Soo lucky i stumble this acc (*≧∀≦*), please do male courtesan vil x royal princess reader. Theres this act thatcourtesan do to express their deep love to a person,thats by cutting their finger and gifting it to them. But what if vil being a beautiful courtesan, always picked by high noble men and women for their events fall for reader. The first time he sees her, her cheeks flushed as she lookmat him sway his hips for the old pig/noblemens he despised. But ever since that day he found his self frequently accepting those invitations just to see reader, till his obsession became a bottomless desire, that one day when he offer a performance at reader birthday banquet she receives a finger....and the next is she lost consciousnesses. Do it noncon and forced preg if possible, the darker itll be the yummier it gets(///∇///).
HOHOHO FINALLY GETTING TO THIS ONE BBG
❝𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐚𝐧❞
𝐒𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐬: Vil Schoenheit (mild Ace and Deuce)
𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: Adult content, yandere!char x darling!reader, female!Reader, noncon, semi-historical setting, molestation, prostitution, breeding kink, forced pregnancy, gore, cannibalism, religious appropriation, suicidal ideations and attempting, mild corruption, angst, height difference (he's canonically like 6'0/183 cm), off-screen character death, bribery, heavily controlling dynamics, mating press, self-mutilation, yandere shenanigans, actually proofread for once, and more.
𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: The most beautiful courtesan has fallen in love with the princess of the Shaftlands. Never mind the status difference, or that he's seen as a whore. He doesn't care about status; he only wants you.
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5992
I do not condone this bs. It's just for entertainment.
He loathed every moment of the torture he too-quickly realized it was. It was as if he were being smothered by a hefty, perspiring pig draped in ill-gotten silks. Despite his striking beauty, Vil found himself drenched in wine, his exquisite form cleaned by greedy tongues that had no right to touch him. Rough hands roamed relentlessly, grabbing and squeezing every inch of his soft, pale skin, leaving him feeling violated and trapped in grotesque, unwanted dances of attention.
The nightmares of that fateful night cling to him like a shadow, casting a pall over his thoughts from the moment he wakes until the last flicker of consciousness. He is the object of yearning and affection from many a man and woman, yet he feels wretched and unclean, an irony not lost on him. The love that envelops him seems to seep into his being like a toxic elixir, its sweetness masking a bitter edge. It’s a cruel contradiction; this adoration, so intoxicating, yet ultimately corrosive, leaves him to wonder if even the sharpest poison might offer a more palatable escape than this torment.
At the age of twenty-two, adorned in exquisite silks that cascaded over his form in vibrant hues. Around his neck and wrists gleam golden jewelry, intricately crafted and sparkling with every movement. He is the epitome of beauty, his features striking and harmonious, but he feels as filthy as the pigs he knows.
You have just turned twenty, and your father, that fat fucking pig Vil has had to deal with on more than one occasion, has brought you to him. Vil heard nothing of you, only your father, the king. He had assumed he might be bought out as a mistress to his majesty one day. Such a future was something of pure dread for Vil, a hell of a life he wanted nothing of.
So he drank his own poison. He couldn't even taste it through the wine, thank the Seven.
Then you, not your father, enter the room Vil has grown so used to having the abuse of fat nobles within. You sit before Vil, dressed in a beautiful purple befitting a princess of the Shaftlands. Dear, you're beautiful, you're flushed, you're keeping your distance. Your father left the two of you alone, thank heavens. You watch him, eyes full of such curious adoration while he plays a shamisen imported from a distant land.
Not once have you made any move to reach out to him; instead, you sit there, a vision of ethereal beauty, radiating an allure that fills the air with an unsettling tension. The sight of you sickens him. How can someone as enchanting as you be kin to the king? A flicker of recognition dances in his mind: the same striking eyes that gleam with innocence, yet devoid of the deep, simmering desire that lurks within him; the same strong brow, but yours is unmarred by the furrow of worry or regret.
You share his features, yet you dare to embody the guise of an innocent child. It is almost an affront to him, this façade you maintain, though he cannot ignore how fervently you lose yourself in his music, as if it were a lifeline to something profound. A part of him is repulsed by the notion that you may look past the scars of his existence, failing to recognize the darkness he has been forced to wear like a second skin.
"You needn't sit so far away," Vil calls out, his melodious voice breaking through the soft sounds of the room. His striking purple eyes lock onto yours with a warmth that draws you in. As he pauses his playful antics, he extends a slender hand towards the floor beside him, palm down and fingers gently beckoning. "Please, Princess," he adds, his smile inviting and sincere in that mockery of pleasantness he long since mastered. "You won't be troubled for coming closer."
You felt the lump in your throat as you swallowed hard. Vil had been about to retract his offer, but then you slowly stood up, heart racing, and carefully moved to take place just inches from where he had beckoned you. Your demeanor was modest, hands folded on your lap. At first, Vil was offended. But with your innocent reality, he soon came to accept it and continue his performance.
【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】
𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭. In fact, nothing happened the first five times you were brought to visit him. When you left, taking your sweetness with you, Vil decided to see this longer and drank the antidote to his own poison.
You were his salvation; an enigma, a woman whose very presence ignited a fire in him that he hadn’t felt in ages. When you spoke, your voice was a soothing balm, wrapping around him like a gentle whisper. He unraveled under your gaze, emotions that had long been buried twisted into desperate longing for your attention.
He craved you, so much so that he invited you to sing with him, and instantly, he was consumed by the hypnotic lure of your voice. He beckoned you to dance, and in your every movement, he found himself ensnared, captivated by your grace. You brought him gifts, but it was your kindness that ensnared his heart, leaving him yearning. You showed him dignity, and with every glimpse of your soul, he fell deeper into an obsession, something that became desperate to possess every piece of you.
Six, thirteen, twenty-four meetings.
Each time, he spiraled deeper into his fixation. You were not just hope; you were his very lifeline. Salvation was found in your eyes, and his heart raced at the thought of you. Darling, you were everything; his every waking thought, the obsession that consumed him. Without you, the world felt hollow, a mere shadow of what could be.
Elegantly adorned, with meticulous attention to every detail, Vil stands ready to greet you. He does everything to radiate a fraction of your grace. Lately, some have succumbed to natural causes, but others have left behind suspicions, with autopsies speaking that poison lingered as the culprit. Each of these fallen nobles held no place in your heart, but they had all been frequent customers of Vil.
"Quite the unfortunate scenario," Vil murmured, his voice laced with a mix of mock sympathy as he effortlessly pulled you into his lap. It was a habit he had picked up since your third visit, a gesture that felt strangely natural between you two. His arms wrapped around you securely, and you could feel the warmth radiating from his body against yours. "But I'm sure they must deserve such targeting," he continued, mischief dancing in his eyes.
You shook your head vigorously, trying to deny the implication of his words. The thought of anyone deserving such treatment gnawed at your conscience as their princess; as someone who should protect them. However, he silenced you with a gentle shush, pressing your head against his chest as if to shield you from the harshness of the world outside. It was his way of saying he didn't want to hear your protests, one he picked up from your eighth visit.
"Don't tell me you're ignorant of their deeds, your highness," he tsked softly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a barely contained smirk as he noticed the confusion etched across your features. "Oh my, you are, aren't you?"
