#And please use your fucking brain when reading this to recognize that I am not stoked about either country

[vamptastic]

Legitimately might leave the country, so there's that at least

[deepestnightcolor]

First of all, I love the way you write it always helps me picture in my brain the scene so thanks for that~

I'll stop being mushy now hehe

I've been having thoughts about the fem!farmer having a profile on a site to look for hookups before moving to Pelican Town and forgetting about how she used to have spicy texts with Sam just to accidentally meeting him on the streets of her new town while going on a stroll 😏 hehe

Anyways! Have an amazing day!!!

ᴀ/ɴ: IT MIGHT BE FINALS SEASON FOR ME (please, end me) BUT THAT DOESN'T STOP ME FROM KEEPING YOU ALL FED IN ADDITION TO THE OTHER GLORIOUS MEALS YOU MAY CONSUME HERE. Thank you so much for the praise, lovely, it means THE WORLD. I hope you forgive me that I gave this story a little twist, and that you enjoy nonetheless!

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Sam (SDV) x fem!Reader

ᴡᴄ: 3789 words

ᴍᴅɴɪ ✧ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: sexting, dirty talk, praising, unprotected sex, slobber, pierced dick (I said it and I will say it again, fight me), mutual pining, you are being pounded~, cream pie.

☾ ᴍ��ᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴏɴʟɪɴᴇ ☽

Sometimes you still read them. Read them when you were touching yourself beneath the sheets of your bed, read them when you wanted to get in the mood. Sometimes you still read them when you needed a little inspiration, but it was a fact that you still read them.

Normally, you deleted every conversation you had had on that website. But the ones with him had been so… entirely different. It wasn’t like you had been looking for something when you signed up on a site that promised quick, anonymous chats. Chats that could be easily discarded and forgotten. Messages that had one purpose; to still the one’s lust and then move on. To put it simply, a website that promised horny people to meet other horny people, whether it stayed digital or became real was none of their business.

You had never wanted any of this to become real – you were happy to play around with someone and be played around with when you laid in bed, all bored and horny. You were satisfied by being told how good you would be railed, happy with empty promises of being treated like a goddess. Comfortable with sharing some pictures – of course well-placed pictures, hiding details that would enable being recognized, never showing your face. At least you had been happy with building castles in the air until you had met him.

You had stumbled across him in one of the forums, a man showing off his upper body with a sense of pride radiating from his posture alone. He had accompanied the image with a simple line of text: “I am missing my muse.” Usually, you would have rolled your eyes and scrolled past in search of something spicier, dirtier. But something about him had made you click faster on that username than you would have ever liked to admit, sliding into the chat with him with a sense of despair in your chest: >If you treat me well, I could be your next muse.<

Your text had started a message of the sexiest texts you had ever received, and you didn’t even fucking know why. “SkAterdreaM” just seemed to know how to press your buttons. Guiding you to touch yourself with such a sense of precision, praising you just right. >That’s a pretty girl…Are those thighs twitching just for me? Yoba, Id love to kiss them, fuck you right until they are shaking because that’s what you deserve. Deserve to cum over and over again. Come on pretty baby, lemme hear those moans< >You make me so hard, fuck. I am drooling for you< But not only that – he added those videos. Fuck, those videos. You were pretty sure he had always put on a show for you with how he squeezed his cock, milked the pre-cum right out of himself. With how he let out these quivering, shaky gasps, moaning praise right into the microphone. “Look at what you are doing to me, princess- ah, fuck~ I wish you were here with me, gorgeous... I’d let you ride me right now, bounce on my cock… Are you touchin’ yourself for me, sweet girl? Rub that clit for me, yeah? Slooowly, I want you to go slow, just like this- you are going to be good for me, aren’t you?” Reacting perfectly to the videos you were sending him, picking up on little details not even you had been aware of. >Look at those pretty lips, all bitten-up... Feelin so good, baby? You make me wanna kiss em all better, gorgeous< Making you feel seen, heard, and appreciated. And the worst of it all? He wasn’t even there with you.

In all honesty, you had rarely ever come as hard as you had that night, and you hadn’t been able to find anything like that chat on that website since that night. And you had really tried. Texting men and women alike, talking to them, desperate to replicate what you had had with SkAterdreaM, but you always ended up disappointed, always ended up in that chat again and you always ended up disappointed when that last message smiled at you. >You were the prettiest muse I could ever possibly find.<

And damn how you wanted to find SkAterdreaM. Even now that you lived in Pelican Town did you sometimes read that chat, in hopes that the green button next to his name would indicate him being online, would allow you the chance to talk to him again, but you were always denied. It felt like Yoba had given you a gift, just to take it away from you again, leaving you in the bliss of it all and grieving the loss of it. How could life be so cruel?

You had tried to coax him back online, too. Sending pictures, all too pretty pictures. Of you in lingerie, which, you had to shamefully admit, were bought with him in the back of your mind. Of you cupping those pretty tits he had praised the whole night. Of you posing for him. But nothing. SkAterdreaM stayed offline.

But then, one day, you heard it. That voice. It immediately sent your body into a state of tingling sensations, skin burning up, heart pounding. You knew that voice. It sounded a lot less shaky and a lot less raunchy, but you knew that voice. Fuck. Were you going crazy? Had your insatiable need to meet that random-ass man again manifested into a psychosis? Maybe you should visit the town’s doctor, but what would you say? “Hey, I had a really great online sexting session, and now I hear the dude’s voice in real life, please help”? Maybe someone just had a- “Stop it, Seb, or I will kick you in the fucking nuts,” the voice laughed, sending a shudder rippling down your spine. You couldn’t believe it, yet there he was. The source of the voice was making his way toward you – well, more likely toward the saloon behind you, but fuck it – laughing with a man walking next to him.

“Oh! Hi, you must be the new farmer,” he smiled once he noticed you, and you were pretty sure you were just about to topple over, lip quivering. Could this really be? Could you have moved into the same town this online phantom was living in by accident? Was someone playing a cruel joke on you? Nevertheless, you were staring. Staring hard. What were words again, and how did you use them?

“Hi, I-“ -met you on a website for sex and fuck, I missed you. Before your tongue could release the word vomit onto the poor blond you snapped shut your jaw, trying to cover your tracks with an awkward smile. However, something in his face had shifted. A hint of recognition in those blue eyes – Yoba, he was handsome -, but they were definitely flooded with disbelief. A knock in his ribs coming from the man next to him made him stutter back into motion.

“Sam,” he choked out, mirroring that awkward smile on your lips. You gripped his offered hand, your breath hitching into your throat, making it near impossible to breathe out your own name.

“You remind me of someone,” he suddenly started out, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, “a muse I met a while ago.” “What the fuck, Sam? Leave the poor girl alone,” the dark-haired man – Seb? – laughed, clearing his throat awkwardly. Little did he know that Sam had said just the right thing. “No worries, you remind me of a dream I had,” you shot back, making a small grin appear on his pink lips. “I will see you around then? I have made a few promises.” “Definitely.”

The way your lips crashed together could only be described as heavenly. Sam hadn’t even really taken the time to close the door behind himself before he had already wrapped you up in an embrace, fingers running through your hair before gently cradling your head. You couldn’t help yourself but moan into the gentle suckle of his lips, your body melting into him like it knew where it belonged. “Fuck, I thought I would never find you again,” he breathed, leaving your lips only for a second to gently nip at your jaw before going right back to your lips. His tongue lapped at the fat of your lower lip, greedily pushing past your teeth to lick over yours, his hands now wandering down your back. The feeling of being desired cursed through you just as much as the feeling of desiring him, your own hands wandering beneath the white shirt he was wearing to feel the smooth skin of his toned stomach. “Same,” you gasped out as he pulled away just enough to let you breathe, “I kept texting you,” you stammered, your lips kissing along his neck, savouring that breathless groan that left his already swelling lips, “but you never replied.” “I lost all access to that account,” he breathed back, his own hands now slipping beneath your shirt, small moan escaping him as they engulfed your tits, “fuck, baby. They feel just as pretty as they looked.” Yoba, he loved that giggle that left you. He had loved everything about your encounters. The way you had reacted to him, the way that you had moaned for him. The way you had begged for more, even though he just couldn’t give you what he had wanted – which had been everything. He had absolutely loved your voice cracking, the way you bit your lip as your hips bucked. The way your thighs quivered. It had been burnt into his mind, lending him a hand whenever he fucked his fist. It should have embarrassed him – an online encounter absolutely possessing his mind, but it didn’t. He had cursed heaven and hell when he had realized that he had lost access to that fucking account, and thus to you. “Believe me, I tried to get back into it,” he sighed, big hands squeezing the flesh in his hand, pierced tongue licking along your throat, just to ease the following blow of his teeth sinking into your pretty skin, “but I couldn’t for the life of me.” And really – he had tried. Even asked Sebastian if he could regain the access he had lost, even though it had set him up for a lifetime of mockery. Your answer was a mere whimper, one that made his pants way too fucking tight. He had never been this hard ever since that night, but now- now he could touch you.

“Pretty princess,” he sighed, hips rutting into you almost automatically. Yoba, feeling you after dreaming about you for so long – it made him feel like he could come right now, like he could cream his pants just because he felt your hands wander down his back, nails scratching along him ever so slightly. Yoba, he needed you.

Even though it physically pained him to pull his hands away from your nipples, he did. Just in favour of pulling down the fabric of your pants. He needed to see you. All bare, just for him. His breath hitched when he saw your panties, adorning your pubic mound in a way not even the most skilled artist could have painted. His whole body quivered as his long fingers reached out for you, brushing the calloused pad along the still clothed skin. He could hear the slight thump of your head falling against the wall behind you as you took in a shaky breath, and he wanted to cry tears of joy. He could have you now, all for himself. The realization made every ounce of patience he had promised himself to have evaporate, instead his fingers curled into the fabric, giving the thin layer of clothing a good tug. “So wet for me already, princess?” he all but cooed, holding your underwear up to your face, a wet spot beaming right at you. “Shut up,” you laughed, albeit a lot more breathless than you had been at the beginning of this, running your hands down his body. “You are not much better, SkaterDream.” Sam’s hips almost involuntarily bucked forward when your fingers brushed along the outline of his erection, eyes rolled back in his skull. Why did your fingers feel so much better than his whole fucking fist? Shit, you had ruined masturbation for him – but he just couldn’t be mad at you. No way, not when you looked up at him like this, doe eyes glazed over with lust, lips puffy from the rough, hungry kisses the two of you had shared.

Just looking at you made his balls pull tight, red tip of his dick drooling pre-cum into the black of his boxers. You were right, he wasn’t much better. His eyes drifted shut as you fisted at his poor dick now, making it cry for release from its restraints. “You are so beautiful; you know that darling? So damn beautiful,” he sighed, allowing your hands to unbuckle his belt with a clinking noise, his own working to slide your shirt above your head. Normally, he would have brought you upstairs, laid you on the bed before he would have taken his sweet times, but right now, he felt like he was starving right in front of a meal. He struggled out of his pants while he pushed up your bra, lips latching on your sweet nipple, letting the moan that left your sinful lips go through his whole system, savouring the way his dick twitched. “That’s right, baby, moan for me,” he coaxed, flicking a finger against your clit. Just lightly, to gauge your reaction. And oh, did you deliver. Your hips bucked forward almost immediately, back arched in in an attempt to get closer, to get more, more, more. Your eyes were half-lidded now, your cleavage flushed, as your lips mouthed wordless begs. How could Sam resist?

He couldn’t. His boxers pooled around his ankles just to be kicked away, pierced dick meeting his stomach with a wet smack. The moan that came from you upon revealing his girth almost sent him toppling over, legs shaking slightly as he slid it between your folds. “What is it, baby? Do you like my dick? Is it good enough for your pretty pussy?” His hips rocked back and forward now, coating his perverted shaft in your slick, eyes never leaving your face as he awaited your response. The nod you gave was small, but the look in your eyes was enough to make him drool. Tears welled in them, just about to slip down those flushed cheeks, so full of desire and despair that he felt like they were mirroring his soul. When the pierced tip caught your twitchy hole, both of you gasped out loud, making Sam’s hips work faster, bumping against your entrance over and over. He adored the wet sounds the two of you created, the way you moaned in his ear, and oh Yoba, how you bit those pretty lips again. He just had to – had to kiss them better, had to aim for your clit, had to please you.  “Sam,” you suddenly gasped, making his head snap up, taking his focus away from how pretty your pussy looked with his dick teasing it. “Yes, baby? What do you want? Tell me, princess.” “Fuck- Sam, please- fuck me,” you mewled, head again bumping into the wall. Another fat glob of pre-cum leaked out of him, and he was pretty sure he had sold his soul to the devil – how else could this be true? But you were his muse, his pretty, pretty princess, that made his balls hurt so good, so if he had actually sold his soul, he would have done it all over again.

“Do you need me, baby? Want my dick to ruin your sweet little cunt? Yeah? That’s what you want?” Another bump against your clit, another tease at your hole, and yet another glob of pre-cum coating your folds. “Yes, Sam! Fuck, PLEASE.”

That had definitely done it for him. Greedy tip lining up with your drooling hole, his eyes searched your face once more before he pushed forward. Feeling your drenched walls wrap around him, Yoba, he wanted to weep. His dick surely did. You were so beautifully wet around him, greeting him with a squelching sound as your walls stretched around him. If his brain had been working until now, it most definitely had short-circuited at right this moment and had left his mouth hanging open, spit dribbling down his tongue and on your gorgeous tits. You weren’t in much better shape – Sam was big. Girth stretching you absolutely thin, making you feel like you were going to rip in half, but fuck, did it feel good. His pierced tip bumped against your walls, and you could feel him pulse inside of you with each push forward.

“Y..you..you okay?” he whispered as he was about halfway in, nodding at the small nod you gave him. “Doin’ so good for me, baby. So good. Fuck, you feel so good. Better than I could have ever imagined, babe,” he babbled, strings of spit landing on your skin with almost every word. “Sweet, sweet girl. Taking in my dick like a perfect little slut, I am gonna move again now, ‘kay? Gonna take all of me, princess?”

You didn’t have any other option than nod – it felt like with Sam’s dick entering you, all the words you had ever learned had left you. Not that you minded, what he gave you was so much better. He fucked his dick further into you, moaning your name in the most strained, beautiful way as he bottomed out. “Good fucking- Good girl, so good for me. Don’t deserve you, darling,” he yapped, beginning with a slow and steady pace. That didn’t last long, though. Your moans were just so beautiful, you see? Sam really did try, though! Really tried to keep slow and go easy on you, but there was just no way to do so when you sounded like this, when you scratched your fingers down his back like this. When you whimpered and bucked into him like this – no, he just couldn’t.

He fucked into you like you deserved, like you had always dreamed of. Giving you quick and hard thrusts that reached deep, tip bullying into you mercilessly. Sam wasn’t able to get enough from seeing you like this, with your mouth either hanging open or closed as you bit your lip, seeing you being ruined by his dick while your tits bounced for him – it just was so delicious. “Fuck, baby. You are suckin’ me off, does it feel good? Do ya like my dick pounding that cunt? Do ya like how I make you mine? Tell me, love. Use your words.” His fingers wrapped around your chin, making you look at him as he thrusted at a rough pace, keeping eye contact as your pussy squelched for his throbbing dick. You smacked your lips together, once, then twice, trying to answer these simple questions, but it was just so hard when it felt like the ability to speak was hogtied by the feeling of your building orgasm. “Can’t hear you, sweets. But look at you, bitin’ your lip again, ya love this, dontcha?” He cooed, licking along your throat, down your cleavage, just to lap and nip at your nipple while his thumb rolled over the other. “Still, I wanna hear you, let me hear those words, c’mon. I know you can do it.” Just to underline his words, he gave you an especially hard thrust, making you gasp out his name, followed by a babbled string of “yes”’s. “That’s it, love. That’s it. Knew you could do it,” he cooed, eyes watching how greedily your cunt sucked in his dick. Yoba, he was close. So, so close. The thought of filling you up made his balls pull again, aching for that sweet, sweet release. He needed you to cum, drench him, cream his cock – he just needed you to.

