#but know that ill never forget any of you

[azonewithu]

You try sometimes but you cannot just bring yoursrlves to be himsn bejngs instead of royals. Being human is better thsn being royal. It should be human first thrn roysl ehatevervthat fuckn even neans these days no one jnows. Not even the royals. Its true imnever realky liked you people really and rightfully so. But i liked something about you. Ot doesnt mean ur specisl or good it just keans i like you. And i defended you better thsn your husband coukd ir sny of your pussy ass useless punk knights. I never heard any of thrm say a pedp much in ur defence. Maybe to you not to the world. I crushed their prrceotions i torched half their homes. Do you see that chick on tv saying anything anymore. Shes terrified of me everyone is. Maybe even you now. But i just woikdbt write my family beefs down id ysje it up wiyh ky fuckn idiot family first. Yhen never write about it thats just me not everyone. Still those kids are ok. You shouldnt push your family away no matter what they did. You dont know what my old man did to me i still talk tonyhatvfucon goof. And its not going ina book. Youre rude to ke in return i shoildnt have boyhered st sll to stick up ffor strangers i dont know anyway. You coukdnt just slip away thpugh i see everythong snell everyone: i knew youbwete here. All in purple. Whats your problem afraid uoudike me ytoo lych if i tried to kiss you? Your husband aint got shit on me when it comes to ladies. But neither fo americans. Yer men and american nen very similar. Not good with women like i am. Spl talk n show no results. Theyre more in love with themsrlves those monkey ass rats. They raally think theyre something kate?? Hiw cone i kicked all their asses bar not one? They atent grast hi donnie ur mama bifch. The eitkd days fucknand you asshole. Hey willie. Willie willie eillie boi. Ily boi thst guts p didfys friend. Ha ha ga ya sure ya kniw about ur husband. Oh you fo know. Hes a playboy uoubcsught him. Do you have one in the bank id love to kiss you. Ahh but i e out upnwith homewrechers myysrkf donid likely not even try. Stupid nice guy not even finishing again. Assholesctske my work. Americans are mostly scum scum scum scum scum watch ehst hspoens this summer. Oh its war its in im gonna toast their asses to desth. And drown them too. They have a cataclism on its way. Nobody i ever tslked yo in this workd has a good opinion of thrm. None. People hate them. Stick with the common wealth forget scum bags eho hate HmGid hate peopke and hatevthrmsrlves like smericans do. Ive put a desth citse on thrir bation Katy. Yhey ate dead. Gid hstes them like baaaad. Theyre not good people are ya gonna argue. They e never bed. Good fuckn leople. Thry wete a big beyter begire but yheir devil drmon soaens not humans. They think evil is funny look at yhrir contorted faces. They carey the mwrknif the beast. Thry ate sonsfraid of je so dont you fear thrm. Yhry ste fuvk sll and nothing to fear. Anericans ate the dhitiiest fighters on earth. I gought a binch in glorids i best thrm mercilessky. I nevef lost s fight in the states. People hste those people. Donfomt go fugon loving demons kste unless youte one too. Eho knows. Youte rude i know that. But all english lsdies ste s bit cold n rude i like that. Ill warm you up. But you sre not smericans thank fuckn God. And me. I devended uour name. People fied im sn assasdin. Then i threstened thevrert into silence. Youll he er hesr it brought up again. Im the fucon nan and yhe Arch. Doed t thst tirn you on just s little? You hot kne in yhe bank none in the oven. Ill make you feel like you hever have befire……but in a good way. Yiull explode.

[boneapplet]

Hearts of Ruin

Relationship: Dante x afab!reader

Warnings: Mentions of illness and injury, battlefield description

Word Count: 2224

Requested Tags for All Works: @beckyninja @runin64 @ilovewolvezz

Walking the salt road under a dying sky, her bare feet dusted in rust, her long cloak trailing behind her like shadow-smoke. Her face is half-veiled, a satchel swings at her hip, full of vials, salves, old tools. The staff she carries is smooth from centuries of use. Every few years, she changes her face. Every few decades, she changes her name. But never her purpose.

Ahead of her lies a village that clings to the bones of an old agri-shrine, its aquila shattered and overturned, used now to mark graves. The people there are sick. Dying from a water-blight seeded by runoff from forgotten a manufactoria. She heard the whispers in a refugee camp six sectors east. Thus, she came, as always, to aid these people.

They don’t ask her who she was. Not really. They only call her the Pale Flame. Some say she is a rogue psyker. Others, a warp-born saint. Though few keep her from her work. Upon her arrival in the war-torn village, she heads to the infirmary. Inside the infirmary—a cracked hut with two med-cots—she kneels beside the smallest of the sick. A girl, no more than six, gritting teeth in fever. The woman’s fingers brushing the child’s brow, and the glow beneath her skin answering the call. Warm, soft, like coals in a hearth.

