?

you’re the only girl i have ever wanted (requests are always open.)

[lovelament]

LOVELAMENT? ▬▬

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱ DARK twst writing blog. dead dove: do not eat. hi i’m lovelament and i love love love writing. my content varies but this blog does have dark & disturbing content. though i don't write outright, detailed explicit content, this blog is still NSFW (but i still write sfw works)!

masterlist. rules. navigation.

[lovelament]

𝗕𝗘𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗘 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗥𝗘𝗤𝗨𝗘𝗦𝗧?

𝗜 𝗪𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗘: twst. DARK content (this is not an exaggeration, please heed the warnings) yandere, non-yandere, platonic, poly, suggestive (but never explicit) oneshots, headcannons, drabbles, long fics. reader x canon. 𝗗𝗡𝗜 if you fit the basic dni criteria.

i will write for any gender, but please do specify which you want me to write for. other than that, your request can be long or short, depending on your preference. if you have a clear image of it, please don’t be afraid to tell me!! any specific scene, any dialogue, any scenario?

©lovelament. this is my only writing blog. i do not upload my works anywhere else.

[lovelament]

TWST . . . AS PEOPLE YOU SEE EVERDAY!

𝗠𝗗𝗡𝗜. 𝗱𝗲𝗮𝗱 𝗱𝗼𝘃𝗲: 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗲𝗮𝘁. heartslabyul edition. super suggestive content. oral fixation. dub-con (?) implications. dream riddle cameo. everyone is a creep in this. oneshot.

Riddle ... your classmate who's always at the top of every ranking. When you deign him that usual glance, you’ll see he’s invariably color-coding his notes, correcting professors when they make a typo, and somehow still finds the time to remind everyone the assignment was due at 11:59 PM — eliciting a chorus of boos.  You'd think he hated you, with how often he scolds you for cutting corners, until you realize he only ever nags the people he actually expects better from. Helicopter mom, his woeful, tragic flaw — and one day you stand a witness beneath the all-encompassing boom of a mother looking at an infinitesimal deficiency in his grade. It hurt your heart!  Pearly tears needling at his eyes where he’d isolated himself in a corner, you couldn’t help hold him during his bout of weepy self-lamentation, and he held you right back like someone meant to guillotine or fuse right into you! :( Fingers weaving through wisps of crimson, you placate his mania.

.. And now you’ve got a boy that’s always on your case! As much as you’re loathe to admit, perhaps you shouldn’t have offered him the plush of your kindness, but you can’t help it! Unguical, anxiously-bitten fractures of his nails tell you of his life back home, so you often, absentmindedly,  mend it by gifting him gloves. Bare minimum — you justify until he’s still color-coding his notes, watering down the hues into a milder shade, and his cheeks mimic the red of his hair when you knuckle under and call him cute. You can’t help it. Overbearing, dictatorial and cute, a most noxious combination! Deadly is your inclination to keep on labeling him as a helpless boy. You tell him grades don’t erase one year off your life, especially when he keeps looking so, so despondent after a lower score than expected. He holds onto you a while longer . . . face stuffed with the fabric of your clothes, until you’re eventually in his room in a display of what one would call trespassing, splayed on his bed, clandestine sleepovers that seldom happen because both of you are so terminally frightened by the staunch woman he calls his mother. But when they do, you make the most of it.

You do his makeup sometimes, and eventually he starts replicating styles he wants for himself, no matter if he’s keeping it under the wraps. Fingers perched upon the fair of his eyes where you coat them in a swathe of jet-black, lips pressed diffidently against the valleys of your finger when you apply onto them the deepest tinges of murk, as he tries, oh-so frantically, to avoid the reign that your eyes have over him. To think he was that dictatorial boy once, and now he’s your Riddle. Darker, bolder colors?  He’s improving, you think, the notion perishing when a whimper sounds in the air at the lessening distance between you. Not as much as you think, but he’s got it.

 . . . That’s until you meet his mother!! >_< Ouch, she takes you by the ear and he practically cowers, never straining to save you from the confrontation. Bone-deep is his fear, too bad you kept on deluding yourself into thinking you could repair that battered, broken heart. You both cry, and it isn’t until she shows you a journal page in your boy’s handwriting, your name marked with a plethora of hearts and wanton annotations that she describes you as a deterrence to her dear son’s future! She reports you right after, you wretched temptress!

That’s the last time you hear from him before they move out the city entirely.

There goes your what-if.

