The Witch of hopelessness

January 18th, 2026. 

328-330 Chase St, West Pittston, PA 18643

You groaned melodramatically as the pixelated Chrome dinosaur mocked you from your laptop screen for the fourth fucking time that day. If your file didn’t save again, you swore you were going to chuck the whole damn thing out the nearest window.

The Wi-Fi had been going strong for the first five months since you moved in, but in the last week or so, it seemed as though you couldn’t complete more than a few paragraphs of work before the internet went down again. As far as you could tell, there were no issues with the router.

“Hey, Y/N.”

A mass of red curls materialized in your doorway as Janie poked her head inside, pushing her oval glasses back up the bridge of her sloped nose. “I seriously can’t deal with this shit. If you don’t mind, I’m just going to hitch a ride with Missy back to campus. If I don’t get this paper done by Thursday, professor Valdez is going to tank my grade… Will you be okay if we head out?”

Janie and Missy, your younger housemates, both attended Scranton University down the road. Both girls had wanted to try living outside the dorms for their junior year, and you were in desperate need of some roommates to shoulder the cost of the rent, so it initially seemed like a solid idea all-around when the three of you met on a roommate-matching service. After weeks of scouring out vacancies, Missy had stumbled upon the former Smurl-family residence, as it had been listed on a rental site for several months without any bites.

After The Haunted came out in 1991, the Smurl home reportedly got passed around over the years to a multitude of curious tenants, all eager to make their own claims to fame…until nothing compelling ever resulted from their efforts. A couple of residents were caught and shamed all across social media for fabricating a video in the 2010’s, and after Margaret Zillmann’s book in 2024, Supernatural or Situational: A Deep-Dive Into The Smurl Haunting’s Mendacities, challenged and disproved much of the original demonic claims made in the 80’s, the house fell out of favor with ghost-hunters and skeptics alike.

Thus, the double-block home dropped drastically in real estate value—giving you and your new roommates the perfect opportunity to nab an affordable place near campus.

And for a while, it seemed that Zillmann’s book was correct; you, Missy, and Janie never noticed anything amiss, aside from a few typical old-house creaks and groans attributed to architecture senescence.

…Well. Until this last month.

It started with the disconcerting horripilations along your bare arms and thighs, the raising of your hackles and manifestation of gooseflesh in the absence of any known stimuli. You would find yourself abruptly overtaken with the disquietive sensation of being watched, aware of some unverifiable presence behind you. 

From there, other oddities occurred that left you questioning your own sanity. Once or twice, you swore you felt your mattress sink down beside you, indented as though a heavy weight had settled upon the bed. Other times, you did double-takes in the window above the kitchen sink, or the powder room mirror, certain that you had glimpsed an inumbrated figure lurking behind your own reflection.

And now, the Wi-Fi insisted upon failing more and more with each passing day, keeping you from completing your work—which, as a Technical Writer with a stay-at-home job, reliable internet access was an absolute necessity. 

However, the worst part, by far, had to be that, aside from the Wi-Fi going down, your roommates had not disclosed any bizarre experiences to you. You only brought your concerns to them once, which merely resulted in Missy and Janie giggling and teasing that you had let the history of the home get to you.

“That’s…fine,” you mumbled to Janie, repeatedly refreshing your browser in the vain hope of getting your connection back. “I’ll just go check the router and see if I can’t get it running again.” If all else failed, maybe you would hit up the local Starbucks to finish the user manual your boss tasked you with dumbing-down.

With hopes in the gutter, you listened to Missy’s Chevrolet Bolt EV roll down the gravel road outside as you poked and prodded uselessly at the modem, urging it to come back to life. 

“C’mon, please? Open sesame?” you whined. Your boss would only tolerate so many more “connectivity issues” before your job got passed on to someone more “dependable.” 

Sighing through your nose in defeat, you stomped your way back to your bedroom, snatching up your lanyard and keys from your dresser. Starbucks it was, then.

Armed with your laptop bag on your shoulder, you made for the door—

WHAM!

Your bedroom door rattled on its hinges as it banged shut in your face, the force of the slam leaving deep splinters in the painted wood. 

A strangled scrike lodged in your throat as you sprang backward, losing your footing and landing on your ass. You scrambled backward like a discombobulated hermit crab, knocking your head against your nightstand in your haste to retreat.

What the actual hell? Shit! Oh my god—what the fuck just happened? What’s going on? All manner of questions, curses, and exclamations died on your tongue, your dumbfoundment keeping all verbalizations at bay as you gawked at the fractured door. 

