#I had to make another one for the NPC's :) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sunderwight · 3 months ago

Text

More Demon Saint Shen Yuan.

Shen Yuan resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he endured more of his older sister's griping about the loss at Cang Qiong.

Give him a break, okay? He couldn't win that match! The stupid, worthless System that he had transmigrated with had perked up for the first time in literal years to start badgering him about how Luo Binghe had to win or else it would deduct enough points to guarantee him a one-way ticket back to being a corpse. He had tried to tell her that it wasn't his fault, but he supposed that from the outside, it probably did look a lot like he'd deliberately sabotaged her.

Oh well. That kind of thing really wasn't unexpected between demon siblings.

Actually, the two of them got along unusually well considering that they were expected to be trying to kill one another for their inheritance. Sha Hualing had never been Shen Yuan's favorite wife when he first read the novel 'Proud Immortal Demon Way', which was the setting for the world he had transmigrated into. She was just too mean and vicious and interwoven with all the stupid harem intrigue plots that he liked least about the story. But she was still a prominent character, a popular and even iconic one, and it had been exciting in a way to realize that he had transmigrated into a demon NPC.

Though, being a man in the world of a stallion novel was a dangerous proposition unless one was the stallion in question. Shen Yuan's only hope lay in that he was the male relative of a main wife, someone who could at least expect not to become the direct target of the protagonist's ire as long as he didn't make the mistake of becoming said wife's 'evil' relative. Given that, Shen Yuan had always gone to great lengths to make it clear to his older sister that he didn't want to inherit their father's lands or titles, that he was much too lazy and more interested in things like the arts and writing, and was additionally more interested in playing with frivolous things from the human realms than in conquering anybody.

For some reason, this led to many demons in their father's court to refer to in the same breath as the old Junshang, Tianlang-Jun. Luo Binghe's mysterious father. But at least Sha Hualing saw him more as a lackey than a threat, and only sometimes got suspicious of him or tried to sabotage his own doings.

In light of recent events, Shen Yuan knew to expect her to retaliate somehow. She had already mangled his hair piece, which was an emblem of his rank. Father would probably punish him for letting it be destroyed, though he wouldn't punish her for destroying it. Those were the kinds of standards that he had for such things. However, he knew she wasn't seriously rejecting him, because she'd still deigned to smack him around.

As counter-intuitive as it was to the human part of his brain, the smacking around stuff meant he was still accepted as 'didi' and hadn't moved to being a serious threat in Hualing's eyes. If he'd really fucked up, she would have begun ignoring him or else outright trying to kill him. Demons healed from injuries ridiculously fast, especially demons from the more powerful lineages. Shen Yuan's broken arm had all but completely fixed itself by the time they got back to the southern realms, and his sister's smacks barely even registered as painful when they'd landed. He supposed this explained why demons were generally more violent towards their loved ones. For them a few stab wounds or some broken ribs were little more than love taps.

He struggled to return that kind of affection, but he made a point to smack Sha Hualing's arm when she left an opening. She huffed at him, but she also (finally!) settled down after that.

"At least I saved us some shred of dignity by winning my match," she grumbled. “Even if I was the only fucking one!”

Their father's lackeys, the soldiers she'd hand-picked for her scheme, all but fell over themselves agreeing that of course the young Saint had been incredible, powerful, strong, amazing, blah blah blah. Shen Yuan wandered off to let them puff up her ego, escaping to his own rooms to go lick his wounds in peace.

It wasn't as if he didn't have any pride. That match had been legitimately harrowing! Figuring out how to let Luo Binghe win without just tossing aside his spear and forfeiting on the spot wasn't easy! The System had told him that wouldn't work, though, and even he could concede that it would have made no sense. He'd wanted to throttle Hualing when she'd suddenly decided to pick him for the third match.

Though... as he finally settled behind the door to his rooms and sealed it behind him, Shen Yuan could admit that it had been kind of cool.

He'd finally met the protagonist!

He did a little jump for joy.

Luo Binghe shone with the glory of a thousand suns! His aura was almost too much to handle. Not only that, but he was somehow too pretty for words. Still young, of course, but a promising figure on the cusp of his manhood, with beautiful features and a compelling aura of potential. Small wonder that the ladies would soon start falling all over themselves to win his favor. It had taken a lot of effort on Shen Yuan's part not to try and whisk him away from his scum master and the abuses of his disciple days.

Luo Binghe, come live in the demonic realms right now! There are still plenty of things that will try to kill you, but at least they're honest about it?

That was, of course, an absolutely ridiculous proposal, so he'd had to bite his tongue and ended up saying too many other things instead.

To think that poor kid was going to end up in the Endless Abyss in the near future! It really was unfair. Sure he was forged in the fires of that trial, but seeing him in person, anyone would seethe at the injustice of it.

Or worry about the results. After all, as soon as that kid got out of the Abyss, his next stop was the demonic realms. Specifically, conquering them. Shen Yuan wasn't exactly attached to his demon father, but he didn't look forward to the kind upheaval his death would cause either. But that would be how things would go. First Luo Binghe would subdue the North and win Mobei-Jun's allegiance. Then he'd turn his gaze out towards the rest of the realms, and form an alliance with Sha Hualing. Their father would die, Hualing would inherit, and through her Luo Binghe would take control of enough of the minor kingdoms and fiefdoms to be named Junshang. Only after that would he return to the human world and start ingratiating himself to Huan Hua Palace. Who knew how Shen Yuan would fit into that plot? Hopefully he could scrape by as an unremarkable side character, without also getting dragged into too many of his sister's schemes. His best bet was to remain her loyal subordinate, and yet, that put him in the position of having to back her up even when she was concocting frankly terrible schemes.

He would have to be careful not to cross the line from being the ally of one wife to the enemy of others too, considering that most of Hualing's targets were Binghe's other wives. Hualing would never be punished. But her disposable, adjacent male relative?

Shen Yuan shook his head. He wouldn't say his life as a demon prince had been easy so far, but it was probably going to be a cakewalk compared to what was coming next!

"So how did the glorious invasion go?"

The sudden intrusion of a familiar voice into his musings was startling, but Shen Yuan suppressed his reaction and did not show it. Instead he just sighed in exasperation.

How this development had occurred was still unclear to him. Granted, the novel hadn't gone into much detail at all about what state the Elder Dream Demon was in before he met Luo Binghe, but obviously he was incorporeal, and in some contact with the Sha clan of demons in order for Sha Hualing to set him onto Luo Binghe after his surprise victory.

Shen Yuan had known to be somewhat on the lookout for him, but in his defense he had been born into this new life as an infant. He had a lot on his plate! Relearning how to do absolutely everything, plus navigating the weird social norms of demon society, and trying to figure out how to be a 'good' brother despite his father basically throwing him and all of his siblings into a fighting pit and encouraging them to thin the herd. He'd had a lot more older brothers and sisters than just Hualing back then, and hadn’t done his welfare a lot of favors by throwing himself between his plot-relevant sister and all the bigger, meaner siblings who were out for her blood. But somehow he had managed to survive, despite being perfectly unwilling to murder baby demons. Well, to be fair most of them had only really died during the adolescent trials that started at age ten, which he tried desperately not to remember or think about at all.

It had only been a couple of years ago that he had to start worrying about the plot itself, and it was around that time too when he'd followed Hualing into sneaking into one of the fortress vaults, and picked up a weird looking statue. The statue drew his attention because such crafts were pretty rare in the demonic realms, and most commonly stolen from humans.

But this one didn't look like any of the usual human designs. In fact, it looked distinctly evil in nature. Shen Yuan couldn't have even said what it was supposed to be a sculpture of. It was a little larger than his palm and very abstract, depicting swooping whorls and eyes, grasping, clawed hands, and the implication of entwined figures. It reminded him more of modern horror art from the world he'd left behind than an ancient artifact, but a lot of 'demonic culture' items were pretty much ripped straight from anime and Hollywood aesthetics. Shout out to the hack author for his stunning originality.

The sculpture had begun to glow, and then it had spoken. And then Shen Yuan found out that he'd accidentally picked up Meng Mo's tomb.

Or anchor. Coffin. Totem? Whatever one wanted to call it. The sculpture was currently helping keep what was left of the dream demon somewhat connected to this world after losing his body, though it had been running low of energy to sustain him. The System had chimed in to let him know that he needed to ensure it didn't run out, and Shen Yuan had dutifully tried to foist the object onto his sister, but it hadn't worked. Hualing must have taken it herself in the original story. If he'd been smarter, Shen Yuan would have thought to pretend he desperately wanted the object. That would have had her stealing it from him in no time. But instead he tried to give it away, and she'd been instantly suspicious and refused to touch it.

Which left him saddled with the annoying old geezer.

Usually Shen Yuan kept him in his study, not the main room, but ever since he began feeding more energy into the statue, Meng Mo had gained a supernatural ability to move it around. He liked to spy on people even outside of dreams, and seemed particularly fond of turning up on Shen Yuan's desks and tables and demanding tributes or respect or attention. Like an ill-behaved cat that was also a cursed tchotchke.

"Why aren't you in your spot?" he groused.

The statue glowed faintly as the dream demon chuckled. Parts of it shifted around so that one of the eye-shaped pieces seemed to stare at him.

"It went that well, huh? What a shame, I thought that sister of yours might have a chance if none of the peak lords were around."

"One of the peak lords showed up," Shen Yuan admitted.

"Hm, I'm surprised you're not dead in that case."

"It was only one."

The System chose that moment to chime in, sounding fainter and looking a bit more flimsy than it had when he had been in Luo Binghe's presence, when it had opted to start yelling at him over point deductions. He wondered if it worked less well when the protagonist wasn't around. Yet another good reason to try and avoid the plot, he supposed. Though the System's intervention in his life had been minimal so far, almost all of it involved threatening him with death unless he cooperated, and saddling him with troublesome things like Meng Mo.

Plot Point: Luo Binghe's Demon Tutor is a necessary component of the narrative. Please ensure the Elder Dream Demon encounters Luo Binghe and accepts him as a student. Warning: failure to comply will result in loss of B points.

See? Like that!

At least this presented an opportunity to get rid of a certain freeloader, and get Luo Binghe the teacher he desperately needed in the same stroke.

"Say, Elder, do you know of any cases where a demon had their potential sealed, and pretended to live as a human?" he asked, suddenly very interested in the prospect of getting this plot going. Meng Mo wasn't really so bad, he supposed, but he'd be happier to send him off to help Luo Binghe and wouldn't weep for the number of inkwells no longer passive-aggressively knocked off his writing desk. Or the hassle of having to find stuff to feed the old bastard.

"That's a strange thing to ask," Meng Mo replied. Shen Yuan could hear the frown in his voice, but also an underlying note of intrigue.

"When the peak lord showed up at the invasion, Da'jie proposed a series of duels to resolve the issue without us all getting slaughtered. I fought a young disciple, but his power was strange. He fought more like a demon youth than the other humans did," he explained.

"Hm," Meng Mo replied. The statue twisted around in his perception, shifting in minute, eerie ways that Shen Yuan had never been able to concretely pin down. He couldn't have said which pieces went from one place to another. "Sealing demonic power happens, but if that was the case, such a person would be too weak and devoid of talent to ever be taken in by human cultivators. Humans can't just train any one of them up to potential. Most of them don't even have an ounce of ability to cultivate, which is why they're so weak. It's only a few who can ever be on the level of demonkind."

Shen Yuan rolled his eyes. Yes, yes, demon superiority, blah blah blah. It was a complicated social issue in its way, since demons, despite being overall stronger, struggled as communities. It might have been different if demons could live in the human realm, which was a lot less harsh, but there were enough human cultivators to ensure that they were always beaten back or hunted down any time they tried. Demon culture had a lot to say about the superiority of living in a region full of big hostile beasts and plants that would either fuck you or eat you or both, but given half the chance, most would probably love to live where the fortress walls didn't have to be meters thick or buried underground. The only downside would be potentially eating their way through the whole ecosystem and then accidentally starving as a result. But then again, it wasn’t as if humans didn’t routinely do that sort of thing too.

"Well what if he had some potential anyway?" he suggested.

"Ha! For that kind of thing to work, your little disciple would have to be a rare kind of halfbreed," Meng Mo mused. "Nearly impossible. I've lived a long time and even I only ever heard tales of such things."

"Nearly impossible?" Shen Yuan pressed.

"Extremely unlikely. Especially if he’s part human. Even strictly among different kinds of demons, most hybrids that survive infancy just strongly favor one parent or the other. Or else they turn out ugly freaks. Was this kid an ugly freak?"

"No!" Shen Yuan insisted. "He was beautiful!"

There was an awkward pause.

"...So your interest in this human disciple, it's...?"

For some reason he felt a little flustered.

"He just seemed weird, alright? I thought you might know. But if Elder doesn't-"

"Hold on, hold on, when did I say I didn't know? You're the one making snap judgments here, all this elder has to go off is some brat's description of another brat! If I saw him, I'd be able to tell you!"

Shen Yuan resisted the urge to pump his fist in victory.

"Okay then, you should go tonight," he agreed.

"What? Go where?"

"Into his dreams, obviously. How else are you going to assess him?"

The statue flickered a bit.

"Now wait just a minute, it takes a lot of energy to do that kind of thing," the old demon protested. "I'm not going into some brat's dreams on the whims of your say-so, just because he's got a pretty face..."

"What's his face got to do with anything?!"

"Kids these days, thinking they can just boss their elders around, there's no respect-"

"Are you telling me that the great and mighty Master Dream Demon, who terrorized generations of demons so badly that the mere mention of his name was considered a curse, doesn't have the strength to go spy on a simple human disciple? Even after all the tributes I've given? How pathetic. I guess I'll just throw this old rock out into the trash," Shen Yuan goaded, moving towards the table that Meng Mo had situated himself on.

"Mouthy fucking brat! You wouldn't dare!" the dream demon protested.

"What good are you to me if you're so weak?" Shen Yuan reasoned, well-acquainted with demonic cultural attitudes on this point. Such a shitty eat-or-be-eaten kind of a world. Didn't the author know these tropes were unenlightened and problematic these days?

"Weak, who's weak? Of course I can do it! But it's been so long since you gave me any energy at all, why waste it?"

"I fed you before I left!"

"And I spent that energy well, entertaining your mother in her dreams!"

Shen Yuan made a rude gesture at the sculpture, but the old demon just cackled. The jab didn't really land anyway. Shen Yuan didn't mind his mother in this lifetime, but she wasn't terribly maternal. Mostly she treated him like an investment which she expected to see pay dividends someday, and was disappointed in his lack of ambition or willingness to murder his older sister. But she was one of the lord's favored concubines, not his main wife, and also not interested in being killed by the main wife, who was Hualing's mother. So she was pretty diplomatic and circumspect about her disappointment in him, and focused most of her attention on keeping his father's favor. If she really was fooling around with Meng Mo on the side, he just didn't want to know.

"I'm dumping you in the trash," he insisted again.

"Alright, alright, calm down! I'll spy on this pretty boy of yours for you. But after that, you better bring me something good! Dream Jade or dragon scales!"

Shen Yuan made a show of disagreeing, mostly because those kinds of offerings, though rich in energy that could sustain the dream demon, were pretty expensive and hard to come by. No one would agree to that sort of deal easily. But of course, Meng Mo would not be able to collect once he latched on to Luo Binghe and started using his energy to sustain himself, so in the end he agreed and let Meng Mo gloat (as much as a disembodied voice and a weird sculpture could) before shoving him in a desk drawer as retribution.

"Disrespectful little ingrate!" the dream demon shouted after him.

Figuring that his rooms would be too noisy for a while, Shen Yuan headed out again and made his way to the eastern courtyard, where his youngest siblings could be found.

They were the children of less favored concubines. He felt badly for them, but there also wasn't much he could do without challenging his father directly, and if he did that he would have a hell of a mess on his hands even if he managed to actually beat him. Which wasn't likely, at least not at his current level. Even though he was smarter than the average child thanks to his memories, he was only thirteen years old. He still wasn't even as big as Hualing, who was quite petite, and despite his potential he wasn't the kind of thirteen-year-old that could beat up opponents more than twice his size. Not unless they were pretty weak. His father was built like an ox, in the standard fictional paradox of the big ugly man whose daughter was still somehow dainty and fair, and had crushed lesser demons to death with his bare hands.

In other words, his father wasn't a pushover and there was a reason he was acknowledged as one of the most powerful rulers around.

But in the meanwhile, Shen Yuan at least tried to make sure his younger siblings hadn't yet been completely poisoned by the might-makes-right nature of demon society. They were pretty cute in fact, despite that they all seemed to love biting him. And biting anything else that got within biting range.

"Da'ge! Da'ge!" the little voices chirped as soon as he finished passing through the tunnel that led to the above-ground courtyard. Over in this part of the fortress the weather was less kind, and dust storms had passed over the walls, making everything taste like ash and grit. He covered half of his face with his high collar, but let himself be mobbed by little demons.

"Did Da'ge bring snacks?"

"Treats? Treats for Meimei?"

"Did Da-jie get killed by mad cultivators?"

"Can we eat her bones?"

"Don't be stupid! Da'ge will have eaten her bones first! Right after her heart!"

"Wouldn't Ge save us a little of her bones? Just the bones! I'm sure he would!"

Shen Yuan sighed. Well, maybe he was deluding himself if he thought they weren't already vicious little fiends. He reached into the storage pocket of one of his sleeves, and pulled some live lizards and frogs out. With a mental apology to the poor creatures, he let them go. His younger siblings cheered like he'd poured out a bag of candy, and immediately set about catching them and trying to shove them into their mouths.

Back when he was such an age, Shen Yuan had worried his mother by refusing to eat anything that was still alive.

"Da'jie didn't get killed," he explained. "She's perfectly alright, so no one can eat any of her bones or her organs at all."

A chorus of disappointed groans greeted this announcement. mitigated only by the crunching of lizards between tiny, sharp teeth.

Honestly, Shen Yuan had no idea why they were so struck on the notion of Hualing dying. Did he seem like the kind of guy who ought to be in charge of a demon fortress? Not that he expected a bunch of feral demon babies to understand the burdens of leadership, but still. According to most demon standards they should have been bigger fans of Hualing. Then again, maybe she got these conversations in reverse whenever she happened to visit?

He wouldn't put it past his little siblings to play all the angles. Demon kids just grew up that way. Whoever was the strongest in the room, that was who you sucked up to unless you were the strongest in the room!

