#psychological conditioning tw

[hittingthebrainsfunnybone]

Affrimations for your whumpee! By whumper

inspired by/paraphrased from good old George Orwell 1984

Faced with enough pain, no one is a hero. They'll give you up for relief, and you'll do the exact same.

I'll spend my goodwill by tolerating your struggle or granting you the ocassional moment of solace. Be grateful and choose wisely.

The only proof of your pain is your own perception of it, and your mind is so easily deceived.

You'll never be your old self, because I didn't remold wet clay. You were a cracked pot, already passed through the fire and ruined, so I crushed everything you were to dust and made something nicer to keep on display.

It's not easy becoming sane, but you're a particularly slow learner, and I'm losing patience.

If you're not even strong enough to hold two contradictory beliefs in your mind, you're not strong enough to handle reality.

If you never forget what you are, you'll never be punished for rebelling, and if you never rebel, you'll never forget who you belong to.

The only way you'll be able to hide your obvious secrets and glaring flaws is by lying to yourself so thoroughly that you forget the truth.

Assume I'm always listening, always watching, and you'll never have to be afraid of doing something that demands punishment.

You're your own worst enemy. The nerves, the imperfections, the weaknesses- the very impulses of electricity from your brain to your body guide my hand.

Don't give me a reason to exercise greater control over you. There's no reason I should ever give it up once I have it after all.

If tell you a comforting lie, take it as a gift and make it your comfortable truth, because it's the only comfort I'll waste on you.

Your story isn't a tragedy. A tragedy has an audience and a cartharsis. There's nothing satisfying or sympathetic about watching your same stupid mistakes over and over. And you begged me not to bring an audience.

Never again will you be capable of ordinary human feeling. Everything will be dead inside you. Never again will you be capable of love, or friendship, or joy of living, or laughter, or curiosity, or courage, or integrity. You will be hollow. I will squeeze you empty, and then fill you as I please.

Love,

Whumper

[parasiticstars]

╰┈➤File Retrieved: Labor_Pets.pdf

Type: Labor Pets (also: working Pets)

Overview: These Pets take the jobs that human laborers protected by OSHA will not. Their masters are usually contractors, plantation/farm owners, and managers. They often will go from contractor to contractor as the job demands; as such, the older a labor Pet is, the more likely it will have a variety of skills and strengths.

Not to be confused with Servant Pets, though servants may work as laborers and vice versa.

Typical jobs are working on agricultural plants, plantations, heavy construction, certain factories, and warehouses. Labor Pets are not paid, but do earn "privileges", such as extra rations for themselves or their whole team, menial amenities in their bunks (if applicable), and breaks-- all of which may be taken away for misbehavior at their masters' discretion.

Needs: PPE is unnecessary with labor Pets unless the job is exceedingly dangerous. However, medical care may be given when needed and if confirmed the subject is not faking to shirk its duties.

Laborers are shipped with their standard collar-- a utilitarian metal band; heavy around the neck and extremely hard to take off, its main function is identification (via a number printed on the side), a marker if the Pet has a history of bad behavior or some kind of disability, and electric prongs for disciplinary use.

Training: Ideally, a labor Pets' training should be focused on forming learned helplessness and total compliance without sacrificing fine motor skills, rational decision making, practical skills, and communication. Since these types of Pets often retain their memories, however fragmented, best behavioral results come from the subjects voluntarily signing themselves into the system.

Labor Pets are often selected from people from extremely low income or homelessness, refugees, trafficking, prison, or runaways. Rarely, veterans may also be signed in, though symptoms of PTSD may complicate their ability to work heavy machinery.

Laborers may also be from the dregs and the flunkees of any other kind of Pet training. They will require more training, thus, laborers sourced from other Pets may preform better in "simpler" jobs, such as clothing factories or working on farms and plantations.

While laborers should be able to endure extreme working conditions, heavy-handed punishments (deprivation, amputation, disfiguring) are entirely unnecessary, and will only be a waste of product.

Medical notes: Castration or neutering is generally unnecessary. Heavy monitoring during private time is often nil. Sterilization in males is only needed if the subject has a history of letting its sexual wants impede work.

Females must undergo a mandatory ovariohysterectomy, though circumcision is unnecessary.

Labor Pets' lifespans are somewhat longer than other pets, averaging to 55 (discounting workplace accidents, violence from master to pet, and pet to pet violence). While aging may take away value and capability in the mid thirties, they may continue to work well to 70. Past this age, however, it is in the best interest to both the master and the Pet to euthanize it, as the resource strain to support a geriatric Pet for the sake of an extra set of hands will be be much more of a hindrance than it could help.

[izzydeadjet]

Interrogation commentators really do pause on a suspect scratching their face and start saying shit like, "Face-scratching is a self-soothing behaviour and a typical sign of BPD. People who have this extreme mental defect are children of the devil and have no regard for human life. Also when this guy was 10 he removed the ladder from a pool on the Sims to watch the characters drown. This guy is a textbook psycho and should die in jail for his crimes but also because he has a condition that cannot be prevented or cured which implies that every neurodivergent person should simply be executed."

[shallowrambles]

I try not to think of SPN as all being in Sam’s head, and the therapy being Chuck’s Shirley’s fucked-up Sybil narrative of treatment which results in a dissolution of all the systems :( but it’s a Reading, all right

[dilfartist]

Selfish

Pairing; Yandere Leon Kennedy x reader

Synopsis; You escape your captor during one of his many missions. You stop by a diner searching for help. What will happen next? Find out by reading

Word count; 3.8K

TW; Kidnapping, non-con touching, Stockholm syndrome, maybe just a tad bit ooc, Yandere (obviously), obsessive behavior, cussing.

Notes; hopefully you enjoy reading. It’s not the best since I’m still maturing as a writer and because of my hiatus; but I hope you enjoy.

!Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!

Sapphire-embellished twilight transitions into dawn’s light blue hue bringing alongside the sun. Birds sang good morning to one another, on their side of the forest. You ambled down the road that ceased the strong odored forest from connecting.

You stared at the endless road up ahead. Night to morning, ahead of you was forest and road. Perhaps this reason is why your captor moved into the isolated forest since raccoon city incident.

Or maybe he wanted to live a life of normalcy given the opportunity; the monsters he claimed he fought, seemingly every month, stressed him greatly and you noticed. Plus, he mentioned he needed a vacation frequently.

You pause, double-checking onward on the ostensibly never-ending road. Was your hard work a waste of time?

Looking back on the way he treated you, you pondered if it would have been smarter to stay home. Most days he wasn't overbearing. Once in a while, he’d annoy you, other than that he was tolerable. Besides being unable to leave the house unattended and having no say in choices at times, he gave you more freedom than most.

But then you remember the day before. At the crack of dawn, he’d left for a mission: bidding you goodbye with a note and breakfast at your night table side. You were left all alone, so naturally you sought a form of entertainment.

The television; Which was your only option.

You were clicking through the television channels when you came across a crime documentary. The story was similar to your personal life so you continued to watch the channel.

The story was about a woman, age twenty-three, who was kidnapped for around four years. During her kidnapping, she fell deeply in love with her kidnapper to the point they had to detach her from the cop car when they arrested him.

In your situation, you’ve been abducted for at least eight months. Her situation only took a year till she developed Stockholm syndrome.

Clarified by the show as the psychological condition of a victim who identifies with and empathizes with their captor or abuser and their goals.

Learning this information a thought came to mind.

Would you become like her once it hits New Year's? Loyal to a man that took you away from society. No. You refused to allow the same situation to happen to you.

You’d never allow it to happen.

When it came to the relationship your captor so desperately longed for with you, you caused many difficulties to prevent any form of romance.

Any attempt at affection had him pushed away or smacked. Discussion about the past before your absconding was simply ignored. And in general, you kept your distance from him. Well, at least you tried to. He stays at your hip like a lost puppy majority of the time he has off work, talking your ear off. There was no way in hell you’d fall for him. Not after the months you spent in that isolated house.

Regardless of how certain you were, you mulled over it some more. You finally concluded running. So far, you felt regret and relief.

Out of nowhere, a loud reverberating sound of a car grew closer, arising behind you. You quickly spun around to see what the sound originated from.

The engine growled, sending a ping of fright to your heart. You spent no time thinking about Leon’s reaction to your escape. However, now your mind consumes thoughts of his response.

Could your captor's fury be so robust that the car in the distance embodied his rage? Knowing him since your best friend introduced you to the man becoming a rookie cop in raccoon city; you’ve never seen him enrage.

From time to time his witty replies and mean scowl would showcase his anger. Of course, that didn't mean his rage wasn't feasible. But never had you ever witnessed a stronger emotion from him.

Inching closer, you were able to discern the details of the car. It was a massive black car, with tinted windows. A car your captor might arrive home with after a mission. It announced its presence with its vociferous roaring.

You observe with dread blooming in the pit of your stomach, every other part of your body tingled.

Although the person driving the car was yet to be revealed, you were petrified, stuck in place like you had been glued onto the concrete below you.

It must be him.

Why else would they be heading so fast toward you?

Already, you’re willing to surrender. Your captor is a forgiving person when it comes to you, so there’s a likelihood he’ll forgive you if you cooperate.

Standing on the side of the road, you acquiescently wait for the car to stop. Waiting for him to take you back to your prison.

The car slows but even then it's at a fast pace. The car passes you momentarily. Slightly it reverses until the passenger window is in front of you. Unhurriedly, the shadowy window rolls down. In the driver's seat, instead of who you believed it to be, it was a woman.

She looked to be in her middle thirties. She wore black sunglasses in her strawberry-blonde hair, a red blouse with denim jeans. Her makeup reminded you of Jennifer Tilly in Bride of Chucky, but she wore a sweet smile.

“Oh my lord, are you alright darling?” The woman asked like you were a child outside without a jacket in the freezing winter.

You continued to stare at her. You wanted to say something, but your throat felt drier than sandpaper. You opened your mouth, wheezing a bit as you sipped the fresh air. “I don't know,” you responded as loud as you possibly could. So barely above a whisper.

“Do you know where you are?”

“No.”

“Are you safe?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

The woman shook her head disapprovingly, then she began to throw whatever laid in the passenger seat into the backseats. “Come on sugar, get inside. I’ll give you a ride.”

“Okay, thank you.”

She reached over and pushed the passenger door open. You entered the vehicle, settled in, and got comfy. You buckled in making sure you heard the reassuring click.

“There you go,” she commented with a smile. “Now, we're going to make a stop by a gas station, then we’ll find out what we can do with you. Is that alright?

You smiled back, “Yeah, I don't mind.”

The car began to ride forward and the air conditioning blew on your overheated body. You relished the cold air. You hadn't realized how hot it had been outside, even in the early morning. Where were you?

You put that thought aside. Now you needed to worry about something to drink and eat.

“Do you…have anything to drink or eat?” you glanced at the woman.

She nodded. “Of course sweety! Why didn't I offer before?” she looked away from the street to grab a half-empty bottle of water from the side of the driver's door. “Sorry, that's the only drink I have at the moment.” she apologizes.

Without a second thought, you unscrewed the cap off the water and chugged the water. Water had never tasted so refreshing before. It was like you’d been roaming in the desert for hours on end and finally found a source of water.

The woman glances at you. You must have looked crazy. “How long have you been out there?”

“Since eight last night.” You sounded better. No more raspy voice that hurts you to speak. “I should have packed a bag but something came up.”

Before you left the house last night, you weren't in your right mind. Your captor never gave you an exact time he’d be home. His return ranged between the eight at night, the dead of night, the crack of dawn, or the morning. Recently, he’d been arriving home at eight. Which is the reason you left with nothing. Looking back, you had no confidence in yourself at getting away. You believed you were going to be caught in a matter of ten minutes. Now look at you.

You turned to the woman, “Thanks…” She finishes the sentence with her name. “Amanda.” You nod rephrasing your sentence, “Thanks Amanda for picking me up.”

Amanda smiles again, this time wider showing off her pearly white teeth. “I couldn't just leave you out there. Now, what’s your name?”

You tell her your name and hope she somehow knows it. Maybe the news reported you missing when you weren’t watching. You hoped so.

Rather than freaking out, realizing she had found a missing person, she simply responded with a “nice to meet you.” You died a little at the rejoinder.

Did no one care enough to report your absence? Not your family or close friends, no one attempted to reach out to the police?

No. You’re just overthinking. Not everyone watches the news or actively looks for missing people. You just had to be around more people. Someone was bound to know your identity.

Still, you can’t ignore the way your hands shake at the thought of being forgotten.

“So what were you out there for? If you don’t mind sharing that is.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. What were you to say? Tell her the truth and find out she was with your captor the whole time or keep your mouth shut and have no help in case he does find you.

A white lie would help.

“Escaping my abusive boyfriend.”

A frown pulled at the woman’s plump lips, her eyebrows scrunching together at your answer. “Do I need to the cops, family members?”

“No,” you responded quickly and harshly. The car fell silent. You took a small breather before speaking. “No, thank you.”

“Please, tell me, is there anything else I can do to help you any further?”

You needed cash, shelter, and a job. There was only one thing you were sure she could help you with. “ I need money and a hotel.”

“Don't worry, I got you covered,” she said softly.

The car began to slow when she placed her foot on the break. She turned the car and moved into a spot that contained a combination of a gas station and an old fashion diner. She parked the car next to a gas pump, then powered it off.

She dug into the middle counsel, pushing around pens and important items, and pulled out a pink wallet. She unzipped the front zipper and pulled out some money.

Amanda held the cash out to you, “Here’s 100 dollars. There's enough for lasting food, a hotel to stay, and a bus.”

You unbuckle your seatbelt just to hug her tightly. “Thank you!” you repeat over and over, like an unanswered prayer. She returned the hug, telling you she didn't mind lending you some service. The hug ended and you needed to plan your next move. What would you spend your money on first?

Well, all you knew was what you’d spend what was given to you on something important.

You looked out the window. Your eyes shift toward the diner. Mo’s dinner was on the sign, “been here since the ’50s.” which was written below.

Right. Food. You haven't eaten since yesterday. Walking as long as you did, you tried to forget your hunger and focus on the main goal of finding shelter or at least some safety.

“I think I’ll have myself a hot breakfast!” you announced. Amanda unlocked the passenger door, “go right ahead. Enjoy your freedom.” You nod, fleeing the car akin to a little kid whose mother gave them money for an ice cream from the ice cream truck.

The entrance bell chimes when you open the door to the cream-colored establishment. Once inside, you settled yourself in a booth in the far back. An old jukebox plays aged music ranging from the 70s to the ’50. Besides you, there was a single person in the restaurant. A man at the bar sipping his morning coffee whilst reading the newspaper.

You extend your arm over to the menu across the table. The menu displays numerous appetizing dishes, varying from breakfast to a juicy steak dinner.

Flipping the page your eyes landed on a mouthwatering breakfast sandwich, including bacon, egg, and cheese.

“Hello ma’am, I’m Stephanie, I’ll be serving you this morning. What would you like?”

You placed the menu aside to give the waitress your whole attention. The woman was of average height, wearing a pink uniform that reminded you of the 50s. She wore a smile that did not reach her black doe eyes. “Did you hear any of that?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” you said sincerely, feeling anxious about possibly pissing her off. “Could I have a number six and a sweet tea?”

“Of course, is that it?”

“Umm…yeah, that’s it.”

“Alright then,” she replied disinterestedly. She left quickly, retreating to the kitchen.

You continue gazing at the closed door to the kitchen. What else could you do? You should have brought along something to entertain you, then again there wasn't much back at the house you called a jail cell. For the remainder of the waiting duration, you’d have your thoughts to amuse your lethargy.

Ding Ding

Instinctively, your head turned. 50s music began to fade, superseded by the loud thumping of your heart. Your breathing became shaky, parallel to your hands. Dirty blonde hair is what you see first. It’s him! You repeat in your head, like a religious prayer.

“Jessica, hey!” you heard a joyous exclamation. You watch as the man from the bar rushes over to the person entering the restaurant. Your anxiety left as quickly as it came. A hand places itself onto your cheat, and on the spot your heart thumped rapidly. You had to calm down. You took deep breaths, and your heart slowed with each sip of air. You rest your head on the table.

After taking the time to calm yourself, you analyzed the restaurant furthermore. Now, the place was vacant, since the man had left. Fifteen minutes passed and you found a newspaper from the newspaper rack adjacent to the front entrance.

Nothing in the article was new to you. At your captor’s home, you watched the news almost once a week to see if anyone had reported your disappearance. Nothing ever came up though. At least you were up to date with everything going on.

Your waitress finally returned, carrying your meal on a maroon-colored tray in her left hand. “Sorry for the wait, ma’am. Kitchen malfunction.” she apologized, giving you a guileless smile. This would be the only expression besides tedium that you’d receive from her.

“It's alright,” you said, watching as she placed the food on the table for you to dig into. She left carrying the tray back to the kitchen she emerged from.

You took a bite of the sandwich, chewing slowly to savor the flavor. Juicy and delicious are solely vivid words to illustrate the taste. The egg had a spongy texture that combines well with melted cheese. And the hickory bacon wasn’t too crispy or chewy, it was simply perfect.

Back at the prison, your captor wasn't the best cook. But he tried to be for you. Still, you preferred takeout. Chinese, Italian, and burgers began to become a boring taste on your taste buds. Having a breakfast sandwich was refreshing, to say the least.

“Enjoying your meal, huh?” rough voice inquiries. The question was said cockily but their wrath was audible in the way the last word was spoken.

You stop mid-chew, the overwhelming flavor vanishing from your mind. It now tasted bland. You kept your eyes shut. Were you afraid? No. Afraid couldn't explain the ineffable amount of dread you felt at the moment. Ruffling could be heard on the opposite side of the table; He was sitting down. Your eyes open involuntarily like your body already knew what he wanted it to do.

Across the table, seating snugly is your captor; Leon Kennedy. He looks rougher than the last time you’ve spoken. The dark circle underneath his eye has grown darker. His brunette roots have begun peaking out ruining his natural blonde facade. And he looked exhausted. Must have stayed up all night looking for you.