“Be still,” she murmurs. “You remember me,” the girl breaths faintly. “I always do.” She whispers as the fever breaks under her touch.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Outside, the winds howled through broken stones. A preacher ranting in the streets about judgment and divine punishment. Sitting alone beneath the rafters that night, watching the stars through the broken roof. Her hands are still warm from healing the ill, faintly aglow, then dimming.

Somewhere out there, empires clash and angels fall. No longer does she rush toward the sound of war. She goes where the fire has already passed—where something might still be saved. The wind stirs her cloak, closing her eyes as she tries to rest.

He shaped the galaxy. I pick through its ashes. In the silence, something shifts. A memory, maybe. Or something older, moving just beneath the skin of the void. She doesn’t look up again, knowing the stars are always watching.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Before the sun breaks over the horizon, she is already on the move. The only proof she’d been there being those she healed, and the medicine left behind for if any more should fall ill. Walking for hours till arriving at dusk to the town of Vireth as the last trade-haulers clatter across the upper gantries and the mine-choked winds roll in off the wastes.

               The blight has yet to reach here, but the coughing in the lower tiers has the same hollow sound. The kind that comes from poisoned ore and old radiation. She offers no name, just her talents.

By the second day, they bring her more sick. On the third, a sick child’s father offers her a cot and a bowl of pale stew in the shrine keeper’s quarters. Giving a single nod before accepting. It is her first night in a place that was barely above being called a ruin, in weeks.

That evening, she lights a single candle on the remains of a rusty altar, sitting before it in silence. A man quietly approaches, middle-aged, robed, but not a preacher. One of the shrine scribes, maybe.

Bowing before speaking. “You carry the flame kindly, traveler. It’s rare to see the old rites remembered.”

“They’re not mine to forget,” she says.

His gaze lingers. Thoughtful. Too thoughtful.

“I’ve seen your hands before. Not yours, exactly—but like them. In the histories. Painted in gold and fire. The Apotheon Consort.”

Her breath did not catch. She simply turns away from the stranger.

“That’s a story,” she retorts.

“Isn’t everything?” he replies. “But you don’t age.”

He doesn’t raise his voice, nor accuse her, but his words draw air like flint on stone. That night, she packs in silence. By morning, she is long gone.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Traveling west, through wind-worn valleys where wrecked Titans lay buried like saints of a forgotten war. Moving through silence, a solitary shadow against the dust. Being pulled from her quiet peace by the smell of ash, ozone, and blood. The lingering scent of void weaponry. A recent battlefield, lays nearby.

The broken ridge reveals it in full: the shattered ruin of a Blood Angels drop site, scattered with scorched ceramite and the burned remains of what had once been a Tyranid nest. Cautiously, heading into it. Her fingers twitch, old instincts trying to rise to the surface. The pull of so many dying minds echoing faintly in her bones.

Charred banners hang in tatters from melted spires. A red helm, cracked down the center, lais beside a severed gauntlet, fingers still clenched around a broken chainsword. The earth had drunk deep—blood, ichor, machine oil—leaving it slick and dark beneath her boots. There is no sound. Even the wind was dead here.

Stopping beside the wreck of a drop-pod, half-buried in slag. Her hand brushes against the edge of a scorched aquila, blackened beyond recognition. Closing her eyes. So many. So fast. And always too late.

She feels them: echoes of final moments. The desperate surge of fury, brotherhood, sacrifice. The raw weight of loss left her aching. They are all gone, she thinks to herself.

Then beneath it all—something pulses. Distant. Steady. Alive. Turning sharply, following the pull. A buried rhythm, faint but unmistakable. Like a drumbeat beneath the rubble. Steps quickening as she sprints towards it.

Passing a fallen Dreadnought, its sarcophagus slagged open and cold. Past ruined bolters and shattered winged helms. The hum grows louder now—psychic, but not volatile. Rooted. Commanding. A mound of debris shifts ahead, no larger than a collapsed rockcrete support beam. Dropping to one knee, hands already moving.

Wrenching away the blackened rock, twisted steel, smoldering fragments of ceramite. There he is, half-buried, broken. His armor is a wreck of crimson and scorched gold, a shattered death-mask helm still clinging to one side of his face. One wing of his jump pack is missing, torn free at the root. Blood, thick as oil, pools beneath his side. But his chest still rises. Barely.

Her breath leaves her in a whisper “Emperor’s mercy…”

Moving a miniscule amount, enough to turn his head. A single gold eye flickers beneath the helm’s damage, locking onto her.

“You’re... not one of mine.” “No,” she says, setting her satchel down beside him. “But you’re one of mine.”

