#it seems like something very morbid to be fascinated with

[naomiknight-17]

If I have something akin to a special interest I think it must be radiation sickness and the incidents/accidents/disasters that cause it

The Goiana Incident. The Radium Girls. Three Mile Island. Chernobyl. The Demon Core. The SL-1. The Therac-25. I could go on

I don't know what it is but reading and watching everything I possibly can on the science behind, the causes of, and end results of radiation-related incidents is absolutely fascinating to me

I hate blood and gore and injury but if an article or video shows what radiation does to someone's skin or bone marrow? I am studying that shit

What is wrong with my brain

[tonycries]

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.

[zaldritzosrose]

Carpe Noctem (Modern Goth!Aemond x Goth!Reader)

Summary: Aemond enjoyed the darker side of life; the morbid, the macabre. He reflected his outside with how he looked on the inside, ignoring the unusual stares he would get from passersby. His world revolved around it, losing himself in dark and fantastical worlds...and then he met you. His real life gothic heroine.

CW: MINORS DNI, afab reader, she/her pronouns, gothic coded reader, gothic Aemond, dark/morbid fantasies, outdoor sex, graveyard sex, mild exhibitionism, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, phone sex, innuendo, profanity, (yes this is probably my truest self insert, sue me), Aemond wishes he could live in a gothic novel.

Words: 4535

Surprise I posted earlier than expected!

Happy Spooky Season! This is my second fic submission to our Fan Frankentober Event (masterlist will be found here) in collab with a few lovely moots! Head over to @fandomeventcenter for more info!

There was a darkness in Aemond. A darkness that had been left unconsidered and unloved until he had met you.

Aemond was a lover of all things macabre and morbid. It had started when he and his family had moved houses, living just a short walk from a cemetery. Horror stories had always fascinated him. Tales told to scare around a campfire or in a darkened room. Stories meant to get the heart racing and the hairs to stand tall on the neck.

The older he got, the deeper he delved. Collections of stories, ranging from the well-known classics to lesser-known fables, lined the walls of his room.

His interests soon followed. His music reflected his darker curiosities, from haunting musical classics to heavier, grungier sounds of heavy metal and gothic rock. And his clothing choices followed not long after, modelling himself after his favourite artists and horror icons. Even covering his injured eye – a mishap in his childhood – with a bespoke leather eyepatch.

Aemond lived his life by the darkness he always felt within.

You had always felt a little outcasted, though some of it was self-inflicted. You preferred solitude, with the only company being the fantastical beings within the pages of your favourite books.

Your love of art and photography helped you channel the morbidity within into something beautiful. Wandering around derelict buildings and darkened graveyards. Styling your images after the scenes in your novels.

Holding an affinity for the tragic heroines and broken damsels in your books, you began to create art of yourself. Posing for timer taken photos in intricate costumes. Collating the photos and creating your very own spooky, fantastical online presence.

That’s where he found you. He had joined the site to follow his favourite authors, artists and musicians. Simply to immerse himself further into the world he enjoyed.

He had been scrolling through posts, mindlessly passing time while his siblings bickered about something or other. And there you were.

It was like you had been pulled from one of the novels on his shelf. The layers of lace that draped over your body, the red as deep as freshly spilled blood. Makeup dark and deathly. Before Aemond knew it, he’d opened your page. Trawling through photo after photo, slowly getting lost in the dark, ethereal draw you seemed to hold.

After weeks of keeping himself updated with your posts, he decided he had to know you. No matter what happened, he had to try.

Tentatively, he opened his messages and, inspired by your ‘Spooky Season’ posts most recently, he chose one of his favoured quotes from Bram Stoker’s Dracula.

“I have crossed oceans of times to find you…your work is beautiful, almost as beautiful as you.”

Aemond could feel his heart beating hard enough he feared it might burst from his chest. Was that too weird? Was he too forward? Would you find him creepy?

There wasn’t much he could do now; the message was out there and deleting it would be even more suspicious.

So, he waited.

Your phone dinged and the message notification surprised you. A message from the username ‘truetooneanother’. You instinctively checked the profile first; it wouldn’t be the first time a stranger had messaged you in response to a photoshoot. Most were harmless, but you were always cautious.

A quick scroll showed almost exactly what you expected from a Frankenstein inspired username. Aesthetic pleasing images of books, his cat, shots out music gigs and records. Even a mix of beautiful photographs of what you guess was where he lived – perfectly framed images of graveyards, lakes, and some of the most gorgeous gothic architecture you had ever laid your eyes on.

But what you wanted, was a picture of whoever this stranger with classic horror knowledge was. And some deeper scrolling came up with your prize. One of few shots of your mystery messenger. A posed photo lit by what you guess was a fireplace or candles. The profile of his face was in main focus, and you were sure you could see what looked like an eyepatch, maybe?

A couple more scrolls and you found a full image of his face and you could have sworn your jaw dropped just a little. There was just something about him that had you intrigued.

Immediately, you reopened his message.

“That’s very kind of you, and how did you manage to choose one of my favourite literary quotes?”

You hit send and waited. Soon, you could see that he had read your message. You were surprised that you felt a flutter of nervousness in your stomach. You had never been like this over a stranger online before. But when your phone pinged again to say he’d sent a message, you were chewing your lip in excitement.

“Because it is my favourite, I can’t count how many times I’ve read Dracula. And your last post inspired it, you looked like you’d fallen from one of its pages.”

You could feel the blush on your cheeks. No one had ever spoken to you that way. Complimenting you without making you feel uncomfortable. Most comments or direct messages were failed attempts at flirting, sexual innuendo or just downright creepiness.

This time it felt different.

“Classic horror is one of my greatest inspirations, everything in those books is pure darkness and fantasy…making it real is a passion. Can I ask your name?”

There was something about the words he chose, the way he wrote his messages that gave you butterflies. How could you be so fascinated about someone you didn’t know?

“Aemond. May I ask yours?”

“Then you manage it perfectly, it suits you.”

Those two messages only made you blush deepen. Why was he having such an effect on you?

You gave him your name, feeling the heat radiating of your cheeks as he continued to compliment you – almost poetically.

You and Aemond continued to talk, moving your messaging from you social media to giving out your phone number. Those messages soon turned to phone calls, his voice bordering on hypnotic. You could barely get enough.

His phone calls were as poetic as his messages. The gentle timbre to his voice would sink into your mind and settle there.

A few more weeks and those phone calls became video chats. Hours spent talking about books, music, films. Where your favourite places were to photograph – for you it was where to set your shoots, for Aemond it was the places he wanted to create art from.

It wasn’t long before things turned a little more…x rated.

Behind the scenes pictures of your photography outings, showing off the variety of corsets, barely there lace dresses you would don for your ideas.

This was how you’d found out Aemond also enjoyed fencing. It was both expected and unexpected. When you’d learned his surname, you realised he came from a pretty well known Westerosi family, so higher class pursuits weren’t too far out of the question.

But the picture he had sent this morning, post training but pre-shower…

It had set your whole body on fire. Silver hair let loose and hanging over his shoulders. Clad only in his white fencing trousers and no shirt. Pale skin, lean torso on show. And his caption had waves of arousal coursing through your body.

He was beautiful. Like a dark character from one of your fantasy novels. It took you a moment to formulate a reply, and what you gave was far from your usual ability.

“Are you trying to kill me off?

You’d ended your message with a couple of emojis, the hot face emoji and the winking face. It wouldn’t be the first time you and Aemond had shared more racy messages, but this had been the first time he’d sent a photo like that.

And your heart was in your throat, desire wet between your thighs when you saw him typing.

“I would never, but nice to know you find me that attractive… you could see this in person if you wanted?”

“Fuck…” you muttered aloud, staring at the screen in disbelief.

A cheeky thought entered your mind. A picture for a picture was only fair, right?

You made sure the angle was perfect, showing off the shape of your body, your hand tucked seductively between your thighs. Your shirt bunched up to show a little skin. You added only a few dirty emojis and one word.

“When?”

Aemond almost dropped his phone when you sent that message back. Between the photo and your message, his skin felt hot, the crotch of his trousers getting tighter the longer he looked at it.

Fuck, you were stunning. Seduction and sensuality personified. His hand was tucked into the waistband of his trousers before he could stop himself. His other frantically messaging you back.

“Next week? You have that graveyard shoot planned right?”

