#because he had INVISIBLE control. not physical control

[maeo-png]

closing thoughts on the owl house in the tags cus boy howdy do i have a lot of them

[fangdokja]

🔞You’re his project, and he’s determined to get you right.

❤︎ Synopsis. A quiet genius watches from the shadows, studying every detail of your life with obsessive precision—until one night, his fixation turns darker, and you become the subject of his twisted, unrelenting experiment. In his world, nothing is left to chance, and you’re the only variable he can’t control.

♡ Book. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Nerd x Fem. Reader

♡ Headcanon. Beyond the Data - Part 1

♡ Word Count. 5,132

♡ TW. dom + top + older + sadistic yandere, general non-con + manipulation, rape, BDSM, somnophilia, drugging, stalking, forced oral, invasion of privacy, non-con photography and filming, intoxication kink, dumbification, slapping, degradation, humiliation, forced penetration, forced anal, name calling, slut shaming

♡ His Story. No one else noticed the quiet boy in the corner, but he’s all you’ll notice now.

♡ Yandere! Nerd who is the last person you’d expect to command fear—or obsession. The invisible boy in the corner of the lecture hall, whose name you can never seem to remember. Just another cog in the academic machine, unnoticed and unremarkable.

♡ Yandere! Nerd who didn’t always hate you. At first, he didn’t even notice you. Why would he? You were a speck in his meticulously ordered world of formulas and research papers. He’d glance over you like a book’s preface—skimming, dismissive, uninterested. You weren’t worth his attention, and he wasn’t one for distractions.

Until you were.

♡ Yandere! Nerd whose hatred began with quiet disdain. He couldn’t stand the way you disrupted the sanctity of his intellectual space. Your kindness was a flaw, a weak and irritating crack in the facade of academia. The way you lent your notes to struggling classmates, stayed late to tutor those who would never return the favor.

“Naïve,” he muttered once under his breath, watching you push a stack of papers toward a crying peer. “They’re just using you.”

But you didn’t care. You never did.

♡ Yandere! Nerd whose resentment festered in the shadows. Watching your muted empathy, your small, unnoticed acts of kindness, twisted his stomach in ways he couldn’t understand. You were supposed to fail. You were supposed to get crushed beneath the weight of your own optimism, yet you didn’t.

And that infuriated him.

♡ Yandere! Nerd who told himself he hated you because you were soft, too forgiving, too simple. But the truth was far darker. You represented something he’d never had—a warmth that lingered in the spaces between your quiet gestures. A kindness that was not weakness, but strength. You had no armor, and yet you thrived.

It fascinated him. It enraged him.

♡ Yandere! Nerd who lived a life of quiet detachment. He wasn’t bullied in school—no, he was too invisible for that. Teachers praised his brilliance, but no one remembered his name. His height, his looming presence, the stretch of taut muscle beneath oversized sweaters—they didn’t matter when he kept to himself, a ghost haunting the edges of the classroom.

Invisibility was his refuge, and he sharpened his mind in its silence.

♡ Yandere! Nerd whose physical strength was a quiet secret. Long hours spent weightlifting in the dim light of the university gym weren’t for vanity—they were an escape, a distraction, a way to channel the dark energy gnawing at him. But he never cared about the results.

The thick-framed glasses, the slouching posture, the ill-fitting cardigans—these were his camouflage. No one saw him. No one looked past the surface.

Except you.

♡ Yandere! Nerd who begins his descent like any good scientist—methodically. It starts as observation, the kind you’d expect from someone who’s spent his life reducing the world into formulas and equations. You are a variable, an anomaly, something he must decode to restore order to his meticulously organized life.

But the more he observes, the less he understands. And the more it drives him mad.

♡ Yandere! Nerd who tells himself it’s harmless at first. Watching you from across the library, tracking the soft scratch of your pen as it glides over your notebook. He doesn’t even realize he’s memorized the way your eyebrows knit together in concentration, or how you chew the corner of your lip when you’re stuck on a problem.

It’s data. Just data.

But the data begins to haunt him.

♡ Yandere! Nerd who begins cataloging you like a research subject. He keeps a notebook tucked into the bottom drawer of his desk, hidden beneath a pile of unfinished assignments. Every detail about you goes into it: the time you arrive at class (always ten minutes early), the number of steps you take to reach your favorite seat, the precise way the sunlight catches your hair at 3:17 p.m. on the third floor of the library.

He calls it fieldwork to justify the growing obsession.

♡ Yandere! Nerd who found himself lingering at the edges of your world, desperate for scraps. The smell of your shampoo as you walked past. The faint imprint of your handwriting left on discarded papers.

You didn’t notice the way his hands flexed when you leaned too close to another classmate, or the way his jaw clenched when someone touched your arm.

♡ Yandere! Nerd who is painfully aware of how wrong it is. He’s not stupid. He knows that following you home, counting the number of locks on your door, isn’t something a sane person does. But logic isn’t enough to stop him.

You’re a virus in his brain, disrupting his calculations, infecting his thoughts with something he doesn’t know how to purge. You grate on him in all the wrong ways, the way a scratch disrupts a perfect vinyl record. He hates you for it. He hates you because he can’t stop.

♡ Yandere! Nerd who turns his obsession into an experiment. He programs an algorithm to track your social media activity, compiling your posts, photos, and even deleted comments into a neat timeline. He bookmarks the articles you share, cataloging your interests, your values, your humor.

It’s not enough. It’s never enough.

♡ Yandere! Nerd who upgrades his methods when simple observation no longer satisfies. He rigs a tiny camera outside the lecture hall, angled perfectly to catch the way you sit, the absent way you tap your foot when you’re bored. He sets up a recording app on his phone to capture the sound of your voice in class discussions, replaying it later as though decoding a foreign language.

He tells himself it’s for research. He just needs to understand you.

♡ Yandere! Nerd who learns your patterns better than you know them yourself. He can predict where you’ll be at any given time—your favorite coffee shop at 8:43 a.m., the library desk in the northeast corner by 6:12 p.m., your solitary walks through the park on Sunday mornings.

He times his own movements to yours, ensuring you never notice his presence, never feel the weight of his gaze. It’s a game to him now—a test of his own skill.

♡ Yandere! Nerd who hacks into your student profile. It’s easy, really, a puzzle too simple to satisfy his intellect. But he doesn’t do it for the challenge; he does it to see your schedule, your grades, the tiny notes professors leave about you.

“Exceptional work ethic,” one professor writes, and he feels a strange swell of pride, as though your achievements are his own.

♡ Yandere! Nerd who begins collecting physical traces of you. A pen you leave behind in class, its cap chewed and frayed. A receipt from the coffee shop, crumpled and discarded. A strand of hair caught in the strap of your backpack.

Each item is cataloged and stored in a small box beneath his bed, a grotesque shrine to the person you’ll never realize he’s built.

♡ Yandere! Nerd who upgrades his “research” to something darker. He creates a fake identity to join your online study group, posing as a fellow student struggling with the material. It gives him access to your unfiltered thoughts, your casual messages and inside jokes.

The first time you reply to his fake account with a laughing emoji, his heart races. He hates himself for it, for the pathetic thrill it gives him, but he keeps going.

♡ Yandere! Nerd who hated you because you didn’t need him. You were brilliant in your own quiet way, a top student who never flaunted your achievements. You had what he lacked: empathy. Warmth. The ability to be seen without being scrutinized.

But the more he learns, the more he realizes something crucial:

He doesn’t want to study you anymore. He wants to control you.

♡ Yandere! Nerd who justifies it all as self-preservation. You’re the one invading his mind, disrupting his focus, ruining his carefully constructed life. If he could just fix you—if he could break you down into something manageable, something his mind could dominate—then he’d finally have peace.

But until then, he’ll keep collecting his data, keep tightening the web around you. Because in his world, nothing is left unresolved.

And you, his most maddening equation, will not be the exception.

———

♡ Yandere! Nerd who loathes admitting weakness—especially emotions as primal and irrational as jealousy. To him, emotions are nothing but noise, disrupting the signal of his perfectly calibrated mind. But when he sees you with the student council president, laughing, leaning close, sharing those little stolen moments, that noise becomes deafening.

♡ Yandere! Nerd who bristles at the mere sight of him. The president, all polished charm and perfect manners, standing too close to you, lingering too long in your orbit. It’s infuriating how you light up around him, your shy, carefully guarded smiles breaking into easy laughter. It’s infuriating how he can’t simply classify this feeling as irrational anger.

♡ Yandere! Nerd who watches the subtle chemistry between you and the president unfold like a slow-motion car crash. The president’s hand brushing yours as he passes you a folder. The way he leans in slightly when you speak, as though hanging on your every word. And worst of all, the way you don’t pull away.

♡ Yandere! Nerd whose jealousy turns into something darker when he overhears the president call you “special.”

It’s a simple word, tossed casually into a conversation, but it ignites a fire in his chest that he can’t put out. Special? You’re special to him? No, that’s wrong. That’s his word for you, even if he’s never dared to say it out loud.

♡ Yandere! Nerd who recognizes his jealousy with clinical detachment. He hates you for making him feel this way—off-kilter, vulnerable, human. He hates the president even more for daring to tread on what’s his, for invading the carefully cultivated space he’s built around you.

♡ Yandere! Nerd who tells himself it’s not jealousy—it’s concern. He’s only protecting you from someone who might not have your best interests at heart. After all, the president isn’t as perfect as he seems. He’s seen the cracks in that polished facade, the weaknesses he could exploit if necessary.

♡ Yandere! Nerd who begins to sabotage the president in small, insidious ways. A corrupted file here, a misplaced document there. Minor inconveniences that disrupt the president’s perfect image, planting seeds of doubt in those around him.

♡ Yandere! Nerd who knows this isn’t sustainable. The jealousy, the hatred, the dark fantasies that creep into his mind every time he sees you with the president—it’s all spiraling out of control. He needs to act, to take back the control that’s slipping through his fingers.

♡ Yandere! Nerd who tells himself he doesn’t need you to love him back. He just needs to remove the variables—the distractions, the threats.

♡ Yandere! Nerd who begins plotting his next move with the cold, calculating precision of a scientist. Because if he can’t have you, no one else will.

———

♡ Yandere! Nerd finally went through with his main plan, a way to make you see him, to make you need him. He pulled out a small vial of clear liquid, his heart racing as he approached you. "Tonight," he murmured to himself, "I'll finally get what I deserve."

With meticulous care, he mixed the potent sleeping agent into the cup of drink you'd left on your nightstand. It was your favorite. He knew it was your go-to drink for winding down after a long day.

As your eyelids grew heavy and your breathing deepened, he approached you, his steps silent on the plush carpet. He set the drugged tea aside and gently lifted your limp body, placing you in the center of the bed. He couldn't help but admire you, the way you looked so innocent, so vulnerable.

It was intoxicating, and he felt a perverse sense of satisfaction knowing he was about to shatter that purity.

♡ Yandere! Nerd undressed you with trembling hands, his eyes greedily taking in every curve and line of your body. You stirred slightly, mumbling something incoherent under your breath, but the drugs held firm. He took his time, savoring each moment as he stripped away your layers of clothing. When you were bare, he stepped back to appreciate his handiwork, his erection straining against his pants. He felt like a sculptor revealing a masterpiece hidden beneath a layer of marble.

With a predatory smile, he unbuckled his belt and stepped closer to the bed. He leaned over you, his breath hot against your neck. "Do you know how much I've wanted this?" he whispered, his voice thick with lust. You murmured something indistinct, lost in the fog of the drugs. "No," he chuckled, "you don't. But you will."

♡ Yandere! Nerd grabbed a handful of your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat. His teeth grazed your skin, sending a shiver down your spine that you couldn't control. You whimpered, a sound that only served to excite him further. He didn't need your consent—not really. You were his to use, to break, to shape into the perfect specimen. His hands roamed over your body, leaving bruises in their wake as he explored every inch of your skin. Each touch was a declaration of ownership, a promise of what was to come.

He positioned himself between your legs, his eyes glittering with a dark excitement as he took in your unconscious form. His hands, rough and calloused from countless hours in the gym and lab, caressed your inner thighs, spreading them apart with a gentle cruelty.

You were his now, a blank canvas for his twisted desires. He didn't bother with foreplay; your pleasure was inconsequential. It was all about the thrill of taking what he wanted.

With a grunt, he plunged into you, his thick cock stretching your sleep-loosened pussy. You gasped, a sound that was half-moan, half-whimper, as he filled you completely.

♡ Yandere! Nerd didn't bother to hold back, his hips slamming into yours with the precision of a machine. You were just a receptacle for his lust, a means to an end. Each thrust was a declaration of dominance, a silent claim that you belonged to him and him alone.

As he fucked you, he whispered sweet nothings into your ear—degrading names that made your skin crawl.

"Dumb fucking slut," he murmured, his voice a dark symphony that seemed to echo in the quiet room. "You're mine now. No one else will ever touch you like this." His words were a blend of anger and adoration, a twisted love letter to the girl who'd unwittingly captured his attention.

Your body responded despite the haze of the drugs. You arched your back, the sensation of him inside you overwhelming even through the fog. Your mind was a whirlwind of confusion and fear, but your body was his plaything, reacting on instinct alone.

♡ Yandere! Nerd noticed your involuntary movements and smirked, his strokes becoming more deliberate, more punishing.

"That's it," he cooed, his breath hot against your skin. "You love it, don't you? Being used like a cheap slut."

As he pounded into you, he reached for his phone, the screen casting a harsh blue light across the room.

♡ Yandere! Nerd began to record, capturing every moan and whimper, every tear that slipped from your closed eyes. He'd study this footage later, memorize your reactions, learn what made you squirm and beg.

It was all for science, for understanding. But deep down, he knew it was more than that—it was about power.

Your legs trembled around him, a silent plea for mercy that went unheard. You were lost in the haze of the drugs, unable to form coherent thoughts. The only reality was the relentless pressure building inside you, the way his cock filled and emptied you with a rhythm that seemed to echo through your soul. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once, a nightmare wrapped in the guise of pleasure.

♡ Yandere! Nerd reached down and pinched your nipples, rolling them between his fingers as he watched your face contort with pain.

"Look at me," he ordered, his voice low and commanding. You tried to focus on him through the fog, your glazed eyes fluttering open to meet his. He was so close, his face a twisted mask of desire and something else—something darker.

"You're mine," he said again, his voice a hiss in the quiet room. "You're mine to fuck, to use, to break."

♡ Yandere! Nerd grabbed your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his as he continued to fuck you with a ferocity that seemed to come from a place beyond obsession. His hand was slick with the sweat that coated your body, his grip tight as he held you in place.

The camera's cold eye recorded everything, the unblinking gaze of his twisted love. He leaned in closer, his breath hot on your face as he whispered, "Look at how much I own you, bitch."

Your eyes rolled back in your head, a silent protest to the waves of pain and pleasure that crashed over you. His other hand reached down to rub at your clit, his movements rough and unyielding.

♡ Yandere! Nerd watched with clinical interest as your body responded, his own pleasure mounting with each twitch and jerk of your hips.

"You're going to cum for me," he said, his voice a dark promise. "You're going to cum and show me how much you love being used."

You feel his hand leave your chin, instead wrapping around your throat, squeezing just tight enough to cut off your air, but not enough to cause you to pass out. His eyes bore into yours, demanding your full attention. your vision swims, and your breath hitches as he continues to thrust into you.

His other hand is still on your clit, the harsh strokes matching the rhythm of his hips. Each time you're about to slip away into unconsciousness, he loosens his grip slightly, allowing you to gasp for breath. The mix of oxygen deprivation and intense pleasure is a heady cocktail, making your body respond in ways you never knew it could.

The drugs he'd administered had reached their peak effectiveness, plunging you into a state of absolute vulnerability.

Your eyes rolled back in your head, and your body went slack as he continued his brutal assault, his cock hammering into your swollen, abused pussy with a merciless rhythm. Each thrust sent waves of agony crashing through you, but your mind was too far gone to process it as anything other than a distant sensation.

You were nothing more than a ragdoll in his grip, a toy for his sadistic pleasure.

♡ Yandere! Nerd whispers lowly, "You're so fucking beautiful like this," his voice thick with lust as he watched your body spasm beneath him.

"So dumb and helpless. It's like you're begging for it." He leaned in, his teeth grazing your ear as he spoke, his breath hot and moist.

"You love this, don't you, bitch? Being fucked by someone who sees through all your bullshit?" His hand tightened around your throat, cutting off your air once again.

Your body succumbs to the overwhelming stimulation, a series of intense orgasms rip through you, one after the other. You're too high and too intoxicated to fully understand what's happening, but the raw pleasure is undeniable.

You feel like a marionette with cut strings, your body responding to his touch without thought or resistance.

Each time you climax, a strangled gasp escapes your throat, your eyes rolling back in your head as your back arches off the bed.

♡ Yandere! Nerd watches with a mix of triumph and fascination, his own pleasure building as he takes in your complete and utter surrender.

"Good girl," he murmurs, the praise sticking in your throat like a knife. "Take it all for me." His strokes become more erratic as his own orgasm approaches, his breath hitching in his chest.

The hand around your throat tightens, the pressure increasing until your vision starts to fade. Just when you think you can't handle anymore, he slams into you one last time, his body stiffening as he cums deep inside you. He holds you there, his cock pulsing, his grip on your throat unyielding until he's drained himself completely.

With a sick sense of satisfaction, he watches the last twitches of your body as the drugs overtake you fully.

♡ Yandere! Nerd withdraws his cock, already planning the next round of his twisted experiment. His eyes rake over your limp form, noticing the way your breasts rise and fall with each shallow breath, the way your pussy glistens with his cum and your own juices.

He can't resist the urge to touch you, to play with his new toy, so he starts snapping pictures and recording videos, capturing every inch of your exposed flesh from various angles.

♡ Yandere! Nerd positions your unresponsive body into various degrading poses, each one more obscene than the last.

The camera clicks away, capturing every angle as he spreads your legs wide and fills your pussy with his cum. His eyes never leave the viewfinder as he watches the white fluid ooze out of you, painting your thighs and stomach with his ownership.

He's methodical in his approach, treating you like a living, breathing doll. With each picture and video taken, his arousal builds, his cock swelling and pulsing with the need to claim you again.

"Wake up," he whispers, his voice a dark promise.

♡ Yandere! Nerd slaps your cheek harshly, leaving a vivid red handprint, before he waits for any sign of consciousness. When you don't respond, he sighs and shakes his head.

