[+18]

21 | I write things and then I don't like them

[lafiola]

Emergency Commissions

[!!]— I write about everything, except pedothing and zoophilia

I use PayPal for payments, and I deliver the story/translations within a week.

[Payment is made before I start writing]

1k-2k — 10 USD

3k—4k — 20 USD

After 4k words, for every thousand additional words, $2 will be added.

I'm so sorry to have to do this, but I need to get some bills covered while I continue looking for work.

Thank you very much.

[hamsternella]

you still doing commissions? I want one💔

Of course. I didn't post anything about it because I recently got my password back. I'm a mess lol

The same as always:

1k-2k words= $10

3k-4k words= $20

After 4k, $5 are added for every 1k words more. Payment is via PayPal.

What I don't write: pedophilia, zoophilia

[hamsternella]

I love the way you write Albert. Will there be more fanfics about him soon? Please say yes lmao

THANK YOU. Yes, I'm writing two of them

[hamsternella]

Waiiit omg a moment for us?? Bro that was my fave Wesker fic on here before I took a hiatus now I’m back and so be youuuuuu

and I'm back again because I forgot my password lol BUT HERE I AM

[hamsternella]

Could we pretty please get more Wesker - im dying of thirst

Working on it!!!11!1

[hamsternella]

Hope you're okay. Haven't heard of you in a while and I'm a bit worried. Take all the time off you need. Just hope you're doing well

HELLO, sorry for disappearing. A couple of horrible things happened and I was isolating myself from everything. It was a bit difficult to get back on track, but here I am. Thank you for your concern. 💕

[hamsternella]

A moment for us [2]

here it is... after 85 years, here it is lol

as always: MDNI, cw for gaslighting, abusive behavior, Albert Wesker being an asshole, spanking, toxic relationship, angst, verbal abuse, he's probably obsessed, mention of somnophilia

Albert wasn't the first prospect for your marriage, but he was the safest. He was a couple of years older than you, but no less captivating; his involvement in the army and city police programs upon his return was just the beginning. He had money, attitude, looks, and dedication. He wasn't the kind of person one would consider a family man at first glance, but he knew how to commit himself wholeheartedly if necessary. Many considered him a respectable man, and you were no exception. Until last night.

It wasn't the first time he chose to leave you alone after an argument. Nor was it the first time he ignored you for a week as punishment. Not to mention the cold food on the table, coming home late from work, or the silence in the marital bed when your crying went beyond the pillow. You had tried to convince him that you had learned your lesson, but as if it were an offense to him personally, Albert would snort before leaving the room. It was the usual thing, and something you had learned to respect over the years. But lately, there was a need for disruption inside you that could disturb you in the silence. A need to dig up things that Wesker believed he had trained you not to be interested in from the moment you got married.

He used to be the safest of your prospects. Now, Albert Wesker gave you the chills.

The moving papers continued to burn in your memory. How long had your husband been looking for a new house? More importantly, how long had he decided that he didn't need your opinion? You began to feel insecure that the man to whom you had sworn eternal loyalty could not confide such abrupt news to you; but even worse, that his reaction to your need for a shred of trust was met with such violence. Albert had never been particularly sweet, but neither had he been a bitter-minded jerk. He had always been a gentleman, from the first date until he was away for work.

You left the knife you were using to chop vegetables on the table when your hand started shaking. Work.

‘’Where does he work?’’ you asked in a whisper, feeling embarrassed. ‘’My goodness. Where...?’’

Albert had mentioned years ago that he used to be part of a security office. When he met your parents, he admitted to working as an agent in an area completely different from what you believed for almost a year. When you judged his lie, all Albert did was roll his eyes and demand a little consideration. Consideration for his private life, for his unknown reasons, and for the stress of dealing with the discrimination he had to face while trying to be the perfect lover. The fight didn't last long; his insistence that he didn't want you to be scared like so many other people made you stop bothering the poor man, as your father had said the night before the two of you left. Your mother hadn't said a word.

‘But if it's something so serious that it makes him feel so bad,’ you used to think, ‘all I have to do is be obedient so that he doesn't feel worse.’

Because that was what a good spouse was supposed to do. Be loyal, quiet, obedient, and considerate. Keep the house clean, the clothes ironed, the bed warm, and the food cooked; a smile on your face and your arms outstretched at the door, just like your mother had always done for your father. Just like all the other couples around you. Exactly the kind of person Albert Wesker had been looking for when he thought it would be useful as part of a more accepted vision in his work and in life.

He had always admired your inability to pry into his private life. That obsessive lack of curiosity to listen, to understand, or to find things you shouldn't; that beautiful ability to nod at everything he said and accept everything he gave you. The house was clean, the food was delicious, and in the bed there was a hole he could use when he was very stressed. And if you sometimes made him laugh, he forgot about work and responsibilities. And if you sometimes made him angry, he forgot about that too. And if sometimes... Only sometimes.

Albert Wesker wasn't a man of many words; he provided you with what you needed to keep him happy, and that was supposed to be enough. And that, clearly, wasn't enough anymore. Not for you.

Who were you?

You looked at the pot on the stove. A perfect broth for winter, which had been lurking since the beginning of the month. A killer cold, and something your husband loved about it was the heavy broths. Bone broths. They weren't your favorites; in fact, nothing was ever served at home that was. If Albert didn't approve of it, you couldn't eat it. ‘Who's the one who works here?’ he would say. Work. You used to do that when you were sixteen.

A suffocating feeling came over you, and as much as you wanted to continue with dinner, you couldn't find the strength in your hands to finish chopping the vegetables. You still held the knife between your fingers, waiting for some incentive. Not long after, the sound of the door and shoes against the wood made you jump; the blade against a carrot thundering as it hit the board below, flooding the kitchen with another shower of cuts and falls into the steaming pot of broth. The presence of Albert Wesker at the kitchen door like a night watchman kept your head down; your shadow darkening the bright colors of the food in your trembling grip.

‘’It smells good,’’ he murmured. ‘’Let me know when it's ready.’’

As soon as he let you know he was staying at home, you listened with dread to the sound of his gloved hands behind you. You imagined him taking off his jacket, hanging it on the coat rack by the front door, before retiring to his office. You imagined him with the visuals burning into your retina; no matter how hard you closed your eyes, there he was. Tall, elegant, dark, unflappable, and mysterious. Your husband was a mysterious man.

Your husband scared you.

You nodded in solitude, letting a couple of frustrated tears sting your cheeks as you finished chopping.

You choked on your humming when you saw the bedroom door open in the reflection of your mirror. When Albert appeared in the doorway, you put down your brush on your vanity and stood up. You didn't know whether to speak first. To say hello, welcome him, ask, “How was dinner?” But your husband's voice instantly dispelled your doubts. He had walked over to the bed; his gloves were in the drawer next to him, and his shoes were lined up near the wardrobe. He didn't seem to want to take off his dark glasses. Again.

‘’You have something on your mind,’’ he said.

‘’I don't think so…’’

‘’I didn't ask you,’’ Albert interrupted, sitting down on the bed, ‘’because I know there is something on your mind.’’

Your silence made him sigh as he patted his side with one hand, inviting you to take a seat. You had no choice; you had to drag your feet until you sat down next to him, your heart in your throat. A shaky breath escaped your lips as you watched his fingers wrinkle your petticoat over one of your thighs. The heat of his skin penetrated the fabric with an intensity almost unknown to you during all the time you had spent forgetting about it.

‘’You've been so good these days,’’ he whispered. ‘’I love to see that there's still some common sense in that pretty head of yours.’’

‘’Actually,’’ you stammered, ‘’there's something I wanted to talk to you about.’’

Albert hummed in response, pushing his hand between your thighs. He seemed to want to pull the fabric aside. His other hand undid the buttons of his shirt, one by one. You tried not to lose your focus on the hint of desperation that betrayed him when he saw the skin of your legs; his lips parted, his breathing quickening as yours matched his rhythm. Pure hunger.

‘’I'm a little embarrassed, to be honest,’’ you said with a nervous laugh, looking down at the floor, ‘’but I think it's important if I want our relationship to improve, Albert.’’ You clenched your teeth to hold back a moan, when your husband's fingers had reached your hot center. You used both hands to grab his arm, but he clicked his tongue.

‘’None of that.’’

‘’I want to talk, please…’’

‘’We can do that later.’’

A strange mixture of shame and anger invaded your insides like a knot of anguish in your throat. You remembered the night of the fight; you remembered the intensity of that storm. Your husband's angry face, his heavy hands, a warning. Hands that were trying to strip you of your petticoats right now. For the first time in a long time, the idea of him succeeding repulsed you. The last thing you wanted was to have sex when you could barely get along with the man to whom you had sworn eternal loyalty. Did that word mean anything to him?

The pent-up emotions caused another pair of tears, which you were already more than accustomed to, to roll down your cheeks. You looked up, searching for your husband's gaze, but instead of finding a glimmer of pity, you were met with the satisfied smile of a sadist. The revelation made you cry hard; Albert's body pushing yours onto the bed, while you used your hands to try to keep him away from you. You couldn't speak; the lump in your throat made your words sound like pathetic whimpers, which the man on top of you revelled in. You didn't need to know what was behind those dark glasses when you could glimpse the pleasure in his marked expression.

‘’Keep doing that,’’ he groaned. ‘’Keep crying, dear.’’

You shook your head, but he shushed you, bringing his lips to your temple. His kisses moved from your head to your cheek, before continuing with a wet trail of his tongue down to your neck. It was when he began to bite your flesh viciously that you tried desperately to fight back; your husband's hands forcing your body to submit to his needs; his hips pressing against yours, increasing your horror at the presence of his erect member. You couldn't—you didn't want to believe that something like what was happening could appeal to him so much. Who was this man?

When you managed to knee him, Albert choked momentarily, letting out a laugh at the end. The sound vibrated on your chest like a warning. Another one, of so many.

‘’I never thought you were a fighter,’’ he said. ‘’Where did you learn that? Hm?’’ One of his hands grabbed your cheeks, squeezing them painfully. ‘’Where did you get the idea that disrespecting me like that is good.’’

Holding back your tears, you opened your eyes wide before answering, ‘’... first. You did it first…’’

Albert raised his eyebrows, sighing through his nose. ‘’I thought there would be a rational spouse waiting for me at home,’’ he murmured. ‘’Am I wrong?’’

His fingers loosened their grip, prompting your response. Instead of giving him the satisfaction, you nodded your head. ‘’Not forever,’’ you whispered fearfully. ‘’Not if things keep going like this.’’

‘’What do you mean?’’

‘’You know what I…’’

The same hand that had left your face returned to cover your lips completely. With his palm muffling your voice, Albert began to force your body into a face-down position. You didn't have time to fight the new wave of raw anger with which your husband ended up tearing off the only barrier of fabric you had on. His own clothes were in the same corner of the bed, on top of yours. The only difference was the tearing of the material; the beautiful finish of the ruffles you loved so much, torn to shreds in a matter of seconds.

‘’Not forever, you say,’’ he whispered. ‘’Have you been thinking about leaving? Is that it?’’ A firm slap on your backside made you jerk in his grip; your cry muffled by Albert's growl over your body. His breath hit your ear instantly. ‘’Where the hell are you supposed to go, then? What have you been doing when I'm not around? Who put those ideas in your head?’’

