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merakiui · 1 month ago

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moros's looking glass.

yandere!overblot!riddle x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, death, victorian era, obsession, attempted captivity, arranged marriage, threats of violence, restraints, non-consensual touching and kissing note - after the death of your husband, you are left to sift through his estate. you'll soon find some ghosts refuse to remain in their graves.

To the esteemed Lady of the Rosehearts Estate: It is with a shrouded heart that I write to inform you of Lord Rosehearts’s untimely passing. It is a most unfortunate occasion, and for such reasons I must implore you to return from your seaside retreat with great haste.

Mrs. Rosehearts’s bare hand comes down so suddenly that you hardly have any chance to brace yourself before it makes contact with your cheek. A harsh smack resounds throughout the hall, echoing within your brain until it’s all you can process. The sting that follows warms your tender skin and, though you wish to soothe it with a gentle caress, you remain stone-faced and stiff before her, a mere statuette who has been frozen in time.

“Such insolence is unforgivable,” she seethes, swiping her glove from her butler, who holds it out with his head bowed and shoulders hunched. She fits her hand inside the pristine fabric and flexes her fingers momentarily before turning her fiery gaze back on you. “You were well aware of the ailment that consumed my dear Riddle and yet you abandoned him in his time of need! You are the lady of this house. It is your duty to remain here! Must the implication be branded on your very bosom for you to recognize it?!”

“My deepest apologies, madam.” You lower into a perfect curtsy. “I did not possess enough foresight to know that this might happen. For that, I am truly regretful.”

He was already at death’s door. A sickly body is meant for the hands of higher powers, or so they’ve said. I suppose this is the inevitability of fate.

“I have always been of the opinion that you were inadequate for my son,” she snaps. “If it weren’t for your family’s status, I’d have had you pulled from his life before you could ruin it further like the vapid weed you are.”

With a huff, she strides past you.

You remain in the hall, comforted by the soft tock of the old grandfather clock.

It’s not my fault your son was sickly, you think, scowling at the floor tiles. But you refuse to allow this to darken your mood. Gathering yourself, you straighten your posture and smooth the sting in your cheek with a few consoling pats.

I am (Name) Rosehearts, lady of this fine estate. I shall not waver in the face of a monstrous mother.

Though your union was one of arrangement, it took some time to convince Mrs. Rosehearts. She only conceded after her son had, quite literally, begged her. Your parents’ social status and fortune were quite persuasive as well. It was your late husband who argued with her, day and night, for the right to wed you.

“Mother, I have fancied no other to the extent I do Lady (Name). Should you come between us, I shall take her and we will be wed elsewhere—with or without your approval.”

Not wanting to lose her pride and joy and faced with the boundless prosperity boasted by the arrangement, she submitted to his demands. Thus, you were wed. You shall never forget the disdain scrawled on her wrinkled countenance as she watched you from her place in the pews. She disapproved of your dress, your disposition, your very existence. There was no part of you that could please her, but she had no choice. For Riddle’s sake, she would have to acquiesce.

Now that he’s no longer of this world, you’re feeling the force of her frosty hatred more directly. She has, by her own standards, every reason to dislike you. You could not conceive an heir to carry on the legacy. You could not be there to assist Riddle while he was on his deathbed. You could not measure up to her lofty expectations of what a proper wife and lady should be. You could not be pretty enough. The list is endless.

“My lady, the photographer is waiting,” the butler pipes up, nodding in the direction of the room.

“I understand. Thank you.”

You inhale all of your negativity, allow it to fester within your lungs, and then you expel it in a long exhale.

You must stand tall and proud in the face of adversity. Do not falter.

This is the busiest you have seen the silent, despair-tinged halls of the Rosehearts Manor. Shadows creep along floral, cream-colored wallpaper, and the curtains do well to keep the sun from poking its rays through the gloom. Your grip tightens on your lace shawl as you’re led through the foyer, and when you view the vaulted ceiling it seems to spiral into never-ending darkness. Photographs are turned over to protect those in the film who are still living. The clocks are all stopped at three in the morning—supposedly the time at which Riddle gave his final breath. Every reflective surface has been enveloped in black cloth, and every funeral attendant you pass offers sympathetic bows and curtsies. Your nose crinkles at them, but you nod your acknowledgement and continue down the hall.

Riddle is poised on the sofa, his arms folded primly in his lap. His face is colored in a sickly pallor, and he’s dressed in his best suit. If it weren’t for how deathly still he is, you’d think he was full of life. Glassy greys stare listlessly ahead. You peer into them. He does not blink or recognize your presence.

It occurs to you that he truly is dead.

Mrs. Rosehearts is quick to shoo you away. “Distance! You’ll pollute the air near my Riddle!”

You offer her a cordial simper. “Wherever shall I sit?”

She wrinkles her nose at you but gestures to the spot beside him. “You are his wife, so you must sit at his side here.”

“Very well.” You lower onto the cushion. Riddle is arranged to lean against you. He is cold and stiff, almost like a doll. His soft hair brushes your cheek. “And what of you, madam?”

“You are to be photographed first, after which I shall replace you. Then, we’ll both be photographed.”

“If it pleases,” you reply, looking towards the camera. Gently, you close your hand over Riddle’s gloved one.

Forgive me, Riddle. I should have returned from the sea sooner, but I was cowardly and could not bear to face you as you withered away. It is with great shame that I wear this mourning dress.

Your photo is taken. For the rest of the ordeal, you remain in your head. The shuffling of bodies is drowned out, for you focus only on your husband as he’s situated on the sofa beside his mother.

Riddle wouldn’t have wanted that, you think, but then you pause. What would he want?

You can scarcely say.

Afterwards, Riddle is placed in his coffin, his eyes shut, and carried feet-first from the house. You accompany the procession, everyone following the solemn hearse in its travels. There is a hollow in the ground, where a group of men lower the death box. They work silently and diligently to shovel soil and fill the hole. You stand off to the side, watching from behind your veil. You don’t shed tears, but neither does Mrs. Rosehearts.

It is a chilly, autumn day devoid of birdsong and sunshine.

A laurel wreath is hung on the door following the funeral, and an ornament fashioned out of his hair alongside his photo are kept enclosed in a locket pin. You hold it in your hands at all times, tucking it beneath your pillow when you sleep, cherishing this piece of him. You visit his grave just as frequently as it is guarded. Every now and then, you expect the bell aboveground to ring, signaling life from below. It never does.

Riddle left his entire estate to you. His mother could fume as she pleased, but the validity of his penmanship could not be denied. He explicitly wrote: To my wife, Lady (Name) Rosehearts: You are granted all mortal possessions within my estate as well as ownership to the property. Do with it as you like.

Your relationship with Riddle, while not free of its strains, was mostly amicable. You played your parts well enough. Even so, it bewilders you that he would leave you so much. You always assumed he’d gift it to his mother, as she seemed to have a hand in every aspect of his existence—his death included. She planned the funeral and the burial well in advance, arranged the photographer, even the outfit he was to wear.

Now, dressed in black crepe, you wander aimlessly through a quiet, covered house and wonder what you should do with so much empty space. There are still rules you must follow, of course, each one aligning with mourning customs. But now that you don’t have your husband to enforce them, you feel…lost.

Illuminated by candlelight, your reflection follows you as you walk past an uncovered mirror, trapped in silent reverie.

And then you stop.

An uncovered mirror?

In a horrified panic, you set the candlestick down to gaze at yourself in the glass.

This can’t be! All of the mirrors must be covered! What happened?!

You scramble to shroud it, your heart pounding restlessly like a war drum. For a while you stand there, waiting for something. You anticipate a shout from the shadows: Don’t you know you are expected to cover each and every reflective surface in the wake of death? Do you want to be pulled into the grave next?! Nothing happens, though. The house remains perfectly still.

You think you hear someone breathing shallowly, but then you realize that’s you. Your chest heaves as you take in big gasps of air.

No one will know, you remind yourself, gradually calming your frazzled nerves. The mirror is covered. That is the end of that.

The grandfather clock’s midnight chime echoes down the hall. Sighing, you lift the candlestick and carry on.

“I shall retire to bed,” you tell the darkness, climbing the stairs. Riddle’s room is kept sealed, a place stuck in permanence. You refuse to disturb his things, lest you dampen his spirit, and so you beeline for your room. It’s directly across from his. When he was alive, he insisted you sleep at his side despite the bed customs between couples. Stubbornly, you refused. You recall the dismal glimmer that darkened his eyes whenever you’d decline. He would always promise the same thing—

“Should you need the warmth of another body, I am here to receive you. Forever and always.”

Pulled from your reminiscing, you turn sharply on your heel and raise the flame to light the end of the hall.

“How strange. I was certain…” You peer over the bannister at the foyer below. “Riddle, have you come home?”

Silence is your only reply.

“Foolish,” you chide, contenting yourself with the facts. “He rests peacefully in his grave.”

Burrowing into your woolen shawl, you depart for your bedroom.

In an empty house, swathed in the quilted duvet, you drift off into dreamless slumber.

It’s not the clock or the cold that jerks you from sleep. Rather, it’s the screeching noise that grates on your ears. You blink through the dark, only to cringe moments later when someone drags their nails over glass. You almost allow yourself to fall back into the sheets when you realize there shouldn’t be any human disturbances here, for you’re the only one in this house.

A mouse, perhaps?

But even you know that’s impossible, no matter how much you want to believe such faulty logic.

Throwing the covers off, you search blindly for the candlestick at your bedside. You fumble with the match, shivering like a frightened fawn, but eventually flame brightens the space. Now equipped with light, you peek outside your room, searching either end of the hall just in case. No one’s there, but the scratching continues. Incessantly, almost maddeningly, as if whoever’s doing it is trying to escape.

Nails on…glass. On glass.

Glass.

It’s coming from Riddle’s room.

The mirror!

You shuffle towards the door, only to stop short just as your foot steps in something sticky.

You lift your leg and shine the light on it. A black substance that appears to be some sort of molten tar or ink drips from your sole. With a gasp, you drag your foot upon the floor in hopes of getting rid of it.

“Ugh! How filthy!”

Resolving to wash it later, you stomp over to the door, yank it open, and poke your head inside. A rush of cold air barrages your face, whistling through the crack and out into the corridor. You stumble away in a daze. The scratching persists, angrily now, in a desperate sort of fashion.

“Riddle?” you call out, your voice subdued and shot through with fear. “I… I’m sorry for disturbing you. I’d like to warm myself with you, if you’ll allow it.”

Just like that, the house stills. Shakily, you hold the candle out to light a portion of his room.

“I never should have left you. It must have been terribly lonely here. Lonely and cold… I’ve betrayed you in life, but in death I will be here to look after you. Forever and always. So… So please rest peacefully.”

The tip-tapping of a sharpened nail against the glass almost startles you out of your skin. You realize then that the shroud has fallen away from the mirror.

If I must look upon it… Oh, but I’d rather not… Oh, but I must!

Steeling yourself, you burst into the room and brandish the candlestick. Thankfully, there are no monsters or humans to scare you. No ghosts to be banished. No intruders to chase off. Instead, you see yourself in the mirror.

Or…an approximation of you. Not quite a doppelgänger in appearance. This version of you is wearing soaked rags, tattered and tired, but she has your eyes. They’re unmistakable as they stare back at you.

You set the candlestick on the bedside table and inch closer to the mirror.

“Peculiar,” you whisper, reaching for the glass just as your reflection does. “Surely this isn’t me. I look ghastly!”

Your fingers brush the surface and, in a stroke of shock, just as the grandfather clock below chimes the hour, your hand goes through. Before you can think to pull away, something on the other side tugs at your wrist, frigid fingers coiling tightly. With a shriek, you resist and claw wildly at the air, stretching to grab hold of the bed. You manage to grasp the edge of the blanket, which is pulled free from its neat placement, just as you’re dragged through the mirror.

All that’s left of you is the locket pin, having fallen to the floor in a clatter during the scuffle.

You open your eyes on a room colored black and white. It looks like yours, but something is different. It doesn’t feel like yours. It doesn’t even appear lived in. Almost as if it’s been sealed like a crypt, kept in pristine condition as it awaits an owner who will never return.

Where am I? you wonder, closing your hands around your shawl. It provides you with a modicum of comfort.

A book is lying on the vanity desk, the only thing that looks just slightly out of place in an otherwise tidy room. Curiously, you pick it up and open it to read the cover: Property of Riddle Rosehearts.

“Oh?”

You turn to a random page and skim through the words: I’ve waited ceaselessly for her return, so much so I’m beginning to lose count of the days. I’ve no inkling as to what’s real and what’s false. I see her in the stars, in the mirror, in my dreams… She is lost, I’m certain of this. No one will listen to me. They’ve condemned me to my solitude in this house, but soon I’ll swap places with him and then I’ll have her. It is only a matter of time. She will be mine.

This…cannot be my husband’s diary. Or was it? This is undoubtedly his penmanship.

Surely your husband wasn’t seeing another woman. He has always been honest and sincere. He has never raised his hand to you, nor has he ever threatened you. He is gentle, albeit rough and awkward around the edges, but he means well. Furthermore, you’ve never known him to keep diaries.

If he was embroiled in an adulterous affair, perhaps it was for the best. I could not hope to give him a child. I couldn’t bring him happiness or comfort. I am a failure of a wife, you think, running your thumb over the page.

You must stand tall and proud in the face of adversity. Do not falter.

Drying your eyes, you set the diary down and resolve to keep your strength for the exploration to come. Crying will not help you here. Not right now.

Never falter.

You push the door open and step out into the hall. The photographs are turned upright; mirrors are uncovered. The staircase is on the opposite end of the hall instead of directly around the corner like yours is back home. Even with the differences, the house reminds you of Riddle’s manor.

