The Witch of hopelessness @bernkastel11 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
The Witch of hopelessness
@bernkastel11
"In this world,hope is such a fragile thing Wouldn't it be better if we just become hopeless ?The risk of pain is lesser after all. That's why I exist,the witch who feeds on hope"
Yua is a theater kid and a damn good actor and singer, her favourite role she's ever played is Jane Doe from Ride the Cyclone. naturally she joins the film studies club, (and Vil seems pretty chill and fair all things considered especially compared to the 6 yandere's that are after her)
Yua introduces the film studies clubs to a lot of musicals from her world, Vil takes and interest in Phantom of the Opera especially when its decided Yua would be playing Christine
Hii I think your requests are open! I was wondering if you could do a Utage type reader (from Tamon's B-Side) who just so happens to start working for Vil? There doesn't need to be an opposite personality thing but I think it would be peak fiction! (It could be yandere-ish because in the anime Tamon uses his looks and stuff to get Utage to stay) (You can ignore this if you don't wanna do it) -bunny anon 🐇
Your Bubbly Personality, His Simmering Rage
Yan Vil x Underclassman Pomefiore Gn!Reader
Fic is 16+
3.3k words (AGAIN?)
Oh little underclassman, how you were so ditzy. You would fumble around to and fro on whatever you were doing. In an alternate timeline’s light you could’ve been cute, could’ve if you weren’t so irritatingly positive. Why did you have to smile like that all the time, had you no burdens of your own to worry about? Where did you manage to find all that extra time when you so clearly looked like a mess at every opportune moment? The cherry on top of it all was that you were a Neige fan, of course you were a Neige fan. Had the two of you had the opportunity to meet you would’ve clasped each other’s hands and skipped off to whatever utopia he was barred from.
It was infuriating how much you adored the boy. Merch hung from every square inch possible on your wall so much so that it was starting to look like a new dorm all together. Keychains frequently clank together as well onto various pins that thoroughly decorated your school bag. You followed all of Neige’s interviews if they were a holy text and you a crazed disciple. There was an encyclopedic knowledge of that boy’s every moment you possessed on things even he couldn’t have known. Sevens you even carried handmade photocard carriers each elaborately decorated to the memory enshrined in it. Ribbons, bows and beads all offerings unseen to the object of your affections, what a cruel fate you had subject yourself to. Nothing about the regality of Pomefiore touched you. Every sensibility of yours was so passionately you, he couldn’t mold it. She couldn’t change you any more than an acid could melt the glass it was contained in.
To be blunt, Vil wasn’t your type. He was cold to those he deemed fledglings, abrasive in her care however well meaning, and so demanding of perfection that couldn’t exist. His smug smile, the way in which he’d frequently pose his hand like he was waving away common muck, how privileged he acted demanding everyone to a perfection out of touch for so many. It was aggravating. How could someone so easily flip a switch between a charming seductress queen with a vision to a demeaning degrading thorn. How could he claim to be the fairest one of all when he dismissed all the smiles that Neige was able to bring forth? How could he be the fairest when forced a rigid mold of elegance, rearranging flesh to fit shapes it wasn’t meant to be in. Crippling mobility for the sake of aesthetics, that couldn’t be normal. That couldn’t be healthy for anyone involved, especially him.
At first it appeared he didn’t notice you, you were just one of many over enthusiastic underclassmen he’d had to deal with, or at least that’s the impression that stained itself into your retinas. It didn’t bother you, you weren’t there to appease someone’s own sensibilities, you were just trying to be yourself, as corny as it sounded. Over time there were changes, as you hit your sophomore year and she hit her junior one there were changes. Perhaps your defiance had stood out as the nail to be hammered, perhaps your specific hue of vibrancy was too clashing. You noticed how now his gaze would harden ever so slightly when he captured Rook and you enjoying yourselves together. How he scrutinized every wrinkle, every crease, every cute stylistic choice you had made more so than even than the freshman he had begun to groom for Housewarden position next year. He observed further and further, as if trying to pry into your flesh and burrow there.
Once you heard him utter how you were “an idol’s worst nightmare for damage control,” but still he couldn’t help but linger around you. You. The first person to be called upon for any sorts of domestic labor: clothing repairs, dusting, vacuuming, cutlery polishing— it was ridiculous. A smile and an almost infantilizing head pat your only reward. You had attempted to ask once on why of all you people were chosen for such a role, he laughed. Clearly you were the most efficient out of all these spudlings, that was what was said at least. Whenever chores were knocked out he’d glow, praising your being to set an example for all those that would lag behind. Compliments would further be whispered into the shell of your ear, you couldn’t help remain confused. She was hot, then cold, then ever so warm again. Was it to try and pull something from you? He didn’t affect you, she couldn’t affect you. Weren’t you mesmerized by his presence? Why didn’t you adore him?
Most flocked to his feet as if he were a god, kneeling and slobbering just to catch a glimpse. Warm spotlights lighting her every feature; every dip and curved dome, but most important of all, highlighting what wasn’t there. He would praise the loyal follower on occasion, and bless those under his domain with the tools necessary to cultivate their own sense of beauty, that of course just so long as it wasn’t his. Not you. You would never be caught dead at his altar, stubbornly insistent in your faith in that damn boy, the rival he had spent his entire life in the shadow of. Why was that, was he losing his touch? No, that couldn’t be right, he still had the entire dorm underneath his own spell. If it wasn’t him, then it was you. You had to be the defunct thing here. The dorm known to strive for excellence couldn’t have any defects, now could we?
It was important to keep a close watchful eye on someone with your character, to make sure you didn’t create discordance within the regiments each student is perfecting. Ensuring that every potato under his care could eventually blossom into something as beautiful as he appears, nothing else.
