#dying mind macabre
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fr3akshowdusty · 4 months ago
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felix wants a bunger (@n3rdyw0rdy 's character)
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dyingmindmacabre-chaos · 1 year ago
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Dirt from Dying Mind Macabre Stimboard !!
☠︎︎ ☠︎︎ ☠︎︎ ☠︎︎ ☠︎︎ ☠︎︎ ☠︎︎ ☠︎︎ ☠︎︎
(btw Dying Mind Macabre belongs to @nerdywordyloser go support them :3)
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deadintheacademy · 1 year ago
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Do you like webcomics? High school storyline? Slice of life stuff? Grim reapers? Horror? Gothic horror? You wanting a place to share your OCs? roleplay in paragraphs? Want to read awesome stuff and interact with people? Want more friends? Well your in luck!!! Come join the dying mind macabre server!! We will satisfy the things I have listed and more!!!
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yandere-wishes · 20 days ago
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。 ₊°༺ Pink Pony Club ༻°₊ 。
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⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆Yandere! Dr Phosphorus x Reader ⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧
⋆.𝄞𝓟𝓲𝓷𝓴 𝓟𝓸𝓷𝔂 𝓒𝓵𝓾𝓫 𝓑𝔂 𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓹𝓮𝓵𝓵 𝓡𝓸𝓪𝓷𝄞˚.⋆
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✮★✮ Oh Mama, I'm just having fun, on the stage in my heels it's where I belong, down at the Pink Pony Club, I'm gonna keep on dancing at the Pink Pony Club. ✮★✮
⋆☠︎︎⋆ He lets the music roll over him, allowing the drums to melt over his flames and bleed into the marrow of his black bones. When you dance, you have to focus on the turn out of each step, on the wave of your arms, when to stiffen when to loosen. It makes it all so easy to forget the pain of being constantly on fire. To forget the melancholy that festers inside you. When the adrenaline is this high, you can only make out the strobing neon lights and the dazed amusement of the crowd.
⋆☠︎︎⋆ It's hard to hate the music and the lights, to shy away from a crowd so easily fascinated by the gleeful macabre. It's really the most sanity-inducing thing you can cling to when your body has turned into the thing you once loved. When you've become your research after watching your old self die in a furnace at the hands of those who once wielded all the power in the world. Funny how we make our own monsters, funny how the thing that kills us, is nothing more than the very man we once tried to kill, now engulfed by his own invention. Phosphorus spins, left leg, right leg, jump, and twirl.
⋆☠︎︎⋆ The dancing, the music, the clapping, the lights, it's all so perfect for melting away the terrible things that slither inside him, to burn away all those good memories until the kill and the luxury are all the remains. It's getting just too easy to forget his son's face, to forget the smile his wife gave him on their wedding day.
⋆☠︎︎⋆ There's a moment between moments when the world seems to stop. It's only then that he notices you, or rather notices what you're wearing. It's the dress he thinks, pink like the mushroom clouds he'd once adored, like the sunset framing devastation. Or maybe it's the way you have your hair so cruelly tied. Tight circle above your head like an atom waiting to explode. In a flash it's over, someone is handing him a drink. Another sitting on his lap. And he's thrust harshly back into reality, back to a world of trying to forget.
⋆☠︎︎⋆ Phosphorus is and always will be a man of logic. A man of science. He lets his fingers glide over the stack of pristine hundred-dollar bills. To think he'd spent his whole life begging for a quarter of all of this. Begging for scraps of funding to save the lives of thousands. It had all been so important once. Still, he can't help but let his mind wonder, what could he build with all of this? What could he solve, discover, create? He tells his men to lock it up in the safe, he's not ready to go back to all of that just yet.
⋆☠︎︎⋆ The next time Phosphorus sees you, he's half sunken into the plush couch of the VIP lounge. It's been a long day, a long tough day. Everything had gone wrong and all so right in the same breath. This time your dress is the shade of clouds marred by the blood of a dying sun. He should know this shade from the history books he'd used to read, the shade of skylines behind ancient temples. Back then he'd been trying to understand. Understand what he's not quite sure, he'd been so desperate to pry every little answer from the world. To chew their solutions, breaking them with his teeth and spitting out his own variation, his own thesis. He'd been so utterly convinced of his own intellect, convinced that reading Saadi at the same time as the latest research paper on Nuclear decay meant understanding the world.
⋆☠︎︎⋆ He watched with staunch fascination as you tried to dance. Following your friend's steps, heels stepping awkwardly completely out of tune. You bend your knees, sinking to the floor. And Phosphorus can't think of any excuses for why his cheeks feel hotter than usual. Why his eyes are permanently affixed to the sway of your arms.
⋆☠︎︎⋆ He thinks you look just like nuclear fission dancing in the limelight with your friends. Like you've split your own body to create them. Little atomic nucleus dancing under his microscope. You look perfect, your toned legs amplified by the radioactive pink of your heels. Long neck he'd love to kiss decorated with a thin string of gold. You don't look a thing like the other girls at the lounge, you look like an experiment beckoning him, seducing him into cutting you open, and observing how you explode.
⋆☠︎︎⋆ He's been following you keenly, trying to see what happens next. It's the fourth week in a row that he's forgotten about dancing for the crowd, about the girls who used to hang off his arms. He's too devoted to this experiment. "Nuclear scientist finds atomic bomb inside ancient temple from the bronze age". Phosphorus examines the sway of your hips, the bob of your head, and the crude kicks of your legs. There's something wrong with those heels, they're too thin, too high, inviting everyone to stare at you. But he's quick to shove them away, circling you from afar. He can't let anyone tamper with his experimentation. Certain matter performs differently when it knows it's being observed. So he allows the notion of invisibility, making you feel unobserved, safe in your own ignorance.
⋆☠︎︎⋆ He hasn't felt this alive in years. This ecstasy tastes utterly sweet, pure saccharine. It's the same thrill as watching your particles stabilize after days of trying to find the right frequency. Watching them organize into the right motion. And isn't that what you are? An ionized atom. After all, what is dancing if not ionization, if not trying to lose a part of yourself you can no longer bear?
⋆☠︎︎⋆ He's late tonight, rivals had somehow bled in and were after the safe from Phosphorus' newest heist. He'd burned them to a crisp and danced on their ashes until they flew away. But that doesn't change the fact that he's late, too late in fact. When he rushes through the door, men nervously run behind him. His eyeless sockets fall upon an uttermost dreary sight...
⋆☠︎︎⋆ The problem with people is that they never truly appreciate beauty. They treat it as if it's something to conquer something to tame. They never bother to understand it, to study it from afar whispering prayers of gratitude for bearing witness to this new discipline. The man's body is too close to yours, head following your lips, as you awkwardly try to sidestep. The moment you try to flee he grabs your wrist. You scream, no one ever hears screaming through the bass and the rhythm.
⋆☠︎︎⋆ There's smoke in your eyes, sickly-sweet honey in the back of your throat. It's all too acrid but at least the hand assaulting your wrist subsides. The thing in front of you glows green, an acidic neon green that feels too familiar in shade. You watch as the skeleton seizes your shoulders, such a warm touch hearthlike in every way. He pulls you closer till all you can smell is null and all you can feel is smothering warmth.
⋆☠︎︎⋆ You never quite quiver under his touch, never fully shy away when he cups your jaw and tilts your head. It's like you want the radiation, want to feel his nuclear essence bleeding into you. Maybe then you'll be whole. Maybe then neither of you will need the music, and the lights, and the crowd to feel whole.
⋆☠︎︎⋆ You never belonged in the clubs, it was painfully obvious you could never mold to their dances, their music. Your heels never fit right. Phosphorous knows he's been trying to do the very same for all so long. Neither of you needed to kill off your electrons, to throw them away to ignorant nobodies who would sooner hurt you for their own voracious motivations. "Give me your electrons and I'll give you mine." Phosphorus tucks your head into the crux of his shoulder, "I'll fuse with you so you'll never need anyone else."
⋆☠︎︎⋆ Phosphorus' hands mirror yours, swaying overhead before falling lower like the cascade of a wave. Side step, side step, stop, and bend. He thinks this is better than any club, any choreography he could do by himself. He feels so whole dancing only for your eyes. He feels so happy having you dance only for his eyes. Your palms touch as you circle slowly. Dancing like the airy rotation of electrons. There's no more dancing at the Pink Pony Club.
⋆☠︎︎⋆ What do you call a dance that feels like merging two atoms? What do you call it when your heart feels like the denotation of a bomb? He presses his lips to yours slowly, feeling the nuclei crash, a nuclear reaction, his tongue hum between your teeth endeavoring to melt away your fear. His fingers, dance across your hips heating up, leaving burning hearts and hand prints, claiming you as his, making you death just like him.
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Lost the request for this but thank you so so much to the sender!! 💞💋💞💋
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fascinationstreetmp3 · 3 months ago
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it's so endearing to me how intensely morbid book daniel is. maybe armand is right in that he doesn't fully understand what he wants when he begs for vampirism and idealises it in his mind but daniel truly has a fascination with death and loves to romanticise macabre and disturbing things in general. he thinks it's beautiful when furniture is mouldering and falling apart and infested with insects. he feels at home wandering about in the damp gloomy remains of a vampire's abandoned townhouse. the idea of a lot of people dying together is soooo romantic to him, as is finally getting killed by the vampire he's fallen in love with. he thinks being a predator akin to a giant devouring bug is incredibly sexy. he calls armand taking clothes and souvenirs from a victim "skinning the kill" and the smell of human blood "perfume of the living". and he's happiest when he's got his face buried right in the neck of his cold corpse-like undead boyfriend
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milkbobatyun · 4 months ago
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goodnight, my love
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pairing: arlecchino x gn!reader
genre: angstober, events
summary: the battle has been fought and won, it's time to go celebrate with her loved ones. yet, they've all fallen into eternal sleep
word count: 962
a/n: if you can't tell by this, oml arlecchino has me in a choke hold. so sad i didn't get her when i was trying to pull for her :< n e ways, i've literally been wanting to write for her for ages, hope yall enjoy !
