#can't live with her can't live without her. or whatever

[byfawn]

📁 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟏: EROTIC TRANSFERENCE — an asylum au | 6.0k wc

↳ featuring: sociopath!simon x psychiatrist!reader

ⓘ file preface: he’s a masked sociopath with a filthy mouth and eyes that never stop watching you. you’re the new psychiatrist—young, polished, and far too curious for your own good.

⚠︎ classified triggers: this fic contains explicit and dark themes, including mental instability, psychological manipulation, power imbalances, and dubious consent. sexual content depicted include restraint play, degradation, praise kink, size kink, oral sex, pierced genitals (jacob’s ladder), and intense dom/sub dynamics. additional warnings for asylum settings with disturbing imagery, violence , and heavy psychological tension. the reader engages in self-destructive behavior, shame, and ethical violations (doctor/patient relationship). reader discretion is strongly advised.

event masterlist

the asylum smells like bleach and something older. older than mold, older than rot. something that can't be scrubbed away, no matter how many times the floors are mopped or the walls are wiped down.

it's in the cracks of the tile, the grout between them, the ceiling tiles yellowed with time. not decay, not exactly but close. like the building itself has absorbed every scream, every whispered confession, every last gasp of air from lungs that will never draw breath again.

you have smelled it time and time again. in hospice clinical rotation during medical school, where death comes slow and expected, where the antiseptic tries and fails to mask the stench of dead or dying bodies.

it's even stronger in psych wards, where the air is thick with sweat and fear and the metallic tang of blood flaking off the skulls that have banged into walls one too many times.

the smell clings to your clothes, seeps into the fibers of your white coat, your scrubs, your hair. no amount of detergent or perfume or showers can strip it away. it follows you home, into your apartment, into your bed. it even follows you into your dreams.

but this new job is supposed to be a fresh start. that's what your mentor called it when she pressed the file into your hands three weeks ago. her fingers left faint smudges on the manila folder, the edges worn soft from being handled too many times. the weight of it in your palms feels heavier than it should—not just paper and ink, but something more. 

"try not to be scared of the environment," she said with a tired smile. the lines around her eyes deepened as she spoke, the kind that come from too many late nights and too many patients who never get better. her hand lingered on yours for half a second too long. "focus on the patient. that's where you always shine."

but the asylum doesn't feel like a fresh start. it feels like a place where fresh things go to die.

you pass the nurses' station with a nod, already trying to tune out the screaming echoing from the lower level. it isn't the sharp, sudden kind of scream. it's a scream that sounds like a soul being peeled apart layer by layer. your fingers tighten around the clipboard until your knuckles whiten. the pen cap wedges between your fingers like a weapon—small, pathetic, but yours.

a group of patients shuffle through the far hallway under supervision, their slippers scuffing against tile that hasn't been properly cleaned in years. the nurse pushes a metal cart ahead of them, the trays rattling with little paper cups—each holding colorful pills.

most don't look up. their heads stay bowed, their shoulders hunched, as if carrying a weight no one else can see. some twitch—a finger jerking, an eyelid fluttering. others stare at nothing, their eyes fixed on some middle distance between this world and whatever hellscape lives inside their skulls.

"you get used to it," says dr. carver, your new supervisor, without looking back. his keys jangle as he walks, the sound almost mocking in its cheerfulness.

you don't believe him for a second. your past work experiences have been in the frame of psych wards in hospitals and outpatient clinics—never asylums. asylums are where patients go when nowhere else can contain them. where the worst cases, the truly broken, are sent to be studied like specimens under glass. the kind of place where people are forgotten.

the tour is brisk, clinical. the west wing for the non-violent cases, the east for the ones who need restraints. the common area with its bolted-down furniture, the cafeteria with its plastic utensils counted and recounted. everything designed to keep the chaos contained.

you feel it the moment you step into the east wing—the weight of eyes on you. not just watching. studying.

"this is where you'll be assigned," carver says, stopping in front of a reinforced door. the nameplate reads riley, s. in neat block letters. "high-risk patient. former military. court-mandated after an... incident."

he doesn't elaborate. he doesn't need to. you've read up on his file before going for rounds this morning.

age: 37. former military operative with a service record that is heavily redacted, suggesting involvement in classified black ops. dishonorably discharged under sealed circumstances. following his return to civilian life, riley is implicated in a series of violent homicides—deliberate, ritualistic, and performed with a level of precision that rules out impulse or psychosis.

court-mandated psychiatric evaluation deems him fit for long-term containment at blackwall institute due to extreme sociopathic behavior and the high likelihood of reoffense.

diagnostically, riley meets the criteria for antisocial personality disorder, marked by chronic disregard for the rights and boundaries of others, lack of empathy, and calculated manipulation. he exhibits no delusional thinking, no psychotic breaks, and no evidence of hallucinations.

instead, he operates with full cognitive clarity. his violence is not reactive, but strategic—premeditated acts committed without remorse. he displays an eerie emotional flatness, but maintains a high-functioning intellect and strong interpersonal acuity.

he reads people quickly and accurately, often weaponizing their emotional tells against them. while superficially cooperative, all interactions appear designed to extract information, establish control, or destabilize the other party.

he wears a self-constructed skull mask at nearly all times. when forcibly removed, his behavior becomes volatile. the mask appears to serve a psychological function—both as armor and as a performance. he does not hide behind it so much as embody it. attempts to strip it from him have resulted in injury to staff. for the sake of stability, containment policy has allowed him to retain it during sessions, under heavy physical restraints.

clinical recommendation: treat all interactions as adversarial. do not respond to personal inquiries. do not allow sessions to deviate from their intended therapeutic structure. patient is capable of emotional mimicry but does not possess empathy. any rapport built is likely a means to an end. do not mistake his stillness for submission.

do not underestimate him. control is his currency. you'll only get what he wants to give you, and he'll want to watch what you do with it.

the risk assessment didn't bother with pleasantries:

level 5 containment

subject is non-delusional, cognitively stable, and extremely dangerous. violent outbursts are rare, but never reactive—always premeditated. staff injury incidents occur only when restraints are compromised. he waits. he plans. he attacks.

through the small reinforced window, you see him for the first time. the photo that you saw in his file is grainy and taken through the window of a solitary confinement cell.

he wears a black cloth mask stretched into the pattern of a stylized skull. white smears over the sockets. a grin permanently frozen in place. his eyes are the only visible part of his face—shadowed, half-lidded.

the reinforced glass fogs slightly with your quickened breath as you press closer. the air in the hallway suddenly feels too thick, too still, like the entire wing is holding its breath along with you.

he sits perfectly still on the edge of his cot, back straight, hands resting on his knees. the skull mask stares blankly at the opposite wall, that same frozen grin you saw in the photograph. his shoulders strain against the fabric of his jumpsuit, the material stretched obscenely tight across the impossible breadth of him—no wonder they keep him in reinforced restraints. 

even sitting, he dominates the space, his frame so broad, so solid, it makes the flimsy cot beneath him look like a child's toy. your throat goes dry watching the way his arms bulge where the sleeves pull taut, veins standing in stark relief along corded muscle that flexes just once when he shifts his weight.

his hands are massive where they rest on his knees, fingers thick and capable—you imagine them wrapping around your throat and your pulse jumps traitorously.

of course, they would have him under around the clock supervision. no wonder the restraints are heavy-duty, the door reinforced. he's not just big—he's built like a weapon, every inch of him honed and hardened, radiating a dangerous magnetism that makes your skin prickle with something that isn't quite fear. 

his eyes—the only part of him that moves—track slowly across the room before settling on the door.

