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tonycries · 7 months ago

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Madam Gojo - G.S.

Synopsis. Gojo Satoru, the strongest clan leader in all of Japan - and the most dangerous, too. You, rejected by the elders, and totally not his future bride, right? Right?

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, clan leader! Gojo, arranged marriage, Satoru is a little (very) INSANE and down bad, the elders are awful, oral (fem receiving), use of “madam”, unprotected, créampie, kníves, overstím, féral Satoru, heinous things, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 4.9k

A/N. I need clan leader Gojo SO bad you guys don’t understand.

They say that the head of the Gojo clan is the one person who could burn down this entire world and get away with it, too.

The youngest of all the clan leaders - and the most infamous - a man who keeps his friends close, and his enemies even closer. Enough so that you’ve heard whispers of his cruelty at every nook and cranny of those stuffy social functions your family has dragged you to. And it was more than enough to paint a picture of such terrifying power.

Of a sharp blade and an even sharper mouth. Of an angelic figure that left no evidence, nor anyone to tell the tale - only the final, hauntingly beautiful image of cloudy white hair, and electric blue eyes.

Eyes that were currently locked with yours, and didn’t seem like they’d stop any time soon. Dangerous. Magnetic. Twinkling with such odd amusement from across the long tatami room.

Gojo Satoru, the head of the Gojo clan - your future husband.

“Tch, the Kamo girl’s family had a much better reputation than this one.”

Ah, right. How could you forget?

You shift awkwardly on the mat, managing to rip your eyes over to the line of elders behind Gojo, whispering just loud enough that you’d hear - and, of course, remember once more that no, the marriage proposal hasn’t been approved just yet.

And considering those disapproving glares you’d been so warmly welcomed with, it seemed that they were well and fully intent on keeping it that way.

“I can assure you,” you fight to keep the polite smile plastered on your face, painful and slowly cracking with each passing second being interrogated. “My family is well-respected in the community.” Eyes snapping over to a silent Gojo, skin burning at his intensity. “Very well respected.”

“Come now. We’re just saying.” Another voice speaks up, strained and tinged with a venomous tone you knew didn’t bode well. “Your lineage isn’t exactly illustrious, is it?”

The emphasis on “illustrious” isn’t lost on you, and it’s so fucking dramatic than you think you could almost laugh. Apparently, a few of the elders think so, too - because they’re positively seething at the sight.

Muttering an icy, “Something funny, dear?”

“Nothing at all.” you bite back any insults, sifting around the contents of your untouched dinner - the last thing on your mind right now when it seemed like you were the main scrutiny tonight. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Such attitude!” That offended croak is met with murmured agreements and nods from the end of the room, “The madam of the Gojo household must be demure- I told the young master we should go with the Kamo girl.”

God, why did you agree to this again? Something about strengthening your family ties? You felt sorry for the poor soul who’d end up marrying Gojo, because no matter how much beauty or power he held, it certainly wouldn’t make up for this.

Scoffing, the words falling from your lips faster than you could register them. “Then why didn’t he?”

And this little question somehow seemed to have struck a nerve - multiple, in fact, as you watch in morbid fascination as the elders visibly bristle.

“B-because-” one sends a hasty glance at their stone-faced clan leader, flushing at his still-unwavering gaze on you. “You- It doesn’t matter. Someone like you isn’t suited to marry-”

“Right, because this clan is that great.”

You freeze. The elders freeze. It seems like everyone in the world freezes except for Gojo - who only raises his brow. Letting your words hang in the air like a foul stench, studying just how awfully you’re digging your grave deeper in this hellish marriage meeting.

Eventually, the elder closest to Gojo’s right mutters a painfully saccharine sweet, “I knew we shouldn’t have let the riff-raff participate.”

And oh it was like a dam burst open.

“-out of the thousands of girls, for someone like master-”

“The scandal, too- imagine letting the Gojo name fall this far-”

“Isn’t worthy. Can’t let the bloodline be carried by some whor-”

You’re on your feet before you realize it. Whirling at the elders head-on, and if looks could kill then all those old fossils would be six feet under and their graves a dance floor for you already.

Fists clenched, you spit, “If he’s so wonderful then you all can marry this oh-so-great bastard yourself-”

Oh. You’ve done it now.

You were fucked. You were so very, very fucked.

You don’t even bother to meet Gojo’s stare, instead wondering whether you’d be able to outrun the strongest clan leader alive. Sure, you could take those old toads but-

“Sit.”

Your heart leaps at the voice, the first time you’re hearing it since entering this room - deep, almost-melodic, and for a second you don’t even recognize who it came from. Not until Gojo’s flashing you a mirthful grin, blue yukata shifting as he moves to sit cross-legged, “Sit.”

Oh, God, you didn’t know of any torture methods one could do while sitting - but you didn’t doubt that Gojo was an expert in all of them.

And as your knees buckle, sinking ever-so-slowly to sit back down on the floor, Gojo tilts his head in confusion. Brows scrunching together as he gestures downwards.

“On your…lap?” You question, as if the answer wasn’t glaringly obvious.

The only response you get is a careless nod, Gojo spreading his knees further as if to prove his point. No care or concern as he plows on, “If you’d like, of course.”

It’s a silent staredown - you, and him - and the elders watching jaw-dropped, of course. None of you have ever known the young master to let anyone get this close - let alone give them a decision on, well, anything.

A weighty beat passes. One. Two.

He wins.

And you find yourself walking unsteadily towards Gojo’s imposing figure, all eyes on you as you plop down unceremoniously in his waiting lap. Warm - and it catches you off guard. Gaze flickering over his broad shoulder to look at the aghast faces behind you. Tension crackling in the air as they wonder the same thing as you at this very moment - just what type of torture method is this?

“Interesting…I need this one.” You blink up in confusion, heart racing and oh- shit, when did he get so close? But Gojo’s chest only rumbles with laughter. Circling his long fingers around your waist, pulling you flush against his sculpted chest, “As the new madam of the Gojo household.”

What?

The elders behind let out stifled gasps, as bewildered as you were. And you swear you saw one faint, though, you don’t get to take a close look, because Gojo’s gently grabbing your chin, tilting your head up at his pretty face.

“Wan’ me to kill them?”

“Kill- why?” you sputter - both from his idea and the heat of his proximity.

“Why not?” He looks at you through his long lashes, so deceivingly innocent that it makes your head spin. Tone so light, as if he was talking about something trivial like the weather. “An early wedding gift, maybe?” And he sounded like he was joking - you wished he was joking. But you knew better.

So you swallow thickly, “N-no…thank you.”

At this, Gojo’s eyes twinkle. “Yeah, real interesting.” he coos, voice so uncharacteristically playful. And his lips are so close - too close. Running a thumb along your bottom lip, “Gorgeous, too. Tell me, pretty, what do you think of ruling over this trash?”

And you could feel every eye on you as you mull over the question. Weighty. Scrutinizing - except for Gojo who seemed like he was hanging onto your every word.

Hell, might as well give ‘em a few heart attacks right?

Words that never come - because your body moves before your mind. And you’ve got one hand gripping his expensive Yukata, the other scrambling for his broad shoulders. Softening the blow as you crash your lips onto his.

Soft - it’s the first thing you register. Followed very shortly by the taste of those cheap lollipops from those local convenience stores you loved - strawberry, you think.

But you don’t get to confirm, because the kiss is over as soon as it happens.

Gojo’s pulling away with a strange light in his eyes, lips flushed a pretty pink, yukata dangling off his shoulder already. You have to train your eyes away from the milky skin, and over to the elders. Yeah, one really had fainted - three, now, actually.

And only one of them is brave enough to pipe up a rapid, “You- how dare you dirty-”

Thud!

It all happens so fast you’re not sure if your eyes are playing tricks on you. In a split second, there’s a long dagger pulled out from his yukata, embedded deep into the tatami mat - not even an inch away from the elder who’d opened his mouth.

“Out.”

It’s so abrupt that for a second, you think Gojo’s talking to you, voice soft, and so so eerie. It sends shivers down your spine as you raise your eyes to look at his glare at the frozen crowd behind him.

Eyes wide, aura menacing - a grin gracing his features, absolutely nothing like the one he’d sent you - it was something so dangerous and cold. The temperature in the room dropping about ten degrees as he mutters, “I won’t say it twice.”

And immediately, it’s chaos. Each one stumbling over the other to run out the sliding doors first, none of them daring to look you in the eyes now.

“O-of course, master.” the leader, seemingly, chokes out. One foot out the room already, “I’ll um- check that the servants are doing their work-”

“No. You all will stand outside.” Gojo murmurs, not even bothering to look at them. Instead, cupping your face closer towards his, “And close the door.”

That door could not have been shut faster, ringing in the tense silence. And suddenly you’re too-aware of the audience outside. Too-aware of being left alone with…your future husband? And the way he was looking down at you with something so dark in his eyes.

“So…” he runs his nose down your neck, breathing in your scent. “If you don’t want me to kill those bastards…what else must I gift you, my wife?”

“Like what?” You gulp, back arching involuntarily into him.

Gojo laughs at the reaction, teeth ghosting over your racing pulse. “An estate?” Dancing ever-so-slowly, up your jaw, “All the cars you could want?” He blows gently in your ear, chuckling as you yelp in surprise. “Maybe jewelry?” Kissing the tips of your ears, “You’d look gorgeous in blue. And the Zenin clan has the perfect necklaces I can…convince them to send over.” He pulls away, taking you in entirely, “Or maybe-” Lips now ghosting yours. “-something else?”

And then he’s kissing you - and you’re kissing him.

You don’t know who leans in first, just that Gojo’s lips were so sweet on yours. So addictive. Palms cradling your face so softly, while his lips were anything but.

“Open your mouth, pretty.” he pants into your lips. “Kiss your husband properly, now.”

Shit, you barely even realize the way you’re listening to every single word he says. Jaw falling slack to let him lick at the seam of your lips. Such a messy clash of teeth and spit and him - so hot and starved. Like he couldn’t get enough with the way he hastily moves to press wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw.

“Satoru-” you gasp, and he nips lightly at your bottom lip once you immediately shut yourself up because shit, you’re getting ahead of yourself. Calling the clan leader Gojo by his first name? Hell, you’ll see the gates of heaven before you see an altar.

But Gojo himself seems to think the complete opposite. “Don’t get all shy now.” he pries away the hand covering your mouth. “Call me ‘Toru’.”

You stare at him, wide-eyed, trying to will yourself to say this little nickname.

Too slow, apparently. Because his hands are suddenly everywhere - on your breasts, your hips, giving your ass a slow squeeze. “T-Toru-” you squeal.

Gojo’s mouth drops into a soft oh! Immediately surging forward as if to claim your lips again - stopping mere millimeters from your lips with a pained grunt. Like it killed him to stay away.

“See? Jus’ like that.” he angles your head just right, before spitting, once. Twice. Right into your pretty mouth. “N’ now you’re mine.”

And fuck if Gojo wasn’t going to prove it.

He’s laying you down on the mat, fumbling with the ties of your yukata, “Mine to wed. Mine to carry my legacy.” Thumb running over your hardened nipples as he urgently unbuckles your bra, throwing it behind god-knows-where. “Mine to-” Biting down, ever-so-lightly on your nipple, “-worship.” Hands dipping lower, and lower - just barely teasing the hem of your drenched panties. “Mine to ruin.”

You don’t know what you’re reeling more from - maybe from those words, which you’re sure he said loud enough for the elders outside to hear.

Maybe from the way he’s sliding a finger underneath your panties, sliding it up and down your puffy folds. Making you arch into him like such a slut as he pools your sweet sweet juices on his fingertips, popping them into his mouth with a low groan.

“Oh. Fuck. Oh, fuck-” Gojo’s eyes roll to the back of his head. Not wasting a second before ripping off your flimsy panties, tucking them away into the waistband of his yukata. “Sweeter than I imagined.”

“S-so filthy-” you mewl, as he spreads your shaky thighs. Lips wobbling pathetically at how he’s admiring your glistening cunt. “Toru, no one’s ever…”

At this, his eyes are back on yours now. Half-lidded, pupil’s blown - and you don’t think you’ve ever even heard of the leader of the Gojo clan being so out of it, let alone see it first-hand. His voice strained as he breathes out a barely audible, “Shit- really? So then…” He’s moving to lick lewd little circles on your inner thigh, “...your husband’s gotta make this memorable, right?”

Gojo doesn’t give the time to even think about answering - he doesn’t trust that he has the fucking sanity to wait that long. Because you’re so pretty splayed out like this for him. Your moans too sweet. Your cunt too tempting. Too his.

So, really, you can’t blame him when he’s plunging nose-deep into your quivering pussy, licking one, long stripe right up your swollen folds. And fuck the cute lil’ whines escaping your lips are so addictive that Gojo just can’t help but do it again. And again. And again and-

“O-oh my god, ngh- feels too good-” you card your fingers through his soft locks - something that would usually result in a lost hand or two. But for you - anything, for you. “More, Toru.”

Shit, if Gojo thought he’d lost his sanity before then he definitely wasn’t ready for this.

“So needy.” he’s chuckling into your glistening folds. One hand throwing your legs over his shoulders, the other thumbing over your needy clit. “So perfect. Can’t believe no one’s ever hah- eaten out this pretty cunt before.”

Immediately, he’s squeezing his hot tongue past your folds. And it’s all you can do to buck your hips up so sluttily when he licks at your sloppy entrance. Your throbbing clit. Anywhere and everywhere Gojo could reach.

“Hngh- yes yes yes, too good.”

“Yeah? Ya like this?” He moves his fingers down from your already-ravaged clit, circling your sopping wet hole. “Ya like making such a mess on m’tongue?”

“W-wha-” The words get caught in your throat as you whirl down at the sight below you - Gojo. Gojo, with strands of white hair sticking to his forehead, eyes so glassy. Gojo, tongue lapping at your sweet juices, looking like he wanted to devour you with his eyes, as much as his mouth.

At your reaction, he grins, furrowing his brow in mock-concern, “What’s wrong, pretty? Can’t talk?” Bullying his long fingers past that first feeble ring of resistance, massaging your plushy walls. “N’ you were so hah- feisty earlier. Thought my new mmpf- wife would be mouthy?”

You give his hair a warning tug, whispering, “Sh-shut up-” But it comes out more breathless than you intended.

Gojo notices, of course he does. Because he’s letting out a whiny, “Sh-shut up.” Wrapping his pretty pink lips around your pulsing clit, “As you wish, madam Gojo.”

You hear a dull thud from outside, but you can’t even think about turning your head to look because Gojo’s drinking you in like a man possessed. Pumping his fingers in and out, expertly hitting that one spot with each and every thrust. Looking nothing like an infamous clan-leader and every bit on cloud nine as he rolls his tongue over your clit. Over and over and-

“P-please ah- oh-” you squirm.

“Move your hips like that. Yeah- jus’ like that, pretty- fuck-” The most powerful man in the country letting himself be angled and pulled as you pleased, grunting each time you drag your pussy all over his mouth. Fingers frenzied on your clit - sloppy. Fast.

But it still wasn’t enough for Gojo - he thinks it’ll probably never be. But that’s fine - the two of you have until the wedding night to perfect it, right?

So he’s looping a big arm around one leg, pulling your snug cunt impossibly closer, reaching over to toy with your pretty clit. And then he’s nose-deep in your sloppy entrance, preparing you for what was to come - fucking you both on his tongue and his fingers.

Jaw grinding deeper, stretching you out, thrusting in and out in and out in and-

“Fuck fuck fuck- Toru m’so…”

“Close?” he slurs into your cunt, grunting and smacking his lips against your own. Fingers just digging into your hips, sure to leave pretty little marks for him to admire later - and to give a message to those old toads outside. “Cum f’me. Shit- cum f’me, pretty.”

Gojo realizes it before you when you’re finally cumming - because your gummy walls are squeezing around him so tight that it’s almost difficult fuck you through your high the way he wants.

You’re shaking. Blood roaring in your ears, vision spotty. Crying out a hoarse, “Fuck fuck fuck- oh my god, Toru-” Barely even realizing the way you’re rocking your hips so hard into his hot mouth.

And Gojo keeps going.

Even when you’re blinking your vision back, big fat tears pricking your eyes at the sheer overstimulation. Even when white-hot electricity sparks behind your eyes each flick of his tongue. Still toying with your poor clit, tonguefucking you so messily.

“Toru, s’too- ngh- much- fuck.” You can barely get the words out, jolting. Wondering how the fuck his mouth wasn’t tired, yet - how his fingers weren’t cramping up, tongue still as greedy as ever. “C-can’t-”

“You can. You will.” he’s murmuring into your cunt. Running his mouth now, like he was drunk off your pussy. Words as fast and ragged as his tongue. “C’mon, faster. Harder. Fuck-” you flinch as he spits out little profanities into your messy cunt. “Fuckin use me. Use me like the good lil’ wife you are.”

“Oh- shit.” you whine. Clawing at the mats, Gojo’s hair, his shoulders - just anything to cope with the sheer stimulation as he made out with your pussy like a mad man. “Wait- cum- m’gonna…”

You’re cumming and cumming all over again. So hard, even as you grind your hips deeper into Gojo’s mouth. Riding out your orgasm on his pretty face, so painfully good.

And only then is he finally pulling away. Absolutely wrecked, eyes miles away already, mouth glistening with your slick. Going all the way down his jawline, and onto the tatami mat in a deafening drip! drip! drip!

“Oh.” he runs his tongue along his wet lips. “Who made you cum like this?”

A smile slowly splits across his face as you manage out a little, “Y-you, Toru…”

“That’s fuckin’ right. Me.” Hypnotized by the heavenly sight of you all fucked-out and twitching with the aftershock. Marveling down at his hand - glossy, and covered with your slick, “N’ m’gonna love you.”

And, well, a good husband always shares, right?