Unbuckling the broken seals of his chestplate with a practiced snap. Underneath, the flesh is torn through layers of reinforced fiber and bone—his body a ruined cathedral of war. Still, the gene-forged heartbeat, stubborn and slow. Opening her satchel where various salves, bone-needles, synthblood, a slender vial that glowed faintly with golden light lays within. Hesitating for only a breath before pressing her palm to his chest, letting her skin burn faintly with psychic warmth.

“This will hurt.” “Good,” he rasps out. “Then I’m still alive.”

She almost smiles at that. The healing is slow. His body resisting—stubborn, hyper-reactive, fighting even help. Persisting in her efforts to heal the numerous wounds strewn across his form. The worst being the puncture near his secondary heart. It throbs with corrupted bio-acid—Tyranid venom by the smell—and glows with a sickly, mutating heat.

“This will kill you in hours if I don’t counter it.” “Then don’t waste time,” he growls, trying to lift a hand. Wincing hard, strength failing. “Don’t be proud,” she murmurs. “You’ve already bled your glory into the soil.”

He stills at that, studying her face. “You speak like a remembrancer.” “No,” she retorts, pouring the contents of the golden vial into the wound.

Tainted blood hissing as the venom shrieks against her touch. Injecting a serum into his damaged skin to aid in combating it. His body arching—but she presses her palm down, chanting softly in a tongue long since dead. When it is done, he lais still. Regaining his breath.

“Who are you?” “A healer.” “That’s not what I asked.” “And yet it’s the only answer that keeps you alive.”

A long pause follows.

Turning away, beginning to seal her kit “You should rest. If your blood accepts the serum, you’ll live.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll bury you. Properly.”

Barking out a short, dry laugh. Which turns into a cough, but it had warmth in it.

“You’re no Imperial medic.” “No,” she said. “I’m... out of favor.”

Their eyes meet again. Something passed between them—uncertainty, recognition, exhaustion.

Night falls hard across the ruined drop site. She cleared a narrow hollow beneath the remains of a toppled Rhino, dragging him there one agonizing meter at a time. His weight is impossible, even half-armored.

Fire crackling low—just heat, no smoke—fed by broken struts and scavenged ignitors. Crouched beside it, her cloak drawn tight, listening to the wind press like breath against the wreckage walls.

“You're still here,” Dante mutters, voice like gravel over embers as he stirs awake.

“I rarely leave a patient mid-healing.”

“You could have.”

“I’ve done worse things than wait around somewhere.”

That silences him. The pause stretches, soft and heavy. Passing him a flask which he gladly drinks from, slow and stiff, without asking what it was.

“How long was I out?” “Three hours. Maybe four. Your blood accepted the serum.” “And the venom?” “Still putting up a fight, but you're winning.”

Leaning back against the wall of debris. The firelight flickers across his damaged armor and worn face. One of his pauldrons bares the winged blood-drop sigil, cracked but intact.

“You’re no ordinary healer,” he says. “Neither are you an ordinary soldier.” “I am a chapter master. They call me Dante,” he eventually says. “I know the name.” “Do I get yours?” “Eventually.”

A chuckle escapes him again “You don’t sound like a rogue. Or a heretic. Or a witch.”

“And yet, I’m all three. Depending on who’s asking.”

He looks at her more carefully now. Not with suspicion. With... wariness. Respect. Maybe even the first glint of curiosity.

“You're not afraid of me.” “I’ve buried worse,” she says softly.

The fire crackles softly between them, embers rising like drifting stars into the dark. Beyond the wreckage walls, the dead battlefield lais silent—bones of war cooling in the night air. She watches him from across the flames, his silhouette bent slightly with the effort of sitting upright, but the stubborn gleam in his eye has returned. That fire, the one all Astartes carried. His has just been banked lower than most.

"You speak with old words," Dante says at length, rolling the flask between his fingers. "And older patience."

Tilting her head slightly. “Takes time to know what wounds need silence.”

Giving her a sidelong look. “That’s a healer’s answer.”

“It’s also the truth.”

Wincing as he shifts his ruined arm slightly, armor scraping stone.

“I don’t know why you stayed,” he admits. “Most would’ve scavenged my geneseed and left me for the carrion birds.”

“Then they would’ve been fools.” Her voice is low, but it holds a flint-edge. “Your kind is rare. What you represent… rarer still.”

Brows furrowing “You talk like you’ve seen this before.”

“I’ve buried enough of your brothers to know what’s worth saving.” Meeting his gaze across the flames. “Even if I don’t always agree with what they died for.”

               “I should be dead,” Dante mutters, eyes half-lidded.

“You very nearly were.”

“No,” he says, shifting again, teeth gritted against the pain. “Not from the wounds. From staying still. From not fighting.” He closes his eyes. “If I’d been conscious longer, I would have crawled to the last of them. Died standing.”