on you.

his eyes are much lighter than you expected. but there's something about them that oozes darkness—the kind of darkness that creates a dark pit of fear in your abdomen. they were utterly devoid of anything recognizable as warmth or empathy.

you hold your breath without realizing it. your brain sending signals to your lungs reminding you to breathe.

there's something obscenely compelling about his stillness, about the power coiled in his frame, and it terrifies you how badly you want to see it unleashed.

your fingers tighten around the clipboard, nails biting into your palms as you try to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. the rational part of your brain screams danger while something deeper, something primal thrills at the way his gaze lingers—like he knows exactly what you're thinking, like he's already imagined a dozen ways to ruin you. 

one of his fingers twitches—just once—against his knee. if you had blinked you probably would've missed the action. 

then, with deliberate slowness, he tilts his head. just slightly. it unsettles something in your stomach. you didn't get creeped out easily—especially after years of working in psychiatry. but you would be lying if you weren't scared shitless.

his chest rises once, slow and controlled, the only sign that he was even alive beneath that mask. your skin crawls with unease as you swallow the lump in your throat.

dr. carver cleared his throat. "he's got a session with you in twenty. you'll be supervised, of course." he jangled his keys again, the sound suddenly too loud in the quiet hallway. "just... don't turn your back on him."

you nod in acknowledgment, but your eyes don't leave the his. you swear you see the corners of his eyes crinkle a bit—as of he's smiling under the mask. you don't need to see his face to decipher that he is amused. and if you've learned one thing from the little experience you had in this job—it was never a good think to have a sociopath amused. 

carver shifts beside you, uncomfortable, his keys jangling as he turns. "come on," he mutters, already walking away, his footsteps too loud in the suffocating quiet. "i'll show you the observation room."

you force yourself to step back, your knees slightly bucking as if you've forgotten how to walk. you can feel the shift in the air as you turn to walk away. the heat of his stare doesn't stop. if anything, it burns even stronger now. it settles between your shoulder blades, heavy as a hand pressed flat against your spine. 

it lingers, warm and intrusive, like the ghost of fingers trailing down the knobs of your spine. you can almost feel his breath on the back of your neck, slow and deliberate, though you know he hasn't moved from the cot.

he wasn't just watching. he was claiming. 

you follow carver in silence. you take slow and calculted breaths to re-regulate your nervous system. you weren't even in the same room as him but he somehow managed to completely throw your nervous system into overdrive by the simple act of eye contact.

your footsteps are unnaturally loud in the hush of the east wing. each step feels like it's pulling you deeper into something you won't come back from, and not even the heavens and the hells can chase away the fear pooling in your stomach.

your palms sweat by your sides, still feeling the phantom weight of riley's stare like a brand between your shoulder blades. it doesn't fade with distance, if anything, it grows more intense with each step you take away from his cell, as if the distance only makes his presence more palpable.

your skin prickles with the unsettling awareness that he's still watching, even though you know the reinforced, heavy metal doors and dozens if security measures separate the the two of you.

the walk to the observation room feels like it takes forever. the stillness and silence is broken by the occasional scream or bang. but other than that it seems eerily quiet. too quiet. 

carver pause in front of one of the doors, glancing back at you with an expression you can't quite read. his keys jingle as he shifts his weight, the sound grating against your already frayed nerves. "almost there," he says, but his voice sounds distant, like it's coming through water.

you nod automatically, your tongue heavy in your mouth. some part of you wants to turn around, to look back down that long hallway, to see if—

no. you keep your eyes forward. keep walking.

but the weight of that stare stays with you, pressing insistently against your spine, a silent reminder that this isn't over. that it's only just begun.

the door to the observation room door creaks when carver pushes it open, the sound only further increasing this looming sense of dread. inside, the air is colder, the hum of machinery louder.

a bank of monitors flickers against one wall, showing grainy black-and-white feeds of observation area. the oneway window next to the monitors overlooks the bland room where a floor-mounted table and chairs sit bolted in place.

"session protocols are on the desk," carver says, gesturing to a stack of papers. "review them while i get the orderlies prepped for transfer."

as the door closes and carver leaves, your fingers twitch at your sides, nails digging half-moons into your palms. 

you were nervous. and you were never nervous. nervous meant mistakes and stupid slip-ups. it meant giving him exactly what he wanted: the upper hand. yet here you were, pulse rabbiting in your throat, breaths coming just a fraction too quick. the file with the protocols felt slick in your grip. 

you forced your hands still. forced your spine straight. you were a professional. you'd handled worse.

the protocols blurred in front of you, words swimming together. maintain distance. avoid physical contact. terminate session at first sign of agitation. as if it were that simple. as if he wouldn't see right through the script, wouldn't relish tearing it apart.

your breath catches as movement flickers across the monitors. the feed shows the orderly team leading him in—three of them, all broad-shouldered but dwarfed by riley's hulking frame. 

the straightjacket strains across his chest, the thick canvas barely containing the width of him. his masked face turns slightly as they guide him forward, those pale eyes scanning the room even as his body moves with eerie compliance.

the chair creaks when he sits, metal protesting under his weight. the orderlies work quickly, securing the restraints—thick leather cuffs around his wrists, already buckled tight behind the chair, another strap crossing his chest. 

one orderly kneels to fasten the ankle restraints, hands moving with practiced efficiency. riley watches them, head tilted just slightly, that grotesque mask hiding whatever expression might lie beneath.

when the last buckle clicks into place, the orderlies step back. one of them wipes his brow—you don't miss the way his hand shakes.

on screen, riley tests the restraints. not violently, not even urgently. just a slow, deliberate shift of his shoulders, a flex of his arms. the leather groans but holds. the chair doesn't budge. then, as if sensing your gaze through the camera, his head turns. those dead eyes lock onto the lens causing your stomach drops.

a knock at the door made you flinch. one of the orderlies gruff voices, muffled through the metal: "we're ready."

your breath hitches, fingers tightening around the edge of the desk as you force yourself to look away from the monitor. the cold metal bites into your palms, sharp enough to ground you, to pull you back from the edge of whatever unsettling feeling had taken root in your chest.

you exhale slowly, counting the seconds in your head. four in. seven hold. eight out. the rhythm steadies you, brings the world back into focus.

nervousness was a luxury you couldn't afford. not here. not with him.

when you open your eyes again, your expression is schooled into something neutral, professional. the slight tremor in your hands is gone, tucked away where it can't betray you. you smooth the front of your coat, adjust the clipboard under your arm and brace yourself as you enter the room. 

the scent of antiseptic and metal with a hint of smoke lingers in the stale air of the room. the orderlies file out of the room one-by-one leaving you alone with him. you can feel the hunger of his stare grazing over you leaving goosebumps in it's wake. you swear that your knees buck for a second as you take slow strides towards the chair across from him. 

the chair groans as you lower yourself into it, the sound obscenely loud in the silence. you keep your movements measured, controlled, placing the clipboard on the table with deliberate care.

across from you, he's a study in contained violence. the straightjacket pulls tight across his chest, the thick canvas straining against the sheer bulk of him. even sitting, even restrained, he looms. his thighs spread slightly, taking up space he doesn't need, the chair creaking under his weight.

the mask hides his expression, but his eyes—god, his eyes—never leave yours. dark, piercing, tracking your every breath like a predator savoring its prey.

you clear your own, flipping open the file. "mr. riley," you say, and your voice is steady. professional. you hope to the heavens and the earth that he didn't here the slight tremor in your voice.

his fingers twitch against the armrests, the leather cuffs groaning. a small, almost lazy flex, as if testing the give. as if imagining how easily he could break them. 

the mask tilts slightly, that eerie grin seeming to sharpen. "doctor," he rumbles, your title rolling off his tongue like something illicit. "you're shaking."

you don't look down at your hands. "it's cold in here."

a low hum vibrates through his chest. "liar." the word curls around you, warm and knowing. his knee presses firmer against the table—not an accident this time. the contact burns through the fabric of your slacks.

you exhale sharply through your nose, forcing your fingers to relax around the pen.

