#sympathetic captor

[tendertenebrosity]

Dissonance masterpost

Fanfic for Ocean's Echo, featuring unwilling mind link shenanigans! Watch this space, there might be more of this.

Sync

Icebreakers

Misstep

Limits

Familiarity

[mayullla]

Title: Princess rescued by the hero

Character(s): Hero (Named character/original work)

Summary: A Hero arrived to save you yet you could not help but fear him more than the villain.

Tags/Warnings: Princess!reader, male!yandere, general yandere themes, implied manipulation, drabble: 680 words

It was a classic tale of a princess, a hero, and a villain. The princess was taken away from her home and family by the villain, only to be trapped within an old and dusty castle, and later saved by a hero.

You thought that they were just stories, nothing more.

Your captor was a man who knew how to use both dark magic and the sword. His subordinates were monsters and shadows that he created to rule over the kingdoms and nations. You wondered what you had done to catch the eyes of such a man, but in the end, there was always a hero.

Someone who would save you from the grasp of the wicked man…

"Thank you for saving me." It was hard for you to breathe as you stood in front of the ruined halls of the old castle and stared at the hero's face. The man who saved you placed a hand on his chest as he got down on one knee along with his team. You couldn't see his face as he looked down, bowing at you in a respectful manner. "You are now safe, princess."

Maybe it was best that you didn't see his face, you thought to yourself as you looked at the hero and his group.

You were still conscious of what happened in the fight. Your hands shivered at the thought when the dark lord turned into a dragon to kill the hero’s group, only to die at the hands of the hero who stabbed his sword into the monster’s chest.

You looked to your side to see the dead dark lord who took you away from your home, or what was left of him. He had turned into nothing but a burnt corpse consumed by the flames that he made.

The fight was still fresh in your mind, the spells that were cast on both sides from the dark lord himself and a wizard from the hero's group. Arrows flew at both sides in such a small space, and the crashes of swords still rang in your ears.

"What is your name? I need to know the hero who saved me." You spoke, holding on to whatever little pride you had. Holding yourself back from stuttering after everything you have gone through till now.

"My name is Vale," he said, his head still down. You didn't want to see his face. You were grateful truly that you were saved, and able to return home, but you could not help but become suspicious of the hero.

The hero who saved you was someone you feared.

"Thank you, Sir Vale, for killing the dark lord and saving me from him," you said as you lowered yourself down to take the man's hand, telling him to stand up and asking him if he was okay. “I will not forget you and your group's sacrifices.”

You didn't have any pity for the dark lord, for he was the one who destroyed homes and killed many. You weren't sympathetic to his death. But the moment when the hero stabbed the dark lord in the chest, the determined look on his face held something else.

You avoided the hero's eyes. Avoided looking at the blood splatter on his clothes. You could not help but wonder if there was something that you didn't know here. His eyes held a certain kind of insanity within them. The overconfidence of knowing that he would win as if this whole scenario was staged from the start.

A stage that was to reach a goal.

And you knew that this had something to do with you. When your eyes met his, you were sure of it as he held your hand tightly, warning but also clinging. The love in his eyes was crazed as he looked at you with so much passion. You were familiar with those eyes of his even before he became a hero, and tried to avoid him. Was he the one who created this stage, you wondered by yourself.

You were a fool, as you have placed yourself right on his hand.

[aquitainequeen]

Dwelling upon how the History Man in Furiosa, while weeping at the torture and death of Mary Jabassa and sympathetic to Furiosa's plight, still chooses to make himself useful to Dementus in order to survive. Even when he contributes to getting Furiosa out of his master's clutches by flattering the egos of both Dementus and Immortan Joe with talk of a 'royal marriage', he aids in her sale to someone just as bad as their captor, and Furiosa's future would have been pretty grim if she hadn't been able to escape.

And then there's History Woman Miss Giddy in Fury Road. Who not only conspires with Furiosa and the Wives to help them all escape the Citadel, she stays behind to face Immortan Joe and aim a shotgun at him, knowing she definitely isn't going to survive but defying him at the last: 'They are not your property. You cannot own a human being! Sooner or later, someone pushes back!!!'

[moonsaver]

Good day moon! Okay I normally don't do asks when it comes to yandere cause it's not my usual thing but seeing the last post you made of Yan!Sunday and his darling, that one where he just desperately wants to have that normalcy in their relationship but couldn't ever have it because of what he's done, made me think of something rather angsty; like how the darling's backlashes against his affections would probably go turn for the worst as time passes on, they don't hate him in a sense because he's really trying hard to not make them hate him and they can see that his love is real (just really fucked up) but that deep urge to hurt the person who took their freedom away is still there, it wouldn't just go away just because he loves them so much that he wouldn't dare to break them. Oh that satisfaction on seeing Sunday looking so hurt after yelling at him, they know it doesn't make them any better than him but at that point, what else is there for them to lose? Maybe in hurting him so subtly, they may find some pity in themselves for him to actually give him some semblance of love but until then, all Sunday ever receives from them are either silent treatment or backlash

Such relationship could only thrive in the worst way possible and maybe Sunday knows that but even then, he still holds out that little (delusional) hope that maybe his darling will still love him someday

Sorry for the rant, it's just that I feel for Sunday but his method will never work and it'll just deeply hurt him and his darling in the end asgfjgsfg also if it's alright, I'd request this but I'll leave it to you with how you write it, be it an imagine or anything else since I'm fine with it!

- Elys

Hello Elys! Im so sorry it took a long time for me to get to your request lol, tons of things got in the way but I remembered this request for a while.

In any case, I feel you've summed it up quite well!

Sunday isn't harsh or as brutal as I imagine him. Unlike my [i have to self advertise here, sorry HAHA] soft yan!blade, Sunday most likely wouldn't even need a bit of working around to be a softer yandere.

He's so loving, it's painful. His love is like despaired poetry for a lover who is still alive, just further than their reach. I imagine his love to be very tender, even as a yandere, if he doesn't become even softer.

And it's hard to convince him he's wrong – mainly because he already knows. But rather that's a bit distorted in his view; instead he thinks it's a wrongdoing against your nature as someone who wants to be free, but correct in the context of the situation rather than actually understanding it is absolutely wrong in general. And he doesn't budge. He's stubborn, almost infuriatingly. And instead of getting angry, I imagine he rather looks disappointed or disgruntled, which somehow does more damage/strikes more fear than anger.

And it's still heartbreaking; frustratingly for both of you, not just yourself.

You lash out, you scream, cry, wail, argue, relentlessly push and resist against him. it's your only way of getting back at him, you're sure as hell you're going to strike the hardest that way. And you relish the hurt you see in the eyes of your captor, but something more sympathetic tugs at you when you see his lovingly sad eyes. It's this cacophony of guilt, frustration, anger, and utter despair at the loss of your freedom. Sunday feels all of it, aswell, and you want to be relieved that he does – if it weren't for the fact he still wasn't letting you go.

He continually withholds your freedom from you. That single injustice to you is enough to weather your patience over time – your anger only burns hotter and hotter, pushing away any semblance of sympathy or reasoning, and it only hurts Sunday more, until you realise what you're doing, and quietly give in to sooth him for the time being. Just a little. Until that little injustice starts bothering you again. It's a toxic cycle.

And it hurts even more when Sunday tries to find normalcy in your relationship; he's trying so hard to be your lover, to hold you gently and bathe you with care, to dry you off and still love you after seeing you bare. He wants to come home and see you smile, be happy, elated that he's there, just as he feels when he sees you. But that's not what happens. His delusions and flimsy expectations are shattered the moment he steps into the dimly lit room, your form refusing to even look at him. The silence is strangely stronger than his hopes.

Anyways, that's all i can think of at the moment. I love angst yandere sunday time.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Needlework.

A grab-bag commission for the very lovely @pale-horse-writing.

Pairing: Yandere!OC x Reader.

Summary: Your long-term captor takes one more step towards making you his perfect little doll.

Word Count: 1.2k.

TW: Injury To Reader, Infantilization, Dollification, Feminization (Reader Dressed Femininely and Specifically NOT Cool With It), Implied Kidnapping, Unhealthy Relationships, and Non-Consensual Drug Use.

Every stitch took exactly fifteen seconds.

Two for the tip of the needle to pierce your skin, three more to find its exit-point, and ten for Dottie to pull the long, braided string through your punctured flesh. The final result was two perfectly symmetrical rows of neat, pinkish white ‘x’-es leading from the curve of your foot to the bottom of your knee, binding vinyl to skin and ensuring you wouldn’t be able to remove it without a great deal of trouble, without ruining your perfect white gloves and perfect white dress. The shoes themselves – because that was the point of this, as difficult as it was to remember, to make sure you couldn’t misbehave and remove your real punishment – were silver and well-polished, a pair that he'd just brought home a few days ago. There had been crossed strips of ribbon down the front at one point, but they’d been removed in favor of leaving that much more of your skin exposed, and in place of the dainty, delicate heels he usually preferred were thick platforms; about six inches tall and specially weighted to limit mobility. You couldn’t imagine where he’d gotten them. You couldn’t imagine how he’d gotten it into his head to use them for something like this.

Dottie brought the needle to your skin for the final stitch, the point sinking into your numb calf for the thousandth time. Despite everything, he wasn’t a sadist – the mask fitted over the lower half of your face and the canister it was attached to made sure you stayed limp, complacent, too strung-out to move or run or think as he worked. A few months ago, you would’ve protested, kicked and screamed and threw the kind of tantrum he’d have to calm with a hushed tone and a handful of sedatives, but you’d learned better, since then. He was going to do whatever he wanted to you, no matter how you reacted to it. The only thing you got to decide was how much it was going to hurt.

There was an airy chuckle, the sound of a thread being cut, then a fleeting kiss to the inside of your knee. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, peeling off his latex gloves and discarding them along with his bloody needle before turning his attention back to you, to your prone state. Your mask was removed, but your vision remained unfocused, the fog laying over your thoughts still thick as Dottie ran his fingertips over your cheek, rubbing out the lingering indents. Out of reflex, you leaned into his touch, eager to savor his gentleness before the numbness wore off and the ache let in, and your desperation was rewarded with a light hum, another kiss – the one to the top of your head. “You did beautifully.” You felt his lips against the shell of your ear, then your cheek. “I couldn’t ask for a better model.”

You tried to speak, to respond with something halfway coherent, but your tongue was too heavy and your throat was filled with cotton and it was all you could do to open your mouth, to let out something you could only compare to a fractured whimper. There was a sympathetic coo, a new weight on the edge of the velvet-cushioned lounge-seat he used for your little ‘adjustments’. Carefully, with pains taken not to disturb the delicate bows tied into your hair, he draped an arm over your shoulder, pulling you into his chest. “I know, I know,” he muttered, squeezing you against him before detangling himself from you completely. “But it’s for the best. I knew what had to be done the second I saw what you were getting up to while I was gone.”

What you were getting up to. He must’ve meant breaking his unspoken rules – cooking for yourself, changing out of his meticulously chosen outfits, loosening the strings of the lung-flattening corsets he took minutes out of his schedule to bind you into. You weren’t supposed to do anything, not while he was gone, not if there was a chance you’d bruise yourself or tear the hem of one of his handmade petticoats. He would never say it aloud, but he wasn’t subtle. He wanted you to be something pretty, something useless, something that was doted on and adorned with proof of his misplaced love. You’d heard him admit, once, while he thought you were asleep, that if he had his way, you wouldn’t have to do so much as think for yourself, but thankfully, he hadn’t found an article of clothing that can accomplish that. Not yet, at least.

