#Tw putting a muzzle on a person

[clarabowmp3]

I am so close to bursting into tears over the “swirled you into all of my poems” line

[cepheusgalaxy]

CW: blood, muzzle, restraints, implied violence, implied murder attempt, princess whumpee, implied captivity, eye contact.

Below, there are some drawings of mine that may feature triggering elements. Please, be aware of the content warnings.

☃️

I want to put an original artwork on my icon

What should it be?

1:

2:

Or 3?:

Please consider reblogging! If you don't, thanks for voting anyways!

I won't be tagging anyone since all this art was posted before

[ceilidho]

take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (chapter 16 + 17) tw: violence, injuries, and misogynistic language

first chapter >> last chapter

-

Sinking into fear is the body’s natural response. You let it envelope you without putting up a struggle. It wouldn’t be one that you’d win anyway. Resistance already leaks out of you like tar, pooling around your quivering legs.  

It makes you feel lighter than air, almost buoyant; and conversely, heavier than lead. 

You can’t feel the cold metal of the gun through the layers of fabric separating it from the skin of your back, but you can feel its weight. And you can imagine it burning into you, burning a ring into the flesh, the muzzle leaving faint depressions behind, circular indents.

“Don’t feel so clever now, huh?”

Fear chokes as well as it binds. When the man you remember as Graves (appropriately named, you think, the gravity of the situation sinking into you as well) drawls the words into your ear, any moisture in your mouth dries. 

“Well?” he prompts, shoving the gun harder into your back, almost sending you toppling into the shelf still in front of you obscuring you from sight. “Got anythin’ to say?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out.

“You a mute, girl? I know you ain’t deaf since you heard I’d been sniffin’ around lookin’ for ya. ‘Least I’m guessin’ you did, since you managed to give me the slip for the whole time I was in town.” He sniffs. “Took me a while to find out you were shacked up with the sheriff. Hiding in plain sight. Couldn’t believe I missed ya when Sheriff Price was damn near the first person I met in this two-bit town.”

You finally muster up the nerve to speak. “Y-you’re making a mistake.” 

The furled upper lip is audible in his voice. “I’d try not to piss me off too much, sugar. Lyin’ just rubs me the wrong way is all.”

“No, you—you really don’t—” 

He shoves the gun harder into your back, making you wince. “Now, I know you’re a slippery little bitch, so I’ll level with you, alright?” Graves murmurs, pitching his voice low to ensure that only you hear. “You make so much as a peep—so much as a fuckin’ whisper—and I’ll shoot. Wink and I’ll shoot. I am dyin’ for you to give me a reason to go with the better half of the dead or alive question.”

There’s no point in lying. It might’ve worked had it been anyone but the man holding you hostage; not a man as stubborn and mulish as him. You nod when he asks if you understand.

“Now get to steppin’.”

He doesn’t tarry long, leading you out of the shop with a hand on your shoulder and . You stare at Miles with mounting horror, wordlessly begging him to look up from the ledger open in front of him on the counter. Your prayers go unanswered though; he doesn’t so much as glance towards the door before it’s swinging shut behind you.

“Remember,” Graves says in a low voice as the two of you step out onto the porch, “not a word. I will shoot anyone that tries to interfere.” 

That kills the impulse to shout for help. 

The thought of letting Graves take you away without voicing so much as a single plea fills you with horror, but you can’t see any other way out. He walks you through the streets like an old friend, the pistol still wedged into your back obscured by his coat. No one seems to notice the wild look in your eyes or the strained edge of your smile. 

Your behavior infuriates you. Demural and soft and wretched. You’ve only allowed one man to put you under their thumb; only one has ever earned the right. 

The thought of your husband is an ache in your chest that doesn’t abate. It thumps with the terrified flutter of your heart. You half wonder if he’ll suddenly appear from around a bend and wrench you into his arms, gun already drawn and aimed at the man attempting to take you away from him. 

“My husband—” you start, tripping over your words. Almost tripping over a rock as well since your spine is too stiff to let you look down at the ground while you walk. “—He can—he can pay you.”

He laughs, a nasty, mocking sound. “I’m sure he’d like to, sugar. Jus' ain’t sure he’s got the cash to pay your price.”

“At least let me ask—”

At that, he jams the gun violently into the small of your back, making you wince agaun. Petrified. Sweat sluices off your brow and drips down your face. “What part of shut the fuck up don’t you get?”

That silences you. Hard to muster up the nerve to retaliate with a gun lodged against the base of your spine. Still there’s so much that bears asking. Why did he come back? Why here—why now? 

The town takes on a dull, listless quality as he steers you away from the more crowded areas. It’s almost like looking through muslin; a veil between you and the world. 

Your eyes dart from person to person as they pass by in the opposite direction, but even those that bother to meet your gaze only smile politely, a couple passing gentlemen chirping, “Morning, Mrs. Price” before sweeping by in a hurry. 

None question the wild, frantic glint in your eye, the look of a horse about to bolt. If they paid you more than a moment’s notice, they might, but even the lady who frowns curiously at Graves, his hand still resting gently on your arm as if he were an old, dear friend, abandons her momentary curiosity when her companion says something of interest, pulling her back into their conversation. The flicker of hope in your belly dies a soundless death. 

There’s something almost phantasmagorical about the entire ordeal. Almost like it isn’t quite happening, like you can’t quite make yourself believe that this is, in fact, real. Like you’re watching from outside of yourself. Though you can see the wooden facades of the nearby buildings and smell the scent of hay and manure from the livery stable, it doesn’t resonate within you as real. 

He meanders through town with you stationed in front of him. A meat shield. Collateral damage. Simply by the way he maneuvers you through the crowd, he reduces you to a body, stripping you of any semblance of personhood. You’re less than meat to him, less than human even—no more than a meal ticket. 

When you muster up the courage to open your mouth the next time someone passes you by, Graves’ hand slides up to your shoulder and he digs his fingers into the bone. A warning. 

“If you think I was kiddin’ before, just try me,” he sneers into your ear, thumb pressing into your shoulder blade until you wince. 

Again, his voice dispels any thought of getting someone’s attention. 

He doesn’t lead you towards the train station like you expect. Instead, he heads to an awning beneath the saloon on the periphery of town where a couple horses are leashed to a post, waiting for their riders to come untie them. The roof of the awning is strung with a dense cluster of overlapping cobwebs. A spider scuttles across the web and into the dark inner recesses of the canopy. 

This far from the center of town, there’s hardly anyone. When you give your surroundings a quick glance, you can’t find a single other soul within earshot, only a single man pushing open the batwing doors on his way into the saloon. Then you’re alone again. 

A tawny gelding chuffs when Graves approaches.  When he suddenly unhands you, it doesn’t click until he’s several paces away from you, running his hand down his horse’s neck and rifling through the saddlebags, emptying the contents of his coat pockets into them. You have to glance down at your shoulder just to be sure. He sheathes his gun as well, tucking it into the holster fixed to his belt. 

“Bought the horse off a drunk three towns back,” Graves explains while loading up the horse.

You don’t respond, still unsettled. It’s the first time since he led you out of the general store that his gun hasn’t been aimed at you. It wouldn’t be practical for him to dress and load the horse one handed. The sun beats down on you, burning the top of your head. This could be your moment—a moment to scream or run away.

But you don’t. You don’t scream and you don’t run because you are, above all else, a coward. Through and through. You’ve been running from your problems for months now, leaving someone else to take care of the mess you left behind. 

Fear paralyzes you; it makes you think too much or not at all. Even now, with Graves giving you the perfect opportunity to turn and run, you can’t stop thinking about the potential consequences. What if he were to shoot you? What if he were to haul you back into town and expose your sins to everyone who gathered around? What if the people in town that have come to see you as one of their own were to gather around your crumpled form and stare at you with vitriol and disgust? 

“How did you—” you start, then pause to breathe, the nausea building again. “I thought you’d left town.”

“You’d’ve liked that, huh?” 

You don’t answer that. You know better than to antagonize a man with a gun. 

He sighs when you don’t rise to the bait, almost pettish. “Wedding announcement. I saw it in the paper—by then, I’d moved on to Lexington, so it took me awhile to backtrack, but I just knew somethin’ about that bit in the paper about the sheriff’s wife hailing from the east coast didn’t sound right. Too big of a coincidence. Had to at least be sure—retrace my footsteps. Lotta money on the line, you know.”

You stare straight ahead at that. You ought to have known. 

(“In the paper. The county sheriff got hitched—of course it’d be a story.”)

“To be honest, that kinda cracked me up. Murderess marrying the county sheriff.” He snorts out a laugh, shaking his head. “Sorta thing you’d read about in a dime novel.”

A new emotion wells up within you. It simmers in your belly, hot and cold at once. Righteous fury. All this time, you’ve been betraying yourself with your silence, allowing men to read your fear as guilt. Complicit in your own ruin. 

“I’m not a murderer.”

The look he gives you is withering. “Sugar, I hate to break it to you, but you did kill a man.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Nothing ever does, it seems.  But the more you hold it in, the uglier the thought seems, until it erupts from your chest like Vesuvius, lava and tephra shooting out. 

“He deserved it,” you finally spit out, the words coming from deep in your chest. 

Graves doesn’t even pause in his ministrations, back to tightening the saddle straps. 

“He deserved it,” you repeat, spittle flying out of your mouth and landing in the dirt between the two of you. 

“That’s not somethin’ I usually concern myself with,” he finally says, looking distinctly unimpressed when he meets your stare. Bored blue eyes. 

You’re struck by the sense that your life means so little to him that the circumstances surrounding your bounty hardly merit more than a passing thought. If he could spare less, he would. 

It’s the vilest thing in the world to be regarded with such bored contempt. 

“He would’ve—he would’ve raped me otherwise. I didn’t have a choice.” 

At that, Graves pauses. When he looks towards you, his eyes are curiously blank. 

“Better that than what’ll happen now,” he says, the words so perfunctory that it takes a moment for them to sink in.  When they do, you have to swallow back bile.

His glibness shatters whatever hope you’d had left. 

In that moment, you finally acknowledge that appealing to his sense of decency won’t lead you anywhere because it simply doesn’t exist within him. You’ve known men like him before—those more concerned with lining their own pockets than taking care of the vulnerable people around them. The archetype is not uncommon. You should’ve expected it even, especially from a bounty hunter. 

There won’t be any bribing him or talking your way out of the situation you’ve found yourself in. Whatever facinorous end awaits you back east, he’s happy to shepherd you there so long as it earns him his thirty coins. 

How many times do you have to ask yourself if you’re brave enough to do something before you answer? 

When Graves turns to face you again and takes a step towards you, likely to urge you up onto the saddle, you recoil, stumbling away from him. His eyes sharpen at your movement, fulvous wolf eyes narrowing on you. 

“And here I thought you’d stopped pissin’ me off,” he says lightly, a hard edge underlying his words. His hand lifts to rest against the handle of the revolver tucked back in its sheath, thumb flexing over it. 

“What’s the point?” you retort, nostrils flaring. “You either kill me here or I die there.”

You sound braver than you feel, fear making you shake so hard that your knees almost knock together. 

Graves’ smile is all lip, no crinkling around the eyes. “Oh, I won’t kill you, sugar. I’m a better shot than that.”

Your heart pounds against your ribcage, stomach turning over at the thought of him putting a bullet through your shoulder or leg. 