“You think that’s what they needed?” she asks. “One more dead hero, bones in the ash?”

His gaze cuts to her, sharp despite the damage. “They were my brothers.”

“I know. That’s why you lived. You carried enough of them into the dirt already.”

Anger flickers in his jaw but doesn’t rise. Not truly. There’s a weight behind her words he can’t dismiss. Like she’s seen it before—too many times.

She adds quietly, “There’s no glory in dying the same death twice.”

“You lost people too.”

Her eyes don’t move from the fire. “We all have.”

He studies her. The way she speaks. The deliberate softness. The stillness. “You weren’t a soldier, though.”

“No,” she says. “Not at first.”

Watching the flicker of emotions cross her face—a moment of memory rising and buried just as fast. “But you fought.”

“I survived.”

“Same thing,” he says.

“No,” she replies gently. “It isn’t.”

Leaning back slowly, the motion scraping metal on stone. “You’ve got a voice like a tomb,” he says.

“I keep many,” she answers, and for a moment, the fire catches something sad in the turn of her mouth.

They sit in silence for a while longer, no words between them, just the wind and the fire.

Just before sleep tugs him under again, he murmurs, “I don’t know why you saved me.”

Glancing his way.

“But… thank you.”

A long beat. She answers softly, “You’re welcome, Dante.”

His head tilts, curiosity rising again. “Still not giving me your name?”

She smiles faintly. “Not tonight.”

[xxplastic-cubexx]

WHERES THE FRANCESCA FANS GONE 😭

I LOVER HER SM and they way you draw her makes me so happy

like miss fran herself they just lyin in wait....... to reemerge someday unannounced...

[leenfiend]

listening to my top songs of 2023 playlist and like half of them were songs that reminded me of klance that i had on repeat i miss them

[skeletons-in-ur-closet]

this isnt the account for this i KNOW but jjk just ended and it was the worst thing ive ever read oh my daysssss

[batsplat]

years of suffering as a sports fan in the scrub trenches and i have FINALLY been rewarded by the universe for my troubles ohhhhhhh time to embrace glory hunting i'm FREE

[muttsona]

phone calls laced with memories of what will never be

[xxplastic-cubexx]

dumbass supreme says 'yeah ill play a quick game of rivals before lunch why not' and gets mvp more at 1

[ballonleastadiumofficial]

aw, but I’d rather have a friendly battle with you! I have no interest in doing another gym challenge, unless maybe as a way to meet more people. I’m not gonna tell you how to battle, but I think fighting with all you’ve got is the fun part, isn’t it? I mean, I certainly don’t use strategy. …did you forget this battle came about from me trying to make friends with you? hehe, you’re pretty serious, huh?

-starry @starry-eyed-pkmnlvr

((I was actually planning to draw bede in the sweater too! I’ve been drawing “photos” for starry to post, if you wanna draw the sweater too I’d be happy to talk more abt it! and sketch the design for you))

You scheduled an appointment... and you're coming all the way out to Ballonlea to battle me... but you aren't even after an endorsement? What?

...Don't tell me you just want to be friends that badly

[jvzebel-x]

🦋

[4giorno]

googles "will i be arrested if i play the exact same bg3 character for the third time in under 2 months"

[todayisafridaynight]

OKAY BUT NOOOOOOO that's exactly why I could never stream and I'm so irrationally afraid of actors/voice actors stumbling across my art of their characters too 😭😭😭I agonize over the content of like every idea for a drawing I have because Hiroyuki Sakamoto follows me too... sorry sirs the old man yuri was a momentary lapse in judgment... won't happen again...

REALEST SHIT IMAGINABLE LIKE ACTUALLY

[existentialcrisisetcetera]

Hope you’re doing alright, feel better soon

who the fuck are you and how do you know whats been going on

[epicdogymoment]

apparently im stressing myself out. and i can tell cause im starting to SWEAT. in this airconditioned room

[muntitled]

Tic-Tac-Toe

Pairing: The Salesman x Fem!reader

Summary: Every Wednesday your schedule consisted of attending classes during the day, and satisfying the needs of a sadist through the night.

Warning: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Violence, Kidnapping, Isolation, SociallyAnxious!Reader, Blindfolds, Stalking, Knives, Blood, Gore, Stockholm Syndrome, Smut (+18) mdni, Degradation Kink, Praise Kink, Insertion, Fingering, Rough Sex, Erotophonophilia, Dom!Salesman, Sub!Reader, Dacryphillia, Sadomasochism, Gunplay, Deepthroating, Breeding Kink, Unprotected sex

A/N: Hell is empty

4k Words

You're strapped in a chair, like always, and you are blindfolded because he doesn't trust easily.

It's terribly annoying.