"Too much, huh?" He reaches down and slaps you again, this time harder. "You're going to learn to wake up for me." His hand travels down to your clit, giving it a cruel pinch that makes your body jerk despite your unconscious state.

With your unconscious body still splayed out before him, the his hunger is far from satisfied. He takes a moment to appreciate the scene, his cock standing erect and gleaming with lust.

♡ Yandere! Nerd shifts you onto your stomach, the soft curves of your ass begging for his attention. He lines himself up with your wet, puckered hole and slams into you without warning, the sound of his hips slapping against your flesh echoing through the room.

He groans in pleasure as he feels the tightness of your ass clench around him, the drugs in your system making you even more pliable and responsive than usual.

"You're going to love this," he murmurs, his voice low and menacing as he starts to fuck you roughly. Each thrust is punctuated by a smack to your ass, the sound of his hand connecting with your flesh filling the room.

You whimper in your sleep, the pain and pleasure mixing together in your hazy mind. He reaches around to play with your clit, his rough fingers bringing you closer to the edge of consciousness with each pass. "You're so tight," he grunts, his teeth gritted with effort. "So fucking tight."

♡ Yandere! Nerd flips you over again, your limp body now lying on your back, your legs hanging over the edge of the bed. He takes a moment to capture the perfect shot of your exposed pussy, the way your swollen lips are parted and dripping with cum and your own arousal. He's in no rush; he's got all night.

For hours, he treats your body like a fuck-toy, his cock sliding in and out of you in a series of depraved positions that he's been dreaming about for so long.

The camera captures everything—the way your breasts bounce with each thrust, the arch of your back as he takes you from behind, the way your eyes roll back in your head even in your drug-induced slumber.

♡ Yandere! Nerd continues to whisper degrading names in your ear, calling you his little fuckdoll, his rape toy, his property. His hand tightens around your neck, his other hand playing with your clit, your body responding to his touch despite your lack of consciousness.

♡ Yandere! Nerd takes you in every conceivable way, his cock a blur as he snaps photos and records videos for his twisted collection. He loves the way your body reacts to him, the way your pussy clenches around him when you're on the brink of an involuntary orgasm.

It's like watching a science experiment unfold before his very eyes, a symphony of pain and pleasure that he's orchestrated to perfection.

And the best part? You'll never remember a thing.

"Mm, you're so obedient when you're like this," he says, his voice thick with lust as he pulls out of your ass and flips you onto your stomach again.

♡ Yandere! Nerd spreads your cheeks wide, his cock sliding through your folds as his hand grips your mouth. "Open up, bitch. Time to swallow your medicine."

With a sadistic smirk, he positions his cock at your open, drooling mouth. He's already painted your cheeks and chin with his cum, a grotesque mask of his dominance. Your eyes remain closed, lashes fluttering with the fading aftermath of your forced orgasms. He pushes the tip of his cock past your lips, watching them stretch around his girth.

♡ Yandere! Nerd films as he slams his cock down your throat, watching the way your cheeks bulge with each thrust. Your tongue is limp and unresponsive, but it doesn't matter—the sight of your mouth filled with his cum is all he needs.

He holds your head steady, pushing deeper and deeper until he hits the back of your throat, making you gag around his length. He loves the sound, the way your body fights against his intrusion even as you lie there, helpless and drugged.

"That's it," he croons, his eyes glinting with malicious pleasure. "Swallow it all for me. Show me how much of a good rape toy you can be." He keeps fucking your mouth, his hips snapping against your face with increasing ferocity. You're just a vessel for his pleasure, a receptacle for his anger and frustration.

♡ Yandere! Nerd pulls out with a wet pop, leaving your mouth gaping and coated in his seed. He takes a moment to admire the view before sliding his cock back into your pussy, groaning as he feels your wet warmth envelop him once more. He's lost in his own depraved world, the camera capturing every sickening detail of his violation.

"Look at you," he says, his voice a mix of disgust and admiration.

"You're just a mindless fuck-doll when you're like this." He fists your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat. His teeth graze the sensitive skin there, leaving a trail of bites that you'll feel tomorrow, a constant reminder of his power over you.

"But tomorrow, you'll go back to being the perfect little student, won't you?" He bites down harder, making you whimper in your sleep. "You'll sit in class with no idea that you're mine."

His camera clicks away as he captures every depraved moment of his violation. Your unconscious moans and whimpers fill the room, a testament to his cruel touch.

♡ Yandere! Nerd records from various angles, making sure to get close-ups of your gaping mouth and the way your eyes water around his cock. His hands are rough, holding you in place as he uses your body for his own sick pleasure. The camera zooms in on your throat as he fucks your face, the veins bulging as he forces himself deeper and deeper.

He pulls out of your mouth with a wet, gagging sound, your saliva and cum dripping down your chin. He smirks at the pathetic mess you've become under his control.

Grabbing a back-up phone, he takes several more pictures of your face—your swollen, bitten lips, your tear-stained cheeks, the drool pooling around your chin. Then he moves lower, taking shots of your bruised pussy and asshole, both gaping open and leaking his cum. He zooms in on the mess he's made of you, capturing every detail with a disturbing sense of pride.

♡ Yandere! Nerd continues his sadistic play, his hand moving to your throat once more as he whispers his degrading comments into your ear. "You're nothing but a damn pornstar, aren't you?"

He leans in closer, his hot breath tickling your ear. "Look at you, trying to wake up. Don't worry, I'll make sure you won't remember a thing, prostitute."

With a chuckle, he slaps you across the face—hard enough to leave a red handprint, but not hard enough to rouse you fully. The sound echoes through the room, a stark contrast to the muffled squelches of your forced union.

———

♡ Yandere! Nerd who finally admitted it to himself in the aftermath of this night, in the suffocating silence of his apartment. It wasn’t hatred. It wasn’t admiration. It was possession. You didn’t belong in a world that appreciated you.

You belonged to him, as a dumb fuckdoll for him to use and discard as he pleases.

♡ Yandere! Nerd who never intended for it to go this far. But as he crouched over your crumpled form, his hand brushing the soft curve of your cheek, he realized there was no going back.

“Do you see me now, fuckdoll?” he murmured, his voice growling with a strange mix of triumph and obsession.

And, he was still far from done. He has all night, and more.

────────────

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General TAG LIST of “Whispers In The Dark”: @keisocool , @elvabeth

[goldenlikedayl1ght]

...ready for it? - j.l. howlett

a/n: hi! here's a full version of a blurb i wrote a few days ago that got so much love so quick that i wanted to give yall a full version! the beginning is literally just the blurb but after that it's all new! like many of you wolverine brainrot has hit me hard, so here's graphic smut about him. leave a comment or a reblog if you enjoyed :) warnings: SMUT!!!!! some dumbification, use of pet names, reader is fem, reader is a mutant and able to control plants, lots of cursing, lots of grotesque fliritng/fantasies, some soft moments, some sort of primal sex, oral (fem receiving), some of the setting is probs inaccurate but whatever. let me know if i missed any big ones!! word count: 4.9 k summary: well, you had to find some way of entertaining yourself at charles xavier's school for gifted youngsters. and you have always liked an emotionally unavailable, absolutely hung, challenge. pairing: logan howlett x mutant!reader now playing: ...ready for it? - taylor swift "in the middle of the night, in my dreams/you should see the things we do, baby/in the middle of the night in my dreams/i know i'm gonna be with you, so i take my time"

You are absolutely enthralled with him. It’s actually sort of pathetic how your fingers twitch at the sight of him, at how the mention of his name or god forbid the sound of his voice makes your head snap up, attention deficit disorders be damned!

Funnily enough, you had no damn interest in Xavier’s stupid mutant school, because to you, you’re not an outsider because of your mutant abilities (that don’t have much of a physical apparition, at least one that you can’t hide) but because there’s never been much of a place for you to fit in.

But, you were behind on rent and of course, you fucking hate your job, so why not? You’d be able to be slightly less of a freak, and you’d get free room and board in the process! (Where Charles gets all of his money, you do not know.)

And because you’re a little older, Charles doesn’t force you to sit in a class room to learn about basic arithmetic and grammar lessons, so you really only do some training around three times a day, you have your own room (with a dusty box under the other bed, you also suspect your room used to be the ‘sex’ room) and you have the weekends off.

So for a twenty something year old with few ambitions, the social skills of a Martian with autism, and a huge crush on every older emotionally unavailable man you meet, it’s a pretty good set-up.

You’re waiting for time to pass in the garden, just reading a rather interesting book that Charles had recommended after he noticed you needed something to pass time before you started making bad decisions.

You hear his heavy footsteps on the gravel before you see him. Your heart beats faster, but you will yourself, do everything in your power not to glance up at him. And you let out a breath as you succeed, keeping your head down.

“In your natural habitat, are you, spitfire?” Your head darts up to him—There’s no way he isn’t talking to you, you know you’re the only one in this garden. And you can see his lips twitch up and you want to crawl out of your skin!

“My-My natural habitat?” You laugh, closing the book you’re reading because your attention is locked to him now.

“Yeah, seems like it.” He saunters on up to you and sits on the bench next to you.

And let’s make something very clear—

Logan Howlett does not sit.

This man poses, as if there’s always some invisible camera capturing every frame of movement, from the way his legs spread out, to the way his chest lifts when he inhales.

Fuck, you think you might die if you can’t suck him off right now.

“And what exactly is my uh.. habitat?” You question.

He takes out his lighter and a cigar, placing the cigar in his mouth as he gestures to the space around the two of you, lighter in hand.

“A garden.” He says, matter of facility, as his voice is muffled only the slightest bit by the cigar.

And you just sort of look at him before asking,

“Oh, you enjoy being boiled down to your mutations, Claws?” You question, and as he goes to light the cigar, he smirks.

“Alright, you gotta admit though, it is cliché!”

You are absolutely in agreement, there is zero doubt you are as much of a walking, breathing, real life living, stereotype.

“It is not!” And the pair of you give each other this look, like you’re both shocked at how whiney that statement is!

“Uh-huh, sure, Spitfire.” It sounds almost like he’s purring at you.

When he lights his cigar, he’s sort of eying you for your reaction, whatever you might say.

“You know, smoking is not only bad for you, it’s awful for the environment.”

“You’re probably the most cliché little freak around here.” Which.. honestly..? Shouldn’t possibly turn you on as much as it does.

You just stare at him for a minute, and he smirks.

“Cat got your tongue?’

And maybe it’s stupid and maybe it’s immature but your hand just comes over to fiddle with the pointed part of his hair.

“We’ll you certainly look the part.” He just looks at you, and honestly? The way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s proud of you for teasing him.

“Aw, there’s my little spitfire,” He teases, just to see how red you get. And red you are— it’s embarrassing. And here’s the kicker—You are young. Exceptionally young, and what’s insane about that? How horny it makes both you and Logan.

The idea of fucking your innocent cunt, tight and all his, drives him genuinely mad. And you are, quite literally, a whore for the idea of riding this older man’s dick. You know he’s big—sometimes you see the outerline of it when he walks away from you all huffy and puffy.

“You’re a tease, Claws.” You respond, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Says you,” he raises and eyebrow, leaning closer to you now, “You’re the one laying around in the sun, looking like that.”

“Looking like this?” You scoff. You’re wearing a muscle tee and a pair of ripped jeans, but the gaps are huge and he can see your thighs. He wants to devour you, and you would let him if he only asked.

And let’s be clear—he is fucking you with his eyes. There’s no way to go around it.

“I think you’re just.. horny.” You tease, and he just growls. Seriously, this man who is undressing you with his eyes, growls, because he does want you and he is horny!

“I think you’re onto something.” He purrs, and you want to just.. god. You don’t know how to express the pit of desire that grows in you. “I would fuck you until you couldn’t think, right here among your pretty flowers. Would you like that, baby?” he asks, his hand finding your thigh.

But you just cough on the smoke from his cigar, before frowning.

“You really shouldn’t smoke.”

“Aw, I’ll make it up to you.” He smirked. “Promise, spitfire.”

He’s very close to you now, so you take a second to just breath and you know that he knows that he’s got you—hook, line, and sweet, sweet sinker.

And then you realize what exactly it is that you’ve gotten yourself into. And what a nightmare it is—Or maybe a dream if you listen to the pathetic part of your brain, but you are into this an in a way that is concerning for your own mental wellbeing and desperately want to avoid him having all the power in this situation.

“Oh, I am sure you will.” You assure. You lean forward, plucking the cigar from his lips, and placing it on the ground, squashing it beneath your heel. With a flick of your wrist, vines and grass grow over the cigar, composting it. And from the vines, grows a small little buttercup flower.

You lean down and pluck the flower from the grass, before tucking it behind Logan’s ear.

“You should take care of that hard-on you have, Claws.” You hum, before standing up, and walking away. And for a minute, he just watches you go—partly to because you have an amazing ass, but partly because you have absolutely flabbergasted him.

And have made him want you even more.

• • •

The next time you see him is the next night, in the woods near the mansion. Because the literal sixteen year olds you go to ‘school’ with do not know how to do anything on the weekend except drink, fuck, and smoke.

Honestly, you kind of fit in great.

So here you are, nursing a mason jar of.. some fucked up concoction, and you’re not too sure what’s in it, but you have drunk two of them and are on your third. You think you might live forever, until you glance up and see Logan, in these fuck me jeans and this burnt orange flannel and a wife beater.

Instantly, you know that you’ll die tonight if you don’t have him.

He approaches you with this cocky smirk as if he hasn’t realized your intoxicated state yet.

“Now what’s a little spitfire like you doing all alone on a Friday night?” he questions, tilting his head. His smirk is deadly. And you roll your eyes.

“Here comes the big bad Wolverine, all bark and no bite.” You scoff, and his eyes flash with surprise. Only for a second, but even drunk, you notice the way his eyes shoot up in surprise.

“All bark and no bite? That’s quite the accusation.” He hums.

“Well, we’ve been.. eye fucking each other for a few weeks now, and you haven’t even kissed me yet. I get being into foreplay and edging, but holy shit, Claws, throw a girl a bone once in a while.” You scoff, and for a moment, he just looks at you.

“Are you.. drunk?”

“Do you think I’m drunk?”

“Yeah, you’re drunk.” He sighs. You respond by taking another sip of your drink, but before the bitter liquor hits your tongue, he snatches the bottle from you.

“Let me take you home.” You’re sure your eyes look like hearts, so, dreamily and a little love struck, you respond,

“’Kay.”

And he chuckles a little bit at that.

“We’re not gonna do anything, I’m just gonna walk you home, spitfire.” He starts, and your face falls a little bit, but in an effort to hide it, you respond,

“..’kay.” And he sees right through you. You’re pretty much an open book. And the alcohol doesn’t help. His pointer finger and thumb comes to your chin, and he gently rubs his thumb against your lip.

“Don’t be like that, pup. It’ll happen soon. Just not tonight, okay?” He assures.

“’Kay.” You answer softly, and you think he smiles at you but your vision is sort of blurry. Then, you blink, as a gust of wind moves through the trees, sending a shiver down your spine. He sighs, and wordlessly takes off his flannel, before wrapping it around you. Your arms slip into the sleeves, and you almost cry because it’s like, the best hug in the entire world. “Won’t.. you be cold, then?” you question, and he just shakes his head.

“Let’s get you home, spitfire.” He holds a handout to you, and without a second thought, you take his hand. He wraps his arm around you, and you lean against him like it’s something the two of you do often. If you were sober, you might short circuit. But, you’re not, so it feels right.

The walk home is quiet, but Logan’s thumb gently rubs against your shoulder. He wants to do more, but he knows he shouldn’t, since you are in fact plastered.

You ignore the giggles and whispers from teenagers making their way past you to the party or to their rooms, and you even ignore the way their giggles stop when they meet Logan’s gaze.

When you get back to your room, you take a second to lean against the door, and he takes a second to admire the way you look in his clothes.

“Ready for bed?” he asks gently, and you just smile at him.

“You’re really pretty.” He just does the half scoff-half chuckle that you’re obsessed with. Then, he wraps his arm around you again, opening the door to your room, and guiding you inside. He gets you to your bed and sits you down, before kneeling in front of you to untie your boots. “Has anyone ever told you how good you look on your knees?” you ask.

He just gives you this smirk.

“One or two pretty girls back in the day.” He says, “None as pretty as you though, spitfire.” He says, and you groan, leaning back and laying on the bed, as he pulls off your boots.

“You’re awful.” And you need him.

“Yes, I know, baby.” His voice is almost condescending, and it turns you on. But then he stands up, grabbing the folded blanket from the edge of your bed, and laying it over you. He finds his place kneeling next to you again as you stare at him, cozy in bed. His hands gently brush hair from your face. “Do you need anything else?”

“You.”

“Soon. But not yet, pup. You’re too drunk.” He says softly.

“Thanks for walking me home, Claws.”

“You’re very welcome, Spitfire.” He purrs, leaning forward and kissing your forehead gently. “I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Logan.” You mumble as you drift off to sleep. He sits there for a few minutes, just looking at you for a long time before he gets up and creeps out of your room.

• • •

The next morning, you sit in the cafeteria, drinking a large coffee, and nursing the worst hangover, possibly of your life. Made even worse by the fractions of memories about what happened last night.

You rub your eyes, flinching when you hear the clatter of a plate on the table, and someone sitting across from you. You peek through the gaps of your fingers to see Logan sitting across from you, a smirk on his face.

He opens his mouth to say something but you beat him to it.

“I hate you. Shut up.”

“I didn’t even say anything!” he laughs. But he sees how much pain you’re in, and slides two pieces of sourdough toast to you. “Truce?”

“Truce.” You agree, taking a slice and biting into it. You feel better.

And after a moment of silence, he asks,

“I’m never getting my flannel back, am I?”

Truthfully, the flannel has been folded neatly and tucked into your drawer, for the next time you need some comfort.

You tilt your head, looking right into his eyes.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

• • •

Weeks go by like this.

You spend your days either going to class or hanging out—okay, it’s more like flirting with a side of hanging out, with Logan. The pair of you become quite close, and maybe that’s why you haven’t fucked yet.

Oh, the two of you want to, and it’s obvious to everyone (Charles has called you out for being distracted more times than you can count, and you remind him not to probe your mind, and he tells you he does not need his mutant abilities to see that your thoughts linger elsewhere.) but you’re.. afraid, at this point.

Which is odd, because you’re no virgin, you know he wants you, but.. what if everything changes after that? Maybe he’ll start to avoid you. Maybe you’ll start to avoid him. And you’ve really become good friends, and don’t want to lose it.

