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merakiui · 4 months 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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seat-safety-switch · 15 days ago

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"Don't fix your car," said the guru, "but fix yourself instead."

Yeah, thanks for that, bud. I get plenty of exercise walking home from the various places that my shitboxes have left me stranded. Grocery stores. Movies. Weddings. The mall. My job. Prison.

Once, one of my jobs gave me a step meter, as part of a company initiative to "improve wellness" and stop asking for raises all the time because we're too busy walking to unionize. After I walked a mere fifteen kilometres home and back to bring a fresh battery to my stricken daily driver, the watch started smoking and gave up. Might have been because I used it to jump the battery, but the manual didn't say not to.

What I'm trying to say is that the advice from that well-intentioned mentor was not very useful in my exact situation. He was just babbling something that sounded deep in order to get me out of his meditation hut, where I had ducked in to warm myself before continuing my six-hour walk back home to get another car. Even if I were to achieve perfect inner peace, I'd still have to drive places and interact with the imperfect outer world. Cars break down, which is why we like them so much. If they worked flawlessly forever, they'd have no character at all.

About thirty minutes later, I reached enlightenment, and realized what the guru had meant the whole time. Walking was the lame thing to do. Although fashionable in Paris, it's very slow, and the correct way to deal with my crap-cans would be to get more organized. I had to invest in my system, not in my tools.

If I were to park cars all over town, then I would be no more than four blocks from a running car. And if that one turned out to also be dead, maybe because some dumbass hasn't driven it in several months because it's six hours' walk away from his house, then I would only be four blocks away from another car. And so on. There was literally no downside.

Later, it turned out that I represented over 60% of the cars being parked in my town. By simply offering to withdraw my vehicles, I could wildly control the price of parking all over the city. Turns out that also affected parking-company stocks, which is how that so-called guru got incredibly rich following my ass around and shorting whatever company pissed me off that week. That's enlightenment for you.

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tamby-teeze · 11 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 · 8 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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ariesprincesss · 1 month ago

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Synastry & Love Transits (from personal experience!!) ft. love asteroids!

(Disclaimer, I am not an astrologer just a silly girl that knows a ton of information on astrology🤓)

Transits

ෆ I had transit north node ,neptune 7h , & pluto 5h when i experienced an intense relationship!

ෆ Transit North node 7h square natal moon- I feel like this hints at the overall feeling of this relationship during this time. This relationship definitely affected my mental state and I thought about this relationship even after it ended.

ෆ Transit Pluto was also conjuct my natal 5h chiron and I feel like this can also allude to a wound being opened in love or through this intense love.

ෆ Transit neptune sextile my natal chiron & this kind of sounds like having fun for the sake of having fun “ doing it for the plot.” in my mind this relationship was perfect & ignored all of the red flags until it was too late🤐.

Synastry

ෆ My moon in his 4th I felt VERY motherly over him. Literally just wanted to take care of him, give him things, make him food,etc😭

ෆ My union asteroid (1585) was in his 11h & we met online before meeting in person!!

ෆ venus & mars in his 9h- Because of him i actually left my house & did something fun and exciting. I felt like he was bringing me a sense of adventure & showing me new things.

ෆ 8h mercury overlay- Walking on eggshells for sure. The way i would say things would often agitate him & i spoke a lot about mental health with him. Talked candidly about sex with him.

ෆ His sun in my 9h- Had sooo much fun with him. Definitely felt so much more adventurous & had a new sense of direction because of it.

ෆ 10h overlay His Venus, Mars, & Saturn was in my 10th house. I would post him to my insta story, whereas i would have never done that for anyone else. i initially felt revitalized because of this relationship and wanted others to know just how happy i was. I also was out in public a lot more with him.

ෆ his valentine(447) aspecting my sun- First relationship i EVER actually felt like i could love & deserved to be loved back. The first time we met we spent like 10 hours together LOL

ෆ his destinn(6583) conjuct my sun- it may have felt like fate or “destiny” to meet him. could have been fated to enter each others life.

