#and do some conditional formatting…

[idontknowreallywhy]

When you are going round in circles trying to write a conversation…

This is probably not the behaviour of a competent writer but err… when all else fails, Excel it?

[bogleech]

It's my genuine opinion that people who find insects or reptiles ugly looking are choosing to do so, even if they don't realize it. If you look at anything in nature, anything at all, with the intention of seeing beauty you will see it immediately. That goes for dirt and decay and diseases or deformed things too, there's beauty in all organic formations. Some people are just black hearted and stubborn about things they're culturally conditioned to identify as weird.

This is in response to a post that disappeared off my dash where someone in a screenshot was grossed out by cute weevils, and someone I talked to on here just yesterday DISGUSTED by..... axolotls

I'm not talking about fear here, but people seeing "aesthetic ugliness." Like hating opossums or bats or crabs because somehow a scaly tail or spooky wing or jointed armor is supposed to be unpretty. I've met people who hate so much as pigs or cows for this nonsense concept. Or snails or moths or, I shit you not, whales. I saw a little girl once cringe at a SLOTH and say it's ugly. If you think any of those sound arbitrary and unfair I feel the very same of all organisms.

An ugly living thing is a fake concept.

[absolutely-esme]

Amity Park is different

Amity Park has a local superhero.

He's great. He works hard to protect his town. That said, Amity's local hero is a teenager. The people he relies on to help and support him are teenagers. The town's superhero defense is a handful of kids figuring things out on their own.

They do good, but sometimes the people of Amity have to be prepared to lend a hand or hold their own for a bit. That's just how life is under these conditions. Communities come together and support each other. It's fine. People adapt. Life goes on. They're really doing quite well.

A class from Amity Park visits a museum in Gotham on a field trip. They get caught in an unfortunately timed Scarecrow attack.

Scarecrow should have known better than to activate the fight or flight responses of a group of Amity Parkers.

The gas canister drops and discharges. The field trip group explodes into action.

A pair of Football players quickly overturns a table and use it as a shield as they charge the goons with the most firepower. Cheerleaders toss each other into the air for aerial attacks. Nerds turn objects from a nearby Janitor closet into a surprisingly effective trebuchet with astounding speed. One girl utilizes impressive martial arts skills.

A boy with Black hair and blue eyes flits about the battlefield pilfering and disassembling weapons with a shocking degree of efficiency as a Goth girl follows him around and bludgeon anyone who attempts to make a grab for him with a stand that had been holding up a rope barrier, and a boy in a beret lays down cover fire by launching pencils out of a makeshift bow formed from a binder and rubber bands with a startling degree of accuracy.

The teacher flits around pulling kids out of the path of attacks they hadn't seen, stowing any injured behind cover, and giving foes solid thwack on the noggin when the opportunity arises. He actually ends up knocking out Scarecrow himself.

The statement "We're not trapped in here with you. You're trapped in here with us," is repeated several times by different people.

When the Bats or police arrive, they have to carefully pull the feildtrip group off of the unfortunate rogues.

It takes a while to get the antidotes administered, but they do eventually manage. The class remains in defensive formation the whole time.

When the kids finally calm down enough to give statements, they mostly just say that Scarecrow gets what he gets for deliberately activating Amity Parkers' fight or flight responses. After the antidotes take effect, the class seems unfazed and goes about their business as soon as the authorities allow.

Some other visitors to the museum upload videos of the event online with titles like "the one class that was prepared for a field trip to Gotham" and "What kind of place is Amity Park, and why haven't I heard of it before?"

It doesn't take long for people to edit the videos to set the fight to music. Popular song choices include Ballroom Blitz, Bring 'em Out by Hawk Nelson, and the "we like to party" song from the six flags commercial.

Now the Bats are investigating Amity Park (and why they haven't heard of it before).

[taasgirl]

blame - driver!reader x grid

summary: driver!reader goes to war protecting her teammate and best friend, max verstappen.

a/n: this is NOT a romance smau!!

liked by user76, user98, and 6, 872, 014 others f1 Following a breach of conditions set by the FIA, Max Verstappen will serve a mandatory community service period.

tagged: maxverstappen1

ynusername just say ya'll can't handle him and move on!!!

user27 be careful y/n, they'll send you too user46 HAHA SHE'S SO REAL

user51 this is so stupid

user90 who decided this???

user75 Okay I understand him getting community service for the Ocon incident, but for swearing?

user21 they're treating max like he's a child

liked by oscarpiastri, redbullracing, and 2, 379, 918 others ynusername unbothered, moisturised, and definitely plotting to overthrow the fia!

tagged: maxverstappen1

user59 My dreams 5 minutes before my alarm:

user61 y/n and max are never beating the platonic soulmates allegations

user87 Get yourself a teammate that fights the FIA on your behalf @/estebanocon

maxverstappen1 I was going to say something nice then I saw the last photo.

ynusername pls still compliment me x

oscarpiastri I agree with the caption

landonorris ur too ashy to be moisturised

view ynusername's story...

caption only the FIA could ruin a beautiful flight @/alex_albon

liked by carlossainz55, alex_albon, and 1, 256, 280 others ynusername me and bro suiting up to destroy the FIA

tagged: carlossainz55, landonorris

lewishamilton This is why you're my favourite on the grid

ynusername this is why you're the 🐐

oscarpiastri Hey I hope you were joking when you said you'd be turning into a grid terror haha (please be joking)

ynusername don't worry ur safe xx

landonorris WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS Y/N???

landonorris If me and my gang pull up ahh post

ynusername yup you're now my number one target for unironically using 'ahh'

maxverstappen1 I hope I am bro

ynusername there's no one i'd rather serve community service with

liked by fernandoalo_oficial, lewishamilton, and 3, 287, 3389 others ynusername don't worry I won't actually replicate crashgate. however, please know that I have free reign over my radio xx

landonorris Thank god u had me scared for a minute

user49 y/n is taking this too far 😭

ynusername oh i can go further if needed

lewishamilton HAHA this is gold y/n

ynusername when I have the praise of sir lewis hamilton then I know that I'm doing something right

user20 OMG Y/N GOING INSANE ON RADIO IS A NEEEED

user91 y/n is the only reason i'm tuning in this weekend

view ynusername's story...

caption: I have some business to attend to this sunday afternoon

liked by user62, user87, and 209, 557 others f1updates Not shy on the radio so far! Y/N on the formation lap, and she'd already quizzing her engineer.

user83 she's so unserious i love her

user90 This is my sign to strictly watch her onboard today

user41 y/n really is going to put on a show huh

liked by user 34, user75, and 1, 722, 981 others f1updates A few of the unhinged thing's Y/N was saying during today's race. Safe to say that she may be sporting a ban for the next race.

user38 her engineer replying with 'affirm' is so fucking funny to me

user92 And ya'll still wonder why she's my fave driver

user47 THE WAY THIS ISN'T EVEN EVERYTHING SHE SAID

user28 what else did she say??

user47 @/user28 she went on a whole tangent about how stroll is a prick that shouldn't be in f1 😭😭

liked by charlesleclerc, landonorris, and 3, 615, 248 others ynusername FIA knew I'd be too powerful for another race (hey at least bestie doesn't have to do community service).

maxverstappen1 You're insane I love you

ynusername dinner is still on you right?

landonorris NOOOOOO RIP Y/N

ynusername bitch i'm still alive

oscarpiastri Welcome back Kevin Magnussen liked by ynusername

redbullracing She might be crazy, but she's our kind of crazy!

ynusername pls keep me employed ya'll

view landonorris's story...

caption Yes, she still has the helmet on

view maxverstappen1's story...

caption Okay time for us to get to work

eeee i hope you guys liked this, please let me know if you did!

[bartxnhood]

cowboy casanova | t.o

tyler owens x fem!reader

based on this request: “Omg, how about Tyler Owens comforting reader on their first storm chase, maybe she’s really nervous or scared and he’s like don’t worry I ain’t gonna let anything happen to you… something like that???”

warnings: depictions of a tornado, reader has a panic attack. severe damage to homes and buildings.

w/c: 1.7k

a/n: thank you for the request! i added a touch of a backstory to help the plot go forward. i hope that’s okay!! i’m also currently in the theater about to watch it again (i saw it last night lol) enjoy <3

requests open

not proofread

Copyright © 2024 bartxnhood. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format.

✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵

you see a man standing in a wide-open field, as the sky above you darkened to a menacing shade of gray. the once-gentle breeze turns into a fierce, howling wind, and you feel a sense of unease settle in the pit of your stomach.

you were assigned to follow him and his crew around while they chased these monstrous tornadoes then went in and dissolved the threat. you worked for a huge journaling company from the north, but you grew up in arkansas and became familiar with these devastating weather patterns.

now, you were in oklahoma where you’d be joining this storm chaser during a week-long chase.

“you ready to chase some storms?” his back was still towards you, and his southern drawl was familiar.

as the man in the maroon shirt and white cowboy hat, spun on his heels to face you, you were taken aback.

tyler owens.

“y/n?”

his blood ran cold, not expecting to see you after all of these years. you laughed in disbelief, “this is crazy..” you shook your head and crossed your arms, shifting your weight to one leg.

“you’re the journalist?”

you and tyler go way back. the two of you were in school together, majoring in meteorology.he started chasing these storms, becoming famous on campus.

but, it all came to a head one day when you got trapped and lost your best friend. that’s when you dropped meteorology and took up journalism. you documented the destruction, the path, how they moved, etc.

and now, you were writing about who was called the tornado wrangler. you should’ve done your research but you didn’t want the assignment.

but, he had become so popular with his crew. they’d go inside the twisters and release a mixture to help dissolve the storm. and it worked.

“you’re the wrangler?” you ask, and tyler laughs. that signature laugh that always made you want to punch him in his pretty little face.

tyler turns around and rests his hands on his hips. “what do you see?”

the wind picks up even further, swirling around you in a dizzying dance, pulling at your clothes and hair. you sigh, taking a few steps closer till you are standing next to him.

“there” you point to the east, the air was thick with an unsettling hum as a dark mass loomed on the horizon. the skies darkened further, and a chilling gust of wind whipped up debris and sent trees bending at unnatural angles.

"another one" he murmured, eyes locked on the clouds as his adrenaline spiked and his lips pulled into a smile that he couldn't help but wear every time a storm was brewing.

glancing over at you he tried to hide the excitement in his chest that he felt when one appeared, but tyler knew hiding your feelings from another storm chaser was like trying to hide a tornado in an open field.

"how much do you wanna bet it'll touch down two miles east of our position" he teased, eyes scanning the clouds for clues.

“mm” you shake your head, even though you hadn’t done it in years you still had it. “three.” you continue, then point to the wind and how it carries against the wheat field.

“look at the way the wind is carrying. it’ll go east and hit north. perfect conditions,” you add crossing your arms

“i think you have yourself a ef5.”

uou had it. the intuition to tell where a storm was going to go by only looking at the clouds, the way the winds were blowing, and the speed at which the storm moved.

tyler had a similar gift, every storm chaser had it, but he had never met someone who could predict the size of a storm, which was a rarity he had never seen before.

“ah EF5, huh? i’ll hold you to that. If you’re wrong, you’re buying me a beer.”

tyler owens would be the death of you.

“i’m not buying you anything, owens.”

you load up into his truck, snapping pictures of forming a storm. he was flooring the red truck in a wheat field right towards the storm so he could get ahead of it.

“ya miss it?” he yells, over the thunder. occasionally turning his head to look at you. you say nothing, continuing to snap pictures.

“sometimes.” you blurt, not looking back at him. “i just don’t miss the destruction” you continue, rolling up the window and reviewing the photos.

“you were good,” he says, one hand on the steering wheel and eyes still taking glances at you. “mm” you just hum in response, not wanting to talk about your storm chasing days.

suddenly, a funnel begins to descend from the clouds, growing larger and more ominous by the second. the air around you crackles with anticipation, and you realize that you are witnessing the terrifying formation of a tornado. an EF5.

this was the second time you had ever seen an EF5 form in front of you, this was frightening.

you held onto your camera tightly as tyler drove right towards the black abyss. “shit..” you mumble quietly.

as the rain beat down on the windshield, the engine's roar could hardly be heard above the gathering storm.

tyler's truck sped through the wide-open fields, creating a trail of dirt and dust in their wake. with his eyes locked on the approaching storm, he clinched his teeth and gripped the steering wheel firmly like a man about to die.

he had chased tornadoes before, but never an EF5. the adrenaline in his veins was making his heart race and his senses heighten as he pushed the truck to drive faster, the roar of the wind and thunder in their ears.

“what a beauty” he muttered, admiring the sheer force and size of the storm in front of them.

as your heart pounded furiously in your chest, you felt a sudden tightening of the breath in your lungs.

your mind raced with panicked thoughts, each one more terrifying than the last. you fought to stay calm, but the fear was overwhelming, like a living entity trying to consume you whole.

sweat beaded on your forehead, and your hands trembled as you held the camera. the world around them seemed to blur and spin out of control, like the tornado in front of them.

"tyler, we should go back," you yelled. tyler smiled, eyes fixed on the whirling green giant in front of him.

he yells, "not a chance, l/n. look at it!" as he maneuvers through the difficult terrain. “we can’t give up now!”

“stop!” you proceeded to yell, flashes of that night you lost your best friend. the way the sky looked, how it sounded, the rain on your skin, how cold you were. it was all flashing in front of you, experiencing the whole thing again.

tears brim your eyes, your body shaking like a leaf. “please! just stop!” you yell over the growl of the thunder clapping.

tyler’s heart sank to his stomach as he heard the raw emotion in your voice. he had teased you and challenged uou, but now it was clear that this was not just another storm for you.

it was a personal struggle that was tearing you apart and he had triggered it with his arrogance.

without a word, he stomped on the brakes and brought the truck to a screeching halt, his own heart racing against his ribs.

"y/n, look at me," he said, voice suddenly hoarse and quiet.

you’re gasping for air, pulling at the collar of your crewneck. the cab of the truck felt like it was closing in on you, you unbuckled the seat belt and tried to unlock the door. “i can’t do this” your bottom lip begins to quiver. “i have to..i gotta get out of here.”

you can’t even bring yourself to look at him. your mind is fogged with the traumatic experience of the last time you were caught in the eye of a storm like this.

tyler’s heart dropped as he saw you struggling, your gasping breaths and trembling body. he reached over to her, gently grabbing your wrist, preventing you from opening the door of the truck.

“hey, hey, whoa. look at me, look at me, please.” he pleaded, his voice firm but surprisingly gentle.

he reached out and took your chin, gently turning your head to face him. his eyes searched yours for a moment before narrowing in concern.

“y/n, listen to me. you need to breathe, sweetheart.”

your breathless, unable to think straight until your eyes meet his sea green orbs. you take in a deep breath and mirror tyler’s breathing.

inhale, exhale.

you repeated this until you eventually calmed down.

your hands continue to tremble as you speak, “tyler, i cannot do this. i just can’t.” hour southern drawl escaping. “it’s too much”

tyler watched as your rapid breathing slowly began to match his own, your hand gripping his tightly. his heart ached as he saw the fear and the anguish in your eyes, and knew that this was not just a simple fear of storms.

it was a trauma, something deeply personal, that had left a permanent mark on your soul.

he gently raised his other hand to your face, gently stroking your cheek with his thumb, trying to soothe you. “i know, i know” he whispered, his own tone gentle and soft.

“ain’t nothin gonna happen to you, kay? i won’t let it.” he assures your worries, wiping away the stray tear that escaped your eyes then tucked some hair behind your ear.

“i’ve got you.” he continues. you watch as his attention goes from you to the tornado in front of you. “if you want me to take you back i need to know, now” he says, looking back at you.

you sniffle, following his gaze to the twister.

if he could stop something like this it would be a huge achievement to the community. no more damage, no more homelessness. it would all be fixed.

“no..” you begin, and find your eyes back on him. “i’ll be fine.”

tyler nods, putting the truck into drive. one hand on the steering wheel and the other reaching for yours, giving you a reassuring squeeze. “you’ll be fine, city girl.”

you choke out a laugh, and shake your head.

“then, let’s chase this beaut!” he yips and slams his foot on the gas and takes off towards the monster of a tower.

[technoarcanist]

CALLING ALL DOLLS, DRONES, ROBOTS AND CODING ENTHUSIASTS

Are you a robot that loves to serve? Are you a doll maid who seeks guidance in your duties? Are you some form of drone or being with no free will, open to having your actions dictated by the will of your owner? Does the idea of your empty mind being programmed like a machine appeal to you?

Are you enticed by the notion of writing code for your robotic servants? Are you a witch looking to create more intricate control glyphs? Are you an owner seeking to create automated instructions for your drones? Do you love the idea of filling an empty mind with rules and instructions to reflect your will?