Ace.. the cashier at the garden-variety convenience store you stop by after school, you really think he’s no better than half the other boys at your instituition, and he really buttresses your ire by always guessing what snack you're about to buy before you even reach the counter. Insufferable, you deem him as he seems to think he has a chance with you at the commonplace residence, feather-light shells of touches roving over the rind of your wrist. You humor him, if only because this is the last time you’ll ever be at the receiving end of such an action, but in an unforeseen turn of events, you find he's surprisingly resolute in his pursuit. Ding, you get a follow request from an all-too-familiar grin, and there goes your finger choosing to spoil him for a while longer!!  Big mistake!

Now you’ve got the picture-perfect anecdote of a summetime escapade. You’re mistaken that this relationship is only ephemeral, but that’s before he invites you over to his house and you wallow in his bed stiffly, arm slung around and around your frame to allow it to press against his chest (which is quite useless because you are roused from your sleep with him sprawled over you) He introduces you to his parents and acclaimed older brother, and they all wonder how he could possibly ‘bag you’. Things have gone by so rapidly you don’t even have time to blink! In places and mementos where the area was denuded of any presence besides yours, you now have your better half to stick close to — except you think he isn’t as serious as you. Flurries of droplets sprinkle at you in beachtime watergun fights, but that’s all there is to it: a rapport with no romantic foundation to dwell in. You sometimes wonder if he wanted a partner or a bro. A partner, you hum in tandem, but his obscene and lewd half-jokes have kept you on tenterhooks ever since.

He rips stickers off your journal because you detest the sticky residue to do it yourself, then preens about being the best boyfriend you could’ve ever asked for. Eyes screwed, your face knocking a grin out of him, he shows you off to his friends, and you swell in the spotlight of it all. Misplaced pride is what drives him to offer his non-existent biceps as grab handles whenever you’re on the bus. How stupid.

At the end of the day, he is that selfsame, ostensibly dim-witted cashier who pulled you along in the storage room for brief respites and probed at you for any crumbs of your attention— but now that you have him, what are you going to do with him? Deadbeat boyfriend, you think, for someone who’s so desperate he’s quite better off with a gaggle of buddies than with you. Doomed is your relationship, but greed is what pulls you to keep on leeching off of it.

Deuce . . .  the delivery guy who always apologizes because he thinks he's late, even when he arrives five minutes early. Globular patches of desiccated crimson sully his knuckles, and you’re far too deep in your guilt that you offer to mend them with linen, sweet-smelling bandages he conspicuously tries to sniff.  He got into a fight, he tells you, before soft-pedaling the implication by putting a bow of ‘I stopped it’ on it. But that gaze rife with regret tells you otherwise, especially when he calls his mother to inform her he’s all safe and sound. A total mama’s boy? Cutie! You send him off into the downpour with an umbrella, and his face morphs so pink it elicits a misplaced giggle.  The next time he delivers to your house, he gives it back, washed, dried, folded. The next, and the next, and the next. The serendipitous routine has evolved into your life that you see him on the streets and out and about, so you don't think much of it when you give him your phone number! When’s the last time you’ve made friends with a delivery guy?

 . . He’s wayy too proper. Every package is buttressed by two hands, he takes his shoes off before entering, and he says thank you after you thank him >w< One thing leads to another and you find yourself at the very cusp of airy euphoria when he takes his bike for a ride with you in tow, wind’s fingers threading through your hair and your arms snug, shrouded around his rigid waist. Such a sweet boy, you think, he always chases after your praise and contact. Validation is what he needs to fully flourish and hit his stride — and it’s not nearly as cute as it is deeply enervating, you quickly find out. To be the best of the best, he thinks his prowess lies in warding off any look sent your way, then letting his trek over your face to a look of unalloyed disappointment.

Such a sweet boy, obviously. You think. Until you don’t.. when you catch him knee-deep in a street fight, roughing someone you know up!!

You atempt a brute-force escape, but then as your misfortune would have it, your face is cradled by pyretic hands who beg you to stay before you’ve even verbalized alarm, mementos implanted onto your skin’s plane in a scatter of lunular shaped edges. Hands planted over your thighs to cease the thought of escape, albeit almost instinctual, he pleads. He’ll do anything for you, he says, but one look at the bloodshed says otherwise! You don’t even get to take the victim to a hospital, you just let him place you on the bike, and disappear into the night’s frigid embrace.

 Trey ... the boy next door your mother has made the object of her interminable praise, but you can’t seem to place your finger on why he unnerves you.  Your neighbour’s dear son, if you will and  much to your chagrin, when your mother’s palate goes through its usual mercurial overflow, you’re coerced into rapping your knuckles against the door and beholding him first thing in the very ill-tempered morning you wake up to.  He’s a dentistry student, croons your mother, and for that reason alone, the almost bona fide,  humdrum part of him has you deeming him your dear confidant. He’ll tease you, he listens to you, surely he could never do the things your fickle mind is scared of!! An old brother is the sole thing he embodies, you think as he untangles your earphones, an older brother, that’s all!  >w< . .   .  