Because Gojo’s shoving his fingers past your kiss-bitten lips, pressing right at the back of your tongue in a way he knew would have your eyes watering, gagging around him so prettily. Eyes widening at the feeling of something so hard and hot between your legs.

“C’mon, lil’ madam. Lick them clean f’me, will you?”

You’re gasping, “Mmpf- Toru-” Eyes flitting between a smug Gojo and the hand currently untying his robe. So teasing with the way he’s giving you just a flash of those boxers before oh-

Shit.

You thought that he’d be big - it was expected, in fact. But this was fucking ridiculous.

All sculpted curves and dips of his body, faint scars painting his milky skin - stories he’d tell you about later, you think. A fucking masterpiece. All the way down, down, down to where his throbbing cock was leaking all over those tufts of white at his toned pelvis.

Rock-hard, and so so angry. Prominent veins running along the side, flushed a shade of pretty pink that glistened with precum in the dim lighting. So intimidatingly long that it already had you worrying for your poor cervix, and thick enough that it had your thighs pressing mindlessly together.

Something that Gojo obviously didn’t appreciate.

“Now now.” he tuts, pulling back his fingers to spread apart your thighs with ease. So far apart that it burned. “I need these legs open, pretty. I like the view, y’see.”

And he made it quite obvious, too. Spreading your swollen folds so shamefully apart with his thumb - wet with your split. All the blood rushing to his cock at the way you flinch in embarrassment, at the feeling of being so used. Cute.

“Shhh, relax.” Gojo hums. Spreading the spit and slick lazily along your cunt with his fat head, purposely letting it smear all over your thighs. “M’gonna make this feel so good for you.”

And let it be known that Gojo Satoru was a merciless man - for everyone.

Except maybe his cute lil’ wife.

Because, yes, he’s suddenly splitting you apart on his massive cock. Yes, he’s holding your poor hips still, head dropping into the crook of your neck as he sinks in inch by fucking inch.

But oh God does he have to hold back from fucking your tight cunt exactly the way he wants. The stretch too sinful, your pussy too heavenly.

Instead he’s kissing away the single tear rolling down your cheek, muttering, “Too big? Aww, f-fuck, pretty. You needa breathe-.” Rich, coming from him considering that Gojo doesn’t know if he was breathing right now. Too caught up in the way he’s rolling your swollen clit between his fingers, gasping into your open mouth, “Trust me. M’gonna make it f-feel hah- good. So fucking good.”

“F-fuck-” Your head is spinning. And you can only give him such delirious little nods as Gojo starts to push in quick, lazy little grinds of his hips just to squeeze inside your gummy walls. Past that first, tight ring of resistance.

“S’too big-” you squeal, nails raking down his back. “A-are you all the way in- yet?”

“Nope.” he’s popping the p, so unfairly smug. “Not even halfway in.” Drinking in all your cute lil’ sobs as he snakes a hand up to draw an invisible line across your stomach. “But you b-better be prepared, wifey. Because this-” Pressing down, hard. “-is where I’ll be.”

You didn’t know who wanted that to become a reality more - Gojo or you.

Especially with the way your tight cunt is sucking him up so good, and shit for all Gojo’s reputation, he feels like he could’ve cum right then and there.

“Shit- so fucking tight. God- you’re gonna make me lose my mind.” words so strained. So dangerous. He kisses down your neck, biting right above your racing pulse. “How do you want it? Like you’re my hah- wife- or my lil’ slut?”

A trick question, you think - as much as you could when you’re this cockdrunk, at least.

Locking eyes down at the way your cunt was bulging so obscenely around his cock, clamping and quivering as he keeps pushing in in in- Unstopping. Relentless. Mewling a little, “L-like I’m your…wife.”

“Louder.”

“Like I’m your wife.”

Several things happen at once - that faint muttering suddenly increases tenfold, and maybe if you were in any better state of mind you’d have noticed the few gasps. Gojo, however, does hear.

It only takes an irritated growl and a split-second flash of metal for a second dagger to be struck deep into the thin wooden panel of the door - unfortunately for whoever just so happened to be on the other side.

“That’s right. My wife.” And then he’s bottoming out - heavy balls smacking your ass, leaky tip nudging your poor cervix, letting you mark him up all you want as he rocks his hips faster into yours. “And you- ah- you realize they’re beneath you, right?” he’s stroking where he can feel himself bulging inside you. “That my lil’ wife just has to say the word n’ I’ll ngh- take ‘em all out?”

You can only sob at the pressure, because his words are so soft but he’s fucking you so mean. Sounding like he was losing his sanity with each time your heavenly walls milked him.

“I’ll kill ‘em- kill ‘em all-” he’s gritting out. “Hell, I’ll take down the r-rest of those clans ah- too if it pleases you.” Fingers getting so erratic on your clit, angling his hips just right to try and find-

“Hngh- f-fuck, Toru- there-”

That.

So sloppy with the way he’s alternating between hitting that one spot and just abusing your cervix. Bruising - like he wanted to mark you everywhere n’ show it off, too. Biting down your neck, whispering into the skin, “Anything for you, madam.”

Rocking his hips harder, and he couldn’t give less of a fuck about the lewd little pool of slick and split forming on the mat below. Can’t even think to bring himself to be disgusted.

“Feels good?” he’s drinking in your adorable sobs, “S’what you imagined?”

You’re torn between running away and fucking your hips up so bruisingly into his, hells digging into the mat as you push and pull away. “Yes. Feels- ah- ngh-” And for all your mouthiness earlier, you can’t even form coherent sentences right now - something that makes Gojo balls squeeze so painfully.

Something that has him wrapping his arms around your legging, dragging you like some ragdoll back to him. Rocking his hips so bruisingly deeper and deeper as he babbles.

“Gonna make you c-cum. So hard.” He’s fucking you harder into the mat. Faster. Sloppier. “Gonna ngh- make you my beautiful bride.” Bouncing you on his painfully hard cock like he was claiming you from the inside - to leave marks for everyone in the clan to know. His balls on your ass, your nails down his shoulders, lips on your neck leaving little bites. “Gonna make you mine, pretty. And everyone else s’gonna know.”

And Gojo can tell when you’re close because he’s learned that you have a habit of squeezing him to insanity when you are.

“Close?” At your delirious nod he’s giving you a blinding grin, “How cute. Why don’t you hah- cum f’me like the good lil’ wife you are, hm?”

Cum for him you do - thighs shaking, body jolting. So hard and violent that you’re covering him in all your sweet sweet juices.

And he can only watch - awe-struck - as your pretty pussy squirts all over his angry cock glistening, and just drenched with your slick now. Beads of it getting all over his burning abs, trickling down every dip and curve as he uses your quivering pussy harder and harder-

“God, you’re so good f’me. Look how much you came.” Giving a final, harsh thrust. “So perfect f’me.”

So fucking smug as he finally cums as well. Letting out a low, muffled moan into your neck as he fills your poor pussy with rope after rope of seed, painting your walls such a sinful white. All the way until he was sure you were bloated with his cum, until he could feel it dribbling down the side. Looking down to confirm and- ah, sure enough, it was such a heavenly sight - thick globs drenching your clothes below. Spreading in a pool as his hips push deeper and deeper.

Like it hurt to stop. Like it hurt to even think of tearing his eyes away from you.

But, alas, this old meeting room could only take so much, and Gojo thinks you’ll enjoy his - your - bedroom much better for round two.

Which is how the elders outside found the door kicked open not too long after. Blinking up in shock at the tall figure of the Gojo clan leader at the frame holding you. Tired and limp in a princess carry, all bundled up your yukata and one of his outer robes.

And they can only avert their eyes, faces burning at the hazy expression on your face, hair so unsubtly messy, bare legs twitching ever-so-slightly from where they were just peeking out from where the fabric had bunched up. Sinful. Desecrated. And evidently his.

“Clean that room up.”

Gojo’s stern command snaps them all out of their reverie.

But before they could all run to do so, he’s plowing on, unapologetic and low. “Oh, and bow down-” chuckling lightly as they scramble to their knees before him - and your barely-lucid figure. “-to the new madam of the Gojo household.

A/N. On my period I’m gonna cry.

Plagiarism not authorized.

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vilsoo · 3 months ago

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𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃 ⌇WILLIAM AFTON

william afton x fem!reader || WC: 4,172

𖤐 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. as the new intern for fazbear’s entertainment, you seemed to have grabbed william’s attention. but when an innocent work crush becomes a dark and twisted obsession, the only way he can have you is by corrupting you...

𖤐 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. dubcon, mind control (glitchtrap virus), sadism, murder, psychological abuse, manipulation, predator/prey dynamic, implied age gap, degradation, eventual rough smut, mentions of vanny mask.

𝑯𝑶𝑹𝑹𝑶𝑹𝑳𝑨𝑵𝑫/𝑲𝑰𝑵𝑲𝑻𝑶𝑩𝑬𝑹 𝑴𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻

[RIDE ANNOUNCER] This is a high speed roller coaster with sudden stops and drops! All riders must store loose items inside of a locker. This ride contains flashing scenes, special effects, and content warnings posted. Please remember to stay seated and keep all arms and legs inside when the vehicle is in motion. Any kind of photography is not allowed during the ride. Thanks for your attention and cooperation. We hope you enjoy.

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Your innocence drives William Afton insane.

He remembered the first day he hired you. You were just a young woman in university looking forward to this internship with a good hourly wage. And as time progressed, you were always this sweet and tender being for him. He loves to watch you doing your own thing, his movements furtive and unnoticed as he easily blends in with the shadowy corners of the pizzeria. He was intrigued about the fascination you have for his animatronics and their quirky mechanics. Perhaps you were just as gullible as his other child victims who were too late to realize his creations were actually killer machines.

However, William’s thirsty murder drive wasn’t as insatiable for you compared to the mindless little children in his pizzeria. Your curiosity was just too adorable to him that it makes him sexually enraged sometimes. There was something about an alluring woman like you that crawled under his skin, riling him up to corrupt the dark depths of your mind. Make him own you, use you, and just ruin you as his precious little whore.

And that’s when he designed the Vanny mask. A special mask created with the augumented glitchtrap virus that mind controls and corrupts whoever wears it. Just thinking about you being completely under his control, your sharp-witted brain clouded with desire and devotion for him, and only him, made him lose his mind.

It was closing time and all the guests were gone for the night. You were powering off all the beloved animatronics in the parts and service room, ready to go home and finish your assignments. But it wasn’t until William’s shadow overtook your peripheral vision, noticing him leaning against the doorframe with a gentle, nurturing smile on his face.

“Working late again?” he coaxed, the husk in his voice sending a shiver coursing down your spine. You must admit, Mr. Afton is a very fine man for his age despite the huge age gap. Your eyes furtively glide up his arms from his rolled up purple dress shirt, taking in his firm biceps and his entire muscle structure almost visible. Attractive, veiny arms and elegant, clean hands with long, slender fingers— you had to quickly glance away before you got caught staring.

“Sorry. You know how much I love to spend time with the animatronics. Especially Foxy and Bonnie,” you beamed.

“And for that, you’ve been doing such a good job so far. Such a smart girl, aren’t you?”

“If you say so, Mr. Afton,” you chuckled nervously, feeling your heart race erratically from his enticing compliment.

William waits for you as you pack up your things for the night to clock out and close the pizzeria with him. But deep down, he couldn’t control himself around you, his gaze growing darker from the morbid thought of physically digging through that pretty brain of yours and rewiring it like how he designs his killer animatronics and their broken little souls to obey him and only him. He had this gripping addiction for you, surrounding him with this madness to fucking chain up your innocence and corrupt you.

He couldn’t wait to reveal the beautiful surprise he has for you in his office.

You finally have your stuff, ready to go home for the night. “Alright, Mr. Afton. I’ll be on my way now. You have a goodnight!”

“Oh, wait—!” he suddenly sputtered, catching up to you before opening the door and escaping him. “Sorry, I forgot to tell you. I have something cool I need to show you in my office, if you don’t mind. It’s a nice surprise just for being my favorite intern here.”

The way you raised your brows and widened your eyes was so oddly adorable to him. “A surprise? Aw, you didn’t have to!”

“No, no. For your wonderful service, I felt inclined to reward you with something cool. You go on right ahead into my office and take a peak. Apologies for, uh, making you stay a little longer just as you were about to leave.”

You couldn’t help but oblige, falling right into William’s trap just like that. An innocent surprise, just how could you resist that from your boss that you were secretly crushing on? As you sauntered down the dimly lit checkered hallway into his office, you slowly open the door and noticed a white rabbit mask laying right in the middle of his mahogany desk.

It all felt so odd at first. As if something was amiss. Usually his computer and paperwork would be disorganized right on this desk, but his office was entirely cleaned out. Were you in the right room? You were sure that this was his office, the same office where he conducted your interview and got you started with your onboarding when you got hired. The same office that he invited you in for coffee and discussing about your career and pursuing your major. Frazzled with confusion and slightly perplexed of the changes and the way the air felt ever so slightly thicker and ominous, you couldn’t help but feel drawn into the mask.

There was a purple glow coming from the eyes of the rabbit mask, prompted to reach out to it and run your finger down the mask. Something about it was reeling you in, luring you into a trance that you dropped your backpack onto the floor. No matter what, your gaze couldn’t leave the mask as you stared into its eyes, utterly hypnotizing you. Then you slowly picked it up and turned it around, suddenly wincing in pain when you see the wicked purple glowing code, the cryptic symbols, and foreign arcane patterns.

Ensnared by the hypnotic patterns, it feels as if you completely lost your sense of self and became increasingly disconnected from this reality, transpiring around you. You inch the rabbit mask closer to you, the hypnotic and corrupt coding overwriting your willpower and invading you tremendously like a virus. And once the mask settles into your face, you were no longer yourself.

New user detected.

Pairing occipital transponder.

Stay calm.

This won’t hurt a bit.

You let out a yelp from a dull throb as you were helplessly consumed by this malicious coding, this malware literally brainwashing you like cables and wires attaching to your occipital lobe. At first your visual perception and your visuospatial processing were completely altered until the malware spread into other regions of your brain, specifically your hypothalamus ansa lenticularis and pallidum; where your sexual desire is mediated. It was like a vise tightening around your temples, each squeeze sending waves of sharp, pulsing pain through your fragile skull. Your coherence became fragmented. Your agony was also amplified. But these invasive commands from the virus seared into your consciousness, suffocating you with this tremendous amount of lust pooling in your brain.

William was standing by the doorframe again, watching you with a wicked smirk as you tried to rip the Vanny mask off your face, stumbling on some thick wires on the floor and falling when your balance and coordination faltered. You started screaming in terror, begging for somebody to help get this device off of you. But William couldn’t help but get turned on, and watching you scream and cry for mercy as the glitchtrap virus, the malware he programmed and created himself, corrupted you so beautifully to become his precious possession and own you forever.

When you managed to get back on your feet, William roughly grabs you by the neck from behind and snatches the mask off of you, forcing you in place when you tried to run. You panted heavily, your fear provoking the man wis=th a rush of arousal shooting inside him. He loved hearing your squeals and your cries, muffled by his large hands. It was just too precious; you, an unsullied young woman, playing right into his hands.

“Where do you think you’re going, my sweet?” he taunted in your ears, having to hold onto you tighter and suffocate you the more you squirmed. “You know that you’re under my control now, right? You can’t think for yourself anymore. You only obey.”

Your head still throbbed in pain from the virus spreading into your brain, trying to grasp onto your coherence and the ability to get ahold of yourself before it was too late. Fear, misery, and agony kept flinching inside you. You were in no position to defend yourself even if you had the physical strength to fight for your life. But the betrayal— the utter betrayal of your boss, Mr. William Afton, a man you admired for so long as your mentor, shattered you completely.

“God, you don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to have you like this,” his breathless voice fills your ears. “No one would ever take a smart woman like you seriously here. No one except me. Don’t you realize I was the only person that was fond of you? Nobody would even talk to you.”

With all your strength you tried to fight back and escape William’s grasp, but your struggle was to no avail. “Please— please,“ you choked out, “don’t do this— I swear, I won’t tell—��

“Shut the fuck up or I’ll kill you.” He slapped his hand over your mouth, subtly growling when he felt his cock grow harder from the fear and terror overtaking you that it brought you to tears. “You’re all mine to do with as I desire now, you understand? You’ll be my precious fucktoy from now on.”

How he loved hearing your muffled squeals, your pleads, and your cries for the first time, echoing off the walls of the pizzeria just like the rest of the kids he murdered right in this office not that long ago. But it was not his plan to kill you specifically tonight.

Because once that virus engraves in your brain permanently, you’ll belong to him forever.

There was still fear seizing within you that you started drowning in your own insanity. But soon it was invaded with an odd feeling of arousal— This painful grasp he had on you started to bloom an irresistible throbbing in your cunt, waking your body into a new sensation you’ve never endured in your life. As if the virus was rousing your soul, sedating you with pleasure, burning like acid. The way William was able to taunt you and torture you emotionally and physically had you succumbing to him, right at his command, taking every twisted thing he ever said and rewiring your brain to take it as a good thing.

“Aw, look at you. Did your sensitivity increase when I hold you like this?” The way he shamelessly cups your breasts, massaging them ever so gently had you trapped in this menacing ecstasy. A consuming, yet flagrant wrath that overflowed you. He violated your brain and you had no control of your coherence. You can’t decide what was right or wrong for you anymore; only William can do that.

Obsession. Obedience. Something so incessant, like this maddening hunger and desire, filled your body to the brim. You felt filthy. Nasty. Like a lost little rabbit caught in the woods by a big bad wolf, you were the prey. There was this erratic pounding in your cunt the more his hands roamed about your sensitive body— it was enough to make you limp like a toy for him to play with. He grabs your uniform and rips it open to expose your breasts, your nipples more tender as he plays with them.

“Look at you. It didn’t take long for the effects to kick in,” he chuckles. “Do you wanna know what’s happening to your body? My Glitchtrap virus not only brainwashed you, but rendered parts of your brain with aphrodisiac.”

