#all these poses of classical torture
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Horror characters with a s/o who does ballet
I did ballet when I was like 4 before I was diagnosed with ADHD and I did enjoy it but I didn't keep doing it. I've just been thinking about ballet lately and I decided to write about it.
Includes: Hannibal Lecter, Asa Emory, Michael Myers, Vincent Sinclair, and Amanda Young
Warnings: GN reader mostly but one bullet on each section mentions a male reader, internalized homophobia?, regular homophobia, mentions of murder, mentions of saw traps in Amanda's section, mentions of torture, vague cannibalism in Hannibal's section
Hannibal Lecter
When you tell him you do ballet he's immediately interested. Hannibal enjoys the finer things in life and ballet is something he's happy to indulge in.
He's rich so he's happy to help pay for whatever you need. Ballet shoes can be very expensive but he's willing to help you pay for them.
Ballet is physically demanding and he's happy to help you sooth the aches and pains on your body. Will help you with ice baths or rubbing your aching muscles.
Will go to all of your shows, even if you're barely in it. He doesn't care he's going to be there to watch you dance, and will bring you flowers after every performance.
If you practice at home he's there to help you, giving his advice as someone who's been to many opera and ballet shows.
He probably has a lot of hair products for his hair because he's kind of a diva. So if you need hair gel or hairspray for your costume he's got your back.
If you're a man and someone makes fun of you for doing ballet they're getting eaten. I think he'd do something clever like a tongue dish or he poses the body in some kind of ballet pose.
Asa Emory
Like Hannibal Asa loves the finer things in life. He's pretty rich considering he has all these torture devices and a hotel. So you having a more expensive job/hobby is not a big deal to him.
He will try to sneak in bug related things into things you can customize. If you're doing a dance related to bugs in any way he's asking you all about it and will honestly want to make things as accurate as possible.
Will want to watch you practice because he just likes seeing you in dance and shift into different positions. He's always interested in human limits both physical and mental so seeing you stretch your body while dancing is interesting to him.
Like I said, Asa is rich and he doesn't have a problem buying you things for your job/hobby. If you're allowed to customize parts of your practice clothes or shoes he'll try to get it bug related in some kind of way.
He might take inspiration from your dancing and will pose victims or put them in traps that are ballet related.
He loves classical music so listening to you practicing with music over and over again isn't a problem to him. He's put himself through worse so listening to his partners dance music over and over again isn't that bad.
Just like Hannibal, if you're a man and someone makes fun of you for doing ballet he's going to put them through a lot of torture, like more than normal. He was a little unsure about you being a man and doing ballet but he got over it quickly.
Michael Myers
He's heard of ballet but the extent of his knowledge on it is just that it's 'fancy dancing'. Once he sees you dancing, because when he's not killing he's watching you, he's pretty interested in it. As interested as Michael can be in something.
He likes how graceful you look while dancing. He could watch you for hours, just sitting still and watching you dancing. He'll probably touch and feel your ballet shoes when you're not using them.
If you ask him to help you break in your shoes and explain to him you just hit them on the floor he's very willing to help you. You'll have to watch him to make sure he doesn't genuinely ruin them.
He's confused about how you're getting bruises and hurt feet when you're "just dancing" but his concern isn't really noticeable aside from him leaving out ice packs for you.
If you're doing a dance where you're being more 'physical' with your dancing partner he's going to be jealous about it. You'll have to make it up to him with lots of candy and avoiding other men.
If you're a man and you do ballet he doesn't see why that's something weird. He's been locked up inside a mental hospital for 16 years so he doesn't really understand gender roles.
But if someone makes you feel back for doing ballet as a man and Michael hears about it, he's killing them for you.
Vincent Sinclair
He is so interested in you doing ballet. He wants to hear all about the type of ballet you do and how long you've been doing it. If you memorized any dances he wants you to do them for him.
I have a feeling that Vincent can sew to some degree. Like he can take old clothes and customize them. He'll probably make/find you clothes you can practice in and maybe even costumes.
He listens to classical/opera music already so if you want to practice or perform for him it's really no problem at all to him.
Finding you actual ballet shoes might be an issue. He'd suggest making you some but quickly realize he can't. He'll bribe/guilt Bo into going out and getting you ballet shoes.
Will probably make some figures into ballet dancers because you're one. His art is going to include a lot more ballet themes in it. Will love to sketch you in different outfits and poses.
Anything remotely ballet themed from a victim is going to you. If Vincent sees some clothes or an item you'd like or could use in your dancing he'll tell Bo to be careful with that item when he kills them, or he'll kill the victim himself.
If you're a guy and a victim makes fun of you for doing ballet they're getting turned into a figure alive like Wayne was. If his brothers make fun of you cough cough Bo he'll defend you and probably bring up something about them. "You do ballet Y/N? Didn't take you for a pansy." (Vincent signing) "Remember your emo phase when you wore eyeliner every day?"
Amanda Young
She wanted to do ballet as a kid but she probably wasn't very good at it and her parents took her out. So when she hears you do ballet she wants to hear all about it and will ask if you can teach her some.
Loves any kind of ballet outfits, especially if it's in darker colors and adores seeing you in practice clothes or costumes for shows.
Will brag to Hoffman about how talented her partner is at ballet and how shes so lucky to have you as a partner.
She'll probably take inspiration from the dance you're currently practicing or the process of breaking in your shoes when she's making a new trap for someone.
Loves watching you practice too. She finds the movements so satisfying and the music to be calming. If you practice at home she'll probably stretch with you.
Will love to help you do your hair and or makeup for a performance. She likes participating in your interests and helping you get ready is something she's happy to do.
If you're a man and someone makes fun of you for doing ballet she's finding a reason to put them in a trap. Hoffman will probably make fun of you doing ballet if you're a man so she'll get back at him in another way.
#hannibal lecter#hannibal nbc#hannibal x reader#hannibal lecter x you#hannibal lecter x reader#asa emory#asa emory x reader#michael myers x you#michael myers x y/n#vincent sinclair x reader#vincent sinclair x you#vincent sinclair x y/n#amanda young x reader#amanda young#slasher x y/n#slasher x reader#slasher fanfiction
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A Fine Team
Part 1 of (N/A)
Summary: The reader and Loki are sent on a mission at an art gallery, their objective is to pose as husband and wife to gain entry into a hydra auction. The reader has been falling for their friend for some time now and doesn’t think that he could ever feel the same.
Pairing: Loki x Reader
Author’s Note: I’m thinking of making this a multi-part fanfic, not sure how long but I have a few ideas for the plot. I’ve never written any fan fictions like this before and I’m mostly trying to get back into the groove of writing again.
Word Count: 3,422
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The art gallery is filled with a warm glow of light. The walls are paneled with a dark wood and the floor is a shining marble that echoes with each step of heeled feet. There’s low classical music playing but no one is dancing. The guests are either too occupied by the exhibition or conversation with their peers. If you didn’t know better you wouldn’t even suspect anything abnormal about this event. Just a bunch of old money socialites viewing art they’re hoping to bid for in the auction later tonight.
Unfortunately for you, this is a mission, not a social event. Loki is not your date, holding you close against him as you view a landscape piece. He’s not whispering sweet nothings into your ear. He’s observing the people around you, and he’s playing a part. He is your mission partner, not a lovesick newlywed. He is your friend, nothing more. When you think about the press of his hand against your lower back and his lips close to your ear, your heart clenches. It feels like the most exhilarating torture for him to be so close yet so far. He has no idea how hard it is to suppress the blush rising to your cheeks and you want to keep it that way so instead you watch an older man in a dark red suit jacket look at his watch.
“There he is, it’s almost time for the auction. Don’t lose sights,” you whisper, pulling your lips into a smile as you turn toward Loki.
“He couldn’t be more obvious if he tried,” Loki says while pushing a strand of hair behind your ear and your breath hitches and you pray he doesn’t notice.
“You guys are disgusting, I can’t believe I have to watch this,” Tony’s voice comes through your ear pieces.
Loki rolls his eyes, scoffing, “Would you rather me hold a knife to her throat, Stark? Would that be more in character?”
“For you? Absolutely,” Tony says pointedly.
You clear your throat.
“If you two are done having your dick measuring contest, the target’s moving,” You whisper harshly.
The man in the red suit goes to the back of the gallery and flashes his watch to a young bouncer. He looks at him with an over polite smile. He’s nervous, this must be the new kid that Hydra set to work this event. Fury was right, they didn’t see the avengers as a threat. To be fair, the intel was fresh and the event was just arranged a few days ago. They just hadn’t checked the museum staff for any spies yet.
Nat looks at you subtly from the bar as she abandons her spot behind the counter and heads toward the back room. Her hair is dyed a dark black and is swept into a braid. She has a completely different face, courtesy of stark industries, but she moves with the same practiced ease of Natasha. She touches the bouncer’s arm and lean towards him. His eyes go wide and he hastily steps aside and follows her past the velvet rope. When they turn the corner you hear a door close through her mic and then you hear a few grunts and you swear you hear a sharp cracking sound.
“You’re all good, auction is about to start,” Nat says her tone calm.
“You’re brillant, Nat,” You shake your head in awe and hold onto Loki’s arm.
His suit is a dark green. The material cool to touch and fitting across his arms. His dark hair is swept back into an elegant loose bun. His face is at ease and you feel your heart stutter as his green eyes sparkle with the chandelier light overhead. You’re wearing a long gown the same color as his suit, the neckline is revealing but not too revealing to warrant any unnecessary glances. The thin straps on your shoulders are beaded with gold and the details on your bodice are dripped in gold, to match his cufflinks. He insisted on your outfits matching perfectly. ‘To sell the illusion’, he said.
“You look lovely, my dear wife,” He says as you pass a small group of lower hydra operatives.
“I’d hope so, I picked it out just for you. Now that we’re married it doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying to impress you,” You laugh airily as the two of you approach the now clear hallway.
You make a show of batting your eyes at the man beside you as a few of the operatives turn to look at the two of you. Loki wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you close, giving you a featherlight kiss on your forehead. When you turn the corner down a darker hall you both stop and press your backs against the wall, waiting to hear footsteps. None follow and you relax against the wall and look over to see Loki looking at you with a wolfish grin.
“You play this part beautifully, darling.”
You roll your eyes at him, trying to hide the start of a smile on your lips.
“You can turn it down a notch, Loki, all these rooms are sound proof according to the blueprints we got from Fury. No one is here to hear your flirting-“
“Except for us, Reindeer Games, you’re making me sick over here,” Tony complains and you can’t help but laugh.
“Careful, Loki, y/n may have to kick your ass if you get too frisky. This is a mission after all, what would Fury say?”
Nat’s smirk is evident in her words. You wish you could stop the hope from rising in your chest when Loki doesn’t seem too interested in defending himself. But then it’s crushed just as fast and you see his smile drop and he raises one eyebrow.
“I’m not flirting, I’m staying in character. There’s a difference. I suppose that’s why I was chosen for this mission over you, Stark. I’m simply more professional.”
“Yeah that’s the reason, definitely not the fact that I’m an extremely famous billionaire, philanthropist and the owner of one of the tallest buildings in New York. Which just so happens to have my name on it. But you’re right, Rock of Ages-“
You hear a door open down the hall.
“Will you two shut up,” you hiss.
You look at your diamond encrusted watch. They must have just got done appraising the piece you’re here for. You see a supply closet out of the corner of your eye and grab Loki’s wrist and pull him silently into it, turning your ear piece on mute. The room is cramped, the space taken up by cleaning products and a rack of boxes and towels. You can’t help but press Loki against the door as you hold your hand over his mouth. Your heart is racing. It sounds like there’s about five men in the hall. Stopped right in front of the closet door. In the small glimpse of light peaking through the door from the hallway you see Loki’s eyes shut tightly, his eyebrows furrowed.
You listen in on their conversation but it’s mostly small talk. All they say that rouses any suspicion is that they’re meeting at a hotel a few months from now. As their steps echo down the hall they say their goodbyes. Hail Hydra.
You let your head fall against Loki’s chest and take your hand from his mouth. He reaches up to his ear as he breathes heavily.
“Darling, if you wanted to get me alone, I could’ve arranged that much earlier.”
His voice is as smooth as silk, if a little breathless. You try to chuckle but you feel like floating. Your skin pricks as you look up and realize how close the two of you are.
“If I wanted you alone, Laufeyson, it would have already happened,” You counter, trying to slip into your usual banter.
It’s harder when it’s like this. When it’s so close to the truth but it just isn’t. You want him, but you know there’s no way he’d have you.
Loki opens his mouth to reply, smirking, but he stops short. You’re close enough to hear the muffled noise from his ear piece and Loki clears his throat when you pull away to turn the volume up. You nod at him and he opens the door to the closet.
“Hello? Am I just talking to myself here?”
“No, Tony, sorry. Had to focus, heading to the auction room now,” You respond.
Loki offers his arm and you take it, avoiding his eyes in hopes of just appearing focused. The two of you reach the auction room and slip in unnoticed. You find the place marker with your aliases and your paddle number and take your seat in the back.
The auctioneer hasn’t gotten to your item yet but you pretend to be interested and whisper to each other when it’s time for Loki to put his paddle up. You bid low enough to lose but high enough to where you drive the price up on some of the smaller items. An hour or so passes with you and Loki waiting to see the painting you came here for. Every time he raised the paddle he’d steal a glance at you, pleased with how frustrated some of the older attendees sounded when they had to place a higher bid.
You couldn’t help but marvel at how far he’s come since the battle of New York. You were one of the only people that was able to connect the fact that Loki’s eyes were the same color as Clint’s when he was being mind controlled. Before Loki ever joined you’d brought it up multiple times but no one ever really took it seriously. After he arrived at the tower, and he opened up more, in his own ways he confirmed that your theory was correct. He hasn’t told anyone what happened that lead him to that point, though. Luckily, he’s adjusted pretty well and if some of the avengers still don’t like them- they have a begrudging respect for him. Loki and Bucky bonded and formed an interesting friendship, with what Loki has told you it seems that they’ve helped each other readjust to freedom in a way. Wanda has also helped Loki open up more, they tend to spend some time every few weeks training with their magic. Clint still keeps his distance but that’s not a scar that’s going to heal quickly, you don’t think.
Loki tears you from your thoughts, tapping the inside of your right wrist. He’s staring straight at the painting you’re here for. It’s a 1940s battlefield landscape. But you’re not here because of the art itself, you’re here for what’s sewn into the canvas. You know that Tony is listening in as the auctioneer announces the piece.
“Showtime, newly weds,” Tony comments.
According to Fury’s intel there’s a note with coordinates to a hidden hydra base that has been thought to be inactive since just after the war. There’s been whispers of a resurgence of the winter soldier program in a top secret location. This might be the key to finding the headquarters.
Loki waits for a few people to bid before placing his first one in. If you can get your hands on this painting it could completely destroy the last of the winter soldier program, if you don’t win then this mission will be a hell of a lot more difficult. He puts his paddle up again and rests his hand on your thigh, his fingers dipping just inside of the dress’ side slit. He keeps his face straight and you assume someone’s looking but you can’t take your eyes off his hand. Your breath is shallow but you try to focus, giving his hand a pat when you think he should bid.
The general protocol is that the highest bidders are given directions to a safe house where they can make the exchange. Hydra transports the item there in heavily guarded vehicles. Which the team will be tracking via the Quinjet. You feel your knives strapped to your thigh, all night you’ve been itching for a fight. Maybe it’s the pent up frustration from your ruse or just the fact that you’ve been surrounded by hydra agents all night. It feels like torture to blend in with them but it’s honestly not even close to being one of the most difficult missions you’ve gone on. It’s tame in comparison to most, little combat and little interaction with the enemy. The hardest part is keeping your heart in check when Loki’s touching you like that. You’re starting to realize how incredibly distracting it can be.
“Sold to number twenty-five!”
The auctioneer announces the winner and you realize it’s not you.
“Shit.”
“What’s up, (y/n)? Did you get it or not?” Tony pries.
“They cut the bidding short. Two men came in and delivered a note to the auctioneer,” Loki explains.
You didn’t even notice. How did that happen?
“It must’ve been rigged, get out of there, we’ll see you at the jet.”
You slip your hand into Loki’s, the cold of his fake wedding band nipping at your skin.
“Let’s go, honey. I have a little surprise for you back at home,” You tease seductively.
His green eyes cut to yours, you swear that for a moment there’s a flash of something there. You just can’t quite put a name to it. Loki’s tongue brushes over his lower lip, bringing your hand up. He leaves a lingering kiss on your matching ring. The look in his eye paired with the graze of his mouth on your skin sends a strike of electricity through your veins. He gets up, leading you to the door.
“Shall we?” He makes a show of letting you exit first after you exchange the customary hail hydras with the organizer and his bodyguards.
When you get into the hall the two of you pick up your pace.
“Now, what?” You hiss at Loki.
He grins mischievously.
“Now, darling, we have some fun.”
You can tell he’s thinking what you’ve been feeling, this has been too easy. Now, at least, it’s getting interesting. You really wish you had a body suit under this dress but maybe if you’re lucky you’ll be able to make it to the jet before you have to do any real damage. You get instruction from Tony to take a few turns down the hall to a back exit that leads to an alley closer to the meeting point.
The night air is breezy and goosebumps form on your arms. The stars are bright and the moon is little more than a sliver. Your heels echo softly on the pavement as you walk. Loki is close enough to where your hands brush once in a while as you walk. Each time it happens you feel yourself being pulled further into his orbit. There’s something magnetic about Loki, and most might say it’s because he’s a god or because he’s like a predator. Coaxing his prey into a false security, but you don’t see him that way. You see a man, a god, that has been through awful things. Like anyone else, he has struggled. He is hard to crack but when you’re able to see what’s underneath the calculating front he puts up, he’s not that different from the rest of the team.
“You did good in there, Laufeyson, I think you’re getting the hang of this whole avenger thing,” you bump his shoulder with yours, “who knows, maybe you’ve found your glorious purpose.”
He chuckles and rubs the back of his neck.
“I don’t think that the other avengers share that sentiment.”
Your chest pangs, because it’s true.
