#it seems like something very morbid to be fascinated with

[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.

[rimatsu]

I feel like the mood among the bucktommies has changed once again, it was more hopeful and now it seems like it's more in the phases between bargaining and acceptance, as if a reconciliation was already out of the realm of great possibilities.

I don't know if this is just because of the renewal, which I find kind of absurd since the renewal was already a sure thing, or if the last episode + the lack of any mention of Tommy after 811, made people less convinced that the show will deliver something narratively satisfying. I don't know, I personally end up being affected by these waves of reality/negativity and my expectations have also lowered again.

What do you think? Has anything changed in your expectations for a reconciliation? Do you have any hopeful words to share?

i'll be honest, i don't understand how doom and gloom can still persist given everything we know about upcoming episodes. i've said it before and i'll say it again: the 806 press debacle (wrong buzzer noise) made the bucktommy troops entirely too cynical. there's being cautious, and then there's being unhelpfully pessimistic. as per previous tags: please be serious 😭😭😭

nothing that we’re seeing unfold on screen (and off-screen for that matter when it comes to leaks) points toward closure — quite the opposite, actually. and the simplest explanation is usually the correct one: if it feels like the third act of a romcom, it probably is one.

alright, this is going to be long, and redundant, so please bear with me as i try to convince stubborn doubters that a reconciliation is in fact very, very likely.

first things first... tommy is officially an outlier in buck's romantic history. let's review the facts, shall we?

in order of narrative importance:

- ali was arguably the most underdeveloped LI of this list. dating her was a decision made in an effort not to regress to past behaviors and she brought buck to his loft. ultimately she couldn't handle the risks of the job and broke up with him in the s2 finale. ali got one mention post-breakup

- natalia was the supposed happily-ever-after partner the show paired buck with under the threat of cancellation. she was the extreme opposite of ali and had a morbid fascination for buck's brush with death, something that was initially refreshing before becoming off-putting. their breakup happened offscreen in between seasons 6-7 and she got one expository mention

- taylor was his longest relationship and the most fleshed out, at least in term of screentime, their story spanning seasons with casual hookups in s2, a friendship marked by romantic tension in s4, and finally a committed relationship in s5. the first fracture was caused by buck's infidelity and more importantly the lies and overcompensation brought on by guilt, but the reason they split was ultimately because of fundamental differences in morals/work ethics/ambitions. his experience with taylor was formative because it taught buck not to give up on the whole relationship at the first sign of trouble (a valuable lesson he seemingly forgot since then but i digress…) she got one tv cameo post breakup (indirect mention)

- abby was the person who opened buck's eyes to his true desire (emotional closeness and romantic intimacy) but they had vastly different attitudes toward their relationship: she was the first big love of buck's life, but as much as she cared for him, maybe even loved him, he was mostly a distraction from the chaos of her life, and she seemingly had realistic expectations about their future together. their 'breakup' is a case of unusual circumstances. buck was hung up on her for a good chunk of s2, but they didn't technically end things in the previous finale. buck wholeheartedly believed she'd return to him after a few months and abby never dissuaded that notion. but once he realized she wouldn't, buck promptly moved on: first by pursuing taylor, and then ali. abby only got mentioned again in s3 to foreshadow her guest appearance for closure purposes. i'll compare and contrast her reintroduction to tommy's later on.

- and then we have mr. self-sabotage himself, tommy kinard, who unlocked the wonders of bisexuality laying dormant in buck (and unleashed his #Spoiled Brat tendencies). the first distinction from previous LIs is that their breakup wasn't written as definitive or unfixable. allow me to quote myself like a pompous asshole because i can't be bothered to rephrase the same sentiment (i'll be doing a lot of copy/pasting, actually... i did warn you against redundancy): they didn't part way because of irreconciliable differences or because passion/attraction fizzled out or because they envisioned different futures. if they wanted that door closed, tommy could’ve simply said he was uninterested in pursuing longterm commitment with buck, that they’re not compatible in the long run. there: a clean, uncomplicated break. instead, we were told that tommy desperately wants to be the person buck settles down with, except he’s convinced buck is propelled by the excitement of novelty, that he suspects buck is latching onto him for the wrong reasons, that he can’t allow himself to merge their home life together in fear that he’ll never recover once buck wants out. the implication here being tommy was in love with buck already, or at least halfway there. for his part, buck came to the realization that he wanted a future with tommy and immediately decided to pursue it because that's just the type of man he is: never one to do things by half-measures, seeing no value in waiting once his mind is made up. so there was no conflicting desire there. they wanted the same thing: permanence with each other, but fear and insecurity derailed the whole thing. let's call 806 Miscommunication 1.0. the second notable distinction? there has been a grand total of 4 tommy name drops post-confessions when we usually only get the one before buck moves on to greener pastures. hell, buck was having such a hard time with the breakup he developed a coping mechanism in order to deal with it. the baking was comically excessive and lasted 5 whole episodes. buck considers the breakup to be the beginning of his life unravelling — he implied that being with tommy was life as it should be, even... yeah, there's no precedent for this behavior. we've never seen him stuck on an ex to this extent before. tommy is starting to earn his most transformative relationship title beyond the obvious queer awakening aspect of it all, isn't he? now these repeated mentions weren't necessary (and unnecessary will be a word i use liberally moving forward), especially the one we got after a 4 months hiatus. we know why the writers included them now: they were keeping the thread alive for buck & tommy's reunion in 811. that's something the most optimistic of us kept pointing out despite those disheartening "exit interviews" — the breakup was too abrupt and open-ended, and the tommy mentions too frequent and pointed, for 806 to be the end of their story. 

speaking of 811, let's dissect that episode and establish why holy mother of god alone is a strong indicator of an upcoming makeup. because my god, did it do the opposite of presaging closure...

time to compare and contrast with abby! when she reappeared, both her and buck had moved on. yes, there was still some lingering affection, and he was single and had plenty of unaswered questions, but he wasn't haunted by them or abby anymore, and she was happily engaged to another man. i repeat: they both had moved on. getting back together was never an option introduced by 318. abby came back for one thing: firmly close that chapter of buck's life and heal whatever scars he still carried because of her. that isn't the case for the bucktommy Bare Mattress Fuckfest of 2025.

first of all, a hook-up? really? unnecessary. if the only goal was to shoehorn in the buddie question (as some people naively claim), then that could've happened at the bar. hell, tommy didn't have to be brought back for it at all: maddie could've floated the idea by herself when buck kept showing up at her doorstep looking as pathetic as a wet dog. it sure would've saved production some money! and if the showrunner was going for closure (he wasn't), having buck sleep with tommy was counterproductive. it only served to highlight desire and sexual chemistry between them (something that was only ever vaguely implied in s7-8a). why emphasize an aspect of mlm relationships that was missing from the og show until now? (also, remember when the doom-and-gloomists were convinced buck's queerness would be buried, never to be mentioned again, after the hiatus? only for him to initiate gay sex on national tv? it was an understandable concern considering the current fate of DEI programs, but catastrophizing caused unwarranted stress and grievances. let's maybe give the show a modicum of grace until proven otherwise?)

more importantly, 811 established that tommy regretted the breakup. that's something we could infer from the bubbling in 807, but there's a world of difference between considering contact a week post-breakup and still actively pining for buck 3-4 months after they ended things. tommy drove by the loft just the other day. recently. he hasn't moved on — is more affected by the breakup than buck himself, even. that's... you guessed it, completely unnecessary (and frankly cruel) if closure is the destination ahead. but it can't possibly be, because you know what else 811 nearly established? a reconciliation. tommy asked for a second chance, and buck was receptive to the suggestion before Insecurity and Foot-in-Mouthism derailed the plans.