Your heart quopped frantically behind your rib cage, the palpitant beat pulsing in your throat, frostbitten sweat creeping down your spine and the nape of your neck. You remained rooted on the spot, crouched beside your bed, quivering in place as you awaited the next scare.

…But after several termless, strained minutes passed you by, nothing else happened.

Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to move. You were a grown woman in your 30’s, but your automatic go-to response in peril was to call your mom, so you fished your cell phone from your pocket, clammy hand slipping and sliding. You dried your palm on your shirt, then brought up your mother’s contact in a flurry.

The phone rang once, and then clicked as she picked up on the other end. “MOM! Oh m-m-my god, m-mom, I-I don’t know wh-what’s going on, b-but—!”

An abrasive, guttural chuckle interrupted your spluttering, inciting a fresh wave of terror to roll through your nervous system. Your words halted immediately as all the saliva drained from your now-desiccated mouth.

The laugh started out in a low, grating baritone, but as the male voice incessantly amused itself, it spiked continuously in volume, until he was flat-out cachinnating obnoxiously in your ear. But there was something altogether…inhuman about the shuddersome voice, as though it were a corpse cackling from within an ossuary.

Okay, yeah, nope! 

You promptly ended the call and stuffed your phone back in your pocket, springing to your feet before bolting to the door like a bat out of hell. Your perspiring fingers briefly fumbled to grasp around the doorknob, yanking it back.

Your heart halted in its tracks.

A man—or—or something—blockaded the doorway with his (or its?) absurdly tall frame. 

The humanoid creature presented as a man in his early 50’s, with long, unkempt and sweat-greased black hair, donned in a plaid, button-up shirt and denim farmer overalls. His pallid skin took on a purplish-blue hue characteristic of pallor mortis, lips smeared black as though with charcoal or ink. Prominent mazarine veins peered out from beneath the thin skin of his face, and dark rings lined the bags beneath nefastous eyes. 

Those inky lips spread wide into a nightmarish grin, revealing yellowed, rotting teeth.

Fight, flight, or freeze instincts chose the latter as you stood asweved in front of him, unable to process what it was that you were seeing in your doorway. But your muscles loosened when he took a thundering step toward you.

Feeling like a doe being slowly stalked by a slabbering, inanitiated wolf, you matched each of his forward footfalls with a backward one, until the backs of your thighs bumped the foot of your bed. 

Then he pounced.

Before you could sprint around him, the phantomic man lunged for you, using the entirety of his weight to pin you to your mattress. You finally found your hoarse voice, uttering a horrified spraich as you sprattled and kicked underneath him, flailing and bucking wildly.

“STOP THAT.”

The graunch, stentorian voice almost stilled your panicked flailing as he growled down at you, his breath surprisingly warm despite his appearance suggesting he was a walking corpse.

“Wh-wh-who are you?” you just barely managed to stammer out, wincing as his massive hands slammed your wrists down on the comforter, deprehending you. “Wh-What are y-y-you?”

“Abner Jones,” he gutturalized, that demoniac smile never wavering as his calloused thumbs smoothed along your wrists, rubbing circles over your pulse points. “As for what I am…can’t really say, little missy.”

You winced, choking back any involuntary noises as he leaned down, his blackened lips gliding along the space where your throat met your shoulder. You heard a roughened inhale as he scented you.

“Gh-ghost?” you suggested, your voice strained with appalment. “Or d-d-demon?” You had never believed in supernatural happenings before, but it was hard to explain away your current circumstances as being anything else—unless some lunatic in really good costume makeup had broken into your house? “Wh-what d-do—what d-do you want?”

Another ill-omened chuckle answered you. “Thought that was obvious, doll,” he rasped, withdrawing to meet your eyes again, a carnal glint in his acherontic irises. When you offered him no response or indication of understanding, his grin extended and he aligned his groin with yours.

Okay. So now you were fully convinced that some lunatic had broken into your home, because how the actual fuck did a ghost get a hard-on?

“M-m-my r-roommates—they’ll b-be back any time n-now,” you threatened, hoping against hope to spook him off. “Th-they’ll c-call the cops.”

The man (Abner, was it?) canted his head to the side. “An’ what exactly do you think the fuzz will do for ya? Exorcise me?”

The last remnants of blood drained from your cheeks. “D-don’t be stupid—I-I know you’re not a ghost, you f-fucking creep!”

But the more your brain rolled back over the events of the past month, the more you began to question just how it was that a real person could have made your mattress sink down, or how a living human could have slammed your door shut without being anywhere near it, or how he would hack your phone to make his voice override your mother’s number—

Oh no.