Then his face hardens, glancing back the way you came. You hear some low voices cutting through the night and before you can react, Loki is grabbing you by the waist. He’s spinning you around and the world is tilting on its axis. You close your eyes thinking something bad is about to happen.
Your back hits the wall and one of his hands is on your waist, the other supporting your head, guiding it to back gently. When you open your eyes he’s looking at you and he silently shushes you. Loki leans in close to you and his nose is brushing yours and his gaze drops to your lips. Your heart is pounding in your chest and your skin is tingling. He’s so close and his breath smells like whiskey. His cologne is coating the air between you and it smells like the forest and it’s warm and welcoming and it’s so hard to pretend like you’re not in love with him when he’s so close.
“You look truly divine,” He breathes.
“You don’t mean that,” You whisper back, shaking your head.
The footsteps are getting closer and closer and you screw your eyes shut. You have no idea what to do now that you’ve lost contact with the others and you can’t think straight. Loki always leaves your mind cloudy and usually it doesn’t effect your mission but you’ve never been in such a compromising position. He’s intoxicating and it takes all your willpower not to lean into him further. Not to press your lips to his or wrap your arms around his neck.
“Yes,” he leans a fraction closer, “I do.”
Then he’s pressing you further into the bricks and his fingers are brushing against your cheekbone. You open your eyes and he looks at you and his pupils are blown wide. Then he kisses you and it’s so soft. He’s kissing you like you’re going to disappear, like you’re made of glass. It’s fragile and you can tell he’s braced for rejection and even though you’re terrified that this is all for the mission somehow you melt into the kiss. A low noise is pulled from him as you slide your hands through his hair, it falls from its slicked back bun and the strands are falling against your cheek. The moment is everything you’ve ever dreamed it would be and still it’s so much better.
The whole world is slipping away and you ears are buzzing and you realize you need to breathe. You pull back, leaning your head back toward the cool night air and then his lips are on your neck and you feel weightless.
“Believe me, (y/n),” he whispers against your skin, his breath cool, “I could never lie to you.”
The sound of your name makes you whimper as his lips move further and further down. The footsteps are long gone, you realize. You should go, both of you should go meet the others at the rendezvous point. But you can’t move, it’s like you’re stuck to the spot and all you can focus on is this, this mischievous god against you and how his hands are chilling your skin and setting it on fire all at once. The way his tie has come slightly loose and how his cheeks are reddened. He’s disheveled and you never thought it would be for you, because of you.
“Loki-“ You choke out.
“(Y/n), come in. Can you hear us? Where are you, agent?” Steve’s voice breaks through the static in your ear piece.
Loki pulls back abruptly, the voice of your captain breaking through the moment. His eyes are wide as he looks at you and your heart sinks. He regrets it. You just lost your best friend. You sober up quickly and slip from Loki’s grasp and maneuver around him, looking down the alleyway.
“I hear you, Cap. We’re not too far from the museum, had to take a detour. On our way now.”
“We got eyes on the truck, good work you two, you make a fine team.”
You look at Loki for a second. You can’t read his expression as he straightens his tie and fixes his hair. He wipes his lips, erasing all the evidence of what happened just like that. As if it never happened, couldn’t happen. Not with you, at least. You sigh.
“Yeah, I guess we do.”
In silence you head to the rendezvous point. The tension thick between you. Maybe all he’ll ever be is your partner. Maybe you were naive to think that it could seriously be more. It was just the heat of the moment and it should have never gotten that far. Maybe you could learn to live with that.
#Loki#loki x reader#loki reader insert#marvel#marvel fanfiction#marvel x reader#the avengers#fake dating#friends to lovers#fluff#pining#loki laufeyson#loki odinson#avenger loki#loki fanfic#light angst#insecurity#multi part fic
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I think the tragedy of Izzy is that he is the only character in the show who is severely punished for every transgression - and even the transgressions of others.
Ed gets a cannonball to the head, yes, but he is trying to get himself killed at that point. His atonement after he comes back is a few hours of banishment and a cat bell. The crew who openly plot to mutiny (and kill Stede) in S1 get art therapy.
Compare that to the mental and physical torture Izzy undergoes in S2 - and the lasting reminders of the violence done to him. There are lash marks on his back. His first severed toe doesn't magically heal, and his shot leg has to be amputated. Even his suicide attempt leaves a visible scar, while Ed comes away from a cannonball to the head without any lasting damage. In the end, Izzy (probably) dies from a combination of blood loss and an abdominal gunshot.
No other character in this show has any lasting effects from being - in some cases mortally - wounded like Izzy (apart from Lucius, but his finger is played more or less as comedy, and it's definitely not narrative punishment).
But Izzy doesn't only have to carry the consequences of his own actions. In the end, Izzy dies of a combination of the worst traits of the people he loves/aligns himself with.
Ed's projected self-hatred and perceived unloveableness costs Izzy half a leg. Yes, Izzy hurt him deeply and goaded Ed into becoming Blackbeard again. But Ed's extreme reaction and violence towards the person closest to him is all about Ed's issues.
Stede's careless recklessness (Things have a way of working out. At least for me.) and his casual disregard for the safety of others besides himself and Ed put Izzy in the path of a bullet. And yes, it wasn't Stede's fault. But it was Stede's "suicide mission" - planned without a thought for risk minimization and a blind trust in luck (or other people jumping in to save the day).
If I wanted to be really dramatic, I'd say Izzy died for Ed's and Stede's sins. And in the end, he even takes all of Ed's faults onto himself - thereby absolving him.
Maybe the Jesus Christ Superstar thing wasn't as clear-cut as we thought. We even get the classic pietà pose of a crying Ed holding his dead Izzy in the end.
(Which would make Ed a mother figure to Izzy. I think I'll better stop here.)
#ofmd#izzy hands#ofmd meta#Izzy has his faults#Ed has his faults#Stede has his faults#but Izzy suffers exponentially more than those two#also his suffering leaves scars - and finally leads to his death#I really cannot see how on earth Izzy deserved this#this is a comedy - sure#not for poor Iz though
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OUR LIFE SWAP OUR LIFE SWAP
Another part to the Swap AU in which Baxter is your best friend that grew up across the street, Cove is the friend you met when you were 13 and Derek is the boy who moved in for a summer.
More Swap AU here -- and here -- and here.
You'd been best friends with Baxter for ten years, so you'd seen him in almost every imaginable mood. Happy Baxter, sad Baxter, anxious Baxter, you knew them all.
But giddy Baxter ... that was one of the rarer versions.
It was, however, the version that you got on your prom night.
"Are you ready yet?" you heard him ask excitedly. You had him on speakerphone as you roamed around your room, putting the finishing touches on your look.
"Not yet, hold your horses," you told him.
"I don't have any horses, just my car keys," he answered. "Perhaps we will have horses at our wedding, they can pull the carriage."
You rolled your eyes, and although he couldn't see it, it seemed like he imagined your reaction -- he laughed.
The two of you weren't dating, had never dated or even talked about liking each other in that way, but he liked to tease you like that. He called you "darling" and "sweetheart" regularly, always offered you his arm when you were walking anywhere, talked about your future wedding and the children you'd have.
It was just what he did -- he teased. But you'd had a crush on him for years, and despite these kinds of jokes being a regular occurrence, they still made your heart flutter.
"You're so funny," you told him wryly, taking a last look at yourself in the mirror. "I'm ready."
"On my way!" he said cheerily, ending the call.
You made your way out to the living room, preparing yourself for your moms' reaction, and they didn't disappoint.
"You look so beautiful!" Mom said, gripping your shoulders and pulling back to get a good look. "Baxter isn't going to know what hit him."
"He's seen me practically every day for the past ten years, he'll probably have a pretty good idea," you told her.
She shot a look over to Ma, who giggled. Before she could add in her thoughts, the doorbell rang. She rushed over, pulled the door open, and there he was.
Baxter was smiling -- a full smile, showing his teeth, very different from his trademark smirk. He was wearing a classic black suit, well tailored, and his matching black and white hair was swooped carefully across his forehead.
You were so busy looking at him in awe that you didn't recognize that he was taking you in with the same reverance.
"Pictures!" Ma called out, breaking you out of your shared trance.
Baxter grabbed your hand, pulling it up to put your arm through his as you followed your parents outside. "You look amazing," he said quietly, leaning in so only you could hear.
"Speak for yourself," you replied.
Your moms made the two of you pose for photos out on the poppy hill. Ma had her phone and Mom had the proper camera, and they directed you to a variety of positions and locations across the little field.
"Sorry, I know you want to go," you told him as Mom looked through the photos she'd taken.
"No need to apologize," he said. "Honestly it wasn't so much that I wanted to go as it was that I was eager to start the experience."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that it's the idea of spending this night with you that I find thrilling."
You weren't sure what to say to that, but you felt a blush coming on. Your moms caught it, it seemed, because you heard a few clicks and some laughter.
When that particular torture finally ended, Baxter escorted you back into the house, through the front door, and out to his car. As your parents waved, he opened the door for you, made sure you were safely seated, then closed it before jogging over to the driver's side.
"I'm very excited," he said as he started the car, flashing another bright smile your way.
"Is it the fanciness or the dancing?" you asked, knowing his love for both things.
"It's the fanciness and the dancing. And getting to do all of it with you," he said. "Usually all my dancing happens with a competition partner, not someone as dear to me as you are. And it is rare that you'll indulge me in a bit of formal wear."
There it was again -- "someone as dear to me as you are." A flush made its way to your face again. It was going to be a long night.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
When you got to the prom, held in a large room at a nearby hotel that had been decorated extensively by your fellow students, Baxter was practically buzzing with anticipation. He parked, jumped out of the car and raced to the other side to open your door before you had the chance.
He led you inside, and when you opened the doors he actually let out a little gasp. There were little lights hanging everywhere, flowers all over, and a soft, slow song was currently playing as the other attendants who'd already arrived danced in the center of the room.
"Magical," he whispered, barely loud enough for you to hear.
Unable to hold himself back from one of his favorite activities, he grabbed your hand and gently pulled you to the dance floor as well.
"Is this all right?" he asked when you got there. "Did you want to do anything else before?"
"No," you laughed, "I figured this is what we'd spend most of the night doing."
"Excellent," he grinned, then guided one hand up to his shoulder as he held onto the other. He put his free hand on your waist and started leading you in the same sway the others were doing.
"No waltzing?" you asked, half joking and half genuinely surprised he wasn't trying to jump into one of his routines.
"No room. Besides, there's something to be said for something simpler, don't you think?"
The song lasted a bit longer, and by the end of it he'd pulled you closer, close enough that your cheek was resting on his shoulder. When a faster song started, you felt him smile against your hair.
"Do you think your classmates would be opposed to us staying like this?" he asked.
"I'd be opposed," you said, pulling yourself away from him. "I want to see you dance to this."
"It won't be very pretty," he said with a grin.
"I doubt that."
You saw him warm at your words. He grabbed your hands again and started dancing, something so different than the smooth, graceful ballroom style you knew he loved, but something beautiful all the same. He jumped around, shook his shoulders, yanked you back and forth in turns and twists, laughing the whole time.
When you invited Baxter to go to prom with you -- as friends, you'd told him, not willing to risk putting yourself out there enough to ask for an actual date -- you imagined you'd spend most of the night dancing, and you were right.
There was the occasional break to get drinks, and he'd insisted you get your pictures professionally taken against the backdrop that had been set up in the corner, but for the most part, you danced. And it was wonderful.
You stayed even as people started leaving and workers started backing things up. At one point, the rooms regular lights were turned on, but the music kept playing a nice ballad, and Baxter didn't make a move to stop, so neither did you.
"I don't want this night to be over," you heard him say, a touch of sadness in his voice. It was the first time he'd been less than ecstatic the entire night.
Someone shut the music off, and the handful of other students that had stuck around started unsticking themselves from each other and moving towards the exit.
"I don't think we have much of a choice," you told him.
With a sigh, he let go of your waist, but kept your hand in his. This time, he held onto it as you walked back out to his car.
The ride home was odd. He was still excited about the night, that was clear, and he was disappointed it was over, but there was something else going on with him too. Something that made his hands tense on the steering wheel and had his jaw clenched, even as he smiled when you talked about how much fun you'd had.
When you got back to the neighborhood, he parked in his usual spot on the street in front of his house, then once again opened your door for you. He helped you out, then walked with you across the street and up to your front door.
"I had a marvelous time," he told you. "Thank you so much for inviting me, it means the world."
"Who else would I have invited?" you said, laughing at the idea that you'd want to share the night with anyone but him.
"I don't know, I imagine there's a gaggle of boys at that school of yours in line to sweep you off your feet."
If you didn't know better, you'd thought that almost sounded like jealousy. As you were thinking about it, you heard yourself say, "There's no other boy but you."
You bit your lip, nervous at how forward that had sounded. You saw him glance down at your mouth, then take in a breath.
The next thing you knew, he had a hand on your hip, lower than the spot on your waist he'd been holding all night. With his other hand, he he cupped your cheek, brushing his thumb softly against the skin there. You stepped closer to him, and he pulled you closer until you were flush against him.
He was leaning in, and you knew there was nothing else he could be doing except going in for a kiss. You shut your eyes, waiting.
"Hey guys, what are you -- oh no."
Baxter jumped back, and you did the same. The interruption was brief -- your mom had peeked through the door to see why you were both waiting outside, then snapped it shut when she saw what was going on, but the moment was gone.
"I better go inside," you said, beginning to twist your hands nervously. "But thank you, for tonight. For everything."
It took him a moment, but he smiled at you. He reached over across the distance you'd both placed between you and stroked your cheek again.
"Until next time," he said, then left to go into his own house without another word.
#our life beginnings and always#baxter ward#our life#olba#our life baxter#our life baxter ward#baxter x you#baxter x reader#baxter x mc#baxter ward x you#baxter ward x reader#olba baxter#olba baxter ward#baxter ward x mc#our life swap au#i don't know why this mc is so oblivious#like honey he is right there please open your eyes
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.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
“So yeah, that’s what I would like to do for this shoot! Any questions?”
You sat in the conference room that was just down the hall from the shoot with the all the workers for Bakugou’s shoot. Three nights ago, You and Hitoshi stayed up until 3AM discussing literally every single detail of the shoot. You had made not only a pamphlet that went along with the presentation but a whole slide show that explained why you decided on everything. Toshi said it was overkill, and you said it wasn’t enough.
You stood there as they talked amongst themselves and tried to avoid Bakugou’s piercing gaze as you stood nervously picking at you button up. You didn’t have to dress as professionally for the first time you came here because it was only a test run, so you were able to get away with jeans and tennis shoes. However for this meeting you had to wear dress pants that felt a little more tight than the last time you wore them along with a classic white button up and your favorite black heals.
“If that’s something you don’t like however I do have a whole binder full of ideas that we could start with but of course it would take a day or two to come up with more elaborate ideas-“
“It’s more than enough Miss l/n, in fact we can’t think of a single reason as to why we wouldn’t want to do this. Right Bakugou?”
Everyone in the room turned to him, forcing you to do the same. It was like torture! Every glance of him brought back more memories of that hour and a half worth of the messiest make out session you’ve ever experienced. How can so many things happen in only an hour and a half?! Maybe it’s just his charm, maybe that’s his secret. He’s a hell of an awful kisser but so much can happen in such a short amount of time. Maybe that’s just his whole gist in general! There was so much to learn about this man, and you hated that fact that you wanted to know everything.
“Yeah, I like it.”
Everyone in the room cheered as you and Bakugou maintained eye contact. You smiled at him, trying to be polite but that only ended in him bashfully turning his head away. You stood there still smiling, was it possible you were making the great Bakugou Katsuki flustered?
As everyone started to walk out, Bakugou’s agent, Allison Marks went up to you and hugged you. You were a little taken back but you remembered that Ochacko was the same way when you first met her, so you allowed it and squeezed her back.
“That was incredible! I’ve never seen such focus and passion into this kind of stuff! I mean you had every pose, every lighting change, every angle, every outfit, and even every makeup look! How did you do it?”
You blushed smiling, not having gotten this kind of recognition in a long time.
“I had an amazing friend who got me off my ass and made me work, he brings out the best in me.”
Allison melted at your words, “that is the most beautiful sentiment I’ve ever heard, y/n. You are just such a remarkable woman!”
She gave you one last quick hug, then raced out of the room to catch up with the rest of the team, little did you know Bakugou stayed behind.
“She’s way too energetic for her own good,” Bakugou leaned on the table as you cleaned up the room. You looked up at him before smiling at the thought of her bright aura.
“Yeah but it’s so refreshing to have in this line of work, not a lot of people think of photography as art anymore.”
Bakugou cocked an eyebrow at you, watching you closely.
“Art? You think all of this is art?”
You stopped what you were doing for a moment, before standing up fully again and looking at him. His answer seemed genuine but you still didn’t really know they guy. His voice was gruff and his face was pretty much always the same, except when he gets mad, now that’s something you’d like to watch with popcorn in your hands.
“Of course it’s art. There’s so much creativity and thought that goes into this process, I mean did you not just see my whole presentation?”
You shut the computer down quickly before walking over to the blond, who was now looking very amused at your new frustration.
“Look, you may not understand because all you have to do is stand there and look pretty but the people who work on this really do put a lot of human emotion and expression into making this successful. That’s the key with art, it’s more than just showing sweat drip down your glorious abs.”
You rolled your eyes as you walked away from him, not wanting to be any closer in fear you would somehow black out and end up kissing him again. In your defense his cologne is really strong.
“You think my abs are glorious?”
His tone was teasing, almost like he was testing the waters with you.
What was wrong with this guy? He’s so full of it that he didn’t even pay attention to anything that you said except for the one compliment!
“I’ll see you in ten Bakugou, enjoy your break.”
You tried not to sneer at the selfish man next to you as he passed you, and thankfully he got the hint and let you leave.
“Shit.”
You had finally gotten home after a long day of Bakugoy torturing you. It was so weird because it seemed like he was trying to mess with you but any time you tried to match his energy, he looked the other way and pretended you didn’t exist. What was this guy’s problem! You just wanted to shove him into a wall and make out with him talk things out so it wasn’t awkward anymore. He just wasn’t professional. That was it. He was too immature and you didn’t have to think about him ever again after this.