With an easy motion, he let his left hand glide down to the small of your back. The warmth of his palm through your dress and corset sent a thrill through you as he pulled you even closer, until your body was molded against his firm chest, your breath hitching slightly as your form was snugly pressed against him. The proximity heightened your awareness of him; the subtle scent of his cologne, the rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear, and the way his presence enveloped you in a protective cocoon.
How peculiar, he mused; he once detested being in your shoes, for it always highlighted the disparity between the strong and the weak. When he interacted with his male clients, he was a captivating, innocent vixen. With his female clientele, he had to be a charismatic and stunning figure. But with you, he assumes a different role entirely; he stands as your wellspring of genuine knowledge. Beyond the confines of the royal tutors, whose teachings are often constrained by tradition and protocol, he tells you truths long hidden to your royal teachings. Here, in his presence, you gain an education that far beyond your royal upbringing.
"My darling princess," Vil murmurs, his voice low and soothing as he talks to you as though you were but a child. He moves gracefully, his fingers gently gliding up to your cheek, cradling your face with a tenderness that belies the storm brewing within him. As his thumb traces delicate circles just under your eye, he draws you in a fraction closer, the warmth of his touch both comforting and electric.
With his lips brushing on yours, he whispers to you, "Those men were truly despicable." There’s a slight tremor in his voice as he reveals the foul disdain he tries so hard to hide from your innocent eyes. "Cheating on their wives, squandering their money on people like me…" His words hang in the air, thick with unspoken thoughts. His gaze falls to your lips, and for a moment he dares to think he might kiss you.
You shake your head to dispel his words, and he sees those tasty eyes of yours go real wide as you try to push off him. "Heresay!" You protest, but Vil hums in disapproval. "You're ignorant, your highness."
"But such men are honorable! They are nobles!" You're too good for them, Vil soon realizes. You stand steadfastly by the defense of those pigs who have wronged him in every conceivable manner. Those men, with their calloused and filthy hands that had no right to lay a finger on him, had imprinted their wretchedness upon his very skin. Their foul breath lingered in the air like a noxious cloud, staining his flesh with a sense of degradation that he could not shake off. Moreover, their wealth, dripping from the coin they waved in their arrogance, was tainted and ill-gotten, stolen from the meager taxes of the oppressed beneath them, the very souls they exploited. As Vil grapples with the weight of this realization, a storm of emotions brews within, symbolizing a fight against the injustice he witnesses in the guise of nobility.
You, darling princess, shouldn't defend them.
"Why do you shield them?" Vil demands, a furrow etched deep into his brow as he quickly strides to keep up with you. Memories of every horrid night flash behind his amethyst eyes. He can feel them all over again; he can feel them tainting his perfection and muddying it with filth. "Do you love them more than you love me? Is that what you’re trying to say?" The sharpness of his tone pulls at your heartstrings. Of course you hadn't meant it that way, and Vil knew that. He was merely toying with you to make his burning jealousy feel better.
You falter, nervousness creeping into your demeanor. "N-no," you stammer, raising your hands in a gesture of appeasement, as if it could possibly be enough to ward off his accusations. "I didn't mean that—" Your voice trails off as you struggle to find the right words to reassure him, afraid that any wrong step might deepen the rift between you.
"You came off as though you did." Vil was better at this than you; this much he knew. You're timid; you don't understand how to talk the way he does. If he's firm enough, if he puts himself under your pity, you crumble and take his side.
"You wound me, princess," he continued, an exaggerated sorrow lacing his tone. "I can’t help but feel that your visits are more about the needs of the household—filling its coffers—than about the value of spending time with me." His words dripped with a mix of charm and anguish, making it difficult for you to discern where the performance ended and his true feelings began. You could see the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, yet the depth of his voice belied a genuine vulnerability that tugged at your heart.
"No, please, that's not true!" you exclaim, your voice trembling as tears begin to pool in your eyes. The hurt in your heart is palpable, yet Vil stands before you, his pride soaring as he slowly shifts his gaze away, letting his eyelids fall shut in a momentary retreat. The silence hangs heavily between you, a stark contrast to the storm of emotions raging within.
You realize he has closed himself off, and it's almost as if the walls he has built are thicker than any fortress. "You can cry if you need to,” he finally states, his tone colder than the winter air, “but it won’t change the truth.”
In that moment, you feel an ache swell within you. "Is it really true, though?" you challenge, your voice barely above a whisper as you grapple with his accusation. "You already know that money will never reach me, so why do you come here? Is it just to torment me with your unwavering belief that nobility is defined solely by bloodlines and privilege?" Vil's words have a way of making you feel as though you were the one doing wrong. In a way, you had. Your ignorance had led you right into this little trap of his.
Your chest feels constricted with an overwhelming sense of worry, and your heart aches deeply at the thought of him witnessing you in such a vulnerable state. "No, Vil, I swear!" you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion. As you reach up, your arms encircle his waist, seeking the comfort of his embrace. You bury your face against his chest, the fabric of his shirt soft and warm beneath your cheek. It’s a refuge for your swirling emotions.
You can feel the sob building inside you, a heavy weight that spills forth before you even make a sound. The tears begin to fall, one after another, staining his shirt as you cling to him. After what feels like an eternity, he gently places his hand on the crown of your beautiful head, fingers weaving through your hair, offering silent comfort and reassurance in your moment of need.
"You swear?"
"I do!"
“Then I suppose I might find it in my heart to forgive this,” Vil murmured softly, a gentle smile gracing his lips, reminiscent of a saint radiating compassion. As you looked up at him, the emotion in your eyes mirrored that of a scolded child seeking solace in her mother’s protective skirts, vulnerable and unsure. “But honestly, your highness, you must listen to your people. Those nobles you dismissed were all regular patrons of this establishment. Do you truly not grasp the nature of this industry?”
You instinctively shook your head in response, a slight tremor of disbelief coursing through you, prompting him to tsk softly, his disappointment palpable. “This is a whorehouse, your highness,” he stated, the words hanging in the air like a heavy shroud.
A wave of revulsion washed over you at his assertion, and he noticed it right away, the way your body instinctively tried to pull away from him. But Vil was quick, his grip firm yet careful as he anchored you in place upon his lap. “Don’t try to run now,” he murmured, his tone laced with an unsettling blend of amusement and calm. His palm cupped your delicate face, his touch both possessive and tender. “Just because it is one thing does not mean it cannot be another.”
The warmth of his gaze and the gentleness of his voice seemed to have a soothing effect, gradually calming the storm of emotions raging within you, if only for a fleeting moment. You found yourself captivated once more.
【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】
𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐬 𝐕𝐢𝐥 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐫 into this all-consuming depravity he hadn't known himself to have before. You bring out something desperate in him; you make him desperate.
He eagerly anticipates each visit from you, his excitement palpable as each day draws closer to your arrival. So, when the day comes that he receives a formal invitation—rather than just being contracted for a night of service—Vil can hardly contain his joy. With a broad smile stretching across his face, he graciously accepts your invitation with a delight he never knew for his other customers.
