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treedaddymcpuffpuff · 1 year ago

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Beneath Miles of Stone - Part six - John Wick x Plus Size Fem Reader

Summary: John has been in prison for nine months. He’s content to stay if it means appeasing the high table and keeping peace between the owners of each continental. However, he meets someone who erases that willingness. Peace be dammed.

TW: gore ; violence against women ; death ; vomiting

“This actually looks great,” she says while covering up the slash in his gut with less gauze than it usually needs. “It’s much smaller.”

He hums. It feels better, too. Her magic touch has given him the ability to breathe and eat and move without horrible pain.

She remembers when she first saw him and thought he had pale skin, but she realizes now that that sallow color was because he was in agony and probably dancing tiptoes around sepsis. He turns more golden-toned by the day as he heals.

“Bet you can’t wait to get out of here and move around more,” she comments, pulling his shirt back down. He savors the feeling of her gentle fingers accidentally brushing his skin.

While the thought of a good stretch and a couple hundred crunches to bring back his wasting body does sound good, he dreads the thought of not being able to see her again. He would have to start fights on purpose—accrue broken limbs and superficial wounds—just to get back down here. It doesn’t sound so bad. He’s used to getting the shit beat out of him, after all, and, if it’s on his own terms, staying handcuffed to a bed and injured is a fair trade for seeing his nurse.

“I would like to feel the sun,” he says, honest enough.

She places her hand on his shoulder. Even through the cotton fabric of his shirt, he feels the comfort of her skin. He leans a bit into her touch. “You will,” she says softly.

What good is feeling the sun, though, if she is still underground?

It’s 4PM. She’s usually asleep right now, but she picked up an afternoon shift and plans to work 16 hours the next morning. Usually, pick up shifts are the shittiest ones, but John is her patient again and she has an easy assignment. Plus, free lunch today for all staff and no Benny.

You can’t get much better than this.

She sits down to chart with her deli sandwich by her side, and notices that no one is in the hallway, which is strange for this time of day. It’s a bad idea, to just shrug that off, to forget this is one of the highest security prisons in the state of New York for a reason.

It’s the shiny red hue that catches her eye. Everything is so white and grey in here that it’s hard to miss the bright liquid puddling on the floor around a corner. She blinks, rubs her eyes, convinced that it’s a trick of sleep deprivation at first.

She gets up, pushes in her chair out of habit and because she’s afraid to walk over and look.

See enough dead bodies—stuff enough of them in bags while you’re busy and overworked—and it becomes natural not to balk at them. This is not the kind of dead body she’s used to.

It’s a guard, she can tell by the dark blue uniform, but his body is bludgeoned so excessively that he’s unrecognizable. A spike of brown hair sticks up from the black and purple viscera that is his face. Blobs of pale flesh dot the floor around his corpse.

She has a strong stomach, so it isn’t the bloodbath that makes her mouth fill with bile and her chest attempt heaving up those few bites of sandwich she took; it’s the fear, sudden and sharp and hot.

It takes her a moment of holding back vomit to remember that there’s a code button on the desk at the nurse’s station, but her feet feel like anchors and she doesn’t make it two sluggish steps before there’s a gun pressed to her face.

“Hello nurse,” the rogue inmate greets. “I think you should sit.”

She looks at the blood speckled floor, hesitates, he taps the barrel on her cheek. “Sit.”

It’s cold down here, but she barely feels it, too consumed by the adrenaline that comes with having a gun level with your brain, too busy thinking about how this underground trap is perfect for piling bodies to the ceiling.

She hears loud shouting from somewhere down the hallway. The man with the gun kneels down beside her, shading himself behind the desk. “Shut up, or I’ll fucking kill you,” he hisses, droplets of sour spit landing on her cheek.

More shouting, gun shots. Footsteps running in the opposite direction.

The guard gets on his heels to peak over the counter, and she watches the gun bob sideways in his hand. There’s barely enough time to contemplate taking it before he’s trying to haul her up by the arm.

“Come the fuck on!” He hisses as she tries to stand quickly on slow legs, stumbling forward, yelping when he grabs her ponytail to keep her upright.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” There’s another inmate. The only thing she notices about this one is that he’s bigger.

“This is called leverage,” the man holding her arm tells the other, jerking her again.

“That’s called liability.” The other one doesn’t have a gun that she can see, but he rivals Benny in size.

“So kill her?”

“I don’t give a shit.”

“Where’d you find this pretty thing?” She recognizes this one. Well, not his face so much as his mouth, that voice, grating and high, impossible to ignore when he starts in with lewd expletives as soon as she enters his room. “You kill the rest?” He’s got a gun and a baton tucked into his blood speckled pants.

“Yeah,” says the man who’s shoving a barrel into her skull.

“Sorry, darling,” he coos, and she recoils back, wincing as the grip on her arms pinches tighter. “When I’m done with you, you’re gonna wish you were part of that body pile.”

“I think we should use her, they’re not gonna shoot us if we’re holding the gun to her head.”

“Making sure she stays with you is more trouble than she’s worth.”

“So lock her up.”

“Too much time. Give me the gun and I’ll kill her.” The bigger of the three tries to reach for the gun but gets the barrel pointed at his head instead.

“Get your own.”

John grabs the biggest one by the back of his hair and smashes the front of his neck with heavy metal. His whole body folds in half, and, as he goes down, his face collides with John’s raised knee.

Her eyes are focused on the blood pouring from his nose and mouth instead of the fight.

John twists a wrist until it breaks, grabs the gun, and then her attention is back on the bedlam. As quick as the bullet is out of the barrel, he’s pulling the trigger again, lodging metal into skulls and showering in the viscera. When the gun clicks empty, he uses it to hit the other man in the face while the metal tube clears his feet out from under him.

And he gets one more squishy blow to the back of the head before—

He grabs her, tucks her behind him—

The original gunman tries to reach him, but John’s too quick. He brings the metal to his temple and dents the side of his head in like bouncy foam.

She watches him join his colleagues on the red concrete.

Then, mistakenly, looks up at her savior and remembers why you never meet your heroes.

Handcuffed to that bed, he had begun to seem so docile and helpless. Standing here in front of her with blood and slimy grey splattering his face, he is tall, broad, angry, unchained, transformed into something bestial.

She feels herself hit the wall without realizing she’s been backing away from him.

Blood pounds so hard in her ears she has to focus when he talks, but something about the way he speaks tells her that she needs to listen like her life depends on it.

He says her name again, comes closer. Her eyes dart from the makeshift weapon back to his face. She tries to swallow the dryness in her mouth.

“Are you okay?”

“What?” She yelps, gripping at the wall.

“Are. You. Okay?” John takes a few more timid steps toward her and she cowers under his massive shadow.

“I…I don’t know.”

He loses patience, stalks up to her. She braces for impact by screwing her eyes shut and turning her head.

Leaden, calloused fingers touch her face softly, making her shiver despite the furnace of his touch. She opens her eyes, looks up at him, and sees he is focused on her left cheek where a bruise is almost faded away.

“Tell me,” he presses, using three fingers on her chin to turn her eyes level with his own.

“I’m okay,” she whispers.

Loud shots pop down the hallway. Two prisoners round the corner with guns in their hands, running so fast they hit the opposite wall and tumble into one another.

John’s head snaps to the commotion. The two men lock eyes with him. She tries to shrink back into herself, become invisible, but it doesn’t work and they see her, too. Here she is, caught in the middle of a prison riot in her baby blue scrubs, a fragile case of soft meat ready to be pulverized.

“Is that your hostage?” One of the men asks, motioning toward her with the gun.

John turns around to face them while pressing her back into the wall behind him.

He smells like sweat and heavy metal and damp earth. She becomes sandwiched between his balmy body and the freezing brick.

“Can we borrow her?” The other asks. Neither of them stop walking toward them. She can’t see around or above him but she hears their thick footsteps and tries to fold herself smaller against his broad back.

Five guards run around the corridor, guns raised.

He is perfectly still, her human shield, almost as if he is waiting for something. She doesn’t think he’s breathing, even.

“Put your weapons do-“ the security guard can’t finish his sentence before a bullet bites into the flesh of his shoulder. Messy shot from one of the inmates. Blood rains, and John moves.

Most of the things he does are too fast for her to see, but the crunch of bone is unmistakable when he twists an inmate’s arm around until it snaps and grabs the gun from his limp hand.

The man screams, drops to his knees. His companion swears, scrambles, points his weapon at John, but there’s already a palm slammed into the tender bones of nose and then his trachea as his neck bends back.

He will remember the faces of the guards that he kills. Some are innocent men with hearty lives and loving families. But they will take her, and she will die, so he eliminates that prospect altogether with bullets.

Eleven men on the ground, and John still stands, unharmed.

Ringing ears, the steady roll of hot blood, screaming. Bodies.

Loud, sudden sirens rip her from the heavy descent of shock. She snaps back into reality when John grabs her arm and pulls.

A millisecond later, he tosses her into a treatment room, slams and locks the door. Gunshots ring in muffled sequence behind her.

She wonders what is wrong with her, why she can’t find moving legs underneath her. She feels slow again, almost like she’s trying to get somewhere important in a dream and unconscious gravity is weighing her down with debilitating force.

Her patients. Her sick patients handcuffed to their beds. The guards, just trying to do their jobs—most with probable families and friends of their own. All of these people trapped underground in a kill cage match, and all she can think about is how badly she wants to live.

She slides down to the floor, puts her head in her hands, the room tilts and distorts around her. She shuts her eyes as tight as she can, but she still feels like she’s riding a tiny boat in a huge, angry ocean. She leans to the side and vomits from sea sickness.

Bile splatters up from the floor onto her scrubs and hair and skin.

She puts her head down to stop the spinning, folds into her own body for some kind of comfort.

John presses himself into an alcove, reloads, thinks. It takes a second. He catches his breath. How does he get her out of here? He can’t leave her in the infirmary. Someone with enough force can easily break down the door that she’s behind and get in. If he drags her along while he fights through the prison, that’s still her neck on a silver platter no matter if he’s confident he can protect her or not.

He could barricade himself in the room with her, wait for things to settle, but he doesn’t know how long this will last. He guesses two to three days at most before enough people are dead that the police can infiltrate and kill the rest. Too much waiting for something to go wrong. This has to be quick. If he didn’t have to keep one eye on the door he left her behind, he could easily incapacitate everyone in here in less than an hour. If he brings her with him, he can’t do things efficiently or quietly. It will have to be succinct, sparing, a running sprint��he will hurt her pretty skin to keep major organs and arteries safe.

There are no disabling blows to grant. Lethal hits: head, femoral, mesenteric, radial arteries.

He exits from the slaughterhouse into her clean room, shuts the door, leans down and grabs her shoulders. He calls her name, makes her look at him.

Sick stains the corner of her mouth and her clothes and she looks like she already got the piss beat out of her.

“John,” she says like a tiny, terrified child, huddling away from him.

He grimaces. Her shell-shocked stare makes his heart burn. He pulls her into his lap, smooths her hair. She resists initially because of fear, but easily gives and sobs into his chest. He holds her to quell the screaming child. He understands this cry all too well.

“Listen to me,” he tells her, and immediately she quiets.

His voice captivates the chaos, brings her down into the atmosphere. She clutches at him, urging him to keep talking, tell her it’s going to be okay.

“I’m going to get you out. But you have to stay beside me, keep calm, and do as I say.”

“What about you?” She asks. “Are you getting out?”

He looks at her incredulously, baffled by the concern she still has for him despite everything she has just seen him do.

He doesn’t know why it takes him this long, why the realization just hits him now. Sitting here with her holding onto him like he’s the only thing securing her to the earth, and It’s right there in her face, as clear as spring water, even through the film of her fear—yearning.

He tilts his head down at her, studies the look, memorizes it, tucks it away for later, then does what he’s wanted to do from the start.

She doesn’t understand why he’s wiping the vomit off her lips and the blood off his.

Soon, it becomes clear. When he kisses her.

She stills, pulls back, but he grabs the side of her neck and holds, takes until she gives, happily and eagerly with her timid little tongue. There is no prison, no violence, no fight here once her mouth agrees with his own.

He tastes like copper and sweat. His tongue is as much of a weapon as his hands are. It tangles in her mouth, curls her toes and steals her breath.

Life pulses weak and out of focus, a dying heart in the background of their embrace, until he releases his grip and they part ways.

Her heart tries to run out of her chest, and she’s not sure if it means to flee toward or away from him.

She’s suddenly very aware of her body invading his space. He is solid and strong; lean, long thighs supportive under her bottom. She still feels self-conscious, though, wonders if he thinks she’s too heavy and is just too polite to say so. At the same time, she’s clinging to him so tightly that she thinks he’s the only thing holding her down to earth.

He cradles her cheek in his palm, keeps her eyes on him. “You follow me, you listen to me, you let me put you where I want you. Understand?”

She nods, eyes wide, brought back into the present by his pressing tone.

“What are you doing?” He asks, urging her to repeat his demands.

“Following you, listening to you, going where you want me to go.”

“No,” he says, “staying where I put you.”

She looks confused.

“If I put you on my back, you stay there. If I shove you into a corner, you stay there, if I pull you, you keep up, even if your feet drag and your body hurts. You move how I move you.”

“I’ll slow you down.”

“You will if you don’t listen to me,” he corrects.

“Just leave me-“

He takes her chin, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to stop that thought from breaching.

She recoils, scared of him.

He pulls her back. “Do you understand me?” He punctuates her name.

“Yes.” It is a quiet whimper from her mouth.

He smooths her hair back away from her face, and gathers the courage to put her in danger.

It’s hard to watch people die, even more difficult if the person you admire is doing the killing. He’s been through this, what she experiences now, trust and reliance turning into trepidation.

Even though they are traveling up, it feels like a journey to hell. He murders easier than he breathes. Limbs are twigs, heads are targets, and she feels like a suitcase that he has to carry around a busy airport

She wishes this were a quick blur, but instead the fighting and the screaming seem to move in slow motion. John does what he says he’s going to do, and she experiences every bit of his raw strength as he pulls and pushes her body. At one point she has the audacity to feel envious of the dying men…because at least they only get a few seconds of his fury before it ends.

And as much as he attempts not to hurt her, he fails. Still, when they get out into the dying wintery sun, she holds onto him. Bruises are forming on her arms and her collar, her light blue scrubs are scuffed with dirt and blood and skin and hair and brain matter, and her face turned from crying to stoic and lightless a long while ago.

He takes her phone from her pocket after they sit on the curb and his warm arm wraps around her shoulders while he dials 911. Her blunt nails dig through his shirt into skin as she clings.

“You did good,” he says. “You’ll be okay.”

She hears him, but she’d rather cling harder than answer. She’ll only be okay if he stays with her. She’ll never be okayagain.

He cringes in her silence, pulls her closer, trying to be a decent heater, grabbing her ruddy blue hands and tucking both under one of his own. As the city sun goes down and leaves them in shadow, her shivering increases. Just as he’s about to carry her to warmth, the ambulance and police arrive.

She knows he has to go, so she holds him tighter. He untangles her hands, kisses her on the head, and then he’s gone. A ghost amongst the blurry twinkle and whirr of chaos.

She looks for him in the crowd of people that surround her and flash lights into her eyes and ask her if she’s okay. Out and beyond the squad cars and blue uniforms and between the dark caves of buildings, searching frantically even as she’s being loaded into the back of an ambulance, wishing she would’ve clung tighter, wondering where John Wick has gone.

#john wick fanfic #john wick fanfiction #john wick x plus size reader #john wick x reader #john wick x you #keanu reeves fanfiction #keanu reeves fanfic

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ossifer · 1 year ago

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Kiriona's Teeth, Naberius' Body, and Lyctoral Masking

He undid her scarf, and Nona looked away. Beneath the scarf a huge wound in the throat made the neck yawn wide open. When she peeked back, wishing she had her braids to screen everything, she saw that Palamedes had unbuttoned the shirt partway and there was another big wound in the chest—a big purple bloodless puncture wound, with white teeth peeking out coyly from within.

Kiriona's chest wound appears as a purple and bloodless wound, with teeth. A lot of people think that teeth is just a poetic way of referring to her ribs being visible, but I propose an alternate explanation: the devils, and Hell.

As we see on the Ninth, when they inspect the corpse of one of the possessed:

The eyelids hung slack, and there were rows of dark purple pinpricks above and below them—like something fine and sharp had come through.

The possessed bear purple pinpricks through which the teeth emerge, purple and bloodless wounds.

Naberius' and Gideon's Bodies

Naberius' body in Gideon the Ninth:

Naberius Tern lay awkwardly sprawled on the ground. His expression was that of a man who had suffered the surprise of his life. There was something too white about his eyeballs, but otherwise he looked perfectly real, perfectly alive, perfectly coiffed.

Gideon's body in As Yet Unsent:

The corpse has still failed to rot. The princess says they are leaving it outside in significantly fluctuating temperatures, under observation, and it still fails to rot.

The corpse is still as it ever was. I asked Hect if the scavengers had got at it. She said that animals refused to touch it even when encouraged.

I wonder if they will stop the experiments now. The corpse of the Ninth House cavalier is as pristine as when Camilla Hect convinced them to take it on board.

Both fail to rot. Both bodies appear obviously dead on inspection, yet uncannily pristine. Perfectly coifed, pristine as when first taken on board, remarkably so.

Lyctoral Masking

Ianthe was a black hole to you, a null, an empty, overradiant space, unreadable; but close physical proximity could echolocate that darkness.

Black hole, overradiant, darkness. Dark, light, dark.

“Harrowhark,” he said, “You are a Lyctor. You generate too much light, or too much darkness, for me to look at you and make out any strong detail [...]

Too much light, or too much darkness.

Lyctoral masking means the body is, at once, too light and yet too dark for detail to be made out necromantically, at least from a distance. John says that even he cannot make out strong detail as a result of it. Where else does John say that his power falls short? Hell.

“It is the mouth to Hell [...] Anyone who has entered a stoma has never returned. It is a portal to the place I cannot touch—somewhere I don’t fully comprehend, where my power and my authority are utterly meaningless.”

When else do we see light and darkness associated with necromancy?

Soul Siphoning

The torchlights gave an asthmatic gurk and dimmed as though their batteries were being sucked dry, and when Gideon looked at her hands through bleary eyes they were deepening grey [...] The world grew heavy and black around the edges, and Gideon felt cold all the way to her marrow.

Then Gideon saw the colour begin draining from Colum the Eighth as though he were covered with cheap dye: leaching as shadow leached hue in the nighttime, more horrible and more obvious in the unforgiving light of the electric torches and underfloor lamps. As he faded, the pale Silas incandesced. He glowed with an irradiated shimmer, iridescent white, and the air began to taste of lightning.