At any point of during and after your little 'arrangement' you could have called the cops. Doesn't he understand that?

Every Wednesday, you're taken from the warmth of your apartment, and you're delivered right back at 00:00 on the dot, every Thursday with barely an inch of life left in your bones. You'd either always come back wet, with semen sliding between your thighs, or with mysterious marks- old and new- crawling underneath your sweater. Whatever mood he was in, he'd always leave you feeling sore.

It should have bothered you.

The thought of seeing this large, domineering shadow-in-a-suit every Wednesday should not overwhelm you with all these feelings of excitement. Instead, you should do like all the mentally ill girls do and just get some fucking help.

But you want him to trust you, for some reason.

Which was utterly ridiculous considering the fact that to him, you were something akin to a porcelain wind up toy for his amusement. You had no business requesting he remove the blindfold aspect but still, you asked anyway. Toy's couldn't be trusted, could they?

"I'd really appreciate it if I didn't have to wear one of these everytime I visit your place." He removes the blindfold, and in a second, your vision is filled with nothing but him. One moment you were in the cozy warmth of your dorm room. Curled up on the couch while your roommate spends her youth effectively- out with boyfriends and friends and everything you didn't have. You answered the front door when you heard his special knock, like you always do. You walked with him to the cab. You let him put on the blindfold. You said 'I'm fine’ when the taxi driver got a little too nosy and you let him lead you away from your boring life.

If only for a few hours.

You'd let him do whatever he wanted for those few hours because such surrender was almost sacred. You forfeited your safety in his hands, to do with it whatever he pleased and in that, you found rest. Whatever happens, happens.

Forget this room- what was essentially his personal dungeon, windowless, red and boasting various torture objects- your eyes are only on him.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't feel the need to kidnap me anymore? We do this every Wednesday," You become more childish around him and he lets you. Like you forgot you are a fully autonomous university student. There was power in that too. "Surely we've established some sort of trust?” He doesn't respond to you immediately. You crane your head up at him, hungry to lock eyes with his cold, empty slits that enchanted you body and soul.

You are in love with him, perhaps.

That's a logical response isn't it?

You laugh almost.

Listening to yourself try to rationalize your fondness for such a horrible man.

Said horrible man is silent. All you hear is the clicking of his dress shoes as he moves to the leather seat directly across from yours. Your eyes scan over all his movements.

The right corner of his lip quirks up. A small coffee table creates the only distance between you and he bends over to pour you both a generous glass of Brandy on the rocks. You don't drink it. Ever since he's been bringing you here, you never do. He knows this, yet still he pours.

"This relationship isn't about trust." He says finally. Something inside you, that is perhaps a little broken, actually purrs at the sound of his voice. You're hyperaware of your thighs squeezing together on the leather seat. They're spilling out of the sundress you purposely wore today.

Lots of your clothes were for the function of comfort. Your body was full and curvy and not always something to be advertised, unless you wished it to. Tonight, you wanted to show off as much as possible.

A thick leather band is keeping both your wrists locked to the armrests, while he sits back, free and so irrevocably in charge it should scare you. It should. But the sick and incredibly deranged thing is that it doesn't.

Outside, the rain is beating down on whatever building you're in, casting a thick veneer of grey all across the city.

But inside this velvet room... your heart is hammering inside its cage as you watch him undo the buttons of his crisp suit. A black one today. Jet black like his hair.

Although-

"You've got more grey in your hair than last week." You can't help but say.

He tilts his head in inquisition. "Are you insulting me or complimenting me?"

"I'll leave that up to you to decide," you shrug your shoulders as much as you can under these limited restraints. At least he hasn't restrained your ankles this time. Progress. "In here, you're the boss. Right?"

He takes a sip of his drink until finally, you've finally locked eyes. Your bare toes curl and your back arches slightly as you sit a bit straighter in your seat. Like you're in a lecture hall, although he is far more interesting than any of your professors.

"I'm not as young as I used to be," he finally says as he takes one more sip of his drink before bringing his briefcase onto the coffee table. Its presence is ominous and so horribly loud for an inanimate object. It kickstarts all your dormant nerves, revving up all the rest of your senses that have yet to catch up to the fact that you were facing the man of both your desires and nightmares once again.

"Who have you told about our arrangement?" The question causes you to roll your eyes. He watches the petulant movement with that same, silent smile and blank eyes. He unclicks the briefcase. Your stomach lurches and your thighs squeeze together. Pavlov's dog.

"Every time you ask me-" an object clinks onto the table. A butcher knife.

You try to pull your eyes away from the objects he's placing on the table, one by one. "Everytime you ask me if I've told anyone about our arrangement-" another object. A wooden spoon beside the knife. "Everytime I tell you the same thing."