Strange… Everything is so similar and yet it’s not.

You creep down the stairs, eyeing the crystal chandelier hanging high in the foyer. In fact, now that you’re descending, you’re beginning to notice just how many reflective surfaces surround you. Looking glasses of all shapes and sizes. Crystal decorations that reflect in dozens… It’s overwhelming. At every angle, your face peers back at you.

When you peel the curtain away to glance outside, you find an unsettling white space stretching on endlessly.

Where have I found myself?

You trot down the hall, searching the portraits for any indication of the master of the house. Instead, all you see is yourself. The other faces have been blotted out in dark ink.

This is not my home, you realize with a shiver.

The further you venture, the clearer it becomes that someone lives here. Despite the manic decor, there is not a speck of dust or a hint of disrepair. Someone is here, and they’re looking after this property.

You round the corner, acquainting yourself with a semi-familiar layout, and that’s when you find him. Your husband.

He’s hanging up another portrait with meticulous precision. This is a painting of you. It reminds you of the one your Riddle had commissioned. Only this one depicts you in the same decrepit fashion you saw before you were coaxed through the mirror.

This can’t be… Do my eyes deceive me? Is this truly—

“Riddle?”

His hands fall away from the frame, and he turns to look at you. Ruby-red eyes widen in recognition and then delight. He swoops in like a falcon, covering the distance in quick strides to gather you in his arms.

“My beloved! Oh, what wonderful fortune!” he cries, embracing you tightly. “You’ve come back to me! At long last, you’re here… You’re really here in flesh and blood! Oh, my love, sweetest rose, welcome back.”

If you were to ever meet your husband again, you were certain he’d have an earful for you, a long lecture of societal and personal expectations husband and wife are meant to adhere to. But this Riddle is…happy. He doesn’t seem angry or disappointed at all.

Rather woodenly, you wrap your arms around him. “You’re…not cross?”

“Whyever would you think that?” He pulls away from you and runs his hands up your arms, as if to assess the authenticity of your appearance.

You stare at his face. He looks like Riddle. But… Well.

He doesn’t feel like Riddle. Your Riddle—the grey-eyed Riddle—was awkward in his affections. He would never hug you so openly. He would never touch you without your approval first. He was considerate and well-mannered. Furthermore, he never called you by any endearing terms. You were always Lady (Name) to him.

Your hands close around his face to hold him still. “Your eyes—”

He blinks and suddenly the red was never there. “My eyes?”

Am I dreaming?

“Are you certain this is real?”

He smiles. “You must still be clinging to the vestiges of sleep. I assure you this is all very real.”

“So you’re truly Riddle? My Riddle?”

“Your Riddle. Always and forever.”

Tears well up in your eyes. You sink to your knees. “Oh, Riddle… Riddle, I’m so sorry. If I had just come back sooner… If I hadn’t been so scared—I couldn’t face you! I didn’t want to. I…didn’t wish to see you suffering so. It hurts…”

“My dear…” He lowers to your height and brushes your tears away with his thumb. His eyes soften with an intense fondness. “How fervently I’ve missed your voice. How desperately I’ve longed to hold you in my arms.”

“I can’t fathom it—how can it be?” you mutter, hesitant to touch him again lest he be turned to dust before your eyes. “You… You’re alive?”

“I’ve always been alive.”

“But you—your condition! You’ve been ill. It…” You inhale a sharp breath. “Your ailment worsened when you married me.”

“Do you blame yourself?” Before you can answer that, he takes hold of your chin and tilts your head. “Don’t. The fault does not lie with you. It never has.”

And then he fits his lips on yours in a kiss so sweet and soulful it momentarily rekindles your hope in romance. Shocked, you stumble back on the floor, but he just surges forward to continue kissing you. It’s passionate and hungry; he nibbles at your lip and licks into your mouth, leaving you panting and scrabbling for purchase. You cling to his suit—the same suit he was buried in.

He breaks away for breath, and you inhale mouthfuls of it. “Wait—”

Another kiss, this one longer than its predecessor. Your fingers curl into his shoulder. He pulls back.

“Riddle—”

He tugs your shawl from your shoulders in lustful impatience. You yelp when you feel his hands on your thighs, slyly sliding beneath your dark nightgown.

“Riddle!” You gasp, scandalized, and push him away. Breathing heavily, you yank the strap of your gown over your shoulder. “Just what’s gotten into you?!”

“I’ve missed you,” he confesses, gathering your hands in his. “I’ve waited for your return for so long—too long! And now you’re finally here… You’ve finally come back to me.”

My Riddle was never this forward.

“You must know I cannot give you what it is you want. I’m dead inside, a tragedy your mother is all too keen to remind me of.”

A frown tugs at his lips. “Unfortunate as that may be, it does not offend me in the slightest and it shouldn’t. I love you, with or without child.” He lifts your hand and places a gentle kiss upon the top of it.

You stare at him, horrified.

“S-Say that again, if you would…”

“I love you?” He raises his brow at you, confused. “With or without child, I love you. Always and forever.”

You drag your hand back, clutching it as if it’s injured. “I think…I might go for a stroll.”

He blinks back at you, one eye at a time. “Oh! Allow me to accompany you. It’s howling a gale out there. You would do well to change into attire fitting for the weather.”

“Of course. I’d love nothing more than to walk through the rose gardens with you. I do hope they haven’t started wilting.”

Riddle helps you up from the ground, drapes your shawl over your shoulders, and sends you on your way. You offer him a smile and turn to walk stiffly down the hall. The minute you’re out of sight, you sprint for the stairs, taking two at a time, and throw open the door to your room.

Your reflection meets you at the mirror. Without wasting another moment, you reach for her. Someone catches your wrist on the other side and tugs you through.

You’re spat out in Riddle’s bedroom in a heap of tangled limbs, your heart in your throat. The mirror shimmers with the real you. When you press your finger to the glass it doesn’t go through, but your finger touches its reflection.

“That was…strange,” you whisper, drawing away. You find the locket pin lying inches from your foot and you scramble for it, hastily prying it open to check its contents. The photo and lock of red hair remain untouched. “It was just a dream. A wild, whimsical terror.”

You rise to your feet and, after fixing the disturbed sheets, bid a final farewell to the room.

“Rest peacefully,” you say, shutting the door behind you.

That was not my Riddle. My Riddle has never said he loves me before.

Following that night, you busy yourself with the curiosities of Riddle’s estate. In the three years you’ve lived here, you were unaware the house had so many secret spaces. Hidden doors that open into narrow passages and stairs. You’ve never had any servants, so you’re not sure why Riddle would need any of this. The house has been in the Rosehearts family for decades. As the legend goes, it was burned beyond repair and rebuilt with a better layout. A safer layout, Riddle would tell you when you questioned the tale.

“Safer for what?” you mutter, peeling wallpaper back to reveal the door to a thin crawl space. There’s never anything sealed within these rooms, but their existence is proof enough. If not for servants, these passages were meant to house secrets. “Did he know about this? He must have.”

Would Mrs. Rosehearts know? Oh, but I dread the thought of wasting ink on that insufferable woman.

You lower to your knees and peer inside the crawl space. “Hello? Is anyone home?” And then you laugh to yourself. “Are you hiding in there, Riddle?”

You receive no reply.

A Riddle with red eyes… I must have been so feverish that night, to dream a vision so crooked.

You stretch your arm inside and feel around for any hidden treasure. You expect to come away with cobwebs and spiders, not a leather-bound book.

“Huh… Perhaps I’ve been away from the manor much too long,” you mutter, sitting with your back to the wall. You open the book, wondering what its contents could be that would merit this treatment.

Books ought to be treated in the same manner we treat each other—with respect. They are filled with boundless knowledge, and they provide insight into fascinating wonders we may yet comprehend, Riddle used to say.

“‘To destroy them would be to destroy the wisdom they offer,’” you say, finishing the rest of his quote. A smile pulls your lips up. “He loved books. Riddle would never seal any away.”

You peel it open to the first page, where you find four unsettling words.

Property of Riddle Rosehearts.

It’s a diary. Riddle’s diary.

Suddenly, the house is colder and unwelcoming, as if the very foundation disapproves of what you’ve just unearthed from its bowels. You’ve never known Riddle to keep a diary. And yet…

Tentatively, you flip through the pages. It’s a log of his condition, you realize. He details his symptoms daily, every event outlined in neat, waltzing script. You weren’t aware of just how morbid his condition was. At some point, though, he begins to catalogue other happenings.

I’ve coughed up quite a monstrous thing, he writes. I cannot fathom what it is, but it has the consistency of ink, almost. It is thick and foul in my mouth. It stains my sheets and colors my teeth. Next time it happens, I shall gather enough to test whether it truly is ink.

Then another page: I cannot employ servants because I fear he will tip poison into their ears. Thus, I’ve deigned to do everything myself. I’ve mustered enough strength and willpower to stand and cover most of the mirrors. So long as Lady (Name) stays away…

And another page: He is looking at me again, knocking at the mirror. Even as I write this, I must remain vigilant. You must wonder why I don’t shatter the mirror and put an end to this madness. Rather than sever the connection, I fear it would only provide an opening into our world. I hear him every night just as the clock tolls out the Witching Hours. He speaks of a malice most concerning. It is tiring and I think fondly of submitting, but I must protect Lady (Name).

And the final page, penned just days before his death: I fear the worst is happening. I cannot continue to research the face in the mirror. It has rendered me too frail. He has been studying me in the meantime, following me through the glass. He is a perfect reflection now, an expert copy. I’ve no inkling what this implies, but I suspect it cannot be anything pleasant. I’m going to seal my findings away with what little strength I have left so that it never falls into his hands. There must be some way to stop it… this infernal ringing in my ears… the blood filling my eyes…

A dried splatter stains the page, obscuring whatever was left of his words. You leaf through a few pages, searching for a proper explanation.

The face in the mirror? A perfect reflection? What is all of this? Just what was Riddle doing while I was gone?

You find it then, a list of what he believes to be fact, all outlined in an organized fashion.

Evidence of Fact

It is confined within reflective surfaces. It cannot step out into the mortal realm (or so I’ve yet to witness), but it can follow through mirrors so long as you look into it. Though the original must remain intact.

It is most active during the hours of midnight through three o’clock in the morning. To be referred to from here on out as the Witching Hours.

It has my voice and my face, but it is not me. You must remind yourself of this when you feel yourself losing control: He is not me, nor is he the shadow I cast.

It sees with red eyes and reaches with nightmarish claws. (A devil, perhaps?)

The substance I have been vomiting ceaselessly is indeed ink, but the reflection in the mirror refers to it as ‘blot.’ It is black and viscous. It reeks of rot.

It is undoubtedly after Lady (Name).

It calls itself Riddle.

You don’t really know your husband. You’ve never known him, in fact.

He was shouldering such a heavy burden all this time… All for my sake.

You hold the diary close to your chest.

If what he writes is true, then what I experienced that night… It wasn’t a dream but, rather, a supernatural occurrence. The reflection in the mirror calling itself Riddle—that must have been the Riddle I met. The one with red eyes. For a moment, I almost thought it was my Riddle. You run your finger over the cover of the diary. If that thing is the reason my Riddle is dead…

You don’t dare think any further.

Riddle noted that Reflection Riddle is most active during the Witching Hours. If you follow that logic then the mirror should open up between midnight and three every night, allowing you to cross into a world that reflects your own. You wonder if it’s the same for the other side. If it was, wouldn’t that mean Reflection Riddle could step out at any point and enter your world? You certainly hope he can’t.

Moros’s Looking Glass, reads the bookmarked tome in Riddle’s study, a (thankfully) mirrorless space that grants you total privacy, is said to be a powerful mirror that connects the mortal realm with that of the spirit realm. It is said that mortals who look upon Moros’s Glass are bound for death and should tread carefully when they hear three consecutive knocks from within their home.

Not if but when. A certainty.

You turn to the chapter on Moros. “‘Gave people the ability to foresee their death…’” you read, frowning deeper as the text goes on. “‘Moros is a word meaning doom or fate. It is said that once you take Moros’s hand you can never turn back, for your death is already weaved into fate.’ No escape… Could that Reflection Riddle be Moros? That might give reason to why my reflection looked so twisted.”

You slump in the chair and sigh. “I’m sorry, Riddle… I never should have left you. I should have stayed. Perhaps then we could have worked together to understand this.”

Gritting your teeth, you wipe furiously at your eyes.

All this time, he was suffering and I ran away. All this time, he was thinking of me and my well-being, and I ran away.

Before you can openly bawl in his study, you remember the notes in Riddle’s diary.

It wants me. To what extent, I’m unsure. But if it truly does love me as it claimed… Surely it wouldn’t hurt me.

You don’t want to return to that strange world with its strange Riddle, but you need answers. If it killed your Riddle… You shut the book and place it back on the shelf.

You must stand tall and proud in the face of adversity. Do not falter.

Stringing the locket pin on an empty chain, you fasten it around your neck. That way, Riddle will always be close to your heart—a reminder that you are not alone. You rifle through your closet for appropriate attire, casting corsets and crinolines aside in favor of clothing that grants more freedom.

But I mustn’t look suspicious, you think, debating whether you should wear a chemise or a longer gown. You pull a pair of loose-fitting trousers from a drawer next. Perhaps… Oh, this will seem so indecent! If Riddle were here, he’d advise against it. But these will allow for movement should I need to flee fast.

Seeing no other option, you choose the bloomers and a simple blouse, both in the classic color for mourning.