And then, there’s the fact that half the time, he’s away on dangerous missions, and even if he can regenerate, you worry about him. But he hasn’t been on any lately, so it’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You’re sitting in the garden when it happens.

He finds you, and this time, you do not even try to hide the way your head picks up and gazes at him.

“Hi, Spitfire.” He grins, and you smile a bit at him.

“Claws, what can I do for you?” And he sits next to you, and for some reason, maybe because he doesn’t say anything at first, you know that there is something wrong. And you know what it is.

After a few minutes, you glance to him.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Your voice is quiet, as if you’re scared that if it gets any louder, everything will fall apart.

“Yeah. Charles has me going on another mission.” He doesn’t say it, but you both know this isn’t an involuntary thing.

“Cool.” You cringe at your reaction.

“I guess.” He laughs weakly, as if he knows he’s twisting a knife buried within you.

Silence fills the air. It’s not necessarily uncomfortable, but it isn’t the relaxed silence you’re used to with him. Confessions dance on the tips of your tongues, and you’re so close to saying it, that when you turn to each other suddenly, you just need to look at each other for a second.

“Be safe.” You say quietly. “And hurry back.” You request, and you try not to sound like you’re begging.

“Of course.” He says, like it perplexes him that you even have to request. “I can’t leave you here yearning for me forever, can I?” He teases, and for a moment, you have this flash of an alternate universe where he does die on this mission and you are trapped in this garden forever, waiting for him. Like a lost puppy, or worse, a lost lover. The mere thought of it fucks with your head.

“No. You can’t. I won’t allow it.” You explain, “If anything, I’m the one that should be haunting you.” He just smiles. A real, not at all awkward smile.

“I’m sure you will, spitfire.” He says, and his head comes forward so that his forehead is resting against yours.

“When do you leave?” You ask gently, and he sighs. His breath smells of mint and cigar smoke, maybe even a hint of lemon.

“An hour. I have to pack quick and then debrief.” He answers you.

And just as love struck as you were the night of the party, you answer,

“’Kay.” You smile weakly at him. And he just.. looks at you for a few minutes before sighing again. He pulls away and leans up to kiss your forehead again, before standing up. He turns a few steps away from you just to tease you.

“Don’t miss me too much, okay?” he requests softly. Before you can stop yourself, you stand up, and wrap your arms around him. He only pauses for a half a second before he returns your embrace, and it becomes apparent that you both needed this moment. You stay like this for a few minutes before you pull away.

“Bring me back a souvenir.” You try, a soft smile on your face.

“Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll bring you something great from the great city of Tulsa, Ohklahoma.” He grins.

“Deal.”

“Deal.”

• • •

For the next week, you feel like this must be what it was like for housewives when their husbands went to war. You knew all too well that that statement was extremely dramatic, but you simply cannot help yourself.

You think you might die by day three.

It’s like you’re going through withdrawals and it’s making you go genuinely insane.

You have worn this man’s flannel for almost the entire week, because at first you’re a little self-conscious of other people noticing your repeating outfits, but only at first. By day four, you have decided you don’t give a single fuck.

Day eight you’re just laying in bed, quietly making a list of all the positions you want him to take you in. It’s a long list. You’re brought back to reality by a knock on your door. You’re about to snap, knowing that you’ll tell whatever child has been sent to bother you to scram, but when you open the door, you grin widely.

Logan stands there, looking tired, but he’s smiling and holding up a shot glass that reads ‘Tusla’, and has skyline on it.

“Didn’t I tell you I’d get you a souvenir?” He asks, and you can’t help but wrap your arms around him, pulling him in. He hugs you back, making sure to squeeze you just a bit—your feet barely come off the ground.

He pulls away, and you grin up to him.

“You came back.” You say it as if you can barely believe it, and just for a moment, he feels an emotion he can’t quite place, but he ignores it.

“Of course I came back, spitfire. All in one piece too, as requested.” He grins, and you’re just.. amazed at the look of him. “What’s that look for?” He asks gently, tilting his head.

“I just..” you start.

And then you break.

You lean up and kiss him gently, those stupidly delicious sideburns making your stomach flip. He doesn’t waste time, kissing you back, his arms around your waist. After a minute, you pull away.

“Sorry. I’m kind of done playing that game of waiting for you to kiss me. I just got the first hit of you I’ve had all week, and I feel fucking amazing.” You confess, and sure, it’s not a big grand love confession with tears and poetry, but your words make him kiss you so intensely that you start backing into your room, his hands exploring your body as you tug off his leather jacket, a new flannel for you to steal coming off soon after.

He keeps kissing you as his hands come down to your jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping them, before gently pushing you to sit on the bed. He kneels in front of you, and begins to tug off your boots again, then, on your jeans.

You grin.

“You know, I’m getting the oddest sense of déjà vu. Something about you looking great on your knees.” You tease, and he just tugs off your jeans in one strong swoop, before leaning in to bite your thigh. You gasp, your hands coming up to tug his hair.

Then, he begins to tug at your panties, and you tilt his head up, glancing at him.

“What are you doing?”

“Well, before I was interrupted, I was about to eat you out.”

“Wait, really?”

He blinks, confused.

“Yeah. Is that a, uh.. problem..?” He hasn’t gotten any complaints yet.

“I just.. I didn’t think guys actually did that, I thought it was just.. a porno thing.” And at this, the man who is about to burry his face between your thighs, laughs. And not just a chuckle, this man hollars. “What’s so funny, claws?” You ask, a little suspicious.

“Nothing,” he promises, “I am just going to take such good care of you, pup.”

“I’m holding you to that, claws.” And then, he leans in and begins to kiss your thighs, gently biting down here and there. Then, he licks a stripe along your cunt, and you let out this loud moan, and your hand comes up to clamp over your mouth, but he reaches up to grab your hand, lacing his fingers with yours.

He pulls away to lecture you. Lecture you. On his knees. Head between your thighs.

“Nuh-uh, I wanna hear all the pretty noises you can make for me.” Then, softer, he adds, “Never been eaten out before, fuckin’ travesty.” He mumbles, before leaning in to lick your cunt again, beginning to lap his tongue over your throbbing heat.

His nose rubs against your clit, and it’s enough to drive you genuinely crazy. You’re unsure how you’ve gotten to this point in your life without having your pussy worshipped like this, but with him around, you’re pretty sure you’ll never go another day without it.

His tongue continues to work magic on your cunt, as his nose presses against your clit, stimulating you to the point of making you see stars.

Your hands tug at his hair, and the moan that it elicits from him is enough to send vibrations through your cunt through your stomach. Your head leans back as you moan, and for a moment, you hope there is no mutant in this mansion with super hearing.

His free hand grips your thigh as he bends your leg back to get better access, as he continues to eat you out. The mere taste of you is enough to drive him crazy—He almost wants to start thrusting into the side of your bed, he’s so hard, but he ignores that urge to continue to eat you out.

“Mm—Lo, I—I’m gonna—”

He just hums into your cunt, giving your thigh a gentle squeeze of approval, before his tongue moves even faster (if that’s even possible, though, he is an amazingly surprising man), and suddenly—

You feel a release you have been waiting for weeks, and it is fucking phenomenal. And the Wolverine just licks up all your cum, even if it makes your thighs shake, but honestly, he doesn’t care and neither do you. For a moment, you just listen to the sound of your own pants.

After a minute, you are able to look at him, and he just looks up to you with the same smirk that has been torturing you for all of those weeks. And you just have to pull him up to kiss you, like it’s the only way you’ll be able to live.

As you kiss him, you pull off his wifebeater and then your hands rest on the sides of his face as he pulls off your shirt as well, before his hands begin to make quick work of his belt, wanting to skip all of the pleasantries and just fuck you.

But when he finally gets his jeans off, you pull away, and he stares at you like you’re crazy.

“What the fuck could possibly be more important than me fucking you stupid?”

“Will you just.. let me look at you?” You scoff, your eyes flickering over him to just memorize every square inch of his body. He humors you for a few minutes, standing there with his hands on hips before he leans in and cages you in with his arms.

“Show’s over, spitfire.” He purrs, leaning in to kiss you, slowly making his way closer to you so that you’re laying back on your bed. At some point during the kiss, his boxers come off, and when you feel his cock against your cunt, you moan into the kiss, and you can feel his smirk against your lips.

Oh, you could kill him. But, you suspect maybe he’ll get to you first.

After he kisses you for a few minutes, he pulls away to tell—not ask, tell you, “I’m going to fuck you now.” And you know your line.

“’Kay.” He grins at this and kisses you again, before lining himself up and starting slowly. He just has the tip inside of you, and you begin to moan, your grip on his shoulders tightening. You already feel entirely too full, and he slowly agonizingly slowly pushes into you, and he sees how his size makes your face twitch,

“Shh, shh, I know, pup. Deep breathes for me, bub,” he says softly, such a stark contract to his rough movements, as he bottoms out and has his entire cock inside of you. And he gives you a second, watching as your face relaces, adjusting to the size of him. “Okay?” He asks, and you nod.

“’Kay,” You assure, and he kisses your forehead.

“’Kay.” He responds, and before you can tease him for it, he begins to thrust into you, slowly as first, but he continues to quicken his pace. Your nails begin to scratch on his back, and he lets out this angelic moan—You must’ve died and went to heaven.

As his thrusts quicken, the lines quickly blur between quick ruts and an animalistic need, manifesting itself in the way he fucks you. You know you won’t last long, especially when his fingers find your clit and begin to rub it again.

“Fuck! Oh my god—”

“I know, baby, I know,” he coos, his free hand coming to your thigh to lift your leg up, only for better access to your throbbing cunt, “God, I love the feeling of you around me.. Worth the wait, I promise.” He grumbles, as he thrusts into you, his only goal to make you cum.

You want to respond to that—To tease him, to make him feel as shy as you do, but he has completed his goal of fucking you stupid.

All you can do is respond, “Fuck—I’m gonna—”

“I know, baby, go ahead, cum for me,” he requests softly, leaning in to press a rather jarringly sweet kiss to your lips.

As you cum around his cock, he shudders, the look of you, laying there fucked dumb, is almost too much for him to bear.

“I’m gonna fill you up, pup,” he tells you, and all you can do is moan in response, which makes him come that much closer to the edge. After a few more thrusts, with a euphoric moan that will haunt you forever, his hot cum fills you up, leaving the pair of you clawing at each other, wanting more.

When you’re both finally finished riding out your high, Logan lays next to you, keeping you close. His grip on you is tight—possessive. When you finally find your voice, you ask,

“You’re not gonna turn me into a booty call, are you, claws?”

And he laughs.

“No,” he says, pressing a kiss to your head. “You’re gonna be my best girl, Spitfire.”

“Does this mean I get to steal another of your flannels?”

“I’ll give you my whole fucking wardrobe to see how many times I can make you cum.”

[undreaming-fanfiction]

The Corroded Coffin used to think they'd be the new Metallica or Judas Priest. But where their passion and hard work never lacked, their big break just never came.

What did come, however, was an unexpected change of their career path.

It started innocently enough - they went through yet another failed meeting with recording studios, they'd travelled pretty far and it was for nothing. Instead of going back to Hawkins and risking another one of Eddie's road rages, they decided to break into an abandoned house and drink their sorrows away.

That is, until their empty bottles started collecting themselves, something invisible touched Gareth's shoulder and the dusty floor started showing written messages.

Jeff wanted to flee. Gareth to faint. But Eddie and Freak just shrugged. Eddie gestured towards the approximate ghost location and said "by the power of I don't give a shit anymore, I compel you to sit down and stop it, we'll clean the bottles when we leave tomorrow."

The rattling stopped. There was a moment of silence when the Corroded Coffin actually thought it had worked, but then the ghost overcame its shock and physically threw Eddie, his bandmates and their things out.

They sat on the wet grass for a while and contemplated their whole exitence. Eddie was pretty shaken about the whole thing because he'd just managed to royally piss off a ghost and lived to tell the tale. But apart from absolutely terrifying...it was also fun?

And his friends seemed to think the same. Jeff patted his shoulder and said: "not bad for a first touch with the unknown, huh?"

They stayed in the area and tried again. They decided to tape over their promotional video - not so great, they had to admit after rewatching it - and started documenting their ghostly encounters. And maybe it was just the timing, maybe it was their interactions and personalities, but it worked. They showed some of their tapes to a local TV station and they got a cautious yes, more than they ever had with their music.

They got assigned a small crew, Fred with a camera and Chrissy for sound, wrote their own episodes and did plenty of research. And they got to try quite a lot of different approaches with their ghostly friends. Eddie was amazing at taunting the ghosts, making them appear if there were any present. Gareth had a wonderfully calming presence, managing to save the CC's ass several times. Jeff was the brains, he made sure they'd always know the history of the house and the probable identity of the ghost. And Freak decided to dabble in the occult sciences with a terrifying precision. There could never be enough salt in Eddie's van for all the circles he made.

It all went well until they learned of the Creel House in Hawkins. They went there, did their research and before entering the house, they ordered some pizza for dinner. They assumed it would be over by midnight, thinking it was just another sad story of an unresolved murder, but the ghost of Henry Creel was out for blood.

Oh, and he also controlled the spiders of the house. That was new.

To set the scene: The crew had fled the house about an hour ago. Eddie was crouching behind an old table, blocking Henry's barrage of kitchen knives, shouting "IS THIS THE BEST YOU'VE GOT?!". Gareth was behind the table with Eddie, but he went more into the wailing territory with "I DON'T THINK THIS WILL HELP YOU MOVE ON, HENRY!". Jeff had blocked himself in the pantry and kept trying to identify the triggering moment - "I think he's re-enacting the murder of his mother, guys! Does that help?!" (it doesn't). And Freak gave up on salt circles and was now tossing handfuls of salt around the house with a questionable technique but unwavering determination.

Suddenly, a car horn.

Then, a bitchy male voice: "Are you coming to get your pizza or what? I have other customers to get to!"

Eddie gritted his teeth as Henry added heavy pans to the mix and hit his shoulder. "We're a little busy surviving here! Ask Chrissy to pay you!"

There was a muffled and annoyed "ugh" from behind the door and then: "Is it Henry again?"

Eddie just blinked. Gareth was more ready to answer: "Sure is! He's not a fan of our exorcism!"

And the pizza guy didn't leave. He just huffed and said something that sounded suspiciously like "amateurs".

Eddie wanted to punch him.

But before he could do that, the front door opened. Gareth held his breath, half expecting a sound of knives hitting their target.

Instead, they heard a few more steps and then: "What the fuck, Henry?!"

A faint whispering reached their ears, but they couldn't decipher it. But the pizza guy could.

"I don't care they didn't get your permission, Henry. Yeah, it's annoying, but what are you going to do? If more people die in this house, it's going to get demolished. You know that. Yeah, I know the house is old, but it's great for your spiders, right? They'd be homeless. Do you want to make your spiders homeless, Henry?"

They dared to peek from behind the table, and Eddie had to pinch himself. Because in the middle of the dusty dining room stood one of the prettiest young men Eddie had ever seen, hands on hips and arguing with something invisible.

The man completely ignored them.

"That's what I thought. Now, apologize. No, they can't hear you, so get creative."

All four CC members stared as words formed in the spilled salt: "SORRY".

The pizza guy seemed to be pleased. "Good job, Henry. Now, let me get them out of here and I promise I'll get the Party to bring you some new spiders when they capture them outside, yeah? Three knocks, slide them in a glass behind the door. Got it. Take care, Henry."

Only then did he look at Eddie and the others and frowned. "That's your cue to leave. Get your stuff and go, now." And as they were quickly collecting their scattered notes and recording equipment, he added: "and say goodbye when leaving. Don't be rude."

Four rushed "Bye, Henry!" and "Sorry, Henry"s later, the Corroded Coffin was standing on the grass outside, feeling the setting sun on their skin and smelling fresh pizza. Gareth promptly paid for the delivery, and everyone proceeded to thank their mysterious savior.

"I'm Steve," he said after they'd all expressed their thanks, "and you're stupid. Do you really do this without anyone who sees and hears them? Do you just stumble blindly into haunted houses for a fun and stabby time?"

Eddie had to swallow down a very bitchy response of his own. "Sorry to stroke your ego even more, pretty boy, but a man of your talents is hard to come by."

And Steve, to Eddie's massive shock, just cocked his head and fluffed his hair, probably out of habit, but damn. "Well, consider yourself lucky because I'm open to job offers," he said with a wink that brought Eddie back into his teenage fantasies. "You need someone like me, and I assume you pay better than pizza delivery. Do you?"

Turns out, their producer was willing to get one more person on board, especially when they finished processing the leftover footage from the Creel house.

Steve was an amazing addition. He was snarky, self-confident, easy to look at and most of all, he was fun and compassionate. Watching him communicate with ghosts of kids and help them move on made Eddie's icy heart melt.

But one day they were on a site of an unfortunate teenage death, Steve was chatting with the ghost of a 17 year old girl like they'd known each other for ages, he was laughing, cracking jokes, and then:

"No, he hasn't kissed me yet."

Eddie turned around on his heel and stared at Steve, snickering to himself and talking to a misty figure next to him. And worst of all, they were both staring right at Eddie.

"Hasn't even asked me out, no. You'd think he'd be interested, but I guess I'm doing something wrong."

And Eddie's head short-circuited, and all the repressed fantasies from nights next to Steve in their trailer came back with vengeance. He howled and threw himself at Steve, kissing him right on that bitchy mouth. "Doing something wrong?! Steven Harrington, those shorts of yours are doing everything right, but how about you say something, huh?!"

Steve returned the kiss to the cheering of the CC guys, Chrissy's clapping and Fred's disgusted noise, and shrugged when they broke apart. "I knew you'd get it, eventually. Oh, and Heather?" he turned to the ghost. "You're the best wingwoman ever, in this life and after."

Four good things came from this ghostly encounter:

After the kiss, Gareth finally gathered enough courage to ask Chrissy out. She said yes.

The episode with Heather became the most watched episode of the CC's show.

Steve and Eddie remained in an equally blissful and teasing relationship for the rest of their lives.

And finally...

The TV station decided to design official merch for the CC's show: incredibly short shorts that said on the backside: "DOING EVERYTHING RIGHT".

[perfectlyoongi]

HUSBAND!JUNGKOOK who proposed to you on vacation on the outskirts of florence. four days of beautiful scenery and incredible memories were just a cover for Jungkook's true plan: in a green field dressed in brightly colored flowers, the two of you were having a small picnic while laughter and tender words danced with the gentle breeze of the day; and when Jungkook's question flowed as naturally as any other sentence he could have said, your heart immediately accelerated, sending waves of happiness and fulfillment throughout your body. “will you marry me? make a whole life by my side? only you and me?”

