likeavilain

[likeavilain]

Fahrenheit | Nick Folio | One Shot

adult content | minors do NOT interact.

⋆ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. Nick Folio X Stripper!Reader.

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. for a good amount of money you can make any wish come true.

⋆ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒). environment exposed to illegal activities, nudity, explicit sex, oral sex, alcohol consumption.

I really need your reblog! On Tumblr, the content reaches more views and is delivered more through reblog and I really wanted more people to be able to read what I write. I'm counting on you from now on, ok?

Rounds on a Carousel.

Rising and falling to the rhythm of a song that felt like it had just escaped from one of those delicate music boxes, the kind with a beautiful, elegant ballerina at its center. A nostalgic sensation, an almost childlike memory. This wasn’t your life, nothing about it resembled yours, but it was just as exhilarating.

Neon lights painted the club in shades of red and purple, reflecting off every surface like an electric fever pulsing to the beat of the music. The bass made the floor vibrate beneath your high heels, an intense heartbeat dictating the rhythm of the night. The air was a dizzying mix of sweet perfume, expensive alcohol, and the heat of eager bodies pressed against the edge of the stage.

The slow pulse of the music wrapped around your hips as you moved along the pole, becoming one with it. Practiced and deliberate, slow and sensual, every movement was a calculated tease as your body coiled around the steel like the most dangerous kind of serpent. Between glances, you met the famished, mesmerized expressions below the stage. You ran your fingers along the cool metal, feeling the stark contrast against the heat of your skin. Your body already knew what to do. Every muscle, every curve, every drop of sweat beginning to form was a silent invitation. Eyes were locked on you, but you didn’t need them to know you were in control. The air was thick, charged, nearly suffocating—exactly as it should be.

Men were like servants at your feet.

When the night fell and you stepped onto the stage, control over them was handed to you effortlessly. They would do anything you wanted. They didn’t think, only surrendered to the illusion of a woman feeding them just enough to swell their fragile egos, making them believe they were worthy of your attention. Needy men craved exactly that—a mere scrap of confidence—so that, without hesitation, they would throw themselves at anyone daring enough to take advantage.

And once they were entangled, thoroughly deceived, they offered you an ocean of opportunity, perfect for draining them dry before the show was over.

That was the most entertaining part of your job.

With a slow motion, you spun around the pole, hair slipping over your shoulder like a veil of temptation. The lights caught the satiny sheen of your skin as you arched your body, a dangerous game between strength and softness. Your fingers gripped the bar firmly, and with precise momentum, you lifted yourself, legs wrapping around the polished metal. Gravity became an irrelevant detail as you slid down, every inch of skin illuminated under the flashing lights.

Heat coursed through your body as you leaned back, forming a perfect line that highlighted every curve at just the right angle—pure provocation without a single word. The beats of the music merged with the hitched breaths of those watching, captivated by the rhythm of your movements.

Your tongue met the cold steel as you dragged your damp lips across it. Flickering red lights, heat seeping from your pores, your veins burning with the rush, and the smoke drifting through the stage cast a spell over every entranced gaze. With your back against the pole, you slid down slowly, spreading your legs as you reached the floor—a privileged view for the most generous among them tonight.

As you descended, your feet touched the ground with the lightness of someone who knew exactly the power they wielded. Your gaze roamed the crowd, a silent promise to whoever dared to hold it. The atmosphere burned, thick with desire and admiration.

This was what you did. You dominated.

And in that moment, the whole world was yours.

The deep pulse of the music seemed to sync with your steps, like an extension of your own desire to command that stage. The heat of the club pulsed around you, charged with lust, but something was different now. A gaze.

You felt it before you saw it. An invisible weight pressing against your skin, igniting a burning spark that shot down your spine. When your eyes drifted over the crowd, he was there.

Seated in the shadows, surrounded by smoke and darkness, yet still completely exposed. He didn’t look away. Didn’t blink. His gaze was unwavering, so intense it seemed to devour you right then and there. Like a man crawling through a desert, starved and parched, aching for the unattainable. He wanted to drink you in with his eyes.

Your chest rose and fell in a different rhythm now, deeper. A crackling energy licked at your skin as your dance shifted subtly.

No longer for the crowd. Not for the applause. For him.

Your fingers traced over your own skin, slipping between the lace barely covering your chest as you turned around the pole, as if marking the path he longed to touch. Your movements slowed, deliberate, more enticing. Your leg extended with practiced grace, the curve of your hips accentuating every detail he absorbed as if he were a condemned man facing his final temptation.

And he remained there, motionless, mesmerized, as if the rest of the club had disappeared. As if nothing but you existed.

When you arched your body against the pole, tilting your head back, you knew you had him exactly where you wanted. His gaze burned your skin like an unspoken promise, a raw desire vibrating between the two of you, like a stretched wire on the verge of snapping.

You smiled. Slow. Provocative. Like a queen granting a mere mortal a glimpse of paradise.

He swallowed hard, his jaw clenched. And in that moment, he knew. He was already yours.

The water slid down your throat, cooling the heat still burning beneath your skin, but the sensation didn’t last. The bar was empty now, the low music vibrating against the walls like a distant echo of the spectacle that had unfolded hours before. The customers were gone, the staff too, and you were about to leave as well—until a deep voice, right behind you, made you freeze.

"I want to pay for your time."

The glass halted midway to your lips. Your heart pounded, a mix of surprise and indignation burning your face before you even turned around.

"I'm not a prostitute!" you shot back, your cheeks burning, fingers tightening around the glass.

