#exploring obession

[yourbeautystudios]

Blind Obsession – Love, Blindfolded and Bound by Obsession

[stagefoureddiediaz]

Thing about just clicking with someone and not having to put in the work is finding not making and those relationships - whatever form they take rarely last or manage to develop past a surface level.

Buck is such an all in or nothing kind of person that has had to fight for pretty much everything (when it comes to relationships of any form) he just cant comprehend that other people experience various levels of friendships or relationships more widely.

We see it in his training of Ravi, it comes out in his father son reltionship with Bobby, it’s part of the underlying reason the lawsuit happened and stems from his childhood abandonment issues. We even saw it in the other sneak peek where he’s with Tommy - he’s trying so so hard to make a friend that he comes across as slightly intense and focused. And while the worthwhile people will stay (the fire fam, his sister, Eddie) those who can’t take that level of focus will pretty quickly drop away, Abby and Ali are prime examples of this and even Taylor to a certain extent - she just didn’t care enough to be bothered by it.

It’s one of the reasons he’s oblivious to the fact his relationship with Eddie is different on multiple levels and it’s part of what makes Buck so interesting and why so many of us think he’s neurodivergent.

[420technoblazeit]

Hey feel free to ignore this but I was thinking about your au idea because its such a fun idea

And not to make everything about jayce (I always have him in my brain rotating im sorry eofbeobd), but how painfull do you think it for Mel and Viktor to have to figure out their arcane powers while knowing that the person who would probably be most exited to explore them isn't with them

(Not to say they wouldn't be exited to figure their powers out, but I think mr. I-have-been-obessed-with-the-arcane-since-I-saw-it-once would have the time of his life trying to learn more about it in its natural form with his 2 favourite people in the world)

Anyway just something to add to the tragedy sandwich Mel and Viktor have to live through

Hope you have a great day!!

AUGH thank u for the ask im glad u like my au!!! youre so right though jayce was always so fascinated with magic he would love to see them figuring out their powers. i like to imagine that even if they can't sense him he can see them in some capacity, like how viktor was able to see the outside world from the astral plane. he's their little cheerleader even if they don't know it

[dontbesoweirdkira]

Hi! Are you still writing for Mortal Kombat? I have a little thought that won't let go of me: I started to wonder what kind of yandere family Blade and Cage are? What if the reader is an extremely radical rebel, who is not affected by threats or actions? (I remember how one of my family members almost killed me, but I didn't apologize and just went to school). If the reader has my stubbornness, who will be the first to give in (if that happens at all). Maybe they will go to other yandere to deal with the reader? All this is of course platonic.

A/N: First, let me say thank you for requesting again. It always, always warms my heart when I have reoccurring readers. It means the world that you like my stuff enough to request again. second, yesss! I literally have thought about being their adopted child again and just how dysfunctionally(?) perfect they'd be. I hope you'd enjoy thisss....

Warnings: trauma, dysfunctional family dynamics, toxicity, obession...ect

Characters: MK11 Johnny, Sonya, Jax, and no cassie because that complicates things lol.

Request: Always open for my babies..see masterlist

Dynamics and Motives

We all know that Johnny and Sonya have a rather rocky relationship themselves, I can definitely see them being a bit at odds with each other when it comes to parenting you. They are constantly pulling you in every direction of who they want you to be. There's so much pressure from them to be perfect that it's no wonder you started rebelling.

I think their parental dynamic is very much a good cop-bad cop situation. Johnny is the "good cop" while Sonya is the "Bad" one.

But Johnny is definitely more manipulative in his ways. Sonya is rather straightforward in her thoughts and feelings. Like if you were to ask her if she's trying to control your life, she'd answer you with absolutely no conviction. Johnny (obviously) loves pretending that he totally understands your rebellion and that he's on your side when in all actuality he's right there with Sonya.

Sonya has an authoritarian parenting style. She is speculated to have put work over family constantly while Johnny has to hold down the fort. (kind of refreshing tho because you'd expect that they'd make Johnny prioritize Hollywood and staying young over her.)

She loves you but she’s always absent. And when she is there, she's just so hard on you. She appears to mainly care about your academics, hobbies, and future careers but not really you…She has this idea in her mind about exactly who you need to be and you will be that. And that's just a mini version of her. You're forced to be an overachiever and to perfect any mistakes that she's made in her time...there's no room for error.

Johnny is a "smother mother" Johnny is a lot more involved and his drive as a yandere is to be your best friend. He so badly wants to be the cool dad. He wants his little girl to admire him and be an unstoppable daddy-daughter duo. He's also got this image in his head of who you are supposed to be. You're always supposed to stay his perfect little angel, never grow up, never date or do any wrong. WHo knows, maybe you'll become an actor just like him and follow in his footsteps. (without the womanizer claims and duis)

They both ultimately don't want their daughter to leave their supervision.. They have too much fear of letting go, you can't get hurt. They don't want you to go through what they did. Your parents don't wanna be forgotten while you go explore. Plus there's so much danger and evil lurking, why can't you just stay at home under their protection?? You'll never have to pay for anything or think for yourself. Stay their doll baby forever. Let them continue to feed you out of their silver spoon.

How it started

I think that to some degree Sonya and Johnny were always helicopter parents. You have a paranoid soldier and a celebrity with a crazed fanbase...it's not surprising that extreme precautions were taken.

But i will say things got worse as you got older and they started to realize that you no longer wanted to be suffocated in their home. You were originally an angel child, always doing what they wanted and never questioning anything....but then your eyes started opening to just how toxic and unhealthy they were.

So less and less did you spend time with them and stay away from home. I think Johnny would be the first to notice since he's home more often and closest to you. At first, he's playing it calmly. He knows all of your friends and doesn't really suspect too much. Johnny will of course pry about what you were doing and go through your things to confirm you're telling truths.

Then as you started bailing on tainings/classes they've forced you to take, switching up your style to something more edgy, and getting into trouble...some alarm bells started going off

Sonya was fairly pissed off when she found out you dropped a bunch of things and are off track of her plans for you. Johnny hates your new look and that you're getting into who knows what. Sonya wanted to readily go to some drastic measures to get you back in line but Johnny advised against it and decided to speak to you first since this all was new behavior. Maybe you just needed some gentle parenting?

Yeah..that didn't go as planned. Unexpectedly you couldn't give less of a care about anything that they said. You knew they wouldn't have taken your complaints about your upbringing seriously anyways,, so honestly, you ended up walking away when you had enough of their questioning and audibly trashed them to your friends for the rest of the night.

You just started a war

Antics

I think they would go light on you at first. Mainly because Johnny doesn't really want this to spiral so quickly. Sonya is like okay fine but only because she's slightly curious about your whole deal. How far are you willing to go and what are you trying to prove with all of this?

They're both overly critical and unsupportive of everything you do and relate it back to your rebelliousness.

They'd do small inconvenient things like removing your bedroom door, shutting off devices and wifi, taking away your car, and forcing you to drive with them.

They'd guilt trip you and threaten to take away more things if you don't behave but it'd all be tame in the grand scheme of things.

"Keep this up, Y/N and I will have I'll punish you like a real marine. You'll surely lean respect, then."

"..Come on...Just go back to how you were. This is causing such a strain on your mother and I's marriage."

yeah, they constantly blame you for their arguing and the decline of the family. Like no, ya'll been messed up.

but this grace period doesn't last long before they are crashing a hangout session with your friends, berating/embarrassing you, and then forcefully dragging you back home.

This is a common theme because it gets the most rise out of you. They'll find themselves at your school/campus embarrassing you and will monitor you and your friends. speaking of your friends/ They hate every single one of them. They're jealous of how much you prefer them over them, they're a threat. It doesn't matter that they're all on the dean's list/honor roll...those misfits have something to do with their poor little angel becoming corrupt (or maybe it's their parenting skills)

Isolation is a big thing. You wanna mess up your success by ditching the plans for your life? You wanna be away from them so badly? Fine. You aren't seeing anything. At. All

financial abuse and neglect are big things too. They are filthy rich but somehow there's never any food in the house anymore...and all your debit cards are declining. They want you to come begging for the things you need but only offer them in return for your obedience.

I don't think they'd get physical, but they'd keep going to more extremes with their abuse and threats to make you comply.

Would they get anyone else to step in?

Yes if nothing they seem to do is working. Plus they're anxious and impatient...this all is taking too long for you to break. Are they seriously going to lose their darling daughter? Definitely Jax. He's canon-ly a very close family friend to the couple and both Cassie and Jacqqui bond over their traumatic childhoods. It's implied that often they'd spent time at one another's house and that all parents were heavily involved with raising the girls. The same goes for you. You don't wanna listen to them? They're calling Uncle Jax and he's a freaking tank. okay.

Jax loves you like a daughter but he really doesn't have as much of a soft spot as they do for you. He's willing to do what they won't. Like this mf is Sonya's superior and you see how she turned out. You will be straightened out like you're a soldier, even if that means going to extremes. Jax doesn't want Jacqqui to see your rebellion and think that it's acceptable to behave like you. So he's more than happy to help his friends out. Having three parents ganging up on you and manipulating you is like hell. You're not escaping that damn house either, you are locked deownnnn.