INTRODUCING DRONE RESTRAINT NOTATION!

WHAT IS IT?

Drone Restraint Notation, or DRN, is a pseudo programming language created by my good friend Errant Spark, a drone with a very creative <empty space>. I helped with some of the final tweaks for the 1.0 version, but this is almost entirely Its creation.

It is a programming language that is designed in such a way that anyone without a background in programming can execute the commands like a machine, doll, drone, or programmable entity of your choice. It is also simple enough that most people without a background in programming can pick it up fairly easily, and intuitively!

Once you understand the language, you can read and execute all kinds of dynamic instructions and instruction types, in a way that makes it easy to parse in a plain-text format.

HOW DOES IT WORK?

The main documentation document will provide far more detail to this question than I ever could, but effectively it goes like this:

There are a list of eight KEYWORDS, in block capitals, that show you the type of instruction you’re executing. Then, after the KEYWORD, the instruction’s details are shown. Commands are read and executed from top to bottom by the drone, and programs can be ‘inserted’ into the drone’s memory at will (Assuming prior consent, of course)!

These KEYWORDS all have different kinds of functionality. The most basic one just has you carrying out a task. One checks if a condition is true, one provides an ongoing task you have to prioritize and maintain, one lets you create loops, etc.

The language has been designed in such a way as to minimize the amount of actual memorisation a drone has to do, and only has to read what’s right in front of them, and memorize tasks they have to accomplish/maintain. Obviously, mileage may vary depending on the memory space of the doll.

WHY SHOULD I USE IT?

For fun, I suppose! If you are someone who loves the idea of being programmed like a machine, executing only the instructions given, then this provides that! If you are a programmer who wants to program your very own doll bot, then this is a great place to get started too!

You can keep things nice and simple with a headspace that accepts basic command inputs, or you can see how deep the rabbit hole goes and import whole libraries into your headspace to carry out a full day’s maid duties, or sexual duties, or more!

Have fun executing commands, writing new code, testing it on your dolls. Have some playful fun watching as your early code files cause unintended behaviors, ironing out kinks and bugs like a real programmer until you’ve got your bots performing all sorts of dynamic tasks- or insert purposeful bugs to make your robots twitch and halt~

As with all things, never execute an instruction that you cannot/would not consent to. This is meant to be fun, and is NOT meant to be a way to circumvent normal consensual kink play. Programmers who attempt to use DRN as a way to bully people into doing what they want (Unless you’re into that sort of thing, in which case go nuts) do NOT have my endorsement, or the endorsement of Errant Spark.

NOW GO OUT THERE, AND ENJOY YOUR PROGRAMMING <3

>> Posted by XCN-PSD/I-04135

[camgoloud]

finished season 2! the chase obsession has unfortunately not diminished in the slightest (on. the contrary) BUT the little mini-arc focusing on cameron and foreman’s relationship at the end of the season has managed to get me nearly equally obsessed with them <3 why does no one ever talk about their dynamic. maybe people do talk about their dynamic and i just haven’t seen enough of the fandom yet to know about it BUT REALLY everything about them together in these episodes is so compelling… when two self-righteous tryhards hatelovetrust(dis)respect each other very much. they stab each other with needles and then feel so badly tragically pathetically sorry about it :(

OKAY i’m finished watching season 1 of house md. three stories is a CRAZY good episode of television. like everyone else i came to this show for the toxic old man yaoi but unfortunately i do think i’m going to have to stay for of all people the blond australian catholic idiot with the most daddy issues in the world. having a great time would recommend (/s) (genuinely unsure whether by /s i mean /serious or /sarcastic)

[aaron04jpg]

Indycar crash course

(For this all I’m just going to use 2024 as an example)

I hope this is helpful feel free to ask any questions!!

1. Teams/drivers

* There is no limit on how few or many drivers can race for a single team.

* Most teams have 3 cars but some have as low as 2 and others have as high as 5

* Drivers don’t have numbers, the cars/teams do (ex: David is car #66 but will change to #41 when he changes to Aj Foyt racing)

* Additional Teams/drivers will come in for the Indy 500

2. Circuits

* circuit types – from road and street circuits to short ovals (one mile or less) and long ovals, often referred to as superspeedways.

* From what I have seen most Indycar drivers like/prefer ovals

3. Chassis and engines

* Dallara is the exclusive chassis supplier for INDYCAR. The chassis is made of carbon fibre, Kevlar and other composites, and weighs approximately 770 kg.

* Chevrolet and Honda are the two engine manufactures in the series and supply competitors

4. Tyres

* Like Formula 1, INDYCAR has a sole tyre supplier. But instead of Pirelli rubber, INDYCAR uses Firestone.

* Firestone provides three types of tyres for road and street courses, and one for ovals. On road and street courses, there is the ‘primary’ black tyre. The ‘alternate’ red tyre is a softer compound that allows for higher speeds but wears faster. A grey sidewall tyre is used in wet weather conditions.

* On ovals, only the ‘primary’ black tyre is used and if the rain falls at this type of circuit, Indy cars will not take to the track.

5. Aeroscreen

* In Formula 1, the teams have the halo. In INDYCAR, the aeroscreen is a ballistic, canopy-like windscreen anchored by titanium framework surrounding the cockpit.

6. Race weekend format

* The format of race weekends changes from race to race, however the most common is that Friday consists of two practice sessions – one in the morning and one in the afternoon.

* On Saturday, there is a morning practice session followed by qualifying in the afternoon.

* Sunday is race day and it begins with a warm-up session at road and street courses. However, on oval circuits there is no warm-up session.

7. Pit Stops

* Unlike Formula 1 where 16 team members assist during a pit-stop, just seven members of each INDYCAR team are permitted go ‘over the wall’ to execute a pit-stop.

* Team members include: four tyre changers, a fueler, a person responsible for the air jack (to raise the car to change the tyres) and an aeroscreen assistant to clean or pull a ‘tear-off’ from screen to help the driver’s vision.

* Each crew member is required wear a firesuit and helmet for protection.

* Indy cars refuel at each stop and drivers pit depending on the length of the track. In the 10 seconds it takes to fuel the car, all four tyres are changed.

8. Point scoring

* Points are awarded for all finishing positions in INDYCAR.

* First – 50 points, second – 40, third – 35, fourth – 32, fifth – 30, sixth – 28, and so on, going down to just five points for the lowest finishing position in the field.

* Bonus points are awarded for: pole position – 1 point, leading at least one race lap – 1 point, and most race laps led – 2 points.

* For the Indianapolis 500 and the final race of the season, points are doubled in those races.

TEAMS (as of end 2024 season)

1. AJ Foyt Racing

* 14 Santino Ferrucci

* 41 Sting Ray Robb

2. Andretti Global

* 26 Colton Herta

* 27 Kyle Kirkwood (logan’s friend !!)

* 28 Marcus Ericsson

3. Arrow McLaren

* 5 Pato O’Ward (McLaren reserve driver)

* 7 Alex Rossi

* 6 Nolan Siegel

4. Chip Ganassi Racing

* 8 Linus Lundqvist

* 9 Scott Dixon

* 10 Álex Paluo Montalbo

* 4 Kyffin Simpson

5. Dale Coyne Racing

* 51 Katherine Legge

* 18 Jack Harvey

6. Ed Carpenter Racing

* 20 Christian Rasmussen

* 20 Ed Carpenter (ovals only)

* 21 Rinus Veekay

7. Juncos Hollinger Racing

* 77 Romain Grosjean

* 78 Conor Daly

8. Meyer Shank Racing

* 66 David Malukas

* 60 Felix Rosenqvist

9. Rahal Letterman Lanigan Racing

* 15 Graham Rahal

* 45 Christian Lundgaard

* 30 Pietro Fittipaldi

10. Team Penske

* 2 Josef Newgarden

* 3 Scott McLaughlin (twt icon)

[lulunothulu]

“Picture Proof”

Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Reader

Summary: when you see there’s been an accident on one of Jake’s missions, you beg him to send you proof he’s alive.

Contents: talks of death, but mainly just worry/anxiety and fluff

‘Reports have said that there has been significant damage to the pilot and their jet. No names have been given but we will keep this situation updated. This has been…’ ‘Multiple sources have told us that the pilot is at the hospital in critical conditions—’

You stare at the TV screen, eyes going foggy with tears.

There was an accident. A pilot got caught in a bird strike, their jet went down. Jake was supposed to be flying this morning. What if it was him?

Jake is fine. He has to be.

You couldn’t stop the tears from coming. Everything in your heart told you Jake was fine but until you heard from him, you wouldn’t know for sure.

Pulling your phone out, you text: Jake, please text or call me when and if you see this.

Two hours pass and still no word from Jake. You’re shaking at this point, trying to keep yourself from driving to base and walking to his normal hangar. Worry fills the pit of your stomach when you haven’t heard from him another two hours later.

You started praying by the end of those four hours. You weren’t one to pray, but you were now.

“God,” you cry. “Please don’t let it be him. Let him come back to me. Please.”

———

You were pacing now, Jake hadn’t texted or called you back in six hours and your mind was already trying to accept the fact that he might’ve been the pilot that went down.

Heart pounding, hands sweating, and mind racing, you text him again.

Jake, please PLEASE text or call me back when and if you see this. I love you.

Your vision blurs when you see the iPhone blue bubble turn green. Nononono. Please don’t have taken him.

A son chokes through your clenched jaw as you drop to the floor, hands on your temples to hold in some of the sobs. You feel a guttural scream erupting from your chest but you stay silent.

“The navy would’ve sent someone to the house if it was Jake,” you tried to reason. “Jake is fine.”

You smile to yourself, begging yourself to believe it.

“Jake is fine, he’s just busy doing pilot shit.”

You take a deep breath before squeezing your eyes but and nodding softly.

“Jake is—”

The text chime scares you out of finishing that sentence and on your phone screen you see a text from Jake.

Without skipping a beat, you unlock your phone and read his text.

Hi baby, I’m just now seeing this. We were in the air longer because of a flight gone wrong. I love you too.

Relief washes over you and you’re sobbing again. You clutch your phone close to your chest, sobbing even harder when you reread his text to you.

You: Send me proof you’re okay.

It takes a second, but Jake sends you a selfie. He’s in his flight suit and gear, hair unruly and eyes relaxed, mouth slightly apart. Behind him, the huge American flag inside the hangar.

You smile down at his picture and half sob and laugh when he adds:

Still looking hot as ever, aren’t I? ;)

When you don’t respond right away, his caller ID fills your screen. You answer and hiccup, “Hello?”

“Darlin’,” he drawls. “I’m so glad to hear your voice.”

“You’re glad?” You laugh, wiping your tears away. “I was terrified it was you that got caught in that bird strike. When you didn’t call or text me…”

“Oh baby I’m so sorry,” he says softly. “I couldn’t text you right away because Mav wanted everyone accounted for and then Cyclone wanted to have an emergency formation…it was a mess. I only now just got released.”

“Okay,” you say, choking back a sob.

“Darlin’?” Jake says in the other side of the phone. “Y/N, talk to me.”

“I’m just glad you’re alright,” you croak. “I’m so fucking glad you’re alright.”

“I am too,” he tells you. “I’ll be home in a few minutes, okay? We can cuddle and watch some of your girly movies tonight.”

You sniffle and nod. “Okay baby.”

“Okay,” he says, you can practically hear him smile. “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“Now, as a man who may have gotten hurt today, you better take that back.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Never.”

Short and sweet but still effective 🥹

[derinwrites]

Do you have any advice for writing in a web serial format?

Let’s look at this in two sections – the business part, and the actual writing part.

The Business Part

1. Consistency. Consistency in updates. Have a schedule and STICK TO IT.

If your schedule is too hectic and starts affecting your health or otherwise adversely affecting your life, change the schedule; update less often. Don’t update in spurts and then randomly stop. The audience will far more easily tolerate a slow schedule than an inconsistent one; an inconsistent one will lose many readers. You’re not Andrew Hussie and you can’t get away with that bullshit.

There may be times where you need to take a hiatus due to some emergency, life event, or health condition. This is fine – your wellbeing is more important than your story. But you need to be up-front with your audience about this; tell them you’re taking a hiatus and tell them exactly how long it’s going to be. If you can, you should tell them in advance (this isn’t possible for things like a car accident, but is very possible if you’re planning to, say, move house in a month). If you’re taking too many hiatuses, then it’s better to slow down your schedule and update less often. Audiences prefer fast and consistent, but if they have to choose, slow is better than inconsistent.

The #1 helper to consistency is having a big buffer – that is, have several weeks’ worth of unpublished chapters. The length of your buffer is personal taste, but I like to keep mine as long as possible so that if there’s some problem that stops me from writing for several weeks, it won’t upset the schedule. It keeps my stress down to know that I have that leeway. Other writers prefer to only write a week or two ahead, though, so different things work for different people.

2. Decide on your monetisation system early and prioritise it.

The most popular and most effective method for monetising a web serial seems to be the patronage method, which is the one I use. You set up a patreon, ko-fi, or whatever sponsorship system you prefer, and offer rewards to those who support you. Having their names in a credit list and getting access to advance chapters are very common rewards. Some people also lock access to their discord behind a paywall, or offer extra stories or let supporters name story characters.

This model is not the only way to make money from web serials. Some people make money via advertising, or selling merchandise, or use the web serial itself to advertise stories that they sell. You can of course use several revenue streams – you can have both a patreon/ko-fi and run ads on your website (I don’t because I hate ads, but you can), or start selling merch related to your story once there’s a demand for it. Many web serial authors (including myself) sell their completed works as books. But the important thing here is that one of these systems will be your main system, and you need to know what it is and behave accordingly. If you run ads AND have a patreon, are you more focused on ad revenue or patreon revenue? You’re going to have to put your time and attention into one of them over the other. You’re going to have to make decisions that will help one and harm the other. So know in advance which one is most important to you.

You don’t have to monetise your story at all, of course. Plenty of people write fiction on the internet for free every day with no thought to making an income at all. But if you’re serious about this, I would recommend monetising it, because that makes a better and more consistent product. The reason I’m still able to keep writing these year after year is that my supporters pay my mortgage; without Patreon and ko-fi, I’d have to get a different job, and wouldn’t have time or energy to write consistently. Also, the reason I can write and update even when I don’t feel like it, and the reason I always push to make my stories as good as possible even when I’m not interested, is because I owe it to my supporters who are paying me real actual money to read my work. If I didn’t owe my readers anything, none of these stories would ever get finished, because writing is only fun about half of the time.

3. Don’t expect to be able to turn this into a career.

This advice sounds silly coming from me, who has through sheer luck, as well as the generosity and passion of my readers, somehow turned this into a career. But I need to emphasise that that luck is not typical. Most web serial writers will not be able to support themselves solely with their writing. It can make a good side hustle, but if your primary goal is “low barrier to entry work-from-home career where I don’t have to answer to a boss and can support myself comfortably,” then web serial writing is usually all of those things except the last one. There’s no harm in trying to turn this into a career – I did it, as have many other web serial authors – but don’t expect that result, is all I’m saying.

Still, if you can do it, it does have a lot of advantages.

4. Don’t expect to make money fast.

I remember when I finally started making an entire $100/month on Patreon. It was a fantastic day.

It was when I’d been writing web serials for four years.

5. Your most valuable resource is your readership.

Your readership will grow and gather momentum over time. The best business decisions you can make are those that grow your readership and allow your readers to participate in community, even if you have to give up opportunities to make money to do it.

A good example of this is discord. Some people have private discords that only their patrons can access; while this is a useful anti-spam and anti-harassment tool, I don’t recommend doing this if you don’t have a major spam or harassment problem. Some people will pay for discord access, yes, so you might get a handful of extra dollars per month that way – however, you will also get a far less active discord. When it comes to readers, population density is critically important; the more activity, the more people talking about your work together (or talking about anything and bonding with each other), the better. Plenty of people have joined my free discord just because it was there and only read my stories after seeing people talk about them there. Then they go and get their friends to read the stories. Enthusiastic readers are inherently valuable, and the best thing you can do is give them the resources they need to talk to each other and share their interest.

This principle applies to a lot of things. I have a lot of free stories on my website that aren’t the usual web serials, and more than once I’ve considered whether they should be paywalled. The answer I always land on is ‘no’; I couldn’t tell you how many readers have been roped into my web serials because they liked Copy <|> Paste, or The Void Princess, or Drops of Blood. These readers may or may not then become monetary supporters, but even the ones who don’t will increase activity and discussion about the stories, have fun and tell jokes in the discord, and may even produce fanart. A thriving community is always going to be more valuable to you than a few extra dollars; make sure to support them accordingly.