His tongue lulled out of his mouth, spittle landing on your already damp skin as he pounded into you. His thumb found its spot on your clit again, flicking and rubbing it in circles that matched the pace of his thrusts. “Sa-Sahaaam!” You sobbed, voice edging in a high pitch as your stomach swirled around that approaching high. “What is it, baby? Gonna cum for me? Please, cum for me. Drench me, I want it all, make a mess of me.” His words only added to the building pressure within you, the room suddenly seeming to spin, the only thing that stayed in frame being the blond that fucked into you as if his life depended on it. Your moans no longer consisted of anything cohesive, only the high-pitched edge announced your nearing orgasm. Sam picked up on it, fell right in love with it and obeyed, keeping his pace a steady, hard fuck, thumb massaging your aching clit in a way that made your thighs twitch. You tried to tell him that you were going to cum, you certainly did, but all that left your mouth was a sob, followed by a small whine before your back arched in, legs full-on shaking as your orgasm wrecked through you.

Your hole spasmed around Sam’s already pulsing dick, gush of juices creating a creamy ring around the base of his shaft. He wanted this image of you to be forever etched into his brain, wanted it to be one of his core memories.

The look you gave him was enough to send him over the edge himself, red tip spitting ropes of cum inside of you, filling you up with each thrust. Sam just couldn’t stop, the need to fuck it deep inside of you possessing him as he pounded away, wanted to mark you as his and only his.

Only when his balls felt so incredibly empty did he slow to a stop, panting for hair like a dog in heat. Looking down at you, you weren’t in much better shape. You looked wrecked. Body flushed still, covered in his drools and lovebites he had left while he had been fucking into you. You were still shaking lightly against him, your eyes holding a fucked-out gaze that made his knees weak. For a while, the two of you just looked at one another as you panted, Sam’s hand carefully trading through your hair, the other working on holding up your tired body.

After a while, Sam dared to speak again. “So…I know we met on a website for sex, but…could I maybe take you on a date?”

[autisticsupervillain]

Autistic Avatars not realizing that they're Avatars because they're just "like that": a thread

The Eye

Special Interest in the supernatural = constant food for The Watcher

You know about Interest? TELL ME EVERYTHING

"Hey man listen to me infodump about this horrifying ghost story I read for twenty minutes, alright?"

I need to Know everything about something before I partake in it.

"How did I Know that? Eh, I probably hyperfixated on it at some point."

I cannot be misunderstood so I'll beam the facts into your brain.

The Web

I must plan everything 200 steps in advance before doing anything.

I have prepared for all possible outcomes, I can now have this one conversation.

If I set up all these variables long in advance, then I can do everything correctly and Win the social interaction.

I cannot do anything before The Plan says to.

"I practice my social skills by talking to my spider friends." -Martin "Autism" Blackwood

The Stranger

I cannot socialize without being Uncanny.

If my socialization seems like an act, that's because it is. I practice it in the mirror every day.

Theater Kid

How do you Normal Human?

The Anatomy Class.

Assuming fellow Stranger Avatars also just have the 'Tism. They're not trying to be creepy, honest.

Can't do faces. Doesn't notice when you get replaced.

Being subtly off is too subtle for me.

The Lonely

"I have failed the social interaction. Let the fog reclaim me."

Talking to people is draining my batteries even faster than ever. I need to be alone for approximately 384,400,000 years.

Nothing can overstimulate me in the cool, blinding fog.

Nothing unpredictable can happen in the fog.

The fog is your friend.

The known connection between autism and depression feeds the fog.

The Dark

Why is the sun so god damn bright? I'm going to blow it up I swear.

Night Owl.

Everything's decently quite at night and people leave you alone.

Same overstimulation preventatives as the Lonely tbh. Dark and fog are good concealers.

The dawn is your enemy.

The dread florescent lights shall never bother me again. They break upon my arrival.

Can and will infodump to the monster under my bed. Even now it feels like it listens.

The Spiral

Autism makes getting other mental illnesses recognized hard.

Autism dissociation from body and mind. When did it become 3 AM and why do I hurt? Why am I grumpy? What vital self care task did I forget?

Literal mind doesn't often match reality. Reality is specifically unspecific.

Spaced out and wandered off. Where the fuck am I?

I'm not a mental baby, please stop treating me like it.

I'm not inherently dangerous, please stop treating me like it.

Memory problems my beloathed. Did that happen? I dunno.

What Is Time?

What Is Me?

The Gender

Why do things only make sense to me? What does no one else make sense?

The Flesh

Autism Genderfuckery = Flesh fueled dysphoria.

Meat is the only texture that's palatable. Especially the Mystery Meat.

Will never try any other foods. Too picky.

Infodumps about the horrors of meat processing at dinner and ruins the meal for everyone. More steak for me.

Hates PETA.

Double the arms means double the stim. You weren't using them, right?

Working out is a great stim.

The Corruption

Practices social interaction with the bugs who live in my walls.

"Insects are disgusting. I love them!"

Will protect endangered insects by any means necessary.

According to all known laws of aviation-

Relationship boundaries struggles.

Difficulty noticing sickness symptoms.

Is that nausea or am I overstimulated? *Accidentally causes supernatural plague outbreak*

Difficulty getting diseases diagnosed because of both Autism and noticing too many symptoms so the doctors assume they're faking.

Forgot vital hygiene needs.

The Bugs Are My Friends! They keep me company when I'm sick!

The Buried

Weighted blankets are insufficient, I need the Earth to reclaim me.

Avoid social interaction by tunneling everywhere like a mole.

101 facts about worms.

Forgor hygiene again. Time to become dirt.

Digging a hole is good stimming.

That guy who had to be buried alive to sleep properly. What do you mean you don't want to be buried?

The End

Aradia Megido from Homestuck.Com

That's it, that's the list.

The Desolation

The Autism Temper.

Losing relationships and friendships to ableism and your own disability constantly.

The Fire is a wonderful stim board. Watch it crinkle.

Just watching candles melt for hours.

The fire and thrill gives my life passion again.

Jude Perry.png

The Vast

Accidentally terrifying people by infodumping about the horrors of nature.

The stimulus of falling.

Nature/Space/Weather Documentary on in background always.

Okay, but from how high did you fall? I want to calculate your velocity as you fell through the void.

Weirdly enough... power scaling?

Power scaling is just the art of determining how easily your favorite characters can destroy mankind so... yeah, I can see it.

Brain empty, only terminal velocity.

The Hunt

Cat Autism

The inherent hyperfocus of the hunt. The chase. Your prey.

Studying the habits of your latest hyperfixation/Hunt assigned prey for days at a time.

I've spent so much time hunting in the woods that I forgot about human society. The Missing Person's Bureau have written you off for dead.

Returning to society to sell your wears and realizing you aren't human anymore.

That's okay. Social interaction is random. The Hunt makes sense.

It's black and white. Predator and prey. Humans hunting monsters. It Makes Sense.

The Slaughter

The incredible human WW1 documentary.

"Did you know?" *Describes horrible historic warcrime*

Takes apart puts back together guns from their collection.

The list of known casualties from this war is incomplete. With my help, they can expand it. :)

The Extinction

The world is spiraling towards its end and only you seem to care.

It hurts to be this passionate about a lost cause.

You Will Make Them Care.

[johnwickb1tsch]

Sympathy for the Devil ~ Part 10

A Donaka Mark x housekeeper!Reader fic, based on @discoscoob 's concept & bot! Though this is where the c.ai help ended because I was breaking the bot's pea pickin' mind. 😆

Warnings: Donaka Mark is a bad man with a soft spot for you. dark romance, possessive behavior, nonconsensual voyeurism, red flag red flag girl!🔺, psychological games, power imbalance, eventual dubcon/nsfw. PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER TOO!!!

one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight. nine.

Ten. 十

You don’t know where you get the courage to growl at this fierce man who has you in his grasp. But goddammit if he doesn’t just laugh at you–and sling you over his shoulder, carrying you like a caveman to his lair.

You do the requisite pounding on his broad back, the kicking of the feet. You swear it only makes him enjoy it more, as he tosses you down. You brace and let out a yelp, expecting hard floor below. You’re shocked, when you sink into soft mattress instead.

Which maybe isn’t great either. 

You try to scramble away, but his big hands wrap around your ankles, pulling you back, and then he is crawling over you, settling all that solid, masculine–delicious–weight on top of you. You feel him smile against your mouth, your hands pinned above your head. “Am I going to have to restrain you, to do what I want to you?” he asks casually, kissing the sensitive skin of the bend of your neck. “Or are you going to behave?”

You freeze beneath him at hearing the word restrain. As in what? Handcuffs? Ropes? Oh no. Somehow, that would be worse than everything else that’s happened tonight, and you fight not to hyperventilate beneath him, closing your eyes and grinding your teeth, even though all you really want to do is thrash like a trapped animal. 

That’s not going to work with this man. He’s too…everything. Smart. Strong. Cruel. Connected. You’re not going to beat him with brawn and you’d be a fool to count on luck. He watches you interestedly from inches away, as all this plays through your brain. You swear, he can read it like a news ticker scrolling above your head. He knows you so well.  

You hardly recognize your voice, when you ask quietly, “Will you promise…not to hurt me?”

You close your eyes again as he strokes your hair. “No,” he answers, and a spear of fear shoots down your spine. “But I don’t want to hurt you, y/n. I want your submission.”

“I don’t…understand the difference,” you admit, the fresh welling of tears spilling from the corners of your eyes. 

“Hmm.” He wipes away the moisture on your cheeks, bringing it to his lips. “I’m not wife-beating trailer trash, y/n. You’re not going to submit to me because of my fists. That would be too easy.” 

A shaky breath escapes you, as you think about how he’s used his superior strength to bully you so far. If he’s feeling self-righteous…it’s a thin fucking line. “I’m…not?”

“No.” He kisses you, lullingly gentle, cloyingly sweet. You are on even higher alert now than when he’d grabbed you earlier. “You’re going to submit, because it’s what you’ve really wanted all along. And I’m going to show you.” 

Your eyes bug wide.

“I don’t–no! That’s not fair!”

That is when his kiss upon your shoulder turns into a sharp nip. You yelp, and he is on his elbows over you, your face bracketed in his big hands. “You have a very bad habit of trying to lie to me, little one. We’re going to have to work on that.”

“I just…I don’t understand!”

“What is there to understand?” His thumbs stroke your temples, gentle once more. This man gives you whiplash.

“Why…” You try to look away, but he won’t let you.

“If you can’t look into my eyes and say it, then I’ll think you’re lying,” he scolds you. “It’s basic human behavior 101.”

With a growl you glare up at him. For some reason he finds this delightful, flashing teeth. You’re sure he knows, with a gimlet stare like his, how hard it is for mere mortals to meet head on. His standards are unfair. It’s like making a deal with a demigod–or a demon–who already knows he holds all the cards.

“Why me?” you manage to grind out. “You could have anyone.”

“I could buy anyone,” he agrees. He softens slightly, looking down at you. “But you don’t care about my money, do you? You want something else from me.” He smirks, and you are mortified all over again, a flush of heat blooming up your neck. “I read all about it.”

“Ugh.”

He chuckles, enjoying himself far too much at your expense.

When he lowers to kiss you, you consider biting him for about 2.3 seconds.

“Do it,” he dares you, his words a dagger clothed in velvet. “See what happens.” He says it almost eagerly, as though he’d welcome the leave to be terrible again. You have to remember that about him. He dangles tenderness before you like bait, not genuine sentiment. You’re playing a game, and the rules can change on this man’s whim.

He says he doesn’t want to hurt you–you’re not sure that’s true, and it certainly doesn’t mean he won’t. You can trust him as far as you can throw him, and judging by his delectable dead weight on top of you…that’s not far.

You close your eyes, feeling helpless again. And stupid. And…still turned on, if you’re being completely honest with yourself. You don’t know how you’re aroused when you should be disgusted, screaming, crying, fighting–it would win you nothing. He’s going to have his way, so you can fight it…or you can enjoy it for now, and bide your time, because he has to slip up at some point, right?

Right?

He feels the change in you, when you start softening to the onslaught of his lips, his hands on your body tracing every dip and curve. “That’s my good girl,” he murmurs, and you swear his praise lights up something in your brain like a red hot wire.

This isn’t it, you promise yourself. You are in a war with this man. And maybe you lost the first battle, and swiftly the second too, but not the whole war. You are not conquered yet. You are not conquered yet. 

With this new resolve you reach for the buttons of his shirt. They are small, and stubborn, and you let out a frustrated growl that makes Donaka smirk down at you. “Don’t rip it. This shirt cost more than a month's salary for you.”

“Well, you’re always bragging about how much money you have,” you fire back, jerking the two halves. You’re proud of yourself when there’s a tearing sound and the button goes flying. Fair’s fair. Donaka grins like a wolf, then suddenly you are flipped on your belly, your ass in the air and your panties wrenched down your thighs. 

Smack.

You scream, his big hand on your backside stinging like a swarm of angry bees, and instinctively you squirm to get away from him. But he holds you down with an unforgiving grip in your hair, pushing your face down into the mattress.

Then you hear the jangle of his belt buckle again, and the warning hiss of leather sliding free of loops. “No, no,” you beg, struggling, to zero avail. His grip is unbreakable, like this man is made of iron.

“That depends on you. Are you going to damage my property again?”

“No,” you whimper into the bedclothes, hating how small you sound. 

“That’s what I thought.”

He drops the belt beside you on the bed like a reminder, before caressing your tender bottom ever so lightly, soothing the sting. How…does that actually feel good?

He makes a sound of appreciation, pulling you against the hard bulge in his crotch with hands on your hips. He spreads your thighs wider, leaving you utterly open and vulnerable to him. You hate to say it, but you are too unnerved to fight him, so conscious of that leather strap sitting beside you like an open threat.

“Stay there,” he directs, and you do as you’re told, listening to the whisper of fabric behind you as you presume he’s undressing. 

It’s a very awkward position, and your thighs begin to tremble. You are utterly exposed like this, splayed wide open. Yet you do not dare complain, suspecting you have used up your free passes with this man for the evening. He is just waiting for an excuse.

“You are exquisite,” he sighs from behind you. “I could stare at this view all night.”

An equal mixture of uneasy warmth and mortification fills you, displayed like this for him, so utterly open with nowhere to hide. Then you wonder if he’s threatening to keep you like this for hours more as a punishment. Yet before you can even begin to think of what to say to him, he has crouched beside the bed, and his mouth is on you. 

“Oh,” is the only intelligible word that leaves your lips. Everything that comes after is mere guttural nonsense, as his tongue teases your clit, sliding against your nether lips, and you see stars. All else forgotten, you become a slave to pursuing this pleasure, your fingers like claws in the sheets, canting your hips to give him better access to anything he wants. He moans against you, a deep sound that reverberates into your womb.

You whine like the needy little thing you have become when he withdraws, wiping his mouth on the butt cheek he struck not minutes before, kissing you with a tenderness that is nearly as beguiling as his tongue in your slit.

“Shhhh, sweet girl. I’ve got what you need, if you promise to be good for me.” You feel him kneel behind you, the warmth of his hand on your spine, the intoxicating kiss of his tip to your entrance. You’re not proud–but you want it. God, in that moment you want him more than air to breathe. You betray yourself, with the tilt of your hips, with the keening that escapes from your traitor of a throat.

“Mmm,” he practically purrs from behind you. “Do you promise, y/n?” He uses his tip to tease your slick folds, but it’s not enough. Not nearly enough. 

This is just a battle.

You make a sound of affirmative, a kittenish mewl because real language escapes you. 

“Use your words, bunny.”

Not the war.

“Yes.” It's all you can manage, and he takes mercy on you, betraying his eagerness too. Slowly he fills you, stretching your flesh inch by blessed inch until you can take no more. He could give you more. He could hurt you, badly, like this. Yet he’s so careful with you that you could weep, the slow glide of his body inside yours the stuff heaven is made of. 

It's funny. Despite the terrible things he did to you earlier, if you squint, it almost feels like he cares about you. The logical part of you knows it’s all a mind fuck. It has to be. But that part of you…is drowning in an inky sea of your other desires. Things you’re usually good at denying, because they’ve never caused you anything but trouble… Maybe that was a mistake on your part, because now you’re here with this dangerous man, and you’re so pent up that you can’t say no. 