Your throat closes when he uncovers a dildo. Bright pink and fucking menacing. "Carry on talking." He says, snapping your gaze away from the objects lining the table.

"I don't have any friends." Your voice is wobblier. You try to deny the sight of the rabbit vibrator, "It's the reason you picked me." You clear your throat as you hoped to clear all the nerves beginning to fog your mind. "Someone could've followed me here. B-But I don't really know anyone enough to care." The final object that clunks onto the glass coffee table and this time, you're unable to look away.

"Are we ready to begin?"

The metal revolver laying quiet and undisturbed beside the rabbit vibrator makes everything else on the table look like children's toys. Even the butcher knife.

You pull at the restraints, your legs quivering slightly as you shift and writhe in the seat. He studies you as closely as you were once studying him. You can see the excitement begin to flood his eyes at the physical manifestation of your discomfort.

"Now you're getting it." He nods sardonically, taking another sip from his glass before placing the briefcase on the floor beside him. "You were a little too happy to see me," he joked, letting out an airy exhale of laughter.

"You wanna hazard a guess as to what we'll be playing today?" He's smiling, genuinely. With that look in his eyes you can tell he's hovering in the clouds. Meanwhile you've begun to feel real fear. No matter how regular these visits might become you'd never get used to him. It's impossible. Not when he found new and daring ways to torture and pleasure you every single week. You couldn't get used to something as brash and unconventional as him. Like the conditions of a child in a broken home, he kept his tactics inconsistent so that every week is a new hell or perhaps- depending on his mood- heaven.

"If I guess wrong?" You swallow thickly and something dark in him settles. He spreads his legs more, there's a twitch inside his lips before he smiles again.

"Well, guessing isn't the game, so you'll be fine."

You nod your head... assessing the objects. There's menacing objects and household objects. Even just looking at them you can tell what they all have in common.

"Am I going to have to insert-"

"You're not guessing." His voice booms. He rests his elbow on the armrests, his hands corded with veins seem itching to do something, you're not sure what. "I said guess." He commands.

"Hide and seek?"

He snickers, "A favourite-"

"More like your favourite." You snip back, "I couldn't sit down the whole week." You frown at the memory. That week he'd brought you to an abandoned warehouse, letting you run the entire perimeter full.

"It's in your best interest to keep coming to our sessions-" he reminds you, snapping you back into the present.

"You're paying my university fees, I'm not complaining." You nod, before plastering a thin smile on your face, "All I have to do every week is prostitute myself to a literal sadist-"

"Have you given up on guessing today's game?" He didn't like you making him hyper aware of the fact that this dynamic, whatever it is, is considered objectively bad. And so you're not surprised when he swiftly moves past the topic.

He leans forward. His large hand disappears under his chair before uncovering a small whiteboard. Four lines- 2 horizontals are running across 2 verticals, creating 9 blocks. He stands up, while your eye is still focusing on the board. From your point of view it sits underneath the row of objects on the table. You don't even realize your right wrist strap is being untied.

"Colour?" He asks, pushing a crate of whiteboard markers towards you. With your now free hand you pick the pink one.

He snickers. "Predictable." He whispers before placing a large, domineering hand on your head. He presses down your braids, patting you like a stray he's rescued from the cold. You stare aimlessly ahead, fearing you won't be able to contain everything you've begun to feel for him if you lock eyes now.

"We're playing tic-tac-toe," he relents. His hand lingers on your head a bit longer before he's stepping away.

"With a twist, I presume?"

"Clever girl," he nods, walking back to his seat. "So you're aware of the objects."

"Place a gun in front of a girl and she's going to notice."

"Paranoid girl." He tsks before leaning forward.

"You want to start or should I?"

"Wait-" you swallow, "What happens if I win?"

He smiles that dazzling, debonair smile.

"You pick which one goes inside you."

Lightning cracks across the sky. A chorus of thunder roars all at once like some kind of phenomenon and your lips stutter open.

"Th-That's insane I-"

"I shouldn't have to remind you that you came here out of your own volition. "

"What happens if you win?"

"Then I choose." He says.

Your eyes skate over the object. It doesn't take an ivy league graduate to hazard a guess as to which of the objects he's itching to stick inside you.

"There's a fucking knife here-" You're trembling. Tears are pooling in your eyes. It doesn't even matter that you're a somewhat decent tic tac toe player. It doesn't matter that you're confident in this game. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters.

"And there's also a spoon," he nods, neutrally, "And a vibrator, and a dildo. Etcetera. Etcetera." He leans forward, unclicking his whiteboard pen, "your words are just words, Darling. You're just listing things. Start," he says, with a deadly lilt in his voice. "Or I will."

You scramble to uncap your marker with one hand, all while he watches with dead and black eyes. You knew that whoever starts the game was placed at a big advantage and so you're nearly scrambling to place that dignified X in the center block.

