Hello! ⚜️ Welcome to my personal otome sideblog. I post about my experience with mobile and desktop otome games and visual novels. I write in spanish and english.
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I got pretty interested in Yoshimoto since the last event I played with him. I really can't say no to men who are very passionate about art. But since I rarely see people excited about him, it makes me feel like there's something wrong with him and his story ...
But I also think how Ikevil Liam and Ikevamp Dazai are two of my favorite story routes and those two are treated so poorly by the fandom 😶
Honest, I feel like my sensibility and perception is in another realm or I'm really a massive alien out of place with an altered reality...
@nyumi-kitsuragi I was thinking about uninstalling after moving to the new house, but his trailer dropped 👀
Behind his mocking smile is a heart ruined by a distant past...
until the seeds of love begin to stir--
Despite our complicated relationship, we fall into an all-consuming, distorted kind of love against the odds--, distorted kind of love against the odds--
"I'm never going back to being a decent human being...so you're just going to have to break for me instead."
A Longitudinal Study of Escalating Confectionery-Related Incidents
Faust promised you dessert. He did not promise it would be survivable.
His kitchen had become a nebula of candlelight and sugar fallout. Strawberries glistened like scandalous confessionals. Chocolate shavings curled in delicate ribbons. Tartlets waited in obedient little rows, unaware they had been born for sacrifice. At the eye of this saccharine storm sat a silver bowl of whipped cream, patient as a co-conspirator.
Behind it stood Faust. His apron was black as apostasy, embroidered with the words:
ASK ME ABOUT MY STIFF PEAKS
He wore it with the confidence of a man who had never lost an argument, only misplaced witnesses. His green eyes caught the candlelight. For one terrible second, you swear chlorophyll hummed.
“Admiring the spread?” he asked, voice velvet soaked in espresso.
“You’re pleased with yourself.”
“Religiously.”
He lifted the whisk. Cream clung to its wires, luminous and impossible, like a cumulus had secret feelings.
“Texture,” he murmured. “One must respect texture.”
“You’re talking about whipped cream in an apron that should be tried at The Hague.”
Faust’s mouth curved faintly. “Then let the record show I dressed appropriately for the crime.”
You attempted skepticism. It melted faster than ice on sin.
Faust set down the whisk with ceremonial care. Then, from beneath the counter, he produced the piping bag. It was monumental. Obscene. Architectural. It entered the scene with the spiritual weight of a cathedral bell and the visual subtlety of a lawsuit.
You stared at it. Faust watched you stare at it. Silence spiraled between you until physics itself filed a complaint.
“This,” Faust intoned, “is a professional instrument.”
“Congratulations,” you said, already dizzy.
“It must be handled carefully. Pressure from the top, steady grip, no premature squeezing.”
You gagged on oxygen.
Faust’s smile sharpened into something delighted and unbearable. “Darling, your mind is behaving disgracefully.”
“My mind is trying to protect me from you holding pastry equipment like a prophecy.”
He came to stand behind you. His chest brushed your back, warm and deliberate. One hand closed over yours, guiding your fingers around the piping bag. His other hand adjusted your grip with impossible gentleness, which made everything worse.
“Do not fight the cream,” he murmured near your ear.
The piping bag made a tiny damp squeak, and Faust, intolerably, treated this as evidence against you.
Your first attempt detonated a Matterhorn of cream onto a lone strawberry. The strawberry disappeared beneath it. You and Faust stood in silence, contemplating the dairy avalanche.
Finally, he said, “Expressive.”
“It looks criminal.”
“Art and crime are frequent bedfellows.”
You elbowed him. He laughed, and the laugh was a low thrum in your ribs.
The lesson continued. Together, you garroted éclairs in frosting, entombed profiteroles beneath Everest, and baptized the chandelier in specks of dairy sanctity. The chandelier accepted this with the weary grace of an aristocrat whose family fortune had been mismanaged by fools.
Faust became worse with every pastry. He corrected your technique with maddening care. He adjusted your wrist as if aligning a delicate instrument. He said things like, “Fear not the cream. Fear hesitation,” and “Most battlefields are less revealing,” with complete sincerity.
When you told him not to psychoanalyze your grip, he glanced down at your hands and said, “Too late.”
Your heart malfunctioned like an old typewriter discovering italics.
Then Faust took the bag from your hands. His expression changed. Not dramatically. Precisely, which was worse.
He rolled one sleeve to his forearm. This should not have mattered. It mattered catastrophically. The reveal was somehow more erotic than his throat.
He positioned the piping bag over a tartlet with the focus of a man preparing to remove a bullet from someone he planned to insult afterward.
“Watch carefully.”
You did. This was your first mistake.
His hand moved once. A perfect rosette bloomed over the tartlet, soft, white, obscene, and structurally immaculate. The cream spiraled upward in elegant submission, each curve resting exactly where it should.
Faust lifted the piping bag away without a tremor. The rosette held. So did the silence.
Then he leaned closer, inspected his work, and whispered, “Good girl.”
To the tartlet.
You sagged anyway.
Unfortunately, your knees had not waited for clarification. Your dignity left the room, took your survival instincts with it, and possibly eloped with the whisk.
Faust looked from the tartlet to you. He knew. Of course he knew.
He handed the piping bag back. “Again.”
You took it because apparently you lived here now, in hell’s bakery annex.
Your next rosette leaned sideways.
Faust studied it. “It has ambition.”
“It has a tumor.”
“Growth is rarely elegant at first.”
“Are you encouraging me or diagnosing the pastry?”
“Yes.”
The evening entered a new and terrible phase. Cream landed on the counter, on the cabinets, on Faust’s cheek, on your nose, and on an éclair that immediately looked like it wanted legal representation.
Faust dabbed cream onto your nose and looked offensively pleased.
“Improved.”
“You’re dead.”
“Unlikely.”
You retaliated by drawing a white streak across his jaw. He turned his head slightly, giving the smear a moment under the candlelight like it deserved its own portrait.
“You’ve defaced a masterpiece.”
“You’re wearing a cream moustache.”
He glanced at his reflection in a spoon, then paused with grave consideration. “…Distinguished.”
“You look like a dairy baron.”
“A position of influence.”
You reached for a strawberry, but Faust caught your wrist before your fingers closed around it. The laughter thinned.
His hand was warm. Precise. Entirely too effective for a man dressed like a dessert-based public scandal.
“Not that one.”
“Why?”
“It has excellent symmetry.”
“It’s a strawberry.”
“It has standards.”
Of course he judged fruit. Of course the fruit passed.
He lifted the strawberry by its green stem and turned it slowly between his fingers, examining its color, its shape, the tiny gleam along its skin. Then he dipped it into the whipped cream until the red disappeared beneath a soft white peak.
When he lifted it between you, it looked less like fruit and more like a small edible oath.
“Observe surrender,” he purred.
“You make dessert sound like it needs a lawyer.”
“Most pleasures do.”
He brought the strawberry to your mouth.
You meant to say something clever. Something defiant. Something that proved you had not been emotionally vandalized by a tartlet receiving praise.
Instead, you bit.
Reality crystallized into sugar and scandal. Juice burst across your tongue. Cream melted cool and sweet around it. Vanilla lingered. Liqueur warmed the back of your throat like a bad decision with excellent manners.
Faust watched every second. The first bite. The pause. The swallow.
His expression was saintly patience with absolutely no innocence.
“Ah,” he murmured. “Compliance.”
“I’m eating fruit.”
“You’re illustrating doctrine.”
“It should not be working.”
“And yet.”
It worked. Your nervous system threw itself down a staircase and called it romance.
Faust’s thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. There was cream there, of course there was, because the universe had chosen a side and that side was not dignity.
He collected it slowly, studied it for one suspended second, then placed his thumb in his mouth.