Aemond’s hand shook as he typed. He needed release and he needed you.

“You have no idea what you do to me…I crave you…you have witchcraft on your lips.”

You fingers were like lightning as you replied, your own hand still nestled between your thighs. Part of you wanted to call him, hear his voice talking you through the desire that was thick in your veins. Your fingers dipped beneath your underwear, the ones holding your phone hovering over the call symbol.

And then the phone rang. Aemond’s name flashing on your screen. You barely even said ‘hello’, your voice soft as you dropped back onto your bed.

“Talk to me, please just talk to me…”

Aemond let out a soft chuckle, ending in a groan as his hand settled entirely into his trousers.

“Do you need me, sweet girl? Did my bare chest turn you on that much?” his voice was in that tone you adored.

Low and soft, almost a whisper. It sent a shiver down your spine in the most delicious of ways, settling deep within your core.

“You have no idea. Now I know what you hide under all that black and leather.”

Aemond only hummed in response, the rustling of material telling you exactly what he was doing. But you wanted to hear his voice. The soft sound of his breath told you he was as aroused as you were. Sometimes, the simplest things were enough to get the two of you going.

“Oh, darling, I hide a lot more than that. How badly do you need me?”

The tone, the implication behind his words had you sighing softly, fingers toying with your pearl. Circling softly at just the thought of what the rest of him might look like. You tried to calm yourself, to muster some of the darker more erotic poetry you had read on his recommendation.

“I…oh...I want your lust to tear the flesh of my bones, fuck…and leave me ravaged…”

Aemond felt his good eye roll into the back of his head. Having you read that poetry was one thing, but hearing it fall from your lips and mixed with sounds of pleasure. He could have come there and then.

“And ravage you I will, my darling…”

He could hear the movement of your hand against your body, the faintest sounds of your slickened fingers pushing you closer and closer to orgasm. His own hand working himself furiously at just the thought of having you beneath him, moaning his name. He laid himself entirely back on his bed, his phone on his chest as his hips began to rut up into his hand.

“I’d like to taste you in ways my tongue dare not speak…”

That was all it took to have you softly sighing his name down the phone, your release coming like waves over your body. Aemond followed soon after, rough grunts matching the rhythm of his hand.

Both of you panted as you calmed, the silence falling comfortably until Aemond spoke.

“I can’t wait to meet you.”

The day had come. Months of messages, calls, video chats had all led to this. You were going to see him in the flesh. And he was going to see you.

You had both agreed to meet just as you finished your planned Halloween shoot – a bit on the nose admittedly but you had chosen a graveyard near your hometown with your favourite horror heroines as your style inspiration. Ranging from classics like the Bride of Frankenstein to newer icons such as Morticia Addams. Simply, the shoot was entirely self-indulgent for you.

You knew you wouldn’t miss him. A few friends had come to help you out, setting up the camera, getting changed into another costume and all that. But other than that, the graveyard was relatively quiet.

Your focus remained on the shoot. Remembering your poses, the props, what you envisioned for the final images. But you could see the silver hair in the distance, contrasted against the entirely black palette of his outfit. Aemond kept his distance, leaning against a headstone as he waited patiently for you to be done.

The shoot was done, you had changed into what could only be described as a more casual combination of the costumes from the shoot. A flowy black dress, paired with Victorian inspired boots and a lacy black shawl you’d had since you could remember.

You could see Aemond walking towards you, your friends having long packed up and dispersed – most of them knowing what you had planned afterwards. Nerves set in your stomach.

What if he didn’t like you? What if, despite seeing you through the screen, he was no longer interested?

But all of that disappeared the second he stood in front of you. His long, lean form clad head to toe in layers of black. From the thick wool of his coat to the silken fabric of his shirt and the leather of his boots. That eyepatch laid perfectly over his eye – you had asked what happened and despite being a little unwilling, Aemond explained he’d injured it as a child but said no more. It was almost as though he enjoyed being mysterious.

“Aemond…” you smiled, moving to slip down from your perch on a stone wall.

Your smile only widened when Aemond held out his hand, offering his assistance to help you down. And you took it gladly, letting his fingers wrap around yours without hesitation.

Aemond kept hold of it, toying softly with one of the rings you wore.

“That shoot was truly a sight to behold,” Aemond whispered, his voice sending a shiver down your spine.

He knew what it did to you, you knew he did. You were sure that he would choose that tone purposefully in calls to rile you up. And you loved it.

“So, you liked it? Horror Queens wasn’t too obvious for Halloween?”

Aemond laughed, and you let him lead you to a little clearing in the gravestones. Everything felt comfortable, his hand holding yours, the feel of him stood next to you. It just felt right.

“You were perfect, as always. Even now it’s as though you’ve stepped from, dare I say, one of Shelley or Stoker’s pages.”

You squeezed his hand in response, not knowing how to respond to such a compliment. But you were struck even more silent when you saw where he was leading you.

A large blanket was stretched out on the ground, perfectly placed between a group of headstones. A small gift, wrapped in black and red paper and finished with a velvet bow sat beside a hamper filled with food. More specifically, your favourite foods.

“Well, aren’t you a romantic?”

You sat down on the blanket, stretching your legs out in front of you as Aemond sat at your side. His arm instinctively wrapped around your waist. It was like you’d been beside each other for the longest time, everything felt so natural.

“A romantic? I am simply a man who wishes let you know how important you are.”

Aemond felt a need to restrain himself a little. Part of him wanted to spout all of the poetry and stories that wandered around his mind, to declare his love for you.

But he had just met you, in the literal sense. And he’d be damned if he scared you off now.

You, however, liked that about him. How open he was with how he felt. How he wasn’t afraid to give in to every emotion he felt.

“So, tell me. Don’t you know how much I enjoy your poetry?” you said it almost shyly, feeling Aemond’s arm tighten around your waist.

Aemond felt he could have melted there and then. But at the same time, the idea you enjoyed his words so much set a fire in his veins that he didn’t expect.

“Then you will very much like your gift, my darling.”

He leaned away, tugging the neatly wrapped gift towards him. Part of you felt guilty, you hadn’t bought him anything. But at the same time, you knew him well enough to know he wouldn’t mind.

His fingers brushed yours as you took the present from his grasp. As carefully as possible, you tugged at the ribbon and unwrapped it. They felt like books which didn’t surprise you at all, from Aemond. But what they truly were would surprise you.

Two beautifully bound notebooks, in black with shades of purple and red. Your breath caught in your throat as you opened the first one.

Pages upon pages of both of your favourite quotes, lines from poetry. You were already overwhelmed by the time you opened the second.

Handwritten versions of the poetry Aemond himself had sent you. The lines he had written to express his feelings towards you now preserved in his equally beautiful handwriting.

“Aemond…this is…”

You simply couldn’t find the words. So, you did the one thing you felt could express what you were feeling. You kissed him.

You almost threw yourself at him, the books discarded at the side as Aemond scrambled to catch you. Arms wrapping immediately around your waist and holding your body to his. Your legs straddled his waist, and you poured every ounce of affection and desire into your kiss.

Soon, Aemond reciprocated. Sliding a hand into your hair as his other gripped at your thigh.

He’d imagined everything about what kissing you would be like. How your lips would feel, how you would taste and how your body would feel beneath his hands.

The reality was more than he could ever imagine. And he wasn’t about to waste a single second.

Your own hands roamed over his body, gripping the soft, silk of his shirt while the other began to push the coat from his shoulders. You didn’t care that you were outside, there was no one here anyway.

All you needed was him.

Aemond shrugged his coat from his shoulders. The moment the fabric slid from his body, he moved to lay you on your back. The picnic could wait. You were the only meal he wished to devour.

Your dress bunched around your waist. Aemond slipped easily between your legs, and you could feel just how much he was enjoying the kiss. The swollen length of him pressing against you with only his jeans as a barrier.

His hips instinctively began to roll against yours, the hand on your thigh pulling your leg up to wrap around his slim waist. His lips began to trail down your neck and your head tilted back to let him continue his path.

Your breath came out in soft pants, your hand tangling into his hair as his lips settled on the exposed skin of your chest. Just as the first moan left your lips, Aemond pulled back.

His eye found yours, the blue entirely eclipsed by his pupil. Pure lust settled in his gaze.