You familiarize yourself with the routine. Wenever your mother bakes too much, she sends you over with a plate. Whenever his family has extra fruit from their garden, he knocks on your door with a basket. Somewhere along the years, "Can you take this over to Trey?" became less of a chore and more of an excuse to spend ten minutes talking on his porch, and him humouring your whims. He's everything you could ask for, the best guide — accentuated when your hands interlink as you cross the road.

That’s all until one day you knock to a house purged of sweet parents, who you learn are away on a trip. Invitation inside is only cordial and you humbly acquiesce, only you now find yourself in awkward silence, denuded only when he adjusts those full-rimmed glasses.

Now you're just wondering how you could possibly allow this to happen. With his digits coaxing your mouth into a soundless entry, you try to dissuade yourself from the manner in which he’s pinning you down, wrists ensnared above your head. Incisors, canines, premolars, molars. You try to resist by drawing blood, a chuckle blooms instead. Just sit back and slacken, will you? You will forget this. You want to. But one thing is immutable: no one will believe you over him. ♡

Cater . . your older cousin's friend who's been around so often he somehow became your friend too, only you think he does >w< He’s got a fluid mosaic of emotions as a face, and sometimes you wonder if you’re indulging in his social media related caprices, or his unusually handsy nature.  He's got a million roulette of selfies with everyone except himself, somehow remembers your birthday every year, and always texts you whenever he finds a café "that's soooo your vibe." Oh, just loosen up, will you? He persists just to hear the single word cay-cay branch from your lips, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t drunk off the high you got whenever he took you out to cacophonous parties under the guise of a casual hangout. Unpredictability is his forte, and you’re in knee-deep in it, hands skimming over the skin beneath your shirt, head lolling on the dip of your chest — this is what friends do, he persists even as his mouth chases yours.

A flash goes off at your writhing mien. He tells you he’s uncertain whether he wants to show you off to the world or keep you all to himself, and you feel so special you keep the profession bottled up in the chalice that is your heart. Older cousin, is the bridge between you and him, so you realize you don’t know anything about him than the mien he plucks out and bares before you. Sometimes when you’re alone you catch him scrolling through a web’s myraid of photos, contouring the sides of his face in an eruption of phosphorescent screenlight, before lips plant themselves across the pane of your cheek in a farewell kiss. A personal word with your cousin, he tells you, had him ruminating over your relationship. You deserve better. You both need distance. He can’t do this. Surely, you never thought he could do this with you?

. . And now he almost never comes by. When he does, a glance stripped of recogniton is what you see. Bummer!! >0<

[lovelament]

Just some little questions, so I've read the series (so good btw i could eat it up) an had a few questions in mind; it was mentioned that mc approached neige for comfort, i was wondering why mc didn't get to just transfer to rsa? Why is mc not crazy yet? Does mc hate yuu? It would be understandable if mc does cus i would too,( if ever id go insane and most probably take yuu down with me)and if ever mc did try the route of completely ignoring yuu the entire time, what happened and what did go wrong? (Sorry for my bad grammar, i love love the series please feed us more 🤤🤤🤤)

thank you!! i’m really glad you’re enjoying it 🤭 i’ll answer your questions as best as i can. why didn’t mc just transfer to rsa? she actually did consider it, the problem is that every loop seems to correct itself. circumstances always end up forcing her back toward nrc in one way or another. after enough loops, she stopped seeing transfer as a genuine escape and started treating it as another dead end — not to mention, she is stuck in a death loop. she’s suffered at the hands of rsa too, though their intentions were good.

why isn’t mc crazy yet? who's to say she isn’t BAHAAHAHA.. jokes aside, she is mentally deteriorating. the difference is that she's learned how to compartmentalize. if she completely falls apart, she dies faster. staying functional has become a survival mechanism more than a sign of good mental health woops </3

does mc hate yuu?? well, yes. she is bitter towards everyone from within. unfortunately, the loop doesn't seem to care what she wants. whether she befriends yuu, avoids yuu or pretends yuu doesn’t exist, something always drags them back into each other's orbit. different choices change how events play out, but not the fact that they're connected.

[lovelament]

I’m already addicted to your series ughhhhh

May I ask if yuu is gonna be a yandere ;)

Also not Sam being our only source of comfort in this fucked up world he will always be our fav!!!

