#obsessed with characters that look like an omen

[feratscal]

I have not watched Transformers Prime, I generally am not fond of the character designs, but this magnificent lovecraftian horror blessed my sight and I fell in love, ive been telling all my friend about how im gonna marry him lil creep freaky nightmare man love of my life can´t wait for him to show up in my nightmares I think i need to watch Transformers Prime

[demonir]

if he has 5000 fans I'm one of them, if he has 100 fans I'm one of those, if he as 1 fan I am that one, if he has 0 fans I have died and gone to hell to see him personally. I rest my case

[crybabydraws]

How does someone seem normal about their interests? Asking for a friend.

[nameless-is-nameless]

She’s the most haunted woman and she’s about to make that everyone else’s problem 💀

Roka, a character from my PC’s backstory, designed by me and played by our rad DM @wethekeegsta

[slowdivinqs]

Presentiment

Stalker! Joel Miller x f!reader ( 18+ MDNI )

summary : no one is truly alone in the world, especially not you.

w/c : 12K

warnings : no use of y/n, horror themes and elements DDDNE, stalker behavior, feelings of isolation and depression, existential crisis? Kidnapping, cynical thoughts about life described, abuse, violence against the reader by Joel, old!Joel. slowburn-ish. dub-con?. unprotected PinV. Oral f!receiving. Manhandling. Hunter / prey kink. Twisted daddy kink but no use of the word 'daddy'. Joel popping a viagra. VERY Large age gap ( 35+ years ) . Manipulation. Obsession. Reader’s mother is described as a drug addict. Shitty men, harassment and pervertedness from a co-worker. Murder / death of side characters. Stockholm syndrome. Reader is toxic too. Religious imagery. Can be pixel or pedro Joel. The reader is implied as being thinner due to life long poverty, but her body type is not described or stated.

a/n : This was made for @pedgito's writing challenge and kind of ran away from me. It was such a blast, I've never tried horror or a specifically dark fic and it was sm fun! I’m sure the characters I wrote will stick with me forever. I sat with this fic for a long time before posting, and it's the longest thing I've ever written!! Not sure how I feel about it still. Thank you for letting me participate! Happy birthday ♡

if you don’t like dark themes, listen to the warnings and don’t read the fic.

masterlist

—— ☓ ——

Something feels wrong before your eyes have had the chance to open – a kind of warning, an omen, baked into the morning light stabbing your iris through moth-eaten curtains.

It was the way your body ached as you tried to sit up, stomach screaming for food you just don’t have. Your mother hasn’t been home for a week and you know she’s either run off with some incest-bred asshole who’s promised her a beer or she’s passed out in a crack-house miles away.

Your shift at the diner starts in thirty minutes. 

The men that pass through this town are all the same. 

Truck drivers – men who think all women in the world are there to satisfy their needs. Iagos of the world, the dark underbelly. 

The men that stay in this town are not dissimilar, your days a monotonous blur of wondering when something better will drop into your desperate palms.

There is one man who feels like your only friend in the world. 

Standing at a whopping five foot seven, and still kicking up the diner’s jukebox at eighty three, he makes sun shine out from your soul. You can confidently say that Jerry is the best. 

He usually sits with you the entire day at work, and makes sure to fill your empty time by teaching you to dance to El Toro Rabón, and La Bamba. His rich hands, littered with wrinkles yet full of life, hold yours while he makes you laugh. Clapping as you finish off with an animated twirl and curtsy. 

Jason usually eyes you from the kitchen, rolling his sleazy eyes at the sight of you having so much fun with your elderly best friend. Going back to making greasy burgers and puffing on a cigarette that’s gotten him in trouble with the owner before. 

You never agreed with the sentiment that old people were cute until you met Jerry and his late wife during your first shift at the diner : fourteen years old and composed of an exhaustion that was ill fitting for someone so young. He’d been your first ever customer, seventy seven and still wearing that cowboy hat of his.

The first thing you noticed about him was his mustache, the way he uses wax to curve up the tight white curls into points, how it covered his top lip when he spoke, making him look like a cartoon character –  his oak brown eyes that has gotten increasingly red and yellow around the corners as he’s gotten older. The way his warm skin has developed patches of darkness, yet he still looks the exact same as the photo of him he showed you from thirty years ago : fresh off his racing horse in Mexico, holding the same cowboy hat over his chest that he adorns now, smiling brightly. He kept his hair looser back then, his ringlets looked shiny even in those black and white photographs.

He calls you bumblebee, and you think he’s the first person that’s ever loved you – and he’s the first person you’ve ever loved. He’s your sunshine, a tether to the world past your 18 hour work day. 

Every morning he’s seated in the diner at 8:30 AM with a joke to tell you, stories of his racing days, growing up in Cuajinicuilapa, his time travelling around South America before settling down in this small town near Wyoming. He tells you of his late brother, his views of the world and the people he’s met. He talks of humanity and how love is what is most important in life.

You feed off of the stories he tells you : meeting people from all walks of life under the pretense of coffee, sitting around the same food stand, chatting to strangers who would play guitar on the side of the street for no other purpose than passion. 

You feel the desire for this ideal world thrum in your veins vicariously.

He used to come in with his wife Dolores until she passed two springs ago – he talks of her jewelry often, thinks that you should inherit it : they were never able to have children. You serve his coffee fresh and hot – asking Jason in the back to make his eggs perfect and his toast golden brown. You sit across from him at the counter to play bullshit with him while he eats – he always knows when you’re lying, his cheeky smiles catching you out, and his joy wraps it’s warm arms around you.

Your days are filled with giggles and smiles whenever he comes to see you, and he never leaves without a hug. 

Jerry does not like Jason one bit – eyeing the skinny, pale cook through the serving counter, telling you that a man like that is ‘no good, honey’. You don’t blame him – Jason had tried to coerce you into giving him a blowjob a few weeks before your 18th birthday – but never forced you when you had threatened to go to the sheriff and have them run a much needed background check. Jason has steered clear of you since then, knowing you weren’t shooting empty threats. You never told Jerry about that, but you think he knows regardless. 

He jokes that the forest behind your house has eyes – the kind only the old and the dying could feel. You never found it funny. 

Your clothes were not too crinkled this morning when you pulled them on : giving you a small mercy as did your almost-dry mascara surviving one more day. That hadn’t quelled the uneasiness you’d felt all morning, the whole drive to the diner. All you could think about was seeing your friend, and hoping that he would give you a hug and tell you all those happy stories again.

The second you clock in, and Jason comes back in from his third smoke of the hour, Jerry opens the door to the diner. 

You float over to the counter with a genuine smile, but it flickers when you see the look on his face. 

He talks a lot that day – about his wife, about his old job, even the time a fight broke out in his hometown and his father died, how the horses he looked after got caught in the crossfire : admitting he had hurt the perpetrator afterwards and it haunts him. He tells you everything, even the things he’s told you time and time before – forgetting he ever mentioned it. He’s never forgotten a thing about you, but he talks as though he’s in a hurry, as though he needs to get everything out.

He does not come in the next day or the day after that, and when he doesn’t arrive on the third day you take time off to confirm your fears at the hospital. You do not hear it from a nurse, or a doctor, but from the silence you are met with when you ask for him. That silence, the loneliness that instantly sunk into your bones, shattered your heart into millions of pieces. It is destroying.

You did not come to see him when you could, there was still time to be had, stories to be told. He never saw you make something of yourself, he will never walk you down the aisle like you dreamt he would one day. 

You are all alone in the world. No one to speak to, no one to comfort you. No one to make you think life might not be as meaningless as the whispers of your mind seem to believe. The warmth of him is gone, and you feel as cold and grey as the forest that surrounds this town, as if the sun has gone into eternal hibernation.

You want to bury yourself in your room for hours, to not surface for months and months until your body reflects the rot you feel on the inside. Hollow. Your sunshine is gone. 

You tell yourself Jerry is now with Dolores, and laugh at the fact that your mind even supplied such a deluded thought. You never believed there was something better up there, not for long anyway. 

You still go to his new tombstone, next to his wife’s, and speak to them. They were both religious, crosses carved into the place their names will stay forever, and so you ask any god out there to let them rest peacefully as though they are back in their hometown with their horses and not worry about you. 

That evening you sit on your porch, chain-smoking the packs of cigarettes you had been saving, staring at the stars caged by thick trees. You realize you do not have a purpose. You don’t have a want – can’t have one, there’s not enough money for the luxury of wanting something. You’ll live and die in an 18 hour work day.

Your thoughts are scary and boring at the same time, so you begin to look out at the illuminated forest. The sounds of the night – it scares you as well sometimes, an entire empty forest just outside your door, nothing but rotten wood and locks keeping you safe.

Today you found out you will be alone for the rest of your life, but when you sit out on the porch, flicking your third cigarette – you don’t feel entirely alone at all. You feel as though there is something out here with you, your skin rippling with bumps. 

You blame it on the Grim Reaper licking at your heart today.

The cabin on the other side of the forest you’re staring at now has been vacant since you were born. Never a light, a sound – it haunts you.

The closest you’ve gotten to it was at the ripe age of 8, venturing through the forest to explore. You had come to the front door until the house moaned at you, and the forest went quiet. You can still vividly picture the glance you got of the cabin while you ran all the way home. 

You leave the shadow of the cabin in the dark forest behind, you need to get dressed for your shift. Money waits for no one, not even for the death of your best friend. 

Down the empty highway, not a car in sight – the image of your headlines whirring past the thousands of trees burnt into your retinas from seeing it every single night. Your eyes are puffy and raw from crying, a headache pounding behind them.You pass the single off–ramp road you’ve never been stupid enough to take, the one that winds through the forest, all the way to an open clearing, a small path that can barely fit your sputtering car – leading all the way to the back of your rotting house. You used to play in that clearing as a child, pulling out grass and flowers and making huts out of branches until the day the forest went quiet for a second time – and you knew something was out there with you. 

You had told your mother after running inside, but she pushed you away from the comfort of her arms and told you it was just jackals – you knew it wasn’t, even then. 

It had seemed you knew something was coming your whole life, constantly looking over your shoulder – watching, listening. Sensing all and any kind of movement anytime, wary. You didn’t like the silence, you didn’t like being alone – yet you were singled out, not a soul or sound to comfort you through your isolated existence. 

The gas station is empty as it is every night, you use the time to read. To think, to wonder what it’s all for in the end. If you should run away, leave and never come back. Go and find the ocean, let it swallow you whole.

The sliding doors of the entrance ding as they open. Your eyes flick up so quickly it hurts. A man walks in, and your stomach swoops. Everything falls quiet, and you think of the thing that your mother called the jackals, you think of the forest falling silent : baby birds quieting in the face of danger.  He disappears behind a shelf, a glimpse of a Carhartt jacket that sparks a warmth : a remembrance of your dear friend who is now gone, the once comforting material on someone foreign, scary.

Your breath shallows. You don’t know why. It’s not just the quiet – it’s the kind of quiet that makes your blood congeal. Like the silence before a scream. 

You glance to your side, below the counter, a bat sits for emergencies. You’re not sure why you are panicking the way you are, if it’s the hour, Jerry’s passing, the presentiment you’ve felt all week. 

There is something silent, and something wrong. 

When you look up, you still don’t see him. The light behind you flickers, and you almost want to cry at the fear that’s bubbling up in your throat, your hair is standing on end. Your ears prick at any sound, a fridge door opening and shutting. 

Your body is shutting down on you, your heart crawling up your throat by claws : fighting and fighting for a chance to survive while your body quivers with the force of your instinct to run. Grab the bat, over the counter, out the door to your car. 

You blink, realizing you haven’t been seeing a damn thing, and he’s on the other side of the counter. Looking at you with a blank expression. 

Your heart fizzles and falls back to its place, your hands are shaking. 

“Forgot milk.”  His voice is entirely too flat, disarming and discerning. 

You glance down at his hands, calloused and holding a single jug of full cream milk. He’s waiting for you to scan it. 

“Right, sorry.” You mutter, sliding the milk over the scanner and taking the cash from him before returning the change. He hasn’t looked away from you once, he seems tired and bored : a normal milk run, but you’ve never seen him before. It’s shocking for a town with under five hundred residents. 

He nods his thanks and leaves. The sound of his car sputtering away allows you to finally exhale. 

You cash out and go home soon after that, shaken, like every ounce of fear you’ve felt in your life crashed through you the second he entered the store. An omen, a warning. 

You wake up to a box at your door the next morning. In your sleep-shaken state, you have half the mind to stomp on it, fearful it came from The Man last night. Fortunately, curiosity seemed to be on your side this morning, as upon opening the box you find Denise’s necklaces, bracelets, rings and books. Paintings, antiques, and most importantly - a cowboy hat. Your favorite hat in the entire world. He had left everything of his to you, when he wrote his will you do not know. Maybe Jerry knew what was coming, he always was wise, connected to everything there is in a way you wish you could be.

You cry all morning, through your miserable shift at the diner. You must look like some sort of slug, because Jason asks you if you’re okay, as does the girl from your old english class who came in that morning all the way from New York : in town and visiting her parents. She dyed her hair and found her style. You see the sparkle of the world in her eyes, and your dirty fingers itch to steal it, to run outside with her car keys, assume her role as a real person. You do not feel real at all. 

When you return to your rotting home you watch an old western - Jerry’s favorite - while you wear his cowboy hat, toying with the new jewelry that was sent to you when the police must’ve got around to acting out Jerry’s will. You feel loved and, oh, so lonely at the same time. You are a ghost in your own home, and the appearance reflects it. No real girl would live in a house of mold and quiet, where it is abandoned despite having a resident. 