“I’m surprised you won’t just come quietly. You think the sheriff wouldn’t hand you over to me himself if he found out what kinda woman he married?”

That’s been your fear from the very beginning. The one thing that’s kept you awake at night, the nightmare shaking you out of a dead sleep. You’d convinced yourself that him calling the authorities or even escorting you back east himself was an inevitability. That John Price, paragon of virtue, wouldn’t bend the rules for anyone, much less you. 

But the more you think about it, the less sense it seems to make. Every tender word and touch rises to the forefront of your memory. If John has shown you anything, it’s love. He’s proven his devotion a thousand times over, shown you time and again that were you to leave, he’d come running. 

Suddenly, the thought that your husband would let someone take you away from him seems preposterous. It doesn’t align at all with the man you know. He’d go to hell and back for you, would rip out a man’s tongue for speaking to you the way Graves speaks to you now. Hindsight makes that clear. 

You meet his eyes, intention set. “I’d rather just ask him.”

Blue eyes turn to flint, flat. Droll candor shed for ruthlessness. Silence before a storm. 

He’s on you before you even have a chance to whirl around and make a run for it, arm cutting into your windpipe when he wraps it around your neck. He drags you back into the shadows of the awning, out of sight from anyone on the street; your heels score lines in the dirt. You choke, wheezing on your next breath, but his arm tightens, trapping the scream in your throat. 

“Shoulda done this before,” Graves grunts, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out the pair of cuffs he had tucked away. 

When he unhooks his arm from around your neck, you gasp for breath, sucking in deep lungfuls of air. Panic swirls and rises in your chest. 

“Get your hands off—” you hiss, beating his arm with your fist to no avail. He yanks your arms in front of you until your wrists are pressed close together. Your blood curdles at the feeling of cold iron against your skin and the gut-wrenching sound of handcuffs being fixed around your wrists, tightened to the point of pain. You can hardly flex your hands with how tight they’re bound. “Let me go, let ME GO—”

He pulls you in close again. “Don’t think I won’t tape your fuckin’ mouth shut too,” Graves snarls in your ear. Nausea swells in your belly. 

“Please— please don’t do this—” you beg, a sob breaking from your chest now. 

He sighs, long suffering. “Lord knows I tried to warn you.”

Despite the threat, Graves doesn’t tape your mouth shut. Instead, he fastens a rough piece of rope around your head, fitting it between your teeth like a bit. You don’t have it in you to be thankful for small mercies this time. The hemp cord scratches the corners of your mouth when you try to move your lips around it. 

“There,” he says, giving you a rough shake, satisfied. “That’s better. Can finally hear myself think.”

The tears leak out of the corners of your eyes in big, fat droplets, clouding your vision. When he wipes your cheeks with a calloused hand, the nail of his thumb catches on the delicate skin under your eye, leaving a thin cut. The pain makes you flinch, staring daggers at the man in front of you, but he doesn’t apologize for his rough handling. 

Graves heaves himself up onto the saddle first, swinging a leg over with practiced ease. You yelp when he hauls you up after, setting you on the saddle in front of him. Heat crawls up your neck when your skirt billows around your waist, horrified. 

“Save your tears, sugar,” he tells you, gathering the reins in one hand. “You’ll need ‘em for later.”

The horse whinnies when Graves pulls upward and guides him towards the road leading out of town, hooves clopping against the dirt. Your heart shoots up into your throat. 

Galloping out of town, you chance a glance back, head spinning as the world blurs around you. A man stands under the awning you just left, his head cocked as if stupefied. He’s too far away for you to get a proper look at his face though, no way to tell if he’s someone that might recognize you and alert John. You try to scream or wave your hands—anything to get his attention, to let the stranger know that something is wrong. 

You watch until the figure melds into the surrounding town. 

You keep waiting for someone to appear from behind you. A tall figure to darken the horizon, blot it like the moon passing over the sun. 

The last bastion of your hope collapses into rubble the farther away you ride, no man nor horse following you in pursuit. And then a hand grabs a fistful of your hair and wrenches your head back around, cutting off your view.

The plan is to leave the horse in the next town you reach and take a train back east. Graves would’ve done that back in the town you just left, he tells you, but he wanted to put as much distance between you and the sheriff. 

“You never know with men who’ve gotten a taste of married life,” he says when he finally deigns to stop miles from town, sitting on a rock and having a drink while he leaves you tied to the horse by your wrists. You shift from foot to foot, a cramp winding up your legs. “They get themselves a little pussy and lose all sense of dignity or morality. Can’t be trusted to do the right thing.” 

Steam practically billows out of your ears. You have the good sense to keep your mouth shut though, cognizant of the fact that you’re alone out in the middle of nowhere with a man who’d be happy to bring you back dead or alive. Though he hasn’t been quite so explicit, it’s apparent in the way he doesn’t offer to untie you or let you rest as well. The skin under the cuffs on your wrists are rubbed raw from your attempts to free yourself, and from the journey itself, with all the jostling and the persistent cramp in your right shoulder. 

The animal awareness dawns on you during that first rest. He’d taken the rope out when you were far enough outside of town that it didn’t matter if you screamed or not. That’s what stays your tongue now—the creeping notion that you are far from anyone that would be remotely sympathetic to your plight. 

“How much was the bounty?” you ask, more out of morbid curiosity than anything. You balance on one foot to shake the cramp out of the other. 

“Now, I hate to be rude, sugar, but what does it matter to you? It ain’t you collecting the reward.”

Your lips flatten into a taut line, already regretting prying. It’s not like knowing would change anything. 

The break ends sooner than you’d hoped, Graves urging you back onto the horse before taking a seat behind you. It troubles you because you’re not far enough away from town that you couldn’t still be rescued. There’d be more of a chance of John or someone else—one of his deputies, perhaps—coming across you out here. But you don’t have much of a choice. 

Out here, the land stretches on without end. Only the faint blue of a mountain ridge paralleling your route breaks the horizon. The land is flat, sparse apart from the dense shrubbery and trees twisted and bent by the wind. Cottonwood and boxelder. Chokecherry. Dogwood and hawthorn. Lush blooming saltbrush. 

The clear blue sky overhead is almost mocking, the rain from earlier long since abated. There’s hardly a cloud in the sky now. It’d be scenic if you could abstract it from the circumstances. A perfect day for gardening or a brisk walk after being kept indoors because of the rain. You’re still damp from riding through the rain earlier. 

A few bison congregate in a small dip in the terrain, grazing on the wild grass. You stare at them wide-eyed as you gallop along the upper ridge, startled by the sight of so many in one place. 

Despite the sublime beauty of the land, you remain on edge, unable to take anything in or truly enjoy it. Panic and revulsion leave you as gnarled and knotted as the krummholz trees out in the middle of the open plains. Riding with Graves feels nothing like the few times you and John shared a horse. It’s impersonal; transactional. Entirely against your will. 

The sun has only just begun to descend under the horizon when you and Graves approach a ramshackle house situated by itself in the middle of the open plains. Barely more than a barn, and long since abandoned by the looks of it. Age has done the place no favors; wooden slats sag and separate from the exterior of the house, the gaps in between the boards letting in all manner of insects and rot. 

Graves dismounts his horse about a stone’s throw from the hovel. His brow furrows with dissatisfaction as he surveys the abandoned property. 

“Shit,” he remarks, sucking his teeth. “A local back in town swore a family still lived here. Don’t look like anyone’s lived here since Abraham.”

Part of you wishes the former tenants still resided here, on the off possibility that one might take pity on you, but a much larger part of you is grateful for the dwelling’s vacancy. You’ve heard stories before, of families living out in the middle of nowhere. Rumors. Not all bad, of course; it’s common enough for families migrating west sometimes to stop along the way for a generation or two, building more permanent dwellings than the caravans they began their journey in. Many such families were also known for putting up travelers passing through in exchange for goods or help with chores. 

But you’ve also heard other stories. Like the Riley family out near Cherryvale and their homestead just off the Great Osage Trail. They lived out there for more than two decades before the number of lone travelers vanishing off the trail within walking distance of their property pointed the finger of suspicion at them. When the authorities finally got around to procuring a warrant for their property, they found the house deserted apart from the furniture that couldn’t be loaded into the wagon and an infant boy, dehydrated and petrified. 

You shake the story from your head. “…Are we spending the night here?” you ask tentatively. 

He looks at you from the corner of his eye, nostrils flared. “Don’t go gettin’ any ideas in that head of yours. Jus’ because a man’s gotta rest his eyes, don’t mean I gotta give you a peaceful night’s rest. No, I’m leavin��� those hands of yours tied.”

Your hopes deflate at that. 

He helps you dismount before hobbling his horse with a pair of leather straps around its front legs to keep it from darting off in the middle of the night. You wince sympathetically; you have more in common with a horse now than any man. 

The inside of the cabin is just as derelict as the exterior. At the very least, he feeds you. A couple scoops of pemmican straight from the tin. The fact that he insists on feeding you instead of letting you feed yourself puts you on edge. Your spine is stiff as a board through it all, your mouth barely opening up to receive the spoonful of pemmican, the metal clanking against your teeth. You wince, the sound itself tasting of rust. 

At all times, you are aware of the precarity of your situation. You can’t imagine there were any stipulations in the bounty to bring you back unscathed. Though he hasn’t tried anything untoward so far—not so much as made a licentious remark—you don’t know how long your luck will last. You flinch every time he so much as twitches in your direction, sure at any moment his mood will flip and he’ll drag you across the floor and haul himself over you. 

It’s enough to make your stomach hurt, turning over itself. He doesn’t try anything though, and for that you exhale shakily, the tension running off you in rivulets. 

One hour drags into the next. Night blackens the sky, seeping in through the crumbling walls of the cabin. 

“Well,” Graves says, wiping his hands together to dust off any lingering crumbs. “I’m gonna hit the hay.”

“Do…do I get to sleep as well?”

He cocks a brow. “Not much I can do to stop you.”

“It’s just that…” You lift your hands as you trail off, silently pointing out the handcuffs still secured around your wrists, the implicit assertion being that you won’t be able to sleep with the metal digging into the bones of your wrists. 

Graves scoffs. “You can’t think I’ll just uncuff you ‘cause we ain’t in town no more. I got a little more sense than that, sugar.”

“You could use rope instead?” you suggest. 

The seconds he spends considering it are long. You hold your breath as you watch him weigh the pros and cons. 

Finally, he shrugs. “Alright.”

The relief that washes over you is almost palpable. 

He pulls a blanket out of one of the saddlebags to function as a makeshift pillow, setting it up on the floor in the center of the room. True to his word, Graves uncuffs you and loops a double knotted rope around your wrists instead, fastening the rope tying your hands together around his own wrist. Your stomach sinks as he pulls the knot taut. 

He levels a heavy stare on you after giving the rope one last tug. “I don’t usually repeat myself, sugar, but I will this one time. Don’t go tryin’ anythin’ stupid. I’m gettin’ a good night’s rest and so help me if you wake me up—” his eyes flash, gray going steely “—you won’t like the consequences.”

You nod. Swallow back the phlegm clogging your throat. 

True night plunges the old house into darkness, cricket songs slipping in through the cracks in the walls. The temperature also plunges with the setting sun. It gets cold at night, even in the summer months; the draft makes you shiver, the rotting exterior letting in the elements. 