He smiled. Slow. Confident. The kind of smile that made your skin prickle before you even understood why.

"I know," he murmured, his dark eyes locked onto yours. "But I want to pay for your time. I want you to dance for me. Just for me."

You hesitated, still feeling the blood thudding in your throat. He didn’t look drunk, nor desperate. Just determined.

"I only have tonight in the city," he continued, leaning over the counter, close enough that his woody scent mixed with the smell of alcohol and the leather of his jacket. "I’m leaving with my band tomorrow. Don’t deny the request of a man you might never see again."

You wetted your lips without realizing, nibbling on the corner of your lower lip. Your eyes scanned him, the relaxed way he waited, as if he already knew you’d say yes. And maybe he did.

"My time is expensive," you said, crossing your arms, trying not to show how much his gaze disarmed you.

"Good," he tilted his head, a burning glint in his eyes. "I don’t mind giving you everything I have."

The silence stretched between you, heavy, charged. An invisible current connected you, an unspoken challenge in the air.

Then, without another word, you turned on your heels and walked toward the stage. The echo of your heels against the floor reverberated through the empty bar, each step a promise. You climbed the steps slowly, the tips of your fingers grazing the cold pole, and let out a controlled breath.

The music started again. And this time, the dance was only for him.

The bass throbbed through the floor, the air, your blood. His. The pole was your anchor, but with each note, each spin, you detached a little more from reality, diving into the dance like someone surrendering to a forbidden ritual.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. He was there, transfixed, hypnotized, as you painted an unspoken invitation with your body.

Your skin glowed under the red light, a damp sheen that made him swallow hard. The movements started slow, precise, a play of shadows and curves that ignited desire with the patience of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. Every sway of your hips, every glide along the pole, every arch of your spine made it clear: this wasn’t just a dance. It was a spell. And he was falling.

You stepped down from the pole without haste, bare feet on the stage, your body undulating to the rhythm of the music. His eyes followed you, but at some point, he was no longer just a spectator. You pulled him into the performance without him even realizing it. Your scent was intoxicating. A mix of sweat, perfume, and desire pulsing through your skin. He felt it when you drew closer, when your breath brushed against his, when the tips of your fingers ran lightly along your own thigh, as if tracing the path he wanted to take.

Your eyes were flaming abysses. Red. Blood-filled pupils reflecting the fever of that moment.

Slow, feline, your body danced in the space between the two of you, unhurried. You made him feel your presence before even touching him, your warm breath caressing his skin, the burning promise in the way you moved around him, as if marking the territory that already belonged to you.

The first touch was subtle but electric. His fingers trailed down your nape, tracing the path of a desire on the verge of exploding. And he didn’t resist. His face drew closer, lips grazing the exposed skin of your shoulder in a slow, hot, torturous drag. The tip of his tongue traced an invisible path along the curve of your neck, descending as if savoring you before committing the ultimate crime. He slid his lips over your collarbone, down the valley between your breasts, your stomach, while your hands tangled in his hair—pulling, guiding, demanding more.

Lost in a battle for control that didn’t exist, seeking escape in the dark desire of a night that might become just another memory by morning. You didn’t care about any rules at work when you let him go all the way. Free of your shorts, he pushed your thin panties aside and lost himself even further at the sight that had tormented him all night.

Leaning back, you watched as he descended, his mouth capturing your swollen lips with absolute hunger. A low sigh escaped your lips. His tongue moved back and forth with a slowness that felt more like torture, then captured your clit and circled it counterclockwise, never breaking eye contact—his gaze possessed by something wicked.

Gasping, your back arched involuntarily when he pushed two fingers inside you. He alternated between deep thrusts and slow, teasing sucks, his tongue painting strokes of electric pleasure that surged through your entire body. Your skin tingled, as if hundreds of needles were taking turns deciding which would torment you first.

Heat. Sweat trickled down your neck, bearing witness to your feverish state, made evident only by the loud moans that drowned out the music in the background. He punished you with quick thrusts and slow sucks, leaving your mind hazy with so much skill that you questioned where the hell a man like him had even come from.

You inhaled sharply, your chest rising and falling like you were fighting against a tide dragging you under.

He locked his fingers around the top of your slit and sucked your clit as soon as he felt your body tense. He didn’t want you to come yet, and you obeyed like a good girl.

When he climbed back up, his breath ragged, eyes locked onto yours, there was a moment of silence. A single instant where only the sound of desire filled the space.

Then, your lips met.

The kiss wasn’t delicate. It wasn’t soft. It was fire. Sparks igniting the air the second your mouths clashed, teeth scraping, tongues warring in a game where both of you wanted to lose. You drowned in the heat, in your own taste, in the way his hands gripped your waist and dragged you closer into his lap, aligning you perfectly before slamming his cock inside you in one swift motion—like there wasn’t enough space in the world to keep you apart.

A cry tore from your lips when his thickness stretched your pussy, but even the burn of it was intoxicating, and with every thrust, you felt arousal drip between your thighs.

He groaned into your mouth, hands firm as they explored your curves, capturing your breasts, gripping your thighs, claiming every inch of you and silently begging for more.

You opened your eyes for a fleeting moment and saw only red on the ceiling of the club. Only fever.

Only a stage that no longer belonged to you. Nor to him. But to both of you.

Each bounce stole the air from his lungs, and you made sure to arch your ass higher, dropping onto him harder, faster, as his hands refused to leave your body even for a second. He played with the piercing on your nipple, smirking at the contrast of cold metal against sensitive, rigid flesh, spurring your hips to grind against him even more.

