#especially if it makes you feel worse to engage with the content

[merigoldaround]

I used to love spending time in the jikook tag (or did I, it's been over two years, maybe I'm just nostalgic). But these days when no one seems to have anything good to do they come and complain about one thing or another, it's more trolling and debunking and taking some moral high stand for "seeing the truth". All I want is to see people sharing cute jikook moments even if they're not new or maybe some actually good takes and positive asks (oh those were the days when we got more content and people didn't get so easily bored, I mean the complainers were there still, but it felt like they were the minority).

Personally I just care that the guys are happy and wish people would be kind. And certain people here are not kind at all. Like who hurt you? Maybe do some self reflection, see to your traumas, I swear it makes a real difference. Negativity bias is a thing, maybe look it up.

[charliemwrites]

…. So Mister(s) steal your girl, huh?

Content: Unhappy Relationship, (Brief) Gaslighting, Sad Reader

Bombshells, you always thought, were supposed to making a whistling sound before landing. A high pitched warning of impending doom. Too late to escape the incoming devastation, but at least it wouldn’t come out of nowhere. There’d be some time to brace, for all the good it would do.

Maybe you watched too many movies.

Three months. That’s how long you got to enjoy the bliss of engagement before the world began to fall around you.

Your fiance came home and sat you down, his hand around yours. You thought he was breaking it off for some reason. What he did instead was worse.

In the aftermath you can only remember snippets of the one-sided conversation. Like tinnitus, an awful running in your ears left over from a dropped bomb.

Things like,

Still young, I want to explore…

How will I know you’re my forever unless I know what’s out there?

Last bit of freedom before being tied down…

If you love me and our relationship…

You love your fiance and your relationship. You don’t want to lose it just because you’re selfish. He’s still coming home to you, after all. You’re the one with the ring and all the plans for the future. So what if he wants to… explore? He’s even offering the same to you.

An open relationship, he calls it, like it’s some innovative idea.

You’ve heard of them before, never had much interest. Still don’t, honestly, but it was that or the desolution of 4 years.

You insisted on a long engagement. Your fiance promises that you two can revisit the open relationship when you’re married.

Within a week of agreeing, he’s leaves for the weekend. He doesn’t tell you where he’s going, who he’s meeting. He comes back Sunday evening smelling like someone else’s perfume with a hickey on his collarbone. When you refuse any advances, he sighs and says he “understands that this is a transition” and goes to shower.

It’s like that for six months. Weekends without him. Sometimes sending him off Friday morning and not seeing him until Monday evening. Lipstick on his collars, strange perfume invading the laundry. You start doing his clothes separately.

Six months. You spend months suffering in silence, sniffling through Saturdays and drifting through Sundays. Adjusting meal plans to cook for one.

The last straw is when you try to make plans on a holiday. You and your fiance haven’t done on a proper date in months. You want to go out, have all his attention on you, not shared with his phone.

“Ooh, sorry dear, I’ve already got plans with Malorie. Rain check, yeah? We’ll do something next week.”

You decide to go out anyway, sick of feeling sorry for yourself. Nothing fancy, just a bit of self care. You buy yourself a cute new outfit, put on a bit more makeup than usual, do your hair. Find an interesting little late night book shop. They serve wine and food and have comfy booths for people to read or talk or play board games.

The perfect place to be out but alone.

You’re debating the merits of a romance novel when a voice comes from your left.

“Love that one.”

You blink, glance up. Find a handsome man with eyes simultaneously so dark and so warm. Coals, you think. There’s a cheeky little quirk to his mouth as he nods at the novel.

“It’s good if you like will-they, won’t-they.”

You hum. “I’m more in the market for something… easier? If that makes sense.”

He hums, gives you a solemn look. “It does. Here, you might like this then.”

He plucks a book off the shelf and offers it for inspection. You feel awkward reading it the summary thoroughly, especially when you can feel his eyes on you. But you skim it, it looks promising, and a hot guy just suggested it, so…

“Read a lot of romance?” you ask curiously.

He ducks his head a bit, endearingly shy. “A bit, yeah. Call me hopeless.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, but can’t help saying. “I think it’s just romantic.”

His eyes light up. “Yeah? And what kind of books d’you usually like?”

Before you know it, you’re talking thrillers and horror novels with him. Recommending your favorite spooky novel and then following up that you always read a comedy afterwards as a palette cleanser.

You end up touring each other around the shop, talking books and authors and genres. Yet you’re somehow surprised when he asks if you’d like to sit with him. But you agree, a little thrill in your stomach that you haven’t felt since… a while.

You each buy a stack of books, then claim a booth and proceed to read none of them. He tells you his name is Kyle, that he’s in the military but on leave right now, stocking up on entertainment for flights or long spans of hurrying up and waiting.

You’ve never met a military guy before, and you trip over your curiosity. Trying not to pry but interested in what he does. He’s polite and patient, admitting there are a lot of things he can’t tell you but he’ll answer. You don’t stay on the subject long, figuring the last thing he wants to talk about it work.

He gets you back in the department of uncomfortable topics when he notices the ring on your finger. You’re quick to explain the situation, hot with shame all over again, eyes stinging despite yourself.

Instead of mocking you or just getting up and walking away, Kyle sits back looking flabbergasted.

“That’s fucking mental,” he says, “excuse me for saying.”

You burst into laughter. Haven’t told anyone any of this out of embarrassment, but hearing someone on your side is… good.

“I thought so too, but… he’s happy,” you admit.

Kyle frowns. “What about you?”

You blink, can’t look him in the eye. You know the answer but make a show of thinking about it.

“I’d… like to be again. This — the open relationship thing — seems to be working for him. So… maybe it’ll work for me too?” You shrug. “Worth a try.”

Kyle reaches across the table, a big warm hand enveloping yours. There are callouses you’re not expecting. Tantalizingly different.

“Would you like to try it with me?” he asks. “Don’t have to put a label on it or anything. But my schedule is a bit… it’s hard to keep up a traditional relationship, you know? But I like you, and I think your fiance is a knob.”

You snort, but flip your hand around, thumb brushing over his.

“Yeah…” you muse, and after saying it, a surge of confidence infuses you. “Yeah, I’d like to try this with you.”

His smile is absolutely brilliant. You won’t admit — not even to yourself for a long time — but you fall in love a little right then and there.

[faux-ecrivain]

Yan Bully

(Twenty first official post)

(Enjoy this short post)

(Name’s Tony West)

(Content warning; triggering topics such as violence will be mentioned.)

Yan Bully who’s been harassing you for years, ever since the two of you were children. (Your first meeting was when he knocked your caprisun into the trash and then kicked sand into your lunchbox)

Yan Bully who threatens you anytime you appear in his radar, he threatens you so often it actually caused you to have paranoia.

Yan Bully who becomes irritated anytime you  try to avoid him, especially when you’ve become a master of sneaking away. (How’s he suppose to find you if you’re hiding from him?)

Yan Bully who believes that violence is the only way to show your love, after all his mom has always been violent and his father still stays with her.

Yan Bully who gets confused when you reject his love and insist that he’s crazy.

Yan Bully who gets mixed emotions when you lash out, because your anger is expected (his father is always angry), but the way it makes him feel isn’t.

Yan Bully who, because of his confusion, lashes out and engages in a shouting match with you. One that he finds himself replaying when the day is over.

Yan Bully who tries to soften his approach, only to fall back into old habits the moment you start to tolerate him.

Yan Bully who decides to ignore any strange feelings you give him and simply do what he wishes with you.

Yan Bully who actually abducts you and refuses to let you leave, unfortunately his parents are wrapped up in their own drama and haven’t taken notice of their new house guest.

Yan Bully who manages to make your life 200 times worse now that he’s captured you, because now there’s no break from the pin he causes you and now you have no escape to maintain any semblance of sanity.

Dread finds it’s way through your body the moment you hear the basement door open, you know who’s coming and you know what’s ahead. Yet you can do nothing to stop it…

[tuiccim]

Lost in the Dark (Part 2)

Pairing: Dark!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Word Count: 673

Warnings: Dark content! Non/DubCon, and other dark elements. This fic contains dark themes and may include potentially triggering topics. You are solely responsible for your media consumption.

Summary: Bucky has been home for a few days, and you don't think you can take anymore.

A/N: Special thanks to my beta reader @whisperlullaby ! I'm not sure why Dark Bucky keeps rattling around in my brain, but while he's there I may do a few more snippets like this.  

Part 1

Four days he'd been back and he hadn't left you alone for more than a few minutes at a time. It was as if he feared that you would disappear if he took his eyes off of you.

He had fucked you every way he could think of. The serum in his veins made his stamina entirely unmatched. You were exhausted and broken down. It had been almost four months since he had kidnapped you. For the last month, you hadn't spoken a word to him. The occasional sound slipped out but you refused to engage him in hopes he would grow frustrated and let you go. Instead, he was infinitely loving and patient.

Night had fallen and you laid on the bed waiting for him. He had fed you well but your entire body hurt, especially between your legs. You were more sore than you'd ever been. When you felt the bed dip, you braced yourself.

“Come here, baby,” Bucky pulled you against him.

You broke, you couldn't help yourself. It was all too much for you.

“Please,” you sobbed, “please, I can't. Not again.”

“What are you talking about, doll?” Bucky asks solicitously.

“It hurts. I'm so sore. Please don't make me do this,” your body began to wrack with sobs as he held you.

“Aw, baby, why didn't you tell me sooner? It's okay. If you're too sore we don't have to. Here, I'm going to draw you a bath so you can relax,” he kisses your head before swinging out of the bed.

You started shaking and you didn't know why. He was always so calm, it was terrifying. That he had been so understanding made it worse rather than better. He should be angry. He should be holding you down and fucking you without a care for your feelings, but not this man. He was kind and patient. He always made sure you came during sex which annoyed you immensely that your body betrayed you each time. He brought you little gifts and made your favorite foods.

You had smashed his first gift and expected him to go into a rage. He had simply picked up the pieces and said not to worry, he'd glue it back together. He was unwavering. His eternal calm was unsettling.

“Here we go, doll,” Bucky appeared and scooped you up. He carried you to the bathroom and gently laid you in the tub. Your favorite candles burned, all of your products were next to the bath and the water was perfectly hot. You let out a relieved sigh when the warm water enveloped your sore muscles.

“I put some Epsom salt in to help with the muscle aches. This is why you have to talk to me, baby. I can't take care of you well if you won't communicate,” he gently admonishes.

You simply nod. He hands you a glass of wine and then takes up the soap and a washcloth.

You should have known it would be too much to ask for a bath alone. He was always too keen on being with you. He rarely left your side when he was home and when he wasn't the security system still allowed him to keep close tabs.

You decided to just give in. You allowed him to wash you while you drank the glass of wine. He massaged as he cleaned and you found yourself relaxing more than you thought possible. By the time the water had cooled and you stepped out, you felt lightheaded. Bucky dried every inch of you down to your toes and then guided you back to the bed.

As you sat, you felt unusually out of it. The glass of wine had apparently gone straight to your head. You felt like you were in a dream. Bucky gently laid you down and your eyes began to flutter but before you lost consciousness, you heard him whisper, “You know I can't sleep until I've had you. But don't worry, doll, you won't feel a thing. Good night.”

Part 3

Updates and taglist: Due to the unreliable nature of tags, I no longer keep a taglist. Updates for series will be made on Sundays Central Time Zone. Please follow my sideblog @tuiccimfanfiction and turn on notifications for updates. All series and new stories will be reblogged to it. You will only receive notifications when a new part or story is out! Nothing else will be blogged to the page. I can’t thank you enough for your support!

[toskarin]

you should share more of your thoughts on metaprogression! the masses are curious what you think

metaprogression in roguelites is a sort of cursed ring because, on premise, it just seems like a way to make every run meaningful and rewarding in the grand scheme (and to make deaths less punishing)

but what it actually does is encourage locking content away from the player and spreading it exceptionally thin to justify it existing outside of the primary game loop

this has a lot of knock-on effects, but an especially awful one is when you realise that, despite the fact you're playing the game well, you're forced to play the game in a way that's more meaningfully boring and limited than what the game could be offering you

instead of making each run feel less disappointing when it ends (the idea behind persistent progress, usually) it makes playing the game feel like a skinner box chore you're doing for the promise that it gets more interesting later on, or worse, that you need to stop playing well on purpose to end the run because you've done all you can do

the abyss here, the graveyard of design, is when you are actively having a worse experience for engaging with the game at a reasonable level than somebody would have by playing it passively

I haven't found a single example of a roguelite where I wouldn't much prefer the same effort be used to make the game more reactive and open-ended. it's the ubisoft "climb towers to view the map!" of rpg design and it's every bit as annoying as that trapping of poorly-designed turn-based rpgs that deprioritised status effects to the point where you could just spam your normal attack for turns at a time

the mark of a good roguelike is whether a player enjoys playing the game enough to complete a run for the sake of playing the run. is the game experientially worthwhile? I think you've failed on a deep level of roguelike design if a player ever stops and says "I hate playing [blank] because it's boring but I need to do it to unlock [blank]"

[theroyalyandere]

Hi, can i ask for yandere prince with a childhood friend maid

yandere!prince x childhood friend!maid!reader (smut 18+)

cw: dark content, murder, unhealthy relationships, violence, stalking, non-con (non-consensual) content, virginity loss, blood, kidnapping

you and the prince were exactly at the same age that makes the both of you inseparable despite the queen's concern with her son being too close to a peasant luckily the king did not mind especially when he saw how cheerful his son is whenever you're around

you both did different kinds of mischief together causing headache to everyone in the palace

it's always been you and him together sneaking through secret passageways to escape his lessons and you escaping from your worried mother

years passed by his affections slowly became an obsession

there is not a moment that you are away from him, he constantly needs you by his side

as he grows up to be a fine prince and you a young woman, everyone decided that you two should no longer be allowed alone by yourselves especially how you two are unmarried

it would be a tarnish to the royal family's reputation if you were always seen by the young prince's side

despite the order coming from his mother the prince did not listen and it did affect the two of you but he didn't care

everyone majorly criticized you saying how you don't deserve him and how you are aiming for the crown and it hurts

so you distance yourself from your dear friend

bad idea because as soon as you avoided him

he caused chaos and panic when he suddenly became irritable and snappy

he even punished a bunch of servants because they displeased him

you think it will pass but it got even worse to the point he got into a fight with a viscount to defend you

he beat the man into black and blue then fell unconscious and the guards had to restrain him from the feral look at his face

his erratic breathing as he feels adrenaline rushing through him

his eyes lands on yours and you felt a shiver as he flashes you a grin

the man was later declared dead from the bruises that he received from the prince

no one could ever change their opinion on their prince

his reputation was tarnished, the royal family had to take measures to ease the public

he was berated by his mother who's words he only shrugged off

his world stopped when the word 'betrothal' left the queen's lips

he began to protest saying he wouldn't dare marry another woman if it wasn't you

the queen and the prince argument rang through the room allowing any passerby to hear the rumours

the word then began to spread that he is to be wed and his obsession about you

you slowly felt unsafe with the stares and whispers but you had to endure it for the sake of your livelihood

you continued to ignore him but the prince manages to follow you around, watching you do chores and interactions

what you don't know is that he often sneaks into the maid's quarters to stare at your slumbering figure

he would caress your skin and hair then kiss you

he had to restrain himself from his thoughts to completely devour you

his stalking continues until he saw another man showing interest towards you with no regards to the circulating rumours about his obsession over you

he watched with rage filling him as he saw how you return the man's affections

he clenches his fist as he kept repeating in his head that you're all his

the prince meets his fiancee, the poor girl couldn't even capture his attention

his nonchalance brought tears to her eyes as she watches him look over you, a maid who's being courted by a knight

sometime later, your engagement to the knight was announced

people are congratulating you with the prince's intentions darkening every second

if he can't make you look at him again, he will have to resort to more... forceful measures

so he found you alone one night, cornering you

you struggle within his grasp as he looks at you crazily

burying his face into your hair, inhaling your scent

"mmmm.. I fucking missed you so much. don't you miss me my girl?"

you whine and plead for him to let him go but it only spurs him on as he tightens his grip around you

"you're only mine, you hear me? Mine."

you shiver as his voice drips with danger

he tells you how's he's gonna change for you if you take him back

but you try to reason with him saying you two are already betrothed

he doesn't give a fuck and forcibly kisses you

his kisses were so rough you tried to bite him which made his lips bleed red

he chuckles and grows even more determined

"oh how wrong of you to do that foolish girl, I want to be gentle with you but I guess you want it rough."

your eyes widen and shake your head no as he carries you to a nearby room

you cry as he strips you naked, exposing your body to the cold air

he licks his lips as he unbuckles his pants

he grabs his hard cock dripping with pre

the prince pulls you towards him but you scramble away in a futile attempt

he's much stronger so he looks at you manically while you cry with fear from what he is about to do

he smiles down as he spreads your cunny open cooing how he's going to take your virginity

you keep screaming "no!" and beat his chest which angers him

he aligns his tip with your entrance then plunges without warning

you wail with pain as he does not allow you a second to accomodate to his size

he continues to take you as you cry from the pain and the situation

he only leans down to silence your crying

the prince looks down to see blood and slick coating his cock

he coos at how well you're taking him while you lay there crying and thrashing around as he fucks you against your will

he later makes you cum which renders you motionless and he soon follows after

you keep crying and pass out with exhaustion taking over you

he only grins as he kisses you softly before carrying you away to a secret place

he lays your body down into a soft bed and cleans you

he chains your wrists and legs into the bed so you won't be able to escape him

he kisses you one last time before tucking you in

the prince looks back lovingly before leaving the room

the room is hidden away inside the castle and no one has any access to it except him

the moment you wake up, you thought that what happened to you was only a nightmare until you see the chains around you and an unfamiliar room

the prince enters holding a tray of food and only smiles as he approaches you

you try to get away but he only pulls you towards him kissing you like a lover would

"now no once can take you away from me, ever."

a/n: I made it even darker, I hope you don't mind!

