#who also got possessed by evil beings
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purplepicklejuices · 11 days ago
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my favorite unstable bisexuals
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silverhalla · 3 months ago
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Back at it again with another theory: What if Lucanis’ betrayal wasn’t a betrayal at all?
(obviously, spoilers below the cut)
During The Wigmaker Job, we have some dialogue between Illario and Lucanis about their position within both the Crows and the Dellamorte family. Illario wants Caterina to step down so he can take the coveted First Talon spot. Lucanis reassures him that his time is coming, to which Illario makes a snide comment about whether his cousin would ever go against their grandmother’s wishes. When they continue the conversation after the job, Illario states that Lucanis is the potential heir, that he’s her favorite, and that he’s unlikely to say no to her. Lucanis doesn’t argue, only insists that he doesn’t want to be First Talon, and that he hopes she’ll see reason before that. It’s mentioned again in Eight Little Talons - Caterina favors Lucanis. It’s well-known enough among the Crows that Viago and Teia discuss it in front of her (not on purpose, but she doesn’t deny it). He’s her prodigy through and through.
In the opening scene for the Lucanis quest in Veilguard, Caterina is poised, as you’d expect of the First Talon. She’s certain that the body they buried wasn’t her grandson, that it had been altered with blood magic. She doesn’t pose it as a theory, though: she poses it as a fact. It could, of course, merely be her confidence, but there’s another very unusual aspect to the scene – everyone else discusses how Lucanis was clearly betrayed, that someone must have sold him out in order for the Venatori to capture him. Caterina is the only one in that room who never speaks on it. She doesn’t ask for justice, doesn’t mention vengeance, never acknowledges that her grandson was sold out by someone he trusted – perhaps because he wasn’t. 
What if, when Caterina comes to him with a plan, with an impossible request, he’s still her favorite prodigal grandchild, and he still does whatever she asks? She’s had him tortured before as a child, has tortured and starved and beaten him herself before, because it makes him stronger and more resistant to it in the future. He says in The Wigmaker Job that he used to hate her for it, but now he understands. He justifies it. All Crows justify it, because they have to - if they don’t, then the cruelty wasn’t for survival’s sake, and their suffering meant nothing. Perhaps he doesn’t even question it. When Caterina tells him that she has a job for him, he takes it. 
What if the contract has a caveat? Sure, Calivan must die by his hand by the end of it, a little treat for a job well done, but what if his primary mission is reconnaissance, is discovery? The Venatori are using blood magic to torture and corrupt prisoners. It would behoove the Crows to find out what it entails and how to resist it, before it’s turned back on them. It would have to be someone so deeply, unabashedly loyal to her that when she asked them to infiltrate a Venatori prison, expecting torture at best, their own death at worst, they’d take the job anyway, no questions asked - someone Caterina can trust, certainly, but also someone who has never once said no to her.
And Lucanis has always been a loyal grandson. 
#lucanis dellamorte#dragon age: the veilguard#datv#datv spoilers#veilguard spoilers#da posting#maybe it’s also just because she thinks it would make him stronger and that’s how she always justifies it to herself because she’s evil!!!!#she’s MICRODOSING her GRANDSON with BLOOD TORTURE and DEMONS to fashion him into A BETTER WEAPON#I keep hearing people be like ‘oh there’s a moment in the lucanis storyline where I GASPED’#and other than like ‘he was dead the entire time’ I’m like…… what would be that shocking#and you know what would be that shocking??#if he put himself through it on purpose#envisioning a line where he’s like ‘when Caterina told me to go I didn’t ask questions because I’m a good crow!!!!!’#(also I think that would REALLY give a good bite to his demon being SPITE of all things)#also also I still think that Illario kills caterina (if she’s actually dead) but y’know what?#if he does GOOD FOR HIM#also lucanis just happening to be bursting out of his cell when you get there…. SUSPECT#was he just ready to break out at any time? if so why did he stay and get tortured for a YEAR?#why were the guards so afraid of him?? what was he capable of???#‘you’re a crow’ or ‘but you’re not a crow’ ohhhh so you were expecting a rescue?#oh I am CONNECTING the DOTS (I haven’t connected shit) I’VE CONNECTED THEM#voelene#your caterina + illario post started these wheels turning and I am eternally grateful#also tho did update this slightly because I forgot about their conversation at the end of TWJ#also got so wrapped up in my hatred of caterina that I failed to consider another emotionally devastating option:#that lucanis was the one who wanted to go and caterina covered for him#now THAT’S got some bite to it too#and maybe Lucanis volunteering to take on a demon is why it doesn’t possess him fully#it’s like a wynne/anders thing it’s symbiotic
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starry-bi-sky · 6 months ago
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Stillborn? No, still born au -- Dani Phantom! Clone girl herself. :]
She can't exist in this au. And it's not that I don't want to add her -- although I'll be blunt, I don't, I'll be the first to admit that I think she's more often than not nothing more than a narrative deadweight used to prop up Danny and I don't like adding characters as props -- but her existence quite literally goes against and muddies the Vlad and Danny dynamic I have for this au. Ellie's existence in canon itself states that she was created -- and Danny's other clones too -- because Vlad gave up on trying to convert him to his side and decided to just make a son instead.
Something that just, doesn't happen in the stillborn-still born au. See, for folks who are only just hearing about this au or didn't see my post about Vlad in this au, he and Danny have a complicated love-hate relationship where they mutually want to adopt each other, but their morals and way of doing things -- mainly Vlad's insistence on getting revenge against the Fentons -- gets in the way of them being able to do that in full.
Vlad knows Danny wants him to adopt him, and is only fighting him on it because he refuses to let Vlad kill the Fentons for essentially killing the both of them. He's succeed in 50% of his goal. Canon Vlad never even made it to 1%. With that in mind, stillborn Vlad has no reason and sees no reason to clone Danny, he has his son. He just needs to convince him to let him avenge them both.
Dani simply has no place in the stillborn-still born au. And in fact, if Vlad did decide to clone Danny -- for whatever reason, -- it would damage his relationship with Danny damn near beyond repair. That's because Danny would view it the same way he views Damian's existence; as a replacement for himself. He would become beyond furious and hurt, and not for the typical 'I can't believe you cloned me, you creep!' reason, but for a 'I can't believe you cloned me, you said I was your son!' reason.
I am not pulling any punches here when I say Danny wants Vlad to be his dad just as much as Vlad wants Danny to be his son, there's just a lot of factors getting in the way. They are, as the french say, ✨mentally unwell.✨ Danny has a ton of abandonment and trust issues due to his experiences in foster care. He would immediately become jealous, insecure, and incredibly furious and hurt. He'd despise her on principal and want nothing to do with her, or Vlad for that matter. He'd just fucking haaate her. It's not her fault she was made but Danny doesn't really care, he's lashing out and pushing people away because he's been betrayed yet again.
The only way they could get along or for Danny to actually like her in any capacity would be if it was his idea to clone himself. Which is like, kinda obvious but considering most clone plots tend to be non-consensual it's kinda gotta be said. He has to have a hand in creating her, that's the only way I can see him liking her in any way. Or if someone other than Vlad created her. If Vlad clones him though, all bets are off the table and he'll despise her.
TL;DR: Dani can't exist in this au because she goes against the narrative I've got for the two most fucked up half-dead could-be-father-son duo in existence, but if she did exist Danny would despise her.
#dpxdc#danny fenton is not the ghost king#dpxdc crossover#dp x dc#dp x dc crossover#dpdc#danyal al ghul au#stillborn? no still born au#stillborn danny#danyal al ghul#dpxdc au#vlad masters#dani phantom#he's what the french like to call 'emotionally unstable' <3. vlad is a possessive parent thats obvi but DANNY is a possessive son#he is SO not mentally okay. he's a good kid! but he's also mentally unwell and incredibly traumatized <3#he doesnt play nice with his biological siblings unfortunately :((#danny as a default pushes his people away from him and flinches away from most conventional affection bc he thinks its insincere#and it takes a while to convince him that yes you do actually care about his well being and you're not going to hurt him.#he really is just a traumatized cat that you have to coax into letting you pet it. he clings onto the people he trusts like a terrified cat#have you ever tried pulling a cat down from something when their claws are dug into it and the only way you can get them down is by hurting#them a little because you have to yank them off? yeah that's danny.#if dani DID exist and Danny and her DID get along she'd spend a lot of time also convincing him to let vlad kill the fentons. danny keeps#trying to tell her murder is wrong. dani just says 'but they got you and dad killed' and unfortunately she is as stubborn as her brother an#dad. she gets to be a little evil. as a treat <3. she also doesnt like damian but that's because she too is a possessive sister#who doesnt like to share and damian already *has* a bunch of older brothers. he doesn't *need* danny. and also he's a replacement#we love complicated family dynamics <33 THE most dysfunctional half-dead not-family ever.
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trashhole · 1 year ago
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Some simpatico and a starbee sketch. Sound rod movie date.
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theonewhowails · 1 year ago
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in my head this is how Divine Inspiration works
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crimeronan · 6 months ago
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i'm super tired right now so as i mainlined all the tags on that childhood horror poll at once i found myself going "damn. everyone's got every horror subgenre and plotline in the world going on. it's crazy how i'm surrounded by so many traumatized friends when my own childhood was so completely normal"
and then i was like
hey. ktikat.
What.
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7roaches · 20 days ago
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need adventure time and utmv fans to talk abt betty grof and nightmare sans parallels with
#cool posts#utmv#petrigrof#the adam and eve parallels. the abraham and isaac parallels.#the root of their issues not being able to accept that those who made them feel most loved act in ways they perceive as rejection#something something ‘im safe im whole ive got it under control and i will protect you even if you wont protect me too’#the way no matter they tried to justify the way their loved ones behaved it didnt change that at the end of the day it made them feel like#they (grof & nm) were less of a priority and that they (dream & kov) wouldve prefered to live in ignorance#in ignorance of their beauty (nm&grof) and in ignorance of true hope and desperation#‘ignorance of true hope’ as in an unwillingness to cling to desperation past what is reasonable#and an unwillingness to stop wanting to die after the initial loss and stop treating them like they died forever but yk#THE WAY THEY BOTH HAD COMMUNICATION ISSUES WITH THEIR LOVED ONES THAT COULD HAVE BEEN MILD UNDER NORMAL CIRCUMSTANCES BUT SOMETHING COMPLET#LY UNPREDICTABLE AND UNAVOIDABLE HAPPENED THAT FUCKED UP THEIR ENTIRE LIVES FOR HUNDREDS OF YEARS#also looping back to the unwillingness thing: the way their loved ones both treated them like theyd died and when faced with the fact that#hey didnt they pushed them away and treated them like some kind of evil possessed thing ultimately becoming a self fulfilling prophecy#also dream defenders dont hit me with the ‘he was young he didnt even know 😡’ yes#i know this and i love you and its goinf to be ok#i addressed thay#feel feel to chip in tho. sits politely
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lanayrutower · 1 year ago
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hm. something slightly uncomfortable about totk's hyrule origin story huh.
#'hyrule was founded by a benevolent race who were in possession of a GOD-LIKE POWER that they only used to protect the people who were#obviously inferior to them (also these people werent native to the land. just a little note there) and kept them safe provided they#SWORE FEALTY to their new benevolent masters- i mean allies and everyone did except the EVIL GERUDO who found their GOD-LIKE BENEVOLENCE#QUESTIONABLE and REFUSED TO SWEAR FEALTY and also they were so evil that their king's evilness was visible to the eye and turns out it#was because he coveted their GODLIKE POWER for EVIL and not because he wanted to use it to help his people who were suddenly being#pressured into subjugation or anything like that dont worry it was purely Evil Purposes because he turned on his own people right after he#got it 👍'#me SEAn: ..................... huh. interesting.#WHKSHDSKBS it's just a little. you know. it's a little. nvm.#freya talks loz#so it kind of is confirmed that at least at the beginning the other races were sort of below hyrule in a sense. they werent allies as much#as vassal states. i only know zelda's side of the story rn havent reached what's going on with link yet so maybe that gets covered. whether#they're still under hyrule or not in the present i mean#im also listening to a guy recap it rather than go through all the cutscenes and playthroughs myself so it could just be how hes explaining#things but. it is a little weird right. am i the only one who finds it weird.#also plot peeve but why did ganon not just kill zelda when he did sonia. she had a stone too. he could have had two stones. he just laughed#like sir.
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yappacadaver · 1 year ago
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and it's like despite all the awful shit he's done and continues to do, like, i get it. he's employed like 24/7/365. he never got to live a life, despite spending a childhood clinging to the hope of having one someday. He knew companionship and love but lost it and can't ever get it back. His circumstances are so anomalous and gruesome that it completely isolates him from pretty much every other human being on the planet. he knows hell is real and he is basically guaranteed to go there if he can't break this demon curse thing.
like it doesn't make the kidnapping and spreading the curse around any better, but i do get it.
#like personally i don't blame him for the actual murders#and it's hard to blame him for hiring people without telling them because like lol.#anyone who's like 'oh he should just tell ppl about the demons' like what are you onnnnnn if you went to a job interview with a creepy old#guy and he started talking about demons and hauntings and shit you would think you're being pranked or that he's lost his damn mind#and fuck offffff with the 'ohhh not me im a quirky bean i'd love to take a job if the interview was like that' like sure. ok. maybe YOU wou#but what are the odds that milford in 1998 coming off the satanic panic has a thousand yous running around waiting to be hired#like i honestly dont have any suggestions for how he could have handled the hiring situation any better#now the actual JOB i have plenty of feedback#like yea he should be there to train your ass against the demons lol we got more hands-on guidance for the embalming (the non deadly part)#but like the whole 'raymond is evil cause he kills possessed ppl and hires people without telling them abt demons'#do you think that old man can run the whole mortuary by himself and also have time to teach classes#until he inevitably dies from either stress or the demons and is sent to hell (which he knows is real)?#it's my understanding that by having others around who can help him fight the demons he'll have the spare time to figure out how to#break out of the demon curse or break possession or literally any useful information that could treat the disease and not the symptoms#he is running out of time!!! he is only getting older and the demons are only getting more frequent and someday he won't be fit enough#to properly banish them!!! if you even care!!!!!!!!!#fucking tag essay lmao#mr delver i wont u...
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trashlie · 2 years ago
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Thinking about what kinds of regrets does q-tip have, if one of them includes listening to hansuke to go to the party. Does he regret always expressing hatred to Nolan? Q-tip seems to still rather shirk away personal responsibility.
Thinking about how much does q-tip have trouble distinguishing conditional love with personal boundaries and breaking points in relationships. How much will it take for the rich loonatic to accept that he needs to better himself if he wants anyone to like him. What would it even take for q-tip to change for Nolan to accept his older brother’s a better person than before.
Would there be a new character who not only symbolically represents to q-tip the chances he wasted being an a-hole to Nolan, but a secret test of character to show how much q-tip grew? Like a small child q-tip has a chance to try again? Like maybe another small child who q-tip feels embodies the paranoia and insecurity that festers within the rich loonatic?
I feel shinae would be that second chance, especially if it’s true shin-hye really does have beef with her younger sister. Like the older sister acts like a jerk to shinae and q-tip realizes, s**t, i really was an awful sibling. I always made it about me. So, I’ll be there for shinae the same way Nolan was for her. I must be better.
Does q-tip deeply think Nolan will always stay and try to play nice with him forever, because the young boy’s love or desire to form a friendship with him that strong?
Will Nolan tell shinae that he bled out because q-tip assaulted him?
With q-tip in the hospital, will we get a shock reveal diagnosis, like what if yui secretly drugs him to enhance his paranoia, that’ll make the rich loonatic freak out even more?
I don’t know. I’m still waiting for q-tip to fall apart and go rock bottom bojack horseman style.
We don’t even know how q-tip will pay up for what he did.
Maybe he’ll step down? Maybe he’ll decide to have no kids so that the cycle ends with him, to ensure yui doesn’t level up to evil grandma. Could play into the theme of the cycle of hurt parents directly or indirectly inflict on their children.
