Hi, I'm HoundsTraumfrau/STARFKRS.INC, someone with an extreme fascination revolving around BTD.
| Archive of Our Own |
I tend to pick apart and psychoanalysis things (as seen in most of my works). Basically, I'm an unpaid, uneducated armchair therapist for these fictional serial killers.
I write for Boyfriend to Death, but I'm also open to writing The Price of Flesh and Till Death Do Us Part.
Also, OC/Inserts ! Love it, send me your OCs !
I do character studies, headcanons, one-shots, long fics, almost everything.. ! My asks and requests are open, feel free to send anything that's on your mind (no loli/sho or zoo)
(I have my own OCs but I'm still on the fence about posting for them)
Personal Info:
I'm 21 (MDNI, I'm serious, I will block you), trans (he/him only !) and really into horror, visual novels, reading, and music ! Insanely into music. Send me music ! I love And One, but there's others too..
Other games I like are: Shin Megami Tensei/Persona, Deltarune/Undertale, Overwatch, Cyberpunk and Borderlands !
Beware that I am a Strade/Ren shipper, though I try not to romanticize their relationship in my depictions, I still stand heavy on them being mutual in some regard. If that is something that irks you, it's best to read my works strictly as analysis, or not read them at all.
Current Works/Future Plans:
In Chains (Entombed) | My ongoing, almost finished Ren/Strade series !
Peculiar Inner Workings | An ongoing dump of headcanons and thoughts about the BTD/TDDUP/TPOF characters
I Let It In... And It Took Everything | My future series involving Ren (and some Lawrence) (but no spoilers, sorry ! )
Lulled By Numbers | My future 4 chapter fic for the tenth anniversary of Boyfriend to Death !
More Character Analysis' | Moving up to the BTD2/TPOF/TDDUP cast currently !
Summary: On a rainy, Summer night, wandering where you shouldn't've been has led you straight to him. You promised that it'd only be a one night stand, something you knew would be a bad idea. And yet, you went home with him anyway.
Ao3: Lulled By Numbers (Strade)
Tucked neatly between office buildings and second-hand shops awaited another bar you've yet to try. This one was a little further out of your reach. Downtown, two or three blocks away from the supermarket you were headed to. You were passing, just passing, anxiously trying to beat the moving storm clouds overhead, your shoes pounding on the pavement.
In the end, you lost.
Once the beginnings of rainfall let themselves loose, the rest followed. Your grocery list's pen ran and smeared, the paper itself wilted, and your hair got soaked. Thunder cracked somewhere near, and you ended up shaking off at the entrance of the Braying Mule.
The first thing you took note of was its color; orange and brown and red. Bright and comforting, similar in shade to autumn leaves and fall sweaters.
The second, the smells; greasy finger foods (pretzels, peanuts, sliders..?), and the sting of beer.
The third, the groups of people.
Instead of the usual crowds of drunken 25 year olds grinding against each other that you're used to, there were people in their middle ages. Women with crows feet, and men with greying hair. No one was there on their own, outcasted to the sides where the light didn't quite touch.
No.
People chatted in pairs, some in three, most in two. Parents on dates, coworkers on a much needed break, friends finally able to gather round after months of absence.
There was one, just one, who was alone it seemed. But, not necessarily. He was going from group to group, person to person, slowly. And everyone that he talked to smiled just as bright as he did. Eager for embrace and conversation.
That one, you had thought, must be a regular.
The bartender greeted him as he sat down, finished with entertaining a women and what seemed to be her wife.
You overheard the conversation from where you were headed. He was talking about some project he had been anticipating. Something that he's been thinking about 'for what feels like forever'. Something that got him so giddy he couldn't 'sleep for days'. And the bartender laughed, her smile lines crinkled with her face.
"You know, I can't believe you can finish what you start sometimes. It seems like once every few weeks you come up with something new!"
He laughed, too. Booming, even over the conversations and general noise of clinking glasses. But, and maybe it was your imagination, but..
His face. It looked sad almost. Like that face you make when you can't finish an essay on time. Or when you show up to work late, and apologize over and over to your manager.
So, maybe not sad, but guilty. An: "Oops! You caught me!"
"Ooh, is it really that obvious?" He scratched his chin, and played into that guilty smile a little more. "Well, I have a lot of ideas going through my head. Sometimes I get a little carried away, and finish one a little rushed. I just get so eager to start something fresh!"
What marked the end of their conversation was his wandering eyes. Light brown, a little hazel, tea with honey swirled in. They landed on you, his words trailed off and the bartender cocked a brow in your direction.
She smiled to herself, eyes closed, and shook her head. To anyone else (to you), it would've been insultive. One look at you is astonishment. Judgement. Because, what is someone like you doing in this place of all places?
But, it was meant more so for him, than it was targeted at you.
A gesture that said: "Another one caught your eye?"
She waved you in, a gentle welcome, as your feet carried you along into her direction. You sat further away from him, two stools down.
This was bad, you had thought, I shouldn't be in here.
Your 'habits' carried you from bar to bar, club to club, liquor store to gas station. It had been weighing you down recently, heavy on your mind and crushing in your chest. The strangling guilt of falling behind in life, the choking guilt of succumbing again.
Shelter, you had told yourself, I'm here for shelter and nothing more, I don't need a drink in my hand.
So, he had closed the gap, two seats to only one between, and leaned over the table a bit.
"Hey! I've never seen you around here before. Rain get ya?"
"Unfortunately. And, yeah.. I don't usually come downtown to drink, believe it or not! In fact, well, I didn't even think this place was a pub. It's tucked between those office towers."
He had chuckled under his breath, but the sound was the only thing he stifled. In his expressions, he didn't. His face contorted cheerfully, his cheeks sunk in to show dimples and aging lines.
"Haha! Well," He rested his cheek on his palm, smiling warming towards you. "How else are the white-collar workers supposed to get their jobs done?"
You laughed with him, but, deep down it stung. A bit, just a little. In an understanding way, sympathy for the faceless. "I get it, been there done that."
"Ooh, I couldn't. I have to come here only on my days off. Operating machinery under the influence is a good way to line hospitals pockets!"
Machinery.
From the looks (and smells) of him, you could tell that was his line of work. His green button-up had old oil stains, brown and black, lining its bottom and the sleeves. His hair had a sheen of grease in its curls, and he smelt of iron and gasoline.
"What types of machines?" You had asked, before anything else, trying to avoid ordering any drinks, trying to keep your self-made promise.
"Hm, well," Maybe it was rude to stare, however, you couldn't help but study his face and hands. He had looked to the side, pushed his lip out and scratched at his stubble. "All types. Mainly, I'm a mechanic. I work with all different kinds of cars and trucks." His eyes had found yours again, the oranges of the atmosphere lighting their reflections up. "What do you do? Must be something that wouldn't get you hurt if you're brave enough to show up tipsy!"
"I'm a clerk. I mostly work evenings, so it's not like anyone would care, y'know?"
"Haha, very true! Retail workers always seem to be the ones I see in here the most!" His eyebrows furrowed once he was done speaking, then, they lifted in shock and rememberance. "Oh gosh! Where are my manners? I completely forgot to ask your name!"
He said his name was Strade, and had mentioned he was from Germany. And, when he was still living there, he was going to college still to become an engineer. Though, hadn't really worked towards that since he migrated here to Manitoba. Instead settling in with a younger relative from Japan, his nephew.
In his free time not spent in the pub, he said he frequents his neighbours houses. Cookouts, fixing up things, painting even, sometimes for a drink and a conversation.
He is, quite literally, the opposite of you.
And yet, you had stayed and chatted, feeling the thunder rumble through the ground.
You had learned about his woodworking hobby, and the machines he had pattented back in Germany. He had learned about your..
"I take it you're not here for a drink, are you? Considering you've told me about what you get up to on the job!"
Alcoholism.
To put it bluntly.
"Still, let me get you something! Please, you've been so polite to me."
You opted for a soda, thanking him internally for not being offput by it, for obliging, for not pushing you to intake even more and more.
But, it was never just the drinking. There were 'others'. More risqué to admit to him.
The things that lay hidden beneath your clothes, and in the deepest parts of your psyche.
He spoke, yes, but he pried, too.
Do you like your job? How long have you worked? Are you friends with your coworkers? How long have you lived in Manitoba? Do you like it here? Oh, you're going to college too? You must be busy! What are you studying?
"Working hard, or hardly working?"
"Hardly functioning, Strade. I'm like a broken machine. Yet my professor, and my boss.. they're still trying to keep me going."
He liked that. He laughed louder than he meant to, covering the sound with the back of his hand. And, it felt good, to get geniune humor out of someone when you've been used to the dry chuckles that come from everyone around you.
But, you could tell he wanted to hear more about you. About who you are outside of cracking jokes at others' (and yourself) expenses. About who you are outside of the bits and pieces of insecurity you have surrounding bars.
You didn't want to tell him. You didn't want to have a genuine connection to another. It wasn't something you could add to your already full plate.
Certainly, you didn't want to go with him. To his home. To yours. To a hotel. Anywhere.
Because, it wouldn't be the first time. Because, you didn't want him to think of you like that.
But, as you talked, and as he questioned, you realized just how stubborn he was. Stupidly stubborn, and overly friendly. Once his focus shifted to you, he didn't want it to leave.
"So, what do you tend to do with those you meet at bars?" The place had thinned out, you two had moved to a table away from the counter as to not disturb anyone with your conversation. He traced his fingers absentmindedly along the table, you swirled your black straw in your drink and dreaded answering. "Something.. scandalous?"
"Haha, does it really matter?"
"Well.. lets just say, I'm really into you. And, lets use a hypothetical here,"
"What? You're worried I might ditch you?"
"I am an old man compared to you! We're so different, but I'm so intrigued by you!"
Scandalous.
You could call it that. You did during your conversation.
But, a scandal implies something to keep secret, something that would ruin your reputation.
And, in your eyes, you had nothing to lose.
You're already leaning towards the deep end.
Stepping toes past the 6 foot drop, feeling yourself float, feeling so afraid of drowning.
"It depends on the person."
But, really. It didn't.
Once you were five drinks in and wobbling around making a fool of yourself, anything went. The only thing that mattered to you was that you'd never see each other again.
No exchanged numbers, no second meetups, and absolutely no getting attached, romantically or even platonically.
Threesomes, orgies, with those who are genderless, something between or strictly cis, nothing mattered.
You were sober, completely. Promising yourself no drinks, nothing.
And yet, you ended up following him anyway.
And yet, you climbed the step up into his lifted Jeep and sat in the front seat.
You watched the rain race down the window, and observed the decorated interior.
The little keychain, a hammer and drill, that was tied to the rearview mirror. The fruity, almost cotton candy-like smell of the air freshener. The cigars in the center console, and the unopened cans of energy drinks forgotten in a gas station bag.
He talked your ear off the entire drive back to his home. You learned about his nephew. He moved in way after Strade had, a few years ago. He apparently doesn't like to leave the house often, or ever, and would probably be too engrossed in his games to care that Strade brought you back.
But, the guilt wormed its way into you. Creeping up on you, mimicking the cold rush of the stormy winds on your skin. Goosebumps raised, you began to shift.
You wanted to joke, to break the tension that was beginning to sweat you out.
'lets play never have I ever. i'll start. never have i ever gone home with someone sober.'
Yet, the words remained thoughts, humorless to you, mocking you.
"What's wrong? Cat got your tongue?"
He had said it in the car. You had shook your head, and tried your best to smile.
He had said it again, as you had stepped foot into his house. As you smelled the scent of peanut butter and chocolate cookies. As you walked across the dimly-lit kitchen. As he pushed you up against the wall.
And, he said it again, as he kneeled and looked at you, satisfied with the work he had done to tie your hands to the support beam.
You couldn't speak even if you wanted to.
There was a throbbing in your head. There was a poke in your back that bled and fingers that bruised your wrists. Then, adrenaline had sorted it out, leaving no pain, just a thought.
'would it be easier to speak if I was-'
"If its any reassurance, I don't plan on hurting you tonight."
Because, the scuffle you had trying to escape wasn't hurting you. More so, like.. wrangling a house pet that tried to run into the street.
You made it to the back door, through the garage, your fingers had nearly touched the button to open the metal shutter, and then-
Because, the fight to get your clothes off wasn't hurting you. Any injuries you had sustained during were accidental, avoidable.
He was cooing, attempting to calm you down. His hands worked firmly, but they weren't angry.
He was not angry.
He looked at your face, followed the goosebumps on your shivering body.
"You cold? I'm sure I have a blanket around here somewhere."
So, off to your right he went searching, in some makeshift room that you could see only by craning your neck. So, back he came with rough fleece the color of army green. So, he draped it over you and patted your head and went:
"There! I want you comfortable so that you get enough rest. I have lots planned tomorrow, you're going to need it!"
Your face was scrunched in. And your eyes.. they were narrowed at him, but, you were unsure of what you were feeling. Unsure of what you would say if your slack lips would stop trembling enough for you to form words.
It was too dark to see at the time. Through all of it, he kept the light off, as if he knew the layout of the basement like the back of his hand. Not only the layout, but where everything was placed. From the blanket, to the rope, to the trashcan where the cut up scraps of your clothes and underwear were discarded.
But, you made out his expression. Through the satisfaction, he was relieved to see your body stop trembling. And when he departed up the stairs, you had become disgusted with the harsh scent of cleaning supplies, and iron. Some part of you wanting to smell a warm body, rather than a cold, harsh concrete cage.
It was too dark to see at the time, made worse only by your blackening, exhausted vision, but you swore, feet in front of you around the drain, there were rusted trails telling old stories.
Sleep didn't come easy. The thought of tomorrow weighed heavy in your chest. The endless amounts of what ifs, and disaster scenarios, all screaming in your thoughts, in your own, panicked voice.
| Thunder shakes the building, lightning strikes the city behind you. The bright flash illuminates the office room, casting your shadow over the surfaces in front of you. You twist in place. The backs of your thighs and bottom, the flat of your palms, all imprinted with the dingy carpet outline. Crumbs are stuck in the crevices, embedded in your flesh, bleeding.
