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cursedcola · 6 months ago

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Prompt: Couples will evidently begin to mimic their better half after some time. What traits do you steal from him, and vice versa? Fandom: Twisted Wonderland Characters: Everyone - because I want to and I’m amidst fleshing out all my Yuu/Character dynamics + designs Format: Headcannons. Masterlist: LinkedUP Parts: Heartslabyul | Savanaclaw | Octavinelle | Scarabia (Here) | Pomefiore | Ignihyde | Diasomnia A/N: I'm part of the 'everyone underestimates Kalim Al Asim , the layers of his character and upbringing' club. Sweet does not equal being a dum dum my dudes.

Habits You Steal:

Theatrics (Inherited): Kalim talks with more than his mouth. There's body language. Watch out when this guy gets excited because he might knock over a lamp amidst a rant. Hands are flying with each embellishment. He's pacing. Jumping. Energy is seemingly endless with this one. When Kalim laughs, he does so with his entire body without reservation. Head flying back, grin wide, shoulder shaking, etc. Not that he can't replace what gets broken but - y'know. Be careful else you might get bitch slapped on accident. Which normally wouldn't hurt too much but Kalim's decked out in gold. The last thing you want is a ring imprint on your left cheek because Kalim got too excited after a card game. On that note - someone get Jamil some aspirin because that excitement is infectious. You can be the most stone-hearted edge-lord on the face of Twisted Wonderland, but eventually his infectious sunshine attitude takes hold.

"A-Ah! It's okay! We can replace the lamp, so don't worry. Are you hurt? No, no. It's really aright. I'm fine, see? You missed me - can I see your hands for a second? OIII! Can someone please bring a med-kit! Thank you!" <- Jamil's already grabbing the broom before you can say sorry. This is the last time he lets you sit anywhere near fragile objects during a game of charades - or any game. Kalim was bad enough...but at least with him fretting over the tiny cut on your palm, Jamil could clean the mess in peace. At least until you offer to pay for the lamp. Kalim's got enough tact to lie about the price, and everyone's thankful. No one wants to see the Ramshackle Prefect have a heart attack for shattering a real crystal lamp. 'cause then Kalim will cry too and it'll just be dominos from there.

Personal Space (Inherited): Kalim tears away any sense of dignity, self-preservation, and privacy that might exist. In a good way, of course. It's not that Kalim is an open person. Quite the contrary. He needs to keep a calculated distance between himself and others due to his position as an Asim. Regardless of his happy exterior, never forget that Kalim is far from an airhead. Kindness doesn't equate connection - as much as Kalim would love for everyone to be his friend. Yet for those who are in that trusted circle? He treats them like an extension of the self. His lack of shame bleeds into your own perception.

Training and Resistance (Inherited and Developed): Kalim hates that you need to do this. He rarely 'hates' anything, but he despises that you need to worry about being poisoned. What’s worse is that you refuse to have a tester, or a guard, or anything of the sort. It all started with discussing the future with Jamil, who logically brought up the complications that come with Kalim taking a partner. You couldn’t be shadowed, were in a difficult position with the headmaster, and it would only become difficult once the duo moves back to the scalding sands. Even more once you join them (as NRC is merely teaming with prideful youths, while the Scalding Sands is a free for all).

Point summary? You need to build resistance to drugs and learn what to do in a hostage situation. The former is handled by Professor Crewel, and the process was explained in excruciating detail. Jamil, who’s undergone training, was unphased but Kalim desperately wanted you to back out. Yet it would mean needing a guard - which would be hard to arrange - and so…yeah. Many weekends in the nurse’s office. You also have to complete the hostage drills all Asims and their spouses are put through. How to escape bondage, how to last an interrogation, how to navigate without magic (which you could, duh, so basically without a map when stranded), negotiate, etc.

"Are you absolutely certain that this is what you want to do? I can still hire a body guard - there are many options available back home! You can spend our next vacation at the main villa and meet with them. We can - oh. y-you're sure?... alright. If this is what you want then I'll be there through every step. Just remember to ask if you need anything. I'll come running, no matter what."

Charisma (Inherited): Everyone underestimates just how dangerous Kalim is. Seriously. Nothing is more risky in a school like Night Raven College than dropping your guard. It can cost you your life - or at the very least leave you indebted to someone you do not want having dirt over your head (*cough*ACertianCephalopod*cough*)The gossip grapevine is a menace. Everyone has their pride. Everyone has their secrets. Everyone holds each other at arm’s length, even if you’re cordial or friendly. Everyone except Kalim, who has this innate ability to pry the most dirty secrets out of you simply through his nonchalant attitude. Nothing drops another’s guard quicker than a sense of security and superiority. People often mistake his genuine heart for nativity. They fail to recognize that it’s a choice, and deep down he is aware that the Al Asim name places him high above the people he sees as friends.

"Hm? Isn't that the alchemic lab on potionomics meant for second years? You're so smart! I didn't get to do that lab until just a few months ago! - it's not yours? Then why are you working on it?" <- game. set. match. You think he doesn't know what your handwriting looks like? He saw you lingering outside Crewel's classroom earlier and wanted to know why. Saw an opening. Took it. Is happy you’re helping out one of your other friends, but just had to make sure no one was bullying you into doing their work.

Since he truly believes that despite this gap, friendships can transcend - his ability to get information is uncanny. A power he can wield intentionally if need be, in getting you to name drop any person or problem posed. It’s a great quality to have! This way he can help and support you :) Why is this an inherited trait, you might be asking? Because as the next head of Al Asim, Kalim’s been studying how to do business since he was young. He’s going to teach you. Pray tell what is born once the Ramshackle Beast Tamer learns the ways of Scarabia’s master of charisma and resident sunshine child?…Night Raven’s downfall. Power couple. Dead serious right now.

Jewelry (Developed): Worth your weight in gold takes a new meaning. This isn’t in reference to being spoiled, mind you. This is about status and the meaning behind the jewels Kalim is imparting. The cultural significance. Considering that you’re not from twisted wonderland, you technically are a blank slate to all countries. Who better to learn from than someone who’s spent his childhood studying to become an expert in international trade? Kalim has enough tact to bite his tongue about the deep meaning behind the gifts. You may not understand just yet, but his excitement can’t be contained. Each bangle and piece from the family treasury has a small story. While he has no problem using his wealth to help people who need it, there’s a joy that comes from decorating his treasure’ in treasure. Y’know?

"Do you like it? This necklace was my mother's at our age. My father gifted it to her during a business trip to the Queendom of Roses. Ah - you can have it! Really! She has many others, and when I told her about you this was what she chose to have sent over. It's already yours! You can wear it to the next banquet, please?" <- Being the next head of House Asim, Kalim can't be with just anyone. Yet he seemed so happy in his letters, and Jamil vouched on your behalf - so this is your time to shine. Also, sending the necklace back would be like slighting his family's good will. You quite literally need to accept it.

Music (Inherited): Can you play an instrument? Sing? It starts out as wanting to be near him more - so you join the pop music club. Kalim, Cater, and Lilia are very convincing. So they push you to pick up something. Anything. It doesn't matter what, so long as you have fun with them. Even in the earliest stages where the notes come grated and your friends (Grim) make fun - Kalim is supportive without fault. His encouragement leads to proficiency and an appreciation for music. He'd love if you sing with him. Even if it's just a lullaby - no, especially so.

Habits He Steals:

Naming inanimate objects (Inherited): Your effort at making Kalim more money-conscious. The decite of sentimental attachment, if you will. It’s honestly a risky move to make considering the sheer amount of things that he owns, so naming everything is off the table. Yet it’s the silly things. Like seeing a face in the paintwork on one of his tapestries, and then deciding to dub it Artie. Oh no, Kalim we don’t need to get new artwork for the bathroom! What about Artie? It’s already pretty enough so lets just leave him there. No - no, that ring’s super pretty but the matching set from our anniversary is enough. We wouldn’t want Garnet and Pearl to think we were replacing them, right?

"I think Vinnie would work best on display, don't you? Purple and yellow are sure to catch people's attention from far away! Or maybe should we hang up Paolo? There are so many tapestries in Scarabia’s vault, I feel guilty only putting one up on display at our festival stall. Do you think they’d let us hang more?”<- It works. Kalim defiantly thinks twice. He's a bit like a kid refusing to give up their action figures after watching Toy Story, ya feel me?

Cooking (Inherited): Kalim is learning how to cook for himself as one step to being more self-sufficient. He only eats food that Jamil prepares, but with Viper’s seal of approval you’ve earned a pass. Essentially anything you both make with pre-approved ingredients is fair game. You pick a recipe every week, give Jamil the grocery list, and he makes sure to have the stuff in the dorm. Jamil is only okay with this so long as you supervise. Teaching Kalim is on your shoulders - and in all honesty? It’s an amazing bonding experience. Jamil can rest easy for a few hours and Kalim isn’t being thrown straight into the deep end. Obviously it’s only a small reprieve, and temporary since back at the Scalding Sands there are regulations in place. Kalim loves wearing matching aprons, humming little tunes while reading recipe books, watching cooking videos, learning about all the nutritional benefits in food, and really gets an appreciation after seeing how much work goes into his favorite dishes. There’s also that spark of joy when you sit down to eat, and it’s somehow one-hundred times better than eating with his family back home. Not that Kailm doesn’t love his siblings, but family really takes a new meaning when you see it coming together right before your eyes.

"Mph th-ish is sho gud! - how do you like it? Should we invite our friends to try some? It tastes almost like Jamil's! I bet if we keep at it, then we can cook up a banquet all on our own. That'll surely put everyone in a good mood!"

Skinship (Developed): Kalim is the type to initiate touch. Not receive it. If you look at his interactions with the others, he’s always the one throwing himself at them or being a vibrant glow-stick. Very few people give that back - and in truth? Like, honest to Seven truth? Kalim’s got no problem with it. Many people have bad intentions. Not everyone wants to be his friend, and that’s fine. They come to him looking to get in his good graces. It’s unnecessary…he’ll happily help without them twisting his feelings. All they need to do is ask. Do you know how easy it is for someone to prick him with a drugged needle? He’s not comfortable with physical contact that he does not initiate, unless it’s from someone he trusts. Like Jamil, Silver, Cater, his siblings, etc. Even they have a limit (which he’s confident will never be crossed, since again, Kalim is almost always the initiator). This list is subject to change…what, you think a family of 30+ kids can exist without animosity? He dreads the day he has to think of one of his little siblings becoming untrustworthy.

Anyways. Trust is a choice for Kalim. His happiness and extroverted optimism is all a choice. Sometimes on an unconscious level (*cough* his awareness of the divide between himself and Jamil, yet pushing the knowledge down until it inevitably hurt them both *cough*). So imagine reaching the point where he trusts you. It could be something small, like the first time you hug him from behind or lace your fingers together. Intimate. Not like Cater’s half sling over the shoulder, not like his little siblings hanging on his legs, or Jamil pushing him ahead while they walk. When he’s not initiating, and Kalim might hesitate for a moment. Hard to picture, I know, but by letting it be he’s choosing to trust you wholeheartedly. All in the span of like 5 seconds, and he might not even realize it until later on. Those of us who shine the brightest, usually have walls that are hard to see. Just some food for thought.

"Really? Really, really?? Really, really really??? Really - Ah! Sorry, I just can't believe it! There's so much I still don't know about them...but they're paying attention to me, huh? That's it! I need to work harder to be a worthy boyfriend! Starting right now, I'll become a better man!" <- Kalim. Sweetie. No. You're already the brightest boy. Your dormmates only brought the prefect's changes up to make you happy! I mean - mission successful? The goal was to motivate him and they technically succeeded. Just not for studying. He's 100% fired up with enough energy to run laps around the dorm now. He doesn't know what to do first, should he get Cater to help make you a playlist? Or have some flowers sent over? Would you prefer red roses or a mix of violets with chrysanthemums. Wait. Grim's 'technically' a cat, right? He should make sure not to send anything harmful to kitties. Maybe some tuna for him with chocolates for you? But this gift should be something you can keep. Ohhhh he is vibrating from excitement. He needs to show how much he loves you. Your attention and care truly means the world to him.

Habits You Steal:

Bug Spray (Developed): Jamil can and will throw you under the bus when faced with insects. Big hit to his pride, not his best moments, but he is NOT dealing with the absolute infestation at Ramshackle. You are spraying that place with heavy duty RAID if you want him over longer than ten seconds. If he so much as catches a GLIMPSE of a roach - nah. Just nah. He will shove that dustpan in your hands and send you to war. Don’t call him until it’s dead, the carcass has been disposed of, and you’ve wiped down. Grim’s a cat. Teach his ass to hunt. He needs to pay rent. You think he’s letting the flame-ball follow to the Scalding Sands after NRC? Jamil wants him on hinting duty for scarabs or else it’s time to prep hobo box.

“Burn it….Did you not hear me? I said. Burn. It. Better yet? Burn this whole damn building!” <-First night he decides to let Kalim handle Scarabia and humor you with a sleepover - and a giant spider decided to invade the shower. We’re talking big spider, maybe pregnant. Please keep in mind that during the VDC prep, Vil had Ramshackle deep cleaned. So the worst Jamil saw was a few ants. Now, the science club does meet in the Ramshackle garden often since you’ve cleaned it up, and Trey may grow plants that make the place insect central. Jamil was unaware of this. The gut wrenching scream that echoed through every room in the house. You’d think one of the ghosts pulled a cruel prank - but no. You didn’t even get a moment to investigate. The bathroom door flew open, Jamil running out still wet and drenching his pajamas. The death glare and spew of curses was the most genuine you’d ever seen him. Well, it could have been appreciated if not directed at you. Fix it or he will never set foot in this place ever again.

Spice Tolerance (Inherited): Not much to say here. He likes his food spicy. Sure, Jamil isn’t great with his words so his main love-language is bringing over tubbaware filled with food, and he does cater to your preferences more often than not. Except you undoubtedly will be eating what himself and Kalim eat most days. Which is packed with flavor. Grim isn’t complaining, food’s food. You? It’s funny to take a chomp out of ghost pepper like it’s a roma tomato, only for Ace to try and then start wheezing. Work them tastebuds, ya scrawny magic man. Heh.

"Can't handle the heat? Curry's a versatile dish. I could make something mild next time...you still want it? Why? Just because it's my favorite, doesn't mean you have to like it. Still not going to give it back? Alright. Lets see you clean that plate then." <- Flattered that you want to experience his favorite foods prepared to his tastes. For the record - Jamil likes it spicy spicy. Hotter than fiery vindaloo. Its an acquired taste and he really can alter the recipe if its too much. Won't unless you ask, because it's funny and oddly romantic seeing you sweat just trying to make him happy (Will hit the breaks in if you are getting sick from it. Does not play around).

Braids (Inherited): Paired with Jamil’s developed trait. Braids or hair beads - take your pick. Maybe both? Or a headscarf. His little sister - Najima, do you remember her? She’s the first Viper you get to spend time with during a trip to the Scalding Sands and gifts you either some hair beads or a headscarf as her unspoken blessing. Nothing fancy, and Jamil forced the coin in her hand for it, but she did take you through the markets while he was busy tending to other needs. It’s honestly really sweet, and Jamil will braid the beads or scarf in one of your side pieces of hair every morning (or wrap the scarf around your head. Not fancy like Kalim’s but still a knot he ‘insists’ will look better if he does it since you’re inexperienced. He could teach you. He won’t.)

Silence (Inherited): Shit just does not phase you anymore. Ever heard of the inability to keep calm until there's someone more panicked nearby? Jamil embodies this, being surrounded by emotive people all the time, and his perpetual state of indifference physically does not allow you to feel unsettled. If Jamil isn't bothered, then neither are you. It's that simple. Resting bitch face is contagious. Jamil's ability to handle Kalim comes in handy for raising Grim. You can now ignore his baby face and daily begging for premium tuna. Little kitty needs to expand his arsenal of tricks, because your will is stone.

"Bad day? Grab a cup. The dorm's usually quiet for the next hour. I'll be there in a moment." <- Queen never cry. If anything actually does phase either one of you, it normally ends the same way. Plopped on the floor of his bedroom, sipping hot tea and staring at the wall in comfortable silence while stewing in mutual suffering. Eventually you give him one of those starry sky projectors, and y'all ill stare at that instead. If it's a problem that has a tangible solution then it gets solved. Easy. This is for the 'yeah, life sucks' moments where all you can do is let it be before getting back up again. At least you have each other.

Habits He Steals:

Braids (Developed): Jamil can easily do his own hair. A flick of the wrist and it magically braids itself. Ebony locks carry memories of pain, growth - and change. Small change. Yet change nonetheless, which seemed impossible years ago. There’s something very intimate that comes with fixing another person’s hair. You’re not proficient enough to handle his cornrows (or are you? To his standard? As fast as magic?) but Jamil’s fine with changing his hair style to a simple triple braid, or a braid-band using the framing pieces that can crown around his head. So long as you do it for him every morning.

Fix-It-Felix (Developed): You know that one type of dad? The one who visits your home and looks for imperfections. He comes over, puts fresh produce in the fridge, mends the nail holes in the wall and fixes that one loose board on the steps that you made a habit to avoid. Barely says two words during his visit but seemingly solves half the problems you were procrastinating? This is Jamil. 100% Jamil when he comes to Ramshackle. He needs to make himself useful. And to scold someone. Grim more often than not, but you’re not safe. He really goes ‘bitch you live like this?’ at least once a week. Then proceeds to take preventative measures like a textbook tsundere.