[annabel-lee-nevermore]

Hey All

I know I've been quiet aside from a few fic posts recently (especially since I've never been one to post my own thoughts to tumblr quite often) but I've noticed a growing issue and want to say something.

I love Nevermore, I truly do. It consumes my thoughts alongside everything else I do, I still consider things I do that are things Annabel would do "Annabelisms", hell I even still write fics (my wip gallery is a graveyard that I hope to conquer).

The following is a critique of the fandom at present, and though I know it will piss some people off, I hope those who are pissed off take the time to read this. Take this as your content warning before you whine at me, I will argue with you if complaining about it being in the tag is all you have to say.

But still, I've quieted down in the fandom, I no longer talk as often in the server, this blog lies dormant, and there's a reason. Between a few personal feelings about the Montrada developments and the events of the most recent free chapters and picking up more hobbies, I've kept my eye on the fandom, albeit from afar, and I've watched as it grows more and more hostile towards anyone who chooses to voice a negative opinion, especially through the anonymous confessions blog.

This is a Fandom. A [Tumblr] fandom. Surely you all have heard the stories of infighting growing worse and worse in fandoms until they rip themselves and the creation of their source material apart. Voltron Legendary Defender, for example, fell to infighting over a few ship opinions and led to a blackmail incident in an attempt to make things go their way, as well as who knows how many people being doxxed for having "bad opinions".

This is not limited to VLD, but I fear I'm starting to see the same sort of cracks form. People having critiques of the comic is a Healthy and Normal way for people to engage in media, especially media they love. Any sort of theorizing that it's meant to sow discourse and toxicity in the fandom is a product of an echo chamber coming to form, and a toxic one at that, where everyone has to share the same, positive, opinions or face ostracisation from the fandom they claim to be a fan of. This is only going to lead to the fandom cannibalizing itself. Especially with the size of the Nevermore fandom, if we drive out everyone who loves the comic and has critiques and soon the healthy fun ecosystem of people drawing fanart and writing fic out of love will wither away.

And alongside that, though interaction with the creator of a fandom can be a fun novelty, the ways that the nevermore fandom has a wealth of "word of god" information that is never present in the comic, and acts like everyone should know it is fully ridiculous. Not everyone who reads the comic is in the discord. Not everyone in the discord has backread every single factoid about the comic that Red and Flynn have shared. In my opinion parts of this have led to a parasocial relationship with the creators, and alongside that, led to a fierce need to defend them whenever any critical opinion shows up, immediately writing it off as hate and rushing to call them out, despite critique being a normal way to interpret media.

I love this Fandom, but from my (albeit less involved than I used to be) view, its tearing itself apart and I really hate to see it go like this, especially since we're not even a full season deep.

[ffc1cb]

new art blog

the short version:

1. i made a new art blog: @cbge;

2. @ffc1cb will stay up as an archive.

the long version:

hi everyone. this announcement is somewhat late, since the blog in question has been up for a few months now, and i’ve already started posting art on it. the reason it took me so long to “reveal” it is because i’ve been trying to figure out whether a new blog is something i actually want, or if it's just me throwing darts at a board, trying to make myself feel better somehow.

i don’t know when precisely it all started, but ever since sometime last year i’ve been going through a hard time, both emotionally and creatively. i’m not sure whether being depressed is what made art harder, or art becoming harder is what made me depressed (a bit of both, i think), but lately, drawing has been a struggle. 

i’ve found myself having less and less energy for art, and this lack of energy resulted in poorer quality of drawings, which resulted in me feeling like i’m getting worse at it, despite my efforts. i knew i could make good art, art that i’m proud of - i’ve done so countless times before, - but somehow it felt like i just couldn’t anymore, like my hands forgot how to. nothing looked right. 

i’ve been trying to experiment. i’ve learned some new things, tried this and that - it was enlightening, to say the least, and even though i kind of liked how it looked, it made me feel a sense of displacement. i was at odds with myself, my art, and how i felt about it, when previously i was always in sync. i was making art, yes, and it looked nice, but it felt like it wasn’t mine.

i suppose part of it was also the growing lack of engagement, and i don’t mean likes and reblogs - i never particularly cared about those. they are all just numbers to me; dry and impersonal. what i’m talking about is actual, human interactions: personal thoughts in tags, asks, replies, etc. a conversation. 

i don’t mean to sound “old” or anything, but i remember when talking to artists online was more commonplace. my wife tells me it’s because the internet culture has changed over the years, that people have become more reclusive, less willing to be open with their thoughts, and she's probably right, but in my slump i find it hard to believe. somehow it feels like it’s my fault for being less “engaging”, for seeming unapproachable or perhaps intimidating. maybe it’s “just a skill issue”, maybe it’s because i have stopped churning out fanart for popular fandoms, maybe it’s because i refuse to torture myself emotionally by having an art account on twitter (i can’t fucking stand the place anymore; i still post nsfw art there, but only because it’s literally one of the only places on the internet that allows you to do so. i miss when you could post female presenting tits on tumblr).

i have always, ever since i started posting art on the internet back in 2012, done it for human connection. i wanted to talk to people, and have people talk to me. i wanted to inspire people with my art, and i wanted to bring them comfort. i wanted to elicit an emotional response, and have people tell me about it. it was one of the main reasons i drew in the first place; having lost that, i’ve been struggling to stay passionate about making art.

i miss being a small artist on the internet during the 2010s. i remember when i could make a post going, “hey everyone, how are you all doing today?” and it would not seem weird to people in the slightest. it is just me? does anyone else feel that way? am i too deep in my own head? the internet feels so unwelcoming nowadays, especially to artists. we are all just content machines; people scroll by our stuff, or maybe look at it for half a second and leave a like before scrolling away. i know it’s unfair to demand people’s attention, especially now when our lives are already so overwhelmed by everything - no one has the energy to pay closer attention; i myself am not immune to mindless scrolling. but it feels bad. i wish we were all sincere and enthusiastic again.

anyway (sorry for rambling. i hope i haven’t bored you to death), you might want to say, okay, but how is making a new art blog on a “dying” social platform going to help with any of that? the truth is, i don’t know. i just felt like i needed a change. 

i’ve been running this blog since 2016 (that’s almost 8 full years!). i feel incredibly attached to it, but at the same time, i feel it weighing me down. 

there are people who followed me years ago for one specific thing, still expecting me to post about said thing (i still find it mindboggling that some people follow artists for a specific fandom only, but that is a whole other matter for a whole other post that i will never write). a third, if not half, of my following are probably dead blogs. and with my current struggle with trying to regain the joy i once felt for making art, looking back at all the art i’ve done over the years makes me feel tired. i still love it all; it’s all very dear to me. i’m proud of it; looking at it makes me mourn my younger and more passionate self.

so i’ve decided to make a new blog, where i will let myself post whatever i want, in whatever stage of donness i feel like. maybe it will help me, somehow. maybe it won’t. but if you care about my art, if you want to keep following me on my artistic journey, i welcome you to join me there. similarly, feel free not to - no hard feelings.

thank you everyone for your support over the years; it matters a lot to me. i’m not planning to delete or private this blog; it will stay up, and i will still be reachable on here. i will still answer asks, if there will be any. i’m just not planning to post any art here anymore. this is it for my dear old friend ffc1cb.

i can be found in other places:

@cbge, as mentioned earlier,

@k0nstanta, an art blog dedicated solely to my wife and i’s ocs,

@inquisimail, a dragon age ask blog that has become my dragon age sideblog in general,

and multiple other blogs, none of which are art related, but feel free to ask, if you’re curious.

thank you very much for reading all of this. i hope you have a wonderful day.

[worldsover]

Kaninchen und Ente

In your mind, there were three different ways your dinner date with your friend Yena would end. The first would be noticing that familiar sight of a telephoto lens hidden in a bush, and the two of you would have to come up with some fantastical excuse. Second, she would tell you she had a great time, drop you off at your place, and never speak to you again. Lastly (and this was a sliver chance, but you had to find comfort in that sliver), the date would spark the same feelings in Yena that you had for her, and maybe she’d be willing to go on a second date, or maybe she’d even accept a kiss at the end.

None of the above.

The liveliest smile on her face as usual, a boundless energy that you did your best to match, yet you couldn’t read if she was being her usual self or if she was genuinely having a good time.

When you were chatting in her car, it seemed the disappointment of the second outcome was becoming more and more likely. Though in that case, she didn’t have to come into the apartment. You weren’t expecting anyone to come over soon, especially not Yena, so you feel bad you didn’t clean it up much. You were meaning to get an armchair that actually matched your blue couch, but instead you have this brown plaid abomination. There’s blankets and pillows scattered about, clutter like keys and mail on your dining table.

Despite all that, she looks content to relax and sip away on beer next to you. Funny enough, there’s Yena on TV, though just for a brief moment in a commercial. She smiles seeing herself. Guess that feeling never goes away.

“Is my bed that nice?” you ask. You can’t make eye contact with her. The longer this goes on, whatever she’s up to, the more awkward you feel. You try your best to pretend like the date’s never happened. “Do you like making me sleep on my own couch? This is why I told you not to drink.”

“You really want me out of here that much? You hate me that much?” She’s saying it in this annoying cutesy way that makes it impossible for you to hate her.

You sigh. Set your can of beer on your coffee table next to another couple cans of soda.

“Look, I should be straightforward with you.” Yena sets her can down too, scoots closer to you on your sofa, and puts her hand on your shoulder. “I wasn’t really getting the couple vibes. But I know you were being super sincere and I wanna make it up to you.”

“Oh, so you’ll sleep on the couch this time then?” You scan her eyes to judge her reaction to the joke; again, you can’t figure them out. “It’s fine, I prepared myself for worse.”

She giggles. “See, I know you like me now.”

You blush. “Come on, you don’t have to rub it in.”

Yena’s hand moves about an inch: fingertips on the back of your neck, and those sensitive pads must understand the bumps they're giving it right now. Her eyes are half-open, sultry, dim yet clear in intent.

"Yena, what are you..." You didn’t have to ask.

She leans in. “Did I say I don’t like you?”

Your lips touch, and you close your eyes.

"What?" you ask? Why did you ask? You didn’t have to ask, you're staring, and now she's staring back.

Yena flashes a hungry smile before she pulls you in again, and this time, your lips are attached for much longer. And she's not just sitting next to you anymore, awkwardly twisted, but she shifts and scoots until eventually, she is sitting on your knee. Her hand goes from being lightly placed on your neck to tightly grasping your back, her arms in a complete hold. You run your hands through her hair, and then your digits find a bit of purchase, giving a light tug. The two of you engage in this back and forth of who can embrace who more, who can get their body closer. The warmth. It’s subtle but it isn't just the air. It's on your leg. It's unignorable. Between her legs, on your thigh, she's so warm as she adds a second back and forth of her hips.

When you pull her hair again, you swear she just moaned into your kiss. Her tongue follows the destination of the small sound she made: straight into your mouth, and now count a third back and forth of tongues. She stops grinding against your leg and is instead earnestly leaning into you know; you can feel her sizeable breasts pressed on your chest.

As the two of you let go for air, you both tug at each other shirts. In a blur, you have nothing but your boxers while Yena is only wearing her red bra and panties.

“Oh, they’re matching?”

Yena glances away. “That was an accident.”

You smile smugly, and Yena’s blush only grows when your hands start move from her back to her shoulders to her ample tits. You give them much focus, massaging and kneading over her bra. Take plenty, plenty of time to watch the mesmerizing physics; you could stare at the valley between her breasts for hours.

“You like them?” Yena pouts as she squeezes her arms in front of her to accentuate the cleavage.

“Yeah,” you answer breathily, and your fingers follow her bra straps.

“I can take it off if you want.”

You nod and Yena reaches behind to unclasp, then slowly lowers her arms, allowing her bra to fall down her arms and onto the floor—the moment it hits the ground, you take her nipple into your mouth and suck hard on it. She's breathing hard, but it catches when your hand comes around and cups her other breast. Her head drops and her fingers find their place in your hair, somehow pulling you deeper into your makeout session with her chest.

"Fuck, I should've rejected you sooner."

Your tongue is circling around her nipple when you laugh. You look up and raise your brow. "Why?" You bring her nipple to your lips again and this time, use your teeth for a little extra friction and suction.

Yena lets out a little yelp. "Because you'd be fucking me way sooner, that's why!"

"I'm not sure how I feel about that." But you do. You feel a surge of blood pulsing in your cock, and Yena does too. Even though you both have your underwear on, you swear you could burst the fabric right there and then. Especially when she grinds down into your rapidly growing erection harder. Your hands leave her breasts—they've been made glossy by your licking, and you relish in the sight for a moment—then you focus on her pert ass, squeezing both cheeks.

“Oh, ah, please,” Yena says between gasps for air.

You glance up and she's biting her lip, struggling not to moan loud enough for your neighbors to hear. "Please what, you ask?"

"Kiss me, fuck me, anything, please!"

You laugh, and kiss her neck; then you lean back a bit so you can see her face. You want to see it when your hands move from her asscheeks to underneath her panties. "I'll have to think about it. You might be a little wetter than normal," you say.

"Fuck, I'm so wet. I didn't expect this much, oh my god." Her hand darts under your waistband. The mere touch of her digits on your cock's tip sends your brain into a frenzy.

You reach down and grab Yena's wrist. Give each of her tits a kiss. "I can't stop thinking about these. You ever given a titfuck before?"

She bites her lip. "No, but I can imagine what you mean by that."

“Good. Down.” You don’t mean to come out so short, but she shudders when you say it like that.

“O-okay.” Yena gets on her knees. There, she finally fishes out your cock, pulls your boxers off your legs. She looks as dazed as you think you are, her fingers delicately on your shaft.

"Spit on it."

Yena nods hastily, opening her mouth and procuring as much saliva as she can before she sticks out her tongue and lets a generous strand fall. Some of the spit gets on her cleavage, some on your cockhead. With one hand, she guides your erection between her breasts while the other hands helps press them together. She looks down, a bit cross-eyed focusing on your dick, and spits forcefully a few more times, which leaves both her chest and your shaft covered.

"Perfect."

She bends her head down far and slides your cock up so that she can lick the tip of your cock with her tongue. "Muah, muah." The sensation of her plump lips kissing so sweetly, combined with the pressure of her tits around your shaft, makes you groan, and you instinctively push forward. You hit the back of her mouth, and she gags, releasing your dick with a bunch of drool on it. Her brows furrow.

You know Yena is going to get fixated on trying to get you deeper, so you reestablish what you wanted by pinching her nipples.

