In the late 1840s, a woman gives to twins, supported by her loving husband. Despite his support, both throughout the pregnancy and the birth, a mistake he makes during the childbirth catches the attention of a local religious cult, causing them to kidnap and violently torture him.
The problem with having OCs is that sometimes you wanna read about your little guy being in situations but unfortunately he is YOUR little guy and no one is gonna put him in that situation but you. Tragic.
i hate the way fat antagonists have their weight moralized and used as a metaphor for greed and corruption and i hate the way it's overcorrected into fat people being "soft squishy friend-shaped cupcakes who look like they give incredible hugs" and i long for the day we have nuanced, interesting, and complicated fat characters and most of all i long for the day people are normal about fatness
NEVER be vulnerable. FLUSH your medication down the toilet. LIE when people ask how you’re doing. SUPPRESS your feelings. ALWAYS be irritable and abrasive. MAKE SURE you push away anyone who’s close to you. CANCEL your therapy appointment.
people are literally so boring a male character will kill 10000 people and steal candy from babies and theyll be like omg thats my king! but a female character is rude once and theyre like i hope she dies violently
The tree bark scraped against his bare skin where he was tied to its thick trunk. His skin burned in some places, numb in others from the icy air. Oksana stood a few feet in front of him, hands on her hips, grinning with unfettered glee. Spread out behind her, he could just make out the pale faces of the cultists, like spectres against the snow.
He thought he had hated the basement. He did hate the basement. Where the cultists took joy in beating him senseless. Where an enthusiastic volunteer punched his nose as Oksana poured liquid death down his throat, burning liquid that seared his throat and ripped at his insides until he felt they would burst from his skin. He was sure Oksana would delight in the bearing of his soft organs, hot with his blood. When he looked, his skin was smooth but for a litany of small cuts and colorful bruises.
He hated the basement, but this was worse. Here, he was completely exposed. Wind and snow and Oksana. Always
Oksana.
He couldn't help the tears that left frozen tracks down his face.
Oksana laughed. "Dimaq, you brought this on yourself." She said this often as she inflicted her punishments. He knew she was right. It was his own fault. He deserved everything she did and more.
When Oksana approached with her knife, all he could do was grit his teeth. Maybe this time she would let his innards spill for real. Maybe that was the end he deserved.
But no.
Oksana traced the knife across his chest, applying just enough pressure to draw blood without lethal damage. It took a moment for Dimaq's frozen nerves to catch up to the pain, but there it was.
As she carved across his abdomen, he tried to conjure the memory of Ashanti, how she must have felt as she screamed through the birth of their children. Was this what it felt like? Would this be the punishment that tipped the scales back into balance? How could he possibly know?
Oksana certainly wouldn't tell him.
She finished marking his skin and stepped back to admire her work. Her spectators nodded sagely as if approving a job well done. One of them released Dimaq from the tree, and he collapsed in a bloody heap in the snow.
Oksana gestured to another member who handed her a small vial of deep green liquid. She approached Dimaq again. Squatting before him, she lifted his head, almost gently, though her smile still held all malice. She tipped the liquid down his throat. "Here. This will distract you from the cold."
He hardly had time to process her words before his world turned to fire.
There came a day when Oksana granted Dimag his freedom, but he was never really free. She was there, everywhere he looked - sharp grin leering from market stalls, cold laughter following him on hunts through the woods. She was present every time the cold air bit his skin as he bathed or changed his clothes. She was there in the bloody remain of his finger. She was lurking every time he looked at the twins. Always there, in the flesh and in haunting spirit. And just when he found a moment of peace, Ashanti poked Oksana back to life.
"You're safe here. They can't hurt you anymore," Ashanti said, fingers digging into Dimaq's wounded hand.
"I know that." He pulled his hand away.
"You won't be free until you face what happened."
"I know!" Dimaq's shame poured out in anger. "I'm trying.
Don't tell me what they can or can't do. I know better." He turned to storm off, but Ashanti blocked the way. "Stop running away. You'll never get better that way, never be better."
"Let me out."
"Stay. Just a few minutes more. You were doing so well."
Ashanti would not be moved.