“This’ll keep you out of trouble while I’m away.” He positioned himself at your side, clapping his hands the way you would if you were trying to get a child’s attention. An animal’s attention. “Why don’t you try taking a step for me, sweetheart?”

Dread, fear, and shame coiled in the pit of your stomach. With more than a little reluctance, you swung your feet over the side of the chair, tears immediately welling up and blurring your vision further as the platforms strained Dottie’s stitching and sent a thousand stabbing, agonizing jolts racing up your legs. Standing was no easier, but you managed to push yourself to your feet, to ignore the way your legs screamed in protest long enough to lift your right foot and took a single, unsteady st—

Your knees buckled, your strength faltering, and then you were on the ground, legs bent into a crumbled heap and dress fanning out around you. Dottie was by your side in a moment, pulling you into his arms as you heard yourself start to sniffle, as you felt warm tears start to drip down your cheeks. “Poor thing.” The sentiment was empathetic, but his cadence was overjoyed, brimming with excitement. It was the same tone he used when he sat you down in front of a vanity, made you watch as he fastened yet another lace collar around your neck. It was the same voice he used when he was on top of you, wiping away your tears as he pretended to care about whether or not you were happy. “Like a puppet without its strings. That’s alright, though. You know I’ll always be here to repair you.”

You rested your cheek against his chest, shutting your eyes. “People don’t need to be repaired.”

“But you do.” One last kiss, this one to the corner of your lips. This time, you couldn’t bring yourself to pretend the affection made you feel much of anything at all. “And that’s why I have to look after you.”

He was taking you back to your bedroom, to the pink-soaked space filled to the point of bursting with soft blankets and stuffed animals and all the things he wanted you to want. You’d be left there until the numbing agent wore off, until the pain was more than you could take, and when you cried out for him and his distorted comfort, he’d take joy in doting on you, in reassuring himself that you were too helpless to take so much as a step without his help.

You could only hope that, whenever he decided you’d learned your lesson, his stitches would come out faster than they’d gone in.

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER TWENTY: PUMPKIN SOUP

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, Daddy kink, cannibalism mentions, murder mentions

Read after the cut

---

For two days you persist in your begging for a hospital stay, seizing feebly at the improbable chance of liberty through that once feared institution.

You’ve read of women escaping their keepers through a word in the ear of some sympathetic doctor or neighbouring patient, fantasising at length that you might mimic such simple ingenuity.

The obsidian eyes of cameras in their probing fleets, your blood family surging forth to embrace you, weeping in regret at their heartless desertion— in want of it you indulge in an even greater exaggeration of illness to the extremes of near losing your voice to the performance.

Yet for all that you moan and cough and writhe in the clutches of muscle cramps and drenching fever Hannibal rejects your pleas with minimal reply.

He works shifts at the office around your care, bathing you and changing sodden bedsheets twice daily by duteous hand.

You’re fed medicine and light stews when you’re too frail to take the spoon yourself, and scarcely hungry enough to swallow, have throbbing joints chafed between his palms at your slightest complaint of suffering.

All your favourite music and filmography is set up on a timer so that you need not leave the bed at the end of each recording; like a slovenly youth you loll, watching Hammer Horror pictures back-to-back, and think your captor’s house far more lush than even those lurid sets.

When you waver between frigid and overheated your jailer adapts the room to either need, exchanging one thickness of blanket for another, training a fan upon you until you cannot help but squirm luxuriously in the breeze.

It’s on the third day, held through an attack of coughing in Hannibal’s arms, that you disintegrate and softly weep with the shame of your gratitude towards him.

He lifts your chin up in his palm, his eyes moist with empathy.

“Dear one,” he says. “What is it? Are you in pain?”

“I just don’t understand,” you say, rubbing a tear from the stinging corner of your eye. “How can you be what you are and still be so kind to me?”

Hannibal smiles, all fatherly goodwill, unruffled by the gauche enquiry.

“I am many men, and one. You knew this from the moment you sat before me in my office, kicking your foot in dislike of what you saw there. With you I’ve always been open with that aspect of myself. Some among us in society define themselves primarily by the sport they favour; I, however, embrace my multitudes, as should you, Little One.”

He strides across to your window, letting in a rope of umber light like the hair of a tower-bound princess.

“Yeah,” you say. “I get that. We’re different people with everybody. That’s how we survive: by being who they want so that they’ll like us. But what I mean is— this is real. Not just a costume, or a trick. You’re good to me because you’re choosing to be. But why do you want to do all this for me when I’m not like you?”

"I have faith that you'll come around,” says Hannibal, easily. “You don't wholly detest this life as you did in the beginning. Even what you consider the most unsavoury aspects of it will soon appeal to you, if only for the briefest moment."

You scent the inference behind his words and shake your head.

"I don't want to eat Uncle Lee. Even if I was like you, Daddy, I really don’t think I could.”

Hannibal’s visage, previously neutral, lightens with the solemn interest you recognise from therapy.

“Why is that?" he asks. “What would prevent you if you shared my tastes?”

“It’d feel... dirty."

You tense up, anticipating an airy dismissal, and are surprised when Hannibal appears to digest the answer quite as seriously as any debate.

“You equate the concept of eating flesh with sex,” he says. “A fellatio of sorts.”

Recouping from a startled coughing fit, you rasp, “I mean, not always, or that’d be super weird, but in this case— maybe? But even if I saw it as just degrading him the way he did to me, eating him would make me sick. Leland’s basically diseased."

Hannibal’s brows arch.

"If he were then I wouldn't suggest such a feast."

With a weak groan you shift to face the wall.

"You know what I mean. I just don't want to eat someone so disgusting. I mean, I don't want to eat anyone."

“Or anything, for that matter,” Hannibal comments; the quickness of his answer puts you in mind of Will.

“This isn't about that.”

"Yet it isn't entirely divorced from your illness, either."

You don’t reply, wishing he’d cut you free of the conversation and leave you to the consoling darkness of your chosen music to softly decay. He will never convince you to be what he is; you’ll only ever pretend until you’re loose of this house, or under the earth. You were not built to eat.

“What if someone else were to consume Leland Frost?" asks Hannibal suddenly.

Rolling onto your back again you find that he is the one now turned away, allowing you an enigmatic angle of cheek, the dash of his jawline, a noble in stasis.

“You'd do that for me?" you ask. “You’d eat Leland Frost?”

“Without question. It would be a token of my love."

A bashfulness comes over you, your heart stuttering in blighted rejoice that you, of all women, he would not have die in a doll.

Alana he would kill, you feel, though only through some necessity to silence or remove some object in her; Hannibal enjoys her too much to otherwise let her go, as possessive of his human toys as of the treasure box of life he has built about him.

You, the daughter-pet of the man that is his lover in all but the physical, are too vital to discard. This you have over Alana, the iron guard that is to be the favoured concubine of kings.

"I know I'm not the one you love,” you mutter, keen to pretend you hadn't heard Hannibal's wistful ruminations on the matter. “Will is.”

Hannibal sits down at your bedside, making the chair rather more elegant for his arrangement within it. You cannot help but glance at his crossed legs, feeling by memory the weight resting between them.

“I'm capable of ardour for more than one being simultaneously,” says Hannibal. “Would I have invited you into my home if I were not?"

Your mouth opens, then seals again without comment.

Once, you would have stridently declared you’d rather be detested by a cannibal than held in any regard, but being that such a claim is no longer honest you can only look at the ceiling and will yourself away from that coward’s longing to be loved.

"Do you still think that you’re unworthy?” asks Hannibal, with a certain sadness. “I selected you above others because upon reading your files and the many unhappy confessions made in private sectors of your online existence I saw your resilient heart, your keen perception of unspoken truths, and a compassion for those you hold close, few though they were, at that time.

“I saw, too, a proximity to darkness that bore a forbidden allure to you, that which you resisted through an oppressed certainty that you should.

“Your passion for it, your torment in the stranglehold of conformity— you were enamoured with your own illness and its extremes: the minimum you could consume, the lengths of time you could abstain from sustenance. The symptoms, even the most repugnant of them delighted you in the provision of security they brought to an unstable universe. That craving for discipline and your adherence to it I admired.”

Hannibal pauses, watching you take in his confession with a continuing want of acceptance.

“Ultimately you recoil from my habits as you do from all eating,” he says. “In you, the consumption of human flesh is made equal to that of all animals.”

With a jolt you stare at him, wondering if he is aware that you've come to so similar a realisation about him.

"I’ll never be a cannibal,” you say. “You get that, right? I don’t want to disappoint you, Daddy, but I would never eat a human being. Not by choice."

Your captor leans into your cheek, his breath stirring a tremble of horrid pleasure down your neck almost to your breast like the venom of an asp.

"Precisely,” he murmurs. “You’ll submit in the knowledge that you must."

The quilt shifts as his arm slides beneath it with a gentle cunning. You fasten your fevered thighs against him, aware that you have not bathed since the previous night and are ripe from your bedbound decay.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “I’m sick and dirty.”

“Then when I’m finished I’ll wash you and change the sheets,” says Hannibal, looking warmly down at you under lowered lids. “You’re taut from lack of release. I will unwind you from that knot; this, too, is care for you.”

His fingers form the simulacrum of a key, your entrance the lock he means to open for his amusement. You release a shivering gasp as he pushes into you, putrescent with the guilt that this deathmonger finds no resistance in the soaking welcome of you.

He touches you where the moonlight of forbidden nerve song waxes into silver life, and he does not release you until the phantasmagoric wilds of it reform at some mad height.

Twice he walks you there on well-trained fingertips, his face in the cave of your shoulder and neck, kissing the raised presence of a vein.

You feel his temptation to bite the flesh from that junction, and there is something erotic in his restraint, the tension in him as his breath smokes your throat. His teeth raise grooves there, flirting with the meat beneath your skin, his warm tongue taking the measure of your flavour.

You catch at him, push at him, feeble and defenceless. How kindly he absorbs this little violence, pressing your fists to his pursed mouth to soften them with his forgiveness.

He will not punish you for this, allows you this instinct to resist the hunter’s dominance. That he does not fuck you with his phallus is another proof of his strength; that form of sex he might have when you’re well, and a more even match against him.

His fingers in you curl like the neck of the swan over Leda, and you hear your tears fall upon the quilt, an errant rainfall.

“So beautiful,” says Hannibal, as you croak in hopeless admission of pleasure. “It’s a pity you’re unwell. Your voice is a joy to listen to at times like this.”

You think he’d like your death screams as much, the keen blackness of his eyes glistening with the satiation of the knife. He would study you, tanned head aside, considering how he might depict your agonies in graphite to commemorate their aesthetic peak.

What painting would serve as the base of this image? The Death of Marat? Saturn Eating His Son? You’re not educated enough to anticipate where so cruelly intellectual a mind would take root for inspiration. Hannibal has never conducted a human experiment quite like the one in which you are subject, this from the subtleties of his behaviour you feel, the satisfaction he takes from a new evil.

Killing and eating those that stain his world with imperfection is no sexual act to Hannibal as it is for others of his monstrous guild, but it may become sensual in recollection of what you once were to him. Should he slaughter you he’d stroke himself afterwards into religious ecstasies, a eulogy to all the hours emptied within you.