—-

The Man returns this evening as well, in the moment you were humming the iconic tune from your new favorite movie. Jerry had good taste. The world goes silent, and he grabs a pack of beers before heading to the till. “Marlboro Reds, please.” He has a Texan accent, and you stare at your hands as you give him what he wants. He leaves after that again, your only customer of the night. 

 

The next night, he takes his time browsing the store. You watch him, watch how he languidly moves, scanning the items like his eyes would not eventually land on you. Approaching the counter with his chosen trifle.

 “You don’t get scared workin’ nights?” He asks, and now you know your concerns were not unfounded. 

“No.” you lie, meeting his eye for the second time since the first night. He does not have facial expressions, you realize. Blank, revealing nothing. He is a handsome man. An eerie man. He nods, holding eye contact as he grabs the useless item and goes back to his sputtering truck outside. He looked like he wanted to call you a liar. 

You do not show up for your shift the night after that. Your gut tells you to stay home, to lock your doors and keep your father’s old pistol near you. To close the blinds – sit and listen to every sound of the night. Check under your bed just in case.

You’re late to the diner the next morning, greeted by Jason’s complaining that he had to serve the first customer’s coffee, asking for you to make it up to him. When you peep through the corridor, your heart drops at the only customer in the restaurant. 

The Man has come to the diner. He knows you, he knows where you work – probably where you live. 

Maybe he lives here, maybe it’s all some coincidence. Maybe it’s not what you think. 

You bring him his eggs and bacon, and when you look up to his face he’s already looking at you. He does not move, does not touch his knife or fork. He’s staring at you. 

“Leave me alone.” You say, quiet yet firm, standing over him as he blinks and looks down at his food. Your fear is making you angry, fire spitting in your eyes. He doesn’t answer you, and after two moments of being unable to bear the energy that exudes from him – you walk away, into the back of the kitchen to watch Jason work, peeping through the slits of the serving station to watch The Man eat his food. Your body hair prickles into points.

Jason eyes you, glances at The Man, and raises a faint eyebrow at you. 

“That your daddy?” he asks, staring at the popping bacon. You watch the grease heat and solidify, the sweat sticking on Jason’s skinny yet defined triceps, coated with wiry hair that’s never been tended to. 

“No.” you whisper, tucking your hands under your legs : they are cold, and your skin is overridden with goosebumps, hair standing. You feel as though you’re about to be swallowed, like large claws will pick you up and drop you into a maw of sharp, hungry teeth.

“Why’s he givin’ me the stink eye, then?” Jason grunts, picking at his gold tooth with a grimy finger as he lazily looks over to your thighs, then your face. Raising an eyebrow at how fearful you look, he glances back at The Man. Something like concern flashes across his face, and he lifts his cap to rub over his short, receding hair. It’s the first time his eyes have ever looked soft.

“Dunno.” is all you manage to mutter as you brace a peek to find The Man has looked away.

He’s slow, takes time to eat every piece of food while staring blankly out the window, like he’s watching the world as though he’s never seen it before, unnatural. You want to tell Jason about your all consuming fear that this man is going to hurt you, but his eyes have changed and he makes another comment about how good you look in the plaid dress that happens to be your uniform.  You choose to wait outside of the building instead of enduring the male specimen of your species. It feels like you are alone in a world of monsters.

When you return inside, there’s a fifty dollar tip next to the spotless plate, everything stacked for you to carry. 

You don’t return home that night : you ditch your job at the gas station for a second time,  leaving your car at the diner to book a room at the shitty motel. It feels as though you died the same day Jerry did, maybe you are dreaming : alone in an empty world, your only companion being the monster. Nothing feels real.

You fall asleep to the sound of ugly moans, watching the handle of your door : your heart beating faster than your body can manage. Rocking yourself back and forth, humming a soft tune your father used to play on the guitar when he was sober enough to think. 

You feel as though you are living on borrowed time, as though this opportunity to wait is a mercy.

He is not at the diner the next morning. Neither is Jason, it’s closed up and the lights are shut off – it is Jason’s job to open up and get the stoves burning. You try to call the owner with the small amount of change you have on the payphone, but no one answers. The sound of the dead line ringing in your ears as you look around in a panic. 

You suddenly feel as though you’re back in that patch of forest, surrounded by tall trees and a monster waiting to swallow you whole. Watching. A fear so curdling you fear you’ll throw up over the plastic phone. 

You’re wide awake standing behind the counter of the gas station. Watching the fluorescent lights flicker. You parked your car out back. You’re holding the bat in your right hand under the counter. You are waiting for him to come in. You should have driven far far away, but you have a sinking feeling he would have followed. 

The night is completely quiet. No people, no sounds except for the humming of the fridges. 

You glance at the back door, and the moment your eyes turn away from the sliding doors they ding. Your hair rises and stands violently. Skin alight and blazing as the first footstep echos in the store.

You don’t think about it, your body tells you to run and you do. 

Out the back, to the edge of the concrete until your feet are pounding along the road, bat gripped tightly in your fist. The sound of your own feet are drowned out by the ones behind you, big and stomping. The trees framing your attempt at an escape as they yawn and stretch above - caging you in, suffocating. They grow tall as you sprint, closing like they will eagerly crash down and trap you like a wave from the ocean you’ve never seen.

You push with all your might, and you thank the lord you took track during school, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you run so fast the sound of feet behind you fade. It feels like victory, like being free – your chest blooms from the burn and the success. You think of the gun in your bedside drawer, and turn down the off-road into the woods you’ve never been brave enough to take before. The only sound is the one of your own feet : you’re not stupid enough to look behind you.

The moon lights up the forest floor, you don’t trip over a single root or branch. You’re moving faster than you ever have in your life : your lungs screaming, fear rising in your lungs like bile. You break into the clearing, the one that has always been haunted by Jackals. 

You’re almost home. 

A force heavier than you think you’ve ever felt crashes into you from the side, you’re slammed down into the one patch of grass you often picked, the bat flying out of your hands and rolling to the dirt in front of you.

“Knew you’d run here.” A deep, breathless voice says right into your ear, your hair is pulled as a hand clamps down on your struggling wrists, excited. “Always liked playin’ here, didn’t ya?” he grunts, pulling something out of his pocket. You swing your elbow up, knocking him straight in the jaw. He sways for only a moment, but it’s all you need. You dash forward, crawling away from him before you find your feet, grabbing the bat and smashing it down over The Man’s skull. He groans and stumbles, gripping the back of his head as you trip over your own feet to stumble away. You run towards your rotting home, you can’t think about the fact he knew where you played as a child, all you are thinking about is the gun. 

You don’t even get to the steps of your back porch before he’s tackling you to the ground again and hitting the side of your face hard enough to make you cry, your head fuzzing. Your face stings and your eye throbs. You want to bring your hands to cup over the hurt, hold yourself in an attempt to make it better, but he is holding your hands. He curses at you, spitting vile words for managing to get solid blows at him.

“Come on, darlin’. You think that little gun ‘s gon’ do anythin’? It don’t even got any bullets.” He grunts, you feel zip ties around your wrists, your mind racing as you continue to struggle and kick until his hand is around your throat faster than you can think. “Don’t make me hit that pretty face again, bitch.” 

You go still, and slumped. Trapped in a wolf’s jaws. 

His hand squeezes tighter and tighter as you squeak a protest, until you can’t think anymore and the last of your squirming falls away. 

The first thing you smell when you wake up is smoke, the kind that comes from a fireplace. The first thing you see is rich, dark wood. You’re on a bed and you glance up to see you’re handcuffed there. Your skin isn’t just throbbing – it's raw, the skin bitten where the metal has scraped against you. Your head pounds like it’s been split open, the ache thick and blinding.

You can feel he is somewhere within the room, the twist of your stomach and the lingering presence on the back of your head tells you he is there. A creak of a chair behind you finalizes his presence but you can’t be bothered to do anything besides slump back against the mattress, curling up into a tiny ball. 

He says your name to get your attention, and you don’t attempt to look at him, your skin is already crawling with what you think he wants to do to you. Future years of using and hitting flash through your mind, wishing for the mercy of death.

He walked next to the bed too fast, too silent. A wall of muscle and heat as large as him should not be so quiet.  He is touching your hair, stroking down your cheek. His hand is rough and warm, he smells like a cologne that reminds you of your father. You think you might be sick.

“I was bein’ nice. I waited.” he says softly, pressing down with his pointer finger on the bruise that has molted under your skin, making you wince and shuffle away from him, glancing up at him to find his striking, dark eyes on you. His jaw is bruised where you hit him with your aching elbow, a trickle of dry blood still stuck on a piece of his salt-and-pepper hair. You made a crack in his head – a small trickle of pride filling your veins at the fight. 

It is small lived, and dies out at the next throb of your wrists.

He sighs at this reaction, before walking out of this bedroom and shutting the door behind him. 

You lie there for what feels like hours, only moving when you notice the water and ibuprofen on the bedside table : still in its packaging. Your whole body aches, the last throttles of your adrenaline were beaten out of you with his hands. 

It’s only when you sit up that you notice where you are. The view outside the window is the forest behind the cabin that groaned at you, that haunted you as a child. 

He’s lived here the whole time : he’s been here the whole time. The feeling of impending doom that curdles your skin when he’s been near. The jackals you felt as a child, the forest going quiet. 

It’s been him. It’s always been him.

Your skin feels as though it will turn inside out, every hair on your body standing to a rigid point. The fear feels as though you’re dying. 

You don’t have to look to know he’s silently opened the room again, and you speak.

“You some kind of pedo?” You spit as your head throbs, sitting up on the bed, tugging on the cuffs, rage curdling and bubbling up on your skin – you think of your mother. 

He stops moving at your words, “what?” 

“You’ve been watching me since I was a child.” 

“It wasn’t like that, Jesus.” He grunts, sounding uncomfortable at the idea. You almost want to laugh. In your periphery you see he’s ditched his canvas jacket, wearing a navy flannel that shows you just how large he is - as if you didn’t feel it the night before when he tackled into you so violently, stealing every inch of breath in your lungs.

“Oh, well sorry for assuming some old, sick pig stalking a young girl since she was a child isn’t a fucking pedophile.”

He smacks you over the throbbing patch of your skin, and you finally glare up at him with every bit of ire in your body. It was not any kind of hit, it was the kind that made you feel like dead weight, that knocks all the air out of your body as if you are a puppet with it’s strings cut. 

He’s staring down at you.

“I’m not –  christ, it ain’t like that.” 

“So you’re just going to kidnap and keep me? You’re not going to – to do anything, is that right?” You scoff the words out, holding your hand to your cheek. The ache under your skin feels like it could stay there forever. 

“I don’t want to do anything to you.” He seems to notice the irony of his words when you let your palm drop, face swollen. “I didn’t want to have to hurt you.”

You look out the window and go silent. 

“You didn’t have to hurt me, this was your choice.” You spit, and he looks almost surprised by your words. There’s goosebumps that break out over his skin, and the energy in the room constricts as he backs away from you.

He glances out the same window before handing you a warm bowl of stew, pieces of meat and potato bobbing up from the thick, stock smelling liquid. You stare down at it, and then glare back up at him. 

“Is it poisoned?” You’re not serious, you’re angry.

“If I wanted to kill you I would have done it earlier.” He says it as though it’s as casual as the weather, as though killing something – a person – is as boring as can be. Idle reassurance. 

“You seem to like the waiting game.” You huff, staring at his large, twitching hands. His watch is broken.

He looks like he wants to smile at your quip, eyes crinkling in the corners.

“Eat.” He tells you, closing the bedroom door softly as he leaves you be.

—

You have been here for two weeks, only knowing this due to the little alarm clock next to the bed that he brought you from your house. 

True to his word, he hasn’t touched you – in fact, he’s been taking care of you in ways you have never been before. It’s intimate, and a sick hunger has begun to heat low in your belly alongside the fear. 

You feel as though you’ve been living in a small bubble where time never passes. He watches you at all hours of the day, asking you questions about the men you’ve worked with, if there’s anything from your house you want him to fetch. He tries not to hit you when his anger bubbles up at your persistent silence. He asks you questions about yourself, not ones like favorite colors, but if you think all people in the world are unsavable. 

He looks like he’s hoping you will tell him he can be saved. You do not. 

He makes you eat dinner with him every night, bathes you as well. The first time he tried it, after letting you rot in bed for three days, he had to wrestle you into the bathtub after trying to be nice, held you down while you kicked and splashed and scratched at him until he pressed his fingers over your injured face in an unforgiving manner until your cries went quiet, and you almost fainted from the pain. He made you apologize for making him have to hurt you. 

You swallowed the clawing, raging voice at the back of your throat and did it. When he kissed your forehead and told you it’s okay, a warm sickness swirled in your stomach, nauseating and tentatively delicious all at once.

You have not tried to fight him after that night, scared of what would happen if he were to comfort you. 

He tucks you into bed most evenings, pressing the blanket to cushion you and arranges the pillows. In the first nights, it had scared you : you hadn’t slept a wink, terrified he would slip into bed and his patience would wear thin. Now, it feels like something nice. He tries to tell you happy stories, he usually fails – but it makes you think of Jerry and you feel better regardless, it makes The Man seem more real, like a human rather than a monster. 

