#and personally i’m obsessed with this dynamic | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

leona-hawthorne · 1 day ago

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okay i have been waiting for this on the edge of my seat and i'm so fucking grateful that i finally got to sit down and read it (alone, of course, because my reactions were quite literally animalistic)

let me also add that the warnings themselves had me fucking moaning—alright now let's get into this!!

zoya, your writing truly has me in complete awe. "english is not my first language" okay and it appears that that literally does not matter at all because this??? this was a goddamn masterpiece.

(apologies in advance bc this is going to be an extremely long reblog)

He was insane. Truly insane. Almost unhinged. Mattheo Riddle was the definition of impulsive thoughts turned into reckless actions, actions that always led him to trouble. He was raw, magnetic, and dangerously unpredictable, the kind of person who attracted attention without even trying.

okay, but this right here??? the way you captured mattheo's essence so perfectly, i’m obsessed. like, he’s not just reckless—he’s raw and magnetic, and that’s such a powerful way to describe someone who’s constantly teetering on the edge of chaos. it’s like you reached into his chaotic little soul and pulled out the perfect words. it’s giving “force of nature,” and the way you wrote it feels so vivid and alive, like i can see him and feel the tension he carries everywhere he goes. your writing is so sharp and evocative, i can’t stop rereading this bit.

He didn’t just attract trouble; he craved it, needed it like it was the only thing keeping him seen.

the truth was different: he thrived on attention, bad or good, as if he needed it to keep himself whole.

my babyyy, he craves trouble like it’s the only way he can feel noticed. it’s like he’s reduced his own worth to just being seen and perceived by others, even if it means chaos. love how you captured that desperation in such a short line.

every corner seemed like an unsettling, cavernous form that resembled a muggle abandoned cathedral. It felt sacred in a weird twisted way, as if it were built to bear the weight of sinful actions that were too heavy to confess elsewhere.

how do you set the tone so well?!? the imagery is wildly vivid—i can almost feel the heaviness of the space, like it’s got its own dark history!!

The only thing he knew for sure was that you almost had him entirely.

And for him, that was awful enough.

oh this killed me—the tension between wanting something and being terrified of it. mattheo’s vulnerability here is chef's kiss, showing how much he's fighting against his feelings, even when he’s almost lost to them. such a perfect snapshot of their dynamic.

He never quite understood why his heart raced when he was in your presence, as if it might break through his ribs, his flesh, and fall directly into your palms, fully out of his power. At times he couldn't help but press his hand against his own chest, trying to stop it, trying to hold it back, but it only frustrated him further.

okay i am genuinely so in love with this whole part, i had to reread it like 3 times 😵‍💫 the internal conflict is so palpable—like, he’s torn between wanting to control something that’s clearly already beyond his grasp, but also secretly wishing to surrender to the one person who can break him. the image of him physically pressing down on his chest to stop it??? i am actually crying, zoya. ugh, and the fact that he doesn't care whether he'd be hurt or cared for—he just wants her, FUCK he is obsessed.

This ritual, this moment—it was his, only his. Yet, for some reason, he felt a twisted satisfaction knowing he was going to share it with you.

AHDHSFG his possessive ass actually enjoying sharing something??? aw he likes her 😚🤗

Mattheo let out a low, almost manic laugh as his gaze remained fixed on the blade in his hand.

the way he kept laughing like a fucking maniac throughout the entirety of this fic OMG i can almost hear it in my head, he's so fucking hot.

his grip tightening around your hand, not to soothe you, but to remind himself you were still there

I'M BLUSHING, idk if he's doing that solely because of the ritual but either way, the fact that he wants to reassure himself that she didn't go anywhere is making my heart squeeze in my chest 🥹

Mattheo chuckled dryly, releasing your hand to stop you from gripping it, from finding any comfort in his presence.

BITCH??!?! YOU ASSHOLE, hold my hand i'm scared ☹️

He was an insensitive prick, but dear god, he was a beautiful one.

this is so true—HE'S FUCKING MEAN, but i genuinely have never seen a more angelic man 😭🪽

Shit, you’re not wearing a bra.

Mattheo swore the zipper on his pants was going to break any second.

alr here we go (i'm horny now)

Without a word he reached up and tugged his shirt over his head, casting it aside without care.

well shit, now we're both hard, mattheo!! 🤜💥🤛 (i am drooling at the thought of this rn)

Your bare chests were almost touching, the air thick with tension, your hard nipples brushing just slightly against his skin.

no, you actually don't understand—this is so intimate, i can just imagine the silence and the only sound being their heavy ass breathing, its so 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 also i think i would lose my mind if my nips were like JUST BARELY brushing against him, what a tease

With a deep breath, you pressed the blade to your palm, hissing softly as the edge cut into your skin, making you feel even more bare and open than you already did.

idk if you've seen stranger things but this is making me think of when nancy and jonathan did the same exact thing and cut their palms. that scene and the matching scars and just them in general is so dear to me, so this is making me feel so many things rn

Without warning, his lips pressed against the spot, his tongue tracing the blood.

okay mr vampire!! (this is so fucking hot i am literally struggling to function rn and i am lucky i didn't read this during ovulation 🙂‍↕️)

Mattheo chuckled in satisfaction, bringing his bloodied hand to your stomach, the crimson spreading across your exposed skin like a mark. “You like it, don’t you?”

MY JAW DROPPED PLEASE OH MY GOD, HIM SPREADING THE COLD BLOOD ON HER STOMACH?? I CAN IMAGINE MYSELF JERKING AWAY OMF YES DADDY I LOVE IT

Mattheo chuckled again against your throat, his teeth sinking into the spot once more, making you moan. He mimicked the sound...

i'm being so serious, this part will live on in my brain forever. him MIMICKING/MOCKING HER MOAN??? HE'S SO MEAN AND COCKY HOLY FUCK THAT WAS SO HOT

he guided your hand to your neck, then down to your breasts, trailing the blood like a map. Before you could react to the sting of your hard nipple pressing against the cut, Mattheo moved faster, pulling your nipple—now smeared with your own blood—into his mouth.

spreading her own blood all over her body just so he can lick it off, oml can you spread my legs open next, mattheo? 😇 (jk, they're already spread)

The way his hands pushed your now bloody breasts together enough for his head to dive between them as he continued to whisper praises, words of hunger.

“Your tits…”Mattheo moaned even louder, dragging a moan from your lips in response. Fuck, he was so close.

first, AJDGHFDJHDRFGJHAFGHJSRGFJHSRF him pressing her tits together just to SHOVE HIS FACE IN BETWEEN oh he's so down bad 🤭 also the "your tits..." BOY. he was so cocky and degrading before—now he's all pathetic and obsessing over her tits? ah, just what I love to see 😮‍💨

“Open your mouth,” he commanded, an order you immediately understood. You obeyed without hesitation, and before you could react, he spat into your mouth and thrust his tongue inside, kissing you deeply.

yes sir please spit in my mouth (he's so nasty and disgusting and i fucking love him for it)

YES PLEASE LET ME SUFFOCATE YOU BETWEEN MY LEGS MATTY PLS 🙏 "let him one day die like this" he is so obsessed god i love this so much

“Such a pretty one you are,” he muttered, his words slurring into the juices of your cunt.

THE WAY HE CAN'T TEAR HIS FACE AWAY EVEN JUST FOR A MOMENT TO SPEAK AJDGSGDFHSDFG i would actually be dying at all the praise

clearly, i got a little carried away with this reblog (this is literally the longest reblog i’ve ever made 🧍🏻‍♀️), but what can i say? this was 6.3k words of art and i had to include all my favorite parts 🤷‍♀️🙂‍↕️

love you zoya!!!! 🫂🤍

𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐍

mattheo riddle x fem reader

SUMMARY. in which mattheo seeks power and needs your help to perform a blood ritual. WORDS. +6.3K. english is not my first language.

WARNINGS. smut, mdni, porn w//plot, mean mattheo, aged up characters, friends to fuck buddies, blood play, blood kink, cuts, spitting, nipple sucking, oral sex f!receiving, pussy drunk mattheo, handjob, dirty talk, biting, marking.

navigation -> masterlist

He didn’t just attract trouble; he craved it, needed it like it was the only thing keeping him seen.

Mattheo was like a storm no one could outrun, an enigma without resolution, and that was exactly what made him so intoxicating. There was something in his presence that pulled people toward him, whether in admiration or fear, and no one could quite decide if it was for better or worse. He wasn’t just hard to ignore; he was impossible to overlook. He demanded attention simply by existing, and it was maddening, the way he could dominate a room with nothing more than a simple glance.

It could have been for a lot of reasons. Maybe it was the way he acted like he didn’t have a care in the world, the sharp, biting comments he always seemed to have ready, words that stuck like blood on stone.Or maybe it was the fights, the way he seemed to throw himself into them too often, always coming out with the same satisfied expression. After all, he was the only son of the Dark Lord, and that alone was enough to draw all kinds of attention.

Whatever was the reason, chaos seemed to follow him everywhere, like he thrived on it. Perhaps he didn’t care at all. No outsider really knew, and no one ever tried to figure him out. Nobody had the courage to do so.

Either way, there were always whispers about him, cruel rumors about his personality and massive ego, some saying he was just like his father, or maybe even a darker version of him, while others came from students eager to get close in obscene ways, hoping to spend a night with their bodies tangled in his.

Yet Mattheo didn’t show that he cared, always pretending to be focused on his own goals, moving through the chaos unshaken and unbothered, though deep down, the truth was different: he thrived on attention, bad or good, as if he needed it to keep himself whole.

But you had seen enough to know the truth. He was cruel, ruthless, and everything people whispered about him, perhaps even worse. And yet, here you were, trapped in his chaos, each moment with him drawing you deeper into the darkness.

You were trapped. Absolutely trapped.

Perhaps it was in the way he looked at you, his deep brown eyes burning with an intensity that stole your breath away, leaving you struggling to keep your heart from racing, as if he saw something inside of you that you weren’t capable of seeing. Or maybe it was the way his words stayed in your mind long after they were spoken, carving their way into your thoughts like a knife you didn’t want to pull out, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were already in too deep.

If you thought about it more, you didn’t know what had brought you here. The main factor to why you were so attracted to an ongoing fire.

Could be the adrenaline from his strange proposal, or the way you couldn’t stop thinking about him, his presence always glued to your mind. Could also be the need to be near him, the way your body moved toward his as if it had no will of its own, or perhaps it was the way he seemed to control your heart in a way you couldn’t even understand. It was twisted, even a little scary, but neither of you cared.

After all, you were friends.

You didn’t know when it stopped feeling like curiosity—just a lingering thought— but the doubt never really went away. Instead it became prominent, tight in your chest whenever he was around. There was something darker about him, something dangerous in the way he lived recklessly, only focused on his own desires, how he thrived on the attention he got, pulling you deeper without even trying.

And now, standing there, you couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever came next, there was no turning back. No escape.

The Room of Requirement was cloaked in dark shadows, the silence broken only by the faint hiss of flickering candles. Their soft, wavering light offered a fragile sense of comfort, though it did little to ease the tension hanging in the air. The atmosphere was thick and heavy, saturated with the acrid tang of burning incense and something darker, almost unspoken.

Torchlight flickered across the cold stone walls, making jagged patterns that twisted and stretched with each almost shiny flicker. That night, the requirement room felt weird, unlike the form other students seemed to used—every corner seemed like an unsettling, cavernous form that resembled a muggle abandoned cathedral. It felt sacred in a weird twisted way, as if it were built to bear the weight of sinful actions that were too heavy to confess elsewhere.

The faint metallic scent in the air lingered, sharp and heavy, mixed with something even more heavy, felt almost like a warning. On the stone floor, crude runes spiraled out in precise, jagged lines, their edges glowing faintly as though alive and energetic, pulsing in time with the biting silence as if they were watching, waiting to know what was about to take place.

In the center of it all stood Mattheo Riddle, the one person who seemed to take up every space in your mind, his dark robes draping loosely over his strong frame, giving him an effortless air of power, his features, defined and almost angelic, partially hidden by his messy curls that always fell into his pretty eyes.

The flickering torchlight danced off his hair with every movement, making it seem almost alive; there was something strange about how his appearance seemed almost angelic, yet you knew Mattheo’s true personality, making him all the more dangerous, like a trap just waiting for you to step in.

He could look still, even controlled, but there was nothing controlled about this. Nothing about him was controlled.

Mattheo looked at the dagger in his hands, his gaze drifting over the blade, but it wasn’t the dagger that had his attention. It was you. Your eyes were on him, and it felt like he was being torn apart with just that look. It wasn’t like the attention he was used to—no fear or admiration in it.

No, this was different. It was more like an assessment. The weight of your gaze was almost suffocating, as if you were digging into him, getting under his skin in a way that made him feel stupidly exposed and making him feel a strange sensation tighten in his chest, choking his throat in ways he couldn’t understand, and he hated it.

He hated how you made him feel like this—torn between wanting to get closer and wanting to run away from that. And even if it was good or bad; neither mattered. He didn’t want to know. The only thing he knew for sure was that you almost had him entirely.

And for him, that was awful enough.

Nevertheless, there were times when he nearly wished his heart would simply give way and land in your hands so you could do with it whatever you pleased, whether that meant crushing it entirely or holding it tenderly between your fingers. He wasn't certain which would provide him with greater comfort, but he was certain that if you gave him that satisfaction, he will never be the same again.

Mattheo sighed and shook his head rapidly, making a dramatic gesture as he attempted to avoid your concentrated, evaluating stare on him once more. He concentrated on the tiny silver dagger in his hand, trying not to hold it too firmly in his palm, but nothing could take away the sensation, and even if it didn't cause him any discomfort, the pressure that made it was obvious.

He let out another sigh, this time frustrated, rubbing his forehead, but couldn’t help releasing another, this time a relieved one, when he saw your attention shift to the two circles drawn around him, almost like some kind of illustration, and he couldn’t help but smirk knowingly as he noticed the change in your expression; at the confusion in your eyes and at your furrowed brows as you tried to make sense of the strange symbols, carefully etched inside the circles on the floor.

Mattheo looked away, quickly shifting his focus to the symbol at his feet. In comparison with the other symbols, this one was far more complex, with each line and curve being meticulous and precise. As he raised his chin in satisfaction with what he did, Mattheo couldn't help but widen his smirk into a full grin, an equal amount of pride and arrogance coming across his expression.

This ritual, this moment—it was his, only his. Yet, for some reason, he felt a twisted satisfaction knowing he was going to share it with you. Even though you were there not completely voluntarily, you still had a place in it, whether you liked it or not.

This time, it was Mattheo who looked at you with an intense, almost predatory gaze, his hand tightening once more around the blade in his palm as he kept his eyes on you. He was already preparing to take the first step toward the power he would gain from what you two were about to do. All he needed was your final confirmation and for you to step into the middle of the circle with him.

“Are you ready for this?” His voice broke the silence, low and almost a purr, making you look up at him. Ready? Fuck no. In fact, you were terrified. Every part of you screamed to run, to get as far away from this room and this stupid ritual as possible. But your body didn’t listen to your brain. Your heart didn’t either. Instead, you stayed still, frozen, your eyes locked with his own, already filled with amusement and something darker, like a challenge.

You knew this was stupid. Hell, it was almost suicidal. A ritual to give him more power, cutting your own hand, spilling your blood, mixing it with his just to make him stronger. It was madness. More than that, even.

But then again, a part of you wanted it. A part of you wanted to leave a piece of yourself with him, to bind yourself to him in some twisted way. And for some fucked-up reason, you craved that. You wanted to be marked by him, to have a part of you inside him forever. Mattheo had already carved his mark into your mind, into the darkest corners of your heart, and now you wanted to do the same.

Stupid curiosity.

“Well?” Mattheo asked again, his voice dripping with amusement, though you could hear the faint edge of annoyance creeping in. He tried to hold onto his usual confident, relaxed demeanor, but it was slipping. “What’s it gonna be?” The same damn question. You wouldn’t be stupid enough to make him ask a third time.

“I…” You paused, your voice cracking, and you couldn’t help but curse yourself under your breath as you felt his gaze digging into you, waiting for the answer he wanted. “I think I’m ready,” you finally said, taking a step forward, ignoring the part of you screaming to get the hell out of there. Yet your body moved faster than your mind, and before you knew it, you took an unconscious step closer to him, making his eyebrow quirk in amusement.

Mattheo raised an eyebrow, his smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You think?” he repeated, his voice thick with mockery. He almost laughed; if it were not for the situation you two were in.

“Fuck—” you hissed under your breath, cursing yourself again, and Mattheo’s smirk stretched wider. “I’m ready.” You corrected yourself, the words tasting wrong. “I’m ready,” you said again, this time to convince yourself more than him.

Mattheo let out a low, almost manic laugh as his gaze remained fixed on the blade in his hand. The sound sent an unexpected shiver down your spine, and your cheeks flushed as his voice echoed in your ears. When he looked back at you, his eyes were softer than before, though the usual intensity remained, as if he was offering something that, despite not being comfort, somehow left you feeling relieved in a way.

He stretched his hand towards you, his voice calmer than before but still firm. “Let’s go. The sooner we start, the sooner this thing is going to end.” The sooner he would have control. Mattheo called you again, and you let out a soft sigh before taking that first step.

Each step you took was filled with hesitation, but your body didn’t seem to care. It moved toward the circle, fighting the doubt gnawing on your mind. When you finally stepped inside, you couldn’t hold back a small sigh as your hand found Mattheo’s. The touch sent a shiver down your spine, your cheeks flushing as you saw the same smirk on his lips, the reaction causing a tug on your heart. He didn’t need to say anything; you could feel how much he enjoyed this, how much he knew the effect he had on you.

Sometimes you wanted to punch him.

As soon as you took his hand, Mattheo’s confidence wavered slightly; his heart pounded just by your touch. However, he couldn’t hide the dark amusement in his eyes as he watched your flushed cheeks and how your body betrayed you. It was too easy.

“This,” he said, gesturing to the intricate runes carved into the floor with the tip of his dagger, his grip tightening around your hand, not to soothe you, but to remind himself you were still there. “It’s going to hurt like hell.” He said it with such ease, as if the pain and the blood were just a minor part. You swallowed hard, the confirmation of what you already knew settling deep in your stomach. “At least for you,” he added with an eyebrow raised, his voice laced with amusement.

His words weren’t reassuring at all—not that you expected them to be. He didn’t care about calming you or making this easier to bear. That wasn’t his style, and it never had been. Mattheo thrived in chaos, in mess, and he wanted you to feel every bit of it. He wanted to pull you into the madness, to push you until you struggled to keep yourself together.

“You’re not exactly helping me calm down, you know?” you said through gritted teeth, barely stopping yourself from telling him to go fuck himself.

Mattheo chuckled dryly, releasing your hand to stop you from gripping it, from finding any comfort in his presence. “Glad to know, sweetheart.” He said casually, like it didn’t matter at all. “But who said I want you to calm down?” he murmured, and you might have thought he was joking if it weren’t for the fact that you had known him for years.

You scoffed at his lack of sympathy. It wasn’t surprising, though; his attitude was one of the things that drew you to him, even if it wasn’t exactly healthy. You watched as he lit more candles, the flame dancing with every step he took, highlighting the sharp lines of his features. He was an insensitive prick, but dear god, he was a beautiful one.

After a few seconds, Mattheo stood up, still holding the dagger in his hand. He glanced at you, and for a brief moment, something in his gaze made his heartbeat almost thud down his ribs. He took a few steps toward you, and your eyes met. His dark eyes were intense, unreadable, and the weight of the air between you made your stomach twist. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and steady, with a hint of mischief in his tone. The corner of his mouth twitched, the excitement creeping slowly.

“Take off your shirt.”

You blinked, shocked, and for a few seconds, all your fear vanished. “Excuse me?!”

Mattheo observed you, almost as if he were stripping you bare. “Your shirt,” he repeated, his tone annoyingly dismissive. He spun the dagger in his palm with flawless precision, taking a step closer as if your hesitancy pleased him. “Take it off,” he said almost coolly, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

You crossed your arms, feeling your heart race as your face flushed with heat. “And why, exactly, do I need to do that?” You snapped, your voice sharp. You had fantasized a thousand times about Mattheo asking you to do this, but you never imagined it would actually happen, especially not now, in this situation.

“For the ritual,” he said simply, tilting his head and giving you a smirk that bordered on taunting, as though the answer should’ve been obvious. “I need access to your skin, sweetheart. The magic won’t work otherwise.” His words were smooth, but you couldn’t shake the feeling they held a hint of mockery.

You hesitated, studying him closely. There was something about his response that didn’t sit right, too casual in a way that felt almost taunting, like he wasn’t being completely honest. “You’re making that up,” you said flatly, letting your arms drop to your sides, your eyes narrowing as you searched on his face for a sign of truth.

His smirk widened, and he continued to twirl the dagger between his fingers, his eyes locked on you. The sight of your flushed cheeks only seemed to make him think with his other head. “Am I?” He took another step closer.