Even as he plays the scales of your bleak rapture in the present you are sure he pictures it, the murder that has not been. His hand, in thought, around your heart, letting it beat against his wrist like the lapping tongue of a wolfess dying in the snow.

You are beautiful to him in two realms: the real and parallel, the living and the dead. He would channel his love through your body, display you like the tortured beauty of some vanquished clan, whatever wound he’d killed you by presented like a brooch, some bright red gem.

After your death, what would become of you then?

Young people of the same morbid leanings you’d once indulged in would admire the images of the crime scene as they might some rare exhibition, unaware that the man that had posed you with such elaborate direction had fucked you with that same drive.

Yet perhaps they would learn of it, your organs examined for such sadistic tampering, and would pity you for your miserable life.

If only you were not so afraid to die: you must be his breathing art for all your days, and that may well be worse.

Your expression must glaze with this dark musing, for Hannibal takes back his arm from the quilt and slips noiselessly into the bathroom to wash his hands of your sour delight.

Later, when you’re washed under crisp plum and ebony sheets he comes to you once more with a glass of water and a pill in his hand.

“What’s that?” you ask, straightening against the mountainous stack of pillows. “I already had ibuprofen.”

“It’s a sleeping aid,” says Hannibal. “You were coughing through the night. This will assure you rest undisturbed.”

Miserably you contemplate the calories in the little capsule before you take it, hoping it will at least grant a dreamless sleep.

In this you are disappointed; your mind walks a road of memory, revisiting a September afternoon you’d watched Leland Frost work on your father’s car, his muscled body rolling under his shirt like an orca beneath a wave.

In the dream he whistles at a passing woman, a dimple creasing his grin.

“Ah, I need a girl like you, me.”

His blond head snaps up to look at you as you shrink back towards the house.

“No, no, cher. Stay. There somebody been asking about me?”

You scuff a white sneaker against the sidewalk, dirtying the sole.

“No, Uncle Lee.”

Leland wipes his hands on stained blue jeans and rises into a crouch, his smile like the coil of an eel in rivers deep.

“Aw, come on,” he says, cajoling. “I seen her runnin’ after you the other day. That lil, lil girl that live at the end of the street.”

“She’s just in my class, that’s all,” you insist. “She’s just a friend.”

Leland spits a brown liquid under the car and laughs.

“You got no friends but me. That girl, Hannah. She don’t like you. Still she come after you. I wanna know what she wanted.”

You look at your shoes, counting the eyelets. Leland’s eyes brand your bowed temple with their questioning.

“She asked about you,” you mumble. “And I didn’t say anything.”

“That’s good,” says Lee. “But you better tell me what she asked.”

“If I knew you were a bad man. And I said I don’t know what she’s talking about, just like you said.”

Leland winks, a conspiratorial gesture.

“That’s my girl.”

You’ve had worse dreams, yet you spring from this one as though from the top stair of hell, wishing with a sickened wrench of innards that Hannibal was in the room to calm you from its frightful squall.

Angered by your own wallowing terror, you get out of bed and force yourself to stand in front of the mirror in penance. You examine your body from all perspectives, fancying you see it narrowed by your lack of appetite while simultaneously convinced that it hasn’t changed at all.

Were that you were unwell always: you’d waste to the littleness of a Frozen Charlotte, a frail perfect thing, not the child darling lumped from clay in a killer’s hands. Neither Will nor Hannibal quite understand your fervent tenacity to achieve the quality of air, nor will either help you to achieve it.

There are limits to their madness, immune as they are to any folie à deux but their own. You are a soldier of one in your aim, ground down to lose faith in the war.

In a malaise you attempt a slow lap of the room, made pathetic by your coughing and quivering progress from one end of it to the next.

Hannibal’s car sends a lasso of auburn leaves up from the wet road as he rides in under your window; hampered by time, you return to the mirror to body check again, pulling up your nightdress in the hope your stomach has by the devil’s miracle become concave, your ribs closed in like praying hands.

Disappointed, you get back into bed and arrange yourself in a believable pose of just waking for Hannibal to find.

“How did you sleep, Little One?” he asks, setting a bowl of pumpkin soup down on a tray before you.

“Not too well,” you admit. “I had a dream about Uncle Lee again. Well, a memory, I guess.”

“You’ve remembered something new,” says Hannibal. “What have you retrieved from the galleries of time?”

It relieves you that he's so attune to your need to confess, seated at your bedside with such swiftness it is as if he never left.

“There really were other girls,” you say. “I know that for sure, now. There was this one girl, Hannah— I guess she wanted my help, and I told her to go away and that I didn’t know anything. I was scared, but still. It was wrong of me to do that to her when she needed a friend.”

“You were a child,” says Hannibal, soberly. “I’ll remind you as many times as is required of me. Leland may have hurt you had you struck out against him.”

You bow your head in rejection of his comfort.

“There were other girls that asked me for help when I got older, and I never said a word. I don’t deserve forgiveness for that, and honestly, I don’t want it, either. That wouldn’t help anybody. I just wish... well, it’s stupid, but I wish I could turn back time and do it all again.”

“The past cannot be reversed, as tempted as one might be to take it upon oneself to calculate some process of correcting one’s mistakes. You are not alone in that desire, however. I, too, have considered how it might be done. Alas, it is an impossible fantasy. There’s no benefit to ruminating on such things.”

You consider Hannibal in a kind of awe. What could such a being regret if not the act of murder?

A telephone knells in the gut of the house.

“Drink your soup,” says Hannibal, getting to his feet. “I hope to see at least half of it absent on my return.”

Resisting the compulsion to roll your eyes at him you say, with a falsely placid air, “Okay, Daddy. Sure thing.”

You make reluctant scrapes with your spoon about the bowl, swilling each mouthful about your teeth ten times before you swallow.

In five minutes Hannibal comes back to you with the telephone in his hand. There is animation to his face you’ve noticed absent since his companion left to sink himself into the case again.

“It’s Will,” says Hannibal, the expected answer. “He wants to talk to you.”

“He does?” you say, wrinkling your nose. “Wow. He’s a changed man.”

You take the receiver, waiting until Hannibal leaves to return your soup tray to the kitchen before you speak into it.

“Hi, Daddy,” you say.

It’s loathsome how eagerly the words spill from your lips, a breathless young girl’s gladness to hear from the object of a summer pash.

“Hey,” says Will. “How are you feeling? Hannibal told me you were laid up.”

“Yep. Chest infection. Listen to me.”

You cough to demonstrate, and Will laughs gently.

“That’s rough. Has Dr Lecter been taking good care of you?”

“Yeah. Sure. Just like he always does. When are you coming home? It’s Halloween in two days. It’ll be weird without you. It’s my favourite holiday.”

Will chuckles again.

“I’ll bet it is. I’ll try to get away. Jack’s got me pretty tied up, but I’ll do my best.”

You imagine Will in the mystery of his house, his free hand tousling the miscellaneous heads of many dogs. That home would smell of hair, and old books, of Will, the hermit fisherman; its scent is in your throat as if you were there, upon his lap again.

Certainly you seem able to do nothing else, your form enraptured with what once merely hurt.

“Have you missed me, Will?” you ask, coyly, and just as coyly he answers.

“Some of you.”

“Hey!” you protest, wriggling under your quilt.

The night Will had covered your mouth as he fucked his irritation up into you is like a sunrise of the womb, a burning, desirous giant. It is horrible what these men do, but like the snarling ache of starving you must love it against all that you know to be true and good.

“Just kidding,” says Will, a grin in his voice. “I do miss you. But there’s something I wanted to talk to you about. Something serious.”

The solemn shift in Will’s voice nips the smirk from your lips at once.

“What is it?” you ask. “What do you mean?”

“I got an MRI the other day. Figured it was time to get to the bottom of those seizures I’ve been having. Alana hooked me up; I guess somebody owed her a favour. Turns out I have encephalitis. I’ve been in the hospital for a couple of days. Probably going to be on medication for a while now.”

The hand gripping the receiver seems to run with fire over blood.

“Oh, God,” you say, breathless with nerves. “Is everything okay? Are you?”

“Okay isn’t the word I’d use,” says Will grimly. “You knew about this already, One. I want to know how.”

Panic drills you through with such adrenaline that you feel as though you’re above the bed rather than within it. If you expose the truth you’ll be punished severely, perhaps even lethally should it drive the two men apart.

You’d made a mistake in taunting Will over their friendship; you should have left well alone, endured their union in unstirring quiet as you’d done under Leland Frost.

“Um,” you mumble. “I know a lot of stuff before it happens. I just feel like it’s true, or guess, like you said. Or I dream about it.”

“This wasn’t out of any dream. The details were too specific. You said something about the food. Somebody told you what was going on, and what was triggering my encephalitis, because they were purposefully making it worse.”

Will pauses, and when he speaks again his tone is clipped, all controlled rage.

“It was Hannibal, and you covered for him. Not very well, but you did.”

“I didn’t know he was doing it on purpose!” you squeak. “He seemed worried about you, Will, I thought—”

“Don’t say anything else. Just listen to me.”

You chew at a loose whisker of skin on your lip, the same you’ve gnawed to the blood beneath a thousand times in conflict.

“I’m going to come home in a couple of days,” says Will. “I’m going to talk to Hannibal and you’re going to stay out of it, just like I asked you to. This is between me and him. Not you. Please don’t disrespect me by getting in the way.”

“He’ll be so mad at me,” you croak. “Oh, God. Please don’t say anything to him, Will. Just leave it. What if I’ve ruined everything?”

There is a protracted silence into which you both breathe like the winds at the end of the world.

“If anything’s ruined just know that it isn’t you that’s to blame,” says Will, at last. “Goodbye, Little One. I’ll see you soon.”

The line goes dead, leaving the phone a chill corpse in your hand.

[genshin-side-piece]

Love Me True

Follow up to Love Me Tender

Warnings: Yandere Content, Dark themes, Implied Kidnapping, Implied Captivity, Implied Stalking, Somnophilia, Non-Consensual Touching, Sexual themes, not smut (sorry),Not Fluff, Uncomfortable themes, Angst, my bad writing, anything else I missed, 18+, Minors DNI

At times, it was hard to hate Neuvillette. His kindness and his willingness to do anything for you almost made you forget the circumstances of which he kept you. The life he built for you wasn’t a bad one. In the correct context, it could be described as tolerable. He wasn’t abusive or beastly. Outside of his wandering hands, one could even say he was gentlemanly. He provided for you. He protected you and on some very weird level, you believe he loved you; or at least he loved you as he understood what love could be.

Many had it worse than you did. That fact didn’t stop you from thinking that being returned to your old life was still preferable. You missed the freedom you had once taken for granted. It wasn’t like the so-called freedom you had here. In your old life, you weren’t bound by Neuvillette’s endless rules. You weren’t observed every second of every day.  You weren’t cooped up in a drafty house, subject to restrictive diets for your health and dress codes that encouraged Neuvillette to look with his eyes long before he ever used his hands. You could hide from the world, from him if you needed too. You could lock your door. You missed being truly free. Now your freedom was limited to being able to wander the prison you shared with your captor, provided he decided not to chase you from one end of his house to the other. 