instead of letting their romance naturally fade into the background after the hiatus, the writers purposefully reignited that flame. they crafted a scenario meant to prolong uncertainty about bucktommy's future together instead of closing that door forever. even without the contagion spoilers confirming that tommy will be back for the two-parter, the audience expects another conversation between the two exes. there were too many things left unsaid after that aborted kitchen argument. buck owe tommy an apology and a clarification, and he has yet to reveal that he missed tommy as well during their time apart — the viewers know that to be true but tommy was left with no reciprocation after admitting he fought constant urges to call. worse, he was left heartbroken after being told their night together meant nothing. sorry if i sound like a broken record, but that was unnecessary: there's no point in introducing conflict and Miscommunication 2.0 if they have no payoff.

as for the jealousy over eddie reveal... as many have pointed out, narrowing down tommy's insecurities is actually a good sign. the fears he spoke of in 806 were more formless and abstract, harder to assuage. jealousy over one specific person is easier to confront and work through as a couple (and it can be fodder for more drama if the writers don't sweep the whole thing under the rug). though i'll say that i'm inclined to believe tommy when he claims he was mostly joking — as in i don't think eddie was the root cause of the breakup. 811 doesn't retcon 806, only adds an appendix. tommy questioning the nature of buck's feelings for eddie is part of a larger picture (and a larger issue).

now i keep parotting the word unnecessary because 911 does not exist in a vacuum. every writing and acting choice is intentional and must serve a purpose. the hookup could've ended amicably but it didn't. tommy could've agreed with buck when he said their drunken romp didn't have to change a thing but he didn't. buck didn't have to sniffle and look miserable when he admitted that loneliness was no reason to pursue a relationship. in fact the whole episode is peppered with parallels and callbacks. buck and tommy wearing their breakup outfits as if they've been suspended in time since november is deliberate. the fact that the first night buck ever spent in his new place was with tommy in his bed was also deliberate. and this isn't my bucktommy-addled brain reading too much into a scene. slamming each other into walls while a song about never finding home plays in the background is no coincidence. quoting myself like a pompous asshole again: tommy was the necessary catalyst for buck to make peace with eddie's departure and start viewing the house as his own. he says verbatim "[sharing a bed with tommy] was the first night i was actually able to sleep in that place" — once again tommy is linked to comfort and safety and the beginning of a new journey. tommy started the unpacking process for him with that coffeemaker. buck is baking (an activity that was established as a visual indicator of pining for tommy) while he firmly shuts down the notion that he might harbor buried feelings for his straight-heterosexual-notinterestinmen-notanoption best friend. he expresses frustration and anger at the idea that tommy seemingly spent their entire relationship worrying about another man. later when maddie (the audience/buddie stand-in) assumes he's talking about calling eddie, buck corrects her and reasserts that tommy is the person he's thinking about. that was the throwback to 704. it's not about eddie.

for a brief moment in that kitchen, buck and tommy slipped back into domesticity. tommy waking up at the asscrack of dawn to buy groceries and prepare a veritable feast isn't meaningless either (at least i hope it isn't): it's a callback to masks — tommy the caretaker dotting on buck. i want to believe that scene was intentionally designed to contrast buck's dynamics with tommy compared to his relationships with the rest of the cast: the baker being fed, the eternal giver being the recipient of care. buck is loved but he's no one's priority. everyone he knows (with the exception of ravi who wants nothing to do with him lmao) has a spouse and/or children who naturally take precedence over him, but he could be tommy's priority.

it's also worth noting that tommy's "i can't move in with you" morphed into "i'm not ready to move in yet." could it be... foreshadowing i sense? third time's the charm is shaping up to be bucktommy's operating principle.

alright, enough yapping about 811. let's move on to spoilers territory. i'll try to keep speculations to a minimum but they're inevitable so take everything with a grain of salt.

tommy's unique skills set (tim's words) will be featured in the two-parter. his status as a previous member of the 118 was also emphasized. he'll readily assist his old firehouse in a time of crisis agsin (the rule of three strikes once more). contagion is described as a season opening/finale worthy emergency. 814-815 will be a large scale spectacle and is sure to be memorable given bobby's alleged death.

again, involving tommy in the two-parter is unnecessary. if a pilot is needed, background character #34 could do the job. i won't bring up the "it's way too much effort and money for closure" argument because we know for a fact that 815 isn't the end of the bucktommy storyline. tommy is featured in at least another episode, and a major one at that. i beg all debby downers out there to exercise reason: why on earth would they bring back buck's ex not once, not twice, but THREE TIMES (and counting) post-breakup if it's not for a reconciliation? a makeup is the only thing that makes narrative sense.

bts pictures/videos place both tommy and buck on the rooftop helipad during daylight and in the coliseum at nightfall, surrounded by heavy military and fbi presence. i think it's safe to assume they'll be stuck together in a helicopter for a few hours. forced proximity is a classic romcom trope for a reason: if there's ever a time to hash out their issues, it's midair with nowhere to run.

now let's focus on buck for a second. he followed maddie's advice: learning to be alone, to be content on his own so he doesn't spiral again the next time he's broken up with or a friend moves away. and content buck seemingly is, comfortable in his home and in his skin. it's a breakthrough: when he interacts with tommy again, loneliness will no longer be a factor influencing his desire to reconnect. buck has gained some measure of clarity since 811.

and reuniting under these less than ideal circumstances? pretty promising actually. tommy's loyalty and his willingness to help the 118 are two characteristics that captured buck's attention in the first place. it's an opportunity to recreate the initial spark, with the added knowledge of the man hiding behind the confident façade.

as for the presumed 816 leaks... tommy is part of bobby's honor guards. that tells me he plays a crucial role in 815, and if you ask me, there are only three reasonable options to explore:

1. buck and tommy makeup during the two parter. they're officially a couple again by the time the credits roll

2. what i think is more likely to happen: they start to reconcile in 815. they have a frank conversation and the groundwork for a reconciliation is laid down when buck asks for a saturday date but a proper makeup is put on standby as soon as the ripper knocks on bobby's door. they're left to navigate grief in this weird in between-state, but the desire to give it another try has been expressed free from the influences of loneliness or grief

3. they reconcile in the finale. tommy offers support as a 'friend' and buck leans on him until bobby inevitably rises from the dead ("i'm not lonely, and i'm not mourning, and i still want you")

i'm optimistic but not delusional: a love confession in the two-parter is way too ambitious and i'm not holding my breath for it. i don't think buck is quite there yet. his feelings for tommy are pretty... nebulous. he saw a future there, one he wanted to cement, and he sure looked and acted in love, but he never said it. hell, he had to be talked through realizing he was serious about tommy. in contrast, he readily defined his feelings for ex-girlfriends (he loved abby and taylor and told us as much) and for eddie (he knows he's not in love with the guy). i find buck's limited introspection when it comes to tommy endlessly fascinating... but that's a conversation for another day.

i'm losing steam so let's wrap this up. i wasn't thrilled by the s9 renewal but that's only bc 911 is an objectively mediocre show with a godawful fandom and i'll be held hostage around these hellish parts for at least another year. i don't see why the renewal would automatically mean bad news for bucktommy. the point of wanting them back together is to see them explore the joys and challenges of a committed relationship. another season is a prerequisite. oliver said buck is maturing: he's entering a new, more settled phase of his life, and i can't imagine the return of the hamster wheel at this point. if anything, i expect buck to reach new relationship milestones next season.

anyway...... i'm not claiming it's a 100% guarantee, let's start celebrating now (let us not forget the black mold infestation plaguing the writers' room) but logic dictates that a reconciliation is underway. so, long story short... yes, i am genuinely very optimistic about our chances <3

[vilsoo]

𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃 ⌇WILLIAM AFTON

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

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

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

𝑯𝑶𝑹𝑹𝑶𝑹𝑳𝑨𝑵𝑫/𝑲𝑰𝑵𝑲𝑻𝑶𝑩𝑬𝑹 𝑴𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻

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

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Your innocence drives William Afton insane.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New user detected.