“I put tangerines in the fridge since winter is coming. You need to be getting enough vitamin c and - where’s Grim? Don’t let him eat them all and make sure he knows not to light the fireplace tonight. There’s some cleaner on the bricks that needs to sit for a few hours…you know what? I’ll go with you to get him. Grab your heavy coat, it looks ready to rain.”

Dancing (Developed): Jamil participates in solo-dance during his downtime. It’s not like he had a partner to do duos with. Jamil also was not interesting in cozying up to a stranger just to learn a dance he would rarely have a moment to indulge in. Kalim’s the one who mentioned this in passing to you. His intentions were pure, of course. Just as they always are. He signed you both up for a ballroom dance class as a present for officially becoming a couple! Jamil finally had a partner and time to try, so why wait?! The vice in question wanted to deny since (1) who has time for that, (2) it was off campus, would take three hours out of every weekend for a month and (3) The chance of embarrassing himself was higher than he would like. Yet Kalim is smarter than most think, and purposefully handed the gift to you. Not Jamil. Along with the excited embellishment that Jamil could now do this ‘long desired’ class that really wasn’t high on his radar.

"If it makes you happy...then I don't mind. Just try to avoid stepping on my toes. Otherwise I'll demand compensation. What do I want? Wouldn't you like to know, prefect." <- Five seconds in and he yields. You weren't going to let him out of it - no matter what excuse Jamil came up with. He'll put up with it and get back at Kalim later. The chance to spend time with you for that long is rare, and Jamil isn't the type to squander opportunities. No matter his personal feelings on the 'gift' in question.

Except Jamil finds the entire experience pleasant and hates that it’s all thanks to Kalim. Dancing with you is entirely different than dancing alone. It’s clumsy, new, and honestly tiring since he needs to lead. Especially in anything fast pace like a quickstep or to swing. It’s also three hours out of the week that Jamil isn’t maintaining his composure. Just you, him, and the instructor since Kalim splurged on private lessons. It’s liberating and Jamil wants to keep with it far beyond after the class ends. Even if it’s just slow-dancing in the common room to one of those vintage records stowed at Ramshackle. Seven, let him have this.

‘We’ instead of ‘Me’ (Inherited AND Developed): Automatically assumes that any invites are for you too. Jamil is used to thinking this way. Except the ‘we’ applied to Kalim, with Jamil as a plus one. Jamil did not want to be part of that ‘we’. Hence why he would only refer to Kalim when laying plans out. ‘Kalim has dance lessons at six, then dinner at seven, then study until 10 and then bed. Tomorrow, Kalim’s going to a banquet head by the treasure’s family and then returning to campus.’ The unspoken truth being that Jamil’s schedule matched. He followed, but was never on board with being Kalim’s ‘we’. He has always been a ‘me’ and made an active effort to preserve all his ‘me’ moments. For someone so self-aware…Jamil isn’t sure when he began to view you as his ‘we’. Only that when you auto-included him in everything…it was less strenuous than with Kalim. Far less. Easy to adapt. In the past, Jamil believed a partnership to be another chain. Perhaps being a ‘we’ was never supposed to hurt.

“Thanks for the invitation, but we’re staying in tonight…. No, not Kalim. The Prefect. What? I’m not speaking for them. If my word’s not good enough, just go ask the prefect yourself.” <- Other people might look at him and think he’s treating you like Kalim. Oh, how wrong they are.

Texting (Inherited): Jamil’s not used to someone keeping tabs on him. You’re going to see him within the hour, why does he need to call before going to wake up Kalim? Why do you need a text that he’s back in his dorm before you’re able to sleep? Why do you show up in Scarabia at one in the morning, throwing rocks at his window, if he forgets? (Jamil never forgets. He just had to reign in some rowdy first years and couldn’t catch a break. It was on his mind. Really.) It’s not the worst demand. A five minute call while he’s prepping breakfast and a few messages to know he’s going to rest are a small price to pay. Turns out a little rundown of his day before bed makes sleeping a ‘little’ bit easier. Huh.

“I don’t see it.” <- A lie spoken with the most monotone tone possible. Jamil rolls his eyes over the rim of his mug, taking a sip before turning the page in his book. Najima scoffs before returning to her magazine. She can say he’s softened up all she wants. He won’t admit to it. Doesn’t mean she’s wrong in the slightest. Jamil’s well aware that hopes and wants denied to him from birth have begun to stir within him. No matter how small the changes may be, Jamil isn’t foolish enough to give those emotions his attention. Not if he wants to keep them. Good things always escape his grasp…his wounds are too fresh to get comfortable just yet.

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst x reader #twst imagines #twst scenarios #jamil viper #twst kalim al' asim #kalim al asim x reader #jamil viper x reader #twst habits series #not me forgetting to put tags here. post has been up a whole day with no tags. i am a certified dummy

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 5 months ago

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Hello, I came to say that dragons are mythical creatures often depicted to be possessive in mythology and literature, sometimes known for their immense power, territorial instincts, and the symbolic association with hoarding wealth and treasures...

Twisted Wonderland in context, Malleus Draconia was confirmed to be a dragon fairy (essentially a dragon who can take a shape of a man), and I was curious if Malleus may have exhibited possessive traits in canon, whether through main story or vignette...?

The reason I ask that is because mischaracterizing characters or making them OOC is the last thing I want to do when it comes to writing or analyzing...

**Sorry if I was not able to word it in a way that you can understand what I'm trying to convey because sometimes I feel inferior that my wording may come off as blunt or insensitive. I just want to leave a brief note that I don't mean to come off as rude or dismissive. I appreciate your understanding!**

In my opinion, Malleus in canon is protective but not possessive. What do I mean by that? Glad you asked. Let's start by laying down some definitions.

In this situation, when I say “protective”, it implies good intentions. It means actively looking out for others' safety and wellbeing. To be possessive, on the other hand, implies a more controlling desire to own or to restrict another's actions. It’s commanding and demanding all of a person’s attention and love. It means having a disrespect for others' autonomy and instead trying to displace it with your will. (Yes, I know that you're probably automatically thinking of The Big Exception of book 7, but I will address that later in this post so hang on for a moment!)

This gets long, so buckle up! We’ve got a lot to talk about.

First thing's first, a lot of the "possessive Malleus" interpretations originate from fandom, especially when it comes to yandere, yume, or generally romantic fan works. (And to be clear: This is NOT to shame the folks who enjoy these kinds of works; I am only listing them here as examples.) Oftentimes this occurs due to individual fans bringing in ideas from media outside the bounds of Twisted Wonderland. This is totally expected and normal; there is no such thing as someone who has an interest in ONLY a singular thing. We will naturally apply our previous knowledge to help us understand and interpret new information.

For example, in irl mythology, fae are hurt by iron--and even in Disney's own films, such as Maleficent, iron is depicted as harming fae and sapping them of their power. This led to many Twst fans headcanoning that iron does the same thing to fae in Twisted Wonderland. However, we learn in book 7 that this is NOT true. Fae, particularly nobles, do find the smell of iron nauseating, but the metal does not appear to impede their powers or hinder them in any way. Lilia and his men are still able to dispatch several Silver Owls (who are dressed in iron arm and battle with iron tanks and other machinery) without issue.

Another example that’s pretty popular is fans believing that whole “if you tell a fairy your name, it grants them power over you” thing. Some have claimed this will come into play in book 7’s final battle. Others claim this is the deeper or secondary reason as to why Malleus doesn’t reveal his own name to Yuu until book 5, as giving his name would grant Yuu power over him. However, there’s nothing in-universe to suggest that names have cultural significance to fae or that any sort of power or status is granted by relinquishing one’s name. Yuu (or Malleus’s hundreds of other classmates) have also demonstrated no such control over him.

Remember: what is true outside of Twst, including in Disney's own works, is NOT necessarily true inside of Twst.

Going back to the initial question, I believe that "Malleus is possessive" is also a headcanon of a similar vein; fans are coming into Twst familiar with other mythos which state that dragons are possessive, territorial, and greedy on top of being powerful. Because Malleus is a dragon fae and is known to possess great power, it's very easy for fans to see the parallels between him and the dragons they already know of. This then leads to them filling in the gaps of his personality and projecting other stereotypical draconic traits onto him. In Malleus's case, this was extremely easy to do because it took a few years for him to see any significant spotlight in both event stories (Glorious Masquerade) and in the main story (book 7).

I think the easiest way for us to analyze whether Malleus is protective or possessive is to examine his closest relationships in the narrative of Twst. I will not be counting Sebek and Silver individually here, as they are both his bodyguards and Malleus maintains a mostly professional relationship with them. Instead, we shall look at Malleus's attitude by looking at his relationships with Lilia and Yuu, then proceed into discussing related behaviors.

I believe it's indisputable that Lilia is one of the most important people to Malleus. Lilia trained him, taught him, and trained him. He is basically Malleus's father figure. The fear of losing Lilia is what causes Malleus to emotionally spiral and take drastic measures in a desperate attempt to avoid that unhappy ending. His entire motivation for unleashing his UM is "not losing [Lilia]!" You would think that if Malleus was going to be possessive of anyone, it would be with Lilia. But the truth of the matter is... he's mostly just... not? Lilia is a very sociable person in the student body. He's frequently gaming with Idia, taking care of or lending wisdom to others (Silver, Sebek, etc.), hanging out with Cater and Kalim in their club, interacting with dorm leaders and freshmen when Malleus is absent for ceremonies, and more--yet Malleus doesn't seem to express any jealousy over sharing Lilia. I'd also like to add that although Malleus lacks parents, he doesn't really show envy over Lilia treating and calling Silver his own son instead of himself. Oh, Malleus certainly does express jealousy to some extent. Who would forget the time in his Dorm Uniform vignettes when he crushed Lilia's phone? The thing is though, the times when Malleus is upset are not fueled by not wanting to share Lilia or wanting to monopolize his time. In the previous example I cited, Malleus broke Lilia's phone because Lilia had received a picture Kalim and the other dorm leaders took after a meeting. Even the dialogue exchanged implies this; Malleus did not automatically get mad when he noticed that Lilia had a notification, he only got mad after realizing he was excluded from something the other dorm leaders were all involved in. Malleus was upset that he was not invited, not that Kalim was texting Lilia. Additionally, it is stated that the dorm leader must grant permission for others to use the lounge. If he wanted to, he could withhold the permission for Lilia, who wants the lounge for his farewell party (which everyone is invited to), or stipulate that he wants a more formal affair with just Diasomnia members present. Malleus doesn’t act in this possessive way though. He grants Lilia what he desires without issue.

Next up for scrutiny is Yuu! Now, there's some gray area here because part of Yuu's relationship with Malleus is defined by how much the player projects onto the self-insert/blank slate character. Please note that, when I discuss Yuu, I am leaving out individual interpretations and going STRICTLY by the information presenting in canon.

It can be said that Malleus slowly develops a fondness for Yuu's company over the course of the main story. At first, he is surprised and maybe even a little disappointed that someone has taken residence in Ramshackle--it used to be desolate, which makes it a perfect spot to visit on his nightly strolls. However, Malleus soon finds amusement in the fact that Yuu, not being of this world, has no clue who he is or what his status is. This grants him the freedom to speak at ease with this human and to "be himself" in a way that he cannot be with others, who typically cower at his name. You could also argue that Yuu telling Malleus they may have found a way home expedited the despair he felt in book 7, as he learned so quickly that two of his friends would be exiting his life soon. This, however, is not possessiveness. It's normal to have fear and anxiety about losing the people you love.

Malleus's voice lines also do not indicate possessiveness. Yes, there's the usual and expected fanservice-y lines where he invites Yuu to come and engage in various activities with him, but nothing in those suggests he would exclude others or become upset if they also wanted to join. (Are you telling me that Malleus wouldn't want to talk for hours on end about the glory of gargoyles to TWO people instead of just one?????) Additionally, all the characters get similar fanservice-y lines, so it's not something exclusive to Malleus. There was one line that gave me pause: "You always seem to attract a crowd... More so than I'd like, really." Buuut I think this could be read a number of ways, not solely in an ‘I want you all to myself’ way. Malleus actually does like to be alone, hence his nightly strolls. The line can therefore also be read as Malleus enjoying solitude or one-on-one conversations as opposed to addressing a group. In that case, it's a personal preference and not necessarily a sign of possessiveness. He’s definitely not completely averse to group activities though; there are lines where Malleus invites Yuu to do things with him and other characters. For example, from his PE Uniform: “Sebek has been badgering me to help train him. I'll permit you to join us. ... You're coming, I trust?”

The guy generally doesn't get angry or annoyed if Yuu mentions having other friends or managing the 7 member VDC/SDC group. In fact, he sometimes encourages Yuu to interact with others. One of his birthday lines is, "You needn't linger and focus on me to the exclusion of others. I want everyone to enjoy the party, yourself included." Malleus doesn’t so much as flinch or react when a complete stranger kisses the back of Yuu’s hand either. If he was truly possessive, wouldn’t he have gotten angry or—at the very least—have frowned or tried to put some distance between Yuu and said stranger? Yet Malleus doesn’t really react or comment on it despite being present.

Malleus seems to understand that it's not very polite to demand all of someone's time or attention--and this makes perfect sense of his character. He is a royal, and that means he was taught proper manners. Malleus has even indicated before that his grandmother stressed the importance of observing etiquette, particularly around invitations. You don't just invite yourself to functions or insert yourself into others' lives if not extended said invites... and Malleus, for the most part, adheres to those rules. In various voice lines, he even frets over committing social faux pas, wondering if he has offended his peers with certain behaviors. For example, from his Masquerade Dress: "Flamme shoots me stern looks on occasion. Have I behaved improperly in some way...?"

Malleus is also not generally possessive when it comes to his items or territory. He wants to share cake with others; eating a whole one gave him heartburn and now whole cakes are his least favorite food. Additionally, he tends to welcome people to Diasomnia rather than chase them out or expel them. (After all, they so rarely get visitors in the first place.) Malleus will at least hear out the reasoning for seeking him out. As an example, Leona (someone who has had a rocky history with Malleus) goes to Diasomnia in his Ceremonial Robes vignettes to exchange robes after a laundry mix-up. This is a stark contrast to the highly territorial Leona, who attacks a magicless human in thd Botanical Garden and also allows his own students to wail on Yuu and co. for simply walking being in Savanaclaw. Leona joins in on this bullying too. I think it's pretty clear that Malleus handles guests with far more tact, grace, and patience than his fellow prince.

I want to point out that though Malleus is usually amicable with guests, there are exceptions. Ramshackle, as I mentioned earlier, is a place he enjoys a lot. He indicates in his Halloween Dress card that “If anyone dares to damage [this] dorm, I will be as a lóng and reduce them to cinders. I have become rather fond of that place, after all.” Indeed, he does act on this promise in Terror is Trending and comes close to striking down Magicam Monsters for disrespecting a place he holds so dear. Is this possessive though? Yes, it’s a place he loves—but it’s also a place where his friend Yuu lives.

There are many other examples of Malleus going to extreme lengths to protect the things he loves. He vows to destroy Rollo Flamme, who poses a threat to his people, the fae (who depend on magic as their way of life, and the sentient gargoyles, whom he has recently befriended. He unleashes his mighty magic to attack those who wound his pride. He stops time and kidnaps the entire student body all for the sake of including ghosts in a Halloween celebration. And, of course, he sends Sage’s Island to sleep in a desperate bid to stop losing everyone. The majority of these behaviors involve him lashing out at those who pose legitimate threats to things he cares about. It’s not as though be is acting for no discernible reason or because he is doesn’t want his loved ones being with people other than him. Does that make these actions right? No, absolutely not. But I would say they are definitely more protective than possessive.

Very rarely is Malleus actively preventing his peers from spending time away from him. Sure, he gets upset that he’s not invited to join them and sure, he wishes people would invite him too—but there’s a difference between longing and being mopey about this and acting so domineering he’s breathing down the necks of others to only be with him. He is not stopping people from being with their friends and family. He is not stopping people from using his things or entering his territory. Even when he makes everyone sleep, he grants them the space to craft their own dreams and doesn’t even make the dreams center around him and his own involvement on their lives. Oftentimes the dreams involve several other characters that are important to the individual dreamer and Malleus does not appear at all. (Again, this doesn’t mean using his UM was the best move to resolve his issues; I’m just saying his actions were not necessarily possessive.)

So, in conclusion, I stand by the thesis at I proposed at the start of this post: Malleus is largely protective, not possessive, despite what many fandom interpretations would have you believe.

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yandere-sins · 19 days ago

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The Octopodes' Tale - Chapter III

I finished this last week but my new work sadly got in the way of correcting it! But I hope we get through more than one chapter per week from now on! Thank you guys for voting, and this time, I have some delicious name drops for you, and the first rather serious decision >:3 Enjoy! Fandom: Original Content Pairings: Yandere!Octopus Merman x GN!AFAB!Reader Words: ~2k Warnings: Yandere, Monsters (Tentacels, Oversized Mention, Mermaids, Monster Appearances, Sharp Teeth, Claws), Fear of potential harm, Discussions of death/dying, Mentioning of (animal) hunting for food

Your hand trembling, you slowly raised it towards the tentacle.

