I Just Wish The Frightening Ghoul Would Say Something. For Once. The Silence Is More Disconcerting Than

CRASH OUT THIS EARLY???? SATISFACTORY !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There's a specially terrifying type of isolation at the bottom of the ocean

bride of the abyss

Pairing: Yandere Siren x Reader Description: Years after you saved him, Zeiryn returns to drag you beneath the waves—where his love waits, fierce and inescapable. Warning/s: Yandere | Noncon/Dubcon Themes | Kidnapping | Possessive Behavior | Captivity | Obsession | Emotional Manipulation | Mild Violence | Body Morphing/Transformation Note/s: Commissioned on ko-fi! Thabk you for trusting me with your commission! Idk if you've received the email. I hope you enjoy this one! Tags will be added later!

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The first time you met him, the sun was so high it burned your shoulders through your shirt. Your sandals had long been discarded, the soles of your feet pressed against coarse, grainy sand, warmed by the afternoon heat. Vacation meant freedom, and for you—a curious child with scraped knees and untamed hair—that meant wandering far beyond the adults’ lazy eyes and picnic baskets.

You weren’t supposed to be near the cliffs. The locals had told stories, murmured warnings of tides that dragged unsuspecting feet into the undertow. But you were eight, and warnings slid off your ears like water. You’d chased a crab across slick rocks, nearly slipping once—okay, twice—before rounding a jagged stone formation and stopping short.

A glint of silver caught your eye. At first, you thought it was trash—a bit of foil or an abandoned soda can. Then it moved. Just slightly. Enough to catch the sun and reflect a brilliance so blinding it made your eyes water. You stepped closer, heart thudding, and gasped.

He was tangled in a net.

You didn’t know what he was—some strange fish, perhaps? But then he turned his face to you, and your world cracked open.

He had eyes like the sea after a storm—grey, but not dull. There was depth there. Sorrow. His skin, though damp and streaked with grit, shimmered faintly under the sun. Hair, long and tangled with bits of kelp and shell, framed a face that was almost too lovely for this world. And below the waist…

A tail. Silver-scaled, powerful, twitching weakly with every shallow breath he took.

You froze.

He didn’t speak. He just stared. His lips slightly parted. You noticed the way he held himself, cautious and ready to defend. His hand—webbed and claw-tipped—twitched when you shifted your weight.

“I won’t hurt you,” you said, holding out your hands to show you had nothing. No rocks. No spear. Just your palms, scraped and pink from climbing.

He blinked slowly, suspicious still.

“Are you stuck?” you asked.

No reply. But he didn’t back away when you stepped closer. You knelt beside him, the scent of salt and something sharper—like rotting seaweed baking in the sun—invading your nose. It made your stomach twist. But you pushed it aside and began working at the net.

The knots were tight. You pulled and untangled, ignoring the barnacles slicing your fingertips. Time passed, but neither of you spoke. It wasn’t silence. The waves talked, the seagulls screamed above, and your own breath came hard with effort. Still, it felt sacred—like speaking would shatter something delicate between you.

Eventually, the net slackened.

He let out a sharp sound—surprise? Relief?—and pushed himself forward, dragging the last threads free with a flick of his tail. Then, to your astonishment, he touched your arm. A light brush of damp fingers on your skin. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to. The look in his eyes—raw and electric—said everything.

And then, he was gone. A splash, a spray of saltwater, and silver glimmering beneath the waves.

You never told anyone.

You convinced yourself it was a dream, a fantasy born from too much sun. But you visited that rock again. And again. Just in case.

Years passed. You grew up. He did not fade.

• • — ✦ — • •

Beneath the waves, he remembered everything.

Zeiryn had been young when you saved him, and even then, his mind was unlike the others. While his kin drowned sailors and split hulls for fun, Zeiryn watched the world above with a secret hunger. He had never known mercy—not until you. He thought you were an illusion at first. A sun-struck phantom, kindness shaped like a child.