Pairing occipital transponder.

Stay calm.

This won’t hurt a bit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vanny was now your new identity. Your new life.

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

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

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

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

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

[j-partneringrime]

tr!aimsey is such an interesting character especially their relationship with death, they’re someone who has become so intrinsically linked with death, starting as a morbid fascination with learning more about it which became more and more obsessive until he eventually overstepped trying to directly mess with it. And now it is a more desperate fascination with it and specifically trying to figure out how to reach it for themselves which unlike the normal curiosity that they went too far with, this is the opposite, a much more serious and desperate curiosity which he have basically given up on trying to figure out at this point. Because once death wants something, it gets it, which normally isn’t that big a deal because death normally wants you to die, which is gonna happen eventually, so no big deal. But if you mess with death too much and it decides it doesn’t want you anymore, that isn’t as simple, death actually gets to show its power, so it takes your magic you used to disrupt it to begin with, but that’s not enough for death, so it gives you immortality, or more accurately curses you with never dying since they can still feel the pain and the dying but without any of the relief of death and the pain stays with them even after coming back, with the burns from losing her magic, losing his eye from the enderman/creeper and now the sword slash from ros. They had nothing anymore except their studies and so she put everything into necromancy and learning more about death, and they did good, they got close, so close that death didn’t like it, so then they truly had nothing, not even their magic, they lost everything, even the one thing you always have in life, the certainty of death, was gone.

That could make you become such a deeply lonely person, I mean imagine if you lost everything, had no one, not even death itself wanted you, that would mess you up, but she has had a long time to come to terms with it and grow from it, which also means she’s one of the most intelligent, especially emotionally intelligent, people, which meant that when they did get close to people again, they were a massive help for advice and help for their friends, which is good for their friends but also for aimsey themself, having that connection that they need after so long, having meaningful talks gives a connection you can’t explain, even if those meaningful talks are mostly one way, since aimsey is very secretive about themself and her past and almost refuses to say anything about herself and dismisses any attempt to try to get him to open up, but even with all that, it is still massively helpful for a character who needs connection so much.

Until eventually his friends, especially tr!ros get too strong an idea in her head on what they should do or what she “needs” to do that even though she’s still coming everyday for advice, she doesn’t seem to actually be listening anymore, it didn’t matter how many times they tried to help ros, she just wouldn’t budge from this inherently flawed idea that she is convinced will help her, and everyone else, which isn’t just bad for ros but also for aimsey, who has needed this connection so much and has begun to rely on it, even if it’s annoying that he’s seemingly the only person who actually has common sense or foresight with how much advice she’s having to give out, they’ve gotten used to being able to express their thoughts and opinions on situations and having their friends listen and care so seeing that they’re no longer really listening and are just doing their own ideas anyway would really hurt. Trying to help and make plans to help ros, only to show up the next day and find out she hasn’t actually listened and just took what aimsey said and used their plan instantly without seeing that that wasn’t the actual plan aimsey said to her. So the advice and talks eventually became more desperate trying to get through to ros because this isn’t her, this is her getting tired of what’s happening and needing to fix it so forming an entire idea in her head without seeing that this idea wouldn’t work and already isn’t working because she needs it to work, so it didn’t matter how much aimsey tried to get through to her, it wouldn’t work, until eventually they talk about where this idea in ros’s head is rooted, which is respect, the idea that if she can get them to respect her, they’ll stop, which she is going about doing by making them fear her, even though fear and respect are vastly different things. And aimsey says that to her which leads to the most important question they’ve had, would ros kill aimsey to get everyone to respect and or fear her, and when aimsey asks ros this, their closest friend, the person they trust more than anything, the person they can count on, that they can both count on each other to pull each other back, to save each other from themselves, they ask ros… and ros hesitates, and that’s all they need to know, the fact that ros could hesitate means that in her head there is a part of her that would and that part just seems to be getting bigger and bigger the more she spirals in this idea of respect. And then ros says no, which as much as she says it, isn’t the truth, the truth is she doesn’t know if she would or not, and that’s the worst part, not only would she consider doing it but she won’t admit it, to aimsey or herself, they’re supposed to be helping each other and ros instead of being honest and saying she doesn’t know, lies and says no, of course not, she could never hurt him, which is of course coming from a place of love for aimsey and not wanting to ever think about and especially not say they’d ever hurt her, but to someone as perceptive as aimsey, they can clearly tell ros is conflicted on it and even though know they know ros is a good person, of course she is obviously, that was never in question, but even knowing what a truly kind person ros is, that doesn’t change the pain learning something like that has. So aimsey pulls them up on it and makes ros confront that side of her, for good or bad doesn’t matter, because it needs to happen to help ros, one way or the other, and so they convince her to fight, which or course ros tries to argue about but still tries to make aimsey see her side of it, still not seeing that her side doesn’t really exist, it’s just a desperate attempt to stop the fighting by any means, by any cost, not seeing that no fighting, no threats should ever make them turn on each other, would ever make aimsey turn on ros, especially not to gain some form of respect from the people they already don’t like. Ros is too caught up in protecting her friends that she can’t see her friends don’t need protecting, aimsey doesn’t need protecting.

And you can see how deeply this is affecting aimsey because they’re talk about how they’re glad they chose to be alone, they’re with their best friend and they’re saying how they’re glad to be alone, because right now this isn’t their best friend, or at least not that they can recognise right now, because he has spoke so much about how everyone is killing just to kill and how that is one of, if not the, biggest problems they have with them, so for ros to now believe that she needs to do that to aimsey to “protect” them and gain respect from others, even though she already has aimsey’s and the kingdom’s respect (mostly), is obviously gonna be upsetting for aimsey and a massive loss of trust. And they start fighting, they both swing, and then they both swing again, then aimsey stops and ros swings again and then ros swings one last time and aimsey is dead, but of course, it doesn’t last. Because if one of them was gonna die, they’d rather it be themselves, if that’s because they can’t actually die or because they can’t bring themselves to kill ros, we don’t know (although it’s probably almost definitely both). But either way ros still doesn’t get to live, because she killed aimsey and death doesn’t want that happening, the past times it’s been a mob but this time it’s a player, and they won’t allow that to happen, so it instantly makes one of its already dead kill ros… instantly, because you don’t mess with death or the ones death has already chosen to punish itself. And after the fight, his relationship with death comes back up, with her asking, basically begging, death to let them go and just let them die, but of course, they were denied again, because even after all that with ros, they still can’t have anything, everything they want always so close yet so far, always. And then after they both parted ways after the fight, aimsey when thinking about going to ros, thinks ros won’t want to see them, instead of themself not wanting to see her, after the fight, he doesn’t stew in what ros did and get angry, he just kinda goes crazy (and high and poisoned), both because of what happened with ros and also probably experiencing death again. Because even though, they just fought and definitely lost a lot of trust in each other, they still care about each other and want to protect each other above all else, because the amount of trust they have in each other, one fight, no matter how big, will change that. tr!aimsey is SUCH an interesting and compelling character, and their relationship with death and tr!ros especially is amazing! I can’t wait to see what happens next.