Because even if shinae is the bridge between him and Nolan, the rich loonatic needs to choose to better himself before the breaking point of another relationship’s reached.
The thing about Kousuke is he knows all of this. That's what his whole conversation with Nol was about - he knows that he's an unlikeable person, he knows that there's a reason people don't like him and that they only reluctantly do because of WHO they are. From a young age Kousuke was well-aware of the privilege he was afforded for who he is and where he comes from, and that's a major part of his personal problems. He looks at Nol as being the one of them who got the best of Rand, the likable parts, the charismatic and charming points. And seeing that has made him all the more resentful, because none of that is him, none of that is who Kousuke has become.
On a subconscious level, he's even aware of his worst flaws. That night he got drunk in the club revealed a lot of how Kousuke really sees himself, through the lens of others. He so vehemently denies certain aspects of himself because he cannot reconcile himself with the truth: that he is rude and selfish and lacks necessary empathy to maintain relationships.
I think what Kousuke's bigger issue is that he doesn't know how to reconcile who he is with the role he thinks he's meant to fulfill. His whole life has been about trying to obtain Rand's affection and for a moment he'd reached a point of realizing it doesn't exist. But whatever he saw in the Bible - whether it was the fact that Rand carries around letters from Nessa (hence why he wanted to see the Bible again, he recognized the name) or something even more devastating to Kousuke (revealed in the most recent FP thus I won't write it here hehe) I think further broken him. Whatever he saw proves that this version of Rand, this affectionate, funny man neither of them knows does exist and that he just hasn't revealed himself to them.
The other thing about Kousuke is that he's, essentially, sacrificed himself all of these years, right? He's wanted one thing his entire life - his father's affection and validation. Anything else that he's ever enjoyed never became a want, it just became a thing he could shove aside in the quest for what he truly wants. It's clear from his beef with Nol that he does want other things - he just represses and denies them. He DOES want people to like him - but that's not the role of the Hirahara heir, is it? That's not what happens with people like them. Something I'm starting to believe is that Kousuke has to learn how to divorce what he wants from who he is - how does he let go of the ache for his father's affection when it's the root cause of who he is and everything he's done? What is the point of any of this if it doesn't culminate in being seen as good enough, as worthy enough?
Frankly, Kousuke alone cannot deal with his problems. In an ideal world, he'd go to family therapy with his father and work through that, but in an ideal world, he wouldn't have had to fight for his father's love in the first place. But that's the problem Kousuke faces - he knows how to be a decent person, and he's tried to be as evidenced through Shinae, but it's a struggle for him because his identity is so tightly woven with the way he raised. It's not as simple as to say "I want to be better to Nol as I have been to Shinae" becaue Shinae doesn't come with the same baggage that Nol and Kousuke's relationship does. Kousuke cannot have a healthy relationship with Nol until he reconciles what the issue really is: he is jealous of Nol and terrified that because of Nol he will never be loved by Rand, he is terrified that everything good only went to Nol, and that resentment is not something that goes away over night. Especially because Kousuke has that tendency of immediately rewriting anything that triggers that cognitive dissonance, anything that goes against what he expects. Rand assured Kousuke he wasn't in trouble, that he wasn't angry, that Nol was not Kousuke's responsibility, but immediately upon finding Nol at the Park's home, he jumped right into "Do you know how much trouble I'm in because of you?"
There is no quick and easy way for Kousuke to unlearn everything he's grown up to believe, all of the truths forged within him during his formative foundations. It will not be enough going forward to simply remember that Nol, too, has never met that version of Rand, that maybe that version doesn't even exist. Firstly, I think Kousuke would have rewritten that moment in a way that made him feel less uncomfortable in reflection, but also, again, whatever Kousuke saw in that Bible I worry could undo everything. I think Kousuke has seen a reminder that this version of Rand is real, it's just that (according to the beliefs Kousuke carries) he's not good enough.
Now, I DO think Kousuke wants to be better for Shinae, he just, again, is so out of touch, he doesn't know how to do this. I think if we look at the way he was raised, it makes a lot of sense? It seems he's always taken Yui at face value and not really questioned the lessons she imparted in him when he was young. He's never had to earn anyone's trust - he always assumes he has it because he is a person in power, a person to be revered. He has never been taught to earn ANYTHING because as the Hirahara heir, he's had it from the get go. How does he earn Shinae's trust? How does he reconcile his image in front of her? That's the thing that was so laughable about the otter plushie he gave her - not only does it demonstrate how little he knows her, it also demonstrates that he just doesn't know how to earn THINGS, period. The beaver represented something symbolic to him, but she doesn't know that. He has been handed everything he could want or need in life and he thinks that everyone else must want for this, because he has the good life, the one coveted by everyone. In his mind, a gift given seems to equate to something similar. "I am a good person who is giving you something special to prove that I am a good person."
But it doesn't work that way. Since it seems like there's no way out of her contract and Shinae will likely end up working with Kousuke (assuming you know.... there's no repercussions faced after this incident) I think that's when Kousuke will get schooled, but hmmm. Idk it doesn't feel right to me? How does that work when it comes to the time skips - it would mean significant development would happen off screen, and that doesn't suit quimchee's style, so I'm really iffy on this part, tbh.
The thing re: repercussions, too, is that Rand can push for them, but Yui is not a person to yield, and as it is, Rand wants to keep this whole thing hush hush, so I'm not entirely sure what to anticipate from that? Suppose he is forced to step down - a reason will have to be made, and that doesn't keep things very hush hush, does it? And again, I feel like Yui would easily be able to find a reason to block it. It's so easy to brush Nol's injuries off as being from the fall - which had plenty of witnesses - rather than go into detail about what happened. I guess the other thing is, is Nol willing to push it? No one but them REALLY knows what happened. Rand can assume and guess right but the whole thing creates a horrible fork in the road: either Kousuke gets away with it and Nol carries on believing that he is insignificant to Rand, or Kousuke is punished and he comes away believing that Nol does and has always mattered most.
This is where all of the possibilities become limitless to me lol because say the latter happens and Kousuke is held responsible. How does that impact his relationships? Now his relationship with Rand is further ruined, and that resentment towards Nol grows more. Or does he learn to let it go? Decide fuck pleasing Rand. Fuck pleasing ANYONE? He's such a hard one for me to gage because he just has so many unresolved issues and so much of it is rooted in Nol and Rand.
I'm also unsure if Nol will tell Shinae how it happened. I think it's something that is currently unspoken that she's probably already thought about. Without revealing too much from the recent FP episodes, she saw the state Kousuke was in. It's clear to everyone involved that Kousuke is NOT okay, that he's essentially in a state of shock. I think she might be able to deduce that whatever happened wasn't really intentional? That feels funny to say because Kousuke definitely went after Nol because he didn't want to let him leave like that, because he had so much resentment yet unspilled and was goading him into the fight but also his reaction to Nol bleeding, I think, shows that what Kousuke wanted was for Nol to fight back? like, hmm idk how to word this because it's not something I've fully made up my mind about but I think it's more like Kousuke WANTED Nol to call him out, because he feels so much resentment towards Nol, surely Nol must feel the same. It was that realization that this has been a one-sided war for so many years, that Nol never wanted the fight Kousuke did.
But seeing Nol bleeding, passing out? That wasn't what he wanted. Does that make sense? idk.
Anyway all this to say: I think it's not enough for Kousuke to acknowledge the kind of person he's been. His mental stability is fragile and largely held up by altering his accounts of what happens in every confrontational scenario in a way that doesn't make him uncomfortable. He struggles to accept actual reality because of the way it directly opposes what he expects and believes to be true. So how can he just up and change, if he's unprepared to deal with that reality?
I've always said he needs to fall and break to change, and idk if he's there yet. I'm worried about what will happen with him being in Hirahara Memorial, because I don't doubt Yui will, if she hasn't already been, be made aware of what happened, and maybe that's why Rand didn't want him to show up there? Not just because he would find out that that's not where Nol is, but because he doesn't want him to fall prey to Yui when he's at his weakest? Because Yui is a person who not only supports but recreates those accounts for Kousuke? I think as long as she is a player in this game, Kousuke's likelihood of change diminishes.
At this stage, I think it's very possible that Nol and Kousuke will never be brothers to each other, but my hope is at the very least for them to make peace. For Nol to be able to let go of that family and find peace with himself, without thinking of himself as damaged goods or baggage or a villain. For him to be able to let go of Kousuke - let go of the resentment and just live freely without him. But in order to reach that point, I think the only way for him to see change in Kousuke would have to deal with Yui. Since the chess game remains a prevalent them and Kousuke still plays for Yui's side, I think the thing that will aid him and Nol is if Kousuke is able to turn against Yui, and welp, we've established that's going to be increasingly difficult considering Yui is the only figure in his life who has ever shown him a sense of care, the only figure in his life that he has been able to safely run to. I know he knows what she's like, what she does, but when she's the only one who he has felt was ever on his side, that's going to be a difficult feat, isn't it?
(Also as a side note, when sending me asks, please don't refer to Kousuke as a lunatic. That's some pretty ableist language that doesn't sit right with me. Kousuke has a lot of issues, yeah, but trying to write it off as "he's just crazy/insane" or "he's just [mental illness]" doesn't feel right. I'm fine acknowledges all the ways the guy is messed up - he's got some pretty heavy trauma resulting from neglect and something that resembles PTSD but language like lunatic doesn't feel right - it feels very "this is a bad person doing bad things and I'm going to write it off as inane" and that doesn't sit right with me.)
#ILY Brainrot#I Love Yoo#ILY FP#ILY Spoilers#using those tags just in case#i keep it as spoiler free as possible but i'm just covering my ass lol#Kousuke Hirahara#i don't view Kousuke as an inherent evil as much as being a victim of his own life and circumstances in a way that is difficult for him to#escape. like. idk i have a lot of complicated feelings about him#he's absolutely responsible for the person he's become#but i also cannot deny the circumstances that got him here either#the things that define the character he possesses#how does he change and move on from all of that you know?#how does he let go of his resentment and jealousy?#how does he learn to see Nol as a person of his own rather than this extension of everything that makes him so jealous?#I also think in a twisted way Kousuke genuinely thinks Nol has had it easier#because Kousuke was on such a warpspeed fast track to earn his father's affections no shortcuts no breaks#In his mind Nol has already obtained what Kousuke has had to bust ass for#in his mind Nol is loved and Kousuke is trying to catch up#he sees Nol goofing around with friends and feels jealous that he never had that that he wasn't allowed that based on who he is?#so how does he learn to let go of those feelings?#further it's like... when this is his identity what is left if he lets go of it all? who is he? what remains of his identity when#he lets go of everything that propped him up?#who is he outside of chasing his father for a crumb of affection and resenting Nol for something that isn't even true?#I guess this is why I'm really keen for more of Kousuke's story - I want to see what comes of him#I want to see what choices he ends up making#I want to see if he wants the better path or not
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beangods · 1 year ago
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does anyone want to hear about my OCs
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therevengeoffrankenstein · 1 year ago
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the goodnight show is one of my bigger inspirations for my interpretation of america's suitehearts. i imagine each episode ending with a segment that evokes the vibes of a good night show for older kids.
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llegato · 1 year ago
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honestly one of my favorite things about corpse party is how important ever decision is. like it could be the smallest thing, and you'll ask yourself 'why is the game asking me for such an unimportant decision' but then you die for making even the slightest wrong decision. and the bad endings seem painful as hell . but they add a whole new layer to the game that makes it so much fun
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solxamber · 4 months ago
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Trash Novel Chronicles: Please Let Me Live - Vil Schoenheit x reader
You get isekai'd into the worst novel you've had the misfortune of reading because apparently your life is a cosmic joke. Now all you have to do is not act like the character you've possessed and it'll be fine, you think? Your fiancé being Vil Schoenheit makes it a little harder to behave like a human being with functional braincells, but hey, atleast he likes you, you think?
Series Masterlist
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You'd avoided it for so long. For months, your best friend had been pestering you to read the shoujo isekai novel of the year. According to them, it was the epitome of romantic drama, the kind that would "turn your heart into a mess of feelings" and "change your life." So, finally, after a particularly grueling week, your willpower hit rock bottom. You caved. You bought it, poured yourself a drink, and figured, "How bad can it be?"
Turns out, really bad.
You’d barely made it past the first few chapters before your brain began to leak out of your ears. Every overused villainess plot point imaginable was crammed into the story like a contest of "how much nonsense can we fit in here before the reader gives up?" The evil fiancée everyone inexplicably hated? Check. The perfect cinnamon roll male lead everyone adored even though he had the personality of wet cardboard? Double check. The heroine who was so pure that even her sneeze would be enough to unite warring nations who also happens to be the saintess? You had to put the book down and take a moment when she gave a speech about friendship that was so saccharine, your teeth hurt.
Grumbling and filled with regret, you got up to refill your drink… only to slip on bubble wrap you swore yesterday that you were going to pick up later, fall face-first into the kitchen counter, and began to bleed out.
It was a comically stupid way to die. You knew that as you lay there, watching the light fade from your vision, your last thoughts being, This is the dumbest thing that’s ever happened to me.
And then, darkness.
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You woke up with a groan, your head pounding. As your vision cleared, you noticed you were lying in a very, very fancy bed. Silk sheets, gold trimming on the canopy, the works. And you were dressed in something frilly, layered, and far too complicated for someone who just woke up from a near-death experience.
"What the…"
You sat up, rubbing your eyes, only to freeze as the realization hit you. This was not your bed. This was not your apartment. This was… Oh god, no.
You whipped your head around the lavish room, recognizing it from the novel you’d been hate-reading just last night. The massive mirror above the dresser, the tapestry with an overly detailed family crest, the obnoxiously large bouquet of roses that smelled way too sweet.
You’re in the book.
Panicking, you scrambled out of bed and rushed to the full-length mirror by the wall. The reflection staring back at you was not your own. Instead, you saw an unfamiliar face—her face. The one mentioned once, maybe twice, in the whole novel before being discarded like an old shoe: the betrothed of the villain.
The fiancée who dumps him for the male lead. The fiancée who gets themselves killed in the process.
“Oh, come on!” you groaned, slapping your forehead. “I’m the villain’s betrothed? I’m that idiot who leaves Vil Schoenheit because I fall for the human incarnation of a sugar cube?”
But there was no escaping it. You were now stuck in the body of a side character so irrelevant that even her death was treated as an afterthought. The one who leaves her handsome, ambitious, gorgeous fiancé for… Neige.
No. No, no, no. You were not about to die over a soggy cinnamon roll.
Determined to change your fate, you gathered your wits and opened the door to leave the room. But of course, you ran headlong into a tall figure, knocking you both back.
“Oof! Careful there!” a smooth, yet stern voice said. You looked up—and froze. Standing before you, looking like something straight out of a high-fashion magazine, was Vil Schoenheit. The man whose heart you were supposed to break, the villain who would later descend into madness after you ditch him.
And wow. In person, he was even more stunning than the novel had described. His golden-blond hair shimmered in the sunlight pouring through the window, his purple eyes were as sharp as they were beautiful, and his posture screamed confidence.
You blinked up at him, utterly dumbfounded. You’re supposed to leave him? For Neige? You nearly gagged at the thought.
Vil raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by your wide-eyed staring. “Is something the matter?”
You gulped. Right. You were supposed to be cold and dismissive toward him, weren’t you? But how? This man looked like he could make the heavens weep with his beauty. How had your character ever even considered leaving him?
“No, nothing’s the matter!” you blurted out, a little too enthusiastically. “Actually, everything’s great! You look fantastic! I mean, not that you don’t always look fantastic—because you do—but, you know, extra fantastic today!”
Vil’s eyes narrowed. “You’re acting strange.”
Abort. Abort!
You quickly cleared your throat. “Uh, I’ve just been… thinking. About us.”
His gaze became sharper. “About us?”
You nodded, plastering on your most sincere smile. “Yes! I’ve realized… I haven’t been very, uh, appreciative of you lately. And I’m sorry for that. Really, I am. So from now on, I’ll be the most appreciative fiancée ever!”