“Shall I ravage you as I promised, my love?” Aemond leaned down, teeth nibbling at your ear lobe as he spoke.

You pushed your hips up against his in response. Words were failing you, but you could see in the look he gave you that he wanted your words.

“Please, Aemond, please…”

Your voice was embarrassingly whiny, need dripping from every syllable. And his response was immediate, latching his lips back onto your neck with a little more force this time.

“Whatever my love wishes, she will have. Your pleasure will know no bounds…”

His words were muffled as he buried his face into the swell of your chest, but what he said didn’t really matter anymore. All you both needed know was the touch of the other.

Your eyes rolled back as he continued his descent down your body. Pushing your dress higher as he reached your core. Your hand tangled tight in his hair, the pain only spurring Aemond on.

This was like a dream. The softness of your skin, the scent of your arousal as he licked a stripe over your clothed cunt. Aemond wished to commit every second to his memory.

He draped your legs over his shoulders, feeling you shift to rest on your elbows. The idea of you watching him had a heat licking up Aemond’s spine in the most delicious way.

Slim fingers tugged your underwear down your legs, a smirk thrown your way as he tucked them into his jeans.

“A souvenir?” you asked, chewing on your lip in anticipation as the cool air hit your slick folds.

Aemond didn’t answer, head dipping back down and settling between your thighs. His breath hot against your skin, sending goosebumps over the flesh of your thighs.

The moan you let out as his tongue licked over your core was almost sinful. Echoing through the empty graveyard as your head dropped back in pleasure. The sound only spurred Aemond on, now lapping at your folds as if he was a man starved.

“Delicious, so fucking delicious…” he almost growled the words into your body, sending vibrations through you that only heightened your desire for him.

His lips latched onto your pearl, suckling it between them and relishing the high-pitched keen that fell from your lips in return. He could already feel your thighs tightening around his head and Aemond was desperate to taste you on his tongue.

Your hand tightened to the point of pain in his hair, nails scratching against his scalp in a way that had him moaning into your cunt. He was rewarded with a fresh gush of slick over his tongue. Your fleshy walls pulsing around his tongue as he delved back in.

His name was like a prayer on your lips, chanting it over and over again as you felt the knot in your stomach tightening.

“Come for me, my beautiful creature…” Aemond grunted out the command as you tugged his face harder against your body, rolling your hips against his face.

Everything had sparks of pleasure biting at your body. His tongue licking at your walls, the slope of his nose rubbing against your clit in the most perfect way, his grip on your thighs almost painful.

You came with a scream of his name, a final pull on his hair earning you a hiss of pain but Aemond didn’t relent. He lapped up everything you gave him until you had to wriggle away from overstimulation.

“Fuck…” your voice was barely more than a whisper as you pulled Aemond back up your body.

Your skin was flushed, your cunt still pulsing as your high slowly left you. But Aemond’s hardened cock pressing against your damp core reminded you that he still needed to be taken care of.

And Aemond could see the look of mischief in your eyes. Your hips canting up to press your soaked core against him.

“Insatiable, hmm? Do you wish me to take you here, among the dead?”

You pressed your lips to his, sliding a hand between you to palm at the thick bulge in his jeans.

“I would let you take me anywhere; I am desperate for you…”

Your teeth tugged at his lip, his eye rolling back in his head.

“Besides, you did say you would ravage me.”

You punctuated your words with a squeeze of his cock, rubbing your palm down the length of it as he dropped his head to your neck. A few more touches had his cock twitching beneath your palm. Your fingers made quick work of his belt and zipper. Aemond came back to his senses just enough to push his jeans and underwear down just enough to free himself.

He immediately lined himself up with your entrance, slowly pushing inside. The head of his cock stretching your walls in a way that had your sighing out his name.

The day had gotten darker, but it only made the whole experience more perfect. The sun beginning to set just as Aemond began to thrust into you, the orange glow illuminating him from behind. His silver hair painted gold and his skin almost glowing.

“Yes, oh, yes…”

Your moans were the only sound Aemond ever wished to hear. His name had never sounded more beautiful that when it fell from your lips in pleasure.

His hands tangled with yours as he held them high above your head. His thrusts slow but punishing, feeling like he was filling every inch of your core.

“You are everything I need, my darling. A dream come true, a dream I never wish to wake from…”

Aemond’s words were answered with your mewls and moans, your heels in the small of his back spurring him on. His rhythm sped up in response, all but pounding into you with abandon.

You were both now solely chasing your pleasure. The only sound aside from your joined moans was the rustle of leaves and the faint cawing of birds.

Aemond’s lips locked with yours as he felt your walls clench around him. Pleasure overtook you and he drank down every one of your cries as his own release was milked from his cock with every twitch and pulse of your cunt.

His movements slowed, but he wasn’t ready to pull from your body just yet. He released your hands, resting his head against your chest. Your hands found his hair and back, calmly stroking as you both relaxed.

Neither of you knew what to say, but you both felt it. A calmness, a connection that tugged at both your hearts.

Aemond had known you were meant for him from the moment he had seen that first photo. But you, you believed it now. No one had made you feel as he did for the longest time.

It wasn’t love; it was more. Something darker, deeper.

You felt empty as Aemond pulled out of you, finding something to clean you up with. But it wasn’t before you were wrapped in his embrace again.

“I’m so happy I met you,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

“Though I fear I cannot be without you now.”

Aemond pulled away, tilting your face up to his.

“Darling, you’re already in my veins.”

The kiss he pressed to your lips was filled with nothing but love and promise. Promise of a darker, deeper love that you had only ever read about.

A love you would now get to experience.

Aemond Taglist:

@legitalicat @anjelicawrites @sylasthegrim @aemondsbabe

@aemondsbabygirl @blissfulphilospher @elaratyrell @multyfangirl

@thenameswinter99 @tumblin-theworldaway @kaelatargaryen

@hoosbandewan @thought--bubble @mysticalendings

@towriteloveontheirarms @arcielee

[animeyanderelover]

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.

[alexanderwales]

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.

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

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?"

[cloudcountry]

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.

[darkcabarets]

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.”

[starrierknight]

𝟎𝟐𝟓. 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬

“Love is a sacrament that should be taken kneeling, and Domine non sum dignus should be on the lips and in the hearts of those who receive it.” ― Oscar Wilde, De Profundis

MASTERLIST | KINKTOBER 23' | AO3

wc— 5k

pairing— vampire slayer!dom!gn!reader x vampire!sub!gojo

cws/tags— enemies to enemies w/ benefits, S&M, predator/prey dynamic, knifeplay, bloodplay, blood as an aphrodisiac, heavy degradation (+use of “slut”), humiliation, biting & marking, oral + fingering (reader receiving), reader has AFAB anatomy but isn’t gendered, dry humping, hairpulling, inaccurate vampire lore, porn w/ plot, porn w/ (angsty) feelings, very description heavy

The passage of time had led you to this decisive moment. There he kneeled, ensnared by the circumstance of your bait, his once confident demeanour reduced to vulnerability. Wide-eyed and labouring breaths betrayed his desperation, his pale chest heaving under that billowing white shirt. 

You stood tall, your gaze an icy lance that pierced through the layers of cunning that once cloaked this despicable being. A vampire, an embodiment of the dark myths that have haunted humanity for centuries. In the story of your seasoned exploits, the ones you’d slain had been unfathomable monsters, grotesque aberrations. The raw power that you expected to emanate from a monster so ancient, so sinister, seemed to have dulled into something strangely human. His aura of malevolence was overshadowed by a pitiable aura of need. The haunting question dawned on the precipice of your thoughts: Could it be that even the darkest of beings can yearn, can ache for something beyond their cursed existence?

The tableau is one of stark contrasts—the resolute hunter and the feeble prey, the chilling void of the night and the warmth of desperate need. The air remained unbroken: You, the embodiment of unyielding purpose, and he, an enigma knelt before you, leaving the promise of revelation in his desperate, longing gaze.

The monster before you took on a hauntingly primal quality. A languid, serpentine motion as his tongue darted out, collecting the remnants of blood, your blood, that clung to his lips. The taste, metallic and potent as you knew it to be, was like the sweetest nectar to him. A guttural groan escaped his parted lips, a sound laden with both pleasure and pain; The very act of an existence marked by unending darkness and insatiable hunger. With deliberate slowness, his eyes shuttered closed, a brief surrender of ecstasy. His lashes casted long shadows against his pale, parchment-like skin. 