On one particular night she couldn’t sleep, thoughts of you swirled like a horrid persistent fog. It was of no use, as much as he implemented every technique for sleep possible, it evaded evermore. If sleep was impossible, might as well do something productive, robes were adjusted briefly to be appropriate just in case anyone else was lurking and spotted him. One step, two steps, down the winding stone stairwell, his pen acting as enough light to safely descend. Laughter, light, at the bottom of the stairwell he found those things slipping through the crack of Pomefiore’s basement, how peculiar indeed. Opening it had only revealed a small group of his dorm mates all huddled around in a circle, that sickening baby blue color surrounding them. Neige, his mind registered the name coming from your lips, adoring in their praise. Only Rook’s piercing gaze noticed him standing at the door way, his own vice-dorm leader enraptured in this encounter. Heads turned snapping as she cleared her throat, looking of aghast horror filled all eyes except for Rook’s, and infuriatingly enough, yours. The gall, the audacity, questioning the group he discovered that the club meetings took place every second Sunday of the month, every second Sunday since your freshman orientation. A year and counting you had begun these secret meetings, a year and counting he had failed to notice. It made his blood run cold.
How dare you. How dare you massacre this precious dorm with that accursed naive boy’s name. The boy who had spent half as much time as him working on the craft, a fraction of the time preparing on the stage sidelines but yet got to bask in the warm glow of the spotlights up until the end. You loved a boy who wasn’t even aware of your existence, devoted yourself to an altar so already polished and taken care of, what more could you offer that shining statue? Couldn’t you see he was right here? That cracks were slowly forming at his finger tips threatening to fracture further? You truly were such an oblivious thing, such an ignorant thing. Ignorance needed punishment, but not any would suffice. An idea, a wicked idea. She let out a wicked laugh for a bit before having to catch himself, his ugliness wouldn’t be anymore exposed than it was already. How fitting that you would be part of the take down of the idol you so adored.
Your so called punishment wasn’t too bad, forcibly moving into a haunted decrepit mansion to assist Vil aside. The Prefect of Ramshackled that had supposedly come from another world was nice enough. They acted as the group’s manager for the VDC in totality, running trivial errands and mediating in group disputes— how you could relate. Nevertheless your sole purpose here was to tend to the beautiful queen who was so particular about nearly every detail. The brand of water, what towels were and weren’t allowed to touch his skin, the pressure and exact location of massages she required. Hair, makeup, clothes, all things you were required to help him with now. Shaken awake at the crack of every dawn to help him with his after-run-morning shower, drying his hair not too slowly but not harshly either, then braiding the silky strands into the small ponytail in the middle back of his head.
The cramped guest room Vil took, though it was the best out of the current available ones, was still full of various boxes by the vanity. It must’ve previously been covered head to toe in dust, the corners still had a thick layer of it while the rest of the box remained relatively clean. Rushed cleaning, was the Prefect of this dorm even expecting guests? Were they given decent time to prepare? A noise of the throat came from his majesty, whose hair you still had in hand at the moment, clearing your previous thoughts. Right, makeup. Inching closer to the blonde was the only way to properly apply the different shades of products, because of the lack of room mentioned previously. So close, close enough to where the warmth of his breath would land like feathers on your skin. Violet eyes would glow as brilliantly as the most well maintained gems, a smug smile on his lips every time you pulled away finished with his face, this time was no exception.
Sometimes when he was particularly preoccupied with running through something: every mistake in their choreography, neat notes looped with you were summoned to help with dressing. Truly an attendant to their master, thank the sevens it would only last a few more weeks. Buttoning down his grey NRC uniform undershirt, fixing the golden buttons through the holes in her purple vest, trying to avoid any more contact than necessary. Though occasionally your fingers would brush his skin, and you could feel his breath hitch ever so slightly, eyes intensifying in their glare. You reacted with the same detached professionalism you always had towards him. Why, why wouldn’t you let yourself love him?
Days had come and gone, turning into weeks, then a month. Wake up, morning run, getting properly ready for the day with your assistance, classes, homework, dorm affairs, practice, food, nightly routine— then falling asleep in the same cheap mattress knowing you were just a room away physically but light years apart emotionally. Knowing that that boy still had the world dazzled by him, knowing your heart was still preoccupied by your sycophantic love for him. How could you? After all that she did, for his fans, for her dorm, even for you the ever stubborn tumor— tuber that grew more and inside his brain. Didn’t you see that this was the best outcome for you? That you’d shine more brilliantly than you ever could have before underneath her wing instead of that sentient pile jar of honey’s? It was fine, it was fine. Practice harder, smile more charmingly, apply products so perfectly that it could hide every single fault within his own psyche, you’d love him now, right?
Finally, it was the day of the event they had long been building up to, the cultural fair, the Song and Dance Championship itself. Preparations were run, they had rehearsed over everything a million times by now, hoping to reach something truly beautiful, something absolutely beautiful. Better late than never, the Ramshackled Prefect and you had arrived, to the annoying pestering of some staff member with cracked lips and dehydrated skin. The cameraman had touched you— hand on your shoulder about to usher the both of you out when he stepped in.
“Excuse me but those spudlings are part of my production team. If you had half a brain you would’ve noticed their staff passes,” she glared at the man, arm snaking around your waist pulling you closer to his side, the cameraman’s hand now pulled out of reach. Fingers looped and twirled around the cheap polyester ribbon of the VDC pass around your neck, being held up delicately for inspection. Flicking his eyes between him, the prefect, and you there was an apologetic bow and reassurance uttered from the man’s crinkly lips. ‘Calm yourself’ he removed his hand from around you, and walked off to speak with the rest of the crew.
“Vi?” that voice, that agitating voice again. It was easy enough to converse with the boy, speaking words layered thick with double meanings and of passive aggressive tone. Finally, they were all called up, finally he could wipe that oblivious smile off of Neige's face.
Rehearse, perfection, smile, all thoughts that ran through his head as he stepped onto the stage, the stage that he belonged on. Five six seven eight, the music began, his voice cut as clear as a ray of piercing light coming from the clouds. Move after move he executed everything sharply, perfectly, beautifully. He caught you from the corner of his eye— You weren’t even paying attention, just laughing over some dumb joke that the Ramshackled Prefect had uttered. A twinkle in your eyes and smile painted your face, you looked happier than you had within the whole month than he had spent with you.