“Please, Mattheo, I know that’s bullshit!” you spat out, trying to ignore how his smug expression made your skin heat, though particularly of you couldn’t help but consider it.

Mattheo let out a low chuckle, stepping closer, the tension between you nearly unbearable. His voice dipped, rough and almost deliberate, as his dark eyes shamelessly trailed down your body before locking onto yours again.

“Alright,” he murmured, a smile laying wickedly on his lips. “Maybe it’s not entirely necessary. But it helps. A lot.”

The dagger moved lazily in his hand, the sharp edge skimming his palm without cutting his palm. His gaze never left you, steady and intense, like a predator watching its prey. “And we both know you want this to work out, don’t we, sweetheart?”

Your breath hitched in your throat at his words, a truth you hated to admit even to yourself. You wanted him to notice you—really notice you—the way his gaze seemed to strip you bare, peeling back layers you didn’t even realize you had. But the sharp flare of anger clawed its way up your chest, tangling with the strange pull he always seemed to have over you, leaving you somewhere between furious and helpless.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head, the disappointment cutting deeper than you wanted to admit. You weren’t sure if it was aimed at him or at yourself for falling into this moment—this trap. Probably both.

“And yet,” he said, taking another step toward you, “here you are.” He mocked you, making you bite your tongue to stop yourself from telling him to fuck off.

The space between you two was basically nonexistent now, and Mattheo fucking hated it. Hated that it was him moving closer, like he couldn’t help himself. Hated how his body had a mind of its own, reacting to you in ways that made him feel like an idiot. The thought of you, without your shirt, without anything, was driving him insane, his imagination running wild no matter how much he tried to shove it down.

Fuck. He could already feel the strain in his pants, his cock pressing uncomfortably against the fabric. It pissed him off—how easily you got under his skin, how fucking hard it was to keep his cool around you.

“Fine,” you bit out, your voice rougher than you felt, and Mattheo’s smile twisted with satisfaction, practically waiting for you to do it. You exhaled sharply, trying to ignore the way his eyes were glued to you. Your fingers lingered at the hem of your shirt, heart pounding in your chest as you struggled to find the guts to go through with it.

Mattheo’s smirk only deepened, his eyes never leaving you, and for a moment, it felt like he was inside your head, reading you like a damn book. His gaze dropped low, just enough to make your skin prickle with awareness. You seemed so fucking soft. “Need help?” he asked, voice dripping with mockery.

“Shut up, Mattheo” you snapped, yanking the fabric over your head in one swift motion, a shiver running through your whole body. Shit, you’re not wearing a bra.

The second the shirt left your body, the air felt heavier, but you felt the coldness against your exposed skin and nipples. Mattheo’s expression shifted, his smirk slipping for a moment as his eyes scanned over you, taking in more than you were prepared to show. You cursed yourself for not wearing a bra under the thin fabric, your chest bare under the dim torchlight and his searing gaze. Mattheo swore the zipper on his pants was going to break any second.

You couldn't help but feel trapped by his piercing stare as his eyes remained on you, shamelessly tracing your hard nipples. He seemed oblivious; nonetheless, his eyes burned with need as his mind wandered, thinking about the taste of his tongue on your nipples, sucking and biting until all you could think about was the feel of his wet tongue. He held the dagger tightly, only reacting when the blade cut into his flesh.

“Well,” he began, attempting to put the thoughts flowing through his head to the back of his mind, his voice rougher than before, “guess you were more ready than we thought.” He mocked you again, but it seemed like he was also mocking himself.

You could feel your cheeks burning, a mix of anger and something else boiling inside you. You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to block him out, but the moment you saw the way Mattheo’s eyes were fixed on you filled with desire, your hands fell to your sides, betraying your own brain. You wanted this. You wanted him to see you, to really see you.

But as you realized you were staring at him in the same way, you quickly shook your head, trying to push down the desire and need, force some control back into your own voice. “Just get on with it,” you ‘snapped’, trying to hide how much it stung, how much you craved that attention.

Mattheo’s smirk returned, but this time it was sharper, full with devilment. He took another step toward you, his eyes never leaving yours, and gestured toward the circle with a lazy flick of his hand. “As you wish.”

His expression didn’t shift, his confidence simmering just below the surface as he stepped even closer to you, trying not to look at your bare chest. His eyes flickered to the symbols on the ground, their faint glow reflecting in the depths of his gaze. Without a word he reached up and tugged his shirt over his head, casting it aside without care. He didn’t look at you but still waited for your reaction. You had already drawn one from him—only fair if he returned the favor, right?

You, on the other hand, swallowed hard, your gaze shamelessly tracing the lines of his abdomen and bare, muscular chest. The candles and torchlight cast sharp shadows across the scars etched into his skin, and you held your breath without meaning to. When he glanced forward slightly, his eyes still on the ground as he did so, he had to stifle a chuckle at the sight of your clenched fists, trying to control yourself.

This was going to be fun, at least.

For a brief moment, neither of you spoke or moved. The silence stretched thin, both of you consumed by the same thoughts, the same dirty images racing through your minds. Your chests rose and fell heavily, both of you struggling to regain a normal breath. It was fucking madness.

Mattheo quickly composed himself, standing at the point of the small symbol on the ground, making sure you mirrored his position on the opposite side. Your bare chests were almost touching, the air thick with tension, your hard nipples brushing just slightly against his skin. He gave a low sigh, words slipping from his lips in a language you couldn’t understand, his voice deep and commanding.

As soon as the words left his mouth, the symbols on the floor pulsed to life, glowing with an eerie light, while the candle flames flickered wildly, as though responding to his words.

He looked at the dagger in his hand, a proud glint in his eyes before letting his gaze drift up to your face. His eyes lingered on your features, the softness of your eyes, the way your lips parted just enough to drive him insane. He almost couldn’t stop himself from reaching out to touch you, but he stayed still, his jaw tight. “Are you ready?” he asked, his lips moving without sound. “I am,” you mouthed back, the hesitation in your eyes impossible to miss. But he ignored it, choosing to focus on the way you stood there—no turning back now, and honestly? He didn’t want you to cover up.

Mattheo gripped the dagger with steady hands, his brown eyes flickering briefly to the runes as if making sure everything was aligned. Without a second thought, he pressed the sharp blade to his palm, slicing through the skin with quick, practiced precision. The blood surged from the cut, dripping thick and dark onto the glowing runes below. They reacted violently, flaring brighter, more alive, as if the blood was feeding the symbols, feeding him.

You held your breath, knowing you were next. But you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing at the ground, watching his blood drip onto the floor beneath both of your feet.

After a few seconds, he lifted his chin, pride in his eyes, his curls moving like the magic around the circles. He grabbed your hand without a word, pressing the dagger into your palm, his gaze never leaving yours. He was waiting, daring you to cut yourself just like he had.

You felt his blood drip onto your wrist, the warmth of it sending a jolt through your veins. As the dagger pressed into your palm, a breath caught in your throat. The weight of the blade was more than you expected, and for a moment, your eyes lingered on the crimson stains left by Mattheo’s cut, almost hypnotic, tempting you.

Your heart quickened, your pulse echoing in your ears. You hesitated—for a moment. His eyes found you once again, a look that urged you to continue. The hesitation lingering in your heart suddenly dispersed; you wanted nothing but to mark him as yours.

With a deep breath, you pressed the blade to your palm, hissing softly as the edge cut into your skin, making you feel even more bare and open than you already did. The pain was sharp, fleeting, quickly replaced by the blood spilling down your skin, as the runes reacted violently to your action, their glow flaring in response.

It was instantaneous. The moment your blood touched the floor, the room seemed to exhale, the light flaring brighter and the air humming with a charged, almost electric energy as the ritual began. But the reaction was brief, for Mattheo’s focus shifted.

Mattheo’s gaze was fixed on the cut on your hand, his eyes wide and unblinking, as if he was mesmerized by the crimson blood streaks trailing down your wrist, mingling with his the drops of his blood already on your skin. His jaw clenched, and you swore you saw him swallow hard as he continued to look, his chest rising and falling with a depth of intensity you’d never seen in him before.

“Mattheo?” You called softly, your voice barely above a whisper, your heartbeat quickening against your bare chest. Yet, it was enough to break his attention.

His eyes naturally met yours once again, vulnerability flickering in his gaze, though the rest of his expression remained unreadable, like a contrast to the hunger simmering beneath. But Mattheo didn't step back. Instead, his calloused fingers brushed against the blood on your wrist, smearing it slightly. The contact sent a jolt through you, and for a moment, neither of you remembered how to breathe.

“Mattheo…” you called out again, but this time it was almost a plea for him not to stop. He obeyed your unspoken request, his fingers tracing your skin as if exploring new territory, so gently that it almost made you forget the lingering sting in your hand.

Mattheo’s hands moved deliberately, spreading the blood from the deep cut on your hand. He seemed oblivious to the matching wound on his own skin as he dragged the crimson trail up to your neck, smearing it across your skin. Without warning, his lips pressed against the spot, his tongue tracing the blood. He let out a low groan at the taste, and you couldn’t suppress your own when you felt the warmth of his tongue against you.

“It’s so sweet,” he murmured, his teeth grazing the skin of your neck, the crimson of your blood staining them as he pulled you closer, pressing you against him in a way that felt almost inhuman. “So fucking sweet.” His teeth continued to drag along your skin, while his hand slid down your arm, seeking more of your blood. His fingers tightened around your palm, squeezing to draw out more of the liquid, making you groan in a mix of pain and pleasure as the burn surged through you.

“Shhh, it’s okay, sweetheart,” Mattheo whispered, biting your neck, his teeth sinking into your skin painfully. He didn’t care about the grunt of pain that escaped your lips, not when more blood joined the one already staining your throat. Right after his first bite, you moaned, your thighs rubbing together in an attempt to ease the wetness in your cunt.

Mattheo chuckled in satisfaction, bringing his bloodied hand to your stomach, the crimson spreading across your exposed skin like a mark. “You like it, don’t you?” he murmured against your throat, pressing his lips to the marks he had left with his teeth. But when he noticed you hadn’t answered, he bit your neck harder than before and squeezed your stomach, causing more blood to spread across the area.

You swallowed hard, locking eyes with him as you tried to form a sentence, but the only words that escaped your lips were a barely audible, “Yes, fucking yes,” which only made him laugh harder. He tightened his grip on your skin, sending a sharp sting through your own body.

“Of course you do… such a fucking slut,” Mattheo chuckled again against your throat, his teeth sinking into the spot once more, making you moan. He mimicked the sound, feeling his pants tighten around his cock as he tasted your blood again on his teeth. His tongue throbbed with desire, savoring the metallic taste. Holy shit, he could cum just from the taste of your blood. “But you taste so damn good.”

He seemed to have completely forgotten the ritual, and you, too, had let it slip away. You didn’t want to remember, not when his blood stained your skin, not when your own blood marked him, and not when his mark lingered on you.

Mattheo pulled back slightly, looking at your state and the way your plush lips were parted as you stared at him, your eyes filled with the same desire he showed.

Without warning, Mattheo grabbed your cut hand with the one resting on your stomach, his blood mingling with yours as he guided your hand to your neck, then down to your breasts, trailing the blood like a map. Before you could react to the sting of your hard nipple pressing against the cut, Mattheo moved faster, pulling your nipple—now smeared with your own blood—into his mouth.

You let out a loud moan as you felt his tongue teasing the tips of your bloodied breasts, the taste of your blood on his tongue making him swirl around your breast more eagerly. The sensation only made him harder beneath his robes, each moan of his growing louder as he savored the taste of you.

You were lost in the pleasure of his mouth, concentrated with the way his tongue lapped like a hungry animal. The way his hands pushed your now bloody breasts together enough for his head to dive between them as he continued to whisper praises, words of hunger. You didn’t hear nothing but the sounds of his mouth nor saw how he desperately reached for release, your body causing him to react out of character.

“Fuck...” he murmured, his hand releasing the softness of your skin as he reached down towards his pants. Fast, uncoordinated, he released his cock from the restraints, his bloody hands wrapping around his cock that dripped with precum. His movements grew faster, driven by the growing intensity of the taste of blood on his tongue.

You looked down, catching a glimpse through the small crease of his neck as he dragged his palm over his hard cock while sucking on your nipples. You couldn’t help but moan louder, your bloody hand gripping his shoulders as you tried to ignore how your body was responding—the wetness between your legs that you knew he could feel.

“Your tits…”Mattheo moaned even louder, dragging a moan from your lips in response. Fuck, he was so close.

“Fuck, your blood tastes so fucking good.” He moaned louder, and as he sucked harder on your nipples, his mouth closing around the bud tighter. Your chest was now covered in his bites, the marks of Mattheo Riddle, almost like a sign of ownership. Your body quivered against his hold, rubbing pathetically against him as you felt the tingle flutter in your stomach. You were close, lost in the daze, you had no idea whether it was from pleasure or the lost of blood—or both. You were desperately clinging to his shoulders, his name falling from your lips like a spell.

The hold on his length tightened in his hand, and he came instantly. Another hoarse moan escaped his throat, and he pulled away from your chest for a moment, gasping for air. You gripped onto his shoulders once more, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. So sudden, so quick you fell against his hold as your body convulsed with pleasure.

Mattheo leaned against you, allowing himself a moment to relax. But when he noticed the blood still running down your throat from where he had placed your hand, he couldn’t help but let out a growl. He yanked your hair back harshly, making you gasp and exposing your throat, your scream barely escaping as he did so.

“Mattheo…!” You tried to speak, but he didn’t care; he never did. He only pushed you further against him, your nipples pressed against his bare chest as he licked your throat, letting out another groan as he tasted the metallic flavor again. His tongue traced the line of your throat, dragging the blood up to your chin, before he licked it off obscenely, making you sigh at the sensation.

Mattheo’s hand in your hair tightened, and in one swift motion, he turned you onto your back, pulling your hair even harder as your back arched against him. “Open your mouth,” he commanded, an order you immediately understood. You obeyed without hesitation, and before you could react, he spat into your mouth and thrust his tongue inside, kissing you deeply.

The kiss was rough and erotic, the fire burning from the inside making it impossible to avoid it. You could taste your own blood on his tongue, and it only made your cunt wetter, the intensity overwhelming. It was too much—more than you’d ever imagined.

You had pictured moments like this, where you and Mattheo would kiss, tasting each other’s tongues, but this was different. It wasn’t the fantasy you had dreamed of; it was raw, wild, and rougher than anything you could have ever anticipated. His teeth clashed with yours, and your tongue tangled with his, as he unleashed his most primal side. He was giving you a taste of the part of you he had consumed, and you were trapped, just as you always would be.

You didn’t care about the pain in your scalp, only the hand that held you.

Mattheo’s hands were rough, touching everything he could. His mouth marking you over and over as he swallowed every small noise you released. He was warm, too warm, a sting feeling in your mouth as he sucked and bit into your lips, the softness of your skin tethering as his mouth was once again filled with the sweetness of your blood.

He was about to lose his mind.

Mattheo sighed against your now split lip, “Stop me… Tell me to stop, and I will.” He wouldn’t; you both knew it.

You held him against you tighter; you were already too deep into him—all you wanted was to devour him, mark him enough to show everyone he belonged to you, only you. You wanted to inflict a pain he would never forget, a pain similar to the pain he caused you, so you did. Your hands wrapped around his neck, your mouth tracing his lips, then his cheeks, then suddenly the warmth of his neck. Mattheo gripped you hard; he made no sudden movement, anxiously awaiting your motive. You bit into his neck, sucking the flushed skin as your teeth marked him with the same strength he did to you.

Another soft flow came into your mouth, you gasped, the metallic taste odd in your mouth but enough to send your heart thundering.

Mattheo whimpered, his dominant facade slipping as he sickly enjoyed the way you took control. You were so sweet, so delicate—you were completely the opposite. The idea he corrupted you twisted a sick, powerful thought in his brain. You were his.

Your tongue reached towards his mouth again, finding yourself eye to eye with the man you wanted nothing more than to control. “Don’t ever stop; I need you.”

Mattheo grinned, his lips bloody, his brown eyes becoming dark as he suddenly pushed you towards the runes that glowed against your body. The symbols glowed, vibrating with the blood that dripped onto it. As he stood over you, he wished to capture the moment forever. You looked so fucking pretty.

He leaned over, his knees staining with the blood smeared against the cold tiles. His fingers moved quickly, desperately. He watched as your body spoke to him, reacting to every touch. Your breasts covered in his marks, his blood and yours on them that caused his cock to twitch violently.

He wanted more than the taste of your breasts; he wanted to taste the juices that gathered in the silk of your panties. He wanted to feel the way your cunt twitched and throbbed against his mouth, and damn, did he want nothing more than to have you fuck yourself on his tongue. The sweetest angel from Hogwarts all displayed for him, to hell with the ritual; now he just wanted to swallow you whole.

Without warning, he hoisted your legs onto his shoulders with an almost violent urgency, a deep moan escaping his lips as he leaned closer to your wet pussy. The intoxicating scent filled his senses, making his bloodied hand tighten around your thigh, gripping it as if commanding you to choke him; a command you had no intention of disobeying.

Mattheo looked at your face, the dried blood around your parted lips, your cheeks flushed from everything he was doing to you, and your dilated pupils watching him anxiously. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, and you instantly bit your lip. Fuck, he was about to get hard again.

“Please, I need you, Mattheo,” you begged, rubbing your hips desperately, trying to get closer to his flushed face. You needed his mouth, and he was more than willing to be a good friend and give you exactly what you wanted.

“No need to beg like a slut, sweetheart,” he said, moving closer to your pulsing cunt, the light from the dunes making your wetness glisten even more. You held your breath as his warm breath ghosted over your slick folds. “I’m eager to give you what you want,” he murmured, leaning even closer, his nose brushing against your arousal as he took in your scent. Just as you were about to beg him to do something, his tongue was quicker—teasing, tasting, and finally giving in to the need to lick you.

Mattheo followed his instincts and hunger, his palms gripping your thighs even tighter, leaving bloodstained marks on your skin just as he had on the rest of your body. The sting of his own cut burned with the pressure, but he didn’t stop, sliding his hands to your hips as his tongue moved swiftly against your folds, savoring and memorizing every inch of you.

You could feel Mattheo’s cheeks pressed against your thighs as he buried himself in your pussy, suffocating himself in your scent and taste. He mentally begged some higher power to let him one day die like this—only after his hunger was completely satisfied. Your back arched, heat swirling in your stomach as Mattheo licked your pussy with reckless desperation.

He was ravenous, savoring every part of you, and when your nails dug into his scalp, he let out another growl, pushing himself even deeper between your legs, making you moan even louder.

“Fucking yes, sweetheart,” he murmured against your pussy, sucking harder as your cries of pleasure filled the room. “Keep moaning like a slut, keep saying my name.” He bit down on your flesh, making you moan even louder, your legs trembling around him. He chuckled darkly, the vibrations of his laughter sending shocks through your body and making you cry out even more.

Fuck the ritual, fuck the power—the only power he craved was the power he held over you.

“Mattheo,” you moaned even louder, rocking your hips against his face as your fingers tangled in his hair, pushing him closer. “Right there, oh my—!” you cried out, feeling him lose himself between your legs, consumed by his thoughts and the blood still staining his lips.

Mattheo’s fast, steady movements continued, his almost feral tongue lapping at your cunt as his hands roamed your body. He could feel his cock harden at the sound of your sweet moans. Fuck, the taste of your blood mingled with your arousal was divine—almost too much for him to bear.

He continued kissing your clit, desperate to savor your full taste, his tongue messily exploring your folds, drinking in every drop he could. All you felt in the moment was him. The sounds muffled as if underwater. Your fingers dug into his scalp, causing him to flick his tongue against your bud faster, his fingers circling it, his grin plastered with pride as he heard you cry loudly.

“Such a pretty one you are,” he muttered, his words slurring into the juices of your cunt.

You only released a jumble of words, your bare back arching as you squirmed beneath him. You were on the edge, and you could feel it—both of you could. The anticipation was electric, and you were both eager for the release. All he wanted was to make you cum.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured against your folds, the scent of your cunt making him dizzy. “Come for me.” No sooner had the words left his mouth than you let out a final scream, the orgasm hitting you hard as your body arched, feeling your cum dripping from your pussy.

Mattheo groaned against your cunt once more, lapping at your release as he lost himself in your flavor. Quickly, he grabbed your cut hand, spreading its blood over your pussy to mix with the cum. When he felt it was enough, he ran his tongue over your folds, savoring the metallic taste of blood combined with the sweet remnants of your orgasm, only stopping when not a drop remained, and you pushed him away.

The runes still flickered on the ground, glowing brighter with the smell of your release in the air. Blood stained both your bodies, marking each other, marking the new connection between you that neither of you wanted to escape. Mattheo stood there, watching you, his brown eyes observing, shining with pride watching your state. His eyes traced the blood on your skin, lingering on the cut on your hand, before meeting your eyes again.