"let's focus on your evaluation, mr. riley," you say, clicking your pen with deliberate calm. "how would you describe your current mental state?"

his chuckle is dark, velvety, the sound vibrating through your bones. "frustrated," he purrs, rolling the r like he's savoring it. his knee presses harder against yours beneath the table.

"restrained. pent up." the leather cuffs groan as he flexes his fingers again. "tell me, doctor - does it excite you? seeing me like this?"

your pulse jumps traitorously. "this is a professional setting," you remind him, though your voice wavers slightly. "let's keep it that way."

the mask tilts further, shadows pooling in those hollow eye sockets. "professional," he echoes, mocking. "is that why your cheeks are flushed? why your breathing's gone shallow?" his voice drops to a whisper. "i can see your pulse racing in that pretty neck of yours."

you swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. "do you always flirt with your doctors, mr. riley?"

"only the ones who squirm for me," he counters smoothly. his thigh rubs against yours in slow, deliberate circles. "ask me your next question, doc. i know you're dying to."

your fingers tighten around the pen. "do you experience violent urges toward staff members?"

his laugh is dark, delicious. "only the pretty ones who lick their lips when they look at me." your tongue darts out instinctively, and his eyes track the movement hungrily. "there she is," he purrs. "was that so hard, doctor?"

your grip tightens on the clipboard, knuckles going white. "we're getting off topic, mr. riley." you force your voice steady, but it comes out breathier than intended. "let's discuss your sleep patterns."

he leans back slightly, the chair groaning under his weight. "sleep patterns?" his voice is all rough velvet, the kind that slides under your skin. "i prefer to stay awake. more... interesting things happen at night." his knee presses harder between yours, the heat searing through your slacks. "don't you agree, doctor?"

your pen hovers over the paper, ink bleeding where you've pressed too hard. "insomnia is a common symptom in your condition," you say, keeping your tone clinical despite the way your pulse jumps at your throat. "we should explore that further."

his chuckle vibrates through the table between you. "oh, i'd love to explore things with you, doc." the way he says it makes your stomach flip. "but we both know you're not here to talk about my sleep."

you force yourself to meet those pale eyes behind the mask. "then enlighten me, mr. riley. why am i here?"

his fingers flex against the restraints again, the leather creaking ominously. "because you couldn't resist." his voice drops to a whisper. "because you saw my file and thought 'i can fix him'." the mask tilts. "or maybe... you thought 'i want him to ruin me'."

your breath catches. "that's—"

"true?" he finishes for you, triumphant. his thigh rubs slow circles against yours, the friction making your skin burn. "tell me i'm wrong."

the clipboard trembles in your hands. you should stand up. you should call for the orderlies. you should do anything but sit here, letting him unravel you with nothing but words and the press of his knee between yours.

"cat got your tongue, doctor?" he murmurs, leaning forward as far as the restraints allow. his breath is warm through the mask's grin. "or are you just imagining all the things i could do to you if these cuffs weren't here?"

your lips part, but the intercom crackles to life before you can respond. "session time elapsed," a bored voice announces.

neither of you acknowledge it.

his eyes gleam behind the mask. "tick tock, doc. better run along before you do something... unprofessional."

you stand abruptly, your legs unsteady. "we'll continue this next session," you say, proud of how steady your voice sounds.

his low laugh follows you to the door. "counting the minutes, sweetheart."

when the heavy door clicks shut behind you, you realize you're shaking. and worse—you're already counting the minutes too.

the next morning, when you walk into the facility, it's with the weight of heavy guilt on your shoulders. your skin still burns with the memory of last night—the way your fingers slipped between your thighs, the way you bit your lip to muffle his name as it tumbled from your mouth in a broken whisper. 

simon riley. 

his voice, rough and mocking, playing in your head like a taunt. his muscles straining against the restraints, the way he looked at you like he knew exactly what you'd do the second you were alone. 

it's insane. you've known him for a day. a single day. you've known him for less than twenty-four hours, and here you are, trembling like some desperate thing, already ruined by a man who's done nothing but toy with you.

maybe you're the one who belongs in this place. maybe you should check yourself in, let them strap you down, let them study whatever sickness has taken root in you so fast. but then you think of his laugh, dark and knowing, and your stomach twists. he'd love that, wouldn't he? seeing you unravel. seeing you break. god, you're pathetic. 

the moment you step inside, the head nurse gives you a sharp look.

"riley's in solitary," she says, voice clipped. "attacked an orderly last night. broke the man's nose before they got him down."

your breath catches. "is he—"

"fine? unfortunately." she hands you a file. "session's still on. carver's orders. but you'll be in the black cell. no cameras. no interruptions." her eyes narrow. "you sure you're up for it?"

you don't trust yourself to answer.

the black cell is exactly what it sounds like—a concrete box swallowed by shadows, the only light a dim flicker from the hall. the air is thick, humid, pressing against your skin like a hand. you feel clusterphobic the second you step in. your heels clack against the damp concrete as you in closer. 

it takes your eyes a bit to adjust to the darkness before you see him. you feel your pulse quicken and your breathe hitch as soon as your eyes catch his.

the door clangs shut behind you, the sound final. the air is thick, pressing in from all sides, making your pulse throb in your throat. you force yourself to take a step forward, heels clicking against the damp concrete. "mr. riley," you say, voice steadier than you feel. "care to explain last night's incident?"

in the center, restrained tighter than usual in a straight jacket, is him. even in the darkness of the cell or room or whatever this was, you could feel the depraved darkness in his eyes. they must've sedated him or given him something to calm down because his pupils were the size of saucers.

his head lifts slowly, those blown-out pupils swallowing nearly all the color in his eyes. even in the dim light, you can see the way his gaze drags over you—hungry, possessive. "got bored," he rumbles, voice rough like gravel. "figured solitary was better than staring at the same four walls."

you click your pen, feigning indifference. "so you broke a man's nose for a change of scenery?"

his lips curl, slow and knowing. "worth it."

you swallow hard. "that's not an acceptable answer."

"no?" the straightjacket creaks as he shifts, testing the restraints. "then give me a better one, doc."

you take another step closer, ignoring the way your skin prickles. "try this—you acted out because you struggle with impulse control. because you—"

"because i wanted you alone," he interrupts, voice dropping to a growl. "no cameras. no orderlies. just you. and me."

your breath hitches. "that's—"

"true." his eyes lock onto yours, unblinking. "admit it. you thought about it too."

your fingers tighten around the clipboard. "this isn't appropriate."

"neither was what you did last night," he murmurs, tilting his head. "i know you touched yourself."

your face burns as you attempt to feign innocence and indifference. "we're not discussing that."