You keep to the wall with the least amount of rotting boards, as far as the rope tethering you to Graves will allow you to go. It would probably be in your best interest to try and get some sleep, but you’re far too restless to calm down. The atmosphere in the house is far too eerie to settle your nerves either; you can’t help but wonder about the family that must have left this place to rot and fade away into memory. 

It’s all you can do to blink back the tears that spring to your eyes when you think about the memory of you that John will have to carry into the future now that you’re gone. It isn’t fair. After everything you’ve had to endure in this lifetime, you thought maybe that this might have been your reward. That John was your reward. 

Your hands drop from your chin to your knees, hopelessness plaguing you again. The thin, sharp whistle of defeat. High and reedy as a death rattle. 

Then your eyes drop to your wrists.

The cord is fastened in a bowline knot around your wrists, difficult to undo without considerable effort, but the material is softer than the cuffs Graves had you in before, and it gives when you pull one hand down while pushing the other up. Your skin bunches around the cord, but it doesn’t cut into you the way the metal did. 

Graves is still fast asleep when you glance over at him. He doesn’t snore, but the rise and fall of his chest under the blanket is steady. Stable. 

The fatigue dissipates from your body the second you put it together. That there’s a sliver of a possibility of slipping your hands out of the rope tying you to Graves. The exhilaration is almost overwhelming. You have to sit with it a beat before acting, wary of letting your guard down too fast.

Time passes slowly as you fiddle with the knot, reaching your fingers as far as they’ll go and gritting your teeth through the ensuing cramp in your wrist. You nearly groan in frustration when your hand twitches and you accidentally retighten the knot. A near crushing blow. 

Please, you mouth more than whisper, frustrated tears clumped in your lashes. Teeth sinking into the flesh of your bottom lip, pinching off the wail rising up your throat. 

Your heart skips a beat when the rope loosens around one of your wrists, enough for you to wiggle a pinkie underneath and slowly shimmy it up the length of your hand. A cramp makes your pinkie spasm, almost causing you to lose your grip. Sweat pools in the cup of your palm. 

When your wrists are finally free, the rope clutched in trembling hands and the basal joint of your thumb scrapped raw from the fibrous rope, you can only sit there, heart beating wildly in your chest. You have to force yourself to remain calm, wary of waking Graves up after all that effort. His eyelids quiver only with his dreams though. 

You glance towards the door on the other side of the cabin. It seems either farther away now that you know it’s within reach. You know better than to just run straight for it though. Weeks of being on the run before finding John have taught you to pace yourself, to push down the fluttering evocation in your chest to make a mad dash for the closest way out. 

Instead, you take a deep breath out, closing your eyes until you’ve calmed down. Then you rise slowly to your feet. 

Your eyes, having long since adjusted to the darkness, scan the room for any loose floorboards. Aside from one obvious corner of the house which has begun to rot away and collapse, it’s hard for you to discern at a glance which boards will groan under the weight of your feet. You have no choice but to guess.

Each step has you on edge, heart in your throat. Your focus shifts quicksilver between the floor and Graves. Waiting for any sudden movement. 

Halfway to the door, you take another cautious step forward and the floorboard creaks under your foot. Your heart stops, eyes flitting instantly over to Graves’ sleeping form. He doesn’t so much as shift. It’s another beat before you’re able to move again, confidence shaken by the noise. You keep imagining him suddenly shooting up from the floor, pistol in hand, the hammer striking the primer, the hiss of gas escaping the barrel. 

The door gives a faint creak when you push it open, so you open it only enough for your body to slip through, wincing when you twitch and accidentally push it open another inch, dragging out the creak. Still, he doesn't wake. You slip past the door, shutting it quietly behind you.  

The moon glows cornsilk gold in the sky. A vast, uncharted land stretches out around you, untouched by human hands, or so changed over the years that any human presence has long since been buried beneath the loam. But when you stare out into the distance, you realize that you have no idea where you came from. Everything looks the same in each direction, no landmark familiar enough for you to orient yourself. You’re out in the middle of nowhere and nothing looks right. 

If you had less strength, you’d fall to your knees. The despair is so immense that you hardly have the strength to hold it all at once. 

The silence lulls you into a false sense of security. You linger for too long, stuck contemplating your options. Coyotes yip in distant packs, their barks carrying across the plains. You shiver at the sound. It reminds you again that you’re on your own now. No husband to come chasing after you if things get sticky. 

Your first few steps away from the cabin are tentative, gliding your legs through the grass and staring up at the cornsilk moon. A combination of indulgence and bewilderment. If you knew the right way home, you wouldn’t waver, but these days, you have no faith in your instincts. They’ve only ever led you off course. 

The gelding that Graves rode in on sits in the grass with its hind legs folded underneath it. With its legs still hobbled, you know removing the leather will take more time than you'd like, but you figure it'll be easier to make your way across the plains on horseback, with the added bonus of leaving Graves stranded. If God were just, he’d starve out here and leave his corpse for the coyotes to feast on. 

You approach the horse cautiously, conscious not to make any sudden movements. Its ears angle towards you as you draw near. Attentive to your presence. 

“Hey there, honey,” you whisper, reaching out a hand and trying to show that you aren’t a threat. Its nose twitches.

Another step forward. Easy does it. One leg in front of the other.

“I won’t hurt you. I promise.” You try to mirror your memory of John in your voice, honeysuckle soft words. 

You aren’t John though. Not even close. You take another step towards it.

It brays when you get too close, skittish. The sound pierces through the night, louder than the coyotes in the distance. Louder even than the creaking door.  

The hair on the back of your neck raises, lips numb. Then the prickling awareness of movement in the house, like an itch on a phantom limb. 

Behind you, the door to the cabin bursts open with a bang, slamming off the wall and ricocheting back. You whip your head around to look only to find Graves’ towering form under the shadow of the doorway, his hair mused and clothes askew. And he looks enraged. 

“Hey!” Graves bellows from the doorway, breaking into a run towards you. “Get back here!”

There’s no time to sit with the regret, no time to bemoan the fact that you didn’t exercise enough caution, that for some reason without a gun leveled at your head, you allowed yourself to forget the very real danger this man posed to you. 

All you can do is run.

The grass whistles around you. You run so hard that your lungs burn, your arms pumping furiously beside you, dress swishing between your legs. You don’t have to look behind you to know that Graves is gaining on you. His body is built for pursuit. Still, you push yourself past your breaking point, not stopping even when you taste blood in your mouth. Mindless; directionless. No idea where you’re going—just away from him. You’d jump off a cliff if you came across one. 

He’s close enough for you to hear now, heavy breathing right behind you. But by then it’s too late. A heavy body rams into you, sending you careening towards the earth, the ground rushing up to meet you halfway. The dirt hardly cushions the blow. 

You hit the ground hard. Head knocked loose of thought, agony ripping across your face. The double blow of a body heavier than yours forcing you into the dirt, so solid that it crushes the breath from your lungs. 

Blood leaks from your lip, most likely split. When you breathe in to fill your lungs, you taste dirt and rust and earth. 

“Insufferable bitch,” Graves snarls, putrid breath wafting under your nose and making your eyes water. He grabs a handful of your hair and wrenches your head up before slamming it back down. Something crunches. Distantly, you wonder if your nose is broken. 

Your ears ring, the rest of his words drowned out by the blood rushing to your face. 

“Please—” you beg, blood dripping from your split lip. 

“Knew I shouldn’ta trusted you—conniving little cunt—c’mere now, get up—”

He rises to his feet over your body, big hand curling around your wrist. You hear your shoulder pop when he yanks your arm behind your back. A rush of cold. A sweat breaks on the nape of your neck. Shock sets in the moment after, adrenaline flooding your body. 

Then a sharp, focused surge of pain. It radiates from your shoulder outward, so intense that you can’t believe it at first. Your whole world reduces down to it. Feathering out down your back; irradiating waves of it. Thoughts scattering and then coming back together around the pain. If you scream, it comes out unbidden. 

“Ah, hell, I didn’t mean to do that,” he grumbles from behind you, likely staring at the unnatural jut of your shoulder. “Alright, sugar, one second—I’ll pop that back in.”

“Nononono—” you gasp, panic lancing through you, but he pays no attention to your words. 

The pain of popping your shoulder back in is excruciating. Relief follows shortly after, but the time between dislocating and relocating your shoulder is so short that it hardly comes as a balm to the pain.

“You…bastard…” you gasp. 

“Wouldn’ta had to do that if you hadn’t run,” he sighs, the sight of your pain subduing his rage. 

It doesn’t stop him from grabbing you roughly by the arm he just dislocated when he finally gets you on your feet though, steering you back towards the house. The pain that radiates up your arm is almost blinding. 

He drags you back to the cabin with a punishing grip. There’s no sympathy when you stumble. Moonlight illuminates the path back to the cabin and shows you the trenches in the wild grass made by your feet. Hardly more than a couple rods. 

The defeat that courses through you upon being dragged through the ramshackle front door is ten times that of earlier. When he lets go of your arm, you collapse in a heap on the floor, aching and sweating. A bag of bones and blood. You’d rattle if someone shook you. 

“I hate you,” you mumble from your spot on the floor, shaking through the pain. “Rot in hell.”

Graves doesn’t respond, but you can almost hear the way he grins.  

No rest for the wicked or the good this time. Graves wakes intermittently throughout the night to check up on you, wary now that you’ve tried to run. Your regret is palpable. You should’ve waited. Bided your time. There won't be another chance now, not after you played your hand so soon. 

The ache in your shoulder keeps you from finding sleep. Every time you get close to it, the pain radiates down your arm and it slips from your grasp, your hand closing around the empty space it leaves behind. Teeth grit, breathing through the pain. Loosening your jaw and panting because the pain overwhelms you when you so much as shift onto your side, the hard floor digging into your elbow. 

Right on the edge of sleep, just as you're about to latch on, a boot catches you in the ribs, jostling you back into the realm of pain. You wheeze, breaking into a coughing fit. 

“Get up,” a hoarse voice grunts above you, empty of sympathy. “We got places to be.”

He has the two of you back on the horse as soon as dawn breaks. Your escape attempt the night before must have spooked him, and you regret it now in the light of day because you know he won’t let you out of his sight again. The metal handcuffs digging into your wrists assures you of that. 

There’s no time for breakfast or time to wash up. Graves makes it a point to be back on the road as fast as possible, repacking his bedroll and stuffing it back in the saddlebag before dragging you up with him. 

The pain is a dull throb after sleeping most of the agony away. It comes back when you move too quickly though, which is hard to avoid on horseback when each gallop echoes through your sore bones and joints. 

The arching sun immixes with the heavens above, rising higher as the hours pass. You ache for a hat; something to keep the heat of the sun off your head. On the horizon, the mountain ridge sits like a spine bursting out from the earth. It’s all wastelands and portents. Evil omens. 

Your heart feels swollen and bruised, like something trampled under elk hooves. 

“Cheer up,” Graves says, tipping your chin up when the sun reaches its peak around midday, the gesture making you so uncomfortable that you almost shudder out of your skin. Your face still throbs with pain. “You should be glad I didn’t jus’ shoot you.”

Your lips pull back, baring your teeth to nothing. 

A shot rips through the air at that, his words commanding it into being. Your head instinctively ducks and even the horse under you staggers, spooked by the sound. Graves curses, tensing up behind you.