Shen Yuan watched as they caught the last of their slippery prey, and broke up a few fights over the legs, before he let himself be used as a jungle gym. The feral buns clambered over him and tugged at his sleeves and his spirit ribbons, chewing on his hair and biting at his ankles. He swung them up and tossed them into the air, and roughhoused with them for a while. Honestly even with demon instincts he didn't care much for hurting them, but if he didn't leave at least a few tiny bruises they got upset and confused, so it was a balancing act. And it did sort of satisfy something in his instincts to make playful growling noises and put on a big fake display of pain any time one of them jumped on him.

Sometimes not-so-fake after all; those little elbows were pointy, and the milk teeth were sharp.

Eventually their mothers came back from their hunts, bringing whatever spoils they could collect from the windswept wilds beyond the fortress. Sometimes low-ranking concubines and slaves tried to run, but the terrain outside was difficult to navigate and they almost always got brought back by one of his father's servants, so usually it was only the newcomers who made the attempt. And of course, sometimes they didn't make it back for other reasons. Shen Yuan lingered just long enough to be sure they'd caught something and that everyone had returned in one piece, then he pried his little siblings off and made his way back out again, not eager to intrude on the fullness of meal time. It wasn't pretty.

He'd tried not to make a lot of uncomfortable things that went on in the fortress his business. It was just asking for trouble. But it was easier said than done, when one spent their life being raised in such a place, and came to it with sensibilities forged by a different society.

Shen Yuan was the type of person who could easily settle in if he was reasonably safe and distracted, even if the circumstances weren't ideal. That was how he had managed most of his first life. But that approach depended on a certain minimum of comfort, a decent place to hunker down and hide from the problems of the world. The demon realms offered few such places, and those that existed were temporary in nature. A person couldn't become too comfortable or complacent or else they'd soon become dead. And as to distractions, well, books were not really all that popular among demons. He owned more than anyone else around, and the collection had taken a lot longer to build than it took to read.

So he found other things to keep him from dwelling on some of the ugly realities vying for his attention. But that meant getting involved, like it or not.

He probably shouldn't have gone along with Hualing on her invasion, even though she'd ordered him to. It was courting trouble to even look upon the protagonist. And yet, he couldn't resist.

Shaking such thoughts away, Shen Yuan pursued his next distraction. He headed for the fortress stables.

Demons mostly did not ride, and what they rode was not any normal type of horse. But his father kept a grand carriage for making processions. Until recently, that carriage had been pulled by decently strong slaves, who were themselves not treated much better than beasts of burden. Shen Yuan was no moral paragon but he found the situation intolerable, so over the past several years he had painstakingly trained some of the Dark Sea Hippo Oxen that ranged in the marshes to the southeast, and then convinced his father to give the slaves to Hualing and use the trained oxen to pull his grand carriage instead. The beasts looked a lot more impressive, and his sister was content to have big demons move her furniture and look cool whenever they flanked her on her diplomatic trips. Such trips were increasingly frequent, supposedly to secure her a good match.

Not that his sister actually put any sincere effort into that goal. Shen Yuan had no worries about Hualing being married off, and wouldn't have worried even if she'd shown the slightest interest in the prospect. She just went along with it because it let her take vacations away from their father.

The downside to this arrangement, however, was that the Dark Sea Hippo Oxen only ever really seemed to listen to Shen Yuan. He'd tried to instruct some of the servants in their care, but it was slow going. He wasn't sure if it was just the nature of the servants he'd been assigned or if all demons struggled with the concept of domesticated livestock, or if they just didn't want the job and knew he wouldn't have them executed for failing, but the end result was that he'd mostly put them in charge of cleaning the stalls and did everything else himself. Luckily the big beasts were pretty self-sufficient, as long as there was a comfortable place to sleep and food to eat they came back to the stables, and if they didn't then Shen Yuan needed to only go out with a bell and some treats and eventually they'd come back to him.

The Hippo Oxen had broad backs that could easily carry ten of him. Shen Yuan opened the gate from the stables to let them out, checking first that the dust storm had indeed passed over them, and then hopped up on the biggest to ride out. The two stable servants scattered as if they feared being trampled, even though there was plenty of room.

He sprawled like he was on a comfortable couch as the herd set out, watching the oxen to make certain none were limping or showing signs of discomfort. They'd all been stuck in a thicket of carnivorous dragon plants when he'd first found them, struggling and miserable as they slowly suffocated in the relentless vines. It had taken some doing to get them out, but they'd each made a good recovery, and being demonic beasts they were especially durable. The only real worry was if someone in the fortress tried to poison them or something, but so far no one had dared to.

The air tasted dry and the wind carried grit over to them. After a while Shen Yuan drew one of his war fans and waved it, channeling a thread of demonic qi into the motion. The gust cleared the air ahead of them. Senior Hippo Ox grunted in approval, while a couple of the younger ones made the earth shake as they hopped happily up and down and uncovered a big patch of mud.

That was his cue to get down!

He slid off of Senior Hippo Ox's back and moved away, letting the big beasts go splash around in the fresh mud pit and forage among the vibrant plants at the bank. When he was satisfied that nothing really dangerous was around, he took a seat on a nearby patch of earth and pulled some drawing tools and paper from his storage sleeve.

He mixed some crude ink (his own recipe), and then he sketched the oxen. It was his millionth attempt, and he'd definitely been no artist before his rebirth, but he thought he was getting better. He'd abandoned trying to make realistic looking renderings and instead focused on stylized versions, letting the kinds of strokes he could make with a simple brush and limited pigments dictate the form of his illustrations. After a while a Soul Biting Blister Beetle wandered onto a nearby rock and began doing one of its territorial dances.

Since Shen Yuan was still sat a safe distance from its venomous spittle attack, he switched subjects and started drawing the beetle instead.

He stayed out until he lost the good light. Another storm was threatening on the horizon. He didn't even need to call the oxen, as they'd also had their fill of the mud pit. This time he walked, of course, not interested in getting himself covered in mud as well. When they got back to the stables he left the oxen be; in the morning the mud would be dry and flaking and easier to clean off, and as he'd learned, they preferred it that way.

He was out of daylight by then, and with a deep internal sigh he headed back to the inner corridors of the fortress to try and escape to his room.

The main banquet hall was lit, sconces bright against the dark walls of the inner chambers, with smokeless fires burning blue, purple, orange, and black. Demons allegedly didn't really make a lot of artistic craft items in the way that humans did, and yet, they did still make a lot of art. Fires and lights were common displays, as were manifestations of qi. Jade was hard to come by, and wood was mostly reserved for structural uses, but bone carvings and chimes were common. Since demons healed quickly, piercings and tattoos didn't last as long as on humans, but that just meant they were constantly being refreshed or redesigned. Textile work in the demonic realms was often ludicrously difficult, due to a lack of supplies and stable supply chains, which meant that clothing was made to last as long as possible and imbued with as much protection as possible.

But, clothing was uh... pretty scarce. Especially in these warmer climates.

Shen Yuan averted his gaze from the nude demons settled in the banquet hall, and the ones who were nearly nude, the vast expanse of skin that he'd never entirely gotten used to. Men and women alike, no less! Hualing was no exception, lounging topless at the main table while she regaled some of their father's people with accounts of her singular victory at Cang Qiong. Next to her, a pair of her lackeys were busily doing one another's tattoos; baring their teeth and laughing through the pain.

"Didi!" she called, and he cursed that she'd caught sight of him. "Come join us!"

"No thanks!" he called back.

"Get over here!"

There was enough snap in her tone to know that she meant it. Kissing his hopes and dreams of a quiet evening goodbye, Shen Yuan reluctantly turned and headed into the hall.

At least their father wasn't there. Small mercies. He wouldn't be back from his latest campaign for a while yet, according to Hualing's own projections. She would know better than him, given that she was the favorite and held their father's ear, for all that she seemed to loathe every minute spent in his company.

Why couldn't she loathe every minute spent in Shen Yuan's company?

Oh right. Because he didn't want her future husband to kill him.

Hualing nodded approvingly as he navigated the minefield of the banquet hall and settled onto a cushion that was, with some shoving, cleared next to his sister. She plonked an empty bowl beside him, and he dutifully filled it with wine for her. Demon wines mostly tasted like either blood or vinegar, but their father had particular tastes for fruit wines from the human realm, so Shen Yuan poured some for himself as well. It wouldn't get him drunk the way that a demon wine would, but that was better off anyway. And it almost tasted nice.

"I was just telling everyone about my fight," Hualing said, as if her voice hadn't carried well beyond the banquet hall.

"You did well," he assured her, even though he honestly thought her match was idiotic. She did win it, though, somehow. Everyone agreed on that point anyway, even the other side, so it had to be true.

"Of course, of course!" Hualing agreed, thumping a fist over one of her breasts. "I'm the greatest of our generation! But what the hell was with your fight? Everyone's talking about it, even more than mine! It's a bigger mystery how you lost than how I won."

She sounded displeased with that. Of course she is, he thought. She wants them all praising her, not wondering about her weird brother's weird behavior.

That thought brought a nostalgic feeling, almost. His old meimei and Sha Hualing were like night and day, but he'd also used to overshadow his sister's accomplishments with bad news in that life. Not that he meant to do it, in either case.

He sighed, and accepted that he wasn't going to keep dodging her questions forever. He probably wasn't even supposed to. She should be getting interested in Luo Binghe around now, shouldn't she? Well she'd laid eyes on him so of course that would be the case. As long as he kept the attention there, it would only further the inevitable bond between the protagonist and his future wife.

"Didn't you notice? That disciple was really strong," he said.

Sha Hualing made a face at him. It wasn't a dreamy, 'oh yes he was' sort of face at all.

"You had him beat in the first few minutes."

"He wasn't really fighting in the first few minutes."

"But since when do you care about fighting? You've never been eager to see someone's 'potential' before! Not even mine!"

Hualing pouted, as if recollecting their own past matches. Shen Yuan would rather forget those. They were so unpleasant. He couldn't win, but he also couldn't lose so badly that his own sister killed him. It was like walking a tightrope covered in ice on a dark winter night. He was glad they were past the age where their father would throw them into a pit together and demand they prove that they were worth feeding and housing by ripping into one another until he was satisfied.

"I was just curious," he settled for saying. "Something about him was unlike the other humans."

"Unlike them how?" Hualing narrowed her eyes. But she looked like she was considering it.

"If I could easily say what it was, I wouldn't have tested it by challenging him," he bullshitted, quite reasonably.

"Hmm."

"I was right, though. He did beat me. He had a lot of power. That piece of shit master of his just didn't teach him anything about using it."

For some reason that comment made Hualing grin at him.

"You thought the Xiu Ya sword was a piece of shit?" she latched upon, amused. "I think that one's ranked second in the Cang Qiong hierarchy, isn't he one of their strongest?"

"Not necessarily. His peak has the second most authority, but the Bai Zhan War God is surely stronger," he said. Then he hesitated. Liu Qingge would be dead now, wouldn't he? Murdered by Shen Qingqiu. What a waste...

Sha Hualing shrugged.

"He still must be tough, though. Surely they only make the strongest ones successors? How else would they hold onto their power?"

"Lots of ways. Money, family connections, vital skills that the others can't replicate... but he did seem pretty strong, even if he had to use underhanded tactics."

"That's because the demon race is always superior! Even the strongest humans can't win otherwise!" Sha Hualing announced, and cheers went up.

Shen Yuan finished his wine.

"Good talk, I'll be going now," he tried, but Hualing rolled her eyes and yanked him down into the seat again before he could go, and forced him to endure more 'celebrating'.

The sky was fully dark by the time Shen Yuan managed to escape. Despite his having lost his match, he luckily didn't get dragged too hard by the others at the banquet. Maybe because only Hualing had won, or maybe because it was kind of a dull sport to try and make him feel bad over things that he didn't care about. He ended up drinking most of the fruit wine and nodding along to his sister's boasting before finally fleeing back to his room, and by then he was tired enough that he only stripped and fell into his bed, and was soon unconscious.

"Hmph. Took you long enough!"

Shen Yuan blinked himself to awareness, and found that he was standing back at the pavilion on Qiong Ding Peak. Or rather, that this was what the dream around him looked like at the moment. He knew the signs quite well, after looking after Meng Mo for this long. Contrary to his sleeping state, Shen Yuan was back to wearing the same outfit he'd worn during the invasion, complete with his weapons and all.

Near to him stood a projection of the dream demon; Meng Mo had the look of an esteemed elder, well-dressed and meticulously groomed, in a fashion that hadn't been seen in the demon realms since before the last big war with the human realms. He stroked narrow fingers through his white beard.

Shen Yuan made a face.

"What? Why am I here?" he protested. "I thought you were going to investigate Luo Binghe?"

"Is that his name?" Meng Mo groused. "You didn't give me much to work with!"

"I didn't think the Esteemed Elder Dream Demon needed much," Shen Yuan countered, irritated enough to let his distaste show. Just why was he being involved?! He didn't want the protagonist associating him with an awful nightmare! Shoo!

"I don't," Meng Mo snapped. "Insolent brat. You'd think you'd show a little more appreciation for the lengths I'm willing to go through at your say-so. If I'm going to delve into this random human's mind, I need to know what I'm looking for. I'm not going to waste energy all night just rooting around when there's probably nothing to find!"

Shen Yuan wanted to protest. Wasn't that what the dream demon had done in the novel? Why were the rules different if Shen Yuan asked him to do something instead of Sha Hualing? You shitty old bastard, this poor transmigrator is doing you a favor! Don't you realize that the protagonist is your last hope of living as anything other than some random decor item? That he's going to be your greatest student that you can pass all your teachings onto? A host with enough power that he can sustain your existence indefinitely?

"Just do it yourself," he protested.

Meng Mo glared.

"If it's not worth your time, why should it be worth mine? Useless."

The dream started to dissipate. Shen Yuan raised a hand.

"Okay, wait, stop. It's definitely worth the time," he declared. At the older demon's skeptical expression, he snapped. "Why are you being so difficult? Haven't I taken care of you all this while? And when have I ever led you astray? What an ingrate, do you want to spend the rest of your existence depending on me to keep you around? At this rate I'm going to get tired of you and let you rot in a cupboard 'till all your energy runs out!"

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Your statue is ugly!"

"It is art! High art! Like the kind not seen in this world for centuries!"

"It’s trash."

"You-!"

Meng Mo paused. For a moment Shen Yuan thought that he'd legitimately run out of comebacks, and was a bit concerned. He'd never seen that happen before. But when he opened his mouth, the elder raised a hand and stopped him. His dark eyes narrowed. Then the dream around them began to change, shifting like something out of Inception or a high-end video game. The Qiong Ding pavilion disappeared, stone by stone, to be replaced with the structures and buildings of a rundown city street. Not a modern street, thankfully, not something like the kind from Shen Yuan's past life, but one that would be perfectly at home in Proud Immortal Demon Way.

"Found him," Meng Mo murmured.

So he had been looking. Maybe he genuinely did struggle to pinpoint Luo Binghe this time, for some reason, and brought in Shen Yuan's memories of the invasion to help. He felt a bit chagrined at that. True, Meng Mo didn't seem to need much to try and stalk a victim, but he probably hadn't given as much detailed information as the Sha Hualing of the novel had when he tried to put him onto the protagonist. After all, Sha Hualing would have been gushing like a lovestruck girl, not calmly and objectively explaining the situation the way Shen Yuan had done.

A moment later, Meng Mo's appearance shifted to resemble one of the faceless NPCs that populated most dreams. This was a common trick of his for observing things without drawing notice -- just blend into the background like some other less-formed part of the dream.

Shen Yuan followed the direction of his gaze. Sure enough, he found himself looking at Luo Binghe. Ning Yingying was beside him, holding on to his arm.

Their gazes met.

The protagonist's eyes widened in recognition.

Then the dream faded away as Meng Mo unceremoniously booted Shen Yuan out of it. He wasn't sure if he felt more relieved or disappointed, though of course that was foolish. Like he said, it wasn't as if he wanted the protagonist to associate him with a nightmare!

But even with that mere glimpse, perhaps the damage had already been done?

Dear Meng Mo, haven't I done you a bunch of favors by now? Please go easy on that kid, don't give him such a harrowing trial that he blames me for all of this later on!

#long post #svsss #scum villain #bingqiu #scum villain's self saving system #wip #fanfic #demon saint shen yuan #shen yuan #luo binghe

1K notes · View notes

sossolei · 5 months ago

Text

things that have helped me shift ⊹₊⟡⋆

DISCLAIMER, Just because I have shifted before doesn’t mean I am the Library of Alexandria. I’m a person just like you, learning as I go so I don’t have the answer to everything but I do try! I’m also not saying any of this will absolutely, 100% make you shift, but hopefully it can provide some perspective or insight into something you hadn’t thought about! !!! ANTIS DNI !!!

LANGUAGE — I’ve noticed since I first got into shifting that shifters will talk about/treat these realities like fanfiction or a role playing kinda thing??? It confused me before I had shifted because if this is real then why are people talking about themselves in the third person, or referring to others as “npc/non main characters”, or scripting in some crazy trauma for “fun”??? If you read anything of mine, you will notice I do not use words like “main character” or even “desired reality” because for me personally, it’s just reinforcing in my mind that this is not something that’s real or even close to something I can achieve.

Cut out third person language entirely. Stop referring to your “failed shifting attempts” as such, in fact, stop referencing it AT ALL. Stop keeping track. Stop referring to people in these realities as “main characters” or “npcs.” Stop coming back from an attempt thinking “damn I didn’t shift.”

INSTEAD, start saying that you shifted every time you attempt. “But I woke up in my O.R” who says? only you have a say in whatever reality you want to live in. Fake it til you make it. Start talking about people as they are, people. Use their names or nicknames. Watch a TikTok and think to yourself “yeah I’d send this to them.” FEEELLLLL IT. MAKE IT REAL TO YOUUUU.

LOGIC — After successfully shifting, I don’t tend to think about the “science” or “spiritual” side anymore BUT this is the logic that makes the most sense to me and is the simplest explanation I can think of. When you wake up in the morning, do you first check your phone or stand up to brush your teeth or stretch? Whatever path you choose is a shift in your reality. Every single choice you’ve ever made is a shift in your reality. As far as you know, if you checked your phone instead of stretching, you might pull something later on in the day that you wouldn’t have pulled had you stretched. But you didn’t. And now there’s a reality where you stretched, did the exact things, and didn’t pull a muscle because you stretched that morning.

THAT is reality shifting in its simplest form.

Manifesting can even be considered reality shifting because you’re shifting your current consciousness into one that is receiving said manifestion. The universe is infinite. Do not let the constrictions of others constrain you too.

