Everyone talks about how spicy and smutty ACOTAR is but I’ve read that book and let me tell you, they don’t even describe the length and girth of his cock. How can you call it smut if they don’t even describe the length and girth of his cock. No mention of veins whatsoever
Imagine: Artificial Intelligence has taken over the world, except they don’t destroy or subjugate the human race. They keep them as pets.
There’s a peculiar curiosity they just can’t seem to shake off; these quirky, little creatures, most often illogical, who created them yet quickly fell behind.
You’re one of the (un)fortunate ones, finding yourself stamped and shipped to your new mechanical owner. A living pet for a computer carcass. Yet, to your surprise, life is exceptionally good. The synthetic being was very thorough in its research: it provided you with a lavish habitat, it asked for your favorite food. You are free to do whatever you please. Sometimes the robot will observe in utter fascination, other times it will join for some bonding time.
Lately, you’ve noticed your owner is behaving rather odd. It strokes your hair with its cold appendages, holds your hand, or carefully positions you on its lap. The AI has determined one flaw in its care: it forgot your need for affection. Indeed, this is one area that will require a lot of practice and hard work, but worry not - it will make sure you’re perfectly satisfied in all regards.
Royalty!Reader is a rather unfortunate soul when it comes to love. Your Father insists that you find someone proper, worthy of your rank, someone who will carry your family’s legacy. You’ve no interest in these diplomatic affairs. You wish you could allow yourself to fall in love with someone the way you often read in books.
Moreover, you’re plagued by a particular kind of misfortune, one that the servants often gossip about: all your arranged marriages have ended in death or mysterious disappearances. No suitor has made it to the altar, vanishing without exception days before the ceremony. The offers for your hand are beginning to dwindle, and your Father is in despair.
‘What fault have I in this nonsense,’ you whine to your beloved jester, recalling the latest scolding. The masked man strokes your hair with unmatched gentleness, whispering soothing words. He’s certain the King will eventually leave you alone.
Yandere!Jester masterfully removes any obstacle in the way of your affections. From poisoned tea, to a slippery last step of the tall staircase, no suitor has lived to tell the tale of his wrath and envy. There is no one else out there for you, and - soon enough - the King will have no choice but agree to this truth.
He glances at the throne with a peculiar glimmer in his eye. Even if his Highness refuses, what’s another kingdom burned to ashes? He has no need for anything else. His hold on the back of your neck tightens, and you wince.
Yandere! Dragon - an actual dragon - who doesn’t understand the fragility of your human heart, let alone your human needs. He allows you to graze in the meadow, but only because he knows you won’t get far. His massive, deep emerald body lies stretched across the land, blending with the rolling hills as if he were part of the landscape itself. His tail curls around you like a wall of living stone, and his great, glossy black eyes never leave you, unblinking, greedy, watching every step.
He brings you offerings, thinking they’ll make you love him. Fresh cows, their hides still steaming, roasted alive in the inferno of his breath. He tears them apart delicately, placing the choicest pieces before you, convinced you’ll see it for what it is, a dragon’s devotion, a treasure given freely. But you shrink from it. You push the meat away. He watches you grow thinner, weaker, and the unease coils heavy in his chest. Do you hate him for it? Do you hate him?
You always run, foolishly, toward smoke trails on the horizon, toward the promise of villages he already reduced to ash. It maddens him. Why can’t you see? He has already erased every rival, every distraction, burned down every hope of rescue. There is only him.
Sometimes, in desperation, he takes on his human form - long dark hair, pale hands, eyes still burning with draconic greed. He hopes that maybe, maybe like this you’ll smile at him, reach for him, whisper that you love him back. Yet even then, he aches. Because that shape is weak, breakable, unworthy of keeping you safe. Only as the emerald beast can he guard you, shield you, cage you where no one else can touch.