"What in the hell—"

You whip your head around to stare behind you, looking for the source of the gunfire. When you find it, your eyes widen.

[ashdoeswhump]

Tws: dehumanisation, conditioning, abuse, intimate whumper, pet whump, basically just all the whumpy stuff that comes with pet whump and nonhuman whumpees

Animalistic and nonhuman whumpees hit just right.

Nonhuman whumpee with claws and fangs and wings and horns and fur. Does whumper tear these off? Use them to pin whumpee down? Slide a knife along them, not hard enough to pierce, but enough to draw blood, enough to hurt? Put them on display for their friends? Does caretaker know how to look after their nonhuman traits? Are they gentle, so gentle, with them? Do these things get in caretaker's way so they keep accidentally knocking it? Does caretaker preen whumpee's wings, polish their horns, trim their claws when they're too weak to do it themselves?

Werewolf whumpee who looks perfectly human most of the time, but who are constantly punished for the one night they don't. Does whumper keep them on a chain? Treat them like a dog? Make them sleep outside and eat out of a bowl without their hands? Keep them surrounded by silver at all times? How does caretaker deal with it? Do they find a way to keep whumpee calm during full moons? Are they forced to keep whumpee locked up every month for everyone's safety, whumpee's included? Do they give whumpee a blanket and a hug and some hot chocolate afterwards?

Avian whumpee who struggles with speech but can make other noises just fine. Do they squawk when whumper hurts them? Does whumper force them to sing? Feed them nothing but seeds and nuts? Keep them locked in a hanging cage? Keep them outside but chained down so they can't fly away? Does caretaker build them a nest out of blankets and pillows? Let them out whenever they want? Encourage them to fly, only for them to fall back to the ground and hurt themself because they haven't flown in so long? Bandage and heal their battered and broken wings?

What about whumpees who aren't nonhuman, but have had their humanity stripped away?

Guard dog whumpee forced to stay outside. Does whumper make them pace around the perimeter of their property all day and night without breaks? Punish them when they pause for even a second? Only let them sleep once or twice a week because when they're asleep, the place is undefended? Does caretaker have to train this out of them because the only way to remove this conditioning is more conditioning? Do they help whumpee rest? Are they so, so relieved when whumpee goes to sleep by themself for the first time?

Lapdog whumpee who's made to cuddle with whumper. Does whumper make them sleep in their bed? Have them curl up on their lap while watching TV or reading a book? Comfort them after or during punishment? Does caretaker have to learn what sorts of touch whumpee can and can't endure? Do they have to sedate whumpee anytime they need to carry them somewhere because they're too weak to walk by themself but starts shoving any time they're touched? Is it an upwards battle, getting whumpee to associate touch with genuine care? Or is whumpee so relieved to be out, or so conditioned, that they'd do anything caretaker asks without question or complaint? How long does it take caretaker to realise this isn't them healing, but the conditioning going on?

Living weapon whumpee who isn't allowed thoughts or morals, only obedience? Does whumper force them to kill people they know during training? Keep them muzzled and hooded to hide their identity? Punish them when their face shows what they're thinking or feeling? Is caretaker afraid or horrified or disgusted of them at first? Do they have to teach whumpee that they're a person and that they're their own person? Do they have to keep weapons away from them because whumpee will think caretaker wants them to kill someone?

What noises do they make? Do they hiss or snarl when they're scared? Let out a barking yelp or a squawk when they're hurt? Whimper or whine when they're nervous? Purr when they're happy? How much of this is taught and conditioned into them, and how much is natural? Are they afraid of making human noises, or do they wish more than anything that they could speak?

There's just so many possibilities with this trope, I love it.

[vrystalius]

GENERAL HC: demons usually have nests, not traditional like straw and fur nests but little tucked away areas they tend to guard.

Muzan and Kokushibo’s nests are in the infinity castle

Douma’s nest is very comfortable. Very demure. (He tears up pillows and goes apeshit. And then makes his cult members clean up and make a larger pillow for him. Because beds are for basic bitches)

Akaza probably has his nest in the infinity castle too, but he’s a bit more secretive, and prob has somewhere else

Gyutaro has his nest in the red district, (it’s filled with bones and all trinkets he likes.)

(Hantengu + clones bc I LOVE THEM) they probably have a nest in the infinity castle since he and his clones need separate areas to keep them from strangling each other… but JANEHWJ

Urogi has a more traditionally bird nest (he steals shit and makes it into his BED)

Sekido just has a bed. Shames everyone else for having a messy nest

Karaku’s nest is very soft. DO NOT BELIEVE HIM THERES SOME FREAKY SHIT IN TYERE- I know he told me :3

Aizetsu’s nest is a few rocks. He feels he doesn’t deserve a proper nest. (Get him some damn pillows. It’s causing back pain for everyone)

ENMU MY LOVE, his nest is inside the train station, idk the word but it’s where all the trains go when not in use, it’s very comfy! No sunlight, he probably uses train lights to illuminate for his human mate

TURNING HC’S (TW HUMAN EATING MENTION)

Muzan isn’t used to being gentle, and seeing his former human mate in such pain to become a demon like him. He has all his servants tend to them; Kokushibo at the door guarding, Douma out going to get nesting supplies for the newly formed demon liege, Akaza getting human meat for them. Fun stuff! 🤩 he throws a massive festival for his new demon spouse. (It’s an excuse to execute random demons)

Kokushibo has a smaller situation, he brings you a small personal feast, (well hidden human meat so you don’t feel guilty) and goes to some people to have them make human meals (just with human meat instead of beef) and personally brings you his nesting materials

Douma has everyone in the cult, and has a sacrifice for your “ascension” (cult bullshit to explain demons) and how you’d need to be quarantined for awhile (cuddles while you calm down from bloodlust) and you two eat the sacrifice

Akaza calms you by taking you out with him. Probably uses a muzzle so you stop biting him… he doesn’t try and keep you contained so much, just supervising so you don’t hurt yourself… or get caught-

Gyutaro has you and Daki in his nest, pampering you both and is hopeful his sister approves of his mate, power wise and demon appearance. (She’s just excited to have another demon to talk too dw)

Hantengu and his clones are waiting on you hand and FOOT, his clones’ mate shall have the same respect as Muzan, since Muzan chose you to be his demon mate.

Enmu puts you to sleep while this happens, easing the growing pains and hunger, you wake up basically the same just a demon bc of the dreams he gave you. 10/10 very nice.

This was very long 👍

I took pictures just in case if tumblr ate this.

This was so good!! I keep thinking about clawing and skinning Douma during the transformation while he just giggles and laughs loudly. Also, I love the nests- Gyutaro’s would probably stink of decay while Daki’s is the most prestige and comfortable. Only the most expensive fabrics and jewrely is allowed to come even near her nest.

I’m not the biggest fan of Hangengu’s clones, but Urogi stealing things for you and dropping it off at his nest, or trying to feed you foods he stole out of people’s hands like a seagull seems super funny to me XD

Also, I think Enmu tried more than once to nest inside a train but never could decide wich one to settle in since his favourite train model changes almost every week and it would be exhausting to change nests so many times, so probably decided to stay near or inside the busiest train station he could find. And yes, he will kick his feet in delight when watching a train pass by or stop to let passengers in.

Akaza probably is letting you chew and rip his forearms apart as much as you like during your transformation, he literally doesn’t care. Also, he’ll probably try to convince you to don’t eat women as well, but doesn’t mind if you eat them anyway. As long as you’re happy and fed.

I can see Muzan getting ashamed of nesting. He’s the demon kind and supposed to above such animalistic behaviours, but he can’t help to hoard the finest and highest grade pillows/blanket. He likes it comfortable and prestige. Muzan would probably spray some cologne over all of it as well to make sure it smells divine, just like him.

Muzan is probably being a little annoyed at how long your transformation is going. He’s gonna stand there, tapping his foot and checking his watch. He might even get worried and check you for any signs of a bad transformation.

Perhaps I should write more headcanons, those are fun!

[distopea]

There was no time and place for bickering, and yet, despite the urgence behind Gabriele’s eyes and the danger of the situation, Raum wouldn’t listen. Whether it was out of pride or petty intentions, he was categorically refusing to obey. Gabriele felt that he was losing patience, the footsteps way too close from the door, and probably a pair of ears already picking that something was happening inside the office. They couldn’t be seen in this place, otherwise Raum’s safety and his entire organization were both compromised. Gabriele could size it perfectly, but because of a damn hand onto his skull, the blond was fighting back. 

“Think!” Gabriele urged with a scolding tone, unable to hide the tension that was washing all over his body. “This is not about-” But he stopped mid sentence, watching with agony the handle of the door being rattled. They had been heard and now they might be spotted for good. Gabriele felt his blood rushing through his entire mind, forgetting that he was pissed at the young idiot; now, it was time to protect him. And he would be quite efficient and focused on that task. At least, Raum understood that now it was time for him to crouch and hide. 

“Shit…” Gabriele mouthed, ignoring the new insult escaping the blond’s mouth, his hand still clipped right onto Raum’s skull. Now his grip was nothing but protective, his free fingers removing the safety of his gun hanging at his belt, and ready to be used. The rattle against the door was more oppressing and urgent, the individual standing behind definitely trying to enter the office. “It’s probably a bodyguard… Or worse.” He whispered, and quickly glanced down, clicking his tongue while he noticed that Raum had bad intentions written on his features. Gabriele had no intention to let him take any risk at this point. It was a matter of survival.  

Slowly, Gabriele reached for the handle of the door, getting himself ready for what would come next. He heard a few echoes behind it, a scratchy sound coming from the frequency of a walkie talkie. The other man was getting ready to alarm someone else as soon as he would enter the office, a metallic sound announcing that he was also possessing a master key to unlock the door. Gabriele patted Raum’s hair, to give himself some confidence or reassure him, he couldn’t say; the next thing he knew was that he suddenly opened the door and violently gripped the guard standing outside. 

His gesture was ruthless and brutal, efficient, while he pushed Raum backward with his thigh, and immediately made sure to distract the guard. First, he kicked his walkie-talkie away and out of reach. Then, with a strong punch, he crushed his Adam apple to prevent any scream or any sound escaping his throat, using the element of surprise to win the fight. The man was indeed baffled, but he was quick to get that rush of adrenaline back, mixed with a dangerous urge to survive, probably aware that it was a question of survival now. The man grabbed his gun out of his belt - he had a muffler on it; shit !!

A hitman?

Gabriele grunted and fought him harder, punches and kicks flying, each time far more violent, his intentions palpable; he needed to kill him quickly. For a moment, they continued their deadly attacks, Gabriele always preventing the man from ever thinking about Raum and the way he could potentially harm him. Blood began to splash as much as the combat continued.  

After a few minutes, a silent shotgun barely echoed in the office, and the two men fell heavily on the ground.

Raum’s teeth clicked shut when his head was pressed back to the wall and he bared them at the other man in a rare display of hostility. The cupboard next to him had rattled ominously with the weight of the push, making the other man freeze from his mistake. Raum watched him in silence, annoyance seeping through his expression.

The footsteps had paused momentarily at the sound, and then resumed, slightly faster towards their direction. Shit. What now? His eyes darted around the room for some kind of hiding spot that would conceal them both, until he felt Gabriele’s hand settle atop his head, and noticed the gesture for him to get on the floor.