‘You,’ is what you would have said; shame transformed into savage fury speaking for you. But when your husband spanked you again, all the textbook ferocity disappeared from your system. You even thought for a second that it had never existed. You had never really been daring in your life—done anything for yourself. Not since you had met Albert. Who else was going to put ideas in your head, if you could barely go outside alone? If you didn't even have any friends. He was the only one there.

But he wasn’t a friend. He was never on your side.

You closed your eyes, embarrassed, when after the fifth spanking you felt a peculiar warmth in the pit of your stomach. Albert's moans muffled against your nape altered whatever was wrong with you. And he knew it; his hand began to caress your sensitive skin, his fingers venturing beyond where the punishment should have been concentrated. His lips returned to kissing your neck, his tongue tracing wet lines where he occasionally bit.

‘’You're ready,’’ he said hoarsely. ‘’You can't act like you don't want it either. At least your body knows what to do.’’

Without waiting long, Albert spat on his fingers to probe your hole, awakening in you a painful struggle that ended as soon as he pushed two of them in, up to the knuckles. You trembled in his grip, opening your eyes at the lack of resistance down there. It still hurt; a slight burning sensation that affected you sent a chill through his chest, making him gasp with pleasure. He began to pump his fingers, curving them in search of that sweet spot that could melt your reluctance.

When a couple of muffled moans reached Albert through the hand over your mouth, he gently removed it, caressing your face in the process. His lips rested on one of your cheeks, enjoying the moisture of old tears.

‘’That’s it,’’ he purred. ‘’Now you’re good for me, baby?’’

‘’Albert…’’

Your whisper died in another moan. This time, intensified by the chill of a forced orgasm that formed like a knot of fire in your belly. Your husband, feeling it through your walls, withdrew his fingers from your hot center; a groan hung on your lips in the absence of that delicious pressure that made you shake your hips with difficulty. You didn't have to wait long, anyway, for the familiar touch of the wet tip of his member pushing vaguely against your entrance. With each weak thrust, his cock slid toward your buttocks, moistening your skin in the process. Albert repeated the same movement: a gentle push, a torturous slide, and a rest of his cock on your lower back. Desperation made you whimper against the bed, eliciting a laugh from him.

‘’Suddenly you’re not fighting anymore,’’ he hummed. ‘’What do you want?’’

What did you want, in the first place? To talk, perhaps; to try to break into that little world your husband had lost himself in over the years, leaving you behind. And now? Was that still what you wanted? As your insides burned, and the light pressure of a warm, wet member rested on your back. Most fights with Albert ended the same way; at this point, it was almost offensive to yourself that you kept hoping for a positive change. Something better. But what was there beyond Albert Wesker? What was there beyond the house, the chores, and the years you shared?

He was strong. He always held you without grunting, with both hands, lifting you up to the shelves. Sometimes he would hold you against the bed—and sometimes, like today, he would force you onto it. He was a terrifyingly strong man; even stronger than before, even though you couldn't see him training. Even though his body remained the same. Even though he changed imperceptibly, it was still noticeable under the magnifying glass of your affection.

Without realizing it, another couple of tears began to fall from your eyes. Albert licked a few of them away, sighing over your face.

‘’If I had known you needed a fuck so badly, I would have given it to you a long time ago.’’ With one hand, he positioned his member over your hole. The tip barely entered. ‘’Let's see if this hysterical phase passes.’’

In a last vague attempt, you forced your legs to give a couple of kicks with no clarified direction. Wesker, grace and patience aside, leaned fully against your body, grunting as he felt the bursting of your moan on his chest at the imminent presence of his cock pushing its way inside you. The warm flesh, compressed by your fluttering walls. He had to muster all his strength not to finish at that very moment.

‘’I hope it hurts,’’ Albert whispered. ‘’It's not as if you deserve anything more after this childish way you have of treating your husband.’’ He stood up, resting both arms on either side of your body, before beginning to pull his hips back. A sigh let you know how much he was enjoying the grip. ‘’I have to make the most of tonight... if I want to teach you something else before you go to the new house.’’

The memory of the moving papers had you tense beneath him. Albert let out a moan interrupted by a laugh of pure pleasure. One of his hands caressed your back, slowly sliding down to your ass, giving it a spank. A whimper stuck in your throat as you received another thrust from his hips; the thickness of his cock pushing its way into your wet heat.

‘’Yes,’’ he gasped, ‘’those papers. I need to know—fuck... that you'll be far away from this place when all that shit starts…’’ His voice trailed off into a deep growl. ‘’Always so tight; you must like being punished, huh?’’

‘’W-wait, Albert…’’

‘’Shut up and take it.’’

Holding you by the hips, Wesker leaned forward, breathing heavily through his nose as he concentrated all his strength into the thrust of his hips. His dick ended up completely outside the stimulating grip of your insides; the head, wet and sensitive, rested at the entrance, barely pushing its way in before sinking all the way to the base. Slow, deep, intense. Your moans had him gritting his teeth, his nails digging into your skin; blood like tiny stones melting in the heat of his own flesh.

‘’If I could devour you, I would,’’ he admitted, licking his way from your neck to your ear. Your name hung on his lips; temptation bathing the longing with which he placed a ghostly kiss, like a barely perceptible caress. ‘’Far away from everyone, just with me—close to me…’’

‘’It's n-not like I could leave if I wanted to,’’ you spat through clenched teeth.

Albert gasped between laughs, pushing harder than before to emphasize his words. ‘’That's right—very good... Very good. You're starting to understand how it works.’’

You had to understand; you needed to do it. It was time for it to happen. As much as that pleasure you missed so much was being reluctantly given to you, or that you finally had the attention of the man you used to trust, that hint of doubt grew around the papers, the absence, the fear. The uncertainty. What did he plan to do with you? Where was he going to send you?

As an orgasm washed over your body, accompanied by a hot release of abundant cum that fell between your legs—your husband's fingers pushing it back inside, holding it against your fluttering walls—an idea you never thought you would resort to planted itself in your head. An idea that burned and sowed even more fear; a hint of shame, even.

‘’Again. We need to do it again.’’

You needed help.

‘’I’m tired, Albert,’’ you whispered.

‘’Well,’’ he smiled, ‘’you don’t have to move a finger. Leave all to me.’’

Help from your mother, perhaps. That woman locked up in her house, always by her husband's side. Always quiet, obedient.

‘’It's okay if you want to fall asleep; it wouldn't be the first time, anyway’’

Always scared and helpless.

‘’Have you…?’’ His soft laugh left you cold.

Just like you.

‘’So cute. So damn cute, I swear…’’ Albert traced the back of your neck with his hand, sighing wistfully. ‘’If I can't devour you, at least I must ruin you for the rest of the world. Even if you don't realize it.’’

‘’That’s not how love works.’’

‘’Who was talking about love?’’

You closed your eyes, trying to stop another pair of tears from forming. Wesker bit his lip, stifling a whimper at the sight. At the pain in your expression; that ridiculous sadness in the way you made yourself small beneath him. So easy to manipulate, to read, to break. So beautiful it hurt.

Love.

The word haunted him even when he was back inside you. He couldn't shake it off, no matter how hard he sank his teeth into your flesh, drowning his senses in your moans. He couldn't and didn't want to understand it; although it left a slight tingle of longing, very different from what he had believed he had allowed to grow in your presence.

Was that even necessary?

[hamsternella]

Next posts will be about Wesker (A moment for us, part 2) and some old requests ☝️

[hamsternella]

Hi I'm the anon from the ask about the sukuna fic.

You don't need to apologize! I don't think it's written ugly or anything like that at all. I really do love how you've written it💕

I know that we tend to be more critical to ourselves but you don't need to apologize. If anything I need to thank you for publishing it on here!

And you've just made my whole week with that announcement 🤩 I can't even put it into words how excited that announcement made me! But please do not put too much pressure on yourself ♥️

ok so, first: IM SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY, but my life is just a mess. This is the second chapter/part 2, and I hope y'all like it. I WON'T DROP THIS FANFIC- I'm like, trying to take control of all the things that need my attention regarding fanfiction.

So wrong [part 2]

Sukuna/Fem!Reader

Dead Dove: Do Not Eat fanfic. Minors DNI, please.

The first time someone deduced your father's abuse was in elementary school; during a recreational activity at an impromptu art fair. Since your mother had told the teachers that day that you couldn't walk quite right because of a minor accident, your classroom assignment for the day was to draw for the show. The goal was to link the class color to some element of each student's drawing. 

Red. That was the color of your classroom.

Akira, a beautiful girl with caramel-colored eyes, had painted her mother's rose garden in her notebook. They were misshapen, plump, ruby-colored flowers, the product of her creamy crayons. Taro, a hyperactive child with a fierce look, seemed calm at your side; his hands already busy with the details of his bear Haruto, a plush, dull red animal. The marble-like eyes altered something in you every time you cast glances at his notebook. Maybe it was the intensity of the black pencil on the page; maybe it was the bad coloring.

Maybe it was your father's gaze. An empty, fixed, unwavering gaze. The look of something inanimate and dark.

The only red thing you had seen in your house for so long was your legs. The teacher asked you if they were stockings, pants or tights. You insisted that they were always red; that they hurt, but that they were a secret. That your mother didn't know because she didn't like that color so much, even though you always saw her painting her lips red; even though the ribbon in her hair was red too, or the color of her bags and shirts.

Red. That was the color of your blood.

Maybe that's what upset the teacher. Maybe it was the awfulness of your drawing; the way your father's hands were so big, or the way you had drawn yourself so awkwardly on your bed. You were embarrassed to look the school therapist in the face, even the police or social services. You burst into tears when your mother was called. Your father had promised you that everything was going to be a secret; he had whispered it to you in the midst of the pain, the kisses and the hugs. He had whispered it to you in the dark, like the monster that lived under your bed and always came out at night. It always came out for you.

Red. That was your color.

Red like your mother's crying face. Red, like the swollen eyes of the teacher in front of you. Red, like the lights of the police car carrying your father. Red, like the wounds the doctor had to treat from your tear. Red, like the underwear hidden under the closet, far away from the world, in a corner of your room. Red, like the blush of the child psychologist who kept you in her office for a whole summer.

Red, like Sukuna's eyes.

Your father's eyes in the face of a young man; the fierce and violent look of the same essence, charged with morbidity and filth in the heart of an animal. Sometimes you remembered Taro's drawing. You remembered those badly painted charcoal marbles, lost in the opaque red on the very white sheet. That empty, frightening look. The kind of look a child dodges in the street or in the shadows of his room. But for you it was never easy; when you looked in the mirror you found traces of the same look, the same nose or even the smile. You found Sukuna, your father, and the monster under your bed. They were all the same thing. They were all the same. They were all incarnations of shadows.

And you were there.

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Still in the bed. You were still in the bed—your bed. You felt your own bitter breath catch your nose against the saliva-soaked pillow, maybe tears; with your legs tangled in the sheets, generating a hot friction in the clothes you were still wearing. You could have sworn you felt your panties wet, and with a great deal of embarrassment you closed your eyes, silently admitting something that hadn't happened to you since you were twelve: you had peed yourself. You had peed in your bed, in the middle of your dreams, and it was so much that now you didn't want to deign to move a muscle to keep the air from accentuating the sticky, icy feeling of the soggy place in your crotch, reaching the edge of your t-shirt in a dark stain.