HUSBAND!JUNGKOOK who insisted on throwing floating lanterns at your wedding. but Jungkook didn't want any lanterns, no; Jungkook wanted your dreams and desires for your life to be written and decorated on the light fabric of the lantern, believing that, when they reached the vast starry sky, they would be able to cling to the various stars and guard your future forever. “the celestial magic of the stars will make all our dreams come true, you’ll see.”

HUSBAND!JUNGKOOK who kisses you under the rain on bad days. it was a simple gesture, something small and quite banal, but it was something precious, an action that warmed you inside and made you feel good, made you feel alive; it was between raindrops that Jungkook declared his love for you in the form of a kiss, the lips that sang so many promises to you and shared so many dreams reminding you that in all the darkness of the world, among all the rain and grey, there was always something warm, there was always his love for you. “just to remind you that after so long, i still love you. and i will love you forever.”

HUSBAND!JUNGKOOK who wears his wedding ring like a badge of honor. Jungkook was proud to be your husband; for him, you were the only person to exist, you were the only one who really mattered because you, quite simply, were incredible in every way; so, having a token of your love, something physical that people could see, only made Jungkook's eyes shine even brighter — after all, he was eternally united to the best person that could exist. “yes, i’m married to the love of my life. isn't it incredible? i’m the luckiest man alive.”

HUSBAND!JUNGKOOK who hugs you from the back in the morning and gently kisses your neck. still infected by sleep, Jungkook walked slowly through the kitchen, his feet leaving traces of need, his small yawns looking for you lazily; Jungkook's arms would wrap around you without any difficulty, squeezing you with all the love he felt for you, letting his natural scent mix with that of breakfast; Jungkook's lips kissed your neck innocently, an invisible mark of wishes for a good day beginning another opportunity to live life. “good morning. you weren’t in bed, i thought i wouldn’t have time to say goodbye.”

HUSBAND!JUNGKOOK who takes you on long car rides at night just to decompress. with the windows open to let the night breeze flood his car, Jungkook took you to different neighborhoods and streets without any destination in mind, just the desire to bring you a little peace controlling his steering wheel; soft music was gently played in the car, while the stars of the night guided you to moments of tranquility and serenity that made you realize that it was with Jungkook that life was worth living. “the night is beautiful today. do you wanna go out? we can eat ice cream later.”

HUSBAND!JUNGKOOK who will love you forever and ever. Jungkook deeply believed that it was the universe that brought you together; it was impossible for two such deep and similar souls to meet by chance — it had to be destiny. because, for Jungkook, your souls had already been formed in ancient times, wandering through worlds and constellations in search of a way of loving deeper than the spiritual — and here you two were, extending every fragment of your passion beyond the soul. “what are the chances of feeling like we’ve loved each other forever? believe me, we are made of the same celestial dust.”

[darlingsblackbook]

That time when you betray him

"Y/n?"

I froze at the sound of his voice. A chill ran through me whole body at the realization that I had screwed up. Completely and utterly screwed up.

My body felt as if concrete had been poured all over it, I could not bring myself to physically move-as if I could make myself invisible by staying still.

"What are you doing?" He asked, but I had a feeling he already knew. He knew. I screwed up and now he knew. I could feel it in his voice, the slight- barely noticable- tremble, the tone that held the tiniest bit of hope- hope that it might not be what it looks like-

The hope that I had not just betrayed him.

Betrayed us.

"You're killing me with this silence, sweetheart." He joked even though his voice held no humour, it was just the way he dealt with things. He had told me that himself one night. "Come on, we have to go back."

Still, I stayed silent. There had never been a moment in my life where I just wanted to disappear- so badly. The silence that enveloped us was so painfully loud.

"I can't go with you." I spoke up for the first time.

He chuckled humourlessly, "Come on, don't be silly."

I gulped, took a deep breath and forced myself to move. I forced myself to turn around and see the devastation that I knew I had caused. I knew this day would come, of course, I did. From the moment I accepted this mission- I knew. What I had not anticipated was that I would end up falling for him myself. I am so stupid.

Our eyes met.

He did not say it out loud. But his eyes were begging me. Please, tell me I am wrong, tell me this is all a misunderstanding. Tell me how much you love me and want to be by my side. Tell me it is not what it looks like!

It was never supposed to go this far. I was never supposed to get this close. I told myself it was fine, that I am a grown woman and can control my emotions. If only I could go back in time and warn my past self to not get attached. Then maybe I would not feel the resentfulness for myself and my deeds that I did now- not because I regret the mission but the regret of the pain that I caused him.

"This is were we part ways." I told him softly, holding his gaze. His eyes dropped to the object in my hands, and I could feel his heart drop- he knew just how important- dangerous - it could be if it fell into the wrong hands but he trusted me, so told me the location.

He knew-thought he could trust me, I slept beside him at night and ate at the same dinner table as him. He trusted me even though he never trust easily, even though he had blocked off the entry to his heart because of past betrayals- he had let me in.

Because I was his y/n.

His y/n would never betray him.

"All this time...?" He trailed off, pursing his lips, eyes still locked onto the object in my hand. "Wow, you actually had me fooled, you know? This is really embarassing."

I steeled myself, knowing that no matter how much I wanted to, I could not change what has been done. I have already lost him, I could only complete my mission now. Do what I had been sent here for.

"Don't be." I said. "You did not know any better."

Reblog and pick up where I left off with a character of your own choice!

[bluecollarmcandtf]

Don't get possessed!

You'll end up like this...

Gassy air bubbled from deep inside my soft, pudgy stomach. The smell of semi-digested beer wafted into my nose as my lips flapped in the gust of a violent belch dragging itself out. God, this body was disgusting, but this is what I did to it; this is what I did to him...

I used his cellphone to snap a pic of the sweaty slab of meat I'd been wearing for the past three years. It was the disgraced body of a former jock. Jake's stomach rumbled like it always did when I filled it to the brim. Even after all this time, it still hasn't adapted to the crap I've constantly been stuffing it with.

Swallowing yet another beer, I toss the can into the corner of his dark living room, where it collided with discarded pizza boxes and half empty milk jugs. I'd let the entire apartment overflow with the garbage generated by this once-godly body, and there was a lot of it.

The place smelled like a dumpster in the sun.

You might think this is a disgusting way to live. Well, I did too. Everything about the situation was nasty; the damp basement apartment, the stacks of dirty dishes, the closet of unwashed clothes. The entire place had a permanent stench of body odor, and I know it followed this body around everywhere.

I had never in my life felt so absolutely disgusted by my surroundings.

But that was the exact fucking point.

To explain, we'll have to flash back to a few years ago. Let me show you a photo of Jake when I first possessed him. I took this right after jumping into his perfect body...

The athlete had just gotten back from the gym. It was another perfect workout for the perfect jock, and I could feel the grit and intensity swelling in every muscle. The college footballer would normally shower after any physical activity, but I was happy to crack open a beer and bask in his sweaty glory.

I don't know if you could tell, but I am not a fan of Jake.

He was a pretentious bully at my university, and he got away with anything. I tried my best to stay out of his way, but ultimately found myself staring into the headlights of his fancy Christmas present: a shiny black camaro. The asshole ended my life while driving back to campus after one of his famous parties!

I hate to be dramatic, but I was not ready to pass away, and I was not going to let an asshole like Jake get away with my murder. The police couldn't solve the crime any more than I could console my mourning family, so I took matters into my own ghostly hands.

Jake, beautiful Jake, didn't have a single iota of remorse. He continued to get belligerently drunk, and continued to shame and ridicule anyone shorter, weaker, or fatter than him, which was just about anyone. The worst part was people let him: they allowed it because he was the strongest, the most handsome, the prize quarterback with a winning smile!

I had to do something to stop the piece of trash lurking inside his god-like body.

So I possessed him. And I did this...

When I took over, it was like putting on a body suit. As a ghost, I was invisible, so I got right behind and slipped inside. First, I shoved a leg in, then an arm, and then the rest followed.

He struggled, flailing the few body parts he still had control over, but it was in vain!

My head was the last thing to get situated, but once I slid it into place, his yelling subsided. His thoughts evaporated, and I broke in his handsome face with a wicked smile. It felt different, grinning with someone else's mouth, but I was just glad to have a body again. His was definitely an upgrade compared to my old one. The height I stood at, the breadth of my shoulders, the weight of muscular pecs hanging off my chest; it all took some getting used to.

I enjoyed living inside the jock's body, but I was on a revenge mission. The first thing I wanted to screw up was his diet!

I started shoveling massive amounts of fast-food down his throat three times a day, packing on forty pounds in just a couple weeks. Obviously, I quit going to his football practice and even dropped out from his classes. I needed the time to bulk his body up.

His teammates and coaches all reached out, but I told them to get lost. He took everything from me, so I wanted to do the same to him...

This is a pic I took of Jake's body after almost a year of controlling him. I wanted him to look and smell as awful as possible in public, so I kept him as sweaty and hairy as I could. Despite my best efforts, his attractiveness was still shining through. If anything, he looked like a hot, hard-working bear on the way home from the job, and that was not what I wanted.

This made me realize that I could destroy more than just his looks.

In his body, I marched back to campus and begged the manager of the university gym for a job. A bunch of his old friends were there to see it, so I made sure to act as pathetic as possible in the six foot hunk, practically grovelling for any position. I even dropped to Jake's knees in front of the guy, giving a lot of the gym-goers second hand embarrassment.

Ultimately, the manager offered me a janitorial position if I would shut up. I accepted it gladly, kissing the guys shoes with Jake's lips like some kind of submissive idiot.

So even though Jake's body was still attractive with the extra weight and fur I'd given it, the dingey old uniform of a janitor made sure to mark him as the bottom of the food chain. I wore it like a badge of honor, even if I never washed the damn thing. Wearing a stained boilersuit labelled 'janitor' everywhere definitely told the world what Jake was worth!

By that point, people really only saw Jake as a walking mop, if they even looked his direction at all...

This last picture is one I took after about a year of working for the school. No one had spoken to me (Jake) in that entire time, unless they needed a toilet unclogged. The man had truly lost any respect people had for him.

The overalls hide the giant gut I'd managed to grow on his torso, but you can look at the top pic if you want to see how fat and hairy I ultimately got him. He looked nothing like the explosive athlete he'd been a couple years ago.

I took that photo right before I released Jake's to his body.

The jock probably wouldn't recognize himself. He'd wonder why he was suddenly so fat and hairy. He'd be terrified by the janitorial uniform on his back and even more horrified by the layers of dried sweat swamping his skin. It wouldn't be until he realized how much time had passed that he would fully understand the punishment I'd carved out for him. I wonder how he'll react when he finds out that he's spent the last three years scrubbing floors in the gym instead of working out in it.

I wonder if he'll clean himself up and learn a lesson? Or maybe he'll just accept his fate and give in to the habits I've made for his body. I don't know, and I don't care.

I'll be long gone by then.

Honestly, I have to admit that it's kind of fun living like this. Disgusting, sure, but there's something about reveling in the laziness, the degradation, the stink. I never allowed myself to be so laid back in life. Maybe, I learned something from this experience with Jake as well. I'm starting to think I'll find a new body to possess and live in. Someone I can take over and use for my own immediate pleasures.

Maybe you're the right candidate! You've got a nice body I could jump into. You won't mind if I hop in and drive for a few years, would you? You'll be disgusted by the state I leave you in, but hey it's not like it's my body I'm fucking up, right!

[dark-and-kawaii]

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱‧ An Incubus & His Dove ‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱‧₊˚

Summary: You return to the House of Hope to seek out Haarlep… Only this time, he doesn’t suckle on your soul- refusing to feed off you, but why?

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི₊ ⊹ Pairings: Haarlep x F!Tav/Reader

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི₊ ⊹ Content: NSFW - Hurt/Comfort - Breeding - Soft Haarlep - Cervix Penetration - Angst - Love

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི₊ ⊹ Notes: Who isn’t a sucker for a good incubus romance smut story? Enjoy xoxo

The following stroke, just as brutal as the first, followed after a cruel ten second pause, ripping another scream from your throat. It was always this way. Every visit to the House of Hope ended the same, with you sprawled beneath the incubus Haarlep, your wrists bound by his massive hands, your body a canvas for his cruel pleasure. Which you always happily accepted…

The next thrust made your toes curl and your back arch, “Hah~ Haarlep~!” you gasped the demon's name. To which made him chuckle deeply, and continue the rhythm. 

Haarlep was beautiful, undeniably so. His eyes held a hypnotic allure, and his touch, though brutal, sent shivers down your spine always. He was a monster, yes, but he was your monster.

“Such a pretty little voice, dove~ And all for me~?” The creature purred into your ear, it was such a deep, husky, and oh so sexy tone that made you shudder. All you could do was bite your lip to stifle the sound that threatened to slip.

Haarlep gave your neck a warning bite.

You released your lip and whimpered, “y-yes~”. 

He was right. You were all his. You knew this… It’s unfortunate Raphael didn’t know this… 

You knew you should’ve fought back when you first met Haarlep, resist his advances. But you couldn't. You were powerless against him, both physically and emotionally. As if an invisible string had attached you to one another…

“Hmm~ You know~~~ You really shouldn't be making such sweet noises. I may end up eating you alive before I get my fill of you~” Haarlep winked, his pace never slowing.

Your cheeks heated up at that thought, and you turned your head away, “I-I-“ A particularly hard thrust cuts you off, “Ah~ Haarlep!!! Haaaarlep~ ♡!!”

It wasn't until then, when you realized, that Haarlep hadn't fed yet... Your eyes opened wide and you quickly looked at him, he seemed to be enjoying himself thoroughly, but something was off…

“Ngh~ hah~!” You struggled against his hands, wriggling your wrists around in his grasp and cried out, “s’too m-much~ w-wait~ haa~”

The creature pulled you close with his wings, his tail wrapping around your thigh to keep you pressed firmly against him as his cock slowly started to painfully pull out. His bulbous head stretching your tiny tight pussy as it began to leave your body. 

He'd just been going at you like an animal, but hadn't actually fed off you… Haarlep was simply enjoying the moment, the pleasure you provided him with.

As the head finally popped out, you were left panting and whimpering beneath him, and he was left groaning and growling at the sudden lack of warmth. He was about to push his cock back in until you slipped your leg free of his tail and kicked his chest.

Haarlep grunted as his large body was pushed over… And you wasted no time climbing on top of him and sinking his cock into your tight, hot cunt. 

You both moaned at the sensation, and you were the first to move, slowly rolling your hips.

His eyes shut in pleasure as his hands quickly found their place on your ass, his claws digging into the flesh, “My~ What a feisty dove~! So hungry for my cock~ I'm glad, because I'm not letting you go~ Mmm~ So warm and wet~ My little dove~”

You leaned forward, resting your hands on his chest as you rode his cock, your moans soft and sweet, his name dripping from your lips like honey.

Haarlep licked his lips and arched his back, pulling you down further onto him as he took control, bouncing you in his lap and pounding your tight cunt. His orangish red eyes met yours and his tail wrapped around your thigh again, pulling your leg away from his hip causing your hips to shift forward. The new angle had the head of his cock pressing against your cervix, which sent your back arching, your eyes closing and your jaw dropping in a silent scream.

His thrusts only got harder and more powerful, bullying and punching your insides with his cock- bruising your cervix as he watched you fall apart.

“Haarleeeepppp~ M-my puswy~ it- it’s gonna break~! Ahn~ pleaseee~ ah!~ ♡ Haaaa~ ♡ ♡ ♡!!!!!~”

It felt like you were being impaled on the head of some enormous pole as the demon kept thrusting his cock up into you, to the edge of your womb.

“Ah, yes!~ Sing for me dove~ with that pretty little voice of yours! Let all those pitiful souls know how good you're taking it!! I want them to hear the pleasure I give you~”

“Sh’o d-deep~ Ahhah- crush-crushing mah~ dee-pest~ parts~!~ H-haar-leeeeeppp~ ♡!!!!~”

With each thrust his head hit your cervix, and he was getting closer and closer to penetrating the deepest part of you.

You were so close, so very close to cumming, but a part of you wanted him to do it… To penetrate your deepest part.

To make you his completely, his and no one else's.

You knew that's what he wanted too, after all, you'd already let him have a taste of you... Why not have him devour you?

With that thought in mind you wrapped your arms around his neck and whispered into his ear, begging him, pleading for him, to give you what you both desired, “P-please, my- my incubus~ Pour your seed inside me, please- I need it, I want it~ I want to feel you, I want to be filled with you and no one else. Only you~ u-until there’s nothing left~ hah♡”

Your words had an immediate effect on him, Haarlep let out a throaty moan and picked up his pace, pounding away at your cervix, abusing the hole and trying to force his way through, “I can feel it you know~,” The way he spoke made your heart skip a beat, “The way those slick gummy walls of yours clamp down around me when talking about filling your tiny womb with my spawn~”

You whined, the sound needy and high pitched.

That seemed to be his breaking point, his claws digging into your ass cheeks, spreading them apart, as he forced the head of his cock into your tight cervix. His mouth falling open, sweat forming on his brow, a deep blush for the very first time in his existence spread across his cheeks and his tongue hanging from his mouth as he drank the pleasures your body has to offer. 

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, but you wouldn't trade this feeling for the world. Your enslaved incubus looked so cute like this. Almost innocent, despite being buried balls deep inside of you, his cock in the shallowest part of your womb…

The head of his cock twitched and throbbed as it started spewing hot ropes of cum into you, his seed painting the deepest parts of your womb a creamy white.

Your tongue lolled out of your mouth, and a bit of drool dripped down onto Haarlrp as your body convulsed and squirted all over his abdomen.

Slowly, Haarlep ground his cock inside of you, pushing his seed deeper and deeper inside of you, while also rubbing against the sensitive spots inside of you. His eyes locked on your face, taking in your cute expression, your teary eyes and drooling mouth, and your flushed cheeks. My how he loved that fucked out expression, it was one he'd seen on you plenty of times, and it was one he adored. How strange. Adored? No… More than that. Haarlep found his feelings for you growing with each day.

You held such immense value for him- your soul, your delicate frame, your charming visage, and that enchanting voice of yours… How he would grimace whenever a visitor came to him, daring to suggest he take your form, only for him laugh with a firm refusal...