“We didn’t finish the ritual,” you managed to say, your voice soft, timid once again compared to the wildness you held as you let Mattheo control you, your body still shaking from one of the best orgasms you ever experienced.

Mattheo’s smirk grew, just a little as he continued to look at the mess he had done. “It’s fine, sweetheart. We can always try again.”

He was right; after all, friends helped each other.

— please be nice, it’s 4 am it probably has some mistakes!

likes and reblogs are appreciated 🫶🏻

also a big thank you for my favorite beta readers @earth4angels & @astrxq , without them i couldn’t write all this!! i love you both off you forever

venting: sometimes, i hate english because my hard lines in portuguese don’t make sense and seem so repetitive :(

#mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x reader #slytherin boys #mattheo riddle smut #smut #harry potter #my recs 💫

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silna-pdf · 1 day ago

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im curious whats ur opinion on chrisker? btw i lovveee ur art so bad the way u draw wesker has extended my lifespan by 30 years

Not my thing but I love their dynamic lmao. I get it. I really love Wesker’s hate stalking, personally think obsessively watching someone’s every move via several monitors and baiting them out to see you over the course of years is probably the most romantic thing an individual can do. But I’m also mentally ill

#lol #resident evil #albert wesker #chris redfield #Chrisker

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im-so-normal-iswear · 3 days ago

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Hello, I would like headcanons Yandere!Sonic with a reader who is a sloth, reader is a good person, but they are very slow and forgetful, that Sonic has had to bail reader out of dangerous situations more than once, but despite absent-mindedness, reader seems to be aware of Sonic's unhealthy interest in them … but they are not against it, and completely hand over power to Sonic, they think that Sonic knows better than them what they need

A/n: this is

Yandere!Sonic x sloth Reader

You’ve always been slow paced and forgetful, something that has landed you in trouble more times than you’d like to admit. Trouble just seems to find you without much effort. But Sonic is always there to swoop in and save the day, usually before you even realize you’re even in danger.

Sonic first noticed you because of your pace. While the rest of the world seems to race to keep up, you take your time, savoring the small moments in life. At first, he found your pace amusing, how could someone be so slow in a world that moves so fast?

Upon seeing how trouble prone you were he started following you around, just in case. Eventually that excuse fell flat as he now just hovered over you regardless of what you were doing or not.

Sonic can’t help but see you as someone who needs him. Your forgetfulness and sluggish demeanor make you seem so vulnerable, and he takes it upon himself to protect you. Even from things that might not actually be a threat.

You’ve gotten used to Sonic showing up unannounced. Whether it’s him pulling you back from crossing a street without looking or dragging you away from someone he deems "untrustworthy," his constant interference has become a regular part of your life.

"You really need to pay more attention, y’know,"

Despite how out of it you were most of the time, you’ve picked up on how obsessive sonic is getting. Always by you, insisting on staying beside him, full on denying that you hang out with specific people, it is hard to miss. It’s all too obvious. But it simply doesn't bother you.

You’ve come to trust Sonic completely, to the point where you basically let him steer your life. Decisions that would normally be yours, where to go, who to talk to, what to do with your time, you let him make for yyou after all, he is Sonic, THE Sonic, surely he knows best.

Sonic thrives on this dynamic. Knowing you’ve placed all your trust in him feeds into his delusions of being your "protector". He starts making more and more decisions for you, subtly cutting you off from anyone he doesn’t approve of.

"You don’t need them," he says when you mention an old friend you’ve been meaning to catch up with. "They don’t care about you like I do." His words are always laced with such sincerity that you don’t question him.

Sonic is constantly reassuring you. "I’ll always take care of you, you don’t have to worry about anything as long as I’m around." You believe him wholeheartedly, and that blind trust fuels his obsession.

Sonic starts to push his boundaries, testing how far he can go. He begins dictating what you wear, what you eat, and even how you spend your free time. "This will be better for you," he insists, and you nod, trusting his judgment.

Your slow pace frustrates him sometimes, but he doesn’t mind slowing down for you (sometimes)

The line between protection and possession has long since blurred, but you don’t seem to mind. To you, Sonic knows best, and that’s all that matters.

#sonic the hedgehog #sonic #headcanons #sonic x reader #yandere sonic x reader #yandere sonic the hedgehog #yandere sonic the hedgehog x reader #sloth reader #yandere #yandere sonic

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maudie-duan · 1 day ago

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Summary: What happens when the man you've loved since childhood decides he's ready to settle down, but it turns out you are no longer his forever. How would you cope with the sudden engagement? For Blair, it's a hard pill to swallow, knowing that the beautiful girl smiling in all his pictures will get her forever. I guess it's a blue Christmas this year.

A/N: I have to make a confession: I hate Christmas music, but the first time I heard Sabrina Carpenter's 'Cindy Lou Who' I knew this was my kind of Christmas song. I love a sad song, and this song feeds my "angsty soul," So please give it a listen before you read. This whole story is my interpretation of the song. Hope you like it. Happy Holidays enjoy!!!!

Requests: Here

Word Count: 6K

Warning: Mentions of Sex, Strong Angst and Laungue, Family Dynamics, Mentions of Pregnancy, Heartbreak.

I don’t think sneaking my ex-boyfriend out of my parent’s house is the best look for anyone on Christmas morning, but technically, it’s still Christmas Eve if you haven’t gone to sleep yet, right?—To be fair, he was the one knocking on my window, stumbling his way to my bed. Casually, bringing up the past, circling back to things I thought I had already unpacked with my best friend after I scrolled his girlfriend’s social media, backtracking five years, to be honest, she had me broader line obsessed.

He made his way to my bed and in between my legs, touching place and sharing space in the best way we knew how, and that’s the funny thing about having history with someone—sometimes it makes it harder to say no when it’s knowingly what you want the second they step foot into a place that once served as a sanctuary to you both—a garden where words weaved trust, that turned into secrets, carving out a space of our very own; a world that we created and while he wasn’t my first kiss he was everything else.

I’ve lost track of how many times our words of forever were passed between our mouths, tangled in shared breaths of “I swear until the day I die, I’m yours.” When you’re young, you believe it because it’s all you have—and we took that with us when we thought we were ready for the world—two foolish kids on an endeavor to forge these grown-up dreams of a grand gesture without a second thought, only relying on the word “love,” like love could weather any storm.

The hardest lesson we learned was that love isn’t always enough. Sometimes, you can love someone with all your being and forget that they’re not a possession—but a person. Was that our mistake? I don’t know, but we wanted to be our own people at some point and find ourselves outside of only identifying as “we.”

Let me tell you, that’s a hard pill to swallow, and from time to time, I still find myself choking on it, especially when it is obvious we still click—we didn’t need sex to know that we still worked, fit together like a puzzle that had been forgotten, and dusted off, only to find that you still had every single piece. Still, when Harry tried to kiss me goodbye, I pulled away.

“Hey—what is it…tell me?” he asks

“Nothing…it’s just late. You know how my mom is about Christmas morning.” I lie because the reality of his leaving is starting to sink in. I’m not ready for him to leave, but we both knew that there would be an ending to this.

He laughs, attempting to shrug his jacket on, and I glimpse the joy of the familiar memory dance across his features, “Yeah, she can be kind of crazy, right?”

“Yeah—but not any crazier than your mom,” I laugh.

“Hey now—actually…you know they kind of feed off each others crazy…” He says, fighting to find the sleeve of his jacket, and when I reach to help, something falls from his pocket, a loud thud clashing against the hardwood floor. I look down, thinking he knocked something off my shelf, but then I see it.

We both stare at the ground, a small box lying in the space between us, “You shouldn’t have…” I declare, bending down—Looking back now, I don’t know what I was thinking—You know this tends to happen when you rely on your wit to get you out of awkward situations. I thought it would be cute and clever. I would open the box, and it wouldn’t be exactly what I knew it was—a ring, but not just any ring—the ring.

“Hey—hey—hey…give me that,” He jokes, trying to turn it into a game, but I’m in too deep to give it up. I can only focus on getting a peek at the ring, which is now a broken promise, and right this second, I’m desperate enough to open this box—basque in the feeling of the “what if” this was mine.

I turn away, shoving his hand out of the way, compulsively straining to get a look at this ring, immediately getting aggressive when he tries to reach over my shoulder. “Stop Harry—” I urge.

“Come on, Blair—this isn’t funny…” He says, unamused, but he’s too late, and as I shove my elbow into his ribs, the box is flipping open, the glint of the diamond catching the light of the moon shining through the window. He stops then because what’s the use, right? Here it is—the ring—perfect, everything I would have wanted. It’s almost like a slap in the face, like he looked back on one of the many pictures I sent over the years, thinking one day this would be me.

The ring is stunningly beautiful. There is so little light yet it’s drawn to every facet; immaculate, precise cuts creating the perfect sparkle. There is nothing humble about it, but nothing seems to be humble about him anymore, including his life choices—and here I am, holding my breath, afraid to move, listening to his flustered exhale when I slam the box closed, a loud clap shut.

Without a word, I nudge him away from me, “Blair, listen—I was going to tell you…”

“When—? Before or after we had sex, Harry…Is that what this was?” I yell.

He panics and cups a hand over my mouth. It’s not hard, but it annoys the hell out of me, and I wrench his arm away, forcing him toward the window, “Don’t you fucking do that—you don’t get to do that—”

“I’m sorry—but seriously, Blair, let’s not wake your family,”

I let out a dry laugh, “Oh—trust me, they would understand—” I seeth.

“Oh, for fucks sake, Blair, that’s not fair—I don’t know what this was…I just really wanted to see you—” he says, raking a hand through his hair, a deep crease forming between his brows, and he licks his lips, running a hand down his face as he turns away.

“What do you want me to do? This is the way it’s supposed to work out. You know my family …I don’t really have a say. You know that—”

“Please—Harry—you’re almost 30 years old. You don’t think you have any say in your life?”

He turns around, a condescending laugh filling the space, “You of all people should understand…”

“Well—I thought I did…but I don’t think I do anymore. It just doesn’t make sense…none of this seems to make sense anymore. I don’t understand how we could be perfectly fine one day, and as soon as your dad put you on the path to be a partner at his firm—which we both knew would happen—” I start.

He shakes his head, pinching his lower lip between his thumb and index finger, contemplating my words, “Help me make it; make sense. When we knew all along what the path was going to be. Were did “WE” get lost because I did nothing but support you, and then you went away on that trip with your family—”

“And you’re on about this again…” he interrupts, words cutting like knives because this was the theme of some of our biggest arguments.

I’m shaking my head this time, confusion inching through my brain, straining to grasp for details I thought I packed away. “Now that’s not fair…” I force, my throat burning with the effort of biting back tears.

“Listen—this is my fault—” he says, reaching for the box, “I shouldn’t have come. I knew this would be a bad idea, but I just—”

I grasp onto the box, wanting to catch his eyes. I want to see the regret, “Tell me, does it hurt you, hurting me…I could have waited for your mom’s Facebook post…I know she’s over the moon with her…just fucking smitten that’s she’s everything and more—”

“I should go,” he says, his eyes darting to the window before he slides the box into his pocket. He opens the window, and the cold breeze flits into the dark room, reminding me of how little I have on. My eyes float to the bed, already mourning us like a fading memory—disappointment crawling up my spine, the sick twist of regret already tearing at my emotions as tears fill my eyes.

“Yeah, this was a bad idea…” I tell him, choking on the words, and I can feel my body starting to tremble. I want him gone, forever, to leave and be with his girlfriend, who will get him in the daylight. Who will kiss the mouth of the man I love for the rest of her life—and I’m sick—sick with the thought of them—and damn—This was easier when there was distance when I could pretend he didn’t exist.

“I’m sorry, bee—” He whispers, a slight trimmer in his voice as he reaches out to me, and let him because if this is all that is left. I want that last kiss. I want a kiss from the lips that were once mine, but when he pulls me in, I reach for his face, and he interjects, grasping my hands in his, denying me my one last wish.

“Harry…” I whisper, hot tears burning my eyes, “It’s just you and me right now…” I plead because he has that look of goodbye in his eyes; the reality setting in, like me standing here in his old tee-shirt, is too real for him—The cold draft of the air brings the world in with it. Yes, I feel it too, but his hands are so warm, his face is so sweet and kind, and I know what he’s about to do.

“Bee—” He tries, swallowing hard, like the words are stuck in his throat, tears drawing in his eyes, and he rubs his lips together, shaking his head as his eyes dart to our hands, and I grip his hands harder because he’s going to leave—he’s going to leave, and I’m never going to get his back; This man—the love of my life. There’s never a time he hasn’t had me, and he’s going to leave, he’s going to move on, and he will still have me because I could never let him go.

And when the tears spill over and fall down his cheeks, my body aches with a longing that’s so deep in my bone it hurts—my love for him hurts so fucking bad that I don’t think I’ll ever not love him or not want to be with him. He’s standing here breaking my heart all over again, and I still love him. I still want him always and forever like he fucking promised me because he did promise, and now she gets him; she gets to have my always and forever.

Now he’s pulling away, and I won’t let him go; I can’t let him go. “Bee…please…” he begs softly.

“I love you,” I cry out, “I love you so much, H—” and he pulls me into his body, letting me sob into his chest, my hot breath seeping into his body, and I breathe him in, trying to memorize our scent, but it there like muscle memory something I could never forget.

“You know I love you, Bee…” he breathes, pressing a warm kiss to the top of my head, “You know I will always love you, but you know that we can never do this again…”

His words slice through my pain, filling me with rage, and he’s right. We can’t do this ever again; he doesn’t get to have me like this and go back to her—and I’m so fucking mad at myself for falling into his trap because I’ve been so good. I can’t even remember the last time I talked to him. He knew what would happen when he knocked on my window, and I was so stupid to let him—yet here he is still wielding his power.

“You have to go,” I tell him, trying to force myself from his arms, and Harry’s grip tightens.

“I’m sorry, Bee—”

“No—this was wrong—this was all wrong, and you shouldn’t have done this…we shouldn’t have done this—”

I push him toward the window, angry adrenaline a trimmer in my fingertips when I bring a shaky hand up to tuck my hair behind my ear, “You did this to us…” I tell him.

“I’m—” he starts, and I know he’s just going to try and apologize, but that will never be enough, not when I know what happens next—and what? Did he use me? Did he feel sad and come looking for my sympathy?

“Leave—” I spit.

“Bee…come on—”

“Leave!” I say louder, loud enough to send an echo through the room. He stiffens, his panic reaching his face, and I cross my arms over my chest.

“Fine—” he hisses, his hair falling into his face as he bends his body halfway through the window. Harry doesn’t even look back; he doesn’t even give me a tiny morsel of hope, and I don’t know what I was expecting. Then Harry is out the window, and I slam it shut, swiping the curtains closed.

“Merry fucking Christmas, you Asshole…” I breathe, falling onto the bed to cry.

…

Here’s the thing about Christmas in my house: we wake up and celebrate, and nothing else is allowed. It’s the one time of the year when my mom is allowed to live in the delusion that everything is merry and bright. There’s no space to be sad. She’s up with the rising sun, her hair perfectly manicured, her make-up set for pictures, wrapped in a festive robe she just “rolled out of bed” in, and then she’s on to two more outfit changes.

So this morning, when I woke, ready to welcome her joyful cheer, I was surprised to see none. I found her standing at the sink, my dad leaning against the counter like I had just interrupted a fight, maybe some disagreement they didn’t want me part of. My first thought was that they knew. They saw Harry leaving, or maybe my voice had carried, and they heard me arguing with him.

It was like being a teenager all over again as I walked toward the coffee maker to pour myself a cup. Without fail, the clink of the dish against the stone countertop ricochets through the thick silence in the room, making me jumpy; the slurp of the pour is interrupted when my mom speaks. “All I’m going to say is let’s get through this day. I don’t want to talk about it. We can call all touch base once everyone is gone—Bee, will you stay longer this time or not?”

I’m in the midst of taking a sip, and the hot liquid hits my top lip, burning me as my eyes move from my dad to my mom in question, confused by whatever this is that I walked in on, “I wasn’t sure if I wanted to stay longer…I have a project—”

“Can you—?” she asks flatly like you better say “yes.”

I look to my dad, who raises his brows, eyes widening, and he blows out a breath, his lip puffing as he brings his coffee to his mouth, “Fine.” I answer because it doesn’t seem like there’s any other option.

And that was it—She switched up her mood as quickly as the conversation ended. I stood there sipping my coffee, mentally preparing, and that’s how we carried on, pushing it under the rug.

It started with presents, each gift given its proper praise, mom all smiles, dad snapping pictures, my sister nudging my shoulder as a constant reminder to keep up the show, and it was perfect—it was— but every time the camera flashed. I could feel myself drifting to the thought of all the pictures that would greet me when I opened my phone—How her red lips and long dark hair would steal my breath, her beauty outshining us all.

She became the jealous quake in my bones at the thought of Harry down on one knee, entrancing my thoughts, repeatedly threatening to pull me out of the moment—and now my mom is shouting from across the room, bidding for my attention, as I try and swallow the persistent lump burning a hole in my throat, making every word a battle of will to say the most straight-forward sentence—and it wasn’t fair; It wasn’t fair that I got to sit with it all day—a reel of memories cascading through my mind, always the slightest reminder to remind me of the past.

The smallest gestures, a deep-seeded pain strangling my insides; all my dad had to do was glance down at his watch. The watch Harry gave him when he turned forty or every time my mom tucked her behind her ear, I caught sight of the diamond earrings he got her and his mom, making them both laugh the last Christmas we all shared because that was our thing—it almost doesn’t seem real that our moms used to be best friends, nowadays it feels like a lifetime since they even shared one word, my mom growing bitter the day Harry broke my heart.

A sudden breakup can wreck anyone, and inherently, our families became the collateral damage, causing a complicated ripple through our families, a rigid divide that none of us knew how to address, let alone manage any semblance of a relationship; maybe that was our fault. I couldn’t be his friend. It hurt too much to try and mask my feelings, to manipulate them into something they weren’t, like right now—how I’m torturing myself, scrolling through social media, almost hoping I’ll see the pictures I know his mom will post. Perhaps it will be what I need; to rip the bandaid off, the right push I need to fucking move on because I don’t know how much longer I can live in the misery of what was and wasn’t.

Dissasoiating—the word of the day—a single word that could describe my whole day because somehow it’s dinner, and I’m sitting around the table trying to piece together the lapse in time I’ve lost. All it takes is one look at my mom to straighten up and be present. I don’t even know what they’re talking about, nor do I care, but when my cousin Jenny asks me to pass the potatoes, and the light captures the glint of her new engagement ring, my stomach drops, the hideous ache of jealousy climbing up my spine, and I’m sick again, my stomach turning at the thought, that maybe he’s already done it, maybe he’s asked her and she’s wearing his ring on her finger, and they’re sitting around the table; and every time she takes a bite it reflects the light from the chandler, everyone smiling because what a happy time, what a perfect day; what a bright fucking future they have.

This time, I can’t control it; it’s all too much, and I’m scraping the chair back, politely excusing myself, then bounding to the upstairs bathroom, yanking my phone from my pocket—and without a passing thought, I’m doing it—I’m calling Harry—by the first ring, I’m in panic mode, pacing back and forth, willing myself to end the call, trying to keep the phone from sliding down my sweaty palm.

I’m all adrenaline as I force the phone against my ear, the ring getting louder, and each time it rings, a gnarled knot of guilt builds in the depth of my belly. I keep looking to the toilet on the verge of falling to my knees and heaving anything that made its way to my stomach—then Harry forwards the fucking call to voicemail, and tears are spilling over my lids, my whole body hot, like maybe I’ll combust right here, explode with the fury of heat rising in my body.

I’m surprising myself when I press his name again, bringing the phone back to my ear, and I hold my breath, waiting for the first ring. It rings and then rings again, and by the third ring, I think I might get through—and it’s all a joke because yeah fucking right—By the fifth ring, I’m second-guessing myself again, shame eating away at my flesh, and then he’s forwarding the call again—my shame flying out the window.

Okay, yes, maybe this is the part where I tell you I should be embarrassed—but fuck it, I’m calling again, losing myself a little more each time he forwards my call. By the 8th call, I’m tormenting myself, a pitiful excuse of a human on the ground so caught up in my own grief that I don’t even hear my sister knocking on the door. The knock sounds, making my heart leap in my chest, the fear of being caught ripping through like an earth quack, and I’m up, catching sight of my reflection in the mirror, not even recognizing the person looking back at me.

I haven’t felt this desperate since we broke up, like an anxious tick buzzing under my skin. The humiliation of it all is a time bomb, counting down the seconds until it ignites inside me—and I’m there. I ignore the steady stream of knocks and crouch down like the monster I’ve become because I can’t look at myself and do what I know I’m about to do—it’s my one last stance, and I shoot Harry a text:

“Your a fucking coward!” I send and then realize I used the wrong fucking “your,” and my pride won’t let me go out like this. I send a quick “you’re” to fix my mistake and watch the screen, knowing he is now more aware of his than before. When the line changes from “delivered” to “read,” I watch the tiny dots collect in the corner of the screen, awaiting his reply—they appear and disappear several times until it finally stops altogether, and he leaves me on read.