That feeling of bliss intensifies when he reaches between your legs, slowly circling your clit as he pumps inside you. You involuntarily clench upon him, winning a low groan.  He drapes his long body over yours, kissing your spine, his hand encircling the front of your throat. 

“Tell me this isn’t better than just writing about it,” he demands, his low words against your ear sending a shiver through you. 

The simple answer, of course, is yes. The rest, however, is far too complex.

You make a sound that’s neither yes or no, and his grip on you tightens. Still not enough to hurt you…but he could, and you feel that so very acutely in that moment. The fact of the matter is you didn’t consent to any of this, even if you are enjoying it. He wants your complacency, and you wonder if it has to do with conscience, or claiming his victory. 

The latter, you tell yourself. The minute you start to believe he has a heart will be the end of you. You have to keep reminding yourself of that. He does not love you, you stupid girl. He never has, and never will. 

“Well? Tell the truth.” 

“It’s better,” you answer simply, because you don’t have the capacity to tell him the rest out loud right now, and making him happy is the only way you will ever get a chance to escape him. You are going to have to be calculating, and ruthless, and neither of those things come easily to you. 

“That’s my good girl.”

It shouldn’t feel so good, to hear him say that, while he’s balls deep inside you. It shouldn’t make your treacherous cunt flutter upon his relentless cock like you mean to swallow him up, a velvety red orgasm building between your legs again. 

It’s not surrender, you tell yourself as the warm rush fills you, makes you feel like your bones are filled with glittering gold, your spine bowing so hard you fear it might crack. It’s just…a tactical play. You’ve been haunted by curiosity about this man since the moment you laid eyes on him. In the morning, you’ll make your next move. For now…you might as well enjoy it as best you can. 

The games have only just begun.   

[anjelicawrites]

You Can Never Leave

Paring: Dark!Aemond Targaryen x older!reader

Synopsis: you are in a secret, albeit happy, relationship with Aemond, until you are not anymore.

Warnings: DDDNE, consensual relationship that becomes abusive, dubious consent from reader, abusive behavior from Aemond, p in v sex, Iron Throne sex, oral (male receiving), titty sucking, ass and cunt spanking, strangling, finger fucking, the Iron Throne used as a death threat.

A/N: reader is AFAB, they/them pronouns used if needed.

Please, please, please, read the warnings before starting this one. This is not one of my happy filthy fics, read the warnings please!!!

NSFW and 18+ only please

You observe Aemond stalking towards the Iron Throne from the shadows; he looks intense, the shadows in the room and the storm raging outside play on his features, painting the mask of someone you don’t recognize anymore.

You had befriended the young prince as per his mother's request. You were older and not a widow, yet, a friendship between you two not scandalous, Alicent had thought.

The queen had confided in you, one of her dearest and more trusted ladies in waiting, while walking in the gardens, about her concerns with Aemond only focusing on his studies and sword training.

“He reminds me of my husband, with due respect Your Grace.” You told her, stopping under the shadows of a group of trees. “I have to trick him into doing something else but the work he does for the Crown, sometimes.” You finished with a soft smile.

“Would you do the same for my son?” 

Her beautiful brown eyes held all her concerns and you felt for her, the love you had for her, the knowledge of how alone she truly was, had drawn you to trying to help her. You cared about her too much not to.

“I will try, Your Grace.” You answered and her smile had warmed your heart and strengthen your resolve. 

You had managed to lure him away from the library and the training yard many times, talking with him about philosophy and history while walking in the gardens, the young man always respectful and slowly losing his usual stiffness with each talk.

“I know what are you doing.” He had told you once, the shadows of the setting sun hiding his expression.

“Would you like me to stop?”

Your question was earnest: as much as you wanted to quell Alicent’s concerns, if Aemond didn’t appreciate your company, you would have stopped bothering him immediately.

“No, I wouldn’t like that.”

He was wearing an expression you couldn’t truly read, too many shadows had fallen, but it didn’t scare you, knowing full well that under the mask, Aemond always burned with emotions he would not share.

Yet your walks were stopped by your husband’s untimely illness and then death.

You had spent weeks by his side, as he battled the pneumonia that killed him and then sealed yourself in your rooms, the pain of his loss tearing a hole in your chest that seemed capable of absorbing every ounce of light and happiness in your life, Alicent the only person who had managed to enter your rooms to console you, something she couldn’t do openly during the funeral ceremony.

In the haze of pain and confusion you had walked through, as you organized you late husband’s funeral, Aemond had offered you his condolences and retired into the fold of people talking around you, your brain not truly registering his words, nor his tone.

It had been days later, after the funeral, that he knocked on your door, late at night, when the whole palace slept, his hand still raised when you had opened the door.

“I hope I am not disturbing you.” He said, a tinge of insecurity in his deep voice.

You had fallen against his chest, crying, ugly, fat tears and sobs you couldn’t control. You pain had been a dry desert you had to cross through. Even with Alicent you couldn’t express yourself in such a violent way, but Aemond, your friend who reminded you so much of your late husband at his age, the gates had just opened, leaving you defenseless and him to deal with your violent output of emotions.

You didn’t know how he had managed to walk you towards the bed, your body entwined with his, but he did and he had awkwardly caressed your back, until you had calmed down enough to talk.

“I’m so sorry.” You managed to say, your eyes not meeting his. “I don’t know what happened.”

Out of nowhere he had given you a handkerchief, his initials sewn into the delicate silk.

“Don’t be.”

His tone was firm, his hand under your chin so that he could look into your eyes, knowing full well that you two were too close to one another for this to be proper.

“Aemond…” 

You had never used his given name, only his title and the pupil of his eye enlarged with the hunger he had forced himself to stifle for so long.

You will never know who had started the kiss, only that his lips were on yours, hungry and demanding, your hands in his soft hair, your breasts squashed against his solid chest, his strong arms crushing you against his body.

You wailed when his arms trapped you too tightly against his body, his tongue clumsily inside your mouth, seeking yours as his fingers tried to open the latchings of your dress, desperate and uncaring of the delicate latches he was destroying.

“Aemond… Aemond!” You tried to say, his lips on your neck, graceless kisses and bites left on the delicate skin there, your arms fruitlessly trying to push him away. “Please, Aemond!”

The high pitched panic in your voice seemed to kick him out of his frenzy, his only eye focusing on your face, the array of emotions he saw there.

“I’m sorry.” he blurted out, yet his hands were still on your trembling body, fingers contracting on the heavy material of your dress, his hunger for you clear on his features.

“Aemond.” Your voice was still uneven, but you tried to be gentle. “Have you ever done this before? Do you know what you’re doing?”

He blushed and turned his head, his hair hiding his expression.

“It’s complicated.” He finally said, under his breath.

He resisted a little when you tried to turn his head, it’s only after you’ve pleaded with him, that he looked at you, ashamed.

“You don’t have to be so overwhelming. I’m not going anywhere.” You gently cupped his scarred cheek. “You need to be gentler.”

For a second his mask slipped and you could see how surprised he was, but he managed to control himself again.

One of his hands covered yours on his cheek, so big and warm, his fingers delicately curled around your palm and you knew this was the moment when either of you were to say that the kiss was grossly inappropriate and that he should go back to his quarters. You could feel the words forming in your head and, if you had pronounced them, you wouldn’t find yourself in the predicament you are now. But you stayed silent, didn’t you? And, if he had similar thoughts to yours, he didn’t share them, preferring to pull your face closer to his.

“May I?” He asked, a slight tremble in his voice.

“Yes, my prince.”

“Use my name. Say it like before!” He sounded more in control of himself, his eye focused on your lips.

“Aemond.”

You barely managed to finish the last syllable, that his mouth was on yours, clumsy but not as hurried as before and you knew you should have pushed him away, instead your hands found refuge in his hair, your lips parted to make way for your tongue to tease his, a moan escaping your bound lips when you tongue slid against the rood of his mouth.

You straddled his hips, yours already grinding against his trapped cock, his fingers again at the fasting of your dress, trying to open the knots your handmaid fastened this morning.

“Do you want me to take the lead, Aemond?” You asked when your lips parted. “To show you?”

He audibly took a breath in, his pupil enlarged into a bottomless pit of need. 

“Yes.” Was a deep rasp that reminded you of the growl of Vhagar.

You didn’t want to, but you had to dismount him to turn around and guide him as he unlaced your dress with hasty fingers, his hands turning you to face him as he helped you out of the heavy brocade and silk, his eye raked down you body, still covered by the layers of slips, his hands fastened around your breasts with a moan at the weight and feel.

“Let me help you as well, Aemond” 

Your voice sounded breathy and needy in your ears, your fingers trembled as you opened his tunic and helped him out of the layers he wore underneath. His skin glowed, illuminated by the candles, small scars and burns littered his torso, his nipples darker and you had to fight the urge to suck on them. 

Slow, you needed to go slow.

He removed all the clothes still covering your body, a long, appreciative hmm left his lips when your beauty was barred to him: the softness of your curves and tummy, the patch of hair between your legs and your breasts so perfect and enticing.

He hurried with his breeches and underclothes, his cock hard and red already, just by seeing your naked body, one of your hands cupping it, feeling its weight and warmth.

“Lie on the bed.” You told him and his cock seemed to swell at your words.

He looked absolutely breathtaking with his long legs splayed open, his erect cock against the tight muscles of his abdomen. You were hungry for him, your tongue unconsciously licking your lips as you crawled between his legs.

“You need to tell me if you want me to stop. Promise me that you will, Aemond.”

It should have been ludicrous that you were telling this to the rider of the largest dragon in the world, but you were the one with the experience, it was your duty to keep him safe.

He stared at you for the longest time, something in his eyes that you couldn’t truly read, something akin to devotion.

“I will.” 

Gods be good! The low rumble of his voice, his hips jutting up without his control: you needed him in your mouth, in your cunt. You needed to know how he sounded like in the throes of passion, but you controlled your hunger, when your lips started kissing his cock, when he started to raggedly fuck your willing mouth, when he came all over your face with a cry of pleasure.

You hugged him, then, letting his head slot under yours, until his breath slowed down, and he had turned you on your back, his cock hard and ready for you again.

A grasp escaped his mouth when his fingers met the wetness coating your hungry cunt

“Is this for me?” He sounded so surprised you heart broke.

“Yes Aemond. It means that I need you. Please.” Your voice so small, so needy in your ears, you were ashamed of yourself.

He had covered your body with his, then. His cock nestled between your lips and you both moaned when he started rutting against you, the movements irregular and desperate, the pleasure climbing up his spine like fire.

“Aemond, please!” 

You were desperate, your cunt clenched around nothing and it hurt, the warmth of desire clawing at your insides the same way your nails were cutting his long back: if he didn’t breach you, you knew you’d go insane.

He begged the Gods when his cock head was enveloped by your cunt, the warmth and tightness almost painful as he slowly entered you, his hands grabbing the bed sheets in the desperate attempt to control himself.

Your legs curling around his hips when he bottomed out were his saving grace, forcing him to stop moving and focus on himself, and you.

You looked ravished and desperate, your teeth biting your lower lip to the point of pain, your cunt stretched almost to its limit to accommodate Aemond’s thick cock, your nails scratching down his back in desperation, your mind torn between needing him to keep still and rut inside of you until both of your were out of breath.

His movements were jerky, no finesse as he slammed inside of you, but that didn’t truly mattered, when you felt your body come alive under his, when his cock head slammed repeatedly against that patch inside of yourself that made you beg and cry, when broken words of praise spilled from his delirious lips. When the pressure inside of you was too much to bear and you clamped around him, coming with him, long screams of pleasure reverberating against the thick walls of your room.

Aemond fell against you, your arms welcomed him, your legs loose around his hips, as his bigger body trembled in your embrace and your lips kissed the crown of his head.

You knew that you were supposed to send him away, to tell him to dress and go back to his chambers; you couldn’t. As big as he was, he felt so small in your embrace, his mouth frantically leaving kisses on the patches of skin he managed to reach. It broke your heart to even think about kicking him out of your bed, not when his hands felt so desperate on your skin: you couldn’t bear to hurt him.

And so it started, with your too soft heart and his newfound hunger. 

That very night he sheathed himself inside of you again and again, until you were too sore and he covered you in kisses to show you how sorry he was. 

And he kept coming back.

Now, shrouded as you are by the shadows of the Throne Room, you wonder where that Aemond went. The one who knocked on your door night after night, who would let you ride him, his mouth on your breasts, sucking and kissing, who would steal kisses during your walks in the gardens until you squealed in his arms. Who would kiss every mark he left on your body, when his passion overridden his desire to keep you safe. Who would spend hours just learning to play your body like a fine tuned instrument, reveling in every moan, every scream of pleasure he managed to extract from you. Who would talk to you, his head on your bosom, who would pour out his frustration towards his brother and his antics or be jealous of the Lords showing their interest in you, when your mourning stopped, even though he fully knew he would never be able to marry you.

Can you pinpoint the moment your sweet lover changed?

Your grandmother, a pious yet extremely superstitious woman, used to tell you to steer away from abandoned places, because something will occupy and corrupt what people leave vacant. You started to wonder if that could happen to a man’s heart: when the cracks form, could that space become the home for something to fester and spread, like an infection?

Perhaps it was the night he killed Lucerys Velaryon, when he came to your room still wet from the storm raging outside, his skin cold and clammy, his hair soaked, the same way his clothes were, after he had told his family what he had done? 

He looked haunted, wraith like with his hair disheveled down his back, so unsteady on his feet that he had almost fallen on you. Maybe the seeds took root when you told him to go to his room and call his servants to prepare him a bath, and that you would be there with him as soon as possible; perhaps, if you had called upon your people to draw a bath in your chambers, he wouldn’t have changed.

It hadn’t taken you more than half an hour to reach him and to find him standing in from of the steaming bath, still clothed and drenched; his hand had closed like a manacle around your wrist when you started to help him undress himself.

“There’s no man more accursed than the kinslayer.” He told you, a fever in his eye unknown to you. “You shouldn’t want to tarnish yourself.”

“Aemond.” You said weakly. “Let me help you, please.”

He stared down at you, eyebrow raised, with a coldness foreign to you in his eye. For a second his hold tightened, to the point that you cold barely breath through the pain, to then free your wrist with a jerk.

“As you wish” Came from his lips, distant like never before.

You could barely move your hand, still numb from his hold, to help him out of his clothes, his skin as cold as ice under your tentative touch.

He let you wash his body without saying a word, as if you were his servant, not his lover, you thinking that the enormity of what had happened weighted too much on his mind for him to express himself.

You dried him with the warm bath towel his servants had left near the fire. When you moved to grab his night clothes, he stopped you again, a strong hand around your still hurting wrist and, without a word, he dragged you towards his bed.

“Aemond, please. You need to sleep.” You pleaded, stumbling on your own feet to keep up with his gait.

“Later.”

Again, he regarded you with coldness in his eye, as if he didn’t know who you were and just threw you face first on the bed, his body trapping yours before you could ever try to turn on your back, one hand on your nape, the other pulling your nightgown up towards your hips, roughly.

“Aemond, stop!” You tried to say, the mattress suffocating your pleas.

“I need you, now.” A cruel slap landed on your ass. “Or the touch of the kinslayer disgusts you now?”

“Never, Aemond!” You whimpered when his had grabbed your hair to lift your head up. “You’re hurting me!”

A fast round of slaps rained on your buttocks and you screamed.

“Don’t pretend this is the first time I enjoy you like this.” The hand that had been punishing you traveled fast to your cunt, to find the shame of your arousal. “It seems to me you’re liking what I’m doing.”

You yelped and cried when he spanked your wet cunt until you were a squirming mess on his bed.

“Tell me, lover, should I stop?” He said, cold as ice, his hand painfully gripping your abused cunt.

“No Aemond, please.” You answered, afraid of what he would do, if you were to tell him to let you go.

“See, it wasn’t that hard, was it?”

Another slap landed on your arse, before he breached you, hard and fast, his cock hurting you even though you were soaked.

You had to grab his bed sheets, your teeth biting the soft cotton as he fucked you violently, his hands on your hips to move you to his leisure, grinding against your abused cunt until you cried out in pain.

“You can’t help but liking it, isn’t it, lover? You crave it, even from a kinslayer.”

Your cunt clenched around his cock, your body too attuned to his to register the anger in his voice when he started fingering your pearl with fast movements that hurled you towards your orgasm, him following you with a grunt of pleasure.