When you opened your eyes you looked for the window, glimpsing between the poorly drawn curtains a flash of dull blue sky. A grayish tone. When you reached for your cell phone on the shelf above your bed you could check the time. Four in the morning. Four thirty, actually. The weather system was predicting a thunderstorm by the time you were supposed to get home from school. You didn't even feel like going; memories of the night before came to you like slaps, and you couldn't help but feel your face heat up as a silent cry burst in your chest, as if a burning steel blade was piercing your heart with a sure thrust. Shame. Shame, humiliation, disgust, anger. How were you going to look at yourself in the mirror? How were you going to tell your mother?

Were you even going to tell her?

Sukuna's voice forced you to hide under the soaked sheet, seeking some more darkness despite the smell and the uncomfortable feeling of a sticky cold against your arms. You became a ball in the middle of the mattress, closing your eyes tightly, resting your hands in prayer against your chest as you tried to breathe. Another memory unsettled your heart rate, and you felt yourself biting your own tongue as the ghost of his fingers reached out to etch themselves on the roof of your mouth. The caress of his nails grazing your tongue, reaching for your throat; the lift of his wrist to caress the roof of your mouth as he pushed your teeth, opening it more, drenching himself in your saliva with the need of a famished man. That kind of memory turned your stomach.

You spent the two hours before your alarm went off tossing and turning in bed. Crying silently, screaming into your pillow, or listening intently to the movement going on inside the house. You came to hear Yuuji groaning as he stumbled to the bathroom, too late for the start of his team practice. You immediately knew it was six o'clock. At seven you were going to have to wait for Jin to finish using the bathroom before you could go in; although you were going to have to hide your face if you didn't want him to suspect that something bad had happened when you went to get his folder from Sukuna's room. Because something had obviously happened, but it would be terrible for it to come out when everyone was still in the house.

How were you supposed to tell them something like that, anyway? Who were you going to tell first? Not your mother, who had struggled so hard to forgive herself of your sorrows. Nor could you ask Jin to understand the fact that his son had tried to force himself on you. Would Yuuji still remember that you pushed him back to your room, too affected with the similarity he had with his brother? Was he going to say anything, or had Sukuna taken it upon himself to shut him up before? What lies would he have told him? That maybe it was your fault; that if it wasn't because you were so insistent on having a bond with him, on forcing that familiar aspect he despised, he wouldn't have misinterpreted your signals; he wouldn't have laid his hands on you, or said all those nasty things. It had to be your fault. Who approaches the wolf and then cries when bitten?

When the alarm went off you immediately turned it off. The brightness of the screen couldn't hurt your eyes as much as your own tears did. It took you time to sit on your own mess, running your hands over your face to try to calm your sobs. You felt miserable; almost as if someone very important to you had died. It probably was. It was probably your bravery. You felt like you were going to pee your pants again just imagining coming down the stairs and having to show your face. Your heart shrank painfully to imagine all the fake smiles and laughter you would have to force out of you if you wanted to make it through breakfast, your classes, and back home, where Sukuna would be like a shadow, living in silence.

That was good—that he was living in his room or coming back in the early morning made you feel better.

You weren't going to have to see him, that was for sure. Perhaps even what had happened the night before was a total accident, and when he finished his courses, Sukuna would return from whence he had come. Hell, no doubt; and he would never come back. You had heard Jin complain to your mother about it: that his son didn't even attend birthdays, holidays, and that the only time he left a period of his university, it was to rush to the hospital when Yuuji almost died from a problem with his pancreas. Sukuna was not a person who minded being present in the family picture. With that in mind, you were able to get out of bed without much effort.

You tried to distract your mind as you crumpled up your sheets, leaving them on the floor to take them hidden away to wash later, when no one was home. Neither Jin nor your mother came into your room, anyway; Yuuji was the only one who hadn't yet learned to fully pick up his space, so they sometimes went inside to take out the dirty clothes or leave the clean ones. That didn't happen to you. You were a particularly tidy person when it came to your little corner—especially now that you lived in someone else's house.

You made sure you heard Jin leave the bathroom with his typical whistling, always with that melody on the tip of his tongue, and only then did you grab your school uniform and underwear before rushing out to lock yourself in the other room. You leaned against the door, feeling your heart pounding in your head; almost as if it had climbed up to look for a way out, too terrified. Of what or why, you had no idea. You didn't even want to look for a reason to begin with. You preferred to modulate the lukewarm shower water, stripping off your clothes soon after. You ignored your soiled panties, too embarrassed by the same memories to deign to feel sad about the bad habit. You ended up hand-washing them under the shower water, sighing deeply when the scent of soap was the only thing that clouded your bitter senses.

You thought of your mother almost immediately, and then you cried again.

The soap was the one she had been carrying with her since she had made her relationship with Jin official. The first time she had come home she had that same smell, and with it a dazzling smile from one cheek to the other. It was your first time seeing her smile like that. Sukuna was right, in part: how could you find the strength to ruin something so beautiful, so deserved. Your mother deserved the whole world. How could you put into words what your asshole stepbrother had done to you? How could you look Jin or Yuuji in the face? Worse yet: how were you going to face Sukuna? Because no one could divulge something so terrible and then disappear. You couldn't go to Mexico or Thailand or Jupiter—you wouldn't survive with the guilt of such a monumental confession. The thought of it made your throat close up, and how were you going to bring it up, then?

Or perhaps the weight of such a traumatic event was simply eating at your mind; it was leading you to overthink.

You got out of the shower when you ran out of tears, and changed into your uniform without much emotion. It took you a while to dry your hair, to calm your breathing, but before you knew it you were back in the hallway, heading for the stairs. With each step getting closer to the dining room, your heart rate increased considerably. Not finding Yuuji at the table stabilized you all at once. At least you weren't going to find out if he wanted to interrogate you about what had happened last night. Your mother went to sit down in her place when she noticed you on the bottom step; your name falling from her lips tore a stiff smile from your face.

Jin peeked out from the threshold of the kitchen, smiling as always. ‘’I hope you're hungry! Yuuji left for his practice, so there's more breakfast for you, dear.’’

‘’Not really,’’ you replied, ‘’but it does smell good, so…’’

Your mother emitted a choked sound, and with a blank stare managed to make the regret on your shoulders disappear. Even Jin peeked out again, somewhat intrigued until he finished with the same gesture. You had the ridiculous idea that maybe she had read your mind, as mothers always do to know what their children need. But when Jin's gaze glowed strangely, a knot of intrigue formed in your stomach. Your body knew before you did. Your mind was still wandering in the confines of another universe. It was an arm wrapping around your shoulders in a tight embrace that almost undid that knot in another puddle of urine.

‘’Smells fucking amazing,’’ Sukuna said, loud and clear. You didn't have to turn to look at him to know he was smiling. ‘’Give me that portion. Good morning, ma'am.’’

Your mother responded to the greeting with a dubious look, which she compensated with a sincere smile. You knew in that instant that he was looking at you now; his eyes burned as much as his lips as they brushed the skin of your cheek, inhaling deeply in a disguised gesture. 

‘’Good morning,’’ he whispered.

And then he let you go. Just a friendly pat on your back, a caress on your head, before taking a seat in front of your mother. You had to follow him with your legs all jelly. You wanted to take a seat at one end of the table, but Sukuna made sure to let out a joke that you couldn't catch, but which elicited another expression from Jin that crinkled your heart. You had no choice but to sit next to the jerk, taking a deep breath. 

Jin flew in from the kitchen with the plates, obviously happy to the core that his son had shown up for breakfast without proposing any hurtful comments. His eyes fell on you next; curious as a child's, and full of a touching gleam. That made you feel nauseous again. The food didn't even smell good this close. Not anymore.

‘’What a surprise, son,’’ said Jin, taking a seat next to your mother. ‘’Could it be that the world is ending today?’’

Sukuna didn't give an answer, too busy devouring what was on his plate, but it's not as if anyone was waiting for any sensible words to come out of his mouth either. They were now looking at you. You swallowed hard, playing with the food in front of you; the sound of the ceramic bouncing around in your head like a rock hitting the ends of your body. It didn't hurt, but it let you know there was nothing else inside you. You were as empty as you could ever be when there was nothing to do, nothing to think about, and yet you had to force yourself to respond. Just a shake of your shoulders; a shy tremor, accompanied by a smile.

‘’You're friends now?’’ pressed Jin sweetly. The gleam in his eye didn't fade even when you shook your head.

His laughter was heavily overshadowed by Sukuna's murmuring next to you—a talk he seemed to be carrying on with your mother. They both ended up turning to you, as you rose from your seat; no longer hungry, no longer wanting anything. A long day awaited you ahead with everything you were going to have to study as soon as you got to the classroom.

‘’... so I'm going to take her to school.’’

You came back to the world all at once. You could have sworn your neck thundered from the force with which you forced it as you reached for Sukuna's face. His words burned in you as much as they did in Jin, though his reaction was one of pure joy. 

‘’You used to take Yuuji, remember?’’ he asked him under a sigh. ‘’He had to leave early today because of his club.’’

Sukuna nodded, slightly disinterested, barely straining his voice as he replied, ‘’Yeah, well, I figured I could take her at least. I have to go pick something up for my course anyway.’’

‘’Everything’s fine, baby?’’

You returned your gaze to your mother's, nodding weakly, as you began to back away on your way to the stairs. You avoided the Devil's burning gaze as much as you could, now that Jin had returned to the kitchen to remove who-knows-what in order to deliver to his son a portion of some bullshit you didn't get to hear. You didn't want to know, anyway; it's not like you had to care what that asshole was going to put in his mouth. If it were up to you, he could be choking on his own saliva while you're picking your snot out at snail's speed.

The important thing now was to find a way not to get in the car with Sukuna without sounding suspicious.

You hurried to find your backpack, though you had to take the time to see that you carried everything in it before slung it over your shoulder. You looked at yourself in the reflection of a small mirror on your desk, watching the shadow of misery darken your gaze, and ran a hand over the wrinkles of your uniform, feeling the texture maximized at the sensitivity unleashing hell inside you. All rotten at the root. A wave of primal anger suddenly jolted you, almost making you forget the guilt and disgust as Sukuna's soft, mocking laughter invaded your personal space—your room. The smell of his cologne, the color of his hair, the mischief in his eyes, the parting vibe in the way he leaned against the door... He had just closed your door.

The fury disappeared immediately; your heart taking place in your throat like a knot that you easily recognized. Fear.

‘’Get out of my way,’’ you muttered. ‘’Please.’’

‘’You feel good now? Because you were acting all dumb down there.’’

‘’Sukuna.’’

He arched his eyebrows, letting out a shaky sigh. ‘’I love how you say my name.’’

You look away for a moment, holding back a groan before turning back to him. ''I'm going to walk to my school...''

‘’No way,’’ he interrupted you. ''You're going to get in the car, looking pretty, and we're going to talk a little bit.’’

'You can't force me,' was what you wanted to reply. But it would have been a shameless lie; something too bold. You imagined he would be the last of all men to worry about the time. He'd probably use his hands to lift your skirt, play with your stockings, and use a couple of fingers like the night before. That and more, even worse—that you could only dream of in a nightmare. But it would be possible. You didn't overlook the insistence of his gaze as it dropped to your thighs; the way his hands trembled as they clenched into hesitant fists. You didn't want to give him that pleasure.