“Speak, monster,” you said in a cool, steady tone.

Time seemed to expand and contract, a canvas stretched taut, as he eventually broke the stillness.

“Oh, come on. Why the formalities?” he taunted in an airy whisper, a smug lilt to his tone. “Don’t you think we’re past that?”

His eyelids parted, revealing pupils dilated to a darkness. Those eyes, a chromatic anomaly amidst the desolation of his existence, were a cerulean that defied nature's palette. They were too blue, too vivid—a celestial fragment from the vast expanse of the heavens that had fallen into his wretched possession. 

“Tell me your name before I slay you tonight,” you spat, your will unwavering.

His eyes drank you in with an uncanny hunger. “Gojo Satoru. Though, please, Satoru will do just fine.”

You tilted your head to one side, leaning down to inspect him with morbid fascination. He was disturbingly beautiful: Far too angelic in appearance, though you supposed it was a façade to lure in his prey. How ironic.

“Gojo Satoru,” you murmured, still inspecting him. Satoru shuddered at the way his name fell from your mouth, and he groaned again. “That’s a very human name, unfit for you… Though it’s your vampiric desperation that got you here, isn’t it?”

Satoru's response sliced through the charged atmosphere like a serrated blade. His lips parted in a breathy exhalation that transformed into a rueful laugh, a delicate sound that danced in the air. The corners of his mouth quirked into a crooked smile, a wry look that exposed his pointed fangs. 

“Was it yours, by the way?”

“The blood?”

“The blood. The blood in the chalice—that bait you left for me. Was it yours? Did you… alter it?”

You frowned and raised a brow. Instinctively, your hand moved to your belt, where your weapon of choice rested. The scabbard relinquished its hold with a whisper of leather, allowing the ornate silver dagger to emerge into the moonlit room. Your fingers curled around the hilt, finding solace in the familiarity of its weight. 

“Your final moments are rapidly approaching, and you question my methods for luring you here?” you asked bemusedly.

Satoru shrugged one shoulder, but his eyes snapped to focus on the blade. “I’m just making friendly conversation.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No,” he laughed again, hunger flashing in his eyes, “I’m not. Tell me, though.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “It’s mine. Unaltered.”

Satoru's throat bobbed visibly as he swallowed, the sound resonating. He took a deep breath. “So, you just taste… like that, do you?”

“Like ‘that’?”

“Just so… sweet. Humans aren’t usually so sweet,” he clarified.

With a fluid motion, you idly twirled the dagger through the air. The blade's polished surface caught the moon's glow, transforming its silvery sheen into an almost-blue hue, the ornate dagger an extension of your intent. The blade's tip, sharpened to a lethal point, found its mark with an almost imperceptible pressure against Satoru's skin.

The chill of the metal against his neck was a stark contrast to the warmth that radiated from his body. The sensation was immediate, a jolt of icy reality that underscored the gravity of your confrontation. His breath hitched, his pupils dilated more, the pulse of his veins thundering in tandem with the rhythm of his twisted excitement. 

“You disgust me,” you hissed, pressing the blade to his neck so that it was perilously close to breaking his skin.

The whine that escaped his lips was involuntary, a mixture of pain and desire that reverberated through the charged air. It was a reminder that his existence, no matter how abhorrent, was still woven with threads of need and yearning. He pressed closer to the flat of the blade—the dichotomy of his action hauntingly human. The cold metal met the feverish heat of his pale skin, his lips parted as he breathed heavily.

“Please,” the longing etched into his contorted expression spoke of desire both primal and inexplicable. “One last request before it’s over. Please.”

“You think you deserve a last request?” you challenged, eyes narrowed with scrutiny.

Satoru moistened his lips, eyes darting from you to around the room as he scrambled to provide you with an answer to your question. The room, with its moonlit corners and shadows, seemed to close in, the walls serving as both witnesses and silent participants in this exchange between hunter and hunted, captor and captive. The request that followed was both shocking and strangely intimate:

“I was human, once,” he began, “I wanted a good death for myself, once. Please, give me a shred of humanity to die with. Please, let me taste you before you kill me.”

It's a collision of desires—a yearning for connection, for a glimpse of the humanity he once possessed, and the chilling reminder of his vampiric nature.

You laughed coldly, sneering down at him. “And humanity is blood, is it?”

“Please.”

Jutting your chin out, your gaze seared downward. The intensity of your stare, unyielding and incisive, spoke of your unwavering resolve in the face of his plea. The retraction of the dagger was a calculated move—an action that rippled with implications.

As the blade sliced across the palm of your hand, your own blood welled forth, a crimson testament to your commitment to the path you'd chosen. The sting was a reminder of the sacrifices you were willing to make, and the offering of the blade, now smeared with your blood, was a bridge.

His reaction was immediate and visceral. The scent of your blood, intoxicatingly sweet to his heightened senses, seemed to fill the room; A siren's call. Satoru’s breathing grew heavy. His eyes locked onto the vivid liquid, reflecting a hunger that surpassed all others.

“Have your taste before I slaughter you, Satoru.”

As if drawn by an irresistible force, Satoru's compliance was immediate and unquestioning. As his tongue darted out to lick the smeared blood from the flat of the blade, the room seemed to hold its breath, a voyeur to this intimate ritual between predator and prey. The metallic glint of your blood met his tongue with an electric charge, a connection that transcended what he thought he had centuries of damned experience with. The blood's influence, as it coursed through the currents of his veins, was immediate and potent. 

The sweet nature of your blood sparked an undeniable fire within Satoru; A desire, once lurking in the shadows, that now surged to the forefront of his consciousness. The echoes of his moans, the rise and fall of his uneven breaths, served as evidence of the pure need he experienced. 

“You really are the most repulsive thing I’ve ever seen,” you muttered, regarding him with sickly interest. Satoru's gaze—those magnificently blue eyes, like pools of sapphire—rose from the blade, still in his kneeling position, to meet yours. 

“That was hardly a taste,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire.

Your indignant silence was punctuated by the steady rhythm of dripping blood. Drip-drip-drip. You felt the warmth from the gash on your non-dominant hand curl around your fingers, falling with resonance onto the aged wooden floorboards. Drip-drip-drip. As your gaze swept across the space, the play of light and shadow painted the scene. Your attention fell upon a solitary chair nestled in the corner.

Without uttering a single word, your injured hand lifted and extended, your blood-stained fingers pointing with stark clarity towards the chair. Drip-drip. The gesture was a directive, an invitation, an unspoken promise. Satoru, his towering presence marked by the contrast of moonlight and shadows, heeded the call of your gesture. With a deliberate grace, he approached the chair, the sound of its legs scraping against the wooden floor, the very air itself holding its breath.

The surprise that unfurled within you was mirrored by the unexpected turn of events. As he dragged the chair closer, your pulse quickened, and you sat. Then, in a gesture that defied your expectations, he knelt before you once more, his handsome expression a mixture of reverence, his own expectation, his own unrivalled desire.

“You deserve less than I’m giving you,” you said lowly, “But enjoy yourself while you can.”

You extended your injured hand, the delicate appendage still weeping ruby-red tears. Satoru responded instinctively, cradling your wounded palm in his larger hands, their touch exuding a profound gentleness. As if guided by an innate sense of care, he brought your bloodied offering to his face, a visage that seemed both ravenous and reverent. The moment his tongue made contact with the open wound, a jolt of sensation shot through your body. The taste of your blood, infused with the sweet essence of your very being, flooded his senses. His eyes, once fixed on you, now fluttered closed, and a euphoric expression painted his features. As if overwhelmed by a wave of intense pleasure, his eyelids fluttered, and his irises seemed to lose focus, rolling upwards.

The world around Satoru seemed to dim, his focus narrowing to the essence that flowed from your wound. Each taste, each drop, acted like a potent aphrodisiac, igniting a fire that blazed within him. His body responded with a tremor, his pale hands involuntarily tightening their hold on your injured palm. His muffled groans, now a mixture of raw need and aching restraint, reverberated through your body.