Vil looked at you as though you’d just told him the sun was cold. He clearly didn’t trust this sudden change in attitude. “What exactly brought this on?” he asked slowly, suspiciously.
Time for Plan B. “Oh, you know, just… reflection! Self-improvement! I thought, ‘Why would I ever look anywhere else when I’ve got someone like *you* right in front of me?’ You’re… amazing, really.” You cringed internally at how corny that sounded, but Vil didn’t seem entirely put off.
“Hm,” was all he said, but his piercing gaze stayed locked on you, watching for any sign of deceit.
You were sweating bullets, but at least he wasn’t storming off. Yet.
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You knew from the moment you read the back cover that this novel was going to be a dumpster fire of clichés, but you were not prepared for the sheer chaos of it all.
So, first off, we have the heroine—the Saintess—who has somehow never faced a single hardship in her life, despite the fact that she’s supposed to be the kingdom’s beacon of virtue and a symbol of overcoming hardship. She’s engaged to the crown prince, who conveniently disappears on a diplomatic mission and dies offscreen, probably to make room for her new love interest, Neige LeBlanche. Neige. That sparkly ray of sunshine who is so perfect and pure that you feel like you need sunglasses whenever his name is mentioned. Because apparently, what’s more romantic than falling for a guy immediately after your fiancé kicks the bucket?
Then there’s the second male lead, the brooding Duke of the North, who checks all the boxes: tall, brooding, handsome, tragic backstory—yawn. Of course, he’s madly in love with the Saintess, and like any self-respecting second male lead in a trashy romance, he sacrifices himself for her later. Because nothing says “I’m irrelevant” quite like noble self-sacrifice.
And don't even get started on the heroine's best friend. She’s basically there to fawn over the Saintess and then inexplicably fall for Vil, the Grand Duke, after she pressures him into apologizing for insulting the heroine's dress. Like, why? Was his dress critique that alluring?
Now, Vil Schoenheit. The Grand Duke. The guy you’re currently stuck with as your fiancé. He’s actually a decent character—powerful, intelligent, not falling over himself to worship the Saintess like everyone else. But in the novel, he’s wasted. Why? Because he’s engaged to the character you’re now possessing—Miss Mean and Cold—who treats him like dirt because she’s too busy fantasizing about Neige. You know, the guy she has no shot with because he’s destined to fall for the Saintess. Then, when your character eventually dumps Vil for Neige, she dies in a freak accident. Vil, who actually loved her (for reasons no one understands), is so heartbroken that he turns into the main villain.
Yes, that’s right—this whole mess of a plot ends with Vil going full villain mode because the love of his life ditched him for the living embodiment of a children’s snowman and then died in a way that no one can explain. Cue the Saintess and Neige teaming up to defeat him and live happily ever after.
And that’s the story. A tangled web of nonsensical relationships, conveniently dead characters, and more emotional whiplash than you can handle. And the cherry on top? You're stuck in it, watching everything unfold firsthand. It's honestly a wonder the book didn’t end up as kindling.
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A few days passed, and somehow, miraculously, you managed to keep up the act. Every morning you would wake up, still half-expecting to snap out of this bizarre isekai nightmare, but instead, you were met with Vil’s meticulous morning routine and the low hum of his voice offering helpful reminders about skincare.
And the more time you spent with him, the more baffled you became.
How the hell could the original character have messed this up?!
Sure, Vil was particular—okay, maybe borderline obsessive—about appearances. His lectures about proper sunscreen application could rival the length of the Odyssey. And yes, the daily inspections of your outfit choices felt a little like going through customs at a royal border.
But… he was kind? Like, actually caring?
Every meal was an event because he made sure you were eating properly and not just shoving random food into your mouth like the gremlin you clearly were before. He listened when you rambled about your day, offering advice with this gentle patience that honestly made you want to weep. How could anyone leave this?
You found yourself in front of a mirror one afternoon, pacing and gesturing wildly at your reflection, as if you could summon the spirit of the character you’d possessed. "What the actual hell was wrong with you?!" you hissed at the glass. “What kind of brain rot would make someone ditch a man like Vil?! Are you missing brain cells, or was your skull just a rental with nothing in it?!”
You paused, glaring at your reflection as if it could offer answers, but nope. It just stared back, helpless.
“Like, hello?!” you continued, throwing your hands up in exasperation. “You had a golden opportunity here! He’s literally gorgeous! He’s got hair that looks like it was hand-spun by some ancient beauty god, his fashion sense could kill a lesser mortal, and he—*gasp*—cares about your well-being?!”
You slapped your forehead dramatically. “How did you mess this up? Were you allergic to good things? Did you wake up every day and choose to be a feral raccoon instead of, I don’t know, appreciating this actual masterpiece of a human being? What, did you look at his perfect face and go, ‘Nah, I’d rather yeet myself into self-destruction?’ Because clearly, that’s what happened!”
Your reflection remained silent, offering no help, which only fueled your rant further.
“You absolute donut! You ridiculous bottle of poorly mixed potion! You—” You stopped mid-sentence, running out of sufficiently creative insults to throw at the former owner of this body. Because seriously, what kind of fool would’ve thrown Vil away?
You gripped the sides of the vanity table, leaning forward, narrowing your eyes at your own reflection. "If I find out that you gave up on this because he once asked you to wear a face mask or told you to drink more water… I swear, I'm going to find a way to repossess you just to kill you again for making me deal with this."
A soft knock at the door startled you out of your self-directed tirade. You nearly jumped out of your skin, spinning around to see Vil standing in the doorway, one perfectly groomed eyebrow raised in amusement.
“Talking to yourself again?” he asked, his voice smooth but with a teasing edge. “You know, that’s usually a sign of stress. Perhaps we should revisit that meditation routine I mentioned.”
You stared at him, wide-eyed and speechless, wondering how much he’d overheard. But then you caught sight of that soft smile he reserved just for you, and your brain short-circuited all over again.
Right. The original character was definitely an idiot.
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The first major hurdle hit you when you least expected it.
It all started with what should have been a calm afternoon—a brief moment of peace where you and Vil could actually spend time together, no schemes, no weird confrontations, just enjoying tea. You were finally getting comfortable with each other, slowly building the trust that had been so fragile at the start. Finally, you thought, things were moving smoothly.
Then the overused villainess trope decided to rear its ugly head.
Vil was talking about an upcoming event he’d be hosting, his voice calm, his usual stern features softened just slightly by the moment of peace. You were finally letting your guard down.
That was until the door creaked open and in waltzed the heroine’s best friend, a girl with wide, doe-like eyes and a penchant for stirring up unnecessary drama. Behind her, looming in the doorway, was the second male lead—your eternal source of frustration from the novel. He was tall, brooding, and always, always popping up at the most inconvenient moments. A defeated looking Epel walked in behind them, with a look that screamed 'trust me I tried to stop them.'
“Oh no,” you whispered under your breath, recognizing this scene before it could even play out. You knew what was coming, and you braced yourself for the utter absurdity of it.
Vil’s sharp gaze flicked from the two intruders back to you, his brows furrowing in mild irritation. “What is it now?” he muttered, already sensing the impending nonsense.
The heroine’s friend, ever the bringer of chaos, marched right up to your table with a dramatic flair that could only come from someone who believed they were the only purveyor of justice. “I can’t stay quiet any longer!” she declared, pointing an accusatory finger in Vil’s direction. “Vil, how could you treat the heroine this way?! You’ve been so cold, so distant—and it’s clear that you don’t truly care for anyone but yourself!”
You blinked. Excuse me?
Vil’s lips pursed, the irritation growing on his face. “And what, pray tell, did I do?”
“You know what you did!” she exclaimed, crossing her arms like she’d just delivered the most damning statement in history. “You’ve been ignoring her, brushing her off, and acting like she doesn’t even exist. She’s heartbroken because of you!”
You groaned internally. Oh no, this was that scene. The one where, because Vil once made an offhand comment about the heroine’s poor choice in dresses at a ball, suddenly he was painted as some cruel villain who was emotionally tormenting the delicate heroine. It was such an incredibly stupid misunderstanding that you distinctly remembered wanting to throw the book across the room when you’d first read it.
To make matters worse, the second male lead, standing silently but brooding in the doorway, was glowering at Vil like he was ready to challenge him to a duel at any moment. Because of a comment about a dress.
“Are you serious?” you blurted out, the frustration bubbling up before you could stop yourself.
The heroine’s friend gasped, her eyes wide. “Excuse me?!”
“Let me get this straight,” you said, rising from your seat with a groan, “you’re upset because Vil, what, didn’t shower her with praise at the last event? And now you’ve decided to come in here, storming into our tea time, to complain about it?”
The second male lead’s brooding scowl deepened, his jaw tightening. “Vil has been cruel—”
“About a dress.” You cut him off, waving your hand dismissively. “Vil made one comment about her dress. That’s it. And now we’re doing this whole song and dance like he’s some kind of evil tyrant?”
The room was already tense, the heroine’s best friend visibly fuming, but you couldn’t help it. The words just came out before you could stop them.
“And while we’re at it,” you said, your voice dripping with mock innocence, “let’s talk about that dress. You know, the one you’re all so upset about. I mean, I’m no fashion expert, but who in their right mind thought wearing that shade of mustard-yellow was a good idea?”
The friend’s mouth fell open, but you weren’t finished. “I mean, she walked into the ballroom looking like a sad banana trying to go to a high society function. I get it—saintess and all that—but there’s no reason to dress like the interior of an overripe cantaloupe.”
Vil made a choking sound next to you, and you dared to glance at him. His eyes were wide with shock, but there was an unmistakable glint of amusement. Oh, he wasn’t pleased with the crudeness, but he definitely wasn’t going to stop you either.
“And you,” you said, turning to the second male lead, who had been standing there like a silent, brooding statue, just staring at the two of you menacingly. “What’s your excuse? You came in here with all this brooding energy, acting like you’re about to duel someone over the fate of the heroine. But seriously, what’s with your whole tragic hero act? Is your personality just permanent raincloud or do you practice that in the mirror?”
Vil covered his mouth with his hand, and you could see his shoulders shaking slightly. He was losing the battle to keep his composure, but he was trying—for dignity’s sake, of course.
Epel, on the other hand, had completely given up. The moment you’d said “sad banana,” he had fallen off his chair, doubled over in laughter, his face red as he clutched his sides. You weren’t sure if it was your insults or the second male lead’s thunderstruck expression, but either way, Epel was in hysterics.
“I—” the heroine’s friend sputtered, but you interrupted her again.
“Oh, and you.” You looked her up and down with a condescending smirk. “You really want to talk about fashion? Because I don’t know who told you that wearing ruffles with plaid was a look, but they were wrong. You’re out here looking like you got lost in a fabric store and fell into the clearance bin.”
This time, Vil snorted. Actually snorted. The sound was so out of place that it almost derailed your tirade, but you powered through, buoyed by his reaction.
The second male lead looked like he was ready to explode, his aura now bordering on murderous. “You can’t just—”
“Oh, can’t I?” you shot back, crossing your arms. “Because it seems like all of you came in here with the intent to stir up drama over something as trivial as a constructive remark. If you’re going to go to war over fashion, at least wear something that doesn’t look like you picked it out with your eyes closed. Scratch that, I couldn’t imagine picking that up even with my eyes closed.”
By now, Epel was rolling on the floor, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. “C-couldn’t pick it out… with your eyes closed!” he wheezed, slapping his knee.
Vil, despite himself, let out a low giggle, shaking his head in disbelief. “Well,” he said, his voice steady but filled with mirth, “I suppose subtlety was never your strong suit.”
The heroine’s friend, now red-faced and flustered beyond belief, grabbed the second male lead by the arm and yanked him toward the door. “This isn’t over,” she spat, glaring at you. “We’ll see who’s laughing when the heroine—”
“Yeah, yeah,” you waved dismissively, “when the heroine what? Realizes she’s been pining for someone who can't tell mustard from elegance? Trust me, I’m not worried.”
With that, they both stormed out, slamming the door behind them in a huff of embarrassment and frustration. The second they were gone, you let out a breath and sank back into your chair, grinning at Vil, who was now openly smiling.
“You really didn’t hold back, did you?” Vil said, his amusement evident despite his usual calm demeanor. “I don’t approve of such… crude insults, but I must admit—” his lips twitched— “it was rather effective.”
Epel, still recovering from his laughing fit, managed to haul himself back into his seat, wiping tears from his eyes. “That was… that was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen,” he said between gasps for air. “I can’t believe ya said that right to their faces!”
“Glad to be of service,” you said with a grin, though your heart was still pounding in your chest. You couldn’t believe you’d actually said all of that out loud. But judging by Vil’s pleased expression and Epel’s ongoing laughter, it had been worth it.
Maybe surviving this trash novel wouldn’t be so bad after all.
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You’d barely had time to process how bizarrely normal your life as the villain’s fiancée had become when the next absurd isekai plot point decided to rear its ugly, trope-filled head again.
It all started at yet another lavish tea party. Honestly, you’d begun to lose track of how many of these events you were forced to attend. They all blurred together into a haze of polite smiles, floral patterns, and far too much sugar.
This time, you were seated next to Vil, who, as always, looked like he had just stepped out of a renaissance painting. You, on the other hand, were trying not to spill tea on the new dress he’d insisted you wear. The dress itself was lovely, of course—Vil had impeccable taste—but the whole setting made you feel like you were constantly walking on eggshells. Especially since she was here. The heroine.
Today, though, you were determined to get through it without any drama. Just smile, nod, and let the heroine do her thing. Easy, right?
Wrong.
Everything had been going smoothly, too. The heroine, in all her sunshiney glory, was seated at the table, surrounded by her usual group of admirers. You had been doing a great job of fading into the background until someone—the hostess, perhaps?—brought up your previous adventures.
“Oh, didn’t you once accompany the Grand Duke to deal with that bandit problem on the eastern border?” the hostess asked, fanning herself with interest. “What a thrilling ordeal!”
You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, feeling the weight of too many eyes on you. “Well, I wouldn’t say thrilling exactly…” you began, trying to downplay it, but your nerves had other ideas. “I mean, the heroine here was probably off rescuing some poor lost puppy while I was just, you know, holding down the real danger.”
The air went cold.
The moment the words left your mouth, you froze. The table fell silent, save for the quiet clinking of teacups being set down. Every eye was on you. The heroine’s wide, eyes blinked at you, full of hurt and confusion. And across from you, the second male lead—Mr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding—looked like he was ready to leap across the table and strangle you on the spot.
Oh no. Oh no no no. Why did you leave your filter at home?
You opened your mouth to apologize, but before you could, the second male lead slammed his cup down on the table, the porcelain rattling ominously. “You dare insult her honor?!” he roared, rising from his seat like some kind of vengeful storm cloud. “I will not stand for this!”
*Why did I say that?* You cringed internally, face turning a bright shade of crimson. "I-it was a joke—"
“No,” he declared dramatically, pointing a finger at you. “I demand satisfaction! A duel for her honor!”
You were still too stunned to respond, your brain scrambling to make sense of the situation. A duel? Over this? All you’d implied was that the heroine wasn’t exactly… battle-hardened. Surely that wasn’t duel-worthy? This man was acting like you’d called his mother a turnip or something worse.
The heroine, ever the epitome of grace, tried to intervene. “There’s no need for—”
But Mr. Broody wasn’t having it. “No! Her honor has been besmirched, and I shall defend it with my life!”
Vil, who had been watching this spectacle unfold with an expression of mild disgust, finally rose from his chair. His cool gaze swept over the table, landing on the second male lead with all the intensity of a snake about to strike.
“If anyone’s honor has been besmirched,” Vil said icily, “it’s mine. And I will not allow my betrothed to be disrespected by the likes of you.”
You blinked up at Vil, stunned. “Wait, you’re going to duel him? Yourself?”
