't hold its form any longer. It was a reflection of the Blot's own stress, its instability. Just as it's form trembled and shifted when thrown off, so too was the fabric of this space.

You could only assume that by being so deeply entangled with the Blot, you had somehow slipped into its mind—or maybe its world. It wasn't clear.

Words collided in the air—some soft, others shrill—whispers, shouts, incoherent fragments. It was like it was speaking from everywhere at once. But amidst the chaos, one voice pierced through the noise, Its tone raw and desperate. It screamed in your head.

"Why? Why are you doing this?" The Blot's voice cried.

Its panic was visceral—almost childlike, trembling between frustration and pleading.

It didn't understand.

"Why are you telling them? We were fine! We were together! You... you were so kind to me this morning before the hike..." It stuttered, its words stumbling in confusion, the longing sharp as it clung to your closeness from that morning.

It didn't understand.

You ran—but you didn't know for how long.

How long had you been hiding from the Blot? From the reflections that mocked you? From the rotting body that you could feel but not escape?

Every step felt like a step toward something other, something incomprehensible. You were a ghost, running from the dark surrounding you.

The collision—the crash—was deafening, shocking you back into clarity. The monolith before you splintered at your touch, shuddering and shifting. It was an immense crystal statue—though it was never still. It shifted, reformed, nearly a living creature in constant flux, impossible to make sense of. Was it a figure? A being? Or something that had once been but had long since lost its meaning?

The statue hummed, a deep, resonant sound like the tuning of a cosmic fork, vibrating through the air, through you. Its surface was smooth, glasslike, but etched with thousands of names, faces, forms—rewriting itself over and over again. It was as if the statue was an archive, trying desperately to preserve its own history, its purpose.

You wanted to reach out, to understand, but before you could touch it, the ground beneath you buckled. The wailing grew louder, sound warping and twisting until it seemed to come from every direction at once. The Blot's presence flared, its grip on you—on everything—shattering.

And then... it was gone.

And darkness swallowed you whole.

Static crackles across your tongue—acidic and sharp, like chewing electricity. You blink rapidly, over and over, your eyes straining against the suffocating nothingness that surrounds you. There's no darkness, no light. Just everything and nothing, layered over each other in a space that doesn't obey rules. A contradiction you can't comprehend.

Then—clarity.

A voice begins, soft and distant, like a recording warped by time. It's not speaking to you, not exactly. It's narrating. Telling a story that feels familiar in your bones, though your memory protests.

Long before time's tapestry unraveled into the mortal world, there existed the Angel of Faces, a being crafted by the divine will to be a mirror of mortal perception. The Creator designed them without a fixed form, a blank slate destined to reflect the countless faces imagined by mortalkind—a bridge. They were the Messenger of Truths, delivering divine revelations in guises familiar and comforting, ensuring mortals could bear the weight of celestial messages.

Images crack open before you—like shattered glass, jagged and glinting, tumbling one after another into focus. They don't move like real things—more like illustrations torn from pages of a storybook.

You see them—a being of indescribable beauty, ever shifting. Their form changes like water caught in starlight, their features never still. They descend from the sky, trailing light behind them, wearing faces borrowed from dreams and fantasies. As they meet mortals, they speak in soft tones and gentle smiles, becoming what people expect to see.

The scene carries the nostalgic warmth of fable, but something about it gnaws at the edges.

Mortals, however, are imperfect storytellers. Each encounter reshaped the Angel of Faces, adding new features, quirks, and expressions. Some saw them as a serene guardian; others envisioned a stern judge or a deceiving trickster. These conflicting descriptions layered upon the angel like masks, making their true self indistinguishable, even to themselves.

You watch the whispers spread—around campfires, across market stalls, through grand halls. People speak of the messenger, the celestial, the angel. You see them again, curled up in a fetal position with their wings cocooning them, their form folding and reshaping themselves as mortals impose identities upon them.

A healer. A warrior. A muse.

Each expectation a mold. Each opinion a new mask.

And though the angel's face remains serene, poised—graceful even—you notice it now. The flicker. The micro-twitch. A wince that doesn't belong. Pain—subtle but unmistakable—buried beneath the surface as they fracture to match fantasies of others.

Over the ages, this shifting identity became a curse. They could recall every face ever worn, every lie spoken to soothe mortal fears, yet no memory of an original self remained. In despair, they sought reassurance from the Creator, pleading for a singular, immutable form. But the Creator remained silent, bound by cosmic law to let mortals shape the angel's existence. They were the bridge between the divine and the flesh—the only way divinity could properly understand mortal and vice-versa.

Then, a throne.

Massive. Towering. Its presence dominates the space. The angel kneels before it, wings unfurled behind them—crushed and colorless, like a butterfly pinned beneath glass. Their head is bowed. You can't hear the words exchanged, but the feeling crashes over you like a wave.

Agony. Sorrow. Desperation. Pleading.

And beyond it all: silence.

A cold, heavy silence that presses into your ribs. The kind that follows disappointment from someone who once loved you. Or worse—pity.

You can feel the weight of the Creator's silence. Not anger. Not wrath. Just... regret. And it's so much heavier than anything else.

Resentment festered. If mortals could define them, why should they not seize control of that power? They abandoned truth, embracing deception. In time, they learned to wield their ever-changing faces as weapons: impersonating kings, prophets, and lovers, sowing discord with whispers of false promises. Their once-pure voice became a chorus of lies, harmonizing with the ambitions and fears of those they encountered.

Scenes follow in rapid succession, kaleidoscopic in nature and fragmented, but you know the angel is there—though their wings are gone, though their face is someone else's.

A king laughs on a golden throne, his kingdom shining. A secret lover slips out of a bed in darkness. An assassin vanishes into a crowd. A prophet raises trembling hands before a weeping congregation.

Then, ruin.

The king's palace, turned to rubble. The lover, now a wife—yet the old wife is miraculously absent. The assassin's victims, nameless in a list. The prophet's followers, bloodied and broken in their belief.

None of them ever saw the angel beneath the face they wore. They never looked long enough, painfully unperceptive—or perhaps unaware.

If no one knew what the angel truly was, then stories couldn't cage them. Rumors couldn't wound them—shape them. And so, they wore more faces. Hid deeper. Buried themselves beneath perception. And when they were wronged—betrayed—they sought retribution. Over and over again.

But the revenge never tasted sweet.

Only hollow.

Thus, the Angel of Faces fell—not through rebellion, but through erosion of identity. Cast from the heavens, they now wander the mortal and infernal realms, a living mask who changes with every glance. They are feared as a master manipulator, a thief of faces and fates, cursed never to be remembered as themselves.

Legends say if you meet someone whose face you forget the moment they turn away, you've crossed paths with the Angel of Faces or their vassals. Pray they haven't taken an interest in wearing your face next.

More faces, more identities flash by, countless and unclear. You can't see them distinctly, but the truth sinks in. You know now. You know who they are.

The Angel of Faces. A creature lost in masks, wandering through mortalkind, trying to feel whole.

A being warped and corrupted by their own nature.

No matter what name they claimed, no matter what role they played—no one ever saw them. Only what they were supposed to be. What others wanted.

A crown. A smile. A blade.

But never themselves.

The images fracture and collapse around you—but not into darkness. This time, they pull you in. Like pages of a book folding shut around you, dragging you into its chapters.

The sun is high, warm and golden, filtering through thick branches overhead. Shadows dapple your skin—real, textured, soft. The breeze smells of pine and something faintly sweet. It feels safe here. Familiar in a way that aches.

But you aren't alone.

Ahead of you, moving slowly through the trees, is a figure. They look like a hunter—simple clothes, dirt on their boots, a bow strapped across their back. It's a quiet disguise, inconspicuous. Something they've worn before, probably in times of mischief or survival.

You follow, but your steps make no sound. You don't rustle the leaves. You leave no footprints. It becomes quickly apparent you aren't really here. Just a silent observer.

The hunter reaches a clearing—a wide expanse of green, peaceful and untouched. At its center stands a single oak tree, massive and ancient, its roots twisting deep into the hill it rests upon. The sunlight catches on its leaves like gold.

You've never been here. Not in memory.

And yet—your chest hurts with recognition.

The ache isn't sudden. It's long, settled. Like a name you forgot but still miss. Like a song you can't hum, but remember how it made you feel.

You miss this place.

But you miss it the way a house misses laughter. The way empty arms remember who they used to hold.

You follow the hunter in silence as he steps into the embrace of the oak's shade, the heavy stillness of the clearing wrapping around him like a familiar blanket. He lowers himself onto the earth with a tired sort of grace, his limbs moving like someone who has worn exhaustion too long to notice it anymore.

You rest just opposite him, your back finding the warm bark. The sun flickers gently through the leaves above, dappling the ground in gold, and for a moment there's peace.

But then it begins crashing over you; a torrent of emotions strong enough to nearly sweep you away.

Regret.

Longing.

Fear.

And grief so ancient it's fossilized into the soul—grief that has learned how to survive by becoming quiet.

It coils in your gut like smoke, pressing against your ribs, too heavy, too consuming. It isn't yours—you know that—but it moves through your body like it belongs there.

It makes you want to rip yourself open just to see if the feelings bleed out. To see if they're real. To see something—anything—clear for once.

You try to drown it out—to focus on the soft hush of wind through leaves, the warmth of soil beneath you, the steady breathing of the man sitting across from you, against the other side of the tree. The quiet hum of the world moving around you. But then—

Footsteps.

Soft, but sure. Grass shifts. A twig snaps.

You tense. Your body doesn't move, but your mind begins to brace itself. You squeeze your eyes tighter, silently begging: Leave. Just walk on by.

But they don't.

They stop—right on the other side of the tree. A beat of silence.

And then—they sit.

Like they belong here.

Like they were always going to.

The bark dug into my spine. My shoulders stiffened, and I pressed harder against the tree, jaw tightening. Whoever they are, they've broken the rhythm of the moment, shattered the fragile stillness I've carved out for myself in this place.

I didn't want to look.

But I had to, didn't I?

Not out of curiosity, not out of fear, but because I felt myself compelled to know who would dare come here, to the one place I'm allowed to not be anyone.

I recall turning my head slowly, angling to peer through the crooked gap in the oak's wide trunk, through what now seemed like a portal to the heavens.

And you sat there quietly, knees drawn up to your chest, head resting in your arms and eyes closed like you belonged there. A mortal, nothing important, nothing special.

I remember shifting to my knees, the bark rough against my palms as I leaned forward, peering through oak's crooked hollow. The memory is soft around the edges, worn thin by time—but you were there, seated as though you belonged.

You must have known the whispers by then—the carefully cultivated reputation, the layers of distance I'd wrapped myself in like a cloak. I'd made myself a shadow, a storm behind furrowed brows and quick footsteps. The kind of presence no one dared to interrupt.

I rose slowly and deliberately, brushing the dirt from my knees with practiced indifference. I took a short walk around the tree, boots pressing quietly into the grass until I stood directly before you. Still, you didn't move. Didn't even glance up. As if my presence meant nothing.

Strange little thing.

Even without knowing the truth buried beneath this face—this shape—I'd made sure the mask was fearsome enough to ward off the curious.

Yet you sat there like you'd missed the message.

I braced my arm against the tree, leaning over you, letting my shadow stretch across your form like a storm rolling in. I remember thinking it would be enough. Surely, this would send you away.

Perhaps I'd grown a little too confident in the image I wore.

And yet, still—nothing.

You didn't move. You didn't cower. You looked at me, eventually, and blinked as though bored by the drama of my entrance. The sky behind you was warm with late summer light, and I remember hating how it caught the edges of your face, like a portrait too breathtaking to forget.

"This is my spot," I said—sharper than I meant to be. The words came out brittle, my tone edged with irritation I hadn't yet admitted was born from something deeper. "Are you a fool? Everyone in town knows not to bother me."

I'd come from a fruitless hunt that day. Old faces Old temples. A bad memory scraped raw by ruins once gilded in my name. And yet you met my bitterness not with fear, but with a half-lidded stare of quiet disbelief—as though I'd just asked something absurd.

Then, you asked me if I had put my name on the tree. On the hill. On the grass beneath our feet.

I had not.

Of course I hadn't.

"You don't seem all that intimidating," you said, head tilted, voice a touch too amused. There was a challenge in your eyes I hadn't seen in ages—cocky and warm like sunlit water that dares you to relax and step deeper.

"We can share."

I argued, of course. Drew lines in the dirt with stubborn words, even threatened you with a bow I never truly meant to raise. I told myself it was principle. Territory. A matter of pride.

But it wasn't.

And still—you stayed.

So I stayed, too.

And it became a game of attrition. A quiet war beneath that old oak tree. Day after day, seeing which of us would yield first. Who would grow tired of the silence. Who would falter.

And yet—

Somehow you slipped into the rhythm of my days. I never meant for it to happen. I never invited you into the quiet rituals I built to keep the world at bay. But time has a way of folding itself around people like you.

Before I realized it, my hours bent at the knee, reshaped by your presence beneath that oak. The days grew long with half-conversations spoken through the gap in the trunk, voices low, laughter occasionally catching on the wind like birdsong.

The mischief faded first—those little pranks, the constant games of pushing and posturing. They dissolved, quietly, as if they had never belonged between us. And in their place: stillness. Companionable silences. Glanced exchanged through the bark. A strange sort of truce that no one decaled.

Summer vanished. Slipped through the cracks like water. The tree grew bare and brittle, its crown stripped of leaves and clothed in frost. Snow came in thick, crystalline blankets, and for a while, I thought that would be the end of us.

Without the tree to claim—without a battleground—I thought you might forget. That I would forget.

So I returned to what this guise knew. I buried myself in the role of a hunter—sharp-eyed and silent. A ghost that moved through the forests and frozen paths. You vanished. Life moved on.

But gods, the winter had teeth that year.

It sunk into me in ways no season ever had before.

I missed you.

You, a mortal—one of the very creatures who had carved me hollow with stories and lies. And yet the ache of your absence bloomed in my chest, slow and unrelenting.

One day—without thinking, without deciding—I found myself beneath the tree again. My feet knew the way better than my heart did.

The air was cold enough to bite, frost curling at the edges of my sleeves, and I stood there like a fool in the snow—ready to accept the silence I'd earned.

But then—you were there.

Waiting.

Lashes kissed white with frost, hair tucked beneath your hood, the pale winter sky behind you like the canvas of a masterwork. You looked like something out of myth—something I might've made up just to keep the loneliness at bay.

"Why are you still here?" I asked. My voice was rough, choked with breath that bloomed white into the cold. The question burned in my throat, but I had to ask it anyway.

You looked up at me with that ridiculous smile—soft, knowing, a little smug—and it tore a laugh from me before I could stop it.

"I won. It's my spot now." you said, brushing snow from your clothes with exaggerated nonchalance.

And every instinct I'd once held sacred—against every philosophy I'd sworn by—I followed you.

I told myself it was curiosity—that I needed to understand. That a mortal like you, warm-eyed and strange, couldn't possibly be real. That something so unspoiled had to be a trick. A lie—like faerie food.

"Where are we going?" I asked, hands clasped neatly behind my back, trying to sound disinterested—detached.

You hummed, tugging your hood a little tighter against the wind.

"Your home," you said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "I looked all over town when the cold came, but I couldn't find you.

Your voice wavered just slightly at the edges—the way it always did when something mattered more than you wanted to admit.

"You like to disappear," you added, gaze turned toward the path ahead. "But you can't hide from me."

Hiding?

Had I truly been doing that?

Avoiding the truth nestled deep in my chest—that I'd grown fond of you in ways I never intended? That I was no longer as indifferent as I'd have liked?

"Perhaps I had been." I murmured, more to myself than to you. My head dipped in a quiet concession, and I stepped ahead, reluctant but resolved, guiding you toward the place I called home.

Or rather... the place I'd borrowed.

The home had once belonged to a huntsman who drank himself to death, his loneliness thick enough to choke on. I'd slipped into the shape of him, claimed his bed, his hearth, his name. Mortals rarely question a presence that mimics familiarity well enough.

I've lived in countless homes—shacks, palaces, temples of crystal, and cities carved in marble. Each built around the face I wore at the time. But none of them ever fit right. Every roof felt too low, every bed too soft or stiff. They had pressed against me like ill-fitted skins. none could hold me—not the real me.

And yet... this one somehow, felt different.

You filled the space in a way I never could. Your voice, your laughter, even the way you sulked when the wind crept in under the door—it made the walls feel less like cages.

There were nights when I forgot what I was. Where I wasn't an angel buried under names and masks and vengeance—I was just something warm, watching you speak beside the crackling fire.

And then, as if we had blinked, winter was gone.

Melted into memory.

It struck me quietly one day beneath the old oak—that was the longest I'd kept an identity. The longest I'd stayed still without splintering a town or vanishing into the fog, without punishing someone for the weight of their perception.

That evening, you met me beneath the tree again, a satchel in hand and a grin tucked at the corners of your mouth. You'd saved for weeks, you said, pinched coin where you could, though I knew most of that money had come from me. Quiet gifts slipped into your pouch when you weren't looking. What use did I have for currency? I did not eat. I did not burn fuel. I had no need for comfort.

But you—you used it to buy a book.

And when you opened it, when your fingers brushed the yellowed pages, something shifted.

Because I recognized the words. I remembered them.

My stories. My tragedies. My sins—etched into ink by mouths that had never known me, retold by voices who feared and worshipped in equal measure.