He asks you to curl up next to him on the couch so he can read aloud to you, books you’ve heard about in passing but never read : he has a liking for Cormac McCarthy and the Wild West. He bakes cookies for you when you ask him your first question, letting you sit at the table with a glass of milk to enjoy them. You feel warmth radiating from inside of you, spiked with fear – no one has baked cookies for you before. You finish them, and he says he’s proud.

—-

The sinking feeling comes slowly. Seeping into your bones whenever he holds you. It gets worse when you begin to dream of him, a possible reality, one of him holding you and kissing you – telling you you’re lovable, perfect, worthy. Six months have warped your brain, slipping out of your grasp like sand. You wake up to slickness between your legs, a desire to go find him in the kitchen making breakfast and nuzzle under his broad arms, let him squeeze you tight and surround you with his scent. You don’t have to beg him to make you feel loved, he’s always loved you : he’s made that clear. 

You had realized long ago that he is too big for you to fight, he is all consuming and overpowering. The sinking feels like acceptance, and you think it’s close to dying. 

It’s a sunny day when it all hits you. He’s been out for half an hour – at the grocery store a few towns over – the moment he said goodbye you had felt a twist in your stomach. You didn’t want him to go. He hugged you and told you he would be back soon, kissing your cheek when you got teary, his whiskery beard tickling your soft skin. 

You don’t know when the terror began to feel like safety. You only know that when he’s gone, it feels like you’re alone with the jackals instead of how it was when he found you. When he was the monster.

The worst part was you knew why you reacted that way. Sitting in the sunny room, you forced your mind to constantly think of escape routes, of the disgusting actions he had committed, the way he has trapped you in this little house. Your mind adamantly hates The Man, but that large pit, the self that was unloved and uncared for – alone, has already started to need him, to ignore the stupidity in believing he loves you. To latch on like a leech and suck up all of the love and care he has, not caring if it’s real or pure, to see if it’ll make you round and fat with it – satisfied.

 

The hunger for what he has to offer you makes you feel like you might be the true monster in the house : your desperation for what you have never tasted knows no bounds. You think you’d kill for it. You might have been the jackal the whole time, the hole that lived inside you might have turned you ugly from a young age. 

You are scared of your own desperation. 

He bathes you every night – ritualistic and precise. Guides you under the water until you reappear, clean and new to a kiss on your cheek, hands scrubbing you clean. Every time the surface breaks and you come back to him, the forest grows denser : tighter and vast while the home, your home, becomes all the more simple and clear, exactly how it is supposed to be. 

You need him, and you think you love him. What that makes you, you’re not sure and you no longer care. 

He goes out months later, telling you he needs to get food and soap, baby - he leaves the window open and the door unlocked : he knows you will not leave. He says he’s going to grab soap, but he is carrying a prescription slip with a little baggie, what he’s actually going to get remains a mystery to you. 

The nightmare you had in the middle of winter had shifted something deep in your foundations – the fear that licked up your spine at the thought of being alone – the much lesser, flickering fear that your body had instinctually looked for him in his room, the dull scream your mind let out at the way you climbed into his bed, burrowing under his large, comforting arms until your brain went quiet and he pulled you closer. Those dull screams of fear and resistance from a lifetime ago have been washed away from his hands, and now a need so gravitational has birthed in its place. You want him.

Dusk comes softly in the weeks after taking residence in his bed. He still has not touched you, and you are beginning to feel ire towards his morality. A wrongness in the way he tries to be right. The cabin is warm with firelight, the smell of smoke wrapping around you like a blanket, similarly to his flannel that stretches over your skin. He jostles open the door slowly, grocery bags lining his fingers in a way that is dangerously domestic – his hair is tousled. His eyes catch onto the fabric, and he pauses.

“You’re in my shirt.” He states, but you know it’s a question. Your eyes search for the little baggie he had, wondering what he put in there. 

You close the book he gave you to read, the cover sliding across your fingertips, “It smells like you.”

Something in his expression shifts. You think it might be guilt. Or pride. Or both, layered on top of each other until they’re indecipherable. He sets the bags down and moves to you, slow and steady – crouching to your level in front of the couch. 

“You missed me?” He asked, eyes wild and dilated, hands skirting over your exposed thighs. Up and down. 

You look away, unable to meet the gaze that is burning into you, to admit how far you’ve gone to his face. Yet your head nods, eyes flicking to his as your chin wobbles, bottom lip jutting out before tightening in a grimace. He wipes a tear from your eye.

“’s okay to miss me, I’m the only one who’s here f’you, darlin’.” He cups your cheek, rubbing the skin there. You meet his eyes this time, close them before you’re leaning in, resting your head on his shoulder as he sits next to you, guiding you onto his lap and telling you it's okay, and it’s natural, baby and finally I love you, don’t cry sweet girl.

You’re tired of the tears, of the fight. Tired of the empty woods and the silence – the loneliness that lives in your bones. You’re tired of running from the thing that makes you feel whole and real.

You wonder if Jerry ever saw this coming, and if he did – why didn’t he ever warn you something so soul destroying would be waiting to swallow you? Why didn’t he tell you the most human monster in the world would be the only one to see you without the shiny idealism behind cataracts? You feel guilty for admitting that The Man knows you better than Jerry ever did. The Man knows you are not made of sunshine and flowers, he sees the hole carved in your stomach that makes you so achingly hungry, and shows his own back. 

— 

You noticed the loose floorboard on the second day, and now you pry it open. While you care for The Man, you are acting on instinct.

He had shouted at you this morning while you were still curled in his arms, gotten rotten and angry, called you a stupid bitch when you had asked him to come with him to the store, wanting to see the world again. 

You were hopeful he would trust you, that he would prove you are, in fact, not living in a cage. 

He had stormed off, and for the first time in eight months he had locked the door on his way out, shoving a small plastic bag in his pocket. 

Spiders crawl out from the floorboard, and you jump back, standing on the couch while you throw The Man’s shoes at them, you wish he was here so he could take care of it, could laugh softly at your fear and hold you in his arms – away from the floor – to protect you. 

You remind yourself you do not know his name and that you’re trapped here, a jarring reminder of the way you have settled.

You need something to prove he was a real, living man before his life revolved around you. You need to rebel against him, like a petulant, scared child because of his rudeness this morning. 

Once you feel safe enough, you roll up the sleeve of the lacy undershirt he gave you and stick your hand inside. Searching for some sort of ocular truth amongst the bones of his own rotted cabin.

A pair of old boots with a ‘J’ engraved in the sole is the first thing you pull out. An army knife next, then a bunch of guns and weapons. 

No matter how strange it is to find guns and knives buried in someone’s house, for The Man it’s quite boring.

You pull out a shoe box next, placing it next to you on the floor before blowing the dust off of the top. It doesn’t help much. From the amount of grime, it looks as though you are the first person to touch this box in years.

The lid sticks to the rest of the compartment from cobwebs, but you discard the thing anyway, desperate and careless.

 

A photo is the first thing you find, old and yellowed.

A little girl.

At first you are fearful she is a victim, until you see the photo of The Man - much younger - holding her in the hospital. Your stomach curdles, and it feels like rotting, eating itself from the inside. 

A daughter. 

Your heart swoops low, pensive. You think of the room he keeps locked, the warm light that streams under the gap of the door - reflecting something pink inside. The way you would watch the beams dance on the floor like a whole soul was trapped inside there, wilting as the sun set.

Her birth certificate is the second thing you find. 

  Sarah Miller : 1983 / 03 / 18   

  City of origin : Arlington, Texas. 

  Father  : Joel Miller  

A name, a life, a whole world buried in the foundations. 

You gawk at the fact that The Man – Joel – is 60 years old. 

Her missing poster is what you find next. Bile rises like acid on your tongue, a smiling, happy girl plastered with information about her last whereabouts, the pink shirt she was wearing and how tall she had gotten. She went missing on your third birthday. Your head swims. You drop the documents back into their casket with trembling hands and weak knees.

 Stupid, stupid girl – why did you have to look?

The last thing you find is a golden tooth, familiar in its grime and dullness. You can imagine a sleazy tongue gliding over it in irritation. Jason’s golden tooth. You drop it immediately and slam the loose floorboard shut, burying what was meant to stay that way once more. 

The room looks as though nothing has changed, yet everything inside of yourself is different. A storm of fog and clarity, adrenaline pumping for running and the desire to stay still.

You throw up outside the living room window.

Everything feels like a blur after that, grabbing your boots he stuffed away - a coat and a knife from his kitchen.

Run, just run. Don’t look back. Get away, fast fast fast. 

You climb out of the bedroom window and run all the way to where you left your car the night he caught you, cold wind whipping past your face and sending a burn through your nose. Your feet pound along the ground like the whole world is weighing you down, like every stone is hoping to trip you and let you fall, to cut your knees open and stop you. 

You eventually arrive at the gas station.

You're stunned that the place is closed and rotted, not a single soul in sight.

Your lungs are burning, you feel woozy, and you let out a pathetic cry when you see he has slashed your tires. 

Stopping at the rough concrete of the shop, you attempt to open the back door, only to spot a poster plastered on the side of the wall. 

A missing poster. Your missing poster, with not a single person in the world to care for its presence besides a man who you ran away from, who would tear it down and remove you from an existence that is not with him, that would try to come find you to bring you back.

You decide to keep running in the opposite direction of his home. A large part of you is screaming at you to run to the Sheriff’s office and tell them what happened, that Joel will find you if you try anything else, but a shamefully large part - a sick part of you does not want to run away from him. He has cared for you - he has watched you all your life, and you know – regardless of purity or morality – he loves you. All that is left for you without him is a town that would freeze in time if you were to vanish, fake in its existence, a facade for the life you were always meant to live.

To your horror, the twist in your chest tells you that you love him too, it’s a surety now.

You think of the soft kisses he pressed to your hair, the way you got used to him telling you of things he liked about you, that he only would have known from watching. The way he told you he too liked Jerry, and liked the movie you watched after his passing. He let you watch it every night for a month, and began to quote the lines with you in an exaggerated version of his accent to make you giggle.

He saw you, he has always seen you. He loves you and wants you and needs you enough to take you for himself. 

You have stopped running, standing still for a moment before slowly turning around, feet shaking in your soul’s indecision. Torn and trembling. The forest is completely silent, yet this time you feel all too real – too alive. 

Your mind is not what it used to be. The shake of your hands comes from the part of you that is pleading for you to run, to see the clear manipulation : the rose coloured glasses that have been forced over your eyes. The other part – the part that you are starting to believe is the truth of who you are – wants to run back to the cabin before he sees you ever left, to cup his devastatingly handsome face and let him take what has always been his, to be made a real person.

It is consuming, this primal want.

A twig snaps.

You don’t need to turn around to know he his standing close behind you. 

You clench your fists and turn around, fear curdling and boiling in your belly, making your knees weak and shaky. 

The look on his face clears your rational thought once again, and you quickly attempt to scramble away from the monster. He looks absolutely, impossibly, livid. 

You do not know why you ever thought you could run, why you thought he would not find you, that he would let you go. 

You burst into tears the second he has you against the forest floor once more. The ground ripping the skin from your cheek as you fall, crushed under him once again – worse this time : you knew better.

“Why’d you do it, angel?” He says softly, entirely contrasting from the way his arm is curled around your head, large biceps restricting your breath. 

“I-I was scared.” You cry, trying to stop the hiccuping of your lungs to keep the breath you have. 

“I know baby, I know.” He soothes, deep voice right next to your ear, his mostly salt and slightly pepper beard tickling the skin. “You made me so scared, sweet girl. Thought you cared ‘bout me.” he whispers. You do not know if the tightening of his arms was intentional, or if he is so upset at the idea you could hate him that he is consumed with it. 

“I’m s-sorry,” You gasp, clawing at his arm, “I do care, ‘s why I–”

He raises his hand quickly, yet it hangs in the air for a moment. Hesitation, guilt – trembling like he’s stuck. You see something raw flicker in his eyes before it’s gone and he’s striking the ground next to your face, barely missing you – a last second decision. 

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me.” Desperate, angry, scared.

You need to placate him before he does something stupid.

“I turned back– I was going to go back home I promise, please.” you cry, looking into his eyes. You loathe the fact that your words aren’t lies, that the care he sees reflected in them is real. You want him, you need him.

He watches you silently, frowning. Waiting to see what you have to say to him. 

“I snooped, I’m sorry. I was angry about this morning and I saw– I saw Jason’s tooth and–” 

The sound that leaves him is punched from deep within his chest.  

He is silent for a long time. Pulling away from you. 

You do not breathe, scared – the back of your neck is bared to him. Your life depends on his reaction. 

“You saw my girl.” 

You tremble in his slackening grasp. He seems to be staggering for a moment, unprepared and assaulted by the memories you have brought back. His hands grip tighter and tighter. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to – I didn’t know.” you whisper, tears streaming out of your eyes as you look up at the setting sun, these must be your last moments. Your body trembles and your hiccuping noises are ugly. You wish you could take this all back to before. 

“You ain’t supposed t’see what’s down there.” he’s lifting his hands off of you, and you think the scariest thing about this moment is how human he finally seems. Like you are the one seeing him after all this time. You stay down, turning to look into his eyes – all you can see is grief.  “You know what it’s like to be lonely, that’s why you were brought to me, baby.” His hands wrap around your neck again, and you shriek a small protest, scrambling. Your nails crack and bleed as they attempt to rip yourself away from him by holding onto the ground and pulling.

You feel drops against the back of your neck, and fear lurches in your stomach at the fact that he’s crying. “She would have hated me, she was so good.” His hands are constricting, crushing. You choke and gasp for breath. “But I ain’t got her anymore. I got you. And God help me, I need you, sweet girl.” 

