Epilogue + NSFW Art
by Mae Celeste
I stared at my laptop screen, the cursor blinked mockingly at me. The words were there, swimming in my head, but they refused to spill onto the page. This torture scene was pivotal, the moment where the reader truly understood the depths of my antagonist’s depravity. But it felt all wrong. I’d scoured books and the depths of the internet for authenticity, but nothing clicked. Frustration bubbled within me, a writer’s block from hell.
In a moment of desperation, I picked up my phone and shot Haides a text. He was the last person I should be asking for help with this, but he was also the most qualified. I described the scene in detail, the positioning, the tools, the psychological warfare at play. I hit send and waited, my gaze fixed on the little bubble with three dots indicating he was typing. It flickered in and out, teasing me with the promise of a reply, before vanishing altogether.
Hours passed. The sun dipped below the horizon, and still no word from Haides. I tried to distract myself with another cup of coffee, a mindless scroll through social media, but my thoughts kept circling back to that damn scene. Just as I was about to give up hope, my phone vibrated against the table.
Haides’ name flashes across the screen, and I snatched up the phone, my heart pounded in my chest. A surge of elation coursed through me as I read his direct message, filling me with an inexplicable sense of excitement. He told me the scene was doable, his careful choice of words hinting at a dark truth. He replicated it for me.
A rush of warmth flooded through me, an overwhelming sense of love for this man who would do anything for me.
I turned back to my laptop, my fingers hovered over the keys. The words flowed effortlessly now, inspired by the genuine article, fueled by the knowledge that Haides had brought my imagination to life. The scene unfolded on the page, brutal and unflinching, a testament to Haides’ guidance and my own twisted creativity.
As I finished the last sentence, I sat back and let out a long breath. The scene was complete, a gruesome tableau that would leave my readers both horrified and captivated. And at the heart of it all was Haides, my muse of mayhem, the man who had shown me that sometimes, the line between fiction and reality was thinner than we think.