(this is mainly about tr!aimsey so tr!ros comes off a bit bad from their arguments, but I promise I think tr!ros is a genuinely good person, just conflicted right now and she is also an amazing and interesting character)

[reveryfics]

Twisted

Billy Loomis x Male Reader

Summary: Randy was dangerously close to the truth, on the verge of unmasking Ghostface. But you wouldn't let that happen, even if it required a change of plans.

A/N: I am a huge horror fan, grew up on it, got tattoos etc. So I figured I'd try my hand at some horror fics and see how that goes. Got another domestic fic coming soon with Eddie Brock as well. 3k words

TW: Blood - Death - Implied psychotic reader - Not canon

The tangled web of Billy Loomis had never been meant for you, not even a stray thread. Whispers, like insidious drafts, slithered through the periphery of your awareness – vague warnings from others about his volatile nature, the palpable tension that clung to him whenever Sydney Prescott was near. Your intention had been simple: to exist as a quiet shadow within their orbit, an unnoticed satellite in their chaotic constellation. Until, of course, the fragile structure imploded.

The revelation had come in the stale air of Stu's garage, the murmur of their voices a low hum that gradually sharpened into a chilling clarity. You had been retrieving a forgotten jacket, the mundane task abruptly shattered by the weight of their words. Billy, his voice laced with a venomous resolve, spoke of unfinished business. Maureen's death, it seemed, was a mere prelude, a clumsy first act in a grander, bloodier play. Sydney, the final, tragic star of their twisted drama, had to be eliminated.

The confession landed not with a jolt of fear, but with a strange, almost clinical detachment. Death, in its stark finality, had always been a concept that eluded your emotional grasp. It was as if a vital circuit in your understanding of its impact on others was simply missing. Perhaps it was a morbid curiosity that flickered within you, a perverse fascination with the cessation of life. Or maybe, buried deeper still, was a chilling indifference to the suffering it wrought. Even as Billy's knife glinted under the bare bulb, its cold edge pressed against your throat, a peculiar thrill had coursed through you. Had he seen it then, that unsettling flicker in your usually wide, seemingly innocent eyes? Or was that very innocence a carefully constructed mask, a deceptive facade concealing the unsettling depths within?

The shift began subtly, a quiet suggestion offered with a disconcerting lack of emotion. Framing Randy Meeks, the town's resident horror aficionado, a man whose fervent, unrequited affection for Sydney bordered on obsession. "He's the obvious choice," you had stated, your voice flat, the usual animation absent from your features. Your gaze, fixed on some unseen point beyond the garage walls, held a disturbing emptiness. It was in that moment, perhaps, that Billy truly saw you. He recognized the glint of something akin to his own darkness reflected in your vacant stare, the unsettling ease with which you embraced the unfolding horror. He witnessed a kindred spirit in your chillingly pragmatic approach.

The night Steve Orth was taken, the wide-eyed innocence that had once been your defining characteristic shattered like fragile glass. As the life drained from him, leaving behind a vacant stillness, your expression transformed. The usual guileless openness was replaced by a dull, almost languid pleasure. It was a subtle shift, barely perceptible to anyone but Billy, but it spoke volumes. He saw then that the darkness he harbored wasn't a solitary entity. It had found a reflection, a willing accomplice, in the quiet guy who had once intended only to observe.

The fluorescent lights of the video store hummed with a monotonous buzz, casting long, stark shadows across the aisles of VHS tapes and newly released DVDs. The metallic click of the front door locking echoed in the quiet aftermath of closing hours. Randy, ever the eager beaver, was "helping" you stock the new releases, his enthusiasm a stark contrast to the weariness that settled in your bones. But tonight, his usual cinematic ramblings had taken a decidedly sinister turn.

Ghostface. The name hung in the air like a malevolent phantom, each syllable laced with Randy's fervent theories. He was practically vibrating with self-importance, convinced he was on the verge of cracking the case wide open. "I'm telling you," he insisted, stacking copies of a forgettable slasher flick with an almost religious zeal, "it's someone close. Someone we wouldn't suspect. I've been thinking, looking for patterns in the reports online, for clues they might have missed."

He launched into a detailed, convoluted explanation involving camera angles, character motivations, and the killer's supposed knowledge of horror tropes. You listened with a detached air, your movements mechanical as you shelved a stack of comedies. A flicker of something akin to annoyance stirred within you, but it was quickly swallowed by the familiar emptiness. Fear, the primal instinct that should have been clawing at your throat, remained stubbornly absent.

Deep down, a cold certainty resided within you. Randy's frantic theorizing, his self-proclaimed "proof," was nothing but noise. He was a film-obsessed dreamer grasping at shadows, desperate for recognition. The police, with their rigid procedures and predictable logic, would see him for exactly what he was: a harmless, albeit irritating, busybody. He couldn't touch Billy, Stu, or you. Their carefully constructed facade of innocence was impenetrable to his amateur sleuthing.

"Randy," you finally interrupted, your voice laced with a feigned exasperation that had become second nature, "can you just… knock it off? I don't want to hear about Ghostface right now. It's creeping me out." You even managed a slight tremor in your voice, a subtle widening of your eyes – the practiced hallmarks of your long-cultivated innocence.

He deflated slightly, the light in his eyes dimming. "Oh, come on! This is important. I'm so close, I can feel it!" He held up a well-worn notebook like a sacred relic. "This, right here… it proves everything!"

You forced a weak smile. "Maybe tomorrow, Randy. I'm just tired. Can we just finish this up?" You busied yourself with a box of tapes, turning your back to his earnest, misguided fervor. The hum of the fluorescent lights seemed to amplify the silence that fell between you, a silence pregnant with the unspoken truths that Randy, in his oblivious enthusiasm, would never comprehend.

The bell above the video store door jingled one last time as Randy, muttering about crucial plot points and police incompetence, finally departed. You flipped the deadbolt with a decisive click, the sound echoing in the sudden stillness. Turning your back to the glass doors, you pulled a cigarette from your pocket and flicked your lighter, the small flame momentarily illuminating your face in the dim light.

Just as the first plume of smoke curled towards the ceiling, the familiar headlights of Stu's parents' sedan cut through the darkness. The passenger window glided down, revealing Stu's grinning face. "Hey," he called out softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Ready?"

You nodded, slinging your coat and book bag onto the floor of the passenger seat, you slid in beside him. Almost immediately, your hand dipped into your bag, retrieving Randy's worn notebook. The familiar, dog-eared pages felt strangely weighty in your palm.

Stu glanced at the notebook, then back at you, a question etched on his features. You took a long drag from the cigarette, exhaling the smoke out the open window. "Randy thinks he's Sherlock Holmes," you began, your voice low and even. "He's convinced he's figured everything out. Thinks he can waltz into the police station with this…" you gestured with the notebook, "and pin everything on the three of us."

A flicker of unease crossed Stu's face. He chewed on his lip, his usual carefree demeanor momentarily overshadowed by a nervous tension. But one look at your steady gaze, the almost imperceptible curve of your lips, seemed to reassure him. He knew that behind the facade of your usual quietness lay a sharp, calculating mind.

The drive to Stu's house was short and silent, punctuated only by the hum of the engine and the occasional sigh of the wind. As you stepped through the front door, Billy's eyes locked onto yours. They were intense, questioning, a silent demand for explanation. You tossed the notebook onto the coffee table, the thud a small punctuation mark in the charged atmosphere. Ignoring Billy's unwavering stare, you kicked off your boots and sank onto the couch between the two boys.

"He thinks he has proof," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, echoing the words you'd spoken in the car. "Proof that links us to everything." You leaned back into the cushions, your gaze drifting between Billy and Stu. A faint smile played on your lips, a hint of the intricate plan already forming in your mind. "But," you continued, your voice gaining a subtle edge of confidence, "I have a plan."