The only thing that made the life you had now tolerable was that Neuvillette was seldom home. His work kept him busy, so in turn, you were generally left alone. You had your little wardens in the melusines, but they were generally no trouble. Unlike the Iudex, they knew how to keep their distance when you preferred to be left alone. They, like him, swore your imprisonment had been done for your own good. All of them claimed the world was far too dangerous for you. That you would be safer here, under his watchful eye. He was such a good provider, was he not? Didn’t the good monsieur keep you in such excellent comfort? Weren’t you given all that you needed to be happy? That’s all they wanted for you, both of you, was to be happy. From their perspective at least, one of you had achieved the happiness they clamored for. It didn’t hurt that from Neuvillette’s perspective, you had brought warmth to what had been an empty life. 

You could almost pity him in his loneliness. The key word being almost. Over the many months that you had been with him, you had certainly become somewhat sympathetic to his circumstances; born to blend in yet be kept apart, abandoned at birth, forever fated to be alone. It couldn’t be an easy existence. Not when his most relatable trait was that he yearned to understand himself much in the same way that all beings searched for their own understanding. In the few conversations you’d had with him, which were mainly him speaking at you and you simply trying to ignore him; he had confessed he had long wished to understand the emotions that plagued him. Whatever he was, didn’t process them in the same manner as humanity. So the concept of human emotions was a foreign thing for him. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t manage to understand them. That was where you felt you came into the odd arrangement you had with him. Neuvillette learned through observation. Clearly he felt he could learn something from you. What that was, you weren’t sure. 

His self professed connection to you didn’t help your confusion. He was insistent on protecting you to the point that he had isolated you from the world. To you, him bringing you here was an irrational reaction to a problem that didn’t exist. Up until a few months ago, you hadn’t even known him. Like many other citizens, Neuvillette was little more than a name to you. You hadn’t cared about him one way or the other. Never in your wildest dreams did you ever think that not only would the Iudex of Fontaine personally track you down during a holiday in the mountains, but that he would proceed to hold you hostage ever since. It was like a bad dream that you couldn’t wake from. In the long hours where he was away you had wondered if he expected you to help him with the affliction that was his emotions. You fantasized about that being the key to your freedom. He would finally figure himself out and there would be no need for you anymore. You would be free to resume your life, presumably in another country. Somewhere landlocked, with no large bodies of water, just to be safe. It was a nice fantasy, one that made you smile whenever the rain came. Your new home would be sunny and warm and free of anyone who was emotionally impotent. A hermit on the side of a mountain seemed ideal for that or perhaps you could trick an adeptus into hiding you in a domain. Whatever it ended up being, the last place you wished it to be was Neuvillette’s drawing room. Like the man who owned it, you’d had enough of both.

For a man who held Fontaine’s fate in his hands, he was woefully unobservant of his own surroundings. There had been far too many nights where you had woken to his clammy hands running themselves all over your body. You had endured his hot breath fanning its way across you skin as the wet sounds of him working his fist over his c*ck filled your ears. Your instinct was always to pull away, but the second you tried to move, his hold on you tightened like a vice, leaving dark bruises that lasted for days. He never apologized for them, but his eyes always tended to linger on the spot where they were during the day. It was difficult to know if he was truly sorry, or if like your whimpers when he left said bruises, the knowledge that they were there spurred him on. He was always quick to return to your side when you had them, often opting to stay overnight so that he might hold you in his sleep. On those nights, he never sensed you were awake. He never stopped himself from overstepping his place as your jailer. The best Neuvillette had done was on the mornings where he spent the night, he would quietly excuse himself, offering you a reprieve from the ritual that was him watching your morning levee. You were still expected to endure his company at meal times, but for that morning at least he left you alone. The fact that he could act as if nothing had happened, that you hadn’t woken with his entire body wrapped around yours, was utterly annoying. It killed any will you had to help him. Instead, you sought to torment him in any manner possible. You had long resolved yourself to make him suffer, even if the suffering was nothing more than a minor inconvenience for him, it was still something.

Suffer, he did.

Endlessly. With cause. From clothing, to scents, to distance, to attention. You learned what cut him the deepest. What tormented him the most. What punished him to a level that you found gratifying. It was petty. Were you still in your old life, it would have been beneath you to be as you were. You hadn’t liked being petty. It was a waste of time and energy. You had always thought it best to take the high road. Fate caught up to everyone in this life, eventually it would find those that had wronged you. In this life though, it was one of the few things you were allowed to not only have, but exercise with complete regularity. You could burn your excess energy and boredom on punishing Neuvillette for his crimes against you. It was only fair that the chief justice got his. If he was going to sacrifice your freedom in the name of protection, then the same could be done with his love. His love could suffer for the sake of your autonomy. After all you had been put through, it was no less than he deserved. 

[constantinerkives]

Dance Macabre // Drabble

PAIRING: Yoo Jimin x fem reader

WARNINGS: established relationship, yandere Karina, kidnapping, allusions to violence and unprotected sex, mentions of pregnancy, and profanity. You and Jimin have children, Chairwoman! Karina, MILF! Karina and OC, Johan Liebert reference because I love that soft-spoken manipulative villain.

A/N: Before I begin the mean girl Aeri one-shot, this prompt has been plaguing me ever since I started re-watching 'Monster' so I had to do something about it because my hyper-fixated mind won’t stop unless it’s done. So to soothe this cursed thought, I’ll write about this and be free to begin orchestrating my next one-shot.

SYNOPSIS: To you, she’s your angel. To her enemies, she is death, and to your children: she is a god.

Your wife is a creature of habit.

You observed this when she started courting you during your college days. To you, she is the epitome of perfection; to those that cross her, she is death. 

For your safety, you must update her on your whereabouts. Karina liked knowing that she'll check the time, knowing exactly where you are and what you are doing. Failure to do so and consequences will follow. 

You didn't mind your strict schedule. You like sticking to a routine. 

Until you didn't, all it took was an argument with an entitled customer who broke your phone in anger and stormed off. And due to a broken phone, you didn't update your wife; she was angry. Karina's fury isn't like a volcano, no. It's silent, cold, and calculating. 

When you came home, the first thing you did was to get on your knees and begged for your wife to see reason - it wasn't your fault that your phone broke! But alas, your pleas fell on deaf ears - she wasn't having it.

Karina walks over to you and grabs you by the jaw, forcing you to look up at the older woman whose black, abysmal eyes swim with danger and twisted delight. She caresses your cheek, and your hope shatters as a faux disappointed sigh leaves her pretty lips.

"I still have to punish you, darling." Jimin pecks your lips. "Now run to the bedroom and wait for me, do you understand?"

"Do you understand?" Oh, the cruelty of adulthood.  

She fucked you raw and unrelentlessly, even when your throat became raw from screaming, even when your cunt was full of your mixed juices - the woman didn't stop. Not until she was satisfied.

And because of her treatment, you gave birth to her daughter nine months later. Ariadne Yoo, the carbon copy of her mother, is beautiful and sharp, even for a three-year-old. You and Karina cherished her, and it didn't take long for your daughter to ask for a sibling; naturally, you and Karina complied with your daughter's request, which brings you to your second pregnancy: another girl. 

Like your first pregnancy with Ariadne, Karina is protective of you and your unborn child. She made sure that she was updated on your whereabouts, even as far as placing a tracking device on all your jewelry. 

And it all went smoothly, until-

Pregnancy made you soft and vulnerable. That's why you felt sympathetic toward a group of innocent-looking teens whose car broke down. Motherhood made you want to make sure that this group made it home safely. 

It proved to be a stupid move because one minute later, your arms and legs were bound with tape on your mouth while they stuffed you in their supposed broke-down car and threw you into a cold, damp warehouse: a stark contrast to the luxury and comfort that your wife provided for you and your children.

After pulling the 'I'm pregnant' card, they were kind enough to make you sleep on a thin bed. And while they were discussing the desired amount for your ransom, you mull how this happened. Karina studied the map of the city to create a safe route for you to run your errands. Perhaps this is how they found out. 

They're smart, but not smart enough as your phone dings in the hands of one of your captors. She sneers and skips toward you as she shows you your wife's message. It read: 

You're late. 

Blood drains from your face. Your wife knows where you are, but she wants you to explain in front of her before she makes a verdict. 

"What's the password?" She asks; you tell her.

She licks her upper teeth as she types on your phone's keyboard. 

"Young lady," You tread carefully, "Whatever it is that your gang wants, it's not worth it." 

She gives you a dirty look as the group stops talking and turns their attention towards you and one of their members. 

One of them scoffs, a man. "Oh, it is." He joins the young lady and drapes his arm around her shoulders. "It's easy money for your wife." He looks at her, a sick smile gracing his thin lips as his beady eyes glow with repulsive greed. 

"Shall we make it $30 Million?"

The lady gasps, "Perfect," 

"You can't spend it when you're dead." You tell them. The man's face darkens as he storms towards you and grabs you by the hair, eliciting a yelp from you. "You're in no position to threaten us, bitch." 

"Please," You plead, "You have to trust me-"

"Shut that bitch up, please." One of them jeers and the man happily obliges as he slaps your face. The side of your face stings red, and he hits you again. 

You're sure that their fate will be worse than death; Karina hates it when you get hurt. 

"Shut up, bitch." He growls, and you whimper - your instincts telling you to protect your daughter inside you. But your hands are bound. 

He looks over his shoulder, "Send the fucking message. She's starting to bore me." And they walk away from you. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. 

"It's okay," You assured your unborn child. "Mommy's coming to save us." 

Karina's hand held her phone with a vice-like grip that she thought it would crack.

Her obsidian-colored eyes glower at the photo of your fearful state with the words: $30 Million typed below your image.

How dare they touch you, her wife, her equal. 

Cold wrath surges through her body as she puts down her phone and looks at her computer where it tells her your location. You were outside the city. She estimates that it could roughly be an hour-long drive.

A knock on her door snaps her from her reverie, "What is it?"

The door opens, revealing her secretary. "Chairwoman Yoo, the investors are ready."

The older woman stands gracefully from her seat and fixes the cufflinks of her blazer. "Have Miss Hwang take care of them." Karina's voice is eerily calm as she walks past the younger woman. Her secretary follows after her.

"What are you going to do, Chairwoman Yoo?"

The black-haired beauty looks over her shoulder. "I'm going to fetch my wife."

Pregnancy made you a heavy sleeper because moments later, you were awakened by Karina's soft hand caressing your baby bump while she cradled you. 

"Karina," You breathe. Impossible, you would've heard the screams of agony and fear. You crane your neck; your blood runs cold at the sight of their twitching bodies as they gurgle their blood. 

"Look at me, beloved." She coaxes, you obey and your eyes subtly widen. Karina's hair is tied in a high ponytail - she was presentable except for the blood splattered all over her suit and some on her face, decorating her cheeks like a demented blush. 

But she's beautiful regardless. 

"I'm sorry," You choke a sob as you hold onto her. "I tried, baby, I tried to-"

"Sh," She coaxes and pulls you closer to her, coaxing the side of your face against her soft chest as she cups the other side of your head. "It's okay, darling. It isn't your fault." 

"They're still alive, though." You whisper against her suit, and her chest rumbles with a dark chuckle. 

"I heard that dull blades are agonizingly painful than sharp ones. I will leave them to suffer for touching you and our baby, Y/N." 

With her other hand, she slips it under your knees, "Now hold tight," She stands up, "Our daughter's waiting for us at home." 