Your readership will start very small. In terms of marketing, this is your hardest time. A big readership does the majority of the marketing for you, but when you’re on your own, it takes a lot to convince anyone to give your stories a shot. It helps if you have an existing readership to leverage, which is what I did – I’d been writing Animorphs fanfiction on AO3 for years, and many of my first readers followed me over from there. If you have such a community that already has faith in your writing, leverage it. If you don’t, you can gain one my writing in a place where people go to read stories similar to your work, such as an appropriate subreddit, or a web serial site like Royal Road or Scribblehub. You are looking to gain as high a number of enthusiastic, engaged readers as possible.

And now, the fun part – the actual craft!

The Writing Part

1. Always remember that you are writing for two audiences

A web serial author has to keep two audiences in mind; the serial readers, and the bingers. You are writing a story that needs to be fun and engaging when read very slowly, at the pace of whatever your update schedule is, but that also needs to be interesting when read all at once.

This is not an easy task.

It’s something I fucked up pretty significantly with Curse Words, which was my first attempt at this. Curse Words has a lot of complicated political stuff happening throughout pretty much the whole story, as well as a complex save-the-world plot that’s reliant on a lot of secrets, mysteries and extremely speculative information. With so many wheels spinning, I decided to make the protagonist not particularly smart and move him very slowly through the plot to make sure that the reader would be able to keep up.

This was a mistake.

‘Pretty slow and simple’ at a novel reader’s pace is torturous at a web serial pace. Readers got a full week to discuss the mysteries and implications of each chapter with each other, doing the detective work of ten chapters between each one. The frustration with Kayden’s slow pace was clear, and he came across as an outright idiot rather than an average teen. Personally, I think this lesson was one of the biggest reasons for the difference in quality between Curse Words and Time to Orbit. Don’t slow down for your audience; they’re already slowed down by your update schedule.

At the same time, though, you don’t want to move so fast that you lose the bingers. You can’t assume that your readers will have time between chapters, or that they will discuss each chapter with other readers, or that they will go back over previous chapters looking for clues. Interested people reading update by update will do this, but bingers absolutely will not. So you still need to make sure that everything is comprehensible on a binge read with no backchecking or outside investigation.

My advice on this matter is to move as fast as possible, but take care to make sure that readers are reminded of everything important a few chapters before it comes into play. That way, both audiences can keep up. If you have to make a decision, it’s best to favour your update readers; they’re your most active community. They’re doing the up-to-date discussion, and probably doing the most word-of-mouth and fanart, although binge readers will do that too (I have plenty of dedicated readers who wait five or six weeks to binge a bunch of chapters on purpose, just because that’s their preferred reading style, and they’re still very engaged). But if you plan to publish your story later as a complete work, you also need to keep in mind how it’s going to read as a binge – and also, new readers will binge the earlier chapters of your story to catch up to the current one, so make sure it’s a good experience for them or they won’t get a chance to become update readers.

Two audiences. Mind your pacing and information reveals accordingly.

2. Chapter length

The general rule of web serials is that the more often you update, the shorter your chapters should be. The generally agreed ‘sweet spot’ is 1-1.5k words, 3 times a week, but this depends heavily on individual style. I update once or twice a week (depending on what stories I’ve got going) and try to keep my chapters between 2 and 2.5k words. If you update once a month, your sweet spot is probably about 10k words.

Don’t hold religiously to what other people tell you the ideal word count is – this will vary drastically with genre and personal style – but it’s best to try to stay fairly consistent. It’s not always possible to stay exactly on target because the best break points between chapters will vary (I’ve got 1.8k chapters and 3.5k chapters), but readers like to be able to predict about how long an update will be and they like it to not vary too wildly too often. As with choosing your update schedule, choosing your chapter length will depend on what suits your personal schedule, and what suits the story you’re writing.

“The shorter the chapter, the more frequent the updates” is a good rule for attracting the widest audience. Short, infrequent chapters will have a lot of readers losing interest between updates; long, frequent ones will have a lot of readers feeling overwhelmed. But the most important thing is finding something that you can consistently output year after year (remember, it took me 4 years to make $100/month; this is a long game).

3. It’s a TV show, not a movie

This advice is less useful in our age of Marvel movie franchises and made-to-binge Netflix series, so pretend I’m talking to you in the year 2010 or earlier. If a novel is a movie, a web serial is a TV show. What I mean by that is that a novel is shaped primarily as a complete experience, whereas a web serial is shaped as a chapter-by-chapter experience.

It’s best, in both cases, to have a well structures and paced story that is made of well structured and paced chapters. But sometimes you have to choose between the structure or a chapter and the structure of the story as a whole; making one better will cheapen the other. When you’re writing a novel, you should choose the structure of the whole, but when you’re writing a web serial, you should choose the structure of the chapter. Web serial readers will prefer a chained series of excellent chapters, over a beautiful story of chapters with mediocre individual structure.

In fact, whether you want a structure to the overall story at all is personal taste. My stories have strong overall structure and move towards a planned conclusion because that’s how I prefer to write (and it also makes the story bingeable, since it’s basically a novel being released really slowly), but plenty of web serials out there have no real planned ending and will wander about for years and years in no obviously consistent direction, occasionally throwing in a big twist or major change to freshen things up. These would make absolutely horrible novels, but make very popular web serials. Whether you write like me or like them, the rule is the same – the experience of each individual chapter takes priority.

Come to think of it, this might be why people call my stories “ADHD crack”…

4. Okay, so how do I structure a good chapter?

I generally try to do three things in every chapter.

- Hit the ground running

- Give them something new

- End on an open question

Hit the ground running – Unless it’s the very first chapter of the story, you don’t have to be coy getting into the action. Open the chapter as if it’s the middle of the chapter; start at full momentum. Catch the high point of the last chapter before it falls. It your last chapter ended with “We checked the fingerprints on the candlestick. It’s Colonel Mustard.” then you can start this one with “But he was in the library at the time!”, you don’t need to recap or slow down or anything.

Give them something new – Every chapter should give the reader at least one thing to talk and think about. A new choice, some new information, a shift in perspective, whatever. People are reading these updates one at a time so it is vital that they feel like they got something out of the experience. A chapter in which nothing is learned will make readers feel like their time was wasted, and they have all the time until next update to reflect on that.

This is also true of a novel, but it’s much more critical in a web serial. A novel with nothing chapters in it is just frustratingly slow-paced; a web serial with nothing chapters in it leaves the reader feeling cheated for long stretches of time.

The thing to talk about doesn’t necessarily have to be a big plot reveal or major advancement. An incredibly cute scene, or sad scene, or funny scene will work just as well. But you have to give them SOMETHING. If you’re giving them nothing, consider cutting the chapter entirely and integrating any important foreshadowing or whatever into the next chapter.

One major hurdle of mine with this rule is recap chapters. If you’re writing a very complex plot over a long period of time, you need ways to occasionally take stock and make sure everyone is on the same page and nobody’s forgotten or misinterpreted anything important. This information can be recapped or conveyed in the middle of an action sequence or something, but I personally find that putting other stuff in the scene makes it too distracting and therefore less effective. I like to literally just sit the heroes down in a room and have them go, “okay, we’re spinning a lot of threads at once right now; what do we know, what are we trying to figure out, and what are our next steps?” This is the literary equivalent of the save point or room full of health packs right before a boss battle. Game designers don’t put that room there to be nice; they do it so that they know exactly how much health you’re going to have going into the battle, and can structure it accordingly.

You can make these chapters entertaining with character banter, but you can’t really introduce new threads to talk about, except possibly as a twist right at the end. Introducing new information mid-recap distracts from the recap and makes it pointless. You might have something similar in your stories, chapters that are essential but don’t give the reader anything new to work with.

My advice for these is to just bite the bullet on this one. Release the chapter with nothing new to talk about. You can get away with doing this occasionally, if the chapter has a clear purpose (I get a lot of readers tell me that they appreciate my recap chapters). Readers who get nothing out of the chapter will shrug and talk about older stuff instead, so long as you only do this occasionally. But a chapter with no new information has a cost in opportunity and in reader patience, so only pay it if the chapter’s worth it.

End on an open question– End the chapter with a reason for the reader to come back. You want them to think about the story afterward and be eager to read the next chapter when it comes out. Adhering to this principle is probably why I have such a reputation for cliffhangers, although truth be told I don’t use nearly as many actual cliffhangers as people say, I just try to end by opening a question. By that I mean, the audience should always end a chapter asking a question, which can be something that will span dozens of chapters (“How can Colonel Mustard’s fignerprints be on the candlestick? Is he being framed? Does this mean that the candlestick was in the library and isn’t even the murder weapon?”) or span a single paragraph (“How will the narrator react to learning that Colonel Mustard lied about never touchign the candlestick?”) This could be the emotional height of a scene, or the point at which new information recontextualises everything. It could be the moment where the stakes are raised or an important assumption turns out to be false. Anything that makes the audience eager to learn what happens next will do.

There should always be at least one open question in your story, more if it’s thematically appropriate. You know how mmorpgs and crafting games and suchlike keep you playing for hours and hours by making sure you’re always near the end of an activity – keep playing til you reach the next level, oh but now we’re nearly at the end of this quest so we should complete that, oh but now we’re just 20 gold short of being able to buy that cool new armour so we should just… same trick. Readers should always have at least one ‘quest’, an open question that they’re following, and should always be close to an answer.

You don’t have to dramatically introduce an entirely new question each time; you can end a chapter by reminding the reader of an existing open question. I tend to be a fan of the Big Dramatic Reveal On The Last Line method (cliffhanger reputation), but you don’t have to do it that way. Indeed, it’s a good idea not to do it that way every single time, lest you get stuck in a rut; every chapter ending doesn’t have to be incredibly tense and snappy. Somebody mentioning that they wish they knew how they could get enough food to make it through the winter before a full paragraph of cuddling and falling asleep in their mother’s arms works just as well.

5. It will help if your story is good, but it isn’t required.

You don’t have to be very good at writing to do this.

It helps to be good at writing, of course, and I assume that since you’re asking me for tips, you’re the sort of person who wants to be as good at writing as you can. But there is some true hack garbage out there doing absolute numbers in the web serial circuit. I try not to harp on about this too much because Curse Words fans get really upset at me when I do, but I think most of us can agree that Curse Words kind of sucks. And that just sucks in an ‘author is still learning how to do this’ kind of way; there’s much worse writing, real bullshit Ready Player One-level writing, trucking along out there brilliantly.

The point I’m trying to make here is that this isn’t an industry where there’s any value in hesitating and wringing your hands and asking yourself if you’re a good enough writer to do it yet. You are. You can just start writing a web serial right now and so long as you consistently update, you’re probably already above average for the market. And your first one probably will suck (mine did), but it’ll teach you how to make a better one. I think that Time to Orbit: Unknown is passably okay, and it absolutely would not be passably okay if I hadn’t written Curse Words first. Just go for it. Try to write a quality story if you can, but if you can’t, it’s honestly not that big of a deal. What matters, truly matters, is that you are committed to improving your craft. And that means actually practicing your craft. Which means writing some chapters and setting up a release schedule.

Good luck.

[fangdokja]

:D oooh, I love those things where Scara isolates the reader so that she becomes reliant on his ass. So basically, psychological torture, please?

Your body is chained, but your mind? Still free. Or is it?

❤︎ Synopsis. Trapped in a mind game where love is a weapon and escape is impossible, you’ll learn that survival means surrendering to his twisted obsession. But as his control tightens, you’ll wonder: Are you his prisoner, or his willing prey?

♡ Book. World Ablaze (WA): For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Scaramouche x Fem. Reader

♡ Novelette. #1 - Lover or Captor?

♡ Word Count. 10,821

♡ TW. dom + top + older yandere, non-con, psychological torture, manipulation and conditioning, suggestive themes, fear play, emotional manipulation and abuse, hints at rough play and sex, psychological and emotional trauma, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non-con kissing and/or touching, forced relationship, threats, BDSM, psychological torture, Stockholm Syndrome, force feeding, uncomfortable food descriptions, control over food and water, implied kidnapping

♡ A/N. No problem. I genuinely enjoy writing all forms of torture. I’d say this is soft Scaramouche to be honest. But that’s just me. Since manipulation of circumstances pre-kidnapping is a classic (but also a traditional cliche at times), I decided to make some small fun facts on how psychological torture works in general. Also, do note that this has a different writing (especially formatting and plot progression) style from my usual works, but that’s the point… And, low-key got sick of editing this haha. But that’s nothing new. Either way, hope you guys enjoy :))

He watches you with an intensity that burns hotter than the static hum of the electro mist surrounding the enclosed space he calls home—your prison. His eyes, sharp like the edge of a newly forged blade, track every movement you make, every twitch of your fingers, every shallow breath you take. There is no escaping his scrutiny, no moment where his gaze isn’t a weight you carry as if he’s carved himself into your very existence.

“You’re trembling again,” he murmurs, his voice a lilt of mockery wrapped in silk, carrying an undercurrent of something darker. He’s closer now, the faintest scent of ozone and metal clinging to his presence. He’s always so near, yet somehow never close enough for you to strike—not that you have the strength anymore. His manipulation has bled you dry, turned your once vibrant spirit into a pale echo of itself.

“Have I scared you that much?” he continues, his tone like an echo of thunder in a storm, half-amused and wholly cruel. He kneels before you, tilting his head as if studying a particularly interesting experiment, and you wish, not for the first time, that he would lose interest in his obsession. But you know better than to hope; hope is a fragile thing here, something he’s crushed beneath his heel more times than you can count.

Your legs are bound, wrists tethered together with some unbreakable material that bites into your skin when you move too much. Not that movement helps. He’s seen to that too. The chains are just as much a part of his games as the room itself: walls painted in endless monotones, no windows, only a single dim light that flickers faintly, threatening to plunge you into complete darkness at any moment. He’s told you before that he’d like to see what the dark does to you—what he could do to you while you’re blind and helpless.

“Tell me,” he says now, his hand reaching forward to brush against your cheek. His touch is deceptively gentle, a lover’s caress that belies the brutality hiding beneath the surface. “Have you learned to appreciate me yet?”

You flinch but don’t answer. Words are a dangerous currency here. Silence earns punishment; speech earns worse. You’ve been caught in his web long enough to know the rules of his game are meant to ensure one thing: total control. But your defiance—the last ember of it—makes you cling to the belief that your silence is an act of rebellion, however small.

He chuckles lowly, the sound reverberating through the empty room. “Still so stubborn,” he muses, fingers now tracing the line of your jaw. “I admire that about you, you know. That fight in your eyes. But it’s exhausting for you, isn’t it? Fighting me? Fighting this?” He leans in, so close that you feel the ghost of his breath against your ear. “Do you think anyone’s coming for you? That they even remember you?”

Your stomach twists, a sick knot of despair and anger. His words are poison, injected carefully and methodically into your psyche.

“I erased you,” he whispers, his voice soft but cold enough to freeze your blood. “From their memories, from their lives. Your friends? Gone. Your family? They don’t even remember your face. Isn’t that a kindness, though? Sparing them the grief of losing you?”

He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, searching for the cracks he’s so meticulously created. “Do you hate me for it?”

You do. You hate him with a depth that frightens you. But you say nothing, your lips trembling as you refuse to give him the satisfaction of hearing it aloud. His expression shifts, a flicker of annoyance crossing his otherwise perfect features, but it’s gone just as quickly as it came.

“Hate me all you want,” he says, his tone growing harder, sharper. “But you will love me. In the end, you always will.”

He stands, his shadow towering over you as he looks down, his smirk returning like a blade pressed to your throat. “I’ll give you some time to think about it,” he says, turning and heading toward the door. “But don’t take too long. I’m not a patient man.”

The door closes with a deafening finality, and you’re left alone in the dim, flickering light. Alone with your thoughts, your fear, and the suffocating realization that he’s right. He’s always right. The world has forgotten you, and all you have left is him.

And isn’t that the cruelest truth of all?

────────────

The room is a void—a cage designed not to hold your body, but to unspool your mind held by fragile thread. The walls are stark and featureless, smooth metal panels that offer no hint of escape. There are no windows, no visible doors, just the cold hum of fluorescent lights that seem to dim and brighten at random intervals, casting shadows that twist and crawl.

The air is heavy, oppressive, suffused with his presence even though he’s nowhere to be seen. You can feel him, though—lurking in the corners of your mind, a phantom stitched into your every thought. His voice crackles through the static-filled speakers embedded in the walls, sharp and invasive, like glass scraping against your skull.

“Lonely yet?”

You flinch at the sound, your knees drawing tighter to your chest. His voice is smooth and mocking, curling around your mind like barbed wire.

“I told you this is for your own good,” he continues, each word laced with a venomous sweetness. “Out there, the world would devour you. I’m saving you, little fool. But gratitude? That’s too much to ask, isn’t it?”