You were able to calm down by having your third cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table with your laptop. Your team was able to get a lot of good shots today, and they wanted you to edit the pictures they got. The only problem was that the company that you work for now has a contract with this new editing software. They explained it in further detail but your shift was over and you have a nasty habit of turning off your brain whenever your shift ends.
“What is it?” Hitoshi came over to where you were sitting, chewing obnoxiously in your ear causing you to shove his face away. He just laughed and continued chewing, grossing you out further.
“I swear to go Toshi if you get cookie crumbs on my brand new laptop-“
“I’ve never seen this website, what is it?”
You rolled your eyes at his lame way to change the topic but you let him do it anyways.
“I…honestly don’t know. I genuinely have no idea where to even start with this.”
Toshi finally swallowed his food and leaned towards the computer. It did make you giggle a bit, he needed glasses but is refusing to even think about it making him look like an old person whenever he looks at a screen.
“Oh shit yeah, this actually looks like something from the future.”
You chuckled before swatting him away, trying to figure it out on your own. You created a whole career by yourself, all self taught for fucks sake! You can figure this one software program, everything is “new” at one point, you’ll totally make this your bitch!
“y/n you’ve been cursing up a storm for the past ten minutes, just email asking to use a different editing program.”
You grunted, letting your head fall on the table. You stared at the rings that still scattered across your fingers, not yet taking them off from work. Then, you thought of Bakugou again. You literally couldn’t get him out of your head, you’ve only been working at that stupid place for a week and you’ve already found yourself infatuated by him! That’s ridiculous, and not you. After the shit that your first ex made you go through you promised that you wouldn’t get as attached again, not unless it was a long term relationship. You hated situationships and how awful relationships had been for you. You just wanted to find someone you felt at home with.
“Hey, take a break, we can figure this out later.”
You sat up, taking a deep breath and realizing there was a small tear running down your face. You’ll be alright. You’ll find the right person when it’s time.
“Yeah, I’ll be there in a second”
You got up and headed to your room, where you were finally able to take off all the little pieces of jewelry and makeup off, and put on some comfortable clothes. As of right now you are home, and that’s good enough for you.
~
“No way! Toshi you never told me you were into Kaminari! This completely changes things!”
You fell back onto the cough laughing as Hitoshi covered his face with a pillow. You couldn’t say you didn’t see this coming, it was quite obvious the day of the party when you introduced him to each other. They already knew of each other from college but you weren’t aware of how many classes they had together and how much Hitoshi watched Kaminari’s channel.
“Shut up. I never told you because I knew you would would be a dick about it.”
You immediately stopped laughing and sat back up. “Toshi! I’m sorry if I ever made you feel uncomfortable, I want to be that person you go to for everything.”
You tried to give him your most impressive puppy dog eyes but all you got in return was a pillow to the face.
“You are the person I go to for everything dipshit, it’s just this is embarrassing and I know I’ll never have the chance to go out with him-“
“Toshi!” you moved the pillow and grabbed your best friend’s shoulders. His eyes widened but quickly went back to his resting “i’m judging you” face. You leaned in close to his face, so close your foreheads were touching. You knew he hated this proximity but you needed him to understand the words that were about to come out of your mouth.
“You are one of the most wonderful person, if not the most wonderful person I have ever met. There is no way in hell he wouldn’t be interested in you.”
Toshi stayed like that for a bit, arms crossed firmly on his chest before allowing his body to fall backwards into the couch. You stared at him, examining his body language. If you hadn’t known him for so long it would have been hard for you to read him, but right now you could tell that he was definitely thinking really hard, trying to comprehend what you had just said to him.
“Kaminari is really good at editing things, I bet you could get him to do it for you.”
Your eyes widened before you hoped up on your feet, scaring Hitoshi.
“Toshi! You’re a genius!” You rushed over and grabbed his face before planting a firm kiss on his forehead. “I knew you were my best friend for a reason.”
You raced to the kitchen where your phone was charging and opened twitter as fast as you could. You only had his twitter, hoping his DMs weren’t flooded with fans trying to talk to him.
“You know I hate it when you do that!”
You smiled as you typed away on your phone, putting it down after you sent a quick explanation to him.
“You know you love it. Want some more popcorn?”
“Duh.”
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
this is why we can’t have nice things…literally
i think i got way too carried away with this one…i just didn’t want to have to do a shit ton for sunday’s post
speaking of sunday! im planning on doing some more written content for that post, and im gonna do a post with a poll if y’all are cool with that. i don’t wanna like explode ur brain with so much plot yk? if y’all are sick of my writing then i’ll just do a silly filler episode or smth idk i’ll think of smth
fun facts! ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
- katsuki was definitely staring at y/n’s ass during her presentation
- katsuki didn’t mean to be rude when he asked y/n the question, it was genuine! he just sucks at showing emotion and y/n isn’t used to his weird behavior/personality yet
- katsuki is also not used to flirting like he thinks he’s soooo good at flirting (he’s not) but when someone he’s actually into reciprocates it freaks him the fuck out
- after they graduated high school bkg basically did the whole speech he did to izuku in the manga and apologized, they both cried and are now on good terms and their families hang out together on holidays again :)
- shoto is low key jealous of bkg, not in a toxic way, just like a pouting puppy, to which izuku always makes sure to smother his face in kisses to make him feel better 🥺
- idc if you agree or not bkg DEFINITELY says “lol” to piss of kami bc he knows it brothers him
- y/n and toshi are siblings your honor. and if you don’t obnoxiously chew in your sibling’s ear are you really siblings?
- toshi follows kami on EVERYTHING, it’s kinda pathetic :/
- kami is nocturnal. that’s it. that’s all i have to say about that.
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#smau#social media au#bakugou x reader#denki kaminari#sero hanta#bakugou katsuki#iida tenya#kirishima eijirou#midoriya izuku#mina ashido#ochako urakara#shoto torodoki#jirou kyouka#momo yaoyaruzo#hitoshi shinsou#yn#my hero academia#my hero academia x reader#mha smau#boku no hero academia#bnha#wildest dreams wednesday
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What type of punishments do you think the Kings give to captured spy angels?
🩵
Hey 🩵!!! Not gonna lie, I was just thinking about you since I haven't seen you in a while. I hope you don't mind if I go a little dark here, because this is a war between heaven and hell. Things ain't gonna be glitter and rainbows, especially with a captured enemy.
For that reason, I am also putting this under a read more. I will try and not go too graphic or hardcore still, but I am still talking about dark topics.
Proceed at your own risk. ⚠️
General
No angel will have a pleasant experience after they are captured, but the lucky ones will be killed soon after they are discovered. Often, they are the first victims of a devil's short temper and die before they have time to experience true hell.
The less fortunate ones will have to be... modified so they can't try and escape. Some of them will have their wings clipped, others will be defeathered with tar. If they are really unlucky, they will simply be bound, have their tendons cut, and marched to their final fate. Why is being bound the most unlucky? Because being bound means the devils want an angel intact for one reason or another. Usually, that reason is for entertainment and revenge.
Different kings have a different preference for what to do with a captured angel. For the most part though, there is no such thing as a lenient king.
Satan
The king of wrath is formidable when it comes to the terrible punishments he could inflict upon any layperson, let alone the enemy. The most severe of punishments are kept a highly guarded secret, even among his vassals.
The only publicly available punishment is that they will be used as training dummies and punching bags. The best way to learn to fight an angel is to practice on an angel. It's great when they struggle and flail around trying to escape an angry wrath demon. It's even better when the angel doesn't realize the devils are toying with them and prolonging their suffering on purpose.
Learn to stab, torture, eviscerate; gut them, heal them, tear out their ligaments and tendons. Make sure their wails can be heard all the way in heaven. Make sure to leave their face identifiable though so heaven recognizes their rat when they are left on the doorstep.
Mammon
He has a kingdom of gold and all the possessions in the world. Why shouldn't he also own an angel? Of course, it's always a debate about how he'd like to keep them. There is the classic option of slathering them in molten gold and seeing what twisted amalgamation of suffering and agony they take by the time is hardens and traps them inside. Maybe they will die in the process or maybe it will take them a few hours to die from the burns... or starve to death for the ones resistant to that. The very hardy ones may just be stuck there, trapped in agony until they loose all sense of self.
The other way to make a statue is to skewer their limbs and joints to pose them however he wants. There is a lot of screaming and blood, but he believe the new statue always looks to beautiful by the end. They die much more slowly this way, so he could theoretically keep them alive if he willed with a little bread and water every now and then. Unfortunately, these statues are also temporary, as once they die they start to rot and attract things. Disposing of them is always a tragedy.
He hopes they had time to think about and regret their actions in the time it took them to die.
Beelzebub
Must you ask? I'm sure angel is a delicacy he loves to indulge in where he can. They usually die on the battlefield, so fresh ones are hard to come by. A captured spy would be as fresh as they come. He has to savor such a rarity and harvest them properly.
Without getting too explicit, he has many recipes he wants to try. The one he's most excited for is this dish that requires a steady hand to prepare the subject to be eaten... alive. It is the freshest dish one will ever have.
Yes, he will share. Some may even risk eating it just to say they have had the most rare delicacy in hell.
Leviathan
He has two go to options when it comes to captured angels. The easier of the two options is simply shoving them in his coffin and letting the monsters inside have a nice meal/chew toy. It's also considered the more pleasant of the two options. It's nasty, but it tends to be quick.
On the other hand, the second way he deals with a captured angel is... far more brutal. He's so... envious of them. Aren't they just so beautiful? So glorious and awe-inspiring? It's disgusting how much he wished he could be like them. But he knows he can't, so instead he will bring them down. One. Aspect. At. A. Time.
Taking the parts that he likes the most is not a fast process. In fact, it is a rather slow one. It is meticulous so he doesn't damage the things he wants. Maybe their wings? Or their pretty halos? They do have the loveliest eyes as well. He can't decide what to keep, so maybe he will just separate it all out and keep it all. Maybe he can make something nice from the pieces he gathers. He wants to have nice things, even though it will never be enough to quench the envy inside of him.
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final part of @secretarykang's ask since gil already has drunk hcs
gilbert feinze fashion headcanons
this man is a walking fashion icon tho like srsly he looks like someone who poses for the chanel magazine
gil actually knows what style fits him and the colors that would suit him so his servants are adamant on ensuring his wardrobe is top notch as possible
in fact, there's a time when gil punished some of them for handing him clothes that are too itchy he had to struggle during meetings with other clans (he just didn't feed them blood for like uhh one week which is torture in itself)
his color palette revolves on autumn browns and nudes? he's basically like a walking maple leaf at this point
he recently found out black items don't suit him as much as people make it out to be tho he wears black mostly when he is going to war conferences
most of gil's clothes in the demon world have victorian-esque with dark academia touch to it since he's the head of the feinze clan and he has to look like royalty so he assumes the post
he's more on long coats, white dress shirts with long sleeves, dark trousers, brown boots, and ofc attention to detail like silver link cuffs and piercings (yes he never forgets his piercings)
another item that he never lives without is his wedding ring since it's the only thing he got from giselle
also carries around a golden pocket watch that he exclusively got from karlheinz (so he would know if he reversed time and did some sht he needed to cover up)
tbh gil thought of doing like a tongue and nose piercing but he just went "I don't want them anymore" bcos he found out that he would experience talking like a baby and looking like a cow
btw he owns a lot of ruby jewelry bcos they remind him of blood (after all he stopped drinking blood ever since giselle died)
when he lived in paris, he would opt for trench coats and suits that would emphasize his frame (and he realized girls really dig him in suits bcos he be walking on the streets and they just come to him bcos he looks so good)
but when he resided in japan, he believed in kimono supremacy
like what suit? he'd rather wear kimonos since they're more comfy and the sleeves are loose and he can move and about
and yes, the color palettes would vary... kinda leaning more on the warm orange and red tones. but tbh gil had a hard time looking for the perfect kimonos and yukatas that would fit him
that was until he found out abt this manga called xxxHOLIC and he got all his kimono inspirations from watanuki kimihiro (aka main character of said manga)
one might think he's a cosplaying adult especially when he walks around in kaminashi 😭😭😭
for his footwear, he owns a lot of shoes (like he doesn't only settle for the classics) but one thing he doesn't wear that much are sneakers??? and it has something to do with his adult image like basically this guy makes sure he looks adult
even said one time, "at least I don't go to Ryoutei and pretend like I'm some kind of teenage transfer student" isthisshinandcarla
he mostly wears derby and oxford dress shoes since they are easier to pair with most of his suits. but when he's wearing a kiono, he would either go for a simple geta pair or his classic black brogue boots
ofc gil is not complete without perfumes bcos this guy owns a lot since he has lived for a long time. while there are tons of perfumes that's been out in the market, he always deviates towards chanel no 5 (aka one of the most hated perfumes by many)
and yes, he knew what the original chanel no 5 smelled like, hence he found the newer ones so different than what it smelled before
it's actually frustrating how gil can pull off this perfume and smell good even tho many people say it smells like an old grandma soap
he even bought the accompanying soap and lotion like anything chanel no 5 he has (even the giant bottle)
one time devyn passed by his office and she told him he really smelled so good like wood and tea and clean soap and when she asked his perfume, gil casually pulled out the bottle much to her own horror
"Are you kidding me? That famous Chanel no. 5 is your perfume?"
"I'm not. Why are you making a face like that?"
fun fact: chanel no 5 is also giselle's perfume
#diahell#diabolik lovers#diabolik lovers headcanons#diabolik lovers oc#dl oc#dialovers oc#oc asks#oc aesthetics#oc questions#fashion headcanons#oc fashion#karlheinz#karlheinz diabolik lovers#karlheinz sakamaki#tougo sakamaki#devyn kang#kang devyn#gilbert feinze#gilbert#giselle feinze#giselle
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Like Home.
Character: Strade.
Warnings: NSFW, 18+; female student reader is a naive person with unnamed mental distress, reader is collecting books, OOC, my own headcanons, panic attacks, stressful itching, family abuse, stalking, strong language, killer in love, femininity sexualization, misogyny, sexual violence, CNC, humiliation, eating from a dog bowl, physical violence (including various tortures), description of vomiting, psychological abuse > physical abuse, kidnapping, romanticization, keeping hostage, unprotected sex, painful virginity loss, oral sex (reader giving and receiving), rimming (reader receiving), 69 pose, blood drinking; mentions of: red rooms, cannibalism, necrophilia; Neon Demon spoilers; reader is the first victim kept alive, and Ren doesn't exist here; Easter egg with Celia (The Price of Flesh).
Word count: ~17,500.
A/N: I don't speak German, but I used plenty of words from it here. If you find any mistakes, feel free to correct me ♡.
Strade was watching you through the window of his car: how you looked around before you went down the stairs, then put earphones on your head to muffle the noise of the streets and searched for a needed playlist, while keeping your free hand on your bag, which you had put over your shoulder, as usual. After you found a song, you hid your phone in a pocket before going to the bus stop: looking straight on the ground, you didn't care what was happening around, as you were immersed in your thoughts and worries. It was windy and cloudy, almost raining today, and you hugged yourself, when another cold breeze had blown over you; wind ruffled your hair, so you checked on a green butterfly pin, afraid that it could fall from your head, then you moved your hand to a cheap heart locket, before hugging yourself again; knitted black blouse with long sleeves and low neckline, light green midi skirt with flower print of darker shade and classic black Mary Jane shoes (his mother (or grandma even) would like this style) weren't suitable for a weather like this. For Strade it was amusing to see a young college student dressing up in such outmoded style, but he was honest with himself — your fashion made him notice you. At first he didn't plan anything serious on you and just chuckled to himself: a girl in old-fashioned clothes and with a haunted look in her beautiful, pleading eyes — probably another victim of bullying. Something made him give a better look at you, and he found you attractive, magnetic even, which made his interest light up.
It wasn't in Strade's style to stalk someone, but with you he couldn't suppress such a strange whim of his. You weren't a sociable person: Strade could hardly remember you talking to someone more than a couple of minutes outside your college. During the conversation you were touching your locket constantly: twisting it in your fingers, or adjusting it on your neck. After a few days of observing you, he could tell that you were a neurotic with no social life. You lived in a small rented apartment in a bad neighborhood, which meant that you didn't have a lot of money and that your parents (if you had them) didn't care about you — no parent in their right mind would let their daughter live in the neighborhood with three most disgusting bars in the area. Creeps of all sorts were coming here at night, and who knows what could happen to an elegant girl who lived here all alone. At least you were smart enough not to show up on the streets after dark.
Your flat was small and resembled a doghouse, not a normal apartment. It was easy for Strade to get inside while you were in college. When Strade came in, he bumped into a stack of books that were staying near the front door's wall. Dozens of books fell on the floor, showing him a collection in art, astrology and alchemy, magic and history. Strade looked over your room and found many more stacks of the same type; another noticeable detail was a bright poster in blue tones of the Neon Demon movie. He cursed softly, mostly from surprise. Strade put all the fallen books back in their place and went to look at other stacks to understand what genres you were collecting so obsessively. He had seen you coming into a bookstore a couple of times, but he didn't expect you to be a pack rat, who was spending all her money on her addiction. The flat was clean and left the smell of your perfume — as it should be in all the women's apartments, Strade believed. It was poorly furnished: you didn't even have a table or a bookcase; a small wardrobe was full of clothes: dresses, blouses, skirts, two pairs of jeans. Strade couldn't fight a sudden desire to sniff your clothes. He chose a blouse that you were wearing yesterday and buried his nose in it, inhaling perfume and the sweetness of your sweat.
The bathroom was so confined it was hard to breathe in here; the air was damp and still hot and scented after your morning shower; it smelled with lemon and basil and turned out to be your shower gel. He gave a careful look at the products you were using: rather expensive, not suitable for an apartment like this. You had plenty of body creams and oils, all of them with floral fragrance. Strade also found four bottles of perfume, again, indecently pricey for a crumbling apartment you were renting. Those mismatches and the quirk of yours made him interested in your persona even more — he wanted to know everything about you until the smallest details.
