I LOVE THESE DIVAS SM
The days stretch on, each one more suffocating than the last. Under Vil's guidance, your world is meticulously controlled. You're kept inside Pomefiore's walls, wrapped in routines designed to refine every aspect of your being, each one a layer tightening around you. Vil's vision of perfection isn't optional, and every attempt you make to carve out a piece of yourself is stripped away under his watchful eye. He dictates everything—your skincare, your diet, the very way you carry yourself.
One afternoon, Vil examines you with his usual clinical precision, his gaze scrutinizing even the tiniest flaw. "Your posture is lacking," he chides, his voice smooth yet cutting. "If you're to embody the beauty I see in you, there's no room for weakness."
He doesn't give you a chance to speak, adjusting your stance himself, his fingers guiding your shoulders into place with an almost painful pressure. "We must eliminate every imperfection," he murmurs, his eyes intense, as if he's sculpting a statue rather than addressing a human being. "One day, you'll thank me for this."
It's a daily ritual now—Vil's relentless quest for your refinement. He brushes your hair in long, even strokes each night, his gaze fixed on you in the mirror with an unsettling intensity. Any attempt to pull back or voice your discomfort is met with the same cold resolve. "You'll learn to appreciate this care," he insists, his hands firm on your shoulders. "No one else would offer you this devotion. You need only trust me."
And you might, if not for the others.
Rook's affection is as constant as it is suffocating. He's always there, watching you with rapt admiration, his eyes alight with an unquenchable fascination. Every step you take, he seems to anticipate, appearing at your side as if drawn by some invisible tether. He takes every opportunity to be near you, to touch you. A hand on your shoulder, a gentle caress of your cheek, a lingering kiss on your forehead. At first, you flinch away, but Rook only draws closer, undeterred.
One night, after you muster up the courage to ask him for space, he simply chuckles, his voice a soft, eerie melody. "Ah, but how could I resist such beauty?" he says, pressing a light kiss to your knuckles. "To be near you is a blessing, Y/N. Denying my admiration would be like denying a painter his muse. You're my inspiration, my dear."
You feel trapped under his gaze, a butterfly pinned in place. He takes your face in his hands, brushing his lips softly over your forehead, then each cheek, until you're frozen, every nerve taut. "It's natural to be nervous," he whispers, drawing you closer. "But in time, you'll understand. My admiration is something sacred. I love you, every part of you, and I won't let anyone else see what I see."
Epel, on the other hand, has grown frighteningly possessive. The shy, blushing boy you once knew is gone, replaced by someone who won't let anyone—not even you—get too close to anyone else. He shadows your every move with a scowl, his jealousy evident in every glare he shoots at those around you. And his temper, once hidden behind a sweet smile, now flares at the slightest provocation.
One day, after you exchange a few harmless words with a passerby in the hallway, Epel's grip on your wrist tightens painfully as he pulls you aside. "What are you doing talking to him?" he snaps, his eyes blazing with anger. "Don't you get it, Y/N? You're mine. You're supposed to stay with me."
You try to pull away, but his hold only tightens, his fingers digging into your skin. "Epel, you're hurting me—"
"Good," he says through gritted teeth, pulling you closer until you're inches apart. "Maybe then you'll finally understand. I don't want anyone else near you. Not him, not anyone. You belong with me, Y/N."
His grip becomes so tight you gasp, struggling against him, but he doesn't relent. It's only when Rook appears, gently prying Epel's fingers from your wrist, that you manage to pull away, trembling. Rook soothes you with a gentle smile, running his hand down your back.
"Shh, shh, mon cher," he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. "Epel means well. He only wants to protect you."
The days blur together, a twisted routine of control and possessiveness. Vil's constant critique, Rook's reverent touch, Epel's fierce grip—all merge into an endless, suffocating web of captivity.
One evening, Vil decides it's time for another "improvement session." He sits you in front of the mirror, brushing out your hair with precise, almost ritualistic strokes. You're silent, resigned, until he suddenly stops, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror.
"Why do you resist so much?" he asks, his tone soft but laced with impatience. "Do you not see that I'm trying to make you perfect?"
You open your mouth to argue, but he places a finger against your lips, silencing you. "Enough, Y/N. You don't understand what's best for you. Out there, you'd be swallowed up by those who don't appreciate you. Here, I'm giving you purpose, beauty."
But it's Rook's lingering touches that weigh on you the most. He kisses your forehead as if in a trance, his lips trailing down to your cheek, then your jaw. Each touch feels heavier, more possessive, until his hands are holding you tightly, preventing any attempt to pull away.
"Please," you whisper, trying to turn your head, but he only smiles, tilting your face back to meet his eyes.
"There's no need to hide, mon trésor," he murmurs, his thumb brushing your cheek in a gesture so tender it's terrifying. "Your beauty is not something to fear. I am here to adore you, to cherish every inch of you."
You try to pull back, but his lips brush your forehead again, then down to your nose, each kiss a reminder that he sees you as his alone.
Finally, one night, you reach your breaking point. You know you can't stay—not if you want to hold onto any piece of yourself. When you're certain they're asleep, you slip out of bed, creeping towards the door. But before you reach it, a strong hand grabs your wrist, and you're spun around, face-to-face with Epel. His expression is a mix of rage and betrayal.
"Going somewhere?" he sneers, his grip like iron. "You really thought you could just leave?"
"Epel, please," you stammer, trying to wrench your hand free. But he only pulls you closer, his eyes flashing with something dark, something dangerous.
"You're not leaving me," he says, his voice a low, furious growl. "You think I'd let you walk out of here after everything we've done for you? After all I've done to protect you?"
His hand tightens, and you wince, the pain sharp and unrelenting. His grip leaves bruises, but you're too terrified to fight back. "Epel, let go—"
"Not until you understand," he says, his voice filled with a twisted determination. "You're mine, Y/N. I don't care if you don't see it now, but one day, you'll realize no one else will ever love you like this."
Rook's voice breaks the tension, smooth and haunting. "Ah, Epel, let's not frighten our dear Y/N too much," he coos, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, his lips brushing your hair in a way that feels both comforting and imprisoning. "They'll come to see it in time. After all, how could they not?"
Vil steps forward, his expression cold and unyielding. "Enough," he says, his gaze fixed on you with a mixture of disappointment and resolve. "This nonsense has gone on long enough. You're not a child, Y/N. It's time you accept your place."
The room closes in, their eyes all locked on you, each one certain, each one convinced they're the only ones who could ever truly care for you. There's no escape, no chance for freedom. They've wrapped you so tightly in their obsession that the world outside feels like a distant memory, a dream you'll never reach again.
In the days that follow, your attempts at resistance fade. Their devotion is all-consuming, leaving you with nothing but the echo of who you used to be. Vil's careful routines, Rook's possessive kisses, Epel's fierce grip—all become the walls of your prison, and as the world outside grows fainter, you feel yourself slipping deeper into their grasp, forever bound by their twisted love.