"Mmh! Okay, okay." She brings each of her hands on each of her breasts to squeeze your cock between them again before she starts sliding you up and down. You let your head fall back against your couch, and then you realize you must keep looking at her. While every touch alone can bring one step closer to your climax, you want to enjoy the visual experience even more. After all, look at Yena. She's gorgeous, adorable, and yet so incredibly naughty. Even though she's never done this before, she's putting her all into blowing your mind with this boobjob. Sometimes she's looking up at you with the most intense glare—no camera nor stage could pull that sultry expression out of her—while sometimes, she's staring down at your cock, fascinated by the size and shape of it, by the way it shines with all the spit, or by how your tip pops out from between her ample breasts. Every once in a while, she stops her movement to stroke your cock between her tits or to let her tongue droop out, tasting the precum dribbling from your slit. Then, whenever she feels like it, she resumes, and you just sit there, amazed by how great this feels, amazed that you're actually doing this with your friend or with an idol like her.

While Yena keeps up the same pace of bouncing up and down, keeping her boobs pressed together on your dick, your body tenses up; there, that familiar rush of excitement. After an expletive or two, you let her know.

She slows down. "Not yet."

You're gasping. "What do you mean?"

"Don't cum on me."

You swallow your own spit.

"In me."

There's a million thoughts a mile. All of them involve being inside of her, feeling her tightness wrap around your cock, filling her up, making her yours, consuming her, making her squirt and scream and lose herself in orgasmic bliss... and then you remember: you shouldn't. It's too risky, unsafe. What if you don't pull out time? What if she gets pregnant? How are you going to deal with all the repercussions—

The rabbit-duck illusion. An ambiguous image in which a rabbit or a duck can be seen. Understand this.

Yena gets up, then she's back on her knees but now on the couch, facing away from you. Her cute ass is in perfect view, and so are her damp panties, especially when she bends down, putting her head into the cushions. She looks back and pouts. "Please? I'll even..." She tugs her underwear, and it sticks to her pussy for a moment with some thin strands of juice before she pulls it down her thighs. Her cunt is glistening, pink and swollen with need, and her clit seems already hard, eager to be stimulated.

You stare, transfixed at Yena's beautiful folds, and after a long, silent moment where you try to convince yourself it's okay, you take her panties from her and throw them on the floor.

Yena sticks her ass up higher, wiggling it. There's a delectable curve to her back, and you can spend all day studying the perfect anatomy, her tits hanging, the back dimples above her ass, the dip of her spine. In fact, once you get your mind right (or wrong, depending on how you look at it), you spend at least a few moments massaging her shoulders, her back, feeling every inch of her skin. You can't resist pressing a kiss on her soft, pale skin. Your thumbs rub circles around her shoulder blades, and she whimpers. Whimpers even more when she feels your shaft between her asscheeks.

"Please?" She sounds resigned, exhausted that you haven't fucked her into the couch yet. Yena's giving the sweetest puppy eyes she can.

Taking a deep breath, you hold your erection and rub your cockhead against her folds.

"Fuuck," Yena whines.

You smirk, then push.

The second your cock slides into her cunt, Yena yelps into the sofa.

You've never felt anything so tight before. In one way, her inner walls are like steel, squeezing you with a vice grip that almost hurts, but she's also so warm, wet, and soft. And the more you start to move, the more her inner muscles tighten around your shaft, until they feel like they're already trying to milk your cock for your seed. You're not even done your first stroke.

"Fuuuuck," she moans again, and this time, she pushes her ass up, shoving your cock deeper into her pussy until it hits the deepest part of her. This is where you start to really go for it, thrusting your hips forward before pulling back against the whims of her apparently greedy hole. Every thrust that you give is met with a shove back from Yena, her thighs slapping against yours, your balls slapping against her cunt.

You grunt and bite your lower lip. This girl doesn't give any slack at all. You hiss, one hand gripping the couch, the other on an asscheek. "Fuck, your pussy feels so damn good."

Her only reply is more squealing.

"Yena," you call over the sound of her voice, but she's lost in another world of pleasure. You slap her rump, and it has no effect. Her moaning becomes louder, desperate, and you find it impossible not to speed up, pushing faster and harder. When her ass slaps against you, her juices drip down your balls and onto your couch, and you're suddenly so hot. You can practically feel the sweat dripping down your sides and between your legs.

Without thinking, she's tensing her legs and bringing her knees together, and your cock receives more of this unbelievable friction soothed by a never-ending stream of nectar from her hole.

You grab her long hair, making a ponytail that's more of a handle. It forces a gasp out of her, also forces her to get up onto all fours. Yena looks back at you for the first time in what feels like forever and it's cloudy. Her expression, her eyes, her smile, they're all foggy and lost to lust. You're probably looking at her the same way, unable to truly focus on anything other than the perfect feeling of her pussy.

So you don't expect when she says, "Are you close?"

You manage to puff out an airy "Yeah", surprised at her prescience.

"Remember." She moans when you hit some inner part of her she probably didn't know about. "Nnh, I said, fff, fucking, fuck, cum inside. I wanna feel your cum, dripping, hot, in me."

Your whole body trembles as you slam into her. You slow down for just a moment to put your knees between her legs and force them apart; you're getting too overwhelmed by her pussy. You grab each of her hands, pulling them behind her because you need all the extra leverage to drive through her depths. You pull her enough to lift her torso up; now she's kneeling while sitting on your cock at the same time. You fuck upwards into her, your balls tighten and pulse, and your load is nearly ready to shoot. You hear her breathing change, quickening as she gets closer, but you don't have the strength to last any longer.

Yena cries out loud when you begin to empty into her. "Yes! Yes!"

You're still thrusting even though you're going through a powerful orgasm, your whole body tensing in earthquakes of pulses, all your muscles tightening. She was already so warm, but now it's even warmer when you feel your seed blasting into her insides. By the looks of it, or rather, by the feel of her pussy clenching on your cock, she's going through a similarly strong climax, which causes her to add a mess of clear fluids to mix with your thick white semen.

"Feels so, so, so good," she says raspily.

You grunt in agreement, and your cum dribbles out of her pussy and down your balls.

"Fuuuck." She breathes, barely, and then leans back.

You collapse with her, catching your breath while you catch Yena on your body the whole time. You can hardly breathe; your heart is pounding so fast in your ears. Now you're lying on your back on the couch, and Yena is lying on you, your still-throbbing dick still inside of her creamed hole.

After you finally find your breathing's regular rhythm, you try to sit up, but find that Yena sleeping on top of you makes it a bit difficult.

Luckily, you can just reach over to your coffee table, grab some tissues. You try to clean up as much of the mess underneath you as you can.

Yena stirs awake at your movement and sits up.

"Hey. If you want, you can just head to my bedroom and sleep there. I'll clean this up."

There's a strong blush on her face. "No, no, let me help—"

"No, it's fine, just go ahead."

"Okay. As long as you come sleep with me. If you're not in the room in... five minutes, I'm going to be mad at you. Actually, if you don't, we're never doing this again."

"Oh, so you plan on doing this again?"

Yena crosses her arms. When she sits up, she brings a hand between her legs and slides a finger up her folds. You watch her suck that very finger with a moan, and you're almost hard again. But then she reaches down for her panties, puts them on quickly, and gets up to scurry over to your room.

She said five minutes so you're done cleaning in two.

You head to your bedroom and find Yena half asleep. She stretches when she sees you open the door.

"Cuddle me," she says adorably with her arms out.

You get under your blankets. She's lying on her side, so you lie behind her to spoon her and wrap your arms around her torso.

“Can I be honest with you?" Yena asks. "That was really good sex. I only cum like half the time."

"Really?" You can't hide the grin on your face.

"The feeling of cum inside me just... mmm, fuck. That's why I put on my panties. It makes me tingly and I don't know why."

You whisper, "Wow".

"But. Well. I just can’t imagine us in a million years being exclusive.”

There goes your smile. You loosen your hold of Yena. “So what, you want to sleep with other guys?”

“Yep.”

“Well, that feels unfair.”

“Oh, I think I can make it up to you even better.”

✦✧✦✧✦✧

To be continued.

Yes, this is just one scene of a longer story, but I know myself and figured I might as well post this now (because for one thing, I haven't posted in four months). You might see this again in the full thing edited.

[mamirhodessxox]

The Other Side Of Paradise

Re6!Leon Kennedy x Fem!Reader

Desc- An outbreak occurs over the early beginning of the summer while you & your newly engaged fiancé/work partner Leon Kennedy were at the Hospital to welcome your first babygirl only for things to occur VERY bad.

Contents- Violence, Disturbing details, Gore, Angst, Near Death occurrence, Infections, Fatal Pandemic, Guns, Death from the infected. Someone dies & it’s certainly not Leon or the Baby :(

{~I'm very serious with you guys interacting with my writing!!!! it would make me so happy & excited, the more comments & reposts the more inspiration i have to write :) Votes and comments are strongly appreciated so please COMMENT COMMENT COMMENT COMMEENNTTT the more comments the more content <3!!!~}

Today was supposed to be the best day of You & Leons life. You were welcoming your firstborn to the world today. This morning around 5:30 You had discovered your water had broken finally after an exciting 9 months. Leons heart was racing as he drove you to the ER. Every emotion was souring through his body, Fear, Joy, Love, Excitement, Anxiety, Everything.

For the first few hours everything was going smooth, Leon was chatting up the Doctor & You were having small contractions but nothing you couldn’t handle, Especially if you had went on missions with Leon, Contractions compared to the things you endured was practically nothing.

Soon they started to get worse so Leon decided to take you for a walk around the hospital to distract you, but you had to separate due to you having the urge to use the bathroom, while you went into the restroom Leon had waited for you & watched the TV in the hallway that had the news airing ‘Breaking news! A fatal variant outbreak of Las Plagas has hit the united states causing some American Citizens to go into almost zombie or cannibalistic acts! CDC has recommended to lock yourself in your homes and go into complete lock down until national security handles the current situation.’ Leon had felt his heart drop to the ground as he watched everyone panic, but his gut earlier almost knew something bad was going to happen, which is why he snuck a gun into the baby bag behind your back before your arrival to the hospital.

While you were in the bathroom washing your hands you had heard strange grunting in a bathroom stall that was unlocked causing you to become slightly concerned “Hello?” … “Hello? Are you alright in there..?” You had eased closer and closer to the stall but a woman who seemed extremely Ill dug her nails into your arms and slamming your back into the wall making you shriek which immediately caught Leons attention. He ran into the bathroom and immediately yanked the woman off of you and slammed her onto the ground “sweetheart!? What happened are you alright!?” You listened to him question you but you couldn’t help but feel an ultimate pain in your stomach “Get a fucking doctor..now leon!”

He nodded his head quickly without a question, when you both had left the restroom the entire Hospital was on lockdown, no regular lights on other than red ones that flashed with a loud alarm going off, “The fuck are you two doing!? Go to your fucking room!” A doctor shouted but leon stopped him “Your going with us, my fucking fiancé is going into labor!” The doctor looked at you & noticed black veins surrounding your arm “Your fiancée is fucking infected are you serious!? Figure it out!” Your body froze as you stopped your movement “Infected? What the hell do you mean INFECTED?” Leon look at your arm & notice the broken skin from the woman digging her nails in your arm “shit..baby your gonna be okay alright? And you, you’re coming with us and helping her give fucking birth am I clear?” He spoke to the doctor in a more threatening tome causing the man to meekly agree and go into the room with you both as well as 2 other nurses.

“If we do this fast enough your baby will be able to come out safe & sound but even now it’s a low chance so let’s get this over with.” The doctor spoke as he snapped on gloves & a mask while the nurses prepared everything for the baby’s arrival. Leon stood next to you as you laid in the bed. Everything hurt to the point where you started thrashing and screaming “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME?? WHAT AM I INFECTED WITH WHY WON’T ANY OF YOU TELL ME!?” Leon crouched to your level and held your hand as he tried getting you to calm down “Miss I need you to take a deep breath and start push-“. “No! I’M NOT EVEN FUCKING READ-“ Leon grabbed your face and made you look directly at home “Sweetheart listen to the doctor and start pushing as hard as you possibly fucking can alright?” Tears ran down your face from the excruciating pain as you nodded your head, You took a sharp inhale & started pushing immediately “FU-FUCK!”

Leon felt you grab onto his hands as you started screaming at the top of your lungs “I don’t know if she will even make it” the doctor lightly mumbled as she kept pushing, blood was getting everywhere, you were becoming pale, your veins were turning black, Leon felt panic rush through his blood but all he could do was hold your head so you could focus on him & give birth “I love you so much sweetheart, you know that? I am so fucking proud of you baby your doing so good f’me, keep pushing angel your almost there”, he ran his fingers through your messy hair as your breath became rigid & short “One more push!” You squeezed your eyes shut & started pushing more & eventually you heard cries but your hearing sounded very muffled as you tried listening to Leon murmuring how proud he was of you & how beautiful you are. But soon everything went mute, your body went limp, your breathing stopped, everything stopped.

“Baby?? What the fuck happened to her? Why isn’t she responding? Sweetheart? C’mon wake up you have to meet her- it’s not time for this angel c’mon” Leon panicked as he started gently patting your face & lifting your head trying to wake you as one of the nurses held your guys’ newborn daughter who came out extremely healthy, the doctor checked your pulse & soon noticed that you were unresponsive.

They felt bad for Leon, this was the last thing he could possibly want, he had plans for you, he looked forward to nothing more than your wedding, he craved to see you walk down the isle while you held your sweet babygirl in the beautiful white gown you picked out, he craved to spend time with you in this exact room while you both cradled your healthy babygirl & think of what was to come, but unfortunately all of those plans soon vanished in the flick of a light.

Leon held your head up to his shoulder as he kissed your temple, and mumbled how much he loved you & wished this was all somehow a fucked up joke, but eventually he had to let go. The nurse quickly handed him your daughter & rushed out of the room with the doctor as she mumbled her condolences.

All he could do was sit and hold his daughter as he disassociated reminiscing on the past as utter chaos occurred behind these walls of the hospital,

He heard tour laugh echo through his ears as he remembered yesterday morning while he spoke to your stomach “We’re so excited to meet you princess, you have no idea” he looked up to see you smile as you played with his hair “I wonder what it will be like when she’s all grown up & gets a boyfriend one day” Leon glared and kissed your stomach “Your grounded until your 80 got that babygirl? I know you hear me.”

He finally returned to reality and looked down at his baby who was cooing and already opening her eyes, the eyes that looked exactly like yours, she was perfect, just as perfect as you. He got up and placed her on the nursing table and immediately started covering her in a tiny blanket, put a beanie on her head in hopes to cover her ears as he put on one of those baby wrap carries & grabbed the baby bag quickly pulling out a gun. He walked back over to the bed you were laid out in & kissed the top of your head one final time before looking down at his chest to his daughter.

“Let’s go Delilah, we have some things to handle..”

The only thing he was happy about was his daughter, & that you were now no longer in anymore suffrage & finally at the other side of paradise. He only hoped God would take care of you while he couldn’t.