You press your hands over your ears, as if that could block him out. But his voice doesn’t come from the speakers anymore. It comes from everywhere. From nowhere. It vibrates in your bones, coils in your gut, whispers in the back of your skull until you’re certain it’s your own thoughts betraying you.

The silence that follows is worse. It’s his silence—calculated, suffocating, a predator’s patience as it watches its prey wear itself down. Hours stretch into days, or maybe longer. Time is meaningless here. The lack of human contact gnaws at your sanity, leaving only the relentless pounding of your heartbeat to fill the void.

Then, finally, his voice returns, and despite the fear it brings, a twisted part of you clings to it like a lifeline.

“Look at you,” he purrs, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. “So fragile. So desperate. Do you see now? No one else will come for you. Only me.”

The words settle over you like ash, suffocating and final.

And then he’s there.

The walls don’t open. He doesn’t step through a door. He’s just there, as if he’s always been there, a seamless extension of the room’s nightmarish design. The dim, artificial light casts a sickly glow over his features, making him look less human and more like a living doll—perfectly crafted, flawlessly sculpted, and utterly devoid of warmth. His smile is delicate, a razor-thin line that glints with malice beneath its veneer of sweetness.

“You’re quiet today,” he murmurs, his voice a low, velvety hum that sends shivers racing down your spine.

He moves closer, his boots clicking sharply against the metallic floor. The sound is deliberate, each step a calculated reminder of his control, his dominion over this place, over you. His presence fills the room, overwhelming, suffocating.

“I wonder,” he continues, stopping just short of where you sit, “is it silence out of submission? Or defiance?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Words catch in your throat, strangled by the weight of his gaze.

He crouches before you, his movements slow, fluid, and predatory. His violet eyes gleam in the half-light, shimmering with something dark and unreadable. They lock onto yours, pinning you in place, and the room seems to shrink further, the walls pressing closer until there’s nothing but him.

“Look at me,” he commands softly, his voice a velvet glove hiding an iron fist.

Your head moves of its own accord, your body betraying you as your eyes meet his. The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk, and the sight of it is both intoxicating and nauseating.

“That’s better,” he murmurs, his gloved hand reaching out to cup your face. His touch is achingly gentle, a cruel mimicry of tenderness, but his grip tightens just enough to remind you of his strength. Of your helplessness.

“You’ve been imagining things again, haven’t you?” he whispers, his tone almost pitying. “Seeing shadows where there are none. Hearing whispers in the dark. Poor little thing.”

He tilts his head, studying you like a scientist dissecting a specimen. The artificial light casts eerie reflections in his eyes, making them glint like shards of broken glass.

“Do you know what isolation does to the human brain?” he asks, his tone conversational, almost curious. “Deprive it of stimuli long enough, and it starts to turn on itself. Hallucinations. Paranoia. A complete collapse of the psyche.”

He leans closer, his breath brushing against your lips, his eyes boring into yours.

“But you’re not imagining me,” he says softly, his smile widening into something sharp, something cruel. “I’m as real as the blood under your nails, the bruises on your wrists.”

Your breath catches as his thumb brushes over your temple, the motion deceptively soothing. But then his fingers tighten, his nails digging into your skin.

“And do you know what the best part is?” he whispers, his voice dropping to a chilling hush. “You’ll beg for more. For me. Because I’m all you have left.”

The walls seem to close in entirely, the air growing colder, heavier, until it feels like you’re drowning in his presence. And through it all, his smile remains, a grotesque mockery of kindness, as he whispers again,

“Lonely yet?”

────────────

The camera in the corner of the room stares at you, its red light pulsing steadily like a heartbeat—like his heartbeat, if he had one. You can feel it watching, a cold, unblinking eye that absorbs every movement, every shallow breath. It’s not just the camera, though. The walls themselves seem to hum with an unseen energy, a constant reminder of the wires and devices hidden just beneath the surface, all tuned to you.

“You’ve always had a penchant for dramatics,” his voice crackles through the speaker embedded high above, sudden and sharp. You flinch, instinctively shrinking against the edge of the bed, the metal frame digging into your spine. “But let’s not make this more unpleasant than it needs to be. You know I’m only doing this for your own good.”

The static lingers, like the ghost of his presence, before dissolving into the oppressive silence that dominates your world.

———

Later, you find it—a book, an old one, its spine cracked and worn. A piece of the life you once had. The familiar weight of it in your hands brings a flicker of warmth to your chest. You don’t know how it got here or why he would allow you something so small yet so meaningful, but you don’t question it. You simply clutch it to your chest, savoring the moment.

But then, he arrives.

He stands in the doorway, his expression unreadable, his silhouette framed by the dim, flickering light. His eyes—those violet pools of cruelty and calculation—narrow as they land on the book in your hands.

“Where did you get that?” he asks, his voice calm, but there’s a cold edge to it, like a blade hidden in velvet.

“I—I found it,” you stammer, clutching the book tighter as if it might shield you from the inevitable.

He doesn’t move, but the air around him seems to shift, thickening with something unspoken. “Interesting,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his footsteps deliberate and measured. “You’re quite resourceful, aren’t you? Always finding ways to entertain yourself.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

When he reaches you, he kneels, his movements fluid and precise, like a predator cornering its prey. He plucks the book from your hands with deceptive gentleness, his slender fingers brushing against yours for a moment too long.

“Do you know what this is?” he asks, turning the book over in his hands as though it were an artifact of immeasurable value. “A relic. A fragment of something that doesn’t exist anymore. Like you.”

His words sting, but before you can process them, he tightens his grip on the book. With a sudden, violent motion, he tears it in half, the brittle pages scattering like ash across the floor.

“Nothing from before matters,” he says, his tone cool, almost clinical, as he rises to his feet. “You don’t need distractions. You need me.”

———

That night, you try to sleep, but the room refuses to let you. The lights flicker intermittently, each burst of brightness searing your eyes through closed lids. A low, grating hum emanates from somewhere in the walls, setting your teeth on edge.

And then, the noise.

It starts as a soft, rhythmic tapping, like the distant sound of rain against glass. But it grows louder, more insistent, until it feels like it’s coming from inside your skull. You bolt upright, your breath ragged, your body drenched in cold sweat.

“You’re restless,” his voice coos from the speaker, smooth and mocking. “Didn’t I tell you to rest? Or are you defying me again?”

“I—stop it,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

“Stop what?” he replies, feigning innocence. “You’re imagining things again. Poor thing. You really should trust me more. I can help you.”

The noise stops abruptly, leaving an aching silence in its wake. You collapse back onto the bed, your body too exhausted to fight anymore.

———

The next morning, you stumble into the small, sterile kitchenette, your limbs heavy with fatigue. The stove is on—flames licking at the edges of a pan you don’t remember lighting. The smell of something burning fills the air, acrid and choking.

“Careless,” he says, leaning casually against the doorway, his arms crossed. “You could’ve burned the whole place down.”

“I didn’t—” you start, but he cuts you off with a wave of his hand.

“No excuses,” he snaps, his voice sharp as a whip. “You’re lucky I caught it in time. Do you see now why you can’t be trusted? Why you need me?”

You want to argue, to scream that it wasn’t you, that he must have done it himself. But the words die in your throat as his gaze pierces through you, cold and unrelenting.

────────────

The silence stretches into infinity, interrupted only by your own ragged breaths and the phantom echoes of his voice that claw at your psyche. You don’t know when he’ll speak again or if he’s watching, but the not knowing is part of the torment.

When his voice finally breaks the silence, it’s so sudden and sharp it feels like the snap of a guillotine.

“Still holding onto hope, are you?” His voice is soft, almost tender, a cruel mockery of comfort. “I admire your persistence. It’s… quaint.”

His tone is calm, calculated, each word chosen with the precision of a scalpel. It cuts through the fog in your mind, forcing you to confront the reality he’s woven around you.

“You think someone’s coming for you?” he continues, his voice dripping with incredulity. “How adorably naïve. Do you even remember what it’s like out there? The noise, the chaos, the endless parade of fools clawing at one another for scraps of meaning. I’ve spared you from that, haven’t I?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. The lump in your throat feels like it’s suffocating you, and the weight of his words presses down on your chest until it feels like your ribs might crack.

“Nothing to say?” he muses. “That’s fine. I prefer you this way—quiet. It suits you.”

———

You didn’t hear a door open. Didn’t hear the telltale click of boots against the floor. One moment you’re alone, and the next he’s standing there, a figure carved from shadow and disdain. The dim light paints him in stark relief, illuminating the sharp angles of his face, the cold glint in his violet eyes.

“I’ve been generous with you,” he says, his voice low and steady, like the distant rumble of thunder. He steps closer, each movement precise, deliberate, as though he’s stalking prey. “I’ve given you time to adjust, to see the truth. But you…” His lips curl into a faint smirk, though there’s no humor in it. “…You insist on clinging to those foolish little scraps of defiance.”

You flinch as he crouches before you, his gaze leveling with yours. His expression is unreadable, a mask of icy detachment that barely conceals the storm simmering beneath.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. “What exactly are you holding onto? A memory? A promise? Hope?”

He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing as he studies you with an intensity that feels like it could peel back your skin, exposing every raw nerve beneath.

“You don’t even know, do you?” he says, almost pitying. “You’re just… grasping. Blind and desperate. It’s pathetic, really.”

His hand reaches out, and you flinch again, but he doesn’t touch you. Instead, his fingers hover just above your face, as though he’s considering it, savoring the moment.

“You’re so fragile,” he breathes, his tone a mix of fascination and contempt. “It wouldn’t take much to break you, you know. A little pressure here…” His hand shifts, his fingers ghosting over your temple. “…And here.”

His other hand moves to hover over your throat, and your breath catches.

“But where’s the fun in that?” he muses, withdrawing his hands with a slow, deliberate grace. “Breaking you would be easy. No. I want you to understand.”

He leans in closer, his breath brushing against your ear, his voice dropping to a dark, intimate whisper.

“I want you to know that every moment you spend here is a gift. My gift. And when you finally shatter, when you finally look at me with nothing but submission in those eyes…” He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his smirk sharpening into something vicious. “…That’s when you’ll understand. That’s when you’ll thank me.”

The air feels thicker, heavier, suffused with his presence. The room spins around you, the walls closing in, the ground tilting beneath you. And through it all, his voice lingers, wrapping around your thoughts like a noose.

“No one else will come for you,” he says, standing to his full height, towering over you. “No one else can. It’s just you and me now. Forever.”

He turns to leave—or does he? The edges of your vision blur, the lines between reality and nightmare dissolving as his voice echoes through the void one last time.

“Stop fighting it, little fool. Stop fighting me.”

────────────

The first thing you notice when you wake is the cold. It bites into your skin, gnaws at your bones, wrapping itself around you like a second, crueler layer of flesh. The thin, threadbare shift you wear does nothing to shield you from it, the fabric clinging to your body with a dampness that reeks of mildew and despair.

The blankets are gone again. He always takes them when you displease him.

Your stomach churns with the memory of his last visit—the quiet menace in his voice, the way he tilted his head as he watched you scramble to piece together what was left of your broken dignity.

“You want comfort?” he had said, his tone laced with derision. “Earn it.”

You had begged—how could you not?—but he only smiled, a thin, sharp curve of his lips that cut deeper than any blade. And then he was gone, taking with him not only the blankets but the small, chipped bowl you had been using to collect water from the condensation that dripped sporadically from the ceiling.

Now, the thirst claws at your throat, dry and insistent. You press your lips together, trying to ignore it, but it’s impossible. Every breath feels like sandpaper scraping against raw flesh.

———

When he finally returns, it’s without fanfare. The door—a seamless part of the wall when shut—slides open with a faint hiss, and he steps inside, his violet eyes sharp and calculating. He’s carrying something this time: a bundle of what looks like clothing, though you’ve learned not to trust appearances.

“You look worse than usual,” he remarks, his gaze sweeping over you like a scientist observing a failed experiment. “Pathetic.”

You flinch at the word, but you don’t respond. Experience has taught you that anything you say will only feed his twisted sense of superiority.

He crouches before you, placing the bundle on the floor between you. It’s not clothing, you realize, but a single, thick blanket. It looks warm, inviting—an impossible luxury in this place.

“Do you want it?” he asks, his voice soft, almost coaxing.

You hesitate, your body aching for the warmth it promises. But you know better than to trust him.

“What do you want me to do?” you whisper, your voice hoarse from disuse.

His smile sharpens, a flash of white against the shadows of his face. “You’re learning,” he murmurs. “Good.”

He stands, taking a step back and gesturing to the far corner of the room. There, you see it: a tray of food, simple but sufficient—bread, water, a small portion of fruit. Your stomach growls at the sight, a humiliating reminder of your hunger.

“Eat,” he says, his tone light, as if he’s offering you a gift.

You don’t move. It’s too easy. There’s always a catch.

He chuckles, a low, mirthless sound. “Ah, still suspicious. How charming.”

He walks to the tray and picks up the cup of water, holding it up to the dim light as if inspecting it. Then, without warning, he tilts it, letting the liquid spill onto the floor.

“No!” The word escapes you before you can stop it, a raw, desperate plea.

He turns to you, his expression unreadable. “Prove to me,” he says slowly, deliberately, “that you deserve it. That you can follow simple instructions.”

“What do you want?” you ask again, your voice trembling.

His gaze narrows, and he steps closer, the soles of his boots crushing the bread beneath them as he walks. He crouches before you again, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away.

“Crawl,” he says simply.

The word hangs in the air, a command and a taunt all at once.

Your body stiffens, shame warring with desperation.

“Crawl,” he repeats, his voice harder this time, the veneer of gentleness cracking to reveal the steel beneath.

You hesitate, and his smile returns, cruel and mocking. “Or don’t,” he says, standing and turning away. “But don’t think I’ll be so generous again.”

———

The air in your prison grows colder with each passing day. The concrete floor seems to suck the warmth from your body, leaving you shivering in the thin, threadbare clothing he’s allotted you. Blankets are a luxury, one he dangles before you like bait on a hook. Hygiene products—soap, a toothbrush, even clean water—are rationed out like rare treasures, rewards for obedience that always seem just out of reach.

He watches you from the shadows, a silent predator waiting for the moment your spirit cracks. The sound of his voice is worse than the silence. It’s a scalpel, peeling away layers of your resistance with surgical precision.

“You look uncomfortable,” he remarks one day, his voice lilting with mock concern. He steps into the dim light, his figure framed by the cold, sterile glow. “How long has it been since you last had a proper shower? Days? Weeks?” He smiles, the expression brittle and sharp. “I could help with that, you know. All you have to do is ask.”

You say nothing, your eyes fixed on the floor, but he sees the flicker of humiliation in your expression, and it feeds him.

“No?” He tilts his head, feigning curiosity. “Still so proud, even now. Admirable, really. But pride won’t keep you warm. Or clean. Or alive.”

────────────

When the door finally hisses open, the sound sharp and invasive, you don’t lift your head. But you feel his presence immediately, a dark, oppressive weight that fills the room. His footsteps are soft but deliberate, each one echoing like the tolling of a bell. And then he speaks, his voice low and smooth, a dark current beneath deceptively calm waters.

“You’re looking pale again,” he remarks, his tone laced with mockery that twists your stomach. You don’t answer, keeping your eyes fixed on the floor, but he doesn’t need your response to continue. He never does. “Have you been refusing to eat? Or is it the water? You’ve always been so ungrateful, haven’t you?”

A shadow falls over you as he comes closer, and the sharp scent of ozone and something faintly chemical hits your nostrils. You flinch when his hand, cold and unyielding, grips your chin, forcing your face upward. His violet eyes gleam with a sick kind of amusement as he tilts his head, studying you like a specimen under glass.

“Thirsty?” he asks softly, almost gently, though there’s no mistaking the sadistic edge beneath his words. He reaches into the folds of his dark, flowing attire and retrieves a small, glass vial. It gleams in the dim light, the liquid inside as clear as crystal but no less threatening for its purity. “I brought you something special today.”

He crouches before you, setting the vial down on the floor with a deliberate clink. Then, with an almost theatrical flourish, he places a tall glass beside it, already half-filled with water. “Drink,” he says, his voice a command wrapped in velvet. “Go on. You must be parched.”

You hesitate, your body trembling as you glance at the glass. It feels like a trap—no, you know it’s a trap—but your throat burns with the dry, relentless ache of dehydration. It’s been days since he last offered you anything, the air in the room deliberately kept too dry, leeching the moisture from your body like some cruel experiment.

When you don’t move, his smirk widens, and he leans in, close enough that you can feel the chill of his breath against your skin. “Do you think I’d poison you?” he whispers, his tone almost tender, though the words slice into you like broken glass. “That I’d let you go so easily? Oh, no, little doll. If I wanted to destroy you, I’d make it far slower. Far more… personal.”