You curled into yourself when he let you go, tears threatening to fall as you realized that this was the first time he had taken you in his chambers: it shouldn’t have happened this way.

You jumped out of your skin when his hand touched your back, unsure of what he would do to you. 

When he gently turned you to face him, you thought whatever malady had taken hold of him, had passed, his touch so gentle as he rubbed the salve he used after sword training on your skin. 

“This will never happen again.” Was the closest thing to a sorry you could get from him. 

You wanted to believe him when he hugged you tight and kept you in his warm embrace until sunrise. 

But it was all lies, you had realized, when the bad days became more frequent, when he had ruthlessly fucked inside of you, one hand curled around your neck, until you had fainted, after Jahaerys’s death. Perhaps it was the guilt he felt that opened the cracks in his heart? Or had been seeing poor Helaena falling into madness? Or, maybe, it was the war?

Did it really matter, when he stopped promising he wouldn’t raise a hand against you? When he seemed to revel in the marks he left on your abused body, his fingers pushing against the welts to hear you wail in pain, or fuck your cunt even after you begged him not to, that you were too sore.

Did it truly matter, when he had grabbed you neck, one night, his hold barely letting air pass through your windpipe and had coldly asked you about that stupid Lord that was clumsily courting you.

“Nothing happened, I swear!” You gasped, tears forming on your eyes. “I told him off, Aemond please!”

He regarded you with a cruel stare, his hand a fraction tighter, your fingers desperately scratching at his wrist.

“You are mine, lover. You will never leave my side, but in death. Say it!” He forced your body closer to his, his eye zeroed on your facial expression.

“Where would I go, Aemond?” Tears streamed down your cheeks, you were so scared. “I am yours, until death.”

For a second he closed his hand with such a force around your neck, that you thought he was going to strangle you, but he let go and you fell back on the bed, coughing desperately.

“Yes, who would have you, now that you are stained?” He said, disdain in his voice.

You didn’t have the strength to push him off yourself when he covered your body with his, his engorged cock at your abused hole, only to desperately ask yourself why he now hated you so much and still couldn’t let go of you.

He would go to battle, those days the only ones when your poor body could find some respite from his constant abuse as your mind tortured itself trying to find ways to be in his good graces again: if you could better yourself for him, then he wouldn’t hate you so, he would go back to be your gentle lover who would find refuge in your arms from the life in Court.

But that never happened.

He would call for you, not an ounce of tenderness in his touch anymore, no good days to tide you over during the bad ones, only his roughness on your body and the welts he left there, as you scrambled to make yourself as small and obedient as possible to avoid his wrath.

Maybe, you had thought one day, when this war will be over, he’ll go back to the Aemond you knew and loved.

As you observe him from the shadows, you realize that the Aemond who had knocked on your door, oh so many moons ago, is dead. The young man who would confide his frustration and love for his older brother, their relationship so complicated to navigate, will never come back: he is like those men in the stories your grandmother told you, who would come back from death, but wrong, a shell worn by something else, something cruel and malicious.

“Come here.” He orders and you jump in the pocket of darkness shadowing you. “Do you really thing I wouldn’t know where you are?”

His eye scans the shadows like a predator’s, his hand raised to call to you.

“Don’t make me come and collect you, lover.”

You don’t want to go, you want to run away from the monster who has taken the place of the man you loved, but there’s nowhere for you to go: like those who wouldn’t steer away from abandoned places, and end up being imprisoned there, you are bound to Aemond, chained to him, until death.

“Aemond.” Your voice trembles as you take cautious steps towards him.

“What were you doing? Spying on me?” His hand closes like a manacle around your wrist the moment you are close to him.

“No Aemond.” You hate the panic in your voice, the fear lacing your words. “I couldn’t sleep, that’s all.”

His cold eye rakes down your body, his hand around your wrist a fraction looser and you fool yourself into thinking you might have made it, this time.

He pulls you towards himself with such a force you fear your arm might get out of its socket, his free hand grabs your hair and pulls your face against him, until your noses are almost touching.

“You talking to that Septa has nothing to do with this, right lover?” You cry out in pain when he pulls on your hair and starts dragging you towards the Iron Throne. “You’re not thinking about giving yourself to the Faith to escape me, do you?”

Uselessly your hands go to his fingers to pry them open, your feet scrambling on the floor to keep up with fast gait.

“No Aemond! I swear!” You scream.

“I would have you, anyway.” You are both facing the Iron Throne now, Aemond’s rage lacing every word he spits in your face. “Septa or not you belong to me!”

“Aemond I would never leave you!” You scream, uselessly, he’s not truly listening.

“I’d kill you before I’ll allow you to abandon me!”

A terrorized sound leaves your lips when he bends you against the Throne, one of the swords mere inches away from your unprotected neck.

His free hand grabs the layers of your skirt to lift them up, his fingers destroying your delicate underclothes in the rush to get to your cunt.

“Why are you making me do this?” He shakes your head with every word, the blade closer and closer. “Why don’t you learn?”

You’re desperately trying to push yourself away from the Iron Throne, one hand against the cold metal, the other fruitlessly scratching Aemond’s fingers in your hair: you don’t want to die like this.

“I just want to make you happy!” You manage to scream, to which he barks an unhappy, cruel laugh.

“You can’t, lover.”

The hand that’s destroyed your small clothes, finds your cunt, two fingers breach you roughly and start pumping in and out.

“This is the only thing you can be”.

The fingers curl and find that rough patch of yourself that makes you howl in pleasure. Amidst his violence and abuse, he still knows how to play your body to fit his desires and make you feel ashamed of yours.

You try to brace yourself for his cock, but you’re not wet enough, the fit tight and painful, not that he cares.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like this.” He growls in your ear. “I can feel that you’re wet: doesn’t it mean that you need me, lover?”

You sob when he uses your words against you.

“Doesn’t it?” He pushes you against the blades again, closer than ever before.

“Yes, Aemond.” You cry out in fear, your hands desperate to find a safe purchase against the Iron Throne, before he starts pounding.

He’s merciless in his taking of you, his thick cock brutal against your abused walls, your nerves alive with the pain he’s inflicting you, and the pleasure when he angles himself to hit against the rough patch inside of you, reveling in the way you whine and mewl, in the way your wetness squelches with each and every push in he subjects you to.

“You’re so fucking wet, stop pretending you don’t need this!”

You’re just boneless in his hold, your body a mere hole for him to fuck until his balls are empty, his savagery, momentarily, satiated by your degradation.

Tears stream down your face, the pain, the abuse ravage your mind as your body deceives you once again, opening up to his violence, your juices easing his brutal thrusts, your cunt curling around his cock when his fingers find your pearl, his touch rough and fast, and you come, your body bearing his last, brutal pushes, before he comes with a bestial grunt.

His last night with you is a nightmare, your body broken and hurt under his, his cold voice letting you know he’s not taking you with him to Harrenhall, because he doesn’t have the time to deal with the problems it might cause.

“When this was is over and I’ll still be Prince Regent.” He whispers into your ear, before leaving. “I will have you as my spouse, so that no one will ever separate us.”

Your soul trembles at the thought that once had been so full of happiness.

When he leaves for Harrenhall, a part of you hopes he’s never going to come back, hopes he finds his demise in battle.

If either of you needs to die to be free, a part of you hopes it’s him. Aemond taglist: @fan-goddess

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Congrats on 1k!!

for the ask game!

J: “dont touch me, get away from me”

in Someone who cares

hurt/comfort

book

and if I can make a special request that Eddie is the hurt party?

Thank you so much! 🥰 Always thrilled to write more about my favorite family.

Some dreams come true

Words: 954

Rated: G

Tags: Modern AU; No UD AU; Established relationship; Married Steddie; Steve is Dustin’s dad; Author Eddie; Hurt/comfort; Fluff

Notes: Set in the same universe as Someone who cares

“Eddie?” Dustin knocks on the door of the study. It’s slow and hesitant, and that alone is enough to tell Steve that the kid was not exaggerating when he called and told him to get home immediately. “It’s me. I’ve brought Dad. Please open the door?” 

There’s no answer. 

“Damn,” Steve murmurs. “What the hell happened?” 

Dustin scowls.

“No idea. He opened that package that arrived for him, and then he went all silent and weird and locked himself in there, like- … oh, do you think it’s a bomb?” 

“A what?” Steve squawks. “What the fuck, Dustin? Of course it’s not a- who’d even send us a bomb?” 

“Dunno, grandpa?” Dustin is wibbling in his spot, weirdly elated with the notion. “He must still be pretty damn pissed, right? I mean, last time you saw him, Eddie punched him in the-” 

Steve groans. “Jesus Christ, Dustin, I promise it's not a bomb. Go do your homework or whatever, I'll handle this.” 

Dustin deflates, but sulks off towards his room, grumbling under his breath. Steve sighs and turns back to the door.

“Eds? I'm not leaving, just so you know.” 

For a few seconds, everything stays silent. Then, something shuffles and footsteps approach. The lock clicks, but the door doesn't open. When Steve steps into the tiny room, Eddie is already back in his desk chair, elbows bracketed on his knees, head almost level with his hands. He's holding something. A book.

A familiar mix of feelings stirs in Steve's guts. Alarm. Worry. The overwhelming need to find out who hurt his husband and slowly tear them limb from limb.

“Eddie? What's-” 

“Don't touch me. Get away from me.” 

Eddie doesn't raise his voice. Steve catches himself wishing he had, because the quiet brokenness of the words is somehow infinitely more scary. His feet stop dead in their tracks, halfway between Eddie and the door. From where he's standing, he recognizes the book Eddie has in his hand. 

“Author's copies arrived,” Eddie says, almost as if he read his mind. His head jerks weakly at the package sitting by his feet, holding a stack of identical books, all bearing Eddie’s name on the cover. 

“But…” Steve mutters while his brain is still parsing through the situation. “But that's amazing, honey. You've been looking forward to this so long, why-” 

“I know,” Eddie groans. The book flops to the ground as he brings his hands up to cup his own face. “I was. I am. It's just that …” 

He exhales a long, shaky breath. 

“It's all real now, Stevie. It's here. And- … and next week, it's gonna be in stores, and everybody will be able to pick one up and what if it sucks? I've been dreaming of this for as long as I can think of, but that's all it was - a dream. But now … I dunno, I'm just … I'm scared.” 

“Hey,” Steve whispers, sinking to his knees to bring them face level. “Hey, look at me.” 

Eddie does, big brown eyes peering out from between long fingers. Steve chuckles, reaching for those hands to pull them down into Eddie’s lap. 

“Do you remember the pizza party?” 

Eddie blinks at him. “Huh? What are you-” 

“That was the first time I wanted to kiss you. I had only known you for a few weeks, but somehow, I was already falling in love with you.” Steve smiles, running his fingers over the familiar shape of Eddie's hands and arms, tracing the black ink of his tattoos. “I didn't do it then. Do you know why?” 

“Because Mike puked on your sofa?” 

“Yes,” Steve says automatically. Sputters. “I mean no. I mean- God, you're such an asshole.” 

Eddie’s mouth twitches. Steve sighs. 

“The reason I didn't do it,” he clarifies, “was because I was scared. Because I thought I'd rather spend a lifetime dreaming of having you than turning it into a reality and somehow messing it up. But you know what?” 

“Hm?” Eddie hums, melting into him as Steve leans in to touch their foreheads together. “What's that, love?” 

Steve smiles at the pet name, pressing a kiss to the dimple at the corner of Eddie’s mouth. 

“I'm so incredibly fucking glad we got our shit together in the end,” he says. “Because the reality of it is so much better than anything I ever could've imagined.”

“So much fucking better,” Eddie whispers against his lips, and then neither of them says anything for a while. When they pull out of the kiss, Steve presses the fallen book into Eddie’s hands. 

“This'll be fantastic,” he promises, smoothing over the wrinkle in Eddie’s brow with his lips before he can argue. “You just wait. Now, come down and help me with dinner? Dustin’s convinced you have a bomb in here.” 

Eddie snorts a laugh and stands from his chair, carefully putting the book back with the others before slipping his hand into Steve’s. “What, seriously? And here you are, wondering why I’m doubting myself. With the things that kid comes up with, he should be the author in this family, not me. A bomb, fucking hell!” 

Steve laughs softly as they make their way down the stairs. “You just wait until that book blows up and it turns out he was right.” 

“Yeah, as if,” Eddie says, but there’s no bitterness left in his voice. He smacks a noisy kiss to Steve’s temple, pulling him into the kitchen with a dorky spin and twirl. “Keep dreaming, honey.” 

He definitely will, Steve thinks as they get to work between a constant stream of bickering and kisses. His dreams have a habit of becoming true, after all, and he's no longer afraid of that. 

More celebration ficlets

[chryblossomjjk]

bts fic recommendations | 01.25.23

→ hi friends! this is a little segment i do every tuesday (reviewsday get it, aren’t i funny, pls tell me how funny i am) where i read and review two-three fics. as a content creator, i know how big of a role other creators play in your growth, therefore, i want to do my part in making sure everyone gets the recognition they deserve! so with that being said, please check out the amazing fics listed below. make sure to like, reblog, and leave feedback! ♡ #reviewsday #kikirecs

scent of eager suds - @rkivian (knj x reader | smut, angst, pwp, fluff)

summary: you missed each other, too fucking much. but your head had stayed down in futile hopes of remaining stubborn, forgetting that there is a wedding ring on that tricksy little finger of his for a reason.

so..... genuinely convinced you are the reincarnate of shakespeare babe bc like:

"He would spend a considerably scant amount of time on such a task, yet fulfil it so thoroughly that the constant aching between your legs seemed more equitable than you would like it to be."

LOOK WHAT YOU DO WITH WORDS!!! like everything is so precise. i can tell there's so much thought put into every single word of this piece and woah.. the writing is fucking stellar, seriously. like just the words you use throughout this displays how the reader feels about being vulnerable with joonie: cruel, vengeful, venomous. u put pwp but like you characterized the fuck out of this reader and it's so good...

also... this is thee kim namjoon. like as someone who is v much similar to the reader and self sabotages relationships, ppl who love you enough to recognize that trait and do their best to prove u wrong

AND YOU DID THAT ALL THROUGHOUT THE FLITHIEST NASTIEST SEXIEST SMUT EVER PLS HE'S SO HOT LIKE HE TRULY JUST WANTS TO MAKE HER FEEL GOOD INSIDE AND OUT AND IM GATEKEEPING HIM!!!! this was so so so beautiful and thank you for sharing with plebeians like me :') &lt;3

the one where jin is drunk off his face and you get friend-zoned - @indgio (ksj x reader | fluff, crack)

saf everything you write just comforts my soul. it's missing jin hours around these parts and this is exactly want i needed. i don't know how to explain it but this gives me run episode vibes? like... this is legit kim seokjin. I COULD TOTALLY PICTURE HIM DOING SOME SHIT LIKE THIS LMAO WHAT A SWEET BABY!

also love this oc fr. like from the opening paragraph i could already tell she's the most adorable, most precious being, and you proved it throughout the rest :') <3 taking care of ur drunk partner trope will never not get me and you did it so splendidly ugh will definitely be coming back to this when im sad and 3am and missing my seokjin :'( thanks for this ily <3

"tell me more about this girlfriend of yours."

but jin looks at you with a frown, as he downs the water. "no. get your own."