The brief rehearsal had ended, various different workers for the TV station had crawled around him like maggots to flesh. Speaking her praise, clamoring questions, smile, that was all he could do as he answered each question with practiced grace, practiced confidence. Looking over the footage the dance was perfect, flawless— you. What were you doing over there by Neige, you smiled so brightly, he returned it in kind. ‘They know, they know I’m a horrible person and that’s why they won’t love me,’ the thought echoed in his mind. Buzzed around it returning again and again like the unwanted pest it was. Even as he checked his account, filled with all the praise in the world, it couldn’t be enough to fill that gaping maw. You had bid that boy farewell shortly before Neige and his crew called up to the stage. Of course Neige replied in sing-song tone, quickly bounding off as if his joy was limitless, was effortless.
The performance, it was sloppy by every metric, harmonies clashing against themselves in different sections, the arrangement itself so musically simple. But he had won. Neige had won and the competition hadn’t even officially started yet. Something so innocent yet calculated in its appeal, how could they win now? How could he prove his beauty, his craft, his excellence. Was he forever dammed to be in the shadows of someone who was once so far behind him? Someone who had lacked the upbringing he had, someone who had come from nothing yet so brilliantly shinned as if it was just destiny? He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe. He needed to leave, to go somewhere— anywhere where he wouldn’t be seen, where he could break down into pieces slowly by himself. Then he saw you. You were smiling again. Him, you, laughing. Blurred, colors melted into one another as hurried clicks of his heels echoed through the hallways. A door, not his own. A knock, it opened. You, him, in the same room, joking, merrily, happily, comfortably even. A question. A smile, the best one he could muster.
“We didn't get much of a chance to talk before rehearsal. I was hoping we might chat a bit more now,” a glance. You sat there, confusion evident. You knew, how could you not have? He was alone, beside you, small talk was made. Hollowed praise thrown back and forth. Then, a question, “Say, Neige. Are you thirsty at all? I brought you some apple juice specifically for you,” stay out of this, please. Don’t interfere, but from your eyes he could gears slowly turning. “I've been quite taken with this brand recently.” An exchange, a thanks. A sip, just about to be taken before you, of course you, of course you did— she was stupid to think you wouldn’t have.
“Mind if I take a sip? I’m awfully parched as of now, I can grab you another one though!” Confusion, from that boy. you snatched the bottle. A yell, from different direction by familiar voice. Rook, of course it would be Rook. After a brief analysis of the situation it seemed Rook had quickly ushered off that boy in cautioned and final tone. A drip dripping sensation ran from the back of his throat. She had wanted to scream, but instead stood there petrified, you looked at him glare in your eyes. A head tilt backwards, you were going to drink it. This wasn’t how it was supposed to work out, not at all. Just when he was about to stretch out an arm, to try and prevent you, a person he was now realizing he adored, from drinking the culmination of his hideousness— SLAM. A flurry of white crashed into you and pushed his hand. Shouts, yelling, words, the word why hanging in the air drip drip dripping. Like a poison, like the glass that shattered onto the floor. The liquid hateful curse gushing out to bubbling puddle, before evaporating artificially into a purple misty gas.
He laughs, it’s a cold laugh, a tired laugh, an almost resigned laugh. “That's what I want to know. More than the rest of you, even, more than any fan ever could,”pity, looks of pity. Oh how she hated pity. “But you see, I've come to a realization. That I! Can never! Win! Never can beat him! And that's why… I'm going… TO HANDLE NEIGE MYSELF!” he could feel his skin slowly unraveling from the rest of his body, peeling off to reveal his rotten interior. Horrified, everyone’s eyes were boring into her like needles. Your eyes were boring into him like a thousand rusted lances, he wasn’t evil! She wasn’t a bad person—
“Please… Don’t look at me with those eyes, those eyes that grow cold only for me. Don’t look at me like I’m a heartless monster, DON’T LOOK AT ME!” he screamed throat burning as a bubbling black fluid escaped. A laugh cold cruel laugh escaped, “I want to be the fairest one of all, so why am I so...so...ugly? Ugly?! UGLY?!” Shouts echoed from every direction in the room, pleads— all frantic in nature. He saw you, your face aghast and coughing from the purple mist that swirled around you, you tried to reason— even in that sweet tone that was never once directed at him. Even in your fear, your suffocation, your blood rushing out from your face, tears welling up in the corners of your eyes, you were beautiful. Beautiful…
“Yes, of course. If I just melt everyone else into a hideous mess... Then I'll be the fairest one of all, won't I? I’ll be beautiful enough for you surely,” it was the last statement uttered from her lips before his vision went black, before he had succumbed to the inky abyssal blot completely.
Sorry this took such a long time to get around to! I first had to watch a bit of the anime, then I just got stuck on it. Truth be told it’s my first writing request, and might’ve gotten a bit carried away with it… but I hoped you enjoyed it regardless 🐇 anon! Credit to @pixopix for the wonderful banners!
yan!dating sim twst x reader. inexplicably, you awake in the dating sim ‘twisted hearts’ as a run-out-of-the-mill side character. no worries, the love interests are already after yuu. you just gotta stay out of it all, right? 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 — book 3 prelude. previous part here.
♡ “Well, you look positively thrilled to be attending this class, pup.”
♡ Contrary to Professor Crewel’s words, you have the biggest scowl stretching your lips down, into a glower, into the most deepest suit of misery etched onto your face. Your eyes are foggy, words misty, and just as you hear Yuu’s foothall reverberate down the halls — the familiar bickering between Ace and Deuce, nearing you slowly but surely — you plead your case.
“.. Hide me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Your head dips low. Since when were you type to stoop so low as to seek asylum from a first year, magicless, homeless student? “Hide me. From Yuu. Please. I’ll turn in all my missing assignments. Please.”
