#ah I love having unhinged discussions at weird hours

[yujeong]

Maybe it's Ottessa Moshfegh's novels infecting my brain lately - and @loveliesblood too, because we had the same thoughts about this - but has anyone else pondered on the pure filth surrounding the safehouse arc?

And by that, I mean, how disgusting the whole concept truly is.

Tbh, I mostly mean Pete here: we're talking about a guy held in a secluded room - a room that's never ventilated, that's never cleaned and that has 2 inhabitants in it, counting the hedgehog - who's wearing the same underwear the whole time, who hasn't taken a shower in days, hasn't brushed his teeth, barely goes to the toilet (and we don't even know how that was happening, the possibilities for filth are endless), who gets the duvet dirty with the noodle soup, who sleeps on the same sheets the whole time (Vegas never changes them), with his greasy hair and his dirty feet and his unwashed body and his saliva and his sweat and everything.

What I'm trying to say is, that room is a health hazard and probably smells worse than a barn by the end of it.

All of that, of course, makes Vegas' fascination and pure obsession with Pete all the more enticing in my mind. He craves the filth of Pete, he craves the foul taste of his mouth and his ass like nothing else in his life. Just like Pete craves Vegas' emotional filth, hiding below all the layers of his slick minor family heir persona he can't even maintain for long while stuck in there.

Idk if it's too gross to think about (it is), since the fandom had lost its mind by Vegas eating Pete's ass because he was... sitting on the grass... with his underwear on... but to me, and to Amaranth, that's just the tip of the iceberg.

And it's also incredible inspiration for more missing scene fics 😌

[bats-after-dark]

Excuse me, but how is the unhinged CNC WIP so sweet? There's just something about they’re both trying to seduce/torment the other, but instead instantly turn into giggling/whimpering/moaning losers (affectionate). The snippet really is perfect, the only thing it's kind of missing is a quick, sneaky description of Xiaobao’s jingles, although maybe that'd be underlining it too much.

FUJUN, THOUGH. I GET YOU, XIAOBAO. The way you write Huaien's weird spaghetti gender is so delicious, too. Most wifeguy ever.

Have we discussed what's Huaien’s motivation for the snack run? Did he just want to be a good wife or did he intend to slowly start setting the scene for the romantic nonconning? Maybe he said to himself that yeah, I'm there to torment my husband, but actually went because his mind kept wandering and focusing on anything was different and jingles jingles jingles etc. So he goes to Xiaobao, immediately caves a little bit, goes home, uh oh he's horny, caves in a little more and jerks off. Love how the fic is essentially about Xiaobao’s need to be nonconned but the more I think about it the more unhinged and intense it is for Huaien.

plz imagine my zombie self shambling into the blog with x's for eyes

so my vision for this was that the reader knows it's CNC and is basically just nervously glancing from side to side like, "Bats, what's happening? Bats? BATS???", waiting the beat to drop, wondering what the jingle necklace is for exactly. also hang on i'll add jingles you're right. NEEDS MORE JINGLES.

the moment when I realized Huaien could say fujun was like. gnawing my arm off. screaming. so excited for the cherry on the gender cake.

I thiiiink I wrote in that his motivation is that he, uh, wants to see Xiaobao. He's wandering around the house pining slightly. No husband for several hours??? YOU ABANDON HUAIEN?? oh jail for Xiaobao jail for a thousand years! (jail is their bedroom lbr.) at some point you had the great idea that Huaien should go in intending to get Xiaobao too turned on to work and instead it just rebounds on Huaien entirely and he's like, "ah yes i will just. go home. and have a normal afternoon. not huffing your underclothes, my dear." choosing huaien pov for this sure did send me on a journey.

[whumpitisthen]

Récamier

Masterlist

First drabble! This was made as a way to torture my friend who has a slightly unhealthy obsession with vampires. That’s why it’s in first person, I usually write in the third! Anyways, hope you like it. :) 

"So..." - He began. He sounded soft and patient. - "You told me last week you've been having nightmares, ones you’ve never had before."

"Oh, did i tell you about that as well?" You reply, having genuinely forgotten that you told him about those.

"Yes, you have. Has your memory been getting worse as well?" He sounds almost concerned, a look of empathy in his eyes.

"Oh, no, no, I think it's pretty much the same as it always has been...?" It came out as a shaky reply, not confident in your own answer either.  

"You don't sound too sure of that, Darling.” He says, a mocking smile playing on his lips as he notices the reaction the pet name has brought out of you. It wasn't anything big, just a small widening of the eyes and setting of your jaw, but he noticed nevertheless. He seems to really pay attention to you, in a way no-one else has, in a way no-one should.