Haarlep's wings unfurled at the thought, and his eyes drifted down, resting upon the sight of his cock inside of you, stretching your small, quivering pussy out, the way it hugged his length was beautiful... His hand made its way to your stomach and he found himself rubbing small circles where your womb would be... Where he could sense the smallest of soul within you... Haarlep could feel it earlier when you arrived, how you, his little dove, was carrying his child, his spawn- how you were carrying his child and didn't even know…

As your orgasm died down and your body began to relax, Haarlep slowly pulled out of you... The tip of his cock popping free from your cervix causing you to whine in response, a thin trail of cum and blood dripping out of you.

Haarlep laid his head back and relaxed, a small smile gracing his features as he enjoyed the afterglow.

Your afterglow, however, was you still being a mess, dry tears that left streaks down your cheeks, drool covering your mouth, and a small pool of liquid forming beneath you, on Haarlep.

The incubus grinned and wiped the drool from your chin, he noticed how you were staring at him, the look in your eyes told him that you were exhausted. He couldn't blame you, the way you were moaning earlier, the way you sang and screamed and cried his name- and the way you looked at him now, it was all so adorable, so cute... But there was something else there in those glazed over eyes of yours... His finger never leaving the soft flesh of your chin, his claw gently tracing along the curve of your bottom lip.

You shivered and slowly blinked.

Haarlep chuckled deeply, “Has my little dove found herself enamored by the pleasures Raphael's incubus can provide?”

Your cheeks turned a deep red, “No- no that's not it-“ You bit your lip, no... It wasn't that... Your eyes fell to Haarlep's v-line, your fingers absentmindedly running along his warm skin, “I-...”

“You...?” Haarlep hummed and watched you, waiting for your reply.

…

You looked up at him, tears welling up in the corners of your eyes, “Haarlep… Why didn't you feed off of me?”

Haarlep's full lips curled into a mocking smirk, his eyes glittering with mischief, “Always so curious,” he teased, his voice a smooth purr that sent shivers down your spine, “Must I have a reason for everything I do?”

But you knew there was more, something hidden beneath his playful facade. The thought gnawed at you, a relentless itch that wouldn't be satisfied with his evasive answers.

Haarlep continued, “Well it’s quite simple, isn't it? You're Raphael's mouse are you not? He reaps the pleasure from your body when you're with me. His favorite little mouse, the only one who hasn't had their soul stripped... I can't do that to you, I can't hurt you- not that badly at leas-“

You shook your head and sighed… You knew when the damn demon was lying, “I should get going, I'm sure the others are worried about me…” You pushed yourself away from him and attempted to stand, but the pain between your legs had other plans, making you whine and wince…

Haarlep clicked his tongue, “I’d advise against hurry, Dove.” In the nick of time he grasped your arm to prevent you from collapsing, his tail encircling your waist to draw you gently back to him.

You purse your lips, unsure of how to tell him that you meant what you said, you wanted to belong to him, “i- i meant what I said. I want to be yours…” You felt yourself being held against him, “… I… I want to take you away from this place... i-“

Haarlep cocked his head to the side, and raised a brow as he stared at you, his face was blank, no sign of emotion whatsoever. 

"I want you to be my incubus. Just mine… And free…” You finished, a nervous laugh slipping past your lips.

“Oh, you do, do you?” His wings folded behind him, his eyes glowing brighter, a grin on his face, and his tail squeezing you a little tighter.

You could feel more tears threatening to fall, “Yes... I don't want you to feed off others... if you even can from how vile these creatures that visit you can be... I can't bear the thought of those devils- those that come to you abusing you as their plaything anymore- making you bleed for their own pleasure-“ your breath hitched in your throat, the tears that once threatened now freely falling, “Haarlep- i- i- can't stand to think of others using you like that... Seeing them- Raphael allowing it... Just h-how many times have your bones broken under all their touch-“

Haarlep leaned in, his breath caressing your skin. His nose gently brushed against your temple as he nuzzled closer. His lips hovered near yours, almost but not quite touching, “Foolish girl~” his tongue flicking out to tenderly lap away the salty tears.

Haarlep's smirk deepened, his wings unfurling to envelop you in their leathery embrace. His gaze was hard, tinged with mockery, but there was something else there too- a flicker of something you couldn't quite place, “So quick to wear your heart on your sleeve.”

Moments had passed and you soon found yourself submerged in darkness.

You were asleep, he knew, yet his words came regardless, “Of claiming me as your own personal incubus, beholden to no one but you.” A wicked grin curved those lips, “To have your delectable body as my sole source of sustenance, to drink deep of your pleasure, to ravish you whenever I please- whenever I need…" He leaned down, pressing his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your flesh, and reveling in the warmth that radiated from it, “How foolish indeed~”. His eyes narrowed, “What am I to do with you, little dove?” He brushed a stray lock of hair out of your face… When your eyes opened, you were lying on your bed at the inn, a blanket over you and a pillow under your head. You sat up and looked around, your companions still sound asleep and you noticed a small note on the table beside you.

The words on the small parchment made your eyes water and your heart swell, a small smile tugging at your lips, 'My little dove, You've proven to be quite the heavy sleeper. You didn't wake when I dressed you, didn't even flinch when I took you away. But it matters not, for when we meet again, you'll have your answer. Until that moment arrives, do take utmost care of that precious burden you bear on my behalf.

- Your favorite Incubus. P.S. I look forward to hearing you sing for me once more.'

Your hand slowly lowered the parchment, and rested on your belly... It had made sense now, why he hadn't fed off of you, why he hadn't even tried to... Your eyes closed, and a soft sigh escaped you.

“Haarlep…”

You couldn't help but laugh at how silly the idea was... That you could actually have him... Be his breaker of chains and lover...

Yet, you still swore as you rubbed your flat tummy, “I will, no matter what... I'll set you free... My incubus” and you swore as you made your vow, that you could feel the ghost of lips caressing your cheek, and a feather light kiss to the corner of your lips.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

hello, i was wondering if you had any information on mediums (like, able to communicate w ghosts)? thank you

Writing Notes: Medium

Medium - a person who appears to be able to talk to the dead or, more generally, appears to communicate with invisible intelligences or receive “energy” from other dimensions of reality (Barušs, 2003a, 2014a).

They are sometimes sought out by the bereaved as a way of trying to confirm the continuing existence of the deceased, so that mediumship also has relevance for the treatment of grief (Beischel, Mosher, & Boccuzzi, 2014–2015).

Medium - (in occultism) a person reputedly able to make contact with the world of spirits, especially while in a state of trance.

A spiritualist medium is the central figure during a séance and sometimes requires the assistance of an invisible go-between, or control.

During a séance, disembodied voices are said to speak, either directly or through the medium.

Materialization of a disembodied spirit or of a specific part of a human body can allegedly take shape from a mysterious, viscous substance called ectoplasm that exudes from the medium’s body and subsequently disappears by returning to its original source.

At times the medium, or a material object, appears to float in the air (levitation).

Trance - a state that is like being asleep except that you can move and respond to questions and commands like a person who is awake

Séance - French “sitting” (in occultism) meeting centred on a medium, who seeks to communicate with spirits of the dead.

Because strong light is said to hinder communication, a séance usually takes place in darkness or subdued light.

It generally involves 6 or 8 persons, who normally form a circle and hold hands.

Believers assert that communication has been established when a disembodied voice is heard, or a voice speaks through the medium, or a ghostly apparition appears.

Sometimes music of unknown source seems to fill the room, objects appear to move for unnatural reasons, or a hand, a limb, or an entire body may take shape from ectoplasm (a peculiar viscous substance said to issue from the medium’s body).

Other alleged means of communication include automatic writing, trance speaking, or a ouija board or planchette.

Many of the seemingly mysterious phenomena manifested during séances are effected by the medium to validate his or her claim to supernatural powers.

That some spiritualists actually possess the ability to communicate with spirits, however, remains open to debate.

Dissociation, especially derealization or depersonalization, can readily be misconstrued as paranormal.

Example: Dissociation as an alternative hypothesis for the following:

After intense chanting, a medium enters a “trance” and is no longer aware of his surroundings (dissociation). He then communicates with a dead relative.

Good mediums can produce correct information, at least some of the time.

That is consistent with some cases of spontaneous and induced after-death communication.

But is that information coming from dead people? Could mediums, and others experiencing apparent after-death communication, just be good at picking up information from the living or from physical sources wherever the necessary information might be found?

The former explanation has been called the survival hypothesis, whereas the latter explanation has been called the super-psi hypothesis (Braude, 2003; see also P. F. Cunningham, 2012).

History of Spiritualism. Spiritualism is a collection of beliefs based on the claim that spirits or departed souls live in a realm beyond our material universe. In the 19th century, seances, ceremonies in which mediums communicated with the dead, became fashionable winter night parlor entertainment. Popular mediums would roam from city to city and amaze thousands with their astonishing communications with the departed. In the United States, in time spiritualism became a social movement that offered hope of an afterlife for those grieving the slaughter of the civil war and skeptical of a Christianity newly challenged by science, especially Darwin. Spiritualists fought against slavery (in the afterlife all are equal) and the movement provided women with a rare public role not unlike that enjoyed by male priests (mediums were female). This movement set the stage for current widespread interest in channeling, psychics, parapsychology, and faith healing. Organized scholarly research into the paranormal began with serious investigations of spiritualist claims.

Psychic vs. Medium

As an adjective, psychic means “of or relating to the human soul or mind,” or something mental as opposed to physical.

It’s also defined in psychology as “pertaining to or noting mental phenomena,” which describes being in tune to some nonphysical force or agency.

For example, Having heard that colors can provoke a psychic response, I decided to paint the room a calming blue.

Psychic can also mean “sensitive to influences or forces of a nonphysical or supernatural nature.”

So if someone or something is influenced by a mysterious force that’s outside physical science or knowledge, it’s a psychic influence.

For example, it was a psychic feeling that led him to run out of the building right before a fire started.

As an adjective, some synonyms for psychic are:

spiritual,

supernatural,

paranormal,

psychological, and

metaphysical.

As a noun, psychic refers to “a person who is sensitive to psychic influences or forces.”

For example, since she was a little girl, John’s grandmother has sworn she’s a psychic and can tell when something bad will happen.

In addition to medium, other synonyms for psychic as a noun include clairvoyant, fortune-teller, and prophet.

First recorded in 1855–60, psychic originates from the Greek word psȳchikós, meaning “of the soul.”

Types of Mediumship

In modern spiritualism, mediumship can be generally divided into 2 forms:

Physical mediumship generally involves anything happening of a physical nature that can be perceived by the medium and others present.

Mental mediumship involves communication from the spirit world which is interpreted through the mind and consciousness of the medium.

Examples: Famous Mediums

William Stainton Moses: Moses, a medium from the late nineteenth century, would hold séances during which psychic lights would appear. He also had experiences of levitation, and the appearance of scents like musk and freshly mown hay. Musical sounds would often be heard with no musical instruments in the room, as well as the materialization of luminous hands and pillars of light. Moses also produced a great number of automatic writings, including his most well known scripts, Spirit Teachings (1883) and Spirit Identity (1879).

Fransisco (Chico) Xavier: Born in 1910, Xavier was a famous Brazilian medium, often appearing on television. He produced his first automatic writing in grade school, where he claimed that an essay was given to him by a spirit. He went on to amass an enormous number of automatic writing scripts in various scientific and literary disciplines, and is one of the world's most prolific automatic writers.

Daniel Dunglas Home: Home was one of the most well-known mediums of the nineteenth century. Scottish born, he performed a number of séances for royalty and other well-respected people. He was most famous for his levitations, one of which took place outside a third story window. Though many, including Houdini accused Home of trickery, he was never once exposed as a fraud.

Psychologist Terence Hines, in his book Pseudoscience and the Paranormal:

Modern spiritualists and psychics keep detailed files on their victims. As might be expected, these files can be very valuable and are often passed on from one medium or psychic to another when one retires or dies. Even if a psychic doesn't use a private detective or have immediate access to driver's license records and such, there is still a very powerful technique that will allow the psychic to convince people that the psychic knows all about them, their problems, and their deep personal secrets, fears, and desires. The technique is called cold reading and is probably as old as charlatanism itself... If John Edward (or any of the other self-proclaimed speakers with the dead) really could communicate with the dead, it would be a trivial matter to prove it. All that would be necessary would be for him to contact any of the thousands of missing persons who are presumed dead—famous (e.g., Jimmy Hoffa, Judge Crater) or otherwise—and correctly report where the body is. Of course, this is never done. All we get, instead, are platitudes to the effect that Aunt Millie, who liked green plates, is happy on the other side.

Some Related Character Tropes

I See Dead People: Mediums are a special category of psychic; people with a sixth sense that allows them to see, hear and/or touch ghosts for better or for worse.

Magnetic Medium: Psychics tend to attract things only they can perceive. Whether they're unknowingly sending out psychic signals or just bad luck is anyone's guess.

Unhappy Medium: Having psychic powers can suck.

Examples

Dante in Coco can see the spirits of dead relatives and interact with them, because he's an alebrije. Miguel temporarily gains this when he steals Ernesto de la Cruz's guitar, causing him to cross over to the spirit realm.

A big part of the classic Charles Dickens tale A Christmas Carol, wherein Ebenezer Scrooge is visited by the ghost of his old partner, Jacob Marley, heralding the coming of the three spirits of Christmas Past, Christmas Present, and Christmas Future, "yet to come".

Cassandra from Classical Mythology, though not at first. The curse was separate from the prophesy part — she got prophesy as a blessing from Apollo, then pissed him off, so he added on a curse that she'd never be believed.

Everything Everywhere All at Once: Jobu Tabaki can see all possible outcomes of every action because she is present in all her alternate selves simultaneously. This has driven her to total nihilism and a desire to destroy the entire universe just to make it stop.

In The Sixth Sense, Cole Sear is frequently harassed by the spirits of the dead, whom only he can see and hear (and get mauled by, occasionally). Since he's only about ten years old, he is understandably freaked out by this.

The X-Files: Seeing ghosts is the X-file of the episode "Elegy". People report seeing wounded women who seemed silently asking for help in strange places where they had actually never appeared when alive. They always brought the ominous message "s/he is me". It turns out the apparitions happened very close to the moment of their death and only people who were close to death themselves could see them.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Hope this helps with your writing!

[lilmissbacon]

Rotg world building — Thoughts and theories

This was originally just going to be a reblog to THIS post but then I ended up going down a rabbit hole of my thoughts and opinions, so it became too annoyingly long for peoples/my preference.

Most of the post really expresses how I've always viewed the world of spirits in Rotg. The only thoughts I'm not really a fan of is the idea of some spirits not having physical forms and just being like big storms. Because what's the point of humanoid spirits being invisible to humans if they have no physical forms to other spirits as well?

I never saw Jack talking to the wind as the wind being an active spirit, I saw it as him just being so lonely he'd pretend the wind was alive to not feel so alone. After all, he only addressed the wind 1 time, if it were an actual being I feel like it'd be addressed more than once. Especially when Jack needed to get out of Antarctica: why would he need to fix his staff to fly out if the wind could've just picked him up unless he was the one making the wind? And like the post linked above said, the comics are unofficial. They're cool and I love them but they're not canon.

I do love the idea of their being 2 generations of spirits. Pre-MiM and post-MiM where the legends of Gods and myths are tales of the original spirits mistaken for higher deities and distorted over time. After all MiM wasn't always there (at least in the books) so how were their seasons/seasonal spirits on earth before him unless they were just natural to earth?

Plus it's made apparent through Sandy's death in Rotg that spirits are not 100% immortal, just non-aging. I think there is an open window for spirits to come back like Sandy did, if an influx of enough people believe, Tinkerbell style. But after maybe a year or so, that window is closed, that spirit is full on dead and that spirit needs to be replaced to keep the world in balance. So there could've been hundreds of spirits that have been lost but then replaced by MiM. I also think only magic can kill spirits, since Jack managed to fall from like 300+ feet in the final battle and walk it off without so much as a limp. Like, it still hurt, he clearly felt the pain, but he could still run, jump, throw hands and everything. He only groaned like he tripped down a small set of stairs.

Guardians are the only ones who could die without belief due to the vow they take. I feel like that vow tying their lives to belief could've actively been like an insurance policy to insure that the Guardians stay true and keep doing their jobs to fulfill childhood. It may be controlling and borderline manipulative for MiM to make them do that but I'm sure we're all in agreement that he is pretty gray as a character in the movie when you really think about it. And I could even see where he's coming from with this idea. After all, who knows how many spirits he may have made thinking they were good people, only for them to go dark and become evil. I'm sure MiM would hold a lot of guilt whenever those bad spirits hurt others or even feel at fault for making these decent people, eventual villains. Besides the Guardians know they could die if they lose belief when they make the vow, so it's not like MiM tricked them, that's consented. The Guardians just forgot to tell Jack that.

Now, I always saw "Spirit Society" as all spirits know of each other and word always gets around when new ones are made. I don't think there's a hidden city or village (other than maybe Santoff Clausen if it's even still around. And only for some of them, it wouldn't be big enough for all spirits in my mind) but rather they make homes for themselves and just cross paths with each other all the time. Kinda like the countryside; everyone's homes are far apart, but you still see each other in stores or at work.

I'm not quite sure how the news and knowledge would spread between spirits so often unless they were either all huge gossips or had yearly meets or something. But you know what, I'd be willing to bet that there are a few "messenger" spirits similar to Hermes in Greek myth, that just fly everywhere, spreading word for other spirits to make sure everyone is in the loop.

In my mind, Bunny's aggression early in the movie was meant to kinda show how most spirits saw Jack. After all, he's the only one who didn't feel like he'd be super recluse due to his job as he's the only one who doesn't work all year-round.

Unless he's a complete hermit, what is he doing for the rest of the year other than going out and hanging with other spirits?

I think most spirits hate Jack for being a troublemaking spirit that honed the deadliest season. That could just be my angst fanfic brain making things up but why else would Jack be so desperate to look towards humans to connect with unless he has tried with other spirits who could see him and was only met with backlash?

'Cause I have seen a few people complain that the ending of the movie contradicted Jack's arc of wanting to be seen only to leave the few believers he'd finally made. But that was never the point. He has what I like to call a fake-out arc; where it's said he wants one thing but his actual goal is different. He asks why he can't be seen, he tries his best to get people to believe in him, but he's doing it in an effort to find a family.