“I’m sorry.” you whisper again, looking into his sad eyes with your teary ones. 

“I know.” He says softly, and you whimper as his hand comes to your face. He rubs the skin for a few moments, letting himself breathe and feel you. It feels like an eternity, lying under him, trapped.

“I’m goin’ to give you a choice, sweet girl. I ain’t given you one before.” His voice builds up as he says it, like the memory of his daughter drives him to formulate a plan – a way to somehow fix everything he’d done. Your heart stops as he slides off of you, picking you up with him and holding you, the tips of your boots brushing the ground. He stares at you seriously, and he looks so different from the monster, like he’s trying his best to do the right thing after all this time, pretending it’ll take everything back. 

“I’m goin’ to let you run, sweet girl. You can choose to go to the sheriff– or, or steal my truck, do what you want.” He swallows thickly, eyes wild. “I’ll let you go, I should let you go.” He whispers almost to himself. “But if you choose t’go back home…I won’t let you leave me again, baby.” He smooths his hand over your hair after setting you down. “You’ll be mine, honey. And I’ll be yours, we can be fair and make this right. I’ll take you, and I’ll tell you everythin’.” 

You thought your heart was going to rip out of your chest. Everything is primal, it’s all desperate and ugly and raw. He lets go of you, taking a few difficult, staggered, paces back. His fists are clenched tightly at his sides. 

“Go,” he nods slowly, like he’s trying to assure himself this is the right thing to do. “If you run now, I won’t stop you, I swear.” his voice breaks like he’s not sure of it himself — scared of what he’s capable of yet consumed with need. His eyes are soft and round, vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen. You are scared, but more importantly you are tired.

For the first time someone has loved every rotten bit of you – so desperately they leave morality behind. How could you run away from this? 

You hesitate, stagnant and unsure. Your heart and your brain have gotten so tired from fighting it feels they have turned off all together, what happens now is primal – instinctual, you feel out of your own body, vaguely aware of the blood pulsing through you. 

You turn around and run swiftly down the road, scrambling over a few loose stones. You glance back at him once, surrounded by the trees, watching you like a dead man watches water. Your heart lurches. He looks heart broken, shattered and as alone as you’ve always felt, like this is the last time he’ll ever see you. 

Silly old man, you think. 

You were always going to run back to his cabin. 

You’ve got no need to disappear into nothing for the sake of rightness when everything you’ve ever wanted lives in the warm, wooden walls of his — your — home. 

He underestimated just how hungry, how broken and corrupt you are. 

You know now that you love him, and you know that you have always been just as much of a monster as he is. Rotten and broken and impure, tainted and shattered. 

You have always been his match. 

Your boots carry you home like you weigh nothing, light as air as ribbons of your past fears and wishes string and rip behind you. A flurry of ideas and thoughts until there is nothing except for yourself standing in that same flowery spot with plucked grass and no-more- monsters. 

  You bask in the silence of the forest. You have since lost track of the hurt, the burn of fear rising in your throat. You think of gold teeth and little girls and bright, wrinkled eyes surrounded by rich, dark skin – before your thoughts fall silent too.

You are under water. By the time you see his cabin : dim with no lights on as it always was until he found you – your mind is somewhere else, hollow and empty and replaced with something molten in your stomach. An ache, gnawing away at your belly. 

You don’t knock, you let the stairs creak as you silently open the door. 

  He had not followed you, true to his word. The house is just as you’d left it. 

You feel settled, clam and composed as you slowly begin to strip. Boots at the door, jacket in the living room. A trail made from your scarf leading to shorts and small socks. At the side of Joel’s bed, a lacy undershirt and bra. 

  You have already started to drift off by the time the cabin door opens. Two shuffles of feet before they stop short. 

He takes time to make a fire, the sound of crackling wood creating a comforting blanket to your sleepy state, in and out of the haze, yet aware. 

You are silent and waiting, your breath fanning softly as your eyes struggle to stay open. Somewhere deep, your heart throbs – the last fizzling jump of fear before it dies and fades away for good. You hear the opening of a small, plastic bag somewhere in the kitchen, little taps of what sounds like a pill falling against the counter top– a gulp of water a few seconds later. 

The mattress dips as he climbs into bed behind you. 

His callouses catch on your skin roughly as he traces the side of your face, bare chest pressing against your lower back while he buries his face between your shoulder blades. 

You let your eyes flutter shut as he places open-mouthed kisses up your spine, wet and shaky. His hands grip your hips like you’ll turn to smoke if he doesn’t hold on. His beard tickles your shoulder as he continues, cradling you against him as if he is trying to stitch himself back together again, to become real and whole.

You let him. 

He is shaking when you turn to face him. Neither of you speak, words unnecessary in the softness and stillness of the night : no need for words when there are only two people in the world who are so entwined already. 

His palm cups your face, turning you to look at him, thumb stroking over the corner of your mouth like a prayer. You whisper his name to him for the first time, a shaky breath escapes him as he whispers yours back. A small ruffle of the familiar duvet as you turn to face him, his warm palm cups over your tit – your pounding heart – as you turn to face him. Eyes shining as they meet yours. He looks so human.

He presses his nose against your own before his chapped lips finally meet yours in hesitation, like he’s trying to confirm that you’re really here next to him, that he hasn’t lost the only thing he has. 

It’s soft for only a moment before you both let the hunger take over – hot and wet, lips moving faster and faster as his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. They part without hesitation, taking the warm wetness of it inside your mouth and sucking gently, rolling over the other’s until your tastes are the same. 

  You gasp as his hands – rough and trembling – slide down your body, tracing every feature he studied from afar that is now finally his to touch. His mouth nudges along your jaw, nipping at the skin before he’s burying his face in your neck and inhaling. 

When you whisper his name softly, he shudders like you’re the first person to ever truly call for him. 

Your hand glides down to his stomach, running through the silvery hair that coats it desperately, trying to ground yourself to him. To pull him impossibly closer like you want to merge your bodies into one, consuming. 

His hands are everywhere as he groans into your mouth, surrounding you completely. One grips your hair, pulling back gently to bare your throat to him as the other runs down your breasts, pulling and squeezing your nipples into tight points, breath panting from the intensity. He paints your neck with bites, blooms where he’s sucked and tugged on your skin until his mark has been made – groaning as he licks over the skin, like he’s trying to infuse you into his bones. Your skin tastes like his surrender, like the salt of his prayers. It’s not forgiveness he asks for – but belonging, trying to carve a place for himself in the crook of your neck. 

Your fingers slip under the band of his boxers, searching for that rigid warmth that’ll complete you, retreating slightly on a shaky gasp as his hot, wet mouth envelopes your nipple, pulling and licking. 

He’s on top of you within seconds, hands splaying across your shoulder blades as he shows equal treatment to each breast, arching you against him. His heavy sighs travel across your skin as he exhales. Groin slotted against the warmth of yours, he lets your hands tangle in his hair as he moves Southwards, kissing as he goes.

You whine a protest, whimpering for him to join the two of you together, and he answers your previous curiosities in a deep rumble, “Gotta give it time to work, sweet girl. I ain’t young no more.” 

You let your head fall back against the pillows, a spark of electricity running through you at the reminder of his age, wetness seeping out into the gusset of your panties as you try to close your legs – an attempt at alleviating some of the heat that’s been building there. 

He grunts at this, large hands gripping your soft thighs as he plants them wide and flat against the mattress, “Easy, darlin’ – gon’ take care of you now.” He rumbles against your lower stomach, right over your womb as he reaches up to pinch your tit, prompting you to look down at him between your thighs. Those eyes you once used to fear with such intensity now only make more slickness spill into the cotton that conceals you. 

“Want you t’look at me while I taste this pretty little cunt for the first time.” He whispers on a kiss against your mound, dragging your panties down by latching his teeth onto the little bow adorning the front and pulling. You moan softly at the sight, hands fisting the sheets next to your head as his broad, muscular shoulders keep your legs spread wide, baring your warm pussy for his taking. 

  His eyes meet yours as his breath falters at the first glide of his tongue through your cunt, breaking off into a deep groan as he tastes you. A small cry of his name leaves your lips at the new sensation, hands immediately going to tangle in his soft hair. His tongue is ravenous, licking up every ounce of arousal as his eyes stay on yours, only dropping down when your head falls back once more. 

He sucks your clit into his mouth, beard tickling and stimulating you – sending head through your bones. His lips tug on your bundle of nerves, pulling so deliciously your hips cant up onto his face, letting your wetness coat his beard until it’s soaked.

He lets go of your throbbing bud with a pop, licking his lips as he lets his mouth glide lower. 

“Taste so fuckin’ perfect, my angel.” He groans as his tongue digs over your hole, an obscene sound of him slurping up all you’ve given him echoes through the humid room, and your moan of approval follows soon after. His nose digs into your clit as he pushes his tongue inside you, letting it glide into your gummy walls as you clench around him. His moans of approval course through you, heat rising blindly through your bones as you cry out for him, hips bucking as he presses against your lower stomach with a large palm. The rough material of his watch-strap scratching your tummy as his brows furrow, focused on eating you alive. The smacking sounds of his lips against your wetness make your eyes roll as he digs his tongue inside. His hand moves lower, skirting against your entrance before he’s pulling his tongue out with a slick pop, replacing it with his fingers as he sucks on your clit once more. 

“Joel I-I’m gonna…” You trail off into a high pitched gasp, body trying to twist away from him as his thick fingers curl, pads of them bruising a spot inside of you that makes wetness gush out onto his wrist. 

  “Cum f’me, sweet girl, look at me.” He grunts, waiting until your eyes meet his to suck on your clit harshly, tongue running against the underside as he spreads and lifts his fingers to press against your gummy walls.

Your first orgasm crashes into you when you realize he’s humping the bed, his hot tongue desperately lapping up the slick that gushes from your spasming hole. He moans at the taste, making sure to drink it all down before he’s pushing up the bed – capturing your mouth in a wanting kiss as his thick hardness leaks against your leg.

His pill must’ve worked.

“Joel.” You whisper against his lips, nails dragging down the muscles in his back as you try to paw his underwear off with your foot, cunt clenching around nothing, desperate to grip and coat his cock in your slickness.

He offers his body to you in a way that feels holy, the glide of him through your messy folds makes a sound so perfect leave his mouth you feel as though you’ve gone to heaven. 

“I’ve got you.” He whispers against your lips, the hand that is not cupping your face is notching his fat, drooling tip at your entrance. “I’ve got you, baby.” 

The first time he pushes into you, it’s gentle. A broken sound rips from him like he can’t bear it, face strained as he takes his bottom lip between his teeth, watching his cock sink into you at a sinfully slow speed. Only when your nails sink into the skin of his back does he look into your eyes, seeing his own want, need, obsession painted in your irises.

He rocks into you like he’s trying to carve a home for himself inside your body, bringing your hand up to cup at his face while you lose yourself to the delicious stretch of him – cunt gripping him so tightly he can barely leave. You were always meant to be wrecked by hand like his – hands that tremble, hands that destroy, hands that worship. 

His moans fan across your lips, shaky as they exit. He’s slow, letting you feel every inch of him, every vein, as he glides into your soaking cunt. His eyes have rolled, but you lean up to bite your own mark into his neck, pussy clenching as he moans raw and deep at the bright red mark you suck into his skin. 

He watches you now, staring into your eyes. You want him to see the hungry, ugly, ruined thing he’s made. You want him to love it. 

And when he leans down to kiss you like this night has changed him forever, you know he loves you. He is searching for his salvation in your body. 

You anchor yourself to him like the earth is shaking, moaning a soft gasp as his forehead pressed against yours. Reveling in the feeling of his sac slapping against your backside, the sounds of lewd smacks and wetness – his own moans and whispered words of praise floating around you as the sheer size of him swallows you whole. He fucks you like he’s praying at an alter and you devour him whole. In the darkness, there is no difference between love and need, no line between hunger and worship.

Every thrust feels like a prayer, a confession, like he’s spilling the truth of himself into you on every plunge, letting you see every crack of his soul, the ugliness through the pounding of his hips against yours. Rocking together, bound by the loneliness and hunger and something older than love.

You cry under him, silent and open as he digs into you, so big and taking that your body can hardly bear it. He kisses every tear like an apology, licking up the salt as he coos above you, kissing the tip of your nose as he lets the heavy weight of his cock sit and twitch inside you for a moment, pubic hair sticky from your arousal as it grinds against your clit. He buries his face against your neck as he begins thrusting shakily again, and you know he’s crying too.

“I love you.” He whispers against your skin, broken and raw as he shakily moves his hips, eyes flitting to you, hopeful and soul-crushingly vulnerable.

Your breath is shaking, heat coursing through you at the glide of his cock against that place, tailor made for him. Your eyes falter, fluttering as the last of your tears stream down your cheeks, clenching around him so tightly. Every shared breath tastes like forgiveness neither of you have earned.

“I love you too.” You whisper, shattered. Body light as a feather as you let yourself fall. 

His breath hitches as he comes inside of you, unprepared for it – hot pulses of his seed spurting quickly, flooding you as he sobs out moans against your skin, gripping your hips so tightly you think you’ll break. You follow immediately, arching into him as his arms wrap around you, pulling you impossibly closer to him as you ride out the waves of your pleasure together, knowing it is so much more than this. You are no longer a scared bunny, alone in the world, and he is no longer a jackal hunting you down — you are only two humans, connected in a way that ascends your lives : cosmic. 