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the world around you was a choking mixture of debris and ash, smoke rising from where the house of the hearth stood. from where you lay, you could see flashes of red, and the deadly song of metal screeching against each other in a fight to death echoed through the hallways.
the mournful wind groaned through the hallways, brushing the wounds on your back with their frigid fingers.
the sun was beginning to set, its warm rays gliding down your body, as the cool night air crept in. the stars were visible from a gaping hole in the roof where you lay, looking down on you in pity.
a fiery beam shot up from the ground, the grumble and creak of the house collapsing rang out far and wide, a mournful final groan before its fall. peruere had won.
that thought alone brought a smile to your face. she was going to be a great king.
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the coldness of the night seeped under your clothing, the blood coating your clothes made you shiver. clervie couldn’t stand beside peruere and watch her succeed, but you were more selfish. you wanted to stand beside her, comfort her in times of need, when she felt weak. but now, you could only pray to the archons that you could see her one last time.
from afar, you heard the familiar sound of heels, clacking along. a sound you had long since memorised. it was her. gripping a nearby rock, you tapped a much-used code against the hard floor. flashes of memories were brought back.
huddling together under the blankets, clervie cheekily warming her cold feet on you, as peruere gently scolding the two of you, love evident in her tone. listening to peruere read the two of you stories from the books in the library, your sanction in a cutthroat house. sliding your desserts to clervie, knowing her love of all things sweet.
the rhythmic steps came closer, rapid and in time with your heartbeat, running towards you. 
peruere burst around the corner, holding her breath, hoping it was you. panting and with sweat beading on her forehead, she dropped to her knees in front of your form, sprawled on the cold stone floor.
“[name],” she breathed, relief evident in her voice. “you’re alive.”
she cradled you in her arms, as though you were a treasured, porcelain doll, easily broken by a careless bump. a faint smile was on her face. she was glad, you were still alive.
you reached up, fingers brushing against the cuts on her cheek and forehead.
“you’re injured.” you point out, a sad pout on your face. “i’m feeling a little tired, but once i take a quick nap, we’ll go find clervie. she’ll help patch you up.”
peruere’s smile dropped, confusion creasing her features.
“love…” peruere’s voice was a sad whisper. “clervie… she didn’t make it.”
your mind felt foggy, your breaths becoming fast and shallow. perhaps the battle took its toll on you.
“no,” you insisted, shaking your head. “she’s right there, watching us.”
peruere turns to where your finger points, but no one is there.
“this isn’t funny anymore, [name].” peruere scolds, fear saturating her tone. it reflected in her unique pupils. she’s scared. “it isn’t the time for jokes.”
you blink owlishly up at her, looking like a lost puppy. the cold of the night is creeping into your bones and you start shivering, teeth chattering.
peruere reaches up to remove her coat, but her eyes are drawn to her hands. they’re dyed red, a deep, scarlet red. a crimson she’s familiar with. blood. you’re bleeding. it had been pooling underneath you, turning into a large puddle, painting the floor into a macabre canvas.
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the world was spinning, darkness creeping across your vision like ivy. your eyelids were weighed down by lead, your panting harsh and fast.
you rest your icy hand on peruere’s soft cheek, its warmth seeping into your skin. with all your remaining strength, you flash her a cheery smile.
peruere’s breath hitched. she had seen that smile countless times.
when her and clervie surprised you on your birthday. when you woke up during your fever and saw peruere’s face hovering over you, peering down in concern. when she had praised your drawings. you beamed as though she had promised to give you the world.
her lips quivered, she couldn’t return your smile. crystalline tears pooled in her eyes, glistening under the moonshine.
with a trembling hand, you wiped at the droplets that escaped, your touch ghosting against her skin.
“don’t cry, peruere.” you comforted her, sadness clouding your eyes, water misting your vision. “it’ll make me sad, i won’t be there to wipe your tears anymore.”
“i’m just going to take a quick nap.” you promised, snuggling deep into peruere’s warmth. “i’ll wait for you in celestia.”
peruere watched you as you closed your eyes, a serene smile on your face. you looked as though you were deep in peaceful sleep.
your hand slid down her face, though she clutched it close, longing to feel your touch once more. turning your hand over, peruere placed a final, lingering kiss in the palm of your hand. 
maybe if she prayed hard enough to celestia, you would wake up again, call her name so sweetly, laugh together with her.
unshed tears clung to her lashes, hanging onto them as desperately as she cradled you in her embrace, hands sticky with your blood. she refused to let you go, even as the world around her burned.
celestia was too cruel, taking away clervie, her best friend and you, the one she loved, her whole world, whom she would burn the world for, all in one night. 
that night, arlecchino had lost her home and her family.
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taglist (open): @yeonjunsfox
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∧,,,∧ ( ̳• · • ̳)  © curated with love by milkbobayun 2024 / づ ♡
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elryuse · 7 months ago
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can you write a story about Karina being a nerd but actually she is a yandere vampire princess..Karina X Male reader
21st Century Vampire Princess
Yandere Vampire Princess Karina X Male Reader
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The flickering LED clock displayed 3:17 AM, its harsh red glow a stark contrast to the pre-dawn darkness outside Y/n's window. He stumbled out of bed, drawn by an insatiable thirst that felt alien even to him. "Ugh, did I leave a glass of water downstairs?" he mumbled, sleep clinging to his thoughts like cobwebs.
As he navigated the hallway in a daze, a sharp corner brought him face-to-face with a girl. She seemed to materialize out of nowhere, her dark eyes gleaming with an unnatural intensity in the dim light. Before he could stammer out an apology, a sharp, cruel laugh escaped her lips, chilling him to the bone. It was a sound devoid of any warmth, laced with a mockery that sent shivers down his spine.
"Thirsty?" she sneered, her voice dripping with disdain. "Maybe you should try something stronger."
Y/n's breath hitched. He fumbled for words, a strangled apology dying in his throat. But the girl vanished as abruptly as she appeared, leaving him trembling and bewildered. Back in bed, the image of her mocking grin sent shivers down his spine. Sleep evaded him, replaced by a gnawing sense of unease that festered in the pit of his stomach.
Morning offered no solace. News reports dominated the airwaves – a young woman found dead, her lifeless body drained of blood, two puncture marks visible on her neck. The image flashed on the screen – the same mocking smile, the same unsettling eyes. Y/n felt his stomach churn. Could it be the same girl?
Later that day, Y/n sought solace in Karina. Her warmth and genuine care were a balm to his rattled nerves. He recounted the encounter, his voice laced with trepidation. But Karina, his haven, turned unexpectedly cold.
A year ago, during freshman orientation, Y/n, a self-proclaimed connoisseur of all things gothic, stood awkwardly amidst a sea of unfamiliar faces. The throng of chattering students felt like a foreign language he couldn't decipher. Just then, a timid voice broke through the noise.
"Hi, I'm Karina. Do you... like Dracula?"
Y/n whipped his head around, his eyes widening in surprise. There, a girl with kind eyes and a nervous smile stood beside him, clutching a well-worn copy of Bram Stoker's classic. Relief washed over him, a lifeline thrown in a sea of indifference.
"Like Dracula? I practically live and breathe the guy!" he exclaimed, a wide grin splitting his face. Relief morphed into genuine excitement as he launched into a passionate diatribe about the misunderstood Count, his voice growing louder with each passing sentence.
Karina listened intently, her eyes sparkling with shared enthusiasm. They talked for hours that day, their shared love for the macabre forging an instant bond. In Karina, Y/n found a kindred spirit, a friend who understood his fascination with the dark and the fantastical.
"Vampires, Y/n? Really?" Karina scoffed, her usually gentle voice sharp. "Is that the best explanation you can come up with?"
His heart sank. He'd expected her understanding, her shared fascination with all things vampiric. Instead, her reaction reeked of something else – disdain, perhaps even anger.
"But Karina," he stammered, "what if...?"
"Vampires are elegant killers Y/n," she cut him off, her voice regaining its usual cadence, but a hidden edge remained. "They wouldn't just attack anyone. They have a certain... discretion."
Discretion. The word echoed in his mind. Karina's explanation resonated more than the news reports' sensationalism. Maybe vampires weren't mindless monsters after all. Maybe... "They choose their victims carefully," he added softly, his voice tinged with newfound respect.
"Exactly," Karina said, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. "And sometimes, they fall in love."
Her words sent a jolt through him. Love? Between a human and a creature of the night? It was a fantastical notion, one straight from his beloved Dracula novels. The very idea sent a thrill of forbidden excitement coursing through him.
The forbidden excitement quickly morphed into a suffocating dread as the day progressed. Their professor assigned a project on gothic literature, and Karina, ever the host, suggested they work at her place. Y/n, wary but intrigued, found himself at her opulent penthouse apartment. The stark contrast between her luxurious abode and his own modest room sent a shiver down his spine, an unsettling premonition gnawing at the edges of his excitement.
As they worked, a tense silence settled between them. Y/n, still reeling from Karina's earlier coldness, felt a growing distance creep in. He couldn't shake the memory of the girl in the hallway, their mocking laughter echoing eerily in his mind. Suddenly, Karina stood up, her eyes locked with his in a way that sent chills down his spine.
"Y/n," she whispered, her voice husky and laced with an intensity he hadn't noticed before. Before he could react, she pushed him onto the plush couch, a predatory glint flickering in her eyes. Panic surged through him as he tried to scramble away, but she was stronger than he anticipated.
Fear turned to terror as she leaned in, removing her glasses. The first thing that struck him was the cold glint in her eyes, devoid of any warmth. Then, she dabbed at her face, revealing porcelain-like skin, flawless and inhumanly pale.
"N-no!" he tried to scream, but a gloved hand clamped over his mouth. Her voice, when she spoke, was a chilling whisper.
"Don't worry, darling," she breathed, her words laced with a dark sensuality. "This is what you've dreamt of, haven't you? Vampires... eternal love..."
Before he could answer, she kissed him. It was a searing kiss, filled with an urgency that stole his breath. His frantic struggles were met with an almost predatory grace as she pinned him down.
Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his neck. A scream died in his throat as darkness threatened to consume him. As he drifted in and out of consciousness, he heard a chilling laugh, the echo of the girl from the hallway mixing with Karina's voice.
"Finally, you're mine," she sang, her voice dripping with possessiveness. The news report the next day declared Y/n Lee, the avid Dracula enthusiast, missing. But in a grand penthouse overlooking the city, a young man lay chained to a plush bed, his eyes fluttering open to a terrifying reality. The girl from the hallway stood beside Karina, both their faces devoid of a human smile.