Karina effortlessly carries you to the exit of the warehouse. You take a good look at your dying captors as they lay in the pool of their blood, dull knives jutting from their bodies.

"Do you remember my first letter?" Your wife asks, forcing you to tear your gaze from the gang to answer her. 

"Of course," How could you forget? It was poetic. 

"I wrote about flowers and your love for them," She reminisces with a soft smile, a rare sight to see; you are blessed to see it. 

"And how you love peonies, especially pink ones, am I right, my love?" She looks at you. Her lips still form her rare, warm smile. 

"Yes," You sigh as you rest your right hand over her heart. 

"When we get home, you'll rest. And tomorrow, we will go to your favorite flower park so you can look at the flowers." 

You caught sight of a familiar Lincoln Continental. She opens the passenger door for you, and you allow her to guide you to the passenger seat. Karina lingers near the passenger door as she takes in your disheveled appearance. Your wife heaves a sigh, and takes your hand, her thumb rubbing the back of your palm soothingly.  

"Stay with me and Ariadne, Y/N." She comes closer. "I will give you everything. Everything is yours because I said so." 

She brings your hand to her mouth, where her lips ghost over your knuckles.

"Stay with us, and I will blanket you in flowers. I was born to smother you with flowers."

[whumpshaped]

Coul we get drabble where a captive whumpee confides in a carewhumper who is seemingly more kind and empathetic than the rest of their guards/ captors only to discover that carewhumper is the leader of the group and is behind all of their torture. Big fan of your blog, love your toxic caretaker stuffs <3

tw betrayal, captivity, implied torture, interrogation, manipulation

“They’re going to kill me,” Whumpee whispered, clinging to Caretaker’s pants like a lifeline. “Please. Please, you have to help me. Please.”

“Whumpee…”

“Please! You’re– you care, right? You care much more than they do! You brought me water, you– you tried to help! You’re the only one I have in this place!” Their voice shook terribly, but they tried their best to hold onto the hope that had been sustaining them for the past weeks. Caretaker’s sympathetic looks. Caretaker’s gentle touches. They cared, Whumpee knew they did. “Please. Please, don’t let me die.”

“I can’t do anything for you unless you give up the info, Whumpee. I’m sorry. I’m trying to keep them at bay, but… they’ll only keep you around for so long without… a use,” they said, wincing a little at the wording. “I’m so sorry. I know this is a horrible situation. I know you would never give up–”

“I will,” they choked out. “I… I will. I, I d-don’t want to die… Will you protect me if– if I tell you?”

Caretaker nodded. “That’s– well, that’s the only way I can reasonably protect you. But… Are you sure? I mean– fuck, I’d hate to see you dead, Whumpee. But are you really sure?”

Whumpee bit their lip, trying to think of their team, trying to think of the torture they’d withstood already, the secret they’d been protecting… But their team hadn’t come for them. The only person who had been there for them was Caretaker. The only person with a realistic chance to save their life was Caretaker.

“I am. I am, if, if you’re sure you can protect me. Please. Promise me.”

Caretaker pried off their fingers from their pants so they could hold their hands instead, and they crouched down to be at eye level with them. “I swear it. I’ll make sure you’re safe and protected.”

Whumpee weakly nodded, then crawled even closer so they could tell Caretaker everything in hushed tones and broken whispers. They didn’t know why. After they told Caretaker, Caretaker would tell everyone else. Who were they hiding it from, really? But they couldn’t bring themself to speak the words any louder.

“Thank you,” Caretaker said gently when Whumpee finished. “Thank you.”

“I just want t-to live,” they sobbed miserably. “Please. Please help me live.”

The doors were suddenly thrown open, and Whumpee flinched away from Caretaker, terrified that their secret allegiance would get them both in horrible trouble.

“Boss, there’s been an issue,” the guard said, and Caretaker gave them an annoyed look. “Fuck, I– I’m sorry–”

“Doesn’t matter. They’ve just told me everything.”

Boss?

Whumpee stared at Caretaker, too confused to speak. Caretaker looked back at them with a mock-apologetic smile. “Whoops. I guess my cover is blown, then. But hey, at least you now know I definitely have the power to ensure your safety.”

[ifangirlalot]

˗ˏˋ 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐏𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐄𝐓 ˎˊ˗ | starring finn wolfhard

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵୨♡୧‿︵‿︵୨♡୧‿︵‿︵୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

[𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘:] violent and dark themes, gore, kidnapping, murder, obsession, implied stalking

Please keep in mind that this is an AU. Nothing more, nothing less. Bear in mind that hate will not be taken lightly, and I WILL block you.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵୨♡୧‿︵‿︵୨♡୧‿︵‿︵୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵୨♡୧‿︵‿︵୨♡୧‿︵‿︵୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

❛ A is for Affection ༉‧₊˚

↳ How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?

Finn is weirdly gentle with the way he shows his affection for the most part. His touches are feather light, almost like he's afraid he'll break you. He likes touching your hair and your neck because he likes how soft you are. Aside from that, he also buys you plenty of gifts, usually in the form of small, dainty jewelry, like necklaces or earrings.

❛ B is for Blood ༉‧₊˚

↳ How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

Finn isn't super big on gore and blood, he actually has a pretty weak stomach, so whenever he deems it necessary to resort to violence, he usually tries to keep things blood-free and easily cleaned up. He prefers psychological torture more than anything but if that isn't an option, he'll snap the necks of those he deems a threat.

❛ C is for Cruelty ༉‧₊˚

↳ How cruel would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?

No. Finn wouldn't mock you. He'd be sympathetic for you and how scared you would be by the situation. He isn't oblivious to how fucked up it is, and he'd be sure to let you know that no harm will come to you, so long as you comply and be good.

❛ D is for Darling ༉‧₊˚

↳ Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling's will?

No. Honestly, abducting you in the first place was kind of pushing it for Finn. He's kind of going for a Beauty and the Beast type situation, where if he's nice to you and gives you everything you could ever want, you'll fall in love with him. He's self-aware and knows that this is a fucked up fantasy. He would never force his affections upon you. When he touches you, he is sure to keep his touch and kiss light so that you may push him away if you so desire.

❛ E is for Exposed ༉‧₊˚

↳ How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

Finn practically bares his whole soul to you. He wants you to see him as a person rather than your captor. He regularly sits down with you and talks to you about his thoughts and feelings, about how sorry he is that he put you into this situation and that he hopes you understand that he's too far in to let you go now.

❛ F is for Fight ༉‧₊˚

↳ How would they feel if their darling fought back?

He'd understand. It would hurt his feelings immensely, but he would understand completely. He knows he's a bad person for keeping you against your will and trying to force a love connection between you, and some part of him even admires you for fighting him.

❛ G is for Game ༉‧₊˚

↳ Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

No, this is far from a game to Finn. He knows you regularly attempt to escape his grasp, and some part of him is regretful that he has to watch you so closely to thwart your plans. It makes him sad that his affections aren't working to make you love him, and he hates that you want so badly to leave him.

❛ H is for Hell ༉‧₊˚

↳ What is their darling's worst experience with them?

Since Finn isn't abusive, there haven't been many painful experiences for you in Finn's hold. By far the worst thing he's ever done to you is abduct/stalk you. What happened was, he saw you at his favorite record store and was immediately enamored by you. Something cracked within him. He crept behind you after you had left and followed you home, using the shadows from the night to his advantage. He felt so incredibly disgusting for doing so, but something inside of him was pushing him to do it. He spent weeks, months even, watching you. Absorbing your patterns. Learning your habits. Then one day, that crack within him snapped in half and he knew he had to have you. So one night while you were sleeping, he quietly slid your bedroom window open, chloroform-soaked handkerchief in hand. Slowly, so slowly, he pressed the cloth to your mouth and gave you a look filled with regret as he whispered, "I'm so sorry."

❛ I is for Ideals ༉‧₊˚

↳ What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

Ideally, obviously, Finn would one day like you to realize you love him too. At the moment, that's as far as he's gotten, because he doesn't want to give his hopes up thinking about having a family with you when he isn't even sure you'll ever love him.

❛ J is for Jealousy ༉‧₊˚

↳ How do they handle jealousy? Do they lash out or do they find a way to cope?

Finn gets jealous quite easily, actually. Though, it isn't the lashing out, I'm so pissed I could murder someone type of jealous. At least, not super often. It's incredibly rare that he gets the angry type of jealous. Finn's jealousy is more along the lines of I'll never be good enough for you, it's pointless to hope you will ever love a monster like me type of jealous. His way of coping is just to love up to you, cuddling you, mostly just to make himself feel loved by you for at least a few moments, even if he knows he's delusional and that the cuddling is completely one sided.

❛ K is for Kisses ༉‧₊˚

↳ How do they kiss their darling?

Finn's kisses are, as said before, feather light. Practically whispers against your lips. His favorite way to kiss you is by slowly sliding his hands along your shoulders, neck, and to your cheeks. Then he'll slowly lean in and leave little butterflies kisses. He never full on kisses you with deep, forceful mannerisms, he feels that would freak you out.

❛ L is for Love Story ༉‧₊˚

↳ How do they meet their darling? How would they go about courting/pursuing their darling?

As stated above, Finn met you at the record store. Unfortunately, the idea of approaching you and asking to hang out didn't occur to him until after he'd already been stalking you for a couple weeks, which needless to say, made him question himself immensely.

❛ M is for Mask ༉‧₊˚

↳ Are their true colors drastically different when they're with their darling than when they are with everyone else?

Finn's personality isn't drastically different with you than with everyone else. He speaks to you like he would his friends, the only difference is he isn't keeping his friends captive in his apartment.

❛ N is for Nemesis ༉‧₊˚

↳ Who do they consider a rival?

He doesn't really have any one specific rival, he really just detests all the men in your life in general.

❛ O is for Obsession ༉‧₊˚

↳ Are they more obsessive or possessive?

Finn falls more on the obsessive side of the spectrum. He's not super possessive of you, but he does think about you near constantly. You rule over his every thought, he thinks about you whenever he does anything, even when it doesn't pertain to you.

❛ P is for Patience ༉‧₊˚

↳ How patient are they with their darling?

As you'd expect, Finn is incredibly patient. He wants nothing more than for you to love him, and he's afraid that if he's forceful or cruel to you, you will never love him. So, he lets you lash out at him, hit him when he comes too close to you, yell at him, demand him to let you go. He takes it all stoically, without a word and without anger.

❛ Q is for Quit ༉‧₊˚

↳ If their darling leaves, dies, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

If you were to die, or to leave and successfully escape, Finn would be devastated. Though the pain would be heavy enough to want to end his own life, he would never do so because in his mind, he doesn't deserve the sweet release of death. For he failed to keep his darling safe from harm, and to capture your heart. He would never get over you, and if he ever managed to, it would be years and years and years into the future. Most likely, his new darling would bare a heavy resemblence to you, because even if he moved on, he would never truly get over you and the affects you had upon him.

❛ R is for Regret ༉‧₊˚

↳ Would they ever feel guilty for abducting their darling? Would they ever let them go?

Finn feels guilty for kidnapping you all the time, he often toys with the idea of just letting you go and seeing if you will come back to him, but ultimately he never does. For one thing, he doesn't want to risk you leaving him and never returning. For another, he's scared you'll turn him in and he'll get arrested.

❛ S is for Stigma ༉‧₊˚

↳ What brought about this side of them?