“Are you insane?” Raum whispered, appalled. Yes, he valued his life, but perhaps he valued his pride even more. “No.” He shook his head vigorously, suddenly wanting to be far away from deceptive the warmth of Gabriele’s hand and the desperate way he was looking at him.

“No. Not on your damn life. Let me out, Vasco—”

Raum shoved against the other man’s chest. He was sorely tempted to drive his knee into Gabriele’s gut for the way he was acting — the way he always used his physicality over Raum without reason — their hiding place be damned. They’d already alerted someone thanks to his controlling behaviour, what was a little more noise to salvage Raum’s dignity?

The handle on the door rattled. Two pairs of anxious eyes met in a silent battle.

With a disgusted noise, Raum quickly dropped into a crouch, his bent knees on either side of one of Gabriele’s legs. His expression was full of offense, nose wrinkling when Gabriele looked down at him.

Fuck you, he mouthed silently, before he turned to face the door, slipping one hand to grab the flat razor concealed in his waistcoat. If they came inside, there was no way they were making it out of the room alive. If he was lucky, perhaps his fucking overbearing bodyguard would be next—

[dearest-painter]

My beautiful child! PT.1

Summary: Mile’s has a younger sibling who isn’t…human to say. Their a demon who cannot go into the sunlight,his parents knows and make them do online school. When he an his siblings go to a place where all the spider people are at…they decided they want a new child and Y/N is perfect material for them!

TW/CW:Yandere behavior, unhealthy behavior, unhealthy relationship,abusive behavior,abusive relationship,Reader is Nezuko,Reader is Miles’s younger sibling,Reader can talk they just make Miles say stuff or make him translate their muffled words,very out of character characters,this is a series,Reader wears the same muzzle as Nezuko,Reader is not a spider-person,Reader wears skirts and oversized hoodies with leggings because they can get hurt by the sun touching their skin but they still have no gender,The whole family knows about Reader being a demon and having to wear clothes to not allow the sun to touch them,people might be out of character,tell me if I need to add more

PT.2

Currently your sitting with your brother patting his head with your hand covered by your sleeve. He just chuckled even if he was tired you always made him happy. Just not to long ago you and your brother was cashed down by so many people and now here you to are hiding from them all until you two find a way back home. Miles held you close to his chest sorta scared and trying to protect you from everyone as your his little sibling, he’s got to protect you!

You just smiled or the best you could with your muzzle on as it stops you from biting people. You knew your brother was Spider-Man as you watched him get bit as you go everywhere with him or almost everywhere. Miles sighed a bit sad as he looked down at you, you were oblivious to much things but this place isn’t where neither of you need to be. “I promise Y/N, I’ll get us home, you can trust me with that. We’ll see mom and dad again, we’ll even visit uncle Aaron’s grave again when we get back home.” “Mmmmmhm!” “Yes yes I’ll get you your favorite dessert as well!” “Mmmhmmm!” Miles chuckled at your muffled happiness, he learnt how to understand you.

Soon Gwen and Peter B found you to, Miles put you behind him as he didn’t want you to get hurt. You were confused so you peaked from behind him. “Miles we just wanna talk” “Hell no! Me and Y/N are stuck here trying to go home and you wanna talk!? That’s bullshit!” It was obvious Miles was more pissed then ever since they got you involved with this mess. Peter B sighed while Mayday giggled and escaped her baby capture thingy as she crawled to you. “Look kid, we didn’t know that was going to happen” “And you just let him chase me!? No not just me, chase me and Y/N!? We shouldn’t be here that’s obvious but yet no one wants us to leave!”

Gwen watched as you and mayday played with each other, it was cute. She always found you a bit cute because you followed Miles like a loss puppy and your clothes just added more personality to you. Miles sighed. “Why do we gotta be here? We didn’t do anything wrong…” looking at your brother you Pat his head again and mayday copied you making Miles chuckle. “Your good with kids Y/N” you just nodded at Peter B’s words, what was there to say to him? It was obvious this was gonna be a long day and week so your ready to have your trust broken by many people soon.

[rainba]

I love the idea of a reader that likes to play slasher movie with Luka. A reader that goes to a bar and picks up a guy and lures them to the woods to start off the slasher movie cliché. it ends with the guy slaughtered and Luka chasing the reader and claiming them, the reader is slung over Luka’s shoulder for a night of fun. Such a cute date idea ��

Omg…. This is SUCH an amazing idea for an AU of sorts. I think your ask is mostly referring to them basically roleplaying, but I like the idea of it also being real. ^_^ For regular Luka, that would totally be a perfect date idea, though... (˘︶˘).｡.:*♡

If you don’t mind, I shall elaborate on it.~ 🤍 ( ´ ▽ ` ).｡ｏ♡

((For this version of Luka, I imagine he wears a muzzle.))

TWs: graphic violence, blood, NSFW

GN reader!!

🤍 Luka and his darling: a serial killer duo that the world will never forget. You: the lure. Him: the hunter.

The two of you prey upon a small town, living right around the outskirts within the forest. The entire place is surrounded by miles upon miles of trees: the perfect gravesite for your all’s countless victims.

You both work together so perfectly; your crimes are nearly flawless. There’s a rumor that goes around claiming anyone who talks to you will eventually go missing, but nobody is able to say for sure... In all honesty, this doesn’t scare anyone away– in fact, it draws people closer to you. They’re so curious to see if the rumor is true.

Luka has you both wearing matching outfits: black leather jackets with angel wings messily painted on the back.

The entire situation is so, so exhilarating. It never gets boring.

You lure your victim away from the bar and out into the woods with the promise of money or sex. It works every time. Nobody can resist you.

The two of you go deeper and deeper into the forest under the guise of playing a fun little game of tag or hide and seek. You smile and laugh as you spur the other person on, encouraging them to come catch you.

But far in the distance, Luka is watching closely, biding his time.

Sometimes Luka switches things up. On some days, he’ll use a knife. On others, he’ll use a scythe. But his main weapon of choice is oddly a chainsaw.

He loves the way his victims freeze up in horror when they hear the saw go off. Luka is silent and precise, but the chainsaw is loud and reckless. Putting them together is the perfect storm.

There’s never been a time where Luka hasn’t captured his prey. Luka is always so much faster– and he knows the forest like the back of his hand. In many ways, it’s his territory, his morbid little playground.

Luka never likes to end the chase quickly– he prefers to draw it out. He always gives his victims a head start. It makes things so much more interesting.

When he’s ready to hunt, Luka makes his presence known, then counts down from ten. 

He sneaks around through the trees and hides within the bushes, always keeping his distance. But he never lets his victims stray too far.

Luka likes to analyze his prey’s behavioral patterns before deciding how he wants to catch them.

Every time he captures someone, it’s always an absolute massacre. Blood pools in the green grass below, dyeing it a dark red. Blood splatters all over the nearby rocks and trees, staining them permanently. He tears into his victims to the point where they’re unrecognizable. 

And when he’s done, he flips his victims onto their stomachs and carves a pair of angel wings into their backs.

After he’s done carving, he’ll whistle a specific tune, and that’s when you know that it’s your turn to run. And just like how he does it with his victims, he gives you a head start.

But since he loves you, he gives you twenty seconds instead of ten.~

When he’s nearby, he’ll rev up his chainsaw as a warning, giving you a little bit of time to run further away from him. He loves the way you keep on trying, despite knowing that it’s inevitable he’ll catch you.

After he reaches you and tackles you from behind, he’ll toss the chainsaw aside and pin you down to the ground, already hard and ready to ravage you.

He aggressively pulls your pants down to your ankles and spreads your legs apart, lifting your ass high up in the air. He then rips your underwear off and tosses aside the scraps– he does this every time without fail. And without saying anything more, he buries his cock deep inside of you and bottoms out.

The blood of your all’s victim mixes with sweat as he fucks you ruthlessly, smirking deviously as he whispers praises in your ear.

The muzzle over his mouth drives him insane– all he wants to do is leave marks on your skin and kiss you on the lips. He’d do anything to stick his tongue in your mouth and dig his fangs into you.

In many ways, the sex is a way to celebrate a job well done. Another person on a long list of victims… The two of you are bound together by the sick and twisted nature of your crimes.

If one of you falls, the other falls too. Every victory is shared. Life was so, so boring before the two of you met each other… And now, Luka can’t stand the idea of a life without you.

His little tease, the perfect bait for his hunts, his partner in crime. He cums deep inside of you as he darkly moans your name, holding you in place the entire time. He loves the way you convulse around his length as you both come down from your highs.

Since you did such a good job, he’ll make sure you get to cum two or three times, just because he loves you so much.

And when everything is done, Luka will lovingly lift you up from off the ground and sling you over his shoulder, giving your ass a little smack too. He smirks if it makes you squeal.

Then the two of you go further into the woods, back to the little cabin that the two of you share. 🤍

[fox-bright]

tw: suicidal ideation, depression

So for me, suicidality goes like this.

Sometimes I'm walking through the house, and it's a bit of a mess, and I don't like that, and a gremlin jumps in front of me with his jazz hands out and screeches "LOOK AT THIS! THOSE DISHES ARE TWO DAYS OLD! YOU SHOULD KILL YOURSELF ABOUT IT." and I quirk an eyebrow at it, and sigh "What the hell, you jackass, get out of my house." And it says "DANG," and it goes. Like having a fruitfly hovering in my face. I can't swat it to death, but it is only annoying, and it is driven off by the flick of my fingers.

But some days it's more like, I am tired, and I am in physical pain, and I am falling into despair, and I do not see what my next step is to handle any of *this* and 'this' is 'everything,' and a sweetly-scented presence comes up gracefully past my peripheral and loops her arms about me, and rests her silky head on my shoulder, and tilts her rosy lips to my ear, and in a quiet voice, she murmurs

"knife."

And she's holding me so carefully that there's no struggle. And she's soft and smells like lilac, and her voice is so gentle. "it wouldn't be more than five minutes. it would hurt, of course, but everything hurts, and then it would *stop.* all of it would stop."

And the thing is, absolutely nothing that she tells me is a lie. She learned a long time ago that lying to me puts me on defense, so now she only says things that are true. I am in pain. It would hurt for a little bit, it would hurt a lot, but then nothing would hurt ever again.

But she also doesn't tell a single comprehensive truth.

Because it *would* stop hurting--me. It would magnify my pain and cast it out in all directions, though. It would make my existence into a pipe bomb in the arms of every person who has ever so much as liked me. It would render me, worse than useless, actively dangerous to those close to me. It would make me into a sucking open wound in the chest of everyone I love.

Too high a cost.

I've been suicidal on and off since I was nine. I know by now that it's a chemical thing that my body is doing to itself. I have tools, occasionally weapons, to use to get it out past arm's length, sometimes an acre or two distant from me. Never gone. Always loping back and forth, muzzle low and snuffling, pacing the fence.

So when she comes to me, floral and kind, I can unwind her arms from my waist and push her away three feet or so. And then I can go bake something, or garden, or do pushups, or go for a walk, or listen to loud or quiet music, or play a game, or read a book, or take a shower (cold or hot) or start a craft, or clean up a mess, or make a mess. And, now in in other shapes, she grows more gauzy and distant. And then I can go fix the hole in the fence, maybe.

There are a lot of holes in the fence today. I expect there will be for some time. It's hard. My pulse has been up thirty or forty bpm since Tuesday night at ten, and I tire easily. The effort needed is much greater than usual. But I know it needs to be done.