"Clever girl." He says once again, drawing his blue 'O' directly beside your pink 'X'. You aim for the block above him. He blocks it. You aim for the block beside the center. He blocks that too.

Your victory comes too quickly. You barely feel it as you strike a line vertically through the blocks. 3 X's.

Relief washes over you but it's overcast with doubt. Like you're celebrating in trepidation as you watch him stand up.

"Congratulations! Which do you choose?"

"I can pick anything?" You ask, staring up at him, bright eyes wild with the adrenaline that comes with wanting to preserve your organs.

"Anything you want, my little winner."

You begin to lean over. His eyebrows quirk up when you wrap a small hand around his wrist.

"I pick that." You say breathlessly. Your eyes zeroed in on his hands at his side. And you watch as he walks towards you, as if compelled by an unforeseen force. His palms are calloused underneath yours and you blow out several unstable breaths as he stands above you. So imposing it's breathtaking.

"You sure?" It's the way he asks it that has you second guessing. And perhaps he sees the caution seeping into your eyes because there's excitement lurking in his. Before you're even able to formulate a response, his hand is locked tightly around your esophagus, vacuuming all pathways shut until you're writhing for air.

"A fine, fine choice," He's becoming more and more riled up the more you writhe in your seat, trying to scrounge for a single breath of air. He doesn't let you. Instead he moves behind you, before leaning down.

If you could breathe, you would shiver at the feeling of his lips behind your ear. "Here we go-" he whispers, before reaching around your torso with his free hand before forcing your legs open. The second he lets his three digits stab into your cunt, he uncurls the grip on your throat as you make a horrid sound somewhere between a moan, a scream, and a haggard gasp. "FUCK- Sl-Slowdown-" you knew better than to request something like that. All you hear is a snicker from behind you as pain blossoms all across your nether regions. He's not gentle. He's not kind. He doesn't allow you to adjust to his fingers before he's scissoring them inside you, causing a blood-curdling scream to rip itself out of your throat. Your back is arched and you're trying to get away from him but the fucking persists.

"You've been wet like this for me the entire time?" He sounds absolutely demented, behind you, "You wanted this didn't you?" He bites at your ear as the first tears begin to pool at your eyes, "My little winner."

"P-Please stop-" His fingers are restless inside you. Curling and uncurling. Scissoring and stabbing as if wanting to open you up and split you all the way in half.

"What a pretty little pussy, huh? Look at what a mess you're making."

"When-" you can't form words. "When- Stop?" It's all you're able to say as your nails dig into the material of his suit.

"The sooner you cum the sooner it stops."

You doubted your ability to cum under these circumstances. He's setting an ungodly pace and it's all so hurried and in a frenzy, it's like your brain does not have time to understand if you even like what's currently being done to you.

"What- Do you want you want my help?" you begin to shake your head. "I'll help you, baby-"

His other hand reaches over and pinches your clit.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as your orgasm is quite literally forced out of you. Your hips writhe and your ass tries to leave the seat as the first feelings of pleasure rip through you by force. "That's it, Clever girl," he coos, still curling his fingers inside you, "That's my Clever girl." He says once more before stilling his movements. For a second you just sit there, trying to collect your breath while he's still inside you. All at once, his hands are removed from your body.

He grabs a handkerchief from his breast pocket and you watch him clinically wipe his hands before erasing the marks on the board with the same cloth. A very clear boner pushes against his black slacks yet still his face is calm.

"Alright, My turn to start-"

"WHAT!? B-But I won." You scream, absolutely seething with desperation.

"You know everyone who plays 'X' has a significantly higher chance at winning-" You say with your eyes narrowed. He nods.

"And you know that too, which means we each should be granted alternating times to play ‘X’. Regardless if you won or not." You slump in your seat, suddenly far too aware that your bare cunt is exposed.

"Don't mope." He says, "It's not cute." Before drawing his 'X' in the center.

You close your legs, sitting upright with a new zeal of self preservation as you grab ahold of your marker.

You draw your pink 'O' underneath his.

You both play many more rounds. All ending in ties. This is how you play- with a frazzled grip and closed legs. A shiver every now and then overcomes you with the gravity of your aftershocks. His snickers bring your eyes up to his. He speaks as he makes his move.

"You're so focused on blocking," he sighs, "You're not even trying to win anymore-"

"I'm not letting you stick a knife in my cunt." You nod in finality before blocking another move.

"Not even if I say please?" He asks, making a faux pout.

"Fuck off."

"In that case, I have to win."

Your heart kickstarts as he pushes his pen to the board. Images flash across your mind. Blood splattered across his gorgeous face. Your blood as he fucks the sharp end of a knife inside you. You nearly vomit while he speaks. “Easy as-" you block him.

