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pedgito · 1 month ago

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𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑 | Marcus Acacius x f!reader

summary | A female gladiator plucked from the arena by the most powerful general in Rome, convinced to serve under his command. You learn that his taste for blood might not be so different from your own.

author's note | the horny demons strike again. this has a little plot, thanks to the beautiful minds of @ovaryacted and @kedsandtubesocks who deal with my crazy so generously.

content warning | 18+ mdni, set pre-gladiator ii, description of war & mistreatment of women in roman society, female gladiator, dark-ish!acacius, reader has minimal backstory, but is revealed to be nameless (uses monikers given to her: medusa, fury, minerva), fighting, m*rder, blood tw, gore tw, sa warning (i have it annotated further below with content, but nothing graphic) acacius covered in someone elses blood as he fucks you, copious smut, biting as a little treat

word count — 8k

“How much?” Acacius inquires, tapping his finger against the iron bars holding you prisoner, staring back at the men. The ginger twins and a man—no, a general. Dressed in a toga of thick material, embroidered with intricate designs, gold bangles at his wrist, a telltale sign of high honor.

“Oh, she is…” The older one, Geta, teeth digging into his bottom lip as he shakes his head, “priceless—quite the fighter, too.”

“Does she have a name?”

Geta smirks to himself, “They call her Medusa. She favors beheading, it seems.” Geta waggles a finger through the bars and smirks, nose scrunching as he addresses you, “Correct?”

You ignore him, responding with a stare—much like your given moniker; if looks could kill.

“She’s bested them all,” Caracalla boasts from beside his brother, Dundus fiddling with his hair from where she was perched on his shoulder, “even our lion that we’ve had since kids.”

“It was a stupid idea, your fault,” Geta retorts, “but—again, she’s not for sale.”

“I’ll conquer India within the next few nightfalls, a handful of new gladiators fresh for the choosing, for your entertainment—how does that sound?”

Greedy as they were and entirely too incompetent, Caracalla agrees before his brother can open his mouth.

“Will you bring her back to visit?” Caracalla inquires with an underlying excitement—the poor brother was nothing but a dunce, erratic and impulsive, but all too easy to manipulate. “The others may miss her.”

“Indeed,” Another swift but convincing lie, Caracalla and Acacius shake hands on the deal before Geta can retort, fuming with rage as he stomps away.

He’d taken a liking to your fighting style despite his distaste for the arena. Strategic and skilled, brute strength and a drive that was built around pure survival but somehow all while maintaining the perfect amount of gracefulness that men did not. Constant calculation, finesse, it was like an art.

He’s gone through several guards over his rule, some from sacrifice but others out of pure ignorance. He needed a strong base, malleable but resistant. He could shape you into a leader, he thinks. He knows.

Your hard stare is like ice as the keys jingle into the lock, a defining click a resounding echo of freedom and General Acacius extends his palm.

A gesture of freedom, a new life, trepidation fills you despite your yearn for a way out of this prison. Here it was, served up on a platter covered in intricate facets of white and gold, stubble brushing his cheeks and soft brown eyes offering kindness.

This was not a man of sheer violence, not the tales they tell about him—this was a man of trouble, conflict, and an instinct to protect himself. And he’d chosen you.

Your hands slips into his, a similar roughness to match his own and scars that Acacius knew well enough of—you were a true fighter, a warrior.

The two boys—calling the men would be too easy, they often acted like spoiled children, were already off to their own chambers, and Acacius had only dropped his hard facade slightly, still under the watchful eye of Rome’s guards, he led you onto your new life.

“I cannot accept,” You argue, as respectful as you could manage, hands crossed firmly over your front, near your waist as you spoke to General Acacius in his private office at home, a place few have stepped foot into, but yet somehow, again, you were given a free pass.

“Are you refusing my order?” Acacius counters, there’s pillowyness to his tone, almost taunting.

“Sir—er, General,” It was all new to you, formalities, structure, rules, “I…am a woman.”

“I am not blind,” Acacius squints his eyes slightly, before leaning back in the creaky chair, “my men—they will not question my choices. They listen, they do their duties. They need strong leadership. Gladiator, I believe you can bestow that upon them.”

“I am a stranger to you, you know nothing of me,” You tell him, a full truth, “General, I fear you may have made the wrong decision, I am not what you think I—”

Silently, Acacius fingers curl around the handle to a drawer hidden behind his desk, pulling out a sharp knife with a handle carved of bone, twisting it in his grip before he’s rearing his arm back, throwing it in your direction.