“When Master Octakiseron siphons his cavalier, he sends the soul elsewhere and then exploits the space it leaves behind. The power that rushes in to fill that space will keep refilling, for as long as either of them can survive [...]”

“Brother Colum has fought harder and in colder climes,” said Silas calmly. “He has come back to me through stranger ghosts. He has never once let his body become corrupted, and he never shall.”

Soul siphoning, as we can see, relies on sending the soul somewhere else and exploiting the power that rushes to fill in the space it leaves. This place is almost explicitly said to be Hell. As Augustine says to Mercy, founder of the Eighth: “You never did take the stoma seriously, which is why your whole damned House sucks at it like a grotesque teat—”

And, as you can see from the above excerpts, siphoning dims the lights and brings a chill to the room. Where else do we see gloom descend and the temperature drop?

With an awful crack, his head turned one hundred and eighty degrees to look impassively at the room behind him. One of the lightbulbs screamed, exploded, died in a shower of sparks. The air was very cold. Gideon’s breath came as frosty white frills in the sudden darkness, and the remaining lights struggled to pierce the gloom. Colum licked his lips with a grey tongue.

Siphoning taps into the power of Hell. And, as Ianthe says, she suspects the Eighth's contribution to the Lyctoral megatheorem was getting the power flowing.

“And then for the last step you hook up the cables and get the power flowing. You’ll find that one a walk in the park, Eighth, I suspect it was your House’s contribution.”

Conclusions

Soul siphoning relies on displacing the cavalier's soul, to draw power from the resulting space.

The displacement of soul siphoning derives power from Hell, the realm beyond the Stoma, where the devils originate from.

After their deaths, that allow their respective necromancers to ascend to Lyctorhood, Naberius and Gideon's bodies appear to be preserved.

Devils grow teeth from purple, bloodless wounds. The wound on Gideon's body appears purple, bloodless, and has seemingly grown teeth.

Ianthe theorised that the Eighth's contribution to the megatheorem was getting the power flowing, granting them access to the lyctoral well of thanergy.

Lyctoral masking is said by John to be due to the Lyctor generating too much light or darkness, obscuring details from even him. Soul siphoning generates light and darkness. Soul siphoning derives power from the place beyond the Stoma, which John defines as being a place where his power is meaningless.

The Stoma are in the River, where dead souls go after death, and an essential component of imperfect lyctorhood is the death of the cavalier.

#the locked tomb #nona the ninth spoilers #tlt meta #tlt theories

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ophidianoccultist · 1 year ago

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Desecration

Tom Riddle x F!Reader

18+ MDNI

HEAVY TRIGGER WARNING

Tags: p in v, loss of virginity, creampie, non-con, use of Imperio, necrophilia, murder of reader, bloodlust, dead dove do not eat

just a note before reading, please please please dont read this if youre squeamish at all, its pretty violent so yeah. but if youre into this kinda thing, please enjoy(?) and let me know if i should write more unhinged shit like this. it was a whim i got at 4am like "what if tom fucked a corpse" dont hate me im just a slave to inspiration

Word Count: 2.1k

The fresh, warm tea slid down your throat, warming your very soul on such a cold winter day. It tasted of ginger and cloves, and the heat and spice of it seemed to radiate throughout your body to fuel your evening of reading. Ever since Hogwarts, your interest in the dark arts has only grown, leading you to purchase several tomes and textbooks on the subject. The old parchment of the page made a crackling sound as you turned it, as did the fire that burned brightly in the hearth nearby.

You were combing through the ancient spells and their effects, sipping your hot, spiced tea as you read, when your mind strangely started drifting elsewhere. The image of your room and the book in front of you seemed to grow cloudy and twisted into a very different image. The cozy, warmly lit room contorted into one much bigger, and darker as well. It was a bedroom, well decorated and lavish, clearly belonging to someone decently wealthy. Black floorboards and wall paneling, and rich emerald drapes and wallpaper to match it, not very unlike the Slytherin dormitories back at Hogwarts. The hearth stood out starkly, a green flame within to shroud the room in a certain cold hue that left you feeling slightly uneasy. A floo flame, but for what purpose?

Your eyes fell towards the bed, where two figures appeared to be engaging in something…intimate. Still mostly clothed, their lips were locked tightly, hands roaming wherever they pleased, and it seemed that they were the source of the only heat in the cold, eerie room. Upon closer inspection of the couple, you recognized yourself, a perfect mirror copy. And as your eyes darted to the man whose hand was currently gripping your waist, you quickly recognized who it was.

It was Tom Riddle, whom you fancied for quite a time during your school years together. The curly black hair, the pale skin, the handsome features; there was no mistaking it was him. But why was he suddenly in your fantasies again after years, and why did this feel so real? The two of you continued your throes of passion before Tom turned his head away from your lips (or rather, your copy's lips) to look straight into your eyes with his piercing gaze. Your copy did not seem to notice as he spoke firmly:

"The Riddle Manor, in Little Hangleton. Take the floo, and don't tarry. I do not like being kept waiting."

Right after he said that, the vision began to swirl as it did when it came about, and after a time, your room came back into view. The warm hearth, the spiced tea, the dark arts book. Home. But all of it was also accompanied by a dull headache and slight nauseous feeling. You slugged back the rest of the tea, which settled the sick feeling, before setting the book down on the table beside your chair. Something strange was happening, yet you felt compelled to comply with imaginary Tom's orders all the same. You strode over to the fireplace, grabbed a pinch of floo powder, and tossed it into the fire, watching the bright orange flame turn a sickly green hue. As you stepped in, you wondered if this was all a big mistake, that maybe you would intrude on some poor family's evening. But all the same, the words came out of your mouth:

"Riddle Manor."

Instantly, you were transported to the bedroom from your daydream, feeling much better now that you didn't see any strangers or hear any shrieking at your appearance in the fireplace. However, that relief was quickly diminished as your eyes landed on Tom Riddle, standing by the bed, in the same place where he had been entangling with you in your dream. No, his presence here proved that that was no mere daydream. It was a vision. It finally clicked: Tom had planted that in your head by means of legilimency. But why?

He strode towards you, his gaze and demeanor making you feel cornered even though you were in the open middle of the room. But before you could fully process what was happening and mull over your questions, his hand firmly gripped your shoulder, his long bony fingers digging into the flesh. He was different than he had been at Hogwarts. Sure, he still carried himself well and was still handsome, but his eyes and cheeks were sunken further into his face, and he was a little more twitchy now, looking as though he had been in a room full of dementors for weeks. The eyes that once held a perpetual air of cool composure now burned with something far more sinister. Tom seemed more raw now, a little more unhinged.

"Don't ask me why I brought you here, and don't ask me how I've been over the years. I am not interested in catching up. Just get on the bed." He commanded, his voice wavering slightly.

Your face twisted up into one of confusion, wanting some answers first. Not even a letter in years, no interaction or correspondence whatsoever, and now he brings you here simply to have sex with you? Absolutely not. Sure, you had fancied him, but you still had self-respect enough to stand your ground.

"Tom, wait, why did-"

A frustrated groan emanated from his throat, promptly cutting you off. He sounded and looked manic; clearly something had happened just before he summoned you here. But before you could inquire about anything, Tom pulled out his wand and pointed it at you, and muttered out an incantation that neither you nor anyone else ever wanted to hear.

"Imperio."

Suddenly, your mind was cleared of all inhibitions and inquiries, and you felt as if you were floating. His wand remained pointing toward you, but you could not care less in that instant. In your world, there were no cares at all. Tom's voice reverberated throughout the silent room as he commanded once more:

"Get on the bed."

And so you did, laying down on the plush emerald blankets, hands at your sides and obediently awaiting his next command. Tom took no time in hovering over you, pinning you in place and hiking up your skirt, not even bothering to fully strip you. Curiously, he noticed that you were wet between your thighs. Not overly so, but enough for him to know that you were somewhat enjoying this. He contemplated a moment before deciding to lift the curse, putting his wand down on the nightstand close by. Yes…it would be much more fun to break you himself.

Just as you were coming back into consciousness, you felt your underwear being harshly ripped away from your body and something hard being aligned with your core. Tom spit in his hand and stroked himself a couple of times before pushing the head in.

"Tom, wait-!"

Tom placed that same hand tightly over your mouth, feeling your lips moisten with the remaining saliva coating his palm.

"Quiet. If you resist, it will end badly for you. Just do as I say."

You nodded, and Tom started roughly pounding into you, painfully stretching you out and making it sting from the lack of proper lubrication. A tear fell down the side of your face from the unbearable pain, but also from the shame of knowing that you also secretly took pleasure in him using you like this. You wished he had taken more time with preparing you first, but that was simply a silly fantasy. Of course, you knew that Tom was never one to really consider the comfort of anyone but himself.

Soon enough though, the pain started to become pleasure as you fully took in what was happening. Tom hovered above you, relentlessly ramming his cock in and out of you, sweat forming on his face. Or had it always been there? Compared to the vision of heated passion he had shown you before, he was completely different in reality. There was no warmth, no desire, no savoring of stimulation, none of what she truly wanted. The only thing in Tom right now was a dull lust, and even then, it was brought about by stress, and not out of any longing for her personally. He was clearly strained and rather wired, but why?

Tom was nearing closer and closer to his release, urged on even more so by the way your body slowly began opening up and accepting him into you. But it really wasn't you that had gotten him this riled up and raring to go. You were only an afterthought, someone he remembered from Hogwarts, and likely the most willing to come. No, Tom had been spurred on by the scene in the dining room just below the room they were in.

His father's side of the family, dead in their seats, their dinner and their bodies probably still a little warm.

The way their faces contorted with fear, the empty look in their eyes, permanently in the state of terror a mere moment before their deaths; all of it had been exhilarating to execute, quite literally. Tom's bony fingers dug into your hip as his left hand held you steady, while his right remained over your mouth, muffling the moans that simply begged to be released from your lips into the frigid air of the room. However, instead of relishing in the sounds of your pleasure, he only became annoyed. He didn't care to perceive your shameful and sickening display of lust, and as you both grew closer to your releases, you grew louder, and he only grew more aggravated until he finally snapped.

"Quiet, I said!"

He released his hand from your mouth, only to wrap it around the handle of his wand, and he pointed it at you once more. You were so cock-drunk at this point, that you didn't even hear the incantation fall from his lips before seeing a flash of green light blind your vision.

And then, nothing.

Your body was completely limp now, and your face carried the same expression as the occupants of the dining table downstairs. The sheer terror, the microsecond where you realize you're going to die, the horror of it all. Tom, however, just soaked this in, not even wanting to pull out. In actuality, his pace only increased, the gruesome nature of the act only fueling the fire within him further. Only now, after you were completely unable to perceive anything anymore, did he indulge in what you had really wanted. His hands ripped open your shirt so he could take a look at you completely exposed, for only him to see. The hand that was previously pressed over your mouth now kneaded at the mounds of flesh, relishing in the softness of them. His teeth sunk harshly into the flesh of your throat, feeling the skin break and the taste of copper flowing over his tongue. With one more incantation, Tom pointed his wand at your chest to truly complete his work of art.

"Diffindo."

The flesh of your chest was cut deeply in three strokes, as if you had been ravaged by a rabid animal. And, in a way, you had been. Tom licked his lips before dragging his tongue over the bleeding cuts, savoring the thick, metallic tasting fluid in his mouth before letting it go down his throat.

Tom had never felt more powerful than in this moment. And upon realizing that, his cock twitched and the dam within him broke, spilling his seed within your slack cunt, furthering the humiliation and desecration of your lifeless body. He liked you better this way, without thoughts or wants or autonomy. Simply a tool, a doll he could use for his own satisfaction whenever he wanted. But sadly, you would decompose, and all his fun would end once you got too cold. But for now, he pulled out and fixed himself back up, as if nothing had just happened.

~~*~~

Your dead body remained on the bed for a couple of days, cold and pale from the lack of circulating blood. Tom knew that this would be his last time with you before it became unsafe for him to keep you around. He tucked himself back into his trousers, watching the last couple of days worth of his seed leak out of your cold, dead cunt. The scene was sick and disgusting, truly, but Tom found a bizarre beauty in it. The juxtaposition of the seed of life being planted into something cold and dead that could never grow it filled him with a sense of disturbing satisfaction that he just loved the rush from.

However, the body would start breaking down soon, and he needed to get rid of it. After a few moments of contemplation, he had decided to transfigure your body into something small and simple: a teacup. A teacup which, when drinking from it, would remind him of most likely the best day he had ever had. He had taken revenge on his filthy muggle relatives, and had his first go with a woman all in one night.

What's not to love?

#harry potter #hp #tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #smut #violence #dead dove do not eat

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mitskicodedwukong · 1 month ago

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🔪 BLACK BLOOD 🔪 || Macaque & MK

» ptolemaea (ethel cain) « 1:17 ─〇───── 6:23

╔⏤⏤⏤⏤��🍑╚⏤⏤⏤⏤╗ AUTHOR'S NOTE ╚⏤⏤⏤⏤╗🍑╔⏤⏤⏤╝ ➤ This is reposted from my old account, @nothyenlowz :3 ➤ Writing blurp featuring Qi Xiaotian and Six-Eared Macaque. ➤ Probably a oneshot, might be related to a future AU. ➤ I just wanted to write something scary/creepy ngl. Macaque and MK do not have a good relationship in this rip. Also based on season 1, episode 9, Macaque. ➤ TRIGGER WARNINGS include profanity, creepy vibes, graphic descriptions of violence & gore, blood, implied possession, and major (temporary) character death. ➤ Word count: 1,113

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

❝ i was there in the dark when you spilled your first blood. i am here now, as you run from me still .❞

He did it.

Qí Xiǎotiān has defeated the Six-Eared Macaque.

Jīngū bàng lies a few feet away, the bright gold bands stained black with thick, thick blood. Pieces of flesh and skull are speckled against the staff and the surrounding stone, and Xiǎotiān is sure there's a surplus of black fur stuck to it, too. His hands face the same fate, perhaps worse. Jīngū bàng is cold and unfeeling, while Xiǎotiān feels much, too much. The gore on his body is warm, almost scorching. It feels like it's wiggling, like it's trying to slither back to the cold corpse splayed out beneath him.

He clenches his hands and shivers at the squelching feeling.

When Xiǎotiān had struck the shadow beast, it'd vanished, leaving the demon monkey in its place. He'd clutched his heart, on his knees and trembling, looking up at Xiǎotiān with wide eyes. He guesses Macaque hadn't expected him to break his illusion so easily.

Poor bastard. He shouldn't have underestimated the Monkey Kid.

His body is a mess. Xiǎotiān had hit him only once more, a careless swing towards his upper body. He's not entirely sure what he wanted from the strike—if he wanted the demon to die, to fight him, or to vanish through his own shadow—but it seemed fate had chosen for him. The staff caught Macaque below the jaw and forced him to the ground, shattering his skull and breaking some bones from the force. The following gush of blood and brains spraying across the stone and across Xiǎotiān's body immediate.

Macaque hadn't even exhaled before he was dead.

Now the demon's head is practically gone, an unidentifiable slurry of blood and bone and fur and brain. His magic has flickered out, letting his illusions—glamours, he thinks they're called—fall, revealing his namesake: six large ears, three on each side, colored in hues of pink, blue, and purple. Their glow illuminates the mess of his face at first, but then they fade like dying lanterns, finally going dark and flopping over each other.

Qí Xiǎotiān has killed the Six-Eared Macaque.

Xiǎotiān wonders what he should do. Should he leave Macaque here to rot, or bury him? Perhaps the carrion birds and the bugs would feed on his flesh until he was naught but sun-bleached bones atop the mountain—but maybe they wouldn't. Maybe they would sense the tangible taste of evil and they would avoid Macaque's body like the plague, leaving this moment frozen in time.

Xiǎotiān is tired. It's been a long few weeks training with Macaque, and his body is bruised and fatigued, covered in cuts and running on fumes. And the smell, that awful miasma of fermenting fruits and decaying blood, is beginning to get to him, wrapping around his guts like snakes and squeezing until he feels faint. He looks up at the sky, at the bright stars twinkling in the twilight.

Everyone will be worried if he's not home soon. Pigsy will chide him until he goes to bed, and then he'll chew through Sūn Wùkōng, and then, when they discover Xiǎotiān was not with the great sage, he'll be in even more trouble.

Best to cut his losses while he still can. Hiding the blood will be a feat in itself.

Xiǎotiān shuffles away from the body, towards Jīngū bàng. His arms tremble slightly from the weight, but he pays it no mind. His power is steadily rebuilding itself and he'll no doubt be back to full strength after some rest. The blood on his hands coats the red of the staff, and he prays it won't stain.

He finds himself hoping the same for his mind.

Xiǎotiān waits for a moment. He considers just blasting off, and he considers turning to face what's left of Macaque for the last time. Whether he'll say goodbye, condemn him to Hell, or hope he's reborn into something kinder, he doesn't know—he's not sure he'll say anything, really. But something in him has to look one more time.

So he does.

And the Six-Eared Macaque is gone.

Poor boy, whispers the world. You shouldn't have underestimated Liù ěr Míhóu.

Xiǎotiān trembles, holding the staff close to him, hopelessly staring down the last of the orange sky as night falls. He's afraid of many things, but the dark was not one of them.

Now, though, he thinks he'll have to reconsider.

There's a chilling feeling creeping up his spine. It feels like there are a thousand eyes watching him, boring into his spirit, and it only gets worse. There's whispers in the wind, dozens of voices speaking at once, condemning him, warning him, begging him. Run, boy, they say. Run while you still can and don't stop. Never stop. Even if your feet bleed; if your lungs shrivel up; if your body begs for mercy. He will grant you no such thing. They're tearing him apart, forcing themselves into his soul through his ears, the cuts in his skin, the tears dripping from his eyes.

"Stop," he sobs, clamping his hands over his ears. "Stop."

The voices shriek.

Stupid boy!

Pathetic.

Lost, he is lost.

Another lamb to the lion's den.

Get up.

Run!

And then they are gone, suddenly, as if they were never there.

Xiǎotiān feels... light. Like the atmosphere has gotten so much brighter, even though the world gets darker, blanketed by night's thick sky. He hears nothing but the wind and the rustling of trees. Jīngū bàng lies beside him, rolling against his foot.

Qí Xiǎotiān is fine.

With a shaking breath, he retrieves the staff again and wastes not even a second longer on leaving this damned mountain, hoping to abandon Macaque there, too.

Wherever he may be.

He manages to get into his apartment through his window and into the shower before Pigsy can catch him. He allows the steam to envelope him, the water hitting his back in a steady stream. Black, black fur and thick, thick blood swirls down the drain until no trace of the Six-Eared Macaque remains.