"Uhmm... I think that's not something to worry about. I just forgot, that's all.” You add with a reassuring smile, ignoring the one that he wore still, though now it's starting to morph into a different one. Looks a little smaller, tight-lipped, overly kind.

He seems to disregard your answer entirely, instead, he pulls himself up a little straighter. He takes a deep breath, momentarily closing his eyes, which allows you just a moment to take a good look at him.

You never told him but you do feel kind of intimidated by him. You know you shouldn't be. After all, he's your therapist. You should feel comfortable and relaxed, like you're just having a nice chat with a trusted friend.

But something about him seems... he just seems-, off, sometimes. You yourself are not even sure what the reason for that is. Maybe it's the relaxed way he keeps pulling his finger up and down on the arm of the chair. Maybe its the slight asymmetrical pull of the corners of his mouth, how on the left side it always pulls a little higher when he smiles. Maybe its the way he looks, distinctly paler than you, almost slickly, so much so, that you had to often stop yourself from asking him "Are you okay?". Maybe... Its the way his eyes seem to change colour, with the different lighting. You have noticed all these things about him in the month you've been coming here. Twice a week. He insisted on two times, even though you said you didn't think you needed it. In the end you decided to give in, he was the therapist after all. He knew what you needed.

"You're zoning out again, Darling. Do you perhaps need a break?"

There it is again. That pet name.

He hasn't called you that before. Or has he?

Maybe your memory really has been getting worse.

"Oh, u-uhm, sorry! No, it's fine we can keep going if you'd like." He seems to believe you, as he changes his position, crossing his legs and leaning his chin on one hand, as if getting ready for a story.

"So, you said something about bad nightmares you've been getting at the end of our last session. I'd like to ask you: Have they gotten any worse?"

You still don't remember actually telling him about them and honestly it’s starting to really bother you. You always have your guard up as it is, trust issues and all that, part of why you’re here, talking with your therapist. But for the life of you, you just cannot remember when you told him about those. Because you surely have. You have. He wouldn’t know otherwise! This is stupid.

"Ah, um. I guess... I-I don't know. I feel like they leave me more... tired? Than before. And I seem to get more exhausted as the days go on. I'm afraid I'll start falling asleep at my job if this keeps up."

He hums. Writes something on his clipboard. "Do you still see that shadow person that keeps following you?"

You don't remember telling him that either. No, shut up, you did because he knows, and the only way he would is if you told him.

He seems to notice your hesitation.

"I'm sorry, would you like to not talk about this for now? We can discuss something else."

His voice feels like it's background noise. Like waking up to birds chirping. They're loud and did wake you up, but you don't mind being woken up by birds singing under your window. It's a welcome way of attention.

It calms you. It relaxes you.

It makes you feel... tired.

"We can discuss the way you've been fidgeting a little more today than other times, I have noticed. Or how you keep stuttering so much. I can see something is bothering you. Can you tell me what it is, Love?"

A different pet name, but a pet name nonetheless.

You don't remember him calling you that before.

You don't remember.

You.

Dont-

"How do you know?"

You blurt out without thought.

You immediately regret it, but ultimately decide to keep the question in the air.

Because you cannot explain away the feeling of anxiety at every mention of those dreams, or pet names, or, or- ...you. It feels wrong, in this moment, to talk about you. It sounds dumb, these are your therapy sessions after all. It feels wrong though. Different. Like this isn’t how it was supposed to go. How else could it have gone?

"Excuse me?" He looks genuinely surprised. You think he might've missed the question, with how fast you blurted it out.

Before you could ask again, or rather apologize for the weird as fuck question, he continues. "How do I know... About what? About...” - He seems lost in thought, thinking about what it might be that you're referring to. His eyes land on his clipboard and stay there for a while, drifting over it. - “...about ...your dreams, perhaps?" He finishes slowly, as if unsure.

"Yes, uh... I... I don't remember t-telling about them... to... you?" You hate yourself for sounding like a scared child. You especially hate that your voice cracks in the middle of it, and you see his eyes widen, just a little, at that.

God, could you be more embarrassing?

"I told you, Dear.” - Another. -”You told me about them last week, didn't you?"

"I-I-I..., um..."

You're unsure of what to say

"I-, ...don't remember." You take a shaky breath, trying to stay calm. You notice the slight tremble of your hands.