Billy's gaze intensified, a slow smirk spreading across his lips as he leaned closer, his predatory interest piqued. "Go on," he urged, his voice a low rumble.

"I have another closing shift with Randy in a couple of days," you explained, your voice gaining a cool, calculating edge. "It'll be easy enough to cut the security cameras. You and Stu can slip into the store unnoticed." You paused, letting the implications hang in the air. "And Randy's precious notebook?" A sly smile touched your lips. "A few extra pages, penned in Randy's lovely handwriting, detailing his… intense admiration for Sydney. How he felt rejected, overlooked."

The weight of Sydney's name hung in the room, the unspoken final act of their gruesome play. You tapped your fingers rhythmically against your thigh, your teeth gently worrying your lower lip as you considered the final piece of the puzzle. "Getting Sydney there… that won't be difficult either," you murmured, a dark certainty in your tone. "A simple call, a need for a friend. It wouldn't take much."

Your eyes hardened. "Kill her. Frame Randy. Make it look like a suicide, a tragic end brought on by unrequited love for Sydney and the crushing guilt of his 'crimes'." You paused again, a beat of chilling silence. "And my part?" You offered a small, almost innocent shrug. "I'll leave before turning off the cameras. And my dear, perpetually stoned brother? He'll be my perfect, oblivious alibi."

A low chuckle rumbled in Billy's chest. He rose from the couch, his movements fluid and predatory, and moved to stand behind you. His hands settled on your shoulders, his fingers digging in slightly. He leaned down, his breath warm against your ear. "You have no idea," he whispered, his voice thick with a dark arousal, "how incredibly turned on you make me right now."

A smirk mirrored his on your own lips. You turned your head just enough to capture his chin in your hand, your thumb brushing lightly against his lips. You didn't offer a kiss, simply a tantalizing graze before you stood, letting his lips chase the space where yours had been.

"I have some planning to do," you murmured, your eyes glinting with a dangerous excitement. You took a step away, putting a sliver of distance between you. "And you two," you added, your gaze sweeping between Billy and Stu, "can start helping."

The fluorescent lights hummed their familiar closing-time tune, casting long shadows that danced with Randy's restless movements as he re-shelved a stack of action flicks. A half-eaten bag of popcorn sat precariously on a shelf, a testament to the slow evening. Earlier, under the guise of needing to call your brother about a ride, you’d used the payphone tucked away in the back corner. Sydney’s voice, warm and familiar, had been easily coaxed into agreeing to come hang out, a welcome distraction from Randy’s incessant horror movie analysis.

Now, nearly an hour after Sydney had arrived, her laughter mingling with Randy’s enthusiastic explanations of slasher film tropes, the pieces were falling into place. “Hey, Syd, Randy,” you called out, feigning a sudden craving. “My brother left some snacks for me. I’m just gonna run and grab them real quick.” Neither of them looked up from the movie poster Randy was animatedly describing. Sydney offered a casual wave, and Randy just grunted in acknowledgment.

You slipped out the front, making sure the security camera above the entrance caught your departure. Instead of heading home, you circled around the back of the building, the gravel crunching softly under your sneakers. The metal box housing the main breaker was cool to the touch. With a practiced flick of your wrist, you plunged the lever down, plunging the back of the store into darkness and silencing the unblinking eyes of the security system.

Billy and Stu were waiting in the shadows, their figures barely discernible against the inky blackness. You pressed the worn notebook into Stu’s hand, its pages now subtly altered, ready to play its damning role. Quietly, you fumbled with the backdoor lock, the tumblers clicking softly in the stillness. The door creaked open just enough for them to slip inside.

As Billy ducked through the narrow opening, he tilted the Ghostface mask up just enough for you to see his lips. "Good boy," he mouthed, the words a low, thrilling whisper in the darkness. "When this is done… I'll come get you. The final act awaits." His eyes, visible in the sliver of exposed face, held a chilling promise. You knew what he meant. You would return, feigning shock and horror, to find Sydney lifeless and Randy a tragic, self-inflicted casualty of despair. The stage was set. The curtain was about to rise on the final, bloody scene.

Nearly an hour crawled by, each minute thick with anticipation. Then, as planned, the familiar sweep of Stu's headlights cut across your driveway. Without a word exchanged, you grabbed the bag of snacks from the table, the plastic crinkling in the otherwise silent house. You slipped back into your old, beat-up car, the engine sputtering to life before you pulled away, retracing your route to the video store.

The scene inside was a brutal tableau. Crimson splatters painted the brightly lit shelves, a stark contrast to the cheerful movie covers. The trail of blood led you, as it was meant to, to the dimly lit employees' room. There, sprawled on the floor, was Sydney. Her eyes, once full of life and laughter, were now dull and vacant. A dark bloom of blood stained her clothes, evidence of the savage, multiple stab wounds. And then you saw him. Randy hung suspended, his body swaying slightly in the stagnant air, exactly as you had envisioned.

The bag of snacks slipped from your numb fingers, hitting the floor with a soft thud. A practiced shriek tore from your throat, a raw sound of feigned horror that echoed through the silent store. You stumbled backward, scrambling out of the door and towards the payphone, your fingers fumbling as you dialed 911.

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing steadily louder. Soon, the parking lot was a flurry of flashing lights and uniformed officers. Paramedics rushed inside, their expressions grim. Dewey Riley, his familiar face etched with concern, gently guided you away from the chaotic scene. You spun your carefully constructed narrative, your voice trembling with believable shock. Randy had called Sydney, you explained, a seemingly innocent invitation. You had briefly stepped out to pick up snacks from your brother, a promise he'd made earlier. And then… this. You gestured vaguely towards the open doors of the video store, your eyes wide with manufactured distress.

You watched as officers carefully collected evidence, their attention drawn to Randy's notebook. You saw the subtle shifts in their expressions as they read the twisted words detailing his obsessive infatuation with Sydney, the fabricated confession that sealed his fate. It was perfect, a seamless fabrication that painted a clear, albeit false, picture.

Dewey, his arm a comforting weight around your shoulders, escorted you back home. Your brother, predictably lost in a hazy cloud of marijuana smoke, answered the door. He readily agreed, his memory conveniently clouded, that you had indeed been there to pick up snacks. Dewey, his suspicions seemingly allayed, offered a few words of comfort and the promise of future contact before leaving you to the supposed sanctuary of your home. The silence that descended after he left was heavy, the weight of your actions settling in the pit of your stomach. The final act was complete.

A few days drifted by, each one carrying the quiet hum of a plan successfully executed. Now, you lay sprawled across Stu's worn couch, your head resting comfortably in Billy's lap. The muted glow of the television screen flickered across your faces as the local news anchor recounted the horrific events at the video store. The narrative was precisely as you had orchestrated: Randy Meeks, the horror-obsessed loner, driven to a murderous rage by his unrequited love for Sydney Prescott, had taken his own life after committing the gruesome crime.

A slow, twisted smile stretched across your lips as you absorbed the details, the carefully constructed lie echoing through the room. It had all unfolded with chilling precision. Billy had achieved his vengeful satisfaction, Stu was safely removed from suspicion, and you… a strange, unsettling sense of fulfillment had taken root within you, a dark understanding of a hidden part of yourself that had awakened in the shadows of Stu's garage.

Stu excused himself to grab another beer, leaving you and Billy alone in the comfortable silence. Billy's fingers traced lazy patterns through your hair, his lips curving into a proud smirk. "You were brilliant," he murmured, his voice low and admiring. "We never could have pulled this off without you."