♡ That’s exactly how you’ve found yourself concealed behind his height, well-cloaked in whatever edges of his fur coat find you. The room is rife with suffocating quietness as the door creaks, slowly, taking its time, just so you can feel Yuu’s fingers graze the wood, and their eyes scavenge the vicinity for a trace of you. Closing your eyes tight-shut, you strengthen your grip on the fabric. Just this once - just this once - and you’ll survive.
♡ “Professor, have you seen them?”
♡ Them. They don’t name you, and painfully so, Crewel immediately recognizes who they’re talking about. Nameless, colourless, faceless. There is no one here other than you.
“As usual, no.”
“I can see them behind you.”
♡ Unfortunately, your breathing gave it away, and you're not exactly invisible, so you make do with just legging it again and stumbling into whatever room you get your hands on.
♡ Finally you come across a good one, and remember one thing: don’t breathe.
♡ Don’t breathe. Don’t let a single hint of your presence scrape against the floor, or taper off your lips. Don’t breathe, don’t look anywhere past the rows of ornate shelves or the very confused ghost librarian. Don’t breathe as you shimmy inside a cranny of dust, untouched newspapers and shield the crown of your head forevermore. Don’t breathe as you squeeze your eyes shut and imagine yourself anywhere else.
♡ Don’t breathe when the door creaks open. A slow, inevitable croak gliding against polished panes.
“Hi, mister. Have you seen -- well, uh -- a Scarabian student anywhere?”
♡ Don’t breathe even when you know it’s pointing straight at you. Traitor.
“Hey..”
♡ You don’t look up.
“Why’re you hiding from me?” Behind your lids, you imagine the dark cusps of their irises gleaming with sincerety. “I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong? Did I scare you?”
♡ You don’t like it. You don’t like the way they’re talking to you, slow and genuine and all too dehumanizing, as though you’re but a small rabbit in their eyes. They don’t know, they don’t know you’re an actual human being - one with conscience, humanity and awareness. They don’t know you know them, and they don’t know who you really are, all that’s left in their eyes is a perfect little image of a non-playable character - one that’s bound to come in their hands, in a way, or a thousand others.
In lieu of a response, you clamp your lips tight shut. Your eyes cinch into a glare; one you hope is full of the aversion you feel. “I thought I made it clear I want nothing to do with you.”
♡ You don’t know what to do. Give in. You’re doomed. Rebel. You’re doomed. Earning Yuu’s affection, or earning their loathing - neither option is good.
“...Oh.”
“Listen,” You crack one eye open in spite of yourself. Yuu looks devasted - you have to save yourself. Brain straining for excuses, you spout out a career-ending one. “... It’s not you, it’s just that..”
...
“...That?”
“That you’re not my type.”
♡ Yuu blinks - okay, this is your chance. You can’t just go into things that can be changed, look into things that are definitie. Look into.. ah, what would particularly steer your way clear of them?
♡ You look at the schedule in their hands. First year, huh?
“I’m into older people.”
“...How much older?”
You scramble. “A lot older.”
“...Like a year?”
“No. I like mature people.”
Their shoulders relax - you take that as a bad sign. "I can be mature."
"No, no. They need to look like they have taxes."
"...Taxes."
"Taxes. I also like people who are tall."
Yuu visibly straightens.
"Very tall."
Yuu visibly un-straightens.
"Like, concerningly tall. Like if they stand up too fast they're a threat to low ceilings."
"..."
"And older."
"..."
"And emotionally unavailable."
"That sounds unhealthy."
"Maybe."
"Maybe?"
"Actually, preferably unhealthy. I like people who look at me and immediately decide I'm none of their business."
Yuu's face falls, a slope to their brows as they frown, unknowingly, to themselves. What you’ve just said might just give you some time to prepare, because you, and any sane person in the world, know that a simple barrier like a preference won’t stop them. That’s how Yuu has always been. In a way, they need to get to you, no matter what. That’s how it always will be. "I like people who forget I exist."
It falls further, you realize. Something, the one thing, actually, that the latter is not able to do.
"I like people who don't text back. Oh, and they must have weird hobbies.. Like birdwatching, or growing mush-”
Ah. Hands clasped over your mouth, with horror, do you realize you’ve begun matching your interest to a certain Mountain Lovers president. Mission abort, the withdrawal symptoms must really be getting to you, huh?
"And NOT teal hair."
Yuu touches their hair, hopeful.
"NOT first-years."
Yuu lowers their schedule, hopeless.
"NOT extroverts."
Yuu winces.
"NOT people who follow me around."
Yuu winces harder.
"NOT people who keep asking for my number."
At this point, Yuu looks like every word is physically striking them. Relishing in the blow, you stand up, pivot on your heels and leave them to wallow in the destruction you’ve left in your wake. Not without picking up your belongings, which happen to a little journal you keep to maintain track of the plot, a chewed-up pencil, and an apple - shooting Yuu a confirmatory glare in case the thief is actually them. On the way, you realize the ghost librarian has tears in his gargantuan eyes. Oh-well, it seems like Yuu’s favoribility does not only extend to suitors, but ghosts as well.
♡ Something is going to go wrong today. Very, very wrong. You’re sure of it.
♡ And no, you don’t just say that because of your disastrous, almost-disastrous- encounter with Yuu.
♡ Your NPC sixth sense tells you there’s double trouble on the horizon, waiting to get a taste of you. Double trouble.. you work your throat around the words, and try to imagine anything of the sort - but your brain stalls, because apparently, rolling out of bed (literally) and forcing yourself through the daily morning rituals was still as bad as ever. It didn’t help Kalim was particularly loud today, something about the prefect, probably, you didn’t quite hear. Ugh, Vil’s going to slime you out if he ever finds out you’re skipping yet again-
“And just what are you doing in that flower bush, spud?”
♡ Speak of the devil, and he shall come.
Pretty purple eyes do not bode well with you.