And now, he finds himself seated in the opulent tearoom of the castle where you spent your childhood, a place rich with memories and enchantments. The atmosphere is alive with the delicate clinking of fine china, air infused with the sweet aroma of freshly brewed tea and pastries from this morning's bake. Vil is diligent in performing his usual rituals; the gentle strumming of his instrument fills the air as he plays all your favorite songs, each note intentionally filled with his affection for you.
To Vil, you are not merely a visitor; you are a cherished darling, deserving of all his attentions and care. He thinks back on the past—your shared glances and whispered exchanges, kisses shared in moments he got you just close enough to take his affection for only a fraction of its depth. The number of times you’ve visited has become a comforting rhythm in his existence—once, twice, eleven times now—but he cannot help but feel that those numbers are too trivial to encapsulate what you mean to him.
In moments like this, he grapples with the realization that calling you his “customer” is entirely wrong. When he had you promise to see only him on the fifty-third visit, that became more than blatantly clear. You’ve honored that vow with unwavering loyalty, and Vil treasures that commitment. You are a lover to him, the only one that matters in this filthy kingdom.
As night envelops the world outside, he has managed to charm his way into your room once again. The dim light casts soft shadows on the walls as he eases the door shut behind him, a sly grin playing on his lips. You can feel the electric thrill of anticipation as he reveals that he has bribed the guards, ensuring that no one will interrupt your time together. He failed to tell you the full extent of his plans, of course.
Instead of opting for the typical gesture, Vil steps closer and envelops you in a gentle embrace, his arms wrapping securely around your waist. You stand there, a bit surprised, as he leans in, his warm breath brushing against your ear. “Your Highness,” he murmurs, his tone tender and filled with sincerity. Slowly, he tilts your chin up with his right hand, coaxing you to meet his gaze. His left arm tightens around your waist, drawing you closer as he looks deeply into your eyes. “There’s something I’ve been longing to do,” he continues, his voice low and earnest, “a way to express my unwavering devotion to you, just as you have steadfastly devoted yourself to me.”
You give him such a look of excitement that Vil almost regrets what he might do to you.
Gently, he unwrapped himself from your embrace, his movements graceful and intentional, before leading you to the edge of your bed. "Stay right there for me, my darling," he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm in the evening air. A soft smile dances on his lips as he positions himself just out of your reach, a teasing distance that makes you eager to see what could need you to be this far.
With a flick of his wrist, he draws your gaze to the elegant fabric of his long, flowing sleeve. As he reaches inside, an electric thrill courses through you. You think he has a gift for you, and he does. He reveals a dagger that gleams like liquid gold under the soft light of the room. It is an exquisite piece, the hilt adorned with intricate designs that catch the eye, shimmering alongside the jewels that embellish his attire. The blade itself, slender and perfectly balanced, captivates your attention entirely. You worry, and he ignores it.
Before you even utter a single word, he places his right hand gently on your lap, his palm turned upward as if seeking something from you. His left hand grips the hilt, the blade catching the soft glow of the room as he begins to hum an unknown lullaby. As you gaze downward, a vivid stain of red slowly begins to soak into the silk of your skirts, spreading outwards like a cruel flower in bloom, the vividness of it stark against the fabric. He had severed that finger, not so much as flinching when the pain shoots up his arm to remind him of the price of his devotion.
He hears your horror before he sees it, but he doesn't mind.
"A fitting punishment, one might think," Vil murmurs, his voice dripping with a mix of bitterness and dark amusement as he gingerly picks up the severed digit of his fifth finger. The remnants of his once nimble hand now lie in disarray in the palm of his hand. He gazes at the dismembered piece of flesh, his eyes showing a longing for it almost as thick as the honey his yearning for you has produced. "Considering how many times I've stirred the lethal poisons that brought down your pathetic nobles with this very finger," he continues, his tone laced with the satisfaction of what he'd done. Each word hangs heavily in the air, a taunt wrapped in the weight of his past transgressions.
Amethyst gems glint ominously in the dim light, locking onto your wide, horrified eyes as the metallic scent of blood fills your nostrils, thick and cloying. Panic rises in your throat, and you can barely stifle the gag reflex it provokes.
“Ah?” Vil croons, his voice dripping with mockery as a smile that borders on the sadistic twists across his features, transforming his charming visage into something far more menacing. He leans closer, the heat of his breath brushing against your skin. “Do you find it displeasing, princess?”
He is reveling in your fear, the way you nod and try to turn away, the way you act as though you never saw this coming. With deliberate slowness, he holds up the severed digit, its twisted form glimmering unnaturally under the flickering light. It hovers just above your trembling face, a cruel offering as he crawls atop you, the weight of him pressing down, making it that much harder to breathe.
“Are you truly ungrateful for this gift from your people?” His voice is soft, yet a mocking whisper dripping with condescension. He leans in even closer, tracing the edge of your fear with every word whispered along your ear. “Come now, don’t be so harsh. It’s merely a token of my appreciation.”
You're mortified; eyes locked on every crimson drop coming from both parts of his hand. "Your highness, really, don't look so horribly at this." Vil croons, hardly holding back a cruel chuckle as he brings the bleeding part of the severed finger to your lips. "Be grateful, for this is the lengths I go for my love to you, my salvation."
Vil does not care for your pitiful horror. You were the one who let him fall in love; you were the one who got this close. "Drink, just as you drink your lord for communion. Let me be that blood you consume."
You initially resist, shaking your head with defiance, but your protest is abruptly silenced when you feel the cold steel of the dagger pressed against your neck. The sharpness of the blade sends a shiver through you, and you meet Vil's intense gaze. "Don't be a brat, your highness," he says, his voice steady and unwavering, a hint of frustration lacing his tone. "You must serve your people as you have sworn to do." His words hang in the air, heavy with expectation. You're failing the princess he's come to expect you to be.
"This isn't─"
"Serve your people!" Vil's voice reverberates off the cold stone walls of the chamber, wrapping around you like a heavy shroud and reminding you of the weighty responsibility you bear. In that moment, you can't help but flinch, your body instinctively recoiling from the sharpness of his tone. A flicker of guilt crosses his features as he observes your reaction, a fleeting acknowledgment of the fear he instills in you, but he quickly banishes it. This is not a moment for softness; it is, he believes, a vital lesson you must internalize.
"You must understand," he continues, his voice dropping to a softer tone, "if you cannot serve me, then you are unfit to serve your people. It’s as simple as that."
Vil doesn't feel the slightest bit of guilt for what he's doing. He's happy to push the bleeding digit past your lips, for you will eventually come around, he's sure. "Here you are, my dear. Eat this, all of it, for it is my body." He whispers, painted lips brushing your ear as he listens to the sickening crunch of his own bones being chewed up and swallowed in that wonderful mouth of yours.
You're an obedient soul, even if your shyness often holds you back. “What a good girl you are,” he praises softly, his voice dripping with affection. “A true princess.” His tone shifts to a soothing coo, nudging you further toward the depths of your submission. Despite the discomfort clawing at you from both the taste and the weight of your transgressions, he gently cradles your head against his chest, his fingers tenderly threading through your hair, offering solace.
“And now, drink this,” he murmurs, guiding his remaining wound toward your eager lips. “Drink, and we shall be complete. I will belong to you, and in return, you shall be my salvation.”