That was why you came down the stairs like a good girl. A very, very good girl, as Sukuna made a point of whispering before meeting your mother in the living room on the way to the door.

You tried not to make it obvious how awkwardly Sukuna took your backpack in one of his hands, pushing it into the back seats before opening the passenger door. He waited until you were inside; your eyes searching for your mother's, as she shook a hand gently, disappearing behind the door no matter how hard you tried to signal her with your mind. In a perfect world, the car might explode and God's magic hand would rescue you in mid-air, taking you back home. Home to mom, the woman with the warm arms and sugar smiles. But there you were as you turned your face: the hint of mischievous bitterness in a dirty look, and the crooked smile to match. Pure shit.

‘’What do you want?’’ you asked.

‘’Do you want the truth?’’ Sukuna tilted his head slightly, playing with the steering wheel. ‘’I'm trying to guess the color of your underwear.’’

You squeezed your legs together immediately, looking down as his laughter flooded the car. The engine started soon after, until the vehicle pulled away on the way to school. You tried to distract your nerves as you enjoyed the view: the same streets, the same houses, the same buildings. This time on wheels. You used to walk because you liked the rush of the air on your face after a night of heavy sleep. Now? You could do that peacefully, a little longer, were it not for the constant presence of the executioner on the side.

And he knew it.

Stopping in front of a stagnant line of cars, Sukuna sighed shortly. You glanced sideways at him, leaning your body imperceptibly. You pretended to play with the edge of your skirt, noticing the way your fingers trembled.

‘’I guess you couldn't sleep well last night,’’ he started to say, leaning back in the seat. ‘’I already talked to Yuuji, so don't worry about it.’’

‘’Did he suspect something?’’ you whispered.

Sukuna let out another laugh. This time it was soft, almost tender. ‘’About what?’’ he asked. ‘’You have to be really sick in the head to think what's in your mind, sis.’’

‘’That’s not…’’

You lost your voice in the middle of an invasive lump in your throat, before the first tears fell. You felt them heavy and hot against the skin of your cheeks; you didn't even try to brush them away. Sukuna called your name, and though you struggled not to meet his gaze, you had to give up the moment the cars began to move on, and his was the only one to stop the others. He wanted an answer—he had to have one, and he would punish you for it. Even without having to touch you.

When your eyes met his, you noticed that one of his hands was already massaging his bulge under his pants. The belt was loose, below his hips; the fabric of his boxer shorts standing out against the pale skin of his wrist.

‘’You look so pretty when you cry,’’ he whispered hoarsely. A gasp ruined his next words, though it died under the car horns around. ‘’I could look at you like this all day.’’ His other hand started the car, taking the wheel immediately. A moan escaped between his lips as he said your name. ‘’I want you to use your hand– to touch me.’’

‘’I don’t want to do that,’’ you sobbed. ‘’Please, Sukuna…’’

‘’Come on, baby. You’ll like it.’’

You bit your lip as Sukuna pulled his erection out, thrusting his hips upward for a moment to free himself from the pressure of his pants. His free hand forcibly took one of yours, bringing your trembling fingers close to brush the head of his member. A cry burst from your throat, at the same time a growl emanated from his. It was all very confusing—the way time seemed to have frozen in a distant memory. An unpleasant one.

Sukuna snickered, saying, ‘’You're lucky I have to drive the fucking car to your school. You're saved from getting your mouth blown off by my cock. Didn't you ever give a handjob?’ He clicked his tongue, feeling tense. ‘’Don't make me give you a real reason to cry, woman.’’

You tried to protest, but found it difficult to speak in the midst of crying. Instead, you grasped his member with one hand, trying to remember what little you knew. Whether you were doing it right was a mystery; even if Sukuna seemed to enjoy it in the midst of the hip movements, the gasps, and the insults undone in shuddering sighs. Your name was like a prayer hanging on his tongue every time your fingers caressed the wet tip; or every time a sob escaped you as you found his eyes searching for you out of the corner of his eye, half squinting as your tears made him throw his head back against the seat, biting his lip so as not to miss the course of the road.

‘’Head,’’ he whimpered in a red light, suddenly. ‘’Put your head down and use your lips.’’

‘’I don’t think…’’

‘’Either you put your lips on my cock,’’ he interrupted, ‘’or I can swerve the car and use your whole mouth.’’

You closed your eyes for a moment, avoiding looking at the member in front of you as you tilted your head. Sukuna let out another laugh—this time broken, eager. His free hand caressed your head, sliding down to your lower back.

‘’Good girl.’’

You pursed your lips, kissing the head of his cock before parting them to take the tip and rest it on your tongue. Sukuna sighed, tensing his body immediately; turning his concentration to aiming his fingers at the edge of your skirt. His nails ripped the fabric of your stockings, barely allowing a gap for a single finger to feel the fabric of your panties. He pushed it against your buttocks, accentuating the mark between the sweat produced by your nerves, and the ease with which the fabric was trapped in the flesh. You could not hide the sigh of surprise that swept the sensitive tip of his cock with warm tenderness. Sukuna moaned in response, pushing his finger insistently to tempt your rear entrance over your panties.

The slightly bitter taste of his cum hit your palate with the first drops. You were quick with that; you sucked the head hard, squeezing with both hands until his cum ended up in strips on your face and part of your mouth. You were quick with that, too—in savoring some more, before sitting up quickly as the car made an awkward turn. Through the door glass next to you you caught a glimpse two blocks away of your school, and your heart was back in your throat. When you noticed the car stopped, a terror-like thrill settled in your stomach.

‘’There’s the fucking school,’’ he whispered. ‘’Grab your backpack.’’

You turned to Sukuna, noticing that he was already looking at you. He had a dilated, morbid gaze, but he wasn't smiling. That scared you more than what you had already assumed; probably because one thing was tied to the other. He had something else in mind, and it wasn't going to be pleasant. You didn't even want to peek into the back seats. You were about to get out, to approach from the outside, when you noticed that the door was on the security lock. Sukuna repeated the order; this time, there was no laughter involved either. He hadn't even tucked his dick.

‘’Can I get out?’’ you asked in a whisper.

He didn’t say a thing.

You let out a sigh, leaning your hands on the edges of the seats to propel yourself toward the back. Everything went fast. Sukuna grabbed you by the hips, pushing you until he had your ass in the air. You tried to scream out to him, but went mute when you heard the tearing of your stockings all the way down, and soon after, you felt the pressure of his face against your covered pussy. Sukuna moaned in a sigh, using his tongue to run along the fabric all the way down to between your ass cheeks. He used his hands to spread your buttocks apart, so he could see the panties sagging, slightly damp from his saliva.

‘’White,’’ he said.

You made a confusing sound, and he laughed.

‘’Your underwear. It’s white.’’

Using two fingers, Sukuna slid your panties to the side, so he could kiss your folds before gently parting them with his tongue. You whimpered with your face on your backpack, feeling uncomfortable. He kept sucking, forcing your hole with the tip of one of his fingers until he had to stop, letting out a grunt. It took you a moment to notice that your phone ring had thrown him off for a moment—school. How could you have forgotten about school?

It was easy for you to find it from your position. The name of your teammate, Megumi, made you almost shed tears of relief again. Your savior, even if he didn't know it.

You started to propel yourself with your arms, when Sukuna slid your panties off with a jerk. You turned your head back, feeling frustration and anger welling up in your words. He snorted, tugging the clothing into his pants pocket.

‘’Just stop, dude! And give me those!’’

‘’I need something to keep going. Don’t start again, woman. Just go.’’

You swallowed another complaint, pulling the rest of your torn stocking off your legs before getting out of the car, dragging your backpack. You knew he was looking at you, but for some reason, you couldn't muster the strength to turn toward the car. Not even to feel embarrassed by the air passing between your legs, or under your skirt. It was as if the whole world had disappeared; not even happiness flooded your stomach when you heard the engine pull away. What you could feel crackling inside you was a wave of heavy, uncomfortable nausea. You knew it well. You knew it so well, you knew at what point to lean back on your knees, before making the only shred of strength you could salvage from dignity to regurgitate before letting it out.

The liquid burned in your throat, and mingled with your tears on the floor. Acid enveloped your senses on the way to school, hidden in a shy breath as the guard at the gate sent you to the office for your first late arrival in many years. The second time you didn't cross the entrance accompanied; though at that very moment, you could have sworn that the shadow of a ghost from the past had materialized over your shoulder. You couldn't discern its face—that opaque gaze, or that crooked smile.

Sometimes you were afraid it was you.

[machetelanding]

[pawgliacci]

Well modern camera equipment can almost see in the dark so what do you even need lighting for?

[lesbianralzarek]

i just gotta real quick make sure that youre joking. you are joking, right?

[pawgliacci]

I’m not joking. Do you understand the ISO value system as it relates to film?

[lesbianralzarek]

im not arguing that you cant film in the dark without special lighting (obviously you can), im saying you shouldnt. im arguing with the second half of your statement. the lighting in the first picture is very purposeful and enhances the horror of the film. they didnt get into the editing room and go “oh darn, we forgot to shine a light on the guy hiding in the shadows!” jaws was made scarier because you could rarely see the shark, so your brain invented the scariest possibility. you can just… see the whole man in the second picture. having a flat shot where the lighting doesnt even draw in the viewers eye to anything (much less obscure something thats supposed to give the movie tension and anticipation) looks fucking boring and adds nothing

thats what we need lighting for

[reffitt-blog1]

One of these is much more visually appealing than the other

[crystal-mouse]

Lighting in film, and especially horror is so *so* important to the tension in the scene, it’s a significant part of visual storytelling, and the cinematographer/DOP (director of photography) should’ve picked up on that.

It’s particularly embarrassing in comparison to the original material, as with digital/modern technology, you can literally see how the shot looks while you’re shooting.

This should’ve also been sorted in comp and fixed well before distribution.

As already pointed out, the lighting values have no depth to them, thus creating a very flat scene (this is one of the first design principles we are taught in design for animation/film- if I had handed in a lighting shot or concept anything like this, I would’ve failed the module).

If you take the shots and put them into greyscale, you can see this a lot clearer.

In the original Halloween shot, we can see a high range of value (how bright or dark something is)- the lighting is brightest on Jamie Lee Curtis, the viewer’s eye is drawn to her first- we can see her emotions clearly and gain sympathy for her character. Then we are drawn into the darkest value, creating dread, and this is fulfilled and heightened with the contrasting (and next highest) value of Michael’s mask.

In the modern shot, all the values are within a similar range (mid-greys), and there is no proper depth in value- making the tension within the shot fall flat (not ideal for horror).

In fact, the highest value in this shot is the fire in the background- which is where the eye is drawn to first. The background. Not the action. So instead of feeling empathy or dread, we are focusing on the wrong details.

And yes, while it could be said from a film analysis POV that the flatness of the shot ‘puts the characters on the same fighting ground/level of power in the shot,’ I’m not going to give them the benefit.

To top it off, the use of colour in the modern shot highlights the errors in lighting. Whilst sharing the blue/orange colour scheme of the original shot, everything is blue except the one area of contrast, the orange fire. So once again, we are drawn to none of the action and instead the background.