^also for whatever reason this took me tf out lmao

the one where jungkook will always protect you, even from the fictional - @indgio (jjk x reader | fluff, humor)

bby istg your writing is so... refreshing? like i always think i need these super crazy, convoluted, heavy plots for my fics to be good, but your writing is proof that doesn't have to be the case. your writing is so effortless, yet so beautiful. like once again, genuine comfort content that i don't see too much of anymore. going through your masterlist has really inspired me to take a new avenue, because your fics are just so fucking addicting. i just love the slice of life vibes so much uGh okay enough nutting over u and onto the fic sehfbjsehbdhwb

pov ur saf in my brain BC THE AMOUNT OF TIMES IVE DAYDREAMED ABOUT THIS EXACT SCENARIO IS MENTAL ILLNESS (was just picturing binge watching AOT w him :'))

this jungkook is such a golden retriever ass boyfriend my heart can't take it. the banter ?? the protectiveness ?? THE BITING THE EAR ??? naur im in love it's settled. adding him to the list of fav jungkook portrayals on tumby. will be thinking about him when im bored in the back of my lecture tomorrow. thank you for daydream fuel &lt;3

stfu yes it's wednesday get off my back >:'( i posted this early last week and was just trying to even the timing out that's all... im lying. anyways, love u lmao

[almostfoxglove]

sometimes i struggle with reading fics because i feel like the onus on me to relate — especially with a reader/second person POV fic! — feels so fragile. i think part of it is just my general disconnect with stuff, but generally i just have a really hard time getting fully and completely immersed in something. it's ruined my ability to read for years, and is why i can kind of only consume fanfiction the way i did books when i was a kid. immersion/familiarity + a world/characters i know already. but then you have the issue of trying to find someone who can write those familiar characters with a voice you recognize. that can break the immersion too, i think, to an even worse degree. if i hear a character say something i can't hear in their voice, it rips me right out of my own head and puts me back wherever i am. he would not fucking say that, and all that jazz.

long and kind of stupidly purple pre-ramble aside, i wanted to say all that because i don't know quite how else to tell you how good all of your fics are. your writing kind of tends to take me places that i've never even brushed elbows with; makes me feel like i've walked with these characters and named protagonists like i've done it a thousand times. and obviously there's some wish fulfillment there, but i feel like even wish fulfillment can be so fragile if you aren't careful with it. something that feels too unrealistic to be bought always feels like it can be swept away afterward, but you have this way with words that makes them feel so grounded. your writing is so smart, and it feels so quick, and genuinely funny. i've laughed at jokes in these fics out loud. not the little air-puff snort, but an actual laugh. my cheeks have hurt from smiling. i get that physical pain during the angst that i crave.

i spent basically the entirety of reading your fic library kind of spinning out, thinking and feeling the same way you do when you watch a really good movie and forget that it might still be daylight outside. i don't even really know if i read these fics as a self-insert so much as a really immersive, relatable window to an alternate universe? it's like you're writing down the accounts of alternate "me" or "you" or "us" falling in love across the multiverse. sometimes i even imagine different faces. joel, for example, looks like the pixel and the show version for me depending on the moment, and yet it still feels tangible. kind of amazing. half the fandoms you write for i've literally never seen even once in my life, and here i am, having read them all. whoops.

anyway, jesus. that was long and rambling. i mostly wrote it because as a very, very amateur fic writer myself, i think i've always liked the long comments the most. i try to condense my thoughts as much as i can, but when it comes to something that means something, i also want someone to find a bit of the joy they give to so many other people out of the kindness of their heart. writing is an art form, and you're really, really good at it. i hope you know that.

sweetheart, I have been staring at your asks for a day unsure how to express the depth of my gratitude - I think I'm going to fail to convey it wholly, but please know that this had me properly crying (like, had to get up to blow my nose) because it's so kind. I can't believe you've read it all?? and to send this too is just so sweet and so thoughtful and so above & beyond.

I'm so fucking touched that you've enjoyed my fics and felt close to them (laughing out loud and that angst ache are the highest praise omg) - that's my favorite feeling when I'm reading, so it means so much that you felt that way about something I wrote!! I love the idea of falling in love across the multiverse - what a beautiful thought :,)

see you at three!joel is a mystery to me, honestly!! I don't know where that man came from but he has replaced my brain with lovey-dovey mush. I'm so glad you love him too :,)

thank you infinitely for reading my fics and for sending this incredibly generous ask. please know this touched my heart so deeply and that I am so infinitely grateful to you. I'm sending you the biggest hug and hope I can bring you some more laughter soon :,,) ilysm <33

[irenecatz]

hello I am ✨the government✨, and you are legally required to loredump about your fallout ocs now /j /silly /pos

(I love reading loredumps lol)

YOU WONT CATCH ME THIS TIME GOVERNMENT!!!!

.

Ok my lawyer said i have to. :(

You already know Argo but i dont have much for him yet. He likes rubber ducks i bet

I have one tangentially related to fallout, but not really. His name is Vep!

Yea uh. Dont ask. Also insultron ^^ he is veps securitron!! Vep repaired him to the best of abilities (HE DOESNT HAVE A BONER ARM PEOPLE KEPT TELLING ME HE DID DTOP STOP STOP) since Vep is a pacifist, he retired him to like, make fun of people instead of exploding them. I have a lot of troller ocs ngl.. (like 2. that’s not a lot noomy, shut the fuck u) please dont ask me why hes a deer/leopard just go with it

This is my courier 6, aka courier pickle. They’re really fucked up in the head!! And also really gay for robots. I, i mean they, they have a problem. Yeah. Not me

They dont have anything up OR down there!

After getting shot in the head by Bitchass Benny, they ran straight to the strip, tortured him and then dragged him over to the legion to get him crucified where they promptly joined. They had fun times!

Until they found yes man >:P

They betrayed caesar (oh no how could you! Die.) while preparing for the soon to be battle, they stumbled upon the think tanks satellite !

Everything went downhill for our so called hero there :3

(I havent played honest hearts or lonesome road yet and i really dont care for the,.m…. So they are not ap art of the lore. I said so. Joshua graham can lick my metaphysical balls)

whered it go pickle! whered it go! haha! the think tank took it and replaced it with a bunch of mentat tins so now youre addicted sorry. and now they’re going to poke you and prod you and make you run tasks. they have your brain still. Mobius never had it, and you killed him anyway. How could you? How could you? Why did you do it? Why did you do it?

They think radroaches are neat. Cute little buggers!

When they came back to the strip not one recognized them at first, and I wouldn’t blame them. They didn’t even act like themselves!

While yes man continued to bug them about the battle they just kept drowning themselves in chems and alcohol (robotic) prostitutes until they were sore and numb to this cruel world. The wasteland will eat you alive. From the outside and inside. Dust in your lungs sands engrained in the palms of your hands. Nobody is there for you. Nobody.

And then the battle came. They surrendered, wanting to make peace, wanting to exchange their life for whatever they still considered “friends.”

Lanius lied. Lanius took them prisoner and yet, still called for no mercy.

They took the dam. The securitron army was destroyed, the NCR drove out, Yes Man killed, and the Courier was due to be crucified.

But they ran. They ran and ran and ran

(and they ran… I ran so far away…)

They temporarily stayed at Big MT, for one making an attempt to revive yes man using the mark 5 securitrons, but it failed horribly!! And also they ate all the Mentats to the think tank kicked them out.

after a month of paranoid traveling they managed to reach boston! !! !

there they met the sole survivor ( @bl4z33467 ‘s oc!!!) and thyey settled down for no more trouble from the legion ever! definitely. ok i hope you enjoy reading. im not too good at writing stuff like this, give me an argumentative essay and a few weeks any day

^^ video also by Blaze (although the last part was drawn by yours trulyyyy(

[yayll]

You ask and i shall deliver!!

Anyway my thought process behind this was just Dazai with a Reader who doesn’t do the whole “i have a crush on you but I’m scared to tell you” NO!! They are confident and know what they want so they start with the courting early.

They take him to places and have dates but they dont say they’re dates(they put to much faith into thinking he brain would connect the dots) they start slowly but surely making Dazai spend more time at their place then his shipping container and buying him things he can use there, they start to incorporate physical affection like hand holding and hugging.

And to Reader because Dazai hasn’t rejected them or shown signs he wants to yet they are just like “hehe, i love my boyfriend ☺️” while Dazai is internally freaking tf out because he genuinely can’t tell if this is a date or if Reader is oblivious on how this looks but also likes it and is scared of saying something that causes them to stop, until someone asks if they’re dating and he says no in a panic the same time readers says yes with enthusiasm.

Dumb silly teens in love man-TeenZai Anon

HI SWEET TEENZAI ANON i'm so sorry this is late i've been busy but i am back and what a pleasure to read this omggg. i think my fav thing abt ur characterization of him is that he isn't very vocal abt it yet secretly loves being close and feeling adored it's something i think he carried into adulthood but also something he CANNOT still process or recognize even then so he either does his best to evade that by projecting all his love onto you and being hyperaware of your every need but when u reciprocate just as much as he does he's just like omg...... ur fucking lying but also PLEASE don't be lying puppy dog face.

god i love him when u both contradict eachother on the dating comment he just looks at you all embarrassed but u reassure him with:

"we don't have to use labels, you know. if you don't want to. i like whatever you want."

and he's one word away from turning around and faceplanting.

"NO! no. this is okay.. this is fine, or whatever.. i'm not even worried! pshh, i never am."

and he simply stares at you all wide eyed wishing you'd make the first move and so YOU DO, because you can read him just as well as he reads you. you put your hand on his and notice the bandages are old and frayed.

"need any help with these?"

"uhh..."

"i'll help. come here."

and u two just spend the afternoon tending to whatever upkeep he needs, talking, giggling and chase each other around bc it's probably the most wholesome aspect of your lives and....... i'm just. it's so over

[maxident-xx]

you know what. fuck it. *posts entire phony wip in here*

WC : 3628

@wabatle @sillynene-13 since yall like phony

Chapter One - 02/01/2XXX

Death Corps. Everyone feared the four knocks on the door. Four, the unlucky number. That's when the Death Corps recruiters would come, forcing you to join the army. Everyone had to join, starting at the age of 13. I think they started doing it because of the amount of wars that have been going on lately. They need more soldiers to defend our crappy country. There were two ways you could get out of serving in the Death Corps: if you had some serious disability or if you were filthy rich. If you paid enough money, you could avoid going for half a year. If you keep paying, when you turn 35, they stop caring. My parents have been using the payment method of saving my brother and I for the past few years, up until now. The four dreaded knocks. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.

I silently ran downstairs to overhear the conversation between my dad and the recruiter. The recruiter was a woman with blonde hair and dark brown roots. She had dark siren eyes and was dressed in an all black attire. She was utterly terrifying.

“Yes, Mr. Terry Black? We're here to enlist Mallory Poppy Black and Fitz Aster Black for their necessary Death Corps Service. We didn't receive any payment, and in the Death Corps Handbook, Section 37B it states if there is no payment to spare yourself from serving for a month, a Death Corps recruiter is obligated to come and take you or your children to training.”

“Recruiter, ma'am, we might've run out of money, but please don't do this to my kids. I'll pay double the amount next year.”

“I'm so sorry, Mr. Black. I cannot do that, I don't make the rules. I listen to the handbook. Can you please call them over?”

“Mallory, Fitz! Come down!” 

I went down first, my twin brother, Fitz, following shortly after. His face paled as he recognized the skull embroidered on the recruiters uniform.

“You're shitting me,” Fitz choked out.

“I'm so sorry,” My dad chanted as he squeezed us. “I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, please stay safe, my babies,” He was beginning to cry now. I bit the inside of my cheek, trying not to sob with him.

“Come with me, you two,” The recruiter ordered. Fitz and I followed her to her van. “Everyone in Death Corps has a code name. Mine is Guerilla. I am not telling you my real name, as per Death Corps Handbook section 1B. You two need to serve 18 months each.” She reapplied her cherry red lipstick before starting the van. “I'll be picking up more kids after. If any of you guys try to escape, you will suffer immediate consequences. What are they? You don't want to know.” 

“Guerilla scares me,” Fitz whispered.

“Real, if I have to serve in her regiment I don't know what I would do,” I whispered back. I couldn't shake the question off my brain, why can't she say her real name? Is it for privacy reasons? What if we did find her real name?

For those of you reading this story, sorry to interrupt, but I'm Mallory and I hate my life. My parents are divorced because they have absolutely no love for each other. The world is at a constant state of war. My twin brother is a weirdo. I probably won't get to eat mint chocolate chip ice cream for the next 18 months. But it could be worse?

The next person that boarded the van is some kid who looks our age. He was too busy crying to say anything about himself.

After that there was this one kid who just stared off into space for three minutes before talking. “My sister is in the Death Corps. I wonder how she's doing. She's almost done with her service.”

“What's her name, child?” Guerilla asked from the front seat.

“Eden. Eden Mendoza. I'm Wren, her little sibling,” The kid said. I could not tell the gender of that thing, and apparently, neither could anyone else.

“Oh, Himmel. Her left leg's been completely blown off I tell ya. Blood everywhere, it flew six or seven feet away from her, what a sight! But don't worry, she's doin’ better,” Guerilla informed. 

Fitz and I looked at each other, eyes both wide. The boy started crying harder. Wren's mouth was agape. “Her- Her leg was blown off??”

“Mhm, that's not even the worst I've witnessed on the battlefield. She uses a prosthetic leg now.” The fact Guerilla could say that with such a straight face shows how traumatizing serving for the Death Corps would be. I can't wait. (That's sarcasm, for those of you who are a little slow.)

After Guerilla collected all of the recruits, there were a total of eight people in the back of the van. Four boys, three girls, and one whatever the hell Wren was. The oldest in the van was a 21 year old man, the youngest was Wren, being 14 years old.

When we arrived at the camp, boy, was it crowded. There were varying expressions, from people trembling and crying to people being… excited to be here? You have a 51.6% death rate from serving in Death Corps, and you're excited? I wish I was that optimistic about dying. 

“Mallory, if I die, please hide my phone from Dad. One wrong click and he's going to bring me back from the dead and kill me again,” Fitz told me. I wonder how he'd feel knowing two years after he said that, I went through his phone and found out exactly why he said that.

“Same goes with me. If Dad found the drawings in my sketchbook, I'm done for.” I've never gotten along with Fitz well, but I guess it's easier to talk with someone when you're both in a life-or-death situation.

A loud siren came from way up front and a man who appeared to be around his mid-30's stepped up on the podium. “Welcome all Death Corps recruits. I am Eifrit, the current General of Death Corps. You are all gathered here today to serve your required 18 month term. You will undergo training and testing to decide which subunit is the most fitting for you. We wish the best for you, and as our founder would say, ‘Experiri non mori.’ Thank you.”

I think I'm going to start writing my suicide note. Death Corps, you guys can get a special shout out.

Chapter Two - 02/01/2XXX

“Alright, everyone from van SK431 come to this side! I will be doing a fitness test to see if you are fit to be in battle. I will be doing this with the aid of my helper, Andromeda. Introduce yourself, Andromeda!” Guerilla announced.

Andromeda was slightly shorter than Guerilla and had a nose piercing, a mole above her lips, split dyed black and white hair, and purple eyes that seemed as if they lost the glimmer in them a long time ago. “Hello trainees, my name is Andromeda, as Guerilla said, and I serve as a medic in the Death Corps. I will be doing a full body examination, and then we will run some exercises to test your stamina, dexterity, and strength. Any questions before we begin?”

“Ew a full body exam?? Are we going to like, have to strip naked or something?” Some ugly boy exclaims. He was one of the guys that were excited to be here.

“I don't want to see your small dick either, buddy. I have to do this, unfortunately.” Most of the group burst into laughter as whoever that guy was tried to come up with a comeback.

“Oh yeah? Well I bet um… Um… I bet you uh… You smell bad?!” That was the worst attempt at an insult I've ever seen.

Andromeda ignored his statement and moved onto the actual inspections. Fitz went first in a dingy tent with a caduceus on the front. He came back ten minutes later traumatized.

This part is icky and I'm sure you don't want to read it so I'll skip to the part after the whole medical exams. There were person shaped targets lined up and we were each handed a pistol. 

“You all have to shoot the targets. You get two tries, we'll be looking for people that have great accuracy,” Guerilla explained. “You kid, you're up first.”

Wren closed an eye and got into shooting position. The bullet hit a perfect bullseye.

“How did you do it? It was probably just a lucky shot!” A guy shouted.

“I'm used to shooting, my parents taught me when I was younger to prepare me for this. I prefer sniping more, though,” Wren said.

“You're hella good kid, shoot again?” Guerilla rested an arm on their shoulder. They nodded before getting back into position and shooting again, this time a little off from the bullseye. Guerilla wrote something down on a paper and let the weird guy– who's name I later learned was Lawrence– shoot. He used both his shots immediately and just barely hit the target. Guess we know who isn't going to be a shooter. Fitz was after two other people, and he did average. He hit pretty close to the bullseye the first time, and hit somewhere on the outer edges on the second try. I went last, and I had a stunning realization: I need glasses. And I need to find out which eye was my dominant eye. 

