#pure psychological dread

[red-akara]

The games of Enigma Studio are a wild time.

Echostasis. Mothered. The Enigma Machine.

Top level, these all look like individual, stand alone games but if you go deeper, you’ll start noticing the tiny threads of connection between them. And it is a startling, creepy revelation.

Can’t wait to talk about this more at my friends’ next PowerPoint party ;)

[blackwaxidol]

I really hope I can find some ability to fall asleep easily before winter, because untold horrors will emerge if I wake up at 4pm when it is already dark outside.

[scumfuckus]

I'm watching that m night shayamalan movie abt the beach that makes you age faster and its genuinely making me wanna throw up

[cinnamonest]

Uhtceare

Yandere Ayato x Reader - "Failed escape attempt" series

(I still cannot publish posts that have people tagged. I don't know why, it just gives me an error popup saying it couldn't be processed. Apologies to those in my taglist.)

Warning: DARK CONTENT, noncon/dubcon, implications of forced/coerced marriage, masturbation voyeurism that’s also kinda forced, manipulative use of mental health and problematic way of addressing it, gaslighting and psychological manipulation, implied future forced drugging, there’s just a lot of my man being awful here

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“Ah, there you are.”

Of course. He would be right there at the entrance waiting, wouldn’t he.

You were hoping to get a few more seconds to put off the inevitable, but the reality of your situation was not so kind as to grant you that. It was all far too fast — the full events of the night before, the journey of being dragged back here — flanked on all sides by doushin all the while — all went by in a blur, leading up to this very dreaded moment.

You kept your gaze turned to the ground, unable to bring yourself to make eye contact. Your fingers curled, digging into the fabric around your thighs.

Nonetheless, without even hesitating nor willing it, you found your feet moving on their own. Perhaps it was instinct, to get away from the unfamiliar men that made you so uncomfortable and uneasy, and into the arms that, despite everything, were at least familiar, and thereby a comfort at the end of your long trial of distress and misery. Maybe you knew it was expected, and feared some consequence for not acting as you knew you should. Or maybe some of both.

Regardless, your feet shuffled forward, any thoughts muted in favor of instinct as you bounded over towards your husband — as much as you hated to acknowledge it, your one source of comfort. As you grew close, he reached an arm out, hand firmly planting itself on your back and pulling you in. Perhaps out of that same sense of fear at the thought of disobeying expectations, perhaps out of pure exhaustion, you allowed it without struggle coming to stand directly by his side, grasping at his clothes, burying your head against him and squeezing your eyes shut as if it would obscure the others’ view of you.

“I can’t thank you enough. You have no idea how worried I was about her,” he spoke to the arrangement of men now standing a ways away, moving his hand on to rest atop your head. “I apologize for the inconvenience. The poor thing gets a bit irrational from time to time. You know how it is.”

The other men only gave a brief, curt sound of acknowledgement. One, the own standing closest to the two of you based on how close the voice sounded, seemed to deem it appropriate to give at least some response. “Of course, sir.”

Not that that actually made any sense, that such a bizarre thing to say could ever warrant an ‘of course’ as a reply. But they weren’t there to be sensible, to assess the situation and act according to any supposed principles. To help. They were there only to follow through with an assigned task, one that they had not even tried to conceal in their expressions and tones towards you was an unwanted inconvenience, and to turn a blind eye to any conclusions they might draw.

Maybe that too was intentional — the estate lord could have easily sent his private forces to be the ones to escort you back to the estate, yet he chose to allow the public law enforcement to return you. Perhaps he knew you’d grown to resent the family’s private forces, and thereby had no issue inconveniencing them, whereas he knew you’d feel more embarrassment and guilt having strangers be forced to bring you all the way back… yes, the more you thought about it, that certainly seemed like that was his intent.

“I hope she didn’t give you too much trouble?”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Ah, I see, that’s good to hear.”

Your hands balled into fists.

The whole show made of it all was utterly humiliating — that too no doubt the intention — but you had no choice but to stand there. Doing something rash like running off to hide yourself from the embarrassment would only meet a worse consequence later.

The burning, bitter anger only made said embarrassment that much worse. It was consuming, maddening. Everything — this place, these people, their words and their attitudes, their dismissal of you as if you were a child or an animal — it made you so damn mad, and yet, you could do nothing but endure.

Your eyes burned. You blinked a few times in rapid succession. You couldn’t forgive yourself if you actually cried in front of these strangers. The back-and-forth between the two parties continued, but you did your best to tune out the words, knowing that listening would only hurt you further.

It wasn’t until there was movement that you returned your attention to them, pulling your head away from him to look — now they were turning, walking away.

Leaving you alone with him.

You then dared not avert your eyes from the ground, watching the men from your peripheral vision as they made their way down the path, growing smaller and smaller and they moved further away, until their footsteps were no longer audible.

All that remained was a heavy, palpable tension.

Avoidance was the easiest path — a foolish choice, of course, which you knew full well. It wasn't as if you could avoid the present reality forever, but nonetheless, you found yourself clinging to each precious second that ticked by, body growing stiffer as you braced yourself for the inevitable. Perhaps you could trick yourself into believing that if you just kept your gaze turned to the ground, nothing would happen.

But sure enough, you clenched your jaw as his hand moved upwards, and came to rest on your shoulder.

“Come on now. You're certainly tired. Let’s get you to rest for a while.”

His voice only made your stomach twist further. It was calm and gentle, not explosive or infuriated. It would have felt more assuring that way, if your fear could just be easily confirmed, rather than a calculated calm that felt far more dreadful and foreboding than any rage.

His hand moved from your shoulder, coming down to grasp your wrist. It wasn’t a sudden, harsh motion, nor was the grip itself strong enough as to be painful — but it was noticeably firm.

And then, he pulled. A soft tug, pulling you in the direction of the doors.

Your resistance was not a conscious choice, not something you thought about nor had any time to do so; it was only a reflex. Instinctively, your body stiffened, your feet dug into the ground, and thus his pull was met not with the meek obedience that was expected of you, with footsteps that followed where you were guided, but instead a firm resistance.

Your own realization of that resistance, what you’d just done, sent a sharp rush of fear through your veins.

And thus, for the first time since arriving, your gaze tilted upward, and your wide, frightened eyes met his.

His expression shifted. The amiable, pleasant smile half-faded, still present, but only barely.

“…Don't be difficult. Come on.”

Likewise, his voice dropped far lower, a dark and foreboding tone far removed from the one he’d spoken with just moments ago to the other men.

Your mouth opened, instinctively wanting to reply, but you couldn't summon a coherent thought. You were afraid, you were angry, you were so, so embittered and ashamed and wanted nothing more than to run to your room, close your eyes and burrow into the bed.

And for a moment, you considered the compliant option. If you just lowered your head and followed along, apologized and insisted you were just being petty or immature or whatever he would call it this time, and took whatever consequence was handed out, then you could do just that, confine yourself to your bed and try to forget it all.

But the shame only fueled the fury, like gasoline to a fire. It was his fault. As scared of punishment as you were, your pride could not stand for simply bowing your head, and as your mind raced, the sheer fury you’d been stewing in all throughout the night before, all the angry words you’d monologued in your head and vowed to spew at him when you saw him again, all came rushing back.

You swallowed, fingers curling even harder around the fabric around your thighs. Now that it was just the two of you, although you still fought it as best as you could, you couldn’t help that your eyes watered, burning as your vision blurred out of pure frustration and misery.

“I… I know you did all of this on purpose! I only got all the way out there because you let me, a-and…”

The words came out in a trembling, wavering voice, far weaker than intended.

He exhaled a heavy sigh, closing his eyes in frustration. His voice was still characteristically gentle, but you could hear his patience waning. “We can discuss this inside.”

“But I—”

“Inside.”

You stiffened, freezing in place. That was not a tone you heard often in your married life, more firm than normal.

You swallowed, gaze darting to the ground again, unable to summon a reply and not wanting to make eye contact again. With another heavy exhale, he pulled at your arm with a gentle tug, and this time, you followed, feet quickly shuffling behind his.

You didn’t say a word, though, through the full minute or so of walking across the courtyard, through the front doors, down the hall, only dimly lit today due to curtains hanging over the windows lining the walls. It occurred to you with a sinking feeling in your stomach that you were headed straight for your shared bedroom, rather than one of the estate’s many drawing rooms and lounges, which meant the anticipated conversation to come would be one you’d both want kept in privacy. Your stomach felt as if it were turning in knots, your chest compressed by an unseen force, each breath feeling strenuous and weighted.

And then, finally, you both came to a halt as you reached the last room at the end of the hall. You felt helpless, unable to do anything as you watched the handle of the door turn, stumbling in as you were guided forward by the hand that came to gently press on your lower back.

Likewise, equally pitifully, you could do nothing but stand there and wait as you listened for the door to close behind you, clenching your jaw at the trepidation in your chest from the footsteps on the floor behind you, but made sure to not let your fear swallow your fury.

“Now,” he began slowly as he moved around you to the other side of the room, voice now back to its usual tone, but still firm nonetheless, “I can tell you have a great deal you want to get off your chest, but you’ll have to forgive me for a moment… your well-being is my primary concern.” He looked you up and down, and his voice took on a note of concern that admittedly sounded sincere. “You aren’t hurt in any way, are you, dear?”

You bit your lip at the affectionate term, and more importantly, at how unbothered he came across. Granted, you now knew just how much of the past twelve hours or so had been entirely within his control, so it made sense that he was never genuinely distressed, but admittedly, it was also disappointing. Part of you wanted him to have been panicked and worried, to get the satisfaction of knowing you’d successfully gotten under his skin.

Still, you shook your head, keeping your gaze to the ground as you gave a curt, frustrated reply. “No.”

“Good,” his eyes closed for a moment, taking a heavy breath of pause. “Well, in that case…” He leaned back against the wall, folding his arms. “I believe this would be the best time to give you a moment to explain yourself.”

You couldn’t miss the obvious foreboding in his voice, nor the way it made your body stiffen.

But you had already prepared for that — you knew it would be intimidating, that it would be awkward and shameful, but you had spent the previous few hours trying to preemptively harden your resolve against that. Besides, after it was interrupted earlier, you now had the chance to get back to what was essentially the pre-written script you’d memorized in your head of exactly every little thing you wanted to say to him.

Unfortunately, as it turned out, the you that was standing there in front of him was significantly less brave than the ‘you’ in the scenes you’d played out in your head on the journey home.

Still, you clenched your hands into fists, thinking you had to at least force him to acknowledge the one point you’d deemed most important.

“You let me leave.”

In your mind, you’d spoken with a bold voice and looked him directly in the eye… and while the same words came out of your mouth, they were instead said with a weak, shrill attempt at an accusatory tone, pathetically looking to the wall as you found yourself unable to summon the gall to look up, once more lacking the firm accusation and self-assuredness your imaginative self had had.

He tilted his head. “That’s not a very accurate way to put it. I never granted you any such permission… I was simply aware of your intent to run off, and didn’t stop you.”

For a moment, you contemplated asking how he knew — but you had a feeling the answer would only make you more upset. His voice was laden with a faux sincerity, a sort of disingenuousness that made your blood boil, enough to embolden you further as you continued.

“And you… you had people following me the whole time, I know you did!” Your voice began to get louder as you grew bolder, bitter anger strengthening you against any trepidation. “They didn't even do a good job! I started noticing them towards the end of it!”

"Well, that would be because they were specifically told that concealment was not necessary.” He kept up the dry manner of speech, seemingly unbothered by your fury. “They deserve a break from high effort jobs every now and then, surely you understand. Besides, they didn’t directly interfere with your little outing, yes?”

He was so calm in contrast to your visible irritation, no doubt at least in part deliberate. It only served to make you even more mad.

“They told the local doushin to — no, you told them to tell them! There’s no other way that could have happened! I-I, I got," in sheer frustration, you jerked your fists in a sharp downward motion, "arrested!"

“I’m very well aware.”

“They put me in jail!”

“I do believe that is the standard process for an arrest, yes.”

“I was all by myself for hours!”

“Naturally. I couldn’t allow you to be placed with any dangerous persons, that’s why you were put in a solitary space.”

You clenched your fists so hard they trembled. “You, y-you let me get that far in the first place, and, and…” A lump formed in your throat again, which you did your best to suppress. “…Just to make me go through all that… I was there for hours before they came for me…” Your face scrunched up as you fought the urge to cry.

You hung your head, shoulders falling as you let your body relax, the fuse of anger burning out as it turned to a quiet bitterness swelling in your stomach. What was even the point? You knew better than to think your emotions would be given any weight, treated as anything beyond trivial.

A few moments of quiet passed, perhaps to see if you would say anything more, or perhaps just to force you to wait in uncomfortable uncertainty. After a moment, he shifted his posture slightly before unfolding one arm, holding out his hand in a standard gesture of speech.

“And what have we learned?”

You never would have thought one question could send such a spark of fury through your body in a single moment. Everything, from the wording to the timing to his tone, felt utterly mocking, infantilizing in a way that made you seethe.

You swallowed, practically trembling. “That you’ll go to any lengths to humiliate me?”

He returned the extended arm to its former position, exhaling heavily, straightening his stance. “It's rather unfair to assume I had such malicious intent. Stopping you early on in the past has clearly not worked in the long term, so further measures were necessary.” He tilted his head to meet your averted gaze, reflexively turning your attention back to him, eyes connecting with yours. “My only intention was that you would have some time to reflect on your series of decisions… and hopefully return with a change of heart. These episodes of yours are worrisome.” He gave a brief pause before finishing, “claiming I had cruel intent when you know in your heart that I only arranged this because I care for you… that's rather harsh, isn't it?”

You clenched your jaw, refusing to acknowledge the notion that the words were genuine. Admittedly having fallen for the words die a moment, you mentally shook off the momentary feeling of guilt.

These situations always went the same way, you'd be driven to apologize and feel bad about your choices. You had never met anyone else in your life with such a mastery of speech-craft as to be able to control your emotions and actions with words as easily as if it were pushing buttons on a machine. The first few times, you'd actually fallen for it, found yourself completely malleable, psyche bending and shifting to another's whims. At least with time, you'd become more resilient, had learned to notice and recognize the attempts… so you believed.

You opted to avoid answering the quesiton. Instead of acknowledging his own words, you turned to another matter that had come to mind during your escapade.

“Aren’t you abusing your authority? How are you even allowed to do this to begin with?!”

He took another deep breath, as if it were a trivial matter, or one that shouldn’t necessitate explanation.

“It’s… complicated, but the law does fully permit estates to employ local forces to locate any missing property belonging to the estate… people employed or bound to it are a sort of grey area in that regard.” After a moment of pause, he added, “besides, I also made it very clear that you were not in your right mind at the time, so your wellbeing was of immediate concern, and they were happy to help.”

“What?” The anger in your tone only rose. “I was perfectly in my right mind, you, you… a-and I’m not…”

A few moments passed as you trailed off, having to pause to collect yourself, blink away frustrated tears.

He opened his mouth as if to respond, but seemed to decide against whatever he'd considered saying, closing his eyes and taking a breath before finally replying in a more exasperated tone.

“You're making yourself upset needlessly. I can only do so much… in the end, I only wanted to keep you safe. You have to be the one to accept the grace you're given. Wouldn't that be easier for you?”

There was still unease to his tone, but the way he said it was nonetheless indicative of a sort of tiredness, as if not wanting to carry on about the matter anymore. It almost sounded like he was saying that you “accepting” his “grace” was all that was required to bury the matter entirely.

You spoke slowly, cautiously.

“You’re not… mad?”

“…I never said that.” He shifted away from leaning against the wall, standing upright. ”Of course, I can’t allow this to go entirely unacknowledged.”

He took a few steps towards you, and you fought the urge to step back, keeping your arms rigidly straight at your side as he continued.

“Normally, a proper form of consequence would be in order… however, after consideration, I realized that this was in large part my own fault, and I owe it to you to take responsibility for that.”

The words took you by surprise. The idea that he was in any way acknowledging that he had any responsibility for what you did was baffling, all things considered. He had never once even acknowledged that refusing to let you leave the estate was essentially holding you prisoner, and usually insisted that everything he did was what was best for you, even if, as he seemed to believe was the case, you did not understand that.

You hesitated before replying. “What… what do you mean?”

He flashed you an amiable smile. “A lesser person would only act on their momentary frustrations, but I’m not the sort of person who acts without understanding the situation. Luckily, I do understand you.” He looked off to the side, holding a hand up to his chin in a pensive pose, before adding in a quieter voice, “I made the mistake of getting too caught up in my work recently. Acting out over feelings of neglect is entirely different from misbehavior out of sheer petulance.”

He turned his head back towards you again before finishing,

“It would be cruel to respond to a cry for attention as if it were ordinary disobedience.”

The words took you aback, and you hesitated in your response, but as it fully registered in your mind, the momentary surprise was replaced with shameful fury. You held your arms firmly at your side, hands balled into fists as you replied.

“What?! I didn't— I didn’t do it for attention!”

You felt foolish for thinking for even a second that he might actually empathize with you, might finally come to enough humility to realize that much of your perceived disobedience was due to the sheer degree of meticulous, total control he held over everything you did. But no, instead, your attempt to run away was being treated as attention-seeking. It felt belittling, degrading.

He took a short breath, as if about to say something, but as his gaze fell upon you again, he simply exhaled, an amused smile forming on his face, replacing the former exasperation — and only infuriating you further, realizing even your anger wouldn't be taken seriously.

“Yes, yes, of course.” He made no effort to hide the dismissive amusement in his voice, either, but cleared his throat before returning to a more neutral tone before you could give any retort. “Regardless, you've been through a lot already. If you can be mature and calm down, make some acknowledgement of the trouble you’ve caused and show some remorse, then, I'm willing to somewhat overlook this.” Making direct contact between your eyes and his, he finished, “Won’t that be easier on us both?”

The obvious dismissal of your statement and implications of what he thought made your face feel hot. The embarrassment that had already been weighing down on you now became suffocating, and the utter arrogance of the presumption of your willingness to comply made you so upset it felt nauseating.

“What does ‘somewhat’ mean?” You tried to suppress the irritation in your voice.

He gave another heavy sigh. “Should you really be asking for specifics? It’s your best course of action regardless.”

You opened your mouth and inhaled as if to speak, holding your closed fists up to your chest, ready to spew every ounce of vitriol you’d been building up, and then, you fell silent as your eyes met.

His expression grew dark, eyes half-lidded and features blank — not contorted with anger nor curiosity, but merely waiting, watching, warning. Anticipating your defiance, prepared to react accordingly.

You looked down, hesitating.

Was it really worth it…? A few moments of lashing out, at what cost? ‘Consequences’ hurt, in one sense or another, they always did, no matter what form that word took.

You swallowed. He was right — one path before you was wiser.

You hung your head.

“…I’m sorry…”

Even with your gaze turned downward, you could see his eyes widen just a bit in your peripheral vision, not having expected such quick compliance — understandably so, based on your past incidents. But after a moment, his expression softened. He took another step, closing the gap between you, cupping your face in his hands and forcing you to lift your head back up.

“Mm. I’m glad you understand. You know, you've matured quite a bit recently.”

You almost, almost found yourself feeling happy at the praise, but then pushed that feeling away. It was part of the way he did things, part of the process, so you'd slowly come to recognize, putting the pieces together over and over until you became aware of how he managed to bring you down to submission each time. You refused to be swayed by that. You were only giving it up and apologizing because it was the was the easier, less painful choice… so you reminded yourself. Now, at least, you'd be done with this, could move on and quietly begin plotting again.

But then, as you felt his hand move down to your shoulder, then to your waist, you remembered the ‘somewhat.’

Yes, of course it couldn’t be left at that, wouldn’t be so simple as forcing you into humility just once.

You knew that full well. These checks of obedience after an act of disobedience never came solitary, and the desire for that subservience to be affirmed was not easily satiated. It would only grow deeper, an increasing hunger for your subservience. Pushing your pride further and further down, carving into your personhood and whittling away anything deemed unfitting. It would only go further, debasing you in increasingly violating ways.

You felt a gnawing in your stomach. You hadn’t thought of that part, in the moment, but the realization now made your heartrate begin to accelerate once more.

His eyes drifted downward.

“…Ah, right. The clothes you’re wearing, we need to have a servant wash them for you. Just set them by the door for now.”

You looked down. You hadn’t even bothered to think about it until now, having been so preoccupied with other thoughts, but indeed, the oh-so-nice and expensive clothing you’d been so lovingly lavished with, was now fully coated in grime and dirt.

At the same time, your immediate instinct was to protest the idea, knowing the intent. He wasn’t going to get you a replacement — which he himself would need to do, seeing as all of your clothing was, no doubt deliberately, kept outside the bedroom itself, and it had been established early on that you were to rely on him or servants to fetch whatever he would have you wear that day for you. Was the command too, then, intentional?

The very moment you even asked yourself the question, though, came the immediate answer, making you feel foolish for even questioning it. Of course it was intentional, planned — what wasn’t, anymore, in your life? You remembered looking back, on the day you were brought here, thinking over the past with borderline horror at the realization of how intricately detailed and precise every detail had been in his effort — what you now were certain was a premeditated plan — to get your family to call off the years-long betrothal you’d already been in, and marry you off to him instead. That realization of it all had kept you rightfully afraid of him, knowing he was always one step ahead of whatever you might attempt.

The corners of your mouth pulled taut with embarrassment, and you pulled your hands in towards your chest again, elbows pressed firmly to your sides. “That’s…”

He caught a glimpse of your face, and in turn smiled, an amused sort of expression. “Come on now,” he took a step towards you, reaching out and grasping at your hands, pulling them out of their defensive position, “even now, you’re still so shy over this?”