With a very small edit in compositing and lighting to match the original Halloween, the feeling (and focus) of the shot is completely changed. The shot has higher contrast and range of values- the focus is on Curtis, while Michael feels more foreboding in the darkness. The contrast puts the characters on opposite sides- good vs evil, telling a narrative in contrast to the unedited shot.

These effects could’ve easily been achieved by adding a key light on Curtis and rim lighting on Michael in production, and if necessary, editing value depth in comp to enhance the raw footage.

TLDR: Digital filmmakers still need to know traditional film and design theory- just because you have good actors, cameras and composition, does not mean you can forgo basic film craft. The aim of cinematography is to enhance the narrative, not restrict it.

[mikkeneko]

ultimately… who cares if cameras can see in the dark? we’re not making movies for cameras.

[donutsbagels]

Okay I JUST realized I never posted these on here—- BUT BASICALLY, about a year and a half ago I started doing these experimental black hairstyle posts that were threads long on Twitter, to give artists a source of inspo for their black ocs whose hair they wanted to try something new with! There’s more to black hair than just the selected styles portrayed in media, and I thought it would be fun to show people how much texture, shape, fades, length, and style can be combined when drawing black hair—-cause it’s a kind of manipulation our hair can do irl! The OG thread from when I made these a year ago were lost with the hacking of my original Twitter account (@/bagels_donuts) but I’ve since reuploaded the whole thread to my new Twitter (@/ItsDonutsFR)! I hope artists on tumblr find these useful, sorry it took me so long to post them here😭🙏🏾 I’ll upload them all in parts!

Part 1: Long masc hairstyles + playing with fades

Post by @donutsbagels · 7 images

💬 2  🔁 715  ❤️ 1008 · Part 2: shape, style, and length with femme styles!

[hamsternella]

Coriolanus Snow x Fem!Reader

Tigris wanted to tell him something; he saw it in her eyes. He saw it in the way she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Coriolanus was tempted to ask her, no, to demand an explanation. There had to be a reason for this awkward silence, or madness and anger would consume him. Who was she to judge him? Who was Tigris to impose ridiculous ideas on people she didn’t really know? Who the fuck was Tigris, but a daring one? Her hands remained firmly on the piece of wool on the table. Her fingers caressed the knitting needles, pushing them back and forth hesitantly. For Snow, this was the limit.

"Is there something troubling your mind, Tigris?" Coriolanus sat back in his seat, stretching his legs out beneath the table. He held his breath for a moment, frustration leaking from his eyes. "Is there something you wish to tell me?"

She shook her head; her dull, fear-filled eyes fixed on a point on the table. Her fingers no longer played with the needles, and the piece of wool had been rendered useless since Coriolanus had opened his mouth.

"I don't like you lying to me," he insisted.

"I didn't say anything," Tigris whispered, still too terrified to look up.

"I asked you if there is something on your mind, and I know there is. You're lying to me, and you're doing it in silence. I don't like talking to walls."

"I'm sorry, Coriolanus."

And then her eyes moved to the right, where the hallway lay. She could have been looking at the bathroom, Grandma's room, or even some dusty corner that served as a hiding place for her thoughts. But Coriolanus knew very well that the only door Tigris seemed to throw knives at was his own. The only shared room: Snow and his fiancée's. Knowing that she still insisted on you made Coriolanus rekindle that flame of jealousy and a particular fury. That kind of intense anger that made his fists tremble, as if ready to break Tigris's neck; although it would be impossible, considering how much he still appreciated her.

"Do you need to ask her something about her blanket?" Snow asked, drawing her attention back to him. This time, Tigris looked him in the eyes. "I've already told you all the colors, and I'm staying here so you don't have to bother her."

"Maybe she..." Tigris cleared her throat. "Shouldn't I go so I can personalize her blanket in a more—"

"I know everything you need to weave this piece," he interrupted. "There is no reason for you to require her participation."

"She's alone," Tigris said pleadingly, "all the time, everywhere. I don't think it's healthy for you to be the only one... I mean, after what happened, of course. I don't want you to think that I don't see you capable of taking care of your fiancée."

"And what do you want me to think? Because right now, as well as the whole damn time you open your mouth, Tigris, all I can think about is how much it bothers you to see me happy."

"It's not about you!"

Tigris brought both hands to her mouth, covering her own gasp. A torrent of tears began to soak her cheeks as Coriolanus pursed his lips; his eyes dull with a feeling akin to hatred.

"Please," she whispered, clutching the table, "Coriolanus, let's talk. Let's talk like great confidants, just like when we were kids. You remember, don't you?" Her smile was a broken, desperate frown. It was pitiful. "You have to remember, because it's impossible for Coryo not to still be there; at least a part of him. If not for me, then for her. Coriolanus, please... This is inhuman."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Snow muttered under his breath. His voice was a warning. "You don't have the slightest idea of what you're talking about." A slam of his on the table was enough to make Tigris jump in her seat. A knock in the shared room was heard seconds later. "Of course this is about her! It was always about her!"

Tigris shook her head, tear after tear falling as if pieces of her own heart were escaping. Coriolanus barely flinched; the hollow sound of the shared room repeating in his mind. The temptation to rush there gnawed at him, as did the need to slap his cousin’s audacity away. The fear of turning his back and her disappearing drove him mad, but so could you. Everyone could disappear if he wasn’t paying attention.

"Keep your head on what you do," he said. "Knit. Keep knitting; focus on making a nice blanket for my woman, and keep your mouth shut unless you have to. Obey, Tigris."

Obedience. Coriolanus knew that it all started with good obedience. Tigris, you, the whole world; they were all going to be part of the same plan, on the same path, for the same future. No more mistakes, no more accidents. There was no room for failure. Snow rose from his chair, casting one last glance over his shoulder before continuing down the hall. His door seemed to throb under the intensity of his eyes. The copper handle burned against the skin of his fingers as he wrapped his arms around it, pushing against the wood until he found a clear path across the threshold. Finding you in bed was a relief that almost made him whimper.

"I heard something," you said under your breath. "Is everything okay?"

"Ignore it," Snow ordered. He took long strides until he was sitting next to you. "Why is everything so messy?"

"I got scared and ended up throwing my books on the floor. I'm sorry, Coriolanus." Your hands caressed your lap over the sheet, giving importance to the space where a collection of stories and legends once rested. "Could you pass them to me, please?"

Snow smiled with a strangled sigh, almost like a labored breath as he leaned over the floor. "You still read this kid stuff?"

"I've read almost everything Tigris has brought me."

The mention of her made Coriolanus drop the books awkwardly on top of you. You didn't complain, too busy finding the page you were on. It's not like you could say anything, either; Snow didn't like pointless complaints.

"Has she said anything to you?" he asked suddenly. "Have you two been talking?"

"With Tigris?" you repeated breathlessly. Your silence could not buy you any more time. "Very little, almost nothing. Why?"

"Put that book down and look at my face."

And you obeyed; perhaps too soon, considering the morbid pleasure that crossed Coriolanus' gaze when he met your eyes. They were no longer the same. More opaque, more empty, and precisely for that reason more beautiful than ever. Much more beautiful than the first time, when you arrived from your hideous savage district as tribute for the Hunger Games. There was no longer any struggle in your eyes, only weariness. The hatred was barely palpable. Coriolanus preferred them that way.

"Have you been talking to Tigris?"

"Very little," you replied through gritted teeth, "almost nothing, Coriolanus."

He waited a moment. He inspected your face, your bearing; he slowly scanned your figure wrapped in a white dress that contrasted with the oak headboard of the bed. There was nothing out of place. Coriolanus never found anything out of place with you. That was the truth; he loved that about you. So clean, so perfect. The exception to the rule. He placed a hand on the books, pushed them aside, and pressed them against your thighs over the sheet. Your entire body tensed.

"You have to understand how much I care about you," he murmured. "I promised myself I wouldn't open myself up to the weaknesses of the heart, but it was hard when I first met you. Everything has become more complicated when I did."

"Nothing can be easy when you kill on a whim," you said.

"Are you still angry about your mentor's death?"

"You killed her," you repeated with a deep breath, "and because you thought it would be the most logical thing to do to get close to me; to hurt me."

"To hurt you," he snorted with a smile. "Do you think I'm doing all this to hurt you?"

Your eyes dropped to his hand on your thighs, and returned to his gaze almost immediately. You felt your heart in your throat as you tried to speak.

"Sometimes I think you're going to kill me," you whispered. The sting of future tears stung your eyes. "I don't want to die, Coriolanus. I don't want to die."

"And why would I kill you? You're one of the most beautiful things in my life." Snow's hands felt like hot pieces of iron against the skin of your cheeks. "Mine, all mine, part of me; you grow inside my veins and run through my blood. To hurt you would be to aim an arrow at my heart."

"Let me go," you insisted, this time in tears. "I want to go home, Coriolanus. Please, I beg you..."

"We've already talked about this."

His hands left your cheeks, but traveled down your neck and breasts, reaching your belly. His fingers crumpled the fabric of your dress; your skin prickled against the chilly breeze in the room. Coriolanus let out a shaky sigh at your exposed flesh. The lack of underwear made him swallow hard. You wanted to close your eyes in shame, but you were afraid of getting lost in the darkness. Instead, you took a breath and pressed your fists on the bed.

"How much longer until you get pregnant?" Coriolanus asked in a whisper.

"I'm scared. I don't know anything about babies," you stammered. "Can't you find another woman?"

Snow's laugh felt like a gunshot to your chest. It exploded in your ears, and spread through your head like an electric current; similar to the one you suffered during the Hunger Games. Painful and terrifying.

"And what would you do then? Where would you end up?" Coriolanus' hands moved down to your knees, massaging the fabric, and slid smoothly to the empty space on the bed. "Who could love a little bird without wings as much as I do? You should be grateful."

Snow returned both hands to your stumps, digging his fingers into the sheet until he tore it from your body. You tried to stop him, but you couldn't find the strength; crying drained any courage that had taken up space inside you. Coriolanus brushed the amputated area of your legs, near your knees. A crooked smile appeared on his face.

"You won't need them anymore," he continued, "not with me. I'll see to it that you're provided with everything you could possibly need."

"I need my freedom," you whispered.

"I'm pretty sure this cage I've made for you is bigger than you've ever had in your district."

"I wasn't in a cage there. My family..."

"I'm your family now," he interrupted you. "You, me, and our babies. Our real family."

"You're sick, Coriolanus. Sick in the head."

"And does that matter? Because all I've accomplished so far is to proclaim my direct path to victory."

You shook your head, eyes narrowing. "You are not victorious at anything. If there is to be a winner, it would be me."

"Yes," he smiled, "you're right. It would be you." A soft breath escaped through his lips, and the light scent of his liquor caressed your face. "And you're mine."