Slowly, you both rose from the floor, his solid body pressing against your back as your face rested against the metal pole. Bracing yourself, you felt his chin on your shoulder, his fingers gripping your thigh as he positioned you—his cock pushing inside again, still slick, yet struggling against your tightness.

Your legs trembled, your moans turning hoarse. The pressure of your walls squeezing around him made him sink his teeth into your shoulder. It was painful, dirty, forbidden—anyone could walk in at any second—but the thought only fueled you, making you clench even harder.

You wanted all of him. You wanted to provoke him, to make it hurt even more.

With another deliberate squeeze around him, you heard his moan deepen, his fingers tangling in your hair as he yanked your head back. When your gaze met his burning irises, he silenced you with his lips, a furious kiss dripping with intensity as he pounded into you harder.

Your body burned so much your legs could barely hold you up, both of you panting as your bodies moved in sync, slick with sweat. For a brief second, sliding over his cock reminded you of the way you gripped the pole every night—how intimately you knew it, how it was a part of you. Just like he was now.

He plunged into you without shame or hesitation, devouring you with the hunger of someone who had been waiting far too long for their favorite meal. He dedicated himself to everything at once, and you had never felt so desired, so touched, so thoroughly satisfied in your entire life.

The light filtered through the thin curtains, tinting the room with a soft golden hue. The air still carried a trace of perfume and sweat—a silent reminder of the night before.

You woke slowly, stretching lazily on the unmade bed. A yawn slipped from your lips as your fingers ran through your hair, trying to shake off the haze of sleep. Sitting up, your feet touched the cold floor, and you walked to the bathroom to begin your morning ritual.

The shower water cascaded over your skin, washing away the warmth of sleep—and perhaps something more. Perhaps fragments of the night, blurred in your mind like echoes of a fever dream. You dressed without hurry, brewed a strong cup of coffee, and leaned against the small kitchen counter, trying to stitch together the loose threads of memory.

The scent of coffee pulled you further into wakefulness. The hot liquid slid down your throat, and it was only then—when your eyes drifted over the room—that you noticed.

An envelope.

It was there, next to your bag, on the nightstand.

Your stomach sank.

Slowly, you approached, fingers hesitant as you picked it up. The moment you opened it, the air seemed to vanish from your lungs.

Fourteen thousand dollars.

The crisp stack of bills felt heavier than it should.

For a moment, you just stood there, staring at the money, feeling your heart hammer violently in your chest.

It really happened.

⭑ @bloody-spades ; @iluvmewwwww75 ; @anarchydomainglory ; @foliosgirl ; @lacy1986 ; @chey-h ; @supersquirrel1996 ; @zozaline​ ; @just-randomm-stuff ; @do-it-jakey-baby

[likeavilain]

I just really love these ..

[likeavilain]

⌬ 30 DAYS MUSIC CHALLENGE: 2024 edition ⌬

Day 7 - A song that needs to be played LOUD: Artificial Suicide (Bad Omens)

(insp. ⌬)

[likeavilain]

You come and go in waves — leaving me in your wake .

[likeavilain]

2 things:

folios laugh, nicky bass

[likeavilain]

𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒂𝒏 𝒖𝒏𝒇𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒓 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒏 𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒍𝒍-𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒊𝒔𝒆 , 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅 ? 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒉𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒄𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅 ' 𝑰𝒇 𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒂 𝒃𝒆 𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕, 𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒂 𝒃𝒆 𝒎𝒆 ' 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒊𝒔𝒆 ? 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒊𝒔𝒆 ?

[likeavilain]

this coloring is everything ..

[likeavilain]

Happy Feral Friday gang @xmads-omensx @tosoundlessdarkistare @heyyoplayer

[likeavilain]

i love him. i wanna give him a lil forehead kiss 😭

[likeavilain]

omg bad omens round 6 reference LOL

Bad Omens’ artistry goes beyond music — let’s dive into the parallels between their Concrete Jungle comic book and their videos/albums. How much of their world have you noticed connects?

[likeavilain]

Drive You Insane - Noah Sebastian (I)

adult content | minors do NOT interact.

⋆ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. Noah Sebastian X psychiatrist!Reader.

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. A mysterious new patient arrives at the Grimshade sanatorium and you have been tasked with taking care of his case.

⋆ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒). disturbing environment, violence, unconventional treatments, manipulation, questionable relationships, explicit sex and profanity.

It's okay to not agree with the characters' attitudes during the fic. It's good to remember that the story is fiction from the author's sick mind and of course they will make dubious decisions according to my fantasies. Nothing is done to be compared to reality.

Grimshade Sanatorium, an isolated island of Blackridge in southern Canada.

It had been six long hours by plane from your city, three hours by boat, and now an hour and a half crammed into a private car with closed windows, traveling along a bumpy road that bordered a cliff as it climbed the hill. Your heart threatened to leap out of your chest at any moment, and your hands were sweating so much that they alternated between hot and cold.

You adjusted your glasses on the bridge of your nose after checking the map for the eighth time, dividing your attention between the aged paper in your fingers and the fog outside that made it impossible to figure out where you were. From what you could decipher, Grimshade Sanatorium was at the top of a hill, while the rest of the island was shrouded in dark, untamed vegetation. There was a single small town miles away from your lodging, and reaching it seemed daunting given the path ahead.

At that moment, you hoped you wouldn’t need anything from it anytime soon.