And you were reading them. You knew.

My breath caught in my throat, unfamiliar and painful. That age-old instinct reared its head—run. Disappear. Start again.

I always ran when I was seen too clearly.

My hands trembled. My stomach churned with something not quite shame, not quite terror—a horrible ache. Familiar. Like home.

I stared at you, bracing for betrayal, or disgust, or fear—for the look that always followed.

But instead—

"I—I'm sorry." I heard myself say.

The words tumbled from my lips without permission, jagged and strange, like something living had crawled out from deep inside me.

A part of me recoiled in disgust. Apologizing? To a mortal? I'd never done that—not sincerely.

And still, I searched your face. Desperate. Panicked. Waiting for you to shatter the fragile world I'd built. To call me monster. To finally see me.

The sky spun above us. The forest pressed in. And I—

I felt stuck in my skin. I wanted to tear it off—to leave the hunter behind and vanish into mist, into shadow, into myth.

Because that's all I've ever known how to do.

Flee. Run. Hide.

It's all I've ever done.

But you only shook your head, quiet and steady, and gently pulled me down to sit beside you beneath the tree.

And then—like it was the simplest thing in the world—you spoke words I never imagined I'd be allowed to hear. Words I thought were forbidden to something like me.

"You have no name, no face, no anchor to the world... Do you want one? Should I give you one?"

Your hands were warm—foolishly so, impossibly so—and when they rose to cup my cheek, I leaned into them without protest. Without thought. Just instinct. Bone-deep exhaustion seeped from my limbs, and I slumped into your waiting shape like a story trying to remember how it was first told.

Centuries folded in on themselves inside me: Regret, violence, tenderness, exile, desperation. I carried them all, and suddenly, I was too tired to bear the weight alone.

"That is impossible, my dear," I murmured with the heavy certainty of someone who had begged one, long ago, and learned never to ask again. "Not even the Creator could grant me that."

But you simply hummed, a sound as light as wind through leaves, unburdened by the rules I'd spent lifetimes bound to.

"The Creator is governed by cosmic law, sure. But mortals...mortals were given free will. And they were given dominion over you, weren't they? So I ask again—what do you say?"

Those words hit something ancient and aching inside me—something that had never been named but always lingered, humming under my skin like a prayer I couldn't remember anymore. My lips parted before I could stop them.

"Yes," I breathed. "Yes, please."

And so it began.

We spent four months and eight days fashioning me like a myth retold by firelight.

You scratched categories into the dirt with a stick, had me toss pebbles with my eyes shut to choose hair, height, voice, eyes. We ran through fields and libraries and markets so I could feel what drew me, what felt like mine. We spoke for hours—about food, about stars, about what kind of kindness I might carry. We peeled back the layers and decided who I wanted to be when I wasn't forced to be anything at all.

And slowly, I became.

A name began to rise in me like spring after a cruel winter. A shape. A soul. A self.

And in that self, I found something terrifying:

I had fallen in love with you. And love—what a cruel thing. What a luminous, sickening thing. It turns every other feeling into a shadow. It renders contentment into longing. It corrodes reason and whispers delusion in a voice sweeter than truth. Love is the death of logic, the ruin of kingdoms, the doom of angels. And I needed it. I needed it with an ache that made me stupid. Desperate. Mortal.

So I wrote you little poems under moonlight, clumsy with feeling, desperate to condense eternity into twelve words. I slipped them into your books, between the recipes you collected and the strange ideas you left half-finished in the margins.

I loved you the only way I knew how: endlessly. I would have loved you until our veins braided like roots in the earth and our hearts beat the same rhythm beneath our ribs.

Because you were my Creator. You were the one who saw me not as myth or threat or shapeless horror, but as someone who could be.

You made me real.

And without you, I had no reason to be anyone at all.

I never should have let you give me everything.

Never should have placed you in the path of what I was—what I've always been.

Because while the Creator could not command mortals, could not lace them with cosmic law or shape their choices—it could still ensure. It could correct. It could balance the scale.

And it did.

Because you crossed the line that wasn't meant to be drawn, let alone stepped over. And I stood at your side and let you.

A defiance. A devotion. A crime.

A mortal, after all, was never meant to rewrite the purpose of one of its creations.

To grant meaning where none was given— To name what should have remained nameless— That was a violation. A defiance of divine structure. An offense that demanded retribution.

I remember the night it happened as though it were carved into me. The details seared into the marrow of my being, relentless in their clarity. No matter how much time passes, that memory remains untouched by erosion.

We walked in silence, your hand cradled in mine. I had planned to tell you everything—about what I had done, what I had been, and what you'd done to my heart. I was ready to surrender the whole truth. But your hand was warm, your thumb brushing the backing of mine in small, thoughtless circles, and I found myself stalling to make the moment last just a bit longer.

My divine heart beat with a violence I'd never known—no battle or vengeance or miracle had ever stirred it like this. With you beside me, all of it—every war, every mark, every century—faded into background noise and it no longer seemed as loud in my head. You were more than grounding. You were anchoring.

You made me real.

You chattered about something that had happened earlier that day—some nonsense about a goat loose in town with two children clinging to its back like miniature bandits. The scene meant nothing to me, but your laughter rang like a melody I hadn't known I needed until I heard it. That sound—pure and unburdened—was rest. A kind of rest I'd never been allowed.

And the moonlight? It loved you as much as I did.

It bathed your skin like a blessing, caught in your hair, made your eyes gleam with mischief and warmth. I remember thinking the entire world looked like a backdrop created to cradle your beauty alone—just a stage where you moved freely and unknowingly beautiful.

You looked up at me, your expression full of unbearable joy you always managed to carry, even over the smallest things. It unsettled me, in a way. How could you be so happy in such a broken world? How could you carry such softness without it cutting you open?

And perhaps... perhaps that tiny shard of judgement—of not understanding you fully—is what made it worse. Perhaps that is what made it all the more tragic.

Because I hesitated.

I let the night go on too long.

I let myself fall too deeply into the illusion that maybe, just maybe, I could have all of this.

You. Peace. A name. A future.

And in that hesitation I doomed you.

They moved through time because they existed outside of it.

And your lips—those soft, precious things that said the most wondrous things—had just begun to part with a question or a laugh or a breath, I'll never know. It was lost in the moment your eyes widened, a flash of something ancient behind them—recognition. A silent understanding that something had happened, something final, even if you didn't yet know what it was.

Then came the executioner. A blade plunged cleanly through your back—swift, silent, a perfect strike. It didn't bleed you. No, the blade wasn't meant to be tainted with blood. It was meant for undoing.

It pierced you like a key, not a weapon—unlocking soul from flesh, unthreading the stitches that kept you in this world. You crumpled, so softly, like a page torn from sacred text. And oh, how I wanted—how I needed—to have moved faster. To have noticed sooner. To have thrown myself behind you and taken it all.

The executioner was beautiful. All things from the divine realm are. Beautiful in the way holy things are: absolute, motionless, terrifying. They never opened their mouth. Never broke their gaze. But their presence split the sky inside me. They were not cruel—not even angry. That would have been easier.

Instead, they were perfect. Silent. Unmovable.

And it was that stillness that shattered me.

I felt the weight of every sin, even the ones I hadn't known I'd committed—especially the one I'd inflicted on you. They pressed down on me until I couldn't breathe, couldn't move, as you sank to the forest floor like a puppet whose strings had been snipped with precision.

I looked in fury at them, searching for a sign of injustice I could fight back against, but there was nothing. Nothing but a slight nod—a movement so small it could have been the wind, and yet I felt it. A gesture I couldn't understand then, but now, maybe it was pity. Maybe it was a quiet apology. Because they are only summoned when a divine law has been broken so utterly that even the gods and angels must look away.

It wasn't your fault.

It was mine.

And yet they punished you all the same.

I collapsed beside your body, the earth rushing to meet me. The forest dulled around me, sounds folding into a high-pitched ring, like reality itself was recoiling at the sheer grief of the scene. I gathered you in my arms with trembling hands, and I knew it the moment I touched you—you were gone.

Not sleeping. Not wounded. Just... absent.

Your body was still whole. Still beautiful. The vessel I had admired, adored. But the soul within—that spark that laughed and argued and made me—it was nowhere to be found.

And I didn't know how to react. There was no emotion strong enough, no shape of grief that could express what tore through me.

My form betrayed me—unraveled into the divine shape you had never seen. The one I hated. Wings too large, body too incomprehensible, face too beautiful. My voice broke apart when I tried to speak, to demand why the Creator had taken you and not me. To beg for your return.

But no words came, and when I looked up, the executioner was already gone.

Just like you.

I was alone.

The woods—once warm, once soft—were suddenly hollow. The moonlight, once silver and loving, burned like acid on my skin. The whole world had turned against me.

And then I sensed it. Not just your absence, but your removal.

You weren't in this world. Not in the heavens. Not in the underworld. You had been taken—cast out into another realm entirely, one far beyond my reach. A place even somebody of my caliber couldn't go.

The Creator didn't just correct the error.

It hid the evidence.

You.

Gone.

Perhaps it was the carnal desire to be gone, to undo myself, to become nothing. My form began to break. That beautiful, temporary self you'd helped my build—it cracked and splintered until it was dust. Until there was nothing left but darkness.

I lost my face. My shape. My center.

What remained was a shifting blot of ink and shadow. A void. An echo. And without you, even that felt too much.

I don't remember what I did that night. Or the nights after. Or the years that followed.

Maybe decades. Maybe more.

But eventually, I started to hear whispers—of a shadow that moved like smoke. A shapeless thing that fed on grief and misery. A monster that haunted the edges of villages, stealing warmth and magic from the air.

And I understood.

Without you, without your name on my lips and your laugh in my chest, I had let myself be shaped by mortal fear and legend.

I was forced into a mold again.

I spent years searching for you—my heart, my breath, the axis upon which my very being once turned. I scoured every corner of the living realm, dared disturb the divine with my rotting body of misery, even descended into the underworlds where no light reaches. Always hoping—aching—that the feeling was wrong. That hollow emptiness where your presence should have been was a lie. That maybe I was only panicking.

But it was never a lie. You were gone.

And in that time... I don't know what I became.

Without you—my reason, my tether—I was a thing adrift. Disgusting in nature, I hid and only lashed out. I lived in echoes and shadows, unanchored and shapeless. A being wearing old regrets like skin. I can't remember the faces I wore, or the deeds I committed while searching. There are blank places in my memory, stained only with the knowledge that I must have hurt many in my desperation. I must have destroyed things, twisted fates, left ruin in my wake.

And may the divine forgive me—I would do it all again if it meant finding you.

But you are not here to forgive me.

Not yet.

So I wait.

I wait like a prayer made in flesh. I wait like an abandoned altar beneath a sky that no longer answers.

I wait for my creator to return—not the One in the heavens, but you. You, who named me. You, who gave me a face. You, who made me someone.

I wait for you to salvage me from this endless dark, to craft me again with warm hands and soft laughter. To call me into being like you did before.

Because I believe now, with all the fragile, fractured pieces of what remains of me, that the Creator—the Creator—was hasty. Rash in its punishment. Cruel in its corrections. It shattered us and called it balance, but it made a single, fateful mistake.

It forgot to scratch your name from the ledges buried deep within the grand library of all things that are, and were, and will be.

And all unnatural things, in time, return to how they belong. Like a tide pulling the wayward back to shore. Like a thread—cut too early—still tugging at the loom.

So I hoped. Oh, I hoped with the kind of hope that burns and scalds. With the kind of hope that only something eternal can endure.

It took a long, long time. Longer than most stars get. And in that time I did everything. Begging. Bartering. Lying. Challenging.

The Weaver of Fates hated me, hated the way I slipped between threads, rearranged destinies like pages in a book, like a god with a pen too eager. But like all living things, even the divine, they grew curious. Even they hungered for something new—an unexpected turn in the story. And so, for each fate I promised to rewrite in their name, I was granted one meager decade within their library.

And there—

Amid endless shelves, beneath eternity's whirring lanterns, swathed in dust and starlight and silence—

I found you.

Your thread.

Out of nowhere. Woven anew. Subtle, but unmistakable.

You.

I remember how I staggered. How the breath left me like a struck bell. How my trembling hands reached for the book that held your name like it was the only thing in the universe worth touching.

Because to me, it was—It is.

You were still out there. Alive again. Somewhen.

And the only thing left in me—after centuries of ruin, centuries of silence—was the desperate, carnal need to find you again.

My Savior.

You returned to the world through the smallest crack—a school and a fluke of magic, they called it. But I knew it was fate, twisting itself in impossible ways just to give me a second chance.

The world, however, is as cruel as it is careless. Your fate was once again marred by suffering—cut open by hands that saw you not as a soul, not as the brilliant, unshakable light I remembered, but as a vessel.

A means to an end. A thing to use.

The book said they'd grow to love you. That time would soften their edges, that eventually they'd see the truth of you and come to adore you. but now, my star—how could they not immediately fall to their knees before your purity? How could they ever lay a hand on your gentle spirit and think it anything less than sacred?

I couldn't allow it. Not again. Not after all you'd already endured because of me.

Please. Please rest, my beloved. Let me carry the weight for a while.

Come back to me, curl close to my side. Lay your head against my chest, feel my heart beating for you and you alone. Let it remind you that you're not alone anymore. That you're home, you're safe.

I felt it in the moment you stepped through again—the second your soul returned to this realm. The wind shifted. The light changed. The world, once fueled by my grief, suddenly shimmered with warmth and color.

And there you were. So breathtaking, it almost hurt.

A different form, yes, but still you. Your soul radiated through, unmissable, unmistakable. That light of yours—impossibly bright. Unyielding. Unchanged.

In that moment, I nearly ran to you, fell to my knees before you like a worshipper before their altar. I would have offered every piece of me right then—my hands, my heart, my every divine and ruined piece.

I wanted to pray to you, not the Creator.

Because only you had ever given me peace. Only you made me real.

And so, driven by that desperate ache, knowing what trials were written for you in the pages of fate, I made a choice.

A hasty, selfish, loving choice.

Please forgive me.

I became your guardian.

Not by divine assignment—no, the heavens had long since turned from me. I was no longer an Angel, no longer anything at all in their eyes. A fallen thing. A memory.

Shelter. Protection. A little more time.

Until I could earn back your love, until we could escape this wretched cycle together—somewhere quiet, somewhere safe. Somewhere the stars forgot. Hidden even from the Creator's gaze.

I passed my gift to you—the same one that had once forced me to slip through the cracks of perception, to disappear and be ignored by even the divine. I made you forgettable. Your name, your face, your presence—reduced to a whisper in the minds of those around you.

No one could hold you long enough to break you again.

But I was wrong. I was so wrong.

The night I found you in the snow, body broken and spirit dimmed, something inside of me that had been subtly blooming again tore.

My treasure—my heart, my only—shattered again, and I hadn't even seen it coming. You had become so invisible, so perfectly cloaked in my protection that even I could no longer feel the ache of your suffering until it was too late.

And still, even mangled, you begged to be seen.

To be known.

And perhaps—perhaps I had been cruel in my reverence. So intent on protecting you that I denied you the very thing you longed for: connection.

So I lifted it.

The concealment, the cloak, the silence. I peeled it back and let the world see you again.

And I watched you drown beneath the affection you so rightly deserved—both soft and overwhelming, subtle and blinding. Some of it pure. Some of it not.

And I remained in the shadow, unseen. As always. Just your guardian. Just the broken remnant of what you once loved. Waiting.

Always waiting.

For the day you remember me.

And love me again.

Hi?

Sorry this one took so long.

While writing it I kinda got a little worried I was messing up. This is technically a twst fic but this entire 8k word chapter is almost only about the Blot. Which is my own character and I realized some of you might just want twst content?

btw the religious themes have no intentional connection to any real religions. It's my own thoughts, my own story. I hope it doesn't offend.

Did this cook?? I'm so anxious because I really got to write about what I really like and my own OC!

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[degeneratewhores]

I love this trope so much write more tyty

Omg the latest yandere mydei and phainon in the hs au was crazy good! How about a yandere childhood friend phainon but like they got distant after middle school since phainon became the popular kid and maybe reader tried to like not interfere in his life and starts distancing themselves more but also as soon as they start getting along with other unpopular kids he tries/forces to get her back? Plz plz plz

Yandere!Phainon x Fem!Reader

As kids, it was natural, two little shadows following each other, your hand tugging at his sleeve when he got too far ahead, his laugh mingling with yours as you ran through the streets. You had always been by Phainon’s side, you were inseparable.

When you picked up volleyball in elementary school, he followed. At first, it was fun—practicing together, cheering each other on. But then he got better. So much better. While you struggled to keep up, he soared. Every serve he hit was perfect, every spike effortless. Coaches praised him, teammates adored him, and before long, he wasn’t just your Phainon anymore. He belonged to everyone.

It didn’t stop there. No matter what you did, he was always just ahead, just out of reach. His charm made him popular, his skills made him respected. Meanwhile, you felt like a supporting character in his story—someone who would always stand in his shadow.

So, when middle school started, you made a choice.

You distanced yourself.

No more waiting for him after school. No more standing by his side at lunch. No more forcing yourself to smile when people compared you to him.

It was time to find your own place.

But Phainon didn’t let go so easily.

For the first time in years, you weren’t in the same class as Phainon.