He looked more than pissed. He appeared disgruntled. Compared to Leon, you were small. But now, Leon was like a giant towering over you. Despite never abusing you in any shape or form, your body shakes like a leaf in the wind. The way he glares down at you drives you to shift uncomfortably in your seat.

“Do you know how long I've been up for, y/n?” he asks whilst pulling out a flask from his jacket pocket.

Regardless of how parched you are, you force yourself to converse with him. “No,” you're voice is brisk and faint.

“Two days. For two days I’ve been on my feet.” He takes a swig of the flask and then continues to rant. “I could have joined you in bed and fallen asleep, but there was a problem. You weren't anywhere.”

He shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What the hell is the matter with you? You could have gotten hurt. You probably are.”

Leon is getting angrier, you can tell by the way the furrowed eyebrows deepen and his frown morphs into a glower, as he utters each sentence.

“I’m sorry.” That's all you can say. It's all that comes to mind.

“Sorry won’t make up for the scars you've gotten.” he retorts angrily.

Now you're mirroring his expression. You’re angry and tired as well. Definitely not as tired as him but still tired. “You’re acting as if I didn't have a good reason to run.” you petulantly cross your arms, akin to a child not getting a toy from the store.

Leon wasn’t delusional. Back in the day, when he was a rookie cop, in some aspects he was delusional. However, as the years continue to pass so does his past self. Leon understands what he has done to you is inhumane, but he can’t help it. He kept you locked away for a reason. You won’t get hurt with him by your side.

Leon sighs, closing his eyes and leaning closer with his forearms on the table. “I know, I know.”

You tilt your head, “really? So, why are you mad at me?”

His eyes open, displaying icy-blue orbs. They hold Empathy in them. Empathy Leon has a difficult time communicating to you.

“I keep you in the house for your safety.” He began, taking your hands into his own. “To keep our relationship safe.”

“But I don’t want a relationship with you.”

“I know.”

“So why are you forcing me to stay with you?!”

Leon’s hands squeezed yours, provoking a cry out of you. “All my life I’ve been a generous man. I saved many and gave up my life for others. I’m always providing for someone else and rarely caring for myself. And the one thing I yearn for to the point I was convinced I deserved it. It was you.”

For a beat, he ceases his gabbing. Leon stares down at your connected hands, his thumb starts rubbing against the back of your hand. It’s a domestic act that earns your displeasure.

“For once, allow me to be selfish,” he mumbles, eyes slowly trailing up to meet yours. His lips press your hand, giving it a chaste kiss. “You’re the only thing I’ll fight to keep for myself.”

Part of you wishes the relationship was normal. Leon truly did care for you, and you still cared for him, But he did something unforgiving. He took away your free will.

“...you can’t just steal a person, Leon. You can’t expect me to love you.”

“I don’t.”

“So why won’t you let me go? You still have Ada, don’t you? You were more into her than me. Why isn’t she in my position?”

“Because I love you, not her. You haven't betrayed me. Well, not until now.” he jokes, letting out a faint chuckle.

Leon pulls out his wallet, his fingers sliding through the pockets to find his card. “Wrap your food up. We’re leaving.” he puts his wallet back in his back pocket, “Be right back. Stay here.” he commanded sternly.

The waitress is at the bar, cleaning the counter with a blue rag. Leon approaches her with an “Excuse me.”

Leon put too much faith in you because you were on your feet immediately when his back was turned. You quietly inched towards the door and ever so slowly dragged the door inwards. Leon was distracted, the waitress deciding she’d flirt with him despite seeing you and him together. You manage to slip through the door before Leon notices your second escape attempt.

You bolt out the door when you hear the enraged roar of your name from behind. You grip the railing to the stairs, running down them, tripping a couple of times. You don’t look but you know Leon’s on your tail. The door slams against the wall, the bell ringing loudly.

“Y/n, get back here!”

Amanda’s car was still parked by the gas pump. You sprint towards it, slipping through the tight space of the car and the gas pump. Luckily for you, Amanda was in the car, applying her strawberry-pink lipstick.

“Amanda!” you shout, startling her enough that she drags the lipstick across her cheek. She shouts, frightened by your sudden appearance. She looks at you, like you're crazy. She says your name to clarify the person at her window, “What are you doing.”

You shake your head, “yo-you gotta help me, he-” you say breathlessly.

“Hey, Amanda.” you hear Leon’s voice call out. Unlike you, he isn’t out of breath. Thanks to his military training. Amanda peeks her head out the window, she smiles waving at Leon. “Hey, Lee!”

Your eyes widen till it’s physically impossible to widen anymore. She knows Leon. Your body feels numb as you watch them interact like old friends. You feel like you aren’t real at the moment. Like you're watching the scene unfold outside your body.

“Sorry, she just came back from the hospital. She isn’t in her right mind right now.” Leon excuses, leading you to his car like a shepherd's dog guiding the sheep to its pen.

Amanda nods as she understands completely. “No worries, I’m just glad I found her before she hurt herself.”

Leon puts you in the passenger seat and closes the vehicle door. The keys lock the door from the inside, so you are left choiceless.

Leon joins you in the driver’s seat, definitely too angered to chide you. He seethed quietly, powering on the engine with the quick twist of the car keys.

Wordlessly, you buckle up. You wouldn’t make an endeavor to anger Leon any further.

You’d allow him to be selfish. Allow him to have you.

What other option did you have now?

[whygalaxy]

Poor bunny in a golden cage

♡⃕ Relationship} Yandere! Abusive! C!Quackity x Bunny Hybrid! Fem! Reader

♡⃕ Summary} "Quackity was obsessed with you. Your greedy parents beat you to him… What could go wrong?"

♡⃕ TW.} Abusive relationship; Mention of abuse (Physical and Psychological); Non Con explicit; Choking; Sadism; threats; Your parents being jerks; Quackity being extremely abusive; False imprisonment; Mention of stalker; possessive; Dacryphilia; Rough sex; dumbfication; Mild Stockholm syndrome; Mild Size Kink.

♡⃕ Notes} English is not my first language, there may be mistakes. I'm sorry for anything. Not reviewed (Please, it's two in the morning)

This fanfic may not be suitable for sensitive people

You and your parents, a small family of hybrid bunnys, move to Las Nevadas, hoping to find a better living condition. Your parents were constantly arguing recently, as they were poor and wanted to find a new way to earn money.

You sold some carrot cupcakes that you made, in the poorest part of Luxurious City, but it didn't bring in as much profit as your parents would have liked - “300 Dollars a month is a pittance! You can’t buy anything!” Your father screamed, invalidating all your efforts.

୭  🩹 ✧ ˚.  ᵎᵎ  🩸

It was a silent night, and you were here, trying to sell at least half of your carrot cupcakes. You could hear some laughter in the distance, you look around, finding two silhouettes walking towards you.

They keep walking, walking straight past you. "Hang on!" You shout. The men turn to look at you, they were both wearing luxurious clothes, they didn't look like they were from here… The man with long black hair caught your attention.

“W-Wouldn’t you guys.. want to buy a carrot cupcake?… it’s only 10 dollars…” You stutter shyly, looking down, your ears flat against your head. The smaller one seemed excited, dirty with green goo. He runs to the stall, grabs one and quickly hands over the money. He takes a bite, savoring the flavor - “it’s very good, Mrs. Bunny!” He says, sounding like a child, you laugh, finding him adorable.

You could feel the other man's gaze on you, you look at him from the corner of your eye. He had a strange gleam in his eyes… Almost… Scary…

The small man waves at you, walking away. The taller man looked at you for a moment longer, before turning and walking away, without saying a word.

୭  🩹 ✧ ˚.  ᵎᵎ  🩸

It's been a week since you saw the strange man. Your parents were fighting more and more, and this time, they were cursing you too, saying how useless you were and how you didn't make money for them.

But one day… You come home after a long day of selling cupcakes, your parents were strangely quiet… no fighting…

You see them sitting on the couch, a big smile on their faces. How strange… “Honey! My lovely girl!” Your mother says, getting up to hug you, you thought this was strange, your parents weren't that affectionate… Your father gets up too, hugging you - “You will bring great profit to our family!” he says with an awkward smile.

You were confused, I didn't understand what was happening. What were they referring to? You look at both of them confused - “W-What’s going on?…” You ask, completely confused by the situation.

“The President liked you! Then we sell you for 1.5 million!” His mother screams in joy, making his eyes widen. They… Sold you?! What do you mean, how was that possible? They were your parents, they were supposed to love you, not discard you. You could feel your eyes filling with tears.

“I-I… I can’t accept this… I…” You say, trying to move away. But your parents stop you, they couldn't let your merchandise go out like that. Your mother grabs a glass of water, you were too shaken to notice anything. “Drink, darling.. it will help you” She says, handing you the glass, helping you sit on the couch. You drink, but you feel strangely drowsy, your eyes meeting a black blur, and then you collapse onto the couch.

୭  🩹 ✧ ˚.  ᵎᵎ  🩸

You wake up lying down in a comfortable place, your eyes were still blurry, but they quickly adjusted to the light of the place. You sit up, realizing you were on a bed, you look around the room. It was an extremely luxurious room, with shades of gold and red, your eyes widen and shine at the luxurious place you had never seen before.

The room seemed to have some childish tones, with some pink and white touches scattered throughout the room, the bed was full of stuffed animals, mainly rabbits. You get out of bed, trying to explore the room. But as soon as you stand up and take two steps forward, you fall onto the fluffy rug that surrounded the bed. It felt like something was making it impossible for you to walk freely.

You turn around to look at what had made you fall. Your eyes widened, a chain stuck around your ankle, maybe it was the drugs that were in your drink, but you hadn't noticed it before, and it was pretty tight apparently…

You get up, sit on the bed, staring at the big door that was in front of it, your ears pressed against your head, waiting for something to happen… Suddenly, the door opens, your ears quickly perk up.

Your eyes widened when you saw who it was. It was the strange man from that day… Wait, he was the president of this country? He walks up to you, a smile on his face, highlighting the gold tooth he had. You pull away, bumping into the headboard in the process.

He sits on the bed, next to you. He reaches out to caress your cheek, with a gentle smile on his face - “My little bunny… so adorable… you're mine now” He says, his face getting closer to yours, you could feel his breath.

After your first meeting, Quackity felt strangely attracted to you. A shy, small, adorable little thing. So sweet and submissive…it seemed extremely fun to break you.

Quackity chased you for that week, and the more and more he found out about you… the more obsessed he was.

Now you were in this place, totally trapped with this maniac… you didn't know what he had in store for you, and you were afraid of it.

He pulls you closer, stroking your hair. You could hear him whisper - “So beautiful… So small… So… mine”

୭  🩹 ✧ ˚.  ᵎᵎ  🩸

One month… one month you were with this maniac, and the feeling was the same as being in hell.

Cuts and purple marks spread all over your body, Quackity took out all his anger on you. He would hit you and cut you, just for his sadistic pleasure, he loved seeing you crying and screaming. Watching you break down little by little, only to become an empty mind completely submissive to him.

It was currently almost two in the morning, the ticking clock noise could be heard. You were trying to sleep but you couldn't, you had a feeling something bad was going to happen… You were currently lying in bed, wearing only a Quackity shirt that was much bigger than you.

Suddenly, the door opens, revealing Quackity. His white blouse had the first three buttons open, his tie was untied. You could smell alcohol and cigarettes coming from him.

He walks towards you, crooked steps indicating he was drunk. You look at him, completely scared, not knowing what he could do to you, trying to move away, but the chain on your ankle stopped you from going that far.

He sits on the bed, grabbing your wrist and pulling you closer to him, your head against his chest. You could feel him smelling your hair - “So sweet…” He whispers in his slightly drunken tone of voice.

You could feel their hands moving over your body. You let out a slight scream when you feel their hands squeezing your ass, you try to move away. He wouldn't do that to you… would he?

He spanks your ass - “Be quiet, be a good girl and accept this. I don’t want to hurt you” His tone of voice was threatening, you were shaking with fear. He pushes you, laying you down on the bed.

He lifts your big shirt that you were wearing, exposing your small breasts, he smiles… You were so cute. He bends down, taking one nipple into his mouth, starting to suck while playing with the other. You moan as his tongue grazes your hard nipple. You scream when you feel him bite your nipple hard, causing tears to run down your eyes.

You could feel him smile, you try to stay quiet, knowing that if you stayed quiet, it would be less worse. He leaves hickey marks on his chest, red and that would probably turn purple later. He forcefully opens your legs, ripping off your panties, clearly out of patience.

He lets out an irritated sigh when he feels that you're not wet for him at all - “I can't believe you're going to make me do this…” He says in a growl. You start to moan softly when you feel his thumb start to rub your clit, and soon one of his fingers enters you, preparing you for his cock.

He was out of patience, trying to finish this as quickly as possible so he could get his cock inside you. One finger soon becomes two, two fingers soon become three. His pace was relentless, you could feel yourself getting closer and closer. You were extremely sensitive, the stimulation on your clit combined with the relentless rhythm of his fingers inside you dragged you closer and closer to your limit.

You scream as you cum, your juices running down his fingers. He smiles, removing his fingers from inside you, taking them to his mouth to taste your juices - “So sweet… So sensitive…” He whispers, starting to take off his clothes. He completely unbuttons his white shirt, the red tie at the sides, he pulls his pants and underwear down. His hard cock springs out, its reddened tip oozing precum.

Your eyes widened, heavens… He was big! He holds your hips tightly, positioning his cock in front of your throbbing entrance. You scream as he thrusts inside you, even though you were prepared, it still hurt.

You cry as he pushes his cock all the way inside you, the tip hitting your cervix. He at least had the decency to wait for you to adjust. But soon he starts moving, his pace is never slow, but strong and fast. Hitting your cervix hard, leaving it bruised.

You screamed with each thrust, tears streaming down your rosy cheeks. You hated yourself for this, hated yourself for enjoying this. You scream too loudly when his tip hits your G-spot, making you cum hard. He laughs, laughs at how pathetic you are.

He reaches out with both hands, his big hands wrap around your small neck, squeezing lightly. You wrap your small hands around his wrist. trying to push him away? or pull him closer? you don't know anymore.

He continued to fuck you hard, making you more and more stupid. His thrusts soon began to become sloppy, indicating that he was getting closer as well. He soon stops brutally, his grip on your neck tightens, leaving you gasping for air, your nails scratching his wrists as he fills you with hot cum.

You cum again, squeezing his cock as your pussy sucks up his cum. He soon lets go of your neck, red handprints around your neck as you start to breathe again. He pulls his soft cock out of you, laying down next to you as he pulls you closer.

He kisses your forehead and lips, smelling your hair - “My bunny… My good girl… My everything… Mine, just mine..." He says breathlessly, hugging you tightly as he started to sleep. You sit there thinking, maybe it wouldn't be so bad to be a good girl for him… In this beautiful luxurious room, like a golden cage…

<3

[vryfmi]

silent boy theory

bringing this theory back because ive been rotating it nonstop

[mild book spoilers!]

skull is characterised by his voice and snarky comments that Lucy has to put up with during their conversations, as well as the whispering tone which is heavily emphasised throughout the series. so when Dulac references to Bickerstaff's servant boy (aka skull) as "that silent Boy" in her confessions it really clashes with skull's personality as we know it.

TL;DR: my theory is that skull was mute or on a verge of losing his voice due to sickness, caused by working conditions and Bickerstaff's abandonment. thus, his ghost can't recall his healthy voice and can only whisper.

[id from alt text: a photo of the passage from the book with line "that silent Boy" being emphasised by image's dimensions./end id]

firstly, it's the whispering skull. not quietly talking skull, not its-voice-sounds-far-away skull. whispering.

‘Because you sure as hell look it.’ It was the lowest, throatiest of whispers; alien, but familiar. I’d heard it once before. (TWS) The hoarse whisper came from somewhere close behind my ear. ‘I say stab them first, ask questions later! That’s your only sensible option.’ (THB)

argument could be made, that silver-glass muffles the voice and it becomes quieter. but here's a thing - whisper is a voice alteration, not a sound quality. when whispering, vocal cords don't vibrate, and produced speech has a different phonation. so whisper and quiet speech are technically two different things.

secondly, skull's work field and conditions. as a young servant, skull was able to see visitors and ward them off Bickerstaff and his master's friends, while they were robbing graves for potential sources. ghosts radiate cold, temperature can drop down to 5 degrees centigrade, that much we know from books, that's why agents are wearing jackets and gloves during ghost hunting cases. and skull's ghost was described as wearing only a shirt and ill fitting trousers, while also being barefooted.

It was the first time I’d ever really looked at him, at the spirit that he truly was. He wore a white shirt and gray trousers that were slightly too short for his bony legs. His feet were bare. He’d still been young when he died. (TEG)

with Bickerstaff's obsession and apparent blindness to anything else that wasn't his device, it's safe to say that he would neglect skull's needs and didn't bother to get his servant any proper clothes, not to mention shoes, which at the time were expensive, since children constantly need shoes as they grow up, and it wasn't uncommon for children from lower class to not have shoes at all and walk barefooted.

that said, my theory is that skull came down with sickness while grave robbing, and Bickerstaff ignored it (mainly because he was a psych doctor, not a medical one), skull's condition worsened and turned into laryngitis. without treatment, his vocal cords got damaged, resulting in loss of voice.

[now, im in no way educated to diagnose a fictional character and there can be mistakes in my logic (like how skull could have lost his voice prior to Bickerstaff), but i went down a rabbit hole and need to share this.]

there's a condition that fits the description of person losing their voice or only be able to talk in whisper, it's called aphonia. there are multiple common causations for this condition, namely psychological, but organic aphonia is caused by damage on vocal cords or throat, that could have happened due to disease or physical trauma. (source)

it's also worth pointing out that any voice disorders in children and teenagers affects the way they socialise and behave. gestures and facial expressions become alternative to communication when voice is too weak for speech or it is painful to talk.