But you were real. You touched him without fear. You saved him.

And he had never forgotten.

Seasons passed above and below. He grew stronger, his voice deeper, the gift of his lineage blooming in his throat. His tail thickened with muscle, the silver of his scales deepening to something more molten, almost iridescent. His hair, once wild and matted, was now woven with the treasures of the deep—rings of coral, braids of pearl, beads carved from whalebone. He was no longer a drifting child of the tide. He was a leader now.

Yet every dusk, he swam to the same stretch of shore, peering through kelp and coral, waiting for the only face that had ever haunted him.

And then—finally—he saw you.

You stood there, older, but still you. Your eyes held the same wonder, the same distant sadness. He watched from the rocks, heart hammering, the sea rising with every thrum of anticipation. You were holding a bottle. The scent reached him even through the water. Alcohol. Sour and sharp.

You stumbled closer to the edge, barefoot like before. He didn’t understand your tears at first. But when they hit the water, he tasted them.

Bitterness.

He had never tasted sorrow before.

He moved without thinking, cutting through the water with a predator’s grace. When you stepped into the sea—lost, maybe hoping it would take you—he was already there. His arms wrapped around you just before your knees buckled. He caught you. Held you. And for the first time in years, he felt whole again.

He turned to the shore. His eyes, once filled with awe, hardened. There were people there. A town. A world that had allowed you to suffer.

He would never forgive it.

The water closed over your head.

And he took you home.

• • — ✦ — • •

The cold hits you first. It pierces your skin like needles, forcing your eyes open.

Then the pressure—thick and heavy—presses against your chest. You try to gasp and choke instead. The world is liquid. Blurry shapes. Movement. Panic claws through you. You thrash—

Then you notice the shimmer.

Your legs—no. Not legs.

You scream, but no sound comes out. Just bubbles.

The tail is yours. You move, and it moves with you—powerful, golden, alien.

Your lungs don’t ache. You aren’t drowning.

You’re breathing. Underwater.

A presence approaches. You backpedal—awkward, instinctual.

Then he’s there.

The siren.

Older. Towering. Regal in a way that defies language. His eyes widen as you meet his gaze. He reaches for you like a lover, a prayer on his lips without sound.

You float, stunned, your heart racing in your chest.

"You're awake! Welcome home!" he says—somehow, impossibly, the words sliding into your mind like a current. His voice doesn’t echo in your ears. It resonates in your bones. Inside you.

Your lips tremble. “What... what did you do to me?”

He cocks his head, almost confused by the question. “I saved you.”

You glance around. Coral walls. Bioluminescent plants. Faint shadows darting beyond what your eyes can track.

“I didn’t ask to be saved.”

His face falters, just briefly. But then the soft smile returns. “You did, once. When I was dying. You touched me. You gave me your warmth. Your kindness.” He swims closer. “You were the only one who ever did.”

“That was years ago.” You try to back away, but your body is sluggish in this new form. “I was a kid.”

“You remembered me.” His voice is gentle now, like a lullaby. “You returned.”

You shake your head, panicked. “No. I—I was just walking. I didn’t know—”

His hand reaches forward, cupping your cheek. His touch is warm now. Familiar. Like seawater kissed by the sun. “You were hurting. They made you cry. But you don’t have to cry anymore.”

“I want to go back,” you whisper.

“There’s nothing there for you.”

He’s not angry. Not yet. Just... patient. Like he’s waiting for you to understand something you’ve missed.

“You belong here,” he murmurs. “With me.”

You remember the way he looked at you back then—curious and soft. But this is different. There’s devotion in his eyes. A fire born not of gentle affection, but of obsession that has steeped too long.

“You changed me,” you say, voice shaking. You look down at the tail. “How?”

“There’s a pearl,” he says, pointing to your side. You notice now—embedded near your hip is a small, glowing orb, barely visible beneath your skin.