“I— no, I’m not—” you cut off, teeth clacking together as you snapped your mouth shut when his hands released yours, instead moving around to the binding ties of your outfit, pulling the knot apart.

You held your hands up to the level of your shoulders, bent at the elbow, fingers curled as if preparing to reach forward, to grasp at his hands, to do something.

But you didn’t.

The exchange was itself a means of conversation, communicating something not fully articulable by word alone. Violating your comfort and dignity, baring you to him, those things themselves were an assertion, a statement. To interrupt would be to challenge that assertion, to deny him. And perhaps it was, in part, also a test, a question of whether or not you would dare to deny the unspoken statement.

As the silk strands came undone, the first layer gave way to the second, and pulling apart that knot caused the fabric bound by it to slide apart, exposing your bare skin to the cool air.

An unspoken reminder that your body was not your own, that any right to autonomy and privacy you might have beyond this room, no longer existed within it. Access to you was not a privilege granted by your permission, but an inherent right, provided by the very contract that legally bound you to him.

The casual, unhesitating manner with which you were stripped down only emphasized that that very reality itself was not something to be regarded as of any great significance, but a fact accepted as readily as any other. Exposing you, touching you, exercising that unconditional access to your body was given no greater thought than utilizing any of one’s possessions.

There was nothing he could ever say to you, nor adequate words to even exist, to fully encapsulate the degree to which you were owned — but with that gesture, you understood all the same.

And even though the humiliation of the reminder made your eyes burn, made you bite your lip, you lowered your hands to your side. An admission of defeat, surrender.

It did not go unnoticed. He smiled.

“Very good. You’re behaving much better today than I anticipated.”

Another moment of praise. He was genuinely pleased. You could see it and hear it through his face and voice.

Were it on any other matter, you might have felt proud to be praised in such a sweet, charming voice. If the praise were on something you actually wanted to achieve.

And then, his eyes trailed downward, running over your body, taking in each detail. His eyebrows furrowed as his gaze settled on one particular spot.

“You really shouldn't lie to me,” he spoke in a quiet, low voice.

At first, you felt a momentary panic, not quite sure what he even meant, thinking you had somehow made a unintentional transgression. It wasn't until you looked down that you saw the scrape just below your collarbones from your, admittedly unsightly, vigorous resistance upon initial confrontation with the doushin the night prior, having essentially had to have been wrestled down to the concrete street. In hindsight, you were even surprised with yourself for putting up such a fight, but at the time it had just been the instinctive reflex, fueled by desperation.

It all felt distant now, as if further back in time than it was, the memory all blurring together. It was only a very small mark, and had now scabbed up as part of the natural healing process, but as his fingers brushed over the spot, you still tensed at the slight lingering sting.

“It doesn't really hurt,” you replied nonetheless. “It's fine…”

He only straightened back upright, closing his eyes momentarily.

“I suppose I shouldn't have expected common doushin to be able to follow instructions… just so you know, I did specifically say to ensure you weren't hurt in any way.” He turned his gaze downward, hand held to his chin as he added in a low mutter, “I'll be sure to only use private hands in the future, should I need something like this again.”

You shrugged, turning your eyes downward to the floor once more. Really, you wanted to not have to think about the incident any further, the mere memory stirring up embarrassment, which did not combine well with your already vulnerable state. “It's fine. It's not a big deal,” you grumbled. After a moment of hesitation, feeling another urge of spite, you added, “it wouldn't have happened if you didn't… do all that.”

He huffed in exasperation, but was quiet for the moment, seemingly composing his thoughts before replying.

“Don’t be disagreeable. We've discussed this. I care for you dearly, but that does not mean that you are exempt from expectations to behave.”

He always gave you that line — that a behavioral matter of yours had been previously ‘discussed,’ which merely meant he'd told you not to do something, or behave a certain way. That was the end-all-be-all — whatever you were told was set in stone the moment it left his mouth, and transgressing against the standard that was set was often treated as if you’d forgotten, as if it slipped your mind, the idea of intentional and deliberate disobedience being something unthinkable to such a degree that simply having done so by accident were more believable to him — and perhaps you ought be grateful for that.

You clamped your jaw shut, turning your head downward.

His gaze turned back to your body.

“…Your nerves are unsettled.” His hand slid it's way down your side, the feeling of touch lingering in a trail behind as his palm brushed over the curvature of your waist. “See, that's what causes these irrational episodes of yours. Stress, overexcitement. It just… builds naturally for you, over time.” After a moment, taking in your expression, he added, “it's nothing to feel bad about, dear. I don't mind helping you with it at all… I'm glad I can do so, really. I worry about how you'd manage without having me to help.”

You hesitated before giving a response. “What… what do you mean? I'm not… irrational…”

It was as if your words went in one ear and out the other, continuing on without responding to your objection. “But again, I failed to keep it in check this time, so this was ultimately my own fault… I'll have to make a note to be more thorough.”

His hand grasped at your waist, pulling you close. His other hand reached up, cupping your breast. He looked over towards your shared bed.

“Come on. Let's get you in bed.”

“Huh? But—”

His grip tightened. “Don't be difficult.”

Your stomach began to churn. You were still angry. The last thing you wanted was to go through what was essentially a humiliation ritual. There was something about the act itself — at least, between the two of you — that made you feel embarrassed and ashamed. The inherent vulnerability, for one, but moreover, because you knew the intent, you knew the way he viewed it in his mind, could practically feel the sentiment. An act of claiming, an exchange of power in which your loss of dignity became his gain of pride and control. Carving into your very personhood, marking you as something belonging to him.

Your opened your mouth, but whatever you intended to say was cut off by your small noise of surprise as you were pulled forward, in a manner that was somehow so gentle in touch, yet forceful enough to move your whole body towards his. His arm wrapped around your frame, the other positioning itself underneath your thighs before lifting you up and moving down to sit.

You fidgeted, tried to pull away — but his grip tightened, as much to secure you as it was a warning, telling you to hold still.

“It's for your sake. This will help you… you may not realize that yet, but you’ll thank me, I promise.”

His hands moved to your hips and turned you so that your back rested against his chest.

“As I was saying, you simply… build stress and neurosis, naturally. It's not your fault, really. You're just sensitive to changes, stressors... Every individual has at least some… defects in their nature.”

His hands retracted, and there was a brief rustling sound before they returned to your skin, now ungloved, flesh on flesh. The contact sent sparks through your nerves.

“That's why people pair with those they are compatible with. They fill each other's needs, compliment each other’s natures… I’m obligated to take those defects and resolve them.”

He gave you a smile — you couldn't see it, but could feel it as his lips pressed softly against your neck. Warm, full of sincerity and adoration.

“I wouldn’t do that if it weren’t out of care… and you in turn provide me with something that needs care and guidance. I enjoy having that.”

For all his attempts at soothing words and the gentleness of the touch, you knew in your heart that there was no doubt that that was part of the intent — to humble you, to tame you and make you docile, to make you submit. Forcing you to such a vulnerable state and inflicting reactions of pleasure was itself an act of exerting power and control.

It was, in a way, remarkable, that the human spirit could not only be broken by both brutal cruelty, but equally — or, perhaps even more effectively — eroded away with a gentle voice and touch, humiliation so deeply intertwined with affection that they became impossible to distinguish from each other, forming a unique sentiment that was both one and the other.

You were endearing to him, but that affection for you was like a venom that ran through your veins — an affection that diminished you, reduced you to some inhuman possession, a toy to be manipulated in any way he desired.

It made you feel sick. It made you feel angry, it tormented your psyche—

Your thoughts were turned to a haze as his fingers rolled your nipple between them. You inhaled a sharp gasp, back arching forward.

Processing your own reaction, embarrassment took place of the momentary pleasure, and your face felt hot. You reached an arm up instinctively to cover your breasts, pulling away from the touch.

“…We've had this conversation before, haven't we?” He reached up, grasping your jaw with a grip just firm enough to communicate a warning.

You swallowed and, albeit not without just a moment of hesitation, lowered your arm. You looked down, breasts now exposed fully. “I'm… sorry…”

He gave you a hum of approval, returning to the former fondling, fingers playing with the sensitive flesh. You bit your lip, breathing growing labored.

After a few minutes, his hands wandered downward, slowly, softly, down to your thighs, then back up over your hips, where they finally settled.

“Touch yourself.”

The command caught you off-guard. Your eyes widened. “…What?”

“Before I help you,” he murmured, “I want to see what you will do for me. That's only fair, don't you think?” He squeezed at your waist.

“Prove to me…” he leaned forward, breath hot against your ear, “that you know your place. Do as I say.”

You swallowed.

It was in your best interest to obey.

You reached down slowly, shivering as your fingers brushed over your clit. You pressed down, beginning to rub your outstretched fingers back and forth. With your other hand, you reached up, tweaking your nipple just enough to send pleasure through your nerves.

“There you go.” He pulled you a bit closer to him, so your bodies were firmly pressed together. He craned his neck, no doubt catching your abashed, embarrassed expression.

Not that he would give you any words of comfort on that matter, tell you not to feel embarrassed. He only smiled, grasping your hair and forcing your head to turn, pressing your mouth to his. It was only a short contact, parting with the softest of sounds.

His grip on your hip tightened, and you realized why he’d pulled back when he spoke.

“Don’t stop.”

You hadn’t realized you had, too focused on the slight surprise to being kissed. You took a shuddering breath, and resumed the motion. Your eyes closed, heightening your senses — the sensation of each touch and the shockwaves it sent through your core to every nerve in your body.

Your breathing quickly became labored. Even if you were inducing the sensation itself, it was good. You bit your lip as a soft, weak little sound came out of your throat, unable to refrain from vocalizing at the intensity of the feeling.

“Not just like that.” One of his hands reached down to your thigh, hand wrapping around the underside of it and pulling it to the side, spreading you open further. “Go on.”

“Mm…” You couldn’t summon any particular words, overwhelmed by the conflicting sensations — the heat to your face and knot in your stomach at the shameless way your body was so exposed, at the feeling of being watched as if the act were a performance, and the haze of arousal that rapidly began to cloud your judgement, obscuring the feeling of discomfiture, drowning your inhibition.

Even without the pleasure compromising your hesitation, you didn’t want to think about the alternatives if you refused to obey — this was thus far, comparatively, far from the worst consequences you’d ever received for acting out.

You reached down further, pushing two of your fingers past the slick coating your flesh and inside your body, curling them into the spot that made you tense, made your muscles spasm, over and over, each movement sparking a rush that surged throughout your body.

Each breath was a deep gasp. Your toes curled, your muscles went taut and your insides clenched around your own fingers.

But something was missing.

It was pleasurable, but there just wasn’t enough to push you over the edge. The sensations were too weak.

Your body had been conditioned something more, and this was not comparable.

Sweat began to accumulate on your skin as you kept curling your fingers, desperately chasing a high. His arm moved from your hip to wrap around your waist, pressing another kiss to your neck.

You tried. Frustration began to build. Your eyes watered as you curled your fingers as hard as you could, pressed as far in as they would go, down to the knuckle.

It wasn’t deep enough.

It wasn't what you were used to. Your fingers were too short, just short of reaching that one perfect spot that made you lose yourself in pleasure, melting to a mewling mess.

You shuddered. You couldn’t reach a climax, no matter how hard you tried to focus. Even without orgasm, though, your exertion reached a peak you couldn’t carry on further from, and your fingers stopped moving as you went limp, trying to catch your breath, frustration and desperation nearly enough to make you cry. Your head fell back, eyes closed as you panted.

You could feel the corners of his mouth upturn against the flesh of your neck.

“…Is something wrong?”

Your jaw clenched, and you swallowed the lump in your throat.

That was the other goal of it, besides proving yourself to him — it was also to prove something to you. Something you didn’t want to admit out loud, something that made your chest swell with bitterness just to admit to yourself, much more so to do so aloud.

“I can’t… I can't do it.”

“Mm.” He pulled you further back against him. “Then, what do you need?”

The tingling sensation, the desperate need, the remnant frustration of lost pleasure, was too much to bear. You swallowed your pride, closing your eyes as you forced the words out.

“…I need you to do it…”

You were expecting him to say something in return, but for a moment, he was only quiet. He began to drum his fingers back and forth against your waist.

“Is that so?”

You nodded again, which seemed to be to his displeasure—

“Use your words.”

“Yes…” You swallowed.

You waited, but no touch came.

“Hm. How odd.” His voice was low and quiet, but unmistakably derisive. “You seemed to think you were perfectly capable of caring for yourself, running off like you did.”

Your eyes welled with tears. You shook your head back and forth, unable to bring yourself to speak.

“No?” His hand trailed downward until it ghosted over your sex, the lightest of touches, borderline torment. “Then, you can't do this for yourself?”

“…No…”

He moved his face even closer, speaking directly into your ear.

“Then what do you say? Tell me exactly what you need. Show me.”

You swallowed. The burning of humiliation in your chest was almost too much to bear. Had your insides not still been alight with the wavering, tight feeling of need, your pride would have outweighed your desire. But in that moment, it did not.

You spread your still-quivering legs wide apart.

“…Please touch me.”

“Mm. And what do you want from that? For how long?”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“I want to cum.”

Finally — finally — his fingers pressed down against your clit, enough pressure to send waves of pleasure up your spine.

“There, see…” He pressed another kiss to your face. “Aren't things so much easier when you just choose to be honest?”

You nodded. “Yes. I… I’m sorry…”

He gave a low hum of acknowledgement. “This stubbornness is just your nature.” His fingers slid back and forth, gracing the bundle of nerves with friction. “But that can be fixed.”

You bit your lip. “I… I’m not— ah—”

One motion of his hand was particularly firm, the sensation it sent through your nerves so intense it was almost painful. Your hands shot forward, grasping at his wrist.

It was only when the motion stopped that you realized you’d erred — it was a habit of reflexively grabbing at his hands when a sensation was too intense, trying to pry them off — something he very much did not like you doing.

Sure enough, he sighed, frustration blatantly evident. You jerked your hands away, but it was already too late to take back the first offense.

“…Now,” he started, “Can you refrain from doing that again, or do I need to bind them?”

“I…” you paused, realizing you genuinely needed to think it through. You weren’t certain if you could abstain.

You felt him shift back, leaning away from your body.

“Well, that’s enough of an answer itself.”

You heard the rustling of clothes, felt movement behind you, and you turned your head over your shoulder just in time to see as he pulled off first the top layer, then the undershirt over his head and off his body. You made a soft sound as he then pushed down on your back with a firm touch, forcing you to lean forward, grasping at your hands and pulling them behind your back — firmly, enough to be a clear message to not try to dissuade him, but your pride, weak as it was, still couldn't let it happen with no objection at all.

“Wait, wait, I can do it, I don't need—”

“This is for your sake. Hold still.”

“But I—”

“Be still.” He spoke firmly, but softened his voice as he continued, “It’s not your fault for having that reflex… but you have to train yourself against it. You want to be good, don't you?”

You shut your mouth, nodding as you sounded an answer. “Mm-hm…”

Cloth wrapped tightly around your wrists, using one sleeve to bind them together. Not enough of a bind that you couldn’t break out with some effort, but just enough to keep you from reflexively trying to interfere.

“Now where were we…”

You were pulled back once more, perhaps even closer. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest against your back.

And his hand quickly moved back down, and the bliss of shockwaves of pleasures overcame you once more. You whimpered, biting your lip.

His fingers pressed more firmly, rubbing circles into the nub, and for a moment, your wrists jerked against the bind as the reflex kicked in. It was too much at once, but now, you were prevented from doing anything about it. As he began to rub in circular motions, your body shuddered, and an involuntary moan came out of your throat — a wanton, shameful sound, laced with pleasure and lust.

“There you go.” You could feel him speak, shuddering at the vibration of his chest against your back and the warm breath against your ear. His other hand rolled your nipple between a finger and thumb. “Give into it.”

Your body trembled against his touch, and jolted as his own fingers pressed inside of you. His were longer, and the touches firmer, and the result was a degree of pleasure you were simply incapable of replicating on your own.

As much as you hated it — hated to think it, hated to acknowledge it, hated to try and not acknowledge it as the reality prodded at the back of your mind — he made you feel better than anything you had ever experienced, better than anything you could ever make yourself feel.

You whimpered, toes and fingers curling. Your hips moved, a rolling motion to meet each pressing movement.

A singular motion, and singular sound, both of which you near-immediately caught yourself doing, having been too lost in the feeling to think clearly. You cut off your voice and went still, but it didn’t go unnoticed.

“Don’t.” He didn’t stop moving his fingers as he spoke, instead pressing down with harsh force, essentially pulling you back closer to him with the hand partially inside you. “Holding yourself back like that is another form of dishonesty.”

You bit your lip, squeezing your eyes shut, but unable to form a response before he continued.

“And you wouldn’t want,” the fingers that had been gently tweaking at your breast pinched down hard, a momentary spark of pain and the lowering of his voice making you go tense, “to make this unpleasant because you couldn’t be good for me, would you?”

You shook your head back and forth with vigor. There were many punishments in your domestic repertoire that were unpleasant, and the thought of any of them made your heart skip a beat. “No, no, I don’t… want that…”

“Then you’re going to be honest, aren’t you?”

“Yes! Yes, I promise…”

“Mm.”

He kept rubbing his thumb against your clit, even in perfectly synched timing to each motion his fingers curled inward inside of you.

It was so pleasurable, so intense, it made you angry. Mad that he was capable of it, mad that his control over your body was greater than your own, and most of all, mad that he did it with such ease, effortless, that making you come undone entirely was something he mastered without ever being taught.

That pleasure began to build and build. You squirmed and whimpered, muscles throughout your body tensing and relaxing over and over. Your hips rolled into his hand. Each movement built the pressure in your body higher and higher, rapidly reaching a peak.

The edge that climax made you quiver, body and legs trembling.

“There it is…” his voice was so soft and gentle, soothing in a way it had no right to be.

The noise that came out of your mouth was nearly animal-like, a whimpering cry as you threw your head back, quivering and spasming. The waves of sensation pulsated throughout your body, reaching a peak and then beginning to ebb away.

You went limp, bodyweight falling back against his chest, heaving with heavy breaths. Your head felt as if it were spinning, and you stared forward in a dull stupor, body trembling with aftershock.

You twitched at the feeling of his fingers sliding out of you, with a wet squelching sound that made you shiver.

“Look at that…”

He spread his fingers apart, clear fluid forming a trail between them. You bit your lip, tilting your head downward in a futile attempt of avoidance of what you knew well came next — but that effort was quickly negated as he grabbed your jaw, turning your head back up and squeezing your face.

“Open.”

The force of the grip as he squeezed down more or less forced your jaw apart anyway. You didn't even get to take a breath before he pushed his fingers into your mouth, salty taste spreading over your tongue.

“Clean them off.”

Maybe it was a way of forcing you to acknowledge your own bodily reaction, even if you tried to deny it to yourself. Maybe it was much simpler than that — just another way to degrade you, or something simply arousing for him because it just was.

You complied nonetheless. Your tongue swirled around each finger, sucking and swallowing the taste of yourself. Even as he pulled his fingers back out, a string of saliva connected them to your tongue.

And then, after wiping his fingers off on the fabric around his thigh, he returned the arm to your waist, pulling you close, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“See… so much more at ease now, aren't you?”

That was one way to put it. You couldn't even bring words to your mind. Even processing what he said felt like a significant effort. Everything felt far away, your mind like a blank slate, numb and empty. Your body was even more exhausted, totally lax aside from involuntary twitches.

You made a soft sound as he turned your body to the side, just enough to look you face-to-face. Looking down at your watery eyes as they met his, the stupor in your expression, even as your brain began to clear, as if a machine turning back on after a few moments of darkness.

And he smiled. It was soft, full of endearment. And belittling. It was not made any better by the small chuckle he gave, patting the top of your head.

It burned in your chest, down into your stomach.

Your eyebrows furrowed and your lower lip quivered, an admittedly petulant pout. Shame formed a knot in your stomach. Disappointment in yourself, ending up like this again after swearing so many times over that this one would be the last, the last time you'd come apart so easily, the last time you'd find yourself spent and susceptible to the touch that seemed as if it were designed for your body.

And he laughed. An amused chuckle, patting your head.

“Mm. I had a feeling that wouldn't be quite enough.”

He leaned in, firmly grasping at your arms as you tried to squirm, bringing his mouth so close to yours, forehead resting against yours.

“But, that does admittedly work out for my sake.”

You grunted in surprise as he hooked his arm under your legs again, this time only lifting you just enough to set you down onto the padding of your bed, gently pushing on your shoulders until you were flat on your back, arched over your hands bound behind you.

“A-ah, I…” You swallowed, grasping at the sheets to the best of your ability. It was nothing you weren't anticipating, but the vulnerability made you tense.

It didn't help that he paused any motion, eyes trailing over your body, before reaching down and running his hands over your flesh, one moving to grip at your waist, the other your opposite hip. You couldn’t reach to cover yourself, forced to lay bare and vulnerable. Instinctively, you pressed your thighs together, but firm hands grabbed at the undersides, pushing them apart and positioning himself between them so you couldn’t close them again.

The former act was not enough. Putting you through the ordeal of being made to wait in jail like a child in time-out was not enough, exposing your body was not enough, toying with your body and forcing an acknowledgement of his own control was not enough.

Your lip trembled.

But anger still pervaded through your negative emotions. It compelled your courage, you felt defiance surging up. You had to look him in the eye, tell him exactly what you felt, tell him you knew what he was doing and push him off, then, maybe then you'd have the satisfaction of some sense of control.

You could do it. You had to.

“You… you're just doing the same thing as before!” Your eyebrows furrowed. “You’re trying to, to—”

“Again with this?” He tilted his head. “I really wish you wouldn’t assume such ill intent. This is how people love each other… you know that.”