Ideally, I would prefer to never go back again, but I suspect I’ll be visiting more than once. Tonight, I’ll attempt to search for a weakness. There must be something I can exploit. A tension or a spot of blindness, perhaps? There’s that white space surrounding the manor. Perhaps I ought to try stepping outside?

You change in your room in front of a covered mirror and read through Riddle’s diary to refresh yourself on the foe you’ll be facing.

When the grandfather clock’s midnight toll reaches upstairs, you hide the diary under your pillow and cross the hall into Riddle’s room.

I refuse to call that thing my husband, you think hatefully. You are not Riddle. You will never be Riddle.

You kneel before the floor-length mirror and press your palm to the surface. A cold hand pulls you through.

I must remember not to overstay my welcome. You lift your trousers to peer at the pocket watch tied around your thigh. It is fifteen minutes past twelve. The window closes at three.

Throwing the closet doors open, which is packed full of well-tailored dresses and skirts, you grab a long woolen coat and fit your arms through the sleeves. You slide your feet into a pair of low-top heels. When you admire yourself in the mirror, you spy your waterlogged reflection looking back. She vanishes in a blink.

Descending the stairs, you call out for Riddle. “I apologize for the delay. I’m ready if you are.”

He pokes his head out from around the corner, a delicate smile gracing his pale features. Meeting you at the very bottom, he offers his arm.

“I’ve waited years for your return.” He laughs. “I can wait a few measly minutes.”

Minutes? Does time work differently here? Every clock aside from the watch fastened to my thigh is stopped at Riddle’s time of death. Perhaps this world’s sense of time is warped because of that. Or maybe Moros truly has no concept of time…

“Patience is a most admirable virtue, or so they say.”

“They speak the truth.” He leads you to the door. “You’ve come at a wondrous time. The roses are still in bloom. Though, regrettably, most of them have already closed up.”

“What little is left, I will be sure to cherish.” You pat his arm and smile. “Thank you for always taking such diligence to care for them.”

If there exists a reflection of Riddle, why haven’t I seen my reflection? Surely she isn’t just confined to the mirror…

The door opens and you brace yourself for the blinding white space. Instead, you’re greeted to the sight of a flourishing front yard. It looks nothing like your own, which leads you to wonder if Moros can only replicate the scenery within the house due to the limited field of sight provided by the mirrors. The rest of this—the gardens, the stone pathway, the hedges—it’s his imagination filling in the blanks.

“Oh, it’s beautiful!” You tug him ahead, your hand easily sliding into his. “They’re quite red!”

“Aren’t they just?”

“Positively beaming with color,” you exaggerate even though you can’t see a speck of red. Everything here is black and white. The only red you’ve seen so far is the red in his eyes.

You gaze at the iron gates at the end of the property. “Riddle, dear, have we always had those gates?”

“We have.” His hand slides over yours. “To keep beauty in and filth out.”

“Filth?” You look at him incredulously. “What sort of filth?”

“Those who think it wise to flout the rules. I will not tolerate such flagrant displays of disobedience.” He squeezes your hand. “I’m sure you understand, my rose. There is no greater peace than that which is attained through order.”

“And what of exiting?”

“You’ve only just come back to me and now you speak of leaving?”

“I wouldn’t go alone. Do you not want to go into town? I quite like the circus.”

“You have everything you need here.” He kisses the top of your hand. “With me.”

So the boundary is the gate. Very well.

“I suppose that’s true. There is no greater bliss than seeing you again after so much time apart. Why would I ever want to leave?”

“Indeed. You shall never leave,” he murmurs, smiling.

Riddle takes you on a tour through monochrome gardens, pointing out all manner of delightful flora. You voice your acknowledgement when it’s necessary, but your mind is elsewhere.

I should find his diary again. I don’t believe I saw it on the desk when I came through the mirror.

You peer at Riddle’s face. He is not a fool. My Riddle was so bright. If Moros can replicate his physical form so seamlessly, then surely he knows of his intelligence.

“Riddle.”

“Yes, my rose?”

“I love you, too.”

His eyes widen. The admission must have genuinely shocked him, for his grey irises explode with red. But then he blinks it away and they’re back to grey. In these quiet gardens, he pulls you closer and presses a chaste kiss to your lips.

“And I love you. Most ardently.”

You smile and then you giggle. “Why did I leave you in the first place? It’s patently absurd.”

“A question I asked myself in cycles.” He drags his knuckle along your cheek. “Can the sea truly cure the morbs? Wouldn’t it have been better here? What can the sea offer that I don’t already have?” He clenches his jaw. “Why would you leave? Why?”

“Riddle… R-Riddle, you’re hurting me!”

He comes to his senses then and gazes at his hand closed tightly around yours. “Ah… Forgive me.” He loosens his hold and tries a relaxed smile. “Your arrival is most important. Anything that came before that is wholly insignificant.”

“Of course it is…”

He must know of my trip from Riddle. Perhaps it was mentioned in passing. I’m certain Moros doesn’t have Riddle’s memories. Despite being reflections, they are still separate entities. Or so I hope.

You return inside on account of being famished. Riddle insists on preparing dinner, claiming he’s practiced tirelessly in your absence and has been awaiting a chance to boast his skills. You allow him to do that and, while he works in the kitchen, you slink upstairs to check the time. It’s half-past two.

Just before you exit through the mirror, you poke around the room in search of the diary. It isn’t there.

Perhaps it’s in Riddle’s room?

You refer to the watch once more.

I have time. Just five minutes and then I shall be on my way.

You creep over towards Riddle’s room and, slowly, so slowly, reach for the door. Riddle’s voice permeates the air just then, calling up to you from the bottom of the staircase.

“(Name)? Dinner is almost ready!”

You press yourself against the wall just in case he can somehow see you. “Yes, thank you! Just one moment.”

Stuffing the coat and shoes inside the closet, you spare one final glance at the door before stepping through the warped surface of the mirror.

You emerge just a few minutes before three.

Much too close for my liking. You shut the pocket watch and run your hands through your hair. But that was enlightening. While not clear in its entirety, I understand the world I’m grappling with just a scintilla better.

In the coming weeks, you travel between worlds to gather as much information as possible. Riddle receives you with immense adoration every time, seemingly none the wiser to your periodic disappearances. The last time you went snooping around the second story, you realized the rooms were mostly empty and Riddle’s bedroom was locked.

You write your findings down in the empty pages in your husband’s diary: If the door is locked, he must know that whatever’s inside is of great importance. Therefore, he’s done well to keep it safe. Additionally, he appears to learn from my actions. When he’s startled, his eyes can’t remain grey. Now it’s as if he’s anticipated the shock and has taught himself to keep the façade. It is a most peculiar act. No weaknesses to detail as of yet.

You return to Riddle’s entries once more. Surely I’m missing something. There must be a weakness.

Briefly, you consider shattering the mirror. Riddle didn’t test his hypothesis regarding this method. Perhaps nothing will come of it and you’ll be rid of this menacing reflection. But then you’ll never know why your reflection looks the way it does. You’ll never know what killed your husband. You’ll never know who Reflection Riddle really is—though you certainly have your suspicions.

I must return.

When the clock announces the arrival of midnight, you step through the mirror. Only this time, when you step out of your room, Riddle is there and he doesn’t look pleased.

“Oh! Riddle—”

“What were you doing?”

“I…” You shut your mouth and fish through your brain in an attempt to recall what you said you’d be doing last time you were here. “I was changing.”

He scrutinizes you with narrowed eyes. “Into your night clothes? Did you not wish to take a stroll?”

“Oh, you must forgive me. I have been so weary… If it pleases you, perhaps we can have our stroll tomorrow?” You glance past him at his bedroom door and then reach for his hands. “Shall we sleep together?”

Riddle watches your face a moment longer. The tension in his figure relaxes, and he eventually smiles. “Nothing would make me happier.”

He guides you to your bed, but you stop him. “Your room. I’m most comfortable in your bed.”

“Is that so?”

“Verily.”

For a moment you think he’ll find some way to slither out of this, but then he’s pulling you through the door towards his room. His hand ghosts over the knob and it unlocks just like that. “I must warn you. It’s not in the…cleanest condition. I admit it was a reflection of my mind in the wake of your absence.”

“I’m certain it isn’t so terrible,” you assure, rubbing his arm consolingly. “Although… Riddle, if I may, what happened to me?”

“To you? Why, you left.”

“Yes, that is an irrefutable fact. But… It couldn’t have been the morbs.”

Riddle smiles thinly. His eyes fog over with an unrecognizable emotion. “I thought I lost you,” he explains, his hand on the knob. “I was certain you would never return.”

“But I’m here now. Whyever would you think that?”

“You died,” he says, his voice cracking. “A-At sea. You threw yourself into the sea.”

I…did that? Truly? But then it makes sense. The water dripping from your reflection. Her tattered dress. The strands of seaweed. But why? Why would I do such a thing?

“That’s why I could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw you. When you came back to me, perfectly whole and in one piece, warm and alive… I was so relieved. I’ll never let you go again.”

He opens the door and it becomes clear to you when you see a roomful of portraits and letters scattered everywhere. Your letters. Your pictures. Even your belongings. These aren’t mirror reflections. These are genuine artifacts from your world. The breath sticks in your throat. All of the letters you sent Riddle while you were away, never to receive a single reply, they’re all here, tucked away in their respective envelopes. And you know they’re yours because your signature dots each and every one, each stamp pasted on by your careful hands.

Lying on the bedside table is Riddle’s diary, where the passage you first read must be penned. The one in which he notes how long he’s waited. How very soon he’ll swap places with your husband and have you all to himself. How they’ve condemned him to this prison. They. Who is they?

You understand it now. The sticky substance you stepped on the first night. The reflection of the other you. The Riddle who you thought couldn’t stand you and was having his silent rebellion disregarding all of your letters. It was the thieving reflection who crept into your world!

Your other self died so that you could take her place. And you know this is true because she is you, and in the midst of your melancholy back in your world you considered surrendering yourself to the sea.

“Riddle…”

“Sleep! Do pardon the dreadful state of this room.” He smiles and tugs you down onto the bed to tuck you in. “It’s late. You’ll never function properly if you neglect the moon’s call for bedtime.”

“Riddle!” You seize his wrist when he climbs into bed beside you. He blinks at you, one eye at a time. “Who…are you, exactly? You’re not my Riddle.”

He tilts his head at you. “But of course I am.”

“No… No, you’re not. My Riddle is—” you inhale shakily— “dead.”

His eyes rove over your features, flicking down to watch your hand curled around his wrist. He chuckles. “You must be so tired, my rose. Sleep. Come morning, all of this will have been a daydream lived in a daze.”

He pats the pillow and you lower yourself slowly. He follows your lead, wrapping the both of you in the fluffy blanket.

“I have always been your Riddle. Always and forever.”

“Right… Yes. Yes, of course. How…” You swallow thickly. “How foolish of me to think otherwise.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping he’ll inevitably fall asleep. The pocket watch tied around your thigh continues to count out the minutes. You’ve no idea how much time has passed, but the longer you spend here the slimmer your window of escape gets. And Riddle just won’t fall asleep! His eyes remain open, observing you as you shift in and out of faux sleep. Eventually, you turn your back on him.

I cannot fall asleep here. I’ll be trapped.

“(Name)…”

Why won’t he sleep? Surely he’s tired… Do reflections feel exhaustion? They must!

“(Name)…”

You force yourself to remain calm, contenting yourself with the fact that he has to fall asleep soon.

But then there’s a hand on your arm, climbing up your shoulder like a spider on a web. His fingers drum along your sleeve.

“You’re not truly sleeping, are you?”

His voice is right in your ear, and you can hear the twisted smile in it.

You roll over onto your back. Riddle blinks down at you, still smiling that sticky, self-satisfied smile.

“You were anticipating my slumber, were you not?”

“In the hope that we might rest together, yes. Are you not tired?”

“How could I rest when I know you’re just going to slip away again?” He yanks the covers off and moves to grab the hem of your nightgown. In a panic, not wanting the watch to be revealed, you push him away, falling off the bed in the process. Landing with a thud, you pick yourself up and glimpse the time. Just ten minutes until three. You gasp and stumble towards the door.

“Stop!” he shouts, reaching for you. “Come back here! Don’t leave me!”

You yelp as something slimy coils around your ankle. You fall flat on your stomach, pulled back into the room without mercy. You thrash, kicking out blindly in hopes of untangling whatever’s found itself attached to your leg.

“Unhand me!” You grab at the door frame and pull yourself forward, grunting with the effort. “Don’t touch me!”

“You don’t get to leave! Not when I finally have you!”

You turn to look at him and bite back a terrified scream at the sight of him. He’s monstrous! The odious stench of death hangs heavy in the air. There’s that black substance again, oozing from his pores like an overfilled, soggy rag. He’s dressed differently, too, in clothes that bring forth images of decapitated royalty. The inky crown on his head and the spade-tipped Medici collar only cement this imagery. His hands are splayed with razor-thin claws, and suddenly you’re brought back to the night of that ominous tap-tapping against the glass.

The tendril coiled around your leg, you now realize, is an ebony, thorny stem.

“W-What are you?”

He grits his teeth. “Your husband.”

You reach for the stem and, pulling it taut, bite down roughly. Blot spatters your maw and it tastes rancid, but you chew through in spite of the taste. Riddle hisses at you. You manage to sever it just in time. Another vine shoots out after you and you slam the door shut before it can ensnare you.

“(Name)!” he roars from behind the door, his voice deeper and angrier. “You step through that mirror and I’ll tear you to shreds the next time you return! Do you hear me?! I’ll slaughter you!”

“I wish you luck in that endeavor because I won’t ever be back!”