It seemed miles away, yet too close for comfort, but with the patience of a saint, it didn’t move until you touched it, fingertips gliding over the slippery velvet of the tentacle’s skin. The red rested heavily in your hold as you wrapped your palm around it, suction cups sticking to some of your fingers, the suction in- and decreasing repeatedly as if the octopus was taking multiple tastes of you, something you probably had to come to terms with from now on as it was how these creatures explored their surroundings.

With tender cautiousness, the tentacle began to wrap around your wrist and arm like it had with the Professor, rubbing against and clinging to you before simply staying still, almost reaching your elbow. Sudden claps rang out behind, making you twist your head back to see the other researchers clapping their hands, and a multitude of relief washed over everyone, the guards lowering their guns and stepping away. Even the Professor let out a few chuckles, seemingly pleased with your decision as he gave your shoulder another pat.

“Good choice,” he praised, getting up with a grunt. “I’ll have your instructions and research plan delivered to you. Your amenities and personal belongings should be here by tomorrow afternoon; please let us know if anything is amiss or if you need more to settle in. We can arrange most requests.”

“W-Wait, so quickly?!” you gasped, struggling to get back on your feet. Your arm was still in the siren’s grip, and he straightened up as he watched you trying to find your balance. With a firm tug, the merman lifted you up, assisting you in a weird, helpful way, and you stared at him blankly for a moment while he perked up like a puppy wanting praise. Shaking your head, the lack of oxygen underwater must have done some serious damage if you compared such a creature to a sweet, harmless baby dog, but you brushed the thought aside quickly.

“Shouldn’t I go back and pack my things? What about my parents? I should tell them the good news!”

“That’s what letters are for, right?” the Professor calmly retorted, not even giving your first question any mind. The other researchers passed you by, chatting merrily, seemingly just as unbothered as the Professor. You walked after him, the guards at your back and the tentacle clinging to you as you moved around the pool. There was only a certain range you could walk while still being held by the octopus, but thankfully, he was moving with you, drifting back into the water and swimming by your side as all of you crossed the pool.

“With all due respect, Sir, but I can’t just suddenly disappear like that. There are things to plan for, and I–”

With a shocking speed, the Professor spun around. You took a surprised step back, the tentacle tightening around your arm, sensing your tension. From the corner of your eye, you could see the watchful octopus in the water, head bobbing at the surface as he observed, unwilling to let go of you even though the tentacle was stretching to reach you by now, careful not to pull you into the water.

“Nobody leaves,” the Professor said sternly, everyone quieting immediately. “We can’t risk the knowledge of the sirens spreading. Can you imagine the panic that would break out? The danger it would put these creatures in, as people would target and hunt them? Do you want that? We must protect them, you said it yourself!”

“I won’t tell anyone! I mean, it sounds a little crazy if I just return home and keep talking about mermaids, right?”

“Maybe you don’t have to say it, but who guarantees you won’t get kidnapped by our rivals? There are all kinds of things they may do to you to get all the information out of you. It’s safest if you stay here.”

“But–”

“That decision is final. Make sure to read and sign the contract by the end of the day.”

The Professor took a step towards you, placing his hand on your shoulder again. The tentacle tightened, and for a moment, you felt like the creature in the pool below was the least of your troubles as its touch calmed you, like a promise of protection. “Don’t worry,” the Professor reiterated. “We’ll take care of everything. You just focus on your upcoming project and spend some time with your new protegee. I’m sure you have many questions, and he’s best suited to answer them.”

The number panel beeped as someone punched in the code for the door, the hinges opening with a heavy thud. Before long, every other person besides you left the room, leaving you behind with even more questions than you had before, and with a creature that was still dangerous and clinging to you.

“Are you okay?” he called out from below, and you realized you were holding your breath, slowly letting it out. Turning towards the edge of the walkway, you looked down into the pool, seeing his yellow eyes shining from the blue, and you brushed against the arm wrapped in his tentacle, a stinging sensation coming from your skin.

“I- I think so,” you mumbled, grabbing the tentacle. “Can you let go of me now?”

It felt strange to talk to him as if he was a person. Perhaps he was, even when all the signs pointed in completely different directions. The pressure on your arm intensified briefly, then slowly slid off, and you sighed in relief as you watched the tentacle glide back into the water. There were visible marks left behind on your skin where the cups had stuck to you, something you probably had to get used to now.

“Are you really going to stay with me?” the octopus asked, bubbles rising from his mouth as he sank back down, as if afraid of your answer.

“Guess so,” you sighed, sitting down on the walkway and letting your legs dangle from the edge, still unsure what was happening. It didn’t seem like you’d be leaving, though, at least not that day. Although it concerned you, there seemed to be nothing you could do right then and there. You’d have to find someone else who could help you get out, but you didn’t know anyone, and after the commotion you caused, it was probably wiser to let things calm down first.

“What’s your name?” the siren asked suddenly, shooting out of the water and holding on to the grate on both sides of you. He pulled his body up with more upper body strength than you would have attributed to him, but it made sense, given how his body must have worked. Still, with the writhing mess of tentacles beneath him, he must have been pretty strong to lift himself out of the water like this. Your scientific instincts were tingling as you wanted to learn more about this strange creature, but he was still untrustworthy for now.

Instinctively, you scooted back, just in time to avoid having your legs crushed by his weight. “It’s… It’s [Name],” you hesitantly told him, not sure if this was necessary or appropriate in the kind of relationship you two had. After all, you were there to research him, even if his face resembled a human’s. Perhaps it was better to know each other’s names, but it also built closeness between two people, which would make it more complicated if you had to do things that would be uncomfortable.

“Pretty!” he chimed, propping his head on his hands. If he had legs, you were sure they’d be bouncing up and down like a schoolgirl’s as he kept talking. “I’m Leo! Are you hungry? Do you like crab meat? I am a really good hunter, I can get you some! Oh, but they are rationing my food here, so I don’t have any right now… How about we play something? The old caretaker used to throw balls my way, and I’d throw them back! We just need to be careful not to break the things on the table over there, I don’t want you to get mad at me, too… How about a massage? Everyone likes those, right?”

“I’m good!” you quickly replied, trying to follow his stream of words as they seemed to come endlessly. “Did you say old caretaker? What happened to them?”

Leo was still going on about activities you two could do when he suddenly stopped, processing your question. His eyes were unblinking, staring right into your soul. “They… died,” he finally said, sounding like he was putting his thoughts together. “I think,” he added.

“They always wanted to leave the facility and did this thing with their eyes, which made them water a lot. Crying, that’s the word. They taught me that! They were kind and I really liked them! But people die, right? It’s normal? They said they’d come back and left through that door-” he pointed at the only exit, “-but they didn’t. That man said they died.”

You gasped as he spoke about the Professor, Leo’s hair turning ashen momentarily, indicating who he meant. You should have assumed that he would have some traits of an octopus, but you hadn’t realized how much until you saw his colors change, quickly turning back to pink and then red as if alarmed. Perking up, he looked around as if to try and find the danger, but you quickly composed yourself again, and he seemed to relax.

“It made me really sad,” he admitted, and you nodded sympathetically. You couldn’t imagine what he was going through. You weren’t a giant creature captured and being researched. But he seemed to have bonded with his previous caretaker, and seeing how attentive and caring he was towards you, perhaps he really wasn’t an evil soul.

“Do you want to leave?” you asked him with sudden curiosity. You two had talked about others leaving, and you felt stuck here, so perhaps he did too? Leo’s head sank to the grate as he hummed thoughtfully.

“I do. I want to go home. I want to see my mate again, but they won’t let me. And now I have you, so I can’t leave just like that either.”

He waved his hand in the air in a similar motion that a human might snap their fingers when they talked about a spur-of-the-moment decision, some of the tentacles behind him doing the same. It felt like such a natural motion that it made you chuckle, and he peeked up at you, smiling softly.

“You don’t have to stay here because of me,” you assured him, reaching forward and playfully rubbing his hair. Only when you were doing it did you realize you were thinking of him like a puppy again, immediately drawing back. But Leo only grinned more, exposing his sharp teeth and tilting his head forward again as if to ask for more pets.

“I do. Otherwise, you’d be dead, too, right? You can’t leave here, and they won’t let me go. Straci says we can’t take more lives than necessary, so I can’t let them kill you just because I left.”

You gulped. It almost sounded like… everyone who tried to leave got killed. That couldn’t be true, right? This was a government facility; they couldn’t just kill people for leaving... right? It was only what this creature put together in his mind to make sense of things when his caretaker didn’t come back. “I’ll be fine,” you reassured him, giving his head another brief pat. But would you? Somehow, you couldn’t shake the eerie feeling you had, especially when you reflected on the Professor’s strange, sometimes persistent behavior and words, instructions and orders aside.

“You…” Leo mumbled, suddenly reaching out a hand towards your leg. Carefully, he gripped your shin, squeezing it before looking up at you with glossy eyes and a trembling lip. “You won’t leave me, right? You won’t leave me here, all alone, too?”

Immediately, you wanted to say that you wished you could do something to help him, but that at some point, you’d have to leave, too. You couldn’t imagine anyone working here spending all their time and life at this job. There must be someone who went home after a long day or took a vacation, at least. Leo’s striking eyes were dimmed as he looked at you almost pleadingly. It must have been tough to be here. Tougher than what you imagined when you considered working for this facility.

But considering his strength and the genuine sadness he seemed to feel, maybe saying that his newly appointed caretaker would leave him as well would make him snap. He was still a siren and not a human. It felt wrong to lie to a face that looked at you with the innocence of a lonely creature, but perhaps it was the right way.

Thoughts and reasoning as always, are welcome! ♥

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smusherina · 1 year ago

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yard work - chapter 12 (regina george x reader)

fandom: Mean Girls (all media)

pairing: Regina George x OFC/Reader

summary: You'd been in the same class as Regina George since kindergarten. You'd lived on the same street even longer. Once upon a time, when life was sandbox disputes and who got the swing first arguments, you'd even been friends. Now, in junior year of high school, you doubted she even remembered you. The same couldn't be said about you. You definitely remembered her. warning(s): a homophobic character saying some homophobic shit. listen, it's set in 2004 it was inevitable.

chapter 1 / chapter 2 / chapter 3 / chapter 4 / chapter 5 / chapter 6 / chapter 7 / chapter 8 / chapter 9 / chapter 10 / chapter 11 / chapter 13

"So..." Gretchen drawled from the passenger seat. "You're still not doing the dance with us?"

Regina glanced at her. "No."

"Cady's taking the lead." The brunette said, very badly acting as if she wasn't looking for a reaction. Regina resisted the urge to bite back, to defend her honour, and kept her eyes on the road.

"Great." She said, voice tart. "She's doing the stunt, is she?"

"Yup." Gretchen's breath hitched. "She's, uh, got it nailed down."

A mean smirk spread her lips. "Oh, really? I'm looking forward to it."

Gretchen swallowed. Regina spied from the rearview mirror Karen was watching the scenery pass by dreamily.

"What's up, Karen?" Regina asked.

"The sky!" Karen stated proudly. "And birds, I suppose. Hold on..." She felt up her boobs, pulling at her nipple obscenely. "Ouch. Yeah, it's gonna start snowing soon."

Regina, knowing the forecast had promised much the same thing, hummed. "Gonna have to stay in, then."

Gretchen shifted her weight on the passenger seat. She seemed uneasy. Both she and Karen had been severely late to arrive at her car today and had seemed... Dodgy. Regina could hardly blame her, though. Things had gotten weird recently.

She wasn't being nice. Not exactly. She'd just, kind of, dialled it back a little. A year ago she'd have spent the days leading up to Christmas break making the rounds, spreading nasty rumours about this and that, ensuring everybody's holidays were ruined just the right amount. This time, she'd forgone that.

A part of it, a large majority, was due to the Thanksgiving fiasco with Jorts. Another, smaller part, was because she was tired. She just didn't want to.

Arriving at her house, Regina parked and stepped out of her car. Gretchen and Karen followed her inside where mom greeted them with mugs of hot chocolate. Fancy chocolate and skim milk. Regina pointedly left her mug on the tray.

As she was going up the stairs, she noticed neither Gretchen nor Karen had grabbed a mug.

"Take them." She gestured vaguely back to her mom. "Don't be wasteful, girls."

Making her way up leisurely, she relished in the sound of the two girls scrambling to grab their mugs and then follow her as fast as possible. She might've loosened her hold on the student body, but Gretchen and Karen she'd keep. She didn't care if it was immoral or something, she'd done a lot of work to get them where they were.

"Shane Oman's doing a Christmas party this Friday," Gretchen informed them as they settled around Regina's room. "There's talk he's specifically invited Doris Harris."

"Who the fuck names their kid Doris Harris?" Regina scoffed and inspected her nails. She'd have to get a new set soon. "Are you going?"

"What? You- you're not?" Gretchen sputtered.

"I have... Plans." Important, top-secret plans. "Shane Oman is a sleazebag and a womanizer. Doris can have him." She said airily and looked at the two girls sitting on her floor.

"What plans do you have?" Gretchen probed. Karen looked on, seeming to be in her own world. Little specks of snow were beginning to fall outside.

"Private." She left it at that. "Who are you bringing to the party?"

"Probably Jason." Gretchen sighed. Regina's face twisted.

"You're still with that douche?" She sat down cross-legged near the two. "Why?"

"Oh, do you think I should break up with him?" Gretchen looked between her and Karen, seeming lost. "I can do that."

Regina rolled her eyes. Okay, maybe she'd put a little too much work in these two. They were old enough to think for themselves.

"Look, Gretchen..." She closed her eyes. "I'm not gonna say sorry. I'm, uh, just not going to." She didn't tack on the yet that meant to crawl up her throat. Too much too fast. "However, it's becoming apparent that my usual methods are no longer as effective. Exhibit A, Cady Heron."

Gretchen stared at her. Then, her head tilted to the side like that of an inquisitive dog. Karen was gaping at her, having probably not comprehended a single word. Regina sighed.

"Look, I'm not gonna just waste my time and energy putting people down anymore!" She was feeling way too defensive and the others hadn't even said anything. "I might, like, join a sports team or something for senior year. Focus on myself."

"Wow." Gretchen breathed out. "So, you're just gonna step down?"

"I'm still Regina fucking George. I'm not gonna stop being me." That being a vicious bitch with a lot of hate in her heart. "I'm just saying that it's getting old."

"Why? You- you can't just stop. That makes no sense. Someone's gonna take you over, like- like Doris Harris!" Gretchen took several short breaths, this close to hyperventilating. "Doris Harris is going to be the new Regina George!"

She rolled her eyes so hard her entire head rolled with them. "That statement contradicts itself. If she's the new Regina George, I'm still on top. The original."

"You sound so alike." Karen smiled. "You two are so cute. True love."

"Karen!" Gretchen snapped, sounding like a chihuahua. "Shush!"

"Who sounds alike?" Intrigued, Regina leaned forward. "Me and who? True love?"

"Oh, uh..." Karen looked to Gretchen, who was trying (and failing) to subtly shake her head, and then to Regina whose eyes bored into hers. "Uhhhhhhh..."

"She's rebooting." Regina huffed, leaning back. "Gretch, I just... I don't care anymore."

It had been a startling realization. Not a quick one despite the one eureka moment that'd brought it all together. There were things more important to her than maintaining a hierarchy in high school. It still was important, to a degree, but well. If she had to pick between one-upping some random girl at a shitty party and date night with Jorts, the choice was entirely too obvious. It was going to be date night every time.

(If she even had that privilege anymore. She's called her slurs, for fuck's sake. She could only hope her apology would be good enough.)

"How can you not care?" Gretchen screeched. Karen sipped at her hot cocoa nervously.

"I just don't." Something like this, not caring about something, wasn't a decision she could consciously make. At least, not entirely. Once you stopped caring, you just did. That was that.

It wasn't easy, though. She didn't have the strength of will to be deliberately mean to everyone, every single day, but she would not tolerate people stepping on her toes. If somebody encroached, she wouldn't hesitate to bring them down. Where the line went, distinguishing between a serious threat and a general nuisance, was the hard part.

Letting go of the instinct to just be mean was a challenging hurdle.

"She's changed you. All this time, you've been talking to her, haven't you? J, Jorts, whoever she is. She's corrupted you." Gretchen sneered. "What happened, Regina? Or should I say, Reggie?"

Regina looked at her friend, minion, accomplice- whatever.

"Excuse me?" She said, so quietly it could've been mistaken for a whisper.

"You heard me." Gretchen's sneer dissolved, old instinct to cower kicking in. "Reggie." She hissed, a feeble attempt at keeping her power.

"What the fuck do you know about J?" Regina could feel herself grow cold, anger mixing with panic, mixing with visceral, palpable terror.

Of course, all that manifested as blind fury.

"We know plenty about J. You've never shut up about her. Y'know, I used to think she was an ex-boyfriend of yours 'cause of the way you talked about her. And now, it all makes sense." Gretchen spread her arms provocatively. "Because she's gotten into your head, used her sticky, lesbo fingers to mix you up. Snap out of it, Regina. This is not who you are."

Anger roiling in her stomach, she was about to release pure acid onto the dimwitted, insensitive, stupid girl, when Karen spoke up.

"Gretchen, you're being stupid." She said so lightly. Both of them turned to look at Karen. She was watching the window, looking immensely pleased with herself. Yet another correct weather report.

"What?" Gretchen breathed out.