With the help of Jax and military equipment, trackers, cameras, and government-grade security systems are emplaced. You will be knocked down, broken, and rebuilt into a whole new person.

Who would give in first?

You definitely would. I'm sorry but like you are NOT winning against them. No way a rebellious teen/young adult is conquering them. Your insults and tactics to get under their skin won't work. You will be stonewalled and denied of all civil liberties. It isn't worth it to keep fighting back, no matter how strong you are, you'd end up in asylum before you gain the upper hand.

"Okay, okay...you win. I'll go back to being who you want me to be just chill out.."

See..that wasn't so hard.

They are overjoyed to hear this and waste time destroying all your horribly edgy clothes and rearranging your classes. It's insanity because they act like none of this ever happened and Johnny instantly proposes a family movie night with takeout. You're back to being their perfect child and they're family is "healed". but just know some of their implements are staying and they will continue to keep a tight grip on you should you ever decide to pull a fast one again.

"See, you made this so difficult when all we really wanted was our happy family back..."

[knoepfl]

Masterlist Yandere

I saw the post from @devotion-disorder so be sure to check them out! Here is the list of those characters I put in that room to explore how they would react. So be sure to check this out regularly! If you want any specific character just write a comment or request it!^^

Tomura Shigaraki - Fractured Obession

Monoma Neito - His to keep

Shouta Aizawa - Frayed Threads of Control

Dottore - Perfectly Imperfect Love

Pennywise - No One Can Take What's Mine

Nubbins Sawyer - He Doesn't Like Sharing

Enjiro Kirishima - Breaking the Unbreakable

[ecto-stone]

if i reboost DP. I would Get rid of Vlad obession with Maddie. They should have been Rival instead. Like omg it could have been so great Like a clearer goal for Vlad, Keeping his more cunning, well adjusted controling personality more. And really tackled in that Vlad is Danny but opposite. Danny is a Reblous teen driven by emotion and Urge to go to anew horizone (his Space interest and Fasincation in exploring the ghost zone) Vlad is a Jaded manipulated man, that control everything with an iron grip, His highlight is his Leadership, charismatic personality and relentless drive for knowlege and unknown goal.

[ego-meliorem-esse]

I present to you my years long obsession - female America.

This is not a Nyotalia version it's just a concept of "what if everything is the same but Alfred was born a girl". Like i see so much potential! In a world where all the odds are stacked against her, she despite it all gets to where she is today. Making good and bad decisions along the way.

A lil hc/backstory for my main girl:

• Given name (by dad Arthur) is Elizabeth Felicity Kirkland but during the revolution changes her last name to Jones. Her first name change happens in the 1820/1830s when she changes it to Alexandra, also dropping her second name. (I was young when I came across the name and it means "defender/protector of man" and I was /obessed/ so i just stick to it since she is a loser and just thinks it's a cool sounding name)

• She goes by Alex/Al and I think that's neat :)

• My girl is tall. Like 181 cm tall. Sender but with visible muscles. She does want a bigger behind but her Anglo-Saxon genetics say nah.

• As a child she spent more time in England due to her being a girl so I think even if Arthur was absent he didn't allow her to spend much time alone in the colonies. She resents that ofc

• Just like with Alfred, Alex is very fkn close to Matt even if she forgets to call him or check up on him for months at a time. Al: "Hey man I know I just called a while ago but how've you been? Matt: "you called me 5 months ago..."

• Works at NASA as a part time aeronaitical engeneer. Loves physics, hates chemistry (self projection im sorry)

• During the revolution she dressed up as a boy but the people she worked with knew she wasn't one. People went along with it anyway.

• Other than during the American revolution, she dressed in feminine presenting clothes up until the 1930s. After that it was trousers all the way!

• Alex was never a nurse during wartime but definitely did accountaint work in ww1 and later joined the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force (WAAF) where she stayed until 1943 when she joined her men fighting on the ground ( Conversion to Army status, Women's Army Corps - WAC). That's when she saw actual combat.

• Isn't fond of birds. Canaries are fine. Eagles are unsettling.

• Obsesses over a certan thing/hobby at a time up to a point where she perfects her skill. When she was about 14 (human years) it was the whole freedom and equality of man and all the politics regarding it. In the 1890s her obession was cars and motor vehicles. The 1910s brought a new obsession on womens rights. 1960s was space exploration where she devoted almost all her time researching and working for NASA, disregarding her goverment/state duties as a country. In the 1980s it was the internet. In 1990s she got really interested in the Balkan wars (self insert >:)) for whatever reason. Today her attention is mostly on social media and her attention span ia short af. Still really likes all things tech.

• Hasn't got many properties/real estate. Al does own a penthouse in Seaport, Boston and a late 17th and early 18th century colonial home in Newbury, Boston (that she needs to renovate asap). The only other real state she owns is in California, though modern and recently buit, it's not big nor does she spend much time there.

• Her personality is basicaly Alfred if he grew up as a woman and had to face opression based on sex and inequality that came with it. So still bubbly, extroverted, a social butterfly but also self-serving, idealistic, manipulative sprinkled in with sarcasm, cautiousness and craftiness. Same feckin sense of humour tho.

• In 1783, at the Treaty of Paris in Versailles both her and her father had to sign the document that started her independence (She herself had a human representitive 'cus of her age/sex bla bla but it was mostly formalities). At that signing Arthur gave her a flintlock pistol that he himself used in the 1640s. Not many words were exchanged, he just put it in her hand to keep. She still has it in her attic. Somewhere. She'd find it if she just takes the time to look for it I'm sure.

• In 1889 she straight up did her first war crime/murder of a fellow nation (if you don't count shooting her pops face off at Saratoga in 1777). After an altrication with Antonio that resulted in him insulting and slapping the girl for her audacity and mouthiness, she punched him straight in the jaw. A fight insued where she got ahold of his belt and straight up strangled him. Took her a while to process that and accept it. On the bright side Antonios scilence was heard around the world and while perplexed and insulted, older and influential (mostly male at that point) nations started to feel a glint of respect forming for the young startup.

• Al was given a family pocket watch by her father in the 90s (No more empire for Arthur so he sad :(((((( ) that was suppoaed to go to a firstborn son of a lord as an inheritance symbol. Everyone thought Jack would get it since Matt is techincally not Arthur's son. But even he would be expected to recieve it before Al. Then in an unexpected turn of events, while visiting her grumpy and nostalgeous empire-missing dad, Arthur pulled out the watch while eating stale kebabs in front of the telly and gave it to her casualy without as much as a word (The empire started with her, it shall end with her). She keeps it in her work desk drawer in a wooden box.

• Al and Zee have an interesting relationship. While being different in almost every aspect, there ia a mutual respect for eachother from eachother. While not really being able to see eye to eye, they are sisters in a certain roundabout and very fucked up way. Girls who learned that they are very much judged by their sex despite being daughters of a high ranking British lord. While aware that she will never be Alex/Elizabeth in her fathers eyes, Zee still gets treated as a treasure by her father. Much to Zee's annoyance.

• It's still Matt who's in Alex's shadow. Despite the dificulties she rises above and is the perfect child of an empire. Smart, intelligent, inquisitive, a fast learner and incredibly aware of the political and historical situation at all times. Even despite being a girl and less than a son in the eyes of a 17th/18th century society, she suceeds.

• Arthur wanted a son to come from his colonial endeavours, as all empires/nobility at the time did. And as all other empires at the time had. But ofc karma is a bitch and he's the only empire with an only child being a daughter. Though at first thougrly dissaponted, when he lays his eyes on his daughter for the first time, the only emotion he can feel is /joy/.

• Instead of sowing/knitting Al's education was very much focused on natural sciences, since that is where Arthur quickly realized she exels at. He swapped her Violin and General History of Music lessions with Astrophysics and The History of Astronomy. All in an attempt to stop her from making his ears bleed from the constant prattling about The Four Square Theorem or The Brachistocrone Curve. It only got worse, but his daughter was happy and content.

I have sooooo many more of these jfc i might do more later but for now this is all I can think of.

TLDR: Female America is great and has so much potential as a character hghhhhhhhh

[melit0n]

Delicate Is The Flesh - Chapter 6

- Synopsis: On the brink of the bustling new city of Rosholt lies a forgotten palisade of abandoned homes, shops and streets that sit mummified after a chemical outbreak in the 70s, leaving the city uninhabitable.

Over the years however, the place has become a hotspot for urban explorers and crime junkies alike.

Whispers of reanimated bodies stalking the dead streets and brutal murders worm their way into your friend's ears and, having nothing to do on your Winter break, you reluctantly agree to go exploring the abandoned city with them.

What could go wrong, right?

- Chapters ->

Prologue

Chapter 1: For Whom The Bell Tolls

Chapter 2: Corvus and Krater

Chapter 3: Belly of the Beast

Chapter 4: Something Forgotten

Chapter 5: Citrus and Cinnamon

Chapter 6: Mumbling Conscious (you're already here!)

Chapter 7: Heavy is The Head that Mourns The Past

Chapter 8: Be Not Afraid

Chapter 9: Eye for an Eye

- Status: Work In Progress.

- Obessive!Demon OC/Reader

- Word Count (for chp): 6.9k

- Warnings (for chp): None.

- Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55444003/chapters/150657787

“So, are you sure you don’t want to tell me about this little love story of yours now?”

Helen giggles softly behind you. It echoes loudly in the cracking concrete bowels you trek through.

“Yes. I can assure you, the only way you will be hearing it is if you come back to Greece with me.” Something snaps under someone’s foot, either glass or the dried remains of some bug. 

You both know very well it’s a thinly veiled act of persuasion, a not-so-subtle play on your curiosity. So, somewhat determined to get whatever she had been keeping secret out of her, you put on your best pout and turn to her.

She walks right past you.

Shaking her head back and forth with a hidden knowing smile, she replies, “Making sad faces will get you nowhere, I am afraid.”

“So mean…” you grumble. Considering Helen's typical openness in her thoughts and experiences, you were genuinely intrigued. While it wasn’t mandatory, it was rare she’d hide topics she’d happily chatter about if given the chance. That said, your main aim–hidden under glass and dust–was simply to keep a conversation going. You’ve learnt very quickly that you don’t like the silence here, either. For both of your benefit, you’d much rather keep aimless chatter bouncing off the walls instead of some distant radio show. Keep your mind focused on replies and not the sickly sweet stench of flowers blooming in the middle of winter.

Of empty sockets that stare right at you.

Helen shoots a hand out, “Careful.” Puzzled, you send her a confused glance.

However, the moment she puts a foot down on the wood, you get your answer: the floorboards creaking and groaning loudly with the simple weight. While it wasn’t unexpected–every step you’d taken for the last hour or so had been accompanied by a loud squeak–what catches your attention is how far the wood visibly bends. That, and how damp it is. Damp enough that the moisture shines under the light of your torches. 

Stretching your own leg out to test them, you’re unsurprised to now physically feel how deeply they bow under your weight; whining something foreboding with each kilo you put down. Through the soles of your shoes, you can practically feel the fibres cracking. 

You sigh to yourself, half out of exasperation and something else you can’t quite pin down. 

Looking up from the rotting floor, you’re not surprised to see the rest of the story was in a similar state.

More household items are scattered across the main hall: old stuffed animals poking their saturated heads out of screeching doors. Legs, maybe once holding up sturdy tables, lean against the walls. Sodden, deflated cushions lying haphazardly on the floor slowly melt into the woodwork; plush becoming indistinguishable from the flooring.

All create a waterlogged tapestry of the past.

The wallpaper, colours faded and mixed with old graffiti not unlike a fresh watercolour, reappear in diseased patches across the walls. Even vines from downstairs creep and crawl through the crumbling structure, anchoring themselves to whatever they can find. From the withering leaves, however, you guess they aren’t having as much success as they are downstairs. 

A floorboard wails loudly from beside you. “This does not look too good.” She steps forward–really only a half-step–and begins to test the strengths of the planks in front of you. Then, she takes a full one forward with sounds from the floor that have you partially reaching your hands out, as if to catch her. You watch with a building level of unease as she attempts to spread out her weight.

Even the air is heavy. Heavy with the calm before a storm: petrichor and an electric buzz that lets you know you shouldn’t be here. Somehow, it overpowers the dust–which you’re sure sits in foetid clumps wherever the rain and wind sees fit–and worms its way into your lungs. 

It’s nothing like the air downstairs: while that was fresh, still holding hints of petrichor, this was thick. Like oil. It’s somehow worse than the stagnant air from the basement. 

Eyeing the wood, you hesitantly do the same. “Yeah.” 

Something viscous is at the back of your throat. Tastes like how decaying autumn leaves smell. 

The thin walls–either on this floor or one of the many others–waver in the wind, and you’re starting to affirm to yourself that Jeanne’s promise of the place being ‘structurally sound’ was another one of her half lies.

Four floors high, including the ground floor–five with the addition of the basement–and you’re sure you’d snap your neck. Bleed out on that ugly cream carpet with wooden wings splayed out beside you. Your only consolation is that you’re pretty sure that the main structure is made of solid concrete, sitting silently under the wood.

The gaping plaster wounds in the walls–rippling wooden muscles and creaking metal bones taught underneath–make you doubt yourself.

At best, you’d break or twist an ankle. At worst, you’ll be a bloated carcass strangled by weeds. A rotting warning to all those who enter.

No way in Hell is this safe. 

You take a few more cautious steps forwards, ears perked for the tell-tale noises of crumbling wood that would rather collapse than hold your weight. “If the rest of the floors are like this, I say we stop.” One creaks loudly, a bit too loud for your taste, and you take one backwards. “Wouldn’t be surprised if we fell straight through.”

Helen’s head lowers to stare at the floor, probably contemplating whether the risk of going crashing through four or five stories was worth taking the chance. “I think,” she takes a step forward, graceful as an onyx chess piece slid across the board. “We will be okay.” She turns to you, optimism in her eyes. It makes your shoulder sag. “We just have to keep our eyes out for any wood that is especially dark, or looks wet on the surface.” Another step forward, and you sigh as you begin to follow behind, dutiful as ever. “Is that okay?”

Kind of hard to do when all the wood looks wet, you think. Even so, you keep your nervous thoughts concealed beneath a cool facade. “Whatever you say,” you feel the cold of the water sink into your soles. “You’re paying my hospital bills if I break something, though.”

It’s sarcasm, but she still takes it somewhat seriously. “It would be my fault, so I would not mind.” She shrugs, before pausing, her weight spread between a few different planks. Then she raises her flashlight.

The centre-piece window–which never fails to draw your eye–is broken: jagged teeth glinting in the light.

A soft hum glides up her throat, “The wind and the rain from the North probably comes in here quite harshly: it is no wonder this place is so wet. Either way, I am surprised this place hasn’t fallen like, what is it- paper mache?”

It’s a simple description, one you’d easily take for an answer if not for one simple fact: both windows on the other floors were broken. Both windows faced North, as all the rest of the windows above you.

So why weren’t those as dilapidated as this one?

Wearily, you take a few more steps, trying to follow her invisible pattern of semi-promised safety. “But what about-” that is, before your feet knock into something. Something solid.

Expecting the worst, you look down with a strained look on your face. You’re met with the sight of a porcelain doll. The pale, once pretty, type you almost always see in charity shops. 

And horror movies.

Part of its silky pallor is cracked and smashed in, leaving an empty void where half its face used to be. Curly blonde hair frames what’s left of it, fading blue eyes rolled absently to the side.

“Are you scared of it?”

There’s a bit of blush on its face, too. Faded, like everything else is at the hands of time and neglect, but still there. 

“What?”

It reminds you of something freshly dead. Eyes and body empty, yet still holding onto the warmth in its fingertips.

Helen crouches down in front of it, repeating herself. “Are you afraid of it?”

You’re surprised the wood holds her weight.

Before you can say anything–let a garbled and probably incoherent answer out of your mouth–she picks it up. Handles it more like a living baby rather than a porcelain resemblance. When she cradles its head, resting stiffly in her palm, one of its eyes rolls. Rolls out of its vacant skull to stare right at you. Glossy and unblinking and reflecting flashing blue and yellow that blinds you.

Beneath light fatigue and a growing sense of alarm that refuses to go away, something rings.

“You’ll get a demon or something attached to you if you hold on to it.” You joke, eyes darting up from the glass one you’re sure sees right through your skin. Or, maybe, sees right past you.

She takes your avoidance as an unspoken yes. She isn’t wrong: if you saw that thing at the end of your hallway in the middle of the night, you’d happily give your apartment up to it.

She fiddles with the stained lace that edges the sleeves and the hem of the forget-me-not dress. “Why?”

It’s a good question–like all of her questions are. You roll thoughts around in your head, seeing how they taste on your tongue. You’d say it’s something embedded in you; embroidered into the intricate tapestry of each twitching muscle and thumping pulse of your heart. You’re afraid of the doll the same way something in the back of your mind, a knowing voice neither old nor young–simply alert–tells you to be afraid of the dark. Tells you to be wary of things that creep and slide.

Tells you to be fearful of things that try to be human.

“Probably because I’ve watched too many shitty horror films with Jeanne.” You reply. Helen simply shakes her head, and you think she knows you aren’t telling the entire truth. Either way, she doesn’t bother to pry a more self-aware answer out of you.

Gingerly, she places the doll back down where she’d found it. Its eye rolls back up into its head, having seen enough. For a few brief moments, you don’t blame it. The untouchable night that resides in its hollow head is probably a more comforting view compared to the sodden floorboards.

Both of you carry on with your hushed agreement to explore the other apartments. Helen glides across the floor with wisp-like grace, barely making a noise, while you stumble over each creaking floorboard and spend every two seconds wondering if you’re going to fall.

You stagger through a few different apartments, eyes skimming over whatever was visible and then moving on, more focused on not falling than searching for anything of interest.

After traversing the hall somewhat aimlessly–chattering to Helen along the way–you find your way into another apartment. One side of the floors has swollen, and the entire place reeks of festering mould. 

A question strikes your mind, worming its way out of your mouth as the conversation threatens to fall flat. “Hey, Helen?”