The door is torn off its hinges then. When Riddle lunges for you, he narrowly misses your nightgown, instead grasping the chain around your neck. It snaps and the locket pin smashes to the floor.

“No!” You swoop down to grab it, but Riddle’s already swiped it for himself. Looking between that and the mirror, you scream a colorful word and dive for the mirror just as the clock below chimes out the hour.

You somersault into Riddle’s bedroom, your heart pounding wildly in your ribs, and feel along your body for the pendant. It isn’t there.

“No… No, no, no! Blast! I can’t… I need that locket!”

You whirl towards the mirror and this time it isn’t your reflection peering back. It’s that monstrous fiend!

He holds the chain up for you to see, grinning all the while. The locket twirls idly on the broken link. It’s an obvious taunt: If you want it, come and get it.

Your fingers curl around an iron candlestick, but you stop yourself just before you can bring it down against the glass.

I can’t break it. I need to get in, and he wants to get out. We both want something we can’t have.

You scowl at the mirror just as Riddle vanishes, and then your reflection—your real reflection, broken and despairing—is staring back. Falling to your knees, you hold your head in your hands and sob.

The next few days trickle by like the seemingly never-ending rainfall outside. You pen countless letters to friends, Mrs. Rosehearts, even Riddle himself, but they’re all ripped to shreds before you can sign them. You visit his grave, dressed in all black, crying behind your veil.

“What am I to do, Riddle?” you whisper, clutching your parasol to shield yourself from the winter sun. “It’s an impossible foe. There is no weakness to be found…”

Your choke on your sniffle. No weakness but me. He would do anything for me, would he not? And if he can’t have me… At once, you shake your head. No. I’m not going to resort to such drastic, harmful measures. In the face of adversity, I shall stand tall and proud. I will never falter. I will never waver. That monster killed my husband. I refuse to be cowed into submission by such malevolence!

You bend down and place your gloved hand over the soil. “I never did thank you, Riddle.” A small smile pulls at your tired, sleep-deprived face. “Thank you for all that you have done. You may rest in ataraxy, for I shall put an end to the beast who tormented you in such unspeakable, barbarous ways.”

Smoothing down your skirts, you depart for the Rosehearts Manor.

After eating as much as you can stomach, you spend the rest of the day catching up on lost sleep. With your body and mind now refreshed, you approach the problem from a new angle. A physical altercation is impossible, and you’re certain it will be impossible to truly kill him. If you can’t fight, then you shall talk instead. Riddle was a logical man. Though that monster will never be your Riddle, surely he holds some shred of logic.

And in the event that he can’t be reasoned with…

You touch the pointed tip of a knife and frown. Can I bring myself to wound the creature who wears my husband’s face?

Even though you’re doubtful, you stow it in your satchel with the rest of your tools and trinkets.

This ends tonight, once and for all, even if it kills me.

You sit in front of the mirror and await the tell-tale chime of midnight.

When the mirror’s surface warps and twists, you harden your nerves into that of unbreakable steel.

In the face of adversity…

“Blast it! I’ll kill him,” you snarl and step through the mirror.

It is eerily quiet when you exit on the other side. The house is in shambles, as if a nasty storm has come through and torn up everything in its path. The wallpaper is peeling in thin curls, the portraits are hanging crooked, the mirrors are shattered, and blot paints everything in black. It drips from the ceiling like saliva from a mutt’s mouth.

Swallowing your disgust, you tiptoe out into the hall. Riddle isn’t in his room. In fact, there isn’t much of a room to admire. The door has been thrown against the wall, and everything is tattered. It occurs to you that this Riddle’s love is wrong. It is not love. It is an obsession driven by the greedy desire to possess. You gather what letters you can salvage and stuff them in your satchel, even the ones from Riddle you never received.

What iniquitous meddling. To intercept our communication in such a way… You are nothing more than a parasite that must be snipped away.

Your journey takes you down the stairs. You’re careful to avoid the blot sticking to the steps as you descend, gracefully maneuvering around it. The deeper into the house you venture, the thicker the air becomes. You pinch your nose and squint through the dark haze, pushing aside low-hanging branches and vines. Inky roses sprout from the walls, twisting towards you as you approach. You duck to avoid them.

Moros is waiting for you at the dinner table. It’s set for two. Flowers twine around his seat. It looks more like a grand throne. Yours is much the same.

A Queen needs a King, even when both are destined to fall.

“Riddle.”

“If you would, have a seat. I believe we have an exchange to make.” Your locket drops down in front of your face, dangling from a stem. You reach for it and it shoots back up towards the ceiling. “No, no. That’s not how reasonable conversations are had, (Name). If you think yourself wise, sit down and listen.”

You scowl at him. “What do you want?”

“You’re an intelligent lady. My counterpart fancied that side of you most ardently. He wrote about you often, spoke of your marvelous brain.” He rests his elbows on the table and props his chin on his folded hands. “So you must already know what it is I seek.”

“You… You murdered my husband.”

He slams his hand on the table. The plates clatter from the force. “I didn’t kill him! He withered away of his own accord!”

“What did you do?”

“Sit down.”

“What did you do?”

“Sit. Down.”

“What in blazes did you do to him?!”

“I said, sit down!” Vines shoot out from the darkness. You’re tugged into your seat and held still, posture perfect. A smile twists itself onto his ink-stained lips. “Was that so difficult?”

He waves his hand and more vines come down from the ceiling to grasp the cutlery. You watch as they cut a portion of whatever shapeless filth is on your plate. Refusing to comply, you keep your mouth shut.

“Not hungry? A shame. It’s strawberry. You enjoy strawberries, do you not? Ah, and I suppose that husband of yours fancied them something fierce.”

“Please…” You look at him helplessly, tears shimmering in your glossy gaze. “What did you do to my Riddle? Why did you hurt him?”

“Two cannot exist within the same space. I was never going to be allowed to stay in your world with him around. He was already bound for the grave.” He chuckles to himself. “Rather, it was quite fortuitous that you left for the sea. If you had stayed, I wouldn’t have been able to work so efficiently.”

“So you—you’re the reason he—”

“My (Name) left me stranded here in this hell, but you… You’re perfect. Your love is pure and soft. You are the one.”

“So what are you, truly? You’re not Riddle.”

A flower unfurls before you, its petals drying your tears. He hums.

“You’re mistaken, my rose. Who else am I if not the Riddle you cherish so dearly?”

“You’re Moros, are you not?”

He tilts his head, and you can hear the audible crack of his neck.

“Moros, an entity of doom—of death. Riddle saw you in the mirror when—”

“Not me,” he corrects. “He saw himself—what was to become of him, at least. He also saw you, here with me. This is the very outcome he was hoping to prevent.” Moros barks out a cruel laugh. “And look where it got him! A wooden bed beneath the soil. Oh, but I do understand, though. You’re worth fighting for. Dying for, even. He loved you sincerely, but I shall love you perfectly.”

“You’re a monster.”

“Nooo.” He waggles a vine at you. “I’m your husband. There’s a difference. One is imperfect, a failure. The other… The other is better, an improvement.”

“Oh, forgive me. A parasite.”

“No,” he says, stressing the word. “Try again.”

“A fiend.”

“(Name), my patience is thin as a hair.”

“I will never call you my husband, Moros.”

The vines tighten their grasp just as his face reddens with frustration. His vermillion eyes flash dangerously. You wheeze as the life is squeezed from your lungs.

“S-Stop—I can’t—can’t breathe! Please! R-Riddle… Riddle, please!”

At once, your flowery restraints retreat. He tries a smile next, but it’s tense. As if he could snap at any moment.

“There you are. (Name), my rose, I must say, it is dreadful manners to call your husband by another man’s name. So dreadful, in fact, that it incites the cold-blooded rage in my very veins. If I wished, I could paint these walls in your red. If I wished, I could tear you apart, limb from precious limb, and string you up among my flowers. But I won’t because I love you, and it would cause me immeasurable grief to lose another (Name).”

“Enough prattling. I want my locket.”

“And I have told you before that is not how you negotiate, my dear. Proper etiquette at the table dictates that you must maintain respectable eye contact, and you must never slouch. Nor should you chew with your mouth open, and if you wish to speak you must not mumble or twiddle your thumbs. You must not whine like a petulant child either. If you wish to have your locket—and I cannot fathom why—you must outline your terms. I do realize you’ve been away from your husband far too long, so perhaps he never taught you any manners. Under my rule, that shall change. Under my rule, you will be perfect just as I am.”

You tamp down a foul-mouthed tirade. “Very well. In exchange for the locket, I will give you myself.”

“In what way?”

“In any way you please, but you must first answer my questions. Truthfully.”

He eyes you dubiously. “What might those be?”

“Can you leave through the mirror?”

“I can, but only when you’re asleep.”

“What’s stopping you from existing in my world now that Riddle is gone?”

Moros smiles and the locket falls onto the table, right in front of you. “Your mourning ornament. So long as a piece of him exists in those walls, I am trapped here. As you can imagine, it’s immensely vexing.”

“And who trapped you here?”

“Why, it’s been so long I’ve no recollection. Perhaps a clever witch or a simple mistake… I do so detest living within this dull looking glass.”

“So even if I’m to keep my locket, you wouldn’t be permitted to cross over.”

“Correct. But why do that when you’re already here? You can keep those measly strands of hair. I don’t want your world if you’re not in it. So long as you’re here with me, I can stomach these colorless, glass confines.”

“Then… You’ll give me the locket and I’ll stay here?”

“Indeed.”

“And you’ll release me? I won’t be imprisoned in this…grotesque garden of yours?”

“Will you flee? Ah, but I surmise you couldn’t manage that. Not after three.”

“One more question.”

He narrows his eyes at you.

“What happens if the mirror breaks?”

“No further questions.”

“Answer me! What happens if the mirror breaks, Moros?”

“That’s not my name!”

“Tell me, or else I’ll—” You stop yourself, lower your voice, and soften the anger in your face. “Riddle, dear, please… I don’t want to argue with you.”

He studies your expression for a moment. “Why do you wish to know?”

“Riddle assumed it would give you the means to free yourself.”

“Well, he’s partially correct. If I’m to truly free myself, there must be part of me in your world, much like the hair in that locket. So that, even when the mirror shatters, I can slip out from the remaining shards and cling to that part of my existence.” His red eyes flick to your stomach. “It is a shame you cannot conceive. Even if you escaped my grasp, I could simply follow you if you were—”

“Even if I could, I would never,” you interrupt, tone clipped. “Never. Not with you.”

“Then it is very clear where we shall live from now on. You must forgive the state of our home. I’ll be sure to tidy it soon enough. If we’re to live in perfect harmony, our home must reflect that, yes? You will learn to keep house so that it never falls into ruin.”

“Yes… Yes, I understand. So… So may I—the locket?”

The vines holding you hostage slither away to the shadows, and your locket drops into your outstretched hands. You breathe a relieved sigh and pry it open to check its contents. Both are still intact.

Oh, thank you. He’s okay. He’s safe!

“Now then…” Moros offers an inky hand. “Shall we?”

Tying the broken chain around your neck, you hesitate. Eventually, you place your hand in his. “We shall.”

He sweeps you into an elegant waltz. Thick, gnarled roots shift to allow the two of you passage. He lifts you into the air just before you nearly trip over one of them. If you allowed starry adoration to shroud your sight, perhaps you would have been content remaining in this world. But this wicked place is far from a comfort. Even if your world is devoid of Riddle, it is still infinitely better than this one.

Moros twirls you effortlessly, a smile widening on his lips. “You’ve made me the happiest man, my rose. I am forever honored to have you here with me. You’ll never know just how long I’ve waited, day after day, night after night… Now we can be together forever.”

You cradle his pale face, swiping the murky ink that leaks from his eyes like tears. “Forever and always.”

The musicless dance comes to an end. His hands rest at your waist, unwilling to truly part.

“Wasn’t that just grand?”

You nod along. “I apologize for my previous behavior. It was most unbecoming. Perhaps we might begin anew? Put this mess behind us, yes?”

“My rose…” Vines slither through the shadowy brush, coiling up your legs to root you in place. His grip tightens, and a manic glint darkens his gaze. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“You are no fool, Moros.” Your hand creeps into your satchel, fingers fishing for the handle of your knife. “But you were foolish to take the face of my Riddle, and for that you have brought misfortune upon yourself. It’s unforgivable!”

You yank him towards you via the belts laced around his torso. He’s caught by surprise when you crash your lips against his, whisked away in a rush of ardor. The vines slacken just so as he melts against you, pinned in place by the blade you thrust into his stomach.

And then you’re stumbling away, pitch-black blood stringing between your lips. You wipe the filth away with the back of your hand and turn from the dining room. With trembling hands, Riddle touches the handle wedged deep in his gut. There’s a flash of innocence on his face, a betrayal that carries a somber sort of pain. He looks pitiful for a second before that fearsome temper contorts his expression into something frightfully abominable. Weeds and roots thicken in retaliation, diving right for you.

“You deceitful, ill-mannered cheat!” he fumes, tearing the knife from his abdomen. Blot spatters the ground in a grisly splat. When he flings the knife across the room, blot-blood follows in an arc. “Do you not understand that this is where you belong? This is your home. I’m your husband and you’re my wife—mine! All mine!”

“I’ll never be yours!”

He grits his teeth. “You’ve scorned me for the last time! Get back here or I shall drag you through these halls—dead or alive, with or without your head attached to your shoulders!”

You shriek when he, accompanied by a following of frightful flora, lunges after you. His claws drag against your arm, almost breaking skin, but you manage to shake yourself free, just barely avoiding the vines that reach for you with thorny fingers. He slams into the wall and the whole house seems to shake from the force of it. You catch him clutching his stomach just as you jump over a rose bush sprouting from the cracked tiles.