Your brain produced one thought. It was not suitable for publication.
Faust’s eyes narrowed with quiet satisfaction.
“Predictable.”
“You are unbearable.”
“And yet remarkably effective.”
The piping bag squeaked again. Somewhere above you, the chandelier seemed to reconsider its contract.
You stepped back. Faust stepped forward. You stepped back again, and the refrigerator met your shoulders with the cold betrayal of an appliance that had chosen his side.
Faust braced one hand beside your head. In the other, the piping bag stood upright like a doctrinal scroll.
“One final dessert remains,” he said.
“I see nothing.”
His gaze lowered slowly, meaningfully, over you. Laughing was the only defense you could afford.
“Absolutely not.”
“You haven’t heard my proposal.”
“I’ve seen your apron.”
“The apron provides context.”
“The apron is a signed confession.”
He leaned closer, voice dropping into a velvet murmur filled with dreadful academic sincerity.
“My proposal involves whipped cream, strawberries, and a complete disregard for respectable table manners.”
The piping bag gave a tiny squeak of impending litigation.
You raised an eyebrow. “The kitchen will die.”
“Kitchen casualties are acceptable.”
“Will we survive?”
His smile turned radiant. “We might transcend.”
The candles shuddered. The silver bowl gleamed. The tartlets sat in rows like witnesses who had suddenly remembered urgent appointments elsewhere.
The door swung shut on the universe. Time became theoretical.
The following events were not suitable for a cookbook. A spoon hit the floor. Someone laughed. Someone else said, with scandalous seriousness, “Hold still. Your technique is deteriorating.”
The chandelier received a second dollop. Then a third. An éclair prayed for extinction. The whipped cream achieved moral collapse.
Some time later, the kitchen door opened onto the aftermath.
Cream comets streaked the countertop bedrock. Tartlets resembled crime-scene silhouettes. The profiteroles had vanished beneath dairy snowdrifts and would need to be identified by dental records.
The chandelier wore shame like a fascinator.
Faust stood beside the silver bowl, sleeves ruined, hair a thesis on disarray, expression luminous with holy satisfaction.
You looked at the bowl. It was still half full.
Faust followed your gaze. A rare silence passed over him.
Then, with the solemnity of a man confessing to structural excess, he said, “I may have made enough whipped cream for sixty-two desserts.”
You regarded the leviathan bowl. “Optimistic.”
“I prefer prepared.”
“You made enough for a banquet.”
“I misjudged the scale of the experiment.”
“You got excited.”
His mouth tightened, then curved. “…Enthusiastic.”
That admission should not have felt intimate. It did anyway.
You smiled. “We could invite everyone.”
Faust considered this with the grave restraint of a man contemplating war.
“No.”
“No?”
He looked at you, then at the ruined pastries, then at the chandelier.
“I would rather spend the evening making catastrophically overdecorated pastries with you.”
That should not have worked either. It detonated delight.
You tried to hide your smile and failed. Faust noticed. Of course he noticed. His own smile softened into something private and devastatingly smug.
“Disaster,” he said, “is a dish for two.”
Behind him, the kitchen door creaked. Neither of you noticed.
Vlad materialized with the economical grace of royalty and the moral restraint of a raccoon in a palace pantry.
He took in the scene: the cream, the apron, the ruined pastries, Faust’s disordered hair, and you sitting on the counter with the expression of someone who had recently survived dairy weather.
Vlad said nothing. Then he saw the strawberries. His expression became ancient.
He crossed the kitchen in silence, lifted the entire plate, and vanished as softly as a sin with excellent posture.
By morning, only stems remained.
Faust discovered them at dawn. He stood before the empty plate, reading the powdered sugar footprints like a battlefield report. At the center lay one green stem.
A message. A declaration. A royal insult written in fruit debris.
Faust closed his eyes. “…Naturally.”
You leaned in the doorway with your coffee. “Vlad?”
“Who else would commit treason with such composure?”
“He stole strawberries.”
“He challenged the integrity of my experiment.”
“You were done with the experiment.”
Faust opened his eyes. His green gaze drifted to the silver bowl, where the remaining whipped cream sat in exhausted, glossy silence.
“No,” he said.
You followed his gaze.
“Johann.”
“Further experimentation is clearly required.”
“You’re weaponizing dessert again.”
“I am improving security.”
“For strawberries?”
“For everything.”
He picked up the piping bag. It gave one tiny, ominous squeak.
You stared at him.
He smiled.
“Run.”
You did.
Please rinse mixer blades before they attain sentience.
you’re right, the silence is unacceptable 😭 Muscle of Love by Arthur Brown was a strong contender for the soundtrack. It really completes the cursed fever-dream aura of the whole incident 🤭
This is really good! It totally fits the "doing the horizontal mambo" cursed-meme vibe! The lyric of the song is already like a siren song screaming warning, very on the nose. "What are we doing tonight?" "What do you think? 😈"
A Longitudinal Study of Escalating Confectionery-Related Incidents
Faust promised you dessert. He did not promise it would be survivable.
His kitchen had become a nebula of candlelight and sugar fallout. Strawberries glistened like scandalous confessionals. Chocolate shavings curled in delicate ribbons. Tartlets waited in obedient little rows, unaware they had been born for sacrifice. At the eye of this saccharine storm sat a silver bowl of whipped cream, patient as a co-conspirator.
Behind it stood Faust. His apron was black as apostasy, embroidered with the words:
ASK ME ABOUT MY STIFF PEAKS
He wore it with the confidence of a man who had never lost an argument, only misplaced witnesses. His green eyes caught the candlelight. For one terrible second, you swear chlorophyll hummed.
“Admiring the spread?” he asked, voice velvet soaked in espresso.
“You’re pleased with yourself.”
“Religiously.”
He lifted the whisk. Cream clung to its wires, luminous and impossible, like a cumulus had secret feelings.
“Texture,” he murmured. “One must respect texture.”
“You’re talking about whipped cream in an apron that should be tried at The Hague.”
Faust’s mouth curved faintly. “Then let the record show I dressed appropriately for the crime.”
You attempted skepticism. It melted faster than ice on sin.
Faust set down the whisk with ceremonial care. Then, from beneath the counter, he produced the piping bag. It was monumental. Obscene. Architectural. It entered the scene with the spiritual weight of a cathedral bell and the visual subtlety of a lawsuit.
You stared at it. Faust watched you stare at it. Silence spiraled between you until physics itself filed a complaint.
“This,” Faust intoned, “is a professional instrument.”
“Congratulations,” you said, already dizzy.
“It must be handled carefully. Pressure from the top, steady grip, no premature squeezing.”
You gagged on oxygen.
Faust’s smile sharpened into something delighted and unbearable. “Darling, your mind is behaving disgracefully.”
“My mind is trying to protect me from you holding pastry equipment like a prophecy.”
He came to stand behind you. His chest brushed your back, warm and deliberate. One hand closed over yours, guiding your fingers around the piping bag. His other hand adjusted your grip with impossible gentleness, which made everything worse.
“Do not fight the cream,” he murmured near your ear.
The piping bag made a tiny damp squeak, and Faust, intolerably, treated this as evidence against you.
Your first attempt detonated a Matterhorn of cream onto a lone strawberry. The strawberry disappeared beneath it. You and Faust stood in silence, contemplating the dairy avalanche.
Finally, he said, “Expressive.”
“It looks criminal.”
“Art and crime are frequent bedfellows.”
You elbowed him. He laughed, and the laugh was a low thrum in your ribs.
The lesson continued. Together, you garroted éclairs in frosting, entombed profiteroles beneath Everest, and baptized the chandelier in specks of dairy sanctity. The chandelier accepted this with the weary grace of an aristocrat whose family fortune had been mismanaged by fools.