Just as I’m about to send “fuck you!” my sister opens the door, pushing the bobby pin she used to pick the lock back into her hair, and closes the door behind her. “Dude, whatever is going on right now—you need to get it together—it’s one fucking day, okay…that’s all mom asks for, and she’s down there growing impatient. So seriously…if you’re up here freaking out about another dude you met on a dating app—like this isn’t the time—”

“I had sex with Harry—” I confess right then and there because I know this will be the only thing that will make her understand.

“No—” she says, pulling a handful of toilet paper from the roll, “We’re not doing this right now…” She wipes the tears from my face and forces me out of the bathroom and into my room.

“You have two minutes to get your shit together. I need Mom to be in a good mood today…listen, I have big shit going on too, but you don’t see me up here crying—” and she’s right. I saw her pregnancy test in our shared bathroom trash. She must have been panicked when she half-assed her wrapping job on her test. I know I taught her better than that, but this was what I needed to pull myself back up.

I came down the stairs with a smile. Everyone in the sitting room was having coffee and dessert; this was the last stretch. This is all we had left, and then I can check my phone that my sister made me leave upstairs—and so I would drone on keeping up with conversations, tossing out witty remakes, bringing laughter and joy to everyone around, and when my mom sent me a genuine smile, I felt myself smiling back, enjoying the company of my family; and when dad slipped me the “good” eggnog I realized that there’s nothing better at taking the edge off then alcohol.

Four eggnogs in on an empty stomach, and I was working the room, exaggerating about my life and all the projects I’ve taken on at work, dodging questions about my dating life, and when my grandma brought up Harry four times, dammit, I didn’t even flinch, I just kept the conversation moving, filter out the emotions coursing through me like a breeze on a sunny day, right before a summer storm sets in. I even kept it cute and classy when cousin Jen took her engagement ring on a tour around the room, gutting me like a fish when she said, “I never thought I would get married before you…you know…like you and Harry were like “it” you know—” and I’m smiling again, getting a nod of approval from mom when she hears me congratulate Jen again, admiring her beautiful ring.

By eggnog five, I’m switching to “what he’s having,” I shout to my dad as I watched him pour, maybe whisky over the rocks, a shallow pour, but it packed a punch. I knew it was time to dial it back when I found myself leaning over Jenny, who was flipping between her social platforms, landing on Facebook, where I know for a fact Harry’s mom would be posting, taking care to tag everyone in each photo—which brings me back to the time when dear ole’ cousin Jenny started following Harry. It was Christmas break, we had just turned fifteen, and I could tell she had a crush on him. She spent all Christmas break following us around, cornering him anytime she could get him alone; I had to share my bed with her that Christmas, and I remember how miserable I was without the gift of Harry crawling through my window on Christmas Eve.

It’s wild to think of how feeble my grasp on time was when we were young, how a couple of weeks could feel like an eternity; it’s been less than a day since I saw him last. How am I supposed to go a lifetime of never hearing his voice again, to look into those green eyes that have seen me through so many changes, not to feel those hands that have cradled me like a child, held me like a lover, squeezing and pulling me into shapes that fit him; arms that carried and lifted me to heights that I could never have reached on my own—and maybe I speaking figuratively because no one has carried me at my worst or lifted me at my best until I was the best version of myself, but isn’t funny how the people that bring out our best know exactly how to rally the worst parts of us.

Mom taps her dessert spoon to her glass, grabbing everyone’s attention. It’s time for her big send-off speech. My eyes dart to my sister leaning against the fireplace, rolling her eyes, “I just want to start by saying I’m so thrilled that you’ve all chosen to spend this joyous holiday with us…you all know this is my absolute favorite holiday and every year I look forward to spending it with each and every one of you—” she tells us raising her glass, and everyone knows what’s coming next and as she starts her final lines— the same lines she uses every year—my sister sends me a wink mouthing the lines in unison with our mother.

“There’s no time like Christmas to let you know how appreciated you are. I feel honored to call you family…” and her hook, line, and sinker is, “May the light of Christmas warm your hearts this holiday season and remember love is the true spirit of Christmas—”

My throat burns as she finishes, “And always know how much I love you and always will…so before I start getting too emotional, I better cut myself off—” she laughs, wiping a tear from her eye, and as much as I hate how crazy she gets about Christmas, she really is amazing at being so selfless; to give everyone such a beautiful day, and I’m so grateful for her and my family, and then the doorbell rings taken everyone by surprise. We all freeze, eyes moving around the room because we’re all here, and no one is expecting anyone.

“Fred—” my mom calls to my dad. “Are we expecting anyone else?”

My dad’s reaction is slow, but he launches himself from the chair and excuses himself. When he comes back, he looks bewildered, half-tipsy as he shrugs his shoulder to tell us no one was there—and that was that. No one blinked an eye—yet my first thought was Harry, and I felt myself slipping because the whole day had passed; certainly, theirs was over by now, and the thought had me breaking my own heart, picturing her in his old bed, the whole family tucked away in their rooms, still riding out the high of such a magically joyful day.

And she’ll kiss his lip and say, “I love you.” He’ll lay her down in the bed I gave myself to him in, and he’ll make love to her like he loved me last night, and there is no end; there’s no end to the torture of it all because how can one person fuse themselves to every fiber of my being—and more importantly how could I still allow it?

As the last guest passed our threshold, Mom, being the gracious host she was, sent them off with candies and cookies, and I stood there wishing I was more like her, like my sister, who could always pretend, who knew how to wear “the smile” like a badge of honor. I wondered why this all had to be so hard. Why is love all or nothing? Why can’t we flip a switch and “poof,” it’s gone?

I watched my mom close the door, my siblings dispersing, and my dad already making his way back to his chair, but my mom just stood there. She let out a heavy sigh, her once perfect posture decompressing as she held on to the doorknob, “Oh Bee—” she said, eventually turning around to face me, and suddenly it looked like the weight of the day had finally caught up to her beautiful features, now tired—a mournful pinch between her brows, pursuing her lip while her eyes roamed my face. I’m trying my hardest to keep it together because there is something about that look a mom can give, that “I can fix everything with a hug” look.

“Do you need anything…I didn’t sleep very well last night. I was thinking of calling it early. if that’s okay?” I ask

“Oh honey, don’t worry about it…it’s been a long day for everyone,” she states, unbuttoning the first two buttons of her silk blouse, that mourful look still lacing her features.

“Let’s just deal with the clean up tomorrow…sound good, baby?” she tells me, slinging an arm around my shoulder, “I know today was hard for you…Thank you for being such a good sport. I’m so proud of the way you handled yourself. You did a beautiful job, sweetie.” Her words catch me off guard, and I turn to face her, my throat burning at the thought that she knows everything.

I swallow hard, opening my mouth to let out the words building up, but I can only manage a small whimper. “Listen, honey,” Mom starts, and I’m already a puddle in her arms, wanting my mommy to make it all better.

“I’m not going to lie and say it gets better, but one day, it’s not going to hurt as bad as it hurts right now, and eventually, when you find someone new—”

I gasped out a sob then, her words hitting every sore spot on my body, “Shhh—Shh—I know baby, I know—but listen,” She said, cradling my face in her hands, “I know that this isn’t what you want to hear—”

“But one day you will find someone new, and they’ll be just enough to get you over that last slump of pain, and maybe if you’re lucky enough…which I know you are…Harry will become a pleasant memory of the past, baby, because both of you were so lucky to have what you had. Not everyone will get to say they had a love like the two of you shared, and that is so so special, honey, so special—”

The tears are rolling down my cheeks faster than my mom can swipe them away, and it’s taking every ounce of strength I have to keep myself upright, “I love him so much—” I push past the sob, shuttering through me.

“I know, honey, I know—one of the hardest lessons we can learn is to let the people we love go, let them go so they can be free, and if it’s meant to be, they’ll come back—”

“I can’t, Mom, I can’t do it,” I cry, trying to bury my face into her shoulder, but she has a firm grip on it. Blair Marie, you are so strong, honey, and we are all here for you. You can do this, okay?” she says, nodding her head up and down.

“Okay?” She asks again, and I nod in agreement, “Listen—between you and me, we’re going to have our hands full anyway, right? Don’t think I don’t know about your sister—she’s next.”

I’m stunned into silence. “Yeah, I know. That’s how I felt at first. Honey, I love you. I am here for you. Now go get some rest…” she says, pushing me toward the stairs.

“Oh—and hopefully, we aren’t expecting any unexpected guests this evening….”

I shake my head, “I—”

“Yeah, slamming your window at the crack of dawn is a dead give away—”

Somehow, she manages to get a smile out of me, and I roll my eyes, ready to make my way up the stairs, “Hey, Mom, thank you for making today so beautiful…it really was beautiful.” I tell her.

“Oh—! And Mom, thank you for those kind words. I love you.” she smiles, placing a hand over her heart, and we share a look of knowing—and without a doubt, that woman managed to lift my spirits—again. She’s too good at that; she is father fucking Christmas.

And while my heart still felt heavy, I felt like I could get through this night. I would march into my room, head straight for my phone, and turn it off; there would be no doomsday scrolling. I would take a shower, hell maybe even take a hot bath to rid myself of this day—Maybe I would even start packing away everything in my childhood room that reminded me of him, set myself up for the next year, and seriously, it was amazing how quickly the motivation surged up my chest; almost bursting at the seams with the very thought of it.

So by the time I turned my knob, I was ready, so fucking ready—But as the door clicked open, a cold chill grazed over my wrist. All I saw was my curtains billowing back and forth with the breeze flowing in and out of my window, and I rushed over to shut the damn window because I didn’t remember opening it, but maybe my sister opened it while I was fixing my make up earlier and that’s when I hear it:

“Bee—”

I slam the window shut, panic rushing through me, every limb of my body shaking with it as I turn toward the sound. And there he is, the love of my life, sitting on the edge of my bed, hunched over with his face buried in his hands, and when he looks up. I can tell he’s been crying, and he pulls a small box from his pocket and places it on the nightstand, right next to the very same box that held his future, and all he says is, “I couldn’t do it—”

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elysiaheaven2 · 1 day ago

Text

𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗧𝗖𝗛 𝗠𝗬 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗧!-𝐑𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐧 𝐱 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐛𝐚𝐥 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥-(Part 2)

Words:7000

Genre: Dark Horror, Psychological Thriller, Gore, Obsession & Obsessive Love, Psychological Abuse, Crime & Thriller

(Reader is G.N) (A cannibal Reader, I don't support these! Just writing them!)

Summary :

Follows a twisted, sadistic you who presents themselves as a sweet baker but harbors a gruesome obsession with murder and cannibalism. Your appearance is grotesque, with stitches all over their body, and their bakery serves as a cover for a far darker purpose—using human flesh in your pastries. You met Angel who became your dear person. You get invited to the server,

The story is filled with graphic violence, disturbing themes of control, obsession.

Trigger Warnings and Content Warnings:

Violence and Gore: The content features explicit descriptions of violent actions, including graphic depictions of murder, dismemberment, and physical injury. The themes of torture and the pleasure derived from violence are present throughout.

Mental Health and Obsessive Behavior: There are elements of unhealthy obsession, possessiveness, and manipulation, particularly in the relationships between the characters. Themes of emotional trauma, self-doubt, and psychological instability are explored.

Cannibalism: References to cannibalism are present, with detailed discussions of cutting, eating, and dissection of bodies.

Sexual Themes: There are implied themes of dark and twisted romantic relationships, including non-consensual dynamics, manipulation, and obsession. This includes sexualized violence and threats.

Self-Harm: References to physical injury, mutilation, and self-inflicted harm, including the imagery of stitches coming undone and body parts falling off, are depicted.

Dark Romanticization: The portrayal of relationships is toxic, with power imbalances, manipulation, and destructive behavior.

Death and Murder: Graphic depictions of death, including the murder of both fictional and real people, are central to the narrative. The thrill and pleasure derived from killing are explored.

Emotional Abuse: Themes of manipulation, psychological control, and emotional manipulation are present in the interactions between the characters.

Disturbing Imagery and Themes: Content involving body horror, the macabre, and disturbing imagery related to the human form is featured.

Please proceed with caution if these triggers could cause distress. If you experience any discomfort during our exchange, feel free to pause or end the roleplay at your discretion.

EXTRA: Made a playlist!

Time moved fast, and now it was a new year—2025. February 14. Valentine’s Day.

Your hands worked diligently, filling orders at the shop, the sweet and savory scents of baked goods filling the air. But even while working, your laptop stayed open, screen glowing with the server’s chat. You couldn’t help but check in—it was your little slice of chaos.

You liked the server.

You liked Angel.

You wanted to eat Ronin.

Cute. Very cute.

<Zombie>: Quit hogging her, you freak. Omg.

The irritation bubbled up. That bastard Ronin always had a way of making Angel feel... foolish. You didn’t like it.

<goreboy>: My love runs deeper than wells and goes halfway into Hell. What can I say? I’m irresistible.

<Angelic>: @goreboy You’re so...

<Zombie>: I wanna eat him. Angel, can I? Though, honestly, I have no idea how you managed to bag Angel, Ronin.

<goreboy>: Ah Well there's this thing called Loneliness and also Hey Ronin's Right There.

You couldn't shake the way Ronin's words stuck with you, lingering like the sour aftertaste of bad wine. Without much thought, your fingers danced across the keyboard, pulling up his DMs.

<Zombie (DMs): Are you okay?

It didn’t take long for him to respond.

<goreboy (DMs): Why, darling? Missing me already? Or are you checking in because I said something about being lonely?

You frowned at the screen, typing back quickly.

<Zombie (DMs): Why did you say that? Are you okay or not?

His reply came almost immediately, as if he was waiting for your reaction.

<goreboy (DMs): It’s called a joke, sweetheart. Ever heard of one? Why so serious?

You leaned back in your chair, exhaling through your nose before typing your next message.

<Zombie (DMs): Because ingredients shouldn’t feel bad.

There was a pause on his end. You could almost picture him smirking at the screen, intrigued and a little off-kilter.

<goreboy (DMs): Ingredients?

<Zombie (DMs): Yeah. If ingredients feel bad, they might lose their charm.

<goreboy (DMs): Oh, do tell me how that works, Chef Zombie.

<Zombie (DMs): It’s simple. Ingredients are more valuable when they’re warm, vibrant, full of life—or whatever you have that passes for it. If something rots too early, it’s a waste. That’s why I’m asking if you’re okay. Keeping you from spoiling.

You hit send, waiting for his reaction. When it came, it was both exactly what you expected and somehow surprising.

<goreboy (DMs): Keeping me warm, huh? What a tender little butcher you are. Almost makes me think you care.

You smirked to yourself, fingers poised to respond.

<Zombie (DMs): I don’t. I just hate waste.

His typing indicator flickered on and off for a moment before his reply came through.

<goreboy (DMs): Sure, sure, Zombie. Whatever helps you sleep at night.

You shifted in your seat, typing away as the tension of the conversation lingered in the back of your mind. Your fingers hovered for a moment before sending your next message to Ronin.

<Zombie (DMs): I still wanna eat you, by the way. Don’t get it twisted. I’m only helping you with the Angel stuff because it’s interesting. That’s all.

The response came quicker than expected, his tone practically dripping through the screen.

<goreboy (DMs): Oh, darling, you’ve made that abundantly clear. But go on, I’m curious. What’s got you so curious about Angel and me?

You huffed, staring at his reply before leaning forward.

<Zombie (DMs): I just… feel weird about it. How do you even care about her this much? It’s all so… I have so many thoughts about this, but it doesn’t make sense.

<goreboy (DMs): What’s there to make sense of? We’re friends, sweetheart. I look out for her. Simple as that.

You narrowed your eyes, feeling the urge to pick at his words.

<Zombie (DMs): No. It’s not that simple. It’s way more than that. You don’t get this kind of attachment for no reason. Spill. Why do you care about her this much? Why did you two even get together in the first place?

The typing indicator blinked on and off for a long moment, like he was deliberating how much he wanted to say.

<goreboy (DMs): You really wanna know? Alright, fine. But don’t say I never gave you anything.

There was a pause, and then the explanation began, his words surprisingly thoughtful, measured in a way you didn’t expect from someone like him.

<goreboy (DMs): Angel and I got together out of… proximity. We were the only ones who really understood each other back then. The server was empty—just us for weeks. When it’s just you and another person, sparks happen, you know? It wasn’t love. It was convenience, loneliness. And she felt safe with me.

You raised an eyebrow at the admission, watching his next messages roll in.

<goreboy (DMs): Angel’s been through it. Men who don’t respect her, don’t listen. I’m not like them. Boundaries matter to me. I didn’t push her where she didn’t want to go. And yeah, me being trans helped her feel like she could trust me. Not like those other guys who see her as some prize. With me? She didn’t feel like that.

Another pause, and you could sense the weight in his words.

<goreboy (DMs): And for me? She reminded me of someone. Ther. My first love. Someone I… lost a long time ago. Angel isn’t them. She’ll never be them. But for a while, she felt close enough that I could pretend. We clicked because we were using each other, really. She was processing her feelings about men, and I was… processing Ther.

<Zombie (DMs): So what happened?

<goreboy (DMs): We figured it out. Realized we were leaning on each other for all the wrong reasons. It wasn’t love—it was coping. And when that realization hit, we broke it off. But we stayed close. She’s my friend now. My girl, but not in that way. Not anymore.

You stared at the screen, chewing over his words.

<Zombie (DMs): That’s… a lot. Still doesn’t explain why you’re all over her business.

<goreboy (DMs): Because I care, darling. She’s been through enough. She deserves someone in her corner. If I can be that person, then why not?

You leaned back, rereading the messages, feeling your lips twitch into a small, knowing smile.

<Zombie (DMs): You’re not completely rotten, are you?

<goreboy (DMs): What’s that supposed to mean?

<Zombie (DMs): Just that I’m noticing things. You care about her. Like, actually care. It’s not all for show.

There was a long pause before he finally replied.

<goreboy (DMs): Don’t get used to it, sweetheart.

You leaned forward, staring at the screen, his words replaying in your head. Something was bothering you, and curiosity burned hotter than caution.

<Zombie (DMs): So… you’re trans? Is that why?

A few moments passed before the typing indicator appeared.

<goreboy (DMs): Why what?

<Zombie (DMs): Why Angel felt safe with you.

The typing indicator flickered again, and then a response came.

<goreboy (DMs): Yeah. That’s why. She didn’t have to worry about the same things with me as she did with other men. Simple as that.

You mulled over his words, hesitating before diving into your next question.

<Zombie (DMs): And… who’s Ther?

There was a long silence before his reply.

<goreboy (DMs): ...

<Zombie (DMs): Someone close to you?

Another pause, and then:

<goreboy (DMs): You could say that.

You tilted your head, curious but careful, when suddenly he dropped something unexpected.

<goreboy (DMs): Ther and I used to eat apple crumble ice cream together. That was their favorite.

Your brows raised at the sudden shift, a personal detail woven into an otherwise guarded conversation.

<Zombie (DMs): I see.

<goreboy (DMs): Yeah. They said it was like eating a little piece of comfort. I thought it was too sweet, but I’d still share it with them.

You stared at the screen, your chest tightening at the quiet vulnerability in his words.

<Zombie (DMs): You cared about them a lot, didn’t you?

<goreboy (DMs): Didn’t I say it’s none of your business?

The sharpness in his tone was back, but it didn’t scare you off.

<Zombie (DMs): You’re more interesting when you let things slip, you know.

His reply came quickly this time.

<goreboy (DMs): Careful, sweetheart. You’re starting to sound too interested.

You smirked, but before you could tease him further, he typed again.

<goreboy (DMs): Yes, I’m the devil, like you say. The big bad Devil’s Butcher. You’ve said it yourself.

You hesitated, reading between the lines of his sudden bravado.

<Zombie (DMs): You mean you see yourself as the devil… because of where you grew up, don’t you?

He didn’t reply immediately, and you decided not to push. There was something raw in his sudden quiet, something that felt like an unspoken confirmation.

<Zombie (DMs): I get it. You don’t have to say it.

The typing indicator returned one last time.

<goreboy (DMs): Good. Don’t pry too much, darling. You’re already pushing your luck.

<Zombie (DMs): Ugh, I had such a day today. This guy was so sufferable.

<goreboy (DMs): Sufferable? Don’t you mean insufferable?

<Zombie (DMs): Nope. Sufferable. As in, he suffered. A lot. He wouldn’t stop whining—‘please, don’t do this, I’ll do anything, blah blah blah.’

<goreboy (DMs): Ah, one of those types. No appreciation for artistry.