“Can’t say if ghost is th’ word we’re lookin’ for here,” Abner drawled, lazily beginning to rock his hips to yours, “but I’ve been watchin’ you for a while now… An’ you’ve really caught my eye, Y/N. From what I can tell, it sounds like you’re a real good girl. Not the kinda dame t’ fuck around on her husband.” 

You instinctively squirmed again as his clothed erection ground exigently to your core, a piteous whindle escaping as you racked your brain for a way out of this, a means of escape, something.

“Wh-what about—my roommates?” you choked out. “Wh-why not o-one of them?”

It now dawned on you that there was a rather obvious reason why your housemates had not reported experiencing anything supernatural, but…why you? You didn’t exactly consider yourself a catch by any means, and on top of that, there were two gorgeous, young 22-year-olds housed with you, ripe for the taking…

“Y’mean the leggy lil’ tramps?” Enmity heated his eyes like hot coals. “The ginger tart is unfaithful to her lad, and th’ blonde floozie reeks of ten different fellas. But you…” Abner transferred your wrists to one hand, pinning your arms above your head as his free hand began a slow grabbling of your left breast. “You don’ strike me as the unfaithful type. I’ve heard ya rantin’ on that phone of yours about ‘cheatin’ bastards.’” 

Clearly, this guy harbored some kind of personal issues regarding infidelity, but logical thinking proved difficult to procure with the way his large hand was currently fondling you. “Nghh—I-I’m n-not! I-I…I’ve cheated on boyfriends before!” you lied through your teeth.

“Well now, that’s jus’ made up out of the whole cloth,” Abner sneered, flexing his hand and balling up your shirt between his fingers. “I know you’ve only had jus’ the one boyfriend, an’ I know you weren’t two-timing.” The strong digits suddenly yanked backward, violently rending the fabric from your chest. 

Having failed to deter him, you swiggled about in a vermigrade manner, twisting and kicking as he yanked your bra up, not actually bothering to remove it in his haste to taste you. He stole a hearty helping of your right breast in a surprisingly thermic mouth, his serpentine tongue swishing and rolling around your indurating nipple. When you cried out in protest, his uneven teeth clamped down to catch around the sensitive flesh, forcing your cry into a distressed shriek. 

Thisisn’thappeningthisisn’thappeningthisisn’thappening, your mind ranted over and over, as though willing the words into existence. It couldn’t be happening, right? Ghosts couldn’t rape the living, right? Surely that would have made headlines in the past?

…Or maybe it had happened before, and people like you were just written off as insane.

Ashen fingers now feverishly set their sights on his own clothing, shrugging the straps of his overalls down and doffing his shirt from his upper body, revealing more cadaverous yet muscular flesh, patterned with the same hyacinthine-tinted veins as the ones adorning his pale visage. 

Abner’s weight temporarily left yours as he focused his attention on divesting the remainder of his clothing, and you jumped on the fleeting opportunity for an escape. You atrenned toward the door, socks slipping and sliding clumsily on the wood-paneled flooring as you absquatulated out of your bedroom.

Before you could flee down the hallway, a meaty hand suddenly detained you, nabbing you by the back band of your bra and plucking you up from the floor. He hauled you unceremoniously back to the bed, unperturbed by your failed escape as he plopped you down and discarded the remainder of his clothing.

In puris naturalibus, he towered at the foot of your bed, theroid eyes darkened with animalivorous intent. That same etiolated flesh colored his cock, which stood tall and proud, just as massive as the rest of him, bobbing against his belly with what was surely more life than any ghost should have. 

What luck, you mused wryly. Of course your undead stalker was well-hung.

You bevered violently as he climbed back over you, making quick work of your bra before he set his sights on your shorts, dragging them down to dangle at your ankles. He roughly fondled your garmented cunt through your panties, humping the heel of his palm to your mound whilst his mouth scouted out your right breast. All the while, you buffeted his chest and arms with clenched fists, but he gave no indication whatsoever of being put off, merely chuckling patronizingly at your efforts.

“Pretty lil’ thing,” he groaned throatily around your nipple, avarous hands continuing their barbarous contrecation. 

“S-stop—!” 

It seemed your whimpers served to do little more than encourage him, as he now tore your panties like tissue paper, nousling your neck again while his fingers unearthed your clit. You screamed and thrashed harder, jerking around like a hooked fish as his thumb rolled and flicked at the bud, forcibly encouraging your arousal. 