Faust became worse with every pastry. He corrected your technique with maddening care. He adjusted your wrist as if aligning a delicate instrument. He said things like, “Fear not the cream. Fear hesitation,” and “Most battlefields are less revealing,” with complete sincerity.
When you told him not to psychoanalyze your grip, he glanced down at your hands and said, “Too late.”
Your heart malfunctioned like an old typewriter discovering italics.
Then Faust took the bag from your hands. His expression changed. Not dramatically. Precisely, which was worse.
He rolled one sleeve to his forearm. This should not have mattered. It mattered catastrophically. The reveal was somehow more erotic than his throat.
He positioned the piping bag over a tartlet with the focus of a man preparing to remove a bullet from someone he planned to insult afterward.
“Watch carefully.”
You did. This was your first mistake.
His hand moved once. A perfect rosette bloomed over the tartlet, soft, white, obscene, and structurally immaculate. The cream spiraled upward in elegant submission, each curve resting exactly where it should.
Faust lifted the piping bag away without a tremor. The rosette held. So did the silence.
Then he leaned closer, inspected his work, and whispered, “Good girl.”
To the tartlet.
You sagged anyway.
Unfortunately, your knees had not waited for clarification. Your dignity left the room, took your survival instincts with it, and possibly eloped with the whisk.
Faust looked from the tartlet to you. He knew. Of course he knew.
He handed the piping bag back. “Again.”
You took it because apparently you lived here now, in hell’s bakery annex.
Your next rosette leaned sideways.
Faust studied it. “It has ambition.”
“It has a tumor.”
“Growth is rarely elegant at first.”
“Are you encouraging me or diagnosing the pastry?”
“Yes.”
The evening entered a new and terrible phase. Cream landed on the counter, on the cabinets, on Faust’s cheek, on your nose, and on an éclair that immediately looked like it wanted legal representation.
Faust dabbed cream onto your nose and looked offensively pleased.
“Improved.”
“You’re dead.”
“Unlikely.”
You retaliated by drawing a white streak across his jaw. He turned his head slightly, giving the smear a moment under the candlelight like it deserved its own portrait.
“You’ve defaced a masterpiece.”
“You’re wearing a cream moustache.”
He glanced at his reflection in a spoon, then paused with grave consideration. “…Distinguished.”
“You look like a dairy baron.”
“A position of influence.”
You reached for a strawberry, but Faust caught your wrist before your fingers closed around it. The laughter thinned.
His hand was warm. Precise. Entirely too effective for a man dressed like a dessert-based public scandal.
“Not that one.”
“Why?”
“It has excellent symmetry.”
“It’s a strawberry.”
“It has standards.”
Of course he judged fruit. Of course the fruit passed.
He lifted the strawberry by its green stem and turned it slowly between his fingers, examining its color, its shape, the tiny gleam along its skin. Then he dipped it into the whipped cream until the red disappeared beneath a soft white peak.
When he lifted it between you, it looked less like fruit and more like a small edible oath.
“Observe surrender,” he purred.
“You make dessert sound like it needs a lawyer.”
“Most pleasures do.”
He brought the strawberry to your mouth.
You meant to say something clever. Something defiant. Something that proved you had not been emotionally vandalized by a tartlet receiving praise.
Instead, you bit.
Reality crystallized into sugar and scandal. Juice burst across your tongue. Cream melted cool and sweet around it. Vanilla lingered. Liqueur warmed the back of your throat like a bad decision with excellent manners.
Faust watched every second. The first bite. The pause. The swallow.
His expression was saintly patience with absolutely no innocence.
“Ah,” he murmured. “Compliance.”
“I’m eating fruit.”
“You’re illustrating doctrine.”
“It should not be working.”
“And yet.”
It worked. Your nervous system threw itself down a staircase and called it romance.
Faust’s thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. There was cream there, of course there was, because the universe had chosen a side and that side was not dignity.
He collected it slowly, studied it for one suspended second, then placed his thumb in his mouth.
Your brain produced one thought. It was not suitable for publication.
Faust’s eyes narrowed with quiet satisfaction.
“Predictable.”
“You are unbearable.”
“And yet remarkably effective.”
The piping bag squeaked again. Somewhere above you, the chandelier seemed to reconsider its contract.
You stepped back. Faust stepped forward. You stepped back again, and the refrigerator met your shoulders with the cold betrayal of an appliance that had chosen his side.
Faust braced one hand beside your head. In the other, the piping bag stood upright like a doctrinal scroll.
“One final dessert remains,” he said.
“I see nothing.”
His gaze lowered slowly, meaningfully, over you. Laughing was the only defense you could afford.
“Absolutely not.”
“You haven’t heard my proposal.”
“I’ve seen your apron.”
“The apron provides context.”
“The apron is a signed confession.”
He leaned closer, voice dropping into a velvet murmur filled with dreadful academic sincerity.
“My proposal involves whipped cream, strawberries, and a complete disregard for respectable table manners.”
The piping bag gave a tiny squeak of impending litigation.
You raised an eyebrow. “The kitchen will die.”
“Kitchen casualties are acceptable.”
“Will we survive?”
His smile turned radiant. “We might transcend.”
The candles shuddered. The silver bowl gleamed. The tartlets sat in rows like witnesses who had suddenly remembered urgent appointments elsewhere.
The door swung shut on the universe. Time became theoretical.
The following events were not suitable for a cookbook. A spoon hit the floor. Someone laughed. Someone else said, with scandalous seriousness, “Hold still. Your technique is deteriorating.”
The chandelier received a second dollop. Then a third. An éclair prayed for extinction. The whipped cream achieved moral collapse.
Some time later, the kitchen door opened onto the aftermath.
Cream comets streaked the countertop bedrock. Tartlets resembled crime-scene silhouettes. The profiteroles had vanished beneath dairy snowdrifts and would need to be identified by dental records.
The chandelier wore shame like a fascinator.
Faust stood beside the silver bowl, sleeves ruined, hair a thesis on disarray, expression luminous with holy satisfaction.
You looked at the bowl. It was still half full.
Faust followed your gaze. A rare silence passed over him.
Then, with the solemnity of a man confessing to structural excess, he said, “I may have made enough whipped cream for sixty-two desserts.”
You regarded the leviathan bowl. “Optimistic.”
“I prefer prepared.”
“You made enough for a banquet.”
“I misjudged the scale of the experiment.”
“You got excited.”
His mouth tightened, then curved. “…Enthusiastic.”
That admission should not have felt intimate. It did anyway.
You smiled. “We could invite everyone.”
Faust considered this with the grave restraint of a man contemplating war.
“No.”
“No?”
He looked at you, then at the ruined pastries, then at the chandelier.
“I would rather spend the evening making catastrophically overdecorated pastries with you.”
That should not have worked either. It detonated delight.
You tried to hide your smile and failed. Faust noticed. Of course he noticed. His own smile softened into something private and devastatingly smug.
“Disaster,” he said, “is a dish for two.”
Behind him, the kitchen door creaked. Neither of you noticed.
Vlad materialized with the economical grace of royalty and the moral restraint of a raccoon in a palace pantry.
He took in the scene: the cream, the apron, the ruined pastries, Faust’s disordered hair, and you sitting on the counter with the expression of someone who had recently survived dairy weather.
Vlad said nothing. Then he saw the strawberries. His expression became ancient.
He crossed the kitchen in silence, lifted the entire plate, and vanished as softly as a sin with excellent posture.
By morning, only stems remained.
Faust discovered them at dawn. He stood before the empty plate, reading the powdered sugar footprints like a battlefield report. At the center lay one green stem.
A message. A declaration. A royal insult written in fruit debris.
Faust closed his eyes. “…Naturally.”
You leaned in the doorway with your coffee. “Vlad?”
“Who else would commit treason with such composure?”