You didn't exist outside the cage. No one would remember you as anything but the fast woman from a poor, repulsive district, struggling to survive, and winning thanks to her cunning. The poor, bitter woman who lost that which had brought her so much glory, and who was now nothing more than a slave to other people's ambitions and sick desires. That determination in your eyes had faded; your life's purpose reduced to being a bag of flesh and muscle that throbbed on a bed, sometimes beyond the living room, but not far enough to reach the hallway to the elevator. Your wheelchair carried you as far as Coriolanus or Tigris would allow. Your world was reduced to a pair of white walls, the silver of cutlery and glasses, and the sweetness of liquors with the drug to stop the phantom pain of your amputations. Coriolanus promised to provide you with prosthetics when you settled into your new life in the Capitol. You knew that was more a lie than a truth. He would not make the same mistake he made with Lucy Gray again, especially because you were so much more charming and valuable, and because to have you he had to go to inhuman extremes. Losing you would be like condemning himself to his own death. Perhaps the only viable solution would be to end your own life; but if Coriolanus managed to drag you into his world again, it would be impossible to stop the new punishments that would come to his head. Maybe your teeth, your tongue and your arms? Only your torso like a trunk, to admire until his time on earth was over; and your head, to occasionally return to your eyes and be able to gloat over how much he had managed to get into your head.

"Will you ever kill me?" you asked suddenly. "Are you going to get bored of me?"

There was no response, and you thought maybe it was best not to have one.

[hamsternella]

I don't know what happened to my account, or if someone got into it, but I just changed the password and got access here for the first time in many months.

[hamsternella]

You and me | Stanford Pines x Reader

request: "Do you feel comfortable writing a Stanford Pines x Reader? Just something cute and fluffy. I was thinking a College Age Stanford meeting the reader at some party Fiddleford forced him to go to and they’re both shy but they both like science and Ford develops a crush on them."

cw: fluff

''Could you repeat the reason why I agreed to come with you?''

Fiddleford shrugged, muttering something that Pines was unable to make out under the raucous music blasting from the sorority house. A heavy, repetitive tune; the kind of music an appellant might come to like, not him. Stanford wasn't cut out for this sort of thing, but his best friend had been urging him on for a full month, even before the national baseball team's shindig was confirmed. It was even strange coming from McGucket.

He looked considerably nervous, but no less willing to let himself be led through the crowd toward the center of the common room. Ford tried to keep up with him—almost impossible, with so many arms and legs around him; so much shouting too close to his ears, leaving him lost for moments. The colored lights and the smell of raw sweat were making him sick to his stomach. Were it not for Fiddleford's sure grip dragging him into a safe shoving corner, Pines could have sworn he almost ended up a carpet on the floor.

''I really need you to repeat the reason,'' Ford shouted between heavy breaths, leaning on his friend's shoulder, ''because I still don't understand my own reasoning. This is insane!’’

''It's just a party!'' McGucket let out a forced laugh, trying to move his body to the beat of the new song bursting on the players. His eyes darted from one side of the room to the other. ''We have to understand their vibe and let ourselves go!''

''This is ridiculous,'' Ford breathed, adjusting his glasses. ''I think I'm going to—''

''—get a drink!'' Fiddleford nodded briskly, beginning to point a hand towards the free bar of drinks at the other end of the dance floor. ''I'll get you a drink!''

Stanford wanted to refuse immediately, but as soon as he prepared his throat to shout again, he noticed that his friend had already thrust half his body between the dancing couples; his legs kicked in all directions, seeking to propel himself among the people tempted by laughter. An occasional woman, unknown to Ford's eyes, had even extended an arm around McGucket's shoulders. Pines knew on a hunch that he wasn't going to see his friend again for a long while.

It's not like he could leave the party either. He wasn't going to leave him alone just like that.

Stanford hugged himself in the corner, leaning his back against the wall to let himself be devoured by the gloom. Occasionally he held his breath, if anything many people crossed his path with the dreadful aroma of alcohol and cigarette on them; other times he simply kept up a pleasant chat until the person in question fell defeated on the floor. At least two hours would have passed like this.

Fiddleford had disappeared, though occasionally his screams reached him through the music. He was clearly having too much fun; so much of that, that after a couple of disposable glasses, he seemed to have forgotten that his friend was still hibernating in a corner of the room.

Ford couldn't feel angry no matter how much he wanted to. The situation was certainly stressful, but particularly funny. At least this was something he could remind McGucket of when the weight of such a wild night fell on his shoulders in the morning.

"I guess that's your partner over there.”

Ford swore he heard the crunch of his own neck above the music as he turned his head to the side. Your sudden appearance, so close to his body, took him by surprise. He hadn't even gotten to see you out of the corner of his eye.

You were nervous, much more than your voice already denoted; the broken and clumsy words when you let them out. The tiny bottle in your hands trembled as if about to fall.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

You licked your lips, pointing your head toward the dance floor. Ford's face merged with the red lights of the crystal ball.

“Ah,” he sighed with a faint smile, “yes, he’s my friend. I guess he had more desire to come than I thought.”

"I see you're from Backupsmore," you leaned closer to Ford, trying to get your voice across. He couldn't help but inhale the freshness of your sweet musk, still dormant amid so much sweat and cigarette around. "How did both of you get here?”

“I-I don't get that question…”

Ford looked intently at the way you bit your lip, nervous again. You walked away almost immediately to his regret.

With one free hand, and leaving the beer bottle on the edge of a table beside you, you pointed towards the outer courtyard of the brotherhood. Stanford almost stumbles from shame—he didn't hesitate for a second to follow you like a dog.

This time the music was much weaker.

"I don't want the question to be received badly," you hastened to clarify, shaking both hands in front of you. "It's not usual for people from other universities to be here, that's all.”

"Are you a recurrent of these parties?”

"I was dragged here.”

Ford let out a cracking laugh, running one of his hands down his neck to dissipate the sweat. "Yes, my friend also dragged me here.”

There were still people around, but not as many as those who passed through the brotherhood. Without the disturbance of the masses, and without the music bursting over their heads, Ford and you found another corner to share glances and a pleasant talk; entertaining enough for both to forget about the shame. A ridiculous pity.

Pines tried not to lose his breath every time you returned the smiles. At no time, no matter how hard he tried, did you lose the thread of the conversation. You were an automatic machine of concrete answers. You gesticulated a lot, passing the weight of your body from one leg to the other; your eyes went from one direction to another, resting on imaginary points in the midst of darkness; your voice never wavered, your mind perhaps devoured by the charm of science. That was it: pure science. Nothing Ford didn't understand—though every time his gaze met yours, it was as if his brain was fried.

He couldn't let himself down so easily.

"What do you specialize in?" he suddenly asked. "You have such interesting ideas as to be wasting time at a party."

You drowned a laugh against the back of your hand. Ford had to bite his tongue to keep from smiling.

‘’Did I say something funny?’’

"It's ironic that you say it," you replied. "That's all... But yeah, it's no big deal, anyway. I finished my thesis about two months ago,’’ you shrugged. "Fifth dimensional calculus. Nothing special."

‘’Wait—what? You too?’’

‘’Me too, you say,’’ you smiled. ‘’Why is that? Big, smart boy got scared?’’

‘’Oh, please!’’

Ford rubbed his hands against each other, making it impossible to hide the smile that adorned his face. It felt hot. He wanted to think that this sensational discovery, this almost magical encounter, was stirring your heart as much as it happened to him in the midst of the icy breeze of the night.

He tried not to make obvious the need to open his mouth to bathe you in questions; Ford really wanted to endure the hunger to find out what else you held in that precious head of yours. But it was impossible. You didn't even hide your own interest. Your smile was to be far greater than his—though shyness burned in your eyes, and in the way your own hands trembled.

Pines really wanted to think that it was nerves and not cold.

"I didn't think someone so pretty could know so much about science," he muttered through his teeth. The way your face subtly changed made him choke on his own saliva. "I don't want it to be an insult!"

"Sounds like you're underestimating a couple of issues right now."

"That wasn't my—’’ Ford let out a heavy sigh, covering his face with both hands for a moment. Your laughter made him open his eyes. ’’Aren't you angry...?"

‘’Not really,’’ you shrugged, ‘’just playing with you. Sorry. I guess I’m kind of nervous.’’

‘’I can see that.’’

You and Ford laughed together; a soft sound, lost in the wind. He noticed your gaze searching his hands insistently. Shame struck him suddenly.

‘’My hands,’’ he sighed.

‘’I think they're cool,’’ you whispered, a little bit shy. Ford smiled at you. "Can I see them more closely?"

‘’Uh, sure, I-I guess.’’

Almost pathetically, Ford stretched out both hands in front of you before you could get close. His fingers brushed your palms as you extended your arms, making room to wrap his hands. Despite the cold, Ford's body emanated an intense heat that melted into your skin. It was nice. You prayed that your heartbeat wouldn't reach him—that it wouldn't be so obvious how nervous you were to hold him in your hands, caressing his fingers like a fool.

"I've never seen anything like it," you added in a broken voice. "Not in person, at least."

‘’Do you really think it’s cool?’’

‘’I mean, yeah, why not? You’re different and that’s super cool.’’

Almost immediately you let go of his hands, and Ford found it hard not to complain about how much he had begun to miss your touch. You didn't back down this time, anyway.

‘’So, six fingers,’’ you muttered. ‘’That would be… Sixier?’’

‘’I have a name, you know?’’ he frowned.

"It's not like you told me."

‘’Stanford Pines. That’s my name.’’ Ford streaked, pushing his glasses along the bridge of his nose, trying to distract himself. The heat returned to his face immediately as he heard you repeat it out loud. ‘’Yours?’’

You gave him your name. Ford recorded it in his head as a magical melody that settled into his brain immediately.

"I haven't seen you around the halls of college," he added.

"I attend the neighboring university," you replied, "the one that remains going to the valley. I was late for the Backupsmore inscription."

‘’It's a pity; we could have made a very good research team."

The smile you gave him made Ford's heart clench in his throat.

"I don't doubt it," you nodded. "I'd have something better to do than be at this party."

"Well, you have me here with you," he said. At the same time, a choking laugh slipped through his lips like a painfully dry cough. "I mean, we're together—talking, I meant, sorry. Not that we're together, of course. Not if you don't want to, obviously. I'm not pressuring you, anyway, don't think that."

You let out a laugh, almost as nervous as he was. Nothing one could hide from the other; it was all very obvious, but neither you nor Ford dared to break the illusion. The night had already improved too much, and there was nothing that could change that fact.

The music of the party, once strident and annoying, was now a whisper in which the battery of the players faded at the same time as the farewell of most of the guests present. There was no silence; just a murmur almost dead and far away. Ford looked behind him, sighing.

"Am I going to see you again?" he asked, returning to you, unable to hold your gaze. "I wouldn't want this to be a final goodbye."

"I wasn't planning on leaving you anyway, Stanford Pines," you smiled. "Backupsmore is opening its winter courses for advanced engineering and ultra-subject studies. I don't know if you wanted to, you know, go with me... "

Your voice became small and almost audible as you noticed the gleam in Ford's eyes increase. His gaze lit up with your proposal.

"We could work together on the cellular anomaly contest!" he exclaimed. "McGucket, my friend, is in charge of system maintenance; me, from research and fact-checking."

"I can help!" you nodded almost immediately. A huge smile on your face.

You patted the pockets of your pants until you hit a paper ball. Ford looked curiously at the colorful letters, recognizing the place of the indications as soon as he had it in front of him.

"I work making drinks at the student center cafe," you explained. "You and your friend can go there tomorrow. On Saturdays we make the breakfast special for champions; since the team qualified and that. He's going to need it because of the hangover."

"I don't think he will want to go..."

You thought about it for a moment, taking a deep breath.

"Then come alone," you said. "It is you I want to see.’’