Once your cunt was suitably madefied to his liking, Abner withdrew, sucking your flavor from his thumb, eyes never leaving yours. His carious teeth made another appearance behind inky lips. “You taste real good, sweetheart. Too bad I’m an impatient man.”

Reprieve from his imposed pleasure was brief, for you now felt the bulbous head of his cock slip between your folds, bunting against your narrow aperture. Your muscles stiffened as you endeavored to deny him entrance, your thighs clamping together around him, but he wrenched your legs back apart. With a labored grunt, he popped the crown into your slit, earning himself a pained wail.

“I s-said—STOP—!” 

Your walls constringed desperately around him, working to drive him out, but his shallow thrusts inched him ever-deeper. He moaned obnoxiously above you, jerking his hips as the detrusion carried on with relentless force. Your vision fogged with tears, your senses tapering into a tunnel-vision of stinging pain. He was too big, too rough, and you were going to burst at the seams—

Abner stilled as his cock ingressed fully inside you, burrowed so deeply that your lower belly protuberated with his shape. His deep, coarse groan sounded like sandpaper grating against pavement. 

“Fuck, you fit me good…” That gristly laugh assaulted your ears again. “Easy now, doll. You’re doin’ juuuuus’ fine.”

You squeezed your eyes shut as he retreated, bracing yourself as his thick cock dragged along your narrow passage. He eased his way out until the fat tip of his cock was all that remained, and then promptly rejoined your bodies with a violent thrust. His laughter eclipsed your cries, his belluine noises of satisfaction sounding more like a savage mauling of prey than fucking.

The revulsive slaps of wet skin commingled with your respective sounds, his rough pistoning inundating your senses until you were hardly aware of anything else. Multiple times, you feared he was truly going to rupture your cervix, but the assault was blessedly short-lived as he throbbed inside you. 

Your eyes remained obstinately closed as you felt his cock spasm and spill with his apogee, saturating your insides with warm, tremellose fluid. His suffonsified sigh huffed against your neck as he lazily rutted his hips, savoring the ebbing pulses of his climax. 

“Mmm…I jus’ knew you’d hit the spot, lil’ missy." 

Unexpectedly soft lips parted yours, maneuvering your mouth in an imposed kiss that tasted of tobacco and raw wheat.

His softening length then seceded from your aching cunt, allowing rills of his cum to dribble out and down your puffy folds. 

"I'll be seein' you again soon, doll..."

His weight departed yours, and you could finally breathe properly—albeit with frantic polypneas. You played possum on the mattress, trembling in the silent, suspensive quiescence that followed in wake of his depradation.

Had he actually left?

When you finally dared to creep one eye open, you did indeed find yourself completely alone in your room again.

What’s more, you were dressed in perfectly intact clothing and undergarments, spread on your back across a freshly made-up bed. His spectral seed was gone from your thighs, and only a dull throb remained between your legs.

Was…was it all a horrible, lucid dream? Sleep paralysis? A vivid, intense hallucination? 

You ventured to sit upright, patting yourself down and checking your body over for bruises or other signs of an assault. Your heart still hammered in a caprizant tempo, and sweat slicked your hair and body, but you were otherwise unscathed.

Unsteadily, you wobbled from the bed, testing your footing on the floor. As soon as you evaluated yourself to be stable enough to walk, you snatched up your phone from the ground, dialing your mother's number.

A few high-tension rings later, your mother's blessed voice answered, "Hi, hon! Is the internet down again?"

You hobbled out of your room with a vacillatory sense of relief, certain now that you were physically safe, but quite possibly spiraling mentally. Maybe you somehow mistook Missy's shrooms for your own sliced mushrooms in the fridge, and used those in your omelette this morning? There was most definitely a logical explanation behind what had just occurred, and the most important part was, it hadn't been real.

​​​​​​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. 

TLDR story so far: after a day with other war surgeons mercy killing those afflicted with Scarlet Rot, Varré has admitted to you that he doesn't care about being Elden Lord and given you something of an atheistpilling lecture about how it's better to die mortal than be tools for a god that doesn't actually care about you. You agree with him, but the Greater Will is zapping a vision into your head.

______

Varré sits upon the throne of Elden Lord, bathed in the rays of the gold descending from the Erdtree and wearing a white robe stitched with an emblem reminiscent of the Golden Order. His skin is glowing and his hair longer now, descending down to his waist. The dark circles under his eyes are but a distant memory and there is an ethereal presence radiating from him that demands respect from the entire realm.