It’s not just sex, it’s not just lust – it’s your whole life that has led up to this, to him. Two people who are too broken to live, yet too stubborn to die.

He’s made you his. 

You’ve made him yours.

And lying in his arms, letting his hand rub up and down your back, you know neither of you stood a chance.

-------

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed please reblog and comment, it's great encouragement for writers ♡

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

100 Vocabulary Words for Gothic Fiction | For Writers

Hello Writers! I've put together a list of 100 words to help you expand your vocabulary for writing gothic fiction in October. I categorized the words for easy reference. I did some research using thesauruses and dictionaries to compile this list for you. I hope you find it helpful! 👻🎃

Atmospheric Words

Tenebrous - dark and gloomy

Oppressive - overwhelming and unpleasantly powerful

Ominous - suggesting evil or harm is imminent

Eerie - strange and frightening

Uncanny - mysterious and unsettling

Nefarious - wicked or criminal

Malevolent - having evil intentions

Sinister - giving the impression of evil

Melancholy - deep sadness

Lugubrious - mournful or dismal

Sombre - dark and gloomy

Dreary - dull and depressing

Desolate - empty and lonely

Bleak - cold and depressing

Dank - unpleasantly damp and cold

Character Descriptions

Pallid - abnormally pale

Gaunt - thin and bony

Haggard - looking exhausted and unwell

Cadaverous - corpse-like

Wan - pale and sickly

Spectral - ghost-like

Enigmatic - mysterious and difficult to understand

Brooding - appearing darkly thoughtful

Tortured - suffering mentally or physically

Macabre - disturbing due to focus on death or injury

Architectural Features

Gothic - relating to medieval style architecture

Dilapidated - in a state of disrepair

Decrepit - worn out or ruined due to age

Crumbling - breaking into small fragments

Decaying - rotting or decomposing

Ramshackle - in a state of severe disrepair

Crypt - underground room or vault

Turret - small tower on a building

Parapet - low protective wall along the edge of a roof

Buttress - structure built against a wall for support

Supernatural Elements

Apparition - ghost or spirit

Phantasm - figment of the imagination

Specter - ghost or phantom

Wraith - ghost or spirit

Revenant - person who returns as a spirit after death

Ethereal - extremely delicate and light

Otherworldly - belonging to an imaginary or spiritual world

Paranormal - beyond normal explanation

Preternatural - beyond what is normal in nature

Occult - supernatural or magical

Emotions and States of Mind

Dread - great fear or apprehension

Foreboding - fearful apprehension

Trepidation - fear or anxiety about something that may happen

Anguish - severe mental or physical pain

Despair - complete loss of hope

Melancholia - deep and long-lasting sadness

Hysteria - exaggerated or uncontrollable emotion

Delirium - state of confusion and hallucination

Madness - state of severe mental illness

Obsession - persistent disturbing preoccupation with an idea or feeling

Gothic Settings

Moor - area of open, uncultivated upland

Wasteland - barren or desolate area

Labyrinth - complex maze-like structure

Catacomb - underground cemetery

Dungeon - dark underground prison

Mausoleum - building housing a tomb or tombs

Sepulcher - small room or monument where a dead person is laid

Necropolis - large cemetery, especially an ancient one

Citadel - fortress that commands a city

Monastery - building occupied by a community of monks

Weather and Natural Phenomena

Tempest - violent windy storm

Miasma - unpleasant or unhealthy smell or vapor

Fog - thick cloud of tiny water droplets

Mist - cloud of tiny water droplets in the air near ground level

Gloom - partial or total darkness

Twilight - soft glowing light from the sky when the sun is below the horizon

Umbra - the fully shaded inner region of a shadow

Penumbra - the partially shaded outer region of a shadow

Crepuscular - resembling twilight; dim

Tenebrous - dark, shadowy, or obscure

Literary Devices and Narrative Elements

Foreshadowing - warning or indication of a future event

Omen - event regarded as a portent of good or evil

Portent - sign or warning that a momentous or calamitous event is likely to happen

Harbinger - person or thing that announces or signals the approach of another

Presage - sign or warning that something will happen

Doppelganger - look-alike or double of a living person

Grotesque - comically or repulsively ugly or distorted

Gothic double - character representing the duality of human nature

Unreliable narrator - narrator whose credibility is compromised

Frame narrative - story within a story

Liminal Spaces and Concepts

Threshold - strip of wood or stone forming the bottom of a doorway

Liminal - occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold

Betwixt - in between

Interstitial - of, forming, or occupying interstices (small spaces between things)

Twilight zone - undefined or intermediate area between two distinct states

Purgatory - place or state of temporary suffering or expiation

Netherworld - imaginary subterranean world of the dead

Abyss - deep or seemingly bottomless chasm

Void - completely empty space

Chthonic - concerning, belonging to, or inhabiting the underworld

Miscellaneous Gothic Terms

Sublime - of such excellence, grandeur, or beauty as to inspire awe

Ineffable - too great or extreme to be expressed or described in words

Eldritch - weird and sinister or ghostly

Atavistic - relating to or characterized by reversion to something ancient or ancestral

Numinous - having a strong religious or spiritual quality; indicating the presence of a divinity

Happy writing, and Happy October! 📜🕯️- Rin T.

[ily-sunghoon]

The Omen of Sterling | ENHYPEN

Pairing : vampire!enhypen x fem!oc

Genre : vampire, kingdom, reverse harem <3, fluff, angst, smut on some chapters

Summary : The name Sterling hits like thunder for the royal bloodlines. Sterling is the most dangerous vampire family throughout the ages. After they left Krashoviel due to their sweet human daughter, twenty-one years later the same daughter came back for help... or the omen that Cairneyes warned the others about.

WARNINGS : mdni, heavy content, deep world building (i went kinda crazy), blood, murder, manipulation, gaslighting, toxic behavior, curses, religious theme mentioned sometimes, obsessive, (more to add later). DO NOT PROCEED if uncomfortable

Disclaimer : THIS IS PURE FICTION, ALL THE BEHAVIORS OF MY CHARACTERS ARE NOT RELATED TO ENHYPEN REAL MEMBERS AT ALL!

Note : hi, guys. i finally contribute to the enhablr community by publishing this old draft that i wrote years ago. it was inspired by one of my loooong dream that i had on christmas eve night back then in 2020. i decided to stick on the original names that i have for them. all the fem characters doesn't have any face claims, i leave them to your imaginations. some random male idols might appear in the future as relatives/enemy/friends. without further do, meet the characters and i hope you guys enjoy!

CHAPTERS — PROLOGUE CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV

Introduction to our vampires:

Jestel Sinflame

/jé-ssel/ 299 years old — The rightful crown prince of Krashoviel. Choosing peace over war right now (living under the same roof as his brother-like best friends rather than in the sucking dry and toxic castle). A little bit classist like his family, Sinflame, except towards Ricardo, who he saw the potential of that kid himself. His parents died during the Red War and now he’s trying his hardest to contact his brother, Holstein, who also got lost in the war.

Sarco Phelanflame

/sár-ko/ 288 years old — Phelanflame has always been the first row at wars. They’re the leader of the soldiers. Very strong since birth with a little sadistic tendency. Their personality is cold, much colder than the other vampires around Krashoviel. If not cold, they’re always a little bit of an oddball. All the elders in his family were deceased during the last war. Now, Phelanflame only has three members, including Sarco and his two other cousins.

Ricardo Nikolai

/ree-kár-do/ 20 years old — Came from an orphanage, Ricardo is a third-class vampire in Krashoviel. He got lucky because Jestel and Sarco saw his potential while visiting his orphanage, they took him home and gave him all the facilities he needed. Ricardo likes to play fight with almost everybody, but his favorite activity to do is disturbing Jusarlie’s peace.

Jasper

/jæs-per/ approximately 23 years old — A new vamp who was found in the woods during their monthly patrolling. No one knows about his background, he lost his memory, so they named him Jasper.

Saine Cairneye

/sāin/ 201 years old — Grandson of the current Queen on the throne. His mother died during the war. The Cairneye bloodline is in charge of magick, witchcraft, astrology, omen, and so on. Their current job is reading people intentions and possible-futures with their crazy personality tests. They are blessed with good physical appearance, and all of them look like elves. They have a silly little hobby, which is accidentally having a vision that scares the royal family a.k.a Sinflame!

Jusarlie Grieffang

/jou-sār-lee/ 297 years old — Grieffang, the fang of Krashoviel. They are the greatest strategists and professors, Grieffang is one of the keys of Krashoviel’s endless winning of wars. They’re still relatives with Sinflame. Jusarlie is Jestel’s distant nephew, though their age gap is not far. Rival kingdoms tried to kidnap and use Grieffangs against Krashoviel during their wars, but it was no use, Grieffangs are loyal and far smarter than them. Plenty of them are still alive after the wars along with Sinflames.

Hiael Von Ruden

/heeæl/ 314 years old — His original nation is Slevado, Hiael was a crown prince. He turned his back after the Red War, and it creates a huge controversy. He is now working under Jestel’s command and is currently busy training Jasper. He’s reserved, calm, to the point where it becomes scary rather than comforting for his surroundings. No one knows what is on his mind, but for Jestel, as long as he has made a blood pact then he’s good.

© ily-sunghoon, 2024 DO NOT COPY, STEAL, PLAGIARIZE, OR REPOST ON OTHER PLATFORM DO NOT TRANSLATE WITHOUT PERMISSION

[lottachaos]

GOOD OMENS SEASON TWO SPOILERS

Ok I’m gonna be deeply ranting and analyzing the kiss scene (mostly just the kiss itself) because OH MY GOSH THERES SO MUCH TOO IT

First of all here’s a gif of it:

And also I don't have a gif of it but when Crowley releases Aziraphale, what struck me was that he didn’t make them burst apart he gently and almost sadly just stepped back. And then watched. Now. One of the biggest things I’ve been thinking about in this (because I’ve been obsessively watching it over and over) is how Crowley is kissing him. It’s a long kiss. It’s not sensual. It’s not eating each others faces. It’s intimate and very romantic. Crowley missed Aziraphales lips by a hair and is slightly kissing his chin. Crowley holds him there as they sway back and forth slightly. I can’t see if his eyes are open or not. But the thing that strikes me about this is how much all of Crowley’s body language and everything just scream about how much he doesn’t want to move. He finally kissed his angel and he wants to stay pressed up against him, finally locked in the embrace he didn’t realize he needed for so long. He just stays there. He doesn’t kiss deeper. He just stays pressed against him, not wanting to deal with how Aziraphale will look at him afterwards.

then he has to break apart. He does it gently, but suddenly. Like he had to force himself but doesn’t want to . He wanted to stay, but he knows he can’t. So he steps back with his heart breaking more than he thought possible.

now onto Aziraphale.

Aziraphale is shocked. His eyes go from open to closed to open to closed. He leans back so slightly you almost can’t see it. He doesn’t seem to know how to feel.

And then his hands go around Crowley. It almost seems like it’s an unconscious motion, given how he looks after they break apart. It looks like for a split second, he lets himself melt into Crowley, as his hand wraps around his back and slides across it. But then he hesitates again abd takes his hands away. He thinks he can’t melt into Crowley. But there was the one moment where he broke.

after they break apart, Aziraphale looks shocked, upset, desperate, and to me, even a little disgusted. Probably because he doesn’t know how to deal with it. He licks his lips and moves his mouth around abd seems uncomfortable. But then after Crowley leaves he presses a hand to his mouth. He holds it for a second and starts crying. He realized he liked how it felt. He realizes everything he’s been missing. He loved the feeling of Crowley’s lips on his. Most importantly, he loves crowley.

on the topic of people hating on Aziraphale and saying the metatron did something to him, I disagree. This seems completely in character fir Aziraphale. He’s not an arsehole, he’s in conflict. He thinks he’s not allowed to love Crowley. I get him.

ok Thanks for coming to my Ted talk hehe bye

[nutmeggery]

I need Neil Gaiman to know that Good Omens 2 made me feel emotions I haven't felt in nearly a decade.

When I heard there was going to be a Good Omens 2 I was looking forward to it, of course. I just wasn't expecting it do anything super special to my emotions. I was sure I'd enjoy it, though. I really enjoyed s1.

But, for the last few years, I watched shows and afterwards basically thought well, that was fun, and I quickly moved on and didn't think much about them. There was only about 3 shows in the last 5 years that had made me feel truly emotional and stayed on my mind to the point where I felt like I needed to engage in fandom for a while. (Good Omens 1 was one of them.)

I wasn't spoiled by the leak. I never even knew there was a leak. So I had no idea what was coming in s2. And oh boy...

See, I'd watched Our Flag Means Death, a show where you don't expect the lead characters to kiss, because, well, that never happens in these types of shows, right? And this is important because when they did kiss, it felt like a door that had been locked with just about all the high security locks in the world had suddenly, inexplicably, been opened. Something switched inside me. It took me months to understand what it was, but when I thought about Good Omens before s2 came out, I realized what it was.

I would never truly enjoy a bromance they're-only-queer/in love-by-your-own-interpreation story ever again. Stories where nothing is confirmed, just subtext that anyone who doesn't want to see it can easily deny and mock those who wish it was more.

While it was clear that Crowley and Aziraphale cared a lot about each other in s1, and were probably in love, it was still just a fun ship for fans to play with in fanfiction and fanart. Do they love each other? Oh sure. In what way? Well, that's up to interpretation. Ok, cool. But it's not quite Our Flag Means Death, is it?