“Stop! I implore you!” He reaches desperately, eyes wide and terrified. You almost hesitate, but then you remember this is the monster who killed your Riddle—who is trying to imprison you in this corrupt cage. “You can’t leave! I forbid it!”

Shunning him, you bound up the stairs. A stem curls around the bannister and shoots out to seize your ankle, tripping you. Your chin smacks against the steps. Blood fills your mouth shortly after, and you realize you’ve bitten your tongue. It hurts, but you must push through.

“You’re stark raving mad!” You shake your leg free of the vine, but another captures your wrist. “No! Release me!”

“Once you’re in my arms—where you rightfully belong—you shall learn proper discipline so that you conduct yourself in a manner befitting your station!”

Your eyes dart around the hall, searching for a means to escape. There must be something—anything! You can’t let him drag you down these stairs. The moment your foot touches the floor, you’ll never make it back up.

“You’ve yet to see how perfect we’ll be, but in time it will become clear,” he’s saying, watching you from the bottom of the stairs. “Soon… Soon, you’ll understand. Then we shall be wed and you will be mine for all of eternity. I shall employ any means necessary to ensure you remain here at my side, even if it means I must terrorize you only slightly.”

Scrambling with your free hand, you rifle through your satchel for anything useful. Your fingers brush the edge of a little box and the beginning of an idea sparks in your brain.

“I may not have done everything perfectly. I’ve made countless errors in my life and I will make countless more. I’ll never be what you want me to be—what his mother expected from me. But, if nothing else, I will right this wrong.”

You manage to loosen your other arm just enough to pull the matchbox free. In a wild frenzy, you grab hold of one and strike it against the surface of the box.

Moros lurches up the stairs, but you’re prepared. You kick him back down, your sole colliding with his face, and it brings you overwhelming delight to hear him groan in pain. Quite satisfied with yourself, you watch him tumble down the stairs, caught only by his weeds at the very bottom.

The flowers, vines, and roots retreat, shying away from the flickering flame in your hand. You shimmy out of the last one wrapped around your waist. Shrugging the satchel off, you offer the letters stuffed within an apologetic frown before dropping the match inside. The satchel and the now smoldering envelopes land right before Moros’s feet, smoke curling out from the flaps.

You hurry to procure another match and, just as he scrambles to put the first one out, flick it down the steps. The leaves and petals shudder in the heat. Soon enough, they’ll all be caught in a fierce blaze.

“No…” he laments, looking between you and the withering plants. “No! No! No!” His gaze hardens, odium burning behind those malicious red eyes. “Not another step! Do you hear me?!”

You do. You just choose not to listen.

You scurry the rest of the way, stumbling over your clumsy feet, and burst into the bedroom. Your sopping reflection is beckoning you forward with silent urgency. Seaweed hangs from her arms like a cloak. Her skin is bloated. In spite of everything, you trust her wholeheartedly.

A most haunting cry resounds from the hall. It’s filled with indescribable agony, tinged with rage and…fear.

“Don’t leave me! The world out there offers you nothing but misfortune and melancholy. You’ll never survive! You need me!” His shadow is stark against the wallpaper, illuminated by a gradually growing fire. “I can’t—won’t do it again! I refuse to be alone! I refuse! I’m right… Always right… And yet…”

Clutching the locket secured around your throat, you take hold of the hand offered in the mirror. She pulls you through for a final time just as another anguished scream pierces the air.

You fall out of the mirror on your hands and knees, chest heaving with exhilaration.

“I… I’m free. Free from that monster’s grasp!” You check yourself over just in case and, finding all to be well, breathe a relieved sigh. “It’s over…”

A thump against the mirror startles you. You turn back to see a thin, spidery arm reaching for the glass. His clawed fingertips touch the surface, but they don’t pass through. Instead, they tap a steady rhythm.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

Within minutes, he’s pounding a fist against the glass. You jerk away and hold tightly to the locket pin. It occurs to you that you’ll never truly be rid of Moros unless you destroy him. He can still slip out of the mirror when you’re slumbering, even if only for a few hours.

You dread to imagine what wretched feats he may be capable of when you submit to the land of dreams every night.

So you lift the heaviest candlestick you can find and, just as the tolling of three o’clock calls up from below, smash the mirror to pieces. The last you see of Moros is his frightful countenance awash in firelight. He looks more like a demon than a replica of your husband, inhuman features elongated like taffy stretched too far.

You’re not sure how long you spend destroying the mirror frame, but in the aftermath you allow the candlestick to fall from your hand. You deflate against the floor, gazing at the ceiling.

“It’s finally over. No longer shall we be tormented by that fiend…”

You gather the shards and stow them in a box. Come tomorrow, it will be filled with rocks, locked and bound in chains, and tossed into the river.

For now, you climb into Riddle’s bed and, soothing yourself with the warm memories you have of him, slowly succumb to sleep.

Moros’s Looking Glass is no more.

“Oh, if you could only hear his death wail!” you recount to Riddle’s grave over tea and biscuits. There’s a cup and plate set for him, placed just near his headstone. “Shrill as a squall. I was so certain it might fill my ears with blood if it went on any longer. I should hope to never encounter another sound more thunderous.”

You hum around the porcelain rim. “If you were with me today, I suspect we’d have a grand celebration. Only the victors delight in the secret spoils of a battle hard-fought.”

The sun is peeking out through feathery cumulus today. Warmed beneath the rays, boasting the locket pin on your breast, you don’t seem so gloomy in your mourning wear. Rather, you’re hopeful. Riddle can finally rest.

“Oh! I never did have the opportunity to recount my travels. The seaside is marvelous. Simply exquisite, my dear. Full of enchanting mystery. The sailors at port spin all manner of tales! I fear it may have haunted my head for the rest of my stay, for I was certain I saw shimmering tails out by the rocks. Ah, but these grotesque sirens could never hope to impress a jot of fear in me.”

I’ve endured far worse.

“Riddle…” You rest your hand upon the grass, smoothing out verdant blades beneath your palm. “I adore you.”

A gentle breeze whistles through the churchyard. You smile.

If you strain your ears, you can almost hear his voice on the wind, reciprocating the sentiment.

Five Years Later.

At the bottom of the river, stowed away in a box with rocks, shards of glass have been laid to rest.

A single red eye blinks open in the dark, trapped within the reflective surface.

Hands bring the box up onto shore, where three children crowd around it.

“What you’ve dug up this time?” the little girl asks, kneeling on the shore.

“It’s a treasure chest!” one of the boys exclaims.

“Is it truly?”

“Look, see!” The other points.

Together, they drop a particularly heavy stone onto the rusted, water-worn chains. They break apart seamlessly.

“Blast. No key.”

“Surely we can break it in?”

“Let’s give it a go.”

It takes some effort, but soon enough they’ve dented the mechanism. The box pops open, revealing shards of glittering glass. With a disappointed grumble, one of the boys lifts a chunk towards the sky. The sun catches it, reflecting its rays beautifully.

“Nothin’ but mess. Worthless.”

“Ya think? If we patch it up, it’ll sell for a few shillings. I declare thee: Magic Mirror of Mystery.” He turns towards his friends and grins. “What do ya reckon?”

“This isn’t even worth a week’s bread. Throw it back.”

“It could be worth something small.”

“Hmm. No. I reckon I’ll keep it. Let’s make it a gift.”

“Who for?”

“Lady Rosehearts! She’s always givin’ us our share for survival. We gotta pay it back. Mummy always said you pay kindliness with more kindliness and you’ll never go hungerin’.”

“Oh, that’s marvelous! I shall make a necklace out of the smaller pieces! It’ll be so pleasing.” The little girl giggles in delight, admiring the shards sparkling in the box.

“And I’ll put the pieces together into somethin’ sturdy.”

They exchange eager glances and then gather the shards, leaving an empty box in their wake.

#yandere twst #yandere twst x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere riddle rosehearts #yandere riddle rosehearts x reader #yandere riddle #yandere riddle x reader

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tamby-teeze · 8 months ago

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Okay, so I know a solid 40% of the new Fantasy High was about Tracker "There's still deep attraction here" O'Shaughnessy, but HERE ME OUT

Gertie Bladeshield is the perfect woman for Kristen Applebees.

Cause, like, look, there was a lot of talk in episode 11 about impulsivity and chaos as an aspect of Kristen's character, mainly in how it's mirrored in Princess "Kristen if she had money" Naradriel, but it's also been a general focus this season, especially in how she often uses it to guard her emotions. Think back to "That's what you think", an incredible improv moment, but if you look at the big picture, Kristen's estranged parents make an incredibly inflammatory statement about her religion right after actively bullying her little brother, and instead of honoring any of the actual negative emotions she's being filled with in that moment, she pirouettes away. It's brought up in the adventuring party after this exact episode how Kristen is a cleric, a high-wisdom class that is naturally insightful, but uses these silly deflections to hold other people back from being insightful into her (hence Mac & Donna's lifetime insight disadvantage)

This isn't just limited to small moments, too. To take a broader look at the season so far, Kristen's chaotic, shrimp-jumping, wrangler-wearing, salsa-dipping, middle-school-campaigning, steel-workers-union-supporting bid for class president is often shown explicitly as a distraction from her existentially important job as the only cleric of Cassandra. Even when trying to earnestly apologize to Cassandra and prove to them that she's gonna prioritize her over class presidency, the only way she can articulate it is "You're the meat, mama." Her emotions are always guarded by some amount of chaos and impulsivity.

Now, how does that relate to Gertie "I've had a crush on you for a really long time" Bladeshield?

In both of the two scenes we've gotten of The Best D20 NPC (/j (but I do really like her)), Gertie has shown a pretty similar propensity for making bold, chaotic decisions in the heat of the moment. However, in my observation, these decisions do NOT come from a place of emotional suppression. Quite the opposite, actually.

Think back to her Grand Entrance into the narrative. Gertie, being one of the last people awake at Fabian's party, gifts her longtime-crush a jar of honey, something that connects directly to her passion/special-interest of beekeeping, in a homemade container designed as a pun on Kristen's last name. (in hindsight, the crush was very obvious) Then, in the middle of her infodumping to her about honey, Kristen's rich friend makes an incredibly dismissive remark about her good-natured gift. This obviously pisses her off, but unlike Kristen "That's what you think" Applebees, Gertie "I don't give a shit who's kid you are" Bladeshield lets herself feel those emotions very loudly, immediately starts a duel with possibly one of the most accomplished sword-fighters in the history of Aguefort, and declares him a life-long nemesis. She acts very brashly and impulsively, but in a way that doesn't hide her emotions, instead expressing them.

(I know there's a lot of talk about outbursts of anger being tied to Ankarna, but not only does the scene not really seem like foreshadowing to me, it's more interesting to see it through the lens of being Gertie's actual actions)

This trend continues with the 12th most noteworthy thing to have happened in episode 11 (which incredibly high acclaim), where after being explicitly asked to talk about bees by her crush, and being placed inches away from her face, kisses her on the lips. Now, excusing the albeit upsetting lack of consent, it once again shows Gertie acting very impulsively in a way that exposes her feelings to the people she likes. With these two instances of characterization being literally the only two scenes we get with her, it poses her as a very interesting parallel to Kristen, someone who shares in her willingness to make impulsive decisions, but differs wildly from her in the way she uses them to react to strong emotions.

However, does this really make Gertie the Autism to her ADHD?

(idk if Gertie really shows autistic traits, I just wanted to say that) Well, part of what Tracker a good companion for Kristen was that, as a fellow cleric, she naturally had very high wisdom, meaning she had enough insight to look past the layers of shrimp and salsa and engage with her on a deep level. However, clerics aren't the only class that cast spells with wisdom, so do rangers, including swarm-keeper rangers, which is a subclass that both has a good few abilities focused on spell-casting and was confirmed to be Gertie's subclass in an adventuring party. While her highest stat still could be dex (which, come to think of it, is a hilarious contrast to Kristen), there's no doubt that Gertie has a higher chance than most at being able to look past Kristen's barriers and see the complex hive of sweet, buzzing emotions underneath.

Hell, maybe that's where Gertie's crush comes from in the first place. Maybe, seeing this popular, proudly sapphic cleric be incredibly playful and chaotic on school grounds, she not only saw a bit of herself, but a little more. Perhaps, the type of mind that dedicates itself to allowing small, harmless critters to prosper even when no-one cares to join her club, is also the type of mind able to recognize when someone isn't allowing their truest emotions to prosper, making her wonder if they might have something to gain from sharing some of that chaos, using it not to hide, but to be free.

Or maybe it's just cause her last name has "bees" in it, idk.