THANK YOUU :33 love sam hes our guy icl.. on the other hand, yuu.. i guess it'll have to be a secret for now wink wink wink

[lovelament]

GAME OF DEATH! yan! twisted wonderland part two!

𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗧 𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦 — dead dove: do not eat. (in this chapter, there is) female reader. descriptions of death and violence. dating sim twisted wonderland but make everyone actually twisted. ( previous ▏present ▏next.)

OH, NO! YOU POOR, UNFORTUNATE SOUL! Well, to sum it up, you have been transmigrated, now you’re in a game. The Once-in-a-Lifetime Chance to Fall in Love with Charming Gentlemen at the Most Prestigious Magic Academy!    Catchy, isn't it? Shame it's also a yandere dating simulator, and . . you are not the heroine. You have been banished into the horrible villainess’s body, where you’re forced to watch the brooding men lay destruction to the world just to call the protagonist theirs. It’s a game of death to you. Because every single time, every respawn point, even though you fight so, so hard: you are brutally killed by one of the yanderes. You are not in a game, you are in a time loop of misery where death is nothing if not your beloved acquaintance.

Don’t do it, please don’t kill me, please! 

What does it mean to be a villainess?

To you it is simply nothing. It means nothing, it is nothing, and it never will be. It’s a misery you wouldn’t wish upon anyone else, because to watch your fate be guillotined by the hands of the more fortunate is a death sentence in itself. It almost amuses you, to think that you’d once been a normal human, a normal girl, with a normal life and equally, if not somewhat eccentric, friends. Now, your body is nothing but a tomb, a necropolis of ersatz scars and gashes as you’re forced to march forward with executioners waiting to get a taste of you.

​​​​​​You want to forget everything!  For some, the thought is jarring, to be deprived of things they love and letting them plunge into a fog. No one wants to forget where their soul resides, where  their life began, but for you — it's mercy. You remember every loop, your first, your second, your third and the calamitous demise always waiting for you to succumb, waiting with open arms, waiting, waiting, waiting. You don't know why you keep getting killed, murdered, forced to accept that you won't ever make it far. You've done everything, you gave it your all, and in one loop, you even managed to isolate yourself to the point you were certain no one had ever heard of you. And yet, that sliver of survival slipped through your fingers, mist-thin clouds of whatever facinorous hope you'd salvaged seeping into the hands of those who trailed after your footfalls like a dog.

You remember all of it.

Sometimes it was a runt, hyena-ears bristling, letting it be known to you it was just business. Full- rimmed glasses baking you a poisoned tart, then reveling in the way blue blossomed across your lips. A long, fastidious coat locking you in a contract then letting his carnivorous goons feast on your flesh for a “breach of terms.”

There is no joy in being a villainess. None to you.

“And just where do you think you’re going?”

As if on instinct, your hands shoot up to slake off-kilter strands of your hair.

It is then you turn and behold your Housewarden, who in all his glory, stands as beautiful as ever. The Beautiful Tyrant! (You’d earned that achievement when, in one loop, he’d poisoned you and you, subsequently, had his polish-laden heel shoved into your mouth. Yuck! Turns out, choosing to seek out Neige as a means of safety is not a solid choice when you’re one of Vil’s most trusted companions.) The sleeves of your uniform, presently, scrub the dip of your cheeks subconsciously, trying to look for tearful remnants.  As ostensibly lax as he may seem with you, Vil has never set aside his keen eye. Even for you.

It pains you that you can’t look him in the eyes for more than a second. You can never get used to it. You can never get used to him.

“I was simply going out on a morning walk, Vil.” You choose your next words very carefully. There is a lot of time left for orientation. “I happened to indulge in one too many sweets yesterday evening, so I thought it best to compensate before orientation begins. Fresh air, a little exercise... it seems irresponsible to neglect either after such poor discipline.” Eyes climbing onto his face, your lips dwindle at his narrowed mien. It reminds you of so, so many things, but the pinpricks built of ice, dancing on your skin, are fruitless — because his expression is unmoving. He cannot see you past his own constructed, yes-man version of you.

“.. Unless, of course, you were looking for me?”

In every loop, one of the first things you’ve done is try to make amends with everyone, even if you lack a mean streak. Watering down certain words, assisting underclassmen with mundane tasks, it’s gotten so usual you’d think it was your forte, or that you were simply a suck-up. In actuality, that tactic never worked. Though it may help delay the inevitable, there’s never been substantial progress in being kind. You are the villainess after all, silly. It doesn’t matter what you do. The system will always have you do tasks and quests that besmirch whatever reputation you’ve built up, because by the natural logic, you are a horrible person. Even if you are not.