Then I watched Good Omens 2. And from episode 1 I saw my favourite Angel and Demon duo love each other. And I was having the best time. I hadn't had such a good time watching a show in a long while. It was not only right up my alley, it was an alley I wasn't even aware was my alley until I saw it. I enjoyed seeing the old characters, the new characters. Oh, I was wonderful.

It was clear to me that, of course Crowley and Aziraphale love each other, are IN love with each other, showing it in their own way. And I wasn't expecting it to be THIS obvious.

And then when the kiss happened, I couldn't believe it. I covered my mouth with both hands and gasped and sat up straight in my seat. I had never expected it--the heartbreak it added to the already heartbreaking scene--it rewired something inside me.

It was like my emotions had been locked up in a stall like a horse for so, so long, and now the gate had been opened, the stable door kicked down, and the horse was running out onto the large pasture into the daylight, bucking and kicking up grass. Oh my god, I have to take a few minutes to process that entire 6 hour marathon of emotions.

And by a few minutes I meant a few days.

More than a few, actually.

I didn't need a kiss to understand how much they loved each other, but I did need the kiss to understand how intense and heartbreaking their separation is for them after everything.

But more than that, the kiss broke a barrier. They really did it, I thought. They really dared.

Aziraphale and Crowley aren't human males, no, but they're played by male actors. And that is significant. That makes the kiss significant. In the world we currently live in.

Weeks later, I'm still obsessed with the show, re-watching s1 and 2, reading the book again, listening to the audio drama. And I'm on tumblr, seeing people's posts and art to somehow sate my hunger for a s3 that doesn't exist (yet).

And I'm having a wonderful time.

[lavandulawrites]

The dynamics of the yandere Aventurine x Darling x yandere Sugilite relationship always haunted my mind. I know the guy hasn't been officially released yet. But I could see they couldn't stand next to each other. So imagine them splitting Darling while one is on a field mission and Darling is with the other. When Aventurine was in Penacony, Sugilite was happy to have Darling by his side during that time. Well we can understand why Sugilite in Aventurine's trial chose 'death'

Jewelled Collar

Yandere Sugilite x reader, yandere Aventurine x reader

Their dynamics are truly fascinating. I can’t wait to see more of Sugilite. He seems like such an interesting character. I am very happy with how this turned out<3 I might do a part two

Synopsis: One of your captors has an important mission to attend to, which leaves you alone with the other one…

Masterlist

Warnings: written before Sugilite’s release and in game appearance, slightly eerie Sugilite, reader is afraid of Sugilite, obsession, possessiveness, controlling behaviour, implied manipulation, imprisonment, power imbalance, brief mention of murder

Word count: 1332

The sound of footsteps against polished mahogany floors was echoed through the hallways of the grand mansion. Each steps matched your growing heartbeat into a rhythmic symphony. You sunk yourself further into the pillows on the sofa as you forced your eyes down and to the book in your hand. Your eyes racked over the sentences without registering anything that was written on the page. Your ears was strained as they concentrated on the sound of footsteps.

A hum joined in on the rhythm. It was a classic, a song you had heard countless times from the speaker in his office. Even though the song was a love song and seemingly innocent, he had a certain edge to his voice. It sounded like a warning and it made the air on your arms rise in alert.

The noise stopped and you knew he was standing in the doorway. The tapping of a foot made you slowly avert your gaze from the book. With dread you looked up at the white haired man. He was dressed in an expensive brown suit with purple details with matching earrings that dangled hypnotically. Purple eyes met yours as they crinkled in amusement.

“Are you hungry, my dear?” he asked with a tilt of his head. His lips pulled back in a grin. He resembled a greedy wolf.

Knowing this was not a fight you could ever hope to win, you nodded. Your lips however remained sealed in a symbol of rebellion.

He chuckled at your response. “Good. I have had the chefs prepare a grand feast for the two of us” he held out his arm for you to take.

You slowly, but surly rose from your seat. Your hand wrapped around his bicep, which earned you a satisfied hum from Sugilite.

The walk to the dining hall was long and it felt like an eternity as the endless hallways seemed to stretch on forever. The many paintings that adorned the purple walls turned into a blur. As time seemed to flow into something beyond infinite, the familiar doors to the dining hall appeared in front of you like a threatening omen. Their jaws opened as the butler positioned to the side, opened the doors. His back stif as he bowed. Sugilite sent him a smile that sent cold sweat down the hairline of the butler.

You stilled in your tracks as you stared into the abyss that was the dimly lit hall. An invisible force tightened around your neck in a harsh vice and you forced your breath through your nose. With your nostrils flared and your eyelids peeled like a scared rabbit, you ventured into the awaiting jaws of the beast.

The heavenly smell of lamb and duck filled your nose. You caught yourself inhaling slightly. As you came closer to the grand table suited for royalty, your nose picked up in the rusty smell of blood. Your eyes wandered across the table and they landed on a platter of bloody lamb. Sugilite’s favourite.

The tall man lead you to your seat by the head of the table. Beside his seat that consisted of a throne like chair, your position underneath him was clear as day. The butler pulled out each of your chairs and you took a seat. You let your eyes yet again wander over the table and you were once again astonished by the amounts of food Sugilite had his chefs prepare for every meal. It was the ultimate show of fortune.

The butler poured you both a glass of red wine. The crimson liquid swirled around in the glass with an almost ominous glow. You swallowed thickly when you saw the label on the wine bottle. The bottle was one of the rarest wines in the entirety of the universe. It was so expensive that you couldn’t even fantom the price. It was a wine that Sugilite only drank when he had something to celebrate. He had drunk it when he and Aventurine had both came to an agreement and whisked you away, when he had had his right hand man behead your former friend in front of you, when he had killed one of the most notorious enemies of The IPC and now.

You turned your head towards the white haired man with a horrified frown plastered upon your features.

He smiled at you with his oh so charming smile “We have something to celebrate, you see my dear”. He turned towards his butler “We need some music, don’t you think?” it wasn’t a question, but a command no one with their right mind would dear to deny. The butler bowed deeply before he rushed towards the speaks that was worth more than a human heart. The cozy tune of big band music filled the dining room in a soft melody.

Sugilite turned to you with glittering eyes. His beauty stole your breath away and your heart stirred shyly.

“Aventurine is gone on a mission to the planet of festivities, also known as Penacony. Which means” he leaned in closer “I have you all for myself”. He grinned.

The hairs in your neck rose as you stared back at him with widened eyes. You did not like the glint in his hypnotic purple eyes. “I see” was all you said.

A deep chuckle escaped his lips. “Cheers. Might the future be fruitful” he clinked his glass against yours and took a sip. You followed his lead and repeated his action. The wine was rich and pleasant.

Weeks had passed since you had last seen the blond Stoneheart. He was rarely apart from you for a long time and a little part of you had started to worry. Sugilite had parted from you that morning with a hug grin plastered across his lips. He had kissed you goodbye rather passionately and eagerly before he left. You had overheard from some of his butlers that The Stonehearts were apparently having a meeting where they would decide the future for one of the members. How they had gotten their hands on such information, you did not know, but you knew for sure that they would pay for it with their life. As for the member of whom The Stonehearts would decide their fate, was Aventurine without a doubt.

Sugilite had one afternoon been awfully cheerful and he had told you that a certain idiot had broken something very valuable and that he would have to pay for it. Their hatred for each others was no secret and you were surprised they hadn’t torn of each other’s heads yet.

Hours passed and Sugilite finally returned, but this time he wasn’t alone. The grand doors to the estate opened and in stepped the tall purple clad man and behind him was Aventurine. Aventurine’s unreadable expression quickly change into one filled with love and relief when his beautiful multicoloured eyes met yours.

With a few long strides he crossed the hall and wrapped his arms around your form like a starved boa. He burrowed his face into the crock of your neck and inhaled deeply, with a soft sigh following.

“Aeons how I have missed you, my darling” he whispered against your neck. His voice trembling with emotions.

Sugilite stopped behind Aventurine and gazed at the you two with a raised brow. “Your luck sure is something” he scoffed.

Aventurine glared back at the man. “We agreed to share [Name], didn’t we?” he sneered possessively.

Sugilite nodded in return. “That we did” he flashed you a bone chilling grin.

Aventurine’s eyes snapped back at you and your eyes flickered down to his lips where an equally chilling grin was present. “I am glad there is at least something we can agree on.”

You gulped as you watched your road to freedom crumble underneath your feet. You started at them both while the abyss of helplessness swallowed you whole. It devoured you until there was nothing left except childish hope and unfulfilled dreams.

[wannaeatramyeon]

Lookism: I can fix him (no really I can)

G/N. Gun, DG, Sammy, Jakey, Ryuhei, Goo, Vin

You didn't roll up your sleeves, ready to fix the men that came into your life. As if you were some amber or red flag magnet, and you had ample time and energy and patience to sort out their issues. Somehow though, it happened anyway. Slowly. Little by little.

With yourself more of a dubious observer more than anything.

Only a fool would invite someone like Gun into their life and not expect troubles. The pitch black eyes are already an obvious omen.

Except. Gun has second thoughts around you. Peaks of humanity showing through his cracks. Fun for Gun used to be fights and bloodshed. Letting his demons out fully. He can never be completely tamed but he realises there's joy, a bone-deep peace, in other things too.

Namely, your company.

James plays his cards to his chest. As James Lee, as Diego Kang, as whoever he may be in the future.

Hides his intention and true character with a detached, arrogant smile. Buries into himself further with his shiny k-pop persona, not letting anyone see his authentic self.

Your touch first cracked his well polished veneer. Your words and keen eyes, astute and observant, blew the gap wide open.

He realises there's no more hiding with you.

Samuel doesn't lack motivation or discipline with most areas of his life. When it comes to his mental health though, it's sorely lacking. Though, delusional and lacking introspection, he never realised it was a problem until you.

He notices your smile dimming during the beginning of his spirals. Feels your absences as he plummets to rock bottom. Craves you with every part of his being as he soars into mania.

Your worried looks and trembling bottom lip gives him the final push he needs to want to improve.

Being Gapryong's son is a part of who Jake is, irrefutable and undeniable. As much as he likes to convince himself he is nothing like his dad, he has fortunately taken all his best traits and foregone the worst.

However. It takes someone like you to come along, that loves all the parts of him-

(Son of the legend of the Pre-generation, the Boss of Big Deal... And the quietest part, the part of him dimmed and muted through the challenges of life, simply Jake Kim, where he can be as he wants to be.)

-For him to finally accept all parts of himself too.

When Ryuhei crushes, falls, obsesses, he finds it hard to fit the whole image of someone in his head.

All their imperfections and flaws and faults are non-existent in his mind. Which sounds harmless and sweet at first thought, but he could never truly connect with anyone if he is only able to see his own perception of them.

But then you showed him all sides of you, forced him to acknowledge the good with the bad, experience the troughs with the peaks.

Until, over time, he fully sees every facet of you.

Being with Goo is like trying to domesticate a wild animal.

He has glimpses of docility assuming he is well fed and well entertained, though he is still likely to bite the hand that feeds at any moment. Of course, only someone used to getting his way would continue being this... deranged.

You take no prisoners. Uncompromising in the way you should be treated, respected, until Goo has no choice but to also fall in line if he wants to keep you by his side.

Vin keeps himself barbed and prickly. Masks his true feelings, his own insecurities, with jokes and insults. Has made more people cry than he can remember and ignores any guilt with a shrug of his shoulders.

He's not a sociopath. It's just that he's been this way for so long he doesn't know how to be anything else.

You cut through the bullshit, give him no judgement for who he is, how he looks, but how he acts.

His jokes are still rude. Insults still mean. But there's no longer any cruelty.

[beastsovrevelation]

Nine people I’d like to get to know better

Tagged by @suspendingtime , thank you! ❤

Last song I listened to: Baphomet's Throne by Samael

Favourite colour: black, if I have to choose... I love so many colors, and so many shades of them. If black's "not a color", then dark red. 💫

Currently watching: to be honest, I'm looking for what to watch. Rewatching Yellowjackets in the meanwhile. And, I must finally see The First Omen.

Sweet/savoury/spicy?: savoury and spicy

Relationship Status: single, pretending to be in a relationship with a fictional character or two 🤡

Current obsession: various fictional universes, certain fictional characters (mine and not), the Antichrist lore, the Book of Revelation, the occult, my favorite pairing Archangel Michael x The Antichrist in all it's incarnations

Currently reading: Tacitus' Annals

Last thing I googled: "what did Augustus say about Varus latin"... don't ask, it was for a paper 🤣

❤ Tagging: @seventhoflitha , @whodoesnataliehave , @eldritchlibertine , @charliecow , @chaliceink , @ivereadthemanual , @yourcoolguitargf , @mysticls , @celticseawych

[ayumip]

𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭…

streamer!scaramouche x streamer!reader; modern au

word count: 0.6k

scaramouche and you were famous streamers, and decided to hop onto the “hear me out” cake trend. *gone wrong?* *not clickbait!*

“scara! let’s do this trend!” you called out to him, showing him a video of a couple doing the hear me out cake trend.

“hell no.” he scowled, going back to his game.

“please~”

“no”

“why not! you’re not fun…” you retorted, rolling your eyes.

however, under your persistent persuasion, he reluctantly agreed to do it on stream with you, under the condition that he wouldn’t need to prepare any crazy hear me outs, which of course, you thought it was boring, but whatever!

setting up the camera on your kitchen counter, you greet your chat:

"hi chat! i'm joined with scara today. say hi!" you ushered him, which he reluctantly gave a monotone greeting.