Vil turned his piercing gaze to you, and though his face remained calm, there was a glimmer of something softer in his eyes. “Of course,” he said. “I would never entrust such a matter to anyone else. Besides…” His lips curled into a smirk. “It’s been a while since I’ve put an upstart in his place.”
You gulped, suddenly feeling a bit light-headed. Was it getting hot in here?
The second male lead, apparently unaware of just how screwed he was, smirked triumphantly. “Very well! Let’s settle this once and for all.”
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The duel was set for the next day in your estate gardens. You spent the time leading up to it pacing back and forth in your chambers, wringing your hands in nervous anticipation. Somewhere along the way, you’d decided that you needed to do something—anything—to support Vil. So you had spent hours learning how to embroider a handkerchief, your fingers aching from the effort. By the time you finished, you were practically shaking, but you were proud of the result.
You didn’t expect Vil to be touched, let alone notice that you’d worked so hard. But when you handed him the handkerchief just before the duel, his eyes widened in surprise.
“You made this?” he asked, holding it delicately between his fingers, as if it were some priceless artifact.
You nodded sheepishly. “I figured, you know, for luck. Or to rub it in his face after you beat him. Whichever.”
Vil chuckled, his usually sharp expression softening. “Thank you,” he said, his voice low. He then noticed the small needle marks on your hands and frowned. “You hurt yourself.”
You quickly hid your hands behind your back. “It’s nothing! I mean, I’m fine. Just a few pricks here and there.”
Vil’s expression softened even further, and for a moment, he looked almost… touched. He carefully tucked the handkerchief into his coat pocket, a small but genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’ll be sure to put this to good use.”
You didn’t swoon. Well, maybe just a little.
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The duel was, in a word, ridiculous.
The second male lead strutted around like a peacock, his sword gleaming in the afternoon sunlight as he swung it dramatically for the small crowd that had gathered. “Prepare yourself, Schoenheit!” he bellowed, pointing his sword at Vil.
Vil, on the other hand, looked utterly unimpressed. He barely glanced at the man before calmly removing his coat and handing it to you. “Hold this, will you?”
You took the coat with a nod, trying not to pass out from how effortlessly graceful he looked even in the midst of preparing for a fight.
The second male lead lunged forward with all the finesse of a drunken ox, his sword clashing loudly against Vil’s. For a moment, it looked like a real duel—until Vil, with a single fluid motion, disarmed the man in one clean strike. The second male lead’s sword went flying, landing in the bushes several feet away with a pathetic thud.
The crowd gasped, and you had to stifle a laugh. It had barely been five seconds, and the duel was already over.
The second male lead stood there, stunned, his hand frozen mid-air where his sword had been. He blinked once, twice, then turned bright red with embarrassment. “W-what?!”
Vil, ever composed, didn’t even break a sweat. He sheathed his sword and gave the man a cold, dismissive look. “This duel is over. Consider your demand for satisfaction... fulfilled. Now, kindly leave before you embarrass yourself further.”
You bit your lip, trying not to giggle as the second male lead sputtered and tried to come up with an excuse, but it was clear to everyone that he had been utterly humiliated. Even the heroine, standing off to the side, looked like she was struggling to keep a straight face.
As the second male lead stumbled off, defeated, Vil turned to you and offered his hand. “Shall we go?”
You took his hand, still trying to process how easily he had won. “You were amazing,” you blurted out, your heart fluttering as you gazed up at him. “Seriously, that was… wow.”
Vil smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement. “Of course I was.” He then leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper. “And I expect a proper reward later for defending your honor.”
Your face went beet red, and you were pretty sure you’d forgotten how to breathe.
Yep, you thought as he led you away, his hand still in yours, surviving this trash novel might not be so bad after all.
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It happened at one of those overly extravagant banquets the royal court liked to throw. You spotted Neige from across the room, all bright eyes and an innocent smile. He was the epitome of purity, as if his very presence could summon woodland creatures to frolic at his feet.
And you hated him on sight.
You watched in disbelief as everyone around him melted into puddles of admiration. He was practically glowing, and his overly cheerful, squeaky voice was grating on your ears.
The overly saccharine male lead stood there, looking like a cross between a baby bunny and a sentient cupcake. Everything about him screamed "pure-hearted." You nearly gagged on your drink, hoping no one noticed your grimace.
Vil noticed your sour expression and leaned in. “Is something the matter?”
“That’s him, isn’t it?” you said through clenched teeth. “The one I used to follow around?”
Vil followed your gaze, and for a moment, his lips twitched in the faintest show of amusement. “Yes. That’s Neige.”
You snorted. "I can't believe anyone in their right mind would prefer him over you."
Vil's lips curled into a smirk, and he tilted his head slightly. “Oh? Is that so?” His voice was silky, dangerously low, but you could see the flash of satisfaction behind his eyes.
“Yeah,” you muttered, still glaring in Neige's direction. “I mean, look at him. He’s so… good. And not in a ‘wow, what a decent person’ way. It’s like he’s one bad haircut away from sprouting fairy wings and breaking into song.”
Vil let out a low chuckle, right next to you ear, (Lord, have mercy) the sound sending shivers down your spine. “I never thought I’d hear you speak this way about him. You’ve been fawning over Neige for as long as I can remember.”
You rolled your eyes, throwing your hands up. “That was the old me. The dumb me. I mean, have you seen you?” You gestured dramatically toward him. “How could anyone even look at Neige when you exist?”
Vil was quiet for a moment, watching you intently. His violet eyes glinted with something unreadable, but you could tell he was pleased. Oh, he was very pleased.
“You certainly have changed,” he murmured, the smirk never leaving his lips. “And I must admit, I find it rather… delightful.”
Before you could respond, a very familiar voice rang out from behind you. “Ah! What a beautiful reunion this is! A moment filled with l’amour, sparkling like the stars in the sky!”
You nearly jumped out of your skin as Rook Hunt appeared seemingly out of thin air, his hands dramatically clasped together as he beamed at you both. “I have seen many couples in my lifetime, but none quite so radiant as you two.”
You blinked, trying to recover from his sudden appearance. “Rook… were you just… hiding in the curtains again?”
Rook, ever the dramatist, placed a hand on his heart and smiled wistfully. “Ah, but how could I stay away when the beauty of your love draws me in like a moth to a flame?”
Vil raised an eyebrow. “Rook, you’re not helping.”
“Non, non, mon ami,” Rook insisted, twirling in place with a flourish. “I am merely basking in the glow of what is surely a love for the ages! The way your eyes meet, the subtle tension in the air—it is magnifique!”
You sighed, shaking your head, though you couldn’t help but chuckle at Rook’s antics. Meanwhile, from the other side of the ballroom, Epel was watching the scene unfold with barely concealed amusement. He caught your eye and shot you a grin, raising his glass as if to say, Good luck with this.
But the fun wasn’t over. Oh no. Neige, the human embodiment of a children’s choir, started making his way toward you. As he approached, his bright eyes locked on yours, his smile so innocent and wide that you almost felt bad for what you were about to do.
Almost.
“Good evening!” Neige greeted you, his voice as sweet as sugar. “I don’t believe we’ve had the chance to properly meet.”
You stared at him for a moment, unimpressed. “Yeah, uh-huh.”
Neige blinked, clearly taken aback by your lack of enthusiasm. He probably wasn’t used to people not immediately falling at his feet. “It’s truly wonderful to meet you! I’ve heard so much about you.”
You squinted at him. “Mm-hmm.”
Vil, standing beside you, looked positively elated. You could practically feel the smug energy radiating off of him. He wasn’t even hiding his smile anymore.
Neige continued, oblivious to your complete disinterest. “I’m so glad we’ll have the chance to spend time together in the coming months! I hope we can—”
“Yeah, no, I’m good,” you interrupted, turning away and pointedly ignoring his very existence.
Neige blinked again, looking like a lost puppy. You almost felt a little bad. Almost.
Vil, on the other hand, looked like Christmas had come early. His arm slipped around your waist, his touch gentle. “I must say,” he murmured into your ear, his voice laced with amusement, “I’ve never enjoyed one of these balls quite so much.”
Yup, maybe this novel isn't that trashy after all?
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Everytime you think this novel might not be that bad, it manages to prove you wrong.
The day had finally arrived: the Founding Day Ball. The event to end all events, where the kingdom’s most distinguished were honored in a grand ceremony. And, of course, at the top of the list of honorees was Vil, who might as well have been carved into the actual history of the kingdom itself with how perfect he was.
As his partner for the evening, you were dressed to the nines, dripping in elegance you didn’t even know you were capable of. When you caught your reflection in one of the massive ballroom mirrors, you had to do a double-take.
"Who is that?" you whispered, eyes wide. "Oh. It’s me."
Honestly, if there was a chance of impressing anyone here, you were impressed with yourself.
The ceremony went as expected. Vil was awarded the highest honors, his name met with thunderous applause as he gave a speech that left the crowd swooning. You found yourself half-clapping, half-gawking, wondering how this man kept getting more perfect. Like, was he actually human?
But as the evening progressed, the dreaded scene you despised the most crept into the evening, like a bad smell at a gourmet dinner.
After the ceremony, it was time for the opening dance. Naturally, Vil, being the epitome of grace and nobility, was the prime candidate to lead it. You were fully expecting him to ask you, but before he could even turn in your direction, the heroine — yes, that heroine — appeared out of nowhere, like she was materializing straight from the pages of the worst romance novel ever written.
“Vil,” she said in a voice that sounded like honey and broken promises, “I trust you’ll grant me the honor of the first dance.”
You blinked. *Excuse me?*
She said it so confidently, as if it were a foregone conclusion, like she was used to the world revolving around her whims. It was the equivalent of someone just cutting the line in front of you at the store and expecting applause for their audacity.
Vil, for his part, didn’t even flinch. His expression was as cool and elegant as ever, but you could see a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
“I’m afraid,” he said, voice smooth and polite, “I already have a partner for the first dance.”
The heroine’s face froze in a way that almost made you choke on your own breath. “W-What?” She blinked rapidly, as if her brain couldn’t process the fact that someone had just told her no.
You, too, were a little stunned, for a seperate. Was she actually planning on throwing a tantrum right now? In public? At a literal state function?
“B-But you always dance with me,” she stammered, voice rising in disbelief, her face turning an alarming shade of pink. “I’m supposed to be your first dance!”
You physically had to stop yourself from snorting. Always? He has never even looked at her for longer than five seconds! You couldn't recall a single time Vil had given her anything beyond basic pleasantries. The only reason she’d be in his line of sight was because she was constantly putting herself there.
Vil’s lips twitched slightly, though whether it was out of irritation or amusement, you couldn’t tell. “I don’t recall ever dancing with you,” he said calmly, as though she were discussing someone else entirely.
The heroine blinked, clearly taken aback. “W-What?”
Vil’s voice dropped to an even icier tone, leaving no room for misunderstanding. “In fact, I dislike the very idea of it.”
The heroine made a strangled sound behind you, like a baby bird trying to scream.
You looked around the room, half-expecting hidden cameras to pop out, because this had to be a prank. Who acts like this?!
And as you floated onto the dance floor with Vil, you couldn’t help but marvel at the absolute insufferable nature of the scene you’d just witnessed. This was, without a doubt, the moment that solidified your hatred for the trash-tier novel world you’d been trapped in. People like her actually existed here?
Behind you, the heroine stomped her foot like a petulant child, completely ignored by the crowd. It would’ve been almost sad if it wasn’t so ridiculous.
And as you twirled under the chandeliers, feeling Vil’s warmth beside you and the heroine’s tantrum echoing faintly in the background, one thing became crystal clear:
This novel may have been trash, but at least you were the one dancing with the prince of perfection.
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It hit you like a ton of bricks one day—completely out of nowhere. You had been sitting in Vil’s study, watching him work. He was meticulously going over some documents, his brow furrowed in concentration, his golden hair falling perfectly in place despite him having been there for hours. You were supposed to be reading through some kingdom protocol book, but instead, your gaze kept drifting over to him.
He’s so… beautiful.
You blinked, the thought suddenly snapping you out of whatever trance you’d fallen into.
Wait…
Your eyes widened. Oh no. Oh no no no no no.
You slammed the book shut, startling Vil from his work as you stood up abruptly. “I-I need some air.”
Vil raised an elegant eyebrow, clearly amused by your sudden panic. “Something the matter?”
“No! Nothing’s the matter!” you said, far too quickly, your voice an octave higher than usual. You stumbled over your chair in your haste to get out of the room, nearly tripping on your own feet. “I just—need to—um—fresh air, yes, exactly!”
Before Vil could say anything else, you bolted from the study and down the hall, your heart racing as though you’d just run a marathon. You darted into the nearest empty room and pressed your back against the door, your mind swirling with confusion.
Am I falling for him?
You slapped a hand over your mouth, horrified by the realization. “No… no, this isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. I’m in love with a character from this awful, brain-numbing novel?”
You slumped against the door, groaning as the full weight of the situation sank in. How could this happen? How could my first true love— you gagged at the phrase —be from this trash novel?
There was no escaping it now. The butterflies in your stomach every time Vil looked your way, the way your heart skipped a beat whenever he smiled, the fact that you wanted nothing more than to be close to him… it was all painfully obvious.
You buried your face in your hands. “I’m going to die. I’m going to die of embarrassment in this ridiculous world.”
And the worst part? It wasn’t even one of the good isekai novels. You’d somehow gotten stuck in what could be considered objectively the worst one, and yet here you were, head over heels for a character who—against all odds—turned out to be the most amazing person you’d ever met.
“Oh god,” you muttered to yourself, sliding down to the floor, your head falling back against the door with a thud. “I'm in love with Vil. I’m doomed. Completely doomed.”
“Mon Dieu! What a revelation!” a voice suddenly rang out from the shadows.
You yelped, whipping around to see none other than Rook Hunt—perched in the corner of the room like some kind of overly dramatic bird of prey, his hat casting a mysterious shadow over his eyes. His entire being radiated excitement, and you swore you saw actual sparkles in the air around him.
“Rook?! How long have you been there?!”
“Long enough, my dear,” he said, voice hushed with reverence, as though you had just confessed your deepest, most tragic secret. “Ah, love! The torment, the longing! The exquisite despair you must be feeling!” He took a step forward, eyes gleaming with unbridled enthusiasm. “But fear not, mon ami, for I, Rook Hunt, shall be your faithful cupid! Together, we shall make Vil see the truth of your affections!”
You blinked, stunned. “Uh… I’m not sure that’s—"
“Ah, but you must!" Rook declared, swooping down to kneel dramatically before you. “Love, once realized, must be pursued with all one’s passion and determination! Do not let this opportunity slip through your fingers like sand in the wind! I shall assist you!”
You opened your mouth to protest, but the sheer intensity of his expression made you falter. Rook was looking at you like this was the most important mission of his life.
Honestly, what did you have to lose at this point?
With a deep, exhausted sigh, you muttered, “Fine. Fine! I’ll do it. Help me, Rook.”
Rook’s grin stretched so wide it was borderline terrifying. “Excellent! This will be an adventure for the ages!” Before you could even process what you’d agreed to, Rook leaped to his feet and clapped his hands together. “But we will need more help. A certain someone with a youthful spirit and just enough mischievousness to add that je ne sais quoi to our plans.”
Oh no.
Cue Epel.
“What the hell are you ropin’ me into?” Epel grumbled as Rook dragged him into your predicament not five minutes later.
“I have volunteered you for a most noble cause, mon petit pomme,” Rook said, not even breaking stride as he swept Epel into the room. “Our dear friend here is head over heels for our Vil, and we are going to help them win his heart”
Epel paused, blinking at you in disbelief. “Wait, Vil? That Vil?” He gestured vaguely in the direction of where Vil’s office was.
“Yes, that Vil,” you said flatly, already regretting every life decision that had led you to this point.
Epel gave you a dubious look. “And you agreed to let Rook help you?”
You groaned, dragging a hand over your face. “Don’t remind me.”
“Alright, fine. I’m in.” Epel shrugged, a wicked grin creeping onto his face. “If we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna do it big.”