When he steps out of the shower and wraps himself in a towel, he braces himself against the sink and leans forward, swaying in exhaustion. His eyes slip shut.

Drip-drip-dip.

He opens his eyes.

Blood drips into the sink.

Quickly, Xiǎotiān brushes fog from the mirror and peers close to his face. A thin cut trails through his eyebrow to the bottom of his eyelid, then continues underneath his eye and down his cheek.

He traces the cut with a finger.

The blood is black, and it smells like something chemically sweet.

He hums quietly at the sight, and then he grins.

"Should of kept some peach-wood on you, kiddo."

❝ run then, child .❞

❝ ＹＯＵ　ＣＡＮ＇Ｔ　ＲＵＮ　ＦＲＯＭ　ＭＥ　ＦＯＲＥＶＥＲ .❞

#hyenlowz #[ 🃏 ]#mitskicodedwukong #[ 🍑 ]#blurbs #[ 🍸 ]#lego monkie kid #monkie kid #lmk liu er mihou #lmk macaque #lmk #lmk qi xiaotian #lmk mk

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edgydroned · 4 months ago

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Send me '☯ + a scene from my characters canon' and I will drabble it from my character's POV. ( accepting )

uzi messed up. MAJORLY. she could admit that. there was little time to fix this; sure she can't bring those dead drones back but she still had her railgun. and it WORKED. or well it functioned properly, she just needed to work on her aim a little. there was still a chance to prove herself here somehow; heavy boots clank against the cold floor of the corridor, forcing herself to mute out of the agonized screams of the drones behind her. there was no time to save them. she had to reach dad first and foremost. he's all she has left. if she could just make it to her dad in time, at least he'd be safe. she could explain, show him it works, prove she's someone to pay attention to, prove she can help him and everyone else in the colony she just needs to to get to him

𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳𝚈: 𝟶𝟶:𝟶𝟶

the railgun beeps, her panted pace hardly stopping as she glances down to it, the green glow briefly illuminating digital brows scrunch determinedly, her heels turn sharply, skidding along the icy grates. she whips the gun around, finger trained on the trigger ready to take off more than just his head this time around. but...

he's gone.

her eyes had hollowed out, forced to bare down the corpse filled corridor. a slight singe of guilt quake into her knees before quickly recovering a sharper stance. and yet, she remained frozen in place, holding her breath. finger still hovered over the trigger suspecting he could jump out at any second.

pretty nice hydraulics huh...

she gasps the moment he breaks the eerie silence, turning around and tensing up even when she realizes it's only her dad and not that thing.

the look on his face. she's not sure what it is. HORROR. DISGUST. ANGER. DISAPPOINTMENT. ALL THE ABOVE ? it was a look that she was scarcely familiar with, one that... she knew she had taken things too far without him even needing to say any words. her focus is lost, staring back at him with an expression that read she had been caught red handed.

what... what have you done ?

purple eyes stiffen, registering the question he asks. if you could even call it that. based on the accusatory tone in his voice, it makes her think he's already decided she's guilty. when she was a little, and she'd get caught scribbling all over his blueprints; he never looked at her with such cruelty back then. maybe on account she was cute. but now, she was a rebellious teenager who looked to have the oil of all his comrades on her own hands. when and how did they get to this point ?

before uzi can even attempt to defend herself, a heavy weight pounds in between them, knocking both of them off balance. she quickly registers the yellow hue, furrowing her brows again to recover the gun taking proper aim on the murder drone.

" this time i won't miss. "

it he apologizes as if it actually means something right now, like he wasn't actively trying to kill her half an hour ago. their time together, albeit short, did give her a bit of perspective on the murder drones and their mission. as of right now though, the only thing she's worried about is protecting him.

" bite me. dad get down ! "

but he doesn't listen.

uzi. you led a murder drone here ?

" now is so not the time ! i messed up ! in the same way i'm about to fix it move dad ! "

too focused on begging for him to listen to her, the harsh wing blade skewers through her body, pinning her to the wall. oil spills from her opened wound, the oil that coursed through her is forced to run a different course. coughing as it spills out her mouth. her systems warn her of the very obvious oil loss, one hand shakily grasping at the blade that impaled her, while the other somehow still managed to cling to her gun.

for a split second, she considers now to be the perfect time to shoot. but the murder drone was too fast, and she was weak. he had snatched it from her, tossing it to the side in the direction of her father. purple hues blink back online, both hands clinging to the wing as though to keep it from impaling her any further. she pants in a shaky voice, pleadingly as she strains through the pain.

" dad... " uzi's gaze turns to the murder drone, then quickly to her dad again when she's faced with a maw of metallic teeth staring back at her. swallowing her fear, she breathes out another plea. " point and shoot. trust me. "

she watched him expectedly, thinking now would be the time he'd rise to the occasion; prove all her doubts about him wrong. that despite being so hard on her, despite talking about her with so little regard, now would be the moment he'd prove her wrong. his entire body rattled with fear, looking between the murder drone and her. heavy boots began carrying him away, clanking against the metal grates that was disappointingly deafening for her to hear.

" dad ? "

confusion and denial etched in her voice, watching him stray further from the gun. he looks down at the remote in his hand, then back to her. guiltily. before the third door had even slammed down in front of him, uzi's already knew he was leaving her for dead.

the faint alarm blares in the background, red lighting overcasts her and the murder drone as they were now left alone. she stares blankly at the closed door, at the spot where her father once stood. imagining he was still there, that her servers were simply showing her a worst case scenario. but this was real. he really did just leave her when he so easily could've saved her by just believing in her for once.

there was no anger yet, only mere shock and disappointment. her limps go numb, letting her hand fall to her side as she continues to stare at that same spot at the door.

so this was it. she was going to die believing he had given up on her.

what a pathetic way to die.

#info. │ answered ! *#chat this is 1000 words do you think i went a little overboard

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whatudottu · 1 year ago

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I am endlessly entertained (perhaps that's the wrong word) by the concept that Knock Out was only ever doctor adjacent and just switched from a cosmetic surgeon to a full blown medic during the war, especially since apparently in human medicine you don't have to have a doctorate as a cosmetic surgeon, at minimum only needing their basic initial medical training.

But I've also been thinking of it shattered too, Shattered Glass specifically.

I mean, I could hypothetically keep SG Knock Out as a cosmetic surgeon, but why would a cosmetic surgeon not practice what they preach and at least look a little nice. Going with a literally shattered Knock Out, would you trust a bot that looks like he walked out fresh from a car crash to make your finish shine? Probably not, but he'll do it...

Though, not in the same way one might as a cosmetic surgeon do (beautician?)

If SG!KO is so hellbent on keeping every scar and only really fixing anything if it reduces the integrity of armour (Knock Out may scoff at scuffed paint but he isn't an idiot), what if frankly he's unused to working on anyone that was ever remotely alive, especially himself who would need to be alive to do anything in the first place. A scar here, a scrape there, battle hardened warriors on their deathbed might want to look grand and imposing even in death, no wayward medic is gonna make that body look pristine and perfect just to erase the story of what had happened.

So instead of being a cosmetic surgeon, Shattered Glass Knock Out may have been a mortician, perfectly adept at making a corpse shine without erasing the features the dearly departed so diligently requested, though gussying up a comatose body is a lot more living than he's particularly used to.

Part of what makes this funny (in perhaps a horrifying way) is that Knock Out uh has no history with being a doctor OR as a licensed medical professional; you don't need a to worry about the hippocratic oath if the patient you're working on hasn't been alive for a whole month. What counts as an open wound fresh from stabbing versus an old wound one wears proudly is if there's any live wires or leaking fuel actively compromising the integrity of a bot's frame. Buffing and waxing a living mecha's armour is different when there are still active nanites working their way on and throughout the body giving their vibrant armour colours. Stemming the flow of actual liquid energon versus the congealed clots of cold dead fuel is an entirely different experience than what Knock Out had been doing over and over again before he had to be a medic.

Trial and error, where the errors lead back into KO's expertise, dealing with the dead and following the wishes of the deceased; a new term to agree upon came about with the war, to harvest what can be salvaged and be stored (for as long as they will live) for spare parts.

If baseverse Knock Out was a charming, outgoing, and sociable mech, SG Knock Out isn't used to bodies (patients, mecha) walking around and talking. One of the first time he was fixing a finish, first time using the stuff for the living, he nearly clawed off his own work when the mech made conversation; the ensuing joke of 'having a BREAKDOWN' didn't stop the groan and eye roll from being his next response. He doesn't so much as flinch at a dead looking finish, the kinda grey you look at an immediately associate with a corpse, but he can certainly tell the difference from a hue of nanites and the absence of their activity. At the cordial 'Doctor Knock Out' sent his way, he has to shut himself up correcting them, for as true as he may say he isn't a doctor it isn't particularly assuring for the bot in charge of your medical care states blandly he doesn't have a license; not many do, but saying it aloud doesn't help anyone.

Working during the war KO has accrued a few scars of his own, never makes it the end of the solar cycle with a pristine finish... and not just because he doesn't really care to start the day with a fresh coat. Armour often left dented though repaired when split, face and portions of protoform littered with nicks and cuts and sometimes gaping wounds, sealed shut not with welding but a mesh net he had once used as a mortician for those very same scars, whatever bleeding there long since healed. The missing optic is inconvenient, though not quite as terrible as losing a few parts from his fingers, their delicate work hampered with some missing tips, another near fully gone.

Some of them have stories, others a quick flash. There was a bomb in a body, that took his fingers. There was a welding torch, the light burned his optic. A wound on his side, that was from a lucky shot.

He is his own walking autopsy.

#knock out #tfp knock out #shattered glass #tfp shattered glass #transformers #tfp #maccadam #i might've gotten carried away #and i might've also lost where i was and got stranded after getting said carried away #but i think that at least in the way i inform the choices of my idea of shattered knock out #is distinguishing the two from their previous profession- living beauty and deceased beauty #don't particularly know about how morticians are valued in cybertron lmao #might be unsightly in functionist views as so they're isolated- could be deemed a necessity and only really offputting to the average bot #intriguing a version of breakdown might say- who knows depends- might also be this breakdown that finds this ko intriguing too #i guess shattered glass might mean that kobd ain't as 'couple goals' as it may be in baseverse #okay- boop

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randomfanner · 1 year ago

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How Would it Feel?

TW: Violence, lots and lot of violence because it is Durge.

Plot: The Dark Urge begins to fantasize about killing the tyrant whom has created their glorious plan.

Calax does not appreciate it.

The tyrant and his grand plan of tyranny, orchasted with the help of a Bhaalspawn. An utterly ridiculous prospect made into truth.

Bane and his collection of Banites was never looked favorably upon by any of the Bhaalists. Despite the fact the dead three had been a trio that took on the powers of Jergal, there was never any sense of comradery between the gods it seemed. At least never something stable enough to function long term.

Why would they continue working together? The three had gotten what they all wished for, godhood. Their partnership was as good as finished once their mutual goal had been reached.

Calax’s back was pressed against the wall near his desk, watching as Gortash fiddled with documents that Calax didn’t nor did he have any interest in understanding. Gortash’s job was to be the iron fist, the one who would run the ins and outs of daily life in the new emperor he planned on forging. The one to pass laws that would benefit the both of them and keep the frontline of power.

Calax had his role of course, and it was not in some fancy office, decorated with fine and soft silks of glorious royal purple hue. It was not in the realm of gold and silver and copper that would decorate the tyrant as he paraded himself to the adoring public. It was not in strategy halls or law meetings, swaying those who fell for sweet words.

Calax’s role was to be steeped in the blood of their enemies, of those who would pose a threat to their empire. Sowing the seeds of chaos that would blossom into the flowers of prosperity, much like how Ketheric would do the same for the fear. All of the pieces to be arranged by Gortash to follow his grand design.

Calax watched him, the mastermind of their plan. He had played his part in every way. Coming up with how and having the resources to execute the plan. Soon their Illithid empire would span across all of Faerūn and it was thanks to him that it was at all possible.

It was going so perfectly smoothly in fact, Gortash may not even be needed anymore.

How would it feel, Calax wondered? That wonderful brain crushed under his fingers, the gray matter crushing from his hand. Ripping that silvered tongue from his throat, shredding the thing that had charmed many including the child of Bhaal. To hold the beating heart in his fingers, crushing it as his warm blood gushed out from his fingers.

“Is there something you needed, Calax?” Gortash didn’t even look up from his work as he asked the question.

Calax’s hand stopped in the air. It took the tiefling a moment to process what he had been doing. Calax took a step back as he pulled his hand back towards his body. “... It is nothing,” Calax muttered.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

“If you are certain,” Gortash said as he picked up a pen, beginning a reply to one of the letters without a care in the world.

Calax sucked in a breath as he walked around the desk. “I am going out.”

“Shall I see you later?” Gortash asked.

“Mmmm,” maybe, maybe not. Calax wasn’t sure what the answer was as his bare feet moved from the hard and cold wood to the soft carpet in the center of the office. Calax pushed open the wooden door and shut it behind him before he rested his entire body against the door.

Calax put a hand over his face and moved it back, running over his curved horns and into his dark hair, forever stained red. His urges had been quiet towards the tyrant this far. Of course the thought of spilling his blood had come to mind from time to time, but only flickers in bigger thoughts. Ripping through a conference of Banites that Gortash was leading, devouring the corpses of nobles at a ball Gortash attended, removing the heads of citizens when he walked behind Gortash in public.

The two of them as they lay on the altar of Bhaal, their lives fading in union as they both went to the murder lord.

It had yet to be simply the wish to rip Lord Enver Gortash to shreds.

Calax shook his head as he moved off the door and began to march through the halls, letting his mind focus on that. Other people, the screams of horror and the color of their blood. The constant red that would flow from them.

That would flow from Enver Gortash once he ripped him apart limb by limb.

No.

Calax couldn’t kill him. He was the key to their empire. To the way they would rule the world together.

Gortash was the key in the bloody mess of the world Calax would bring once he had control of the Elder Brain. The last thing Gortash sees being the way the earth burned all due to his wonderful planning, all for Lord Bhaal. The anguish as his perfectly crafted empire became nothing more than dust due to the assassin he had brought along to fulfill the plan.

Calax looked down in front of him as he snapped out of his fantasy.

Underneath him was a maid. He hadn’t even noticed how he ripped her head off when he was lost in thought. Calax sucked in a breath through his nose as he stood up. Someone else would clean it up when they found it.

He needed out of these finely decorated halls.

He needed to dye the streets red.

If he stated the craving for flesh, perhaps he would be spared the thoughts of ruining Gortash’s plan. Of ruining Gortash.

Father would spare him, after all the tyrant was still useful.

At least for now. And surely Calax could find more ways the tyrant could be useful for spilling blood. Bane still lived despite the existence of Bhaal, the dead three always found use for the others eventually.

Calax would just have to do the same for Gortash.

Surely.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #baldur gate iii #durgetash #enver gortash #lord gortash #the dark urge #gortash x durge

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cain-speaks · 1 year ago

Text

🔪 𝘽𝙇𝘼𝘾𝙆 𝘽𝙇𝙊𝙊𝘿 🔪 || Macaque & Qí Xiǎotiān

» ptolemaea (ethel cain) « 1:17 ─〇───── 6:23

╔⏤⏤⏤⏤╝❀╚⏤⏤⏤⏤╗ AUTHOR'S NOTE ╚⏤⏤⏤⏤╗❀╔⏤⏤⏤╝ ➤ Writing blurp featuring Qi Xiaotian and Six-Eared Macaque. ➤ Probably a oneshot, might be related to a future AU. ➤ I just wanted to write something scary/creepy ngl. Macaque and MK do not have a good relationship in this rip. Also based on season 1, episode 9, Macaque. ➤ TRIGGER WARNINGS include profanity, creepy vibes, graphic descriptions of violence & gore (MK kills somebody y'all), blood, implied possession, and major (temporary) character death. ➤ Word count: 1,114

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

❝ i was there in the dark when you spilled your first blood. i am here now, as you run from me still .❞

He did it.

Qí Xiǎotiān has defeated the Six-Eared Macaque.

He clenches his hands and shivers at the squelching feeling.

Poor bastard. He shouldn't have underestimated the Monkey Kid.

Macaque hadn't even exhaled before he was dead.

Qí Xiǎotiān has killed the Six-Eared Macaque.

Best to cut his losses while he still can. Hiding the blood will be a feat in itself.

He finds himself hoping the same for his mind.

So he does.

And the Six-Eared Macaque is gone.

Poor boy, whispers the world. You shouldn't have underestimated Liù ěr Míhóu.

Xiǎotiān trembles, holding the staff close to him, hopelessly staring down the last of the orange sky as night falls. He's afraid of many things, but the dark was not one of them.

Now, though, he thinks he'll have to reconsider.

"Stop," he sobs, clamping his hands over his ears. "Stop."

The voices shriek.

Stupid boy!

Pathetic.

Lost, he is lost.

Another lamb to the lion's den.

Get up.

Run!

And then they are gone, suddenly, as if they were never there.

Qí Xiǎotiān is fine.

With a shaking breath, he retrieves the staff again and wastes not even a second longer on leaving this damned mountain, hoping to abandon Macaque there, too.

Wherever he may be.

When he steps out of the shower and wraps himself in a towel, he braces himself against the sink and leans forward, swaying in exhaustion. His eyes slip shut.

Drip-drip-dip.

He opens his eyes.

Blood drips into the sink.

Quickly, Xiǎotiān brushes fog from the mirror and peers close to his face. A thin cut trails through his eyebrow to the bottom of his eyelid, then continues underneath his eye and down his cheek.

He traces the cut with a finger.

The blood is black, and it smells like something chemically sweet.

He hums quietly at the sight, and then he grins.

"Should of kept some peach-wood on you, kiddo."

❝ run then, child .❞

❝ ＹＯＵ　ＣＡＮ＇Ｔ　ＲＵＮ　ＦＲＯＭ　ＭＥ　ＦＯＲＥＶＥＲ .❞

#tw possession #tw violence #tw gore #tw death #cain speaks #[ 🧨 ]#cain writes #[ 🩸 ]#lmk qi xiaotian #lmk mk #lmk liu er mihou #lmk six eared macaque #lmk macaque #lego monkie kid #monkie kid #lmk

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neon1010 · 1 year ago

Text

A New World Fool- Ch. 1- New Beginning- Prologue

1k words

This is also on ao3 by the same title and user!

---

Content warnings:

-Self harm (not the depressed kind or anything it's just there)

---

Nanako has never seen a dead body. This fact changes now, of course. She shouldn't be surprised. After all that business about shadows and, hell, a whole other world (And inside of a tv, at that), she shouldn't be surprised. The world just isn't kind enough to spare her this. Soon, she realizes that she's the first to know about this, to see this.

‘Someone killed her.’