He pressed his lips against yours with a tender urgency, sighing softly, the warmth of his breath mingling with yours as his beautiful, gentle hands drifted delicately along the curves of your bodice and the flowing fabric of your skirts. The faint sound of his moans escaped him. Low, melodic notes that echoed his enjoyment of every precious moment spent wrapped up in this intimacy. “My salvation,” he murmured, his voice heavy with reverence and adoration, filling the air with an almost intoxicating longing. “Don’t fight this. You wanted it, didn’t you?”
Wanted this? Wanted this? The idea is as repulsive as his relentless fixation. You haunt his mind, a phantom that lingers in every corner of his thoughts, providing just enough solace to keep him ensnared in your grasp. Every moment, he clings to you, seeking refuge from the torment of his previous existence, a hell he cannot escape.
Vil is not a fool; he knows damn well what he is doing. He fully plans to get you pregnant, to openly claim the child is his, to force your hand to marry him. At the very least, to keep him as a paramour.
You gasp for air as he finally relents from his fierce onslaught, the storm of passion giving way to a moment of unsettling stillness. No longer does he press his lips against yours; instead, his voice cuts through the haze, issuing a simple command: "Arms up." With a fluid motion, he boldly strips you of yet another piece of your dignity, peeling away the layers of your dress as if it were nothing more than a fragile facade. Each garment falls away, discarded like fallen leaves, revealing more than just skin—revealing vulnerability.
"Vil, please," You whimper, "Don't do this. This isn't love, you're scaring me."
At your words, your protest against his love, Vil snaps at you. "Silence!" His voice cuts through the air like a blade, and you find yourself shrinking back, overwhelmed by an instinctual wave of fear. You can feel your heart pounding erratically in your chest, each beat echoing with the tension that hangs between you.
His eyes, a striking blend of amethyst hues, shimmer with an unsettling intensity. They are wide and bloodshot, evidence of the torment and fury swirling within him. In this moment, you see not just his rage, but the depth of his vulnerability—a tumultuous storm that contrasts sharply with the piercing beauty of his gaze. You're a foolish woman, thinking he doesn't love you. You are, quite literally, the only thing he loves.
"You've done nothing but lead me on. You know what I am, yet you kept calling for me. You swore yourself to me." Tears, for the first time since you met him, begin to form in those beautiful eyes. "Since I was a child, I have belonged to the hands of your nobility. Then you come, on the night I wanted nothing but to end my pitiful life, and you break the cycle. How dare you say I have no love when it is all I am?"
You're silent beneath him as he leans in closer, his breath warm against your skin. He places a hand on either side of your head, effectively caging you in with his presence. There's a fierce intensity in his gaze as he murmurs, "You are my salvation, and I will do anything to have you. The Great Seven may damn me for it."
They already did. Of this, he is sure.
Before another word can escape your lips, before you can gather your thoughts or prepare for what comes next, Vil has already claimed your mouth with his. His kiss is fervent, almost desperate, a stark contrast to the earlier tenderness. The grace that once characterized his movements has dissipated—perhaps it's the urgency of the moment or the hunger in his heart. His motions have become less graceful; they've lost most of their gentleness as he decides you no longer deserve the dignity of being prepped.
Vil's wounded hand is the one to wrap around the base of his aching dick, the same one he's spent several nights jerking until he was soft when you were unable to visit. All he gives himself is a few short pumps before his other hand drags one of your thighs from the other. Settling between them is easier than he thought, and before you've gotten any wiser, he's notched the tip between your folds.
"Take me," Vil whispers against your lips, his breath warm and inviting. His voice is a soft plea that dances in the air between you. With a gentle yet deliberate movement, he rolls his hips forward, pushing through the tight resistance of your body’s first barrier. A sigh escapes him, filled with longing and desire. "Let me love you," he continues, his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine. "I promise, if you allow me in, you will learn to love me back."
This isn’t love in the way you’ve always envisioned it. For Vil, it’s the only love he knows. “My salvation,” he whispers, an urgency lacing his tone, as if your presence is the only thing anchoring him to this damnable world. He remains oblivious to the anguish you feel, possibly by choice, but you'll never know. He calls out to you, “My salvation,” each repetition echoing with desperation and fervor, a mantra that fills the emptiness he carries within.
Once more, his voice calls to you, persistent with longing, echoing in your mind until you finally respond. The moment you do, Vil melts into you with an irresistible warmth. His substantial form envelops you, pressing you deeper into the mattress as he begins to rock himself into you, each movement giving you a delicious fullness despite the stretch you go through within your gummy walls. As he leans closer, his lips find yours in a rush. It’s a wild and hungry connection, completely devoid of the careful, fluid seduction he had been attempting before. There’s a raw urgency in how he devours your mouth, a languid heat that leaves you breathless and craving more.
"Yes, my─fuck, my salvation, that's what you are." Vil's poised tone has lost itself, turning into something raw, something as desperate as he is. "My salvation, my only hope. Don't push me away, my love. Accept me. Accept my love."
Whether you do or don't, and you don't, you can feel the drag of his dick on every ridge of your body, telling you just how deep he was before he's right back in, plunged right down to your womb. "Yes, take this, take it all." He croons, a blissful expression pulling on his features as he settles into a pace that has the bed beneath you breaking in protest. It's fast, too fast for you, and every dip as your cervix fights with the tip of his cock.
It hurts, more than you care to admit. Even though every nerve screams to fight him off, to have him executed, to scream for the guards to help, you instead cover your eyes and toss your head back as an involuntary moan escapes your pretty mouth.
"For me? So soon? Oh, my darling." Vil's voice drips with excitement, and the elation in his tone ignites a fire within him, urging him to pour every ounce of passion into the moment. Those remaining nine fingers wrap around the underside of your thighs, pushing them up, up, up, guiding them upward until your knees nearly graze your shoulders.
If not for the slight burn of being folded in half and fucked so recklessly, Vil only adds to it. His broad chest, once a comforting pillow on those lazy afternoons when he’d pull you close for a tranquil rest, now presses against your thighs as he props himself up on his elbows. His deep, earnest gaze holds you captive, drawing you into a world where it feels as if time has paused just for the two of you.
"You're beautiful," Vil whispers, his voice trembling with emotion, and tears cascade down his cheeks like gentle rain. "Great Seven, you're the most beautiful woman I've ever met. I crave you like the earth craves the sun, absorbing every ray of warmth and light. I desire you as a thirsty wanderer longs for the life-giving waters of an oasis. You are everything to me, the very essence of my being."
His confession hangs in the air, wrapped in vulnerability, and for a fleeting moment, the world outside fades away, leaving only the sound of his heartbeat and the weight of his words between you. His words are lost on you, unheard through the haze of your pain turning into an embarrassing pleasure. Vil knows what he's doing. He's making it impossible to think, impossible to breathe, to dare imagine he might stop.
To Vil, you deserve no warning for when he cums, but he does make sure to whisper into your ear sinful promises to plant his seed within you. He speaks of it as if it's what you want, until it is what you want. With his first climax, he does not stop moving. He merely slows, until the drag is slow and you can hear every squelch between your frantic breaths. "Not done." He promises, cooing as he wipes your tears and sits up.