When you chose psychiatry as your specialization, you never imagined how difficult it would be to find a job in the field, especially as a newly graduated professional. It was tough for reputable clinics to give you a vote of confidence, given your youth and limited experience beyond mandatory internships and extracurricular activities in college.

Everything changed when a letter from Grimshade Sanatorium arrived—a glimmer of hope. You had applied to so many places you’d forgotten about that one. They sent a notice on vintage paper, resembling a direct invitation from Hogwarts, which you found amusing yet intriguing due to the details.

They were looking for a psychiatrist for the ward housing inmates awaiting their final sentences—many of them serving their time as residents. It wasn’t exactly what you had envisioned, especially after researching Grimshade and discovering it functioned like a maximum-security prison for the most dangerous, mentally unstable criminals.

“This is where the road ends for cars, I’m afraid. You’ll have to continue on foot,” the driver said over his shoulder, turning to look at you in the back seat.

Your slightly wide-eyed gaze shifted between the dark dirt road ahead and his drooping eyes beneath his cap. You didn’t want to let on that you felt a faint shiver running up your spine.

“I don’t know how to get there alone,” you said, trying to mask the panic in your voice. “Okay, I have a map, but what are the chances it won’t confuse me? Is there somewhere I can get Wi-Fi or better cell service to use GPS?”

Rebert—that’s how he introduced himself—merely furrowed his brows and shook his head briefly, as if the words that had left your lips were absurd.

“With all due respect, miss, but a cellphone on Blackridge Island is the most useless device you could own. There’s no signal tower; we barely manage to watch TV or get news from the outside world,” he chuckled.

“What do you mean?” you asked, frowning as you adjusted yourself in the seat. “How do people communicate here?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

Probably through letters and carrier pigeons, like a century ago.

“I need to ask one more thing. If I need to go into town, how can I call a taxi or get transportation?”

“When you get to this very intersection, you’ll see cars like mine heading toward the town. Since you’re a Grimshade employee, you’ll have unrestricted access with your ID badge. Just pay attention to the schedules and days of the week; town visits are limited to avoid coinciding with the arrival of new inmates.”

“They seem very strict about security,” you said, flexing your lips in mild surprise.

“Given the abominable creatures they house there, perhaps their measures aren’t strict enough. Strict is how I chain my dog to a post to keep him from running away. Those killers shouldn’t even have the privilege of eating and sleeping in that place,” Rebert said with a tone of contempt that left you slightly uncomfortable.

You hated when people spoke about patients that way, no matter who they were. But your beliefs and values didn’t matter much now.

“Well...” You cleared your throat, grabbing your coat and bag from the seat beside you, slinging it over your shoulder. “Thanks for the ride and the tips, Rebert.”

“Not at all, miss.”

You hauled your suitcase out of the trunk, grunting at its weight, and dragged it toward the narrower stone path. In the distance, you heard Rebert’s car pulling away, its tires crunching against the gravel. Ahead, you could make out the mansion after a steep climb, with old tree branches and dry leaves forming an archway over the path.

The journey was silent, with nothing but the sounds of nature—the raspy chirping of birds—accompanied by the soft rush of water from the cracked concrete fountain decorating the front of the sanatorium as you crossed its gates. You walked slowly around it, grimacing as you noted the general state of neglect on the facade.

The circular driveway around the fountain had cracked and darkened tiles, and the mansion’s paint was as old as the building itself, appearing white under layers of creeping vines and cracks that altered its color. You couldn’t help wrinkling your nose at the sight, the chirping of birds replaced by the distant clang of heavy metal and muffled screams as you approached.

“You must be the new doctor!” A cheerful male voice addressed you from behind, startling you as you turned fully. “I’m Travis Rune, head psychiatrist of the custody ward. I’ve been assigned to welcome you to Grimshade!”

For a moment, you considered refusing the hand he extended toward you. He could’ve arrived a little earlier and helped you carry your heavy suitcase up the hill. On the other hand, the blond man with perfectly aligned hair and broad shoulders seemed far too pleasant to snub.

“Thank you! Have you been here long, Dr. Rune?” you asked, prompting a smile as Travis gestured with his chin for you to follow him inside.

“Please, call me Travis. We’re colleagues now.” He smiled, looking at you over his square glasses, winking one strikingly blue eye.

“That’s precisely why I prefer to keep things formal,” you said without intending to sound rude, though the words slipped out as you continued assessing the mansion’s interior.

A grand staircase led to the second floor, where nurses bustled about, and various patients were being moved from one place to another—some restrained, others not. Passing by a woman banging her head against the staircase railing, Travis led you upstairs, signaling to another staff member to take care of your suitcase.

“We’ve divided Grimshade into wings and levels. You’ll identify them by the bracelets on each patient’s wrist,” he explained as you moved down the corridor, ignoring the shouting coming from one of the consulting rooms. “Level One: green bracelet. Elderly patients abandoned by their families in our asylum. Their needs are managed by the nursing staff, so you won’t have contact with them.”

You absorbed the information, looking from side to side, thinking that abandoning a family member in a place like this was the ultimate proof of someone’s character.

"Level two: yellow wristbands. Patients of random age groups with mild mental disorders also abandoned by their families, or severe cases requiring institutionalization. They are monitored by the mental health team and have a monthly consultation with me for medication adjustments."

"So, they pay to be here?" Perhaps it was a naïve question, but you needed to know.

"Their families pay an annual fee and cover the costs of keeping them here. Unless it's a custody patient, we don’t treat anyone for free, if that’s what you’re wondering."