Thus began the most absurd, over-the-top, and borderline catastrophic schemes in an attempt to prove your love to Vil Schoenheit.
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It started innocently enough. You wanted to make Vil his favorite tea. Simple, right? But Rook insisted that it couldn’t just be any tea. No, it had to be presented with an air of mystery and allure.
“Bring it to him while reciting a sonnet of devotion!” Rook suggested. “Declare your admiration with each step, so that he understands the depth of your feelings!”
“I’m not reciting a sonnet, Rook.”
Epel, on the other hand, was far more pragmatic. “Or you could just… write him a note and leave it with the tea?”
That seemed normal. Rational. You’d take Epel’s advice. So, you snuck into Vil’s room, left the tea and a note on his desk, and slipped out before anyone noticed.
The next morning, Vil eyed you suspiciously over breakfast. “Did you leave tea in my study last night?”
You nodded, trying to play it cool. “Yeah, I thought you’d appreciate it.”
Vil’s eyes narrowed, but you swore you saw the corner of his lips twitch into the faintest smile. “I see. How thoughtful.”
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Then came Operation: Compliment Vil at Every Opportunity.
Rook, of course, insisted you be poetic. “Tell him his beauty rivals the very stars in the sky!”
“I’m not saying that.”
Epel chimed in with a much more straightforward approach: “Just tell him his hair looks nice. It’s always nice.”
But Rook’s enthusiasm was contagious, and before you knew it, you found yourself blurting out, “Your radiance is blinding today, Vil! Truly, I must shield my eyes from such ethereal beauty!”
Vil, who had been in the middle of inspecting his reflection, froze. His eyes darted to you, and he gave you a strange look.
“Are you… feeling alright? Did you perhaps get bitten by a stray Rook?”
You shook your head vigorously, your face heating up from how ridiculous you sounded. “Totally fine! Just… appreciating your beauty! Yep. Normal stuff.”
Vil didn’t say anything, but you could see a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. He looked amused—and maybe a little pleased—but more than anything, he seemed confused.
At least he didn’t think you’d lost your mind. Yet.
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You were convinced this novel had it out for you from the beginning, but this? This was a new low. The memory loss trope, the final attempt to make your life as ridiculous as possible, had arrived—right on schedule.
You knew how it was supposed to go. You’d hit your head (a complete accident, obviously), wake up with no memory of Vil, and immediately make the worst decisions possible, like falling for that knockoff prince, Neige. Cue dramatic heartbreak, public humiliation, and eventual abandonment. Classic trashy novel shenanigans.
But apparently, the universe—or whatever cosmic force was in charge of your suffering—had decided to take a vacation after all the work it had been putting in. Because when you opened your eyes and saw Vil leaning over you, worry etched into his perfect face, instead of forgetting him, you were… immediately smitten?
What?
And it didn’t stop there. When he took your hand in his, gently kissing your knuckles in that heartbreakingly tender way, it was like a light switch flipped. Your memories came rushing back, completely bypassing the whole convoluted plot about amnesia and bad decisions.
Because of course in this disaster of a novel, the solution to everything was true love's kiss. The most overdone, eye-rolling cliché in the history of romance, and yet here you were, living through it.
You almost laughed out loud. Of all the tropes this novel had thrown at you—evil fiancées, jealous heroines, duels for honor—this had to be the funniest. It was as if the universe had taken one look at your situation and said, “You know what? Let’s skip the suffering and go straight to the ridiculous happy ending.”
True love’s kiss. Really. This novel is mocking me at this point, you thought, fighting the urge to scream. But hey, at least you didn’t have to deal with more drama. And as Vil’s concerned gaze softened into a relieved smile, you couldn’t help but think that, maybe, this was one trope you didn’t mind after all.
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You'd almost given up on confessing. Maybe you'll just live like this forever, your fate was sealed. The novel clearly doesn't want you to tell him how you feel.
But there was another ball (because apparently that's the only place that nobility had be at in this novel. What was this? the 108th ball of the year?) You'd decided that you'll ask him for a stroll under the moonlight and just tell him.
Of course, the novel is not on your side. What's new?
The ball was going well—well, for you and Vil, anyway. You’d just finished dancing, and he looked absolutely stunning, as usual. You were basking in the afterglow of all the whispered praise and envious stares. That is, until you overheard someone bad-mouthing Vil.
Of course, it had to be the heroine’s best friend, who was apparently using this grand occasion to air her grievances.
“I just don’t understand why Vil is always so cold to her,” she whined, loud enough for everyone within a three-mile radius to hear. “She’s the saintess! She deserves kindness and adoration, not disdain.”
Cue the dramatic gasps from the crowd. Ah, here we go.
You shot Vil a look, but he merely shrugged, rolling his eyes. He clearly didn’t want to start any trouble. But you? Oh, you were about to flip the table on these idiots.
“Excuse me,” you began, stepping forward, the crowd parting like the Red Sea as you made your way over. “I couldn’t help but overhear your incredibly loud complaints about my fiancé.”
The heroine’s best friend froze, clearly not expecting you to get involved. You smiled sweetly, but your eyes were throwing daggers.
“Let me set the record straight. Vil isn’t cold to her because she’s the ‘saintess,’” you air-quoted the title, “He’s cold to her because she’s an insufferable brat who’s so used to getting her way that she throws a tantrum every time someone says ‘no.’”
More gasps from the crowd. You could see Neige stiffening across the ballroom, already sensing where this was going. But there was no stopping you now.
“And don’t get me started on you,” you pointed at the best friend, your tone dripping with sarcasm. “You’re out here defending her honor like you’re some knight in shining armor when, let’s be real, you’re just as bad. You fawn over her like a lost puppy, expecting her to shower you with praise when all you do is enable her delusions.”
Vil, somewhere behind you, was probably trying not to laugh. But you weren't done.
“And as for your precious Neige over there?” you tilted your head toward the prince-wannabe, who was looking more and more uncomfortable by the second. “He’s not some perfect angel either. He’s just a guy with an unsettling talent for showing up at the most convenient times, with that same doe-eyed, clueless expression, making everyone feel sorry for him.”
You didn’t stop at Neige.
"And as for you," you said, spinning toward the brooding Duke of the North, the infamous second male lead, who had been leaning against a pillar, looking every bit the tall, tormented, handsome cliché. “You’re not fooling anyone either. You’re the king of melodramatic entrances. Always lurking in the shadows, trying to look mysterious, but really, you’re just sulking because no one’s paying attention to you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry—are you brooding? Again? Let me guess, you’re thinking about some dark secret that you’ll drop at the most inconvenient moment to make things worse for everyone, right?” You mimicked his deep, serious voice. “‘It’s the burden I must bear… alone.’” You threw your head back in mock agony, hands dramatically placed on your chest.
He straightened up, clearly offended, but you didn’t give him the chance to speak.
“And stop pretending like you’re some tragic hero,” you added, lowering your voice with a sharp edge. “You’re just a guy with commitment issues who sacrifices himself because you can’t handle the fact that the heroine doesn’t want you. Let it go.”
There was dead silence. You half-expected a chandelier to drop just for the dramatic effect. Even Vil had to look away for a moment, probably to hide the fact that he in tears, about to burst out laughing.
The heroine was slack-jawed, her best friend looked like she wanted to melt into the floor, and Neige… well, Neige just looked confused. As always.
Satisfied, you dusted off your hands and turned back to Vil, who was looking at you with a mixture of shock and awe, as if he’d just witnessed some divine intervention.
You let out a satisfied huff and turned to leave. "Come on, Vil, I can't stand to be in the same room as these second-rate characters any longer, let's bounce"
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Once outside, you saw Vil was still recovering, a smirk pulling at his lips. “I think you may have traumatized half the ballroom.”
“Good,” you huffed, crossing your arms. “They deserved it. Especially that brooding Duke. ‘I sacrifice myself for the greater good.’ Ugh, give me a break.”
Vil chuckled, sliding his arm around your waist. "Still, you didn’t have to go to such lengths for me."
You stopped in your tracks, spun around, and looked him dead in the eye. “Of course I did! I love you, Vil. I couldn’t just sit there and let them trash you like that.”
The moment the words left your mouth, you froze. Oh. Well. There it was.
Vil’s eyes widened, a rare, unguarded expression crossing his face. For a moment, he just stood there, taking in your words. Then, without a word, he cupped your face in his hands and kissed you, soft but sure, like he’d been waiting for this moment as much as you had.
When he pulled back, his smile was the softest you’d ever seen. “You love me,” he repeated, almost like he couldn’t believe it.
You nodded, a bit breathless from both the confession and the kiss. “Yes, Vil. I love you. Even with all your ridiculously high standards and obsession with skincare.”
Vil laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.”
Vil pulled back slightly, his hands still resting on your waist, and asked with a quiet, almost teasing tone, "Well then, since you love me so much... should we get married?"
You blinked, your brain taking a second to catch up. "Wait—what? Married? Like, right now?" You stared at him, heart racing, before suddenly, an idea lit up your face like a firework. “Oh my god, yes! Let’s do it. Let’s get married ASAP. Like, today. Right now. Do we even need a ceremony? We can find an officiant and—boom—done. Just tell me where to sign!”
Vil’s eyes widened, taken aback by your sudden enthusiasm. “Are you… serious?”
You grabbed his hand, absolutely buzzing with energy. “Of course, I’m serious! Why wait? This dumbass universe keeps throwing garbage tropes at us, and honestly? Getting married right now is the perfect way to flip the script! Take that, fate!"
Before Vil could respond, an overly excited voice erupted from behind a nearby pillar. “Oh là là! Mon cœur can hardly handle this romance!” Rook leaped out from the shadows, practically sparkling with joy, as if he had been waiting for this very moment all his life. "The passion! The declaration of love! And now, a spontaneous wedding? Magnifique!”
“Rook!?” Vil’s voice was a mix of amusement and exasperation. “Have you been spying on us?”
“Spying?” Rook gasped dramatically, placing a hand on his chest. “Non, non, Vil! I was merely ensuring your well-being as any devoted friend would!” He gave a wink, clearly pleased with his role as an unintended audience.
“Me too!” Epel poked his head out from behind another pillar, grinning sheepishly. “I mean, who’d wanna miss out on somethin’ like this? Y’all are gettin’ married!”
Vil let out a long, tired sigh, but you could see the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I can’t believe this is happening,” he muttered.
“Oh, it’s happening,” you said, grabbing his arm again and dragging him forward. “We’re doing this, and it’s going to be the best wedding in this entire stupid book, Rook, Epel, you’re both invited. Wait, scratch that, you’re both in the wedding party now!”
“C’est incroyable!” Rook twirled dramatically, hands clasped together, already imagining his outfit for the occasion. “I shall be the most loyal and stylish groomsman! Oh, l’amour!”
“And I get to wear somethin’ fancy, right?” Epel asked, already envisioning something much cooler than his usual attire.
Vil was now fully grinning, his initial surprise turning into genuine amusement as he looked at you with sparkling eyes. “You really are something else.”
“Yeah, and now I’m gonna be your something else forever.” You beamed up at him, still holding onto his hand like you might drag him to the altar yourself right now.
“Well then,” Vil sighed, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Let’s get married.”
Before you could even start plotting where to drag Vil to find someone to officiate, Rook suddenly gasped, clasping his hands together dramatically. "Mon dieu! How could I forget? I am more than prepared for this moment!"
You and Vil exchanged puzzled looks. "What are you talking about, Rook?" Vil asked, raising a perfectly shaped eyebrow.
Rook grinned, remviong his hat and and dramatically pulling out a folded piece of parchment. "Behold!" he announced, waving the paper with a flourish. "A certified license to officiate weddings. I took the liberty of acquiring it long ago, knowing that one day I’d be the one to unite you and your beloved. C’est le destin!"
“You’re… licensed?” Vil blinked, looking at Rook like he had officially lost it. "And you're walking around with the license in your hat?"
Rook nodded with a dazzling smile. “Why yes, I’ve been preparing for this glorious day! Every flower petal, every gust of wind, every glance of love I’ve witnessed between you both has been leading to this fated moment!” He struck a pose, the parchment still dramatically held aloft.
You stared at him, then back at Vil. "Okay, I know this is ridiculous, but honestly? This is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard, and I kind of love it. Let's just let him do it."
Vil put a hand to his forehead, trying to suppress a chuckle. "Are we really doing this?"
“Yes!” you declared, squeezing Vil's hand. “If we’re going full chaos, we’re going all the way. Rook, officiate the hell out of this wedding!”
Epel, watching the entire spectacle, burst into laughter. “Only in this house, I swear…”
Rook practically sparkled with joy, bouncing on his feet. “Oh là là, it will be my greatest honor! I’ve been rehearsing my officiating speech in front of the mirror for months”
“Months?” Vil repeated, a mix of disbelief and exasperation in his tone.
“Mais oui! Every day, I’d wake up and say, ‘Today could be the day!’” Rook sighed dramatically, already tearing up. “And here we are. It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of. Now, shall we begin? I have the vows prepared, unless you have your own?”
You leaned into Vil, barely holding back laughter. “I have zero regrets about this. Absolutely zero.”
Vil sighed again but couldn’t stop smiling. “Only you could make something this absurd seem perfect.”
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Series Masterlist ; Masterlist
Okay, this became way longer than I expected it to be but to be fair, i was on an extreme caffeine high and i'd just finished an assignment that had been beating my ass
2K notes · View notes
vatelixx · 3 months ago
Text
You are the knife (I turn inside myself),
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S2!Post-addiction!Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader
SMUT!! (and copious amounts of angst, and like a small amount of fluff to just… balance it out), Workplace rivals, aka, enemies to lovers (who are still enemies and would rather die than tell each other they’re in love).
──── autistic spencer (as per usual), evil evil reader (im being dramatic, kinda), they hate each other so much that they have to find a new way to crawl into each others skin.
Warnings: sub spencer, brat!spencer (a man gets glasses and suddenly thinks he can be defiant) brat!tamer!reader, HUGE corruption kink (someone keeps putting that in there???? it’s not me, i swear), first time for Spencer (i love a virginal nerd), restraints (someone has to pin him down), crying— like lots of crying, degradation (and a little praise because they work hand in hand), Spencer eats reader out like rent is due, reader says thankyou by destroying him, they argue mid-sex. They actually just argue constantly.
— warning: mentions of past drug addiction.
w.c: 9k (mostly smut, holy shit how is it 9k??? their arguments hiked up my word count im positive)
a/n: i know tumblr hates to see me coming with my Spencer Reid one shots. I wrote this at 3am when I was supposed to be studying for my latin exam, it’s okay. Uni will understand I had greater things to do. I promise i’ll get around to my requests this week, i just got possessed by the holy ghost and wrote this.
────────────
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Something, something, mindless torture. Spencer holds his brain, his intellect, in high regard. Proverbial accomplishments, Stanford Binet approved genius, he’s an outlier to most. And yet, the moment you start speaking, he has no thoughts beyond the domineering urge to throw himself off a cliff.
You’re late today. Chicago, you’ve both been sentenced, discarded to create a profile from the minimal information present. Forced proximity, the team have been trying to stifle this animosity shared between you for over a year now. It doesn’t work.
Here’s the thing, each member of the BAU has their own specialised feat: Penelope could be a cybercriminal, if she so wished, a tech-genius that has no qualms in tearing down firewalls. Morgan, adroit, an expert on the field, stereotypically strong, all running lines of muscle. Who wouldn’t want to be princess-carried away from danger by him? He’s also remarkably good at kicking down doors. Gideon has incalculable years of experience, a mentor.
The list stretches on.
But you and Spencer can’t both be the brains of the team. It’s unbalanced, skewed. A clash of intellect. Scales tipped in one direction, why does he always come up short? Why can’t he just—
Why, repeats as you push through the bureau, blanking the predictable, formulaic stares of various officers, trained officials, the usual mess. Why— why profiling? Why did you voluntarily choose to suffer your way through ceaseless cases of sanguinary?There has to be an element of masochism to your career; no one with a sane mind voluntarily decides to walk into an onslaught of serial killers and death.