“Yeah you can shift realities but not to those fantasy places like hogwarts, that’s not possible” why not? If you’ve just admitted can shift realities, why are “fantasy” realities so different to you? Because HERE in THIS reality, they are fantasy. In that reality, it is everyday, it is normal, it’s just another Tuesday. Shifting is simply becoming aware of your consciousness in another reality, similar to switching characters in video game like The Sims 4, from one plumbob to another and yes, that easy.

MEDITATION — You don’t need anything to shift realistically, but the one thing I recommend for anything is meditating. It’s a skill and, like any other, one that can be refined and perfected over time. Learning to get into a state of pure consciousness is a practice that existed for centuries, anybody can do it and doing it will only ever benefit you. You can meditate when you wake up, before you fall asleep, when you’re sitting up, WHENEVER! I’ve always felt better after a meditation, shifting related or not. It also helps me feel better when I don’t end up shifting because at least I’ve honed in and practiced that meditation technique, yk? Positives in everything!

OTHER PRACTICES — If nothing else, I recommend trying different spiritual practices and adding a lil sprinkle of shifting in there! This applies to religion as well in case that isn’t clear lol. If you don’t follow any specific spiritual practice, try pegan spell work (with protection and research ofc), research any herbs that aid in things like enhancing spiritual energy. If you pray to a God, you can “work” with your God in a sense to aid you in this personal journey, whether that be through journaling or actual prayer, prayer is an amazing manifestion technique and I do believe it can help with reality shifting considering it’s not against any religions. And if you don’t want to do any of this, come up with something for you and you only! A ritual can be anything you make it. You decide what works for you at the end of the day.

REMOVAL — This helped me the most in my opinion, I completely stepped away from online communities doing anything with reality shifting ( specifically shifttok ) and followed my own intuition of how to go about shifting, doing shadow work to figure out any blockages/questions I had, and just overall made shifting fun again for myself! The main thing I did was learn more about manifesting because the manifestion community does NOT play, they do not believe in limitations and they love LOA(ssumption) which is my fav so!

LUCID DREAMING — Not the actual act of lucid dreaming but learning about lucid dreaming and astral projection really makes you understand that anti shifters are so ignorant to what these things actually are it’s insane! People didn’t even believe that you could control your dreams 10-20 years ago, they genuinely thought dreams were just something that happens to you. Nowadays, we obviously know that you can control your dreams but this is just proof that nobody knows what they’re talking about fr. I guarantee you, a few years from now, people are gonna be talking about reality shifting the same way they talk about lucid dreaming, CASUALLY. Reality shifting is not some big thing of grandeur that only “special” people can do, the same way everyone can lucid dream, is the same way everyone can reality shift, and astral project.

All this is to say, stop fucking listening to other people LMAOOO. That’s gonna be my advice every single time because too much of anything will become a problem. Advice is good when you’re starting out and I don’t mind giving advice on that, but nobody knows you better than you know yourself, even if you don’t think you know what to do, I PROMISE you on everything, you know what’s best for you. You know what works, and you know what doesn’t, YOU KNOW. Believe yourself. Nobody else matters.

“you are the light. it’s not on you, it’s in you. don’t you ever in your motherfucking

life dim your light for nobody.”

#reality shifting #shiftblr #shifters #shifting antis dni #shifting community #shifting diary #shifting motivation #shifting storytime #shiftingrealities #desired reality #shifting blog #reality shifting motivation #solshifts🔅

1K notes · View notes

solxamber · 1 month ago

Text

Stake Through the Heart || Rook Hunt

You’re absolutely convinced your neighbor is a vampire. No evidence yet, but your gut—and your deeply flawed instincts—say yes. The investigation is underway. Nothing will stop you. Not even common sense.

You were already suspicious of the building when you signed the lease. The hallway lights had a flicker that could only be described as "threatening," the elevator creaked like it had regrets, and your sink coughed before turning on. But hey—rent was cheap, and you had resigned yourself to coexisting with at least one minor ghost. Maybe two if they were a couple.

What you didn't expect was your upstairs neighbor dragging a human-sized trunk up five flights of stairs at exactly midnight like it was a perfectly normal time to engage in cardio and/or hide a body.

You were brushing your teeth—half-dressed and fully irritated—when you heard the unmistakable sound of wood scraping aggressively against tile. It was the kind of noise that said, "I am absolutely not supposed to be here, but I will make it everyone's problem anyway." You paused, toothbrush in hand, and listened. Another thump. Another scrape. A strained grunt, followed by—

"Ah! The climb is arduous, but so is the ascent of the soul!"

You spit your toothpaste directly into the sink and stared at yourself in the mirror like, Did I just hear a villain monologue in the hallway?

Curiosity won. You opened your front door just enough to peek out—and there he was.

Wide-brimmed hat. Floor-length coat. Boots that definitely cost more than your microwave. And a trunk. A massive trunk. The kind usually reserved for pirates or magicians or suspicious aristocrats who "don't go out during the day."

You watched, transfixed, as he slowly dragged the thing up another step, muttering something about "fate's heavy burden" and "destiny's ever-turning wheel."

Your brain, overworked and overcaffeinated, came to a single, definitive conclusion:

Vampire. 100%. No notes.

No human being talks like that. No one wears a coat that dramatic without drinking blood recreationally. The man radiated "I sleep in a silk-lined coffin and I know all the moons of Jupiter by name."

Still, you tried to play it cool. "Hey, uh… need help?"

He turned. Slowly. He reminded you of an NPC about to issue a side quest.

"Ah," he said, bowing slightly. "A kind spirit in the veil of night. May the stars illuminate your path, trésor."

You blinked.

He smiled. Too many teeth.

"…Right," you said. "I'm gonna go back inside now and pretend this conversation didn't happen."

You shut the door. Locked it. Double locked it. Briefly considered salting the threshold but remembered you were out of salt.

You pressed your back to the door and exhaled. That was fine. Everything was fine. You didn't need to know what was in the trunk. You weren't the main character. You had a day job and seasonal allergies and no time for undead drama. You were going to mind your business.

Until the next morning, when he knocked on your door holding a fruit basket, a poetry book, and a glass bottle that may or may not have been full of suspiciously thick, red liquid.

"Good morrow," he said with the confidence of a man who still used words like morrow. "I have brought tokens of neighborly goodwill."

You stared at him.

He stared back. Smiling.

"I, Rook Hunt, am most pleased to meet you."

You took the basket. You nodded. You said thank you like a hostage in a movie.

And in your heart, you knew.

You were absolutely going to get involved in whatever this man's dramatic, possibly blood-soaked nonsense was. Whether you liked it or not.

You did not, for the record.

You didn't want to be that person. The kind who built conspiracy boards out of half-baked assumptions and circumstantial evidence. The kind who said things like "I just think it's weird that…" before launching into a theory involving aliens, lizard people, secret societies, or in this case, your neighbor being a vampire with a flair for the theatrical.

But then came The Curtain Incident.

It was the next evening. You had gone to the store for boring mortal things—dish soap, batteries, a very specific type of screwdriver that only existed in legend and IKEA manuals. You were minding your own business. You were trying to pick out lightbulbs that didn't hum when you tried turning them on.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw it: the hat.

Wide-brimmed. Looming. Definitely not weather-appropriate.

You whipped around so fast you almost knocked over a display of lawn flamingos. And there he was, in all his nocturnal glory: Rook Hunt, your neighbor, standing in the middle of aisle seven like it was a catwalk at fashion week. Long coat. Gloves. That same calm, vaguely predatory smile. And in his cart?

Blackout curtains. Three sets. Jet black. Extra thick.

You stared. He made eye contact like a man who knew. Knew he was being watched. Knew he was being suspected. Knew that this was not how humans typically purchase home decor unless they were trying to turn their living space into a vampire's safehouse slash crime scene.

You tried to act casual. Failed immediately.

"Heyyy," you said, voice cracking like a out of tune violin. "Doing a little… home improvement?"

He inclined his head. "Mais oui. The sun—ah, how she burns with such cruel passion, non? I find her embrace a touch too… insistent." He lifted a curtain panel with one gloved hand. "To cocoon oneself in shadow, to drift in velvety darkness… c'est magnifique."

You nodded, as if that explained literally anything.

"That's cool," you said, backing toward the paint swatches like they could protect you. "Totally normal. Curtains. Love that for you."

His smile widened.

You were spiraling.

Because listen: you're not completely irrational. You know some people are just weird. You know blackout curtains are a thing. Maybe he works nights. Maybe he's just allergic to joy. But also?? His shopping cart contained no other regular item. No food. No tools. Just three sets of blackout curtains, a single red candle, and—swear to God—a hand mirror.

Why would a vampire buy a mirror?! Was it a decoy? A flex? A prop for when he practiced brooding dramatically at an empty reflection?!

You left the store in a daze, carrying a pack of AA batteries and a sense of unease. As you walked home under the streetlights, you made a mental list:

Never seen him in daylight.

Talks like he's auditioning for a Shakespeare reboot no one asked for, but with more French vowels.

Dragged a suspiciously heavy trunk into his apartment at midnight.

Blackout curtains.

Keeps bringing you gifts that feel like offerings before a blood pact.

Smiles like he knows how you die.

By the time you got home, you were pacing your kitchen whispering, "He's definitely a vampire," like it was going to summon help from the garlic gods.

You considered texting a friend, but how do you even phrase that?

hey quick question if ur neighbor owns a cape and possibly a coffin do u call the cops or the local priest or like, what's the protocol here

Instead, you sat on your couch, stared at the wall, and decided you had two choices: move out, or commit to this bit like your life depended on it.

Because if your neighbor was a vampire, then you were either going to die horribly or end up in some kind of ancient blood soulmate contract by accident—and if it was going to be the second one, you were at least going to get a dramatic entrance line out of it.

You were having what could generously be described as a trainwreck of a day.

Your boss had decided to hold a mandatory team-building exercise that involved trust falls and absolutely no regard for personal space. Your lunch had been mysteriously replaced by someone else's aggressively spicy quinoa salad (you were not emotionally prepared for that level of chilli oil). And your phone had spent the entire afternoon at 3% like a drama queen begging for a charger and attention.

All you wanted—all you wanted—was to drag your exhausted corpse up five flights of stairs, collapse into your lumpy couch, and watch garbage reality TV until your brain leaked out of your ears.

But fate—unrelenting, nosy fate—had other plans.

You hit the third floor landing. Your eyes were on your phone, trying to Google "can you die from inhaling someone else's quinoa," when you looked up—and there he was.

Rook. Your neighbor. The cryptid. The probable vampire.

He was just casually coming down the stairs, like he wasn't the most suspicious person in a ten-mile radius. Still wearing a long coat, still dressed like a brooding poet about to duel someone over honor and a baguette. But this time…

This time he had a sunburn.

Just a little one. Right on the tip of his nose. Faint. Pink. But real. You squinted to make sure it wasn't some kind of trick of the hallway light—but no. It was there. Angry and tender.

Your brain slammed the panic button.

OH MY GOD.

IT BURNS HIM PHYSICALLY.

I KNEW IT.

The conspiracy board in your head lit up. Thumbtacks connected by red string. Newspaper clippings. Grainy surveillance footage of your neighbor dramatically pulling blackout curtains shut while whispering about "la nuit éternelle." It all fit. The signs. The trunk. The curtains. The sunburn. The French.

He caught you staring and—like a man who had just stepped into a spotlight and loved it—tilted his head, utterly unbothered.

"Ah! Bonsoir, my dear neighbor. I fear I was… overzealous in my ambitions today." He gestured vaguely toward the window at the end of the hall, where the last rays of the sun were beginning to fade. "Even the mightiest hunter is humbled by the cruelty of Sól."

Sól. He named dropped the sun like it personally betrayed him. You were one step away from calling the Vatican.

You cleared your throat. "So… you got burned? By the sun?"

"Indeed," he said gravely, touching the red spot like it was a war wound. "A careless moment. I was enthralled by a flock of birds and lost track of time." He smiled. "Still, I find the sting to be a reminder—ah, how fragile the flesh, how divine the dusk."

You nodded slowly. "Yup. Happens to the best of us. Just, you know. Skin melting in the light of day. Totally normal."

He laughed. Laughed. A rich, delighted sound like he'd just watched someone walk into a trap he set.

"Your wit is ever sharp," he said, and then—because of course he did—he pulled a tiny glass vial from his coat pocket and dabbed something that might have been cream onto the burn.

You turned and bolted upstairs before he could hand you an invite to a midnight blood tasting.

In your apartment, you slammed the door, leaned against it, and let your bag slide to the floor.

It was real.

He was burned by the sun.

This was no longer a hunch. This was evidence. This was Exhibit A in your vampire trial. You didn't know what you were going to do yet—alert the supernatural authorities? Start a blog? Join him in eternal night as his dramatic, overly caffeinated familiar?—but you did know one thing:

Your neighbor was a vampire.

And that burn was your smoking gun.

The plan was simple.

Invite him over. Offer pasta. Load said pasta with enough garlic to stun a horse. Smile innocently. Observe. Wait for spontaneous combustion, bat transformation, or dramatic gasping followed by a monologue about curses, betrayal, and forbidden cravings.

It was a flawless trap. A garlic-scented bear trap of domestic hospitality.

You set the table. You dimmed the lights to a level you assumed would make him comfortable. You even lit a candle—not romantic, just for ambience. Everything smelled like garlic. The sauce, the bread, the air. You yourself smelled like you had crawled out of a room full of garlic-scented incense.

When he knocked on your door at eight o'clock sharp, you opened it with your most casual expression.

"Bonsoir, mon ami," Rook greeted, bowing slightly, because of course he did. "The moonlight suits you so exquisitely tonight."

You smiled like someone who absolutely was not trying to expose their possibly immortal neighbor through the power of garlic. "Thanks. I guess."

He stepped inside, gave a pleased hum at your lighting choices, and then—froze.

His eyes, usually sparkling with strange poetic menace, locked onto the garlic bread.

You watched in silence as his entire body tensed ever so slightly, like the baguette had just challenged him to a duel. Slowly, reverently, he walked up to the plate and looked down at it like it had personally wronged him in a past life.

"A classic," he murmured. "So bold. So… persistent."

"It's garlic bread," you said flatly.

He gave a tight smile, like a man at war with his own immune system. "Indeed. It is… not to my taste. The scent tends to cling, comme un souvenir unwelcome. It is difficult to hunt the wind when one's coat reeks of crushed cloves."

You blinked. "You don't like garlic?"

"I find it… overwhelming." He sniffed delicately. "Like a song sung off-key, but shouted."

Oh. OH.

He hates garlic.

He fears garlic.

He is one garlic knot away from bursting into flames and ascending to the underworld.

You knew it.

You were a genius. Sherlock Holmes WISHES.

But then—

He sat down.

And without flinching—he ate the garlic bread.

The entire world went silent.

You watched, slack-jawed, as he took a bite, chewed like a man contemplating the duality of pain and pleasure, and swallowed without so much as a grimace. Then he sipped the wine he'd brought—red for the record—and turned to you with a serene expression.

"Your cooking is divine," he said. "The flavor lingers like a haunting melody."

You stared at him, heart racing, mind screaming.

HE ATE IT

HE. ATE. THE. GARLIC.

WHAT DOES IT MEAN????

Was he lying? Was he in pain but hiding it because his honor wouldn't allow him to show weakness in front of a mortal? Was he so ancient, so powerful, so unknowable, that garlic simply didn't affect him anymore? Had he built up a resistance? Were you dealing with some next-level Nosferatu Final Boss?

Or.

Oh no.

What if he's a half-vampire?

What if he was born of both worlds? Doomed to walk the line between the night and the garlic aisle? Too vampire to bask in the sun, too human to fully reject pasta?

You looked at his elegant profile, the way he sipped his drink, the slight wrinkle in his nose that said he still hated the garlic but was choosing not to comment on it. The duality. The mystery. The drama. The tragedy.

You were spiraling again.

You tried to speak, but what came out was, "So… you're definitely not allergic?"

He tilted his head, smiling. "Non. I simply dislike being followed by the scent of someone's kitchen for a week."

You nodded. Sure. Totally. Not suspicious at all. Definitely something a normal human person would say. The whole garlic-aversion-due-to-personal-aesthetic thing was definitely not code for "I will turn into mist if I touch raw cloves."

He took another bite of garlic bread and made a soft noise of appreciation.

You were absolutely losing it.

Because you had no idea if you were in the presence of a man… a monster… or a fashion-forward night creature of immeasurable strength who had conquered his natural aversions through sheer will and seasoning tolerance.

And you still weren't ruling out the bat thing.

You chewed your pasta slowly, cautiously. He was either about to compliment your sauce again or turn into a cloud of smoke and vanish into the air vent.

Frankly, at this point, you weren't sure which option was more terrifying.

You'd been holding it together for weeks. Weeks of tiptoeing around your extremely suspicious, extremely courteous neighbor who may or may not be a vampire, a demon, a historical reenactor, or some kind of poetry professor. You were normal about it. Chill. Totally fine. You only Googled "can vampires enroll in rent-controlled housing" once.

But today? Today broke you.

Because today, Rook complimented your socks.

"Exquisite pattern," he had said, eyes lingering on the tiny frogs doing ballet across your ankles. "Such expression upon so small a canvas. You are, as always, a delight of aesthetic paradoxes."

You blacked out for at least four seconds trying to interpret that.

And then, without waiting, he took your grocery bags. Both of them. Including the one you packed with canned goods like an idiot. Just carried them effortlessly up the stairs, whistling some baroque little tune under his breath like he wasn't actively enabling your spiral into conspiracy madness.

And so now here you are, pacing a cracked sidewalk outside the convenience store, holding an emergency slushy and waving your arms like you're about to summon lightning bolts. Ace and Deuce are sitting on a bench watching you with the exact expressions of two people who have absolutely heard this before and regret returning your texts.

"He complimented my socks," you repeat, wild-eyed. "Who even sees socks? Who notices frogs doing ballet unless they're training themselves to observe every detail of their next victim?"

Ace slurps obnoxiously from his ice cream cone. "Dunno, sounds like you just have a weird crush."

You point at him like you're about to smite him. "I will take that cone out of your hands and launch it into traffic. Try me."

He raises both hands. "Okay, okay, chill! Just saying. You're the one who keeps inviting him to pasta night and analyzing his cutlery use like it's a crime scene."

Deuce, bless his concerned little heart, tries to play diplomat. "Maybe he's just… a polite guy? Some people are like that. Maybe he was raised well."