"why not?" he leans forward as far as the jacket allows, voice a dark whisper. "scared i'll tell them how you were squirming in your seat like a little whore for a —"

"enough." your voice cracks. "we're here to evaluate your behavior, not—"

"evaluate this, then." his knee brushes yours, the contact deliberate. "i fought my way in here because i knew you'd follow. because i knew you wouldn't be able to resist." his gaze drags down your body. "so tell me, doctor—who's really in control here?"

the clipboard nearly slips from your sweaty palms as his voice wraps around you like smoke, low and dripping with sin. "you wanna know why i really did it, doc?" he leans closer, the straightjacket straining against his shoulders. "because i knew they'd put me in here. no windows. no guards. just you, me, and that pretty little mouth of yours."

you force yourself to take a shaky breath, gripping the clipboard tighter. "let's... let's focus on last night's incident, mr. riley. what triggered the violent outburst?"

his laugh is dark, curling around you like smoke. "oh, doc. still playing pretend?" he shifts in the straightjacket, the material straining against his broad shoulders. "i already told you why i did it. wanted you alone. wanted you...vulnerable."

your throat goes dry. "that's not—"

"not what?" he interrupts, voice dropping to a rough whisper. "not true? then why are your thighs squeezing together like that? why's your breath hitching every time i move?"

you swallow hard, trying to ignore the heat pooling low in your stomach. "this is inappropriate."

"inappropriate," he echoes mockingly. "like you rubbing your clit last night, thinking about me? imagining my hands on you? my mouth?"

your face burns. "stop it."

"or what?" he challenges, tilting his head. "you'll walk away? we both know you won't." his voice drops even lower, rough and filthy. 

"you wanna know what i'd do to you if these restraints were off, doc? i'd start with those pretty little fingers of yours—pin them behind your back so you couldn't touch yourself. then i'd bend you over and spank that swollen, desperate clit of yours until you were sobbing. just light taps at first, enough to make you squirm. then harder. harder. until you're begging me to let you come."

your knees nearly buckle.

"you'd love that, wouldn't you?" he murmurs, watching your reaction with predatory satisfaction. "being at my mercy? taking whatever i decide to give you?"

your lips part, but no sound comes out.

"that's what i thought," he purrs. "such a good little whore for me."

the silence stretches between you, thick with tension. you can hear your own pulse roaring in your ears. his gaze burns into you, unrelenting, waiting.

"show me," he murmurs, voice rough as gravel. "show me how you touched yourself thinking about me."

your breath hitches. "i—i can't—"

"you can," he growls. "and you will." his eyes darken further. "unless you want me to rip out of this straight jacket and force you.."

the clipboard clatters to the floor as your fingers tremble at the hem of your skirt. his dark chuckle vibrates through the humid air between you, those blown-out pupils swallowing you whole. "that's it," he purrs, voice thick with approval. "show me how desperate you really are."

your breath comes in shallow gasps as you slide your hand beneath the fabric, fingertips brushing over damp silk. a whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it.

"louder," he growls, straining against the straightjacket. "let me hear what i do to you."

your fingers slip beneath the waistband, finding yourself already embarrassingly wet. the first brush of your fingertips against your clit has your hips jerking forward.

"fuck," he breathes, watching with rapt attention. "just like that. pretend it's my fingers, doc. my thick fucking fingers working that tight little cunt open."

you moan, circling your clit faster as his filthy words wash over you.

"you thought about this, didn't you?" he continues, voice rough. "alone in your bed, fucking yourself on your fingers like some cheap slut? imagining it was me?"

"yes," you gasp, arching into your own touch.

"say it." his command leaves no room for argument. "say you're my little whore."

"i'm—" your breath hitches as you press two fingers inside yourself, "—i'm your whore."

his groan is animalistic. "good girl. now come for me."

your orgasm crashes over you violently, thighs trembling as you ride out the waves against your own fingers. when you finally come down, panting and boneless, his smirk is downright predatory.

you're still trembling from your orgasm when his voice cuts through the haze, rough with command. "come here." 

your legs move before your brain catches up, knees hitting the cold concrete as you shuffle forward. your fingers fumble with the waistband of his pants, breath hitching when you finally free him.

and fuck—

a jacob's ladder. of course he has one. the metal glints even in the dim light, each barbell making your mouth water. you're delirious, mind fogged with lust and shame, but you can't stop.

"that's it," he growls, watching you through heavy-lidded eyes. "take what you need."

your tongue darts out, tentative at first, tracing the underside of his cock. the taste of him—salt and musk and something darkly him—has you moaning before you even take him fully into your mouth.

"fuck," he hisses, hips jerking slightly despite the restraints. "just like that, doc. such a pretty fucking mouth."

you hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, the metal bars dragging against your tongue in the most delicious way. your fingers dig into his thighs, nails leaving crescent moons in their wake.

"you like that, don't you?" he taunts, voice thick with amusement. "my little professional doctor, on her knees, gagging for it."

you whimper around him, the vibration making his cock twitch.

"bet you've never had anything like me," he continues, rolling his hips just enough to nudge the back of your throat. "bet you're already thinking about how it'll feel when i finally fuck you raw."

you are. god, you are.

your free hand slips between your own legs again, fingers circling your clit as you suck him off with desperate, sloppy bobs of your head.

"that's it," he praises, voice rough. "get yourself ready for me. gonna ruin you so good, you'll forget your own fucking name."

you're climbing into his lap before you can think better of it, your skirt hiked up around your waist, his cock glistening with your spit. the straightjacket rustles as he strains against it, his eyes black with hunger as you hover over him.

"do it," he growls, voice rough. "use me. take what you fucking need, doctor."

you sink down onto him with a gasp, the stretch burning in the best way. the metal bars of his ladder drag against your walls, sending sparks up your spine. your hands scramble for purchase against his shoulders as you start to move, your hips rolling in slow, desperate circles.

"fuck," he hisses, his head falling back against the wall. "look at you. riding me like you were made for it."

you whimper, your nails digging into the thick material of the jacket as you bounce harder, chasing your own pleasure. his cock hits that perfect spot inside you with every thrust, the metal bars adding an unforgiving edge that has you seeing stars.

"that's it," he rasps, watching you with dark, blown-out pupils. "take it. take every fucking inch." his voice drops to a whisper, filthy and rough. "wish you could see yourself right now. fucking yourself on me like a desperate little slut."

you moan, your thighs trembling as you grind down harder, your clit rubbing against the base of him with every movement.

"you're lucky i'm strapped down, sweetheart," he murmurs, lips curling into a smirk. "because if i had my hands free?" his hips jerk up, forcing a choked cry from your throat. "i'd have you bent over, screaming my name."

you're close—so, so close—your breaths coming in ragged gasps as you chase your release.

"come on," he goads, voice rough with command. "let me feel it. let me feel that tight little cunt squeezing around me."

you shatter with a sob, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave, your walls fluttering around him as you ride it out. he groans, low and satisfied, as you collapse against his chest, boneless and spent.

his mask brushes against your ear, his whisper sending a shiver down your spine. "good girl."

you whimper, still trembling, as his smirk grows darker under the mask.

you scramble off him with shaky legs, your skirt falling back into place with a rustle that sounds obscenely loud in the heavy silence. your fingers fumble as you pull his pants back up, avoiding eye contact, avoiding the way his smirk burns into you even through the mask. the straightjacket strains as he shifts, watching you with those dark, knowing eyes. 

your hands tremble as you smooth down your blouse, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear. you must look wrecked—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, thighs still sticky with the evidence of your shame. thank god for the darkness. thank god no one will see.

your breath hitches as you bend to pick up the clipboard, your knees still weak. the pen rolls away from you, and you flinch when he nudges it back toward you.