Mulberry, bergamot, bitter almond and blackberry — it was the fragrance you cared on your body today. Strade wished to feel it on your skin mixed with your natural smell. He didn't have fun for a while, so Strade made big plans for you. Hunting you down this way had its pros: he became better in stalking and picking locks; your plainess and restlessness amused him too — every time someone started talking to you, your first reaction was fear: you gained some self control, but his allerted eyes could easily see how you were losing your composure with your eyes round and brows curved, corners of your lips looking down. Strade laughed every time he saw you having a conversation with some poor soul: you were nodding slowly, imitating interest, but your eyes were looking sideways and you were pursing your lips, chewing on them, then letting them free, only to repeat this ritual later — if it was Strade talking to you, he would certainly give you a nice punch in your face for such an inappropriate behavior.
Your naivety was outstanding: you didn't even notice the same car was following your route for a few days straight. Maybe if you had more interest in what was happening right under your nose you wouldn't be stuck in a situation like this. Strade could bet you didn't notice that someone had visited your apartment. He was alien to this small world of perfection and neatness, even his own smell was too strong, too outstanding from the sweet mix. Before leaving your home, Strade looked at the books again: all of them were in a good state, which meant you weren't using them. Textbooks about chemistry, one about physics and math; medicine, geography and taxidermy — he tried to find some logic in your collection, but failed: Strade was gaining information on you to find the right topics that would make your tongue loosen, but he certainly didn't want to talk about science. He also noticed black digital radio box on your bed and a pair of on-ear headphones near it, which made him think you were collecting audio books as well.
Usually Strade hated to build up plans and strategies: Strade was proud of his charisma and ability to improvise easily in dialogue. He didn't need any special preparations to find his victims, but not in your case — he couldn't let you go so easily, but he couldn't get you as well, and it was pissing him off. Strade was simple in his actions and met plenty of his victims in bars and nightclubs, but you were avoiding all of his favorite places like a plague. You weren't his type, however you became his obsession — unreachable and so desired. He wanted to force you to open this sweet mouth of yours and scream for him, plead for him. Strade was sure you wouldn't last for long, probably you wouldn't survive even the first round: girls like you had a very weak heart and died from fright mostly, just like canaries. It would be… such a waste. Strade was surprised at his own regret, tried to chase you away from his thoughts, but you were staying here with him, making him see your silhouette in a dance of cigarette's smoke. He couldn't forget your face: charming and always sad, with unspoken grief, that gave you an air of a heroine of a tragic novel. It would be nice to see you smiling at least once.
You reminded him of a mermaid: your always glistening eyes, delicate blush on your cheeks and vibrant pink lips, the rare, divine charm. Your steps were fast, but careful, as if you were walking on the sharpest of knives. The beauty of your face and loveliness of your pose were bewitching Strade, leaving him fantasizing about you and dying in anger from the impossibility to touch you, feel the warmth of your body against his.
The next morning Strade was following your route again, but today he left his car not far away from your house and was ready to ride the bus with you. Suddenly you walked past the bus stop and headed straight to the subway. You were in a hurry and kept looking around sharply. It made Strade think you finally noticed that something wasn't right, but your unexpected move made him nervous as well. He was waiting for this day to become closer to you, and now you trampled on his plans roughly — you would pay for it later. Strade almost managed to elbow his way into a full subway car; his wandering gaze found you in a crowd, and he made an effort to reach you. Finally he was staying not far away from you and could see your worried face. With every stop new people came into the subway, leaving less space in the train. You clawed into a handhold in front of you, your knuckles turned white from the tension and power you had put in your grip.
The air in the train was stale. Sweaty bodies were pressing him and you from everywhere, making it harder to breathe and restraining any moves — it was rush hour, everyone was coming home after a long working day and no one cared about someone else's comfort. Strade noticed changes in your emotions: you were breathing hard, stared at the floor without blinking. Tears stored in the corners of your eyes. He could understand your feelings, but it all was your fault: you made him suffer this hell on the earth, and you won't get away with it.
You were smothered in awful smells of cheap perfume, bad breath, sweat and dust; dozens of irritating sounds were buzzing in your ears, and the man's body behind you, pressing on yours with heavy weight, was driving you crazy slowly. Your knees were shaking but you kept staying, leaning on your tired hand. You were praying for this to end, but couldn't hear the names of stations as you were concentrating on your physical senses.
You didn't sleep well for the whole week and had no stress relief, which led to overeating and itch in your limbs. Right after you remembered about it, you felt your forearms itching. Fresh cuts from your nails were burning from your own sweat. You needed to scratch it — your hand shuddered, then started shaking from annoying tingling.
You started feeling nauseous and dizzy. You were afraid to come back home on your normal route: someone got into your apartment but didn't take anything from here. Not a thing was touched, as if your apartment was a museum someone decided to visit out of boredom. You didn't have any proof of it, but you could feel something was wrong when you entered your flat. You just knew something wasn't right — but you weren't sure of the reality of your guess. Your parents told you many times that you got a good imagination for your own bad: it wasn't the first time you felt like someone had visited your apartment while you were out. It was the reason you were changing apartments a lot. At first you ran away from your family house, then you changed five flats in different parts of the city. It was your sixth apartment, and you already were thinking about leaving it.
You knew something was wrong with you, but you couldn't help it. It started not so long ago but already turned you into an antisocial shadow of yourself. You were missing the old you, the one who liked to chat with people and walk in the park, who didn't skip meetings in her club of interest, and could visit her friends freely, without a fear that something would happen.
You weren't a fatalist and didn't believe in signs of destiny, but you were sure that something was about to happen with you. It was haunting you for a year already, turning your life into a nightmare: every time you came home you locked the door on all the locks, then checked on it for the rest of the day and before going to sleep; you could come back from the college just because you forgot to check if you closed a bathroom faucet. You had to write all your check ups down in your notes and reread it during the day, but you didn't trust it — you were always thinking you forgot about something. You didn't know exactly what would happen to you. Maybe it would be something good or neutral. You made yourself nervous by causing depressive thoughts, and you knew you were wrong, but you couldn't stop the process.
Book collecting was your stress relief method. The amount of money you had spent on your strange hobby was enough to rent the best apartment for the whole year, but you were ready to live in the worst neighborhood until the rent was low and you had free money on the books. You wanted to store the human's knowledge and wisdom and spent all your free time hunting for another book. You hadn't read even a half of your collection, but you couldn't stop yourself from getting a new copy. It was some sort of a mania of yours, maybe a disorder even.
Now, staying in a subway, full of people, you were about to pass out. You had already regretted your decision to deceive the fictitious stalker with an unplanned change of your way home, and you were fed up with yourself as well. All your life was torture, and it couldn't go like this any longer or you would lose your sanity. You were choking from the lack of air slowly and turned your head back to the open doors. You tried to leave but couldn't squeeze through a crowd until someone caught you by your hand and helped you to get out. You felt them pulling you to the exit and didn't resist. You gasped for fresh cold air, leaning to the nearest wall in an attempt to calm down and catch your breath. A drop of rain fell on your face from heavy black clouds, and you hurried to wipe it.
'Hey, are you okay?' The person asked anxiously. You looked at the man and smiled at him, but your smile was twisted and pitiful.
'I feel much better now. I could swear, I thought I would suffocate in this cursed subway. I don't even know how to thank you enough for your help,' You didn't want to say all of this, but suddenly the words were coming up your throat and you couldn't stop yourself from speaking. The man in front of you looked fine and kind, and he seemed to worry about you sincerely. Something about him made you feel strange: he was just a normal, inconspicuous man, rather handsome than ugly, as his face had no outstanding or especially beautiful features that could fascinate a woman. Massive thick eyebrows with sharp ends, big round eyes with a frisky sparkle, high cheekbones, somewhat heavy lower jaw and nice thin lips.
'No need to be so formal,' he smiled and then laughed: he closed his eyes and his shoulders twitched, as he let out a soft chuckle. His laughter was warm and friendly, caring even. All his posture was relaxed and confident. 'My name is Strade.'
He was speaking with an accent, pronouncing "r" as a roaring throat sound and replacing the "d" at the end of the words on a "t". You told him your name and he made a compliment to it. This small conversation helped you feel better almost immediately — it even gave you hope that your paranoia was disappearing.
'You want to thank me right? Then what about us going to a bar tomorrow, how do you like that?' Strade gave you a big friendly smile and stared at you, waiting for your answer. His accent became stronger, and you understood that he was speaking in a German manner. You wanted to decline the invitation, but agreed, as you were embarrassed by his stare and his self confidence.
You had to ask Strade for help one more time, as you looked around and realized that you didn't know where you were. You weren't familiar with the city despite moving around regularly, so you had no idea how to get back home. The situation worsened with a falling dark — during night hours you were as helpless as blind kitten. Strade gladly agreed to walk you to your neighborhood and didn't stop chatting with you for a minute. You had to admit that you felt safe with him, so you were chattering willingly, without any dredging thoughts crippling into your head. Strade picked up the place and time for your next meeting, and as you headed home you didn't forget to wave your hand to him as a goodbye.
Strade's smile disappeared right after he left your area. The day was stressful and brought him painful arousal mixed with excitement and a sheer impossibility of your abduction right away, in this God-forsaken part of the city, where you and him only got off. You turned out to be a horrible chatterbox: you were talking so much he got a headache from your ringing voice. You fell for his fake compassion and told about your worries — Strade had always used this trick and it always worked. You were the type of person who liked to share their problems with unknown people, as you wanted to be heard and didn't need actual help.
When Strade showed up in a bar you were already here, staying alone in a corner, far from everyone, and waiting for him nervously, like a dog that didn't meet its owner for a good time. You were holding your drink, but didn't make a sip of it even. This place wasn't for you as well as its visitors — men in their thirties and forties, bikers mostly. Rough, drunk and noisy, they were scaring you.
'Hey there,' Strade got himself a beer and stopped next to you. You trembled, as you didn't notice him, but smiled immediately after it. You looked a little different today: green blouse with plunging neck and long sleeves, short black skirt that was fitting your round thighs, transparent black tight, leg warmers on your calves at the same color as your blouse, and Mary Jane shoes again. You were wearing pretty makeup with dark eyeshadow and painted your lips with a dark red lipstick. Strade couldn't help but smile: you wanted to look more attractive for him, dressed in an innocent but seductive manner. 'The weather is awful, I hope you didn't get cold. I wanted to buy you a drink, but I can see you are enjoying this evening already.'
'No, it's just soda. I don't drink alcohol.' You said in an embarrassed tone. 'My friends made fun of me because of this. Is it raining again?'
'Hell yes!' Strade ruffled his wet hair. 'Where are your friends now?' He asked, sipping his beer.
'I lost contact with them. When all of this started I isolated myself from everyone. They tried to take me out, but gave up. I concentrated on my college and other stuff, trying to suppress my strange condition. I'm talking about myself only, I'm sorry.'
It was the first time you went to hang out, so you felt a little nervous and wanted to scratch your forearm. Today you weren't very brave and the conversation was dull. You tried to come up with some catchy topic, but you couldn't.
'My hobby? Huh, good question!' Strade was taken aback when you switched the dialogue on him. 'I like mastering things and mechanisms.'
'Wow…' his answer fascinated you. You knew almost nothing about this field and it seemed like pure witchcraft to you. 'It may sound silly, but I hope to see some of your creations one day.'
You smiled at Strade and gave him an innocent look, as you were speaking from your heart and was honest in your little wish. Cute dimples on your cheeks, the way you squint your glistening eyes and arched your brows just a little in a kind way melted his heart, causing him to bite on his lip not to guffaw at this picture in front of him. Strade was happy that he found you — he would have so much fun with you. You wished to see some of his creations — Strade appreciated it, so you would have an opportunity to test the best of his collection on yourself.
You couldn't even guess what was waiting for you at the end of the evening, and this mischievous trick gave Strade motivation for courting you more. Your cheeks were flushing pink as he was telling you the best of his compliments; you covered your mouth with your palm while laughing at his jokes and wiped tears of joy from your eyes with the knuckle of your index finger carefully so as not to ruin your makeup. Strade was telling you funny stories from his younger years and you found many moments that were similar with your experience, so you replied lively, happily even, as you found someone, who was understanding you easily.
'Oh, I should go home already!' You exclaimed after dropping a look at the clock in your phone. 'It's almost midnight… Thank you for your company, Strade. I really appreciate it. Would you like to meet up again tomorrow?'
'Of course, Fröschli,' He was looking at you through half lowered eyelids and smiling cunningly, as if he was knowing something you didn't even suspect about. 'You will see me a lot.'
(Froggy)
You were confused by his reaction, but didn't show it. Instead, you scratched the back of your head and giggled. 'I should take some lessons in German to understand you better.' You remarked. You probably looked like an idiot, but you preferred this over awkward silence.
'I'll give you a ride back home.' Strade placed his hand over your shoulder and you yelped, never expecting him to do this. 'Is something wrong?'
'I just…' You looked sideways at his hand, then back at Strade, and found him staring at you with an attentive piercing gaze. You wanted to reply, but suddenly all the words were gone from your mouth and you were just staring back at him, batting your eyes. 'It is the first time a man is… uhm…' you swallowed nervously, not sure if you should tell such an information to the male you had known for two days.
He hummed at your words. 'Use your tongue, Fröschli. The first time a man?..' Strade repeated your sentences for you.
'... is touching me.' Your cheeks turned pink from embarrassment and you looked away, not being able to handle Strade's gaze anymore.
Instinctively you reached your hand to your neck to touch your locket, but found nothing. You remembered that today you decided not to put it on, however Strade had already noticed you started acting nervous.
'But what about your boyfriend, Fröschli? I won't believe you don't have one.' Strade was grinning mockingly, his hand on your shoulder felt heavy.
'It's a long story,' you made a nervous chuckle. 'Not all girls are noticed by guys.' You didn't have an idea of how to explain Strade the phenomenon of your loneliness and you didn't want him to ask about it. You were beautiful and interesting as a person, but all the boys around you had seen you as their little sister. Even the one, that you fell in love with — you shared the same company and were studying together with him, so you were sure he would notice you. Unfortunately he was already taken, but wasn't happy, because his girlfriend wasn't interested in him, dating him only because he was cool and handsome. You were the one to whom he was usually complaining about another fight or disinterest from her side. He had never noticed the way you looked at him, never cared about your feelings, used you like a plush toy to calm himself, then went away, leaving you broken. He was your first love and you wanted him to be your first in everything, you still believed that things would work for you two. When you caught your paranoid distress, all your friends and he abandoned you as you became grumpy and depressed: you were annoying them with your constant bad mood, didn't want to take care of them and entertain them. They were talking with you in the college, more from obligation than from a personal interest.
'We should be leaving already,' Strade stated off the topic, ignoring everything you just said. 'Have you kissed at least?' He asked inappropriately, but you shook your head in dissent. 'So sweet. Well, it's not such a big deal, right?' Strade's tone was cheerful and cooing again. 'Get up, Fröschli.'
You were following Strade in a haste, as he was walking faster than you, and covering your head with your palms from rain. Despite the bad weather, you didn't expect the rain to start today's evening, so you left your umbrella at home. Strade didn't seem to be bothered by it, too. The chilly night air made your body cover in shivers, and you hugged yourself to save some warmth. You were surprised when you saw Strade's car: you didn't expect him to own a family style car of a new model. You expected to see something eye-catching, sporty even, the type of car that cool guys from your college were driving, but Strade's car was simple, average even. He opened the door to a front passenger seat for you, and you climbed inside. You were putting a seat belt on when your eyes suddenly fixed on the door and you noticed that it didn't have a handle, making it impossible to get out of the car from inside. You froze with a seat belt in your hands as you were slowly processing everything.
'What's wrong?' You heard Strade's husky voice near your ear and shuddered. Your heart was beating like crazy, causing pain in your ribs, and your hands started itching badly, begging to be scratched. Strade was burning your nape with his gaze, his always friendly smile now was sinister and creepy: he was waiting for your reaction, as he had already known you realized that you wouldn't go home today.
'Everything is okay, Strade!' You turned your head to him and smiled. 'Can you fix it for me, please?' you waved your head at the seat belt. 'I can't pull it out for some reason. I don't want to mess it up accidentally.' You made a sad face, looking at him with puppy eyes.
Strade cackled, then burst into laughter. You could use this moment to punch him, but you were sitting still and playing dumb. You were nothing against him, only one slap of his big palm on your face would be enough to knock you out. Adrenaline was rushing through your blood, distracting you from real understanding of the whole situation you ended up into. It was funny to you how you felt so composed while you should be panicking and screaming for help, but you knew one thing for sure: you wanted to survive. And for this, you believed, you had to behave respectfully and submissive.
'I adore little idiots like you, Fröschli,' Strade took the belt out of your hands and put it in its place instead of fastening it. He rubbed your cheek with his fingers gently to see the hope in your watering eyes. In a second Strade grabbed your face hard and pressed his fingers on your cheeks, squeezing them roughly. 'Let me do something more for you.'
You missed the moment his hand clutched in your forehead and he bashed your head in a tinted window. You let out a shriek, then a low groan escaped your lips, as you were blacking out slowly. Your whole body felt numb and you went limp on the seat, leaving a bloody stain on the window.
Strade chuckled at how easy he broke the skin on your nape, wondering if you got a concussion. He started the engine and remembered about your phone. Strade had to look for it, as he forgot that you had put it on your knees, when you got into the car. It fell off your body and was laying under your legs. He got a paper towel from the glove box and took your phone with it. The street was empty, so Strade threw your phone on the ground and then crushed it with his boots.
You woke up in the dark and cold room. You were lucky enough not to feel pain in your head; it seemed like you escaped the brain trauma as well. You tried to move your limbs: your arms were first and you found them tied behind your back and a steel pole. The wave of panic covered you, left you trembling, as you understood the whole horror of your situation. Your life couldn't end like this — you didn't deserve such an end. It wasn't fair.
'Strade!' You started screaming his name because of feebleness. You had no one but him now, and you still were hoping that he would take pity on you. 'Strade!' You cried for him again, your high pitched and lingering plea filled the whole space of the basement and was noticed upstairs.
You heard his steps above yourself, then he came to the basement door, letting the light from the house into it.