"oh, what's the cake for? we're doing a hear me out cake!" you replied, looking over at the chat, which is going miles per hour as you usually don't do collab streams, well, scara's the exception.

"anyways, lets begin!"

the both of you prepared your sticks, with your respective hear me outs stuck on them. "ill go first! so first, i have omen from valorant, which i think is pretty self explanatory. the girlies that get me, get me" you said, showing the camera before you put it down on the cake. scaramouche gave you a side eye, before retorting with:

"the only thing hot about him is his voice"

"does that mean you admit he's hot-"

"shut up! okay me next." he cut you off with a scoff, which you just giggled at.

"um..." he fiddled around with his sticks in his hand "i have you" he said as he showed the camera, the chat filling with "lmfaos" and "no ways" as he stuck the stick into the cake

"that's just me! why am i a hear me out!" you exclaimed, which he replied with a smirk

"no one can handle you; you're a gremlin"

"but you still love me"

"its your turn just go!" he said bashfully, looking away from the camera with a slight blush on his cheeks

"okay fine! next i have nico from rio"

"thats a bird!"

"and?"

"you're weird..." he mumbled, giving you a faux look of disgust.

suddenly, a comment from chat caught your eye: "nico lowkey looks like scara"

"no because yeah kind of" you mumbled, conversing with chat about how scara resembles nico. scaramouche, looking from afar, was just admiring your animated expressions, your pondering face (which he thought was absolutely adorable, but he would rather die than to admit to your face), and your soft laughs until he was snapped out of his thoughts with you urging him to go next.

"next i have...you, but when you're sleeping"

"why is it all just me- and besides, when did you even get that photo of me! i look horrendous!"

"exactly why that's a hear me out" he mumbled under his breath.

"hey!" you huffed out, as he let out a small laugh. you looked over at the sticks he prepared, realising most of them are just you, but doing different things, you let out an exasperated sigh.

"you really are obsessed with me aren't you" you giggled.

the both of you continued populating the cake with different characters from different cartoons, game, and actors. before you knew it, you only had one more hear me out left.

"okay, don't get mad at me or anything" you warned

"who can be worse than gill. the fish." he rolled his eyes playfully, slightly amused at who on earth your last hear me out was.

biting back your laughter, you showed the camera and chat who your last hear me out was:

"the last one i have is. dottore"

when it finally hit scaramouche who you put on the cake, his mouth was agape; he was shook.

“that's my UNCLE?"

authors note: i think you guys know which reel i based this on but like lowkey i didnt know what i was writing throughout this whole fic LMFAO i didn't expect it to be this dialogue heavy

[vidavalor]

How sure are you that they won't turn human? I'm really worried.

Hi there! 💕 I could always be wrong but I'm *Aziraphale voice* quite sure! that they will not become mortal. I'll show you why & you can see if you agree. 😊 *shares nachos*

This is a spoiler-free post when it comes to Good Omens but be forewarned that I'm going to spoil part of the ending of The Good Place as part of an example in here.

I can see why you might worry because turning immortal characters mortal can be a common storytelling technique. I think that if we look at it from a storytelling perspective, though, you'll see why Good Omens is different and likely won't be going in that direction.

What separates an immortal character from a human one is that an immortal character is immune to one of the paradoxes of human living, which is how death informs living. Our finite amount of time on Earth and eventual death is what drives us to make the choices we do while we're alive.

The most common human experience is that, not only will we eventually die, none of us know for sure what, if anything, comes after that. We have all sorts of belief systems and spiritual ideas about what, if anything, might happen after we die, but they're all speculative. None of us truly know the truth. If we did, it could be argued, we'd lose a lot of our motivation to do much living here on Earth.

It is death which gives us a sense of limited time on Earth and it's that sense of limited time on Earth that drives the experience of being human. Having a concept of mortality is essential to knowing what it is to live as a human. So, on the surface, immortal characters fly in the face of this by design.

When you have immortal characters in a story-- angels, demons, vampires, whatever-- you have characters who, by definition, are capable of living forever. What separates them from humans is their lack of a ticking clock.

Characters who are immortal are really there to discuss the human experience, though...

You don't make a character who lives outside the realm of mortal living unless you're trying to talk about what human life is like by showing what of human life those immortal characters are struggling to experience.

In The Good Place, there's the demon, Michael, whose very excellent ending is that they find a way to make him human. This is basically a textbook example of a story doing what you're worried Good Omens might do but which I'll show you that I don't think they will. In The Good Place story, though, it makes sense and is a perfect ending, where it would not be in Good Omens. There are some key reasons why these stories are different.

In The Good Place, Michael is played by Ted Danson, who is in his 70s, so the idea is that Michael will only get to experience, at best, a couple of decades on Earth as a human before he dies. As is pointed out to him when this option is presented to him, anything can happen to the afterlife system in the years while he's down there on Earth so he has no guarantee what the afterlife situation will be when he dies and goes through it like any other human. What choice does our immortal demon Michael make?

He jumps at the opportunity to become human because, as he explains, there's "nothing more human" than living on Earth and not knowing what comes next. This is all he's ever wanted but it is all he's ever wanted for one reason alone:

because he's never had the opportunity to live on Earth.

This is a perfect ending for this character because he's immortal for the duration of the series with a fondness for human life but he's only ever observed bits of it. He's made some human friends in their afterlife but he's never experienced Earth and human living for himself.

He's lived in Hell for his whole existence and all he knows about humanity is what he's learned from observing humans on Earth from a distance. In the process, though, he's become obsessed with them. He tries to teach himself to play the guitar and, just like Aziraphale, he has a fondness for human magic tricks, even though he's a miraculous being who can perform "real magic."

Michael has never actually gotten to live life on Earth, though. The audience winds up wanting that for him and so sees him finally getting that opportunity as a happy ending. Taking away Michael's immortality and letting him experience life as a human is an ending that leaves most in tears in a good way when it happens. We're happy because we want the character to be happy and we know that this makes him happy.

This type of ending only works as a good ending, though, if it's what the characters want.

The audience will only get behind it if the immortal characters in the story have never had much of a chance to be human, really want that chance, and the ending would give them that opportunity.

If the immortal characters are already having human experiences, though, and would suffer as a result of losing their immortality-- would only have a limited time together, say-- then this is actually a tragic ending.

The only reason why immortal characters in a story would ever have an ending where they were no longer immortal is if those immortal characters were like Michael-- if they'd never gotten to experience human living and wanted to.

That is just not the case with Crowley and Aziraphale in Good Omens.

There's none of us watching Good Omens going wow, if only Crowley and Aziraphale could become mortal in their circa 50-something year old bodies and watch each other slowly die of old age! That surely would be the best ending to this romantic comedy! 😂

Whether you think they're already together or not, that ending would be absolute shit lol. Why? Because the one thing that's clear to all of us is that, whatever Crowley and Aziraphale are, they haven't yet gotten the chance to really be openly together without fear.

For the story to give them 6,000+ years of stress on Earth only to then give them a few decades of watching each other die in the South Downs Cottage would not be a happy ending to a show called Good Omens. It would turn this romance into a tragedy, which it's just not. It is, fundamentally, a romantic fantasy comedy.

What the audience really wants is for all of the millenniums of their story that we've just watched to become the prologue to their story.

We want the story to end with them having a new beginning together and, honestly? That's been baked in from the start. It starts, as The Voice of God promised us, as it shall end. The ending has always been going to also be a new beginning. There's no real, conceivable way where them losing their mortality in the ending could be construed as the start of something. It's just depressing.

Why do we feel this way? Because we intuitively know that Crowley and Aziraphale's story is different from ones like The Good Place's Michael because, unlike him, Crowley and Aziraphale do not need to become mortal to experience human living.

Crowley and Aziraphale might, technically, be immortal but, throughout the story we've watched, they've already been given the ticking clock of human living. They've been dealing with it together for the entirety of the history of Earth.

From both of the starts of their story-- both Before the Beginning and Eden-- the knowledge is present in both of them (and in the audience) that this life that they're making together on Earth isn't meant to last forever.

An approximate lifespan was known to the two of them from the start: about 6,000 years. Yes, this sounds like a ridiculously long amount of time to us but, to two immortal beings, it's far less than the blink of an eye.

And they've known all along that it's very possible that this is all the time they'll ever have together and, depending upon how Armageddon goes, that one or both of them might not live any longer than that. Their immortality has never actually been a sure thing.

This limited amount of time is also a source of conflict and tension, especially as the story progresses and the sand in the hourglass starts to diminish as 6,000 years gets closer and closer.

It's basically the whole root of the 1967 scene, where the central question is whether or not to go for broke and risk getting caught so they can live a more open life or whether to play it safe and maybe hope they can find a way to living together for longer or, maybe even, somehow, forever.

What this does in the story is split the difference between Crowley and Aziraphale being immortal and them living like the humans whose corporations they share.

Even as they're immortal, Crowley and Aziraphale are also human because they have a concept of living a limited lifespan on Earth, the same way that humans do.

It might be way longer than our human lifespans but it's functionally the same, too short thing. They've both found themselves on Earth and been told the longest they can live there is somewhere around 6,000 years, if they're lucky, and they both know that this amount of time might be all the time they have with one another.

There's basically nothing more human than this.

Because of this sense of limited time, Crowley and Aziraphale don't know what is going to happen to them. They might be immortal but they don't actually know for sure if one or both of them is going to really live for all of eternity.

All along, they have a sense of a lifespan-- they know it's about 6,000 years but they do not know exactly when Armageddon is going to start, nor do they know if they both will survive it. It's just like how we might know that, if we're lucky, we'll probably live a certain number of years, but we don't know for sure that we will.

It leaves Crowley and Aziraphale wondering the whole time-- is it 6,000 years from the creation of Earth when Armageddon begins? Is it in Year 5697? Or Year 6102? They would have had no idea. After S1, they were even less sure in S2. When would Armageddon: Round Two kick off? They had no idea and it was weighing on them.

Knowing approximately how long you've got to live, if you're lucky, but not exactly how long, and never knowing when your number is up? Making a life together on Earth with people you care about and not knowing how much time you have together?

That's human living.

For humans who form close relationships, especially a romantic partnership, the question always exists out there as to how it ends. Does one of you die first? Is one of you going to be left alone for a bit? How long will you have together? How does your story end?

It's been the same for Crowley and Aziraphale this whole time, too.

There's also that many humans live to or well-past their average human lifespan... but many do not. Death is unpredictable, which makes life unpredictable.

You can make a life together on Earth with someone and think you have decades still left together but then they could get hit by a truck one night and never make it home. They could be there one minute and not the next. You never know what happens when one of you goes out the door. Humans live with this death-related fear of the unknown daily.

Crowley and Aziraphale? They experience this very human thing, too.

Their relationship is dangerous, especially in their supernatural world. If they were ever discovered, they know that Heaven and Hell would kill them. Every time one of them slipped out a door before dawn for the last however many thousands of years, they've never been completely sure that they'll see one another again.

Aziraphale once even lost Crowley right in front of him, back in 1827, on a night that we're shown in S2 that still affects Aziraphale into the present of the story.

So, even as they're immortal beings who have often been contemplating the possibility of an eventual, terrible-sounding, eternal existence without one another looming on the horizon after Armageddon...

...they've also been living with the same sense of possible death and a ticking clock that the humans with whom they live have been all this time, too.

Giving Crowley and Aziraphale a human concept of time in the story was conscious, deliberate design. Without it, the story could not really explore human living through them in the same way because they would only have their immortality and lack that connection to humans.

Crowley and Aziraphale are not The Good Place's demon Michael. They've not been held back from human living. They live so much like humans that they appear to even occasionally forget at times that they're magical. They drove to the end of the world in S1. Crowley got stuck in traffic. 😂

This is all because, in this story, the point of Crowley and Aziraphale's immortality is to take beings who are capable of understanding what it is to be human-- people who have human corporations and who are, by design of the story, people every bit as much as the humans, and living on Earth like them-- and using them to talk about what it is to be a human being.

When you have characters who have been taught that they are different from people and that they should be above them but then are shown through their experiences to be just like them? You're really making a point about human people who have been taught these same things. You're using the supernatural characters to make that point. The intention is to show that they're not so different.

It also just tends to be extra-entertaining for the audience, as we know, because the supernatural characters are a bit fish-out-of-water in their explorations of Earth. As we watch them come to appreciate aspects of the human world, we're reminded of how magical that world-- our world-- can be.

You can give a human being having a rough time a hot chocolate in a story and it can be a nice moment but maybe not terribly memorable... or, you can give the naked Supreme Archangel of All Heaven his very first ever warm cup of sugar while he's got trauma-induced amnesia in the main characters' antiquarian bookshop/Heavenly embassy/secret love den and have him forget the plot for a moment to have a food orgasm over it.

It's pretty evident which one of those options is more engaging, right? 😂 Let alone which one better delivers the story's point about mindful living.

The point of Good Omens isn't so much that the immortal characters are not human so much as it is how very, very human they really are. Immortal characters in this story exist to show us that the really magical ones are the humans.

This doesn't mean, though, that all the immortal characters in the story need to become mortal to experience humanity. The main four have already shown that it's just coming down to experience Earth and joining the side of the humans that is the point.

Gabriel literally miracled "Everyday" onto the jukebox in The Resurrectionist forever as a way of telling Beez that he plans to be there for them eternally. The song is there if something happens to him but the song is also Gabriel himself in his metaphor. He doesn't plan on anything less than all of time with Beez.