The early mornings are always the worst; stumbling out of bed, deriving no sleep from the night, tangled sheets and restless limbs. “Don’t,” you push, padding into the office, met with Spencer’s hardened gaze. “Late night.”
“We haven’t been here for 48 hours yet, 36 and 22 minutes to be precise, and you’ve already—“
“Get your mind out of the gutter, boy genius. Late night as in I stared at the casefiles until my mind went numb.”
“Did you take a break?” he asks, and you both know it’s not born from care. “Maybe a self-reflection period to realise that torturing yourself isn’t the most effective form of work. Your reactive skills will be delayed now, let’s hope we don’t find the unsub today. In fact, maybe I should warn Hotch—“
“Have I ever warned Hotch about your breakdowns?” that shuts him up. It also makes him spiral, because you can’t know, it’s not statistically possible that you’d be aware of Hankel’s lasting impact on his body, dilaudid, hydromorphine, and not tell someone. He assumes you’d be desperate to eliminate him from the team, to claim your win.
“Right, um— the case,” he shifts in his seat. Professionalism, tolerance, it’s all a little too much work when it comes to the subject of you.
“The case.” you agree.
You’re attuned to each other, a psychological curse he’s forced to stomach. Offices and crime scenes, analysing, competing, hellbent on one upping the other. “Look at these markings—“ his hands rifle through the files that adorn the table, searching searching until they produce an autopsy report.
The markings on the body are intricate, latin symbols prominent against the victims pale skin. You lean further forward, following the path of his index finger as it traces the outline. Perhaps there’s an element of telepathy to your dynamic; you don’t need to state the obvious, too aware that his brain has already processed the information, that he’s moved onto the nuances now.
Human sacrifice, it’s not the first time you’ve caught yourselves in the midst of cult worship and indoctrination. But it’s certainly the first time of its kind.
“Traces of wine in her bloodstream. Found in a forest. Sounds like a bacchanal.” you state, shifting to pull yourself up on the desk.
Spencer looks. At your long, slender legs extending out from a pencil skirt. Effortless, natural, situating yourself on the oakwood, hair half covering your face, with loose strands pooling over your eyes to obstruct your sight.
It’s a strange analogy, the two of you; Spencer with his tired eyes, haphazard clothes and messy desk, and you, just as dishevelled in the morning light.
Metaphorically and literally you’re higher than him right now. He fixes his askew glasses. Clears his throat. “Regina Horthorne,” the victim, “Straight A student. Honour role. What are the chances she willing went to said… bacchanal?”
“Hm. I don’t know, maybe she’s like Laura Palmer. Double life. 4.0 cheerleader by day, crazed bacchante by night.” you retort.
Shamelessly, you take a moment to observe him, just as he did you. Shirt sleeves bunched up at his elbows, hair tousled, large hazel eyes, interminably darting across your face. You wonder for a moment if he’s analysed you the way you’ve analysed him. It’s a futile question, of course he has.
Anything to gain the upper hand.
You continue, “Maybe they’re sacrificing virgins. You could go undercover as a potential victim. Certainly fit the part.”
“I’m already too old to be counted as an appropriate victim. There’s a high probability ‘they’, the dominant unsub, wouldn’t even look at me, and—“ he pauses, pretty face marred by creased features, brows furrowed, a slight pout to his lips.
“There’s a homicidal cult preforming human sacrifice, and you’re wasting time by insulting me?” Spencer is….. a perpetual scholar, a social disaster, wearing his intellect like an ill-concealed secret, outcasted for the weight of his own brilliance. “The BAU clearly made a well-informed decision when they hired you.”
“Oh, you wound me boy genius.” you respond, pressing your hand against your heart.
Endless cases. The impenetrable presence of fall. It feels like you shift through cycles, bleary-eyed and tainted from the job, damaged goods— do you struggle to sleep like I do?
You lean forward, hands, adorned with cluttered rings, braced against the table, bodies closer now. There’s a burn, something fervent that lingers between you, rivalry, opposition. Some days you feel as hedonistic as the unsubs you track and chase.
Continuing, you let out a sharp laugh. “Are you still bitter because I realised it was a bacchanal before you? Don’t worry, i’ll let you take the credit for it. I’m sure Gideon will be so impressed.”
Gideon sees everything in him, and nothing in you. Predictable.
The distance between you has become almost null. It’s intimate, and he’s not sure how he feels about that. “I’m not bitter. And I don’t care about the credit.” A lie. “Unlike you, I don’t need to prove my worth to him.”
────────────
Spilt blood. Your hands are calloused from holding a gun. From firing a bullet straight through skull. The case closes, locked behind that inviolable wall, the one that’s installed into your mind the moment you’re employed, the moment you sign your fate over to the BAU. You’re not sure why anyone stays, overworked and undervalued, there’s no heroes in real life. Maybe it’s the sense of family, or maybe it’s just what everyone subconsciously fell into.
You can’t understand why you’re so angry at Spencer, why it extends to the next case, South Dakota— deaths of locals, but these days, all of the illogical, petty reasons just blur together. Create this tangled mess of overcompensation. ’I assumed you two would get along,’ Prentiss had stated— but what does she know? She’s been an active member of the BAU for a whole 10 minutes.
The hostility has mounted to new levels now.
It’s hard work, long hours, no gratitude and a pay cheque that can’t even begin to cover the trauma that comes with the job. The BAU is like self-sabotage: a long list of reasons to leave, and no real reasons to stay. But still you’re both stuck in this loop.
South Dakota, of course it’s South Dakota. Cold, desolate South Dakota where the wind and snow will not let up, and the team are forced to remain cooped up in a cheap motel, desperate for any sort of entertainment.
Here he is, coerced into your room to work on the case, overtime, his eyes are rimmed crimson.
You’re sprawled out across the bed while he sits at the other end, slender legs crossed. Spencer is tired with a weariness that seems to go soul-deep, shoulders slumped forward, glasses oblique.
The tension is near-palpable, stifling. “I can do this myself. No offence,” full offence, “but you’re unneeded right now. In general, really.”
You make him cruel. Or no, maybe this job does? He can’t remember himself unscathed now, fresh-faced to the BAU, unaware of what he’d endure. It’s still early days in recovery, two months since he was entirely, indomitably reliant on Dilaudid.
“No you can’t,” you retort. Maybe it’s unprofessional, disreputable to waste so much breath on insults, to dedicate specific moments to hostility— people are dead, people will keep dying. And yet, perhaps there’s justification for this; your mutual animosity is the only semblance of routine to this job, the only way either of you can seek control.
Control. All you do is reach for the blade.
“You’re just bitter that I know what I’m doing. You’re not infallible, Boy Wonder. You need my help, so shut up and read that autopsy report. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can go back to my apartment and forget you exist.”
Well that’s certainly unlikely.
“I think,” he says, and he knows this is going to be bad. He can feel the serrated edge to his forming words, his half-baked analysis too focused, too distracted, by his need to hurt. But he’s exhausted, and these days, he runs on a detrimentally short fuse. Maybe he finds a release in your dynamic, or maybe it makes everything worse. How can something be everything and nothing at the same time?
“I think you’re insecure” he continues, “because you know Gideon values me more. That, to him, you’re replaceable. It’s why you’re so fixated on one upping me. Why you feel the need to prove yourself superior. Textbook insecurity. You can’t stand the fact that he chooses me over you, that he thinks I’m better than you. That my input is more wanted, more necessary.”
This is uncharted territory now. It’s never been pushed to this extent. It’s never gotten so morbidly cruel that his words actually pierce. You’d consider yourself to be thick-skinned, bullet-proof, a mess of hardened edges and calloused flesh. But he regards you with such insignificance, in a way that’s different from your own personal view of him.
Obstinate, petty, a smart kid yet to meet his match. But never insignificant.
There’s silence, and then he’s dragging you down with him, forcing you to dig deeper, to smother wounds with salt. “Did he really choose you, though? No one on the team noticed. Not one person. After the Hankel case? When you came back different?”
Spencer falters.
It’s a vulnerable, raw spot, a laceration that never seems to heal; the worst part is that you’re right. He’d been in a spiralling decline for months, in plain sight, but everyone had been so absorbed in their own issues and god he needed a release. No one noticed. No one ever notices.
That he has no life, no prospects outside of the BAU. That his existence has been one comicotragic mess of inexperience, missing the mark, missing the joke, the punchline, the fact that everyone was always laughing at him, behind his back, to his face, present or gone. It didn’t matter? Why would it ever matter to a bunch of washed-out teenagers?
He was robbed of his adolescence. And these days, he barely gets by.
Spencer’s eyes drift back to the files, avoiding your perusing gaze, if only you had enough decency to soften your eyes. Just once.
“You don’t get to bring that into this.” He murmurs. “Shut up.”
“You started this—“
“Are you 5?” he bites back, “I was making an observation.”
When he abruptly stands up, files clattering to the floor, discarded despite the prevalent case, you’re quick to follow after him, to chase him into the cheap motel corridor. Because no, he doesn’t get to walk away from this. Not when he laid the first blow, when the first cut was drawn from his blade. Perhaps it’s perverse, to chase the hurt that comes from being around him. Maybe it’s all just an elaborate way to self-harm, to find release in the distorted relationship you both share.
“Where are you going? You can’t walk away from this one.” you state, gripping his arm. Nails pressing into skin, crescent marks that’ll stain and remind and then ache— it’s repetitive now.
“I covered for your ass.” you knew about the addiction, you knew, and even though omitting such information to the BAU could’ve lost your license, you still. Didn’t. Say. Anything.
It’s not like it took much effort to discern the truth.
“I also signed your email up to about 100 rehab centres and self-help blogs.” you’re not sure if you did that out of malice, or if it was your own, interpersonal way of minimising the damage, despite the circumstances.
You noticed. The rest of the BAU, who pressed false promises of friendship, loyalty into his shaking palms didn’t notice. Didn’t even think to humour what he became at his worst. But you did.
Furthermore, to add onto that jarring conclusion, you helped him. Admittedly in your own insufferable, (downright mocking) way. But it was help, and that’s more than he’s ever received before.
All he knows right now is that he hates you, hates the person he is, the person this job, and the intransigent presence of you, forced him into becoming.
All he knows is that he’s stumbling forward, cupping your face (taking your grip along with it), and kissing you. Kissing you hard. Like he’s Icarus and you’re the sun, worth the inevitable burn, even if the touch is only momentary, even if it’ll seal his fate as foolish.
It’s a mess of harsh, rough skin, tousled hair and sharp teeth against soft lips. It’s like trying to grasp at stardust, his hands fumbling for purchase along your body, trying to push you closer, as if the chasm of space between you is unbearable, a distance that’s impossible to endure.
He laughs when you respond instinctively, a sharp excuse of a noise, muffled by your swollen lips, and he’s just kissing you through it because he hates you, he hates you— he hates you so much that sometimes he can’t breathe when you’re around.
You crawled under his skin a long time ago, made yourself a home there.
“I think I’d rather be held hostage for a second time than kiss you again.” he says, and he might’ve elaborated further, but his lips abandon such a notion to chase your own.
The kiss becomes more languid, more desperate, like he’s trying to find an answer in response to it. There’s a brief, agonising break, foreheads pressed together, a harsh gasp of air, before the moment restarts.
God you taste good. Feel good, he thinks. He’s never been this intimate, not beyond Lila, that fleeting mess in the pool. The two events incomparable, he felt something then, small and minuscule, not enough to pursue. But right now? Oh, In contrast, he feels everything now.
“I wish you were being held hostage. It’d be quieter,” you retort. It’s muffled, and you’re moving, bodies stumbling into obstacles as you relocate, when did you get to your room? It feels like natural progression, evolution, diminutive changes that you don’t even realise are occurring.
You bite his bottom lip, draw it between your teeth, ruin him for anyone else. Because isn’t that what you’ve been doing for years now? Hurting each other so profoundly that only you can bare the scarred aftermath?
It’s sick. It’s sick, and you wonder how petty comments, trivial work-place rivalry distorted into this? How you’ve just ended up sick because of each other, and admittedly, for each other.
What is sickness without pleasure?
He whimpers. The noise almost imperceptible, but it’s there, and it’s pathetic, an unbecoming thing caught somewhere between a gasp and needy whine. He’s backed against the wall now, and he can’t find it in him to complain.
“Of course it would be you,” he says breathlessly. For all the knowledge he lacks here (physically; he’s well-versed in the hypotheticals of anatomy), he doesn’t feel pure.
People like him don’t get that.
He should feel guilty. He should recoil at the touch, at the knowledge you bear, at the reality of this. Except, for some unknown reason, he relishes in the idea of someone having him, even if the cost is his pride, his dignity, even if the cost is you.
He whimpers again as your teeth rake along the slope of his neck, shuddering at the sharp sensation, and he’s almost begging, words on the verge of being uttered.
But he can’t. Because that isn’t him when he’s with you. “Are you going to punish me? For uh, everything I said tonight? Because ah, god, I’d like to see you try.”
Admittedly, it’s not hard to break his resolve. A few more soul-crushing kisses and your wandering hand, dipping beneath his trousers, hard. Obscenely hard. Yes, he’s muttering as you unclasp buttons, as you loosen his trousers to the extent that you can palm him through his boxers. Half-choked gasps escape his bruised lips with every touch, and he’s crying now. Pretty tears streaming down his face, accentuating those doe-wide eyes of his, now glossy and warped.
“Only person who’s ever touched you, huh?” you state, and maybe you derive pleasure from that concept. That only your hands, drenched thick with staining blood, have ever scrutinised the warmth of his skin. The areas where his form curves, and the areas that make him come apart, undone at the seams. Grasping you, relying entirely on the wall, just to remain upright and somewhat conscious.
He makes another noise, another guttural, pathetic sound. Because, yeah, it’s just you. It’s only you, and the thought should be unbearable, but the pleasure of having, being touched is too much.
He has to grasp the back of your shirt, nails digging into fabric, as a distraction, a way to centre himself, while the rest of the world falls apart. His words are scattered, broken and messy, and he finds himself saying things he’ll inevitably regret. “Please, I can’t-“
He’s supposed to hate this, hate you.
“Cant— can’t take it. Oh,” he wants to bury his face into the crook of your neck, but you’re gripping his jaw, forcing him to look directly at you. Glasses discarded, the view was blurry without the added layers of tears.
“Eyes on me, boy genius.”
He complies. Gaze locked, unable to look away, entranced by the way your pupils dilate, staring at you, like you’re artwork, something to be studied and broken down and torn apart, only to be rebuilt again once he’s had his fill.
“Let’s look at you. Hm?” you state, removing his sweater, then his shirt, and there’s so many layers, and he’s acting coy now, as if he wasn’t whimpering moments prior.
Instinctively, by reflex, he tries to cover himself up. To hide planes of untouched skin from your gluttonous palms. You grip his wrists, pin them above his head, and oh isn’t this a sight: Spencer Reid, entirely bare, bound by you alone, tear track marks and swollen lips.
He always wanted to be seen.
He just didn’t expect, anticipate, being seen to this extent. He can’t fight your trailing gaze, and he doesn’t want to; it might make him flushed, a few irrational movements away from a cardiac arrest, but this it— raw uncut intimacy.
You’re softer now, as you run your hand along his dick, earning a variety of muffled noises, as your thumb brushes over his tip, taking care to touch every part of him. Everywhere he needs it. When you finally wrap your fingers around him, everything burns, fervent and collapsing, and he supposes this is what it felt like the moment Troy collapsed.
“Mhh,” he moans, hips bucking in time with your palm, steady movements.
He’s already so messy, and it should be embarrassing, but all he feels is the blunted edges of pleasure, the jagged cut of humiliation, warring against each other.
“You’re— oh.. you’re enjoying this far too much,” he manages, and it takes so much energy to get it out, his words slurring, interrupted by debauched gasps.
It feels good, so good that he can’t process the shame that’s bound to follow. He hates you, and he might be a little in love with you, and it’s not fair to process feelings, chemicals, he was never supposed to obtain.