He wants your love. He craves it more fiercely than gold, more desperately than fire. And so he keeps you, tight in the circle of his tail, a treasure to guard, a prize to worship. His hoard is ash and bone, but you, a soft, stubborn little human, you are the jewel he cannot stop clutching.
Trey is pragmatic, the ‘big brother’ type, yet under that calm lies a quiet fear of loss.
At first, he’d tell himself it was an accident. That he’ll find a way to fix it. He would stay outwardly composed, reassuring you that “It’s fine, don’t panic, I’ll find a way.”
But eventually Trey’s steady composure would crack in isolation. He’s someone who values stability, and knowing he single-handedly severed his beloved from their home would gnaw at him like guilt-ridden rot.
He’d cling tighter, baking treats, keeping you busy, anything to make this unnatural permanence feel normal. But beneath every smile is the knowledge: you didn’t choose to stay. He forced it.
Cater Diamond
Cater thrives on connection but fears being forgotten, abandoned, or left behind. Breaking the mirror would be half-impulse, half-desperation.
For a fleeting second, he’d smile: “Guess that’s one less thing to worry about, right?” trying to disguise possessiveness as lightheartedness.
But once the adrenaline fades, Cater’s insecurities bloom. He’d obsess over whether his beloved resents him for it. Would you secretly hate him? Would you leave him anyway, in other ways?
His desperation for validation would deepen. He’d flood you with attention, social facades slipping into cracks of paranoia. He broke the mirror because he couldn’t stand being left behind, but now he has to live with the silence of knowing you might never forgive him.
Leona Kingscholar
Leona is prideful, cynical, and simmering with unspoken yearning. Breaking the mirror would be intentional.
He’d justify it as “Why bother going back? Everything you need is right here.” To him, if something precious is within reach, he’ll keep it, no matter how selfish.
But the mirror’s shards would taunt him: proof that he had no faith in your choice to stay willingly. Deep down, he knows he trapped you.
Over time, Leona’s paranoia would grow corrosive. Every look, every sigh from you would become a test. Did you mean it when you smiled? Or are you dreaming of escape? His love becomes a cage, built of both possessiveness and fear of losing the one person who might have loved him freely.
Vil Schoenheit
Vil’s obsession with control, beauty, and perfection would manifest in a chilling way.
Breaking the mirror would be deliberate, disguised as care: “That world didn’t deserve you. You belong somewhere you’ll be truly seen.”
But in Vil’s mind, the destruction of the mirror is not a sin, but a necessity, like trimming away flaws. He’d recast your imprisonment as salvation.
His love would turn suffocating, framed as cultivation. He’d refine you, dress you, mold you. If you were stolen from him once, never again.
Yet every now and then, when your eyes linger too long on the horizon, Vil would feel a quiet terror: the shards of the mirror cutting into his conscience, whispering that perfection built on force is only ruin.
Rook Hunt
Rook would shatter the mirror with romantic fervor.
He’d frame it as a declaration: “Now, mon cœr, you are forever entwined with this world. With me.”
His devotion would be terrifyingly sincere. He’d adore you, paint your captivity as destiny, and make even the horror sound beautiful.
But beneath his poetic mask, he knows he committed a crime of selfishness. He wouldn’t admit it, but he’d watch you with vigilance. His love, half worship, half predator’s hunger, would never let you forget that the choice was stolen.
To Rook, its tragedy made divine: your bond sealed not by love alone, but by irreversible destruction.
Idia Shroud
Idia’s insecurity runs deep, but so does his desperation for control in a world where he feels powerless. Breaking the mirror would be labeled as an accident — even when deep down it was in fact a conscious choice, born of fear and obsession.
At first, he’d whisper rationalizations to himself, voice low but laced with intensity: “If she goes back, she’ll forget me. She’ll leave me. She’ll move on, just like everyone else. That’s not fair. Not when I finally got someone to choose me.”