“He stole strawberries.”
“He challenged the integrity of my experiment.”
“You were done with the experiment.”
Faust opened his eyes. His green gaze drifted to the silver bowl, where the remaining whipped cream sat in exhausted, glossy silence.
“No,” he said.
You followed his gaze.
“Johann.”
“Further experimentation is clearly required.”
“You’re weaponizing dessert again.”
“I am improving security.”
“For strawberries?”
“For everything.”
He picked up the piping bag. It gave one tiny, ominous squeak.
You stared at him.
He smiled.
“Run.”
You did.
Please rinse mixer blades before they attain sentience.
A Longitudinal Study of Escalating Confectionery-Related Incidents
Faust promised you dessert. He did not promise it would be survivable.
His kitchen had become a nebula of candlelight and sugar fallout. Strawberries glistened like scandalous confessionals. Chocolate shavings curled in delicate ribbons. Tartlets waited in obedient little rows, unaware they had been born for sacrifice. At the eye of this saccharine storm sat a silver bowl of whipped cream, patient as a co-conspirator.
Behind it stood Faust. His apron was black as apostasy, embroidered with the words:
ASK ME ABOUT MY STIFF PEAKS
He wore it with the confidence of a man who had never lost an argument, only misplaced witnesses. His green eyes caught the candlelight. For one terrible second, you swear chlorophyll hummed.
“Admiring the spread?” he asked, voice velvet soaked in espresso.
“You’re pleased with yourself.”
“Religiously.”
He lifted the whisk. Cream clung to its wires, luminous and impossible, like a cumulus had secret feelings.
“Texture,” he murmured. “One must respect texture.”
“You’re talking about whipped cream in an apron that should be tried at The Hague.”
Faust’s mouth curved faintly. “Then let the record show I dressed appropriately for the crime.”
You attempted skepticism. It melted faster than ice on sin.
Faust set down the whisk with ceremonial care. Then, from beneath the counter, he produced the piping bag. It was monumental. Obscene. Architectural. It entered the scene with the spiritual weight of a cathedral bell and the visual subtlety of a lawsuit.
You stared at it. Faust watched you stare at it. Silence spiraled between you until physics itself filed a complaint.
“This,” Faust intoned, “is a professional instrument.”
“Congratulations,” you said, already dizzy.
“It must be handled carefully. Pressure from the top, steady grip, no premature squeezing.”
You gagged on oxygen.
Faust’s smile sharpened into something delighted and unbearable. “Darling, your mind is behaving disgracefully.”
“My mind is trying to protect me from you holding pastry equipment like a prophecy.”
He came to stand behind you. His chest brushed your back, warm and deliberate. One hand closed over yours, guiding your fingers around the piping bag. His other hand adjusted your grip with impossible gentleness, which made everything worse.
“Do not fight the cream,” he murmured near your ear.
The piping bag made a tiny damp squeak, and Faust, intolerably, treated this as evidence against you.
Your first attempt detonated a Matterhorn of cream onto a lone strawberry. The strawberry disappeared beneath it. You and Faust stood in silence, contemplating the dairy avalanche.
Finally, he said, “Expressive.”
“It looks criminal.”
“Art and crime are frequent bedfellows.”
You elbowed him. He laughed, and the laugh was a low thrum in your ribs.
The lesson continued. Together, you garroted éclairs in frosting, entombed profiteroles beneath Everest, and baptized the chandelier in specks of dairy sanctity. The chandelier accepted this with the weary grace of an aristocrat whose family fortune had been mismanaged by fools.
Faust became worse with every pastry. He corrected your technique with maddening care. He adjusted your wrist as if aligning a delicate instrument. He said things like, “Fear not the cream. Fear hesitation,” and “Most battlefields are less revealing,” with complete sincerity.
When you told him not to psychoanalyze your grip, he glanced down at your hands and said, “Too late.”
Your heart malfunctioned like an old typewriter discovering italics.
Then Faust took the bag from your hands. His expression changed. Not dramatically. Precisely, which was worse.
He rolled one sleeve to his forearm. This should not have mattered. It mattered catastrophically. The reveal was somehow more erotic than his throat.
He positioned the piping bag over a tartlet with the focus of a man preparing to remove a bullet from someone he planned to insult afterward.
“Watch carefully.”
You did. This was your first mistake.
His hand moved once. A perfect rosette bloomed over the tartlet, soft, white, obscene, and structurally immaculate. The cream spiraled upward in elegant submission, each curve resting exactly where it should.
Faust lifted the piping bag away without a tremor. The rosette held. So did the silence.
Then he leaned closer, inspected his work, and whispered, “Good girl.”
To the tartlet.
You sagged anyway.
Unfortunately, your knees had not waited for clarification. Your dignity left the room, took your survival instincts with it, and possibly eloped with the whisk.
Faust looked from the tartlet to you. He knew. Of course he knew.
He handed the piping bag back. “Again.”
You took it because apparently you lived here now, in hell’s bakery annex.
Your next rosette leaned sideways.
Faust studied it. “It has ambition.”
“It has a tumor.”
“Growth is rarely elegant at first.”
“Are you encouraging me or diagnosing the pastry?”
“Yes.”
The evening entered a new and terrible phase. Cream landed on the counter, on the cabinets, on Faust’s cheek, on your nose, and on an éclair that immediately looked like it wanted legal representation.
Faust dabbed cream onto your nose and looked offensively pleased.
“Improved.”
“You’re dead.”
“Unlikely.”
You retaliated by drawing a white streak across his jaw. He turned his head slightly, giving the smear a moment under the candlelight like it deserved its own portrait.
“You’ve defaced a masterpiece.”
“You’re wearing a cream moustache.”
He glanced at his reflection in a spoon, then paused with grave consideration. “…Distinguished.”
“You look like a dairy baron.”
“A position of influence.”
You reached for a strawberry, but Faust caught your wrist before your fingers closed around it. The laughter thinned.
His hand was warm. Precise. Entirely too effective for a man dressed like a dessert-based public scandal.
“Not that one.”
“Why?”
“It has excellent symmetry.”
“It’s a strawberry.”
“It has standards.”
Of course he judged fruit. Of course the fruit passed.
He lifted the strawberry by its green stem and turned it slowly between his fingers, examining its color, its shape, the tiny gleam along its skin. Then he dipped it into the whipped cream until the red disappeared beneath a soft white peak.
When he lifted it between you, it looked less like fruit and more like a small edible oath.
“Observe surrender,” he purred.
“You make dessert sound like it needs a lawyer.”
“Most pleasures do.”
He brought the strawberry to your mouth.
You meant to say something clever. Something defiant. Something that proved you had not been emotionally vandalized by a tartlet receiving praise.
Instead, you bit.
Reality crystallized into sugar and scandal. Juice burst across your tongue. Cream melted cool and sweet around it. Vanilla lingered. Liqueur warmed the back of your throat like a bad decision with excellent manners.
Faust watched every second. The first bite. The pause. The swallow.
His expression was saintly patience with absolutely no innocence.
“Ah,” he murmured. “Compliance.”
“I’m eating fruit.”
“You’re illustrating doctrine.”
“It should not be working.”
“And yet.”
It worked. Your nervous system threw itself down a staircase and called it romance.
Faust’s thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. There was cream there, of course there was, because the universe had chosen a side and that side was not dignity.
He collected it slowly, studied it for one suspended second, then placed his thumb in his mouth.
Your brain produced one thought. It was not suitable for publication.
Faust’s eyes narrowed with quiet satisfaction.
“Predictable.”
“You are unbearable.”
“And yet remarkably effective.”
The piping bag squeaked again. Somewhere above you, the chandelier seemed to reconsider its contract.
You stepped back. Faust stepped forward. You stepped back again, and the refrigerator met your shoulders with the cold betrayal of an appliance that had chosen his side.