They both, too, learned to understand humanity around the idea of it maybe having an end with Armageddon. Their response to that was not to want to become mortal but to try to stop Armageddon from happening. It was to try to ensure that the Earth survived. It's the same thing as Crowley and Aziraphale's story.

A happy ending for all of these immortal characters is peace and they don't need to give up their immortality to find that. Plenty of time with one another would be a positive, satisfying ending. They don't need to learn what living like a human is like because the entire story has been them doing just that.

They would not take away their immortality unless they wanted a tragic ending. The name of the story is Good Omens, though, and it's not ironic. The story is, at the core, a fantasy romantic comedy. It's about the magic of human living. By definition, you cannot have a tragic ending to a romance or it isn't one. This story will have a good ending. No way on Earth they fought to finish this story just so they could give it a sad ending and I doubt it was ever at risk of one in the first place.

What the audience wants is for Crowley and Aziraphale to be able to live openly together on Earth without all this fear. They don't want them to only get a few years together but all the years they can ever want. That's the happy ending for Crowley and Aziraphale and that will be how it ends.

There is no reason to take their immortality because they do not need to learn what human living is. The story has already shown us that they already know and are every bit as human as the rest of us.

[beyond-the-raining-field]

I have some things to say.

to begin: Neil Gaiman sucks. I loved and looked up to the man because of his work, because I thought his writing was amazing and Good Omens helped me through the toughest time in my life. the recent news however, does change my opinion - as at should for EVERYBODY. I feel disappointed by the Good Omens fandom. I do not think making yourself the victim publicly is at all okay. The women are the victims. If it does turn out to be fake: that’s good. But it does not change the fact that the power imbalance was there and would have affected how the relationship worked from the beginning. No matter if it is fake, right now saying “but how will I enjoy ___” is not okay . I understand, I do. I love Good Omens and I will continue to love Good Omens because it is a piece of media that matters so much to me.

I admit I have gotten of point. To get back on track let me make it simple and clear: You can not say “believe the victim” then go on to say “but Neil Gaiman is a good person…”. He is not. Yes it is wonderful that he has supported queer and trans people but you, I have to say, are not a good person for saying it if it depends on who assaulted - ASSAULTED - someone. No, PEOPLE. Two GIRLS.

Neil Gaiman is not a good person.

You can separate the author and the work, I am doing that with Good Omens as I have done it in the past but you canNOT support and endorse HIM.

And to end it off, if it turns out to be false: good. But he met one of the girls when she was 18, and waited for her to be of age. That is not something good men do.

Believe the victims, it doesn’t matter that you looked up to him. He did something bad, horrible, tragic and disgusting, admit that and talk about it to bring awareness.

And I would like to add: It is hard - and nearly impossible - for me to let go of Good Omens and The Graveyard Book. The Graveyard Book is the only book my father read to me as a child that stuck with me and led to an obsession. The obsessions have died down. If you own his books and enjoy them you are not a bad person, his writing is good. If a book means a lot to you, you are not a bad person. You are only a bad person if you make excuses for him. His is a shitty human who is a good author. Fuck him, but you owning his books doesn’t make you a bad person. Just refrain from buying NEW work.

And if it does turn out to be false, yes it eases the entire fandom. He is still sketchy in my books because as far as I know he cannot prove he has not done anything and got with two very young woman as a much older man.

An updated opinion: Neil Gaiman most likely did it. The amount of tales from people who - as young women - met him and had horrible interactions or stories of friends of his employees. He, most likely, has always been a bad person who simply uses the themes he does to make himself seem like a good person. This is not ours to mourn, it’s ours to take action and keep characters you happen to love alive in yourself instead of something HE did. Or, get rid of your stock. Up to you. It’s 1 am and I am distraught by the news but I’m not denying anything because given every piece of proof to show that he most likely did it, denying it is a bad thing to do and is a horrible name for the fandom.

[embracing-the-ineffable]

Ineffable discontinuity and the Bentley's roadtrip transformation: new back doors and other changes (after it was yellow), and Crowley... didn't notice?!*

*Also, as a side observation, did he leave the Bentley window open during the ball and everything that happened after? Why?

Have you been longing to be even more perplexed by the ineffable discontinuity of Good Omens season 2? Do you love endless data in the form of screencaps? If so, then please join me on this wild ride! Here are some highlights:

Top photos: Season 1, episode 6, after Adam reboots reality; S2e2, before Aziraphale's e3 road trip. The Bentley is a gray and black 2-tone car with 2 doors (only 1 handle is visible on each side).

And on the bottom is s2e5, while Crowley is driving, it's a solid black car with 4 doors and smaller silver hubcaps.

(edit: For those of you thinking about the different Bentley models used in s1 vs s2 (discussed in detail below), or the difference between the full car and half car set, just those three full car pictures above demonstrate that the new s2 Bentley model is NOT the reason for this mid-season shift. For more details about the half car set plus other ways to tell the Bentleys apart - without talking about color - see my newer post with handy diagrams, here.)

And the s2 interior?

Here's e1, after Crowley talks to Shax, and e3, as Aziraphale arrives in Edinburgh (which is also when the Bentley debuts as a 4-door). And look at this blocking - how both characters are posed so similarly with their backs to us in these shots!! It's so deliberate! :

And look at the seats! In e2, Crowley is talking to Shax again, and in e5, Crowley just parked the Bentley before the ball:

When Crowley, who is so tuned in that he senses the car is yellow and driving too slow even from a distance, sees the "new" Bentley in e4, he doesn't act as though anything has changed, he just happily and purposefully walks up and opens the back door that was never there to put his plants inside.

THE BACK DOOR THAT WAS NEVER THERE

For that matter, Crowley and Aziraphale both seem to be unaware of the changes! This feels like both a metaphor and a functional plot device for season 3. There's more discussion at the end of this post!

Thanks to comments and observations awhile back from @bbbitchvibbbez , I did some careful searching for s2 scenes featuring the Bentley, and this post is the labor of love and irrational obsession result!

If you want to see lots more Bentley screencaps and discussion, including Crowley nonchalantly using the new back door, and possibly also leaving the Bentley window open during the ball and everything that followed, please keep reading:

Some background and context:

Ok, so there was a different Bentley "actor" for s2. The s1 actor was a 2-door, the s2 actor is a 4-door. If you look carefully, you'll see that in s1 the backseat side windows are smaller than the front side windows. In s2, they're the same size. I talk more about the windows - with handy diagrams! - in my newer Bentley post, here.

There's also been some controversy about the interior color of the s2 Bentley, black vs brown, and how that could relate to the s2 body swap theory; here are details about that from @lonicera-caprifolium and @picturesque-about-it. I don't think my findings support (or disprove) that theory, but take a look at what I found and see what you think!

(*Please don't ask Neil about any of this, he's already given us the answers he wants to give, and he's not going to spoil the surprises in s3 now by telling us what's really going on!*)

Here's the episode/scene breakdown:

S2e1 on the street with Shax - gray, two toned, two doors (one visible door handle on a side), brown interior - both the seats and the inside panel of the door. Notice how the door is hinged at the back, and opens opposite the way most modern cars do (this is called a suicide door):

More s2e1 photos, the Bentley is in a lot of scenes this episode and as far as I can tell it stays the same gray 2-door for the whole episode, but it's frequently in dark lighting to make it harder to tell it isn't actually black (I've brightened most of these shots). It also has larger silver hubcaps, and I notice consistent brown seats (these interior pics are from three different scenes):

In s2e2, the Bentley is only in two scenes, and it's the same as s2e1. Now, you can see in the larger photo below that it's obviously not the SAME as s1 - the backseat side windows are too long - but the production team DID try to make the new Bentley "actor" look the same as in season 1. It's a gray 2-tone car with 2 doors (1 handle visible on each side) with larger silver hubcaps. As an aside, what's with the red lights on the car in this shot?? I mean, yes, it's a reflection of another car's brake lights, but why put that onscreen?

Also, in case it's relevant, Crowley is wearing his turtleneck throughout this episode, and still has the silver-sided glasses from e1:

Ok, now we have s2e3, and as Crowley meets Muriel and gives Aziraphale his car keys, we see he's no longer wearing the turtleneck, AND this is when his glasses change to black-sided ones:

Outside, we see the Bentley looks the same as the rest of s2 thus far, as Aziraphale sets off for Edinburgh. Gray 2-tone, brown interior (with window bullet hole decals very visible), with larger silver hubcaps. There's only one handle visible, so it's still meant to look like a 2-door:

Ok, here's where things start to change! Azi is driving and the Bentley is yellow. The seats might (?) be black, there's still only one door handle on the side, the silver hubcaps are still larger. But when he "changes it back", NOW it's black:

And by the time he pulls into Edinburgh, Transformation Complete. (Did Something Else Happen?? Or is this an effect of Aziraphale finally being welcome to take care of this extension of Crowley? More speculation at the end!) It's a black 4-door, two handles clearly visible on the side, with smaller silver hubcaps:

And the interior? The door panel, at least, is black now - and it has a texture that wasn't there when it was brown. Here's e1 next to e3 (and appreciate, again, this very intentional parallel blocking of the two actors!):

In s2e4, we see the Bentley in two scenes; at the beginning when Aziraphale meets Shax-as-hitchhiker, where we see the bullet holes and the black door lining, and at the end when the Bentley is reunited with Crowley:

When Aziraphale parks the Bentley back at the bookshop, we see the bullet hole decals and that it's still a black 4-door:

So he goes to meet Crowley, they come back with the plants. We can see that the camera is to the rear of the car, and the front of the car is to their left. They're standing on the left side of the car. If Crowley opens the door, we won't see the interior door panel, right? Because the Bentley doors are hinged on the back, instead of the front, so the door will open towards us:

WELL. Mx "I can feel when you drive below the speed limit" and "change it back!" Crowley very eagerly walks up to the BLACK car, greets it with some sweet baby talk, and then opens the suddenly-existing BACK door with a hinge on the front (so it opens away from us) as if this is All Perfectly Normal, and we can (barely) see the door lining and it's BLACK and textured:

A few more shots of Crowley, standing at the brand-new back door of the Bentley, still wearing those black-sided glasses:

And in case you're wondering, in s1e2 when Anathema gets a ride in the Bentley, she climbs into the backseat from the front driver door, and she climbs out through the front passenger door. There wasn't a back door on either side. Here she climbs into the Bentley, and you can see Crowley fold down the front seat, and there's clearly only one door on that side, and it's hinged at the back. (When she gets out on the passenger side, it's harder to see, but you can tell that door is also hinged at the back.) :

In s2e5, Crowley drives the Bentley to the bookshop, and then we only catch a few small glimpses of it while Aziraphale is recruiting shopkeepers to the meeting/ball. Here's Crowley driving the black 4-door Bentley with small silver hubcaps, and here he is getting out of the car with black seats. The front door is still hinged at the back, as it always has been. The window is open - his hand is reaching through to open the door - so we can't see the bullet hole decals:

The next time we see more than a hint of the Bentley, it's the end of s2e6 and Crowley is standing next to it, watching Azi leave with the Metatron. It's still black, with 4 doors and black seats and smaller hubcaps. We don't see the bullet hole decals, but perhaps the window is still open from when he parked it in e5? (And WHY would he leave the window open? Was someone supposed to come by after he parked it to deliver something to the Bentley, or take something out?) Emotional photos ahead:

I over exposed that last picture, to make the colors really easy to pick out. The seats are absolutely, definitely black.

So... what does it mean? Why did it happen, and why didn't Crowley notice or react?

I love the metaphor that Aziraphale subconsciously created a back door for - or into - Crowley, especially with all those references to the "back channels" of communication between heaven and hell. I'm thinking it could represent - or actually be - another way for them to communicate, or like another entrance to his heart; it's something that Aziraphale doesn't realize he changed or added and that Crowley hasn't noticed yet either, even if he's making use of those changes on some level. I'm sure other metaphors could also fit!

And I'm reminded of something @theeminentlyimpractical said, "Crowley, despite his whining, fully accepts the idea of "our car," which fundamentally transforms the Bentley". That post was liked by Neil, so there could definitely be something to this "our car" transformation line of thinking.

So, was the transformation a subconscious effect of Aziraphale finally being welcome by Crowley to drive the Bentley, and caring for and taking responsibility for this part of Crowley? Or did Aziraphale consciously do this, or did Crowley? Or maybe the Bentley is sentient, and it chose to be bigger/different now, to accommodate both of them. Or did the change happen in response to Something Else We Didn't See?

Is Crowley's (and Aziraphale's) apparent non-reaction another example of an unreliable narrator or some memory tampering? Is manipulation of the Book of Life involved? Are there multiple timelines? Is someone time traveling? Or is it just that Aziraphale and Crowley already discussed the changes off screen, before Aziraphale left Edinburgh?

If Crowley noticed the changes, I would have expected a comment about them. Either, "change it back!" or a reluctant, "those are changes I can live with", or... Something. But instead, the production team went to some trouble to make sure the hints are there, but hard to spot (you can review the similar, careful s1 hints about the appearance swap here, from @fuckyeahgoodomens); as opposed to, for one example, the way they very clearly pointed out Maggie's mysterious spelling mistake, both on screen and in the dialogue. So I feel reasonably certain the Bentley's transformation is a careful, subtle hint about a Secret Something Important That Will Be Revealed In Season 3. I think it's both a metaphor and a plot device*.

What are some of your favorite metaphors? Your most reasonable theories? What about some of your biggest, wildest, most improbable theories?

*And if you enjoy Good Omens metas, theories, clues, etc, I have a big pinned collection of those from the fandom, here!