“Loser,” Fitz snickered. I elbowed him.

“This is why you're the one that was an accident,” I retorted. He didn't say anything back.

“Next up is close combat! Since there are eight people gathered here, we'll do this tournament style!” Guerilla seemed a little too enthusiastic to watch people fight each other.

First match was some random girl against Fitz. I'm not sure if pitting a girl against a boy is a good idea but equal rights, equal fights. The other recruits, Guerilla, and I watched as Fitz and the girl threw punches at each other. Fitz landed a punch on her nose, and I think something in that girl snapped because she kicked him right where it hurts the most. Everyone felt the pain Fitz felt as he fell to the ground with a groan.

“I win!” The girl smiled. She held her hand out to help Fitz up, but he swatted it away.

“I'm in extreme pain, I don't think I can get up yet,” Fitz groaned. Who's the loser now?”

“I know you can do it, Fitz. Get up if you want to survive,” Guerilla walked towards him and slightly nudged him with her foot. He got up immediately and stood right next to me.

I let him rest his arm on my shoulder as the next match started. It was Wren versus the 21 year old. Okay, these matches are getting a bit unfair now, aren't they? Wren probably just started going through puberty and they're fighting someone who's old enough to drink? The match started with Wren charging directly at the man, and the man retaliated by body slamming Wren on the floor. The thud was loud, but the silence after Wren's eyes closed was louder. 

“That was a child? You could've gone easier on the thing!” Guerilla squatted to feel Wren's pulse. “They're still alive, I'll go call Andromeda. You shouldn't have done that during training, but I like your attitude, man. You better show the same strength on the battlefield, soldier. I'll be back soon. Mallory, you look after everyone.”

The sound of Guerilla's boots hitting the ground decrescendoed as she left the training site. The man looked down on the floor where Wren laid and sat down. “Damn,” He said.

Damn indeed. 

Guerilla returned with Andromeda, who came to pick Wren up, with another girl by her side. She had the same chocolate eyes and facial structure as Wren. The doctor's coat and skirt were long, but not enough to cover the prosthetic leg she had. Was she Himmel? 

“Wren has a minor concussion, but they'll be fine with a little rest. When they wake up, tell them big sis says hi.” Himmel patted their hair before getting up. “Andromeda will supply the medicine to quicken recovery.”

“Thank you, Himmel. I'll tell you when the kid wakes up again.” Guerilla seemed like a genuinely nice person outside of the battlefield. “In the meantime, let's have our third match. Mallory versus Lewis.”

Lewis was the kid that was crying the whole trip here. When the match started, he stood and waited for me to attack. I was about to do the same until I realized that it was a pussy move. So I kicked his shins hard. He fell to the floor immediately and begged for mercy. I think what happened to Wren scared him.

“Mallory wins… I guess. I don't think that counts as much of a win, but great job?” Guerilla stared at Lewis with a pitiful expression. “I don't know what I'm going to do with you. Alright, fourth match starts in a minute!”

“You only won because Lewis is weak. If you went against anyone else, you'd lose,” Fitz told me. 

“You're not wrong.” I weigh 100 pounds and I am 5’6, of course I would lose against anyone that wasn't Lewis.

The fourth match was Lawrence versus a girl. These people need to say their names. I'm going to confuse the readers by saying “this girl” or “this guy” for the millionth time. I should use adjectives to make it a little easier to differentiate. Pink haired girl. That works.

Back to the story, I watched Lawrence win against the pink haired girl, but she put up a pretty strong fight. She seems normal, unlike Lawrence. She was crying a little in the van, but now she looks like she's just accepted her fate. Girl same. 

“What a fight, huh? Most of you guys did great. After Wren wakes up, we'll do an obstacle course,” Guerilla declared. An obstacle course doesn't sound too bad. I'm pretty quick, I have experience. By experience I mean running away from my brother after I eat the last piece of cake. But I'm sure it won't be that bad, right?

Right?

Chapter Three - 02/01/2XXX

I was wrong. It was that bad.

Wren woke up 30 minutes later after Andromeda and Himmel visited, confused. Hope they didn't get amnesia. Guerilla gave them some of the pain medication, but other than the confusion they seemed alright. 

“Sorry for knocking you out and giving you a concussion or something,” Wren's opponent apologized.

“It's okay. Maybe. I understand why you did that, I would've done the same.” Wren forced a smile. Really shitty apology, but good on them for accepting(?) it.

“Okay, now that Wren is back, it's time for the obstacle course. I'm tired of explaining so this should make sense. Y'all have seen obstacle courses before. Coming back in one piece is optional, I'll tell Andromeda to wait at the end and I'll stay here and make sure none of you losers cheat.” Guerilla does not get paid enough to deal with us and I feel her. 

It started with loser boy Lewis tripping and falling face first on the mud. I- along with many others- ran over him. Sorry Lewis. We had to jump hurdles, which almost led to my downfall. After that, it was climbing a cliff and landing the jump on a mattress. 

You get what happens during obstacle courses. I was neck to neck with pink haired girl for most of it until the final stretch, where I made it first. Fitz was third and Wren was behind him. Lewis was last, as always. This boy is a true example of a loser, Fitz, not me.

Guerilla decided to give us a break before starting an… intelligence test? Lawrence failed, as expected. Zero questions right, how does that happen? Fitz got half the questions right. I got 80%, good for me. Wren got one more question right than I did. I got outscored by a 14 year old. I need to evaluate my life choices.

“Folks, since we've completed all the tests, y'all get a break and tomorrow morning we have an assembly. There, you will get sorted into groups based on your performance today. I'm going to drink until I pass out, don't disturb me, your dorms are over there.” Guerilla pointed to a rundown shack. 

I only had one word when I walked in. Gross. Even my brother's underwear doesn't smell as bad as this place.

When I stepped in, it smelled like literal ass. There were four bunk beds, so I played safe and got a bunk above Fitz. The shower was freezing, but it felt refreshing to be able to shower. 

“Guys, appear normal. The troop leaders are doing a check on every training regiment and I want a raise. If you're on your best behavior, I'll let you sleep in an extra five minutes.” Guerilla entered our shack 45 minutes later when most of us were all freshened up. 

Waiting didn't take too long, because it was only two minutes after Guerilla announced a troop leader was arriving when one actually did.

Dear readers, I don't usually find anyone that attractive. But this troop leader? God damn, when I tell you she was fine! She had light blue hair that went to her lower back, a scar that started from her nose to above her right eye, electric blue eyes, and a tank top that revealed her arm muscles. She had a black cap sporting the Death Corps emblem on too. She looked scary in a different way than Guerilla did.

“This the training regiment from van SK431, correct? May I see the results of the tests?” She inquired. “To those who don't know me, my name is Lupus. I'm troop leader 172. Some of you guys might be in my troop, depending on your scores.” Please Lord let that be me. “Hey, Guerilla. This year we have a lot of interesting candidates, hm?”

“Yup,” Guerilla agreed, passing Lupus the papers with our scores, “Sirens little cousin is here, right? Van AE382? I recall working with Siren. Cool guy.”

“Mhm. He was a beast on the battlefield. Let's pray his little cousin is like that.” Even I have heard of Siren. One of the Death Corps best recruits. He killed a bunch of people and showed zero remorse. He left after his term was up, however. The top generals would pay him millions if it meant he would come back. If his cousin was coming here, maybe they would be just as badass as Siren.

Lupus examined the papers, eyes widening at some. “You have some good recruits, Guerilla, but…” Lupus whispered the second part to Guerilla.

“Mmm, we're probably going to put ‘im in the clean-up crew. Scores are underwhelming compared to everyone else in the group.” Of course they're talking about Lewis. The same Lewis who was, for some reason, fast asleep. For context, it was 5:21 pm. 

Lupus and Guerilla chatted about tomorrow and sorting us into troops. I also heard something about code names. The code names they suggested for me before they actually chose my current one were bad. If I had to tell people my name was Speedy I would leave Death Corps even if it meant they would hunt me down. I'll reveal what my code name was at a later point. For now, back to Lupus.

She left our shack, taking the papers to the higher ranks. Guerilla praised us and told us we were good little children for behaving and we would get our 5 minutes of extra sleep. Are we going to have our lesson on coloring in the lines next? Are we going to learn the alphabet? Guerilla was only three years older than the oldest person in our training regiment, so her treating us like kindergarteners doesn't make much sense.

The rest of the day was pretty eh. It was just me doodling in my sketchbook and talking to the only two people I was okay with talking to.

Lights out came shortly after I had finished one of my drawings. I can barely fall asleep on normal days, so of course me being on a bed that felt like a brick made it even worse. The next day we would finally figure out who would go where for extra training based on our strengths and weaknesses. I was going to be separated from Fitz and Wren. I was going to be in a war that changed everything.

Chapter Three Point Five - Why am I Here??

I should interrupt the story with some Death Corps lore. It all started with the war for more land. Humans are selfish beings, they always want more than what they have. they were willing to do anything for some land that was discovered. That land also happened to have a bunch of resources and riches, so that made the wars much worse. The war has been going on for just about a decade now. Every army is different, but in the country I'm in, it has the infamous Death Corps. Death Corps was founded by two siblings, Shams and Qamar. Their real names are unknown, but it was founded just before the war started. At first, it was just recruiting whoever wanted to join and whoever was strong enough. Then, they started getting desperate. They needed more support. They let in whoever wanted to join. The conditions worsened, and they had to resort to forcing everyone to serve in the army.

[pandalexoxo]

i can’t stop imaging myself being transported into tokyo revengers. though, personally, i believe it would be bitter sweet.

TOKYO REVENGERS X MALE READER

i’d love to imagine meeting takemichi, and confiding in him that i know about his power, that, i too, have a secret. i would tell him that i’m not even from this universe. he thinks time leaping 12 years is weird? try telling him you’re from another reality (basically) where he’s an anime.

to sum up my thoughts (i wrote 13 paragraphs before deleting it bc this is suppose to just be a ramble lmfao, maybe i’m uploading it later and get your guys inputs) i just feel like i would try to be the sunshine guard dog protector, y’know? not necessarily swoop in to save takemichi (tho, i’d definitely swoop in to beat some characters asses just bc i have a personal vendetta) because damn! look at how badass and hot takemichi is, whenever he fights?! (that ass. thiccimichi 😩😼)

now, here’s where my heart aches and my brain fries from overthinking. do i tell takemichi that i watched the anime (read the manga too) and know who will die in the end? do i tell him that i know of the anime but haven’t seen it or read the manga?

MAJOR SPOILERS FOR TOKYO REVENGERS ANIME AND MANGA!!! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!

so, we know that in chapter 275 of the manga (probably season 5 in the anime if we’re lucky) takemichi ends up dying by mikey’s hand, a blade through his chest (heart? stomach? idk i haven’t read the manga in a few months. i sobbed hysterically over his death and refused to open the manga back up. that was until chapter 276 came out, how foolish of me to believe takemichi wouldn’t stand back up like he always does. what a true mc)

funny enough, by using mikey’s hand, he’s able to time travel him and mikey, not just 12 years, but back to when they were kids (i think they were 8 or somewhere around there). thus they are able to help each other create their perfect ending.

though… this “perfect ending” can’t happen unless the characters who died stay dead. shinichiro, baji, emma, izana, draken. with these deaths, mikey indulges in his “dark impulses” and thus the kanto manji gang and toman gen 2 end up fighting to lead to takemichi’s death and end with the perfect book closing page.

it’s unfortunate. it makes me tear up, sob, want to throw up (maybe throw myself out the window) but everything needs to happen. not only the deaths but takemichi’s mental health diminishing needs to happen to. this (others teaching him how to fight and his visions) helps takemichi in the last battle to dodge, punch and get close to mikey.

though, how easily takemichi forgives?! boy just smiles off his pain and forgives others, especially in the final chapter??? he just has his beautiful dopey smile on his face when mikey recognized him and then they ride off into the sunset to save their future??? hell. no. i need everyone to put their fists up, stand in a line, and eat my fucking fist.

i need a takemichi villain arc series. would someone be willing to make that for me? what do you want? a cookie? therapy? a hug? emotional and mental stability? no mommy and daddy issues? (i can’t provide the last two unfortunately, still trying to figure that shit out myself lmfaooo. though, my dms are always open. i love chatting with people and sharing dark humor. muah!)

then again, this is why i whole heartedly admire takemichi. he may not be physically strong like the others but as mikey says, he’s incredibly mentally strong. he gets back up. he stays standing. he’s determined and won’t fall until he wins. he’s too kind. i love him so much guys you don’t understandddd. hina, please share, fuck i am on my knees, foaming at the mouth and barking.

ugh :( it’s okay michi. you get your perfect future, though, are you truly happy and at peace? just keep smiling, okay? anywhooo, you know, i could treat you better anyway! xoxo 😼🕺😽

[joz-yyh]

Love Host - Ch. 8

SUMMARY: Miles and Waylon meet up for some diagnostic testing that takes a very drastic turn. No beta. Read at your own risk.

RATING: T (for this chapter ONLY!!)

PAIRING: Walmiles (WalriderxMiles)

WORD COUNT: 4,190

READ ON Ao3: -> HERE!!

A/N: Wishing you all a belated Monster May, but also happy first day of Pride~ Excited for next chapter because there will be smut~ Comments and likes are very appreciated.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–——

Clang, Clang, Clang--!

Waylon looks up from his computer chair at the pedantic knock, knowing who his pertinent guest should be, double checking the security feed just to be sure Murkoff wasn't paying him any surprise visits.

There on the monitor, is a quiff of black hair and ugly olive jacket he'd recognize a mile away. Speaking of Miles –

Waylon opens the bean hole to the main door, the grinning blue eyes of Miles fucking Upshur waiting for him on the other side.

“Hey there, WayWay, I am here for my check up,” he greets with a smile, the wave he offers just out of sight, “Oh yeah, and Wally’s here too.” 

The words barely register before the nanomachine has its whole face pressed against the peephole, staring back at Waylon, completely eyeless.

The techie nearly jumps out of his skin, shutting the slat out of paranoid instinct, body wrecked by a wave of heebeegeebees. 

He can see it. Why can he see it when he couldn’t as much as before?

“Heeeeyy,” Miles whines, voice dampened by the steel barrier between them, ”I am still waiting out here.”

Waylon internally groans, trying to collect himself enough to unlatch the many bars securing the entrance shut.

When the final lock cracks loose, Miles is too busy sympathizing the Walrider to notice, holding its caricature of a face and daresay, petting it.

“Ah, you can c-come in now,” Waylon offers, standing in the doorway, watching on with morbid fixation.

“There, see,” Miles exclaims, a consoling note to his voice, “He wouldn't invite us in if he didn't like us.”

Waylon swears this scene must be slowly melting his brain from the inside out, along with Miles’s seemingly endless list of pet names for him.

“Hey, Way,” the brunette asks, turning his attention to his fellow asylum survivor, “could you tell Wally here that you like him, please? He thinks you're scared of him. Isn't that silly?”

He isn't scared, he's terrified.

“Yeah, s-sure. I like him,” Waylon offers weakly, shoving down his dread.

This was absurd. A machine couldn’t have feelings and even if it did, they were none more important than his own.

“Told you! Everything's fine,” Miles chippers, the Walrider finally appeased by this discovery.

The machine gazes toward Waylon again, breaking it’s body down into smaller pieces, swooping in close to swirl around Waylon knees, then higher, drifting in a cyclone of miniature storm clouds up to his shoulders.

“Uhh, hello again, I guess,” the engineer offers shakily, trying to appear fearless and brave, even lifting a finger to touch the nanite mist surrounding him. It feels like water.

“Thanks Waylon,” Miles says, patting him on the shoulder in good sportsmanship, stepping inside.

“Yeah, sure. No problem.”

And just like that, the nano machine leaves him to follow it’s host, the dazed software engineer reminding himself that he needs to rearm the door. 

Before the reporter can poke his nose in further, Waylon locks the paddock, turning on the electric fence to deter any unwanted trespassers.

“So, this is where you’ve been holding up,” Miles asks, taking in the abandoned barracks, a dimly-lit trailer filled with a junkyard of broken, decommissioned tech.

The Walrider is equally curious, ghosting around the layout, dousing the army green interior in supernatural mist.