'My-my, rise and shine, baby girl!' Strade looked at you with clear amusement. 'To tell the truth, I expected you to wake up in three hours at least, but you made it out in forty minutes! Going for a world record, huh?'
Strade was mocking you with his usual smile, that was glued to his face, you thought. His perky tone and his always happy personality insulted you, which was clearly shown on your face by the way you curled your lips and arched your brows, like a child. You were about to burst into hysterical tears, and your chest was already rising slowly.
'Oh, meine Süße,' Strade cooed, giving you disturbed look. 'You don't like when I'm making fun of you? I didn't even say anything! But I remember you told me about your problem with controlling emotions.'
(My sweetie)
'What do you want from me?' You were stuttering as tears and fear were filling up your chest with a heavy and cold feeling of waiting: waiting for something gruesome coming for you. 'I'll do anything, just please don't…' you couldn't finish your sentence — you were afraid that your words would provoke him into doing the opposite things instead.
'Hm? Don't do what?' Strade was staring at you, waiting for your response. Instead of answering you lowered your head, looking on a dusty ground with dull brownish stains from blood that soaked it a long time ago.
Strade squatted and frowned at you. His fingers tugged in your hair, and he lifted your head, making you look at him. 'Lost your tongue, Fröschli?'
You shook your head. You tried to suppress fear or come up with anything else but this cursed plea of saving your life. Your sudden silence pissed Strade off. He cupped your cheek; his thumb was caressing your skin, smearing black trails of your tears. For a moment you even decided that he was trying to calm you, but when his palm left your face, Strade gave you a slap that would make you fall if you weren't tied to a pole.
'Please, don't kill me!' You screamed, breaking your voice.
Strade stood up and came to the counter, started searching for something. 'I like your enthusiasm, meine Süße!' He picked up his favorite knife and returned to you. 'I did nothing, but you are already screaming your lungs out. Save your breath, okay?' He laughed at the way your eyes widened at the sight of the knife. 'Would you like to eat or drink something maybe? Just before we start. You have one chance.'
You shook your head, shuddering and sobbing.
'Well, no means no!' Strade giggled and squatted again to untie your hands. 'Someone told me she would do anything, am I right?'
'Yes…' You pressed your hands to your chest immediately after they were set free. Your wrists were burning, but you didn't care — your whole attention was concentrated on the knife. You weren't afraid of cuts or stubs — you were terrified at the thought that he could cut off your breasts or clit, stab your genitals until the bloody unrecognizable mess, or cut out your lips and eyes. You didn't know what to expect from him, how much pain he would cause to you happily.
'Take off your clothes.' Strade's voice became serious. You started undressing yourself without delay. Was he going to rape you then set you free? You couldn't hope that everything would end so easily for you — you weren't a lucky one. You took off your blouse and put it next to you; your shaking fingers touched a bra hook, and you heard Strade chuckling. 'Wow, wow, lady! Aren't you a little too eager for me? I feel like I'm the one being kidnapped!'
Your cheeks turned red immediately, and he started guffawing with a loud and deep voice at his own witty remark and this stupid face expression of yours. New tears formed on your eyes, but you swallowed them, kept undressing, until you were sitting on the cold floor in your black lingerie only and covering your body with your hands from embarrassment.
Strade gave you a slow appraising glance. You looked like an expensive porcelain doll, and his followers would certainly love you. The stream with your participation would gain a lot of money: messy hair and ruined makeup made the noble features of your face even prettier, your lovely lips looked more plumpy with smudged lipstick; fleshy body with delicious curves tempted Strade to lay his hand on it. He kept in mind that you didn't date anyone, so probably you were a virgin — his fans would bathe him in donations for deflowering on air, and he couldn't stop imagining the moment his length would pierce your tight unprepared cunt; probably you wouldn't be able to take all of him in one go, and this libidinous fantasy kept him enthralled. Strade felt his own body becoming hot: all of the thoughts about raping you on camera for other people to watch were enough to make him fully hard in his pants.
'Hey, Fröschli,' Strade gave you an intimidating look and pressed the end of the knife under your chin, forcing you to lift your head. 'Eyes on me.' Then he passed the knife to you. 'Cut yourself.'
You took the knife, confused with his words, and pressed it on your forearm. Strade focused his eyes on the red scratches with a thin layer of dried blood that were covering both of your hands. 'I can see you had some fun before me, huh? Böses Mädchen.'
(Bad girl)
You swallowed nervously and drew the blade over your arm. The knife turned out to be unexpectedly sharp and the cut was deeper than you expected. A thick stream of blood started trickling from the wound, some of it was dropping on your thigh and other part was dripping up to your elbow. Strade's breathing became hard, his eyes were half lidded and his gaze was clouded with lubricious pleasure.
'More,' Strade ordered with a husky voice, and you hesitated, searching for a better place on your body. You tried to be careful with the knife, but you weren't skillful at using it, so it was easy for you to put more force in your movements than you planned. You placed the blade on your thigh and left a cut, again, it was deeper than you expected it to be. You were whimpering silently, groans of pain left your lips rarely, as the pain you were causing to yourself didn't feel so striking.
'More.' Strade repeated, his erection was pleading to be touched, as he was watching you, enchanted by how obedient you were. Strade decided to keep such a treasure for himself — he was a possessive and jealous person, so he didn't want to share this picture perfect sight with anybody else. You tried to leave another wound, but couldn't. Leftovers of your sanity were screaming for you to stop, or you would bleed out — you noticed that blood didn't stop leaking out fresh cuts.
'I… I'm sorry I can't!' you shook your head helplessly, and gave the knife back to Strade. You started shivering uncontrollably again, realizing what had you just done.
'It's okay,' Strade caressed your skin with the flat side of the knife, then stubbed it into the soft flesh of your thigh, making you scream. His neck turned red from arousal, your heartbreaking shriek was the best aphrodisiac to him. 'I'll help you.'
Your vision blurred from tears and pain, you felt every move of the blade, that was tearing your fragile skin apart, and hot blood was scorching wounds like fire. From your thighs Strade moved to your torso, cutting obscure superficial ornaments on your tummy and under your chest. You were twitching unwittingly, making the process more painful and harmful. Your throat was sore already, but it was impossible not to howl and cry.
'That's it, meine Liebe. Louder,' Strade put his knife out and pressed his hands on your thighs, groping the supple and slippery meat. He was smearing your blood on your skin and tracing holes of your wounds slowly, in a sexual manner, and penetrating them with his fingers lightly, getting physical satisfaction from it. While you tried to come round, you didn't notice how he pressed himself to your body, one of his hands was resting on your waist, caressing tender skin. Strade was sniffing your hair — it smelled sweet with a mix of perfume and shampoo, as always.
(My dear)
Strade knew he should patch you up before continuing this pleasant torture, but it was hard to keep himself cool while looking at your pathetic, frightened essence. He could kill you right now: stab you to death, or break your head on the floor, crash your neck, or burn you alive — you gave him the sense of unlimited power over you, but at the same time you also gave him your gratitude for keeping you alive for another minute. And he loved it. Strade liked obedience and politeness. He believed that the modern world lacked these two traits and he could rarely find someone, who would combine both of these in their character.
Strade buried his nose in the crook of your neck, inhaling your natural scent and it drove him crazy. You shivered as his hot breath tickled your skin, gasped when you felt his tongue licking your neck. He was stained in your blood; his shirt stuck to his chest from the amount of soaked blood in it. Strade didn't wait any longer and pulled your panties down, enjoying your surprised shout. You didn't even think about resisting him — you were preparing yourself for an upcoming pain, crying again. Strade spread your legs and placed his hands under your buttocks, holding you in a comfortable position for him to thrust, after he unzipped his pants, freeing the hardly erect member. You tried not to look at his dick, closed your eyes from embarrassment when you felt how Strade was trailing natural curls of your pubic hair and spreading your cunt with his thick fingers. He plunged them inside without warning, but with a great effort, and you screamed from acute pain in your lower stomach.
'Look at yourself, meine Süße,' Strade laughed slowly, moving his fingers inside and spreading them to stretch your walls. Despite the tightness of your core, it was easy for him to slide inside. 'Secretly enjoying everything I do to you?' He pulled out and you had seen his fingers, fully covered in your viscous slick. 'Fühlt sich gut an, nicht wahr?'
(Feels good, doesn't it?)
Grudge and bitterness were tearing your heart apart, but you just closed your eyes to suppress them. At least you managed to get wet somehow, which meant you would bear the whole process better. Strade pressed his fingers on your clit, stimulating it with circling motions, nevertheless it didn't help — all you felt was just irritating pressure. A punch in your nose perked you up. You pressed your hands to your face, trying to recover, but Strade tugged in your hair and shook your head, until you looked at him.
'Eyes on me. Did you forget our small rule?' He grinned at you, and you nodded, fixing your eyes on him. A thin stream of blood had trickled out of your nose, falling on your lips. 'Das ist so geil…' He pressed his dick to your entrance, and you held your breath when you felt him plunging it in with one fast thrust. You screamed and arched your back, started bustling around to get out of his grip, but Strade just pressed you harder on his dick, pushing it deeper. This pain was even worse than the one from the knife, it felt like he was tearing you apart from inside, bruising every part of your body.
(This is so hot)
You were drowning in cries and tears, your wounds still were bleeding, staining everything around you. Coldness of the basement's floor, smell of the blood, emotional breakdown, tiredness and blood loss made your head feel dizzy — you were about to pass out in every second. Rhythmic poundings in your abused tired cunt made it even worse, so you didn't notice how you blacked out.
You woke up from your disturbing slumber because of the sound of Strade's footsteps. You slowly opened your eyes. Your whole body was aching, blood crusts were covering you and you felt cold slick under your buttocks and thighs, probably, it was your urine. You looked down and noticed that all your wounds were sewn up with rough stitches that would leave scars after healing.
'Morning, sleeping beauty.' Strade was looking at you with a satisfied smile. Instead of you, he probably had a lot of fun yesterday.
'Fucker…' you thought, staring at him from under your brows. Strade burst out laughing.
'It's not my fault that you pissed yourself, okay? I almost had time to put it out before your attack!' He kept giggling. 'Need something? Or can we continue our rendezvous?'
'I want to bathe,' you wheezed. All you wanted was to get rid of this stench that was coming from you and from all this blood that was covering your body.
'Bathe?' Strade asked in surprise. 'Bathe… Well, that's possible.'
You closed your eyes to take a breath. Strade was walking somewhere away from you, then he came back and you had seen a hosepipe in his hand.
'Here's your bath, Schatz!' Strade opened the handle and a powerful spurt of ice water hit you right in your chest, causing you to scream. 'Oops, wrong pressure!' He changed the pressure and started pouring you from head to toes, like a fanciful plant. Now you were cold and wet. 'Wow! Look at this little swamp I made. All for you, Fröschli! How do you feel, though?'
(Lovely)
The water and your blood made dirt on a dusty concrete floor.
'Great!' You snapped. It was unusual for you to answer with such a tone, but you couldn't help it. You noticed that Strade's facial expression had changed and hurried to make up for your sudden outbreak of anger. 'Strade, please… Can you give me something to eat and drink? It would be very nice to have something. I… feel very dizzy. Please…' talking to him with a dying voice you were looking at Strade with puppy eyes, begging him to feed you.
'So polite, I like it.' Strade patted your head in reward. He came to the fridge and opened it, tapped his chin, deciding what you deserved to eat. 'You had a fever for a couple of hours after passing out, so you can have a sandwich. We want you to have enough power for our next game, right?'
'R-right!' You gave him a wry smile. You wanted to take the sandwich from Strade's hand, but remembered that you were tied. 'Will you feed me?'
'Sure! Be a nice girl and say a-am!'
Strade took the food out of its container and held it to your lips. You did like he said, as you didn't want him to punch you. 'Here you go. Don't hurry, we have enough time.'
At least he was nice while feeding you, you decided. Your hungry stomach twitched in pain as you made the first bite. It was a simple product store chicken sandwich, terrible while cold and a little better while being warmed up. It seemed like Strade wasn't caring about what to eat and didn't bother himself with cooking. You finished it quickly and Strade opened a bottle of water for you. This simple action marveled you enough: you expected him to put the hose pipe in your mouth and turn it on high pressure.
'Thank you, Strade.' You felt much better now. You could never think that you had so much health and stamina to be able to talk and think straight after everything he had done to you. Maybe you still were under the effect of adrenaline, maybe Strade had given you some drugs while you were blacked out — it didn't matter. You had to survive one more day in his company, and you were sure that today would be much more cruel than yesterday.
'No need, meine Süße, you make a cute face while eating,' Strade patted your head one more time, like you were a dog. 'You told me in the bar that you want to see my creations.'
You broke a cold sweat and you felt weakness in the pit of your stomach. Strade placed a black box in front of you. It was closed and looked like a tool box, but after Strade opened it, you had seen a phone handset inside and strange details.
'That's a field telephone, Schatz. It was developed in the United States, then it was spread worldwide, and used in both World Wars, and many others. This model I made myself. Look here,' Strade pointed his finger at a small lever on the external part of the box. 'It's a dynamo, it creates electricity. And this,' he pointed at a prominent case inside the telephone, 'This is flame resistant. It is made of paper impregnated with a plasticized phenol formaldehyde resin. Did you understand at least a half of what I had said, Schatz?'
Strade gave you an indulgent gaze and smiled, as if he was talking to a kid, while you were praying to be wrong at guessing the reason he decided to show you this cursed phone.
'Yes! It was very interesting to hear. Can you tell me more, please? How is it used without cables?' You stammered, feeling tremor in your hands.
'I'll tell you later, Schatz. Now it's time for my reward. Don't be so egoistic.' Strade cut off the ropes. He took one of your hands and stretched it, then started to put wires on your fingers. 'We are gonna play a very interesting game! A guy who I was working with long ago had taught me this. Are you excited?' Strade waited for your nod. 'Great, Schatz. The rules are simple: I ask you questions, you answer them correctly. If not — I press the dynamo. Hast du kapiert?'
(Do you understand?)
You nodded. It was easy to predict the rules of his game, but Strade kept explaining it to you.
'So, the first question. What is the biggest island in the world?'
You were expecting to hear everything, but not this. You were confused and chuckled at this stupid question. Your laughter made Strade smile too, and you, tricked by a false tenderness, didn't notice how he pulled on the dynamo. In the next second your muscles contracted, piercing you with so much pain that you couldn't imagine even in your bravest thoughts.
'I don't like to repeat myself, so you better remember what I asked you if you can, of course.' Now Strade was the one to laugh. You were laying on the floor with your eyes wide open and trying to catch your breath.
'Greenland…' you whispered, still shocked.
'Yes, correct! Well, I guess I shouldn't ask such questions to a girl who trashed her whole apartment with books.'
You almost jumped at his words, the puzzle in your head made a whole picture. All this time you weren't crazy. Your foreboding was right.
'Let's ask you something personal then. Why did you leave your parents?' It was clear that for Strade the game wasn't funny at all: he didn't care about you, he enjoyed only pulling on the trigger. He didn't want to kill you yet, so he had to give you chances on saving yourself from another jolt by giving honest and correct answers.
'Because of my paranoia. I was afraid to stay with them.' It wasn't the complete truth, but it wasn't a lie either. Despite it sounding so well and smooth from your mouth, Strade felt that you were hiding something. His hunter's instinct sensed clearly the little shaking of your voice and caught the moment you lowered your gaze to the floor.
'So you left the warm and caring family house and started living in a shitty flats where murderings were committed, right? You think I'm an idiot, Schatz?' Strade pressed on the dynamo, laughing wickedly at your convulsions. 'You are kinda calm here. Not like others. They were screaming and shouting "Oh Strade please let me go! i won't tell anyone! please put your knife back"' And when they finally realized that I won't let them go, all of them started to curse me. While you are just waiting silently for me to return, not a noise coming from you while I'm gone. Sometimes I even think that you died here without me! Feels like home, Schatz?'
You pursed your lips and looked away. It wasn't fair. He couldn't dare to open your old psychological wounds that you managed to heal with a great effort, but Strade was staring at you, his light brown eyes were burning you with an intent, waiting gaze. Strade's smile, that once made you feel better, now was making you feel nauseous.
'My mother abandoned me when I told her that I don't want to be a financial expert and won't send my documents to the college she had picked for me…' You bit on your lower lip. 'She is very strict and unforgiving. She forgot about me so fast, like I had never existed. I didn't want to move out, but she told me to. Thank God I had money saved on my account, and my grandpa gives me some every month. With a bursary from my college I had… I have enough to live.'
'Poor baby,' Strade cooed and cupped your cheek, rubbing on your skin with his calloused thumb. 'I bet you wish she could see you right now. See everything you have to come through and regret what she has done to you. Want her to suffer, hate herself for cutting you off from your family, owe you care and love for the rest of her life.'
'Why…' Your eyes widened at his words. 'Why would I?..'
'Because I know you well enough to understand it.'
Strade smiled his satisfaction: it was amusing to see you doubting your own feelings. It was so easy to trick you. He loved your face at the moments like this: fine eyebrows raised, your doe-like eyes shining with a clear bewilderment, and your mouth slightly opened, as if you wanted to object, but didn't dare to.
'You should be thankful you have me, Schatz. I will always be here for you to solve your problems.'
You didn't believe your ears and gave Strade a confused, stupid look from your eyes. It couldn't be true. You probably were delirious.
'I am, Strade.' You forced a smile on your bloodless lips.
'Gutes Mädchen!' Strade was pleased enough with your answer and gave you another head pat. It was time for him to leave, but he didn't want to — his emotions about you were so complicated he chased them away, knowing perfectly one day he would have to live through them. You were his obsession — and he didn't want to admit it. Admit that he was bewitched by his own captive, admit that he was addicted to you and that his mood depended heavily on yours. Something beyond his understanding, something supernatural had linked you to him, caged Strade in a cage of his desires. You were the number one to him, you were the top priority, despite everything he was doing to humiliate and destroy you in a futile attempt to stifle his feelings.