“That it’s. There you go. That’s my good boy.”
Spencer sobs.
“Shh, shh, I know, I know, it’s a lot.” there’s always an element of condescension to your words. An undertone that rips through his defences. Destroys him in the process.
His body is receptive, ruined, because of the praise. He’s not sure how you can look at him, clearly, consciously, and dictate that he’s good. Most days he feels impure, debased. Burnt-out and wasted, the great always fall.
The same skin he pierced with needles is now reverently on show, and you should be cruel, it’s what you’re both good at, the only viable way to communicate, an undisclosed secret language. But you’re not. That confuses him to no extent.
“I can’t— cant, ‘m so close.” his arms are still bound above his head, and despite the ache, he keeps them there. It’s not the most conventional ‘first time’, but he takes it regardless.
“Yeah?” you mutter, pace picking up. The sound is obscene, his excessive pre-cum smeared across his length, wet noises with every stroke. “You wanna cum for me, hm?”
“Oh god,” he breaks, “Yes— yes, please—“
You have no interest in denying him, not when he’s this destroyed from a mere hand-job. “Go on then. Just because you asked so nicely.”
He falls apart. Dewy-eyed and blissed out, you force him to look at you as he reaches his orgasm. To keep looking as he squirms and writhes. So he does, because apparently his cognitive function has evaporated now.
Your tongue meets your palm, tasting him, pressing the excess into his mouth with an indecent kiss. Is this what sex entails? Complete submission, vulnerabilities bared wide? Dirty in that primal sense, the same one he always shied away from?
Finally, finally in the aftermath, he breaks his stare. His head falls back against the wall, eyes closed, neck exposed. Stifled gasps, it’s quiet, as if you’re both aware of your actions, the consequences of them.
“This is, uh— yeah.” he mumbles, reaching for his clothes; now the ecstasy has worn off, the shame overpowers. The sin of man, he’s starting to think you’re the personification of the serpent.
Or maybe it’s the other way around. He doesn’t hold his own body to such pure standards. He’s not sure any benevolence would look at him with acceptance. Not after everything he’s done to it.
“Hey wait,” you’re not good at this whole ‘nice’ thing, not when it comes to him. But there have been moments, in the past, small, fleeting seconds of…. you’re not entirely sure what to call them. Late hours spent scrutinising cases, your back-up points to his statements, mindless information dumps that the team can’t quite understand.
“Don’t make me chase you a second time, jesus.” You can’t just leave—“ you exhale, breathe, in and out, “Are you okay?”
He stops. He stops because you’ve never asked that question, never cared to ask that question, and maybe that hurts more than not being asked at all.
A part of him, the small part of him that’s not functional, wants to stay, wants to just stay in this bliss and pretend that it doesn’t matter, that the inevitable fallout won’t occur. But the larger, prominent part, reminds him that this isn’t right, that he needs to leave and collect his wits.
“I don’t know, im confused—“ he sighs, drags a shaky hand through his hair. “Yeah, im uh… i’m fine. “I just need to leave, I have to-“ he swallows. “I can’t. Not right now, I need to do— anything but this.”
He walks out on you and it’s fine.
────────────
Everything is fine, reality can return, and you can forget that you had his arms bound against the wall, that he fell apart from the weight of your dragging palm. You can pretend you never saw him naked, bare in every form of the word. Stripped raw, his lips burning against yours, skin on skin. It’s. Fine.
Life continues. Your dynamic remains the same, unrelenting, your biting words, just short of callous, his scathing remarks. Modus Operandi. You wonder how you’ve turned the most tender person into something sharp, and you wonder if it’s ever going to be reversible.
When the case closes, the BAU, in predictable, systematic fashion, celebrate (ease the weight) over drinks. You’re adorned in lace, a black dress that just catches your thighs. It’s late now, and by the time you arrive at the dive-bar, the majority of the team are intoxicated (you couldn’t go straight from work, there was still blood clinging to your skin).
Everything is fine. To reiterate.
It’s not.. It’s not. Because oh, Spencer finds himself staring. He’s fairly certain he doesn’t have any lingering interest. But then again, why is he fixated on the way fabric clings to your ruinous figure, the way your hair sits, slightly dishevelled, pooled over one shoulder? It’s exasperating and inebriating all at once. You shouldn’t be able to affect him to such an extent, and yet here he is, mindlessly staring at you with starry-eyes. He should look away. Leave even?
Of course, he fails. You end up squeezing in next to him, all leather seats and too little space.
And, okay, he knows he should feel guilty.
In reality, he’s not. Because, sure, he’s sat too close, and sure, he can just make out the scent of your perfume, faintly floral. But he’s intoxicated, just as everybody else is, and it’s making logic and reason seem far off, too distant to process. He looks at you once, then twice, like he can’t quite believe you’re tangible.
“You look nice, I guess,” he murmurs bluntly, looking away, feigning disinterest.
As if the ‘incident’ (as he’s taken to calling it) didn’t tilt his world on its axis.
“You also look nice, I guess.” you retort, and it’s the best you’re going to get out of each other. At least in this state (the surplus of praise that left your bruised, possessed lips cannot be justified, or repeated ever. again.)
You lean forward, watch as his face creases at the proximity. Are you thinking about the kisses? Plural, fuck, plural. Open-mouthed, desperate movements?You’re. not. Instead, you steal his glasses, slip them on. The prescription is strong, thick lenses that distort your perception.
“What do you think?” you ask, “I might go as you for halloween, it’ll definitely scare the kids.”
“They make you look intelligent. Considering you need all the help you can get, I’d take that as a compliment,”
It’s a domestic action, to put on his glasses. And the thoughts that burn through his mind stem from HR prohibited to domestic, which he argues is far worse. You, tangled in sheets, sporting nothing but his glasses. Resting against the tip of your nose, askew, as you ride him. As you tilt your head back, exposing— no.
He wants to say something about how ridiculous you look— but it’s hard to focus, you’re taking up all of his sanity, like a computer running multiple programs at once. You’re malware actually, destined to corrupt him (which you’ve already done to a painful extent).
“You can’t just touch my stuff.” he settles on, sounding more petulant than anticipated.
“Oh chill out, boy wonder. It’s a pair of glasses,” you mutter, removing them to blink blink blink, and there he is, the centre focus of your vision, now fully detailed again. It takes you a moment to render in his appearance: shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, arms exposed, long, deft fingers. There’s heavy bags gathering beneath his eyes, dragging down those big, blown-out irises of his, wide and completely dirty (how is it that his natural resting face is so obscene?).
Focus.
You push the glasses back onto his face. Better, it’s a sight you’ve come to anticipate after he ran out of contact lenses. “There. Oh, were you just upset because you couldn’t see me properly? That’s sweet, Spence. Flattery will get you everywhere.”
He can see everything.
Every small detail of your face; strands of hair falling loose, dilated pupils, accentuated by heavy liner, obsidian that contrasts against your incisive eyes. Your lips, oh your lips, he could write a thesis on them. Stained crimson, if he were to kiss you right now, residue would catch against his own mouth, incriminate him.
He gets up. Excuses himself. Sometimes he wishes he could vanish.
But it’s not good enough.
“You,” he says between messy kisses, “Need to keep your hands to yourself.” — okay, he’s not sure how this happened. He left for the bathroom (to splash water on his face, gather his dignity, perhaps drown himself?) and you to humour the locals outside, gathering around with half-smoked cigarettes and slurring conversations.
But then, on his way back, padding through the long corridor (why is it always a corridor?), you were there, and yeah. He was screwed. Fatefully wrecked.
He had tried, in the moments leading up to his demise, to resist, but he was a man of logic and science and the science, when he was around you, simply did not apply. You’re bad for him, in every sense, he should avoid you, he should stay away.
But now, there’s no space between your bodies, no space for rationality or reasoning (god he’s tired of the thinking part. He just wants to feel).
The kiss is rough, sloppy, a desperate, messy thing. “This can’t keep happening,” he mumbles against your smeared lips.
“Do you remember last time?” you question. It’s taboo, to bring it up, to disclose the buried. But you’re fairly certain this compromising position wouldn’t exist without the lethal effects of that one night. The cheap motel and his body arching into your touch.
Rationality appears to be nonexistent now. A discarded concept.
Like last time, you guide him back against the wall, pin his hands above his head. Mirroring your actions. Well, to some ‘dignified’ extent. “Had you just like this,” you lean forward to press a series of kisses along the curvature of his jaw. “I bet you’d let me take you like this again, hm? Right here? In the middle of this shitty dive bar?”
And if he weren’t so far gone, he’d protest, he’d tell you that no, this is wrong, because you’re so wrong for him. He knows that if one good man has to fall, it shouldn’t be him.
But you don’t let good men rise, and there’s something so enticing about the depths of hell. He’s not sure he’s good anyway. It’s a complex situation. “You’re a sadist,” he murmurs, breathless, “I wouldn’t.”
Your grip instinctively tightens against his wrist, and he squirms. He’s nervous, “Could we, like… at least find a bathroom? I’d take a bathroom, even though there’s endless strains of bacteria there. Or, or split a cab. No, i’ll just pay— Anything. I’ll do anything. Just not here. This is a public space, and technically, public indecency, and—“
“Fuck,” he’s never been the type to swear, “I’ll do anything.” this time, he says it in self-defeat. Acknowledgment.
────────────
French exit. His wandering hands in the cab, and the electric pulse that burnt through his body as he kept a low profile, stumbling out of the bar, muttering thinly-veiled excuses for his abrupt departure.
The second you’re both inside your apartment, you’re clattering into things. “I love your eyes,” you state bluntly, forthcoming in every sense of the word, “Love it when you cry for me.”
You think of every harsh word that has ever escaped your lips, You think of the consequences they might’ve had. Did he ever cry over them? You know, in contrast, you never did over his. Though there was that sharp, sinking pain that felt like the embodiment of slow death. Something terminal, fated to linger, to eat and eat until nothing remained.
No big deal!
“It’s an involuntary bodily response. You’re a dacryphiliac.” he responds.
There’s not a lot he can compute right now, his brain too preoccupied with processing your touch alone. Which is so prominent, so harrowingly good that not even his genius mind can comprehend it.
He’s reasonable to believe he would kill whoever had the pleasure of experiencing you like this.
“It’s not a fetish if I only feel it for you—“
Spencer breaks.
“No-no-no,” he says, too loudly, “You can’t just- say those things. You can’t tell me you love when I cry, just because- I should be scared, of you. You’re volatile. Destructive,” he murmurs, head leaning against the crook of your shoulder. Against better judgement. But all reason has left him now. You’ve stolen it, taken it as a personal trophy to parade and boast about.
“Why am… Why am I not scared?” he asks, “It’s not like I make you cry…”
“Because there’s no reason to be scared.” you answer simply. And at surface level, it’s true. In spite of the hostility, the years of white-knuckled rivalry, you’ve always trusted him. It’s a coveted admission, considering you’re circumspect by nature.
You unbutton his shirt, let it fall to the floor, exposing his skin in the middle of your apartment. He’s standing there, and you’re not sure what to do with all of this want that perhaps you’ve misplaced as enmity for so long.
“You could make me cry,” you state, because if there’s one person out there capable of cracking you open, leaning behind fragmented pieces, it’s him. It’s always going to be him.
It’s a startling realisation. That he, Spencer Reid, of all people, can reach the centre of you in ways nobody has ever done before.
“Why would I want you to cry? That’s— i’m not even sure how I would go about it.”
You grip his hips, walk yourself backwards until you’re hitting a wall, there your body instinctively curves forward to meet his. “It doesn’t always have to be bad.” you explain, because he’s looking at it from a simplistic, textbook perspective. “Last time,” those words still feel like poison, “When I made you cry, there was no pain, right? You cried because it felt good.”
He’s staring at you clueless. Though, he might just be distracted. Either works.
Your hand catches his wrist, and then you’re hiking up your dress, guiding his touch beneath fabric. The lace panties that cover skin. He’s tentative, experimental, dragging his thumb over your clit, causing your hips to cant towards him. “Make me cry, boy genius.”
You act like this is the most indecent thing he’s capable of doing. From an unbiased standpoint, it’s up there on his list, but admittedly he hasn’t really done enough to constitute a list in the first place.
Spencer, in response, simply drops to his knees. Your panties are pulled down your legs in a disconcerting haze, and then he’s just groaning, cursing Gods he doesn’t believe in, spiting them with blasphemy, whilst also simultaneously thanking them, humouring false promises he won’t commit to.
It’s blasphemous, a prodigy on his knees, in front of you, for you. As if he’s worshiping something he can’t even comprehend, something beyond the expanse of his knowledge. And you just pull strands of his hair, pull at the strings of him.
His hands find the inside of your thighs, caressing the soft skin there and you make another noise, a noise that has him devouring you.
Face buried between your legs, he flattens his tongue against your clit, drags it upwards to catch wetness, to affirm that you’re just as affected as he. That since you touched him, all thoughts have consisted solely of you.
He doesn't think he's doing this correctly- but you're making noises, gasps that he didn’t even know you were capable of, and that's the thing about science or anatomy, whatever it may be, the brain is incredibly subjective, and the more knowledge you acquire, the less you really know.
And there's knowledge here, but it’s not utilised; no coordination, even when there should be, even when he’s got the human body memorised to perfection. Still, you seem to like him messy, desperate, drawing your clit into his mouth to pull, to tug, before shifting back to blow cold air against you.
The task was simple, at surface level: make you cry. And whilst, if you pick it apart, it becomes more complex, he seems to be efficient in following orders because right now, you’re ruined. It might not be the most meticulous head you’ve received (though you’re sure, under different circumstances he could probably surpass that standard), but it’s wanting, in a way that makes you ache.
“Oh oh, fuck— fuckfuckfuck.”
You grip his hair, twisting and pulling and using, and he lets you, he’d do anything, do this forever if he had to. His fingers, still gripping your thighs, dig into soft flesh, leaving visible marks. And he wants to see those marks, in the morning, an irrefutable fact that would force him to accept this as real.
But he can’t focus, can’t think about anything when you’re reacting like this, so undone. How can there be anything, at all, beyond this?
He lets you drape a leg over his shoulder, let’s you get off against his face, fingers sliding inside, one digit at a time, to feel warmth wrapped around him. To feel the way you clench when he curves them, when he grazes spots that he could explain to factual detail.
Your body shudders, and you’re making noises he hasn’t heard before, sounds that could only be described as obscene— and his name, you’re moaning his name, and god, he’s certain he would follow you to the ends of the earth right now. Without question.
It’s when he stops, when he leans back enough that he can breathe. That he can look at you, really look at you.
You’re messy, undone. The sight could be considered humiliating from an outside perspective, but you’re gorgeous, and he’d do this a thousand times over if it resulted in this exact reaction. A reaction that he’s given you. No one else.
“I love your face.” He says, a little bluntly. But it’s true, he does.
So he returns to the task. Practically situating you on his face now to suffocate him, to let him become some sort of extension to your pleasure. And inevitably when you fall apart, tears and writhing, boundless pleasure, he can only push you through it. Allow his existence to crumble, for the second time,
And as he draws back, face covered in you, he can only stare.
His knees are bruised. That’s the first thing you notice when you stumble to the bedroom, when you’ve taken a moment to wipe away evidence of the tears, to regather and compose yourself. It’s not in your nature to be soft, no to him, but you still find yourself kissing the mauve blemishes, working your way up his body after you’ve oh so unceremoniously undressed him. Reduced to his boxers, he’s an incriminating sight.
“Losing your virginity to me is like the biggest irony ever.” you say, kissing along his stomach, watching as his body reacts, arches, contorts in search of more pleasure. It’s a hypnotising sight, to see every nerve tuned to you solely.
“Ironic, demeaning, enough to send past versions of myself into an early grave. Yes, I get your point.” he mutters.
Your hands find their way to the waistband of his boxers, and he’s lifting his hips, because he wants you to undress him, because he’d let you do anything right now, but he also feels embarrassed, exposed. Vulnerable in a way he’s never felt before. You’re seeing him, seeing things he doesn’t even know himself. But there’s nowhere to hide, not while you’re slowly pulling off his underwear, with a care that he’s unaccustomed to.