“Not quite,” Waylon amends, running a hand down his face, feeling overwhelmed by the quirky demands of his company, “This is where I work. Keeps me a safe distance away from Lisa and the kids in case anything happens.”

“Safety is important. I am sure there are no OSHA recordables in here,” the snarky brunette remarks, dodging under a duct of loose wires.

“Ha ha funny,” the blonde remarks, devoid of amusement, “the device I want to show you is over here.” 

Waylon grabs him by the wrist cuff before Miles can slip away to snoop, escorting him to the testing room.

“Aren’t you going to give me a tour first,” the sleuth whines, taking in as much of the space as he can, “you can’t tell me you have a secret lair and not show me around.”

“There's really not much to see,” Waylon growls, noting his companion’s inquisitive fingers, “Also, please stop touching everything.”

“Awwww,” Miles whines, dragging his feet in disappointment, a frown setting in.

“Fine, maybe later,” the techie relents, his stride persisting, “We're kinda pressed for time.” 

“Oh, somewhere you gotta be,” Miles asks, perking up at that confession, raising a brow at his companion, letting himself be tugged along more easily.

“Yeah, I’d prefer to be home with my wife and kids.”

A long pause, their combined footsteps echoing off the iron grates that line the floor.

“Am I invited,” the reporter asks, smirking at the back of Waylon’s unkempt head of hair.

Another aggravated yank on his sleeve.

“Let’s just get through testing first.”

They arrive at their destination, the very back of the bunker, a T-shaped hub. One of the doors is sealed off, making Miles wonder what could be hiding in there, the rest of the room encased by steel shelves filled with gutted parts, radios, computers, phones and the like. 

In the center is a chair outfitted with restraints, a litany of auxiliary cords hooked up to various loadouts, a desk and computer terminal set up in the corner, no doubt to collect the data of whoever sits in it.

“So … this is it,” Miles says judgmentally, unimpressed, “Looks like an electric chair, but somehow more revenge of the nerds-esque.”   

Waylon smacks his lips and rolls his eyes. He won’t deny it bears a striking resemblance to Mount Massive’s brainwashing devices, ones he had the untimely pleasure of experiencing for himself.

“Yeah, everyone's a critic. Just get in.”

“Is it safe,” Miles asks, skeptical of the bad vibe he was getting just by looking at the creepy thing.

“As safe as any of this experimental tech is gonna be.”

Miles supposes he can’t complain, given the circumstances. He doesn’t get any of these gadgets, but there was no one else he could turn to (aside from maybe Wernickle) who could give him the answers he seeks. Still, the reporter can’t help feeling a bit uneasy about entrusting himself to any diagnostic tool created on a non-existent scrap heap budget.

The Walrider manifests itself as a disembodied head, whistling through it’s cheeks, seeking to reassure it’s host with a trill of sound. Miles smiles, close-lipped, stroking the odd contours of its face with a gentle hand.   “Alright. I mean we’ve come this far. What other choice do we have?”

With that, the anxious human hybrid takes a seat, the next test subject for this experimental apparatus going on torture device. Waylon straps him in, tying the buckles too tight to be comfortable, but Miles suspects it's punishment for trying to pry into the engineer's private life. His head too is bridled in place, another belt across the forehead to keep him securely in an upright position.

“This will monitor your heart rate,” Waylon says, electrode pads stuck to Miles’ temple, and then after a moment, adds a disclaimer, “I am not a doctor, though.”

“You’ll be able to tell me more about the Walrider, right,” the brunette asks, nervously clenching his hands on the arm rest.

Waylon hesitates, less than confidently offering a, “Yeah,” in response.

The programmer returns to his computer chair, swishing around his mouse, loading up a program with a few swift clicks. 

A gray and white window pops up, waves on a grid, a number of statistics waiting for action.

“OK, I am going to turn it on now,” Waylon warns, looking over at the subdued reporter, about to flick the switch, "you might feel some … discomfort.”

“I am ready,” Miles braces himself, waiting for his electrotherapy to begin, the stiff shock he expects not so much more than a mild tingle. A part of him relaxes at this, the vibrations reminiscent of a massager, one of those fancy La-Z-boy recliners. Nothing he can’t handle.

Miles can’t turn his head to see the screen, can only speculate what his friend is doing over there, but the rapid clicking and typing does make him feel a little less relaxed.

“So, how you're feeling now, this will be our constant, what your readings look like normally. Which we’ll then compare to your reactions when introduced to stimuli.”

Waylon sounds like an exemplary salesman, confident, in the zone. Miles supposes all he needed was to have a computer in front of him to accomplish the feat.

“Sounds harmless enough,” Miles laughs raggedly, trying to calm his breathing.

“I am turning up the gain,” Waylon says, dialing up the voltage, the green-yellow-red LED indicator flashing, whining with excess energy.

The Walrider whimpers, a swell of crackling electricity causing the prescribed discomfort. It hurts Miles to see the creature suffering, tries to calm his symbiotic partner through their subconscious, saying it'll be over soon, but he can’t shake the nagging feeling that something is wrong.

“More,” Waylon advises, cranking the voltage up to maximum.

With this, the Walrider blips and flashes in and out of its corporeal form, unable to maintain it’s physical body. The nanites are raging like storm clouds, booming like thunder as it roars in pain, but this was Miles' idea -- he brought it here, subjected it to this. How could he call it off? 

Perhaps the Walrider had acted as a shield, protecting him from the worst of it, but now Miles can feel it too, an electric surge consuming him, making him wrestle against his restraints, so wired every vein in his body is popping. 

Then, it finally clicks in the struggling journalist's head.  This was bordering on lethal. 

"You're trying to kill us," the reporter barks in realization, and he doesn't want to admit that there's tears of betrayal gathering in his eyes, “What is it? Some kind of virus?!”

"I am trying to disable it,” the blonde corrects, his shout cutting through the charged shocks in the air, over Miles screaming, “Put yourself in my shoes. Murkoff is going to come at us with much more than this. I had to test it’s limits." 

"This isn't what we agreed," the reporter bellows, grasping onto consciousness.

"If I had told you, you wouldn't have agreed,” Waylon grimaces, trying to get the reporter to look past his personal bias and understand common sense, “For godssake it's a machine Miles. It's not human. It's killed people. Use your head!" 

"The same machine that saved your ass from getting sliced up," the reporter grits out, trying to reroute the pain, blocking his mind of it.

That makes Waylon falter, rethink his ethics, but he finds his courage again.   "I am trying to fix this, fix you. After Murkoff, what then, huh? You think society is just going to let you go running around loose, a living bioweapon? They’ll call you a terrorist! A threat to national security." 

"You don't know that!" 

“Do you hear yourself?! Just listen to me –" 

"–Turn it off!" 

"Miles–" 

"– No! If he dies, I die!”

Waylon stares at him numbly, shaken to his core, never considering that possibility.

“Turn it the fuck off, Waylon,” Miles reminds him, swiftly approaching his breaking point, “How will your kids feel, knowing that their father is a murderer?!”

That line ultimately causes the engineer to relent, doing as he's told. The chair powers down, the Walrider dissipating along with it, fading into thin air, too weak to exist.

The heat generated by such a powerful current leaves behind a steam, a faint smoke wafting up from around Miles’ person.

Waylon stands, intent on helping him out of the restraints, getting shocked in the process when he strays too close to the magnetic field. 

How could he forget? Miles was a living powerhouse now, polarizing everything around him.

He grabs a pair of heavy duty rubber gloves from off the shelf, better equipped to thwart any more incoming sparks, starting from bottom, unbinding the reporter’s feet first, then the buckle on his waist, his wrists, and then finally the band around his head. 

The electrical hazard of a man collapses by the time he’s done, a harsh rattle echoing throughout the space as his knees hit the mental grate under him, causing another shock to rumble across the bunker, the lights flickering. Good thing Waylon is wearing insulated shoes.

Miles is shaking, eyes blank and crazed, gaping in silent horror. He can feel the faint presence of the Walrider still inside him, barely a wrinkle, a wisp of life, his relief drowned by sinking fear.

"I am sorry," Miles mumbles through ragged panting, hugging himself, hoping the nanomachine can hear him, though he doesn’t know how much merit his words will hold after this, “Just wait. Everything's going to be OK now.”

Waylon is aghast. He's never seen Miles break before, that snarky exterior he donned like a suit of armor brought low, stripped to such a sad and sorry state of despair.

The whistleblower bites his lip, clenching his fists. He reminds himself that what he did was a necessary evil, to not regret his decision. 

His stomach is in knots, kneeling down to comfort Miles, a hand resting upon his pious back in a gesture of peace.

"H-hey, are you … OK?"

In a fit of anger, Miles pushes the blonde away, knocking Waylon into the nearby wall, shocking him with some of his excess energy. Miles only regrets not being at full strength, because, if he was, he would have hurt the backstabbing liar much more. 

"Drop the good boy act,” Miles growls, ruthless, seething hate in his eyes, “We both know it's a crock of shit. And fuck you!” 

Waylon admits he probably deserved the insult, his mind still reeling, his chest tight, electrocuted.

“When are you going to get it,” Miles shouts, stumbling to his feet, reaching for a nearby shelf to compensate for his weak knees, knocking over some of the equipment in the process, “I am not the same man anymore and neither are you, no matter how hard you try to deny it. What happened to me in Mount Massive … it happened to you too, Waylon."

Minutes ago, when his head was still getting fried inside a microwave, when he and the Walrider were both on the brink, he'd seen memories, not his, but the machines. It showed him Waylon dressed in a patient’s uniform, hiding from a cannibal with a circular saw, falling down an elevator shaft as a runaway bride, a piece of lumber stabbed through his ankle.

Waylon stares at him, speechless, still in a discombobulated heap on the floor, where the product of Miles’ attack had landed him, held up by the weak limbs of his forearms.

"Unlock the fucking door," Miles spits, shuffling along in disgust, clinging to anything substantial that will crutch his weight, “I need a smoke."

More parts crash onto the floor, thunder shocks raining over everything Miles touches, the emotionally charged brunette punching the wall, a spark igniting into a starburst of charred black, the power shock rippling through the bunker.

“The door, Waylon,” orders a very pissed off reporter.

The man in question scrambles to his feet, pushing past his living battery of a companion to input the deactivation code for the fence, unlocking the door for him as well. 

—--

It feels good to be outside, feet planted on solid ground, Miles finding the nearest thing that he can use as a seat (which just so happens to be a concrete jersey barrier) and flops his blue jeans onto it, fumbling with his lighter. 

"C'mon, light goddamn you," he curses, trying to ignite the end of his cigarette, but his fingers are shaking far too much, the flame stalling every time he flicks his thumb over the wheel.

The fits are getting worse, even his lips are too damn chaotic, Miles abandoning his task in favor of clutching at his head, elbows on his knees, sobbing. 

As much as it's killing him not to feel the Walrider’s touch right now, he's trying to find some way to fill the hole, but if this is what life felt like without it, he’a pretty sure he'd rather die.

What would it take to bring it back? A few more fingers? An eye? An arm? His legs? How many parts was he willing to give up?

“What the hell am I supposed to do!? You can't leave me here!”

He's shouting, his voice a booming threat, as if his fury alone could convince the universe to give him what he wants.

God, when did he start depending on his triquetra boyfriend so much? 

Something faint whispers in the back of his mind, but it's too distant, a ghost ship sunk to the bottom of the ocean, too deep for him to make sense of what it is. 

Next comes a prickle at his skin, like an itch, persuading Miles’ to blink, eyes still puffy with the salt burn of his tears.

The setting sun is almost too bright, but a veil surrounds it, an umbra of miasma so glaring it feels like a rippling mirage on the horizon.

"Tell me, I am not hallucinating right now."

The cigarette falls from Miles' mouth as he leaps towards it, grasping at what looks like the ulna and radius of a forearm, metacarpals made not of bone, but of glass.

The creature grunts painfully, as if Miles opened up a barely staunched wound, the crudely disassembled parts catching him, fragile pieces splintering, but not letting go.

"Don't ever do that to me again." 

It's spoken like an order, the beginnings of a spine taking shape under his touch, connecting vertebrae to skull and Miles sobs, squeezing the fragmented skeleton of his beloved monster even tighter.

 "I thought I lost you."

There's a whirring almost like a hiss that's permeating the air, comforting, acknowledging.

They stay locked together like that for a while, until the Walrider is a full body once more, Miles finally calmed down enough to think rationally.

"So, what now," Miles asks, gazing upon its beautifully disfigured face, twilight burning all around them.

The Walrider adverts it's mangled gaze, knowing Miles isn't going to like it, making a gesture towards the bunker.

"Oh, no! No, no, no, nooo! You're not telling me you want to go back in there," the man shouts, staring at his partner with a new wave of vehement, tear-streaked baby blue eyes.

He pulls away from the mechanized menace to stomp his Timberland boots around in the dirt, arguing with himself why it was a bad idea.

The Walrider allows its host this moment to cool off, expel his frustrations before it goes to the human's side, steering Miles away from his thoughts and back into its arms.

Miles is having none of it, holding the nanobot off, trying to resist its pull, but the machine squeezes him into a suffocating embrace anyway.

"No, don't try to–" 

‘– sweet talk me,’ he finishes the thought inside his head, but he's not sure his thoughts are all that private anymore. 

He sighs, playing captive for a few precious seconds before he wriggles out of the hug, pushing the other away, pinching his sinuses, aggravation plain on his face.

"Let's just think about this for a second," the sleuth tries to reason, his other hand on the entity’s chest to keep a healthy distance, "What am I supposed to do if something goes wrong?” 

(As if things haven’t gone horribly wrong already.)

“How can we trust Waylon after this?"

The Walrider hovers there, compiling a solution. Bony phalanges take hold of Miles' hand, upturning it. 

An onyx box is placed inside its host's bandaged palm, circuits spreading all throughout each corner, making it shimmer and glow.

“It's pretty,” Miles says, watching the ebb and flow of energy, “but what am I supposed to do with this?"

The Walrider taps it's claw on one of those art-deco type microprocessors that adorns each side, the compartment opening to reveal a strand of DNA, the miniature double helix spinning inside like a gothic ballerina.

"Yeah, alright," Miles says, recalling his high school genetics classes, "I think I get it. It's a spare copy of you, right?"

The synthetic skeleton's eyes are black voids, a flash of pupils pulsing with energy, but Miles knows what it means.

With a delicate touch, the reporter stores the replica of DNA back inside it's jewelry box, depositing it into his jacket pocket for safe keeping.

"Going to finish my cigarette before we go in," Miles scoffs, retracing his steps, looking around for the tube he haplessly discarded. 

He's tempted to take a fresh one from the pack (cigarettes being one of few luxuries he bought alongside the road map at the gas station), but he’s not exactly in a position to waste perfectly good tobacco and these things were expensive as hell.

He spots the white cylinder amidst the dirt patches in the grass, plucks the filter off the ground (not too dirty) and sticks it between his lips.   It lights on the first try, that sweet inhale of nicotine (and god knows what else) feels like a hit of ecstasy. He's the epitome of James Dean in that moment, slick, cool, and aloof.

The Walrider floats over, snuggling it's jaw against it's host's ear, a clack of teeth in its best impression of a laugh.

"Yeah, Yeah," Miles dismisses, a stubborn pout clinging to his lips as he jerks away, annoyed by the fact that he gave in too easily.

The entity dissolves, bio smoke curling around its host, patiently waiting. Halfway through his second cigarette, Miles speaks again.

"If we’re doing this, then, I want you to possess me, like you did before.”

Now it's the Walrider's turn to act surprised, manifesting its jaws to growl an objection.

“If we're going back in there, we go together or not at all," the brunette declares, forthright with resolution, pointing accusingly with his cigarette.

Miles would rather die on this hill, then budge from it, but the Walrider has its own methods of persuasion.

Obsidian claws drag him up by his weather-beaten jacket, all 6’1” of him teetering on tip-toes, the half-spent drug falling to the ground, still burning away.

“Hey, not again,” the human whines, but there's no real anger behind it, no matter how hard Miles tries, “That's a forest fire waiting to happen, you know. Haven't you heard of Smokey the bear?” 

As the man twists to retrieve his lost cigarette, the Walrider distracts him with a kiss, one Miles resists just briefly before surrendering to it.