(Good girl! (for animals))
Maybe it wasn't too bad to fall in love with someone? The unique experience he had brought you through made you two really close by now, but could Strade trust you? It was a good question, and Strade needed to test you before actually letting you live with him. He left you without tying you back to the pole and didn't lock the basement's door. You were free to walk here and touch everything you wanted: you could even take his tools and have a fight with him! Strade was ready for your every move, but you were silent as usual, not a rustle even could be heard from the basement. He was expecting you to come out at night, but you didn't do it as well.
You were waiting for Strade to come back nervously. It was obvious that he was testing you, so you did your best to behave. You had water and food there, but you didn't touch anything without his permission: you were afraid he would get mad at you. This irrational fear chained you to your place and didn't let you breathe freely, while he was gone. You were starving, your aching wounds needed painkillers and care, but you kept enduring the discomfort. You wanted to survive — and the thought of a reward for this test was giving you power and determination.
Maybe Strade wasn't bad at all, you thought and got terrified from it. He was a sadist and a maniac, and you could only imagine how many people he had slaughtered before you, as well as how many would come to this damned basement after. Strade was a monster and a psychopath you should be aware of. He was a little more patient with you, but it didn't mean anything good for you — he would offset later, you were sure. There was a saw in the basement, nothing would stop him from sawing you in half, or decapitating you while being alive. You had too many fears: they were driving you crazy even worse than Strade. You were expecting everything from him: starting from pulling out your nails and peeling your skin and ending with bludgeoning you to death, until the unrecognizable meat blob. What if he would cut off the parts of your body and make you eat it? You shook your head, trying to free yourself from thoughts like this. You were behaving well and pleasing him enough. You would do even more for him if he let you go upstairs. You would never escape or say a bad word to him, would be obedient until he would decide to let you go by himself.
And then… you weren't sure what you would do after, but you were sure you wouldn't go to the police. You believed Strade wouldn't be arrested, and you didn't need his revenge. It was better to befriend a monster like him.
Strade came back to check on you the other day. He was pleasantly surprised to find you sleeping; he examined all his stuff to find out if you had stolen something, but nothing was touched. You either were fooling him or you were a real idiot. Strade wouldn't believe you didn't want to eat or drink, but the fridge was full of beer and various food. Were you waiting for him to hear his permission to eat? — it was outstanding. He had never met someone like you before.
'I guess I should thank your parents, Schatz. For raising a stupid and obedient doll like you,' Strade whispered at your sleeping face. He took a knife from the ceiling and slightly pressed its end right under your eye and let it slide down, carefully, not to cut you but to leave a small red stripe that looked like a bloody tear. Your face was the most loveliest one he had ever seen, and he didn't want to leave scars on it — such a perfection of Nature should be delighting him in its original state.
You woke up, but didn't shift — your inner senses had saved you. Terrified, you felt tears dropping from your eyes, the one repeated the way of Strade's knife, causing you pain.
'Hey girl,' Strade pressed his knife between your brows. 'You are very, very stupid. I know all your little manipulations. You're not the first to suck up to me.'
You lowered your face in shame, standing the ruin of your plan. Of course you knew that someone had certainly tried this way to survive before you, but you thought that you would do it better. Somehow you would make everything perfect and he would trust you. You were lost — you didn't even know were your emotions real or fake. In both ways you were shocked with yourself, at how calm you were despite everything that was happening. Maybe it was something wrong with you?
'Where is your smile now, Schatz?' Strade grabbed you by your hair and forced you to look at him. 'This martyrdom face of yours makes me sick.' He narrowed his eyes, their gaze showed clear disdain. Strade showed the tip of the knife to your lips, forcing you to open them, then pressed it to the corner of your mouth. 'Smile, or I will have to teach you how to do it.'
You smiled, smiled until the pain in your cheeks, while tears were streaming down your face. You were looking at Strade in panic, trying to catch every single change in his pose and emotions, mentally preparing yourself for stinging pain and blood loss. You were breathing rapidly, gasping for air deliberately and carefully not to move the blade accidentally. You were scared to death that Strade would execute his plan and tear the half of your face.
'That's much better.' Strade became jolly, no sign of a sudden outbreak of anger and grumbling. You exhaled loudly when he put the knife out of your mouth, but your arms were still trembling. 'Poor baby. Suffering here and all because of me,' he started talking in a caring voice, then it became mocking. 'Say something already.'
'I have nothing to add.' You barely spoke, as you suddenly felt exhausted. Your eyes were closing, but you tried to keep them open. Your whole body was numb and sore, all the pain was withdrawn into the background and seemed alien to you. 'I'm sorry.'
You closed your eyes and fell asleep immediately. When you woke up, you were alone. You heeded, listening for Strade's steps, and heard nothing. Your stomach hurt with hunger, your limbs were stiff and your whole body felt cold — you didn't want to do anything with it; you were too tired to move, even breathing was hard for you. You heard a noise of falling drops of water, and its monotonous sound started to irritate you immediately, but you managed to come back to sleep, falling into the deep dreamless slumber that felt like suspended animation.
You didn't know how many days had left since you were captured in Strade's basement, but you were sure that your friends and teachers from the college had noticed your sudden disappearance. You were a good student and didn't skip even a day of lessons, so it was obvious that something had happened to you. Probably they had already visited the police and now the story about you was in the news report. You were steadfast in your statement, and it warmed your heart. You were sure you would be saved soon.
You woke up because of a spurt of cold water that was splashed in your face. You sat immediately and started coughing, but it was impossible due to the stream that was hitting you right in your face and filling your nostrils and mouth. You tried to protect your face with arms, but they were tied to the pole; you tried to dodge, but the stream was following your moves. When Strade decided that he had enough with you, he closed the handle and you got an opportunity to breathe and cough.
'Good way to know that you are still alive, Schatz.' He giggled at uncontrollable shaking of your body and your barking cough. 'You slept for two days straight, my dear! Didn't even wake up when I decided to play with you.'
You immediately started to look at your body to find the traces of his 'games', and you found them — small white dots of burned skin with a vivid pink edge, the one that appeared after a cigarette burn, were located on your shoulder. Then you felt that something was leaking out from your core, and you shuddered in disgust. How sick he was to use you while you were unconscious?
'When was the last time you ate?' Strade dropped the hose pipe carelessly and came to you to untie your hands. You let out a groan when you finally moved them, and heard an obnoxious crack of numb limbs. You looked at your wrists with two stripes of rope burns on each hand, bright red and aching.
'When you fed me…' you tried to get up, stretch your body, but fell on your trembling knees and put your hands in front of you not to hurt your face, but they gave way under your body and you plopped on the ground. Both of your palms and knees were scratched and started itching badly, as well as rope burns and other wounds.
'How pathetic. Was it worth it? I mean starving yourself to this state.' Strade clicked his tongue and leaned on the counter, watching your attempts to get up on your own. 'You know, you can always ask for help. Why do I have to remind you of such simple things? Vollidiot.'
(Idiot)
'Don't insult me, please, I want to do it myself.' You made another attempt, this time you were doing everything slowly, without putting too much effort not to open the old wounds and not to hurt the new one. You managed to rise on your legs and leaned to the pole, using it as a help. This simple action took all of your power, and you heard noise inside your head.
'No need for pole dancing, Schatz, feel sorry for me.' Strade giggled at his joke and a sigh you made.
'It's not funny.'
'No, it is!' In proof of his words he guffawed. 'You are very talkative today. Asked the Wizard of Oz for a bravery potion?'
Your body gave up much faster than you expected and you slowly sat on the floor, breathing rapidly and shaking both from cold and tiredness. Until now you didn't understand how dangerously cold your body was: your limbs could hardly move, and every manipulation you tried to perform was clumsy and slack. Your throat spasmed in a coughing fit; you started coughing with a loud dry cough that became worse instead of giving you a sort of relief. All the air in your lungs had ended fast enough to make you choke, forcing you to get on your hands and knees to ease the torturing cough. You inhaled sharply with a whistle, gulping your cough, then froze before another coughing fit broke you. Saliva was running down your lower lip and chin, dripping on the floor, but you ignored it, as your throat felt raw and sore.
'Don't you dare die like this, Hure.' Strade was watching you carefully, with a certain irritation. 'If you are acting like this to make me take you upstairs you will regret it. Why are you always bringing me troubles?'
(Whore)
You were lying on your stomach silently, waiting for Strade's final decision. You couldn't think: your head was empty, you felt fever slowly taking over you and muffling every other sound with a noise in your ears. Strade came to you and kicked you in the ribs with the toe of his boot to turn you over on your back.
'I guess I don't have a choice. I'll get you some medicine. For now, you can go upstairs, Schatz. See you here.' Strade smiled and left the basement, but didn't close the door. The light from the house was lighting up the dusty floor. It felt like a mock: he knew you wouldn't be able to go upstairs by yourself, still he left you.
You started crawling to the stairs, ignoring muscle pain and the fact that you were dragging your hardly healed wounds on the sharp floor. You would do anything to escape the basement and stay another night upstairs, in warmth and comfort. Step after step you were slowly climbing up the stairs; your teeth were clenched, your bloodless lips stuck to each other. If Strade wanted you to die he would have just tortured you to death, but he wanted you alive — he gave you enough opportunities to recover after his visits. You just needed to hold out a little longer, and everything would end.
It smelled nicely with food and your stomach made a loud rumbling, you felt it twisted from hunger. You heard music playing from the other room: calm and slow, with a man's vocal and pleasant melody. Surprisingly, the music made you feel better. Everything seemed to be alive and normal.
'Here you are, Schatz! Go find a bathroom before going to the kitchen. I won't let you join the table while you look like a pig.' Strade stooped and patted your head. 'You will have to clean the mess you made later.'
'Yes, Strade…' you whispered, then you felt him picking you up on your legs suddenly. Your vision blurred and you immediately felt dizzy, leaned to the nearest wall, trying not to fall down again.
'Save at least a little human dignity, Schatz, don't crawl here like some disgusting insect.' Strade grinned.
Strade didn't stay for long: he told you how to find the bathroom and left. Taking a hot shower felt like a blessing, despite another wave of pain that you felt from water and shower gel. While showering you were heeding to hear the music again, to catch at least some noise. You didn't miss a chance to wash your underwear — you weren't sure if Strade had any lingerie.
'I forgot to give you something, Schatz!' Right after you were thinking about him, Strade showed up in the bathroom without knocking or any warning. 'No need to cover up, I've already seen everything and even more.'
Out of instinct you covered your private parts with your hands, and his caustic remark made you feel sick. Strade gave a look at your body, rating his own work. To your own surprise you had found wounds you didn't know existed before — it seemed he had enough fun while you were blacked out. Scraped knees, deep blue bruises with purple droplets on your thighs and waist, small bruises in a form of his fingers on the inner part of your thighs, almost healed stubs and cuts (still with stitches) on the different parts of your body, cigarette and rope burns on your arms, small cut under your eye — another person wouldn't be able to look at you without tears, but you could swear Strade clicked his tongue in a criticizing manner — he, for sure, needed more to be pleased enough.
'Good, but not perfect,' he shook his head, and you sucked the air sharply at his words. You didn't want to he perfect, not for him.
'I need to dress up.' You looked away to escape his stare.
'So what? Go ahead.' Strade arched his brows. 'Oh, I guess the problem. You want some privacy, Schatz?'
You nodded carefully. 'If that's possible.'
'No, it's not!' Strade chuckled. 'I spoiled you, Schatz. You really need a behavior lesson. Why are you caring about privacy so much? Don't you like my company?'
'No! It's not what I meant!' You exclaimed and hurried to get out of the shower and start drying yourself. 'Can I use the towel?'
'Sure.'
Strade kept staring at you, watching your every move carefully. You tried to ignore it, convincing yourself that it was okay, but your heart was pounding heavily and your hands started shaking. You dried yourself and dressed up in a black longsleeve and simple domestic shorts. The clothes were bigger your size and obviously belonged to Strade — it still had the scent of his deodorant.
Your stomach had twisted in pain again and you felt the new wave of fatigue. All these events made you feel a little better but the effect was short and made you feel even worse than before. You covered your mouth with your palm, then yawned, both from sleepiness and lack of fresh cold air.
'Go to the kitchen, Schatz.' Strade smiled slyly. His face was strangely satisfied and a little smile never left his lips. You tensed up, praying for him not to scald or burn you in the kitchen.
You came to the kitchen on your tiptoes (you were afraid to step on the floor with your whole feet as if the sound of your steps could probably piss Strade off), and had seen the table with a plate of soup. Strade passed by you and took a seat, chuckled at your confused look.
'Come here, Schatz. I want a little company for lunch.' Strade pointed his arm on the dog bowl that was staying near his chair. You missed it when you were looking around.
Did he want you to eat from the bowl? By the joyful expression of his face you understood — yes, he did. Tears filled your eyes, but you did as he told you to: sat on your knees and leaned to the bowl. It was filled with a simple chicken soup and smelled nice, making your stomach grumble loud enough for Strade to hear.
'Thank you…' You appreciated this act of care from his side, but tears dropped from your eyes into the soup.
'Enjoy your food!' His tone was happy.
Despite the humiliation and bitter anger in your heart, you started eating, lubberly licking the soup and catching meat and vegetables with your teeth. As a generous master, Strade tossed you a slice of bread, and his jest made you cry silently. It was disgusting, but you swallowed your resentment because you were terrified at the possible punishment for your protest.
You ate everything that was in your bowl, finally warmed up from inside. The result of a good lunch was clear: your body stopped shaking and your face got its delicate blush back. You were looking more vital, almost healthy.
Strade came from his seat and sat down on his knees in front of you. He touched your face, then wiped your mouth with a napkin.
'Gutes Mädchen. Healthy appetite is the key for a fast recovery.' Strade gave you another head pat, ruffling your dump hair. Confused, you freezed at his touch. It was… different. It wasn't a powerful, painful grip, it wasn't a domineering touch, it was something more intimate and gentle, appreciating. You were so thirsty and damaged, you couldn't help but lean to his hand, pressing your head to his palm and closing your eyes to catch this feeling fully. 'You like it when I'm touching you, Schatz, aren't you?'
'Yes.' You opened your eyes and found him grinning eerily.
It was the second part of the day, around two in the afternoon, you guessed. The weather was windy and rainy: the light from the window was cold and gray, putting the room into the dark. The sky was covered in heavy leaden clouds that were so thick they took the whole space, leaving a small expanse between the neighborhood and the sky. In this atmosphere Strade's smile had a special, terrifying meaning.
Strade gave you short instructions on what to do next, and you obeyed, immediately did his will. He wanted you to go to his room and rest: you found the master's bedroom easily and came inside, closing the door behind yourself. You hesitated for a moment, not sure if you should lay on the bed, but your tired body decided for you: joint pain, ache of your disturbed wounds and new wave of fever forced you to lay and cover up with the blanket. You didn't even give a quick look at the view in the window to get a better understanding of where you were staying. All the resources of your body were exhausted, and you fell asleep immediately on the soft mattress.
Strade found you sleeping and rolled his eyes in irritation — every time he was leaving you, you fell asleep the moment after. He was patient with this ability of yours only because of your current sickness and the fact that your body probably was fighting an infection by sending you to sleep. Despite the obvious cons, this method had its pros: at least you weren't annoying him with festering wounds and he didn't have to clean it, then cut off contaminated parts of your body after infection progressing, and the smell from you was way better than from others; you didn't die from blood loss or some heart issue, more to say, you were pretty strong and ready to endure everything he would put you through just to prolong your miserable life. What a praiseworthy enthusiasm! Also Strade wasn't as terrible as his victims portrayed him before their death. He was much more patient and merciful than his 'colleagues' and he kept his business clean: Strade had never promised things he wouldn't do, he gave all his victims a recovery period and hospitably fed everyone. He rarely got angry with anyone and had never touched youngsters and animals, had never blackmailed his victims' families with body parts or snuff videos of their darlings, no! Strade was a gentleman, as he used to call himself.
Strade opened the window to let the cold air inside the room, as he preferred chilly temperature inside his house. The moment after he went to bed he felt you pressing your body to his to find more warmth. It was already hot under the blanket, so Strade had just tugged you in it and hugged you with his arm, laughing to himself. You turned out to be a very affectionate and clingy person — and it added special fun to the game. Strade could easily tell that it wouldn't take too long from you to fall in love with him, especially while he would be staying in a good mood.
His unusual behavior that day was motivated by a new good deal with his old acquaintance, a business woman with plenty of rivals she wanted to get rid off. Her requests were an extra side job for Strade. She had never disappointed him: she gave him interesting cases of any complexity and paid well. Sometimes she even asked to make a certain person a new guest in his show for her to enjoy, and Strade couldn't resist her little wish. It wasn't hard for him to torture people for her, so the lady could sleep well for the rest of the next month or two. She was quarrelsome and somewhat hysterical, but it didn't bother Strade at all — he respected her as she did a great job to find him and convince him to work with her. Unlike others, she was an iron lady with a strong character and had enough contacts at the police and the local government to protect her own and Strade's reputation. Strade didn't need her protection, as he had his own connections saved from his previous job, but it was better for him to meet with new people not to make waves on their territory accidentally.
The world was a cruel place and you, little idiot, should be more grateful to him, Strade thought, looking at your calm sleepy face. You were a perfect type of victim: lone, timid, abandoned by her own family, and lived in the bad neighborhood and tended to rent cheap flats with an interesting background. For the landlords you were a dream came true: not a person with stable finances would ever rent a flat in which a murder or a robbery was done. Strade was surprised at how many apartments with a terrible backstory the city had — you were collecting them, Strade guessed. You were lucky to attract the attention of Strade: in your area there was another killer, who was more perverted (even Strade considered him sick) and plus to him, enough kidnappers and murderers were passing through the city in their cars, perfectly equipped for caring a body and getting rid of it somewhere in the woods or on a waste ground. Someone like you could never imagine how deep the web of crime was here: for you, as for every normal citizen, the city seemed to be peaceful, because police didn't know about the biggest part of disappearances.