This thought interrupts all the others, a cold fear washing over her body. She can't stop looking up, looking up at the corpse hung from the telephone pole. It almost makes her think of her hometown. She takes out her phone from her pocket. She has to redial a few times because her hands won’t stop shaking.

Ayane Aoyama. Nanako prays her soul is resting somewhere nice.

---

“Nanako, I know you’re leaving, but I just wanted to tell you…” Makoto said, looking around at the empty flood plains on the off chance there would be someone to spot the interaction.

“I like you! I- I’ve liked you since elementary school…” He confessed, bowing at a good ninety degrees. Nanako felt she should choose her words carefully.

“Thank you, but…” Nanako fidgeted with her hands together hesitantly as the boy rose from his position, revealing a flushed face.

“I wouldn't want to start anything since I'm leaving.” And because she didn't have any feelings for him, not like that at least. She figured he would get over it in the year’s worth that she was away, and this seemed like the nicest way to reject his advances. Makoto accepted her answer and left, briefly making her feel like a tomodachi life character.

Since the news had gotten out a few months ago that she was leaving, Nanako had actually gotten three love confessions if she included the one just now. One of them was even from a girl, she remembered, her face reddening as she walked home. She wasn't really interested in any of them, though, so they were all swiftly and gently let down.

That night, Nanako worked on packing her bag since she would be leaving tomorrow. It was strange thinking about it, but she had never really left her hometown before. Sure, she had gone on a few vacations, but besides that, nothing. She never had much of a desire to leave either, yet here she was, packing to leave for a new school in a new city. And at only sixteen.

The scholarship only lasted a year, she comforted herself, so she would be back home in no time.

“Bye, Nanakooo!”

“Goodbye!”

“Have fun!’

About half of Nanako’s class (and some others outside of it) had gathered to wish her goodbye at the train station. It was a bit embarrassing, and she had honestly wanted more of a quiet farewell, but she figured it was nice that they wanted to do this for her, at least.

---

Somehow, Nanako manages to have two dreams on the train. That itself isn't odd, but having them both at the same time is certainly something new. They were fairly strange, yet it was impossible for them to get mixed up together.

One of them, she remembers, was less dreamlike than usual…

---

Nanako wakes up to a smooth, operatic voice.

Though, she’s not sure if she’s really awake. Looking around confirms this, the blue hues of the garden greeting her. It’s nothing like her simple, small garden at home, this one being greater and more elegant. If Nanako looked at the sky, she would notice that there wasn't really one. Just more blue and fog.

Nanako walks around what she decides is an enclosed rose garden, hedges and stone forming a walkway around the area. It winds around in a strange, nonsensical path, but Nanako follows it anyway. Not much else to do. At least the music is pretty, she thinks. I don’t typically get music in my dreams. Nanako passes by a fountain. Near it, a gardener is there, tending to the blue and white roses. He looks back at her, with wide, yellow eyes that quickly resume to a more even expression. He raises, changing his white gardening gloves for shorter, more silky ones. Taking off his hat, the opaque veil attached to it reveals a cheshire’s cat grin as he gestures for her to follow him. Soon, they end up behind a dark iron table under a gazebo. The statues around it are a bit creepy, but not nearly as startling as the appearance of the long-nosed man who sits across from her.

“It seems we have a guest with an intriguing destiny…” He chuckles.

The gardener walks over to stand next to him, taking a clipboard and pen off the table as Nanako smooths out her skirt. There’s no point to the motion given that it’s a jean skirt, but Nanako ends up doing it anyway.

“My name is Igor… I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.” Igor greets her, smiling. “This place exists between dream and reality, mind and matter. It is a room that only those who are bound by a contract may enter…” He pauses for a moment, looking at her.

“Now then… why don’t you introduce yourself?”

“Nanako Dojima…” She answers. Nanako feels like she should say something, or ask about something, but she just stays quiet.

“Hm…” It almost sounds like a laugh, and there’s a look in Igor’s eyes that Nanako has to wonder about. “I see.” He gestures to the man next to him, who is busy scribbling something down on the clipboard. He looks up at the two.

“This is Victor. He is a resident of this place, like myself.”

Victor bows slightly to Nanako.

“Welcome.” He says, smiling blankly. Nanako nods at him and tries to smile back, albeit a bit awkward.

“We shall attend to details at another time” Igor says. “Until then, farewell…”

---

The other dream felt much more… dreamlike, for lack of a better word. Though, it was still just as strange and foreboding as the other, Nanako thinks.

---

Nanako finds herself somewhere strange. She’s not in a room. But she’s certainly not outdoors. The infinite bleakness of the place feels overpowering as Nanako walks up to the only thing physically present besides her. A low table, reminding her of hers back home. The paper placed on it has a ‘Your Name Here’ and a signature area on it below some unreadable text. Or maybe it’s not unreadable, Nanako’s mind just refuses to translate it for her. Her mind can’t process any of it besides the ‘Your Name Here’ and the brush beside it, simple with a sharp end. She should sign it. The paper. She not only knows this, but feels it as well. She has to sign this. She must. She feels it everywhere, in her bones, her skin, her blood…

She picks up the brush only to realize there's no ink beside it. So, she shoves the pointy end of the brush into her inner elbow and flips it around so she can have something to sign with. Then, finally, she signs her name where it was meant to be.

---

Nanako wakes up.

Tysm for reading!!! 💚💚💚

#persona 4 golden #persona 4 #persona series #fanfic #fanfiction #new world fool #my writing #ao3 fanfic

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casspurrjoybell-31 · 1 year ago

Text

The Consort - Chapter 33 - Part 1

*Warning Adult Content*

Finn

Fiona and I bundle up in various layers of mismatched shirts and sweaters.

When she finally meets me on the front porch, my eyes act of their own accord and drop to her stomach, searching for a bump that's yet to show.

I still can't believe she's pregnant.

In normal circumstances, it would be a big deal.

But now?

When we're stuck in hiding amongst a world of war and pandemonium?

I can't imagine the stress and fear that must be weighing on her shoulders.

"I would ask you again why we're trekking through this forsaken town to play the role of researches," Fiona comments, bending down to tie her boot.

"But I don't really care. Anything that gets me out of this house is a welcome adventure."

"Getting a little bored?"

"Out of my mind."

She stands and stretches, closing her eyes before letting out a grand exhale.

The cold air hastily entangles with the sudden heat of her breath. It results in a misty puff of air forming in front of her lips before evaporating completely.

"Well then," I say, standing from the porch swing.

"Let's get going."

The two of us walk down the walkway of the house, past the weeping willow, and towards the broken town.

Brayden's parting words echo in my mind, his warning to stay put while he's away.

I know I should listen to him but really, if there was any danger in this town, it wouldn't matter if we were at the library or in an abandoned house.

Would it?

The afternoon air becomes heavy with the scent of fear and death as we breach the edge of town.

A few bodies lay strewn across the streets, all of them drained of blood.

Fiona hooks her arm around mine as we walk past them.

"They don't even look real," she whispers.

I glance at a dead woman just a few feet away from us.

She is completely drained of blood,and her skin has taken on a shiny, white hue.

Her emerald eyes remain opened, staring towards the sky with disbelief.

Fiona's right.

They don't look like corpses.

Not really, anyway.

They look like humans sculpted from porcelain, their untouched faces painted to match emotions ranging between fear and anger.

"How many do you think they have as prisoners?" she whispers again.

I shrug stiffly.

Even though there's no one around us, her question sounds loud enough to cause my stomach to knot with nerves.

Whether she's whispering out of fear or respect, I can't shake the feeling that the drained bodies can hear us as we tiptoe past them.

We turn the corner and glance along the street.

Broken glass is everywhere.

Near the middle of the street, however, I notice a building that resembles our library back home.

I nudge Fiona and nod towards it.

Her eyes study the building briefly before she grunts in agreement.

With careful steps we continue our path forward, the broken glass crunching beneath our feet.

The picture in my pocket seems to burn a hole through my pants.

There has to be a reason I found it.

And there has to be something, somewhere in the library with answers.

The walkway leading up to the library is littered with books and papers.

Some of them appear charred, their pages nothing more than fragmented dust held together by the healing air surrounding it.

Fiona whispers something under her breath about this being futile but I keep pulling us forward.

Broken slabs of cement guide us through the entrance.

When both of us have cleared the front doors, Fiona drops my arm and glances behind her.

Her bright eyes dance around until she huffs out a breath of relief.

"Okay," she whispers, and the angst in her voice is palpable.

"Where do we start?"

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willowwhispersspeakeasy · 3 years ago

Note

Congrats on 1k! I'm new here. May I request prompt 4 "sweet puppy character goes feral" with Kalim? Thank you!!!

ohhoho! that trope does sound darling on the little prince~ here's your mulled apple cider, careful, it has a bit of a bite ;) -Onyx, the bartender

special event menu

warnings: gender neutral reader, established relationship, head injury and blood mention, !gore warning!, major character death

"KALIM!" your voice burned as the scream of terror tore from your throat.

the young man stood, knees shaking, as blood slowly dripped from the side of his head. the stream of red painted in the same hue as his big round eyes.

your eyes tore around the forest, praying desperately for a head of long dark hair to be spotted, but Jamil was nowhere to be found.

"Kalim!" you wrapped him in your arms, careful not to jostle his head.

the young man didn't respond to you, eyes transfixed upon a spot on the ground not far from his feet.

you sobbed into his shoulder, begging him to snap out of whatever trance he was in.

"h-how could you...?" his voice was broken as he spoke. you pulled back to see the tears mixed with blood as they dripped from his chin.

"K-Kalim?" you called for him again but he didn't even look at you.

there was a creeping upon your spine that told you, something was very very wrong.

placing your hands on his shoulders you intended to try and shake some sense into him. upon looking down and seeing your own hands you paused.

the feeling of a biting cold slowly sunk into your bones.

you felt as though your body was freezing from the inside out. your bones cold as ice but your flesh still warm and soft. your soul was caught in a feeling of panic.

to hot, wet warmth like blood and tissue. suddenly aware of each of your organs inside your body, the feeling of gravity pulling upon each as they swam in a sea of your own fluids. it churned your stomach, burning hot like acid crawling up your throat.

to cold, hard and numb like sun bleached bone. everything hurt in an unending ache. your chest tightening, as though your ribcage were the branches of a cruel tree, wrapping itself around to strangle you. your skull felt brittle, like hardened ice ready to snap and shatter at any moment.

a heartbroken call of your name pulled you back to the present scene before you.

Kalim had fallen to his knees before... something. a body, a corpse.

another call of your name from him as he cradled the mess of flesh and meat. the creature was unrecognizable to you, foreign and unsightly.

"K-Kalim... what's going on?" you whimpered.

"KALIM!" a stream of dark hair and panicked eyes. Jamil, hes here, hes safe. thank whatever god cursed you with this fate.

"DONT TOUCH THEM!" you flinched at the tone of the young mans voice.

crimson eyes were wild with panic, his breathing quickened until you were sure the young man would choke.

"Kalim, w-what happened-" Jamil put his hands up in surrender, quickly darting to his side.

the paled haired man looked down again upon the remains of his lover.

"n-nothing... nothing happened."

"they're dead Kalim, whatever did this to them is probably still around. we have to leave-" Jamil tugged at his arm.

"NO!" you gasped as Kalim shoved Jamil, knocking him of balance. "NO THEY PROMISED ME!"

you watched in horror as the dark haired man landed with his head on a rock, an awful crack was heard.

"WAIT- NO IM SORRY!" a broken sob cried from the pale haired boy as he reached for Jamil. he didn't move. you darted forward to pull your lover into your arms, but nothing happened.

no movement, the horrid overwhelming feelings you had shoved away to focus on the scene before you, now they drowned you. blurring your vision and defining you in the sound of... nothing. no heartbeat, no pumping blood. nothing.

you were dead.

the scene of Kalim crying over Jamil's unconscious body blurred white. you couldn't hear his sobs, couldn't hear the whispers of the forest, couldn't hear the chirping of the birds in the trees.

it was over, you were gone.

#how to break a prince #1k drabble game #drabble game #twst #twst wonderland #disney twst #twst x mc #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x mc #twisted wonderland x reader #kalim al asim #kalim x reader #twst kalim #jamil viper #twst jamil #twst angst #gender neutral reader

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delicrieux · 4 years ago

Text

☆ﾐ 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢 “𝚘𝚑”

PART 23: PRETTY BOY

emotions run wild when everyone is drunk and hardly coherent. quackity is always loud, but tonight is a full on assault on the senses (the ears, in particular). bretman simps for corpse too much for your liking. rae is happy for once. there’s a confession of love somewhere in there. sister james makes a very good impostor, but that’s old news, the real question is who gave you a knife? a new persona emerges that leaves the roaches quivering in their boots.

─── corpse husband x reader, a lil bit of everyone x reader (because she’s a queen) ─── soc. media + written fiction! ─── word count: a lil over 7k.

author’s note: it’s the way i can’t follow a fucking calendar for me. sorry guys, i swear to god i thought i had one more day before thursday . the idiot award goes to me and i accept it with pride. anyway, i was excited to write this for a while! quackity is in mexico, that’s why he drinks, too. my fic, my rules, he’s too funny not to include. im also working on an extra w dream and mr quack so look forward to that, too! hopefully u like this part ily xx and as always lmk wat u think!!

ultimate masterlist. ҉ ��myso masterlist ҉ previous. ҉ next.

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

The outfit for today was picked with care and consideration. Hot, as always- you had forgotten your roots, your hoodie and sweats lay hidden in the bottom of your drawer never to be worn on stream again. You’ve changed. Clout really does that to people. Some viewers, naturally, find your hotness near insulting: how dare you rub your beauty in their faces, and so unabashedly, too?! If only you had a twinge of self-awareness, perhaps you would tone it down. But you don’t, and whether that’s by choice or not is the mystery the whole internet tries to solve (ARMY has been working diligently, and you admire their effort, though in the end their tireless labor brings no tangible results).

You went from hot to hotter. In all truth, the fires eating away at California can be blamed on you. You carry this burden in stride, in your platform overpriced shoes some girl scammed you on Depop with, in your fishnets, in your skirt, in your corset, in your rings and necklaces and chains. You woke up today and chose violence. Decided your existence will be a plague to the rest of the populace, and meant it (that, maybe, you took inspiration from a certain faceless Youtuber that so happens to be your boyfriend or whatever). You feel powerful. Like you could step on the world and the world would let you. You decide that it’s the way it should always be.

The smile on your lips informs of nothing good to your quaint, small audience of 40k. You change the lighting in your room from the soft cherry blossom pink to menacing violet. As fitting for a villain.

Perhaps California’s hellish sun has finally purged you of your bubbly, docile nature (arguably, you had never possessed it to begin with); perhaps it’s the forth mimosa you’re mixing as people slowly trickle into the lobby. Who knows?! Not you, definitely. What do all of those boring dead white European philosophers say? Embrace the unknown? Cheers, you’ll drink to that.

In stark contrast to your appearance, your room is a fucking mess. A war-zone of epic anime scale. Everything is scattered, well, everywhere. A perfect representation on what’s going on in your mind, always. You don’t like how people focus on your surroundings-- you’re the main attraction, hello? Are you not enough to sustain them? Must they beg for more?! Totally ungrateful. You shake your head in disappointment, as if a mother scolding her children.

noooooo! mom pls forgive me i will never ask abt anything ever again T_T

yall looking at the room? lol couldnt be me

feels like im five and my mum just told me i cant eat a pretty rock i found on the pavement:(

You can’t contain your sly grin. Eyes twinkle with a purplish hue, appearing all the more menacing. You tricked them once again, oh how absolutely evil of you. In your blind delight you accidentally spill champagne on your lap.

“-Oop, fuck.” You snort.

why does she sound like goofy

The scandalous drunk Among Us stream is about to start. You had been eerily silent through the greetings, and those that chose to approach you were met with a cold shoulder and minimal replies. All on purpose, of course. You wish to plant a seed of unease within them, and so far, it’s working. There are questions unanswered, jokes unsaid, Quackity unteased. It breaks your heart, but it must be done. You look into the camera, all vulnerable and devout, as if to say: I’m doing this for you, all for you.

pack it up yandere simulator

idk whats going on but i think im into it?

villain arc villain arc villain aRC VILLAIN ARC

“Hey, guys,” Corpse’s voices rings in your headphones, and not a blink later his astronaut appears in the lobby in a cloud of smoke, “Hi, Y/n.”

More sharp, excited hellos follow after. You merely hum, though give no further reply. As Corpse strays to your side, Charlie steps in in front of him, “BDA access only. You have a permit, bitch?”

“Y/n is being quiet-she’s being quiet, guys!” Quackity helpfully informs, as if the rest failed to notice your cryptic silence, “Don’t be sad Corpse, man, Corpse don’t be-she didn’t say shit to me either.”

“Y/n has decided to not waste her breath on the SDS.” Charlie voices, “And you know what? I actually agree with her for once.”

“SD-what now?” Dream questions.

“The Small Dick Society.” Charlie explains, noting Dream’s whine of protest, “Oh no, don’t give me that shit, weren’t you bitching about not being invited and not belonging to exclusive clubs? Congratulations, you’re finally part of one.”

“Wait!” Quackity interjects, “Am I part of it too?”

“Guess, Sherlock.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Corpse says. You nod to your audience, like he just spoke the God honest truth, and follow in his example. Your tentative sip unexpectedly turns into a greedy gulp, but you’re not complaining. The only slightly coherent thought that rings in your mind is drink tasty.

“Ignore them,” Rae chimes, “Y/n’s probably plotting something and using Charlie as a cover up.”

“I’d never.” The words slip past your lips before you can stop them.

“Well you sure are very quick to deny it.” You can hear her smirking, can hear the proud lilt in her voice, like she caught onto your silly little scheme, like she has you all figured out. Your eyes narrow dangerously. The night behind your window pools dark, with far away city lights glimmering before they, too, seem to dim.

Your roommate is back on your shitlist. How her name was missed among the rest.

“I’m defending my honor.” You yelp, the playfulness back in your voice along with your sunny smile, “I can’t have my wifey slandering me online. At least do it in private, geez.”

If Rae’s such a good detective, you’ll give her a good chase. Perhaps you’ve been laying it on too thick. Made her too suspicious. She can’t out you yet--not when your plans are so grand, so fun. It would be a waste.

“Why weren’t you saying anything then?” Quackity questions.

“Do I need a reason not wanting to talk to you?” You shoot back. Your friends laugh and he tries to shriek something past their cackle. You lean back into your chair, the tension from Rae’s confrontation finally easing. You wink at the camera and bring a finger to your lips. The roaches swear to secrecy, elated by your wickedness. As appropriate, they spam devil emojis and various renditions of evil hohohos and hehehes. The apple truly does not fall far from the tree. You had raised them well. You raise your glass in solidarity. A few donations fall into your pocket, easily summed up as: make them suffer.