Dimaq stayed. He let Ashanti hold his hand, prod at the still raw stub of his finger until he was buried inside himself under guilt and shame and rage.
"You're safe with me," Ashanti said.
He pushed past her out into the night snow, venturing into the woods until the icy air was indistinguishable from the phantom blade of Oksana's knife.
I love you, folks in my phone / online who create ocs and love and obsess and are passionate about their ocs ♡
even if you're not loud about it, even if you don't get a lot of visibility. even if you don't think your oc is good enough, if you're good enough. even if you worry your oc is too much like someone elses oc, or a canon character. even if you can't / don't draw or write or make content for your ocs. even if you're always making new ocs, or revamping your ocs, or they're a constant wip.
even if you think this post isn't about you - it is, if you have ocs and care about them.
i love you female characters who make selfish choices they know will be bad for everyone. i love you female characters who think they're making the right choice but make things worse. i love you female characters who are making the right choice but noone else understands it.
CW: Implied past childbirth, past amputation, strangling, cutting face with knife
My legs ache the more I sprint, but it doesn’t stop me. It was her. I’m absolutely certain that it was her. The soft way she spoke, the Koamzian accent. The way she looked at me, like she’d recognised me too.
I look straight ahead, trying to ignore the way the trees bend and twist, and the darkness that’s beginning to come the more I run. It’s becoming nighttime, isn’t it?
I can handle the dark. I’m a grown man. It doesn’t matter that I’m scared because I shouldn’t be. I’m a grown man now, with 2 children, 2 children I made my wife suffer for.
I don’t know why, but thinking about that makes me completely stop in my tracks. My heart’s beating fast, and it hurts to breathe, even though I can’t stop myself at all.
I made my wife suffer. Oksana was right.
My arms wrap around my stomach, my hands grasping my forearms as I drop to the floor, shivering wildly.
She was right. I am a monster. I did hurt her. This was all my fault.
I deserved what she did to me.
I look at my hand, staring at the stump, which is covered in white bandages that have a hint of red on them. I can’t see how much, through the dark-blue sky around me.
I grab the tissue, pulling against it. It hurts as the tissue drags a little on the stump, but I don’t care. I deserved what she did to me.
I keep pulling, up until the bandages are completely off. I throw the tissue on the floor, staring as much as I can see at the stump.
It’s dark-red, mostly, with some skin covering it. A white stump pokes just slightly out of it. Bile rises in my stomach, but it doesn’t stop me from covering it with my fist, causing me to drop again at the sudden, extreme pain it causes.
I dip my finger into the snow beneath me, my hand numbing quickly. I can’t keep it in for too long, but it’s tempting. I need to suffer more for what I did to Ashanti.
Slowly, I lift my finger from the snow, standing up again, my legs shaking. The white from the snow covers over my hand in spots, resting on the stump. The snow is still red, though, from the blood pouring and covering it.
My breathing stops. Slow footsteps crunch the snow, getting louder and louder. I can hear soft breathing.
Ashanti.
I can’t turn around. I can’t look at her. I don’t deserve to. I don’t deserve her love. Even if she acknowledged the pain-reliving plants would have affected her relationship with out children, even if she knew she would’ve loved them less, I still don’t deserve her.
Soft tears prickle my eyes, as I slowly turn around, shivering as I prepare to see her face.
A black jumper with white hands greets me instead.
Oksana.
Squealing loudly, my head turns up to meet her eyes. Her black hair glistens a little in the moonlight, and she’s grinning at me, a smile wider than how she was that day.
She grasps onto my throat.
“HELP! HELP PLEASE!” My legs kick out, kicking her groin, but she doesn’t seem to react. Instead, she pulls out a small knife. I scream out for help again.
She presses the blade against my cheek, pressing tightly and pulling down in one, quick sweep. I feel liquid and pain.
I try to breathe, but I can’t. I feel her hand tightening around my throat, which stops my breathing further. Again, she presses the blade against the very same cheek, yanking again, the blade cutting against the scar that she made.
creating characters who are terrible people and examining how they benefit from being terrible and why they act the way they do is way more cathartic than a fantasy world that completely blocks off the option to make immoral / bad choices