"careful, doc," he murmurs, voice rough with amusement. "wouldn't want you to leave anything behind."

you snatch the pen, your face burning. your mind races—what the fuck did you just do? you fucked a patient. a dangerous, unstable, manipulative patient. a fucking killer and sociopath. and worse—you loved it. you came harder than you have in years, and the guilt is already curdling in your stomach like poison.

you straighten, forcing your voice steady. "this—this can't happen again."

his chuckle is low, mocking. "sure it can't."

you turn toward the door, your legs unsteady beneath you.

"great session, doctor," he calls after you, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "can't wait for the next one."

[bloodchapell]

erogenous zones — senku i.

brief summary: senku swears he won't react

what to expect: suggestive

your sword's note: to celebrate husband is back, here is this thing. more on my mistresslist

The soft mumble of the fan twirling back and forth kept you from understanding the paragraph you had re-read 3 times already.

Summer vacation had just started, and with your new found freedom, your friend group decided to do a sleepover. That was hours ago. You all agreed to watch a movie and ended up watching a cringey movie on teens and parties, the kind that are so bad they are good; it was so funny that even Yuzuriha wheezed while laughing. Now Taiju slept on the floor while Yuzuriha laid on the sofa. You had slept an unknown amount of time until the unfamiliarity of the living room's floor as a sleeping place woke you up. Taiju was still beside you snoring and Yuzuriha was still in the sofa like the sleeping beauty. Senku was nowhere to be found, but the bright led light bleeding in through the corners of his closed-door bedroom gave you an idea of where he was.

"I thought we said no computer." You said placing a hand on his shoulder, leaning in sideways to look at him as a reprimand.

"I thought you said you were able to sleep like a baby in the floor." Senku shrugged, his eyes not leaving the screen.

You hummed and laid down on his bed, one arm hanging off the edge of the bed while your legs were half bent on the air, cheek pressed against the mattress as you followed the movement of the fan blowing air. For some reason you were wide awake, and without anything else to do, you turned on your phone and opened a chapter of a novel you were reading in the morning. Which turns to the beginning; The soft mumble of the fan twirling back and forth kept you from understanding the paragraph you had re-read 3 times already.

It was only 10 or 15 minutes after your appearance that Senku decided to turn around. You were focused on the phone, trying to finally figure out what was happening in the story.

"Still reading?" He asked. You nodded and sighed.

"I can't concentrate."

"Maybe because it's 3am, just throwing that variable out there." He mumbled getting off the chair and sitting in the edge of his bed. As if asking for the phone, Senku extended his hand, and somewhat unaware of what it meant to surrender the phone you placed it in his hand and closed your eyes until he started chuckling.

"What?" You asked but he remained silent, that until you remembered what you were reading and immediately reached in to grab the phone.

"I see you are interested in this kind of explorations of the human body." Mockingly he said as he fought to keep the phone.

"It only started, I didn't know!"

"Lies, it had been going on for about three pages... three pages of filth is surprising, how do they extend it for so long, just go to the point." Senku managed to mumble before you accidentally hit him in the process of retrieving your phone.

"'M sorry." You whispered after shutting your phone off.

He stayed quiet for a while. Normally, he wouldn't have minded going on a rant explaining biology and mocking you, but that was the problem, you. The problem was that things were odd between you two; he wasn't so stupid as to not know the difference between the platonic feelings he had for friends like Taiju or Yuzuriha compared to whatever was happening to him about you.

And you were too, face pressed against the mattress in a lame attempt to suffocate yourself just so the awkwardness wouldn't consume you. If it would have been Yuzuriha you would have laughed and showed to her willingly, if it was Taiju you would have screamed and then laughed so hard until it hurt, but it was Senku, the same Senku who since the beginning you couldn't quite place in the same mental category as Taiju and Yuzuriha, the same Senku whose hand didn't shriek away when the emotions overcame you and your touch became lingering on his skin rather than a passing accident, the same Senku who would be already looking at you when you turned to take a glimpse of him in class, the same Senku who didn't mind anymore when his shoulder was completely pressed against yours.

He laid down beside you and sighed silently. Your eyes interlocked.

"Are you curious?" He asked out of nowhere. You took your time to answer, not knowing how to reply to his odd question, but decided to reply by shrugging, ambiguous and imprecise.

"What about you?" You asked after a while.

"This is just textbook stuff, light work, no reaction." Senku affirmed.

"No reaction? Highly doubt it."

"Well physiologically maybe... emotionally though, zero."

"Senku that can't be, you are not that bleak."

"It can be." He nodded.

"Bet it can't."

"What are we betting?" Suddenly interested he asked.

Each one of you stated their firm belief, completely stubborn on not backing down.

"And are you going to prove it just by staring at me?" Senku asked after another wave of silence between you passed, only filled by the hums of the fan and the distant snores from Taiju on the living room.

"Why did you assume that it was going to be me to prove or disprove it?" You quickly asked; his eyebrows furrowed a little, only so quickly that he corrected it but you noticed.

"I took some contextual evidence and made an assumption." Now he shrugged.

"Contextual evidence like what?"

"Contextual evidence like the fact that it was you who brought it up, the fact that you were reading the filth in question..." He counted with his fingers, "And the undeniable tension."

"So taking a direct approach, I see." You mumbled after the last part of his words startled you.

"Come on, you can't be that bleak." Again he shrugged, with a smile.

"Hypothetically speaking, what would be life after the proving or disproving of the facts?" You asked in roundabout ways. It took him a while to peel the coats of your implication.

"Life after." As soon as he realized that you were asking how things would change if you two decided to indulge in the desire hidden as a bet, he spoke. "It would be different, I can guarantee that. As a double sided sword, the tension would disappear, easing the stress but also dismantling the chase. Maybe it is like a small realization that gives way for something better, hypothetically speaking."

You smiled, and he followed with a smile of his own; something soft and almost undetectable.

It took unmeasurable strength to move closer to him, mainly because the heat had made your body almost melt into his bed and moving away from the merciful overwatch of the fan felt like suicide, but you gave in to your heart's command and moved after gathering enough momentum and willpower.

You had imagined during your soft delusional fantasies how the impossible confession would happen between you two. You knew Senku well, also his allergy to romance and aversion to general socialization in an overly emotional manner, but you fantasized of being the one and only that could break through his armor and flood him with sentiment; it did things to you to imagine yourself being so special for him. You had imagined one and a million scenarios, ranging from script and location —honestly nothing so mundane, so human and daily. Now it felt surreal. Not short of your fantasies or expectations, never, simply different, still unbelievable.

"Do you need a vague list of where you need to test?" Senku asked, unmoving.

"I have a feeling you are enjoying this too much because what the hell..." The closeness resonated within both of you. He arched a brow as if to ask again, you shook your head hard. "I know some."

He then rolled to his back, and watched waiting for you. The moment you had imagined for long; you held yourself up resting on your forearms, leaning in. Your hair fell on his face, but he gently tucked the strands behind your ear. You didn't want to kiss him abruptly, so you dragged a caress through his cheek and down his jaw, fingers unconsciously brushing his neck. He knew he lost immediately, the way his body filled with anticipation and completion. He didn't voice it, hoping you hadn't noticed.

After a long minute of caresses that he received silently, your gaze found home in his lips and slowly you moved to brush your lips against his. Your eyes were shut tight but his remained open, beaming with the satiation and at the same time growing of his curiosity. Your lips were soft, quivering only so slightly to make him smile. When you opened your eyes you saw him smiling, a genuine tender smile, and so one of your own followed. You repeated the action between soft giggles, each time with more conviction, not brushing but pressing, and in the last time Senku held your face and caught your bottom lip between his. The sensation of the warmth and wetness of his lips around yours made you shiver, and you quickly ought to reciprocate so you imitated his action.