ෆ his karma (3811)square my sun- He Could’ve seen me as a karmic partner, receiving karma good or bad through your interactions with this person

ෆ his moon square my mercury- another walking on EGGSHELLS. Literally couldn’t say anything without offending him or him taking it the wrong way.

ෆ his moon aspecting my 6h uranus- I had changed my routine around to fit him in. I Would go to sleep on facetime,wake up on facetime😭

ෆ my mercury conjunct his kiss asteroid- Thought about kissing with him a lotttt. Always wanted to kiss him, we could nottt get enough of it.😭

ෆ his sun conjunct my venus- First relationship where I felt really seen. Felt so beautiful and attractive around him and he helped my self confidence

ෆ my northnode conjuct his mercury- I really felt like he gave me good advice & that he really listened. I opened up about a lot of personal things i’ve never told anyone before. There were things he said that even now i use as omens to see the brighter side of things.

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reocidal · 16 days ago

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sweet — jing yuan

PAIRING: jing yuan x female reader

CONTENT: medieval au, marriage of convenience, fluff with 0.1 second of self doubt related angst, no swearing or anything so no real warnings i think :)

WORD COUNT: 1.0k

NOTE: requested by @prinzessinns for my event!

"princess."

you lay down your embroidery with a sigh, looking up at your husband — jing yuan — with a perfectly practised smile. "my lord."

he waves a hand at you dismissively, lips curving up into a lazy grin. "no need to be so formal — actually, i have something to ask of you."

"do continue." this is an arranged marriage; a union between two nations for the good of both. you — and jing yuan, too, you realise — are nothing but sacrificial lambs for this cause. and yet — his smile, the way he moves, it should not cause you to feel like this. the butterflies that come to life in your stomach every time you see him are just a mistake.

"you are overworking yourself," he says gently. how unexpected. then, catching you off-guard: come out to the gardens with me."

but wait — he shouldn't even be here, he should be out in the courtyard training with his soldiers or teaching his juniors right now. you open your mouth to protest, but he presses a finger on your lips with a barely-concealed smile. "not a word."

you stare at him expectantly, and he relents, stepping back. "we have both been working so much lately. surely a stroll outside shall not cause any issues?"

before you can respond, there's a firm knock on your door.

"yes?" you call out.

they're guards, specifically your husband's guards, and they're looking for him. your gaze meets his, and mischief dances across his features as he raises a brow. it's up to you, so what'll you do?

"he's not here!"

the footsteps recede, and he approaches again. "come, my lady, while we still have time."

the sun is already sinking into the clouds, bathing the grounds in a golden-orange light. he cocks his head, waiting for an answer, and you get up. why not?

"detour to the kitchen?" he suggests as the two of you sneak out of your room. you don't reply, but you follow him anyways, standing discreetly in a corner as he riffles through the well-stocked cupboards while the cooks watch on in disbelief. once he's satisfied with what he's scooped up in his arms, he nods at you to leave — only to be met by the guards, once again. a laugh bubbles out of him; he shifts the bag of food to one hand and grabs yours with the other, pulling you along as he begins to run.

you find yourselves hiding in the stables, sitting on hay bales in most undignified a manner; your husband is digging into a sandwich that looks quite literally perfect. you get rather carried away staring at him, and he, in turn, notices your eyes on him almost immediately.

jing yuan looks up, mouth full. "wan' some?"

taken aback, you blink at him owlishly, and he barely has time to swallow his food before he begins to laugh. "it's fine. here, we're not of any status, so please don't worry about any formalities."

you smile, tight-lipped. is this a test? but he's serious, and princess or not, who are you to refuse a perfectly good sandwich?

by and by, you find yourself slipping into commoners' attire that jing yuan has procured through dubious means.

"are you done yet?" he asks; his back is turned to give you privacy.

"yes, i'm sorry."

"take your time, it's fine."

you walk up to him. "still, i do apologise."

he seems surprised. "whatever for?"

"i just… i'm nothing like you. i'm sorry you aren't getting to do this with someone you really love, instead of the princess you married only to better the bonds between our countries."