Rain beats down on the window, obscuring the outside world. Quickly, you stumble to your knees and push your hands into the glass, feeling it move and shift from behind the bars. A cold draft leaks from the un-caulked sides of the windowsill, the wind howls like a tornado.
The glass trembles, unsteady in its frame. You push again, your forehead bumps into the bar only five inches from another. There are city lights, but no cars. There are the outlines of buildings, but..
Nothing is clear. Not because of the rain, instead because of the blur. It's as if your eyes haven't adjusted to being awake just yet.
Still, there is a figure in the glass. Not your reflection, yourself.
Grocery list in hand, your left arm overhead shielding you from the rain, you stand before a pub's door.
Panic bubbles in your throat. For some reason, the sight of you alone makes your hands move on their own.
Flat palms slam, once, twice, then repeatedly, until the pane of glass rattles instead of shatters, until you can feel it slip out of frame.
The you below discards the sullied paper, right hand reaching for the hooked handle.
It pops from place. With no sound, the glass falls unbroken into the messy, flooded streets. Your arms and hands, now uncovered, are battered with heavy rainfall, the tiny pricks of water cutting lesions in your flesh.
You're screaming. Supposed to be screaming. At yourself now inside down below. At yourself now coming out again with someone else down below.
But, your mouth doesn't move. |
Slowly, your eyes flutter open, crusty around the edges and itching. A smell hits your nose second, a wave of nausea bubbles in your throat as you come to.
The smell, of course, is coming from the machines, the tools, the metal of the pole and the steel of a sheathed hunting knife. The dingy yellow light illuminates the greys, making them more pronounced than anything else in the room.
Sharp objects. Screwdrivers and drill bits. Nails and the claws of hammers. Each, you note, are shiny and clean, as if well-cared for, as if brand new. Each have their own spot on the workbench. It seems, despite how unkempt he is, he takes pride in organizing his workspace.
Workspace.
The rope digs into your wrists as you shuffle uncomfortably at the word.
So,
"I'm eager to get started." His tone is giddy, anxious even. His steps are quick, and the butt of his palms rub against his khakis. He flits between the array of tools, opting to wash his hands in the low water pressure with some giant drum of what you assume is medical-grade soap. "I'm sure you are, too! You were moving a lot in your sleep."
this is what he meant by project, wasn't it?
"Almost like you were having a nightmare or something." He flicks his hands over the sink to dry them, wiping the excess on his pants before he turns to you. "But, you looked so peaceful. Maybe you were having a good dream instead?"
You remember nothing of the sort.
You do however, remember bits and pieces of last night.
The pub, the walk to the car, the drive, entering his home, the wall, the struggle, the-
"Well, even if so, I think we have better things to look forward to today!" Your eyes flit down to his bootsteps to avoid his smiling face, following the beige of his pants, landing on the holster and the handle. His hand comes into frame, chubby fingers clasping around the-
And suddenly, just as you jolt back, just as your head collides with the beam and your ears ring, you realize the blanket he had given you is gone.
Just how long has he been down here? Pacing the ground? Staring at you?
Or.. touching you?
Kneeling down, he reaches a hand behind your head, cusps it to pull it away from the metal. You're staring at him, at his face, at his honey eyes and how they assess for any damage. When he finds none, he pats your head, giving you a smile before retracting his hand and-
You don't need to ask what happens next. You don't need to ask where you're headed now.
You know, deep down inside. You just.. know.
There's warmth in his hand, bordering on hyperthermia, as he slides it gently over the length of your thigh.
It's tender in that way a lover hovering above would touch.
An action posed as a question, as an invitation to intimacy.
His fingers inch closer to your hip, second knuckles at the faded, sideways scars. Your eyes are locked together, faces lacking in emotion, or, expressing one of uncertainty. When your lip twitches, his does. When your eyes threaten to move down again, his do too.
Now, you're both looking at it. At the nails pushing gently into the scars.
They're not as old as he might think.
No. You're just good at taking care of them. Good at making sure they're miniscule, healed long before they're ready to heal.
The blade is above, his fingers are lifted, his nails touch the steel, acting as a barrier and a guide.
And you think, for a fleeting moment, that it's improper.
The blade glides across, the skin splits centimeter by centimeter, opening up.
It's slow, but he knows it's not your first time. After all, you're sure he can tell that just by your delayed reaction. Can tell by the way your eyes gloss over before anything else. Before your mouth parts and you blink and you jolt and you scream.
The noise sputters him to life. You're pulling at your bonds and he's pushing the tip of the knife down into a longer scar below the first cut. You're telling him no, no, no don't, but the noise falls on deaf ears, and the mark on your skin is broken open once again.
This second one is deeper, sloppy. The kickstart makes him act without thinking. You can see it on his face as it twitches with excitement, before pity washes over like a tidal wave.
"I went too deep." He mutters, but the hand holding the knife is still his. The blade pushing into your skin, not sideways, but downwards (stabbing, like a butcher through an animal carcass), is still an action he did.
And yet,
"I'm going too far."
he cringes, winces in pain and at the sight of the serrated back of the blade pushing through the layers.
"Ngh-"
You can feel it, the slice through bone, the side of your femur now chipped off into the surrounding tissue. Blood bubbles up around the handle, (knuckles deep inside a dripping cunt) falling down your thigh in rivulets. He grits his teeth and you do the same, bracing for the inevitable.
It comes free in one strong pull, though, not without a mess. Sinew sticks to the back of the steel, where the serrated edge curves into the square handle.
A large gash is left in its wake. Within the layers of deep shades of red, you spot sickly yellow, deeper in the yellow, you spot white.
You don't focus on it long, can't; the wave of dizziness blurs your vision and burns the back of your throat. Instead, you focus back on his face.
He sighs deeply, releasing a breath he's been holding for what feels like an eternity. He wipes his forehead free of sweat with the back of his hand, dirtying it with a streak of blood in the process.
"Sorry, sorry. I got carried away."
Despair.
You'd recognize that tight feeling in your chest anywhere.
It's familiar. Something that comes only when you're facing things completely, utterly, entirely out of your control.
(the loss of a beloved pet, the destruction of a friend group, the separation of a family, the moment before being dragged downstairs into-)
This is something he cannot mimic.
That human feeling of entrapment. Because a predator doesn't understand the pain of prey. Can't. Never has he ever, perhaps never will he ever, understand.
When he lifts his finger to your teary eye, and wipes away what begins to fall, it's insulative. Disgusting.
It only makes you cry harder. The tightness more painful than the throbbing from your wound.
He makes this noise like an animal. Quick and high-pitched, but deep enough in his throat to be gutteral. The start of something familiar, never to continue, or to finish.
"I know, I know. It hurts. But," But. Always a but.
("I know you've been stressed lately, but you can't keep taking days off. We're understaffed-"
"I know you're going through a falling out, but I really need you to turn in this essay. I can't give you special-"
"I know you're hungover, but can't you just make some effort to-")
"We've barely gotten started. Can't you just do one more?"
He's conflicted between above, or below.
A cut above would be on the crease of your hip. Below, would be across the knee.
He shakes his head, smiling to himself, and catches your gaze.
"What do you think? Here, or there?" He taps the pin point tip to your knee, then aims it at your hip bone.
He should've asked: "which would hurt more?"
In a state of confusion, your mouth bubbles out the answer:
"Other.. one."
Like a dog, he tilts his head, just an inch to the left, and looks between the two spaces before finding your other leg.
"Oh!" It's tucked beneath your ass, your knee's joint aching from the pressure. He shakes his head in response. "No, no. I have other plans for that one."
The tightness in your chest drops to your stomach, forming a twisting pit.
"Well, if we can't decide.." His knee pushes into your calf, keeping it trapped in place. "Then, we'll just have to do both. How does that sound?"
Which would hurt more?
Over your knee, or your hip?
The crease of your stomach forcing you to lean back, unable to double over or lie down properly.
Or, knowing that, if you bent your leg, the wound would open again and again and stretch the skin further, bleed more?
"Hip. My hip. My-"
It's too late.
The steel is at the outer end of your knee, then suddenly at the inner. A line parts over the bone, thin skin, and little fat, a rush of blood going every which way.
He ignores your scream, finding your lower stomach with his free hand, pushing you backwards so that he can follow along the crease. Your struggle doesn't deter him, does nothing but make the cut crooked.
It curved upwards toward your navel, stopped just an inch below. Your heavy breathing pushes the dermis out, pink tissue now the main focus for his finger. He brushes over it, index's pad testing the sponginess.
Shutting your eyes does little to dull the pain, but continuing to watch will only make you throw up.
Something tells you that.. that still wouldn't deter him.
His heavy breathing shudders for a second, before he retracts his hand, and steel makes the sound of connecting with leather.
"Wow." Exasperation? "You're bleeding a lot!" Excitement.
You are.
You can feel all the stickiness pooling under your ass. The smell alone is sharp, the only smell you can focus on other than his sweat.
You wince and gasp when his palm clasps over your stab wound.
"You're gonna need stitches." But, they'll never be clean, professional, safe from opening again, being pulled on, touched, ripped- "Just a second."
His boot connects with the pavement, and his steps move away from you.
It's over.
You should be relieved, happy, but.. you're only anticipating more, worse.
Plastic clings on plastic, something drops and clatters on the ground, Strade makes this 'oop' noise under his breath, leather presses on concrete and you feel the vibrations before you feel his body heat again.
Still, your eyes are shut; the only thing you can do to attempt to steady your breathing, to push past the pain.
A plastic latch opens, the latch to what you assume is the med kit.
"Hm, we're gonna need to stop the bleeding first." Right. "Otherwise my fingers would get too slippery!" Otherwise, his fingers will get too slippery. You know, because of the blood.
Your blood.
So, for what feels like an eternity, he pushes something (a cloth? gauze?) against the wound and holds it there. And, for what feels like an eternity, you keep your eyes shut.
You don't stop crying, the pain doesn't lessen. In fact, it comes back when he places his thumb and index finger on each side of the wound, and pinches it closed, preparing the skin for the needle.
The needle's prick is lesser, something that draws a breath between teeth. But, compared to what caused the damage, you'd prefer this one thousand times over.
He works the thread through the thick of your flesh, poking a new spot into your skin not too far away from the previous.
You nearly gag at the sudden tug, nearly cry out at the needle finding another open wound, working faster than before. You persist, and wait it out.
It's not as long as you thought. A minute, two, five at the most once the biggest wound is taken care of. He worked at a surgeon's pace, never faltering, as if he has had many hours to practice the art of fixing what he has broken.
"All done." His prideful tone makes you dizzy, makes you curious. Your eyes open on their own, slowly, and with hesitation. "Well, what do you think?"
The skin is splotchy red and turning purple in places. The thin black thread goes across your thigh in zig-zag patterns, closing what you didn't think could be closed.
"It's.."
No loose thread sticks out. No jagged edge of the wound is left gaping or exposed.
"perfect."
The face he makes, it's this contorted thing. Shock, then an all-teeth smile. The corners of his eyes scrunch in, dimples on display. The laugh he makes is louder than you've heard previously, something like a cackle.
"Really?"
Really? Is that all you could think of to say?
| The nurse's fingers move quick, the thread and needle flit in and out in seconds. You can tell it isn't her first time, maybe not even today. She looks tired.
You avoid her eyes and watch your arm come together. |
"I think-" He talked as he finished up his work. As he cleaned your wound with a wet rag, then an alcoholic wipe, then as he smeared over the rest of an antibiotic tube.
Something about an aspiring canvas, something about you.
You tuned him out long ago, had no choice but to. All you wanted to do was sleep.
(medical care means that he's planning on keeping you alive? the blanket means that he cares if you're comfortable?)
| The grains. The dry air. The lack of sunlight or a breeze.
Heat surrounds you.
Your left arm moves, then your right, then your head.
A weighted blanket.
A suffocating body on top of a suffocated body.
A tomb.
You flail in a panic, twisting your upper body when your lower can't move. In waves, sand flows out from around you. Yellow and beige turns to dark blue.
A stagnant ocean?
Your throat clenches with the thought.
No. It's just the sky.
Planting your fingers into the ground, you force yourself into a sitting position, looking all around at the vast, empty space. There is nothing but dunes of sand, and a horizonless sky.
Heat waves obscure most of everything.
Except.
Yourself.
There you are, standing out in the endless open, holding no material possessions, staring out into nothingness.
Your head turns, like a deer to a predator, a quick movement that leaves no blur, into the opposite direction of where you're buried.
A voice had called, once or twice, the name you had become familiar with.
You do not hear it. You do not hear anything but the shifting sand beneath you as you crawl your way from the dune.
But you do.
Your body follows the direction of the sound, and ignores the scrambling, hurried movements coming from behind.
That's it, your problem, always off on some adventure.
Can't you see it?
Your legs? The cuts and the bruises? The blood covering your flesh like a veil?
You're crawling, completely unable to stand, in the direction that you're headed. The heat waves wobble your vision of yourself, and someone else.
You open your mouth to call out. But.. what lulls from your tongue is anything but words.
In the far off space where you and the figure have vanished, the sky has turned green.|
The first thing you register is the coarseness in your throat. Pin pricks that light up when you swallow, as if there is sand stuck in the backs of your esophagus.
"Good morning, Mein Liebchen."
There's a kink in your neck, and horrid stiffness in your joints (especially your wrists). Craning your neck to look over at him is hard, but not impossible.
"I've been thinking about what else to do today. I don't want to get too ahead of myself."
No, no. Keeping you alive was the plan. Destroying you entirely is the end goal.
You pity your outstretched, unharmed leg, and shiver.
(who kidnaps someone to kill them day one?)
"Strade." He hears it, the hoarseness caused by screaming, by swearing and cursing his bloodline. You don't remember much of what you had said, if you had said anything at all, you only recall the pain.