"Welcome back, Y/n," Karina purred, her eyes gleaming with a twisted affection. "Your transformation begins now."
Y/n screamed, but the sound died in the opulent room, a chilling portent of the horrors that awaited him in the clutches of his vampire lover. The line between fantasy and reality had blurred, and Y/n, trapped in a gilded cage, found himself facing a future more terrifying than any gothic novel he'd ever read.
Days turned into weeks, the plush confines of the penthouse becoming his prison. Karina, the embodiment of his fascination, became his tormentor. She force-fed him her blood, the transformation agonizingly slow. His fangs grew, his skin paled, and his thirst for human blood became an insatiable craving.
One night, as Karina knelt beside him, offering him a chalice filled with crimson liquid, Y/n finally spoke. His voice, raspy and unfamiliar, echoed through the room.
"Why?" he rasped, the question laced with a despair that mirrored his situation.
Karina met his gaze, her eyes filled with a dark possessiveness. "Because you deserved this," she said, her voice strangely devoid of emotion.
"Deserved?" he echoed, confusion mingling with the gnawing hunger twisting his insides.
"You yearned for it," she continued, a cruel twist of her lips. "Didn't you dream of becoming one of them? Your beloved Count Dracula?"
Y/n's memories flooded back – the countless nights spent lost in the pages of gothic novels, the fascination with the dark and the forbidden. But his dream was now a twisted nightmare.
"But t-this..." he choked out, "T-this is nothing like the stories."
Karina leaned closer, her breath cold against his ear. "No," she whispered, a chilling smile playing on her lips. "This is the real deal, Y/n. And this is forever."
The weight of her words settled on him, a suffocating realization. He was trapped, a pawn in Karina's twisted game. The fantasy had turned into a horror, and Y/n, a prisoner of his own desires and Karina's obsessive love, was condemned to an eternity of darkness.
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myuni-moon · 7 months ago
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Can i get hua cheng x fem reader fluff?
#time is but a number
scenario with hua cheng, in which he tells you he loves you in his own weird way
warnings: hua cheng has dark humor, suicide mentions, is this even fluff???
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The first time he said it, you thought he was joking. Hua Cheng had always been enigmatic, stranger in ways you could never quite put your finger on. In one instance, he could be completely fine - dare you say even close to sounding human. Other times, you're reminded that he was never human to begin with despite all the times he'd felt like one. Such as finding some sort of humor in the morbid and macabre, some of it not even your stomach could handle (and you've spent time in ghost city).
You had been discussing a recent rumor floating around the mortal realm, the unfortunate death of two youths - a double suicide as you recalled. It was melancholic and quite saddening, but it proved to be quite the discussion between you two over tea.
"I suppose there is something beautiful about it," you hummed, watching your reflection in the murkiness of your drink. "Choosing to die with someone, I guess." They'd never be lonely in the afterlife, you reckon. In some way, the two would always be bound in soul.
Hua Cheng only smirked, typical of him. His face betrayed no real emotion, just the simple facade he wore on a daily. You'd know that it was simply out of habit, something he came to develop in his years as a calamity. "Could you ever imagine yourself that way? Dying with someone to stay with them forever?"
"And why would I?"
"I would," he looked at you amusingly. You raised a brow in honest suspicion. Hua Cheng chuckled, "I love you."
There was a silence, more from you than him. Your mind had blanked, only because you'd never expect him to say such a thing in the middle of one of the most disturbing conversations you've had up to date. There's a twist in your gut - whether from the confession or the awkward circumstances it was said in, you're too stunned to figure out. The short pause eventually gave way to Hua Cheng's laughter.
"No need to get so caught up in it," he waved his hand in disregard, "you don't have to think too much about it."
You glared at him as heated air puffed through your nose. Of course, only Hua Cheng could make something so serious with a joke. You lightly tapped at his nose with annoyance. A mischievous glint twinkled in his eyes at the contact of your fingers with his skin. "Don't go joking about that, A-Cheng."
As he leaned into your touch, he chuckled again; who ever said he was joking?
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leviathanleva · 9 months ago
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Cujo
Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Supersoldier!FemReader
Description: A monster in human skin, a weapon disguised as a person, no thoughts, no emotion, as per design. He despises you and everything you stand for. He’s tried to kick you out of his squad and failed, he’s made it his mission to break you no matter the cost.
It comes as a surprise when he asks you to lie and say you love him.
[5.5k words]
[Angst, Power Play, Light Degradation, 18+]
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Chapter 1 "Raspberry Tart"
Hound.
A fitting callsign for a dog that only knew how to follow orders. A mindless beast whose chain had been thrust into his hands forcibly and now he was to be your navigator, your Northern star in a sea of black. He’d have had no problem taking you under his wing, but you weren’t just some rookie in need of training. He couldn’t crack a cheesy joke and make you snicker, couldn’t relate to you in any way, couldn’t find common ground to start a conversation.
He’d tried to break you, poking at the squishy unknown beyond the stone exterior in the hopes that there was something still there.  It was incomprehensible, you were a living contradiction to the natural order, an anomaly made reality by nameless, faceless, suited figures scrambling for power and drowning with money. He was a stoic man, cold-blooded, ignorant of his trauma, and suppressive of any flicker of tenderness that tried to wiggle out. He was trained in the heat of battle, under the rain of bullets and among the hills of corpses. He taught himself to withstand anything thrown his way. You, on the other hand, had nothing to withstand. You weren’t stoic or calculative or cold.
You were indifferent.
It irked him.
Late at night, when he was left to his thoughts, he wondered what they had done to you.
What chemical turned a human’s sclera black and devoid the iris of color? What concoction was fused into your blood to make your muscles grow so dense you could punch through walls, at will? How could you pick up the heartbeats of enemy forces without even entering their headquarters? How did you see in the dark without any gear save for a peculiar oxygen mask?
What sort of poison had been pumped into you? Had it hurt? Does it hurt now?
You were a macabre sigh.
You don’t look healthy; gaunt features sharp enough to cut glass and dead eyes that burrowed into his soul. There were no bags under your eyes, you slept well at least, perfect for someone whose hands reeked of blood. The fat was barely any, it was impossible to retain the supple softness of femininity with your condition, and if it wasn’t for the perky tits showing beneath your loose tee he could have easily mistaken you for a scrawny man. A paradox; porcelain skin devoid of scars blanketing over a heap of muscle that could tear limbs like they were loose threads.
You’d been a pretty thing once, before the augmentations. He could tell.
You barely reached his collarbone and yet you could take a grenade head-on and live unlike him. And you had, for him. He’d nearly lost his mind when you had, tucked you into his chest because he’d lost too many good men already and you were fresh in his squad and dying under his care. A bleak moment of weakness on his end that he’d believed you’d have no recollection of because half your fucking face was missing. But then the flesh had crept back onto your exposed cheekbone and he’d pushed you away as quickly as he’d hugged you. His mask did well to hide both horror and bewilderment. It had taken you under two minutes and you were ready to go again.
He’d thought your files were a joke, had read them absentmindedly over a glass of bourbon then tossed them aside and waited for the actual reports. They weren’t a joke at all.
You were his shield. It’s been a year since you joined Task Force 141 and you had taken so much damage in his stead it was mindboggling still. There was no fear, no hesitation, no doubt, or rebellion; you simply sprawled yourself over him like a ballistic shield, soaking in anything lethal coming his way. It was a heartwrenching scene, but how could he feel empathy when he’d seen you rip people apart.
You were his weapon, a leal monster, ready to pounce at the flick of his wrist. But your loyalties to him were temporary, shallow compared to the ones you held for your torturers, your makers. He hadn’t expected you to abandon Gaz to fend off the enemy alone when you’d heard a vocalization of the target’s whereabouts over the coms. On that deployment, Ghost had learned that you held no value for human life, you cared not for the well-being of your teammates. Mission first, success at any cost.
After that display, he’d spend hours arguing with Price while trying to find a loophole that would let him kick you out of the squad. A seemingly endless exchange of words led to nothing, the Captain had taken a few long phone calls, all fruitless aside from some measly promises to instruct you better. You’d been summoned shortly after and the phone had been passed onto you because the bastards couldn’t even be bothered to correct your ways face to face.
“Protect all your teammates at all costs, not just the Lieutenant.”
“Do not abandon a comrade.”
“Your squad comes before your target.”
Simon had nearly missed the last sentence; it had been whispered so lowly over the line.
“Unless the target is within direct line of sight.”
He was left seething. He didn’t want you here. He’d tried again, stating more facts, adding more blood and bone-chilling scenarios to the list of reasons why you needed to be transferred, to no avail. He’d been hit with a stygian truth after. Either Task Force 141 or some blokes from KorTac, there were no other organizations that would take you in without downright exploiting your capabilities.
Judging by what little he knew about you, you wouldn’t care, but he would. He’d be caught dead before letting you walk into those war criminals’ grimy paws and have them lock your attention on him as your next target. No. You were his weapon, his shield, his hound; if anyone was going to lead you into a massacre, it would be him.
His charge, his responsibility.
His pet.
He’d settled after that, begrudgingly letting you stay.
And it wasn’t all bad. Over time he grew accustomed to your presence, you’d eat together, train together, sit together in some forgotten corner of the base and enjoy a moment of silence. Ghost was an intimidating man, both rank and appearance kept most people out of his way, but with you constantly on his heel and your docile nature out of combat, he grew fond of your companionship. Some days he forgot you were even there, skulking in his shadow.
Rarely did you speak without being spoken to, never whined or complained. It was as refreshing as it was disturbing. He dealt with it for the most part, but sometimes he couldn’t. Sometimes he wanted to see you shatter, find a crack in the masquerade for the sake of his own sanity. He needed you to crumble, to find a way to break you because then he would have some sort of reason to cling to. Some vague explanation for the turmoil you caused inside him without even meaning to.
He was torn between hating you with everything he had, leaving you be and retaining the fickle peace between the two of you, and obsessively delving into your being in search of some long-forgotten spec of humanity that yet lived.
It was becoming a problem.
Finally, he snaps out of his morning sulking and remembers he has a cup of black tea secured in his hand. He bunches up the skull mask on his nose and takes a candid sip, then grimaces.
“It’s cold.”
A soft remark muffled behind a mouthful of buttered toast. His eyes trail up, tired and distant, to find yours studying him like he was an intel chart.