You shifted in your dream, dropping off the blanket, and Strade felt the hectic warmth radiating from your body. Your breath became heavy and came in broken gasps, your cheeks reddened in an unhealthy way. You were in a fever, and Strade couldn't resist the desire to touch your skin, hot and sweaty. Despite the inner hotness, you were trembling from cold, and your nipples hardened from the temperature difference. It was easily seen through the longsleeve texture, seducing Strade. He could bet, you felt sort of neverending strange agony now, drowned in your torturing delusional slumber with psychedelic dreams worsened by aching pain in your joints, that made you tossing on the bed, trying to find the right position to ease your state. Using you and stuffing you full with his cum would be beyond cruel, and it aroused Strade even more. You looked vulnerable, even inviting, so Strade put your shorts off with a one motion and pulled his half erected cock out. Just pressing the tip against your soft smaller lips felt insanely good and Strade couldn't resist but thrust inside your cunt, bucking his hips into yours. You were too hot inside, almost scorched Strade with this unbearable warmth, like you were in heat actually. It was painful, but amazing, and in this both sadistic and masochistic pleasure Strade wasn't holding back, snapping up into you. Your face twitched in pain, but in this damned ill slumber you couldn't even realize what was real and what was fake. Strade pressed his fingers on the skin of your waist hard, squeezing it until a groan from your lips. You were suffering: he reduced you to nothing but an aching junk, the shell of a human — and it was just the beginning.
You opened your eyes; your vision blurred, but a figure of Strade pounding into you could be guessed easily. You tried to shift, tensed your lower muscles, but made him feel better than before accidentally, as your spasming cunt hugged his dick tightly, sucking it deeper. Strade let out a moan, wicked smile showed on his lips. You blacked out, encouraging him to go rougher on you. Continuing in a brutal pace, Strade didn't care that you wouldn't be able to walk and sit for a few days after. He released himself inside your body with a low grunt, filling your still untrained cunt to the brim. Strade took out his now softening cock and put your shorts back, then covered you with a blanket again.
Day after day you were recovering slowly, and by the end of the week you finally were alright. You didn't have many things to do, so you were cleaning the house as best as you could in your state. Fortunately Strade liked to turn on the TV and leave for his duties, so you were always listening to a soft noise of it, never really caring about the shows that were running at the moment. You didn't need to understand what was on air — you needed only a background noise that was calming you and making you feel less lonely here.
The neighborhood was fancy but deserted. It seemed that the biggest half of it just moved out, or, maybe, all of these rich men were having a nice vacation somewhere else. Strade didn't make an impression of someone, who could live in a neighborhood with such an expensive houses, but his house was nice (maybe less pretentious than the others on the street but still very well furnished and comfortable to be inside), making you wonder from where did he get so much money to buy it. You were free to walk everywhere inside, despite just the one room that was constantly locked by the key, which Strade was keeping with himself. You didn't need any adventures, so you weren't showing near it.
Strade became a little nicer with you — he behaved more tender and didn't torture you for a while. You even started to forget how it feels to be restricted and cut, until you understood that Strade was planning something else for you — he was working at a body shop for the whole day and left it deep at night, ate the dinner made by you and went to sleep. You tried your best to behave, and Strade seemed to be pleased enough: he gave you head pats regularly, could even hug you, when he was in a good mood or had drunk three bottles of cheap beer. You decided to use it to your advantage and asked him to bring you the digital radio and some books from your apartment. Surprisingly, Strade agreed, and the first thing you got was your radio with headphones.
Later he invited you to go downstairs with him. Laughing at tears in your eyes and at your trembling legs, he was following you to the basement, blocking you the way out. Right after you stepped into the basement, Strade locked the heavy door after you and shouted that he would come later. Panicking, you started bumping at the door and pleading Strade to get you out, but he was gone already.
In between hysterical tapping of your fists at the door you heard a noise downstairs. The noise was similar to a sigh, that changed to scream in a second. It belonged to a young woman — a terrifying shriek that made your heart slow down, before continuing in broken fast pace. You turned your head to her slowly, ignoring all the pleas for help. With your left eye twitching, you looked at her, but it was too dark for you to see and you only recognized the silhouette of her shaking body.
You came down as a shadow, settled in the nearest corner and sat on the floor, pressing your arms to your head. The girl didn't stop screaming, making it hard to ignore her. You wanted to help, you actually wanted to give this idea a try at least, but you knew Strade would come here soon and he would brutally punish you for what you did, so you chose to stay indifferent. You pressed your face to your knees, curling like an upset kid, and hugged your head as if you were protecting yourself.
Finally the girl got tired from screaming and the basement went into silence. You didn't know how much time left before you heard Strade's steps above you, then the door cracked. You knew he needed to make ten heavy, leisure steps to come down. By habit you were counting them, and finally Strade turned the light on.
'Doing yoga, buddy?' Strade giggled at your pose, his voice was sounding muffled, so you opened your eyes to see the reason for it. You froze in bewilderment when you noticed a professional camera on a tripod, a laptop on a table, and a tablet. By a miracle, you didn't get stuck in it in the dark, but it wasn't important for you. The most important things were a black mask with a print of the lower part of a human skull and the fact that the girl in front of you had the same type of appearance as you — from head to toes she looked just like you: being rather a sketch of yours, she remembered you as a whole, but after giving her a better look, the difference was clear. As if the whole situation was a homage to your first night with Strade, she was wearing black lingerie of the similar cut as you did. 'Well, sorry for interrupting you, but I need your assistance.'
'What is it?' You pointed on a tripod. 'What's going on?'
'That's a tripod, idiot. Never seen it? 'kay, it's a thing that holds the camera still at a needed level.' Strade turned the laptop on and started to set something up. 'You should stay behind the camera, buddy, and do what I said without delay. Understood?' Strade looked at you, and you nodded. The girl was watching you both with terrified eyes.
'Strade, what are we going to do?..' Your scare was growing with every second. You almost shouted your words at him.
'Some kind of dirty job that gives me money to keep you, wastrel.'
You felt uneasy in your stomach. It was obvious now that Strade's job was hosting red rooms for perverts. You were close to fainting; you actually wanted to faint — just to escape this cruel reality you were forced to stay in.
'Why are you so gloomy, Schatz?' Strade came to you and lowered the mask to his chin. 'You are a big fan of the Neon Demon, I know. Probably, the bitch like you enjoys the scene in the morgue a lot. Wanna repeat it in real life after I finish the show?' Strade caught your chin and squeezed it with his thumb and index finger. 'I would like to see some girl on girl with you.' He put his tongue out and licked your lips, enjoying the way they turned pale from fear. Tracing your lower lip with the tip of his tongue, Strade forcefully pulled your chin down, opening your lips, and spat into your mouth. He whispered: 'Then you can eat her raw and bathe in her blood.'
The girl wanted to cry out, but she only broke into tears. You felt disgusting, so disgusting you wanted to kill yourself right now, disfigure your whole body to something gruesome and ugly like everything around you. Without any other preparations, the stream started.
It was going for thirty minutes already, and she didn't stop screaming even for a second. You didn't ask for more — just a fucking second of silence, without guttural screeching that was similar to the one that came from a slaughtered pigs on a butchery. Everything you could see was blood, so much blood you couldn't even imagine how you would clean it after. You were sitting on a chair in some kind of delusion. Every Strade's action you felt on yourself. Every shriek of this poor girl was yours, every knife, nail, chisel and blade she got, you took with her.
'Hey, buddy,' Strade held out his hand, waiting for a new tool. 'Choose something for me. I trust your taste.'
You looked at all the tools in front of you and started shaking, feeling an urge to throw up. You just ran away as fast as you could without looking back. You barely made it to the toilet and almost had time to fall on your knees, before puking everything you ate. The red mash that still resembled human features was in your mind, torturing you worse than anything else.
Choose something for me…
You hardly stopped yourself from coughing, but Strade's words in your mind made you puke again and again, until there was only saliva and bile left in the vomit. Your forearms and thighs were itching badly, but you were breathless and tried to gasp for fresh air — the smell of the cleaning agent from the toilet was irritating your nostrils, making you feel nauseous again. He wanted you to kill her. He wanted you to participate in his vile plan but you escaped. Maybe you would better take something deadly to end her suffering… You finally touched your limbs with nails and started scratching it until blood, then moved to your face.
You needed to distract yourself, had to do something to forget about it, so you washed your mouth then started cleaning the toilet, but it wasn't enough. You were cleaning everything that was caught by your eyes. You needed a noise, something to talk in the background. You turned on the TV, found your radio, turned it on too and put earphones on your head, and continued what you were doing. Your hands were burning from chemicals, the skin became red and you felt as if it was melting — you didn't bother putting on a pair of protective gloves.
'You are so fucking pathetic.'
You jumped from the surprise when your earphones had fallen down by a punch of Strade's palm, and his voice roared behind your back. When you wanted to turn around, you got punched in your face. You fell on the floor, pressing your arms to your bleeding nose. Strade kept beating you. His fists were tight and strong. Covering your body with blue bruises, he was punishing you for cowardice and disobedience.
'When I give you an order,' Strade squatted and grabbed you by your hair. 'You behave.' He shook your head forcefully. 'Have problems with making a choice, buddy? I'll show you how you make it.'
Strade kept his fist tugged in your hair and dragged you on the floor back to the basement. You were screaming and shouting, trying to break out his iron grip: for the first time ever scratching his hand with your nails, grabbing the edges of furniture to slow him down. After he pushed you through the stairs you got on your knees and jostled him to make it upstairs. Strade kicked your ankle making you fall on your knees and left a smack on your cheek. The dead girl was lying here, so you grabbed him by his waist, piled on him with your weight to make Strade go down to your level. Your gaze caught what was left from the girl: her head was deformed, there were her teeth and fragments of her skull bones laying on the ground; one of her eyes was leaking, her throat was sliced wide open. You were terrified that the same fate was waiting for you.
He wanted to press his boot to your head, but you managed to dodge it. Drove by adrenaline, you attempted to hit him in his face, but Strade caught your hand and wrung it behind your back so hard your bones cracked. The brawl had ended. Strade started laughing manic and mocking; a kick under your knees, and you fell down. He made you turn on your back and sat on your hips. You pressed your damaged hand to your chest, your face twisted in pain. You were whimpering. You opened your eyes to see him; Strade was looking right in your face, greening wide. He spat in your face, giggling at your humiliated state.
'Someone likes to play dangerous games,' Strade pressed the knife to your neck. 'Hey, Schatz. Look at your colleague. She was beautiful, wasn't she? My followers had so much fun with her today. Wanna take her place next time? Buddies are dying to see me destroying the holes of some bitch before pulling her guts out.'
You kept silent.
'I'm sorry…' it was all you could say. You felt indifferent. Maybe it was some kind of psychological protection, but suddenly all your feelings had disappeared. There was only pain left.
'No, you aren't.' From Strade's lips it sounded like a sentence. 'What's wrong with you today? I don't even want to punish you physically when you are so fucking lifeless.'
Strade was upset with you, but there was something tricky in the intonation of his voice. 'Get up, Schatz. Go and do whatever you were doing.'
The flame of hope lit on your face and Strade had roughly broken it by stabbing your shoulder. For the next hour or two he was forcing you to choose the tool he would torment you with. The dead girl was watching everything with her open dry eyes, and at the end of the lesson Strade had left you with her in the basement for the night.
A week after Strade got your books. With it, he brought your cosmetic bag and your lotions. Strade told you he liked you better with black eyeshadow on your eyes and reddish lips, so you had to put makeup on every morning and keep it until night. Every time you opened your bag, Strade appeared near you and watched your every move, observing how your face was changing depending on the shape of eyeshadow and depths of the color. Right after you put your lipstick on, Strade took your face by your chin and lifted it, making you look in his eyes. Usually, you were sitting on a chair, and he was standing above you, biting his own lip. The deep red color on your mouth looked like blood and kept Strade excited. He pressed his thumb to your lower lip, pulling it down and revealing your teeth, then showed it into your mouth, pressing on your tongue and encouraging you to show it. Starting from sucking on his fingers, you were preparing yourself for another blow job that would leave your throat aching and bruised. Strade didn't like to be teased, and it killed all the intimate moods that you got sometimes. Instead of slow and sensual foreplay he preferred rough and fast, almost animalistic fucking without any care for your pleasure. You didn't even need to try to imitate interest in the process: Strade just grabbed your hair and started pounding inside your mouth, pulling his dick down your throat until your nose met the bush of his hard pubic hair. He let you go right after he came and seemed to forget easily about what had just happened.
It was a miracle to catch him in a mood for non violent sex. It turned out he had a normal sexual interest in women in addition to his routine fetishes, and he could offer you almost a healthy experience. You hated yourself in moments like this: you were clinging to him like a dog, asking for attention and caress, and he gave you them before turning back into a monster.
You hated yourself for screaming from pleasure and squirming for him, when Strade's tongue slid inside your cunt, while he was eating you out from behind, just to come even further and tickle your virgin asshole. Strade got even harder himself when he was pressing his lips to your other hole in a lewd kiss, and your tight muscles clenched around the tip of his tongue. Vibrations of your voice and trembling in your lips and jaws around his length sent him shivers — sixty-nine was Strade's favorite pose in sex, because it let the both of you be busy with working for each other's pleasure at the same time. Before sucking him fully, you traced your tongue along his length, giving more attention to the tip, kissing it and sucking on it in a teasing manner with your rapid and heated breaths, wetness and softness of your mouth sliding around his dick gradually and sucking in extra foreskin, while pumping him with your warm palm. After sixty-nine followed missionary: nothing busted Strade's lecherous nature more, than your submission. Strade felt unlimited power and control over your body, eagerly letting you cum if you begged him enough. It felt so strange to release from his cock thrusting into you brutally, your soft flesh took him too well for you to be ashamed of. Your body needed him more than your soul, the sexual tension between the both of you was too strong to resist. Even when he was raping you, you managed to find the way to enjoy yourself.
For a while, everything was peaceful. Strade and you became closer: you spent most of the day chatting, he seemed to be more affectionate and gentle, but with it he started to take his anger out on you easily, could throw something in you — you had already got a cup, a magazine and pliers in your head. It was funny for him to cut you with a knife out of blue just to see your scared face. Your body got numerous scars; every time you looked at it in the mirror, you started crying.
Strade liked to tell you stories. He told you he was working as a security chief in a mental hospital, but was fired for abuse of authority. He told you, how this hospital was performing experiment on patients, how staff was raping them and how them were raping, murdering and fighting each other. How innocent people were sent here and had never come back, how many powerful connections all the directors had. Strade told you how many criminals were sent here, how they shared with him their dirty thoughts and deeds, how much they enjoyed everything they had done. Strade told you about all the forums where disgusting videos of humiliation, cannibalism, murdering, sexual violence, drugs and weapon making were posted. Strade showed you all the information about you on the internet that you didn't even know existed, and it made you terrified at the thought that someone could actually stalk you through it. Strade loved telling you about freaks who were seeking for their victims online and how they made their way from searching for information to actually killing the person — and he enjoyed combining it with pounding into your cunt, as it tightened around him painfully every time he started this topic.
Strade trained you to be grateful. He made you think that he was the only one who could protect you, that without him someone would assault you immediately, because for perverts and madmen you were a tidbit. By some subtle process he managed to imbue you the idea of your exclusivity. Everyone would want to own you, that's why you should be extra careful. Strade shared with you how other kidnappers were treating their victims, and you actually believed that Strade was the best.
Whenever Strade didn't talk to you, you were listening to the radio. It was much easier to cope with your thoughts and compulsions while listening to the calming voice of a narrator or to music. You were falling in love with him, and you didn't like it. It was hard to fight your own feelings: you wanted to hug him, kiss him every second of your miserable life. The fact that your existence depended on his mercy started to thrill you in a good way: he had everything he wanted because there were no rules and no morals for him.
With the leftovers of your sanity, you tried to find the reason why no one was searching for you. Strade liked to watch news reports every evening while seeping a beer, and you were watching it with him, dreaming of seeing your face on a channel, but it was never shown. Your sudden disappearance wasn't a surprise for your circle, as you didn't have anyone who really cared about you. Everyone you had known was expecting you to disappear one day because of your mental distress, and they were sure you would show up later, so they didn't bother themselves with your problems. Everyone around you was so busy with themselves that they even ignored the fact that everything you had left in the rented apartment was sold and that you were dismissed from the college for absenteeism.
You didn't notice how you explained everything to Strade about the conflict in your family. You opened your heart for him: you told him that your mother mistreated you since childhood and made up for her attitude with money. She had a habit of giving inappropriate reactions to the simplest things: today she reacted to it calmly, but the week after the same situation made her furious. You had to be grateful to have clothes, food, water, and a roof above your head. You needed to be quiet, and she raised you as an obedient girl: she hated you for bringing her troubles of any sort, so since childhood, you had to solve everything yourself. When you became older, she was jealous of you to your father: she had seen you as a harlot and thought that you were seducing her husband. She was just seeking a reason to kick you out of the house — and she found it. As for your father, he was henpecked, so he didn't really care about what was happening. You told Strade how you were bouncing from one messed-up apartment to another, about your disappointing first love, your unhealthy obsession with book collecting, and everything else. You even shared with him how badly your heart ached because no one was searching for you, your disappearance went unnoticed by everyone, even the renter didn't do at least something to know what had happened to you. And Strade was the first one to comfort you.
How wrong it felt to get compassion from your tormentor, but you took it gladly and with gratitude. Even if it was fake, you were ready to believe his lie until he was treating you as his best victim. He was the only one who really cared about you. You liked to be unique for him: when he was hammering a nail in your arm, stabbing you with a screwdriver, burning a cigarette off of your skin, or breaking your legs, you felt loved. When Strade made a deep cut on your shoulder and pressed his lips to it, sucking your blood from a fresh wound, circling its edges and penetrating it with his tongue, you felt appreciated. When he locked the shock collar on your neck and pressed the button every time you misbehaved, you felt cherished. With your forearms looking like raw meat because of all the cuts you left while itching, you experienced a blessing.
In this house, you felt like home.
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Michelangelo’s David (1970), ph. Jonathan Blair
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Fellow Art enjoyer. What’s your psychological take on the parallel of Paintings for “Prometheus Unbound”, and “Saint Sebastian.”
Like. Why are they always painted like they don’t receive aftercare. I was kinda frown off by how they seem to mirror each others vibes despite having different areas and stories associated. Kinky chained up painting genre I guess.
Like these where painted 200 years apart, with different methods, different era’s, and different meaning. Still make me think of the other.