"So are kisses still overrated?" You asked quoting an old debate of you two.

"I might have to redo my assessment, but my evidence is highly inconclusive and I need to collect more data." Senku said in all seriousness, which made you laugh.

Your next kisses repeated the pattern, occasionally alternating, but it was until you decided to try licking his lip that a stronger reaction escaped him.

"Did you just gasp?"

"Physiology." He couldn't even deny. "The lips are just full of nerves."

"And you full of the audacity." A quick kiss pressed to his lips after you finished speaking.

Since your arms started to hurt, you laid back down. The process repeated some more, soft brushes, more decided pecks, then gently sucking on each other's lips until a lick made either of you exhale and move away.

"Let me try something new." You pleaded, flustered in the darkness, Senku nodded. You trailed kisses from his lips across his cheek to his jaw, and then moved to his earlobe, wrapping your lips around it and letting your tongue rest against his skin. The air in his lungs left fast, and much to his misfortune once you noticed, you licked some more, moving up the cartilage in his ear until his squirming made you stop. "You didn't like that?"

"It was odd, ticklish." Senku commented.

"How about this?" You asked before inching closer to his neck and planting a kiss. His heart almost stopped, but once it regained its sense, it rushed to beat unbridled.

"Don't."

"Why not? Was it bad?" You rushed to question him. He stayed silent before uttering that it was the opposite. "Let me do it again."

Adamantly, he agreed, and you moved close to him again, your breath velvety on his sensitive skin. It was now him shutting his eyes close when he felt your lips on his neck again, and for the first time in forever, formulas and topics stopped rummaging his mind because he needed to tell himself over and over again to not lose it. Your peppered kisses on his neck made his system shake, and once you grew bold and decided to proceed with a half-open mouth kiss, pressing your tongue too to then lick him up, he moaned.

"That is enough." Though you tried to kiss his neck some more, he put a hand between your mouth and his skin. "Your turn."

"Hey this is not about me in any way, shape or form; we were trying to test you."

"Yes but I want to touch you like that too."

His brazen statement took you aback, but you nodded nonetheless. He moved down in the bed, enough for his face to align with your neck. He repeated your actions but stopped dead in his tracks when you started laughing instead of gasping for air or moaning.

"That tickles." He stated for you, and you nodded giggly. "Well now I am the lustful piece of shit."

Senku rested his head on your chest for a moment, still leaving kisses across your collarbones.

"I am happy." You said out of nowhere, he looked up. "I really like you."

"Hmm." He mumbled with his cheek pressed on your skin. "You know I do too, don't make me say it."

"You like yourself too? Hey I saw Senku first don't make this into a competition." You complained and he bit your neck. For a moment he just stayed there, hidden in the warmth of your neck with his hands holding your waist. Then another kiss, slow and deliberate, both of you more confident in your newly acquired skills, holding each other with a nervousness close to fearing the other one would liquify into bubbles and vanish; between soft licks and sucks, you both opened your mouth at the same time to lick and your tongues met, eyes opening immediately and breathing gone erratic. You looked at each other almost asking for permission, but your tongues didn't separate, instead after a silent consensus you continued making out.

The dim light of the computer still on, and the hums of the fan twirling back and forth, the sounds of the wet kisses you gave each other, all made you sigh content.

"Can I?" Senku asked after a while, his hands playing with the hem of your shirt and tracing numbers in your skin.

"Can you what?" You put your forehead on his, your eyelashes tickling him. He squeezed your waist and you licked his cheek. "Sure, whatever you mean."

He nodded thanking you and waited attentive for any reaction, to tease you or to stop. His hand climbed inside your shirt and he hesitated for a moment before placing it on one of your breasts to squeeze it gently. "Can I?"

"Can you what?" You asked again but he didn't respond, not knowing what he meant you agreed confused and waited to see what he was going to do. After some moments of courage, he lifter your shirt and grabbed both your breasts, squeezing them softly until he moved downwards and planted a kiss in one. At your curious gaze he proceeded to lick the skin until his lips wrapped around your nipple. "Wait..."

"Do you want me to stop?" He asked immediately, his mouth not leaving you.

"N-No it's not that."

"Does it feel good?" Senku asked, his other hand tracing unknown patterns in your other breast.

"Well yes."

Needless to say he grinned and kept on sucking and licking.

"Don't blame me this is my first time ever seeing these." He shrugged. "I will compensate for my lack of childhood breastfeeding."

"Senku shut the hell up."

Between laughter he continued, alternating between your breasts and then lowering his kisses to your stomach.

"Yuzuriha!" A yell from the living room stopped you both.

"Is everything okay!?" At the bloodcurdling scream, Yuzuriha answered startled. When Taiju explained that you and Senku were nowhere to be found, she calmed him down. "Maybe the bathroom or Senku's room."

Yuzuriha decided to check the bathroom and Taiju rushed to the room, where you didn't have time to do anything but pretend you were asleep as Senku held you to his chest to hide the nakedness of your torso.

"Found them!" Taiju cheered. "Though it is odd, they are hugging."

"Huh, maybe they figured it out." Yuzuriha shrugged.

"They are so cute, I love my friends!" Taiju mumbled after a yawn, laying horizontally at the edge of the bed and falling asleep fast.

"Are you guys awake?" Yuzuriha asked, shaking Senku's shoulder only slightly.

"No...?" You whispered, suffocated in Senku's chest.

"Good to know. Keep it lowkey." Yuzuriha caressed your cheek to then pull down your top. "Goodnight."

[returnofeternity]

Need more of natalie x vampire reader🙏 like what happened after she found out and how she is secretly feeding us the blood that's left when shauna butchers up the animals and the yellowjackets slowly getting suspicious

she loves being a bloodbag for her vampire partner <3 she has you start feeding from her thighs instead of her neck because all the girls keep asking why her neck is always littered with bite marks. and these aren't bite marks from you (well, they are.), they look more like puncture marks. nat just shrugs and blames the bugs during the summer.

you had to stop feeding from her for a bit because she was getting sick, though :( she was so weak and clammy after feeding sessions and would get so lightheaded you almost thought she was seriously gonna die. your gf has a solution though <3 because you get weak if you go without blood for a long time, she'll just give you the animal's blood that's left over! she thinks it'll look way too suspicious to the others if you hunt and there are just dozens of dead animal carcasses littered around the forest floor suddenly. you did this before you confessed to nat, but you would usually eat the meat as much as you could. now, you're just lazy and too hooked on nat's blood to eat the entirety of some deer.

the butcher's table is usually left all bloody anyway, so it'll be easy for nat to just sneak you some blood form whatever animal shauna butchers. thinking of her taking her food back to her hut some days, telling the girls to go out and eat at the dinner table alone, and she just squeezes the blood from the meat over your face..... it's so sensual and erotic, and sometimes she can't help but lick the blood from your chin and call you a messy eater.

tbh, you probably get caught on your own like a dumbass. the animal's blood can only quench your thirst for blood so much. thinking of sneaking out in the middle of the night after a good minute of trying to pry nat's arm from your waist, and walking to akilah's animal pen.... you already feel guilty as fuck, but you're extra hungry tonight. you can't help it.

you end up feasting on 3 rabbits before you get caught by akilah herself, who woke up early to tend to her animals.

nat wakes up to screaming. by the time she gets there, you're surrounded by the girls who look horrified of you. you're sitting there, frozen, with a dead rabbit in your hand, and 2 more next to you. she can hear you stutter out an explanation to the girls, mostly to akilah, and she pushes past shauna, who's front and center and watching like she's enjoying all this.