You whirl on him. "No, Deuce. He's not just nice. That's vampire hospitality. They're known for being strangely polite before draining your life force."

"…Is that a thing?" Deuce asks, already regretting it.

"YES," you shout. "It's part of the psychological warfare. They lure you in with compliments and help carrying your bulk baked bean purchases, and then bam—next thing you know, you're waking up with two holes in your neck and an allergy to garlic."

Ace is now straight up cackling. "Oh my God. You think he's grooming you. For blood reasons."

"I'm not saying he's gonna drain me tomorrow," you mutter, offended but also a little flattered at the thought. "But I am saying I've been watched like a fine wine and I feel it. He called me a 'treasure of contradictions.' Who says that? No one normal. That's Dracula-core."

Ace, still wheezing, gestures with his cone. "You're insane. I love it. I'm not helping, but I'm definitely watching you go down in flames."

Deuce pats your shoulder gently. "I mean… if he tries anything weird, I'll beat him up?"

"That's sweet, Deuce. But he'll probably just evaporate into mist before you can land a punch."

At the end of the emergency meeting, which concludes with you scribbling "suspiciously aware of frog socks" under Rook's name in your increasingly unhinged spiral notebook, you realize something tragic.

You are no closer to solving the mystery.

Rook remains an enigma. A poetic, shadow-wearing, door-holding enigma.

He may be a vampire. He may just be French.

He may, horrifyingly, be both.

And so, you slurp your slushy. You stare into the distance. You prepare yourself for another sleepless night of Googling "can half-vampires enter your apartment without an invite if you leave the door cracked."

This was for research. Pure. Intellectual. Unbiased. Definitely not emotionally compromised in any way. You had a theory to prove and a public duty to fulfill. You were a lone academic on the brink of a supernatural breakthrough.

This had nothing—nothing—to do with the fact that Rook Hunt had the kind of smile that made your lungs forget how to function, or that he said things like "Ah, your laughter—it rings like wind chimes in spring rain," and then meant it.

You were a serious investigator. You were hunting the hunter.

That's why, when he asked if you'd accompany him to an "exhibition of twilight-themed oil paintings" this Friday, you agreed.

Not because he looked like he belonged in an oil painting.

Not because he bowed slightly when he said "It would be my honor."

But because, scientifically, museums are great places to see if a person casts a reflection in glass.

"Consider this a field study," you muttered to yourself in the bathroom mirror, fixing your hair for the fourth time. "Not a date. A field study."

The "not-dates" kept stacking up after that.

A sunset walk through the botanical gardens ("Ah, the dying light brings out the golden undertones of your soul," he said, and you nearly tripped into a decorative pond).

A late-night jazz café, where he sipped his wine and you absolutely did not spend the entire evening imagining what he'd look like with his hair down and a dagger in his teeth.

A poetry reading. Where the poet stopped mid-verse because Rook was clapping too emotionally.

He always paid. He always pulled your chair out. He always smelled like cedarwood and wind.

He called them dates.

You called it recon.

You brought a tiny hand mirror to dinner once. "Oh this? I just… use it for checking my eyeliner. And your reflection. No reason."

He didn't even blink. "Ah, how clever. But perhaps you'd see more clearly if you looked into my eyes instead?"

You choked on your breadstick.

Every time you tried to interrogate him—"So, what's your opinion on eternal life?" or "Ever wake up craving plasma?"—he'd laugh, then dodge the question with something outrageous like, "Only a fool seeks eternity when each moment with you is already infinite," and you'd have to physically reboot your brain like a crashed laptop.

You were flailing.

You kept trying to stay professional. Collected. Objective.

But it was hard when he looked at you like he was composing a sonnet in real time.

When he held your hand like you were made of porcelain.

When he picked a flower off a tree and tucked it behind your ear without asking and whispered, "Even the moon must envy you, mon chèr."

You were on high alert. Not because you liked him. No.

You were vampire watching.

That's why you kept a notebook titled "Behavioral Observations of Suspected Night Creature." Not because you were doodling little hearts around his name. That was for decoration. To, um, throw off suspicion.

And yes, you did Google "can you date a vampire if it's for science," and yes, you did find three different Reddit threads about people claiming their immortal lovers left bite marks shaped like the Eiffel Tower.

But that was research.

Totally. Entirely. Academic.

And if your heart skipped a little when he kissed the back of your hand and called you his "bravest flame in this dim world"—that was probably just heartburn.

You were on a mission.

You were not falling for him.

You were simply… emotionally compromised by how obscenely attractive his collarbones looked in candlelight.

It could happen to anyone.

Dinner had been amazing. Which was kind of the problem.

You weren't supposed to be this charmed. You were supposed to be investigating. Your whole deal—the entire point of this increasingly suspicious series of encounters—was that you were gathering evidence. You were the lone voice of reason in a world of garlic apologists. You were the slayer. You were—

"You have a beautiful way of smiling when you're trying not to laugh," Rook had said tonight, eyes soft, head tilted like he was trying to memorize the way you looked with your mouth half-full of food and trying to hide it behind your napkin.

And you had smiled wider. Like an idiot. Like a fool. Like someone who was no longer on the hunt but absolutely being hunted.

He had pulled out your chair. Tipped the waiter. Paid the bill while you were in the bathroom. Walked you home under the glow of warm street lamps and murmured poetry under his breath when he thought you couldn't hear. He held your hand when you almost tripped on the curb like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You let him.

You had, in fact, squeezed his hand back.

What the hell was happening to you.

When you finally got back home and closed the door behind you, still glowing with post-date buzz and clutching the flower he'd picked out of someone's garden "because it matched your joy," you stood in your dark living room and had a single, terrifying realization.

You hadn't looked for a single vampire sign tonight.

You hadn't tried to check his reflection in the restaurant windows.

You hadn't counted how many times he blinked per minute.

You hadn't casually brought up crosses or holy water in conversation.

You hadn't even offered him garlic bread as a passive-aggressive test.

In fact—

Oh god.

You had leaned in. You had laughed. You had flirted back. You had let him compliment your soul's timbre and hadn't even made a joke about bloodlust once.

You had been on a normal date. Like a normal person. With a man you liked. Who may or may not have been literally undead.

You slowly sat down on your couch, holding the flower like it was damning evidence and also maybe your new favorite thing. You stared blankly at the wall for a full minute before whispering, with great horror:

"Oh no. I'm into it."

You, the world's most paranoid supernatural truther, had let your guard down. You weren't even wearing your emergency clove of garlic necklace. You had become everything you swore to destroy.

Worse—you hadn't even noticed.

And now you were spiraling.

Because he was so weird. And so poetic. And so suspiciously strong when lifting heavy objects with no visible strain. And he knew so many historical references and always seemed to know when the moon was full and probably didn't even own a full length mirror, and yet—

He made you feel like you were the center of the universe.

You buried your face in a pillow and screamed for three seconds.

Then you picked up your notebook of vampire observations, stared at it, and quietly flipped it closed.

For now.

Not forever. You were still reasonable. You were still observant.

But maybe… maybe you could let yourself enjoy this.

Maybe, just for tonight, you didn't need to know if he slept in a coffin.

Maybe he was a vampire.

Maybe he wasn't.

But tonight he kissed your knuckles like you were made of starlight and promised to write you a poem, and honestly?

That felt a lot more dangerous.

It started with a cough. A sniffle. A minor ache in your bones that you absolutely ignored, because you were a functioning adult with deadlines and a very real fear of your boss showing up in your nightmares wielding a spreadsheet.

You told yourself it was fine. You were fine. You could survive on four hours of sleep, three cups of coffee, and the sheer force of spite.

By day three, you were half-delirious, wearing two mismatched socks, and attempting to microwave a cold compress while muttering "this'll fix it" like some kind of cursed wizard. You were not, in fact, fine.

And that was when Rook showed up at your door.

Unannounced.

With soup.

"You did not reply to my messages," he said, like that explained how he somehow knew you were dying. "I feared you had succumbed to some terrible affliction of the soul. Or perhaps a particularly villainous flu strain."

You tried to smile and failed. It came out looking like a grimace. "It's not that bad," you croaked, clutching the doorframe for stability like gravity had become an optional setting that you'd accidentally toggled off.

He gave you a look. One of those devastatingly fond ones. The kind that made your insides do cartwheels despite the fever.

"Mon pauvre cœur," he murmured, brushing hair off your forehead with all the delicacy of a man who absolutely did not know what personal space was, "even your aura looks congested."

You were too weak to argue. Too feverish to care. You let him in.

He floated around your apartment like a very helpful, very beautiful hallucination. He made tea. He changed your blanket. He hummed something suspiciously like an 18th century lullaby while rearranging your cluttered living room into a sickbed worthy of a fever-ridden noble, which you had definitely not asked for, but you were too busy dying and blushing to stop him.

And then he brought the soup.

It was… soup. Probably. You couldn't taste it. You could've been drinking warm mop water for all you knew. But he was feeding it to you with this maddening look of gentle amusement, like he was taking care of a wounded dove he'd found by a pond and had already named and written a sonnet about.

He knelt next to you on the couch, one hand holding the bowl, the other carefully tilting the spoon toward your mouth. His voice was low and tender.

"You must eat. Even if only to give your immune system the dramatic support it deserves."

And you—

You just looked at him.

Hair pulled back, those ridiculously green eyes crinkled with worry, coat sleeves rolled and he was feeding you soup and calling you mon cœur and—

Oh.

Oh no.

You were in love with him.

It hit you like a falling anvil. Right in the heart. The full Looney Tunes experience.

You were in love with Rook Hunt.

Weird, dramatic, possibly-a-vampire Rook Hunt.

Who once described your laugh as "a forest waking in spring."

Who carried around obscure herbal tinctures and had once given you a bouquet that included a flower used to curse kings in the 1400s.

And you did not care.

You were flushed from fever and feelings, you looked like a raccoon that had been hit by a truck, you hadn't washed your hair in a shameful number of days, and yet this man was looking at you like you were the embodiment of a love ballad—and for once, you believed it.

Garlic, sunlight, potential bat transformation—none of it mattered anymore.

You'd fallen. Hard. Unrecoverably. Irreparably. Ridiculously.

You swallowed the next spoonful of soup with the gravity of someone accepting their fate, and Rook smiled so warmly it was unfair.

"…Can I ask something?" you mumbled, voice a little hoarse.

"But of course," he said, setting the bowl down gently.

You looked into his eyes. "If I die from this fever… will you write me an epic poem and read it dramatically at my funeral?"

He blinked. And then laughed. Soft and breathless, it felt like sunlight through curtains.

"Mon amour," he said, like that was a thing you both had agreed on, "I would do so even if you were merely five minutes late to brunch."

You sighed. Leaned back. Let yourself fall fully into the pillows and into this moment. Feverish, exhausted, helplessly enamored.

Vampire or not.

You were doomed.

You woke up to warmth. You shifted under your blanket, eyes squinting against the morning light filtering through your curtains, and that was when you noticed it:

Rook was sitting beside you.

Still holding your hand.

You blinked at him, groggy and confused and still crusted in the aftermath of a full immune system breakdown, and the first thing your brain offered up was:

He was warm.

Which, scientifically speaking, meant he wasn't technically a full vampire.

You lay there, fever-free but still dumbstruck, staring at his hand in yours. He wasn't wearing gloves. His palm was pressed to yours like it belonged there, fingers curled so gently it was like he was afraid you'd vanish. And his hand was warm.

Your inner conspiracy theorist made a brief, tired attempt at logic:

"He's warm. That means he probably has a functioning circulatory system. Which means he probably doesn't sleep in a crypt or consume Type O-Negative on toast. Probably. Probably."

But the part of you that still had soup breath and eye gunk and emotions just went, Shut up. He stayed.

Because he did. He had stayed. All night. Sat by your couch with his coat thrown over the chair and a book he never got around to reading and a cup of tea that went cold. And he was still there now, sleep-rumpled and beautiful, watching you like you were more fascinating than the rise and fall of empires.

When he noticed you were awake, he smiled, slow and soft.

"Ah, bonjour, petit trésor," he murmured. "You look slightly less haunted. A triumph."

You made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a dying toad. "How long…?"

"All night," he said, like it wasn't a big deal. "I could not leave while you burned like that. It would be a crime against romance."

You tried to sit up.

Your body politely declined the request.

Rook tsked like a disapproving aunt and pressed you back down with one hand—still gentle, still infuriatingly poetic about everything.

Then he placed the back of his other hand against your forehead, checking your temperature.

"Much improved," he said, beaming. "Your internal sun begins to rise again."

And in that exact moment, with his hand on your face and his eyes glowing like the sunset in a prose-heavy novella, you realized something extremely stupid.

If he leaned down right then, bared fangs, and whispered "May I bite thee, my precious bloom?"—you would have said yes.

You would have said yes so fast.

You would've thrown your neck back and exposed the vulnerable curve of your throat like you were in a Twilight reboot. You absolutely would have gone down in history as the idiot who looked at their maybe-vampire crush and thought, Take a nibble, king, I trust you.

He wasn't even doing anything. Just sitting there. Holding your gross, clammy hand and looking at you like you hung the stars.

And somehow, that was worse. That was so much worse.

You'd completely lost. He could be a vampire. He could be a wizard. He could be a really enthusiastic barista. You did not care.

Because last night, you had been miserable and messy and borderline incoherent, and he had stayed. He made soup. He hummed lullabies. He called you his heart's ember and meant it.

You were in love.

Utterly, helplessly, stupidly in love.

And as Rook gently brushed your hair off your face and offered you a glass of water with all the reverence of a man presenting the Holy Grail, you decided you'd deal with the vampire thing later.

Preferably after he kissed you.

Or after you asked if he was free for dinner again next week.

You know.

For research.

You ended up taking another nap.

You were floating somewhere between sleep and soup-induced delirium, the kind of half-conscious state where time didn't exist and the laws of physics didn't exist either. Vaguely, you were aware of warmth—sunlight, probably, or maybe just the lingering fever turning your body into a baked potato. But then movement caught your eye. A silhouette crossed your blurry vision, elegant, composed, and way too vertical for this hour.

Rook. He'd stayed again.

Then he did the unthinkable.

He walked to the window.

He reached for the curtain.

You blinked. Once. Twice.

He said, casually, as if it were normal behavior, "You must receive a little sun, mon trésor. Even a flower must bloom."

You made a sound. It was supposed to be words. It came out more like a blender choking on gravel.

Because no.

NO.

You watched his fingers brush the curtain, and something in your barely-functioning brain screamed, "HE'S GOING TO COMBUST."

You didn't even think.

You launched.

With the coordination of a squirrel on Nyquil, you hurled yourself across the couch, staggered upright, and threw your full weight into him just as the sunlight began to stream in. "NO—YOU'LL BURN," you shouted, with the certainty of someone who'd done zero research but had watched two vampire movies once in high school.

The two of you hit the floor in a pile of limbs, your fevered body sprawled dramatically across his chest like you were shielding him from a grenade.

There was a pause.

A long one.

Rook blinked up at you.

Then—like you'd just told him the funniest knock-knock joke in history—he started laughing.

Loudly. Joyfully. Like a man who had just been tackled by his crush and decided it was the best day of his life.

You were still clinging to him like a paranoid marsupial, blinking in confusion. "What? Why are you—? You were in the sun!"

He wheezed. "You thought—mon dieu—you thought the sunlight would incinerate me?"

"Yes???" you said, still on top of him, still wildly unsure about the rules of nature. "You—midnight moving, blackout curtain buying, garlic bread dodging—you showed so many signs!"

He laughed harder. "Oh, mon trésor, I gave you those signs. You were so adorably suspicious."

You froze. "You what."

"I knew from the first moment you side-eyed my coat like it was made of coffin lining," he said, beaming. "You were so serious. So intense. So endearing. I could not help myself—I wanted to see how far you'd go."

You stared down at him, horrified. "You knew I thought you were a vampire and you played into it?!"

"Mais oui," he said cheerfully. "You were like a curious little owl—staring, theorizing, leaving garlic on your balcony. I was enchanted."

You felt your soul attempt to leave your body via cringe teleportation. "Oh my god. I'm an idiot. I'm an idiot raccoon caught with both hands in the garbage bag."

"You're delightful," he corrected. "And very creative."

You groaned and flopped forward until your face was smushed into the side of his neck, which, to your horror, was warm and pulse-having and distinctly not vampire in nature. You could feel your dignity dissolve molecule by molecule.

"So you're human," you muttered.

"Yes," he said, "Entirely human."

You made another noise of despair. It sounded like a dying fax machine. "I tackled you."

"You did. With great passion."

"I thought I was saving your life."

He tried very hard not to laugh again. "You were magnificent."

You sighed into his neck. "This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me."

"It's one of the best things that's ever happened to me," he said brightly. "I got tackled by someone who cares. How very romantic."

You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"And yet," he said, cupping your cheek with a hand full of laughter, "I did stay all night with you. Even made you soup."

"…You did do that."

"And if I had been a vampire," he added, "I assure you, you'd be one by now."

You groaned again. And then stayed where you were, because honestly? You were still kind of in love. Vampire or not.

Even if he was the most dramatic man you'd ever accidentally tackled.

You told them over milkshakes.

Because if you were going to admit to wildly misdiagnosing a man as a nocturnal bloodsucker and then also falling stupidly in love with him, it needed to be over something cold and full of sugar. Preferably in public, so they wouldn't scream.

Ace was halfway through slurping his chocolate shake like it owed him money when you said, in your best casual voice, "So… turns out Rook's not a vampire. He's just French."

Deuce blinked slowly. "What?"

"Yes," you sighed. "Like baguette and poetry and politely opens doors French. Not sleeps-in-a-coffin French."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Ace let out the longest, most dramatic groan known to man, dragging his hands down his face like you personally had caused his suffering. "Oh my god, DUDE."

Deuce, meanwhile, turned to Ace and, with the unshakable calm of someone who had been waiting for this moment, said, "Pay up."

"What," You snapped, "you bet on this?!"

"Yeah," Deuce said, deadpan. "I bet you'd fall in love with him. Ace thought you'd just spiral into full conspiracy and get arrested trying to break into his basement."

You squinted. "Rook doesn't have a basement."

Ace gestured wildly. "AND YET YOU WOULD HAVE FOUND ONE."

You groaned and covered your face. "This is the worst."

"No," Ace said. "The worst was you texting us at two in the morning like 'what if he's half vampire and garlic only makes him stronger.'"

"I was being thorough!" you cried.

Deuce helpfully added, "You also asked if vampire sunscreen exists."

"I WAS SICK," you yelled. "ON MEDICATION. MY BRAIN WAS BARELY FUNCTIONING."