It felt strange at first—no familiar presence next to you, no knowing glances exchanged during roll call. But as the days passed, you realized you liked it this way. Without him always next to you, always being the center of attention, you could finally breathe.

You joined the gardening club. It was peaceful, a far cry from the intensity of the volleyball court. The scent of soil and blooming flowers replaced the squeak of sneakers on polished floors. You made new friends—people who knew you as you, not just as Phainon’s childhood friend.

Meanwhile, Phainon remained in volleyball, his name still echoing through the school halls, his presence larger than life. You rarely crossed paths now, and when you did, it was just in passing. A simple nod. A brief hello. No more lingering conversations, no more waiting for each other after school.

But Phainon didn’t take the distance the way you did.

One afternoon, he came looking for you, wanting to talk—to see you, even if just for a moment. But when he found you in the garden, hands dusted with soil, you weren’t alone. You were smiling, laughing with your new friends, completely absorbed in a world that didn’t include him.

You barely even noticed him standing there.

---

High school.

You had worked so hard to get into this school—one that was far away, a fresh start where no one knew you as Phainon’s childhood friend.

The relief you felt on your first morning was overwhelming. No familiar eyes watching your every move, no whispers comparing you to him. Just you, finally on your own.

But then, in the middle of the crowded hallway, a presence prickled at the back of your neck. It was familiar—too familiar.

You turned your head, and there he was.

He shouldn’t be here. He wasn’t supposed to be here.

For a while, he didn’t approach you. Not in front of everyone. But later, when the hallways were quieter, when there were fewer eyes around, he stepped closer with a smile like nothing had changed.

“Hey” he said, as if he hadn’t just shattered your newfound freedom.

“Why?” Your voice was sharp, furious. “How did you even—?”

“I still talk to your parents,” he said simply. “They love to brag about their precious daughter.”

You didn’t say a word to him after that.

And more importantly, you didn’t mention anything to your parents. If Phainon was getting his information from them, the last thing you wanted was to give him more.

Strangely, the next few days were peaceful. He didn’t try to talk to you again, didn’t linger in the hallways, didn’t hover at the edge of your vision. It was almost as if he wasn’t there at all.

You let yourself relax. You made some new friends, settled into your classes, and finally started to feel like maybe this new school could really be yours.

But peace never lasted long with Phainon.

In the canteen one afternoon, as you walked with your tray, one of your new friends accidentally bumped into someone—hard. A gasp, the sound of food splattering, and then silence.

Phainon stood there, his uniform stained, his hands clenched into fists. His jaw tightened as he looked down at your friend, who stammered an apology. The tension in the air was suffocating, his usual easygoing smile nowhere to be found. His fingers twitched, his body coiled like he was about to—

“Didn’t take you for a bully, Phainon.”

Your voice cut through the moment like a blade.

His head snapped up, his cold gaze meeting yours.

“Y/n, you know I'm not that kind of person.” he murmured.

Crisis averted—for now.

Phainon had only grown more popular over the years. His looks, his charm, his skills—everything about him seemed untouchable. People flocked to him, admired him, wanted to be close to him.

You wanted the opposite.

But Phainon never let you have what you wanted.

One afternoon, when you were alone in the hallway, he cornered you. His arm blocked your escape, his presence overwhelming.

“Why are you avoiding me?”

“Because I need space. Because I—” You exhaled sharply. “Because being around you feels like drowning.”

Before he could reply, voices echoed from down the hall. A group of students was approaching, laughing and chatting.

Panic flared in your chest. If they saw you two like this—if they started whispering—

You pushed against him, trying to slip away, but he didn’t budge. “If you’re avoiding me, then I’ll just let them talk.”

“Phainon, don’t.”

He tilted his head, pretending to think about it. Then, suddenly, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a stolen kiss.

The students passed by, glancing curiously at the scene—Phainon and a girl, too close, too intimate. You saw their eyes widen, their whispers start.

Phainon smirked. “If you don’t want rumors, I’ll make you a deal,” he murmured, just for you to hear. “Be my girlfriend, and I’ll rethink it.”

“…Fine”

His hand finally dropped from the wall, letting you go.

But the feeling of his lips against yours lingered, and you knew—this wasn’t over.

At school, you acted like Phainon didn’t exist.

You ignored him in the halls, never met his gaze, never spoke his name. To everyone else, you were just another student, separate from his world. It was the only way you could keep yourself sane.

But outside of school, it was different.

Phainon made sure of that.

Secret dates, he called them—quiet meetings away from prying eyes. At first, they were simple. Walks through dimly lit streets, sitting together in tucked-away cafés, moments where he talked and you listened, pretending this was normal.

But soon, it wasn’t enough for him.

His hand would linger too long on your wrist, he’d pull you close, arms wrapping around you under the excuse of warmth. He started demanding more—holding hands, leaning into you, resting his head against your shoulder as if staking a claim.

Then came the kisses.

You tried to protest, but Phainon never took "no" well.

The first time he tried, you turned your head away, and his lips barely grazed your cheek. You thought that would be enough—that he would stop if you showed resistance.

You were wrong.

The next time, he didn’t give you the chance to turn away. His fingers caught your chin, holding you in place, and his lips pressed against yours with a quiet sigh of satisfaction.

“You agreed to be my girlfriend,” he murmured when you stiffened. “So act like it.”

You tried to set boundaries, but Phainon never truly listened. If you flinched away from his touch, he’d laugh it off and try again. If you avoided his kisses, he’d corner you somewhere quieter, somewhere you couldn’t escape.

Whenever you resisted, he never snapped, never forced you outright. He just waited.

Because you always gave in.

And then, slowly, he started demanding more.

His hands would drift lower when he held you, fingers brushing against places they shouldn’t. His grip would tighten when you tried to pull away, his voice laced with quiet amusement as he whispered, What’s wrong? I’m your boyfriend, aren’t I?

The worst part was how natural he made it seem—And the more you resisted, the more he reminded you of the deal.

You agreed to be mine.

You’re the one who said yes.

So don’t act like you don’t want this.

Each time he said it, it became harder to argue.

----

Phainon was never late.

You checked your phone again, making sure you hadn’t misread the time. No, it was correct. He should have been here by now. The longer you stood outside the mall, the more uneasy you felt.

A group of men showed up, their gazes unsettling. At first, you tried ignoring them, stepping away when they moved too near, but they didn’t take the hint. One of them grinned, saying something you didn’t bother to listen to.

“I’m waiting for someone.”

“So?” One of them reached out, fingers grazing your wrist. “He’s not here, is he?”

Before you could pull away, something struck him—hard.

A bouquet of roses slammed into his face, petals flying.

The man stumbled back, cursing, as Phainon stood there. His grip tightened on the ruined bouquet before he swung it again, hitting another man’s shoulder with enough force to make him stagger.

The group ran.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Phainon stood still, watching them disappear, his jaw clenched. The bouquet—once carefully arranged—was now a mess, stems broken, petals torn. His fingers were scraped and red from gripping it too hard.

“You’re hurt.”

He blinked at you, like he hadn’t noticed.

Sighing, you reached into your bag and pulled out a small bandage pack. Phainon didn’t protest as you took his hand, carefully wrapping the wounds.

But as you worked, you felt his gaze on you.

And then, his lips curled into a smile.

“Thank you” he murmured, so soft you almost didn’t hear it.

You weren’t in the mood to go anywhere after what happened. Your nerves were still on edge, and the last thing you wanted was to be in a crowded place. Phainon must have noticed, because instead of dragging you somewhere, he simply started walking. And, without a word, you followed.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The streets were quiet, and the night air was cool against your skin. Eventually, though, Phainon broke the silence.

“You remember when we used to race home after school?”

You glanced at him, surprised by the sudden shift in conversation. “…Yeah.”

“You always thought you could outrun me.”

You rolled your eyes. “I almost did. A few times.”

“I let you think that.”

That earned him a glare, but his expression was light—teasing, almost nostalgic. It was strange, talking like this. For a moment, it almost felt normal. Like the past few years of distance and tension never happened.

Then everything shattered.

A group of students turned the corner ahead of you, chatting loudly—until they spotted Phainon.

“Oh my God, is that—?!”

His fans. The same group that followed him around at school, always eager for his attention. Their eyes widened when they saw him, then darted toward you.

For a split second, you considered stepping away, pretending you were just coincidentally walking beside him.

But Phainon had other plans.

Before you could react, his arm slid around your waist, pulling you against him.

“Ah, hey,” he greeted the group, completely unfazed. “Didn’t expect to run into you all.”

Their gazes flickered between the two of you, stunned. “Who’s…?” one of them started.

Phainon’s grip on you tightened just slightly.

“My girlfriend.”

There it was—merciless and undeniable.

The students’ expressions ranged from shock to disappointment, their excitement dimming into stunned silence. Whispers started almost immediately.

You swallowed hard, resisting the urge to shove him away. You knew better. If you tried to deny it, if you acted like this wasn’t real, he’d only make it worse.

So you forced a smile and prayed they’d leave soon.

You didn’t go to school the next day. You told yourself it was just exhaustion, that the weight of everything had finally caught up to you. But deep down, you knew the real reason. You couldn’t face Phainon. Not after what happened.

The doorbell rang in the afternoon. You didn’t think much of it—until you heard your mother’s cheerful voice.

“Oh, Phainon! What a surprise! It’s been so long—come in, come in!”

You barely had time to react before you heard his familiar voice, smooth and polite as always. “Thank you, I was worried when she didn’t come to school today.”

You shot up from your bed, heart pounding. He wouldn’t.

But he did.

Your bedroom door creaked open, and there he was.

“Skipping school?” he mused, stepping inside like he belonged there. “That’s not like you.”

You rushed to the door, reaching for the handle. “You need to leave—”

Before you could pull it open, Phainon slammed it shut.

The force made you stumble, but before you could turn, his arms wrapped around you from behind, pressing you against the door. His warmth caged you in, his breath brushing against your ear.

“You’re avoiding me.”

You stiffened. “Phainon—”

“I don’t like that.”

“Don’t forget,” he murmured, his lips dangerously close to your skin. “You’re mine. And if you ever think about running from me again…”

“…There will be consequences.”

A knock on the door made you freeze.

“Sweetie? I brought you something to drink” your mother’s voice called out.

Phainon’s arms were still wrapped around you, his presence suffocating. He leaned in just slightly, his lips barely brushing your ear as he whispered, “If you don’t listen to me, I wonder what would happen if your mom walked in right now.”

Shame and fury boiled in your chest, but you had no choice. Slowly, you turned to face him, your hands balling into fists at your sides. Rage burned in your eyes, tears stinging at the edges.

Phainon’s expression softened—mockingly so. He reached out, swiping his thumb under your eye, catching a tear before it could fall.

“Now, now,” he murmured, “you should answer her before she gets suspicious.”

You swallowed hard and forced your voice to stay steady. “I’m fine, Mom. Just—just leave it by the door.”

There was a brief pause. Then, “Alright, dear. Let me know if you need anything.”

Her footsteps faded down the hall.

Relief barely had time to settle before Phainon’s grip on you remained firm.

“I’ll open the door,” he said, voice deceptively sweet. “But first…” His fingers tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Kiss me.”

The seconds stretched unbearably long. But you knew there was no other way.

So you did.

You forced yourself onto your toes, pressing a quick, hollow kiss against his lips. It was over in an instant.

The sound of the lock clicking open was the only thing that let you breathe again.

Phainon stepped back, watching you with satisfaction as he finally let you go.

“See?” he mused. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

You didn’t answer. You just turned away, gripping the doorknob so tightly your knuckles turned white.

You didn’t look back as you left the room. But you could still feel his gaze on you, as if he was already planning his next move.

The next few hours were suffocating in a different way.

Phainon barely gave you space to breathe, sticking close as you went over the lessons he had missed. He was smart—he always had been—but even he had gaps to fill after being away for a volleyball match.

Normally, you wouldn’t have minded helping. But with the way he sat so close, his arm occasionally brushing yours, his gaze heavy on you instead of the notebook, it was impossible to focus.

Just as you were pointing out a formula, his hand suddenly moved—tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

You flinched, your pen slipping from your fingers.

Phainon only chuckled. “Relax. You’re so tense.”

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to go back to the lesson. He didn’t make it easy. A sudden squeeze on your thigh. A finger tracing over your wrist. Subtle, fleeting touches that made you hyper-aware of his presence.

It was a game to him.

And when it was finally time to go home, he made sure to have the last move.

“Couples kiss goodbye, don’t they?” he mused, standing too close as you reached for the door.

“Phainon—”

He tilted his head, expectant.

You knew there was no arguing. No refusing. Not without consequences.

So, with gritted teeth, you leaned in. A quick kiss—just like before. That’s what you planned.

But Phainon had other ideas.

The moment your lips touched his, he deepened the kiss, his hand slipping to the back of your head to hold you in place.

It lasted longer than you expected—longer than you could handle.

Your lungs screamed for air, your fingers trembling against his chest as you weakly pushed against him. He finally let go, but not before brushing his lips against yours one last time, as if savoring the moment.

You gasped, your breath shaky.

Phainon, on the other hand, looked perfectly composed.

“See you tomorrow!”

He was certain, and you weren’t going to escape. Not now. Not ever.

[degeneratewhores]

YESYESSS OH MY GOD BOOMSHAMALALALLA

Do even they have April's fools on amphoreus or is Phainon gonna think you're fr-

This would be the saddest but funniest thing ever.

Checking the calendar, you see it's April Fool's and wanting to be a little shit, you "break up" with Phainon through text. And to add the cherry on top, let's say you don't reply to any of his messages or calls for the whole day because you're busy or something.

And I just. I'm just imagining this man almost knocking down your door at some point. He's in terrible shape, chest heaving, lips quivering... He reaches out to hold your hands as he just drops to his knees and begs for your forgiveness...

And then the waterworks start coming in.

"Please..." He whispers so gently, as if he says it any louder his soul might just shatter.

"Please don't leave me..."

You look at him absolutely bamboozled, completely caught off guard by this weird proclamation. Chances are, you had forgotten that you even sent that text to begin with, but it all comes back to you once those big baby blue eyes stare into your soul.

And that's when you feel like crying.

Embracing him is the least you could do and hushed apologies are exchanged, telling him that it was all just a joke. You sit there in front of your door with him, his cheeks in your hands as fat tears roll down his pale cheeks, as you desperately try to explain that today is a day for jokes and pranks...

Phainon's lips press into a thin line as he reaches out to hold your wrists, a sudden flame in his gaze.

"This is no laughing matter." he says sternly, his voice still shaky a little.

"I don't ever want to hear those words coming from you ever again."

This is not funny, not at all. His poor heart can only handle so much...

[degeneratewhores]

you reap what you sow

# pairings: yandere sugar daddy harem x gold digger reader

# synopsis: you’ve been dating eight guys all at the same time for they’re money. hopefully they never find out about each other

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession and possessiveness. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI.

# notes: inspired by that one tiktok vid. Ifykyk. reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated!

love is a transaction, and you’ve mastered the art of the deal. eight men, each convinced they’re the center of your world, each blind to the truth. they call you when they’re lonely, when they need an ego boost, when they want to feel wanted.

you play your part well—sweet, devoted, just naive enough to keep them comfortable. they see you as temporary, something to be enjoyed and discarded. but that’s fine. as long as the gifts keep coming, as long as the money flows, you’ll let them believe whatever they want. you don’t care as long as the money keeps coming. they’re all your darlings.

they think they’re using you—another pretty thing to entertain them until they get bored. but you don’t mind. boredom works in your favor. their wallets open easier when they don’t take you seriously.

you smile, you flatter, you play your role to perfection. eight men, eight lives, none the wiser. they think they hold all the power, that you should be grateful for whatever scraps of affection they toss your way.

but in the end, you’re the one collecting the rewards.

you’re a master at time management—you’ve been dating these guys simultaneously for a year. one year perfecting the balance, juggling their schedules, their tempers, their affections. none of them have discovered the others' existence. too dumb to suspect a thing. they all think they’re the one you love most. they often feel troubled and annoyed by your affection toward them, and they’ve repeatedly told you to know your place, not to harbor any unrealistic hope.

HA HA HA.

the only unrealistic hope you have is for their money.

you don’t need love—you need their money. their attention. their willingness to spoil you even as they look down on you.

and as long as they keep giving, you’ll keep playing along.

you often cycle through the messages on your phone, each conversation carefully tailored. each boyfriend is a puzzle piece slotted into your perfect game. some of them are cruel, sneering when they hand you gifts. others act indifferent, as if their presence alone is payment enough. you smile and nod and let them think they own you. none of them do.

you’ve rehearsed every lie. when one calls late at night, you’re just getting out of the bath. when another wants to meet, you’re swamped with work. if two of them go to the same café, you warn one about a sudden stomach ache. they eat out of your hand without realizing it.

but something has changed.

they used to forget little details about you, dismissing you as just another fling. now, they remember too much. one recalls your favorite coffee order, even though you never told him. another shows up at places you frequent, acting surprised to see you. one leaves a bouquet of your favorite flowers at your doorstep, carefully arranged with a handwritten note that simply reads, thinking of you. you never told him you liked those flowers. in fact, you don’t even remember mentioning them at all.

their texts, once careless and sparse, become suffocating. "thinking of you," one writes at midnight. "dreamed about you last night," another says. the words feel heavier than before. they ask more questions, ones that dig too deep. "what do you do when we're not together?" "who else do you spend time with?" their words are sweet, but there's an edge, a demand for something unspoken.

their texts, once careless and sparse, become suffocating.

for example,

elijah

elijah never used to care about your whereabouts. he would text you lazily, sometimes going days without responding. but now, he messages you constantly. "where are you?" "who are you with?" "send me a picture."

you laugh it off, telling him he’s being silly, but one night, you catch him outside your workplace. he’s leaning against his car, arms crossed, watching the entrance.