He’s smiling at you, his queen, who stands at the foot of the steps wearing a dress soaked red with the blood of some unknown enemy. You hold a sword in one hand and an unseen decapitated head in the other. 

That’s right. You are no longer merely a fragile maiden, incapable of defending yourself, and you’ve developed a taste for carrying out the executions of those who would defy your Lord’s Order.

The adrenaline of bloodlust is still pumping through you as you ascend the steps, sheathing your sword and tossing away your war trophy.

Ah, he’s so proud. He can’t wait to take you to bed and breed you again.

He rises to embrace you. To welcome you home.

That's right. This is home. It's all yours.

Even after centuries, his strong arms are still the safest haven. He wraps them tightly around you.

So tight you can’t move, but you don't want to. He can hold you for as long as he wants for you do have eternity.

Something cold makes contact with the back of your neck, sharp and pressed to the underside of your brainstem.

“Varré?”

The tips of your fingers brush the dagger and you understand. 

You close your eyes and wait for the fatal blow.

He slings the weapon across the room with a violent clang, cursing under his breath, and for the first time since knowing him Varré has come to an impasse within himself.

Resentment emits from him and you can’t be sure if it’s directed at you or the Greater Will or both.

Your face is wet, vision blurry. “Varré, I’m sorry.”

It’s then you realize that your sleeves are covered in tears, blood and the faintest trace of golden specs that reflect in the light of the fire. You wipe your eyes with the edges of your palms and stare down at the red seeping between the creases.

Ah, you’ve been crying blood.

“Fuck.” Varré stands up and walks to the other side of the room, facing the wall with his hands covering his face. His mutterings are spoken too quickly to catch a word.

You're scared that he hates you.

If he’s always hated the Greater Will, naturally he would hate the very being that keeps him tethered to it. That’s what you are: a tether. 

He paces over to the fireplace, resting his forearm against the mantle.

The shadows from the flames dance against his solemn expression, his jaw clenched.

You rub your eyes again and stare down at your lap. 

The fire crackles and crunches.

Try as you might to not think about it, the vision replays in your mind and you want it.

Even if you are nothing but a tool, if it means being with Varré, so be it.

You know that it is not a promise, as much as you wish you could believe it is, nor is it a premonition. It’s all to push you to guide him towards the path of Elden Lord. In short, it’s emotional manipulation. And all you can do is take the bait.

“It’s not your fault,” he finally says, still refusing to look over at you.

He shakes his head and chuckles. “What can I say? They got me.”

What can you say? They got you, too.

Maybe they always had you. Maybe you’re not even a real person. Maybe the Greater Will built you up from scratch just for him and there never were any memories of a time before to lose, which strikes you as romantic when it should be unsettling.

“Varré…” You glance over to the other side of the room, in the darkness, where the dagger landed somewhere in a pile of discarded books. “Do you really wish to be rid of me?”

“No,” he says sternly, still staring into the fire. “They’ll obtain no such resignation from me. I’ll find a way to succeed where Marika failed. No matter how many thousands of years it might take. I’m currently the Fingers’ best shot at Elden Lord. Or they wouldn’t be bothering me now.”

That’s true. The Fingers had been content up until today to look past Varré’s infidelity, so why suddenly were they guiding you to push him?

He turns to you finally and offers a grimacing, defeated smile. “Tomorrow, we’ll ensure that the outbreak in Mistwood is exterminated and then head to Stormveil to survey the area. I’ll…take the path that the Fingers wish me to. No more meandering.”

You stand up, wobbly and light headed, and hug his arm.

“Let us not speak on this again,” he whispers, squeezing your hand. “It can’t directly read our minds. But remember this conversation, long after I have claimed the throne.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Get undressed. We still need to wash off.” He sighs and unbuckles his belt, lets his supplies hit the floor, then lifts his gown over his head and tosses it.

You can’t help but gawk at his bareness, admiring his muscles and the definition of his torso.

He casts you a knowing smirk. “Poor thing. Still out of it, hm?”

Before you can answer he’s already tugging your dress down over your shoulders. You let it fall, leaving you in just your undergarments. 

Varré dips his hand in the bucket, fetching the washcloth inside. “Ah, it’s warm now.”

The glow of the fire tingles against your skin and you rub your arm, scratching at the caked up blood. 

“Here.” He holds your face and rubs the cloth against your cheek.

You tilt your neck with his ministrations, the pressure against your pulse bringing to mind the gaping wounds you’d witnessed just hours before.

He scrubs above your collarbones with a gentleness never afforded to his patients, the murky water dripping down to your chest and prompting you to unfasten your bra and let it fall to the floor.