You bit your lip. You almost, for just a second, fell for it, almost felt guilty. You shook your head forcefully, clearing your mind of the thought.

“No, I won't let you—”

And with that, there was a rapid shift in expression. His eyes narrowed in a piercing, foreboding look. You went silent.

Your shoulders stiffened. The words came out on impulse, resolve of defiance broken as quickly as it had formed. “I'm— I'm sorry—”

Dammit.

For once, the dark expression did not shift back to pleasant as soon as you apologized — an indicator of having gone too far. His hand slowly reached up, this time not in a loving caress or gentle-but-firm grip, but outright harsh grip on your jaw.

“You…”

He tilted his head forward to more directly look you in the eye. His voice was low and cold, making your heart race further.

“Do not ‘let’ anyone do anything.”

His fingertips pressed into your flesh, squeezing your face between them.

“I know you understand your place. Don’t behave as if you don’t.” Finally, his voice softened as he finished, “I can’t help you if you keep fighting me every step of the way. So… you’ll control yourself, won’t you?”

You swallowed, nodding your head, twitching as the motion made his fingernails dig into your cheeks.

“You know I don’t like being so harsh with you, don’t you?”

You nodded again.

“Good.” He leaned down and pressed his mouth to yours. Only for a short, chaste moment, but a slow, sensual motion nonetheless. You closed your eyes, tuning out the rustling clothes, heavily breathing with anticipation.

“You’ll have to forgive me for this. This whole ordeal has been stressful for me as well.”

You didn’t get time to ask what he meant — he rammed himself into you all at once, completely stuffing your body in one rough, forceful motion.

You cried out, back arching and body stiffening. You felt your insides clamp down, pulsating against the intrusion.

His hands tightened their grip on your waist, holding you still as the momentary sting ebbed away.

“There you go… calm down.”

You felt him slide out, then push back in, the latter movement sending sparks of sensation running up your spine, causing you to go tense all over again.

Your breathing became ragged, legs twitching and spasming at the sensation. You tried, without thinking, to snap them shut, but it only resulted in effectively squeezing his waist with you thighs.

The intensity of the sensation naturally induced a reflex of strain and exertion to your muscles, a need to channel the feeling through your body, causing your toes to curl, your thighs clamping down harder, quivering at the bare touch of flesh to flesh. You closed your eyes, but couldn't drown out the sound of skin making contact to yours, the sound itself increasingly accompanied by a wet squelching as skin met fluid with each passing second, leaking out of your body.

“You're so much more honest like this.” You could hear just the slightest strain in his voice, otherwise so very composed to perfection. “So meek… it's lovely. Once that resistance in you is fixed… you'll be perfect.”

You could see the corners of his mouth upturn into a look of amusement.

“You should see yourself.”

Your body stiffened, but all you could do was whimper. The words felt like a cold knife to the stomach — and you knew he knew that. Knew that that moment was you at your must vulnerable, the peak of awareness of your own helplessness, the moment you felt the most degraded, and yet, it still wasn't enough.

He leaned in close, speaking directly into your ear, so close you could feel the warmth as he spoke, never ceasing to move all the while.

“Whimpering and drooling like that,” he murmured. “You're trembling… and that expression on your face is so adorable. Like you can't even think straight.” He leaned back up, enough to look you in the eye — now welling with tears.

And again, he only smiled.

“How precious.”

His hands ran down your body, grabbed at your hips, and began to pull you, jerking your body back and forth to meet his own movements.

It was too much. Even with the knot of emotion in your stomach, you felt a hot, tingling pressure build in your body. Your legs quivered, the wanton little sounds from your throat higher and higher.

You didn't want that. It was the final part of this ritual that so demeaned you, one more confirmation of his control of you. You pressed your hands into the mat, trying to push yourself back — but it was only met with a harsh pull, forcing your body back until you practically slammed against his hips.

“Don't fight.”

It was the last thing you heard. You threw your head back as the sensation became overwhelming, back arching and eyes rolling back as the feeling reached a peak. You could only faintly register the high-pitched sound that sounded as if it couldn't be you, a voice you didn't recognize.

And then it began to ebb away. A hazy stupor filled the void as the pleasure dissipated, a feeling of exhaustion. Your weight went limp.

You made a soft sound as he grasped your jaw again, turning your head just enough to place another kiss to your lips.

“There you go. Look at you now… all that stress and in you, totally gone. You can see it in your eyes, even.”

He paused before adding,

“Well, gone for now. I'll have to start monitoring for it more closely.”

You shuddered at the sensation as he slid out of you, fluid spilling out onto the sheets.

You felt him reach behind you, untying your wrists — you brought your arms to the front of your body, but the forearms only laid useless, having fallen asleep from your weight.

He came to rest beside you, upper body slightly propped up on his elbow, head resting in his hand, looking down at you with adoration and endearment.

And you were so, so weak. So much weaker than you wished you were, body, mind and spirit alike. So weak that, in the rush of emotions that followed, you found yourself slowly crawling forward, burying your face against his chest with a pathetic little noise.

“Poor thing. Maybe that was a bit too much for you…”

His arm reached behind your back and pulled you close, and the comfort you felt seemed to melt your mind into nothingness.

“You should rest for a while,” he continued, “then we'll get you cleaned off. We have a few hours before you'll need to be ready.”

After a moment to process the words, you tilted your head up with the softest of inquisitive noises. The cold, creeping dread began to spread through your stomach once more.

He seemed to realize, then, that you didn’t understand.

“Ah, right, you wouldn't have known.” He reached out with the hand he wasn’t leaning on, brushing his fingers over your scalp. “While you were gone, I sent someone to arrange a house visit with a psychiatrist… a private one that works for families such as ours.”

His words certainly didn’t help soothe your nerves. Your mouth felt dry. Your voice came out weak, hesitant, part of you not wanting to ask, lest you learn an unpleasant answer.

“…Why?”

He tilted his head in just the slightest, loose strands of hair shifting and waving with the motion. “Well, keeping your needs in check does help with your condition, but I’ve realized it would do you good to have a secondary means to treat your hysteric tendencies as well.”

“My…” You swallowed. “My what?” The words slowly pieced together in your mind, hitting you with a sense of dread and confusion. You squirmed backwards, shifting just a bit away from him. “There's… nothing wrong with me…”

“Of course, of course, there’s nothing wrong, that’s…” He spoke in a reassuring sort of tone, as if to comfort you. “…A harsh choice of phrasing. You just need some help, is all.” After a moment of pause, he added, “don't worry, it's perfectly normal that you aren't self-aware of it. That's usually how these illnesses work.”

His arm reached out further, pulling you back towards him, pressing your bodies together before he continued.

“He’s just required to see you in-person for a little while before giving you anything. Regulations and all. We’re just going to get you something to make you a little more… docile.”

His arm wrapped around your body, and he pulled his head back just a bit to look you in the eye, smiling with endearment.

“Ah, I can tell by your face that you’re nervous. Don’t worry, I'll be there throughout the whole thing… I'll answer any questions, you just sit there quietly, alright?” He pulled you a bit closer, planting an affectionate, short kiss to the top of your head. “I know that sort of thing is a lot on your nerves.”

If your trembling could be felt, he didn’t say anything about it, only carrying on with his gently-spoken words.

“We won’t have to worry about you having these… irrational escapades anymore. And you’ll be so much happier, too.”

You felt his hand on your back, firmly in place — you were pressed so close together that there was no need to pull you any closer, but perhaps he wanted to be sure you couldn’t pull away.

“So… rest for now, alright?”

Mind and heart alike racing, in your stupor, you let the pause linger for too long. The hand on your back began to close in on itself, fingernails brushing against your skin just enough to send the faintest of pains up your spine.

You had no strength left in you to give anything other than the correct answer.

“Okay...”

He only gave you a hum of acknowledgement, and began to stroke your back up and down, a pattern that should have been comforting and soothing, yet was anything but. Exhaustion wore on your body, but even as you forced yourself to close your eyes, true rest was nowhere to be found.

[fdelopera]

On 22 September, 1909, the Parisian daily newspaper, Le Gaulois, ran the advertisement pictured above, announcing the serialization of Gaston Leroux's new novel, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra.

Leroux's novel premiered on 23 September, 1909 — 115 years ago today. It ran for 15 weeks, and it was segmented into 68 sections, each section covering roughly half a chapter's worth of content.

To celebrate 115 years of Le Fantôme de l'Opéra in print, over the next 15 weeks I will be posting all 68 sections of the Gaulois publication of Phantom to my blog. These posts will correspond with the original dates of publication.

Here is a link to Le Gaulois for 22 September, 1909. The advert for Phantom is in the middle of the page.

And in case you are wondering what the text of the advertisement above says, here is my translation:

Weary of purely psychological novels, the public awoke one day with a great desire to hear stories. Straightaway, these stories were served up — tales of bandits and policemen — assuredly quite amusing, but which soon grew tedious in their turn, yet without appeasing the public's thirst for mystery and magic. This is why the Gaulois has requested from one of the public's most rightly beloved authors, M. Gaston Leroux, a novel which, while departing from the genre dear to the Conan Doyles of the Old and New World, is still replete with the delectable inquietude that will give a thrill to the beguiled reader. More than once, this irresistible anguish will conjure in the minds of some of our female readers the dreadful, terrifying, ghostly, and sorrowfully human image, despite all of the illusion that surrounds it, of The Phantom of the Opera. We need not introduce our readers to M. Gaston Leroux, whom it is generally agreed is in possession of the most astonishing suppleness of imagination of which one can conceive, but we would indeed like to say that The Phantom of the Opera is worthy of achieving even greater success in the Gaulois than that which was attained in the Illustration by The Mystery of the Yellow Room and The Perfume of the Lady in Black, by the same author. Tomorrow, this Thursday, in the "Gaulois," read: The Phantom of the Opera by M. Gaston Leroux

[prettymeredith]

Fantasy of the Day: Life as a Tickle Therapist

. "You first must understand...

...this isn't anything personal...

...this is my job. I have to do this."

I begin every session with the exact phrasing. Sometimes the words help, but at most times the already broken look in their eyes don't even waver.

You see, I don't know anything about my patients when they arrive, I strickly give them treatment. I can't even be sure that they understand English.

"I'm going to turn this on now, okay?"

Documenting each case is an essential step with my work. Viewing the replay, I can see things I may have missed while executing treatment.

The mirror to my right however, is tjere for pure psychological reasons. On playback I watch their eyes and read the reaction they have to seeing themselves tickled.

"These leather cuffs are going to buckle around your ankles...

...with a little rope, it'll make sure your feet stay nice and secured, right here...

...what I'm doing right now is called a toe-tie. It'll really help keep you from accidentally blocking out my hands...

...and lastly, a gag. The only words who are important right now, are Mine."

All of my equipment comes standard issue, and its textbook technique to explain what I'm using and what it's for. Even if they've had treatment already.

It really sparks something in them to drag out and explain this process. I can use the dreaded anticipation to work to my advantage. Just a little oil and we're off.~

"Take a breath... This is gonna tickle."

There's not a better feeling to me personally than feeling freshly sharpened nails glide along a pair of slick, sensitive soles. Every twitch, giggle, and reaction can have an important story to tell.

They say do what you love for a living and you won't ever work a day in your life. Plus it's great being your own boss; you make your own hours, and have all of the decision making.

"I've been seeing strong signals from you today that you're ready to advance into the next stage of tickling."

"I'm just going to hit pause on the camera here...

...reset the timer...

...and grab a vibrator! Be right back.~"

[silverzoomies]

Antithesis

james patrick march x reader smut

warnings: smut, slow burn-ish, oral sex, one-sided pining, devotion, body worship, hand jobs, slight choking, pet names, oneshot

word count: 7640

a/n: my apologies if james seems at all ooc here. i try my goddamn hardest to keep characters as close to their source material as possible. but, when it comes to self indulgent smut, sometimes you gotta pull a few strings!!! oh, and i'd also like to apologize for the long length of this fic. and for how abruptly it ends hdsghkjdshkgsg it's a mess, sorry !!

bonus note ig: in 1920's slang, a "goof" is an idiot. james basically thinks of you as naive and dumb here. sorry!

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March doesn’t dislike you. “Dislike” is much too strong a word.

No, he tolerates you. Dare he think it, he might even be somewhat…fond of you. The two of you were born nearly a hundred years apart. And so, as expected, you were the absolute antithesis of one another. March built himself from the ground up. He started with little to nothing. Carrying with him a background he so dreaded to recall. Childhood memories best left buried deep. Never to see the shining light of day again. March walked with a prestigious elegance. Something all but lost to the world in modern times, he thought. He was high-class. New money incarnate. Fancy, social affairs and aesthetic, art-deco decor were his most treasured hobbies. Amongst his other, more…contentious interests. And you. What were you?

Some little goof. You poor thing. Your story was quite the tragedy, really. Born almost one hundred years later to middle class stock. An entirely different world from the one in which March knew. Your arrival to the hotel Cortez was…unfortunate. You were the embodiment of innocence. Overly polite to a fault. Kind to the staff and the hotel’s mysterious residents. Never going out of your way to disturb a single soul. And you always made sure to apologize for the times you did.

And like all lives brought to the Cortez, yours ended there. A shame. A pity. Truly. What a waste. After you died, you drifted aimlessly for a while. Exploring every inch of the hotel you could. Bearing witness to the unspeakable horror that burned like scorching fire from inside. The hotel Cortez was nothing short of the infernal regions made earthly.

Even so, you weren’t the least bit fazed by this fact. Death changed you. It changed your moral perspective.

But you were missing something. A purpose. Every soul, lost adrift, needed purpose.

Liz knew all. 

She knew everything about everyone. Including you. You’d sit at the bar, talking to her for hours on end. About your life. Liz’s life. The lives of the Cortez’s other, ghostly residents. She’d tell you of the hotel and its history. And you learned all there was to know. But in sharing your deepest thoughts, desires, and fears, you’d been a little too open. And Liz learned enough that, had a curious party asked about you? She could easily act as an informant.

You were a poor sap. Harboring a deep rooted, psychological need to please.

In death, you told Liz, you wanted nothing more than, simply…a person. Someone to dedicate yourself to entirely. Someone to love, to adore, to spend all of eternity caring for. Such an innocent desire, from such an unsullied soul.

You heard of him only in passing. James Patrick March.

You knew of his murderous atrocities. And you’d heard whispers of his bloodied history in hushed tones. Liz told you of everything March built, and what he’d become in the process. 

March assumed you thought nothing of it. Nothing of him. Because at the Cortez, he was often that. Nothing more than a rumor. Only making himself present whenever necessary. Any other day? He remained a chilling, ghost story. And that’s all he’d been to you.

Until the two of you crossed paths, that is.

March was polite and courteous, as he always is. And the soulless, empty void of his dark eyes met yours. Pure, beautiful, and innocent. The two of you couldn’t have been more different from one another. You, his polar opposite. If he were the infernal reaches of hell itself, you were the luminous kingdom of heaven.

Whatever you felt for him, it must have been instantaneous.

Because suddenly, your sorrow dissipated. A lifetime of suffering and anguish faded away into thin air. And finally, you were free. Joyous. You, the little goof. Your demeanor somehow became all the more polite and inviting. Ironic, really. Considering…the source of your happiness was the very personification of evil itself.

You’d skip around the hotel with a spring in your step. Greeting everyone who passed you in the halls with a chipper, sunny disposition. Parading around in those loose-fitting clothes. Your skin decorated in ink reminiscent of your rather quirky interests. Appalling, if you were to ask him. 

You were vexatious. And yet…

March found he appreciated your company.

You really were too sweet. Sickeningly so. Like cavity-inducing candy. Truly good at heart. There wasn’t a hateful, nefarious bone in your body. But you were deeply loyal to a fault. It was a weakness that kept you chained. It held you down. Never allowing you to reach your true potential. March could see it. He saw right through you, straight into your delicate soul. He saw your aura. Unsullied purity.

March learned all he could about you from Liz.

And once he had, he felt the need to test your unbroken clarity.

He showed you everything. Every secret. Every piece of gory history which revealed his past, his life’s purpose, his true intentions. The never-ending, torturous suffering he brought upon the innocent lives of the world. He confessed to you his killings. Even going into the dark, gritty details. March stared you down with an empty, far off look in his shady eyes. An uncanny gaze. And he expressed to you all his crazed, degenerate passions.

He expected you to react accordingly. Like any soul so pure and unblemished as yours should.

But death…

Death truly did change you. The hotel Cortez? It corrupted your moral code.

Perhaps he was mistaken. Maybe you weren’t as innocent as you often seemed.

You treated his passions like any other hobby. And you engaged in conversation about them casually. Beaming the brightest, most curious, smile. Your eyes glimmered with genuine interest and fascination. And March found he was more than happy to share that part of himself with you. Delighted to discuss his exploits with a newfound friend. A trusted friend.

He did long for someone to talk to…

And it was then, he realized. He knew. He was woefully fucked.

Because you. Naive, little goof that you were…

You’d found your purpose.

The one person whom you’d give your undying devotion, for forever and into eternity.

No one, not a single soul in the hotel had expected it. When you sat at the bar, sipping on your sweet sodas instead of anything alcoholic (ever the carefree babe, you were). You spoke of having ‘found’ your purpose. And there were smiles all around. “ Ooh’s ” and “ Aah’s ” exchanged through hushed gossip. Who could this person be, they asked themselves.

Imagine the residents’ surprise once they put two and two together.

Of all people. Him? Really? Were you mad as a hatter?

From then on, you followed March everywhere. Attached at his side like a leech. And though he considered you a dear friend, you weren’t much more to him than a loyal dog. You offered your help whenever you saw fit. And, somewhat reluctantly, he allowed it.

To his surprise, March found you respected his personal space. You’d disappear when he found your company too overwhelming. Sometimes, you were gone for days. Or even weeks. Off to explore the hotel again. Or to drift aimlessly as you did in the days before you’d found him. Uncertain as to what you should do in your lonesome. Sometimes, you’d listen to music. Clamorous racket of the modern era.

And eventually, always, you returned.

Sometimes, March found he missed your presence when you were gone.

And despite the admiration you carried for him, you valued March’s love for his dearest wife. The Countess. Often, you’d go so far as to listen to him drone on and on about her. And he could. If March were allowed the opportunity, he’d speak of her for centuries. He’d reminisce about his most cherished memories of her. His Elizabeth. Mrs. March. When March had his monthly dinners with his dearest, you felt it necessary to assist. You were insistent upon it, actually. Helping alongside Ms. Evers, you did what you could to make those nights as grand and romantic as possible. And when he banished Ms. Evers, you didn’t hesitate to take over entirely. Every one of those special nights, you were there to help him prepare.

Once the dinners themselves started, you’d run off. Leaving the pair undisturbed. And he wouldn’t see you again until the next morning. 

One night, March sat across from the countess at the table. She glared at him with a half-lidded, miserable expression. But March missed this glare. Because he’d been busy watching you leave. He smiled, raising his glass to you. And you waved him off, wishing him luck, before closing the door.

At that very moment, he made a decision.

The next night came, and there he sat. Present at the dinner table again. Only, you were his cherished guest of the evening. Dinner lay before you both. Though, in death, you never ate. March watched with a grin as you sipped some champagne. You fluttered delicate lashes his way. Devotion leaking like tears from your eyes. A delighted smile played across your lips. One always present in his company, he found.

“Darling! I assume you’re wondering why it is I’ve called you here tonight, hm?” He posed the question rather excitedly.

Your pretty, doe eyes widened at that. You poor thing. Your cheeks burned in a flurry of rose red. Even in the dim, candle-lit light of the room. Even at a distance, across the table, March could see your blush clear as day. He smirked into his glass. 

Never, in all the years since the two of you met, had he ever addressed you as darling.

The effect this seemed to have on you was very much apparent. He could see the shift in your expression. The way you’d fallen breathless under his cold-blooded gaze. March couldn’t help but find your obvious desire for him…amusing.

“Uhm…y-...yes. Well…sorta? I figured this was just another…casual, hang-out night for us!” Your quiet, timid voice spoke aloud.

March lowered his glass, and he hummed.

“Casual? I suppose one could consider this casual, if they’d prefer.” March said, “All the same, I’ve called you here because…I have a proposition for you!”

“Wh-uh…what kinda proposition, sir?” 

“Let’s not dance around the matter any longer, dear. Simply put, I’m well aware.” He said.

Confusion overtook your delicate features, and your brows knitted together. March sat still in his seat with a knowing smirk. You tilted your head, bringing your own glass down to the table.

“I’m…confused. You’re aware of what, exactly?” 

“Why, that you’re in love with me, of course.” March stated.

Your eyes widened further. March caught the awkward movement of one of your hands. It trembled where it lay on the table. And when you spoke again, you did so shyly. Your voice was as soft as the pink in your cheeks.

“A-Am I?” You dared to ask. As though he hadn't known all these years.

March’s knowing grin spread wider. A dark, domineering color washed over his eyes. And he fixed you with an intimidating look. One that could so easily kill, had you been anyone else. Even in death, you felt your stomach twist in fluttery knots at the sight. You dropped your bashful gaze to the table, too nervous to look him in the eye. You were being avoidant, March knew. And your denial only heightened his desire to bait you.

“I’m not stupid, old friend. For how long?” He asked.

“Since…” You swallowed nervously, shrinking in on yourself, “...the moment I saw you.”

March’s expression remained unchanged. His cold gaze unblinking.

“All this time?”

Taking a brave chance at looking him in the eye, you glanced upward. And you were met with that empty, black gaze. Pools of ink, much like an abyss, stared intensely at you. You didn’t need to say anything further. His suspicions were confirmed then. March’s brows pressed together in thought.