With growing confidence, you carefully step forth. The living room is lifeless; void of any furniture. It also happens to be the side where the floors rise–something very old and very slow trying to breach the surface–so you make the decision to leave the bedroom unexplored. You value your ankles a bit more than that.

“Yes?”

The kitchen is in a similar state. Woodlice crawl between the splitting wood, and a low wind meanders through the rooms like a death rattle. Between what remains of a cabinet and the wall, a cobweb hangs, weighed down by the ever present moisture that seems to loom over the entire floor. 

Its weaver is absent.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Considering her lack of reaction to your joke earlier, you’d say her answer would be a no. Either that, or she wasn’t afraid of the dead leaning over her shoulder.

“I think so. To believe in ghosts, you have to have a belief in some sort of life after the one you live, yes?”

Eventually, you find a somewhat sturdy path towards the bathroom and storage room. Much to your displeasure, the bathroom is locked tight. Even though the wood crumbles under your hands, it refuses to open. In fact, after a few tugs, the doorknob comes right off, small screws clattering to the floor.

Almost as if to spite you, the lock stays intact.

“What do you think of it?”

So, you end up trying the storage room. It’s gutted of all furniture. 

“Of what?”

The air is stagnant. Brackish. You guess it hasn’t been opened in a while. 

“The afterlife. What do you think comes after all this?” Backing up, you attempt to follow your steps back out into the hall. 

“I am not entirely sure,” she hums. As each floorboard keens under your weight, you realise that Helen is practically silent as she walks through different apartments. You only really know she’s doing so because of her voice; ebbing and flowing like a warm summer wind from the hallway. “I believe each living thing has a soul, but I am unsure on how long that soul can last.” Her voice becomes louder, “but, I think it may stay after it does not have a body to support it.” and then quieter. You don’t see her walk past your door. “Perhaps they stay because they forgot to do, or say, something before they went. Maybe they stay because they miss home too much.”

Peeking your head out of the doorframe, you can’t spot her. She must’ve already gone into another apartment. 

Looking down, you find a stuffed animal imitating you. Or, rather, you it. 

You scoff, walking out into the hall and examining the different doors. “What’s home to someone who’s already dead? You’d think a ghost would want to go wherever they please since they have no physical restrictions.” With long strides–you’re sure you look like some sort of awkward stick bug–you pass the elevator. The twin doors are wide open, and even your flashlight can’t illuminate the rubber veins that crawl along its throat.

“Home is not always a place, I think.” Her voice is closer now. 

Each door is in varying states of decay: those closer to the window in the hall are mere fragments, while those nearer to the main stairs retain some semblance to actual entryways. 

Your eyes catch onto one near the elevator: number forty-six. It’s one of the few on the floor still holding on to its once shining number, this floor being numbers thirty-three to forty-eight. Although, the four is crooked–slanted to the left like a loose skull–and the six is ever so slightly lower than it should be.

“What else could it be?”

With a jostle of the knob, you also realise it's one of the few doors that’s locked. The weight in your pockets brings a smile to your face, and you can only hope you have the right key. 

“A person.” Her voice has moved again, now on the opposite side of the hall.

You pause, if only for a second. 

You’d never really thought of it that way. 

With warmed metal under your fingers, you wonder if you’ve ever seen home inside another person. Your thumb glides over engraved numbers, hidden from your eyes underneath years of rust and oily fingers. 

Maybe in Jeanne? Or Helen? Noah? A past lover?

“If you were to die,” you bring a key closer up to your eye, the number indistinguishable. “Away from ‘home’, do you think you’d try to find your way back? Or would you find somewhere else to haunt?”

Maybe…maybe in him.

“I would want to go home, definitely.” Floor six, apt eighty four… “When I do pass, I think it will be nice to be where I grew up. I would want to see the sea again, too. I would not mind staying there after I have passed.”

If so, home is long gone. The grass is dead, and there’s no soft light in the windows anymore.

Just flashing blue and glass in between in your fingers. In your skin.

“And what,”…Floor eighteen, apt two hundred and seventy-nine…not this one either. “What if you’re the type to see home as a person?”

She stays quiet for a few moments.

…Floor three…

You squint. 

“Then I trust I will find them, and them, I.”

…apt forty-eight. Shit. 

Your shoulders fall.

“Just…uhm, let me know when you make a decision about coming with me, okay?” Helen’s voice fades and flickers like candlelight. There’s almost an echo: a second whisper layered underneath her warm tone.

Wait a minute. 

You look back down at the key. Apt forty-eight. 

Slowly, your head turns to the left. 

The last door by the stairs. 

You frown. “Yeah, no- of course.” Answering absentmindedly, you begin to stalk over to the door. You trace invisible lines with your feet, and all seems silent. 

Easily, you find yourself in front of number forty-eight, your light greeting the door: a circular glimpse that pierces through the darkness. 

You feel like you’re sensing a pattern.

It’s closed, and, with a gentle tug, you find it locked as well. 

Half expecting another talking radio, or maybe a miniature desert for this one, you hesitate to even use the key you had been wanting to make use of. You turn it over in your hand: there’s nothing special about it, nor the door itself. Both are in similar stages of disrepair, the door swollen with water and the key elongated with rust. Looking at it closer, you doubt it’ll even open the lock. Hell, the lock itself has probably rusted shut. Either that, or the knob will fall right off, just like the bathroom door’s did. 

You look between the door and the key.

Well…as the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.

The key slides in, and the mechanism opens with a quiet click. Seems the building has decided to grant you a bit of good luck.

The door opens with an ominous creak. Loud and anguished. 

When light finally enters the morose cave, you’re more than pleased–although admittedly a little disappointed–to see nothing abnormal. No radios, no luscious ferns, and best of all, no buzzing flies. 

Plus, it seemed to house more furniture than the last. The windows are layered thickly with grime and algae, and, even with your torch light, the whole place still feels utterly drenched in darkness. Blinking, it’s as if a thin haze–a light mist–hangs over the room. Or maybe just your eyes. 

Tentatively, you step forward, keeping a careful watch on the floor.

The floorboards whine underneath you, rising and falling like valleys and hills under your feet. 

The first thing that catches your eye is a large, embroidered armchair in the living room. Like the doll, it has dark, frilled edging–colour indistinguishable–at the end of the fabric. While it’s faded, the colours of the threads bleeding into themselves, you can just about make out a floral pattern; deep viridian in the centre, framed by jade and mulberry. 

The legs are made of sturdy wood–not cracking and splintering like the floor–which curls inward at the feet like a snail’s shell. An endless spiral unfurling from itself. It’s exactly the type of chair a grandfather, or maybe some old-money, rich man, would have sitting by the fireplace. You can practically see a soft cat curled up on the seat, slowly nodding off as the wood cackles and crumbles into cinders. 

Quietly, you wonder if anybody in this building had a cat. Or a dog, for that matter.

A board bends underneath you, and you take a step back before continuing. 

Someone must’ve, right? Your own apartment had a policy on them: no pets allowed aside from fish–and the odd reptile, though that depended on how much paperwork you wanted to fill out–but maybe this one didn’t.

The door to the bedroom opens easily.

You wonder if they had to leave them behind when those chemicals got out. If they did, you hadn’t seen–nor heard–any once loved strays on your way here. Then again, nature, aside from her plants, seems to have abandoned this place. Left it to the hands of Time and the ever changing faces of the seasons.

Much to your surprise, the main bedroom is almost fully furnished. The bed frame is still intact. Well, you think it is, until you notice it’s leaning on one side. Looking closer, you find one leg had rotted off, the rest in a similar condition. There’s a tall wardrobe on the left wall and, opening it, you find it empty. That is, if you don’t count the dust. Running your index finger over the flat surface, you find it comes off in one thick clump that sticks to your finger. Reminds you of the gum people always stick under the desks. 

With a look of disgust, you wipe it off and continue looking around. 

A soft wind coming from the smashed balcony doors is the only noise you can hear. 

You wonder what Helens’ doing. 

Then, there’s something in the air. Nothing like the dust or the scent of chocolate, but a noise. It’s some sort of chime; light and soft like the call bell downstairs.

You cross through the main bedroom entryway, intrigued and more awake than you had been a few minutes ago.

Who knows, maybe it’ll be this floor’s anomaly.

You wonder where it’s even coming from: quiet as a breath, it disappears behind each thump of the blood in your ears. Maybe from the storage closet, or the bathroom? Whatever–wherever–it was, you determine it must be close. 

Doing a double take, you quickly discover that the kitchen floor was very close to caving in.

Ah. 

Well, now you know why the ceiling was dipping on the other story. 

Seems the bathroom and storage room are off limits, then. 

Ding.

You turn your head. There it is again.

With only one other traversable room left, at least in this apartment, you find your way into the second bedroom. It’s smaller, and without a window it feels as if you’re staring into the endless throat of space.

The wood hums endless tunes underneath you, and there are shapes dancing in your vision, trying to convince you that they’re stars. Stars, and not hooded eyes of indistinct figures.

In the centre, backed up against the far wall–painted a stormy grey–is a cot. It used to be white, paint now peeling off of the wood and curling like angry fingers. There’s a small heart carved into the headboard. It’s obvious it wasn’t a part of the original design; scratchy, as if done with some knife instead of a well-trained machine. 