He stops, transfixed on the sight of you bare, and while this is far from the first time he’s seen your breasts there is an acute awareness now that you were made for him.

You place a hand on his chest and feel his breathing, the beating of his heart beneath his olive skin, and all of the fear you were feeling only minutes ago seems silly now.

All sense of apprehension is evaporating under the heat of your desires and you need only pull him in with you to intertwine your souls once again in holy copulation.

“Lambkin,” he whispers.

You stand on your tiptoes to kiss his jawline, pride washing over you that this Tarnished is yours and it is for your sake he will fulfil his duty.

He drops the cloth and holds your waist, his cock hardening inside his trousers and brushing against your stomach through the fabric. Oh, he wants you so badly, and you’ve been eager for him to fuck your brains out all day.

You press your body against him, moaning under your breath as your tits squish against his chest.

Varré kisses your lips, shoving his tongue into your throat, the taste of his saliva rich.

You suck his tongue as if you want to swallow his very essence. 

There is the faintest flavor of blood–it must be yours.

His moans reverberate in your mouth.

You reach down into the waistband of his pants to stroke his sex, circling your thumb around the engorged leaking head. His breath hitches at the contact.

He’s full mast and ready to be inside of you, where he belongs.

You take it on yourself to untie his trousers and yank them down, freeing his cock and giving his chest a gentle push so that he sits back on the bed. 

You want him so badly that your pussy is actually burning and your panties are damp when you pull them off. 

He’s melting underneath your touch, softly moaning your name as you straddle his lap, fingers massaging his shoulders.

Between the sound of your lips smacking together, you hear a faint request to slow down but you can't. Your want for him is too great.

He lightly bites your lower lip between his teeth, earning your compliance.

You stroke his cock, pumping his foreskin, and wrap your legs around his waist so that his length is pressed between your two bodies.

The tip reaches just above your belly button.

Varré’s dick is so massive against you. For most he would be too much–too long and thick to comfortably fit inside a normal human girl but luckily for you both there's nothing you enjoy more than being skewered on him.

You lift your hips, leaning into how he gropes your breasts and pinches your nipples as you rub the head of cock against your slick vulva and lower yourself down on him inch by inch.

It’s painfully tight at first, as always, but you’re designed for this. For him.

He grunts as your slick folds encase him entirely. The tip is pushing up against your cervix and your clit rubs directly against his crotch.

Whimpering, you try to adjust but your muscles are already squeezing him despite your stillness.

With a half lidded grin, he grabs hold of your waist with one hand and with the other presses his palm against your abdomen where his cock is creating a visible bulge.

You cry out, feeling him twitch inside you at the contact and nearly losing your balance.

The friction is pushing you to the brink of cumming.

He’s panting, gripping you tightly so that you don’t fall over. 

You roll your hips in small circles, keeping his length sheathed inside, drool dripping down the side of your mouth. Nothing, nothing, nothing feels better than being so full of him!

Varré chuckles and wipes the saliva from the edge of your lips, then grabs your hair and pulls on it.

He withdraws ever so slightly and bucks his hips into you, jabbing your womb and relishing in your pathetic crying as you give in and cum already.

The ecstasy floods the forefront of your mind.

Your cunt locks around him like a vice, sending your body into a spasm with the secretion of your fluids. Your head wants to roll back, but he’s got a firm grip on you–he takes satisfaction in seeing you so stupified by his dick and you like feeding his ego.

Your thighs are shaking and the post-orgasm sensitivity is setting in; you’re grinding against him for more like the lecherous harlot for him that you are.

He huffs in amusement, lets go of your hair, and flips you onto your back ready to give you the mindless plowing you’ve been asking for.

You whine at how his cock slides out of you for just a moment before he shoves it back into you with enough force that the bed shakes.

He takes hold of your leg underneath your knee to hold you in place.

You’re so small underneath him, your thighs spread open as wide as they can stretch and the wet sound of his shaft slamming into you is indecently loud.

Varré fucks you like you’ll never break, impaling you on his cock, watching with glazed eyes at how your head lolls to the side like a limp doll.

You’re overwhelmed at the sensation of his length stabbing you and let yourself moan like an animal being slaughtered.

If he has sex with you like this every day as Elden Lord then you don't care about the how or why.

So long as you can exist in this hazy lustful bliss, you’ll do whatever the Greater Will directs you to.

You don't need to think about the details or worry about the bigger picture–you need only to be bedded and give him children.

Yes, he's going to keep you pregnant once the throne is his, just like this, and your offspring won’t be cursed.