Muting the discord call, you give a single response, “Oh, I intend to.”

i hope this doesn’t awaken something in me

^already too late for me bro

As caught up in wreaking havoc among your viewers as you are, you miss Sykkuno’s entrance, though from what you can tell, Charlie gave a stern warning to back the fuck off to him, too. He’s playing into your plan so beautifully. Truly, you couldn’t do this without him. Back to stalking the chat you go.

Your eyes flicker to the game upon Bretman’s signature drawl and “Hi, daddy.”. You have no time to get offended at Corpse’s sweet “Hi, honey” back, because the next person to join the discord call and the lobby leaves you speechless. You knew, of course, you had been informed of the line-up, but still, you had never expected yourself to be so close to Jomes Chorles himself. You make a weird gesture with your hands, half wave half excited wiggle, as if you’re telling the audience to calm down, when, in fact, it is you that needs calming.

He goes saying his hello’s like doing a public service, name by name, before, lastly, uttering, “Hi, Miss Y/n. Loooove the vids.”

He’s a roach in disguise, who could’ve known?! Your audience is so diverse and unexpected, gosh, you’d shed a tear if the mascara wasn’t so expensive.

“Hi!” You reply with a grin, and it’s genuine this time, a glimmer of your old self, “Hi, I love your videos, too. It’s like, really cool to finally meet you.”

“Oh my God, you too!” Is his enthusiastic reply, “Okay, the energy in the studio today? Love it.”

“Is this all of us?” Quackity asks.

“Sadly.” James says with a note of disappointment.

“HEY!”

“Okay, guys!” Ash chimes, “Let’s do this! Proximity Among Us, round one, go go go!”

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

Luck does not shine upon you during the first round- you are stuck as Crew Mate, your life cut short by Bretman who had the audacity to bite your head off. You’re positive Ke$ha wrote her hit single Cannibal about him, and if she didn’t, she definitely had a That’s So Raven moment and predicted it. It’s also insanely suspicious as after you are eliminated he sticks real close to Corpse, feigning innocence (and this is a controversial opinion you do not endorse) better than even you. It wounds your pride, having been picked off so casually, so quickly, and now stuck a ghost you roam the halls of the dying spaceship, lost, confused, heartbroken.

Charlie runs past you, not once even glancing in your direction. “Brother...” You mutter sadly, “Do you not see me here? Do you not feel... the loss of your twin’s heartbeat...?" Damn, these mimosas really are making you emotional. You sniffle and take a sip to calm the storm within you. No rage, just sadness. You are still processing your own tragic demise.

Suddenly, a meeting is called. There’s a horrible red X on your astronaut. You are the only one dead so far, and of course the rest won’t vote out the fucker. How bitterly you sit! With your arms crossed over your chest and your glare sharp enough to cut through glass. Fuck the sad shit, now you’re just angry. At the very least, the second Impostor could’ve given you some company!

“I knew something felt off.” Charlie is first to speak.

“Who the fuck killed Y/n?” Corpse questions, and his voice ignites a whole discussion that lasts much too short. The others skip, having no suspect yet. It’s much too soon to start pointing fingers, but you still feel like they should have at least tried. Pouting, you fix yourself another drink.

“Stop drinking!?” You gasp, exasperated at your chats demands, “I’m dead! What else should I do, the tasks?! Nah, fuck that. I’m done. I’m out. Charlie better employ his fucking detective skills because if the Impostors win, I will literally quit the game--yes I will, no I’m not bullshitting, fucking watch me.”

Thankfully, Bretman was caught venting, and you didn’t have to end the stream prematurely. The second Impostor, your roommate (oh, the betrayal, Rae, how could you?!) was voted out due to Corpse’s suspicion. Victory to the Crew Mates! The game restarts and you find yourself back in the lobby.

“Miss Y/n,” Bretman says, “I am sooo sorry for killing you first, baby. It was just too easy. I couldn’t pass it up.”

Giggling, Quackity chimes, “Sister slaughtered.”

“Oh my God,” James groans, “shut up!”

“Yeah, Y/n.” Charlie speaks, and there’s an accusatory note in his calm voice, “Why the fuck did you allow yourself to be eliminated first? Real noob shit, I expected more of you.”

“HUH?!” You frown, “What’s with the victim blaming?! I literally was doing my task and Bretman snuck up on me. It’s not like I had a weapon to defend myself!”

“You have been avenged,” Corpse states, “and that’s all that matters.”

“Thank you, Corpse!” You say, “At least someone cares.”

“Hey, I helped, too!” Dream pipes up.

“No, you didn’t.” Corpse shoots him down, “I was the only one.”

“You were not--”

“Literally was. Isn’t that right, Sykkuno?”

“Uhhhh-” Sykkuno trails off, “Well, we-we all helped!” You can hear his shy smile, and you just know he’s bobbing his head up and down at this exact moment, “We all helped. Team work!”

“Team work!” The rest echo, save for yourself, Corpse, Charlie, and the two Impostors. Silence speaks more than a thousand words or whatever. You pray to any higher power willing to listen to finally assign you the role of the villain, the one you were born to do.

Sadly, higher powers must have either shitty customer service or are in need of hearing aids, and you almost scream in frustration when your astronaut appears along with the others, the bold CREW MATE title chipping away at your master plan.

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

“Hey, Y/n, hey! Hey, Y/n!” Rae finds you in Cafeteria, where you, metaphorically, are eating your feelings. Not that she needs to know, of course. She sounds chipper, a bit ditsy, and that must mean she’s sufficiently tipsy. You store that information for later, and forget about it as soon as you notice Dream and Sykkuno, like her very own personal bodyguards, trailing after her, “Wanna play a game?!”

“Is this Saw?” You inquire, somewhat lazy. You’d be lying if you said the alcohol wasn’t affecting you, it’s just instead of making you bubbly, it makes you mellow. This was supposed to be fun, you were supposed to terrorize everyone and laugh as they perished by your hand, yet here you are, wallowing in self-pity. The roaches start worrying. The donation jingle chimes.

BEATINGS & SLUTATIONS yns_fishnets donated 5$ mom just wait it out & dont worry youll get your vengeance soon lead them on!!!!

Your fishnets have a point!

“Saw?--No, no, haa, no it’s a drinking game.” Dream sounds like he has had one too many rounds of this mysterious game, and naturally, you are intrigued.

“Where we drink!” Sykkuno clarifies. Right, well that explains everything! If you had any questions, you surely have none now.

“Okay, so, name a category, and you have to, like, say a word associated with it...Or something along those lines.” You hadn’t even agreed and Rae is explaining the rules already. She knows you too well. It’s both a blessing and a curse, “Can be anything! Okay, Y/n, Y/n, Y/n start!”

“Uhh--” If only your brain computed as fast as she spoke! “Song lyrics! Wait--who drinks?”

“You fail, you drink!” She hurries, “Choke me like you hate me but you love meeeeee. Syk, go, go go!”

“Uhm, ah, I don’t wanna feel like this, uh, fuck?” He laughs--it’s a raspy, embarrassed little sound, “I don’t...wanna look like this? Dream, now you!”

“Wait, we’re singing Corpse’s songs?”

“Any song!” You urge him quickly, “Hurry! Or drink!”

“She say I kill her cat like I'm Luka Magnotta--”

“Hey! That’s cheating! You can’t use my song!” Rae protest.

“That wasn’t in the rules!” He counters.

“Y/n! Time’s running out!” Sykkuno exclaims.

“Oh, uh, will-will the real Slim Shady please stand up!”

NOT EMINEM WHAT THE FUCK

MOOOM WHT THE HELL THIS ISNT 2008 T_T

“Ra-Ra-Rasputin, Russia’s greatest love machine--”

“All...All the other kids with the pumped up kicks better, uhh, run better run, faster...-faster than my gun?”

“Uhh, shit--fucking hell.” Dream laughs, and Rae practically screams at him to keep going, “Alright! Okay! I’m singing--uh, you’re so golden, na na na na?”

“I tell you what a woman loves most,” You chime gleefully, “it’s a man who can slap but can also stroke.”

finally, the mother mother representation we’ve all been waiting for

i aint exactly gay but i aint exactly not gay >:)

the bis won

“I steal a few breeeeaaaths from the woooorld for a minute--”

“Mitski?!” You question, eyes bulging, “Baby, who hurt you?”

Even if you can’t see her, you know she’s waving her arms around and shaking her head, “Not the point! Sykkuno!”

“Uh, I-I, uhm, I don’t--”

“Drinnnnk!” You all chorus.

“It was a good concert,” You say, “Syk, I’ll drink with you.”

“Thank you, Y/n. That’s very kind of you.” He says softly, with a smile lining his lips. You grin.

“Oh, fine. Everyone, bottoms up!” Rae decides, and no one protest. A moment of silence passes, then, “Well, GG, GG, let’s do some tasks?”

Your enthusiastic Ariana Grande-esque “yuh” is cut short by the second meeting of game two being called. The first one to go had been Ash, voted out during a bathroom break as a joke, and you still feel a bit bad about that. Now, you notice Charlie has been eliminated. A sense of righteousness fills you--while you mourn for your brother from another mother and father and family tree, you feel like this is divine punishment for slandering you before the start of this round. Karma. Nothing much is discussed, and the meeting ends shortly with everyone skipping.

You spend a good ten minutes wandering around with Dream, who’s mission appears to be convincing you to join his Minecraft server, and really, there was no need for him to try so hard. You failed to provide him with a concrete answer only because it would've been to humiliating to admit that you agreed instantly upon hearing the word Minecraft.

That’s when things get fucking weird. Another meeting is called whilst you’re in the middle of fixing lights, and once the board with the members appears you audibly gasp. There had been 8 living, breathing astronauts rushing around the map, and now only 4 remain. You, Corpse, James, and Alex.

“What the fuck--what the fuck?!” You screech alarmed, noting Dream being among the perished crew, “I was just with Dream fixing the lights, I was just with him, what the fuck--”

“Okay, no one panic.” James says, “Let’s figure this out. Okay? Okay. Who else is close to Electrical?”

“I’m at Nav.” Quackity says.

“I’m at Cafeteria, but Y/n--” Corpse starts, “kinda weird that Dream died when you were with him?”

“I didn’t fucking kill him, I swear to God, Corpse, why are you accusing me?”

“Don’t be so defensive.” He says smoothly, “I’m just pointing out the obvious. We all have a reason to be sus, no? Considering you were right with him.”

“...It is suspicious.” James agrees, and a part of you dies inside. You understand their hesitance to trust you, but it doesn’t make it any less frustrating!

“Guys, I didn’t kill him, I swear. He invited me to play Minecraft, I wouldn’t do that to him, not after that!”

Corpse merely hums, and it brings no comfort what’s so ever. The situation is spiraling, and not in your favor. Trying to salvage your chances at freedom, you try again, “Wh-James, James, you called the meeting, right?”

“Yeah, I found Rae’s body near Medical.”

“So I couldn’t have killed her and Dream at the same time!” You latch onto that piece of information, hoping it will save you.

“You could’ve vented.” Corpse points out, “Plus, there’s no telling how old the body is.”

“Killing five fucking people? It’s the work of one person, or else the game would have already ended. As it stands, I am no way sober enough to think all of this out.”

A brief silence hangs in the air; your lungs constrict from tension, from spilling words so hotly. You grasp your glass, as if for emphasis, and take a shy sip. It taste sweet, a bit too sweet for your liking. Must be your nerves. You drink again to wash the taste out of your mouth, which, surprisingly, doesn’t work. You whine a little, stomping your feet like a child about to throw a temper tantrum.

“...I believe her.” Quackity says. You breathe out a sigh of relief.

“Alex, thank youuuuuu!” You gush, batting your lashes as if he could somehow see you and that would somehow portray your innocence, “I knew I liked you for a reason!”

He mutes his mic, his spill of words lost to your ears, but chat helpfully informs that he’s screaming because you don’t hate him.

y/n out here collecting men like pokemon cards

Now all that’s left is to convince the others. You start with the one you know will work, “Corpse,” You address him in your sweetest voice.

“Y/n,” James warns, “don’t you dare--”

“Baby, I didn’t kill anyone, I’m crew mate, you gotta believe me.”

“She's innocent.” Corpse declare, thoroughly convinced.

“Oh my fucking God, you fucking simp!” James laughs, “She’s obviously manipulating you!”

“No, no, she isn’t. She’s innocent, I agree with Quackity. Now, it’s either you or him.”

“Could be you for all we know!” Alex accuses.

“Guys, time’s running out.” You mutter fretfully, noting the seconds tick by from white to red.

“I’m voting Alex.” Corpse says.

“What?! Fucking traitor! Fine, I’m voting for you.” Alex hisses.

“Ugh, hate agreeing with Quackity, but I’m also voting Corpse. Sorry, hon, nothing personal.” James says. The VOTED icons pop up beside their characters and you panic, pressing your mouse idly but it’s too late, there wasn’t enough time, and you cry as Corpse is thrown into lava. The chat spams F, and it feels like salt on a fresh wound.

In a second you’re back in Cafeteria, shell-shocked and trembling, and Quackity cusses because the Impostor is still among you. His frustration doesn’t last long as you watch in horror as Jams Chortles, beauty guru supreme, murders the only other crew mate in cold blood and all you can do is gape and let his cheerful laughter fill your ears. The screen bleeds red, informing of Impostor victory, the second one being Ash. Looks like you voted her off for the right reason, but little difference did it make.

“Corpse!” You yell past the cacophony of voices, all in varying forms of excitement or anger, beelining for his in-game figure, “Corpse, I’m so sorry, I panicked, I tried pressing the button but I wasn’t quick enough--”

“It’s alright, baby. Don’t worry about it.” He’s so calming, so gentle, you might burst into tears again. What did you do to deserve him? You wish he was with you so you could smother him in a hug. Alas, all you can do now is say “I kith you, mwah!” and rush to the other side of the lobby, as if to hide from such a bold display of affection, even if it was a joke (it wasn’t).

yall say corpse simps for y/n but the reality is y/n simps for corpse harder

queen stop its embarrassing

bhaddies can simp!! i wouldnt but its her choice <3

More deliberations, commentary, and short breaks. Once everyone has returned, the countdown starts. You’re still reeling from the chaos of emotions, the five stages of grief you experienced in 1 second upon Corpse’s unjust demise, that it takes you a moment, a single heartbeat to realize what you’re seeing on screen.

The letters IMPOSTOR hang above your astronaut, with Dream standing just behind you as your newly appointed partner in crime. And suddenly, all the sadness and the tenderness and sympathy vanish with a curt exhale. You slowly turn your head to the chat, muting the Discord call, your soft chuckle of disbelief turning into a full blown laugh.

it’s happening!!!!

omg omg omg omg

VILLAIN ARC VILLAIN ARC VILLAIN ARC

You slap your palm over your lips, trying to contain your wicked smile, to tone down your broken giggles, “N-No, I can’t laugh yet,” shaking your head softly, you look into the camera, “they’re all going to die.”

pack it up light yagami

this has awoken something in me.

^ same

The crew mates go their own ways, rushing to do their tasks like the diligent little workers they are. How adorable. Their grim fate is still miles away from them. The shit you’ll pull will be for the history books. Much like your outfit, which you picked keeping in mind your newfound thirst for blood, you had devised your plan of action with care and consideration. You had been mulling it over all day, drawing on paper like the absolute madwoman you are; hell, you even made sticky notes on who to go for first and what to say. Sure, being moderately drunk hinders your memory slightly (an understatement of the century), but you got a feel for what you’re going to do. It’s nothing short of evil.

Dream and you don’t exchange words, you merely nod at him-- which he, of course, can’t see-- but your criminal bond enables telepathic communication. You can hear his thoughts, ones that strangely sound like drink drink, drink drink. And really, who are you to refuse such an enticing offer?! As he fucks off to stalk his victims, or play pretend, you take a sip. The cocktail is still sweet, but this time it’s not the icky sweet you had tasted prior. You glance at your sticky notes, ones the roaches can’t see, and nearly spill your drink for the second time today as you jerk.

“Fuck!” You exclaim, shoving your headphones off and spinning in your chair. You hastily stand up, wobble -- the world is pleasantly funny right about now -- and giggle. Stepping past the mountains of abandoned clothes and pillows and blankets and anime plushies, you maneuver your way to your bedside table and yank it open, nearly taking out the whole drawer with you. In the mess of old diaries and bad drawings, pencils, jewelry, and stickers, you fish out something you should not be wielding in your inebriated state.

It’s a knife.

In midst of teenage angst you had ordered it off of Amazon with your mom’s credit card, all the while whining that it’s not a phase, mom, and it’s what all of my cool kid friends with fried hair have, and don’t you want me to fit in, don’t you want your daughter to be happy?! You think it’s about that time, the time of too much uneven eyeliner and black eye shadow, that she took to calling you little raccoon. Trash rabbit was your personal favorite, but she used it sparingly. When you presented your Macy’s outfit, holding up a fucking butterfly knife, to your dad, asking if it was a look, he glanced up from some boring business magazine all boring business dads read and said, with a bright smile might you add, “It’s a something!”.

Oh, how it gleams in the lilac light. You used to do tricks with it, back in eight grade maybe, and--what the fuck? Why did you parents allow you to buy it in the first place? Well, because you’re the only child, the only one important, of course they got it for you and clapped enthusiastically at your performances, because why wouldn’t they? The whining they’d face otherwise would’ve been harder to endure than a whole dance number to Panic! At The Disco’s greatest hits. Broadway looked so fucking shabby in comparison. Your mom said so, so it must be true.

Stumbling back to your extremely confused viewers, you take your seat, feeling a bit more grounded now that you’re not standing on your platform shoes anymore. Putting on your headphones, you grin at the chat that starts swimming, and not from too much drinking either. You do a quick flick of your wrist, one that thankfully doesn’t end in injury, and the sharp tip of the exposed knife points upwards, glimmering. It’s a rainbow colored one, because one, it’s pretty, and two, you weren’t hardcore enough for the jet-black or straight up military ones the other emo kids had. Cute and dangerous, just like you.

So you just sit there, holding it up, looking somewhat sly as the roaches capture this momentous moment with screen-caps. Someone definitely clipped you trudging past the obstacle course to obtain a weapon of mass destruction. You must be already trending on Twitter, though you can’t exactly log on and confirm your suspicions. You just feel like you might be, like you should be, because your audience wouldn’t let this slide. Thankfully, your friends don’t have time to check social media, or you’d be outed in an instant.

“Y/n?” Your roommates voice booms from your headphones, and you perk up with a stupid realization that you completely forgot about Among Us. Stuck at the start, at the lobby where Dream had left you, you see her astronaut waddling to you, “What are you doing here? Wait--Have you not moved from the beginning?” She can barely finish the sentence without giggling.