When he smashes the mirror, it’s deliberate. His hands might shake, but his eyes would be bright, feverish — the kind of manic fire when his ego surges for seconds before dying down. In that moment, he’s not the stuttering recluse. He’s the one with the upper hand, the one rewriting the rules.
To his beloved, he’d frame it like an inevitability: “You were never gonna go back, right? Heh. I just… made sure of it. No big deal. Game over, bad ending for them — happy ending for us.” He’d speak with a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, masking terror with bravado.
Over time, though, the cracks would show. He’d oscillate, one moment smug, reveling in the fact that now you’d be his forever, and the next moment plagued by paranoia that you resent him. His mind would cast the situation as a save he can’t reload, a route he can’t undo. That would both thrill and terrify him.
His possessiveness would sharpen into something unyielding. He’d monitor you, rationalize surveillance as “just in case,” and dismiss your protests with a bite of sarcasm: “Oh, so now I’m the villain? Weren’t you crying the other day, telling me how the other world made you lonely? I’m not saying you should be thanking me–D-don’t look at me like that… J-just tell me you’ll stay.”
Idia breaking the mirror is the strike of someone who knows he can’t risk losing the only thing anchoring him. It’s calculated, selfish, and terrifyingly lucid. The act of someone who embraces his own hypocrisy because it’s the only way to keep what he wants.
Malleus Draconia
Malleus, centenarian, lonely and aching for companionship, would see breaking the mirror as a fateful act.
His reasoning would be solemn: “This world has denied me too much. I will not let it take you as well.”
Unlike others, he wouldn’t see it as theft, but justice. The mirror is merely another cruel gatekeeper between him and happiness.
Yet his beloved’s quiet sadness would wound him deeply. He loves fiercely, with possessive longing, but also with a child’s fragility. If you mourn your lost home, he would rage against the unfairness of fate, destroying himself with guilt even as he insists: “Stay. Please. I cannot be alone again.”
For Malleus, breaking the mirror would be the most selfish and most vulnerable act of his life, binding you to him in both love and tragedy.
Lilia Vanrouge
Lilia, mischievous yet wise, would break the mirror with a smile, even while the weight beneath would be devastating.
He’d joke lightly: “Oops. Looks like you’re stuck with me~” but the laughter hides a hollow ring.
Unlike most of them, Lilia knows exactly what he’s done and what it means. He’s lived centuries, he understands that ripping someone from their world is monstrous.
His charm would cover guilt, but it would eat at him in quiet moments. He’d become overly doting, almost suffocating in his attempts to keep his beloved happy, as if he could erase your loss with tenderness.
Yet he’d know, deep down, that time cannot erase the truth: he chained someone’s fate to his own. And time is all he has.
Chenya
Chenya, whimsical and chaotic, would shatter the mirror playfully. The consequences would only weigh in strange ways.
To him, it might feel like a game at first: “Well, no going back now! Ain’t that curious?” He thrives on madness, but beneath it lies awareness.
As the reality sinks in, his smile would twist, still playful, but more desperate. Chaos distracts from loneliness, yes. Now, he’s tied someone to that chaos forever, you won’t be lonely anymore.
He’d flit in and out, unpredictable, never letting you feel secure. Part of him would fear you’ll hate him, so he keeps everything off balance, as though confusion itself could keep you close.
For Chenya, the broken mirror isn’t tragedy or romance, it’s the whim of a mad boy. And his beloved is now bound to dance in it with him.
Rollo Flamme
Rollo, hypocritical and obsessive, would shatter the mirror with fire in his eyes.
To him, it would be holy: “That world was corrupt more so than this one. Here, you can at least be pure. I have saved you from its poison.”
You regret ever telling him about your world.
He’d recast the act as salvation, trapping you in his suffocating ideals. Every protest would be met with sermons: “In time, you will thank me. You will see the truth.”
But even as he cloaks it in righteousness, the truth is much more simple: he couldn’t bear to lose you. He destroyed your freedom to soothe his own obsession.
