#yn pov

[remae-freyae]

Why Emotional Intelligence Is the Real Tech

The impressive part of SweetDream isn't that it generates text, it's that the text understands you. My companion reads my mood, adjusts her tone, and responds like she actually gets it.

Emotional intelligence like that is the quality that matters most in a companion. It's the difference between being processed and being understood. On sweetdream.ai, an AI girlfriend feels like the latter.

[remae-freyae]

"Title: If Found, Call [REDACTED]"

Y/N was somewhere in the middle of nowhere, her playlist looping the same four songs and her aging car rattling like it had arthritis. She’d just pulled out of a sleepy roadside inn when she started hearing an odd scraping sound coming from the trunk. At first, she chalked it up to junk shifting around—but then her tire blew out with a loud bang, jerking the wheel and nearly sending her into a ditch. Muttering a string of curses, she pulled over, got out, and popped the trunk.

What she expected: a spare tire.

What she found: a black mechanical bird with glowing red eyes and a mean-looking beak, sitting there like it owned the place.

It blinked. She blinked. "...Okay,” she said flatly, “that’s not a tire.”

The bird cocked its head, then gave a rasping caw that echoed like a voice modulator having a bad day. It didn’t move to fly away—just stared at her like she was the inconvenience.

There was a small metal plate on one leg. Engraved neatly were the words:

MEPHISTO

PROPERTY OF ONYCHINUS

IF FOUND, CALL THIS NUMBER [REDACTED]

DO NOT ATTEMPT TO PET. SERIOUSLY.

Y/N read the last line twice. Then looked at the bird again. “You don’t look that serious,” she muttered. Still, she took out her phone and dialed the number. One ring. Two. Three.

Then: “...Who is this?” The voice was low, controlled—smooth like silk wrapped around a dagger.

She blinked. “Oh good, you don’t sound like a government hitman at all.”

Silence.

Then: “Be more specific.”

Y/N leaned against the bumper of her car. “Well, I'm glad you asked because I found a crow in my trunk. Not just any crow. Full metal, glows red, real bossy vibe. His name’s Mephisto, which, side note, sounds like a supervillain’s backup dancer.”

There was a pause. The line went so still she thought he hung up—until she heard him exhale through his nose, barely audible. Almost a laugh. Almost.

“And he didn’t attack you?” he asked, quieter now. Curious.

“He gave me a little side-eye,” she replied dryly. “But then again, so do most people.”

Another pause. Then, to her surprise, a faint smirk in his voice: “Stay where you are. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” The call ended.

Y/N lowered her phone and looked at Mephisto, who was now pecking casually at the corner of her grocery bag.

“Glad we could bond,” she muttered. “You absolute demon drone.”

[firespawn]

Kaname Kuran bites you

[blacksunsquad]

Weeeelll👁️

I have something interesting. A cute little picture for a little fanfic I wrote. =}

Enjoy~

« Nightmare »

Fanfiction:

Y/N – Your Name

You are a skeleton.

You are of your own gender.

____

How could you mess up this badly?

All you had to do was find a specific book in a specific library, in a specific castle, in a specific AU, at a specific time—and in return, you’d get a neat sum of 300G. You’d dealt with similar requests before, and in your humble opinion, they’d always been child’s play, especially when you had all the details down to the best time to pull off the theft. You could say you were pretty good at this.

And it seemed like the perfect conditions—perfect timing, perfect job for an adventurer like you. Except, apparently, your informant had gotten the time wrong.

—Damn it.

A quiet curse slipped from your lips in a nervous whisper as the painfully obvious realization settled in: there was someone in this castle.

No, on one hand, it was stupid to hope that a place this massive—drenched in an atmosphere of suffocating fear and grim grandeur—would be completely empty. Surely, someone had to maintain its pristine, presentable appearance. But on the other hand, all your acquaintances had sworn up and down that this place was crawling with nothing but restless spirits—if even that. You see, in this universe, an incident had occurred that left absolutely no one alive.

And yet, someone was here.

Someone was here, living quite comfortably inside this decently intact castle, surrounded by gray—almost black—walls covered in strange runic symbols in a language you didn’t understand. And that someone was walking through the castle right now, searching for an unexpected guest.

Under normal circumstances, you could’ve just taken what you needed and left—that was the plan, after all. But this time, you couldn’t shake the sickening feeling of an otherworldly gaze burning into your back. And it was truly otherworldly —no monster or human you knew could stare like that. It threw off your concentration completely, and for something like opening a portal, you needed to be at your sharpest. Otherwise, you might end up in the wrong place—or worse, lost in the white void.

The shadows seemed especially alive and unmistakably hungry. Maybe it was just the oppressive atmosphere of this place getting to you, but some of them coiled like tendrils, trying to snatch at your legs.

It didn’t scare you much. Places like this always had some kind of mystical energy, but here, something was different. This castle definitely had a keeper—one with far from pure thoughts and a rather grim taste, judging by the blood-red sky outside the windows and the pitch-black earth stretching as far as you could see. No matter how many times you’d been told not to judge a book by its cover, something deep inside whispered: This is not a kind world, and its inhabitant is far from kind.