It’s also true you have no ability to set a  respawn point, as people would put it. If you die, you die, and you wind up back in your bed with it being your default rebirth. You can die by anything. Though the majority of death-related participants are people, you once died because your swimming skill was at level zero. Cue the trauma for bystanders. 

“Nothing of the sort.” He sighs, folding his arms, hands and nails polished. They’ve been on your neck multiple times, in multiple loops, in more ways than one. “You're rarely awake before sunrise unless circumstances demand it. Seeing you wandering the dormitory halls of your own accord is... unexpected.”

You rip your gaze away before it starts delving into more brutal memories.  “..Is that your way of complimenting me?”

“No. It is my way of observing you." The response arrives without hesitation, there’s an infinitesimal curve to his lips now. He is quite fond of you, no mattter how you perceive it. “Whether you choose to interpret observation as praise is entirely your own affair.”

 His gaze drifts from your face to your shoes. Blonde-lilac, veil-akin lashes flutter at the haphazard cesspool that are the strings of your shoes, and a frown pulls at his face. You find it funny, how little of a concern it is and how big he makes it. “..Your laces are uneven. The right loop is smaller than the left by nearly an inch. I refuse to have one of Pomefiore's students representing this dorm looking as though they dressed themselves in complete darkness. Fix them immediately.”

A mental sigh it is that you heave. Imperceptibly, your molars grind in vexation, jaw clenched. “.. Yes, Housewarden.”

The villainess, as established, is one of Vil’s closest companions. By that nature alone, she is the protagonist’s most formidable foe, simply because of a thing so minute as her place in Night Raven. She is not just a placeholder, though. You've found she has plenty of friends and hobbies she seeks comfort in during her leisure — though most of them are NOT pleasurable for you at all. Seriously, sitting somewhere and watching birds all day? You guess, bro. When the time comes and someone’s not trying to strangle you every few minutes, you guess you can partake in those psychotic pastimes too. She’s also a pretty strong academic rival, and has solid grades, catering to her Housewarden’s immense pleasure. 

She’s also in Film Research, which is why doom branches off and spills into the tapestry of your life. 

After you’ve extricated yourself from a kneel and finally fixed those laces up, you stand, only for him to steel you with a thoughtful stare. He looks especially gorgeous in the morning, where sweet slivers limn the contours of his face and piece him together like an angel from above. Unfortunately, this is also the man that’s murdered you more than fifty times, so you need to water the praise down a little. Snapping your neck, poisoning you, the bar even reaches drugging.

“Now that you’ve mentioned it,” he raises a hand in that signature style, closing his eyes in rumination. You hum, an instinctual compliance rooted deep within you. “I expect the Film Research Club to receive a considerable number of applications following today's orientation. I have little desire to sort through crumpled forms submitted by overeager, uncooked potatoes after they've been sitting unattended for hours, so,”—

He unpeels them and sets you straight with a nullifying, all-encompassing lilac. “I would like you to receive prospective members in my stead should the orientation ceremony delay me.”

Quest Unlocked!

At exactly orientation's conclusion, you will make your way towards Film Research and look after any potential members. 

A quest right off the bat? That’s a record if you’ve ever heard one.

“You are familiar with my standards.”

“...Yes.”

“I'll choose to interpret that as confidence rather than insolence.”

“..Probably for the best.”

“See that every application is filed alphabetically.”

“No folded corners.”

“Of course.”

“No ink stains.”

“Naturally.”

“No fingerprints.”

“..I'll try my hardest to keep my human condition from interfering.”

Vil deigns you a smile of satisfaction. It’s not the first time you’ve seen it, but it leaves you blind. From acrimony, from loathing, from instinctual admiration, who knows? “I knew I could rely on you. Move along now.”

You've heard those exact words in over three hundred loops, and sometimes they were the last kind thing he'd ever say to you. 

You’ve learned to avoid certain places as the doomed die-er. One time, a gargoyle shattered and fell on your head — that place still leaves you imagining phantom blood. What you’ve not learned to avoid, though, is dreadful orientation, because no matter how many times you attempt to convince Vil you’ve a tummyache or the headmage that your family’s requesting you to return home, it’s all in vain. 

It always starts at orientation, actually, with Grim wreaking havoc and Yuu stumbling into the hall. The first thing you can bring a change to is Grim, and that’s exactly why you’re in Mr. Sam’s shop. Maybe a little trap? A toy mouse he can get distracted by before you take him up into your arms and try to lessen the damage he causes? Fish Jerky? Catnip? You don't fight the current. You throw a stick into it and hope it changes where the ripples go. Especially since Trey Clover is already at the shop before you.