Not even Finn himself is sure what brought it about. His past relationships were all fairly basic for the most part. He wasn't a bad boyfriend by any means, but he also wasn't a super protective one. But when he saw you.. something inside of him just broke. He wonders if maybe he had been like this all along, and that there was just something about you that brought it to the surface.

❛ T is for Tears ༉‧₊˚

↳ How do they feel about seeing their darling scream/cry/isolate themselves?

He hates it. It makes him feel awful. He is sad enough to let you know that he's here for you and loves and cares for you deeply, but respectful of you enough to keep his distance. He tries to make you feel better by leaving little gifts by your bed.

❛ U is for Unique ༉‧₊˚

↳ Do they do anything different that traditional yandere?

Finn isn't nearly as violent or possessive as yanderes typically are.

❛ V is for Vice ༉‧₊˚

↳ What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

His love for you and his regret at resorting to kidnapping. Your best chance at escape is to butter him up by kissing him, hugging him, sitting in his lap and pretending to love him back. Then he would be more comfortable with letting you leave, and then he'd practically be giving you permission to escape.

❛ W is for Wit's End ༉‧₊˚

↳ Would they ever hurt their darling?

Absolutely not. Finn would never raise a hand against you in any way.

❛ X is for Xoanon ༉‧₊˚

↳ How would they revere/worship their darling?

He worships you from a distance. Honestly, his reverance for you is almost unhealthy. He puts you on a pedestal and is utterly convinced that you could do no wrong.

❛ Y is for Yearn ༉‧₊˚

↳ How long do they pine for their darling before they snap?

For Finn, it took about six months of stalking/pining before he finally snapped and took you home.

❛ Z is for Zenith ༉‧₊˚

↳ Would they ever break their darling?

No. He doesn't even consider that an option.

[physalian]

Another 5 Character Types the World Needs More of (Part 3)

Part 1 Part 2

I did not expect these two posts to continue getting notes. So. Here’s some that didn’t make the cut and a few new ones.

1. Character who is immune to everyone else’s bullshit

This can either be funny or a breath of fresh air. I’m talking your drama cast of 15 all losing their minds over “he said/she said” and fixating on so many ridiculous and arbitrary problems… meanwhile Chuck over here is skinned with teflon and completely immune to tropes like manufactured miscommunication or drama, who’s juuust shy of being genre savvy to Get Shit Done like this is their second time around the block and they are not happy to be back.

The first one to pop into my head is Soundwave from TFP. He has no voice actor for 99% of the show and doesn’t have a face and is only the focus character for like, 2 episodes, but whenever he’s on screen you can just see “I’m surrounded by idiots” playing on repeat in his head. This con is brutally efficient, never messes up, and is never wrong and while everyone else is caught up on ladder-climbing and revenge quests, Soundwave is over here vibing and keeping the whole cause together.

2. The Femme Fatale, but a man

This is not sexy suave abusive asshole hero you’re supposed to root for, who’s a male power fantasy. This is literally the exact same trope, but a man. Meaning, he gets the same revealing uniform, the same “I’m letting you think you’re in charge but really I’m pulling all the strings”. Crucially, he’s straight, because most of them are gay-coded (because the man being in the submissive, ‘girly role’ is horrifying, he must be gay). This dude weaponizes toxic masculinity, making the villains extremely uncomfortable and throwing the villain’s own power fantasy back in their face.

This dude unabashedly flirts with his captors just to get in their heads, removes all concepts of personal space, and makes straight villains seriously question their sexuality. He has social engineering down to a science. I’m sure there’s one that exists, but every one I can think of is already queer-coded and that’s not good enough. So just. Black Widow. But a man.

3. Mary Sue/ Gary Stu who becomes the villain

Since these characters are the product of insecurity and lack of self-awareness… the example for this trope is Titan from Megamind. This character is absolutely the hero of their own story, practically perfect in every way. They think they’re the best at everything without trying, flawless in features and personality, and everybody loves them. And genuinely, they are just that good.

So good, that they live long enough to become the villain. Obviously people who write Mary Sues with full sincerity have no idea that anything’s wrong or problematic, but a genuine Mary Sue whose perfection is their greatest flaw without them even realizing it would be an interesting villain because I’m getting sick and tired of “sympathetic” villains who are really starting to feel like excuses for abusers to be abusive because they were smacked around as a kid.

4. Paragon who is wrong, but also right?

Apparently I’m in a Transformers mood today. There’s an episode where the Autobots’ medic/second in command does the whole “desperate scientist tests their invention on themselves with horrible results” trope and he gains the strength and speed he otherwise hasn’t had in like, eons, and starts kicking ass and taking names (and committing war crimes) to the point where his team is like “uh, buddy, slow down a bit, you’re starting to act like a Decepticon”.

The best part of that episode is where Ratchet (medic) completely unloads on Optimus about how he’s too soft, about how he’s had a million chances to end the war and murder Megatron (which is true) and yet Optimus lets the window pass again and again still hoping for Megatron’s redemption… while in the process, countless Autobots keep dying, collateral keeps happening, all because Optimus is stubborn and won’t just get it over with.

We know Ratchet is right, because throughout the next season, Optimus is a bit more… shall we say, ruthless, in trying to legitimately end the war, Megatron’s redemption be damned. But that episode ends with Ratchet nearly dying when trying to kill Megatron himself, and understanding that the Autobots are Autobots for a reason, because they’re “good,” and sinking to the enemy’s level won’t be a good foundation for a peaceful post-war survival of their species. Point being, sometimes being a Paragon is an incredibly selfish virtue.

5. Parents who know what’s up

So, while I am a firm supporter in the dead parent cliché because parents are super inconvenient sometimes, when it’s not that kind of story and the parents are a big part of the plot… while also being idiots (like Disney and Nickelodeon sitcoms circa 2008), just to make the kids sound smarter, it’s just been done to death. Everything you could think of, your parents probably did when they were your age so having competent parents in the plot as a well-meaning obstacle that continues to surprise the hero is pretty rare in stuff like YA. Usually it’s “I must lie to them to keep them safe” meanwhile Sally Jackson is over here murdering her husband with Medusa’s severed head.

They don’t have to join the hero team, but parents painted as bumbling idiots is a disservice to the mischievous teenagers they used to be. Or just the parent who really does know the kid better than they do, like when kids anxiously come out and the parent is like “honey I knew since you were 3 let’s go get ice cream”. I didn't watch Glee but that one dad who was like "son all you wanted was a pair of sensible shoes, I knew." So yeah. Smart parents. More please.

[7-wonders]

reader has a strong personality, but sometimes she feels unsure of herself, her personality, her looks. in one of these days, feeling her bad mood, Dream reassures her, telling how much he admires and loves her, the way she's beautiful in every way, etc.

Jealousy, Jealousy

Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x GN!Reader

It started with Calliope.

To be clear, you absolutely supported Morpheus both coming to his ex-wife's aid and reconciling with her after their disastrous end (though the details were vague, you knew it had something to do with the son they shared, the one that Morpheus still couldn't bring himself to talk about). What had happened to Calliope at the hands of mortal men was absolutely horrific. If you had it your way, you'd hunt them both down and serve up a bit of vigilante justice. Morpheus forbade you from doing so, on the grounds that he had also been told no when wanting to do the exact same thing.

When Morpheus finally decided that it was time for the two to actually talk, you had met the Muse on your way out of the Dreaming to give them some space. After spending maybe three minutes with her, it was easy to reach the conclusion: Calliope is wonderful.

Not only is she stunning on the outside, but she has a kindness within that refused to be stamped out by her captors. She's so nice that, coming from anybody else, it would seem insincere. On Calliope, though, it's effortlessly natural. She seems like she's actually interested in talking to you, and not just playing nice because of societal conventions and you being Morpheus's current lover.

You trust Morpheus implicitly, but, considering how easy it was to see how Morpheus could have fallen head over heels in love with Calliope, you felt just a tinge of reluctance at leaving the two to resolve their issues. It was okay to be a little jealous, you reasoned with yourself; after all, everyone has that one ex that seems like "the one that got away." You're okay, and secure in who you are and your relationship.

Until Queen Titania came waltzing into the Dreaming.

The entire realm was in a tizzy over the sudden request from the Court of Faerie to send a delegation so that matters "concerning the two respective realms" could be discussed. According to Merv, Titania was going to again extend an offer of marriage to Morpheus. While this was quite the shock to you, a sympathetic Lucienne explained the regularity of such a proposal when you hid out in the library to escape all the excitement of the impending visit.

"Isn't she married, though?" you asked, shoving a dreamer's book harshly into its appointed spot. If you were going to be taking up space, you had figured that the least you could do was help out with some shelving.

"Queen Titania and King Oberon have...what you would call an open relationship, I suppose," Lucienne said. "If anything, their relationship is never as strong as it is when both parties have paramours to entertain them."

"Hm." The laws and customs of other realms were something you had yet to get used to, and you assumed that it would remain that way. "But why is she so fixated on Morpheus? I mean, obviously he's insanely powerful, but surely there's other eligible rulers?"

Lucienne's lips quirked at your subtle dig towards Titania. "There are, but she has never truly been capable of moving past the dalliance that she and His Lordship had."

"A 'dalliance?" Your voice came out high-pitched, the shock of what you learned making you forget how to talk.

When it was merely lighthearted gossip, Merv had shown you a portrait of the Faerie queen in a book detailing the various realms and those that rule them. She had blue-tinged skin and flowing black hair, and though her features were incredibly dainty, there was a strength carried in her regal posture that screamed that she was not to be trifled with. Though she looked nothing like Calliope, she was just as beautiful. Now, you hated that stupid picture, because she was probably twice as pretty when face-to-face with her.

Lucienne realized the error of what she said only after you reacted, and suddenly found herself interested in checking off something on the parchment she was holding.

"It really was nothing more than just that: a simple dalliance," she attempted to reassure. "They only carried on with the affair for a couple of decades, if that."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better? I'm only a couple of decades old!" Breathing through the panic that had risen in your throat, you held your hands out in a placating gesture (who you were placating besides yourself, you're not sure) and nodded. "Okay. Okay! So, who ended things between them?"

"Lord Morpheus. He was entirely unimpressed with Queen Titania, and he remains so. Honestly, I believe that the only reason he agreed to the fling in the first place was because of boredom." Lucienne took your hands in hers. "You have nothing to worry about, I promise."

"I know!" You hoped that she couldn't tell how blatantly you were lying. "Um, I think I'm waking up. I'll see you after the Faerie delegation visit."

Since fae were masters of deception on their best days, and you were painfully human, it was safer for you not to be in the Dreaming proper during their stay. Thus, the next time you went to bed and each subsequent night until the delegation left, you would be back in your own dreamscape like every other normal dreamer. Probably for the best, considering how you were currently feeling.

When Lucienne let go of your hands, you used your handy dandy skill of being conscious of your dreaming to wake yourself up. Back in your bedroom, you laid against the mattress and stared up at the ceiling, feeling as the green monster of jealousy began to eat at you.

Honestly, how could you not be jealous? You had just found out that your boyfriend—who, by the way, is an all-powerful, eldritch ruler of dreams and nightmares—has had relationships with a literal goddess and the queen of Faerie. And those are only the two that you knew about! Considering said boyfriend is also probably billions of years old, you weren't sure that you want to know about the others.