You pushed yourself up, shifting to sit on his lap, your back now to the flickering images on the screen. Leaning in, your lips brushed against his, a feather-light touch before you spoke. "You would have been caught," you murmured, your voice a soft, possessive whisper. "You're too impulsive. You needed me."

Billy simply hummed in agreement, his hands finding your hips, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. His lips found yours, the kiss heated and urgent, a silent acknowledgment of the dark bond that now connected you. You kissed him back with equal fervor, reveling in the moment, the intoxicating blend of danger and desire that had become your new reality. The world outside could believe the lie. Here, in the dimly lit living room, the truth, however twisted, was all that mattered.

[lvmimis]

cw: more musings on rusukaina island. fluff. animal death (hunting context). selfship-coded.

“Hey.”

Your eyes glide away from where they were fixed on the unconscious but still breathing practically dinosaur-like creature collapsed before the two of you. Luffy is closer to the body, having delivered the blow that led to this state, and you are a few dozen feet away, safely distanced, but with your breath held so tight to your chest, you’d think the animal was breathing directly down your neck. 

Luffy is calling for your attention, letting the coating of armored haki disappear from the skin of his right forearm and fist, before facing you. You finally let out your exhale, and reply. 

“Yeah?”

Part of deciding to spend time on this island with Luffy is to be privy to his hunts. You’re useless aside from gathering fruit and vegetables to make sure he doesn’t accidentally give himself scurvy (although at this point you’re not even sure bleeding gums will subdue him), but you have to admit that it is a spectacle of its own to watch him fight.

Even if you’re more inclined to preserve life rather than harm it, there’s something fascinating about this sort of violence, one that is even more necessary than the violence of self-preservation or of the imposition of justice. Morbid as well. The creature before you is enormous and very, very still, subdued by a creature much, much smaller than him. 

There’s something that comes to mind about disrupting the natural order of the wilderness, but Luffy doesn’t follow those prescribed ideals. Even those rules, like everything else, have never seemed to quite apply to him.

Luffy glances back at the animal briefly, surveying it to see if it’s truly just teetering on the edge of life or unconscious, then looks back at you. You wonder if he’s warning you not to approach, at least not yet, and don’t move, but instead, he crouches before the beast’s head, and just... watches. You’re not sure what he’s looking for from your vantage point. Luffy extends an arm below what appears to be a bruised, battered snout - he’d hit it in the nose - and checks for warmth. 

A second passes, and he looks back at you. 

“___.”

You step a bit closer, but he shakes his head.

“Can you turn around for a second? Don’t look.”

You pivot immediately, and the moment your back is turned, you hear the loud unmistakable snap of bone and your stomach turns.

His voice is soft as it beckons you again.

“You can turn around now. Let’s go."

When you look at him again, he’s adjusting the newly made, definite carcass on his shoulders.

—

Eating is done in relative silence at first, and you fill up more on wildgrasses and berries more than meat, and Luffy is content to finish the rest. He’s sloppy and content with his meal, fat running down his cheeks with each juicy bite. He does however notice your disquiet, shifting closer to you by the fire.

“Are you upset?” he asks plainly.

Wide brown eyes fill with concern for you. He’s still chewing but he’s listening, picking up a piece of fruit that’s set before the two of you, and splitting it in half before handing you a piece.

“No.” You take the fruit and chew quietly.

You’ve been ruminating not on the animal’s death but on the fact that Luffy didn’t want you to look. What does that mean about how he sees you? You’ve seen death before, and you’re not mentally or emotionally fragile. You’re a member of his crew, regardless of the circumstances that now keep your crewmates apart.

“Do you think I can’t handle seeing an animal die?” you ask finally, the thought nagging you too much to let go for any longer.

“No. But it makes you upset.”

Luffy takes another bite of meat, crossing his legs and placing one hand on his knee. You’re not exactly offended, but you’re confused by his statement.

“So you didn’t want me to look because you thought it’d make me sad?” you ask.

“You didn’t have to listen to me,” he reminds you. “I wouldn’t have minded. I just thought you wanted a warning.”

The realization hits you suddenly like a lightbulb flickered on. Luffy watches you take in the information, eating without slowing his pace in the least, but keeping an eye on your relatively untouched plate.

“Have I flinched before?” you ask.

Luffy nods. “Couple times. Not a big deal. You’re just sensitive.”

“Sensitive?” you start to protest but he’s not particularly in the mood to argue.

“Yeah. But it’s okay, that’s just you.” It’s said matter-of-factly and inconsequentially, as if he’d said the sky were blue. Distracted immediately from the topic at hand, Luffy points to the food on your plate.

“If you don’t eat, I will,” he reminds you, gently. You think to glare at him, but once you look at his anticipatory face, you find yourself chuckling instead.

“Want half?” you ask. You’re not particularly hungry this time.

His eyes light up.

“You sure?” He’s already reached his hand over but pauses tentatively.

“Mmhmm,” you reassure him as he takes no time in splitting your food in half and eating happily. 

“If you’re still hungry later, I promise I’ll go get us more food. Whatever attacks us first is dead,” he muses gratefully between bites.

You nod, and shift closer, resting your head on his shoulder, reassured that he’s always paying attention to your needs.

[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.

[awyeahitssam]

Harry is seven when she writes a story about a man who made humans into piñatas, carefully stuffing them full of candy and sewing them together. 

Extremely disturbing, her English teacher writes on it in pretty, swirling letters. Excellent work. 

Harry keeps it under a floorboard in her cupboard, and while she always finds a moment to frown at her poor spelling when she pulls it out, the praise ignites something warm in her each time. 

Excellent work. It's the first time anybody has ever said that to Harry. She's determined that it won't be the last. 

Harry likes to write. English is the only class she allows herself to do well in, because her other scarcely passing grades will balance on the report. She writes fantastical things, horrific things that she does not yet identify as horrific, hopeful things, depressed things. Harry is trapped in a cupboard with a single school spiral and a thousand ideas, and so she creates. 

She fills half the pages, front and back, before she realises she needs to write smaller. She begins to fit two lines on a space meant for one. Still, the notebook is filled inside of a week.

Harry waits until her maths teacher isn’t looking, and filches one from his desk. It lasts a week and a half.

Harry becomes used to stealing. Once, she’d only done it to keep away that awfully nauseous feeling of not having eaten for too long. Harry finds, now, that she is more hungry to write than she is for food.

Her English teacher continues marking her papers in pretty cursive.

The most morbid thing I have ever had the pleasure of reading.

A chilling masterpiece.

Very good work, Harry. Take pride in the considerable improvement your grammar has seen over the past several months.

Harry hoards every word of praise, and lets it repeat in her mind when Aunt Petunia rants about what an awful, stupid, useless thing she is. Perhaps Aunt Petunia is right that she’s awful—good girls don’t steal—but Harry does not think she is stupid. Mrs Powers thinks her writing is useful, even if nothing else she does is. 

So Aunt Petunia derides her, and as she does Harry begins to make a game of overwriting the words as they’re spoken with Mrs Power’s praise. After a while her shoulder’s stop creeping up around her ears when she is told off, though the one time she accidentally smiles, she’s dragged by her hair and thrown into the cupboard for her disrespect. After that, she still plays her game, but is careful not to let anything show on her face.

She watches people closely at school now, trying to work them out instead of trying to avoid all notice. Harry observes their interactions, and sometimes they’re friendly, sometimes unhappy, and sometimes there is conflict, which is a very important writing device. 

Jasmine and Edgar are the most popular kids in her class. Edgar, though, is very unhappy to share a birthday-week with Jasmine, and very unhappy that they both to have parties on the same day, Saturday. 