Satoru’s soft, warm mouth enveloped the open wound, a fervent kiss that drew forth the crimson nectar. As he sucked on the source of this intoxicating sweetness, rivulets of blood painted intricate patterns on his lower face, a macabre, and yet strangely artistic, display. Despite his immense presence, he remained on his knees before your chair, his powerful form now a portrait of vulnerability. Satoru’s head, heavy with the weight of his longing, found its place on your lap, a gesture that radiated a delicate surrender. His silvery hair, like silk against your legs, contrasted starkly with the increasingly depraved display.

“You really are vile,” you breathed, the sting from the wound shooting up your arm.

Your grip on the dagger in your dominant hand tightened instinctively, and a mixture of apprehension and curiosity coursed through you as his tongue lapped at your skin. Your senses keenly caught the subtle shifts in his body language, the telltale signs of his arousal and need. The feeling of his fingers tightening around your wounded hand, his thighs pressing and rubbing with a rhythmic urgency—a plea for something unattainable yet relentlessly craved.

With a languid grace, he shifted his kneeling position, his body settling. As if guided by some unseen force, he positioned himself so that he was seated on one of your boots. His head found its resting place on your thigh, and his mouth maintained its fervent dance upon your hand—his lips and tongue slid over your skin, causing a paradoxical sensation of tension and pleasure that set your nerves alight.

His body responded to the all-encompassing craving that had engulfed him with a feverish urgency. The torrent of desire coursing through him could no longer be suppressed, and his body moved of its own accord. In a desperate bid for release, he pressed his hard-on against your boot, the friction providing a fleeting respite from the intensity that consumed him. Desperate moans, heavy with frustration, escaped him, the sound an unbridled testament to the intensity of the moment.

Finally, his fangs sank into the tender palm of your hand with a swift, hypnotic movement. The moment his fangs pierced your skin, a rush of sensations cascaded through you and a gasp, half surprise and half excitement, tumbled from your lips. The pressure of his bite, a fierce declaration of his need, sent shockwaves through your body. 

"Did I say you could bite?" you hissed through gritted teeth. 

With a decisiveness born of instinct, your dominant hand moved with purpose. The edge of the dagger's blade found its place against the vulnerable curve of his neck, pressing into his pale skin as his own blood, darker and more tainted than yours, seeped onto the cool metal.

Satoru’s eyes fluttered open, looking at you with a desperate apology. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry. Forgive me, please…” 

His lips sought redemption in a sequence of fervent kisses. They trailed across the delicate skin of your wrist, your knuckles, and the tips of your fingers. The gesture, if not for the lingering urgency of his movements, would have held a sweet tenderness, an attempt to mend what had been broken. Amid this tangled web of feelings, the grinding of his arousal against you persisted, a relentless echo of his desire. The moans that escaped him seemed to punctuate each kiss, a wretched symphony of need.

“You’re fucking pathetic. You should see yourself right now,” you scolded, “On your knees for me, grinding against my leg like a fucking feral animal.”

His body moved with a desperate rhythm, a primal need guiding his every motion. With each rutted thrust, he sought an elusive release, a respite from the smouldering longing between his thighs. His movements were fueled by a frenetic energy, his hips surging upward in a rhythm that spoke of desperation and longing. The dagger's lethal caress against his neck seemed only to further stoke the fire within him.

Gasping for air, Satoru’s breaths came in ragged intervals, but amidst the tumult, a single word slipped past his lips—a plea heavy with need. "Please."

“Please what? What are you even begging for, slut?” You laughed at him. “You wanna taste some more? You wanna cum for me?”

“Fuck, please… I need you… I need you so badly, please,” he whined, looking up at you with half-lidded eyes, his head still resting on your thigh.

“You want more? More blood?”

“Y-yes, but… more you. I just, fuck… Need more of you,” he panted.

The sound of his own confession served as a catalyst, the final thread that unravelled his restraint. With a loud and unfiltered moan, Satoru fell apart on his knees before you. His hips jerked against you with a frantic urgency as he whimpered. The tension that had been building, coil by coil, snapped like a taut band, releasing a flood of euphoria that consumed him entirely. At that moment, there was no room for thought, only the unadulterated pleasure that surged through his veins. The pleasure, a heady mix of physical release and emotional surrender, overtook his senses, rendering his mind blank and his body malleable under its power. His mouth parted in a silent exhalation of bliss, boring witness to the depth of his pleasure. 

Even in the aftermath of his release, his body continued to move in a slow, rhythmic grind against you as the aftershocks of cumming reverberated through him. The room seemed to shimmer with the echoes of his moans.

Your bloody fingers laced into his silky, white hair. With a firm tug, you lifted his head, his body draped across your leg in surrender to the aftermath of his climax. The tip of the dagger's blade traced a deliberate path along his jaw; The steel's cool touch acted as a focal point, drawing his attention to you in his post-orgasm daze. The sensation pierced through the fog of pleasure, reorienting him.

“Vampires are supposed to be scary, Satoru. Where’s the beast I came to slaughter tonight?” you taunted, a lopsided grin splitting your features. Caressing his face with the flat of the dagger’s blade in your dominant hand, your grip on his hair tightened—he winced and whined in pain, much to your satisfaction.

“I’m… I-I am still a monster,” he mumbled in weak protest. “I’m still a monster, even if I need you… Oh, God, how I need you…” 

His white, billowing shirt, once pristine, now clung to his skin with a sheen of sweat. The fabric, once airy and light, had transformed into a second skin, moulded to the contours of his form by the heat of his actions. The shirt, rendered translucent by the moisture, hinted at the contours beneath—the rise and fall of his chest, the sculpted lines of his handsome body.

"You're a fucking mess, y'know that? A mess so pathetic, it's disgusting," you remarked, your voice a mixture of exasperation and a touch of distant amusement. 

Just before he could retort, you acted swiftly, clapping your injured hand over his mouth. The surprise on his face was palpable, a mix of alarm and intrigue as he found his voice silenced. The sensation of your touch against his lips seemed to ignite a response within him, a mixture of surprise and a familiar yearning. Despite the unexpectedness of the action, his instincts seemed to guide him. His tongue, quick and warm, darted out to taste your blood once more. A groan escaped his lips. His body responded with a shudder, a ripple of pleasure that coursed through his frame.

“Dumb fucking slut,” you laughed quietly. “I’ve been so good to you, and you’re talking back. I’ll teach you manners before I slay you tonight.”

A muffled moan, laden with a mixture of need and surrender, escaped from behind your bloody palm that covered his mouth. The sound seemed to hang in the air. His gaze, fixed upon you with half-lidded eyes, held a certain vulnerability. You leaned in closer, your proximity a tantalizing promise. His half-lidded gaze met yours.

"You need to taste me? Let's see how badly." 

The words held a challenge, a daring invitation. The proximity between your lips, the touch of your hand against his skin, the dangerous lilt to your voice—it made him crave so much that he ached for you. Satoru's back arched like a bowstring, his head tilting back slightly as he let out a small, soft moan. You removed your hand from his mouth and retracted the dagger’s blade that had been held against his neck. 

In a frenzy born of unbridled desire, Satoru's actions took on a new urgency. His hands, no longer restrained by inhibition, sought purchase against the buttons on your trousers. Fingers that trembled with need fumbled against the fabric, the movements driven by a hunger that consumed him entirely. Each button undone marked a step closer to a line crossed, and the air crackled with the intensity of his actions.

With your trousers discarded, his hands found their place on your bare thighs, his touch both tentative and determined. He shifted between your legs, his form kneeling before you while you remained seated in the chair. His positioning spoke of a certain vulnerability, a submission he had adopted in your presence. His hands traced a path across the expanse of your bare skin, a map of desire that unfolded beneath his touch. Beginning at the inside of your knee, his movements were deliberate and unhurried, a slow exploration of the terrain he now navigated.

“Thank you… Oh, thank you, I need this so badly,” he murmured.

Your breathing had grown laboured, a lazy smile tugging at your lips as you watched. “You’re so desperate, aren’t you?”

“Yes. God, yes, please… I just need you,” Satoru whispered.

The dagger in your dominant hand clattered to the floor, and both of your hands took root in his white hair instead. The sensation of your hands in Satoru’s hair seemed to awaken a primal response, his body shivering and trembling beneath your touch. His closeness, his lips against your skin, painted a vivid picture of his passion. His kisses, once deliberate and slow, had transformed into something more. They were now passionate, desperate—an unfiltered expression lust.