“I couldn’t risk losing you again.”

You turn, frantic now. “No, no, this isn’t right. I can’t—this isn’t real.”

“You are real.” His voice is sharper now. “I dreamed of you so long I thought you were only in my mind. But you’re here. Flesh and spirit. And you’ll never have to suffer again.”

You shake your head. “I’m not your wife.”

Silence.

Then he leans close, his breath warm against your ear even underwater.

“Yet.”

• • — ✦ — • •

Back on the surface, a woman named Marina squints at the shore where she last saw you. She’s a local—grew up with the sea in her lungs and warnings stitched into her grandmother’s lullabies. When she saw you walk into the ocean, something in her gut twisted. She waited hours. You didn’t return.

Now, she’s standing with a fisherman and an old priest, their gazes following the waterline.

“No body,” the man mutters. “Currents here don’t drag far. Should’ve washed up if she drowned.”

“She didn’t drown,” Marina says softly. “She was taken.”

The priest mutters something in an old tongue. The fisherman scoffs.

“By what? Sea spirits? Merfolk?”

“No.” Marina’s eyes don’t leave the water. “A siren.”

“Those don’t exist.”

“They do,” she says. “And if it’s the one I think… she won’t come back.”

And deep beneath the waves, Zeiryn brushes a strand of hair from your face as you lie curled in coral-silk bedding. You’ve cried yourself into a stupor. But your skin is warmer now. The transformation is complete. Soon, you’ll forget what it was like to walk. To speak above the waves. To live without him.

He hums you a song—a melody he’s written over the years, just for you. It wraps around your heart like a net.

You stir in your sleep.

He smiles.

Tomorrow, you’ll love him back.

You have to.

After all… you’re home.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

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YOU 36!

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That’s Louis Rossman, a repair technician and YouTuber, who went viral recently for railing against Apple. Apple purposely charges a lot for repairs and you either have to pay up or buy a new device. That’s because Apple withholds necessary tools and information from outside repair shops. And to think, we were just so close to change.

Follow @the-future-now

Yandere Jester x Reader

The bells are the first thing you hear every morning—soft, chiming, almost birdlike in their laughter. They come before the footsteps of your advisors, before the clanking of platters and wine goblets, even before the rooster crows.

They are his bells.

He arrives with dawn, skipping into the hall like a child and bowing so low his nose brushes the cold stone floor. “Good morrow, Your Majesty,” he says, voice bright and breathless, eyes hidden behind a fan of red and gold silk. “The sun rises late, it seems. I’ve missed your light.”

You allow yourself a small smile, if only because your court expects it. He is your jester—your fool, your clown, your painted shadow—and he is beloved by all, even those who should know better.

Especially you.

He calls himself Jovian, though you suspect that is not his real name. No one knows where he came from. He appeared one storm-soaked night three winters ago. No one summoned him, no scroll bore his seal, and yet he walked through the palace gates as though he'd lived there all his life, trailing puddles and laughter in his wake. The guards said they let him in because of the way he smiled. As though he knew them. As though he owned them.

You’d been colder back then. Harsher. Too young for your crown, yet already dulled by the weight of it. You didn’t laugh easily. You barely smiled. Your court feared you and rightly so. But he laughed. He made you laugh. His first performance was impromptu. A whirling dance of mimicry and mockery, calling out your advisors by name and miming their worst faults with such ruthless precision that you remember the sound of goblets dropping to the floor.

You’d clapped. Once. Slowly.

And that was enough.

From then on, he never left.

He’s always there now. In the corners of your vision. In every reflection. Behind every column. Sometimes it seems even the shadows bend around him, accommodating his whims.

He wears bells on his wrists and ankles, dozens of them, and yet you never hear him when he shouldn’t be there. When he shouldn’t be anywhere near you. When you’re in the bath. Or asleep. Or alone with someone else.

You’ve stopped being alone with anyone else.