I don't know what to do from here but wash the dishes. But at least I can wash the dishes. The other things will make themselves known to me in time.

[calmcoldevening]

hello!! was wondering if i could send in a bo sinclair x reader request? maybe where reader gets injured because of another slasher (maybe the hewitts)? like, the hewitts stumble upon ambrose for some reason, and thought getting the reader and sinclairs would be easy food, but the sinclairs and reader (who doesn’t take apart in the sinclair’s… hobbies, but does so this time cause it had to) do manage to defeat them and stay alive

Bo Sinclair x reader

Tw: blood, minor injury, murder, a little bit of cruelty

Getting along with Bo has always been quite difficult, and loving him is even more difficult. The character of this man could be compared to a restless volcano that could explode literally at any moment. But somehow you managed to subdue him. Every time there was a conflict between the brothers, you just grabbed Bo by the ear and pulled him aside, scolding him. A man will swear at you and call you unflattering words, but you know that he really doesn't mean it. That evening, when you are getting ready for bed, he will come into the room and climb onto the bed, comfortably settling between your legs. His face is on your stomach, his eyes are closed, and you gently stroke his hair. Only a short "Sorry" will come out of his mouth, but this is already a great success. Bo didn't like to admit that he was wrong, but you managed to deal with that stubborn side of him. You're special to him.

You spent most of your time at home. The boys didn't know how to do much on their own, for which, of course, you scolded them, but in the end you accepted it. Although you managed to teach Lester to clean floors and carpets on his own, it was already a great success. In general, almost all the housework was on you. But you didn't complain. After all, you didn't like to participate in the bloody games of this family, so you preferred to clean up the mess.

You've gotten used to it over time. You almost ignored the bloodstains in the house and on the men's clothes (although you forbade them to bring victims into the house) and ignored the screams of another person who became a victim of Bo's "art".

It was an ordinary summer day. Although it had been quite cloudy since the morning, the once bright blue sky was now covered with heavy gray clouds, but the rain did not seem to be going to start. Despite the sad weather, it was still quite hot and even stuffy outside. So you chose to spend the whole day at home. Lester went somewhere in the city early in the morning, Bo left and went to another church service, wanting to remember his mother, and Vincent locked himself in the basement. The only living thing next to you was Jessie, who was always happy to keep you company. The dog joyfully ran up to you, rubbing its muzzle against your leg. You smiled, scratching her behind the ear. She was an obedient pet, although she often rushed at strangers. A protective girl.

You were in the kitchen cooking dinner when out of the corner of your eye you saw a strange silhouette at the front door from the street. Frowning, you put the knife aside and wiped your hands on a towel. Your heart is racing in your chest. At first you thought it was Bo, but the steps were too slow and heavy. You grabbed the biggest knife you had from the shelf and hid under the table, holding your breath. It seemed like minutes before a pair of strong legs in heavy boots appeared in front of the table. You lifted the edge of the tablecloth slightly, hoping to see the stranger, but a few pitiful inches from your Liza there was a chainsaw blade covered with dried blood. Your blood froze in your veins and you reflexively backed away, hitting your back against the table leg. The table shook with a slight crack. The sudden movement definitely alerted the man. The steps became more circumspect and cautious as he moved around the table. You tightened your grip on the knife handle in your hand. Closing your eyes for a moment, you prayed in your mind that the boys would already know for sure that there was someone else in town.

Heavy breathing. You quickly look around and notice how the edge of the tablecloth lifts and a face covered with an ugly mask with long hair appears in front of you. You scream and convulsively crawl back. Getting to your feet, you run to the front door, behind you you can hear the engine of the chainsaw starting. Your heart is pounding in your ears when you run out onto the porch and slam the door behind you. Bam. The flimsy wood of the door is immediately cut through by a sharp saw blade.

Your first impulse was to run to the gas station, but if this scary man was here, then he was probably already on that side of the city. You explode from the spot and run towards the abandoned shops. Considering his size, the man turned out to be very fast. You didn't have time to properly hide behind the shelves at one of the walls of the store, as the glass door immediately opened with a strong creak. You took a deep breath, watching his chaotically moving figure. A man in a leather mask scurried back and forth through the store and literally tore down the shelves with his big body and weapons. Finally, he got to the shelf where you were sitting. A moment later, the wooden shelves above you were quickly cut by the blade of a chainsaw. You pushed the remaining structure at the man, causing him to stagger back a little, and ran out from behind the shelves. Taking advantage of his momentary confusion, you found nothing better than to decide to try your luck. There was this strange masked face in front of you. Without thinking twice, you gripped the blade of the knife with both hands and with one jerk plunged the sharp metal into his face. You pierced a stranger's eye. He growled, stepping back. His hand reflexively dropped along with the work tool as he plugged the wound with his free palm. The working blade of the chainsaw went right along your thigh.

After a couple of long minutes, you were sitting under one of the seats in an old movie theater full of wax figures. Your hip was throbbing, and the adrenaline in your blood was starting to fade, bringing the pain back to your senses. You squeezed the bleeding wound with force, feeling the warm liquid flowing down it. It seemed that all the energy was leaving your body along with the blood. You closed your eyes wearily. It almost didn't matter if that freak was wandering around looking for you. Your head was slowly getting heavier, and at the same time, your vision was blurred. Painfully. Cold.

A dull shot was heard, followed by a strong impact on the wooden floor of the cinema.

When everything went quiet, you felt a pair of strong arms around your limp body. Your head almost reflexively clung to the long-awaited warmth.

Bo gently squeezed you in his arms. His whole body tensed when he saw the bleeding wound running down your leg. The man hurried back home as soon as possible. He sat down wearily on the sofa, arranging you on his lap, and opened the first-aid kit. One hand stroked your healthy thigh soothingly, while the other carefully treated your wound.

"God, my baby.. I'm sorry I didn't come right away. I had to take down a few other bastards first," Bo muttered with a sad grin, hoping you could hear him, "And hey, did you really pick up a knife? You've ruined half of that freak's face. I'm shocked. You're so good. I thought that this is a fragile thing. But no, you are my beautiful and strong person, my love."

The man looked down at you with a smile. He saw that you were tired, both from the chase and from the loss of blood, and now you are snuggled in his arms. Bo held you protectively in his arms, kissing the top of your head. He won't let something like this happen again.

[zerostyrant]

TW for semi graphic depictions of cannibalistic behaviors!!

Butcher Vanity - Vane Lily, Jamie Paige, ricedeity

Toki was abandoned and left to fend for himself at a very young age. He has no real memory of his parents, if he was genetically modified, or if he was bred for any purpose. All he remembers is the howling pit in his stomach.

He’s… always hungry. Nothing satisfies his stomach. He’s learned to deal with it as he grew older, even if it got more difficult once he was taken to ANAKT Garden. His current guardian found him hunched over a dead body, gnawing flesh off the bone of the poor human soul who didn’t stand a chance against a starving thirteen-year-old. The alien that found him was put off by the crude sight, to say the least, but it persisted and took the child away.

Toki went down with a fight. He bit, clawed, and scratched at the alien who took him from his meal, only to be drugged and subdued, eventually put in a collar. His guardian made sure to put his cannibalistic tendencies on his file, so that he can be closely monitored around his classmates.

His start at ANAKT Garden was rocky, and he was incredibly rebellious. He would constantly get into fights, leaving the other person with bloody bite marks and deep scratches. This led to him being muzzled 24/7 and treated more like a misbehaving pet than any of the other human-pets. This is around the time he realized that he won’t get what he wants if he doesn’t behave.

It was also around the time he befriended Innamorati, another student in his class. A boy with light blue hair and royal blue eyes. Toki found him pretty, to say the least, but he liked him more because of his blind kindness. If Inna knew what Toki did, or what he does, he clearly doesn’t care and sees past it.

Inna has drawn things for Toki. He keeps all the drawings Inna gives him and puts them all over the walls next to his bed. He’s not allowed to have a roommate, nor is any student allowed to be alone in Toki’s room with him, so there’s no one to complain about him hanging up Inna’s art. (Inna doesn’t know Toki does this btw)

Inna also taught Toki how to dance, which is where he found his love for it. He loves dancing, even more so with Inna.

Issues start to arise once again whenever he becomes aware of Macbeth’s presence. Whenever he becomes aware of… everyone’s presence. He sees other people playing and interacting with Inna and can’t help but feel anger towards these people. Inna should have his eyes on Toki.

But Toki behaves. He decides to go the route of studying people. He studies Inna the most, obviously, but he also studies the people he talks to. He learns what makes them tick, what’s special to them, and their mannerisms. He learns to smile and entertain people to get as much information as possible. It even helps him get on the good side of his guardian and earn his label as a good pet. Once he knows enough about another person, he turns everyone onto them. He frames, backstabs, blackmails, and gaslights. (gaslight gatekeep girlboss yk)

His first victim was Macbeth, and now no one likes Macbeth. He knew a lot of people already didn’t like them very much, but the things Toki did to make Inna hate them was enough to get everyone to hate them. Toki sees the poor thing sit and sulk in a corner, closed off and ignoring anyone and everything. He feels no pity.

All he feels is his love for Inna, and the still, slow growing, pit in his stomach. Maybe Inna can satiate his hunger.

But maybe not… Rabbits aren’t meant to be predators, so he’ll continue playing prey.

☆

Other fun things to note!!

Toki is toxic as hell with so many red flags... Inna is colorblind /j

Cannibal!! ...willingly

Obsessive and possessive personality

Severe lack of empathy

Semi black and white thinking

Ridiculously manipulative

With his obsession over Inna, he can still have friends and does enjoy others' company, but he ultimately turns on them if they get in the way of him and Inna.

He would only let Inna have friends if they were friends with Toki, too

Toki's name means rabbit in Korean!! "토끼" "Tokki" (hehe there is a specific meaning for this :3)

Naturally pretty flexible, does a lot of stretching before bed and in the mornings. In a modern/actor au, he'd have a background of childhood gymnastics.

Sits in some really strange and compromising positions... (my little pretzel <3)

I make playlists for all my OCs across many fandoms, and Toki is no exception. His playlist is already done and it is here:

At the top of each lore post will be a song from the playlist that I feel fits the post :3

☆

Innamorati/Inna and Macbeth belong to @alien-til-i-stage !!! hii pookie :3

[darling-i-read-it]

Hi, i hope you're doing great. Can I please request headcanons where chris redfield is really stressed out from work and he comes home and accidentally lashes out at the reader and tells her she's too much or amth? The reader feels bad and distances herself from him because she doesnt want to annoy chris anymore. Sorry if this is too long.

Have a great day!

hi love! I hope you enjoy this, I always love writing for chris and i think him being overwhelmed and stressed is a nuanced topic that leads to a lot of his not so fun behavior. it's really realistic and i love him with my whole heart so i will write him in every scenario i can

angst tw :(

Chris was often overwhelmed at work. There was no way to actually describe what he goes through on a day to day basis because it's so insane always and he's constantly on the move.

Because of this, he always has no life when he comes back to you at home. He's killed people in his day job and now he's back and he just wants to go to sleep.

it's hard. It's extremely hard. On both of you.

How can he give you a life when he hardly has time to give himself one? How can he realistically be your life partner when he's never around? Should he just let you go and deal with that pain?