“I won’t go easy on you,” you assure. Even though that’s technically a straight-faced lie. Of course it’ll be more tender than anything else you’ve endured; he has this devastating habit of softening those around him. It’s only taken this long to affect you out of pure, unbridled spite.
Oh, he wants. The evidence is his body alone. Laid out before you, like an offering, a hedonistic one. Dick hardened, dripping pre-cum onto his stomach.
“Hands above your head,” you watch as he blindly obeys, any defiance now crushed. Well, for the most part: at least in his actions. “That’s good— good boy. Tell me if they’re too tight,” you say, binding them with his discarded tie.
You stare, and it’s like you want to eat him alive, and against better judgement, he’d let you. Serve himself up, passive as you tear him limb for limb, taste all the bad parts of his existence, the ones he keeps hidden shamefully away.
“Too tight? I’ve been held hostage, I think I can handle a little bit of fabric.” he retorts before tugging at the restraints, “Tighter.”
“Didn’t realise you were so into this—“
“Neither did I,” he scoffs, “I’ve never done it before, obviously.”
“Now you have. Congrats, i’ll give you a sticker once we’re done. Gold star, huh?” and just for good measure, you tighten the restraints further. Just a few more pulls until you’re knotting it in place. Until he’s entirely defenceless, but realistically, what would you do? It’s hard to find fear when you’ve covered him on the field for over a year (he’s prone to being targeted, an unsubs wet dream).
“Yes, thank you. I’ll put the sticker on the wall next to my PhDs.” right now, right in this moment, countless people are getting what they want.
And Spencer is being manhandled by his pretty coworker.
Ironically, that’s exactly what he wants.
You’re the perfect dichotomy. Cruel, and caring. Harsh words to juxtapose gentle hands. Soft touches, but scathing remarks that linger, leaving behind a trail of scars, the ubiquity of your cruelty.
You’re lethal, and he’s smart enough to comprehend the danger. Except he’s never been smart when it comes to people.
Your hands are acquisitive, roaming, searching, blunt nails that scrape skin as you rake them down, down towards his abdomen. He shivers, bite into that pretty bottom lip of his until he’s spilling blood, and it’s a sight. Something sick that you both want to such an offensive extent.
“Sensitive.” you murmur, like the idea of him so reactive pleases you, in a way you’ve never considered before. Because the way his body strains, bucking forward to deepen the contact is maddening.
“Are you always like this?” you wonder aloud, leaning down to run a hand along the length of his inner thigh. “Poor baby, so touch-starved.”
“I don’t know if I’d use the word sensitive.” he replies, “More susceptible to the fact that you’re touching me, and that I haven’t felt another person touch me in a long time. And of course when people touch me, it’s usually professionals poking me with needles or stitching this weeks new wound.”
Touch-starved? He has sensory issues. The lightest graze can provoke, cause his skin to crawl. Of course he would like your touch, of course the universe would torture him by finding relief in the one person who nobody should stumble upon for relief.
“Oh you’re a soldier, you suffer so much.“ you state, and it’s condescending (naturally), but there is some truth to the serrated comment. You, the team, are all bruised, mentally and physically distorted from the consequences of the job. Only he could react so reverently to your calloused hands, blissed out to the extent that it looks like you’re witnessing ascension.
It’s pretty. Pretty, in a soft, domestic way. One that demeans his bound wrists and your sharp words.
You press a few tender kisses to his thighs, the inner sections, where you’re certain, assured, no one has ever touched before. Maybe there’s something possessive to that thought, the want to own, to know that no one will ever have him the way you have him.
Your touch is like a brand. He wants it, even if it’s bad, even if it’s cruel. Because the alternative to this is nothing. A lonely existence. A life of work, of chasing shadows, knowing he had so much to give, and no one to give to.
“Stop mocking me.” he replies, it’s through laboured breath. “Just because I don’t have your proclivity for taking hits doesn’t mean I don’t suffer.”
No one’s ever touched him like this. No one’s ever cared to try. You’re his first.
“I know you suffer,” you retort, are you arguing? Is this foreplay? If it is, then you have some serious self-reflecting to do on every single past conversation. Because maybe you should’ve taken him to your bed earlier, in that case.
Oh god was your hatred of each other built solely on sexual tension?
Finally, you move. Just like the first time, your hand runs across his length, taking him slowly, easing him into it, coercing him through the pleasure. It’s not similar to before: it won’t end after he’s found his release, and it’s not frenzied and ardent. Spurred on by shame.
“And you know i’m always going to take the hits for you, regardless.” he whines when you remove your hand, and whines again, for contrasting reasons, as you spit on your palm, generate lubricant to support each stroke.
“Oh—“ he breathes out. He’s fairly certain he’s supposed to be more contained. A huff escapes his lips and then he’s retorting, “You could try a tactic other than reckless self-sacrifice every once in a while.”
He’s overwhelmed, with you. All of you. The way you look, the way you talk, all the harsh lines and scathing remarks. The way you take the hits for him, an altruistic custodian, but he isn’t worthy of being saved. Isn’t worth the effort.
“Shut the fuck up, Spencer.” you say, promptly ending this discussion; you grip his dick tighter, tilting your movements to catch him at a better angle.
“Shit— okay, okay,” he moans because that feels really really good, and he wishes he could articulate it in a better way. Something complex and poetic, but it’s just so good.
He’s always been a little masochistic. Too smart for his own good, too analytical. He wants you to take him apart, piece by piece, and see the inner workings of his body laid out before you, raw and vulnerable. Because only you can see him like this.
He doesn’t even really touch himself. There’s been nights, body flushed and wanton, bucking up against sheets, muffled noises pressed into his pillow. But they’re rare, and they usually lead to an aftermath of ignominy.
He’s a prodigy, a genius in the field of criminal psychology. So why does it feel so good like this? To be humbled, to be demoted. As if all his degrees, his awards, his intellect, mean absolutely nothing.
He’s never felt so loved. Which is ironic. Because he’d always hoped love would be slow, gentle. Soft, like a caress. The kind of love you share over meals and pillow-talk.
He realises, with a jolt to his system, that if this is love to you, he’d accept it, in its most primal form.
“You get off on this,” he analyses as you draw back, mostly to stifle the begs that nearly escape his mouth. Come back, need you here.
“Well I’d be pretty concerned if I wasn’t getting off on this right now—“
“No,” he pushes, “You like that i’m, that yeah. I have no experience. You want to corrupt me, huh?” he looks up at you with pretty, innocent eyes. Holy shit. “Ruin me for anyone else? Go on, let me have it. I’ll only come back, i’ve already done it once. Statistically, it’s going to happen again. And again. Pavlovian responses, condition me. Make my body react to no one else.”
When you kiss him again, he can only take it. Can only moan, whimper, plead against your mouth until you’re lining him up, until you’re sitting on his dick, and everything is okay.
“You’re so—“ bottomed out, wrapped around him entirely, you sigh. “Fuck, Spence, who taught you to be so fucking dirty?”
“You.” he mutters, playing coy. “But you’re a bad teacher, I think I could do with a few more lessons..”
“I think you could do with learning to shut your mouth more often.”
“It is better suited for other purposes, I suppose..”
He gags when you slot two fingers, index and middle, into his mouth. No warning, no predetermined acknowledgment. They hit the back of his throat, and he can only suck, muffling protests around the digits until he goes blissfully silent.
“Better,” you retort. Drawing them out, you press your thumb against his bottom lip, keeping it parted so that you can lean forward, spit into his open mouth. When you first met, he promptly refused to shake your hand, too conscious of the dissemination of germs, now? He’s swallowing your saliva, unprompted, with little resistance.
You know him. The way you touch is like you’re searching for something. Anything about him. It’s like you’re a bloodhound, trying to unearth every single vulnerability. And you must’ve found them, because you’re suddenly here, bearing all your weight on him, moving, and it’s all his body can do to take it. All of it. All of you.
He tugs at his restraints, because he won’t go down without a susceptible fight. Even if he knows it’s fated that he will inevitably fall. “Please—please untie me, just wanna hold your hand.”
And, oh that shatters you. Like, mentally, physically, spiritually dismantles you until you’re breathless, staring at him with widened eyes and a loss of composure. It’s such a tender request, something domestic and raw, and mindlessly you’re fumbling with the knots of his tie. Freeing them to take one in yours.
It’s against your nature, but you can’t help, can’t refrain yourself from pressing a kiss against his knuckles. “You’re doing so good f’me. Such a good boy,”
Your free hand runs across his torso now, grazing skin, admiring the sight of him, flushed, debauched, sprawled out beneath you.
He grips your hip. That’s the first thing he does once he’s sufficiently sane, well… partially, the praise did knock him entirely off balance. Tip the scales, send him over the inexorable edge.
He watches as you take the incentive to slip off his body, and the loss of friction is okay, tolerable because he’s sitting up against the headboard, drawing you closer, whining for you until you’re on his lap, until you’re sat in your rightful place.
Here, he can kiss you. Which he admits has become a very vital aspect to his existence.
The kiss is like a bruise. Not rough, he’d never be rough with you, he’s all long, languid strokes and soft movements. But it’s overwhelming, and leaves discernible, lasting imprints.
And yeah, sure, kissing you is the closest thing to worship he has ever known. Something he would like to commit to memory, every single time your lips touch, it’s like he’s seeing god in the shape of your cupid’s bow.
“Please, I need—“ he stutters over his words, “If you don’t move, I swear—“ he pauses, his head falling against your shoulder— “I swear, I’m gonna die, this has to be against the Geneva Convention, you can’t leave me like this, please—”
“The Geneva convention? Really? Is this your form of dirty talk?” you retort, unable to muffle your laugh.
“No. I’m stating my rights,” he says, “Torture is prohibited.”
“I’m not torturing you—“
You tangle your hand through his hair, tug tug tug, and then pull, drawing his head back by tousled strands, forcing him to meet your gaze.
“Ohmyfuckinggod, yes. You are.” he whimpers.
It’s indefensible how good he feels, how he sinks into you, hitting crevices you’re certain no one else has ever grazed before. Feeling full, whole, it’s new. It’s your own first, and you can’t even begin to articulate how defenceless you are to the way it makes you disintegrate, fragment to pieces of pleasure. Spencer is warm, and soft, and it makes you want to cry. To just fall, give in, transcendence of self, Burke said, and right now, you feel that entirely.
His moan is unapologetic, unfiltered as you move. At this point, you could slice him open, leave him bleeding in your bed, and he’d thank you for it.
You hold his hand, and yet, simultaneously destroy him.
“Please,” he whimpers again— he’s too pretty to be asking so nicely. “I just— I want you closer. As close as possible, I want you so close to me that I’m not even sure if my body can handle it.”
It’s not dirty talk, it’s more like he’s begging you, tears staining his skin, pitiful eyes, wide and glassy, staring at you with some form of desperation. Brows furrowed, gaze soft.
And his gaze only grows worse when you do give him what he wants, when your pace fastens.
It’s a religious experience, like he’s about to be crucified, a martyr to his pleasure. He’s almost afraid to touch you— to stain something divine, like you’re too much for him. But you’re not.
“I like this. Like you. Like you here. You’re so good for me,” he murmurs, and it’s untruthful, but right now, he sincerely believes it. “so good, so perfect, all I need, please—”
“Stop it.” you bite, preferring him defiant over this— because this opens up wounds you weren’t even aware existed. “Oh fuck, stop it.”
“So good. You’re so good,” he cups your face, presses his forehead against yours, and you might as well just die right here.
“Says you.”
“Says me.”
You fuck him harder.
“Oh,” is all he can pronounce, little oh’s every time you rock against him, and he has to grip you hips, deepen the movements until you’re bouncing against him, up down up down, exploiting his sensitivity with a torturous pace.
And it’s not fair, he needs to balance the scales, so he runs his thumb over your clit, firm halos that have you keening. “If being nice got me this, I’d be so nice to you for the rest of my life—“
Another lie. But it’s worth it. If only for the way you kiss him. The way you silence his cutting words, forcing your way into his mouth, forcing him to just squirm and sob, until you’re clenching around him, and he’s there with you. Falling apart, bodies shifting until movement ceases, and there’s nothing but bliss.
“I hate you so much,” you say in the aftermath, and it’s closest you’ve ever gotten to a confession of love.
He laughs, wipes away tears, “Hate you more.”
“Don’t leave this time.” he just nods, bordering on nonverbal now. It takes you hours to coax actual words out of him, and by then, you’re both tangled in a foreign mess of warm limbs.
“Oh i’m going to be so mean tomorrow.” you mutter, playing loosely with his hair.
He can only sigh, stare at you dreamily. “God, is that a promise?”
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thehumanwiki · 4 months ago
Text
hi and welcome to
✨bullshit that has ACTUALLY happened somewhere in the Pokémon franchise✨
-a teenaged boy runs away from home because of his abusive mom only to join a crime gang funded by his abusive mom.
-the player character is given a smartphone by and with direct contact to God.
-a man cosplaying God (the same God you got a phone from) attacks you with a demon banished to another dimension.
-a suicide cult led by an evil snowflake kills like one hundred other protagonists.
-there is an entire elemental typing consisting of abused and evil Pokémon that is super effective against everything else.
-the player falls into an alternate world and one of their friends is immediately arrested for playing sports.
-in the thrilling sequel, a bunch of ghosts kidnap children in their amusement park in the Shadow Realm.
-now that I think about it there are like three different games where the player character starts by falling from the sky.
-the protagonist of the TV adaptation has died like seven times, been crucified in Paris, watched several apocalypses, and has watched SO many people die in front of him, and I don’t think he’s brought it up like, ever.
-in one game, you can go on a crusade to brutally conquer the entire continent.
-the player of one game is part of a time loop caused by a magic turtle that indirectly kills one of their friend’s mother. Or father. Depends on the version.
-the player’s adoptive father is possessed by the personification of hate and sends them directly to Hell, then tries to do it again when they get out.
-the mafia’s plan for getting their boss back after he left is to violently hijack a radio station and ask really nicely.
-a space agency’s plan for stopping a meteor form colliding with the earth is to open a wormhole to another dimension. this plan is stopped by a woman in a torn cape who destroys their equipment and robs them.
-the protagonist’s father had a godlike clone fuse his consciousness with a mouse, and fights a man who fused his own consciousness with an alien.
-the one a cult leader chose to be king of his new religion is an abused autistic boy with green hair and wearing a baseball cap.
-you literally rob people’s Pokémon in one game and you’re still the good guy. …is there a gender neutral version of “good guy?”
And now for a BONUS ROUND!
✨shit that has gone down in the Pokémon manga adaptation alone!✨
-terrorists blow up an ENTIRE port city!
-one protagonist spent two years trapped in a Dream Realm™.
-you think that’s bad? TWO protagonists are trapped in the depths of space for like six months!
-you think THAT’S bad?! FIVE protagonists are turned into stone for an indefinite time period!
-a little orphan girl is hypnotized and trapped in a suit of armor.
-they crucify the gym leaders???
-one boy is whipped in the face with a chain used to subjugate the Gods Of Time And Space and he’s literally fine.
-a father punches his son in the face and hurls him down a staircase. The American translation censors this as a lightning strike.
-this same son fell into the ocean because of an earthquake like five chapters after he was introduced.
-one of the current protagonists is basically Wednesday Addams.
-two protagonists were kidnapped by birds and raised by a supervillain.
-two villains try to destroy the environment of an entire country, cause an apocalypse, and are stopped by being trapped in a flying car which crashes.
-a mysterious supervillain saves them— SOMEHOW— and makes them fight to the death for a suit of armor. The one that survives causes the apocalypse AGAIN but dies.
-they both get brought back from Hell to save the world, and after that’s over, they turn to dust and go back to Hell.
-the supervillain who saved them the first time also summons like ten gods and dips out, never to be seen again.
In other words Pokémon is weird (affectionate).
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