This time Ford held your gaze; as much as he could, eyes wide and cheeks rosy. He didn't squat as he took the paper from your hands, brushing your fingers, quickly putting it in the back of his pocket, terrified of losing the only way to find you tomorrow.

‘’See you Saturday, then?’’ you asked. ‘’You and me.’’

He nodded, smiling alongside you. ‘’You and me,’’ he whispered.

Just you and him. That sounded too good to be true.

ATTENTION

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Notes from Phantom of the Opera

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Tagging anyone, who sees this. No pressure though

[hamsternella]

"El hombre que yo amo", Myriam Hernández

[hamsternella]

Second part of this one

Bill Cipher x Fem!Reader

cw: gore, bill is a warning by himself, mdni, yandere and obsessive behavior

''She's my wife! You're talking about my wife, Cipher!'' Ford ran his hands through his hair, feeling desperate. Disgust was driving him mad; fury was blinding him. ''You've crossed a boundary! You're a…''

''A monster, a madman, a sick man,'' Bill interrupted him lazily. ''Yeah, yeah. I get that a lot, thanks, Fordsy. Anyway, what do you say? Do we have a deal?''

Ford backed up a couple of steps, colliding with the edge of his desk behind him. His hand brushed against a statuette of Cipher himself; a figure of pure gold that weighed between his fingers as he lifted it into the air, eyes fixed on the demon. The latter shook his hand in denial. 'No, no. Don't even think about it.' But he did it anyway. He didn't even get to hit him—Bill had disappeared.

"Come back here, Bill!" cried the investigator in despair. "Don't you dare lay a hand on my wife again, Cipher!"

But all he received in response was a shrill laugh, and the blow of a warm breeze that made him stagger. The lights went out, and in the gloom the only thing that enveloped Ford was silence barely interrupted by his own breathing.

"My God," he whispered, "what have I done?"

After your talk with Bill, and the forced kiss that sealed an implied deal, your life becomes confusing and uncomfortable.

The demon had not stopped possessing your husband until the day you decided that enough was enough.

The limit was to have found him on you, forcing your petticoats with the hands of the man who was supposed to be your companion.

How were you supposed to know when it was Ford and not Bill? How could you let him kiss your lips with that sweetness, sometimes interspersed with the awkwardness of a need that already seemed alien to you?

When Ford found out about the situation you were acting so strange about, his fury is such that even you find yourself terrified of the human as you were of the demon.

They felt like one and the same entity. At this point you didn't know what to think about it.

Your relationship with your husband deteriorated considerably. It was easy to see how uncomfortable it made him to know that you and Bill had been intimate.

"Aren't we ever going to talk about it, then? Ford, I'm addressing the word to you..."

"I know," he interrupted you, the frustration palpable in his voice. "You've been saying the same thing every day, throughout every week; it's a regular thing come this point."

"Because we need to talk about it! For God's sake, Ford, you can't even stand to be in the same room with me anymore. Do you think this situation hasn't affected me too?"

You heard his footsteps coming towards where you were. You felt him in front of you, with his scent and his breathing altered into a choked growl. "Be honest with me, didn't you suspect at any time that that imitation wasn't me?"

"Ford, not again with this..." you sighed.

"Not again, you say? Not again, as if it were something upsetting to you," he exclaimed. "Oh, well, perhaps it is—perhaps because things happened there that I don't know about. More things I don't know—I don't want to know. Terrible things, lots of secrets hidden from me, your husband!"

"Are you serious, Stanford? You're coming at me with such audacity!" You had risen from your seat, colliding immediately with your husband's chest. His hands took you by surprise; a shove brought you back to the world as you hit the table at your side. "Ford! What's wrong with you, God..."

"This is all wrong! This is all terrible!" he shouted. Moments later there was silence. It took your husband some time to regulate his own breathing. "Whole weeks... being possessed by a creature I thought was my friend, my companion. Days believing I was falling into madness; the darkness of a confused dream enveloping me, devouring my senses... all of me. All of me! My works, my researches, my wife! He dared to possess my woman!"

"So that's what I am to you," you hastened to add. "Just your woman. That's what this irrational outburst of yours is all about, Stanford."

"It's everything! This is about everything! For God's sake, woman, understand. He's taken everything from me—he's trying to make it, and he's closing in on me by leaps and bounds... He's wanted to ruin my life completely and you don't understand! You can't be so selfish!"

"Who's being selfish here, when you were the scoundrel hiding a demon under our feet! This was all started by you, Stanford! And you never told me the truth!" You covered your face for a moment, sighing faintly. "You let him take your body and walk around the house; you kept me ignorant of your true plans while to him you built a shrine."

"How did you..."

"He told me," you interrupted him coldly, "as usual. Because of course I have to find out what's going on in my own house from a demon. Same demon who, by the way, got into our room to try to molest me!"

"You could have told me that in the first place! Things don't magically escalate."

"Excuse me? What are you trying to tell me?"

His silence confirmed the shame that had overwhelmed him by his own words.

"I'm talking to you, Ford."

"You should have told me. You allowed him direct entry."

"I don't think I gave him that much power," you shook your head. "Not like you gave it to him, Ford, with your portals and your 'insignificant' studies."

"I didn't mean to."

"And you think it was my intention to have him on top of me?"

"For God's sake—this is not about you!"

"It's never about me! Nothing is ever about me, your very wife, Ford!" You held back the heart-rending cry in your throat, until the other words snatched it from you. "I could have been raped that night and you didn't care! That thing has kissed me, touched me while in your body, and what affects you most is losing your portal! Please, Stanford, please, I beg you to understand!"

You stretched out your arms in a desperate attempt to cling to your husband's shirt. You knew where he was when you brushed against his body; there your hands rested, fingers digging like daggers into his arms. Your voice was barely a whisper corrupted by pain and despair.

"I gave up everything for you," you continued, "even my hobbies, my friends and my family. I believed in you like no one ever has; I sacrificed time, sweat and tears on your journey to glory... All for you. Always for you. When will there be something for me? When will I have a family of my own? When will I have a nice home? When will I feel safe?" you weighed a couple of raw ideas at the back of your mind. "When will I feel safe with you, Ford. You're supposed to be my husband..." you sobbed.

"I need you to understand," he whispered back. "Please, honey. I need you to."

"I'm tired of understanding things I don't know," you shook your head, possessed by crying. "You let that thing into this house. You gave your body, your mind... your wife."

"I would never allow him to lay a hand on you!"

"He's done it already!" you shouted back. "He's already done as much damage as you have, Ford! You're just like that! Unsatisfied, cruel creatures; eager to carry more than your arms can carry. He may be able to make it. Not you, Ford. And that's your problem—yourself. You're selfish, self-centered..."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"... and I begin to believe that I have been a victim of that victorious perversity that consumes you when you get something that others want and can't. But you could! And now you want more! More of what you shouldn't, of that which you can't have."

"I can have it! I'm capable! You know it; you've heard me achieve it."

"Thanks to him. And everything has a price in life, Stanford. Who says I'm not that now?"

The laughter that your husband dismissed hurt your soul.

"It's not that simple. He couldn't want you for... I don't understand. Why would he want you for something like this? I don't get it. Why would he want you in exchange for something like this? What do you figure here, but a sack of meat like me?"

"I don't know, you tell me," you shrugged. "Why do you want me, Ford? What do you think I possess, beyond a hole for you to fuck when you're stressed? Do you consider me to have value? Maybe you think I'm a stupid bitch—"

"Don't talk about yourself like that!" he interrupted you, sounding hurt. "One thing has nothing to do with the other here, right now."

"I think it has a lot to do with when your pride outweighs your wife's honor and safety. Does that title do any good? Perhaps the term 'maid' paints a better picture, considering how much you hold me in high regard as a person."

"Stop it."

"And that's all you have to say."

Life feels empty when your marriage suddenly seems like a sham.

You no longer consider Ford a company that provides you with security; now you are truly on your own.

The world is scary.

And this is where he comes to save the day.

More or less, let's assume.

Bill takes this opportunity to start filling your head with hallucinations. You can't escape them.

Your husband is a nightmare that whispers lies in your ear, which later become truths the more you think about them.

Cipher doesn't show up in your dreams until months later, when your husband is at his worst peak of stress and paranoid episodes.

The demon is much more kind, caring and receptive to you than ever before; even manipulating your brain to reproduce his figure in your mind.

At last you meet Mr. Cipher.

"But look who it is! The protagonist of this beautiful story of bloody, forbidden visceral romance from...! Oh, forget it. The title is too long."

The triangle levitates around you with its golden glow. Its edges are sharp; it has only one eye, and it wears a galley and a staff that seems to have a life of its own, far away from you, circling in the air. It is black, just like the galley and the slender limbs of the beast.

The laughter is as loud as ever. For a moment it brings you peace. It's the same—nothing has changed nor is a lie. It's just Bill.

"That's me! Yes, ma'am." Its figure reappears in front of you, with one of its small hands resting on your cheek. "My pronouns are call/me/Bill; but I also go by he/him."

"Are you reading my mind?"

"Oh, you little bag of muscle and nerves! We're in your mind," he laughed. "By the way, you should be nicer to me."

"I don't have to be nice to you," you replied. "You've ruined my life."

"Ruin your life, you say! Oh, no, my dear, but I haven't done anything!" His hand moved away from you, returning to his back as he entwined it with the other. His eye narrowed for a moment; he was fascinated. "But didn't you mean, rather, your husband's life? Isn't it the same as yours?"

"Is that, you suppose, a comment to hurt me?"

"Hurting you is one of my last thoughts when I think of you," he said. "And believe me: I think about you a lot."

"I don't want to know what kind of things."

"And you do very well not to want to!"

Another shrill laugh pierced your ears like a needle. The sound settled painfully in your brain.

"Oh, my dear! So beautiful and so pitifully silly," he sighed. "How I've missed you."

"I find it rather disturbing the way you address me. Especially after the accident..."

"That night!" he interrupted you; so fascinated that his yellow color darkened into a kind of still luminous blush. "Perhaps I was a little thrilled by the tenderness of your flesh—how your heart throbbed! An organ pumping warm blood, under that weak skin."

The triangle was suddenly in front of you. His eye wide open.

"The way your muscles tensed in your face," he continued, "with each eye wide open, as if you could just see me. No need to when you can feel me, little one. And how did that feel? How did you feel under the rough warmth of hands on the smooth skin of your belly?"

"While you were using my husband!" you cried out in shame. "You forced yourself on me with my husband's body. You are a..."

You bit your lip, holding back the string of insults that were about to hang from your mouth. Bill narrowed his eye, humming an unfamiliar tune.

"I'm a... what? Say it, come on!"

"Just shut up," you growled. "Shut your mouth—whatever you use to talk. Shut it."

"A little bird told me something very interesting. I'm sure you want to know! I know you do!"

You covered your face, using your hands to stifle a frustrated scream that could barely overshadow Bill's animated narration. His voice was penetrating your head, which was funny to think about considering the two of you were in your mind; there was no way his voice wasn't getting through to you being in a place like this. There was no escape possible.

"Oh! Yes, that's right," he pointed out with his cane. "You can't wake up until I decide."

"That's crazy!"

"I guess... Whatever! You want to play a game of chess for which you might lose something very valuable to you when I cheat?"