And still, your court adores him. They call him harmless. They say his painted smile is just that—paint. His laughter, an illusion. But they don’t see the things you see. They don’t feel his eyes.

You do. You feel them when you dress. When you undress. When you touch the ring he slipped onto your finger “as a joke” during a performance and which now cannot be removed.

This morning, as always, he somersaults to your throne and throws himself at your feet, dramatic and boneless, like a puppet without strings. His laughter echoes off the marble pillars.

“Another day, another chance to make you smile,” he purrs. His voice is sugar and venom, always. “Shall I juggle your secrets, sire? Dance with your demons? Or would you prefer I remove them entirely?”

You glance down. His painted face grins up at you, the red of his mouth smeared just slightly too wide. There’s something red beneath his fingernails.

“Jovian,” you say, your voice carefully neutral. “Did you sleep at all?”

He tilts his head. “Sleep?” he echoes. “Why would I sleep when you might dream of someone else?”

The court titters. They think it’s another of his jokes. You know better.

You haven’t had a restful night in weeks. Not since you complemented the captain of your guard. She vanished the next morning. Her armor was found folded on her cot. Her sword was never recovered.

Your steward once suggested restricting Jovian’s access to your chambers. The steward now speaks in a strange whisper and doesn’t meet your eyes. He says it was an illness.

You know better.

“Tell me a story,” you say. It’s safer, usually. He loves to perform. It distracts him.

He rises with a flourish, sweeping his arm in a theatrical arc. The bells sing.

“A story,” he says, eyes glinting like cut glass. “A tale of love and laughter? Or one of bones and betrayal?” He leans close. Too close.

You do not flinch. Flinching would only amuse him.

“Whichever you prefer,” you say, and your voice, to your credit, remains steady. “But keep it short.”

Jovian’s smile grows until it threatens to tear the painted mask of his face in two. He twirls away from the dais in a single, liquid motion, his bells trilling like birds startled from a tree. His arms rise, fingers splayed, as if he’s about to cast a spell. And in some ways, you think he is.

“Once,” he begins, “in a kingdom not unlike this one, there lived a ruler whose heart beat only for order. They surrounded themself with straight lines and silent halls, with iron laws and colder dreams. Their people whispered that they had ice in their veins, frost in their marrow. They were not cruel, no—they were clean.”

The courtiers laugh again, the low, uncertain ripple of those who know they are part of a performance but aren’t sure whether the joke is at their expense. You watch him move, pirouetting between pillars, his shadow elongating oddly behind him despite the hour.

“One day,” Jovian continues, “a man came to the palace. A stranger with bells on his wrists and madness in his smile. He danced into the throne room and bowed so low that even the spiders looked down on him. And the ruler, who had not laughed in many long years, tilted their head. And then...smiled.”

He stops dancing. Stops everything. The silence that follows is unnatural. The kind that weighs on your ears. It stretches too long.

Jovian stands now in the center of the chamber. He faces you. The fan is gone. His face is fully visible.

No one laughs.

“But the smile,” he says softly, “was not theirs.”

Something shifts in the air. You feel it like a sudden pressure drop before a storm. Your fingers tighten around the armrest of your throne.

Jovian’s eyes—not the bright, painted mockeries from moments ago but something deeper, older, more aware—lock onto yours. The courtiers around you begin to shift uneasily, the illusion fraying at the edges. Perhaps they, too, feel the change, though they’d never admit it.

“They say,” he goes on, his voice honeyed and low, “that when a fool dances too close to the fire, he risks getting burned. But what if the fire... finds him cold? What if it feeds him? What if it makes him real?”

He turns his head slowly, unnaturally, like a marionette guided by invisible strings. “Would you like that, my liege? To be real?”

Your mouth is dry. Your ring—the one he “joked” into placing upon your finger—burns against your skin. You press your palm into your thigh to stop yourself from reaching for it.