“Uhh..” Tongue twisted, you crush one petal in the cusp of your palm, and bring it over your eyes, hoping to block out his face. Pretending very, very hard he’s just a figment of your imagination, because really, what are the chances you meet him in the very same place you thought he’d never come? “Well, er... I’m doing something very important and class-related right now, so I’d appreciate it if you left me alone.”
♡ Oh, no, he’s caught you dead in your right! Above, the glass dome over the botanical gardens greets you; limpid and beautiful, and if you squint your eyes just right, you can imagine the sky back at home. Homesickness, or whatever the afflicted call it, has taken a toll on you only after you’ve come to realize just how much of your life’s gone into a perpetual state of destruction. Teeth gnawing on lip, tarnishing Vil’s self-care advice right in front of him as you revert back to sqaure one; it doesn’t take a genius to figure out you want to vanish.
♡ Why exactly are you here? Somewhere in the middle of picking out a thorn from your thumb, you toppled over your boots and landed straight in a pile of.. whatever these are called. Now you’re just mulling your life over your tongue, wondering why you’ve just lost every ounce of hope in your life -—Jade (the scapegoat, you tell yourself) , normalcy, living in the shadows — and the blissful stretch of time in which you had not yet encountered Vil Schoenheit. Matter of fact, it seems he’s bound to run into you everday - much to yours and his very mutual chagrin.
♡ Hold on! The only reason he’s not turned on you is because he’s not yet privy to Yuu’s ever-growing and laughably one-sided affection for you, and the same can be said for everyone here.. you’re lucky he’s caught you alone, and not with Yuu, (the same person who confronted you outside your class, only to have you bolt away like they’d just set you on fire).
“Unbelievable. I was out on my usual morning run and I see this.” Vil points a long, long nail at you. You shudder, but don’t make a move, needle-like thorns prickling your uniform. “You’re sprawled over the Convallaria majalis batch, the very things I’ve planted. Dear me.. why am I not surprised? It seems your inclination of spelling ruin comes naturally.”
♡ Oh! By the miracle of the Sevens, it seems the damage you did to Vil’s Corona Marvellous or whatever they’re called, is mild. Otherwise, he’d not be letting you off with a mere shoo and one of those signature scowls. Taking his sweet time to inspect the bell-shaped heap with gloved digits, he tuts.
“Hm.”
”..What?”
“Nothing that should be of concern, to you, of course.” He says, reading your mind. “.. These look like they withered long before your weight.” The slope of his brows deepen into a fully-manifested, vexed frown. “Unbelievable! Whoever’s in charge of groundskeeping hasn’t been tending to them properly. Again.”
You blink. “Wait. So I’m not the floral equivalent of a hit-and-run?”
Vil exhales through his nose, already sounding exhausted by your existence. “You flattened perhaps three stems, I’d say that’s hardly catastrophic.
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. It was anything but a compliment.”
“Okay, but the Corolla-”
“Convallaria majalis.”
“…Bless you.”
♡ Vil pays you no heed, opting to not dwell on your eccentricity any longer.
“Well. Since you’ve already made yourself part of the issue, you may as well prove useful.” Bells retreat to their home as the male ponders it over his tongue. Something sparkles in those of eyes of his before he straightens with a satisfied hum, glancing over at you.
“ Poor maintenance, trampled soil, half-dead roots…” Vil dusts off his gloves with visible disdain. “Why am I not surprised? Honestly, spud, you have a remarkable ability to entangle yourself in things beyond your understanding. Come along.”
“Wait- where-”
♡ In place of a response, he grabs your hand.
♡ And unlike the feeling you had when Kalim did the same, this one action has chills dancing down your spine. Frigid air pushes your words back in as Vil - suddenly - rotates your wrist, brow quirking. Tipped nails perch upon exposed skin as he momentarily gives you a look.
“Hm. New bracelet?”
“No-”
“You run away from me, yet you’ve no qualm catering to Al-Asim. I suppose he is your housewarden, after all..” Purple coalesces into an inscrutable suit. “But loath as I am to admit, do you realize just how terrible it is to take up so much of the precious time I spare you?”
♡ Huh? Squeezing your eyes open, you realize his focal point is.. a traditional Scalding Sands bracelet - one of the many Kalim had gifted you during his visits. Oh.. shit, you must’ve accidentally put it on rather than-
..“Take up?” you repeat carefully.
Vil stills. For the briefest second, something unreadable crosses his face, then it dissolves.
“Don’t misunderstand.” His grip loosens, though not entirely. “You’re the one repeatedly neglecting your studies. Naturally, the responsibility falls upon me when you fail to meet basic academic standards.”
“Wow,” you mutter. “You almost sounded a little emotional there.”
“I’d sooner drink diluted apple vinegar.”
“Isn’t that, like, healthy?”
Whether he seems apalled or disgusted by you, you can’t place your finger on it. “Why, you... Forget it.”
♡ Before you can formulate a viable escape plan involving perhaps a sudden, career-ending tumble down the nearest staircase, Vil pivots on polished heels and expects you to follow as naturally as one expects ducklings to trail after their mother. Oh, no.
♡ You want to bolt off, hide beneath the benches or do anything, instead- blurs streel your legs forcibly in the wake of his footsteps, and you chew the thick clump of dread down your throat. Glass arches overhead catch the amber spill of drowning afternoon sunlight, drenching Vil in celestial phosphoresence.
♡ Why is it so hard to just.. refuse him? You don’t know. Eyes straining, vision skewed, you try to focus on anything. But the slivers of parted sunlight bend around his frame, the back of his head, and it’s almost as if, painfully so, your attention is tethered towards him.
♡ Hmph! No one should look this gorgeous while actively ruining your life. Which begs the question: where exactly is he taking you?
“Ahh… there you are, Roi du Poison.”
♡ Your soul exits your body.
Vil barely pauses at the interruption, though the minuscule quaver in his brow suggests he’d hoped to avoid this exact scenario. Through the hanging curtains of ivy emerges another Pomefiore student, feathered hat unfurled and eyes glinting beneath panes. Rook - so, your luck has decided you’d do well being hunted for sport.