Edgar has never liked Jasmine. It takes Harry a lot of watching the boy to figure out that it is because his father sneers at people with dark skin, and he mimics his father whenever he can. 

Jasmine’s skin is the same colour as Harry’s except she is pretty, and nice, and everything Harry is not. She is also hurt by Edgar’s behaviour—Harry can not even imagine being hurt by such mild insults—and Harry finds a fascination in how that hurt seems to change her.

When Jasmine starts crying after three days of Edgar being mean to her, her tears are nothing like Dudley’s. Her sobs are genuine and trembling. It hurts something in Harry’s chest to see her so sad, and she understands the way people try to soothe her upset. 

The boys do not like to see a very nice little girl like Jasmine cry, and even some of Edgar’s best friends go to comfort her. Most of the girls do not like that Edgar has been mean to Jasmine when she is always nice to everyone, and they make it known in strange ways. Some yell at him in high-pitched voices, some ignore him completely, and some cross their arms and stare at him with narrow eyes. 

Harry watches Jasmine, and she sees the girl looking around with wide, red-rimmed eyes, realising the way her crying has garnered sympathy. Then, Harry sees the steely kind of look that enters her eyes. For the rest of the day and then week she works to turn their entire class against Edgar, and Harry thinks the attempts are clumsy at times, and obvious, but she roots for Jasmine anyway.

Everybody except Edgar’s very best friend goes to Jasmine’s birthday party, and Edgar comes to school on Monday quiet. He still does not like Jasmine, and looks at her with mean eyes, but he also seems like he’s been defeated.

Harry wonders if she can ever defeat Dudley like that. 

Throughout the entire week of watching, Harry scribbles out all of the different reactions she notices.

She wants to know more. 

She wants to know how people react in all different scenarios: she’s hungry for it, because she wants to write it, because writing is important.

Words are important.

They can make you feel so bad you want to not exist anymore, or they can make you so happy you feel like you can float out of your skin.

One day, Harry talks to Jasmine, just to see what the girl who seems very, very nice will make of a not-nice girl like Harry, with short, messy hair and too-big clothes. She knows she looks poor (she is poor), and Jasmine’s family has money, but they aren't rich. Harry knows the other girls frown at her sometimes, maybe because they can’t braid hair as short as hers, maybe because she’s weird, maybe because she doesn’t claim to be a tomboy like the other girls that wear shorts and tee-shirts and is so still and so quiet and so ominously watchful.

(She learned the word 'ominous' last week—she likes it a lot. She thinks that’s what her entire existence is: ominous.)

Jasmine is polite to Harry, returns her hello, and gives her a sort of weak smile before hurrying back to her friends. She’s not kind, not exactly, and Harry guesses it’s obvious that she’s a freak, and even very nice girls like Jasmine know it’s better to stay away from such unnatural things. She does not try to say hi again. 

She starts writing about people in her classroom, using different names. Jasmine is her favorite to write about, though Harry calls her Lily, which is Harry’s mum’s name. She makes her bold and a bit more careless than Jasmine is in truth, makes her say what she thinks, and do what she likes, and not care about whether other people like her. 

Harry begins to write about herself, too, a character named Alias that doesn’t let feelings play across her face, even though she feels a lot. She tries to make them friends, but they can’t be.

Alias is self-contained and Lily is too powerful in her own boldness.

She sets them against one another in conflict, instead. Writes how she might react to bold, brash declarations, too-big gestures and careless actions that nonetheless show care. She finds herself snickering into her arm to muffle her amusement at how very outraged Lily is by Alias. They are the opposite of each other. 

Harry wonders, sometimes, if she is that to her mum. Perhaps it would be good to be: after all, her mum was silly enough to marry a man who got into a car drunk and killed them both in a crash. 

The next paper she submits to Mrs Powers gets a new kind of a remark. Excellent characterization.

The blankness Harry pulls around herself falters. She grins down at the paper, blatantly proud in the middle of class.

Mrs Powers hums softly and places a hand gently on her shoulder. Harry’s gaze jerks up in alarm, and Mrs Powers offers her a kind smile that has sharpness underneath, and nods her head in what looks like—like approval.

Warmth blasts through Harry like a firework. 

She’s hungry to write more.

[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.

[silence-ofthe-llamas]

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

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

TexAid for the soul is more potent than Chicken soup.

First Aid wakes up in an ice cold sweat.

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

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

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

Vortex.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You steal one Quintesson body…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, god, have mercy.

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

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

Blood crusted it. He smacked it anyway.

Nothing.

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

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

[LEAVING SO SOON?]

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

[TAKE A SEAT]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It hurt. It hurt so much.

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

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

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

[GOOD BOY <3]

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

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

“What-!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you know about that?”

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

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

“You fucking tease.”

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

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

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

“I should go.”

“You’ll be back, honey.”

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

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

[LATER, DARLING <3]

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

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

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

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

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

Ratchet.

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

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

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

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

09090909

It was highly inadvisable.

But he was doing it anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

God damn it.

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

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

Vortex’s visor was on. He was watching.

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

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

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

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

The guard threw his head back with a sigh.

“You are the worst.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mmm. First impressions. Wonderful.

He should have gotten changed first.

[TAKE A SEAT] lit up the screen.

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

“Did I wake you?”

[YOU DIDN’T. I LIKE YOUR SOCKS]

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

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

[THAT’S A GOOD LOOK ON YOU]

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

[NO, YOU’RE GOING VERY RED]

[MAYBE I SHOULD CALL YOU LITTLE RED INSTEAD]

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

[I WANT YOU]

[<3]

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

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

[LET ME TAKE ANOTHER LOOK AT YOU]

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

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

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

[LOCKED IN]

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

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

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

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

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

“Happy about that?”

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

“What if I refuse?”

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

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

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

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

“I wont let you run away from me.”

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

“Damn fucking right I would.”

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

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

“I’m a pacifist.”

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

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

Vortex chuckled.

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

[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:

[melchinafan]

…Hold on. Might be a stretch to connect these dots, but…I've been trying to puzzle out for a long while who or what the opossum in Laurent's painting is, and I think I found a theory that ain't half bad. Once again, spoilers ahead, primarily for chapter 7:

First quick thing I noticed while writing up the image description: that is in fact not red curtains hanging behind the owl, as I've previously thought. It's actually a jacket, as indicated by the lapels and a small button on the left. It seems to be hung over the nest as if to protect it from the rain, or for privacy. (It also serves nicely as an artistic study of light, shadow, and fabric wrinkles.) Fascinating to consider in relation to the giant nest found in one of the abandoned mill town buildings (the one with the broken roof, next to St. Powell's Church). Plus the fact that the Rougarou's outer wings have lapels, and that we don't see Laurent wearing a jacket, just a vest. Thank you Compulsion, love a good vest look.

Other general observations include the fact that this appears to be a highly skilled oil painting, and an unlikely subject to have been purchased or commissioned. It's not hard to imagine Laurent practicing painting (as well as piano) over the decades, often alone out in the Juke Joint. (Teddy's Juke Joint, by the way, per an old Jolene poster over the piano. Just in case you hadn't noticed that sweet heartbreaking little detail, that Laurent seems to have named it after his dad.) The general composition also shares some visual similarity with the painting Saturn Devouring His Son, though I don't see any further parallels to extract from that for Laurent. Just a similar sort of eeriness.