If they're anything like Calliope and Titania, then they're surely perfect beings of unfathomable legend. You could see them now, the long line of gorgeous hearts left broken by Morpheus. All of them well-suited to be the partner of the Dreamlord, yet none of them able to pass his test.

That did not bode well for you, neither perfect nor of unfathomable legend, neither ethereal nor regal. You're simply you: loud and outspoken and a little bit clumsy and painfully, utterly human. Normally, such a thing wouldn't bother you. If anybody had an issue with you, then that was their problem, not yours. But what happens when you have an issue with yourself?

You've never deluded yourself into thinking that you were equal to Morpheus in any way. In your relationship, yes, you're on equal ground with him. As just the two of you? You're leagues below him, which, again, has historically not bothered you. It was just a fact of life, until you encountered one ex and heard all of the buzz surrounding another and learned that there are others who would very much be equal to Morpheus.

The jealousy and inadequacy that you're feeling creates a burning pit in your chest that threatens to swallow you up. You needed to do something in an attempt to try and take your mind off of the invasive, all-consuming thoughts, which is how you find yourself sitting on a large blanket spread out underneath a tree in the park and angrily biting into grapes so that Matthew—keeping you company since he was banned from the Faerie visit on account of his cheeky insubordination and how that may look to guests—can eat the other half. Unfortunately, Matthew's doing more avoiding being hit by the grapes of your wrath than actually eating said grapes.

After the fourth grape you've tossed at him with far more force than necessary, Matthew squawks indignantly and puffs out his chest. "Jeez, you don't have to throw them at me!"

"Sorry," you mutter.

"It's okay. I mean, I like grapes just as much as the next guy, but dodging them does not make for a fun eating experience."

You don't laugh, not even a pity laugh if you didn't find it funny, so it shouldn't be a surprise that Matthew hops onto your lap and looks up at you. If anybody can tell that you're not a hundred percent, it's Matthew, whose emotional intelligence is far more keen than one would expect.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Matthew asks.

You shrug. "Just...thinking."

"About what?"

There's no point in lying, especially to Matthew. "About how cool and pretty my boyfriend's exes are."

"Oh no, Killala?"

You look at him in bewilderment, not expecting to hear a name that's not at all the two that you've been stewing over. "Who the fuck is Killala?"

"Nobody, don't worry about that," he hurries to cover his tracks. "You were obviously talking about..."

"Calliope and Titania." You throw a little bit more venom into the latter's name, but in your opinion, it's deserved. She really needs to learn how to take 'no' for an answer.

Matthew shakes his head and affectionately nips the bottom of your shirt. Despite your foul mood, you appreciate the gesture. "Aw, there's nothing to worry about with either of them!"

"Really? I shouldn't be worried about the goddess and the fae queen?" The sarcasm comes out pretty thickly, and you close your eyes and breathe through your nose to try and tamp down the flames of anger licking at your tongue.

"Calliope and Dream have so much baggage between them. Seriously, I'm not going to get into it, because it's not my place to do so, but trust me when I say that their relationship completely ran its course. And Titania? Dream can't stand her!"

"Yeah, but what if one day he and Calliope decide to put the baggage aside and try again? Or what if Titania's proposal makes sense for the realm?"

"That would never happen. They're his exes for a reason."

You sigh and scritch at Matthew's little head. "His exes are goddesses and fae and queens and who knows what other ethereal type of classification! And I'm just me."

"And 'just you' are quite remarkable." You don't have to turn around to see who's speaking, because their voice is as familiar to you as your own.

"Morpheus," you greet, choosing to focus your attention on Matthew. "Finish your business with Faerie?"

"Yes. It went about as expected, which is to say, it was a train wreck."

You can't help the smile that twitches your lips upwards at the use of such casual slang. Morpheus takes a seat next to you on the blanket, but you still refuse to look at him in a stubborn attempt to hold onto what little pride you have left after spilling your heart and being overheard by the very person you were most afraid of hurting with these feelings.

"The Faerie court has departed for their own realm, Matthew. You are free to return to the Dreaming."

"Awesome! I actually think Eve has a couple of tasks for me, so I think I'm gonna head out." Matthew says this like it's his own idea and not Morpheus's. He hops up onto your shoulder, nipping lightly at your ear in farewell. "Good luck," Matthew whispers to you before flying up into the air and back to the Dreaming.

You and Morpheus are left alone together, a prospect that normally thrills you. Now though, you're simply thinking that you've never heard silence quite so loud. Is he mad at you, or is he simply unsure of what to say? You're not sure you want to know the answer, but this stalemate can't go on any longer.

Hesitantly, you ask, "How much of that did you hear?"

"Enough to know that you feel that you are inadequate compared to my previous relationships." Morpheus gently grabs your chin with his cool fingers and turns your gaze to meet his. "Which, I must add, is completely and unequivocally false."

"Sorry. You, uh, caught me at a pretty self-conscious moment."

He shakes his head. "Do not apologize for how you feel. I simply ask that you might explain why it is you feel this way."

"How could I not feel this way, Morpheus?"

He looks at you with a blank stare that says that he really doesn't understand why you feel this way. It's kind of frustrating, honestly. Not only do you have to have stupid human feelings, but they make no sense to your partner.

"Are you really going to make me repeat what I told Matthew?" you ask. "Your exes are all far more evenly matched to you than I am. They're goddesses and fae queens and other beings who I've probably never even heard of because my human mind couldn't fathom such power."

"And you do not believe that you possess such power?"

"Uh, no." It's pretty obvious that you don't (you'd know if you did, with how many hours you spent staring at household items and willing them to levitate after watching Matilda for the first time).

"You do not know the power that you hold over me, a power which I am glad to let you have. It is far more dangerous than what any previous lover of mine has wielded, for I do not believe I have ever loved someone as wholly as I love you. I am passionate, and have often been told that I am 'too much.' Yet, my realm and my function always came first, and would be placed above all else.

"For you, though? I would give you any thing you wished for if you only were to ask. I would pluck the stars from the sky and string them onto a necklace to decorate your neck. I would raise armies to defend you from the most minor of slights. I would create entire worlds for you, and destroy them thusly if that was what you wished. I even believe that I would abandon my function if you requested it of me."

You gasp at the sheer weight of Morpheus's words, knowing the solemnity of them. "I would never ask you to do that."

"I know. But you needed to know the lengths that I would go to in order to make you happy. That is how much I love you."

"I'm hardly consort material. I laugh too hard at stupid videos and I try really hard to garden but usually end up killing my plants and I get shy around new people."

Out of the examples you listed, only the last could potentially transfer over to any consort activities you would be expected to do. But you're already feeling vulnerable, so you're just laying it all on the line today.

Next to you, Morpheus smiles besottedly and shakes his head at your antics. Instead of calling you out on it, he simply picks up one of your hands and kisses the back of it before enclosing it between both of his hands.

"None of those are disadvantages to you or your personality. I want you, my starlight," he says earnestly. "And do you know why that is?"

You shake your head.

"Because you are exceptional. You are wonderfully kind to everyone, person and creature and dream and nightmare. You are incandescently beautiful in a way that makes me keenly aware of the fact that I don't need to breathe, because I suddenly feel as though I need to catch my breath when I see you. You make me feel alive for the first time in a long, long time. You make me want to be better, to create something better."

God, you're going to start crying. Any doubts that you may have had about yourself and Morpheus are simply gone, with just a few words uttered. That's just what Morpheus does, though: he always knows just what you need to hear.

The only reason you keep the tears at bay is through sheer force, and even then a couple slip past your waterline and fall down your face. Morpheus looks a little bewildered at the sight, but you shake your head.

"These are happy tears, don't worry," you assure him. "I'm just...so happy, and I love you so much."

Morpheus's gaze turns soft, and he kisses you sweetly before laying his forehead against yours. "And I love you. Never doubt that, for my love for you comes as naturally as your breathing, and it is as endless as I am."

"Y'know, you're quite the romantic, Morpheus." You can't resist kissing him again, not when his lips are literally an inch away from yours.

"Only for you."

Morpheus smiles against your lips before begrudgingly pulling away so that he can stand up, and you stand with him.

"Shall we return to the Dreaming, my witty, beautiful love?" He dips his lips to your ear before whispering, "I'd quite like to see just how in your element you look when sitting on my throne."

Saying yes is one of the easiest things you've ever done.

[keigosstarlight]

Pairing: Dabi x GN!Reader

Warnings: NSFW/18+, kidnapping, captive darling, noncon & dubcon, BJ, head pushing/guiding, mind break(?) (reader is sympathetic after a bit), praise & degradation, calling reader "pet," reader calls Dabi "Touya," burning, punishments.

Wordcount: <1000 (700+)

Summary: A.U. where Dabi kidnaps you after he's killed Endeavor.

A/N: This is the first fanfic that I've ever shared. 🫣 I also don't write a lot anymore, so I'm hoping it's decent enough. This was originally a fem reader, but I wanted to be more inclusive, so apologies if I missed anything! I read this like eight times, but shit happens. My brain is fried and I wrote this in like an hour.

You resisted when Dabi kidnapped you, but after that first night when he punished you, you decided it wasn’t worth it. He had fucked you senseless, face buried the mattress as your tears stained the sheets. The fading burn on your hip is a constant reminder how he held you despite your pleas, the stinging sensation of the flesh now numb in your memories since your brain forcibly detached. The events are fuzzy at best and completely hidden at worst.

Besides, he treats you well enough, rewarding your obedience with some new clothes that you were sure were more for his eyes than your own happiness, your own toiletries, and a cute little collar with a “T” on it. Of course, if he takes you anywhere, they have to know you belong to someone. He even gave you your own bedroom to retreat to. Sure, he barged in sometimes and invited himself to your bed, but his heat was a comfort now. When you woke up to his palm pressed to your stomach as he held you close, it was almost enough to make you forget.

Every day, you watched the news with him while they replayed his video, time and time again. You heard the details of how his father abandoned him, that his father only married his mother for what her quirk could provide - every single day. After so long of hearing about that abuse, of seeing the anger in his face every time the number one hero showed up, one day you felt you couldn’t be mad at him anymore. Despite Endeavor being dead now, it wasn’t enough to soothe that fire in his heart. You felt sympathy for his broken childhood.

You hated it, and yet, for some reason, the way he looks at you makes your heart skip today.

"Why are you looking at me like that, Touya?"

Dabi gives a teasing smirk, his gaze still glued to your body as he replies, "Because I can, sweetheart. Is there an issue?"

"No." 

You’re so confused, but you can’t deny how badly you want him. You fight the urge to move closer, but as hard as you wrestle with it, you give in, scooting inch by inch closer to him on the sofa until your hand comes to rest on his cheek. Your thighs brush together, the warmth is all so familiar.

"I've missed your touch, Touya."

Surprise flashes in his eyes at the affection, but this is what he’s wanted since he claimed you, so he's not questioning a damn thing.

"Good pet, I knew you'd like it." he praises with a smile.

He caresses your cheek as he looks at you with a lustful grin, his touch becoming more daring as he slides his other hand to your inner thigh.

"Now, I want you to make me feel good, and I think you know how."

Your breath hitches as you bite your lip anxiously, but your response is immediate.

"Yes, Touya."

The verbal obedience is enough to make his dick twitch, but when your hands come to help him undo his belt and pants, that's when he knows he’s got you right where he wants you; completely and utterly his - body, mind, and soul. There was no need for restraints, no need for force, to manipulate your body how he wanted. As much as he loved having that power over you, hearing you choke on his cock while you rested your pretty hand on his thigh instead of pushing away screaming was so much better. 