It was now him & his little girl against the world. Starting today.

xtripleiiix’s Masterlist

🏷️ list: @ginswife @coolpastelartshoe @greatkoalawizard @cokolin044 @kotoriarlert @alicerosejensen @bunnybot55 @valkyrurx @agent-dessis-posts

[onyourowndaisymae]

Yoo I have two request which I’ll send the other one separately but I am in an ANGSTY mood rn sooo yah also been binging ur headcanons and stuffs and I just love the way you write ?? It’s so entertaining lol

AnywY the actual request: can you write like a one shot or headcanons if you prefer of mc who is struggling after the belphie incident ?? Like they feel like they’ve mostly forgiven him and can act normally around him and they’re friends and take naps together but sometimes the flash back just HITS THEM and they have nightmares and panic attacks that can be so bad sometimes someone needs to get Simeon to calm them down. Maybe something of how the brothers react/treat mc and belphie? Idk I’m just thirsting for like MEGA ANGST rn bc my dad made me cry little bit lmao 😭

it comes at night

hello anon! i'm terribly sorry you're in such an angsty mood, though i thank you for all the love-- and for sending this request right as these ideas were on the front of my mind. it genuinely makes me so happy to see people enjoying my work, and it makes all the writer's block and such worth it. i cannot express enough how much i love seeing all the comments, reblogs, etc. as people engage with my work.

anyways. i'm not sure how i feel about this piece, especially with how LONG it ended up being, but maybe that's just my mushy brain talking after looking at it too long. regardless-- i hope you enjoy (well, y'know, in like a sad and angsty way).

synopsis: you thought you would be able to move on like all the others. your body was healed, your anxiety tucked neatly behind a mental wall built to keep you safe. yet something in you was stuck. you couldn't just move on. you were trapped in a battle between your friendship with belphegor and the fear gnawing at your brain as you remembered what exactly he did to you. when the dam finally breaks, your whole brain floods with terror, until you're swept away with it. nobody can save you now.

genre: angst, no happy end, just a big ol spoonful of sadness

word count: ~3.1k

content warnings: chapter 16 spoilers, graphic(?) discussions of death, depictions of panic attacks, nightmares, mc progressively getting worse from fear + lack of sleep

it's funny how time works. 

you'd been around your fair share of years. you’d grown, you’d changed, you’d spent your entire life looking toward the future you had planned. then you, a mere human, were yanked into an unfamiliar world. you spent an entire year in the devildom– a year that simultaneously dragged on and flew by– and came out the other side a new person. a single year in the devildom has changed you more than the human realm has your entire life. time was a mischievous thing, always leaving you chasing behind in a fruitless pursuit of something you’ll never quite understand.

but, she also brings blessings with her. they say that time heals all wounds. you've always agreed with that sentiment. scraped knees and adolescent broken hearts are swept away with the passing days, trailing further and further behind you until one day you forget to look back and remember them. the pain scribbled down on diary pages or cried into pillow cases no longer stings like a fresh burn. these things are nothing but scars now. time has a special way of patching you up, of rubbing your back until the tears clear up and you can finally see again. that is how it's always been. 

where is time when you need it? 

she hasn't quite abandoned you, this much is true. cuts and bruises heal over the passing days. your hair and nails still grow. your body still changes, slowly but surely, marching onwards week after week. yet your mind is trapped in stasis. you struggle to break free, but at times the rot consumes you whole, until you’re crying under the covers and begging from respite from the memories. 

on the worst nights, you find yourself in the attic again, watching the door between you and belphegor swing open. you watch yourself march towards death.

you can still feel his hands around your neck, digging his claws into your fragile human skin like you're made of sand. the scent of blood-- your own blood, on the floors, on the walls, leaking from your torso and staining your clothes a permanent maroon-- still clings to the inside of your nose. even your wildest dreams could not erase the sight of his smug grin, the way his eyes lit up looking at your battered body.

no one person should have to carry the weight of realizing they're going to die. that's what you thought about when your body hit the bottom of the stairs, when belphegor tossed you down from the attic with a harsh laugh and punted your limp body into the entrance hall. you thought about how unfair this all was. you were just trying to help. you thought you were doing the right thing.

one of the worst parts of your untimely demise was watching the others react. the voices pool together in your head, like the colors of the rainbow twisting together on the surface of an oil spill. asmo's panicked shriek blends into satan's angry shouts, desperate to understand what's going on. lucifer's yelling almost drowns out the fearful cries coming from levi, held back by a very silent beel. 

but above all of that, you remember mammon. your first man, the first demon who took a chance on the defenseless little human, rushing to your side and gathering you in his arms like you were about to break. his hand on the side of your face, the tears streaming down his face, the shaky, desperate voice assuring you that you'll be okay and begging you to hang on, okay? please don't leave me. you can't remember if he was shaking or if it was your body's last ditch effort to stay conscious-- maybe both. your trembling fingers intertwined with his. words came out of your mouth, and you're not sure what exactly you said, but he only cried harder in response. 

and then, as your eyes shut for the final time, you woke at the bottom of the attic stairs. you had cheated death. 

your price? you had to carry the memories. 

the world kept spinning. days passed in the devildom. you returned to school, kept on top of your homework, spent your days in the house of lamentation alongside the seven demon brothers. you even got to know belphegor as he navigated his return home. he quickly grew fond of you. that, in and of itself, was jarring. but you returned each and every smile with one of your own. his actions were rooted in his own grief for his sister, you knew, and for that you could not fault him. you helped him repair the severed relationships between him and his elder siblings, stitching the family back together like a prized quilt until the seams of betrayal were sufficiently hidden. 

time is a traitorous bitch. why did she choose now to leave your wounds bare and bleeding?

everyone moved on but you. everyone got to wake up in the mornings without a nagging anxiety holding them back. the others could hang out with belphegor day in and day out without a growing feeling of dread popping up when you think you're safe. 

he killed you. he was grieving. your blood drenched the entryway floors as he laughed. he has grown. you watched the light leave mammon's eyes as you slipped away. belphie has been nothing but kind to you since that day. you fucking died. 

you wish your mind could pick a side. did you forgive him, or did you resent him? was he your friend, or your killer? these answers evaded you in the dead of night as you struggled to sleep again. it was becoming more common for you to lose hours of rest to these nagging fears. who are you? are you even you anymore? did the switch in timelines scatter your atoms across countless universes, leaving the you that looks back at you in the mirror nothing more than a hollow shell? 

you thought that you could keep your mind on a tight leash, keep your cards close to your chest as you continued to live with the brothers. you were wrong.

the first meltdown came during a nap with belphie. you had grown to trust him-- you thought you trusted him-- enough to sleep around him. he'd coax you every so often into an afternoon nap. always in the light of day, always your choice. and for many afternoons, you were perfectly content with this arrangement. belphie was warm and cuddly, a perfect companion for a lazy afternoon. he had this way of making you feel safe as you slept-- the nightmares couldn't come when he was snuggled up next to you, when you were sure his actions were ones of affection and not another trick to gain your trust.

one afternoon, while the sun was beginning to set, you stirred under the warmth of the blankets. the body next to yours lingered close, steady breaths lulling you back to dreamland. you could stay like this forever, you thought.

and then you felt it. the gentle graze of a familiar cow tail against your skin.

something inside of you, a dam you didn't even know was there, snapped. a hot flash of panic rose up your throat as your whole body jerked away from the feeling. your eyes shot open and you found yourself in the last place you needed to be right now: the attic. you pulled yourself out of bed before your brain could catch up. colors flashed across your vision as a consequence. you whipped around, disoriented and upset, and spotted a sleeping belphie in the bed where you once were.

a sleeping, demon belphie.

the familiar curve of his horns made your throat spasm as you tried to breathe. the colors flashed in your vision again-- oh god, what a terrible time to be left defenseless-- as your brain tried to drag you back to that day. you could practically see his face shift from relief to malicious, insidious joy as he began to attack you.

"hehe... does it hurt? finding it hard to breathe? i'm sure it must be very unpleasant."

please. please no.

" i have to say, seeing a human face twisted in pain like this... why, it's so much fun that i can barely stand it! i... i can't contain the laughter!"

you weren't quite sure when you hit the ground, but it was loud enough to wake belphegor from his slumber. he peeled his body off the mattress, slow and dazed, as he looked for you.

"mc? what're you... what's going on?"

please don't. this can't be happening.

your lungs collapsed from the weight of your own panic. you gasped-- once, twice, as your vision went in and out. were you bleeding? your hand loosely brushed at the front of your clothes, but couldn't process whether that was blood or your vivid imagination. were you even breathing? your head felt light and heavy at the same time. the wires in your brain were all crossed, sending both resuscitation and shutdown signals to each part of your body. this feeling... this was too familiar.

were you dying?

"mc, what's going on?"

you came face to face with belphegor. your friend, your killer. the demon who had lured you up to this very attic to kill you, now gripping your shoulders as interrogated you inches from your face.

you screamed. you screamed until your brain shut off completely, leaving you in an inky pit of darkness as your consciousness slipped away.

the house was in disarray for several days. apparently, lucifer came in shortly after you passed out, mammon at his heels, to save the day. you woke up later in his bed, the room cold and empty, with a throbbing head and a tear stained pillow. you stumbled out into his office to find him at his desk, lost in some paperwork like always. the solemn look he gave you as your eyes met told you everything you needed to know.

from this day forth, your fear was now your constant companion.

nobody in the house of lamentation knew how to move forward. not you, not the brothers, not the widening gap growing between you all with each passing day spent in emotional limbo. finally, lucifer called everyone to a family meeting where, over the course of an hour or two, everyone came to an agreement to acknowledge what had happened and why, promised to be mindful of this trauma that you're carrying, and move forward like you requested.

silent days slowly but surely filled back up with laughter again. the brothers came back to your side at their own pace-- asmo first, within a matter of hours, then mammon shortly after, then the others in the following days.

belphegor was the last to come around. his silence spoke volumes about his guilt. he had no clue how to comfort you. he'd do anything to repent for his actions. yet that was the way that life worked, didn't it? some actions simply cannot be undone.

but you didn't let that stop you. despite the panic that closed your throat every time you saw him for the next month, you slowly earned his friendship again. you assured him that the attic incident was a one time thing, the remnants of a lost nightmare blending into your consciousness as you awoke.

until it wasn't a one time thing.

the nightmares crept up on you. the first one happened, of course, that same night, as you thrashed and wept into lucifer's pillows. then a week later, another. a week and a half after that, another. the frequency eventually became higher and higher, until you started planning your sleep schedule (or lack thereof) around your new insomniac tendencies. but even you couldn't manage to stay awake forever.

on a bad night, you'd wake up in tears, crying weakly to yourself as you tried to coax yourself back to bed. on worse nights, you'd shoot up out of bed, limbs tingling in fear, opting to spend the rest of the night in the common room until the others woke for the day. on the worst night, you finally broke. you shattered worse than you could have imagined.

you finally collapsed into bed, body shutting down after a three days of minimal sleep. you were starting to get shaky from the lack of rest, and your lack of appetite was upsetting the others. you crawled under the covers and let your brain slip out of your hands and off to dreamland.

what a fool you were to think you'd get by without nightmares.

visions of demonic teeth tearing at your flesh filled your head. you tried to run away, tried desperately to wake yourself up, but their claws sunk into your flesh. the pain was vivid, was real. memories of your death lived underneath your skin, ready to resurface in the dark of night when there was no escape. you fought back as best you could, kicking and screaming and trying to run, but you were no match for the supernatural strength of your demons. you eventually gave in, an act of learned helplessness, and surrendered yourself to your worst nightmares.

you woke up choking on your own tears. heaving, gasping breaths tried to save you, mixing with coughs as your body struggled to hang on. the tears finally gave way to the memories-- hot blood dripping from your torso, screaming faces begging you to stay, your head going fuzzy as your vision followed--and your screams escaped without a fight.

a mixed cacophony of voices came flooding in the room. you'd be touched by the gesture, seeking comfort in the arms of your dearest friends, if your brain hadn't reminded you that they were demons as well. nightmarish beasts with fangs and claws, predators built to rip your soft flesh from your bones and leave you to die like roadkill.

you felt a hand on your shoulder. who's was it? you could not tell. your first and only instinct was to scream for mercy, hot tears streaming down your face as mammon's hurt expression moved back out of your line of sight. your chest heaved with effort. it felt like your whole body was caving in on itself. you didn't even realize you were shaking as you curled your body into a ball. your side hit the mattress with a pathetic thud and you wept, bitter and fearful, as a panic attack kept you trapped in its grip.

you don't know how long you stayed curled up like that, wordless cries echoing from your room and into the hallway, but eventually the sound of approaching footsteps caught enough of your attention to forget the panic, even if just for a moment.

"hey, it's okay," a familiar, comforting voice approached, cutting through the fear like a moonlight on a stormy night. "mc, it's me, it's simeon. it's going to be okay."

you felt the bed shift under the weight of someone sitting down, and you blindly threw your body at the person before checking to see if it was really him. it took you a few moments to raise your head, and when you did, you saw him: simeon, your angel, blue eyes full of worry as he met your gaze.

you cried in his arms until you fell into a fitful, dreamless sleep.

the next morning was miserable, to say the least. breakfast was tense. they all watched you like a hawk, like you were a powder keg about to explode with one wrong move. you couldn't blame them. you were afraid of your own emotions, and on some level, you were afraid of them. your trauma was making you afraid of the very people you cared about the most. these brothers had welcomed you into their home, took care of you as you adjusted to life in the devildom, and yet you couldn't hold eye contact without breaking in to a cold sweat.

the only person who did not watch you was belphegor. he was nowhere to be found during breakfast, nor dinner, nor breakfast the following day. you tried to seek him out, but somehow the avatar of sloth had become a skilled sneak in his silence.

you finally caught him alone on day four of radio silence. you both had stayed home without realizing the other had also skipped school that day-- you, from the lack of sleep eating at your brain, and belphegor, with his usual routine of missing class to nap at the house of lamentation. he was curled up on the couch in the common room, basking in the warmth of the fireplace in his slumber. you decided to wait for him to wake up. you sat down on the couch opposite of the one where he rested and watched him, quietly, like he'd disappear if you dared to blink.

creepy? yes. but your brain was long ruined by sleep deprivation and gnawing anxiety to worry about such trivial things.

when he finally stirred, you gently called belphegor's name. he took a moment to finally look at the source of the voice, but when he did, his body froze as the two of you made eye contact. a few moments passed in silence. finally, he sat up and began to make a move to leave.

"wait."

he stopped, but his gaze did not meet yours. you rose from your seat and joined him on the couch. the youngest pulled his legs in, twisting his body into a defensive little ball, and countered your next sentence before you could even open your mouth.

"you shouldn't be here with me."

"i think i'm old enough to make decisions for myself."

he shifted uncomfortably in the silence. you spoke again.

"i miss you. and i'm sorry."

he scoffed to himself and stared at the fireplace. "don't know why you think you should be apologizing to me. i'm the one that's the problem."

"you're not a problem, belphie. i never meant to make you feel like one."

every hair on your body stood on end. your hands trembled against your wishes, so you sat on them to stay focused. you had to do this. you had to keep moving forward.

"i hurt you, mc. you're afraid i'm going to do it again."

you sighed-- it came out more shaky than you would have liked-- and looked down. how had it come to this? how had someone you'd grown to hold so dear become a stranger again?

"i don't want to stop being friends. i don't like when you avoid me."

"you still get nightmares, don't you?"

you pause. his icy gaze on the side of your head sent you into a cold sweat.

you smiled-- it felt more like a grimace, personally-- and prayed it didn't come across insincere. your fingers carefully intertwined with his. he met your gaze. you were thankful he couldn't see the way your chest tightened when you made eye contact. 

"i'm okay, belphie," you lied. 

this fear was going to be the death of you. 

[indigoraysoflight]

Hopes for TBOC’s marketing campaign

Let me start by saying that this is a marketing rant. I’m going to unfold glaring issues I’ve noticed with the marketing strategies being implemented so far. If it’s not your cup of tea, now is the time to scroll past this post. 

If you’re feeling more exhausted than usual in the fandom, you're having to defend Carol/Caryl online a LOT lately, or you’re finding yourself exercising the block/mute button a lot or finding the lack of Carol-focused promo quite disheartening – this may clarify a few things. I’m shedding some light on some marketing nuances that I‘ve noticed over the past few months that are snowballing into the landscape we see today. I'll try and do it in order so you can see the how some of these strategies connect with each other.  

Promotion without both leads

After the initial two weeks of promo during October, we didn't see a ton of Carol-focused promo. If you go back and look at promo content, news, articles, casting calls, teasers, etc., that followed, you’ll notice one person is largely missing from all of them. Melissa McBride’s name or Carol's pictures/ footage aren’t always found in articles/ news related to the show dubbed “The Book of Carol,” which is often just referred to as Daryl Dixon S2.  

Articles often say, "McBride is joining Daryl Dixon S2." Sometimes, she isn't even mentioned, which may not seem really big or just an error, but these little things compound into bigger issues, like fostering disrespect towards the female lead. We all know that it's their show together, so why not call it that? Why not feature her name in every instance? Why not speak about them equally?

94% of consumers are likely to be loyal to a brand that offers complete transparency.¹ Why let speculation and disrespect continue when they can be neutralized by taking a stand?

Toxicity-inducing posts/narratives

What I mentioned above inevitably starts rumours or opens pathways for people to disrespect Carol or, worse, makes fans feel like they need to be “grateful for the crumbs that they’re getting,” which not only lowers expectations but perpetuates this tactic that leans into the bare minimum and festers toxicity.

Most importantly, it encourages narratives and speculation that she's a "small part of Daryl's story" or that she may not be around for the long haul. It opens the forum to speculate about Carol's fate and I don't have to explain why it's frustrating to read narratives like that.