"oh," he says, but he does not continue the conversation as he takes your hand and leads you into town.

it's well into the evening now, moonlight streaming down upon the two of you. even in his old, drab outfit, jing yuan seems to glow in its light. but that's not unexpected — he is beautiful. instead, what's more surprising is that no one recognises the two of you. or almost no one. (when you're almost at the end of your walk through the town, a little boy looks up at the two of you, eyes widened. he seems to have realised who you are, but before you can do or say anything, jing yuan presses a few coins into his hand with a sly grin and pulls you away with him.)

"you know," he begins. the two of you are in a secluded area by the town; no one else is around to hear him speak. "what you said before… that isn't true."

"what's not true?"

"the thing you said, about me deserving someone else instead of you. i don't agree with it."

"o-oh. and why not?"

"there's no delicate way to say this." he flushes a little, clears his throat. "i don't want to be with anyone else, regardless of what i deserve. the only one i love is you."

"oh."

"i'm sorry," he adds.

"what? why?" (déjà vu, much?)

"for springing this upon you so suddenly, of course."

"we're going about this wrong," you declare suddenly, fueled by the adrenaline of such a confession. "if we both love each other, we should stop apologising."

"if we both— what?"

the rush has left your system now, and you only offer him a shy smile in return. the sight makes him weak at the knees.

"what do you propose we do about it, then?"

you don't say anything, but the answer is clear.

"may i kiss you, my lady?" his voice is soft, and his touch is softer. you've never nodded this hard or this fast in your life.

when he cradles your face in his hands, you seem sosmall in comparison to him. fragile, like a flower or a sculpture made of glass. and his parents always taught him to appreciate everything he was given, so of course he takes his time, too. and even though fireworks are erupting through his nerves and hordes of butterflies spontaneously come to life in his stomach, when he kisses you, he's gentle and oh so sweet.

800 follower event

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kyunniebuns · 9 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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batboyblog · 3 months ago

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I keep seeing the take of "vote blue no matter who is fascism/leads to fascism" literal days before the election and people going on tirades about how we're licking their boots while they kick our teeth in and I'm just so fucking tired. I just. Am so tired. I also saw someone explicitly mention "they could eviscerate a baby on the stage and you'd still vote for them" and that just SEEMS anti-Semitic. I sincerely hate this so much. I see people also claiming that "withholding your vote is the only political power you have" and I want to scream.

And I'm straight up seeing people say "Oh so republicans will be so much worse? Then we die together" and holy fucking shit these people are awful, straight up the most selfish motherfuckers I've ever seen in my life. They really are just hoping for a "revolution" so they can cosplay as the anarchists they've always wanted to for a few brief moments before they get jailed/straight-up killed. They don't care about the millions, billions of people who's lives are about to get so much worse thanks to this.

I'm sorry for doing such a rant but oh my god. Why are people like this.

where's that tweet about firebombing Wal-Mart and then not?

maybe the greatest tweet of all time.

any ways, I was just out and about in the real world knocking on doors and yeah I was knocking easy turf (every other house was a Democrat pride float of signs and banners) but I can tell you these internet edge lords aren't real, I mean in some cases literally not real being fake people meant to demotivate voters. But even those who are real Americans who really feel that way, they're such a tiny unimportant minority that they're not really real and spoiler most people like that are NEVER voters, they don't vote, ever so like "I'm not gonna vote" you didn't before so you don't really factor in, its like children, how they feel doesn't matter because they can't vote.

The real feeling out there is good, you know, I'm tired, and I'm going out again tomorrow, thats what its really about, they bitch about Democrats and shit but we're out talking to people, organizing, mobilizing, and voting, they want a Revolution, well then here it is you can turn the world if you do the work.

people saying they won't vote for a better world is stupid, and its childish, I think of all the fights we've fought, all the little wins that build up to national victories, we have a chance to keep going forward, to break down more barriers, to right more wrongs to make the American Dream available to more people who never before had a shot, we can be a more perfect union, and we can do great things together. Or we can allow the gift we have been given, guarded by generations in blood and pain in the fields of Gettysburg, Beaches of Normandy, in the dirt of Philadelphia, Mississippi, and in the street in front of the Stonewall Inn to be take away from us, to allow a Government for, by and of the people to vanish from the Earth. Thats the choice, the rest is noise.