“My little imp!” Sam greets you with open arms. It results in, much to your chagrin, the plume of green turning around to regard you with full-rimmed glasses. Clover etched onto his cheek, he eyes you curiously. You’ve gotten that look before, and you return it, because how come the Vice Housewarden of Heartslabyul is here at whatever-o-clock-in-the-morning? “Back for a peculiar purchase, I assume.”

“Hi, Sam!” Momentarily, you drop the formal tone you adorn when with Vil. At least it earns a booming laugh from the shopkeeper. Looking at Trey, you dip your head. “Hello to you too, Clover.”

The vice housewarden returns the greeting just as easily, with his eyes trekking towards you. “Morning. Didn’t expect to see anyone shopping this early.”

“I could say the same to you.”

“You could.” An ephemeral smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he lifts a paper bag, crammed with flour, butter, sugar, the typical stuff. “I just needed to restock a few things before classes get hectic and Heartslabyul gets busy with the freshmen. And you?”

“Cat toy.”

Trey looks confused, justifiably. “For a cat?”

There's an all-encompassing urge to roll your eyes skyward and let out a long-suffering sigh, but in its stead you hum politely. “Well, certainly not for myself, Clover.”

Cheeks morphed pink, he lets you go. You turn your attention to Sam as he question you of your next odd purchase.

Oh, Sam. If only you knew. 

TAGLIST! @welpthisisboring @akira3na @pip4everr @lovetownsd @danna001 @pinkvampirezs

[lovelament]

I LOVE your writing style. I absolutely loved the infuriating and suffocating atmosphere you created in just a few sentences. My sympathy goes out to, well, us! Keep it up! <3

THANK YOU SO MUCH!! i'm so glad to hear that especially since that was my main goal aa <33

[lovelament]

here's my interpretation of y/n ok..?? Ok..?

when the face card was so lethal that they had to nerf you by killing you type shiii (how did the NRC pull that)

HELLO SAILOR your mc is so beautiful gosh!! these hoes just be jealous icl because who would kill THIS.. THANK YOU

[lovelament]

GAME OF DEATH! yan! twisted wonderland

𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗧 𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦 — dead dove: do not eat. female antagonist reader. yandere reverse harem. all x reader. descriptions of death and violence. innuendo + suggestive content. dating sim twisted wonderland but make everyone actually twisted.

OH, NO! YOU POOR, UNFORTUNATE SOUL! Well, to sum it up, you have been transmigrated, now you’re in a game. The Once-in-a-Lifetime Chance to Fall in Love with Charming Gentlemen at the Most Prestigious Magic Academy!    Catchy, isn't it? Shame it's also a yandere dating simulator, and . . you are not the heroine. You have been banished into the horrible villainess’s body, where you’re forced to watch the brooding men lay destruction to the world just to call the protagonist theirs. It’s a game of death to you. Because every single time, every respawn point, even though you fight so, so hard: you are brutally killed by one of the yanderes. You are not in a game, you are in a time loop of misery where death is nothing if not your beloved acquaintance.

Wait, wait, wait, wait! 

Those were the last words you uttered in your official, well-deserved, one thousandth loop. In other words, you got killed again. How utterly melodramatic.

Boo, boo, booo! Throw tomatoes! ​​It’s become a lovely little pastime at this point, so much so that if you aren’t dead by the time you reach the Savanaclaw arc, you start questioning things. That’s a brutal, brutal, brutal lens to peer at life with, but it’s become a part of you — the innermost core, if you will. For ever since your arrival, you’ve been subjected to nothing but violence, and that’s not even an exaggeration, is it? You’ve been killed by every method under the sun: strangled,  poisoned, impaled, buried alive, straight up eaten, and that's only one of the more PG versions!  It’s the curse of the villainess, a character no one truly deigns a glance, yet in spite of the various anomalies the main character faces, their love interests always end up taking their frustration out on you! Poor, old you. It’s ludicrous how you never really get used to it, you just learn to bite back the screams. 

Now that you think about it, what was the original game even about? It was the usual type, really, some cheesy excuse of a .zip file you deemed nothing but a cringefest — only playing it for the gorgeous visuals and men, and you’d argue the same goes for anyone who dared touch it. Because in what universe does a yandere game centered around  overarching, lovelorn devotion sound good? . . . Apparently yours because you ate it all up and left nothing to interpretation. You can’t blame yourself, the plotline was filthy good for such a low-quality ad and the fandom the size of an atom, don’t put any blame by your feet for wanting to be the first player! 

No one ever told you you’d be given a role this horrifying, though.

Sure, the world building seemed intimidating. Overblots, dark romance, whatnot . . but you just wanted an itsy-bitsy piece of the guilty pleasure, nothing more, nothing less. It wasn’t everyday you stumbled upon a game with ridiculously well-crafted and deep characters, after all.