Your line will have all the favor. Because you’re the favorite.

He's hitting you so deeply that you can't stop arching your back, arms wrapping around his shoulders. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, kissing your pulse, his stubble scratching across your skin. He bites it, sucking it between his teeth, and if he chomped down hard enough he would surely rip your jugular out. 

Imagining Varré’s mouth covered in your blood always occurs to you when he’s marking you; sometimes you wish he would, but he only wants to show that you’re his.

His hand gropes the sheets for yours. Lacing your fingers together, you beg him in a strangled voice to cum in you.

You kiss him, clumsy in ecstasy, teeth clattering together, 

His other hand wraps around your throat, squeezing just tightly enough to seal your voice.

Through a veil of stars dotting your vision, you can see his cock slamming into you so hard that it’s bulging your abdomen again. Being so full, feeling him fucking you so fast, you’re already climaxing again.

Your pussy clenches even harder against him this time as he buries himself in you and cums against your womb with a guttural moan. You wrap your legs around him, your animal mind not wanting to waste a drop, your lungs burning in your chest.

Slowly, his fingers loosen around your throat and he rests his forehead on your sternum. 

The heat of his seed splurts into your core as he rides out his orgasm.

You weakly cough, clouded senses returning enough that you reach up to idly comb your fingers through his hair.

The afterglow begins to wash over you and his movements come to a halt.

You’re so overcome with emotion that tears are dripping down the corners of your eyes.

He’s still panting, your bodies sticking together with sweat, and you soak in the sensation of his breathing against you after having emptied himself inside of you. When your eyes close, sleep fast encroaches and you can feel your consciousness becoming unanchored. 

He lets go of your hand and pulls himself up, pinching your cheek as if you’re the cutest creature he’s never laid eyes on.

You giggle, although it kinda hurts.

“We still need to wash off,” Varré reminds you quietly, pulling his spent cock out of you and watching his cum dripping out of your abused hole for a moment. 

But you’re so tired. This rickety bed is like a cloud compared to the ground that supports your sleep most nights.

“Lambkin, get up.” His voice is pleasant enough to be a warning, but you can’t bring yourself to move.

He gives your ass a hard slap and you’re wide awake.

* * * * *

The silence is comfortable as you rub the cloth along his back next to the fireplace, sitting up on your knees to compensate for your height difference.

It’ll be a relief to take a proper bath together once this is all over. The castle in Leyndell must have a bathing quarters beyond imagination. Fountains, waterfalls, steaming hot…

And not only will you be able to take a real bath every day, there’ll be no shortage of food and comfort and safety. You’ve never thought of the capitol castle before, actually, yet alone entertained the thought that you would be living there one day but the more you think on it the more hopeful you feel.

“Are you nervous?” You ask, wringing the cloth into the bucket.

“Hm...no.” Varré’s answer is a little too quick to be convincing. “After all, if the Greater Will is guiding us we’re sure not to fail.”

The sarcasm is palpable, but maybe Outer Gods have no sense of sarcasm.

You glide the cloth along his spine and yawn.

“You must be looking forward to it,” he continues. “I’m sure you won’t miss this nomadic wandering.”

“I think I will, probably. In a bittersweet sort of way.”

And that’s the truth.

It’s been tough and you won’t wish to relive these trials for anything, but the feral manner in which you’ve survived these past months (years?) feels as if it’s brought you closer together.

Memories of Varré having been a complete stranger at the start of your journey feels like another lifetime.

How foolish you’d been to have ever felt apprehensive about him when he is the most perfect man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

“It’s your turn,” He tells you, snapping you out of your foggy recollections.

You hand him the cloth and turn your back to him, pulling your knees to your chest; your pussy is already sore, but you wouldn’t mind going once more when he’s done…

“Yes,” you decide. “I’ll definitely miss this.”

* * * * *

You certainly miss the quiet of the Roundtable the next day, planted back at the medical station in Mistwood surrounded by the screams of the infected.

Adapting to all this noise is proving more difficult today, but after this you’ll finally be heading to Stormveil. It’s the only thought that’s keeping you sane as you hold the head of a screaming man who can scarcely move a muscle for the rot having overtaken his entire left side.

You’ll finally be on the right track to Varré becoming Elden Lord. The Shattering will settle onto the pages of history books and–

Varré jabs a scalpel into your patient’s tumor above his eye and the blood splatters on your cheek.

You narrow his eyes at him and wipe it off. “Varré…”

“Sorry, Lambkin,” he says unapologetically. “Ah, the tools are so slippery today. The others keep dropping them.”