“I…see.” He said, and he brought his hand to his chin, “Well, in all those years? You’ve proven yourself undoubtedly loyal to me. You see, so often, when Ms. Evers was around. Though, I did care for her. She had these…maddening tendencies. She’d express her apparent distaste for my darling wife. And she was incredibly passive. Selfishly so.”

As March spoke, his tone shifted. Infected with a venomous sting, and unbridled hatred. His other hand, resting on the table, clenched into a fist. 

“As you’re aware…Ms. Evers…she deceived me. In the name of love, was her excuse. Such a…disappointing betrayal.” March lingered on the statement for a moment longer. 

He snapped himself out of his spiteful rage. Blinking, March perked up. And his handsome grin returned.

“But, you! You’re quite the opposite of her, aren’t you? Wouldn’t you say? Never once have you said an unkind word. You’ve always been so polite to my dearest Mrs. March. And so generous to me! I can't recall you ever acting selfishly. And for that, I must tell you, I am profoundly grateful. It's so dreadfully difficult to find someone you can trust these days.”

“O-Of course!” You nodded, speaking in a gentle tone, “I guess…I just don’t really care if you-uh…if you never feel the same way I do. Being by your side, sir…getting to see you every day…”

Dreamily, you sighed. Like a dame in a daze of infatuation. The sweetest smile graced your blushing face.

“To see that smile of yours. And those eyes…” You sighed once more, “To hear your heavenly voice…that’s enough for me.”

You allowed a little…indulgence to slip through your confessions. Admiration and adoration for March permeated within your every word. Looking at you, he could practically see with his own eyes the unconditional love scorching with a passionate fury in your eyes. He might’ve even felt for himself your amorous desire. It exuded like pheromones from your admittedly fetching body.

He almost found it…endearing.

March blinked, clearing his throat. He tugged at his collar.

“Yes…I trust your devotion knows no earthly bounds, my dear.” He said, bringing his hands together before him, “Which is why, I’d like to present to you…that proposition! I’m nothing, if not a man of mercy. And if anyone is more than deserving of my mercy, it’s you, old friend.” March pointed to you with a ring-clad finger. And curiously, you tilted your head. “If you recall…before my dearest passed? She and I often had those dinners together. One night a month! They were…so very special to me. Truly a gift. The only thing that kept me balanced in this endless, monotonous purgatory of my own design. …Such a treat it was…to share at least…one night with my beloved.”

“It must’ve been nice, sir. Especially after she passed? To have her around more often? I know that meant everything to you.”

“It did.” March smiled fondly. And yet, as quick as it came, his adoring smile fell.

A broken-hearted melancholy plagued his ghostly features.

“Though…our time together has…diminished these days. She avoids me anymore. Hasn’t spoken a word to me in…weeks. Do you know that, at last night’s dinner? She didn’t say a goddamn thing! And again, she’s run off in search of…the pleasures of other men…”

March stared off, his dead-eyed gaze dropping to the table.

“It’s a….barren feeling. The most desolate ache I’ve ever endured…” He confessed.

Sympathetic, little goof. You looked at him then with an expression of sympathy, and opened your mouth to speak. March interrupted you before you could even begin. The very, last thing he wanted was your pity. At the flip of a dime, March perked up once more. He clapped his hands together loudly, suddenly appearing chipper. Beaming a wide, uncannily sweet grin.

“But nevermind all that, darling! What I’m proposing…is of a similar nature. For you, if you’d like! If it’d satisfy your deepest, perverted desires? Then, for one night a month…I, James Patrick March, owner of the hotel Cortez and America’s most infamous executioner…am all yours!”

Your eyes flew open wide. Like a precious, vulnerable creature under the gaze of a vicious predator. And your darling face…it burned an even brighter shade of red. March’s smile crooked up into a smirk. Addicting it was…this influence he seemed to have over you. Precious thing.

“Wait…wh-...what??” You waved your hands, “Oh, no, no, no! I couldn’t ever ask that of you, sir! Please, really! Don’t even worry about it! I’m not-...I don’t have to have you in that way to survive our purgatory together!”

The silence that overtook the room was deafening. In the background, the ticking of an old clock rang on. Along with the distant, alluring melody of a gramophone. John McCormack. Roses of Picardy. March stood up after some time. And slowly, steadily, he made his way to you at the other end of the dining table. He approached you wordlessly, eyes like obsidian focused entirely on your own. Analyzing and observing. Once close enough, he reached a large hand out. His palm fell to your shoulder, squeezing you in a firm grip. Leaning in, March spoke in a low, gravelly tone.

“Are you suggesting that you’re…ungrateful? You do realize this is…a gracious gesture…coming from a man of my status…” He didn’t break eye contact with you for even a second. March’s grip on your shoulder tightened, “...don’t you, little one?"

Despite the menacing nature of his actions, you let your eyes so shamelessly trail up and down his fancily-dressed form. And March saw all of it. Every movement of your eyes. The motion of your throat as you swallowed. The not-so-subtle way you leaned into his touch. How your thighs pressed together as if to relieve some…personal tension.

He raised a brow. Curious.

Your eyes sparkled innocently up at him. And again, you fluttered those delicate lashes. 

“I’m not ungrateful, sir! I’m so honored. I mean, obviously, I’m honored! But…” You scoffed, as if in disbelief, “But, me? I mean…come on… you ? With me??” With a soft huff of a laugh, you looked down at your lap, “But…I’m not…Mrs. March. I’m…nothin’ like her.”

March hummed a sound which suggested his pity for you.

“You’re right. You’re not…” He muttered in monotone, “You lack everything my dearest Elizabeth has. Her grace. Her ethereal elegance. She…is a creature of divinity.” March paused for a beat, “But you’ve no confidence nor class, I’m afraid. You’re more…a being of the mundane.” 

Again, a sinister loathing invaded his gaze. 

“But…unlike Ms. Evers…wretched, old bat…” He growled.

A wild grin spread across March’s lips, his teeth sinking into them. He brought his other hand to your chin, gently tilting it upward. Upon your face, he caught a broken-hearted frown.

“You, darling…” He hummed, “You have been blessed with certain…more pleasant qualities…”

His hand on your shoulder grazed a thumb across it. March let his eyes drop to your figure, as if to suggest something. And in that instant, you felt your lifeless heart skip a beat. As though your soul were springing to life again. Born anew.

“I…have?” You furrowed your brows, “So…what you’re sayin’ is…this is you settling? For someone lesser?”

March hummed again, considering your words. He pulled both hands from you.

“I prefer to think of it this way. In return for your undeniable devotion and loyalty throughout the tenure of our friendship. I’m giving you the opportunity to be with me. Consider it a reward, if you will. However you wish, my dear. One night a month, you can have me. Romantically. Physically. Intimately.” 

“Uh…okay…wow! That’s-...that’s…very kind of you, sir.” You stared up at March with those doting eyes. Biting your lip, you hesitated to ask, “So…wh-...when would we-uhm…when would we start?” A pause, and you nervously stammered over your words, “I-if I were to-uh…accept your…generous proposition?”

Immediate eagerness. Exactly the response he’d suspected from someone as smitten as yourself. March leered down at you smugly, his eyes falling half-lidded

Desperate, little thing, weren’t you?

“Tonight, if you’d prefer! Or…any night of your choosing. Whatever you want, darling. I insist. This courtesy is entirely yours.” He suggested.

A moment of contemplative quiet passed as you thought it over. And March watched you like a hawk, patiently waiting. Though, he already knew exactly what you were going to say. Even before you’d made a decision. The rosy color blooming darker in your cheeks ultimately gave you away.

“T-Tonight then? If you’ll…have me.” You stammered, “I’m honored, sir.”

March wanted to laugh. To boast that he could read you all too well. But calmly, he nodded.

“Very well!” 

He walked off then. March pulled at the fabric of his bowtie, tugging until it came completely undone. Following that motion, he shrugged his jacket off. Folding it neatly and setting it aside, he moved to unbutton the first, few buttons of his dress shirt. March disappeared into another room, out of sight. But you heard his familiar, smoky voice call out.

“Come!”

Hesitating, you stood from your seat at the table. And with tiny, careful steps, you followed the sound of March’s voice. In a vintage loveseat, you found him waiting. He sat with his chin in his hand, a cigarette burning between two fingers. His legs were spread open wide. And he patted his lap.

“Best not to waste anymore time, dear.”

“Wh-...What are we doin’?” You asked, looking down at your hands as you fiddled with them. 

Poor dear. You were standing in the room so timidly. Looking innocent, and so very delicate. Like a frightened, fluffy, little deer. Easy game, for a hunter like March.

“Isn’t this what you want?” He took a drag of his cigarette, his tone low and vibrating. March spread his legs open further, “Don’t be bashful, now, little one. I’ll only bite if you ask it of me.” 

You seemed hesitant. Fearful of making any sudden moves. But, with a facade of confidence March knew all too well you didn’t possess, you approached him. And you lowered yourself into his lap slowly, struggling to maintain eye contact. Eye contact was one of March’s many, gifted talents. And being such a shy dame, you could barely keep up. Once snug on his lap, you took time to admire March. Carefully, you trailed your hands down his chest. And you let your trembling fingers brush the fabrics of his perfectly tailored clothes. Clothes once deep-cleaned of blood-stains by the very maid he considered an abomination. 

Your hands moved upwards, first tracing over the bloody slit in his neck. Before cupping his cheeks for only a moment. You brushed a small thumb over one of his dimples. March smiled at you, hardly invested in what you were doing. Allowing you to have your fun. You touched March with careful, delicate movements. Handling him as if he were your most precious, priceless treasure. You looked at him as though you couldn’t fathom the reality before you. As though being with him like this was a foggy, distant dream. One you’d never ask to wake from.

Daringly, you leaned in. And you let your cool breath ghost over his lips.

“A-Are you sure about this, sir?” You asked, timid as ever.

March appeared unbothered and uncaring. Yet, admittedly, he felt somewhat curious of your next move. How far could a shy, innocent thing like you take this…intimate interaction? March assumed you’d clock out after a bit of heavy petting. With an equanimous smirk, he nodded.

“Positively certain.” He muttered, “And please, while we’re together like this, darling? Do call me James. You can forgo the formalities.” 

You blinked, amazed. Looking into his eyes with all the love and adulation in the ever-expanding cosmos. Marveling in his presence. Your nose brushed his, and you leaned even further in.

And you kissed him.

It was a clumsy, graceless kiss at first. But as you continued, you found your confidence. A heated flow enveloped your every movement. And for the first, few kisses, March didn’t reciprocate. He kept a hand at the armrest of the loveseat. His other occupied with that cigarette. He didn’t care to touch you yet. But as your kisses drew him in deeper, as you mewled little noises into his lips…March found himself giving in. One of his large hands found your hips, squeezing there first. Before moving to wrap his arm around your back. He pulled you in close. And you ran your hands up through his hair. Freeing those irresistible curls of his.

Finally, at long last, he kissed you back. And in that instant, you drank in the motions of a man far more cultivated and refined than you could ever hope to be. In a thousand lifetimes, you could never live up to his status. And yet, he kissed you anyway. If you could taste, his lips would’ve tasted of champagne and nicotine.

“Wow-” You breathlessly gasped into his lips.

A flash of fire burned in his lidded eyes, and he peered up at you. March let out a soft, vibrating chuckle. 

“Eager are we, darling?”

“Uh…” Poor, little goof. Still so lost in your lovestruck daze, “I just-”

The urge to kiss March again proved far too much for you to resist. You leaned in again, capturing his skilled lips in another flurry of deep kisses. And when you pulled back, you shook your head. For a moment, you simply stared at March. Taking in his ghostly features. Admiring his handsome face, his black eyes, the curls of his hair.

“Thank you, si-uhm…James. Thank you. I…never imagined…you’d ever let me touch you. Let alone k-uhm…kiss you like this…”

He chuckled again, humming a deep noise in his chest. The sound sent a spark of something gratifying straight to your core.

“I told you, didn’t I? I am, after all, a man of mercy…”

You brought a hand up to his cheek, stroking it gently with soft fingers. March noticed that, whenever you touched him, you did so as if he were a timeless lover. 

“You most certainly are…” Leaning forward, you pressed your lips to his forehead, “...so gracious.”

March hadn’t expected you to wiggle backwards. And where did you think you were going? Were you giving up already? Giving into your paranoid worries? You let yourself sink off his lap and onto your knees. Scooting your way across the carpet and in between his legs, you gazed up at March with those lovely, doe eyes.

“You know…I’d do anything for you, don’t you James?” You trailed your hands up to his trousers, your fingers fiddling with the buttons, “...is this alright?”

To say he was caught off guard by your boldness, would be one hell of an understatement. His innocent, pure-of-heart, little goof? Submitting to him on their knees so easily like this? How had he never suspected this of you? March’s empty eyes widened, watching you from above with a dark, predatory gaze.

“If it’s what you so desire, then…do continue. I’m not going to stop you. This is your night, little one. Don’t you remember?”

You stared at him for a moment longer, uncertain of yourself. Before finally working the buttons of his trousers open. Bringing a small hand through the slit in the fabric, you felt around. And your fingers brushed across-

An adorable gasp escaped your lips.

You…hadn’t expected him to be hard. If the surprised, embarrassed look on your face was anything to go by. Because surely, the James Patrick March himself couldn’t possibly be aroused over someone as mundane as you. Could he?

Sucking in a slow breath, you continued. Your fingers snuck their way through the softness of his undergarments. A bit of movement, and you pulled his thick cock free. At the sight of the twitching length, those sparkling eyes of yours lit up brightly. Beaming, as if mesmerized. You were practically drooling over his cock. And you’d barely touched it at all.

March’s breath hitched from above. He watched you attentively, focused on the movement of your small hand. It stroked and squeezed around the thickness of him. Somewhat skillfully, he’d have to admit. Almost as though you knew exactly what you were doing. How is it that here, touching him intimately, you weren’t the least bit clumsy?

You bravely tilted your head upward, meeting his darkening gaze.

“You said…I could do whatever I wanted?” You asked. Your tone had fallen considerably lower. It sounded seductive, even, “May I sing your praises, James?” 

March had never heard you speak in that tone before. He hadn't realized you were even capable.

Wordlessly, he nodded. You gave a few more firm strokes of his cock, leaning in to kiss the tip gently. And as the soft wetness of your lips brushed it, you hummed. Reveling in every second you had March like this. Even in such a filthy, perverted position. With the head of his leaking cock at your lips. Your eyes glimmered, acting as windows. And your complete devotion for him shined through like the light of the sun. Holding eye contact (when did you get so good at that?), you generously peppered his cock in mouthy, wet kisses.

“Just let me worship you, James…” You sighed, dragging your free hand down one of his thighs. Your nails drew lines into the fabric, “Let me appreciate you. That’s…really the only thing I could ever ask for.”

He kept watching you, occasionally taking long drags from his cigarette. March found himself in awe of your boldness and honesty. Though, if there was one thing he knew about you for certain. You were always honest with him. Turning your attention to his aching cock, you pushed the head past your lips. You lapped up the bead of precum leaking from the tip, mewling in pure delight. Suckling for a few beats too short, you pulled away by an inch.

“You…are the most gorgeous thing I have ever seen. Did you know that, James? Have I ever told you? I could stare at you all day. Every day. Forever, if you let me. You’ve got the most stunning, beautiful, brown eyes…”

You paused in the midst of your praises to push the tip of his cock past your lips again. Letting your tongue dance around it, you stroked the remaining length with your hand. And just when he thought you might give him more, you pulled away.

“You can’t imagine how thrilling it is to have those ferocious eyes looking down on me right now. Oh, and I absolutely adore your smile. How full your lips are. Kissing them was like a gift of temptation, straight from the depths of hell. And I am in no way deserving of such a thing…”

March was steadily beginning to lose his composure. That calm, unbothered demeanor of his teetered on the edge. Threatening to fall with every cutesy noise you made, and every flick of your tongue. With each confession of your deepest admirations, he felt himself breaking. March knew you loved him. He knew you found purpose in serving him. And yet, somehow, he hadn’t been aware of the extent at which your worship of him ran. He took another drag of his cigarette. March’s free hand found your hair, and his oversized palm settled there. He didn’t yet tug, but merely braced himself.

“No modern man dresses nearly as elegantly as you do. Those men at those high-class fashion shows? The ones they have here? They can’t even begin to compare. It’s almost intimidating…how refined and elegant you truly are.”

You halted your confessions, only to take the entire length of his twitching cock into your mouth. Moaning around it, you sucked hard. Letting your tongue drag along the underside, across pulsing veins. You pulled off all over again. And March’s grip in your hair tightened only slightly. You continued to stroke his cock, spreading the wetness your tongue left behind.

“You’re so intimidating. So good at striking fear into those around you. But, god…it only makes me more attracted to you. You’re intoxicating. I can’t get enough of you…”

Breaking eye contact, you focused on his cock. You stopped to admire the heavy weight of him on your tongue. And you had the nerve to giggle with the innocence of a dame in church. March remained speechless. He stared you down as you took his full length into your mouth again. Your praises fell short for a bit. Instead, you were fixated on pleasuring him with more enthusiasm. Your movements slowly grew rapid. But as you edged him further, you popped off. You nuzzled his soaked, aching cock with your cheek. And once more, you giggled. It was infuriating.

“I wish you could hear your voice. Fuck…your voice. Your accent. It’s to die for!” The smile you gave him radiated purity, and you bit your swollen lip between your teeth, “You’re to die for. Y’know? I’d die for you. Over and over again.”

Dragging your tongue up and down his cock, you peppered it in more, loving kisses. And you fluttered those pretty lashes.

“As many times as you wanted me to. If I could die by your hands, James, I would. If it’d make you happy? If cutting my throat and watching the life drain from my eyes would satisfy you…”

March’s grip in your hair tightened even further, clenching around your soft locks. 

Who knew his little goof could be such a shameless sycophant? Groveling over his deviant passions.

He was growing immensly impatient. You’d carried on this little charade of praises for far too long. When you lowered your mouth over his cock, March guided you. With the rough hold he had on your head, he forced you down. The action caught you by surprise. As the tip of his cock pressed into the back of your throat, you gagged, squeezing around the head. And a pleased grunt erupted off March’s tongue, cigarette smoke rising from his lips. Reaching over the arm of the loveseat, he put the cigarette out in an ashtray. And while doing so, March kept his half-lidded eyes, dark as burning coals, on you. His throbbing length filled your throat, and you took all of it. Every inch. You squeezed his thigh hard with a hand, letting your fingernails dig into the fabric of his trousers. As you clawed at his thigh for purchase, a wicked grin spread across his face. Salty tears stung your pretty eyes. They poured down your flushed cheeks completely out of your control. An embarrassing display. March’s breathing picked up in pace. He jerked you backwards, pulling you off his cock by your hair. Generously, he allowed you a moment to catch your breath. Not that you needed it, really. Being dead and all. Smirking down at you, he sank his teeth into his lip. And upon his pale cheeks, you caught the slightest hint of a pink hue.

You’d never once seen March blush on account of something you did.

“Y-You were…you were saying, darling?” March, usually so well spoken, stumbled over his words.

With a smile, you returned to your previous motions. Dragging your tongue lazily up and down his cock, you stroked him with a hand.

“U-Uhm…” That timid nature of yours returned. Perhaps on account of his manhandling? But you fought to shake it off, “Y’know somethin’ else I love about you, James? That look in your eye. I can’t even describe it. When you’re feelin’ bloodthirsty? When you’re thinkin’ about unleashin’ hell? You look divine like that.”

His gaze turned colder then. March’s fingers dug fingernails further into your skull. And the gesture was near painful. He didn’t seem to care, even when you hissed in response to the sting. Your puffy lips and mouth were drenched in drool. And your hair! His rough handling left it frazzled and wild. You looked an absolute mess of yourself. And in any other circumstance, March would’ve found it repulsive. At this moment, however…

“That…storm in your eyes. The passion that rages on once you’ve taken the life of another. There’s somethin’ so…irresistible about it. Makes me wish I could’ve dropped on my knees and worshiped you like this sooner.” You covered his cock in those mouthy, sloppy kisses, “I just want to submit myself to you, James. Let you have all of me.”

“Really now? Is that how you feel, little one? Truly? ” He spoke suddenly, catching you by surprise.

His fingers curled harshly into your hair, and he pulled you back in a rough, swift motion.

“Enough of this.” March said, “I realize, I said before, this was your night. And you should be the one calling the shots, with me at your leniency. However, since you seem to want my attention so desperately, darling. You’re going to listen to me now.”

You stared up at him with a wide-eyed, sinless gaze. And you didn't dare to say a single word. Good then.

“On the floor. And strip yourself bare for me, would you?” He commanded.

You let yourself fall backwards. And with the motion, March’s grip in your hair loosened. He let go, keeping his eyes on you, as you scooted back along the carpeted floor. The rough surface burned the skin of your elbows. But in death, it didn’t matter. Come tomorrow, you'd be left with not a single mark. Zero evidence of the night's events. Hastily, you shed your clothes. Your fingers trembled with every movement. March followed, standing slowly from his seat. He watched as you laid yourself naked and bare before him. And he pulled down his suspenders. His pants followed, leaving him in those soft undergarments. March hadn’t yet removed his dress shirt, and he didn’t bother to now.

He dropped to his knees on the floor, crawling over you with an animalistic gaze in his eyes. Immediately upon reaching you, he kissed you deeply. Drinking down every surprised noise you made in response. Your noises. Those mewls and squeals. He wanted to hear more. He had to hear more.