Someone had knocked the cloth off the ghost-jar, and the face had re-materialized. It pulled extravagant expressions of horror and disgust whenever I passed by. (TWS)

‘You know the rules: minimal manifestations, no rude faces, and absolutely no talking.’ The ghost looked wounded. ‘I wasn’t talking, was I? Do you call this talking? Or this?’ It pulled a rapid series of grotesque expressions, each one worse than the last. (THB)

and finally, Lucy. she almost undeniably plays a role of interpretor that passes down what skull says, since others have no way of communicating with him or, more specifically, no way of hearing him. it all does seem to fit perfectly together (at least to me) so i can't stop wondering of how intentional any of that was on Stroud's behalf. then yet again, Stroud did say that that he had a draft for skull's backstory but scraped it in favour of keeping his character as mysterious as possible. some elements could've stayed in the final version of the books, who knows.

[gabrielsbubblegumbitch]

asking for Velvette Dx and/or head canons if it's not too much hassle! Plz and ty!

tw // suicide

I would like to preface all my posts on headcanons related to psychology and mental illness with a disclaimer: diagnosing mental conditions, especially personality disorders, can be extremely challenging. It's a complicated process that relies heavily on a psychologist's interpretation of facts, making it susceptible to biases. Personality disorders cannot be diagnosed based on surface-level observations and are not just labels that we can assign to people like in the case of MBTI. Additionally, I am not a clinician with any expertise in diagnosing people. Therefore, the following post should not be taken as a reliable professional opinion. It's simply my interpretation of the internal mechanisms that may be responsible for the behavior of certain characters in my fan fiction. Furthermore, I want to make it clear that I have no intention of stigmatizing people with personality disorders by associating them with villains. A personality disorder does not determine someone's character or make them a bad person. Some characters may be evil because of the choices they make, not as a result of their mental conditions.

So, as I mentioned, I headcanon Velvette as having an Antisocial Personality Disorder. It is characterized by lack of sympathy or empathy for the rights of others, while simultaneously acting charming and interpersonally manipulative.

❤️ Throughout her childhood, Velvette lived exclusively with her father in the impoverished and sketchy part of the city. Her father worked a lot to earn them living but at the same time he drank a lot and while drunk tend to be aggressive. Also he surrounded himself with bad people. In my mind Velvette can deal with Vox and Val's shit so well because since she was little she was surrounded by unpredictable and violent men. At this point she couldn't be less scared of them.

❤️ She endured relentless bullying during her school years due to her inability to afford stylish clothes and gadgets. This was particularly hurtful for her, given her deep passion for fashion. Velvette devoted all her free time to design stunning looks, harboring a fervent desire to be able to wear them.

❤️ Around 12, she figured that following rules was pointless, being in a disadvantaged position due to her family's poverty. The sole way to boost her social status, in her view, was to break those rules. This extended beyond minor offenses like stealing groceries; she engaged in more serious crimes, such as taking money, clothes, and jewelry from stores and individuals. She never felt any remorse for these actions; to her, they were merely a means to achieve her goals, regardless of the harm inflicted on others.

❤️ She never finished her education because sticking to school rules wasn't her forte. She had the smarts and charm to sidestep juvenile detention. Despite concerns from a few individuals, we all know how well the system deals with "troubled teens." Besides, her father wasn't bothered by psychologists' opinions as long as she was bringing in some cash.

❤️ As a young woman she used her charm to manipulate men and take advantage over them. While she contemplated sex work as an easy money-making avenue, she found men too repulsive to engage in it. Instead, her preferred method involved blackmail – she seduced married men, particularly the submissive ones drawn to her aggression and coldness. Through this, she gathered intelligence and skillfully weaponized it against them.

❤️ At some point, she blew up as this super popular influencer. It kicked off with her sharing cool, low-cost looks on the internet. People loved her sassy attitude and creative stuff. But as she got more famous, it stopped being about creativity and turned into a power trip. She built a cult-like following around herself and started abusing her power. Being openly mean worked in her favor online – people ate it up, especially when she got into online fights. No matter how wild it got, no one could successfully cancell her. Actually, I think Vox really admires her talent for stirring up drama. He pushed her several times to get on some reality show, thinking it'd make the ratings explode. But the darkest stuff Velvette pulled wasn't out there for everyone to see. It all went down in her DMs. She justified it as "finally getting justice from rich white brats," using her influence to get teens to pull off crimes and risky stuff. She even manipulated at least two depressed kids into taking their own lives. When shit hit the fan, and she knew prison was coming, she took it as one last chance to torment people. During a "live stream apology," she commmited suicide in front of thousands of people.

❤️ In the show, it's evident that she's downright rude. Not just to Carmilla and the other overlords, but also towards Vox and her own employees. The lack of sensitivity and respect for others, coupled with a strong sense of superiority and being extremely opinionated, are typical traits associated with Antisocial Personality Disorder (APD). My girl literally got song called Respectless.

❤️ She disregards any kind of authorities and when someone tries to impose their will onto her, she's going berserk.

❤️ She genuinely couldn't care less about what people think of her; she despises people that much. In fact, being hated now excites her because she knows she's untouchable and influential and it makes everyone even more angry.

❤️ She's extremely reckless, even if she knows it could hurt her – another trait associated with APD. While we observe Vox and Valentino able to behave when necessary, Velvette storms into overlords' meetings guns blazing and starts with insulting everyone, even though she aims to convince them to align with Vs.

❤️ She struggles to form genuine connections with other people. Still, she's got a soft spot for Vox and Val, sort of considering them her friends. At the same time, she sees them as just a couple of guys she can easily play to her advantage.

Vox hc | Valentino hc

[forsoobado137]

Nations and Medical Treatment

I feel like nations in Hetalia don't have good histories with hospitals. Due to their mysterious functions and inhuman nature, it's difficult to find solutions to their complex medical issues. I have a list of headcanons on how nations are treated medically. tw for medical malpractice.

In the modern day, nations are usually assigned an extensively trained physician. Multiple nations often see the same doctor.

Certain hospitals that are frequented by nations are often equipped with trained staff. Training videos are provided to every hospital.

Anaesthesia was historically administered rather poorly to nation people. They were either given too little, none at all, or way too much based on biases on how nations tolerate pain. The latest publicized incident occurred in 2014, when America underwent an appendectomy without any anaesthesia. This event and the following lawsuit resulted in a bill being passed making it illegal to deny anaesthetic to nations.

Nations often have physical medical conditions confused for symptoms of being a nation, and vice versa. As a result, a nation’s concerns may be blown off as untreatable, while others are overmedicated for something that is caused by domestic events.

Female nations are less likely to receive proper treatment than male nations. The reasons behind this are due to the lack of studying on female nations as well as misogyny.

It’s a common occurrence for nation medicine to not be government approved or tested properly. Very rarely are nation medications actually tested on nations. They are usually run through human trials and then magnified to meet perceived “nation levels”. The largest ever recall for nation medicine was in 2010, when a popular anti-depressant was causing paradoxical side effects.

It’s a common occurrence for hospitals to turn away nations due to the perceived difficulty of treating one.

Many medical textbooks used for training doctors often perpetuate misinformation about proper treatments and dosages, such as the myth that nations have extremely high pain tolerances compared to humans.

Some doctors have expressed contempt for nations requiring medical assistance, believing it to be a “waste of time” due to overestimating their regeneration abilities. Another common belief is that nations are “seeking attention” so they can mimic human experiences.

Due to negative experiences with doctors, many nations have developed hospital-related anxieties and phobias. They often refuse to seek medical attention until it’s life-threatening.

Psychological issues are rarely treated properly. It's common for bosses and government officials to hold off on what they think is unnecessary treatment. Though not all nation psychiatrists are bad, many are only really interested in the paycheck.

[bugs1nmybrain]

Masterlist (18+) ♡☆♡☆♡☆

This is a comprehensive list of all my fics and headcanons. These are all x readers, and the reader is almost always fem. Listed at the end are things that I will write and won't write.

I do take requests!! I have busy schedule though, so it may take up to months for me to get to yours.

Characters I write for: L Lawliet, Tomura Shigaraki, Shouta Aizawa, and Professor Franken Stein, my ocs

I am also a self-shipper! I may post content about my f/os and the time I spend with them. If that makes you uncomfortable, then take a walk!

Minors CANNOT interact with these posts, as 98% of them are nsfw.

Date updated: 8/16/24

L Lawliet ♡♡♡

L Lawliet With a Shy & Insecure Reader (hcs)

Somno/Morning Sex with L (smut fic)

Fem!L x Fem!Reader

Food play with L (self insert smut)

Drunk 69 with L

Voyeurism and Somnophilia with L (smut fic)

L Lawliet x Bipolar Reader (headcanons)

Intricate: L x Chubby! Reader NSFW (smut fic)

Distraction (smut fic)

L x Curvy! Reader (headcanons)

What L Would Do When He's in Love (headcanons)

NSFW Headcanons

L and reader lose their virginities together (smut fic)

The Task Force walks in on you and L making out (fic)

Pet names he'd call you (headcanons)

L x INFP! Reader (headcanons)

L x Short! Reader (headcanons)

L x Reader: First Time Headcanons

L x Chubby! Reader (headcanons)

L SFW Alphabet

L NSFW Alphabet

L Relationship Headcanons

Tomura Shigaraki ♡♡♡

Bipolar!Tomura x fic (one-shot)

Shigaraki x Fem!Reader: Shiggy crushing on reader - Two Part One-shot

Bipolar Shigaraki Headcanons

Fem Shiggy Headcanons

Shigaraki walks in on Re-Destro talking shit about you (short fic)

Shigaraki's Psychological Conditions Headcanons

Shigaraki x Fem!Reader Anal Sex (One-shot fic)

Give Your Heart a Break - shigaraki x reader series

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

Clingy!Tomura x reader hcs

Kisses with Shigaraki (headcanons)

Shigaraki with a Girlfriend Headcanons (w: dub-con/non-con, domestic abuse)

Neko!Shigaraki and Reader smut

Stoned Bathroom Sex with Tomura

Sfw Reverse Comfort MDLB (mommy dom/little boy)

Mommy Kink with Shigaraki (smut fic)

Shigaraki x Chubby! Reader Headcanons

Nasty (Period sex) (smut fic)

NSFW Headcanons

NSFW Alphabet

Shiggy x Short! Reader (headcanons)

Tomura fucking you in front of Dabi (smut fic, TW: dub-con)

Shouta Aizawa ♡♡♡

Professor!Aizawa x College Student (this sucks n is vry ooc)

Aizawa x Bigender reader hcs

Aizawa x reader headcanons

Emotional Support Sex with Shouta

NSFW Headcanons

Aizawa x Bipolar! Reader (headcanons)

Aizawa x Virgin! Reader (smut fic)

Aizawa x Short! Reader (headcanons)

Aizawa SFW Headcanons

Aizawa x College Student! Reader (smut fic)

Aizawa NSFW Headcanons

Aizawa x Chubby! Reader (headcanons)

Aizawa Relationship Headcanons

Franken Stein ♡♡♡

Stein x Immuno-compromised Reader (headcanons)

NSFW Alphabet

Stein x Chubby! Reader (headcanons)

Liela Lovesworth (my oc) ♡♡♡

Confession (sfw)

F/O CONTENT

L x me art

Aizawa and I's 4 yr anniversary post

What I will write♡♡♡!!:

Nsfw/smut

fem characters (ex: fem L, fem Tomura, etc)

fem-reader

enby reader with female anatomy or male anatomy (please specify for nsfw)

male reader but I've never done it

Any character that I write for

fluff

sfw

crack fic

dubcon/noncon

problematic content

Mental illness (bipolar, schizophrenia, ocd, etc)

Mommy/daddy kink

Chubby reader

anal but not rough

What I WON'T write ×!×!×:

Minors/pedophilia

scat

blood/mutilation (with the exception of period sex)

Anything ridiculously out of character

brutal rape (any rape is brutal, but I mean gruesome to the point of no return after I write it)

Yandere (I will write obsessive partners and codependent relationships, but no kidnapping or stuff like that)

violence

Furry (except nekos)

Incest

Characters I don't write for

Chains/leather/etc

[fangsforiris]

I've recently checked out your Yui x female headcanons and I wanna know do you actually think Yui falling in love with the diaboys is just Stockholm syndrome? I know they’re just meant to be head canons but I’m pretty curious about it (but I’m pretty sure she genuinely fell in love with them)

I was waiting for this one!! Here’s an analysis on my end!!

TW FOR PEDOPHILIA, STOCKHOLM SYNDROME, DIABOLIK LOVERS TYPICAL ABUSE.

So let’s start off with who Yui is as a character.

She’s supposed to be written as a sheltered, sweet, and overall empathetic girl who follows a strict moral code, mainly influenced by her religious views (Roman Catholicism).

This is heavily implied as in Romania at the time and as of current, Roman Catholicism is the main religion practiced.

It’s canon that her interactions with men have been controlled, as seen with her father— who did neglect her, leaving her to eat meals by herself, always be home alone, and basically only rely on the nuns for some support— but even then it wasn’t enough.

Hence why she can be considered to be a ‘good housewife’ since she has that experience on knowing how to manage a household with chores and all.

Even further pushing it for her previous relations with men, we know she had friends before— a life before— the house. Men? I would assume she was cordial when needed to be, but never was allowed to heavily interact, which is why she’s so out of date with her speaking, and pop culture— as it’s revealed by Yui, herself, that she doesn’t know that much.

But of course, why is that important? It gives the key foundlings to her environment, and also aids in assessing who’s more susceptible to Stockholm syndrome, and any tactics of abuse.

Basically who is the best ‘target’ for abusers to get too.

Her father canonically has given off-hand sketchy vibes, and also has canonically shown borderline pedophilic behaviours towards his own adoptive daughter. Even going as far as to want and attempt to marry her.

(I’m not sure where that is shown again, but in some MB routes— Kou’s, Ruki’s— he [Seiji, Her adoptive father] meets Yui and assumes she’s a vampire and attempts to kill her.)

Basically, it all starts at home. It sets the ground work for what you can take and what a person is conditioned to believe, etc.

In this case, Yui is conditioned to believe that it’s at least normal for her to appropriate these behaviours, and in a sense, still talk good about the men around her because she doesn’t know any better. She doesn’t know anything other than this.

That’s why she still tries her best to talk about her father is a positive light, because, due to her good heart, wants to believe and see the best and people (a core part in her character which allows her to live and persevere all routes— especially HDB with the boys.)

So due to that, we can take the groundwork presented to us as a Player, Reader, or consumer of the games and Diabolik Lovers Media, that Yui’s relationships and viewpoints of men is formed and directly influenced by her father and what rules he set up.

A psychological fact, everyone’s core parts and associations all start at home, with our parents. That’s why many get their viewpoints of how a man should treat you, via your father figure. And so forth.

It starts with discipline, then forming views and opinions, and overall how the treatment you receive reflects directly what you are constantly engaged and exposed to in your home-life and environment.

So for Yui, we can understand the following—

A) Relations with Father figure (which impacts her views/treatment by men) is shifty, but she still speaks in good light.

B) She is used to being alone, and handling everything herself. Bottling it in as she didn’t have that many outlets other than the obvious religious standpoint.

C) Despite it all, she’s raised to be a good person and is high or quite white, on the scale of morality.

So with that being said, what is Stockholm Syndrome?

Stockholm Syndrome is a diagnosis given when:

A) Feelings of trust or affection felt in many cases of kidnapping or hostage-taking by a victim toward a captor.

B) Hostages sometimes develop a psychological bond with their captors. It is supposed to result from a rather specific set of circumstances, namely the power imbalances contained in hostage-taking, kidnapping, and abusive relationships.

That is the formal definition, given by Oxford Dictionary and Wikipedia (Cited from: King, David [2020], and Jameson, C [2010].)

Which are official reports reviewed by psychologists and psychiatrists who are heavily trained in their field.

Now, we can take it from the anime and HDB (the darkest of the games,) that Reiji implicitly states “You are not able to leave.” To which Subaru replies, “Just tell her that if she attempts to escape she’ll die.”

That in itself tells you there’s no escape. And that from that point on, Yui becomes a hostage. In a house with pre-established men who already are high level threats to Yui, and are highly dangerous.

And what is Yui? She’s afraid. Like any sane person who understands the power difference between a man and a woman— more specifically vampires. She learns this instantly, and also faces threats of bodily harm quick into her stay.

Whatever happens later on in any route, is Yui playing the saviour. She’s expected to cater to every boy, and there are heavy repercussions if she disobeys.

There’s a master post of everything in HDB that occurs when the boys attempt to kill her.

And of course, this doesn’t just start at HDB, this also extends all all games, MB, DF, LE, and just any and all games when there’s an introduction in characters or simply just any routes.

In every route there will be at least some sort of implication of abuse or undertones. As that is what Diabolik Lovers is, a dark video game series.

Point is, if it’s Diabolik Lovers, expect some sort of abuse towards the MC/Yui/Player.

With this basis and mentality in mind, it’s heavy and dark. Which is what lead many previous brides to take their own life. They couldn’t handle the constant pressure nor the abuse being presented to them that they underwent.

So where does Yui fit into all of this?

A) She’s one of the many brides and assumed to be the last bride to enter the house due to her complicated relations with her heart.

B) She is undergoing the abuse of the Sakamaki’s, Mukami’s, Tsukinami’s, and Kino.

C) She is quite literally a victim and survivor of what countless other brides have died to. The only thing keeping her alive is her heart, which also goes to make problems for her in the future.

It’s been stated, highlighted, emphasized and understood by everyone— including Yui herself, that all she is worth is her blood. A blood bag. That is it.

Of course, this is where the Adam and Eve Plan would come into play with Yui finding an Adam out of the candidates.

However, she is still in this environnement which tolerates and even thrives off of her abuse.

Which would, in some routes, condition her to become a masochist, thriving off of her own pain, just because the vampires constantly tell her, gaslight her, and condition her to believe that she likes it.

Even after Yui consistently states she doesn’t.