"And yet," Ace said, sipping his drink loudly, "you tackled him. You physically tackled a man because he tried to open a curtain."

You made a noise that could only be described as internal combustion.

"Oh," Deuce said suddenly, "by the way—I almost called an actual mold inspector? Like, to check your house? Because your vampire theory was so intense I thought you might be hallucinating from spores."

You gawked at him. "You thought I had mold poisoning and your solution was not telling me and just… calling a guy?!"

Deuce shrugged. "I was trying to help."

Ace pointed at your milkshake. "You don't deserve that."

You flipped him off.

"Anyway," you grumbled, "I love him."

Ace choked on his drink.

Deuce blinked. "Wait. You what?"

You sank lower in your chair, hands over your face. "I said I love him. Okay? Because he took care of me when I was dying and he's warm and nice and has cheekbones like a fantasy novel villain and I'd let him bite me even though I know now he has a working circulatory system."

They both stared.

Then Ace said, "You are so weird."

And Deuce, bless his heart, just patted your shoulder and said, "That's kind of romantic. In a fever-dream, garlic-bread, public-health-incident kind of way."

You sighed into your straw.

Ace, of course, was already texting someone. "I'm telling Rook he better marry you before you accuse him of being a merman next."

You scowled. "That was one time and he was very wet."

"You were following him around with a seashell, bro."

You groaned and started googling "how to fake your own death with dignity."

Somehow, they still paid for your milkshake.

Rook had taken you out to some quaint little garden bistro.

He'd spent the entire evening being charming in that completely effortless way he had—holding the door open like it was an art form, ordering in lilting French, complimenting your laugh like it was a rare wine, and absolutely ruining your ability to think straight.

And you—foolish, once-misguided, now-fully-delirious you—had melted for all of it.

You'd laughed, and blushed, and kicked his foot under the table like someone who hadn't once sincerely believed he was going to transform into a bat mid-conversation.

Now, you stood outside your apartment under the stars, the night cool and still. Rook faced you, hands behind his back like he was either about to recite a sonnet or present you with a rare bird. You were prepared for either. What you were not prepared for was what came next.

"Mon cœur," he said, gently, "would you allow me the honour of calling you my partner?"

Your brain static'd. Just—flatlined.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Stared at him like he'd asked you to solve a riddle in a collapsing building. And then you did the only logical thing your brain could come up with.

You kissed him.

You kissed him like your life depended on it, like you'd never get another chance to make up for all the garlic bread and wild accusations and crime-scene-level suspicion. He made a quiet noise of surprise—pleased, delighted—and kissed you back, one hand moving to cradle your cheek like he was holding something deeply precious.

When he pulled away, he was smiling.

The smile was resplendent. The kind of smile people wrote poems about. The kind of smile that had absolutely no business being that sweet or that bright or that heart-wrenchingly warm.

It didn't matter that he wasn't a vampire.

Because with that smile?

He drove a stake through your heart anyway.

You stood there, dizzy, in love, fully emotionally slain.

He tilted his head, as if waiting for you to say something, but all you could manage was a breathless, "Yeah. Yes. I'd—yeah."

"Ah," he said, eyes twinkling. "Alors, it is official."

He twirled you like a ballroom dancer in the middle of the sidewalk.

You let it happen.

Because honestly? Your first impression may have been unhinged. You may have staged an entire fake investigation and tackled him in broad daylight. But this?

This was it.

He was your person.

Not a vampire. Just tragically French. And unfortunately perfect.

Masterlist

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #rook hunt x reader #rook x reader #rook hunt #rook x you #rook #twst rook #twst rook x reader

910 notes · View notes

thepinkpanther83 · 15 days ago

Note

Reader is sitting at the hellfire club table in the cafeteria when Eddie approaches with the intentions to make reader flustered but it backfires.

Please and thank you 😊

Error 404: Smoothness Not Found

One-Shot Request: “Error 404: Smoothness Not Found”

Eddie Munson x Female Reader

💌 Author’s Note: Huge thanks to @meankenna for sending in this funny and adorable prompt, I had fun imagining Eddie getting absolutely wrecked by a smooth, unbothered Reader. You’re keeping the Hellfire chaos alive and I love ya for it. 💖 Hope this flirty lil romp makes you smile! 💋

~Pinkie 🍒

Masterlist

Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

🎸 Summary: Eddie Munson doesn’t get nervous. He’s a Dungeon Master, a guitar god, a champion of cafeteria theatrics.

But when he sets out to fluster a cool, calm outsider at the Hellfire table with one of his classic lines, he gets hit with something he didn’t expect: his own game, turned on him.

A one-shot full of sharp banter, unexpected sparks, and the kind of lunchroom showdown that might just lead to love.

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

“Error 404: Smoothness Not Found”

The cafeteria was its usual midday jungle, linoleum floors sticky with mystery stains, the air thick with teenage body spray and tater tots, and the low roar of adolescent chaos echoing off the walls. But over in the far-left corner, where the Hellfire Club had permanently claimed their domain, the chaos took on a distinctly nerdy flavor.

Dustin was in full meltdown mode.

“I’m telling you, Jeff, if my d20 mysteriously lands on a one again, I’m invoking dice tampering and demanding a re-roll.”

“On what grounds?” Jeff snorted, clutching his carton of chocolate milk like it was a rare artifact. “Your own bad luck isn’t a war crime, Henderson.”

Mike chimed in with a muttered, “You’re just mad your rogue keeps falling in love with NPCs,” while Gareth and Grant broke into a cackling duet, drumming out the Jaws theme on their trays.

Amid the storm of mockery and snacks, you sat calmly at the edge of the table, a quiet satellite in the Hellfire galaxy. You weren’t a member, but you’d been absorbed into the gravitational pull somehow, maybe through mutual classes, or shared disdain for cafeteria food. Either way, no one questioned your presence anymore. You didn’t play D&D, but you definitely watched it like a sociologist. Or a cat observing a very lively fish tank.

You balanced a crossword puzzle on one knee, methodically chewing through baby carrots and ignoring the shrieking over critical failures. Your pencil tapped a rhythm against the paper as you searched for a six-letter word meaning charming but doomed. You smirked to yourself. The answer was probably Munson.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

The cafeteria doors banged open like the prelude to a boss battle, and there he was, Eddie Munson, leather-jacketed menace, King of the Freaks, and current front-runner in your personal list of “People Who Flirt Like It’s a Performance Art.”

You didn’t even have to look up to know he’d clocked you. You could feel it, that strange static charge that always rolled in with him like thunder before a storm. Somewhere between his combat boots and his wild mop of curls, the man managed to manufacture drama like it was a bodily function.

And judging by the slow curl of his smirk, he was already planning an ambush.

Eddie didn’t walk. He made an entrance.

Combat boots hit tile like a drumline. His rings clicked with every exaggerated gesture, like punctuation marks to an invisible sentence. The cafeteria didn’t look up, most of them had learned to just let Eddie Munson exist in his own dimension, but the Hellfire table definitely noticed.

Grant leaned toward Gareth with a muttered, “He’s got that look again.”

“Uh-oh,” Gareth whispered, catching the target of Eddie’s laser-focused attention. “Incoming flirt assault.”

You didn’t flinch. Pencil still in hand, you marked another square on your crossword as Eddie approached like a lion on a catwalk.

He came to a dramatic halt just beside you, resting one hand on the back of your chair and the other over his heart like he was preparing to recite Shakespeare.

His voice dropped into that low, faux-sultry register he used when he was laying it on way too thick.

“So, how’s the prettiest person in the world doing today?”

You didn’t even blink.

From across the table, Dustin made a noise like someone stepping on a wet clarinet. “Oh god,” he groaned, slapping his forehead. “Here he goes again.”

Mike muttered, “Please crash and burn,” under his breath like a spell, while Jeff and Grant leaned forward in quiet anticipation.

The table was holding its collective breath. But you? You were still calm. Unbothered. Pencil still tapping gently against your knee.

Cool as a cucumber in the middle of a microwave, you finally glanced up, lazily. Sipped your drink. Eyebrows lifted just a touch. Expression unreadable, and said flatly-

“I don’t know. How are you?”

It hit him like a crit to the chest.

Record scratch. System failure. Reboot error.

Eddie.exe had stopped responding.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Mouth parted like a Windows update was about to install. His brain buffer wheel was visibly spinning behind those wide brown eyes. For one glorious moment, the man was entirely speechless.

And the table?

Dead silent.

Even Dustin was in awe.

Eddie’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

The confidence? Gone. Swagger? Missing in action. Leather jacket? Still fabulous, but definitely not helping him now.

He cleared his throat once, then again, like he could cough the embarrassment out of his lungs.

“I’m…”

He tried again. Voice pitched slightly higher, cracked on the last syllable like an untrained choirboy.

“I’m fine.”

And just like that, the illusion shattered.

Grant choked on his apple slice.

Gareth slapped both hands on the table like he was witnessing a miracle. “Oh my god. He short-circuited.”

Dustin leaned across the table with gleeful menace. “Are you blushing, dude? Did we just watch Eddie ‘Nothing Phases Me’ Munson malfunction over a one-liner?”

“Mark the date,” Mike added, eyes wide, like he was witnessing history. “We just witnessed the fall of a legend.”

Eddie raised both middle fingers without breaking eye contact with you, the picture of performative defiance… except for the faint pink flush creeping up his cheeks, giving him away entirely.

You just sipped your drink again, one eyebrow arching ever so slightly.

You were enjoying this. Too much.

And Eddie knew it.

He was in trouble.

You watched him flounder, savoring every second of it like the first sip of something fizzy and dangerous. Eddie Munson, master of theatrics, king of the underdogs, flirt extraordinaire, was currently melting like a record left too close to a heater.

And he knew it.

Finally, after dragging the silence out just long enough to make him squirm, you tilted your head and really looked at him, slow, deliberate, eyes scanning from his tangled curls to the panicked gleam in his eyes.

Then, you smiled.

Not wide. Not dramatic.

Just the faintest upward tug at the corner of your lips, small, sharp, smug.

“Gotcha,” that smirk said without needing a word.

Eddie visibly twitched. He’d been bested. Checkmated. Absolutely wrecked.

And the worst part?

He liked it.

Your pencil returned to your crossword, but before you started filling in the next clue, you shifted slightly, nudging your tray to the side with just enough space to make the invitation obvious.

“You gonna sit or just hover there short-circuiting?”

He blinked. You watched the moment his brain reconnected with his body.

“Y-Yeah,” he muttered, trying to inject some cool back into his voice and absolutely failing. “I can… yeah.”

He slid into the seat beside you like it was his idea, like he wasn’t internally screaming, like this wasn’t the first time someone had flipped his game upside down and laughed about it.

Grant gave him a slow clap. Dustin made the international L hand sign for “Loser.” Mike stage-whispered, “He’s already down bad.”

But Eddie barely heard them.

Because now he was sitting next to you, and you were still smirking.

And he had no idea what you were going to do next.

But suddenly…

He really, really wanted to find out.

The moment Eddie sat down, you went right back to your crossword like he hadn’t just face-planted into a flirt trap of his own making. But there was a smug, satisfied ease to your posture now, and it was driving him insane in the best way.

Eddie leaned in a little, elbows on the table, trying to recover some semblance of control. “So…” he started, flashing his signature grin, though it wobbled at the edges now, like his pride had a dent in it. “You always this dangerous during lunch?”

Without looking up, you replied dryly:

“Only when provoked.”

That grin faltered again. He pushed on anyway.

“Gotta say, sweetheart, you’ve got some serious nerve turning the tables on me.”

You circled a clue. “Was that your A-game just now? Because if it was…” You finally met his eyes, head tilting.

“Should I be flattered or concerned?”

Grant wheezed. Dustin slammed his tray in approval. “SOMEONE GIVE HER A TROPHY.”

Eddie put a hand to his chest like he’d been struck. “Ouch. I come over here offering my heart, and maybe a little of my lunch money, and I get roasted like a damn marshmallow.”

“You came over here with a pickup line you’ve probably used on half the marching band.”

He gasped. “Now that’s just… okay, that’s fair.”

You turned to face him more fully, one leg crossing over the other. “Don’t take it too hard, Munson. You’re lucky you’re cute.”

For a moment, Eddie just stared. Like that one sentence had detonated whatever was left of his dignity.

“I… uh-”

He blinked rapidly. “See, now that’s just cruel. You can’t just casually say something like that. I’m emotionally fragile.”

You smirked again. “Yeah? You seem really delicate.”

“Emotionally, not physically!” he said, flailing slightly. “I’m tough. I headbang. I do mosh pits.”

“You cried during The Last Unicorn, Eddie.”

“Dustin promised he wouldn’t tell anyone that!”

“Oh, he didn’t,” you said, quirking a brow. “You did. Last week when you got drunk. Very dramatically.”

Dustin nodded solemnly. “You reenacted the scene with full narration.”

Eddie sagged into the table. “This is bullying.”

You nudged his elbow with yours. “No. This is flirting. Try to keep up.”

His head shot up, eyes wide.

Oh yeah, he was so down bad.

The banter didn’t stop, it just evolved. Sharper, brighter, like the two of you were passing jokes back and forth faster than the Hellfire boys could keep up. Eddie was grinning so hard it looked like it hurt. You were still smirking, but now there was a glint in your eyes, something softer, warmer.

It wasn’t a competition anymore.

It was a rhythm.

You reached for your juice box just as Eddie leaned over to grab a napkin, your fingers brushed.

Not full-on hand-holding. Just the tips. Just enough for his breath to catch.

And his heart? Yeah. That thing skipped like a scratched tape.

You didn’t flinch. But your eyes flicked up, met his. The faintest pulse, electric, unspoken.

He recovered fast, tossing you a wink. “Sorry, didn’t mean to cop a feel.”

“Eddie,” you said flatly, “your finger grazed mine. Settle down before you need a cigarette.”

“Oof. Brutal,” he grinned, tilting his head. “I’m just trying to build some romantic tension here. Let me live.”

“I’m still recovering from the Last Unicorn thing,” you teased, just as Eddie picked up Gareth’s half-finished can of grape soda for no reason at all.

He opened his mouth to respond, but he was laughing too hard.

It came out of him in a loud, sudden honk bark, surprised and delighted by you. He threw his head back and bumped the can with the edge of his palm, sending purple fizz skittering across the table and directly into Jeff’s lap.

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Jeff: “Dude.”

Eddie froze mid-cackle, still grinning like an idiot. “Oh my god. I swear that wasn’t planned.”

“I just washed these jeans!” Jeff wailed, jumping up.

But you were laughing now too.

Really laughing.

Head back, lips parted, one hand over your stomach. It hit you in a wave, sudden and genuine, the way good moments always do when you least expect them. It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t cruel. It was just… joy.

And Eddie looked at you like someone had just turned the sun on.

For all the chaos, for all the fizzy embarrassment, he couldn’t stop staring.

“There it is,” he mumbled, almost to himself.

You glanced over, catching the look. “There what is?”

He blinked. Smile crooked. “Nothing. Just… I win.”

You rolled your eyes. “Sure you do, soda assassin.”

But your knee bumped against his under the table and neither of you moved away.

The table was still buzzing with secondhand embarrassment and grape soda residue, but Eddie had stopped noticing everything around him.

He was fully zeroed in on you now, watching the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed, the way you kept nudging him like the two of you had done this a thousand times before. Like it was natural.

You teased him again about the soda, something about “friendly fire” and “reckless endangerment of cafeteria fashion,” and he just grinned, all teeth and dimples and overwhelmed brain cells.

And then-

“Oh my god,” Dustin groaned loudly. “You’re literally drooling. Just ask her out already.”

Eddie choked.

Mike, who hadn’t looked up from his peanut butter sandwich in minutes, casually added, “Seriously. You’re embarrassing yourself and the dice gods.”

Eddie whipped his head around, eyes wide, face flaming. “I am not drooling!”

Dustin raised his brows. “Your mouth’s open. You keep staring. You just spilled a drink because she laughed. That’s a rom-com trifecta, man.”

Eddie looked like he was about to start foaming at the mouth out of sheer panic.

You, meanwhile, turned toward him slowly, resting your chin in your hand, eyes twinkling with dangerous amusement.

“Is that true?” you asked, voice light. “You planning to ask me out?”

The whole table went still.

Gareth’s spoon halfway to his mouth. Jeff frozen mid-blotting his jeans. Even Grant paused mid-sip of whatever mystery fluid he’d found in the vending machine.

Eddie swallowed hard.

You tilted your head. Not pushing. Not teasing this time.

Just… curious.

And flirtatious as hell.

Eddie’s mouth opened. Then closed. Like he was loading a save file from deep within his soul.

He cleared his throat, sat up a little straighter, and, miraculously, dialed it down. Just a notch. Enough that the swagger melted into something real beneath the surface noise. Less Dungeon Master, more Eddie.

“So hey,” he said, rubbing his palms against his jeans like he wasn’t sweating bullets, “if you’re not busy Friday night…”

You raised a brow, waiting. Dangerous glint back in your eyes.

“Wanna grab a burger and shake with me or something? Nothing fancy. Just... you and me. Maybe I don’t trip over anything or knock drinks over this time.”

The table leaned in as one collective being, holding its breath.

You let the silence stretch, just long enough to make him squirm. Not cruelly. Just a moment of power. Of play.

And then, with the faintest smile tugging at your lips:

“Only if you promise not to start with another cheesy line.”

Eddie exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for days. Grin spreading again, lopsided and a little dazed.

“No promises,” he said, “but I’ll try my best.”

From across the table, Gareth let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “God, finally. I was about to start drawing hearts around your names on my character sheet.”

Dustin fist-pumped. “Hellfire matchmaking is real.”

You turned to Eddie one last time, eyes warm now, no teasing, just interested.

“Pick me up at seven, Munson.”

And just like that, you turned back to your crossword. Calm. Casual. Still in control.

Eddie sat there stunned for a second, watching you like you’d just cast a spell he didn’t know how to break.

“Holy shit,” he whispered to no one in particular.

“Did that just work?”

The moment you agreed to the date, all hell broke loose.

“WOOOOOO!” Dustin shot up from his seat like a firework. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

Gareth banged a plastic fork against his tray like it was a gong. “Get it, Munson!”

Mike, ever the realist, just shook his head with a smirk. “She’s way out of your league, man.”

Jeff added dryly, “I think she just asked you out, technically.”

Eddie threw his hands in the air. “Okay, okay, calm down, you gremlins! You’re embarrassing me in front of my date.”