It's especially problematic because the show is supposed to eventually make way for "their story". This makes TBOC's core audience feel like they’re waiting for crumbs or encourages infighting in the fandom. It's causing strain on people's mental health, and so many are hanging on by a thread. This toxicity makes fans feel unsafe and uncomfortable in the space that is supposed to provide a safe haven. A space where they can share their love for their favourite characters/ship and build anticipation for their show. Which brings me to...

Positioning strategy

When TBOC promo strategy commenced, the fandom rejoiced because “to find home is to find each other” was established as the tagline and a positioning strategy which leaned into who Carol and Daryl are to each other. When I say "positioning strategy", I mean leaning into what makes the show unique. Now, sometimes, it can be incorporated more unethically when it pokes holes into the competitor's product/service/show, but In TBOC's case, they leaned into the biggest selling point of their show, which is Daryl and Carol's relationship, aka what Carylers have been asking for since S2 of the flagship show. Carylers are a great core audience to have because engagement online picks up quickly, with or without their help. 

There are two ways of looking at it – the first way is building on the hype until the promo circuit picks up, and the second way is not putting in a lot of effort because the fans are doing a lot of the legwork. Which one do you think is being implemented right now? They built hype for the first two weeks after Carol's cameo, but unfortunately, that wave crashed before they let fans do the amplifying for them. Which brings me to…

Placating instead of amplifying 

Carol’s pictures/ footage so far has been taken on set or promo stills from the flagship show used in tweets by the official accounts. We can all agree that seeing Melissa and Norman on set is lovely. But a lot of Carol solidarity posts drop because of some inflammatory comment/post/article that pissed Carol/Caryl fans off. Take this, for example: 

There are multiple instances of this. Many set pictures/ promo related content drops around the time there is discomfort amongst Caryl/Carol fans. When you're placating fans because they're pissed, you're trying to neutralize a negative feeling, so the anticipation doesn't build as sustainably and leaves people wanting more. Happiness helps people connect and share content quickly. Positive content spreads faster on social media than any other type of content.² Pictures used to placate fans don’t have the same effect if they amplified the hype for the sake of it. When you amplify a character or ship to build on the hype, it capitalizes on people's positive feelings like excitement and happiness and builds anticipation quicker. Like this:

Carol deserves more than being promoted only when the toxicity gets so bad that fans start to take mental health breaks or think of leaving altogether. Now we all know that the promo circuit hasn’t officially kicked off yet, so I am hoping that these things change when it begins. This is what I want to see:

Equal promotion – I’d love to see Daryl and Carol featured equally when they promote the Caryl show. Give us all the posters featuring both of them and map out their journey towards each other in the posters and their promo. Daryl and Carol should be featured on equal ground, with no doubt left about both of them being the leads of their show. 

Or, as my friend @kryptoniancape said in our podcast, “The posters need to be so in your face that you have no choice but to accept it, or you can’t deny it anymore.” Daryl and Carol have waited long enough for their story to continue. They deserve a compelling story, but most importantly, they deserve a robust marketing campaign that creates buzz for that story and respects both leads equally. 

Build hype. Build angst – Build hype for Carol’s return. Build the angst with Daryl’s return. Their ship has a robust fan engagement on socials which is a goldmine for any show. The marketing campaign practically writes itself here. 

The Carol-focused promo hopefully leans into her marketability as a timid housewife and a survivour to one of the most formidable women on the show. Carol travelling across continents against all odds for Daryl is a huge defining trait of her character. Daryl’s character is known for his love and loyalty to Carol and his family. His longing for her and his unwavering need to protect her are defining traits of his character.

S1 established that he wants to go home, but he feels “stuck” (why? I don’t know). The angst needs to be focused on Daryl’s need to get back home to Carol, the kids, and the rest of his family. Trying to lean into Daryl’s “indecisiveness” because of people he’s known for a short period of time, IMHO undermines his character development. Especially because S2 is focusing on Carol’s side of the story. They both need to be on the same page even though they’re far apart. I don’t know how they will achieve that, but I speak for many when I say most Carylers are waiting for the story to just be about them. 

Leaning into ship baiting to manufacture tension is neither cute nor compelling. Quite frankly, I'm tired of it, especially because Carol and Daryl can build tension with a single look. It's not like this show needs more angst (especially, manufactured angst) than it's going to get with these two trying to find each other.

Building Carol’s and Daryl’s authority (individually and together) – This means tweet threads with memorable moments, articles that validate their characters individually and their ship and its potential, video compilations of their moments together, hyping fanart/fan edits that feature Caryl. The whole enchilada. There are creators sharing their work in this space every day. Take your pick and support them.

I think we can all agree that both Carol and Daryl deserve equal promo; their ship deserves validation, and Carol deserves respect. If you don't resonate with what I said here, no hard feelings, I respect your perspective. If you do resonate with what I said here, I hope it helps somehow. Thanks for taking the time to read this. So long story short.

Nobody wants to see toxic shit like this:

We want to see more of this: 

My last wish for you, dear Caryler, is that you find a safe space where you can talk about the things you love. Take mental health breaks if necessary. Remember that any show related content that you see online is placed there strategically (from a marketing perspective) to leverage the audience or boost viewership. If it doesn't make you happy or bring you hope, or feel good for your mental health – refocus your attention to what does make you happy. Starve the content that doesn't deserve your attention, feed the content that brings you joy.

My askbox is open if you need to chat. ❤️

___

Sources:

1. Unethical Marketing Destroys Customer Experience And Brand Reputation, Forbes.com, Accessed 8 March, 2024

2. The Ultimate Guide to Emotional Marketing, Hubspot.com, Accessed 8 March, 2024

[yellowhollyhock]

so. Roman writes a script for an episode that he knows is good. He's very excited. He feels like he finally did something right.

Shows it to Logan. Gets it back all marked up.

accidentally got long

It starts a big fight. Easy for us to imagine how this goes because they have this or adjacent fights all the time.

Janus is on Roman's side which would make Roman more angry. Virgil is on Logan's side which hurts especially (idk if there's new content but last I know Roman and Virgil were pretty much the only consistently getting along, maybe Janus and Remus idk). Remus is there for a good time (see Roman's ideas are not good you should use mine). Patton manages to hurt everyone's feelings by taking Roman's side but sounding unsure about it (poor little guy is trying so hard to take care of everyone).

Roman has some good points: why is Logan criticizing his work when it's going to be reviewed by the writing team anyway? Isn't the most important thing at this stage for Thomas to be excited about his own ideas?

Virgil probably gets a little defensive here, like okay wow I'm sorry that Thomas can't always feel great and excited about his creations all the time. Did you even think about how much worse it would be if it was the writing team making all these corrections instead of Thomas doing it within his own head?

And then something clicks for Logan. All these corrections? What do you mean?

And now Virgil's defending Roman as best he can and still be honest with himself. You did kinda rip into it, Teach. I know you're holding is to a high standard but geez, look at all this red ink

Logan: Huh. It sounds as if the two of you think that because I marked it excessively, I disapproved of the script.

Thomas, glancing between them: Well yeah that's usually what red ink means (?)

Logan: No--I mean, yes, but this isn't high school. We're working at a higher level here.

Roman: And now you're calling me a high schooler?

Logan *adjusts glasses*: I specifically said this isn't high school. It is true that, especially for beginning writers, revision marks are usually an indication of

m i s t a k e s

Logan: Wow. As I was saying, Roman is not a beginning writer. I marked the text so excessively because I was engaging with the text. Seeing as it is, in fact, a draft, and will be submitted to peers for review, it is important that Thomas i prepared to discuss the material.

And they're all huh wha? but he wrote it tho?

Logan: Yes, but it's my job to take it from a daydream to a plan. If you read my notes, you would find--

Patton: Red ink!

Logan, thrown off: Yes, that's--we've established that I've made marks--

Virgil, recognizing an Epiphany from the Heart when he sees one: What are you getting at, Patton?

Patton: I mean, this isn't high school anymore!

Logan: Okay, you're just reiterating what I've said.

Patton: Sorry, what I mean is--when Thomas was in school, revision wasn't really treated as part of the creative process--it was a judgment from an authority figure, like a teacher! Or a parent

Logan, now interested: What are you getting at, Patton?

Patton: Thomas has a negative emotional reaction to the color red in that context.

Roman: But that's ridiculous!

Janus: Red has more positive connotations than negative. That's basic color theory :3

Virgil: Don't.

Remus: BLOODY BODY DRAGGED ACROSS THE FLOOR OF THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL

Patton is horrified

Logan, annoyed: Patton, you were saying?

Patton: Oh! Glitter pens!

Thomas: Glitter pens?

Roman: Glitter pens?! Now is not the moment for a consolation prize!

Logan: Oh, that's actually quite brilliant, Patton.

Virgil: What??

Logan: As I was saying, way back at (time stamp) before I was I N T E R R U P T E D, if you were to look at the notes I've made, you would find things circled that were phrased particularly well that I believe should go untouched to the final draft.

Roman: ... we would?

Logan: You would also find extensive notes on how the things you've implied in this script fit into the larger lore, which you have done particularly well this time.

Roman: Oh, I, uh--

Logan: I've noted places where we could have an opportunity to research a topic you've touched on and elaborate further, if the run time permits. If not we could possibly link relevant articles.

Roman: ... Oh.

Logan: Of course, minor grammar mistakes or small inconsistencies are also marked, but you do make a valid point there were not many of them this time.

Patton: So if we started color coding the different things Logan does when he revises, we could get Thomas to start thinking about the revision process differently!

Roman: Logan, I'm so sorry, I've been approaching this all wrong. I felt like you weren't even looking at my contributions or giving them a fair chance, and the truth is that's exactly what I was doing to you.

Logan: I appreciate you acknowledging that, Roman.

anyways the whole reason I put this on tumblr and not ao3 is because it has been sitting about here for uh. years now. So yeah they color code things and it helps Logan feel like he has a place in the creative process and also helps Roman not to take feedback so personally

[cake-writes]

A Dutiful Disaster (Part Seven)

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Story Tags/Warnings: Arranged Marriage, Enemies to Lovers, Royalty, Pre-Thor (2011), Smut, Angst, Drama, Slow Burn, Odin’s A+ Parenting, Cis Female Reader (she/her), No Y/N Usage, Second Person POV, POC-inclusive descriptors, Toxic Relationship (lil bit of abuse from both parties - mostly screaming matches with the occasional physical thing but he never like slaps her or anything), Smut, Slut-Shaming, Mommy Issues, Reader has anxiety, 18+

Chapter Warnings: anxiety, reader is super bitchy in this chapter, and so is her letter, oh my gosh you guys they actually talk shit out like MATURE ADULTS

Word Count: 3.8k

Snippet: “I do not wish to be kissed. It’s too great an intimacy for our,” you pause to consider the word, tapping your finger to your chin, “unique situation, wouldn’t you say? We are the furthest thing from lovers.”

“Oh?” Loki sounds amused by your answer – and then he drops his feet back to the floor with purpose, taking advantage of your startled jump to pull you further into his lap where you can feel the hardening length of him against your clothed core. “If not lovers, then what are we?”

“Married,” you gasp, arms clutching around his neck for fear of being dropped – or so you tell yourself.

Master List / Spotify Playlist / Part Six

A/N: And we’re back! This chapter finally ties us in to the prequel one-shot, as well as the argument between Loki and his father in part two. You may need to read them again for a refresher because it’s been a fair few months (in real life) since those were posted. Enjoy :)

You study your husband from above the gold rim of your teacup. It’s suspicious, the certain ease to his demeanour as he discusses today’s breakfast offerings with his servant.

Loki is manipulating you. He must be. It's the only conclusion you can come to.

You haven’t forgotten the nasty things he said about you to his father the day after your wedding. Loki made it crystal clear that he can't stand you, that he finds this sham of a marriage as torturous as you do, to the point that he'd even referred to it as a life sentence – much like your own thoughts on the matter. Yet, it bothers you in a way you can’t quite explain.

What’s worse is that the Allfather thinks you disloyal to the Crown, and you still haven’t been able to figure out why. You’ve been nothing but loyal, the events of last night notwithstanding. It makes you feel uneasy, knowing that the King has tasked Loki with ensuring your loyalty to Asgard, like he actually expects you could ever be a traitor—a proper one, that is.

Even so, you find yourself begrudgingly admiring the way your husband’s dark, glossy hair perfectly accentuates his sharp cheekbones – during which he turns his attention to you. 

“Is that acceptable?” Loki questions, just as you take another sip of chrysanthemum tea—your favourite, and all you can think is that it can't be just a coincidence.

You hate how infuriatingly attractive he is. Even now. Especially now, with his pretty green eyes so focused on you, like he actually cares what you have to say. 

“That would be lovely,” you answer amicably as you set down your teacup, even though you have no idea what you’ve just agreed to. Something about smoked salmon and capers.

Loki seems to accept your answer, and when he engages once more with his servant, you lose yourself in your thoughts. Two ragged, albeit manicured fingernails tap an anxious rhythm against the side of the porcelain cup in its saucer, each fingertip sounding its own melody.

Tink, tink. Tink, tink.

It worries you how easily Loki plays the part the perfect husband. Sitting here in his chambers is unnerving; you’re just waiting for the other shoe to drop, but he seems perfectly content, like he isn’t at all bothered by the contents of your letter. Nor does he seem to hold any opinion of the events that transpired last night. 

For now.

Tink, tink. Tink, tink.

The daylight streaming in through the open windows offers a glimpse of the fine lines near his eyes and the dark circles just beneath. While he always appears as though he’s never been able to get enough sleep, courtesy of his fair skin, you’re starting to think that Loki might have slept about as well as you did last night—in other words, scarcely at all.

Tink, tink. Tink, tink.

You conceal a yawn with your free hand as the servant bows and makes his way to the exit, and then you’re alone with your husband again. That knowledge should set you on edge, but you’re more focused on the rich accoutrements of his sitting room. It’s the first time you’ve been here since that awful argument following the attack; no sign of shattered glass in sight, but then, it has been a week since then.

Tink, tink. Tink, tink.

A vase full of fresh flowers sits upon the entry table. You’d bruised your hip against it that self-same night. How suspicious that the blooms are the colour of plum wine, a deep reddish-purple that makes your heart sing: your colour.

Tink, tink—

You stop tapping the instant you notice him watching you, and snatch up your teacup as if you meant to do so all along. Then you take a larger sip than you intend. The hot tea scalds your tongue, and his lips twitch in silent laughter as you try and fail to pretend it doesn’t.

“What?” you snap irritably.

“How did you sleep?”

“Why act as though you care?”

Visibly amused by your bristly demeanour, Loki retrieves his own tea, his slim fingers pinching the gilded handle with more finesse than you could ever hope to achieve. “I cannot help but wonder, petal, if you haven’t slept a wink. Were you worrying about how this conversation would go?”

You set your teacup down in its saucer with force, the loud clink of fine china resounding through the room. “Considering the events that transpired during our previous one, I’d be a fool not to worry. I expect that you will have me imprisoned the very moment you manage to lull me into a false sense of security.”

He doesn’t bat an eyelash at your vitriol, instead opting to take a sip of his tea. You can scarcely tell what kind of tea it is anymore, what with how he's drowned it in cream and sugar. Some things never change. It’s comforting, in a way.

Your husband savours the too-sweet taste for a moment before he speaks. “I will not have you imprisoned. You have my word.”

You scoff. “I threatened you.”

“Indeed.”

“With a knife.”

“A dagger, actually,” Loki corrects, and when you cut him a withering look, he gives you a shit-eating grin. You hate how stupidly reassuring it is that he’s just as insufferable as ever. Then his expression shifts to something a little more serious, his eyes softening at the corners. “You felt that I posed a threat to your safety, and you acted in self-defence. A sleepless night is punishment enough.”

You don’t buy it. “And my letter?”

“I suspect that you would never have sent it, had your fear not driven you to do so. No one in their right mind would call me—what was it, an animal?—among so many other insults that I cannot even begin to fathom them all, in a letter signed with one’s personal seal. That alone could have landed you in the dungeons, yet you did so with little regard for the consequences.” A puff of laughter escapes him. “You have always had an impulsive streak, darling, but never to that extent.”