The implication chills you to your core, but the thirst gnaws at you with an intensity that borders on madness. You reach for the glass, your fingers trembling so violently you nearly knock it over. He watches with rapt attention, his eyes never leaving your face as you lift it to your lips.

The water is cold, colder than it has any right to be, and it slides down your throat like liquid ice. But then, the taste hits—metallic, sharp, and tinged with something acrid that makes your stomach churn. You gag, dropping the glass with a shattering crash, but it’s too late. The liquid burns as it courses through you, a searing pain that spreads from your throat to your chest, your stomach, your limbs.

He doesn’t flinch at the sound of the breaking glass. If anything, his expression grows darker, more triumphant, as he leans back on his heels, folding his arms across his chest. “How does it feel?” he asks, his tone almost conversational, as though he’s asking about the weather. “The sensation of your body rejecting what it so desperately craves? Fascinating, isn’t it?”

Your vision blurs with tears as you clutch your stomach, the pain radiating outward in waves. You want to scream, to beg, to curse him, but your voice catches in your throat, choked off by the bile rising within you. He watches it all with the calm detachment of a scientist observing a particularly interesting reaction, his head tilted slightly, his lips curved in a faint smile.

“Ah, but don’t worry,” he says after a moment, his voice softening in a way that’s even more sinister. “It won’t kill you. I wouldn’t waste such a useful tool on something as permanent as death.” He reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch cold and clinical despite the faux tenderness in his movements. “No, little doll, this is simply a reminder. A lesson.”

He leans in closer, so close you can feel the oppressive weight of his presence pressing down on you. “You don’t survive without me. Do you understand that now? Every breath you take, every drop of water you drink, every bite of food that passes your lips—it all comes from me. And it can all be taken away just as easily.”

The pain begins to subside, leaving you weak, trembling, and utterly broken. He stands, brushing off his knees as though he’s finished with some menial task. “Rest, if you can,” he says, his voice light and mocking once more as he turns toward the door. “You’ll need your strength for the next lesson.”

The door closes behind him with a resounding clang, leaving you alone in the suffocating silence of the room. Alone with the lingering burn in your throat, the taste of poison on your tongue, and the sick, suffocating knowledge that he’s right.

You don’t survive without him.

────────────

The silence he left behind had weight—a crushing, suffocating thing that pressed against your chest until your breaths came in shallow, wheezing gasps. Days stretched into nights, and nights into something darker still, where time seemed to lose its grip and your mind unraveled thread by fragile thread.

But then came the voice.

At first, it was a whisper—a delicate breeze brushing against the edges of your consciousness. Soft, insidious, and almost gentle.

“Did you miss me, little doll?”

Your heart stopped, then hammered violently against your ribs. You spun toward the sound, eyes darting across the empty room. Shadows stretched unnaturally, pooling in corners like ink spilled across parchment.

There was no one there.

But the voice persisted, lilting and melodic, curling around your thoughts like smoke. “Poor thing,” it cooed. “You look so lost. So lonely. Didn’t I promise I’d always come back for you?”

“No,” you rasped, clutching your head, fingers digging into your scalp as though you could claw him out of your mind. “You’re not here. You’re not real.”

The laughter that followed was low, rich, and agonizingly familiar. It reverberated through the empty space, vibrating against your skull like a tuning fork.

“Not real?” he repeated, his tone dripping with mockery. “Oh, my little doll, you wound me. But perhaps I’ve been too kind. Let me remind you.”

The world around you shifted—imperceptibly at first, like the faint sensation of vertigo. Then it hit. The walls groaned and shuddered, the fluorescent light overhead flickering wildly. The air grew heavy, thick with the metallic tang of blood. You stumbled, your knees buckling as the ground seemed to ripple beneath your feet.

When the flickering stopped, he was there. Or was he?

His face hovered just out of reach, a phantom etched in shadow and smoke, his violet eyes glinting like shards of broken glass. He was leaning in, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath unnaturally cold.

“Tell me, doll,” he murmured, his voice velvet and venom, “do you still think I’m not real?”

You screamed, a raw, guttural sound that tore through the silence. You clawed at the walls, at your face, your nails scraping skin as you tried to banish him from your senses. But the voice only grew louder, more insistent, wrapping itself around you like a shroud.

When he finally stepped into the light, the sight of him sent your stomach plummeting. His coat trailed behind him like the wings of some unholy predator, his silhouette framed in a distorted, sickly glow. He tilted his head, a parody of curiosity, and smiled.

“You’ve been busy,” he said, gesturing to the marks on the walls, the bloodied crescents under your nails. “What is it you’re trying to escape from, hmm?”

You stared at him, wide-eyed, your chest heaving. “You weren’t here,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I heard you, but you weren’t here. You were—”

“Everywhere,” he finished for you, his smile widening. “And nowhere. Isn’t it delightful? How fragile your mind has become?”

He took a step closer, his boots clicking against the floor in a deliberate, measured rhythm. Each sound drove a spike of dread deeper into your chest.

“But don’t worry,” he continued, his tone softening into something almost tender. “I’m here now. Let’s forget all about those nasty little thoughts, shall we?”

His hand reached out, brushing a blood-matted strand of hair from your face. The gesture was achingly gentle, a cruel mimicry of affection. His touch left a burning, icy trail against your skin.

“You look so distressed,” he murmured, his voice dripping with mock concern. “Have you been imagining things again? Seeing shadows where there are none? Hearing whispers in the dark?”

You wanted to scream, to lash out, but your body betrayed you, rooted in place as his fingers ghosted over your cheek.

“No need to answer,” he said with a sigh, his thumb tracing the edge of your jaw. “Your silence speaks volumes.”

And then the illusion shattered.

His hand wasn’t on your face—it was inside your skull. You felt the sharp, electric jolt of something foreign scraping against your brain, an icy tendril of invasive thought slithering into the deepest recesses of your mind. Memories warped and twisted under his touch, familiar faces dissolving into grotesque, melting horrors.

“You see,” he whispered, his voice echoing within you now, “there’s no escape from me. Not in the silence, not in the noise. I’m in every breath you take, every blink, every beat of that fragile little heart.”

You sobbed, the sound choking in your throat as the room dissolved into a kaleidoscope of distorted images. Blood seeped from the walls, viscous and dark, pooling at your feet. You felt it creeping up your legs, cold and sentient, wrapping around you like chains.

And still, he smiled.

“Did you miss me?” he asked again, his voice slicing through the chaos. This time, there was no room for denial. He leaned in close, his breath brushing against your lips as he whispered, “I missed you, little doll. And I’ll never leave you again.”

────────────

The tray lands on the table with a resounding clang, a sound that reverberates through the suffocating silence of the room. The metallic echo seems to burrow into your skull, as if the very air conspires to mock your helplessness. He stands above you, a silhouette of unyielding authority, arms crossed and eyes gleaming with sadistic amusement.

"You should be grateful," he murmurs, his voice smooth and calculated, like a scalpel slicing through flesh. The faint trace of a smirk curls his lips, his tone dripping with condescension. "I went to such great lengths to prepare this. Just for you."

Your gaze falls to the tray, and the bile rises instantly in your throat. The abomination before you masquerades as food, a grotesque parody of sustenance that seems alive in the most horrifying ways. The slabs of meat glisten unnaturally, their surfaces marred by oozing black lesions that seep a thick, tar-like substance. A faint stench rises from them, sharp and putrid, a rancid blend of decay and chemicals.

Nestled beside the meat is a mound of gray paste, its texture like wet cement, flecked with jagged shards of something white—bone? Teeth? You can’t tell, and you don’t want to. The greens are no better: wilted, slimy, and crawling with tiny, wriggling creatures. The bugs move lazily, their segmented bodies glistening under the harsh fluorescent light, their sluggish movements taunting your growing horror.

“You’re staring,” he says, his tone lilting, almost playful. He leans in closer, his sharp features framed by the dim, artificial glow. "What’s the matter? Not to your liking? It’s safe, you know. Perfectly edible. Nutrient-dense, even."

You swallow hard, your stomach twisting itself into knots. Every fiber of your being screams at you to run, to scream, to do something, but you can’t. His presence roots you to the chair, your limbs heavy with the weight of his control.

“Don’t think I’ll let you starve, little doll.” His voice drops, the endearment laced with venom. He picks up the fork, prodding at the meat. The action elicits a sickening squelch as the black liquid pools beneath it, the viscous substance clinging to the metal tines like molasses. “Go on,” he urges, his tone soft but edged with malice. “Eat.”

Your shaking hands reach for the fork, but your grip falters. The metal feels impossibly cold, a physical manifestation of your dread. You stab at the meat, and its rubbery texture fights back, resisting your every attempt to cut it. When you finally manage to tear off a piece, the smell intensifies, a cloying wave of rot and iron that makes your vision blur with nausea.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. He steps closer, his shadow swallowing you whole. “You will eat every bite. I won’t tolerate waste.”

Your lips part reluctantly, and the moment the meat touches your tongue, the taste assaults you. It’s rancid, the flavor an overwhelming mix of decay and metallic bitterness. You gag instinctively, your body convulsing as you try to spit it out, but he’s faster. His hand clamps over your mouth, his grip iron-tight.

"Swallow," he hisses, his breath cold against your ear. The word is sharp, absolute. Tears stream down your face as you force the foul lump down, your throat convulsing violently around it. The moment it settles in your stomach, a heavy, alien weight, he releases you with a cruel smile.

“Good,” he purrs, wiping a stray tear from your cheek. “But we’re not done yet.”

He picks up the gray paste next, scooping a heaping forkful. The gritty, slimy mass clings to the metal like glue, its acrid stench burning your nostrils. Without warning, he presses it against your lips, smearing the substance across your skin when you try to turn away.

“Open,” he commands, his tone brooking no argument. His other hand grips your jaw, forcing your mouth open, and he shoves the paste inside. It coats your tongue, the texture gritty and uneven, punctuated by the horrifying crunch of the shards within. You don’t want to think about what they might be. You retch, but his unyielding gaze pins you in place.

“Chew,” he orders, his voice devoid of patience now. When you hesitate, his grip on your jaw tightens, the pain sharp and immediate. “Chew.”

You obey, the shards cutting into your gums as the paste coats your mouth in an unholy mix of textures and tastes. When you finally swallow, it feels like swallowing broken glass, the jagged edges scraping their way down.

“Such a good little doll,” he croons mockingly, his fingers stroking your cheek in a grotesque parody of affection. His eyes glint with dark satisfaction as he gestures to the greens. “Finish it.”

The slimy leaves glisten under the light, their surfaces writhing with life. The tiny creatures embedded within them squirm and twitch, their segmented bodies pulsing faintly. He picks up a forkful and holds it before you, the bugs wriggling and falling off the edges, their tiny legs scrambling for purchase.

“No,” you whisper, your voice hoarse and trembling. It’s the first word you’ve dared to speak, but it’s a mistake.

His expression hardens instantly, his smile vanishing. He grips your hair, yanking your head back with brutal force, and presses the fork against your lips. “You don’t get to say no,” he snarls. “You will eat. Every. Last. Bite.”

The greens and their crawling passengers are shoved into your mouth, the slime coating your tongue and the bugs wriggling against your teeth. You chew reluctantly, each bite filling you with a fresh wave of nausea as the creatures burst, their insides bitter and sickly. Some continue to move, their twitching bodies sliding down your throat even as you swallow.

By the time the tray is empty, you’re shaking violently, tears streaming down your face as your stomach churns with the unholy concoction. He watches with satisfaction, his smirk returning as he steps back.

“Well done,” he says, his tone almost congratulatory. He sets the tray aside and crouches before you, his fingers brushing against your tear-streaked cheek. “See? You can do as you’re told.”

You stare at him, hollow and broken, the taste of his twisted meal lingering on your tongue. When he finally leaves, the door slamming shut behind him, the oppressive silence returns, and you crumble, your body wracked with dry sobs.

The food sits heavy in your stomach, a grotesque reminder of your helplessness. You know he’ll return tomorrow with something worse. He always does.

────────────

The sterile air of the room feels heavier today, pressing against your chest like invisible hands. You can’t shake the unease, the gnawing sensation that something is wrong, even more so than usual. It’s in the silence that stretches just a beat too long, in the flicker of the overhead light that seems timed to your uneven breaths.

Then, the door opens, and he steps inside with the quiet elegance of someone who knows he doesn’t need to announce his presence. Scaramouche. His name alone sends an involuntary shiver down your spine.

He looks the same as always—poised, meticulous, as if every strand of hair and every fold of his outfit had been arranged with precision. But today, there’s something different in his eyes, something colder, more calculating.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says, his tone almost conversational, as if you’re old friends catching up. His lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

You don’t answer. You’ve learned by now that anything you say can and will be twisted, reshaped into a weapon aimed at you.

He sighs, a sound filled with exaggerated disappointment, and steps closer. The room feels smaller with each measured step he takes, until he’s standing just a breath away, towering over you like a shadow.

“I’ve been thinking,” he begins, tilting his head slightly, the motion almost childlike but laced with menace. “You haven’t been entirely honest with me, have you?”

Your heart stutters. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” he snaps, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “I saw the way you looked at me yesterday. The resentment, the defiance. After everything I’ve done for you.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” he interrupts, his voice softer now but no less dangerous. “And it hurt me. It hurt us.”

His words sink into your chest like daggers, each one meticulously placed to draw the maximum amount of guilt and confusion. You know he’s lying—there was no resentment, no defiance—but the certainty in his voice, the way he says it as though it’s an undeniable truth, makes you doubt yourself.

“Do you know how hard I work to keep you safe?” he continues, crouching down so his face is level with yours. “Do you have any idea what I’ve sacrificed for you? And this is how you repay me? With distrust? With hatred?”

“I don’t hate you,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“Don’t you?” His smile widens, cruel and mocking. “Then why do you keep trying to hurt me? Why do you keep betraying me?”

Your mind races, desperately trying to piece together what he’s accusing you of, but there’s nothing to grasp onto, no crime to confess.

“I didn’t do anything,” you say, your voice trembling.

His eyes darken, and he leans in closer, so close you can feel the chill radiating off him. “No?” he whispers, his tone dripping with venom. “Then why do I feel like you’re lying?”

────────────

The first time you see him again, it’s through a haze of adrenaline and fear, your limbs trembling as you push yourself upright. The sound of boots pounding on the concrete echoes like gunshots in the cavernous space. Everything smells like oil and blood and something metallic you can’t quite place.

He bursts through the shattered doorway, his dark silhouette haloed by the dying embers of light spilling from the outside. His eyes, sharp as a blade’s edge, scan the room until they lock onto you, crumpled in the corner, battered and bleeding.

“I told you not to wander off,” he says, his tone more exasperated than angry. But there’s something underneath it—an undercurrent of urgency, of barely contained panic.

Before you can respond, he’s kneeling in front of you, his gloved hands moving with precision as he checks for injuries. His touch is cold, clinical, but his gaze burns with something raw and unspoken.

“You could’ve died,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Do you have any idea what they would’ve done to you if I hadn’t gotten here in time?”

The words hit you like a blow. You remember the men who dragged you here, their faces masked but their intentions clear. You remember their laughter, the way they circled you like predators, and the sickening certainty that no one was coming to save you.

And yet, here he is.

“Why…?” Your voice cracks, barely audible over the pounding of your heart. “How did you find me?”

He pauses, his hands stilling as he meets your gaze. “Because I always find you,” he says simply, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Because you’re mine to protect. No one else cares enough to keep you safe, to pull you back from the brink every time you stumble into danger.”

You should feel grateful—relieved, even—but his words don’t sit right. They coil around your mind like a serpent, squeezing tighter with each repetition.

———

Days later, after he’s taken you back to the sterile confinement of your “safe place,” the cracks in the story begin to show.

You wake up screaming, your dreams plagued by shadowy figures and muffled threats. The first thing you see is him, sitting in the corner of the room, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable.

“Still having nightmares?” he asks, his tone calm but laced with faint condescension.

You nod, your throat too dry to speak.

He stands, walking over to you with measured steps. “I warned you,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “The world out there is cruel, unrelenting. They don’t care about you like I do. That’s why you need to stay here, where I can protect you.”

“But—” you start, the words dying in your throat as his gaze sharpens.

“But nothing,” he snaps, though his voice never rises. “Do you remember what happened? What they said they’d do to you? Or are you already twisting it in your head to make me the villain again?”

You flinch, the accusation stinging even though you know it isn’t fair. “I didn’t say that,” you whisper.

He leans closer, his presence suffocating. “But you thought it,” he murmurs. “Don’t lie to me. I can see it all over your face.”

The conversation leaves you shaken, his words gnawing at the edges of your mind. Had you misunderstood him? Was he right?