He mentions how no one can see him but he's more devastated over why he was left alone. That's his main question in this scene. He doesn't outwardly ask why he's alone specifically, but asking MiM "why" just after he was looking so longingly at Jamie's family is clearly meant to insinuate that that is what he really wants. He may even be telling himself it's just to be seen because he's been alone for so long that he just wants the bare fucking minimum. That's why the end of Rotg is still satisfying despite leaving his new believers, because being seen was never truly the end goal, it was finding a family and he finally found that in the other Guardians.

He clearly believed that he couldn't be accepted by other spirits, so he looked to humans to find that connection and getting to be seen by them was just a first step towards that goal.

It's the same thing in Tangled (because I have encountered someone who thought Rapunzel was one-dimensional for just wanting to see lights 😮‍💨) Rapunzel sang and always told Gothel + Eugene that she just wanted to see the floating lights, but the moment she steps out of her tower she starts singing in exhilaration about how she can finally go running, dancing, jumping and splashing. She never even mentions the lights. It had nothing to really do with the lights, she just wanted to leave her tower and explore the world. Seeing the lanterns was just her externalized and internalized excuse because she wanted to feel less awful for going against her 'mother'. Her wanting to explore the world was then more blatantly explored in Tangled the Series.

Edit: Pitch even straight up mentions about longing for a family when trying to sympathize with Jack and it's that very line that makes Jack lower is guard. Not the line about not being believed in, longing for a family. Jack even looks super sympathetic for him.

After Pitch killed Sandy, after witnessing first hand the belief fading from all the kids around the world and being framed for Easter's failure, possibly ruining Jack's relationship with the Guardians, Jack still feels bad for Pitch in this moment. That's why Jack lets Pitch say his piece in this scene despite knowing that he was never going to join him (you can tell he was never buying into Pitch's words and Jack didn't hesitate to refuse). He was even willing to try and just walk away after refusing his offer rather than keep fighting. Because he understands that desperation of wanting to be loved by just being seen and/or heard.

That's part of what makes him such a good layered character: the fact that he always used mischief in an effort to try and be seen, similar to when kids act out to get their parents attention. It leads the other spirits to think that he's nothing more than a troublemaker (and even audience as well, the amount of mis-characterization I've seen people make of Jack, istg) when in reality he's actually a very respectful, emotional, sweet and even responsible person that does know when to stop being silly. Jack never played around when actual danger came around, the only time he did was a one quip to Sandy because he was nervous and in the final battle when he realized being funny takes away Pitch's control.

And even then it was brief, after the kids started turning the sand gold again, Jack went right back into serious battle mode.

Kinda shows how not really mischievous Jack truly is when it takes him so long to realize that being fun can weaken Pitch. Because he's not really a trickster, he doesn't even really pull many pranks, he's just playful. But he had been cranking that up to 11 for the past 300 years in an effort to be seen, he inadvertently kept deterring other spirits away, who may had already not liked him just for being an ice based spirit. After all, whenever Bunny wanted to take a stab at Jack it was either at his invisibility or for his ice. Granted that could just be because Bunny himself just doesn't like the cold or even strictly because Jack made that blizzard on Easter but then again, we never got to see that for ourselves. We don't know if Jack even did that on purpose or not.

Last note; I don't think any other spirits died to become spirits like Jack did. It's my personal headcanon that the reason Jack couldn't remember his past is because he's the only one who had actively died before MiM got the chance to turn him. Though for all we know there could be a few others who also forgot their pasts. If there are, Jack clearly never got the chance to ask.

The way this kinda diverged into a mini Jack Frost character analysis though 😅

[darkfluffydragon]

Cookie Run AU Ideas #8: Timeless Kingdom

what if Pure Vanilla Cookie, instead of being amnesiac outside with Black Raisin, was instead trapped in the Vanilla Castle time loop? But because of the Light of Truth, he's aware of it? he's been stuck there for...hundreds of years, watching his people die over and over again nothing ever changes no matter what he does and then finally, Gingerbrave shows up. I mean, PV may be nice but there are only so many times he can hear the same monologue before he gets reaaaally sick of it gonna join GC on the hate train and he physically isn't able to do anything "out of script". Every time he tries, he sort of 'loses control of his body', since it's a memory time loop you can't just change a memory and since he's a part of it, it'll force him to go along with it. To play his role. Gingerbrave and his friends probably wouldn't even realise he's not a memory at first, that the Pure Vanilla is the real one.

And an extra I wrote for the AU >:3

Pure Vanilla Cookie awoke with a start, his eyes snapping open to the familiar sight of his bed’s golden canopy. His head throbbed, and his mind felt muddled, a fog of pain and confusion clouding his thoughts. He struggled to sit up, the effort sending sharp jolts of agony through his body. As he gathered his bearings, fragments of memories began to resurface—the battle against Dark Enchantress Cookie, the ruins of his castle, and the faces of his friends, Golden Cheese Cookie, Dark Cacao Cookie, Hollyberry Cookie, and White Lily Cookie.

They had arrived to aid him, late, their expressions grim and determined. By then, he had already spent hours running through the chaos, trying desperately to heal his people. But no matter how hard he tried, the cake monsters kept coming, relentless and unyielding. He remembered the wounds they all bore. The exhaustion that clung to their bones as they fought to protect their home, their kingdom. With his magic reserves depleted, there had been a point where he had started reaching into the depths of his being, drawing upon his very essence—his life powder and soul to fuel his spells.

He remembered the final confrontation against her, he had used Dark Moon Magic, a power he had sworn never to touch. ~~The magic most natural to him.~~ The last time he had seen it wielded, it had led to the academy's destruction. But there had been no other choice. He had cast the banishment spell, lifting himself into the air as Dark Enchantress Cookie tore their Souljams, their very souls, from them. The explosion had ripped through the kingdom, the pain blinding and all-consuming. And then, nothing.

Now, here he was, awake once more. Why? How? As these questions swirled in his mind, he felt a strange sensation, as if invisible strings were tugging at his limbs. Panic surged through him as he realised he was moving against his will, his body tracing the exact path of his memories. He tried to speak, to cry out, but no sound escaped his lips.

“No! Run! Dark Enchantress is coming! Evacuate the cookies!” he screamed, his voice hoarse with desperation. But the words seemed to dissipate into the air, unheard and unheeded. The cookies outside moved about their routines, oblivious to the impending doom. Children played in the streets, vendors hawking their wares, and guards patrolled, all blissfully unaware of the threat looming over them.

The nightmare would unfold before him with horrifying clarity. His friends—the heroes—were nowhere to be seen. Instead, dark silhouettes had taken their place, shadowy figures that seemed to mock his efforts. Was it because of the Souljams? Could this memory not replicate them because of the artefacts which housed their power? 

The endless battle raged around him, the air thick with the stench of smoke and the cries of the wounded. Cake monsters swarmed the castle, their grotesque forms looming over the terrified cookies. Pure Vanilla’s attempts to heal his people felt like trying to stop a flood with a sieve. Every spell he cast seemed to evaporate into nothingness, swallowed by the overwhelming darkness.

The invisible strings tightened around him. It constricted his movements, squeezing his mind. His autonomy slipped further away with each passing moment. The fog in his mind grew denser, suffocating his thoughts.

He felt every wound, every drop of jam that spilled, every life that was lost. He could see the faces of his people contorted in terror and agony, and hear their screams echoing in his mind. His friends fought, their forms blurred by exhaustion and jam. Yet no matter how hard they fought, the cake monsters kept coming, an endless tide of destruction.

The sky would fill with magic circles, blue eyes of the runes staring down at the target as he used magic that he swore to never use, for the second time. He would see her malevolent grin, and feel the agony of the explosion that followed. 

And then, he was back in his bed, the cycle beginning anew. The loops continued, over and over, each one more harrowing than the last. As time stretched into eternity, Pure Vanilla Cookie felt his thoughts growing quieter. Centuries seemed to pass, each loop eroding a bit more of his will. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, and soon, he feared, he would no longer be able to think. In the moments of silence, his mind would turn to White Lily Cookie, the one he had loved so deeply. She had become Dark Enchantress Cookie, the architect of his suffering and the destroyer of his kingdom. Yet, despite everything, he still loved her.

The pain of that love was like rose thorns digging into his heart, a constant, aching reminder of what once was. He had loved her so dearly, had kept her transformation a secret from their friends, hoping against hope that she could be redeemed. But now, as he watched his beloved kingdom and its innocent people crumble time and time again, the anguish was almost too much to bear.

To love White Lily Cookie was to love a rose. To love her was to let the rose crawl up him, letting its hurtful thorns dig into his fragile dough. His jam would paint the delicate petals red, and once gone, wounds and scars would be left to taunt him of his foolish desire.

She had been gifted a bouquet of hearts, yet the only one his moon had taken was his own. She dangled the prize in front of him like a carrot on a stick, and he ran the race despite being the only competitor. She blindfolded him of the fact, and let Pure Vanilla run himself ragged until he could give no more. Then, she left. Left with everything that was Pure Vanilla, left him empty and hurting. Trapped. Left in all her gentle and loving glory, as her beautiful soul was tainted and twisted into the monster that had taken her place.

He did not care for the traitorous thoughts wondering if he was feeling the wrong feelings and thinking the wrong thoughts. He could not care, for he loved her nonetheless. Loved her poisonous, uncompleted promises. Loved her for the nights of waiting by the academy garden, gazing up at the sky, at clouds that would never part to allow him a glimpse of her smile. Loved her for the incomplete dances she swore she would return for, leaving him alone and abandoned in an empty ballroom. He loved her unconditionally. And for this, White Lily Cookie had become his greatest torment.

Each encounter felt like a knife twisting deeper into his heart. The sight of Dark Enchantress Cookie, her once gentle eyes now filled with malice, was a reminder of everything he had lost. She had been his moon, his guiding light, and he had loved her with a purity that he had thought unbreakable. But the darkness that had taken her was relentless, and it had shattered her, and him, beyond repair.

The White Lily Cookie he loved was gone, replaced by the Dark Enchantress Cookie who revelled in his suffering. She was the creator of his endless torment, the reason his kingdom lay in ruins, and his people were lost

What a fool he was.

Pure Vanilla Cookie, awoke in a bed not his own. His limbs were not strung by strings that cut into his dough, and his thoughts were…loud. Clarity such as this was so incredibly rare.

He took in the room, noting how the other cookies, the ones who had…saved him, were still asleep. Quietly, he slipped out of the room, his steps soft and deliberate, as if any sound might shatter this fragile moment of peace. The hallway was dimly lit, shadows playing along the walls. He moved with purpose, though his heart was heavy with the familiar ache of his memories.

Reaching the garden, he paused for a moment at the entrance, breathing in the cool night air. The scent of flowers and earth was a reminder of simpler times. He walked towards the patch of lily flowers, their white petals glowing softly under the moonlight. 

Sitting down among the lilies, he stared up at the moon, its pale light casting a gentle glow over the garden. The tranquillity of the night wrapped around him, and for a brief moment, he felt the weight of his sorrow lift.

His thoughts turned, as they always did, to White Lily Cookie. The moon reminded him of her—bright, beautiful, yet distant and untouchable. He remembered their nights in the academy garden, the way she would laugh and talk about the future with such hope. Those memories were bittersweet now, coloured by the centuries of pain.

The garden was silent except for the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. Pure Vanilla Cookie closed his eyes, letting the memories wash over him. He could almost hear her voice, see her smile. But then the image would shift, and he would see her as she was now—cold, dark, and filled with a malice that seemed impossible for someone who had once been so kind. He hated that he loved White Lily, a love that had once been pure and untainted. But he loathed Dark Enchantress to the point it hurt.

As the night wore on, Pure Vanilla sat alone. Though he could pretend that he was not, that there was another by his side. Perhaps…even four, all five of them together, underneath the starlit sky with the scent of campfire smoke in the air.  He did not know how long this clarity would last, how long before he would be pulled back into the muddy thoughts and fog. But for now, he rested in the peace of the garden, and the bittersweet memories of the one he loved.

Under the moonlight, surrounded by the lilies, he allowed himself to simply be. To remember, to grieve, and to love, even if it was only for a brief, stolen moment.

[idkanymark]

[Nothing can k*ll me like you do]

haechan x f!reader | jisung x f!reader | toxic relationships

INTRO: There are people who break you without ever laying a hand on you, people whose words and presence twist your heart until it bleeds, even when you try to run away. You were never supposed to go back, never supposed to fall for the same poison twice. But here you are, tangled in the same web, with no escape in sight.

Haechan was the first. The one who taught you that love can feel like a cage, no matter how sweet the promises. He pulled you in with a smile, and you thought you were strong enough to break free. You were wrong.

Then came Jisung, the calm after the storm. Or at least, that’s how he seemed—until the storm came back, and you couldn’t outrun it.

You promised yourself you wouldn’t fall again, but some promises were always meant to be broken. And now, you're struck between two men, both of whom have a hold on you jn ways you can’t explain.

Maybe it’s true what they say: nothing can kill me like you do.

warnings. toxic relationship, abus*d mentioned

Words count: 4.1k

Playlist:

Poison by Rita Ora

Back to you by Selena Gomez

Two years Rosé

-------------

<<I’m going to Japan for a while, you know what that means, right sweetheart?>>

His words were velvet laced with steel, soft but cutting. Sweetheart. The way he said it made your stomach churn—it was a nickname meant to tether you, not out of love, but control. He left. Of course, he left again.

He’s situationship!Haechan. The boy who couldn’t commit to you but refused to let you go. His hold on you was invisible but unshakable, like chains made of smoke. Every time he walked out, you told yourself it would be the last. And every time, you found yourself waiting for the sound of his footsteps coming back.

He had too many things to do—things infinitely more important than you. You were the only thing he could throw away, the only thing in his life without permanence. You were the disposable piece in his perfectly chaotic puzzle, the one thing that could be picked up and put down without consequence. You should’ve known better by now. You don’t even understand why it still caught you off guard, why the ache in your chest always felt new.

You felt alone. You always felt alone.

But somehow, you couldn’t stay away from him. It didn’t matter how much it hurt when he left or how hollow his affection felt when he was near. You always went back. Because he was the first person you ever loved.

Love.

Who knows if he even understood what love truly meant? Every time he said the words—I love you—you wanted so badly to believe them. For two years, you clung to those words like a lifeline, even when they felt like poison, pouring from his mouth and seeping into your veins.

Sweet poison. The kind that numbed the pain just enough to keep you craving more. You held onto those words, even as they left scars you couldn’t hide—a sweet, addictive toxin that took root in your heart and made you crave him, even when you knew he was no good for you.

Poison. That’s what his love was.

You hated yourself for it, for being so weak, for letting him have this much power over you. But no matter how far you tried to run from him—physically, emotionally—you always found your way back. He was a magnet, pulling you into his orbit no matter how much it hurt to stay there.

And yet, here you were. Waiting.

The tears blurred your vision, but you didn’t let them fall. Crying wouldn’t change anything; it never did.

You knew he’d come back. He always did. But not because he cared—not the way you wanted him to. He’d come back because he needed something from you. Comfort. Validation. A break from the chaos of his life.

And you’d give it to him, wouldn’t you?

Because, deep down, you still loved him.

He wasn’t your safe place—he was the fire you couldn’t stop running into, the storm you willingly stood in. You loved him with a desperation that bordered on self-destruction. And he knew it.

Haechan always knew how to keep you tethered, dangling just close enough to feel wanted but never enough to feel whole. He fed you scraps of affection, just enough to keep you addicted. You told yourself it wasn’t love—that love couldn’t possibly hurt this much—but it was the only word you knew to describe what you felt.

And maybe that’s why you let him leave so easily every time. Because deep down, you knew he’d come back. He couldn’t stay away, just like you couldn’t let him go.

It was a vicious cycle. One neither of you knew how to break.

<<Fuck>>

You muttered under your breath, glaring at the vending machine as it refused to cooperate. Of all days, it had to choose today to malfunction—the one day you desperately needed your banana milk fix to soothe the chaos in your mind.

The machine beeped mockingly, but no drink emerged. You hit the side of it lightly, more out of frustration than hope.

<<Here, I bought extras. You can have one.>>

Startled, you turned to see a boy holding out a bottle of banana milk. He looked a little shy, his eyes warm and gentle, like the kind of guy who’d lend a hand without a second thought. He was tall, with soft features that made him seem approachable, almost boyish.

<<Oh, uhm, thanks.>>

Normally, you wouldn’t take a random offering from a stranger. But today wasn’t normal. Today was heavy, suffocating—the day Haechan was leaving. The thought churned in your stomach, adding to the weight pressing on your chest. Against your better judgment, you reached out and took the bottle.

<<Can I ask for your name?>> he asked hesitantly, almost like he wasn’t sure he should. His voice was soft, unassuming.

<<Y/N. Third year of business>> you replied, still holding the bottle, unsure why you hadn’t walked away yet.

His lips curled into a small, nervous smile. <<Nice to meet you, Y/N. I’m Park Jisung. I’m in my second year of business >>

You nodded, offering a faint, polite smile in return. The exchange felt oddly significant, though you couldn’t explain why. Maybe it was because someone, even a stranger, had cared enough to notice you on a day when you felt invisible—when your mind was consumed with the thought of Haechan’s departure.

If someone had told you in that moment that Park Jisung would become a part of your life, you would’ve laughed it off. And if they’d told you that this seemingly kind boy would lead you into a relationship even more toxic than the one you were trying to escape, you wouldn’t have believed them.

But life has a funny way of surprising you—twisting kindness into something cruel, turning strangers into bittersweet memories.

You didn’t know it yet, but meeting Jisung was just the beginning of a new kind of chaos, a storm that would take you in its grip before you even realized you were caught.

For now, though, all you saw was a quiet boy offering you a simple act of kindness. And for a fleeting moment, you let yourself think it meant something more.

---

Months had passed, and your relationship with Jisung was... different. Amazing, even. He was the sweetest guy you had ever been with, and he treated you like you desperately wanted to be treated. For once, you felt seen—truly seen. In his eyes, you were more than just someone to keep around when it was convenient. You were his girlfriend. And despite how new this whole "girlfriend" situation was to you, Jisung was patient. He understood the struggle you faced in unlearning toxic patterns and figuring out what it meant to be loved in a healthy way. He taught you, slowly but surely, that love could be soft, steady, and unconditional.

The first time you met his friends, the "Dreamies", you were a little hesitant. You had always been so focused on your own little world—Haechan's world—that you didn't really care about anyone else. But Jisung made you feel welcome. His friends were fun, quirky, and much more laid-back than you expected. They were popular on campus, but they didn’t care about that; they were just a close-knit group, full of laughter and inside jokes. You didn’t know much about them at first, but as you got to know them, you realized how genuine and kind they all were, each one different from the people you’d once surrounded yourself with.