"thought i’d surprise you," he says. "you didn’t answer my texts."

he drives you home without asking, his fingers tapping anxiously against the steering wheel. "you wouldn’t lie to me, would you?" he asks suddenly. his voice is calm, but his grip on the gearshift tightens. "i don’t like being lied to."

you smile, reassure him, say all the right things. he finally relaxes, but his eyes stay sharp, watching you like he’s memorizing your every move.

lucas

lucas has never been the affectionate type, but lately, he’s been pulling you closer, holding onto you longer. his hands linger on your waist when you say goodbye, his fingers curling slightly, as if reluctant to let you go.

"you’re mine, you know that, right?" he whispers one evening, his breath hot against your ear.

"of course," you say, pressing a kiss to his cheek. but inside, something twists. his grip is a little too tight, his smile a little too forced.

the next morning, you wake up to dozens of missed calls from him. your phone buzzes again. "answer me." another message. "don’t ignore me."

you turn off your phone and tell yourself it’s nothing.

nathan

nathan always acted like he had other girls, like he didn’t need you. but now, he’s different. he clings to you in ways that feel desperate, his arrogance cracking.

"i don’t know what i’d do if i lost you," he admits one night, his fingers tracing circles on your wrist. "you wouldn’t leave me, right?"

his voice is soft, but there’s something hollow beneath it, something dark.

"never," you say, and he relaxes—but his grip never loosens.

kai

kai never used to show up unannounced. now, he does. first, at your work. then, at your gym. then, outside your apartment.

"i was just in the neighborhood," he says each time, flashing that easy smile.

but his eyes are always scanning, searching. as if he’s looking for something. or someone.

"i love you, you know," he murmurs one night, his fingers brushing over your cheek. "you wouldn’t betray me. not you."

you laugh, tell him he’s being dramatic.

but when you get home, your apartment door is unlocked.

matthew

matthew was always indifferent, treating you like an afterthought. but not anymore. now, he watches you closely, studying your every move, his head tilted like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

"you’ve changed," he says one day, his tone unreadable. "you’re hiding something."

you laugh, brush him off. but his gaze lingers, calculating.

"i’ll figure it out," he says finally, and something about the way he says it makes your stomach twist.

leo

leo used to be fun, lighthearted. but now, there’s an edge to him. a quiet intensity that makes you nervous.

"i had a dream about you last night," he tells you one evening. "you were leaving me. i didn’t like it."

you smile, joke that he’s being paranoid. but he just stares at you, unblinking.

"don’t ever do that to me," he says. "not even in a dream."

his fingers tighten around yours. you don’t pull away.

xavier

xavier never asked for more than you were willing to give. but now, he wants everything.

"move in with me," he says suddenly.

it’s not a request.

when you hesitate, his expression darkens. "why not?" he asks. "you love me, don’t you?"

you nod quickly, knowing it’s what he wants to hear. his smile returns, but his eyes remain cold.

"good," he murmurs. "because i won’t let you go."

damien

one night, damien insists on driving you home. he's never offered before. usually, he barely walks you to the door, too preoccupied with himself to care. but tonight, his grip on your wrist lingers a second too long when you try to leave the restaurant. "let me take you home," he says. his voice is smooth, but there's something off in his eyes, something unreadable.

you try to decline, but he doesn’t budge. "humor me," he says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

in the car, he doesn't speak. the drive is quiet, too quiet. when you glance at him, his knuckles are tight around the steering wheel. your apartment building comes into view, but instead of stopping out front like he always does, he pulls into the empty lot and turns off the engine.

"damien—" you start, but he cuts you off. "stay a little longer," he says. his voice is soft, almost pleading. "i just... don’t like saying goodbye so soon."

you smile, playing along, though something about the way he's looking at you makes your skin prickle. "next time, okay?"

for a moment, he doesn’t move. then, he exhales sharply and unlocks the doors. "yeah. next time."

as you step out, you feel his eyes on your back the entire way inside.

lately, you feel eyes on you when no one should be there. the messages come faster, their tones more insistent. “where were you last night?” one asks. “you’re mine, aren’t you?” another demands. you brush them off, just as you always do, but the uneasy feeling lingers. they’re getting restless. possessive.

one night, as you return home, you notice something strange—your apartment door is unlocked. your stomach twists. you always double-check. always.

inside, everything is untouched. but the air feels different, charged. you close the door and step forward cautiously. the silence is suffocating.

you shake the feeling off. no one knows. no one has found out.

not yet.

[degeneratewhores]

Good meal,,, so good

Phainon would be so baffled the first time someone calls him a ‘wife guy’ to his face.

“What do you mean?” someone could even say he looked offended in that moment — if seen from a certain angle.

“Uh... that you love and respect your wife a lot?” the person would be left equally confused, wondering if it would've been better to just let him be.

“No no no,” waving off his hand, frown seeping into the corners of his eyes. “That's not it. The fact that you specifically added the word ‘wife’ before it suggests that there are guys out there who don't love their wives.”

“Uhm, yes? Unfortunately, it's true that there are more men who do not know how to appreciate their wives or care to learn than those who do nowadays. I thought that was obvious knowledge???”

It's as if a bolt of lightning struck Phainon in that moment. He had a difficult time digesting the fact that this was not a given, why even go through the process of marriage, vow under Mnestia's name if you can't even show the minimum respect your spouse? To keep them enslaved under your shadow? Oh dear Kephale, is that why you seem to have a hard time taking his doting seriously? Because you think he'd be like those men, too?

He's never felt more disappointed in his kind than that day.

[degeneratewhores]

Lucien’s Official Art Book (Eng Translation)

Credits to @minjee98​ for sending me photos of Lucien’s official art book and requesting this translation!

This post contains details on Lucien’s outfits, items, backgrounds, and interviews with his CN voice actor, the Copywriting Team, Art Team, and Production team.

More: Gavin l Kiro l Black Swan l STF l Loveland City

Keep reading

[degeneratewhores]

"Let's Break Up" with: Vice-Housewardens + Ruggie

more hurt/comfort for the soul

Part 1 with Housewardens

Trey Clover

The words slip out in frustration, sharp and final.

"Let's break up."

The mug in Trey's hand shatters.

The crack of breaking porcelain jolts you, the sound cutting through the tense silence like a gunshot. Shards spill across the floor, tea splattering everywhere, but Trey doesn’t even flinch.

Before you can react, before you can take back what you didn’t mean, he’s there—crossing the space between you in an instant, his uninjured hand cupping your face, warm and trembling.

His chest rises and falls too fast, his breath unsteady. His eyes search yours desperately, raw emotion flickering in their depths. “Please,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Reconsider.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. His grip tightens, just enough to ground himself, just enough to keep you here, with him.

“Take it back,” he pleads, his forehead nearly pressing against yours. “Tell me you didn’t mean it.”

Your heart is racing, but all you can focus on is his other hand—the one that had been holding the mug. Blood is pooling in the creases of his palm, little crimson beads welling up where porcelain had cut into his skin.

You inhale sharply. “Trey, your hand—”

“I don’t care,” he says, and he means it. He would let it bleed if it meant keeping you here for another second. “Please.”

Something inside you cracks.

Your anger, your frustration—none of it matters when you see the way he’s looking at you. When you hear the break in his voice. When you realize how much he loves you, enough to throw away every bit of his usual calm, enough to bleed for you if it meant making you stay.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice tight with guilt. “I didn’t mean it. I—of course I didn’t mean it.”

His shoulders sag with relief, a shaky breath escaping him as he presses his forehead against yours. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Your fingers curl around his wrist, pulling his injured hand between both of yours. “We need to take care of this.”

He exhales, his body finally catching up to the pain now that the panic has subsided. “Yeah,” he says, but instead of letting you go, he pulls you into his arms, wrapping you in a firm, desperate embrace.

“I’m sorry too,” he murmurs against your hair. “I didn’t mean for things to get like this. I should’ve listened more. I should’ve—” He swallows hard. “I’ll do better.”

You squeeze him back just as tightly, breathing in the scent of him, the warmth of him, the realness of him. “We both will.”

For a long moment, neither of you move, holding onto each other as if letting go would undo everything. Eventually, you tug him toward the sink, already fussing over his hand.

Trey watches you, still catching his breath, still feeling the lingering ghost of fear in his chest. But for now, you’re here. He's still yours.

And that’s all that matters.

Ruggie Bucchi

The words slip out before you can stop them.

“Let’s break up.”

Ruggie freezes.

For a second, there’s just silence—heavy, suffocating. Then he lets out a laugh, but it’s wrong. It’s forced, brittle, a sound that cracks at the edges.

“That’s a joke, right?” His voice is light, playful—too playful—but his hands reach for yours, gripping them tight. “Your sense of humor sucks.”

His fingers are trembling.

You feel something deep in your chest twist at the sight of him, trying so hard to brush it off, to act like you didn’t just rip the ground out from under him. His tail is stiff behind him, his ears twitching with every unsteady breath he takes.

You want to say something, to take it back, but the argument still lingers in the air between you—frustration, hurt feelings, words neither of you should have said.

He swallows hard, staring at you like he’s willing you to laugh, to say just kidding, to let him believe this isn’t real.

But you don’t.

And in that moment, something in him wavers. His ears droop, and his fingers tighten around yours like he’s scared you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on.

His voice is smaller this time.

“…You didn’t mean that.”

You inhale shakily, stepping closer.

“No,” you whisper. “I didn’t.”

He exhales a shaky breath, and before you can say anything else, he’s pulling you into his arms, holding you so tightly it almost knocks the air from your lungs.

His face presses into your neck, his whole body going slack as if he’s only now realizing just how much those words had broken him. You can feel his breath against your skin, uneven, like he’s trying to keep it together, like he doesn’t want you to see how much it hurt.

You hold him just as tightly, one hand coming up to thread through his hair, the other rubbing circles into his back.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs against you. “I shouldn’t’ve—I didn’t mean—”

You shake your head, cutting him off gently. “Me too.”

His arms tighten around you.

For a long time, neither of you speak. He just holds you, pressed close, his tail weakly brushing against your hand in a silent plea—stay.

When he finally pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes are misty, his lip caught between his teeth.

“Don’t say that again.” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not even as a joke."

You cup his cheek, wiping away the dampness there with your thumb.

“I won’t.”

Ruggie exhales shakily, leans into your touch, and this time, when he lets out a breathy laugh, it’s real.

“…Guess we both suck at fighting, huh?”

You let out a weak chuckle, pressing your forehead against his.

“Yeah.”

And for now, that’s enough.

Jade Leech

The words slip out before you can stop them.

"Let’s break up."

Silence.

Jade just stares at you. The ever-present amusement in his eyes is gone, leaving them bare, unguarded in a way that makes your stomach twist. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t scoff, doesn’t even tilt his head in that condescending way he does when he’s about to say something cutting.

He just looks at you, frozen in place.

You don’t know what you expected—maybe anger, maybe something cruel and sharp to push you further away, to give you an excuse to slam the door behind you. Instead, there’s nothing. Just the way his eyes widen ever so slightly, like you’ve said something impossible.

Your chest feels tight, but you force yourself to turn away. You don’t get more than two steps before a hand grips your wrist—firm, but not forceful. You barely have time to react before he pulls you back, arms wrapping around you from behind, his face pressing into the crook of your neck.

"Don’t go."

It’s a whisper, but it shatters something inside you.

You tense, your breath catching in your throat. And then—you feel it. The faintest, almost imperceptible wetness against your skin.

Jade is crying.

A cold wave of fear crashes over you. You’ve never seen him cry before, never even imagined him capable of it. He’s always so composed, always in control, always one step ahead. But right now, he’s shaking.

Your frustration dissolves instantly, replaced by something heavier, something unbearable.

“I didn’t mean it,” you say, barely able to get the words out. “Jade, I didn’t mean it.”

His grip tightens around you, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers. His breath is uneven, ragged in a way that makes your heart ache.

You turn in his hold, reaching to cradle his face in your hands. His eyes are glassy, red-rimmed, his expression raw in a way you’ve never seen before. He looks lost.

“I—” His voice breaks, and he swallows hard, trying to compose himself. “I didn’t think… you would ever say that.”

You shake your head, your own eyes stinging. “I was angry. I didn’t mean it.”

For a moment, he just stares at you. Then, with a quiet, shaky exhale, he presses his forehead against yours.

“I pushed you too far,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse.

You close your eyes, fingers curling into his shirt. “And I let it get to me.”

Neither of you say anything after that. You just stand there, holding each other, breathing in the quiet between you. The storm of emotions still lingers, but it’s softer now, no longer a force trying to tear you apart.

Jade exhales slowly, his hands settling on your back, grounding himself. When he finally speaks again, his voice is steadier—but there’s still a fragility to it, something uncertain.

“Don’t do that again,” he whispers.

You nod, wiping a stray tear from his cheek with your thumb.

“I won’t,” you promise.

He doesn’t let go for a long, long time.

Jamil Viper

The words leave your lips before you can stop them. Sharp, impulsive, thrown like a dagger meant to wound.

“Let’s break up.”

The room falls into an unnatural silence.

Jamil stands frozen, his expression unreadable—no anger, no sadness, just… blank. It’s unsettling. You almost wish he’d lash out, argue, anything but this suffocating stillness.

Then, he laughs.

It’s soft, bitter—nothing like the amused chuckles you love hearing from him.

“…Okay,” he says.

Two syllables. Two syllables and he sounds so distant, so removed, like he’s already walking away from this, from you. Like it doesn’t matter.

But it does. It does, you can see it in the way his hands are clenched into fists at his sides, in the way his breath shudders ever so slightly, like he’s forcing himself to stay composed. Like he’s holding himself together by sheer will alone.

“If that’s how little this meant to you…” His voice is calm, even. A practiced neutrality. But you hear it—the smallest break, a splinter of something raw and aching beneath the surface. “Then fine.”

And he turns away.

And you see them.

The tears in his eyes.

He turns too late to hide them from you, but he still tries, tilting his head just enough that you almost don’t catch it. The effort, the control, the desperate attempt to maintain his composure even now.

Your stomach twists violently.

“Jamil.”

You reach for him without thinking, grabbing his wrist, tugging him back. His skin is warm beneath your touch, but his body is stiff, unyielding. He doesn’t move, doesn’t look at you.

You don’t let go.

“I didn’t mean it,” you breathe, voice shaking. You’re already shifting closer, hands moving from his wrist to his arm, to his shoulders, to his face, desperate to get him to look at you. “I didn’t mean it, I swear.”

His breath catches. He still won’t meet your eyes.

“You can’t just say things like that.” His voice cracks, and your heart breaks into pieces. “You can’t.”

The weight of what you’ve done crashes down on you. You had wanted to make him feel the frustration, the anger, the helplessness you’d felt in the heat of the argument. But not like this. Never like this.

His shoulders shake.

“Jamil…” Your hands cradle his face now, fingers trembling as you wipe at the tears streaking his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

For a moment, he stays frozen beneath your touch.

Then, with a shuddering breath, he moves.

His hands grasp at the fabric of your clothes, clutching onto you as if you might disappear if he doesn’t hold on tightly enough. The tension that’s held him rigid for so long crumbles, and he presses his forehead against your shoulder, his entire body trembling.

“I don’t want to fight,” he whispers. “I don’t—” A breath, uneven, desperate. “I don’t want to lose you.”

The sheer vulnerability in his voice threatens to unravel you.

“You won’t,” you swear, voice raw with emotion. “You won’t.”

He lets out something like a laugh, but it’s broken, strained, wet with the remnants of unshed tears.

Then, his legs give out beneath him, and you both sink to the floor, tangled together, arms wrapped around each other like lifelines.

Neither of you let go.

Rook Hunt

"Let's break up."

The words barely leave your lips before Rook is on you.

One second, he’s standing before you, the next, he’s grasping at your arms, pulling you close, desperate. His hands tremble as they cradle your face, and his voice—normally so composed, so theatrical in its beauty—is breaking apart at the seams.

"Non, mon amour, non, non, non—tu ne peux pas—please, don’t do this." His words spill out in frantic, overlapping murmurs, a tangled mix of languages, as if one language alone isn’t enough to hold the depth of his despair. His breath is uneven, his hold almost frantic. "Je t’en supplie, tell me this is but a cruel jest. Tell me you do not mean it!"

You’ve never seen Rook like this before.

You've seen Rook in many states—amused, playful, reverent, even solemn—but never like this. Never so utterly shattered. His eyes, always gleaming with some unreadable mystery, are bare now, stripped of all their usual playfulness. He looks at you like a man standing at the gallows, waiting for the final blow.

His hands tighten around you, as though afraid you might slip through his fingers. "I will fix it, I swear it! Whatever it is, however I have failed you, tell me, je t'en prie! Let me make amends!" His voice hitches, and when you finally dare to meet his gaze, your breath catches.

His eyes—so often gleaming with mirth, with mischief—are glossy with unshed tears.