You grin, “I was looking for something.”

Your voice is soft, too calm for your usual frantic spill. You gently set the knife down, hand coming to rest on your mouse, fingers idly, slowly, bouncing on the buttons.

“...What were you looking for?” She’s none the wiser, the numerous drinks consumed tonight numbing her sharp mind. She would have noticed. Your eerie composure would’ve given it away in a heartbeat, or at least hinted at something being objectively wrong. But she sounds curious. Poor girl, hasn’t she heard? Curiosity killed the cat.

“A knife.”

“A knife?!” There’s something about her tone that implies a mental clicking, the puzzle pieces falling together, “You have a knife?!”

“Yes.”

“No!”

You think it would only be appropriate that the random sequence of killing animations renders the backstabbing one. You grin, biting your lower lip with a quiet snicker.

i love women

if evil bad...why seggy?

You take your time leaving her there -- in true serial-killer-to-be fashion, you stick around for a bit longer, admiring your handiwork, or more like the chat singing your praises. You joined today with the intent of making an interesting stream. You have no doubt in your mind that now it will be legendary.

You move down the hallway, and you let your imagination wander: you can almost feel the stuffy air of your helmet, can almost hear your loud footsteps echoing in all this hush, can almost see your reflection in the spotless tile floor. It’s not long before your second victim makes an appearance, running circles in Cafeteria. You hear his voice first before you see him, recognizing Alex by his unhinged screech of “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s goooo!”

“And what’s got you so excited?” How cool and collected you are, gosh, you barely contain the quiver of excitement that threatens to slip out.

“Y/n!” He exclaims, rushing to your side like a lost puppy--he’s really making this easy for you, he’s not even trying, “You just missed--Oh my fucking God, you just missed James, he-he called me tall, he called me fucking tall! Let’s go, let’s gooooo!”

“Well, you are tall, aren’t you?” You chime sweetly, almost as sweet as the drink that lingers on the tip of your tongue, “Real 6′3 energy, no?”

“Yes, yes, exactly! You get it, you fucking get it--” Once again, his mic goes mute, and you glance at the chat for help.

hard to transcribe what hes saying but hes taking shots and yelling that he loves you good job mom

hey, queen! girl, you have done it again, constantly raising the bar for us all and doing it flawlessly

mom plz dont kill alex hes too cute hes all uwu rn

Oh, how you’re about to break his poor little heart. If you had any good left in you, you’d spare him. You don’t, and you’re not taking requests at the moment, so all you do is smile at your chat and they know. They just do. Hive-mind shit, you’re all two-faced little fuckers.

You giggle, and it sounds a tad fake, “You’re so weird, Alex,” You start, and he’s back in the call, a sound of confusion echoing in your ears, “but I get it, you know. You’re weird. You’re a weirdo. You don’t fit it, and you don’t want to fit in. I mean, really, has anyone even seen you without your stupid hat?”

“...Do--” He sputters, bellowing a laugh, “Do you have that whole fucking monologue memorized?!”

“Is it because you’re bald?”

“I’m not fucking bald!” His giddiness is quickly replaced by anger.

You hum, pretend to think, lastly barking a “Liar.” before you kill him. His scream is cut off, leaving only deafening silence at it’s wake. Unlike with Rae, you don’t stick around. You didn’t appreciate how little he enjoyed your recital.

You run into James near Navigation, most likely on his way to Cafeteria. He ends his song mid-note, and you breathe a sigh of relief, “Finally! Someone! I’ve been looking all over, where the hell is everyone?” You question, blocking his way, lest he accidentally stumbles onto the crime scene and easily pins it on you. You’re not done yet.

“Honestly? No clue. I’m searching for them myself, like, everyone’s scattered. I hope no one died.”

You smile. You tried not to, but you can’t contain it, “Me, too.” You echo the sentiment, urging him to join you, and he does. Too trusting. Everyone in this game is too fucking trusting. You lead him back to Nav, feigning that you have a task here. As you pretend to move the spaceship, you can’t help but ask, “Hey, James?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s your favorite scary movie?”

A beat of silence passes, “Oh no, fuck that, I don’t like this at all.” He states, about to spin on his heel and bolt like he should do, but you’re quicker-- killer instincts and all-- and he’s dead before he makes it out the doorway.

“See, after your No More Lies video, I figured you’d only tell the truth.” Yes, this is the part of the anime where the villain monologues, only the hero in this case is an astronaut cut in half, and not exactly alive to listen to you. You hope James’ ghost sticks around, “Case in point, why the fuck did you tell Quackity he’s tall?” You eye the chat, which’s mostly spamming W and comparing you to Ryo from Devilman Crybaby. “Such a shame...” You murmur, pressing the REPORT button.

“What?! How are so many people dead?!” Ash gasps, her kind voice tinted with fear and confusion. Your three kills, like military stars on an uniform of a distinguished officer, are displayed on the board. Dream appears to be slacking, having yet to take a life.

“Someone’s been real fucking busy.” Charlie observes. It’s true, you have been.

“I found James in Nav, but holy shit--” You begin, exasperated, “--what the fuck, guys, how did we miss this shit? Where is everyone?”

“I’m at Electrical.” Corpse voices.

“And I’m with Corpse.” One sentence is all it takes to figure out your next target: Bretman. Revenge for being killed first in the first goddamn round, and for spending so much time with your boyfriend.

Eep!!! Boyfriend boyfriend boyfriend!!! The word even makes you forget your thirst for blood, that’s how whipped you are. Sadly, it’s time to return to reality, to this grave situation.

“And what have the two of you been conspiring?” You keep your tone level, but that alone is enough to set everyone off. The unease you had planted within them before the game started is starting to bloom. However, if they suspect you, they don’t speak up, not yet.

“Fishnets, mostly.” Corpse says.

only partly a lie he was mostly talking abt u queen <3

corpse simping for y/n is the sweetest thing ever

the times corpse used y/ns name when talking abt y/n: 1. the times he used baby or my baby: infinite

“I’m wearing them right nyoooow.” Bretman drawls.

You hum, “What a coincidence. I am, too.”

“Wait--For real?” That seems to catch Corpse’s attention, because of course it does, you picked them with him in mind, after all.

“No peeping.” You tsk, obviously referring to his tendency to hop onto your stream unprompted. Whether he actually listens to your demands is beyond you, “Peeping means cheating.”

“For the love of fuck all, can we get back to the three dead bodies, please? Because I’m about to have a second coming of Christ moment and taste my consumed, digested beer for the second time.” Charlie interjects.

“I mean, anyone have any ideas who’d do this?” Dream takes hold of the conversation. Quiet, disappointed nos greet him. They have nothing to go on, no clues, not even a subliminal message. With everyone scattered, there is no way of locating the actual bodies and drawing a long red trail leading back to you.

You’re too good at lying, and Dream is too good of a publicist. People tend to trust his judgement, which is his main asset (besides his calm demeanor of course). When the Among Us gods chose you as Impostor, they made sure you had every advantage.

“Who-Who do you think it is, Dream?” Ash questions, “I trust you. I do. Just know that.”

“No fucking clue.”

“Y/n?” She tries again.

“Same. I’m a bit worried, though.”

“Let’s, uhhh, let’s skip?” Sykkuno offers. The consensus is to start voting at six. Your new mission is to make sure you dwindle the numbers down drastically before that can happen. You have no qualms about sacrificing Dream in order to meet your goals, either. Absolutely cold blooded.

Back at Cafeteria, there are words exchanged about Quackity’s body just laying there, forgotten. Blame is shifted: how come we didn’t notice sooner? Where’s Rae? And you mindlessly go along with their mourning, not really paying attention. Dream leaves with Charlie and Sykkuno, Corpse requests you stay with him and you sprout fake apologies. Not his time yet. Us girls need to stick together!, you sing, following after Ashley and getting further and further away from him, going deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of the spaceship.

You find yourself in Security with her, her cute astronaut pressed to the cameras, watching the live feed, “Let’s lurk here, okay? Maybe we’ll see something.” If only she saw who was standing behind her.

“Who do you think is the Impostor?” You ask, standing in the doorway, “Or, more like, who are the Impostors?”

“Honestly?” She ends her word with a little sigh, “I think it might be Corpse and Bretman. I haven’t seen them at all this game.”

You smile, raising your brows, tilting your heard, and you sound so kind, like a dear old friend about to deliver a tender message, “...Have you seen me?”

“SHIT!”

Too late. In one smooth motion she joins the afterlife. You cut the lights, venting mindlessly till you spot Corpse and Bretman panicking in Weapons. Your existence is still a mystery to them.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck--” Corpse mumbles, “Bretman, don’t you dare fucking kill me right now.”

“I’m not Impostor!”

“Okay, I’ll drink to that.”

They rush out of Weapons, most likely on their way to Electrical, and you trail after them like the Grim Reaper itself, biding your time till you can deliver the killing blow.

“Corpse?!” You call out, mild panic ringing in your voice, “Is that you?”

“Shit, Y/n? Where are you?” He questions. Crew vision is so sad, so small, how can he not see you standing almost right next to him? “Where’s Ash?”

“I dunno,” You say, “when the lights went out I ran. Please don’t kill me.”

“I’d never do that, baby.”

Too easy. They’re all too fucking easy. You bite your lower lip, trying to stop the laugh bubbling in your chest, to stop the lightheaded dizziness that overcomes you with a rush of excitement.

“Thanks, pretty boy.” You mutter, and it sounds a bit lower than you intended, a bit darker, something sinister lurking underneath cotton candy words. It instantly clicks in Bretman and he makes a noise, something like a whine, and you see him backing away, “I know I can always trust you.”

Whether Corpse notices the odd shift in tone, he doesn’t show it, “I like it when you call me that.” Is all he says, and you hear the smile in his voice, the appreciation. The trek to Electrical is all but forgotten. You slowly make your way to Bretman, “Where are you? Come here.”

“Just a minute,” You say cheerily, “I just need to kill Bret first.”

“Holy shit.”

“N-” Your victim’s sentence is cut off in a second, and you can’t contain your manic cackle this time, because the screen bleeds red, the words VICTORY splattered on it, depicting yours and Dream’s sneaky astronauts. You’re still laughing as the voices of your fallen friends ring in your ears.

“Y/n, what the fuck, you’re an actual monster.” Dream says, but there’s no actual weight behind his words, each syllable punctured with a laugh.

“I knew the second she asked me about my favorite scary movie that I’d get the chop.” James states.

“Wait, Y/n, did you kill everyone?” Corpse questions.

“She fucking did!” Dream answers for you, “I got Charlie and Sykkuno, and barely at that. What the fuck.”

“I’ve been waiting so fucking long for this.” You admit, giggling, raising you glass, “I toast to you, Dream. My perfect partner in crime.”

“I didn’t really do shit, but cheers.”

Quackity heaves a heavy sigh, “Y/n, Y/n, you don’t actually think I’m weird, right? Right?”

“No, she does.” James chimes.

“WHAT THE FUCK DID I EVER DO TO YOU, DUDE?!”

More commotion, more noise, and you just sit there, buzzed, snickering, reading the chat as the rest agree to play another round. You thank the people who donated that you had accidentally missed among the, you know, murder, reply to a few questions, bow dramatically to the many praises and invisible flowers you receive for such beautiful assassin work. When you look back at the screen, you throw your head back with a maniacal laugh.

Impostor again, only this time it’s with Charlie. Family bonds are often restored when united under a common goal. You’re so happy. So happy. You weren’t done terrorizing your friends yet.

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ 　✼

tags (in italics is those i couldn’t tag! make sure all’s ok w your settings!) : @littlebabysandboxburritos - @fairywriter-oracle - @tsukishimawh0re - @ofstarsanddreams - @bbecc-a - @annshit - @leahh19 - @letsloveimagines - @bellomi-clarke - @wineandionysus - @guiltydols - @onephootinfrontoftheother - @liamakorn - @thirstyfangirl - @lilysdaydreams - @pan-ini - @mxqicshxp - @tanchosanke - @yoshinorecommends - @flightsandfantasy - @liljennyx3 - @bingusmode - @unknown-and-invisible - @sinister-sleep - @fivedicksinatrenchcoat - @mercury–moon - @peterparkerspjsuit - @unstableye - @simonsbluee - @shinyshimaagain - @ppopty - @siriuslystupid - @crapimahuman - @ofthedewthesunlight - @mythicalamphitrite - @artsyally - @corpsesimpp - @corpsewhitetee - @corpse-husbandsimp - @hyp-oh-critical - @roses-and-grasses - @rhyrhy462 - @sparklylandflaplawyer - @charbkgo - @airwaveee - @creativedogs - @kaitlyn2907 - @loxbbg - @afuckingunicornn - @fleurmoon - @yeolliedokai

more tags are in the comments bcs tumblr only allows me to tag 50 people max 💙

#corpse husband #corpse #corpse husband x reader #corpse x reader #corpse social media au #corpse husband x y/n #corpse husband fic #corpse husband social media au #social media au #myso #make you say oh #quackity #dream smp #corpse x y/n #imagine #imagines #reader #xreader

2K notes · View notes

shadowworks · 4 years ago

Text

Compulsion

Pairing: Mafia!Dabi X Reader

Warnings: dubconish themes, flirting with Hawks, blood, murder, blackmail, fingering. NSFW, quirkless AU!

Word Count: 4.4k

A/N: Alright! This piece is for The Smut Pile Mafia Collab

I have to give my wholehearted thanks to @hisoknen @some-kindofgnome , @pleasantanathema, and @ever-enthralled for reading this over the last couple weeks, and making sure it reads well! I am so happy to have you beautiful souls! Also a special shoutout to Raph for brainstorming with me when I was stuck at the very end. 💕

Edit: This has fanart! Beautiful @maewoahoah created a Mafia!Hawks piece right here and a Mafia!Dabi piece here! She’s very talented! ;)

On this ominous winter evening it begins snowing.

You readjust your peacoat and step through the frosty glow of the street lamp to your front door. Your muscles ache a little more than usual, your steps a little heavier. It’s been a long and tedious day at work; far less stimulating compared to Toga’s position working for a bootlegger named Tomura. But both jobs pay the rent. You push papers and withhold your scowls towards clients. Now, you want a bath.

The sound of a muffled radio plays on the other side, and it floods your ears as you walk in with warmth and an iron smell wafting your chilled nose.

“Folks, I'm goin' down to St. James Infirmary...

Seeeee, my baby there;

She's stretched out on a long, white table

She looks so sweet, so cold, so fair.”

Toga’s playing blues again. It’s a routine she has before the graveyard shift across town. At this time, she’s in the kitchen making something before she goes, but you’re having trouble figuring out what food smells like copper.

“He-e-e-y,” you call lazily, a sing-songy tone in your voice.

She doesn’t answer, though you hear the clacking of stiletto heels on wood, which makes you amble down the hall to see what she’s doing.

“Think you can smuggle some whiskey tonight? I thought we had some, but Keigo probably polished it off last—“

You stop in the doorway.

There’s a poor bastard lying flat on his back, head twisting too far towards the sink. Ribbons of blood streak down his colorless skin, pouring out from a dark and glossy hole just beneath his jaw. You see it puddle and stain the edges of his hair a sticky red, the only sound besides your heart thudding is the soft thrums from the parlor.

“ When I die please bury me in my high top Stetson hat

Put a twenty dollar gold piece on my watch chain

So the gang'll know I died standing pat.”

You’re in a daze, one where you’re not sure how long you’ve been staring. It doesn’t seem real. Is it real? But it’s not until you hear the sound of heels clicking against the wood floors that you drag your gaze to the noise.

Toga’s standing near the stove, her features vacant, shoulders slouched, and she’s holding a knife that’s still wet.

What the fuck?

You want to scream, berate her, seethe what the fuck was she thinking, or if she was thinking for that matter. But the blonde speaks up before you do, with a voice above a whisper.

“He was going to leave me. Said he was too dangerous.” Toga doesn’t look in your direction, moving to the rim of pooled blood which has stopped spreading out, “I told him I wouldn’t let anyone come between us, but he wouldn’t listen.”

Your jaw goes taut, staring incredulously at her steely face. The lack of emotion gives you a sinking feeling in your stomach.

The man wasn’t a random suit who bled out on your floor, this moron was seeing Toga on and off for months and had been trying to be more present.

Nights spent arriving at your door with flowers and sweets, and driving her to work was becoming a staple in his routine. He preferred staying in Toga’s room if they had the day off, and he always slipped out when the morning frost dusted the grass, a soft bluish hue painting the streets before sunlight.

But that’s not the problem. See, he was a core member inside the Mafia running the northern side of the city, ‘The League’ they like to call themselves. The only men above this guy was his boss Tomura, and the underboss Dabi. You don’t know the former, but you’ve spent time with the latter.

You’re aware of his sadistic nature that flashes behind those teal eyes, and he doesn’t try to hide it, either. The sideway glances during a poker match before he fucked someone over , the smile he wore when you asked about the purple bruises on his knuckles.

So fan-fucking-tastic, the broad has some nerve.

You curl your lip, already shrugging your shoulders from your coat. You toss it over the table and start rolling up your sleeves to the elbows.

Toga finally turns towards you after catching movement by her side, brows raising confused, “What are you doing?”

“You’re gonna grab his feet and we’re gonna move him onto the rug in the hall.”

You step in the blood, grabbing him by the rusty black colored jacket and dragging him from the puddle. Of course it leaves drag marks, your heels making tracks alongside, but you can deal with the clean up later.

Toga hurries over to help, carrying him by the legs and letting you guide the body to the floral rug.

“You don’t want to know what happened?”

You stop. Immediately dropping the dead weight, his blond head lolls off to the side. Your palms sheen with red, but you straighten up and push a beach curl from your cheekbone with the back of your hand.

“Not really. All I want is this fucker out of my house.”

It’s her turn to stare at you incredulously. This is completely out of nowhere for you to be assisting in hiding a dead boyfriend, even if you two are roommates. You’ve only been living together for four months now.

“Toga, I need you to listen, okay?” you say, a bit mockingly, “I can look past the murdering business by pretending you acted in self defense, but if you don’t have the goddamn brains to realize this idiot has friends, then I suggest you don’t stab people!”

Toga flinches slightly at the lilted pitch in your voice, already suggesting panicky, “We can take him to the woods and hide him there?”

“That’ll work.” You don’t think Twice about it.

Working together, you both hoist him a couple feet onto the rug, refusing to look at his face. You didn’t need to be feeling a pang of guilt. It doesn’t take long for you to roll him towards the front door, as the material wraps around his figure.