Faust braced one hand beside your head. In the other, the piping bag stood upright like a doctrinal scroll.
“One final dessert remains,” he said.
“I see nothing.”
His gaze lowered slowly, meaningfully, over you. Laughing was the only defense you could afford.
“Absolutely not.”
“You haven’t heard my proposal.”
“I’ve seen your apron.”
“The apron provides context.”
“The apron is a signed confession.”
He leaned closer, voice dropping into a velvet murmur filled with dreadful academic sincerity.
“My proposal involves whipped cream, strawberries, and a complete disregard for respectable table manners.”
The piping bag gave a tiny squeak of impending litigation.
You raised an eyebrow. “The kitchen will die.”
“Kitchen casualties are acceptable.”
“Will we survive?”
His smile turned radiant. “We might transcend.”
The candles shuddered. The silver bowl gleamed. The tartlets sat in rows like witnesses who had suddenly remembered urgent appointments elsewhere.
The door swung shut on the universe. Time became theoretical.
The following events were not suitable for a cookbook. A spoon hit the floor. Someone laughed. Someone else said, with scandalous seriousness, “Hold still. Your technique is deteriorating.”
The chandelier received a second dollop. Then a third. An éclair prayed for extinction. The whipped cream achieved moral collapse.
Some time later, the kitchen door opened onto the aftermath.
Cream comets streaked the countertop bedrock. Tartlets resembled crime-scene silhouettes. The profiteroles had vanished beneath dairy snowdrifts and would need to be identified by dental records.
The chandelier wore shame like a fascinator.
Faust stood beside the silver bowl, sleeves ruined, hair a thesis on disarray, expression luminous with holy satisfaction.
You looked at the bowl. It was still half full.
Faust followed your gaze. A rare silence passed over him.
Then, with the solemnity of a man confessing to structural excess, he said, “I may have made enough whipped cream for sixty-two desserts.”
You regarded the leviathan bowl. “Optimistic.”
“I prefer prepared.”
“You made enough for a banquet.”
“I misjudged the scale of the experiment.”
“You got excited.”
His mouth tightened, then curved. “…Enthusiastic.”
That admission should not have felt intimate. It did anyway.
You smiled. “We could invite everyone.”
Faust considered this with the grave restraint of a man contemplating war.
“No.”
“No?”
He looked at you, then at the ruined pastries, then at the chandelier.
“I would rather spend the evening making catastrophically overdecorated pastries with you.”
That should not have worked either. It detonated delight.
You tried to hide your smile and failed. Faust noticed. Of course he noticed. His own smile softened into something private and devastatingly smug.
“Disaster,” he said, “is a dish for two.”
Behind him, the kitchen door creaked. Neither of you noticed.
Vlad materialized with the economical grace of royalty and the moral restraint of a raccoon in a palace pantry.
He took in the scene: the cream, the apron, the ruined pastries, Faust’s disordered hair, and you sitting on the counter with the expression of someone who had recently survived dairy weather.
Vlad said nothing. Then he saw the strawberries. His expression became ancient.
He crossed the kitchen in silence, lifted the entire plate, and vanished as softly as a sin with excellent posture.
By morning, only stems remained.
Faust discovered them at dawn. He stood before the empty plate, reading the powdered sugar footprints like a battlefield report. At the center lay one green stem.
A message. A declaration. A royal insult written in fruit debris.
Faust closed his eyes. “…Naturally.”
You leaned in the doorway with your coffee. “Vlad?”
“Who else would commit treason with such composure?”
“He stole strawberries.”
“He challenged the integrity of my experiment.”
“You were done with the experiment.”
Faust opened his eyes. His green gaze drifted to the silver bowl, where the remaining whipped cream sat in exhausted, glossy silence.
“No,” he said.
You followed his gaze.
“Johann.”
“Further experimentation is clearly required.”
“You’re weaponizing dessert again.”
“I am improving security.”
“For strawberries?”
“For everything.”
He picked up the piping bag. It gave one tiny, ominous squeak.
You stared at him.
He smiled.
“Run.”
You did.
Please rinse mixer blades before they attain sentience.
The format for this post was originally thought to share with @nyumi-kitsuragi and @almond-lebkuchen and that's why the story event part is half transcription and half summary. If someone wants the full transcription, let me know, so I can work in adding the rest of the dialogues.
The story follows in this order: Vampire's Bride Event Story (Faust) > Premium Ending > Epilogue > Sweet Ending.
If I sacrifice myself for the sake of everyone in town—
Having steeled myself for what awaited me, I visited the ancient castle inhabited by vampires, only to be greeted by an unexpected person.
Faust: Hmm… I didn’t expect you to actually come instead of running away.
Mitsuki: Huh… Mr. Faust? Wh-why are you here?
I blinked several times at the sight of Faust, who was supposed to be the priest of the town’s church.
Faust: I expected you to come anyway. You’re the epitome of self-sacrifice.
With a faint smile on his face, he spouted a string of venomous words, looking nothing like his usual gentle self.
Mitsuki: Surely… the priest isn’t a vampire from the old castle, is he…?
Faust: What else could I be? I’m the master of this castle, and a vampire.
Mitsuki: No way… I’ve helped out at the church so many times but I never noticed…
Faust: You don’t know how to suspect, that’s precisely why you where taken advantage by the town’s people.
The heroine starts objecting to the mean statement, but Faust follows saying that because the heroine is an orphan without family, she can’t refuse when she is pressed on this kind of task because she’s a naïve person.
The heroine says that that’s not true and coming to the castle was her own decision because she has lived alone for a long time.
Faust: So, you’re saying that if you were gone, no one would be sad?
Mitsuki: No, I just thought that even vampires living in old castles must get lonely.
Faust: I’m lonely… me?
Mitsuki: Yes, I understand how you feel, so I came here because I wanted to be there for you.
Faust: Are you saying this is for my sake and not for the town’s people?
Mitsuki: That’s right. Because you’re looking for a bride, aren’t you?
He looked at me and a cold smile played on the corner of his lips again.
Faust: Poor thing, you were fooled by those compelling words. What I truly want is not a partner, but a guinea pig.
After saying that, Faust embraced the heroine without giving her a chance to object and she ask him what he means by “Guinea Pig”. Faust replies saying “Become mine in body and soul” and then he bites her on the neck. She feels a sharp pain and an intoxicating sensation while her consciousness starts fading away…
The next morning, she woke up lying in an unfamiliar bed. She starts recalling what happened to her, but them she notices someone’s sleeping next to her…
Mitsuki: Huh… Faust, why are you sleeping with me?!
As I panicked, he opened his eyes sleepily.
Faust: … You’re so noisy. It’s none of your business where I sleep.
The heroine asks if he was he one who carried her to bed and he says he’s only taking good care of the guinea pig’s health, so he asks her to stay quiet, he turns around and falls asleep again. She observes him sleeping before sneaking out of bed and going to the kitchen…
A while later, Faust is already awake and, in the kitchen, he’s looking down to a freshly made stew the heroine prepared for him. He smiled and sighed as he sits on a chair (he looked a bit resigned to me). He accepts to ate the meal since she prepared it for him.
Faust: I told you, you’re a guinea pig … Let’s eat.
Mitsuki: What? You’ll eat it?
Faust: You’re the one who told me to eat it. Or did you do something to this meal.
Mitsuki: Not at all.
(Nothing is in it yet… not yet.)
Faust: Thank you for the meal. I have work to do, so do as you please.
Faust says to the heroine that he’s planning they have a private wedding ceremony that night and that he’ll bring her gown in the evening. After he leaves the room, the heroine slumps in a chair in relief and pulls a small bottle from her pocket. Inside the bottle there’s a powerful poison to kill vampires. She still can’t believe Faust is a vampire but she’s still resolute to carry her mission of killing him…
Faust: Hmm… Not bad. That dress suits you very well.