You spare his drink a glimpse, offering wordlessly, then lick the grease off your thumb and let your fork rest against the leftover scrambled eggs on your plate.
“Want me to reheat it, Lieutenant?”
He hadn’t even noticed when you’d gotten up for a second serving, the only indicator being the stained empty tray lying next to your current one. You ate a lot, had to in order to regain the energy you exerted during missions, at least that’s how he understood it. A part of him hoped it would stick, add some more curvature to your form, show him there was still an ounce of normalcy in your existence, at least physically, but it never did.
“You can heat shit too now?” the rasp in his voice is still heavy with sleep. He’s drained and bitter after another night of nothing but restless tossing and he’s poking fun at you as strain relief.
And as usual, it flies right over your head.
“No. I meant in the microwave.” you motion past your shoulder, pointing at the cutlery set up in the back of the mess hall. When he remains silent you extend an arm towards the mug, palm spread out and waiting. “I don’t mind.”
Of course you don’t, you’re a good mutt. The demeaning slew nearly succeeds in slipping past his lips, he snuffs it out with more stale tea.
“Nah.” he turns down your offer and tucks the mug closer to his body. “ ‘S fine.”
“Pyrokinesis is preposterous.” you say, cooly, addressing his previous snark after a beat or two.
It pinches a nerve.
It’s not meant as a jab at his intelligence, just a fact based on your experiences with human experimentation. It’s never a joke or a cocky scoff or anything that would allude to a personality.
“You’re bloody preposterous.” he barks back and his eyes crease in distaste.
The wannabe super soldier telling him what was and wasn’t possible was not on his tolerance list for the day.
There’s a pause, one which he doesn’t appreciate as you’re stripping him bare without consent or clemency. Your stare is degrading, has been since day one, and you’ve no interest in privacy or personal space. The only reason you keep everyone at arm’s length is to minimize any possibility of injuring your subordinates, as instructed by your shadowy puppeteers. Each action, word, and thought from you seems normal at surface level, human, until one understands the reasoning behind it. Everything about you is twisted, it’s creeping up on him, warping his reality.
You’re prying through a blank visage, no remorse, chipping away at his persona and feigning concern.
It’s sickening, it feels so real.
“You’re snippy again.” you note, mow down the rest of your breakfast, and push away the food tray. “You’ve not slept. Again.” it was a statement rather than a question. Your hands clasp together, fingers intertwining as you abandon your hunched-over pose and adjust to a professional stance. “Have you considered – ”
Your maternal tattle is cut short when a phone is thrust into your face. You blink a few times as the image registers:
A puppy. A Labrador puppy all fluffy and adorable stares back at you from the screen.
You look up unamused, letting Soap’s smug grin beam down on you, a ray of sunshine on such a rainy morning. He’s a chipper one, carries both your apathy and Ghost’s grimness on his shoulders like it’s nothing.
“No?” the smile dies on his face and his subtle crow’s feet disappear.
“No.” you answer with a small shake to your head and earn a scoff. “It’s just a dog.”
“Fucking hell, Hound.” he slumps on the uncomfortable metal bench next to Ghost, swiping at his phone before tucking it in his pocket. The pout lasts a few seconds as he rubs a hand over his stubble. “I’ll find yer weak spot one day. Mark my words.” then he turns to the hulking mountain of a man beside him. “Mornin’, Lt.”
John MacTavish had taken a liking to you early on, shining antipodal to the rest of Task Force 141. He’d made it his goal to work a smile out of you and it had begun with dad jokes, then evolved to funny videos, now it was cute animals.
It was a doomed cause, but also none of your business. How he spent his free time was not your concern so you went along with it as long as it didn’t involve you actively participating.
“Mornin’, Johnny.”
“You’re a dedicated man, Sergeant.” you offer simple words and snap your mouth shut before they degenerate into anything derogatory.
“Unlike yourself.”
The cafeteria was lively with soldiers seeking a strong coffee and a hearty breakfast. The cacophony of chatter kept your hearing busy, your senses were dulled, you were relaxed, but you weren’t deaf. You didn’t miss the Lieutenant’s cynical nip.
The ambiance has slowly turned hostile, he’s extra cranky. You pinpoint it to his silent dwelling earlier and leave it t your tongue to resolve the matter before it escalates.
“You’re displeased with me today.” you lean back and let your hands glide off the table, resting them in your lap and appearing smaller. A subtle change, but one you’d learned he fancied; being smaller than him gave him more authority room and indulged his masculine pride. “Have I done something wrong, Lieutenant?”
He likes to stay high on a power trip and humiliate you, keeps your leash secure and short as if governing over you is a boast.
“Don’t like you in general.” casual, passive; he’s peeking at you from beneath light brown lashes. “Think we already established that.”
It’s always a step forward and a thousand back. He’ll be approachable one day, open to discussions on many topics, which are more monologues than dialogues. Then the frail serenity will snap and he’ll want to crawl out of his skin by simply being in your presence. You knew little of his internal wars, knew better than to carve a seat to a psychological bloodbath with no predetermined outcome. But it was confusing, he bore too many burdens and he was making it your problem.
You took bullets for him, would endure anything for him, you’d walk into a minefield if he so wished. You obeyed without question, proven your loyalty yet he refused to change his outlook and continued to treat you with as little fairness as possible.
He was a reject yet he judged you for your difference to the rest of his men. A hypocrite. How unnecessarily…bothersome.
He speaks with subtle malice, yet his body plays a different tune and you run your mouth before thinking. There is no backbone to his passive aggression.
“You lie.” 
Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to humble your higher-up in a public setting, especially in front of his most trusted subordinate. However, you cared little for social norms and interaction standards.
He’s mustering a counterattack, as cold and as fowl as his tea, but it never leaves the confines of his skull mask because you continue to yap.
“A truthful man does not sweat. His pupils don’t shrink.”
The stab is made worse by the lack of satisfaction in your voice. You’re indifferent that you’ve caught him in his untruthfulness and it serves to twist the knife deeper.
The least you could do is show him grace by reciprocating his hatred with your own, but you don’t.
You don’t care.
Fuck you.
Ghost rises with the intent to leave, doesn’t spare you another glance, only stares straight ahead, past the crown of your head, and towards the exit.
A year, a whole year since you were assigned to him and still you were a dense twat with not a drop of regard for anyone, not even yourself. It was infuriating how stuck in your ways you were, he’d tried to rupture a change and the results were null. He’s fed up.
You’re a lost cause and his nerves are stretched thin, he’s inclined to simply avoid you today.
“Lt, wait.”
Soap, always the buffer to your scuffle, the voice of reason, but there’s nothing to cushion this time. The cord’s been cut, Simon’s let go of you for the moment and he’s in need of some good alone time to properly simmer down.
He’s stuffed his hands in his jeans, thumbs sticking out and glossing over the stitching. He doesn’t turn back when he offers a response.
“Appetite’s gone.”
If he was any shorter, he would have disappeared in the sea of soldiers, but he’s too easily distinguishable for such mercies. His steps are thunderous, you’ve committed the beat of his stride to memory. He was your highest priority on the battlefield, everything about him has been burned into your mind and it’s left a mark in your day-to-day. He could be on the other side of the base and you’d find him with a blindfold on.
A good soldier, the best. Why couldn’t he appreciate that?
You watch him unblinking as he rounds the corner and disappears out of sight.
An exasperated grunt makes your head reel back.
“Life of the party as always, Hound.” Soap snips, disappointment dripping past his teeth. It’s a gentle scold, as a big brother would his younger sibling after they’ve misbehaved.
“He lied.” you retort and your expression hardens in self-defense. “He wouldn’t be upset if he hadn’t lied. Why did he lie?”
“Ask em yourself, you blind eejit.”
The gravity of his words doesn’t register until they slip out.
There’s no stopping you now, there’s a goal set in front of you. He’s almost stirred enough to stop you, but a meek nag in the back of his head prevents him. Maybe it’s for the best that you talk it out and snuff out the fire before it has a chance to grow. He pities Ghost in a way. Of all the people he could have…
You secure the abandoned mug of tea and are already trailing after the Lieutenant.
“Oh, here we fucking go…” John is left with his cheek resting in his hand and scouring the mess hall for a livelier company to lighten his morning break.
You follow him by scent alone – a pleasing musk that characterized him well aside from the cologne. You maneuver around the horde of military personnel, washed out in a cluster of camo and rugged limbs. The rain has only worsened, battering against the row of windows gracing the corridor, you can almost smell it through the glass. It’s a lovely aroma, but Ghost’s is favored and it guides you through the limbo of concrete, up a few flights of stairs until you understand you’re heading towards his office.
He’s a good man, the Lieutenant, a wonderful man – stern and fair, caring in his unique decrepit way. So why does he insist on treating you like a disgruntled mentor?
If he’s feeling generous, you’ll find out soon enough.
You let yourself in absentmindedly, barge in like the inelegant brute you are and if there had been a conversation bubbling beyond the door it would have rattled you back to cognitive thinking. But the silence had only welcomed you.
He’s sat behind his desk, looming over sparse documents that are of no interest to you, a cigarette languidly burning in the ashtray next to his elbow, smoke sucked out by the ajar window.
His eyes lift at your intrusion.
The fucking audac –
“Why did you lie?”
Straight to the point as usual. No wordplay, no gentle gestures to picture a power imbalance and ease him into it. He’s your superior and you’re supposed to show respect. Tough luck when you forget that little detail.
“Didn’t give you permission to enter.” he watches the sentence seep in as you set his tea at the edge of his desk, mulling.
Without a word, you walk out as whimsically as you’d entered, tiny body made gangly by the white lights illuminating the hallway. The door closes with a creamy click and despite his irritation, he snorts.
A beat of nothingness before three curt knocks sound, it’s comical. You’re a God damn clown.
“Enter.”
You walk in and clear your throat and that blank expression never falters. With legs spread wide and steady, you clasp your wrist behind your back, nose brought high to expose your neck, spine straight and stretched like a violin string.
“Permission to speak, Lieutenant.”
He has the spite to deny your request, cut your escapade short and shoo you away.
“Granted.” he says instead.
The clock above your head ticks and soothes the stale silence, that and the storm outside. The lights are off, the blinds hold back the scant sunlight overshadowed by an ocean of clouds. The only lamp alive is the one on his desk, deep yellow and warm, casting grim shadows over the skin-tight skull mask. The pen hoisted between thick, battle-worn fingers is still.