“What are you?” you whisper.

He hears. Of course he hears.

He laughs again, but this time there’s no joy in it. It’s empty. Hollow. The sound of dry leaves spinning down a long corridor.

“I am yours,” he says, all false brightness restored in an instant. “Your reflection, your shadow, your secret kept too long. I am the whisper in the mirror when you do not recognize yourself. I am what your court would be if it were honest. I am... love.”

He’s at your feet again. You didn’t see him move.

“I am love,” he repeats, and his voice cracks on the last word like porcelain under pressure.

Then he reaches into his coat and pulls out a feather—white, long, unmistakably from a dove—and places it on your knee.

You stare at it.

You think of your high priest, who hasn’t been seen since last week’s festival. You remember the dove he always kept with him, a symbol of peace, of renewal. You remember how it used to coo from his shoulder even during sermons.

You haven’t heard that cooing since.

“Your story,” Jovian says, rising again, brushing off his sleeves like dusting away ash, “is unfinished. But it’s getting better. Don’t you think?”

You don’t answer.

He leans close, until his lips nearly brush your ear. “I’ve been writing it in your dreams,” he whispers. “Do you like what I’ve done with the ending?”

Your heart thunders in your chest, but you force yourself to remain still, regal. You are a monarch. You are not afraid.

You are terrified.

The bells sound again as he twirls away, laughing once more, but it is an echo of an echo now, like wind whistling through an old crypt.

He performs the rest of the day for your court, delighting them with riddles and songs, with lewd jokes and elaborate impersonations. He flirts with the ladies, mocks the lords, kisses the hem of your robe as though nothing has changed.

But everything has.

That night, as you lie in your bed, the ring still burning on your hand and the feather tucked in a locked drawer, you dream.

And in the dream, Jovian stands at the foot of your bed, his smile stretched wide, his bells silent.

“You found the ending,” he says.

And the room fills with laughter that isn’t yours.

Masterlist

Project Moon Memes Masterpost

So I started making Limbus Company meme edits with my friend Koi and they now number over 500 and there's 40+ posts. Whoops. Masterpost be upon ye.

Koi doesn't have public social media so I'm posting all of them for both of us, but we're responsible for these in roughly equal part. so let us all appreciate the role their hyperfixation-fueled meme rampage has played in the existence of this series :D

1. sayonara you weeaboo shits 2. go femboy go 3. but i stay silly :3 4. world's bestest most specialest war criminal 5. QUESTION FOR ALL GIRLS 6. touch eels 7. latina fiesta dot co 8. It's with great pain that I must announce you were devoured by clowns 9. Bomb in my ass hole 10. [JOKE PENDING] 11. you wanna fuck the keyboard 12. its chewy 13. look buddy, it's transient 14. damn this pepsi strong as fuck 15. get distorted! 16. wtf I'm facing the same direction 17. I have eaten my wife. 18. Why Angela soft if not to pet 19. there's bigger fish to fight 20. it takes a man to be a wife 21. my grandpa died in the yaoi wars 22. THE SUN THE SUN THE SUN 23. sword slash to the chest. and you're on fire 24. my city now 25. she cites her sources 26. WORLDS SLUTTIEST ABSENT FATHER 27. god forbid women do anything 28. Knife Monopoly 29. i just need to write a list 30. what if i accidentally have a gun 31. ethically debatable sex with my morally ambiguous wife 32. KATSUP BLAST 33. oh well unzips 34. Hola faggot! 35. jerking that thang asunder 36. She is now my girlfriend (long story). 37. enjoy your silt, fag 38. weird bug hotline 39. I'm a pervert little leftist 40. menwtol smeeness 41. doing Nosferatu shit to her penis 42. nothing but air 43. I was christmas for a month. 44. comradezoned 45. PESIS IS GONE. 46. can you cheat at surfing 47. COOOOL BEEEAAAAANNNN 48. she touch my yippee till i yay