“No fear is more powerful than fear of the unknown.”
Horror Inspired Starters.
❝ For most, that is true.❞ Like the beckoned curiosity of a hand to reach far beyond enlightened limits, into the dark abyss of unknown. ❝ Lack of certainty allows the imagination to run wild--- most of what thoughts bring are from paranoia and anxiety.❞ Perhaps a snake lies ahead in the dark pit, is one so willing to reach down inside with the uncertain presence of harm?
❝ Do you fear from your human incapability for omniscience?❞
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Reba works, has always worked, to think the best of other’s. Accidents, confusion, misguided intentions; all of them chalked up to simple mistakes. People mean well, don’t they? They don’t always do well, but they mean well.
But not tonight, not this.
It had been a perfect evening. Francis and her had snuck out after work, eager for the weekend, and caught a quick movie. She likes watching films with him, likes how they sit away from everyone else and how he leans in close to her ear. Tiny details not important to the plot, beautiful descriptions that always result in her beaming, Francis reveals them all to her so that they she can enjoy it as much as he does. (And in return she occasionally slips her hand over to lightly rest against his thigh, a teasing reminder of what undoubtedly awaits them when they head home for the evening).
It’s close enough to a tiny coffee shop that they decided to go grab a drink afterwards, the air wonderfully chill with the beginnings of snowflakes. His hand wraps tightly around her’s and she beams for it, resting her head lightly against his shoulder as they walk. Thanksgiving comes up again and he seems eager for it beneath the quiet anxiety, offering his help in preparing everything she’s promised him. She hears the car approach and thinks nothing of it. After all, Francis always stands on the side closest to the street, a barrier between her and everything that could harm her. However, he can’t protect her from what follows.
The car slows and she blinks, confused, and she hears it. It’s yelled riotously, followed by laughter, and it catches her so off guard that it steals her breath away. That word. There’s something addressed to Francis then, something about him loving someone like her, and the car speeds up and they’re left in the silence. She can’t move, feel paralyzed. It rings in her mind, screaming and echoing, and Reba wonders at first if she’s misheard it. She had to have imagined it, surely no one would be so foul as to say it, not now, not here.
Her lungs burn and it occurs to her she hasn’t been breathing. She sucks in a sudden gasp of air, her hands shaking furiously, and before she knows what’s happening Francis pulls her tightly against him. She blinks, unable to think, to focus, and at first she believes the snowflakes must be melting on her cheeks. “Are-, are you,” Reba hears Francis pause, his speech is slipping again, “Are you ok?”
“I’m fine,” Reba whispers back and closes her eyes tightly to rid herself of the voice ringing in her ears, “I...I’m fine, babe. Let’s-,” She swallows hard, “Maybe we just call it a night, how’s that sound?”
The car ride back to his house is silent, but his hand moves to wrap so tightly around her own it would ache if she didn’t need his touch. It’s a vile word, that, but it’s something she’s been warned about all her life, insidious it may be. However, it makes her all the more angry that someone had the audacity to bring Francis into this, so hurl something so horrifically awful at him. What must that have done to him? He’s warned her so often, worried for her of what might follow for her to be seen with him, but has she warned him of the opposite?
His hand doesn’t leave her own as he helps her settle onto his couch. He’s been silent the whole time and she wonders if he’s hurt or angry, perhaps both.
“I’m sorry,” Francis finally states by her side and he sounds so wholly mournful her heart aches all the more, “I...remembered their license plate. We could call the police.”
Her thin facade breaks down entirely then and she buries her face against his shoulder, grateful to be protected by his strong embrace. “I don’t care what they said, Francis. They...they can go fuck themselves for all I care. I-, who the hell even says things like that anymore? And...and-,” She’s rambling now, livid and hurt and shaking, but she quiets herself when he kisses into her hair. A hand slowly caresses up and down her back, his strong nose nuzzling into her.
“I’m sorry,” He repeats again and there’s a sorrow in his voice she’s never heard before. He can protect her from so much, from near everything, but not from this.
“No, I’m sorry, Francis,” Reba whispers in reply, voice wavering, “I...I’m sorry, what they said to you. I….know you don’t like people talking about us and-, and you, and something as awful as that. I know people will say things because-, because you’re with me but-”
“No,” Francis interrupts and she blinks. He tilts her chin up and his fingers rest against the side of her jaw softly, “I don’t...care what they say. They don’t matter.”
They don’t matter. What she’s told him so many times, now directed to her. Her eyes sting with the first hints of tears. “They don’t matter,” Francis repeats firmly, “Only you matter. You...are perfect.”
Reba allows herself to cry then and he folds her back into his embrace, showering her head and cheeks with kisses. “I love you,” She whispers and clings to him, burying herself in that safe haven between his neck and his shoulder. Yes, only he matters. Only they matter, together.
Does your muse have any specific kinks? //Because Francis knows everything else lol
Reba would NEVER admit to it, or at least admit it while she’s sober, but she absolutely wants to be loosely restrained. Not anything mean-spirited or that would necessarily make her submissive, but something like ribbons holding her hands back would be an absolute turn on for her. She trusts Francis enough that the idea of wholly trusting him and allowing him control is something she enormously wants and may eventually work up to asking.