March wasn’t the fondest of missionary. But that devotion, that love, that worship bleeding profusely from your eyes. He didn’t want to miss a single moment of it. March found he needed to look at you. To watch you. His hands trailed down your body, touching you with precise grace. Each touch started with a delicate brush of his fingertips, steadily growing rougher. And there you were, pleasured by the hands of a murderer with almost a hundred years of practice behind him.

As he looked you over with those dark eyes, he could see you slipping so easily into madness. Submitting to him, an eternal ghost of pure malevolence.

And you were pushed even further over the brink once March buried two, long fingers in your cunt. All without a single warning. No preparation. He shoved his digits deep, watching you with a devious smirk. You breathlessly moaned, and your slick walls squeezed around his fingers. March knew every angle at which to twist and press his digits. Only to spur more of those lovely noises out of you.

His long, dexterous fingers pulled themselves from your cunt, and you longed for more. You ached for him, whining pitiful, little protests. And your desperate desire was soon satiated.

In one, rough motion, March forced his cock through your folds. He buried himself deep in a single thrust, growling a rough noise in response to your screams. Instinctively, you wrapped your legs around him. And you pulled March closer, inching him impossibly deeper.

He hadn’t been this…intimate with another person in…what felt like a millenia. Having his cock buried to the hilt in the tight plush of your cunt…it was enough to make him lose it. March had to take a moment to gather himself. Before he began harshly drilling you into the floor. And the rug underneath you burned painfully against your skin. Though, in this position, you couldn’t help but find the sensation extremely gratifying.

Your screams were all the encouragement he needed. And you begged him to fuck you harder. To vent all his pent up anger and fury using your fragile body as his aid. March gazed down at you, his eyes carrying a near sinister edge. The pace at which he fucked you grew vigorous and unrelenting. A jolt of pleasure shot through your core suddenly, as March pressed his deft fingers to your clit. Rubbing slick, generous circles against the sensitive bud, he soaked in the sight of you falling apart underneath him. Your precious moans were like music to his ears.  March cooed quiet praises in a rugged voice, encouraging you to give in. To succumb to the sweet allure of release. He knew you needed it desperately. All the pent up desire you'd carried for him for so long must have felt torturous. A man of mercy, he was. He couldn't allow you to suffer like that any longer. Not after all you'd done for him. After having been so loyal.

He felt your release, as it hit you like a rushing wave. Your walls constricted around his cock in a tight pull, and your entire body trembled. Those delightful screams of yours were more than likely heard across every floor of the hotel. But March's mind was much too hazy with pleasure to care. He wanted the world to hear you. For you to let them all know just who it was you'd submitted yourself to entirely. And as you came down from your high, sobbing soft cries. You met his eyes. Tears rained down your cheeks, and you shivered under his cold gaze. How vulnerable you looked... 

One of March’s large, veiny hands found your neck. He squeezed with so much strength that, had you been alive; he easily would’ve cut off your circulation. However, in death, the ache that came with asphyxiation felt like euphoria. Under the pressure of his fingers and hands, you were ascending to the stars. Or, rather…considering you were getting mercilessly fucked by a devilish being such as March? Perhaps a more accurate comparison would be: March was dragging you violently down to an all too pleasurable circle of hell itself.

His cock hit your cervix with a few more, harsh thrusts of his hips. And you were left to suffer the ache of overstimulation. As he squeezed your neck hard enough to leave bruises, and tight enough to kill any living person. March reached his peak. A thick warmth burst from his cock, overflowing you from deep inside. His release filled you up until it leaked from your folds. Purity and innocence sullied. You were his little goof now.

You probably expected March to pull out, now that you received exactly what you wanted. Surely, March would move away from you. Only to clean up, redress himself, and go about his business. Keeping his distance until the next month came. And…he thought he’d have done the same. March didn’t care for you on a deep level of any kind. A loyal dog. That’s all you were. A follower. Indeed. A naive, not-so-innocent, little goof. Who also, just so happened to be completely and utterly in love with him. 

And March was not at all enchanted by your obsessive devotion. Why would he be? There was only one woman for him. His dearest wife. His Elizabeth. Mrs. March. If anything, you were simply a means of distraction. Easy company in light of his most lonesome days. His old friend. You weren’t graceful. You weren’t classy. You were, at your core, his polar opposite. Of course. Yes. In the euphoric haze of post-orgasmic bliss, he'd almost forgotten. 

But even so…

March found he couldn’t pull himself from you. For a few moments longer, he kept his softening cock buried inside your slick walls. There he rested, on his knees, staring down at you from above. His gaze was much less blackened. Instead, replaced with a warm brown. Leaning forward, March buried his flushed face in your shoulder. He nibbled the gentle skin of your collarbone, breathing out his exhaustion.

He chuckled a hushed, but maniacal noise. The vibrations of which tickled your bruised skin. Not to worry, those bruises wouldn’t be there tomorrow. Some possessive part of him wished they would be, though. March raised his head up, looking down into your eyes with a soft, more than satisfied smirk. The curls of his hair fell even more loose upon his head. And once more, he leaned in, only to brush his nose against yours.

“You know…” He mumbled in a croaky whisper. You felt him slowly, gently thrust his hips forward, “...the night is still young, little one. And there’s so much more the two of us could do together…should you be interested...” 

His lips met yours in a kiss far too intimate for a casual session of coitus. And you kissed him nervously back, as though you weren’t allowed to indulge yourself. That familiar sense of naivety and purity claimed you all over again. And for whatever reason, it made March want to kiss you more. To envelop you entirely, all his own. His old friend. His little goof. Poor, not-so-innocent sap.

Maybe he was...a little fond of you.

Only a little.

[actually-safer-to-kiss]

Joyless

Summary: Spencer wants to apologize to Reader about the way things ended, but he needs a new excuse when someone else opens the door.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Angst

Content warnings: Post-breakup, sad ending

Word count: 929

Spencer cannot believe he’s doing this. It’s all he’s repeated in his head since leaving work and driving straight to your place and parking his car. When he climbs up the stairs to reach your door, he’s reminded of how in shape he used to be. Or how the adrenaline of seeing you whenever he got the chance made him charge up every step like he was an anomaly to physics principles. Because now, he can’t help but think each step is a sign to turn back. Even the quarters clinking around in his pocket sound as loud as sirens.

He doesn’t though, continuing until he sees the floral wreath on your door, encircling the peephole. He recalls how he’d stick one eye close to it minutes after texting you he was on his way. He’d hear your squeals from the other side as you looked through; always the paranoid one. The door would fling open and Spencer could only describe the look on your face as “indisputable joy.”

This time, however, Spencer is not met with indisputable joy. No door flinging, no high-pitched squeals. He’s not even met with you.

Instead, Spencer is met by a man he has to look up to see. Rich brown eyes with hair and a beard to match it. His hair reached just past his shoulders (Spencer had cut his last week) and the ends dripped with water. Spencer also noted their matching milky skin and similar slender build, but that was mostly thanks to the towel barely clinging around his waist. “Sorry, mate,” he said. “You caught us at a bad time, I guess.” His laugh was low, and even though it was purely psychological, Spencer is convinced his insides are twisting.

Spencer tries to swallow, to gather thoughts back into his head, or bring function back to his body. “Is, uh, is," he says. His swallow is drier. “Is Y/N home?”

“Oh yeah, she is. Hold on.” His head disappears behind the door as he calls for you, his long slender fingers (similar to his own) holding it open as he hears bare feet slapping the wood floor. Spencer’s very familiar with your apartment, and he knows this guy’s head is in the general direction of your bathroom. And he dreads what he is about to witness.

“Spencer.” You say, ducking below the giant’s arm. You’re wearing a robe, not like his (that you’d often steal) but plush and baby pink. You even had a matching towel you were using to strain the water from your hair. It’s what truly shattered Spencer’s heart. 

And it’s what makes Spencer conjure up an excuse for showing up unannounced. “Hi,” is all he can muster to say right now.

Even though the awkwardness was agonizing, Spencer was grateful that you warded off the man tree behind you. When you looked back at Spencer, it was his heart that chose his words before his brain could.

“I see you have a type.”

You sighed. “Seriously?”

“I’m sorry,” (that he had to apologize).

“What do you want, Spencer?”

The idea of simply saying sorry seems futile. Humorously futile, in fact. Having a stare down (or stare up) with the man who was just showering with his ex-girlfriend he’s officially let slip away has made him question everything from his own height to the point of being here. “I thought you didn’t like pink.” If only he could actually kick himself right now.

“Why do you care?”

“It’s different from mine. That’s all.”

“Is that what you’re here for?” You leaned against the knob, the damp towel still in your other hand. “I’ll go ahead and get it. I just haven’t had a chance to wash it since last time. You know.”

“That’s fine.” He convinced himself.

When it was your turn to disappear behind the door, you weren’t absent for long. You returned with his robe. Unlike his memories, it was dingy from years of use. “Here,” is all you said as you handed it off, discarding all memories and placing them in his arms. Spencer could’ve been easily fooled if you told him you had washed it, given its neat display on the hanger as you handed it off to him. He folded it over his arm before holding it to his chest. “You can bring the hanger back if you want. I don’t mind either way.”

Spencer pursed his lips. “Will he be here?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Alright.”

A pause, perhaps anticipating an answer to whether or not you’ll see this coat hanger again, and not at all an opportunity for Spencer to pour his heart out and admit his mistakes with zero dignity left at the end. That’s where Spencer bites his tongue.

“Goodbye, Spencer.” 

The door shuts with a harsh slam, and he knows he deserves it. The cruelty of being left behind thanks to his own decision is a circle of hell he wishes he didn’t have to discover on his own. While walking back down the hallway, with every step, the smell of you diffuses from the fabric and retreats into his nose in fullness. The residue of your conditioner and the sweetness of your body wash are already doing their part in haunting his memory for as long as he has one. Each step makes the quarters jingle again in his pocket, somehow over the raging heartbeat in his ears. He remembers the laundromat you go to across the street, but only briefly. He takes another (nearly regrettable) inhale of the fabric. Perhaps when he returns the hanger.

[haley-harrison]

Eric Kripke is the Alfred Hitchcock of our generation. In this essay I will outline the main types of horror they use, offer examples, and elaborate the genius of the said tropes.

It will come as no surprise to anyone familiar with the man's work, that Kripke loves his ✨gore✨. Now that he's no longer restrained by CW's PG rating, he gets to go full-throttle with it in The Boys. That isn't to say that Supernatural didn't get it's fair share though - I mean, just remember the "Skin" episode in season one - that scene where the skinwalker changes his skin is pure body horror. Masterful.

Okay, Haley, so what? Some of us aren't squeamish. What's the brilliant part?

Good point, my med/bio orientated reader. That gets me to the second type of horror (and my personal kryptonite): psychological horror.

Here we get to lovecraftian themes. And I don't exactly mean Cthulhu. See, lovecraftian monsters are incomprehensible to the human mind, which generates horror through the unease of being unable to understand. Similarly, certain characters that the majority of the audience cannot identify with, can be used to the same end. Lemme illustrate this with two examples: Homelander and The Deep.

I reckon it's safe to assume most people aren't sadistic psychopaths, nor zoophiles with a penchant for sea creatures. Therefore the extreme Otherness of these two makes people uneasy, disturbing on a fundamental level. Hitchcock refined that particular horror trope by sprinkling his movies with taboo-topics of his own time, such as implied homosexuality. (*gasp* 🏳️‍🌈😆)

And here we get to the now well-known horror rule: the unseen monster is the scariest monster. More broadly, what is only implied can be more impactful than having the exact scenario shown on screen. The unsaid leaves more to the imagination (which is the most powerful tool for horror), and creates and additional dread with the element of unknown. People are unsettled by what else there might be, when elipses replace a clear answer.

Now back to Kripke, and how CW's censorship actually worked in his favor in Supernatural.

Maybe you saw this coming, but the monsters aren't the lovecraftian element. (Really, with the exception of tulpas and wendigos, none of them were even remotely scary). As I said above, Homelander and The Deep are lovecraftian because they're freaks. Unsympathetic freaks, but imagine if we took that first part away...

I shan't say it.

Just. Something something, american gothic, shit's implied and that's the point.

Haley, is this an elaborate ploy to talk about shipping? Really?

No. This is about environmental storytelling, gritty noir filter, camera angles, and just how much is left unsaid. This is about trauma, and repression, and the emotional reaction of the audience when they're left to ruminate a bit on the kind of lives the Winchesters had. It's about the missing scenes, the psychology, the implications - just -

*deep breath*

Another brilliant thing is how Kripke plays around with bathos - causing contrasting feelings in quick succession to give the audience emotional whiplash. The quips sprinkled in between the violence. The unexpected gag right before a gut-punch. It accentuates the experience for the audience. Like the way Dean's relationship with food is often played for laughs, but when you mull it over it's not hard to figure out the underlying food scarcity while growing up.

And furthermore, where did the money come from when times were tough? A myriad of angst-fics went ahead to answer that, which just proves an implication is far superior to exposition.

Then there's Hell. We don't get more than a few seconds of flashes, but think about it. Wouldn't Hell use every torture method imaginable? And what's the most psychologically damaging thing you can do to a person, especially a man?

I think you know the answer.

And that realization is the dawning psychological horror.

Finally, I'll leave you with this:

Just... Kripke!!!

I'm biting stuff!

[circle-with-me]

‘tis the damn season - part 5

Pairing: Will Ramos x OFC (Gen/Viv/Vivvy)

Content Warning/Tags: 18+ MDNI!!! nightmares, psychological abuse, verbal abuse, implications of physical abuse, menacing/threatening behavior, toxic relationship with parent (father), mentions of death, mentions of car wrecks, mentions of alcoholism, panic attacks, unprotected vaginal sex, creampie.

First part of this may be rough for some but after that is pure FLUFF I swear! Tooth rotting. They’re adorable, I love them so much.

Word Count: 3k

tag list: @concretenoah @deathblacksmoke @sitkowski @bngurngheart @malice-ov-mercy @witchyweeb34 @lyschko666 @cookiesupplier @lilrubles @meekahy @lacktoesandtoddlerants @sammyjoeee @collective-heartbreak @agravemisstake @catharsis-in-darkness @0fth34byss

Authors note: PLEASE PLEASE READ THE TAGS BEFORE YOU READ THIS PART!

There is a nightmare scene that can be pretty rough for some and I want to make sure everyone is prepared. You do not have to read that part to know that is going on with the rest of the story so I have divided it up so you can scroll through it. The scene is in italics. Once you reach the snowflake divider you’ve made it to the rest of the story. Love you guys and thanks as always for reading my thing ♥️

thank you to @deathblacksmoke and @concretenoah for being the best beta readers/listening to me go on about this fic incessantly. They’re my biggest helpers and supporters and I wouldn’t know what to do without them 🤍

warning divider by @cafekitsune, snowflake divider by @saradika-graphics, t. swift lyrics dividers by yours truly

“Genevieve! Get down here NOW!” 

She stiffens at her father’s booming voice calling for her downstairs. Even with her door closed it sounded as if he was right next to her. Gen sits at the edge of her bed, dreading what would happen next. He would become angrier the longer she made him wait but fear kept her frozen.

“GENEVIEVE!” The voice boomed again. “Don’t make me come up there!”

She whimpers at the threat, knowing if she doesn’t get up immediately he’ll make good on it. Wiping the tears from her cheeks she gets up and opens her door, padding down the hallway to the staircase.

Gen stands at the top of the stairs and peers over in an attempt to catch a glimpse of him. She hears noises from the kitchen, shuffling around followed by shattering glass and a string of curses. He’s drunk, but what else is new? 

“God dammit Genevieve, you don’t fucking li-” She jumps as his large frame stampedes out of the kitchen and to the bottom of the stairs. He halts when he sees her, the fury in his eyes turning to annoyance. He grips the railing, taking a step up. 

“Mija, why did I get a call from school today telling me you’ve been skipping class?”

Gen feels her heart start to race. 

“Daddy, I-I..” She stammers, tears welling up in her eyes. “I only skipped class once so I could..”

He slams his fist against the railing and Gen freezes in place, wrapping her arms around herself for comfort. 

“Don’t lie to me, bitch.” He spits.

“I’m not lying to you, daddy! I promise. It was just one time! I wanted..”

He takes another step up.

“What the fuck is so important that you had to skip class for, huh?”

Gen whimpers, she knew he’d be furious to find out the truth but if she lied it would be ten times worse. She doesn’t even look up when she speaks.

“Tomorrow is Will’s birthday and I wanted to get him something special. He likes manga and the only place that sells it around here closes early. So, I left before the last period started so I could get there on time.” 

“You skipped school to buy that stupid boy a comic book?” Gabriel sneers, narrowing his eyes at his daughter. 

“Daddy, he’s not..”

“And whose fucking money did you buy that with?” 

“Mine.” She sniffles. “Mrs. Hart has been having some trouble getting around so she asked me to help her with some housework. I told her not to but she insisted on paying me.” 

He barks a laugh but there’s no humor behind it. In fact, it’s so cold it makes Gen’s skin crawl. 

“Always taking advantage of people. What would your mother think of you?” Gen winces. He loves to use her mother against her. “I bet you went over to the neighbors begging for money. Just like when you cry to Will about how terrible I treat you.”

Gabriel ascends the step once more, taking two steps this time. 

“Maybe I wouldn’t drink all the time or be so ‘terrible’ if I had a better daughter. Did you think of that? I lost my wife and I get to look at her spitting image every single day. You will never be half the woman she was… It should have been you that died in that wreck.”

If he had said that a year ago, his statement would have devastated her. She reasons that in some way it probably still does, but her bitterness and hatred for the man she calls her father usurps that feeling. 

Gen looks in his eyes— eyes that have been lifeless and cold for years. She knew the risks, the consequences, the days of recovery ahead of her but she didn’t care. If he was going to sink that low then so was she.

“No, daddy. You can blame your drinking on me if you want to but you had a problem long before mom died. If you weren't such a drunk that wreck never would have happened. It should have been you that died.”

Gabriel’s lips curl in anger, a snarl coming from his chest. “You little fucking bitch!” He bounds up the stairs towards her, reaching out to grab her and—

Gen’s eyes fly open and she pants looking around the room. Her vision is so blurry she can barely see anything and it doesn’t help her racing heart. She lays her head back against the pillow, trying to slow her breathing. 

“It was just a bad dream. It’s over. Breathe.” She whispers to herself. After a few minutes, she opens her eyes, her vision much clearer. She feels something shift slightly next to her and she looks over.

Beside her, as far away from her as he possibly could be, was Will. His brown eyes stare at her like she’s a wounded puppy and he wants to rescue her. From day one, he was always her protector, but he had witnessed enough nightmares to know he needed to stay away until the coast was clear.

Gen smiles meekly at him, body still trembling and tears falling freely. She stretches her arm out towards him. He was so far away from her that her fingertips barely brush his chest. 

A strangled “baby” is all she can get out but that’s good enough for Will. He envelops her in his arms, pulling her into his chest, softly kissing her face. She sobs into his arms while he rubs her back, soothing her with sweet words. 

“I’m here, baby. I’ve got you.” He whispers. 

Will doesn’t need her to tell him what happened. The whines and cries in her sleep were enough. He remembers all of the sleepless nights for both of them, navigating through the nightmares and trauma plaguing her. Will thinks about the years of nightmares she has had with no one to comfort her like he is now and his heart aches.

Gen clutches onto him, burying herself deeper into his chest, gasping sobs wracking her body. Will holds her tightly, knowing it always gets worse before it gets better. He gently strokes her hair, crooning a song he’s done his best to forget in her ear.

“I look back to the one and only summertime

When my girl was the envy of every friend of mine

She slept safely in my arms

We were so young and invincible”

Will feels her shuddered breaths calm a little. The grip she has on him relaxes, her hands still shaking but lightly rubbing at his sides. He takes that as a hint to keep going.

“Closed lips

She was never one to kiss and tell

Those trips in the summer never went so well

Young love was such dumb love

Call it what you want

It was still enough”

Gen’s body continues to calm as he sings. He stops singing and hums as he takes a peek at her. He notices she’s not crying anymore and wipes the remaining tears from her face. She cracks an eye open and sniffles, hugging him even closer and nuzzling into his neck whining for him to continue. He smiles softly. There’s my girl. He thinks.

“And it's still out of my reach

And you're still

All of the things that I want in my life

How could I ask you to leave me?”

And we were just kids in love

The summer was full of mistakes

We wouldn't learn from

The first kiss stole the breath from my lips

Why did the last one tear us apart?”

His singing becomes quieter as he processes the lyrics. They were fifteen when they first heard this song. It came out the summer they started dating and it seemed perfect at the time. Will heard it first and declared it “their song” immediately. Gen had complained at first that the song was too sad but Will told her to focus on the sweet parts. He reassured her the sad verses would never apply to them.  

Fourteen years later the realization that they not only do apply to them but almost mirror their situation perfectly was almost too much for Will to bear. 

“We're falling down

Can we pick up the pieces?

We're at an all-time low

How do we get it back?

We're falling down”

The last few words come out a cracked and broken mess as tears stream down his face. He attempts to hide his pain from Gen but she hears it and can feel his heart pounding. She looks up at him, tears of her own returning, but the look in her eyes is no longer panic. Instead, it’s heartbreak, empathy, and longing. 

Gen smiles at him, adjusting herself so that she can wrap her arms around his neck. She kisses him gently. It’s so gentle that he can barely feel it and he wants more but doesn’t want to rush her. 

They lay together, wrapped in each other’s arms for a while, their lips meeting with little intention besides soothing the other person. Will’s hands roam her back and sides, staying in neutral areas until she’s ready. 

 When Gen deepens the kiss, he lets her have control. He can feel that she needs more by the way she pulls at his neck and rubs herself against him. He smiles into the kiss and plays with the frayed ends of her shirt.