Your eyes started to sulk, unable to speak properly but only whimper and moan softly from the way he toys with your body. “You’re gonna be my pretty, obedient little whore from now on,” the man continued. “Your memories will be wiped. You can’t make decisions for yourself anymore. You’re only useful to me when I fuck you in this office…”

“…and when I use you to kill more kids for me.”

He abruptly forces you down onto his desk, pressing your face against the wooden surface while taking your limp hands and bounding you behind your back with his belt so swiftly. Usually you’d be afraid. Usually you would be struck by terror from the way he handled you so aggressively in a helpless, futile state. But this virus, this aphrodisiac, rather, had you turned on so much that you couldn’t see straight. It felt like the inner whore in you awakened, and your poor aching cunt couldn’t stop furtively pounding and throbbing from how needy and slutty you really are for him.

His pants were undone while yours was pulled down just below your ass. William felt his cock stirring from the way you arched your back so perfectly for him, showing your ass off for him to toy with and slap. Your mind couldn’t stop screaming, internally begging for him to be inside your cunt already; and immediately he could tell how desperate you became kust from how you backed your ass up onto him to feel the tip of his cock. How you were so needy for friction, for the sensation, that a whine escapes your lips it urged him to slap your ass again.

“Use your words, pretty whore,” he snarked. “Before you were just my innocent little intern and now you’re my greedy little bitch who’s good for nothing but a fuck. Might have to fuck you extra hard just to see your limit with that virus.”

“Mm— please fuck me, Mr. Afton,” you slurred, almost drooling on his desk as he kept your head pinned down. “Please fuck me… like your pretty little whore.”

“You have no idea how long I’ve been dreaming for you to say that, darling.”

This wild ecstasy was fulfilling William, like an insatiable hunger and frenzy slowly growing to its peak. He slides his cock deep into your soppy cunt, letting out a low grunt from the way your walls clenched so tight on him. You let out a loud cry; he was so big that it was too painful. But how merciful of him to let you adjust for awhile, right before he pulls out and slams into you again. It was so sloppy, so filthy, and so messy as he starts to pick up his speed, grunting with each thrust that your pain warred with pleasure.

No rational thought formed in your head; only unintelligent and pathetic moans from the way your boss was fucking you so hard and rough on his desk with your hands bound behind your back. Though you struggled to accommodate to his size, the virus was strong enough to make you succumb to the pleasure. His strokes were so rough, so savage, that you were already reduced to a wreck. You couldn’t get enough of this mind-numbing pleasure, it’s like you could see stars fly past your eyes. And not only did William bask in the beautiful sight of corrupting you like this— oh, he fucking loved the way your cunt felt. It was so perfect; molding it to the shape of his cock for him to use.

“Dripping all over my cock now, huh? Beg me to make you come. I need to hear you,” he taunts, his voice so terse it made your cunt throb involuntary.

“I— I wanna come all over your cock, sir,” you whined, eyes welling with blissful tears. “Please make me come. Use me all you want. I’m yours.”

“Fuck.” William threw his head back and gave a guttural groan, fucking into you much faster and that your body and mind spiked with pleasure. “I love when my pretty slut knows her place.”

Your turmoil has spiraled into shameless arousal, taking every harsh thrust of his cock hitting your g-spot so good that not only did it stimulate your cunt, but your brain. Electric sensations skyrocket through you before you could even register it all, your glossy eyes and face all ravished and wanton beyond comprehension. You loved it. You fucking enthralled in it. His rough hands on you, his savage strokes, his cruelty to you. How he managed to uncover your salacity, your forbidden desire of being bound and fucked this way like a nymphomaniac.

The thought of him brainwashing you as his free use fuckslut and his experiment, his prodigy just to kill innocent people for him… your brain became number and number, as if your orgasm completely sedated you. You let out a scream, clutching your fists for your dear life and squirming in his grip as you came so hard on his desk, your pussy erratically pounding and squeezing on his cock that it made William come inside you, pumping every load into you. You’ve lost the feeling in your thighs, trembling with every harsh smack of his hips against your ass as he fills you. Hard, deep thrusts that nudges right up against that spongey, sensitive spot inside. Your brain falls so foggy as you were at your limit, but you knew deep down that he wasn’t done with you.

William pulls out slow, eyes never leaving your pussy just to see it flexing over nothing like you were yearning for that feeling of fullness again, seeing ropes of his cum leaking out. This is all he wanted for so long— fucking you until you reach your limit and filling you with his cum all the way to the brim— all while brainwashing you to obey every command of his and doing most of his dirty work for him.

“I have been dreaming of having you like this the moment I hired you,” he spoke ominously, grabbing the mask just to abruptly shove it back onto your face as if he was downing you with a drug. “It was so fascinating to see; how I managed to control you by a virus I made. I can just taste the fear in you, and I turned that fear into pleasure…”

“…You belong to me now. I will never let you go.”

It’s a shame, how you’ll never be the same person you were before. How you’re reduced as nothing but William’s pet, having no control over your own life and using you for his entertainment, pleasure, and satisfaction. Sure, you’ll be able to live a normal life as if nothing happened; going back home to friends and family with no memory of what happened, until the corrupted emails with malware that William sends to you fucks with your brain, which was heavily prone to his psychological tortures and manipulations.

Some coworkers noticed. Some coworkers didn’t care. The difference in your personality, your attitude, your demeanor. How you’re exhibiting these vacant, yet glazed expressions at work, and the way how you spoke was either monotonous or overly compliant. But the moment William calls you into his office after hours, all that turmoil and agitation suddenly becomes your pleasure.

A few months later, missing children reports were spreading like wildfire. And though the police couldn’t find any evidence against William Afton or within every inch of the pizzeria, it was all you; hiding in your handmade white rabbit suit with patches and stitches all over, made of patterned fabrics of grey and black. How you easily lured kids into the parts and service room, murdering them either one by one or altogether in a group.

Vanny was now your new identity. Your new life.

A life you would not give anything else in the world for, as long as William rewards you.

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[RIDE ANNOUNCER] Please remain seated until the ride comes to a complete stop. Then collect your belongings, watch your head, and step carefully out the vehicle. The nearest exit will be on your left. On behalf of all of our crew, thanks for riding with us, and we hope you have a happy and memorable visit here at Horrorland!

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐒𝐎𝐎 © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. do not steal, plagiarize, translate, or repost/share any of my works on any social media where minors have access. will be cross- posted on my ao3 soon.

𖤐 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: @isuckatmakingusernamess @lik0 @shintax-error @alittletiredcry @imkrul @ggukiespace @writtenbyawoman @bigg1ow @slutforaz @dorkszn @unknown-borealis @doestalker @ghostlvmi @deftoneslut004 @yongi-lee @onyxxtheghost @mostamazingpersonevr @theslashofafton83 @isfleur @satxoru @noisydelusionlove

#⛓️. 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝟐𝟒 #fnaf smut #fnaf au #fnaf vanny #fnaf x reader #fnaf x you #fnaf william afton #fnaf william #william afton smut #william afton x reader #william afton x you #tw corruption #tw coercion #tw dubious consent #tw mind control

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animeyanderelover · 6 months ago

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Witch s/o but with hisoka ,chrollo,kite,killua

Tw: Yandere themes, possessive behavior, toxic relationship, obsession, delusional mindset, clingy behavior, manipulation, threats, blackmailing, murder

Tags: @jamayah @chxxz @leveyani @cynniical @shenryu-sama @maggiequinn59

Witch s/o

Killua Zoldyck

🪀You're certainly not going to scare him with anything that you store in your home nor with the questionable rituals you perform at times to complete a spell or summon something. Killua has seen too much shit in his life to the point where he engages you in your occasionally morbid interests. If you need some special ingredients like a heart or intestines just call him and he'll deliver it fresh to you. It is quite relaxing to be around him as he doesn't judge you for your interests and hobbies. If you have a small cottage somewhere in the forest and live isolated from civilisation he'd be able to have you almost exclusively to himself and he'd absolutely love that. As you are able to use powers not even Nen-user can utilise there should be little reason for the assassin to worry about you yet being protective is something that comes naturally with his obsession and will be unavoidable sooner or later. He doesn't trust easily and as someone who has grown up to see all types of people he is fully aware that some would very much desire to either use your magic or perceive you as a threat and would want to get rid of you.

Hisoka Morow

Gosh, he loves you. You're perfect, unique and best of all you are all his. Living in an isolated area in a dark forest has never proven to be more painful the moment Hisoka stumbled upon your peaceful home after he heard the rumors in the village. It is no secret that he lives for the thrill of fighting strong opponents yet you prove to be the most promising unpolished diamond yet. Never before has he encountered someone who uses magic and he just can't wait to see what you are capable off. He's lurking around your cottage all the time and as much as you try to ignore him, you are fully aware that by doing so you'll only encourage him to keep on stalking around to find a weak spot to use. He slaughters people who dare to intrude into the forest and drops their corpses in front of your home like a cat, jokingly proclaiming that he has brought you some ingredients for you to use in your next concoction. The only reason why he hasn't broken into your home yet is because you used seals to prohibit him from entering. Only giving him a small taste of your power... You're such a tease, you know~

Chrollo Lucilfer

📖Chrollo is undeniably intrigued. Magic is something that has only ever appeared in fairytales yet your existence proves that there is always a little bit of truth in every legend. His Nen-ability has always allowed him to steal the powers of others if he fulfilled the conditions yet he is unable to steal your source of power. His approach is much more careful and calculated now as he enters unknown territory with you. There is so much he has yet to find out about you and your magic and he knows that it may take time yet patience is a virtue Chrollo has learned to embrace for himself. After all every moment with you is an experience he intends to savour, every word that leaves your lips another piece of a puzzle he intends to solve. You possess knowledge he wishes to claim and every little story you share with him about your own world is a story he is deeply invested in. Treasure has never been something Chrollo has limited to diamonds and gold and in his eyes you are a treasure, the most priced one at that. You fascinate and enchant him and he wishes to claim you for himself. He supposes that you wouldn't willingly abandon your lifestyle for him though, would you? Seems like he'll have to use other methods then.

Kite

🤡Both of you are able to share mutual interests as his profession and your work as a witch align. He documents unknown species to the government together with his friends and you as a watch have creatures to offer that he has probably never heard about. Similar to Killua the morbid sight of body parts or disgustingly looking things stuffed in jars and stored in your house do not deter him in the slightest. He's genuinely interested in the knowledge you have to share with him and the stories you have to tell. Kite is very cautious around you though as he perceives you as the strong individual that you are. Aware of his own obsession he has going on, he does his best to not give you any reason to distrust him. You're anything but weak and the last thing he would want is to provoke a fight with you, especially since there is still so little he knows about your magic. Instead he stays low in regards to his obsession, enjoys the time he spends with you all whilst slowly collection information just in case something should go wrong.

#yandere hunter x hunter #yandere hxh #yandere killua #yandere killua zoldyck #yandere hisoka #yandere hisoka morow #yandere chrollo #yandere chrollo lucilfer #yandere kite #hunter x hunter x reader #hxh x reader #yandere x reader

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alexanderwales · 6 months ago

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The Digital Corpse

I always read about what school shooters or wannabe assassins have to say. I read or at least skim through manifestos, most of which are really poorly written and usually just have badly misunderstood ideas that are copy-pasted from diverse places. I read social media posts and discord logs, where available. Some of this is morbid fascination that I don't endorse, but some of it is the impulse to understand how and why a thing like this happened.

So I've been following the news on Trump's would-be assassin, and to all appearances he was just a kid who was bullied at school and didn't have a lot of hobbies, skills, talents, or friends. He wanted power and control and had no way to get it, and I think there's something to the notion that a lot of white men think that their whiteness or maleness means they're owed something. When Trump came to town, it was opportunity falling into his lap. If you're 20 years old and feeling like the world cares nothing for you, then yeah, I can see why you'd take your shot. It's a way of being famous, of going out with a bang, and young men often feel invincible anyway. The shocking thing is that it almost worked, and that seems to be down to incompetence and complacency.

But if it had worked, and they hadn't immediately shot him to death, he'd have gotten all the worst parts of fame (in addition to what would probably be life in prison). In death he's got intense scrutiny of everything he's ever posted online. There are reports about how sad and lonely he was. If he'd succeeded, maybe there would be some on the left who would idolize him, but as it stands ... I can imagine wanting to be megafamous, but I cannot imagine wanting it to be like this. It was almost certainly different in his imagination though, a grand moment that would give meaning to his life and demonstrate that he did, in fact, have power.

And of course the whole thing will be forgotten in a week or two. A year from now you'll say the name "Thomas Crooks" and people will say "huh, that ... do I know that name?"

On the other side of things, there's Corey Comperatore. He was the other person to die that day, just a random guy who had attended a Trump rally and got hit by a bullet because from one specific angle he was standing behind Trump. If Thomas Crooks left almost nothing behind to make sense of his life, Corey Comperatore left behind what feels like a lot. The fame is more double-edged. He's lauded as a hero by some, even if the only thing he did was catch a stray. Generously, that's a way of making sense of things: just like it's not enough for Crooks to be alienated and dejected, it's not enough for Comperatore to just be someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But Corey Comperatore is also having his life torn open, or at least the parts of it that he put online. Posting online was something he probably did without thinking too much about it. The worst one, for me, was him saying that the Palestinians would "get over it" like the Japanese did. It's something I think about a lot in the social media age, the picture that people would get if they went looking through all our posts, if they were trying to make a picture of you from the things you've left behind. If you died in a very public way, what's the worst post you've ever made? What would people find ironic? But of course you don't need to die, we're in an era where anyone can get flash famous by random happenstance. And of course in the modern day we want the delicious little morsels, the worst thing you've ever said, the most ironic, most iconic, most infuriating sound bite that can represent a whole person. Anything more anodyne is pointless, even if that's the bulk of someone's life.

I'm probably a little unusual in terms of digital fingerprints. I'm active on discords, I've written some four million words of fiction, and my reddit comment karma is in the six figure range, which probably means that I've got something like fifty thousand comments. I talk a lot. But I do think about being torn apart like that, what would happen if I were famous for a day before the news cycle moved on, if there were hundreds or thousands of people trying to make sense of me.

When I die, if anyone has reason to go snooping through my history, I hope there's a good-looking corpse.

#assassination attempt #thomas crooks #corey comperatore #digital corpse #trump assassination

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silence-ofthe-llamas · 1 month ago

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I feel I’m VERY late to the party with the mecha AU considering how bone deep Pacific Rim runs within me but I’m chomping at the bit. Gnawing at it. I LOVE YOU ALL. I’ve reactivated my tumblr for this. Good god. @keferon my leige. I'm meant to be SLEEPING.

Anyway, I’m a general nuisance, I wont be following much of the pre-established lore too closely because of who I am as a person, bone app the teeth.

TexAid for the soul is more potent than Chicken soup.

First Aid wakes up in an ice cold sweat.

It’s not the first time. He’d lost count, actually – it seemed that every morning was the same now. He’d wake up, he’d shudder, he’d carefully extract himself from his damp-with-sweat duvet, he’d shower, and then he’d pretend that everything was perfectly fine and normal.

His function first and foremost was one of a medic. He trained to work with live patients. His expertise was with the living, not the cold stares of the dead.

But lately, all he’d been dealing with were corpses, and it all came down to one reason.

Vortex.

Superstition wasn’t something that he bought into, but the theory on base was that the mech was haunted. At the start, he didn’t believe it – mechanics were plagued with stray code, oddly executed scripts. There was nothing supernatural about it. All of the pilots said that they felt another presence within their mechs with them – there wasn’t anything special about Vortex’s AI. If one wanted to look at it that way, all of their mechs were haunted.

But Vortex was different. Of course he fucking was, why wouldn’t he be. No, no, nothing was allowed to be normal. Ever. Firstly, there was the staring. The mechs weren’t meant to stare, but whenever he went close to Vortex, he could feel his piercing gaze against him. It wasn’t normal. They should have been offline without any human input, but Vortex stayed stubbornly awake and studied his every move. Sometimes he’d swear he could hear his internals humming, the rumble of moving parts, his plating trembling and straining against the dock as he tried to move. If someone got too close to him, he’d hear the hum of weapons systems warming up. It was part of their onboarding process that they were warned against approaching him, now. He’d cut them down without a second thought.

There was also the small fact that he had a tendency to kill his pilots. And it wasn’t even an exaggeration – their means of slaughter always came from within. The cameras that filled the insides didn’t show any breaches, no weapons were brought on board, the vital signs monitors from the pilots and their own helm-mounted cameras showed no foul play of an external parties part. No. It was… Vortex. The mech showed his displeasure in a shower of blood and moving parts – and that was if he was being nice. If they weren’t power washing the remains of a digestive tract from his floor, they were manoeuvring a live body that acted like a dead weight, the pilot a stuttering mess, mentally shattered and broken. They’d never managed to get any of them back into active duty – a lot of them First Aid had no idea what had happened to them. They were simply shipped off somewhere, never to be heard of or seen from again. The worst part of it was that they were all missing fingers, as if they’d been cleaved right off by sharp metal as they reached out for something.

An alarm ripped through the base, and he gagged on his morning coffee. He knew what that meant – deployment. And with deployment came another victim, courtesy of Vortex, and all that horrid stench and morbid fascination that sent his spine tingling and brain firing to the point of insanity that paired so closely with it.

Ambulon frowned at him. “Jittery this morning, Aid.”

“I just know I’ll be on Vortex duty again.” He groaned.

Ambulon patted him comfortingly on the shoulder. “Don’t let it get to you, Aid. Pharma only does it because he trusts you.”

Yeah, right. It’s so I haven’t got an excuse to be by the morgue.

You steal one Quintesson body…

He briefly remembered the smell of the grave dirt as he’d re-interred them into the ground instead of the stone cold morgue, and quickly smelled his coffee instead.