(This is also influenced by Cordelia’s heart, and what Cordelia is subconsciously pushing Yui too aswell, as seen in HDB, one of the scenes with Shuu as he gets jumped in the alleyway. Her thoughts— driven by Cordelia in the moment— reflect sadistic intent. Another scene where she’s pushed to enjoy her suffering, even when Yui fights against it because somewhere inside her knows it’s wrong.)

However, this isn’t to say that the boys don’t get character development. They do. Which is how we as a consumer and player can have fan favourites and like them.

But how do they get to that point? Through Yui. Using Yui as a direct catalyst to project their abusive tendencies into her, leaving her to pick up the pieces with herself, and become an unlicensed therapist to aid in their problems.

This is directly influenced by each of the Sakamaki’s mommy issues, the Mukami’s inferiority complexes and need to succeed, and for the Tsukinami’s— their need for their race to be saved.

And of course, understanding every boys’ underlying complexities of their individual traumas which make up their character as we know it.

Yui has to suffer a lot for her to get what we see it, or what is painted as, ‘love and a good ending,’ with the selected boy and route of each respective game— along with the boy chosen.

She gets here because she’s slowly conditioned to allow these abusers to take over her life, and basically become what they need in that moment.

But she does have her own personality, her own goals, motivations, and whatnot.

However it becomes overrided by the survivor mentality she’s instantly placed in when she’s constantly around these vampiric men. She’s always on her guard, and the moment she drops it, it’s used against her.

Even when she’s seemingly in a good moment with the boys, understand, that one wrong move can send her straight to death. So everything is much more calculated than it seems.

In fact— to further prove the Stockholm syndrome affect— Yui acknowledges that she’s stuck and trapped. In Shuu’s HDB route, DARK 01, she only attempts to get Shuu to go to his classes in hopes that the Sakamaki’s will be greatful to her and let her leave.

So even if she does happen to find attraction in any of the boys, and fall in love, there’s still an outlining of conditioning that gets her to that point.

This isn’t to hate on anyone that ships Yui with any of the boys, this is simply a brief analysis of the facts from a purely psychological approach!! I’d like to think if the boys got therapy and worked through their problems, perhaps then, they wouldn’t have projected their traumas onto Yui.

But thank you for the ask!! This was fun to analyze!!

[artyandink]

the art of heresy forged 1943

SUMMARY: Modern day, 2022, and you have no clue what’s going on. You knew what you went through. You knew it was real, but why were there people trying to convince you that everything that happened to you wasn’t real. Hell, you called bullshit. But you get your chance to fight back when you get a call at your door.

TW: psychological torture, trauma, angst, drinking, prostitution, smoking, mentions of sex, Ben (cause he’s an individual warning), Ben and Psyke being little shits, it’s The Boys so be careful guys, really creepy shit, alcoholism, shitty dad, literal crack

A/N - divider by @chachachannah

Song Inspo: Confident - Demi Lovato

four - head to the back

1943:

The sound of silverware clinking against porcelain plates filled the modest dining room. The table was set simply, with a mismatched collection of plates and utensils that had seen better days, but they were polished and placed with care. The tablecloth, though worn, was clean, and a small vase of freshly picked wildflowers sat in the center, a touch of beauty in an otherwise plain setting. The smell of roasted chicken and potatoes lingered in the air, mingling with the faint scent of woodsmoke from the hearth.

You moved deftly around the small kitchen, hands familiar with the rhythm of preparing a meal for your family. The task had long since become second nature to you—boiling the potatoes, seasoning the chicken, making sure everything was just right. Though you were only nineteen, you’d taken on the role of caretaker in your family for as long as you could remember.

Edward, your father, sat at the head of the table, his expression a mixture of weariness and disinterest. His shirt was slightly rumpled, and his face bore the marks of too many nights spent with a bottle in hand. Though his presence was imposing, you’d learned to navigate around his moods, finding ways to keep the peace when necessary.

Your mother, Bethany, sat across from him, her thin frame wrapped in a shawl to keep warm. She was frail, her once vibrant eyes dulled by the illness that had taken hold of her over the past few years. Despite her condition, she managed a tired smile as you brought the food to the table.

“Thank you, dear,” Bethany said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. She looked at you with a mixture of pride and gratitude, though there was a sadness in her eyes that you tried to ignore.

“It’s nothing, Mama,” you replied, placing a plate in front of her. “Just rest and let me take care of everything.”

Beside her, your younger siblings, Elizabeth and Henry, waited eagerly for their dinner. Elizabeth was ten, with a mop of unruly curls and a mischievous grin that reminded you of your mother before she fell ill. Henry, just six years old, was wide-eyed and innocent, his curiosity about the world around him untainted by the hardships that had become your daily reality.

“Careful, it’s hot,” you warned as you placed the chicken in the center of the table. Elizabeth and Henry watched you with anticipation, their eyes lighting up as they caught sight of the meal you had prepared.

“Smells delicious, sis,” Elizabeth said, reaching for a potato as soon as you’d placed it in front of her.

“Wait until it’s cool enough to eat,” you chided gently, giving her a fond smile. “You don’t want to burn your mouth.”

Henry giggled, reaching for his fork with both hands. “I won’t burn my mouth. I’ll be really careful!”

You chuckled, ruffling his hair as you took your seat beside him. “I know you will, Henry. You’re always careful.”

Edward watched the scene unfold with a distant gaze, his fingers wrapped around a glass of whiskey. You caught his eye briefly, offering him a small smile, but he only grunted in response, taking a long drink from his glass. The tension in the room was something you were used to by now—your father’s moods were unpredictable, and you’d learned to navigate around them, keeping your siblings safe from his occasional outbursts.

As the family began to eat, the conversation remained light, focusing on the small joys of the day. Elizabeth eagerly shared stories from school, her animated voice filling the room as she recounted her adventures with her friends. Henry, though quieter, chimed in occasionally with his own observations, his youthful enthusiasm infectious.

“And then Miss Turner said we’re going to start a garden at school!” Elizabeth exclaimed, her eyes shining with excitement. “We’ll be growing vegetables and flowers, and we can take some home when they’re ready!”

Bethany smiled softly at her daughter’s excitement. “That sounds wonderful, darling. You’ll have to teach us all about gardening.”

Elizabeth beamed, nodding eagerly. “I will, Mama! I’ll make sure our garden is the best in the whole neighborhood!”

You couldn’t help but smile at Elizabeth’s enthusiasm. It was moments like these that made the difficulties of your life bearable—seeing your siblings happy, even if only for a little while, gave you the strength to keep going.

As the meal continued, you kept an eye on your father, subtly ensuring that his glass remained half-full. You’d learned to manage his drinking as best you could, making sure he didn’t drink too much too quickly. It was a delicate balance, one that required constant attention, but you were determined to maintain it for the sake of your family.

When the meal was finished, you began to clear the table, gathering the plates and utensils while your siblings continued to chatter excitedly about their day. Your mother, exhausted from the effort of sitting up for so long, leaned back in her chair, her eyes closing as she listened to the sound of her children’s voices.

“Let me help, dear,” Bethany said softly, trying to push herself up from her chair.

You shook your head, gently placing a hand on her shoulder to keep her seated. “No, Mama, you rest. I’ve got this.”

Bethany smiled weakly, her hand covering yours for a moment. “You’re a good girl,” she whispered, her voice full of emotion.

You returned her smile, though your heart ached at the sight of her so frail. “I just want to take care of you, Mama.”

As you moved to the kitchen to begin washing the dishes, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of contentment despite the challenges you faced. This was your life—caring for your family, making sure everyone was safe and fed. It wasn’t easy, but it was the only life you knew, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

The sound of Elizabeth and Henry’s laughter filled the house as they played in the living room, their voices a reminder of the innocence that still existed within the walls of your home. You could hear them teasing each other, their playful banter bringing a smile to your face as you scrubbed the dishes clean.

Outside, the world was at war, the headlines filled with stories of battles fought far from your small town. But here, within the walls of your home, you found solace in the simple routines of daily life. The war had touched your family, as it had touched every family in the country, but you were determined to shield your siblings from its harshest realities for as long as you could.

As you finished washing the last dish and set it on the drying rack, you took a moment to look out the window at the darkening sky. The stars were just beginning to appear, tiny pinpricks of light in the vast expanse of night. You wondered if your father had ever dreamed of something more—if he had ever looked up at the stars and wished for a different life. But those thoughts were fleeting, quickly replaced by the pressing demands of the present.

“Hey, sis, come see what I drew!” Henry’s voice called from the living room, breaking your reverie.

Drying your hands on a dish towel, you made your way to the living room where Henry and Elizabeth were sitting on the floor, surrounded by crayons and scraps of paper. Henry held up a drawing, his face beaming with pride.

“It’s a picture of us!” he announced, his eyes shining with excitement. “See, there’s you, and Mama, and Lizzie, and me!”

You knelt down beside him, taking the drawing in your hands. The lines were wobbly, the colors outside the lines, but it was a masterpiece in your eyes. “It’s beautiful, Henry,” you said, ruffling his hair affectionately. “You’re quite the artist.”

Elizabeth peered over your shoulder, giggling. “He made your hair purple!”

You laughed, pulling both of them into a hug. “I think I like it,” you said, smiling as they cuddled close.

Bethany watched the scene from her chair, her expression softening as she took in the sight of her children together. Edward, however, remained distant, his eyes fixed on the glass in his hand. You caught his gaze briefly, offering him another small smile, but he only nodded before taking another drink.

The evening passed in a comfortable routine. After helping your siblings with their homework and tucking them into bed, you returned to the kitchen to finish tidying up. Your mother had already retired to her room, exhausted from the day, and your father had disappeared into his study, no doubt to finish off the rest of his whiskey.

You moved quietly through the house, checking on your siblings one last time before heading to your own room. The house was quiet now, the only sound the faint creak of the floorboards beneath your feet. As you closed your bedroom door behind you, you let out a small sigh, allowing yourself a moment of peace.

Sitting on the edge of your bed, you picked up the small radio that sat on your nightstand and turned the dial until you found a station playing soft music. The gentle melody filled the room, and you leaned back against your pillows, letting the music wash over you.

The morning sun filtered through the thin curtains of the dining room, casting a warm glow over the modest table where your family gathered for breakfast. You were up early, as always, making sure everything was in order. The scent of sizzling bacon and freshly brewed coffee filled the air, a comforting aroma that made the small house feel like a haven, even amidst the challenges you faced.

Elizabeth and Henry sat at the table, eagerly awaiting their breakfast. Elizabeth was busily drawing something on a scrap of paper, her brow furrowed in concentration. Henry, on the other hand, was more focused on the food, his eyes fixed on the plate of bacon you had just set down.

Bethany sat at her usual place, looking a little stronger than the day before. She offered you a grateful smile as you poured her a cup of coffee, though you knew that the effort it took for her to sit there, to even sip her coffee, was enormous. But she was trying, for you, for Elizabeth, for Henry.

“Thank you, darling,” she said, her voice still weak, but with a note of warmth that filled your heart.

“Of course, Mama,” you replied with a smile, placing a plate of toast and eggs in front of her.

Edward shuffled into the room last, bleary-eyed and grumpy. His shirt was half-buttoned, and his hair was in disarray. The stench of whiskey clung to him, as it often did these days. You could see the toll it was taking on him, on all of you, but you pushed those thoughts aside, focusing on keeping the morning peaceful.

“Morning,” he grunted, dropping into his chair at the head of the table. He reached for his coffee, not bothering with a greeting to the rest of the family. You quietly placed a plate of food in front of him, hoping to keep his temper at bay.

The clinking of cutlery and the soft murmur of conversation filled the room as everyone dug into their breakfast. Elizabeth chattered about school, excitedly telling you and your mother about the garden they were starting, while Henry tried his best to sneak extra pieces of bacon onto his plate.

You smiled as you watched them, feeling a rare moment of contentment. For all the struggles and hardships, these moments made it worth it—seeing your siblings happy, seeing your mother’s faint smile as she listened to them.

But that fleeting peace was shattered by a loud knock on the front door.

You exchanged a quick, uneasy glance with your mother before wiping your hands on a dish towel and heading to the door. Edward barely looked up from his coffee, his focus already on the bottle he’d hidden in his lap.

Opening the door, you were met with the sight of two men in dark suits. They stood rigidly, exuding an air of authority that sent a chill down your spine. One of them, a tall man with slicked-back hair and a stern expression, held a clipboard. The other, shorter but just as imposing, looked around with a critical eye.

“Good morning,” the tall man said in a clipped tone, not bothering to introduce himself. “Is this the residence 85 Shorebridge Lane? We’re looking for Edward?”

You swallowed hard, your heart beginning to race. “Yes, it is. I’m his daughter. Can I help you?”

The man with the clipboard glanced at his companion before looking back at you. “We’re with Vought-American. We’re here regarding a debt that he owes our company.”

A sense of dread settled in your stomach. You knew your father had been struggling to make ends meet, especially with the drinking, but you hadn’t realized it had gone this far. “A debt?” you repeated, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Yes,” the man confirmed. “A significant sum, in fact. It appears that your father was involved in an incident that resulted in the damage of Vought property. The debt has been outstanding for several months, and our attempts to collect have been ignored.”

You felt your heart drop. Vought was a powerful corporation, and you knew they didn’t take these matters lightly. “I-I’m sorry, but I wasn’t aware of any debt. I’m sure there’s been some mistake.”

The man’s expression remained cold, unyielding. “There’s no mistake. The debt is substantial, and it needs to be settled immediately.”

Your mind raced, trying to figure out how to handle this. There was no way your father had that kind of money—if he had, you wouldn’t be scraping by as you were. “We don’t have the money,” you admitted, your voice trembling slightly.

The man with the clipboard sighed, as if he had anticipated your response. “In that case, Vought-American has decided to pursue an alternative form of compensation.”

You blinked in confusion. “Alternative form?”

The shorter man stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over you with a look that made your skin crawl. “We’ve been authorized to take his oldest child as collateral until the debt is repaid.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. “What?” you gasped, taking a step back. “You can’t do that!”

But the men didn’t flinch. The tall one flipped through the papers on his clipboard, nodding as if confirming something. “Your father’s contract with Vought allows for this action. It’s all legal.”

Panic surged through you. You’d heard stories about Vought and their ruthless methods, but you never imagined it would happen to your family. “Please, there has to be another way,” you pleaded, your voice shaking. “Take something else, anything—just not me.”

The shorter man smirked, a cruel glint in his eyes. “We don’t want your old furniture or broken-down car. Vought invests in people, not things. And you, miss, are quite the investment.”

You felt like the ground was crumbling beneath your feet. Your mind raced with thoughts of your family—your mother, sick and unable to care for herself; your siblings, who depended on you for everything. How could you leave them? How could you let Vought take you away?

“Let me speak to my father,” you said, your voice trembling as you tried to hold yourself together. “Maybe we can figure something out.”

The men exchanged a glance, clearly impatient, but they stepped aside to let you close the door. You rushed back to the dining room, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Papa,” you said urgently, trying to keep the panic out of your voice. “There are men here from Vought. They say you owe them money, and they’re threatening to take me if you don’t pay.”

Edward looked up at you, his face pale. You could see the fear in his eyes, the realization of what his actions had led to. But he didn’t say anything—he just stared at you, as if he couldn’t believe this was happening.

“Papa, please,” you begged, tears welling in your eyes. “There has to be something we can do.”

But your father just shook his head, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “I…I can’t,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “I don’t have the money.”

Bethany, who had been silent until now, reached out to take your hand. Her grip was weak, but you could feel the desperation in it. “We’ll figure something out,” she whispered, her eyes filled with tears. “We’ll find a way to get you back.”

You wanted to believe her, but the fear gnawing at your insides told you that this was a battle you couldn’t win. The men at the door were from Vought, and when they wanted something, they got it.

Taking a deep breath, you squeezed your mother’s hand and looked into her eyes. “I’ll be okay, Mama,” you said, forcing yourself to smile even though you felt anything but okay. “I’ll come back. I promise.”

You turned to Elizabeth and Henry, who were watching with wide, frightened eyes. You knelt down in front of them, trying to keep your voice steady. “Take care of Mama, okay? Be good for her. And don’t worry—I’ll be back soon.”

Elizabeth threw her arms around you, her body trembling as she sobbed into your shoulder. “Don’t go,” she cried. “Please don’t go.”

Henry clung to your other arm, his little face scrunched up in fear. “I don’t want you to go,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You hugged them both tightly, fighting back your own tears. “I have to, Lizzie. But I’ll be back before you know it. I promise.”

Edward remained silent, staring into his coffee cup as if it held the answers to all of life’s problems. There was no fight left in him, no words of comfort or strength. The man who should have protected you was defeated, beaten down by his own vices and the crushing weight of his mistakes.

You rose slowly, feeling the weight of the moment settle over you like a leaden shroud. The reality of the situation was sinking in—Vought wasn’t just taking you away; they were taking your future, your freedom, your life as you knew it.

The men were waiting when you returned to the door, their expressions unchanged. The shorter one smirked again, a sick satisfaction in his eyes as he watched you struggle to maintain your composure.

“I’m ready,” you said, your voice trembling despite your efforts to sound strong.

The tall man with the clipboard nodded, his expression neutral. “Good. Let’s go.”

They led you out of the house, your heart pounding in your chest. You didn’t look back, couldn’t look back. The sight of your family—their tear-st

reaked faces, their broken hearts—would have shattered what little resolve you had left.

As they escorted you to a sleek black car parked in front of the house, you felt a sense of unreality wash over you. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t how your life was supposed to turn out. You were supposed to take care of your family, grow up with your siblings, and maybe, just maybe, find some happiness of your own.

But now all of that was slipping away, stolen by the cold, calculating hands of Vought-American.

The car door slammed shut behind you, and the engine roared to life. As the car pulled away from the only home you’d ever known, you stared out the window, watching as the house grew smaller and smaller until it disappeared from view.

And in that moment, you knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

NOW:

The dim light of the motel room flickered, casting long shadows on the worn carpet. The room was a far cry from the luxury they once knew, but for now, it was their base of operations. A map of the United States was spread out on the bed, littered with notes, pictures, and names crossed out in red ink. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat precariously on the edge of the nightstand, and the faint scent of cigarette smoke hung in the air.