"...You seem troubled. Are you quite sure you're alright, Darling?” - He gives a reassuring smile, encouraging you to be confident and tell him if you're not. - “Perhaps, you feel... Hm." He stands up leaving the clipboard on his table. He walks over, as slowly and non-threataningly as he can, putting the back of his hand on your forehead.

"Hm... You don't seem sick. Sweetheart,”- Again. - “maybe we should talk about those dreams. They seem to leave you confused and disoriented."

"Stop."

"Hm?"

"Get off me."

You lean back, away from his hand, and sit up to catch your breath.

He seems perplexed. His hand falls back in place as he gets lost in thought again, looking at you. Expectant. Quiet.

"Am... Am I making you uncomfortable, Dear-"

"Stop!"

"Stop what?"

"Stop calling me 'darling' and 'sweetheart' and 'love' and 'dear' and-, and... Stop looking at m-me."

He seems to freeze for a second. You're not sure what caused him to do that, but he seems... apathetic. Emotionless. Like he's not there, for just a moment.

He blinks once, swallows, and some resemblance of humanity comes back to him.

"I-... I am making you uncomfortable, is that it." It was more of a statement than a question. "Hm. So you say you don't remember." His eyes wander again. In the end, they come back, and change colour, and you feel like he's 100 metres tall while you're barely an inch.

The lighting didn't change, but his eyes noticeably did. You feel, with every second, more and more anxious, as the eyes keep looking at you, into you, and keep you in place.

Literally.

You cannot move.

You're trying.

The most you can do is flick your eyes betweeen his.

He comes closer now. His hand finds your forehead again, but this time to put a lost lock behind your ear.

He doesn't say anything, simply looks at you. All of you. While you're forced to keep eye contact, his are roaming over the whole of you, taking in every inch, every crevice, every nook and cranny.

As his eyes move the humanity seems to disappear once more and the hand returns to rest on your cheek, then slide down your neck.

As the pressure builds his other hand comes into view, positioning itself on your arm, effectively turning and pushing you down, back how you were before you realised his secret. Because you did, didn't you? You couldn't have just kept playing this little game of pretend between you two. You had to be smart and figure it out.

As you are shoved down back on the récamier, your thoughts are running a million miles an hour. You are panicking and scared and angry but mostly you just wanna run home, curl up under your covers and cry.

The feeling of having forgotten so much makes you wanna break down right there, but even that is denied of you as your "therapist" looms over you, shadowing your face. In the dark, his eyes, that scarlet hue, is so much more noticeable and unsettling.

How do his eyes go from such a pretty black to that mesmerising crimson? That cannot be human.

He leans down, close, close, right over you, so close you cannot see anything anymore but his eyes, boring endlessly into yours.

"Do you know when our last appointment was?"

You think and you feel like you know but you can't actually name the day, date or even time. Not that you could anwser him, not like this.

"Do you feel as if your mind has been working more different than before?"

"Do you feel unsafe, Angel?"

He leans closer, lips grazing your ear as he whispers, even quiter, like a deadly secret.

"Why did you have to ruin our fun, Angel? Wasn't it nice? Pretending? Playing? Why did you have to ruin that, huh, Sweetheart?"

As his voice starts to shake, a little in anger, a little unhinged, a little dangerous, you start trembling through his paralysing gaze.

You still don't remember anything. Not when the last appointment was, not when you told him about the dreams, not when you got here, not where you live, not who he is, not when your own birthday is, not your own name, only Angel, Angel, Angel...

"Does the shadow person ever... touch you? Has he ever talked to you? What did he say? Can you recall? What was it, hm? Tell me Love."

You don't want to. You don't want to you don't want to-

"A-A-Angel..."

"Yes, Love, keep going."

He was suffocating you

His sheer presence.

"A-a... Ang-gel, can y-y-you... can, you-..."

"That's it, keep going, you're doing great, Dear."

"Ange-el, can, can you-u-... can you c-...can y-you come see me-e...?"

"Mhm. There we go. There's a dear."

You feel violated. You feel him climbing on top of you, his weight effortlessly pinning you down even more, as he leans closer. You feel utterly completely absolutely terrifyingly helpless.

"See? In the end, you did remember!" He seems to sound different. He sounds like he's holding something back. Like there's a dam that's about to break and let the water envelop an entire city underwater. Like he's about to swallow you whole.

"Too late now, though. Shame. I was having fun with you. Too bad it had to end so soon. Now, maybe if you look desperate enough, we could do it again sometime? Wouldn't that be fun?"

"Now keep still for me, Angel, this might hurt just a bit. I feel it's only fair i make you pay for wasting my time like that."