The best part was that Jisung made you feel like you belonged. He was always there, offering you support in ways you didn’t even know you needed. Whether it was a simple touch on your back when you were stressed or a shared quiet moment on the couch, he made you feel like you were finally safe. The cage you had been living in, built by your past with Haechan, was slowly breaking apart, piece by piece.

But deep down, you knew it wouldn’t last forever. Haechan always came back.

And when he did, it was just as chaotic as you had imagined.

You were walking toward Jisung, your thoughts occupied with the quiet comfort he always provided. The warmth of his presence, the ease with which he made you feel safe—everything about him was different from the chaos you had known with Haechan.

It started with a voice. A familiar one that made you freeze in your tracks. That voice, sharp and mocking, sliced through the air like a knife.

<<So you get behind my back as a revenge, sweetheart?>>

You froze in your tracks. Your heart skipped, and your breath caught in your throat. There he was. Haechan.

You hadn’t seen him in months, but the moment he spoke, it was as though time had rewound. All the walls you’d carefully built around your heart started to crumble. You didn’t even want to turn around, but your body betrayed you, forcing you to meet his gaze.

You tried to walk past him, to keep going toward Jisung, but Haechan’s presence was a force you couldn’t easily ignore. His eyes—dark, possessive, as always—locked onto you. You felt them like a weight, pressing down, pulling at your resolve.

Haechan wasn’t good at letting go. You knew that. It had always been this way with him—he’d leave, then return, as if you were something he could come back to when it suited him. And, despite everything, you knew it was only a matter of time before he came back to claim what he thought was his.

But this time, you weren’t the same person. Or, at least, you weren’t supposed to be.

You tried to ignore him but he stopped you, grabbing your wrist with a grip that felt like it could break you.

<<You really decided to choose the easiest target in my friend group?>> Haechan’s voice was cold, sharp. His eyes flicked to Jisung, who was sitting nearby. You could feel the resentment rolling off of him as he looked at your boyfriend. Haechan didn’t like seeing you with someone else. And he sure as hell didn’t like seeing you move on.

<<Haechan, please... let go of me>> you whispered, trying to gently pull away, but his grip was unyielding.

That’s when Jisung’s calm voice reached you, clear and firm.

<<Is there a problem?>>

The moment Jisung spoke, the air shifted. Haechan’s gaze snapped over to him, his expression hardening. There was a brief, tense silence before Haechan finally let go, though not without giving you one last, lingering look. It was the same look you’d seen so many times before—the look that had once pulled you back, the look full of promises, both spoken and unspoken.

You could feel your heart race, the tightness in your chest from the weight of that look. But you didn’t let it consume you. Instead, you moved closer to Jisung, letting your fingers brush against his. The simple contact grounded you, reminded you that this was your choice now.

<<No, baby>> you whispered, glancing up at Jisung. The warmth in his eyes made you feel safe, secure. He didn’t have to say anything for you to know he was here to protect you, to keep you safe from the past that was still trying to pull you back in.

Haechan scoffed, his voice dripping with bitterness. <<He’s your boyfriend, but you’re still the same, Y/N. You always will be>>

Jisung didn’t flinch. His gaze never left you. He didn’t even spare Haechan a second glance. His attention was completely on you—on the subtle way you tensed in his presence, on the slight tremble in your hand as you reached out for his. He could see it. He could see the way Haechan still had a hold on you, how you were still torn between two worlds.

His hand moved to the small of your back, a soft but firm gesture, as though silently reminding you that you were safe with him—that you didn’t have to go back to what was broken.

But you knew the truth. This wasn’t just about a confrontation between two people. It was about the scars Haechan had left, the damage that still lingered in your chest. And the more you stood there with Jisung by your side, the more you realized that the past had to stay there, in the past, where it belonged.

You weren’t that person anymore. You wouldn’t let him pull you back in.

As Jisung stood next to you, calm but with a tension in his body that mirrored your own, you could feel the weight of Haechan’s gaze on you, still trying to pull you into his web. But you refused. This time, you wouldn’t let him have that power over you.

Jisung, though, knew. He understood that Haechan wasn’t just someone from your past—he was a shadow that threatened to swallow your future if you weren’t careful. And for the first time, Jisung wasn’t just concerned with losing you to someone else. He was afraid that you might lose yourself to the past, to a version of you that was twisted by love and manipulation.

He could see the way you glanced back toward Haechan, the tension that still gripped your shoulders. But Jisung wasn’t going to let you slip away.

And as the moments stretched out, the realization began to settle in. Haechan wasn’t just a man from your past—he was the past you needed to let go of, if you wanted any chance at healing. Jisung—your present—was the one who could help you rebuild. Even if it meant fighting against everything that had torn you down before.

Or at least, Jisung thought he was your person, he desperately wanted to be your person.

----

From that day on, it was a constant back-and-forth between the three of you. Haechan always found a way to come back, to reclaim what he thought was his, pulling you back into his web like the pied piper leading you toward destruction. And Jisung, who once seemed like the sweetest guy next door, slowly began to change. You knew, deep down, it was your fault.

The way you kept going back to Haechan, even after you promised yourself—and Jisung—that you wouldn’t, creating cracks in the foundation of whatever you and Jisung had built. At first, he was understanding, and patient. He listened when you cried, waited when you pulled away, and forgave when you stumbled. But even the kindest hearts have limits.

Jisung began to harden. His quiet warmth turned cold, his gentle touches grew tense, and the boy who once gave you banana milk with a shy smile now gave you silence laced with resentment. The cracks became fissures, and soon enough, he wasn’t the same boy you’d met that day by the vending machine.

It all came to a head the day Jisung decided to marry you.

He thought that maybe, just maybe, a ring on your finger would make you stop running back to Haechan. That it would anchor you to him, tie you to a promise you couldn’t break. He wanted to believe that he was enough to make you stay.

But it didn’t, it only made things worse. The weight of his expectations, his growing frustration, and your inability to let go of Haechan created a storm neither of you could escape. The once-soft love he offered became sharp, laced with bitterness and possessiveness. He didn’t trust you anymore, and you didn’t blame him.

You tried to love him the way he deserved, but your heart was fractured, pieces of it still caught in Haechan’s grasp. And every time you faltered, Jisung sank deeper into the toxicity that had become your relationship.

<<Do you really want to marry him?>> Haechan’s voice echoed in your mind, cutting through the haze of your thoughts.

<<Haechan, please... I can’t do this anymore>> You couldn’t stop the tears from falling, even though you knew better than to cry in front of him.

<<So, to get over me, you want to marry him?>> He said it like he didn’t understand, but you knew better. He knew exactly how this would play out. He always did. He reached out, fingers threading through your hair with a tenderness that felt too familiar.

<<I would do anything and everything to get over you>> you whispered, your voice breaking as the weight of your own words hit you.

<<Oh, sweetheart>> Haechan’s voice softened with a mocking sadness. <<You need someone twisted to keep you. Otherwise, you'll run away>>

And he was right.

Jisung had begun to change in ways you hadn’t expected. He saw the way you still let Haechan worm his way into your heart. He saw you pulling away from him, always reaching for someone who didn’t want you the same way he did. So Jisung did the only thing he knew—he twisted himself.

You turned the nicest guy into the most toxic one. He started to become possessive, and distant. His eyes, once soft and full of warmth, began to harden. His affection turned into control, his care became an obsession. The jealousy that simmered in his chest boiled over, turning him into someone you barely recognized. It started slowly, with small comments, things that made you feel suffocated.

But soon, it wasn’t just the words. It was his actions. The way he gripped your wrist too tightly when you tried to walk away, the way he would get angry when you spoke to anyone else, even a passing acquaintance, the way his fingers tightened when you reached for your phone. The kindness that had once radiated from him was replaced with a jealousy that had festered too long. It wasn’t just in the way he looked at you anymore, but in the way he treated you—rough, sharp, demanding.

In bed or out of it, Jisung wasn’t the same boy who had once shyly offered you a drink. He was someone darker, more dangerous, someone who wanted control over every inch of you. Every time you tried to pull away, he pulled you back harder. Every time you tried to breathe, he smothered you with his need to possess you.

And yet, somehow, you stayed.

The ring hadn’t fixed anything. If anything, it made it worse. The more Jisung tried to tether you to him, the more you realized that the chains you’d placed on your heart were only growing tighter. You couldn’t escape. And you didn’t want to. Not really.

The cycle of toxicity had been set in motion the moment you let Haechan go and let Jisung in. But it wasn’t really about Jisung or Haechan anymore. It was about you. The choices you made, the heart you couldn’t let go of. You couldn’t fix them, and they couldn’t fix you.

And now, the pieces were shattered beyond repair.

-----

-----

[IN CASE YOU WANT A DIFFERENT ENDING:

The night before the wedding.

You stood in front of the mirror, staring at the reflection of the woman who had been torn apart by promises and lies. The wedding dress hung in front of you, a symbol of everything you thought you wanted, everything you thought would fix what had been broken. But in your heart, you knew nothing could fix this.

Not the wedding. Not the baby. Not Jisung’s unyielding belief that he was the father, or Haechan’s constant reminders that you were his. They had both clawed their way into your life, suffocating you with their demands, with their manipulations, until you couldn’t breathe without feeling guilty, without feeling like you were trapped between two worlds.

You had promised yourself you'd break free. But every time you tried, you ended up right back where you started—tangled in their webs, suffocating under the weight of their expectations. And now, with a baby growing inside you, everything was more complicated. You didn't even know who the father was, but both Jisung and Haechan had claimed it as their own, their constant pestering and demands driving you even further into a cage of their making.

Jisung’s patience had worn thin. He was convinced, as always, that marrying him would fix everything, that you would be his anchor, that you would finally be the person he always wanted you to be. He didn't care that you were fractured, broken in ways he couldn't understand. He just wanted the life he had imagined, the life where everything was perfect, where you were perfect.

And Haechan—he never stopped. His presence, his possessiveness, his constant belief that you were his, that you belonged to him, had wrapped around you like a vine, pulling you back every time you tried to escape. The way he always knew exactly what to say to make you question yourself, to make you second-guess the path you were on. The way he would remind you that you would never be free from him, no matter how hard you tried.

But tonight, in the silence of your room, as you stared at your reflection, you realized something: you had been living in their shadows for too long. You had let them decide your worth. You had let them determine your happiness. You had let them shape your future, and now, you couldn’t even remember who you were before they found you.

Jisung still believed it was his child. Haechan still believed it was his. And you? You didn’t even know. You didn’t know who the father was, but you knew this life wasn’t yours anymore. You couldn’t keep pretending that everything was fine. You couldn’t keep pretending that this marriage, this baby, this life was what you had wanted.

A knock at the door.

You knew it was Jisung. He’d been waiting for you, just outside, desperate for you to come to him. But you couldn’t. Not like this. Not anymore.

With a shaky breath, you grabbed your phone and texted him: I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry.

The tears you’d been holding back finally spilled over as you stood up and grabbed your bag. The weight of the life you had built with Jisung—now a lie—pressed down on you. The weight of the past with Haechan, now tangled into your every decision, made your chest feel like it was caving in. You had let them both control your life, and now you needed to break free.

You called an Uber, as your heart pounded in your chest. You didn’t know where you were going. You didn’t know if you’d ever be able to piece your life back together. But you knew this was the only choice left.

As the car pulled away from the apartment, you stared out the window, your heart aching. You couldn’t fix everything. You couldn’t undo the damage that had been done. But you could leave. You could finally choose yourself.

The baby inside you was a constant reminder of the mess you had made, but it wasn’t going to be your cage anymore. You didn’t know who the father was, and maybe it didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was that you were choosing your freedom, your future, even if it was terrifying, even if you didn’t have all the answers.

When the car stopped, you paid the driver and stepped out onto the unfamiliar street. The world felt too big, too overwhelming, but for the first time in years, you felt a sliver of peace.

You weren’t sure what the future held. You weren’t sure how everything would turn out. But for once, you were free.

And that was all you needed.

[djloveyou3000]

Gif by : @russadlers plus a big thank you for @ladysouthpaw1213 for the title name and giving me the motivation to make it a series

Belladonna

Chapter one

After Bell survived the Solovetsky incident and was spared from the execution everyone thought inevitable, their life should have gone back to normal—or as normal as possible for someone recovering from months of mind control. But “normal” wasn’t in the cards. Not when Russell Adler was involved.

At first, Adler’s sudden interest in Bell’s life seemed logical, even caring. He pushed for debriefings, encouraged them to dig into their memories, and reassured them it was all for their recovery. Yet, beneath his composed demeanor, there was something possessive—something far more personal.

He wasn’t just a handler anymore; he was obsessed.

Adler demanded to know everything. Bell’s real name, their age, what they remembered of their past, their connection to Perseus—all of it. Every sliver of memory had to be shared with him first. If Bell mentioned something casually in front of the others, Adler’s sharp gaze would cut through the room. “That’s something you tell me. Not them.” His voice left no room for argument.

At first, Bell complied, assuming it was part of the deprogramming process. But it wasn’t long before Adler’s behavior grew suffocating. Any attempt Bell made to keep something private—to process a memory on their own—was met with frustration or quiet, simmering anger.

“You don’t get to keep things from me,” Adler said one night, voice low and dangerously calm. “I pulled you out of that hell. I pieced you back together. You’re mine, Bell. Your memories, your past—it all belongs to me.”

Bell stared at him, stunned. This wasn’t the man they remembered before the mission. Or maybe it was, and they were only now seeing the cracks.

“You didn’t ‘make’ me, Adler,” Bell said, their voice steady despite the unease creeping into their chest. “I’m not a puzzle you get to put together however you like.”

But Adler’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, his grip tightened—not physically, but emotionally, as if wrapping invisible chains around them. He didn’t want to hurt Bell; he wanted to consume them, to own every part of them, because the thought of anyone else—anyone—knowing Bell the way he did was unbearable.

And Bell? They were starting to wonder if breaking free of Perseus was only the beginning of their fight for autonomy.

[grasshopperdoingdogpaddle]

How would you rank the characters living under Jack's reign in the bad future from who's having the "best" time vs who's having the worst? (excluding Jack himself obv he's having a good time lol)

6-Hannibal Roy Bean

Being stuck in this undersized, undignified cage and blown up to a size where you can't even move, and labeled as "The Musical Fruit" are all humiliating.

But Hannibal's been locked up for centuries before, so this is hardly going to break his spirit, especially Jack is mortal and getting very old, so it feels like the immortals in the dungeon have this mindset that they can sort of just wait it out.

Granted, Hannibal does look weirdly mishappen and... mushy? So I wonder what exactly Jack has done to his body to make him end up like this.

With how distended and full his lower body looks now, and with the suspicious absence of Hannibal's only companion, I sort of suspect that Jack somehow forcefed Ying-Ying to Hannibal...? But even if that's not the case, the absence of Ying-Ying is another form of torture for him, since that's the only other being who he truly likes.

5-Master Fung

Master Fung is as skilled and untouchable as ever. Moreso in fact, because he seems like he doesn't really get winded by battles anymore. His mind may have dulled somewhat, but his physical form and skill has sharpened with age during the time skip.

The gladiator shows they're forced to put on are miserable for everyone, but none of Jack's bots are able to even scratch Master Fung, and he beats them without a sweat.

He has an easier time against Jack's lion-bots than he did against the real jungle cats, who he also handily beat.

And Master Fung's confusion and memory problems seem to stave off despair, at least. Though he's still having an awful time here.

4-Wuya

Hers is mostly another humiliation thing, but unlike Hannibal's, Wuya's also has this visceral, creepy factor to it. Jack apparently forcibly changed her clothes and did up her hair in accordance to his own taste for cheerleaders, complete with pigtails and his initial.

In addition to that, she's also suspended over a pit of boiled lava. The rising heat from that is probably the physical torture, along with just how uncomfortable the chains are.

But the worst part for Wuya is probably that Jack has somehow stolen the powers that were sealed away from her and is in control of her stone golems now, to add insult to injury. That probably stings more than any aspect of this setup.

3-Le Mime

Also in this gladiatorial thing, but Le Mime's never really been shown to be able to fight and he can't even take a hit from his own scrawny arm. And since he's just cowering here, the lion bots apparently have some way of getting past his Miming, so he can't protect himself behind his invisible walls.

He's got nothing he can do but weather the humiliations and pain of these losing battles.

2- Chase Young

His torture devices is definitely the most intricate.

Water drop torture, stripped of his clothes (including his underwear because those boxers notably aren't Chase's), suspended in this metal contraption with a paintbrush spreading something over his abdomen.

Chase's is also the only torture device that is surrounded by bloodstains.

And he's in a dungeon with Wuya and Hannibal, the people who he'd least want to be trapped with. None of them are gagged, so they both could at least take as many pot-shots at Chase as they wanted to. Those two are better at getting under Chase skin than anyone else, and even though Chase probably shot insults back, it was 2-against-1 there.

And the first and only line we get from Chase implies that he's been on the edge of hope waiting to see Omi again after all this time with no word on his fate. Despite everything that's been happening, Omi's still been on his mind this whole time with no answers for 80 years.

So he had quite a bit of both physical and psychological torture to deal with.

1-The Monks

They have frequent gladiatorial matches and an awful living situation. Old age has definitely slowed them down, so their matches probably don't end without injury like Master Fung's do.

And they still never found out what happened to Omi and Dojo, after all this time. They're all mentally beating themselves up over that, and over the state of the world. They're crushed by this feeling that they've failed in their duty towards it, and they don't know if their friends are dead or alive.

And the end, minutes after they find their first spark of hope in decades, where they're all brutally murdered. They're extremely painful deaths, too. Clay is shot by lasers, Raimundo is crushed, Kimiko is pulled apart limb-from-limb.

Taking that into consideration definitely makes them number one on this list. Can't have a much worse time than that.

Honorable Mention: Omi

He was only there for a little bit, so I can't really rank him anywhere on the list. But watching all his friends be brutally murdered in front of him certainly left an impression.

And Omi's the only one who will have any impression of all this at all. Whether you think the space-time merging of the alternate timeline left ripples of memories in the others or not, this is just a bad future of the main timeline, so no one's actually experienced it. Omi's the only one who'll remember this nightmare. It's seared into his memory for good.