Muffled noises of your pleasure vibrate around his dick as he toys with your nipples, earning a hum of approval from your captor. Your sweet tongue swirling around the head of his cock makes his eyes roll back. He places a hand to the back of your head, gently guiding you up and down as he lets out sighs of bliss. His attention is locked on you while you take every inch of him, pubes tickling your face, his scent filling your nose as you gag for a moment before he lets you back up.

"Good fuckin' pet." He grunts, head rolled back on the couch’s back.

He fucks your mouth at a steady pace, hips thrusting upwards as your mouth slides over him. Once, twice, three times, he spurts down your throat and you swallow every drop of the salty cum with a slight cringe. Though you’re much more willing now, it doesn't make the taste any better. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, shifting on your knees as you look up at him panting softly as you catch your breath. His eyes flutter, his palm reaching to caress your cheek, a smirk coming over his face.

“So obedient, so submissive. You finally know your place.”

[poorlittleyaoyao]

Didn't want to derail that last post since it's specifically about novel canon, but it got me thinking about the ramifications of the changes that the drama makes:

CQL Mianmian is a Jin disciple. I like this change overall because it facilitates her being a larger part of the narrative and implies that Jin Zixuan has a life outside of being That Rich Guy Wei Wuxian Hates. Still, as is also the case with Meng Yao and Lan Xichen due to them meeting earlier, it means that Jin Zixuan is defending someone already dear to him rather than protecting a stranger simply because it's the right thing to do. Don't shrug off his heroism yet, though, because...

A nameless Jin disciple is the one who tries to hand over Mianmian. Jin Zixuan (and only Jin Zixuan) strikes him down and says in disgust that he can't believe the Jin clan contains such cowards, or something like that. However, Mianmian herself reminds Jin Zixuan when they're giving up their swords that they're under orders from their sect leader to comply with whatever the Wen clan asks of them. Jin Zixuan's choice to defend Mianmian is potentially in defiance of his father's directive. (Why is Jin Zixuan willing to disobey his dad here but stays awkwardly silent during his family's BS at the Phoenix Mountain hunt and conference later on? Well, his dad's not in the room with him here.)

Su She is not involved here, as Lan Wangji is the sole representative from Gusu Lan. The selfishness/cowardice of trying to feed Mianmian to a monster is replaced with his (more socially unacceptable in-universe but IMO more sympathetic to the viewer) revealing the Cold Pond Cave secret. There aren't any Lans standing by as nobody but Lan Wangji does the right thing.

The hostages generally show a lot of solidarity! After Wen Chao punts Wei Wuxian deeper into the cave, everyone else climbs down after him. None of them responds to Wen Chao shouting questions from up above, forcing the Wen guards to climb down to their level to investigate. The Jin guy attacking Mianmian is an outlier, indicating a problem with Lanling Jin culture rather than the jianghu as a whole. They cooperate well when it's time to band together and escape!

So the takeaway in CQL canon isn't that everyone is a coward or overly concerned with politics except for the protagonist, his love interest, and Jin Zixuan for some reason, but more like... here are these young people and future leaders who are fully capable of acting together for the good of the group. They refuse to comply with their captors despite being unarmed, and they'll convince the older generation to take action against the Wen clan. (Nie Mingjue, the only sect leader who's part of the younger generation without an older relative's influence, has already been in open conflict with them.) And isn't it a shame, then, that Jin Guangshan--and his sect culture that would've excused feeding one of his own disciples to a demon turtle--is going to crush all of this.

*I initially assumed, when I started making this post, that Cloud Recesses in the novel gets burned after the indoctrination in retaliation for Lan Wangji's part in killing the Xuanwu of Slaughter. But the wiki timeline has the indoctrination still coming after Cloud Recesses is attacked? If that's the case, how do the Lan have that many disciples to send?

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Actually, the Arateph Rapunzel retelling might be salvageable if I kill my very favorite darling.

Buckle up, rubber ducks!

This retelling is set just after the revolution. Zemma is a scholar--an astronomer--who's been living in an isolated tower working on a major project for years. She's been sheltered from the revolution--why should she care about politics when she has an entire universe of stars to explore?--and has continued her work relatively uninterrupted, thanks to the help of her mentor who stops by periodically to take care of the daily life details like making sure she eats.

One night while 's Zemma's working, a young man--Camreth--climbs through an open window in her tower. She eventually learns that he's a fugitive nobleman on the run from revolutionary authorities (not quite sure how long it takes her to figure this out, which is just one of the problems with the outline). Since she has no political opinions, she sees no reason not to provide him food and shelter and a bit of first aid.

Camreth is a cheerful soul who's running from some major survivor's guilt--he managed to escape when rebels seized his family's manor, and he hates himself for running instead of helping his family escape execution. He's also desperate for companionship, so when he finds this beautiful, fascinating scholar who's willing to help him, he finds himself returning again and again to her tower. Camreth brings Zemma presents and stories that remind her there's a world beyond her tower and her work, and that she can't just bury herself in the stars and forget about the people around her. Zemma helps Camreth to see there's a world beyond the darkness and sorrows of the revolution, reminding him of the beauty of the universe and giving him hope that he could have a future worth having. And they fall in love.

The plan was for Zemma to suggest marrying him--giving him her name to give him an identity to replace his noble status. (Not sure how they'd finangle the legality/logistics of this to keep people from finding out his original identity. Find a sympathetic backcountry official who's willing to marry them and not ask too many questions?) After a period of happiness, Zemma's mentor finds out about Camreth, does start asking questions, and turns him into the authorities, who capture him at Zemma's tower.

It turns out that Camreth isn't just a nobleman--he's the son of one of the queen's sisters, a first cousin to Prince Auren, and thus a high-priority target. Zemma's also pregnant with his twins, who, because of their noble blood, are deemed worthy of death. Camreth sacrifices himself so Zemma and their unborn children can escape.

Now for The Darling.

After his capture, Camreth is put through torture to make him reveal the whereabouts of other escaped nobles. Camreth knows nothing. Then a Big Name Official shows up and stops the torture to demand the answer to one question: Where is Prince Auren?

Camreth was relatively close with his cousin, so the question seems like another form of torture. He knows that Auren's dead. The rebels released footage of the spindle strike. Do they just want to make him say it out loud--to admit that all hope is lost and he's about to suffer the same fate?

Then it hits him--this is a genuine question. They don't know! Which means that Auren escaped! Alive, because there's no reason they'd go through this much trouble for a corpse. The crown prince is still out there and the revolution is in danger from him!

This knowledge makes him a bit giddy, and he starts to laugh triumphantly. "You marked him for death with his very name, and yet he lives!"

Which enrages his captors and they stab his eyes out.

Camreth is saved at the brink of death by the timely arrival of some counter-revolutionaries. When he's recovered, he tries to reveal Auren's survival to them, but none of them are interested in it--they're too interested in seizing power for themselves to want to chase a wild rumor that, on the slim chance it's true, would put the crown prince on the throne.

So he manages to go off on his own (probably with the help of some sympathetic friend) and wander until he finds his way back to Zemma and their children. And he's got this new family that gives him hope that the world goes on, and the knowledge that Auren is alive that gives him hope that the world could get better, and this hope gives us a sense of happily-ever-after.

Except that Auren doesn't have any relevance to the earlier parts of the story, so this discovery doesn't advance the character arcs or themes of this story. And we know that they don't find Auren for a hundred years, which undercuts the idea that this is a happy ending. It leans very heavily on the earlier story for its impact, when I'd like this to stand relatively alone.

So if I cut the connection to Auren and that torture scene, those difficulties go away. The happy resolution of the story is then focused on Camreth finding new hope in the future he has--a wife and children--rather than in political plots that won't be successful.

Then--how/why is he blinded? This could happen off-screen, and be explained as the outcome of torture. Maybe it could be a torture method that's meant to be temporary, so Zemma can help undo it in the end. Maybe he's not blinded at all, which makes his eventual escape and finding Zemma again much more logistically probable.

But we also have the problem that Zemma disappears for the third act of the story. In a romance, I want to make sure both characters have something to do. If she's pregnant with twins, her taking direct action to help with a rescue attempt is difficult and extremely reckless--she'd endanger two innocent lives for Camreth's sake, which is the exact opposite of what he wanted her to do. If it's only herself, it's much more justifiable.

We could even skip over the marriage--which is already logistically shaky--and make that the traditional happy ending of the fairy tale. Perhaps they were planning to get married, which makes the mentor suspicious of the man who's taking her charge away from important work, and the authorities arrive before it can happen. So then after their escape they can find someone to marry them way out in the middle of nowhere and then settle into a happy life of obscurity. That does cut away a lot of difficulties and nicely streamlines the story.

But then in this case--is it too slim of a story to matter? I could make it rather short--maybe aim more for a novelette than a novella. Which could then let me focus on more substantial stories.

Anyone who's interested--does it sound worth writing? Any thoughts on solutions?

[wri0thesley]

(cw: yandere)

kaveh is your one golden light in a sea of monotonous days. alhaitham provides for you what he thinks you need (and no more, unless you've been very good - unfortunately, your behaviour does not often meet his exacting standards of what 'very good' is like). meals, a little mental stimulation, an hour of sunlight a day.

kaveh winks at you when he slips a treat into your hand. tells you about his day out there in the big wide world that alhaitham no longer allows you to see. comforts you after alhaitham has punished you, whether that be by belt or cage or eating your meals from a bowl on the floor like the bad dog that alhaitham tells you you are being--

and it is because of these small indulgences that you don't notice the most important part of this all.

kaveh sympathises with you. he eases the burden and cleans the wound and clucks at you, all bleeding heart and emotional fragility (you've heard alhaitham mention kaveh having both of these more times than you can count). a fellow partner who falls victim to alhaitham's cruelty, you decide, though alhaitham's voice for kaveh is a little gentler and more teasing (the voice you receive from alhaitham is rather more 'a master speaking to his dog'. alhaitham thinks you have to learn), though kaveh comes and goes as he pleases and gets to stand up to alhaitham every so often when he buys another ugly painting or leaves kaveh to do all the housework--

but kaveh does not save you.

oh, you tell yourself that he's not complicit. you say to yourself that kaveh is at alhaitham's mercy, living rent-free and secretly with the scribe. you rely on kaveh's sympathy and his gentleness as contrast to alhaitham's bluntness . . .

but when alhaitham belts you, he only watches with a sympathetic look on his face. he does not stop him. he only tends to your wounds afterwards, when alhaitham is not around. when alhaitham locks you in the cage because you took your freedom for granted, he only sighs and wraps his little finger around yours through the bars. he only cracks open the windows when he and you are alone, so he can watch for any more escape attempts. when alhaitham speaks to you cruelly, he only winces out of his roommate's sight, and does not ask him to stop.

he reaps his rewards. you look at him like a bastion of salvation. let kaveh touch you when you shrink away from alhaitham.

but you know, in your heart, that the architect is not your friend. will never be your saviour. is a captor all the same, even if he vests it in benignity.

tenderness does not override your state of captivity. but you need to take it where you can get it, and alhaitham is no provider of such. so you and kaveh both pretend.

kaveh pretends he is not a selfish man. and you pretend that you believe that, too.