"Ooh," You know what he really wants to say, you can read it on his face.
'You don't sound too good.'
"What's up, Buddy? Got something on your mind? An idea?" But, those words aren't programmed in his head. Not now. They're on a schedule, you think. And right now, his main priority is the array of tools in front of himself. All lined up, screaming: pick me, pick me!
His hand is on the workbench still, laying over the rubber grip of a hammer.
"I don't.. I don't have any ideas. I just-"
"Not a single one? You were thinking about your other leg yesterday. And I was thinking: Hm! Maybe I should let them choose tomorrow."
("let me go." your lips form. "I want you to let me go." he cocks his head and smiles this wicked smile. )
He's anticipating something like that. How many 'attempts' has he given someone? How much 'freedom' did he extend? How many took it for 'granted'?
"I want this to be a team effort. I want to know what you think, y'know? What you'd do if I let you."
He's got another thing in his left hand, something sharp and metal. You can't crane any further to make it out before he turns back to the bench.
"I saw all the scars." There is no privacy, no cover, they're all front and center. And now, you're unsure if there's any room left for shame. "So.. you like playing with sharp objects. Right?"
His knife is in the holster. It's right on his back. If you could just.. wriggle your arms free and leap over the room then maybe you could get him in the side.
(you'd be betting on his reaction time. you'd be playing with the idea that maybe pain makes him angry, makes him lash out like it does some people.)
"I think that makes this decision a lot easier. But, who knows!"
If you were going to play with tools, machinery, you'd choose a lathe. Something large that could suck you up and kill you instantly. Or, maybe a screwdriver. Something lightweight with a large point to stick right into your jugular. Or his.
A hammer is blunt on the end, can only cause enough damage if slammed as hard as you can manage. The claw is more square than usual. Sharp, but not sharp enough. It could dig into something, pull something out, but what?
A drill is sharp on the tip, can cause any damage with a simple button press. Though, there's hundreds of bit attachments, presumably hiding somewhere in a storage container. The range varies. Would he pick one, or would you?
"Which is more appealing for you?"
But, the hammer is lacking nails to hit.
But, the drill is lacking screws to spin.
Neither are appealing. Not the tools themselves, nor any extras he'd throw at you.
You hang your head and shut up.
Talking got you into this mess. The desire to be inside of a bar (was it really for shelter?) got you into this mess. The desire to have sex got you into this mess. And, you didn't even get to have that.
"Hey, hey." He's cooing at you, voice low and soft, there's a hint of agitation, but he realizes yelling would be going too far. After all, your thoughts are plastered on your face. "I think I'm starting to understand you."
He's kneeling, tools in hand still, face showing nothing but sympathy, no hidden sadistic excitement (not yet).
"You're not the type to like taking control, are you?"
No, no, he's got it all wrong. You love that control. That's your issue. When things go south, the bottle is at your lips and something (someone) is inside of you. When things get bad, so bad, you're only forced to give up control. You let things roll off of you. Because, at that point, why bother?
But here there are no coping mechanisms. No hands to work with, no drinks or drugs to consume. The only person (why, out of all of them did you want him? why did everyone else have to be taken already?) around won't even have sex with you (why would you want that? why now?).
"No." His lips are parted in a soft 'o'. You watch the bushy brow above his left eye cock upwards. "No, that's not true."
"I think you and I both know that's not the case. I mean, after all, intoxication is surely one of the biggest ways to give up control!"
Of the body. Your body. Your body that is now his.
The only thing you can control now is the method of damage.
"Or.. maybe that's desire in general, ja? It's like.. it clouds your head and all the judgement you have. Makes you, ah.. what's the word?"
Stupid?
"Irrational! It makes you act irrationally! I get it, Bud. Let me tell you-"
Is this irrational? Is this clouded judgement? The torture? The god knows what else he's planning on doing? Spur of the moment actions?
No. He doesn't get it.
How could he?
"But you're sober."
Your voice is pathetic; a hoarse, sharp squeak. Your words cut off his monologue. Your wrists bang against the pole as you push forward.
He's caught off guard, leaning back with his eyes all wide (with no fear, never fear).
"You aren't drunk, aren't high. At least, I hope not- You're- Nothing is making you do this!"
Something is turning up there, something you're sure hasn't turned in forever (if ever), you can see it in those honey eyes of his.
His body language is stiff. He pushes out his lip and looks to the side, but it's not guilt on his face. It's something else. Wondering. Pondering. Inner questioning. A question with no answer.
And then, his eyes are on yours again, taking in your anger, your despair.
"No. But, Buddy, I'm only human. And you are, too. You know how we get, caught up in pleasure."
Human.
You're repeating it in your head, peripherals catching his movement as he retreats back to the workbench.
He's human, faulty, not hardwired or programmed to do such things.
It doesn't compute with you. Doesn't make sense.
A plastic box lands on the ground, millions of nails rattle together. He sets the hammer down inches before your knee, and something much larger behind himself.
"We'll work our way up, Ja? Gotta pace ourselves. I have lots to work with, so I'm not worried about running out of space."
He goes to grab your leg, you're one step ahead (but his eyes light up, fiery and excited, fixated on where your foot is headed).
His wrist clasps over your ankle, but not before your heel slams into his chest. He giggles, not condescendingly, but manically.
"Woah! I didn't know you had that in you!" (but he did. somehow, he knew.) You're thrashing now, the soreness in your day-old wounds morphing into sharp burning again.
How? How does one go through the steps without second guessing? Without wondering if they're doing the right (or wrong) thing?
The walk down here, the morning breakfast before, the pacing around the basement, the hesitation before a decision.
Not once was there a moment in time where he contemplated forgoing all of this?
(that's your issue.)
Not even now, as he raises the hammer above your knee?
Not even now, before it swings down and connects?
Not even now?
(and yet, you got into the car anyway.)
The blunt metal collides with the bend, the impact hard enough to straighten your leg. It goes flat, rigid, and it shakes much like your shoulders do, with such ferocity. You're yelling more in rage than you are pain.
He takes the opportunity immediately, pushing a nail just above your kneecap, the sharp point slipping into the very top of your flesh. Then, it dings as it's hit. A quick tap needing barely any pressure to sink it through.
Another one follows, aimed at the side of your thigh just before your joint. This one is long and skinny, three or four inches in length. Sickeningly, your eyes can't escape the sight.
He smiles above, twisting your leg in his arm, and lets gravity do the job this time.
A trickle of blood slips down your leg. Your body flinched, shut your eyes on its own, but you can feel the metal still sticking out into the cold air.
It didn't go through. It didn't go-
"Oops." The tip is in the fat, pushing on a nerve that sparks with your body's tension.
Strade chuckles under his breath above you.
The second hit never comes.
You can hear his hand readjust, hear the sweaty skin slick over the rubber.
So.. this is the game he wants to play?
It's between your sanity, and his pleasure. If it means dragging this out into hours, days, weeks, then so be it.
( You're curious. At the end of the day, you're always going to be curious.
What would happen if you drank more than usual? Mixed your drinks? What would happen if you omitted the condom and the safety and told someone: "do what you please?"
At what point did it become thrill seeking? At what point did wondering become an itch that needed to be satiated? )
One eye opens, then the other, just enough to see, but not without the blur of lashes.
His fingers grip onto your thigh, and sliver cuts through the empty air.
Now it's in. Now all you can see is a glint of grey reflecting the basement light. Redness begins to spread around the nail, inflammation and driblets blood.
Some part of you is satisfied. Some part of you revels in the fact you controlled when it went in.
"Ah, lets see here."
But, why?
"Oh! This isn't right."
"What isn't.." You're getting dizzy again. There's pain on one leg and the other. There's a burn running through your wrists and it's all morphing into one giant sensation. Your skin barely registers the grooves on the nail. The way they spiral down the tip. Twenty of them, maybe more or less.
He's tracing it up and down. Up. And down. Up. And down. Over the fat of your thigh. It follows an ever-changing rhythm, going slow, then stopping, then speeding up just a little.
You're mesmerized with it, for only a second.
(the fingertip of a lover. the same questioned posed from earlier)
"This isn't a nail." He exclaims in a tone that sounds a little guilty.
And yet..
The hammer hits the screw's head regardless, unfazed by its existence.
All the little ridges feel much like the serrated edge of his knife from before. Each catch on flesh, and each work their way deep, molding the fatty tissue around them.
Here is where you notice just how badly you're shaking. You can hear it in your sobs, how they're vibrating unsteadily out into the silence. His smile is sad, his eyes are watery, but unlike you, he persists without complaint.
"Your legs are getting a bit too much attention!" The stitches over your knee have broken open, pink and red soak the gauze shoddily taped around. "But.." His hands are trembling, much like your legs are. He reaches in for a nail and finds the longest one buried at the bottom.
Ten or so inches. So thin between his fingers.
"You can take it." He promises, more so to himself.
It rolls between his fingers, fondled so slowly, before it's pressed to your skin just above your fibula.
The angle, you want to warn him, isn't right, isn't good.
A small tap, just barely enough to push it through with a wet pop. It's only an inch, maybe less. He looks up at you (at your red, snotty face and all its unabashed sorrow) as if he's asking for permission.
Why? Why is he-
Another tap, rougher, one that shakes your leg and sends the nail three more inches inside. You're gasping, utterly out of breath. He gives you but a moment for collection, to brace yourself, before a third strike comes down.
This time, the blunt head smacks right into the side of your shin.
The vibration collects within the bone, flowing throughout in one long, sharp lightning bolt.
There's white in your eyes, then nothing.
Your chin hits your chest, a scream is punched out of you so fast it becomes but a breath.
"I knew it." The nails rattle again as they're pushed away. "But, that's too much." There's pain somewhere deep. Somewhere close to the pin prick points. Somewhere surrounding the phallic lengths.
His body heat shifts to your left side, then to your right. He hums beneath his breath and it's back in front of you.
"Are you right, or left handed?"
It's not as bad as the cuts. Blood is barely leaking from around the flatheads. The nails are a plug that if pulled would-
Something cuts through the air. A revving engine. A blender's spinning blade.
You get no chance to answer the question. (did it ever matter?)
It's similar to the screw, spinning grooves going down and down, circling around dizzyingly so.
His sweaty hand clutches your left arm, fingers curling tight around easily. Closer, the spinning bit inches closer, until you can feel the wind around roar with the force.
There's no resistance in the mind, or the flesh. It forces itself inside, wrecking the pathetic tissue as it delves deeper and deeper. He's holding the drill with both hands, face scrunched much like yours, his eyes wide much like yours, as the tool shakes violently.
The sensation is something otherworldly, something you have no words to describe.
All you know is that the burning throbbing pulsating tearing in your arm is down your wrist and in your shoulder, far away from the starting point just above your inner elbow.
The noise stops, the spinning stops, but the vibrations linger, shuddering through your nerves and into your bone.
It pulls out with more resistance, caught on the flesh in a much more angry way than the knife was. The exit wound is larger, gaping. You get one good glimpse of the red mass before you double over.
Strade gulps in air like he had forgotten to breathe.
How long was it? A minute? it felt like more.
You barely register his finger prodding, the heat of his body and the heat of the wound nearly one and the same. The differentiating force is his grasp, pulling your arm out to the side until it's bent unnaturally.
He's going in again. Lost within desire. He's not even giving you a chance to process.
Your head snaps in the direction.
This time, he's gone lower, closer to your wrist but not close enough that'd he'd need to untie you. From this angle, he's forced to go in backwards. From this angle, you watch as it pushes in one end and jitters. You watch the black round top push against your arm. You watch the sharp point poke from within, wanting to get out.
Are you screaming? It hurts like you are screaming. And yet, the white hot violence on your arm triumphs over all.
He pushes it closer, he pushes it through. The first splatter of blood hits your side, the second hits your face, a trickle becomes a stream down your arm and a puddle on the floor.
Then, there is relief. It comes on so suddenly, an ice bucket over the head. Hot becomes cold, burning becomes this deep-rooted itching. As if you were sleeping on your arm. As if..
You can't pull your arm away. Can't clench your fingers without weakness.
He doesn't notice. If he does, he doesn't care. He already shut the drill off. He's already pushing at the tip of the bit with his thumb. He says something you can't register, and laughs louder than before.
Something clicks. Through blurry, swimming vision, you watch the drill depart.
The silver is still in your arm. You can feel the weight's pressure, but nothing else.
Something squishes. Through blackening vision.. you catch his finger pushing into the backside. It's his pinky, the only one able to push open the wound without causing any more damage. It goes in smoother, aided with blood, pushing past the tight muscles and into the gummy tissue.
You're heavy. You feel like you're carrying the sun on your back. Your gasping breaths do nothing but strain your lungs. It would be easier to not look. Keeping your head in this position, keeping your eyes open, it feels like fighting against the force of an oncoming hurricane.
| "You're stubborn! I like that."
"I am?"
"C'mon! You don't like taking no for an answer. You know what you want and you don't want anyone getting in the way of that."
In his voice you hear a man's familiarity. In your stomach something twists.
"Hah.. Well when you put it like that, it makes me sound like a bad person."
Does he not want to? Or does he?
"Oh, no, no! Don't take it as an insult, please. I'm just saying-"
He likes that.
"-that we have something in common." |
There's something erotic about the way he is panting above you. Something erotic about the way his finger shimmies, about the way the bit is pushing through, now loosened by the penetration. It unearths from you like a bud, the wound around opens up wider as if eager to take more upon this release.
The first two rows of grooves screw out slowly, the rest follow once he is knuckle deep inside.
You release a breath you didn't know you held as the bit clangs to the ground.
"There we go!" His finger is red. Beneath the nail there is something whitish-yellow and pink. He wipes the mess on his pants as your arm falls back into place.
"Wow.. You're looking a little pale. I take it you're not feeling too good, Buddy?"
There's something wrong. Something not right about this.