#even if Gertie's crush gets played off as a bit #I love gertie so goddamn much #and she deserves more love #fantasy high #gertie bladeshield #kristen applebees #d20 fhjy #dimension 20 fhjy #fantasy high junior year #bladebees #beesbees #appleshield #gert's bees

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c-tepx · 5 months ago

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I think out of everyone in the party chilchuck and laios would be the most miserable out of dungeon.

laios is obvious. he didn't have any solid dreams in life or a career path. he doesn't like interacting with overs and he loves monsters.

it's easy for him to fantasize about falin's future life but he doesn't talk about himself at all

look how young he was when he left home! and of all things to do he picked army - a no brainer decision, clear choice without the need to think for yourself

before being reunited with falin laios was truly miserable. because the only goal in his mind was "get more money". But when he started traveling with his sister not only it helped his mental state but also he found his niche.

and laios is a good party leader! finally, something for him. like falin and her magic, he has the dungeon. it's both the thing that laios like and something that pays money too - the whole "find a job you'll like and you'll never work" nonsense.

chilchuck on the outside seems.. not that interested. and he'll probably will find something to occupy himself with - maybe the union thing or opening a shop. but. lockpicking IS his hobby.

yeah, I bet chilchuck is meticulous about it because the whole party quite literally can die if he's not careful enough. but it's clear that he enjoys it too.

and the thing is... i bet it's miserable to be surrounded by people with all of his heightened senses. sure dungeon has it's monsters but still it's not as loud as a city full of tall men

I'm sure both of them would be fine, at least at this point in life - they have family and friends and well, you can always pick another hobby and a new interest.

but

it's like they were cherry picked for their roles and they fit it's so so perfect it's hard to even imagine them in different scenarios

#i was thinking about the epilogue #and their lives.#sure dungeon is not.. the best thing all things considered #but consider this #laios is so happy #laios deserves to be happy!!#all im saying is. they should build a mini dungeon retreat #dungeon meshi #dunmeshi #laios touden #chilchuck tims #dunmeshi laios #dunmeshi chilchuck #ctepx.txt

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braxiatel · 24 days ago

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Traffic series team ups I’m hoping to see in the new season

Joel, Bdubs, and Gem. The snippy builder ethogirls have unionised but it’s The Most toxic union ever. I think they would bite bite maim kill each other on the daily but also anyone who threatened their allies. One of them probably ends up winning.

Scar, Lizzie, Mumbo, and BigB. I call this team “can say the most insane things and make you think it’s normal”. High charisma, with BigB being the only one who didn’t make wisdom his dump stat. I want them to gaslight, gaslight, gaslight the server and also me <3 They will surely die early.

Impulse, Grian, Martyn, and Skizz. Three gals who are sooooooooo so so so paranoid and a guy who is so loyal that he would literally die for all of them. What can possibly go wrong? I call it “who is getting the Skizz and who is getting the knife in the back in the inevitable divorce”

Ren, Cleo, and False. I am manifesting False AND Ren return all in one. Their scathing but also weirdly respectful dynamic that time they streamed plate up together lives rent free in my head and I Need More. They are like the couple across the street who are always either arguing or flirting loudly outside and late at night, except you don't know which of them is actually the couple.

Tango and Scott. You have no idea how tempted I was by having a solo Tango go full chaos gremlin after being abandoned by his life series partner for life, Skizz. But you know what's also good? Putting Scott "I am perfect and my allies must be as well. That's why I'll die for them!" Smajor with Tango - who loooves to build traps that 1) are both deadly and complex 2) blow up in his own face.

Jimmy. Having beaten the canary curse he is left to fend for himself. It goes about as well as you'd expect, in no way helped by the fact that people Cannot stop picking on him.

Etho and Pearl. Just two bros who respect each other sharing an apartment. Even though they are both chaotic in their own way I honestly feel like theirs would be the most chill POV of the season.

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nyashykyunnie · 6 months ago

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˗ˏˋ Loveless Marriage Au: Jinwoo x Reader ◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ ˎˊ˗

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚𝕊𝕦𝕟𝕘 𝕁𝕚𝕟𝕨𝕠𝕠˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

・┆✦ Entry : 026 ✦ ┆・

‼️[ TW: Angst to Fluff, Forced Marriage, Jealousy, Self-deprecation, Self-hatred, Implied Yandere Jinwoo ]

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅ Cai Bot Link ♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅ Route 1 || Route 2 ₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚

╰┈➤ ❝ [ I've always hid everything from you; and for that, I hate myself a lot ] ¡! ❞

There was an awkward air around the two of you due to the fact that it was an arranged marriage. It was a loveless union with the two of you.You had been there, you know how Jinwoo rose from being a placeholder to the world's most hailed hunter.And he had a secret, a secret that was you— His wife that he kept hidden from everyone else "I'm back" Jinwoo said as he went inside your shared apartment, his gaze as languid and empty like always. He felt cold, cold like he always had been.

You expected it in a way, after all, you're both arranged by your parents for some reason and even now you still treat each other like a pair of strangers just forced to share a house.

When he was an E-ranker, Jinwoo still had some courage to talk with you no matter how awkward and shy he gets. But after his accident in one E-ranked dungeon— There was a visible shift in the air around the both of you.

Jinwoo started to feel more distant. The more he grew, the more handsome he became— He felt more distant.

It was as if he was a star gleaming in your lonely dark sky, a star so close and yet so far.

Many times you tried to get his attention, but the blank look on his face made your heart shut down and end up avoiding him instead.

As he rose to fame, you became proud of him. Wanting to extend your congratulations but never got the chance since he is always busy with work or running off somewhere for some reason.

With the limelight shining directly on top of his head. The world is now aware of all his glory and his perfections.

His perfect grey eyes that are seemingly plucked from the finest jewels, his once childish and wimpy face had seemingly gone through such puberty that he is now a complete man, his features are perfectly angled, his demeanour of being distant added more to his allure.

With that spotlight came the eyes of many people, eyes that either praised him, hated him, but most importantly,... Eyes that yearned to have him as theirs.

It was fine at first since you had expected it.

But the more people loved Jinwoo, the more insecure and lonely you would get.

It was slowly eating at your head. Clawing your already insecure heart.

But why are you throwing a tantrum like this anyway? After all, you and your husband aren't even meeting eye-to-eye literally and figuratively.

When was the last time you two had ever sat down for a meal together?

Have you ever been on a date anyway?

Honeymoon? Never.

Jinwoo has never touched you affectionately, the only time he ever kissed you was in your wedding ceremony.

But even then that kiss was forced by both of you, maybe Jinwoo had secretly wiped his lips off when you weren't looking at the time.

You're not even sleeping in the same room.

Why are you being selfish when you are not the apple of his eye?

What are you trying to prove here?

⋅ ˚ ₊ ‧ ଳ ‧ ₊ ˚ ⋅ ⋆ ౨ৎ ˚ ⟡ ˖ ࣪

As you sulked on the couch, the tv was on and playing the live interview that Jinwoo is currently on.

You listened attentively as Jinwoo was asked questions and answered. You can't help but chuckle bitterly whenever you hear stuff you never knew about Jinwoo.

It made you feel more pathetic, more disgusted at yourself, more hateful at the fact that you’re not a worthy wife since you don’t even know the most basic thing about your supposed husband.

As you felt yourself sinking into your own depression— You heard a question that made your heart drop in an instant:

“So, hunter Sung,” The host muses politely with an excited grin on their face.”When do you plan to court Miss Cha Hae-in?”

Your hand instinctively reached for the remote beside you and turned off the tv.

You didn’t want to hear his answer. You knew the answer and you didn’t want to know if you were correct or what. You don’t want to know whatever the hell he’s going to say.

Of course,

You should have expected this in the first place.

His embrace was never for you in the first place. Your connection was nothing more formed from a crudely tied knot that is tangled pathetically. It was obvious that the threads were tied when they shouldn’t be in the first place.

Jinwoo’s affections were never bequeathed upon you, because it suits to be bestowed on someone as great as Cha Hae-in herself. After all, she is a brilliant saintess that everyone adored.

Everything about her is simply perfection.

Pretty, strong, a kind soul, and most importantly a strong hunter who can fight alongside Jinwoo in dire times.

You? What are you in all that?

That person’s adorations that you yearn so much can never be bestowed upon your pitiful soul. The only thing you can ever receive from him are empty grey orbs that seemingly wrap you around in sharp vines. That distant and cold look prickle at your skin and mostly at your heart that has already been scarred with this loveless bind.

The more you love him, the more painful everything is. Living with your unreciprocated yearning was clawing at your very being. It was as if you were running in a black void barefoot with nowhere to run to. You’re only reaching your hands out into the empty abyss ahead of you with some semblance of hope that maybe someone would reach out and yank you out of the darkness you have drowned in for so long.

A part of you wished those hands would be your beloved’s, that it would be Jinwoo’s hands tenderly holding your cold palms.

That maybe for once his tender voice would grace your ears. That for once you could call him your husband.

But even with your wishes, all you have are your meaningless daydreams and prayers.

Day by day, you endured all the wounds that are carved out into your pathetic beating heart.

As your eyes glistened with tears, you choke up in all your pent up sadness and sob into the air with all your heart.

Perhaps your pain is from the fact that your head has been hurting all day despite taking medications already. But now, with the added misery of knowing you don't deserve your husband makes you more depressed.

You just wanted to disappear completely.

You wanted to rip your heart out so that you could no longer feel the painful ache in your chest.

You yearned for the sweet release of subjecting yourself into eternal sleep.

As you cried your heart out, you suddenly felt a pair of unfamiliar arms wrapping around your frame.

Your eyes wouldn’t process everything for a while until they eventually did adjust.

Once your eyes cleared, you could see some ebony black locks from your view. As that image translated in your eyes, your nose would catch a waft of a distinctive aroma that you can’t quite describe. It was somewhere between a floral sound and something that you can't quite put a finger on since it’s so unique on it’s own.

“Sssh” A familiar voice hushes you, “It’s alright, it’s alright”

It would only register that it’s the person you’ve been missing after a few more rubs at the back of your head.

It was Jinwoo himself.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Jinwoo apologises over and over again as he buries his lips on the side of your head. “It’s all my fault, it’s all my fault.”

Why was he apologising anyway? He kept saying a strand of sorries and all that and it made you cry your heart out even more.

Jinwoo would feel a tug in his chest, a type of pain he didn’t want to have but he knew deserved because of the pain he was putting you through.

He had never been honest with you, he never tried to ever grow close to you. Instead, he just pushed you away.

He had all the power he had, he had all the money and fame and yet in the face of your broken sobs and tear-streaked features— He became utterly powerless and helpless.

“Look at me, look at me” Jinwoo coaxes you ever so lovingly as he swipes your strands off of your pretty face. “Please look at me”

His gentle begging eventually caught your attention enough to finally see his gaze again.

The normally empty grey orbs were now uncharacteristically warm and sweet, with a bit of trembling in his look in which he tries to mask off.

“I’m not going anywhere, I’m not courting anyone.” Jinwoo says firmly but sweetly. “I’m not going with her, she’s just a colleague. Nothing more nothing less.”

You wanted to ask Jinwoo how he knew that, but your words were instead swallowed up by your sobs and making you babble out incoherent things.

But even with your messy expressions, Jinwoo was still patient with you and instead pressed your foreheads against each other.

“I never…” Jinwoo sighs, taking a deep gulp as he starts to explain his size of the story.

He wanted to end the misunderstandings once and for all.

“I never hated you, it’s my fault for treating you like trash for the past years instead of adoring you like a proper husband, and instead I was blinded by my job and entirely lost sight of you” He takes a heavy sigh, the tone of his voice completely remorseful of his actions. “But that doesn’t justify how much of a jerk I am towards you. For that, I’m sorry. I’m so… So Sorry— And no.”

Jinwoo suddenly butts in, interrupting your words. “Just because we are married by paper doesn’t mean I have the right to treat you the way I did. Please, please don’t ever… Ever… Look down on yourself because of this. I'll always choose you regardless of who the world offers to me in a golden platter. I'll choose you.”

He gently swipes his thumb over your cheek, wiping away the pearl-shaped tears adorning your precious face.

“How about we start again, hm?” Jinwoo suggested with a loving smile on his handsome features as he stretched his palm out, revealing a pair of rings with brilliant gemstones that gleamed as it illuminated with the touch of light, “This time, I’ll stop being a jerk around you. Let’s start slow and steady, I won’t hide things from you anymore I promise. That is,... If you are willing to try again with me?”

When you nod your head in agreement, Jinwoo smiles gently before slipping the ring into your finger and leaning down to kiss it— As if he was casting a spell or some sort.

Or maybe he is making a quiet promise that from now on, he will clear your mind of any sort of doubt of anything regarding that you are undeserving of your position as his wife.

Jinwoo tugs you closer to his chest, letting you cry into his chest more while his fingers return to playing with the back of your head.

“So, hunter Sung,” The host muses politely with an excited grin on their face.”When do you plan to court Miss Cha Hae-in?” “... A wife.” Jinwoo mutters, his fists balling up as his jaw clenched from both anger and the shamelessness of the question. “Pardon?” The host blinks, confused at Jinwoo’s words before “Ah so do you—” “Don’t force words into my mouth.” Jinwoo says strictly, his grey eyes gleaming a terrifying colour of violet. “I said, I have a wife waiting for me at home. And that person is not the respectable Miss Cha Hae-in.” “Mr Sung I—” The host was once again interrupted by Jinwoo’s words. “I would appreciate it if hosts such as yourself stop forcing your rumours onto people like me” He says, with his patience growing even thinner the more he spends time on this couch that isn’t even comfortable to hang out on. “May I remind all of you that I am not a celebrity to be hailed and fawned over, I’m a hunter and I’m only here for formalities. I’m not here to satisfy your goddamn thirsts for drama.” “My lord,” Igris’s voice calls to his master urgently. “Your wife…” “What’s going on?” Jinwoo replies immediately telepathically. “My liege’s beloved is currently unstable and crying uncontrollably” Igris explains “They are currently viewing this… Show of some sort but turned off the screen after the question has been asked.” Jinwoo’s heart dropped at Igris’s report. His expression was pale as white as a sheet as the hunter stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere else better to go than wasting my time here” Jinwoo says, immediately disintegrating into the shadows to teleport to where his lover is. Though normally teleporting takes just a fraction of a second— That fraction suddenly felt like an eternity as his mind raced. His worries for the past few weeks have finally manifested into full fruition. He knew that his fame was both beneficial and detrimental to his already nonexistent relationship with his wife. His wife who had always been there. Despite not exchanging any words with each other, his wife had always stuck by his side. He gave them the choice to leave and have a better life. And yet, they had stayed with him. They have seen him at his worst, their faith in him unmoving like a steady mountain. Yet, he has never once reciprocated their devotion. He mostly shied away from trying to make a move on them. He had long been planning to start a conversation with them, to ask if they would give them a chance to actually fix their relationship as a couple. Jinwoo had prepared rings too, he found the stones in an S-ranked gate and thought that his wife must like it and commissioned a jeweller to make matching wedding rings with stones. He wanted something elegant and simple, just like his wife. His beloved that never asked him for anything, his wife that never threw a tantrum towards him. Jinwoo often wished his wife was more selfish, he wished they would demand things from him, he wished that his wife could yell at him and tell him things instead of walking on eggshells around each other. He craved to have a connection with them. Jinwoo badly wanted to be affectionate with his beloved.