I was clad in a wedding dress that was entirely dark, even down to the veil.
— I’m about to get married to Faust.
Faust: From now on, everything about you belongs to me. Do not shed even a single drop of blood without my permission. If you don’t agree, leave this place right now.
Mitsuki: No, I wouldn’t run away, I… will become yours … until God tears us apart.
The moment I uttered the vows, he pulled me into an embrace.
Faust: I have no intention of handing over what belongs to me to God or anything like that. There’s nothing left that separate us.
After saying those words, Faust bites the heroine on the neck. The pain she feels quickly turns into pleasure that spreads all over her body and she can feel how her teeth start becoming pointy in the inside of her mouth.
Faust: A vampire marriage ceremony lasts for three nights… two nights have now passed. Tomorrow… the ritual will be complete when you drink my blood.
The next day…
The heroine goes to Faust’s room looking for him and finds him in the middle of making some kind of medicine. She questions him and he says he’s stocking medicine for a contagious disease that is very likely to spread in that season. She thinks to herself that he’s still the priest from town she knows very well, so she bits her lip feeling a bit of guilt.
Faust: So, what do you want? As you can see, I’m busy, so please don’t bother me.
Mitsuki: Oh, I’ve made dinner so I came to call you…
Faust: Again? Oh well… it would be a waste not to eat it.
He signed, but stopped what he was doing.
The heroine starts debating to herself if is a good opportunity to put the poison in his food or if is way too early as he can suspect her. I guess everything was showing in her expressions because Faust approach her and peered into her face.
Mitsuki: What?
Faust: …Nothing. I’m looking forward to tonight’s ceremony. If you accept me and drink my blood… there’s no turning back.
He whispered it again, as if to emphasize it, and then left the room.
After finishing her meal, the heroine goes back to her room and starts gazing at the town from the window lost in thought. She thinks how she couldn’t put the poison in Faust’s meal at the end. She’s still surprised by Faust’s true identity, yet he still has done good deeds for the town’s people. Is she really sure to kill him? The faces of the children from the orphanage where she lived, flashed on her mind. She’s there for those children so there’s no room for hesitation.
Faust: … Do you miss your children?
Startled, I turned around to find him standing behind me.
Faust: You may be an orphan, but you’re not alone. Are you sure you want to leave the orphanage children who look up to you like an older sister? You’re the only one who can protect them.
It was as he could read my mind, and I felt the blood drain from my face.
Mitsuki: … well. Those children, he promised to protect them if I kept my promise.
Faust: A promise… with whom?
Under his sharp gaze, I clutched the medicine bottle in my pocket.
Mitsuki: He’s the town’s lord. So those children will surely be alright…
Faust: …
He looked at me, then suddenly turned on his heel.
Faust: I just remembered I have an errand to run. I’m going out, but I’ll be back tonight. You should rest. See you later.
As soon as the door closed, I collapsed to the ground.
While I cheerfully arranged the dishes, my heart was raging like a storm.
Mitsuki: (In the end, I couldn’t put the poison in tonight’s meal either… No, I’ll have a better chance once I become a bride.)
In one hand I think that, but in the other hand, I’m overwhelmed with doubt and guilt, and it’s unbearable.
Mitsuki: (I have to kill him. Otherwise those kids…)
Faust: By the way, once tonight’s ceremony is over, you will be completely mine. I’ll ask you one last time. Do you still wish to become a vampire’s bride?
.✦ ݁˖PREMIUM ENDING.✦ ݁˖
Faust: I’ll ask you one last time. Do you still wish to become a vampire’s bride?
Mitsuki: I …
(—It’s impossible. I can’t kill him.)
The moment I realized that, my raging heart calmed down. I took a deep breath, took the medicine bottle from my pocket, and placed it on the table.
Faust: This is?
Mitsuki: I’ve heard It’s a special poison that can kill vampires. I’m sorry. I… came here to kill you. Therefore, I’m not worthy of being your bride.
As the heavy silence continued, I simply stared at the floor.
With a cold voice, Faust says to the heroine that he can’t believe someone as kind-hearted like her would come with a plan like that on her own. He questions her motives. She explains that the town’s lord demanded for the evil vampire to be killed or else, the orphans would be driven out of town. She took the task to protect the children, but she simply couldn’t bring herself to poison Faust.
Mitsuki: You’re not a bad person. You’re a kind person… I can’t bring myself to kill someone like you. Above all, I …
(I was attracted to him… but I can’t say that.)
I swallowed the words that were about to spill out and I bit my lip.
Faust: Heh heh… I knew you were up to something from the start. It’s all written on your face.
Mitsuki: Eh…
Faust: After being called kind, guess where I went today?
Faust explains that he went to the house of the lord and made sure to send him somewhere far away from the town. He also made sure none would lay a hand in the orphanage and the children living there anymore. The heroine asks him why he helped her if she tried to kill him.
Faust: Help? I have no such intention. I only showed their place to those who tried to touch my belongings
Mitsuki: Faust’s belongings…?
Faust: I told you. You’re now my guinea pig— you belong to me.
A hand reached out and lifted my chin.
Faust: So? Now that you’re free from any unnecessary entanglements, please tell me again. Will you become mine permanently? Or… are you going to run away?
His eyes were filled with passion.
Feeling his pleasant warmth, I confessed in a trembling voice.
Mitsuki: If Faust will accept me… please let me stay by your side forever.
Faust: You’re such a fool. You threw away your last chance to escape.
He chuckled, traced my lips with his thumb, and then slipped it into my mouth.
Faust: Bite.
As she’s told, the heroine bites Faust’s thumb with her fang and starts drinking his blood. The rich flavor spreads in her mouth. Her body trembles with joy and starts feeling warm, like she’s drunk in the finest liquor. She can’t help for wanting more as she licks Faust’s finger. Faust looks at her amused.
Mitsuki: Oh… I’m sorry, did that hurt?
Faust: Yes, very.
As I came back to my senses and fumbled around, I was quickly picked up.
Mitsuki: kyaa…
Faust: Therefore, I will get my revenge in full.
As soon as we returned to the room, our lips met.
As I was being devoured deeply, skillful hands began to undress me, and before I knew it, I was naked.
Faust: Your wedding dress was beautiful, but you look especially stunning now, completely naked.
Mitsuki: Ahh…
Just being watched makes my body gets hotter and hotter, and I can help but sway my hips.
Faust: Oh my… you seem impatient. What a shameless bride.
Mitsuki: No, don’t say that…
With desire seeping from his eyes, he stroked my thighs and forcefully spread them apart.
Faust: You’re adorable… the way you writhe in pleasure because you want me.
The moment I gasped at his sweet whisper, he pushed deep inside me.
Mitsuki: A-ah…!
Faust: I’ll cherish you and keep you chained up forever. My adorable guinea pig.
.✦ ݁˖EPILOGUE.✦ ݁˖
In the room concealed in darkness, the air was thick with the scent of passionate lovemaking, and the sounds of ragged breaths mixed together.
I was being held and deeply pierced by Faust, who was sitting on the bed, as I was being shaken.
Mitsuki: Ah… let me rest for a bit… mmm.
Faust: What are you so dejected about? This is far from over.
He continued to thrust even deeper without mercy, and the overwhelming sensation blinded me.
(I can’t continue any further… I’ll go crazy.)
Mitsuki: Faust… I can’t take it anymore…
He gazed at me with a look of rapture as I shook my head, gasping for breath, and whispered to me as if trying to convince me.
Faust: Johann, and… that’s what you should call me from now on.
His hand brushed my disheveled hair aside and traced the nape of my neck.