The hardest part is retreating to the car. The moment you push through the door, you see the distance from where you stand and the car parked a little down the sloping street. You both give a hard look to the powdery snow dusting the ground, quiet and enchanting. It would be beautiful...had you not been carrying a corpse.

“Stop being a little bitch and heave!”

“I can’t! You’re making me hold all the weight!”

“He’s off the ground! How the fuck are you holding all the weight?”

“But my arms hurt!”

“Fucking hell, Toga. What if I had stayed at my sister’s tonight? What then?”

“Stop yelling at me! I get it, alright? I shouldn’t have done it in the house!”

Your bickering toils through the winds, muffled by the falling snow. The burst of cold air is running through your buttoned blouse while crossing to the 1929 Chevrolet causing a shiver to roll down your back. When you reach the car Toga plops the rug down onto the snow first, then you. Your wet fingers feel numb against the metal handle.

There’s one entrance on each side, which likely will make shimming the body to the backseat much harder. You pause, looking at the front in thought.

“I’ll go first,” you say, “when he’s in, you go and grab our coats.”

“Are we burying him?”

“Think the lake’s faster.”

“What if it’s icy? They’ll see the hole if we throw him in.”

You both ponder your options for a little while, this isn’t exactly something you’ve done before...You can’t say the same for Toga, but she seems just as puzzled, almost clueless on how to get rid of her ex.

Meanwhile, the rolled corpse behind you starts to slip downhill, little by little. The slanting street gives speed and the rug starts to roll.. Red droplets trail behind in its wake.

You just happen to see it first.

“Toga—Toga, the body! The body!”

Toga cries out, taking off after the rug as best she can on a frozen sheet. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

The graceful snowfall flutters with pain and chaos.

Toga skids against the fresh ice, feet stumbling under her navy blue dress. She falls to the ground with a hard thud, and you see she isn’t stopping. She keeps going alongside the body, sliding until the two disappear under another parked car.

You don’t have time to think, a chill strikes up your spine in your panic.

“Toga!” you call out, taking off after her. Unfortunately you find yourself abruptly on your back, pounding hard on the stones and stealing the breath from your lungs.

If you could sigh right now you would. Or rather, if you could punch Toga right now you would, as rage twists with a throbbing pain in your chest. Was all this worth having a mobster roommate? The odds were piling against her. You have a mind to push her in the lake when you get there.

Several silent minutes go by with you staring up at the cloudy sky. It’s brighter from the illuminating white snow, and despite the icy powder prickling your flesh, you have no choice but to wait for the ache in your chest to fade.

“Enjoying the view?”

You hear a new voice, male, and the suave tone tells you who it is before he treads near. He looks over you with half lidded eyes of honey gold.

He’s very pretty. The drifting snow flakes above his wheat coloured head manage to enhance this, though the uplifted eyes lined in black, and nicely sharp features are the last thing you want to see. You’re nowhere near ready to start lying out of Toga’s mess.

“That can’t be too comfy down there,” Keigo says, bending forward with an outstretched hand,“C’mon, upsy-daisy.”

You take his hand, feeling another leather glove hold your waist and lift you onto your feet. When you settle, he starts brushing the caked snow off your back. Mobster or not, he’s at least a gentleman.

“You alright?” he asks, giving you a once over for any fresh scratches.

You give a slow nod, crossing your arms over your chest. Fear’s got the better of you, and you look anywhere but him., “What are you doing here? I thought you were working tonight.”

“Oh I am! You could say I’m on patrol, need to pick up a few things.”

Your gaze stills to your left, heart skipping. Keigo’s not alone. Standing nearby, a slim figure dressed in black from head to toe is watching you two lazily. A thread of smoke seeps from his parted lips, clouding a handsome face and spikes of black hair. Keigo keeps talking, but you can’t take your eyes off the ghostly presence you know to be Dabi.

“Unfortunately that includes loverboy. He was supposed to be back hours ago, but we figured he’s still fooling around,” a little smirk tugs at his mouth, suggestively “He’s still inside, right?”

You blink, turning back to face Keigo, “I wouldn’t know, I just got home,” you lie.

“Look at you! You look like you’re about to freeze to death.” He starts suddenly, swiftly slipping his arms out from his heavy coat, revealing a black three piece with pinstripes, and a brighter crimson tie. In one smooth motion he twirls the long, beige coat over your shoulders, letting it rest over your figure.

“Thank you,” you say, before your eyes catch something.

Dabi moves towards the clumsy skid marks, head tilting down to the red dots in the snow near his polished shoe. You stiffen.

“You sure you’re okay?”

Your gaze flashes from Dabi’s retreating back to a politely smiling Keigo, “Yeah, I’m fine! I’m really cold is all.”

“Well, we should get you inside. You know you left your door wide open?” Shit, the door. You forgot about the stupid door—

(Dabi looms across the indents in the snow and follows down the hill like a dark shadow against crystals illuminating bright.)

“Ah yeah, I thought I left my purse in the car. It was just for a second, and then I slipped,” You force a smile. Relax. You need to relax. Keigo doesn’t seem convinced, reading something off in your features.

“Is that right?”

(He gets the edge of the old Ford, and notes the specks of red soak wider here. The spots lead underneath.)

“I know, it’s pretty foolish. It’s um...It’s a good thing you showed up when you did, or...”

Your eyes drift over Keigo’s shoulder. The underboss starts to crouch low. Your pupils shrink, a new wave of panic tingles the back of your neck. Damn him, why was he so clever?

“Dabi, wait!” you shout, pushing past Keigo’s shoulder. In your hurry you kick up the snowy crystals, rushing to the taller mobster in his long obsidian coat. Dabi quickly turns, standing up.tall before you hook onto his upper arm like a lover. “I saw an animal go under there that looked hurt. You shouldn’t mess with it.”

A smirk that breaks into a grin spreads on his face, a look of amusement blooming from your look of fright. You want to glare at him, though that could be dangerous. Why does he like seeing you scared?

“An animal, you say?” he parrots back, adopting the same mocking pitch you gave Toga earlier. He’s not in the least bit on edge, and you really don’t like that. He flicks his teal eyes up to look behind you just then, “Good thing I have the city’s best exterminator right here.”

As if on cue, you hear the crunching boots of Keigo walking to the car. “Give me a break with the dirty work, will ya?”

“What, scared of a little pest?” Dabi taunts back coolly.

“I’m not too fond of getting my knees wet, actually,” Keigo returns quite dryly, sharp eyes studying the long pattern marks. He places his gloved hands on his thighs and drops himself to a crouch in front of the vehicle.

You desperately hope Toga proves you wrong. Maybe she had the common sense to bail while no one was looking. It’s all you can do at this point, while Keigo dips his head underneath. You don’t realize, but your grip on Dabi’s arm presses tighter into the wool.

Keigo inspects below for a moment. There’s a long pause like a winter evening should be. Silent. Calming. You can almost believe in the soothing little lie. Then Keigo coughs a laugh that echoes through the street. Bursts of manic giggles grow louder from the mobster, leaving you tilting your head at his pushed back hair, confused.

“There’s a pest, alright! I think I caught something—“

Keigo reaches under, and with an impressively strong yank, Toga’s head pops out in a doe eyed stare. Her arms are wrapped around a bundled rug with a fairly familiar head sticking out.

“Hey there, Toga!” Keigo exclaims, “When did you become a rat?”

Dabi tips his head down, drawing the lit cigarette back to his lazy smile. He’s shockingly calm which does nothing to ease your shivering panic. Toga however, seems fine. In fact, she’s moved on to livelier feelings.

“Hey! Does it look like a rat could’ve done this?!” she snaps, shaking the body in her arms. It bangs against the bottom of the car sending loud echoes through the nearly empty street. Specks of blood dribble on the white ground, and a couple more drops spray her cheeks.

You stare up at the clouds, rolling your eyes. Goddamnit Toga.

“Yeah, I guess a rat can’t hold a knife, huh? Ya got me there.” Keigo turns and beams you a smug look, eyes half lidded in an expression that reads, nice try, but you failed.

You scrunch your nose, quietly shooting him back a glare. Asshole might’ve caught you both red handed, but he didn’t have to be so fucking cocky about it. It’s only charming when he has a winning hand at cards. Beside you, Dabi’s shoulders shake with silent laughter, though you don’t have the guts to flash him the same glower. He is second in command after all.

“Yeah, see? That’s what I thought!” Toga says in victory.

You blink very, very slowly at Toga when she finally meets your vastly unamused gaze,“...Nice work, Toga.”

It comes suddenly. A fiery warmth ghosts the dip in your waist as Dabi leans in. It’s not unwelcomed, raw and soothing even, but it hardly lasts. His hand curls around Keigo’s coat collar and pulls it off your shoulders. The crisp wind rushes to your exposed arms.

“You got any rat poison on you, Hawks?” Dabi tosses the coat to Keigo.

He catches it mid air as he rises to stand. “Nah, fresh out. But we have some back at the house.”

“You want to take care of our rat problem then?”

“Can do, boss man.”

Before you can figure out what they mean–what they have planned for Toga–Dabi’s pristine leather glove presses at the small of your back and directs you toward the pouring light of the open door. “Don’t wait up.”

It’s barely there, but as you shift your eyes to Keigo, his features take on a darkened look toward Dabi.

“Play nice, now,” you hear Keigo say. This time though, the joyous tone is gone.

A new song hums on the radio when you’re pushed through the threshold, you listen to the richly solemn blues as Dabi closes the door. He turns the lock with a click and pockets the key.

“I forgive you

'Cause I can't forget you.

You've got me in between the devil and the deep blue sea”

He doesn’t give you a passing glance, instead he turns and strolls down the freshly bare hall. He hasn’t removed his coat, and each room he passes he tilts his head in to search for something, stopping by the parlor. With a twist of a knob, he shuts off the radio.

“Where’d she ice him?” he asks, still not looking at you by the stairwell.

“In the kitchen.” You return. No point in hiding it now.

His steps creak the wood as he ambles further down, knowing full well where to go. He’s been here a handful of times; of course, those were happier evenings filled with drunken laughs.

You watch him stand by the doorway, staring at the vibrant mess of a crime scene. He pops the tip of his cigarette in his mouth before slipping from your line of sight. Dabi’s got the key to the door, so it’s not like you can run away—especially with Keigo just outside. It’s too risky to try and you know it, but it does cross your mind.

Summing up the courage, you decide to follow Dabi with measured steps, “What are you going to do with Toga?”

When you face the kitchen, Dabi’s near the table where you threw your coat. He has a hand in one of your pockets, and he’s fishing for something inside. It jingles in his grip as he stuffs it into his own pocket. Your car keys.

“Are you going to kill her?” you try again, a little irked he’s swiping your things left and right. He doesn’t release your coat either, laying it over the crook of his elbow.

He draws a final inhale from the dying bud, and crosses to the sink to snuff it out. An exhale of smoke blows out from his lips, “Killing her seems like a favor, don’t you think?”

“I thought it was the other way around.”

He turns, flicking teal eyes sheening with energy at you, “That lunatic’s no longer your concern. Right now, you ought to be more worried about yourself.”

Your features go taut, which in turn makes Dabi’s sadistic smirk return.

“I didn’t help her kill him.”

“No,” he agrees, taking a few strides around the blood to approach you,“but you were willing to stash the stiff.”

“Yeah, for this very reason. I didn’t want you coming after me!”

Dabi draws dangerously close, mere inches apart as he glances down with lidded eyes, the smell of tobacco perfumes from his shirt collar nestled under a violet tie. He crooks his index finger, embellished with a silver ring, ghosting it under your chin. “How’d that turn out for you, babydoll?”

With a ruthless smile, he breaks the fixed stare and rounds you to the hallway. He seems to be making his way towards the parlor again, but the swish of your peacoat in his arm, set you off.

How dare he? You don’t like how he’s walked inside, claiming what’s yours. You might have your life screwed over, but at the very least you want your coat back as some semblance of control.

You stalk after him, picking up pace to aim for his arm. The clacks of your heels are loud, but you currently couldn’t care less about being sneaky, “Give it fucking back. You’re not keeping that!”

You lunge for the black wool, but as your fingers brush the material on his left elbow, Dabi whips the coat, rotating arms. You’re not fast enough, but you try a second reach for his right arm, huffing out a growl at his stealthy reflexes.

“Dabi, I’m serious! You’re such a—”

In a twirling motion his newly free palm shoves at your shoulder, pinning you against the stairwell’s wall. He’s close, so close, the blue flames in his eyes are absurdly intense.

“That makes two of us. You’ll get this back when I say so.”

His voice is low, soft lips almost connecting to yours. You tilt your chin up, glaring at him with fearful, tentative eyes. His gaze flashes with mirth, and he huffs a small laugh at you.

“I’ve always liked this about you. That spark inside you.” He muses. The peacoat spills to the floor. Dabi lifts his slender fingers, pushing back a loose curl from your cheek.

Your stomach flips, as shocks tickle your skin. There’s been subtle flirting between you two before. You just wrote it off as overthinking the moment. Even though he only called you, babydoll, and he sat next to you at gatherings. How he filled your glass with water instead of booze as the nights waned. Now, you feel foolish for denying the little signs.

“You have a horrible way of showing girls you like ‘em,” you counter back, your voice’s quiet but leveled.

“Yeah?” he asks. The arm holding your shoulder tightens, while the other lowers to collect your long skirt. He traces his knuckles on the soft flesh of your thigh. As his hand trails up, his eyes remain fixed on your facial features. “Maybe this will help.”

His slim fingers reach the cotton slip, and it’s easy to pull off to the side, exposing the lips of your warmth. He tests the waters, sweeping the tips of his fingers across your folds. Your mouth parts in a breathless hitch in your throat. Dabi parts his own lips drawing near, ‘til his lips touch yours but not quite pressing together yet. His pierced nose bumps yours.

“Now here’s what’s going to happen,” he starts, just before sinking two fingers between your folds, pumping deep and slow inside. “You’ll go upstairs and pack what you need. When you come down—”

He thrusts particularly hard into you, sending a gasping moan to fall from your open mouth. His voice remains calm, a hint of glee can be detected. Fucking bastard.

“—You’ll be leaving with me. You’ll work for me...Live with me…And you’ll do everything I say. You got it, babydoll?”

He adds a third finger, soaking his knuckles deep with your slick. He’s hitting the right spots, the perfectly deep pressure. Your attention turns hazy as wakes of pleasure tighten just below your stomach. Your hips buck against his thrusting hand, yet still, you manage to nod your head.

Moans flutter from your lips and vibrate onto his smiling one. To heighten the pleasure he begins swirling your wet clit. “Ah, Dabi...Oh god, Dabi—”

He slows his fingers suddenly, which makes you cry out. He pretends to ignore it. “If you try to escape me...I will hunt you down and hurt you in ways that will marr that pretty skin of yours. I’ll make you scream so loud, and no one will be there to save you. Tell me you understand.”

He curls his knuckles, pressing into a rough spot at the top, pumping fiercely against your slippery, muscular walls. You cry out, squeezing at his shirt collar and coat. “Fuck—I understand, I understand! Baby, right there, ah!”

Dabi gives you no mercy. He tugs and twirls the bud of sensitive nerves, swirling with driven circles that clench your walls in wonderous pressure. You’re close, he’s so close to sending you in high bliss. Your moans get heavier, and your clenching more and more and—

He removes his fingers. Another cry of protest sobs from your mouth only to be swallowed by Dabi’s lips on yours. His tongue massages the moans from your breath, his scent of cigarettes and smoke immerse your senses as you drown in the kiss.

He slowly breaks apart with a wet sound, looking deeply in your lust-glossed eyes. His voice is low and arousingly husky. “Now get your things.”

Before you know it, Dabi pulls away from your shoulders, and turns for the parlor. You try catching your breath, watching his slim, muscular back...Did that happen? Did he rob you of everything? Your home, your life, your orgasm?

Eventually, with light steps you do as you’re told, and turn to climb up the stairs. What choice do you have? He has your life in the palm of his hand. And right before you make it to the top, your hand drawn on the railing, the spinning clicks of your house phone perk your ear.

A long pause. Then finally, Dabi’s rich voice speaks up from the parlor,

“Hey, I’ll be needing a few guys at Togas...Yeah, we found him….Toga did him in pretty good...No, we’ll need the good bleach for cleanup.”

***

P.S, this might be a mini series 👀

#dabi x reader #touya todoroki x reader #bnha fanfiction #mha fanfiction #dabi #touya todoroki #my hero academia fanfiction #boku no hero academia fanfics #mafia!dabi #tw blackmail #tw blood #keigo takami #bnha x reader #the smut pile #tw dubcon #shadow tales

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seradyn · 2 years ago

Text

Dead Man Walking (Halloween Monster Binge Pt. 1)

Ardyn, your eccentric lover, has a dark secret he’s been hiding from you. When he reveals he’s a zombie, of all things, your love for him is tested.

Beginning of my Halloween fics for 2022! 🎃 All will feature Reader or Ardyn (but mostly Ardyn) as various monsters! Hope you enjoy 💕

@savage-rhi I hope this delivers on your excitement 😊

Word Count: 2592

TW: Blood, gore, seriously reader discretion is advised

———————————————————————

It had taken a long time for Ardyn to open up to you about what he really was. He had to be sure he could trust you, that you wouldn’t cry wolf when you saw the monster that lurked beneath the surface. He couldn’t bear to lose you, couldn’t bear the rejection, after being alone for so long. It would be the final nail in his coffin of madness.

At first, you were more than a little skeptical, to put it mildly. Ardyn, a zombie? It was ludicrous. Beyond ludicrous. You figured he was joking around, his sense of humor a bit twisted from your own. Surely he wasn’t serious. But when he’d brought you down to the city morgue, you started to become more suspicious. He led you over to an unlabeled drawer, pulling it open to reveal a fresh corpse, rigor mortis only having recently set in. He pulled off the plastic cover, deft fingers quickly tearing off a piece of their bicep. Immediately horrified, you made to ask what he was doing, but it was too late. You had to repress a scream as he popped the thin morsel into his mouth, like one would a sweet piece of candy.

You hadn’t run away, hadn’t been able to, frozen in fear as Ardyn ate the raw chunk of flesh. His eyes bled black tears, the dull amber of his irises now an eerie glow as he stared you dead in the eye. He quickly gulped the piece down, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly. Done with his snack, or perhaps it was a display, he nonchalantly flipped the cover back over the body, and pushed the metal drawer closed.

When he looked back at you for a reaction, you saw the pain in his eyes when he registered how terrified you clearly were. He couldn’t lie and say he didn’t expect this, but some sinful part of him still hoped you would be unaffected by his true identity. A selfish, foolish part of him, really. He was condemned to eternal loneliness the day the gods stole everything from him.