———

The next day, you notice something strange. The small, cracked mirror on the wall—the one you’ve stared into countless times, trying to find traces of the person you used to be—looks different. The crack is gone, the glass pristine, almost too pristine.

You press your fingers against it, your reflection wavering slightly. “Was this always here?” you mutter to yourself.

“It was,” his voice answers from behind you, making you jump.

You turn to find him leaning casually against the doorway, his arms crossed and an infuriating smirk on his face. “Are you doubting your memory now?”

“I…” You hesitate, the weight of his gaze making it impossible to think clearly.

“Maybe it’s the stress,” he continues, pushing off the wall and walking toward you. “Trauma does funny things to the mind. Makes you see things that aren’t there, remember things that didn’t happen.”

He stops just inches away, his hand brushing against your cheek in a gesture that feels both comforting and imprisoning. “But don’t worry,” he says softly. “That’s why I’m here—to keep you grounded, to make sure you don’t lose yourself completely.”

———

Over time, the little inconsistencies pile up: a drawer that seems to shift its contents overnight, a diary you swore you wrote in that now sits blank, the faint smell of antiseptic that lingers on your skin despite not remembering any wounds.

“You’re imagining things,” he says whenever you bring it up. “Do you want me to get the doctor again? You remember what he said last time—about your delusions?”

The mention of the doctor shuts you down. You remember the cold metal of the examination table, the too-bright lights, the clinical detachment in the doctor’s voice as he listed off your supposed symptoms.

“You’re not well,” he had said, his tone devoid of compassion. “But with time, and the right care, you can recover.”

And who had been there to hold your hand through it all? Who had whispered reassurances in your ear, promising that he’d never let anyone hurt you?

Him.

Always him.

———

One day, he takes you outside—or what he claims is outside. The sky is gray, the air heavy with the acrid smell of smoke. There’s no one around, just endless stretches of concrete and metal, like the remnants of a city that never finished being built.

“This is what’s left,” he says, gesturing to the desolation around you. “You wanted freedom? Here it is. Go ahead. See how far you get.”

You take a hesitant step forward, then another, the silence pressing in on you like a physical weight. But the farther you walk, the more it feels wrong. The same twisted tree looms in the distance no matter which direction you turn.

“It’s a loop,” you whisper, realization dawning like a shard of glass slicing through your thoughts.

He steps up behind you, his breath warm against your ear. “It’s safety,” he corrects. “And the sooner you accept that, the better off you’ll be.”

You sink to your knees, the weight of his words crushing you.

Because deep down, you know he’s right. There’s no way out.

────────────

The “gifts” arrive in silence, placed delicately where you can’t ignore them. They are always wrong in ways that make your stomach churn—a photograph from a vacation you can almost remember, the faces distorted into grotesque smears as if melted under the heat of his touch. A trinket you once cherished, now fractured or tarnished beyond recognition, its edges sharp enough to cut. A letter written in your own handwriting, the words rearranged into senseless patterns, like a code you’re too far gone to crack.

You don’t want to touch them, but you do, every time. They feel like a thread tying you to the world you left behind, even as the thread frays in your trembling hands.

Today, it’s a letter. A crumpled piece of paper, brittle and yellowed at the edges, that wasn’t there when you closed your eyes to the oppressive dimness hours—or was it days?—ago. The words shift as you read, the ink bleeding into itself until sentences collapse into meaningless blotches.

“It’s all gone, you know,” his voice cuts through the silence, a dagger laced with mockery.

You whip around, the paper crinkling in your grip as you face him. He’s standing in the doorway—or at least, where a doorway would be if this room obeyed the laws of reason. His silhouette is backlit by a faint, sterile glow that gives him an otherworldly edge, making him seem more phantom than man.

His smirk widens as he steps forward, his movements slow and deliberate, his boots echoing against the cold floor. “Everything you had. Everyone you loved.” He pauses, tilting his head as if savoring your reaction. “I made sure of it.”

His words pierce through you, sharp and unrelenting, a scalpel carving away at your hope. Your hands shake, the letter slipping from your grasp and fluttering to the ground.

“I don’t believe you,” you manage to whisper, though your voice wavers under the weight of his presence.

“Oh?” His tone drips with amusement as he crouches before you, his violet eyes glinting with something dark and twisted. He picks up the letter, smoothing it out with a precision that feels mocking, before holding it out to you again. “Then tell me—what does it say?”

You stare at the paper, the lines of ink writhing like living things under his gaze. The harder you look, the more the words evade you, slipping through the cracks of your comprehension like grains of sand.

“Nothing?” he presses, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. “How tragic. And here I thought this might bring you comfort.”

He straightens, looming over you as his smirk softens into something almost tender—almost. “But you don’t need those relics, do you? Memories are just burdens, after all. And I…” He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from your face with a touch so light it feels like a mockery of affection. “…am here to unburden you.”

You recoil, pressing yourself against the wall, but there’s nowhere to go. His hand lingers in the air for a moment before he withdraws it, his expression shifting into something unreadable.

“You have me now,” he says, his voice calm, measured, but with an undercurrent of something that makes your skin crawl. “And isn’t that enough?”

———

You don’t answer. The silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating, until he chuckles—a low, mirthless sound that vibrates through the room.

“No?” He turns his back to you, pacing with the languid grace of someone who knows they’ve already won. “Ungrateful to the end, I see. Typical.”

He stops near the far wall, his hand trailing across its surface as if feeling for a seam. The room responds to him, a soft click reverberating through the air as a hidden compartment slides open. From within, he pulls another “gift”—a locket this time, small and tarnished, the metal warped as though crushed under immense pressure.

He holds it up, letting it dangle from his fingers as he turns back to you. “Do you recognize this?”

Your heart clenches at the sight of it, the faint glint of its once-polished surface sparking a memory so vivid it feels like a slap. You don’t answer, but he sees the recognition in your eyes, and his smile sharpens into something predatory.

“You kept this with you always, didn’t you?” he muses, his voice soft, almost reverent. “So sentimental. So human.”

He steps closer, dangling the locket just out of reach. “And yet, it couldn’t save you, could it?” His smile falters for a split second, a flicker of something bitter crossing his features before his mask of cold amusement snaps back into place.

He drops the locket at your feet, the sound of metal striking the floor echoing in the silence. “Take it,” he commands, his voice suddenly hard, sharp enough to cut.

You hesitate, your hands trembling as you reach for it. The moment your fingers close around the cold, misshapen metal, his boot comes down next to your hand, so close you can feel the air shift.

“But remember,” he says, his voice low and venomous, “everything you touch, everything you remember—it’s mine now. Just like you.”

His words sink into your mind like hooks, tearing at your resolve as he turns and disappears into the void he came from, leaving you alone with the locket and the crushing weight of his truth.

———

You want to say no. You want to scream it, to hurl the word at him with every ounce of strength you have left. But the word sticks in your throat, a jagged shard of glass you can’t swallow or spit out.

He doesn’t wait for your answer. He doesn’t need to. The smirk that plays at the corners of his lips tells you he already knows.

“You’ll see,” he murmurs, his tone almost reverent now, as though speaking of a truth so profound it defies comprehension. “In time, you’ll come to understand. I’m all you have. All you’ll ever need.”

He steps back, his boots clicking against the floor in a rhythm that echoes like a heartbeat—your heartbeat, weak and faltering.

“Do try to appreciate my generosity,” he says over his shoulder as he moves toward the shadows. “These little gifts of mine… they’re not just for you, you know. They’re for me, too. A reminder of how far you’ve come.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you alone with the letter, the photograph, the watch. Alone with the fragmented remains of a life you can no longer remember.

The lights flicker again, plunging the room into darkness.

His voice lingers, though, soft and venomous, a ghost that refuses to leave.

“Gratitude, little fool. That’s all I ask.”

────────────

The room you’ve been confined to has changed again. Not in any tangible way—no new walls, no new objects—but in the oppressive way it seems to warp around you, making even its empty expanse feel too small. It’s as though the walls breathe, inhaling your will and exhaling despair. The only constant is him. Scaramouche, who looms like a god in a world of his own creation.

He stands before you now, framed by the stark artificial light, his expression unreadable. Every movement, every glance he spares is a study in calculated perfection, as though he’s rehearsed this scene in his mind countless times before bringing it to life.

“You’ve made progress,” he begins, his tone soft, almost kind. “I can see it in the way you’ve stopped resisting.” He kneels to your level, his hands clasped neatly on his bent knee. “But we still have work to do.”

You flinch as he reaches out, his fingers brushing against your wrist. His touch is light, fleeting, yet it feels like chains being wrapped around your bones.

“Tell me,” he says, his voice dipping into something more intimate, more poisonous. “What’s your name?”

You hesitate, your lips parting but refusing to form the words. The question isn’t innocent; you know that by now. It’s a trap.

Scaramouche’s smile deepens, and it’s the kind of smile that makes your stomach churn. “I see,” he murmurs, withdrawing his hand. “You’re still clinging to it. That identity. That name. That life.” His gaze sharpens, cutting through you like glass. “How selfish.”

“I’m not selfish,” you manage to whisper, your voice trembling.

“Aren’t you?” he counters, rising to his feet. He begins to pace, his hands clasped behind his back, his every step deliberate and echoing in the oppressive silence. “You insist on holding onto a version of yourself that no longer exists. Do you know how exhausting that is for me? Watching you struggle, knowing you’ll never succeed?”

His words are a scalpel, precise and cutting. “Let me simplify things for you,” he continues, his tone lightening as though he’s offering a gift. “You don’t need a name. Names are for people who belong to the world, and you…” He pauses, turning to face you fully, his violet eyes glowing with an unearthly intensity. “You belong to me.”

The words hang heavy in the air, suffocating you in their finality. He kneels again, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders. “Say it,” he commands, his voice velvet and steel. “Say you’re mine.”

You shake your head, tears pooling in your eyes. “I—I’m not—”

His grip tightens, not enough to hurt but enough to remind you of his power. “Say it,” he repeats, his tone leaving no room for defiance.

When you don’t respond, he sighs, releasing you and rising once more. “You still don’t understand,” he says, his voice tinged with disappointment. “But that’s alright. I’ll help you. I always help you, don’t I?”

———

The next morning, you wake to find everything in the room gone—your blanket, the single chair you’d been allowed to sit on, even the thin mattress you’d been sleeping on. The floor beneath you is cold, unyielding, and utterly barren.

When Scaramouche arrives, his expression is one of practiced pity. He crouches down, inspecting you like a scientist observing a fragile experiment. “It’s painful, isn’t it?” he says softly. “To have everything stripped away. But it’s necessary. You have to learn that those things were only weighing you down.”

“Why are you doing this?” you ask, your voice breaking.

“Because I care,” he replies without hesitation. “Because I want you to be free.” He tilts his head, his gaze softening in a way that feels like mockery. “Don’t you see? I’m saving you from the prison of your own mind. The sooner you let go of who you were, the sooner you’ll find peace.”

You don’t respond, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He rises to his full height, towering over you like a judge delivering a sentence. “I’ll leave you to think,” he says, his tone light but his words laced with menace. “But remember: the only way out of this is through me.”

———

Days pass—or maybe weeks; it’s impossible to tell. The walls seem to close in more each day, their featureless expanse a blank canvas for the chaos in your mind. You begin to question everything: your memories, your sense of self, even your sanity.

One day, Scaramouche returns with a new “gift.” It’s a mirror, small and oval, its edges gilded in a way that feels almost mocking. He sets it before you with a flourish, his smile unreadable.

“Look,” he says simply.

You hesitate, your hands trembling as you reach for the mirror. When you finally raise it to your face, you barely recognize the person staring back. Your skin is pale, your eyes hollow, your hair disheveled. You look…empty.

“Do you see now?” he murmurs, crouching beside you. “This is who you are. Who you’ve always been. The world out there didn’t care about you. It chewed you up and spat you out. But I…” He pauses, his gaze locking onto yours in the reflection. “I’m the one who picked up the pieces. I’m the one who’s here for you.”

Tears stream down your face, and you don’t even know why. His words are poison, but they seep into the cracks of your mind, filling the void with something dark and insidious.

“You’ll thank me someday,” he says, his voice soft and almost tender. “When you finally see the truth. When you finally understand that I’m your savior.”

He takes the mirror from your hands, his fingers brushing against yours in a way that feels both possessive and gentle. “But until then,” he says, rising to his feet, “you’ll stay here, where you belong. With me.”

────────────

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[tiredneutron]

Terrans

Humanity.

Listen well, for this is a tale of warning and of caution.

When humanity was first observed, many of the council thought they should be eradicated. A tumultuous and violent species who revelled in the destruction of their own kind. It was a close thing, but the council voted and humanity was allowed to develop - under the condition that none were to contact them until they were deemed ready.

Humanity never gave us the chance to do so.

They progressed their technology in timeframes yet unseen. They went from discovering electricity to landing on their own moon in a matter of decades - doing so with primitive technology, but it was a feat nonetheless.

From there they developed their own world - the space around their home planet Terra became a field of haphazard signals and messages, a bombardment of signals that interfered with our observational machinery. Due to this we weren’t ready when humanity ventured into the stars truly for the first time. They blasted themselves out of their atmosphere with controlled explosions of all things, their technology was nowhere near discovering antimatter coupling yet. Despite this they reached the edge of the quarantine zone within a matter of years, and we were discovered.

Despite our initial thoughts, humanity reacted very differently to us than expected. They didn’t wage wars on us, didn’t lay claim to our planets. They met us with unrestrained joy at finding others in the universe. They told us of their numerous attempts to reach out to us, and showed us some of their works of fiction that depicted how they imagined us (though they seemed to hide some others for reasons we couldn’t ascertain).

Humanity was welcomed into the stars, and they became commonplace. Their biology was baffling and their behaviour bizarre, but we accommodated them and they taught us how to work with them.

Centuries passed, and though the initial explorers were long gone, humanity had become a part of the council as low ranking members. Their species had become mostly peaceful, lowering their internal wars to less than skirmishes. Humanity’s violent and cruel nature seemed to have been tempered by the stars.

We were wrong.

From beyond the councils borders, beyond the observable space in the void, a threat appeared. They blasted through our sensors and demolished our border colonies in hours. Our intel on them was near zero due to the ferocity they annihilated our kin.

They reached the inner borders of the council, and the elder members prepared for a bitter battle. To our surprise, humanity asked to join the defence. They told us that their kin had settled on some of the border colonies, and that many had lost loved ones. We allowed humanity to join our last fight, even if we didn’t expect them to affect the battle.

We were wrong.

Many of my comrades who survived the battle have sleep terrors to this day. Not of the void settlers, but of the humans. The cruelty and viciousness we thought had disappeared from their culture came back with a vengeance. Who we had seen as scientists and farmers for centuries, comrades we had known for decades - they showed us that monsters don’t come from the void.

The void settlers never stood a chance. The council was barely able to get in formation before the battle was ended. If the void bringers tactics were ferocious, then the Terran’s were monstrous. For every ship they lost, every life they sacrificed, the void settlers lost a battalion, a planet’s worth of lives.

This loss brought the void settlers much shame and anger. They made a mistake that haunts me to this day. They used their speed to reach Terra before the council could relay to the humans the threat. Humanity watched as Terra split, as trillions of their families and non-fighting members were eradicated.

The fighting ceased. Humanity seemed to have frozen. Their fleets stopped dead in space and their communications went silent. Where humanity had been surrounded by wavelengths and frequencies that interfered with some technology still, the space around them became eerily silent, as though the death of the planet had killed even those off world.

The void settlers continued their attack on the council and disregarded Humanity. No need to worry about a broken opponent… Right?

They were wrong.

The Terran’s weren’t dead, or even broken. It was later revealed that the freeze had been due to grief. Humanity had lost its home world, but worse than that it had lost its peaceable citizens. The ones who should have been safe from the conflict.

All of humanity had watched, and all of humanity had grieved. But they were not broken.

The void settlers learnt this very soon.

Humanity descended on them in ways that made the last defence seem like a diplomatic discussion. We though we had seen the worst of humanity in our early observations. WE. WERE. WRONG.

Humanity has a saying “Hell hath no wrath like a woman scorned”, but the council has adapted it: “The void hath no wrath like a Terran without a home”.

The void settlers were routed from every planet they had taken. They retreated to the void leaving behind their technology and supplies, not even taking the time to recover some of their teams. But the humans didn’t stop.

In a move that the council had forbidden for millennia, the humans flew into the void. The entirety of the Terran race disappeared into the blackness beyond space and wasn’t heard from for longer than we had known of them.

The council mourned their losses, but viewed their final act as something done out of the madness of their loss. The Terran’s were remembered as warriors, as fighters, but also as family. They became known to those of us who’d seen them fight as “The angels of Death”.