He’s waiting, watching you like a prowling predator, chin dipped low and eyes half-hidden behind the ridges of his eyebrows.
“Why did you lie?” you repeat with less zest and your shoulders slack a tad.
You’re the best person to share with openly, would take his confessions to the grave, and have no reason nor will for judgment. All he needed to do was ask for you to never mention this to anyone and you could be tortured to death and not budge. It was so simple, you were simple, ranks be damned, you were here for him.
Though Ghost was anything but one-dimensional. He was a complicated individual with a rich past, he was comfortable trusting you with his life, not his secrets.
He steers away from your question and offers a crappy tease instead.
“Fishing for a Psychology degree, Cadet?”
“That’s not a proper answer.” you’re bullet fast to voice your displeasure with his evasiveness. Your paper-white gaze holds his honeydew brown one, displaying openness and hoping for reciprocation.
“And I’ve taught you proper interrogation.” he spits back with growing mock, taut in his chair, muscles solid and ready.
He fights a war not of the physical world, a solitary brawl, in which you refuse to participate. There is no point in such self-induced struggles; the debate of the heart and mind is a phenomenon known to all and it can be a slippery slope. Hence it had been chemically removed from your system.
At least you can see it bothers him, whatever it is he’s musing over. You’d offer advice, you’d help if he let you dip your toes in the problem, but he was too stubborn.
You fail to understand that you’re the problem.
“You’re avoiding the question.” dry and bland, a boring fact both of you have come to acknowledge.
“I don’t need to answer your fucking question.” the pen and papers are pushed to the side as his attention is fully directed towards you. He readjusts and even while sitting down he seems larger than you. “Mind your bloody tone with me, Dog.”
You startle at that, tighten like a board and your expression falters for a second. It’s not his sharpness that shakes your awareness awake, it’s your behavior – obtrusive and insolent, insulting him with nonchalance unacceptable for a soldier of your rank when conversing with a superior. Your nails dig into the fluff of your palm to ground you, and your knee trembles with the barely repressed need to bend and dig into the floor.
It’s a fleeting sight, but he sees you stagger. An alien sensation coils in his stomach.
Finally.
Finally…
A glint of normalcy is peeking beneath the crooked fa��ade. You’re brooding, maybe even experiencing something, branching out from the year-long unbreakable apathy.
“I apologize, Lieutenant.” you yield, backtracking until you settle into a less casual mindset. “I’ve no right requesting any information of you.”
“Damn straight you don’t.” he sinks his teeth in the opportunity, strangely eager to coax a more prominent reaction out of you, obsessive even. Speaks to you with a demeaning twinge, egged on by the split second in which your brows dip. “Forgot your place.”
His tone is biting, but his movements are fluent as he stands and rounds his desk to approach you. He towers over you unapologetically and you’re left staring at the center of his collarbones, avoiding his eyes as a sliver of respect.
He clips your chin between two calloused fingers, burdens you with a look of contemplation as he debates an idea.
“Open.” he commands and you oblige.
Your jaw lowers as your lips part without an ounce of hesitation. The hairs on his arms rise in anticipation, concealed beneath the course military blouse.
His thumb travels up, past the dimple of your chin, and over your plush bottom lip. His skin grazes your bottom teeth before he presses down on your tongue.
“Suck.”
Your lips curl around his salty digit, tasting the smoky cigarette he’d mouthed a few minutes prior. His concentration wanes, his pupils expand briskly before he catches himself softening. He pushes on the roof of your mouth to guide your vision to lock onto him.
Your rhythmic suckling sparks a warmth low in his abdomen. A dull aching pulse licks deliciously at his loins and he sinks his canines into the side of his cheek to snap out of it. He can’t afford this, not with you, you don’t deserve to witness tenderness when you have none to offer in return. So he remains an explorer and keeps pushing boundaries if not to see you uncomfortable, then for his own curiosity.
“You do as I say, when I say.” he rumbles a guttural reminder of your place, then slips his thumb out of your slithery hold and takes a step back. “On your knees.”
Your legs fold in an instant, knees digging into the tiled floor with a deaf thump. You’re face to face with his crotch and a sickening thought passes by him that makes his thighs clench.
Pushing boundaries, that’s all this was. Nothing more.
He rests a hand on the hem of his jeans and fiddles his zipper, alluding to actions he didn’t intend to follow through with. A somber attempt at making you react, but you don’t. There’s not even an involuntary twitch of a muscle – you’re still as a statue and just as emotionless.
He’s stuck between pondering if you’ve called his bluff or you’re simply passive to the idea. Either way, what he’s hinting at is vile and you being this pliant is unnerving.
“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re just gonna let me…” he trails off and swallows the bile rising in his throat.
What if you were left in the hands of a less gracious leader? What if some fucked up bastard had gotten a hold of you before him? What if he’d succeeded in kicking you out and you ended up in KorTac…?
What would they have done to you?
What if –
“ – I do as you say, when you say, Lieutenant.”
He snarls at that. Grabs a fistful of your top and boosts you to your feet. The tips of your boots are barely touching the ground and he’s lurched over you, so close that you’re overwhelmed by his breath.
Toothpaste, cigarettes, a feint hint of bourbon from the night before.
You inhale slowly, too comfortable in his grip and it makes no sense to him considering his treatment, then exhale audibly and speak again.
“Why does it bother you so much? My condition.”
“It’s not normal.” he gives you a solid jerk, emphasizing his words, spewing poison. “It’s shit. How am I supposed to trust you if you don’t give a flying fuck about me…or the team?”
“I would never let – ”
“ – Don’t gimme that crap.”
You’re an adaptive creature. You remember the intricacies of man despite no longer seeing any value in them. His frustration is evident, a spout of bio-chemicals thickens around him, from which adrenaline and oxytocin are the most prominent. He’s torn between protecting himself from you and protecting you from the rest of the world. And at the end of the day, he’s only human and has spent too much time with you, a member of the opposite sex, to be unaffected by your presence.
You do the first thing that comes to mind. A short-circuited move in the name of self-preservation while also not causing him any harm as per your orders.
You kiss him. Inch close while he’s in a haze of despicable turmoil and press your lips where his would be hidden behind the mask.
His lethal tantrum ceases.
He’s stunted, shaken to the bone as he stares right through you. His eyes are bulging, accentuated by the charcoal face paint. His whole body is pulsing, you hear his heartbeat, steady but clamorously loud in your ear, then he cocks his head to the side and you begin to question if your choice of action had only worsened his state.
“I’m sorry.” you blurt. “I misread you, I didn’t – ”
He’s clawing at his mask until it catches on his nose and graces you with a strong jaw littered with nearly blond stubble. You bite your tongue before more words spill and risk shattering the desperate trance he’s succumbed to.
He devours your mouth with a hoarse grunt, the force causing your neck to crane back. The large hand holding you in place vanishes shortly before he starts pawing at your hips, clutching at the firm flesh and then seeking refuge in the dip of your ass.
“Lieut – ” you suck in a breath when he hoists you up like you’re nothing and nudges your legs until they’re wrapped around his thick waist. Your ankles lock over the small of his back and you hold a steady grip on his collar as he shushes you with a husky “shut up”.
His stubble grazes and prickles as he reclaims your wet lips with bruising vigor.
The chain lies broken, his resolve has been torn to shreds after months of no reciprocation. He’s a starved man, too battered and scarred to seek his fix from a stranger. So he’s looked to you, an amalgamation of senseless strength and a hollow heart, an abyss devoid of feeling or emotion, the worst possible option, but in his mind – the only option.
Desperation blinds even the strongest of warriors.
With wobbly steps, he squishes you between the wall and himself, lets words flow without a single sound, and twirls his tongue around yours as you perfectly follow his shaky guidance. He sucks at whatever he can find, made mad with a craving for your essence despite never having tasted you before, slobbers you like a touch-starved dog.
Crushed into the warm safety of his body, in the darkness of his quarters, you're hidden from the world as he gingerly indulges his wants. Senses peaking from overdrive, you only hear, smell and feel him, a fleshy mountain carrying the scent of what you learn is home. What little exposed skin you find is scalding, he shudders while you unintentionally map out his shoulders in search of purchase.
He peppers heated pecks down your jaw with a resounding groan and finds the even pulse in your neck.
You jolt as his teeth encase the spot and he freezes.
“Want me to stop?”
His head is nestled in the crook of your neck, away from the possible judgment of your sight. His voice is low, a scratchy reverberation, strained with a need too great to be put out by his self-restraint alone. He’s a mess, oozing hormones, jittery and uncertain but too lost in his delight to retreat.
He’s slipped inadvertently and wound up vulnerable.
“No.”
He’s satisfied with your answer only for a moment before the nagging reality starts chewing at his gut. You aren’t normal. You’re not the typical bird he’d pick out in a bar after a particularly heavy mission and one too many glasses of scotch. You’re fucked up.
He doesn’t want to keep asking, wishes so direly to stay blind and dumb to the facts spitting acid in his face. But he’s too grounded for such fantastical blessings.
“Want me to keep going?” he looks up with a clenched jaw.
His breathing slows, preparing for a hit similar to a bullet to the chest, but there is no Kevlar to shield him from the devastation. He’s bare before you, at your mercy despite his stoic composure keeping him visibly untouchable. You should pity him, feel something because your situation hints at him being more than an ally or friend. You should muddle the truth or let him down delicately, he deserves as much.
He wanted you to want him. He didn’t want to be alone in his desires.
But you’re no liar, you’re not a gentle soul. You offer him a curt, tasteless answer.
You stare him straight in the eyes and shoot.
“No.”
It stings more than it should.
“I want for nothing.”
The fire in his belly is extinguished, it feels as if the blood is sucked out of his body. The stab leaves his pulsing cock flaccid with only a stain of precum smeared against his boxers as a reminder of the blossoming need you’d snuffed out mercilessly.
He holds your gaze as the spark in his shrunken orbs vanishes, then slowly sets you down and tears himself away with disgust; regretful and insulted.
“Get out…”
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Chapter 2 >>>
Masterlist
[I'm a bit uncertain about this one. It's a niche idea, but it's been swimming in my head for some time now. Someday I'll be satisfied with my writing, but for now I'll settle for this. I'm not great at COD characters so if anyone seems OOC forgive me. I try my best, but I'm a rookie.]
