#he delights in torture and others' suffering

[hannahbarberra162]

The Crocodile's Gambit, Ch. 5 (Croc x Reader)

18+ MDNI

on Ao3 All the other chapters

TW: (just for this chapter) mentions of torture / gore but not described in great detail.

Skip about halfway for softie Croc :)

Crocodile was in an absolutely fabulous mood as he cleaned the dripping blood from his hook with his handkerchief. He’d always enjoyed psychological torture more than physical, but combining the two was when he really shone. He’d been torturing the Marine in the same ways he’d tortured you - creating thousands of wounds, infecting them with sand, and allowing them to heal enough to scab. He’d then remove the sand, the wounds would reopen…ah, he was having fun with this one. His pitiful screams made Crocodile smile wider the louder they became. He didn’t need information, he didn’t need them as blackmail, he had full reign over the pacing of his craft.

It had been three days since the Mad Medic had come into his hands and Crocodile had kept him alive thus far. Crocodile had made him beg for the mercy of death but hadn’t yet granted the request. He was thinking about killing the Medic the following day but he wanted to ensure that you didn’t want to have your just desserts before he did so. Double checking his vest had no blood spatter on it, he walked the distance between the jail and his nearly-completed mansion with a spring in his step. He was elated with the way he’d dragged out this torture. Normally Crocodile bored quickly during his torture sessions, finding the pleading and begging irritating. But keeping this one alive and suffering was a delight, given what he’d done to you in the past.

Entering his mansion, Crocodile looked for you first in the office. He’d given you the week off but you’d insisted on cleaning his house anyway, saying it gave you an outlet for your nervous energy. You’d been off since the Medic had come to the island and Crocodile couldn’t wait to show you his progress with your former tormentor. You weren’t in the office so he checked your next favorite haunt - the kitchen. You were often in the kitchen, munching on snacks or drinking tea, or trying to get Daz to like you by baking him desserts. Daz did like you, but the two pirates had a silent agreement to dump your treats out the window or turn them into sand when you weren’t looking. You had many incredible qualities but baking was not one of them.

Nearing the kitchen, Crocodile smelled burnt flour and vinegar, indicating he’d guessed correctly. You’d been in the kitchen more than ever this week and your...food had gotten more creative over the time period. Peeking his head in, Crocodile prevented his nose from wrinkling as you plated the charred cookies. You looked cute in your apron, he’d love to unwrap you like a present but now was not the time. Maybe in exchange for eating the bricks he'd have you serve him in nothing but the apron...

“Crocodile! Would you like to try some of my oatmeal raisin cookies?” you asked with a bright smile. The cookies looked more like charcoal briquettes rather than an edible foodstuff.

“I fear they are too hot, they are straight out of the oven, no?” Crocodile demurred, trying to avoid the inevitable outcome. He’d resorted to turning his tongue to sand while in his mouth to decrease the taste of your creations. 

“True, you can have some later. I’ll set one aside for you, I just hope no one eats it,” you agreed easily. Crocodile could have sighed with relief but didn’t want to hurt your feelings.

“I assure you, no one will touch the cookie. Come, we have matters to discuss” Crocodile replied, thinking of the times he’d paid Daz to sample your baking in your presence. You took off your apron, set it aside, and followed Crocodile to the office. Crocodile sat down first in his leather arm chair, patting his lap. Like a spoiled little housecat, you slowly trailed behind him and perched on his generous thigh. 

Unfortunately this was no time for heavy petting. He was about to make you uncomfortable and wanted you near so he could physically reassure you. Something he’d realized over the time you’d spent together was the lack of physical affection, especially romantic affection, you’d received over the course of your life. You hadn’t come to him a virgin, you’d had some dalliances in the past. But he could tell no one took their time with you, treated you like the beautiful treasure that you were. You were used to quick, rough fucks, pulling your panties up when you were finished and leaving immediately without so much as a kiss. You were used to sex but not to intimacy which…Crocodile pitied you in some way. He didn’t often desire intimacy but to never have experienced it was depressing to think about. Indeed, the first time Crocodile had offered you aftercare, you’d balked at him.

“I can clean myself, I don’t need you-” you started in on him as soon as Crocodile had offered to run you a bath in his (newly renovated) bathroom. You were curled up completely nude on his lap, indulging in a lazy post-sex game of chess as his seminal fluids dripped down your thighs. You were winning, naturally.

“Of course you can but I want to,” Crocodile retorted, keeping his tone intentionally sharp and lightly slapping the outside of your thigh. You tended to yield most easily when he established that he took care of you for his pleasure, not your own. Which was partially true, Crocodile did enjoy pleasuring and pampering you. You were always awed and grateful, the relative poverty of life with the Clown a good counterpoint to the luxury in Crocodile’s mansion. But the larger problem in Crocodile’s mind was that you didn’t feel you deserved anything good in life. Not from Crocodile, not from the Clown, not from your fellow crew, not from anyone. And Crocodile didn’t like that line of thinking one iota. The least he could do is give you the head of your former tormentor on a silver platter. Perhaps literally.

Wiping a stray smattering of flour from your cheek, Crocodile gave you a serious look despite his inner glee.

“Dear, would you like to join me in the jail for a few moments? Perhaps torture the Medic yourself? It might give you some kind of closure,” Crocodile mused. Since he’d fought Strawhat, he always remained until his opponents were truly dead; Crocodile didn’t like making the same mistake twice. Your smile faded from your mouth, a sight Crocodile loathed.

“I, um, don’t know. I was, um, thinking, maybe but I -” you were looking beyond Crocodile as he used the flat of his hook to gently turn your face towards his. Your eyes held a hint of fear, of memories from long before you’d met Crocodile. Just for the tension you were feeling now, he’d torture the Medic for at least 4 more hours.

“ Tesoro I will be with you the entire time if you wish to go. You do not have to. You could also watch me torture him if you prefer,” he said quietly, running his hook up and down your back carefully avoiding ripping the fine green linen dress he’d bought you as a gift for winning your fiftieth game against him. You looked up, your eyes filling with the same tenacity he saw when you defeated him in chess.

“Let’s go.”

Crocodile was sure of his decision as you walked hand in hand with him to the jail. He watched you mentally prepare yourself for the sight, tilting your head to the sides as you engaged in silent conversations with yourself. You didn’t need to worry, the Medic wouldn’t be able to touch you in any physical manner, even if he had all his fingers. Reaching the jail, you took a deep breath and squared your shoulders.

“Remember, I am always at your side. I will begin with him, join me if you’d like. And if the sight is too much -” you cut off Crocodile with a curt wave.

“Trust me, you haven’t seen the gore I have, no matter how many people you’ve tortured,” you said with a roll of your eyes. Crocodile smiled at your bravery and passed through the guarded doors with you by his side. The jail was a rather small building, as you had recommended they did not keep many prisoners. There were no windows save small rectangular openings high up on the stone walls to let in a minuscule amount of airflow and light. Most cells were empty but as you walked down the hallway a few groans could be heard from a few cells along with the clinking of chains. 

Crocodile wasn’t bothered by the smells or the oppressive heat inside but he did worry about your own constitution for a moment. He realized that your words earlier were true, you were non-reactive to the rancid environment. You held your head high and kept your gaze forward as the two of you made your way to the back of the jail with Crocodile leading the way. Stopping in front of the last cell, Crocodile beheld the sight in front of him.

Bloody, bruised, battered, and beaten, the Mad Medic was a whisper of his former self. Sitting in the back of the cell, arms chained to the wall, the Medic’s greasy black hair hung loosely as he drooled on his lower half, jaw unable to close properly any longer. You looked at him askance, as if he’d ruined your favorite pair of boots, not like he’d tortured you maliciously for years. Crocodile ran his hook over the bars of the cell, enjoying the twitch it brought to the Medic’s frame.

“Wake up, Doctor. You have a guest,” Crocodile sneered. You watched impassively as the Medic made eye contact with you. Whereas before he’d grinned wickedly at you from afar, now he stared at you in horror as you stood next to Crocodile,  searching your face for forgiveness that would not be granted.

“Nothing to say? Come now, let’s have a chat, shall we?” Crocodile unlocked the cell and entered, his dress shoes clicking against the stone floors. The Medic curled in on himself as Crocodile took the tip of his hook and dragged it down his face, cutting the flesh neatly in two. The Medic moaned out loud, the wild look in his eyes showing the culminating effects of days of torture at Crocodile’s hand.

“Pleasssse, merccccy,” the Medic said in loose syllables, looking at you. You furrowed your brow.

“It doesn’t hurt. Ignore the sounds of the beast,” you replied in a clipped monotone. Crocodile tucked those words away for later in his mind. In the meantime, he sliced the Medic from finger to shoulder, putting increasing pressure as his hook continued its journey. The Medic screamed like a stuck pig, though his voice was now hoarse from repeated use. You watched for a moment longer then spun on your heel and left the jail. Crocodile smiled his unnerving cheshire grin at the Medic, who was trying uselessly to remove Crocodile’s hook from his skin. Oh, the fun they would have.

~

An hour or so later, Crocodile sauntered out of the jail. It was a shorter session than usual but Crocodile wanted to check in on you. He’d already changed his blood soaked clothes and started a new cigar - the old one had been extinguished on the Medic too many times to relight - and was heading back to his Mansion. First looking in the office and kitchen (where his cookie remained untouched on its plate), Crocodile finally looked in his bedroom. The bathroom door was shut and he heard the sound of running water in the pipes. 

Opening the door, Crocodile allowed the steam to escape before he entered the humid bathroom. All devil fruit users were weak to water but more so Crocodile than others. Of course he bathed but he avoided water as much as he could. The glass shower stall was billowing steam like a cauldron but he didn’t hear any noises besides the running of the water. He entered the bathroom and shut the door behind him, unwilling to let you get cold despite his discomfort.

“ Tesoro , how are you feeling?” Crocodile asked from the doorway. He heard no response, and approached the shower. Though the glass doors were fogged, he could see you sitting under the stream of water on the cold tiled floor with your knees tucked under your chin, allowing the hot water to beat against your back. 

“Answer me, Darling,” Crocodile urged you gently. You looked up at Crocodile with red rimmed eyes, tears running down your face even as water ran down your skin. Crocodile hadn’t seen you cry before and it was nothing he wanted to see again. He started unbuttoning his vest and shirt, folding them and placing them on the counter. You watched him with concern as he removed his pants as well as his hook, placing both on the counter.

“B-but you don’t like water -” you stammered out, starting to get up from your spot on the floor. He entered the shower, hiding the grimace he felt as the water began to bead on his skin. He wasn’t weak, the majority of his body wasn’t submerged in water, but the feeling was akin to a paper cut between his fingers. Decidedly unpleasant but not outright painful.

You stood up as he entered, Crocodile walked to the teak bench in the back and sat down, opening his arms to you in invitation of you joining in his embrace. The shower was roomy - Crocodile himself was a large man - and he liked having the bench near enough to feel the mist of the warm water without having to deluge himself in it. Unlike earlier when you’d practically strutted to him, now you scuttled like you were about to be punished. You stood between Crocodile’s muscled thighs, wrapping your arms around his neck and nuzzling into him. Crocodile ran his arm up and down your wet skin as you remained silent. 

“I will ask you once again. How are you feeling?” Crocodile said over the noise of the falling water. The increasing moisture in the air was bothering him but he’d endure for your sake. 

"I don't know, I um, I don't...know," you trailed off, still lost in your own thoughts. 

"Take your time, Tesoro, we have nowhere else to be," Crocodile said softly, holding you by the back of your arms. Though Crocodile enjoyed revenge and torture, he knew that trauma resolution was not so easy as the death of your former adversary. He'd learned his own lesson as he'd fought Whitebeard, the sick old man not giving him the fight he wanted.

“It um, didn’t feel as good as I thought it would? Like, I thought I would feel great, standing next to you? And you looked so powerful and strong and... but I felt…I don’t even know. Sad? Small? Confused?” you replied. Crocodile hummed and turned you to sit on his lap.  

“What did you mean about the ‘sounds of the beast’?” Crocodile prodded gently. He had a suspicion but wanted it confirmed before he visited the Medic next.

“Oh. That was what he would say if I screamed or made noise during procedures,” you said in an emotionless tone. Crocodile put his large hand on the back of your neck and pulled you forward to kiss your forehead. 

“I am sorry it was not what you imagined. It can be challenging to have such important events not live up to expectations. For what it is worth, I did not think you small or sad - I saw a powerful, strong, capable woman who has survived and overcome significant adversity. You were as I always have seen you -”

“Pff. Please don’t say something cheesy like the Queen on the chessboard,” you said lightly, trying to break the tension, burying your face in his shoulder. Crocodile tutted at you, enjoying the change in your mood. He watched the water drip off your nipple and yearned to lick it but restrained himself for now.

“Nonsense. You are not the Queen, a piece to be moved in defense of  or sacrificed for another. You are the only opponent worth playing,” Crocodile finished, looking you in the eyes. Your lashes filled with tears again, though this time they were accompanied with a smile and hiccup. 

“You’re the most romantic person I know,” you said with sincerity ringing in your tone, wiping your nose on your palm. Crocodile grimaced and put your hand under the stream of water in the shower.

“That is…not one of my known personality traits,” Crocodile replied dryly. He wasn’t going to disabuse you of your notions, it made his life easier if you were easily impressed with his variety of romance. He made a mental note to have flowers shipped to the island, based on your statement you’d be floored to receive them.

“I’d like to show you my romantic side,” you purred at him, your sadness forgotten. Your arm crept along his inner thigh towards his half erect cock. Crocodile was eager but the water was beginning to bother him. 

“Gladly, my Dear. I’d love to see what you have to offer me. In the bedroom,” Crocodile demanded, picking you up bridal style and turning off the shower. Wrapping you in a towel, he exited the bathroom and stalked towards the bed in the center of his room.

“What Croccy, don’t like swimming as much as your bananawani?” you teased, licking his dripping earlobe. 

“Mm. I see your attitude has recovered, Brat. Let’s see how well it serves you. I seem to remember you proclaiming endlessly that you would be my good girl if only I would stop my ministrations. Is that not still the case? Perhaps I can remind you of your promises to be good for me,” Crocodile drawled, biting your shoulder gently. You puffed up in fake outrage as Crocodile tossed you on the bed. You laid on your stomach on the bed, leaning against your elbows as you reclined on the tall bed frame.

“You had me over your knee, spanking my ass forever! I was sore for two days! Of course I’d say whatever, I woulda said you’re the Pirate King,” you said, flicking your eyes as he loosely stroked himself.

“Tsk, tsk. Lying to your Captain? Definitely not a good girl,” Crocodile said, raking his eyes over your figure as you broke out in goosebumps.

“Definitely not,” you agreed, licking your lips. Crocodile could tell you wanted to suck his cock but he had other plans in mind for you. He hooked his forearm and hand under your knees, flipping you up onto your upper back, pussy high in the air. His bed being so far off the ground put your delectable pussy at the perfect height for him to sample at his leisure.

“H-hey, wait, I wanted to -” you squeaked out before he silenced you.

“Don’t care what you want, Brat. This is what you’re getting,” he growled, holding your hips in place as your legs dangled over his arms. 

“I can’t come like this, it’s too -” you began as a blush crept over your face. Even though you’d been with Crocodile for a few weeks now, he’d discovered that some sexual acts made you feel embarrassed. You didn't like feeling exposed, you preferred to come with your legs clenched around his hand, face, and cock. Your embarrassment  was absolutely adorable and he made an effort to show off your pretty pussy and watch you squirm.  

“Is that so? You cannot come in this position?” Crocodile smiled, baring all his teeth at you. You shivered, biting your bottom lip and nodding.

A few hours later he'd changed your mind. You could indeed come in that lewd position, your pussy on full display for his consumption. You’d also come in many others as he’d taken his time with you, stroking you slow and deep, hitting your g spot with his thrusts as he kissed and nipped at you. 

“Just come for me once more, just one more time around my cock,” Crocodile murmured into your hair as he thrust into you from behind, his hand on the bed to keep from putting weight on you. You whined, you’d been so good for him already. Crocodile leaned back onto his knees, still thrusting as he smacked your ass for good measure. Picking up his pace, Crocodile admired the sight of his cock sliding into your well used cunt.

“ Aah , ah, p-please, I c-can’t -” you stammered, unable to form a coherent sentence as he continued to pound you from behind.

“You can. You will,” Crocodile said as he reached under you to rub your oversensitive clit. He’d kept you on edge for quite some time then had you coming over and over. You arched your back even higher, clamping your legs as closely together as you could.