Your heart clenches. "Rook—"

His hands cradle your cheeks, thumbs brushing over your skin with a reverence that makes your chest ache. "I love you, mon cœur. I love you more than words can weave, more than poetry can hold." His voice breaks—an unsteady breath, barely a whisper—"Ne me quitte pas."

You reach up, pressing your hands over his, steadying them. "Rook, stop."

He freezes, breath caught in his throat, as if waiting for a verdict that will decide his fate.

You swallow past the lump in your throat. “I didn’t mean it.”

For a moment, neither of you move.

Then, a sharp inhale—a breath of air after near drowning—and suddenly, he’s crushing you against him, arms winding around you with near bruising force.

"Mon dieu," he breathes, his face buried in your shoulder. "Merci, merci, merci—" His grip tightens, as if he still can’t quite believe it, like he needs to feel every inch of you to be sure you’re still here.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper against him, voice thick with emotion.

"Non, mon amour, I'm sorry." He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, shaking his head, remorse etched deep into every line of his face. “I have hurt you, haven’t I? Tell me how, tell me where, and I shall do better, I promise.”

You nod, hands gripping the fabric of his shirt. "Then we’ll both do better."

A breathless laugh escapes him, half relief, half lingering disbelief. And then he's pulling you close again, arms firm around you, his lips pressing against your temple, your hair, your hands—anywhere he can reach as if to assure himself you won’t slip away.

And you let him, because neither of you are willing to let go.

Lilia Vanrouge

"Let's break up."

At first, Lilia laughs.

It’s soft, breathy—almost amused. “Oh, that’s quite the joke,” he chuckles, his usual teasing lilt in place. “You nearly had me for a second.”

You don’t respond. You just look at him, expression unreadable, arms crossed, waiting.

His smile twitches, just barely, but you catch it. His amusement fades as realization sinks in, and something shifts in his eyes.

“…Oh.”

The room feels quieter now, despite the argument that had sparked this in the first place. He tilts his head, as if examining you from another angle will make this not real. Then, slowly, he reaches for you, his movements careful in a way that is deeply uncharacteristic of him. His fingers hover near your face, uncertain, hesitant—like he’s waiting for you to flinch, waiting for you to pull away.

"Come now," he says, softer now, a touch strained. "Don't do this. You don't mean it."

Your lips press into a thin line. You’re still frustrated, still convinced you have a point, but the sight of him—his sharp, knowing eyes turning glassy, the slight tremor in his breath—makes something uneasy settle in your chest.

"Lilia," you say, but you don’t get to finish.

Because he pulls you in.

His grip isn’t suffocating, but it’s desperate. One hand cradles the back of your head while the other clings to your waist, firm and pleading. His breathing is uneven, his usually composed demeanor cracking at the edges.

"I—" He stops, swallows, tries again. "I am sorry. I never meant to make you feel like this." His voice is quiet now, almost fragile. "If you truly wish to leave, I won’t stop you. But please, tell me—tell me this was only spoken in anger."

You exhale, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders, feeling the tension in them. His heartbeat is rapid against your own, and for the first time since knowing him, you think he’s the one who might fall apart first.

"It was," you say at last, barely steady. "I didn’t mean it."

Lilia lets out a breath that shakes, just slightly, before pulling you in impossibly closer. His fingers curl against you, grip tightening for a fraction of a second before he steadies himself.

He exhales a weak laugh against your skin, a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You mustn’t be so cruel to this old heart of mine,” he murmurs, his voice uneven with something too raw to name. “One day, you’ll be the death of me.”

His hold lingers—just a little longer than necessary—before he pulls back, just enough to look you in the eyes. There’s something softer in his gaze now, something fragile and achingly sincere.

"Promise me," he says, and though his voice is gentle, it leaves no room for refusal. "Never again."

You huff softly. "Alright."

Lilia presses his forehead to yours, exhaling slowly. “And I’m sorry for pushing you to that point.” His voice is quieter now, reverent. “I love you.”

You nod, your grip tightening around him. “I love you too.”

Lilia hums, gently swaying as he holds you. “Then let’s stay like this a little longer, hm?”

And you do. You stay, wrapped in his arms, letting the warmth of his embrace soothe the lingering ache.

Masterlist

[degeneratewhores]

Nothing like a good day of angst, slayyyy

"Let's Break Up" with: Housewardens

today i offer you hurt/comfort for the soul

Part 2 with Vice Housewardens

Riddle Rosehearts

"Let’s break up."

The moment the words leave your lips, the air in the room changes.

Riddle goes still—too still. The sharp edge of anger on his face vanishes, wiped clean in an instant, replaced by something raw. Something terrified.

“…Say that again.”

His voice is barely above a whisper, but it cuts through you like a blade.

You’re still fuming, still frustrated, and for a second, you nearly do. Nearly snap, fine, I will. But then you actually see him.

The way his breath catches in his throat, the way his fingers tremble as they clutch the hem of his sleeve, the way his brilliant, bright eyes—always so full of certainty—are suddenly wide and wet.

You can see the tears, clinging to his lashes, threatening to spill.

And your heart shatters.

“Oh—oh, no—”

The fight is gone. It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter, not when this is what you’ve done to him.

You rush to him, reaching out before you can even think, cupping his face in your hands. His skin is burning, his breaths uneven as he stares at you, searching your face for something—some answer, some reassurance, anything.

"Riddle," your voice cracks, "I didn’t mean it—”

His lips part, but no words come out. His hands grasp at your wrists, gripping them like they’re the only thing keeping him standing. And then—then he’s shaking. Visibly shaking.

“Do you mean it?” His voice is small. A whisper. “Do you really… want to leave me?”

The way he says it—like he’s afraid of the answer, like the thought alone is too much to bear—makes your chest ache.

“No,” you whisper, thumbing away a tear before it can fall. “No, Riddle. I don’t.”

The first tear slips free anyway, rolling hot and silent down his cheek. He doesn’t blink it away. Doesn’t try to stop the next.

And then he’s collapsing against you, fingers clutching desperately at your back as his breath comes in unsteady gasps.

“I—I don’t want you to go.” His voice wobbles, barely holding together. “I don’t—”

“I won’t,” you swear, holding him tighter, your own eyes burning. “I’m so sorry, Riddle. I shouldn’t have said that. I was just—angry, and I wasn’t thinking, and I never meant it.”

His grip tightens, his whole body trembling against you. “I—” He inhales sharply, as if trying to steady himself. “I don’t want to be the reason you’re unhappy.”

"You aren’t," you say fiercely, pulling back just enough to look at him. His cheeks are streaked with tears now, his lips trembling as he fights to hold himself together.

He’s so small like this. So vulnerable. And it’s all because of you.

Your fingers thread through his hair, trying to soothe, to comfort. “I’ll make it up to you. Anything you want.”

He shakes his head. “I just want you to stay.”

Your breath catches.

"I will," you promise, voice thick with emotion. "I will."

He studies you for a moment, his tears still fresh, but then—hesitantly, carefully—he nods.

And then, softer: “I… I’ll try to be better, too.”

You blink at him, surprised.

“I know I push too hard,” he murmurs, looking away, ashamed. “I know the rules make things difficult. But I—” His breath shudders. “I love you. And I love you more than any rule.”

Something inside you breaks, and you pull him into you again, hands threading through his hair, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.

“I love you, too,” you murmur. “So much.”

He exhales shakily, curling into you as though he never wants to let go.

And you let him.

Leona Kingscholar

"Let’s break up."

The words land like a thunderclap in the space between you, sharp and final.

Leona’s jaw tightens. His hands curl into fists at his sides, but his face—his goddamn face—stays infuriatingly unreadable.

He exhales sharply through his nose, gaze cutting into you like a blade. "Fine, go."

That’s it. That’s all he says.

Something in your chest twists, but you’re too angry, too hurt, to unpack it. So you turn on your heel and storm out.

But the second you step into the hallway, realization slams into you like a freight train.

Your phone.

You left your stupid phone.

Gritting your teeth, you double back, pushing open the door, already bracing yourself for another round of whatever the hell this is.

But what you see when you step inside—

Your breath catches in your throat.

Leona is on his knees, hunched over, his hands tangled in his hair like he’s trying to rip himself apart. His whole body is trembling, muscles locked so tight it looks painful.

Panic surges through you. “Leona—?”

He snaps up at the sound of your voice, eyes wild, glassy with something too raw for him to hide. “Get the hell out,” he growls. But his voice—his always smooth, always unshakable voice—cracks.

And that’s all it takes. The anger, the stubbornness, the fight—gone.

“Shit—Leona, no, I—” You’re moving before you can think, dropping to your knees in front of him, hands reaching for his face. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it.”

He jerks away at first, like he doesn’t want to be touched, but then—then he latches on to you.

His arms wrap around you, crushing, desperate. His face buries into your shoulder, breath shuddering against your skin.

“You crossed a line,” he rasps, voice thick with something broken. “You don’t get to say shit like that.”

Guilt slams into you so hard it leaves you breathless. “I—I know,” you whisper, hands running over his back, trying to soothe, trying to fix this. “I wasn’t thinking. I was just—”

You almost apologize, almost take all the blame, but then—

“…It’s my fault, too,” he murmurs. His grip tightens, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “I run my damn mouth. I don’t—” A shaky exhale. “I don’t know how to be good at this.”

Your chest aches.

“You are good at this,” you whisper. “You’re trying.”

A humorless chuckle leaves him. “Not hard enough.”

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, brushing his hair from his face. “Then we try together.”

Leona stares at you, eyes searching, burning with something unreadable. Then, slowly, finally, he nods.

And when he tugs you back into his arms, this time, you don’t let go.

Azul Ashengrotto

"Let’s break up."

The words fall into the space between you, sharp as a blade, final as a slammed door.

Azul freezes. His breath hitches, his fingers twitching like he’s just been struck. For a moment, he stands still—too still—his lips parting soundlessly as if trying to form a rebuttal that won’t come. Then, something shifts in his expression. His hands move behind his back, and when they return, a familiar, glowing parchment materializes between his fingers.

“Now, now,” he says, voice a shade too high, too careful. “Let’s not be rash. We did sign a contract, remember?”

You stare, your anger momentarily thrown off course. “What?”

“Our agreement,” he says swiftly. He rolls the parchment open with shaking fingers, forcing a strained smile onto his face. “When we first started dating, you signed—you willingly signed—a document stating that you were mine. That I was yours. For as long as we both should want.”

You recognize it immediately. The silly, handwritten contract he had drawn up as a joke back when you first got together, all those months ago. The one that had made you laugh when he’d made a show of rolling it out across the table, dipping a fountain pen in ink and asking you to sign it as if you were brokering the deal of a lifetime.

It had been ridiculous. Endearing. Him.

But now, he grips it like a lifeline.

You swallow. “Azul—”

He doesn’t hear you.

“If you’re unhappy, I’ll revise the terms,” he says, pacing now, voice climbing with every word. His hands are trembling, but he’s still holding the parchment, still clutching onto it like it’ll somehow stop this from happening. “A new contract. Fairer. More… accommodating. I will fix this. Just tell me—tell me what to change.”

You’ve seen Azul negotiate before. When he’s in control, he’s smooth, ruthless, unshakable. But this? This isn’t that.

This is him spiraling.

“Azul, stop.” You reach for him, but he steps back, shaking his head as if he’s afraid to listen.

“I— I can’t let this be the final clause,” he mutters, barely even speaking to you anymore, his mind racing ahead of him, already rewriting things, already trying to find a loophole in the heartbreak. “If I— If I just—”

You move before he can finish.

With both hands, you grab onto him, forcing him to still. He jerks in your grasp, but you don’t let go. Instead, you press your forehead to his, forcing him to breathe, to be here.

His breath shudders, the contract slipping from his fingers as his hands come up, grabbing onto your sleeves like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“You can’t leave like this,” he chokes out, voice raw, broken.

You tighten your grip. “I’m not leaving.”

His whole body trembles, and it guts you—this realization that he truly thought you would.

“I didn’t mean it,” you whisper. “Azul, I didn’t mean it.”

For a second, he stays silent. Then, with a shaky exhale, his arms tighten around you, crushing you to him like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

“I took it too far,” he murmurs. “I— I always take things too far.”

You shake your head, pressing closer. “We both did.”

He hesitates. “…Do you still love me?”

Your heart cracks.

“Of course I do,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. “I always will.”

His expression crumples. His grip on you doesn’t loosen, not even for a second. And you don’t let go either—not until his shaking stops, not until the frantic hammering of his heart slows to something steady, something sure.

Not until he knows, without a doubt, that you’re still his.

Kalim Al-Asim

“Let’s break up.”

It comes out sharper than you mean it to. Too final. Too cruel.

Kalim stops mid-sentence. The smile he’d been wearing just seconds ago falters, crumbling at the edges. His lips part, but nothing comes out. He just… stares. As if his brain refuses to process the words, as if saying them again might somehow make them make sense.

For the first time in what feels like forever, his endless, sunlit energy dims. His mouth opens, then closes, like he’s trying to process the words, like they don’t make sense in his world where everything is bright and full of love. But then, before you can take it back, he rushes forward.

“Wait—no, no, don’t—I’ll fix this,” he blurts out. “I’ll—I’ll buy you anything you want! A new house! A hundred houses! A vacation! No—wait, we’ll travel the world! I’ll—”

“I can fix this,” he insists, frantic now. “I will fix this.” “Just tell me what you want, and I’ll make it happen. A vacation! A house! A palace! You want to travel? I’ll take you anywhere. Everywhere. I’ll—”

“Kalim, stop.”

Your voice is raw, exhausted, but he keeps going, like if he just talks fast enough, if he just offers enough, you won’t slip through his fingers.

“I’ll— I’ll talk to Jamil! He’ll know what to do—he always knows what to do, right?” Kalim laughs, but it’s hollow, empty, shaking on his tongue. “Or maybe I just need to—”

“Kalim,” you snap. “That’s not—”

But then you see him.

Wide, glistening eyes, hands outstretched but trembling, hesitant, like he wants to pull you in but isn’t sure if he deserves to. His chest rises and falls too quickly, breath shaky, uneven. He looks lost.

And just like that, your anger crumbles.

You step forward, and he breaks.

His arms are around you in an instant, crushing, desperate. “Please, I can fix this, just—just tell me what to do,” he murmurs into your shoulder, holding you tight enough to make your ribs ache. “I’ll give you anything.”

“Kalim,” you whisper, reaching up to cup his face. He leans into your touch immediately, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. His skin is warm, but his cheeks are damp, and the sight of it makes your chest squeeze painfully.

“I don’t want your money,” you say softly. “I don’t want anything but you.”

His breath stutters, and for a moment, he just stares at you, like he’s still afraid to believe it. Then, his hands clutch at your back, his whole body sinking against yours.

“I took it too far,” he mumbles. “I—I wasn’t listening. I didn’t mean to make you feel like this.”

You shake your head. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it, Kalim.”

His lips tremble, and then he lets out a breathy, almost nervous laugh. “So… does that mean we can still go on vacation?”

You huff a laugh, brushing away the last of his tears with your thumb. “Ask Jamil first.”

He giggles, warm and relieved, and squeezes you even tighter. “You ask him,” he teases. “He likes you better.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. Not when Kalim is holding you like this—like he’s afraid to ever let go again.

Vil Schoenheit

“Let’s break up.”

The words fall, sharp and deliberate, hanging in the space between you like shattered glass.

Vil’s eyes narrow immediately, his expression hardening into something cold—something dangerous. “Excuse me?”

You cross your arms, chin tilted up defiantly. You’re both still seething from the argument, and you shouldn’t have said it, but you were mad, and it came out. You almost take it back, almost soften, but then Vil lets out a sharp, bitter laugh.

“Oh, how fitting,” he sneers, crossing the room in slow, measured steps. “Was it fun?” His voice drips venom, but his hands are curled into fists at his sides. “Did you enjoy making me fall? Enjoy making me love you, only to take it back the moment it became inconvenient?”

Your jaw clenches. “That’s not what this is—”

“I never should have trusted you.” His voice wavers just slightly, but his glare is unwavering, eyes burning with something wounded. “I never should have given you my heart.”

That—that stings.

Anger flares up again, rekindled by the sharpness of his words. “Oh, so now I’m just some villain in your grand tragedy?” You scoff, turning on your heel. “Sevens, Vil, you're so damn dramatic—”

But then you see him.

One hand gripping the edge of his dresser, knuckles white, the other trembling at his side. His perfectly controlled posture just a little too stiff, his lips pressed together a little too hard. His breathing is uneven, chest rising and falling too quickly.

Your heart clenches.

You step forward. “Vil—”

His head snaps up. “Leave,” he says, voice tight. “If you meant it, go. I don’t like to waste my time.”

It’s not a challenge. It’s a plea.

You hesitate for less than a second before closing the distance between you, reaching up to cup his cheek. His skin is warm, his breath unsteady beneath your touch. He doesn’t move—doesn’t pull away—but his lashes flutter, as if fighting against something breaking inside him.

“…I didn’t mean it,” you murmur. “I’m sorry.”

Vil lets out a breath, shaky and vulnerable, and then suddenly you’re the one being pulled in—his arms wrapping around you too tightly, holding you too close. His grip is unrelenting, crushing, as if trying to fuse you to him so you can’t take it back, so you can’t slip away.

“You are never allowed to say that again,” he whispers, voice raw against your ear. “Not even as a joke. Not even in passing. You are not even allowed to think it.”