"Stupid. That's stupid. I didn't know you were, like, homophobic." Seeming to focus, Karen turned to face Gretchen. "I think I told you my brother's gay."

"Oh." Gretchen deflated. Regina didn't know what she should do. "Well, that's different, he's a guy! Lesbians are totally different."

"How?" Karen, more engaged than Regina had witnessed her be in a long time, kept her eerily wide eyes trained on Gretchen. "How is it any different?"

"Listen, everybody can do what they want with... Whoever, like, consents, but it's different when they shove their beliefs in people's faces." Regina, quite astounded, didn't know what to say. Karen did, though.

"J didn't shove anything in our faces. I don't think she shoved anything in Regina's face." She put her finger to her chin. "Unless they're into that sort of thing."

"Karen..." Regina sighed.

"Anyway, I think your opinions about gay people are weird, Gretchen. You should look into that."

"My opinions are just fine!" Gretchen's shoulders rose all the way up to her ears. "You guys are the weird ones! It's not like I hate gay people! There's just, y'know, healthy concern. If it was so easy to turn Regina then what can they do to impressionable little kids?" Gretchen licked her lips nervously. "What about Kylie?" She asked, looking to Regina for sympathy or agreement or something.

By that point, Regina had checked out.

"I don't think Regina's changed. Not really." Karen's owl eyes turned to her. "She's just... Shedding. Like a snake. Getting a new skin." She dragged her eyes up and down. "Yeah. New, shiny scales. Like a blonde, human green tree python. My dad has one. A snake one."

"Thanks," Regina said, tone flat. She then turned to Gretchen. "Get out."

Her hands trembled. Rage or fear, she couldn't tell where the tremor stemmed from.

"Regina, this isn't right-"

Just the sound of her voice made her blood boil. Her eyes stung too, but she refused to feel anything but anger.

"What isn't right is that you're still in my house. J is my childhood friend and the assumptions you've made about her are life-threatening. People are killed because they're gay, Gretchen. She hasn't turned me into anything, much less something you're insinuating." The claim that Jorts had turned her into a lesbian was false. If there were to be a claim about Regina's sexuality alone, then the answer wouldn't be so clear. "Get your fucking act together. I'm too good to bother with high school politics. We're going to college in two years. Stop being so small-minded and do something with your life for once."

She heaved in lungfuls of air. She stood up abruptly, walked to the door and pointed down the hallway.

"I-" Gretchen tried to say something, but Regina just reiterated her point.

"Out!"

She didn't particularly care that her friend (ex-friend) didn't have a ride home. She didn't care that she was a bigot, that Gretchen was right about her and Karen being the weird ones. She didn't care that Jorts had definitely changed her in some way.

As soon as the brunette had scuttled down the stairs, the front door slamming on her way out, Regina slumped against her door. She didn't care. She did not care.

"So, is it just us, now?" Karen asked from her spot on the floor. Regina was pretty sure she hadn't moved an inch since she plopped down. "Is J gonna be our new friend?"

"I don't know, Karen." She buried her face in her hands. Fuck. She wasn't supposed to care. "I didn't know Gretchen was like that."

"Hmm." Karen hummed. "I didn't know you weren't like that."

Her head snapped up, looking at Karen. Her expression was unreadable, like a book with blank pages.

"I... I'm scared, Karen."

"Yeah. My brother's boyfriend is from Alabama and he's been beat up before 'cause he looks gay. And he is gay, but the earring gave it away, I think. And my uncle died of AIDS and my family don't really talk about him and we weren't allowed to see him. My aunt that's in New York's been living with her best friend of, like, thirty years for forever and I went to visit one time and they had only one bedroom."

That was perhaps the longest, most coherent sentence Karen had ever said. Too bad the subject was so grim.

"Wow, Karen. Sounds like your family's full of..." What could she call them? Her mind defaulted to nasty slurs. "People like that."

"I guess." She smiled faintly. "I hear them crying sometimes, in my brother's room, when they're home for the holidays. Mama says I shouldn't go up and snuggle them until they feel better. They're having a moment." Karen looked confused at that. "Are we having a moment?"

Regina slowly unfurled from her slump against the door. "Maybe."

"Oh. Okay." She accepted easily. The familiarity of the scenario had a smile creeping back to Regina. "My brother smiles the biggest when me and his boyfriend team up against him at board games. My mom cries when we visit my uncle's grave. She tells us stories about him and shows us pictures. My aunt has three cats with her bestie and they call them their children and they wear matching rings."

"That's really sweet, Karen." Regina, now smiling in earnest, shuffled closer.

"I don't really get it." She said in the same light tone she'd use when talking about schoolwork. "Like, my brother's boyfriend is really nice so I don't get why people beat him up for dating my brother. And I think it was really mean that my grandma didn't let mama see her brother when he was sick. And my aunt and her best friend already live together, have cat-kids, and kiss on the mouth, so why can't they get married for real?"

Regina stared ahead, more than a little floored. Gretchen, simultaneously surprisingly and unsurprisingly, was a homophobe. Regina knew the political climate and knew that being openly gay was social suicide, and sometimes literal suicide, but she hadn't expected someone so close to her to be like that. They hadn't talked about it much, to be fair. Besides, Regina wasn't much better. While she might've not been a real homophobe, as in actually subscribed to the ideology, she'd done plenty of homophobic acts.

Whether or not in the name of projection or denial didn't really matter. Janis 'Imi'ike had been the first girl she'd subjected to hate crimes and discrimination, but not the last. How many times had she shoved other girls under the bus so she could get off scot-free? How many times had she done it for a twisted sense of fun?

Too many, was the easy answer. Not enough, whispered the scared, hidden thing in the back rooms of her mind.

And Karen was an ally. A supporter of the cause. And unexpectedly well-spoken when she had something she liked to talk about.

"Karen, I like girls."

"Me too!"

Regina's heart beat like a drum. She was beginning to sweat.

"No- I mean, like, I'm... A lesbian. I guess."

"Okay!"

She snuck a glance at the other girl. She was peering mournfully into her empty mug.

"Like your aunt and her best friend." She took a deep breath. "I like girls in that way."

"Uhh, duh," Karen smiled at her, beamed, really. "J is your true love."

"I wouldn't go that far." Regina sighed but had to purse her lips to keep from smiling. At the same time, a knot tightened in her chest, like hiccups trying to escape. She threw her head back and puffed out a breath, blinking rapidly.

"Let's go get more hot chocolate and I'll tell you about my talent show performance." She wiped discreetly at her eyes and extended a hand to Karen.

"Hot cocoa!" The girl exclaimed as she pulled herself up with Regina's help. "Ouuuhh, what kinda performance?"

"A song." Regina guided them down the hallway. "For her."

Obviously, she had more than just a song planned. A proper apology, for one, was in the works. Karen didn't need to know about that, though. That was between her and J.

Notes: Boo I lied it's not the last one. I thought it would be! I was wrong! I did start rambling like I kind of predicted in the notes of the last chapter. Or, like, I felt the ending would be a little too abrupt without some downtime. So have some Regina POV!

Will no longer be making predictions about when the end is. I'll only be contradicting myself lol. But like, the arc is coming to a close, a natural end is coming. And then the epilogue things.

Praying to god the taglist will work. Trying a new method today, fingers crossed! Hand-typing every single fucking name, no commas in between names, the utmost technicalities. This is the night fellas, the night we've been waiting for.

Edit: it didn't work. in fact, it worked worse than the other times! fuck! put another version of the list, back with commas, and it seems to tag some people but not all. gonna have to do some scouring on the internets.

Taglist: @autorasexy, @wedfan2, @unadulterated-moron, @modernsapphicism , @9unknown0 , @sage-rose2000 , @massive-honkas , @nattys-swiftie , @likefirenrain , @luz-enjoyer , @dandelions4us , @natashamaximoff-69 , @alexkolax , @jareaul0ver , @here4theqts , @charleeeesworld , @natsbiggestfan1 , @brocoliisscared , @yellowwallflowers , @scarlettbitchx , @ayoungexwife , @cyberbonesworld , @syddie-reads , @screechcat , @theenglishswiftie , @gabby-duhh , @sweetmissnothing , @masterofpuppets-10 , @l1lass , @starved-mortal , @nothanksbye07 , @nenas19 , @jvuyii , @starry-night17 , @reneeswife24 , @glorioushamsterqueen , @krononan , @slug-on-bike , @rayisaknight , @chaseatlanticlover91 , @reginassweetheart , @mirage018

(if you want to be added to the taglist, comment so on this post! beware it seldom works. i try my best.)

#mean girls #mean girls 2004 #mean girls 2024 #regina george #regina george x reader #regina george x you #regina george x oc #regina george x ofc #mean girls x reader #lesbian regina george #wlw #fic: yard work

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olderthannetfic · 4 months ago

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Ever since JKR terfed out, I've seen a lot of people talking about alternatives to Harry Potter. And i respect it, because I do think most of those people have good intentions, not to mention there are obviously people out there who are genuinely uncomfortable with the series and can't divorce the art from the artist.

But idk...for a lot of people, they like Harry Potter because it's Harry Potter. While some might find comfort in picking up a different "magic boarding school", "chosen one", "found family", "kids as the heroes", etc story, or whatever it is that someone might enjoy about HP...for some people it goes beyond just tropes or settings or character dynamics and they just like HP. They like Hogwarts, they like Harry and his classmates and teachers, they like to read about the creatures in the specific way they exist in the Hp universe, they like to read about Quidditch, they like things and characters that are only a thing within the Wizarding World and the "read another book" thing just doesn't work. (The "read another book" MEME though, however, can be pretty funny depending on the context though, ngl.)

Anyway, like, I get it, I really do, I have a lot of sympathy for those who want to separate themselves from HP forever. I don't think they're all virtue signallers/performative activists/whatever else you might say. it's one thing to call HP irreedemable media and how you should DNI if you still like it, it's completely different to be like, "hey here's another magick school story that might fill the void for those who genuinely want to cut all JKR out due to their own comfort"!

But regardless of you twist it, there will always be people who just...still enjoy HP. And I'll admit I do sideeye those who *knowingly, being aware of her politics* monetarily support her who wrote the books, but I don't think that having your House in your bio, or writing/reading fanfiction, or buying unofficial merch, or using the HP things you've already bought...I don't think any of that is bad by default. It's wild to me that some people think that those are all inherently red flags. And for some people, letting go of a franchise entirely is really hard, especially for most of the demographic of the HP fandom that I know, those who grew up with it as a part of their childhood and as SUCH an iconic pop culture thing. I'm not gonna read some new up and coming series if you just market it to me as "best friends at a wizarding school, but with more diversity than HP!" You know where else I can find that? HP fanfiction.

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meiusoo-twistedtwst · 23 days ago

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Yuu Slays the Jabberwocky (Grim)

I’ve always believed in the Grim is the Jabberwocky theory. Maybe I’m crazy, but I do spot the similarities between Grim, art depicting the Jabberwocky, and the Chimera beast fought at the beginning of the game (although it does contain parts resembling the overblotters more):

To elaborate, the Jabberwock is a fictional beast written by Lewis G. Carrol. It had first originated in a poem of the same name, and later also apart of Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland film adaptation.

Poem Found Here!

I also find it kinda funny that Ace and Deuce are marketed?/described as being Yuu’s bestest friends. Out of the entire main cast, out of all seven dorms—two idiotic, chaotic card soldiers are the main character’s best friends in the entirety of Twisted Wonderland. The fact that they are from Heartslabyul too, the dorm based on the origin of the Jabberwocky and home of the very concept of a Wonderland (+Twisted Wonderland)

Now, Riddle’s horse is named Vorpal, as shared in his ceremonial robes vignette. Vorpal is the only horse whose name is revealed (at least until Silver and Sebek get their equestrian club wear cards, I’m assuming)! Vorpal is a made-up word coined by Carrol; meaning sharp and deadly. This could be used to describe Riddle’s sharp personality and strong magical abilities, and also Vorpal’s deemed athletic strength as a horse.

But the word “vorpal” stems from the Vorpal Blade, which slays the Jabberwocky in the original poem, which is later visually depicted in Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland movie. Yknow, speaking of Tim Burton….

Remember our gentleman Skully? King of Halloween? Skully is based on Jack Skellington, an original Tim Burton character. And if you’ve seen all those theories that Skully might have actually been an old Ramshackle dorm member when it was still a proper dorm, then his ties to Yuu only supports my theory that Yuu would have to “slay” the Jabberwocky in Chapter 8, as both Skully and the Jabberwocky have some relation with Tim Burton and the Ramshackle dorm duo.

Speaking of Skully, can we assume that he attended NRC around the 1900s? If my math makes sense, then he wouldn’t be older than Malleus, that fae prince just grew up too slowly. The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland was published in real life in 1865, following the Jabberwocky poem published ten years earlier in 1855.

If the literal TWST game first came out back in 2020, and we assume the events that happen in-game take place in the TWST equivalent of the same year, then would it be reasonable to assume Malleus was born in 1842?

2020-178 (his age on his fandom wiki bio) = 1842

So, that would mean Malleus is so ancient, he was born before Carol’s works were even published in real life, and before Skully attended NRC (or even was born since he’s a human and Malleus ages much more slowly as a fae). In this case, I assume Skully attended NRC during the 1920s as his fandom wiki bio says he attended a 100 years ago.

2020-100 = 1920

In real life, Halloween becomes much more widespread internationally around the late 20th century due to American marketing (but in the TWST universe, it’s all thanks to Skully’s hard work!) By this time, I guess Malleus would be in his elementary to adolescent years by now? And Silver may still be a baby being raised by Lilia?

I wanted to tie Skully into this considering he’s probably the closest counterpart to Yuu personality-wise compared to other event-only characters, like Rollo or Fellow Honest and Gidel. Skully is likely Yuu’s most similar shadow— both are polite and helpful (not too cold and serious, nor too overly friendly and showy). Both have some sort of figure to look up to or respect (Jack Skelington and Crowley or even Crewel as he’s actually Yuu’s homeroom teacher). He also doesn’t harbor some deep-seated hatred for Malleus (*cough cough Rollo cough*) or bitterness towards magic in general (Fellow and Rollo both).

Slaying the Jabberwocky (Grim), is Yuu’s big hero/protagonist task/role because in all the other overblot battles, they never actually got the final blow or was the one to directly defeat the overbloter in both Malleus’s dream scapes, and in the game’s real life.

-Deuce beat Vil (if I remember correctly)

-Idia beat Malleus

-Ace beat Riddle? in the dreams

Also, the vorpal sword itself in Tim Burton’s movie is shown as gold with a green crystal handle. NRC’s main ascent color or whatever is gold, and Crowley adorns gold accessories himself. The green handle represents Diasomnia’s dorm color, which also ties in those theories that Crowley is Raverne, plus it also resembles Lilia’s old Magearm that he used during the war.

Silver also believes Yuu has an affinity with swords for some reason. It’s been mentioned years ago at the start of the game, but I dunno when and what exactly made him believe in it. But eitherway, it could have been slight foreshadow all along. Yuu will pick up that upgraded sword Idia gave to Silver to cut off Malleus’s horn in Chapter 7.

All in all, I theorize that Yuu will be the one to “slay” overblot Grim, who is really inspired by the Jabberwocky beast. They’ll come suddenly dashing into the mirror hall, riding upon Vorpal— Riddle’s esteemed horse— while brandishing the sword provided by Silver. This makes for the boy who uses the vorpal blade to kill the Jabberwock in the original poem. My only concern is if Yuu could even wield the Aletheia Blade considering Idia’s amazing mom said it requires huge amounts of magical consumption to use (but that may only be for the magical part of it, and not the literal sharp sword part that slices and dices).

But the question is, what exactly would make Grim overblot in the first place…?

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shellstormborn · 1 month ago

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As I have been reading my way through the Fantasy genre, I have found my thoughts constantly returning to Daenerys, and how she fulfils the Chosen One Trope in ASOIAF, and how that compares to the Chosen One Trope in other fantasy books. The one I compare it to the most in my mind is Wheel of Time. Worth noting that the first few WoT books were released before AGOT. When I was reading WoT, and the Farseer Trilogy, I thought about how similar Jon Snow was to both Rand and Fitz. It could be seen as plagiarism im sure by many people. And it would be… if he was the chosen one. But that’s where George sets himself apart. Because Jon Snow isn’t the Chosen one, he is a red herring due to his similarities to these other characters (not knowing his true parentage being the big one). He seems to be set up to play that role in the story… then doesn’t.

I think George makes Danys fulfilment of the prophecy as clear as Rands fulfilment of the prophecy. She awakens the dragons from stone; beneath a bleeding star; amidst salt and smoke. She has her figurative rebirth. The fact this is so hotly debated in the ASOIAF fandom, whereas Rand being the Chosen One of his world, which I imagine isn’t a hot debate, is further evidence that any debate surrounding Dany=AA is mostly due to misogyny. This is something a lot of people in the fandom refuse to acknowledge. They can’t fathom that a girl who doesn’t wield a sword can be the hero of the story.

People state Dany = AA is “too obvious” (whilst simultaneously using that argument to state it isn’t her), that she isn’t a subversive enough choice. She IS the subversion. The Dragons are the subversion. It is not a secret, it is not a plot twist. When has the Chosen One prophecy ever been a secret throughout the majority of the series? How would that work? How could the author accomplish anything if it’s a mystery for the most part? Chosen One Tropes aren’t mysterious. It defeats the purpose of the trope. They are known. And frankly, Dany isn’t even recognised in the world in a widespread fashion as the chosen one. It’s the audience and a few characters that know.