He wipes the blade on the side of his trousers and you notice that the blood pouring out of the man is splashing on the ground. 

There’s so much of it that it looks like the aftermath of a rainshower that the sun has yet to reclaim.

The war surgeons who haul off your patient tilt him over to his wounded side and let the blood continue to drain a few meters away from the tent.

The fire is still going strong, so why aren’t they letting the heat dry up the corpses?

As if reading your mind, Varré tilts your chin back to him with a bloodied gloved finger. “I asked them to do that.”

“Isn’t this…dangerous?”

The next patient is placed on the table with a raspy moan.

“Not at all,” Varré answers, turning his attention to the patient who is lacking all discernable human features for the spores that have consumed their entire body.. “You’ve seen some of what I can do with blood magic, but I don’t think I’ve ever given you a proper demonstration of my capabilities. I’ll need to perfect my art for claiming Godrick’s rune, no?”

“Yes, but–”

“Now, dear, the patient takes priority.”

He doesn’t want to hear any more, but you already know that if danger is to be had it is already too late. The faster you get this done the sooner you can leave.

Panic begins to sink in your stomach, but you do as your Tarnished asks of you and continue to hold his victims in place as he extinguishes their lives one by one.

It’s the panic of prey catching the line of sight of a predator. It’s the dread of a rabbit, compelled to run for any chance of survival.

You’ve only worked yourself up thinking about it, you tell yourself.

This is contaminated blood.

Maybe that matters.

Maybe the blood claimed by one Outer God cannot be used by another.

You feel nauseous.

There’s a ringing in your ears, cutting through the collective wails, and you’re going to be sick if you don’t get out of here.

“Varré,” you call out loud enough that he hears you. “I-I just need a minute, okay?”

“Lambkin–”

Before he can answer, you’re already up and attempting to step away but the ground underneath your left foot gives way as if you’ve stepped into a hole.

You trip, landing face first into the shallow pool of blood with a splash. Your entire frontside is now soaked and the scent is foul.

Varré helps you up before you can fully process your disgust. “What ever is the matter with you?”

“We have to run! We have to go!” You’re screaming over the voices of the dying, pointing at where you fell. There’s a circle in the earth, underneath the thick layer of red, a deeper shade of crimson that circles around the ground and is growing bigger by the second.

The beady eyes of Albinaurics emerge one by one from the blood, pulling themselves up by their spindly limbs.

You hold your head, knowing full well what this is and that you were right.

The surgeons take notice and a string of incomprehensible shouting cuts through the steady roar of the patients crying out.

“The church!” Varré orders, pointing to the building in the distance. “The Grace there, then the Roundtable!”

“You’re going to fight?!”

He can’t be serious.

But he is.

He shoves you towards the church and you shake your head disapprovingly, but there’s no use in arguing nor is there time.

He’s Tarnished and you are not, so if you die it is the death of you both.

As you run towards the church, you resign yourself to the fact that Varré simply must have his fun despite the danger. It’s nothing new, but if not for the favor of the Greater Will he would have been dead long ago.

The fresh cries of the battle behind you fade away as you arrive at the Site of Grace.

this was the best episode of the season (so far, at least) dare i say. a big reminder that rick and morty IS a science show.

this episode was so creative, interesting, and used real science to tell a fun story. i kept thinking it was going to take a dark, twisty turn for the worst, but it kept up a light tone.

i really like how this episode contrasts the nihilistic 'nothing matters, we all die' overtones of the rest of the series. it has a message of peace and harmony are important and life has meaning no matter where you are (even in a tree's prison).

this episode was a fun, self-contained, cyclical, classic rick and morty adventure. i loved it!

rick deciding to stay as an ape instead of following morty back to the beginning of the cycle- poor morty all alone. that amoeba saying 'oh child, you've been stuck in the cycle of violence too long' - can you say deeper meaning? (i think this could be a hint to this season building to morty leaving in the end).

morty manages on his own very well, which is not surprising considering how many times he's proven himself amazing at surviving. and of course, he leads his journey with empathy while rick leads his with tyranny- no matter what the cost (many, many lives).

morty seems to gain a lot of joy and peace from his different journeys becoming different kinds of life. and it turns out, his way of going forward with an open understanding mind, is what gets him (and everyone else) out in the end. he figured out that being a plant is the key.

their peace and harmony inside the tree's prison is what defeats him by draining all of his nutrients for themselves. i liked the overarching theme that working together is what ultimately got them out.