You were nestled between Ben’s legs, your back pressed against his solid chest. His arms were wrapped loosely around you, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your stomach, occasionally dipping lower just to make you squirm. It was comfortable, familiar, even with the electric undercurrent of violence that seemed to hum around the two of you these days. You had always thrived on chaos, and being with Ben meant there was no shortage of it.

“Alright, let’s go over it again,” you said, picking up a marker and tapping it against the map. “Crimson Countess is toast, thanks to you. Butcher took out Gunpowder. Who’s left?”

Ben chuckled, his breath warm against your neck. “Fucking love when you talk dirty like that.”

You rolled your eyes, though a smirk tugged at your lips. “Focus, asshole. We’ve got a few more of these Payback assholes to deal with.”

Ben’s hand slipped under your shirt, his calloused fingers brushing against your skin. “Mmm, I’m focused. Focused on how fucking tight you are, baby doll.”

You let out a sharp breath as his hand dipped lower, but you grabbed his wrist, stopping him just short of where he wanted to go. “Not yet, you horny bastard. We’ve got shit to do. And you know I used to wear those.”

“Always such a tease, sweet thing,” he growled, but he didn’t push it, at least not yet. His hand settled back on your stomach, and he nipped at your earlobe before finally, reluctantly, turning his attention to the map.

“Okay, so, who’s left?” Ben’s voice was a low rumble against your back, the vibrations sending a shiver down your spine.

You pushed the marker across the map, stopping at a photo of a man with slicked-back hair and a smarmy grin. “Swatto. He’s a fucking bug, always buzzing around and pissing me off. Turns out he survived that rocket thing, Butcher’s doing recon to find out if he’ll fight.”

Ben snorted. “That dipshit was always hiding behind his wings. Like a fucking coward. Should be easy enough to swat.”

You laughed, the sound sharp and humorless. “Fucking hilarious, Ben. I’m sure you’ll have a real blast with him.”

He shifted behind you, one of his hands sliding down to your thigh, squeezing it possessively. “Oh, I will. Can’t wait to tear those wings off and see him squirm.”

“Jesus, you’re a sick fuck,” you muttered, though you couldn’t help the smile that crept onto your face. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy the idea of seeing Swatto get what was coming to him. After all the years of seeing these assholes get away with everything, the thought of finally doling out justice—your version of it—was intoxicating.

“I’m an amazing fuck.”

Ben’s hand continued its slow exploration of your thigh, inching higher, and you had to force yourself to stay on task. “Okay, who else?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Mindstorm,” Ben growled, his mood shifting instantly. His fingers tightened on your leg, his touch no longer teasing. “That fucking psycho. You know how much I want to rip his fucking head off.”

You nodded, your own anger flaring up at the mention of Mindstorm. That bastard was a menace, always getting into people’s heads, fucking with their minds. “He’s a tough one,” you admitted. “But we’ll get him. He’s paranoid as hell, always looking over his shoulder. That’s gonna be his downfall.”

Ben’s lips found your neck, kissing and biting as his hand moved higher. “And what about Noir?” he murmured against your skin, his voice a low growl.

You tensed slightly at the name. Black Noir was different. He was more dangerous, more unpredictable. You and Ben had both seen what he was capable of, and you knew that taking him down wouldn’t be easy. But that didn’t mean you weren’t going to try.

“He’s tricky,” you said, your voice softer now, more thoughtful. “But he’s not invincible. We just have to be smarter, catch him off guard.”

Ben’s other hand slipped under your shirt, cupping your breast as he sucked a mark onto your neck. “Always did have a thing for sneaking around, didn’t you?”

You laughed breathlessly, arching into his touch despite yourself. “I’m fucking good at it, too. But Noir… he’s not just sneaky, he’s—”

“Dangerous,” Ben finished, his voice a low rumble. “But so are we.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with truth. You and Ben had always been dangerous, both of you forged in violence and fire. The world had tried to break you down, but all it did was sharpen your edges, make you harder, stronger. Now, you were like a blade, honed to perfection, ready to cut down anyone who stood in your way.

“Damn right,” you murmured, turning slightly in his arms to look up at him. His green eyes were dark, intense, filled with a hunger that went beyond just the desire for revenge. It was a hunger for you, for the violence you both thrived on, for the chaos you created together.

“Fuck, I love you,” he growled, and before you could respond, his lips were on yours, rough and demanding. You kissed him back just as fiercely, the map and the list of enemies forgotten for the moment. There was something about the way Ben kissed you that always made your blood boil, like you were both on the edge of something dangerous and exhilarating.

His hands roamed over your body, possessive and greedy, as if he couldn’t get enough of you. You could feel the heat between you building, the tension coiling tighter with every touch, every kiss. It was like a storm gathering strength, ready to unleash its fury.

You broke the kiss, panting, your lips tingling from the roughness of it. “We should…fuck, we should focus,” you gasped, but even as you said it, you didn’t make any move to pull away from him.

“Later,” Ben muttered against your skin, his lips tracing a path down your neck. “Right now, I’m focusing on you.”

You let out a shaky laugh, your resolve crumbling under his touch. “You’re such a fucking distraction.”

“Good,” he growled, his teeth grazing your collarbone. “Because I’m not stopping until you’re screaming my name.”

The moon was high, casting a pale, cold light over the suburban neighborhood. It was quiet, too quiet for what was about to go down. You stood just inside the tree line with Ben, Butcher, and Hughie, all four of you hidden in the shadows as you surveyed the modest two-story house in front of you. It was the kind of place that could belong to any average middle-class family. The lawn was neatly trimmed, a swing set sat in the backyard, and the porch light was on, giving off a warm, welcoming glow.

But you knew better. Inside that house was no average man. Inside that house was Swatto, and tonight, he was going to pay for everything he’d done.

Butcher and Hughie were huddled together a few feet away, whispering about the plan, going over details you and Ben didn’t give two shits about. Butcher was being his usual self—gruff, methodical, and annoyingly focused on the specifics. Hughie was trying to keep up, nodding along as if he actually understood everything that Butcher was saying.

“Alright, here’s how it’s going to go down,” Butcher said, turning to face you and Ben. His eyes narrowed when he saw the two of you standing there, looking like you couldn’t be bothered to listen. “Oi, you two paying attention?”

Ben rolled his eyes and leaned back against a tree, arms crossed over his chest. “Yeah, yeah, we get it. We go in, we fuck him up, we get out. Simple enough for you?”

Butcher’s jaw tightened, and he looked like he was about to tear into Ben, but then he just let out a heavy sigh. “Just don’t go in guns blazing. We need this to be clean. Swatto’s a slippery fucker, and if he gets wind of us before we’re ready, he’s gone.”

Ben snorted, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Trust me, he’s not going anywhere.”

You couldn’t help but grin at Ben’s confidence. You knew he was right—once you and Ben set your sights on someone, there was no escape. Swatto didn’t stand a chance.

Hughie, ever the nervous one, looked between you and Ben with wide eyes. “Just…try not to burn the house down, okay? There are neighbors. Innocent people.”

You patted Hughie on the back, a little harder than necessary, making him stumble forward. “Relax, kid. We’re not complete psychos. Just…mostly.”

Ben chuckled, but the sound was low, dark. He reached out and grabbed your hand, pulling you closer. “Come on, Psyke. Let’s get this over with.”

You squeezed his hand, feeling the familiar surge of adrenaline that always came before a mission like this. There was something about the anticipation, the knowledge that you were about to bring hell down on someone who deserved it, that made your blood sing. You lived for this, and you knew Ben did too.

Butcher gave the two of you one last hard look, then nodded. “Alright, you two lead the way. Hughie and I will be right behind you. And remember—quiet.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, already moving toward the house. Ben was right beside you, his hand slipping away from yours as you both switched into mission mode.

You reached the back of the house first, the old habits kicking in as you moved silently, your steps careful and measured. The back door was locked, but that didn’t slow you down. You reached into your pocket and pulled out a small device, one of those nifty little gadgets Frenchie had rigged up for you. You placed it against the lock, and within seconds, the door clicked open.

Ben shot you a grin as you stepped inside, and you returned it, feeling that familiar rush of excitement. The kitchen was dark, empty, but you could hear the faint hum of a television somewhere deeper in the house.

Swatto was here. And he was about to have a very, very bad night.

Ben was already moving toward the hallway, his movements smooth and confident. You followed him, your senses on high alert, ready for anything. The plan was simple enough—get in, corner Swatto, and make sure he didn’t leave the house alive.

The two of you moved like shadows, silent and lethal, the perfect predators. You reached the living room first, and there he was—Swatto, sitting on the couch, his back to you as he watched some mindless late-night infomercial. He hadn’t even noticed you yet. Stupid.

Ben paused, looking back at you with a grin that sent a thrill down your spine. You knew that look, knew what it meant. It was the look that said he was about to do something reckless, something that would probably piss Butcher off. And you couldn’t wait to see it.

Without a word, Ben took a step forward, and as if he sensed the movement, Swatto’s head snapped up. He turned, his eyes widening in shock when he saw the two of you standing there.

“Psyke. Soldier Boy,” Swatto spat your names, his voice full of venom.

Ben didn’t give him a chance to say anything else. He was across the room in a flash, grabbing Swatto by the collar and yanking him off the couch. The guy yelped, his wings flapping uselessly as he tried to get away, but Ben had him pinned in seconds, one massive hand around his throat.

“Miss us?” Ben growled, his voice dripping with menace.

Swatto struggled, his hands clawing at Ben’s arm, but it was no use. Ben was stronger, meaner, and right now, he was in the mood to make someone pay.

You took a step forward, your eyes locked on Swatto’s. “You’re a real piece of shit, you know that?”

Swatto tried to say something, but Ben squeezed his throat tighter, cutting off his air. His wings buzzed frantically, but it was all just noise, useless and desperate.

Ben leaned in close, his voice low and deadly. “You’re not getting out of this, Swatto. You’re done.”

Swatto’s eyes darted to you, pleading, but you just stared back, cold and unfeeling. You’d seen too many people like him, too many cowards who thought they could get away with anything because they had power, because they were part of something bigger. But tonight, Swatto was learning the hard way that no one was untouchable. Not anymore.

You reached out for Ben’s hand, taking it off Swatto, but just when the slippery fuck thought he’d been let go, you grabbed him by the throat instead, your eyes gleaming with purple and slightly hollow with darkness. “Stop squirming.” His eyes turned the same colour, and he went limp, the only sounds from him his ragged gasps for air through your hand on his neck compressing his airway.

“Good boy.” You smirked, chuckling. “I’ll make this quick.” And with a casual flick of your wrist, Swatto was finished. You dropped him to the floor, to which he fell like a ragdoll. Good.

“Fuckin’ good work, sweetheart.” Ben sneered at Swatto’s body with a firm squeeze to your ass before patting it. “C’mon. Let’s go, Butcher and the kid are waiting outside.”

1943:

The small room was dimly lit, a single lamp casting a sickly yellow glow over the worn furniture and faded wallpaper. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and cheap cologne, mingling with the faint scent of smoke from a cigarette that had long since burned out in the ashtray on the bedside table. The bed creaked as you shifted, the black silk robe you wore clinging to your skin like a second, suffocating layer. You hated it, hated everything about this place, but you’d learned long ago that hate was useless here. It didn’t change anything. It didn’t stop the hands that groped and grabbed, the leers, or the demands.

You’d been "Heaven" for what felt like an eternity now, though it had only been a few months. The name was a cruel joke, a twisted reminder of everything you’d lost. Heaven was supposed to be pure, divine, untouchable. But here, Heaven was just another girl in a black silk robe, another plaything for the men who worked at Vought.

You heard the door creak open behind you, and you stiffened, bracing yourself for whatever would come next. They always came in without knocking, without a word, as if you weren’t even a person, just something they could use whenever they wanted. You kept your gaze fixed on the wall in front of you, focusing on the peeling wallpaper, the little details that let you pretend you were somewhere else.

But this time, something was different. The footsteps were heavier, more deliberate, and when the door clicked shut, you felt a presence in the room that was… different. You turned slowly, your heart pounding in your chest as you looked up to see who had come for you this time.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a green silk kimono that looked almost out of place on someone like him. His hair was perfectly combed back, his jaw set in a way that made it clear he wasn’t here for pleasantries. His eyes—cold, green, and hard as stone—fixed on you with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

Soldier Boy. You’d heard stories about him, of course—who hadn’t? But seeing him in person, standing in your little room with its faded wallpaper and broken dreams, was something else entirely. You swallowed hard, your throat dry as you tried to find your voice.

“Sir,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing as he looked you over, taking in every detail. The robe, the way you sat on the edge of the bed, the way you tried to hide the tremble in your hands. “They call you Heaven, don’t they?”

You nodded, keeping your eyes downcast. “Yes, sir.”

“Bullshit name,” he muttered, his tone sharp. “What’s your real name?”

You hesitated, your mind racing. You hadn’t heard your real name in so long it almost felt foreign to you. But you knew better than to disobey someone like him. “I… I don’t remember, sir.”

He let out a low growl of frustration, crossing the room in two strides and grabbing your chin with one hand, forcing you to look up at him. His grip was firm, but not painful. Not yet. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

You did as you were told, meeting his gaze. The intensity in his eyes was almost unbearable, like he could see right through you, like he knew everything that had been done to you, everything you’d become.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said, his voice low, but with an edge that made it clear he wasn’t to be taken lightly. “I’m here to find out what the hell’s been going on.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “I… I don’t understand, sir.”

He let go of your chin, taking a step back. “Don’t play dumb with me. I know what they’ve been doing to you. I just want to hear it from you.”

You swallowed hard, feeling a lump in your throat. You didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to relive everything that had happened since they’d taken you. But you could tell from the look in his eyes that you didn’t have a choice. He wasn’t going to leave until he got what he came for.

“They… They make me…” You trailed off, your voice shaking. It was too hard to say it out loud, too hard to admit what you’d been reduced to.

“Spit it out,” he ordered, his patience wearing thin.

“They make me entertain the men,” you finally said, your voice barely more than a whisper. “They say it’s to keep them happy, to make sure they keep doing their jobs. But… But they… they’re not gentle, sir.”

There was a long pause, the air between you heavy with tension. He didn’t say anything, didn’t move, just stood there, watching you with those cold, green eyes.

“I see,” he finally said, his voice low, almost a growl. He looked away for a moment, as if trying to collect himself. When he looked back at you, there was something different in his eyes, something darker. “And you let them?”

Your blood ran cold at his question, your heart sinking as you realized what he was implying. “I don’t… I don’t have a choice, sir. They… They said it was to pay off my father’s debt. They said if I didn’t do what they wanted, they’d… they’d hurt my family.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Fucking bastards.”

You bit your lip, trying to keep the tears from spilling over. You’d cried too many times in this room, in front of men who didn’t care, men who only wanted one thing. You didn’t want to cry in front of him, too. “Please, sir… don’t make me talk about it anymore.”

He didn’t answer right away, just stood there, his gaze fixed on you like he was trying to make sense of it all. Finally, he shook his head, letting out a low, bitter laugh. “You don’t need to call me ‘sir.’ Name’s Ben. Get it right.”

You blinked, surprised. It felt strange, like he was trying to level with you, make things less formal. Less like the men who came into this room night after night. “Ben,” you repeated, the name feeling foreign on your tongue.

“Yeah, that’s better.” He seemed to soften a little, the hard edge in his voice fading. He took a seat on the bed beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. “How long have they been doing this to you?”

You hesitated, unsure of what to say. Time had lost all meaning in this place. Days, weeks, months—they all blurred together. But you knew you had to answer. “Since… since they brought me here. It feels like forever.”

He nodded slowly, like he was taking it all in, processing what you were telling him. “And no one’s tried to stop it? No one’s helped you?”

You shook your head, feeling a wave of despair wash over you. “No. They all just… they just use me, then leave. Like I’m nothing.”

His jaw tightened, a muscle in his cheek twitching. “That’s because they’re fucking cowards, every last one of them.”

You didn’t say anything, just stared at the floor, feeling the weight of his words. He was right, of course. They were cowards, every one of them. But that didn’t change what had happened to you, what was still happening.

There was a long silence, and then Ben reached out, placing a hand on your shoulder. The touch was surprisingly gentle, and it made you flinch, not out of fear, but out of the sheer unfamiliarity of it. You weren’t used to gentleness. Not anymore.

“Listen,” he said, his voice low, almost soft. “I’m going to get you out of here. You don’t deserve this.”

You looked up at him, searching his face for any sign that he was lying, that this was just another cruel trick. But all you saw was determination, a kind of fierce protectiveness that made your heart ache with something you hadn’t felt in a long time—hope.

“Why?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“Because I don’t fucking stand by while scum like them ruin people’s lives,” he said, his voice rough but sincere. “And because you deserve better than this. Way fucking better.”

You felt tears welling up in your eyes again, and this time you couldn’t stop them. You’d spent so long in this hell, so long believing that there was no way out, that you were trapped here forever. But now, here was this man—this soldier, this hero—telling you that you could be free.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice breaking as the tears spilled over.

Ben let out a long sigh, squeezing your shoulder gently. “Don’t thank me yet. We’ve still got a long way to go.”

You nodded, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. “What… What do I have to do?”

“Just stay with me,” he said, his voice firm. “I’m going to get you into a trial for something that might give you a fighting chance. Compound V. It’s risky as hell, but it’s better than staying here and letting them break you.”

“Compound V?” you repeated, the name unfamiliar. You’d heard rumors, whispers about some kind of serum that gave people powers, made them stronger. But you never imagined you’d be a candidate for something like that.

Ben nodded, his expression serious. “It’s what made me what I am. What makes us Supes. It’s not easy, and it’s not safe, but… it’s a chance. A chance to be something more than what they’ve made you.”

You bit your lip, the weight of the decision pressing down on you. It was terrifying, the thought of going through something like that, of risking everything. But what choice did you have? Stay here and continue to be their plaything, or take the chance to become something more?