Your chest aches at the desperation in his voice. You pull back just enough to see his face, and your stomach twists at the sight of his tears—silent, barely-there, but real.

You reach up, wiping them away with careful fingers. Then, with a small, wry smile, you murmur, “Yes, my queen.”

Vil exhales a tearful, exasperated laugh, shaking his head before pulling you back into his arms.

Idia Shroud

“Let’s break up.”

You say it and turn away, arms crossed, heart pounding. You’re still angry—frustrated from the argument, from everything, from how hard it feels to get through to him sometimes. Maybe you don’t even mean it, maybe you just want him to react, to do something other than shutting down like he always does.

But he doesn’t say anything.

The silence stretches, and unease curls in your stomach. You swallow, forcing yourself to look back at him—at Idia.

He looks wrecked.

His mouth opens, then closes. His fingers twitch at his sides, knuckles going white. His hair, always shifting between embers and flames, has dimmed—flickering in weak, uneven pulses. When he finally speaks, it’s barely a whisper.

“…Okay.”

Something inside you snaps.

Okay? That’s it?

A sharp, ugly lump lodges in your throat. You suddenly feel worse, so much worse, because—are you not even worth a fight? Did he really give up on you that easily?

“Are you serious?” Your voice shakes, half furious, half devastated. “That’s all you have to say?”

Idia doesn’t respond. His lips are pressed together, and his hands are trembling now, shaking so badly that his arms are practically vibrating. His breathing is off—short, shallow inhales, his shoulders jerking with every breath.

And then it gets worse.

His breath stutters, chest rising too quickly—his entire body curling in on itself as he gasps sharply, like the air’s been sucked out of the room. He grips his hoodie, knuckles pale, hair flickering erratically between dim embers and sudden, crackling blue flames.

Your anger vanishes in an instant.

“Idia—Idia, breathe—”

You rush forward, hands finding his arms, steadying him. He flinches at first, as if expecting you to push him away, but you hold firm, guiding him, grounding him. “Slow down—okay? Just breathe with me.” You exaggerate your own breaths, steady and deep, trying to coax him into following.

It takes a few tries, but eventually, his breathing slows.

“…Sorry,” he croaks, voice hoarse. His head hangs low, hair covering his eyes. “I—I get it. It makes sense. I knew this would happen eventually.”

Your stomach twists. “What?”

“I mean… of course you’d wanna leave.” He lets out a hollow, broken laugh. “I’m—I'm just me. A total shut-in, a socially inept loser—ugh, why am I even saying this, you already know—”

“Idia.” Your voice wobbles, but your grip tightens. “Don’t—don’t say that.”

He gives another weak laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “I’m not blind. I know I’m not—”

You don’t even think. You just move—your fist making weak contact with his arm. Not hard, not meant to hurt, just enough to snap him out of it.

Idia blinks. “Did you just—”

“Shut up.” Your voice shakes as you glare at him. “I’m not leaving. I didn’t mean it.”

His lips part, but no words come out. His eyes are wide, uncertain—still scared.

You exhale shakily before throwing your arms around him, hugging him tight. For a second, he’s stiff, frozen in shock. But then his entire frame shudders, and he clutches onto you like a lifeline—like he’s afraid that if he lets go, you’ll disappear.

“…I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice barely there.

“Me too,” you murmur, pressing your forehead against his shoulder.

Neither of you move for a long time. You just stay, holding each other, feeling the erratic beat of his heart slowly, slowly settle.

Malleus Draconia

"Let's break up."

The moment the words leave your lips, the world shudders.

A crack of thunder splits the sky, raw and angry, rattling the very foundations of the room. Candles flicker and die, plunging the space into restless shadows. The temperature drops—not a slow, creeping cold, but an unnatural, suffocating chill that makes your breath turn to mist.

Malleus stares at you.

For the first time since you’ve known him, he looks truly lost.

“…What?”

His voice is barely a whisper, yet it carries more weight than the storm raging outside.

You cross your arms over your chest, trying to ignore the way your stomach twists at his expression. “If we’re just going to keep fighting like this, maybe we should just break up.”

The moment the words settle between you, the room cracks.

A mirror splinters violently across the wall, fissures creeping like veins of frost. The chandelier swings wildly overhead, and outside, the night erupts with restless lightning, green fire dancing along the sky.

“No.”

Malleus breathes the word like an incantation, as if sheer denial can rewrite reality. His magic howls, thick with something frantic, something dangerous.

You clench your fists, holding your ground even as the weight of his magic presses against your skin. “You don’t get to just say no, Malleus.”

He takes a step forward.

Then another.

His pupils are blown wide, glowing emerald rings burning with raw, uncontained emotion. His fingers twitch like they don’t know whether to reach for you or cling to something that’s already slipping through his grasp.

And then—

He falls to his knees.

Not gracefully. Not like a prince.

He drops.

His hands catch the fabric of your clothes, gripping desperately, his breath ragged as he looks up at you—not as the heir of the Valley, not as a dragon fae feared by the world, but as a man who is terrified.

“Stay,” he pleads. “Please, stay.”

Your heart clenches so painfully you can barely breathe.

Malleus Draconia, the untouchable, the immortal, the feared—kneeling before you, holding onto you like you are the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

“I will fix it,” he promises, voice shaking, magic crackling like a living thing. “I will change. I will be better. Just—don’t go. Don’t say that again.”

His grip tightens as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish between one breath and the next. His hands are trembling, his knuckles white.

“I cannot lose you,” he chokes out, his forehead pressing against your stomach, his body curling inward like he’s trying to make himself small. “Not like this. Not over something so stupid. If I have wronged you, tell me how to atone. If I have hurt you, tell me how to make it right.”

His voice breaks.

“Tell me how to keep you.”

Your knees buckle. You sink down to his level, hands cupping his face, your thumbs brushing against the feverish glow of his cheeks. His breath hitches under your touch, green eyes wide and wet.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean it. I was angry, I—I took it too far.”

Malleus exhales shakily, leaning into your touch like it’s the only warmth in the world.

“Will you stay?” he asks, his voice so raw, so small.

You nod.

Something inside him cracks. A full-body shudder wracks through him, and then he’s pulling you in—burying himself in your embrace, arms locking around you in a hold so desperate it almost hurts. His forehead presses against your shoulder, his breath unsteady, his magic still trembling at the edges.

“I love you,” he murmurs, the words nearly breaking. “More than you could ever know.”

You close your eyes, holding him just as tightly.

“I love you too.”

And as the storm outside begins to quiet, so too does the storm inside him.

Masterlist

[degeneratewhores]

for april fools we’re deleting this entire site sayonara you weeaboo shits

[degeneratewhores]

I LOVE ANGST FRRRR NGL I'm guilty of wanting an angsty bittersweet ending 😪😪

Blot!reader pt. 6

Part 6 to this

This is a darker story. I suggest you refrain from reading it if you're in a fragile mental state or unable to handle darker themes.

The weight of the conversation clung to you like an iron shackle, dragging with every step, slowing you further. You had unearthed some truths, yet in doing so, only carved out more unanswered questions. Just the tip of this disastrous iceberg.

And the illusion of progress.

You couldn't quite recall how you had returned to Ramshackle. Your mind felt like a void, empty and unresponsive. You barely registered the sensation of unlocking the door, barely acknowledged the presence that trailed behind you—silent, patient, ever-eager. The blot moved like a shadow, misinterpreting your fleeting moments of warmth as permission, as affection.

Had you walked? Ran? You weren't sure.

Morning came quietly, golden light filtering through your bedroom window, painting the room in warmth that failed to reach you. You stirred at the shrill cry of your alarm, eyes blinking slowly as they adjusted to wakefulness. Beyond the glass, birds sang in the trees, but their melodies were swallowed by the ever-present static that plagued your mind.

And, as always, the blot was there.

It lingered at the foot of your bed, waiting—no, anticipating. Its posture shifted ever so slightly, subtle stretching itself taller, as if longing to be the first thing you saw upon waking. You didn't allow it in your bed while you were in it, but you permitted the entity to nestle into a tangle of the blankets on the floor beside you.

Like a pet.

"Did you sleep well?" It inquired, voice smooth as silk, thick with misplaced limerence.

The Blot moved with eerie precision, rising to its feet, gliding soundlessly across the room. It handed you items before you even thought to reach for them, a silent shadow shaping itself to your needs.

You didn't respond immediately, eyes following its every move with muted scrutiny. Something about it felt... off. Too eager. Too rehearsed. Your lips curled into a sardonic smile as you finally spoke.

"Well trained, are you?"

And yet it only beamed in return, as if the remark had been a compliment rather than an insult. "Of course I am, my love. For you, anything—I'd defy god."

You didn't dignify that with a response, nor did you allow yourself to linger on the implications of such words. It was impossible to tell whether this power over the Blot was something to relish or recoil from. The most unsettling thought of all was the question clawing at the back of your mind; Were your affections real? Or were they simply a means to survive?

You couldn't tell. Or maybe you didn't want to—afraid of the answer waiting for you.

Your morning routine continued in a state of autopilot, muscle memory guiding you through the motions. The day was yours to waste—Kalim had suggested fresh air after you'd fled from him the other day. He had worn his concern on his sleeve despite trying, as always, to mask it beneath that ever-present cheerfulness.

A part of you appreciated it—the concern you never received before—but as always the memories came back to haunt you like abandoned lovers. Concern you never received before.

You reached for a shirt, motioning for the Blot to turn around as you changed. But then—

A flicker of something wrong. A shift in the air. The phantom scent of home.

Your fingers stilled halfway through pulling the fabric over your head, eyes narrowing. The scent of something mockingly familiar lingered in the room, subtle yet jarring. And there—sitting neatly on your desk, impossibly out of place—

Three books.

Books from home.

Your breath caught, chest tightening as you took a hesitant step forward. Titles you had mourned, stories you had resigned yourself to never being able to finish. Two, half-read, fated to remain incomplete. One, a beloved favorite you thought you'd never hold again.

Your gaze snapped to the Blot.

It had curled into your bed in your absence, pressing into the sheets like a needy cat basking in the morning sun. You inhaled sharply, your expression hardening as you turned to it, accusation laced your voice.

"You're cruel." It wasn't anger. Not quite venom. Just exhaustion. A bitter, quiet fatigue.

And yet, the Blot merely materialized behind you, shifting effortlessly as mist. A favorite place of its—just beyond your line of sight, close enough to touch. Close enough to remind you that it was always there. its breath, infuriatingly warm, ghosted against the nape of your neck, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine.

"Hm? Blaming me, my star?" There was something coy in its tone, something pleased.

Your lips twitched, a weak excuse for a laugh escaping. Slowly, you tilted your head, resting it against its own, playing into its desires. If there was one thing you had learned, it was that the Blot answered better when you indulged it—when you fed into its obsession, however reluctantly.

"Why?" You forced the question with normalcy instead of the disgusting concoction of emotions brewing within.

It hesitated. Only for a fraction of a second. Considering which truth to give you. "You won't need to go home anymore, my love," it whispered, melting beneath your touch as if your palm against its cheek was the highest form of worship. "We can stay here—together of course—and I'll work hard to bring your favorite things here."

It clung to you a little tighter.

Desperation masked as devotion.

As you moved through Ramshackle's halls, past faded portraits and ever-watchful ghosts, you could feel them watching. Shrinking away yet unable to quell their curiosity. Could they sense it? The Blot, wrapped around you like a second skin, or perhaps more accurately fused with your soul? Or perhaps they saw the truth beneath the surface—

That you were barely living.

A corpse still walking.

One of them hesitated, drifting close, mouth parted as if to speak. A warning. A revelation. You weren't sure. But the dread curled in your stomach as Yuuna took notice, mid-conversation with Yuuken.

You prayed to whatever got might still listen and as always, silence answered you.

The ring on your finger turned deathly cold and the ghost recoiled as if burned, retreating through the wall in an instant.

They're looking.

You're going to get caught.

Instead, you slip too easily back into the composed, assured mask you wear around others—the same one even your newfound family has come to expect from you. The thought of them ever knowing the truth, ever glimpsing the weight you carry, coils in your stomach like a sickness. Guilt festers beneath the surface, nausea bubbling at the mere idea of their concern.

"Morning," You say, voice leveled, steady. "Where's Grim? I figured he'd already be up and raiding the kitchen."

Your gaze sweeps across the lobby and into the kitchen, yet there's no sign of the little gluttonous bastard. A rare occurrence.

Yuuken hesitates for just a fraction of a second, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly before he offers a measured response. "Might still be sleeping in someone's room." He takes a slow sip from his mug, the pink ceramic one Yuuna thrifted with a faded phrase scrawled across it about being a 'single mother.'

Yuuna scrunches up her nose, peering around the kitchen as if Grim might appear if she looks hard enough. "Grimmy's probably just sleeping in." Her voice is casual, dismissive, but there's the faintest note of curiosity.

Relief washes over you like crashing tides, your body sagging into a chair with a sigh. They don't seem suspicious—at least, not outwardly. No accusations, no searching glances lingering too long. They aren't going to confront you.

Not yet.

Kalim had thrown together some impromptu plan, gathering a mix of people for a day out—something about fresh air, a hike, and 'cheering you up.'

Soon enough, Yuuka hopped down the stairs, her hand settling on your shoulder as she checks her phone's time—a silent signal. Time to go.

"Grim's in Yuuta's room." She confirmed while already heading to the door.

She was the only Yuu not tangled up in other plans today, so she's tagging along.

And so, the day begins as you try to swallow down the lingering anxiety that's seemed to cling to you long enough to seem familiar.

Up ahead, an unexpectedly large group waits at the edge of the park, where the neatly trimmed grass gives way to the dense forest beyond. The air is crisp with the lingering chill of the early morning, and the golden light of the rising sun casts long shadows across the scene.

Kalim is off to the side, gathering dandelions with childlike enthusiasm, his nimble fingers attempting to weave them together into something resembling a flower crown. Rook kneels beside him, offering guidance with a keen eye and steady hands, spewing encouragement in that overly flowery way that's grown familiar to everyone. Jamil, ever the shadow, lingers nearby, half-watching with an expression caught somewhere between exasperation and resignation.

Leona and Vil are handling the food—well, mostly Vil. Leona looks about two seconds from abandoning the task altogether. Not far from them, Ace has completely taken over the children's swing set, lazily kicking his legs as he sways back and forth. Trey stands nearby, leaning against the metal frame with a knowing look. undoubtedly to keep an eye on the freshman. Ace must have been in trouble, and you wouldn't find yourself doubting it if he told you he was sneaking out and Trey trailed him just in case.

Bags are piled neatly in a corner, and for a fleeting moment, the entire scene looks like something out of a dream—idyllic, lighthearted, the kind of outing anyone would be lucky to experience. The kind of memory people hold onto when everything else falls apart.

Leona is the first to notice Ramshackle's arrival. His ear twitches before he turns, walking over in what seems like an effort to brief you on the plan—but you have a sneaking suspicion he's just looking for an excuse to ditch setup duty.

"We're eating quick and going over materials before heading out," he says, his tone gruff and to the point. "Kalim heard from one of those creepy twins—the one that lies politely to your face—that there's a good spot around here, so we're gonna find it. For whatever reason."

His gaze settles on you, lingering just a second too long. Ears flick back, subtle but telling and you can't help but wonder if he can smell the Blot on you.

The first time Yuuka met him, Leona had been dismissive—rude, even—stating outright that he couldn't smell even a trace of magic on her. A human with nothing special to offer. But things are different now.

You push the though away and smile instead. No use dwelling on secrets that might already be slipping through your fingers. You wanted to try and relax today.

"Why did you come, then?" you ask, your tone light, bordering on teasing. "Kalim must've made it clear this whole thing was meant to cheer me up. He's not exactly subtle about it and can't keep secrets for the life of him." You shrug off your bag into the designated pile and turn to face the housewarden again, a brow raised, eyes narrowed. "I figured you'd rather be home sleeping—wasting away your remaining days like the old man you are. What, feeling bad for me or something?"

Leona bristles at the slight, but his gaze darkens further at your suggestion, jaw tightening as a muscle twitches beneath his tanned skin. His brows, furrow, and he glares straight ahead like the very suggestion is beneath him.

Jerk.

But instead of snapping back with a cynical remark, he merely crosses his arms, eyes scanning you with that sharp, piercing scrutiny of his.

"Something's off with you," he states, matter-of-fact. "And Ruggie acts differently around you. You both used to be closer."

A jolt of unease ripples through you, trampling whatever fragile hope you had for a peaceful day. Now you felt like you were walking on a tightrope with a sea of glass beneath it.

"We got in a fight," you lie smoothly, the words slipping past your lips with practiced ease. It isn't even entirely untrue—just not the whole story. But you're not about to tell Leona that you nearly killed his right-hand man in the midst of a breakdown.

Leona doesn't buy it. Of course he doesn't.

Something about you is wrong. Off-kilter. Fractured. You carry yourself like you're standing at the edge of something—death, madness, revelation—he isn't sure which. Perhaps all three.

It's the real reason he came along.

Not that he'd ever admit it.

But there's something else, too. A quiet, nagging concern buried beneath his usual indifference. because people like you don't just disappear. You don't slip through the cracks without someone noticing. You've already rooted yourself too deeply in their lives—unraveling them, understanding them, comforting them with an ease that borders on infuriating.

And people don't let go of someone like that so easily.