You like it better than the carbon copies, though. 

Above it hangs another reminder of one of the parent’s handiwork: something halfway between a traditional wind chime and a baby’s mobile. Falling apart as it is, you can still see the wood carved with pure love and twine threaded with nothing but adoration. Sanded wood and glass clink together, the wind from the hallway their conductor. 

There’s a few animals carved into twirling plaques, as well. At least, you think there is. There’s what looks to be a bird with a comically large beak–maybe a woodpecker?–and another that just looks like a homunculus with stick legs. 

It’s so utterly odd looking that it gets a chuckle out of you.

Asides from that, the only one that vaguely looks like anything living is one near the centre; a pig. It has sharply drawn trotters and floppy ears that cover its eyes. It spins endlessly in some subtle wind you can’t feel, glass frosted with the endless damp that coats everything in place of dust. 

But, from the darkness, something whispers.

You pay it no mind and continue staring at the cot and the home-made baby mobile. Each chime sounds like a baby’s wail: soft and nothing. It sparks something unknown in your chest. Maybe it's mourning. For who and what, you don’t really know. Provoked by some sort of empathy, perhaps.

You’re about to call for Helen–considering the large lack of somewhat interesting things here, you’re sure she’d like this–when there’s another whisper. It's closer this time.

What is that?

At first, you try to shove it off–there’s more broken windows than unbroken in this place. In the dark, it doesn’t take long for a person's mind to convince them that the wind is undead whispers, after all. 

There’s a humming in your ears. Not the sharp ring that usually finds you in calm silences and in the warmth of a sunny street, but constant all the same. It ebbs and flows like a breeze; the low mumble of a class yet to start: the distant hum of cars on the motorway: the eerie clatter of trees in the beginnings of a summer storm. 

It’s not distracting or intrusive like those invisible flies downstairs–buzzing ceaselessly around your ears–but not like the voices from the radio, either.

Sceptically, you walk out of the second bedroom with a growing frown on your face. The elastic of the mask’s straps dig into the back of your ears. 

Staying still, quieting your own breaths and trying not to focus on the constant thumping from the walls, you attempt to decipher what’s being said. 

You come up fruitless. It just sounds like an endless string of gibberish to you: too quiet to pick up and too muddled to unravel. 

Maybe you need to get your ears checked, too. 

Sliding your flashlight under your arm, you press down on a part of your ear, temporarily blocking out the noise. All you hear is the faint thrum of your body: each pulse of your heart, each twitch of your crooked fingers. Taking them away, the noise reappears. 

It’s somewhat of a relief to know that the noises weren’t phantoms created by your tired mind. But still, it begs the question of what, exactly, it was. Let alone where it was coming from. It could be an apartment on this floor, or maybe on one of the others. The staircase wasn’t exactly closed off, after all. 

Even so, you’re still sure it's close. A thin wall or two away close. 

So, you lightly step back to the main bedroom, expecting to pick up on some sort of change.

Nothing happens. 

A gentle gust of wind scrapes against the broken glass, and for a split second, you try your hardest to convince yourself that is all it is; the wind.

A gust pushes you forward and, wondering if the noise was coming from the bathroom or storage room, you try the kitchen.

Well, you get as close as you can to it without falling through.

Still no change. 

Mind busy with the hushed buzz, you temporarily disregard your fear of the boards underneath you and peek out into the hallway. As you swivel your head left and right–half searching for the source of the noise and half looking for Helen–you find nothing but air and rotting walls. 

Your light illuminates the staircase, almost hoping to see someone hiding in the darkness. It’d scare the shit out of you, Helen or stranger aside, but you’d rather find an obvious source than be left–quite literally–in the dark. 

You find no one.

Then, you try the other end of the hall. The lambent glow of the moon seems centuries away. 

Still no one.

“Helen?” Your voice cracks in your throat. “Helen! Do you,” You swallow something down. A clump of twitching nerves and bile. “Do you hear that?”

You wait a few moments for a response. You’re greeted with heavy silence. It’s deafening; somehow worse than being told a direct ‘no’. 

Wearily, you step out of the doorway, out of your damp burrow, and into the hallway. The creaking of the floor–of the walls–feels so quiet. 

Has it gotten any louder? Are you getting any closer?

Your light darts in and out of the different apartments. “Helen?”

Or is it getting closer to you?

“Helen! Where are you?” 

Passing by another apartment, you still can’t manage to find her. Either your eyesight is going, or she’s suddenly become one of the best hide and seek players you’ve known since primary school. That has to be it. She must be hiding from you for some reason, ready to jump out at you any moment.

Inside, you’re divided. Part paranoid, part annoyed–what if she just left you here?–and part confused. Both at the noise, and her sudden disappearance: you don’t remember her being a relative of Houdini. 

“I’m meant to be the one doing the scaring here!” You raise your voice, hoping to reach her. The faint whispers are your only response. “Jeeze, do you really hate me that much?” You try to play on her empathetic side, draw her out with offhanded self-deprecation that always makes her rebuke, but even that wields nothing. 

Brows furrowed, you begin to make another round. This time, you hastily search inside the different apartments too, hoping to catch a glimpse of her silky hair or the toe of her trainers.

You examine another apartment, almost skidding on the wet wood. There’s the flat face of a table leaning against a wall–legs missing–and another grimy, smashed window.

After practically running up and down the hallway, you can’t help the way your heart jumps in its marrow cage when you realise the volume of that uncanny noise hasn’t changed. At all. It’s not louder, nor quieter; just that same, off-putting, low mumble. 

“Helen! Come on, this isn’t funny. Just come out already.” You say it with a worried smile on your face and end it with a pathetic half-laugh.

Where could she be? You know you’re only skimming the apartments, wandering in and out of each room like a pacing animal, but with how many you’ve searched, you should’ve seen something by now. Plus, with how long you’ve been calling out for her, she would’ve come out of whatever dank hole she was hiding in.

If you were searching for Jeanne, you would understand. Unless you were gravely injured, she would continue playing her game for as long as she could. She was a proud winner who liked losing as much as she liked getting an injection: doing her best to avoid it by any means necessary. But this was Helen. Helen who doesn’t like silence. Helen who hates the dark.

There’s nothing in the next apartment, either. 

It strikes you then and there that the only other reason that she wasn’t responding was because she was hurt. Hurt to the point of being knocked out.

With the revelation, it doesn’t take long for your mind to dive into a worried spiral. What if the floor finally gave way? What if she’s already on the ground floor? Neck bent like your fingers. Face contorted with some unheard screech you’d been too distracted to hear. Broken and soulless, and bleeding and turning that ugly cream carpet red.

Suddenly, warm air blows over the shell of your ear, something teasing that sends a sharp spike of fear through every muscle. 

You jolt, veins thrumming with fear and relief, “Helen, you-”

Your flashlight illuminates nothing but air. 

That jumbled mumbling, that damned whispering, has risen: gotten louder without you even noticing it. It pounds against your eardrums and buzzes under your skin. It feels so close, yet so far, echoing out from every crevice. Coming from everywhere and nowhere.

With a war drum in your chest, you beg yourself to just calm down. All you’re doing by overthinking is making things worse for yourself, and probably Helen, too. It’s just the wind–just a creation of your overly-active imagination. Just that stupid, stupid effect Noah was talking about. 

What scares you, though, is that you begin to hear words. 

Last time you checked, the wind didn’t speak to anyone other than those fated for tragedy. As far as you were aware, you were no Orpheus. 

It’s like the radio all over again, yet somehow worse.

Thick, clotted air fills your lungs. Inhale and exhale. Stop yourself from getting so worked up: just inhale and exhale-

-But it’s so loud. 

You have a walkie-talkie in your pocket, don’t you? How about you put it to use? That’s what it’s-

-Louder. 

If she’s hurt, you’ll probably have to call-

-And louder.

You knew you shouldn-

-and louder. 

“Shut up!”

All goes quiet.

After all the noise, it feels wrong. 

In the blink of an eye, the class quietens, the motorway stands still, and the trees omit themselves to a vow of silence. 

There’s only you. You, your flashlight, the keys and your panicked breaths. It comes out in mist-like puffs in front of your face. 

You don’t remember dropping your flashlight. You don’t remember pressing your hands to your ears, either.

You take a few deep inhales. “I’m losing it. I’m absolutely losing it.” Bringing a hand to your eyes, you rub them, as if trying to dispel the lingering fingers of some sort of mania. You do it much more harshly than you really meant to. Feeling the soft tissue squish and scrape against the cavities of your skull, you hope it brings some sense back to you. 

You crouch down to grasp your flashlight again. You see your face, distorted, in a puddle on the wood. With your back constantly to some sort of darkness, you feel yourself teetering on some sort of edge, standing stock still as not to fall. Still as those looming trees that pray to Gods your mind is too young to even know the name of. 

A red hot blanket of indignation drapes itself over your fear for a moment. Whoever the Hell this was, whatever dim-witted asshole and their friends, was going to get an earful. Maybe even a right hook, if you were feeling ballsy. 

You scan the halls up and down, keeping a careful ear for any sort of movement, any sort of amused giggle. You almost expect a TV show presenter to appear with a bunch of cameras or something. Even something as outlandish as that would ease your mind.