“Ah ah. Legs spread, let me see my beautiful pussy. No hiding,” Crocodile cooed at you, using his knees to force your legs further apart. 

“Croc-crocodile, I’m c-close, I’m -” Crocodile slapped your clit with his fingers and was rewarded by the pulsing of your pussy around him as you moaned your release. He rode you through your climax, wanting you to enjoy every overwhelming moment as he sought his own release. Your fluttering, messy pussy pushed him over the edge as he came deep within you. As you came down from your high, you pulled him down to lay next to you. Sweating and panting, you pulled his arm over your side as you rested.

“Feeling better?” Crocodile asked, kissing your mouth tenderly.

“Mmhmm, feelin’ fuckin’ great,” you replied, stretching out your legs. Crocodile closed his own eyes, content to enjoy the moment together in comfortable silence. 

“You can kill him now,” you said apropos of nothing. Crocodile didn’t have to ask what you meant.

“As you wish, Darling,” he agreed, running his fingers over the scars on your back. You kept quiet a few minutes longer, fidgeting every half minute or so by shifting your legs, arms or learning his body with your fingertips. Your unease told him you had something else you wanted to say. He gave you the time to sort through your thoughts and feelings, despite the fact that he knew what you were going to say. As well as you could read him, he’d spent time working on being able to read you. And he knew you had a big revelation coming his way. 

“Crocodile I -” you started hesitantly after several more minutes, stopping to collect your thoughts. Crocodile opened his eyes to watch you chew on a nail.

“It's alright, Dear. I love you too,” he replied quietly, looking into your eyes as he cupped your cheek.

“....I was gonna say I don’t have the energy to play chess tonight,” you replied sheepishly. “But, yeah, that too.” For the first time in several decades, Crocodile felt himself blushing.

Fuck. 

[unproduciblesmackdown]

Mordecai probably lives in an apartment or something, but my first thought when you brought up the Caves on that post was that he won’t tell us because he’s been living in the Caves the Whole Time. Even tho he’d hate the slime mold.

yeah a Whole Damn House would be a bit much, and probably not as useful for the nightly bootlegging related goings on: see, freckle needing to stand around waiting for a ride before he can go shoot people. whereas mordecai can show up to the maribel hotel on foot, or at least have started out somewhere he could get a cab or whatever....and this is probably the closest to any relevant Living Situation Glimpses

someplace with a bed, and one with an art deco headboard....a modern style, so it's neither Antique nor unfancy enough to have less identifiable stylings at all. like just by guessing surely he lives in some apartment that's unassuming enough to live unassumingly in, with whatever alias, so something large & fancy would be unhelpful....plus if he's gonna be fairly rigorous in his domestic upkeep, it wouldn't really help to have a huge place, even if for the same reasons it wouldn't be too small (or old or otherwise unpleasant; hard no to slime mold, slime, or mold....) and like re: the rotating aliases, maybe he moves places fairly regularly for good measure, been at this like, a decade....tl;dr probably has some apartment/s that's roomy but not huge, nice but not Fancy fancy, at the nexus of practicality, resources, and preferences

but it's important to think about "what if mordecai's been living in the caves the whole time" b/c that's funny lmao

[gigilovespink]

Satoru was heartbroken. No, he was shattered. Ruined. Obliterated.

His heart bled painfully as it broke down in pieces, watching the scene unfolding in front of him incredulously.

“Stop pouting” you say, sipping from a glass of orange juice.

“Pouting!? I am not pouting, I am suffering, babe, and you only seem to be enjoying my pain!”

You snort a laugh, patting his forearm reassuringly as you dab your daughter’s face clean with the other hand. Your one year old toddler was sat on Suguru’s lap, squealing in delight and covering her face almost giddily with her chubby little hands every time he shot her a gentle smile. She looked positively infatuated.

“And you laugh!” Satoru adds, stirring his overly sweet beverage brusquely as he glares at his best friend.

“You are being overly dramatic, Satoru” Suguru adds, chuckling as he twirls a strand of white hair that falls out of one of her pigtails. “She just enjoys attention.”

“Attention she should be seeking from me” Satoru counters indignantly. “I am her father, the only man she should be in love with is me.”

“Oh my God…” you sigh, shaking your head. “Sometimes I forget I have two toddlers.”

“At least this one behaves like the princess she is” Suguru chuckles, tickling your baby’s side and making her laugh happily, to Satoru’s dismay.

“Don’t side up with him” the white haired man sulks miserably, “it’s enough torture having one of my girls stolen from me in my face. First my daughter and now my wife? Seriously Suguru?”

The eye roll you and said man give him is almost choreographed. “Did you invite me for lunch just to accuse me of being a home wrecker?”

Satoru crosses his arms. “I never said you were, you are admitting it yourself.”

Suguru snorts, you sigh, and Satoru seems to be in an awfully petty mood.

“Dadaaa…”

Short arms reach for your husband, little hands curling around air in an attempt to cut the distance between both of them.

Satoru’s long arms pull her up easily, retrieving her swiftly from the other man’s lap and balancing her on one of his legs. The megawatt smile on his face could fool anyone into believing he had never been annoyed in the first place.

Big blue eyes mirror his as she stares up at him, laughing and squirming in his arms as he peppers her face with kisses. “Yes, Dada is the only man you are allowed to love, baby girl. Don’t give those eyes to uncle Suguru.”

Suguru shakes his head, an amused and warm smile on his face as he looks at them, “you do know she is going to meet boys her age sooner than later, right? And go on dates and things like that.”

Satoru keeps smiling down adoringly at his daughter, her little fingers wrapped around his as he bounces her on his leg.

“I’ll hollow-purple the hell out of them.”

——————

Suguru never left in this little drabble, let me live that fantasy 💔

[mo0nfairy]

ᥫ᭡ . # ۫ , ⸺ THIS IS A LIFE, PART ONE !

summary :: in every universe, spiderman will inevitably lose the one thing that matters most to him: y/n l/n. miguel o'hara, peter parker, and hobie brown have all suffered through this story. they soon discover another version of you is alive, bound to fall in love with miles morales and to die abruptly. with the prospect of a second chance and a newfound obsession, these four men will do anything to keep you at their side.

chapters :: the masterlist.

word count :: 7.5k

content warnings :: yandere!miguel, yandere!miles, yandere!noir, yandere!hobie, reader death, gore/violence, murder, electrocution, fire, guns, alcohol, cigarettes, suicidal tendencies, kidnapping, stalking, physical restraint, child abuse/neglect, allusions to a child's death, physically abusive ex-boyfriend, infidelity, & torture.

──── October 17th, 2099 — Miguel O'Hara remembers the day the same way he will never forget you. August 24th, 1934 — Peter Parker remembers the day the same way he will never forget you. July 3rd, 2020 — Hobie Brown remembers the day the same way he will never forget you.

Y/N L/N. Miguel O'Hara, Peter Parker, and Hobie Brown will never forget them the same way they will never forget how it felt to lose them.

The inevitable fate of your demise is a cannon event for all spider-people. To love this person with every shred of their being only to live the rest of their lives without them; to love this person with all the might their body can contain only to let go of their hand in the end. It crushes their soul. Countless people are forced to live with the consequences of being bitten by a spider, not one had suspected it would be so detrimental.

Not when it is your life that has been taken.

Written in the stars is this destiny. How they will never love another again, but vow to be a hero and refrain a similar fate from falling onto anyone else. Many have been able to crawl out of the bottomless pit that is grief, but others have succumbed to the unforgiving anguish and let their life escape them. Just the way yours had. After all, what is life if you are not present? What is the point of living if there is no one there to patch up their scars and praise them for their heroic acts? There is no point, which leaves these three particular spider-people here. Their body is stuck in the past, reliving each moment with you up until they lost you forever.

October 17th, 2099. It was all his fault. Maybe if he hadn't let his violent tendencies toward anyone who isn't you slip through the seams, maybe if he had been more persistent in his reminders of how loved you are. Maybe if he had tried harder, Miguel O'Hara would still have you here at his side.

Miguel's attempts to make this sudden transition in your life as easy as possible turned out to be disastrous. He is not stupid; he knows this upbringing into this new lifestyle you claim to be "kidnapping" was blunt. He knew this, yet still, his plans on easing you through this change had collapsed right before him. Time had passed, and he naively assumed your fear had depleted, far too caught up in the sheer delight that came from holding you in his arms. Days and nights spent trailing his fingers down the expanse of your skin and kissing away the bruises his fangs had left upon your lips. This is a dream, Miguel always catches himself thinking.

And his sweet daughter, Gabriella. How she adored you so much. Even more so than her own father, he often joked. Coming home to find you both brushing the hair of her numerous dolls, baking treats that were rich with far too much sugar, or fast asleep on the couch while some whiny kids show plays on the television. His heart hammers like a fluttering hummingbird at the sight of you so soft and calm with his daughter. However, your guard then builds itself back up, brick-by-brick, faster than a gust of wind when he makes his presence known. In a way, Miguel found himself... jealous of Gabriella. That gentle and loving nature of yours, why couldn't he have it for himself? Why couldn't you give him some of that attention, even just a blink? What could that crybaby brat possibly have done to deserve such an amazing thing!?

No matter what kind of thoughts suffocate his mind, Miguel always tried to keep himself composed in front of you. With his tall, muscular physique, it makes sense why you are so intimidated by his appearance. If he were to ever let this satiating envy bleed through the bandaids, however, you'd certainly never open your heart to him. The prospect alone makes his chest tighten with dread.

And he had been so negligent towards his daughter, it only makes sense why she would turn to you. With how breathtaking, elegant, brilliant, electrifying you are, Miguel can understand why she loves you so much. Still, this does not refrain him from tightening his jaw whenever his daughter does something as trivial as hug you. That should be me with Y/N. Let me hold them, let me hold them, let me hold them like that.

It's his fault he had so frivolously expressed his envy through sharp gazes, a towering frame, and muffled shouts through the thin walls. It's his fault he never assured you these ugly emotions were never your fault, since you could never do any wrong in his eyes, after all. It's his fault he didn't drown you in even more heaps of affection, to further remind you of just how much he needs you.

It is his fault you are dead.

Overcome with drowsiness, Miguel heedlessly packs his daughters lunch for school that day. Despite how you are usually the one who does this task, since you have always adored looking after the little one, you needed your rest. And he was insistent on treating you with even more intensive care, all to prove that he is the right one for you. No one else. Meanwhile, Gabriella sits at the kitchen table with her backpack on, swinging her short legs back and forth. She is bright with full energy that contradicts her father's state in a comical manner.

"Y/N/N always cuts my food into cool shapes! Yesterday, they made my sandwich star-shaped!" Gabriella exclaims to her father with admiration.

The mere mention of your name from someone else makes Miguel freeze. A sudden surge of anger wraps around his lungs like a sheen layer of morning dew resting on Spring grass. You treat her with such attentive care, why can't he get any of that? What is so special about her that he doesn't have? What does he need to change about himself in order to get you to love him the way you so fatuously love her? Miguel casts his gaze across the counter and finds several bottles of cleaning products you must have forgotten to put away. So endearing, so adorable. An idea then sparks. While Gabriella continues to babble about how cool and amazing you are, Miguel finds himself considering something he will never be able to take back.

Just a dash of some drain cleaner in her sandwich and this problem will fade away.

"Y/N/N!" The sound of your nickname shouts through the air upon your arrival. Gabriella is more than elated to greet you, but your eyes remain locked on Miguel. In other circumstances, he'd be thanking the heavens above for this bit of attention you have given him. At this moment, however, there is a disturbed gleam of horror in your expression that makes his stomach twist with apprehension.

The energy is not directed towards Gabriella, as you caress her cheek and gift her that smile of yours that rivals sunlight. Miguel inadvertently rolls his eyes at the sight, envious as ever. As she continues to ramble to you about her success at a recent soccer game, you retrieve all the cleaning products and return them to their respective place underneath the sink. Not without shooting a burning glare at Miguel, however. Had he made his intentions that obvious? You wave him aside from his stance at the pink, glittery lunchbox and he obeys. Pretending to finish up his original efforts, you examine every snack inside for anything this crazed man may have tampered with.

"Good morning, button..." The nervous tremble in Miguel's voice doesn't tarnish the sheer adoration that seeps from his tone.

Your short response of "'morning" could barely be heard over the thunderous sound of his heart shattering. Yet again, you have broken his heart. And still, he will crawl back to you every time, aching for any inkling of your regard. Soon, you're saying your goodbyes to Gabriella and wishing her a wonderful day at school. Planting a quick peck to her cheek, Miguel's talons grow and dig crevices into the steering wheel while he waits for his daughter to join him in the vehicle. Oh, if only you could give him the same act of affection, he would never ask the universe for anything ever again.

And if only he had known how the rest of the morning would play out, he never would have left the house.

When Miguel finally pulls out of the driveway, giving you a quick wave that is not reciprocated, you let your guard down. You almost watched this man murder his daughter. Tears begin to form in your eyes as the revelation simmers like boiling water. With more time here, who knows what lengths he'll travel to?

Fortunately for you, with how occupied he was with his daughter and his own inner turmoil, he had entirely forgotten to lock the door to his office. The one place neither you nor his daughter were allowed to venture into. You were unaware of what is within the room or how anything inside could aid you in your attempts to escape. What you were aware of, however, is how paranoid he was in his efforts to keep you out of there. Peeling back the curtain and taking a fearful glance out the window, just to ensure this psychopath who claimed to be your soulmate wasn't lurking, you embark on your journey into uncharted territory.

Miguel had mentioned several times in his late-night talks with you about his job at Alchemax. His boring explanations about the technology he was working on there did wonders in lulling you to sleep. Now, seeing the scatterings of machinery that littered the room made you gasp from their futuristic appearance. One contraption had caught your attention, however. It seemed to be a current project, evident in the numerous tools and papers inked with equations littered around. Upon stepping closer to the contraption, a holographic screen sputters to life. You find several distorted, glitching files that all attain to you in some shape or form. Y/N's wish list, Y/N's checking account, and Y/N's security camera footage. Curiosity does spark, but with how swiftly Miguel is able to drop his daughter off and speed home to return to you, the time you had was not versatile.

If I can piece together how this gadget works, I may be able to call for help and get Gabriella and I as far away from this man as possible, you think to yourself.

The machine continues to stammer pathetically as if it were desperately chasing its own life. Trying to peruse through the technology to find anything useful, its poor performance prevented you from any fruition. In a fit of frustration, you pull your hand back and deliver a harsh smack! to the side of the machine. With how little time you have, you can feel your opportunity for freedom begin to fade away with every glitch that erupts. With one final, violent slam to the machinery, the metal borders protecting the numerous open wires inside fall, and a sudden wave of electricity surges through you. Your entire body goes rigid before you splat harshly against the ground. You are now left entirely lifeless, except for the electric shocks that cause your stiff form to twitch in response.

With that, your life was over. October 17th, 2099 — the day Miguel O'Hara inevitably lost the only thing that ever mattered to him.

August 24th, 1934. It was all his fault. Maybe if he had stayed with you more and neglected the city, maybe if he hadn't been so careless with expressing his love for you. Maybe if he had tried harder, Peter Parker would still have you here at his side.

Peter, too, attempted vigorously to make your transition to this new life with him as smooth as possible. At the very beginning of this new adjustment, hope had still plagued your mind. As days turned into weeks, soon months, the forest fire that was your persistence had slowly been snuffed out like an old candle. Now, all you can do is sit at the window seat of his apartment and just pray that someone will recognize your face. From the numerous missing persons' posters that were now left behind in dumpsters and rain puddles, you could feel your luck grow thin. Everyday looked like this, all with this lovesick maniac at your beck-and-call, deluded enough to believe this fantasy of being your doting partner to be reality. The amount of egg-creams you've drank is bound to make you vomit at some point.

At the end of the day, you had gotten what you had wished for. You were once a journalist, putting all your time into unmasking the famous Spiderman. The truth of his identity was now in the palm of your hands. However, there were far more consequences to this wish than you had originally anticipated. And Peter is overcome with guilt when he thinks back to how disastrous his efforts to give you his heart turned out.

It's his fault he had so carelessly exposed his acts of heroism through the stench of gunpowder and chunks of blood beneath his fingernails. It's his fault he didn't spend more time showering you in the affection you truly deserved. It's his fault he never assured you the inevitable fate of the bastards that hurt you was never your fault, just so you can realize that everything he does, no matter how calamitous, was all for your benefit.

It is his fault you are dead.

Slow dancing with you in the gentle haze of the moonlight peaking through the window, swaying along to some romantic melody echoing from the saloon across the street, amorous words that you'd hear from the lips of a poet whispered into your ear — this is where heaven is. This is all that he has ever dreamed of; this is all he has ever wanted for the two of you. This is what makes him happy.