He sees right through you. You despise it. “Yes, well—”

“If you truly think me an animal, then I can only imagine that you would indeed feel safer in another part of the palace.” He mentions the request you’d made in your letter so nonchalantly, like the two of you are merely discussing the weather. “Where did you have in mind?”

That does it.

“How—How can you be so calm about all of this?” you sputter. “Forgive me, husband, but I do not trust how willingly you would turn a blind eye to my transgressions!”

The precise manner in how Loki returns his teacup to its saucer betrays him. “Don’t you?”

You glare at him. Something is simmering beneath the surface of his suspiciously mellow exterior, but you can’t quite discern what it is. Not yet.

“If you think that I am calm, darling, then you couldn’t be more wrong—unless, of course, you honestly believe that I have any penchant for forgiveness.” His tone may be cordial, but every single one of his movements is calculated to the nth degree. The tactician.

No, he isn’t calm at all. He’s plotting. You should have known.

“Or is there another reason that you would arm me with more than enough ammunition to have you imprisoned?”

With that single question, the conversation becomes an interrogation. Your palms turn cold and clammy at the knowledge that he very well still could, and when you start to fidget with the white napkin in your lap, the cloth sticks unpleasantly to your skin.

“Is that what you want me to do? Arrest you for a rash, impulsive decision? A crime of passion?”

You can feel your blood pressure rise under his rapid fire, your anxiety and sleep deprivation giving way to anger. “No,” you bite out. 

While part of you feels that a life in the dungeons would be infinitely better than one bound to him, your more reckless side likes to push boundaries – to your own detriment. And Loki knows it as well as you do. His mouth sets in a firm line, his expression unreadable.

“Then you do trust me,” he says, tone neutral. “And that, dear girl, is the worst transgression of all.”

You stare at him, disbelieving, before you let out a loud peal of laughter – like he’s just told the funniest joke you’ve ever heard. It just might be. “I trust you, do I? No, husband,” you spit the word like it’s a curse. “I loathe you. If you have mistaken that for trust, then I pity you.”

If your venomous tirade affects him at all, Loki does well to hide it. A prolonged silence falls over the room as he rests his elbows on the table and laces his fingers before him, no less patient with you than he has been for the rest of the morning. He studies you – studies your reaction – studies every single flaw you try so hard to hide, and he says nothing.

You look away first. You always do, when your temper gets the better of you.

Only then does he finally grace you with a response. “I am amenable to your request. Choose whichever chambers you’d like.”

Your eyes snap back to him in shock, only to watch as he procures a small envelope from beneath his place setting. Your letter.

Casually, he extends it out to you between two slim fingers. “I wish to return this to you as well. I refuse to hold something so incriminating over your head. It is neither fair to you, nor to our marriage.”

You stare at it, then at him, stunned into silence by his magnanimity. The Loki you know would never do such a thing. He’d hold onto it for leverage.

Your husband rolls his eyes, almost like he knows what you’re thinking. “If you do not take it, then I will destroy it in a similar manner to the gift you so graciously decided to bestow upon me, after…” he shifts uncomfortably in his chair, then, “after what I did to you that morning.”

He means his own letter – the one you’d returned to him, torn to shreds after he’d all but thrown you into the entry table. The very same entry table upon which those lovely flowers now rest.

You sit up straighter at the memory. It sets you on edge, and though you’re tempted to cower, instead you overcompensate. “Oh? Go on, then.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“It is incredibly cathartic, you know,” you drawl, delicately picking up a biscuit between your thumb and forefinger to examine its intricate design. The sugar granules glimmer in the light. “To destroy one’s heartfelt letter in a fit of anger. Though I must confess,” you hold your head high, smug as can be, “I did not read what you’d written before doing so.”

That doesn’t seem to faze him either. “You say that as if you expect it to surprise me.”

You scrunch your nose at him in annoyance. “Well? Go on. Or will you not follow through on your promises?”

His promise not to harm you. His promise not to touch you. His promise not to lock you away.

Maintaining eye contact, you use your teeth to break off a piece of the biscuit with a crunch.

Your challenge isn't lost on him. “Very well,” Loki sighs. He swiftly opens the letter to pull out the fine stationery upon which you’d so hastily scrawled all manner of insults, after which he makes a point to show it to you, front and back, to prove its authenticity. “I’ll not have you thinking I’ve stowed it away to use against you later on.”

You bat your eyelashes at him. “I see you’ve turned over a new leaf.”

“Charming,” Loki comments dryly, but you don’t miss the humour in his tone – nor in his eyes as he skims them down the page. “I must say, darling, you have quite the talent for castigation. It would be a waste not to read such a heartfelt letter aloud.” His eyes flick back up to yours, then, and you know for a fact that he’s taunting you. “For posterity. You understand.”

Posterity. There is no doubt in your mind that he knows you only wrote it yesterday. You’d even sealed the envelope with the ink still wet, as evidenced by the dark smudges littering the page.

“Stars above,” you grouse. “Get on with it, then, seeing as you are positively chomping at the bit to humiliate me.”

“Humiliate you? No.” Loki holds your gaze, resolute, and for once, you’re inclined to believe him. “I want you to acknowledge exactly what you’ve said of me before we put all of this to rest.”

Of course he does. Gracelessly, you wave a hand at him as if to say go ahead.

Loki clears his throat before he begins to read your letter verbatim, surprisingly in a manner that befits its serious nature. His voice holds not a single shred of mockery.

“To my dear, despicable husband,” he arches an eyebrow at you, “I fear I cannot stand this any longer. My chambers are in such close proximity to yours that I’d sooner return home than sleep here for another night, knowing that a wolf in sheep’s clothing rests his weary head so near to mine.”

Whether he intends it to be or not, it is humiliating to hear what you’ve written become spoken word. All too soon, you feel your face start to flush.

“I find myself ill with the knowledge that the Einherjar would allow such a predator to prowl these halls while I remain entirely defenceless. Nay, it is hardly reassuring to know that not a single soul shall protect me from the animal who would bring me harm, either in his own chambers or in our marital bed.”

When Loki pauses, you immediately recognise the real reason behind this exercise. Though you’d written the letter to be purposefully harsh in order to invoke a reaction, in the light of day, your spiteful words seem to imply something else.

You haven’t just told him of your fears in a general sense, using your marital bed as an example. You’ve alluded to a significantly more heinous act.

“You will not see me become your prey, thrilling though the chase may be to a brutish man with little regard for others. I refuse to become the spoils of a war you’ve so savagely waged upon me and my body for no other reason than your own entertainment.”

No wonder he’d been so angry with you last night. The implication that he would assault you in such a way is bad enough on its own, but there is another layer.

For centuries, the two of you have harboured a forever unspoken secret. Neither of you have acknowledged it outright, but it’s there. You’ve seen each other at the den – the covert, invitation-only club which caters to the niche sexual preferences that both you and Loki seem to share. Namely those that are, and have always been, less than socially acceptable.

“One cannot expect an animal to behave in any way but his basest nature. As a scholar of grey morals, you have always preferred books to people, but a snake, however erudite, is still a snake.”

There, on multiple occasions, your rooms have been next door to each other—through no fault of your own, though you suspect Loki has done it intentionally. After all, what he’s seen of you through the window in between are things that you’d never tell another soul, and you’re sure he relishes in holding that over your head, if not your letter.

But then, you’ve also seen similar of him. His proclivity for consensual non-consent is just one of the great many things you’ve witnessed, time and time again, and you realise, now, that Loki thinks you’ve used that forbidden knowledge against him. He thinks you’ve used it to hurt him in a way that most others could never.

“No ruffian should ever be permitted to walk freely as you do. Until such a time that you do not, for my continued health and wellbeing I have made arrangements to return to my family’s manor.”

Of course he’s bothered by what you’ve implied – albeit unintentionally. And he has every right to be.

“I will only be persuaded to stay if you grant me a new set of chambers as far from yours as possible, for I have no desire to encounter any manner of beast in the wild.” Loki snorts derisively and drops the letter down onto the table between the two of you. “Disrespectfully yours, your dutiful wife.”

There is no laughter to be elicited, now, nor anger, but something else entirely. Loki hides it well, but the implication has clearly gotten under his skin. You can see it in his eyes, and in his posture, how guarded he is as he looks to you for a response.

Thoroughly humbled, you swallow the lump in your throat and focus upon your lap. “I… I did not mean what you’ve understood my words to mean.” 

When you glance back up at him, you immediately have to look away again in shame when you find him watching you, jaw set, waiting for a proper apology. 

“Of course, that does not matter when they have made such an impact,” you rush to add. “I sincerely apologise for my thoughtlessness. I did not mean to imply that you would do something terrible.”

Silence stretches uncomfortably between the two of you as you begin to pick at the skin around your nails. At the very least, you should have reread your own letter before you sent it. Perhaps then you wouldn’t feel so guilty.

After a prolonged few moments, he asks quietly, “What else could you have possibly meant?”

“I meant to paint a picture of my fears.” You accidentally draw blood from a hangnail, and it stings. “My intent in mentioning our marital bed was to offer an example of one such fear—not that sort of fear, mind, but I fully understand how it could have sounded like an accusation.”

“I see.”

Finally, you muster the courage to look at him again, impassioned because you would never, ever use what you know against him. “You’ve been nothing but a gentleman in that regard, Loki. You respected my wishes on our wedding night. You have asked for my consent during every one of our trysts. Please know that I would never accuse you of anything untoward.”

His eyes search yours for a long time, trying to discern the lie, but there isn’t one. Then he exhales a long, weary sigh and leans back in his chair, the tension visibly lifting from his shoulders. “Norns,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “Yes, I suppose not even you would stoop so low.”

A jab.

You respond with the opposite: a jest. “Ah, but how could you know for certain? What with our—” you clear your throat, nearing ever closer to openly acknowledging the forbidden secret that you both share, “our history?”

It’s the closest either of you have come to doing so. You and Loki have been playing this game for centuries, trying to see who will cave first, but you continue to tiptoe around it.

Just as you predicted, the layered meaning instantly captures his attention. “Our history?” he repeats, as if he doesn't quite believe he's heard you properly, before his lips curl up into that same insufferable grin you so adore. “Oh, do go on, sweet. I’m all ears. What about our history?”

You try to give him a deadpan look, but find it impossible to keep the smile off of your face. “Only that we have never enjoyed each other’s company, you and I. You know that as well as I do.”

It isn't at all the history you’d originally mentioned, and you’re well-aware he recognises that when his voice takes on a note of smooth, persuasive silk. “In what way do you intend for me to take that, darling? Because I suspect that there are many things for a husband and wife to... enjoy.”

His insinuation is absolutely not what you meant, and he knows it, but your heartbeat quickens all the same.

Just in the knick of time, two rapid knocks resound on the door. 

“Enter,” Loki calls out, never taking his eyes off of you. Something about the heat within them, however slight, makes you think he isn’t done with you just yet.

You find yourself silently thanking whoever has chosen to interrupt.

The door opens, and another servant pushes a small gold cart into the room, two shelves stacked high with breakfast delights. The spread is much more elaborate than your typical morning meal, and your mouth waters.

“Now, I believe you said I would find this cathartic?”

You glance back over at your husband, only to watch him deftly pluck your letter up from the table. Before you can get a word in edgewise, however, you watch as your stationery sets aflame in the palm of his hand.

It’s an impossible sort of fire, for it doesn't seem to burn his skin. 

Magic.

You’ve always loved his magic, even now, loathe as you’d ever be to admit that you find Loki’s mastery of it in any way appealing. He wields his seidr like one might a paintbrush, creating masterful works of art from intricate spells and enchantments.

As the flames burn away your spiteful letter, your eyes follow the curling wisps of smoke as it drifts up, up, up towards the intricately-painted ceiling. Instead of the colourful collection of wildflowers you expect to see upon it, however, you find a field of white daffodils in their place.

A symbol of forgiveness.

In that moment, as you stare at the illusion he’s cast, you realise that your husband will forever be an enigma to you. Perhaps he’s changed in the great many years you've known him, or maybe you've never really known him at all.

Then Loki lazily waves his hand, and the illusion dissipates—as do the singed remains of your letter.

He’s manipulating you. He must be. It’s the only conclusion you can come to, but when you meet his eyes once more – when you see the mischief shining within them, and the softness hidden just beneath – you desperately wish that he wasn’t.

Part Eight

And because I’m a clown, here’s my ko-fi / patreon if you’ve got a buck or two to spare so I can buy a new laptop! Otherwise reblogs and keysmashing in my ask box are more than welcome 🤡🤡🤡 Thanks so much for reading!!!

[doumadono]

Hey. I’d been putting off making an emergency rq in the hopes that things would get better, but unfortunately they have not. I’m feeling very unhappy and bored, like I’m not going anywhere. I’m content and restless at the same time and it’s incredibly frustrating. I also require large amounts of stimulation to not feel bored which I am having difficulty finding.I hate it and idk what to do so yea. Also not helping is the fact that my skin condition gets worse in summer (it causes my feet to get v sore from walking, standing, and overall doing stuff and causes difficulty walking without a limp).

With this in mind, I’d like to ask for some headcanons of douma doing something stimulating (rock climbing, ice skating, etc) with reader bc they’ve been unhappy and bored for a couple weeks. Thank you <3

Douma & bored s/o - headcanons

A/N: Hi, darling, I'm really sorry to hear that things have been tough lately. It sounds like you're dealing with a lot, and I can understand how frustrating and challenging it must be. Finding ways to cope with boredom and restlessness can be a real struggle, especially when facing other physical challenges too. If you're open to it, exploring new activities or hobbies that align with your interests might help alleviate some of the boredom! ♥

MASTERLIST

When Douma notices your unhappiness, he decides to surprise you with a magical ice skating experience. Using his Blood Demon Art, he creates a private ice rink in a serene, moonlit clearing. Hand in hand, you glide across the ice. He takes extra care to ensure you feel safe and supported as you twirl and laugh together. "You're doing great, darling!"

To help lift your spirits, Douma suggests you engage in ice sculpting. He provides you with tools that make shaping the ice easier and guides you through the process. As you work side by side, he listens attentively to your thoughts and shares stories about his past experiences, fostering a deeper connection between you.

He suggests an outdoor activity to clear your mind. He takes you on a hiking trail through a picturesque forest, the moonlight filtering through the trees in dappled patterns.

To lift you spirits, Douma arranges a dance workshop in a secluded room within his quarters. He leads you through various dance styles, from traditional to modern, encouraging you to let loose and have fun. "Life is full of surprises, my dear. Let the music guide your movements, Y/N!"

Observing your desire for something new, Douma suggests an intriguing skill to master: Tessenjutsu, the art of using the Japanese war fan in combat. "It's a graceful yet formidable art."

Despite his lack of personal experience with human food (he ate it hundreds of years ago), Douma decides to embark on a culinary adventure by offering to teach you how to cook. "Cooking? I'm excited to learn, but aren't you a demon?" You remark. "Indeed, but I have observed many human activities over the years. Let's explore the realm of flavors together!"

Inspired by a desire to share a piece of artistic world, Douma introduces you to a biwa, a traditional Japanese musical instrument. Douma provides you with a beautifully crafted biwa and patiently explains its strings, frets, and techniques.

[venus-haze]

Howl (Bo Sinclair x Reader)

Summary: It’s almost inevitable, going on a road trip and ending up with car trouble. The nearby town of Ambrose seems like the perfect place to get your friend’s car a new battery without going off schedule too much, except the handsome mechanic at the body shop decides a dead battery will be the least of your worries as the road trip abruptly ends far worse than you could have imagined.

Note: Please read the warnings before deciding to engage with this fic. Reader is a cis woman, but no other descriptors are used. Your age is ambiguous in this, but it was written with a reader in their 20s or older in mind. This is my first slasher fic, but I’d like to write more. I hope Bo isn’t OOC in this (especially the ending, I feel kinda eh about it). I rewatched the movie and read the script right before starting on this but who knows. Please let me know what you think! Do not interact if you are under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 7.2k

Warnings: Murder/death. Descriptions of violence involving weapons (guns and knives). Disturbing and sadistic behavior. Misogyny. Kidnapping and prolonged captivity which involves physical abuse, emotional and psychological manipulation, major Stockholm syndrome, distorted sense of time and self. Duct tape as a gag. Sexually explicit content which involves coercion (non/dubcon), knifeplay, bloodplay, and cigarette burns. Do not interact if you are under 18.