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orchardthieve · 2 months ago
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There’s a simplicity to the act of stabbing, a primal intimacy that no other method can replicate. The thought lingers like a low hum in the back of my mind, growing louder when I picture their body, a canvas, soft and unguarded, begging for the sharp kiss of a blade.
I think of the moment the knife breaks the surface, that split second where resistance gives way to compliance. The skin would yield like silk, parting with a sound too soft for the violence it heralds. Warmth would spill forth, sticky and red, pooling between my fingers like some grotesque communion. Their blood, rich, metallic, and unending, would soak into everything, as if desperate to leave their dying body and cling to me instead.
I imagine their eyes, wide and uncomprehending, as they feel the blade twist. That’s the key, isn’t it? The twist. It isn’t enough to pierce, you have to let them feel the tearing inside, the chaos of organs rupturing in slow motion. Their breath would hitch, a wet gasp escaping their lips as they realise they can’t scream, can’t beg, can’t do anything but stare into the abyss I’ve opened inside them.
And it wouldn’t be one stab, no. Once is a statement, but repetition, that’s devotion. Each thrust would be deliberate, purposeful. The rhythm of it would be intoxicating, my heartbeat aligning with the rise and fall of the knife as it plunges deeper, again and again, until their body is no longer theirs, no longer a person but an object, hollowed out and empty.
I think of the mess it would leave. Blood seeping into the cracks of the floorboards, splattering the walls like macabre art. The sound of their body hitting the ground, lifeless and heavy, would be deafening in the silence that follows. It’s in that silence I’d feel most alive, my breathing steady while theirs ceases entirely.
It’s not hatred that drives these thoughts. It’s not even anger. It’s the allure of control, of holding someone’s life in my hands and carving it away piece by piece. A knife is an extension of the hand, and with it, I could write a story on their flesh that no one else could ever erase.
And in that final moment, as the blade rests still, buried to its hilt, I wonder who I would be, me, or the echo of what I’ve done?
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here-but-forgotten · 10 months ago
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authors note: i don't fucking know man. i listened to "becoming the lastnames" and this happened.
content notes: rudy x reader. young, before he joins the military. talks of marriage. valeria and alejandro mention. mainly fluff. mentions of death.
becoming the lastnames
pre-military! rodolfo parra x reader
“Do you ever think we’ll make it?” He whispers, breaking through the shrouded dark, the cool air seeping through your skin.
“I don’t know,” You whisper.
He shifts beside you, the blanket wrinkling under his shifting weight. The night is cool; the stars are out; the city is far enough away to be forgotten but not to far away to become imaginary.
“Why do you say that?” Rodolfo asks, softly, no bite of argument on the back of his tongue.
“I mean, what if I end up just like my parents?”
“I’ll love you.”
That stupid, sweet, sticky, suffocating warmth seeps into your bones to your ribs, filling your throat with a burn.
“We could try to be like my parents,” he jokes, “we could work until we’re 40 then go insane.”
You laugh, breaking the warmth off your ribs, letting yourself melt into the blanket again. Your fingers tingle, cold.
“But what if you die?”
“Baby,” Rudy murmurs, half a scold and half a pity.
“I’m serious,” You whisper, barely making noise, the heat that chokes you catching cold air in your throat, “what then?”
“Then you can come talk to my headstone, I’ll listen.”
“Rudy.”
He laughs. You sound like his mother. His pinky wraps around yours, pulling your hand closer to him; he is warm.
“I don’t plan on dying.”
“But what if you do?”
“I just won’t.”
You sigh, defeated, that stupid boyish reasoning and manly cool. Infuriating.
“I’ll crawl back to you if anything happens.”
“If you die, I’ll kill Alej to keep you company.”
Macabre. He laughs.
“I’ll have to haunt you if you do that,” He smiles into his sigh, “If I don’t die, we’ll grow old together.”
“I’ll get all wrinkly.”
“Yeah, and so will I.”
“Marriage has always scared me,” You admit, his pinky tightening, keeping you close, “But I want to have a last love.”
“We can be just like my parents, then.”
You tighten your grip on him, his fingering wiggling out just to grab your whole hand, paw covering your hand.
“What about forever?” You ask.
“I don’t know anything about forever, but I know I wouldn’t mind spending it with you.”
“How can you be so confident?”
“I want to push Alejandro off a bridge sometimes, but I know I want to be his best friend till I die,” he starts, his voice soft, “and I feel like that with you.”
“You want to push me off a bridge?”
“I feel like the second part of the sentence.”
“I mean, I get it if you do, I can be annoying—”
“I don’t want to push you off a bridge—”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you did—”
He pushes his hand and yours against your mouth, gently, hushing you.
“I am not going to push you off a bridge.”
“That sounds like a Dateline intro,” You joke.
“I am not going to kill you.”
“Sounds like something a killer would say.”
Rodolfo dramatically sighs, pulling the hands back to him.
“I don’t think we have to wait on becoming insane like my parents, I think we’re already there.”
You chuckle, scooting closer to him, your shoulder touching his.
“Love can last a pretty good long while, you sure you want to give that to me?”
“I already did.”
You hum.
“Love doesn’t go away. It either sticks around or it was never there. It changes shape though, and it’s just about keeping shapes that go together.”
“You sure you want to go get shot, you could be a poet.”
“I don’t want to get shot, it’s just a part of the job description.”
“I don’t know, you seem to be a bit of a masochist.”
He squeezes your hand, a light little non-existent warning.
“Being a poet doesn’t pay too well, I don’t think. Unless we have World War III soon, then I can be sad and traumatized and publish 15 books.”
“If you make it.”
“I will,” Rodolfo lowers his voice, pulling you against him, head resting on his shoulder, “I will make it, and I’ll come home to you, and we can go crazy together until Alejandro tries to get us admitted.”
“If we pull him down with us, he can’t admit us.”
“That’s the plan.”
He rests his nose against the crown of your head, kissing your head softly, his arm around your shoulders warm as his fingers rub your skin, your body melting against his.
“Do you think Valeria and him will make it?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Confident.”
“They are oil and water. The flame is whatever they’re feeling. And it’s just whoever gets to the fire first and does something with it.”
“Are you comparing their relationship to a grease fire?”
“Yes.”
You pause, letting the words hang in the air for a moment.
“Have you been in a room with them for longer than 30 minutes?”
“I mean, yeah.”
His thumb rubs you.
“He just wants what he never got to have. And he doesn’t get that what he wants doesn’t have to be painful.”
“Do you think that’ll kill him?”
“It won’t kill either of them. It’ll just tattoo them.”
“Do you think they’ll kill each other?”
“They might try but that’ll just end in them being bickering skeletons.”
“Are they both that hot headed to where death won’t make them stop?”
“Probably. I don’t want to find out though.”
“I don’t either.”
There’s a bug, or something, making noise. The moon is high. The stars have shifted.
“We’ll be just like my parents, and we’ll grow old together, and when all of that is over, we’ll have forever. Does that sound alright?” Rudy asks, his warmth seeping into your skin.
“Yeah, I think that sounds alright.”
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fr3akshowdusty · 1 year ago
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I made Felix as a wojak meme thingy.. and ngl he kinda looks like a lesbian
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dyingmindmacabre-chaos · 1 year ago
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Minus Misery from Dying Mind Macabre stimboard !!
☠︎︎ ♠ ☠︎︎ ♠ ☠︎︎ ♠ ☠︎︎ ♠ ☠︎︎
(btw Dying Mind Macabre belongs to @nerdywordyloser go support them :3)
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nightspires · 1 month ago
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Jen's personal masterlist of audiodrama podcasts
Disclaimer: When reading this list, please keep in mind that my likes/dislikes do not inherently mean that X podcast is objectively good and Y podcast is objectively bad. These are just my personal preferences. I will also update this list as I try new shows! Last updated: 27 December 2024.
All time fave shows:
Ie, have listened entirely, and in some cases have listened through multiple times
HAUNTED: The Audio Drama
King Falls AM
The Black Tapes
The Bright Sessions
We're Alive (the original run)
Wolf 359
Other shows I thought were good:
Alba Salix
ars PARADOXICA
Badlands Cola
Borrasca
Brimstone Valley Mall
Dark Air with Terry Carnation
EOS10
Girl in Space
Hardboiled
Hello from the Magic Tavern (actual play)
Moonbase Theta, Out
Olive Hill
Parkdale Haunt
The Adventure Zone (actual play - specifically the original Balance arc, but I also really enjoyed Amnesty)
The Ghost Radio Project (idk what happened to this one, it's been scrubbed from existence)
The Pasithea Powder
The Shadow over Innsmouth
The Strange Case of Starship Iris
The Two Princes
Victoriocity
Wooden Overcoats
Shows I listened to quite a lot of (10+ episodes), but didn't finish as I wasn't super into them:
Note: I could be persuaded to pick these back up!
Archive 81
Dungeons & Daddies (actual play/TTRPG)
Limetown
Malevolent
Red Valley
Sinkhole
The Magnus Archives
Welcome to Night Vale
Shows I tried (<10 episodes) but couldn't get in to:
Note: I could also be persuaded to pick these back up and listen to some more eps!
2298
Arden
Blackwood
Bridgewater
Boomtown
BOOM: A Serial Drama
Camlann
Camp Here & There
Coexistence
Death by Dying
Desperado
Gone
Greater Boston
Hello from the Hallowoods
I Am in Eskew
Lake Clarity
Mable
Mayfair Watchers Society
Midnight Burger
Monstrous Agonies
Oak Podcast
Old Gods of Appalachia
Penumbra podcast
TANIS
Terms
The Amelia Project
The Big Loop (anthology)
The Far Meridian
The Mistholme Museum
The Silt Verses
The White Vault
Tribulation
SAYER
The Secret of St Kilda
WOE.BEGONE
Shows on my list to try:
Darkest Night
Dracula: The Dance Macabre
Finding Satan
Gray Matter
Hi Nay
Jar of Rebuke
Knight Falls, CA
Life With Althar
Light House
Mission Rejected
Neighbourly
New Year's Day
Polybius
Redwood Bureau
Rex Rivetter: Private Eye
Station Arcadia
Stellar Firma
Tapes From Beyond
The Cryptonaturalist
The Darkroom
The Hidden Almanack
The Kingmaker Histories
The Left Right Game
The Shadow Diaries
The Six Disappearances of Ella McCray
The Storage Papers
The Subjective Truth
Video Palace
Weeping Cedars
World Gone Wrong
if you want to recommend me something that isn't on this list or want to advocate for a show i should give more of a chance to, send me a message!