#political #US politics #american politics #election 2024

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redvexillum · 2 months ago

Text

A/N: Yep. Another Mandatory Overtime AU because my brain is incapable of coming up with a one shot, and again, the need to write this as a long fic is strong. Also, Kit, you better not be spreading weird untrue factoids about me >:U (I'm still away, this is past Vexi talking)

SUMMARY: You never imagined Vox would choose you, so when he surprised you by saying he’d spend both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with you, it left you speechless. Determined to make this a day to remember, you set aside any lingering doubts and focused on what truly mattered—the chance to share special moments with him. This Christmas would be different, a fresh start filled with joy, laughter, and unforgettable memories.

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, mandatory overtime au, soft!vox, p in v, fluffy wuffy, jealous!vox, established relationship, sort of expanding on the lore of my series but do not need to read to enjoy this as a standalone piece

To Vox, power, fame, and wealth were mere trifles, luxuries that had long since lost their lustre. In Hell’s cutthroat world, he had scaled the heights, achieving a level of dominance where nothing material could elude him. Gifts were meaningless; a snap of his fingers could conjure any treasure, and the thrill of receiving had withered decades ago.

But you were different.

When he spotted you at the mall, his first instinct was to saunter over, his grin cocky and electric, ready to bask in your reaction. Yet, he stopped himself, his sharp eyes darting around the bustling public space. He couldn’t risk it.

To the world, Vox was still bound to Val—an image of a perfect, high-powered couple, their union as much about strategy as it was status. To be seen with you would fracture that carefully curated façade.

And so, he lingered in the shadows, torn between reason and an irrational surge of jealousy as he watched you browse a store. His gaze narrowed when he realized what you were inspecting: men’s watches.

A crackling spark escaped the side of his head, his irritation manifesting in a literal flash. It was small, but he felt it—a glitch in his carefully composed exterior. You were shopping for him, weren’t you? Not him, Vox, but for someone else. Someone who could be there when he couldn’t, who didn’t have to navigate the web of lies and appearances that tethered him to Val.

He clenched his fists, his sleek fingers curling against his palms. He hated how selfish he was, hated how much he demanded from you. You gave him so much—your time, your affection, your understanding—despite the precarious position he left you in.

And he?

He played his part with Val, smiling and posturing for cameras, aware that every stolen moment with you was another step closer to losing you.

He tried to rationalize it, repeating the words like a mantra in his head. You deserve more. You deserve someone who can give you what I can't. If you’ve found that, I should be happy for you.

But he wasn’t.

His vision blurred for a moment as he pulled up the mall’s pathetic excuse for security systems. Hacking into the camera feed was laughably easy; the hardest part was tamping down the frantic pace of his thoughts as he accessed the live footage of the store. Sitting on a bench, feigning indifference, he tapped into the audio feed, the tinny sound filtering into his ears.

“Oh, a special gift for someone perhaps?” the shopkeeper asked cheerfully, her hands deftly choosing a ribbon to wrap the watch in pristine packaging.

Vox’s pulse thrummed in his ears, the faint hum of static buzzing around him as he leaned forward. Who was it for? A friend? A lover? The thought churned uneasily in his gut, his calm exterior threatening to shatter as he waited for your reply.

Vox’s breath hitched, a rare falter in his perfectly curated demeanour. His crimson eyes widened as he recognized the watch on the counter—a limited edition masterpiece he’d admired for months. Though he typically donned his own brand, the Vwatch, this particular piece had captivated him: a sleek chrome finish encircling the face, golden hands tipped with tiny sapphire jewels, and a deep, almost-black leather strap that exuded sophistication.

You had once remarked how well it would complement his suits, your words lingering in his mind like a whisper of validation.

He had planned to buy it himself—eventually—but always pushed it aside, his focus consumed by grander schemes. Yet now, the sight of you purchasing it sent a nauseating churn through his stomach.

Could it be for someone else?