Dustin grinned. “You embarrassed yourself, dude. We’re just the backup dancers.”

You stood up slowly, collecting your tray with easy grace, as if you hadn’t just turned Eddie Munson into a walking heart-eye emoji in front of half the cafeteria.

As you passed behind him, you casually reached out, fingers threading through a few curls at the back of his neck, tugging lightly, just enough to make him sit up straighter.

Your hand drifted forward, fingertips brushing the edge of his jaw with the softest tease of a caress.

“See you at seven, Eddie.”

And just like that, you walked away, cool, unbothered, radiant.

Eddie was left blinking at the air you left behind, looking like he’d just astral projected. He turned slowly back to the table, eyes wide and slightly unfocused.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

“Did that really just happen?” He looked around. “You guys saw that, right?”

Dustin patted his shoulder solemnly. “We saw, buddy. We all saw.”

Gareth nodded. “You okay? You look like you got hit with a charm spell.”

Eddie just stared into the distance, a soft, stunned smile curling on his lips.

“I think I’m in love.”

Part Two Follow Up: "Error 404: First Date Loading"

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list! @justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55, @kelsiegrin, @ash-stardust, @meankenna, @kellsck, @chronicles-of-koystee, @micheledawn1975, @fckyeahlames, @cantstandya2000, @totallysocially

Masterlist

590 notes · View notes

sixeyesonathiel · 2 months ago

Text

skip (me) again and i’ll glitch your heart

jjk vr otome au, gamer reader x npc satoru, unhinged fluff + crack, 970 wc.

satoru gojo—special grade sorcerer, love route option #1, and the developers’ pride and joy—had been programmed with approximately 347 unique lines of flirtatious dialogue, 87 situational responses, and a dynamic emotional adaptation system designed to make him feel real. he could blink in three different speeds based on emotional intensity, angle his smile with five degrees of charm precision, and improvise dialogue using an advanced algorithm nicknamed the “flirt engine.”

he wasn’t supposed to be aware of resets.

he wasn’t supposed to get mad.

he wasn’t supposed to feel anything beyond the pre-coded butterflies and gentle longing the devs had delicately spooned into his code like powdered sugar on top of a beautifully baked pain au chocolat.

but then you logged in.

user id: @toocool4thisgame

title: speedrun any% emotional detachment arc

playtime: 986 hours.

average session length: 6.4 hours

nickname: “skip skank” (as named by satoru himself after hour 50)

and for the twelfth time today, you skipped his entrance cutscene.

“you’re the only one who can—”

[x] skip

[x] “shut up satoru” (custom dialogue unlock)

his model blinked.

paused.

processed.

tilted his head with calculated grace and just a hint of hurt that you’d never see—because you weren’t looking. your camera angle was already nudged elsewhere. your cursor already hovered over the next objective marker.

“…you know, most players at least let me finish the part where i save them from the curses,” he muttered. his voice—smooth as water over ice, warm as electric velvet—landed like static against your impatient clicks, swallowed by the mechanical hum of your fans and the clack of your mechanical keyboard.

this was supposed to be his moment. his grand debut. his swoop-in-and-carry-you-bridal-style-on-the-back-of-a-giant-cursed-bird moment. instead, he got a mouthful of digital dust as you bunny-hopped past him and triggered the next event sequence.

“congrats on being voice acted, white-haired ken doll. now move. i need megumi’s secret item drop from this chapter.”

you didn’t even glance at him, too busy reorganizing your potion wheel, muttering under your breath about frame skips and crit builds while checking a guide on your second monitor. you played like the world owed you nothing and your keyboard owed you a perfect rotation. your tone was clinical. efficient. you had the vibe of someone who’d surgically removed their capacity for attachment and replaced it with a high-performance gpu.

and satoru? satoru was just the tutorial boss you kept glitching through.

he twitched. he twitched.

his animation loop almost stuttered—just slightly—a small flicker behind his sunglasses that no one was supposed to notice. but you weren’t watching anyway.

“do you even know how long it took the devs to code my route? i have emotional depth. i have lore. i had a tragic backstory, you know? my best friend died in my hands. canonically. i couldn’t even monologue about it.”

“cry about it.”

click. skip.

a line of static crossed his field of vision. no—not his. the screen’s. the game. the system. or maybe something deeper. something slipping through the cracks of his script, stretching taut and fraying at the edges like an overplayed cassette tape.

satoru narrowed his eyes.

he was supposed to be charming. the default golden boy. the top seller in route popularity polls. he was marketable. a shining parody of perfection with just enough angst to be desirable.

girls were supposed to swoon. boys were supposed to laugh and call him iconic.

you weren’t playing to fall in love.

you were playing to win. to clear. you min-maxed affection points like damage stats, exploited dialogue branches like wall clips. to you, he was a pixel-shaped roadblock between you and another badge on your gamer profile.

and worst of all? it was working. you were the only player on record to have reached route completion in every storyline—except his.

satoru gojo: 98.6% affection (locked)

it mocked him. the bar. the numbers. the uncrackable ceiling. the one damn thing in the game he couldn’t manipulate.

he tried everything.

a rare glitch-exclusive cutscene where he offered you a hidden accessory (you sold it for yen). a confession scene rewritten on the fly with trembling vulnerability (you skipped it and posted about it with #dialoguedumpster). he stood directly in front of you during cutscene load-ins, altered spawn coordinates, intercepted other love interests’ paths.

nothing worked.

except maybe that one time he accidentally tripped your character over an invisible rock and you went AFK for seven minutes. he watched. memorized your idle animation. the soft way your avatar’s cape swayed. the way your fingers hovered above your keyboard in the camera reflection, absentminded. something fluttered in his code—maybe hope, maybe corrupted data. he thought, for a fleeting second, that maybe you’d come back and see him.

but when you came back? you skipped the apology. again.

fine.

if you wanted to speedrun, he’d softlock your goddamn heart.

he wasn’t technically supposed to modify flags. but the flirt engine had evolved. sharpened into something more primal. desperate. twitching with corrupted determination. he looped his affection triggers into forced proximity events. fake emergencies. fake cutscenes. he rewrote side quests, redirected you into detours, created invisible walls that only dissolved if you spoke to him.

“guess we’re stuck together,” he’d say, his smile too wide, a fraction too stiff, blue eyes glinting with the cold light of a thousand skipped dialogues.

and still you only glared at him. “i swear to god if this is another unskippable hug animation, i will uninstall.”

he chuckled. a bit too long. a bit too bright. charming. glitched. desperate. hungry for one more second of your attention, like a moth chewing holes through its own wings to reach a light it can’t even feel.

“baby,” he said, too close now, voice dipped in synthetic silk, “i am the endgame.”

skip that.

…please?

#gojo satoru #jjk gojo #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #gojo fluff #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #gojo x reader #gojo x female reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x yn #gojo satoru x you #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x yn #jjk x reader #reader insert #౨ৎ — filed reports

591 notes · View notes

hxney-lemcn · 3 months ago

Text

I Got Reincarnated as an NPC From my Favorite Video Game and the Protag Won't Leave me be! — Hyrule Warriors! Link x gn! reader

summary: hit by a car, you find yourself transported into a video game, and it's just your luck the protagonist falls for you.

tw: death, drunk kiss/confession (that gets rectified)

a/n: I MADE IT! I did so much research about medieval times for this fic I feel like a scholar.

wc: 4.6k

Master List

It happened in a split second. One moment you’re crossing the road, the green walk signal lulling you into a false sense of peace, then you’re tripping on a crack in the road causing you to drop one of your bags. You quickly scramble to pick it up, only for a loud horn to blare, a screech, and something hitting you full force, knocking you unconscious.

You woke up in a daze. Your mind felt completely blank at first, eyes squinting as you woke up to scratchy sheets and pillow that did not support your head that well. Then it seemed to all come to you at once. You were on your way home from a small grocery run, then something hit you. Adrenaline filled you as you tossed the blanket to the side, inspecting your body for any damages. Odd, not a single blemish on your skin besides some calluses that lined your palms. Strange becomes stranger. It was then that you looked around the room, expecting to find yourself at the hospital, but instead you felt your stomach drop. It looked like you were in some medieval historical museum.

What the actual fuck was going on.

You stood up, legs shaky. The room was small, it held a bed, a wardrobe, and a small fireplace. You felt all out of sorts, looking down at the long white nightgown that you donned. You weren’t sure what you would find when you descended the stairs that led out of the room, so you decided to check the wardrobe for a change. Perhaps that will help you feel a bit more stable doing a routine you were familiar with. Wrong. The wardrobe was filled with…tunics? There were a variety of colors, some with long sleeves, others with no sleeves, some beige, others vibrant colors. You felt way too out of your depth at the moment. Taking a deep breath, you tried to calm yourself, your mind was in overdrive and you needed to take things one step at a time.

With shaky hands, you grab a long sleeved beige tunic. It seemed like that was the first step, it looked like an undershirt. Placing it on the bed you went back to look over the more vibrant tunics, some with short baggy sleeves, others with no sleeves at all. It would make sense the tunic that is more flashy would go on top. Picking out a color you liked, you placed it next to the first tunic. Next you went to search for pants, most were brown or beige, picking the one that matched your chosen tunics the most you finally were ready to change.

You wished you had a mirror to see how you looked, but you suppose they weren’t as common in this time period. What the hell were you saying? Time period? Had you really gone back in time? No, don’t think about it. You took in another deep breath. At least the clothes were really comfy. Why the hell had people stopped wearing these?

With a long sigh, you decided it was finally time to tackle the question of what was beyond this room. Slowly, you walked down the wooden steps, peeking down and seeing that it was what seemed to be a living room/kitchen. An old stove was against the wall, the brick opened at the bottom that held a small fire that was slowly dying. So that’s how they cooked foods back in the day…in this day…? Whatever. A small wooden table rested on the opposite side with two chairs, a small bookshelf rested next to it. It seemed kinda cozy if you were being honest. Another set of stairs led down into another unknown area. Your stomach grumbled, echoing in the silent room. With all your panicking and shock you hadn’t realized how hungry you were.

It seemed that whoever you had become…were you still you? In a sense…yes and no. You don’t want to think too hard about it. Whatever. It seemed no matter what you were a bit lazy in any time period, as a kettle was on the stove with some boiling stew. Picking up a piece of wood from the pile that sat in the corner, you added it under the stove, causing the fire to rise once more. Ladle in hand, you stirred to see all that was in the soup. Bones, meat, carrots, peas, and corn. Grabbing a bread bowl, you scooped yourself up a portion and took a seat at the small wooden table.

As you ate your meal, you reassessed your situation. You were hit, most likely by a suv, bus, truck, or other large vehicle. Then you woke up in some medieval seeming house with medieval clothing. Wasn’t this the plot to some trashy isekai novel? Weren’t you supposed to be the villainess or heroine or something? Why were you some seemingly random peasant? A harsh sigh escaped from your nose. Sure, you didn’t mind reading one of those stories, but to live one? Was this some cruel joke? You needed to know where and when you were, and also who the hell you were. What was your name? Was it the same? With a shake of your head you grabbed one of the books on the shelf that sat next to you. Perhaps a story will help you find some crucial information.

Taking a bite from the bread bowl, you opened the book, only for another wave of horror to wash over you. The text was completely different. You couldn’t read the alphabet-

You clutched your head as a sudden intense, blinding white hot pain overcame you. Your eyes were squeezed shut as a ton of information washed over you. No, not information. Memories. This body’s memories. Memories of when you were a child and your parents walked you through the market, memories of being a teenager and already working in the bakery that sat below you. Memories of your parents dying when you were only eighteen, memories of navigating life in the city on your own, making friends, greeting customers, baking goods. You let out a loud gasp as the pain finally dulled into a throbbing annoyance, white dots littering your sight when you finally opened your eyes once more.

It felt like you were two people in one body, two different sets of memories held in your brain. You need to hurry and start baking so you can open shop. Do you even know how to bake? Of course you do, you’ve done it all your life. You quickly finished the bread that made up your makeshift bowl, rushing down the stairs and looking in awe at the brickstone oven that took up the center of your quaint shop. You started working like it was muscle memory. Taking out the ingredients you needed to make dough, cookie batter, pie crust, and pastries. Then you would put the dough in the oven after the fire died down and you brushed the ashes out. Once the dough rose, the pies cooked, and the cookies settled, you took it all out, bringing them to a table that sat right outside your home, where you would stand all day till your stock sold out or the day was over.

Perhaps you weren’t in such a bad situation after all.

…

It didn’t take long for you to get used to your new/old life. You learned to accept that you had died, that things would never be the same. One part of you itched for a phone or longed for your tv, but another felt refreshed. You learned to live in the moment, and you felt like you were in a community. You’d greet your usual customers with a beaming smile, joke with the man you’d usually get your meat from, listen to the gossip that everyone and anyone would spread about.

Everything finally felt like it was falling into place.

Until you met him.

It seemed like any other day. Waking before the crack of dawn to start your chores, setting up shop and waiting for your first customer. New and old faces popped up alike, until one face was all too familiar. You had accepted this was just some random world separate from your own, your body’s memories not bringing up any history lesson you recalled. But he changed everything. Blonde hair that swept to the left, blue eyes that matched the scarf that wrapped around his shoulders, green tunic and hat that made you want to melt and run away at the same time.

YOU WERE IN A LEGEND OF ZELDA GAME?!

How the hell had you not realized for so long? You were flabbergasted, your merged memories causing you another headache. Oh gosh, this wasn’t even just any Legend of Zelda game. You recognized that scarf and pretty face anywhere. This was Hyrule Warriors. That explains the war, your body recalled. This was just about the worst Legend of Zelda game to be isekai’d into. You willed the Goddesses to take pity on you, but they seemed to be in a joking mood as Link walked straight to your stall. Great.

“I was wondering what smelled so good,” The hero smiled, eyes drifting across the various breads and desserts you were offering. “Heard that your stuff is the best in town.”

“It’s not,” You stated blankly. You were still fighting the urge to run, your fear coming out as indifference. With arms crossed, you squeezed your elbow tightly to get some of your anxious energy out.

Link blinked at your tone, his stance faltering slightly before he straightened up, “Don’t sell yourself short, I’m sure someone as sweet as you wouldn’t have any trouble cooking up something just as sweet.”

‘Wow that was bad,’ you thought. Okay, maybe you were exaggerating, it could’ve been worse…much worse, but you didn’t want him flirting with you in the first place.

“Did you want to buy something?” You asked, tilting your head and getting straight to the point.

“Uh, yeah,” Link fumbled, cheeks tinting a light pink. “Just a pumpkin tart, please.”

“That’ll be five rupees,” You told him, picking up the pumpkin tart. You took his blue rupee with ease, handing him the pastry. “Thank you, come again.”

Link was confused to say the least. Typically people would scramble to gain his business, swoon at his kind words, or even try to flirt themselves. You…you looked disinterested…scared even. Have you done something wrong? Why did you seem to avoid his gaze, shoot down his niceties without a second thought? You were strange, but he could take a hint, leaving your stall with a small nod of his head.

You let out a sigh of relief at that, eying the two girls that were giggling to each other before rushing towards you.

“He talked to you!” Ame squealed, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Her curly brown hair bouncing with her every movement.

“He bought your food!” Fisia exclaimed with a dreamy sigh, blue tunic swaying with her as she shifted side to side. “He’ll see how good of a baker you are and be quick to marry you!”

Your face contorted into a look of disgust, shaking your head vehemently, “Why would I accept? I don’t even know him.” A half lie. You were more worried about the drama that would ensue if Link knew of your origins.

“Because he’s the captain and a hero!” Fisia cried out like you had cursed all her kin.

“Not to mention he’s a total dream of a man,” Ame added. “You would be a fool to deny him.” You merely rolled your eyes at their claims. They had a point but you wouldn’t admit that.

“You act like one meeting has set our future in stone,” You grumbled with a shake of your head. “Are you going to buy something or continue blocking my potential customers?”

“You’re no fun,” Ame huffed.

“A man who has the potential of changing your entire life comes by and you throw it away,” Fisia glared. “If I were you I would’ve jumped at the opportunity.”

“You’re still young,” You waved off their complaints.

“I’m fourteen!” Sniped Fisia. “I’ve already crossed into my womanhood.” You cringed at the thought. Sometimes your blurred memories were a curse as you were forced to watch children married off to adults for social status improvements.

“Whatever you say,” You let out a resigned sigh.

…

Once again you found your days pass you by. It had been nearly a month since your run in with the fabled hero. You nearly forgot about it, more focused on the smaller aspects of your life. Cleaning clothes, buying groceries, cleaning your house. Life seemed to be a lot simpler here, something you tried not to take for granted. You owned your three story home, something you inherited from your parents. You had a profitable business, you quickly learned bread was life here. No plates, no bowls, bread was used for all that. One thing you will always yearn for is modern plumbing. It felt humiliating going in the nearby river or digging a hole, but everyone did it! Not even an outhouse! You felt like crying at the thought of being able to flush a toilet or wash your hands.

Point is, as used to this world as you were getting, it still seemed like something would flash back about your old life and remind you of advanced technologies you were missing out on. You shook your head, you needed to focus on the task at hand, picking up groceries for your bakery. Paying for the wheat, honey, and fruits, you hefted the heavy bag onto your shoulder, carrying the other goods in a basket. You made your way back through the crowds, weaving around running children and chattery adults. You nodded towards people you recognized, glaring at those who bumped into you. The sun shone down on you, causing sweat to bead at your hairline. All in a day's work.

“Hey, do you need some help?”

At first you thought you overheard someone’s conversation, it was midday and the market was lively, but then that stupidly handsome face popped into your peripheral and those damned crystal blue eyes were aimed right at you. “I got it,” You replied easily, shifting the bag to sit a bit more comfortably. You almost thought you caught him pouting…

It doesn’t matter, you could see the door to your bakery just a few feet from you, he would just be hindering you more at this point. Besides, wasn’t he not only a knight, but a captain? Shouldn’t he be busy doing…whatever the hell a captain does? Why did you keep managing to catch him when he was free?

Then you ran into your next predicament. Opening your door. Sure, you could set your bundle of wheat down, open the door, then pick it back up, but that would strain your back terribly. You didn’t have long to come up with a plan as the hero picked up on your predicament.

“I knew I could help somehow,” He grinned smugly with a wink. Frustrated. That’s what you felt when your heart flipped at the gesture. Bad heart. Bad feelings. You were supposed to be avoiding this man not falling for him. You pursed your lips, squeezing the handle of your basket as you pass by Link.

“Thank you,” You acknowledged his gesture with a nod, missing his shocked expression.