"My heart is bleeding in your hands, dollface. It's all yours, I'm all yours." Peter's breath tickles your neck, the infatuation-stained harangue finally coming to an end as he continues to sway you along to the harmonies outside.

You often joke to yourself that you could stab Peter in the heart, give him even just a sliver of the turmoil he has forced into your life, and he would still give you a smile with blood painting his teeth and that revolting gleam of pure, unadulterated devotion in his eyes. With this devotion, however, comes dark, dark side effects. This was not a surprise to you, considering how you've been locked up like a bad dog for these past several months. Still, when you inhale and the sharp odor of iron poorly masked with bleach overwhelms your senses, you find yourself taken aback.

The clamoring sound of the bolts to your prison cell your captor claims to be your love den being unlocked brings you out of your thoughts. When the door opens and Peter walks in, all you see is a euphoric, hopelessly-besotted partner. With the sudden stench that is still heavy in the air, however, you feel a new, sudden sense of dread with his presence. He is elated to see you, as he always is. An impassioned kiss to your lips and an ardent compliment are essential to your everyday encounter with the man you thought once to be a superhero. Sometimes, a gift of fresh, blood-red roses may accompany him in his attempts to woo you further, as well.

Through the whiff of cigarettes sitting on his trench coat when he envelops you in a much-needed embrace after his long day of work, you sense something else. The tang you had inhaled from outside the bedroom is now stuck to his form, nestled beneath the aroma of late-night brume and smoke. You force a gag down your throat and reciprocate the affection, trying to push your suspicions to the back burner in your mind. The rest of the evening is like any other: listening to some tunes from the radio as the two of you play a card game, all that Peter deems as a "romantic date". Your winning strike against him (he always lets you win, but he won't tell you this) falters when your brain can't help but wonder what he was so occupied with outside that door.

As devastating and exhausting as the truth is, coming to terms with reality is the only chance you have of returning to the life you once had. Hoping he'll wake from his delusions and let you off your leash is nothing more than a pipe dream, you realize. If you want freedom, you'll have to take it by the neck and claim it as yours. So, as the hours of the night fade into dawn, you conjure a plan in your head while the man beside you snores in a deep slumber (not without a few sleepy mumbles of flattery for you, though).

The scheme you had so flawlessly crafted was quick, simple, and easy. You would do something you have never done before: initiate affection with Peter.

This was your ploy: fulfill all the fantasies his lovesick brain was infested with and watch with a newfound sense of hope as he forgets to lock the door, too dazed from the pleasure your sweet attitude had brought him. And it worked marvelously. Not only did this man forget to lock the bedroom door, he had entirely forgotten to lock the front door of the apartment altogether. The prospect of this mistake being a test of your loyalty lingers, but when you watch through the window as he swings away from building to building, you let out a roar of laughter.

After your fit of hysterics, a smile sits on your face as you tread to the front door. Something stops you in your tracks when your hand hovers over the doorknob. When you leave, you will have nothing but months of memories to defend yourself with. Who are the authorities going to believe — you, a mischievous journalist, prone to bending the rules for a good headline, or Peter, the famous superhero, notorious for his restless efforts to save the city? Despite the freedom you have dreamed of being right in your palms, you step away from the door. Instead, you look around for any evidence deemed beneficial. Whatever can put him under the negative limelight is satisfactory to you.

No stone was left unturned in the apartment, all besides a single door at the end of a long corridor. The night before, Peter had been so frantic with his time inside (all in order to get back to you sooner) that he was sloppy with his efforts in cleaning his mess. The spilled bleach he had accidentally knocked over was still lying in a puddle; the nauseating scent of fresh blood still satiated through the air like a fragrance. And lastly, the latch on the door had been left unlocked.

Without so much as a second thought, you enter the room and let your curious eyes soak in the sheer horror that resides within.

A metal chair rests in the middle of the room, leather straps tightened around a body that sits motionless. Two tables are located on the sides of the room where all sorts of gut-wrenching tools reside. And there is blood everywhere. What was once a second bedroom for buyers of the apartment has now been morphed into a torture chamber of sorts.

The person restrained in the chair, you weren't sure if they were even alive. Everything is drowned in so much heaps of red, attempting to use your mere first-aid knowledge is impossible. What is most perceptible, however, is the way their eye had been forcefully torn from its socket. It resembles a runny egg how it causes bodily fluids to cascade down their face. The amount of flesh on their body that had been torn asunder, the gag in their mouth that was oozing with tears and saliva, the gushing blood that continues to hastily seep from infected wounds. Everything makes your eyes blur and your stomach churn with nauseau.

With the career you once had as a journalist, you've seen some disgusting sights. Sneaking onto crime scenes from a brawly saloon fight gone too far or snapping pictures of the result of Spiderman's "heroic" acts to save citizens, you've become desensitized to gory scenes. But, this. This wasn't like anything you have ever seen.

"Y/N?" You hadn't realized how deafening the silence was until the poor victim is able to speak out.

With one eye practically staring daggers into you, the revelation hits you like a train. That voice, that eye. This is no other than the man you had called your boyfriend before this mess had snuck into your life. Or, ex-boyfriend, as you'd prefer to refer to him as. The status of your relationship was left a mystery after the night he had come to your home drunk and reeking of someone's perfume. Your insistent demands for him to sober up and inform you of his recent whereabouts earned you a harsh slap across the face. With a loud shout of how much of a “shitty partner” and "piece of cityside trash" you are, the person you thought to be the love of your life storms out of your home. Never to be seen again.

Hastily, you unclasp the restraints that left his skin numb and bruised. With how malnourished he had become from his time spent here, it was fairly easy to support his weight. You swing his battered arm around your shoulder and help him stand on his emaciated legs. After only two steps, he pushes you off of him harshly with what little strength his body was able to garner. His attempts served well, as you feel your stomach hit a table adorned with blood-stained utensils that make you sick to imagine how they were used.

"You... How could you...?" As his weak voice fills the air, you feel your stomach fold into itself. Does he think you did this?

Opening your mouth to begin stammering your way through what you intended to be a thorough explanation, a loud bang! then pervades the air. Without a second to process his actions, the man grasped the pistol left on the table and pulled the trigger. A stream of smoke now stems from the barrel. The betrayal, the aversion, and the debility in his expression tell you everything you need to know. You were so close to the finish line that would grant you freedom, but when you shift your gaze down, you're devastated to find a bullet hole protruding through your chest. You then slump to the ground and your killer falls not long after you, the act of merely standing too much for his abused body.

With that, your life was over. August 24th, 1934 — the day Peter Parker inevitably lost the only thing that ever mattered to him.

July 3rd, 2020. It was all his fault. Maybe if he had been more attentive to your safety, maybe if he hadn't exposed how soul-crushing the love he has for you is. Maybe if he had tried harder, Hobie Brown would still have you here at his side.

As opposed to the others, Hobie did little to ease you into this new life with him. The transition was curt, violent. With you as a bartender, drunken customers are most certainly not a rare sight. However, when you rejected a man who had one too many drinks and he reacted with violence, it caught you off-guard. And Hobie, the lead singer of the band that consistently played at your bar, had become blind with rage. Through the mess of the blood on your head when the beer bottle shattered against you and the apple-red matter staining Hobie's guitar as he smashes it relentlessly into the man's skull, these events somehow landed you where you are now.

An abandoned building on the outskirts of town, that's where you had woken up. The debris around the room was masked with string lights and band posters adorning the walls, as well as a rickety bed frame scarcely supporting a lone mattress. With bleary vision and an even fuzzier head, you gain consciousness abruptly. You find yourself on the bed with thick, itchy blankets draped around you, clothes that certainly do not belong to you on your body, and spiky belts used to restrain your limbs. Barbed wires and decaying planks of wood board the windows; the lack of passing cars and loud pedestrians outside cause you to worry about how far you are from the lively city you called home.

A lanky figure makes their presence known, dressed in those all-too-familiar garbs. Spider-Punk, the man you'd always see performing at your penurious bar, despite how widespread their band was. Much to your shock, his large hand finds the trim of his mask before tearing the garment off. Beneath is a gorgeous face embellished with piercings and a wild head full of hair. Large, wet eyes overwhelm you. And there is only one discernible trait you could read clearly through his expression: desire.

The way your plump body pools from the hems of the small clothing he dressed you in from his closet, fuck. Hobie has thought of this moment plenty of times — finally being able to take you away, just the two of you. He swore up and down he'd keep his fervid cravings at bay. But, when you're truly here in front of him, looking like that. He has to dig his long nails into his palms to physically restrain himself from lunging for you like a feral animal in heat. God, you look too fucking good.

From here on out, the relationship you have with Hobie sprouted into something only you would call treacherous, something only he would call rapturous. Being trapped within the small expanse of this grimy room, your new life has shown how perceptibly different your reactions are from one another. You are entirely dumbfounded at these new circumstances you've been forcefully thrust into. Meanwhile, Hobie attempts to put space between you both to avoid giving into his irresistible hunger. Though, it doesn't take a genius to notice how his hands always find their way to your naked skin and how his eyes linger on the intimate parts of your body. And it most certainly doesn't take a genius to notice the sheer terror and confusion stuck to your expression.

The discomfort the residence brings does little to ease you, as well. How your body is restricted against the firm mattress has your limbs aching with cramps. Your neck throbs from no support, considering the lack of pillows. But, Hobie always remarked that his chest is more comfortable to lay on, anyway. His clothing reeks of alcohol from the numerous bars and parties he’s attended, but also from the expensive perfumes, lotions, as well as the skin and hair products he received from his time being a runway model. The scent now clinging to your skin fails to bring you any of the tranquility he wished you would feel. Meals shared between you two were often dowsed in grease and cheap in flavor. Your captor never put much effort into making your dinnertime together anything reminiscent of a romantic date in Italy or something along those themes. He would much rather eat something else for dinner, after all.

This is what life looked like for the next several months. Records spinning and filling the air with headache-inducing songs he says he had written about you; Polaroid pictures scattered around the room that display different variations of the same scene: you sitting pretty with Hobie's hands and lips all over you. Never, never, has this man ever felt so much bliss in his entire life. He has always preached about how the idea of "love" is nothing more than propaganda meant to earn greedy, capitalistic companies more money with their cheesy movies and Valentine's Day garbage. When you entered his life in all your glory, however, he was ashamed to put his pride aside and admit those irritating pop songs may have been correct.

"I don’t need nothin’ else. 'Long as I have you here, birdie." He fidgets with the necklace he had given you that was currently draped upon your neck. His lucky guitar chip is swung upon the chain, since it always belonged to you, anyway. You will always be his muse.

With how carelessly he let himself be swathed in the warm blankets of love, how carelessly Hobie had let you slip from his fingertips.

It's his fault he had so frivolously expressed his protective nature through blood-stained bar floors and constricting arms encompassing your body. It's his fault he never assured you these conflicts weren’t your fault, it was only the monsters outside who wished to separate true love. It's his fault he had disciplined himself so heavily for his big heart, fearful of losing self-control with the love of his life.

It is his fault you are dead.

You regret not tallying the days you've spent locked up in this birdcage. Carving lines into the deteriorating walls to represent the slashes this new life has left in your sanity. It feels as if lifetimes have tread by you, the same day repeating itself like your own personal nightmare. Mere months have gone by and unbeknownst to you, the sweet escape you so despairingly crave is sitting upon the horizon. The circumstances of your freedom were the absolute last thing you had wished for, however.

Hobie’s history of being a heartthrob and heartbreaker were no secret to you, but his newfound loyalty to the innocent person he had taken from their previous life was even more evident. All the possessive, delusional fans that were convinced they'd marry their favorite singer, it was just so easy for Hobie to indulge in some casual fun before leaving them behind in his dust. As the story of all Spider-People goes, however, Y/N L/N is the tool that throws this man into a whirlpool of enamoring disarray. Embracing this newfound happiness was exhilarating for him, but Hobie was so dazed from it, he never had thought that karma would slither itself between you two.

A certain groupie, wholly convinced she and Spider-Punk are soulmates, was devastated to see how carelessly the love of her life abandoned her. Her mind had sprinted to all sorts of gut-wrenching conclusions. Am I not enough? Is he moving on? Is there someone else? Her worst nightmare materializes into reality when she stalks behind his tall figure and follows him to a building one late night, an odd pep in his step as he enters. What she assumes is just another exclusive club location with more taboo forms of partying, she is left stunned when she catches sight of what sights lie within.

The man of her dreams is found in the depths of infidelity. Through the crack of a rickety door coated with locks, there he was. Chest pressed against the back of someone else, who was sound asleep beneath an array of blankets like a baby in a crib. With his arms locked around them like a lifeline, Spider-Punk presses long, intimate kisses to their face. The words she had begged to hear from him, he was so frivolously drowning this stranger in such, despite their unconscious state. Every syllable was dripping with lust and smitten-induced hysteria. Tears brim in her eyes from how desperately she covets to be you in this moment.

With a shattered heart and a festering rage, she comes to the conclusion of what she must do. She will take him back, no matter what it takes.

Rarely did Hobie ever leave the expanse of your room, he wanted to stay with you forever. When he did, however, it was for some quick cash at yet another gig he and his bandmates had landed. Singing his lungs out, knowing every lyric revolves around the one waiting for him back home — you have brought him ecstasy he still cannot fathom the sheer weight of. A Friday night like no other, Hobie would spend the evening beneath the blinding spotlights, drinking the hours away, before returning home and cuddling with the only reason he chooses to live.

Through the barricaded windows and doors, a sudden stench of what appears to be smoke invades your senses. A big city like this, something along these lines is nothing out of the ordinary. After all, you were so thrilled to finally be granted a night to yourself, anything that would jeopardize this gift from the universe is seen as insignificant. When the heavy smell becomes more perceptible and the unmistakable sound of fire cracking gets louder, you feel dread tickle down your spine. The fear settles into your bones before you can think of a logical way to escape. Hobie did everything to ensure you wouldn’t leave his side, after all.

Air soon becomes precious, your lungs begin to squeeze, your skin is burning with scorching pain. It brings you the hell you had carelessly thought you felt before. A final cry of help into the suffocating air and you feel your life begin to fade. Meanwhile, the lost groupie stands near the entrance, holding back a satisfied smile. An onslaught of concerned pedestrians and firefighters accompany her. And Hobie was still far away, alcohol heavy in his system and the joy of returning to you seeping through his body like a drug. So blissfully unaware of what awaits him when he comes back to the place he had called home only with you.

With that, your life was over. July 3rd, 2020 — the day Hobie Brown inevitably lost the only thing that ever mattered to him.

The effects your departure has left on these men are all nothing short of disastrous. No longer do they have the vibrant, loving souls they once held. Day by day, they are dragging the dead carcass that is their own body, suffering through every second and hoping it will be their last. The paths your death have led these three are unique from one another, but they all find themselves in one specific space. Spider-HQ, within Nueva York on Earth-928. The story the multiverse has written for them had so selfishly taken their happiness away from them. Taking the pen for themselves and creating the most beautiful fairytale where you are alive and back in their embrace is the only purpose they now have.

Now, Miguel O'Hara stands at the office he earned from becoming the leader of this society. Upon the various monitors displayed around him are scenes taken from numerous different universes. Lethargy sits like bags of bricks beneath his eyes, slowly blinking as he ensures no minor mistake is present. If the multiverse were to crumble, his sole objection to save the only important person in Spiderman's life will fall with it. When he verifies all is well on Earth-1610, something perceptible then catches his gaze and he does a double-take. Any sign of fatigue within him is snatched out of his body, leaving him more awake than ever before.

Within this universe, Miguel finds you.

Before, these universes have only displayed the effects your death has left on all the spider-people. Today, however, is the first time he has seen you alive since the day he lost you. Lyla snickers and accuses him of having a cute, teenage-like crush when she takes notice of the sheer captivation in his expression. Little does she know how much history lies in your mere face. It is heart-crushing, how much the simple sight of you enjoying a cup of coffee (with one too many sugars, as he knows you've always preferred) has such catastrophic effects on him.

Piles of schoolwork are scattered around your desk, covered in information adhering to your current college major. Even with your lack of sleep, school-induced annoyance, and general exhaustion over everything in your life, Miguel has never seen something quite as breathtaking as you in this moment. An epiphany sprouts in his brain as quickly as the sight of you caused his soul to blossom, just like it did all those years ago.

Maybe he can stop it. Maybe he can get you back.