His obvious despair made you pause. You realized it must’ve taken a great deal of courage to be truthful about such a thing. It suddenly made sense, why you never saw him eating, and whenever you did he never seemed to be enjoying it. The only part he ever looked forward to was the bottle of wine he would use to wash it all down. The alcohol would purge his mouth of the taste of human food.

When you remained silent, Ardyn was quick to assure you that he never fed directly off the living, taking his pick from the recently deceased instead. You glanced up at the wall of drawers, wondering how many he’d sampled in the time that you were together. It made a cold shiver crawl up your spine.

The subtle action did not escape Ardyn’s notice. He closed the gap between you two, cupping your face in his hands to capture your attention. When you looked at him, you saw the desperation poorly concealed behind his eyes. They’d returned to their normal hue, and in them spoke a poem that came directly from his heart. It sang to your own in gentle notes, making you long for him even as he stood right in front of you.

“Please,” he’d said, begging. “I'm aware that I am an irredeemable monster, but I beseech you. I cannot fathom existence in your absence.”

It was then that you understood the true nature of his confession. It was made out of love, pure and hot and terrifying. He wished to end the countless lies he’d had to tell you, to end the secrecy. He wanted you to accept him without the fancy facades. To welcome even the worst parts of himself.

Truthfully, it was a bit romantic.

Even if his way of telling you was also a bit disgusting.

You’d placed a tender kiss on his cheek, pointy hairs digging into the supple skin of your lips. He breathed a deep sigh, shoulders falling as tension seeped from his muscles. He rested his head on your shoulder, pulling you into a smothering embrace. You would dare to love him as he was, no matter what that may be.

As the months ticked by beyond that day, it got easier to accept Ardyn’s true nature. You noticed almost immediately he seemed more relaxed around you, no longer having to hide himself away. He still kept his feedings discreet, something you greatly appreciated. You did however, make him swear to wash his mouth out before kissing you. He was swift to agree, loath to get you sick off the rotting flesh he consumed.

You also made it a point to constantly remind him how much you loved him. There were times when he became understandably ashamed of what he was, worrying that he would drive you off. You shooed those intrusive thoughts from his mind, holding him tight as you assured he was perfect the way he was. That you would never stop loving him.

It was moments like those he felt lucky to have you in his life. It made the centuries of suffering worth it.

Some immeasurable amount of time later, a night came that tested your devotion to him, though.

It was a late summer evening, the sun having already set and the streets of the imperial capital mostly empty. You and Ardyn were returning from a luxurious dinner date, one that he had planned well in advance. It was an enchanting evening, one where laughter, drinks, and conversation flowed freely. Of course, Ardyn had declined an entree for himself, instead spoiling you with anything you wanted. His wine glass never dipped below half full, but the alcohol hardly affected him.

Now you leisurely ambled home, arms linked as Ardyn led the way. The conversation had died long ago, both of you feeling the familiar weight of encroaching exhaustion. You both simply enjoyed the company of each other, feeling that was all you needed to be content.

Somewhere along the way, Ardyn stopped abruptly, eyeing a store you’d not made it two feet from. He hastily instructed you to continue home while he went to grab something, refusing to disclose the details of what caught his fancy. Nodding in agreement, you kissed him farewell as he left your side. The chill of night was able to attack your skin without his warmth to shield you.

You continued on your merry way, but before you even made it a block, you’d been stopped by a tall man in a dark outfit. He looked at you like you were a snack, not something with their own thoughts or feelings, a creepy grin adorning his face. You tensed, uneasy about any encounter with strange men. A quick glance told you you were alone on the baren street, meaning there was no one to help you if things went south. You hadn’t liked those odds.

“Hey sweet cake,” the man said, sounding young and cocky. “Where ya off too?”

You remained alert, watching him for any sudden movement. “Home,” you squeaked out, voice tiny and pathetic. Clearly afraid.

“Yeah?” He smirked at you. “Need help getting there?”

You frowned. “N-no I’m fine - ”

The words almost didn’t get a chance to leave your mouth, as the man instantly scowled and stocked towards you. You backed up instinctively, getting pushed into a dark alleyway off the side of the road. Your heart ran wild, filled with intoxicating fear.

“Stupid bitch think you can say no to me? Fuck you you stupid bitch!” His pace was increasing, getting closer as you tried to match it.

“Stay away from me!” You shouted, hoping someone was around to hear you.

The man suddenly leapt at you, arms outstretched, making a grab at your clothes. You cried out in fright, trying to scramble back to get out of reach. You tripped and fell, yelling in surprise as your back hit cold concrete. You stared up in horror as the figure soon loomed over you.

He came up short though, making a choking sound as he was yanked back before he could touch you.

“What’s this?” A smooth, deep voice sneered.

You recognized it easily, feeling relief flood your system.

Ardyn had snatched the poor bastard away from you, now holding him up to a wall by his neck. He struggled in Ardyn’s grasp, the unending fury he used to attack your lover making his eyes look wild. He clawed at the arm that held him, but Ardyn looked on with only amusement. You slowly stood, dusting off your clothes as the scene unfolded.

“Darling, I suggest you look away,” Ardyn purred lowly, staring at the writhing man with unblinking eyes. You recognized the hunger that made them turn black, oozing out equally dark liquid. His grin could only be described as mad, watching his victim go from enraged to pitifully terrified with sadistic glee. Your heart sank, for you knew that face. He was about to feed.

You obediently whipped around, covering your ears and squeezing your eyes shut, praying it would be over quick. It did little to stop the piercing screams that soon followed, striking you with bolts of animalistic fear. You could hear the wet sound of flesh being torn apart, of wet smacks as Ardyn ate. Your body trembled against your will, hair rising. You grimaced, clenching your teeth, trying to block out the endless screaming.

After what felt like an eternity, the wails subsided. You tentatively lowered your hands, assuming that at this point the man was dead. Damp chewing and slurps were all you could hear. You couldn’t decide if you were thankful or resentful of that.

You slowly turned, fighting back a bout of nausea as you saw what had become of the man. The alley was painted with crimson blood and bits of loose flesh, thrown around haphazardly as Ardyn feasted. Large portions of the body were gone, revealing blood stained bone and mutilated muscle. To end his life, Ardyn had torn into his torso, tearing out generous heaps of entrails, which now spilled onto the ground in a messy pile. Intestines, kidneys, liver, organs your brain couldn’t name in its panic. Some had large bites taken out of them, spilling their contents to mix with the rivers of blood. Ardyn must’ve been more hungry than you thought.

You’d seen him feed before…but never on live prey. It violently put into perspective what he actually was, how serious his existence was. The blood drained from your face, making your skin a sickly pale color.

He was still eating too. One arm had been ripped out of its socket, held aloft as Ardyn stripped long strings of meat off the bone with his fingers, raising them above his head and slurping them down like pasta. He was also completely soaked head to toe in blood, clothes irreversibly damaged by his ghastly feeding. He hummed in contentment, enjoying the taste of his slimy treat as rivulets of blood and tissue flowed down his chin.

You fought down the urge to gag, not wanting to show how abhorrent the sight was to you. You looked down and closed your eyes again, hoping Ardyn would be done soon and you could leave the grisly image behind. You weren’t sure how much longer you could stay there and be strong for him, how much longer you could be in his presence as he ate a man alive.

Ardyn spared a glance at you, noticing how silent you were, how unwell you looked. He felt a faint stab of guilt, knowing he was the cause of your distress. Reluctantly, he dropped his dinner with a heavy thud, turning his full attention to you. He strode over with echoing steps, and you looked up, confused as to why he stopped.

His expression surprised you. Even though his face was stained maroon, it couldn’t hide the gentle smile that curved his lips, the fondness that lit his glowing eyes. He looked at you as he always had, even when his monstrous appetite was in control. The look of a delicate lover, one who would bring the world to its knees for his other half. One who would give any and everything if only for the faintest smile from his partner, the smallest amount of joy.

You soon found yourself smiling back, worries washed away.

He was still your Ardyn.

He stopped only a foot away, craning his neck to look down at you. You met his gaze, and pulled him into a tight hug, wrapping your arms underneath his coat. Cold moisture immediately clawed at your skin, your own clothes becoming saturated with cooled blood. You buried your face in his chest, noting the absence of a distant beating beneath the thick muscle.

“Now now, my dear,” Ardyn cooed, his voice more gentle and sweet than you’d ever heard it. He rubbed his nose into your hair, being one of the only parts of his face that escaped relatively clean. “You’ll soil your outfit.”

You hummed, titling your head up so you could look at him. He was watching you adoringly.

“I think I’ll survive.”

Ardyn chuckled. He slowly brought a hand up to brush his knuckles against your cheek, and you could feel your skin become decorated with a sticky liquid. You leaned into his gentle caress, preening at his touch. You both had to repress the urge to start kissing.

You stole a peek at the body behind him as a distraction, trying to desensitize yourself to it. Something caught your eye.

“Hey, I thought zombies were supposed to eat brains,” you teased, nodding at the man’s skull, still completely intact.

Ardyn paused, slowly turning to stare where you indicated. When he looked back at you, his face was filled with delight.

“Indeed they do,” he admitted, all too pleased. “But, I prefer to save the best for last.”

“Ah,” you breathed, face brightened by understanding. That was something you could relate to.

“Perhaps you should head home, while I finish up here,” Ardyn said smoothly. “I’ll be a while yet. It has been a long time since I had a meal so fresh.”

It was your turn to chuckle. Honestly, it was a wonder he wasn’t fat, with how much he enjoyed feeding. You cupped his neck with one hand, bringing his face down to your level. Leaning up on your toes, you placed a sweet peck on his forehead, his eyes closing in pleasure at the contact. When he straightened, you took his face in your other hand, slowly rubbing his stubbly jaw with your thumb.

“Alright. Don’t be too long, okay?”

Ardyn smirked. “You’ll hardly have the time to miss me, my sweet.”

You giggled, allowing your arms to fall from his person. He stood aside to let you through, ever the gentleman. You carefully made sure to keep your gaze away from the bloody corpse, looking at the opposite wall as you calmly walked out onto the street.

Admittedly, you had been a bit apprehensive when Ardyn started feeding, unsure if your love would hold against the horrifying acts that took place that night. But now you knew, no matter how grotesque his nature made him, he was still the man you loved. Still the man who loved you. Was it such a crime, that he got hungry every now and then?

———————————————————————

The idea for this hit me LIKE A FUCKING BUS while I was scrolling through the Ardyn x Reader tag on here 😅 I knew the basic idea of what I wanted to do for the spooky season, but this wasn’t something I ever had in mind before today lol

Also I KNOW it’s not even October yet, but as stated earlier, this idea absolutely assaulted me, and I needed to get it out. Honestly super happy with the finished product 😄

Pretty unconventional zombie Ardyn fic I think. Don’t know if I’ve ever seen one before, so it was super fun to tackle. I hope you guys are similarly pleased 😉

#ardyn x reader #ardyn izunia x reader #ardyn x you #ardyn #ffxv #ardyn izunia #episode ardyn #ardyn lucis caelum #final fantasy 15 #final fantasy xv #ff15 #ardyn ffxv #zombie!ardyn #halloween monster binge #also on ao3

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cherri-cherri · 4 years ago

Text

× Little Flower ×

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Pairings - Ryoumen Sukuna x Reader

Synopsis - No one was allowed to touch you as you were his. Those who dared would suffer a fate worse than death...

Warnings - Possible Grammar Errors, Slight Gore, Swear Words

A/N - This fic here is pretty short but I wanted to write this after having a weird dream with flowers and Sukuna. I honestly have mixed feelings about this one but I hope you all enjoy! - 🍒

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"Speak, girl. Do you know why you stand here on trial here today?" A voice called out to you from above but you simply kept your head hanging down to stare at the stacks of dry wood pressed under your feet. Your body ached due to the countless bruises and cuts littering your skin and the tightness of the ropes cutting into your bound wrists weren't helping at all in the slightest.

"Y/N L/N, do you understand why you stand before us?" The voice repeated again, this time a rough hand grabbing ahold of your hair and gripping it tightly, forcing you to stare up at the man before you.

"Cat has your tongue? Well then, let me remind you that you were caught giving aid to the king of curses. No doubt spreading your legs for him like that harlot you are" his words only mirrored the disgusted look in his cold grey eyes, glaring down at you as his grip on your hair only tightened. Sad to think that you would be used to this knowing your uncle was not a kind or gentle man and yet his words only stung.

"...I did no such thing....He was hurt and I was trying to help, I was–" Letting out a yelp as your cheek burned from the slap your uncle gave you, you felt tears prickling your eyes as he leaned in closer.

"Liar!! Someone saw you with him, saw you hold him! It is obvious that your vile ways allowed him to take over your mind and possess you!" Yelling at the top of his lungs, you heard others around you cheering the man on as some even chimed in. So many hateful words, so many people who you believed to friends and family only for all of them to look at you with such disdain and anger. Tears began to form until your uncle released you and stepped away, "There is only one way to save your soul now before he swallows it whole. The flames will send you to the afterlife and maybe then, you will be saved."

Your heart dropped after hearing that. You were going to die, all because of giving a monster sanctuary, all because you tried to be kind. Men carrying large clay pots came to the stake you were bound to and then began splashing you with oil. Coughing as the liquid was poured ontop of your head, you heard the chanting of the people all around you, screaming and yelling for your death over and over again as your uncle came walking back towards you while holding up a lit torch.

This was the end. Your miserable life ending at such a horrible note, it made you let out a small saddened chuckle as you slowly closed your eyes and waited for the fire to engulf your completely until nothing but ash reminded.

You waited..

And waited..

The ropes wrapped around your wrists were soon sliced off and at the same time, you hear a few thuds collapsing onto gravel not too far away from you. When you opened your eyes, you found yourself staring at your uncle. Your now headless uncle. The blood erupting from his neck like a geyser as the body slumped down to its knees, occasionally twitching as the blood sprayed across your face and ragged dress. The color drained from your face completely as you stared down at the blood on your clothes, horrified until a large tattooed around wrapped itself around your waist. Freezing completely, you looked back forward to see the villagers beginning to flee until those who even took a step back were diced into cubed pieces.

"Any human who moves another muscle will die." A rough voice called out behind you, sending your heart to panic. Turning your head slightly to the side, you saw him.

Ryoumen Sukuna.

His eyes darted down towards you, crimson hues staring into your watery E/C eyes and he simply gave you a toothy grin. "Come on now, Y/N, you shouldn't give such a frightened look to your knight in shining armor. I just saved your life."

"Y-you killed them.. " you muttered, causing Sukuna to roll his eyes as he lifted you in the air before placing you down onto his shoulder to carry you. "And? I don't see what's wrong here. You're alive, they're dead. Now that we've been over that, I think you owe me a reward—"

"I knew it..." a woman said from the crowd, her knuckles turning white from how hard she was gripping her fists. She stared at the two of you with fear in her eyes, more so you than Sukuna. "Y-you were sleeping with him..you dirty whore...letting a monster in this village. Letting a curse spread in this village!" As she screamed out, blood soon enough trickled down her lips as she felt a pain in her chest before a growing numbness. Looking down, the woman saw nothing but a gaping hole in the middle of her chest, blood dribbling down the emptiness to the stomach until she slowly collapsed on her back. Others around her screamed out, some moving from the places they were standing before being sliced in half or trisected into parts. You gasped out, covering your mouth as you felt bile rising up.

"S-she did nothing wrong!" You yelled to Sukuna as he only stared at the remaining people in the crowd with a smirk. "Wrong...As far as I see, everyone here has committed a great sin."

Crimson stained the once grey pathway as people are killed by the curse one after another. A few brave (or foolish) souls attempted to even rush at Sukuna only to make it as far as five steps forward before their insides became their outsides. A woman tried to beg for her life by offering herself as Sukuna's personal slave, even going as far as to give away to lives of her children but once again it proved nothing as she too was killed.

It didn't take long for Sukuna to kill off the rest of the villagers, regardless of their age or even if they were innocent or not. They were all killed and slaughtered brutally without mercy, their blood mixing together as the smell of their corpses began to reek. You stared down at the headless corpse of your uncle, eyes dulled as you thought perhaps it would've been better if the fire had claimed you. Then no one wouldve been killed. No, no that wasn't true.

It would've been better if you never met him. If you simply continued on your way and left him bleeding out for the shamans to find. If you had never opened your heart to the curse..then no one would've died. Then no one would've been killed. Feeling a hand brush your hair gently with his nails and combing a strain behind your ear, you were snapped out of your thoughts. Sukuna pulled you closer towards him with one arm and wrapped each of his arms around your small frame before pressing his lips onto your forehead.

"They didn't have to die..." your voice was practically a whisper at this point, hoarse and dry from the screaming and begging for him to stop. Sukuna merely chuckled as he released you, "Do you feel guilty?"

"What sort of question is that supposed to be? Of course I do...." Saying that you didn't would only be half of the truth. Sure you were angry with how they were so quick to hurt you and kill you but then again, if you knew this was what Sukuna was capable, you would've accepted the punishment. You should've listened, should've stayed away from him that night yet apart of you knew that this perhaps wouldn't have changed much.

"I don't see why when because of you, your people get to live on..."

Those words got your attention as they left you confused. Before you could even question him however, you heard a small weak voice speaking out towards it. "You've doomed us all, girl..."

You could've swore that it was your uncle speaking to you and yet you knew that was impossible seeing as his vocal cords were severed alongside his head. But when your eyes slowly looked over to the severed head, you saw a large flower growing where the blood pooled over. It might have been beautiful if it wasnt for the fact that your uncle's face was on the flower, darkened eyes staring at you. Gasping out, you covered you mouth and took a step back, pressing your back into the warm chest of Sukuna as he pointed over towards the other bodies littered around the execution ground.

A variety of flowers had sprouted forth from the blood soaked ground, each with the faces of the dead villagers as they yelled and screamed out in agony at you. So many cried out your name, children who were unfortunately brought here wailed as their mothers simply screamed out multiple swears at you. Speechless, you froze at the sight as more flowers simply began to grow up around the two of you and were only spreading. Small vines began to creep towards you, only to be sliced away when it got too far, not to you but to Sukuna.

"Regret, anger, hatred, sadness. So much negative energy, so much rage here. I wanted to repay my little flower and what else to gift her with than a garden of her own." He hunching over and reaching for one the screaming flowers, he plucked it forth from the ground as the face on it contorted in pain before it began to beg for mercy. "Flowers for my flower. Though none of this compare to you." Sukuna chuckled, placing the plant onto the back of your ear before combing a strand of your hair.

You felt disgusted as the flower's voice grew more and more faint, it practically whispering in your ear for himself to be spared such a fate. You could do nothing but silently say how sorry you were yet your hushed apologies were drowned out by the voices of your new cursed garden.

#jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna #ryoumen sukuna #jjk angst #jjk sukuna

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