The thought clawed at him. Memories of Christmas spent where he would choose every other year to be with you and the next with Val. One particular moment surfaced unbidden, sharp as the static hum in his circuits. She had left him alone in her office on Christmas Eve. After that, he’d noticed the change between you two afterwards—your smiles a little softer, a little sadder, and your touch hesitant, as though holding back from a line you feared crossing.

“Something like that,” your voice floated through the audio feed, soft and melodic, setting his circuits alight. “I hope he likes it.”

Your cheeks flushed faintly as you smiled, radiant and genuine, and the sight pierced him in a way no weapon ever could.

Vox’s fingers curled into tight fists, pressing against his thighs, tension rippling through his frame. The unspoken truth of his situation—his entanglement with Valentino—hung between you like a spectre neither of you dared confront. It was the cruel cost of power, a strategic alliance that kept him tethered to a man he no longer needed but couldn’t yet discard.

Still, he clung to the hope that you would wait. That you would see through his machinations to the truth beneath: that he wanted you, only you. But hope was a fragile thing.

No woman could be expected to wait for scraps of affection, not when someone else—a simpler, hapless man—could offer you what he couldn’t: endless time, holidays spent together, and love unburdened by lies.

“Do you want to write a message to go with your gift, sweetie?” the shopkeeper asked, her tone saccharine.

You nodded eagerly, your bright smile lighting up the screen. Vox felt the breath he’d been holding escape in a shudder. Even now, even like this, you were utterly stunning.

He should cut the feed. He knew it was invasive, a violation of trust that he could never justify. But his hand trembled as he zoomed the camera, needing—aching—to see what you wrote.

His heart seized when your delicate, looping handwriting came into focus:

For a moment, his world stopped. The static hum in his circuits faded to nothing, replaced by the warmth blooming in his chest. It was for him. You had thought of him, even after everything.

And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Vox felt human.

Vox’s heart stuttered, then raced, the static hum in his circuits drowned out by the pounding in his chest. His crimson eyes devoured the words on the card, reading them over and over as if they might change, as if he might wake from some impossible dream.

Merry Christmas, Vox. Love, Your Sunshine.

He barely registered the way your delicate fingers folded the card and nestled it into the white tissue paper sprouting elegantly from the gift bag. You hugged it close to your chest, cradling it like something precious, before stepping out of the store.

From his bench, he watched, transfixed. Your face glowed with a joy that seemed to light up the dreary mall. Each step you took was a little lighter, as if the act of gifting brought you as much happiness as it would bring him.

And that realization hit him like a jolt of electricity.

Suddenly, every extravagant gift he’d ever planned to lavish upon you felt hollow, insufficient. The jewels, the designer clothes, the world-class experiences—none of it could compare to the simple, heartfelt gesture you’d made. You knew he didn’t need anything, least of all a watch he could have purchased without a second thought. Yet, you’d chosen to give him something anyway, something meaningful.

It wasn’t the object itself that overwhelmed him; it was you. Your thoughtfulness, your care, the time and energy you’d poured into something just for him.

His head bowed, hands clenched tightly against his knees as he tried to steady the storm of emotions within him. When had he last felt like this? Anticipation, excitement—a childlike giddiness that left him breathless. The last time he had looked forward to receiving a gift seemed like lifetimes ago, buried beneath decades of power plays and hollow exchanges.

But this was different.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, lost in his thoughts. He couldn’t tear his mind away from the memory of your smile, the way your fingers had traced the edges of the bag as if sealing your affection within it.

Then, the soft beep of his penthouse’s security system jolted him upright. His eyes snapped open, and his chest tightened with anticipation. That sound could only mean one thing: you’d arrived.

Vox stood abruptly, smoothing the lines of his suit as he began to walk quickly until it became a light jog, unable to contain the electric energy buzzing beneath his skin. For once, it wasn’t nerves from a deal or tension from a scheme. It was something far more vulnerable, far more precious.

You were here, and in your hands was the gift that had left him, an Overlord, feeling utterly, beautifully human.

When you stepped into Vox’s penthouse, the warmth and sparkle of the space immediately enveloped you. Your gaze wandered over the extravagant decorations, and a soft giggle escaped your lips as you realized he’d transformed his usually sleek, modern lair into a festive wonderland—for you.