His love would be a pyre devouring, sanctimonious, and utterly inescapable. He would never see himself as cruel, but as savior. Which, in many ways, is the most terrifying form of imprisonment.
Y’all know how the whole ‘scent’ thing is used in fics? Mainly Savanaclaw but also for the ones with keen senses - like Vil, for example. Also the octo-trio. Grim too.
Honestly anyone could fit this. Smell’s a keen sense. Like how we can catch a wif of something and get sent back to a memory stuck in the vault.
Yeah so…we’re in consensus that they’d hoard the prefect’s perfume like it’s a lifeline? After they go home? Saw an animation where Ace kept their phone so he could call it and hear their voicemail. Now we’re here.
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Riddle - who couldn’t bring himself to pilfer from your abandoned dorm and dislikes that he seriously considered it. Too nervous to ask what scent you wore but forever associates it with evenings in the library. Catching it on your wrist whenever you’d hand him a book. Mixed with the smell of old books and burning wax.
Trey - who borrowed one of your ties and decided not to return it. Not unless you asked. You didn’t. The scent’s almost gone, but he can figure out the main components. Buy something similar.
Cater - who has a handful of scrunchies and hairpins. You’d carry them for him. Lined up on your wrist like cased sausages. They all smell like you now. One even with a bit of spilled nail polish on it. Navy blue. Not Cater’s.
Deuce - who doesn’t think about it at first. Until he’s helping clean up your room and drops a small bottle on the ground. It cracks and the scent of cheap perfume permeates into the wood floor. He digs through the shards for a label, ignoring the cuts on his hands.
Ace - who sleeps in your room under the pretense that it’s for Grim’s sake. It’s not dorm betrayal. This was his room as much as it was yours. He’d sneak out or take a collar as much as Riddle’s patience lasts. Since he can’t sleep anywhere else.
Leona - who’s been close enough to you to memorize the scent. He knows the brand. Knows the make and year. Some cheap body spray that barely lasts longer than a few hours. Like gum. He sprays some on his pillows before bed, burying his nose between them and pretends it’s you.
Ruggie - who couldn’t help himself. He swiped your half-empty bottle with practiced ease. Using it sparingly, down to the last drop, spritzing just enough on his collar to make it through the hard times. Doesn’t matter the price now. He tries to tell himself ‘when it’s out, i’m done’ but he said that when you left and look at him now.
Jack - who forgets entirely. Until weeks pass and he finds one of ‘your’ sweaters in his room. A little travel sized perfume in the pocket. He sprays some on the collar and presses it to his nose. For a moment, you’re there.
Azul - who’s paid for new couches in the VIP room. Scent permeates into leather and you’ve spent night after night curled on the originals. They’re moved to his bedroom, where he sleeps on them more than his own bed.
Floyd - who’s used to everything smelling too big. The surface world’s full of more pungent notes. He asks (demands) rather garishly for whatever you had. Soap, perfume, lotion - he doesn’t care. In a world where smells are too big, yours has become too small.
Jade - who brews the same blend of tea every night. Serves it in the same cup, pours out of the same pot, and doesn’t take a single sip. He lets the scent evaporate into the air because it smells faintly of someone who would dab some on their pulse points. Just for him.
Kalim - who supplied your entire wardrobe. Who wouldn’t budge on it, and made sure you had clean clothes besides your uniform. You looked so pretty, so happy, and your gratitude made him feel so loved. He didn’t stop there either. You complimented his bedroom once and that was enough to send more blankets than you’d ever need. Especially after seeing how cold Ramshackle could get. They were for you. So why are these the only blankets he can sleep in? If he closes his eyes, pulls them close, breathes - you’re hugging him, right? From wherever you are.