“Rook,” Vil says flatly, not even turning. “I should’ve known you’d be here.”
“Can a devoted admirer not seek the radiance of his beloved housewarden?” The hunter places a hand dramatically atop his chest. “Cruel, cruel Vil. I merely wished to deliver the pruning records and instead discover a most enchanting tableau.”
When his gaze lands on you, your muscles go rigid, being pinned to a board and encased without mercy. He seems to take pleasure in the way your gaze tries to settle on anything but him. Weirdo.
“Ahh…” The hunter breathes. “So there is our elusive little evader.”
“I’m an evader?” you ask, then chew down your words. Well, you are actively trying to act uninteresting, aren’t you?
“You vanished from Professor Crewel’s classroom through a window last Tuesday, did you not?”
Vil pinches the bridge of his nose. “Don’t remind me.”
“…Huh, I thought that was last Wednesday. Oh well.”
You don’t question how he knows, how the both of them know. It’d be futile as it is. Miraculously, as if reading your mind (which you’d argue he can), he directs at you a content little smile. “As a hunter observes the rustling of grass, the flight of birds, the trembling of leaves, so too do I observe the habits of those around me.”
Rook circles once around the Convallaria patch, boots silent against the stone path. His sharp gaze skims over the crushed flowers, then the dirt shrouding your weathered sleeves, the bite-rife state of your lips, and the fatigue pulling down your lids into a perpetual scowl. It takes less than three seconds for the both of them to concur on one, concrete agreement.
Vil starts. “I’ve said as much already. They insist on treating their body like an afterthought.”
“Mm.” Rook nods solemnly. “A neglected garden wilts all the same.”
You stare at the both of them. “Oh, cool. So this is an intervention now...”
“Far from it, actually. It would only qualify as an intervention if you intended to listen,” Vil replies smoothly. “You absorb perhaps one sentence out of every five.”
♡ Rook laughs then, rippling across the greenhouse’s feather-light air. It pulls his attention back to you again, unbearably focused.
“The way you shrink whenever attention settles upon you.” Pointing, tipping his head back, Rook croons. “And yet, despite this, attention finds you endlessly. Oh, what a haplessly ardent predicament you’ve found yourself in!”
Before you can recover, Vil abruptly thrusts a pair of gardening gloves against your chest. You stumble, and your belongings kiss the ground, thrown out of your bag. Vil’s left to wonder how such a light nudge could have you one with the ground, bare confusion written over those features before ebbing away with an ahem.
“Since you’ve already ruined my morning, you’ll assist us.”
Your jaw drops. “Us?”
Rook beams. “Bienvenue.”
“Bird Avenue? I dunno what that means.”
“Don’t absorb your setences. For all your resistance,” Vil says with immense satisfaction, “you’re staying right here.”
“Seriously?? Just ask Rook to use his signature spell and track the- ah..” You realize the chances of him setting a mark on the culprit beforehand are slim to none, cinching your lips shut. “Nevermind, but I’m sure we have some sort of camer.... don’t give me that look, please.”
♡ Silence.
♡ You close your eyes shut. Good golly, this is probably about the signature spell bit, isn’t it? Ugh, he’s going to be all up in your face within a minute, demanding you tell him why you know such a thing. This makes room for one more entry in your journal.. and wait, your journal-
♡ As if on cue, you hear papers rustle.
♡ “Interesting.”
♡ Double trouble.
“So this is where your prowess lies. Story-writing?”
Though he tries his best to pull his brows together, there’s a little glister in his eyes. A relieved one, a midlly proud one, a..
“How original.”
♡ Your Scarabia room is really, really bland. That’s the first thing you notice. In the middle of your bed is a journal you exert all your pent-up vexation and guides in - and in a shelf by the side, you keep your belongings (which are, admittedly, lessening by the second. You’ve no clue whose wreaking havoc upon them. You have absolutely no idea who's responsible. Frankly, you're too tired to investigate, and if somebody wishes to steal your half-finished notes and collection of mediocre pens, then they deserve whatever curse comes with them.) Tomorrow is a new day, and judging by your luck, tomorrow Yuu will probably discover your class schedule, blood type and favorite brand of toothpaste.
♡ You sling your bag at the bed when you enter your cave of hiding.
♡ As you dive face-first into the mattress, you ponder on today’s events. Jade Leech has officially stood you up - there’s been no sign of him at all. He does not deign to loiter beside your class after its conclusion, he does not show up to your club (though you know, somewhere, he’s still fixating on his hobby without you). Your plans have gone awry, haywire and well...
♡ You don’t need another anomaly.
♡ Right on cue, knuckles rap against your door. Knock. Knock. Knock. Your housewarden’s airy voice bursts in:
"Hey! Are you awake?"
Even if you were, with the sheer volume of his voice, you'd be forced to come to. You groan- delving deeper into the plush mattress. If you were to pretend to be dead right now, you’d be steered clear of this burden. Fatigue coaxes your lids down, spots gyrating in your vision - but with another knock, Kalim shoves you off balance.
“You wouldn't happen to know why Yuu was wandering around Scarabia asking strangers what toothpaste you use, right?”
As falsely naive as Kalim seems, you quickly find out he knows just the right way to usher you out. Ripping the barrier between you open, he greets you with his ritualistic smile. “Aha!”
“Housewarden.”
♡ This is the first time you’ve had anyone over, and this is also the last. Seeing him without his sullen retainer is a novel sight, but to dissuade you from the anomaly, he places a basket of fruits in front of you.
♡ Well, there you go. Your arms now teem with different colours and hues - but you don’t tell him to leave, because well..
“Anyway, I brought fruit.”
“Thank you. You can leave now.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you've already delivered the fruit.”
“But we haven't hung out yet.”
“Close the door on your way out-- wait, what? Why?”
♡ After your little opportunistic venture, you doubt he’d listen to you so easily, and you don’t particularly want him to leave as well. Those pouches and jewellery he gifted you have all gone missing, and.. well, you'd be lying if you said you didn’t want him to compensate the loss.