The drill is abandoned on the ground somewhere behind you. Messy hands find your waist and glide upwards to catch your face, leaving a trail of scarlet in their wake. You blink and try to focus, tears roll down in a silent stream over your cheeks. He catches them and wipes them away.
He looks as if he wants to kiss you. There's lust in his eyes, yes, but you think within you see admiration, too. Maybe. But, your head is pounding. There's a million and one sensations flowing throughout your body.
You're overloaded, overworked. You think if he does any more you're going to be out of commission.
For good.
How much blood is sticking to your flesh again? How much has pooled under your ass and soaked into the ground?
"Stop.." Blood begins to flow in your arms. One to your fingertips, the other through the wounds. They're at your sides for just a second before he snatches the one with all the little holes. "Wait.."
He isn't listening.
His tongue is at the site and you're-
Slowly, he circles the tip around the hole above your elbow, dipping it in just once to taste. You jerk back instinctively at the wet squishing noise, unable to escape the grasp he has on your wrist. The wet muscle flattens, lapping over the surface. You're unsure of who's moan you heard, his, or your own. It came from your chest, but it wasn't your voice.
It's raspy and deep. It's breathed against your arm and out of your throat again.
He loosens his grip and closes his mouth over the leaking hole. You're looking still, unable to stop. Familiar warmth swirls inside your stomach inappropriately.
You're murmuring, trying to tell him to stop, stop, stop you can't you can't it's gross so gross gross disgusting stop-
The nail of his blunt thumb pushes into the wound. With no sensation, you're left with nothing but the visuals. He's opening it so that his tongue can slide in deeper, so that he can taste the destruction the tool had caused. Slick strands of drool leak down your arm, foamy pink and translucent in the middle. The suction forces more blood to the area, drowning out the saliva, rushing down past his lips, unable to be swallowed completely.
| "When's the last time you.. ah, what do you call it?"
"Hooked-up?"
"Ja! 'Hooked up' with someone! Especially with someone ten years your senior!"
To avoid an awkward gaze, you turn your head towards the window and watch the buildings drift further apart from each other.
"Oh wow. Uh, about a week ago?"
The last time you barely remember. It was quick, and in the bathroom of some club. In fact, it was the day of a lecture. Something went wrong and you ended up there. You can't recall their face above their nose.
But.. their tongue.. Their tongue was- |
A different throbbing finds home between your abused legs. With minds of their own, against the pain, they part, smearing blood outwards.
He doesn't stop to look, following the length of your arm to the gash he opened just minutes ago. His free hand not clutching your wrist travels down south.
Shakily, you reach between, finding your knee and the nail stuck within. You wince. He sinks his teeth around the wound. You pluck the nail's head and pull.
It clinks before it rolls, following the ground's tilt towards the drain.
There's another, longer in length. Your stomach aches as if ready to spill at the thought of taking it out. But you must. He won't.
Clenching your teeth, you find the metal and clip your nail beneath. Somewhere inside, the point prods, creating this sharp, shooting pain that stuns like a taser. You flinch back, dizzy and exhausted, before going back in with vengeance.
It's sickening in an unimaginable way. Like, pulling flesh from another's flesh during the afterglow. A tongue in a mouth with a tongue. Wet, hot separation.
It skitters. You shudder with relief and revel in the bout of pleasure(?). He presses bruising kisses until your red arm is splotchy purple.
There's a screw in your thigh. A ten inch nail going through one end of your calf to the other, its outline visible from underneath your flesh.
You grab and twist, the sharp ridges of the screw slice their way back out. They move, up and (down when your fingers slip from blood) up, twirling counterclockwise until the tip is a centimeter away from the exit.
The screw hits something far away, flung from your grasp in disgust.
One more. One more. Just one-
Blunt fingers grasp your thigh, pushing at the cylinder outline. An involuntary scream rips through your throat.
Unlike you, he does not hesitate. Unlike you, he thinks ripping a bandage off fast is the most optimal way.
It writhes out like a parasite, moving under your skin at mach-speed. A blinding white light is the mercy you're granted from observing any longer.
"Hah.. you could've asked for help, Buddy." Heavy is the lust in his voice. You shudder with something more than fear and agony. "That's alright. Like I said, I wanted this to be a team effort."
He lowers your arm slowly, placing the torn up thing in your torn up lap. Then, he shifts so that your eyes are together. From this angle, you can see the purplish blush spreading down to his chest underneath his shirt. He's breathing as heavy as you are.
But, there's no time to waste on longing, or lingering. He gives your face a gentle pat and rises to his feet.
"Lets get you cleaned up!"
You're a wreck. An utter mess. Left throbbing and disappointed below surface level despair.
Could he see it? In your eyes.. just before he pulled away? Your heavy lids and your parted lips, slack in agony yes, but also want?
You've never felt more wrong in your life. Maybe it's best if this time you just let it go.
"You got tiny holes. I don't think we need any stitches this time."
It's hard to. It's a bodily function you've used forever to get rid of the unwanted. You don't want any of this. Who would? It's aching mutilation.
He attempts to test your reflexes on your fingers, and frowns sadly (a naughty puppy) when they barely are able to move.
"Looks like I got a little carried away."
You look to the hacksaws and wonder if that'll be the solution.
(Your left hand, the hand that had touched his over your thigh in the car. That had traced over the tiny hairs and the bulging vein. That he had taken and done the same to.
It was gentle and flirtatious.)
White gauze wraps tightly around your arm, from one hole to the other, creating a makeshift cast to keep out any foreign materials. He leaves that wrist untied, finding no use in straining the injury further.
(Your left hand, now flat in your lap, unable to pick and scratch and yank at the ropes binding you to this place. You stare at it and weep.)
The injuries on your leg he cleans with a solution of water and alcohol in a spray bottle, wiping up any mess around the area with a rough cloth that has seen better days. They remain flat, toes pointing to the drain.
Alone in the darkness, you can't recognize the mutilation as your own.
| Goosebumps rise to the surface of flesh. A chilled wind becomes freezing. Joints ache and muscles strain.
You're pushing past dead brush and thick branches, fighting the wind blowing snow in your face.
Your legs carry you aimlessly into the forest. The sky is pure white with no moon. You follow no land markers, and carry on.
Far off in the distance, a deer hops fast, getting away from something in the quiet.
Your footfall does not disturb its presence, so you carry on.
Clumps of snow begin to gather in your hair, begin to frost over on your lashes. You're red in the face and exhausted. And yet, you follow the deer and carry on.
Something isn't right with it.
It stops when you do, as if waiting on your call.
Its antlers are bent unnaturally. Its eyes are this bright blue like the sky. It cocks its head as if questioning your decision.
Far off in the distance, you hear a voice call your name.
The deer perks up, standing completely straight instead of hunched. It looks to you, you think, then at something behind you.
Don't turn around. Keep walking.
Don't turn around. Keep walking.
It beckons with this almost-human cooing noise, easily is it swallowed up by the snow.
It's warmer over there. Quieter, and safe. Something calls your name from behind, angry in its tone. But.. to turn around would be to give up security. To turn around would be giving into the nagging anxiety of never letting go.
The voice draws near, louder in tone, a name that is yours falls from its lips.
The deer braces itself, then hops away.
You remain in place, tilting your head up to see past the tall tree line. Snow falls down in warm, thicker clumps onto your face.
Soothing and calming, like a warm bubble bath after a long, hard day.
You shut your eyes, and tune out the voice.
A weight lifts off of your shoulders. Guilt and pain free, you fall up. |
In the dingy light, you barely recognize the mutilation as your own.
He, of course, reminds you that you're still 'kicking!'. That, despite the 'unfortunate accident', you're still bright in the eyes, and more importantly, alive.
This morning, (or afternoon? or night?) he starts behind you, undoing the knots around your wrist.
"Careful stepping up."
Stepping up? Upon the wobbling, bruised things for legs?
He said he needed you off the ground for this. Said that, he wanted to show you something extra special to him.
You're on your toes, all your weight sinks straight down and shoots right back up. Without the thick arms around your body, you'd come crashing down to the ground.
Your eyes follow the dirty concrete to the stairs. Each step takes ten seconds. Each step brings a tear to your eye and a gasp to your lips. Unless it was his will, unless he had swooped you up like prince charming, there's no conceivable way. No option. No out.
You're lifted with each step. And with each step he guides you closer to some table that has a thin layer of dust.
Where is your fight? Your desire for life?
Your working hand clutches the table's edge. You blink away blurriness to hone your vision on the silver blade.
You had asked him once, weeks or months ago: "What kind of machines?"
He's giddy leaning over you. His smile is so bright and his hands shake with excitement. Today, he can't contain himself.
"Something catch your eye?"
Reaching your hand out, you swipe your finger slow across the flat end of the blade. It's fairly new, and clean. No hint of sawdust or any 'human materials'. It seems to have never been used.
"I had my last one for over ten years, can you believe it? But, we're moving into different times. I needed something heavier duty." He's leaning over your shoulder. In your side vision, you see him spacing out in his words just at the sight.
You lean forward to compensate his weight, pressing your stomach up against the rough edge. Now you're on your toes, knees bent and aching in protest.
Still, you tilt your head and blow your breath over the steel, wanting -needing- to see your reflection.
"Lots of people are afraid of big machines like this. You know, ones scared of losing a finger or two."
Your face is dirty, covered in a thin layer of grime. Your eyes are puffy on the bottoms, red around the whites, from nightmare-ridden sleep and the days spent crying. Your mouth curls downward, then flattens, but never maneuvers upwards. You spent your energy. You have none left to fake anything anymore.
It's you. That's you.
Fingers brush against fingers brushing against steel teeth. Two hands caressing gently what was made to never be gentle.
His and your fingers smooth up and down, flit between the grooves, come to a rest upon the flat end.
"I've seen my fair share of accidents."
Fingers nicked by the blade, skin split to show thin, white marrow and bone. Hair caught in the force, wound around and around and around until the scalp meets the teeth.
"It always happens when people.. panic. When they lose control over themselves."
His hand on your hand. His stomach on your back. The blade waits hungrily. You can hear it crying out in that all-too familiar desperation to be useful.
"Use me, use me. However you like. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of being useless, useless"
Your mouth echoes the words silently in the reflection. You push your palm down over its teeth and hear its needy whimper.
Horridly, pathetically, you're beginning to understand the correlation of mass destruction and desire.
The need and want to do that which harms you. Irresponsibly so. Irreversibly so.
( "Think about your career. Think about your studies. Who wants to deal with someone who can't be assed to show up sober?"
"Going out again? Don't think I haven't seen the bills from last time."
"You just don't learn, do you? Do you think hooking-up will fix your problems? That prince charming will just fall into your hands and swoop you away?" )
Prince charming..
A knight in shining armor. Steel grey and reflective.
But, he is no prince. He is but a mere machine built for one thing and one thing only.
And yet, just as you had hoped, on an evening spent revolted and in shame, he came and stole you away.
Pain thrums dully in your legs, becoming further and further away. No longer are his fingers on the saw, instead, they've found home between your thighs, prodding at your entrance.
He speaks above you, about machines and human nature.
About self-loathing, self-love, self-destruction. About how the lines between the three are all thin. About how fear of something and love for something are so, so close to just being one.
Why the repulsion for the machine? It knows no pain. It knows nothing of what it is capable of. It knows no better. It's job is to cut, to sever. It's design is repulsive. Things designed to hurt are repulsive.
Saws and blades. Hammers and drills. Tools with such a great capacity for harm to a human body.
Alcohol and street drugs. Sex and hands. Tools with such a great capacity for harm to a human body. Tools that are used for pleasure. Such pleasure.
( You did drink that night. He had honed in on that fact about you. About you wanting to go just one night without. But, he's stubborn.
He had said: "C'mon, lighten up! I'm not here to judge. Please, just let me get you a drink. Maybe good company will help you gain a brighter perspective!"
He kept pushing, shoving, daring you to take the plunge. )
You can't bring yourself to find him repulsive. If you found him repulsive, you'd find yourself that way, too. It's as if, your time spent locked down here- the days months years- has sapped away your shame. Your drive. Your will. Your morals.
What's the point of holding onto it all? Holding onto yourself?
His fingers pump inside you, dry, and absentmindedly. His words drone on about machinery again. About how he's found his calling.
He has found an excuse.
A descriptor for himself that takes away all responsibility.
You are no stranger.
This is what he is good at. And you, this is what you are good at.
Your mouth opens, a broken noise silenced by the violence whir of the saw. His fingers, slow and lazy, now frantic and quick.
Something wet splatters over your face, dark and colorless, a stark contrast to the bright white of the scene you're staring at. It leaks in globs down your hand, black ink the heat of summer. You squeeze your hand and watch the ink flow.
Blinking brings the color back slowly. Monochrome to steel grey, to browns and yellows and flesh, and lastly, red. The innards of a blood orange.
The tip of your thumb, the side of your index finger.
One missing entirely, the other hanging on.
There's a thinner, smaller cut on your middle finger from just before you wrenched yourself backwards.
Feeling creeps up into your hand, pins and needles, registration of stickiness, faint burning.
In your vision there are swirling colors and unsteady shapes. Your stance is broken by hands around your hips. The table is receding into the backline and the ceiling is falling down upon you.
Your back thuds against the concrete. Beside you something falls.
A shadow obscures you from the basement, slowly swallowing the light until..
His hands are on your wrists. His smile wide and his eyes unhinged.
There was concern there, once. Written on his lips and in his brows. For a split second, before he had climbed up the length of your limp body.
You reach out, -hand shaking, leaking- and let your palm find home on his cheek.
| The fingers around your wrist are damaged and unsteady. you turn so fast your head spins from the force. The vertigo nearly has you crashing to your knees.
Behind you, the forest becomes a basement with no identifiable features. Behind you, stands someone weak and frail.
"Who are you?" The person's lips move in time with yours, speaking quiet in your voice. "Am I you?" You ask them, tilting your head to the left and theirs to the right.
They're hard to see in the dark. You lift your hand up and watch theirs go with it. Your fingers are sliced open, theirs are the same. Your palms touch, an electric tingle runs through the open wounds.