But you are his selfish part, the piece of him that refuses to give you up because you're the light of his life. A soothing touch when he comes home, a person who has a smile on their face and tells him silly stories and explains things to him when he's half listening.

But some days he just couldn't take anything other than that. you had to be perfect, otherwise he couldn't' stand it. He would rather be alone

He came home and the door shut behind him loudly. You perked around the corner, having come home tired from your own job, but happy to see him nonetheless.

He slid off his shoes, tossing his jacket to the side

Your smile was gentle as you got up, going to greet him at the door. You had bags under your eyes. You were tired too, sometimes he forgot about that

"Good evening," you muttered as you approached. He gave you a glance. Nothing else. Though it hurt, you tried to put yourself into his shoes as much as you could. He was taking lives everyday, how could you even begin to fathom that? "How was work?"

"Fine." The curt answer stung. You pushed on.

"I have dinner in the fridge. Nothing fancy, just breakfast for dinner." He walked past you to the kitchen. He gave you a kiss on the forehead as he went by but that was the only thing to prove he had actually seen you. You followed behind him. "Anything weird happen today?" He shook his head. He opened the fridge, leaning over it. You cleared your throat. "I had a long day. I had to deal with these shitty customers," you muttered. You sat at the dining room table, watching him. "I haven't been able to talk about it. They're so entitled you know? It's never ending, the people who think they can have whatever they want and that I'm nothing but a robot to them, doing what they need." You huffed. "I was glad to be home."

"Mhm." He grabbed the plate you had made him.

"Was your day alright?" "Can you just give me a moment?" he snapped. He turned to you, face frustrated. "I'll be here all night. There's no need to muzzle me the second I come in the door. You're not a dog."

Your mouth parted in surprise.

You got up and you left the room, apologizes slipping from your lips. You retreated back into yourself, suddenly feeling even worse about your day.

A dog?

Did the think you were like a dog?

Loyal to no fault, always happy, never asking questions...

You shut the bedroom door behind you, grabbed some clothes to sleep in and got in the shower. You stayed in the shower till you pruned up. You thought maybe Chris would knock on the door, ask if you were okay, demand to get in the shower but nothing came. You heard no sounds outside of the beat of water against your back.

When you finally got out, you were met with him already in bed, asleep.

You slept on the couch, feeling miserable.

When you woke up it was to the sound of him getting ready for work. It was familiar. Ruffling of the keys, boots hitting the ground, coffee pot being turned on. You opened your eyes, remembering the pain from the night before. The lack of apology.

He came into the living room. Your eyes followed him, still sleepy. He sat by your feet.

"Are you awake?" he asked quietly. He was up so early, the sun still hadn't risen. You nodded. He didn't look at you. "I didn't mean to snap at you yesterday," he breathed. His voice was so quiet to the morning air.

"Do you think I'm a dog?" you asked.

Your voice was so childlike that it pained him. He tried to remember what kind of pain he had caused you just by saying something he would quickly forget.

"No. No, I'm sorry I said that. I was tired and exhausted and it was a hard day." He finally looked at you. He hated seeing that look in your eyes, the pain. "I'm so grateful to have you here when I get home."

You were silent. He hung on your words.

"Stay." He paused. "Stay here with me," you whispered.

"You know I can't." "Yes you can. They'll live without you for a day," you promised. You sat up, propping yourself on your elbow. "We can't keep meeting at moments where neither of us have the wherewithal to talk." You were right, of course you were. He had been thinking about it too. "We need a break." He was silent a moment. He looked at the clock. He was going to be late anyway.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Can you come back up to the bedroom?" he asked. His voice was quiet, vulnerable. You nodded. Your head was still clouded. All you could really think about was how happy you were to have him home with you for the day. He took off his boots as you sat all the way up, grabbing your blanket and holding it around you.

He followed you upstairs. He shed his work clothes so he was back down to something to sleep in. You crawled into bed, happy to be back.

when he climbed into bed with you, he was holding you tightly. He whispered that he was sorry again. He kissed you and his lips felt like home. You could deal with the bigger things the next day. Right now you just wanted to go back to sleep with him.

[hookedsworks]

HOOKEDHOBBIES KINKTOBER 2024

Day Eleven: gags/knife play

word count 875

masterpost

CW/TW: KNIFEPLAY. KNIVES USED ON SKIN. haunted house. getting abducted. male/masc reader.

OR Slasher!III moonlights as a haunted house scare actor...

“You’ll have to sign this consent form,” the young woman handed him a clipboard with a thick packet. “It’s standard stuff. Allows the actors to put their hands on you, put their weapons on you, but not uh. Draw blood. Just sign it and you can go in,” 

“They’ll touch me?” 

“It’s so they can drag you from room to room if they want. You know. All that stupid, trendy BookTok masked man stuff,” he made a face, wanting to act like that didn’t intrigue him. He signed all the same. She took the clipboard back. She stamped his hand, but the ink did not show under the regular lights. He could feel the dampness on the back of his hand. “Go ahead,” 

The doorway was covered by thick, blood red, velvet curtains. He inhaled and stepped forward, through them. They were heavy, and he was immediately accosted by an old basement type smell. The corridor felt like concrete, with cold air spiraling past him to leave through the curtain gap. He allowed it to close behind him. There was only one light way at the end, making it seem as though this corridor would go on forever. 

The light went out. 

He felt doors swinging open all the way down the corridor. Some lit with electric LED lights, others seemed to be glowing with literal flames. One doorway was pulsing red and green and blue LEDs, and he went for it. As soon as his foot crossed the threshold, the pulsing stopped and everything was lit an ominous red alone. It was darker than the red had been. The door he’d chosen had a maze within, curtains and doors and hallways lined everything. Several curtains fluttered. It was either a manufactured breeze, or someone was behind them. Cautiously, he stepped forward. He was aware he could be grabbed and moved. So, he moved slow, kept his weight low. He passed a suspicious curtain, passed two open doorways, passed three closed doors. He began to pick up the pace as the dark red tone began to pulse. It pulsed faster and faster, increasing his urgency as he found himself running down the hallway. He could not hear anything over his feet slapping against the wooden floor, so he tried to slow down. Tried to ignore his racing heart, which seemed to pulse in time with the light. He came to a dead end, with two branching hallways on either side. He veered left, walking quickly and quietly. In between steps, he heard it. 

A door opened. A strong arm wrapped around his middle, ripping him backwards. A scream lurched out of his throat, and a soft laugh sounded right in his ear. The chill of something sharp, which had to be a knife blade, pressed into his throat as he was dragged into the open door. The person hauling him backwards tsked at him. One huge hand splayed across his entire belly as he was dragged.  “Quiet now, or I’ll gag you,” he tried to swallow his scream, but more sound escaped. “Gag it is then, sweetheart,” the man holding him moved so swiftly, he barely registered the sudden switch in positions. A soft cloth gag pressed against his lips, between them and it was so swiftly knotted at the back of his head he did not know how to handle it. In an instant, drool was pooling, as his lips were pulled apart. “Since you can’t scream, sweetheart, you’ll need to tap me three times, three firm taps, if you truly want out. Nod if you agree,” he nodded. Then he was spun around. He was facing a mask, a frightening mask. It was gold, with a strange symbol carved into the forehead. The mouth was a black grate. “Don’t worry, I’m muzzled too,” his voice was soft. Then the masked man pressed a knife into his throat. He pressed until something gave way, a thin line of blood rolling down his throat. He’d been abducted, captured and gagged by this man. And now cut. The masked man was scoring thin red lines down his arms, watching. No blood was drawn, not yet, not on his arms. The man was simply scoring lines in his skin, watching the goosebumps burst forth. He felt strange. There was so much attention to detail, he could tell. His captor had a plan for him. “I am going to turn you into art,” heat pooled in his belly as he met nearly transparent blue eyes. Those eyes were twinkling, delighted. The man then danced the knife, decorated with blood, in front of his face. He tried to gasp, but the gag stopped the inflow of air. Shit. The blue eyes locked on him began to dance as he struggled. “You like this, don’t you?” he nodded frantically, as the man pressed the knife against his belt. Though he couldn’t see it, he felt as though he knew he’d raised his eyebrow behind that mask. He nodded more. The man slashed through his belt. “We’re going to have fun,”

[whumpshaped]

No magic, but does Beck have any self defense instincts? I know he probably wouldn't consciously react on them, but.... Would he ever do something like bite Helle if they spooked him suddenly?

of course! beck is a vampire after all! a predator! big scary!

masterlist bingo card

tw vampire whumper, vampire whumpee, conditioned whumpee, fear of punishment, manipulation, mind games

Life in the mansion was quite cosy and peaceful, for the most part. Aside from the general levels of anxiety and the sometimes debilitating loneliness and isolation, Beck had nothing to complain about. He could almost completely forget about being a runt, with the steady supply of blood Helle was allowing him.

Never completely, though, of course. Because Helle reminded him. And they reminded him often.

Because of how sheltered he was, Beck really had little idea of how his vampire instincts worked. He never really got a proper feel for how strong he actually was, because Helle was stronger, and they were all he could compare himself to — safe to say, he wasn't prepared to see the coffee table snap in half after he'd banged on it out of frustration. He spent the entire evening apologising to Helle for ruining the furniture.

He didn't really use his speed either, unless he was running away from a human who accidentally spooked him. After having woken up to a group of hunters breaking into the mansion, he was extra jumpy, and he didn't hesitate to flee from any situation that made him feel even mildly threatened. Being able to catch his phone ten times out of ten was a nice bonus, he supposed.

'Fighting' and 'self-defence' never even crossed his mind. Once again, the only person he regularly interacted with was Helle, a vampire far stronger than he was. There was no reason to fight them, and no chance of defending himself. He was magicless, too, and from what he'd gathered, that meant he was absolutely useless in a violent setting; so that was exactly how he lived his life.

Until one night, Helle decided to sneak up on him.

He hardly remembered the exact sequence of events. He'd heard a noise, someone touched him– it didn't matter. All that mattered was that he'd sank his fangs right into Helle's hand, and he was still holding that hand in his mouth, and his jaw was completely locked up from the shock and anxiety.

Helle blinked at him a couple times. "So..." They gently tugged on their hand. "Any chance of me getting my hand back?"

Beck let out a soft whine, and finally released his hold. "I'm so sorry," he said immediately after. "I– I got scared– I'm sorry, I don't know why that was my first thought– and then I just, I just couldn't open my mouth, I got too anxious, it's a thing that happens when I'm anxious–"

As Helle slowly lifted their hand he quieted down, mortified to see the two puncture wounds he'd caused. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Helle was going to muzzle him, they were going to pull his fangs out with pliers, they were going to wire his mouth shut.

"Do you think this is appropriate behaviour?" they asked, and Beck tried to make himself a little smaller.

"N-no, Master. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to–"

"Did I ask for excuses?"

He was trembling now, shaking his head frantically. "No, Master."

I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry please at least let me say I'm sorry–

"Dogs who bite get put down," they said softly, cocking their head to the side. "Are you going to bite again?"

"No!" he cried desperately, tears welling up in his eyes. "No, Master, please, I'm sorry–"

Helle burst out laughing, making him stop his pathetic grovelling for a second. Was that... good? Was he entertaining enough not to be put down?