Your eyes were drawn to the centrepiece of his effort: a towering white Christmas tree, its branches adorned with glittering ornaments crafted from rare Hellgems. Their multifaceted surfaces refracted the golden glow of the room, casting shimmering patterns onto the walls. Typical Vox—nothing but the most extravagant display would suffice.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, a fond smile playing on your lips. The tinsel glinted like flakes of molten gold, and the lights wrapped around the living room bathed everything in a soft, romantic hue. It was breathtaking, almost dreamlike.

As you wandered closer to the tree, your gaze fell to the pile of gifts nestled beneath it. Each box was immaculately wrapped, ribbons curling like tendrils of flame, and every single one bore your name.

Your heart fluttered, but you also couldn’t suppress a quiet laugh. This man and his over-the-top antics…

Shaking your head, you crouched down to slide your own modest gift under the tree. It wasn’t much compared to his lavish displays, and you couldn’t help the flicker of doubt that crept into your mind. Would he even like it? Would he wear it, or would it sit in some forgotten drawer while he promoted his Vwatch brand instead?

Still, you had chosen this gift carefully. The watch was sleek, understated—a perfect contrast to his usual bold style. You’d even had it engraved on the back, a tiny, intimate detail just for him: the date you first met. In Hell, where time stretched endlessly and moments blurred into the infinite, you wanted to immortalize a memory that mattered.

The soft click of the door pulled you from your thoughts. You turned, the warm golden light catching Vox’s figure as he entered the room. He looked striking as ever, his sharp silhouette somehow both commanding and inviting.

“Vox!” you greeted warmly, but your words caught in your throat as his expression stopped you short. His crimson eyes were locked on you, burning with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.

Before you could say another word, he crossed the room with purpose, his movements fluid yet charged with urgency. His hands cupped your face, and then his lips crashed against yours.

A surprised gasp escaped you, muffled by his fervent kiss. His tongue teased at your lips, seeking entrance, before slipping inside, slow and deliberate, tasting, claiming.

“Mmph—!” you started to protest, but his claws were already working with deft precision, undoing the buttons of your pants. His touch was frantic yet careful, as though he couldn’t bear the barrier between you a second longer.

“Vox, wait—” you managed to whisper between kisses, but his shirt was already sliding off his shoulders, revealing the sharp planes of his chest. His hands moved to yours, tugging at your clothes with equal urgency, his lips returning to yours with a hunger that stole your breath.

You couldn’t help the wry smile that curled your lips as you surrendered to the moment, equal parts amused and overwhelmed by his sudden intensity. Whatever had sparked this frenzy in him, it was clear—he wasn’t letting you go anytime soon.

“Well, what a welcoming surprise,” you giggled breathlessly as Vox unhooked your bra with practised ease, letting it slip from your shoulders and fall forgotten to the floor.

“Sunshine,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent. Before you could tease him further, he pulled you into an embrace, his warmth enveloping you entirely. There was a tenderness in his touch, a vulnerability rarely seen in the man who always seemed so untouchable.

You froze for a moment, caught off guard by his sudden affection, but then you melted into him. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you rested your cheek against his chest, humming softly in comfort as his steady heartbeat thrummed against your skin.

Without a word, he lowered you gently to the plush carpet, the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree casting a golden glow over both of you. You glanced up at the glittering ornaments above, their reflections sparkling like tiny stars. “How festive,” you quipped with a bright smile, though the moment felt far more intimate than playful.

Vox’s lips curled into a soft smirk as he leaned down, his crimson eyes locking with yours. “I’m just starting our time a bit earlier,” he murmured, his claws tracing a slow, tantalizing path down your side. His touch left a trail of fire on your skin, every stroke deliberate, lingering.

“You’ll have me for the rest of today and tomorrow,” he promised, his voice dipping into a husky tone that sent shivers coursing through you. He pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, his breath warm against your skin. “No one else, just you and me, babydoll.”

Heat coiled low in your belly as you wrapped your legs around his hips, pulling him flush against you. The hard length of him pressed insistently against your core, a potent reminder of the passion simmering between you. “Yeah?” you whispered, your fingers trailing up and down his spine in delicate, featherlight touches.