The deployment seemed to last an age. First Aid managed to get through all of his deskwork before they returned, and Vortex staggered into his bay. First Aid was waiting patiently by the gate as the docking station clasped around him, holding him in place as cables came down from the ceiling to plug into him.

“How many bets this guys dead?” Someone behind him asked, elbowing the one stood next to him. First Aid ignored them, focusing intently on the mech.

He could see blood behind the glass. It was leaking out down the side – they were more than dead. They’d been eviscerated.

The visor lifted with a loud hiss, and First Aid took a deep breath. He held it so he didn’t have to inhale the initial stench – that part was always the worst, having been left to fester within him – and carefully studied the scene before him.

Organs hung down from the ceiling. Scraps of fabric hung limply from the still locked harness.

“What did he do to them?” First Aid quietly asked himself as he stepped forwards with a bucket.

There was a rule - you never got inside Vortex on your own. First Aid followed it religiously, and he could hear someone behind him, and so he felt perfectly comfortable in getting inside.

Only the visor snapped shut with a sickening crack as their leg was cleaved clean through, the scream barely muffled by the glass.

“No!” First Aid flew to the glass of the visor, pounding against it. “Are you okay?!”

What a stupid question that had been. Of course he wasn’t okay. The smell in the air burned at his throat and turned his stomach, and he looked down at the dismembered leg.

He couldn’t breathe. Or he was breathing too much? He didn’t know, but his chest ached and his head spun and he felt like ice had been injected straight into his veins, every hair stood on end as panic gripped him. It took every ounce of self control he had to not scream from terror when he heard pistons loudly slam into place, firmly locking the visor.

Oh, god, have mercy.

Emergency exits. These things had them, right? He’d had to pull a barely conscious pilot from one once – he’d gotten trapped in it in a malfunctioned ejection sequence. The button would be big and bright red, surely – and with a protective cover so they didn’t smack it by mistake in the middle of a fight and end up launched into the face of a Quintesson. His eyes scanned wildly, breath catching in his chest as he tried to suck in air that didn’t make him want to vomit, hands hovering over the dash. Mental images of the pilots missing their fingers played in his head like an omen.

There. Bright red. The words were worn off, the plastic scratched. The metal around it was worn and faded from use, and the plastic cover was long gone.

Blood crusted it. He smacked it anyway.

Nothing.

He looked back to where it should have been, hyperventilating. What did that mean? The techs had never found anything to be wrong with it before. Everything was functioning as normal – it was why Vortex was still even allowed to be operated. So why didn’t the emergency escape open?

Red light flooded the cockpit. His teeth chattered together as he slowly turned to look at the display that had lit up, white text running across it.

[LEAVING SO SOON?]

“I’m just a medic.” First Aid pathetically said. He almost bit his tongue.

[TAKE A SEAT]

Tears prickled his eyes as he unbuckled the harness and sat down. He tried to ignore the wet squelch as he sat in what remained of the previous human who sat there.

“What do you need from me?” He tried to sound strong as he asked.

The screen remained blank. The lights slowly dimmed, leaving him in the dark with only the sound of Vortex’s hot systems for company. He tried to calm his breathing, timing it to the rhythmic thunk of a nearby fuel pump, and wrung his fingers together.

It would be okay. It would be okay. Everything was going to be okay-

The chair suddenly flew backwards, and First Aid shrieked. His throat felt raw with how hard he’d screamed, clinging on tightly to whatever he could get his hands on. He studiously kept his limbs away from the console – he had a theory on how they’d lost their digits, and he was not keen on finding out if it was true. The chair snapped back upright again, and he whimpered, tears pooling in his eyes and his bottom lip trembling. The mech shuddered, a grinding sound rumbling through the cockpit and rattling his bones.

[PLUG IN] the screen instructed. A cable fell from the ceiling.

Helmet. He needed a helmet. They had the required port for that cable. He scanned the floor, ignoring the rising nausea as he searched for the helmet from the previous pilot.

There. Behind the chair. He picked it up, and had to look away when he realised the head was still inside. He shook it out, humming loudly to block out the sound of it hitting the floor, and kept his eyes closed as he put it on and ignored how much it stank of organic metal. He reached up for the cable, and gently guided it to the port-

Agony. Burning agony. His back arched as he screamed, hands clutching the helmet as if willing it to stay on despite how hard his legs kicked and thrashed. Electricity coursed straight through him, setting him aflame as his brain tried to catch up with his body.

It hurt. It hurt so much.

First Aid gnashed his teeth together as he fought with his conflicting emotions. He wanted to know why. Why Vortex had trapped him in there, why he had gone to this length to do this to him, why him. But he also wanted to run, to run so far away that he was nothing more than a distant memory. He didn’t want to know why Vortex had taken such an interest in him.

But oh, oh he did. He did want to know what he’d done to catch the AI’s attention.

The pain slowly subsided, the fried nerves numbing to the raw energy that charged through them, and he cracked his eyes open.

[GOOD BOY <3]

“Oh, god, I think I broke something.” First Aid whimpered. He suddenly understood just why so many pilots came to them with nerve damage, with extensive burns, and why most of their heads were metal. The connection was. Intense.

“Don’t be such a pussy.” A voice spoke directly into his head. First Aid gasped, sitting up straighter. It was strangely human, yet equally as mechanical.

“What-!”

“I just want to talk, but it’s so irritating to have to wait for you to read the screen. Removing the barriers is so much easier, isn’t it? Now, to business...”

First Aid gasped and whined as he felt pressure in his head, white not points of pain slowly pressing through his brain. His eyesight flickered and faded in and out, his sight shifting from the inside of the cockpit to the chaos right outside – chaos that he couldn’t even hear – and he was glad to see that the man who had been right behind him was receiving medical attention. What a relief. Humour that wasn’t his and that he didn’t recognise pulled at his lips, and he felt a strong urge to smile so wide that his lips split and cracked.

The pressure on his head increased, and he felt his eyes cross, reality slowly slipping through his fingers like thick slime. Red dripped from his nose. Where was he, again? Why was this happening to him? What was even happening to him- Awareness snapped back to him in time with a loud bang on the glass. He heard his name, muffled. Someone was calling to him. He should go to them, right? “Don’t move, I haven’t finished looking at you yet.” First Aid felt phantom sensations of ice cold hands pressing against his skin, a shudder running up his spine. He felt a prickle run down his arm, chasing the feeling of the tips of someone’s fingers running down the bare skin. Obediently, he held still despite how curious he was to go and look. “I can tell you like the good stuff.” An invisible hand patted his cheek and the mech shuddered, loud and clunking. “God, I’m so lucky I found you.” “Found me?” His chest felt weird. His everything felt weird. It was difficult to keep his eyes open. “I’ve been watching you. On the cameras, when you’re in the hangar with me, your files. Fascinating. How wonderful you are to me.” “That’s a bit creepy. You could have asked first.” “I don’t like being told no.” “I would have liked it more if I’d known it was happening.” Why was he so readily admitting this? Where were his carefully constructed walls and defences, keeping the abnormality at bay? He felt like he was an open book and Vortex was just turning to the pages he wanted to read. “Maybe I’d have done something if I knew I had an audience.” The mech shuddered again, harder this time.

“Come on, baby, talk to me wont you? I’ve been so lonely.”

“Maybe if you stopped killing your pilots you wouldn’t struggle so much with that.” He gritted out. Fuck, everything hurt.

“You’ve got a bit of a mouth on you, don’t you.” A sound that felt like anger rumbled through him. “I like it.”

“Can I go now?” He felt woozy. Something was wrong. Something was really, really wrong, his ears felt wet and his face felt wet and he could taste copper-

As if on cue, there was a loud bang on the visor – someone was pounding it with their fist. A shared stab of annoyance flashed through them.

“Question first. How did it feel to have a Quintesson in your bare hands?”

“How did you know about that?”

“Come on, don’t be shy, you know I’ve seen everything.” He crooned. “Tell me. I’m so desperate to know. I know you liked it – I can feel it.” It felt as if he had someone’s arms wrapped around him, their mouth right by his ear. If he closed his eyes and focused, he could feel their warm breath ghosting over it.

“It felt fucking amazing.” He thought back to it. The warmth of the body – an infant, tiny in comparison to the adults that dwarfed their houses. How thick their blood was, how it dripped down through his hands. The burn of the smell, mineral rich and glowing bright blue.

“You fucking tease.”

“You cut through them every day.” First Aid argued. “What’s so special about that?”

“You can really feel it. I’ve got metal between me and my prey.”

The banging was louder, and First Aid’s vision shifted to be through Vortex’s. There was a big group of them now, he had an audience.

“I should go.”

“You’ll be back, honey.”

First Aid ripped the helmet off, and nausea hit him like a truck as he felt a sharp wrench in his head. He loudly gagged, folding in half, and pressed a fist to his mouth to keep himself from spilling his guts into the cockpit. Vortex was certain to kill him if he made a mess. Sucking in a deep breath, he staggered over to the glass and gently placed his hand against it. It felt like half of his consciousness was somewhere else, somewhere he couldn’t reach.

“Please?” He was starting to feel disorientated, the sudden disengaging scrambling his brain. What memories were his, or the previous pilots? Pain suddenly flashed through him and he screamed, his limbs going numb. He felt warm liquid slowly run down his suit, red blooming amongst the white, bone wrenching from bone-

[LATER, DARLING <3]

Vortex’s visor finally opened, laugher echoing in First Aids head, and he fell out face-first onto the catwalk. He was gasping for breath as he scrambled away, shaking and trembling and swallowing back vomit. His hands flew over his body, checking for injures, for limbs he was certain were missing – intact. He was completely intact. His team had their arms around him and were pulling him away faster, leaving a trail of blood smeared after him – was that his? Or was that the pilots? - and were shouting. All of it was just noise. Pure noise.

Giddiness bubbled up in his chest, and he laughed. It started quietly, a little chuckle. Disbelief at the situation, he thought. Pure, utter relief that he was alive. The cannibal mech had eaten him, but here he was – spat out whole and unharmed. His next laugh was a little louder this time, and Ambulon paused, taking notice. First Aid didn’t see him any more, his whole vision taken up by Vortex and the loud snap of his visor clamping back down into place, a hiss as the mechanism locked it back down. He could have sworn he was smiling, but it was ridiculous – the mech didn’t even have a mouth.

He didn’t realise he was still laughing – and hard – until his stomach began to hurt and he felt light headed. Gasping for breath, he let himself fall back onto the floor, staring blindly up at the ceiling. He could see the red lights of Vortex’s visor reflected on the metal there.

“Felix?” The voice of his mentor pierced through his peals of laugher. First Aid looked up and saw Ratchet running towards him, face twisted in agony. He felt himself start to laugh again, and he had to fight to not start punching himself in the stomach to get himself to fucking stop it. It wasn’t funny. None of this was funny. Why was he laughing.

“Is he hurt? Why is he bleeding?” Ratchet demanded as he knelt down next to him. Ambulons response was inaudible, First Aids ears ringing. He felt something dribble from his mouth, and from the acidic taste in the back of his throat he assumed that he’d finally thrown up. He didn’t remember turning – his airway was clear. Two hands gently cupped his face, forcing him to look at someone.

Ratchet.

“Can you hear me?” He gently asked, tension clear in his voice. First Aid could, but he didn’t know how to respond. He slowly blinked, hands reaching up to clasp at his wrists with trembling hands. The adrenaline was burning off, replacing itself with a leaden heaviness that threatened to drown him. Slowly, he nodded.

Get me away from that mech, he tried to say. They get it and I hate that we understand each other.

Ratchet seemed to hear him. “Help me move him.” He was looking at someone else, but First Aid didn’t want to look away from his face. He committed every detail to memory, every line, every grey hair, every follicle and aged scar and flush of colour. It felt like he was seeing him for the very first time.

The world spun and his stomach clenched as he was lifted unceremoniously onto a stretcher, and he took one last glimpse of Vortex before the oxygen mask was fitted over his face and he couldn’t see anything any more.

09090909

It was highly inadvisable.

But he was doing it anyway.

That taste he’d got of Vortex was like a breath of fresh air to him – he hadn’t realised how stifling the company on base was until he’d met him. Ratchet would be so disappointed in him. Pharma would hang him by his guts. Ultra Magnus would try and make it so he never saw the light of day again.

One moment of feeling his teeth at his throat and he was addicted. He wanted him. He wanted physical scars he could touch and remind himself that it hadn’t been a dream, it was real. Carefully sneaking through the base, First Aid crouched and peered around corners, internally humming the Mission Impossible theme. It felt ridiculous, but if he didn’t distract himself he’d make himself vomit from laughing too much again. He had found a random face mask and slapped it on, hoping that obscuring his identity a little would help him get into character.

They hadn’t found a new pilot for Vortex yet – they still went through the usual procedure of finding one with the right personality and skill set, of testing how well the AI meshed with the mind of the pilot outside of the mech before allowing them to go inside. They had a few candidates, but now it was a question of ‘are they more compatible with other bots?’ and ‘how expendable are they really?’ before they stuck them inside of him.

Like lambs for slaughter. They knew they were going to die – but what else could they do? Vortex was their strongest mech. If he went down, their whole operation would crumble with him. Mechs were expensive and difficult to make, the AI’s complicated and prone to disaster.

Pharma didn’t take his eyes off of him for two whole weeks. He’d fallen out of the mech looking like the pilots whose brains had melted under the pressure, his arm marked with a burn that followed the path of a nerve, mapping it onto his skin. Pharma had stared at it, long and hard, brain ticking over. He wasn’t to go near Vortex again. Not for a while, until they figured out why he’d decided to kidnap him, and why he’d decided to spit him back out. They knew why he’d mangled the other medic. He thought it was fun. He’d said so himself, writing messages in the morning memo. They still hadn’t figured out how he was doing it, but if you were early enough in the day you’d see it before they’d caught it. But First Aid didn’t do too well in following instructions, in listening to orders. The Infant he’d plucked from the formaldehyde to get a better look at was evidence enough of that. The fact he was scrambling to get back inside of Vortex right now was yet another reason why First Aid was to be kept under lock and key - god, if they knew anything about him they’d never let him see the light of day again.

The catwalk that lead out to the mechs was a stones throw away. A guard stood watch, hands firmly on their gun.

God damn it.

First Aid rocked on his feet, wondering how he’d get him to move, when he suddenly felt a prickle on the back of his neck as if he were being watched. He shuddered and whipped his head around.

Nobody. Alone. No eerie glow of a camera – not that there were any over on this side of the hall – and no shadowy figures. He held his breath and strained his ears – all he heard was the cough from the guard and their sigh of boredom. He slowly looked back to the guard, and a faint red glow caught his eye.

Vortex’s visor was on. He was watching.

The sound of something falling to the floor caught the guards attention. He quickly turned and ran out onto the catwalk, looking down at the floor. He quickly looked back up at Vortex and scowled.

“I’m not stupid, Vortex. I’m not going down and getting that.”

Vortex did not respond. The guard tutted and turned on his heel.

Something else fell to the floor, a little louder this time.

The guard threw his head back with a sigh.

“You are the worst.”

He marched off, out of sight, and First Aid saw his window of opportunity. He quickly slipped out, thankful for his socks muffling the sound of his steps, and hid behind the terminal the guard was stationed at before he turned back around and walked over to the terminal.

“Yeah, yeah.” He was speaking to someone on the phone, drumming his fingers on the terminal. “It’s Vortex again. I know, I won’t get close – yeah. He’s dropped two this time.” He paused for a moment, listening to what the person on the other end had to say, before making a sound of disgust. “Go and check? I am not getting close to him!”

First Aid could hear a raised voice on the other side, and strained to see if he recognised it. Before he could pin a face to the voice, the guard sighed loudly. “Fine. I’ll go look. You’ve got my will there, right? Take yourself off of it.”

The guard didn’t look back at the terminal as he walked to the stairs and descended down them. First Aid glanced between the stairs and the catwalk, and quickly crawled over. Peering over the side to see where the guard was, he gained an uncharacteristic burst of bravery before he sprinted towards where Vortex was, visor open and waiting for him.

“Can I?” He asked in a hushed whisper. Vortex didn’t respond. He gingerly approached, noticing that every single camera inside his cockpit was trained onto him. He swallowed nervously, and clambered in.

He should have been used to climbing inside of Vortex. He’d done it enough times. Maybe it was because he wasn’t wearing any of his protective gear? Not his uniform, or his helmet, or even his gloves. Just himself and his pyjama shorts, his t-shirt, and his socks with little bears on them.

Mmm. First impressions. Wonderful.

He should have gotten changed first.

[TAKE A SEAT] lit up the screen.

He slipped into the seat obediently, taking care to not touch the controls. He coyly waved at the camera.

“Did I wake you?”

[YOU DIDN’T. I LIKE YOUR SOCKS]

The bears stared back at him. First Aid tried not to think about the rumbling he now recognised as laughter that rolled through the cockpit.

“Thanks.” He replied, red tingeing his cheeks.

[THAT’S A GOOD LOOK ON YOU]

He pressed his legs more tightly together. “The socks?”

[NO, YOU’RE GOING VERY RED]

[MAYBE I SHOULD CALL YOU LITTLE RED INSTEAD]

The helmet dropped from the ceiling, firmly attached to the cable that would connect organic to mechanical.

[I WANT YOU]

[<3]

First aid scrambled with the harness, clipping himself in place, before putting on the helmet. It burned just as badly as the first time, and he saw as the nerves in his arms glowed with the energy of it – without the proper implants, there was nowhere for the current to go but him.

He whined, squirming in the seat. He ground his teeth together and squeezed his eyes shut, counting down from ten and losing his place three times before the connection settled. Vortex was a heavy and oppressive presence in his mind, and he chewed his cheek as he cracked an eye open.