Your death is inevitable, and even though Miguel was aware of this, dread still pervades his stomach at the prospect and churns with his breakfast. What really makes him shudder is when he reads through the cannon events assigned to you. A flare of jealousy ignites within him when he finds an unfamiliar name in the midst of your story.

Miles Morales, the Spiderman you are meant to fall in love with. What good is he? He's just some stupid kid, what more could he possibly do that Miguel can't? Why would you choose this loser when he can give you everything you have ever wanted!? In a sudden fit of rage, he grasps hold of whatever matter was closest to him and uses all the strength within his muscular arms to hurl it across the room. His chest heaves with infuriated huffs; his claws slice into the meat of his palms. He is enraged, yes, but he is mostly devastated that the beautiful face on his screen will soon meet their inescapable demise.

Not only will he do everything in his power to stop your death, but Miguel also vows to put his blood, sweat, and tears into ensuring you do not fall for this boy. Additionally, he will formulate a plan to bring you back into his arms without destroying the multiverse as a whole. With that being said, this does not change how reality on Earth-1610 continues to play out in front of him. It’s like a television show; a show he'd give a 1-star rating out of sheer pettiness.

In his last year of high school, Miles Morales' life was thrown into a tornado when his parents enrolled him in a new school to finish his last semester. And the 18-year-old boy absolutely dreaded this. New people, new location, new clothes that poke and jut at his skin uncomfortably. With the hefty responsibility of being Brooklyn's sole hero and hiding this truth from his loved ones, this sudden alteration in his environment does not relieve any stress. Swiftly, Miles conjures a plan to convince his parents to send him back to the way his life once was. Slack off, play dumb, and bring home report cards that are absolutely atrocious and his parents will have no choice but to give their son what he wants.

However, this is not what happened. Much to Miles' dismay, the grand idea his parents had was to not let him continue his education comfortably. Instead, they hired a tutor to aid him through his final months of high school.

Rio and Jeff had invited this tutor for dinner at their home, which Miles had flaked on entirely. Mostly due to his duty as Spiderman, but partially from how sour he was about the state of affairs. When he returned home, their anger was practically palpable. However, this disappointment soon shifted into a long, insufferable tangent about how marvelously smart, mannerly, and kind this tutor was and how embarrassed they were because of him. That Saturday, he was expected to join this tutor in the school's library or his parents may consider grounding him once again. Miles has to refrain from rolling his eyes at their never-ending lecture.

March 11th, 2023. It will be all his fault. This day is the day Miles Morales will inevitably meet the only thing that will ever matter to him.

To earn some extra support through your time in college, you had decided to take up tutoring in your free time. The myriad of students you had met all possessed the same attitude — the kind of attitude you'd expect from teenagers whose parents forced them to do schoolwork in their free time. Miles fit this category well, at first. And how your situation developed, it was oddly refreshing to finally meet someone who isn't repudiating every second with you.

15 minutes late, open backpack spilling with paper, tie loose around his neck, the student most certainly made his presence known when he stumbled into the silent library. Attempting to fix his untied shoelaces, you rush over to help him and save him from any further embarrassment he was already enduring. You are able to catch the folder that had tumbled out of his bag before it hit the ground, to where he mumbles a quick "thanks" in response. His gaze is still locked to the strings of his shoes he was attempting to tie together as swiftly as possible. Nearly tripping, Miles makes it to the table you had once organized thoroughly, but was now cluttered with everything this boy had thrown onto the surface.

Oblivious to you, the boy whose parents described as having a "heart of gold," was doing everything in his power to appear as rude and ill-mannered as possible. Deliberately arriving late, making a fool of the two of you, messing up the neat array of lesson plans and pencils you arranged. Anything to convince his parents to send him away from the nightmare that is this school. This plan of his was seized from his mind like a rug pulled out beneath his feet when he finally turns his shoulder and shifts his attention to you. What Miles expected would be the slowest, drawn-out hour he's ever experienced would actually be the most exciting, life-beaming 60 minutes he’s ever experienced.

Your voice sounds like honey as you introduce yourself to him. And that heart-stuttering smile of yours works wonders on him. Miles had already known your name, but hearing it from your mouth made him think he was listening to a symphony of angels. Since the last few stages of high school are stressful for everyone, you decided to cut him some slack and offer a kind hand for him to shake. All thoughts of his old school and the comfort it brought are all eradicated as he stares into your soul with those wide, bambi-brown eyes. After months in this new environment, you must be a gift the universe sent to compensate for all the misery he has endured. And fervently, Miles accepts you as the best gift he has ever received.

"I'm Spiderman." His mouth moves before his brain can compute. Your brows furrow in response, scrutinizing the confession for some sort of punchline.

“I mean- shit, uh… I mean, I’m Miles... You-You know, like- kilometers, yards, feet. Except, it's Miles this time... Y-... Y'know?"

His relentless stammering to try and prove himself worthy of your time while also acknowledging he accidentally told you his deepest secret earns him a quick giggle. And the sound bouncing from your lips is nothing short of paradisiacal, especially when he is the cause. A sudden wave of silence then rests between you both. You, laughing nervously to lighten the awkward tension. Miles, entirely flabbergasted at how he could have ever wanted to miss out on something as profoundly magnificent as this. His mind runs rampant while his wide eyes remain locked on your averting ones. Do it, do it, do it. Just do it already, Miles!

He pulls his hands up, your eyebrows furrowing once more trying to consider his intentions. He then lands his touch upon your shoulder.

"Hey..." Miles' voice drops several octaves, a fiddly excuse of a smirk forms on his lips, and he squints his twitching eyes that still hold the same crazed wonder they've had since they first landed on you.

"Hi...?" Your response expresses nothing but sheer confusion, not your face burning from the attention like Miles had initially strived for.

Wrapping your hand around his, your mere physical touch sends flares of electricity down his skin. Goosebumps bloom across his arms and his entire body halts in place, tense with shock and nerves. In an attempt to forcefully remove his hold on you, you're startled to find how he is now stuck to your hand. As if he had lathered his hand in heaps of glue before touching you, the efforts you took to get this boy off of you only resulted in your skin painfully stretching.

So enveloped in the way his heart lurches from holding your hand, a sudden, hushed whimper of "you're hurting me!" and Miles feels a gasp involuntarily escape his throat. Attempting to pull away from you, as much as he wishes not to, only intensifies your pain. What had Peter told him to do when this happened? Oh yeah, just relax! But, how on Earth can he possibly relax when your hand is in his!? 

People are staring, exclaiming in annoyed distress over their interrupted study time. You're trying to piece together how Miles had managed to cement his hand to yours and why he refuses to let go of you. Meanwhile, Miles is apologizing profusely for inadvertently harming you, while also soaking in how rhapsodic it is to have your hand in his. He knows he has fully fallen into oblivion when the prospect of letting go of you hurts him more than the relentless pull and twist of his flesh.

So much for first impressions, right?

⁺ 🎧 , 🪷 you are currently listening to . . . ⁺ 🪺 , 🎵 ꪆ

❝ MANY LIVES THAT COULD HAVE

BEEN ENTANGLED FOR ETERNITY . . . ❞

gif credits :: miguel, miles, peter, & hobie.

tag list :: @honey-beeuwu, @hex-touchstarved, @thel0v3hashira143, @cailey1011, @mickxxstxvxns-blog, @flaming-vulpix, @puthypirate42069, @dolliemoons, @mikalovesnoodles, @explosiongamora, @thegalacticnacho091, @brinleighsstuff, @shinsou-hoetoshi, @uselessbutinteresting, @amortentor, @fried-milkfish, @officiallypoopoo, @lu-lupe, @belladonnashifter, @forgottenbynature, @marooseshawnash, @gothika-spacech1k, @funtimefoxybae, @ethnicbratz, @painpainflyaway, @shadepelt4673, @vivacioussaint, @palepettycharmer, @rqdior, @clownwiki, @clever-username96, @bisoudoll, @darlingdontwe, @naiomiwinchester, @weskennedysgirl, @chubbuart, @simpfo, @neytirisarrow, @leilani04, @lizzymizzy-blogg, @sublimesoulmagazine, @minimari415, @hcmay, @jinuaei, @altusha, @daisygirlll, @boredwithlifeatthispoint, @islandgyal06, @the-hufflebird-girl, @laucoeurs, @nepherawinchester18307, @tiredao3reader, @decadentlawyerapricotcowboy, @kitisb0red, @gabiacee, @reneuv, @letmegetthestrap, @krentkova19, @ayupfrogg, @vita-nire, @emmbny, & @realifezompire

[abbyfmc]

Yandere Emperor! x Female! Reader Phrases #2:

A/N: Continuation of the previous part.

-"When did I say you could go? I brought you here to cuddle you"- The yandere emperor will surely have summoned you one night to serve him, and seeing that you were trying to leave or looking for excuses to leave, he will have closed any door or window, or grabbed you by the wrist or another part of the body.

-"If you are in love with someone else, I will behead him without hesitation"- He is the yandere emperor, and he is capable of anything to have you by his side, including extreme physical punishments or the execution of your partner or fiancé.

-"You didn't know who was going to attack me or how, and yet you protected me that year and suffered great damage to your body. I really appreciate what you did and I want to make it up to you by letting you be my wife."- In a story about Yandere crown prince x maid reader, you probably served the yandere prince (who in the future would be the yandere emperor) closely, and due to the environment in which he lived, you had to watch his back many times, ending up being sometimes punished by other superiors and even tortured. The yandere prince KNOWS about your wounds and scars and now that he is an emperor, he tries to reward you.

-"I will take good care of you."- A more subtle and "kinder" way to make you understand that you will not leave the palace.

-"No matter what you are, you will still be mine. You can be my empress, my favorite consort or concubine; and if you want to be a servant, you will serve at my side, so your rank within this palace does not matter; you will NEVER escape from me."- Another stern warning from him. You are partly right; since if you are his empress, consort or concubine, you will have to continue serving or obeying him in everything. If you are a maid, he will purposely make you clean what he tells you, wash his clothes, follow him and take care of him; or he would put you to hard labor as punishment, until you beg him.

-"If someone dares to hurt you, I will punish the person responsible and their family."- Before, in an imperial family the issue of clans was very important and people like the empress, consorts and concubines were no exception (come on, not even the maids, guards or eunuchs were saved from it) and if they did something very bad, The emperor could punish them and their families or clans with whatever he wanted; from exile, loss of compensation and living conditions, to multiple executions.

-"Every item sent to (Y/n)'s palace must be meticulously checked."- The yandere emperor KNOWS that fights and intrigues occur in the harem that mostly end in murders, attempted murders, poisonings, accidents, false accusations and even attempted abortions by some concubines on others. He would do it with the excuse of protecting you and your possible child.

-"I can't wait to see you carry our children in your womb. That will unite us more, and make you more mine."- The yandere emperor wants to sleep with you and get you pregnant (if you are a woman), because he thinks that not only could a prince from your side be the future of the empire (or if it is a princess, he could form marital and political alliances), but He believes that with that you will not leave his side.

-"I feel delighted with every walk I take with you. Every talk, every laugh, every meal, every celebration and even when you sleep with me, I feel great; something I never experienced with anyone else."- The yandere emperor would love every moment with you; more preferably alone than in a group with his other imperial women.

-"Let these marks or scars be a clear warning in case you try to escape again."- The yandere emperor is strict with his rules, and the "no escape" rule is undoubtedly the strictest. Every time he sees you trying to escape he not only locks you up, but physically punishes you so that when you see the scars when you change or bathe, you have a memory of what will happen to you if you try to escape from him again.

-"I always collect every gift you give me, although there is one that I still fight for and that you still don't give me: your heart."- Yes, the emperor adored and appreciated either discreetly or indiscreetly each of your gifts; whether it was new clothes, new accessories, some painting on him, some sculpture, a show or simply personally playing an instrument for him. But he knows that you do it without love for him.

-"I promise you that I will take care of you and our son."- He would probably make you pregnant, and as soon as he found out he put you under all kinds of 24/7 care. He watched you all the time and had every gift, food, drink or medicine that came into your hands thoroughly checked.

-The end.

[feyhunter78]

Chapter Eight - Jon's true parentage comes to light and King's Landing comes under attack.

Ch 9

Jon reads the letter, again and again, looking up at you, who has your hands clasped in front of you, and Lord Tyrion who waits patiently.

“I am a Dayne?” He asks, unable to believe the words written in his father’s handwriting.

“Jon Dayne, the only living child of Arthur Dayne and Lyanna Stark, third in line to the seat of Starfell behind your cousin Edric, a boy of four and ten, and your father” Tyrion reiterates.

Jon shakes his head, he is a Stark, Ned Stark’s bastard, he cannot be a Dayne. “No, I cannot be, it is a mistake.”

You bite your lip and step forward reaching for him. “Jon…”

“It is true, we could send you to Dorne to ask your aunt herself. Tyrion says, jerking his head towards the door.

Jon folds the letter and shoves it in his pocket. “I cannot simply flee to Dorne, not while my father and sister are still in danger.”

You take another step towards him, but your father holds you back. “That is why you must act in accordance with our plan, a marriage must take place. A Tyrell women must be made queen.”

Jon looks at him, cold fear filling his chest. Remembering how you looked when you opened the door to your father’s solar and bid him to enter. Your eyes were red and puffy, tear tracks down your cheeks. He does not want to marry a Tyrell; he wants to marry you. “I will not marry a Tyrell, I will not marry for the throne, I have no claim to it.”

Finally, your father allows you to go to him and you take his hand. “You do not have to, Robb will marry the Tyrell, he will be king.”

There is a newfound confidence blooming in him, and he takes your hand, the one already holding his and presses it to his lips, letting it linger, his eyes meeting yours burning with a new heat. “Then I shall do as my lady commands.”

The flustered expression that flits across your face delights him, and he turns your hand over to press his lips to your palm, then your inner wrist, directly over your pulse point.

Tyrion coughs sharply. “No one else in the Keep besides us and Lord Varys knows of your true identity, and it must remain that way. You are still a bastard in the eyes of the court, your actions must reflect that.”

You reluctantly break away from Jon. “But away from the eyes of the court?”

Tyrion sighs heavily. “Dayne, do you wish to court my daughter?”

Gods yes. Jon thinks, all his dreams that he had squashed down and locked away coming to the forefront of his mind. “Yes, I do.”

“Fine, I will allow it, provided you two do not ruin everything that is in the works. The weight of this plan is indescribable, the secrecy needed indefinable. All those fanciful dreams I can all but see running through your head can be crushed with one small mistake.”

It is not as if it is torture to act as he once did, to stand so close and yet so far from you, unable to take your hand or call you by your name, but it is torture not being able to comfort you.

You sob as you watch Myrcella depart for Dorne, Tommen himself shedding tears, only Joffrey does not cry. He sneers at you and Tommen, and Jon has the strong desire to break the boy-king’s jaw.

Then come the riots, chaos breaks out, Joffrey is yelling, the smallfolk are starving, but Jon is prepared, he has lost sight of you in a crowd before, and he will not suffer that again. He scoops you from your horse and onto his own, riding hard for the Keep, leaving behind all else, his arm iron around your waist, keeping you close until his horse comes to a skidding stop within the Keep.

You hide your laughter in his cloak when your father kicks Joffrey, yelling at him for his foolishness, but your laughter dies when reports of Fleabottom in flames roll in. Water wagons are dispatched by your father’s order, and Jon dismounts, helping you down from his horse, escorting you inside.

Then comes the Battle of Blackwater, bloody, endless screams, armies from all other the central lands crashing, explosions of wildfire lighting up the bay, the green flash seen hrough the windows of the Keep. You keep pace with Jon as you run towards the Queen’s Ballroom with the others remaining in the Red Keep.

His heart is in his throat as he begins to recognize the scene. His steps no longer meld with the others but squelch. The banners bleed, and though the door to the Queen’s Ballroom is wide open, he can see it there, half cracked, the scent of flesh, of blood seeping into his skin. He halts, grabbing your wrist and guiding you the other way, ignoring your questions until the halls are empty, and he throws you over his shoulder as he did the day his father—Lord Stark had nearly lost his head.

You protest, banging on his back with your fists, demanding answers, but he cannot get his jaw to work, his tongue too heavy to lift, his lips unable to form words.

“Jon, put me down, we are going the wrong way, are you mad?” You yell, fear tinging your voice.

He must keep you safe, he must, he cannot shake the vision, you are wearing the same dress, the same cosmetics, your hair styled the same way as in his dream, he should have known, he should have known.

Jon rips a ribbon from your gown and throws it over a nearby sconce hoping Tyrion will notice it and not follow the others to their deaths in the Queen’s Ballroom. He counts the stones on the wall until he finds the twenty-ninth one, pushing it in he glances down the hall slipping in through the opening that appears.