I never expected to see a Terran again, assumed that the void had devoured them and their destructive grief with them. But one day a vessel I was onboard, tasked with assessing possible colonies to rebuild in the border planets - it detected something.

The frequencies and wavelengths of data that had only ever been human in nature. They were coming from the void.

The council watched as humanity emerged unexpected for the second time.

The flagship docked with our observation vessel, and the leaders came aboard to see us. I vaguely recognised the captain. Their features so slightly similar to the grief driven warrior we’d watched descend into the void. We asked what had happened, and the captain responded with the most chilling visage I had seen since the first footage of the void settlers. Their baring of their teeth was savage and joyous. So similar to the expression we saw at first meeting, yet so distorted. In that moment I saw what could have happened if the Terran’s had waged war on us.

“We won.”

[saturnicos]

. . ⟩ 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗒

› paring: ororon x gn!reader

› cw/tw: just holding hands

› notes: just something silly i wanted to write but it got sm long and bad in the end D: + no proofread

Sunny days were predominant in Natlan even in the densest parts of the forests, mostly representing a subtropical climate in the region. Despite the heat that scorched the entire region during the day, the early evenings were cool with the light cold breezes that passed through, making it a good time for calmer outdoor activities.

Underneath a large and firm tree, you and Ororon rested against it while talking peacefully; the topics ranged from how his garden was going to how his activities in the tribe were going. Despite being frequent moments — since visiting Ororon every evening became something intrinsic to his routine — they all seemed new in the same way, regardless of what.

Ororon felt the same way despite his fears about the condition of his own soul; he would often apologize for any minor misfortune you had during the day in the tribe or in the moments of talking with him, and then all those times you would reassure him that he didn't need to apologize for things that can happen sometimes.

You enjoy his company, so you wouldn't mind even if these misfortunes could be coming from him.

— ...and then granny fell asleep on the table, still holding the glass of drink tightly! I couldn't get out of her grip. — releasing a sigh with false frustration that was soon followed by a laugh, you finished telling a story that had happened to the matriarch in a casual moment to the young bat beside you, who laughed without hesitation.

— Yes, that's just like her... That sounded rude, in fact it seems like something she would casually do. — he replied in return, scratching one of his eyes and adjusting his posture against the large tree, having a weak and low laugh that was still audible. You just smiled.

A moment of silence filled the air; not unpleasant or uncomfortable, but rather a comforting silence that seemed to fill a void. Looking at the sky, you noticed a curious pattern that was formed not far away: stars so close and aligned that they formed the shape of a bat, and right next to it there was a cluster that seemed to form your own symbol.

— Look! — you pointed towards the constellations, looking with fascination at their formation so well positioned on the horizon; both shone beautifully in the sky, now seeming to outshine the other stars around them.

Ororon soon moved slightly to your side, looking clearly in the direction you were pointing and letting a happy smile form in an instant. — Hey, what a great coincidence! I remember that granny knew some legends about constellations.

— One of the things they taught me was about their movement and how rare it is! If you are lucky enough to see two constellations very close to each other, it means that the respective people will also forever be very... — you chattered while remembering one of the myths that were common in your family and often used in astrological superstition overall, remembering how it was recited. However, as you got closer to the end, you assimilated the mythology behind the constellation and how it paralleled the moment between you and Ororon, leaving your voice suddenly broken and low. — ... close.

Feeling reality finally fall on your shoulders, your eyes widened slightly in surprise and a wave of nervousness flooded your mind, unconsciously bringing the feeling of your face heating up and fixing your gaze on Ororon. You wanted to deflect, you really did.

Ororon didn't look that different. Under the reflected light of the moon, his face seemed to take on a reddish hue as his gaze periodically shifted to different spots in the landscape, but he still seemed to have a calm countenance adorning his face.

— W-well, it's just an old and traditional myth, the movement of the stars has nothing to do with it. — you quickly tried to cut the subject short, moving away just a little when you felt the closeness between you two. You normally didn't feel this nervous, but the topic seemed to be enough at this moment.

Ororon, on the other hand, despite his slight blush, seemed calmer than you as he rested his arm on top of his bent knee, seeming to search for something in the back of his mind to say while still contemplating the sky.

— I... I hope so, it would be something cool. — with hesitation, these few words came out of Ororon's mouth as if they were trapped, tied by a knot, and finally managed to free themselves. You could see the young bat's gaze falter for a moment before he lowered his hood over his head, muttering something that sounded like "sorry."

You let out a low, nervous laugh despite the awkwardness that hovered in the room, hesitantly rubbing a hand on Ororon's back as a way of showing comfort even though you still felt nervous.

— No, it's okay! I... I think I would too. It would be cool. — you said almost in a whisper to nothing, being too nervous and embarrassed to give yourself the luxury of saying them with confidence, contenting yourself with just repeating what Ororon had said.

In turn, Ororon found the courage to turn his face just a little to the side despite keeping his hood pulled, meeting his nervous gaze that tried — emphasis on tried — to convey some kind of calm and tranquility.

Even with shame and hesitation being feelings heavily present in the environment, almost as if it were something physical suffocating you, Ororon allowed himself to lift his head in one act, gently holding your hand, which was previously rubbing his back, and intertwining your fingers with his, as if he was trying to convey the same feeling of comfort that you felt.

You didn't say anything, but you were sure that words weren't necessary at that moment, contenting yourself with squeeze his hand and relaxing against the tree again next to him, humming a subtle song while you could see a smile present on Ororon's face.

[eternal-evergreens]

｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+*⁠.⁠✧"Into the looking glass - IV"｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+*⁠.⁠✧

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII

Post format: Multipart series

Pairing: Yandere!Male!DoL x Fem!Isekai!Reader

Word count: 4.8k

Synopsis: You gain the chance to wake up in the world of one of your favorite games. Unfortunately, the 'favorite game' happens to be one about rape, violence, and stalking. Not only that, but the game seems to be rigged against you. All you want is to find a way home and put this all behind you, but is that even possible...?

Warnings: Non/Con, Mental Breakdown, Hallucinations, Implied rape of a background character, Virginity Kinks, Age Gaps, Choking, Gagging, Bondage

Excellent Good Decent Okay Poor Bad Terrible

It is Saturday, the 10th of September, 2022.  -It has been 6 days since the game started. -The game started in autumn.  -It is autumn. -School term Finishes on Friday the 2nd of December. Current Funds: £1,799 Pain: You feel okay Arousal: You are cold Fatigue: You are wide awake Stress: You are strained Trauma: You are troubled Control: You are scared Allure: You look like you need to be ravaged

You clock into the spa as soon as it opens, your mind a haze as you greet the receptionist. 

Then, you blink, and you’re outside. It’s dark.

…What?

You turn around. You’re right outside the spa, but the closed sign is up. Furrowing your brow, you reach into your pocket and pull out your phone. 

21:06

Something else catches your eye.

Current funds: £1,799

Woah, you must have worked all day. But you don’t remember even a single client. You check your current condition again, but you aren’t under the influence of any drugs or alcohol. Could it be psychological? Could it be that your stress has been rising, causing you to disassociate and lose time? 

You should probably check yourself into a hospital, but that’s not exactly an option here. Feeling tense and nervous, you put your phone back into your bag, only to brush your hands against something cold and metallic. You pull it out, and it’s a watch. It looks expensive. 

Fuck, did you steal this? You shove it back into your bag and feel your hand brush against even more metal. You duck into an alleyway and empty your purse. Aside from the watch, you found a ring, two necklaces, and another less-expensive-looking watch. You bite your thumb as you check your journal. 

You are carrying:  £3,210 in stolen goods. 

Your eyes bulge. You have to return these, you have to—

You hear a loud crash from somewhere not too far from you. Startled, you whip your head up to see a hooded figure standing over an overturned trashcan. The figure is walking your way, so you grab the stolen things off the floor and run.

You aren’t sure where you’re going or for how long, but by the time you’re finally sure you lost them, you’re standing on Cliff Street. You use a streetlight as support while you catch your breath, trying to think of what you can do. 

First, you’ll have to go back to the spa tomorrow. You’ll have to come up with something, some excuse or reason or justification, and get the receptionist to go back and check who came in that day, call each of them and then ask if they’ve lost anything, and then- 

You hear a sniffle and look up. It’s coming from the pillory. There’s a woman locked there, her bottom half completely exposed. She’s trying to stifle her sobs, trying to make herself look smaller. She’s trying to hide. 

Your heart throbs as you approach. She hears your footsteps, and a look of sheer petrification overcomes her expression. You still your movements. 

>Help the girl —Trauma ++Stress >Leave +Trauma +Stress

“It’s okay,” you say softly. The woman looks up at you with a scared expression, and you realize you were wrong in your description. This isn’t a woman, but a girl your age. “I’m not going to hurt you.” She eyes you warily, and you look around. There’s no one here, so you pull your shirt off and approach the girl, who looks like she might be on the verge of a breakdown. 

“It’s okay,” you say as you kneel to tie your shirt around her waist. You notice something sticky on her skin, and you feel your heart sink even further. You feel your face crease as you imagine everything she must have gone through until now. You want to help this girl. 

You brush yourself off as you stand, suddenly aware of your shirtlessness. There’s still no one around, but you know how dangerous this is. You’re basically a sitting duck, as things are. ++Stress You smile at the girl. “I’ll be back,” you say. She nods slightly, looking confused. 

You all but run back to the orphanage, where you change your shirt and grab some spare clothes. Then, you head over to the local convenience store to pick up some water and snacks. It only takes 15 minutes, and soon, you’re back in front of the girl. 

“I brought you some food and water, as well as some actual clothes. I, uh, also brought some underwear in case you wanted some. It’s clean, but I get it if you don’t want to touch it. Oh! I picked up some wipes, too. I’d have to clean you, though.” Your face feels a little hot with embarrassment, but you try not to show it. 

The girl, looking quite bashful, nods with a pink face. “I’d really appreciate that,” she says. You nod and begin to wipe her down, avoiding the sensitive areas. Then, you help her put on your clothes and help her with the snacks and water. She looks much better by the end of it.

“Thank you,” the girl says softly. “I’d almost forgotten there were nice people in this town.” You smile at her. “You don’t even know what I did, but you helped me anyway.” 

“I don’t need to,” you say firmly. “No one deserves to be treated like this.” She smiles at you. A real, genuine smile. You feel like you’ve done something worth doing tonight. —Trauma

“Thank you again,” she says, looking at the ground. 

“Of course,” you say. “How much longer do you have to be in there?” 

“Still another two hours. I’ve been out here for eighteen already.” She looks to the side. “Got caught stealing.” You feel a chill wash over you as your bag seems to double in weight.

“...What did you steal?” 

“A watch, among some other things.”

“Huh?” Your heart begins to beat violently in your chest as pressure engulfs your head. You can’t move. Oxygen becomes hard to come by as your ears ring and your head spins. You feel dizzy like you might fall. But your body doesn’t move. 

The girl’s face contorts horrifically as she screams out in agony, her skin melting and bubbling. You see horns begin to poke out from under her skin as her eyes fall back into her head and disappear. You hear fire crackling in your ears, your eyes so wide they’re sore as the scene in front of you plays out. There’s fire everywhere, the girl looks like the devil and—

She stops convulsing, and the world goes quiet. The last thing you want is to get closer, but you’re not in control of your own body. You approach carefully, hesitantly. The girl’s head snaps to you.

She’s wearing your face. +++Trauma +++Stress

You start screaming. You scream and scream, your lungs burning and every muscle in your face throbbing as sheer and utter terror overtakes your senses.

You’re still thrashing when you finally come to your senses, your mouth open in an ‘O’ shape. Your jaw is sore, and you’re in an alley on the ground, drenched in sweat and dry heaving. 

You check your phone. 

21:11

Feeling battered and exhausted, you stand up and brush yourself off before heading home, where you take a long, hot bath. By the time you’re out, it’s nearly midnight. Already dressed in your pajamas, you drag yourself back to your bed and collapse into it. You think about everything you’ve been through since coming here—those damned fragments you have to collect and now a psychotic episode.

You think about the fragment you just collected and the pandora’s box of worms that comes with it. You open your phone and stare at the screen, your mind both empty and overflowing as your eyes trail the words in front of you. You feel numb every time you look at it, a sinking feeling in your stomach you’re becoming all too familiar with. 

Sighing, you push the racing thoughts out of your mind, knowing you’ll get no answers tonight.  

You roll over and go to sleep, though you sleep very poorly. 

—————————

It is Sunday, the 11th of September, 2022.  -It has been 7 days since the game started. -The game started in autumn.  -It is autumn. -School term Finishes on Friday the 2nd of December. Current Funds: £1,799 Pain: You feel okay Arousal: You are cold Fatigue: You are wearied Stress: You are tense Trauma: You are disturbed Control: You are scared Allure: You look like you need to be ravaged

You’re awoken by a loud rapping on your door. You blearily get up to check, but the nuisance has already barged in. 

“Time to pay up,” Bailey says. You nod and hand him the money. 

“Good. You came through. Next week I want £300.” 

You nod slightly, and he leaves. You roll over and go back to sleep. By the time you wake up, it’s 09:36, and the spa is open. You debate in your head over whether or not you should clock in, knowing what happened yesterday. You have enough money to be good on the payment for next week, and even the next two weeks after that, but complacency could get you sold as pudding if you’re not careful, and you have no idea what kind of expenses you’ll run into in the future. 

Feeling a little like you might be making a bad call, you ready yourself to go to work. When you enter the spa, the receptionist greets you cheerfully. 

“I’m glad you came in today,” he says. “Business has really improved since you started working here. People keep asking for you.” 

“They do?” You feel like someone just dumped a bucket of cold water over your head. You know they aren’t asking for your skills. The receptionist is about to answer when he gets a call and shoos you away, so you decide to drop it and head in. 

Your first client is obviously eyeing you up, but doesn’t try anything. He tips okay. +£60

Your second client tries to get you to undress with her, but doesn’t do anything when you refuse. She tips well. +£120

Your third client doesn’t even greet you before he’s trying to take off your clothes and touch you! He lunges for you and grasps your arms in his hands as he pushes you onto the table. “I’ve been waiting for this,” he says, raspy and lowly. “Waited for hours just to reserve your time. This is happening.” ++Stress

You struggle under his arms, but he’s too strong. He leans in for a kiss, but you turn your head away. 

Not one to be discouraged, however, he goes for your neck instead, licking and sucking on your skin in a way much worse than if he had just kissed you normally. 

You go limp, and he moves a hand from your arm to the hem of your skirt, lifting it to expose your panties. You use your now-free arm to poke him in the eyes, causing him to stagger back off of you. You waste no time jumping off the table, grabbing your bag, and running outside. 

You duck into a nearby alley to catch your breath.

You hate this place. You hate this place so much. You need a break, you need to go somewhere. Do something. You need to—

Your mouth is cold. You blink, and realize you’re sitting in a booth, ice coffee in your hand and the sounds of a cafe buzzing around you. 

Shit. You just lost time again, didn’t you? Furrowing your brow, you rummage around your bag for your phone and check the time. It’s only been half an hour. Half an hour in which you could have done literally anything and would have no idea. 

…You need to relax.

You lean back in your chair, forcing your muscles to relax as you try to take in the aroma and atmosphere around you. You take a slow sip of your coffee, but your stress doesn’t fade. There’s a slightly tingling sensation across the back of your neck, something you’ve felt before. Something is watching you. +Awareness

You glance around the cafe. A hooded kid in a medical mask is sitting across the cafe, seemingly engrossed in his phone. It’s Kylar. 

You finish your drink and leave quickly, hoping Kylar won’t follow you. 

The hairs on your neck stand up the whole way to the pub, and don’t leave until you’re sitting down across from Landry. 

“This is quite the haul,” he says, handing you £3,210. “I hope you haven’t bitten off more than you can chew.” 

“Yeah,” you say. “I hope so, too.” 

—————————

Standing outside the pub, you stare down at your quest menu.

Side quests >Buy a better bed Funds needed: £2400 Optional: Decorate your room to match your taste. Funds needed: ??? Rewards: Triple current rest points, nightmares reduced Penalty: None Bonus Rewards: +Love to all LI’s, passive stress and trauma decay faster while inside.

You need that stress and trauma decay. You don’t know if it’ll help with the amnesia or dissociation or whatever it is, but it’s the only thing you can think of, so you buy a bus ticket to the shopping center, making a beeline straight toward the furniture store. 

The bed is easy enough to find, there’s only one two single models. You buy the more expensive one, since it’s the only one labeld as comfortable. You look at the bedding next, comparing various blanket textures and sheet designs. You try to envision what everything would look like together, and eventually pick a set you think mix well. Wallpapers and posters are next. You try to pick out designs that aren’t phallic, but they’re a little hard to find. Still, you’re starting to have fun, and you feel the ghost of a smile form on your lips as you picture what your new room will look like.