Fellow Art Enjoyer. i do have takes, though i'm unsure how "psychological" they may be, as painting itself, as well as the content of paintings falls more into fictional territory. the most "psychological" i can get with this is the general connectivity between how the subjects are handled and why that may be
obviously they both have a lot of similarities with their figures/composition so i'm just going to skip over all of that except some key aspects that i think are important in regards to the overall attitude towards each scene
in prometheus unbound, prometheus is breaking free from his chains, and the overall pose is full of triumph. prometheus is a martyr being freed from his fate, he has overcome his punishment and his great strength and success shows through his pose and the composition (sunshine shining through the dark clouds behind heracles who has saved him, his grip on the chains showing he's taking control back, him looking down on the eagle (which does show a reflection on the pain, but also that of a disdain)). his muscularity is obviously there for the viewer's pleasure, and the flexing of his body enhances this. while it is kinky, i think this one is actually less-so than st sebastian, but that could just be a personal preference
in st sebastian, the bondage is treated in a more masochistic way. he's bound painfully, and the clear dejection and suffering portrayed is something less of the eye-candy that prometheus is serving, and more of a tortured martyr. which. he is. but with the the uncomfortable position and down-turned, almost shameful, pose, he is more of a personification of suffering than that of triumph. while he has been saved by his punishment, he is much more of a sorrowful martyr than prometheus, who takes charge of his newfound freedom. st sebastian, on the other hand, is limp, not even bothering to move himself from his uncomfortable position. he's still bound, still bleeding, and looks as if he's given up rather than taken control of the end of his punishment. he doesn't even have the will in him to look at the wounds. the atmosphere is equally as dreary, and the overall mood reflects this mournful energy. this pathetic twink is bleeding and suffering and seeing nothing good in the world and you know what? that's hot
as for their connection over time, well, these characters are classics with set symbology and stories, so the aspects like the ropes and chains are very intertwined with their characters as a whole. the general kinky vibe is something i'd attribute to the stories themselves, but the way they are handled probably takes influence from the artists themselves and other factors (political climate, personal outlook, etc). i think people as a whole have a tendency to romanticize (and eroticize) stories and characters, and i also think these sort of subjects draw a very specific kind of crowd and the type of artist to tackle them will romanticize the subject in a different way (for example my collection of sexy saint sebastians are all given a different treatment despite their same subject)
paintings shown:
Carl Bloch, Prometheus Unbound, 1864
Angelo Caroselli (Attr.), St Sebastian (Tended by Irene), c. 1615-1652
#ask#art analysis#i looooove talking abt painting#but i did not know what u meant by psychological take sorry#this is more speculation and analysis and me going haha look at that sad twink i want to eat him
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A totally serious idea and definitely not a shitpost
IMAGINE IF THE DSAF CHARACTERS GOT FUCKING ISEKAIED! I brought this up as a joke first in my headcanon post… and it’s still a joke.
But BEAR (haha restaurant named “bear.” reference go brrrrrr) with me for a moment. All of the third game characters are just chilling when TRUCK KUN comes bursting through a fucking wall and hits them and then they wake up in an anime.
Jack is the classic overpowered Isekai protagonist and is constantly questioning everything that’s going on in confusion and horror, but a stereotypical and boring isekai protag needs a harem and a lot of the characters are family members… so where’s his harem… glad you asked!
It’s Dave!
Dave has been turned into an anime girl… but not just one. There are now 12 anime girl Daves, all of which have a slightly different personality (one of which is just classic Dave). But let’s be honest the world wasn’t meant for more than one of the purple muppet baby it tried to forget, so the chaos caused by 12 anime Daves merely existing is what causes the DEMON LORD to grow in power and stuff to spontaneously combust.
Who is the demon lord? Henry? NO! ITS STEVEN? Why? WHY THE FUCK NOT!? Steven is just standing there in the classic Steven pose being confused about everything but now as a demon lord.
Dee is now for some reason a giant fucking dragon. Why? Because she deserves to be something cool because Dee is underrated as hell.
The majority of the phone guys are in the Steven Lord’s army with Peter as a general.
What caused all this? Blackjack! He summoned TRUCK KUN to hit the characters and is now torturing Henry for all eternity with this really bad, really cursed isekai.
Btw the 12 Dave’s are: Davey Classic, TsunDave, Dave Milfer, YanDave (basically just classic Dave TBH), Catgirl Dave (he speaks EXCLUSIVELY in OwO because suffering), Shy Dave, SaDave (Sadist anime girl), Really Pure Dave, Edgy Wolfgirl Dave, KuuDave, Princess Dave, Fanservice Dave (all of them are fanservice but he’s the really busty one whose always being put in weird positions, has EXTRA jiggle physics and wears skimpy clothing for no reason).
About the Anime Dave Collective, they do still all have a text to speech and since there’s more than one all with their themes playing when around more than one the themes do not match up and it sounds horrifying. Jack is terrified of the Dave Collective, all except for Classic Davey who is also terrified, and confused as to why he has boobs now.
I would love to hear what everyone thinks of this beautiful AU in which Jack has anime protag logic, Dave is a Harem, Dee is a dragon, Steven is the Steven Lord, the phone guys are an army, and all of it was made by Blackjack exclusively to torture Henry?
I both regret coming up with this and think it’s the best thing I ever did.
#dsaf#dayshift at freddy's#dsaf jack#dsaf phone guy#dsaf jake#dsaf harry#dsaf henry#dsaf blackjack#dsaf au#dsaf steven#dsaf dave#dave is become harem#dsaf dee#davesport#the STEVEN LORD#shitpost#it’s in my head and now it’s in yours too and I’ve decided this is what my promised cursed fanfic will be.#YOURE WELCOME
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Concepto Sacrógrito/ Sacrieur Concept:
Los Sacrógritos sin la perfecta definición de "lo que no te mata, te hace mas fuerte", entre mas daño les hagan y se mantengan vivos, peor va a ser para sus enemigos, por esa misma razón, hice que mi Sacrógrito asegure tener la mayor cantidad de dolor posible para una pelea.
Su equipo tiene 2 opuestos distintos:
Ropa ligera y bastante desgastada de todas las peleas por las que ha pasado, el valor defensivo de esta es nulo, porque no lo necesita, ya que su fortaleza viene de recibir daño, para devolverlo con aun mas fuerza.
Material de tortura de metal sumamente pesado, lo cual asegura que sin importar lo que haga, tenga una fuente de sufrimiento para incrementar su fuerza, y además pueda usarlo de forma ofensiva, de entre lo que encontramos...
Collar de púas.
Grilletes.
Alambre de púas a rojo vivo que funciona como cinturón.
Grandes clavos que pasan desde la base del pie y sale por su talón.
Varias armas clavadas a su cuerpo, como espadas, dagas, flechas y un hacha (estas no esta diseñadas para que las use en combate, solo como fuente de sufrimiento).
En cuanto a sus habilidades, posee los clásicos castigos de Dofus y Wakfu, los cuales se manifiestas como un par de brazos y látigos que se manifiestan desde sus tatuajes de sangre (Dofus) y tinta (Wakfu), y aparte de estos, su cuerpo tiene la modificación de tener expuesto los músculos, ligamentos y huesos de sus codos y rodillas, permitiéndole dislocar estos para lograr golpes y patadas a distancias y ángulos que normalmente no podría lograr.
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Sacrieurs are the perfect definition of the phrase "what doesn´t kill you makes you stronger", the more damage they stand while keeping themselves alive, the worst it will be for their enemies, so for that reason, I wanted to secure my sacrieur to get the most pain for a fight as possible.
Her equipmente has 2 opposites:
Light clothing, which is really wore out after all the fights she´s been, it´s defensive value is null, since she doesn´t need it, her strength comes from receiving damage, so she can turn it back stronger.
Torture devices made from heavy metal, which secures that no matter what she does, she´ll have a suffer source to boost her strength, and also being able to use it offensively, they are...
Spike collar
Shackles
Red hot barbed wire that she wears as a belt
Huge nails that goes through the base of her feet and comes out through her heel.
Multiple weapons stabbing her body, such as swords, daggers arrows and an axe (they aren´t designed as a weapon, just as a suffer source).
As her abilities goes, she has the classic punishments from Dofus and Wakfu, which manifests as a pair of arms and whips that comes from her blood tatoos (Dofus) and ink tatoos (Wakfu), aside from that, her body is modified to expose muscles, ligaments and bones on her elbows and knees, letting her dislocate them to achive punches and kicks with distances and angles that would usually be impossible.
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Su diseño esta basado en mis Sacrogritos Bruiser-Heart (Dofus) y Joyful-Pain (Wakfu), su diseño esta basado en el concepto de un berseker, solo que en vez de no sentir dolor, lo siente, y disfruta cada segundo de este.
Her design is based on both my Sacrieurs Bruiser-Heart (Dofus) and Joyful-Pain (Wakfu), her design is based on the concept of a berseker, but insted of not feeling pain, she feels it, and enjoys every second of it.
Dofus:
Wakfu:
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I wonder, why does c!Dream always have those long villain monologues?
I mean most of time when he does them, he's in a position of power. He could easily just execute his plan or kill whoever but he always talks so much that it gives whoever he is talking to time to get out of the situation.
My theory is that it's all part of his villain act. I mean, his character is known for making big elaborate theatrical encounters such as the disc finale (literally why staged duo name exists). I feel like most characters incorrectly read this performance as it making him more evil and sinister. But I think it's all mainly just a giant bluff to make it seem like he's more of a villain just like how the server wants him to be. The epitome of "if everyone already thinks I'm the villain why not play one".
I think he acts like this classic movie supervillain but he doesn't want to be evil. What he does want, however, is the feeling of power, or to put it better, to not feel powerless. If people are going to perceive him that way anyway, why not have fun with the portrayal. Why not take advantage of it as a means to an end.
But I feel like especially with and after the disc finale, most of the threat Dream poses is just what he says. He says he would kill Tubbo but doesn't. He says his plan was to lock up Tommy but, as it's later revealed, Punz coming in was part of the plan. He said he would keep killing and reviving Tommy after escaping prison but let him get away to Phil despite how easily he could've killed Tommy if he wanted to. When Sapnap wanted to fight Dream when he was trying to get nightmare back, Dream could have easily gone to Kinoko like he said he would. He could have probably also easily fought Sapnap.
I think Dream's encounters (with tom and sap) after the prison were mainly to scare them to ensure his own safety. To prevent them from thinking he's weak and vulnerable because he knows how much the two want to kill him. (and clearly judging from the finale, Tommy is not against fighting someone at their weakest point). The only people he actually tries to kill is Sam and Quackity. Which is mainly because they tortured him first.
Dream will do evil things but he doesn't want to be an evil person. He doesn't want to actually do anything unless others act first. He will keep up the façade of being plain evil because at least that way people won't want to mess with him.
If people already think he does things for no good reason then enforcing that narrative allows him to put his actual plans into action. By enforcing what the server already thinks, that he only cares about making Tommy's like hell and is inhuman, he made them also think Punz switched sides.
Dream is dedicated to bring about his idea of what peace for the server looks like. He wants to be the hero. But if he has to play the villain in the meantime to get to that goal, then so be it.
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SPY x FAMILY What If: Anya’s Real Father
(Considering there wasn't much implications or hints Anya's biological parents are dead or alive, I made a headcanon of what if her father is alive. And considering how Anya was fully aware of classical language from Spy X Family, her identity as test experiment, this is fully my idea of her past and this OC is made by me)
Full Name: Alexei Nikolonov
Age: 30
Gender: Male
Nationality: Mazepa
Family: Experiment 006 (spouse; deceased), Anya (biological daughter)
Academic Background: Mazepa College (graduated)
Occupation: Experiment (former), Emperor of Mazepa
Nickname: Papa II (by Anya)
Age 19, it was his final year in Mazepa College and the beginning of horrifying era centering around war and conflict. Mazepa was a small empire ruled by imperial Nikolonov family as he was an heir to Mazepan throne. But when Ostania and Westalis were split and in war, Mazepa refused to help Ostania to assist them in war. As retaliation from Ostania, the Dowager empress was assassinated as only heir Alexei was kidnapped and taken to Angele facility where he was constantly experimented and tortured. He and the woman who was also an experiment had a child. They named the child "Anastasia", in short, "Anya". But this brief happiness was taken away when Anya was taken away also used as life experiment, abused to study and control her telepathic powers for the facility's term of "Peace". Weekends are the times Alexei could spend time with her. But, in order for her to survive, Alexei used his powers to cause commotions in the facility so Anya could escape. Before the separation, Alexei gave her the Chimera plush where inside is where he hid the "treasure" for her as he promised to meet her again. Anya's mother sacrificed herself despite the illness taking over her body and Alexei forced Anya out of facility, allowing her to leave.
Even though Mazepa has become the colonized "city" in Ostania, the citizens were enraged at Ostania as they demand independence. Politcians of Ostania feared for the war against Mazepa for the small former empire had great resources and didn't want to had them all squandered, and some who had connections with Angele facility made the scientists free Alexei. Officially out, Alexei would do anything to get his precious daughter back. He tracked down every 4 ex-foster parents of Anya, interrogating them for her whereabouts...and he "erased" their existences as soon as he find them useless to find Anya. He even interrogated the orphanage owner, staging his death as accident as well. Arriving in Berlint, he overheard some WISE agents talk about Operation Strix, with his daughter involved....and Alexei was LESS THAN PLEASED to learn the "Twilight" is using his daughter for dangerous mission.
While returning as Emperor of Mazepa once the small empire was freed, Alexei is seen with his face covered with a mask, wearing regal outfit but often seclude himself in Palace of Nikolonov. But when as "just Alexei", he posed as Anya's "godfather" from Loid's previous marriage and often visit Anya after the reunion. Loid KNEW since the first meeting that Alexei's position is neutral YET dangerous. He is a telepath as Anya, easily control his enhanced hearing and conceal his expressions. But telepathy is NOT the only power Alexei has... with his eyes, he can manipulate the movements of things and person.
#SPY X FAMILY#SPY X FAMILY AU#SPY X FAMILY OCs#Anya's biological father#created by me#Alexei#Alexei Nikolonov
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hi, hope it’s not too much trouble, i just thought it’d be fun if before the bracket actually starts you posted your fav/s submissions for each pairing? so there’s more of a basis for voting for people not in some fandoms. thanks for doing this poll it looks like it’ll be a lot of fun!
ooh i was saving the propaganda for later in the actual polls but here's some for the ones that are losing BADLY (from the screenshots my friend sent me.
Terry/Korvo
Omg where to even begin. SPOILERS for all 4 currently released seasons ahead! So, in season 1 there's like, mostly just hints, right? And sure, there's a certain Tension™ but it's mostly played for laughs. And yes, they hate each other a bit but y'know. Personally I think Terry had feelings for Korvo even before season 1 but you can argue about that. Then, in season 2, they share some genuine feelings, they kiss and Korvo horrifically tortures Terry though time travel. In that order. They're quirky <3 Then in the Christmas special there's more emotions and kissing and also, btw, at some point we got word of god confirmation they *were* in fact in a romantic relationship by the end of season 2. Again, personal opinion, but I'm not sure Korvo was like, thoroughly in love by that point but we're certain he is by now. And then in season 3, more and more genuine emotions are shared and while technically they were posing as married the entire time, we now see Terry call Korvo his husband and mean it (after Korvo got jealous of Terry's "[standing in] line husband") but the real fun begins in season 4! That's when they really start acting like a couple and we get to see that both of them genuinely care for each other and also are attracted to each other. Oh, and they fuck on screen. They're invisible during it but they totally fuck on screen. More jealous Korvo in the finale, too, but unfounded as we learned Terry has stopped hooking up with strangers for Korvo's sake. Also, during this season we see them spooning in their sleep and it's. So gosh darn cute. And like... season 5 is already ordered. We're getting new Tervo content, probably sometime next year. And it's gonna be amazing!!!
Penelope Featherington/Colin Bridgerton:
Penelope has a long-standing crush on Colin, who views her as just-a-friend for a long time. In the show, Colin loudly tells a group of male peers who mock him for “courting her” that he would never court her in their wildest dreams, and Penelope overhears. Heartbroken, she will try to find a different suitor in the next season. But Colin will eventually fall hard for her, finding out her secret ID as Lady Whistledown, trying to protect her despite the fact that she doesn’t need it, and realizing that he has crazy levels of pent-up lust for her. They are a classic fell first/fell harder ship that is absolutely essential representation for fat women like myself. I’m counting down the days to season 3 and Penelope/Colin was the first book I read of the series because I’m so excited!
Kokoro Aichi AKA Heartful Punch/Undine Wells AKA Alchemical Water
So my Girl Kokoro has a lot of pride, she hates being seen as weak bc of her daddy and mommy issues and because of that hates it when people call her by her real name and tends to prefer to just go by HP in honor of her magical girl title, but within like TWO days of knowing Undine and hearing her call her HP she was just like '...you can call me Kokoro' and then Undine does just that all of HP's friends go absolutely bananas quoting it as 'the forbidden name' and then react even more dramatically when Kokoro just sort of rolls with it. Girl's had it bad since this waterbender pretty girl first tidal waved into her life Meanwhile Undine, whom as a magical girl struggles to kill monsters on her own since her powers are more 'support class' as it is, she's not super strong on her own, kills a HUGE monster in basically one shot when Kokoro is threatened to nearly get swallowed by it, turning her water into essentially a jet cutter. she often has dreams about Kokoro, though only realized she had feelings for her during that noted save, she's ALWAYS worried that just by being around her she's putting a target on her back (bc she's the main character so the bad guys are gunning for her) she seems really chill most of the time bc she's just a really reserved girl but like this girl can and will commit murder to keep her pink gf safe and like- they're canonically super gay end of chapter 15 they kiss for the first time it's great
Luke/Zander:
Luke fell first. Zander fell harder. They so cute (AND CANON) uhmmmmmm I can't right now I have to go fast but uh bye (WATCH THE MUSIC FREAKS ITS SO GOOD)
#asks#thats all ill give for now#if you wan any specific pairings propaganda just send an ask#tournament bracket#tumblr tournament
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