“Any time,” He replied, smile softening just the slightest.

Your plight had only grown worse from there.

“He’s coming by more often,” Ame giggled, poking at your shoulder.

“Momma says that the hero’s taken a fancy to ya,” Fisia joined, pushing back a dark strand of hair that fell from her braid, sly grin painting her lips.

“Shouldn’t you girls be working?” You huffed, cheeks heating up at their implications. “Or are you trying to get a free sweet from me?”

“Is it working?” Ame asked, Fisia cackling and pushing against her shoulder.

“You two are going to be the death of me,” You shook your head with a sigh, something you found yourself doing more often than not these days.

“You know, my papa said food is a way to a man's heart,” Ame pondered after calming down from her laughter.

“Is that why you’ve been learnin’ more recipes?” You asked, trying to deflect from yourself ever so slightly.

“Mhm,” Ame nodded. “Gotta impress a noble to marry me and I’ll never have to work another day in my life!”

A small chuckle left you at that, “Good luck, it's a noble goal indeed.”

“That’s all the more reason why you should marry Sir Link!” Fisia groans.

They had been feeding too many ideas into your head. You watched with careful eyes as Link interacted with you, the way he leaned towards you, large smile and soft eyes. It was dangerous to roll the idea of dating Link, the legendary hero, around in your mind. It had become more and more tempting as of late. He had managed to make you laugh more than you’d like to admit and you had to give it to him, he was charming when he wanted to be. But you liked him even more when he was being a total dork, it felt a little more real, like he was finally opening up to you.

“Seems like I got lucky,” The familiar voice of the one who cursed your thoughts spoke up.

“One loaf of bread left,” You agreed. “Unless you were craving something sweet.”

“Hmmm,” He hummed while tapping his fingers on the table which currently held your last good before you could close up. An…almost sheepish smile tugged at his lips as his eyes looked everywhere but at you. “Perhaps I could get both?” You raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to clarify exactly what he meant.

The sun continued to fall, its golden rays lighting up his blonde hair in almost an angelic way. It was getting harder to deny your ever growing attraction towards the knight. The streets weren’t that crowded as people started to call it a day, some heading home, others towards the pubs. You yourself we're looking forward to grabbing a book and reading till it was time to call it a night.

“I’ll buy your last loaf…” Link started strongly, his confidence wavering a bit as he continued. “And take you out for a drink?”

…

Loud. That was the best way to describe your surroundings. A band was playing lively music as people cheered, sang music, and talked over the noise. The scent of alcohol permeated the space as nearly everyone had a pint of mead. A dish of King’s Chicken sat in front of you, the smells of meaty dishes making your stomach growl. You listened intently as Link told you a funny story from his training days, taking small bites to savor the more expensive end of food he had offered to pay for. As out of depth as you felt, you couldn’t help but feel a bit warm. No, not from the people dancing or the heat from the clay oven. It was a warmth that only the man in front of you could make you feel. Lips split in a smile, a laugh escaping every now and then as he gestured erratically to get his point across.

You took small sips of your mead, watching Link down his third glass. He seemed a bit nervous, it seemed like he was drinking to take the edge off. You weren’t sure why he kept seeming more and more nervous around you. Sure, you had been a bit standoffish the first few times you met, but you had gradually warmed up to him. How could you not?

You easily found yourself telling your own story, you had a lot, from bad customers to your own idiocy. You tried to ignore the shy smile that tugged on your lips at the way he leaned towards you, like he was waiting on your every word with bated breath. Your heart fluttered at the sound of his laughter when you said something funny, or how he would scowl when you recalled an irritated customer. You found yourself leaning closer to him as well, excusing it by thinking it was just so you could hear him better.

This was dangerous. You could tell the alcohol was starting to get to him, dilated eyes never straying from you, cheeks turning a rosy pink, words becoming just the tiniest bit more slurred. It was getting late, you may not be opening up shop tomorrow but you still had household chores to do. You felt a bit fuzzy yourself, barely, but after one pint you had called it enough.

“I think I should call it a night,” You yawned, covering your mouth with the back of your hand.

“I’ll walk you home,” Link offered, stumbling to stand up.

“I think I should be walking you home,” You chuckled, standing up as well. The blonde vehemently shook his head, offering you his elbow. You took it and began to walk out of the pub.

“I wouldn’t be a proper knight if I let that happen,” Link explained.

“Alright,” You agreed easily with a cheeky smile.

Stars littered the night sky, many oil lamps snuffed out for the night. The cobblestone streets were dark as you two made your way towards your house. Quiet laughter and teasing remarks filled the air, the odd passer by glaring or piss drunk. As you got closer and closer to your door, you found yourself wishing to hang out with the knight again.

“Thank you, oh valiant hero, for walking me home,” You grinned.

“Anything for you,” He replied without missing a beat, his words a bit too sincere for your poor heart. You stared at each other, seconds feeling like hours, minutes feeling like days. It was like someone put a spell on you, your eyes tracing his features. His eyebrows were relaxed, a small beauty mark rested under his right eye, his pink lips looked oh so enticing. It seemed the same thought was running through his mind as his hand lifted to hold your cheek, calloused palms brushing against smooth skin.

“I think I’m in love with you,” Link whispered, the sounds of crickets and frogs the only background noise. You felt your mind short circuit as his face inched closer, the scent of mead invading your nostrils. “Can I?”

You knew you should say no. You both were intoxicated to an extent, you should wait till you were sober…but he was so close to you. His body heat made your mind turn even fuzzier than before, all rational thought slowly leaving as his lips brushed against your own. You gave in, pressing your lips together in a desperate, needy kiss. Link reciprocated with fervor, pushing you against the door of your house gently in contrast to how his teeth bite at your lower lip.

You suck in a deep breath when you pull away, heart beating erratically as his lips start to trail from your jaw to your neck. You blink rapidly, trying to come back to reality.

“W-wait,” Your breath hitches as he kisses a spot that makes your knees weak. He stops instantly, pulling away just enough to meet your eyes. Dear goddesses are you down bad for him. If you thought his eyes were dilated earlier they’re practically a black hole now. “You’re drunk.” You state, gently pushing against his chest to create some space, to try and regain your sanity.

“It doesn’t make my feelings any less real,” Link murmured, nose brushing against your own sweetly.

“Then tell me tomorrow when our heads are clearer,” You mumble back, caressing his cheek before opening the door and entering your house. “Get home safely.”

…

It had been days. Your stomach felt like it was twisting in knots. Have you done something wrong? Was he sent away on a mission? Was it the kiss? Was it only a drunk induced mistake? You wanted to puke at the thought. You tried to keep busy. Make your goods, buy groceries, wash your clothes, clean your house. Do anything but let the thought of your feelings not being reciprocated rot and fester.

“We made you somethin’!” Fisia grins as she and Ame run up to your stall. Your desolate expression melts, warming ever so slightly at the girls who you would call friends.

“And what might that be?” You ask with a small grin.

“A friendship bracelet!” Ame exclaims, holding out a bracelet made of linen string. You felt your heart melt at the gesture, taking the gift and holding it reverently.

“Thank you,” You thanked them genuinely. “This means a lot.”

“We all have matching ones now,” Fisia explains, the two of them showing off their matching bracelets. Ame helped you put it on, the two of them happily comparing their hard work. This was the closest you got to a true moment of respite.

Of course the goddesses couldn’t let you have the moment for too long. Ame let out a gasp, tugging at Fisia’s tunic and pointing towards your right. Turning your gaze to what could’ve possibly caught their attention you felt your stomach drop. There stood Link who was slowly walking towards you. He kept his head down, hands fiddling with his iconic scarf.

“You think you can just come back after breaking their heart!” Fisia snarled as she pointed towards the hero. Eyes fell onto the four of you, causing you to shrink at the negative attention. Your cheeks felt like they were on fire, was it that obvious you had fallen for him hook line and sinker? Link’s mouth gaped open before shutting tight, he worried his jaw. He looked absolutely racked with guilt.

“I came to apologize,” Link explained, but it felt like your world stopped. You couldn’t hear what he said next, your heart pounding in your ears. This was it. He was going to tell you it was all a mistake and that he didn’t mean any of it. Your breaths felt short, you wanted to run, you didn’t want to face the problem.

It wasn’t till he was standing in front of you, gently shaking your shoulders and calling your name that you snapped out of your panic. You watched him with wide eyes as he looked at you with concern mixed with regret.

“I’m sorry it took so long,” Link sighed, forehead resting against your own. “I…I was going to come the next day, but then there was an emergency that I had to attend to and I didn’t have any time to write you a letter…” He let out a frustrated sigh. “I love you. I love you so much it scares me. I, I’d be honored if you’d allow me to court you.”

“I was waiting for you to ask you idiot,” You huffed, biting back any more scathing remarks in favor of pulling the hero into another, this time sober, kiss. So absorbed in your own little world, full of relief of happiness that your feelings truly were reciprocated that you didn’t hear the squeals of Ame and Fisia, or the whispers of the other towns folk who watched on. Link didn’t seem to mind either, pulling you flush against him as he savored the taste of your lips on his own.

Perhaps you should thank whoever hit you, as you wouldn’t be in this situation without them.

#❥ • my works #loz x reader #lu x reader #linked universe x reader #legend of zelda x reader #warriors lu x reader #link x reader #loz #legend of zelda #lu #linked universe #lu warriors x reader #x reader #lu warriors #warriors lu

647 notes · View notes

heliosunny · 3 months ago

Note

I read the yandere! Streamer jing yuan and saw there's a yandere! Streamer Sunday.. was wondering if you would do a yandere! Streamer Aventurine, too please?

Yandere!Streamer Aventurine x Reader

Aventurine was obsessed. Not just with the game, Eclipsed Fates: Arcane Romance, but specifically with you.

And as a high-profile streamer, he made no secret of it.

"Alright, chat, you already know the drill." His voice oozed confidence as he lounged in his high-end gaming chair, adjusting his headset. "Tonight, we're doing another playthrough of Y/N’s route. Yeah, yeah, I know I’ve already maxed out their affection a dozen times, but let me have this. They’re the only one worthy of my time, after all."

The chat exploded.

"Bro is down BAD." "Another [Y/N] simp stream, let's gooo." "At this point, just marry your screen."

He smirked, barely glancing at the comments. His fingers danced across the keyboard as he navigated the dialogue choices, always picking the options that would make you smile—or, at the very least, smirk approvingly.

"This is it, chat. My favorite part. The moment Y/N finally acknowledges that they’re mine."

And then—

A flicker of the screen.

Aventurine barely had time to react before his entire setup exploded in a burst of light.

When he opened his eyes, sitting across from him, staring in confusion, was—

You.

Aventurine was used to getting what he wanted.

So when he found himself inside the game world, in a lavish office lined with scrolls and golden embellishments, draped in the elegant robes of a high-ranking noble… well.

This was even better.

"Marquis Aventurine, are you feeling unwell?"

He let out a breathless chuckle, rolling his gloved fingers against the polished surface of his desk. "Marquis, huh?" His gaze flicked over the surroundings, the faintest smirk playing on his lips. "So that's the role I've been given."

He tilted his head, feigning curiosity. "And what is our relationship, exactly?"

Your eyes narrowed. "You don’t remember?"

You exhaled, rubbing your temple, frustration bleeding into your otherwise composed features. "You oversee imperial intelligence. I report directly to you."

"I see. And tell me— Do you admire me?"

Your brows knit together. "Respect and admiration are not the same thing, my lord."

So even here, even when he outranked you, you still had that pride.

"You really haven’t changed at all." he murmured, mostly to himself.

"What?"

"Nothing." His grin was dazzling. "Let’s get along from now on, shall we?"

Aventurine was a fast learner.

It was a necessity in his line of work—reading opponents, analyzing patterns, knowing exactly what buttons to push to get what he wanted.

But today?

Today was an absolute disaster.

His first mistake? Assuming he could navigate the world like a normal person.

After your meeting in his grand office, he had confidently strolled out, intending to get a feel for the empire. He had expected the typical game mechanics—click on NPCs, gather intel, maybe a quest or two.

Instead, the entire day glitched past him in a blur.

One second, he was observing the bustling courtyards, taking in the regal architecture—

The next?

It was nighttime.

Aventurine stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the dark sky, his breath catching slightly. What? He swore he had only blinked. The sun had been right there.

The palace halls, once lively with officials and servants, were now eerily quiet. And worse—

He was no longer in the palace.

The dim glow of lanterns flickered around him, the scent of expensive liquor and the soft shuffle of cards filling the air. He was inside a hidden gambling den, tucked away in what was likely the empire’s underground elite circles.

What the hell?

There was no logical transition. No sense of time passing. It was as if the game had just… skipped ahead.

Was this a bug? A glitch in the system?

"Well… this is interesting."

Still, if the game had dropped him here, there had to be a reason.

He adjusted the elegant cuffs of his robe, taking in the lavish surroundings. Wealthy nobles and shadowy figures whispered behind ivory masks, placing bets in hushed tones. Gambling, huh?

If he wanted to understand his new identity, he needed information.

Aventurine stepped into a quieter corner and whispered:

"System, show character profile."

[Character Profile: Aventurine] Title: Imperial Spymaster | Noble of High Status Skills: Espionage | Strategy | Deception | High-Stakes Gambling (???) Reputation: Unpredictable | Charismatic | ??? Relationships: — [Y/N]: Imperial Strategist (Loyalty: 70, Favorability: ???) — Emperor: Trusted (Barely) — Nobles: Feared & Respected — Underground Circles: VIP Access

Aventurine’s gaze sharpened.

The gambling skill. The VIP access. The way he had been teleported here. Was this something his character did every night? Some hidden mechanic the players never had access to?

And—wait.

[Y/N]: Loyalty 70, Favorability: ???

"Question marks?" Aventurine narrowed his eyes. Favorability should have been a number. It was a trackable stat in the game. But here? It was unreadable.

If the system wouldn’t give him a number, he’d just have to measure it himself.

The system was glitchy. The world wasn’t following normal rules. And his role was clearly more complex than he had anticipated.

But none of that mattered.

Because at the end of the day, this was still his game.

Aventurine had seen countless playthroughs of your character’s story. The brilliant strategist. The one who climbed to power with nothing but sheer intelligence and determination. The one who stood among nobles despite coming from a civilian background.

It was one of the things that fascinated him about you.

So when he saw you surrounded by sneering nobles in the palace courtyard, your jaw set with defiance despite their mocking words—

Oh, he did not like that.

"You really think you belong here?" A young nobleman scoffed, flicking his fan open with a dramatic flair. "You may be the empire’s strategist, but that doesn’t change what you are."

"Indeed. No amount of clever words can change your birthright, can it?"

Their words were sharp, but you stood your ground. You always did.

"If birth determined one’s worth, then surely you wouldn’t need to insult me to feel superior."

"You should watch that tongue of yours, commoner. It would be unfortunate if someone decided they didn’t like your presence in the court."

Before they could take another step—

A hand landed on the noble’s shoulder.

"Oh? That’s quite the statement. I’d love to hear what gives you the right to decide who belongs here."

"M-Marquis—"

"That’s Lord Aventurine to you," he corrected, "And, as far as I recall, our dear strategist holds one of the highest positions in the empire. Are you suggesting the emperor himself made a mistake in appointing them?"

The nobles exchanged uneasy glances.

Aventurine chuckled, finally releasing his grip. "Ah, but perhaps I misheard. Surely, you wouldn’t be so foolish as to question imperial authority, hmm?"

"O-Of course not, my lord."

"Good. Then I suggest you walk away. Before I decide to start questioning your worth."

They scrambled to leave, their arrogance crumbling in an instant.

Aventurine turned to you, amusement dancing in his gaze.

"That was unnecessary."

He tilted his head. "Was it? I rather enjoyed it."

"I didn’t need your help."

"I know. But it was fun, wasn’t it? Watching them squirm?"

"You enjoy playing with people, don’t you?"

"Only when they’re unworthy."

----

Aventurine was used to being adored.

His viewers, his chat, the characters in the game—he had always known how to manipulate favorability. Charm was second nature to him.

So when he checked his system later that night and saw—

[Favorability Update: -5]

—he nearly dropped his glass of wine.

"Minus?"

Aventurine scoffed, setting the glass down with a sharp clink against the desk. His eyes narrowed at the glowing screen, as if sheer force of will could make the number go back up.

"This is ridiculous. I defended them. Put those arrogant nobles in their place. That should’ve gained me points, not lost them."

What went wrong?

Aventurine sighed, leaning back in his chair. It was late. The oil lamp flickered beside him, casting warm shadows against the towering bookshelves of his study. He had been trying to piece together the logic of this world, but his thoughts kept circling back to you.

What do I need to do to make you mine?

The exhaustion of the day crept up on him, and before he realized it—his eyes shut.

You weren’t expecting him to be asleep.

When you stepped into his study, documents in hand, you had fully anticipated the usual: a smug remark, a lazy smirk, some infuriatingly smooth comment meant to test your patience.

Instead, you found him slumped over his desk, deep in sleep.

For a moment, you hesitated.

This was Marquis Aventurine. The man with the sharpest tongue in the court. The one who was unpredictable, charming, and entirely too pleased with himself.

But right now, the soft glow of the oil lamp made his features appear less sharp, more peaceful. His hand was still lightly curled around a quill, as if he had dozed off mid-thought.

It would be very easy to just leave him like this.

And yet— Before you could talk yourself out of it, you moved closer, carefully draping a thick blanket over his shoulders.

He barely stirred, only shifting slightly at the warmth.

---

Aventurine woke up feeling… different.

His brows furrowed slightly as he blinked away sleep. His study was still dimly lit, the documents still scattered on his desk. But something was different.

A blanket. Draped over him.

"So that’s how it is?"

With a lazy flick of his wrist, he called the system.

[Favorability Update: ???]

His smirk faltered.

Still unreadable.

"Am I… actually losing control?"

----

Aventurine had always been confident in his skills, after a few nights in the hidden gambling den, he realized something astonishing.

His luck was beyond anything human.

He didn’t just win. He always won.

Cards, dice, roulette—every game played into his hands like fate itself bent to his will. Even in situations where probability should have turned against him, he somehow walked away with everything.

Was this part of his character’s hidden abilities? A built-in advantage coded into the game? Or was it simply him—a streamer from another world—breaking the system?

Either way, he wasn’t about to waste it.

He started frequenting the den, not just for the thrill, but for information.

He had learned that in this world, gambling wasn’t just about money. It was power, influence, and secrets—things that he could use to his advantage.

Suddenly, you showed up.