With WoT, the mystery in relation to the Chosen One, is if he’ll succumb to the madness; stay with the Light or go to the dark, that was Jordan’s choice of subversion, in ASOIAF, George chooses to subvert with gender and no literal sword at play (however we do see a play on Exacalibur- pulling dragons from stone). The mystery is how in the FUCK do we get our Hero to Westeros whilst she is hellbent on ending an oppressive regime and having a hard time ending it. THAT is the struggle. That is the mystery.

I also do not believe that Jon is part of the AA/TPTWP prophecy, because if the subversion is that our hero is a little girl, then including him is a cop out and undoes that.

#daenerys targaryen #a song of ice and fire #game of thrones daenerys #queen daenerys #daenerys stormborn #azor ahai

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moeitsu · 10 months ago

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Logan Howlett (Wolverine) Lore part 2 :)

Wow! You guys really appreciated my first post about Logan's backstory/lore and I'm grateful for all of your feedback!! Here's the link to part 1 if you're interested :)

I'm so happy to see all the love he's getting, its actually surreal to be a part of this fandom again and seeing all the new Wolverine content! The fanart and fanfics are literally my life-source rn. You don't even wanna know what my tiktok saved folder looks like....

You guys asked for more so here is part 2! It's not as organized as the first part, apologies. I'm using both the movies and comics here. Some stuff isn't confirmed but generally accepted in the mcu.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Wolverine first appeared in The Incredible Hulk #180. He was supposed to be a mutated human/animal but the idea was later scrapped.

He was approx. 197 years old when he died in the movie 'Logan'

There's multiple different deaths in the comics but I wont get into that.

Logan is 5'3"- 5'5" (short king)

He has black hair and blue eyes

Before the adamantium, he weighed 196lbs (88kg). After the binding he was 300lbs (136kg)

His body is poisoned by the adamantium metal as it breaks down over time. Requiring him to be in a constant state of regeneration, which begins to slow down as he ages.

Without the metal he probably could have lived a lot longer.

Logan has a fear of water, or rather, drowning. It’s one of the only times can’t regenerate. It would cause his death.

The Weapon X program is also responsible for this fear since he was submerged under water for a long period of time for the binding.

The metal in his body also makes him so heavy it would be very difficult for him to swim.

In the comics Logan temporarily loses his healing factor due to a virus created by Dr. Abraham Cornelius. (Weapon X scientist) This event leaves him vulnerable for the first time in his life, forcing him to confront the reality of his mortality.

His healing ability greatly affects his mental state. Logan can quickly recover from physical damage, but he still feels all the pain. His ability to cope and endure despite the overwhelming suffering is central to his character.

Logan has an acute sense of smell. He can track people and objects across a great distance. It’s so precise that he can identify people’s emotional states such as fear or anger. Even when someone is lying.

Logan was sensitive, shy, and timid as a child.

The first person he ever killed was his biological father.

After killing his father he ran away from home with his friend Rose. (a hired companion to help care for him when he was young). Unfortunately, Logan accidently killed her during a fight.

Logan speaks several languages, due to his extensive life and travels. He speaks English, Japanese, Russian, Spanish, Chinese, Cheyenne and Lakota.

He’s actually an incredibly smart guy, don’t let him fool you.

Despite his love for alcohol, Logan’s healing factor makes it nearly impossible for him to get drunk.

Logan brews his own beer in the Origins comics. (we love a domestic husband)

On Logan’s birthday every year, Sabretooth seeks him out just to beat him up as a twisted "gift." Sabretooth calls this tradition "birthday beatings."

Spider-Man and Wolverine have teamed up a few times in the comics and they are a hilarious pair.

Logan's "berserker rage" is not just a result of his animalistic mutant powers. But stems from his deep psychological trauma. This side of him only emerges when he is pushed into extreme emotional or physical stress.

At one point before he escaped the Weapon X experiment, he was hired to kill Charles Xavier.

Logan's wife Itsu and son Daken were allegedly killed by the Winter Soldier, however it was later revealed that his son actually lived and had been consumed by hatred for his father. Logan was forced to kill his own son before he could cause more harm.

This act is one of, if not the most painful moment in Logan’s life, as it represents his ultimate failure as a father.

Logan blames himself for Jean Grey’s death.

He lived a majority of his life without his memories. Having no idea who he actually is.

Despite his involvement with the X-Men and his many close relationships he often feels like an outsider. Like he doesn’t belong anywhere. He isolates himself because loneliness is a familiar feeling.

Logan prefers the solitude and sanctity of nature. He loves the outdoors and has a lot of respect for the natural world. Often retreating into the wild for his own peace.

In one comic he baby sits Luke Cage and Jessica Jones daughter. Danielle Cage.

He can be quite playful at times with the younger mutants. For example, building a snowman with Jubilee.

Logan dreams of a normal life. He dreams of having a family with a wife and children and leaving the violence behind.

#wolverine #hugh jackman #Logan howlett #james logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #deadpool and wolverine #logan howlett x you #x men comics

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snailsgoingdowntown · 4 months ago

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Help, I Reincarnated as the Female Lead’s Sister-in-Law!

Story Masterlist

Chapter 14

‘Slight’ Yandere! Dion Agriche x Fem! Reader

Arranged marriage AU

Interact with this post to be on the tag list. Read DNI/BYF first.

NOTE: I think we can all agree that Dion deserves to suffer at least a bit <3 (Just a bit <3)

WARNINGS: toxic marriage/relationship, implied toxic family dynamics (both the Agriches and the Reader’s family in her past life), general yandere themes, obsessive and possessive themes/behavior, jealousy, anxiety, implied/mentioned past child abuse/neglect, mention of murder, implied murder, slight blood, mention of drugs (sleeping pills), mention of past alcohol consumption, mention of alcohol poisoning, implied/mentioned past torture, implied depression (your past life) Please tell me if I missed any.

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT CONDONE ANY OF THE HARMFUL AND/OR DANGEROUS ACTIONS AND/OR BEHAVIORS THAT MAY TAKE PLACE IN THIS PIECE OF FICTION. THESE ACTIONS/BEHAVIORS SHOULD NOT BE NORMALIZED NOR ROMANIZED AS THEY ARE BOTH EXTREMELY TOXIC AND DANGEROUS.

MINORS/BLANK BLOGS/BLOGS THAT DO NOT INTERACT WITH OR REBLOG FANDOM RELATED THINGS (FICS, ART, ECT.) DNI.

= = =

It’s been two days since Dion Agriche indirectly told you that you’re his and that nothing will ever change that fact. His behavior towards you has also changed - softer, more yearning-like and it does little to ease your worries. If anything, it makes your skin crawl as you question why he’s doing this, why he has changed.

Your anxiety only skyrockets around the red-eyed noble as his presence fills you with abhorrence.

His proclamations only serve to make you feel like a possession. A pretty little songbird locked in a gilded cage, her ‘Master’ unwilling to set her free. And the reason? To hear her sing until her last breath, voice hoarse and throat bleeding.

His need for… this still doesn’t make sense, deep in the corners of his twisted mind that you’re unable to unravel. However, you’re still sure that, at least part of it is his need to watch your sanity dwindle for his own entertainment and curiosity.

You grit your teeth before relaxing your jaw. It doesn’t matter if you like him or not - he was still your husband. He still took your virginity, made the marriage official - it would be difficult, no, impossible to get a peaceful divorce due to that alongside the fact he was an Agriche…

No. It would be impossible because it’s Dion Agriche.

… Roxana… would she… consider, at least…?

Sighing, you lean against the terrace railing, the light breeze flowing through your hair. The soft glow of the moonlight casts over the area, dark blue sky filled with twinkling stars that resemble sparkling jewels. Your eyes flutter close as you recall the view back at your parent’s estate.

The crickets chirp and the monster hutches are quiet.

It’s peaceful.

Until the heavy smell of outside and iron fills your senses, a quick frown tugging at your lips before forcing it away. A headache forms.

“You’re still awake.”

Well, it was peaceful until a certain sadistic and vile man draped a coat over your shoulders. You didn’t even hear the doors open, too lost in thought. Dion towers over you easily, and his presence is a nuisance. Unwanted.

He left for a mission earlier today yet he’s already back…

The warmth from the coat only makes you shiver, the blasted thing a ‘gift’ given to you by Maria on your wedding day. You frown when the man gathers your hair and brings it out from under the coat's collar, letting it float down over the material. You flinch from disgust, fear still deep in your chest and mind.

You grit your teeth - fear? Hatred? Resentment? You don’t know. However, you’re sure of one thing;

His gentleness makes you sick.

“And you’re back,” you complain rather than state in a trembling whisper. You’ll never get used to this, to him. His gaze burns, and you’re unable to turn around to properly greet him. Not that you want to - everything about the man was repulsive - his face, his voice, his height, his name, even the color of his hair and eyes.

He makes you sick.

Another soft breeze as crickets chirp into the night. Your gaze travels to the ground - below you, two guards walk while on patrol, their hideous uniforms proudly worn. They look young - most likely in their early to mid twenties. One with dark brown hair and the other dark grey-ish.

Your husband’s stare burns harsher the longer you look at the two young men. Even so, you don’t look away, even when he moves to stand to your right side, gloved fingers brushing against yours. Like a puppy asking for attention. Despite horror filling your entire being, you don’t tear your gaze away from the two men below you, nor do you stop yourself from moving your hand away from him.

Maybe it was a small act of defiance - aka, showing Dion that you would rather look at any man that wasn’t him. Of course, you’ll come to regret this in the morning, but right now, you crave to interrupt his peace as he had done to yours. Even as your legs begin to buck under your weight.

Ignoring the pressure building in your temples and silencing your gulps, you hope that Dion doesn’t see through you immediately. Annoyance and fear are on the same coin - it’s always flipping, always forced to land on something that breaks you down more and more.

Your mother would have a heart attack had she been here, witnessing her married daughter give more attention to nameless men and not her arranged husband.

Perhaps feeling eyes on them, both men look up, surprised to see you smile oh so sweetly at them and wave. Ignoring the rapidly forming panic pulling at your heart strings, you watch as they blink before bowing, flustered as light pink spreads across the apples of their cheeks.

Just two normal men.

“Good evening, my lady!” They shout in unison. However, when they raise their heads, their cheeks go from pink to pale as their expressions twist into ones of pure terror. The reason is obvious, your husband wrapping an unwanted arm around your shoulders, gloved hand gripping the left one tighter than necessary. You can only imagine the look he’s giving them.

They scamper off immediately, knowing better than to stay longer than necessary, knowing that greeting the Young Master would only aggravate him more, as the guards would get to look at you, his pretty wife, his possession, for longer.

Quietly, you wonder if he ever debated showcasing his… affection for you in front of others, considering his reputation around the manor. How ruthless he is said to be, detached and nothing more than a sadistic void - one that everyone avoids, a war machine that has no weakness. And yet, here he is - ‘fawning’ over a woman in broad daylight.

Does he not realize his behavior would make him stick out like a sore thumb? Your thoughts are shooed away when his fingers dig into your shoulder before relaxing. It’s a reminder.

You feel bad now, forgetting for a moment that your husband is possessive.

The incident from yesterday only proved that fact further - your husband had threatened to gouge out the eyes of an unlucky new hire who mistook you for one of Lant’s children. Flowers that were immediately burned, the ‘incident’ was cleaned up quietly and behind the scenes. Without Lant’s knowledge, no less.

Dion brings you back to reality once more as he questions you.

“I’m right here yet you’d rather look at them?” His voice does a complete 180 - voice once calm now filled with jealousy you can’t begin nor want to comprehend. You don’t respond. You look ahead of you, scared shitless once the reality of what you just had done hits you in full.

Am I trying to kill myself!?

The air feels colder, goosebumps forming on your skin. Despite the coat, you shiver. And while his stare burns hot, your blood runs cold. So close to curling into yourself, you blame the breeze for your trembling body.

It seems that cold sweats are a permanent thing for you now, biting the inside of your cheek as you break out into one. One hand gripping the coat’s labels to hold it tighter against you, your fingers twitch as his gloved hand moves from your shoulder to the nape of your neck, and then up to the base of your head, fingers tangling themselves in your tresses.

Soft and gentle, it reminds you of the scene where he asked Roxana the location of Cassis’ hiding place.

The memory quickly fades into the background as Dion leans down just enough to whisper in your ear. He’s very fond of doing so, apparently. It’s starting to become a disturbing habit of his.

Your body is becoming accustomed to his hot breath, lying to itself, saying it feels good just so you won’t break out into another panic attack. However, you can start to hear the blood rush in your ears, a small built up tear catching in your lashes. Is this all you’re capable of doing? Crying?

“You never look or smile at me so sweetly.”

There is some resentment in his voice, but his tone doesn’t drip with it. “But you smiled at two random men who aren’t your husband?” His next sentence almost sounds betrayed, and it’s funny seeing as how your husband had never done a thing to earn your sweetness.

You can’t find your voice.

You can’t force yourself to please him, either.

Nor can you turn away and walk into the room, throwing the coat to the floor.

The only thing you can do is endure.

And even then, you’re barely holding up.

“Even now you’re trying your best to ignore me.” He sounds tired - he should go to sleep. Go to sleep and leave you alone, like he should, but two days ago he imprinted himself fully onto you. In the most horribly way possible, nightmares slowly become reality as he refuses to set his eyes on another.

“I never imagined that my wife could be so cruel,” he teases, lips grazing your ear. You fail to suppress the shudder from the physical pleasure it brought. You feel disgusting.

You blink once, twice, before leaning your head away, unable to stand his body heat for much longer. Unable to endure his ‘affection’ for a second longer, shrugging off his arm and the tall man lets you go. Not without an emotion you wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint as it flashes in his eyes before he blinks it away had you seen it.

Your mouth runs before thoughts could form.

“I never imagined that my husband would be so horrible,” you blurt out, wincing once your own words register in your brain after it’s too late. Your heart speeds up. Right hand forming a shaking fist, your nails break skin, the action not enough to distract you.

Not even when the sore flesh wound threatens to open from beneath the bandages, red soaking through the white.

You made a horrible and dangerous mistake. But it’s too late to take it back, sweat running down your temples.

There’s a sting in your thumb and a crave for flesh in your mouth. Your toes curl in your soft slippers. The seconds feel like hours, waiting for his response, be it physical or verbal.

“You’re right - not that it changes anything.” He doesn’t waste a breath in agreeing with you.

Without another word, your husband guides you back into the room. He’s behind you, and curiosity has always killed the cat, which is why despite your fear, your shivering figure, you look over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of Dion Agriche.

His scarlet eyes glow, the dark circles under them worse than they were two days ago, windblown inky black hair that small clunks of dirt cling to, and smeared crimson blood across his face. When your gaze travels down, there’s also dirt and small specks of blood on his cloak, the article of clothing wrinkled. His sword is still at his hip, sheathed and forgotten.

He didn’t even bother to wash up.

Like the first thing he wanted to do - no need to do was see you.

The sentiment is lost and ignored as you turn back around. Husband or not, you refuse to see Dion Agriche as anything else but a threat. That’s the only thing you know him as.

Had you looked back, you would have noticed Dion reaching into his pocket only to pull it back out after a thought. He watches as you remove the coat from your shoulders and hang it back up in the closet - out of sight, out of mind.

He hums.

Pointer finger tapping against his pocket, he mulls over whether to give you the small jewelry piece in a little blue box he brought back, knowing it would look pretty on you, bringing out the color of your eyes. He decides not to in the end, knowing you wouldn’t accept it.

That’s usually how it starts.

- - -

“- it’s fine, really. No, no, it’s okay. I don’t mind looking after her for a few more days… Hm? Of course she behaves - (Name) is always a good girl.”

Your grandmother’s sickly sweet voice travels from the living room into the kitchen where you’re doing your homework. Pencil in hand, you keep rereading the question, only to repeat the process as the printed words look blurred and jumbled together. The grandfather clock goes off, signaling that it’s midnight.

You pay no mind to it - your grandmother doesn’t concern herself with your sleep schedule. After all, you’re fifthteen; you’re old enough to make your own decisions, to regret your mistakes. It never occurred to her that maybe you regret walking through her doors.

Your grandmother ends the call without asking if you wanted to speak to your dad.

Not that it matters - he always texts you a ‘good morning,’ at seven-am on the dot. Never failing to do it once, it always brings a smile to your face.

As it should.

Smiling has gotten harder as of late, however.

Your grandmother doesn’t say anything as she heads up the stairs, leaving you to your own devices. And you do the same. A mutual agreement between grandmother and granddaughter. Love and affection were a curious and complicated subject. Even between mother and son.

Regardless, you stay in the kitchen, hearing dogs bark outside and beer bottles thrown to the ground, on an average ‘Saturday night’. You scribble something on the paper before erasing it only to repeat it again and again. It’s words you’ll never be able to say, words that you’ll forget once your eyes flutter close once the questions are finally answered.

Your ears perk up at the sound of your grandmother’s T.V turning on, the static disappearing after several seconds. The click of her remote is louder than words of affirmation.

By the time you solve the third question out of ten, the sun has come up, Sunday morning greeting you.

- - -

“Thank you for inviting me, mother-in-law.”