Where did the blood go? Where did the pain go?
"I am you." You can feel it as you run your other- tingling, numb- hand down their body and push it into their chest. They breathe as you breathe. Their heart beats slow, then frantic.
You follow the curve of their body, and they do the same. Suddenly, the gap between is closed. Your legs are between theirs, vice versa. You find all the little holes and confirm.
"Where are we?"
"Where am I?"
They push their finger into one of the wounds on your leg and you gasp.
Where is the pain?
Pleasure shoots up your spine. You clutch onto yourself and dig your nail into the tissue. Deeper now, your finger causes a split in the walls, causes blood to rush down the floor.
"Home."
You stumble, as if intoxicated. The you in front follows suit, crashing into you.
You both impact the ground with a thud. The concrete below is cold, and unforgiving.
You're straddling yourself, hands on your hands, hips over your hips.
"Home." You repeat above, your voice echoing throughout the basement.
You're writhing below, you're wriggling above. Someone's hand gets free from the grasp.
One second is all it takes.
You push your palm upon your face and watch the blood smear over your cheek.
The squirming stops. You look at yourself in the eyes and watch the color shift. Hazel, to emerald. Honey to bright fiery green. Then grey. Colorless. A reflective void.
Without the color you can see emotion clearly. Lust and desire, burning hot within your irises.
"Let go." You say. "Let go." You repeat.
You're leaning into your palm. You're panting, breathless. You're aching, needy.
"Just let go already." You demand.
Inside of you, something shifts. |
Where's the pain?
Within the tips of your fingers there's bright, hot sparks. Each one sends a shiver down your spine. Each one has you leaning into him for support.
He's excited, because you are excited.
You can feel it in your body; a heat wave, building pressure behind the dam, ready to be released.
His belt lies at his hips, his zipper is open and you see all that he needs to release.
You're pleading, you think. With your eyes, with your tongue. But all the words you say sound like noise. And all the things he responds with sound like you.
"Needing this?"
"You wanted this from the start?"
"Eager! Eager! You like to be hurt."
Something in your head turns, an old gear kickstarting with new life. There is relief in your chest. Catharsis.
You've been ready to come out of your shell.
The hands on your body work you from your cocoon. The hands on your body twist where it hurts and mold pain into pleasure.
He pushes in and you scream. You push back and he screams. This scream like an animal. Sharp and loud. A howl in the night.
He's been waiting for this. He's been craving this. You have, too.
The first taste is overly sweet. The second is settled, is pure bliss.
He fucks into you rough, fast, raw. He fucks into you as if it is the only thing he knows how to do. As if it's second nature. As if it is what he was made for.
To hurt. To maim. To destroy.
You're yanking on the chestnut locks. You're scraping at the scalp beneath them until blood is under your nails.
Your body moves on its own, uncaring of the reopened wounds. Your hips smack back against his.
Brutal. Angry. Desperate.
You've danced this dance before.
With lovers. With strangers. With gentle movements and sloppy roughness.
Never has it been like this.
How? How do you describe something so otherworldly?
He slams his hands down onto your shoulders and he fucks into you. He's groaning, drooling over himself. He's staring at your bloody hands, and gazing at your torn up thighs. He's groaning expletives, your name, threats that feel like something else.
This is a dance of pure self-destruction.
You open your mouth and beg for more.
Yes, you've danced this dance before.
And you'll dance this dance until you can't anymore.
Hi ! Just letting my mutuals/anyone else following interested that I made a sideblog !
It's not really SFW but there's no BTD. I just needed to separate my other interests from here to there, as the fandoms are wildly different (extremely so).
I am still taking writing requests here, but I have opened them there for the fandoms I had listed !!
You can follow me (if you'd like) here ! -> @lokixarseneyaoi
as far as i know, this game was a collaborative project between creators darqx, gatobob, and electricpuke. this is mostly for archival purposes and should not be used to create fangames or reposted without credit. seriously it's insane how far some of these creators have come
Their complicated relationship has always broken my heart… 💔
The loneliness and, in a way, the sense of doom surrounding Goro have always touched my heart… The situation feels hopeless. Even if there were a desire to step back, to abandon his goal and try to fix everything, there is simply no way back. The things that cannot be changed have already been done. The consequences cannot be undone…
But none of that matters in light of one important fact — Goro still remains true to himself. Even if this path leads him to certain death. An immense strength of will and spirit that cannot be broken by anything. And even when given a chance to rewrite his fate thanks to Maruki, he still wants to have complete control over his own destiny…
The most admirable trait one could imagine — even if it borders on stubbornness and self-destruction.
I hope you write more kojimacest in the future! Maybe have some Cain too!!! It’s really sad that no one has explored them and their complex relationship.
It’s truly one of my all time favorites!
Absolutely I will be writing more of that.
I've been thinking lately about Cain, and how I'd fit him into their dynamic now with their soft background reset I've done. I haven't really figured it out, but it's all about the learning process, trying different stuff until something clicks.
I'll figure it out eventually, and hopefully it'll be worth it ! (ᵔ⩊ᵔ)
I came across your Cain fic and let me just say thank you for this meal, you actually wrote him in an interesting and “realistic” way instead of just making him a boring daddy dom he’s so often written as
Honestly, Cain is possibly the hardest to write realistically. With all his powers and weird 1,000 year+ old age, with a lack of reasoning for the things he does and the way he even can do things (again: powers). I mean, he's an ancient being living in Tartarus (and not Caina?), and seems to be very hated by literally everyone in Rire's sector of Hell (or maybe everyone in Hell in general??), who, for one reason or another, decided to pick us (MC) as a suitable candidate.
The 'daddy dom' stuff never made sense to me. The whole sexuality and torture stuff didn't really make sense to me either. In fact, he didn't make sense to me at all.
Why is he even on earth in a coffee shop anyway? Why the hell is he even using his real name if he's going to shapeshift? Why the hell does he have powers in the first place?? Why's he a fallen angel if he wasn't an angel to begin with?? Why's he in Tartarus???
He's already into coffee, already into painting and already into literature (from my knowledge), it just made sense to make him more.. human, I guess. And I really did try in that SOIB chapter you're talking about. So, I'm glad that paid off, and someone actually turned out to like him for once (because before a little tuning, I sure as hell didn't)
This is a long list of headcanons (sfw/nsfw), a tangent about background history that might stray from canon, and personal thoughts I have + additional music thoughts.
if there's anything anyone else has to add, I'd love to hear it ! (´ ꒳ `)
The same problem that I had with Sano/Akira has arose once again. However, I will power through ! This is for BTD2, but with some of the Biblical Cain, and Zeitgeist thrown in ! (Even though Zeitgeist is like 5 lines of dialogue from Cain)
Personal Spotify Playlist: Cain Zeitgeist
| Updated Semi-Frequently |
HEADCANONS | Mixed NS/SFW |
SFW:
Catholic Family Man™ (no spouse, absent child)
(terrible) painter with a taste for renaissance/old religious paintings
extremely into classic literature (Sade, Shakespeare, Lovecraft, Alighieri)
^ into reading in general and completely a picky cunt about it
possibly writes his own poetry... (didn't say it was good)
sweaters everywhere (he dresses like an old librarian)
coffee>tea
^ much like Rire, Cain has a seasonal rotation and is also a picky cunt about this
angel tattoo on his right arm, roses and vines going down his left (when he got them done, who knows)
needs his house to smell like something, preferably sweet, but something nonetheless, it gets stagnant in Hell
English Literature degree, should've- been Historian (he's got shit tons of letters from over the years)
totally went to public executions (LOVED the Colosseums)
obsessed with romance/relationship drama, eavesdrops on gossip all the time
mimicry? yeah, he's doing it all the time. which means he's on earth more than Rire is.
he is the most beautiful biblically accurate angel, and he should not exist
NSFW:
50/50 chance on it being extremely violent, or vanilla, no in-betweens
pouring expensive waxes (scented !) on you that he got from all over the world
collection of whips, ranging from average to barbed wire
BSDM room 100% (he's got one somewhere in his house)
tries out new rope bondage techniques on you almost every week
^ finds himself lost in tying them at times
totally into cannibalism it's not funny
RELIGION KINK (you? the nun, the non-devoted, the desolate. him? the priest, the guardian angel, the devil)
^ he's making you recite passages and prayers while he whips/fucks you
Master/Sir/Father (no daddy kink, make it religious)
church sex. doesn't matter what type of church, or even what religion, he's fucking you in one regardless
There's a lot missing for Cain's canon background, possibly because it's just the biblical Cain and EP didn't want to change much? I didn't want to change a lot either, I just altered some things here ! (ᵔ⩊ᵔ)
Background: I do believe Cain (BTD2) and Cain's (Biblical Figure) backgrounds are similar at the start, save for the reason for killing Abel, and his relationships with mythological Gods + his.. mother..
I remember that Cain in Canon was banished to Caina for a few hundred(?) years or so, before breaking out and wandering where the Reapers couldn't get to him. I'm 100% keeping all of that, except adding a little on the side about this particular banishment coming after the creation of the city of Enoch, and around the time where the flood wiped the earth.
Rire and Cain's meeting timeline hasn't been set, or even their circumstances. However, I think it was a couple hundred years ago, possibly at a 'public execution of some political figure' in Hell (and by that I mean the King's downfall/Rire's uprising). Cain wasn't too interested in Demon politics, and definitely wasn't liked by anyone in Hell (you know, for being fucking Cain), but attended these Battle Royales anyway.
He's been wandering around since then, poking his head around Rire's sector ever so often for fun.
Personal Thoughts: I like Cain a lot. Or, actually, I like writing him. He's got a lot of potential when it comes to religious horror/trauma, and allows me to tap into old literature/historical texts. I get to be further educated on things, and I get to dump it all on him, a win/win situation. However, in BTD2, or just EP's writing for him in general, it's kinda.. eh. It's something. Cain is self-centered, yes, and sadistic, absolutely, but the other things he is (romantic, lonely, y'know.. religious) aren't really utilized, and fair enough, the game was pretty short and had a shit ton of other characters in it.
I'm trying to make up for that. I think Cain can be very sweet, and maybe loving at times, I mean he is still partially human in there after all.
Musical Thoughts:
Ohhh.. Off the top of my head..: Pompeji (Deftones) | Would That I (Hozier) | Hallelujah (Jeff Buckley's cover)
They're all such beautiful songs, very soothing to listen to. Pompeji especially, with it's harsh, rough contrast at points in the song. I have that song listed first because I don't think there's one out there that hits as hard, or as deeply, and matches him more.
To be fair, the entirety of Ohms fits Cain well.
But, Ohms isn't the album I'm assigning. Actually, I think there's something deeply wonderful, and disturbing about the religious guilt and shame that comes from..
Perverts (Ethel Cain)
When writing The Phoenix (Cain's chapter in Song of Imaginary Beings), that is the one I took the most inspiration from. It's a long listen, but a listen I recommend for everyone at least once !
Miscellaneous:
Voice Claim... Sebastian Michaelis (Kuroshitsuji)..? It matches Rire's..
I think he preens a lot, obsessively so, even though no one sees his feathers
needs a Bird Beastkin asap. he's a chaser for them, I'm serious.
he's the top in the hateful situationship with Rire
type of guy to start drama to watch someone's downfall (Rire better watch his back)
I really don't understand the blood around his house how does he stay so clean ??
Closing Thoughts: Cain is like Rire if Rire was even more of an egotistical douchebag (love you Rire), and even more evil somehow. He's overpowered in his domain, and outright mimicking human forms outside of it. He's able to twist himself to wear the face of your loved ones, or a friend, or just a nice middle-aged priest looking to give advice. No matter how romantic, how sweet, how caring he can be, it'll never make up for what he is, or the things he has done.
There's two fics I really love: Carnelian, and Holy Libation (both by Rotpeach.) They're both really well written and poetic, strongly recommend !
This one is.. odd. I have a lot of mixed feelings about Akira and how I view him as a person. I did a lot of reading, but I didn't go into the old answer dumps for him, as all information is messy and some isn't considered canon. I don't consider him Vincent, this is purely Akira and the things I found while picking him and him only apart.
This contains information from Dollmaker, you can find that here if you so wish to play (beware that it's unfinished)
(Keep in mind this is a long post and there are spoilers for Dollmaker !)
"If every desire is fulfilled, what's left to strive for? When one's wishes have been granted, the only thing that awaits is a bottomless solitude; an eternal emptiness. Then wouldn't it be better if one chose not to ascend the stairs of desire?"
(Takahisa Kandori | Megami Ibunroku Persona)
There is no place where Akira Kojima is more alive than when he is at The Snake Pit.
Bright flashing lights, shelves upon shelves upon shelves of liquor and mixers, bodies upon bodies grinding and touching to deep-hitting EDM music.
A building made for the loose, the naive and the daredevils who are misguided.
You, are all of the above.
And Akira, he is someone looking to forget himself. Lose himself utterly in the raw sexuality that can only be found in recesses such as this.
It was a match made in hell, honestly. You two have similar issues. Rampant alcoholism, and are not choosy when it comes to unsafe sex with strangers.
Sano may have been your first impression, but Akira is the light in that dark tunnel of your life.
The problem with Akira is that he sees you as a person, an equal, someone to forget after the fun, but someone to have fun with regardless.
He’s seen you at your most vulnerable, sexually, and knows your body, face and name.
You are human, a person with thoughts and feelings and insecurities, and there was no need to reiterate, no need to work up to this.
He doesn’t belong here, not in this game. He’s the oddball, the outlier.
You do not belong here.
“I wasn’t sure that you would.”
Akira says, when the MC jokes about him being surprised that they stuck around until after his shift.
He’s been through multiple people before. Whether they led him on, ghosted, or turned him down altogether, he knows not to have that unreasonable expectation of anyone staying around for him. Until you do, but, then again, you were meant to leave in the morning.
When you make that one mistake, that one wrong turn at the end of the hallway during the morning after, that is when your fate is sealed.