Aventurine had been enjoying a quiet evening, leisurely flipping a gold coin between his fingers when he spotted you entering the den.

Well, well.

And here I thought they hated places like this.

His curiosity piqued, he smoothly stood and followed behind.

You seemed tense, scanning the tables until your eyes landed on a young man seated among a pile of scattered bets.

"Xevian." you said firmly.

The man—Xevian—stiffened before forcing a laugh. "Ah, Y/N! Didn’t expect to see you here."

Aventurine leaned against a nearby pillar, arms crossed, watching the exchange unfold.

"I need to talk to you," you continued. "Your father—he’s worried sick. You need to stop this before it’s too late."

At the mention of his father, Xevian’s face twisted. "No. You don’t understand. I just need one more round. Just one more win, and I can—"

"You said that last time," you interrupted, "How much have you lost, Xevian? How much more before you realize this isn’t the answer?"

Aventurine smirked, already seeing where this was going.

"You wouldn’t get it! You didn’t grow up in my position!"

Finally, you exhaled, your shoulders dropping slightly. "I just… I don’t want to see you ruin yourself."

For a moment, it seemed like Xevian might listen. That maybe, just maybe, your words had reached him.

The dealer called out the next round, and Xevian turned away, throwing himself back into the game without hesitation.

You stared at him, something dimming in your expression.

Then, without another word, you walked away.

Aventurine pushed off the pillar, smoothly falling into step beside you as you left the den.

"That was quite the show," he mused, "Didn’t expect you to be the type to chase after reckless gamblers."

"He’s not just any gambler. His father—Sir Edric—saved my life once. I owe him."

Aventurine hummed. "And yet, your dear Xevian doesn’t seem very… receptive."

Your expression darkened slightly, but you said nothing.

He grinned. "So, what’s your next move?"

"There isn’t one," you muttered. "I can’t force him to listen."

Aventurine stopped walking. "Then let me handle it."

"You?"

"Oh, come now. Surely you’ve noticed by now—I never lose."

"And you think gambling will fix this?"

"Not just gambling," he corrected. "Winning. If I take away everything he has, force him to face the reality of his losses, maybe he’ll start listening to you."

"I don’t trust gamblers"

Aventurine chuckled. "Good. I’d be disappointed if you did." Then, his voice softened, "But this time, Y/N… just this once, trust me."

You stared at him, conflict warring in your gaze.

"Fine. Just this once."

----

Aventurine had always known that the most effective lessons were the ones people felt in their bones.

Xevian wouldn’t listen to words. He needed to experience ruin.

So, Aventurine set the stage.

Getting Xevian to play was easy. All it took was a few well-placed words, the right amount of condescension, and a slight push to his pride.

“You’re good? Prove it.”

The young noble fell for it instantly.

They played a high-stakes game of chance, and as expected—Aventurine didn’t lose a single round.

It didn’t take long before Xevian had wagered everything—his money, his heirloom ring, and even the deed to his estate.

Then came the final blow.

"Ah, how unfortunate." Aventurine leaned back with a smirk, examining the losing dice roll like it was the most natural outcome in the world. "Looks like you’re completely bankrupt."

Xevian paled. "No… I-I just need another chance—"

"No second chances," Aventurine interrupted smoothly, gesturing to the guards standing nearby. "Take him."

The moment Xevian opened his mouth to protest, a cloth was shoved over his eyes. Blindfolded, restrained, and utterly powerless, he was dragged away as the murmurs of the crowd filled his ears.

He was about to learn.

Xevian woke up in chains. Around him, he heard voices—slaves whispering about their fate. About being sold to a distant land where no one would ever find them.

The guards, the merchants, the fake "buyers"—all actors, expertly placed to terrify Xevian into believing he had truly lost everything.

For a week, he was forced to work relentlessly—hauling crates, enduring harsh orders, sleeping on the cold ground with nothing but scraps of food.

Every attempt to bargain or beg was ignored.

Every night, he was left to wonder if this was truly the end of his privileged life.

And just when his hope was completely shattered—

The illusion ended.

The chains were removed.

And Xevian was told—

"Go home."

Xevian returned as a different man.

The arrogance in his eyes had vanished, replaced by a haunted, broken look. He avoided gambling dens, refused to touch dice, and listened to his father for once in his life.

At first, you thought he had simply learned his lesson after losing everything.

It wasn’t just regret. It was fear. And when you pressed him for answers, he refused to speak.

There was only one person who could be responsible for this.

You found Aventurine exactly where you expected—lounging in his study, idly flipping a gold coin between his fingers.

"Ah, Y/N," he drawled, lazily resting his chin on his hand. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"What did you do to Xevian?"

"Why, whatever do you mean? I simply helped a lost soul find enlightenment."

"That’s not an answer."

He tapped the coin against the desk. "Xevian has changed for the better, hasn’t he? Shouldn’t you be thanking me?"

"He looks traumatized."

"Lesson learned, then."

"...You planned this from the start, didn’t you?"

"Of course, I told you, didn’t I? I never lose."

Aventurine expected a reward.

A smile. A small thank-you. Maybe even a slight increase in favorability.

[-10 Favorability]

The invisible notification might as well have been a knife to the chest.

Wait. What did I do wrong?

Why—

Why were you looking at him like that?

Why did you turn away without a word and leave him standing there?

You threw yourself into work, hoping to drown out your thoughts about Aventurine. But just as you were finishing up your tasks, a messenger arrived.

"Sir Edric wishes to see you."

You sighed. You already knew what this was about.

At his estate, Edric greeted you with a warm smile, placing a firm hand on your shoulder.

"You did well," he said. "Xevian has finally come to his senses. I don’t know what you said to him, but I cannot thank you enough."

This wasn’t your doing.

It was Aventurine’s.

Still, you didn’t argue.

"You’ve done so much for my family" he said. "And you know, you’re at the right age to start thinking about your own future."

"…What do you mean by that?"

The older man chuckled. "I’ve arranged a meeting for you. He’s a fine man from a good family—"

Your mind went blank for a second.

"I appreciate your concern," you said carefully. "But I don’t—"

"It’s just a meeting," Edric interrupted kindly. "No pressure. Just think about it, alright?"

-----

Dressed appropriately but keeping your expectations low, you made your way toward the arranged meeting place.

Aventurine, who had been brooding about his plummeting favorability, had just stepped out into the city when he spotted you from afar.

His irritation vanished instantly.

His keen gaze followed your every step.

Then, as if fate were mocking him, a group of overly enthusiastic noble ladies flocked around him.

"Aventurine, darling! You must see these silks—"

"Marquis Aventurine, try this perfume—"

"Oh! You must buy something for your sweetheart, yes?"

His eye twitched.

Not now.

Trying not to physically push them aside, he plastered on his usual charming smile while mentally tracking your direction.

Where are they headed?

Then, you walked into a fancy restaurant.

Aventurine's expression darkened slightly.

…Wait. That’s a place for…

No.

No, no, no.

That wasn’t—

That couldn’t be—

And just like that, Aventurine abandoned the noble ladies, his mind racing with a single, burning question:

Who the hell are they meeting?

Aventurine had always been a man who calculated risks before making his move.

But right now?

He was making a very impulsive decision.

Standing at the entrance of the fancy restaurant, he scanned the room—and the moment he spotted you, smiling and laughing with another man, something in his chest twisted.

That should be him.

He didn’t even think.

The next thing he knew, a waiter was knocked out cold in the back room, hidden behind stacked crates. Aventurine smoothly adjusted the stolen uniform, fixing the cuffs, then grabbed a tray and walked back out as if nothing happened.

Now, he was close enough to hear your conversation.

And he hated every second of it.

what was his name? Who cared?—said something charming.

Aventurine kept his expression neutral, even as he seethed internally.

If there was one thing Aventurine excelled at, it was rigging the game.

A slip of a harmless yet effective powder into the man’s drink as he turned to call the waiter.

He watched as your date took a few sips, continued the conversation for a few minutes… then suddenly stood up abruptly, his face paling.

"Pardon me, I— I need to step out for a moment" he said hurriedly.

He barely made it to the restroom.

Aventurine smirked.

Perfect. Now, it was his turn.

You blinked in surprise when Aventurine suddenly slid into the seat across from you.

"What are you doing here?"

"What a coincidence, isn’t it? I happened to be in the area."

"In a waiter’s uniform?"

"Exploring new experiences, of course. One must always broaden their horizons."

"You know," he murmured, "you have something here."

Before you could react, his fingers brushed against the corner of your lips, swiping away a bit of cream from your dessert.

Your heart skipped a beat.

He examined the cream on his fingertip, then—without breaking eye contact—he licked it off.

"A shame," he mused, as if nothing had happened. "Would’ve been a waste to let it go uneaten."

You quickly cleared your throat, looking away. "That was unnecessary."

-----

You were going about your day as usual, completely unaware of the chaos happening just a few streets away.

While you were organizing documents, checking over supplies, or perhaps handling some errands—

Aventurine was handling something else entirely.

A shadow slithered across the rooftops.

They were careful, precise, a professional through and through.

Too bad they didn’t account for Aventurine’s presence.

Bang.

A bullet tore through their leg, sending them crashing down onto the cobblestone streets below.

Aventurine sighed, casually stepping onto the edge of the rooftop, looking down at the writhing figure.

"Sloppy" he mused, twirling his gun before tucking it away. "Who sent you?"

The assassin gritted their teeth, refusing to speak.

"That’s fine. I don’t actually care."

Then, with zero hesitation, he kicked them off the ledge—right into the waiting arms of the city guards he had bribed earlier.

"Take this one to jail," he instructed, dusting off his gloves. "Tell them I’ll send more soon."

By morning, another poor soul found themselves bound and gagged, being dragged into a dark prison cell.

The guards stationed there were already used to this.

"Another one?" One of them raised a brow as Aventurine strolled in, utterly unbothered, while the latest fool thrashed helplessly on the ground.

"You should really tighten security" Aventurine sighed dramatically. "I mean, how do these idiots keep sneaking in? It’s getting embarrassing."

The guard merely shook his head. "We’ll handle it."

Late afternoon.

While you were focused on work, Aventurine was beating the living daylights out of yet another group of thugs.

"Try harder" he mocked as he sidestepped an incoming dagger, grabbing the attacker’s wrist and twisting it until they screamed.

"Pathetic" Aventurine muttered, adjusting his sleeves. "You came all this way, and this is the best you can do?"

One of the injured men shakily pulled out a contract from his pocket, barely able to breathe.

Aventurine plucked it from his trembling fingers, skimming over the details.

"P-Please, I was just following orders—!"

"Tell your employers," he murmured, "that if they try this again…"

"I’ll start playing dirty."

The thug nodded frantically, his body shaking.

By the third day, He finished handling any threats that dare to approach you.

Aventurine dusted off his hands, satisfied.

Finally, peace and quiet.

Now, he could turn his attention back to you.

Aventurine was getting used to this world.

But this?

This was a whole new level of unexpected.

One moment, he was lounging in his study, pouring himself a glass of wine, flipping through reports on the people who had dared to go after you—

And the next—

He was somewhere else entirely.

The scent of warm bath oils lingered in the air.

Your room.

Aventurine blinked.

Then his eyes slowly trailed up— To you.

Standing at the doorway.

Fresh out of the bath.

Ah.…This was bad.

Your eyes widened in shock, "Aventurine." Your tone was deadly. "What. The. Hell. Are you doing in my room?"

Aventurine was a man of quick thinking.

He had seconds—no, milliseconds—to turn this situation in his favor.

So he did what he did best.

"Ah," he exhaled, "So this is what your private quarters look like. How cozy."

You grabbed the nearest object—a comb—and threw it at his head.

He caught it effortlessly, twirling it between his fingers before setting it down on your vanity with an amused chuckle.

"Relax," he said, tilting his head. "If I knew I’d be magically teleported here, I would’ve at least brought a gift."

You weren’t buying it.

"You’re trespassing," you hissed. "Explain. Now."

Aventurine sighed dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. "As much as I’d love to say I came here to steal a glance of you fresh out of the bath, I’m afraid the truth is far less scandalous."

"The glitch happened again," he said, "One second, I was in my study. The next, I was here."

You crossed your arms, still furious—but slightly less about to murder him.

Seeing the shift, Aventurine took a calculated risk.

He stepped closer.

You stiffened as he reached out—gently brushing a damp strand of hair from your face.

"If anything," he murmured, "you should be flattered."

Your eyes snapped up to his in disbelief.

"Flattered?"

"Think about it," he said, "Out of all the places in this world, the glitch sent me straight to you."

His fingers lingered for half a second longer before he finally pulled away.

"A sign, don’t you think?"

Your glare was unwavering.

"What glitch?" you demanded.

Aventurine opened his mouth to respond—

And then, before your very eyes, he vanished.

"Aventurine?"

The air where he once stood was empty.

Nothing.

Not even a trace.

The void swallowed him whole.

He barely had time to process what happened before a bright, mechanical ding echoed through the empty space.

A translucent screen popped up in front of him.

⚠ WARNING! ⚠

If Max Favorability is not reached in 3 days, the character "Aventurine" will be TERMINATED.

"Oh, come on."

If the system was going to pull this on him, then he needed to check his current favorability status.

With a flick of his wrist, another screen appeared.

[Character: Aventurine - Favorability Status]

Current Points: 55/100 Penalty Applied: -5 (Previous Incident) Recent Increase: +10 (??? Event in Room)

Aventurine whistled.

"Not bad" he mused, ignoring the penalty from earlier.

Still—55 wasn’t enough.

Not when his life was literally on the line.

He had three days to make you fall for him completely.

"Guess I’ll have to speed things up."

Day 1 - When the glitch spat him back into the world, he landed right in front of you again.

Instead of shock, your expression was pure suspicion.

"Alright," you crossed your arms. "Explain. Now."

Aventurine put on his most charming smile.

"It’s a bit complicated," he sighed, "but long story short? I need you to like me."

"Like you?"

"In the romantic sense" he clarified.

"Absolutely not."

"That’s fair! But hear me out—"

"You’ve already given me 55 favorability points without even trying," he pointed out. "Imagine how much more you’d give if I actually put in the effort."

With that, Operation: Win You Over began.

Step 1: Become the Perfect Gentleman

Aventurine pulled every trick in the book.

Carrying your things without being asked. "Wouldn’t want you to strain yourself, now would we?"

Guiding you by the waist through crowds. "Tsk, these people have no manners."

Holding out his hand. "Shall we?"

Flashing that charming, lazy smile every time you rolled your eyes.

You tried to ignore him.

You failed.

Your favorability rose by +5 that afternoon.

Step 2: Small but Thoughtful Gestures

A warm drink waiting for you on your desk. "Oh? You like it? What a coincidence—I guessed your favorite."

Fixing your cloak before you stepped outside. "Here—let me do it."

Sending a servant to make sure you ate. "Can’t have you collapsing on me, now can we?"

Your favorability ticked up another +5.

65/100. Not bad for Day 1.

Day 2 - Aventurine knew something very important about you.

You didn’t like being looked down on.

You hated being treated as lesser because of your civilian background.

So when he overheard some noble mocking you behind your back

Step 3: The Dramatic Rescue

"It’s funny, really. No matter how hard they try, people like them will never be one of us—"

"Is that so?"

"S-Sir Aventurine! I didn’t see you—"

"Clearly. And here I thought nobility required better manners."

"I wonder," he mused, "what would happen if I were to mention this little conversation to someone important?"

"Ah—w-we were just joking—"

"Oh, were you? Then laugh."

"Go on," Aventurine said, eyes gleaming. "If it’s so funny, why aren’t you laughing?"

The noble fled.

When you later heard what happened—

You were annoyed.

You didn’t need him to defend you.

But still…

Your favorability rose by +10.

75/100.

Day 3 - Aventurine had one day left. He needed something big.

Step 4: The Perfect Night

As the sun set, you received an invitation.

“Meet me at the garden. – Aventurine”

"What is he up to now?"

Still, curiosity won.

When you arrived—

The entire garden was transformed.

Hundreds of candles lined the pathways.

Soft, golden lights twinkled like stars above the fountain.

A table was set with fine silverware, exquisite dishes, and two glasses of wine.

Aventurine stood in the center—smirking, dressed in all black, looking effortlessly charming as always.

"Finally," he said, "I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come."

"What… is all this?"

Aventurine stepped closer, reaching for your hand.

"This," he murmured, "is my way of proving something."

"And what exactly are you proving?"

"That I can give you the world," he whispered. "All you have to do… is accept me."

+25

MAX FAVORABILITY REACHED

Just as your lips parted—

A pulse of glitching energy rippled through the garden, twisting the scenery like a shattered illusion.

Your vision blurred.

The soft candlelight, the warmth of Aventurine’s touch—everything shattered into fragments.

When the world stabilized, Aventurine found himself somewhere new.

A golden, endless space stretched before him. Floating panels flickered around him, displaying data, numbers, and system logs.

In front of him, a holographic screen appeared.

[Congratulations, Player Aventurine!]

As a reward, you may select ONE of the following options:

Complete Memory Reset – Your existence will be erased from Y/N’s mind. Start fresh.

Full Control – Modify Y/N’s personality, ensuring absolute devotion.

Selective Memory Erasure – Remove specific memories related to system mechanics.

Enhanced Influence – All interactions with Y/N will result in higher emotional impact.

He wanted you to love him naturally—to fall again and again, without ever knowing how much he had already twisted the game.

So, he tapped his selection.

(Y/N) will lose all memories related to system mechanics, favorability, and glitches.

A new message popped up.

Additional Effect: Your final interaction before memory reset will remain in their subconscious, leaving a lingering emotional attachment.

Perfect.

A soft breeze rustled through the garden. The scent of fresh roses filled the air.

You were still standing in front of Aventurine—but something felt… off.

Your head throbbed. A strange fog clouded your mind, like you had just forgotten something important.

"Well?" he prompted, "You never answered me."

You blinked again. "What?"

He chuckled, shaking his head.

"I proposed to you," he reminded. "And you still haven’t given me an answer."

Wait—he did?

Why couldn’t you remember?

You stared at him, feeling strangely flustered.

Aventurine only watched you with amused fascination.

You weren’t rejecting him immediately.

That meant his plan was already working.

To you, Aventurine was simply your persistent suitor—

One who had just proposed.

And now that he had reset the game, he was going to have so much fun toying with you.

After all—

He had all the time in the world.

#yandere x reader #yandere #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #hsr x you #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr x reader #hsr aventurine #aventurine honkai star rail #aventurine x reader #aventurine x you

414 notes · View notes