♡ Inviting him in as per hospitable custom, he makes himself at home quite easily. You don’t know what you’re doing, you have a whole Housewarden in your room - albeit he did mention something related to friendship.. you suppose you have no complaint here, then - (except one related to the fact he’s in the middle of an excuse for a room while donning his sleepwear. He looks so out of place it’s actually shameful.)
“Oh, man!” He gives a bright laugh. You stand near, not wanting to admit you’re awaiting his approval. “I sat on the bed and the frame nearly fell through!”
“Oh...”
Kalim laughs again, bright and unbothered. "Sorry! I didn't mean it in a bad way. It just surprised me."
He gives the bed frame an experimental shake. The bed responds with an alarming creak, and you wince. It doesn’t do that when you lay on it, in your defense.
"There it is again."
"Don't."
You don't understand why he's so amused, your room isn't funny, it’s a room. A rather miserable, downtrodden room, perhaps, but still a room. Instead of criticizing it further, however, Kalim cranes his neck around, taking in the sparse shelves and barren walls.
“Huh.”
You brace yourself. “Huh?”
"It's kind of nice. It looks like someone forgot to move in, but I think that’s where its charm lies, y’know?” He points at your empty shelf. “There’s practically nothing stored there! It must be so easy to access whatever you need.”
“There’s nothing I need.”
♡ Somehow, your very loud exchange has, inevitably, amassed the scrutiny of yet another boy, and there he is, door opening, posture taut in the entry. This is arguably the first time you’ve ever seen Jamil in his sleepwear, and with his long tresses trickling down his shoulders in mild disarray, you get the feeling you’ve woken him up from his sweet slumber. As if you haven’t already garnered enough of his dislike, the universe still manages to blindside you with more.
“Kalim.”
“Jamil!”
“How many times do I have to tell you to-”
Though, you suppose Kalim didn’t intend for it to come out as such, the way it was worded seems to inevitably grab Jamil’s compliance. You don’t miss the way he stares at you, though, completely and utterly aware that misery will bring its company. Reluctance brews itself upon the tip of his tongue, and he wants to refuse, you can tell. At one point, he may have tried to veil it beneath his usual exterior, but now, after a most unexpected turn of events, he knows you know, and you know he knows you know, so what’s the point in putting up a façade?
“Come!” Kalim makes space on your bed, mind you. Your bed. “Loosen up a little, and play with us.”
Oh, no. You do not need this right now.
He trudges in, a breath of incredulity blooming in the air before he lowers himself to your level. Seated comfortably, he tries to get a good look at your surroundings.
At one point, his gaze lands straight on your journal. But before he can comment on it, you let a hand jut forward and snatch it away just as quickly. Now, he’s eyeing you openly, tenfold the usual suspicion he has.
“I’m surprised you’re awake at this hour.” He deadpans when you point at the fellow white-haired culprit. “I’m talking about you, not Kalim. Given his track record of doing the same, he doesn’t rouse as much disbelief as..” He pauses for a moment. “You.”
You droop. “I sleep when I can.”
“Ah, well, that explains nothing.”
“You're welcome.”
“No need for the formalities,” A crease in his brows as he looks at you, lips jolting. “For what it’s worth, I was expecting that answer.”
♡ Five minutes later, the board is spread between the three of you. You still aren’t entirely certain how this happened. One moment you were trying to sleep, and the next you’re participating in what appears to be an ancient strategic game involving polished stones. Eyes combing through its structure and language, it appears to be a Scalding Sands tradition, and with the way they both speak of it, dwelling in the past and mulling the game over their tongues, you realize they’re already familiar with it.
“Remember when we played this when we were kids? Huh, Jamil?”
“Yes. I remember you taking up half the pieces.”
♡ Kalim explains the rules, he then explains them again, then gets distracted halfway through his own explanation when you pester him with another question. Jamil finishes it for him - though, and even now, he has yet to relinquish that look in his eyes, that look, rife with wariness, caution and the feeling that he’s treading very, very carefully with you. Jeez, he probably thinks you have some sort of Kalim-assassination or tax fraud plan cooked up in that head of yours. Which you do. Just not as severely.
“You need to protect your centre, that's your only objective. Do you understand it now?”
“Sure do.”
♡ Anyways, three rounds later, you've somehow managed to eliminate your own piece. Jamil stares, Kalim stares, and you crane your neck at them.
“What?”
“You took your own piece.”
“It was in the way.”
“It was your strongest piece.”
“Soo? It was still in my way.” Despondently, you caress the stony object. “Oh, well, if you insist, Jamil, then its sacrifice shall be remembered.”
An eye roll. “..By who?”
“Me, who else?”
Jamil pinches the bridge of his nose, but just when you think he’ll respond in that quietness, he supplies. “I don’t think I've ever seen someone lose a game quite like this.”
“Yeah, well, you’re letting Kalim win every time, so I think I have a reason.”
He lets you go with an indecipherable look on his face, and you spend the night dealing with it, in your mind, in your memory, in your thoughts.
How predictably unpredictable.
♡ “Didja’ know?”
♡ You try to rub away the fatigue in your eyes.
“Know what?”
♡ Currently, you're trying to focus on the work at hand. Pen scribbling lines regarding history, you desperately try to ignore Ruggie Bucchi, but to no avail. Whenever you do so much as lean back, he tips his chair back and replicates the motion until you’re forced to give him a sliver of your attention. That gets him going, it seems.
♡ Apparently, waking up first and foremost - earlier than Jamil, surprisingly - and realizing that having two boys dead asleep on top of you was not ideal if you were looking for some sort of salvation. You’re not even sure what had happened that led to Jamil, of all people, knuckling under sleep and forsaking that strict demeanor. It seems atypical, atleast for him, but what’s more atypical is that you’d spent another hour trying to tip-toe around your room, lest you wake them up and cause them to actually remember you in the room with them. Ah, if you stretch, you can still feel the soreness in your limbs. Only the deities who sent you here would know how you even managed to breathe with that load on you.