"Tic-" you block him again.

"Tac-" you block him some more

"Toe- I Win."

A victory that somehow escaped your vision. He strikes a line diagonally through the squares and your stomach sinks. He stares at you from across the room. His eyes so deeply satisfied you can feel it radiating off of him in waves.

You lower your teeth to the other restraint, violently trying to free your left wrist from its oppressive hold. And you watch as the devil slowly rises.

Your heart aches. Your brain is sent into complete alarm as your flight or fight kicks in and your sympathetic nervous system fires.

"Now, which one would look pretty inside you?" He drags his fingers along the objects, undoubtedly an act of taunting. You stomp your feet on the ground. You try to push the chair underneath you but it's plastered to the floor.

"Please!" Tears are running thickly. They cloud your vision. You don't even see the way his smile falls enough for him to rub over the bulge in his slacks.

"Fuck," he says gravelly as he relents and picks up the gun. "You're so fucking pretty when you're scared out of your fucking mind. You know that?"

You shake your head as he nears, wondering if this might really be the end. Has your body become too worn out by his games? Has the time for him to discard his toy finally dawned on you both? Is he all grown up with no need for such things as toys?

"PLEASE-NO-"

"Open your mouth." He's standing in front of you, your head directly in front of his raging bulge.

You shake your head, trying to move away but he rips your face towards him. "Listening to me is the only choice you have to make it out alive, Baby. You wanna live, don't you?" He's nothing but a tall figure, with the overhead lights shining around his head like a halo. Your face right by his bulge.

"Little girl needs to go to school." He nods, eyes fluttering shut, "She needs to complete her studies and get a good job so she wouldn't have to meet with scary men like me- Fuck-" it riled him up to no end to have you scared of him. You suppose it triggered a part of him that craved attention. He needed to feel like he existed and if that was reeped from fear then so be it.

"Stick the barrel in your mouth," the bottom of his hand coaxed open your jaw, and, as if on autopilot, you listen. Perhaps there is a way out of this. Perhaps you should just listen.

"That's it... Fuck," he brings your free hand up to rub his erection "That's it, Baby, stick it inside your mouth." Cold metal hits your lower teeth, "Stick it in like you would a cock." He says, looking down at you intently as your tongue unfurls and you suck the barrel in. "Shit-" he places his other hand on the back of your head before forcing you to take the gun deeper down your throat. He's trembling. Far too badly. And so is his finger on the trigger.

"Fuck, you're such a fucking whore, you know that?"

You're gagging and flailing around the barrel, saliva slides down.

So desperate to please him.

In your hast you don't even realize your left hand that had been restrained is now free. Your eyes are closed.

Please him.

Just please him and you'll live.

"That's my brainless girl..." he praises and that rouses something in you. It has your hips bucking against nothing.

"Such a stupid girl..." he continues, "You're gonna ride me, aren't you? You're gonna fuck me so good-" You're not about to tell him that sex wasn't supposed to be apart of this game. You're not stupid.

You faintly hear the sound of a belt unlooping. A zipper siding down. "You're making me so happy, baby." He admits before effortlessly lifting you from the chair until you're straddling him.

You're free.

When did that happen?

"F-Fuck, I need you to ride me." His head is leaning back against the chair. His tie hangs messily from his shirt that has two buttons undone.

You're free.

"Don't try anything," he warns, as he lifts you enough to pull his cock out of his pants. "Matter of fact. Keep it in your mouth while you ride me-" He slams you down onto his cock the very second those words leave his mouth. He's fucking into you with recklessness and fury and violence. His hair falls in his face but the gun is too heavy, without a hand there, it nearly slips from your mouth.

He's careful to catch it, forcing the barrel back in your mouth as he places a hand on your ass, controlling how your ass bounces on his lap. The gun offers motivation like no other. It has you arching your back and swirling your hips as you tighten your cunt around him.

He sticks the gun down too far and you gag. "You trying to get me to cum, huh? You little slut-" you nod, the tears still spilling as pleasure begins to stream through your brain. It has you excited by the prospect of being held at gunpoint. You realize with grave certainty that you've arrived at the point of no return.

"What a good girl- fuck-" he's ramming up into you, his hand on the gun twitching like his cock does. "I'm gonna fucking cum- FUCK-" he does and your orgasm immediately barrels into you at the exact same time. You try to ride him, to milk it as much as you can, to continue to make him happy.

"Such a stupid fucking slut-" he whispers, eyes hooded as his hips still spurt cum into you.

Your ears perk. You see his finger on the trigger move. You squeeze your eyes shut as you hear a click.

"Such a silly girl." You hear him say. "Don't worry, Baby, it isn't loaded." You're still in your body. You're still alive, on his lap, your sundress unfurling around you both.

"Not yet anyway."

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