You are quiet now, no longer fighting him as he carefully picks his way through the tunnels, listening for the sounds of battle. Finally, he comes to a fork in the path taking the left branch and setting you down once he had walked a good distance. If he were to look out though the cracks in the stone, he would be able to see the Godswood. Jon prays the soldiers who attempt to break in will ignore this sacred place and go straight for the holdfast.

“How did you know there was a tunnel there?” You ask glancing around the darkened tunnel.

“Theon found them, he told me about them, said if we ever needed to take Sansa and run, we should go this way.” He explains, leaning against the stone wall, arms crossed over his chest.

“There are secret tunnels that go to the Godswood. I knew about some of the others, but not these.” You say, running your fingers along the rough-hewn stone. “So, if we keep going, we will be outside the Keep?”

He nods. “But we are not leaving the Keep, it is too dangerous.”

“I am aware of that Jon, that is why we were supposed to barricade ourselves in the holdfast.”

“No.” Jon says, his voice stern, sterner than it has ever been towards you in his years of knowing you.

Shock flickers in your eyes, he has always been good at reading you, others could never read your true emotions but for him? You were an open book; one he would never tire of reading.

You place your hands on your hips, lifting your chin imperiously, your eyes like jade in the shadows of the tunnel. “No? Why not?”

“If Stannis’ men breech the walls, they will go there first.” He explains, frustration building in his body, why can you not just listen?

“The holdfast is practically impenetrable, especially when the drawbridge is pulled up, which it is.” You say, leaning closer at the end of your sentence as if to put emphasis on your words.

Jon breathes out a harsh sigh, your screams echoing in his mind, he has not had that nightmare in years, but now he cannot stop seeing it. “No one knows we are here y/n; it is safer.”

Another step, you are practically nose to nose with him. “What if someone else were to know about this tunnel, what then? There is barely enough room for the two of us, how will you swing your sword?”

Shouts cut off your words and Jon grabs you, pulling you to his chest, his hand over your mouth. He can hear your heartbeat, or perhaps it is his, your chest brushes against his as you breathe, and he can feel every inch of your body against his own.

The shouts pass, he relaxes and releases you, attempting to banish the impure thoughts from his mind. Yes, he is courting you, but that does not give him leave to act on his baser instincts.

“We would not have to fear being heard if we were in the ballroom.” You grumble.

He often finds your stubbornness charming, the angry pout on your lips when you are denied what you want, he finds most endearing. You are spoiled, even more than Sansa, your father rarely says no to you, and it is only by the gods’ own hands that you are not a worse version of Joffrey.

Though Jon cannot deny, he enjoys your spoiled attitude, enjoys the way you turn to him the moment you are told no. Tommen does not want to ride horses with you? Jon does. Your father refuses to accompany you to Fleabottom so you can buy more embroidery thread? Jon will go, and he will carry all your purchases. A fool from House Royce refuses to dance with you once he learned who your father was? Jon is a wonderful dancer; and he will not relinquish your hand until it is demanded.

But now it is less charming and more…enticing. You look up at him with such stubbornness, your lips in that adorable pout, your hands on your hips inadvertently pushing your breasts out. He finds his restraint has gone.

“Gods will you shut up?” He hisses, grabbing your face and crashing his lips to yours.

You freeze for a moment, then melt into him, your arms looping around his neck, fingers tangling in his curls, as your lips meld with his.

“Is this all it took, My Lady? A kiss? Perhaps I should have kissed you ages ago.” He purrs, his lips a hairsbreadth from yours, brushing against them with every word.

“Oh…” You breathe out, your grip on his hair tightening.

“My lovely lady, my lioness, my stubborn girl.” He presses each term of endearment into your skin, saving his newest one, born from the freshly acquired knowledge of his parentage, for last. “My starlight.”

Your lips meet once more, and you part yours for him, whimpering when his tongue strokes yours, a movement he had heard Robb and Theon speak of.

Jon had not believed it to be true, the reaction they said it invoked, but your response sparks a desperation within him. He must hear that sound again. So, he repeats it, tip of his tongue dragging across yours, coaxing it into his mouth and sucking lightly.

“Oh gods, Jon, I—” Your words are muffled as you refuse to fully pull away from him, voice higher pitched and breathless.

Liquid heat boils just under his skin, one hand leaving your face to grab your hips and pull you impossibly closer. “Anything, y/n, ask it of me, I am sworn to you, I will do whatever it takes to grant your heart’s desire.”

You whimper once more at his words, and the sound strikes through him like lightning. The scent of jasmine, your soft lips, soft skin, the taste of honey from your morning meal, he could devour you, a beast he is for his thoughts, for how easy it would be to pick you up and have his way with you. You are already sworn to each other, good as betrothed, would it truly be such a crime…?

Bastard. The word is like an arrow to the chest, and he pushes you away, guilt replacing the heat beneath his skin.

“Jon? Are you alright?” You ask, going to cup his cheek.

He stops you. “I—I cannot, we cannot. We are not wed; I will not dishonor you.”

You look put out, blinking rapidly at him, and then slowly nodding. “I understand.”

Jon sags against the wall, rolling his head back, praying for strength when he hears you sniffling. His head shoots up, just in time to see you wipe away your tears. Truly you are spoiled. He reaches for you, brushing his lips across your forehead with a fond smile. “Y/N, do not cry, soon we will be wed, we must allow the pieces to fall into place, remember?”

“You will fall in love with Margaery.” You whisper, hiding your face in his leather breastplate.

He laughs, the sound echoing off the stone walls. “How? How when my heart is within those claws of yours? When I see no reason to remove it?”

“She is perfect, the tales of her beauty, her grace, her intelligence, her dutifulness, she would make an excellent wife.”

“Aye, an excellent wife for Robb, she will win his heart with a few words I am sure of it, but there is no heart of mine for her to win. It is as I said, my heart is yours, willingly given. I do not want it back, nor do I wish to give it to another.”

You turn your face up towards him, the living embodiment of perfection, your hair framing your face, your lips kiss swollen, your eyes the dark green of Winterfell’s forests. “Swear it.”

He clicks his tongue in faux disappointment. Here in the shadows he is bold, intoxicated by your raw and bleeding desire for him. If his heart is within your claws then surely your own heart sits within his maw, fragile and beating. “To think I have served you so faithfully and still you doubt me.”

“Swear it.” You half demand, half plead, your heart between his teeth beating faster, trembling in his toothy grasp.

He cups your face, resting his forehead against your own. “I swear it, and may the gods strike me down if I break my oath, if my heart strays from you.”

He feels your relieved exhale more than he hears it, and he lingers, thumbs caressing the soft skin of your cheeks.

“I swear it too.” You say softly, your hand coming to rest on his chest, heat burning through his breastplate, warming his chest. He hopes you leave a handprint, hopes you burn your mark into his skin, leave a remainder of your presence that cannot be taken from him.

TL: @mostclevermiss, @solacestyles, @2valentines, @sharknutz, @idohknow, @bdudette, @pluraldoggo

[meanbossart]

I am replaying Baldur's Gate and its kinda funny the loviatar'd blessing scene, yeah I get Shadowheart approving, Shar is kinda crazy and all.

But Astarion???? Wasn't you tortured a lot? What in the Paulo Freire, the dream of the opressed is to become the opressor was that?

LOL, I mean it seems pretty clear to me (and kind of imperative to his character) That Astarion enjoys seeing other people in pain and misery, or be set up for it.

He likes when you lie to Arabella's parents that she's alive, not because you're sparing them a harsh truth, but because it will make the news hit harder later. He likes when you tell the Absolute siblings to go and fight the Owlbear to "avenge" their brother because that's a clear death trap. He DOESN'T like if you tell Mayrina that her brothers are dead, because you're doing it to prove to her that the hag is evil rather than to rub the tragedy in her face (so ultimately with good intentions). He likes that you intimate people into doing your will and getting your or his way. His desire to cause harm seems to never have much rhyme or reason, rather just something that he gets entertainment out of.

I'm pretty sure that, regardless of approval, at that point in the story Astarion does Not like you or trust you and he's just delighted to see you do something that is harmful to yourself. I'm sure this is in part due to his past (just deriving pleasure from seeing Others suffer as he did. I'm guessing he got a similar kick whenever the other spawn were punished for something) but I think that's also partially just the person he is.

He's an extremely self-centered guy but as I like to say, he's a nice to the date, mean to the waiter type of person too. I don't think that when he starts to care for your needs that that's him being reformed - he's just extending an exception towards you now because you've become important to him. Not to say his perception of others and ability to feel empathy doesn't shift AT ALL, just not that drastically.

[xo-cod]

https://www.tumblr.com/xo-cod/729110250731520000/you-know-what-i-think-would-be-cute-if-one-of-the?source=share

will u expand on this pls?? esp w simon i love it it's SO CUTE🥰

thank you so much babe :") <33 i just did simon but i can def do the others if you'd like 🤍

continuation from here

cw: abusive past + fluff

"look daddy! that's like you and mum!" her soft laugh of happiness fills his ears and for a minute he just watches her, the shock plastered on his face and then he takes a glance at the tv again. the toys he was placing away in its rightful place was forgotten as he straightened his back, watching the disney characters. they seemed so happy, so in love.

he stood still for a minute, wondering if she was being genuine as he looks back to the little girl who was giggling at him. he didn't have a healthy childhood at home and even as he entered his adult life, nothing but blood, guns and wars surrounded him.

it took him by surprised that lieutenant ghost, the man who knew little to nothing about love and happiness and peace now had a wife and a baby who was growing up in the homes he always wished he could live in as a child.

the only romantic love he could see around him was the abuse his father put his mother through, watching the light dim from her eyes everyday was a sight simon didn't think he could ever forget.

there were some scars that were seared so deep, even after time had run its course the pain was still fresh as ever. he didn't think he would ever heal from the shackles that wrapped themselves so deeply around him, burdens that he had to carry day in and day out in his life all the time. even though being with you had significantly lessened them, there were still moments that made him question everything he ever knew.

so being a father was scary but so exciting. the nerves were bundled up deep inside him, utterly worried that he wouldn't be able to love the child like they deserved. he remembered the night he paced your hospital floor while you were sleeping, full of the medications they were giving. all he could do was helplessly look at you, his heart pounding at the bundle of joy soon to be arriving. could he love them? or did the trauma from his father run incredibly deep that he'd cower away and hide? they were irrational fears, he knew that much. but it didn't help either way, he wanted to be the possible father ever. but how could he do that when he was do broken from his own?

and then his baby was born and he almost gave out, trembling when he held her tiny tiny body in one arm as the hand of the other ever so gently caressed her head. he looked at you with shock, his big brown eyes tearing as he chuckles softly. that was a sight you'd never forget. a sight he could never either

"me an' mama huh?" he spoke softly, his gaze going from the tv to back to his daughter who nods eagerly at him. she's so happy, its enough to make him emotional. because of him, she was safe and loved. because of him, a man who thought he was too damaged beyond repair, had a child who completely adored him and was living happily

she would never know a life full of abuse and suffering, he would make sure of that

he would kill for her, die for her and everything in between yet even so the small niggling voice of doubt filled his head every damn day wondering if he was cut out to be a father. would he change tomorrow, become the abusive intoxicated asshole like the man raised him was? he grew up in a world full of pain and torture and guns, happy things were far and few between.

"you little munchkin, c'mere" he teased softly, holding her in his massive arms as they both cuddle close together. she shrieks in delight when he blows soft raspberries on her cheeks and kissing her forehead. and he only looks at his baby with a look of pure unconditional love, his smile widening at every happy sound she made. even if he never got the love he deserved as a child, the love he received from you and the baby you both created was enough for him.

it was times like this, moments that he cherished so close to his heart <33

[giggly-squiggily]

Prank and Chase (Demon Slayer)

Heyo! Happy Tickletober everyone! This is a bit of a fic trade with the amazing @gladdygirl18! Since she's offered me a day for this month, I wanted to do the same; thus bringing you this fic! :D It's inspired by the famous TenRen chase video! I hope you like it, friend! :D

CW: Swearing, food mention

Cloud 9 (Taglist Peeps):

@myreygn @thatbigbisexual29 @duckymcdoorknob @wolfyeatstacos @baby-tickles2022 @cupcake-spice13 @t-wordiiish @sarahmaystock5578 @rachi-roo @mystwrites @chibisstuff @imjusthere07 @giggly-toybox

Tengen couldn’t hear any of the words Sanemi or Obanai were saying. He didn’t care any longer.

All that mattered was the figure walking by in the distance.

“And I-WHOA!” Sanemi shouted in surprise when Tengen bolted, a flash of muscle that left no mess behind. The two hashira looked at each other with amused glances, gathering back up their snacks.

“Look at that.” Obanai gestured. “Dinner and a show.”

~~~

Rengoku hummed to himself a happy tune as he crossed the paths leading from the Master’s home. He had just finished up reporting- now it was time for something tasty and perhaps even a bath. Maybe he’d invite Tengen to the hot springs-

Something zoomed by, sending his Haori flying. His hearing might be damaged, but his sense of smell was stronger than ever. He’d recognized that cologne anywhere.

Tengen really needed to wear less.

“Tengen, my good-” Rengoku blinked, finding air. The smell remained, and now he could hear the faintest of giggles. He smiled, turning around to find-

“Tengen?” No one. Oh. He understood now. He laughed as he put his breathing technique to use, rapidly twisting and ducking to find him. Tengen evaded him like a ghost, his chuckles growing at each dodge. Rengoku paused for half a second.

“Gotcha- who!” Tengen yelped when Rengoku ducked beneath his legs, grabbing his waist from behind.

“Surprise-” But he was gone again! Rengoku twisted around before Tengen could get him, running in circles with the former-shinobi on his heels. “Come here, Kyojuro!”

“Never!” Rengoku laughed, leaping and ducking at each grab attempt. Suddenly, Tengen stumbled, taking a knee and holding his leg. “U-Uzui?”

“Oh! Oh my leg! My leg…” He groaned, the humor in his voice gone as he doubled over it. Rengoku was by his side immediately.

“Tengen, hang-” Suddenly he was on his back, the shinobi grinning down at him. “You tricked me!”

“A ninja uses every technique in the book, Kyo. Now…take THIS!” He cried, grabbing onto Rengoku’s sides. He squeezed rapidly, wiggling his fingers into the soft parts.

“AH!” The blonde barked out a yelp before dissolving into giggles, squirming beneath his friend as he laughed. “Nohohohoohohoho! Tehehehehngehhehehehn! Aheahahahhahaha- it tihihihihickles!”

“No, does it? I never would have guessed!”

In the distance, Sanemi and Obanai carried on eating their snacks, entertained by the sight.

“Get his hips, Uzui! That’ll make him scream!” Sanemi called out.

“No, drag it out first. Really make him suffer!” Obanai called after him. Sanemi raised a brow.

“Calm down, snake eyes- it’s tickling, not torture.”

“What’s the difference?” Obanai asked. Sanemi raised his Ohaji to that.

Then proceeded to drop it when Rengoku let out a loud scream.

“TEHEHEHHENGEHEHEHHEN PLEHAHAHAHHAHSE!” Rengoku cried as his hips were ruthlessly drilled into, Tengen’s boisterous laughter mixing with his own as he thrash and twisted in place.

“Does it tickle? Does it? Does it?” Tengen taunted in delight, relishing Rengoku’s peals of laughter. “I could do this all day- that’s how adorable you sound, Kyojuro~”

Rengoku’s hands shot up and grabbed his uniform, the veins bulging within. Tengen paused with a small “Uh oh-” before he was flipped, a mass of flash flying overhead like a ragdoll. Within a matter of seconds, he was struggling to get up from a nearby bush.

Sanemi cackled, clapping his hands at the sight while Obanai choked on his drink, snorting behind his mask. “Did you see the way he flew! Like a bird!” Sanemi wheezed.

“A big obnoxious one too.” Obanai scrunched his eyes with mirth, head tilting curiously when Tengen frantically stood up, slapping at himself. “What, you think he disturbed an ant hill?”

Suddenly, Rengoku was running, grabbing Tengen’s hand and fleeing the scene. It was only then they heard the buzzing.

“Shut the door, shut the door, shut the fucking door!” Sanemi yelled as Obanai ran for the handle, Tengen and Rengoku closing in at rapid succession.

“Don’t come over here, you son of a- AHH!”

~~~

“It’s amazing really; how you four can find the one wasp nest in the area.” Shinobu sighed as she looked at them; stung and pouting. “You’re lucky none of you are allergic.”