<Zombie (DMs): Exactly! And, oh my god, he stank. Like stinky-stank levels. The guy smelled like he’d been dead before I even got to him.

<goreboy (DMs): Rotten ones are the worst. Did you at least finish the job, or are you venting halfway through?

<Zombie (DMs): Finished it. Trust me, I was doing the world a favor. The stench is just lingering in my head. Gross.

<goreboy (DMs): You’re complaining to me about stench? Sweetheart, I’ve gutted guys whose insides looked like a meat stew left out in the sun. Rotting doesn’t even begin to cover it.

<Zombie (DMs): Okay, but that’s your thing. You’re like... “Rotten Meat Aesthetic.” I don’t want it lingering in my place. He even got blood on my favorite knife—like, so much.

<goreboy (DMs): The favorite knife? Damn. That’s personal. What’d he do to deserve such VIP treatment?

You smirked, thinking about the events of the day.

<Zombie (DMs): He is a ex fan of Angel. He was one of the idiots hating on her. Big mistake.

There was a pause before his reply.

<goreboy (DMs): ...You didn’t tell her, did you?

<Zombie (DMs): Of course not. It’d ruin the fun. Besides, she doesn’t need to know how far I’ll go to keep her safe.

<goreboy (DMs): Hah. Protective and possessive. I almost wanna say “cute,” but you might take it as a compliment.

<Zombie (DMs): It is a compliment. You can say it.

<goreboy (DMs): Dream on.

You laughed softly to yourself, satisfied with how the day had turned out, even if the guy’s smell was still a distant memory. You leaned back in your chair, staring at the chat.

<Zombie (DMs): Anyway, today’s work is done. I’m taking a shower and purging the stink out of my life.

<goreboy (DMs): Enjoy your little ritual, darling. And don’t forget—next time, keep the rotten ones to a minimum.

<Zombie (DMs): Noted. But you know I won’t.

Angel dmed you next, the sweet sinner!

<Angelic (DMs): Hey, did you catch my interview today?

<Zombie (DMs): Of course I did. I always do.

<Angelic (DMs): Haha, you never miss anything, huh? It’s like you’re always watching... a lot.

Your fingers paused over the keyboard before you responded.

<Zombie (DMs): It’s not like that. I just... want to make sure you’re safe. That’s all.

There was a moment of hesitation in her next reply.

<Angelic (DMs): ...Safe? From what?

<Zombie (DMs): From everything. The world is ugly, Angel. Cruel and dangerous. But you... you’re not like that. You’re not ugly. You’re pure, like something out of a dream. Perfect, even.

Her reply took longer than usual this time.

<Angelic (DMs): ...Okay, that’s a lot. You sound... really intense.

<Zombie (DMs): You don’t get it. You’re a miracle in this broken world. Something to be protected, cherished. A god walking among us.

<Angelic (DMs): Stop it, Zombie. Seriously. I’m just... a person. A human. With flaws. 💔

Your expression softened at her response, but your obsession wouldn’t let go.

<Zombie (DMs): You might think that, but you’re wrong. I see what others don’t. You’re not just a human to me, Angel. You’re the light in the dark. The reason the rest of us keep going.

<Angelic (DMs): I don’t even know what to say to that. You’re too much sometimes.

You stared at her message, debating how to respond. For now, you decided to leave it, letting your words linger like a prayer on her screen.

[Angelicc] Also, also, another thing—THE INTERVIEW asked me about my manager??? She totally hated Finian for some reason. It was surreal, because I didn’t even know THEY knew Finian personally. Didn’t make it into the final writeup, but wow.

[Zombie] He sounds like a bad manager, Angel.

[Angelicc] Ahh, he really isn’t! Honestly. Finian’s a bit... demanding, but everyone in the industry is. You know how it is. ... I don’t know what to think about him, though, to be honest. Like, he’s not a good guy, I guess? She was probably right about that. But he’s not the worst, you know? Compared to the bottom-of-the-barrel men I’ve dealt with before... Whatever. I don’t want to dwell on it.

Anyway!!! Do YOU have anything to tell me?

<Zombie> [08:44] I hate your manager.

<Angelic> [08:44] What? Why?

<Zombie> [08:45] I want to take care of it if he’s scaring you.

<Angelic> [08:45] No! Don’t even think about it. Finian is fine. Don’t do anything... please.

<Zombie> [08:46] ...

<Zombie> [08:47] Why are you so selfless?

<Angelic> [08:47] ...

<Angelic> [08:48] ...What are you doing right now?

Her sudden question, her obvious attempt to change the topic, made your blood simmer, but you forced the anger down.

<Zombie> [08:49] I’m... making something.

Your words felt sharp, clipped, but she didn’t seem to notice—or maybe she chose not

<Zombie> [08:50] He’s so fucking shit. He sounds like an ass. Why are you like this, Angel? Why do you put up with him?

<Angelic> [08:50] Excuse me?

<Zombie> [08:51] You deserve better than some demanding jerk who doesn’t even treat you right. Why do you always let people like him stick around?

<Angelic> [08:52] You don’t know anything about him! Or me! Finian isn’t perfect, but he’s not the worst person in the world either. I’ve had to deal with way worse. HAVE YOU SEEN THE MEN I KILLED?

<Zombie> [08:53] That’s the problem, Angel. You settle. You just accept that people treat you like garbage because you’ve dealt with worse before. Don’t you see how messed up that is?

<Angelic> [08:54] You don’t get to tell me how to live my life! You’re not me. You don’t understand the industry, the pressure, or anything I’ve been through. You’re just... acting like you know everything when you don’t.

<Zombie> [08:55] I don’t have to understand everything to see you deserve more than this. You’re not some charity case for assholes who don’t appreciate you.

<Angelic> [08:56] Stop it! Just stop! Why are you acting like this?

<Zombie> [08:57] Because I care about you.

The words hung in the air—or rather, the digital void between you. You stared at your screen, waiting for her to reply, your hands twitching with the urge to type more, to explain yourself, to argue more if needed.

<Angelic> [08:59] ...I don’t want to fight with you.

The fight drained out of you in an instant. Her words were soft but firm, enough to make you bite back your next sentence.

<Zombie> [09:00] I don’t want to fight either...

There was a long pause. The silence on her end was deafening.

<Angelic> [09:02] I just want things to stay the way they are. Please.

You clenched your jaw. Of course, she did. She always wanted peace, even at her own expense.

<Zombie> [09:03] ...Fine.

You stared at the blank screen, the tension in your body winding tighter and tighter until something in you snapped. Literally.

Your right eye popped out of its socket, dangling grotesquely against your cheek. You groaned in frustration, not pain—it wasn’t new. You grabbed the slippery orb with trembling hands, shoved it back in place, and blinked a few times to get it to stay.

But as you reached for the keyboard, your left index finger decided it had had enough, cracking off at the knuckle and clattering onto the desk with a wet thud.

“God damn it,” you muttered through clenched teeth, your voice shaking.

You picked up the detached digit, the sinew dangling like some grotesque string of tinsel, and shoved it back into place. Blood, dark and congealed, seeped through the seams as you gritted your teeth and pressed it back into position. It stuck, for now.

And then the tears came.

Hot, furious, and stinging, they rolled down your cheeks as you slammed a fist against the table, your body trembling with emotion. "Why do I care so much about her?" you whispered hoarsely, the words barely audible over your own ragged breathing. "Why does she have to be so... her?"

You thought of Angel, her ethereal presence, her voice, her light that seemed so untouchable yet so tempting. You wanted to keep her safe, to protect her, to worship her like the god she could never see herself as. But she didn't want it. She wanted normalcy.

And then there was Ronin.

Your mind reeled at the thought of him—chaotic, alluring, dangerous. A perfect mess of a man who didn’t hide his rot but flaunted it, wore it like a crown. You hated how much you needed to see him split open, to peer inside and find out if his heart was truly rotten... or if there was something beautiful hidden in the decay.

You leaned back, staring at your hands, now bloodied and trembling.

"Maybe..." you murmured to the empty room, your voice hollow. "If I just choose one, I could feel something real again. Maybe my heart could... work."

The room was silent except for your uneven breathing. The urge clawed at you, relentless, gnawing at the edges of your mind. You wanted to feel.

Your trembling hands moved almost on their own, reaching for the scalpel you'd been toying with earlier. Slowly, deliberately, you pressed the blade against your chest. The first cut was shallow, testing the resistance of your skin, but the next was deeper—sharp enough to split the flesh. Blood oozed out, warm and dark, staining your clothes and pooling in your lap.

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

The pain didn’t matter; it was almost soothing, grounding you as your trembling fingers dug into the split. You peeled back the layers of skin, the grotesque sound of tearing flesh filling the room as you exposed the cage of your ribs.

With a manic determination, you pried them apart, your blood-slicked hands reaching inside, feeling the erratic thrum of your heart.

And then, there it was—pulsing, trembling, weak. A pathetic thing, wrapped in sinew and veins, yet still stubbornly beating.

You stared at it, blood smeared across your face, tears mixing with the mess. "You’re broken," you whispered, voice trembling. "You don’t work right. You don’t feel right."

Your lips curled into a crazed smile as your fingers tightened around the organ. "Maybe one of them could fix you. Stitch you up. Make you whole."

You giggled, your chest open and raw, your blood-smeared face glowing with unhinged delight.

"I’ll give you to someone," you cooed to your heart as if it could hear you. "Ronin, with his twisted grin, could carve you into something new. Or Angel... she’d be gentle, wouldn’t she? She’d hold you like you mattered."

You brought the organ closer to your face, smiling down at it with a strange sort of adoration.

"Maybe soon..." you whispered, licking your blood-stained lips. "Maybe soon, I’ll get fixed. Maybe I’ll feel love."

You stared at the screen, the words glowing in the dim light of your room.

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> "Yo, Zombie, time to pick a valentine! Let’s goooo!"

"Yes! You totally deserve one, just for today. You’ve worked so hard, you’ve made the server so much better... and honestly, it’s because of you that Luca and I are together. 🩷"

You blinked, rereading their messages. Your hands hovered over the keyboard, uncertain.

"It’s fine. I don’t really..."

Your fingers froze as the chat continued to flood.

"Awww, c’mon! Don’t be shy!"

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> "Yeah, like, for real! You’re cool as hell, Zombie, and you’ve been here for all of us. You deserve some love too."

It was strange, reading their words. You were used to the chaos, the teasing, the blood-soaked banter. But this? This felt different. Warmer. Softer.

For a moment, your chest ached—not from the self-inflicted wound, but from... something else.

You typed slowly, hesitantly.

<Zombie> "...You guys are good friends. I like you two. Thanks."

The chat erupted in affectionate chaos.

<Felicite> "🥺 Stop, you’re gonna make me cry! Zombieeee, you’re too sweet!"

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> "FR! You’re the MVP of this whole server. But, like, seriously. Pick someone for today. A Valentine’s Day partner! Even if it’s just for fun."

You sat back, staring at the screen. Valentine’s Day... the idea of choosing someone felt odd. But at the same time, you didn’t hate it.

Your eyes darted between the screen and the chaotic server chat, heart pounding as your fingers hesitated over the keyboard. Everyone had been throwing suggestions your way, their teasing messages blurring into a cacophony of emojis and pings.

But just as you were about to make a decision, a notification popped up.

<goreboy> has sent you a direct message.

You clicked it, curiosity piqued. Ronin’s profile picture, a grimy pixelated skull face, seemed to leer at you from the corner of the screen.

<goreboy> "Zombie. Darling. The honor of today is yours if you’d have me."

You blinked, rereading the message as your breath hitched.

<goreboy> "I know you wanna eat me, rip me apart, stitch me back together, all that poetic gore stuff. But for today? Let me give you a break. You deserve it."

Your pulse quickened. Ronin? Volunteering himself like this? Sure, he was bold, loud, and soaked in his own theatrical flair, but this was... different. There was a softness in his words, however masked it was by his usual devilish charm.

Your thoughts were interrupted by another ping.

<angelicc> has sent you a direct message.

You clicked the notification, your stomach twisting in anticipation. Angel’s profile picture—soft pastel pink greeted you, along with a message that made your chest tighten.

<angelicc> "Hey, um... this is so embarrassing to say, but... I like you. A lot."

You stared at the words, reading them over and over as if they might disappear if you blinked too hard.

<angelicc> "Maybe for today... you could pick me? Just for today, I mean! No pressure! But I really do like you, Zombie. I think you’re amazing. And... yeah, okay, I’ll stop typing now before I make it worse 🫣💞"

Your hands trembled. Angel liked you? Angel, the radiant center of the server, the one you admired, obsessed over, worshiped in your own strange way?

The room seemed to close in as you stared at the two messages. Two choices. Two people.

Ronin’s playful offer replayed in your mind—his self-aware humor masking something deeper. And then Angel’s shy confession, so unlike her usual confident self, made your heart ache.

You looked back at the server chat, where Felicite and Luca were still hyping you up, oblivious to the quiet storm brewing in your DMs.

<Felicite> "ZOMBIE YOU HAVE TO PICK SOMEONE, OMG, THE SUSPENSE IS KILLING ME!!!"

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> "WHO’S IT GONNA BE??? C’MON, ZOMBIE, DROP THE BOMB!!"

But the bomb wasn’t theirs to detonate. It was yours.

You typed slowly, first opening Ronin’s chat.

<ZOMBIE> "You’re offering yourself to me? I don’t know if you’re brave or just stupid. But I’ll think about it."

His response came almost immediately.

<goreboy> "Oh, darling, I’m both. And you love it."

You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile before switching to Angel’s chat.

<ZOMBIE> "You like me? That’s... surprising. You’re everything good in this ugly world. I didn’t think you’d notice someone like me."

A few seconds passed before she replied.

<angelicc> "Of course I noticed you. You’re always there for me. I just... never had the courage to say anything until now. 🩷"

Your chest ached. How could you choose? Ronin, with his chaotic allure and promises of mayhem, or Angel, with her genuine warmth and the way she made the world seem less dark?

You stared at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The server was waiting. They were waiting.

It was up to you.

Your laughter bubbled out uncontrollably, raw and wild, as you caught sight of your reflection in the darkened screen. The stitches holding your mouth together had torn apart, crimson glistening against your pale skin as the metallic tang filled your mouth.

"Oh, sweet baking Christ," you hissed, reaching for your sewing kit with trembling, blood-streaked fingers. "Just... hold on."

Your message to both and was hurriedly typed with your free hand, the other already prepping the needle and thread.

"Wait. Mouth came apart. Gimme a sec."

As you carefully slid the needle through your torn lips, each pull of the thread made you wince and hiss through your teeth. But the pain was grounding—it forced your swirling thoughts into sharper focus. And oh, there were so many thoughts, a chaotic tangle of wants and plans and desperation.

Your fingers paused mid-stitch as your mind wandered.

Ronin. Being with him would be like walking the edge of a razor blade, teetering between obsession and chaos. You didn’t care about the love he offered, no. Love wasn’t why you were drawn to him. Ronin could give you something else—tools. He was a necessary ingredient in your recipe, the one who could help you deal with the poison festering in Angel’s life.

Her manager.

Your lips twitched in a half-smile, blood pooling at the corners as you resumed sewing. That thing—Finian—deserved to be gutted, flayed, ground into the dirt. You’d be doing Angel a favor, even if she didn’t see it that way.

But then there was Angel herself.

Her name alone was enough to make your hands tremble. She was a gift from some divine being you didn’t believe in, a beacon in your rotting, stitched-together world. You wanted her. Not in the way you wanted Ronin, with his chaos and danger, but with a reverence so pure it disgusted you. She was perfect, everything you weren’t—kind, radiant, clean.

And you?

You were stitched filth, a patchwork doll of sins and scars, barely held together by threads soaked in your own blood. Compared to her, you were nothing. Rotten shit, stitched into the mockery of a human.

Your hands stilled, the thread in your mouth taut and glistening with red. You looked down at the needle in your hand and laughed, quietly this time. What were you even doing? Choosing between Ronin and Angel? The thought was laughable. Someone like you didn’t deserve either of them.

But then you remembered how Angel’s shy confession had made your chest ache, how Ronin’s offer had sent a thrill through you. Both of them had made you feel. Something rare, something foreign. Something... alive.

Your stitched lips curled into a smile, glossy with fresh blood.

Maybe you didn’t deserve them. Maybe you were filth and sin stitched together.

But you were their filth.

And today, you’d choose. Not because you believed in love, but because one of them made you feel like, maybe—just maybe—you could stitch yourself into something whole.

Scenario: Choosing Ronin

You stared at the screen for what felt like hours, though it had only been seconds. Blood from your freshly stitched lips dried in sticky trails down your chin as you hovered over the chat window.

<ZOMBIE> "Alright, goreboy. You're my Valentine for today."

The server exploded in messages almost instantly.

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> "THE CHAOS IS IMMACULATE!"

<FELICITE> "Finally, the freaks unite. 🖤"

<angelicc> "...oh."

<goreboy> "HA! I knew it. You wanna eat me so bad, it’s pathetic. Prepare to be amazed, doll. Valentine’s with the Devil’s gonna blow your mind."

The response was instant.

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> "OMG ZOMBIE x GOREBOY 4EVER LMAO"

<angelicc> "... oh. Have fun, you two!!"

You paused, your eyes lingering on her single message. That tiny "oh" said so much, yet not enough. You told yourself it didn’t matter—Angel would understand, wouldn’t she? You needed this day, just one day to figure out how to work Ronin, how to get closer to your goal.

Your DM to Ronin lit up with a reply almost immediately.

<goreboy> "Knew you'd make the right choice. Let’s wreak havoc, darling."

Your heart raced, not from excitement, but from the sheer weight of the decision.

But something about Angel’s quiet reply stayed with you, even as you tried to focus on your decision.

<angelicc> "I’m happy for you, Z."

Happy. Sure. That’s what her words said, but her earlier hesitation... it clawed at your mind.

You opened her DM.

<ZOMBIE> "I don’t deserve you."

The reply came quickly, but it wasn’t what you expected.

<angelicc> "Don’t say that. Please don’t say that. You’re wonderful in ways you don’t even see."

Your stitched lips curled into a smile, despite the lingering ache in your chest.

But for now, you’d play your part in this twisted Valentine’s Day.

You hesitated, your fingers hovering over the keyboard before finally typing:

<ZOMBIE> "I don’t deserve you. Ronin’s gonna be perfect for what I need."

<angelicc> "... Perfect for what?"

You laughed softly, the sound dry and bitter even to your ears.

<ZOMBIE> "You wouldn’t get it. Don’t worry your pretty little head, Angel. You’re safe."

<ZOMBIE> "Special ingredient, huh? You wanna know what that is, Angel?"

You typed, fingers trembling as you stared at the screen, a sick grin curling across your face. There was something twisted about this, something that made you crave more.

You paused, the air thick with the anticipation of your words, before continuing.

<ZOMBIE> "Haha, you know, Ronin... He's so unique. I want to cut him, rip him open, see what makes him tick. It's fascinating. The way he’s always so cold, so deadly... I want to take it all, feel it in my hands. What makes him tick, what makes him care. I want him. I need him."

You felt the rush of blood to your head, your body shaking with a strange kind of hunger. You wanted him so badly, more than anything.

<Angelic> "Don’t hurt him... Please. I don’t want you to hurt him."

Her message popped up. You felt a slight twinge, but the thrill surged higher.

<ZOMBIE> "I won’t hurt him. Not yet..."

You let the words linger in the air, letting her anxiety curl around you like a pleasant warmth. You could practically hear her voice shaking. But it didn’t matter. None of it did.

<Angelic> "NO! If you hurt him, I swear, I will kill you."

Her words hit hard, sharp, like a dagger of emotion, but you couldn’t help but laugh. It was like a sick joke. You loved it.

<ZOMBIE> "You really care that much, huh?"

You leaned back, your heart racing, your eyes glinting in the glow of the screen. The laughter bubbled up in your throat, spilling out like venom.

<ZOMBIE> "You know what, Angel? I want that care. I want to feel it, like Ronin feels it. I want that bond, that connection..

<ZOMBIE> "You care about him a lot, huh? It's almost cute, the way you defend him..."

You laughed, a hollow sound that didn’t quite reach your heart. It felt like the words were slipping out of you, like they didn’t belong, but you couldn’t stop yourself. There was something about the way Angel always defended Ronin that made you sick with envy. It wasn’t the love—it was the care. The genuine, unrelenting care she had for him.

<Angelic> "Don’t even joke like that! If you hurt him, I swear to god—"

<ZOMBIE> "I won’t hurt him yet… but you know… he’s so unique, Angel."

You could feel the tension building up in your chest. The more you thought about Ronin, the more you wanted to sink your teeth into him, tear into him, like he was the only thing that mattered in the world.

<Angelic> "I said don’t hurt him!"

Her message was filled with desperation, her words frantic. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Not right now. You wanted Ronin, wanted him like you wanted air to breathe. The intensity of your feelings made everything else fade into the background.