You whimper, and he chuckles; a hum that follows is all you have while he spreads your thighs under the firm grip of his hands. "No, not yet, your highness. One has never been enough to seed. You need more, don't you?"
─☆: .☽ . :☆─
I find it funny how the oldest request I haven't gotten to yet is a Neige req from Jan 31st.
People have really forgotten that yandere is literally a horror trope. No I don't want a "green flag yandere" I want an endless pit of dread in my stomach and also a sense of arousal that shouldn't be there
You’re a normal person with the unfortunate position of having him as your soulmate. You’ve never met the guy, but you’ve been hearing his inner thoughts most of your life, and he should absolutely be locked up.
Pull me Once Masterlist
An anthology for different men, all with the same goal: Tug the hair.
Who's Your Daddy Masterlist
Your mouth has a mind of its own when asked awkward questions. Freud is winning.
Not Today, Herpes Masterlist
You finally track your soulmate down. He's kissing someone else. You FLEE.
One Piece OC Fic's
Vanilla Charlotte: Sweeter than Sugar
She was Vanilla Charlotte: logistical warlord, Cake Karate black belt, certified sugar hater, and walking migraine to Big Mom herself.
Child MC Fic's:
Miss Apothecary Masterlist
You are foremost, an apothecary. You are also a Crocus apprentice who has sneaked aboard the Oro Jackson. Shenanigans Ensue.
Red Haired Shanks
Red Sails (Chapter Story)
You'd spent a long time sailing the seas to escape a dark past. But with one small decision, you've piqued the interest of an Emperor of the Grand Line, and now you must make a choice.
Soul Shanked (Short Chapter Story)
At nine, you asked what a man was. Elder Gloriosa described a creature of chaos, charm, and cursed shoulder width. You swore an oath: no man would ever claim you.
Years later, as a respected Amazon Lily envoy, that oath dies the moment a glowing name—Shanks—appears on your palm. A soulmate mark. You panic. Shanks, naturally, celebrates.
“No Takebacks" (Drabble Series)
You joined the crew for berry, not to accidentally marry the world’s most chaotic, rum-soaked, and smug pirate captain. But somehow, here you are—dodging sea gods, brotherly charmers, and your own poor taste in men. Unfortunately for you, Shanks smells like trouble… and you said I do anyway.
A Single-Handed Disaster (One-shot)
On the docks, chaos reigns as Marines face impossible odds, and someone’s wrists might just end up in the wrong place.
Shamrock Figarland
With Sympathy, You Will Remarry: (Chapter Story)
Being a single widow in Mary Geoise is no small feat. A woman is expected to remarry quickly to secure her standing, and with a young daughter to consider, you enter the social ring with careful reluctance, more for her future than your own. What you do not know is that there is one man who has been waiting many years for this exact moment—and he has no intention of letting it pass.
Garling Figarland
A Lineage of Red: (Chapter Story)
In Mary Geoise, power gleams like polished marble, bloodlines pass as currency, and every smile is sharpened for war. Your mission is simple: survive the social circuit, gather intelligence, and escape unnoticed.
All goes well—until you catch the eyes of the handsome Commander of the God’s Knights—Saint Garling Figarland. You were supposed to be beneath his interest. Now you’re squarely in his sights.
The Figarland Retention Strategy: (Short Story)
The pay was unreasonable, the child was famously difficult, and the Supreme Commander of the Holy Knights was, unfortunately, exactly as advertised. You came to the Governess interview in the wrong coat, said the wrong things, and got the job anyway. You were going to do good work, save your money, and leave. The position was temporary. The child had other ideas. So, it turns out, did his father.
Dracule Mihawk
A Vintage Bouquet (Chapter Story)
Trapped in a monastery and threatened with an impending marriage, you'll strike any deal with a Pirate to escape what your father has in store for you. This has some significant consequences when you accidentally marry him.
Benn Beckman
Beck and Call (Oneshot)
You're Beckman's favorite bartender, and perhaps the only person he waits for.
Pipe and Prejudice (Oneshot)
Pirate law says don’t screw the crew. Beckman says: not unless it’s him.
You just wanted a kiss. Maybe a date. Definitely a good time. Instead, you got involuntary celibacy, crew-wide surveillance, and one maddeningly attractive first mate who watches your love life like it owes him money.
This is a tale of: Pirate hypocrisy. Sexual tension. Emotional warfare. And Benn Beckman—armed, infuriating, and apparently making exactly one exception.
Beckman’s Law (Oneshot)
You’re a bounty hunter to rescue a kidnapped Kuja, you almost pull it off; until mid-escape your soulmark goes off like a siren.
On the other end? Benn Beckman.
(A Soul Shanked Epilogue)
Kuzan Aokiji
Operation Cold Front (Chapter Story)
Marineford’s New Year’s Bash was supposed to be harmless—drinks, bad singing, and a spontaneous midnight kiss. You weren’t planning on participating. You definitely weren’t planning on kissing someone.
Especially not an Admiral.
Tittygetton (Chapter Story)
Admiral Aokiji has discovered he has a fatal flaw. It's your chest.
Rob Lucci
Cyrano de Birderac Masterlist
How You Accidentally Got Romanced by Cipher Pol's Deadliest Duo: Featuring: Rob Lucci, the man who could kill you with a stapler, but primarily uses it to silently admire you from the other side of the office.
And Hattori, his smug little pigeon with no filter, no chill, and absolutely no authorization to be this romantic. Aka, his wingman.
Silvers Rayleigh
Cook Wanted (1), Crisis Found (2) (Two-shot)
All Pirate King Gol D. Roger wanted was a decent cook. Unfortunately, you fed them once.
Now you’re emotionally held hostage by the most chaotic crew on the sea, being aggressively courted by a half-shirted war criminal with excellent manners and terrible timing.
Rayleigh doesn’t just flirt. He haunts your kitchen like a respectful poltergeist, makes eye contact like it’s foreplay, and threatens anyone who compliments your hands.
Monkey D. Garp
The Sundress Incident (One-shot)
Vice Admiral Garp is undone by a sundress, strategic sabotage, and one very dangerous woman.
Good Boy (One-shot)
A field report from Loguetown sends Marine HQ into chaos when it reveals Garp was outsmarted, fainted, and found in a ridiculous hat. The real crime? Emotional damage, and possibly, love.
Rocks D. Xebec
'Ship Happens' (One-Shot)
You lost a Davy Back game and woke up navigating a warship full of war crimes. Now the captain wants to go to God Valley. You do not want to go to God Valley.
Marine Older Brother (Enzo)
Safe Harbour (Oneshot)
You met Emiliano first; loud, charming, all flash and no brakes. He grinned like the world owed him attention and flirted like it was a sport he intended to win. But it was Enzo you noticed. The older brother. The quiet one. His love is shaped by duty and devotion, built in the spaces between glances, in the quiet weight of callused hands.
Reader x Older Marine Brother (Enzo) Here's my love letter to One Piece's Fan Letter (and because, your honor, he's a cutie-patootie). The brothers are named Enzo and Emiliano here.