“Is this okay?” He breathes, rubbing his fingers only barely under the hem.

She nods and he slides his hand under her shirt, his thumb brushing her ribcage just under her breasts. She lifts her leg over his hip and pulls him in closer, moaning as she feels how hard he is against her. Will cups her breast in his hand while he grinds into her slowly, swallowing every moan she gives him.

“Turn around for me.” Will requests and she obliges, rotating in the opposite direction and making a point to place her ass right up against his crotch as she settles down. Will chuckles and grabs her hips, grinding into her hard. Gen giggles back at him, gasping softly. 

“Are you ready for me, baby? Need you.” He says slipping a hand in her panties and running a finger through her slit. He curses at how wet she is and quickly shoves his boxers down, hiking her leg over his. He pushes her panties to the side and slips inside of her.

Will slides his other arm underneath her and wraps it around her chest, pressing his body as close to hers as he can get. He presses kiss after kiss on her face and neck, slowly dragging his cock in and out of her. 

Gen reaches back to card her fingers through his curls, bringing their lips together. She whimpers against his mouth, begging him to go faster. Will increases his movements, the sound of her stuttered moans already forming a knot in his stomach.

“Touch yourself for me, Vivvy… please” Will pants into her neck. “Need to.. fuck, want you to finish with me.” 

Gen snakes her hand down her stomach, circling her clit with the pads of her fingers. Will watches her from over her shoulder, squeezing her hip so hard  he’ll be shocked if he doesn’t leave a mark. 

“Will.” Gen cries, moving her hips to meet his thrusts. With every new thrust inside of her he can feel her getting closer. The muscles in her belly are tensing and her legs are beginning to shake. Will watches as she practically bounces on his cock chasing her release.

“I’m here, baby. Let go for me. I’ve got you.” He coos, feeling his own climax coming on quickly. 

Gen stills in front of him, crying out his name, shaking and moaning. Will pulls her so close he can barely breath and continues thrusting until he spills deep inside of her. 

For some time, neither of them move or say a word. Will curls around her, still holding her tightly while Gen places featherlight kisses to his fingers. Both actions, while truly sincere, have hidden meanings. 

One of them is trying to keep the other as close as possible in fear of them retreating. While the other is remembering for the first time in years what it’s like to experience a safe place in the form of a person.

Gen feels the bed dip beside her and a warm hand runs up her arm. She makes a contented sound but keeps her eyes shut. Will removes his hand and replaces it with his lips, kissing up to her shoulder. 

“Time to get up, sleepy head.” He hums. 

Gen pulls the covers over her head groaning and he laughs, fighting to get them off of her. 

“Viv, It’s almost 2:30. We’ve been sleeping all day!”

The vice grip Gen has on the comforter stays as Will hears her grumbling something underneath them.

“What’s that?” He says, tilting his head and putting his ear to the blanket. “I can’t hear you, you’re gonna have to whine louder!”

A hand reaches out of the comforter and pinches Will’s side and he yelps. A satisfied snicker comes from below the fabric barrier as her hand retreats but he’s quick to grab it.

Gen squeals as he rips the comforter off of her and grabs her other hand, pinning them above her head. He watches her as she giggles uncontrollably; She’s trying, but not really to remove herself from his grasp. He kisses her face repeatedly and he lets her remove her hands so she can wrap her arms around him. 

“We need to get up, Vivvy.” Will says between pecks. 

“Whyyyy?” Gen drags out, giving him her best pout.

“Well, for one.. we haven’t eaten all day which is just not acceptable. Especially for a lazy day. And two…” He stands up and walks over to the window and peeks through the blinds. “It’s snowing.”

Gen sits up on her elbows, a baffled expression on her face. 

“And…?” 

Will rolls his eyes. 

“And.. If I recall correctly someone used to love playing in the snow. At least before she turned into a big grump.” He teases.

Gen’s eyes light up and she scrambles to the window. She looks out as Will holds the blinds open for her, noticing how much it snowed overnight. Gen estimated there were probably five to six inches outside. It was perfect for a fun day in the snow.

“Can we go outside now?” She asks, buzzing with excitement.

“Food first. Snow after.” He replies.

After they eat, Gen practically runs to get dressed, stealing clean clothes from Will’s dresser to layer with. Seeing her in his clothes, the way his sweatpants cling to her hips and accentuate her curves makes him short of breath. 

He considers the option of pulling them off of her and bending her over the dresser she was standing at but he knew not to mess with a woman and her snow plans. Even if sex was involved. Besides, there was always afterwards.

Will decides it’s best to distract himself so he walks into the living room to finish getting ready. Gen follows him shortly after, grabbing her boots and putting them on.

Will zips up his puffer jacket and turns around, watching as Gen puts on her pathetic excuse for a coat. He stands and watches her for a moment, an amused expression on his face. When she looks up, she sees him and grins.

“What?” 

“You spend a few years in L.A. and forget how to dress for the weather here.” Will snickers as he gets up and assesses her outfit. He shakes his head and tuts at her. “Unacceptable.” Gen sticks her tongue out and Will laughs as he walks to his closet.

He brings her his extra puffer and beanie, placing the hat on her head and letting her put the jacket on herself. 

“At least you brought a scarf, you monster.” He teases, fixing it around her neck. “Can’t have my girl freezing out there.”

Gen feels her cheeks flush, surprised at how quickly she accepts it. Was there a point in fighting it though? She was his girl. That had never changed, no matter how long she tried to combat it. In the back of her mind, she’s reminded this is temporary, but she stubbornly pushes it away. For once, she’s going to let herself have what she wants. 

Will zips the jacket up for her, adjusting the scarf and making sure she was nice and snug. “That’s much better.” He says as he leans in and kisses her nose. He wraps his arms around her waist and rubs his nose against hers, grinning as she giggles uncontrollably.

“Ready to go, baby?”

Gen peers around the corner of the tree she’s hiding around. Will stands a few feet away, his back facing her. She sneaks around the tree, as quietly as the crunch of the snow would allow and runs toward him, throwing the snowball in her hand at him and hitting his back. 

“There you are!” Will yells, running after her. He gathers up snow, throwing it back at her while he chases her. Shrieks of laughter permeate the cold winter air as they sprint around like little kids. Will finally catches up to her and grabs her, pulling her down on top of him.

Gen pulls down the scarf around his face, covering his face with kisses, focusing specifically on his cold red nose. She doesn’t miss the quiet giggles he lets out between each peck. His arms squeeze her tightly against him and despite the 20° temperature, she feels warmer than ever.

Will removes his arms from her suddenly and she sulks. He beams at her, spreading his arms and legs out in the snow, attempting to move them in a sweeping motion. 

“It’s very hard to make a snow angel when you’re on top of me.” 

Gen scoffs and rolls off of him, landing on her back next to him. 

“That’s the first time you’ve ever complained about me being on top of you before.”

“First and only time, Vivvy.” He winks. “Now, are you gonna make one with me or is mine gonna sit here out in the snow all by itself?”

Gen and Will make their snow angels, and Will hops up to help her off the ground. They stand in front of them to assess their handiwork.

“Looks good to me. What do you think, babe?” He asks, wrapping his arm around her shoulder.

“Perfect.” Gen responds, nuzzling into his chest. “Absolutely perfect.”

[2309analysis]

What do you think would happen if Tails Sails Mangey and Nine all interacted with each other?

See, I was thinking about this all week. Mainly due to my theory, and just the pure nature of Tails’ the Fox. His character remotely resembles a child; in both psychological, and emotional aspects. While he is physically a child, his brain and maturity level is not. Its far exceeds the average intellect and ability to comprehend. Making Tails’ far more complex than most people realize. So, I’m basically going to explain how he would really only be on his wavelength. Literally all will but the communication will be tad different with each counterpart of Tails’.

Starting with Nine:

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Tails’:

To me, he’ll be the easiest communication-wise. I think the two Foxes’ would be wary of each other; mainly due to Nine’s hard drive on not being compatible with Tails’s personality and his viewpoint of the world. Nine wouldn’t really want to get into Tails’s character, or really understand his tinkering. While, he has similar habits, and thought-process, I honestly think his openness and willingness/over-friendliness would honestly frighten Nine.

Moving onto the actual interaction between the two. I honestly think Tails’ just be nervous, Nine’s got a pretty judgmental attitude and defensive personality. Making it very hard to really understand his thoughts, which Tails’ usually doesn’t have problems with. ‘Cause everyone in his head is statutory, but himself? With another version of himself? Oh, boy, where does he even begin? He’d be the first initiator, due to anxiety eating him up. “Um… so, you’re supposed to be a counterpart of me? Heh, well, you do look a lot like me—“ “Just stop talking.” Nine would quickly shut him down at first. Mainly due, to the frustration of Sonic forcing them to do this.

“Err… do you at least want something to eat?” Nine just slowly turns his head, and looks Tails’ deadbeat in the eyes. “Nah, I’m good with this bark of wood. Thanks for asking.” I think Nine has a sarcastic defense mechanism around others’, (Sonic’s circumstances are diffrent) especially over people who try to know him. Which is hard for anime, it’s extremely out of his comfort zone; he doesn’t like interactions. Knowing this, he’s especially reluctant towards Tails’.

I think Tails’ will catch onto this extremely quickly; and back off. For a couple of weeks, it’s awkward, and very difficult to really know how the two feel about each other. Nine does soften up once he starts to catch Tails’ mind explore and invent endless amount of things in his meantime. I think this is where Nine is the first initiator. To Nine’s surprise, they get along well, especially when it comes to analyzing; making Sonic pretty relieved. 

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Sails’:

Honestly, I would think they’d kinda ignore each other. Both well-aware and about how the other feels about each other, making it kinda hard for them to open up. Awkward, and tense when around each other. I’m talking about, a what if, this was all happening after the events of Prime. It’d still be this way, due to Nine’s lack of social awareness.

I still think Sails’ give Nine a chance. Like actively trying to hang out with him, ask him some small questions on how he invests or makes things. Small little interactions, at first, but I honestly don’t think they’ll become nearly as close as Nine and Tails’. Which isn’t much of a bummer, because Saul’s’ prefers other characters, like Amy, Tails’ himself, Sonic, and his captain, Dread.

They’d team up with each other, and fight alongside each other if they had to. They won’t be their first choice; but a reliable duo. They would trust each other with weapon-making, and temporary cooperations. Extra points, if they wink at each other to take initiatives, and smile about winning.

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Mangey:

The poor Foxes would never have a coherent conversation. Genuinely would not know how to interact with each other. Mangey is too savage and nervous to ever really properly calm down and actually sit with Nine. Nine’s too way and paranoid something bad is going to happen if they tried forcing him. The two are too mentally unstable to be able to handle each other’s emotions.

It’s like asking a baby to walk without falling. It’s a lot of trail and error. It’d take at least a month or two or them to even be on the same emotional wavelength. Mangey’s broken English and bad sense of social order makes Nine extremely uncomfortable. They try not to get angry or overwhelmed by each other; because they both understand that the other is trying. (Keeping in mind about the after events)

“M-me like y-ou.” “Huh… you’re improving. That’s excellent.” They will warm up with each other over communicating and improving speeches. Nine would basically become Mangey’s language arts teacher. Teaching him all the basics about talking, writing, and reading. Sonic will help by holding up pictures of simple things.

Next is Sails’:

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Tails’:

He’s by far, going to be the most mentally stable and simple out of the three counterparts. Easily, because he’s pretty much mostly like Tails’ himself. Making things communication-wise a whole lot less stressful for Tails’. The only downside is the pirate talk. Tails’ might hinder with the new communication system; making it slightly harder for him to properly respond. Which won’t be much a of a problem, as it quickly gets solved, because Tails’ easily adapts.

Also, I think Tails’ would find it super interesting and unique. Making them probably the fastest to become friends. They’re buddies, they’re improving each other’s inventions, making sure the other isn’t lost. They’re practically brothers. They’d both keep each other company and joke around a lot. Making Dread kinda annoyed, because most jokes are inside jokes about highly complex things.

They’d keep each other’s back covered, if they would ever get into a fight. They would never abandon each other, and make sure they’re both are safe. They’d boost each other up and uplift themselves. Alongside of double teaming with Sonic and Nine! They’re unbeatable. Tails’ would also dork out about his helper hand. Finding it effective and extremely cool. Tails’ now has one he can use! Occasionally, though.

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Mangey:

Honestly, same way as Tails’. It’d basically be like having a kid brother. Sails’ already took care on Mangey in season 3, but more normalized. Sails’ keeps Mangey out of trouble, and calms down his nerves. I would feel like Sails’ honestly follows Mangey around out of curiosity about his behaviorism. Constantly noting it, and the improvements, habits, etc.

Tails’ would definitely join in. Not making a habit of it, like Sails, would, though. It’s merely out of keeping him protected and innocent. As in, he’s never, ever, stepping foot inside Eggman’s factory or laboratory. Not unless it was extremely important, and Mangey’s friends were in danger. Also, it’d feel like belittlement after a while, and if Mangey showed enough attention-improvement, he could be sent on special missions.

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Nine:

I think he’d be pretty indifferent about Sails’. Like Tails’. Like I said, it’d take a large while for them to warm up with each other. It’s not they actually don’t like each other; but they’re a tad suspicious of each other. Both tensed, awkward socially distant foxes. Nice combo… but Sonic turned things around telling them both to just take it slow.

They’re the slowest and subtler find than all of the other three. They just don’t notice each other, and it’s not a bad thing; but they have less appeal towards each other. They will work together, and share mostly the same opinions; and make sure that the other is okay, but that’s all.

Next is Mangey:

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Tails’:

Tails’ would give him a lot of snacks. Plus, a bunch of stolen Chili Dogs from Sonic. The two would be usually spotted eating and going over simplistic ways to teach Mangey real communication with Nine. Both Nine and Tails’ would take turns with Mangey helping his improvement of social and personal development.

Sails’ helps with the emotional department, making sure he doesn’t get too overwhelmed. Tails’ acts like character for Mangey to see scenarios of conversations and situations. I feel like Mangey is a visual learner, so it’s ultimately easier for him to comprehend after seeing what happens. That also includes spying on others’, but mainly Sonic, and their friends.

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Nine:

He would leave Mangey alone at first. Kinda steering clear, because he doesn’t really like unwanted attention or company. Knowing Mangey would give so much of that, he tries to keep off of his track, and kinda cower away. Not to be offensive; but because he’s not entirely used to having friends.

Not until he decided to give him the opportunity to grow. Once Mangey starts to show signs of large improvement of social skills, emotional maturity and development, Nine doesn’t entirely mind when he’s around. Since, by this point, Mangey sees Nine as a bigger brother.

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Sails’:

He would voluntarily help Nine and Tails’ out making improvements with Mangey’s abilities and growth. Especially with the language and emotional support. Making sure that Mangey doesn’t get too overwhelmed by anything; he’ll also be the supplier of treats.

He would also help Nine come up with a series of quizzes for Mangey. Making sure all of the studying is actually sticking with him. Nine would create the question, Sails’ would make the answer. Tails’ help out giving small hints, and Mangey would get a treat if he doesn’t need any hints. He would get a whole snack, if he gets a 100 for the quiz.

Next is Tails’:

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Nine:

The two would be awkward at first, but the more they found in common about each other’s habits, they became more comfortable around each other. I think Nine would be emotionally tired, and deprived of any sort of intimacy with love; and Tails’ deeply understood this. Instead of Sonic being Nine’s only friend and well, savior, Tails’ basically became his newest friend.

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Mangey:

As I have said this over and over again, (lmao) Nine would advise, commit to Mangey’s growth. Finding some joy out of seeing his counterpart grow, and improving. It makes him feel like he means something more rather than something of nothing. Tails’ sorta feels the same way; and it makes them more comfortable and less anxious around Mangey. Mainly due to the wavy their shatter verses are; it’s hard for all four of them to collectively get along at the same time.

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Sails’:

They would love each other. From intelligence to little quirks about certain things. Tails’ would indefinitely make little gadgets for all four; but mainly Sails’. They would have the most in common with each other. They’re little collaborations with each other to make each other’s lives in their own verses easier. Especially for Nine. Like, face-timing each other, occasionally, send each other a bunch of letters.

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I’ll whiff up headcanons later over them. They’re such a cute couple of interactions; but I wouldn’t mind adding some angst to it next time. Those will most likely appear in a few headcanons. Thanks for this question; it was really fun writing this out, especially individually! (I love making myself suffer)

This is them.

[dearestones]

Lost Time (Yandere! L x Reader)

Warnings: Yandere behavior, drugging, kidnapping, isolation, slight manipulation, major character death, slight angst, etc. 

@tragiclotus Request: Hi! Love your writing. Would you consider an angst filled yandere L x reader fic? Love me some tension. Xx

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Forty seconds.

Forty seconds was how long it took for the heart attack to take effect—as was stated in the Death Note.

Forty seconds for your life to become upended, re-righted, and flipped completely upside down.

"I checked the autopsy reports." 

You looked up from your hands that were clenched in your lap, eyes still somewhat groggy and head still achy from a night full of restless sleep. Above you, dressed in a button down shirt that was rumpled and clearly worn for a day longer than recommended, Light Yagami held up a series of documents. 

You didn't need to look closely to know that these were the reports that Light was talking about.

Your voice was dull, lifeless. It had been a while since you've felt something other than dread or pure fear. 

"Heart attack?"

It almost didn't sound like a question. If your voice was the sole indicator, most would have thought that you were merely stating the truth. The head detective of the Kira Investigation had died suddenly and without warning. At least one shinigami was afoot. The rest of the detectives were distraught.

Obviously, the Death Note was involved.

Light, who had been observing you intently for a while now, simply nodded. Carefully, he placed the sheaf of documents onto the table, careful not to knock over your mug of coffee. Your eyes barely passed over the seal on top of one of the papers before you glanced away.

As you did so, you heard Light pull out a nearby chair. As always, his movements were measured. Methodical almost. He was kind of enough not to drag the chair's legs against the floor, choosing instead to slightly lift it up. You were grateful for his seemingly kind action even if there was some ulterior motive beneath his kind facade.

For a moment, the both of you sat in silence. As you waited for the eventual conversation to follow, you tried to shake off the discomfort that plagued you—this situation was all too familiar to the isolated life you led before. 

Light, polite but forever too nosy for his own good, asked a question that you dreaded being asked from anyone else.

"You don't seem too sad that L died." He paused and if you happened to look up at that moment, you could see the hint of an upturned curve to his lip. It's too bad for Light, though. Despite his careful acting that he cultivated for several months in captivity, you knew him just as well as you knew the man who died. At times like this, it was advantageous, but when all you wanted to do was leave and live life to the fullest, it served as a reminder of all that you lost. "Tell me, when Mogi informed you that he died, what did you feel?”

You barely had the strength to look away from your hands, but your voice was sharp enough to make freshly broken glass look soft in comparison. “If you’re implying that I had anything to do with his death—”

“I wouldn’t blame you.” You looked up only to find that Light was looking down at you, pity and sympathy swimming in his eyes. “Between the solitary confinement, the psychological torture, and forced observation, I wouldn’t say that I haven’t been feeling anything other than relief. In your position, I would think that you would be feeling the same.”

The truth, as most things were in real life, was a lot harder to put into words, much less simplify into plain terms. 

Before the Kira Investigation, you had led a relatively normal life as a private investigator. You were by no means someone who was as intelligent or as connected as the likes of the three most famous detectives in the world, but you were smart and keen on solving any mysteries that landed at your feet. When the Kira Case became publicized and the ICPO were looking for ways to track down Kira, you had offered your services.

And then—

You were approached by L. 

You’ve heard of him. Anyone who was involved with cases that stumped nations, where international cooperatives were needed to track down crime syndicates and bring down seedy organizations, knew about L. He was a famed detective who was renowned for his intelligence and propensity for anonymity. What was more, there was also the fact that he was also infamous for the fact that he rejected several known (ongoing) cases because he deemed them “unworthy” of his time. Arrogance was not something that you can entertain in this line of work, but for L, he practically held the world in the palm of his hand. 

And that arrogance led to him working alone. 

Which made it all the more jarring when you were approached by an elderly man dressed in a pitch black overcoat bearing a laptop. You were on your guard, of course, but you came to heel when you saw the stylized gothic “L” appear on the screen alongside the telltale monotone of a digitized voice speaking to you. At first, you were confused, but the situation was made clear when L informed you that you were to serve as his “in” to the Japanese Task Force and that you would be compensated. 

Apparently, a former FBI agent that L used to work with—Miss Naomi Misora, you were told—had killed herself shortly after realizing that her fiance had been killed by Kira himself. To L, the killer was evident—the teenager that he had been following that day was obviously the culprit. However, he needed proof.

Hence, you.

Obviously, things didn’t turn out too well afterwards. L had to be personally involved and introduce himself by his official title to the Japanese detectives who wanted to take down Kira, two teenagers were apprehended as likely suspects, and you resigned yourself to at least a few more months of observation before you could finally return to your old life.

What you didn’t account for was L setting his sights on you.

As much as you hated to admit it, you were in awe of the detective. How could you not? His intelligence far outshone any other person you had ever known. He was pragmatic and efficient, his idiosyncrasies painting him to be some sort of mad genius confined to the terrors of an organic vessel. Despite his propensity for sweets and clothing that had clearly seen better days, you could not deny that he was magnetic as he was repulsive. 

A computer masquerading as a human. 

During all that time you had spent investigating the Kira suspects, curbing L’s plans to psychologically torture and isolate both Light and Misa, and looking into theories as to how Light and Misa could kill with only a name and face, you had no idea that L was paying just as much attention to you as he was to them. 