Idle chatter drifted through the air as the group walked, a soft hum of voices blending seamlessly with the rustling leaves and distant chirping of wildlife. The forest path stretched ahead, dappled with shifting patches of sunlight that filtered through the canopy above. Despite the lingering unease from Leona's earlier words, you had to admit—the fresh air, the rhythmic crunch of footsteps against dirt, and the sheer vastness of nature did wonders to soothe your nerves.

You let yourself slow, just slightly, allowing the group to move ahead as you took your time absorbing your surroundings. The scent of damp earth, the occasional flicker of movement in the undergrowth, the way the sunlight caught on the edges of the leaves—it was all so strangely grounding.

Ahead, Ace was in the middle of an animated conversation, his voice rising above the others as he gestured wildly.

"No, no, I'm serious! The last unbirthday party was nuts—Riddle actually let loose for, like, a while five seconds. That's gotta be some kind of record," he declared, spinning on his heel to look at Jamil. who regarded him with tired patience of someone used to Ace's antics by now. "You guys do things way differently over in Scarabia, yeah? Like, c'mon, why can't Heartslabyul throw parties like that? I'm just saying, my morale would be through the roof."

Ace threw his hands in the air for emphasis, nearly smacking Yuuka in the process.

"And your grades would be through the floor." Jamil added, earning a snicker from you.

"I'm just saying," he continued, turning to Jamil with an exaggerated huff, "Scarabia's got the right idea. Parties should be wild! And fun! Heartslabyul is all rules, rules, rules—what kind of party needs a rulebook?"

Trey~," he drawled, dragging out the name as he shot his unofficial babysitter a pleading look. "When's the next unbirthday party? I'll die if its in like four months. People need to stop being born every day or something."

Trey, who had been walking at a steady, unbothered pace behind them, pulled out his phone to check the calendar. "Next month," he said with a chuckle. "This month's already packed with birthdays."

Ace let out a theatrical groan, dragging his feet as he stalked ahead with exaggerated lethargy, muttering something about the injustices of responsible scheduling.

You might've laughed at the scene if not for the sudden, quiet prickle at the edge of your awareness. A presence lingering just a little too close.

A strand of golden hair caught the sunlight in the corner of your eye and you turned just in time to see Rook.

You startled and he laughed—bright, effortless, the kind of sound that felt weightless, as if he had never known the burden of uncertainty. For a brief, fleeting moment, you envied that.

"Ah, Petite étoile," he purred, his words dripping with something sweet. It reminded you of the Blot—of something thick, syrupy, impossible to escape. "It has bothered me longer than I dare admit, but I cannot help but notice... we have never celebrated ton joyeux anniversaire?"

Your birthday? The question made you pause-mid-step.

When was the last time you even celebrated it? The memory was hazy, distant, like something viewed through a fogged -up window. Had it been so long? The thought unsettled you more than you wanted to admit.

The idea of celebrating it here—with them—felt... wrong.

Yes, you were close now. Yes, these people had become something akin to friends. But that didn't erase the beginning, the cold indifference, the neglect, the way you had been overlooked time and time again.

Forgiveness wasn't so simple.

Your stomach churned.

Rook, perceptive as ever, tilted his head, waiting—expecting.

You swallowed the unease, forcing your expression into something unreadable before giving him the easiest answer.

"...Never thought about it."

Your anxiety must have been obvious—even in that split second, because Vil swiftly intervened. With a sharp huff, he placed a perfectly manicured hand on Rook's shoulder to quiet the boy. Then, just as seamlessly, his other hand landed on your back, a gentle but firm pressure meant to guide you back into the fold of the group.

"Perhaps it simply hasn't happened yet?" he mused, his voice light, but his violet eyes sharp as they studied your face. "I trust you'd invite us when it does. We're friends, aren't we?"

The weight of expectation in his gaze made something in your stomach twist, though he likely didn't intend to make you feel that. way. Vil could accept it, if you truly didn't want him or the others—but especially him—at your birthday. But that wouldn't make it hurt any less. Weren't you close?

The air shifted. Conversations lulled. The moment stretched just long enough for you to realize—all eyes were on you.

A nauseating pressure settled in your chest, tightening like an iron vice.

Instinctively, your gaze flickered to Yuuka, searching for something—reassurance, an escape, an answer she didn't have.

She stood with one hand on her chin, her head tilted ever so slightly, deep in thought. The usual warmth in her eyes was tempered by quiet contemplation, her gaze downcast. The forest pressed in around you, the rhythmic crunch of footsteps and the rustling of leaves the only sounds filling your ears. But they no longer offered any sense of calm.

"Huh... now that I think about it," Yuuka murmured, "we don't know your birthday either." She turned to you with a playful smile, poking your side teasingly. "Hey, how could you neglect us like that? I thought we were close."

Her words were lighthearted, teasing—but because they were from Yuuka, or any of the Yuus for that matter, you knew there was no malice behind them.

Still, your lips felt stiff as you smiled, hoping it masked the way your stomach churned.

"It's coming up." You lied.

Lies upon lies. They pile up endlessly, stacking so high that at some point, you'd begun to suffocate beneath them.

A deep, unsettling monachopsis loomed over you, wrapping around your ribcage like barbed wire. The date didn't matter anymore—it felt meaningless. How could you celebrate the birth of a person long dead? A person you still feel was left behind in a cold, snowy ditch. A body buried or eaten, lost to time. Their soul-splitting hiraeth never healed.

"Four weeks from now—"

A voice slithered into your mind, curling around your thoughts like smoke

"You lie so often, it's widdiful."

The Blot's presence enveloped you in suffocating warmth, cloying and sickly sweet, whispering in a tone that was almost amused. You could hear the smile in its voice, feel its cruel delight reverberating through your bones.

The ring on your finger trembled against your skin, nearly pulsing with excitement.

It corrected you. Softly. Sweetly. Mockingly.

It spoke your true birthday like it was sacred—like it was the most important date in all the world.

You froze. The breath in your lungs turned to ice.

A visible flinch. A sharp recoil

As if you could physically escape the voice in your own head.

How does it know that?

Why does it know so much?

Disgust coiled over you in thick, suffocating waves. You'd let yourself get too comfortable. You'd let yourself forget the philosophies you once swore to live by—

Though that was an empty promise from the beginning, wasn't it?

A promise a corpse made to itself using its own life as a bargaining chip when that life had long since been snuffed out.

You lag behind, arms wrapped around yourself as if trying to hold something in—pressing against your ribs as if to keep the truth from spilling out, as if guilt might slip through the cracks of your gingers and stain the earth beneath you.

Exhaustion clings to your bones like frost, settling deep, making the world blur at the edges. The colors of the forest, once vivid, now bleed into muted grays and greens, their vibrancy dulled as if a veil has been drawn over your eyes. The laughter and idle chatter of the group dissolve into the distant hum, their voices blurred, like echoes traveling through the water.

You cannot even appreciate the beauty around you anymore. The sky stretches vast and endless above, golden light threading through the branches, dappling the forest floor in flickering patterns of warmth. And yet, you feel cold. The weight of guilt presses against your chest, relentless and suffocating. This trip was meant to lift your spirits—to make you smile. but instead, you've cast a shadow over it.

Vil, ever the perfectionist, refuses to let the silence fester. With a sharp sigh, he slows his pace, stepping back toward you. His gaze, cool and assessing, sweeps over your face, searching for cracks in the mask you wear.

"What is with you today?" His voice is poised, controlled, yet laced with something more—something akin to concern. It strikes like cold water to the face, and you grimace instinctively.

Ace, always quick to tease but slow to notice subtleties, finally picks up on the shift. His brows furrow, his usual carefree demeanor slipping away as the frown tugs at his lips.

"Wait—yeah. You're acting weird. Or, like—recently. I dunno." His words come out clumsy, but earnest. He realizes, belatedly, that he should have said something earlier. But how do you bring up something like this? How do you ask what's wrong when you don't even know where to start?

Kalim squeezes past Leona and Trey, warm hands enveloping your own, his touch gentle yet urgent. His garnet eyes search your face, open and unguarded, filled with a worry so sincere it nearly burns.

"Are you okay? Are you sick? Tired? We can stop if you need—" He glances back at Jamil, as if seeking confirmation, as if hoping someone else has the answer he lacks.

The concern is suffocating. The world feels too fast, yet you move so slowly—like sinking into the mud, like falling through water too thick to breathe.

Your knees buckle. The forest floor rises to meet you.

Muted voices. Hands reaching, shadows shifting. Their words fade into nothing, drowned beneath the roaring static in your head. You press your fingers into the damp earth, grasping at the grass as if you could anchor yourself to the present, as if the ground could tether you to reality before you drift too far.

Rook kneels beside you, his presence a quiet force in the growing storm. He does not touch you. Does not crowd you.

But his voice cuts through, an arrow through the fog.

"You are afraid."

Something cracks.

Something crumbles.

The tower of lies—built from desperation, stacked upon a foundation of despair—collapses beneath you, the weight of it finally too much to bear.

Your lips part, trembling. You try to speak. Trying to salvage the last shreds of the façade. but nothing comes. Your mouth opens and closes, a fish gasping for air in a world where none exists. The fear in your eyes is raw, unfiltered, undeniable.

Even the most naïve among them would not believe another lie from your lips. The truth spills forth, quiet, brittle, final:

"Last winter... somebody died."

A breath. A pause. A shuddering exhale.

"Last winter, I died."

Ace lets out a nervous chuckle, but it's thin, fragile—like glass ready to shatter. He rubs the back of his neck, as if the motion could scrub away the uneasy weight pressing down on him. "Good one. Uh—kinda dark though. What, did you fall in the snow and think you were gonna freeze to death or something?"

He's being flippant because he has to be. That's how he copes—with humor, with sarcasm, with pushing things down so they can eat away at him later, when no one's watching.

Kalim still clutches your hands, fingers trembling slightly, and when his pleading gaze flickers toward Jamil, looking for reassurance, he finds none. Only the furrowed brows, the narrowed grey eyes, calculating, searching—examining you for cracks in the story, for a lie he desperately wants to uncover.

Because this doesn't make sense.

It shouldn't make sense.

Jamil's silence is louder than any accusation.

The longer you don't answer, the more the panic festers, creeping into the air like thick smoke. Ace steps forward, shoving you—not roughly, but enough to try to jolt you out of whatever this is.

"O-oi... snap out of it," he urges, voice strained. It wavers, cracks, uncertainty threading into his words. "Answer." His voice rises now. "Just—just say something!"

Trey, ever the peacemaker, reacts instinctively, placing a firm hand on Ace's shoulder, mediating the moment before it spirals. "Hey, let's not jump to conclusions, alright? There's gotta be some kinda of—

He stops.

Because he already knows.

He doesn't want to know, doesn't want to believe it, but it's in your voice, in the way you said it, like someone who's already accepted the truth as an immovable reality. Defeated. Final.

Yuuka kneels beside Kalim, shooting Ace a warning glare before grasping his shoulder, grounding herself through him just as much as she's grounding him. He's trembling—breathing too fast, too shallow. He's always been the type to hide his worry behind laughter, behind warmth. But right now, there's nothing left to mask it.

And still, she won't look at you.

Because if she does—if she acknowledges what you are, what this means—she'll break too.

The silence stretches, Thick. Suffocating.

Vil, Rook, Leona—they don't speak. They don't move.

And you don't dare lift your head, shoulder hunched beneath the unbearable weight of their gazes. Shame settles like a stone in your gut.

Kalim moves before he can stop himself, dipping his head lower, desperate to meet your eyes, searching for something—anything—to break the illusion. He waits for the laugh, the grin, the reassurance that this is a cruel joke.

But Jamil doesn't say anything.

Nobody does.

And Kalim's heart pounds so violently it aches.

His fingers lace tighter with yours, as if holding onto you harder will somehow keep you here. A creeping, suffocating feeling of running out of time seizes his heart, drowning him in silent, unseen panic.

"But... but you're here." Kalim's voice is small. Fractured. "You're right here, in front of me."

I should've spent more time with them.

His grip tightens until his nails leave half-moon indents in your skin. He lets go of one hand only to trap your wrists together in one hand, and his free hand rises—slow, almost hesitant—to cup your face, to force you to look at him.

To prove you're lying.

"You're lying," he whispers. It's not a question. it's a desperate command. "Tell me you're lying."

What do I do? What can I do?

That—That's not—you're not—"

But your gaze is blank. Unfocused.

Staring through him. past him.

You look dead.

Kalim's breath stutters. "Oh."

The sound is barely more than an exhale, a whisper of realization as his vision blurs and hot tears spill over sun-darkened cheeks.

Leaning against a tree, Leona grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches. His tail lashes, irritation rising—not at you, but at fate.

This shouldn't affect him. It doesn't affect him.

That's the lie he keeps telling himself. Keeps repeating, over and over, like some stubborn, half-hearted mantra.

But it does.

More than he's willing to admit.

"And what?" His voice cuts through the air, the simmering edge of frustration barely masking something deeper—something unspoken. "You expect us to just get all weepy?" His tail whips against the ground, his voice measured, forced into control even as it rises. "What, you expecting a damn eulogy? A pity party? If you're dead, why the hell are you standing here?

Because he doesn't know how to handle this.

He's a prince. He can fix things. He should be able to fix this.

But he can't.

And the realization is unbearable.

The room feels impossibly small. The silence weighs heavier, pressing against your ribs, making it hard to breathe.

And then—

"Explain." Vil demands, stepping forward.

His fingers grip your jaw, firm, unwavering, tilting your head up until your vacant eyes meet his own. His gaze is sharp, burning with the need for clarity, for control, for something that will make this make sense.

But there's no sense to be found.

Only grief.

Only growing despair.

Only the horrifying, unshakable uncertainty of what this truly means.

Your body felt unbearably heavy, the pull of consciousness just beyond your grasp. It was as if exhaustion had struck you like a freight train, barreling through your body with merciless force. The weight of everything—of truth, of revelation, of fraying nerves—had finally collapsed upon you. Words abandoned you, retreating into the recesses of your mind where they could not be reached.

Time had begun to slip through your fingers like silk, too smooth, too fleeting, too intangible to hold onto. The sun, once high and brilliant, had begun its descent, bleeding into the sky with streaks of molten gold and deepening crimson. A masterpiece, painted just for you, but you barely had the strength to admire it. The air cooled with the vanishing light, a crisp reminder that the day was ending, though the night ahead felt even more uncertain.

A low sigh broke through the thick silence. Leona pushed off the tree he had been leaning against, running a hand through his hair before snatching up your bag without a word. The movement was almost lazy, but there was something deliberate in the way he slung it over his shoulder.

"They can explain it later," he muttered, his voice rough with unspoken exhaustion, ears still lowered. "I'll rent a cabin nearby. We're staying overnight." His free hand gestured vaguely to the group, to the silence, to you. "I can't drive like... this."

His words lacked their usual drawl, as though even he was struggling to process the weight of the moment.

Yuuka was at your side before you could even think to stand, her grip steady but careful, like you were something fragile—something that might break if handled too harshly. You let her guide you, though your limbs felt leaded, your steps sluggish.

Kalim sniffled softly beside you, his red-rimmed eyes downcast. He wasn't even trying to hide it anymore.

No one else spoke.

Rook had already separated from the group, his silhouette cutting through the evening as he walked ahead, disappearing into the trees.

You could still feel Ace's presence to your left, his burning stare drilling into your back. Of all people, it was his disappointment that twisted something sharp inside you. You saw him every day, whether by chance or by choice. He had always been there, lingering like a familiar melody you never quite noticed until it was gone. And now? Now he stood just out of reach, silent and unreadable.

The last remnants of adrenaline drained from your body, and your vision flickered in and out of focus, your memories hazy and fragmented. One moment, you were still on the trail; the next, you were inside the Airbnb—warm, dimly lit, and unnervingly quiet.

Vil stepped inside the cabin, tucking a strand of blond and purple behind his ear. "Your driving was abysmal." he muttered to Leona, arms crossed.

Leona grunted in response, hardly paying him any mind.

The cabin itself was beautiful—spacious, yet intimate, crafted from dark wood and bathed in the soft glow of warm-toned lights. It was the kind of place you might have admired under different circumstances, but now, it felt too much like a gilded cage.

Your head lolled to the side as you sat, exhaustion pulling at you, but the second you felt yourself slipping too far, you jolted awake, a frown creasing your face.

Your gaze flickered toward the door, an old habit surfacing, your mind hazily calculating the energy it would take to run.

But Rook stood against the nearest doorway, his arms crossed with deliberate ease, as if he had been expecting this. The warm light caught strands of his golden hair, illuminating his sharp features. He smiled as your eyes met, and though his expression was unreadable, there was something in it—something patient, something knowing.

"Mon Étoile." His voice was smooth, saccharine in the way that a chill down your spine. He gestured lightly toward the couch, as if this was some grand stage and you were the evening's main performance.

The weight of expectation settled over you like a suffocating fog. They still wanted answers. They still wanted to know.

Could you do it? Could you really tell them everything?

You sank into the plush couch, the cushions swallowing you whole, but there was no comfort to be found. Their eyes were on you—Kalim's heartbreak, Ace's hurt, Leona's unreadable frustration, Vil's impatient scrutiny, Jamil's calculating gaze, Trey's quiet unease, Rook's unwavering curiosity.