They licked the blood off their hand, still smiling. "Fret not, dear, you are always such a good boy for me. I am merely teasing." They stepped away and Beck let out a relieved sigh, only for Helle to swiftly remind him that being on edge was a constant in their home. "But do keep in mind that I bite back, yes?"

~

taglist: @whumpsday @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @delicateprincepaper @whumppmuhw @florissimps @nicolepascaline @oliversrarebooks @the-cyrulik @pirefyrelight @there-will-always-be-blood @pigeonwhumps @echo-goes-mmm @whumpycries @morning-star-whump @d-cs @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @tauntedoctopuses @blueyellow8green @typewrittenfangs @whumpsoda @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @auroragehenna

[thegreatestguild]

whats wrong with abyss?

(Ooc)

TW — SA, SUICIDE, ABUSE, KIDNAPPING, VIOLENCE, R@PE

The Tw speaks for its self she drew a comic on her nsfw twitter account of fakeman doing this to bullfrog and ramon both . I was reading her comic anyways before this until I found that account . Now I just stopped supporting it altogether .

Not to mention the time Ramon got REALLY close to sexually assaulting bullfrog before he pushed him away from it after he already said no. I don’t care if he didn’t follow through that’s disgusting.

Recently she posted a new part of this comic that shows Ramon trying to manipulate bullfrog to not leave him by saying he will commit suicide, and even before this he had hit another character named Bass. Physically abusing him.

Even in the beginning , she made a comic of Ramon being kidnapped by someone who keeps him in a room and has a shock muzzle put on his snout . (Yes I call it a snout I don’t see it as a nose .) This person then tries to get Ramon to have sex with him, and Ramon makes many excuses as to why he won’t. Eventually Ramon snaps at the guy for the constant “Rayman” Name calling, absolutely shredding him before bullfrog comes in to slit the guys throat and finish it up.

It is disgusting. But besides the gross stuff, Ramon and Bullfrog are really out of character anyways??? And even though this is I think SUPPOSED to be rayfrog Comic she kinda keeps adding new random characters.

When I tried posting about her on TikTok to spread more awareness a mutual commented something about my arguments not being like. Idk correct in a way?? I ofc was like WHAT?? Which the moot then said my video was posted and being shared in TV ABYSS’S DISCORD SERVER. WHICH I DIDNT RVRN KNOW SHE HAD?? This caused me to block that person and make my account private until I felt safe enough to be public again all because I was afraid of being sent a hoard of threats by abyss’s dickriders .

I hate her and you should 2

[justsigma-bsd]

Memories Of Red, Staining The Mind

Yet another memory/nightmare short story. Also very much my first attempt in describing a scene in the way I did.

No idea what possessed me to write this, but I did manage it in one day.

TW: Human Traffickers, Violence, Death, Blood

He was shoved into the interrogation room roughly. There was a metallic taste in his mouth from where he'd been biting his lip, but he paid it no mind. His attention stuck on the grey tarp in front of him, in front of the chair that was always in the room. 

The air, too, had an odd metallic smell to it now that he thought about it. Almost like the rusty bars of his cell, or the chain connecting his shackles. 

"We want to try our hands at a little experiment today, Exchanger" 

His face twitched slightly at the nickname, but he kept his gaze forward and on the tarp. Refusing to acknowledge the name he was being called yet again. 

It wasn't like it was the only name they called him, but this one especially reminded him that his ability of exchanging information was the only reason he was still here... and that he didn't even have a name to begin with. 

Slowly, his eyes wandered over the tarp. His stomach did a weird flip when he noticed the rough shape of what it was covering. But... no. He was being too hasty. It couldn't be a person, right? 

Heavy hands landed on his shoulders, yet not as heavy as the shackles digging into his skin. "I'm sure you'll do your best, no?" the voice was uncomfortably close to his ear, and he offered a quick, jerky nod. Almost immediately the simple weight on his shoulders changed from simply heavy to an ever so slightly painful grip. 

"Yes Sir" he found himself saying, before the man could reprimand him. The grip relaxed, but he didn't dare to let himself feel relived. Not yet. The hands vanished, and his 'boss' strolled past him. There was an odd shine in his eyes when he grabbed the tarp. 

When it was pulled away, his assumption was confirmed. It was indeed a person. One of his fellow prisoners, if he remembered correctly. He couldn't remember her name, though... and he couldn't help but think that she'd seen better days. 

Her skin was unusually pale, safe for the bruises of which he surely had perfect matches. There were large spots of crimson soaking her off-white clothes and once blond hair, and it made his stomach turn. Slowly, his gaze wandered to her face. He found her eyes wide open, staring off into nothingness. 

"She's..." he trailed off, sick to his stomach. He wanted to throw up, but he doubted he could. He hadn't eaten since his latest mess-up a few days ago, after all. "Dead" 'boss' hummed in confirmation, but he didn't seem all too concerned of that. 

Dead. 

She was dead. 

Void of life. 

He knew of death, as a concept. It was entirely different, jarring, to actually see someone who's life had left their eyes. 

He'd barely spoken to her before they'd put him into the cell on his own, but he could perfectly remember her voice, her optimism. Could still remember how she'd promised they'd all get out of this place together, one day. That hadn't been long into his stay, and he hadn't even fully understood why they'd want to get out. 

Ever since unlocking his ability, he understood perfectly. 

His chest ached when he realized that she'd never leave this place and would never spread her optimism again, although he couldn't explain why. 

He felt the urge to ask "What happened to her? Why did you kill her?", but a single glance up to his 'boss' left him snapping his mouth shut with a sharp click. Right. No speaking out of turn. He'd already done so once, which was bad enough. 

He knew better than speaking without being prompted. 

He should be better than this. 

Something hard, perhaps the muzzle of a gun, dug into his back and he fought down a wince, stumbling closer to the body. "Come here, sit" 'boss' sounded unusually excited, and he felt his stomach flip yet again. He didn't want to sit, but orders were orders. 

"Your skill allows you to read and take information, isn't that right?" 

The question felt useless. They both knew the answer, after all. Still, he murmured a soft "Yes Sir" and stared down at the ground. It was the only place where he could look without having to stare at who once was a fellow prisoner. 

"I want you to try and read Seven's information" 

That wasn't her name. Seven wasn't her name, it was just a number. The same number painted on the back of her shirt, if he were to turn her over. It wasn't her name, nor her identity. He wanted to say that, wanted to shout it at his 'boss'. She was dead, couldn't at least death free her of being nothing but a prisoner? 

But he refrained from lashing out, instead dug his nails into his knees. It would do more harm than good to say anything, he knew that much. 

His gaze wandered to his hands, and he felt sick just at the thought of doing this. What if it didn't work? Would it be counted as yet another failure on his part? But even worse... what if it did work? Would this become part of a new routine? 

No. No he wouldn't let them. Even if it did work, he wouldn't tell them. Not this time. 

"Which information do you need, Sir?" he murmured, and hovered his hand over a stiff, pale one. For a few long seconds he thought that he wouldn't receive a response. Then: "It's only an experiment. Take whatever you want" 

He frowned slightly, unsure. Not daring to touch the lifeless hand just yet. Because what even was he supposed to choose? He hadn't known her, not really. Idly, he wondered if it even mattered what he chose. It either wouldn't work, or he'd never tell. 

I want to know what Death feels like.  

The thought was sudden, morbid. He felt ill just thinking of it, but at the same time... he couldn't help but wonder. He knew pain, he knew hunger, he knew thirst and he knew exhaustion. All of those could lead to death, he knew that very well. 

It was one of the things made clear to him on the regular. His life could end any time they wished, any time they deemed him too useless. 

He didn't want to die, but part of him was curious what it felt like. What it had felt like for Seven. 

His hand touched down, the question hammering in his head, and he stared at the wall. Refusing to look at Seven. 

Perhaps that was why, at first, he didn't notice a different after the information washed over him like a wave. It wasn't much information, not enough to knock him off his feet, that's for sure. Or so he thought. 

'Boss' circled past him, and he felt confusion creep through his mind. Only slowly did he realize that he was sitting tied to a chair, and his heart sank when he realized his horrible, horrible mistake. There was a very strong difference between wanting to know and wanting to experience. 

He wasn't a silent watcher on the sidelines in this memory, who'd watch someone die. 

No, he was watching with a front row seat, from Seven's eyes. 

He hissed in pain when a hand roughly yanked his head up his hair, but it wasn't his own voice, nor of his own volition. "Seven, Seven, Seven... I thought you knew better than to try shit like that" 'boss' tutted, his expression impassive, "you know that your little stunt would end in this, didn't you?" 

He wanted to ask what she did to deserve death, but instead his mouth opened and the voice was yet again not his own when he spoke, lips pulling into a smile that he doubted to have ever had on his own face: "'Course I knew the consequences. Was worth it, though" 

"Perhaps you think so, but I'd say keeping you around was quite the pointless endeavor" 

There was a flash of silver, and he felt his heart sink. Or perhaps he felt Seven's sink. He couldn't tell where his own consciousness started and where it faded into Seven's memory. 

And then there was a sharp, sudden pain. A pain that left him feeling sick. Left him wanting to curl up. To pass out. Seven glanced down even as he mentally begged her not to, and he wished he could just simply close his eyes. There was a knife, piercing right through his ribs. And it hurt. Every single breath hurt. 

He - or rather Seven - coughed and the metallic taste in his mouth left him wanting to throw up. Something dropped down from Seven's mouth. A small splatter of red on white clothes. Then another and another. 

Seven coughed and hacked, blood steadily bubbling and dripping from of her mouth and he felt her getting weaker, felt the way she was slowly choking, drowning, on her own blood. 

Her death was violent, and it was painful. So, so painful. He doubted he'd ever forget. He doubted he'd ever be able to banish the pain and feeling from the depths of his mind. It was an experience he'd forever keep. 

It left him even more terrified of his own fate. He didn't want to die. Especially not like this.

The second he was expelled from the memory, he scrambled back, away from the body, only to turn and land on his hands and knees. One hand firmly pressed against the spot where Seven had been stabbed. Dry heaving and shaking as a sob tore itself from his throat. 

That was Death, and it was terrifying. 

A hand grabbed him by his hair, but he was too out of it to properly react until a harsh slap connected with his face. Stunned he froze, breath still fast, panicked and shaky, but his eyes found those of his 'boss'. 

There was no need for lying. 

His reaction was answer enough. 

Sigma shot upright with a strangled gasp, a scream stuck in his throat that he just barely managed to suppress, his chest heaving. His eyes were wide and he flinched when he felt something wet on his cheek, running down and gathering on his chin. He reached up a shaking hand and wiped over his face. 

Under the faint moonlight he couldn't spot anything dark on the tips of his fingers, and there was no smell of iron or rust tainting the air. 

Tears. Just tears. No blood, just tears. 

He hated that memory. He hated knowing what dying in such a manner, to such an injury, felt like. He hated that he had even been capable of experiencing it. 

Perhaps he hated his ability, too. 

Another tear rolled down his face and he scooted back on his bed until his back hit the wall, drew his legs up and against his chest. His blanket half-tangled around him. 

Sigma still felt sick. He always did, after that particular memory. It was one of the worst ones he had. Even now, after three years. He barely stifled a sob, his eyes burning. 

He rarely let himself cry, but in the dead of night, behind closed doors where nobody would find out? 

Well, nobody needed to know. 

The answer to his question was simple: Agony.