"Hnnn… Mmm…" 

A billow of smoke writhes between them, ebony and ivory, Miles opening his mouth to the Walrider’s wandering cable of a tongue, and OK, fuck it, time to make out.

—--- 

Miles struts back into the bunker, slamming the door shut behind him with a flick of the wrist, the nanites taking care of the rest, latching all the barrel bolts tight.

Waylon jumps from his desk, anxiously awaiting the outcome of Miles' smoke break, standing up to meet him halfway.

Judging by the cacophony that marked his return, Waylon assumes Miles must still be a prickly flume of outrage.

Not that appearances matter, but Waylon folds his hands over his hair, still inflated from the static, patting it down, reluctantly approaching the other male, trying to do the right thing by apologizing first, "Miles I thought about what you said and I am sorry–"

Waylon chokes on his own fear, recalling the same palpating collision of dark energy when he escaped Mount Massive, the same shape that faces him now, a man-made demon that watched him burn out in a stolen jeep.

"Miles … is that … you," he asks quietly, backing up, hands reaching for something solid to steady his nerves.

"Chill out, Waybaby, I ain't gunna hurt you.”

His brain can't seem to connect the vaporware voice to the bastardization of the man that's saying them, almost wants to laugh, having no other logical response.

“Just thought you needed a visual demonstration of the point I made earlier so, here we are," he ends his intro by holding his hands out like a showman, a little pièce de résistance.

For as smart as Waylon is, the words just don't come. He swallows, nods even if he doesn't comprehend what's happening.

"Anyway, Wally's convinced me,” the man turned machine explains, looking sheepishly smug, “We're following through with your plan so hook us up, operator, we're going back in."

"What?"

Just what kind of masochistic freak has Waylon gotten himself mixed up with if Miles wanted to be zapped to high heaven willingly?

"You said you wanted to test our limits. So, I say: Let's. Get. Dangerous."

Waylon remembers those ridiculous work related survival videos he had to watch as part of his onboard training. Suddenly, those scenarios don’t seem so far-fetched anymore, playing hostage to Miles’ special brand of crazy

[dreamersbcll]

“Ink Blots”

for @krikeymate

3/5

——————————————————————————

May 19th, 2018

Dear Sam,

Two years. Two whole years. You got up and left. No surprise. I’m still where you left me.

Every day I wake up, and there’s five seconds of bliss before I remember. You’re there for a heartbeat, nothing more. I can almost feel your breath on my cheek and your hand brushing through my hair

I can picture it all. You are holding me, your chin buried into my shoulder. I am holding your hands as they wrap around me. It’s imprinted on my brain.

Amber tells me every day that I need to move on. That you’re long gone. That when you were here, you were never really here. It’s like a broken record.

Yet, She’s right in some ways. You always chose any other substance but me.

But I don’t want to admit that she’s right. She would take it and run. I love her, but she’s a little too intense sometimes. We’ve watched the Stab movies every night since you left like clockwork. I don’t get it.

Please come home. The back door is always open. I don’t lock my bedroom door anymore. You can slip in.

Love, Tara.

——

June 15th, 2018

Dear Samantha,

Formal right? I found your birth certificate and some other documents today. Well, Amber did. She looked through my shit earlier, claiming she “wanted to see if you took your personal information.”

Spoiler: you didn’t. But I don’t know why you would. I’m pretty sure just a driver’s license is needed to disappear.

Anyways, I put your shit into a box and hid it under the floorboards. You’ll find it one day, I’m sure.

I couldn’t find my information. Maybe I’m not a Carpenter. That would be something, huh? Being able to escape this hell family line.

A girl can dream.

Tara Carpenter (maybe).

——

September 27th, 2018

Dear Sam,

High school sucks. Sophomore year sucks. I hate this place.

I don’t want to do anything. I hate math. I’m not good at history. I can’t remember shit.

All the teachers give me looks. Looks of sympathy, disgust, suspicion. I think they recognize the family name. School wasn’t your thing, but it would’ve been nice if you didn’t fuck it up for me. I can barely keep up with the shit they throw at me.

The only one who’s forgiving me is my English teacher Ms. Smith. She has kind, gentle brown eyes, just like yours. Surprisingly, she’s the only teacher who believes in me.

We read books a lot. She helps mentor me in critical writing skills.

Who knows. Maybe I’ll write a book and make us famous, just like that Gale Weathers lady.

Tara

——

November 16th, 2018

Dear Sam,

Do you ever wonder if Mom was ever good? Did we make her this way?

Did I make her this way?

I’m so sick of cleaning up broken bottles and piles of puke. I’m so tired of watching her wither away right before my eyes. I can’t even save her. I can’t tell her to stop. I can’t get her to stop.

Begging and pleading never worked. Trust me; I’ve been trying it with you every night. I think God, or whatever deities I pray to, stopped listening years ago.

It’s strange. First, Dad leaves. Then you. And now Mom had her foot halfway out the door. Is it me? Do you all leave because of me?

What the hell did I do?

Confused, Tara.

——

December 14th, 2018

Dear Sam,

Sweet sixteen. Happy birthday to me. Not that you cared.

Mindy and Chad decorated my locker. Amber bought me flowers and a cake. Ms.Smith gave me a new journal. Mom went on a business trip to Singapore.

And… I’m sixteen. I have a handful of people that care. But they don’t matter. They don’t fucking matter.

I want you, Sammy. You promised to teach me how to drive. You promised to take me for my license. I’ve had to learn how to drive with Amber. And she’s taking me for my license tomorrow. Everything you were supposed to do.

But I suppose this is what you wanted. You would’ve come back if it wasn’t.

I hope wherever you are sucks. I hope you feel my disappointment and anger from here. I’m furious with you. I hate it.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Tara

——

January 1st, 2019

Dear Sam,

I’m drunk and I miss you and I wish you were here I wish you loved me I want you to love me come back come back come back

Love Tara

——

February 18th, 2019

Dear Sam,

I got picked for the school newspaper—advice column. I laughed in Ms. Smith’s face when she offered it to me.

Advice column. As if I would be the one to give advice. I can’t get anyone to stay.

Did you hear that Robbie Sullivan asked me on a date? I said yes. He never showed up to the theater. Amber was pissed. He came to school the next day with a broken arm and fractured ribs. He said some asshole attacked him.

Funny. Amber talked about a scene in the Stab franchise where someone gets ambushed and hurt. Seemed familiar.

Anyways. School is slow, and life is passing me by. Chad is a big-shot basketball player. I haven’t gone to a game. I can’t stand being in a room full of people and feeling so alone. Mindy is okay with it. She comes over sometimes to braid my hair and make my bed.

Everything is in slow motion. Time is passing, but not at all.

Do you feel that way?

Tara.

——

April 4th, 2019

Dear Sam,

I’m doing fine. I’m regaining all my strength and self-worth in record time. I brush my hair most days and even clean my room once a week.

I stopped going through the photos I kept under my bed. I feel no need to reflect on the past right now because that’s all I can do. There’s no future when I know you’re out there ignoring me.

Maybe even forgetting about me.

I joined a club. A book club. It’s nice just sitting there and letting people’s opinions swallow me whole. I can listen and nod, and everyone leaves me alone; because I’m not moping around anymore. Amber is happier anyways. She was so angry with me for being sad all the time.

Jokes on her; I’m still sad. But I can’t lose anything else anymore, so sadness is a wasted feeling. I can walk for hours in the darkness, stay up all night, pray, and it still wouldn’t matter.

You are still gone, and I am here. I might as well try.

Tara.

——

May 19th, 2019

Dear Sam,

Three years.

I don’t know if I have any tears left to cry for you. I’ve accepted that I’ll never see you again if you could help it.

I hope that once I’m out of this town, you come back, looking for me. And when I’m not there, you understand how it feels.

I try not to be mean. But this is what you wanted, isn’t it? An escape from me. You were leaving me before I could infect you with whatever darkness swirls inside me.

No explanation comes to my mind besides the one where you’re sick of me.

I don’t blame you. I get it.

Love, Tara.

[notsocheezy]

Brain Curd #214

Brain Curds are lightly edited daily writing - usually flash fiction and sometimes terrible on purpose.

Read God for a Day Act One and God for a Day Act Two first.

I found my body strolling along the boardwalk, smiling with a sickening ignorance of tragedy. Dietz was dead, and this monster in my skin was using my life as a vacation.

“Hey!” I yelled. He didn’t turn around. “I’m talking to you!”

“I am aware, Lillian. It would be best for your public reputation if you allowed me to lead us to a private space before we speak. Understood?”

So nonchalant. So disgusting. A universe of death and entropy, disguised as a prize, foisted upon me as He relished the quiet of being a single human. The horrors were unforgettable, unforgivable, and yet He walked as though He’d never seen them.

We entered a single-stall unisex restroom and He locked the door behind Him.

“Am I to take it, Lillian, that you are dissatisfied with this arrangement?”

“You are. My friend is dead.”

“And you killed him?”

“Not on purpose.”

“God does not make mistakes.”

“Well I fucking do!”

The room shook and He fell to the floor and started chuckling as blood flowed from His bitten lip. “Given every atom of power and knowledge I was afforded, freed from the confines of your human brain, given reign over all of existence, you still are incapable of recognizing the Truth. My only failure was my attempt to make your kind in my image.” He smirked. “Tell me, Lillian, how many sins have you witnessed as of yet? Uncountable, yes? This is but a taste of the Hell I have built for myself, and you sick people covet it. You simulate it in your computer games. You lust for power by any means and at any cost, and you dare blame me when things go wrong?”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“Is that what you truly want? You need not give commands as a God, you may perform any action without my consent. Ask yourself, what do you want? Your life back? I can’t send you back in time. I can’t take away from you what you have seen. Forever and always you will be cursed with this shame and guilt that you wanted so badly.”

“I never wanted this!”

“Didn’t you? Didn’t you when you relentlessly drowned and burned virtual people, laughed at their screams for help? The Truth is there for the knowing, and it is plain to see: their lives meant just as much as yours do. And you easily could have saved Dietz.”

The noise of the universe grew and grew, louder, louder, clawing at every aspect of my ethereal being like a rabid dog broken off a leash.

“God does not make mistakes - not because He is perfect, but because by definition what He does is done with precision, with purpose. With intent. Benevolence was always a ruse, Lillian! And you fools bought it! I shed no tears for what I’ve done for all of you! A God has no place for emotion and you have failed your test!”

He was overwhelming my senses. There was no doubt in my mind, he was doing this to me because he wanted me to fold. He wanted me to admit defeat and give him back his place on the throne of creation. I’d go back into my body, left to grapple with my actions and inactions alike, certain that life was meaningless and empty.

No.

I reached inside His chest and ripped out my heart. He looked at it and laughed, tears running down His cheeks. He said only four more words before collapsing to the dirty floor.

“Sweet darkness… take me.”

I killed God.

Please comment, reblog, like, and follow if you enjoyed - I'd love to know what you think! See you again tomorrow.

[candyredmusings]

“Another One Of Those ‘Things My Discord Said’ Sentence Starters.

Things taken from DMs and a few group chats from Discord. CW: NSFT Change / Edit as necessary !

i am literally tom cruise

cum is cool.

[NAME]  is fucked up cus he is straight man

[NAME]  show me your fuckin tits

[NAME], you better not be standing catatonic in your room wearing your handmade jigsaw robe again.

its like they creampied me but instead of cum it was new music

like what about my pussy-area makes u think sea cucumber

the mind is weak. but the body is funky

so im reading that fanfic where 1d like, buys your soul or whatever and im shook

well tom servo is a sex god

and then i freaked it

FUCK YOU APPLE JACK FUCK

ILL SLURP WITH YOU

LEMME SHOW U DICK

ITS A SIDE QUEST YOU SILLY BITCH

I’m a zombie the law can’t stop me

LEAVE YOUR GOLDEN UNCRUSTABLES OUT OF MY HOME I WILL NOT FALL VICTIM TO THY TRICKERY

you, telling me to ignore a twink with side swept brown hair? foolish.

Hes so hot i briefly started texting like a straight person

and because I’m god and I’ve decided that. No. In fact. I’m not done.

MY DUMB BOTTOM BRAIN FOLLOWS COMMANDS TOO WELL

[NAME], I know you love bloopy reggae jams. Now is not the time

OH THATS WHAT I THOUGHT YOUD SAY YOU STUPID ACCIDENTAL HIMBO DEMON

man i rlly am attracted to paul mccartney.

its not that kennedy was gay af sleeping w jackies fat ass out, he just has a better one-

jealous of my massive honkeers

YOU BRAINCELLED BITCH

this forced open my third eye and i saw the devil--

oh me seeming romantically interested in u is making u uncomfortable?? noted

the only pussy this party city shake out wig looking mother fucker is getting

[NAME]  expose your teeth right fucking now

IN THE DEPARTMENT OF OLD MAN FUCKING, WEVE GOT YOU BEAT

What if we kissed while one of us got called racist and we are both boys

i just jacked it to minecraft piss porn

I will pop a huge tentacle boner

i hate females fr fr

we left u to die to play minecraft

IM GONNA FRICKLE-FRACK YOUR WIFE

CAN I KARATE CHOP IT LIKE IN SPONGEBOB

DWIGHT FROM THE OFFICE IS NOT MY SKRUNKLY

she would never ever take away one of these stupid fucking hats

My brother in Christ you’re being haunted

i want to wring you like a wet towel and slap u against a wall

Yeah you'll come to learn I just have a thing for milk

Piss ur pants harder pls I wanna watch

I'm gonna corn on the kill myself

good morning to parappa and his stans. everyone else..... hi ig

lol look at this clown with no slurs

God has abandoned his children but unfortunately for you I pay child support and I will smite thee.

this is how I reveal myself to be homophobic

I have no sluts

idk what it is abt it but boba makes me become like an actual whore

im homophobic suddenly

he was like ‘You're so big”.... and i just started crying

anyones penis can be hard hes not special

for the love of god please help me

i can talk about piss for hours

im sorry i havent recognized mickey mouse clubhouse ost as the cultural landmark that it is

I ASKED IF WE WOULD RP AFTER FUCKING BIBLE STUDY OR WHATEVER

the benefits of being a yandere is that i dont have to forgive OR forget and I am a living breathing PVP zone so Fuck with me white boy.

When toxic by ashnikko comes on I enter the gaslight gatekeep phases of my girlbosshood

im like a child in line for the newest fucked up disney ride

[NAME] is just all fucking Sorts of fucked up

im clownfaking

why are we here? to suffer? every other day i get messages from a whore

always thinking abt when my friend called me a "white boy whore"

you gotta PUMP the errand girl with cocaine

im beyond shame bc i love all cock try again

people have fetishes.

They really do crucify anyone these days huh

u may have never hungered for cock but you have hungered for a sub sandwich and honestly? theyre basically the same thing-

hi im drawing hentai

[NAME] idk why but that really. makes me want to stab you

“Don't have sex FOMO, [NAME], no! “

“TRY AND NUKE THIS, BITCH.”

“There's a group of golden skeletons behind you hitting the griddy “

“GRANDPA’S ASHES SUCKED MY COCK AND TOOK ME TO ARBYS.”

“You’re lanky with no gender and silly goofy with the rizz it works.”

“You can’t just tell me I could be a Tumblr sexy man to my face at 4:30 PM.”

"I have strong opinions about the soviet union"

“CALL THAT PUSSY THE MATRIX CAUSE IM IN THIS BITCH AND I CANT GET OUT “

“dont cry. 8000 types of reptiles on the planet, okay?”

[NAME] lives his life like he’s an RPG character but picks only the rude dialogue options.”

“I need to beat off to this before God destroys California.”

"No amount of pussy could get me on a rollercoaster with three loops"

"I love your senior citizen pussy"

"Gerber is pretty reliable .. I mean .. The Gerber baby didn't die .... did it?"

“you are white i assume”

"I hate you terrorist, and you may quote me on that"

"I love watching you play minecraft. It's like watching a baby fawn."

"I've never seen old men who fuck harder."

"i don't need him to KILL i need him to FUCK ME"

"well maybe if you just dicked down your wife she wouldn't have gone on a murderous slut rampage"

"why cant these BIG titty bimbos stop HANGING around me"