“I’ll do it,” you said, your voice steady despite the fear gnawing at your insides. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Ben nodded, his eyes locked on yours. “Good. We’ll get this started as soon as possible. And from now on, you call me Ben. No more of this ‘sir’ bullshit, got it?”

You nodded, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “Yes… Ben.”

“Damn right,” he said, and for the first time since he’d walked into your room, you saw a flicker of something almost like warmth in his eyes.

You didn’t know what the future held, didn’t know if this Compound V would save you or destroy you. But you knew one thing: with Ben by your side, you had a chance. A real chance. And that was more than you’d had in a long time.

“Get some rest,” he said, standing up and heading for the door. “We’ve got a long road ahead of us.”

You watched him go, feeling a strange mixture of fear and hope swirling in your chest. He paused at the door, looking back at you one last time.

“You’re not alone anymore, Heaven,” he said, his voice rough but sincere. “Remember that.”

The air in the small fitting room was thick with the scent of smoke and something else—something chemical and sharp that clung to the walls like an unwelcome guest. You stood in front of the full-length mirror, watching as the tailor adjusted the fabric of your new suit, the material shimmering under the fluorescent lights. The suit was a deep, vibrant purple, lined with silver accents that caught the light just right, and it felt like a second skin, hugging your curves in all the right places.

You couldn’t help but smile as you took in your reflection. It wasn’t just the suit that made you feel different; it was everything. The Compound V coursing through your veins had ignited something deep inside you, a newfound confidence that made you feel powerful. You turned this way and that, admiring how the suit moved with you, how it seemed to accentuate every line of your body.

From a nearby chair, Ben watched you intently, dressed in a black silk robe that hung loosely around his broad shoulders. He had a cigar perched between his fingers, the smoke curling into the air like a snake. His green eyes were locked onto you, an amused smirk playing on his lips as you struck poses in the mirror.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice rough and teasing. “A real fucking knockout. That suit’s gonna have every bastard in the room drooling over you.”

You shot him a playful glare through the mirror. “I’m not here to attract drooling idiots, Ben. I’m here to kick ass and take names.”

He chuckled, leaning back in his chair, the cigar still resting against his lips. “Right, right. Ass-kicking first, then maybe a little drooling later. But you know how it is out there, right? Being a Supes comes with a lot of fucking bullshit.”

“Like what?” you asked, arching an eyebrow, genuinely curious. You knew some of the dark sides of being a Super, but you wanted to hear it from him.

He took a slow drag from his cigar, the smoke escaping in a lazy cloud. “First off, you gotta deal with the goddamn media. They’re gonna twist everything you do, make you look like the villain if you don’t play their game. And trust me, they don’t play nice. Then there’s the fans—half of them love you, the other half think you’re the Antichrist. It’s a hell of a ride, sweetheart.”

You nodded, taking in his words, but you couldn’t help but feel a thrill at the thought. You were going to be someone important, someone powerful. “I can handle it, Ben. I’m not some weak little thing anymore. I’ve got control now.”

His eyes lit up, and he leaned forward slightly, his interest piqued. “Oh yeah? How does it feel? Being all-powerful and shit?”

“It feels amazing,” you admitted, turning back to the mirror. You could see the flicker of a smile on your own face, a grin that was becoming harder to hide. “I’ve never felt like this before. It’s like I’m finally awake, finally in charge of my own life. No more fucking around, no more letting others dictate what I do.”

“Goddamn right,” he said, his voice low and full of approval. “That’s the spirit. You’re gonna show those bastards who’s boss.”

You turned to face him fully, hands on your hips. “So, what’s it like for you? Being a Supes, I mean. You’ve been in this game a lot longer than I have.”

He took another drag of his cigar, letting the smoke curl around him as he considered his words. “It’s a fucking trip, I’ll tell you that. You get used to the perks pretty damn quick—money, fame, all that bullshit. But it comes at a cost. You’ve gotta stay on top, you’ve gotta keep proving you’re worth it.”

“Sounds like a lot of pressure,” you said, tilting your head slightly, intrigued. “But you seem to thrive on it.”

“Pressure’s just another word for motivation,” he replied, a sly smile creeping across his face. “Besides, I’m not just some pretty face in a tight suit. I can back it up. I’ve taken down more assholes than I can count, and I plan to keep adding to that list.”

You felt a warmth spread through your chest at his words, a rush of admiration mixed with something else—something electric that crackled between you. “I think I’ll enjoy backing it up, too. I’m not about to let anyone push me around again.”

Ben’s gaze locked onto yours, and the air felt charged, electric. “I like that about you. You’ve got fire. A real fucking spark. And trust me, you’ll need it out there.”

He leaned back in his chair, letting the cigar dangle from his fingers, his eyes never leaving yours. “You’ll be in the spotlight, and not everyone’s gonna like what they see. Some are gonna want to tear you down, but you’ve gotta stand tall. You’ve gotta show them you’re not afraid.”

You nodded, the weight of his words settling in. “I can do that. I’m ready for whatever comes my way.”

He stood up, the robe slipping slightly to reveal a hint of muscle underneath, and walked over to you, a grin spreading across his face. “Good. Now, show me that confidence. Strut your stuff. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, a thrill of excitement coursing through you as you turned back to the mirror, striking a pose like a model on a runway. You shifted your weight from one leg to the other, rolling your hips slightly as you watched yourself, feeling the power within you surging.

“Now we’re talking!” Ben said, clapping his hands together in approval. “Look at you! That’s how you own a room. You’re gonna make heads turn when you walk in, and you better damn well enjoy it.”

“Don’t worry, I will,” you shot back, feeling the fire in your belly. This was what you had been waiting for, the chance to reclaim your life and make it your own.

As the tailor continued to fuss with the suit, you felt Ben’s presence behind you, his energy filling the room with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. You glanced over your shoulder, catching him watching you with an appreciative gaze, and your heart raced. “You’re staring, you know.”

He smirked, leaning against the wall casually. “Can you blame me? You’re a fucking vision in that getup. You could walk out of here and take on the world right now.”

“Maybe I will,” you replied, your voice teasing. “I’ve got the suit, the powers, and the attitude. What more do I need?”

“Just me, of course,” he said with a wink. “I’m the cherry on top of this whole badass sundae.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the smile creeping onto your lips. “Yeah, right. You just want to take credit for all my hard work.”

He laughed, the sound rich and warm. “Hard work? This is all you, sweetheart. I’m just here for the fun parts.”

The tailor finished adjusting the last bit of fabric and stepped back, his eyes wide with admiration. “You look incredible. I think we’re done here.”

You turned to face him fully, spinning on your heel and striking another pose. “How’s this?”

“Perfect!” the tailor exclaimed, nodding vigorously before stepping out of the fitting room, leaving you and Ben alone once more.

“Now that’s how you do it,” Ben said, stepping closer, the space between you charged with energy. “You’re gonna be unstoppable, Psyke.”

“Psyke?” you echoed, a smirk on your lips. “Is that what you’re calling me now?”

“Yeah,” he replied, his voice low and teasing. “You know, for someone who’s so confident, you sure are fun to tease.”

You took a step forward, closing the distance between you, a playful glint in your eye. “I can hold my own, Ben. Trust me.”

“I don’t doubt it for a second,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper as he leaned in slightly, making your heart race. “But I’m still gonna have a little fun watching you figure this all out. Can’t wait to see you kick some ass.”

You felt a rush of warmth flood your cheeks at his words, an intoxicating mix of excitement and something deeper—something that made you want to lean closer, to bridge the gap between you. “You’ll be right there with me, won’t you?”

“Always, sweetheart,” he said, and for a moment, the world around you faded away, leaving just the two of you standing in that small room, the weight of the past lifting as something new sparked between you.

©️ 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐤 / 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲’𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐨

𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐝/𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝

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[tellmeallaboutit]

knock knock (Raphael x F!Player)

Chapter 3, In Which Larian Introduces The Raphael Romance

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

SUMMARY: Careful which mods you install for BG3. Did you read the terms and conditions carefully?

TAGS: meta romance, psychological horror, smut, the character is the player, Raphael is after you, you wanted him, you invited him to our world, he accepted your invitation

RATING: explicit

AO3

Chapter 3

TW for the chapter: self-harm, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, masturbation, problematic mom-daughter relationship

After spending forty minutes on the tube and another twenty squeezed onto a bus with sweaty, boundary-ignorant strangers, you finally got home from your coffee date with the devil. 

In that time, you had more or less come to terms with the fact that you had truly lost it.

This left you with three options: First, you could go to a psychiatrist (how do you find a psychiatrist?) and tell the truth. Your laptop is talking to you, a devil is stalking you with the clear intention of fucking you and taking your soul, in no particular order. They'd chalk it up to psychosexual mania, Freudian theories of repressed desires and frustrations. Prescriptions for anti-psychotics and anti-hallucinogens would follow while they dug into your very much fatherless past.

The second thing a person haunted by the devil might do is go to a priest. The last time you set foot in a church was when your mother could make you go, so it would be as much a surprise for the priest to see you there as it would be for you to do so again. Also, you can't help but imagine walking into a confessional only to find Raphael smirking back at you from behind the lattice screen, which brings you back to option one.

The third option was to accept your madness and play along with it. It had already made the last week of your life more exciting than the entire preceding twenty-seven years combined.

It wasn't a difficult choice.

Since your arrival at home, you had not let your phone leave your side for a single second, not in the shower, not on the toilet. Meanwhile, you had begun your preparations for the rendezvous, and you had begun by scheduling your torture for the very next day. 

Your tormentor was a petite Vietnamese girl who promised her methods would not hurt, and the execution chamber was a rundown salon down the street that definitely condoned illegal employment practices. 

Not like you could afford anything nicer anyway.

You could barely scrape together enough cash for waxing (damn inflation), but imagining that Raphael had watched you straddle a Bad Dragon dildo all natural- unshaved legs and the rest - was way more mortifying than the idea that the devil himself was watching.

After the Vietnamese girl ripped hair from your most sensitive areas, you felt prepared for any infernal punishment. When questioned if it hurt, you lied through clenched teeth.

The rest of the Sunday was a shopping blur. The last time you went on a date was some nine months ago (prior to BG3 coming out), it lasted an hour but left enough of an impression to delete your profile from Bumble, so you were completely out of stock of anything half-way decent, not to speak decent enough for a date with Raphael.

You consulted with the Devil's Den about what to wear and what lingerie Raphael would prefer, which didn't help much as everyone had their own interpretation of his preferences, ranging from none at all to him wearing lingerie himself.

At the start of the working week, your bank balance had dropped by four hundred euros and you still hadn't received any calls on your mobile phone. 

Wasn't there a rule about waiting three days? Whoever came up with this shit should spend his afterlife as a lemure.

You went through the motions at work, barely awake during two team conference calls, only to be told you looked "exhausted". This, despite having spent the entire previous day in a facial mask. To add insult to injury, you were scheduled for a "personal development" meeting next week.

In between the conference calls, you took the time to write two essays on Tumblr. The first was about how Raphael would easily conquer the Nine Hells and anyone who doubted that was an idiot (you didn't actually write that, but you certainly meant it). 

The second was about how Tav was the real villain for robbing Raphael. Maybe these posts would flatter Raphael enough to prompt him into calling you. Both got a decent amount of likes and reblogs, but not the attention you were hoping for.

On Monday night, you spent a good two hours staring at your phone, desperately waiting for some strange email, some kind of notification, however unsettling it might be.

It's not like Raphael actually works for that bloody law firm, is it? 

Or maybe, for devils, the usual waiting time for a call is a couple of years. After all, Raphael was angry for a dozen years that one time.

when you remember you have a mother call me hope you have a nice day

Well, you asked for a disturbing notification, and now you've got one. Your mother had an uncanny ability to make you feel guilty with just one precisely aimed message. Despite being well acquainted with her tactics (which she vehemently denied having), they managed to hit their mark every time.

She wasn’t a bad person, no, far from it; God knows she had enough problems as a single mother in a small and predominantly Catholic town an hour's drive away. 

She was the first in her family to go to university, but had to drop out when she became pregnant with you. Went through several terrible relationships, which she ended for your sake. You were her walking shattered dreams. 

It hadn't been that long since you'd last spoken on the phone, maybe a week? 

OK, a week was long. 

“Hi mum," you sighed into your phone. "Sorry, I've been busy."

"With what?" her voice fizzed over the line, laced with a scepticism only a mother can muster.

A solid start.

"With adult life?" you said.

"Adult life is juggling a full-time job, a child and a house that needs constant attention, Anya. You don't have any of that."

"I have a full-time job, Mum, remember?"

"Oh yes," she said. "I know how 'busy' you IT people are. Anyway, I called to tell you something very important".

You were not IT people, you worked for an IT company, but for you mum, you were IT people and therefore by definition overpaid and underworked. 

"I was at Nadine's", she said, and made a dramatic pause.

Oh great. Nadine, the human drain on your mother's savings, which were far from abundant. How your mother reconciled her devout Catholicism with regularly going to a fortune teller (and with getting pregnant at twenty out of wedlock) was one of the things that defied your comprehension. She had an intricate system, which only she would call logic, to justify these contradictions; you gave up trying to understand it long ago.

"Don't get upset - it wasn't about you or anything”, you mum said. “Your name just came up in conversation and we ended up doing a reading - just ONE reading, but it was... enlightening."

As every single reading so far. 

"Yes?" you asked, not bothering to fake enthusiasm.

"Well..." She drew out the word. "The cards say you're going to meet someone special soon. A King of Pentacles, imagine! So, mature, financially secure, gallant…"

A gallant gentleman would not keep a lady dying for his call.

“There is more, Anja. There was also the Devil in the spread. Do you know what that means?"

You paused. "...the Devil himself is interested in me?"

Your mother let out a joyous laugh.

"Anya, sweetie, I love you, but I don't think THE Devil would be interested in you. Not this way, anyway”.

That stung a bit. After all these years of him supposedly seducing you into premarital sex and drugs, succeeding at the former and barely scratching the pot surface with the latter, and now he was suddenly not interested in you.

Well, that’s where you are wrong, mum. Hopefully.

"No, that means... Now I'm quoting Nadine here, Anya... Negative forces holding you back from reaching your full potential. NEGATIVE THINKING! That's what I've been saying all along!"

“Ah”, you said. “Right”.

You checked out and let the phone rest on the table on loudspeaker, allowing your mother to continue her monologue of small town gossip.The right-side neighbour was fooling around with someone else's wife, neighbour to the left doesn’t mow his lawn. You surfed on your laptop in the meanwhile.

queen-of-the-bored: now did you read that Raph smut I sent you

queen-of-the-bored: that one

You were hoping to get out of reading smut with Raphael and into living it. Ah, hell, maybe that would draw him out somehow. Maybe this would be about him and you, some meta stuff, a special surprise he wrote himself for you. 

You opened AO3 and began to scan the warning triggers that preceded the chapter. "Non-con", "pillory confinement", "rough anal sex", "face fucking" and "forced urination", and that was just for starters.

No.

Absolutely fucking not. 

“Holy fuck”, you said, and promptly closed the web-page.

"Anya! Watch your mouth! But yes, you are right, of course”, your mom said . “All these years acting like she is the holy and mighty and knows best… ”

you: are you ok recommending stuff like that?

queen-of-the-bored: what queen-of-the-bored: come on now queen-of-the-bored: dude this you?

She sent a screenshot of your Tumblr post with five hundred likes and forty-one reblogs:

"I don't get Hope, I personally would LOVE Raphael to lock me in chains in his basement and do whatever he wants to me <3".

That was undeniably you. Was that what attracted Raphael to you? Is that what he came for?

A sudden epiphany dawned on you: you were far more vanilla than you had let on. Especially on the first date. You didn't want it to turn into a basement horror story. Well, maybe you did, but only if it went exactly according to your script (which categorically did not involve non-consensual rough anal sex), in the kind of basement you liked (stylishly infernal rather than Josef Fritzl one) and with thorough aftercare and lavish praise. 

You weren't entirely convinced that this vision was in line with Raphael's preferences. You were not entirely sure what those preferences truly were, for that matter.

You scrubbed all traces of the fanfic from your browsing history and briefly toyed with the idea of posting something along the lines of 'GET THERAPY YOU SICK FUCK' in the comments - just to make sure Raphael knew exactly where you stood on the matter. 

What you need to do is search for fanfics tagged with phrases like "Raphael spoils Tav with gifts and sweet nothings", "gentle" and "teeth-rotting fluff".

"And then she said, Anya... guess what, she said..."

***

Tuesday was the third day without a call. 

If he did not call today, you decided, you would go to that bloody law firm to drag him out of a conference room and if he was not there, well... you might do the unspeakable.

You might rob the House of Hope for the first time in your life. A woman who has not been called by her favourite devil for three days in a row is a woman in severe mental crisis.

After spending some time day-dreaming your revenge, you finally reach for your phone while still lying in bed.

There were notifications waiting for you, not the ones you wanted. The Raphael romance petition (which you’d passionately signed thrice, using different IPs) had triumphed. The new update included a post-credits dinner and something extra.

The fandom was thrown into chaos upon hearing this announcement (though, truthfully, any news tended to do that). Fans heatedly argued about whether it was pandering, too much fan service, whether it trivialized victims of sexual assault or if it was simply bad taste.

The discord channel buzzed with chatter about that new scene - some dismissed it as too vanilla; others lamented that Larian backtracked on Raphael being a bottom; while some celebrated it as the best thing since Andrew Wincott had cooed "good girl" on a live stream.

In different circumstances, you would be overjoyed and congratulating dmgdgoods for the success of the petition. But now? It felt like cold leftovers in comparison to what you truly craved - seeing Raphael in person, feeling his touch and his breath against your skin.

Regardless, you decided to get ONE bloody dinner you had been promised.

To your dismay, your boss chose today, of all days, to make you work and make you hate your work. You had four useless conference calls during eight working hours, each one an hour apart. 

The clock on your computer seemed trapped within some diabolical time warp.

You’d bring an audience with you, you thought as you absent-mindedly typed emails. That’s right, you’d bring an audience. 