"Of course not!" You rubbed both hands together, trying to stop the trembling all over your body. "Ford will notice I'm not in the kitchen; I always make breakfast. He'll notice, won't he?"

"Dear, are you asking me or are you losing your senses?"

"Isn't it the same?" you turned to look at him, narrowing your eyes. "Wondering something to you, losing my mind—isn't it the same thing?"

Bill rolled his eye, dropping his cane in the air again. "What a mood! Too many gentlemen on this world for so few ladies—"

"What do you want?" you interrupted him. There was no answer. You took a deep breath as you met his gaze upon you; too much intensity, with his figure levitating slower and slower. "Bill, please, is there something you want? Because I can't give it to you. You should talk it over with Ford, like always" you muttered.

"Something I want," he repeated. "Maybe I wasn't very clear with you. In the olden days new romantic prospects used to murder the current spouse. You want that? So freaky, grr—"

"What the fuck are you talking about! My God," you swallowed the string of insults hanging from your throat. "Cipher, let me go right now. Go and talk to my husband and do together whatever it is you have in mind. Leave me alone!"

"I tried to talk to Fordsy about you," rushed the demon defensively, "but I don't think he liked certain details... My bad, I admit it! There are always second chances—although with him we'd be going for number three hundred and twenty something, I think... I don't know, I don't care! Hey, you really don't want to play chess with me?"

"You told him about that night," you whispered. Tears began to tickle your cheeks without your noticing them. "You told him first and he never... Ford never told me—he never told me about it..."

"And then he made you feel terrible about it," he laughed. "How crazy is Fordsy. And what's with all that pushing and shoving this last week? Didn't you see it coming? Ha! Get it? Because you're totally blind—"

"I can't wail and cry if I hear your shitty voice."

"Oh, come on! It's not my fault your husband is a deranged madman. There are lots of fish in the ocean, did you know that? Lots and lots... Lots, really... Then there's me, who's better," he pointed to himself, shrinking his eye in a smile. "I mean, uh, a god, technically."

"A demon."

"Very soon a god," he corrected you.

You frowned, forcing a smile as you said, "But you're still a demon. One trapped far away from our world, aren't you? What assures you that you're going to be anything more than that, when Stanford no longer believes in you?"

"The last thing I care about is your husband," Bill narrowed his eye. "Beyond that, could it be that you're testing me?"

"Testing you?"

"If I can get out of here, if I can catch you anywhere, anytime," he continued, "does that mean I win?"

"For you everything is a game. A demon at the end of the day."

Bill's shrill laughter pierced your ears again. This time you found him in front of you in the blink of an eye; closer, more attentive.

"Does that mean I win?" he whispered. "Because I believe I can have you whenever I want, wherever I want—this is just a taste of my power."

"This is a sign of what a monster you are," you replied in kind. "Ford will not allow you to go beyond your dimension—"

"Fordsy couldn't stop me all those times I messed with you," the demon interrupted you, suddenly surly at the mention of your husband. "It's almost like he doesn't care. Anyway, that brainiac is going to fail sooner or later, and there's no corner of the universe where you can hide your head. I'll be there, in your dreams; and I'll be here, where you don't see me. Everywhere I'm going to be, dear little flesh bag."

"Don't fucking call me that!"

"Nuh-uh!"

You opened your mouth, ready to pour over his expectant eye a couple more insults, but the lack of your own voice led you to wrap both hands around your neck. You thought you were piercing flesh with your fingernails; you caressed muscle, you smeared yourself with blood. You wanted to scream, terrified, alone in the middle of an empty, dark space, but the only response to the nervous silence of your panic attack was another thunderous laugh.

Everything was suddenly red. Red and painful. A sharp stab of pain shot through your body from your throat, and with a shocking jolt you fell to your knees, drowning in your own blood. Warm, viscous, thick. You closed your eyes, too disgusted with the spectacle of intense sensations assaulting your senses, and let yourself be carried away by the spasms that seemed to go on forever. You barely felt him on you.

When you opened your eyes, overcome by another intense, hot sensation, you found Bill leaning over you. His yellow color had migrated to a deep black; red edges like your blood, glowing, and with the same wide-open, watchful eye. You noted with another kind of horror that same morbid charm in his gaze—the ravenous hunger of a natural hunter.

You shook your head, barely moving your lips in a faint 'please'.

"I missed this," he said. "I missed you. It's strange... this feeling, I mean—it's kind of weird. It's unpleasant. But when I finally have you again, when I can touch you, I can see you, I can hear you, that awful feeling goes away; it disappears and I feel good again. I feel better. It's strange, like I told you."

One of his limbs brushed against the bleeding wound on your neck. The nightmare was compounded by the pressure of his fingers playing with your flesh.

"You're beautiful," he whispered. "If you could see yourself. I don't think you'd understand. It would be fun, anyway. See you cry, make you scream," he laughed. "You know, the usual. Stanford makes you cry a lot, doesn't he? He hurts you."

It took you a while to respond, but you were able to give him a nod.

"Everything he does is a product of my own genius," Bill continued. "I'm better. A hell of a lot better. This is just beginning; there's more to this than I've shown you now. A lot more. But that's all right! We have all the time in the world. Lots of nights, lots of dreams. Opportunities, my pretty little bag of nerves."

His limb moved away from your wound, wrenching another spasm from your body. You couldn't take your eyes off the way the demon was spewing a long, slimy tongue from the strip below his eye, starting from the socket. Another repulsive limb. The flesh of your body disappeared in what was a light taste of your own flavor. You noticed the fascination in his small figure; the tremor of ecstasy bursting the moment.

"Fordsy would be delighted to know this," Bill said, squinting his eye. "You think we should tell him?"

'We?' Your own mind gave you away.

"I'm asking for your opinion! That's what couples do, right?"

Silence. Bill let out a sigh; his yellow color back with a particular glow.

"Whatever," he shrugged, "I don't think he'll mind. This may be our little secret." He approached you, levitating gently. "As for you, beautiful little waste, I hope to see you in a better mood soon. There's so much to do! So many things to talk about. Our plans ahead, of course—the big moment. What a thrill!"

Your eyes began to close. The pain gradually, gently subsided. It was getting harder and harder to hear Bill chattering.

"... portal, and the... But maybe a crazy... you and me, of..."

Before you faced the impending total darkness, Bill's intense gaze invaded your mind. This time you stopped listening to him. In spite of that, a new sharp pang of pain pierced your head; it upset you completely, as one who feels disarmed at the discomfort of their own body, and made you wake up again. This time there was no yellow demon in front of you. There was nothing, directly. Not that nothing of one whose eyes are covered—but that kind of empty expectation, typical of the blind.

'Returned home,' you thought with a sigh.

The morning was quiet, but not calm. Bill's nightmare had left you jittery, with tremors and a nagging itch in your neck. A sick kind of paranoia kept you standing between the bedroom and the bathroom, unable to go any further. It was the murmur of timid footsteps downstairs that made you make the decision: tell Ford, give him the chance again. Who else did you have in the world but him?

You walked down the stairs with the itch in your neck increasing as your husband's silence to your calls did. At a certain point, and with madness tearing tears from your eyes, you ended up tripping over an obstacle on the floor where you thought the living room was. You rested your hands as soon as you felt the blow of the air like a whip; the pain came seconds later, along with the roughness of a jacket.

Ford did not wear such jackets.

You pushed your fingers against the leather, dragging your nails along the inner fur. You felt the coolness of some pins, and maybe found a couple of holes.

"Ford?"

"He's not here."

A man's broken voice took you by surprise. You jumped up, fell back down, and began to crawl backwards across the floor. You forgot about the pain and itching in your neck.

"Who are you?! What did you do to my husband—"

"Just... just a moment! Please!" The voice broke even more, as if choked with an inevitable cry. "You said husband—you must be her, I mean, his girl. His wife. Logically, isn't it?" an unfunny laugh broke through his words. "Please, I'm not here to do anything bad..."

"Who the fuck are you?!"

Silence. A long one, interrupted by a couple of accelerated breaths.

"Stanley," the man replied. "I'm Stanley Pines. I'm Stanford's brother."

"He doesn't... No, because he doesn't have a brother. You are lying to me—"

"Are you blind?"

This time the silence came from you.

"I didn't think... Sorry, I didn't get a good look at you," he rushed back. "I'm sorry, ma'am."

"Stanley Pines," you said, "is that really your name? Stanford never told me about you." You craned your neck, gathering as much air as you could. "Stanf—"

"He's not here."

"What do you mean? Did he go out or something? Again," you sighed.

Silences were commonplace at this point. You had time to stand up with the help of the supposed Stanley. You let him guide you to an armchair, allowing him as much freedom as a tired woman could allow a man this robust. You tried not to let fear blind your senses.

If he was inside the house, it meant he hadn't set off any traps. Was he telling the truth?

"Did Ford tell you where he went?" you insisted in the absence of an answer. "Do you know when he'll be back?"

"I don't think he..." a heavy, shaky sigh. "Sorry, but I think Stanford—I don't think he can come, today, at least..."

"What do you mean?"

But you didn't need a clear answer. Stanley was still talking, saying things very unimportant to you; and yet there was something special that leapt into your mind along with the memory of a thunderous laugh. The word 'portal' throbbed in rhythm with your heart, leaving in its wake a trail of horror from which a couple of tears were born. Only then did you return to the world—along with Stanley's hand caressing your back.

"I'm really sorry," he continued in a soft cry. "I didn't mean to, I swear..."

"Through the portal?"

"It was too fast, and... and then we pushed each other a lot, and there was screaming—"

"Then I guess he's not coming back," you sighed shakily, interrupting him. "Ford's not coming back. My God..."

"I'm going to fix that thing. You have my word."

The image of Bill in your dreams quickly jumped into your memories. You reached desperately for Stan's hands, taking them in yours. You stared into the void, hoping to behold his face of -possible- intrigue.

"You can't touch that thing!" you exclaimed in warning. "Stanley, you can't go near that portal, please. You have no idea what's in store for us on the other side."

"My brother is trapped in there! God, woman, your own husband!"

"This is beyond him right now!"

His hands released yours; a push let you know that he had risen from your side.

"You're crazy," he growled. "As crazy as he is. Just a crazy couple!"

"You have no idea what this is, Stanley Pines... You have no idea. You haven't the faintest idea. Am I crazy? Do you think I've lost my mind? I think you saw Ford very well; I'd like to think there's something of him in you—that you understand why I'm this way. Whose fault is it!"

"Your husband could be dead and you just go around attributing blame!"

"Our lives are at stake! Good Lord, Stanley, you have no idea what it was like to live with him!"

The image of Bill wouldn't leave your head. At this point you didn't know if you were thinking of Ford, or the triangular demon.

"I'm going to fix that fucking machine," Stanley spat angrily, "and I'm not going to let some crazy woman stop me over a couple of superstitions. I've had enough of that with Stanford. I want my brother back, and I'm going to get him. Whatever it takes."

You heard his footsteps walk away from the room, and seconds later a slamming door vibrated through your bare feet. Until then you hadn't felt the cold seeping into your sensitive flesh. Nothing seemed to matter enough to you.

It wasn't about Ford anymore; now you had to deal with the nervous insanity of his so-called brother. Could it get even worse?

Maybe.

[eosphoroz]

Everyone bow down to Jacob Anderson. He is our Louis always and forever more.