He closed his eyes, his expression softening as if savouring every brush of your fingers, every shift of your body against his. Slowly, he rolled his hips forward, the pressure igniting sparks of pleasure that made you gasp.

“My lovely sunshine,” he murmured, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was achingly slow and reverent. It wasn’t just passion—it was something deeper, as if he were trying to etch this moment into the fabric of time, a memory neither of you could ever forget.

You basked in his warmth, in the tenderness of his touches, the way he made you feel cherished. Whatever this was—love, devotion, something close to it—it made your chest tighten with emotion.

He opened his eyes, crimson pools filled with desire and something unspoken. With deliberate care, he adjusted his hips, the head of his cock brushing against your entrance. Slowly—achingly slowly—he began to press forward, stretching you inch by inch, filling you completely.

Your back arched, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as the sensation overwhelmed you. “B-been a while,” you murmured shakily, your hands gripping his shoulders as your hips instinctively pushed against his, urging him deeper.

Vox groaned low in his throat, the sound sending vibrations through your body. His voice was thick with praise as he moved, his hips rocking in a maddeningly slow rhythm. “You feel so good,” he whispered against your ear, his lips brushing your skin. “So perfect… so mine.”

When his hips finally pressed flush against yours, his cock buried deep within you, he began to grind in slow, deliberate motions, the friction against your clit ripping moan after moan from your lips. Bracing one arm beside your head, his other hand trailed to your chest, his claws teasing your nipples with gentle pinches and twists. Each motion sent jolts of pleasure straight to your core, making you squirm beneath him.

“Ah, d-don’t tease me, V-Vox,” you whined, your hips bucking against him. The need in your voice was unmistakable, and you wrapped your legs tighter around him, pulling him closer. “Please… just fuck me already.”

A smirk spread across his lips, but the look in his eyes was molten. “Patience, sunshine,” he purred, though the tension in his body betrayed how much he wanted to lose himself in you. Slowly, he began to move, each thrust deep and purposeful, as if determined to make this moment last forever.

“Oh, babydoll,” Vox growled, his voice low and gravelly, sending shivers down your spine. “This is just the appetizer. You and I? We’re not getting a wink of sleep tonight.” His hips snapped forward with a force that left you gasping, a sharp exhale tearing from your lips as he filled you completely.

“Yeah?” you moaned, arching into him, your hips grinding against his in a rhythm that sent waves of heat crashing through you. “You’re really gonna fuck me all night?”

His grin widened, that dangerous, predatory look lighting up his glowing crimson eyes. “That’s right,” he purred, driving his cock deeper, stretching you until every nerve felt alight with pleasure. “You’re gonna be working overtime for me, doll.” His laughter, low and wicked, earned an eye roll from you even as your body quaked under his ministrations.

“God, you’re so lame,” you managed to tease, though the giggle that bubbled up from your throat was quickly swallowed by a moan. Summoning all your strength, you pushed him onto his back, his cock still buried deep inside you, and straddled him.

The moment you settled over him, his hands flew to your hips, gripping you with a possessive force that only made the fire in your belly burn hotter. Slowly, you began to roll your hips, savouring the way his cock stretched and filled you perfectly.

Vox’s crimson gaze locked onto where your bodies met, watching intently as your slick heat swallowed him over and over. The sight clearly unravelled him, his grip tightening as he let out a deep groan. “Like what you see?” you panted, leaning forward just enough to let your chest graze his.

He didn’t answer with words, just another deep groan, his hips bucking upward to meet yours. The small thrusts sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body, your rhythm faltering as you clung to him. “Fuck,” he moaned, his voice raw, the sound of your slick skin meeting echoing in the room.

Your head fell back, a cascade of pleasure crashing through you as he angled his hips to hit that sensitive spot deep inside. You cried out, your moans echoing against the warm glow of the Christmas lights. Your breasts bounced with each motion, the sensation adding another layer to your pleasure.

Vox’s claws skimmed up your thighs before finding their way to your clit, drawing agonizingly slow circles that sent you spiralling. “Fuck, babydoll,” he groaned, his voice thick with need. “When we’re done here, I’m going to eat you out so thoroughly you won’t even remember your name. Gonna make you come so hard you’ll pass out.”