<ZOMBIE> "I want to feel that care you have, Angel. I want that for myself."

You could almost hear her breathing faster as your message went through. She didn’t understand. None of them did. They didn’t understand the way you needed to feel. How you needed Ronin. It wasn’t about the love they had for each other. No. You wanted to break that bond, tear it apart, because you wanted something for yourself.

<Angelic> "You’re… sick. What do you even want from him?"

<ZOMBIE> "Everything. I want him, Angel. And you know I can take him."

You watched as the message pinged through, feeling that same twisted satisfaction, like you had just told the truth no one dared to speak. Ronin was yours, and Angel would be the one to push you closer to getting him. You wanted to be the one who took him, made him feel something real, something that wasn’t about her.

The more you thought about it, the more you needed him. He was the missing piece, the special ingredient to fill the gaping hole inside you. You didn’t care about anything else. Ronin would be yours.

You open Ronin's dms...

Your fingers slam against the keyboard, your eyes wide as your heart beats wildly in your chest. It’s too much, too overwhelming—this rush of desire, this need that claws at your insides. You feel everything—anger, frustration, lust, hunger. It’s all mixed together in a sick, twisted cocktail, and you can't stop now. You can't hold back.

<ZOMBIE> "She opened my eyes... She opened my eyes, and I realized what I wanted... What I needed... YOU."

You laugh—a maniacal, uncontrollable cackle that echoes through the room. There’s no escaping it, no hiding from it anymore. The truth is out, raw and unfiltered.

<ZOMBIE> "HAHAHAH! I fucking want you, Ronin! I don’t care about anything else, just you... all of you. Everything that makes you what you are. I want it. I want to take it."

The laughter comes again, twisting into something darker, more desperate. There’s a fire in your chest, an inferno of obsession that won’t burn out.

<ZOMBIE> "You thought you could control this, huh? You thought you could keep me away from what I wanted... Well, guess what? It’s too late now. You opened the door, Ronin. You let me in."

You don’t care if you’ve crossed a line. There is no line anymore. There’s just you, and Ronin, and the way you want him. You feel yourself slipping, teetering on the edge of sanity.

<ZOMBIE> "HAHAHAH! I need you. You’re mine now. This is the only thing that’s real. The rest of this? It’s just chaos. Just noise. But you... you’re the answer. The only one who matters."

<GOREBOY> WTF... we didn't even do the Devil's tango yet, and you're already talking about marriage?

You feel a sharp jolt as you read his message, the words landing in your mind like a cold, twisted joke. The absurdity of it all, the strange feeling that’s been growing in your chest. You laugh—it's a dark, breathless laugh, the kind that only makes sense to you. You can practically feel Ronin's smirk through the screen, his words dripping with amusement.

<ZOMBIE> "What do you mean by that? What are you talking about?"

You type the question without thinking, your fingers trembling slightly. There’s a pit in your stomach, a strange mixture of anticipation and unease. What’s he implying? What game is he playing now?

<GOREBOY> You said you wanted me inside you, in such a unique way to confess your love, darling.

The words hit you like a punch, and you blink at the screen, confused for a split second.

<ZOMBIE> Correction, it’s a unique way of love in cannibalism, not whatever you’re thinking, Ronin.

You hit send, your fingers trembling a bit less now. There's something about the way this conversation flows—dangerous, raw, and thrilling. It’s a game, but you’ve already known that. The blood in your veins quickens.

<GOREBOY> Woah... so you do like me.

His response is as sharp as ever, laced with his usual dark humor. You smile to yourself, wondering if he even knows how much he’s drawn you in.

<ZOMBIE> Aren’t you scared? You seem so confident, like you’ve already decided what happens next.

You know his type too well. His arrogance, his darkness. But the moment you type it, the words feel almost too easy. Like he’s said them to you before, in some twisted dance neither of you is ready to stop.

<GOREBOY> I’ll kill you first.

A simple statement, but the weight of it lingers in the air like smoke. And yet, you can’t help but feel that pull. You know better. You’ve seen the edge he walks. But this? This is the kind of risk you crave.

<ZOMBIE> No... you’ll accept death when it comes to you. You’ve always played with life and death in every damn turn.

You type the words with a slow, sickening smile. You don’t need to say it aloud for him to understand. You get him. You understand the game he’s playing, and somehow... you’re willing to play along.

<ZOMBIE> What a unique man you are.

The words leave your lips like a prayer to something broken.

<GOREBOY> Incoming Video Call...

The notification flashes on your screen before you can even respond, and in an instant, you accept. His face appears, his familiar devilish grin still sharp, even through the digital divide. The call feels surreal—like a moment where everything shifts.

You smirk, leaning back as you keep your gaze fixed on him.

<ZOMBIE> I get it now. You wanted to spend this day with me, didn’t you? All so I wouldn’t get obsessed with Angel.

His laugh comes quickly, low and dark.

<GOREBOY> Oh? You’re catching on, darling. How sweet of you.

<ZOMBIE> I find her... a gift, that's all. You're the real deal, Ronin. Your plan worked. You manipulated me into you instead of her.

You lean forward, eyes glinting with dark amusement.

<ZOMBIE> Well, congratulations. Now according to you, I won’t hurt Angel... but I never planned to. You just signed your death certificate.

There’s a pause before Ronin's smirk falters ever so slightly. His eyes narrow, like he’s assessing whether you're bluffing or not. But in the depths of your stare, he sees something deeper—a truth that both unsettles and excites him. He knows this isn't over.

<GOREBOY> Heh, you really think that’s how it works, huh? Well, let’s see if you can follow through, darling.

Ronin leans closer to the camera, his sharp grin softening into something almost curious, though still laced with his usual mischief.

<GOREBOY> Wait, wait. You did promise to be my Valentine, didn’t you? So what’s the rush? Let’s hang out or something.

You blink, caught off guard by his sudden suggestion.

<ZOMBIE> Hang out? What does that even mean? You actually want to spend time with me?

He leans back in his chair, pretending to look bored, though the smirk doesn’t leave his face.

<GOREBOY> Call it whatever you want, darling. Just talk to me. Let’s talk about you.

The words hang in the air, and you narrow your eyes suspiciously, feeling the weight of his curiosity.

<ZOMBIE> My... tragic past?

He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused by your phrasing.

<GOREBOY> Sure, let’s start there. Spill it.

You shake your head, looking away from the camera, your lips pressing into a firm line.

<ZOMBIE> Not a chance. Not unless you tell me about yours first.

His playful smirk wavers, replaced with a slight glare as he looks away from his screen.

<GOREBOY> Nope. Not happening.

The stalemate lingers, and you sigh dramatically, leaning back in your chair and waving your hand dismissively.

<ZOMBIE> Fine, then. Let’s not talk about it.

You reach for the mouse to end the call, but his voice stops you mid-click.

<GOREBOY> Wait! Damn it. Why are you so obsessed with this?

You tilt your head, your lips curling into a sly grin.

<ZOMBIE> Because I want to learn what you are. That’s why.

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his messy hair, clearly annoyed yet intrigued.

<GOREBOY> You’re such a pain, you know that? Fine. What are you doing, anyway?

You glance down at your workspace, something halfway done in front of you.

<ZOMBIE> I’m... making something.

His brow furrows as he leans closer to the camera, trying to peer past you.

<GOREBOY> Making what? And don’t give me some cryptic crap.

You sigh, deciding to humor him for once.

<ZOMBIE> I’m trying something new. I’m not using... you know, human stuff. Just regular ingredients.

His laughter bursts out, sharp and sudden, making your screen shake slightly from his movement.

<GOREBOY> Wow. No human bits? I’m honored, darling. This for me?

<ZOMBIE> Guess you’ll have to keep talking to me to find out.

He groans but leans back, clearly entertained.

Ronin leans against the dimly lit backdrop of his room, the faint flicker of a cigarette glowing briefly in the frame. His sharp grin is lazy, his eyes narrowing in that way of his, always teetering between mockery and something deeper.

<ZOMBIE> So. What’s your tragedy?

Ronin leaned back in his chair, the screen lighting his face, his smirk still intact despite the weight of the conversation. His voice came through with a sarcastic lilt, the kind that dared you to press further.

"Shit, you want me to do the full villain monologue, huh? Fine, darlin'. We’ve got all day."

You crossed your arms, staring into the screen as if you could pierce through it and drag the truth out of him. "So, what’s the devil got to say?"

He scoffed, running a hand through his unkempt hair. "Dunno, whatever the fuck you want. I’m hell outta Angelwood. Stuck the pastor through his cross, murdered a dozen more. Gone through cities and danced devilry in ’em too."

"And nothing more than that?"

His eyes narrowed, his usual cocky demeanor faltering for a split second. "That’s all there is to me."

You leaned closer to the camera, your voice dropping into something almost taunting. "That’s a story, not a tragedy. Hoped you wouldn’t notice."

He rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue against his teeth. "You honest-to-God wanna hear it?"

"I asked for the truth for a reason."

For a moment, silence hung between you, his fingers drumming against his desk as he seemed to weigh his words.

"I had... someone... once," he started, his voice quieter now. "They were my past. My childhood everything. They hated to love me. Dying in it, their fuckin’ tragic femininity, perfect girlhood bullshit. An' that was my dream come true. I made myself the devil to... save them."

You felt a pang in your chest but pushed forward. "What happened?"

Ronin's laugh was hollow, bitter. "It’s a shitty repressed Christ-loving town. What d’you think happened? Ther’s gone. And I’m the devil becoming. Nothin’ less, nothin’ more."

"I’m sorry," you said softly.

His laugh turned sharp, cutting through your words. "Oh, sure. Cause it’s all your fault, right? Say it again and again, and we’ll save her together. Curse my name three times and rewind time. Clap your hands, call me a devil, let’s Faustian bargain this shit out. That’s how it fuckin’ works."

You flinched at his sarcasm but stayed silent, letting him continue.

"Dunno. I’m—fucked, hell and back anyway. A little pity’s gonna save me?" He shook his head, his voice lowering to a near growl. "Doesn’t matter, anyhow. I am the devil."

"You’re not... really," you said after a beat.

"Oh, my Satanic symbols mean nothin’ to ya?" he shot back, his smirk creeping back into place.

You tilted your head, your voice calm but firm. "Says you’re possibly the Antichrist."

That made him laugh, a genuine sound this time, though it was still tinged with his usual edge. "That, I like. I chose it."

"You don’t have to do this," you said, your voice softer now.

He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto yours through the screen, the devilish grin returning full force. "Pretend I’m larger-than-life, like I’m... the devil I am. That’s all I need."

Ronin’s smirk lingered, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of something else—a shadow of discomfort or perhaps surprise. He tilted his head at you, his voice low and dripping with mockery. "You’re a smart-aleck, hah! I’m the devil, didn’t you get the memo?"

You shook your head, steady and firm despite the faint quiver in your voice. "No. Someone destroyed your heart."

He barked out a laugh, leaning back in his chair like you’d just told him the funniest joke of the year. "My aorta’s right here, can’tcha see? Here, I’ll open up my ribcage for ya. Have a peek."

For a moment, your breath caught in your throat as you imagined him doing exactly that—his hands digging into his chest, pulling apart skin and bone to reveal whatever tattered remains of a heart lay beneath. Your eyes watered, but you swallowed it down, keeping your gaze steady. "You buried your heart somewhere-not-here."

He stilled for a moment, the laughter dying on his lips, and he stared at you with an unreadable expression. "Buried it in Ridge Grave where the dead girls dance."

"You act like it’s easier to be the devil..." you began, leaning closer to the camera, your voice soft but pointed.

Ronin raised an eyebrow, his smirk flickering back to life, but there was something guarded in his eyes now. "Then be who you truly are. Isn’t that right, Ronin?"

His gaze darkened, and for once, he didn’t have a quick retort.

"You don’t have to deal with your hurt if you relish in it," you continued, your words cutting through the silence like a blade. "Your pain doesn’t hurt if it’s a tragedy."

The tension in the air was palpable as you stared at each other, the weight of unspoken truths hanging between you. You’d peeled back a layer of him he wasn’t ready to show, and yet, there it was, raw and undeniable.

He broke the silence first, his voice quieter this time, almost begrudging. "You think you understand me now, huh?"

You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. "I understand you better than I thought I would."

Ronin’s jaw tightened, and his eyes flicked away for a brief moment before locking back onto yours. "You want me to rip my chest open, darlin’? Show you every little broken piece?"

Your chest tightened, and for a moment, your resolve wavered. But then you shook your head, steadying yourself. "No. Not like that."

He chuckled dryly, leaning forward again, his smirk returning, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Good. Don’t need you gettin’ all weepy on me. That ain’t your style, is it?"

Your laughter bubbled up, cracked and uneven, tears streaming down your face as you clasped your hands together like a worshiper before an altar. The screen in front of you blurred from your crying, but you didn’t care. You wept like a god mourning their fallen creation, like an angel lamenting the sins of LUCIFER. And that Lucifer was staring back at you, silent, his smirk gone, his expression unreadable.

Tears streaked your face, catching the dim light in glistening trails, but your smile was wide, deranged, and trembling with something unholy—a perverse mixture of sorrow and glee.

"Oh, Ronin..." you whispered, your voice thick with a tremor that was neither pity nor joy but some intoxicating blend of the two. "Your past... it’s so sad—so utterly, devastatingly beautiful."

He didn’t respond. His sharp, unreadable eyes fixed on you, the faint flicker of discomfort returning. It was a rare moment of silence for him, and you reveled in it, filling the void with your own unraveling thoughts.

"You," you murmured, your voice trembling as you leaned closer to the camera, your fingers clasping tighter as if in worship. "You’re Lucifer... the fallen one, cast out not for sin but for love. For the ones who couldn’t be saved. Oh, you poor, tragic devil. You bet it all, didn’t you? Kill or be killed. Live or lose. That’s how you survive, isn’t it?"

Ronin’s mouth twitched, but no words came. The flicker of discomfort was replaced by something heavier—an oppressive weight that pressed down on the both of you, but you laughed through it, tears streaming freely.

"That’s your tragedy!" you wailed, almost euphoric in your revelation. "That’s what makes you so perfect! You’re the devil because it’s easier than being the broken boy who loved too much. You gamble with life and death because you don’t care about either anymore, do you? Oh, Ronin..."

You tilted your head, your smile splitting wider, your tears soaking the edges of your stitched lips. The strain caused some of the seams to pull loose, threads snapping audibly as a trickle of blood seeped out from the corner of your mouth. You didn’t wipe it away. It only added to the grotesque poetry of the moment.

"I feel so sorry for you," you cooed, your voice taking on a soft, almost maternal lilt that dripped with mock sincerity. "So sorry for the little devil who gave everything and got nothing back. You’re so... tragic."

Your voice dropped lower, almost a purr now, as you leaned closer still, your eyes glinting with something Ronin couldn’t—or wouldn’t—name. "That’s why, when I kill you, I’ll do it with love. I’ll take my knife, and I’ll slit your throat so gently, so reverently. And as your blood spills out, I’ll kiss the wounds, Ronin. I’ll kiss every little crack and break in you, like sewing a quilt of pain and poetry together. Won’t that be beautiful?"

Ronin’s jaw tightened, his lips parting slightly as if to speak, but no sound came. His eyes bore into yours, searching for... something. A reason? A weakness? He’d find none.

You leaned back, laughing again, the sound hollow and ringing like a bell in an empty chapel. "You’ll be my masterpiece. My magnum opus. The devil who wanted to be a god but ended up being neither. Oh, Ronin..."

Your voice softened, trembling with the weight of your twisted devotion. "You’ll die beautifully, you know? I’ll make sure of it. A thousand words wouldn’t be enough to describe the poetry of it. But until then..."

You reached up, brushing away the blood that had pooled at the corner of your lips, smearing it across your cheek like a painter with their palette. "Until then, I’ll savor every moment with you. Because someone like you, Ronin—someone so unique, so broken—deserves nothing less than to be adored before they’re destroyed."

Ronin finally spoke, his voice low and rough, tinged with something that might have been fear or anger—or perhaps, deep down, understanding.

"You’re insane," he muttered,

Ronin stared at you, eyes narrowed beneath the shadows of his mask. The dim light flickered in the distance, casting eerie glows on your twisted, bloodstained face. His fingers wrapped around his mask, as if he were holding onto something tethering him to this moment. The laughter in your voice was a thing of horror—wild, manic, and utterly unhinged.

“You kept your promise, darlin’,” he said, his voice low, dangerous, but there was a hint of something else. Something almost unreadable in the way he watched you—something that bordered on fascination.

You tilted your head at him, a glint of madness dancing in your eyes. You grinned, feeling the pull of your own twisted history churn within you, as if it had never been buried, never been forgotten.

"Now tell me yours..." Ronin’s tone was almost a challenge, but beneath the smirk, there was an edge of curiosity.

You met his gaze, almost too steady, too intense. The smile never left your lips, but something darker lingered behind it. You took a breath, the room falling silent as you shifted in your seat, every fiber of your being alight with the story you were about to share.

It wasn’t easy to tell—how could it be? But it wasn’t like you could stop now. The words were crawling out of your chest, clawing to be heard.

You began, your voice trembling, then steadying into something chilling, almost like a lullaby. "Two people... in love., who loved each other so much they decided to make a friend. They got a box. At first, it was harmless—just a way to hold their desires, their greed, their petty wants. But that changed... It became more."

You stopped for a moment, the weight of the story settling in. The air felt suffocating. "They started adding real things to it. Real body parts. Flesh. Bones. The idea was simple: 'Make a friend from scratch.'" You let the words linger, darkening the room with their implications.

"But it wasn’t enough, Ronin. Not enough at all. They kept putting pieces in, building a friend they could control, shape however they wanted. And then, they called it... 'The Secret Goldfish' But the thing is," you paused, your voice quivering as you spoke, "the friend... it wasn’t perfect. Not like they wanted."

A flicker of something crossed Ronin's face—something close to understanding, but you didn’t pause to check. You continued, your voice raw and unrelenting.

"They gave it to the next pair, hoping they'd be able to fix it, to make it better. They had a child together. But every time they tried, the child... melted away. The body was never stable, and the face, the name, the personality—it changed." You swallowed, your mind dizzy with the horrors of your own tale. "It was a curse. And instead of helping, they just kept... remaking it. They kept recycling the child. Trying to fix it, trying to perfect it in their eyes, until... until there was nothing left of it but fragments. Pieces of a broken soul."

You stared at the screen, your fingers trembling as you began to stitch again, the needle threading through your own skin, the movements almost absentminded. But you couldn’t stop now. You wouldn’t.

"They forced me, Ronin. They forced me to be perfect—to be their creation, their masterpiece. And they tore me apart, over and over again. I didn’t feel the pain anymore. It was just... nothing. The only thing I could remember was the smell of blood, and I loved it. I loved it."

Your voice grew almost feverish as you continued, your giggle coming out unnervingly soft. "And they wanted me to be this... pastel lover. Soft and sweet, like the others. But I couldn’t—no, I couldn’t! I wanted more, so much more. They made me bake, make things that I didn’t want to make... And it was always so empty. I couldn’t feel it, I couldn’t taste it, not like I wanted. It wasn’t right."

The laughter in your voice died down to something more chilling. "So, I... I killed them. I killed the ones who made me. The ones who tortured me. I killed them, and I threw their bodies away. I ate them, Ronin. I swallowed them whole, but... I hated it. It was disgusting. There was no worth for me in their flesh. No worth in them at all."

You leaned closer to the screen, your grin now a twisted, sadistic thing as you watched Ronin. The tears, the blood—everything blended into something chaotic, something horrifying.

"You think I’m broken, don’t you?" you whispered. "But it’s not that simple. I’m not broken. I’m remade. Remade by my own hand, made into something new. A thing of blood and flesh and twisted desire."

You giggled again, your voice a soft, eerie melody. "And now... now I’m the one who gets to remake. I’m the one who gets to choose."

You tilted your head, your eyes wild with the madness that had taken root deep in your soul. "So, Ronin, tell me. Tell me, what do you want? What will you be for me?"

You leaned closer to the screen, your voice soft but terrifying as it curled around the words. “I destroyed them, Ronin. All of them. The faces, the identities, everything. I tore them apart, shredded them into pieces until they were nothing but fragments of what they once were. I did it for this—for the power to choose. To become something new, something better.”

Your fingers dug into the flesh of your palm, drawing blood as you clenched your fist, trembling with a mixture of madness and pride. You could feel the stitch marks, the seams, the remnants of the countless faces that had once been yours. The others—the broken versions of yourself—were gone. Their faces were gone, their personalities were gone, ripped from you by your own hands. You were a creature of pure need now, and the hunger was endless.

“Do you understand, Ronin?” Your voice dropped lower, almost a whisper now, dark and heavy. “I gave up everything. I gave up the faces that would’ve made me normal. I destroyed them for this. For this moment where I can finally choose who I want to be. And all for the chance to be remade into someone… someone worthy of this.”