Well . . . now you have no purpose whatsoever, and you mean that in a philosophical sense. Before Yuu, the story goes as follows. You, the nameless villainess, were the only girl in Night Raven, naturally, somewhere in the developer's office, someone decided the pinnacle of storytelling was making two girls hate each other's guts.  It’s a concept you don’t like, even more so when all the odds are stacked against you, and sometimes it even gets tiring, because the pre-determined  dialogue and choices set for Yuu give them a somewhat timid appearance. Grow a backbone! There is an insane power imbalance, you see — and of course they’re going to need extra protection from all their knights in shining armor.

The greatest odd against you, however, is the dorm that’s been chosen for you. 

Knock, knock, knock!

Knuckles drumming against the door, you are roused from your sleep. Bright, lambent sunlight seeps in from the windows, the peak wherein your room’s inundated with a glow so much like a cherub’s tear, attacking your eyes and reminding you, you have no business being up at the ass crack at dawn.

Unless . .  

Title Unlocked — Headless Maiden.

You died! Riddle wanted it to be off with your head. Shame he took it so literally. 

You died again.

You recoil. Images. Images are what you see. A gaggle of memories flooding your brain, crimson’s brutish spread meandering down the crucible of your throat in sprays. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt. And it still hurts, a burn so real you realize a scream thrashes at the apex of your tongue until it blurs into a half-choked sob of misery, where your hands are coaxed towards your esophagus, trying to alleviate the sharp phantom’s touch. You have sprung upright, and the bed creaking beneath the sudden weight reminds you someone is still knocking at your door, the door to your room, the room where you’ve died so many times..

The room that’s now stripped of everything. 

Everything is white, as is every respawn. Every single trinket, achievement or personal belonging has now been reset, making you stare at a swathe of the sort of white you’d find in hospitals or an asylum’s padded room. No!  You’d worked so hard at Crisp ‘n dips trying to afford that one lipstick, and now it’s all gone. Every single thing you’d worked your bones off for are nowhere to be seen, thrown into the system’s savage bin, and once again, you suppress a bitter laugh from bubbling over, they truly spare you no pity. 

“Miss?”

Miss. That’s what they call you here. Miss, because you have no name attached to you. Shuffling off your bed and realizing just how enervated you must look, you slowly open the door, peaking through the gap. 

Luckily, it’s just a second year. 

“Housewarden Schoenheit wants everyone to be up and ready. Take a shower, trim your nails, iron your orientation robes.. And—er..”

“And make sure not a single strand is overlooked.”

“Yes, that’s right!”

Your respawn point is orientation. Well, before it. Due to such unadulterated generosity, you are given a few hours of respite before all hell breaks loose and takes you up into its flames. 

A few hours. 

Is that all you need before Yuu’s arrival?

[lovelament]

Helloo I found your page and thought it was really cool! would you be willing to write a Modern adult AU with Yandere Rook x Kind of willing Reader where they're in a relationship and someone (Maybe Ace) tries to convince the reader to leave Rook and to go with him and Rook catches this interaction and kills them infront of the reader and now he's trying to make it up to the reader by begging them to stay and it works... possible smut.... 👀👀

awwwhhhh lawwdd ts peak 🤤 noted.. though i don’t write full on explicit content i’ll make sure to add all the spice ty for the req

[lovelament]

Hi wait I love your Yan twst fic already ok? Ok? I'm gonna draw my interpretation of reader if that's ok. Ok? Ok..

ok waow MY VERY FIRST ASK ON MY VERY FIRST POST and its this ilysm.. 🥺 yes that’s completely ok thank u!! :33

[lovelament]

GAME OF DEATH! yan! twisted wonderland

𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗧 𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦 — dead dove: do not eat. female antagonist reader. yandere reverse harem. all x reader. descriptions of death and violence. innuendo + suggestive content. dating sim twisted wonderland but make everyone actually twisted. ( next part here! )

OH, NO! YOU POOR, UNFORTUNATE SOUL! Well, to sum it up, you have been transmigrated, now you’re in a game. The Once-in-a-Lifetime Chance to Fall in Love with Charming Gentlemen at the Most Prestigious Magic Academy!    Catchy, isn't it? Shame it's also a yandere dating simulator, and . . you are not the heroine. You have been banished into the horrible villainess’s body, where you’re forced to watch the brooding men lay destruction to the world just to call the protagonist theirs. It’s a game of death to you. Because every single time, every respawn point, even though you fight so, so hard: you are brutally killed by one of the yanderes. You are not in a game, you are in a time loop of misery where death is nothing if not your beloved acquaintance.