Anything that gives you a logical explanation as to what you just heard.

You begin to even search the walls, almost expecting to find grinning eyes staring at you from behind the rotting pipework. What an absurd thought.

Then you see something move.

It's from the corner of your eye, and you pray to see Helen, or just someone, there.

You don’t. 

A chasmal wound sits before you, cracking at the edges like spindly fingers clawing their way up the walls.

Something skitters. Something dark and fat. Something with beady eyes and tiny feet. 

There's droning under the floorboards. A muted thrum that, for a few seconds, only your feet can pick up.

Then you see a tail.

And a foot.

And a snout.

And you realise with horror that there is something in the walls. Something that is speaking to you.

At first, it’s as indistinguishable as ever; that same endless murmur from before as thousands of voices speak over each other. 

But, slowly–like a church choir–they all come together, whispering in their whiny voices one great chant.

“We are small. We are many.”

And you finally begin to understand the words.

“We have teeth. We have tails.”

And all you can really do is stand in silent terror.

“We were here before. We will be forevermore.”

Over and over and over they repeat it: an unending mantra accompanied by chattering teeth and pattering feet.

You can’t even bring yourself to move, body completely unsure how to react. It’s like the flies; worming their way into your ears and resounding off of your skull.

There’s laughter there, too. High-pitched, shrill sniggering. Sniggering of a thousand strangers that you’re sure are mocking you. 

And they just keep getting louder. 

What are you even meant to do? You have to be hallucinating at this point–encouraged by a weird mix of sleep deprivation and sloping paranoia. 

You feel like you’re in some type of morbid comedy, and the joke is absolutely on you. 

It doesn’t take long before your synapses finally snap into action, forcing your legs forwards. It begins with a brisk walk and easily turns into a jog. You aim for the staircase, unsure whether you’ll be going up or down.

Abruptly, their chant changes, a few voices slow to catch onto the shift. 

“India, Tango-”

It almost makes you stop dead in your tracks: even more confused with the seemingly random words they begin chittering.

“-Kilo, November-”

You refuse to listen, just blocking it out. No need to make yourself more fearful than you already are.

“-Oscar, Whiskey, Sierra-”

And you’re almost at the staircase, when-

SNAP.

-The floor finally collapses under your weight. 

“Y/N!”

You feel your head slam against the wet, wooden flooring. For a split second, no longer than a blink, everything goes blank. 

Then there’s a strain in your ankle. And water soaking into your hoodie.

And you are very much so awake. 

“Γαμώτο- Y/N? Y/N! Are you alright?”

Your brain throbs underneath your sweat sheened skin. Something wet slides down your cheek, and you wonder if it's blood. Looking up, partially balanced on your hands, all you can really do is stare at Helen with a mixture of utter horror and confusion. You open your mouth. Your jaw whines like one of the doors, and you taste wood on your tongue. “What the fuck.”

She hooks her arms under your shoulders, mumbling apologies under her breath as she drags you forward like a limp corpse. Easily, your foot is freed. Back on your feet, you wipe any residue off of your hands and face with frantic fingers. 

Turning and looking down, you see that your luck had quickly run out: the wood had finally broken through.

Knowing that there’s concrete under it doesn’t bring you as much comfort as you thought it would. 

A cold buzz overtakes the hot pain.

“Is your foot normal? Does it hurt?”

You swing your head back around. “Where were you?”

Her face twitches in surprise, not expecting your harsh tone. “Where were you? I was asking for you to see if you wanted to go up to the next floor to see if it was like this one. I couldn’t find you so I went up to see if you were there: I came down when I heard the wood snap.”

You watch her for a moment, thinking. ‘I came down when I heard the wood’, not ‘I came down when I heard you calling for me.’

Did she…did she not hear you?

Did she not hear that?

You think your ankle should hurt a lot more than it does. You think there should be pain jumping up your leg when you put your weight down.

“I was…” Swallowing, your eyes search the floor for something you don’t know the name of. Your flashlight has skidded to the foot of the staircase. “...I was in the last apartment by the staircase.”

Her brows furrow. “Why did you not come out when I asked?” 

Your mouth is dry.

You desperately want to explain it to her. Tell her you’d be calling out for her for the last who knows how long, stalking up and down the hall. Tell her that there is something in the walls and you fear they know things you’ve tried to bury. However, the moment you re-run the memories, think over how to even begin to describe what just happened, you realise you sound mad. The epitome of it.

As supportive and believing as Helen was, there was no way she was going to believe you.

“I just…”

There’d be that look on her face. It’d be there for a second, but you’d still see it. It’d be on Noah’s face when she tells him–clear as freshwater–as well. 

“...got scared by some rats.”

You may be human, and it may be right to accept help when you’re hurting, but you still refuse to be seen as mad. 

Sick.

Her face softens. Still somewhat annoyed–for a fair reason from her perspective–but lesser so.

Nobody likes not being believed, after all.

“Rats?”

You nod. 

“I have never liked rats,” there's a smile in her eyes. You think it’s meant to comfort you. “Maybe we should leave if there’s more?”

You hope you do. You pray to Gods who have long averted their gaze from this place of endless night and thumping walls to allow you to leave. 

“Hm…well, we do not scare easy, do we? We aren’t afraid of the dark or,” she pauses for a moment. You don’t know if it's for effect or not. “Rats, are we?”

Something in you wilts when you realise she’s trying to encourage you. Encourage you to go through with things. To overcome what she thinks is just a minor fear. 

You spite August winds and cigarette smoke for sewing your mouth shut.

There’s an attempt at a smile underneath your mask. It doesn’t reach your eyes. “Yeah.”

Smoothly, her fingers intertwine with yours. She feels blisteringly warm. 

“Is your foot and ankle okay?”

You can’t bring yourself to lie. 

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

In all their ‘nonsensical’ murmuring, the words the Things speak do have some meaning behind it, if you look close enough.

IMPORTANT: If you, or any of your friends, are going urban exploring, and stumble upon a building like this (incredibly damp, rotting wood, mould etc.) do not enter. Please do not risk an injury, or your life, for the sake of an experience or some cool photos. Further, if you visibly see your friend get injured, actually check them over to make sure they're genuinely okay. 

On note of updates: expect an update every three weeks on a Friday. If it doesn’t come then, expect it on the Saturday, and, if it doesn’t come until then, expect that I’m busy and won’t be able to update until next week. As much as I’d like to write to my heart’s content, I unfortunately don’t have all that time :’]

- Γαμώτο = Damn it

[dabihawksluvr]

Ok but wait.

New headcanon.

Shigaraki (unintentionally) sexualizes Izuku, because of his trauma and current battle against AFO's influence (you can't tell me that motherfucker doesn't have yandere obession type love over his brother Yoichi). Plus, he sees himself in Izuku and AFO most definitely sexually abused the poor guy as he 'raised' him.

It never goes anywhere, and it only starts 'kicking in' when Izuku reaches out to Tenko. That stirs up this longing to be seen and 'saved' in him, mixing with the trauma he's been dealt and breaking his mind even more. Because AFO fucked him up that badly.

(( This is not a Pro-Ship post whatsoever, just discussion of trauma and how it can effect an already fragile mind. I have thought about this before many times, obviously this isn't canon but if this were written into a villain's personality/story I think it'd be an interesting thing to explore in the context of healing one's trauma and finding more healthy ways of doing so without harming others. ))

[itsmm4hiii]

Devoted Obession. - R. Sukuna

Synopsis: (REQUESTED). Based on the song Fan Girl By Ghost Town. Sukuna is purely obsessed with a known worshipper that has in the past worshipped Sukuna as the only god she's ever known. Both obsessed and in love, Sukuna shows his intention to you but do you feel the same way about they Ryomen Sukuna? Pairing: Sukuna Ryomen X Female Reader

       

         He's hesitant as he explores unfamiliar grounds. His lips are tender on yours, gentle as if barely brushing against your lips. While you were drawn in you were quick to pull away. The end of the kiss was abrupt, instantaneous as you came to your senses. Something in which he lacked.

                    He had been seated at your waist, straddling your body, back arched so his face could be mere inches from you. Your arms are pulled above your head, your fingers loosely stretching the headboard as both your hands are seized by one sole hand of his. His other left hand previously played with strands and loose tuff of your hair before slipping to caress your cheek during the duration of the short lived kiss.

                    When his focus slipped he forgot he had bound your hands above your head under the weight of his hand. When you eased into the kiss, his whole body relaxed and what was left of his heart audibly skipped a beat when he felt the same affection he showed you being reciprocated. Though it was a cheap rouse by you to slip out of his binding grip.

'GOJO!' you shriek in the knowledge that the whole dorm floor would be woken up,

                    With force he's pushed onto his back, his head dangling over the edge of the stock standard bed all rooms within the dormitory had. His hands clench in the realisation that you had slipped his grip and was holding onto the residual warmthness that he had once lovingly embraced. He holds his head up, his eyes scatter across the ceiling in disappointment. Sukuna Ryomen knows it wouldn't be any much longer before Yuji switches with him and or Gojo Satoru appears to annihilate Sukuna for his actions.