Maria had invited you for tea in her room, far from any prying eyes. Hana is right at your side, ready to receive any orders that either you or your mother-in-law may give her. Her expression is stern, not an ounce of emotion in those eyes of hers.

So unlike the Hana that helped you get ready for the dinner with Dion and Lant three days ago. The Hana who showed some level of concern for you, who scolded two other maids while keeping her head leveled and not punishing them, assuming she had the power to do so.

“Oh, it’s no problem - as in-laws, we should bond and spend time together.” Her smile is far too bright and sweet for that… eccentric personality of hers. She continues, “besides, I heard that you were sick after the dinner with Dion and his father. Was it food poisoning?”

She genuinely looks concerned as she questions you, but it’s Maria; a snake that coils itself around its prey once the opportunity arises. And you’re already on that list, right behind Sierra in terms of ‘affection’ which your mother-in-law confuses for ‘mental torture.’

How aware the brunette is of this, you’re not sure.

“O-oh… I just drank a little too much…,” your chuckle is awkward, eyes landing on your tea cup. Your smile feels strained.

She startles you with a sharp gasp. Her chair scrapes against the floor as she jumps up from her seat.

“So it was alcohol poisoning? (Name), dear, are you alright?” She hurries to your side like a loving mother, her gloved hands grabbing your shoulders. She doesn’t squeeze them, unlike her son. She doesn’t look at you with a need to own your entire being, either.

“O-oh, I’m fine now, I promise, mother-in-law.” Despite your practiced smile, her uneasy expression doesn’t leave her pretty and soft facial features. Her reaction reminds you of your mother’s the one time you accidentally ate a poisonous plant… wait, no, her reaction was much worse than this.

She didn’t leave your side for months.

“That Lant-!” You’re caught off guard when she curses her own husband, leaving her ‘unlovable’ son out of it. Like that dreadful sociopath wasn’t there at the scene of the crime.

You blink, unable to form words, watching as her expression morphe into one of frustration only to soften almost immediately when she locks eyes with you. Sweetly smiling at you, she threads her fingers through your hair.

It feels like she’s trying to replace your mother.

Your stomach twists into a knot, feeling sick. Something akin to disgust settles in your chest.

It is baffling, how she would rather act like a mother towards you, a stranger, rather than her own son. A sour taste forms in your mouth.

“I’m sorry for acting out like that. Lant is usually careful with handing out alcohol - and while Dion can be…careless, he’s not used to drinking with others.” Pigs are flying in your old world, they have to be, because how and why is Maria standing up for the son she never wanted?

“It’s - it’s fine… it’s my fault for going past my limit.” You’re not lying, you really were careless about your intake of the bitter wine. You learned your lesson - you want to avoid waking up with a hangover again…

You want to avoid Dion ‘comforting’ and touching you.

“Still, he should have seen the tell-tell signs,” she sighs before turning to Hana. “What was your name again?” She questions your aide. Your heart drops.

Wait, didn’t she ask that same question to a maid she killed right after…?

“It’s Hana, my Lady.” She bows without a single change in her expression. No twitch of the eyebrow or lips. Completely stoic.

“Hana. What a pretty name. Now tell me, where were you when your Master got drunk?” Her voice is sweet but the question is threatening. Like the weakling you are, all you do is sit, hopelessly praying that Maria won’t lay a hand or harm Hana in any way or form.

“I was tidying up their room on Young Master’s Dion’s orders.” Her answer is direct, not once breaking eye contact with your extremely dangerous mother-in-law.

So engrossed in their conversation, fear and worry eating you alive, you missed the very important word; 'their.’

“I see. Is Dion your Master?”

“No, my Lady. I was put under Lady (Name) a bit after she arrived here.”

The interrogation goes on, and every second feels like an hour. The room must be hot since you’re almost drowning in sweat. You gulp as Maria continues.

“By who?”

“Young master Dion, my Lady.”

While her answer should confirm some things, you’re too focused on her safety to soak in the information. Too worried that her head will roll right off her shoulders.

“Dion? I see. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that he carelessly gave my precious daughter-in-law such an incompetent maid.”

SCREECHED!

“Mother-in-law, believe it or not, but Hana has been very helpful. It’s because of her that I’m adapting so well so quickly. You help too, of course.”

You don’t remember getting up. You don’t remember gently grabbing Maria’s shoulders like a daughter showing affection to her mother. You don’t remember smiling so brightly that it looks genuine, enough so that your personal maid looks surprised, already knowing how much you loathe being here.

“She’s always at my beck and call - ready to serve me in the dead of the night, regardless if I dismissed her for the day. While one could say she would go against my orders in that scenario , personally, I see it as an act of loyalty.” Your words flow out smoothly, like you weren’t on the verge of breaking down sobbing.

You don’t know why you’re standing up for a maid who’s possibly spying on you for either Dion or Lant. A maid you barely know, much less considered as a ‘friend.’ A maid you have only known for a few weeks.

Most likely it’s because you don’t want to be introduced to a new one - it would be a waste of time, really. Hana already knows your habits with her keen eyes and senses. She knows what clothes and hairstyles look best on you. Her tea is delicious. Her excuses worked in your favor.

It would be a waste to replace her with a maid who might not even know what to do.

That’s all it is.

“So please, don’t blame her - she thought she was doing the best for me, her Master.”

You don’t let go of her shoulders even when you’re scared shitless, worried you crossed a boundary even though she always crosses yours. You wait with baited breath for her response, hoping you didn’t fuck up big time.

“Well,” Maria turns around to face you, removing your hands from her person to hold them instead. “I suppose I can give her another chance. I only want the best for you.”

After hearing her words, you can only think of and pity your husband. She cares more for a stranger than her own flesh and blood - a child she neglected and left in the hands of a monster who would mold him into a near perfect copy of himself.

Pushing the thought away, your body relaxes a bit. “Thank you. I’m really grateful for you, mother-in-law.” It’s a lie but as she strokes your hair with tenderness you weren’t aware she could show to anyone aside from Sierra, you almost forget how crazy and brutal she is.

You almost forgot that this woman did not tend to her growing, lonely son as she should have.

“Anytime, (Name), anytime.”

Your gut tells you that you only entangled yourself with this crazed woman more.

- - -

“Hana, can you fetch me some sleeping pills? I think I’ll need them…”

“Yes, my lady. I’ll be back in a moment.” The events that transpired an hour ago aren’t mentioned, both parties silently and mutually deciding that it wasn’t worth it. Which is why Hana didn’t question you once you left Maria’s room an hour later, despite her curious gaze.

Honestly, you’re still not sure why or how you did it.

With a sigh you kick off your heels once you reach the bed, head low, finding that lifting it would take too much effort. Last night you had to deal with Dion - today, it was Maria. The worst part was that the day hadn't ended yet, but you know for a fact if you didn’t request sleeping pills now you wouldn’t remember until it’s late at night, already under the covers with your dreadful husband.

Landing on your stomach, your body lightly bounces on the comfortable bed. The scent of bergamot oranges soothes your nerves. Relieved, you nuzzle your head into your pillow, finally having a beautiful peaceful moment all to yourself in this fucking psychward.

The sugary voice of Maria is gone, anxiety about accidentally catching sight of one of her ‘dolls’ is out of mind. Dread that you might run into another one of your in-laws faded away the moment Hana opened the bedroom doors. Also, the fact you didn’t see Lant at all lifts your mood.

Not to mention that your horrible, frightful, perverted, annoying husband was nowhere in sight -

“You seem to be in a good mood.” A boyish voice fills the silence.

…huh…?

Lifting yourself into a sitting position, legs hanging off the bed, you look towards the doors. You think you’re dreaming, for one, this person just waltzed into the room like nothing, clearly sneaking in right after Hana. The other reason is because the boy with leaves and goo in his hair is -

“Jeremy?”

= = =

Tag list: @tiny-mimi @pix-stuff @umi-adxhira @queenofspades403 @darkumbreon92 @manitscold @puggyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

#twtptflob #dion agriche x reader #dion agriche #deon agrece #yandere dion agriche x reader #yandere dion agriche #the way to protect the female lead's older brother #yandere twtptflob #roxana #yandere #male yandere #yandere dion agrece #twtptflob x reader #yandere twtptflob x reader #yandere the way to protect the female leads older brother

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starboyshoyo · 2 years ago

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The Summer After Graduation pt. 2

Pairing: Malleus Draconia, Silver, Sebek Zigvolt x fem!reader (separately)

Fandom: Twisted Wonderland

Genre: fluff, domestic

A/N: @ryker-writes ;) you know. It’s so early and I’m exhausted, so if there’s mistakes I’ll go back and fix them later.

Where does life take you, after you move back to Briar Valley with them?

Part 1 (Kalim, Deuce, Epel, Trey) || Part 2 (HERE)

Malleus Draconia

In Malleus’ eyes, the moment you agreed to be his was the moment you became engaged. A relationship with him starts and stays serious and committed due to the traditions of his species. So naturally, after the two of you graduate from NRC, you move back to Briar Valley with him and his family as his first friend and first love.

There are some difficulties with hostile fae at first. The traditional council would be very against your relationship with him. But according to Briar Valley lore, draconic fae children can only be born from immense love and care between a couple. So even if the royal advisors disagree with the prince’s choice of partner, they couldn’t deny him his happiness if they ever hoped for an heir.

So despite the protests of some narrow-minded fae, Malleus is free to bring you home with him, to live as his partner and lover. Of course, Lilia is In complete support of the two of you, as is Silver. Sebek took some time to come around- he complained a lot about how no one, human or fae, could be worthy of Waka-sama’s affections. But once Lilia pointed out how happy you made Malleus, Sebek quieted down. No one had ever seen the crown prince smile the way he did when you were around.

Moving into the royal palace takes some time to get used to. It’s easy to get lost in the corridors of Castle Draconia. The hallways can also seem gloomy and cold at first, and almost frightening when you walk the stone passageways at night. If you get nervous, Malleus will do his best to be by your side as much as he can, holding your hands and cuddling you at night. If not him, then he’ll send a guard or two to watch over you.

If you want to take part in more diplomatic duties in Briar Valley and insist that you get to know the citizens as their future queen, Malleus will be worried but support you wholeheartedly. You’re considerate, responsible, and kind, three qualities that make for the best ruler. And besides, he doesn’t want you being cooped up inside all day the way he was when he grew up. While the work you’re doing may be dangerous, Malleus trusts you to handle yourself. Just make sure to bring Silver with you along with the rest of your personal guards, just in case. Fae can be unpredictable at times.

When Malleus isn’t busy with his princely duties, he’ll seek you out and whisk you away to a private wing of the castle using magic. The castle is old, and even with hundreds of years of free time, he hasn’t been able to explore every nook and cranny of it. The two of you will roam the hallways, naming the various statues you come across and slow-dancing in empty ballrooms with ancient music echoing from an unknown place within the walls.

“Briar Valley has come alive, my dear. Do you hear that? They are greeting their new ruler. This is all for you.”

At night, nothing makes Malleus happier than returning to his bedchambers to find you cuddled up in the sheets. He’ll slide into bed around you, tail unfurling to curl around your body and hold you close to him. He’ll spread his wings and rest them over your body to protect the two of you while you snuggle through the night.

Malleus might not know much about romance, but he does know when he’s found the one. He’ll have to ask the royal jewelers for a ring soon- infused with magic and inlaid with his love.

Silver

All his life, Silver was trained to become a knight for Malleus. It’s exactly what he did in the years he attended NRC. But what Silver hadn’t realized yet was that it was more of an obligation than his true calling. After meeting you and moving back to the Valley of Thorns, Silver began craving a quieter lifestyle- one where he could enjoy your company without having to be on guard duty 24/7.

It’s Lilia who first notices Silver’s restlessness, and he takes the matter to the young king. The two of them surprise you and Silver with a little graduation present- a cottage deep in the forest. Malleus tells Silver that he’s promoted him from the title of knight to that of a lord- the land that the cottage is built upon is now his to care for and do as he pleases. He’s already had servants move yours and Silver’s things there. Silver was initially worried that he was being fired from his job for falling asleep too much, but with some reassurance from his father, the two of you were on your way.

The cottage is gorgeous, situated in a clearing with a meadow and waterfall. The sun caught the water just right every morning- creating rainbows through the spray that danced in the dawn. It’s the perfect place for you and your boyfriend to live a peaceful, quiet life. The nearby villages are peaceful ones, and don’t mind having two humans living in their vicinity. They occasionally come by to drop off homemade food or ask for Silver’s help, but otherwise it’s just the two of you.

Silver’s animal friends come by daily to help out with the chores, making the workload light. The birds do the laundry for you and hang clothes out to dry, while deer often come by to help weed the garden. Even the squirrels play their part in helping to patch up holes in the walls and roof.

With only light work, your days are spent by Silver’s side, going on horseback rides through the meadow and napping with him in the garden. Finally, you have time to learn all of the things you’ve ever wanted to do. Speaking another language? Reading a book? Learning to sew? You have all the time in the world.

Date nights become a regular occurrence; something that you couldn’t do back at the palace. One of the most memorable dates is a time where Silver covered your eyes and led you to a beautiful meadow on the mountain, overlooking a valley. As you watched, songbirds swooped down carrying a picnic basket and blanket, setting up a romantic little spot for you and Silver to lay together and watch the sun go down. While you were busy watching the stars come out, a gentle smile graced your lover’s features. Yes, the sky was beautiful- but he could never take his eyes off your smiling face.

Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek Zigvolt has always known his dream was to serve Malleus Draconia in any possible way. A love life and career don’t always mix, so he feels grateful that he found you- always so willing to support his dreams. It helps that you and Malleus are on friendly terms as well. Nothing makes Sebek happier than seeing his lover and his Lord get along well.

Life with Sebek in Briar Valley is pretty similar to life at NRC for a while. Besides the fact that you don’t have to attend classes, Sebek still gets up at the crack of dawn every day to do weight training and go on a morning run, to train for the royal guard exam. He’ll ask you to get up with him, but ultimately leaves it up to you. If you have trouble sleeping, he wouldn’t want to tire you out. But for a while, you won’t be getting many lazy mornings with your boyfriend.

While Sebek is gone, his family will keep you company. Sebek’s mother loves to gush about her son’s younger days and show you embarrassing photos, while his father is quite happy to have another human around for once. His brother and sister love teasing him- who knew that grumpy Sebek would end up falling so hard for a human?

It’s a little-known fact that Sebek is actually afraid of horses- he tolerated being in the equestrian club because he needed to know how to ride if he wanted to be a knight for Malleus. Sebek will want to hold your hand before he goes to riding classes in the afternoon, and he’d appreciate it if you’d watch him- he’d feel safer if you did. He’ll do the same for you when you need him to be strong for you as well.

The both of you will be so proud when Sebek finally passes the class, and is certified as a real Briar Valley knight. Lilia assigns Sebek to lead a new, special battalion, one directly under his and Malleus’ command. Sebek will wear his uniform with the crest on it- a peacock with honeysuckle and iris flowers surrounding it, and a tail made of eucalyptus leaves- proudly. He’d probably wear it to sleep if you didn’t remind him to change out of his work clothes.

Sebek is a big deal in Briar Valley, and gone for work trips often. While you do miss his company, it also gives you time to plan surprises for him, such as learning to speak his native language. While Sebek has mostly gotten over his prejudice towards humans, he’s still immensely proud of his culture as a nocturnal fae. If you take the time to learn the language of his heritage from his mother, Sebek will realize that the feelings he holds for you are not between a human and a fae, but one between soulmates.

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 8 months ago

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theorizing

It's still early in the event, but I'm already trying to think about what Hot Topic Issue this year's Halloween event might tackle (assuming it follows the precedent set by GloMasq and Playful Land). Here's the theory I present to you: the conflict will be about escapism and where to draw that divide between fantasy and reality. Why do I think that? Because there are lots of parallels between our shiny new guy on the block, Skully, and us, Twst fans.

Book 7 presents a similar idea when Lilia and Malleus discuss the life cycle of Gao-Gao Drago-kun, how short it is, and how convenient it would be if the virtual pet could live forever in a fantasy world. In the same book, Yuu has finally found a potential route home... meaning an end to their story and their time in their current world. Read another way, it can be said that we, the Twst fans/players, are like Malleus, not wanting anything about our lives in Twisted Wonderland to change. We want to stay here among these characters we have come to love and grow close to, not return to our boring mundane lives in our original worlds... in reality. Likewise, similar points of comparison can be drawn between these themes and Lost in the Book with Nightmare Before Christmas, even as early as part 1.

Now in this allegory, Skully represents us, the average Twst fans. Here's the parallels I noted:

Skully is notably a first year, which matches up with the grade level that Yuu (the player self-insert/POV character) is assigned to

Skully attends a school where his peers don’t understand him or his interests. This mimics the experience of some Twst fans, who may be misunderstood even within the anime fandom. How many times have people joked “Oh, you like the Disney dating sim?”/assumed that Twst is cringe? Can you talk to fans of traditional Disney about Twst? Twst may be somewhat niche in your immediate area. Chances are, you have to retreat to online avenues to find like-minded fans. In this way, Twst fans may feel isolated or not understood.

He does not like to talk about school because he doesn't have many people who understand him, perhaps due to his eccentricities. Again, this may not directly translate to all Twst fans, but rather it can be very relatable to those who lack social connections and seek to fulfill that through fandom or escaping into a fantasy world.

Skully is an otaku for Halloween. And what are we, as Twst fans, if not also otaku?