A sigh of relief escaped your lips when you and your small group of roadtripping friends arrived in Ambrose, a charming little town tucked in a forgotten corner of the Louisiana swamplands. You felt comfortable there, safe, even. Disarmed by a nostalgic main street lined with colorful family-owned shops, you thought nothing of it when you all made the trek to reach the town’s gas station and body shop in search of a new battery for Laura’s car. Sure, the detour put a damper on the road trip, but you figured it’d only cost an hour or two of driving time.

Just your luck, the gas station was there, as the strange man along the highway had promised. That didn’t necessarily mean the place was open, as the gas pumps were half-rusted and at the obvious mercy of the elements. You had let your friends argue amongst themselves about whether or not to go inside the shop. You were the only one who noticed a broad-shouldered, handsome man in a blue mechanic’s jumpsuit walk out of the garage that had just started blaring heavy metal from inside. Funny, you would’ve suspected a place like that to play some twangy country classics. The mechanic stood a few feet away from you all, watching the scene in amusement, and you gave him an apologetic smile.

When he gave you a smile in return, one that was more wolf than man, you thought that you’d offer your throat to him without hesitation, let him feast on you as he pleased. As much as you hoped looking a wolf in the mouth would somehow defang him, he seemed famished, in an almost controlled desperation the way one hears howling in the night. You were presented with a blood red flag from the start and willingly ignored it just because you were a bit too curious about the fire behind his eyes and the way he blatantly ogled you, not your friends. 

Trying to make polite conversation with him, you had asked him about the music that was playing in the body shop—Anthrax? Megadeth? Korn? You threw out names of metal bands, ones you’d seen on t-shirts or posters. He regarded you with amusement as he answered, though you’d retroactively acknowledge the predatory undertone of his words and actions toward you in the hour or so leading up to your life going to hell. He was always going to devour you.

Like everything in Ambrose, his good ol’ boy charm was nothing more than a facade to keep you in town as long as possible. Introducing himself as Bo, the exact man you all were told to look for, Michelle had cut to the chase and told him that Laura’s car was in need of a new battery. Your guard lowered even more as he threw compliments around like candy, asking all the right questions about the roadtrip you were 347 miles into. He searched for a brand new, more reliable car battery in the shop and the garage, only to muse as he charmingly adjusted his worn-out trucker cap that it might be back up at his house, one of the business deliveries he gets up there, he just hadn’t gotten a chance to unpack it yet.

In hindsight, you weren’t sure why you believed him, or why you let Renee walk up to the house with him by herself. What you couldn’t admit to yourself was that you almost didn’t, feeling jealous at the thought of her alone with Bo. A brief sense of satisfaction had swept over you when, for the second time, Bo’s attention was fixed on your body before he headed off to the house with Renee. You hadn’t seen her since.

The metal door of the basement hovel where you had found yourself trapped for god knows how long slammed open, and you jolted—at the harsh sound and at his unkempt appearance, sweat dripping from his brow, rage in his eyes, his chest heaving as he stalked over to the same spot you’d been in since he dragged you, screaming and crying but with no real fight, as you ashamedly reminded yourself, down there.

“Your friend is gettin’ on my last damn nerve,” he growled. 

A foolish hope bubbled warm in your chest at this. Someone was still alive, someone besides you at least. Which one though? You’d seen a looming tower of a man with long black hair stab Laura and drag away her limp form while Bo had wrangled you back into the body shop and down to whatever fucking dungeon you were probably going to die in. Renee was airheaded and shallow; you admittedly didn’t like her much, but damn, if she found a way out of Ambrose, you’d be her best friend. You’d bet anything it was Michelle, though. She was the one who had doubts about stopping in Ambrose in the first place, going so far as to call bullshit when Bo claimed the car battery was up at his house. 

It wasn’t like you could ask. He’d slapped duct tape over your mouth, as to his frustration he found he was out of superglue to seal your lips shut. The things that slip your mind. At least you still had your clothes on, though you doubted that would last. Blood, though you weren’t sure whose, stained your shirt beyond salvation anyway.

“Bitch won’t shut the fuck up,” he grumbled, double-checking that the restraints were secured. 

You resisted the urge to scoff, as if you hadn’t spent the past twenty minutes exhausting yourself trying to break out of them. The bastard was expertly thorough, to your despair. You had gotten a surge of adrenaline in his earlier absence, a newfound will to escape and survive as you tugged at the leather straps and duct tape holding you in place on the surgical bed, praying for some kind of give. As soon as he stepped foot through that door again, slamming it behind him, you had been no closer to freedom than when he left. The gravity of the situation came crashing down on you, a suffocating hopelessness.

His sleeves had rolled up a bit, and you noticed scarring around his wrists, raised and angry looking despite having healed for some time. You’d never seen scarring like that before, wondering what could have caused such intense trauma to his skin like that.

His eyes followed yours, and he curled his lip, backhanding you across the face. “Ain’t polite to stare.”

The stinging pain in your jaw and the weight of his intense gaze made breathing difficult—that and the duct tape. You began to hyperventilate, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. He cooed in mock sympathy, using the pads of his thumbs to wipe away the tears that threatened to fall down your face.

“Save those for later, darlin’,” he said. “I got somethin’ special in mind for you.”

He left your side to begin rifling through a duffel bag in a dark corner of the room. Emerging back into the light moments later, he had a hand-held video camera and a plastic tripod. Despite your lips being sealed, you hoped the noises of protest you made would somehow change his mind. Instead, he seemed amused by them as he set down the tripod and began adjusting the camera on top of it, giving you a wink as the green light near the lens flickered on.

You stared at the cracked cement ceiling while he set up the video camera a few feet away from where he had you restrained, unwilling to acknowledge what was about to happen. You’d rather be dead—though you figured by the end of the night, you would be. 

“Anyone ever tell you how fuckin’ pretty you are?” he asked, observing you through the small screen that flipped out from the side of the camera.

No, and you certainly didn’t want this to be the situation in which someone finally did. You wondered how many of your fallen comrades taped up on the dingy wall had heard the same line. It was almost impossible not to look at them, the dozens of polaroids of young women strapped to the same surgical bed as you, all in various states of brutalization, plainly spelling out your fate. None of the photos had captions scrawled beneath them, no dates or names—he probably didn’t know yours, either. 

Bo snapped his fingers three times in a row, your startled gaze immediately shooting over to him behind the camera where he was adjusting the settings. At least his tinkering delayed the inevitable. You stared intensely into the camera as if trying to will it to break, put up a fight on your behalf so he’d call the whole thing off.

He grinned at your obedience. “That’s it. Eyes on me, doll.”

You whimpered. Doll, how appropriate, how fucking fitting. The second he got his hands on you, your personhood was dissolved into objectification. You had welcomed the prelude to it, the desire in his eyes when he openly stared at you earlier as he fed your ego so you’d end up right where he wanted you—accessible, vulnerable, defenseless.

“Perfect,” Bo whispered, as the green light turned red, indicating he’d begun recording. He stepped aside and grabbed a nearby knife as he made his way over to you.

The video camera was no longer your ally; it couldn’t buy you any more time from the inevitable. In an instant, it became your voyeur, a guilty bystander in the terrorization that was about to be documented. You wondered where the footage would end up, part of his personal collection, or maybe someone as prolific as him was churning this shit out for sickos online who’d imagine themselves in his place.

He stood angled toward your side, giving the camera a clear view of your body. He took his time drinking in the state of you, bound and terrified as you looked between him and the knife. You relaxed a little when he set the knife to the side, but just as quickly, his hands were on your body.

His big, calloused hand drifted up your skirt—why the fuck did you put on a skirt this morning—to your panties, and you felt your face heat up at the self-satisfied grin that spread across his face as he felt the wet stain on the fabric, slipping his fingers past the elastic to feel your arousal. He toyed with your clit, rubbing and pinching it as you resisted the orgasm you felt creeping up on you. Then, just as you were about to give in and go over the edge, he pulled his hand away, smug at the noise of frustration you made.

Picking up the knife again, he dragged the tip of the blade across the soft skin of your thighs until it rested far too close to your cunt for comfort. Your breathing was ragged, but you tried not to make any sudden movements or do anything to inadvertently provoke him. The bulge in his pants seemed especially pronounced, he certainly wasn’t doing this to you to compensate for something, you could tell that much.

He smirked upon noticing your eyes on the outline of his cock through his clothes. 

“How bad d’you want it, darlin’?” he asked, his voice a low, almost velvety purr.

You shook your head furiously, screwing your eyes shut as he moved the blade, only for him to begin shredding through your clothing until they were nothing but rags on the floor. There was nothing to do but watch in horror as he sliced each of your bra straps, pushing down what was left of the undergarment to allow himself access to your tits. He held the knife to your throat while he leaned down, sucking on one of your nipples until it felt sore, like it was going to bruise. He finally pulled back, smacking your other tit for good measure. 

The knife in his hand was dull, you realized, to your dismay. It appeared clean enough, all things considered, but with a blade like that, any injury he inflicted on you would take more effort on his part and hurt far more on yours. A sharpened blade would hurt, but it’d be quick and precise. You felt bile rise in your throat with nowhere for it to go as you considered how cruelly deliberate he was about all of this. Asshole.

For a few glorious moments, your mind had drifted elsewhere as he used the knife to cut through your panties—until you heard a scream and a groan from outside, both you and Bo pausing to look up at the grate in the ceiling and listen. Another scream and what surely must have been a body hitting the pavement, perhaps it was your imagination running wild, but you could’ve sworn you heard bones crack upon impact. Michelle. You felt your chest tighten.

Bo grinned, his wild gaze back on you as he tauntingly dragged the blade across your collarbone, far too close to your throat for comfort, “Listen, if you’re good for me, I’ll keep ya. Won’t have to end up like your friends up there.”

Keep you. You hated keep you. Keep you was long-term, turning your current situation into a permanent arrangement. Keep you was a threat, a dark omen hanging over your head like a bolt of lightning about to crack down on you. You wondered if any of the girls on the wall were so lucky as to receive such an offer. 

“Whattaya say?” he asked, as if he needed permission.

Another vomit-inducing sound came from above, and you looked at him, nodding wildly. 

He pressed a sloppy kiss to your forehead, a praise of “good girl” coming from deep in his chest.

Without warning, he plunged the blade into your forearm, a jagged, brutal cut that split your tender flesh. You screamed through the tape as white hot pain seared through your body, mascara-stained tears streaking down your cheeks as you writhed against your restraints. As soon as he pulled the knife from your arm and leaned down to lick the blood from the wound he inflicted on you, you passed out cold.

Almost to your disappointment, you awoke a few hours later, your injured arm bandaged up, though you could see your fresh blood stains had become the latest addition to the already stained to hell mattress you were laying on. Your pussy felt sore and aching, and you could only hazard a guess as to what else he did to you after you’d passed out. At least you’d gotten an IUD a few months earlier.

Bo was disgustingly chipper when he checked on you about an hour after you woke up, a smile on his face as he walked down the stairs with a TV dinner and a dusty bottle of soda. The scent of over-microwaved corn made your stomach growl, and you didn’t even like corn that much.

When he removed the tape from your mouth, you knew better than to mouth off or try something, not when you were fully aware of what he was capable of, and enjoyed doing nonetheless. Your compliance pleased him, as he praised you for how well you did, that the video he got was the best one yet—like you were made for it. You immediately lost your appetite.

As days went by, he checked on you frequently, though there was no rhythm to his visits, keeping you on edge. He restocked on super glue, but through reasoning unfathomable to you, decided duct tape suited your mouth better. Sometimes he’d bring food for you that wasn’t even fully heated, and there was something especially hellish about having to eat half-frozen mac n’ cheese. You wished he would at least undo your restraints when you ate, but instead he fed you himself, like you were a child—only allowed microwave dinners that made you feel more nauseous than full and having to drink lukewarm tap water or flat soda from a straw. 

Your arm was healing to his satisfaction, though where he had stabbed you would undoubtedly scar over horrifically. Astoundingly, you didn’t need stitches, but he assured you that Vincent–you assumed the long-haired man who’d killed Laura–was great at stitching people up. You weren’t sure whether to be comforted by that or not. 

Then there was the bed across from the surgical one you were strapped to, its promise of comfort taunted you, but the only time you were in it was when you were restrained as usual, your face buried in the grimy pillows, ass up as he either fucked or belted you until you were crying or bleeding. He preferred both. The TV appeared broken, but you didn’t want to watch anything and be further reminded of the outside world you were missing anyway.

The basement didn’t have a bathroom, and so the only time you were freed from your restraints was when he’d bring you upstairs to the one in the gas station, a knife to your throat the whole ascent up to sunlight, a few taunting yards away from freedom. Though the scummy bathroom had no windows, he went as far to go in with you while you used the toilet, and you knew it was to humiliate you more than it was to make sure you didn’t escape. You couldn’t check what you were sure was your haggard appearance, as the mirror on the wall was covered by brown paper, shards of broken glass poking through the quick cover-up. Maybe it was one of the girls pictured downstairs, seeing an opportunity and taking it, smashing the mirror with an elbow and sheer force of will to put up one last fight. The rust-colored stains on the tile floor told you that while it was a valiant effort, she was not the victor.

You knew you smelled rancid from being down there, anxiously sweating every moment you were in his presence mixed with your own dried blood and his cum that you were sure he’d gotten on every inch of your body at that point. He had presented you with a pack of half-dried, lemon-scented wet wipes on one of your trips up to the bathroom, and you wasted no time in using every one of them to scrub yourself down as he watched intently, leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette, the bulge in his pants reminding you that you wouldn’t stay clean for long.

The worst part was, you began looking forward to him checking on you. He was sadistic and deliberately cruel, but isolation did you no favors as your already fragile mental state caused you to crack. Time was absolutely not on your side, you’d lost track of it anyway.

One day, however, you heard another group of unsuspecting travelers speaking to Bo outside the body shop, their voices echoing down the grate that allowed the only natural light in. Your hope for rescue turned into a hope for something that shook you to your core when you acknowledged it—you hoped he wouldn’t replace you. 

While you didn’t want to spend the foreseeable future in a dungeon, strapped to a surgical bed for a psychopath’s amusement, you certainly didn’t want to meet the inevitable, brutal death that awaited you so soon. The women who came before you were nowhere to be found, and you could only imagine the worst had happened to them. You didn’t know what Bo did with the photos and videos he frequently took of you, but you sure as hell didn’t want to spend your final moments as the subject of a hardcore snuff film.

You nearly gagged as you heard Bo use the same lines and excuses that he’d given you and your friends. No one in the group even protested, two people volunteering to tag along with Bo up to the house to get the taillight they needed. It wasn’t long before the sound of an all too familiar struggle ensued above. Metal clattered, people cursed and screamed, tires squealed, and you could hear Bo cursing and struggling before a gun shot rang out, bringing the fight to an end. You weren’t sure who had won until you heard, echoed through the grate, Bo asking Vincent if he was okay. Your stomach turned at the sound of his voice and the fact that he was alive, though you didn’t want to think about whether it did so in disappointment or relief.

You were shaking when Bo stormed into the basement, blood splattered across his face and on his clothes. He punched the wall, shouting “Fuck!” upon impact. 

Your wide eyes were glued to him, and he turned to you, acknowledging your presence with a momentarily intense gaze that inexplicably softened as he closed the short distance between you.

“You were real good,” he said, sounding almost confused. “Stayed nice and quiet while Vincent and me took care of business up there.”

You awkwardly jerked your head toward his face. He’d gotten to know your quirks and tells, as he answered your unspoken question.

“‘S not mine,” he mumbled, sloppily wiping the blood away with his hand. 

The tone in the basement for the next hour or so was almost uncomfortably domestic, like he really cared about you. Perhaps you’d proven your loyalty in his eyes by not making attempts to warn the unsuspecting tourists of what awaited them in Ambrose or trying for some kind of escape amidst the chaos. 

Of the dozens of things you hated admitting to yourself about the situation you were in, you almost liked it better when he was mean to you. There was less guessing, less overthinking when he’d simply throw you around, fuck you, and then leave. 

Over the following days, your conflicting feelings over the slight intimacy he was displaying, a kiss on the forehead here, a meal that wasn’t microwaved there, only grew. If there was anything you could do to gain his favor in this way, you’d do it, you’d do anything for him to be nice to you more than he was cruel. After all, you’d gotten yourself this far with your mouth duct-taped and your arms and legs strapped to a surgical bed or immobilized by the host of restraints he had in his possession. He realized such when you leaned into his touch at one point, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion briefly before he grinned. Neither of you, it seemed, were particularly experienced with whatever relationship you’d found yourselves in.