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honeycreammilkshake · 5 months ago
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i'm your cannibal (i'll take forever from you)
some gross sukuita thing where sukuna confesses his love in a really disturbing way. title is taken from jungle by cruex lies, which sounds like a sukuita song to me. i wrote this instead of sleeping or studying ;-;
Standing in front of the mirror, Yuuji is struck once again by the overpowering feeling that everything about him is foreign. Even before he swallowed that cursed finger whole, there had always been something inherently different about him. Tiger-like strength, an overwhelming excess of empathy and impulsivity, a family full of secrets he might never know, and a high tolerance for the macabre and supernatural. Even his appearance is more than a little unique, a wide open and expressive face crowned in a shock of hair pink as a blush, but with a strong, powerful body made for running and punching.
And now with Sukuna, the King of Curses himself, residing like a parasite in his very skin, his body has become even stranger. Sukuna's eyes — scarlet and burning — suddenly blossom on Yuuji's palms or that sneering mouth peels open across Yuuji's cheek. Those manifestations of Sukuna on his own body are unsettling, really, but they don't hurt at all. Rather, they feel warm — too warm sometimes, like a hot hand set on his flesh, something that radiates heat and pulses with life… a whole other entity trapped inside of him, breaking to the surface.
He stares at his face in the mirror, pressing a cupped fist to the side of his reflection. He inhales deeply, lungs feeling too heavy to hold the air in, and he knows he's close to breaking. He hasn't cried in a long time, and he refuses to now, but images waver in his mind: flash-fast visions of the malformed creatures Mahito made to fight him, human once, that Yuuji killed far too easily, or the broken bodies of people he'd known — sorcerers come to fight the blood-hungry curses of the world or innocent victims caught in the cross-fire, all viciously ended like it meant nothing.
Was all of it his fault? Ever since he'd merged with Sukuna, the rate of attacks by high grade curses had increased, and he'd attracted the attention of serious threats that wouldn't hesitate to kill his friends and teachers. Everything that had happened to cause harm to others could be linked back to him. He bites his tongue at the irony. His grandfather's dying request had been for him to protect people, to put his own self at risk for the well-being of others, yet more tragedy has followed him and the people he cared about than he'd ever known possible.
Maybe he should have let Gojo's superiors kill him as soon as he'd been cursed by the heartless god inside of his body. Maybe he really is a monster now, nothing more than a killing creature with only unnatural death after unnatural death ahead of him.
He makes a choking sound, trying to hold back sobs, glaring into his own eyes. Pure hatred simmers in his throat, the burning ache of unshed tears causing him to grip the edge of the mirror even harder. His reflection cracks from the sudden pressure, a million splinters breaking apart his face, and he blinks hard. He forgets his own strength sometimes, and right now it feels horrifying.
"It's all your fault," he whispers, eyes never leaving the cracked mask of his reflection, his voice harsher and rougher than he's ever heard it been, and he finally breaks.
He barely feels it when the first tears slip down his cheeks; they're cold but so is his skin, and he only realizes he's full-on crying, close to sobbing, when something so keenly alive and physical stirs inside of him.
He watches it happen in the mirror: a vicious red mouth yawning open across his cheek, grinning carnivore teeth on full display. Yuuji grits his own teeth at the sight of it, finally managing to swallow back the rest of his tears, fully expecting Sukuna to start mocking him, to open that monstrous mouth and gut him with cold words about being overly emotional and sickeningly weak… but it doesn't happen. Instead, the tip of Sukuna's long, inhuman tongue peeks out and rasps up the tears spilling down Yuuji's cheek.
"Ehhhhhh????!!" he cries out, shocked by the wet, slurping thing, disgust curling his lips. "What the fuck???"
Sukuna laughs, a deep and rich sound that has Yuuji vibrating from the inside out. "Your suffering tastes sweet to me, brat," he all but croons. "When I have you broken and bleeding on the ground before me, I'll savor it, I'll devour it."
Yuuji tries to ignore him, but Sukuna keeps licking at the remaining tears slowly sliding down his cheeks, that serpentine tongue feeling more than a little rough and uncomfortably wet against Yuuji's skin, but it's also far too warm and almost gentle, and Yuuji is — absurdly — reminded of a cat. He cringes, slapping at the soft, spit-soaked appendage.
"You're seriously gross, you know," he mutters, uselessly rubbing at the disgusting mix of cold tears and too-hot saliva with the edge of his sleeve. His reflection in the mirror does the same, only disjointed and shattered.
"Watch your mouth, brat," Sukuna hisses, sending shivers down Yuuji's neck that he tries to ignore. "Or I'll rip the tongue out of your head and eat it."
"You would actually do that, wouldn't you?" Yuuji bites out, freezing in place for a second, feeling like he might be sick. "You're a monster."
Sukuna laughs again, but this time it's subdued. Instead of thrumming through Yuuji's whole body, it mostly just pulses along his throat, far softer and much calmer. It's almost more threatening that way.
"I wouldn't start with your tongue though," Sukuna muses aloud, the cruel lips of his disembodied mouth pulling wide in a sadistic smile. "I'd eat your eyes first."
Yuuji almost chokes, his heart pounding harder in his chest. I'm in control, he has to remind himself, forcing his fists to relax. He can't do anything to me when I'm in control. Instead of giving into the panic coursing through his veins, he plays it like he doesn't care, leaning in closer at the edge of the sink and casually running his hands through his hair, studying his reflection as he straightens the mess of his spikes like Sukuna's thinly veiled threats are less important to him than making sure his hair isn't unruly. "My eyes first, hmmm?" he wonders out loud, dismissively, and is satisfied when he senses a jolt of Sukuna's displeasure.
"Yes, brat, your eyes. I'll pluck them out of your skull and swallow them whole," the King of Curses sneers.
"Why my eyes? Think they're pretty?" Yuuji teases, lightly, like it doesn't matter if Sukuna is offended by the accusation, because it really doesn't. But instead of coming back with a harsh insult or reprimand, Sukuna remains surprisingly quiet.
Yuuji finds himself curious enough to flick his gaze lower so he can meet his own eyes in the mirror. They're light brown, darker at the center, glittering like a ring. Though he himself considers them plain, he finds he can't look away from the sight of them right now. A soft color, like sun-warmed honey, glinting like crystal in the dim light overhead, larger and rounder than Sukuna's eyes. And deep. Yuuji wasn't aware before of just how deep his gaze was, a gentle darkness he could drown in, and he can't help but think Not pretty… beautiful.
But wait, that wasn't his own thought. Yuuji almost gasps, managing to hold in his surprise at the last second. Sometimes he can sense Sukuna's thoughts or feelings like they're his own, even though the sorcerer usually keeps his intentions or emotions — if he has any besides the murderous and self-obsessed kind — hidden away from Yuuji. But occasionally they slip through, when Yuuji dreams or when Sukuna is especially distracted… like right now.
Yuuji can't believe he's willing to let this continue, but he clears his scraped-out throat and finds himself asking, "You'd really eat me?"
Sukuna grins, lazy and satisfied. He had obviously been hoping Yuuji would bite, and here Yuuji is… completely indulging him. He should feel sick at his own curiosity, he should feel disgusted at anything Sukuna says or thinks, but he can't — not when Sukuna's voice gets even lower and deeper, practically thrumming right up his spine now.
"I will rip off your lips with my teeth," Sukuna says, tongue flickering out of his mouth like a snake scenting the air. Can he sense Yuuji's increasing body heat, can he taste Yuuji's surge of excitement?
In the back of his mind, Yuuji can still hear the small snatches of the cursed king's stolen thoughts: So soft and sweet, bite down and make them bleed. A blurry image surfaces from the depths of Sukuna's consciousness into Yuuji's own, a flickering image of Yuuji's lips covered in a sheen of Sukuna's saliva, the king's teeth sunk deep in the soft flesh of Yuuji's mouth.
"I will devour your fingers, your face, your insides," Sukuna continues, and there's a pounding pulse where the knots of Sukuna's soul are tangled with Yuuji's own… he can sense them like never before, and he can't keep up with the rush of thoughts and images surging through Sukuna's mind, a fragmented stream of The brat, the brat stuck on my fingers, running down my face, his colors … melting through my veins. Dripping down my lips, glistening across my wrists, feel his soul deep in my bones.
And Yuuji exhales with a rush, because the way Sukuna is thinking of him right now… it's like a morbid love song or something — like broken pieces snapped off some grotesque poem, dark petals peeled off a black flower. It's like there's nothing else in the world he'd rather have all to himself, nothing he wouldn't want to devour better. Yuuji can sense the corrosive, overbearing feeling that eats away at Sukuna, that hunger he'd never sensed in the King of Curses before. Hunger just for Yuuji, hunger to make them one, hunger to absorb Yuuji completely into his own self so that they will never be apart. To mix their colors, to melt into each other's souls, to burst in each other's mouths.
Those thoughts are all imploding inside of Sukuna's mind and spilling directly into Yuuji's. He can barely breathe, his heart beating too hard against his ribcage, like a trapped bird throwing itself against the cage. And of course Sukuna takes notice of it … All of a sudden, a pressure encircles Yuuji's beating heart completely, crushing his chest.
"And I will gorge on your heart," Sukuna growls, and Yuuji is flooded with a sudden rush of possessiveness that is pouring directly from Sukuna. It's a dizzying jolt to his system. It's burning heat throbbing in his chest, a hand right over his heart, cupping it whole. It's overwhelming, and he almost can't take it, knees giving out so he slips down onto the floor, close to overflowing.
He lets out a gasp, filled to bursting by this strange feeling coursing through his entire body. There's something inside of him. Sukuna, inside of him. So close, so warm, burning within his skin like a fever. He's never known a closeness like this before, never. The fullness of it, the rightness of it is shocking, consuming.
A hot touch spreading across his hand barely registers in the back of his mind. He lifts it up, watching as Sukuna's eye and mouth flutter open across his palm. The eye is scarlet, deep dark red and slitted, like a demonic cat staring up at him. Their gazes lock together, and Yuuji can't pull away.