If Raphael decides to talk to you through the screen, well, there would be your solid proof you were not crazy - and a digital trace - and a message to the whole world that it was you, you, who were his special mouse among the thousands that would rush to House of Hope tonight.

If he doesn't, well… he isn’t calling you either.

You dropped everything the minute the clock struck five, and lectured the rest of your remaining team about the importance of work-life balance and the toxicity of corporate greed. 

Then you fired up Twitch.

The witnesses, a twenty-strong user mob, were summoned from across the communities you were in; some you knew, some you guessed who it might be, and a couple of random users.

The House of Hope stood ready. 

In the main hall, a table was set for two, draped in red velvet with silver candelabras and a centrepiece of blood-red roses; Larian clearly knew their audience - those who craved Raphael Romance would also enjoy a side dish of gothic horror.

This notion you would subscribe to.

"Ah, my little mouse," Raphael's voice crept into your ears the moment Tav teleported into his domain. "I've been expecting our rendezvous."

His tone was molten honey and made you forget for a moment your annoyance at his lack of calls. 

Archdevils Supreme were, after all, notorious workaholics.

Raphael was in his cambion form, which you liked, but preferred the human one. Like this, he would barely fit into your room - how tall was he? Two ten? Two twenty? Your ceilings were two twenty. One flap of those wings could destroy your bookshelf. 

The Twitch chat room was quiet; you threw out a test message that elicited a few half-hearted responses. Still there, good.

"I owe you, little mouse," Raphael continued in that rich baritone that brought back memories of the coffee shop. "I owe you your unwavering loyalty. Your commitment. Your trust."

Raphael paused for dramatic effect before adding: "I appreciate those who deal fairly with me, because I have only dealt fairly with you."

His words eerily echoed a recent essay you'd written; it brought a smile to your face as you reached out to touch him.

cross_my_heart: are you touching your screen? cross_my_heart: jeez man cross_my_heart has left the chat

Your Tav, a drow warlock (whom you imagined as Raphael's personal warlock), was wearing her most "why-am-I-here" expression, arms crossed over her chest. It drove you mad, that standard #2 emotion.

Then they ate; clunky, clearly afterthought animations rehashed from Karlach's date dinner. The food they were served (meat, meat, lots of meat) made your stomachs ache (you had been on a crash diet in the irrational hope of slimming down for the rendezvous).

"You were the one who gave me the Crown of Karsus. You gave me the power to claim worlds, my little mouse, even your own." He paused before adding, "You hung on my every word, spread my vision... Every time we played, you offered the crown. My most loyal little acolyte".

A thrill of anticipation ran through you; he must be deviating from his usual script. He was now speaking directly to you.

luxaeterna: haha cool meta stuff luxaeterna: the game is probably checking to see if you have any save games where you killed him luxaeterna: and judging by the way you just stroked the screen (lol) you don't

"Come, my little mouse," Raphael beckoned. "Come and claim your reward. What is it that your heart desires?"

Your eyes scanned the four options presented to you:

1. Wealth beyond measure.

2. Godlike power.

3. Eternal youth.

4. You, Raphael.

"Well," you said aloud with a smile as your cursor hovered over option 4 (the only logical choice), "I'm not sure about immeasurable wealth, but an extra grand wouldn't hurt.” 

You wouldn't know what to do with godlike power anyway, and you were too young to dream of eternal youth.

A message appeared in the right-hand corner of your screen: GUESTUSER43214 donated €1,000.

You gasped. 

Oh yes. Yes, yes, yes. 

He was here. Raphael was watching you play with Raphael, which was the most Raphael thing that ever happened.

And he'd just given you a damn grand for nothing, with a simple click of his fingers - virtual numbers to him, but very real to you. 

You licked your lips with excitement. Easy money. The easiest money ever, for a joke and a smile. Tax free too. Is that how the girls at OnlyFans feel? 

papa johnes: holy fuck why didn't you ask for a million papa johnes: reload and ask for a million! DEVIL CREAMPIE: WOW WOW WOW  luxaeterna: is this a prank?  DEVIL CREAMPIE: SUGAR DADDY DEVIl

Would he give you more if you asked for it? Perhaps. Perhaps more than you could possibly imagine, enough to make all the worries disappear, but all in due time; that was not what you were craving from him at the moment.

luxaeterna:@GUESTUSER43214 are you Raph are you Raph Raph is it you? luxaeterna:@GUESTUSER43214 I can also stroke the screen for a thousand where do I sign up?

The user did not reply, but Raphael in-game did as soon as you clicked on "You and only you".

He walked up to your Tav and embraced her; tenderly, carefully, his clawed hands tracing the back of her spine. She looked frightened. 

Well, she only had so many expressions.

"You've always had a knack for making wise decisions," he purred in her ear. "It's one of your many talents, my dear. And once again you've chosen wisely. Now, how may I indulge you?"

papa johnes: ASK FOR A MILLION 

1. Fulfil my every dark fantasy. 

2. Let me put you on a leash and show you what pleasure is, devil.

3. Aren't you only bedding Haarlep?

4. Thanks, I'll pass. Haarlep has told me I’d be well advised to indulge elsewhere.

luxaeterna: Fulfil my every DARK fantasy lol who wrote this stuff a horny intern on her lunch break papa johnes: ASK FOR A MILLION GODDAMNIT

You briefly contemplated if you wanted Haarlep to join and thought that’s something you would save for later, so you went for the horny intern option.

"I will make all your fantasies come true," Raphael promised, as he stood up from his seat and approached Tav. "The ones you're aware of and those yet to be discovered. But for what comes next, little mouse, I prefer us to be alone. No prying eyes."

The game gave you three options to choose from: 

1. Yes, Raphael

2. Yes, Master

3. Yes, of course

luxaeterna: I think there might be an option missing  DEVIL CREAMPIE: lol any colour you like as long as it’s black right Raph

You nodded, chose “Yes, Raphael”, and got an immediate response:

Connection to Twitch lost. You clicked around, but the servers seemed to be shut down. Huh, you thought, Raphael can control Twitch servers. He could use it as a tool of mass indoctrination.

A deep sigh slipped from your lips. 

It was just the two of you now. 

But you wouldn't leave without proof. You pressed escape and positioned your phone camera on the highest shelf, angling it to capture everything that transpired on screen.

Raphael pulled Tav in a kiss the moment you resumed the game, something clearly modelled after Ascended Astarion kiss, with him standing, her seated, looking tiny in comparison to him. His clawed hand grasped her ebony neck and gave it a light squeeze. His expression was perfect - possessive, dark, animalistic, hers was screaming “I am about to shit myself” and completely out of place.

You are a Lolth-Sworn and a Bhaalspawn, Tav! What the bloody hell are you scared about? He should be scared of you!

"You taste ambrosial, my little mouse," Raphael whispered into Tav's ear. "I've lived thousands of years and never tasted anything better."

She doesn’t, you thought bitterly, she tastes like nothing but code, but I do, I do! 

Your hand traced up your neck mimicking Raphael's touch on Tav's skin and squeezed lightly. The pain made you aware of the bitter resentment against your own avatar - Raphael invited her, dined with her, was about to fuck her, not you, and it could be you now, should be you, not some character you cooked in an hour in the character creator. 

She didn’t do shit but follow your orders. It was you who ordered her to give him the Crown.

Next, Raphael shoved the dishes and the cutlery to the floor and gently laid Tav onto the dining table, positioning himself between her thighs. At first glance, it looked like they'd used Halsin's animation from a different angle until you saw his forked tongue glide across Tav's pixel-perfect hairless pussy, sliding in and out of her.

She did one of those high-pitched, perfectly fake screams that made your blood boil and that was exactly the reason you never watched mainstream porn. 

The very next gameplay your Tav is jumping off a very high cliff.

Tav threw her head back and moaned, the hair that should have fallen down remaining perfectly in place in her braid. It made it look fake the way video game sex sequences look fake, plastic dolls smashed against each other.  Every woman in Faerun and Earth would grab his horns and hold on tight, but no, Tav was not animated to do so.

At least Raphael looked real, every second more so, so you focused on him, and his eyes, and his face glistening in candlelight and Tav’s juices.

There was no way Larian would make it so explicit, a thought that floated in the back of your mind. Can’t be right. The moans, the animations, the visceral, explicit arousal - his and hers. Can’t be right. 

No way you’d be stopping to cross-check, either.

So, you watched Tav writhing under the devil's tongue, slipping your hand under your t-shirt, pulling aside the black lacy bra you'd recently bought for him and caressing your hardening nipples. 

You couldn't help yourself.

You wanted him, his lips on your pussy, your hands around his horns, you wanted to come onto his mouth, to grind around his cock like a fish caught on a hook.

But all you could do was stare, the pulsing of your clit in perfect rhythm with your heartbeats.

Raphael was looking at you, at you specifically, just like in the cafe. He grabbed one of Tav's legs by the ankle and lifted it high into the air as she arched her back in pleasure. The other leg was slightly spread, offering a view of your avatar's glistening pussy, which you couldn't care less about, unlike the ribbed, red, engorged cock between Raphael's legs, impressive enough to both arouse and frighten. 

He must taste so good. The very thought made your mouth water.

You shoved your fingers under your jeans, feeling the zipper scrape against them till it hurt, but you couldn't care less.

Fuck her, you muttered aloud as you rubbed yourself. Or better still, call me and fuck me. 

As if he could hear you (he could he could he definitely could), Raphael hoisted Tav’s ankles onto his shoulders and rammed into her with the force that would have been painful in reality but looked mesmerising on the screen. 

Hard, sure thrusts, sliding in and out, looking at you all that time, his mouth tightening in a sardonic smile. The promise in his eyes. The promise of all he could give and the promise of a hell of a price to pay. Despite all your fear for him, and because of it, you wanted him even more.

Tav screamed her cry again, exactly the same vocal line, her symmetrical, round, cookie-cutter breasts bouncing to the rhythm dictated by Raphael.

It’s me next time, you pleaded. Make it me. I deserve it. I’ll make it worth your while. Please.

Raphael moaned, loudly, like no man you've ever been with moaned - no man you've ever been with could pull off a moan like that - wild, lustful, deep, shameless. You have to talk like him to pull that off. You have to look like him.

You have to be that silver-tongued devil.

"You are mine. I owe you, my precious little mouse" Raphael said to Tav, hovering over her, folding her in two (would you be that flexible?).  "Be my good girl and say it." 

This is exactly the kind of talk you wanted from him, exactly the kind of talk that made your pussy throb, that made you click on everything with 'maledom' in it in a split second.  Such a shame you could see so little, had to imagine so much, their parts were barely visible in this position.

"I am yours," you whispered breathlessly, pinching your nipple as you plunged your fingers deep inside you. "I am your good girl. I am your little mouse. I am!”

Tav said nothing and Raphael raised his hand over her face. Slap her, you urged, hurt her, slap her hard, but he didn't, instead running his fingers through her snow-white hair and you moaned in frustration and pleasure.

This man brings out the worst in you.

Your pussy clenched around your fingers, a little moan escaped your lips and you bored into them, pretending it was his cock ramming into you. You would get the Devil's Dick from under the bed if you could just tear yourself away from the screen for a moment. 

You were right on the edge, so close, closer. Your eyes were fixed on Raphael's face, desperately trying to catch a better glimpse of his cock as he thrust one final time before the screen slowly faded to black.

"NO!" you screamed in frustration. "COME BACK! I'M NOT DONE YET!"

The scene changed to both of them lying on a crimson bed. You closed your eyes shut and gritted your teeth.

Of course, you could have used your imagination to fill in the rest, but you were tired of pretending. You craved the real thing - flesh against flesh, hot breath, his scent, beads of sweat, and taste of saliva, his saliva. Not just porn or smut or audio recordings – the actual physical experience. Sex that you had never had because all you knew was awkward fumbling and elbows tangling in your hair and ‘ugh do you really want me to talk dirty this is so weird’.

You would do anything to fuck him now. Bring me that damn contract, I'll sell my soul for a good fuck. Give me the fucking paper, Raphael, give it to me now.

You reluctantly pulled your sticky fingers away from your aching pussy and cursed under your breath. How many times did Raphael ruin the mood already? Cruel, sadistic, cold-hearted fiend, damned hellish beast. 

You wanted a different kind of torment.

"Raphael, you better call me," you growled at the screen. "Or I swear I'll come to your house, snatch your hammer, end you and..."

Your threat was cut off by a ring of the doorbell.

"Metaphorically speaking," you hastily added as the doorbell chimed again, more insistently this time.

The memory of blood blisters on guy's lips for lesser offences was still fresh in your mind.

"You promised you'd knock on my door, not ring," you muttered to yourself, feeling a tinge of fear run through your body. "And again... metaphorically speaking!"

The doorbell rang once more, louder and angrier than before. You wiped your slick fingers on a napkin and quickly adjusted your clothing before cautiously approaching the door.

A quick glance through the peephole revealed something red outside. But you didn't dare take a second look.

Your palm found its way to the cool metal of the doorknob. This was it, wasn't it? The moment where a stupid girl opens the wrong door at the wrong time and gets clawed to death.

Behind the door stood a teenage boy, around fourteen or fifteen years old, with acne and an ill-fitted t-shirt, casually chewing gum. He looked at you as if you were the one disturbing his peace all along.

"Why the hell were you buzzing my door like a maniac?" you asked.

He thrust a bouquet of red roses towards you without much ceremony. It was heavier than you thought. 

"I have a special delivery for you, ma'am" he announced.

"Why did you buzz my door like that?" you asked again, irritated.

"I get an extra hundred if I deliver these today. I was pissed that you weren't home," he replied with casual indifference.

"You can't just do that to people, you little shit," you shot back.

"Whatever, sue me, bitch," he retorted before walking away with a shrug and one last jab: "And zip up your fly."

You flipped him off, your fly still splayed open. It was funny how not too long ago, such a comment would have mortified and flustered you.

But now, being a bit (okay, a lot) crazy has its perks.

The bouquet he gave you was exactly the type that you used to mock in high school when the popular girls would flaunt their dozens of roses on social media. Over-the-top, showy, just plain vulgar in its excessiveness. How many were there? A hundred? At least. 

You absolutely loved it.

You loved the note attached even more. 

"Apologies for my silence. Had urgent matters to attend to. I promise to make amends and cannot wait to see you again -R."

Oh, and a box of Ladurée macarons which you never tried but you couldn't take your eyes off of them through the window of the shop! 

As if on cue, an incoming call lit up your phone screen. No Caller ID. You clutched the bouquet tighter and hurriedly answered.

“Thank you so much”, you said, momentarily hating the simpering, saccharine voice you adopted. “What a coincidence, just received your flowers”.

"It's hardly a coincidence," Raphael replied calmly. "They sent me an email notification."

You let out a small laugh at the mention of the "e-mail". It seemed like Raphael was still playing the “no, no, it’s not me Raphael the cambion, I just look like him” game. Whatever the hell for?

"You've had my home address this whole time, haven't you, Raphael?" you asked. "Why did you ask then?"

There was a moment of tense silence on the other end of the line, and you could sense Raphael's anger without even seeing him. 

One wrong sentence and everything could shift between the two of you in a split second. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he responded with firmness in his tone:

"It’s one thing you didn’t ask for my name - which I found impolite, but I can forgive a beautiful woman many things. Calling me another man’s name? That's something I will not tolerate."

You blinked in confusion as you read the note in your hand: "I cannot wait to see you again. -R".

"I'm sorry," you stammered, "Your note..."

He laughed. Soft, charming laugh of a rich and successful man perfectly content with his life. 

"Raul, at your service. Raul d'Avergni, if you're interested in doing some research in your free time."

"Raul?", you asked. It was not an ugly name, but it was foreign, mundane and not diabolical enough for your taste. It made you think of a Spanish soap opera, not of Avernus.

"That's right," he replied calmly. "Italian, in case you were wondering. From west of Pozzuoli. Not exactly a place you would be familiar with."

You couldn't help but feel a little hurt by the comment, even though you indeed had no clue where Pozzuoli was.

"Oh," you replied. "I hadn't noticed an accent."

"I would hope not, considering how much my father spent sending me to Eton," Raphael (you won’t call him otherwise, no) joked, although his voice tensed up at the mention of his father. 

Great, now Mephistopheles is here too? Did you accidentally invite all of Hells?

"I will be there by eight to collect you," he said very matter—of—factly.

You checked your Apple Watch and saw that it was only an hour away.

"Tonight?" you inquired.

"Do you have any other arrangements?" 

No, of course not. I've been waiting for your call this whole time, you wanted to make a joke before you realised it was no joke and therefore not really funny.

"No... none," you admitted. "Where are we headed tonight? Should I dress up?"

Or it wouldn’t matter because I would end up in a garbage bag and a “missing” poster?

You could hear him smile on the other end of the phone.

"You definitely should dress up," he said, his tone flirtatious again. "We are heading somewhere special. It might be a little unconventional for common taste, but I assure you, you'll love it. See you very soon."

He hung up before you could ask for more details on what kind of unconventional thing he had in mind. As you tried to calculate your chances of survival for this unconventional event and what exactly was considered unconventional by infernal standards, the odds seemed to get slimmer and slimmer.

Would they even find your body?

It suddenly struck you that 'Raul' never bothered to explain how he knew where you lived, and you still didn't have his phone number to call him back. This realisation prompted you to do something you hadn't done since childhood: call your mum twice in one day.

The only person you could trust to hunt down a devil.

"Mum? I have plans tonight. I'm going out with a man named Raul de… de… oh, God, Avergni or something. Yes, write down his name and look him up on Google. If I don't call you until tomorrow..."

"What do you mean by tomorrow?" your mother interrupted sharply. "Are you planning on spending the night with him?"

You were hoping to spend the night with him!

"I'm twenty-seven, Mum."

“Anya, you know better than to sleep with a man on the first date. Men are hunters, and if you give in too easily, they will lose interest. Trust me, I've been through it all before…”

You clench your jaw as she continues to lecture you on how to catch, tame, and keep a man.