If they had so many patients and all of them paid to be here, why keep the sanatorium in the state of an ancient asylum? You wondered as you walked past a leak dripping water from the ceiling onto your hair.

"Understood, Dr. Rune."

He seemed quite young.

Okay, he was definitely good-looking and had a pleasant way of speaking. The age gap between you and him couldn’t have been more than two years. He was definitely the kind of guy you might have had a crush on in university, without the slightest reciprocation given the countless other, more interesting options he probably had. Not that you were particularly extroverted or social, especially when it came to interacting with men.

Locking yourself up at home with your face buried in books might not have been the best idea after all.

"Last but not least, level three: red wristbands. Custody patients awaiting trial or serving sentences at the sanatorium. We use treatment to extract information that can assist authorities and contribute to investigations."

He pointed toward a consultation room where a man in a dress shirt was speaking to a girl with her head down.

"Because these are highly dangerous criminals who can’t coexist with other patients, we keep them in a separate wing, which we call the Hidden."

Dr. Rune turned the next corner, and you followed him. As you passed through the doors and descended the stairs leading to the outside, the cold hit your face, and it was impossible not to cross your arms, trying to pull your sleeves further down.

You thought the scenery couldn’t get any worse, but with each step, it became darker. As you passed through gates and two guards, it felt like stepping into a TV prison show, walking along a corridor of iron cells.

A strong stench burned your nostrils, and the screams of patients mixed with the sound of something hitting the iron were enough to make your ears ring.

"This place is the reason you’re here. Our last professional resigned, and we urgently needed to fill the position before the next evaluation cycle started," Travis shrugged as he walked.

Your confidence dropped by a few percentage points upon realizing that your hiring was out of sheer desperation. Fine, you’d deal with that later.

"They resigned?" you asked, raising an eyebrow, dodging a stream of urine aimed in your direction by a patient. "Not exactly motivating to hear that on the first day."

"It’s a tough ward; it’s not for everyone." He smiled, and you hesitated immediately. "Besides the patient files you’ll handle, you’ll need to prepare for a new detainee arriving soon."

"A new detainee?" For the first time, your question sounded genuinely intrigued.

"He’s being tried for a brutal murder. There’s little information about the case, like his motivation or even confirmation that he did it. He hasn’t spoken a word since it happened, and the judge concluded he’s not mentally sound." Travis rolled his eyes. "They dump any trash here, and it’s up to us to sort through it. Along the way, we see if we can help at all."

He was definitely fed up with this job.

"So, let me guess... you think I can make him talk?" you asked, playing with a hint of innocence as you watched Travis stop in the corridor.

"I don’t think someone as inexperienced as you can go that far, no offense." He spoke with a touch of sarcasm. "We just want you to follow protocol with him, and I’ll handle the rest."

Something prickled at the back of your neck at the way he dismissed your years of study as absolutely nothing just because your resume wasn’t as extensive as his. Your hands curled into fists, your fingers pressing into your palms, and you took a deep breath before responding.

"Of course, Dr. Rune."

The tour of the Hidden was over, and you were exhausted. Travis left you at the door of your small room with its jammed window and dusty ceiling fan. Before leaving, he emphasized the importance of being well-rested to receive the new patient the next day. After your shower, you wanted to call your mother and let her know you had arrived safely on the island after hours of travel, but without any signal, no matter where you moved in the room, this mission was impossible. Tossing the phone onto your pillow, you promised yourself you’d give her an update as soon as you had a break and could visit the town.

With a tired sigh, you sat at the desk next to the bed, drying your hair with a towel while flipping through patient files. You weren’t sleepy yet, and without the entertainment of the internet, all you could do was work.

Patient File 1: Ash A., 39 years old - Admission: June 2019 Preliminary Diagnosis: Severe psychopathy; dissociative disorder.

History: Ash was admitted after being declared legally insane during the trial for a series of brutal murders. He worked as a taxidermist, and his obsession with preserving "human perfection" led him to conduct grotesque experiments on his victims, all meticulously chosen. He claimed he was "saving" their souls by preserving them in an "immortal" form. During initial sessions, he displayed a complete lack of remorse and a disturbingly detailed recounting of his actions. Current State: Apathetic during interactions, except when discussing his “art.” Shows no signs of rehabilitation or acknowledgment of the atrocities committed.

You raised your eyebrows and jotted down notes in your notebook before moving to the next file.

Patient File 2: Mariene G., 27 years old - Admission: October 2021 Preliminary Diagnosis: Schizoaffective disorder with violent tendencies.

History: Mariene was found in a state of shock next to the body of her older brother, stabbed 23 times. Apparently, she believed he was a demonic entity trying to steal her soul. According to family testimony, Mariene began exhibiting paranoid behavior months earlier, hearing voices instructing her to protect herself "at all costs." In one interview, she stated she "had no choice" and that "his eyes burned like embers."

Current State: Alternates between periods of lucidity and paranoia. Aggressive during confrontations, requiring constant supervision.

“Mariene is a pretty name…” you murmured, assessing the photo of the woman with blonde eyebrows.

Patient File 3: Brady P., 52 years old - Admission Date: January 2020

Preliminary Diagnosis: Antisocial personality disorder; extreme persecution mania.

History: Brady was a former financial executive who believed he was being pursued by a "secret society" responsible for monitoring his every move and manipulating his life. This paranoia culminated in a public attack at a shopping mall, where Brady set fire to three stores and stabbed two security guards, claiming they were "infiltrators." He maintains that each act was a measure of self-preservation against an invisible enemy.