His filthy promises sent a delicious shiver down your spine, your head lolling forward to meet his lust-filled gaze. “Oh? Is that why—ah—” your words cut off as his thrusts grew faster, rougher, driving the air from your lungs, “I saw you buying all those holiday-themed sex toys?”

His grin was wicked, full of mischief and desire. “’Tis the season, babydoll,” he quipped, his voice strained with pleasure as he pounded into you harder and harder, each thrust coaxing you closer to the edge.

Your body trembled, the coil in your gut winding tighter and tighter. “Fuck, Vox,” you whimpered, your hands clutching his chest for stability as your hips stuttered. “I’m so close—so fucking close!”

He snarled low in his throat, gripping your hips and driving into you with unrelenting force, his body colliding with yours in a sinful, intoxicating rhythm. Your moans mingled with his, the room filled with the sound of your shared ecstasy as you teetered on the brink of oblivion.

Vox’s hand moved with precision, his fingers teasing and circling your clit in rhythm with the relentless thrust of his cock. His voice, rough and gravelly, rumbled in your ear, “Yeah? You gonna cum for me, doll? Gonna cum all over my cock?” Each word was a deliberate strike to your senses, his pace punishing, his strength overwhelming as he drove you higher.

“Fuck—ah—yes, yes, yes!” you screamed, your voice breaking into a cacophony of desperate moans and gasps as the pleasure built into an unbearable crescendo. Every stroke, every flick, every pulse of his cock sent you closer to your peak.

And then, with one final push, he shattered you. Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, crashing through you with devastating force. Your body convulsed as you babbled incoherent praise, gasping out how good he felt, how perfect he was, how hard he was as you come for him.

Your pleasure was his undoing. His hips bucked erratically as he followed you over the edge, spilling into you with a guttural moan. His cock throbbed, filling you to the brim with his release as his movements slowed, his breaths ragged and heavy.

For a moment, the world stilled. The warmth of him inside you, the sticky evidence of your love-making spilling onto his thighs and the plush carpet below, tethered you both to the present. You rested against him, your breath mingling with his as you came down from the high together, basking in the intimacy of the moment.

Then, a shrill ring pierced the quiet, coming from Vox’s screen-like face. Your contented haze faltered as the unmistakable image of Valentino lit up his display.

Your expression soured immediately.

Of course. Valentino. The moth pimp always had impeccable timing.

You began to move, reluctantly preparing to dismount Vox’s lap, but his firm hands stopped you. He held you there, his cock still nestled inside you, softening but refusing to let go.

When the third ring echoed, Vox’s display glitched for a moment, and then the image of Valentino disappeared.

Vox had hung up.

Your eyes snapped to his face, wide with surprise, just as his features reappeared. His signature smirk was back, but this time, there was something softer, something resolute in the way he looked at you. “Where do you think you’re going?” he murmured, his voice a low, velvety purr.

You froze as his hand reached up, his clawed finger curling a stray strand of your hair. His eyes were half-lidded, his grin dripping with affection and something deeper—something just for you. “Didn’t I say,” he drawled, his tone almost teasing, “today and tomorrow, sunshine. You have me, and I’ll have you.”

Your breath hitched as his words sank in, warmth blooming in your chest. Slowly, a grin broke across your face, small but filled with understanding. “Damn right,” you murmured, your voice carrying a mix of affection and playful defiance. “I’m working overtime for my boss, after all.”

He chuckled, the sound low and full of satisfaction, before pulling you against him, his arms encircling you tightly. Your head rested against his chest, his heartbeat steady and rhythmic beneath your ear, grounding you in his presence.

“That’s right, sunshine,” he whispered, his voice soft and laced with an uncharacteristic tenderness. “You are always my first choice.”

His arms tightened around you, as if he could etch the moment into eternity, as if he could brand his words onto your soul. And as the glow of the Christmas lights bathed you both in a warm, golden haze, you believed him. For tonight and tomorrow, and maybe, just maybe, forever.

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