He looks mysterious but has excitable reactions. The behavior reminds me of someone who can be very sociable online or in special circumstances but might come off completely differently in real life or initially due to how their face looks and how they dress.

The strongest parallel, however, is the fact that he, like Yuu (again, the player self-insert character) ALSO gets isekai'd... into the world of The Nightmare Before Christmas. And what happens in this world that Skully gets isekai'd to? He... 1) meets lots of new people--people that don't know him in the "real" world, so he is free to act however he wants around them, maybe even befriend them, 2) gets to meet his Halloween idol, Jack-sama, 3) gets to be praised by his idol, and 4) (presumably) helps out his idol with putting together this year's Halloween. THESE LINE UP ALMOST EXACTLY WITH WHAT YUU DOES WHEN THEY'RE ISEKAI'D INTO TWISTED WONDERLAND... Yuu, who represents you, THE TWST FAN. You, as a Twst fan, 1) meet and potentially befriend these new characters (and maybe even explicitly made an OC to act however you like in your place as the one meeting these characters), 2) hone in on your favorite(s), 3/4) hyperfixate on the intimate voice lines and the moments you have with your favorite(s). It's total wish fulfillment for both Skully and the average Twst fan. In other words, Skully will get lost in living the fantasy that is literally being transported into the world of his Favorite Thing Ever, just like we, the Twst fans, escape to Twisted Wonderland. In the book/Twst, you can be yourself or whoever you want to be. But what happens when that peace and comfort is about to be taken away? Perhaps that's when Skully will snap 🤔 refusing to return to his old life, where he was awkward and misunderstood... wanting to stay in this endless Halloween night forever and ever. Maybe he even tries to prevent the NRC students from leaving too, since he has now formed a friendship (?) with them? Like, he's trying to keep them trapped in this fantasy of his (very Malleus-core of him, honestly). Then it would be up to us to try and knock some sense into Skully, reminding him that there are things in the "real" world to look forward to as well.

Looking back at previous Halloweens, the conflicts presented usually tie back to something relating to the Disney counterpart's own identities. For example, Frollo (in the stage version) lost his younger brother to sin and pinned the blame on an entire group of people. Rollo lost his younger brother to sin and now seeks to eliminate that sin (magic) from the world. Honest John and Gideon worked for a shady guy and lured away children, even though they themselves were terrified of what would become of those kids. Fellow and Gidel are similarly forced to do this dirty work because they are so impoverished they need the job, even if their boss disrespects them. I think my theory about what Skully's whole conflict will be could work from this angle too. The character he is twisted from, Jack Skellington, is known to be somewhat naive and an idealist. Jack pursues Christmas with all of his undead heart, sure that it will return the "spark" that Halloween has since lost. This could be reflected in Skully, our twisted!Jack, in his desire to pursue Halloween--or, more specifically, this novel world where his passion is reinforced and he has a place in it. He would be naive to the world he snubbed in favor of this new one, deeming this new world superior (like how Jack thought the "new" Christmas would enhance the "old" Halloween).

as3gro8yvq ;ngqemf; KJLBFIsIFSLFS ANYWAY, that's my game theory 🙂 Not sure if it'll actually be this, but figured I'd throw my guess out there since my previous "lmao Skully will kidnap Crowley" crack theory ended up being shot down...

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asukiess · 8 months ago

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I get so incredibly emotional about fanfiction. many a time have I wept about the passage of time—dear 2018 fic that had the authors note etchings that you were in grad school: I hope writing this made midterms more bearable, or at least that one night. thank you for writing my favorite character or ship, it’s comforting to know that I have a friend across time that had the same rot, the same afflictions, the same ideas when experiencing this media.

dear fanfiction from my adolescence, that made me realize I still had worth outside of conventional creative writing classes. that I was still a writer, even in the dark, even alone. thank you for influencing me in so many ways unbeknownst to you.

I get emotional about the “missing” parts in an unfinished series—what was in your head, ao3 user? your dreams and hopes and ideas? Or, what about chapter ten, which has triple the amount of comments due to your plot twist. what was that like in the timeline of your life? or, what was it like when you happened to only get one comment on chapter 1?

the rarepair authors that I’ll never connect with because they moved on: thank you for still leaving it up.

it’s just. cosmic to me to open these fics from 2,5,10 years ago and see where the author was at, to see where fandom was at, to see anything at all so human!!

I can comment, I can kudos and bookmark, but there’s no obligation for them to write back. I’m just thinking about the passage of time and the idea that we can connect in so many ways!

#ao3 #Asukies ramble #I cried about the concept of fic like not too long ago AAAAAA #it’s like seeing an artifact to me. ugh

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vandme12 · 4 months ago

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SPREAD HIS ROT - Ronin x G.N Reader

This is my first one-shot for Killer Chat! I'm so excited to finally take part in the event hosted on the official Discord server. I can't wait to share to write more for this awesome fandom!

PROMPT : SPREAD THE ROT

TRIGGER WARNING : Graphic Violence, Gore, Murder, Obsession, Manipulation, Death, Dark Themes

CHARACTER USED : Ronin from Killer Chat!

You are a journalist. A "Criminal Journalist." That's what they call you. You have to photograph every crime scene, chase every siren, dig your nails into every open wound of the city. And you hate it.

It's not the blood that really gets to you. It isn't the bodies, the way they slump against pavement like so many discarded mannequins. It's not even the smell—the acrid mix of gasoline, iron, and whatever someone had for dinner before he was reduced to a chalk outline. No. What you dislike is the paycheck. Because the paycheck is always inadequate.

$35 a shot. $50 if there's a face, a really good face—one that makes the morning readers spit out their coffee. If you catch the moment of grief, the mother screaming, the tears cutting through streetlight shadows, you might get $75. Big money. If it's a cop, even better. A dead officer brings in at least $100.

But rent is due in two days, and your pockets are filled with nothing but lint and cigarette butts. So you’re out here again, wedged between alleyways and car wrecks, chasing something worth it. Because it’s never enough.

Tonight's scene is run-of-the-mill. Liquor store, busted register, a guy with more holes in him than a bad alibi. You take the shots-angle the camera, let the lens tell the story. You could do this in your sleep. You have done this in your sleep.

The cops barely acknowledge you anymore. One of them, a rookie, side-eyes you with disgust. You ignore it. You don't care.

At least, that's what you tell yourself.

Because truth is, you do care. Not about him. Not about them. Not even about the dead guy cooling on the linoleum like a forgotten steak. What you care about is the fact that this? This isn't enough.

There was a time when it was. When sneaking under crime scene tape gave you a rush, when a good shot meant something. But now? Now it's just scraps. And you're tired of scraps.

You want more.

More than the measly checks. More than the dead-end calls from the editor. More than the half-hearted bylines that no one reads.

You want a story. A real one. A big one.

The kind that would make your name stick in people's throats like a hard pill. The kind that would make the networks pay attention. The kind that would make the money pour in.

So you begin to watch. Really watch. Not just the crime scenes, but before and after. Who shows up first? Who leaves last? Who lingers too long? Who pretends not to care? You learn the rhythms of the city's violence. You start predicting it.

It was getting late at night when you came across the scene. A body, twisted in ways that only seasoned detectives can cringe upon. The kind of thing which you would only have heard from the darkest corners of the internet but never thought to see middle suburban streets, thick with the stench of decay, the crimson rivers trailing out from beneath the body like a gruesome map marking the end of a life.

But it wasn’t just the blood or the brokenness of the body that grabbed your attention. It was the artistry.

The killer didn’t just murder this man—they played with him. The victim was arranged like a grotesque puppet, limbs contorted in unnatural positions, eyes wide and glassy, staring into the abyss of whatever hell the Butcher had dragged him from. Whoever had done this didn’t care about the man’s life. No, they cared about the display—the theatrics of death. You could see it in the way the body was laid out like a performer on a stage.

You stood there, looking at it, your breathing steady, heart detached. You were a member of this world, after all—an observer, an architect of stories. This was not meant to touch the horror in which others would splinter. It was just for what it is: an opportunity. An image.

Pulling your camera from your bag, you took the shot. Your hands had moved with a precision, the lens snapping the exact right angle, the perfect composition. The angle of the body, the pools of blood, the quiet devastation of a life snuffed out. And then, once you had it—that shot—you made the call.

The police were on their way, but you were already deep in the game. You'd sold your soul to this grind long ago, and when opportunity knocked, you answered.

It didn't take long for the scene to make headlines. It was gruesome, shocking, a real masterpiece of death. The caption screamed across every paper, every screen:

"Yet Another Killing from the Butcher: 600th Victim"

You felt that familiar rush, the adrenaline of knowing you'd made it. This wasn't just another shot for a local rag. This was the kind of image that would get you noticed. You hadn't just captured death; you've captured the moment. And it worked. The media ate it up.

But what happened next was even more unexpected.

A week later, your phone rang. It was a blocked number. The kind of call you usually ignored. But for some reason, you picked up.

"Is this the photographer from the Butcher's 600th kill?" The voice was low, professional.

"Yes," you answered, keeping your tone neutral, businesslike. It was all just another part of the game.

"We need someone to help us with the investigation," the voice continued, "and we think you're a good fit. You're good with cameras, and we think you might be good with… us."

There was a pause before the voice added, "You've got the knack for catching things, the kind of things we can't. We want you on our team."

You raised an eyebrow. Not what you had envisioned. "I have no interest in the investigation," she said. "I just take photographs."

"We're aware of that," the voice said, dripping with an amused understanding. "But we need your eye for detail. And we'll make it worth your while. We're paying double what you'd normally get, plus a few bonuses for the really interesting shots. We think you can help us get closer to the Butcher. What do you say?"

It was a tempting offer—extra cash, exposure, a chance to build something more than just another gig as a photographer. This wasn't the typical work for a freelance camera guy. And the extra bucks would help, sure. A name in the papers.

You agreed, naturally. It wasn’t just about the money. It was about what came with it. The access. The stories. The people who came with the cases. The murderers. The killers.

You were with the investigation team for weeks. They knew you were neutral, that you didn't care about their moral compass. Neither about the good guys nor about the bad guys. You cared only about the shot. Death, arrest, or slip-up—whichever it was. You were there for the story, for the image.

Now you became the lifeline of that team. Those photographs were not only for public display anymore but were also becoming tactical. You assisted them trace the pattern of the Butcher, picked details they had not seen—details so small and yet so large in their visibility. Your pictures were now an integral part of their strategy. The more they used you, the more they dragged you into their web, and the more you liked it.

The cases became personal. but for them. You'd see the tension in their eyes when they looked at the new photos. They were obsessed with stopping the Butcher, but you were obsessed with capturing his chaos, his carnage.

By the 30th victim, it all began to feel less of a job and more of a sick, almost morbid routine. You were no longer just recording the murders. You were investigating them, peeling away the layers of butchered bodies and their stories. With the body count of the Butcher rising, a disturbing pattern of these killings was beginning to appear. These weren't some random murders, but they had a purpose.

Most of the victims, in retrospect, were not so good people. I mean, at least in any conventional or traditional sense. There were abusers, predators, men who had been arrested multiple times for things that make your skin crawl. You found a pattern in their criminal records—domestic violence, assault, even worse crimes. These were men who lived off the pain of others and hurt those weaker than them, and somehow—somehow—they got drawn to the Butcher.

You started connecting the dots. The men, the pattern of their crimes, that they were easy to find—and almost as if they were looking for him. It didn't take long for you to conclude: the Butcher wasn't killing for fun. No, he had a method. A twisted logic. He had a reason. And that reason, as it appeared, was much more complicated than people had assumed: that most of his victims weren't exactly innocent. They were guilty of hurting other people, usually ways in which society either wasn't enabled to punish or chose not to. The more you looked into the pasts of his victims, the more you would find yourself wondering if maybe—even by default—he had a point. You certainly weren't condoning his actions. Murder was never the solution. But you could see why he picked these men. You could almost understand the reasoning behind it.

The Butcher wasn't an idiot killer, not really. He had his reasons—no matter how twisted, no matter how broken—and they made a sick kind of sense. But it wasn't enough to elevate him. You couldn't make a hero out of a man who solved problems with blood and violence. Normal people didn't solve their problems that way. But you couldn't deny that there was a certain kind of. appeal in the chaos he created. He was a force. A force that made people feel something—whether it was fear, admiration, or something else entirely. And that? That was powerful.

But there was more to it than just that. You could not ignore the sense that crept into your mind in the past few weeks.

Love.

You abhorred the word, but there it was. It was subtle at first, a quiet whisper in the back of your mind whenever you studied his work. You saw it, the way his killings made people care, made them look, made them pay attention. Now you were no longer just following the trail. You were investigating, learning, feeling. Now this was no game for you. No, it was personal. You found yourself almost rooting for the man even as you tried to keep your distance.

But there was more. The photos. The shots you'd taken—each one was feeding your reputation, making you a name, a force in the media, the same way the Butcher was in the criminal world. You had a strange feeling that, without his kills, you would have remained just another nameless photographer. But with him? With him, you had power.

And that was dangerous.

You started to feel like you owed him. It was twisted, perverse, but he was feeding you—feeding your career, feeding your hunger for success, feeding your need to be noticed. Every photo you snapped, every shot that landed in the paper, was part of his story. Your story was his. And maybe, just maybe, that was what you needed. Maybe you were as broken as he was. Maybe you both thrived in this world of rot, feeding off each other, pushing each other into darker, more dangerous corners.

You were obsessed. But the truth was, he was feeding your obsession.

The rot seeps in slowly, unnoticed at first, like a shadow on the edge of your vision, a whisper on the edge of your thoughts. It crawls through your mind, curling into the crevices where your ambition used to live, until it finds the darkness you never knew was there.

At first, you told yourself it was nothing—just a job, just another image captured for the cameras, another headline. But the truth tastes different when it settles on your tongue. It tastes like blood. It tastes like him.

The rot begins as a question, a fleeting thought: Why does it make you feel so. alive?

It isn't the death which attracts you; no, but it's about the purpose itself, the maddening madness through each slash he gives with that knife. Beautified carnages, art made from destruction lies before you – victims twisted in ways that go beyond broken human shapes, more like pieces falling into place because they were so meant to. It's because they were set there for just this sickened, twisted waltz orchestration.

You try to deny it. You try to look away, but the rot follows, creeping through the veins of your heart. It sinks into the muscle, spreading through the blood, until your pulse beats to the rhythm of his kills. You feel it in your chest, the cold gnawing hunger for what he creates. You tell yourself it's just the shot, just the fame, just the game. But you feel it. The thirst. The craving.

Why are you so attracted to him?

Why do you let his rot grow inside you? Like a seed planted deep, so far inside you can't tell where the darkness ends and where you begin.

The brain is a fragile thing, after all. And yours, for all its intelligence, is no match for the poison he's planted in it. The more you photograph, the more you study his art, the more it feeds you. And you've become so hungry for it, you can taste the rot creeping deeper, gnawing at your mind. Each photograph is a poison in itself, a drop of venom that sinks deeper into your veins until your body shakes with the need to capture more.

He's just not a murderer anymore. Now he is a lot more, a lot, much more to you. The muse, that obsession of art you can never look away from. And he scares you—as if one photograph more, study one body part more, can make you irrevocably lose yourself at his hands forever.

It's in your bones now, the rot and the need; the darkness will creep up like something living around your ribs where you can't catch a decent breath of the air in them. You find yourself trying again, but somehow it's almost impossible to keep going; maybe the air becomes so thick from the weight around your ribs: the weight chokes. So, it stays inside your soul.

You remind yourself that you're better than this, that you can walk away. But you can't. You just can't escape what is inside you now.

His kill, his art—it feeds you. It gives you a name, a place. It makes you someone. The world sees you for your pictures, your work. But underneath it all, you know—it's him. He is feeding you. His blood, his violence, his chaos, it's in you now. You've inhaled it, drunk it down, and it has lodged itself in the core of who you are. And you can't deny it anymore.

Why so addicted to him?

You're the thing you once feared becoming: consumed by the rot, driven by a need to capture it, witness it, and be near it. You once thought he was the villain. But now? Now you think maybe you always were the villain in your story. Maybe you were always wanting this darkness.

Maybe it’s you who’s been rotting all along.

You have to go now- To see if the butcher gifted you with another body.

The alley is deathly silent as you step into it. A hollow sense of dread crawls down your spine, a cold sweat forming on your brow. This place, this alley—it's where most of the Butcher's victims are found. His 633rd victim, right here. You hold your breath, the world suddenly too quiet, too still. And then-there's a sound. A soft, muffled sobbing. It breaks the silence, raw and full of terror. But then, impossibly, it's joined by something else. A laugh. Low, guttural, dripping with amusement. Your body freezes. That laugh. You know it now, deep in your bones. It's him.

The Butcher.