His mouth moved with an animalistic need, tracing a fiery path up your thigh. The pressure of his fingers, his grip bordering on painful, mirrored the urgency that had taken hold of him. The threat of his fangs grazed against your sensitive skin, and your hands gripped his hair harder. Satoru was lost in the sensations that pulsed through him, his body a vessel for the consuming ecstasy that had taken hold. His lips, once soft and reverent, were now a reflection of his unfiltered need—a need that was unashamedly on display, stripped of all pretence.

As his jaw moved against your skin, the strength of his bite left indelible marks, and the lines between pleasure and pain blurred to become one. The room echoed with his cries, each whine and moan a declaration of his longing. Your name, a desperate refrain, punctuated his every sound, the syllables a litany of desire. Saliva glistened on your thigh as his teeth left behind a trail of marks and bruises. His grip on your thighs, unyielding and possessive, held you captive. The drool that trailed down his chin, mingling with his moans, was a visual testament to the intensity of his lust. The sound of his needy moans, louder than ever before, echoed in the air. His teeth digging deeper into your skin were causing bleeding that added to the pleasure.

You let out a sharp exhale, the sound escaping through clenched teeth, your body reacting to the dual sensations. A low groan followed, a mixture of discomfort and an unexpected yearning, escaping from deep within you. Your hips, an unconscious reaction to the intimate contact, shifted towards him—a movement that made him whine needily. The warmth of his tongue against your skin, the wetness that traced the path of the blood and saliva, painted a vivid picture of your shared bloodlust.

"God, I want you so bad... So bad. Oh, please... Please... Don't hold back... Let yourself have me... Let yourself have me..." the words were a broken mantra that emerged from his lips, the syllables heavy with longing.

“H-Have you?” you groaned.

His bites became harsher, leaving even deeper marks in your flesh. But your moans were having the opposite effect, driving him closer to that sweet insanity. 

"Oh, God... Please, please... Please..." he begged in a fractured voice.

As his tongue swept over the wounds he had created, an intense heat spread across your skin, merging with the dampness of the blood that trickled forth. Iron lingered in the air, mingling with the primal scent of exertion and urgency. With an unyielding grip, his fingers clenched around your thighs, the strength of his hold leaving imprints. Your senses wavered between the stinging sensation where his nails dug into your flesh and the surreal touch of his mouth at work.

With firm urgency, you guided his face to your cunt, an unspoken directive that he obeyed without hesitation. As your fingers threaded through his hair, a mixture of tugs and pulls that mirrored the ebb and flow of your need, his name escaped your lips like a prayer. In response, a resonant moan spilt from his lips, a reflection of your name, as if he were returning your prayer in kind. Completely at your mercy, his obedience was an unspoken offering, his face moving to kiss the softest skin of your inner thighs. 

Satoru’s breath was hot enough that you could feel him breathe against you, as if the fabric of your underwear was a mere afterthought. Inhaling through his nose, the combined sent of your blood, and your arousal pooling between your thighs, made his eyes shutter closed, moaning. His fingers quivered with anticipation, his nails scratching your thighs as he licked a flat, broad stripe across your clothed pussy. He tilted his head and rhythmically moved his lips against you so the fabric was soaked with your wetness and his spit. Oh, how he yearned to taste everything you would offer him, making it run down your thighs just so he could lap it up.

His mouth became a haven of sensations, each deliberate nudge of his nose against your clit igniting a cascade of sparks that danced along your nerve endings. The friction created by his touch caused a cascade of moans to spill from your lips. His devotion was palpable in the way he knelt before you, an embodiment of desire and submission that bordered on divine: His open mouth, his cheeks rosy, his eyes sealed shut in a state of blissful surrender. 

“Fuck, maybe there’s a use f-for you, after all,” you murmured.

One of his hands slid your underwear out of the way. The moment hung in suspended animation, a pause that held as he halted his other movements to marvel at you. The vision before him was a masterpiece; You were a masterpiece.

Satoru’s long, pretty fingers dipped between your folds, sliding through the velvety slickness, before bringing his fingers to his mouth and cleaning them. He whined praise at the taste, looking up at you with half-lidded eyes that shined with reverence. His eyes, those pools of cool blue, met yours in a gaze that transcended words, brimming reverence that could only be equated to worship. 

He carefully pushed a finger inside you, looking up at you hungrily as he felt your walls hugging the digit. Your breath trembled and hitched, a shaky exhale escaping your lips as you indulged in the feeling—a primal yearning that coiled hotly like a serpent in your abdomen. With steadfast devotion, he turned his attention to your sensitivity, his mouth finding purchase on your clit. The skilled wetness of his tongue traced deliberate circles around the tender bundle of nerves, each flicker of contact a jolt of sensation that reverberated through your core. A plaintive whine emerged from him, the vibration a tantalising echo that melded with your own moans.

Another finger joined the first, the slow glide in and out of your depths accompanied by a lust that seemed to resonate through your entire being. Your body responded, a silent plea that spurred his rhythm, the pumping of his fingers sending shockwaves of heat rippling through you.

Satoru's presence in the moment was visceral, his desire manifesting audibly as he pressed his face against your dripping centre. The noises that escaped his lips, a cascade of moans and whimpers, melded with the wet sounds of your shared pleasure. His fingers were adept, plunging into your pussy with a rhythmic thrust that strummed a chord deep within your core. With each push, his fingers curved and curled, a deliberate manipulation that seemed to coax the most exquisite sensations from your body. The taste of you, an intoxicating blend of your essence and arousal, consumed him wholly. His gaze, though hazy, still found you, his pretty eyes locking onto yours with lustful adoration.

You came undone on his fingers with a moan of his name, his mouth was flooded with the taste of you, as his fingers, slick with the evidence of your ecstasy, bore witness to your release. Your nails dragged against his scalp deliciously, twisting his soft hair, inciting a drawn-out groan from deep within him. He kept you riding that high, guiding you through the bliss he had manipulated. Your body was tingling all over, waves of pleasure radiating through you as you gasped. Every drop of cum, every trace of your arousal, became an offering that he ardently consumed, letting no taste of you go unadored.

As he finally withdrew his fingers, the absence was palpable, but his attention didn't waver; Instead, it shifted to a new focus. Your thighs trembled, but his hands became gentle instruments of comfort and affection to soothe you. He massaged and caressed the tender skin, his lips following a path his fingers traced, each kiss a sweet tribute to you. The chorus of murmured gratitude that escaped his lips lingered in the heavy air as you caught your bearings. 

“Thank you, thank you… You taste so perfect, so perfect…” Satoru said, with his voice still broken and raspy from his intense moaning. "Thank you," he repeated, the phrase becoming a mantra. 

The timbre of his voice was a blend of vulnerability and sincerity, each utterance a token of his appreciation for you. The emotions that had coursed through him, the moans and gasps that had marked his need, seemed to linger in the remnants of his voice.

"Perfect," he continued, his words resonating with a kind of awe that transcended mere description. "Beyond sweet," he concluded.

You looked down upon him kneeling between your thighs, your hands still in his hair, with a mixture of awe and reluctance. Satoru, this enigmatic creature, had been laid bare before you. The dichotomy of his nature, of his humanity and his vampiric instincts, hung in the air like a question unanswered. What had you done to him?

“You can kill me now, and I’ll die human,” he murmured.

Though after sharing a little death with him, could you kill him?

a/n: I guess you could say he's your #1 fang... Buh-dump tch! LOL, I hope you enjoyed. Be grateful I didn't include Twilight refs, bc I was tempted to. Happy Kinktober, lovelies :3

this work belongs to STARRIERKNIGHT . please refrain from plagiarising any of my works and do not repost/translate/modify/copy onto any platforms.

[eldritch-spouse]

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.

[oxygenbefore1775]

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.

[sciderman]

You've been reading old Marvel comics? Have you read the 1984 Spider-Man Power Pack comic? If you haven't, word of warning, it's canon status is ambigious and it talked about child sexual abuse and specifically Spider-Man talks about how he was a victim of it once which is harrowing i gotta say. Probably one reason that those who know about that ignore it cuz it's very unsettling to think about & too close to home for some which is fair.

I’ve read the specific issue and I’ve been asked about it more times than I’d like to mention - I get an ask about it every few months or so on @ask-spiderpool and it’s just - it’s not something I feel comfortable tackling. I’ve even had some people ask if maybe that’s why Peter’s as weird and terrified about his sexuality as he is when I write him - and - well, I don’t think anyone is wrong to headcanon that, if they want to, but it’s not something I’d ever feel comfortable to discuss - especially seeing the morbid fascination some people seem to have about it.