Yuuka was the first to speak. Her voice was soft, too soft, the kind of gentleness that only made the ache in your chest worse. She was giving you a kindness you didn't think you deserved.

"You're... dead."

The word hung in the air like something fragile, something forbidden. It was barely more than a whisper, yet it felt like it could shatter the very ground beneath you. Yuuka, the ever-steadfast, ever-confident girl you knew, suddenly looked small. Unsteady. Her breath hitched, and for once, there was no easy answer at the tip of her tongue.

"How—when?"

You tilted your head back, baring your throat to the ceiling, to the heavens, to the weight of their stares. Like an animal in surrender. Like a body already cold.

"I went on a walk," you murmured, voice light, distant, eerily calm yet carrying the unmistakable finality of a confession. "I didn't belong here. My feet carried me outside, further and further, like they had a will of their own."

Your fingers found the Blot ring on your hand, twisting it idly, the habit second nature by now. The silver was cool against your skin, humming with something you pretended not to feel.

"That compulsion neglected kids have when they float limp in a swimming pool, waiting—wondering if someone will notice if they're gone or quiet." A humorless chuckle escaped your lips, brittle and tired. "I guess I wanted the same thing. For someone to notice."

But no one had.

"A slippery path, no winter clothing... that was all it took."

The memory was sharp, ice cold. You nearly recoiled from it, but you forced yourself to stay still, to keep speaking. You wouldn't—couldn't—look at them. You didn't want to see what was in their eyes.

"I fell." Your voice barely carried across the dimly lit room. "Somewhere isolated. Somewhere no one would ever think to look, not even come spring." A pause, a breath, but it didn't make it any easier. "The cold numbed the pain, but I knew I was mangled. Left to die—unnoticed. Forgotten. A name in a ledger, a carving on a stone, if I was lucky.

Your laugh was sudden, breathless, and void of anything resembling joy. It scraped its way out of your throat, raw and ugly, carrying only self-loathing in its wake.

"I gave up."

There was a sharp intake of breath from someone in the room. A flinch, barely visible from the corner of your eye.

The words threatened to stick in your throat, but you forced them out anyway.

"And I died that night. Alone in the cold. Forgotten."

Yuuka's hand flew to her mouth, but it did nothing to stifle the soft, broken gasp that escaped her lips. The color had drained from her face, her wide eyes glassy, unreadable. It struck something deep—something painful—inside her. You could see it, feel it. The way her hands trembled slightly, how her posture caved inward like she was trying to hold herself together. Like she could make up for something she had never even known happened.

A sharp 'tch' broke the silence from Jamil.

How are you here then?" The words were clipped, suspicious. An accusation, not a question.

You couldn't blame him.

Your fingers clenched around the ring, its metal thrumming with something sinister.

"I made a deal."

The words leave your mouth before you can think better of them before you can soften the edges, and you hate how they sound.

How final.

The silence in the room sharpens.

Trey is the first to break it.

"What kind of deal?" He sounds cautious, like he's waiting for you to confirm his worst suspicions.

"Something parasitical."

Silence stretched between heartbeats, heavy and unbroken, as you lay on the floor.

You weren't allowed in your own room—monitored for your own safety, watched like a fragile thing on the verge of shattering. Instead, you were cocooned in a nest of blankets in the cabin's living room, the rhythmic assault of rain against the roof filling the space where words failed.

Your eyes remained shut, feigning sleep indistinguishable from death with your barely-functioning body.

Earlier, exhaustion had weighed on your bones, pressing down like a relentless tide, yet now, rest refused to come. Something lingered at the edges of your mind—unease, dread, or perhaps something worse.

Watching.

The Blot had been quiet since you reached out to others.

Kalim sat close, his presence warm, hesitant. He hovered at the edge of touch, unwilling to wake you, yet unable to let you go. In sleep, he betrayed himself, arms curling around you in a desperate grasp, his fingers clenching the fabric of your sleeve as if holding on for dear life. As if he feared you'd slip away like mist come morning.

Ace lay facing you, silent except for the steady rhythm of his breath. His fingers ghosted over the ring encircling yours, tugging at it occasionally, as if testing whether it would come off—whether he could pry it away from you like it was some cursed shackle.

It wouldn't budge.

Earlier, his grip had been ironclad, his hand clasping yours so tightly you thought something might break. Your sleeve was still damp from his tears. They were nearly silent—save for quiet gasps and low apologies he thought never reached your ears.

In the distance, past the hush of breathing and the storm outside, voices murmured from the kitchen. Low, tense.

They were discussing you.

Arguing, no doubt, about what to do, about how to fix something irrevocably broken. but beneath the clipped words and frayed tempers, a common thread wove through their voices.

Steady. Unyielding.

A promise.

And for the first time in a long, long while, a quiet ember of hope flickered to life in your chest.

Maybe—just maybe—you didn't have to reach for the Blot alone.

I feel like this part was really wonky???

For the life of me I can NOT remember what I wrote in the earlier sentence while writing the next and I am so confused

memory issues goes crazy

also I literally had to make the new divider cause I couldn't find any good eye ones

erm idk

so sorry if this part is wonky I can't remember what I wrote at all 💔

taglist: @tachibubu @shirp-collector-of-fixations @goatsmilksblog @iris-arcadia @pumpkindevil @gabile18 @sugarxrt @fancyhawk45 @mewchiili @olxh @muffinenergy @citrus-cinnamon @boredselkie @tipsyon-tea @blerp-22 @is-it-night-or-day @xinfinityx @ashieeeesh @b0nesandskin @texas-fox @owl778 @ghostlysyntaxed @youwannatrade @jar-03 @brights-place @pebble-bb @boredwithlifeatthispoint @casperandcats @rinart89 @raineondrugs @o-ffic @chloemari-e @roseinbloom02 @mandalay7y @s0up-good @the-unhinged-raccoon @cecil-the-crybaby @mr-crawlings-wife @ironsaladwitch

[degeneratewhores]

How can bro just leave me on a cliffhanger like this

apocalypse novel au

AKA you transmigrate into a doomed world and resolve to hug the protagonist phainon’s golden thigh

after arriving to this doomed fantasy world that your online friend had pushed unto you, you instantly proceed to have the absolute worst 6 days of your fucking life. after all it’s a doomed fantasy world. you nearly die from both monsters and humans and if it weren’t for novel protagonist phainon, you would’ve become an extra ingredient in a cannibalistic ritual for god.

you used to regard novels as piece of fiction that exaggerate for shock value and entertainment, but less than three days into the apocalypse and you accept that sometimes they don’t kid around.

oh, and you are sure that is the protagonist. snow white hair, his blue doe eyes, a golden birthmark peeking briefly from his dirty collar. there’s a ragged feel to him that almost scares you — especially when he caved in the fish heads’ cranium with his bare fists — but then he smiles in relief and weariness.

you two are surrounded by corpses and there’s no mistake that the protagonist phainon is also shaken, but he still asks if you’re okay as he drapes his cloak over your nude body. you nearly burst out sobbing, which in turn makes the protagonist drop his darkly-steeled knife to check over your injuries in panic. gosh, he really is so nice. you had almost been killed by bug people, humans, wolves, idiots, monsters, fish and a cat dozens of times. there is no one in this world that cares whether you die or not. you are an alien in this world. phainon’s sincere concern is like a soothing balm and makes you cry like a child.

this world is the worst. why couldn’t you have been reading a fluffy childcare novel instead or something? you could almost turn green from regret.

looking up at the protagonist as he wipes away your tears and murmurs soothingly, he then half-supports you as you two hurry your way out of the cave. he might just feel sorry for you but you will take it, because right then and there, you resolve to butter up to and hug phainon’s thigh for the rest of your miserable little life.

(haha. you didn’t even read half of the fucking first book, and even less said about the following volumes. fuck, you are so dead.)

so as any self-conscious person that is acutely aware of your own physical feebleness and squishiness. you do your best in order to cling like a burr to your golden thigh. shame and pride are absolutely nothing in the face of a novel that does its best to punish a genuinely kind, nice, doe-eyed protagonist through series of shitty scenarios. you guide him to his cheats earlier than the novel. you convince him to throw away some of the scummier npcs. you steer him away from some of the routes he could’ve gone without in the novel. you even comfort him and learn to make this world’s food and shove it down his throat if necessary.

you also keep an eye on any mental breakdowns he could have, so far none, but he sometimes looks so depressed that you worry he will have a meltdown. who knows. perhaps your efforts really pay off, the protagonist does seem happier. and you’re glad, because although you genuinely see him as your golden thigh, you also start to genuinely like him. it’s hard not to. phainon is really as great as he was in a book— kind, but ruthless when need be. smart. silly. charming. optimistic. strong. cute but also handsome. confident. charismatic. it would be almost demoralizing to stand next to him if he wasn’t so goddamn cute when he gave you that boyish smile or insisted on being with you. the seamstress aglaea was not wrong to call him perfect in the novel.

so perhaps the protagonist can act sometimes a little too clingy, he talks too much, and is more into physical contact than you think a normal person ought to. but that’s fine. after all, you can understand being attached to one of his oldest and (if you say so yourself) most hardworking companions. and he had these few quirks that are maaaaybe a tad out of boundaries between friends, but who wants to be normal friends!? you didn’t work your pretty little head off to be just a normal friend. you staying by the protagonist’s side and having him become protective over you is the best plot armor ever. for him to trust and like you and (like classic protagonist behavior) do everything to protect his dear comrade is the one thing you have been striving for.

then one day, the morning after you have consoled and somehow proceeded to roll the sheets with the protagonist, you come to the earth-shattering realization:

holy shit, you think, the protagonist LIKES me

the romantic kind of like. the “i would do the nasty with you and then clean you when you pass up and stay afterwards” kind of like. the kind you’d only see in romance josei manhwa. holy shit.

phainon is already awake and watching you. he looks like a kicked puppy as he inches closer, his arms tentatively hugging you and getting bolder when you don’t reject him at all. he soothingly - timidly - palms and kneads the soreness in your lower back and waist. it honestly feels amazing, as if he had been born with the skills or done this dozens of times, but you still maintain your stern expression.

this is the protagonist of the fantasy apocalypse novel 《flame reaver》 and he likes you

the protagonist mumbles your name, peers at you with those pretty soulful eyes of his, his face so pure and beautiful and pitiful, a contrast to the hungering, madness-stricken expression that seized him the night before. he is so cute. and he likes you.

holy shit, you think again, i have won the freaking jackpot.

[degeneratewhores]

Actually the last person saved in my camera roll was my friends but I can't use them so I'll be using Childe which was the next person in my roll... Unless you count the character on my itabag...? Which will then be Lucien. I don't have Spotify so I'll just show my YouTube music history LOLL

Tags: @jessamine-rose @brynn-lear @mochinon-yah @harmonysanreads @haven-avalon no pressureeee oh it's Rika btw 😭😭‼️

you’re starring in a movie with the last person saved in your camera roll and the last song you listened to is the title…who/what is it?

thank you so much for the tag @starry-eyed-wild-child @vi0l3tluvsu @strawb3rrystar love y’all !!

no pressure tags: @lisboncy @chaimilkshake @loveofcherry @lostreverb @taintandviolent @gingerteafairy @ticifics @merrydoe @r0rysreid + anyone who wants to join !!

[degeneratewhores]

OMG THERES A PART 3 😭😭🙏🙏 THANK YOU

Title: You didn't know what to do.

Character(s): Neuvillette (Genshin Impact)

Summary: Neuvillette asked you to go on a date with him on Valentine's day. Warnings/tags: Yandere, obsessive behavior, arranged marriage setting, one-sided love, unrequited love, unrequited pining, possessive behavior, angsty, 1.4k words

A continuation for: 1. There is no love here. 2. But he didn't want to let go.

It was something that was going to happen at one point as he walked through the streets and saw decorations with pink and red heart designs. With Valentine's just around the corner, there were advertisements for it everywhere. From delicious chocolates and fancy restaurants to lists of what you should get for your picky partner posters.

Neuvillette didn't care much about the event in the past, and you didn't care much for it either. The day was too busy most of the time to go out and actually have time for yourselves. It called for too much attention compared to if you were to go out together on other days. It wasn’t like there were any rumors that you and his relationship were having problems to fix. If anything, a lot of people use the two of you as a reference for a loving relationship.

Neuvillette changed after the day when he cried on your hand, begging you to love him. He became sensitive to everything humans and others do. He observed human closeness and open affection, wondering if he could have the same. Not necessarily in public, as he was not keen on kissing so violently in public, yet he envied the love between them, the affection openly held in their eyes as if in this world there was no one else but them. After all, he knew that the affection you held in your eyes was never the kind of love they had between themselves.

Yet he wanted that. He wanted it so much. He wanted you to look at him with those eyes, not only in front of others but also when you were alone in the house, just the two of you.

He wanted it so much that it was hard to concentrate on anything.

Are you free on February 14th?" Neuvillette asked as the two of you walked together in the park, your arm around his while he held your hand. People glanced at you and him, but most made sure not to stare too long, yet you could see that they were curious.

"Hmmm? I think so... I don't have any plans then. Why do you ask?"

"I reserved a table at the restaurant. I was hoping that you would join me." The fancy name of the restaurant made your eyes widen a little. While it was a restaurant you would sometimes go to, it wasn't really a place where you could just waltz in and hope to find a seat without a reservation. Most of the time, you need to book a month beforehand. On a day like Valentine's, though, it would be practically impossible, even if you did try to book six months before.

You were curious as to why he would go so far, yet when his hand held your tongue, his eyes with a smidge of panic, you just froze instead of nodding your head, telling him that you would go. You smiled at him, "Yes, I would love to go."

The next day, he gifted you an expensive dress and accessories, hoping that you would wear them that day. After that incident, he started to gift you more presents, material stuff that he picked himself while receiving the help of others. As you stared at the present that you were given by a Melusine, cheerfully telling you that it was from your husband, you didn't have the will to stop Neuvillette when so many times he looked at you so fearfully that you might decline his gifts.

It wasn't like in the past, back when you were newlyweds, when he wasn't sure how to care for a wife, and he bought everything that you touched. Yet at the same time, the gifts now felt more like a desperate plea not to leave him.

You had made sure to stay with him. After that day, Neuvillette moved your sleeping quarters to his. His tight hold around your waist as you moved your arms around his head and neck, whispering in his ear and combing through his hair. It seemed that he would become frightened if you didn’t, ridden with anxiety until you reassured him of your promise to never leave him.

You weren't sure what to do when your husband was so sensitive to anything related to you. You were startled by this change after hundreds of years of having a quiet and peaceful relationship. You could not help but wonder if this was the same person you first met a long time ago. You could not help but wonder if the person who sat in the middle of the courtroom was the same man who was obsessive and possessive in the privacy of your own home.

The Melusines didn't understand what was wrong. They commented that your relationship with Neuvillette was closer, while those who saw something dark in Neuvillette's heart chalked it up to him just having a bad day. Most were still learning about human emotions, and many wouldn't understand the mania inside the obsession. If anything, they thought he was stressed and needed to be with his wife when they saw the darkness inside fading just a little. They thought you were the key, if anything, to calm their father.

You looked at the collar brooch that you had commissioned: a blue teardrop with little orange and dark blue stones held by a gold frame. It was something that you were given by a Melusine on one of your walks. She told you that she found a beautiful rock and wanted to give it to you and Neuvillette. You had kept it for a long time along with the many gifts you were given by them in a box, finally taking it out when you found a way to make it into jewelry. Closing the case of the box, you took it with you, placing it in your bag to keep it hidden.

You are here… Are you ready?" Neuvillette asked, raising his arm to offer you his shoulder to hold onto. "Yes, I am," you told him, wearing the dress that he had given you. It was more expensive than what you usually wore. You weren't an extravagant spender, but you did have many clothes that a lot of people would dream of having. Heading to the restaurant, you kept your eyes in front of you, unable to look at him.

You knew he was looking at you…

“You look beautiful today…” Neuvillette whispered loud enough for you to hear. It was as if all the air left his lungs and he could barely say those words with what was left. “Thank you. You look handsome yourself.”

The question of why again circled in your mind as you wondered how this happened. Under his lovestruck eyes, you felt no more than a heavy burden.

You were confused... you didn't know how to handle the situation just yet when everything hit you all at once. You hesitated when you saw the hopefulness in his eyes whenever he looked at you or the envy and want as he looked at other couples. Yet the pain continued to hurt as he held onto you so tightly.

"I have a present for you," you told him in a soft voice. In the restaurant full of people, he chose a room for privacy. You pulled out a box from your bag and placed it on the table for him to reach. "Here, I hope you like it."

Thank you. May I open it now?" Taking the box, you saw the curiosity in his eyes, the hopeful look that you started to see so often now, but also a touch of affection. You let him, motioning that he was allowed to do so. You watched his eyes widen at the gift, slowly turning affectionate, and a slow smile spread across his lips.

The slight blush on his pale cheeks as he touched the stone with his hand made you think that it was okay, that he was actually fine and that this was going to be alright. His innocent expression as he looked at his gift in silence was something you were familiar with for a long time now, yet that was all taken away the moment he looked at you. The blush on his face darkened when he looked at you, and his eyes were dyed with love and obsession.

You couldn't move for a moment, unable to pull your eyes away from him. He looked happy. He looked for a moment content, yet at the same time, you realized that there was nothing more than this as the two of you would continue to spiral down to the depths of the ocean, drowning in want and love.

"Thank you."