“C’mon—“ his thick Louisiana drawl made it difficult for you to discern whether he was calling you doll or darl’. Regardless, he freed you of your restraints and presented you with the first article of clothing you’d seen since he brought you down there. It was yours, and you knew exactly where you had put it in your suitcase. A slinky little satin slip that you’d bought days before the trip as nightwear, hoping you’d get lucky in some city or town along the way. The sight of it made you want to scream.

“We’re goin’ on a little date,” he said jovially. 

You shook as you attempted to dress yourself, embarrassed when he had to come over and help you get the slip over your head. The fabric was just as soft and silky as when you’d bought it off the rack, though it was wrinkled and you noticed a white stain near the hem. You supposed you couldn’t have it all.

To make matters worse, your legs were weak from the limited use of them over time, buckling beneath you as you tried to slip your feet into the kitten heels that you didn’t recognize. While Bo made a fuss about having to help you with your shoes as well, easily a size too small anyway, you could tell he relished in how helpless you were.

Finally, he pulled the duct tape off of your mouth. He handed you a tube of chapstick—cherry, though most of the label was worn off, odd, it almost looked like the one Renee had. You could care less, though. It was the first time your mouth was untaped for something other than eating one of the disgusting microwave dinners he brought you or him fucking your throat until you cried. You applied the used chapstick liberally, rubbing your lips together in hopes it would soften them some. 

“Gimme a twirl.” He whistled as you did so with the grace of a newborn fawn. “Shit, oughta enter you in the Miss Ambrose pageant. Knock all them other girls outta the park.”

Miss Ambrose. The posters were plastered throughout town when you arrived. You could only imagine what the qualifications for the winner would have to be.

He brought you upstairs, no knife to your throat this time, but you knew better than to try something when he always had that or a gun on him. Besides, you were far too weak to even make an effective escape attempt. You trudged forward through the shop, almost at the door when you stopped suddenly, catching a glimpse of yourself in the small mirror on the wall.

The reflection wasn’t you. It couldn’t be. The woman who stared back at you was worn-out, beat up, pathetic—you couldn’t accept that he’d done that to you in, well, you really didn’t know how long he’d kept you down there. If Bo noticed your shock at your appearance, he didn’t care, as he pressed a kiss to your bruised, bare shoulder before throwing his arm over it and leading you outside, into the cool night air.

A cigarette was nestled between his fingers in his other hand, and you felt yourself start to sweat at the sight of it. Normally, the worst he would do was blow smoke in your face, amused by your evident discomfort. A not so distant memory of him putting one out on your thigh, cigarette in one hand and video camera in the other, nearly made you tense up. It was almost as if being out of the restraints, out in the open, made you feel more vulnerable to his cruelty.

He offered the smoke to you, and for half a moment you considered taking it so as to not upset him, but you allowed yourself to meekly shake your head. To your relief, it was the right move.

“Good, these things’ll kill ya. Hate to see somethin’ like that happen to my pretty girl,” he said, taking a long drag on the cigarette before flicking it aside.

You could barely keep up with his long strides, the prolonged weakness in your legs and impractical, ill-fitting heels doing you no favors as he led you down the deserted streets of Ambrose. 

The town lit up like it was taunting you, highlighting all of the things you would have noticed if you weren’t too busy making heart-eyes at the handsome mechanic to let them fade into the background. Flickering street lamps laughed at you as you walked up main street under Bo’s arm, making some grand walk of shame past every red flag you ignored, every chance of escape you fumbled. Then again, you were still alive, and Bo had made no mention of Laura, Renee, or Michelle since the night he brought you to the basement. You hated that you didn’t know how long it’d been since then. It could have been a day, it could have been forever. It felt like both.

You stumbled a bit when Bo stopped in front of a light blue, mid century-style house that had seen better days, but inside seemed to be bustling. 

“Little housewarming party for some new neighbors. Thought you might like to see ‘em,” he said.

You couldn’t conceal the shiver that ran through your body at his chipper tone, he only used it when he was going to do something to you. Most of the time, to your frustration, you couldn’t read him, but his tone of voice gave so much away. 

As you and Bo walked up the short path to the front door, you noticed vague silhouettes patterned the plain curtain in the window, though you could hear faint feminine laughter and upbeat music from inside. After school specials from the height of the Satanic Panic flashed briefly through your mind as you wondered if the torture you’d experienced at Bo’s hands was an initiation or ritual of sorts. The thought was oddly comforting, the possibility of your suffering being meaningful as opposed to simply for the amusement of a sadistic killer.

Bo knocked on the front door before finding it unlocked and letting the two of you in. He kept up the pretense of the housewarming party, making quips that fell on deaf ears as you tried to mentally prepare yourself for what you were going to walk into. You held out no hope that the women would help you, and upon entering the living room with Bo, found it wasn’t possible anyway.

No one reacted when you and Bo entered the room, his arm tight around your waist. The TV was blaring a Bewitched rerun, cacophonous with the Connie Francis cassette that was playing on the radio sitting atop a dusty bookshelf. You recognized the song as soon as it went into the chorus—Who’s Sorry Now. The unfortunate irony wasn’t lost on you, but it seemed to be lost on the three women in the room, who hadn’t moved an inch since you and Bo walked in.

Despite the chatter and laughter, it sounded like the noise wasn’t coming from the women, but rather echoed in from elsewhere. Bo’s grip on you loosened, and you took it as his unspoken permission to check out the party for yourself. Cautiously, you stepped forward, unsure of what to expect from them. Were they aware Ambrose was some fucked up murder town? Did they know what Bo had been doing to you?

A strangled scream tore from your aching throat as you saw the faces of your gracious party hosts. A woman leaned against a dingy, stained couch, forced laughter etched into her wax face. Laura. Your eyes drifted to the woman sitting on the couch with her hair curled between her fingers in one hand, the other gripped tightly around a retro dial-tone telephone. Renee. In a nearby armchair that looked like it’d been dragged out of your grandmother’s house sat a woman whose face was scrunched in clear annoyance, her arms folded across her chest. Michelle.

The resemblance to all of them was uncanny. It wasn’t until you leaned in to examine the wax figure of Laura’s face that you noticed it was far too real for your liking. In a panic, you scrambled backward, directly into Bo’s strong chest. You were sure if he had fed you before this, you would have thrown up all over the place. His sheer delight at your distress made you sure your suspicions were correct, your friends had been encased in wax, their dynamic preserved as part of Ambrose’s facade. The people in the shops, chattering you could hear coming from buildings, it was all pretend, all except you and Bo. You’d yet to meet Vincent, but you weren’t sure you wanted to, if this was what he did to his victims.

Bo pushed you onto the couch so that you were clumsily seated between Laura and Renee. You knew better than to move, remaining as still as the wax figures around you until he told you otherwise. Tears flowed freely and silently down your face.

Taking a step back, he tilted his head as he regarded you mockingly. “Ya know, Vincent might have a good point—you’d fit into the scene real well.” 

Out of the corner of your watery eyes, you could have sworn you saw Michelle’s eye twitch from her spot in the armchair. God, was she still alive in there?

“Well darlin’, I can’t blame ya for wantin’ in on this girls’ night here. Seems like you’re missin’ out on a lot of fun,” he said, grinning as he stood over you. “Me and you have a whole lotta fun too, ain’t that right, Y/N?”

Your breath caught in your throat, and you choked out a sob at the use of your name, him giving you some of your personhood back was almost too much to handle. He didn’t appreciate the significance of the gesture, or maybe he did and just wanted you to get the fuck over it. Regardless, he let out an impatient growl at your lack of response.

“I’m waitin’ on an answer, doll,” he demanded.

“I want—“ your voice was hoarse, the words clawing their way out of your throat. “I want to stay with you.”

“Yeah?” he whispered, eyes black as he leaned over you, using his body to cage you into your spot on the couch. 

All you could manage was a weak, “Yeah.”

“Guess it’s time to bring you home to meet the family, then.”

He kissed you on the lips, the first time he’d ever done so. He didn’t seem to care that your lips were woefully chapped and bruised, as he deepened the kiss as soon as you began to kiss him back–when did you start kissing him back? Your brain felt fuzzy. It was nice actually kissing him, even though he seemed like he was more concerned with claiming you. Still the situation was fucked up, making out with the man responsible for you and your friends’ misery right next to their wax-preserved corpses. If this constituted a party in Ambrose, you’d decline the invitation next time.

After a few minutes, he broke from the kiss and pulled you up from the couch. He made a show of announcing your departure to the girls, thanking them for putting on such a great party, adding to his own amusement and your crushing guilt. 

The walk back to the gas station was quiet, despair overwhelming you as you neared the building, unsure of how long you’d be stuck in the basement again. 

As you began shuffling over to the front door, he grabbed your arm, stopping you in your tracks. 

“Where d’you think you’re goin’? Didn’t I say I was bringin’ ya home?”

“Yeah,” you answered.

“Get your pretty ass in the truck, then,” he said, smacking your ass for emphasis.

He opened the passenger door, and you maneuvered to the middle of the bench seat, correctly assuming he’d want you right next to him as he drove. You weren’t sure where his house was or how long the ride would be as he cut on the engine and began driving up the street, past the fake shops and the blue house where your friends would remain, a twisted, parodic form of themselves preserved forever.

The radio was playing the same heavy metal you’d hear playing from above in the gas station, but you were no more familiar with the artists than you were when you first asked him about him, your sad attempt at flirting that the lonely and insecure part of you figured was harmless, not even considering the worst that could happen.

As he drove the truck up the road, toward a house on a hill, he glanced over at you every so often. The light from the dashboard illuminated his features, and you allowed yourself to take him in, frustratingly handsome and charming when he wanted to be. You wondered if it’d be easier not to feel so soft for him if he were some disgusting old man. 

Bo’s hand gripped your thigh. “Ya look like a damn dream in that.”

“Thank you,” you said, a small smile appearing on your face. 

You’d give him that much, for all the names he called you while putting you through your wildest nightmares, he never said anything negative about your appearance, and if the reflection in the mirror you saw earlier was any indication, you’d been looking rough for a while.

The truck finally stopped, and he helped you out of it, his hand on the small of your back as he led you up to the house. He unlocked the door, and when you walked into the foyer, you were almost surprised that, for the most part, it looked normal and lived-in, clothes strewn about and empty cans of beer on several surfaces. Undoubtedly a mess that smelled of must, cigarettes, and something you couldn’t quite identify. 

Still, at least it was a house and not a windowless torture dungeon. You knew to count your blessings and not comment on the state of the place. It wasn’t often women like you moved up in the world of unwilling captivity. Besides, if you played your cards right, maybe he’d let you clean a bit. Jesus Christ, who were you? Wanting to clean up after him, be this psychopath’s housewife? You sighed. You were whoever he wanted you to be.

“Tired?” he asked.

You shook your head. With the exception of your first night in Ambrose, wherein he went easy on you, as a rule, Bo liked you awake and somewhat alert when he was around, and you knew he wasn’t bringing you to his house for a candlelight dinner followed by a romantic slow dance in the kitchen.

There wasn’t an opportunity to inspect much else of the house, as he began leading you upstairs. All of the doors down the long hallway looked more or less the same, off-white as a result of time and tobacco smoke, streaks of what you assumed was blood on each of them. He stopped in front of a door on the far end of the hall and opened it for you, pulling you inside.

Bo’s room, like what you’d seen of the house, was an organizational disaster. You weren’t sure what to focus on first. It wasn’t until you did so that you realized you should have asked, but when you noticed the stack of Polaroids on top of a nearby dresser, you grabbed them. Each one was of you in various states of torture and pain, framed similarly to the other ones in the basement. He scrawled something beneath one of the photos, and you were able to make out the chicken scratch as your name and ‘pretty when she cries’. The gesture was romantic by Bo’s standards, and you set the photos back down, almost overwhelmed.

Bo walked up behind you, pressing his crotch into your ass so you could feel his erection. One of his hands wrapped around your throat, the other playing with the hem of your slip. He gave your throat a light squeeze, and you remained still, waiting to see what he’d do next in the unfamiliar territory.

He turned you around, giving you a rough kiss before shedding you of your slip, still intact as it pooled at your feet. You almost let a giggle escape from your lips, so he really did like how you looked in it. He wasted no time in pushing you back onto the bed, and you gasped, light and airy at how nice it felt. A real bed, messy and unmade nonetheless, but compared to what you’d been strapped to, it felt like you were floating on a cloud. 

Bo took off his clothes, fully nude before you for the first time. You noticed similar scars around his ankles as those around his wrists but knew better than to stare. Besides, there was so much more to look at when it came to Bo. He was a lot of things, but you’d never accuse him of not being hot. It was one of the first things you’d noticed when you first saw him, and finally getting to see him on full display made your core feel pleasantly warm.

There was no foreplay, none of the pain or cruelty you’d come to expect as he climbed over you. Instead, he pounded his long, hard cock into you, no more concerned with your pleasure than usual, yet your body betrayed you as you neared orgasm despite how roughly he handled you. It was the first time you weren’t restrained while he fucked you, and you had no idea what to do with your hands. 

Hesitantly, you reached up, caressing his cheek. Fazed by the intimacy you initiated, his thrusts became erratic, and he took your hand, kissing your palm before pushing your arm away. Then, as if to remind you who was in charge, not to get too comfortable around him, he, in turn, slapped you across the face, and you came around his cock with a moan that sounded almost foreign. His orgasm soon followed, and he cursed under his breath as his hot cum pumped inside you. 

To your disbelief, he didn’t drag the act out any longer, pulling out of you and allowing you to settle into the pillows. He reached over to the nightstand on his side of the bed—was this now your side of the bed? Would he let you sleep in it with him?—and shook a cigarette out from the pack, sticking it in his mouth and lighting it with a rusted Zippo lighter. 

“Gonna be tough findin’ another girl to keep down there who’ll do it for me like you,” he mused, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “Got real lucky with ya.”

Your heart lurched at the thought of another woman down there. You quickly convinced yourself it was out of empathy, after everything that Bo had put you through, to hell and back until you were a shell of yourself and somehow lucky to be alive, you wouldn’t wish that on any woman. 

The part of you that now belonged to him, broken and dependent, seethed with jealousy at the possibility of his attention being divided between you and someone else. He’d spent so much time with you while you were down there, would the other woman get the luxury as he fed and fucked her. Other woman, as if she’d be his mistress, his honey on the side, rather than a captive just like you. You hated yourself, feeling pathetic as ever for having such thoughts.

Despite yourself, you whispered, “No.”

“Whattya mean ‘no’?” he asked, his angered expression quickly dissolving into smugness upon noticing how bashful you were, avoiding his gaze. He couldn’t have that, now. 

Gently lifting your face, he forced you to make direct eye contact with him. “You jealous? Want me all to yourself?”

No. Maybe? Yes. You gave a weak nod at his question, hoping he wouldn’t make you confirm such out loud. You were never as lucky as he was.

“Say it to me, darlin’,” he ordered, his voice soft as he pulled the answer from you.

Humiliated, you gave him what he wanted, all the while mentally convincing yourself otherwise as you admitted tearfully, “I want you to myself, Bo.”

Snuffing the cigarette out in the bedside ashtray, he took your face in his hands and kissed you with an uncharacteristic sweetness, before slyly suggesting a shower together, your first one since you’d gotten to Ambrose. Thoughts of him fucking you mercilessly against the shower wall made you squirm, but it meant you could finally use real soap, maybe even wash your hair. You nodded in agreement, to his further delight. 

You noticed your bags in the corner of the room, mostly undisturbed except for your suitcase, which he had clearly rifled through to get the slip you had been wearing. At least they were still there, maybe he’d let you wear your clothes from now on, even if it was on his terms. You wasted no time in grabbing the bag that housed your makeup and toiletries before following him into the bathroom.

He woke you up the following morning with your choice of engagement rings in a plastic bin—you shuddered to think of what happened to their previous owners—all glittering boldly and promising eternity with a man who would return to you with blood on his hands and fire in his eyes late at night, the predator finally claiming his prey after the long, drawn out chase. Your head was always going to end up mounted on his wall.