“Blame the human torch overthere; he’s the one that pissed it off.” Obanai grouched, scratching at the welts forming on his neck. Sanemi grumbled something he couldn’t quite make out, wincing when he touched the nasty sting on his hand.

“Worth it?” Tengen asked Rengoku, raising his brows despite the welts.

“Worth it.” Rengoku nodded, giggling. Before long, they were both laughing like kids, the overall ridiculousness of the situation spreading. Sanemi ducked his head to hide his grin while Obanai covered his face with both hands.

Shinobu shook her head with a small smile of her own as she grabbed the ointment. “Boys, I swear.”

Thanks for reading!

[iamnmbr3]

Severus calling Lily a slur in a fit of rage and humiliation while being bullied - obviously very bad. James publicly sexually assaulting Severus - obviously much worse?!!! That was some serious sadism on display. Yet for some bizarro reason the narrative wants me to judge the words said in this scene more harshly than the deeds done, because at this point Lily - an author self-insert and the Holy Mother of this saga - cuts one off for their crime and falls in love with the other. I do not like that Lily’s romantic choice is treated as some sort of absolution, but it’s what JKR implied. Despite paralleling James’ actions with the Death Eaters ‘sick’ ’torture’ of the Muggles at the Quidditch World Cup! Idk, I was never satisfied with the lack of follow through on the implications of that scene, nor with the textual idea that Snape’s fixation on the Marauders is petty childishness, rather than a quite understandable trauma response.

Yeah. I have a huge issue with the way James is framed by the narrative. It's also weird because in-universe everything works fine. The problem comes when we look at the jarring disconnect between what was written and the way the audience is cued to react. James's characterization - and the characterization of the Marauders - is well done and consistent. They all act and react realistically given who they are. The problem comes when we look at how we the audience are supposed to react. Because we are supposed to see their actions as bad, but not THAT big of a deal. And uh...yikes.

The Snape's Worst Memory sequence is one of the most horrifying and sadistic moments in the series. I find it particularly visceral and upsetting because it feels real in a way that some of the more fantastical scenes just don't. It's so horrifying and personal in a way that Voldemort punishing his minions or a snake coming out of a lady just isn't. The way James and the others so obviously delight in tormenting and humiliating Snape is just horrific. And the fact that they do this out in the open and face little pushback and no consequences makes it even more awful.

Even worse, everything we see in the narrative suggests that what they did wasn't even that unusual for them. The behavior and dialogue we see from Snape and from the Marauders makes it very clear that doing this sort of thing to Snape is a regular pastime. The reason this is Snape's worst memory is because of the effect this particular incident ended up having on his relationship with Lily, not because of the horrible treatment he endured which was horrifyingly routine.

JK Rowling seems to like Snape. But at the same time I think she tends to have a view (common among TERFs btw) that discounts men as victims of assault. Because that's what this was. And I know if a woman had been stripped and exposed by a group of boys JKR would not have treated it as lightly. Yes she thinks what happened was bad, but not THAT bad. And listen I don't have a problem with the story depicting this and I think the way it is viewed subsequently by the Marauders, wizarding society and Snape all work in the story. My problem is with the framing and the way JKR has talked about James in interviews where it makes clear that she doesn't view this with the gravity it deserves.

James shows more of a natural inclination towards sadism and obvious enjoyment of cruelty and violence than young Tom Riddle does. And this is never dealt with. A lot of the real evil people of the world are more like James - people who aren't the way they are because of some dramatic backstory or because of trauma or whatever. They just aren't kind. James wasn't raised without love or forced to suffer privation in an orphanage or anything like that. He comes from a loving home with parents who spoil him rotten. He has a lot of privilege due to both his wealth and his blood status. And he is cruel and delights in tormenting someone weaker than him for sport. Not because Snape did something to him. Not because they quarreled and James went too far in retaliation. But rather because, as James himself puts it, he exists. Which is so typical of the bullies of the world.

I actually like the fact that Harry's father turns out to be this kind of person. It think it adds depth and complexity to the narrative. But I don't think JKR fully understood or intended what she wrote. She meant to show James as flawed, but not to the extent that she ended up doing I think. And I agree that has always bothered me too.

[therealvinelle]

Would Carlisle/Alphard work? (Platonic or romantic)

... curse tumblr for I had drafted my reply to you. ALAS.

No.

Carlisle is not for Alphard

Alphard is an extremely cynical person who admires Tom Riddle for his strength and infallibility. Tom is the most extraordinary person in the room at any given time, and always true to himself. As far as Alphard is concerned Tom is a demigod among men, the sort of natural force who doesn't live by the same rules the rest of us do and wanting him to change is the last thing on Alphard's mind.

Would he admit this to Tom's face, never, Tom has enough of an ego. Alphard will call him a lunatic and ridiculous, and mean every syllable. Did he fall in love with a violent lunatic with impure blood who was beating up not just Alphard, but his closest relatives and all his friends in school, also yes.

It's the whole package of Tom that makes him appeal to Alphard, from the physical beauty to the uncompromising personality, to the way he can't ever be fully predicted, and the tragically romantic backstory. Being in love with him is just a point of fact for Alphard at this point.

Even becoming Lord Voldemort is something Tom never claims is anything but what it is, and while Alphard is horrified and heartbroken Tom remains the person he always was. Readers of The Man Who Would Be King will remember Alphard lasted one week before being married to Tom again.

Carlisle, by contrast, while unbelievably beautiful and just as extraordinary, is a man who has made self-delusion a cornerstone of his life. He loves his family and wants them to care about human life as much as he does, so he'll give them little nudges like going to their victims' funerals or have family votes where thankfully the majority voted against killing an innocent girl, and not think about what it says about Edward that he killed people for pleasure for four years because- well, he came back.

And he walks around talking about how great, how humane, how wonderful his family and their way of life is. While living among humans, thereby risking the deaths of innocents for no reason other than "it's our lifestyle!" (and the even worse, underlying reason of "if they don't live with humans they might forget humans aren't food...")

Loss of control isn't even a hypothetical, this happens to the Cullens semi-frequently.

Alphard would think he's a fool and a killer by proxy, and despise and pity him. To him, Carlisle is easily worse than Voldemort.

Alphard is not for Carlisle

The trouble with Alphard is that he is what Caius would be if Caius was worse. He's mean, he's judgmental, and he's cynical, all qualities Caius shares only Alphard is somehow worse. He's just so mean.

More troubling yet, he is very principled and harsh on himself but lives cease to matter to him where his loved ones are concerned. Had Aro said "Here is my Horcrux, it's a fifteen-year-old Aro who must be fed a soul to gain a body" Carlisle would have pressured him to either repair his soul, and left when Aro didn't do so. Alphard, by contrast, "Ope, guess we're finding him a soul then."

Alphard is a very ruthless person, he may be principled but should his line of reasoning lead him to murder being the solution to a problem a loved one is having then murder it is.

Alphard also reacts to Tom becoming Voldemort much the same way he would infidelity, as it's not really the suffering Tom inflicted that bothers him but the betrayal of his own character as Alphard knew it (and he'd have had a much harder time getting past actual infidelity. That would have been a crisis). His faith is restored because he sees enough of the goodness he fell in love with. His niece Bellatrix is much the same, of sure she's done bad things, Alphard is intellectually aware of this fact. It's getting hard to deny that she probably has tortured and killed people, and delights in it. Well, have you considered the fact that she's precious and perfect?

Andromeda's marriage to Ted is on par with Tom and Bellatrix's life choices in that Alphard's not thrilled with it, but he can look past it because he loves her that much.

To Carlisle this man is genuinely insane and terrifying. Carlisle can move past his friends killing to live because it's what they've always known and he sees the good in them in spite of that. Alphard would frighten him, there is plenty good in him but Carlisle would correctly put together that the man is one line of reasoning away from killing anybody at all.

Carlisle stays as far out of his way as he can, and warns others to keep their distance from this one.

Can these two even be in a room together?

I think if they meet in the library and only talk about books, they'll have a grand time. Just don't let them talk about anything personal, at all.

[monstersdownthepath]

Homebrew Horror: Caligine, the Sweltering Saint

(Art by @fishfacedterror!)

The twisted, self-described "Saint of Spices and Suffering" known as Caligine has numerous other titles with varying levels of detail and alliteration, is one of the youngest and most obscure of the shadowy demigods known as the Velstrac Demagogues. As such, his cult is quite small, but it grows every day as it draws in eccentric spice aficionados, brave gourmands, and all manner of uncommon men with tastes and habits bordering (or surpassing) the inhumane. Whether they wish to experience entirely new forms of suffering or simply test their tolerance, the "Trials of St. Caligine" call to all kinds.

Because Caligine prefers to experiment on the willing rather than the unwilling (if only because the willing are more likely to appreciate the molecular gastronomy at play), he is among the most peaceful of all the Demagogues in relation to his interactions with mortal life, going so far as to place his personal workshop just a three days' walk from Shadow Absalom and encourage patronage and trade with its citizens for exotic ingredients he would otherwise not have access to... but do not confuse 'peaceful' with 'harmless,' and do not believe 'prefers' means 'will only.' Anyone who disrupts his experiments is very likely to become a part of them, and the internal excruciations he delights in causing are a far different torture the common flesh-flaying and bone-breaking of most velstrac, a fact on its own which draws fiends from all over to experience them, fiends which have FAR fewer qualms disappearing Caligine's clientele for their own hideous projects.

While most of the fatalities he causes are the results of his gastric atrocities, Caligine relishes the occasional combat, both to make use of the runoff of his many experiments (it's still good for something) and to relieve the tedium that comes with waiting for endless vats of ingredients to boil down into something worthwhile. Despite his primary occupation as both a chef and a chemist, he is a terrifying and resilient combatant regardless of the range one fights him at, either hacking his foes apart with his enchanted cleaver and breaking their bones with his wretched tongue up close, or hurling truly impressive amounts of caustic explosives at more distant foes.

Despite his ferocity in battle, the Saint is willing to live up to his title in his own bizarre ways. An offering of especially rare or exotic ingredients or powerful, unique potions and poisons may see him pausing his assault long enough for one to reason with him. He may even bargain with those he was just trying to kill to get his hands on something he's never seen before (a challenge in and of itself!), and honors all promises he makes to the best of his abilities with very little litigious twisting, something which may change as he ages. He has been known to even provide healing to victims he's butchered or slain, though his prices for doing so always include submitting to his gastronomic experiments, something which has made many a victim wish they had stayed dead.

Saint Caligine CR 27

Lawful Evil Large Outsider (Evil, Extraplanar, Kyton, Lawful)

Init: +14; Senses: Darkvision 60ft, Keen Scent, See in Darkness; Perception +29

------ Defense ------

AC 44, touch 24, flat-footed 29 (+14 Dex, +1 dodge, +20 natural, -1 size)

HP 740 (34d10+544) Regeneration 30 (Deific and Mythic)

Fort +35 Ref +24 Will +24

Defensive abilities Mithridatism; DR 20/Epic, good, and silver; Immune Charm and compulsion effects, cold, fear effects, petrification, sleep; Resist Acid 30, Electricity 20, Fire 30; SR 38

------ Offense ------

Speed 40ft, climb 40ft

Melee Cleaver of Caligine +45/+40/+35/+30 (1d8+12 plus 1d6 Acid and 1d6 Fire/19-20/x3), claw +38 (1d8+5), tongue +41 (2d6+9 plus 1d10 Acid or Fire plus grab), OR two claws +41 (1d8+9), tongue +41 (2d6+9 plus 1d10 Acid or Fire plus grab)

Ranged Bomb +48/+43/+38/+33 (10d6+8 Acid or Fire)

Space 10ft; Reach 10ft (15ft with tongue)

Special Attacks Coated Tongue, constrict (2d6+14 plus 1d10 Acid or Fire), Ring of Telekinesis (DC 22/CMB +41), Unnerving Gaze (60ft, DC 34)

Infusions Prepared (CL 20; Concentration +28)

1st- Abjuring Step x2, Anticipate Peril x2, Expeditious Retreat, Long Arm, Shield 2nd- Barkskin, Blur x2, Touch Injection, Twisted Innards, Vomit Swarm x2 3rd- Fly, Haste, Heroism, Nauseating Trail x2 (DC 21), Toxic Blood (DC 21), Thorn Body 4th- Arcane Eye, Detonate x2 (DC 21), Fire Shield, Greater Invisibility x2, Spell Immunity 5th- Delayed Consumption x3, Grand Destiny, Overland Flight, Resurgent Transformation 6th-Caging Bomb Admixture, Heal x2, Mislead x2 (DC 24), Walk Through Space

Spell-like Abilities (CL 34; Concentration +41)

Constant--Discern Lies, Freedom of Movement, True Seeing At-will--Dispel Magic, Plane Shift (self and willing targets only), Teleport (self and willing targets only) 7/day--Acidic Spray (DC 22), Beguiling Gift (DC 18), Contagious Flame (DC 24), Tongues 5/day--Caustic Eruption (DC 24), Overwhelming Poison, Wall of Fire (DC 21) 3/day--Quickened Fireball (DC 24), Incendiary Cloud (DC 25) Transmute Blood to Acid (DC 26)

------ Statistics ------

Str 28 Dex 38 Con 42 Int 27 Wis 20 Cha 25 Base Atk: +34; CMB +44; CMD 68

Feats Brew Potion, Cleave, Close-Quarters Thrower (Bombs), Craft Magic Arms and Armor, Craft Wondrous Item, Dodge, Improved Critical (Handaxe), Great Cleave, Multiattack, Point-Black Shot, Precise Shot, Power Attack, Rapid Shot, Splash Weapon Mastery, Throw Anything, Two-Weapon Fighting, Weapon Focus (Bombs)

Skills Acrobatics +24, Appraise +38, Bluff +15, Climb +22, Craft (Alchemy) +55, Diplomacy +22, Disable Device +24, Escape Artist +24, Knowledge (Arcana) +38, Knowledge (Dungeoneering) +38, Knowledge (Engineering) +28, Knowledge (Geography) +25, Knowledge (Local) +23, Knowledge (Nature) +45, Knowledge (the Planes) +31, Perception +29, Profession (Chef) +54, Sense Motive +28, Sleight of Hand +24, Spellcraft +45, Survival +25, Use Magic Device +37 Racial Modifiers: +12 to Craft (Alchemy) and Profession (Chef) checks.

Languages Abyssal, Aklo, Celestial, Common, Draconic, Ignan, Infernal, Shadowtongue; telepathy 100 ft.

SQ Alchemist Abilities, Crucible

------ Ecology ------ Environment any (Plane of Shadow) Organization Solitary (unique) Treasure Triple (Cleaver of Caligine (a +3 Flaming Burst and Corrosive Burst Handaxe), Ring of Telekinesis, Saint's Spice Bag (a Handy Haversack with three times the normal storage capacity), 1d8+4 random potions levels 1 to 3, 1d3 potions levels 4 to 6)

------

Combat: On any given day, Caligine always has 1d4+3 generically useful spells ready via Delayed Consumption, such as Death Ward, Haste, Cure Critical Wounds, Protection From Energy, and always at least one instance of Greater Invisibility, invoking them the instant they're needed. Caligine begins most fights with Greater Invisibility, then using the granted breathing room to tailor himself to his enemy's apparent might with whatever combination of extracts he feels will give him an advantage. His first order of business in any fight is restraining the hardiest-looking opponent with his tongue to suppress any resistances they may have before striking them with his more debilitating spell-likes such as Transmute Blood to Acid. As a pain fanatic, he doesn't care if he catches himself in the area of his own spells or if he grapples a creature that harms him to touch. He will use any poisons he has access to as early and often as possible, on both his enemies and himself. If his opponents prove particularly vulnerable to poison, he will often teleport away just long enough to craft some especially debilitating ones, bless them with Overwhelming Poison, and teleport back to continue. He utilizes his bombs primarily against foes who keep out of his reach, but will gladly use them against much closer enemies if they group together.

Morale: The Sweltering Saint rarely fights to the death. If brought to below 50 health, he will often concede to his foes' might and congratulate them on an excellent battle, especially if his enemies used Acid or Fire damage or poisons on him. He will attempt to placate/reward them with an offering of powerful potions and, perhaps, more alchemical items at his disposal. If his enemies reject his surrender, he will teleport or shift away, or simply flee with Expeditious Retreat. If he cannot, only then does he fight to the death.

------ Special Abilities ------

Alchemist Abilities (Ex): Caligine has several abilities similar to those from the Alchemist class:

He can can prepare and use extracts as if he were a 20th level Alchemist with the Infusion Discovery. He knows all Alchemist formulae; the above list is his most common selection if he anticipates hostility.