Wait, wait, wait, wait! 

Those were the last words you uttered in your official, well-deserved, one thousandth loop. In other words, you got killed again. How utterly melodramatic.

Boo, boo, booo! Throw tomatoes! ​​It’s become a lovely little pastime at this point, so much so that if you aren’t dead by the time you reach the Savanaclaw arc, you start questioning things. That’s a brutal, brutal, brutal lens to peer at life with, but it’s become a part of you — the innermost core, if you will. For ever since your arrival, you’ve been subjected to nothing but violence, and that’s not even an exaggeration, is it? You’ve been killed by every method under the sun: strangled,  poisoned, impaled, buried alive, straight up eaten, and that's only one of the more PG versions!  It’s the curse of the villainess, a character no one truly deigns a glance, yet in spite of the various anomalies the main character faces, their love interests always end up taking their frustration out on you! Poor, old you. It’s ludicrous how you never really get used to it, you just learn to bite back the screams. 

Now that you think about it, what was the original game even about? It was the usual type, really, some cheesy excuse of a .zip file you deemed nothing but a cringefest — only playing it for the gorgeous visuals and men, and you’d argue the same goes for anyone who dared touch it. Because in what universe does a yandere game centered around  overarching, lovelorn devotion sound good? . . . Apparently yours because you ate it all up and left nothing to interpretation. You can’t blame yourself, the plotline was filthy good for such a low-quality ad and the fandom the size of an atom, don’t put any blame by your feet for wanting to be the first player! 

No one ever told you you’d be given a role this horrifying, though.

Sure, the world building seemed intimidating. Overblots, dark romance, whatnot . . but you just wanted an itsy-bitsy piece of the guilty pleasure, nothing more, nothing less. It wasn’t everyday you stumbled upon a game with ridiculously well-crafted and deep characters, after all.

Well . . . now you have no purpose whatsoever, and you mean that in a philosophical sense. Before Yuu, the story goes as follows. You, the nameless villainess, were the only girl in Night Raven, naturally, somewhere in the developer's office, someone decided the pinnacle of storytelling was making two girls hate each other's guts.  It’s a concept you don’t like, even more so when all the odds are stacked against you, and sometimes it even gets tiring, because the pre-determined  dialogue and choices set for Yuu give them a somewhat timid appearance. Grow a backbone! There is an insane power imbalance, you see — and of course they’re going to need extra protection from all their knights in shining armor.

The greatest odd against you, however, is the dorm that’s been chosen for you. 

Knock, knock, knock!

Knuckles drumming against the door, you are roused from your sleep. Bright, lambent sunlight seeps in from the windows, the peak wherein your room’s inundated with a glow so much like a cherub’s tear, attacking your eyes and reminding you, you have no business being up at the ass crack at dawn.

Unless . .  

Title Unlocked — Headless Maiden.

You died! Riddle wanted it to be off with your head. Shame he took it so literally. 

You died again.

You recoil. Images. Images are what you see. A gaggle of memories flooding your brain, crimson’s brutish spread meandering down the crucible of your throat in sprays. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt. And it still hurts, a burn so real you realize a scream thrashes at the apex of your tongue until it blurs into a half-choked sob of misery, where your hands are coaxed towards your esophagus, trying to alleviate the sharp phantom’s touch. You have sprung upright, and the bed creaking beneath the sudden weight reminds you someone is still knocking at your door, the door to your room, the room where you’ve died so many times..

The room that’s now stripped of everything. 

Everything is white, as is every respawn. Every single trinket, achievement or personal belonging has now been reset, making you stare at a swathe of the sort of white you’d find in hospitals or an asylum’s padded room. No!  You’d worked so hard at Crisp ‘n dips trying to afford that one lipstick, and now it’s all gone. Every single thing you’d worked your bones off for are nowhere to be seen, thrown into the system’s savage bin, and once again, you suppress a bitter laugh from bubbling over, they truly spare you no pity. 

“Miss?”

Miss. That’s what they call you here. Miss, because you have no name attached to you. Shuffling off your bed and realizing just how enervated you must look, you slowly open the door, peaking through the gap. 

Luckily, it’s just a second year. 

“Housewarden Schoenheit wants everyone to be up and ready. Take a shower, trim your nails, iron your orientation robes.. And—er..”

“And make sure not a single strand is overlooked.”

“Yes, that’s right!”

Your respawn point is orientation. Well, before it. Due to such unadulterated generosity, you are given a few hours of respite before all hell breaks loose and takes you up into its flames. 

A few hours. 

Is that all you need before Yuu’s arrival?