There was something else, too.

Slow, deliberate footsteps. Not as loud as heels clicking, not as silent as a gust of wind. It was a short, barely-there sound—more like a shiver down your spine, an eerie rustling that sent an inexplicable tremor through your fingers. Haunting. Unavoidable.

It was maddening, making you feel like a frightened child.

At some point, you had no choice but to duck into one of the many arches, slightly disturbing the dim glow of the already flickering candles embedded in the walls, and hide behind the first large piece of furniture you saw—a desk.

The neatly stacked papers looked more like unfurled ancient scrolls, but you had no time to examine what was written or drawn on them. The lone lamp, burning with a yellowish light, offered a sliver of comfort in this oppressive place, but the ringing in your ears wouldn’t stop, not even with the presence of what you considered a massive stained-glass window.

And yet, beneath the icy terror in your chest, a narcissus of smugness began to bloom—one of your hands was firmly clutching the book you’d been sent to retrieve, the one that would earn you a hefty reward. A slow, uncertain smile spread across your face. With every step the unknown presence took, your resolve to protect the book grew stronger—you’d dig your fingers into its thick binding if you had to. At least these thoughts distracted you from everything else.

If you really thought about it, hiding here wasn’t the best idea. First, this arch was one of the few leading to a dead end. Second—much to your dismay—it was clearly visible from the hallway. Assuming, of course, that whoever was following you already knew where you were. But what’s done is done—your only hope now was the pathetic chair partially blocking the view.

Suddenly, the footsteps stopped, leaving you to spiral through one chaotic, terrifying thought after another—each worse than the last. You nearly relaxed, thinking you must’ve been the luckiest son of a bitch in this universe, but then—...

A quiet, careful creak of the chair rang louder than any church bell—and would’ve served just as well if that bell were sentencing you to execution.

Desperation clawed at your chest, tightening like a noose around your throat as cold sweat dripped down your face. Your expression didn’t falter, but the lump in your throat made it impossible to scream. You froze, as if your limbs had been paralyzed in an instant. Only one thought blazed through your mind in bright red letters: There’s nowhere left to run.

Now, the overwhelming presence felt clearer than ever—crushing you into the ground on a whole different level, amplifying every sensation and twisting the worst of them to their limit.

For the first time, you were truly afraid to come face-to-face with whatever radiated such power.

The flickering lamp didn’t help. Gasping for air in the suffocating dread, you tried to recall prayers—or at least desperate apologies for disturbing the peace. Hiding your breathing was pointless now. From somewhere above and behind you came a quiet, bone-chilling chuckle. The stench of rotten apples filled the air. Time slowed treacherously, each second pounding in your temples.

How could you mess up this badly??

— It seems you have something of mine.

A voice hummed softly, as if the wind’s whisper, a shepherd’s horn, and an organ’s deep notes had merged into one. You ducked your head guiltily, pressing it into your shoulders as you hugged yourself—and the book—tightly with both arms. Even the thought of fighting this creature made you tremble.

— Stealing is wrong.

A thunderous growl of multiple voices at once crashed down on you—closer, louder, sharper—forcing your already exhausted body to press harder against the wooden side of the desk. Watching in horror as the dark shadows coiled closer, twisting like living tendrils, you squeezed your eyes shut, refusing to see its face. But to your terror, it didn’t matter—you still felt it. Its presence was in your mind, in your perception, dangerously close to your body as something cold wrapped around your hands. You didn’t even think to pull away—resistance suddenly seemed meaningless, useless.

The coveted book slipped from your grip, taking the last sliver of hope for escape with it.

The lamp shattered with a crack, forcing your eyes open—and finally, you met the gaze of the monster before you.

Nightmare.

__________

End :D

Nightmare by: Joku

[alchexmy]

we love insane König here.

tw | obsession | stalker tendencies

The Beginning.

It surprised him. The lengths he would go to, to feel close to you, the way he would degrade himself to quench his desires.

It really surprised him.

Wired eyes with pinprick pupils staring into the harsh blue light of his computer screen in the office, looking through your file, figuring as much of you out as possible without even having to be near you. Not that he didn't want to be near you. Oh, he very much did. But he had no real reason to be, you were just the intelligence officer, a quiet girl, absorbed in paperwork, rubbing your temples when you worked too late. And you always worked late.

That's when it had started.

All it took was one night, him planted at his desk, you at yours. Everyone else had finished up hours prior. His gaze had been enamoured by your every movement. Captivated. You didn't even notice him staring, eyes narrowing, assessing you. For some reason that lack of attention really irked him, it got right under his skin.

Then you had looked up.

"Colonel, can I ask you something?"

Yes.

He had rolled himself back in his chair, wheels bumping on the uneven carpet, silently gesturing his acceptance of your question with hands open.

That slender figure of yours had rose from its stationary position, fingers selective over the sheets they picked up, neck flexing to stretch out the long hours of arduous work. It took seven strides for you to be right beside him, the scent of your skin filling his nostrils, the undone top button of your shirt just loose enough to provide the most fleeting distraction for his mind.