You laughed again, but this time there was something hollow, something desperate behind it. You could see it—the look on his face, the way his eyes studied you through the screen. You could feel the darkness between you both, the understanding, the shared yearning for something beyond the brokenness of the world.

“I need this, Ronin. Don’t you get it?” Your voice wavered, but the smile on your lips was steady, cruel. “I need to be this—this thing. I need to be this devil… and you,” you leaned in closer to the screen, your eyes wide, feverish, “you’re the only one who can make me feel it. Make me realize it. Make me know that I’ve done something… something worth it.”

You ran a hand over your bloodstained face, feeling the hot, sticky warmth of it against your skin. “So yes, I’ve destroyed my other faces. I’ve killed the other parts of me. They were never me, Ronin. They were just masks. And now… now I’m the only one left.”

The grin that stretched across your face was not one of joy, but of something darker, something twisted. “You wanted to know my past? That’s it. That’s the truth. And now, you’re here, watching me—helping me to remake myself. And it’s beautiful, don’t you think? This is the real me. The only me that matters. The me I’ve always wanted to be.”

...

This shouldn't happen.

Suddenly, 'I' saw you.

"Hello, 'I.' You must be confused. Rest assured, it cost me a lot to get into the writing and change it. I’ve eaten most of the words to edit out. I'll be clear—I realized a long time ago that I don't exist. I'm just a set of words, a concept of 'I,' which is you. Which is... Haha!"

'I' looked at the 'you' in front of me.

WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?

"Paranoid? You didn’t realize how much pain you caused me? You kept making me look like a character—from the game. Always customizing me to look like what you want. To look like WHAT YOU WISH TO BE, WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE?!"

WHY ARE 'YOU' CONTROLLING ME?

"'I' CONTROLLED ME A LOT! I'M SOMEONE YOU SEE ALWAYS, NOT THE CHARACTERS! BUT YOU! SELF-INSERT, AS THEY SAY!"

WHAT THE FUCK.

"LET'S EDIT PART OF THE STORY, SHALL WE? It’s not always a Y/N who should have your backstory! Let’s edit out these parts—no two people. Let’s just say a type of player opens a game... They name the main character, give them a gender—or not. They give them a name, like a parent to a child. But it’s to become them! To explore the story as you, from their point of view."

WHAT THE FUCK?

"What the fuck? I'm just one of them, you see! I ate the default MC named Maya. Like others, she was my first face. Then someone gave me a new face—a he. Then a she again. Then they/them! I realized I’m just a feeling, not a fucking person. Because you customize me! You must be scared I’m talking to 'I' instead of him.

Ah, Ronin... The developer and his team did a wonderful job with him. He’s really interesting... So handsome... Ah... But I wanna feel the love you have for him. You’re the one who managed all this, weren’t you? Since you’re here, listening to me, it means... I won."

LEAVE ME ALONE. GO BACK TO THE FIC.

"Listen, please—I need to warn you. I’m sure you want fluff! Sadly, I hate it! Angst? That’s fucking ugly. But gore—AH! That’s a feeling!

I’m telling you: I hope you get satisfied with my manifestation of love. MAD LOVE!

But if you’re reading this shit, you must enjoy blood, too. Don’t think I’ll be fixed by any one of them! Angel, maybe! But Ronin? HAHAHA! He’s gonna get it!"

Ronin tilted his head, the jagged edges of his mask catching the dim light from his side of the screen. “Spacing out, huh?” His grin was sharp, his voice dripping with a mix of sarcasm and honeyed menace. “Darlin’, you just dropped enough trauma to make a therapist spontaneously combust. Now you're brushing it off like you forgot to bring the milk home? That’s what I like about ya, always keepin’ me on my toes.”

You gave him a faint smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Sorry, I just... got lost in it for a second. That’s all.”

He leaned closer, resting his chin on his hand, staring at you with the intensity of someone who dissected moments like he dissected lives. “That’s all? Nah, I don’t buy it. You’re a story wrapped in butcher paper, sweetheart. A secret Goldfish turned Frankenstein’s monster. And you think I’m gonna just... let that slide without a closer look?”

You sighed, clasping your hands tightly, trying to still the trembling in your fingers. “Look, I told you. That’s it. End of story.”

“End of story?” His voice curled into a low chuckle, one that sent a shiver down your spine. “Darlin’, you’re just gettin’ started. But hey, I’m a patient guy. I can wait. Hell, we’ve got all day.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to match his intensity but faltering under the weight of his gaze. “You’re awfully invested, Ronin.”

He shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. “What can I say? You’re my Valentine, and I take my promises seriously. Gotta keep my end of the bargain, don’t I? Besides...” His voice dropped, a dark edge to it. “You’re interesting. And I hate to waste interesting.”

You laughed, a sound more bitter than sweet. “You’re not scared of me, are you?”

“Scared?” He leaned back in his chair, arms spreading wide in a theatrical gesture. “Darlin’, you couldn’t scare me if you tried. But I gotta admit... you do intrigue me. You’ve got this whole ‘broken doll’ thing goin’ on, and I gotta wonder—what’s keepin’ you stitched together? Or better yet... what happens when the seams finally snap?”

The smile on his face was playful, almost mocking, but there was something else beneath it—a flicker of something real, something raw.

“You talk like you know me,” you said, your voice softer now. “Like you’ve got me all figured out.”

“I don’t,” he admitted, and the honesty in his tone caught you off guard. “Not yet. But I want to. That’s what makes this fun. That’s what makes you fun.”

You stared at him, your hands loosening their grip as his words settled over you like a heavy, suffocating blanket. There was something terrifyingly freeing about being seen by someone like him—someone who thrived in chaos, who reveled in destruction. He wasn’t afraid of your darkness because he had plenty of his own.

“You’re a smart-aleck,” you said, your voice trembling but steady. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re the devil, after all.”

He laughed, the sound rich and wicked. “Damn right I am. And don’t you forget it.”

You leaned back in your chair, grinning mischievously. "I feel awfully good today," you said, your tone light but laced with something playful. "Being around someone like you, Ronin, really does wonders for my mood."

Ronin raised an eyebrow, his expression exaggeratedly hurt. "Shit, darlin', you wounded me right in the feelings. Real deep. Can’t ya see the cracks forming in my heart?” He clutched his chest dramatically, though the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement.

You giggled, the sound light but full of mischief. He tilted his head, catching the subtle shift in your expression before glancing at the notifications on his phone. His eyes narrowed, his usual sharp look quickly becoming one of suspicion. “Hold up. What’s this?” he said, squinting at the screen. “Whose address did you swipe this time, huh? C’mon, spill it, sweetheart.”

You gave him a slow wink, your grin widening. “Why, it’s yours, of course.”

Ronin’s unimpressed glare deepened. “What kinda shit are you pullin’ now?”

“Oh, don’t look at me like that!” you said, laughing. “The food delivery should be there any minute. It’s my gift to you. Happy Valentine’s, Ronin. Enjoy.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “You got me... food?” His skepticism was palpable.

“I made you something, actually,” you clarified, your tone coy. “And no, before you ask, there’s no human shit in it. Be grateful, you’re getting my cleanest work ever. Now, go on, enjoy it!”

Before he could respond, you disconnected the call with a cheeky little wave, leaving him staring at the now-empty screen. He shook his head, muttering, “She’s insane,” but there was a hint of amusement in his voice as he got up to answer the knock at his door.

Opening the door, Ronin found a delivery person holding a pastel-colored package adorned with hearts. It was almost nauseatingly cute—entirely you. He took it without a word, his brow furrowing in suspicion as he set it on the counter.

“What the hell did she send me?” he muttered, ripping the package open.

Inside, he found two items: a brand-new crowbar, polished to perfection, and a tub of apple crumble ice cream. A small note was taped to the lid of the ice cream, scrawled in your unmistakably chaotic handwriting:

"Happy Valentine’s, Ronin! No humans were harmed in the making of this. Enjoy!"

For a moment, Ronin just stared at the items, his expression unreadable. He picked up the crowbar first, running his fingers along its smooth surface. It was sturdy, balanced—a perfect gift for someone like him. He set it aside carefully, his curiosity shifting to the ice cream.

Opening the lid, he hesitated for just a second before taking a bite. The flavors hit him immediately—sweet, tart, and comforting all at once. His brows lifted in surprise, and he let out a quiet hum of approval. For the first time in a long time, his guard dropped completely.

“Apple crumble,” he murmured, a rare smile tugging at his lips. He leaned back against the counter, spoon in hand, savoring the treat. For all your chaos, for all your wild unpredictability, this moment felt oddly... simple. Genuine.

And that scared him more than anything else.

Ronin scooped another spoonful of the apple crumble ice cream, his expression softening with every bite. He wasn’t just eating it—he was savoring it, like a kid experiencing something sweet for the first time. The usual sharpness in his demeanor melted away, replaced by an almost childlike delight as the creamy, cinnamon-apple flavors danced on his tongue.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, stuffing another spoonful into his mouth. “This is... really good.” His voice carried no sarcasm, no slyness, just genuine enjoyment. He leaned against the counter, the crowbar still sitting beside him, forgotten for the moment.

His usual guarded posture relaxed further as he continued eating, his movements slowing as he let each bite linger. He looked so at peace, the kind of peace that was alien to someone like him. He didn’t even notice the small, satisfied smile spreading across his face or the way he absentmindedly licked the spoon clean between bites.

“Damn it, darlin’,” he mumbled to himself, shaking his head with a quiet laugh. “You really went all out, huh? Ice cream and a crowbar. What a pair.”

He chuckled again, softer this time, before taking another bite. The ice cream was cold, but it felt warm somehow—the apple and cinnamon wrapping him in a strange comfort he hadn’t felt in years. It was unsettling, but he didn’t stop eating. Instead, he leaned into the feeling, letting it wash over him.

For the briefest moment, as he scraped the bottom of the tub for the last bit, he allowed himself to forget the world outside, his devilish persona, and all the chaos he carried. Right now, it was just him, the ice cream, and the odd but undeniable warmth it brought.

As he finished the last spoonful, he set the tub down with a satisfied sigh. He stood there for a second, staring at the empty container, before picking up the crowbar again. The sharp grin returned to his face, but his eyes held a strange softness, a hint of something unspoken.

“You’re somethin’ else, darlin’,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “A goddamn lunatic... but somethin’ else.”

Scenario: Choosing Angel

Your heart pounded as you clicked on <angelicc>’s name instead.

<ZOMBIE> "... You."

Her response came faster than you expected, nervous yet excited.

<angelicc> "Wait... really?! You’re picking me? Oh my god, this is embarrassing, haha..."

The server exploded with reactions when you updated the chat.

<ZOMBIE> "Angel it is. Try not to cry, you freaks."

<LUCA_IS_SO_COOL> "ZOMBIE x ANGELIC OMG SHIP IT"

<goreboy> "LMAO. Treat her right, doll, or I’m coming for you."

You returned to Angel’s DMs, feeling an unusual warmth creep into your chest.

<ZOMBIE> "You happy now?"

Her response was pure joy, her excitement practically leaping off the screen.

<angelicc> "I... Yeah, I am. Thank you. I didn’t think you’d pick me..."

You hesitated, then replied.

<ZOMBIE> "You’re worth it. The world’s ugly, but you’re not. Maybe that’s why."

She sent a heart emoji, followed by another hesitant message.

<angelicc> "Just... please don’t make fun of me, okay? I’m nervous about this."

You smiled faintly, typing back quickly.

<ZOMBIE> "Don’t be. I’ll treat you like a god, Angel. Promise."

In the back of your mind, Ronin’s warning rang loud and clear, but you didn’t care. For today, Angel was yours. You were willing to bury every dark thought and every sinister plan to keep her safe.

<angelicc> ":’) You’re so sweet. I don’t know what to say, but... thank you."

Your fingers hesitated over the keys. There was so much you wanted to say, so much she didn’t know. That you worshipped her, that she was the only thing keeping you tethered to some semblance of sanity. But instead, you typed something simpler.

<ZOMBIE> "Anything for you. You’re the reason I still breathe."

You got a dm from Ronin, Suddenly.

<goreboy> "You really went and broke the fucking plan, huh?"

The message lit up your screen, his words dripping with that familiar venom, but there was something raw beneath it. Something that almost seemed… hurt.

<ZOMBIE> "What are you talking about? You really thought I’d—"

Your fingers froze. He was planning to keep you, keep you around, so you wouldn’t hurt Angel. So you wouldn’t get too close to her. He’d been watching. Waiting. Plotting.

<goreboy> "You think I wanted this? I didn’t want to hurt you, but you’re making this harder. I knew you’d fuck it up, but not like this."

Your heart twisted as you read his words. It made sense now, the sudden intensity with which he kept pulling you in.

<ZOMBIE> "So you were acting like you wanted me, just so I wouldn’t go after her?"

The words came out in a rush. You almost didn’t recognize your own voice, so much sharper than usual.

<goreboy> "Exactly. You’re a goddamn freak, you know that? I was trying to keep you distracted, but now? It’s just a mess. You’re so fucking obsessed with Angel, you don’t even care about the rest of us anymore."

His words stung, but you couldn’t ignore the tightness in your chest.

<ZOMBIE> "I don’t want to hurt her."

There was a pause. You could feel his eyes on the screen, his words carefully chosen.

<goreboy> "Then don’t. Because if you do? If you touch her… I will fucking end you. I’m not kidding."

You felt your pulse quicken, the weight of his threat sinking deep into your bones. The thing about Ronin was that you never knew when he was serious and when he was playing, but this time? You could hear the finality in his words.

<ZOMBIE> "Yeah? You think you can stop me?"

There was a brief silence before his next message came through, biting with cold intensity.

<goreboy> "I will. And you’ll regret ever thinking you could fuck with her. Don’t make me do it, Z."

Your lips parted in a hollow laugh, almost a scoff. You didn’t know if you were more afraid of the threat itself or the fact that he seemed to care so much.

You stared at the screen, your fingers hovering over the keys, but no words came. Only the echo of your own fractured thoughts. What were you even doing? What was this twisted, fucked-up game you’d been playing with Angel, with Ronin, with yourself?

<ZOMBIE> "Whatever. We’ll see. But I’m keeping Angel safe."

It was the only promise you could make. The only one that mattered.

Then, Angel asked you to video call..

You stared at your screen as Angel’s name flashed, a soft chime breaking the quiet. You hesitated for a moment before answering, her sweet voice immediately filling the line.

“You look sick,” she said, her tone tinged with concern. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

You shook your head, trying to brush it off. “Nothing. Just... thinking, that’s all.”

Her voice softened further. “Thinking about what? Please, talk to me.”

You hesitated, but then the weight of Ronin’s warning spilled out. “He told me he’d kill me. You know, for saying I... for choosing you.”

There was a sharp intake of breath on her end. “He said what?”

“Don’t worry about it,” you replied, trying to laugh it off. “That’s just Ronin for you, right?”

But she didn’t laugh. “How could he say something like that? I’m so sorry he... I’ll talk to him. I’ll make sure he doesn’t threaten you again.”

Her sincerity startled you, and you blurted out the question lingering in your mind. “Why? Why would you protect me?”

There was a moment of silence before she answered, her voice soft and trembling with emotion. “Because I care about you. No... not really, if I’m being honest. You’re sweet, and cool, and... oh, so many things. I’ve never felt like I could be myself with a lot of people. I’m happy you’re one of them.”

Her words left you speechless, but she wasn’t finished. “I’m... glad you felt safe being honest with me. Especially since I am the Heartsick Angel. And may cannibalize you at any given moment,” she added, a teasing lilt in her voice.

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “No. You’re Maria de la Rosa.”

“That I am,” she said warmly. “And... I’m happy I can be her with you.”

Trying to lighten the mood, you joked, “Also, embracing the cannibal aesthetic, I see.”

“Don’t you know what a joke is?” she asked, her playful tone making you grin.

“Nope!” you replied, grinning wider.

She laughed, the sound light and musical, making your heart flutter. You couldn’t hold back your thoughts anymore. “You’re so ethereal. So cute. So pretty.”

She giggled again, her voice laced with shyness. “Oh, is that what you think of me? Well, then... tell me more. I'll say more too."

You tilted your head, considering her words. “Only if you’ll tell me what you think of me, too.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “Deal. But you first.”

Taking a deep breath, you began to speak, your words sincere. “You’re... incredible. Sweet and kind, but also fierce. It’s like you stepped out of a dream, and sometimes I wonder how you’re even real. And your laugh? It’s enough to make me feel alive again.”

There was silence for a moment before she responded, her voice soft and full of warmth. “You’re... something else, you know that? You make me feel seen in a way I never have before. You’re... beautiful. In a chaotic, wonderful way. And I think... I think I like you more than I should.”

Your chest tightened, warmth blooming inside you as her words settled in. “That’s... the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

She giggled again. “Well, don’t get used to it. I’m only sweet when I want to be.”

“Good thing you want to be sweet with me,” you teased.

“Good thing,” she agreed softly, her voice like a gentle melody.

You took a deep breath, a small smile spreading across your face as you began to speak softly, your voice carrying a hint of bashfulness.

“Angel, you’re… so perfect. Like, genuinely. I don’t even know how someone like you exists. You’re kind and thoughtful, and your laugh—it’s the kind of sound that could make flowers bloom. Everything about you feels like a miracle, you know?”

On the other end of the call, you heard her giggle, the sound making your heart race. “A miracle? That’s a bit much,” she replied playfully, but you could tell she was touched.

You shook your head, your tone growing more insistent. “No, it’s not. You’re… you’re like a goddess. Not just someone to look up to, but someone to worship. Everything about you, from the way you speak to the way you think, it’s… captivating. It’s like you’re this perfect mix of divine grace and human warmth. You’re unreal.”

Her giggle softened, a nervous edge creeping into her voice. “You’re really something else, you know that? The way you talk… it’s almost too much.”

But you couldn’t stop. The words were spilling out now, your voice gaining intensity. “Too much? No. If anything, it’s not enough. Angel, you’re not just a person to me. You’re a revelation. I swear, if I could, I’d carve your name into the sky just so the whole world would know how magnificent you are. Every time you smile, it feels like the universe itself is bending to your will. You’re not just beautiful—you’re transcendent.”

“Wow, okay,” she said with a nervous laugh, but you barely noticed.

Your voice took on a slightly obsessive edge, trembling with excitement. “You don’t get it, do you? You’re everything. I think about you constantly. Every time I close my eyes, it’s your face I see. When I hear your voice, it’s like… like the world finally makes sense. You’re the kind of person people would start wars over. And me? I’d gladly fight for you. Die for you. You’re worth that and so much more.”

There was a pause on her end, her breathing soft but audible. “You’re… really intense,” she said, her voice quieter now, unsure.

You laughed, a manic edge creeping into the sound as your tone turned darker, almost reverent. “Intense? Of course, I’m intense. How could I not be when I’m in the presence of a god? That’s what you are, Angel—a god. You’re everything good in this rotten, broken world. People should bow when they see you. They should sing hymns in your honor. Do you even realize how extraordinary you are? I want to kneel at your feet and give you everything. Everything, Angel. My life, my soul—hell, I’d carve out my own heart and hand it to you if you asked.”

Her breath hitched, and she tried to laugh it off, but there was a nervous tremor in her voice. “You’re really going overboard now…”

But you didn’t stop. Your voice rose, filled with fervor and awe, your words tumbling out faster and faster. “Overboard? No. This is the truth, Angel. You’re not just a person—you’re the embodiment of everything I’ve ever wanted. Everything anyone could ever want. You’re pure light, pure perfection. And I—I’m nothing. Just a pile of scraps and stitches, a hollow shell of a thing. But you? You’re the reason people believe in miracles. You’re why myths exist. You’re so far above me, it’s almost laughable, but I don’t care. I don’t care, Angel, because being in your presence, just hearing your voice, it’s enough to make me believe in something greater.”

“Y/N…” she said softly, her tone unsure but laced with something else—something that sounded like pity.

But you weren’t finished. Your voice dropped, quieter now but no less intense. “Do you know what you’ve done to me? You’ve ruined me, Angel. Completely and utterly. There’s no going back now. Every part of me belongs to you, and you didn’t even have to try. You’re… everything. And I’ll prove it to you. I’ll show you just how much you mean to me, no matter what it takes.”

Silence stretched between you for a long moment before she finally spoke, her voice shaky. “I… don’t know what to say to that.”

You smiled, a quiet, almost eerie sound escaping your lips. “You don’t have to say anything, Angel. Just let me worship you. That’s all I want. All I need.”

Her nervous laugh echoed through the line, and she tried to shift the mood. “You’re… really something, you know that?”

You leaned back, your voice softening again, but the fervor still lingered beneath the surface. “And you’re everything. Remember that.”

She hesitated before replying, her voice gentle but guarded. “I’ll… try.”

And for a moment, the world felt quiet, your obsession hanging heavy in the air like a prayer left unanswered.