ETC Characters:
Poison Control: One Two
AO3 Link
The most feared Warden alive turns clumsy and tongue-tied whenever you—a respected and calm Marine Commander—visit for inspection. Meanwhile, you remain completely unaware that his stern silence hides a crush big enough to shake the entire prison.
Anyone who reads on dark mode should be jailed because darling I put in effort to show you how I appreciate you? And this is how you repay me, I'm putting you in your chains again.
☕₊˚⊹ The owner is now working on your order... 𖹭﹒Stirring, baking, and packing with love! 𓈒 ࣪˖ Please wait a moment while your order is being prepared. ꒰ 🍰 ꒱ Thank you for your patience! ✦
Beelzebub would have no qualms of tying you down and locking you away behind reinforced glass.
His devotion reaching a fever pitch that even Satan takes over with even a single thought of you.
Satan at first would pound and try to claw his way to you. The glint in those two dilated red moons staring you through the glass is enough to make you quake and shake on the chair you're tied to.
Then Satan would stop, he'd pace around the room. Clawed hands tinkering with buttons—But Beelzebub was smarter than that, hiding the button to your enclosure in such a spot that he even forgot.
Satan's stare would be too much for you, that hollow blank red gaze turning into something more.
Beelzebub would take back control without fail after Satan had enough of eliciting fear from you (as insatiable his hunger is.), his lashes fluttering to a close—the whites returned and the burgundy brown replaced the crimson dots.
He was overjoyed.
Beelzebub pressed up against the glass, ignoring the sting of cuts that littered his hands—eager, like a child viewing the most delectable candy.
Before he could stop himself, he whispered his love to you. Like a songbird cannot resist chirping and tweeting in the break of dawn.
"Ishti.. Ba‘ali, continue to shine for me through this everlasting darkness."
I'll be gone for a year, this means I won't be on my socials now. Please tell my wives that I got sentenced to more prison time and they confiscated my phone. Thank you.
I'm literally praying for more Yandere Mash 🙏🙏 ALSO UR WRITING IS SO AMAZING
NO TAKEBACKS
Yandere!Mash x Reader
Magic lights sparkled in the air, laughter and cheers echoed through the grand halls of Easton Magic Academy. Everyone was celebrating the victory—the defeat of Innocent Zero, the peace that had finally settled over their world. Among them, you were just another student, a face in the crowd enjoying the atmosphere.
You weren’t part of Mash Burnedead’s close-knit friend group, but you’d seen him around. He was the so-called "hero," the one who defied everything and saved everyone. But right now, you weren’t thinking about that. You just wanted some air.
Unfortunately, your attempt to sneak onto the balcony for some peace didn’t go as planned. A misstep, and suddenly, you were plummeting from the second floor.
Your heart leaped to your throat. You barely had time to brace yourself when strong arms caught you effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing at all.
“Careful.”
You looked up to see Mash Burnedead staring at you.
“I—oh my god—thank you.” you stammered, your hands gripping his arms instinctively.
Mash didn’t let go right away. His gaze lingered on you for a moment before he gently set you on your feet. “You’re welcome.”
You dusted yourself off, trying to ignore the way your heart was still racing. Mash, meanwhile, was already turning away, sneaking toward the exit.
“You’re leaving?” you asked, surprised.
“Yeah.”
For some reason, you found yourself following him. “Mind if I join you for a bit?”
Mash glanced at you, then nodded. And so, you walked together, the sounds of the party fading behind you.
For someone everyone called a hero, Mash was… surprisingly normal. He wasn’t arrogant or overly serious. He just liked cream puffs, quiet places, and working out. You found yourself laughing at his dry humor, at how he casually talked about things like muscles being the answer to everything.
“Mash! There you are!”
You turned to see his friends approaching—Lance, Dot, Finn, and Lemon. Their eyes flickered between the two of you, curious.
You took that as your cue. “Well, I should get back to my friends. Thanks again.”
“See you.”
That night had been a strange one, but after the party, you didn’t see much of Mash Burnedead. Not in any meaningful way, at least.
Of course, you’d catch glimpses—him standing at a distance when you passed by, his eyes tracking your movements with that same unreadable stare. A few times, he made small attempts to approach you, casual and unassuming. A greeting in the hallway, a question about class, a quiet offer of a cream puff when he happened to have extra.
But more often than not, your friends would pull you away before you could respond.
“You shouldn’t talk to him” they’d say. “Just because he saved us all doesn’t mean he belongs here.”
It was an ugly truth, but magic ruled this world. And Mash, for all his strength and miracles, had none. Some people tolerated him now, respected him even. But others—like your friends—still clung to old beliefs.
“He’s a fraud.” one of them muttered one day when they caught him watching from across the courtyard.
You didn’t answer. You didn’t know what to think.
----
The usual chatter of students filled the academy halls, but something felt off. A tension in the air, an unspoken weight pressing down. You didn’t think much of it—until you turned a corner and saw them.
Your friends. And Mash.
They had pulled him aside in a secluded part of the courtyard, away from wandering eyes. Mash stood there, expression blank, as your so-called friends spoke in hushed but sharp tones.
“You don’t belong here, Burnedead” one of them sneered. “You’ve already gotten what you wanted, right? Your fake title, your praise. So why are you still hanging around?”
Another one scoffed. “Do you really think people see you as an equal? You’re a joke.”
Mash didn’t react. Not a twitch, not a flinch. He just stood there, completely unbothered.
But you heard everything. And something inside you snapped.
“What the hell are you doing?” you said, stepping between them.
Your friends stiffened in surprise. “We’re just talking” one of them said, forcing a smile. “You should—”
“No. I don’t want to hear it.” You turned to Mash, your voice softening. “Are you okay?”
Mash blinked at you. Then, slowly, he nodded.
“See?” One of your friends laughed nervously. “No harm done. It’s just—”
“I don’t care.”
They fell silent. You inhaled deeply, steadying yourself, before looking at them dead in the eyes.
“If being your friend means treating someone like this, then I’m fine with not playing with you.”
They looked at you, then at Mash, then back at you. And then, without another word, they turned and walked away.
You didn’t watch them leave. Instead, you turned back to Mash, expecting him to brush it off like he always did. Instead, he just… stared at you.
“Uh… I hope that wasn’t weird or anything.”
“No,” he said, “It wasn’t weird.”
Your so-called friends never spoke to you again after that day.
At first, it was just cold silence—no greetings, no eye contact, no acknowledgment of your existence. You were fine with that. You had already made your choice.
But then, the petty revenge started.
A tripping spell aimed at your feet in the hallway. A bucket of water “accidentally” tipping over just as you passed by. An entire swarm of frogs conjured into your locker.
You should have been miserable. You should have been soaked, humiliated, struggling to shake off the cruel tricks.
But none of them ever reached you.
Somehow, every single attempt failed.
You never noticed it at first. You’d walk through a hallway where a trip spell had been cast, only to feel the floor perfectly stable beneath your feet. You’d open your locker, expecting books, not frogs. And yet, there was nothing but your usual neatly stacked belongings.
It wasn’t until one day, when you heard a frustrated shout from down the hall, that you saw it.