Current State: Rarely sleeps, claiming that "they will find him" if he closes his eyes. Displays consistent delusions despite intensive medication.

With the third file finished, you exhaled sharply, letting your lips vibrate, imagining what could have driven the previous psychiatrist to resign, leaving this position open for you.

Patient File 4: Noah S., 24 years old - Admission Date: February 2024

Preliminary Diagnosis: Psychogenic catatonia associated with borderline personality disorder and severe dissociative episodes.

History: Noah was found at dawn in a grove near the university campus, kneeling beneath a large tree. Above him hung the mutilated body of his ex-girlfriend, Rachel E., 23 years old, suspended by her ankles and bearing signs of extreme violence: deep cuts marked her skin, symbols carved into her torso, and her frozen expression suggested a slow and painful death.

Noah was covered in blood, both his own and Rachel’s. When approached by police, he remained motionless, staring blankly at her hanging body. Initial investigations revealed the two had been seen together the night before at a rival fraternity party where, according to witnesses, a heated argument occurred. The circumstances of the crime raised questions of premeditation and symbolic rituals, but Noah never provided an explanation. From the moment of his capture, Noah had not spoken a single word. Extensive psychiatric evaluations concluded that his muteness and apathy were not conscious choices but the result of a profound dissociative state combined with severe trauma. During the trial, his inert posture and lack of defense led to an insanity plea and his transfer to Grimshade Sanitarium.

Current State: Noah remains in complete silence, minimally interacting with his surroundings. Nurses’ reports mention he is often found staring into space for hours, particularly near windows or trees. His only movements thus far have been sudden bursts of rage when provoked.

Closing the file, the feeling lingered — a deep chill seemed to originate from the center of your chest, raising the hair on your arms. Noah’s face in the photograph seemed almost alive, his intense, furrowed gaze carrying something impossible to name. For a moment, you wondered what it would be like to stand face-to-face with someone harboring such silence and horror within.

But your curiosity wouldn’t have to last long — you would meet him tomorrow.

The day began with an unusual restlessness. The hot water from the shower didn’t dissipate the cold that seemed to settle in your nape, and Noah’s face from the photograph lingered like a shadow, even with your eyes closed. It was as though the intensity of his gaze was imprinted on your mind, and more than once, you caught yourself trying to divert your thoughts — unsuccessfully — while instinctively clutching your thighs.

The tattoos — intricate and dark — covering his neck and peeking from the collar of his shirt didn’t help, drawing attention to themselves. Something about that man disturbed you more than any other patient you had encountered, and the feeling only grew as you prepared, choosing an outfit that projected professionalism, though a hint of nervousness threatened to show.

Descending to reception, you found Dr. Rune waiting with a calm smile and a hot coffee. You thanked him, holding the cup with both hands, trying to savor the warmth as a fleeting comfort. Walking together toward the outside, he explained some logistical details, but his words soon faded as a growing noise filled the corridor.

Crossing the main entrance doors, you stopped abruptly, startled by the scene unfolding before you. Journalists crowded like a compact swarm, camera flashes firing in rapid succession, and visibly overwhelmed security guards struggling to contain the horde. It was a chaotic visual and auditory assault, intensifying with each passing second.

“I should’ve warned you,” Travis murmured beside you, noting your expression. “Not only is his case infamous, but Noah comes from a very influential family. The owners of Blackridge, basically. They have fortune, power... and apparently no hurry to help their precious son.”

“They’re not trying to prove his innocence?” you asked innocently.

“All signs point to them wanting to stay out of the case due to the exposure. We’re in the isolated area, but Blackridge’s noble district is so conservative it’s believed that land still exists in a time capsule that hasn’t evolved.”

“That sounds... complicated.”

“Just another piece of gossip about a random patient.”

The information landed heavily, given Travis’s mocking tone, and you tried to ignore him.

“They won’t back off anytime soon,” Rune commented, his eyes scanning the commotion with a weary expression. “Be prepared — this will complicate things inside as well. Friends of mine at the penitentiary said this guy has an ego to match.”

The chaos ahead seemed to swell with the arrival of the convoy. You barely had time to process everything — the blinding flashes, the cacophony of voices shouting questions — when the door of the central car opened. Two guards stepped out first, taking rigid positions, before pulling Noah out.

He emerged with a surprising posture. There was no resistance in his movements, but neither was there submission. With his chin raised, his face remained expressionless, his eyes fixed on an undefined point on the horizon, avoiding the cameras with a determination that seemed almost practiced. The tattoos, now more visible, climbed along the side of his neck and hinted beneath the collar of his gray shirt, creating an almost hypnotic contrast against his pale skin.

Noah seemed unperturbed, untouchable, as though the swarm of journalists and flashes were nothing more than a breeze around him. But then, something shifted. His firm steps faltered for an instant, almost imperceptibly, and he stopped abruptly.

That’s when you realized: he was looking directly at you.

The air around you seemed to freeze under the weight of his gaze, as overwhelming as in the photograph, but now there was something more — an intensity that seemed to pierce through you, as if examining something far beyond what others could see. His eyes were a blend of ice and fire, fixed on you with such deliberate focus that your stomach involuntarily tightened.

The moment lasted only seconds but felt like an eternity. One of the guards touched Noah’s shoulder impatiently, and he resumed walking as if nothing had happened. Yet, the impact of that brief exchange lingered.

“He usually doesn’t react to anything,” Travis remarked beside you, his voice low but tinged with curiosity. “That was... strange.”