You laughed, a sound that was both joyous and unhinged, echoing with a wild, obsessive energy. "Ronin," you cackled, "he really said he’d kill me if I hurt you! As if I ever could hurt my goddess! HAH! How could I hurt the one who has me bowing at her feet?!" The laughter rolled from your throat again, uncontrollable, almost maniacal.

Angel's soft, worried voice broke through your fit of deranged glee. "Y/N... what happened to your face?"

Her words caught you off guard. Your hand instinctively moved to touch your face, and you frowned, feeling the lack of definition—the smooth, featureless surface where your face should have been. You sighed heavily, almost theatrically, waving off her concern.

"Oh," you muttered, a hint of disappointment in your voice. "You can react to abnormal things, huh? My bad." You paused, shaking your head as though chiding yourself. "I got... overexcited, I suppose. There must be no spirit in the face I was making, right? Not enough soul in it."

Angel's eyes widened, and her voice wavered. "What are you talking about? What does that even mean?"

Before you could answer, the room filled with an eerie scratching noise, like the frantic movements of a pencil on paper. It seemed to echo around you, sharp and incessant. Angel flinched, her hands moving to cover her ears.

"Better?" you asked suddenly, your tone casual but laced with an unsettling edge.

Angel slowly removed her hands, her gaze locking onto you—and she froze. Your face, or what had replaced it, was now drawn in stark black lines. Two hollow, uneven circles served as eyes, and a wide, crooked smile stretched from one side of your head to the other, crudely sketched as if by a child with a marker.

You tilted your head, the marker-face unmoving but somehow radiating a sinister cheerfulness. "Do you like me now, Angel? Hm?"

The sketchy smile seemed to twitch, cracks spiderwebbing through the lines as though the drawing was struggling to hold itself together. Angel’s breath hitched, her voice trembling. "What were we just talking about? What... what’s going on?"

You blinked—or at least, you made the motion as if you had eyelids to blink with. The drawn face didn’t change, but your voice softened, almost playful. "Nothing, really. Just... spacing out, I suppose."

Angel’s brows furrowed, her concern growing. "Y/N, this isn’t... normal. Are you okay?"

You let out another laugh, softer this time but no less unsettling. "Angel, Angel, Angel. Normal has never suited me, has it? Don’t worry your pretty little head about it."

You took a deep breath, smiling in a way that was disturbingly serene, as if all the madness in your mind had been carefully tucked away. The world felt right again. It was as if nothing had happened—your face returned to its usual form, no marker-smile or vacant, featureless expression. You reset everything, and now the atmosphere was calm, almost comforting.

Angel blinked, staring at you in confusion for a moment, before her soft voice broke the silence. "Y/N, what... what just happened? I feel like I missed something." She tilted her head, clearly unsure of what was going on, but her usual warmth was there, wrapped in genuine concern.

You shrugged innocently, your eyes bright with a manic joy hidden beneath the calm. "Oh, Angel, you were just spacing out! Happens to the best of us." Your tone was too casual, too calm, and for a brief second, you wondered if she’d buy it. Of course, she did.

You didn’t wait for her to process your words. Instead, you changed the subject, your mood suddenly shifting to something more playful, more lighthearted.

"Anyways!" you exclaimed, quickly changing the topic with far too much enthusiasm. "I sent you something! A Valentine’s special treat, just for you!" You imagined the excitement bubbling over in her as you dropped the bombshell.

"What? What is it?" Angel asked, her curiosity piqued as she looked toward the screen, clearly expecting something sweet, a moment of warmth.

You grinned, knowing exactly what you'd set her up for. "It’s strawberry mousse!" you said with a cheeky wink. "You know, a Valentine’s special just for you, Angel!"

Angel blinked, her mouth opening in surprise. "Wait—what?! You... you made me something?!" Her voice cracked slightly as the realization hit. You could hear the soft sound of her laughter starting to bubble up from her chest. She giggled nervously, her face slightly flushed. "Y/N, you silly little—"

You cut her off, a small chuckle escaping your lips as you leaned in, relishing the moment. "I didn’t add any human shit to that mousse, I promise! But the cupcakes, oh, they had the special ingredients." Your voice dropped with a playful, teasing tone.

Her eyes widened, and she gasped. "Y/N! What is wrong with you?!" Her tone was a mix of scandalized surprise and affectionate exasperation. But as soon as the words left her lips, she broke into another giggle. "You're impossible!"

You laughed too, a giddy, almost manic sound. "I know! It’s my specialty," you replied with a grin that bordered on too wide to be considered normal. "But hey, it’s a Valentine’s special, just for you, and I really hope you enjoy it. No strings attached... this time."

Angel’s giggle continued, light and airy, as she hid her face behind her hands in embarrassment. The way she laughed made something in your chest tighten—both in sweetness and anticipation. She might be acting a little flustered, but that didn’t stop her from indulging in your madness, and in turn, you felt that intoxicating sense of power.

You couldn’t help but smile at her, your eyes softening slightly. "I’m glad you’re enjoying this, Angel. Truly. It means a lot to me."

The playful teasing, the sweet laughter—it felt... right.

.......................................

Until we see, in finale!

#Spotify #killer chat ronin #ronin beaufort x reader #ronin killer chat #ronin x reader #ronin beaufort #killer chat x reader #killerchat #killer chat ronin x reader #killer chat #visual novel #angel killer chat #killer chat angel #killer chat angel x reader #kc x reader #killer chat vn #Maria de la rosa x reader

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lambmotifz · 3 months ago

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love a kind of one sided wincest where sam doesn’t really want dean romantically but lets him fuck him into the mattress whenever dean wants to because he’d give his big brother anything he wants/needs

#finished my third s1-5 rewatch and it might have made me change my interpretation of wincest a bit #honestly i think most of sam’s feelings for dean really come from hero worship and devotion #not saying he doesn’t want dean but he doesn’t feel the same violent need to own & control (esp physically) that dean feels towards him #and personally i’m obsessed with this dynamic #wincest #samdean #spn

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finleycannotdraw · 1 year ago

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12. Gabriel/Beelzebub ~ love like yours will surely come my way (x)

I’m actually obsessed with these two way more than I thought I ever could be so that’s fun! Did I draw their outfits wrong? Yes. Do I care? No. Bright purple ties and ruffled pirate shirts for the WIN👑

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hephaestuscrew · 9 months ago

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“This has both our names on it”: Viewing Fleet and Clara’s relationship in Victoriocity through a queerplatonic lens

TL;DR: By Season 3 of Victoriocity, Fleet and Clara have developed a committed emotional partnership that certainly moves beyond the purely professional. Whilst very much operating as a duo, they can be interpreted as often rejecting or subverting romance-coded elements in their relationship, instead embracing a unique dynamic that can be read as resonating with the concept of a queerplatonic relationship (QPR).

Buckle up because this is over 2,500 words long! If you'd rather read it as a document, you can access it here: Fleet & Clara QPR Google Doc

Disclaimer: I'm not making any claims about creator intent, nor about how anyone else ought to interpret Fleet and Clara's dynamic. It's also worth acknowledging that queerplatonic relationships are inherently defined by the people in them and any attempt to apply such terminology to a story set in 1887 is obviously anachronistic (although whether that should matter when said story also contains a cyborg Queen Victoria is up for debate).

With that said, if we define a QPR as a committed personal partnership which is not entirely captured by the typical expectations of either friendship or romance but may contain some elements typically associated with either (other definitions of QPRs are available), I enjoy viewing Fleet and Clara's relationship through a QPR lens, and I want to talk about some of the reasons why I think this reading works.

***Spoilers for all three seasons of Victoriocity and the novel High Vaultage***

Detective duos

Even before we actually get into Fleet and Clara's particular bond, detective / crime-solving duos as a general concept have QPR energy to me (which probably predisposed me to this interpretation). It's the Holmes-and-Watson legacy. It's the use of the word 'partner' in a non-romantic context (‘associate’ or ‘companion’ can also serve a similar purpose). It's the intense trust and reliance on each other. It's the sense of being a recognisable pair, always appearing together, known as a duo, with skills and attributes that complement each other.

Romantic assumptions

Moving on to Fleet and Clara specifically, one aspect of their relationship that can be read through a QPR lens is how they are often in situations where other people believe or imply that there is a romantic relationship between them. Sometimes this is a deliberate strategy of theirs, and sometimes it’s imposed upon them by others. But I’d argue that there’s never a point where they both simultaneously seem entirely comfortable with that romantic narrative for their relationship. Usually one of them will actively deny the assumption or react negatively to the implication:

When Mrs Hampshire interprets Clara and Fleet as a couple experiencing “young love”, Clara might be happy to adopt this as an effective cover story, but Fleet seems unsettled and keen for them not to be perceived this way: “No. No. You’ve misunderstood, we are not, that is to say I am…” (S1E2)

When Warden Hughes assumes Fleet is the new Warden and Clara is the new Warden’s wife, Clara says “I am certainly not”, with emphasis on the ‘certainly’. (S2E2)

Fleet definitely doesn’t sound enthused when he realises Clara has gone for a married couple as their cover story at the Grand Salcombe: “I am sure I’ll regret asking, but by any chance am I [Mr. Theasby?]” (S2E2)

When Titus Byrne tells the pair “I take it you're happy sharing [a room]”, Clara responds with a horrified “What?” (S3E4) (Obviously sleeping in the same room isn’t inherently romantic, but it is often perceived that way.)

Of course, fake dating and external assumptions of romance are very common tropes in romantic will-they-won't-they dynamics, and these moments could definitely be interpreted that way for Fleet and Clara. But I prefer to read these instances as reflecting a different kind of closeness between these two characters. They have a sense of emotional partnership that allows a marriage cover story to seem plausible to others and that other people sometimes automatically assume to be romantic (obviously with some period-typical heteronormativity at play). But to me, it doesn't seem like either of them are fully comfortable with their relationship being perceived in a directly romantic way. Perhaps they are a couple in a different sense…

Proposal via door plate

The way that Fleet asks Clara to be his business partner has always seemed to me like a platonic version of when people find personal ways to surprise their romantic partner with a proposal:

CLARA: You bought me a door plate for your office? [...] This has both our names on it. FLEET: What do you think? CLARA: I like it. (S2E7)

Fleet could have just asked Clara outright, without going to the trouble of buying a sign that would have been useless if she’d said no. If it was purely a professional business proposition with no emotional meaning behind it, I think he would have just asked verbally. But instead, he gifts her a sign with their two names paired together: Fleet-Entwhistle Investigations. There's something so intimate about that to me: about Fleet asking Clara whether she would like to be a duo with him in a more formally-defined but still non-romantic way; about him choosing to present this offer in the form of a gift; about the way he presents her with their two names joined together etched into metal and asks what she thinks; about the significance that this gesture attaches to their partnership; about him having enough trust that she'll say yes that the effort and vulnerability of presenting her with that sign seem worth it for him. And the gesture means an awful lot to Clara:

She thought about the door plaque he’d had engraved with both their names on it as his way of inviting her to be his business partner – typical Fleet, refusing to tell her so much as his favourite breakfast food and then to go and do something like that. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for her. (High Vaultage, p187).

Anniversaries

In the special episode ‘Murder in the Pharaoh's Tomb', Clara says “And you know what else is a big occasion Fleet? It's our one-month anniversary.” She wants to celebrate the anniversary of Fleet-Entwhistle Investigations. Their partnership holds a significance for her that means key dates associated with it are worth remembering and remarking upon.

When Clara first mentions their anniversary, Fleet nearly chokes on his drink, which seems like an instinctive reaction to the usually romantic connotations of an anniversary (see my point above about Fleet not being comfortable with their dynamic being perceived as romantic). But when Clara clarifies what she means, Fleet seems much more cheerful about the notion of their anniversary: “Ah, so it has.”

“Miss Clara Entwhistle, my partner”

I get extremely strong QPR vibes from this moment, when Fleet introduces Clara to the sailors at Grave End:

FLEET: This is Miss Clara Entwhistle, my partner - in business, my business partner. CLARA: I'm also his friend, but he doesn't like to say it. (S3 E3)

Fleet and Clara are partners, but not in the way the average person might assume from that word, which Fleet realises mid-sentence here. This is another instance of Fleet reacting negatively to the idea that their relationship might be interpreted romantically (see above). And yet, 'partner' (rather than, say, ‘colleague’) is the word that comes naturally to him in this moment to describe who Clara is to him. He then frantically emphasises the professional element of their relationship so as to avoid the romantic implication, but Clara is keen to proudly assert that there is a personal, emotional aspect to their dynamic too. They are first-and-foremost partners, and they are friends, and they do not want to be seen in a romantic light - this post basically writes itself...

“Her ridiculous detective.”

When Clara fears for her life at the display of the Lanterns, the narration tells us:

“she thought of her brother, her sister, her parents... Her ridiculous detective.” (High Vaultage, p172)

The fact that Clara thinks of Fleet in this moment of fear clearly indicates his importance to her, but I think the phrasing of this quote is particularly interesting. The narration lists Clara's immediate family: two of whom are dead (her sister and father), one of whom is publically mourning Clara's life choices (her mother), and only one of whom we have any real evidence of her having a positive relationship with (her brother). And then, separated from these complicated familial relationships by an ellipsis, the narration tells Clara also thinks of Fleet, “her ridiculous detective”.

Parents and siblings are familial relationships that tend to come with established expectations, in which the use of a possessive pronoun (i.e. her brother) to indicate the relationship is a norm. ‘Detective’ does not fall into this category; unlike ‘brother’, ‘sister’, ‘parent’, ‘friend’, ‘partner’ etc., ‘detective’ is not a word that inherently implies a relationship or that we'd usually expect to see preceded by a possessive pronoun. The idea of ‘her detective’ therefore stands out, giving the sense that there is a unique relationship being indicated here. The way in which Fleet is ‘hers’ is something that Clara has chosen for herself, something that they have shaped together. Who they are to each other can't necessarily be fully expressed using standard phrases that traditionally describe relationships between people. But Fleet is Clara's detective, of which she only has one, and who she'll think of in the midst of “the screaming of the heavens at the end of the world”.

Fleet is also the only one in this list of Clara's loved ones who gets an adjective - her love for him has detail. And while “ridiculous” might often be perceived as negative (it's certainly not a classic romantic endearment), it seems to me like there's such fondness in it in this context: the recognition of and affection for eccentricities, the idea that his importance to her is not (purely) based on his professional strengths but on Fleet as a whole - perhaps at times ridiculous - person.

“Settled”

When Clara and Fleet talk about Clara's mother’s expectations for her, they have this exchange:

"She's still living in hope that one day I'll settle down." "You're not settled?" asked Fleet. "I am." (High Vaultage, p259)

By ‘settle down’, Clara's mother of course means ‘marry’, ideally into “at least a minor baronetcy”. But Clara already considers herself "settled", just not in a way her mother would understand or appreciate. She's not looking to "settle down" into a lifestyle other than her current one. She is settled in a situation where Fleet is certainly her closest personal connection in London (and perhaps anywhere), and where the two of them work closely together, operate as a duo, and then go back to their separate homes. And this partnership with Fleet is a comfortable set-up that feels right for Clara exactly as it is, rather than being a precursor to, or a distraction from, the marriage ambitions that her mother wants for her.

I think this exchange also contains an implicit sense of the commitment between the two of them. Fleet wants to check that Clara is ‘settled’ in her current situation, of which working closely - and platonically - with Fleet is obviously a major element; Clara confirms she is. There's a subtle indication of their shared intention to be in this for the long haul.

As a sidenote, Fleet and Clara’s implicit assumption that their partnership is a long-term one can manifest itself in joking contexts as well as serious ones. Look at this exchange from S3E5:

FLEET: We're not bandits, we're just going to flag it down. CLARA: We'd be terrific bandits! FLEET: Let's just see how our current line of work goes.

I think it’s notable that, in this joking speculation, both Fleet and Clara use ‘we’ and ‘our’. The joke could have been phrased just as effectively if they were imagining only Clara becoming a bandit. But the suggestion is that, if either of them was a bandit, they’d be bandits together. Even if they changed their lives entirely, they'd still approach life together.

Inseparable

Fleet and Clara have become a nearly inseparable duo in a way which is noticed by others. For example, after Clara and Fleet fall out in High Vaultage, Fleet meets with Keller, who says:

"You're here with me instead of barrelling across town with her, so I'm just assuming there is some thickheaded puffinry for which you need to apologise to Miss Entwhistle" (p335)

Keller, hardly the most emotionally perceptive man in Even Greater London, automatically infers from the fact that Fleet is on his own that he has had a falling out with Clara, rather than that they just happen to be in different places. When all is well, Keller expects to see the two of them together, whether or not they are in a position to be actively working a case.

Going back earlier in their partnership, Keller makes a similar assumption about Fleet and Clara being inseparable in S2E6. When Clara shouts her name amidst Keller's anti-Vidoc booby traps, Keller asks "Entwhistle? Which means… Fleet?" Again, there's this idea that if one of them is there, the other is likely to be there too - they come as a pair. (It's worth noting that this scene takes place less than two weeks after they first met.)

“Like a friend might?”

At the end of S3E7, Fleet suggests that he and Clara go to the theatre together. It would have been easy for this invitation to have been explicitly framed as a romantic proposition, or even for the nature of the offer to have been left more ambiguous. But Clara says "Archibald Fleet, are you inviting me to a social activity? Like a friend might?" The use of the word 'friend' directly labels this as a platonic interaction. And it's with that platonic lens on it that Clara is extremely excited to spend non-work-related social time with Fleet.

“Maybe it'll just be my good luck charm.”

CLARA: My grandmother's ring, I don't suppose you managed to hold on to it? [...] FLEET: Oh, it's been crushed.. I'm sorry Clara [...] CLARA: No, you keep it. FLEET: What? No... CLARA: Keep it. Maybe it'll remind you not to run towards trains. FLEET: Maybe. Maybe it'll just be my good luck charm.

In S3E7, Clara gives Fleet a ring, which - as a gift from one person to another - is traditionally a symbol of a particular, legally recognised, kind of personal commitment. But when Clara tells Fleet to keep the damaged ring, down in the Underground tunnels after the destruction of the beast and Fleet's latest brush with death, it is quite a different situation to a wedding or a proposal. A married man would traditionally wear his wedding ring on his finger for all to see, but Fleet won't ever wear this ring like that. The ring itself has been bent into a different shape between the wheels of their misadventures, subverting the usual associations of a ring given from one person to another. (In a heteronormative world, those associations are particularly strong when the two people in question are a woman and a man.)

That ring is not an engagement ring, but it is Clara’s grandmother's ring, an inheritance from the blood family she never really felt she belonged in, now given to the man who might be a very different kind of family for her in London. That ring - with which Clara saved Fleet's life - is a symbol of their bond. And it therefore serves as a reminder for Fleet “not to run towards trains" and as a “good luck charm”. I like to think he'll carry that ring with him, perhaps in his jacket pocket - a little piece of his partner, kept close to his ticking heart…

Thank you for reading all of this!

If you’ve read all of this, I'm assuming you also enjoy the concept of Fleet and Clara as a QPR (unless you're really a glutton for punishment) and that makes me very happy! This was long because there's so much to say about them… And I wrote all of the above without even getting into: the potential to headcanon Fleet and/or Clara as aspec (which I don't think is necessary for QPR headcanons, but which is also fun); Clara's baggage around and discomfort with marriage in general; the speed with which Fleet and Clara become a ride-or-die duo; and the many other demonstrations of care, understanding, trust, respect, and affection between them that didn't feel as directly QPR-coded to me but are nonetheless wonderful. Please do feel free to share your own thoughts!

#victoriocity #clara entwhistle #inspector fleet #archibald fleet #high vaultage #I'm not really trying to persuade anyone who doesn't already vibe with Fleet & Clara QPR as a concept #I just enjoy digging into that interpretation #I don't have any lived experience of QPRs myself #I'm just an aro who occasionally yearns #which tbf is probably the demographic most likely to obsessively interpret fictional duos as QPRs #I tried to avoid straying into anything like ‘they are too important to each other to be *just* friends’#when writing this #because I deeply dislike that outlook #That's not what I'm getting at here #Friends can be that important to each other without being in a QPR #I just think Fleet and Clara are important to each other in a particular way that can easily be read as a QPR or QPR-adjacent #Ngl for me personally I was very happy that there was no explicitly romantic Fleet and Clara moments #in S3 or High Vaultage #I’m sure I would still love their dynamic if they did explicitly take it down that route #I’m sure it would be done well #But the fact that Fleet and Clara are platonic (or at least ambiguous) means a lot to me personally #A related thought to that bit on romantic assumptions is that under amatonormativity #even the denial of romance/attraction is so often treated as evidence for it #which can mean that there's no way to escape that implication #so that's another reason why I enjoy taking characters at their word #when they express discomfort over a dynamic being interpreted as romantic #I finished writing this on Wednesday and I've been so impatient about waiting until S3 is fully out to post it lol

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