[LET ME TAKE ANOTHER LOOK AT YOU]

The warning wasn’t even a verbal one. He read helplessly as he felt cold hands clasp him once more. Digital fingers made of 1’s and 0’s probed his brain, and First Aid arched in the seat, teeth clenching down over a loud moan of pain. Neurons fired agonisingly and his hands scrambled at the harness, the tips of his fingers raw and torn and bleeding against the rough fabric. Memories were brought to the surface unbidden, dragged out by artificial means, and others flooded in to take their place. He inhaled sharply, eyes going wide as the realisation hit him. Vortex was trying to show him something. He wasn’t a ghost. He wasn’t even an AI.

He’d been entombed in it. In the mech. Vortex had been a real, breathing human being, mocked in a sham trial in the name of obtaining more pilots. Rich men had paid him to do terrible things, and he had taken the entirety of the blame. Hundreds of thousands of pounds of funds, countless hours, blood, sweat, and tears – all for one mech. A prototype, at that.

First Aid blinked as a bright red screen flashed up, text displayed across it. He squinted and rubbed his eyes, grimacing at the drag of sore and exposed flesh against the rough material of his face mask, and blinked.

[LOCKED IN]

“W… what do you mean locked in?” First Aid hesitantly asked. Like… literally, he was locked in? He knew that. He was connected to Vortex’s nervous system – he could feel that there were bolts in place keeping the cockpit well and truly locked down like a fortress, impenetrable except to the override codes the high command kept locked in a vault in their office or the request of the pilot. He felt amusement push at the edge of his awareness, a shudder of a laugh running through the mech, and he clarified.

“I know your dirt, and now you know mine. Do you think high command are going to let you go peacefully?”

Ah. A threat. Of course. Worried he’d run? He wasn’t going to. He was fascinated by this mech – the joy of being caught in his mechanisms was sure to sing in his ears, the pure delight of watching him carefully pick apart his prey like a hawk dismantled a rabbit was like a chorus of cherubs to him. And Vortex knew it, he knew it and he loved it- he was certain of it, the way his mind melded with his, pushing against him and caressing him, a warm blanket around his psyche.

“I’m not going to leave you.” First Aid took a deep breath, the unsettling stench of bleach and cooked meat and rotting oranges filling his lungs. “No, I’m fascinated by you.”

He tensed, eyes briefly widening as he felt a grin that wasn’t his tugging at the corners of his lips, threatening to split his face in two.

“Happy about that?”

“Extremely.” He purred. “I’ve seen what your hands have done, what they’re capable of. I think we’d make a great team.”

“What if I refuse?”

Images flashed in front of his eyes. Bone fragments scattered around the cockpit, blood and guts and gore hanging obscenely from the ceiling. Blood ran thickly on the walls, the smell foul and rotten. First Aid wretched.

“You’ll kill me?” He hated the excitement that bled into his voice, how eager he was to feel the mechanism close down around him, to feel his metal deep inside of him, for his last thought to be about his touch. “It’s a shame you can only do that once, you know. It’s so exciting, all the different ways you could do it to me. You could make me completely unrecognisable, identified by DNA alone. Or maybe flood the cockpit with gas, slowly suffocating me before I realised what was happening.” He bit his bottom lip. “I wish I knew what it all felt like.”

A new image, one of gears and cogs deep inside of him. All sharp angles and straight edges. The presence was probing inside of him, trying to figure out his reactions. He pressed his hand to his mouth and gasped as his teeth pierced his bottom lip without him realising it. He took a deep breath to steady himself, and another. Vortex probed again impatiently. Respond, damn it.

He looked up at the camera, glad that his mask hid his face, the excitement glowing on his cheeks. “I’ll show you.” His voice was breathless. “And if your use for me runs out, give me a little warning before I’m a permanent feature, please?”

“I wont let you run away from me.”

First Aid swallowed hard at the burn of yearning in his chest. “You’d catch me if I tried.”

“Damn fucking right I would.”

He watched the energy sing in his nerves, the pain spreading down his limbs. His digits were starting to go numb. How much longer could he hold out? He never wanted to leave. He felt flayed open and alive. Squirming, screaming, and alive. Red dripped down and stained his pyjama shirt. Damn it. He liked this pair.

“How do you control yourself? You want what I want, you wish you could do it. So why don’t you?”

“I’m a pacifist.”

“Are you? Or is that just what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night?”

First Aid whimpered as the pages in his mind flicked, a burning sensation flaring in his arms. He watched the skin there turn red, the connection starting to be too much. His nose felt wet as he thought of it, as the memories Vortex was looking at came to the forefront of his mind. He liked surgery. He liked anatomy. He liked the cadavers and how they felt under his hands, picking them apart and pulling on tendons and ligaments to move them like puppets. Even earlier, his first pet. A hamster. He had told his parents that he’d buried it in the garden all by himself, and they had praised him for being such a grown up young boy, when really he had picked it apart like he had practised on his teddy bears and then blamed on the dog before shoving it into a hole in the ground to hide the evidence before anyone had seen what he was doing.

Vortex chuckled.

“Oh, let me show you how exciting a Quintesson can be. Little Hamphrey hasn’t got anything on them.”

#texaid #tf mecha universe #Llama Writes #tf first aid #tf vortex #Jazz Prowl chapter is next but unfortunately it aint as cute as the original AU #forgive me #does this count as dead dove

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iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia · 3 months ago

Text

Vesuvia Weekly: Sleepover Horrors

~ written for the @vesuviaweekly prompt "all's fair in love and war"! ~

"No no no no no no no no -"

Portia's giggled refusals fly past my ear as she scurries away, slippered feet sliding on the polished, smooth floors. Nadia stands frozen in place on the carpet of my guestroom, staring at me wide-eyed in amused horror. Asra's hiding behind Muriel in the corner, peeking around his elbow with morbid fascination. Muriel looks like he's regretting accepting the sleepover party invitation more and more. Lucio's following Portia's example and beating a hasty retreat.

Julian, the irrepressible masochist, is inching closer to me with a woeful mutter about subjecting himself to torment "so everyone else can escape."

I glance down at the dish in my hands.

"Really? You're that scared of it? It's not that bad."

"Not that bad?!" Lucio shrieks from the doorway, "That looks like it could KILL me!"

"Ooh, maybe it's worth looking at after all ~" Asra slides back out from their hiding spot and approaches me with a sly glint. Nadia stops him with an outstretched arm.

"I strongly recommend we allow Drue to tell us what the item is before we touch it."

"Quite right, quite right - er -" Julian straightens and coughs. "What is it?"

I hoist it up above my head to his eye level, causing him to step back out of my space. "This? This was my midnight snack as a teen."

"Your midnight snack?" Portia tiptoes back into the room, eyes round with intrigue. Nadia stares at me aghast.

"You ... ate this?"

Asra gets close enough to waft their hand over the bowl, and immediately swallows a gag. "Drue, what's in this?"

"Leftovers."

Julian peeks over my shoulder from where he's moved to shield himself behind me. "Why is it lumpy?"

"It's rice ... based. It started as rice. Old rice. Not very recognizable rice." I poke at it with my spoon and listen to the squelch, beginning to understand a little more why my six friends are so horrified. Muriel grumbles under his breath from his corner.

"That doesn't look like rice."

Portia wriggles her fingers in gleeful mischief. "You're right! Maybe it's maggots!"

Lucio goes even paler than normal and makes his way back into the room, clearly against his better judgement. An odd circle of spectators has formed around me at this point. Nadia has one hand firmly tucked over her nose, mouth, and chin in a not-so-subtle attempt to protect her senses.

"I'm afraid I'm having some difficulty understanding this. You're an excellent cook, and yet ..."

Lucio shudders and finishes her sentence with a whimper. "Why."

Asra's eyes sparkle at that reaction. "What else is in it, Drue?"

"Uhhmm ... I mashed in a microwaved hot dog, added some mayonnaise to keep it creamy, found some wilted broccoli in the back of my freezer and put that in ... I was craving something with a little kick so I used the rest of the buffalo sauce someone gave me forever ago."

Julian looks at me in concern. "How long ago is forever?"

I shrug. "A couple years? It was already expired, but it didn't smell awful. Oh! And I added some plain yogurt and honey, for nostalgia's sake."

"Nostalgia?"

"Yeah! All free food is delicious when you're a boarding school student, you know? Whenever I was home on break, and nobody was awake to tell me what people still wanted, I'd clear out whatever was dying in the back of the fridge and eat that."

There's a moment of silence, presumably my friends mourning for teenaged-me's digestive system. Muriel eyes me with what seems to be a new level of respect, which I personally find slightly concerning in this situation.

"Was it ... good?"

"Pretty good," I nod, "almost everything edible was good to a hungry teenager."

Portia glances between me and the bowl again. "Is it good ... now?"

I pop a spoonful in my mouth. It's mushy, sour, spicy, sweet, creamy, and savory all at once. "I've eaten worse."

Asra's curiosity finally gets the better of him and he reaches for my spoon. "May I try some?"

Lucio perks up, mutters something about an "indirect kiss", and immediately flings out his arm. "No! I'm taking the first bite!"

Asra whirls on him in annoyance. "What? Why?"

Lucio puffs out his chest and preens. "It's a test, isn't? Nobody loves Drue more than me! I'll eat his poison!"

The ex-Count's loud declaration gets met with several disbelieving stares. Portia takes advantage of the awkward silence to swipe the lukewarm bowl from my hands.

"Ooh, I know who should do the test of courage!" She bounces under my elbow, scoops up a heaping bite of sludge, and shoves it into her older brother's mouth in one smooth motion. Julian's down in seconds. All I hear behind me is miserable gagging, coughing, and belching.

"Pasha, whyyy -"

"Oh c'mon, there's no way it's that bad!"

"You have some then, I dare you! Try it for yourself if you have the courage!"

"Fine, I will!"

I don't want to turn around. Watching Nadia's, Lucio's, Asra's, and Muriel's faces as they observe the chaos behind me is entertaining enough. There's a moment of silence, and then a loud thunk as the bowl drops to the carpet and Portia starts babbling through her tears.

"Oh - oh, hells, it's awful - Drue! Why?!"

Asra scoops the bowl up off the floor and pops a bit into their mouth without hesitating. For a moment he looks almost ... green. They spit it back into their hand and giggle in disbelief as a rush of magic sends it disappearing into thin air. "What - how - what -"

Muriel already has his answer before Asra has the chance to pose it to him. "I'm not eating it."

Nadia mirrors his stance, silently shaking her head with a firm look of disdain. That leaves only one victim ...

"Lucio ~"

"Wha- me? Why me?"

Now this is a slumber party, is all I can think as Asra slowly advances to make good on a decades-old grudge. Lucio nervously backs into a corner, sweat trickling down his face.

"N-Now hang on -"

"What's the matter? I thought you loved Drue more than any of us - isn't that right, Nadi?"

"Wha - Noddy, no!"

The shout of betrayal makes Muriel smirk as Nadia nods sagely along with Asra's argument. "You did profess as such, Lucio."

I watch his silver eyes grow wider in fear, along with the pure mischievous glee written in every line of the magician's posture as Lucio gets effectively trapped.

"It's not fair!" He wails.

"All's fair in love and war, Lucio. Isn't that right, Drue?"

"No! Don't agree with hi- MMPHPHPH"

Another one falls to the carpet, writhing in brief agony. Julian, fully recovered, watches in grim satisfaction beside me. Portia nudges me in the side. "So. What game are we playing next?"

#vesuvia weekly #all's fair #the arcana #the arcana game #the arcana fanfic #the arcana drabble #asra the arcana #julian the arcana #nadia the arcana #muriel the arcana #portia the arcana #lucio the arcana #asra alnazar #julian devorak #nadia satrinava #muriel of the kokhuri #portia devorak #lucio morgasson #ask arcana brainrot

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fangdokja · 27 days ago

Text

He couldn’t touch her purity, but he could burn everything around her.

❤︎ Synopsis. He claims to hate her, but his obsession says otherwise. A deadly game of spite and desire unfolds as enemies collide, and lines between hate, love, and possession blur in the most dangerous ways.

♡ Book. A Heart Devoured: A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Divorce Attorney x Fem. Reader

♡ Novella. Skin of the Saint - Part 4

♡ Word Count. 968

The church was his prison.

He hadn’t planned on returning, but he always did. Denial was a flimsy shield against the truth, and deep down, he knew why.

You were here again, gliding like a phantom through the hallowed stillness. From the shadowy corner by the confessional, he watched you in silence, his back pressed to the cold stone as his eyes devoured every deliberate movement. The modest veil that hung over your face only made you seem further out of reach, like a figment he could never quite hold.

It enraged him.

Every movement of yours—measured, intentional, sacred—drew him closer to some edge he didn’t want to name. Lighting the candles, arranging the altar, sweeping the floors—you moved like a clockwork prayer, as though your very existence was part of something far greater than yourself. He couldn’t stand it.

And yet he couldn’t look away.

It was contempt, he told himself. Pure disgust. That knot of tension curling in his chest as you knelt before the altar, utterly still except for the faint rhythm of your breathing? Contempt. Nothing more.

Your foolish faith sickened him. You were naive—pathetically blind to the brutal truths of the world. Your piety, your purity, your false sense of peace—it was a farce. A laughable delusion.

But the stillness in you held power. The kind that whispered of something untouchable, something unbreakable. Your serene silence cut through him like glass, slicing cleanly through the rot he carried inside. It made him feel exposed.

He hated that most of all.

You infuriated him because you were everything he couldn’t be—untainted, unyielding. He wanted to destroy it. To tear down the fragile altar of your faith and show you the truth—his truth—the ugliness, the chaos, the hatred. He wanted to pull you into the depths where he dwelled, to shatter the pristine image you showed to the world.

And yet…

He couldn’t deny the other part of him. The part that wanted to touch you. To leave his mark on you—a bruise, a scar, something to prove that you weren’t untouchable after all. The dark craving gnawed at him, whispering things he didn’t dare name.

You weren’t supposed to be above it all. Above him.

His fists curled as you adjusted the altar’s gilded crucifix, your brow furrowed in a fleeting moment of concentration. His breath hitched, shame turning hot in his chest.

He hated you.

He hated the way you looked when you knelt in prayer, hated the faint outline of your form beneath that unassuming dress. He hated the idea of anyone else looking at you—seeing you the way he did.

No.

His jaw clenched, his eyes dark as his grip tightened on the edge of his control. You were his to resent. His to ruin.

When you straightened suddenly and looked toward the confessional, his pulse spiked. Instinct had him stepping back into shadow, teeth grinding at the ridiculousness of his own reaction.

But you didn’t approach. You simply stood there, gaze sharp as if you knew. As if you could feel him there, hidden in the dark.

“Are you just going to linger here all day?” Your voice rang out, steady and apathetic.

He emerged from the darkness slowly, wearing a lazy smirk that was all teeth, no warmth. “What can I say? You’re fascinating in a morbid sort of way.”

You didn’t flinch or bristle. You turned back to the altar, dismissing him like he was nothing but a shadow on the wall.

“If you’re so fascinated, you must not have much else to do,” you said, voice calm, detached.

“Or maybe,” he murmured, taking a slow step forward, “I’m fascinated by how wrong you are about everything. Your precious faith, your pathetic hope—none of it matters. None of it will save you.”

You didn’t respond, didn’t so much as look at him as your hands smoothed the cloth draped over the altar.

His steps echoed faintly as he moved closer, the air thick with the quiet tension he carried with him. “Tell me, Church Girl,” he whispered, voice low and sharp, “how can someone like you believe this crap? What makes you think He—your God—cares about you or anyone else in this rotting world?”

You froze, hands stilling. The silence stretched, and for one brief moment, triumph curled in his chest.

But when you turned to face him, your expression was calm, unshaken. “Because He does.”

The certainty in your voice hit him like a slap. His jaw tightened, his sneer faltering for just a heartbeat. He stepped closer, the space between you vanishing as he leaned in. “You’re wrong,” he said, the words a venomous rasp.

“Then why are you still here?”

The question landed like a blade, cutting deep, because he had no answer. His hand moved before he thought better of it, fingertips brushing your jaw. Your skin was warm, impossibly real, and the contact made something in him twist like a knife.

He wanted to ruin you, to break you open and make you feel. To prove you weren’t so untouchable, so far above the world he knew. But his grip faltered, and he found himself holding still.

Your gaze never wavered, calm as ever—as if you could see every fractured piece of him and didn’t care enough to recoil.

He hated you for that. Hated you enough to drown in it.

And yet, for that fleeting moment, he couldn’t let go.

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darkcabarets · 5 months ago

Text

More is Never Enough.

furina x arlecchino oneshot!

top arlecchino / bottom furina . kinks: overstimulation , fingering , cunnilingus , dacryphilia . word count: 2,464 .

. . .

Furina had to be going out of her mind at this point. For every sane reason she could think of, Arlecchino damn near terrified her. The Knave was a threat to Furina’s promise, a danger to her health – so why did her heart, body, and mind not seem to get the message?

The hitch in her breathing, the quickening of her heart rate, the thrill she’d get up her spine… maybe that could all be reasoned away as simple fear, but it didn’t stop there, unfortunately. Furina felt an odd, totally morbid fascination with Arlecchino’s, well, everything. Her style, her cologne, her voice – dear Archons, her voice, not to mention the way she’d speak to Furina; something about that cursed Harbinger made Furina’s blood boil, and she couldn’t admit to herself that it was because of something far more different than anger.

So here she was, desperately holding onto the last threads of her denial as she sat across from Arlecchino, conducting yet another meeting about this or that. Furina had long since forgotten the point of their discussion, every word the Knave said going in one ear and out the other as the Hydro Archon’s mind wandered away from her.

There was something about Arlecchino’s voice that both put Furina at ease and made her even more hyper aware of everything around her, every single shift and gesture from the other woman captivating Furina despite her own will. It was much too easy to imagine that same tone used to whisper sweet nothings in her ear, or for those agile hands to grab and travel over every inch of Furina’s skin—

“Lady Furina, are you listening?” Arlecchino’s stern voice tore Furina out of her own fantasy, and the Hydro Archon’s face turned a startling shade of scarlet as she realized she’d been ogling the other woman. Oh, curse it all, how could she be so careless?!