♡ What’s good, though, is that you seem to have taken your mind off of Jade completely. Like a leech had he plagued your mind, now you like to think he’s an afterthought, and a bygone memory that served his purpose and left when he lost interest. Hah.. you’re finally, finally improving. You’re finally..
“Eh? Didn't ya know? Vil's been askin' around Octavinelle about ya. Somethin' about gettin' you to switch clubs, I think. Heh, maybe that's just the rumor mill talkin', though. Shishishi...”
“Mm- wait-”
♡ What.
“WHAT?!”
♡ The entire class looks at you now. Grumbling beneath their breaths, and with Professor Trein giving you the most scorching scowl known to man, you’re compelled into quietening down, but not allowing the cold knot in your stomach to simmer, nor the rapid staccatos of your pulse. This time, you willingly lean into Ruggie. Vil? Granted, he did see your.. journal work, but him going as far as to head to Octavinelle to strike a deal with them? It didn’t seem so far-fetched given the circumstances, but at that time, he'd tried his best to appear staid and unaffected by your entries. This.. this is bad, bad news. If Vil succeeds, then - you’re destined for failure.
♡ If Vil succeeds, then you are the failure.
“Who- where’d you hear that from?” You gawk, perspiration roving down your nape, pen abandoned. You don’t know what to say. Your heart is beating.
♡ Ah, what a dumb question. Ruggie is known to work odd jobs, it’d make sense he’d catch sight of Vil, of all people, amid the Mostro Lounge crowd during his shift. But really, Vil? Stooping so low as to seek Azul’s help?
♡ What even was in that journal? A few scribbles about Twisted Hearts, and the usual jargon.. nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that would ultimately catch his interest. You hadn't even focused on it that much yourself, nor did you mention names, even if someone did manage to get their hands on it, you thought they’d just call you absolutely maniacal and do away with it.
♡ And you, stooping so low as to seek Ruggie’s help?
“You have to help me.”
“Whoa, hold it right there.” His lips pull into a moue, hands tugging at his tie from where you’d absent-mindedly rendered it askew. “ Remember all those times I asked, and ya told me to mind my own business? Why'do I go and help ya now?”
“I-”
“Besides, I got a pretty sweet side gig at the Mostro Lounge. If I stick my neck out for ya, who's gonna make up the difference, huh?”
He grins, teeth on display.
“Now, if you've got somethin' worth tradin', that's a whole different story. Shishishi.”
♡ Worth trading? You haven't got anything, you..are a lost cause. Your room is laughable, your grades are despicable, the company you keep is non-existent, and your pockets.. Ah.
“I can give you anything you want.”
A gleam in your eyes, your hands form a bridge to let your chin perch upon. The brightness that you’d once lost reclaims its reign over your face, and if this world were any more ridiculous, you are certain he would see a lightbulb forming over your head.
“Now we’re talkin’.”
“Anything. I have access to Kalim’s bank account. Trust me.”
I have received all manner of threat, up to and beyond “I will play a flute carved from your femur,” and yet this is the first time I’ve felt truly threatened
oh my god i almost forgot to tell you all about how, while my dad was visiting, i had an infestation of every single kind of bug in my house that hasn't been a problem before or since. like i'm not kidding i evicted so many creeping crawlies that week and couldn't for the life of me stop mosquitos from stealing my blood, but as soon as he left they vanished. and i mean, sure, there's a perfectly rational explanation, because two people make more mess than one and he has a habit of leaving the windows wide open enough to fly a jet engine through day and night, but i can't help but think how symbolically on the nose it was. the ancestral rot at the heart of my family so gothic it's got ants and flies buzzing around its decaying corpse.
hey so update but i haven't been harassed by a single freaky little beast since my dad left even after leaving some crumbs on the floor as an experiment to see if they attracted any ants so i think my dad might just be bugs actually
She doesn't actually have a problem with gay people, she just found out that Diana specifically once kissed a girl and decided that it was a small price to pay if it meant she could troll some random woman.
Hestia is a lesbian, and she is very supportive of her trans wife, Celeste. Unfortunately, their relationship is currently on the rocks as Hestia is more concerned with ragebaiting Celeste's ex girlfriend than defending her from being dead named by the narrative.
At the time of writing this, I had received news that Celeste had divorced Hestia after the latter accidentally called the former "Diana" while they were in bed, playing with scissors.
last thing about this discourse, but seeing that group of losers call varkas "poc coded" not because they give a fuck about racism, representation and moc, but because they want to gleefully rub their hands together and call thalia racist is bum behavior. poc don't exist because you have a victim complex and protect onto plot devices
I'm gonna try my best to be peaceful here, I don't intend to start shit, but I don't really see how any of this helps Thalia's case, nor do I see how it makes the main ship any better?
If Varkas in fact did try to force himself on Thalia, then how is that going to convince readers that they are just a tragic, messy, but ultimately a wholesome and loving couple at the end of the day? If the intention of Kim Suji is that they are both horrible for each other, then it's at least a little more understandable, but if they're supposed to be rooted for as a couple, this whole "Well he was going to rape her back so they're even." Isn't exactly a gotcha moment, it's just solidifying that they're a toxic pairing.
I will admit that I was contributing to the racist Thalia theory mostly for shits and giggles since racism is so normalized (and in some cases, even glamourized) in many east asian comics, but the theory didn't come out of nowhere just to shame her for being an imperfect victim of abuse.
First of all, racism and xenophobia aren't limited to white people attacking people of color. White people can be, and have been throughout history, prejudiced to other white people simply because they aren't from the same country and/or continent.
Second of all, you can still say something racist or make racist jokes even if you don't actually believe that certain people aren't human because of their skin color. Racism is unfortunately very normalized in some way almost everywhere you go, to the point where most people don't even realize that they are being racist in their day to day lives, especially if they come from a privileged background.
Thalia may not have any canon racist beliefs, but what she said was still messed up.