Faust: You’re not a person anymore. Since we’re vampires, when we intertwine our bodies like this and suck each other’s blood… You can experience the ultimate pleasure that no human being can ever experience.
He titled his head slightly, exposing the nape of his neck.
Faust: Come on… just try it.
Mitsuki: Johann’s… blood…
When the taste I had just experienced comes back to my mouth, a throbbing pain spreads through the pit of my stomach.
(I want it… again…)
Driven by an impulse welling up from deep within my body, I sink my fangs into his skin.
At the same time, he also buried his fangs in the nape of my neck.
As the sweet, rich flavor spreads in my mouth, an intense pleasure runs through my entire body, melting my brain.
Mitsuki: Mmm… Ah, haa…
Faust: Huh… that’s right. Realize how your own body has changed. You’re now my wife… a vampire, just like me.
Mitsuki: Same as Johann…
I lifted my face from his neck and looked into his eyes.
Mitsuki: So, Johann… will you stay by my side forever?
That’s something I’ve wanted so badly for a very long time.
(Once I've known this kind of warmth…. I never want to be alone again.)
As I gazed at him with a prayerful heart, his arms tightened around me.
Faust: Of course. You belong to me… and only to me. Even God cannot take you away from me. And I will never let you go, ever. The idea of you leaving me is something I would never even dream of.
In the depths of his eyes as he said that, I saw the same shadow of loneliness that I had carried with me all this time.
(I knew it… we were the same after all. I’d been alone for so long, feeling so lonely… and now we’ve finally met.)
The fact made me so happy that warm tears welled up inside me.
Mitsuki: I won’t leave you. I’ll always be by your side.
I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulled him closer and kissed him.
Mitsuki: Because I fell in love with you.
Faust: It seems you really are… just too kind-hearted.
Mitsuki: Mm, uh…
In return, he kissed me deeply and devoured me.
And then, once again, I was shaken violently.
Mitsuki: Ah, ahh… Johann, Johann…
Faust: Ah…
Rough breaths mingled with the rustling of fabric, and the indecent wet sounds echoing.
Faust: With a look like that on your face… I don’t think I’ll be able to control myself tonight. Just accept it as your own fault and give up.
Even though he whispered in a mischievous tone, his touch and gaze were endlessly sweet and gentle.
Faust: …..I love you, my dear.
—That night, I was lifted to the heights many times and was showered with pleasure until I was completely satisfied.
Later—in the town where the lord had suddenly disappeared, Johann nonchalantly took over as the new lord.
Then, the dilapidated orphanage was demolished, and a new, larger orphanage was built next to the church.
Faust: Can you see them? Your precious children.
Mitsuki: Yes, I can see them. Hehe… everyone looks very healthy.
Looking down from the hilltop, I see the children I parted from that day in tears, now running around the orphanage with smiles on their faces.
(That’s good. It seems everyone is living happily.)
Faust: …..Do you want to go back there?
Mitsuki: …..No. This is where I belong.
I smiled and took his hand, and he gently squeezed it back.
Faust: Shall we go home? It’s almost time for dinner.
He turned on his heel, still holding my hand.
I walked beside him as he started to walk.
Mitsuki: Shall we make stew today for the first time in a while?
Faust: Not bad. That’s one of my favorites.
Mitsuki: Hehe, I know.
Holding hands tightly, we walked towards the old castle—our “home”.
.✦ ݁˖SWEET ENDING.✦ ݁˖
Faust: I’ll ask you one last time. Do you still wish to become a vampire’s bride?
Mitsuki: I …
(Is it really okay to tell someone you’re trying to kill that you’re going to become his wife…?)
I was speechless and just clenched my hands tightly on my lap— and then he let out a soft sigh and his expression softened.
Faust: The food will get cold. Let’s continue with the meal… Shall we do it after we’ve finished eating?
Mitsuki: Y-yes.
Faust: Since we’re here, let’s eat together. I’ll prepare your portion now.
Mitsuki: Oh, I’ll have to get my own…
Faust: Please leave it to me.
He brought over the soup and the appetizers that were placed in the cart.
Faust: Let’s eat.
Mitsuki: …..Thank you for the meal.
Sitting across from each other and enjoying a peaceful meal, it feels as if we’re just an ordinary couple.
(What should I do…?)
As I finished my soup, still feeling hesitant, he glanced at me.
Faust: I’ll give you this back.
The bottle placed on the table was the poison bottle I had been hiding.
Mitsuki: …….. Huh? W-why, that…?
Without being able to think straight, I frantically searched my pockets and pulled out the poison bottle.
The two bottles looked exactly the same.
Faust: That’s just plain sugar. I swapped it out on the first day.
Mitsuki: ……
Faust: By the way, I just put the contents of this into the soup you drank. After the two-night ritual, you’ve practically become a vampire… but how effective will the poison be? It looks like It’ll be a good experiment.
Faust says all this with a smile on his face. The heroine’s plan was found and she enters in panic mode, more after learning she drank the poison she was mean to use to kill Faust.
Mitsuki: Am I… going to die?
Faust: Well, what do you think? This antidote might save you. If you want the antidote, confess why you tried to kill me.
I stared at the antidote bottle on the table and opened my mouth with a heavy heart.
Mitsuki: The lord told me that If I didn’t kill you, he would shut down the orphanage and drive those children out of town.
The innocent faces of the children keep popping into my mind one after another, and I feel like I’m about to burst into tears.
Mitsuki: There are still so many young children there… If we’re kicked out, we won’t be able to survive.
(It’s no use. I’ll die here, and the children too…)
As I bit my lip, I heard a sigh.
Faust: ….. I suspected something like that. That lord had wanted to privatize the town for a long time. Don’t worry, your precious orphans have already been taken to a safe place.
Mitsuki: … eh?
I understood the meaning of the words a little later, and then quickly looked up.
Faust: That lord can’t get away with any more evil schemes… if he had just behaved himself, I would have left him alone.
His tone sent chills down my spine, but my mind was more preoccupied with my children.
(Those kids are still alive… I have to go and be with them quickly)
I slid of the chair, knelt on the floor, and clung to Faust.
Mitsuki: Please give me the antidote! I can’t die yet…
Faust: The antidote? Oh… it’s too late.
Mitsuki: What do you mean by “too late” …
Suddenly, a burning heat ignites deep within my body.
My breathing became shallow, and a throbbing sensation spread throughout my body.
(Is this poison…? But something feels off…)
He crouched down and lifted my chin.
Faust: You’re a very honest person. What I put in the soup wasn’t poison, it was an aphrodisiac.
Mitsuki: Eh?...
Faust: Let me detoxify you now.
I was carried to the room…
Mitsuki: Ah…
By the time I was thrown onto the bed, the throbbing in my body had become unbearable.
Faust: I understand your circumstances, but the fact remains that you tried to kill me. Therefore, you will be punished. Don’t think you’ll get off scot-free so easily.
True to his words, he traced his fingers over my body, teasing me as he pressed his lips against me, fueling my passion.
Mitsuki: Ah… I… I have to go home…
My lips, as I mumbled in a daze, were kissed, and my tongue was entangled with his.
Faust: If you're looking for a place to return to, I already have one ready, right beside me. You seem to be having a bad time, let me touch you a little... feel.
Mitsuki: Ahhhhhh…
My clothes were torn off, and I become unable to think straight.
Faust: I’m so glad you’ve fallen. You’re mine now forever.
Led by a low laugh, I sank even deeper into an endless vortex of pleasure.
Thank you so much for sharing this 💙 I’m always really grateful to get access to these JP event stories through your posts, especially because I would never be able to read them otherwise.