He has the Bomb ability of a 20th level Alchemist with the Fast Bombs Discovery, capable of swiftly hurling caustic chemicals which deal either Fire or Acid damage (Reflex DC 28 dodges the splash damage). He adds his Intelligence modifier to his bomb damage, as well as damage done with other alchemical splash weapons. His bombs have a range increment of 40ft, and he can create 42 bombs each day.

He can create items with incredible swiftness, crafting any alchemical item or poison in a single full-round action and most potions (see Crucible, below) in just 1 hour, provided he succeeds the Craft (Alchemy) check and has access to the materials to do so (he is always assumed to have the materials on-hand so long as he has his gear).

He can apply a poison or oil to a weapon as an immediate action. This includes his own natural weapons, which exposes him to any poison he uses, but see Mithridatism below.

Coated Tongue (Ex): Caligine's tongue is frighteningly dexterous, uncannily strong, and is coated with countless chemicals with deleterious effects on anything touching it. It is always a primary natural attack, and he can grapple and constrict a creature with his tongue without gaining the grappled condition himself. A creature grappled by his tongue has any Fire or Acid Resistance and/or Immunity they possess suppressed while they're grappled, and for 1d4+1 rounds after the grapple ends.

Crucible (Su): Caligine's mastery of chemistry allows him to perform feats that many consider impossible: He can have multiple Delayed Consumption effects in place at the same time. In addition, he can craft potions of spells up to 6th level instead of 3rd. However, a 4th level potion takes one day to create, a 5th level spell takes two days, and a 6th level spell takes three.

Mithridatism (Ex): Caligine is not immune to poisons, but most poisons have an effect on his physiology that is far outside the norm. Whenever he would take ability score damage or drain from a poison, instead he gains a +2 alchemical bonus to his attack and damage rolls, as well as ability checks and skill checks for 1 round. He gains this bonus for each different poison affecting him, and the bonuses stack. In addition, Caligine recovers from ability score damage at a rate of 1 per minute, and ability score drain at a rate of 1 per hour.

Unnerving Gaze (Ex): Any creature that succumbs to Caligine's unnerving gaze becomes suicidally convinced that they can survive his trials, taking a -10 penalty to the next saving throw they make against one of his spell-like abilities or a -10 penalty to their AC against the next alchemical bomb attack he makes against them.

[0asisbliss]

Darling why run?

Pt.2

Parings: Yandere!Chrollo x Cubby fem!Reader

TW: Kidnap, mentions of torture, other dark shit.

A/N: Sorry for any spelling errors. Pt.3 since you guys asked for this first.

You sat there in silence trying to concentrate on the door. Waiting for it to open. You needed to get out. The rusted old chains on your leg felt itchy, and you could no longer feel the weight of them because of how tight they were. The beating image of your friend still stuck in your head. It was horrifying. Your face still hasn’t changed. That same nonchalant expression that you had when she was asking you to put her out of her misery.

You play her screams over and over again in your head. Your head. It’s beginning to hurt. Though you try to ignore the pain. The door still hasn’t opened. You estimate it’s been two days since Chrollo left you to rot in the of the home you once loved so much. Chrollo had it all why would he throw it away like that? To ruin your life? Traumatize you? Did he no longer love you? Maybe, just maybe this all a little sick game to Chrollo. He probably found joy in your suffering.

You stopped looking at the door and stared at your legs. Could you still even walk? You were in pain, and you were really hungry.

You heard a creaking sound come from the door. It must have opened. Chrollo came into room with a plate of food and a glass of water.

The fucking nerve.

“Get. The. Hell. Out.” You muttered quietly, but harsh enough for him to hear. You were tired of being quiet you hated being down here, you hated being chained, and you even hated him.

“Darling, maybe you should eat hm?”

Chrollo sat the plate beside your hand. Even in your hungry state you refused the food from him to demonstrate your hatred and sorrow. You looked at it, and threw it on the ground. The glass plate shattering, and food plastering the floor.

Tears started to well at your eyes as you began to cry. Your sobs turned into screams. Chrollo sat beside you and rubbed circles on your lower back.

“There, there my darling it’ll be okay.”

You started to punch at his chest and you even slapped him. This was just your first week in this confinement so Chrollo didn’t get too mad at your behavior.

“Fuck you. I hate you, you crazy motherfuc-.”

Chrollo cut you off by slamming into your lips you didn’t kiss him back instead you bit into his bottom lip hard.

Chrollo didn’t hesitate to push you off of him when he pulled away blood dripped down from his lip as he looked at you in shock. Why the hell would you bite him? You didn’t do this before.

Chrollo backed away, and got off the bed.

“Alright since you failed to eat dinner how about I come back at a later time. Maybe when you have finally got yourself together.

You finally had enough two fucking whole days of bullshit, and pure torture, and he gives you this smart mouth bullshit?

“Y’know what Chrollo fuck you. I’ve been stuck in this filthy fucking basement for two fucking days. And you have the nerve to come and act like you’ve done nothing to me? Rot in hell.”

Chrollo stared at you with no emotion in his expression. Almost like he was starting you down, sizing you up. Why did he find delight in your present state? This is the most emotion you given to him in days. He wants more of it. He could even sense aura coming from you. It was sharp almost like the pressure of the air got lower, and the atmosphere got heavy. Then all of a sudden it stops. Maybe you were no longer angry?

He needs to feel this sensation again. Hell if he has to bring another one of your friends in here for Feitan to torture just for him to see this happen again he will. Maybe he’ll go deeper next time and bring your mother? He never liked that hag anyway.

“Darling be careful what you wish for, and for what you wish on people. For it could double fall back on you.” Chrollo shut the door behind him.

You watched him walk out the door and you huddled back into a ball on your bed and sobbed silently to yourself.

In your once shared bedroom Chrollo was planning. You showed such a strong emotion. He felt your aura without you even trying to show it off. Who knew you could bring your ability to life without even hesitating. He had to get you to feel that emotion again. He needed to feel your aura on his skin again. Though he didn’t show it he wanted to take you right there when you were yelling and crying at him. It made him feel close to being utterly happy?

You didn’t know a thing. All you felt was rage in that moment know all you can feel if restraint. You acknowledged that Chrollo showed no fear to you and that you wouldn’t win against him or even have him give you your freedom.

It was like all of a sudden the world outside was some fantasy realm you wanted to escape too. Maybe to escape your reality. There was no hiding from it, but maybe you could run if you were fast enough. It would take guts and an extra set of balls to even test Chrollo’s patience.

Though he had a lot. Everyone had their limits maybe you could used that to you advantage, and stretch his patience. Although the consequences might be hectic you had no other choice. You didn’t want to rot in this basement for the rest of your life. You had to get out. No matter what it took. No matter who dies. You needed to get away from him.

Chrollo knew your mindset more than you think so you had to be swift. Chrollo was already imagining the things you would probably do to escape. He was mentally and physically prepared. There was only one way out in his case. That was death. Even though that won’t happen to you anytime soon.

He has to train your brain, and get you to feel something again for him to conjure your nen out of the depths of your soul, so he can take it. It would be perfect, amazing almost. You’re giving him what he needs to be even more successful in his “career” that is enough to show him you love him.

And after all of that you can finally settle down and bear his children. Maybe two? A boy and a girl, or a pair of twins should do. Just the slightest smile appeared on Chrollo’s face thinking about it. Y’know what? That reminds him he needs a journal to write all of this stuff down. He couldn’t wait to feel your aura, and see the expression on your face when he finally gets to explain all of this to you.

[tadpolesonalgae]

Azriel x Reader: A lick of Flame

Summary: reader is from Autumn, gifted with flame. You get into an argument and have to blow off steam, only to witness the shadows crack.

Warnings: Azzie having a ptsd moment, angst, throwing up

A/N: kind of curious about this dynamic? So this is basically a small test run to see how it works? What I can do with it?

“What did you say?”

“You’re deaf as well as blind?”

You snarl at the male, prowling closer, flame licking up your spine, begging to be unleashed upon him. “My High Lord has protected his people well, has already brought his court further that any of us had even hoped. Do not stand before me and think you can slander him.”

“Eris is a manipulative monster who delights in the suffering of others,” Azriel growls back, memories of find Mor, bloodied and pallid, discarded uselessly.

“And as the Spymaster of the Night Court, with your torturous ways, you believe you are entitled to pass judgement upon him?” You snarl, sparks skittering across your skin a heat burns across your chest. “I take no pleasure in my methods,” he growls, wings flaring slowly in threat, “while your High Lord would sit back and allow a female to bleed out upon his boarders as if she’s a plague to his land.”

The flame catches, licking up your arms as it explodes from your body, coating you in fiery armour. Searing rage erupts at his outlandish assumptions about the High Lord who has shown great care for his new kingdom, who has enabled your rising from the ashes and so many other alike. “You know nothing about my High Lord.”

The shadowsinger flinches as incandescent flame lights the room, burning at the air. He feels the searing sting as it lances up his arms from his hands, the memories pouring out, dousing him in oil as the childhood fire burns. The laughter surrounds him, the figures of his long since tortured half-sibling looming over him as they enjoy the heat that scarred his hands, searing until bone shone through.

“Do not insult my High Lord when he could reduce you to cinders.”

You watch, pleased, as he stumbles back into the furniture, eyes wide, lips parted, his hands recoil as if your fire will truly burn him. As if you’re a threat. You’re pleased he’s acknowledging it, for once. But then you note the agony dancing in his gaze, how his eyes are watching outward but he’s centred inside. You note the tremors to his hands, the sheen of sweat to his skin as it takes on a more sallow complexion.

The flame douses itself, flickering to an ember before it vanishes. You walk closer to him, concern rising within you. Your eyes settle on his trembling hands, observing the twisted flesh, how it melts into him. Burn scars, you realise. Fuck. You hadn’t meant to—

Shit.

“Azriel,” you breathe, moving closer. His wings are shuddering, attempting to tuck into themselves. As if to make himself disappear. His shadows are spasming around his powerful form as you shift forward, close enough to touch him. “Azriel,” you murmur, tone harsher as you try to bring him out of whatever nightmare he’s sunk into.

The second your hand settles on his shoulder, his conscious slams back into him, muscles screaming at him to defend against a past threat. He’s stronger now. He can fight back. And he does.

The Shadowsinger surges upright, catching you off guard, his shadows snatching your legs out from under you as his hands shove at your shoulders. You end up being slammed into the floor, the breath being knocked from your lungs at the sheer force of impact, skull cracking against the ground. Your mouth drops open as your vision swirls, going from black to white to glowing technicolour as pain explodes behind your eyelids.

A cold blade of steel slices against your throat as he pins you to the ground, lip curled back from his teeth, baring them. In the back of your mind, you’re aware of the upturned table, the vase shattered on the floor, flowers strewn across the paprika coloured rug.

Your eyes go wide as your hand flies to his, your free arm turning so the blade cuts into the side bone of your forearm, just below your wrist. You suck in air through your teeth at the pain, the icy burn of steel. “Azriel,” you hiss, muscles trembling as he presses the blade into your skin, drawing blood. “Azriel! I’m sorry!” Hot liquid traces a path down the side of your throat as you attempt to shrink into the ground. “I didn’t mean to—”

The words are cut from your mouth as he presses harder. Another move and he’ll slice your neck open. You’ll be dead in seconds. Left with no other choice, you summon your flame again, reforging the steel until it glows with blistering white pain. He snarls as the heat reaches his hands, recoiling from the melted steel as it burns against the soft flesh of your neck, before it’s tossed aside.

You slam your foot into his stomach, sending him flying back to the chair he’d pushed over in his attack. Frantic, gasping for air, you scramble back until you’re pressed against the wall, staring at him horrified, anticipating his next move.

Heavy breathing fills the burning air, the scent of charred flesh weaving through the room. You watch, shocked, as the male twists to the side, enough time to hide before you hear the sound of retching, upturning the contents of his stomach before his shadows spin to the windows, allowing cold air to crash into the heated room.

You swallow, your own hands trembling as you watch through terror-dilated pupils. His wings are trembling, violent shudders passing through him, and in the back of your mind you know he’s not okay. His breathing is a frenetic panic, sharp and quick inhales dizzying his mind as sweat beads on his forehead.

“Azriel…?” You whisper, lips shaking from adrenaline as it pounds through your body. He doesn’t reply, keeping his head turned away but the rise and fall of his wings is a dead giveaway. Before you know what you’re doing, your onto your hands and knees, hurriedly stumbling across the floor until you reach him.

Something screams at you not to touch him after last time, but you push it down, hands setting softly but firmly on his broad shoulders, turning him so his wings press into the upturned chair. You’re kneeling between his legs, hands moving to cup his jaw as you tilt his face to you. A sharp breath of air sucks between your teeth as your eyes lock with his. They’re wet, widened with terror.

“It’s okay,” you breathe, thumb brushing saliva from his lower lip, “you’re okay.” His hands manage to drag themselves to settle on his empty stomach, muscles spasming. His scent is drenched in fear, awash with terror as you continue to swipe your thumb in soothing gestures beneath his mouth. “I’m sorry,” you breathe, staring into his wide eyes, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t—” you breath catches as your eyes drop to his hands, heart twisting as he makes to pull them behind his back.

Without thinking, your hands drop to his, fingers linking with his own scarred set. He tenses, making to pull away but you hold firm. Part of you aches as he makes a strained sound in his throat. It sounds like a whimper. Your heart catches. You don’t even know if you’re doing the right thing, holding his hands. What if you’re simply inflicting more damage, adding to the scars?

“Do you want me to let go?” You whisper, eyes latching onto his, the rise and fall of his chest evening out. The male just stares up at you, shock tearing apart in his gaze. “Azriel?” You repeat, leaning slightly closer, “do you want me to stop?” His eyelids flicker as he takes in your words.

“Stop.” It’s hardly a breath, but you hear it. Your fingers unlink with his and he sucks in air between his teeth. “No…” He sounds pained, anguish coating his tongue, eyes skittishly dancing around the room until they land on you again. Concern for your own well-fare rises again. He’s not in his right mind at the moment. He nearly killed you.

Slowly, you shift onto your legs, attempting to put some distance between you as his wings tremor. Something silver catches your eye as it falls, landing in his lap. You meet his gaze. “Stop it.” They’re so small, words uttered so softly they could have been mistaken for reverent. He lifts his hands to his face, shielding himself from your wide-eyed gaze.

It’s unmistakeable. Tears slip between his fingers, tracing salty paths over his burnt flesh. “Azriel…” You don’t know what to do. You can’t do anything here, but leaving him feels wrong. Not when he’s so vulnerable. “Azriel?” You murmur, leaning into him again, “tell me what to do.” But he’s too in his head to hear.

You wince, taking in a deep breath before reaching forward. His eyes flick up to your hands, noting their approach. Before you know it, his shadows have flared at his back, like a might wave about to crush you, but then his arms sweep in, pulling you against him as his head buries into the crook of your neck.

He’s gripping you tightly - desperately - and it’s kind of hurting your neck. You can’t swallow. Hesitantly, you lift your arms to wrap beneath his shoulders, careful to mind his wings. Slowly, you shift into his lap, enabling you bring your hands to curl over the nape of his neck. Your fingers thread through his hair, softly scratching over his skin as wet droplets land on your shoulder. He’s still trembling beneath your hands, but it’ll less pronounced. His powerful arms wrap snuggly around your waist, pulling your front flush against his chest as he cries into your collar bone.

“It’s okay,” you murmur, softly, fingers sweeping through his silky hair with ease, “you’re going to be okay.”

[emelinstriker]

{Eternal Servants AU} Nezha ♡ Loyalty

Art drawn by me + the AU itself is mine.

This will just show y'all ESAU!Nezha's character as well as a bit of info on how the servants think/feel about things. The artwork isn't referencing any scene from this one-shot btw.

CW: Descriptions of death and gore

[TL;DR] Ehe, ESAU lore hints wink wink-

♡ ~ Fluff ~ ♡

"That was all her fault for acting so disrespectful! And towards Master's name, no less!"

"I can't argue with that logic. But did you really have to punch her skull in before the torture even started?"

"Well, of course! Her presence was no longer welcomed the moment she called Master insulting names."

Macaque and Nezha were chilling in the torture chamber. The simian was sitting on a table with bloody tools while the celestial was cleaning up some of those tools with a towel. A deceased woman was strapped to the table in the middle of the room. Her skull was smashed, showing how mangled the remains of her brain looked as her head lied in a pool of her own blood.

Macaque sighed, "You can't just eliminate someone before we even tortured them, though. Even if they disrespected our Master while trapped here-" "That's just it! Our Master should always be respected and worshipped! They deserve nothing less than pure adoration!" Nezha cut him off, clearly angered. The dark-furred monkey raised an eyebrow at him, his tail flicking behind him at the surprise of Nezha talking back to him.