Sano taking you in turns you from an accident that he caused, to just another victim.
When asking about Akira, you say: “He is the reason I’m here.”
And Sano replies with: “The reason why you’re here is because you’re nosey.”
He deflects blame from his brother, forcing the narrative to push the idea that you’re the issue. (Hence, the one mistake). It’s denial, a familial need to protect, and an inhuman one to blame the human in the situation. It’s on par with Sano.
But, that statement is a double entendre, too.
Not only does he take you as nosey for snooping around in his lab (which, we know as the player is complete bullshit), but for snooping around in Akira’s life as well.
Despite Sano saying that he doesn’t question his brother’s choice in sexual partners, he still holds that judgement for them.
That comes from another interesting line of dialogue about Akira said between you two.
“Does your brother know you’re doing this?” + “And he’s okay with it?”
“He doesn’t bother me if I’m working.”
Sano notes this as normal human behaviour. MC writes it off as weird, and it’d only be normal if they were ‘both murderers.’
“I never said he wasn’t one.”
I gulped. Maybe I shouldn’t talk to him anymore. I didn’t want to know what other skeletons he had in his closet.
Sano gives zero confirmation on whether or not Akira is ‘okay with this’. But, that lack of a yes is the proof needed to show that Akira, in fact, is bothered by it.
The ending dialogue can also be spun in Akira’s direction. You know what Sano is capable of. But, Akira?
MC doesn’t want to find out to what extent Akira’s murder goes to.
However, Akira’s inaction to save you is crueler than any torture. Knowing that, just a room or two away, awaits a man who has treated you somewhat ‘well’, or, in better terms, hasn’t acted upon you with any ill intentions has to hurt. It has to be soul crushing.
When you come face to face with Akira, holding onto hope that maybe he’ll fucking do something, he merely doubles down.
“Pretty sure I’m not in charge here.” It’s an underestimation, Akira holds more power over Sano than he thinks.
“There’s no way outta this.” It’s a misconception, Sano has let people go before. But, why should you know that?
“Who am I to step on my brother’s dick?” This, here. The final nail in the coffin. Forced acceptance of ‘things out of his control.’
Who is he to try to convince Sano to let someone like you go? You’re a one night stand, that is all you are.
Just like that you realize, to save himself the guilt, to deflect the blame, things must be this way.
From now on, death endings to dialogue, we must view it like this.
This hidden knowledge allows us to better understand our dire circumstances, and Akira as a whole.
One of the first death endings you can get with Akira relies on how you treat Sano, much like other ones in his ‘route’.
When taking the prompt to call Sano crazy, Akira jumps to his defense. And, for the MC, this comes as a total shock. It’s out of the blue, happening so fast. He smiles down at you, a little psychotically, and it’s over like that.
He ‘didn’t see you lasting long’. To him you were already dead. And, his view of you now that you’re in Sano’s radar reflects that.
Let me reiterate. You’re a victim now, Sano’s victim in particular. Any time that Akira may maim you, or outright kill you, would become Sano’s burden to bear. As a victim, Akira knows that the chance of you really living through his brother’s crazy experiments is the same luck winning the lottery would require.
Little to none.
So, the next time he outright attacks you, in front of Sano might I add, he knows he won’t face any consequences. Sano doesn’t see you as a person, can’t unless you really, really try, so why would he stop Akira?
Though, Akira does say that we’re lucky Sano is here.
Possibly because letting himself go to the point he kills you is embarrassing?
It’s obvious that he isn’t worried if Sano finds out you’ve died due to his hands. And, if we really look at each death caused by Akira, none of them include Sano being there, save for one where you’re already low health and he’s beating you with the bat for making too much noise.
And then, yes, even then, there’s something akin to hesitation. A short sentence.
“Ya hear that?” He asks, directed to Sano.
It’s not shown on screen, but with that little remark, we can envision the glance back. The look for approval only Sano can give. That need to know what he’s going to do isn’t wrong, that it’s the correct thing to do.
This need for approval isn’t as strong as say, someone like Ren, but it’s a vital part of who he is.
Most death endings after that one basically follow the same path as the first I mentioned. You do something to Sano, or say something about him, and are met with Akira’s low tolerance.
This next one is more understandable, as you’re outright attempting to kill Sano, only to be stopped by Akira in a fit of rage and panic. You’re pulled back by a wire, and hastily decapitated.
This is the total opposite of the other ending where you try to kill Sano. Whereas, in that one, it’s drawn out, meant to hurt, and laced with dialogue I find more than intriguing.
“Normally I don’t give a shit about this torture crap.” + “But you’re making me care about it.”
There’s later dialogue I wanted to save for a bit longer, but it really does tie into what he says here, so I can’t put it off.
However, what Akira says here can be taken as another double entendre (as most things he says can be).
When you get him to open up to you during a scene later in the game, he mentions that torture ‘isn’t really my thing.’
As he’s playing around with tearing your teeth out, he begins to like it, in a sense. He has that need to maim you, when prior he was ‘against’ it.
Throughout his route, he does start to care about it. As in, care that it’s happening if you play your cards right.
But, that relies on you more than it does him, in the same way it did for Sano.
There are many times Akira comes to you, and there are many times where not wanting him to stick around leads him to abandon you altogether.
There’s a scene where you try to escape knowing Sano is asleep at his desk.
Akira says that you’re Sano’s now, and that trying to run away isn’t your best bet.
If you let him go without saying anything, he manhandles you onto the table, and you opt out of getting the option to see him again.
He isn’t questioning this, or bothered by it outwardly, because there’s no need.
When stopped, he rejects what he said earlier.
“Maybe he’ll let you go. I’ve seen it happen before.”
He is gentler while strapping you down, asking if it’s ‘okay’. He puts his trust in you to not make any poor choices that would lead to your premature death.
These little interactions are giving him hope, no matter how tiny. Perhaps unknowingly, as it’s inadvertent. Still, it shows that he’s thinking of you, and considering your safety.
The next time you two interact, he brings you a drink supplement, making a joke that you’re a pet when you ask why he only has snake food, but quickly rethinking his words as to not upset you.
The death here is a bit more personal, not just for his brother’s sake.
Sano is cold and creepy, ‘like a snake’. Akira is warm and nice and easy to open up to.
You don’t know that your insult is directed towards him, too. In fact, there isn’t really any way to know that, considering the MC thinks of nagas as fairytales and didn’t have the conversation with Sano confirming that they aren’t.
Regardless, your remark can’t be taken back. And, in a fit of awe and confusion, you helplessly watch his body morph, and watch as he takes advantage of your stunned state to knock you down to the floor.
The heart color drops to black, similar to one of Sano’s betrayal endings.
And this is a betrayal ending, too.
We know Akira thought of you as ‘different’ in a way, compared either to other people, or other victims he may have had encounters with.
Akira may be warming up to the MC, but the MC’s dialogue still shows that human need to protect themself from danger.
So, in another act of ‘betrayal’ (although lighter), you stay away from him.
I stayed in my spot. This guy was crazy too. Who knows what he’d do to me.
“I’ll see ya.”
He says, dejected.
I like to imagine his face; his eyes as they look at your expression, at the way your body tightens as you reject any more offers for assistance or comfort. The quick twitch of a lip or an eyebrow. The pain of knowing how he is perceived by you, despite trying his hardest not to hurt you.
And, I think he knows he can’t really fault you for that. It’s nature after all. How could he expect otherwise?
He doesn’t put up a fight. Instead, he takes the hint and walks away. Leading to the default death of trying to kill Sano instead.
I like the progression these rejections show. How each and every one is different, more severe in the way it stings for Akira.
This is the final time.
In this interaction, he spills it all, whatever he can to you.
“I’m a contact killer. …The gun. It makes it less personal.” + “Easier to kill when I take the humanity out of it.”
His death endings, save for three (the bat (accidental), the tail (proving a point) and the wire (trying to get you away from Sano) ) all include a gun. Despite thinking of you as Sano’s ‘experiment’, it’s still hard for him to outright kill you. He keeps this bridge up again, to protect himself.
Again, you tell Akira that you don’t want to die. Today, it brings tears to your eyes. A breakdown no longer able to be fend off. Something in him snaps. Tomorrow, you are let go.
I mentioned this prior in Sano’s study, that this might be one of the worst endings to get in any of the games (at least, in my opinion). Not only for you, but for Akira, too.
All this buildup, all of this hope you two hold that maybe you’ll be one of the few who get out alive. The anxious nights you spend in pain, freezing, in fear, inside of Sano’s lab. The anxious nights Akira spends in the rooms feet away from you, thinking to himself that maybe, this time when he checks in on you, you’re already dead. Lying there on the medical bed. Unmoving and bloody, or, morphed into something unrecognizable.
And yet, with that off screen anxiety, he still makes the effort to see you.
I don’t think he’d forgive Sano for killing you once he’s attached to you, but considering he ‘allowed’ his brother to kidnap you to begin with, we know that he isn’t going to open his mouth about it.
I don’t think he’d forgive Sano for this, if he knew about it, either.
After all, the thing controlling you is a demon parasite living in your head. The you that Akira has come to like, to know, to worry about, is no longer the you interacting with him.
Sano has betrayed his brother worse than you ever could, hurt him worse than you ever could.
Their relationship is a tricky one. Codependent, incestuous and toxic.
Sano’s nature is to capture and control. Akira’s nature is clingy in a more acceptable way (for now), he craves to be wanted without the outright force.
They’re two sides of the same coin.
You being in this is bound to not work out. You can’t have one without the other. Despite Sano’s affection (or non-affection) for you, giving something up to his brother is just unfeasible, wrong in his eyes.
This is the last time Akira walks out to leave you alone with Sano. Something he has done in the past. Something he did to separate himself from you in your position.
And something he should regret.
It has been said in an old answer from EP that Akira is never told about this, and that Akira never really finds out about what has happened to you. He’s overjoyed, naive and oblivious to your odd, submissive personality and cheery dialect.
I think Akira’s worst feat is how easily he trusts the people who are close. Unlike most, actually all, Boyfriend to Death characters, Akira is too naive for his own good.
Him allowing Sano to step all over him, and (mostly) dictate how he should act or what he should say. Him not questioning your change in demeanor, or even why Sano let you go in the first place, seals his fate as someone close to Ren in terms of control and emotional maturity.
Sure, it isn’t that bad compared to Ren, and he’s still doing fuck all whenever he wants. He’s free to, but that bond, the closeness he feels towards Sano, that familial need to not disappoint, to not hurt, again as I said before, to protect, is all still there. Ever present.
When they were younger, Akira was spared from torture by Sano. When they were younger, Akira put himself in horrible situations, allowing himself to be abused and assaulted in order to do whatever it took to help Sano out.
And this is how Sano repays him? And this is one of the times Akira is connected to someone that isn’t a fleeting fuck to be forgotten?
It’s in Akira’s nature to flee, it seems. From this happening to begin with, to him walking out on you if you don’t pressure him to stay.
Despite possibly being torn apart inside, I think if the truth ever got out, he’d give you back to Sano. I think something like that is another one of the things he believes are ‘inevitable’.
We’re unsure if this ‘procedure’ is reversible, and it doesn’t seem like Sano has done something so extreme before. It’s a spur of the moment thing he thought of at the last second to give Akira what he wanted. I know that, if Akira did find a way to fix this, that hesitation would stop him from doing so.
Sano did this as an act of mercy towards Akira? As a gift? A reward?
I don’t think he’d be smart enough to see just how bad Sano’s decision is. I don’t think he’d really quite understand that it could be taken as malicious. After all, Sano loves Akira, and while we don’t really get to see them interacting with each other, or even what a confrontation about our ‘predicament’ would look like, we can assume Akira would ‘trust’ Sano’s judgement on this matter.
We can assume however Akira feels will be pushed aside, drowned in the same way our MC drowns their problems out. And he’d start again from square one. This time, possibly making sure to not bring anyone back to his home.
There’s one instance of mercy granted to you. One time this entire game.
“I think I’m dying.”
It takes a single glance over at you to confirm. He knows. There’s absolutely no hope for you, nor for him to convince Sano to change his mind.
There’s a chance to object to Akira’s idea, to beg. And, against his better judgement, he obliges, but states that your only chance of survival is rooted in ‘lying there and taking it’. Not a hopeful statement, not advice to be taken and used in order to stay alive, but instead to ease the pain for when you do end up dying later on. Whether by accident, or purpose.
Still, with his proposal, you think he’s a maniac. And he knows it. But, what else is there for him to do?
He isn’t offended this time, just.. defeated. An eyeroll, a cock of the gun.
Why keep you alive knowing there’s only suffering awaiting you? Some part of you knows this is true, possibly understands him. That adrenaline kick, the desire to live, it’s front and center, but under that, you still know.
How many other chances would you get like this?
Not many.
- - -
In Dollmaker, Akira is a strange case as well. Instead of most rewrites where the character turns out completely different, here, Akira’s traits are amplified, brought out to the light.
The clinginess and the insecurity isn’t as well hidden, though, he’s obviously more mature than he was when he was 19.
Here, you have no prior interactions with Akira to go off of. You aren’t a hookup, or friend, or acquaintance. Here, you’re already something Sano is experimenting on. And now, Akira is more ‘open’ with you.
Your first time meeting Akira has him grabbing you by the throat and pulling you into his lap in the living room. Each option picked leads him to be flirtatious, one instance has you flitting your hands under his jacket, seemingly unbothered by his presence.
You’re asked why you’re running around, telling him in response it’s Sano’s fault since he told you it was alright.
Akira notes this as reckless, but prods the inhuman marking on your skin and says you won’t get far because of it.
In one of the dialogue options, you can ask what it is, to which he tells you it’s a binding spell, and that Sano likes to bend the rules around the magic he can use.
But, this isn’t as important to note compared to his reaction when your hands go further into Akira’s hoodie and feel the handle of a weapon strapped to him.
Unlike the buildup in BTD to Akira telling you what he does, this is quick.