You had been speaking to him with a determined, stressed tone, arms brushing. He had listened to your every word, but he had also been admiring your details. The way your nails were in perfect manicured condition, yet the skin around them bitten and picked until they were red raw. The slightly oval shape of the mole which decorated the back of your hand as it flexed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, index finger pointing out that highlighted section and this highlighted section, there is a connection here right? Your handwriting in deep black ink small, neat, cursive even, at times. It made sense, it suited you.

The conversation was brief, hands tapping the sheets on his desk to straighten them into a bundle. Do you mind? You reached over him to borrow his stapler, binding them irreversibly, putting them back on your desk. The ladder in your tights as you walked away, what had you ripped that sheer black nylon on? 

When the door swung closed 43 minutes later, he raised that stapler to his mouth, breathing in the trace of you left behind. It's not like it even smelt of anything, he could barely understand the compulsion to do it.

And so the obsession had begun.

Your mug, swiped from the side of the sink one day.

That had been him.

The kettle boiling as eyes scrutinised where your lips had been, those faint marks from your lipgloss. His only desire to emulate you, copy your actions, pouring the water in, steeping the tea and drinking from exactly where you had.

But the simple thrill died off quickly, so he had to ramp it up, needing his fix. The more he fed it the more it grew like a malignance, uncontrolled, invading every single second of his thoughts. Thus, the more he needed you, his drug.

It surprised him, how a man of such stature could creep so unnoticed through the corridors at night. It actually took him a couple of tries to get the courage to follow through, his heart pounding, a sensation so intoxicating. The third night, his fist enveloped the door handle, carefully pressing down until it clicked and he could swing it open with ease. And there you lay. His heart hammering so loud he could actually hear it echoing gently within those four walls, your four walls.

In the end, you only noticed what he had done because all of your underwear was matching, the easiest way to pack for work. And suddenly, there was an odd number.

He found new excuses to be near you, to talk to you, to smell you, to watch you. Even if you didn't see him. The middle of the night, first just standing against the door, watching you from afar as you slept, your chest slowly rising and falling. Then he would sit on the floor, his face inches from yours, the exhilarating rush making him electric. You never stirred.

Everything was mesmerising, the way you sat, the way you chewed the inside of your cheek when concentrating, the tone of your voice, the flush of your cheeks, the way you walked, the way you ate. It consumed him. He needed you. But he would never touch you, not yet. The thought of requite was tempting, yet would kill off the private intense pleasure he got from knowing you didn't know.

It didn't take long for him to figure your whole routine out. Every night around 8 you would retire from the office and head to the shower block, you would take 20 minutes to wash the day off and then leave. And you always left your caddy of stuff there until the following morning.

So he would wait 10 minutes after you finished before going to the block and lathering his body in the same cubicle with your scent.

But you see, he needed his fix.

8.30 turned into 8.29, and he used your shampoo to wash his hair.

8.29 turned into 8.25 and he scrubbed his teeth clean with your toothbrush, still damp, faintly tasting of mint as he ran it over his enamel.

But he needed his fix.

So at 8.21 he went in, practically walking into you as you left, your small body colliding into his mass. It had shocked you. Sorry, Colonel.

You had simply no idea.

No idea as headed straight into the same cubicle as always, this time, fully clothed.

No idea as he knelt down, leaning his chest forwards, his nose millimetres from the acrylic base.

No idea as he stuck his tongue out and licked where your feet had been, lapping up a little of that stagnant water infused with you.

Now it was his turn to stay late in the office, turning all the lights out, basking in the darkness.

He leaned back taking in that f—king scent which lingered all over his skin, legs spread, staring at your file in the darkness. Large hands ran through his hair as he shifted forwards, clicking on your profile photo.

He could feel the twitching, begging for release, begging for the stroke of his palm to alleviate the tension. A single digit outlining your jaw on the screen. God he wanted to finally touch you, finally have you.

The door opened, that silhouette unmistakable, making his throbbing c-ck scream.

"Colonel, I need to ask you something."

[captain-heartstrings]

Question! How does our beloved captain darling feel when his treasure peppers his face with kisses? (Lowkey something I'd love to do to my romantic partners if I ever had one lmao)

Probably pretty lucky, since- well...

There's plenty of fish in the sea, but you chose him.

[uselessbard1031]

Exaggerated preview of Burnout - Chapter 20

Izumi: So, Y/N is a friend of yours?

Lin: No.

Izumi: It must be strange having her stay with you then.

Lin Externally: Not really; she's stayed here before. It's nice to have someone around who cooks for you.

Lin Internally: YEAH THAT'S RIGHT; I BET SHE NEVER COOKED FOR YOU, BITCH!

[uselessbard1031]

What I should have done? Outdoor work before the snow makes it impossible.  What I did do? Write more Burnout.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31476017/chapters/88009675

[uselessbard1031]

Alright, alright, stop throwing your tomatoes and read on. ;) <3

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31476017/chapters/90016684#main