"Nezha, I get where you're coming from, I really do. I want our Master to always be respected and worshipped as well." Macaque started as he crossed his arms. "However, see it this way: Would you rather kill those who treated our lovely Master poorly, basically sparing them from pain, or would you rather let them serve their sentence by prolonging their suffering?"

The pink champion froze for a moment as he thought about the other champion's words... The simian was right. It would be a lot more satisfying watching the unworthy suffer by his hands than just simply killing them in one blow.

Nezha groaned as he quietly cussed to himself. Macaque had no problem catching him cussing and chuckled, his tail swaying for a moment in dark delight.

"Well, shit! Guess this is just a wasted kill after all!" The celestial exclaimed. He then heard the other servant 'tut' at him. Annoyed, Nezha turned towards the monkey, glaring.

"I wouldn't say it's fully wasted... This," the simian started as he hopped off the table and moved towards the table with the woman's corpse, gesturing towards her as he continues, "is still our dinner." If Nezha's pupils were visible, his eye roll would've been very much noticeable. He then followed the purple champion over to the table.

Macaque grabbed one of the knives on the way and chuckled darkly. He used it to smoothly cut into the woman's thigh, slicing a big chunk of flesh like a cake. More of the bit of blood she still had inside her body spilled out of the body's new wound and onto the table, the knife, and Macaque's hand. The simian then grinned and held said piece of meat out towards the pink champion. "Well? Go ahead, dig in. It's still fresh."

The pink champion, already used to it at this point, simply took the raw piece of meat and looked at it with a slight bit of disgust. He may have eaten a few remains raw before to prove his worth and loyal devotion to the other champions, but he still didn't exactly like the consistency of the meat. "Thanks... But I think I'll wait till it's cooked..."

The dark-furred monkey shrugged. "Suit yourself then," he said before he shoved the meat into his mouth, loudly chewing on his bloody meal as he already started cutting another piece of the woman's corpse. All while Nezha watched in silence. This little ritual the champions had of eating the remains of the tortured ones always reminded him of how he became his Master's servant himself.

It reminded him of that one demon village that was eradicated off the face of the earth. The huge pile of corpses Macaque made with the bodies of those villagers that disrespected and hurt their Master... And Nezha was the one tasked to set the pile ablaze. Back in that moment, he truly felt awful for taking the torch. But it didn't take long for him to actually enjoy the sight as his vision darkened. Especially once he saw his beloved Master in person again, this time becoming your pink champion. Your touch just felt so addicting to him, as if it was all he needed to forget all the bad he did. Your touch, your love and affection, was all he had ever craved...

No longer was there any guilt or regret. His Master was all that mattered to him. He felt pure happiness he had never felt in all his years of serving the Jade Emperor and the Celestial Realm...

Not that he remembered much about his so-called "past life" anyway.

Ever since he's become one of his Master's eternal servants, he practically forgot all about what his life was like before. He had very limited memories, of which only some were family-related, from when he was just born.

Suddenly, Macaque froze mid-bite. His ear twitched a little before he smiled brightly, joyfully devouring the meat and swallowing it quickly, placing the knife on the table. "Master is calling for me!"

And in a blink, the simian disappeared through a shadow portal that opened up right beneath him. Nezha sighed as he glanced at the corpse of the woman, placing the piece of meat from his hand onto her body. He probably would need to carry her remains to the fridge. After all, he didn't know when the others wanted to eat. He knew Wukong was busy with the palace's guards, Macaque was now gone to answer to their Master's call, and Nezha himself didn't know what to even do. He didn't have any tasks besides torturing that woman, and that already ended extremely prematurely due to his outburst.

"Ugh, fuck! I knew I shouldn't have killed her yet!" He grumbled angrily as he took the knife Macaque used to cut her, and proceeded to stab the corpse's neck in rage. He grumbled out more curses as he twisted the knife around the woman's neck in annoyance. A few minutes passed before he heard a shadow portal open up again. He turned towards it, out came the purple champion again. The simian was about to say something, but then paused and pursed his lips at the sight of Nezha moving the knife inside the woman's neck.

"...You're not supposed to play with your food, pinky. Didn't your friends up in the Celestial Realm ever teach you that?" Macaque teased with a smirk.

The pink champion scoffed in response, pulling out the knife from the woman's neck before slamming it back down, but this time into her eye. Due to his sheer strength, he easily smashed it through part of her skull as well, seemingly ignoring her destroyed eye on the way as her body seemed to weep more blood. "I'm aware of the saying. But what else am I supposed to do? I'm bored!"

Macaque huffed, grinning as he approached the celestial with crossed arms. His tail swayed gently behind him. "If you're bored, then you're in luck! I have a task for you. A very important one..."

Now, due to Macaque having to leave for a mission, Nezha was suddenly happy again. Not necessarily because of the simian being gone, but because of how the celestial was tasked to watch over their Master. Alone. The other champions were busy after all, so their beloved Master needed someone to fill the bodyguard slot for a while. Master's security ink wasn't enough for the monkey brothers. So, Nezha was tasked to be your bodyguard for the time being. And he was ecstatic everytime he was tasked to stay around you. Sure, being bodyguards is like the usual job the champions had signed up for, but Nezha had you for himself in his moment. No other champion could take your attention.

He was standing next to your throne as he stared at you with a soft, loving gaze. You could practically see little hearts floating around his head as his focus stayed solely on you. You looked at him as you hummed in thought. While you didn't mind staying on your throne, you also didn't expect any meeting today. Perhaps you could do something else. You haven't had any alone time with Nezha in a while anyway. And having him stare at you like that for the next few hours wasn't exactly the most entertaining thing. "Sooo... Do you wanna walk around the palace?" You suggested.

Your pink champion seemed to have been caught off guard as he sheepishly nodded. "That would be a wonderful idea, Master. Don't worry, I'll keep you safe the entire time!" He added proudly. You couldn't help but chuckle at his eagerness as you stood up and gently took his hand into yours. Your touch made him smile brightly beneath his mask as he stayed close to you, all while you lead him out of the throne room and down the hall, enjoying your conversation with him. Occasionally, there were a few servants on the way, who all bowed to greet you, but the halls were generally pretty quiet today.

However, that was only until you walked through the activity wing.

There was a sudden bang that startled you and your champion. Nezha quickly recovered from his startled confusion as he took up a more defensive and protective stance, summoning his fire-tipped spear to his side as he shielded you with his body. The loud bang came from down the hall in front of you. When the doors to the library swung open, they swung so strongly that they slammed against the wall, nearly ripping them off their hinges. And out into the hall came a furry beast with six legs. It growled as it moved menacingly out of the library. Then it turned a bit towards you and Nezha... Its four eyes seemed to focus on the celestial in front of you, sensing his energy specifically.

You knew this beast... It was the beast from a book you once read. It was known to be a form of Celestial Hunter. Not much was known about them, other than that they would lure divine entities by copying the voices or looks of someone they love and trust. They would then either  bite and infect, or straight up feast on the victim. However, this beast was seen as just simple fiction... How was is real? Where did it come from?

The beast then tried to appear more friendly as it tilted its head at Nezha. Since the celestial already saw its real form, it probably would be unable to get away with a disguise. However, it seemed to have a plan B...

"Nezha? Is that you?" The beast asked in a female voice you didn't recognize. But Nezha did... It was his mother's voice. He gripped his spear tightly, his eyes widening just slightly.

"...Mother?"

The beast doesn't move as it stares at Nezha, lowering its head a bit to try lower his guard. It was trying to get him into a false sense of security.

"Yes, it's me... My son, what happened to you? You don't look so well... We have to leave and get you out of here. This place isn't safe. Come with me, Nezha... Please, come with me... There is so much darkness here... It's so dark here..." As much as it seemed tempting to follow these voice's instructions, Nezha also was fairly aware of the ominous looking creature the voice was coming from. This wasn't any simple demon. Yet, he couldn't help but shake just slightly at the voice of his mother...

That's when he felt you lightly squeeze his hand with yours, bringing him back to the current situation. He glanced behind him to look at you and saw your worried, helpless expression...

He knew he would be a fool if he ever let that... that thing lure him away from his Master...

The temptation to be lured closer to the beast was now gone as quickly as it came, simply replaced by thoughts of his beloved Master. Nezha glared daggers at the beast. He was stronger than whatever it would throw at him. He knew it. And so did you... And he refused to disappoint his beloved, his true Master.

Your pink champion refused to be manipulated so easily.

Not when he had a job to do.

Not when this job involved serving you.

He was one of your champions for a good reason, after all.

The beast seemed to notice the way the celestial seemed more in focus again, and it quickly realized that he couldn't be tricked like its previous victims. So, it dropped its friendly act and let out a loud, hungry screech before it sprinted in his direction. Nezha, with his extreme speed, let go of your hand and swiftly attacked it with his fire-tipped spear, using his now lit up wheels for an extra boost as he stabbed the beast. He grunted in rage as the beast tries to attack him now with the close range. However, he dodged most of its bites and swipes with ease, using his strength to try bend one of its legs and break it. Only to then realize that it didn't have bones...

Nezha seemingly narrowed his void black eyes at the beast as he let out a low growl behind his mask... If he couldn't make it suffer with broken bones, surely tearing it apart limb by limb would work...

Thus, he held tightly onto his spear, making its flame light up more inside the darkened beast. The fire seemed to be its weakness as it began to let out a painful, or rather, seemingly scared screech. However, it was clear to him that it would not go down without a fight as it continued to claw at him. Yet everytime it would claw at him, he held his cold, angered gaze as he started to rip out the leg that it would use to attack. Despite it having no bone structure, it did seem to at least have some form of nerves. The darkened beast seemingly screeched in agony as Nezha managed to rip off one of its limbs.

The beast attempted to get away from Nezha, but he held his tight grip on his spear, refusing to let that thing go unpunished for what it tried to do... How dare it try lure him away from you, his Master...

Upon noticing the beast's attempt to flee, Nezha let out a maddening laugh as he twisted and turned his spear. The fiery tip moved from one side to the other as he enjoyed the beast writhe in pain beneath him. The celestial then slammed his flaming wheels into the beast's chest, letting its fire damage the beast as well. As he noticed a now giant, gaping hole that went through the beast's entire body, he notice how everything inside it was nothing but mass of what its outside was made out of. But it did hold some veins that glowed a very faint red, which were as red as its blood red eyes.

He scoffed as he slammed the beast onto its side, watching it lose its strength. "Ah, got it. You're one of the Oracle's friends, aren'tcha? Well, at least part of whatever the hell he is..." Nezha slammed his fire-tipped spear down into the beast's neck as he let out another painful wail in agony. The pink champion chuckled darkly as his fire spread inside the beast's body. He could practically see his flames glowing past its darkened shell of a body.

"But whether friend or foe, you just attempted a crime so outrageous, it must be punished by nothing less than death..."

Finally, he pulled his spear out of its neck and slammed it into one of the beast's eyes, stabbing it straight through its "skull" with a mocking grin underneath his mask. Just like how he stabbed that woman's corpse earlier... Soon, the beast fully collapsed and stopped moving as the fire inside its body finally seemed to spread to the outside. Nezha made sure it's dead with some extra stabs before he huffed in annoyance. "...Weak. That wasn't even half a challenge."

As he got off the beast's corpse with his spear in hand, the beast's remains suddenly turned into a black, still somewhat burning puddle on the floor. Then it hardened once more, stopping the fire, before finally turning into some form of black dust that easily spread all over the ground with minimal wind around.

Nezha scoffed at the sight before he moved back over to your somewhat shaken form. Though, you looked more intrigued by what just happened. "Master, are you alright? It didn't hurt you, did it?" He asked with sudden concern as he inspected you for any wounds, cupping your cheeks.

"I'm fine, Lotus Dork", you said a bit muffled as he had his hand on your cheeks, squishing them just slightly, looking at you. He sighed in relief as he blushed a bit at that nickname, letting go of your cheeks. But then he noticed you frown at the sight of his own wounds. There wasn't many or even deep wounds, but he did get a few puncture or claw wounds on his skin. On closer inspection, you could see some black inside his wounds. Probably tiny bits from the beast's body.

"Don't worry, Master! It'll heal itself!" He quickly said. You hummed for a moment before taking his hand and practically dragging him down in the direction you came from earlier. He blinked in surprise as he blushed in embarrassment. It probably looked funny to passing servants, just seeing how easily you dragged your pink champion around, when he could just stop moving. But you were his beloved Master, the one in charge of him and his body. Whatever you wanted to do with him was law. But he was still curious. "Master- Where are we going?"

"To the med bay, duh." You said as you pouted at him, still dragging him along like a dog on a leash going to the vet. "I want to have your wound at least disinfected before anything happens."

Nezha chuckled under his breath, which was even more muffled due to his mask. "As if that could happen twice..."

After you forced him to have his wounds cleaned and bandaged, you asked him to take off his mask for a moment. As he did what you requested, you kissed his cheek, right where his old wound was. He blushed as he felt you reward him for taking action and staying by your side.

There was nothing he wanted more than you.

[ Masterlist ]

[spacexseven]

tuna I'm about to go to bed but consider. demon au fyodor. hangs around you for no discernable reason. gives you terrible nightmares for fun (and later pleasant dreams as he starts to like you more, so he can see you smile when he watches you sleep). keeps wanting to play with your computer. ooo maybe he could possess your phone or something, so you can go out like normal but he'll Always Be There! Watching!

do u think gogol and sigma would be fellow demons or fyodor cultists

- 🩹

demon fyodor is a tech genius you heard it from us first! also also i like the idea of gogol and sigma being demons but like fyodor's little helpers mayb...ill think about it

cw: yandere character, stalking, invasion of privacy, hacking?, sleep deprivation, paranoia,

unlike dazai and chuuya, who came to stay with you because they have no choice, fyodor's just there because...he wants to. he hates humans but loves tormenting them, loves watching them lose their mind from weeks of sleepless nights and constant paranoia, loves watching them stare at him when he finally comes to claim his prize (their tortured souls), and loves the many fantastic emotions they show him. he's definitely a lot more...evil as compared to the other demons you may have met.

so you start off as his latest prey. maybe he saw you strolling past, maybe he just happened to land at your doorstep, but whatever cruel twist of fate brought him there, it sealed your life forever. you're just as entertaining as he'd hoped; he watches you 'patrol' your room with your phone flashlight and a useless object in hand, delights in the way you jump and knock over your water when he blows into your ear randomly, and most of all, he adores the fearful expressions you show when he's consuming you in your nightmares (literally).

while you're suffering from a lack of sleep and spending more time outside your home, fyodor puts his knowledge to good use and looks around your devices. he's become used to how they work after studying them for so long, and is able to easily infiltrate your computer and later your phone. (it's terribly funny to see you search up all sorts of outlandish things as a way to explain the horrors happening to you)

but you're persevering, to his surprise. and perhaps, that's what ultimately saves you.

though you're thoroughly sleep-deprived and trembling, you still go on with your life. you go to work, continue with your hobbies (even if the shaking hands and jumpiness doesn't help much), and try to keep up the image of a stable life. sure, you don't talk to people much anymore, and you need to try out new things every night that promise you a well-needed rest, but for the most part, you're trying.

this would be his favorite part, usually. completely destroying whatever will was left in you, watching you become a shell of who you were, but things were different this time. he's not sure what brought upon the sudden change, but he stops interrupting your sleep for just one night; and the soft smile that stays on your face the whole time mesmerizes him.

fyodor has seen his share of beautiful sights, but you stood out amongst them all. when he saw you whistling while making breakfast, the lost sparkle in your eye returning, when you look happy to return home after a hectic day for the first time in weeks, and when you're singing while cleaning up, the radiant joy almost blinding—that's when he knows what he really wants to see from you.

and when he takes a liking to you, no matter how twisted it was, he takes it to an extreme. he wants to be the sole decider on whether you'd be having a good day or not, so eliminating any influences in your life comes first. it wouldn't be fair if all his hard work was ruined because a friend buys you a cup of coffee or you're let out early by a superior who thinks you look too tired, right?

fyodor doesn't stop his torment; not immediately. he lets you bask in the joy of going about a day unbothered and feeling free, and then immediately snaps his jaws down on you to visit you in your dreams and frighten you. he loves watching all of you; scared, happy, carefree, stressed—but now, he can't help but be curious. what face would you show when he reveals himself to you? he's hoping it would be anger; a deep, violent, rage. something he hadn't quite had the honor of seeing from you yet.

there was only one way to find out...