You note that Akira isn’t worried, that he’s not even tensing up, as you say: “I think I figured out what you do.”
And, considering your predicament and lack of attachment, why would he care if you knew so early on?
It wouldn’t cause any strain between you two.
At least, that’s what he’s under the impression of.
“As much as I’d like to continue this conversation. I shouldn’t get to know a corpse.”
However, unlike you needing to reach out to him through Sano, you’re able to go straight to him. You’re able to seek him out, despite himself and in spite of what he said.
You knock, he answers, letting you in as if the moments minutes ago weren’t real.
Now he knows you on a first name basis. Now, there’s a shift in that demeanor. He went from referring to you as a moron Sano picked up to experiment on, to a student, noting sadly that Sano can’t keep his hands off of anybody.
Your conversion continues as he mentions the knife in his pocket is used for execution, rather than the torturing, kidnapping game Sano is playing with you. It’s pushed into your chin, a false threat. One you can play off as nothing, mocking him by calling him a tough guy, and not letting him get another word in before pushing his head into you.
I don’t think either of you planned something like this. But, when you have someone as loose as Akira, always looking for hedonistic pleasure, and an MC who just wants anything to do to forget their circumstances, it was bound to happen.
But, he knows it’s wrong. Saying: “You’re too gentle to be here.” + “Aren’t you supposed to be hating me or something? That is my brother who kidnapped you.”
There is no break, no pause before you respond, shutting his words down.
“Your brother isn’t you. You’ve been kinda nice to me.. Even if I’m a corpse..”
They’re words better left unspoken, leaving him torn up inside, guilty.
He grips your shirt tight, and whispers out an apology.
Much like how he did in Boyfriend to Death, he is hasty to leave. Unable to face you after such a thing. But now, he lets you know that you’re free to stay.
And while this ‘route’ doesn’t go anywhere after this, another iteration of meeting Akira does, in which he tells us that Sano won’t come in here, he’s ‘not that type’.
And it’s true, he doesn’t. Akira’s room is the only safe place in the house for you.
In that ‘route’, you see Annabelle face to face, overhearing her anger and anxiety when it comes to you being around. He’s sympathetic to her, and to you, he isn’t any different.
He doesn't outright call you a corpse here, viewing you in a different light after his ‘scuffle’ with Annabelle, and hearing out her feelings. Seeing you as just another victim after that? It wouldn’t make much sense to.
But, I think that’s worse for you both.
The interactions between you before ended when he walked away, feelings left to die because of guilt and shame.
Here, they have that time to morph and twist, dragging you down a different path than the one Sano had envisioned for you.
Taking the option to rub his shoulders when you choose to stay until he comes home from work has him shaking, anxious about your touch and you as a whole. That is, until you offer yourself to him (the game uses the word ‘forced’ here, when MC kisses him.) as stress relief.
This sex scene is optional, actually, one of the only times where your consent is taken into consideration. He is gentle throughout, giving you a safeword to use if belting you hurts too bad. There are two times where you can decline, both leading him to immediately stop and cuddle you to sleep.
If you don’t initiate and take the other two options given to you when he comes home, they end up in the same scene. With him laying down, and you tracing over the scars on his back.
He mentions that it’s a vulnerable position to be in, and you agree, but you’re there, aren’t you?
“I know. And you shouldn’t be.”
It’s another layered response. For his sake, you shouldn’t be in his room. For Annabelle and your own sake, you shouldn’t be here in this house to begin with.
For his..
“But I am.. I feel safe with you.”
You’ve sealed your fate.
Akira tells you that he won’t let anyone hurt you. And, that is partially true, but a complete lie when directed towards himself.
Choosing to pursue the sex scene or not, leads to the same place. However, I think the conversation above hits the hardest when in retrospect.
In the morning, you meet Sano again in the kitchen, and are able to have a small chat. During this, you can make a rude remark, stating: “maybe you should take better care of your things.”
And while it’s meant to hurt Sano, the only one bothered by it is Akira, as the game lets you know he’s overheard. The compliment you can give Sano is also overheard, and possibly regarded with something akin to jealousy. When the scene ends, and Sano warns you about his brother, you have the chance to grab the doorknob leading outside again.
It isn’t forgotten that you can’t actually run away. This is something you, Sano and Akira all know. It’s just pushed to the side. This truth doesn’t matter when the attempt is all he can focus on.
“You’re trying to leave me?”
“I’m not your prisoner!”
“How fucking like a human.. You all always wanna leave. You all always fucking leave.”
My prior assumption was true. Akira has gone through countless, nameless, faceless hookups, failed relationships, and broken victims. None wanting to stay, none able to stay. Whether because the truth of what he does and who he is is unbearable, or because of Sano’s interference, they all end up going before he does.
“What happened to you?”
This time, the blame isn’t pushed to Sano, instead homed in on you and you alone. His actions are his, and his alone.
“You did.”
You wake up handcuffed, staring at the knife he wields. This time, it isn’t a useless threat, but actually used to harm you, pushed into the skin upon your thigh.
A rape scene can be somewhat avoided, if you beg for him to cut you. But, then he begins to falter, unable to fully carry out whatever punishment he deemed necessary, quick to fuck you.
Maybe you’ve gone crazy, maybe this is a coping mechanism, maybe you’ve figured out what to do to make him tick. After all, all he wishes is to be needed, craved, asked for, begged for.
Rationally, instinctively, you’d bash your head into his face. In reality, you’d watch as his blood splattered upon you, as it dripped off his lips and his chin. You’d watch him crack it into place, and helplessly watch as he retaliates and urges you onto continuing your scuffle.
A taser is jabbed into your skin, pricking you, stinging you repeatedly.
This Akira is unlike the one we knew previously, in Dollmaker and in BTD.
Within this scene, all intentions are to hurt you. Not to punish you for what you’ve done to Sano, or tried to do, but instead, this is punishment for you attempting to flee. This becomes something for his own personal gain very quickly.
Even when you’re stopped by knocking, even when he knows Sano has overheard the chaos, he refuses to back down. He’s too lost, too arrogant.
Before, willingly, Akira had given you up to Sano.
Now, with a gun pressed under your throat, he orders you to tell Sano the opposite.
And now, Sano is the one giving up. Sadly, upsettingly so, Akira was right when he had said you wouldn’t be bothered in his room. Sadly, upsettingly so, Akira was right when he had said you wouldn’t be hurt by anyone else.
The training you're forced under is solitary confinement.
For days on end, you’re alone in his closet, anxiously awaiting his arrival. And when it comes, there is no need for a parasite to control your mind. It snapped within the days, weeks, months you had spent with your own thoughts, the time you spent fighting the urge of rebellion, the time given for reflection.
Any nsfw headcanons for Strade and Ren being together?
I like Dom Ren, I think Dom Ren is fucking awesome. I'm not sure if others do, but maybe I can convert you guys (･ω･)
Ren + Strade NSFW Headcanons:
there are times where Ren does a complete 180 in sexual encounters
i'm talking about going from greedy and semi-submissive, to violent towards Strade to the point of needing to be physically held back
this usually happens during the peak of his heat, but sometimes it's due to a lack of stimulation and release. y'know, when he's pent up and deprived and unable to take it out on a victim?
he's biting, gnawing, clawing, pouncing, unable to take no for an answer
however, instead of Strade taking this as an actual act of violence (or rebellion), he treats it as a game.
he's muzzling Ren, pinning him to the ground, spitting degrading words and urging him on.
"c'mon, you want it? push me off of you. do it. come fuck me."
to an outsider, it's a scuffle, a violent fight for dominance that has Ren shrieking, either in frustration or pain when the collar is activated once he crosses a line
but Strade knows it's play, knows that once Ren is on top and inside, he melts and caves like a puppy
Ren might be lost in pleasure, unable to understand the words: "down. bad dog. knock it off." but he understands what a tug of a leash means.
it's how Strade keeps control, because without that (and the remote), I don't think he'd be able to really stay in power (even though Ren wouldn't completely take it) (but Strade doesn't know that)
afterwards, their interactions are awkward, full of Ren anxiously avoiding Strade's gaze, even though Strade (despite being left with injuries) was pretty happy and proud about the whole ordeal !
and besides, if he wasn't, he's got no issue caging Ren like an actual animal (yes, to add insult to injury, this would include a cock cage)
This one didn't come out as I originally planned, as I'm mostly focusing on things I think are peculiar about Sano that most might not notice. Y'know, the hidden (maybe not-so-hidden) details that get overlooked because of the writing 'skill'?
There are references to Dollmaker, which, if you all so please, you can play the old demo here.
(Keep in mind that this is a long post, but not as long as my last study, and there are minor spoilers for Dollmaker !)
"A Doll can be naked and never feel shy or sexualized or degraded. That's what I want."
(American Mary | 2012 )
There’s something peculiar about The Snake Pit compared to the other bars around town. It’s your run of the mill nightclub, bright and loud. Alcoholics and sexual deviants surround you, loose in their nature, and in their morals.
This place fits the MC, You, more than The Braying Mule, (where there’s people chatting together while you’re alone), and more than the Snapdragon Jazz Longue, (where there’s an expectation of manners and riches and things that you aren’t).
There are people your age, looking for what you’re looking for. A name to forget, a body to remember. A quick one-off, and more drinks than your liver can handle.
The one who stands out here isn’t you for once, it’s Sano.
He’s sitting alone at the bar, seemingly uninterested in interacting with anyone there. He doesn’t dance, doesn’t take a drink off the glass he’s stirring, and comments on your drinking habits, saying that it’s too early for liquor.
He’s not dressed up flashy, but not sticking out because he’s plain, either. He seems to be there not on his own free will, possibly convinced to come by his brother.
If asked, he mentions that he is alone most days than not, and that is something you can relate to.
He doesn’t stick around long after that, nor does he want to, giving you his number when prompted, then hastily making an exit.
This is different. No man is coercing you out of the building, no man is looking to take advantage of someone who is alone (unless you leave without Akira, then he snatches you out of the alley).
This is where you bump into Akira, someone who fits that criteria of your one-night stand. He’s cute, he’s nice, he’s flirty, he’s possibly (highly likely) drunk, and you have that added bonus of knowing Sano (loosely).
If you’re on good terms with Sano, why wouldn’t Akira be on good terms with you?
This route, at its core, was a complete accident. It is the most tragic within its existence. Not only does it hurt you, but it hurts Akira, inadvertently so, as well.
I’m planning on doing another analysis for Akira, so I won’t tackle too much on that point right now, however it is something to keep in mind as this all takes place
To get back on track, we must think of setting once again.
Both Rire and Strade’s respective routes have this intimate feel to them. You are in Strade’s basement, someone else’s cherished home, and your own home, your sanctuary, with Rire.
Here, there is no security knowing there’s a place warm with someone else as a living (even as a victim) upstairs. No familiarity to be found within your books and your kitchen.
There is no sign of life. No posters or mugs, no decorations, and no clutter. The smell is clean, sterile, no scent of warm candles or food, no lingering colognes or the musk of a body.
No stains on power tools and concrete that tell a story. No warped faces in pictures and doors leading outside leading to your bedroom.
It’s steel greys and dark blues, drab, polished and empty.
A hospital room without the bright lighting, without the company of soft face nurses, without the safety of knowing you’ll be taken care of.
You were drugged, and strapped onto an exam table. No blankets given, and no pillows.
Sano treats this as nothing more than work.
Unlike Strade, who took great pleasure in getting to unravel you.
Unlike Rire, who wanted someone to toy with.
You do not get the luxury of free movement. From minute one, your bodily autonomy is stripped away.
You’re pumped full of drugs to put you to sleep, to keep you docile. Your legs and your arms are bound more often than not.
Going against his orders doesn’t lead to sadomasochistic excitement, it leads to pure punishment. A punch in the face, a knife to the arm, a monstrous creature eating you alive.
Sano is no nonsense, leading him to be cold, and brutally honest.
Rire lied to you more times than he told the truth.
Strade may not be deceptive, but he is emotional about his whole ordeal.
Sano tells you right away what he’s going to do, and that you will not survive it. He does not seem to care much whether or not you’re bothered by this harsh reality.
It comes across as hopeless, as if you’re completely disposable after the fact, as if you are not worthy of much other than for this one specific curiosity.
And, you really aren’t unless you manage to play your cards right. Even then, it is so hard to do so, despite the fact that Sano holds the record for most survival endings within BTD 1.
Throughout the game, Sano shows little to nothing about himself. There are no glimpses of the man he is outside of his ‘studies’. No deep conversations, or whispers of information, there are no beats in the torture and praises to go with it.
To you, he is nothing more than a serial killer. This he agrees with, stating himself that this is what he is, and there’s no sense to be made of it.
You were kidnapped because you were alone. You were kidnapped because you happened to stumble into the wrong room. No planning, no victim preferences, no need to learn more about who you are, but instead how you react to pain.
He is opportunistic, you are just unlucky.
However, there are things that slip to the surface. If you warm up to him, are receptive, new opportunities arise for you in the form of ‘intimacy’.
You can ask him to rub your legs after they’ve gotten sore from being strapped down. This, he complies with, though he is shocked at the offer. Here, he notes that you are sensitive as you get red in the face. He calms your nerves, letting you know that he isn’t going to force himself upon you.
And he’s right, out of all the BTD 1 (Excluding Ren) cast, the only time sexual encounters with Sano occur is due to you initiating.
Though, it’s peculiar. Touching someone’s legs (more importantly, massaging them) is seen as sexual to most people. But to him, it’s as if he’s doing something mundane, like washing his hands. Despite you being embarrassed, he isn’t. He hasn’t a need for it. At this point in time, it’s just wound aftercare, nothing more than clinicality.
He does this a lot, more often than not, actually.
The following scene after this isn’t an example of that, but rather one that shows sadism that feels.. off, compared to other times where he is cruel.
When prompted with the option to say that it’s hot when he turns the heat up, he will go out of his way to cool you off with a wet rag, allowing you to fall asleep easier.