This one was interesting to me because I could still recognize parts of Faust in it, especially the way he immediately sees through Mitsuki’s self-sacrificing nature, the harsh “you don’t know how to suspect” commentary, the guinea pig language, and the fact that he quietly handles the town lord and protects the orphanage before she fully understands what he’s done. That whole thread felt very him. His niceness still wears spikes.
At the same time, I think this one felt a little less distinctly Faust to me than the birthday story did. The overall setup came across more like a gothic vampire bride AU, with Faust’s personality woven into it. The castle, blood ritual, dark wedding, possessive language, poison switch, aphrodisiac soup, and “mine forever” energy all feel very classic dark otome romance.
That isn’t necessarily a bad thing, and I can definitely see the appeal of the AU. I just felt that some parts were more driven by the vampire bride trope than by Faust’s specific personality. The birthday story felt like the entire situation grew naturally out of his own psychological habits, while this one sometimes felt like we were seeing Faust filtered through a more general dark vampire fantasy.
I still really liked the orphanage plot and the smaller domestic moments, especially him eating the stew while pretending it was merely practical. Those were the parts where his personality came through most strongly for me.
At least, that was how I ended up reading it. I’m really glad you shared it, because it was interesting to compare this version of him with the Faust we usually get 💙
After I got my other post deleted… gonna be more blunt in this one.
I have to say that I liked much better this story than the birthday one. I still think his birthday story was mostly masturbatory content. The writer who did his birthday story was the same one who did the “Faust Thumbelina” and “Easter Hunt” collection event stories that I shared with you and both stories end with Faust taking the heroine to bed, and honestly, I found this quite repetitive. I feel like this writer thinks Faust is “Fun Sex Toy”. It took her ‘til the “Horse story” to break the bed curse…
I’m honestly quite annoyed about why his birthday story feels more “Faust” when more than half of the story was Faust masturbating the heroine, making her orgasm and he orgasming at the end, and am I supposed to think that that was the most philosophical piece of media created about Faust? Is the bar that low?...
Also, something that bothered me about his birthday story is that the writer totally forgot that Faust is a vampire. I found quite strange that he clearly was aroused but he never felt blood lust and never bites the heroine. You can say that you don’t mind, but to me it feels like the writer totally forgot about this…
Now, about this Vampire Bride event. I actually think the writing and literacy level of this story was quite bad, it was absurd and the plot didn’t make sense. But for some reason, I feel the absurdity of this story really highlighted Faust silly deadpan humor, so at the end, it totally worked for me. It worked because it was Faust navigating an absurd situation and that’s the best Faust you could ever have.
I still feel this vampire’s bride story was like watching a “Saturday Night Live” sketch with a laughing track playing. You just have to leave the absurdity of the situation swallow you.
Maybe for you didn’t feel quite Faust because ITS AU! But I actually enjoy the idea that Faust and the heroine exist in many multiverses and they keep finding each other every single time and falling in love. They even live the same circumstances of Faust’s main route, but quite different every time. It was the same with his “The Butler Hid It” AU event story. I think that even if it’s AU, is still pretty much Faust at his core, just playing a different rol.
Basically, this was just crackfic. You literally feed me that.
The thing I liked most about this Vampire’s Bride story was how the story highlighted that Faust is a very lonely person. The heroine really tells Faust “I came here because I thought you were really lonely” and Faust reacts to this with a shock expression (I think the heroine saying this to him was a good owning). He negates this saying he was only looking for a guinea pig but you know she’s right.
And you know she’s right because the next scene is when the heroine is awake and Faust is sleeping next to her. He’s totally behaving like a lonely cat. He could had left the room after he carried the heroine to bed, but instead, he decided to curl like a cat next to her because he was that needy and lonely. He was acting all annoyed about the heroine cooking for him, but he didn’t refuse her any single time. And then we arrive at the lovemaking scene and the heroine totally can confirm that Faust was very lonely, as lonely as her.
I did transcribe all his epilogue because I found it was really sweet how they walk together back “home” holding hands and Faust is just so soft and happy about it, that’s how I feel is Faust post-relationship.
Possessive language, poison switch, aphrodisiac soup, and “mine forever” … and what part of that was not Faust enough to you? Because that’s actually Faust. Are you reading what you wrote? Faust still is not beating the suspicious food allegations, not even in his crackfic vampire lord AU.
So, how I see this:
*Faust Birthday Story*
Crowmero: This is just masturbatory content...
Nyumi: Oh, but do you see the beautiful philosophy about how Faust wants to be chosen for being him? desired for being him? 🥹
Crowmero: Guy didn't even used a condom...
*Vampire's Bride AU*
Nyumi: Too filtered in dark romance to be Faust...
Crowmero: This story was so ridiculous *slaps phone* this is totally Faust funny vibe!
LMAO I love that we somehow walked away from these two stories with almost perfectly opposite Faust verdicts 😂💙
To clarify, I didn’t mean that the possessive language, poison switch, aphrodisiac soup, or “mine forever” behavior are inherently un-Faust. Those are all things I can imagine him doing. It was more that, for me, the surrounding gothic vampire-bride framework was so strong that those elements initially registered as familiar dark-romance tropes before they registered as specifically Faust.
And the birthday story didn’t feel more Faust to me because of the fanservice itself. It was the mechanism of it: him deliberately manufacturing suspicion, observing Mitsuki’s reactions, acting offended by the situation he created, and using the whole game to draw out proof that she genuinely wanted him. That calculated menace was what clicked for me.
I think we were prioritizing different things in our readings. You were responding more to the loneliness, gothic absurdity, and possessive devotion underneath the AU, while I was paying more attention to whether his menace and romantic voice felt specifically built from Faust’s usual psychological machinery.
Your loneliness reading did make me appreciate some of the quieter details more, especially him being shocked that she came for his sake, curling up beside her instead of leaving, accepting every meal while pretending to be inconvenienced, and quietly protecting the children. The “lonely cat pretending he only wanted a guinea pig” interpretation made those quieter moments click for me.
I still read parts of the broader framework as more general gothic dark romance than specifically Faust, but I did enjoy it, and I’m genuinely grateful you shared it. I wasn’t complaining about the story, just sharing what did and didn’t feel most distinctly Faust to me. Getting to see these JP event stories at all is such a treat, even when we end up examining them from opposite sides of the same suspicious microscope 💙
And yes, I am eating the Faust snacks too fast. This enclosure has no feeding regulations.
I think another reason why I like the Vampire's Bride event much better is because I simply found it more fun to read, and it something proves entertaining to me, I'm going to put it more higher than the rest of stories. At the end is what I'm personally looking forward with this stories, to have fun. But Is really my own personal perspective and taste.
With his Birthday story, was all more about the manipulation and observing him from his perspective while he's playing alone with his food and laughing at his own joke, so I was just like "LOL, ok freak, whatever". I also was getting the "Really I have a type liking all this manipulative freaks" *glances at Vyn, Evan and Nica*. Not really fun, more like, getting called out...
I also kind of lament that I'm not posting the screenshots, so you're missing all the otome visual part, and how Faust was basically pulling his "sourpuss face" in all the story and how annoyed he was acting in this situation, so it was genuinely making everything more funnier to read.
I think, even when the "plot" was all weird, still I liked that it has a good balance. It was really "Faust's route speedrun" because we see small sides of him without getting too deep in his character. But still feels Faust in that it shows how he's kind and lonely, yet, cold and harsh.
To be quite honest, what irks me about the fanservice in his Birthday Story is that it sometimes feels reductive of his character and that the devs only know how to sell and profit from doing that with him, instead of giving us more about his other 40 layers.
And honestly your take on his birthday was quite good, you genuinely made it more positive ❤️
I don't think you complained about this story at all, I think I'm more worried that I fail to provide the whole experience 100%. Obviously, I'm also not getting all the experience 100% either because of the barrier language, but still I'm happy we can discuss this story and we can make the more of it as is it.