It’s not often she wakes up before him, but it appears this morning is the exception. Reba shifts lazily, tugging herself closer to the large body aside her. Still in that perfect midway point between being asleep and awake, she hums under her breath as the warmth seeps over her. A slender leg drapes over his thigh and she buries her face against his neck, in the tiny space that seems as it was designed for her.
As slumber slowly fades, she smiles.
He had worked so hard to quickly count all the steps in the room for her, bless him. It was a bit different than the photos online, he’d quickly explained, and he worked to guide her through every detail but her arms were wrapped around his neck and Reba contented herself fully with kissing him. She had laughed against his neck and chest, grinning and beaming and still wholly, blissfully
happy.
Save for Francis’ gentle breathing, the room seems silent at first, but Reba focuses intently. Yes, it must be early, because she can hear a few birds chattering out the window and the faint distant honk of a car. He had gone out of his way to pick the perfect place for her, that much she didn’t doubt, had taken it upon himself to find some place not only easy for her to memorize but most importantly, someplace rich with sounds and smells. But now, with the faint chill of the morning air streaming in through their window, she supposes it must be around dawn, the sun only starting to rise.
Reba smiles again and nuzzles his shoulder, breathing in his familiar scent and letting his skin warm her mouth. Fingers trail down his arm and she finds his hand. She smiles again. There, on his finger, she feels it. It’s a simple band, he was adamant he didn’t want anything ostentatious, and instead of a large rock there’s a few small dots raised on the metal. It matches the one resting on her own finger.
Reba closes her eyes, memorizing the moment fully. Every detail, every sensation; all of it locked away in her mind. Somehow, they’ve found each other and here they are, together. Forever. He shifts in his sleep and she readjusts, curling against him and resting a hand over his heart to feel the steady beat beneath. Your’s. He had told her that the first night, had touched her heart and stated it so sweetly, so simply she couldn’t help but repeat it.
Now, she rests her finger and the metal band surrounding it over his heart, lowering her voice to a whisper, and states it once more. Yours.
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In all honesty, I can’t entirely remember how or why I started. I was 14 or 15 years old and obsessed with Cowboy Bebop, so I (somehow) stumbled across a LiveJournal RPG group and joined. I’ve been roleplaying ever since (I’ve never stopped. Ever.), so I think it’s a creative release. I can’t bring myself to write original stuff everyday, but I can write on here every day, and I really think that’s helped me to grow as a writer.
40. Do you like to plot or improv?
I’m honestly game for either. Typically, I throw out a small idea, and then it grows via improv. I’ve only encountered one RPer who DEMANDED a play-by-play plan, and that honestly sucked the fun out of it for me. I like to be surprised, so I suppose that overall, I prefer to improv.
54. What’s a trope or plot you love but you’ve never gotten to roleplay or never gotten to roleplay in completion?
Honestly, this is the first site where anything I’ve written has gotten completed (probably thanks to the fact there are multiple threads), but I really love historical AUs. Anything set in the past is an automatic YES for me, ‘cause I’m obsessed with other time periods. I also miss the supernatural elements of my Dark Shadows RPG days, so even though I’m rather scornful (sorry) of new age vampire/werewolf/witch literature, I do miss writing those sort of tropes. And quite frankly, Hannibal is perfect for vampirism since vampires have been written as a form of cannibalism in classic literature.
Send this to find my muse at the end of a trail of blood.
There is a smear of bloodstretching from the floor at the threshold into the apartment.
A lamp is overturnedand flickering, its bulb having come somewhat dislodged from itsplace when it fell. It cast long, eerie shadows against the back walland illuminated a set of red fingerprints on the wallpaper. The smallend table that held the lamp is still standing by the couch, but itsdrawer has been tugged free and lies across the room with papers anda few loose bullets gleaming in the flickering lamp light. A rug istwisted. The coffee table is askew, but the kitchen is spotless savefor the sprinkles of crimson on the tiles and the one drawer thatdangles open. There are red smudges on the white paint. There is aknife missing from the rows of utensils.
The blood leads back fromthe kitchen and through the little dining area, which connects to theliving room. It dips into the bedroom; the door is pressed into theback wall. Its knob left an imprint in the wood when it was flungopen. The bed sheets are rumpled and against the far wall across fromthe gaping doorway, she sits with a hand pressed to her midsection.
Her lips are parted andair slips through them, forming tiny bubbles of watery blood in thecorner of her mouth. Her whole body is tense, red fingers clutch thehandle of the knife missing from the kitchen. Her hair is ruffled andhanging on either side of her pale face. The tip of the knife drawslittle circles in the air as she holds it unsteadily in front of her.There is a great deal of red seeping into the wallpaper and thecarpet beneath her and the fabric of her once white tank top. Theperson that fills the door is something inhuman, but not unfamiliar.
She knows well thatposture, the calculating steps, the deep rumbling voice like a growl.“Why are you doing this?” She pants, wishing that she could standto face him. But one hand holds the knife and the other is holdingher blood inside or attempting to at least. “I was trying to helpyou!” Her bare toes dig into the carpet, she utters a faint cursebeneath her breath and moves her hand from her wound, pressing it tothe wall. Knees shaking, she forces herself halfway up before leaningonto her elbow and damming the flow of blood with her fingertips.She's only partially standing, but it's better than cowering on thefloor.
“I was trying to helpyou!”
She has fought monstersbefore, but this is another matter entirely and she is painfullyaware that a knife is a poor weapon with which to slay a Dragon.