The day after is the same scene regardless of your choices, always leading to him burning you.
But.. when he does that? Cools you off one minute, then turns around and burns you the next? It shows him taking mental notes of what makes you tick and what doesn’t. He uses the information given against you.
It shows that, even when it’s cruel, he takes things into consideration.
Like, how he takes into consideration that the burns get worse if you beg him to hurt you, and his hands make full contact with your flesh. He’ll offer cream, leading to another comforting break in his cold nature with him applying it.
These instances are rare, intimate softness that he seems almost nervous to show towards you. Or, rather than nervous, full on guilty.
He knows the imbalance between you and him is undeniably a large gap.
Not only are you a lab rat, but you’re a victim, one he was planning on killing.
Having you come to him for comfort, want it, beg for it, is going to be quite the shock.
He has done this plenty of times, though we are unsure the exact amount, but it seems like you’re the first to take the plunge leading to stockholm syndrome.
You complicate things for him, leading to these leaking gaps of humanity buried somewhere underneath the layers of curious, sadistic filth.
And this complicates things for you, too. In grievous ways I’ll touch on in a bit.
When you break free of your physical restrictions, you’re given the option to check on him as he sleeps away at his desk. When indulging in that option, he pulls you onto his lap, crossing that line from Patient and Doctor (Victim and Perpetrator). He asks if it bothers you, when he confirms it doesn’t, he calls you an ‘odd creature’. Not odd person, creature.
If you examine his face, his movements, the dialogue where you ask him “What’s wrong?” and he responds with “Nothing.”, it’s so very obvious that it’s getting harder and harder to hide the guilt he feels when presented with something like this.
The next day, it becomes even more apparent.
Moving onto the day where Sano brings up the topic of prefrontal lobotomies, if you’ve chosen all the correct dialogue options, you’re able to respond with “Maybe a bit”, to the anxiety question, and are aching to reach out and touch him.
I think MC here is going a bit crazy at this point.
You’re thrown into this place with no comfort, with this man who is regarded as ‘cold’, and ‘inhuman’, and are becoming increasingly desperate for something other than more torture, more disregard.
He jumps back and covers his mouth, watching you collapse from the medical table to the floor. Leaning down to help you has him somewhat going back on his word that he wouldn’t force himself upon you, because without his prior consideration, he’s groping your ass. Shocked that he could conjure up such a thing, he has to take a step back, talking to himself in Japanese, saying (translated): “I messed up.”
Implying he knows he’s pushing past that point of no return.
No.
He’s already there. Him flinching back, scrambling for separation, that’s his last chance to gain control over his human nature, over this situation before it’s too late.
Your actions here are detrimental to whether or not you end up surviving, whether or not Sano stops clinging to the clinicality to spare himself the emotions.
Refusing to crawl over, clinging to your own dignity, perhaps because it’s embarrassing, perhaps because you, too, know it’s wrong and shouldn’t push it, has you sleeping on the ground, proposing that you should be grateful since he hasn’t killed you yet.
The next day leads you into the default death ending for his route, in which you’re injected with a mysterious liquid, before being turned into an incubator in order to birth centipedes.
The thing we need to pay attention to is the heart color, the key gameplay feature for BTD. This is one of the few significant drops in affection within the series. Going from red (or however bright you’ve gotten it), to complete black.
Sano’s demeanor has reverted back to how it was prior to you getting close. He treats you cruelly, a way to get himself grounded in reality again. A grim reminder of what was supposed to be an unavoidable fate.
He let you get into his head; pretending as if you’re just an odd-acting experiment and nothing more is better than the alternative.
Usually, if you’re getting a survival ending, most won’t care if you consent or not, if you want to or not. Rire gives you an ultimatum, but that is dependent on how he feels about you. Strade as well, though you don’t have an option to decline.
Sano can have as high of an affection meter as you can achieve, but your fate is still up to you. You don’t know this, Sano is not good at showing this to you.
Crawling over is diving into this black area of morality. You, wanting to repay him for his mercies, is dragging him under, subtly morphing him into a being he thinks is worse than just being a serial killer.
“I don’t think you know what you’re doing.” It’s his almost frustrated expression when he says it, as if he’s cursing himself for all of this. The words themselves, wrapped in utter denial. You couldn’t do this, not on your own free will. If you could, it’s not your fault. You’re naive, delusional from blood loss, or..
You do.
You know exactly what you’re doing. You just don’t foresee its consequences.
He has the upper hand here; at any point, he could restrain you, drug you, push you off. Instead, he falls victim to the sensations, gaining control only to fuck down your throat.
And it’s wrong.
And you two have this mutual understanding of the destruction it could be causing. But for the first time in Sano’s life, it doesn’t seem like he cares.
The sex scene ends with him asking: “...Why…?”
Why? Directed to you, yes. Because, how could you be okay with something like this?
But, it’s directed towards himself, too.
Why? When he’s never done it before, wanted to before, why now?
Why you, why this, why him?
The next morning, you might as well have woken up with someone else.
In place of coldness, and detachment, is something akin to frantic obsession. Newborn and unfamiliar for you, pushed away and locked up.
Now, he has made dolls before; in the CG for this ending, we can see parts of things behind him, including Annabelle, who sits unmoving on a chair. She is someone said to have known the twins for years, since they were little, and has possibly gotten to know Sano on a deeper level than what we assume. This isn’t his first time doing such a drastic change to someone else’s body.
But, it seems like it’s a drastic change for him. ‘Loving’ someone like this, attaching himself to them. Specifically, a victim. It’s new, possibly frightening in a sense, and overwhelming. Something shifted within him, something you’re worsening.
Refusing to go along with it is only the natural choice.
Who wants to lose their limbs? Who would put themself through the pain, the lack of autonomy? Who wouldn’t beg for another option? Seek it out?
That’s the catch to someone who seems like the easier choice between the other two men within the game. Needing to lose yourself entirely.
Here, it’s a much more physical loss, instead of Strade’s collar around your neck, or the spiritual potion bottle ending with Rire.
It’s rooted in something human, in ridding away with something human. Reducing you to an object to gawk at, to play with. Molding you to fit a view of ‘perfection’.
In the death ending alternative, Sano mentions that: “I broke another one.”
Another one.
How many? Was it accidental? Was it purposeful? One-sided? Was there even an iota of guilt before, or is this new?
He doesn’t want you to hurt. If he knows one thing about this relationship, it’s that it hurts. It’ll always hurt. Your hands, your legs. Could be weapons. Always will hurt.
It’s a tragedy in its existence. You, who has escaped that agony. Him, who will always look back at you with guilt. He’s happy, the most we’ve ever seen him, actually.
But, at what cost?
Who’s to say you won’t have those days where he can’t look at you? Where you’re in Annabelle’s shoes, sitting silently amongst dozens of failures? It’s punishment to rely on someone who can’t even deem you human at times, who looks at you as an odd creature.
That’s the theme for Sano, even in other survival endings. Not one, do you get to keep holding onto who you are.
Within the second survival route excluding Akira, you’re leaning more towards masochism than anything.
Begging to be burned, begging to be cut. Admitting that maybe you like the heat. This raises his affection tenfold, and during this route you learn that he isn’t human, much like you suspected. That he’s a naga. And that most people who fall victim to him “cry, and die.”
There’s a forked dialogue option here, one that leads to the same default ending I brought attention to before (“sounds a little.. scary.”), and the other:
“Sounds a little pathetic.”
And, while he states that it’s cold of you to say that about other victims who’ve been in your circumstance, it raises his heart color anyway.
You mention that you won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry, and he takes it as a challenge.
That affection meter, that significant drop, this is the second time it happens.
There’s metal against your chest, a firm hand with sadistic intent clutching it. There’s a pause, a singular thought in your head.
‘I started to panic. Maybe I don’t want this.’
And, even though you don’t express it outright. And, even though you don’t yell. He reads your face, your body language, identifying you before your brain can process everything. As if he’s figured you out, caught you up in a lie. The lie so human.
Pathetic. You had said. That your predecessors had human emotions such as fear, and human feelings such as pain.
But, when it comes down to it. No matter the amount of repression you can conjure up, it’s there.
“That’s what I thought.” He says. “I’ll give you something to be afraid of.” He bares his fangs and bites.
“You think it’s fun to fuck with me?” They’re words that sit with you and resonate. A feeling of dread in the pit of your stomach.
They’re victim blaming in nature, diverting his feelings once again.
He is so angry. He is full of hate for you. But, more importantly, if we remember the past death ending alternative, he is heartbroken. Feeling led on.
You die like the rest of them, again. Watched, a mistake upon mistake.
The sex scene alternative ends with a cleanup. With Sano stating: “Isn’t that what people do?”
The next morning, he mentions that he doesn’t normally have sex with ‘victims’, implying that by passing through that threshold, much like with ‘Sano Made You Perfect’, he can’t keep seeing you as a victim anymore.
It wouldn’t make sense to.
The second and final death down this path is accurately named: ‘Sano Thought You Were Different’.
You “die just like everyone else”.
It is fast; no fanfare, no needless dialogue.
One minute, you’re hovering over someone who was destined to be murdered by your hands. The next, you’re collapsing onto the floor, watching your own blood coat the man in front of you.
Here, there is no necessity to push the blame upon you. It is him who had thought you weren’t how you were. It is a mistake on his part. A waste of time, even.
It lacks that cruel edge the game has within its deaths. Even in Sano’s own, pain isn’t the main focus anymore.
The point I am trying to make here, with this specific route deviation, is that you two are trading places. Not physically, but morally.
For him to gain humanity, you must lose yours.
– – –
Not a lot of people know about Dollmaker, but I have gone out of my way to collect all the information I can find to simplify things. I have left a download link to the game itself at the very top of this post, if anyone might find themself curious to enjoy what little there is.
I’m including this like how I included BTD1 for YKMET Strade’s study, just to see the comparisons between two iterations.
Dollmaker is completely separated from the original BTD1, taking place when Sano and Akira are 26, which would be 7 years after BTD1.
You and Sano here are on common ground, are somewhat ‘equal’ in the beginning, with the only power imbalance being the statuses. You, being a med student. Sano, being an ambassador for interspecies medical research (think beastkin, demons, ect.)
He’s cordial, friendly towards you. He mentions that you’d make a good doctor. When things get down to it, and you’re kidnapped, he doesn’t really stop treating you as a person like how he did in BTD.
He chats with you about Oomukade, and the things decorating his room. There’s an interaction during the morning when you go searching for breakfast, where you can compliment his eye, and another thing I want to get to in a minute.
He has a purpose for you outside of the need for experimentation. A need to see you, rather than just how you react to pain.
Your point here is to see if you’re worthy enough to be a doll. Whereas in BTD, that seemed like a spur of the moment decision he turned to due to haste obsession
The downside to this is that he is more cruel, more openly sadistic towards you.
This is reflected in a dialogue option if you choose to go back to the operation room and scream at him when he straps you down.
“Just for that, I’ll make sure this hurts.”
“Anesthetic seems like a waste of time on someone like you.”
In a drastic turn of events, your eyes are gouged out from your body and replaced. A modification not found within Sano’s BTD route, nor any of his endings.
And, after this mutilative torture, lies a rape scene, which goes against Sano’s prior promise to you 7 years ago.
It seems as if the passage of time has amplified what was already there inside him, bringing along new lows we don’t get to see the complete extent of.
In other dialogue when interacting with Akira, Akira notes that it’s reckless to be letting you wander around.
In more interactions with Sano, particularly the ones after sleeping in Akira’s room, you state:
“Maybe you should take better care of your things.” This, he laughs at, although it inadvertently hurts his brother.
Sano agrees with you, and says that: “It’s a little difficult to do when my things can just walk away without me noticing.”
I wanted to touch on that a bit more. Because, as Akira stated, it is very reckless for him to do.
We have gone from you sedated and tied down, to you being able to roam free.
Here, the MC has a supernatural tie to Sano that supposedly keeps them trapped in the home, and doesn’t allow them to kill Sano.
Still, putting this amount of trust, supernatural mark or not, into someone so early on..?
It’s a similar situation with Strade in YKMET, not quite the same, but close.
It’s confidence. Sano has grown secure in himself, in the things that he does. There are no doubts, no need for contemplation.
You are treated as a person because, in order for you to live, he needs to see you as such.
Whether or not that is a good thing, I think, is up to personal interpretation. I think it’s a grey area, a mix of both.
– — –
There’s another thing I want to briefly talk about, something very important I’ve been setting aside.
Sano’s relationship with Akira, and how the two interact with each other.
I can’t go into too much detail, as I’m currently in the process of writing Akira’s own character study, and I don’t want to spoil it !
However, there’s something odd about the way Sano seems to brush off Akira and how interacting with you affects his emotions.
He trusts Akira more than anything, loves him more than anything. And yet, when it comes down to outside forces, whatever view of you Akira may have might as well be worthless.
I’ve said it so many times here, it’s possibly repetitive, but now we know for certain that Sano barely recognizes you as your own person in BTD.
Sano sees your connection to Akira as something purely sexual, nothing more. This, Sano barely needs to question because it’s none of his business. They don’t question each other's bad habits, which means Akira doesn’t feel the need to speak out about you being taken in.
The final, and honestly most heartbreaking survival ending in Boyfriend to Death 1, is where you’re forced to be a centipede’s living host.
Akira had begged for you to stay, possibly knowing the consequences of Sano and how he tends to ‘let others go’. And, because of that attachment, you have the worst fate between bodily autonomy being stolen from you, and your mind being shattered.
You’re overtaken. Akira is overjoyed. And Sano is still Sano, reveling in the feeling of utter control.
And, while Akira might not know about this revelation, Sano does. And Sano must know how bad it would make his brother feel if word got out somehow.
Sano doesn't seem to care. As long as he has gotten control over you, why should he?
and what if the character wasn't directly rejected but at every turn they were made to experience situations that made them feel completely irrefutably unwanted. what then