Mash. Standing calmly with a bucket of water in one hand, completely untouched by the spell that was meant for you. He tilted his head, looking at the group of students who had set the trap, then—without a word—dumped the water over their heads instead.
Your ex-friends went pale. You had to cover your mouth to stifle a laugh.
It wasn’t long before the pettiness turned into something uglier.
A real fight.
You weren’t there to see it, but you heard the aftermath. How they had cornered Mash, trying to force him to stop interfering. How they had thrown everything they had at him—spells, illusions, underhanded tricks.
How he had barely even tried and still crushed them.
It wasn’t a long battle.
Mash simply stood there, taking every attack like they were nothing, before stepping forward and ending it with a single punch.
They never bothered you again after that.
And when you finally caught up with Mash later that day, he just handed you a cream puff, completely unfazed, like nothing had ever happened.
“Here,” he said. “You didn’t get to eat lunch.”
“Mash… did you...”
He tilted his head. “Did I what?”
You sighed, taking the cream puff. “Never mind. Thanks, Mash.”
“Anytime.”
---
It was surreal.
Rayne Ames—the Rayne Ames—stood before you, his sharp golden eyes watching you with that cool, unreadable expression. He had approached you out of nowhere, asking about Mash. Simple questions, nothing out of the ordinary. How was he in class? Did he ever talk about his training? Did he seem different lately?
You answered as best as you could, unsure why he was asking, and once he got what he needed, he left just as quickly as he came.
And that was that.
But after that day, your life started changing.
With your old friends out of the picture, you knew you had to move on. Mash’s group was welcoming, always ready to include you in their chaotic fun. But still, they had each other. They were a solid unit, bound by deep friendship and battles you hadn’t been a part of. You were an outsider, someone they liked but didn’t necessarily need.
So, you drifted. Talked to other students. Tried to find your own place.
And somehow… Rayne Ames kept showing up.
It was never anything dramatic. He didn’t actively seek you out, but he always seemed to be there—watching, listening, stepping in when things got too chaotic. You assumed he was just keeping tabs on Mash.
And Mash did not like that.
You didn’t notice it at first, but his little habits started changing. The way he always hovered a little closer when Rayne was around. The way he interrupted conversations with his usual deadpan nonsense—offering you cream puffs, randomly commenting on Rayne’s hair, or straight-up picking you up and carrying you somewhere else without a word.
Rayne, of course, remained unfazed by all of it. If anything, he found it amusing.
----
You had been experimenting with baking lately, and since Mash always seemed to appreciate sweet things, you figured, why not? A simple, homemade cake as a small thank-you for everything.
On your way to find him, you ran into Lemon, who, upon seeing the cake in your hands, lit up with excitement.
“Oh! If you’re looking for Mash, I can take you to his place!” she offered cheerfully.
You hesitated for a moment—going to Mash’s house wasn’t exactly part of the plan—but Lemon was already leading the way, and before you knew it, you were standing at his doorstep.
The door was unlocked, so Lemon let herself in, calling out, “Mash! You have a visitor!”
You barely had time to process what was happening before you heard the sound of weights clanking. As you stepped inside, your eyes landed on him.
Mash Burnedead, mid-workout, lifting what had to be insanely heavy dumbbells as if they were nothing.
You had always known Mash was strong. You’d seen him punch through walls like they were made of paper, carry people as if they weighed nothing.
But seeing him like this, up close—it was different.
You swallowed, suddenly feeling very aware of the fact that you were staring.
Mash set the weights down before turning to you. “Oh. You came.”
You quickly held up the cake. “I, uh—yeah! I baked this and thought you might like some.”
“Thanks.”
You didn’t stay long after that. You made an excuse to leave early, not missing how Mash watched you the entire time you walked out the door.
The next day, you didn’t show up to school.
At first, no one thought much of it. But by midday, whispers started. Even Rayne seemed mildly concerned, casually asking if anyone knew where you were.
But Mash knew something was wrong.
Because when he woke up that morning, the first thing he did was check his front porch—where he had left the empty cake box after finishing the last slice.
It was gone.
Someone had taken it.
And now, you were missing.
Where were you?
The world was spinning. Your body ached, your skin burned, and every breath you took sent sharp pains through your ribs.
It hadn’t been a fair fight—far from it.
Your old "friends" hadn’t come after you themselves, no. They were too cowardly for that. Instead, they had hired someone else—someone stronger, someone ruthless—to make sure you stayed down.
And they had done their job well.
You barely remembered how it ended. All you knew was that your body couldn't take any more, and at some point, you had collapsed against a wall, waiting for the pain to swallow you whole.
You barely registered the faint sound of bones breaking or the low, terrifyingly calm voice that followed.
"You shouldn't have touched them."
The first thing you feel is warmth. Next is the soft pressure of bandages wrapped around your arms, your ribs. Someone had taken care of you.
Your eyes flutter open slowly, adjusting to the lighting of the unfamiliar room. Your head feels heavy, and for a brief moment, your mind is blank. Someone was sitting next to you.
You try to speak, but your throat is dry. He notices. Before you can even think, he’s already reaching for a glass of water, pressing it into your hands.
“…Mash?” your voice is hoarse. “…What happened?”
“You don’t remember?”
You shake your head, wincing at the dull pain. Your memories are foggy—blurry figures, flashes of magic, a crushing sense of helplessness. But beyond that? Nothing.
Mash watches you carefully, his fingers tapping idly against his arm.
"You got hurt. I handled it."
You’re too tired to question it. Instead, you focus on something else.
“…Where am I?”
Mash tilts his head slightly. “My house.”
You glance down at yourself—the fresh bandages, the blanket draped over you.
"You took care of me?"
He nodded.
A thought crosses your mind, something nagging at the edges of your blank memories. Something important.
You look at him, hesitating. "…Mash. What are we?"
“We’re together.”
“…What?”
“I’m your boyfriend” he says, like it’s the simplest truth in the world.
And somehow, even though your memories are gone—
You believe him.
Lemon sobbed the moment she found out.
You didn’t get it.
Why was she crying so much? Weren’t you and Mash always like this? Weren’t things normal?
She clung to your hands, wailing about how “true love prevails” and “you’re finally safe” while Finn awkwardly patted her back, clearly unsure how to handle the situation.
No one in the group pushed further.
You weren’t sure if it was because of your injuries or something else, but he barely let you out of his sight. If you walked, he was right beside you. If you sat down, he positioned himself strategically—either next to you or across from you, always watching, always ready.
You were just about to take a bite when Mash suddenly—without a word—took the food right out of your hands.
He inspected it. Took a bite. Chewed.
“…Too sweet.”
Then, he grabbed another piece from your tray. Ate that too.
“…Too spicy.”
Then another.
“…Too bitter.”
By the time he was done testing everything, you were left staring at your now-half-empty plate, completely baffled.
“Mash,” you deadpanned. “You ate most of my lunch.”
He blinked at you. “I was making sure it was okay.”
“…You didn’t have to eat all of it.”
“…I’ll get you more.”
And then, without hesitation, he stood up and walked off—probably to find something “safer” for you to eat.
You sighed, rubbing your temples as Lemon giggled beside you. “He’s so attentive!” she swooned. “Taking care of his beloved like a true gentleman!”