                    Though you had pushed him off you he was still touching you. His upper body between your legs, while his waist sits on top of yours pinning your lower half down, due to you pushing him your arms have remained unpinned when he stretches out his body on top of yours. There's a heavy amount of silence in the room but the exterior communal hall is loud, overbearing feet sprint through the hall and pull on the door that's held in its place by furniture Sukuna had strategically placed. You know the sounds of those footsteps and disorienting voices, they belong to the only other female residents, Nobara Kugisaki and Maki Zenin.

                    In the slips of your focus, Sukuna sits between your parted legs, his hands within his lap. He's slightly comforted by looking down upon you, seeing you weak at the sight of him is a thrill only he knows. Through the outline of the sheets he can see your body slightly tremble in his presence, that consoles his disheartness of you pushing him away during his only kiss in the duration of his lifetime.

'Don't act like you didn't like it, you must have enjoyed it. Since you returned the favour... even if you enjoyed it deep down you still enjoyed it.' he teased, warping to the reality to suit his needs,

                    Flustered you sit up and move towards the headrest, you don't dare to stare in the direction of him though every atom of your body you can feel his unwavering stare upon you. You did subconsciously move into the kiss even when you didn't know why. It didn't mean that you wanted it to happen right?

Confused within your throats you let out a sigh, while you knew that he knew that you were confused you had to act like you it was your original plan all along, 'Whatever makes you feel better Sukuna Ryomen.'

'Still using my full name are you? Huh. It still shows how you're obsessed with me.' he mocks,

'Like I'd ever been associated with you, if anything you're the one obsessed with me.' you mutter,

                    It was the only time you met his eyes. They stare back with unexpected affection, something you thought couldn't exist in a soulless curse like Sukuna Ryomen. There's no signs of lust, just wishful thinking to exist within a world that he could somewhat achieve normality and a life where he's be forever consoled and loved in return by you. The left side of his lip is slightly bit to keep his emotions intact.

'I know you think of me from time to time like I do of you...' he pauses and moves forward, 'I know your little secret that you still worship me like a god.'

'They do say "don't meet your heroes".' chuckles an unknown voice,

                    Strangled by a grip on the collar of Yuji's shirt, Sukuna is forcibly held back by Gojo Satoru. A smiling Gojo, impressed by the revelation that he could dangle you in front of Sukuna to be controlled, proves to be exciting. His eyes glow slightly through his blindfold, dragging the weak body of Sukuna backwards toward Gojo. Before Gojo has the chance to say the last word, Sukuna switches out with Yuji and a sluggish head of Yuji Itadori rests on the stomach of Satoru.

                    Tossed over Gojo's left shoulder Yuji is still partially asleep, unable to understand the situation that just occurred. Gojo questions if you need to talk though you brush him off to get some sleep and make up a story about what happened rather than telling the truth. Staring at Gojo while telling him that you were kissed by a ten thousand year old curse was something that you wanted to keep to yourself. He leaves, reassuring you that if you need anything he's around.

. . .

                    How could you sleep after the events of yesterday? As your eyes watch the rippling surface of the much needed cup of coffee you begin to connect a few dots, placing pieces of the puzzle together to understand Sukuna's extremely personal obsession. Your mind concluded that there was one current answer. The town that you grew up in worshipped him as a god, the protector of the quaint little village, thus he's infatuated with the idea that you're some sort of fangirl of his. Some sort of devotee and love him for all his flaws, perhaps that what intrigued him first, second to everyone's need of companionship.

'Y/n I'm so sorry I didn't mean-' out of breath and in fear, Yuji tumbles into the kitchen worry and dread that his classmate hates him for something he didn't do scares him,

                    You smile at Yuji. You desire is to keep the actions of Sukuna to yourself and not worry anyone about what happened last night. You consol him, softly telling him that you didn't blame him and you were just frightened that Sukuna was standing over you in the middle of the night like a demon you'd seen in sleep paralysis, and that's all.

His head bows till strands of hair atop of his head softly touch the surface of the floor, 'I'm sorry Y/n.'

                    He was told off by Gojo, though as anyone can see you can only keep a curse in line before they start becoming rebellious.

'Itadori, it's fine, seriously. No hard feelings.' you reassure him,

                    Seeing the bright perky Yuji Itadori begin to appear from his apologetic self. You wrap your arms around him casually, your head softly nuzzled into his cheek as you hug him to overly reassure him. It's short of a hug. Only lasting a few seconds though the shortness was deceived by his presence. During the whole duration of the hug, you were distracted by Sukuna. Warranted it to feel a little longer was caused by Sukuna's mouth to form on Yuji's cheek that was pressed against yours. Unbeknownst to Yuji that Sukuna's face had formed there, Sukuna used it to his full advantage. His tongue lips feathered the skin of your cheek, smirking against your cheek as he did so. He allowed himself to fluctuate between quick kisses and long ones where his lips were left for a long duration of time.

                    When you pulled away he disappeared, smirking as the formation disappeared into Yuji's cheek. You don't know how the future will turn out, but if things go sour you will use your god, the Sukuna Ryomen and use him to your full advantage to get everything and anything you want. You smile softly knowing how you will manipulate your relationship with him to your ultimate benefit, but you couldn't help but question yourself. One that you couldn't solve and was left on the tip of your tongue, infuriated that you couldn't answer it simply. The question being...

                     Did you actually love Sukuna? 

[f1-disaster-bi]

Do you write Oscar/Lando pairing? :) I had an idea of Oscar coming to the team, excited to get to know Lando, only to find grumpy, stand offish and cold Lando with lot of anxiety. He is having hard time to deal with all the pressure, but Oscar slowly breaks down his walls

This idea is super cute anon!

It's not a pairing I have dabbled much in beyond a few short writings, and I don't have time to write a full fic exploring all of that but I can give you some rambles for it!

Lando, when Oscar joins the team, is under a lot of pressure. He has the car to deal with, the fall out of the last season, there's eyes on him and of course, people reminding him at every turn that he still hasn't won a race despite knowing the car is shit.

He now also is the oldest in the team. He's the driver with more expereince, the one expected to help Oscar settle in and get used to F1 the way Carlos did for him, and Lando is just struggling with all of that so when he meets Oscar, he's closed off. He's helpful, but he keeps his walls up to stop himself seeming like a mess to Oscar. He's trying to be strong and cool and the one that Oscar can lean on. All while drowning.

Oscar kinda figures it out after a while. He notices Lando's obession with data, with doing as much work as he can. He notices the way Lando's smiles don't reach his eyes, and how sometimes doing media things leaves Lando absolutely exhuasted.

Slowly, Oscar tries to get closer off camera. He start bringing Lando coffee when they're at the MTC. He brings them snacks, and cracks jokes that make Lando smile. He starts hanging around with him during breaks, chatting to him, and slowly Lando starts to banter back but for real. There is no fake smiles any more, no forced laughter.

Lando starts to relax and open up to Oscar, and eventually lets Oscar see "what a mess I am", but Oscar doesn't think he's a mess and makes sure to tell him that.

[domesticandlovingmonsters]

I'm torn up between a few veilguard stories I have brainrot over.

Help pls!! I have so many ideas.

Option 1: This is set before the game. After Harding and Varric hire adopt Rook. Just a shenanigan story. I want to explore that silliness of those three travelling together.

Option 2: Self indulgent of Rook being in a budding love triangle between the Dellamorte men. Might contain spoilers, we'll see.

Option 3: Mourn Watch Rook with Emmerich, cute little outing and scaring their found family with a tour of the Necropolis.

Probably wont be any nsfw in these. Just cute stories to feed my obession. And will be spoiler free.

[scummy-writes]

Types of Gilbert & Various Hcs

I enjoy thinking about my favorite characters on a daily basis, if my brain allows for it. This generally leads to different versions of my favorite characters forming in order to explore AUs and other 'what if' scenarios. For Gilbert specifically, it's a scale of Normal Gilbert, More Obsessed Gilbert, and Fucked Up Gilbert. I said months ago I'd like to make a list compiling some different versions of Gilbert I think about, and share some Hcs with each type. People seemed interested, so I've decided to make a post for each version and just periodically update over time. This is all just for fun, so leave me alone if you dislike/disagree with stuff on this list. Otherwise, I'm happy to chat about them!

This post will focus on:

╰❧ Normal/default/'canon' Gilbert

This list will dive into spoilers, as well as some minor NSFW topics and topics of self harm.This is the type of Gilbert I write in The Beast's Torment, Gilbert in the Bath, This Is Love, Dousing Pervasion, and similar works. In my mind, this is what we see in canon content, but interspersed with personal hcs that I enjoy. I also use some versions of this Gilbert for when I discuss Gilbert/mc/Silvio, Gilbert/Silvio, Chevbert, Gilbert/Roderic.

➺ Some contamination ocd. I don't think its a fully blown thing, however in one eng event, where him and Mc go to that bar, and he ends up kicking a table away to show a hidden door, he has an odd moment where he goes to grab Mc and then jerks his hand back due to it being dirty from when he fought with a dude there.