"i was sleepwalking."

"i don't know how i got here."

"i'm sorry, i'm so sorry."

is what she hears you blather on about.

of course, no one rly believes her when she reveals to them that you're a vampire, except lottie. think nat would get pissed on your behalf when they make fun of you, and tells you to show ur fangs like it's party trick 😭 but they're all pleasantly surprised when you prove them wrong.

but thinking about being able to live freely out there now.... helping shauna drain the blood from the animals without worrying about getting caught. helping gen hunt, using your fast speed to catch the animal before it scurries off. using your speed to zip around the forest and collect sticks/rocks/whatever for fires or more protection for their huts during winter... !!!!

and nat's so proud of her little bloodsucker <3

[drewsstars]

introducing... ghost!rafe

back to basics!! (looks!!)

height: 6'1" — tall enough to come off a little intimidating from a distance, but really it’s just the way he stands there in silence. he’s got presence. lean against a doorway and he blocks half the light.

build: lean with definition. soldier’s body, nothing excessive, just muscle where it counts. strong arms, broad back, but nothing over the top. looks like he could carry you without breaking a sweat, or climb a tree without a sound.

age: 23, officially. that's when he died, 43 years ago. hasn’t changed since. but the way he moves, the way he looks at things? he seems older. like he’s lived longer than most, even if he technically didn’t. his face though, still young, like an old photograph that never fades.

clothes: usually the same: simple shirt, half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms. dark, heavy trousers, and sometimes that old military coat, same one he wore when he served. his boots make noise when he walks, even though he really shouldn’t be making any sound. dog tags always on. always cold to the touch.

personality

mischievous: he didn’t mean to torment you... okay, maybe a little. at first, he was just a shadow in the corner, a light flickering when no one else was home. your fear amused him, not cruelly but curiously. after decades of silence, you were the first person who noticed him. so he pushed, teased, left books open, knocked things off shelves, whispered your name just to watch you flinch. persistent: even when you begged whatever was in the house to go away, he stayed. not out of spite, but fascination. he didn’t expect to care, didn’t expect to feel again. but you spoke to him, even angry you looked for him, even scared. and when he started manifesting, slowly, painfully, it wasn’t to haunt you anymore. it was because you made him want to be seen. protective: the shift was subtle. he stopped scaring you. started warning you. showing up when something felt wrong. and when it actually happened, when you were in real danger, he didn’t hesitate. he stepped between you and whatever it was, something changed that night. you stopped being afraid of him. he started being afraid for you. devoted: now? he’d do anything to stay. not just in your house, but near you. he still struggles with it, the boundaries, the fact that he’s dead, the fact that you’re not. but his loyalty is complete. you’re the first light he’s seen since 1942, and he’s not letting it go out. not again.

dislikes

bright artificial lights — they’re harsh. sterile. overwhelming. he prefers the dark, or the quiet gold of a the fire

loud noises — slamming doors, blaring TVs, fireworks,they shake something in him, like old memories and old instincts

people who disrespect the military — not in a patriotic way, but in a careless one, like the war didn’t break boys apart or like sacrifice was easy.

talking about his death — he shuts down and goes quiet. doesn’t matter if you’re gentle, it’s not a story he knows how to tell.

talking about his past — some things are better left where they belong

likes

your records — even if he doesn’t know the songs, he listens. watches you sway to them. and often asks you to play them again

the garden — the one you planted outside the house, his house. he likes to sit near it.

touching you — it’s the one thing that makes him feel almost real again, even if he can't actually feel your skin

silence — not awkward silence, the kind where nothing needs to be said.

family

mother: Margot. she was gentle, but private with her emotions. after he died, she changed completely. stopped talking, stopped looking at anyone in the eye. some days, she didn’t get out of bed. she passed away a few years later. the doctors blamed her heart, but everyone knew it was because she never recovered from losing him.

father: Ward. he worked in real estate and development, always chasing influence. respected in public, strict at home. very focused on status, reputation, and keeping control of everything around him. treated Rafe like an employee more than a son. after Margot died, he didn’t stay long. Sold the house, walked away from it all like it was just another failed investment.

sister: her name was Sarah. she was younger than Rafe by a few years. they never got along. she didn’t fit the mold, always challenged their parents, and never stayed quiet like he did. after his death, she left and cut all ties with the family, changed her life completely, got married, had children, and never looked back. never spoke about Rafe again.

[ofekma]

Okay but what does Ralsei know? (part 3)

So, Ralsei is not the only one to know about the soul and game mechanics, and is not the only one who knows parts of the prophecy, but IS the only one we know knows all of it.

And the prophecy includes really small details in it

So...

Does Ralsei know Everything?

Nope!

The most obvious example here is how the weird route throws him off

But honestly, you can surprise Ralsei from the moment you first meet him.

And we can continue to choose options that confuse him later on.

It seems that regardless of how specific the prophecy is, it doesn't include individual choices, which makes sense since it's a video game that allows us choice in the first place, even if not as much as we'd want.

Ralsei seems to expect us to choose and encourage our choices, so it seems that whatever we end up doing is still on the path of the prophecy.

But the person whose choices REALLY catch Ralsei off guard is Susie.

Time and time again, from rejecting her role as a hero, to joining Lancer, to learning how to ACT on her own, to smashing the end of the prophecy and insisting it wouldn't happen,

Susie challenged Ralsei's perceptions about the world again and again and again, and even his perceptions about himself.

So whatever Ralsei knows, it's far from everything that's going to happen.

But he still knows what will happen in important key events that can't be changed, including the ending, doesn't he?

Well, the final cut scene of chapter 4 is different depending on if you did a weird route or not

But let's talk about standard playthrough for now.

In chapter one, the inevitability of everything feels crushing, the king gets defeated no matter what you do, and the darkners get recruited to castle town even if you weren't nice to them (tho they're not happy about it).

But King goes down differently.

That along is proof that some key events won't be exactly the same depending on our choices, even if we don't do the coerce-Noelle-to-kill-people thing. So whatever the prophecy states, the specifics of every event mentioned in it are up to us.

But hey, it's inconsequential in the long run, so let's move to chapter 2.

Ever since this chapter, Darkners can choose if they want to come with us to Castle Town or not depending on our actions, which has consequences in the long run, like if Lancer gets adopted by Queen or not.

So we know that we can impact the lives of darkners a lot, but hey, it's not like we can choose if they live or die without completely breaking the game via the weird route.

Huh.

But hey, Darkners are basically objects, right? Surely we can't do something that would result in very different outcomes in a Lightner's life, right?

Hm.

So it seems like either:

Ralsei's knowledge (aka the prophecy) is not including Everything that's going to happen and thus not very reliable, because multiple VERY different scenarios can happen while still staying 'true to the prophecy'.

Ralsei's knowledge is unreliable because the prophecy can be changed.

Regardless, we reach the same conclusion:

Everything Ralsei knows should be taken with a grain of salt.

And with that in mind, we should start looking at his words and ask ourselves what of the things he told us wasn't exactly right.

Ralsei knew Kris and Susie's names before they even introduced themselves, and wasn't surprised to see them in his kingdom, which is a point in favor of the 'Kris and Susie really are the heroes of the prophecy', but as we just established, his knowledge is far from absolute, and note his wording here: he deeply believes that Kris and Susie are the HEROES of the LEGEND.

But 'believes' and 'knows' are two very different things.

Regardless of that, we already saw that events in this game can go in multiple different ways depending on people's choices, so despite whoever the heroes of the legend were 'supposed' to be, they're Kris, Susie and Ralsei now.