"Do you get it now, brat?" Sukuna asks, softly. Far too softly. His tongue flicks out again, dragging up Yuuji's wrist, licking up the sweat gathering there. "You are my vessel, made for me. You're mine. Everything you are belongs to me. This body, this soul, this heart is all for me."
The hand around his heart clenches deeper and Yuuji almost sobs, the warmth of it thawing whatever had kept him cold and lonely before all this. Before Sukuna ended up inside of him, before there was nothing and no one in the world that had gotten so close to Yuuji.
He stares into Sukuna's eye, feels the sorcerer's mouth with those dark lips twitching into a growing grin. "I could eat you forever," Sukuna purrs, and Yuuji can't help it.
Before he can think better of it, before he even knows what he's doing, he leans in closer and presses his mouth to Sukuna's own. It's nothing more than a quick brush of his lips against the cursed king's, but in that single moment Yuuji feels how surprisingly soft Sukuna's mouth is, how sharp his teeth are past that obscenely long tongue.
And before Sukuna can say anything in response, Yuuji smiles down at the monster manifested on his palm. "Enough of the gross cannibal talk, old man, or someone might think you're getting feelings for me. Admittedly twisted feelings, but feelings all the same."
Sukuna opens his cursed mouth to make protests, but Yuuji silences him by placing his hand right over those dark lips. Naturally, the King of Curses bites him, hard enough to draw blood even, but Yuuji doesn’t cry out or pull away. He lets Sukuna’s teeth sink deep into the flesh of his palm, a bright flash of pain for just a moment, and revels in the thoughts coursing through their shared mind, a chorus of mine mine mine that is felt by the both of them. 
When Sukuna’s mouth pulls away, there’s an obvious bitemark buried deep in Yuuji’s flesh, and Sukuna grins wide to show his now bloodied teeth. “You’re mine, brat, don’t ever forget that.” 
Yuuji can only nod. Maybe he’s actually mad. Maybe Sukuna did something to his brain, altered it or damaged it or something. But right in this moment, he feels too full, too warm, almost whole… It feels so good, he can’t really fight it. He leans back against the sink and closes his eyes. Breathes in and feels Sukuna’s soul shifting inside of him, breathes out and senses the slow calming of Sukuna’s thoughts. 
Everything is so weird. Everything is so messed up. But when he feels the aching of his bloody palm, the sweet purring Sukuna makes whenever Yuuji accepts those feelings, he knows it’s the only fate he’s willing to face. Being marked by the King of Curses is a tragedy, really, but never before has Yuuji felt so close to something, never felt so alive and powerful, never felt so complete and defined. He feels that he belongs, that he is wanted, even if it’s in some twisted way. 
And he knows that he is Sukuna’s. 
And, deep down, he knows that Sukuna is his too, because both of them are complete with each other, and both of them are the two sides of the very same whole.  
It’s not such a monstrous thought as it should have been, and he isn’t as scared as he’d thought he’d be when he finally — and fully — accepts it.
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concidineart · 3 months ago
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A ficlet for @fwhimmy-week! See the read more below or the AO3 link above!
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PROMPT: Horror House
The Codfather has a meeting with the Grimlands' Count.
The Grimlands were a nightmarish place. Plants that killed you. Ominous haunted rocks. And the mechanical beast of a castle the Count called home. Crouched on the edge of a sheer cliff, teeth-like spires speared the sky and all around its walls spiraled a web of pipes and furnaces. The massive Grimlands Forge bulged out like some cancerous growth. Taut wires and scaffolding adhered its metal hide to the castle’s soot speckled walls. Heat billowed from warped vents, rattling like a dying breath.
Jimmy, although dressed in full Codfather regalia, felt less like an emperor and more like a speared fish. At least he matched the macabre corpses warding Eastvale’s front gate? The villagers watched him stride through the streets with predatory eyes. A salmonfolk spit on the ground and Jimmy barely stopped himself from drawing his sword in response. He was not here for them.
The stone road leading up to the castle was in good repair, but thin, steep, and either side crumbled off into red mist, making the whole climb feel like a tightrope act. The narrow road tip-toed around the Forge’s maw to reach the castle’s entrance. 
The door was absurdly tall, twice Jimmy’s own impressive height, coming to a pointed arch at the top. Jimmy rapped his knuckles on the thick wood, but the sound was paultry amid the hiss and rattle of the castle itself. He waited for a moment, then searched vainly for a door knocker. Instead, he found a thick chain hanging beside the entry’s recess; a black iron rose dangled from its end. Looking up, the chain disappeared into a metal cavity. With the ghostly impression of a drawbridge in his mind, Jimmy grasped the rose and pulled the chain.
A bassy note rolled over him. The vibrations from an unseen bell tolling sent a shiver down his spine and the castle seemed to fall silent in its wake. 
Then with a puff and rumble, the machinery came back all at once. Gears that Jimmy mistook for hinges clunked and began winding. The door split open (Jimmy snapped his teeth together to muffle an undignified shriek.), transforming into a series of thick panels that folded back into the doorframe, leaving a gaping hole in its place.
Jimmy wasn’t certain how long he stood there, staring into the cold and dark. But eventually, he summoned his valor and stepped over the threshold. 
After a moment of black, his eyes began to adjust. Pricks of red glowed in the rafters. Lamps burning low or blinking creatures? He was in an empty foyer. The air tasted of soot, hot and dry. A couple spiral staircases, narrow and metal, were tucked into the foyer’s alcoves. Across from him stretched a long hall, dotted with a couple doors, leading into shadow.  It was bereft of furniture. The only sense of decor came from the twisting, spiked architectural supports and a set of large urns filled with wither roses. 
Jimmy took a couple steps and stopped as his boots echoed off the smooth deepslate floor. At once he felt like an intruder.
“fWhip?” Jimmy asked the empty air.
The hall sent his question back to him in a whisper. 
Setting his jaw and clenching his fists, Jimmy strode forward. He’d find fWhip and they’d sort out the pledge and he’d recommend an interior decorator and he’d get out of this horror house. 
The hall led to a set of double doors. They were more official and fine than the single doors Jimmy passed, so he pressed down on their large handles and pushed. Their hinges let out a shrill squeak and the wood scraped against the floor, making Jimmy wince.
Lit red candles lined this room’s rafters, casting a warm dim glow. A thick, but faded red and black carpet striped down the room’s center. Plant pots, holding the shriveled remains of some sort of bush, lined the walls. Clusters of bright amethyst were ensconced in the walls’ timber, lending their own cool glimmer to the lighting. At the end of the room, sat two tall backed chairs. Jimmy had found the throne room.
Relieved and figuring this was a sensible room to wait in, Jimmy entered. The rug helped muffle his steps as he approached the thrones. Each chair was carved from deepslate and embedded with flecks of redstone that glinted in the candlelight. Fittingly creepy for the Grimlands. 
What was odd though, was the state of the throne room as a whole. Dust coated every surface. The air was stale. The candles were burnt down, wax spilling over the wooden beams in crimson rivulets. One throne had bits of gunpowder and paper crumpled at its base, TNT in the process of either being made or undone. The other was thick with cobwebs. That there even was a second throne was strange. Jimmy would have thought the second throne would be removed until the Grimlands gained a Countess or… Jimmy’s eyes were drawn to the TNT again, the only sign of life. 
The lavender light from the amethyst became cold in Jimmy’s mind. This room felt like a tomb. Something was buried here.
“Jimmy, what are you doing in here?”
Jimmy about lept out his scales, as he spun around. “JEEZE!”
fWhip, draped in his usual ratty scarf, stood in the doorway, hands tucked in his coat pockets. The Count’s pale face seemed to float in the darkness. fWhip didn’t glance around the room. His dusty periwinkle eyes squinted at Jimmy and he lifted one finger to point up.
“My office is upstairs.”
With that, he stepped out of the room. 
Jimmy hustled after him, hissing, “Don’t scare me like that! My heart stopped! You hear me? My heart stopped!”
fWhip cackled and the laugh echoed down the hall. “You’re fine!”
“I almost died.” Jimmy insisted as fWhip led him up one of the narrow staircases.
fWhip walked through the castle with supernatural silence; his red leathery wings never rustled, his boots never clacked. Up three flights and down a short hall, Jimmy was waved into a small circular office. fWhip directed Jimmy to a set of three stools stacked by the door as he took the plush red armchair crammed between a massive desk and three stained glass windows. The office was more lived in than the rest of the castle, but just barely; stacks of paper and a small bookshelf full of dogeared tomes, charcoal sticks, a bottle of ink and two pens. The walls were bare. No knickknacks on the desk. One of the windows was cracked open, letting in a chilly breeze.
Jimmy set up the stool by the desk and fWhip pushed papers to the side so he could spread out a blank parchment between them.
“Okay, we write the pledge together and we’re only done when we both like it.” fWhip ordered.
Jimmy’s stomach rolled at the thought of pledging to stop killing salmon. He was never going to like it. He took off the Codboy cap. This was why he was doing this. If he wanted his title back, he had to do this.
He nodded. “It’s time to put our differences aside.” 
“Oh, that’s good!” fWhip scribbled it down.
The pledge, in the end, was fairly simple. But it took hours. They kept adding more conditions and exceptions, then arguing and striking off the additions. Then repeating that process until they both threw their pens down in exasperation.
“Leave it! Leave it!” Jimmy swatted fWhip’s hand back as he bent to pick up the pen. “It's fine as it is.”
“Hey! Okay. It’s good. It's great even. Short and to the point!” fWhip rolled up Jimmy’s copy of the pledge and handed it over. “Thanks.”
“Thanks.” Jimmy echoed as he took it.
With that, like a spell had broken, the oppressive presence of the castle rushed back in. Jimmy felt an odd sorrowful pang as he looked at fWhip, who was pushing the window open wider, and he realized this was fWhip’s point of escape. Jimmy’s own home was cozy, bursting with mementos from his friends and citizens. A bit cluttered honestly. fWhip’s castle was a carved out shell.
“Next time, we should meet at my place.”
fWhip looked over his shoulder in surprise. “Next time?”
“Come over.” Jimmy revised. “We can spread the word together. Get everyone to take the pledge.”
fWhip grinned. “Right, meet you there.”
20 notes · View notes