But I do think it's a bold sentiment that hopefully empowered kids to speak up. And another way that people can look at Peter as an example in conquering fear. And I appreciate - also - that it kind of not only addresses it's message to kids but - also, in a way, maybe adults who've long buried similar trauma and live in self-resentment and shame, like Peter.

That being said, I think it's completely fair to leave that story as it was always intended - a one-off PSA issue to be forgotten by Spider-man canon as a whole - the comics are never going to bring it up again, so I won’t bring it up either.

[solaneceae]

consume

a team bolas oneshot (read on ao3) tw: cannibalism, fuga impossivel references

“Hey, Slime. Can I eat your leg?”

The hybrid makes a huh of confusion, still adjusting his trusty gas mask over his face as he loots his own dead body, codified arm still glitching from fresh respawn. Cellbit can hear Jaiden and Étoiles conversing nearby, Bagi and Tina not too far from them, and the entire area reeks of blood and death.

Red Spawn had, strangely enough, become some kind of safe haven for now — people from all teams that were begging for a break, for a chat, for any modicum of normalcy had started to flock there as the end Day Four drew near: separated lovers falling into each other’s arms, Étoiles coaching everyone on PvP techniques regardless of affiliation (because the guy just thrived on being kind and helping people become the best version of themselves, it seemed. Cellbit appreciated that), his very presence a deterrent to anyone who would dare to come and break the temporary peace (BadBoyHalo).

And now that they didn’t have to look over their shoulder every second, the cat hybrid had started to think. A risky endeavour in a place such as Purgatory, but after exchanging a heated kiss with his husband and getting the sudden urge to bite his mouth off, he had started to wonder.

There were so many bodies around their spawn. He had seen many for the past few days, most of them belonging to his own team, but the urge to chow down on fresh meat had been nowhere as strong as right then with Roier, not even close. (First day had been the odd one out, as everyone in red team had lost their minds to the fog and joined in on that fucked up banquet.)

A hypothesis is blooming in his mind. He needs to test something. “Can I eat your leg?” he repeats to a befuddled Charlie, who looks at him, then at his body, then back at him. “I mean. Sure? Knock yourself out.”

Cellbit does — and it’s disappointing. It starts off nice, his heart hammering inside his ribcage as he severs muscle and bone and tendon to rip Slime’s leg off his still cooling body, saliva pooling in his mouth as his pupils dilate to eat up all the blue, and he can feel it, the thrill, the desire, the manic joy; but then he bites into it and the leg loses solidity, turning into green goop that tastes like grass and it’s so sour, like an unripe lemon. He spits it all out, grimacing — his palate and tongue almost feel burned. He forgot slimes were corrosive. “Tastes like shit,” he huffs, and Charlie lets out a disappointed aw.

Results: inconclusive. Cause: negative bias, because Charlie is a fucking slime and hence an outlier. 

He asks Jaiden next, and she shrugs and tells him to go for it. (Maybe they should be worried about how flippant they’ve all become about cannibalism, but that’s a problem for post-Purgatory them to deal with.) And this time, it’s good. Her flesh is tender and moist, just the right balance of muscle and fat, and he gets a sick sense of satisfaction as she watches him tear into her thigh with morbid fascination. “How do I taste like?” she asks him. He tells her ‘delicious’ between two mouthfuls of prime cut, and she smiles. “Nice! I’m glad.”

Contrary to what some might believe, he hadn't eaten anything off the Federation workers he had killed. Hadn't reached that point at the time. But now there he is, seeking an enemy body among the dozens of Jaidens lying around. When he finally does, he stares down at it for a long moment, and finds that he has no desire to sink his teeth into it at all. Mmh. He looks up to find Roier, still silent to mind his recovering lungs and plopping down signs that make Étoiles crack up, and he’s so funny and cute and strong and Cellbit wants to crawl into his chest cavity and— “Ah,” he realises, something old and crooked at the back of his mind finally clicking into place.

He thinks of Pac. He thinks of Alcatraz, of that desire that had torn its way into his brain as soon as he had seen that youthful, terrified face for the first time. He thinks of those nights tossing and turning, tongue flicking out in a nervous tick as he obsessively rotated the new guy into his mind from every angle, trying to imagine what his screams would be like, how his flesh would taste, how it would feel going down his throat. He thinks of the pure, unadulterated pleasure of finally making that fantasy a reality, details blurring into red-mist bliss and the song of Pac screaming and crying. He finds that if he had to do it all again, right now, he would, but not like this. This time, dream-Pac would offer himself willingly, repeating I trust you, I trust you as dream-Cellbit reverently slices through his flesh.

He thinks of that thing humans have, when they experience the urge to squish or bite when they see something cute. He thinks of the result of his observations, that he only enjoys eating people if he cares for them.

(Maybe he had loved Pac once, in a fucked up version of a crush distorted by his mania and lifetime worth of trauma. Maybe that was why he had done what he’d done. Now the engineer was more akin to a brother to him, close and important, but that obsessive attraction wasn’t there anymore.)

Maybe it’s just in his nature, to consume the very things he loves. “Something on your mind?” Jaiden asks him later, sleepily, her head resting against his side as the rest of the family dozes off within the Nest in a tangle of limbs and soft blankets. Cellbit shakes his head. “Just. Processing stuff.”

Jaiden hums, and Phil drapes one of his large black wings over them both. The conure chirps, flock, home, and the crow replies with a quiet yesyes.

[blues824]

I loved your Morticia Reader and I was wondering, could you do a Wednesday Addams Reader with the 1st Years? She rarely smiles (Unless someone’s in pain) with her being incredibly morbid, emotionally reserved and her fascination of the macabre and the dark forces? (I love Wednesday) Bonus if you want to; she has Thing with her (I loved how sassy he was in the show) Kudos!

Reader’s gender isn’t specified here, but request calls for female Reader.

Ace Trappola

He was very intimidated by you. You never smiled unless he got hurt or punished, but never when he was intentionally trying to be funny. Not just that, but you had a walking hand accompanying you everywhere. YOU EVEN KNEW WHAT IT WAS SAYING!!!

You were incredibly smart as well. You knew the scientific names of the freaking plants that they were studying, and you knew a magic that was darker than anything he was familiar with. We’re talking about ‘conjuring spirits’ kind of magic. In fact, the time he saw you conjuring Goody Addams, he audibly screamed.

One time, he had been thrown out of Heartslabyul for the nth time and he decided to go to Ramshackle. However, he stopped because he heard something. It sounded like an instrument, one that was deeper than a violin. He kept walking until he saw you through the window, playing a big version of a violin in the living room.

He just bursted in like he owned the place and asked how the heck you know how to play this oversized violin. You threw a knife so close to his head that it cut a piece of his hair off as it flew by. You didn’t even apologize when you corrected him by saying it was a cello.

Everyone is surprised when you both get together. You both are polar opposites: you actually had common sense. You didn’t even know either. Maybe it was the confidence he had carried himself with, even though it got him into a ton of trouble. Plus, he actually understood sarcasm.

Deuce Spade

He was also intimidated by you, but it was in a good way. He found Thing unsettling, but decided that there was no point in being creeped out and decided to learn how to communicate with him. When you are away, they act like middle school girls and gossip about Deuce’s crush on you.

He was in awe of all the pure knowledge you have. In a short amount of time, you were able to rise to the top of your classes. The teachers loved you, so he decided to go to you for tutoring. He had explained how he was an Honor’s Student because of his promise to his mother, and that hit close to home for you.

It was during one of these study sessions where he wasn’t getting the material for some reason, so you suggested a break. You went into your closet and brought out your cello. Deuce was surprised when you got into position and started playing a sad tune.

Another time, he walked in on you performing some sort of ritual. You were even speaking in a whole other language that he didn’t recognize (you were speaking Latin). However, it didn’t seem to work because you let out a frustrated sigh.

When you both get together, no one (besides Ace) was surprised. You both spent a lot of time together, so it did not come as a shock to anyone. Ace was angry that Deuce was able to rizz you up but he hasn’t been able to rizz anyone up since middle school (sounds like Takemichi from Tokyo Revengers).