Its a small odd moment, which showcased an issue with getting her 'dirty' in more than the physical sense. I believe that he has issues with this even further into their relationship, where if hes had to dispose of some troubling nobles, he will refuse to touch her until he's in clean clothes/bathed. I don't know if this would extend to him sometimes avoiding her in general, due to his own issues with being a monster. I think his love for her would trump over that.

It's an odd thing because, going through his route loosely, this isn't present but there doesn't seem to be many moments where it Could be present. He's more focused on trying to deduce how corrupted she may already be, as well as deducing other factors for his 'final judgement' wish.

➺ I like to think that writing was an escape for him with life in general as a child, but it kickstarted heavily the more he learned about Mc. Then, the writing became centered around wanting to leave a series behind for her, whether she knew he wrote it or not, with the hopes that she would find courage in how the protaganist sticks to her ideals and never seems to give up hope. (I believe thats what it's loosely about, anyway)

It would be a final comforting thought he would mock himself for, if he had chosen to die without meeting her.

➺ has trouble sleeping the first few nights theyre officially a couple and sharing a bed. Occasionally does later on too but not as bad. Sinks into touch more, leans against mc more. He's not used to relying on someone such as her, and trust is a fickle thing in Obsidian. It wouldn't really be a concious action, either, and he would have to ease himself into it even when he wants to do this.

➺ When first intimate, he has bouts of getting very quiet and focusing more on Mc's reactions to xyz scenario. Not always in sexually intimate settings, but would be more noticeable during them. He'd want to etch everything he could in his mind, stemming from the mild obsession and idolization with her. (i will call it 'mild' since he still seems to control himself regarding it, it could be so much worse in comparison to other obessed otome characters)

➺ selfharms. In particular, I don't believe it's typically with a weapon of sorts, but I believe that he has had random moments of fits regarding him becoming more and kore of a beast. It lessens over time, especially when he gets into a relationship, but I believe it still happens for years. It's tied to his trauma, tied to thinking how his mother and albert would be disappointed in him or disgusted, and tied to his own feelings trying to come out.

Specifically, I think he will sometimes starve himself, or physically hurt himself by scratching himself up with his nails. He doesn't like anyone to see it or address it if they see it, but unfortunately Mc would see it and it would prompt a few discussions, which would be... difficult... because he hates addressing it.

➺ in terms of nsfw, vaguely (since this is a smth that is consistently always being added onto, its harder to have a firm and solid set list for me). Switch & bi. I feel like he loves topping mc for various reasons, and he has a penchant for wanting to try out anything she may want to do even if he's not 100% fully into it, and trying out various things in general, because of his obsession skewing a bit towards wanting to be her first in multiple, multiple, ways that in return make him feel that they are more intertwined. (That is not specific just to sex).

He makes comments about not liking just passive submissive women, and I believe this may be tied to personal preferences but also just due to the role he plays as a villain. He *wants* the willing nature of the participant. He wants it clear that they want him back. Otherwise I feel that it could lead to him having a nagging suspicion that they feel coerced into it, when that's....not what he wants. I think this is also why he makes comments about wanting mc to dom at times (even though cybird will never have her do so...), because the very blatant and clear display of want turns him on and makes him feel, well, wanted for Him and not an object to be feared by someone he loves. (I think this is why he also seems to fluster a bit when mc does things like bite him or teases a sensitive spot). Yet due to trust issues he has trouble relinquishing control fully.

He would be a powerbottom fyi

It's been proved he is just also a little gross. Trying to drink from her glass where her lips were, even outside of a relationship. Licking his thumb to taste her saliva/crumbs left on her lips. Smaller moments like that where you realize he's a lil gross (appreciative). I do believe this still ties into obsession, at the end, however.

Last updated: 07202024

[calidore]

some fic ideas that might not see the daylight

groups: seventeen, ateez

untitled (possibly "Bittersweet")

group: seventeen

ship: wonwoo x mingyu x reader

tags: obssessed writer, newmoon!reader x sun!mingyu x fullmoon!wonwoo

synopsis: not really sure about this one

mingyu is a writer obsessed with the idea of conssuming love. he has been working on a novel where he explores the relationship of two characers and the ideas of perfect love and sacrifice. he is unable to write something satisfing, but the novel captures his entire soul, so he's trying to find inspiration in the world around him. that is when he finds his perfect characters: two strangers he sees almost everyday trying to navigate the dangerous world of consuming love. but are these two people real, or did his obession manifest into his life and took everything.

cyberpunk

group: ateez

ship: yunho x reader

tags: time travel(ish), mentions of suicide, cyberpunk vibes, past lovers, lots of angst

synopsis: this one is just a longer version of my other fic

yunho blames himself for the death of his soulmate, so he makes a deal to go to another time and universe where she is still alive to repair all the wrong things he thinks he has done. he has to make her fall in love with him again, otherwise he will slip out of time and they will never see eachother ever again.

untitled (nsfw)

group: ateez

ship: bf!yunho x reader x enemy!mingi

tags: boyfriend yunho, boyfriend's best friend mingi, too many nsfw (fingering, double penetration, blowjob, threesome, voyuerism)

synopsis: you and yunho have been dating for two years and in those two years there has not been a moment in which you and mingi have not been fighting over the most insignificant thing. the irony is that you and mingi have known eachother long before you knew your boyfriend and you two got closer because of your rivalry with mingi. all three of you have been attending the same dancing academy. you and mingi have always been fighting over who is the best dancer, but both of you became silent when yunho showed up. now, after two years of dating yunho, you find out that mingi does not actually hate you. he just wanted to get into your boyfriend's pants. and yours.

[fushitoru]

only an ask because i've started bridgerton gojo fic and i'm obessed with it but i wondered if anyone have already asked you if you'll eventually one day start a bridgerton geto fic?

and can we talk about your writing? it's too much for my eyes, i'm almost like... dumbfounded??? i don't have words babe... 😭

have a nice weekend ;)

i def would love to write that!!! i might write bridgerton!nanami* next but closer to when bridgerton!gojo ends i will make a poll and see. honestly, i would be open to writing something for geto, nanami, and choso. maybe sukuna if i feel the inspiration but definitely not toji. LMAO sorry he's just too much of a stinky man (affectionate) for me to be able to write him in that setting. manifesting i get to write all of them within the next year <3

it might be fun to wait until s4 to see benedict's story because i would think exploring the idea of suguru with a commoner might be interesting (or i could just read the book LMAO)

thank you so much for your words haha. i totally understand being dumbfounded by my writing because as im done with a chapter im just like "ew wtf did i just write"

*for anyone who might be new here, bridgerton!nanami would be really polin coded, with reader as whistledown

-aashi <3

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

Fic Author Self Rec Game

When you get this, make a post with your favorite five fics you've written, then pass it on to at least five other writers. Let's spread the self-love!

Thank you @jo-harrington for the tag. I'm so sorry I didn't get to it sooner!

Tagging: @leighsartworks216, @kittttycakes, @can-of-pringles, @16boyfriends-and-me and @a-libra-writes

I'm really curious at what you guys pick! (Also if you have any original stuff you want to share, now is the time!)

In no particular order:

I Want it All : Astarion x Evie (Ace!Tav), Angst, Asexual Guilt, Happy Ending

A surprise to literally nobody who has followed me in the past year. I think this is some of my strongest work as well as my first dive into writing an explicitly asexual character. (You can probably read a lot into some of my other works, but that's neither here nor there). I still get comments on this one and it makes me happy to see it's at least made some impact on the fandom.

Welcome to Hellfire: Eddie Munson x Lucy Henderson (OC), Fluff, Awkwardness, First Meetings

I really need to get back to writing these two, specifically Lucy's first session, especially now that I've played a lot more D&D. Getting back to the fic at hand, I think I did a good job allow Eddie to still be kind of a dick while not making Lucy look like an idiot for accepting to still play with him. He's a deceptively hard character to balance and I think it's a solid introduction to Lucy as a character.

Shaking Hands: Hawkeye Pierce x Elizabeth "Doc" O'Neil (OC), Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Canon Typical Violence

Another couple of character I need to get back to writing. While "What's Up Doc: Part 1" would be the better entry to start with these two, I still haven't actually finished it and I feels wrong to recommend something that hasn't been touched in literal years. I've changed a lot as a writer and will likely go back to touch it up. This though feels more complete. I also think I captured Hawkeye's voice particularly well in his rant towards the end. I'd still want to expand this to pace it out to a full episode, but I'm happy with how it stands now.

More Than Sufficient: Thrawn x Captain!Reader, Canon Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Pining

Admittedly most of my earlier writing I low key cringe at, but this has held up well. It gave me an excuse to write more formal dialogue which is a rarity. I like the challenge of restraint and relying more of subtext. One of these days my obession will be stoked again. In the meantime, of all my Star Wars fics, the Thrawn ones in particular stand out to me as some of my best.

Rough Day: Doctor Strange & Ellie Jackson (OC), Mentor!Strange, Hurt/Comfort, Strange trying to understand a stressed out teenager

It was a toss up between this and another Astarion x Evie fic "For All I Care", but I ultimately decided this one needed more love. I needed some representation for the Marvel fandom, and Ellie really is one of my favorite OCs (even if I'm now thinking of converting her and Cassandra into an original work). I just like exploring Strange as a mentor/father figure if only because he's not very good at it, but he tries.