Strange.

The word felt insufficient to describe what you had just experienced. As Noah was led inside, you remained frozen, trying to understand why that fleeting instant made your skin tingle, as though something inevitable was about to happen.

You were in the asylum’s forest, each step swallowed by the oppressive silence, broken only by the crunch of dry leaves beneath your feet. The air was dense, almost suffocating, and you knew you weren’t alone. Something—or someone—was behind you.

Your breaths were shallow and quick, every fiber of your being urging you to run, yet your legs felt rooted to the ground. Then, you heard it.

A whisper, far too close, as though it came from inside your mind:

“Run.”

The word was a command, and you obeyed without hesitation. Your body lunged forward, crashing through trees and brush with an urgency that felt primal. But the ground seemed to fight against you, each step more laborious than the last. Heat built between your thighs—confusing, strange—mixing with the adrenaline surging down your spine.

When the sound of footsteps behind you intensified, the adrenaline peaked. You could no longer think, only run, but you knew it was futile. He was too close.

Suddenly, something yanked your hair with brutal force, jerking you backward. A scream tore from your lips as your back collided with the rough surface of a tree. The pain of bark scraping against your exposed skin was eclipsed by his presence—a towering, menacing shadow.

His face was obscured, hidden in darkness, but the patterns on his neck were unmistakable. You recognized the intricate lines of tattoos that had haunted your thoughts all day. The broad shoulders and the strength with which he gripped your jaw confirmed your deepest fear.

It was Noah.

He tilted his head, studying you with a terrifying calm. The sound of his breathing was heavy, almost animalistic. Before you could react, he pressed his body against yours, pinning you between the tree and his overwhelming presence.

The heat pulsing between your thighs became unbearable, tangled in terror and tension. You tried to speak, but the words lodged in your throat as he gripped your neck with a possessive firmness, his fingers digging into your skin.

And then, like a violent wave, you woke up.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, breaths coming in ragged gasps, and cold sweat drenched your skin. The darkness of your room was suffocating, though not as much as the weight of that dream. It wasn’t merely fear—it was something deeply visceral, almost tangible, making your skin crawl and your entire body rebel against what you had just experienced.

That man was going to drive you insane.

[likeavilain]

x

[likeavilain]

i present to you: the love of my life

[likeavilain]

Ultraviolet | Joakim Karlsson

adult content | minors do NOT interact.

⋆ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. Jolly X female!Reader.

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. You and Jolly have a much greater connection than simply meeting after an accident.

⋆ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒). melancholy, vampirism, violence, blood, experiments.

It's okay to not agree with the characters' attitudes during the fic. It's good to remember that the story is fiction from the author's sick mind and of course they will make dubious decisions according to my fantasies. Nothing is done to be compared to reality.

The night was suffocating, wrapped in a cloak of shadows and a biting cold that seemed to hold the world's breath. Dense clouds crawled across the sky, obscuring the full moon, its silver light reduced to a pale specter that barely pierced the oppressive veil. The air carried the scent of wet earth, mingled with something metallic and invasive. The forest's silence was broken only by the muffled sound of footsteps and murmurs in a language that did not belong to that place.

I could feel the disturbance before I saw them, like a shiver running up my spine and invading my mind. My sharpened senses picked up every minuscule movement, the irregular rhythm of human hearts, the soft clink of metal against the leather of their attire. Intruders. Their audacity was as absurd as it was predictable, armed with technology that sought to challenge nature itself, believing that gadgets of light and nets could tame the unknown.

They were here for her.

The Ultraviolet. Not just a simple plant, but a living fragment of an ancient secret, a pulsing curse that my family had kept contained for centuries. To touch it was to touch the abyss, to toy with forces that should not belong to human hands. But these men, these scientists, came with the same blind purpose as always: to possess.

I watched them for long minutes, camouflaged in the darkness like a living shadow. The steep incline offered cover, and the trees around me whispered in complicity with the wind. My muscles were tense, every fiber of my body vibrating with the anticipation of a predator about to strike.

“You shouldn’t be here.” My voice came like a muffled thunder, heavy with fury, breaking the thick air and freezing the invaders in their places.

For a moment, silence was absolute. Then, in unison, they reacted. Floodlights snapped on, bright beams slicing through the gloom and forcing me to squint. Weapons were raised, fingers ready to fire. I moved before they could act, a shadow between the trees, fast and relentless.

The first fell with a muffled cry as my hand sliced through the air, tearing the rifle from his hands and breaking it as if it were cardboard. The second tried to run, but was thrown against a tree with a swift motion of my arm. The dry snap of breaking bones echoed through the night.

But they were many. And they were prepared.

A shot hit my flank, a burning pain that seared like acid through my flesh. I staggered for a second, but pressed forward, my fury overshadowing the suffering. Every strike was precise, every movement carrying the force of a beast desperate to protect its territory.

They screamed, and the sound of panic replaced their initial confidence. Iron nets were thrown over me, binding my right arm and dragging me to the ground with brutal weight. I tried to break the metal, but a second shot hit my shoulder, and the intense light seemed to eat away at my skin.

Even so, I didn’t stop. My vision began to blur, but I still managed to strike. Another fell, his helmet crushed against the ground; a third was hurled toward the group, knocking two down on impact. The lights flickered erratically as they scattered, disoriented and terrified. The smell of their blood filled the air, mingled with the metallic scent of their weapons. My muscles burned, every movement tearing a cry from within, but I kept going. The last group fled, their footsteps echoing through the forest as they disappeared into the darkness.