And now having them in his arms, he felt both victorious and an odd mix of sadness. He held you closer to his chest, cradling and kissing the crown of your head. He loves you so much that he wants to rip everyone to shreds because of this moment but he also wants to just hold you closer to his own chest.

All you have to do is ask really, you just have to tell him what you want and he would have heads rolling at the tip of your feet. That host that dared to ask that question, maybe he should murder that bastard for causing you to wail like this.

However, that bastard also helped in opening this situation that the both of you needed to have.

“Huuu….” Jinwoo sighs, leaning his head back on the wall before kissing your temple over and over. “I’m here now, so don’t worry. I’m going to love you the way I should have been from the start, I’ll pamper you so much so that you’ll become a spoiled brat. Even if you throw things at me, I don’t care. I’ll rip my chest open and offer you my heart because you are my wife. Whatever you want me to do, I will do it”

ʚ(੭´͈ ᐜ `͈)੭ .｡✧･ﾟ: ~♡ —! stories written by kyunnie; translations, reposts, plagiarism are strictly forbidden.

#sung jinwoo #solo leveling #sung jin woo #only i level up #solo leveling headcanons #sung jinwoo fics #sung jinwoo x reader #solo leveling x reader #ore dake level up na ken #sung jinwoo headcanons #‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡🪐༘⋆— kyunnie's writings

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favcharacterpoll · 1 year ago

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SEMIFINALS MATCH 2: QUILL VS. KERMIT

why is he still here

Quill Propaganda:

"He's such a loser. Has beef with 3 16 year olds. He's like 4'10. Had one of the best character arcs ever. He almost died. His sword is bejeweled."

"guys vote for my son quilliam and his stupid little bedazzled sword"

"you wanna punch his face in in the first book and by the end you're sobbing buckets and loving and protecting him as if he were your own and my closing argument: it would be really really fucking funny"

"VOTE QUILL HE HAS FUNNY GOGGLES AND IS BEEFING WITH A TEENAGER BECAUSE THAT TEENAGER STABBED HIM IN THE ASS DURING A FENCING COMPETITION WHEN HE WAS LIKE 11 AND QUILL NEVER GOT OVER IT"

“new propaganda his ass has goggles & they leave red rings on his face & demonstrate even more how stupid he is”

“more propaganda we fuucking hate him”

☠Sticky, Shaggy, Sans Undertale, Luigi, Kim Dokja, Zagreus☠

Kermit Propaganda:

"Kermit is the best ever and I love him ❤️"

"Kermit is sag aftra"

"ofc i support kermit the frog he’s a small business owner he’s an artist he’s an actor he’s a union man he loves his wife he’s a babygirl literally he is the perfect man"

"This one, I'm pulling from Kermit because it's Kermit the Frog. He's an independent artist who has multiple movies in which he refuses to sell out and also the accidental implication that he caused 9/11."

"if kermit wins I'll write a scene of him and Scar hanging out" [@the-joju-experience ]

"Kermitgang motherfuckers"

"It would be so on brand for Kipps to lose to a frog"

"he [kipps] deserves to get his butt kicked in by Kermit"

☠Claude Von Riegan, Pizza, Balthazar Cavendish, Scout, Mia Fey, Zuko, Soundwave, Gideon Nav☠

#polls #quill kipps #lockwood & co #lockwood and co #kermit the frog #kermit #the muppets #muppets #the muppet show

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taffywabbit · 1 year ago

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idk if i'm way off the mark on this, but the way some people are responding to that Guillermo del Toro interview about the decline of studio animation is a bit frustrating to me. specifically the bit where he talks about "emoji animation" and how everything is over-animated and pushed too far and things are rarely allowed to not be ultra-cartoony (y'know, because animation always needs to be marketable to children who are never trusted to have attention spans, right?). like, i think he's generally correct about it! but some folks are taking the wrong message away from that.

i've seen people going off about how "soulless" and "corporate" various recent examples are, and talking about these pieces of media as though they're the result of some kind of personal failing or lack of skill/range on the part of the animators, and it's just like. do people realize that's the only animation you're usually allowed to DO in the industry, unless you get incredibly lucky and land yourself on a project/studio that's unusually cool?

when i was in college for animation it was literally drilled into us nonstop that everything had to be pushed more, that exaggeration was not a guideline or a sometimes-treat but a hard rule that always had to be applied regardless of what was going on, because the viewer couldn't be trusted to pick up on subtlety and we sure as hell couldn't be trusted to convey it. you ever wonder why there's such a specific vibe to a lot of self-directed student films, particularly ones that are focused on character acting/interaction or deep emotions and introspection (especially when there's minimal/no dialogue)? it's because for a lot of young animators, they haven't had the freedom to experiment with realism and subtlety up to that point and they're likely not going to have it again for a while (or at all, unless their career path leads to higher positions where they might have more creative direction over the things they work on. which also becomes a lot less likely if they're anything other than a cishet white dude, for what it's worth).

i would LOVE to see more nuanced, realistic, understated motion and acting in animation. i WANT more characters to be able to express what they're feeling through natural body language and facial cues and for scenes to allow me to breathe instead of spelling everything out in giant bold flashing text all the time. what del Toro wants to see changed in the animation industry sounds great, and i hope others join him in seeking to revamp what modern animation is allowed to be.

but as things currently stand, and as they've stood for a long while now, most artists doing the grunt work on the shows and movies you see are completely at the mercy of corporations and networks who have a vested interest in producing a very specific kind of marketable and cost-efficient media all the time. (and by extension that style is ALSO what's taught in most animation schools, because their job more than anything is to grind you down into a perfect little sweatshop worker who will bend over backwards to meet quotas and get your work approved and not question the higher-ups, even if you have little to no personal investment in the projects you're working on, so that the studios who employ you can maintain their good reputations or whatever)

anyways idk what my point was here, this really just sorta became a rant and my views have undoubtedly been coloured by my own personal experiences (this kinda shit is largely why i dropped out before my last year of animation school, for the record).

i guess just be kind to folks in the animation industry? they've had it fucking rough nonstop for well over a century (the majority of them are still not unionized and there's HUGE pushback against doing so in many places). i assure you they are doing their best to infuse the latest uninspired illumination flick or weird spinoff kids' show with literally any amount of soul they can. you don't have to like the stuff that gets produced by any means! be a hater! i'm certainly not gonna stop you. just remember where these creative decisions come from and why these conditions exist, and consider that when YOU watched something and thought "hmm that could've been done better", you can bet your ass someone actually working on it probably thought the same thing but couldn't do anything about it. these things WILL change as the industry itself improves, but in the meantime folks have to pay their rent, and that usually means doing what they're told and working in a way that will minimize revisions and meet quotas so they can keep their jobs. it sucks, but it is what it is.

#buny text #long post #animation #i don't have a rant tag because i don't necessarily want to encourage myself to make posts like this frequently #but this is obviously a touchy subject that's close to home for me and it felt important to get it out #i realize i am on the Getting Super Mad At People Who Make Popular Media website so hopefully this does not bite me in the ass

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sevilai · 8 months ago

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Auuhg okay I'm caving and posting these

Very shortly after I made This Piece my brain took it and ran with it into an entire AU! I wanted to make a kind of introduction post to the concept, but I think I know myself well enough to know that waiting will just end in my never doing it lol So I'll just talk about it here!

This AU is based around the idea that instead of using void to defeat the Radiance, the king's plan was instead to raise an army of godlings. Not empty vessels meant to contain her, but vessels of holy light meant to literally outshine her.

They're a little different biologically of course. They are perfect unions of godly power unmarred by void. They look more like you'd expect and behave more like you'd expect; they speak, they feel, they have a will of their own. They share both their parents incandescence. They're a bit strange, most of them seeming aloof or detached, like their minds are always somewhere else. It’s thought amongst castle staff that the godly light within them gives them access to a higher plane of thought, one that’s far more intriguing to them than any mortal woes.

They also seem to have inherited a particular, special ability from their father(which is a special tool we'll use later!)

This the first vessel of the army, the firstborn of the royal family. With the sheer number of vessels born, the king gave up on naming them all, but holding this hatchling in his hands, he knew that this child would be Worthwhile. Also known as Worthy, Double, or much to their dismay, Father's Favorite. They know well their purpose and they are proud to lead their siblings as their commander.

Honestly my story for this AU centers a little more around Ghost and Hornet, but I have a lot of THOUGHTS and FEELINGS about all the other vessels as they grew up and I want to explore it more! I do have more art and MUCH more lore but I'll save it for later posts.

I'll be tagging everything about it as the "Outshine AU" as I work with it!

#for a little further explanation on the nickname “Double”#It's because “Double-W” sounds really obnoxious and their siblings just dropped the W part lol #And it also works with the double F!#my art #hollow knight #hollow knight thk #hk thk #hk the hollow knight #hk hollow #hk pure vessel #pure vessel #the hollow knight #hollow knight au #alternate universe #au design #hk au #Outshine AU #id in alt text

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muzanswaifu · 2 years ago

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Bittersweet

Demon! Sanemi x Fem! Reader

18+

Request: "I have been waiting to read something like this for so long. Demon Sanemi craving blood because fem!reader is on her period, so yk he eats her out without mercy❤️"

Demon Sanemi is so mean I love hiiiim :3 Need me a man who would eat me out on my period 😒 Jk jk that shit gotta taste nastyyyyyyy

NSFW Warnings: Yandere, Non-con, Smut, Sexism, Kidnapping, Forced Oral Sex, Cunnilingus, Menstruation, Blood Kink, Forced Orgasm, Kinda Gross ngl

The rhythmic pitter-patter of feet echoes through the green, a slow churn of water thrumming with the flow of the current. Even the thick noise of crickets and wind couldn't drown out the hint of life found deep in the brush, the figurative curl of a finger beaconing him to draw closer, to close the union of rarity.

He took a breath. A deep one. Taking in the pungent scent of weak males. And a female.

Shinazugawa could nearly taste the delectable meat already, the flavor settling on his tongue and seducing his taste buds. Drool nearly threatened his mouth, but he withheld himself. He wasn't an animal. Not technically, anyway.

But he might as well be. Only an animal could hunt as he did, track as he did, kill as he did. But a beast was not nearly as precise as he was, not leaving even a scrap of evidence in his wake. Only the crime scene would be found, a gorey scene of bone and torn flesh, remnants of his well-earned meal. But only the males would wither...

As for the female -

Oh gods, did just the thought of it make him salivate, his very bones trembling with need. Her scent alone made him feel weak with hunger, his tongue curling with horrid intent. The fragrance was familiar to him, a vague memory of his past existence of rare blood, the same unique trait only serving as a grand pillar toward his success as a demon. Her blood ran the same, her veins full of the powerful elixir that his kind would quite literally kill each other for. But he had no need for such rivalry.

The path the cattle strode upon was a hidden one, veiled by a plentiful layer of wisteria about fifty feet aways on either side of the trail. The effort wasn’t so useless, he supposed. Perhaps it served useful against weaker demons of no rank, the fiends not yet powerful enough to develop some resistance to it. But his godly build was stronger, the frail flower only giving his skin a lingering sting. His hunger far outweighed it.

He had long stalked his prize. The demon had patience in these rare situations, biding his time for the perfect opportunity to make his efforts all the more worth it. It had been several moons ago that he’d first stumbled upon her delivery across these lands, his keen eye catching the lingering dust kicked up by the horses that pulled her carriage. Even back then, the chance had been perfect. The men were unknowing, all walls of defense down as the car came to a halt, surely one of exhaustion. Shinazugawa drew closer, only a breath away from finally feasting when his vision was obscured by a heavenly vision.

A small thing she was, her skirts nearly catching under her feet as she gracefully stepped down from her traveling abode. The moonlight shimmered brilliantly off her glazed skin as she bent her delicate neck back, stretching out the aching tightness trapped there. Her (h/c) hair was frizzy across the outline, the static from the summer heat pulling at the threads and giving them a coiled curl. His maw fell open with his amazement.

He’d come across several humans of marechi blood in his infinite lifetime, and most, if not all, were nothing much to look at, quite ugly in his opinion. They all bore the same simplicity and naïveté, their only unique trait being their delectable composition that gave them their sole purpose of feasting. But she was so drastically different.

Everything about this female sang rarity, her natural features reminiscent of that of ancient goddesses that mortal men could only wish to touch. But here she was. Within an arm’s reach, he could have her, do with her what he wished. He was nearly disgusted with himself, being far more captivated with his food than he should’ve been. Sparing her of death would’ve been such a waste of opportunity, one that even those lower than him wouldn’t have been so idiotic as to squander. Yet, his own self-doubt swallowed him as he drew back into the dark wood, letting her little toy soldiers bring her back to the safety of the nearing daylight.