And their fate is in their hands (and ours).

Though I do still have to wonder, what other things has Ralsei said that weren't true and we overlooked?

[sonoranbumblebee]

One of the ways I know Carmy quit the Bear specifically so he could kiss Syd is because that codependent (affectionate) little (affectionate) menace (affectionate) literally cannot function without her.

Like he can, but only if he knows she's there somewhere. When she's "gone" he has a really really hard time.

* When he's waiting for her call when she's at the hospital he's literally rubbing his head to fight back against whatever is going on there.

* When he's at the wedding but he hasn't seen her yet, he scans the crowd in what is not quite a panic. Once he knows she's there and is safe with Richie, he calms the fuck down for the rest of the event.

* When she's not talking to him for four hours in their busy industrial kitchen where they absolutely do not have time to chit-chat anyway, he physically feels off. She's standing like a meter away, but he can't feel her in his head or his body, so his nervous system immediately tells him that he is in danger.

There's no way he would quit the Bear just to be away, unless he was actively suicidal, which is exactly what scared the living shit out of Richie especially.

But if he's quitting the Bear so she stays at the Bear, where he knows how to find her, and if he's further planning to know where she is all the times when she's not at work, because they're a couple, then he can quit and even travel and work other places, because their weirdass soulmate communication system functions just fine so long as one of them is "home."

[parasite-core]

Roland: Would rather not if it's possible to talk down the person in question. Offering a chance for redemption to someone who is willing to genuinely try to be better is part of his religious beliefs, so if that's an option he'd rather take it than fight.

Kiyo: It varies. Generally they don't go to violence as their first resort. Unless they're faced with someone they consider undeniably evil, like both of the Lamms. A human trafficker and a serial killer don't deserve the consideration of trying to resolve things peacefully.

Sai: If someone has done something she views as evil, she will use lethal force without hesitation. She's seen what happens when a bad person gets away. They hurt more people. So killing them immediately will save lives.

Lucien: He doesn't like fighting intelligent beings. He'll hunt monsters with no qualms, but he finds fighting people uncomfortable. He likes fighting monsters because it's a rush. He doesn't get the same feeling from fighting a person.

Kaius: If someone is a threat to the people he cares about, he'll shoot first and ask questions never.

Umbrolus: He doesn't like lethal violence. He has had to use lethal violence a lot because he and his friends were saving the world from a mechanical god, but generally he'd rather not. It brings the worst out in him, in his opinion. He loves sparring or fighting competitions, though. He accidentally became king of Numeria for all of a minute because he beat Kevoth-Kul in single combat. He immediately forfeited the position back to Kevoth.

Draven: If she's facing evil like the demons and cultists she's been fighting, she has no qualms about killing. Killing demons saves more people down the line, people like her friends and family who were all slaughtered. She is determined to save everyone, and to that end she will kill if needed. Although truth be told she is the weakest in the party as far as lethality goes. As she says, she makes a better shield than a sword.

Ileark: He hates killing. For a long time he hated that he was so *good* at it. He wanted to be a healer, but his natural talents simply didn't lie there. He's come around, though, realizing that he can still use his power to protect people, even if he can't use it to heal their wounds. He now travels the cosmos destroying cults to the Great Old Ones. Anyone who would try to unleash eldritch horrors deserves whatever violence comes down on them.

Calio: He would murder someone for one corn chip. There for a bit he worshipped Norgorber, the god of murder and secrets. He doesn't anymore, but honestly he does still really enjoy killing. He's just more discerning about who he kills now. Like bandits harassing the town he's made a home in, or criminals preying on people who are already down on their luck. It's not really about justice or saving people so much as these are targets his friends would find acceptable. But if he does end up saving some people along the way, it's an added bonus.

Mau: He's only fighting because he has to. His house burned down, and he went after the culprit, then one thing led to another and now he's helping to save the world. Once he and his friends have taken down Karzoug, he's going back to his quiet home in Sandpoint and hoping to never need to fight again. Sandpoint's a nice quiet little place, surely nothing else will happen to force him to fight again, right? (hides The Seven Dooms of Sandpoint adventure path behind my back)

how easy is it for your oc to resort to violence?

[doverstar]

actually I love Tentoo and he is the Doctor and it was the only ending for Rose that worked and it is a huge gift to be able to have the man she loves grow old with her, they were always heading for that, y'all be quiet. I 100% understand the angst but it's okay, they're okay, good ending-

[gotwcird]

bibi feels her whole body shake with a satisfaction when chase finally says the praise. calls her a good girl, makes her feel a contented even when he gives her ass a last good slap. "fuck, baby, i—" her words are cut off by the feeling of his cock sliding in, by the way she keens from the heady feeling of him stretching her open again. she shakes from the relief, like her body can't live without him stuffing it full. moans something lewd and absolutely whorish when he grabs her hair and pulls her back. "yes, oh my god, fuck, that feels so good!" she whines, her hands scrambling to find something to stabilise herself, eventually pressing into the window, leaving hand marks all over the glass in her thrashing. is being so quickly brought back to another high, her walls squeezing, but she's going to be good. she told him, so she'd hold back until he tells her she can let go. "yours," bibi agrees in a moan, every one of his hard, near-violent thrusts being punctuated by heavy, pleasured 'ah ah ah' sounds. "your good girl, only yours." she reaches behind her, sinking nails into whatever part of him she can hold onto. doesn't know how chase has taken to this so easily, how much she's essentially corrupted him, turned him into something aggressive and unafraid. and fuck, she loves it. "cum inside me baby, please. please. breed me. need you to breed me."

it's hard to tell in the darkness of the backseat of his car but one movement of his palm over her cunt and he can feel how wet she's getting again. makes his chest swell with a sense of pride — almost too thrilled to know that he's able to get this reaction from her so easily. just by his rough palm slapping against her bare ass. but then she's begging and telling chase all the right things he wants to hear and he gives in so easily. "mhm. good girl, baby." one more final slap of his hand roughly against her ass before he moves to position himself behind her fully. doesn't give her much of a warning as he pushes his cock into her slick cunt with low grunt of pleasure. "fuuuck, bibi." her name comes out like a whine on his lips and one hand moves to curve against her waist but the other reaches forward, tangles into her silky hair and pulls her head back. doesn't take long at all before he's thrusting himself into her, roughly and quick to build them back right back up to the place they were before. the sound of skin slapping against one another, their panted breathes. it's driving him chase — makes his head feel fuzzy and his body feel hot. "you're mine. my girl." words are almost growled, begins to slam himself into her hard then holds her against his cock, deep inside her, before slamming hips against hers again. repeats this motion over and over until he can feel his cock twitching inside her.

[hermitsdump]

does impulsive tattoo shock migraine out or do I need to waterboard myself first

[blackswallowtailbutterfly]

Still haven't messaged my mom back. And I don't think I'm going to.

[timothyslucy]

how did ya'll survive s10 of chicago fire without 2 focal points of the show?? this is killing meeeee. 😩😩

[thatlesbiancrow]

it's really frustrating to have gaps in my memory during events i KNOW i enjoyed so much and i KNOW i was so lucky to be able to experience but i just can't remember them and i can't enjoy them anymore!!

[heartshattering]

5 AM

Just me and my overactive mind facing the nighttime again 🙃

[bonestrouslingbones]

here i always thought i was unlike papyrus in my general demeanor but now i'm learning i just needed 30mg of adderall

[gxlden-angels]

RUBY FRANKE AND JODI HILDEBRANDT SENTENCED TO 4 TO 60 YEARS IN PRISON LETS GOOOOO