When the last trace of human sound faded, I allowed myself to feel the weight of the pain. My chest rose and fell in short gasps, and the wounds burned like live coals. I staggered, my knees buckling under my weight. The ground seemed to give way beneath my feet, and then I noticed too late the ravine ahead.

The fall was swift but painful. Branches scraped my skin, rocks tore at my flesh, and the world spun in a whirlpool of darkness and stars.

When I finally stopped, the impact left my body immobile, every muscle screaming in agony. I looked up at the sky, where the clouds began to part, briefly revealing the pale glow of the stars. But soon, even they disappeared, as the absolute darkness enveloped me.

The smell of aged wood and medicinal herbs was the first sign that I was in some place safe. My senses returned to me slowly, as if they were hesitating to return to the real world. The pain in my flank was sharp, cutting like the echo of a distant scream, perhaps due to the force of the impact from the fall.

But there was something else... Something I couldn't identify immediately.

A presence. A voice.

"I'm glad you're awake!" she said, the softness of her voice touching the very fibers of my being, like a distant melody, yet firm, as her skillful fingers moistened a cloth in the basin beside the makeshift bed. "You'll be fine..."

When I opened my eyes, the light of the lantern beside me almost blinded me, forcing my eyes to squint as my vision adjusted. And then, I saw her. She was leaning over me, the delicacy of her movements with the cloth contrasting with the intensity with which she watched me. Her hair fell in untamed waves, but it was her eyes that paralyzed me, as if each one held a universe. One, lighter, had a familiar color, but the other, deeper, dark-hued, disarmed me, piercing me like a sharp blade.

Something within me yielded before that gaze, as if she were a key capable of unlocking what I had long tried to conceal. And then, I noticed the mark.

My gaze was irresistibly drawn to her arm, where a spiraling black scar seemed to pulse with an energy I vaguely recognized. The feeling that something within me connected to it made me shudder, and a chill ran down my spine.

"Who are you?" My voice came out hoarse, almost a whisper, as if the question was a denial of everything I had learned up to that point. Fear, something I hadn't felt in centuries, bubbled in my gut, and doubt twisted in my chest.

Could it be a trap?

She raised her eyes to me, surprised, but didn't pull away. Something in her look, perhaps the calm tranquility of someone unaware of the true threat I represented, made her seem even more enigmatic. "My name doesn't matter now. You're safe. Rest."

Safe. The word sounded like an insult. A cruel irony. But my body, exhausted and aching, lacked the strength to argue. When I tried to sit up, a searing pain made me fall back onto the bed with a heavy sigh.

She pressed my shoulder with a firm hand, stronger than I expected.

"Don't move. You've been hurt quite badly. It's possible you're still in pain. I've treated your wounds as best I could." Her voice was a strange balance between gentleness and authority, something uncommon among them.

I couldn't believe anything that came from the mouth of a human, I knew better than that. I had been raised to distrust them, to believe their kindness always had something hidden, something that could destroy me. But she... She seemed so genuine.

A part of me wanted to believe, but fear still ran through my veins. Nothing enraged me more than being indebted to a creature, and this felt even worse when I remembered she was human.

"You shouldn't have helped me." I closed my eyes, trying to stifle the turmoil of emotions that threatened to engulf me. Guilt, confusion, helplessness... It all consumed me.

Nothing was more detestable than this debt, this feeling of fragility. And she... She treated me as if I were an ordinary wounded person, as if I were not a monster who could kill her at any moment.

She sighed, moving the ceramic basin away, as if my words hadn't touched her. "I was washing my clothes in the river, your body appeared there. I saw you were injured. It was the right thing to do. You didn't seem like a threat..."

Her smile was brief, but something in it unsettled me. How could she see me like this? A predator, a being that hides in the shadows, hunting its prey, and yet feel no fear? Something about her didn't fit, and that was what intrigued me the most.

I watched her in silence, noticing the tension in her body, the lines of exhaustion beginning to draw on her face, the slow way she moved. But what really captured me was her gaze. There was no fear, only... compassion. Something I had never known how to handle.

Something that, I realized with a tightness in my chest, made me want to understand.

"What's your name?" she asked after a long silence, her voice soft, almost an invitation to trust.

I hesitated. I knew the risk carrying my name represented. But like a fog dissipating before the light, my answer came before I could stop it.

"Joakim."

She smiled, a gesture so genuine it made me question everything I believed.

"It's a beautiful name. Do you need help getting home? I can help you get there, but I’ll need you to guide me along the way."

I couldn't answer. My mind was at war, struggling against the idea of trusting someone like her, and with growing resolve, I lifted myself from where I had been lying, tucked in my shirt, and made her glance away from my exposed abdomen, returning her focus to my face. Every part of my body seemed to burn excessively for a fraction of a second, but I had to be stronger than that.

"I thank you for what you did for me today..." I said softly, bowing my head in a long nod.

My steps dragged to the half-open door, and gradually, the scent of the herbs grew fainter, along with her perfume, and how cruel it seemed to deal with the fragrance of the real world after having dealt with something different in the past hours.

"Take care. I hope to see you again, Joakim!"

She said softly, halting my steps at the doorway, making me glance over my shoulder. Smiling, she was still sitting in her chair, hands in her lap, and hair pulled back, accentuating her clavicle, installing another strange feeling with the shadow from her wrist, drawing my attention back to the mark.

"But I don't."

[likeavilain]

then and now ~

[likeavilain]

the Four Omens of the Concrete Jungle .