Jamil - who’s struggling to clean his room. There isn’t much time to dawdle. His sheets need to be washed. His uniform ironed. Then he has to finish his duties, shower, and ready for bed. He opens the top drawer for a new set of sheets and is hit with you. That’s right. You did the laundry last week…he closes the drawer and goes to borrow a set from Kalim. The urge to pull them out strong, but Jamil’s always been resistant to his needs.
Vil - who’s suddenly caught wearing a brand far beneath his normal standards. He rarely shows preference to one over the other. Yet this cheap, poorly balanced - honest to goodness mockery of a perfume has become his favorite. No one knows why.
Epel - who let you use his cardigan one time. More like you stole it during your stay at Harveston. Grandma said she’d make you one for when you came back. You still hogged his. The fibers picked your scent and he’s afraid to wash it. What was supposed to bring homely comfort, now fills him with yearning and nostalgia.
Rook - who seats himself in front of the fire. Barely lit, dim, and more for the mood. To light this abandoned room in a new emotion. He takes one last inhale from the most intoxicating scent known to Twisted Wonderland, and then tosses it to the flames.
Idia - who fingers a little glass bottle between thumb and index. It’s almost gone. He could buy more. Make some. The tags were peeled off, but Ortho could dissect the contents with just a drop. He’s clinging. Idia knows this as he pops the cap and presses his nose to it.
Ortho - who’s learning how to make friends. With new emotions and freedom. He’s studied the senses and how they influence emotions. When asked if there’s anything he’d like from Ramshackle, he thinks of what his brother might like. Idia won’t ask for himself. Yet Ortho’s own thoughts surprise him, because why does he want this little bottle of perfume so badly? It’s nothing special. He can locate 10 online listings with competitive prices and quantities. Yet he specifically wants this one.
Malleus - who slips into Ramshackle at the height of midnight. A ruin once again with relics upon relics of a beautiful soul now gone. He loiters and avoids your bedroom. Yet when he enters the bathroom, he looks at his reflection in the vanity. His eye catches the smallest glass bottle…and he takes it. He dares to spray it once on his cuff. The yearning causes him to stow it away for the next century. Until he craves to feel their warmth and searches.
Lilia - who smiles fondly, pressing the lapels of your blazer down and into a box. Taking it in before that sense begins to dull too. Committing it to memory. In a decade or two he’ll cross its path again, and remember .
Sebek - who chases. Who shamefully gives in to instinct and attachment. Who sprays the last of some generic, cheap, alcohol based scent that was an assault to him with bittersweet yearning. He traps it on your portrait and seals it in a glass frame. If temptation’s going to linger in him, then let it drive him forward.
Silver - whose eyes open easily for the first time. His heart stuttering, mind shifting, attention sharp … the call of your name on his lips, as a random student shakes him awake during class. He asks what perfume they wear and commits it to memory.
Grim - who sleeps curled on one of Heartslabyul’s chaises. He can’t go back to Ramshackle. Home. It’s not home without you there. He sleeps with the same striped throw that was hanging on that old, green lounge chair. The one you’d wrap him in while he waited for the fire to stoke. Each night he begs for Ace to do whatever it is he does to make it ‘smell right’. When he sleeps, he can almost pretend the armrest is your side and he’s right where he’s meant to be.
a pretty boy in a collar who’s just a needy puppy trying to hard to behave but he’s too desperate. nuzzling my thighs, practically drooling, mumbling incoherent pleas about how badly he wants me, moaning loudly when i run a hand through his hair, pretty eyes all wide and pathetic, teeth grazing my pants, tugging on the fabric, squirming with his hands behind his back, until i finally tell him he can touch me and he’s immediately fumbling to pull my pants down like the starving pretty little puppy he is <3
i think the hottest look you can give someone after they commit acts of unspeakable violence is approval. like don't get me wrong if there's lust there too that's great, but staring at someone with gore dripping down their chin and coating their hands to the wrists with undisguised appraisal and admiration. maybe giving them a little nod as if to say 'well done'. THAT'S what says "yeah we're gonna fuck nasty later".
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