Straightening up immediately, Furina attempted to wave Arlecchino’s reprimand off and appear nonchalant, even as she was very clearly sweating bullets at being caught red-handed. “Why, ah, of course I am! What kind of Archon would I be if I wasn’t paying attention to such an important matter? Now, let’s see, where were we…”

“Is that so?” Arlecchino’s skepticism didn’t waver, however, and Furina’s nerves only spiked further as the Knave stood, towering over the small table that had once separated them. Soon, the taller woman had circled around it, and though every bit of common sense inside of Furina told her she should object in some way, she could only stare like a deer in headlights as Arlecchino’s hand snaked out towards her.

“I’m afraid I don’t believe you fully, Lady Furina,” Arlecchino’s voice was dangerously low, and from this close Furina was certain she could see a glimmer of amusement in the woman’s gaze as she grasped the Archon’s chin and tilted her head upwards with surprising tenderness; something that made Furina’s stomach flip in response.

“You were certainly paying rapt attention to something else about me, I’m sure of that much,” The tip of Arlecchino’s nail carefully traced over Furina’s lips, and the intensity of the Knave’s stare was practically an act of binding itself as she continued on. “Would I be correct in assuming you have some sort of attraction to me, Lady Furina?”

Those words alone made Furina’s head spin to a concerning degree: had it been that obvious? From Arlecchino’s expectant stare, she supposed it had been, but it was practically out in the open now. Well, if she was to be outed like this, she could at least go down with pride…!

“I hardly see how this has anything to do with our meeting, but– fine, yes, I… I suppose there is something eye-catching about you, Knave,” Furina managed to grumble out, trying to sound indignant but failing almost pitifully. Instead, she came across as even more flustered than before, and she could hardly meet Arlecchino’s gaze despite how the other woman’s hand was quite literally holding her head in place.

A horribly tense moment of silence followed Furina’s admission, and she swore her heart was going to burst in that pause; soon enough, she was saved by Arlecchino continuing, though she couldn’t decide if her next words were worse for Furina’s heart than the stalemate from before.

“Perhaps I should strive to satisfy your curiosity then? It would be such a shame if you couldn’t focus on this entire meeting because you were having fantasies about me,” Arlecchino’s lips twitched, and Furina was so sure she saw a smirk spawn then. “Especially when I could easily give you a taste of what you crave.”

“H– Huh?” Furina felt all the blood rush to her face then and there, and she blinked rapidly, trying to discern if she’d truly heard Arlecchino correctly. The Knave’s expression didn’t falter, though, and Furina couldn’t deny the yearning need to experience such a thing despite the yawning chasm of the unknown.

One taste couldn’t hurt, could it?

“Very well, I will permit you to do so…” Furina was surprised she even managed to keep her voice somewhat audible through her response, but it certainly wavered as she glanced away from Arlecchino’s intense stare. And yet, when she peeked back to tentatively gauge the other woman’s reaction, her lips were already being captured in a kiss that’s own force surely took her breath away regardless of the surprise of it all.

Arlecchino’s lips were all-consuming, astonishingly tactless as teeth hit teeth and the Knave seemed to aim to devour Furina whole. It was clear then that whatever brave face and cold facade Arlecchino had put on had been just that – a simple mask for the intense jumble of desires she’d concealed much better than Furina had. It was almost comforting to imagine Arlecchino was just as much of a mess over her as Furina was to the other woman, but that was difficult to focus on when the sensation of Arlecchino’s lips consumed and overwhelmed Furina’s senses.

A muffled whine escaped Furina as she felt Arlecchino bite down on her lower lip, the sting quickly melting in with the boiling blood searing underneath her skin, and she could only hold on for dear life by this point – not that she wasn’t enjoying it, honestly she was mortified by just how much she seemed to be thriving from this rough handling, her thoughts and worries dissolving as the heat of the encounter drove her onward.

Soon enough, the two’s tongues had breached the divide between their lips, and if she were in her right state of mind then Furina would’ve been even more humiliated over how Arlecchino seemed to tear pathetic noise after noise out of her. Lucky for her, the Knave swallowed each whimper and moan with a fervor, almost as if she were a starving woman. The intensity was dizzying, and eventually the two begrudgingly parted for air, panting like exhausted animals as they met each other’s fog-filled gazes.

“Is that enough to satisfy you… Lady Furina?” Arlecchino managed out after a moment, her usual smooth tone raspy with a hunger she wasn’t even trying to hide at this point. “Or would you perhaps like more?”

Furina’s mind felt fried by this point, her lips red and somewhat swollen from Arlecchino’s own kiss and the bites she’d delivered, but the idea of more was enough to jolt her heart into action yet again. This was hardly professional, she knew that much, but after years of playing her role of a haughty god with little to no reprieve – fuck, could she not indulge just once?

“More… More, please. Much more.”

. . .

“Ahh— Knave…!”

Furina wasn’t sure when they’d discarded their clothing, but she didn’t care enough to try and remember the events that led here, not when she felt so good. With Arlecchino’s nails digging into her thighs and holding her legs open obscenely wide, she could feel every flick and thrust of the other woman’s tongue, bringing her closer and closer to yet another orgasm.

Furina’s hands threaded through Arlecchino’s hair, both tugging her closer and pushing her back in tandem as the almost painful pleasure drove her mad; tears had long since dried on her face, only for a fresh wave of euphoria to bring them surging right back again. She couldn’t remember what she was doing here, why the Knave was currently between her legs and eating her out without mercy, or why it was so inconceivable in the first place – all she could think about was how close she was yet again.

“Knave, please, I can’t– too much, I’m gonna– fuck!” A shuddering sob of pleasure ripped out of Furina’s lips as the mind-numbing sensation crashed over her yet again, and yet even as she rode out her orgasm, Arlecchino gave her no rest. Another twirl of her tongue around the Hydro Archon’s clit made her hips buck right into the Knave’s face, and yet she barely paused, holding the other woman’s legs in place and milking the pleasure until it became unbearable.

Only then did Arlecchino finally draw back, licking her lips that were still glossed with Furina’s fluids and wiping a callous hand over her chin before she made eye contact; with the look in the Knave’s eyes, Furina knew she wasn’t done yet, and the thought both aroused and frightened her.

“You taste… divine, Lady Furina,” Arlecchino murmured, almost more to herself than to her Archon, and as if to allow Furina to have a taste as well, she pressed her lips to Furina’s in another bruising kiss. The perverse action was enough to send the Archon’s mind spinning yet again, a needy moan feeding into the kiss, and already her cunt felt uncomfortably sensitive, begging for more despite the onslaught of overstimulation it had just faced.

Somehow, Arlecchino seemed to read Furina’s mind and body, or perhaps she had already planned to push her to her limit in every sense of the word – either way, the Knave smirked against Furina’s lips and pulled back, the hands that had been holding the other woman’s legs in place slowly inching downward in a maddeningly slow crawl.

“Hmm, we’re quite insatiable, aren’t we?” Arlecchino purred with sadistic amusement, and she drank in the sight of Furina’s wanton expression as her thumb grazed the other woman’s dripping slit. “That’s fine, perfect really; I’ll give you all you can handle and then some, how does that sound?”

Furina’s only answer was to hold on tighter to Arlecchino, her breathing ragged as her body did the work for her, and she tried to grind herself against the other woman’s hand, desperate for more friction. With a low chuckle, Arlecchino used her free hand to hold Furina’s hips in place, but her other didn’t stop its movements in the slightest, teasing around the Archon’s entrance before dipping her index finger slowly inside.

“Shh, you can take one more, I know you can,” Arlecchino soothed Furina’s whimpers with a surprisingly loving kiss to the temple, and once her digit was knuckle deep within, she began slowly moving in and out, starting an almost torturously teasing pace. “Be a good girl and hold still for me, won’t you? That’s it, such a good girl…”

Furina could feel every inch of Arlecchino’s finger, her walls clenching even tighter at the other woman’s soft praise. What had once been an untouchable Archon was a trembling mess in the supposed ‘enemy’s’ arms, and she couldn’t care less at that moment. No, all she could think about was having more of Arlecchino inside of her, more of the pleasure that the Harbinger provided.

“Arle– Arlecchino, please, I need–” Furina huffed as she tried to wriggle further against Arlecchino’s hand, but the Knave’s hold was unrelenting, and she even paused to hear the delicious sound of the other woman’s begging.

“You’ll get what you need, darling… after all, how can I deny such a pretty little plea?” Arlecchino’s voice was reassuring, but the gleam in her eyes was wicked as she finally obliged in Furina’s begging, her finger sliding in and out of the Archon with a quickly accelerating pace. Soon it was two fingers, scissoring in and out of Furina’s cunt and drawing out even more shuddering gasps and moans from the other woman as Arlecchino pushed the overworked Archon to the brink yet again.

The noises that echoed throughout the otherwise empty office were lewd and sinful, Furina’s arousal coating Arlecchino’s fingers and making it that much easier to delve deeper inside, curling upward and toying with that spot that made Furina’s body tense. It was a beautiful, hedonistic sight that Arlecchino couldn’t get enough of, and she didn’t stop encouraging the other woman’s climax for a second.

“You’re so pent-up, Lady Furina – you need someone to take care of you, don’t you? You need someone like me to give you the release you deserve, isn’t that right?” Arlecchino’s words were hissed into Furina’s ear as she felt the Archon’s walls contract yet again, and she knew the other woman was close. Speeding up her ministrations, she slipped a third finger inside of Furina, reveling in the sight of the way Furina’s mask crumbled and the only thing left behind was pure, blind ecstasy.

“That’s right, cum for me, Lady Furina – you’ve earned it,” And with that final push, Arlecchino thrust her fingers deep within Furina, and the woman’s release hummed through her with a white-hot intensity. Furina let out a wordless cry, her body shaking as any comprehensible thought flew out of her head.

In that moment, all Furina could focus on was pleasure and the woman who gave it to her, her eyes blurry with both exhaustion and pleasured tears as she fell back against Arlecchino’s chest. A quiet whimper left her as the Knave removed her digits from inside her, the emptiness a sharp contrast to the overwhelming fullness she’d felt mere moments ago, and she was almost afraid Arlecchino would up and leave right away—

Instead, Arlecchino took her time in licking her fingers clean of Furina’s essence, a satisfied glint in her eyes as she kissed the other woman’s temple following the action. “There we go, there’s your reward, Lady Furina. Now, rest, I’ll handle rescheduling this meeting of ours for another time.”

Furina could only nod, her tongue feeling like lead and her throat hoarse as she curled up against Arlecchino, the moment oddly… intimate in a way that surpassed the passionate sex it had followed. She couldn’t deny she enjoyed this too, though, and she sought more of Arlecchino’s warmth, nestling her face into the crook of the other woman’s neck, who only chuckled quietly in response.

“Rest well, Lady Furina; sweet dreams.”

#volt writing #arlefuri #genshin fanfic #genshin smut #arlecchino genshin #furina genshin #arlecchino x furina #arlecchino x furina smut #genshin smut fic

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cloudcountry · 2 years ago

Note

Aur naur requests are open!

Can I request Vil,Leona and Azul (separate) with a fem!reader s/o reading a horror novel and they ask what she's reading and she explains in great detail the terrifying disturbing things in the novel. I'm reading the novel Misery and I'd recommend it. It's a great horror novel!

SUMMARY: Their S/O describes something morbid from a book they're reading.

WARNINGS: Death (Azul, Vil.) Torture (Vil.) and Murder (Azul.)

COMMENTS: i pulled out my own horror novels for this (and some really freaky history shit. i'm going to talk about the bloody countess btw)

ALSO IF YOU CATCH WHAT IM REFERENCING IN LEONA'S I LOVE YOU

i took vil's in a different direction because i was inspired so yeah

When Leona asked you what you were reading, he didn’t expect you to absolutely light up. You scoot close to him and place the book on his thigh, and Leona decides to humor you even if he was trying to nap.

“One of the characters is running for their life right now.” you say, giggling like it’s the funniest thing in the world, “There’s this creature that he’s hallucinating due to a goopy thing that got injected into him on a bridge—no I’m not going to explain so don’t ask—and it leaves goopy footprints everywhere. It goes from just standing there to running after him and when he looks back there are handprints on the ground too. It’s so creepy to think of something bounding after him that he can’t even see!”

Leona pauses to soak in the information you just dumped on him before groaning. If that’s what you’re into, he’s not going to judge. Just as long as you stop giggling so he can sleep.

When Azul asks you what you’re reading, it’s a simple attempt at small talk. He rests his arm on the booth you’re sitting at and leans over your shoulder, curious.

“This is a good part,” you beam, scooting over in the booth so he can sit down, “This guy just got killed and his corpse is all bloated. It’s like water has been forced under his skin and filled up his lungs as he gargled for mercy...his mouth is still open and everything too, and it's like his jaw has been stretched by all his screaming. His limbs are all twisted up and his eyes are rolled back and oh, don’t worry about it!! He was shitty and I hated him. He deserved it!”

Azul blinks, slowly processing everything you just told him. Ah, so that’s what you like to read. Very interesting, however morbid it may be. Perhaps you should talk to Jade, no? He would find this just as fascinating as you.

When Vil asks you what you’re reading, he does it as a way to start a conversation with you. You seem very intrigued by what you’re reading, scribbling down notes on a separate sheet of paper.

“It’s a biography on the Queen of Hearts.” you explain, not looking up from your paper, “I read a lot of novels about women who killed back in my world, so I wanted to compare her to them since she executed her citizens without much consideration for their lives. See, the Bloody Countess is one of the more notable ones, torturing her servant girls by pouring honey on their bodies and letting bugs bite them in the spring. In the winter, she would pour cold water on their bodies and watch them freeze. She would also jam sharp objects under their nails and—”

Vil nods along to what you’re saying, intrigued by your train of thought. He obviously isn’t aware of what your world holds, so hearing about it in relation to his world is fascinating.

#auburn's requests <3 #twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twst x reader #disney twst x reader #disney twst #disney twisted wonderland x reader #leona kingscholar fluff #leona kingscholar x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #azul ashengrotto fluff #vil schoenheit x reader #vil schoenheit fluff #leona kingscholar #azul ashengrotto #vil schoenheit

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gothic-aesthetic-gal · 2 months ago

Text

Old Scars (Part 3)

Ledger!joker x reader

Fem!reader is kidnapped by the joker and his henchmen while just trying to get a moment's reprieve from her boring, soul-destroying job ✨️

Tw: I mean, we all saw TDK, right? I'd say this is on the same level/rating. Kidnapping, violence, mentions of minor characters (not J) being misogynist/threatening SA, reference to past traumatic injury. Beyond this i'm not sure, i'll update these when I write more.

🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏🃏

Part 3 -

The old apartment block still had its original chimney stacks, so the joker set about haphazardly making a fire. He piled up bits of broken furniture and wood into the brick fireplace and then tossed some kind of accelerant, I wasn't exactly sure what, over the top. Then he patted his pockets, before turning to me.

I realised what he was getting at and slid my hands into the numerous pockets of his jacket.

"Uh, you want the bottom left," he instructed

My fingers closed around a metal lighter which I withdrew. I crossed over to him and instead of handing it over, grabbed the old newspaper from the table.

I bent down by the hearth and began to screw up balls of paper and toss them on top of the wood pile. Once I was satisfied, being very careful not to set fire to my dress, I flicked open the lighter. My thumb sparked the flame on the first try of the wheel, which I was secretly quite pleased with myself for. Leaning forward, I lit the newspaper and watched as it began to catch. Once it did, whatever he had added quickly went up too.

I stood up and extended the lighter to him.

"Starting a fire is easy, but if you don't do it right, it won't last," I offered in explanation.

"Poetic," he mused.

Our hands met as I handed off the lighter; my fingertips brushed against his open palm. I was struck by how human his hands were and couldn't help but stare for a moment in morbid fascination.

He was watching me with an unreadable expression on his face, as he flicked the lid of the lighter closed with a flourish.

He put the lighter into the pocket of his suit trousers and sat down by the fire. I found myself doing the same; I was so desperate for warmth. The flickering orange glow of the flames played across our faces and I wondered if I didn't look almost as disturbing as him right now, between my developing black eye and my rain-streaked makeup.

Something about the total absurdity of the situation struck me all at once. Here I was, with the joker himself, sat next to him and draped in his coat. I began to laugh. I'd survived the accident, and all the mental anguish that followed in its wake, and other than that, I was a total nobody. I was a loner, with a shitty job, a shitty apartment, and no money, adrift in the sewer which was Gotham city. No family, next to no real friends. And now, to top it all off, I might die here and no one would know. Would anyone even notice I was gone?

I laughed until my ribs ached, and then my amusment was quickly replaced by despair. I began to cry. I was cold to my bones, in physical pain, totally dishevelled, and far from home, and all of it was too much. My companion was sat with his back against the side of the couch, elbows resting on his knees as he fidgeted ceaselessly with his hands.

It was like he was constantly ticking over, like he was driven by some kind of machine. He watched me wordlessly as my outburst gave way to silent tears. My mind combed back over the sequence of events that brought me here, and suddenly I remembered the terrified shop girl. She had been kind to me.

"Those people, in the store, I know you don't care, but are they even... alive?" I asked, finally.

He seemed to think on it for a moment.

"Well, that depends really..." he offered, casual in tone.

"On what?"

"On whether the GCPD disarmed them... or dis-armed them," he wheezed with laughter, clearly finding dark humour in my question.

Even though I knew what he was, to be reminded so obviously was still shocking. Jarringly, he sprang to his feet, causing me to flinch.

"If you want to know so badly, why don't we turn on the news, hm?"

He dragged the old miniature tv set over and swept a big cloud of dust away from the screen. After some fiddling with the aerials and the crackling in and out of static, the voice of the newscaster broke through and the picture mostly cleared up.

The news report included security camera footage of us leaving the store. It felt surreal to see what I had lived through playing out in third-person perspective.