"Mum?" you interject.

"Yes?"

"Did it work with my father?”

Your mother let out an exasperated sigh and switched to her "I have the worst daughter in the world" voice.

"I hope you have a nice evening, but please remember to call me when you get home TONIGHT."

As you showered, dressed, moisturised your face and hands and tried to style your hair, you couldn't help but think of Laura Palmer wrapped in plastic. After all, she looked good dead, so you should too.

The marks of your own fingertips were still visible on your neck. You quickly covered them with concealer and briefly recalled a distant memory of cutting yourself as a teenager.

Why had you cut yourself? The reason was foggy in your mind, as was the pain, but you remembered the bitterness and loneliness. You didn't want to die, but you wanted something else - something you didn't have, or someone who could give it to you.

Being suicidal must be a package deal with being crazy. 

Your phone buzzed. The thing with your mother, she gets distracted too easily to remain offended for long. And you provided her with excellent food for distraction.

is he the managing partner of the law firm?

oh my god

ANYA, THE KING OF PENTACLES.

they write “not married” on the website, god bless

he must have so much money, Anya, so much money.

so handsome

no offence love but how on earth did you manage it

(ah that’s why you were cutting yourself)

we can live with him being Italian, I think.

at least he is Catholic.

please wear black, it suits your figure.

remember POSITIVE thinking.

(Laura Palmer wrapped in plastic)

send me a picture when you are ready. OK? love

wear a cross too 

A cross? You let out a laugh. Unlike your mother, you were consistent in your beliefs. Catholic school was the perfect environment for raising atheists. Ever since you were a teenager, you had been against that rotten, bloody institution, full of pedos, crooks and who knows what else. 

If this was God's team, then you proudly allied yourself with the devil.

As you ranted internally against the church, you suddenly remembered that you now had some freshly made solo porn on your phone that needed to be deleted immediately. 

Not before you give it a little watch.

You wish you hadn't, you thought as it started to play. A high-quality video of you choking in front of a black screen, your hands clutching your throat with a fervour you didn't even know you possessed. A reflection of your face on the laptop: possessed, sickly, rapt. Moans escaping your lips as you pant, hands roaming all over your body, little tremors of excitement... at nothing.

A black screen.

You immediately deleted the video from your phone. If it proved anything, it was that you were gone. Far gone. Off the deep end. The way you moaned, salivating at the mouth, Christ almighty (Christ had nothing to do with it)...

Knock-knock.

Well, that was Raphael. You could tell by the simple knock. It was soft and polite, modest yet assertive; but he wouldn't wait long for you to open the door, so you had to be quick.

Knock-knock.

Your gaze drifted to the ornate golden cross, the crucifix in the centre; suffering, redemption, salvation, deliverance from evil and all the shit you did not believe in. 

In fact, you didn't believe in devils either. 

Besides, a cross won't help against the devils of Baator.

Then again, it wouldn't hurt.

Next: Chapter 4, In Which You Attend A Very Special Event

[still-ssstar]

Rin and Sae: Guilty and innocent

Tw: Spoilers for the manga. English is not my native language.

Note: It started as a small note, but in the end I had to make it into a full-fledged post.… Anyway, this is not a full-fledged analysis of the relationship between Sae and Rin, just my sleepy thoughts + a small analysis of several manga panels. At the end of writing this post, not only my inner analyst woke up, but also my inner writer, so ah. So be it.

The situation between the Itoshi brothers, in fact, well reflects two problems that often arise in interpersonal relationships when emotions run high.

1. The lack of normal dialogue. It's not that instead of a calm conversation, people give in to their emotions so much that they end up hurting each other. It's okay to give in to your emotions, people are not robots and anyone can lose their nerves, even when they don't want to offend a loved one. The problem arises when, later, after the conflict, the dialogue continues to be absent. Dialogue is not when both sides are talking to each other but not hearing each other. The dialogue is to hear and listen. The inability to look at the situation from someone else's point of view harms both sides. This is clearly seen in the situation of Sae and Rin: they talk to each other, but everyone talks about their own things and in the end everyone talks as if to a wall, trying to convey their thoughts, but not delving into the thoughts of the interlocutor. And then they're just like, “Yeah, we're not going to talk to each other anymore.” Their situation is just the apogee of how far the conflict can go. (Seriously, even Reo and Nagi at least try to talk to each other. Sometimes.)

2. The inability to find the unambiguously guilty and the unambiguously innocent. Everyone has the right to be offended and to feel pain, this is normal. At the same time, in situations like those of the Itoshi brothers, both sides are both guilty and not guilty at the same time. Sae was broken and just humanly tired. (And I can understand him, he apparently faced something so serious that it affected not only his psychological, but also his physical condition.) Rin was childishly naive and dependent on his brother. (Which is not surprising, I mean, Sae literally promised that he would be with Rin for the rest of his life. He was protecting him.) You can discuss for a long time on the topic of "who is more to blame", but in the end it will lead to nothing, because the label of "guilty" will not solve the problem that has arisen between them in any way. (It's important to separate situations where someone is behaving like a toxic asshole quite intentionally, and the other side has done literally nothing. I'm talking about situations where both sides are involved in the conflict.)

In general, any conflict is always a difficult topic, including from a moral point of view. Is Sae to blame? Yes. Is Rin to blame? Yes. Can I blame them? No, actually. As I said, finding the "guilty"" won't solve anything, and I'm interested to see what happens to the conflict between the brothers in the future. To be honest, I have high hopes for this story arc and continue to believe in the best. Not only because I love happy endings, but also because a happy ending in such a situation can only be achieved through a sincere and deep heart-to-heart dialogue. I would love to see how the conflict is resolved not on the field, not through an attempt to "prove" something to someone, but in words. Words have their own magic hidden in them, and I love it when works of art show love that is not romantic. Love between family members or between friends is wonderful.

Although, the ending, where Sae and Rin's paths diverge forever, without the opportunity to restore their brotherly relations, is also good. Especially if they were estranged from each other, but would remain in a neutral relationship, without the current negativity. Yes, I understand, it's fucking sad, but it would be good to show one important thought - sometimes people's paths diverge and not always the past can be revived in the present. Especially when it comes to relationships between people. Sometimes close people become strangers to each other, but this is not the end of the world and life does not stop after that.

Next, there will be a small analysis of the manga panels, because I adore human facial expressions and I have something to say about this, but I don't want to single it out in a separate post. (Note from Shine from the future: Okay, I was naive and didn't know what was waiting for me when I started writing this part, so there will be a little more analysis of their conflict. God save me.)

This manga panel interested me not because of facial expressions, but because it clearly shows that Sae probably knew for a long time that for Rin he is the main reason to play football. Sae further claims that it is impossible to replace him, and now I wonder if his worldview has broken so much that after coming back to Japan, he stopped considering himself "irreplaceable" not only on the football field, but also for his brother?

Here I want to draw your attention to the way Sae clenched his fist and the fact that his expression has no confidence. It's determination. I think it's the first time he's said out loud that he's going to be a midfielder, not a striker. He says this not only for Rin, but also for himself. I mean, he's already decided on it, but he's still not sure about his decision, he seems to feel vulnerable. And who did he go to for support? Yes, to his little brother. To his brother, who always believed in him and could believe in him, even when Sae not sure that he believes in himself.

These manga panels are some of my favorites, because, honestly? I don't see even a hint of malice in Sae's expression. At first, he looks as if he is trying to contain his emotions, a rather characteristic look of a person who is in a shaky emotional state. He's very tense and I can practically see in his eyes how his psyche is trying to figure out what the fuck is going on right now. He's already figured it out, but he hasn't realized it yet. He was trying to tell his younger brother that he would be the best midfielder while he was the best striker, and now what? Did he do something wrong?

Here, after Rin's words, Sae already looks shocked, in the sense that he does not seem to believe his eyes and ears. I also see "awareness" and vulnerability in his eyes. I dare say he's even scared. Almost terrified. I will defend this idea for the rest of my life. "You‘re not the same brother I shared a dream with." It's pretty heartbreaking to hear that from your little brother, especially when you still want the best for him, isn't it?

Even here, I still don't see any malice on his face. This is deadly seriousness, to some extent disappointment, fatigue, but not anger. I also want to draw attention to his words. I'm not sure if this makes sense in the original Japanese, but in English it says "Your and my dream" (Although this also depends on the translation… Anyway, I want to discuss this.) Analyzing the choice of words is, of course, a rather speculative thing, but I can't stop thinking that Sae probably still associated himself with their dream at that moment, he just already perceived himself as a midfielder and partly for this reason mentioned himself after Rin. But Rin's words made him realize that everything was falling apart. Although, in his own way, he still gave their joint dream one last chance to survive in this harsh world. I'm pretty sure that Sae played this "match" against Rin, including for himself. To make sure that he has not gone mad, that the world is really so cruel, that it is normal and natural that he is broken. (Just a thought, it reminds me of the lines of a song in my native language, which translate something like this: "If you're sad, then you're already an adult. If your heart is empty, it's just age." Sae, is that you?) For traumatized people, this behavior is normal, because the psyche needs at least some support in a crisis situation and it can be found even in something painful, but familiar, that is, in disappointment.

The transition between a completely blank stare and this facial expression seems too abrupt to me. Either something finally clicked in Sae's head at that moment, or we see the whole situation from Rin's point of view. By the way, I still don't see anger on Sae's face. At first I thought it was contempt, but to be honest, it even looks like... despair. If you do not take into account the shadows on Sae's face, the look down (this is the perspective of Rin sitting on the ground) and his words, then Sae's expression is a fairly classic expression of sadness and despair. (Look at his eyebrows. His eyebrows are bothering my brain. I can't blame myself, after all, this is the most expressive part of his facial expressions.) Realizing this made me look at the whole situation from a completely different angle. I was so fixated on their conversation and context that I forgot one of the main instructions I was given: “People's words are not important when you analyze their facial expressions. Do the initial analysis out of context.” We weren't shown the expression on Sae's face when he left just because he was probably BROKEN. Not angry, not contemptuous, not even disappointed. Oh my God. I feel like a metaphorical apple has fallen on my head and at the same time I also want to shout “Eureka!”

If you think about it, the main reason for the conflict, in addition to Sae's broken emotional state and Rin's sharp reaction, is that the defense mechanisms of Sae and Rin's were also in conflict. Rin immediately went into a defensive position and denial, trying to preserve his familiar picture of the world, which had been preserved for years since his childhood and in which he sincerely believed. Maybe it's not even that Rin was particularly naive, but that next to Sae he was always the youngest, he used to be the youngest and his psyche used to react this way next to his older brother when problems arise (if memory serves, this is usually called regression among defense mechanisms, but I don't remember this topic well and I need to refresh my knowledge). Sae distanced himself and isolated himself from his brotherly feelings for Rin in order to avoid even more trauma for his psyche, because to admit that you are losing someone close to you is killing painful, It turns your soul inside out and makes you want to rip it out of yourself. If you convince yourself that everything is fine, you are not losing your dear little brother, but just some loser, then it will not be so bad at heart. I don't believe Sae when he says that Rin is no longer important in his life. And I don't think Sae was doing anything consciously at that moment. (Which, however, does not change the fact that they are two fools, one of whom is traumatized, and who have said a lot of bad things to each other. Do I blame them? Still don't.) One could say that Sae is older and therefore should have shown more understanding and patience, but I don't think this is justified. Their age difference is only two years, not to mention the fact that age does not always help in any way in such situations. They were both teenagers at that time and it would be wrong to shift all responsibility to Sae, just as it would be wrong to shift all responsibility to Rin.  Neither of them had the experience to solve such problems normally. Neither of them is to blame. Neither of them is innocent.

P.S. I needed confirmation that I was not crazy and was not looking for meaning where there was none, so if you are interested, then my conclusions about Sae's facial expressions were confirmed by two more psychologists. Ngl, I'm glad I didn't lose my skills. Writing this analysis was one of the most inspiring and fun, I'm practically shaking with delight.

[proudproship]

Not so friendly reminder that creating "dark" or "taboo" fiction can be a sign of childhood trauma!

More below the cut. Warning: long post.

TW: Mentions of trauma, child abuse, and paraphilias

Hi. I'm someone who studies psychology and sociology, and someone who also happens to have an interest in this shipping discourse stuff.

So, back to what I said a few paragraphs ago: Creating "dark" or "taboo" fictional content can be a sign of childhood trauma.

How?

When a child goes through something they consider traumatic, their brain will play the situation on repeat subconsciously, which can cause hypervigilance and symptoms of PTSD.

A common sign of PTSD in young children is that they will reenact their trauma with things like dolls, drawings, figures, and basically any other thing they can use to express their thoughts.

For example, a child who has gone through physical abuse may reenact similar things with their toys, such as making their dolls hit or yell at each other.

This symptom isn't limited to children, though. It is a symptom closely related to the presence of flashbacks and nightmares.

Many artists will create a "self-insert" character, "sona," or a character who is otherwise much like it's creator; when an artist creates a character like this and also has past trauma, their symptoms may reflect onto their character.

Projecting yourself onto characters can happen with other characters as well, even if you didn't make the character.

This is a healthy symptom. It shows that the brain is willing to become stronger from their trauma.

Reenacting trauma in ways that aren't harmful can help the brain process what happened to them, and can even help them deal with their trauma directly.

In order to heal trauma, you must know what your trauma is; you can't heal a wound you don't know you have.

While dark fiction creators are indulging in positive healing mechanisms, certain people will shun them for doing so.

"Antishippers" claim to be the "heroes" and to support healing, even though the thing that makes someone be considered and antishipper is if they're "anti healing through fiction."

Antishippers will throw the same ableist rhetorics around by claiming "if you ship adult x child you're a pedophile!" or "if you have age gap ships (even if both are consenting adults) you're a pedophile!"

This, not only is it hurting trauma survivors (especially those who have been harmed by those with paraphilic disorders), it is hurting EVERY disabled person.

Armchair diagnosis is not something anyone should do.

It is when there is little to no evidence that the condition exists within a person, though people still throw labels onto them to make them seem like they're a "bad guy." (Usually.)

This is also hurting people with actual paraphilias. Paraphilic disorder is real condition characterized by intrusive thoughts of a (usually abnormal or harmful-if-acted-on) sexual nature.

Even if someone claims to not be ableist but still demonizes and villainizes paraphilias, they're ableist.

Ableism is ableism.

And before an anti decides to call me a "pedo-apologist," go right ahead! You don't know what you're saying anyways.

There is a difference between a criminal and a disabled person.

Proship people do not support abuse. Anyone who claims to be proship but still supports abuse is NOT proship.

---

Of course anyone who makes dark content doesn't have to have past trauma.

There are many people who make dark content that don't have what they'd consider trauma, or think their trauma is unrelated to the content they create.

What if they did experience something traumatic in the future?

They'd be able to cope with it better, because they'd seen it in fiction before, so they'd know the impact of it, and how they could handle it.

Of course, not everyone who indulges in fiction will be able to handle it, though.

However, no matter if they have past trauma or not, assume the best when it comes to content creators.

They're creative and strong, and we should be thankful that they're adding onto fandom culture by just existing and doing what they love.

All people, no matter what fictional content they create, are beautiful in their own way and should be met with kindness and compassion.

Do not go out of your way to harass/abuse innocent people.

Do not go out of your way to be ableist towards content creators and content consumers.

---

Thank you for reading my long post, I hope it helped at least a bit.

Have a great day/night and stay safe, no matter your taste in fiction.

Feedback is appreciated, and reblogs are encouraged.

[feverdreamsanddelusions]

prompt ask game — bad caretaker

[tw bad caretaker, victim blaming, manipulation, conditioning, conditioned whumpee, abandonment, emotional whump, psychological whump]

25 scenarios and 25 dialogue prompts :)

scenarios

caretaker accidentally injures whumpee

caretaker accidentally triggers whumpee

caretaker loses their patience and snaps

caretaker forgets about whumpee

caretaker forgets about an important event/date

caretaker is overworked and whumpee is the last thing they want to be thinking about

caretaker purposely abandons whumpee because they're fed up

caretaker lashes out and ends up saying something very hurtful

caretaker purposely uses whumpee's conditioning against them

caretaker purposely triggers whumpee for whatever reason

caretaker is too rough when handling whumpee

caretaker has no idea how to communicate properly, they're so gruff and blunt to the point of rudeness

caretaker is friends with whumper and ends up believing whumper over whumpee

caretaker is victim blaming

caretaker is reluctant and constantly whining

caretaker perceives whumpee as a huge burden

caretaker feels like their life ended when they got tasked with caring for whumpee

caretaker gets too possessive/controlling over their charge

caretaker can't keep it consistent with the house rules

caretaker has their own issues so whumpee's sometimes get swept under the rug

caretaker x whumpee romance (gone wrong) (it's weird and toxic and dubcon-y)

caretaker can't cook and it ends up causing serious issues

caretaker has no idea how to take care of a sick person and makes it all worse

caretaker is too squeamish to take care of whumpee but they're the only one around

caretaker is trying to solve a medical issue with zero experince (stitches, splints etc.)

dialogue

"how can you be so ungrateful?"

"how do you think i feel?"

"i can't believe you can't even do that."

"look, i'm sorry, it's just... a lot."

"oh, here we go again."

"so now i'm the bad guy."

"i can't keep doing this anymore."

"you can't keep doing this anymore."

"you're being so difficult."

"can't you just give me a break for two seconds?"

"oh, fuck. you look like shit."

"if i have to hold you down, i will, and no amount of tears will convince me not to."

"stop crying already, fuck."

"i told you not to do that."

"one more sound and i swear i'll bring you back to whumper."

"you have to get over it at some point."

"yeah, yeah, i know, trauma this, trauma that..."

"you're such a victim."

"have you ever thought that maybe... it was kinda your fault?"

"do not go outside without me."

"what the fuck is wrong with you?"

"oh, you're really messed up/broken."

"i really can't do anything anymore, can i? it's all about you, you, you."

"it's just a fucking [object of phobia/irrational fear], stop being so childish."

"you know what? maybe you deserved it."