He’d gorged himself after that, consuming soul after soul at a nearby village in an attempt to quench his own frustration and need. There weren’t many options to consider. He couldn’t spare the thing entirely, he wasn’t that fucking stupid, but he didn’t very much want her dead either. Turning her definitely wasn’t an option, women just didn’t have as much potential as demons, and he had his own personal beliefs that women shouldn’t dirty their hands. But dear gods, her scent, her smell alone probably called upon hundreds of demons to her location daily, perhaps it would’ve been a mercy to take the female’s life.

Fuck.

He hated himself for how indecisive he was. Not once in his entire demonhood had he been at such a crossroad of hesitance. There had to be another option that held the best of both worlds, yes? Shinazugawa just hadn’t come across it yet.

But fate gave him a hint as he snatched up the severed half of a female he’d killed, her guts spilling into his lap as he gnawed on her fat ankle. His daggered eyes trailed up her cold thigh, lining the dark trail of blood that seeped from under her skirt. A small confusion fell over him as he mulled over the strange placement. His blade’s cut through her navel had been clean, her blood pooling into the muddy grass and not at all staining much of her clothing. Yet the chain of red kept its existence, running into the conjunction of her thighs. Cursing his own curiosity, Sanemi swept the pesky material aside, only to be met with the brilliance of a cruel idea.

It hadn’t been hard at all to follow along the woman’s usual route of travel again, her men taking the same path, ignorant of its dangerous discovery. Yet the timing was unfortunately off, her smell still sickeningly sweet and clean rather than bitter and dirty. He’d have to wait for next time. And the next. And the next. He’d nearly given up hope entirely until the fated night his lungs were filled with the metallic scent that had his belly tensing with primal famine. Just the mere aroma of ichor had drool gathering in his jowls, his fists clenching with need. It only grew thicker as her quaint carriage drew near, the clicking wheels singing a dreadful tune with each snap against the road. Sanemi could already taste the woman on his tongue, her savory flesh plump and tender between his teeth… god, he was going to lose it.

He nearly did as she stepped from her carriage in the same manner as their first meeting, her hair knit in tight braids across her crown, framing her delicate features. She was dressed more eloquently this time, Her gown long and loose yet hugging her figure with a gentle tightness. He mused to himself that perhaps she was on her way to some formal event to maintain appearances, maybe even earn herself a husband. Yet the notion of such a possibility irked him all the same. He’d never felt a hunger like this before, if one could even call it that. This felt so much more significant, crucial even, as if his very life depended on it. And maybe it did, since he would most definitely not let himself live if he couldn’t get even a single taste of her blood. Her body was his to take.

It took him no time at all to do away with the weaklings, the men’s bodies falling one after the other into the gravel, making a sad splash as their vitals funneled out. The man ogling at her backside was the first to go, his head severed the instant his eyeline met the wide curve of her dress, dropping to the ground with a thud and rolling to a leisure stop to her heel. When the woman finally turned from her distraction of the ominous wood, she was met with pure, bloody isolation.

Her horrified scream echoed loud, her hands clawing at her own face as she looked upon the gory scene of blood and guts that surrounded her. Shinazugawa was almost impressed at her reaction speed as she quickly turned foot and bolted, running through the thick bush despite her frailty. He couldn’t help but snicker, so enamored by her utter foolishness of trying to escape. If the men protecting her couldn’t even survive, what made her think she was the exception?

“God, you’re fucking stupid, ha!” he cackled, leaping about the tree-line, nipping at her backside but giving her just the right amount of space to let her hope she could get away.

She was not at all athletic, her stamina quickly dwindling as her frail figure fought with itself to continue on. Her chest burned, her feet hurt, her will to keep moving dwindling by the second and feeding into the persuasive idea of giving up. Yet the monster snatched her before she could choose, slamming her into the soft, melted ground and caking her elegance in earth. His hand wrapped around her pretty neck firmly, another snaking down her bodice and tearing open the gold buttons of her dress. His tongue swept across his lip as he unwrapped her, taking his sweet time to unveil every inch of her pristine flesh to his ravenous eye, her little fists pounding at his chest as she sobbed and screamed for help.

“Shut it,” Sanemi growled lowly, surprised to see her actually listen, her lip wobbling and eyes flooding as she silenced herself. He could still hear her pathetic whimpers as he stripped her, her small frame shaking as he brushed down her stomach, removing the lacy undergarments that hid her delicate body from his sight. He could see her plush intimacy coming into view from beneath her coverings, her curved hips thickening her figure, her thighs trembling as they tried desperately to hide themselves. But there was nothing that could be done about that now as she lied there, helpless, powerless, weak.

He opened his mouth wide, exposing sharp canines and letting his hot breath wash over her firm abdomen as her tears began anew and wept down her flushed cheeks. The demon was pleased, relishing in her surrender and submission as he gently ran his tongue down her navel, sampling his meal and savoring the girl's pitiful sobs. He loved it when humans cried, when they begged and pleaded for their lives like the weaklings they were, it made things so much more exciting.

His tongue flicked out over her pelvis, gliding over the pudge over her sex as he breathed in the scent of her musk, tainted with ovulation. Sanemi could already feel the saliva gathering in a jowls as he began to peel down her underwear, a cotton cloth clinging to the crotch of it. Her breath stuttered.

"N-no, no, please! Please... please!" she cried out, shaking hard and grasping at her own face, nearly clawing her eyes out with panic. But she knew better than to try to fight him off again, clearly more afraid of what he would do then than what he was currently doing. He couldn't help but grin against her supple flesh, his edged teeth nicking her thigh. She jerked at the sudden pain and the warm sensation of blood trickling down her leg, soaking into the dirt.

"P-Please, p-p-please don't... h-hurt me," her words shook with her exterior, her sniffling likely a strong persuasion to those who had a heart. He obviously didn't but was still bothered by her pestering fear of being eaten. "If I was going to eat you, don't you think I would have done it already?" he groaned sarcastically.. The human slowly removed her fingers to peak down at him, her eyes red and welled with tears, lip trembling. He laughed.

"I mean come on, you think I'd let you bitch and moan this long just to kill you later? If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead. Quit fucking crying," he hissed.

She sniffled again. "B-but -"

"Zip it."

Her mouth snapped shut, quickly obeying before her brain could even comprehend him.

Sanemi growled. "Talk again and you get to join those fuckers back there." He nodded his head back to the direction of her abandoned carriage and dead guards. His claws dug into her thighs, pulling them to spread wider to encompass his presence. "The sooner you let me take what I want, the sooner I let you go. But I don't deal with brats. You either listen or you don't, 's up to you bitch."

He wasn't sure how he expected her to react, but it definitely wasn't for her to spread herself wider, without any instruction. It was almost touching how quickly she gave in, not even needing a moment to think it over before she opened herself up for him to do as he pleased. If he didn't know any better, he'd think she were eager for it.

His head fell down to her core again, his fangs pricking the surface of her skin yet again, drawing forth a shallow line of blood as he slid them down her inner thighs, his eyes locked on her frightened yet curious gaze. She shivered at the sharpness of his touch, her legs trembling as he moved further south, trying to appease his hungered excitement. He resumed pulling down her panties, reveling in the aroma of moon blood that filled his senses as he took away all obstruction. It was beautiful. The smell of blood. The sight of red dripping from her puffy lips. He could only imagine the taste, so eager in his imagination of its excellence. He'd never tasted pure ovulation blood before, never even thought of it actually. It would be stupid to use just his tongue when he could devour with his teeth in an instant and move on to the next meal. But this was a different situation entirely. This woman could satiate him for years, decades even, with marechi blood. It didn't hurt that she was a hot piece of ass either. If he didn't get himself together soon, he might end up fucking his food as well.

The woman's eyes lingered on his leisure movements, the drawl of his dangerous eyes along her sex as he studied the meal. Embarrassment quickly rose in her chest as she realized his intentions, praying that he’d move on with whatever he was trying to do so her dignity could recover. Although, she supposed letting him taste her menstrual blood was better than getting eaten alive... but hardly.

The demon felt her pulse quicken in his grasp, her breathing growing faster and her patience dwindling as she began to quiver again. He didn't blame her though, not in the slightest. But he had every right to such a rare female, he deserved everything. And if the needs of others were sacrificed, so be it. He knew he wouldn't be able to resist her for too long. He was ravenous.

And he was horny.

He smiled as his head dipped down, his tongue flicking out to smooth against her swollen clitoris, barely brushing the top as he inhaled the fragrance of her blood. Her legs trembled, her muscles tensing as her hips buckled in response, shocked with the sudden feeling of sensitivity. She had to bite her lip to silence her noise of surprise. He chuckled as he teased her, dragging his tongue from one side to the other, teasing her wet folds and leaving behind a thin trail of saliva. He didn't really care for her pleasure at the moment, but he was curious of her response to it. Dinner and a show. That was fine by him.

She bit her lip harder, her thighs flexing to keep from touching him. Sanemi was excited at her reaction, watching her face contort with each and every careless stroke of his tongue, her hips subconsciously rising to feed herself into his awaiting mouth. A few times, she almost grabbed for him, but her arms were still pinned to her side by her own strong will to survive. He liked that, enjoyed her struggle as he continued to lick her up and down, her clit becoming more sensitive with each and every pass. Her blood was intoxicating, his head already growing dizzy as he drank her from the source. He thought it would be difficult to keep himself from biting down but the thought never even grazed his mind as he continued giving sloppy licks and sucks to her weeping heat. She was so tasty, so sweet, so ripe. It seemed like she would never stop bleeding as his tongue was eternally blessed with a fresh coat of red. He wondered for a moment if it was possible to drain her of it all in one night.

He growled, his head lowering down to her opening and his tongue falling out again as she whimpered in anticipation, eyes closed tight. She felt like she was losing her mind with every pass of his ravenous tongue. Her head was so foggy and light, her pussy so warm, she couldn't stop herself from letting out small noises of pleasure as he kept feasting upon her. It took every ounce of her being not to wrap her legs around his head and trap him into her center, forcing him to cease his cruel teasings. What little was left of her fear only heightened the experience, giving her a blissful taste of sin that she'd never indulged before, the sense of danger giving her such a rush.

Her ichor only grew sweeter on his tongue by the second, her slick diluting her blood in heavier batches that gave him more a taste of lust than power. He focused on her hole then, realizing that nipping at her clit certainly wasn't helping the situation. Yet, her pleasure rose none-the-less. His tongue worked hard, dashing inside of her, licking up every drop of liquor, drinking it down as if it were a fine wine. It was nearly too good to be true, this level of strength he felt. He looked down at the girl, his eyes burning into her as he watched her squirm and grip the earth. She was so delicious.

But he needed more.

His tongue pumped into her again and again, dipping as far as it could reach before retreating to her entrance to lick up anything that had escaped him. She shuddered, her hips subtly grinding on his face to chase her nearing end. It continued building in her belly, sending bolts of electricity up her spine and warming her insides. She couldn't even feel the pain of her cramps anymore.

Sanemi sipped at her wetness more vigorously, his tongue lapping at her like a dog, desperate for more of his meal. He slowed only for a moment as the woman gave a small cry, her hips and thighs quaking harshly and tensing in his palms. He wasn't even angry when her juices sprayed him, drenching his lower face and dripping down his lips. If anything he was amused, only a human could come from such little care. Yet, he stopped, her cunt hardly even bleeding anymore being so wet with arousal and relief. What was the point of pleasing her when he gained nothing in return.

He rose from his position on the ground, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as his eyes raked down her sloppy appearance, certainly not that of a noblewoman. Her backside was caked with mud, her hair messy and matted, her face red and mouth leaking with drool. She nearly looked peaceful as she let out gentle pants, still softly shaking from such a strong orgasm. He rolled his eyes.

"Get up," he commanded, uncaring of her condition. "I don't have all fucking night."

The woman only rose when his growls became violent, her movements awkward and her head still in the clouds. She still attempted to cover herself, tucking an arm over her breasts and cupping her sex with another.

"I'm only going to explain this once so I suggest you pay attention-" he began, her eyes quickly lighting up with fright, "You are going to come back to this path every month during your menses. You will come alone. No guards. No friends. No nobody. Understand?"

She squirmed nervously in her footing, her fear beginning to crest again. "B-but I-I won’t be a-allowed to travel for n-no r-r-reason..." she stuttered.

"Not my problem."

"A-and how would I come back without anyone to take-"

"Not. My. Problem." he hissed meanly, making her cower away.

He stepped forward to her, towering over her little form. "I'm not here to negotiate. I'm just telling you what you're going to do. I don't give a fuck how you're gonna do it, but if you know what's good for you, you'll obey. You want anyone else dead because of you?" he sneered.

Her lip quivered and tears glazed in her eyes. "N-no."

Sanemi chuckled, looking down at her and pressing a strong hand over her lower belly and brushing away her small hands, dangerously close to her privates that were still glazed with his saliva.

"This is mine," he stated, passing two fingers between her puffy cunt lips, "Give it to anyone else and I'll kill them and make you watch. I'll make it slow too. You want that?" She violently shook her head, nearly on the cusp of pissing herself from the terror of such a suggestion.

He hummed with his approval of her response, giving her another once over with his eyes and a quick squeeze of her breast before backing away into the night, undisturbed with how on earth she was going to get back home. It would've been any second that he could lose control of himself and pounce, a desperate need growing in pants to satiate himself. He'd have to establish that as another rule - no fucking when she was edible. Maybe he'd pay her another visit later when her period was over, at her estate perhaps, just to take away her innocence and test out how useful she was to him. He could only imagine how pathetic she would look speared on his cock with nowhere else to go, but that would be for another night, he couldn't forget her main purpose.

And he couldn't wait to get a taste of that again.

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