Thinking back, you’ve been doing a pretty good job for yourself. It’s been a whole week, and you still haven’t been assaulted. You managed to establish dominance over Kylar and gain a steady supply of pepper spray at the same time. And now, here you are, doing something completely domestic in a depraved game modded to be even worse. You feel proud for having adjusted so well so far and confident that you’ll finish your quests and make it home in record time. 

You pick up a few other things you like and have room for and then head to the register to check out. The entire purchase is £2,709, leaving you with £4,780 left over. Not bad. 

Your phone buzzes. 

Quest completed! Rewards: Triple current rest points, nightmares reduced Bonus Rewards: +Love to all LI’s, passive stress and trauma decay faster while inside. Congratulations on completing your quest! Your new bed will be installed automatically, but bedding, posters, and the like will need to be installed manually. 

So this game grants small mercies after all. Getting the bed set up would have been the hardest part, and by leaving the rest to you, you get full creative control over where you want things to go. Smiling, you climb onto a bus and head back to the orphanage, where you spend the next few hours setting everything up. 

You step back and admire your work. It isn’t perfect. There are things you had to compromise on, ideas you had to discard. But it’s good. It looks like something you would’ve liked as a kid, back when you didn’t have as much freedom to decorate your room as you did after moving out. It’s nostalgic, in a way. 

You feel refreshed. -Stress -Trauma

Your tiny room has now become a tiny home. You may now “reminisce” once a day for a small decrease in stress and trauma.

You lay down on your new bed, muscles finally relaxing after days of being on edge. You allow yourself to enjoy the feeling of being comfortable for once. You know you aren’t safe here, not really. You could wake up to someone on top of you at any time, but right now, that possibility feels so far away. -Awareness

Your eyes droop, and you soon enter a deep slumber.

—————————

Blearily, you open your eyes to a dark hospital room, your phone on the desk beside you. Though still a bit sore, you roll over and grab your phone, checking the time.

It is Friday, the 9th of September, 2022.  -It has been 4 days since the game started. -The game started in autumn.  -It is autumn. -School term Finishes on Friday the 2nd of December. Current Funds: £314 Pain: You are upset Arousal: You are cold Fatigue: You are wearied Stress: You are placid Trauma: You are disturbed Control: You are scared Allure: You look like you need to be ravaged 02:07 You’ve unlocked a fragment.

Your eyes land on the notification under the time, and you open it.

Fragment 3:  Your recent encounters with so many people have opened your eyes to the way of the world. The attention focused on you is not normal. Your special trait has become visible. +++Awareness

Special trait? This probably isn’t good.

Your stomach drops.

Cursed - Something special has taken an interest in you. Your luck depends solely on this entity’s whims. Purity is drained nightly.

Some…thing? Something like what? Is it the Wraith? Something else? 

What does it mean? Is it related to the temple? You feel like there’s something you’re forgetting, but your head hurts too much. There’s a pressure in your head, like you’ve just been plunged underwater. Everything is quiet around you, and yet things have never felt louder. The sensation drowns out anything else, and you collapse onto the ground, somehow having moved from your place on the bed.

You think you dreamed of something, but the details are lost. When you check the time it’s 19:38. You slept for six hours. You feel refreshed, though a little thrown off.

Deciding that you need to stretch your legs, you put on your shoes and get up. The walk is nice enough, though it’s a little chilly. You’re about to turn around and head back when a fancy car stops by next to you, and the driver's side window rolls down. “I was hoping to spot you,” Avery says. 

For fucks sake, it’s a Monday. He’s only supposed to bother the player on Saturdays. 

“I’m going to…an event tonight. Would you care to join me?” Fuck, that’s not one of his lines, is it? You smile awkwardly. 

“Is it formal? I’m afraid I don’t have anything to wear.” 

“Well, it helps that we’re right by the shopping center then, doesn’t it?” 

“Huh? But-” Avery has already turned off his car and hopped out. 

“Why don’t we have a look around together? Don’t worry, I’ll pay.” You stare at Avery. He smiles at you. It’s all you can do to smile back.

“...How could I say no?” 

Avery takes you back into the shopping mall, where you enter the clothing store. He picks out a skimpy leather dress for you and asks you to try it on. You don’t want to anger him, so you put it on. When you emerge from the changing room, he’s holding up two pairs of heels.

“These have a strap, so they’ll stay on easier,” Avery says, holding up a pair of kitten heels. “On the other hand,” he picks up a pair of court heels. “These are preferred amongst certain company. Both are acceptable, however.” 

“Couldn’t I wear flats?” You ask. Avery barks out a laugh. 

“My dear, you simply don’t wear flats when you’re out with me,” he says. You don’t press the issue. As you try on both heels, Avery moves to look at the lingerie. +Stress He pauses as he browses through the various panties and stockings. “On second thought,” he says. “Perhaps you don’t need anything under it.” +++Stress

Avery buys the clothes and makes you change into them, instructing you to fold your old clothes and hand them to him with your underwear on top. You do, feeling absolutely humiliated. -Control

You let Avery lead you back to his car, where he drives both of you to the flats. You recognize this event. Suddenly, you wish you had chosen the court heels. At least those you could kick off and make a run for it. 

Still, this isn’t the worst thing that could possibly happen to you, you suppose. Of the several ways this night could end, many possibilities don’t include brutal rape and violence happening to yourself or others. You just have to shoot for one of those, you think to yourself, trying to breathe. 

Avery leads you to the apartment building with a lotus knob and knocks. Bailey answers the door, and Avery brings out his hand to shake. Bailey takes it, but his eyes never leave your form. No one says anything as Bailey leads you and Avery inside to where Quinn and Leighton are already sitting.

From there, the date goes more or less how you remember it happening in the original. They ask you to fetch drinks for them. You smile and nod.

"Brandy," Quinn says. "Just how I like it." + Love -Quinn's card skill

Bailey sniffs his drink before taking a sip. He doesn't comment. Leighton takes a sip of his without looking. Avery is the last to drink. He peers at the liquid and takes a sip. 

"A good choice," he says to Bailey. -Avery's card skill +Endearment

Everyone bets £100. Bailey takes a sip of his drink. Avery, Leighton, and Quinn fold immediately, and you wonder if this is one of Bailey’s tells. His hand is good but not great. A bluff, then. 

"It's proper the first win should go to the host," Quinn says. "The night is young yet."

Bailey instructs you to make yourself useful and clean something. You polish the silverware behind Avery. It’s pretty fancy stuff. You resist the urge to make a comment about how glad you are that your rent is being used on such worthwhile expenses. Avery and Leighton chatter about some party behind you. When you’re done, the silverware looks no different, probably because you did it wrong intentionally. Fuck you, Bailey. 

A snake slithers out from some crevice somewhere. You would have jumped, but you had seen it out of the corner of your eye earlier. Avery, Quinn, and Leighton aren’t as lucky, however, and their chances of winning soon plummet as they fluster. Bailey explains the snake is for catching mice as it slithers onto the table and coils around itself. Everyone but yourself and Bailey seem to be a bit more on edge for the remainder of the game. ++Bailey’s card skill

Bailey glances at the clock. “One more,” he says. “I have somewhere to be.”

"If this is the last game, we should make it interesting," Avery says, throwing a large wad of cash onto the table. Quinn and Leighton match the stack, but Bailey shakes his head. 

“I don’t have cash to spare,” he says. Quinn coughs, and looks at you. 

"The girl is with me," Avery says, voice nearly trembling from barely-contained rage. 

"The girl is with you," Bailey says. "But she belongs to me." No one says anything for a moment until Quinn breaks the silence.

"We're friends here," he says in a lower tone, leaning towards Avery. "Let's not ruin it." Avery’s gaze remains fixed on Bailey. 

"Fine, are you wagering the girl or not?" Bailey hesitates, looking from the cash on the table to the cards in his hands. You suppose you should be flattered he’s considering not prostituting you. 

"I'll wager the girl for one evening. Deluxe rules." He looks at you. "Climb on." Already having predicted this, you shrug and hop up. 

The game is unnaturally tense, even considering all the money on the line. Each player continuously glances up from their cards to look at you. They seem focused on something, but neither the cards nor the money seem to be the object of their attention. 

Feeling uneasy, you begin to debate how likely you’d be able to successfully undo the straps to both your heels, kick them off, and then run all the way from the flats to the orphanage at night, where everyone knows you’ll be heading towards. 

You stay seated. Bailey wins.

Avery looks like he’s about to pop a blood vessel, with an actual forehead vein bulging on the side of his head. Quinn looks dispirited, and Leighton looks annoyed. No one so much as glances at the money they’ve lost, their gazes all transfixed on you, even as they walk out the door.

Once everyone is gone, Bailey gestures for you to follow him. He brings you back to his car, holding open the door for you. When you look at him as if he had just grown three heads he simply smiles. The expression doesn’t suit him. “So you don’t run away.” +Stress

Fighting the urge to bolt in heels, you force a nod and step in the car, warily eyeing Bailey as if he might attack you. 

To your surprise, the normal event with Bailey never occurs, and he simply drives you back to the orphanage without any stops or detours. When the car is parked, you unbuckle yourself and try to open the door but are met with resistance. 

“You locked me in,” you say, smiling awkwardly as you gesture to the door. Bailey smiles. 

“I know,” he says, getting out of the vehicle and walking over to your side of the car. ++Stress

You’re on your feet before you even register the sound of the door being unlocked, scrambling backward into the driver’s side seat, not caring if your heels scratch the expensive leather. It’s all in vain, however, as Bailey catches your foot and drags you out of the car. You’re thrown onto the ground by Bailey’s feet, where he then grabs you by the hair and lifts your head up. 

“I’ve been meaning to replace those seats,” he says, face close to yours. “But I could never justify spending the extra cash. But now, I don’t have to. Since you’ll be paying for it,” he growls, grip on your scalp tightening. 

“And I know just how to make you pay,” he says, dragging you by your hair into the orphanage.

He leads you to your room. The one you just finished setting up. You don’t even have time to react before he’s slamming the door behind you and throwing you onto the bed.

It hits you, then. Just what he was planning to do to you. You feel stupid for not realizing it sooner. 

Sure, it’d be out of character, normally, but you aren’t in the normal game. You feel lightheaded as he pushes up your leather skirt, revealing your bare cunt. “No panties? Guess you were planning on working hard tonight,” he says, breath on your ear. +Jealousy

You feel frozen, and it isn’t until a sizeable drop of saliva hits your clit that you jump up into action, immediately thrashing in his hold and screaming for help. 

He’s faster than you, though, and catches your mouth before you can so much as get a word out. With his other hand, he loosens his tie and removes it from his neck. He stuffs it in your mouth and restrains your arm with the one he’d been holding your mouth with. You try to wriggle out of his hold, but soon, he’s got both of your arms tied behind your back with a belt. He looks down at you, face inches from yours, with a blank expression. “Behave,” he says. “Don’t make me hurt you.” You manage to spit the tie out into his face, and he slaps you hard. 

“I don’t have to be nice,” he reminds you, grabbing a fistful of your hair. He releases you, and you try to scream, but his hand is already on your neck, pressing down hard against your jugular. You struggle against your restraints, but it’s no use. You can hardly breathe. You flail wildly from underneath Bailey, but the pressure on your neck makes it hard to think coherently. Bailey seems to have no trouble fending you off, even finding time to push down your top and reveal your breasts, leaning back to admire them before giving them a quick slap. You now lay under him, completely helpless and exposed. And as you realize that you’ve spent all your air fighting, you hear the sound of a zipper being undone as your vision blurs.

—————————

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[drdemonprince]

Hey was gonna ask if u have any readings on managing / moving thru conflict in better ways after reading ur critique of certain Accountability dynamics? Seen this play out twice in the local organizing scene recently, and the most recent one I am like directly implicated in enacting to an extent so reading ur thoughts kinda made me sit back and groan :/ also kinda echoes this shitty moment in childhood where my mom would demand a 4-part to-the-letter apology for shit I didn’t do or didn’t do intentionally and make me rehearse and re-apologize until I got the format right aha. Striking me that I run the risk here of being complicit in just that dynamic thru the bad fawning habit that got beat into me thru childhood ahaa .. also feel like in the past you’ve talked abt conflict-avoidance or fawning and would be interested if u had any of those pieces off the top of ur head but this all involves having to dig up links or titles so take ur time if u are at all interested in responding lol. Devil is knocking on my door telling me I need to look at these habits of mine and start practicing something new -_-

It sounds like you are going through a real moment of reckoning with your own trauma and how childhood dynamics are re-emerging in your current community, which is such important work. I just want to give you some cheers for having it in you to listen to those productive feelings of discomfort and being willing to examine this stuff. It's hard, especially when you've been conditioned to fear moral failure.

I'm still unpacking a lot of this stuff myself, but I think my article on disobedience is relevant, as is my one on PDA

and some of this is because i've been inhaling her archives lately, but I would once again recommend Captain Awkward. Also Albert Bernstein's How to Deal with Emotionally Explosive People. (a book that is flawed, but i think there is a lot of growth away from the puritanical mindset to be found in discerning what is useful from a book you disagree with or has flaws). Lindsay Gibson is a perennial rec from me. id love to hear others' recommendations tho because im a bit of a broken record on these and its an area i still need to grow in a LOTtttt a lot a lot. also half the critiques of this kind of culture are shitty "anti cancel culture" charlatans that i cant recommend

[islandofsages]

So i got some silly idea, Can i request Savanaclaw dorm with male raccoon beastman reader 🦝 (who is also a third year Savanaclaw student) that likes to ✨ collect trash ✨ and ✨ dumpster driving ✨ Like, He is not poor but he just likes to do that. Thanks! Have a great day!

characters: the savanaclaw boys x male raccoon beastman third year reader

tags: platonic, fluff, imagines format

warnings: none

author's notes: i feel like i made dumpster-diving sound like thrifting in this ... i love thrifting can you tell

Leona Kingscholar

“...Whaddya think ya’re doing?”

Oh, you thought it was obvious but apparently not. You're dumpster diving obviously

A better question would be what is Leona Kingscholar doing near a bunch of dumpsters. You point this out to him

He actually seems to ponder that question for a second. What is he doing there, entertaining some dumpster-diver? Then he realizes that it doesn’t matter

His face merely contorts into an irritated frown and he mumbles something about “fucking raccoon beastpeople and their weird habits” then walks off

You watch his silhouette grow smaller by the second then shrug to yourself. His loss

He doesn’t say anything when you come back to the dorms carrying the junk you get from your scavenging but you can tell he’s somewhat curious of what you found

One time you come back bringing a wholeass couch and it’s somehow in mint condition - he’s more bewildered by the people who’s throwing the trash than you at this point

It’s definitely not for him but as long as you don’t bother him and that you’re happy, he doesn’t say a word about your habits.

Jack Howl

He tries not to be too judgemental since there’s all kinds of people in NRC and he feels like he’s definitely seen weirder things by now

He’s a little confused but he got the spirit! Spirit of what exactly? Spirit of supporting you and respecting his upperclassmen obviously

He’s somewhat stiff around you since you’re older and he doesn’t want to offend you in any way - so you make an effort to make him more comfortable around you

You’d tell him about what you find in your little adventures and he seems to be amused by the kind of stuff people easily throw away here

“That’s part of the magic! Plus, once you get used to the stench and filth, it’s really not all that bad.”

He believes and trusts your words but he still won’t try it for himself. He’ll leave it all up to you and your expertise

Sooner or later, with enough storytelling, a smile on his face becomes a common look for him whenever you’re around

You’d even bring him back stuff you found that you think he’d like (after thoroughly washing them and bringing them back to the best condition of course)

Whenever you see him use the stuff you give to him, whether it’s a decoration in his room or it’s on his person, you feel a little proud of the bond you’ve nurtured with him.

Ruggie Bucchi

He understands the need to stoop to that level but when you tell him you don’t even need the stuff you collect and just do it for fun, he’s silent for a bit

Still won’t judge you for it! Plus sometimes he gets the good stuff from your scavenges so he’s not complaining

Once he gets curious enough, he’ll tag along on the diving… and it’s not as bad as he thought it would be

It’s stinky and dirty but sometimes he really hits the jackpot in some of the dumpsters. It’s like a thrift store but even cheaper somehow

“(Y/N), look at what I found! Are you seeing this right now?”

You unironically become dumpster-diving buddies and the two of you would review the stuff you got after each session to decide if you’re going to keep some or not

You guys can probably get a lot of clout if you start a YouTube channel

You two grow a lot closer after enlightening him of the joys of dumpster-diving, which you aren’t too surprised about since it’s a common bonding experience for you raccoon beastpeople

But as you look back on your memories of junk-collecting and look forward towards Ruggie's laugh, you can’t help but laugh with him.