What had first started out as brief meetings where you would inform L of your findings had become drawling conversations. You would be remiss to say that you didn’t enjoy stimulating conversation once in a while, but when these exchanges became more frequent, you were at a loss as to what to say. Up until this point, you were in a professional relationship with L and barring that, you weren’t too interested in him outside of the investigation. You thought about asking him why he sought you out so often, but decided that since he liked to remain anonymous that maybe he was just lonely.

And that’s when the restrictions started happening. 

Before you knew it, L wanted to keep you inside for longer hours. 

He wanted you to report more often—the meetings between the two of you occurring at least every other day now even if you had found nothing substantial.

Eventually, when you began to question his motives, he had drugged, bound, and placed into a separate floor for your own personal use where he installed cameras he alone had access to.

It was for your own good, he told you after you had screamed at him to explain himself. After all, you had been in the field for so long, it was only understandable that there was the possibility that there was another Kira out there and it was only a matter of time that they matched your name to your face. 

For the first few weeks, you tried to convince yourself that you didn’t have it as bad as the two Kira suspects. The pretty model was bound and blindfolded, tricked into thinking that she was talking to a stalker. Meanwhile, the young university student was merely confined. At the very least, you could walk around in your room. 

You could make your own food.

You could yell and scream at the hidden cameras without repercussion.

But you could never leave. 

Luckily, when the two suspects had been released from custody (but still bound to the headquarters for further observation), Light had convinced L to let you loose around the building. At the time, you were thankful to move around and actually interact with other people outside of L, but you began to realize that maybe Light might have had a motive behind letting you free…

Out of preservation, you made sure to keep your distance from both your alleged savior and your captor.

And then the Death Note was found, a Shinigami interrogated, and then—

L had died. 

And, for now, you were free. 

Not free from the probing eyes of the detectives who wanted to interrogate you for the circumstances of L’s murder, but you had more freedom than you had for the past several months or so.

You smiled at Light and gave a nod that was more of a jerky twitch than a confident affirmation. Even now, you were wary that there were cameras in the room. Being alone with Light was dangerous enough as is, but if the rest of the team knew that you were fraternizing with him so soon after L’s death… 

Then again most of them were aware of the heinous circumstances surrounding L’s relationship with you and had voiced their concerns, but had eventually been bullied into their place. 

“I’m just sorry that I couldn’t have done it myself.” It barely came out as a whisper, but Light heard you. His eyebrows rose to his hairline and his mouth parted just right in surprise—if he was Kira, he was really good at feigning surprise. “Kira took that away from me.”

“It could be worse,” Light reasoned. “L took away your freedom.”

“And my time,” you muttered. “So much lost time… I could have been helping with the investigation, but…”

You trailed off, unwilling to spare the thought any more energy. 

“Hey.” Light placed a gentle hand on your shoulder; the presence was more than enough of a grounding force to keep you calm. For reasons unknown, you felt his touch warm you. “We can still catch Kira, right? Besides, since I’ll be heading the investigation, I’ll be needing someone to help me who was just as invested and as close to L as I was.” 

He paused when he saw you think it over. 

“What do you think?”

You thought about L and the lengths he went to keep Light close and you closer. 

You thought about Light holding L as he died.

And you thought about bringing Kira to justice. 

What was another L, you thought, when you would finally complete the job that you were tasked to do from the very beginning?

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DISCLAIMER: I do not condone yandere behavior outside of fictional settings. Please don’t mistake the actions of fictional characters displayed in works of fiction to be considered harmless in real life.

If you want to donate a Ko-Fi, feel free https://ko-fi.com/devintrinidad.

DEATH NOTE MASTERLIST

[robynator]

burrow's end spoilers!

i am not a huge fan of horror. as a rule, i avoid horror movies and books, because oftentimes the violence in them is just too graphic for me

that being said, burrow's end is shaping up to be my favourite dimension 20 season, namely because of the horror aspects of it. very few streamable dnd shows have been able to recreate the dread and anticipation that i feel while actually playing dnd, but burrow's end does it perfectly

there is, of course, violence and gore (notably the infamous bear scene) but that doesn't bother me as much as it does with other mediums, probably because it's dnd and im sort of used to it. and yet it's the more "psychological" aspects of it that draw me and from what ive seen, many other people in as well

at first it's the not knowing, the uncertainty that causes the unease and later it's putting the pieces together, realizing where the stoats are and what they're dealing with, while they themselves are still ignorant on the basis of just not having the background information we do

i can't not talk about the tapes and the chilling revelation that it was the first stoats that were behind everything. hearing dr wenabocker at first say that everything was under control (and it's likely that he was right), and then only a couple tapes later say that there were clear signs of sabotage, that the cables were chewed through

and, of course, the attack, which is so far probably my favourite part of the show. it's shocking, and downright horrifying to hear and i genuinely had to take a quick break after that, just to process it. carlos luna, you absolute madman, that was incredible

and then we were introduced to phoebe

phoebe, who was behind it all. phoebe, who suggested they sabotage the plant. phoebe, who ripped her sibling's jaw off, when they wouldn't listen to her. phoebe, who gleefully attacked dr wenabocker and may or may not be puppeteering him right now. phoebe, whose return even the first stoats feared (and awaited)

ive thought about the implications behind taking over someone's body to further your own goals long before burrow's end but this has reignited that train of thought (i made a post about it months ago, relating to lockwood & co.) so i know for a fact that i will be thinking about the horror of it for some more time now. especially if that gets confirmed — and im hoping it does

aabria iyengar is a brilliant dm and storyteller and this entire season i have been consistently in awe of the pure genius of the narration and symbolism and plot points, and how she's able to craft such a masterful story

[viridiave]

A little love post to HORROR JRPGs

Content Warning:

So I'm gonna be talking a lot about some pre-Undertale era RPG Maker Horror games, and this post is gonna contain both spoilers and the discussion of the following:

Blood and Gore

Psychological horror

Child abuse

Sexual assault

Suicide

Violence

Fictional minors being put into very messed up situations, because that's just the kinds of games these are

Other upsetting themes

Hetalia (because I can imagine that all of us have very complex feelings about this fucking franchise. It existing feels like it needs a warning)

This post is a nostalgia trip and exists purely because uh. I have literally no one else to talk to about these games, and please just click away if any of the above makes you uncomfortable in any way. Some of this stuff can't exactly be handwaved as just being products of their time.

I'll draw smthn real quick later just to make up for it I promise

I'm like days late to Halloween but I just wanted to write this after getting a bout of nostalgia lmao

I absolutely fucking love Horror JRPGs - the freeware ones, even though I haven't touched one in a LONG time. I'm talking about the pre-Undertale era freeware games by the way, and in the first place I don't think I can consider Undertale a horror game but that's a topic for another day. OneShot also doesn't count aksjak OneShot gives me existential dread and a nonzero amount of guilt sure, but never terror

But let's dial that back a bit.

To begin with. 'Vir, you're a fucking coward, you run upstairs when you see that someone on TV has a gun. You can't stand watching horror movies. How the FUCK did this happen'

Weirdly, you can thank Hetalia for that. Specifically, the freeware Hetalia fangames that used to circulate on DeviantArt - that shit led me down this rabbit hole. And I guess it made sense, most Hetalia fangames are a coin toss between a horror game and a fantasy JRPG with countries getting isekai'd. I also played the fuck out of those.

For a bit of background, I love video games, but neither me nor my family ever really had that much spending power to buy game consoles, so my selection was pretty limited. Before I turned 18, I remember that we owned a GameBoy, a GameBoy Advance, a PSP, and one of those Fun-Sized Nintendo consoles with built-in games. We never bought cartridges either. I got my first DS from my dad on my birthday when I turned 18, and that's all the consoles that my family has ever owned. Still kinda jealous of my friends who have Switches, but eh - one day.

I just played a lot of Harvest Moon growing up, that's been my object of interest in my elementary days. The most of a horror game that I've been exposed to was watching my friends play Five Nights At Freddy's back in 5th grade.

Then high school happened, and I got new friends and shit - and was introduced to both more conventional horror games and Hetalia. Which is. A really weird combination when I think about it now, but everyone who was alive and kicking around in the early 2010's would know what HetaOni is, and you can see how that slope led to me playing freeware horror games. I'll always be grateful to these games, seeing as I never had easy access to mainstream experiences growing up.

I think I played HetaOni exactly once, on my first laptop. I played most Hetalia fangames exactly once, but they all just stayed on my old hard drive. None of them really had anything interesting going on gameplay-wise, I mean it's RPGMaker and these were people who just really wanted to make Hetalia fangames, but I remember some of them just sticking with me. I'd play them while I was away on trips to my grandmother's house, then watch let's plays on YouTube when I wasn't otherwise occupied with schoolwork. Really when I say Let's Plays I only mean KyoKoon64's - and that's how I was actually introduced to horror JRPGs.

CLOÉ'S REQUIEM

There's been a couple of times where they played some of the more recognizable horror JRPGs on their channel, but the first one I REALLY saw a playthrough on was one called Cloé's Requiem. I don't know what exactly it was about this specific game that stuck with me, and at the time I didn't know that this had like. More warnings than you would usually find on a horror JRPG. Calling it now, please look up said warnings before you try ANYTHING with this game - I can't promise quality and nuance, but I can promise great moments. Those moments stuck with me to this day, SOMEHOW, even after encountering games with better story and gameplay experiences… it's about a cursed 12 year-old boy trying to free a cursed 13 year-old girl, never getting a shot at the normal life he wanted and playing the violin because he can't do much else.

I think this game changed my life. Not in like, any grand manner mind you - but I feel like it's the game that best represented this time of my life as a weird high school outsider who obsesses over games that nobody's ever heard about. I was introduced to a lot of things through this game, it's just this whole volley of firsts that I wouldn't trade for anything else. Baby's first horror game, first jumpscare I ever consented to, first taste of games containing disturbing themes of sexual assault and gore, first trips to Pixiv and NicoNicoDouga - just all the fucking firsts. I wouldn't call it a great game, but it IS important to me.

When I think about it now, it's a game about curses. Michel D'Alembert is a talented violinist at 12, and his alcoholic father milks the shit out of this talent because they're not exactly what you would call well-off. His twin brother Pierre is a pianist, is nowhere near as talented as his brother, and hides his misery over this situation under a big-little brother façade. Cloé Ardennes is a pianist too, she's wealthy, talented, and still plays with her stuffed animals. She is cursed with an insane father who rapes her, and a mother who hates her. Charlotte is a young maid with nothing and tries her best, only to be killed because she happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Unsurprisingly things fall apart for everybody very quickly.

Pierre's frustrations with his spoiled, lazy brother boiled over, and he curses Michel out in a heated moment. This drives Michel to murder their Charlotte by accident, and she becomes his curse - he runs out of the house, kills cats, and finds himself in the dilapidated mansion that Cloé inhabits. Cloé by this point is already dead, and so is her dad, her parents, and the maids. Cloé's father may be her curse but she is the curse of this mansion, and it transforms into something hostile until Michel comes along and saves her from the shadow of her father. Michel plays her a requiem, and resolves to go home to confront his crimes - and back to Pierre, who regrets everything he's done. Watching the sun rise with a disappearing Cloé in the True Ending will likely be the last peaceful moment he will ever have in his life.

That's like. Not everything that happens in this game, but this post is already so goddamn long and I still have a lot of other stuff I want to talk about. But the gist of it to me nowadays is that these children are cursed with loveless lives and the whims of the adults that have power over them. In the end, their lives are all ruined. Cloé and Charlotte are dead, and we have no idea what becomes of Michel and Pierre when word gets out that Michel killed a maid and assaulted several others in the house in a fit of emotional instability. In every other ending, Michel is killed and Cloé remains an evil spirit, so really this is the best that anyone ever gets out of this experience.

I remember watching a playthrough of Con Amore on YouTube, but I understood none of it because it was in Japanese, and the game itself was untranslated at the time. It follows the cats Noir and Blanc and basically serves as an addendum to the base game - honestly it made me feel sorry for Charlotte, who was nowhere near as psychotic as Michel thought she was. There's also light novels, but international shipping is expensive and I don't know Japanese so. I'll just never figure out what happens to everyone after the game ends I guess

One of these days, I'll buy the remake on Steam - which exists, and I can't say I recommend it if everything I just listed bothers you in any way. But I can't shake the attachment I feel towards this game no matter how many years it's been, nor how uncomfortable its themes are, so you know - maybe one day. I'll go back to it.

IB

So - following that, I got pretty curious about the other games in this genre of freeware horror. Ib is the one that everyone knows the best, both Markiplier and Pewdiepie played it so you KNOW it gets press, but even in Japan this game was a hell of a hit. To me, it's a simple game that I can finish in an hour, but man what an hour it can be.

If you were to play this game right now after seeing how much press it gets (which I think you should, it's on the Switch now! Go get it!), you MIGHT be a little disappointed. It's nowhere near as gory or disturbing as Cloe's Requiem for one and you know - a bunch of blood and guts and ghosts on the walls does not a good horror game make, but make your choices accordingly. Nah - instead this game's staying power lies in its atmosphere. Like how many games can you say take place inside of an art gallery where most of the pieces try to fucking murder you? I mean there's probably a lot, but something about Ib's almost ambient sense of dread and exploration just kind of sticks in people's brains. Everything's a little scarier when the shapes are so close to being discernable but aren't, and I guess that's the appeal and horror behind Guertena's gallery.

Ib herself is a mute protagonist, pretty typical, but she's also NINE, and the game will let you know that no matter how unfazed she gets or how precocious she can be, she is a child all the same - and children break very easily. I personally love how the game barely has to say anything about how shaken she actually is about her situation, because it will show you how - she has nightmares that you can't escape, she sees herself getting hanged, Garry will need to shake her out of her shock when she sees a picture of her parents in the gallery that should not exist. She loses all of her will to live when she loses Garry to insanity. And speaking of Garry…

There's one standout room in this game and it's the Doll Room. 10/10 would NOT recommend it to anyone who suffers from anxiety because WOW I did not think the RPG Maker 2000 engine could ever have been capable of that. Nobody blames Garry if this room fucks him up. I mean come on the dude has to literally rip open the stomachs of dolls to find a paint ball. Those sound effects make it sound like the dolls are made of skin and flesh and all the while the giant fucking doll is creeping out of the goddamn painting while some of the most anxiety-inducing background noise is playing -

Yeah no I don't know why I ever said you'd be disappointed by this game. Or maybe you still would, this is a low-res game made in 2012. But my god does it TRY to scare you in the best ways it can.

One of the best moments in this game I think is the one where Mary and Ib are alone together, and the conversation gets increasingly unhinged with Mary asking Ib questions non-stop with no background noise other than their steps. At this point, they're separated from Garry, and they're trying to find a way back to each other. Garry meanwhile is slowly piecing together the truth about Mary and how dangerous it is for Ib to remain alone with her, all the while still trying to figure out how to get back to both of them.

The section after that is in the Sketchbook which honestly? The vibes of this place are impeccable. Somehow it's fitting that one of the tensest areas in a game about a fine arts gallery is the place made entirely out of childlike scribbles.

Overall, I'd say the experience is well worth an hour or two - I'd recommend it happily over Cloé's Requiem, if only so you can have a taste of what Horror JRPGs were like before Omori came along. Yes I know that Omori isn't Japanese but it's very much in the same vein as these games.

OTHER GAMES

Those were the safe two that planted my feet firmly into the Horror JRPG fandom, but there's a lot of other titles out there, so let's go - lightning round!

Ao Oni is the ubiquitous one, like chances are you've at least HEARD of it in passing at some point in your life. Like this shit made it to the big screen in Japan, that's how much of a deal it was. I've never played the original myself, but it's partly because its formula of stuck in a mansion with a horror that chases you around is present in pretty much every Horror JRPG after its release in 2007. If you want some classic fun with the big blue demon though then you can't go wrong with the freeware version.

Mad Father and The Witch's House are part of what I like to call the Big 3 of JRPGs starring preteen girls experiencing the Horrors™, mostly because back in the mid-2010's I couldn't go three posts without seeing them all together. Mad Father is the only other one of said Big 3 that I've touched, because I was too coward to touch The Witch's House and Ellen's whole deal remains a mystery to me to this day. I think Mad Father got a remake a couple of years ago, so you can check that out if you want, but keep in mind that these two games in particular might not stoke the same kind of magical staying power that Ib somehow retained years after its release, and I know those two rely on jumpscares a lot more than Ib does.

I'll eat my fedora right here by the way, because one of my cardinal sins of being a Horror JRPG fan is that I've never played Yume Nikki. As far as these freeware games go, this is probably one of the more avant-garde ones - it's artsy, atmospheric, and a game best experienced by getting lost in the strange environments it provides. Out of every game on this post, this is the one I'd describe as the most Earthbound-esque, with its horror lying mostly in the surrealist ambience of just… wandering around in Madotsuki's mind. The end is just as quiet as the beginning, but is no less chilling to watch happen. Then you fuck around a little bit on Youtube and you find out what's actually going on, and uh - yeah that checks out, cosmic horror sounds par for the course at this point.

Yume Nikki and OFF are two of the games I think of when I hear about Horror JRPGs being talked about alongside Undertale - and nope, I haven't played OFF either. That's my other Horror JRPG sin. I was a picky teenager, but I've grown now and wow I need to find a time to play these games in peace. OFF actually isn't even Japanese, it was developed by Mortis Ghost and released in French back in 2008, making both pretty old and already pretty weird in the library. The reason I bring up OFF is because it's one of the older examples I know of that also incorporate Earthbound's precision 4th-wall breaks, and that it's a game about judgment and interrogates the player (more you than the Batter you play as, serving more as a vehicle that the game uses to ask questions through) about the choices they make in the game. OneShot is probably the one game in this genre of indie RPG that I know so far that employs this metaphysical idea of the player existing in the game in any kind of charitable fashion (aside from again, Earthbound and to some extent Mother 3), so between it, OFF, and Undertale they're what I'd refer to as the Interface Screw-RPG Trio.

Some other titles that I like are between the same devs, even some that I haven't really played to completion. Cloé's Requiem for example was made by Buriki Clock, and they've made other titles like Fantasy Maiden's Off Hideout and Trauma Traum - the latter I can't play because it doesn't have an English translation rip. Miwashiba is another dev which I think people who have a taste for light lolita goth-pastel colors would like, because my god the character designs in both Alice Mare and LiEat are peak. Don't even get me started on the fashion of 1BitHeart because everything in that game has such an impeccable aesthetic. I think I saw something at one point about 1BitHeart that like. Might count as a shared joke between Xenoblade fans, but I'd be hard-pressed to give context because again… packed schedule, who dis?

Just to talk about Alice Mare a little more, I've actually played this one - it sports a heavily storybook-inspired cast with some unique tastes on the tales. Most of my actual experiences with Alice Mare were from the English Light Novel, which I do still have! I really recommend it to people who have a couple of hours to spare on some light, relatively bloodless horror. Most of these games have Light Novels, come to think of it - hell Ib even has whole audio dramas, one of which was fanmade in English, and from what I remember of it the voice acting for Mary was PEAK.

One last dev I want to talk about is Segawa. I've saved them for last because their brand of horror is reserved mainly for one game, but their other games Farethere City and Tower of Hanoi are no slouches either. I don't know much about Tower of Hanoi (or if it even has an English translation right now), but Farethere City is a pretty cute experience as far as pseudo-horror games go from what I've heard, which is probably good for us because their other standout game is anything but cute.

END ROLL

Ah, End Roll. The last of the Horror JRPGs I've played before school kicked me even harder in the shins and I had barely any time for it. Out of all the games I mentioned on this list, this is the one with the most staying power in my brain - and also the one that influenced me the most.

So, I don't talk a lot about my original works. Nobody asks, so I don't overshare. But some of the prevalent overarching themes of my personal mythos are those of guilt, self-love, and the burdens of love. All of these themes were lifted directly from End Roll - which is to say, End Roll actually only deals in guilt, my brain just ran buckwild with trying to wrap itself around the logistics behind InfoRuss. One of my main protagonists, Rosso, is a dead-ringer expy of Russell - the same goes for Blanco with the Informant. One of the only ways I can describe Rosso and Blanco's relationship is 'selfcest as a metaphor for the painful coexistence of self-love and self-loathing', and how this relationship reached this point was largely thanks to the Informant and his role in Russell's dream.

I don't really know why I've come to associate the idea of self-love with guilt, because that's like. Not what the game is trying to do. The game's express purpose is to tell you the story of a boy who comes to love his victims and self-destructs under the crushing guilt that he carries from killing them. By some weird hand, I've fixated on the Informant and his determination in seeing that mission of the game through - AND his secret boss fight. Actually, I should. Go ahead and describe the build-up to his secret boss fight

You can only access it if you've purchased the optional villa, and if I recall correctly you can only fight him on the last day of the dream. The locked shed next to the villa is revealed to be a library of some kind called the Graveyard of Books and like - sure enough, there's books of every kind just torn apart and scattered about everywhere. The reason for all of this is because of the Informant's jealousy. He is created specifically so he can provide Russell with the necessary information to complete the Happy Dream Experiment, and in this regard he thinks Russell doesn't need anyone other source of information than him. So he does away with the useless other books, except for the strategy guides because that's the only kind of book Russell likes - and thus, the only kind of book that the Informant likes. Notes are scattered in the hallway leading up into his boss room, with the last one sticking out in my mind to this day:

'He thinks he's the most important thing to you.'

Which. I don't know why that line is so important to me. Whether it be because it awakened something weird in me, or because I myself was dealing with my self-loathing in a VERY complicated manner at the time, that line has gone on to dictate the way that I write about my characters even to this day.