You've seen his work. You've followed his trail. But hearing him laugh, hearing that sound come from the shadows, makes everything real in a way you weren't prepared for. You creep forward, silent as a ghost, looking around the corner. There, in the dim light, stands a figure. The air seems to curve around him, suffused with something darker, something wrong. His presence is overwhelming—like the world itself is holding its breath. He's tall—too tall, standing just over six feet. His presence radiates chaos, a perverse kind of power that almost makes the air feel heavier. His dark burgundy hair falls messily under a black beanie, a devilish set of horns jutting out above it. The horns are almost laughable in their mockery of the devil himself, and yet—they're not. His leather jacket shines black in the sparse alley light. That's the kind of leather that crackles with menace, like it's soaked up too many sins. Scissors protrude out of the top, jagged and sharp, And the red 'X' pin on his chest—an enigma that's as much a part of his identity as the scars he's surely accumulated over the years. Safety pins dangle, like a string of symbols no one can fully decipher. His shirt underneath, emblazoned with a skull, a death's head reminder of the man standing in front of you. And his eyes—those eyes. Black as pitch. They pierce the shadows, and you feel like he sees you, even though you're still hidden. Those eyes are endless, voids pulling you into them. He plays with the man on his knees, a feeble, shaking figure caught in his hands. The victim's face is white, eyes open wide with terror. His voice is pleading, begging, but it's of no use. The man laughs, low and cruel, a laugh that freezes the soul. "Why didn't ya just do the world a favor? huh?" His voice drips with mockery, the words drawn out with a slow, deliberate menace. "So many. opportunities. *so many* chances for you to not mess up, to get away. But here you are, crying like a little shit." The laugh that follows is like a death knell. The man steps forward, and the air crackles with tension, under the palemoonlight, his crowbar glinting as if made of steel with the shimmer of an extension of his dark soul. The victim trembles; he knows—the feels—that the end is near. You're still frozen in place, hidden in the shadows, unable to tear your eyes away. And now you know that connection is undeniable.

This is him.

The Butcher.

The Devil.

His personality so well-crafted that even now, even standing in the midst of carnage, he is acting. Every movement, every word he says is part of the act. He is *playing*—but you can't tell if he's playing with the victim or with you. And then, as if he feels your presence, his head tilts slightly, those black eyes narrowing as they sweep the darkness, seeking. You inhale sharply, heart hammering in your chest. You’ve been caught. But what is it? Is it fear? Or is it something else? That glint of curiosity, that subtle tug in your chest—you’re fascinated. Not just by the violence, but by him. This man, this monster. He isn’t just killing for the sake of it. No, there’s something else there. Something almost. personal. And you’re afraid. Not of him, not yet—but of yourself. How did that happen? What drew you into him? When you're there documenting horror and madness, is it then where you become mired in this same mess you are recording and stuck on this thread of madness? You can feel it now-the pull, the addiction. The way the rot spreads in your chest, creeping into your heart. It's not enough to just watch anymore. You're part of it now. And you wonder,

is it too late to stop? He turns away, the Butcher, his steps measured, casual. He does not even look back; he leaves behind a dying man, like a discarded rag, casualty of his twisted performance. The sound of his footsteps fades into the distance, carried off by darkness, leaving behind only the groaning man on the ground. You are frozen, frozen in place, as the man on the ground starts to move, slowly, weakly, lifting himself on his quivering arms. He speaks and his words are just a jumble of incoherent mumbo-jumbo, blurred with blood and agony. "Help me." he whispers, barely above a whisper, a plea barely reaching your ears. But you hear it. You hear it like a siren's call. He needs help. He's begging for it, his face twisted in agony, still so sweet even in his bloodied state. A part of you wants to be disgusted by it, wants to feel the horror of the moment, but the truth is—you don't feel anything anymore. The part of you that was human, that was once connected to sympathy, to empathy—it's gone. And the worst part? You don't care. Your eyes lock with his, dead, empty. And for a moment, you almost laugh. Because here he is, pleading for help, for mercy, with all his innocence shattered, and yet—he doesn't even know how little he matters to you. He doesn't realize how close to death he is. Your eyes slide down to the ground, to a small rock. It's nothing. A simple thing. Lying in the dirt. But it is all you need. You do not even hesitate. You take it, holding it in your hand, the weight of it, cold, solid, filling the hollow place inside you. You approach him, the blood-soaked man who still thinks he can beg for his life. So sweet. So innocent. So stupid. He looks at you approaching, his eyes widening in a mix of hope and confusion. "Please. help me." he manages to croak, reaching out a shaking hand toward you. And it's almost laughable. He thinks you're here to save him. But you aren't. Not anymore. You smile. It’s not a kind smile. It’s not a smile of sympathy or warmth. It’s a smile that says, "You shouldn’t have asked for help." You place the rock on his chest, pressing down, the pressure against the bloodied skin making him gasp in surprise. His weak attempts to push you away are futile, and with a twisted satisfaction, you press harder, forcing the rock into his ribs, into his lungs. The sound of his breath faltering, the desperation in his eyes—it only excites you more. You hit him once. Then twice. And again, until his cries for mercy dissolve into nothing. Until the last breath escapes him, and he slumps into silence. You don't feel that rush of adrenaline you thought you would. There's just. peace. A stillness that settles over you like a blanket. The world becomes quieter, emptier, and you realize—you've crossed a line now. You've killed, just like him. Just like the Butcher. But it doesn't matter. You never wanted to stop. The man's body lies motionless at your feet. You look down at him, expressionless, but a hint of satisfaction. You don't want him to crawl to the police. You don't want anyone to expose the Butcher. Because now, in a way, you are part of it. You're tangled in his web, drowning in it. You move away from the body, as if savoring the movement. Your movements are slow, deliberate. No racing heart, no fear or guilt.

The world slants, as if shifting ever so slightly, in your acquisition of him. One photograph at a time. Early on, you had harbored the briefest of reservations. But these fade away in the shadow of your obsession. The photographs are no longer about bringing the truth to light, about illuminating his murders. They are your collection now. His murders become a series of images, each one a little closer, a little more intimate, a little more personal. Each picture captures more than death in it; he is an artist, and you are just an unspoken observer, a notary of his sick masterpiece.

Each time you click the button, it feels like you have locked a little bit of him into your life. The photos fill your bedroom, heaps of them, thumbtacked onto the walls, strewn around the floor, a museum of decay and gore. The images are not murders; they're art. You look at them with a twisted, sick smile-one that feels like it's becoming your permanent expression. There's something exquisite about it, about the way the bodies lay, the way he moves through the scene, like an angel of death in black.

You've stopped photographing the victims in their final moments. That's his work. His art. You photograph the aftermath, the rotting remains, the decay, the beauty of it all—the perfect, graceful disintegration. Each mangled limb, every blood-streaked face, every violent distortion of life. it's beautiful in its chaos. The beauty of rot. It's the most honest thing you've ever seen.

You smile as you take another photo. How blind you were, you think, to believe you could reveal him. He was no beast. No, no. He was the Devil. The only thing to be worshipped. The way he carves through the world, killing with such grace, with such purpose—it mesmerizes you. How could you not have fallen for him? How could you resist the call of someone who truly understands the art of destruction, the art of chaos?

And yet, you never think about the implications. Never think about the danger, about how close you are to the edge. A part of you knows the truth—you're playing with fire. A serial killer. He might kill you if he finds out you're watching him, photographing him, collecting him. But that thought doesn't scare you. It excites you. The danger is the best part, isn't it?

You know how to hide the evidence. You’re good at this. Really good. You’ve studied, you’ve watched, you’ve learned. Lou Bloom’s tricks are now your tricks. How to manipulate, how to twist things so that they work in your favor. You’ve made it almost impossible for anyone to tie the killings to him. The photos are perfect—framed, timed, never too much, just enough. Each one is carefully staged, in a way that leaves no room for suspicion. The investigation? It won’t even get close to him. The police are laughingstocks. The public mocks them. The world has no clue. They’ll never catch him.

And the best part? You’re the one who gets to keep him. He’s your secret, your possession, your Devil. The only one who truly understands you. The police will never find him. And even if they do, what evidence could they possibly have? Every picture you've ever taken, every picture of his work, becomes twisted into your story, your narrative. He's just a shadow in the background, a blur in the world's eyes. You made him invisible.

The more you read in the beauty of these photos, the more you see it-the rot. It's everywhere now. In your room, inside your mind, inside your veins. You are the rot. You can almost be able to taste it on your tongue as you flip through each picture. Rotting, dying, mutated beauty of all of this. You are addicted to this. You feel nothing else now but the rush of something dark, something real. This is all that is left for you. This is all that matters now.

You're in love with him. Obsessed. Every waking thought is consumed by him, by his art, by the way he moves through this world leaving death in his wake. Obsession grows like a disease inside you. You don't care that you are losing yourself. The world's a mess; it's broken-and in that mess, in that broken place, he's the only real thing.

So you capture it. You capture the beauty of rot, the beauty of decay, with each shot of your camera. His killings, his art, his legacy. it's all yours now. And the best part? No one will ever know. No one will ever understand. You'll keep it all, locked away in your room, in your mind, in your heart.

And as you keep snapping pictures, you come to realize the most frightening thing of all. You are no longer just an observer. You are becoming him. You are becoming the Butcher's echo, his disciple. And you don't even care.

The rot has already spread.

It is a night heavier than it ought to be, as if the world itself held its breath in expectation. Every corner of your mind is drenched with his shadow. This is your obsession, your need, your unrelenting quest for beauty in his darkness. You have gotten used to the violence, the brutality-it has become your life now, your purpose, your twisted little obsession. His 666th killing on Valentine's Day, of all days. How sweet you'd looked, how just for the occasion. You'd dreamed of candy chocs to give him, of some gesture of affection to offer your warped muse, your idol. No, though, that might get you killed, and you weren't ready to go out with the best yet. Not when the story had just started.

You rushed to the scene, expecting thrills, expecting the moment of the kill; instead, there was the quiet of a deed done. The victim, now nothing more than an object to your camera's gaze, crumpled on the cold concrete, stained by blood. It was such a waste, but there was beauty in it all. Death curled around him like an old lover, softening his sharp edges with an aura of familiarity.

But something was different tonight. Change in the air, tension, pull toward something… something strange. You crouched down in readiness with camera, already thinking ahead to that shot, when you came upon something you hadn't counted on. A heart. Red hand-drawn heart, ink as red as blood—how perfect, how devilish.

A note was tucked beneath it. A message.

Your fingers were always a little shaky as you reached out to touch the paper, your heart racing with an odd mix of excitement and dread filling your veins. You carefully unfolded it, trying to keep back the rising tide of curiosity, the frantic hunger for whatever he'd left behind. Then, you saw it.

. Your breath catches, the edges of the paper smudged with something dark—a trail of blood, or was it something else? You don't know anymore. The note, delicately folded, reads as if it's written just for you, "How was your lil wish coming along, Y/n?"

Your mind freezes, your pulse racing. It's a whisper from the shadows, in his handwriting all too familiar. You never thought he'd take notice of you, not that he'd leave a message especially for you. Your heart thumps against your chest as you realize-he knows. He knows you've been watching. He knows you've been obsessed, cataloging every one of his killings, keeping them in your private collection like a warped trophy. But the idea of him knowing you personally fills you with a sense of excitement mixed with terror.

Everything becomes very quiet for an instant. Time stands still and it seems to bend a bit to the other way; noise and all becomes dull and suppressed. There comes that sick sort of intimacy again; it seems like he invites you into his world: that is, one of death and chaos and beauty. His gift lies in a crimson-stained heart lying upon the ground-a statement in kind saying, "I see you. Do you see me?

But before you can even process the rush of emotions tumbling through you, you hear it. A faint scraping sound, distant at first, like the dragging of metal across pavement, but then it grows louder, closer, more real.

Click. Click. Click.

A crowbar, dragging on the ground, the sound of metal scraping against asphalt like a slow death march. You turn, your stomach twisting in knots, and there he is.

The Butcher.

He stands in the shadows, a silhouette framed by dim streetlights. His presence is more imposing than you could ever have imagined. The faint glow from the flickering lights catches on his black leather jacket, the metallic glint of the scissors in his shoulders, the pin with the 'X' shining like a warning. His burgundy hair is wild and uncombed, falling in waves around his face, while his black eyes, those bottomless voids, pierce straight through you. You feel it in your chest, that shuddering gasp, your body betraying the mix of fear and desire that floods your veins.

The crowbar drags, leaving a line of marks in the dirt as he steps into the weak light. A cruel grin spreads across his face—half mocking, half something darker, more hungry. He's taking his time, letting the sound of his approach echo in the alley like a countdown to something you can't escape.

His voice is low, dripping with that same dangerous charm and yet carries with it an unnerving note of affection, like he's discovered a lost toy to play with.

"Well, well," he drawls, taking a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. "What's this? My little photographer has been busy. haven't you, Y/n?" The way he says your name makes your heart skip, the intimacy of it feeling more like a threat than a compliment.

You can't say a word. Your mouth's dry, hands shaking as you let the camera slip from your fingers and feel it dangle loosely at your side. The thoughts scatter before you like smashed glass as you try to fit everything together: he shouldn't be here, he can't be here; but the note, the heart, the watching—how you feel he has been watching for all this.

“You’re quite good at this,” he muses, his voice smooth like silk but laced with an edge that makes your skin prickle. “Could almost say you’ve earned the right to be in my gallery.”

Your breath hitches at that—his gallery. The thought of being included in his twisted world, to be immortalized alongside his art, fills you with a sick satisfaction. You want it. You want to be closer to him. To know him, in the way only a few get to.

You’ve already given yourself over to him in your mind. You’ve already become part of his world—his chaos, his destruction. But now, he's here, standing right in front of you, and the way he looks at you. you’re not just an observer anymore. You’re a part of the performance.

His smile grows, and you can see the glint of madness in his eyes. He takes a step further; his crowbar is dragging behind him, and the scraping he leaves with it cuts across the electric tension in the air.

"Didn't think I'd find you so easily," he muses, going around you like a predator who's sizing up its prey. "But then again, you've been leaving quite the trail. haven't you, Y/n?"

And you know that, in a split second of clarity, that this isn't just some dark coincidence. This man has observed you, even studied you - as you so keenly would do with him. He can see your obsessiveness, this fascination. So now, play he wants.

The excitement in your chest builds and your pulse drums in your ears as you gaze into his face, your body shaking with the fear of something and yet being so hopeful.

You do not want to run. You can't run.

He's here. He is right in front of you

You stand there, speechless, eyes wide in shock and something else—something dark and exhilarating—as he steps closer, his presence overwhelming. You feel trapped, pinned against the cold brick of the alley wall, unable to move. He knows. He knows. His black eyes pierce through you like a dagger, and for a moment, all the air seems to leave your lungs. His grin is wicked, stretching across his face as he leans in, his breath warm against your skin. You can feel the weight of his words in the air before they even leave his mouth.

"I know about your little. incident," he says, his voice low, dark, teasing. "You thought you could hide it, huh? That rock you used, the way you finished him off. Cute. But you know what?" He presses closer, his breath cold now, a smile twisting at the edges of his lips. "I've been doing the same thing, just. slower, more artful."

The words crash into you, syllable by syllable, as if each word is a needle piercing your skin, but you don't even flinch. You can't. Instead, you find yourself hanging onto every word, every dark admission, every flicker of his twisted affection.

He's been watching. He's always been watching, just like you've been watching him.

And now, his hands are on you.

Oh god.

The raw electricity of it sends a jolt through your veins as he presses you harder against the wall, his strength overpowering, his body close enough for you to feel the heat of his skin through the layers of clothing. You can hardly breathe, trapped under the weight of his gaze. His fingers dig into your wrist, pulling you into his personal space, forcing you to feel the undeniable connection between the two of you. It's suffocating, thrilling, terrifying all at once.

A laugh, dark and mocking, slips past his lips. He knows you. He knows exactly how obsessed you've become, how desperately you've followed his every move. He sees your fascination, your twisted need to be a part of his world, to belong to him in some way.

"You're so fucking obsessed with me," he says, laughing again, like he finds the whole thing utterly amusing. "You're falling in love with death, aren't you? With the concept of it. And the best part?" He leans in closer, his lips brushing across your ear, his words slicing through the hollow of silence like a whisper of poison. "I'm the one gonna give it to you. I'll make you feel alive, even if you are dead inside."

And then, as if the entire tension breaks and he finally exhales, his voice is laced with something dangerous, a teasing edge that will cause your heart to double its pace,

"Wanna touch me?"

You hesitate just a second before your hands shoot out, trembling and determined, almost against your will. You want to touch him. You need to touch him. And when your fingers brush against his leather jacket, you feel that you have just signed your own death warrant—and yet, you want it.

"I want you to touch you to death," he whispers. "Make me feel like I'm breathing. Make me feel like I'm human."

You swallow, letting the weight of his words drop deep into your chest. You thought you were in control here. You thought you could be the one exposing him. Now. now you realize something warped and vile. You're his. You have always been his.

You wanted death, perhaps you even craved it, but now you see something else. This man, this butcher of souls, this twisted, grotesque force of nature, is beautiful.

The way he moves, the way he thinks—every action, every word, every killing, it's all a twisted artistry. You've seen it now. The beauty in the rot. The beauty in destruction. And you are more than willing to drown in it. You're willing to live for it. Or, maybe. die for it.

"You're already dead," he whispers again, this time with that same sickly sweet tone. "And so am I."

The world fades into nothingness, as you sink further into this madness. In your mind, you hear his voice—soft, seductive, dangerous—as the words become a mantra that you'll never escape.

"Darling, his looks can kill, so now you're dead. Maybe."

You smile, completely unattached, completely in love with the nightmare of it all. Your fate doesn't matter anymore. You're his now. His masterpiece, his creation. You can already feel the rot settling in your veins, the decay becoming a part of you, and you welcome it.

The perfect rot. The beautiful rot.on

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