"As you can see here, one of the people inside is still missing. This unknown woman was taken hostage by the gang of armed men. Police are urging anyone with information to come forward, as they are concerned for her safety," the newscaster said from her desk.

I couldn't help but huff in disbelief at the idea that the GCPD were really all that concerned with tracking me down. I knew the more likely scenario to be that some middle-aged detective, who thought he knew better, had assumed I was dead by now and was concerned with "more pressing" cases. They would be expecting a body in a purple dress to show up sooner or later.

The joker shot me an interested look.

"You don't have a lot of faith in the good old boys in blue?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Next to none," I murmured.

"But they're going to come and rescue you!" He exclaimed, his voice cracking, mocking in tone.

I pulled the heavy coat tighter around me as I finally began to feel a little less like I was going to die of exposure.

"No, they're not. They don't even know, or care, who I am," I muttered darkly, approaching the TV set.

I saw in the back of the newsreel that the shop girl was being wrapped in a blanket and treated for shock by EMTs. She looked otherwise fine. I sighed in relief and turned the picture off.

"So, Jane Doe, who are you, really?" He asked, in his sing-songy voice.

As his eyes met my own, I thought about how someone had once told me in hostage situations you had better chances of survival if you made your captor more aware of your life, your personality, and your place in the world. The idea being that they will find it harder to kill you if you have fleshed yourself out as more of a 'whole person'. I thought about how this advice was entirely useless with someone like the man stood before me right now.

The joker was not going to be swayed into sympathy for me because he was, most likely, a true psychopath. He would have very little use for an empathy pathway, other than to better appreciate the pain he inflicted and to better manipulate the pawns he saw all around him. What I could do though, was try to make myself more interesting. He clearly had a fascination for me of some kind, and if I could tap into it, maybe, just maybe, I could buy myself enough time to escape. For survival, I was prepared to play the long game.

"Y/n," I answered, only offering up my first name, a compromise between telling the truth and not giving over everything to him.

"Y/n," he echoed in his gravelly voice, "I like that".

"What about you, you must have a name?" I pressed back.

One corner of his mouth twitched upwards into a half-smile.

"You can call me anything you like, doll," he said with a wink.

"So, if you don't have a name, nobody owns you, is that it, or is it just for practical reasons?" I thought aloud.

His cold stare met my own again, sending a fresh chill through my body. He didn't give an answer; it wouldn't be that easy.

"Okay then, I guess I'll just call you J. Keep it simple?"

He nodded as if to say he had no objections.

Not knowing what else to do, I crossed over to the kitchen cabinets and began to investigate their contents. The room was open plan, more of a studio layout type of deal. I found half a bottle of vodka, a tin of peach slices, a fork, and a pack of paper towels, and a few basic medical supplies, which looked suspiciously like they had been swiped from a hospital. I returned with my little magpie haul to my spot next to the fireplace and began to nurse my various wounds.

I tore what was left of the tights so that they stopped at the ankle, and grimaced as I used the cotton swabs and vodka to clean the dirt from my grazed soles.

"What size shoe do you wear?" The Joker asked, watching my latest endeavour.

I felt a strange sense of déja vu, and gave my answer matter of factly. He shuffled off into the other room and I again wondered if I should take the knife from the table, but the same issues still stood in my way.

He soon returned with a pair of black boots in hand and dropped them onto the floor beside me, followed by a pair of thick socks.

"Thanks," I murmured.

When I was done disinfecting, and sticking band aids over the worst of my cuts, I pulled on the socks and army style boots, which were a little on the roomy side but not to the point that it was an issue moving around. Once they were laced up, I set to cleaning my eyebrow, and tried to apply closure strips to hold the skin together. This was very hard to do via touch rather than in a mirror and I began to get frustrated.

"Get up," Joker commanded.

Caught off guard, I slowly got to my feet as he sauntered over.

I flinched as he extended a hand toward me, half expecting to feel a knife slip between my ribs. He roughly grasped my forearm and took the tape strips from my hand, his face conveying a kind of "really?" - Judgement for the way I'd shrunk back from him. I somehow forced myself to relax a little under his grip.

"Look at me," he instructed, once again being a lot more hands-on than anyone with a normal respect for boundaries would.

His free hand tilted my head back so that I was forced to look directly at his painted face. With a look of intense concentration he placed the strips across my split brow, taking care to line them up properly. His actions confused me.

"That guy wasn't wrong, it's probably going to leave a mark," I sighed, "so much for my good eyebrow..."

"It won't be as deep as the others, it will still be your good eyebrow."

"Gee, thanks, that makes me feel so much better," I mumbled sarcastically.

Not entirely knowing what came over me, I tentatively reached out a hand toward his face. He was unusually still for a moment, seeming to allow it. In a kind of morbid fascination and awe I gently touched my finger tips to the left side of his face. I could see that the right side was much cleaner cut, with a neater scar, but the left was a jagged mess. I couldn't imagine the pain an injury like that must have caused, even with my own experience.

"You wanna know how I got 'em?" He asked, clicking his tongue against his teeth.

Of course I did. That was my knee-jerk reaction. The human brain seeking understanding, feeling entitled to know... but almost immediately after it, all the times people had rudely asked me what happened to my face quickly flooded into my head. What they didn't think, or perhaps in some cases didn't care about, was how it made me feel. They decided their curiosity was more important than my privacy and comfort. They decided that I should expect to keep telling that story, because how could I blame them for asking when my face looked this way?

In the end, for fun, sometimes I just made it up. How would they know? Even if the story was outlandish, they wouldn't, and I got to keep the pieces of my soul that I was expected to just give away freely each time.

"No," I responded finally, retracting my hand.

He seemed taken off guard by this, and looked me over with a suspicious squint, before he simply shrugged and returned to his place on the couch, undoing and removing his tie.

I sat back down and cracked open the tin of peach slices. I fished them out with the fork and began to eat them slowly, savouring the sweetness.

"Well, I wonder how long it will take my boss to notice i'm missing," I thought aloud.

"Not long, surely?"

"It depends on how long it takes before she expects me to do another stack of her stupid paperwork. It could be a couple of days."

"That's terrible management".

"Well yeah, welcome to the life of anyone on minimum wage in this cesspit of a city".

"Little cogs in an absurd machine."

I nodded slowly, he wasn't wrong - but even a broken clock is right twice a day.

"I suppose, at least being taken hostage means I won't be dragging myself in to the office tomorrow. Although, I'll probably be fired for the no-show, no-call."

"What is it that you do exactly? It already sounds incredibly dull."

"Admin work mainly, sometimes reception duties. It really is mind-numbingly boring."

"Ah, the cubicle farm? I'll bet it makes you just want to blow your brains out!" He laughed imitating doing just that.

Again, he wasn't entirely incorrect and as much as it felt wrong he had teased a genuine smile out of me. To try and hide it, I ate another peach slice.

In a very fucked up way, there was something oddly liberating about this. It made no sense, as how could being trapped against my will be freeing? But, it was true that I suddenly had no reason to stress about not showing up for work - what was the point when it was out of my hands?

"So," he suddenly clapped his hands together and straightened his posture, "tell me, don't you ever fantasise about setting the place on fire? Blowing it up? How about teaching your boss a lesson?"

"Well, yeah... sometimes. But that doesn't mean i'd actually do any of those things."

"What stops you?"

"I have a conscience, AND it's not worth going to prison over".

He shifted in his seat.

"But, theoretically speaking, if you could do it without consequence, would you?"

"No, I don't think so. Aside from maybe scaring my regional manager 'A Christmas Carol' style... and telling my line manager to go fuck herself."

I got a grin of amusement out of him at this.

"Are you sure?" He asked, drawing out the final syllables.

"No, of course not!" I snorted, "I'm human. No one can say with certainty what they would do, until push comes to shove, but for me it'd have to be a monumental shove to tip me into that sort of criminality."

"You would be surprised how little it takes for so many."

"Disappointed? Sure, but surprised? No. Espescially when money's involved, I see it everwhere. Cops, judges - the mob. If you got money, you're exempt from the rules which govern the rest of us," I shrugged, tapping the fork against the can.

"I like you, peaches; you're awake. Moral code or not, you're a realist. You see things. Like me."

I wasn't sure what to make of the nickname and the fact that he thought we were in some way similar...

"Can't say I ever thought of comparing myself to, well, you... but I will admit we have some common ground," I replied, hoping desperately that this rapport we were building was not just a cruel trick.

Link below for the other chapters:

#joker fanfiction #the dark knight joker #the joker #joker #dc joker #ledger joker #ledger!joker x reader #heath ledger fanfiction #heath ledger #ledger!joker #joker x fem!reader #joker x reader #batman fanfiction #the dark knight fanfiction #the dark knight 2008

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eldritch-spouse · 10 months ago

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HI AGAIN. Ever since I found your blog and also sent a totally normal ramble abt cannibalism I've been just. Gently tossing your guys back and forth in my head. You're a wonderful writer and I'm always excited to see you on my dash!!

Gonna throw my hat in as asking an actual question- How would your guys fare if their obsession had a particularly weird or morbid interest? I get the vibes that some of them would most certainly encourage it but I also feel like Vinnel would hit me with a hammer if I panic infodumped about ebola-

[Hellow, glad to see you again! Also, I know you probably just forgot, but "your guys" encompasses way too many characters to talk about at once, so I'll assume you were going for TCE staff.]

Morell especially likes hearing about your cannibalism infodumps. They're actually useful to him, since he's going to be living with you, and he needs to know what he can and can't feed you, as well as a possible child between you. It's actually interesting stuff, he'd like it if you talked about it to his family too, you're a smart piggy. Any other topics are usually met with less enthusiasm (unless kitchen/food related), and he'll ask you to quit it if you start talking too much about mushrooms. Overall, it's nice background noise to work to.

Patches is all about infodumping. In fact, you're subjected to it often too, even if he doesn't always stop to explain basic concepts you'd need to understand his rambling. He'll give you a recorder he has, so he can keep the sound of that boundless enthusiasm in your voice forever. He's much more participative than the others, asking various questions and tossing random scenarios at you that'll prompt you to learn even more. There's a potential he'll get distracted and stop working to just research this with you the whole day.

Gallon loves a weirdo -No offense- Feel free to dump all that morbidity on him, he soaks it up like a sponge (so does Martin, be careful). Although he prefers to let you speak unhindered, only egging you on when it seems you're getting passionately angry about things, there's a chance Gallon may begin his own little tidbit sharing regarding a variety of poisons and toxins. He's selective with what he lets slip, but figures it could interest you.

Santi likes listening to you. Doesn't matter what it's about. There's only one thing he doesn't want you to morbidly talk to him about, anything featuring kids. Other than that, you think a rant about the intricacies of cannibalism's effects will kill his mood? Hah, nice try. He usually doesn't have anything smart to say, but may actually pitch in with some first hand details if you mention something sexual and morbid.

Let's face it, this is going in one of Grimbly's eardrums and out the other. Unless, you can talk like you're in a true crime podcast, then he's all ears. Grimbly typically responds to these interests by bragging to others about how his Mommy's "so smart" and "cultured" and he learns so much with you! You should start a YouTube channel!

Nebul likes to hear what you think is morbid. He'll let you ramble when you've been good enough to earn his attention, or if it allows you to keep obeying him. He has his own morbidities to share with you, as a wraith who has seen the darkest parts of many a mind. Surely, you of all people would be fascinated to know how the brain reacts to very invasive types of trauma only some monsters can inflict...

Vinnel will use this to his advantage during shows. You're placed in dangerous games where the whole goal is for you to explain said morbid concepts to the audience while Vinnel or Jingles try to destabilize you so you'll fall into painful contraptions or get cut/bruised/undressed. Sometimes Vinnel pays attention to your infodumps, other times he openly doesn't, it's a coin toss.

Belo sincerely discourages you from seeking such dark information in your brain. A lesser's mind is like a canvas, and it shouldn't be furnished with such desolate knowledge... If your morbid interests somehow can shine a glimmer of positivity or utility, the angel will be a little more inclined to letting you keep pursuing these topics. Otherwise, Belo actively attempts to distract you.

Sybastian doesn't understand about 80% of what you're about to tell him, but he has all the time in the world to sit and listen to his favorite person spit words. He's not verbally communicative during these episodes, but he may clap depending on how impressive the information is, and he remembers things you say enough to sometimes present you with paraphernalia vaguely related to the topics of your morbid interests.

Fank-e is a good bet because he can add onto your information in real time, or correct small detail you may get them wrong. He's generally happy to give you links to more information sources and try to match your level of knowledge, uncaring of how dark the subject theme may be.

If there's one thing you can infodump to Krulu about, it would be diseases. Plagues and ailments of several types are his specialty, the chances of him imparting bits of knowledge you absolutely should not possess on this matter are high. Another thing you may infodump to him about is corvids. It gets him in very favorable moods, surprisingly.

#Morell oc #Gallon oc #Belo oc #Patches oc #Nebul oc #Sybastian oc #Vinnel oc #Santi oc #Grimbly oc #Fank-e oc #Krulu oc #hi-im-lugh

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vikkirosko · 1 year ago

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Dee, Glam, and Chive with a goth reader that has really morbid fascinations, like horror, bones, stuff like that! Thank you if you do this

Headcanons Goth

💖 Glam x Reader 🎸

You met Glam thanks to Chive. Then he was skeptical about you and your image. You wore gloomy clothes, you had Gothic makeup and a gloomy outlook on life. However, he began to understand you better when he got into the music and became more open to new things, and your image stopped seeming strange. On the contrary, it seemed right

Even when you got older, little has changed. You spent a lot of time together. He told you about the music of his favorite bands, and you showed him the new horror movies that you loved so much. He talked about what made the killers in the movies act one way or another, and you listened carefully to his reasoning

One of your hobbies was collecting bones. You collected the bones of animals and birds that you found. You didn't hurt anyone for these bones and your collection wasn't very big, but it was of great value to you. You showed him your collection several times and Glam could tell who owned at least some of the bones you found

Glam understood how important this way of self-expression was for you. He remembered how he felt when he became free and knew how much it meant to him. If you found peace in dark things, then it really mattered

📚 Dee x Reader 📱

There were few representatives of various subcultures in the class where Dee studied. You were one of those people. You were goth. Black clothes, a gloomy outlook on things and not only that. Teachers treated this with indifference, while some classmates were skeptical. However, Dee understood that it was important to you and treated it with respect, even though some of the things that you liked might seem disturbing to people

You loved horror movies and you and Dee often watched them together. The events that were shown on the screen did not scare you, regardless of whether there was a movie about ghosts, murderers or something else. Sometimes Dee twitched, at sharp moments, but he did not show you that something could scare him, and even if you noticed, you pretended that it was not so. You were just watching movies together, relaxing after the school week

Besides horror movies, there was something else you liked. Bones. You had a small collection of fake bones. You didn't mind real bones, but getting them wasn't the easiest task, so you opted for fake bones. These were fake bones of animals and birds from which you collected skeletons. Dee saw some of the models you made and they were really impressive

You and Dee belonged to different subcultures, but you still got along well. Some of your classmates thought that you would quarrel because of different views on life, but this was not the case. You got along great, no differences could ruin your relationship

🧄 Chive x Reader 🎸

You and Chive met when you were both teenagers. Even then you were goth and Chive liked how interesting you looked. At that time, subcultures were gaining popularity and you, in your black clothes and with gloomy makeup, attracted the attention of others. Your pair with Chive attracted twice as much attention, and that didn't change even when you got older, because your style didn't change

You still attracted the attention of others, but you stopped paying attention to it a long time ago. Chive was smiling, watching the surprised people, while you continued to stand out among the people. However, you didn't just wear black clothes. Quite often you found various horror movies that you watched together. Chive didn't mind keeping you company while watching new movies

When you were teenagers, you showed him the collection of bones that you had. Most often it was the bones of animals and birds that you found. Chive knew that you wouldn't hurt the animals, so he was calm. When you started living together, your collection of bones also ended up in your house. You rarely brought new bones now, but even now your collection was very important to you

Chive enjoyed spending time with you. Despite your differences, you found common interests and compromises where it were needed. Your differences weren't a problem for you, because you were both happy, no matter how much you had in common

#Metal Family #Metal Family x Reader #Metal Family headcanons #Dee #Dee x Reader #Glam #Glam x Reader #Chive #Chive x Reader

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oxygenbefore1775 · 5 months ago

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rotten endeavour

➼pairing: zeke x reader

➼cw: very grumpy zeke (he has his reasons), both of them are emotionally stunted idiots, tame mentions of injuries, canonverse

➼summary: worrying about zeke is a rotten endeavour sometimes but you persist anyway

➼wc: 4,3k

➼a/n: for a better understanding it's best to read this post first since this explains what boo-boo happened to zeke cuz he never explains it in the fic itself (fr, i mean it)

“You are the last person I'd come to for this.”

The first time you hear the words, they sound like a poorly veiled taunt, another reminder of the distance Zeke maintains between himself and you. Even when he chooses you, he ensures you're not honored by it.

“Usually Pieck or Porco assist me—”

But they're away on some military exercise, leaving you as the only option to him — the undesirable option. Even now, you sense it. In all the time you've been talking, never once did he turn to face you. His gaze constantly glosses over your features, fixating on anything in the room but you.

A surprisingly cold tone for someone hoping his beckonings would succeed in swaying you. His aloofness would gain him no favor, especially now, when you are the only one he could consider for help. Your favor — the word has a nice ring to it — and with it, your control over the decision.

You cross your arms over your chest, pondering your options.

“So you want me to walk you from the Titan research facility back to your home, that's all?” you lay it down plainly.

Rarely one for being interrupted, Zeke seems almost glad to hear you sum up his request concisely. A quick nod is all he deigns to reply with, as if his ability to answer with words has deserted him.

Surprised by his lack of rebuke, you quirk your brow at him.