[kaurwreck]

Rather than catastrophizing instances when Dazai isn't mentioned by name or physical presence in references to the Agency, consider:

that he fluidly moves between, shares unique and independent connections with, and influences each of the three pillars of the tripartite framework;

that when he isn't physically there, the others still feel his presence and are guided by his influence on them, strategies that he's relayed to them, and their trust in him; and

that the Agency as it is when they've reunited in Poe's book or in Fukuzawa's memory are together because of Dazai, as in he literally, in-text coordinates with Ango and Ranpo in regards to the former and he also recruited multiple members of the Agency, having brought in Atsushi and coached Kyouka through her entrance exam, in regards to the latter. I didn't even notice he wasn't there at first because I saw his shape in the shadows of the silhouettes of those who were.

That Dazai is there even when he isn't is an ongoing motif: Mori maintains Dazai's seat among the five executives; Chuuya enters Corruption despite Dazai's apparent death in Dead Apple; Chuuya, in part, resists Verlaine's nihilism because it reminded Chuuya of Dazai's, and even though Dazai was late in finding him, Chuuya wasn't in any danger of being lost with Dazai already so palpably there; Akutagawa understanda Kyouka has found her reason for living because it echoes what Dazai gave him through the Port Mafia, with Dazai appearing only as an impression and in implication; Ango explicitly defies Taneda's orders and his hierarchal obligations to the Special Division because he trusts Dazai enough to follow Dazai's heart on the matter (literally and figuratively); Atsushi visualizes Dazai when he's alone and paralyzed by internal conflict and when he does, the others appear around him too; while imprisoned, Kyouka was so alone there wasn't even anyone captaining the drone she was in until Dazai's voice cut through her isolation to relate to her and coach her through her entrance exam; etc., etc.

It's why Fyodor can't outmaneuver Dazai. Dazai tells Fyodor that Fyodor failed because Dazai had allies and Fyodor didn't. The guards physically present in Meursault with them were under Fyodor's control, while Dazai had no one in the prison with him except for a fellow inmate he could not access or speak to directly. Everyone Dazai relied on, he relied on without being able to see or hear or touch them, while physically surrounded by the presence of Fyodor's vampires.

But it didn't matter because Dazai's bonds aren't so weak that he needs to see them to know they're there, nor are they limited by organizational affiliation. The truth of the matter was that Fyodor had no one, and Dazai was surrounded by his people in substance if not in form— meaning only Fyodor tried to play chess in a game of Go.

Dazai does not have to be physically there to be present, anymore than the others have to be with him in Meursault for him to see them and rely on them and know they are supporting him as much as he's supporting them. Dazai's home and place of belonging also isn't limited to the Agency; he's theirs, but they share him with the Port Mafia and the Special Division.

He's like Natsume in that way, and like Natsume, he's uniquely capable of weaving between the tripartite framework's three pillars to remind them of and coordinate their efforts towards their shared goal of protecting Yokohama.

Thus, if you want to know where he is in a scene, sometimes you have to look for him in the connective tissue rather than the organ. Or, in more literary terms, what is essential is invisible to the eye.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - In a Jam - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

When the bond goes from sweet to septic...

tw: possessive behavior, control issues, parental abuse.

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

"Wow," Jinx drawled, "you really got yourself into a jam, Silly. Question is: is it strawberry with extra goop, or raspberry with extra seeds? Both'll give ya the squirts."

"Trust you to think with your bowels, Jinx."

Silco stood by the bay window, backlit by the smoldering neon cityscape. He wore his grimmest expression: all crags and canyons, and a furrowed brow so deeply grooved it'd be fit to sow seeds. It was the forbidding shell he retreated into whenever the stress levels skyrocketed and a bloodbath loomed on the horizon. 

Jinx had seen the look, more and more, as her body healed and the city fell to ruin. Conversely, she found it reassuring.  Silco was no Prince Valiant, even at his most mellow. And he needed to project menace to the masses, so they wouldn't drag his guts out through his nostrils. But the menace was by no means skin deep.  It went down to his marrow: that fiendish focus that kept him honed utterly on his target.

And when you knew him the way Jinx knew him, you knew he'd never miss.

The cicatrix between her ribs twinged.

It was a reminder: Silco had split her open to carve a path of repossession through her ribcage. He'd do it again without a second thought. He'd do whatever it took to put her back together again, like the rest of Zaun. 

And his hands were still red and dripping.

It should've unsettled Jinx. But she couldn't dredge the feelings up. They were buried too deep: the kind of place you didn't go digging unless you wanted the ground to split beneath you, and send you plunging straight to hell.

So she shrugged.

"C'mon, Silly! It's just a joke."

She flopped back into bed. Her muscles, like overcooked noodles, couldn't endure more than the day's physical therapy before they sang the body brownout. She was bored of her bedroom; bored of being weak; and so terribly bored of being bored that she'd rather take a chance on an Enforcer's bayonet, than sit out the fray for a moment longer.

Silco, reading her mind, turned to face her.

"You will not set foot out there," he said. "You will stay here. Is that understood?"

"But—"

"Is that understood?"

A direct command.

Jinx hated direct commands. They were an insult to her intellect. She wasn't a diligent little droid, like Sevika. She was Jinx, dammit! Jinx did as she damn well pleased. It wasn't her style to stay cooped up in the suite, stewing, when the rest of her world was aflame. It especially wasn't her style to obey, if Silco took a tone with her. It meant he was trying to tell her something that his ego couldn't spit out on its own.

Him and his ego. Jinx could practically see the whole of Zaun balanced precariously on its lofty peak.

But she knew him well enough to know what sat underneath: a plea.

Jinx sighed, and propped herself up against the pillows.

"I can help," she argued. "If I keep to the shadows, nobody'll notice—"

"It's a risk I won't take."

"C'mon, Silly! The city needs to see me! I'm the Postergirl of the Revolution. I'm the face of your cause. I'm—"

"Not ready."

A chill descended. Deja vu, like gooseflesh, pricked down her spine. She remembered Vi saying that, the night she left the first time. The night that started it all, so Vi left-right-left every night thereafter.

A reminder that Jinx would never be ready; she was the unfinished girl. The screw-up; the screw-loose. And not even death could complete her. All it did was spit her out, unfinished as ever.

Imperfect.

The cicatrix twinged, again, like an invisible fishhook tugging on her rib.

"Is it—because of what I did?" Jinx asked. "Because I messed up? Are you punishing me?"

The room's emotional acoustic was a minefield of echoes. Silco, usually quicksilver, seemed frozen in place.

"Jinx—"

"Because—if you are,  you should just say it! I'll take my lumps like a grownup. Just—please!—don't lock me up. I know—the mess we're in is my fault. I know me and Vik fu—fudged things up. But he's out there doing his part to set it right! Why not me? I can help too. You just have to let me try!"

She didn't want to beg.  Begging made you small. Like a little girl needing attention. Jinx was neither of those things. Need was Vi's MO. The need to save everyone, the need to fight unbeatable odds and chase unwinnable dreams.

The need to run and run and never, ever stop running.

Silco stayed.

His silhouette shifted in the gloom. One of the overhead lamps flickered. It'd been doing that for days: the city grid was on the fritz. The faulty filament flared, then faded. The room's shadows, so sharp, receded like fangs back into the gums.

In their place, Silco's real expression emerged. The cragged exterior had sloughed away, leaving something soft and sad behind.

"Oh, child," he murmured. "You don't understand."

He took the armchair at her bedside. Didn't touch her, but leaned in, the better for her to see him, if her eyes weren't so damn blurry.

"I have not locked you up," he said. "But I need you out of harm's way. For good reason, Jinx. You were not at death's door. You were six feet under it, and heading straight to hell. Viktor's intervention saved you, yes. But to what end? To put you in the crosshairs of the bastards who'd see you dead?"

 Jinx knuckled her eyes with a fist. The blur became a burn.

"It's not so simple," she insisted, because there was a point to be made here, if only she could articulate it. "If you're gonna stand against those baddies, you'll need my help! They'll keep coming, and they don't stop coming, and—well. You know the song."

Silco smiled grimly.

"I do, Jinx. But if you want me to play to the chorus, I'm afraid you've picked the wrong partner."

"I thought that's what we were," she sniffled. "Partners."

He shook his head.

"A partnership implies equals. You're not my equal, Jinx. You're my better. You always have been. But if I am to be anything of value in return—then you have to let me do what's best. You have to trust me."

The fishhook between her ribs twisted.

Jinx's throat was tight, eyes wet.

"Okay," she said, very quietly. "Okay."

 He didn't relax. But the tension ebbed by degrees, a seismic undertow.

"Thank you."

Reaching out, he tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The fingertips lingered on her cheek, cold on hot. Jinx, shivering, melted into the touch.

Somehow, in the interceding days, he'd scaled back on the little rituals of affection. The ones that were nearly second nature. The hug hello, the forehead kiss goodnight, the absent shoulder-squeeze: they were all in abeyance, and had been since The Change.

At first, she'd been too discombobulated to notice. She was still coming to grips with her own body; with the metal on her hand; with the magic in her mind; with the emotions divvied between herself and Viktor.

Between the old Jinx, and the new. 

She couldn't handle the additional stimulus. And she'd been too overwhelmed, too out of it, to pinpoint the missing element.

Until now.

She missed his touch, cold though it was.

Not the hugs; or the kisses. Those were nice. But they were part and parcel of fatherhood, and Silco wore it with the same gravity as his killer's cowl, the mantle draped darkly over him like it was born there. They were part of the duty he'd charged himself with, the night he'd found that lost little girl, then taken her home and renamed her after his own black heart.

They were his, and he gave them freely.

 Now there was a rationing.

On cue, his hand began to retreat. Impulsively, Jinx caught it in both her own.

"If," she said, and there was a quaver in her voice she couldn't repress, "If you're gonna make me sit on the sidelines, then at least lemme help in other ways."

"What way?"

"Viktor's got his hands full with the disaster in the Deadlands. I wanna be useful too. I wanna—fix things." She squeezed his hand. "I'll go through my schematics in the Aerie. The stuff that didn't make the cut for the Expo. Old models for air-scrubbers. Moisture meters for water levels. Structural drying systems. Maybe even something that purifies the air, if I can make the numbers work." She bit her lip, hard enough to sting. "I will make the numbers work. I swear!"

His hand turned beneath hers. Their fingers twined. They didn't fit perfectly any longer: her augmented metal, his flesh and bone. But they fit the way she and Silco always had. The broken gaps filled with love; the jagged edges polished killingly sharp by rage.

"You'll fix this?" he asked, and for all his gravitas, he was a man on tenterhooks. "For Zaun?"

She nodded. Big firm up-and-down. "And for you."

Silco's face remained shadowed by doubt. But a soft pride lit his mismatched eyes from within. His thumb brushed across her knuckles. It snagged, gently, on the metal joints.

"All right," he said.

A hot-pink arrow smote Jinx's heart. The feeling of coming back from a place of death. Before she could lose her nerve, she asked him the question she'd been holding back since the day she awoke in the suite.

"Silco?"

"Yes?"

"Where—where's Gemmie?"

The Hex-gem hadn't been in her bedroom. Or anywhere in the penthouse. She knew, because she'd searched. Because she'd feel it, same way she felt, like a prickle of warmth at her hairline, whenever sunlight steeped the Fissure noon. She knew it wasn't lost, because she could still sense its presence in Zaun, the same way she knew the exact time on a sunless day: a pulsing node of light in the dark. 

A ghostly pain; her own.

Silco's features shifted. He didn't respond, which was a response in and of itself.  As was the way he began, very carefully, to extract his hand. 

Jinx tightened her hold. But he'd withdrawn, the shell back in place. The tenderness was gone.

He stood.

"The Hex-gem," he said, "is in a secure location. Where it will not fall into the wrong hands. Or do further damage. To Zaun—or to yourself."

Jinx's breath jittered. The fishhook between her ribs, yanked sharply, messily loose.

"Where's Gemmie!?" she cried, tears leaping into her eyes. "I want her back!"

"Jinx," he said. "No."

It wasn't the father's patient refusal. Or the kingpin's measured warning.

This was a stranger's voice.

The man she'd first seen in the burning alleyway. His face, all sharp lines licked in flames, a knife hidden behind his back and shadows slinking behind his eyes.

It was a voice that brooked no disobedience; a voice that meant death to all who crossed him.

It was a voice Jinx loathed, instinctively. Loathed it so much she wanted to sink her teeth into his throat, and rip it out, and spray bloodsplatter across the room.

But she'd been weak too long. Relied on him too much. Let the fear of loss and loneliness become her shadow, following her, step-for-step, everywhere she went.

She couldn't hate him. Not yet. It'd take all the will she possessed.

So she did what came naturally.

She burst into tears.

It was an ugly cry: terrible, bestial, high-pitched wails. She couldn't help it. The reaction was visceral. The pain of separation from her other self; lurking in her peripheral for weeks, was now a searing throb in her temples. But the sight of him—so implacable, so immovable, a monster in all the ways that mattered—is what shocked her into shrieking, agonized wakefulness.

"You can't! She's mine! She's me! You can't take her away!"

Silco, flint-faced, made no reply.

"Why?!" She beat the pillow, then hurled it across the room. It was an inadequate substitute. She needed to break, maim, destroy. Else her grief would rip out through the seam her sutures had sealed shut. The split he'd made himself, that terrible night when she'd burst, and everything had come pouring out. "Why why why why—"

"Jinx," he said. "Hush."

"Not until you tell me why!"

"It's for your own safety! It's unstable. It nearly destroyed you! Nearly killed us all!"

"That wasn't the gem! That was the magic overloading! Like—like a power-grid exploding after a lightning strike! It's not her fault! It was the Void—the magic—just being a big bully!"

"I've no time for semantics, Jinx. It is what it is. And I'll be damned if I give it to you, and see it blow a hole through your chest!"

"The gem didn't do that!" she exploded. "That was you!"

Silco fell still. Jinx was no longer crying. A deep rage had overtaken her, the kind that could not be expressed in anything other than violence. Not the violence of action, but the violence of words. And the ones that hurt the most were the ones she hadn't dared speak of, and that he hadn't dared admit, in all the days since The Change.

The truth.

"It was you," she repeated. "All of it! You—pushing me to be the biggest and baddest, because otherwise our enemies were gonna chew Zaun up, and spit it out like bubblegum.  You—keeping Vi away from me, when all she wanted was to love me and all I wanted was to love her! You—afraid I'd become Powder again. Be a useless weakling who always needed saving. Well, guess what? The joke's on you, Silco. You got me right where you wanted! I'm stuck in this bed with nowhere to go and nobody to save and no idea how I'm gonna make a comeback! I'm the weak one now, and that's all I'll be if you keep Gemmie away. I won't have anything to work for. Anyone to fight for. Nothing to believe in." Tears streaked her cheeks. "Nothing except the love that put me in that hole in the first place."

By the end, her voice had lapsed to a ragged whisper.  The anger bled out, leaving her weak, shivery, exhausted.

Silco was still as a stone. The only motion was his chest, rising slowly up and down. His lips were deathly pale. The Devil eye was the color of a thrombosed vein.

"You blame me," he said, and there was a rawness to his voice at odds with the stoic expression.

"I do," Jinx seethed.

The silence cut deep.

"You blame me," Silco repeated. "And so be it. It doesn't change my decision. The Hex-core stays locked, where it won't hurt you—or Zaun. I don't trust it, and I never have. It's too powerful for anyone's hands. Yours least of all."

"Because you don't trust me," Jinx said bitterly. "Because I couldn't deliver the goods to your door, and now I'm a liability."

The vein in his temple pulsed.

"Because," Silco countered, "magic, as I've always suspected, is an indiscriminate force that will devour its wielder from the inside-out. You are not immune, Jinx. I will not let it take you. Even if it means taking drastic measures. You will not have the gem back, because I will not let you die. That's final."

 "I hate you!"

Silco reacted with a suddenness that shocked Jinx. He crossed the space between them in three strides and took her face in his hands. It wasn't a gentle grasp. The pressure left indentations in Jinx's cheeks: cold, then burning. His eyes were the same.

It felt less like a connection than an implosion, the gravity well between them pulling everything inward, the world collapsing around them, leaving only him and her at its burning center.

Them, and a love so barbed it hurt to touch.

"Then do," Silco said, and there was an undercurrent to his voice that made her nauseous. Ice, bilge, and pure black ichor "Hate me. Curse me. Send me, or all of Zaun, to hell for all I care. Because I don't care, Jinx. Not anymore."

The lamp, overhead, flickered again. Jinx said nothing.

"All I want," Silco went on, "all I'll ever want, is to keep you alive. Because you are my daughter. Mine. And if you think a few weeks' bonding with a stone will change that, then I've done an awful job of proving it. I've lost everything, Jinx.  I lost Vander. Lost Nandi. Lost my youth and my sight and half the flesh on my face. And if the magic is going to consume the only thing I have left, then it will take nothing at all. Do you understand?"

Jinx was trembling. Not fear; or anger. Only the hollowed-out ache that comes when a deeply cherished faith is proven a sham. A false-god, whose favor would be revoked in a heartbeat should the real threat rear its ugly head.

Her, and him, and the city they once called home.

"Yes," she whispered.

The pressure on her cheeks eased. The pad of his thumb, gently, met the corner of her left eye, then her right. They came away damp. All her tears were spent. There was a strange clarity to the absence: a sense of loss that was, at the same time, a lightness.

A single feather that could set a body to flight.

"I'll have the Aerie prepared," Silco told her. "Tomorrow, under supervision, you may resume work. Th Hex-gem stays under lock and key. If I catch the faintest hint that you're trying to find it, or take it for yourself—"

"You won't," she said.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Jinx's eyelids drooped. Her head spun. Her ribs hurt. She slumped. He guided her into the pillows. She was dimly aware of him tucking the duvet around her, loving and lethal and leaving her cold.

Kissing her forehead, he straightened.  The lightbulb's flickering intensified, its dying filament flashing on, then off. His features, as he loomed in, came in glimpses of shadow.

Jinx reminded herself that monsters were monsters because of their hunger, not the form they took to satisfy it. Silco was no different; and the thing he hungered for most was her heart.

Too bad Jinx was a monster, too. And monsters were always hungriest when their own was threatened.

"I love you," he whispered.

Then he left.

The door fell shut, a thunderclap. Above, the lamp flickered: a final, spastic flash. It was a blade pressed against the throat of Jinx's sanity, a hair's width from cutting clean through.

Then the bulb fizzed out. Darkness flooded the room, thick as blood, filling every nook and cranny. And all Jinx saw was red, red, red—  

She screamed, and threw the nearest projectile: a bedside lamp, which shattered into shards against the hardwood. 

Silco was gone.

Her anger remained: a heatwave under her skin.