It's such a visceral depiction of self-inflicted brutality. Russell Seager is a 14 year-old serial killer who grew up loveless and abused, and has no shortage of things that make every waking moment of his life fucked up. He killed people - some who just happened to be wherever he was at the time, some willingly by his hand - could not feel guilt about any of it, and when he lost Yumi to his drunken father while his nymphomaniac mother watched he snapped and killed both his tormentors. He then turned himself in to the police, a teen on death row. Happy Dream is him discovering guilt through dream versions of the people he killed. Happy Dream is what allows him to manifest the newfound emotions he felt through interacting with the kinds of people that his victims COULD have been. The world he creates morphs into the self-inflicted hell that is his guilt.

Russell has no happy ending, his guilt won't allow him that. Everything around him becomes a reminder of the lives he's destroyed, and how much of a living hell his own life was. Through feeling happiness and love from these fabricated visages of the people he killed, he learned guilt. It's such a weird exercise in sympathy, knowing that you're playing as this remorseless kid going through rehabilitation through extreme means. It either doesn't work, and he's deemed a failure - or it does, and he commits suicide either by confessing his crimes to one of his victims and stabbing himself to death with a syringe, or he stays in the deteriorating dream, never to wake up again.

At some point it honestly just turns into misery porn, if you look at it from a certain angle - this game is set on having Russell die no matter what. I couldn't tell you what EXACTLY it is about this experience was so impactful that it would go on to influence the way I want to spend my life - that is, I want to make games exploring these kinds of themes. Guilt. Sins. If loveless lives can be redeemed and made better. By the time the last day in the game rolls around, it's just a matter of giving Russell closure over his miserable life and choosing for him what his last freedom is going to be.

I think one of the reasons I like thinking about the Informant with regards to Russell is the scene that happens if you choose to go through with the first True Ending. Russell never really much liked the Informant, and the feeling is mutual. Russell is cold to him, and the Informant takes every opportunity he can to rub all of Russell's sins in his face - and that's his job, he represents the fundamental, uncomfortable truths of Happy Dream. If Russell chooses not to leave the dream, he is resigned to its destruction and waits for the inevitable along with the other denizens of Nameless Town. But if Russell chooses to get out of the dream, the Informant returns to Russell in tears, happy that he can finally be back to being a part of him - to this game, it's the ultimate acceptance. Russell then goes on to confess his crimes and the reality of the dream to one of the citizens, and he wakes up when they kill him in tearful retribution by his request.

He grabs the syringe next to his bed, and stabs himself to death, unable to handle the guilt. That's how the game always ends for me. The Informant succeeded, Happy Dream succeeded - and Russell chose to die as person who could finally feel remorse.

It's a regretful story with themes that really shouldn't be replicated in any fashion in real life, but somehow I found it fascinating in the way it explores the facets of the self. It makes me want to ask more questions and explore that angle of self-reflection to the furthest extremes that I can conceivably reach, and I guess that's one of the many reasons why I respect it so much.

SO… WHAT NOW.

Nah, that's kind of it. Like, OF COURSE this isn't all I have to say about the games that I mentioned, but wow this post is so long and I was just pining for the days of a couple of years ago. These games were present for the most transformative years of my life, and uh - whether or not that was actually a good thing remains to be seen, but I'll always be grateful for their presence in the void that I call my gaming experiences.

Horror JRPGs will always have a special place in my heart for how they tell their stories. Nowadays, I've developed more of a taste for fantastical RPGs that prefer to hide their horror in the margins of the narrative, fridging the terror for when the player wants to step back a bit and think about the implications of certain events in the greater world. Undertale, OneShot, and the Octopath Traveler games all tick that box for me - and all of those games are ones I hold dear. Like I'll probably ramble about OneShot some other day, because that's the other game that really changed my life in a way I felt like I can never come back from - but there's just a lot of special things to be said about these neat little self-contained, 6-hour freeware games. For now I'll close this long-ass post out. Happy late Halloween I guess - the M&Ms in our fridge have never tasted better.

[howdiditend17]

On Theo Raeken and Manipulation

Introduction:

The purpose of this is to explore what manipulation really does and the effects it can have on people – especially young children. And, as should be no surprise to anyone, it is also an ode to Theo Raeken. A defense of Theo Raeken, if you will. I’ll be referencing three scholarly articles, one Tumblr post, and the show Teen Wolf (obviously). But, I will admit, most of this is speculative. I’m going to try hard to keep it to canon, but I know my bias is going to be in there. But instead of stating it as fact, I’ll ask open-ended questions you can feel free to fight with me about. But this really isn’t the post I intended on making. I intended to write a pure essay on defending Theo Raeken, but that’s been done before no one listens. I thought I’d switch it up and put my Psychology degree to good use, finally. Okay, that’s enough introduction. Let’s roll.

Who is Theo Raeken?

If you don’t know, you should probably stop reading unless you really care about manipulation and its effects. I’m writing this assuming you know who Theo Raeken is and why he needs defended.

Definitions of Manipulation

All of this comes from https://www.researchgate.net/publication/344540018_PSYCHOLOGICAL_ASPECTS_OF_MANIPULATION_WITHIN_AN_INTERPERSONAL_INTERACTION_MANIPULATIONS_AND_MANIPULATORS. They refer to different types of manipulation, and use other terms for it occasionally. They start by defining “influence during interaction” – a subtype of manipulation – from psychological dictionaries as “a process when an individual is changing the behavior of another person as well as his/her attitudes, intentions, ideas, as a result of the person’s activity.” Cause and effect changes occur in the person’s mind, such as psychological characteristics of the individual*, group norms, public opinion, et cetera. Psychological impact can be explicit or implicit, depending on whether the goals of the manipulator are communicated in advance and not hidden. This is clearly the case in season 5 – Theo knows all about the Dread Doctors’ plan – but whose to say it was always like this? You can assume perhaps it was, if he knew what he was doing it for when he took Tara’s heart. But just because they told him one thing doesn’t mean they told him everything – did he know of their master plan when he was 8/9/10 (I wish canon gave us an actual age)? We have no way of knowing this, so for the sake of this article we’re going with the assumption both occurred at different stages. But implicit (covert) psychological influence emphasizes its destructive characteristics. Meaning, manipulation, at its core, can be positive or negative, depending on what the person is being manipulated to do. But obviously Theo wasn’t selected to do benevolent things, so we can get a sense of implicit manipulation here.

There is a latent impact in manipulation that can make the victim susceptible to pursuing various goals and intentions of the initiator. I talked to Des (the wonderful @bendystrah) about this particular point. Once again, what we know about Theo’s childhood is very limited. We don’t know what all he did for the ten-ish years he was with them. We don’t know what all they did to him. We don’t know a lot. But this point is saying the victim can be persuaded into doing what the perpetrator wants, even if they’re not their own goals or intentions. I bring up this point for a reason. We all know in season 5 he was acting on his own free will most of the time (does he even have free will still? Or has it been totally warped and convoluted?), but we know little about what happened with Tara. We know how she died, and why she died, and who is responsible for her death (well, I’m about to refute that one actually). What we don’t know is if Theo woke up one morning and went, “Huh, I kinda want Tara’s heart actually.” You can hate Theo and claim he did, but again, we have zero evidence that points to the fact Theo was already an evil child. We all know he was being visited by the Dread Doctors before Tara’s death, so I think it’s pretty obvious they were the ones who wanted Tara’s heart to make Theo a genetic chimera. Why her heart? Why them? We don’t know that, but we do know their goals and intentions – to make Theo a genetic chimera – and they get Theo to do the dirty work for them for whatever reason. So, in this point, I am claiming it’s possible Theo was completely manipulated into doing this and didn’t have any intentions of ever doing it until he was visited by the Dread Doctors. I mean, this is literally laid out in 5x16, so I’m just talking to talk. If you aren’t insane like me and don’t remember every Theo scene in an episode by just its number, it’s where he’s talking to Stiles in the sewers.

STILES: The guy who murdered his own sister when he was nine?

THEO: Yeah, I was nine years old. I also believed a guy in a red suit came down the chimney to deliver presents. So when three people in leather masks showed up and said that my sister wanted me to have her heart, I believed them, too.

So we know what the goals and intentions of the Dread Doctors are. It’s not hard to assume Theo is telling the truth in this scene (for a number of different reasons, including why lie and it lines up nicely with our theory), and, if he is, it goes to show he was psychologically influenced into doing this.

Furthermore, manipulation is always negative. Even if the goals were altruistic – which they are clearly not here – the process of manipulation is a negative one. This doesn’t really tie into our thesis here, but it is important to note.

The object of manipulation is viewed “as a means of achieving one’s own goals . . . without taking into account the interests, will, desire of the other side.” Meaning: the Dread Doctors didn’t care what Theo wanted. He was not their equal. They didn’t sit around a table and gently ask Theo what his interests, will, and desire was. We’ll never know Theo’s true interests, will, and desire before it was warped* into something else.

Okay, this next point is a bit complicated and is giving me a little bit of a headache (and I’m also a little high, which is so fun to admit to in an essay). But basically, “the manipulative impact focused on personality structures is characterized by the actualization of an interpersonal conflict, when the recipient of the manipulation is held responsible for the choice made through suffering in doubt.” So let’s break that down. That’s basically saying, there’s an impact of manipulation in which the victim is held responsible for what they did while being manipulated and thus feels interpersonal conflict. And obviously Theo is. No one ever argues the point that he killed his sister. And I’m not claiming otherwise, so don’t come at me yet, but this definition is claiming the victim of the manipulation is not at fault for their actions, but the person manipulating them is. And, as a result of this, the victim has interpersonal conflict. I mean, do I even need to say it? Theo’s entire Hell is this interpersonal conflict. To continue, it is claimed that “this type of manipulation the exploitation of the personality, because here . . . the desire [is] to shift the responsibility for the committed actions to the recipient, while the manipulator gets the win.” Once again, this claims the victim is not responsible for their actions, but the perpetrator(s) of the manipulation is. Now is where it gets tricky, and starts to give me a headache. It is said in these cases “it is extremely important for the manipular to create an illusion of choice for the agent of influence” and “when a person is sure that he/she is acting of his/her own free will, he/she will do much more than when he/she knows that he/she is fulfilling someone else’s decisions imposed on him/her.” Okay. I took a break (finally) and now I’m back. Knuckles cracked and everything. So, what this is talking about is when the manipulator wants something but, for whatever reason, doesn’t want to do it themselves and thus use the victim as a conduit to carry out their crime. They make it feel like the victim’s idea, because this makes the victim more likely to do it. I talked to Des about this one too, and what conclusion I came to was how this could possibly – possibly, still no coming at me yet – be the case with Theo’s desire to kill Scott. We know Theo wants Scott dead for his powers. But do the Dread Doctors also want him dead? That, here, is the key question. Me and Des think yes, as having Scott out of the way would make their work easier. But they don’t care so much that they’ll do it themselves. But what if they, really, want Theo to kill Scott? We don’t know if they do or don’t, so we can’t say for sure either way. I’ve done a little research on this but can’t seem to find any solid conclusions on the matter (trust me when I say I looked). So this one isn’t really sturdy, but it’s an interesting theory that the Dread Doctors allowed Theo to feel like he was making his own choices when really he was just helping the Dread Doctors carry out their plans. Maybe they, too, wanted the chaos and discord within the Pack. Now, obviously bringing the Chimeras back wasn’t their goal – hello, why kill them, then? – but I believe they also could’ve stopped Theo had they wanted to. They could’ve stopped Theo from doing anything if they had wanted to. The fact that they didn’t doesn’t point to them being nice and chill and just letting Theo do what he wants. To me, this is more likely stemming from the fact that, somehow, this all fit into their master plan – or, at least, didn’t interfere with it. But, like I said, if they wanted to stop Theo from doing any of this, they could’ve. Which makes me wonder if Theo’s free will wasn’t as free as it appears.

This article also mentions how authority is a particularly sound influence, but I will also explore a similar topic later on so I won’t bother with it now.

*This definition refers to the fact manipulation can cause changes in the psychological characteristics. Now, as a later source mentions, we will never know the full story of Theo’s childhood. All we know is what the show tells us, which isn’t a lot. But we can assume he wasn’t, like, one of those “evil children” who were just “born that way.” Because Scott or Stiles would’ve mentioned that, if he’d gone around killing animals or something. You can argue they didn’t know, but we also have literally zero evidence that he did do anything like that, so it’s a weird assumption to make. He had asthma, and played Little League, and no one ever mentions anything blaringly wrong with his early childhood. What I’m getting at here is a change in psychological characteristics. Maybe Theo was evil before, and that’s why the Dread Doctors targeted him. Or maybe he wasn’t, and went through actual psychological changes in his characteristics which caused him to act differently than he ever would have had he not been put on this path.

*In season 5, his interests, will, and desire are having a Pack and having power. These are his intentions and goals. First of all, I want to note that none of his goals are “murder.” Does murder fall into his plan? Absolutely. He’s clearly very much okay with it. But it’s not like his motivations are as shallow as “killing is fun!” He has reasons to kill Tracy and Josh, and reasons for wanting Scott dead. You can argue what he did to Scott was the worst thing he did, because he killed him out of emotion, not gaining anything from it. I know I’m basically saying premeditated murder is better, but that’s not what I mean. I just mean it isn’t like he originally set out to kill people for a good time. Killing people just happened to be the way to get what he wanted. Furthermore, who knows what his intentions would’ve been had he not lived the life he did? His intentions were formed as reactions. Wanting a Pack was a response to, well, not having one. And wanting power was a response to having none. If he’d been able to live a normal life, there’s no reason to assume he would’ve ever had aspirations like that.

Who is Manipulated?

Everything in this section comes from https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC8905186/. This article, actually, does not explore the heading at all. It explores radicalization in a religious sense in prisoners who were manipulated. But, the data in the article made it worth using for our purposes here. Starting with the fact “that the process of radicalization follows several phases, during which the recruiters indoctrinate and prepare young people for the use of violence.” And that sentence is what this section is really about: youth. This section will demonstrate how crucial of a factor age is, and what that says about Theo.

“According to this model, recruiters identify their targets in vulnerable contexts.” What this means is that the victim is usually already vulnerable in the eyes of the manipulator. Now, we don’t know why the Dread Doctors chose Theo. We know, like, three things about his early childhood, and none of those three things are even his age. But one of the three things is that he had asthma. Okay, you say, so did Scott. Well, maybe the Dread Doctors were looking for someone who had asthma and also a sibling. That sounds unlikely, but I’m simply illustrating the point that it is a possible weakness he had in his health, making him potentially already vulnerable. Or maybe he had shitty parents. Or maybe he had great parents. We don’t know anything else about his childhood. So we can’t really confirm this point, but what’s important is that we can also not deny it.

Next, “the first phase is psychological submission (emotional radicalization), whereby the young person loses their autonomy and becomes dependent.” Well, this is pretty obvious. The Dread Doctors took Theo away from his parents, and thus he became entirely dependent on them. What else is an 8/9/10 year old supposed to do? He has to depend on them, he has no other options. He can’t just depend on himself, because how is an 8/9/10 year old supposed to have or make money? How’s he supposed to eat? Where is he supposed to sleep? So, yeah, he’s dependent. But, this is also “achieved by using persuasive and aggressive communication strategies, such as social isolation and inducing confusion between reality and fantasy.” We definitely can check the social isolation. Now’s where one of the Tumblr articles comes in. In this post (https://demonzdust.tumblr.com/post/178486817906/part-i-introduction-theo-before-the-dread) the author states that, “We know that the Dread Doctors kidnap and experiment on people while they are still conscious. We also know that they are capable of inducing hallucinations. They can do all of this unbeknownst to others. That leaves them with a lot of tools to shape a young Theo into what they wanted.” I reference this post because it says what I wanted to say better and more succinctly than I could. Especially the part regarding the hallucinations, and how that ties into the article’s point about inducing confusion between reality and fantasy. Like we’ve said, we don’t know what all the Dread Doctors did to Theo. But it’s entirely possible they confused his reality and fantasy, at least for a period of time.

Now we get more into the actual article, which is about religious radicalization. But we’re going to spin this into a Theo context. “Finally, in the third phase of violent disinhibition and legitimization (violent radicalization), the recruit validates the use of violence by associating with the mistreatment and oppression allegedly suffered by their new group, identifies the enemy, and shifts responsibility by making an attack essential to improving their situation.” Okay, that was a lot of words. Let’s break it down. In short, for there to be violent radicalization, setting a clear enemy and making the victim feel like attacking that enemy is the only way to improve their situation must be present. This goes back to my earlier point about the Dread Doctors and possibly wanting Scott dead/chaos and discord in the Pack. Did the Dread Doctors convince him this Pack consisting of his old friends was the enemy? Did they make him think they needed to be disbanded for Theo to get his own Pack and the power he’s craving? We don’t know. We can’t say yes, but we also can’t say no.

Next is where we get into the youth aspect of this section. Youth is noted as “a particularly relevant stage in the radicalization process.” We know Theo is young. As young as 8 when this started, and around 18 during season 5. This article talks about 20-28 being young, so Theo would fall into the category of being extremely young. If youth is a relevant age in radicalizing 20-28 year olds, what exactly does it do to someone who might be 8 years old? The article continues by stating, “Age could be considered a risk factor for radicalization.” Which just means that Theo had a risk factor already before ever being visited by the Dread Doctors. Why? Why is being young more of a risk factor? Well, I’m glad you asked, because I have answers. 

The experience of more extreme and variable emotions

Greater threat/stress sensitivity

Commitment with violence

Basically, young people experience more extreme and variable emotions due to “deficits in both emotional regulation and emotion reactivity (sensitivity).” This also applies to the second point, and why threat/stress sensitivity is greater. Now, the last part is more for adolescents than a child. But it states that the youth are more likely to engage in risky behaviors and commit more violence than other age groups. Now, these are not reasons Theo is the way he is. Everyone is a child/adolescent at some point. But these are risk factors, and they could have played a role in making Theo more susceptible to manipulation and violence.

Barely Even Human

Yeah, I know it was cruel to name this section that. But it fits. Everything in this section comes from https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/ethics-manipulation/. This article defines manipulation as “radical programming or reprogramming of all or most of an agent’s beliefs, desires, and other mental states.” The thought is that “that manipulative influences bypass the target’s capacity for rational deliberation.” This is implying that the Dread Doctors and their manipulation of Theo could’ve bypassed his ability to really think about the choices he was making. This has long-lasting implications. If we believe this to be true, it is possible that the Theo we see simply doesn’t have a “capacity for rational deliberation.” Meaning, he acts in irrational ways, or ways that look irrational to others but seem rational to  him because he lacks the ability to purposefully and calculatingly make decisions. Instead, he acts in a way that meets his most basic survival needs. And what does a wolf need? A Pack. And what does someone who has been manipulated for a decade need? Power. He needs a Pack and power, and thus those are his goals. Are they rationally deliberated goals? We don’t know, but this article suggests the possibility that the answer is no.

“Manipulation is commonly used aggressively, as a way to harm the manipulator’s target, or at least to benefit the manipulator at the target’s expense.” This point doesn’t have a lot to do with the points I’m making in this essay, but it does make me sad for Theo.

“Another natural way to account for the wrongness of manipulation would be to claim that it violates, undermines, or is otherwise antithetical to the target’s personal autonomy.” This is, more or less, what we talked about earlier. That Theo may never have made any of the decisions he made if not for the Dread Doctors. This implies none of this was done out of his own personal desire to do so, and that it may very well be things he never would have done otherwise. The article goes onto further state that, “It is natural to regard [manipulation] as interfering with autonomous decision-making. The idea that manipulation is wrong because it undermines autonomous choice is implicit in discussions of manipulation as a potential invalidator of consent.” Meaning, Theo’s consent wasn’t important during the time he spent with the Dread Doctors. The Dread Doctors didn’t take it into consideration. This doesn’t mean he actively did things he didn’t consent to doing, but it does bring up the possibility for further discussion.

Lastly, this article states that, “In this view, manipulation involves treating the target as a device to be operated rather than an agent to be reasoned with.” We already know the Dread Doctors viewed Theo as an object. Whether he could be a success or a failure. They never cared about him as a person, merely as a tool to do things they couldn’t/didn’t want to do. If you view Theo this way – as a device to be operated – it takes away some of the blame placed upon him for his actions. He was wound up and made to go, simply put.

Conclusions

TL;DR: Manipulation is bad. Don’t do it. Theo was manipulated, and primed to be so because of his status as a youth. In this essay, we explored his actions and the possibilities behind why they occurred. Our conclusions are that it’s entirely possible he was completely manipulated by the Dread Doctors and thus acted as a puppet whilst they pulled the strings.

If you disagree with anything I said, let me know. But not just in a “screw you you’re stupid” way. Let’s have an actual conversation.

I hope you enjoyed this at least a little bit, or learned something from this. This is Kay, signing off (for now . . . ).

xoxo, kay

[dyketennant]

i feel like when dhmis first blew up, it was purely because of the shock value piece of it—look, they're singing funny songs and now it's all gorey. and there definitely is some of that in the new show, but having more time to really flesh out their narratives made it all feel much more purposeful.

watching it i couldn't help but think of how much the new show reads as a satire, not just some traumatizing internet video. it made me laugh more than it startled me. and it always seemed like a satire of children's media, but now it feels a bit more mature, critical, and complex—literally going from the big "capitalism is bad," to critiquing how we treat people who are grieving, to found family and feeling pressured to get along with your blood family, etc etc.

and by the last two episodes it's much less about the shock value and much more about a haunting, psychological horror that many of us can relate to. this existential dread, if "this" is all life is, even going to episode 5 and seeing how afraid and hopeless red is (something something growing up and fear of homelessness/not "making it").

this show was not as scary to me as the youtube series was. maybe it's just because i'm a little older. but honestly, i'm glad it wasn't.