A short walk to the facility and back might exhaust an ailing elder, but certainly not the Chief of the Warrior Unit. You can’t help but to wonder what the possible explanation for this could be. Yet for the first time, you finally feel yourself in the position to demand one, instead of going along with his excuses as it often happens.

“And what is the reason for this?” Your voice is on the verge of shedding its stoic tone. It feels almost wrong to ask something of him, not when he always keeps his answers so close to his chest, but you must persist. If he hopes for any of your help, he should give some common courtesy a try.

It takes effort to cast your glance his way, silently demanding that he meet your eyes. To his credit, he obliges, but there isn't a sliver of the seriousness you had hoped to see.

“Should there be a reason?” he counters with a quip unbefitting his current position yet somehow so predictable, which brings your blood to a boil.

Lacking the mood to entertain his antics, you do not relent in your inquiries. “With you, there usually is.” You don’t hide the skepticism in your blunt statement.

At last, the finality of your reply compels a shift in his disposition. He glances at you, as if sizing you up, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he quickly looks away. As much as you’d like to brand it a silent re-consideration, you know him far too well to expect an immediate pliancy.

And it doesn’t come.

He sighs, poorly hiding (or mimicking?) the exasperation you, apparently, have had the insolence to cause him. “Maybe I just want some company. Ever think of that?” You shoot him a look full of disbelief but before you can reply in the frankest way possible, he piles on, “Besides, aren’t you the one with the morbid fascination for my position? I thought you’d appreciate the chance to show me off.”

Even now he won’t say a thing. You wish you had enough annoyance in you to roll your eyes at his flippant tone but it all has burnt out and turned to simmering anger. Oh well, he is the only one to be poorer for it. You linger in your eloquent silence — a sign that Zeke would usually welcome, considering the plentiful history of your constant bickerings. But today it must have instilled him with something beyond the bland interest of having traded words with you.

Before you are able to catch it, though, he turns away. The match, taken out of his pocket, hisses and burns, and the room is soon filled with the putrid scent of nicotine, the fog of smoke shielding his features from you. A cheap ploy, not to mention unpleasant for your senses. You are about to leave and free yourself from its presence when he suddenly speaks up. The next thing Zeke says is coated with a sentiment you never thought him capable of — nervousness.

“So, will you come?” Something in his voice falters, adds a yet unspoken urgency to his tone, and it urges you to hesitate, but not enough to break your silence.

You shoot him an inquisitive look in hopes to see the hint of the seriousness in his demeanor, but instead, he feels the need to ask you again, this time resorting to calling your name in his question. You can’t believe the distress you’ve caused in him with your lack of response alone.

You purse your lips. Fuck him and his stubborness.

“Sure.”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

He'd better express some sincere gratitude, and lots of it, for you sacrificing your only day off to assist him. Especially when the morning weather has left you yearning to wait it out in the warmth of your bed, not forced to endure it at the gates of the research facility as you are right now. The Marleyan soldiers haven’t allowed you in since — as if you need yet another reminder — you have no official relation to Zeke that would sanction your immediate presence.

Yet annoyance seldom takes deep roots in your heart, even if its target is as persistent as Zeke. If anything, the only thing that seems to stir the ire within you is the intensity with which he plagues your thoughts even at this hour. Stuck waiting at the gate, pondering about him is left as the only way to pass the time.

Zeke would rather die than ask you for a favor. Barring the unlikely scenario of him developing a newfound fondness for your aid, there are only a few reasons for his shadow of an attempt to break down the walls around him and actually seek you out. One particular reason seems to lie over there, in the caverns of the facility where they could be doing who knows what to him. But what? What could instill him with more dread than being vulnerable for once?

With each of your guesses more sinister than the other, it takes you time to notice the gate screeching as it opens behind you. The sound of his steps is light but somehow his voice is even lighter when he greets you with the same loud words of his.

“Now, aren't you a welcome sight, patiently waiting for me all those hours of the morning? One might mistake this commitment for something only a spouse is capable of.” A hint of sneer finds its way into his tone but drops just as quickly. “Shame that the resemblance alone couldn’t secure your entry past the gates, where I very much needed your company.”

Before you can take in the sight of him, a retaliatory quip already leaps off your tongue. “You can tell that to the soldiers standing at the gate. While their sentiments mirrored yours, the words they chose to express to me were far from mindful.”

Only then, you look at him.

Zeke is pale, and awfully so. As if they have drained him of all the blood his body had to offer back in those sterile rooms. He himself, however, seemingly refuses to acknowledge his condition as well as the unprompted reaction of shock that it has elicited from you.

Perhaps the thick fog this morning has distorted your perception of colors, you muse to yourself. If he himself doesn't display any concern for his own well-being, then you shouldn't either. However, you choose not to seek comfort in this excuse for an explanation. The faster you get to Zeke’s house, the less time you’d get to spend in his company, already pestering as it is.

Fearing that you may slip and mention his deathly complexion out loud, you decide to speak no longer, instead signaling him to take off. And he, for a change, lacks the rebuke to call you out on it. At least this one time you'd enjoy the ‘peace’ of his company, you note to yourself with distasteful glee — only to become disgusted with yourself moments after. It’s wrong to think that way — if not of Zeke Yeager, then at least of the honorary Marleyan.

His gait is neither fast nor steady. For every three steps you take, he manages only one — and even that requires a significant effort as he drags his feet and takes his sweet time before making the next move. If you weren’t there with him in the early hours of the morning, you would think that he is walking in the dark. Not devoid of basic compassion, you shoot him a tentative look. For all you know, darkness might be all he sees right now. In all the time you've been watching him, his eyes have never strayed from the invisible spot he’s fixed on.

As you walk side by side — or rather, as you slow your pace to match Zeke’s — you flinch at the sudden feel of his palm brushing against yours. It’s not just the touch, already as rare as it is for your… connection, but the coldness of it that surprises you. Somehow unaware of this, he persists in finding your palm repeatedly, unaware of the subtle withdrawals your hand makes time and again to evade the clammy grasp of his trembling fingers. He’s too close. He’s never been that close, for that matter.

Just as you are about to turn your head to him to voice your quite justified confusion with his unprompted proximity, you hear the soft rustle of his voice.

“You wouldn’t be thrilled at the prospect of lifting my two-hundred-something-pound body off the pavement if I were to collapse right here,” he says, his blue eyes appearing haunting against his pallid face. “Better to take care of this now, while I’m still in the right frame of mind to warn you.”

The loquaciousness is of no help to him, especially now, when he looks like this. Yet his words still have a sway over you. Your gaze averted, you take hold of his arm instead of his hand.

It’s quite difficult to walk now, with you fused together at the side and him eagerly leaning his weight onto your frame. At times, you contemplate sending daggers his way, but your intentions are swiftly repelled by the sight of his half-closed eyes. His lids twitch ever so slightly, as if his whole body is held in tension.

You've never seen him in such a state. If it's true, if he really is in pain like you suspect — no display of nonchalance can fool you on that — it still leaves you perplexed. A rare witness to his injuries, considering all of them that you see on him quite so happen to be the ones you inflict upon him yourself in the heat of the moment, you are nonetheless keenly aware of one telltale sign betraying his hurt — a sign currently hidden from your view.

Clouds of steam — not one visible to your eye. You want to ask but you're too apprehensive of his answer. If he will be able to answer you at all, given his state, that is.

Just what have they done to him?

How fortunate for you both that only a small distance lies between the research facility and Zeke's home.

You come to a sudden halt at the sight of his front door. In a mere moment, he will disappear behind it, dismissing you to continue on your way. And afterward? You can't anticipate that someone so accustomed to enduring frequent physical hardships would possess the knowledge of proper self-care. His default course of action would likely be to wait it out — whatever ‘it’ may be. From what you can see, ‘it’ has only worsened for him.

“Now would be the absolute worst time for you to go back on your promise,” Zeke hisses through his teeth as your nails dig deeper into the flesh of your palm in hesitation. “Not just a few steps away from the house.”

“Watch me,” you shoot back momentarily, fiddling with the keys.

In a way, he is correct. It's just the level of your commitment to the promise that he is wrong about.

Standing at his doorstep, you ponder the sentiment that has driven you here. Perhaps you linger a bit too long for Zeke's liking. With the seclusion of his house so within the reach, he feels bold enough to reject your assistance and stagger past you. No, you would never feel such worry for Zeke Yeager, the thought settles in your mind. The holder of the Beast, though, is another matter entirely. There’s no strings attached to the concern a conscientious citizen would express about the well-being of the invaluable warrior, his regeneration be damned. A sense of relief washes over you as you pinpoint the exact reason for your lingering presence. You are simply here to watch over him, the honorary Marleyan, to ensure he doesn’t have the indecency to deteriorate further. That’s all there is to it.

He doesn’t object as you follow him into the house, he’s too preoccupied with making his way to the couch. Each step is unsteady, as if he's channeling all his focus into placing his feet just right. A grunt escapes his lips as he collapses onto the couch, his coat and boots still on. He buries his face in the crook of his elbow, away from the cold white light streaming in from the street.

The shallow ragged breaths he takes mirror the fluttering beats of your heart as you stand near the doorway, in an abashed contemplation of his form.

“Why are you still here?” he murmurs, likely hearing you go deeper into the room to close the curtains rather than near the exit like he’d prefer.

“Well, how do Finger or Galliard usually proceed when it comes to this point?” you counter, a soft rebuke finding its way into your voice.

He takes his time to answer, spacing his labored breaths between each word. His response is laden with a finality you’re expected to pick up on. “They do precisely what they’re asked and leave,” he hisses. “Do you get a kick out of doing exactly what I told you not to?”

His voice, though quiet and almost breathless, still persists, as if his silence might jeopardize his perceived victory in the confrontation you two — apparently — are having. As much as the barbs of his words beckon your counter quip, you can’t find it in your heart to entertain it. There is no bickering to be had with the man who’s a hair’s breadth away from passing out from pain.

“And what then? What do you do after they’re gone?” you inquire further, emboldened by the lack of possible retaliation on his part.

Silence is the worst that he's capable of at this hour. And that's all you hear first, until a whisper reaches your ear.

“This. Precisely this.”

You find no pleasure in being right, because it means that every time — and you don’t dare to venture an exact number — he’s been in the caverns of the facility, he’s been recuperating the same way he is now. On his own, with an injury apparently too grievous even for his regeneration to heal. "Zeke is no stranger to the mutilations his body has endured during his years of service to Marley, yet you’ve never heard of a single wound rendering him to the state you find him in right now.

“Oh, how viscous of me, then,” a smirk starts but fails to form on your lips as you struggle to keep your nonchalant composure, approaching the couch he is laying on. “Taking care of a man who’s too helpless to resist my nursing advances. Only a monster would be capable of such cruelty.”

Your remark doesn’t elicit any reaction from him. The serene expression of his features you’re so used to seeing is now shattered as you pry his arms away from his face to get his glasses off. Ever averse, he opens his eyes the moment he feels your touch on his skin.

“What a rotten endeavor you’ve chosen for yourself,” he speaks with a sullen strain in his voice, “to pity me.”

In the dim light, it’s hard to see clearly, but it appears that even his eyes have lost their usual brightness. Only the shadow of a smile that he manages to crack remains the same, ever playful. As much as he feigns annoyance, the inordinate amount of attention you give him still amuses him.

“Not true. It’s not true,” you rush to counter him.

As if the redundancy would make your lie any less obvious.

He doesn’t fight your advances anymore, not with words nor attitude, as he closes his eyes again and lets you slide the glasses off of him. The metal frames have left red dents on his nose and forehead, even more visible against his pale face now. His hair, a mess of damp locks clinging to his forehead.

Lying down seems to have provided some relief from the pain, whatever its nature may be. But not much. His ragged breathing and shivers ravaging his body are dead give-aways of that. He must be concealing from you the true extent of his suffering.

His voice rustles once again, but even in the deathly silence of the room, you have trouble discerning his words. Thus, he has to repeat himself, much to his chagrin. “A smoke, give me one.”

“I don’t think that—”

“I think that you are still here because of some noble notion to ‘take care’ of me,” Zeke lashes out in a whisper that somehow manages to sound brimming with frustration despite its weakness. “And the only thing that I want right now is a good smoke, so be so ‘caring’ as to give some to me.”

It’s strange to see him crippled with pain to such an extent. Maybe that’s why you pay no mind to his unusually quiet yet all-too-familiarly barbed outburst and refrain from mirroring his retorts.

He finishes the first cigarette in under a minute, reducing it to a stump between his trembling fingers in a few deep drags. With his lungs saturated in nicotine, a semblance of calm finally settles into his breathing. Despite yourself, a sigh of relief escapes your lips at this sight. Without missing a beat, the second one is ignited. Nicotine is all he breathes.

“I'm sure that there's something more interesting in the house to stare at other than this couch.” The puff of smoke carries his words.

His hint falls on deaf ears. A begrudged plea is all you can recognize in the sound of his voice.

You ponder for a minute, casting your gaze towards the very thing he'd like you not to look at. Perhaps it would be a good bet to let him endure the pain in the comfort of solitude with you keeping a close eye on him from another room. At least that way he will have to expend energy on healing, instead of employing a fruitless tactic to hold back his grunts and keep a straight face, like he is trying now.

He doesn’t need you. He wants you gone. Even with the gravity of the situation in mind, you can’t help but to let his attitude cut deep. Broken and suffering, he wouldn’t dream of letting down his guard for you.

Fine. You’ll allow your sentiments to mirror his, then.

“Indeed,” you feign agreement. “It’s not like you’re a sight for sore eyes right now, anyway.”

You mean to hurt him, even just a little bit — a semblance of retaliation for what he’s put you through on this endeavor — but his emotionless facade doesn’t even budge. If anything, he appears glad at the mere mention of finally getting some alone time.

You infuse your voice with feigned incredulity to a painful extent, grateful that he's in no condition to pick up on it. “Well, I suppose even the shelves in your room could be a more welcome sight than this, especially with what happens to fill them.”

A flimsy excuse to leave his side, but he’s all too happy to take the bait. Your veiled ultimatum is accepted without a moment’s consideration as Zeke immediately shoots back.

“Yes, a lot of deficit stuff to read, so help yourself. Now get out.”

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Cooped up in a room filled with the rarest books Zeke has collected from invaded cities for the past hour, you find yourself caring less for these spoils of war than you'd like to admit. All your thoughts are of the living room, of the warchief’s broken form on the couch.

You rush to the living room as soon as you hear his grunts still. For the briefest of moments you consider the possibility of him being dead, the regeneration having failed in ridding him of this invisible ailment, yet brush off the baseless assumption. Marley wouldn't do anything to cause the death of their wonder-warchief. Not for another five years at least.

You have proven yourself right in the end. Without your persistent presence, his guard has dropped enough for him to fall asleep. A considerably better outcome to staying awake and aware of the pain.

Entering the room filled with blue smog, your attention is immediately drawn to the ash-covered patch of flooring near the sofa. It all still smokes, fills the air with the nicotine stench from no less than half a dozen stubs, the smell so potent it stings your eyes, making them brim with tears. In the poisonous haze, it takes you a moment to make out the amber glint still nestled between his pale fingers — a lit cigarette, burning away. The ember laps at his skin, singeing and instantly steaming anew with regeneration. You ensure to take it from him and stub it out in the ashtray nearby. His body doesn’t need any more damage beyond that of the original mysterious ailment that’s led to his chain-smoking in the first place.

You have to admit there's a touch of morbid curiosity, if not concern, compelling you to contemplate his features and the impact that the shock from the last few hours has had on them. Usually his sleep is far too thin for this fit to work out in your favor. But now he barely registers your presence even as you sit down at the very edge of the couch beside him.

Even in his nicotine-fueled dream he fails to find rest. His body’s still full of pain-born tremble and tension. Yet you have to admit that he does look less deathly than a couple of hours ago. Neither pallor draining his complexion nor sweat beading his skin seem to be the case now.

You’re glad, almost relieved even, to see him find some semblance of peace. With his body’s regenerative abilities, it's only uphill from here. At least until the next time he has to return to the facility.

Another time that likely won’t come for you, given how your recruitment happened. And along with it, any chance for your curiosity to be sated, if it ever truly existed. No amount of pressing on your part would make him consider divulging any explanation for his compromised state to you — pressing that you are too prideful to conduct in the first place.

In the quiet of the room, disturbed only by the sounds of his breathing and the occasional noise of the city coming from outside, you can’t keep your thoughts at bay. So you turn to him once again. The sight of his features, still heavy with sleep, brings you twisted comfort that you may sit here with him for a bit longer. You study him closely. For a moment, you’re even tempted to reach out and brush the hair from his forehead but restrain yourself.

The redundancy of your altruistic intentions is truly laughable. A man of his gifts, known to be undeterred by the multiple loss of his limbs, would want for nothing when it comes to his health, let alone your feeble attempts to take care of him. And yet despite his regeneration, there’s a part of you that wants to help, no matter the futility of your efforts. But you know better than to expect gratitude or even acknowledgement. Zeke is not one to show vulnerability, and most certainly not one to thank you for witnessing it.

And in the end, you’re always the one poorer for it.

The warchief’s quarters are much more quaint than yours, but there's no comfort in being here now. You recall the very reason you decided to stay instead of leaving immediately. With your intentions fulfilled and his sleep growing lighter, you desire to leave more than ever. You don’t want him to wake and his first words to you to be yet another remark at the sliver of affection you have for him. He doesn’t get to hurt you any more than he’s done today.

Only fools harbor hope — you care to remember that after the years of knowing him. But for your persistence today, you’ve been given a glimpse of the other Zeke. Even now, you can see a bit of that in him as he lies there, curled up on the couch, wincing ever so slightly at the light pouring in from the open front door. Once again, you stand at his doorstep in a moment of weakness, pondering one last thought before leaving. Maybe you're fine with being hope’s fool.

#zeke x reader #zeke yeager x reader #zeke jeager x reader #zeke yeager #zeke jeager

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