Given the subjects of this painting, and that it's probably something Laurent made himself, it appears to be vent art. But rather than a rough or erratic style, with raw emotion peeled directly out onto the canvas—it's the sort of style and medium that requires a solid amount of control and focus, maintained over a long period of time. It's a subtle and appropriate detail, aligning well with how Laurent tries to stay in control of his emotions. Makes me think he finds painting meditative or the like, regardless of whether what he's putting to canvas might be morbid.

Now, for the symbolism of the subjects. While it's obvious the owl is Laurent, I find the opossum less clear. It could be representative of the sawmill boss, since that is the one person we know Laurent killed, and it's a guilt he still harbors. Even if he had it comin', as the Chicago showgirls say. But opossums are sweet, and it doesn't feel right to link them to that asshole. There's even a cute family of opossums that cross a fallen log above the path in chapter 7! So I've kept searching for some other potential answer that might make sense without indirectly demonizing opossums.

Another idea I've pondered is the possibility that he might sometimes eat wildlife in rougarou form, and has complicated feelings about that. It would be very Tobias Animorphs of him. Bonus fascinating coincidence: an Ellis & Son sign behind the sawmill boss' desk says "Cornelius Tobias Ellis," but that's just some red string silliness.

Or—for the new idea I just landed on earlier—it could be evocative of the primary other opossum that we see: the one that perches on Shakin' Bones' shoulder, both in-game and in the announcement trailer.

Consider that Shakin' Bones is a Charon-type figure—typically leading folks to the Crossroads or other (safer) locations, rather than directly to death, but…the implied link is there. So an owl (both as what Laurent becomes, and as used in-game to suggest the spirit of a dead person), eating an opossum (as related to a man who can help people cross over to death, or at least get to the Crossroads)…could perhaps be a representation of Laurent's relative agelessness and presumed immortality. Not necessarily as a hostile attack against death, or a deliberate rejection of a normal human lifespan—that would be better represented by something unusual, like an owl acting akin a shrike and impaling its prey. Laurent has no reason to feel ill will toward Shakin' Bones, after all. Instead, it could be showing his immortality as the natural consequence of becoming a rougarou. Having overcome the standard passage to death, as natural as a predator eating prey...even if the reason and the result lean more unnatural, or supernatural, for someone who was once just a human. (At the same time, it's using the "natural" versions of animals as potential representatives of two "supernatural" entities. Taking a fantastical story, and masking it as an everyday occurrence. So that's yet another layer of making it appear relatively "normal" to those who wouldn't know what it might be symbolizing.)

Maybe it's a bit far-fetched for a theory, but...I like it better than the sawmill boss idea. (Another question then arises: how does Laurent answer when folks ask about the odd painting behind the bar...?)

Now, one theory does not preclude another, especially when it comes to interpreting art. It could be all or none of the above. If anybody else has thoughts, I'd love to hear them! I haven't seen any discussions about this painting, so I'm curious if there's something else that hadn't occurred to me.

[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.

[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.

[mya-valentine]

The Gallery of the Grotesque

Synopsis: Mahito proudly introduces you to his cursed spirits, viewing them as his creations and "children."

The air felt heavy the moment you stepped into the darkened domain, the eerie atmosphere thick with an overwhelming sense of dread. It clung to your skin like damp mist, making every hair on your body stand on end. Mahito, ever the playful sadist, watched you with a twisted grin that spread across his pale face, his gray eyes shimmering with mischief.

“Welcome,” he purred, his voice melodic yet sinister, like the notes of a broken music box. “I’ve been waiting for this moment. I think it’s time you meet my… family.”

You weren’t sure what you had gotten yourself into. Spending time with Mahito was always a gamble; his unpredictable nature kept you constantly on edge. But something about him—his bizarre charisma, his uncanny charm—kept pulling you back. Now, here you were, standing at the threshold of his grotesque sanctuary, curiosity gnawing at you despite the unease in your gut.

The room you entered was cavernous, lit by a dim, sickly green glow emanating from strange, crystalline structures embedded in the walls. Shadows danced and twisted around you, forming shapes that seemed almost alive. The ground underfoot was uneven, a patchwork of cracked tiles and organic material that pulsed faintly, as if it had a heartbeat.

Mahito gestured for you to follow him, his movements graceful and fluid, like a predator stalking its prey. “Come, come. They’ve been dying to meet you.”

You hesitated, your mind screaming at you to turn around and leave. But your feet betrayed you, drawn forward by a mix of fear and morbid fascination.

The first cursed spirit appeared out of the darkness like a specter, its grotesque form illuminated by the dim light. It was humanoid in shape but distorted, with elongated limbs and a face that seemed to melt and reform constantly. Its eyes glowed faintly, fixed on you with an unsettling intensity.

“This,” Mahito said with a theatrical flourish, “is Retch. I made him during one of my more… creative moments. He’s a bit shy, but don’t let that fool you. He’s quite the chatterbox once you get to know him.”

The creature let out a low, guttural sound that might have been a greeting, though it was difficult to tell. You forced a smile, unsure of what else to do.

Mahito crouched down next to Retch, running his fingers affectionately along its warped head. “Isn’t he beautiful? Look at those curves, the way his skin practically drips off him. A true masterpiece.”

You swallowed hard, your stomach churning. “Uh… yeah. Very… unique.”

Mahito’s grin widened, clearly pleased by your response. “Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet. Come, there’s more!”

He practically dragged you deeper into the room, where more of his creations awaited. Each one was more horrifying than the last, a parade of monstrosities born from Mahito’s twisted imagination. There was a spider-like creature with human faces embedded in its abdomen, their mouths moving soundlessly. A massive, slug-like entity with arms instead of antennae, reaching out as if to grab you. And then there was one that appeared almost human, its body eerily perfect save for the gaping hole where its face should have been.

Mahito introduced each of them with the enthusiasm of a proud parent showing off a child’s school project. “This one is Chitter. And that—oh, you’ll love this one—that’s Mire. Look at the way his spine juts out! Isn’t it exquisite?”

You nodded numbly, your mind struggling to process what you were seeing. Despite the grotesque nature of his creations, Mahito’s genuine pride was almost endearing in a twisted way. He spoke of them as if they were living, breathing beings with thoughts and feelings, and for all you knew, maybe they were.

As he led you to the centerpiece of his collection, Mahito’s demeanor shifted. He became almost reverent, his voice dropping to a hushed tone. “And here… here is my magnum opus. My pride and joy.”

The creature before you was enormous, its body a swirling mass of flesh and limbs that seemed to shift and merge endlessly. Faces emerged and disappeared across its surface, their expressions frozen in silent screams. It was both horrifying and mesmerizing, a living nightmare that you couldn’t tear your eyes away from.

“This,” Mahito said softly, “is Amalgam. It took me months to perfect. Every detail, every contour… all of it crafted by my own hands.”

He turned to you, his eyes alight with a strange, childlike excitement. “What do you think? Isn’t it magnificent?”

You hesitated, searching for the right words. “It’s… incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Mahito’s grin returned, his face lighting up with joy. “I knew you’d understand. You’re different from the others. You see the beauty in my work, the artistry.”

He stepped closer to you, his presence almost overwhelming. “That’s why I wanted to show you this. My creations, my children… they’re an extension of me. And now, they’re a part of you too.”

You weren’t sure what he meant by that, but before you could ask, he reached out and took your hand. His touch was surprisingly warm, his fingers curling around yours with a gentleness that caught you off guard.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice soft but sincere. “For seeing me. For seeing them.”

For a moment, the terror and unease melted away, replaced by a strange sense of connection. Mahito’s world was one of chaos and destruction, but in his own twisted way, he had shared a part of himself with you.

And as you stood there, surrounded by his grotesque creations, you couldn’t help but feel that you had crossed a line you could never return from.

.

.

.

Masterlist

[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.