You weren’t sure about that, but you didn’t argue.
You thought Mash being overly cautious was limited to food.
You were wrong.
While walking through campus, Mash suddenly spawned over, his muscles tensing as he stared at something in the distance.
Then—without warning—he picked up a rock and chucked it.
The entire group turned, just in time to see a now flattened stone that had been in your path.
Mash nodded to himself, satisfied, before continuing to walk like nothing happened.
“…Mash,” you finally said. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did.”
“…It was just a rock.”
“It was in your way.”
Lemon whispered, “He’s so in love.”
You weren’t sure what to say to that.
----
You weren’t content with just not knowing.
There were gaps in your mind, blank spaces where memories should be. And it wasn’t just frustrating—it was unnerving. Every time you tried to grasp at the edges of something important, it slipped through your fingers like sand.
So, you did what any rational person would do.
You started digging.
Asking around. Looking through old notes, trying to see if anything sparked recognition.
But for some reason—every single time you got close—Mash was there.
Sometimes, he’d distract you—offering you more sweets, pulling you into his usual nonsense, finding ways to keep you occupied. Other times, it was more direct.
Like the time he just… picked you up and walked away when you asked Lemon too many questions.
Or the time you almost found your old diary, only for it to mysteriously vanish.
And then, there was the worst one—
You had been talking to Rayne.
It was a casual conversation at first, but then, you asked.
“Do you know what happened to me before I lost my memory?”
Rayne had gone silent. His gaze flickered over your shoulder, and when you turned—
Mash was already there.
“…Come on” he said, voice as steady as ever. “You need to eat.”
Rayne didn’t say anything, only watching as Mash practically dragged you away.
---
Finn wasn’t expecting to walk into this.
It was a normal day—nothing out of the ordinary. But when he turned the corner, he saw Mash standing there, gripping the edge of a table so tightly it looked like he might break it.
“Uh. Mash?”
Mash didn’t respond.
Finn frowned, stepping closer. “Mash, what’s wrong?”
No response, just that stupid blank stare, but there was something off about it. Something shaking beneath the surface.
Finn had known Mash for a while now.
Whatever it was—
It had to do with you.
So, he sighed, scratching the back of his head before offering a small, reassuring smile.
“Whatever’s going on” he said, “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
Mash finally moved—his grip loosening just slightly. He looked at Finn.
“You’re Mash Burnedead. You don’t lose, right?”
A long pause.
Then, finally—Mash nodded.
-----
Dot was hiding.
It was rare to see him so quiet, so serious. But today, he was focused.
A thick branch in his hands, his grip tight. He crouched near the hallway, waiting—watching.
Then, the moment you walked by—he swung the thing to your head.
Or at least, that was the plan.
Because before the branch could even come close to hitting you, a strong hand caught it mid-air.
You turned just in time to see the silent battle of wills taking place.
“…Mash?” You tilted your head. “Dot?”
Neither answered.
Mash’s grip on the branch tightened, cracking the wood slightly. Dot gulped. Sensing that things were about to get messy, you quickly grabbed Mash’s sleeve and pulled him away.
The moment you turned the corner toward the classroom—
You tripped.
Your foot slipped against the wet floor, your balance completely thrown off. You hit the ground hard. The world blurred for a moment, your vision swimming in and out of focus. Voices echoed distantly, panicked, but you couldn’t make out the words.
Everything faded.
You woke up later on, trying to piece together what had happened. But the moment you tried to think back—
Nothing.
Just an empty, hollow void where your memories should be.
You frowned, struggling to sit up. Around you, the group stood in silence—Lance, Dot, Finn, Lemon, and even Rayne to your surprise.
Before you could even question it, the door suddenly slammed open.
He grabbed Dot, then Lance, then Finn, shoving them forward.
“Outside”
Lemon and Rayne exchanged glances but didn’t intervene.
“…What just happened?”
Lemon sighed, shaking her head.
Everything was normal.
Or at least, it was supposed to be.
You went about your day, chatting with Rayne, ignoring the lingering stares from the group. They didn’t say anything about yesterday, didn’t mention the fight Mash had with them outside.
You weren’t sure if that was a good thing or not.
But then—
Mash said something.
It wasn’t even anything big. Just an offhand comment, a simple remark about something only your past self would remember.
Your memories came flooding back out of nowhere.
It hit like a whiplash. Images, emotions, voices all crashing into you at once. The truth you had lost—the reason you had forgotten.
You didn’t even know why you were mad.
But you were.
It wasn’t like he hurt you. It wasn’t like he lied outright.
But he had kept it from you. Had stopped you every step of the way. Had taken advantage of your missing memories just to keep you his.
And right now?
You didn’t want to see him.
Didn’t want to talk to him.
Didn’t want to even look at him.
----
Mash wasn’t good with words.
But he was good at trying.
His first attempt? A written apology.
While you were in class, he stood outside the window, holding up a piece of paper with the words: "I’m sorry."
It would’ve been somewhat effective if he hadn’t written it on a tiny piece of paper that was hard to read from a distance.
Rayne, sitting beside you- just because you asked him to and surely you'll pay him with something else, glanced at it, then at you.
“…Are you really going to let him stand there looking like that?”
You didn’t answer.
The second attempt? Rock arrangements.
You walked outside to find a series of carefully placed stones, spelling out: "I messed up."
Then, underneath it, in slightly smaller rocks: "I’ll fix it."
You huffed, crossing your arms.
Rayne just sighed beside you. “At least he’s consistent.”
And finally—his third attempt?
It was just him.
From afar.
Because you wouldn’t let him near you. Wouldn’t let him explain, wouldn’t let him talk his way back in.
So, instead, he stayed back. Watching.
You weren’t expecting anything strange to happen that night.
You were at home, settling in, finally getting some peace after everything. The last thing you expected was to turn around and—
Mash was inside your house.
You barely held in a scream. Your heart nearly leaped out of your chest.
“What the hell—?!” You gasped, stumbling back. “How did you—?”
“I walked in.”
“What do you mean you walked in?!”
“The door was locked, so I broke it.”
You rubbed your temples, inhaling sharply. “Mash, you can’t just—sneak into someone’s house like this.”
“I came to apologize.”
“You—” You sighed, exasperated. “That’s not how apologies work.”
“…Fine” he said. “If you won’t forgive me, then I’ll handle your old friends for causing the accident.”
“And then,” Mash continued, “I’ll leave school.”
He said it so simply. Like it was a decision he had already made.
You didn’t want that.
Not because you weren’t still mad. Not because he didn’t deserve to apologize properly.
But because you knew him.
You knew exactly what he was capable of when he was serious.
“…Mash” you said “you don’t have to do that.”
“But they hurt you.”
“Yeah,” you admitted, “but you don’t have to fix everything on your own.”
“All you had to do was ask” you muttered, sighing. “Not—decide what our relationship is without asking me first.”
“…I’m sorry.”
You let out a slow breath. “Alright. Guess I shouldn't be mad at you anymore.”
And just like that, the tension eased.
But what you didn’t know—
Was that Mash had already handled your old friends.
Before coming here.
By the time you had started to forgive him, by the time you had calmed down—
There was no one left to hurt you again.
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