Jack Howl

Wasn’t intimidated by you at all. In fact, you both held a mutual respect for one another, since you both were the only ones at NRC with common sense. He did find Thing creepy at first, but eventually got used to him. Most of the time, he is often perched on either your shoulder or Jack’s.

You both were good in the academic aspect. You excelled him in many ways, but he was fine with where he was at. There was no way he would be able to remember every little thing the teacher had said in class, but he was happy for you since you could do it. 

During the period where you both were trying to stop Azul, he walked to Ramshackle to try and come up with a plan with you. However, his ears detected the sound of a cello. He continued walking towards your dorm (since that was where the sound was coming from), and was surprised to hear it come directly from inside. He then knocked on the door.

You opened it, and Jack looked inside to see a black cello in the middle of your living room. He complimented your skill and immediately got back to work. You were sort of relieved when he didn’t make a big deal out of it since you did have more pressing matters to focus on.

No one is surprised when you guys get together. In fact, it made sense to everyone. He was the one who helped the most with taking Azul down, so it was only a matter of when he’d ask you out. Sure, you both aren’t very romantic, but you show your love in different ways than what would be considered ‘orthodox’.

Epel Felmier

Was most definitely terrified of you, but tried to act like he wasn’t. He would have to summon so much courage to try and talk to you, only to stutter through each and every one of his sentences. Poor guy doesn’t know when he started to sweat so much. He nearly fainted when he met Thing.

He admires you in an academic aspect because you rose to the top of your class very quickly. You even managed to surpass most of the older students when test scores were released. Later that day, you received an apple in the shape of a skull with a note saying “Good job on the test! -E.F.” It didn’t take a genius to figure out who it was from.

One time, you both agreed to meet up to do some homework. He had been having trouble with a specific problem and figured you would be the best person to go to. When he made it, he heard the sound of a cello coming from inside.

He quietly entered the dorm and hid behind a wall while he listened. Once you finished, he came out of his hiding place while applauding you. You had already known that he was there, but you couldn’t help but feel a smile trying to fight its way onto your face. It never stood a chance against your will to force it down.

I feel like some people were surprised when they found out you both were together, but others weren’t. You both had a temper, but your anger would come out in different ways. You offered him a few different outlets, like mastering an instrument so that he could play alongside you (Vil was totally in favor of this idea, since he thought you played beautifully).

Sebek Zigvolt

He would also act like he wasn’t intimidated by you. It came from a place where he thinks you would do better as one of Malleus’s knights, so he grows scared that Waka-sama might see more value in you than him. Plus, Thing wasn’t helping anything.

You both are instant academic rivals. He always gets frustrated because you always hold yourself in a calm manner and always manage to get top marks while he was stuck in second place. It angered him to no end.

One day, he decides to go and ask you some questions because there was no way that you could beat him in a fencing duel, when he heard a cello coming from inside the rickety dormitory. He had to admit that the player was doing amazingly. He knocked on your door and waited for you to answer. 

When you invited him inside, he saw that you were in the process of putting your cello away. So you were the one playing so beautifully? He acted like he didn’t hear any of it whilst he asked you to a duel. You asked if he would want the bout to go until 15 touches, or until someone drew the first blood. He picked the latter.

The next day, at around the same time, he lay on the ground with a cut on his face. You explain that you had been training since you were 5 years old, and therefore had that much more experience than him. However, when you named your price for winning, he blushed. You asked him out. Every onlooker gasped in surprise, and their eyes went wider when the half-fae accepted.

[gothic-aesthetic-gal]

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:

[yanderes-galore]

I was wondering if you could make a

male! Wednesday Addams x demon power! reader

Or male! Wednesday Addams x shy! Reader

Sure! The Netflix show is so good. Let me try my hand at a genderbent Wednesday for you :) Aged up as usual, this is also a genderbend for all characters. Which means Enid is a boy too.

Yandere! Male! Wednesday Addams with Shy! Darling

Pairing: Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Stalking, Threats, Possessive behavior, Mentions of wanting to kidnap, Jealousy, Dubious on if relationship was forced or not, Manipulation.

Wednesday would probably be a yandere who takes a long time to obsess over you.

He just isn't into romantic relationships.

Also, your shy nature keeps you out of the way.

Which, let's be honest, is for the best.

Wednesday when he does find someone he likes can be rather morbid.

Others around you certainly aren't safe, either.

Due to your persona and being rather average... Enid would probably have to introduce you.

Thing also sets Wednesdsy up for events frequently (dates, parties, dances, etc.), so they'd help too.

Truthfully, Enid and Thing start this whole thing off.

You would've been fine if they didn't.

It starts with you being friends with Enid, Wednesday's werewolf roommate.

He's naturally outgoing compared to Wednesday, whom you probably meet by accident.

Enid takes you to their dorm to hang out or get you something... not knowing Wednesday was there.

"Oh hey, Roomie!"

He chirps, greeting the gothic man who's typing up another novel.

"... did you really bring someone with you?"

"Only for a bit. Me and (Y/N) will be out soon."

"Make it quick."

Your interactions with Wednesday are brief.

You do catch his brooding black eyes looking at you sometimes... yet you never think anything of it.

Turns out Wednesday thinks more about you than you think, catching chat about you from Enid.

You don't know it but Wednesday has some strange out of place fascination about you.

You don't want any attention from others, Enid's descriptions of you are sickeningly sweet, and you honestly don't get on his nerves.

When Enid catches Wednesday not regarding you with distaste, he jumps on it.

Oh the gossip he does with Thing.

"Wednesday really needs someone to talk to. Plus, think about it, they'd have the cutest dynamic!"

Which leads to Enid and Thing setting Wednesday up with you, against his will and completely to your surprise.

Your chats are very quick and brief.

You also seem intimidated by Wednesday's demeanor.

Every word from his mouth is disturbing in nature.

The more Wednesday is set up with you, the more the curiosity he has for you grows.

He'd never admit it to Enid and would break Thing's fingers before they knew about it, but your company didn't feel like fire on his skin.

In fact, he felt heated more in the face than anything.

Wednesday would be very quiet in his obsession.

Not only does he appear out of nowhere, but Wednesday is good at stealth.

He could be watching you all the time and you'd never know unless someone told you.

Wednesday also never shows jealousy, or any emotion if we're being honest.

He's blunt in his talks, confessions, and threats.

Wednesday doesn't mind being brutal if he did consider anyone a threat to you.

Someone's bullying you due to your shy nature, perhaps?

They'll encounter a nasty surprise later, courtesy of Wednesday.

He never admits to liking you to anyone.

Enid and Thing can tell because they know him.

Thing also keeps trying to send messages to you that Wednesday thinks of you fondly.

Things such as invitations, letters, all sorts of things.

All much to Wednesday's displeasure....

It's hard to keep this whole thing secret is those two keep forcing it.

Wednesday would wait forever to actually say how he feels about you.

He mostly spends his time watching you, writing about you, and threatening those who wish to date you.

Oh he's wicked when someone admits they like you.

His eyes glare daggers into them and he swears he'll do something worse than the piranha incident.

Wednesday is never going to be a yandere very upfront with his emotions.

When he does decide he should finally ask you to be his, it's blunt.

He says it more like a statement.

He'd also probably compare you to something dark, like how you remind him of a solitary raven or delicate black rose.

It's his best attempts at being affectionate.

Enid is almost squealing when he finds out Wednesday is "dating" you.

Wednesday isn't entirely sure if he wants to call it that.

Wednesday is not really an affectionate guy with his darling.

In terms of kissing, at least.

You'll feel him pull you closer with an arm around you.

That or hold your hand tightly.

Even then it's usually when others look at you, like a possessive thing.

Everyone around you can tell it would be a death wish if they came near you two.

You're like a caged raven with Wednesday.

Similar to a raven, he thinks you're magnificent and possess a beauty he admires.

Yet also like a bird... you're easily able to be caged.

Wednesday doesn't mind the idea of that.

The idea of keeping his favorite raven in a gilded cage makes him strangely... happy.

Kidnapping seems like such a dark and romantic idea to him when it comes to you.

He most likely won't... but the idea tempts him often.

Wednesday refuses to let anyone else stroke your feathers, or give you any sort of attention.

From the day he said you were his, you're his.

He observes you and holds you like his precious bird...

Caged to admire by him and him alone, listening to his commands like a reclusive pet.