It zips by with force, the tip of the knife snagging and burying itself deep into the wall behind you, your head whipping to the side to follow it, the sharp blade barely missing the skin of your ear.

Quick reflexes. You turn back to a smirking Acacius.

“I am positive, had I thrown that between your eyes you would have caught it without overthinking the consequences—most of my men would do the same,” Acacius lectures, standing with his brutish frame and walking toward the wall, the soft flow of a breeze kissing at your fists.

“Though, I have another proposition,” Acacius says lightly, twisting the knife in his hand, the pointing spinning against his fingertip as he circles around you, “—attack me.”

“Sir,” You argue, “that surely defeats the purpose of—”

His fist balls up tight and aims for your side. Acacius sees it, the anticipation as you block his hand. He chuckles underneath his breath, “Please, continue,” He teases, twisting out of your grip to pull another punch that you block with ease—he was going easy, you think.

Natural reaction takes hold and his test quickly turns into a full-out brawl, twisting and slipping underneath his grip until you have him pinned against a nearby wall, teeth bared with his forearm pressed against his throat, struggling to grip his free arm.

The real test is here, as Acacius bares the knife near your neck, an immediate reaction to protect yourself rather than go for the kill shot, knowing that anyone of normal skill would be too full of bloodlust to think of anything other than killing you. Protection and defense came first, taking the small nick of a cut to your own forearm before you’re knocking the knife out of his hand and wrestling him to the ground with a swift kick to his leg, rendering him helpless.

“Indeed, you are exactly what I think you are,” Acacius says with finality, “I want you to lead my personal guard. Whatever it is I must do to obtain that, my lady I will do—riches, bribery—”

You push away from him with a heavy exhale, standing and adjusting your clothes, brushing your hair away from your face, “No need, I will do it.”

Acacius rolls to his back, hand extending once more.

This time, it is you offering the help as he uses the leverage to rise to his feet before speaking to you with a triumphant tone.

“Commander,” He grins, “let us plan.”

–

He often asks of your lineage, your home. But, there is nothing to offer. A long conquered piece of land now under the rule of Rome and a home that was never a home. An orphan you had always been, nameless, taking greedily whatever name was bestowed upon you.

In the arena it was Medusa, the tale of a vicious woman with god-like power. Caracalla had told you of the story, the boys having taken a liking to you in different ways. Geta was fiendish, hungry, often seeking you out for his own pleasure to which you wouldn’t deny. Couldn’t. He could be rough, but he wasn’t.

He seemed lonely, the poor boy.

Carcalla was only searching for a friend despite his unruly, chaotic nature. When he wasn’t ruling with tyranny over Rome, terrorizing the townspeople, he was telling you stories.

Other times it was only she. Or her. Or just girl. The girl.

You were only what people assumed of you, expected you to be.

“Medusa, ay?” A greasy looking man confirms, one of the six men who were to be under your command, “The gladiator?”

“You will respect her,” General Acacius had warned them, “or an apology will be your dying breath.”

It had struck most of them with fear. Most of them.

And for many nights, countless, it seems—the transition of leadership was smooth. You had an unyielding grip on them, awaiting direction, following your orders. It was the kind of rush most would only dream of, and as a woman, it was an unforeseen privilege.

“They address you as Medusa, too,” Acacius notes during a roundtable session as the other men wander off for dinner, “do you wish for them to address you differently?”

“I have no name, General,” You admit, “I am whatever I must be. If they think of me as so, that is what I am. Though, I would love to turn a few of them into stone, given I was granted her powers.”

“I believe you could manage that feat without them,” Acacius jokes, “—but, nameless? Even at birth?”

“I know nothing of my birth parents. They told me I was found wrapped in cloth under the bridge that led into the town your army eventually turned to rubble,” A bittersweet feeling, speaking unusually out of term, facing him with the facts, “though, it does not matter. I enjoy the fear they have of me, keeps wandering hands at bay.”

Such an enigma, Acacius eyes you curiously. It was the most you’ve opened up to him since retrieving you from your cell, and even then, still forcing him to face the consequences of war.

The guilt followed him at every waking moment.

“Do you need anything further of me, General?” You ask politely, “You have spoiled my appetite as of late and your men are greedy with the stew.”

“You are dismissed,” He speaks distantly, turning over the thick, coarse paper with a drawn out map of the territory they were to invade soon, a lingering well wish leaving his lips, “sleep well, commander.”

Unfortunately, you’ve turned to sleeping with a knife under your bedroll—with a lingering ache of betrayal, you weren’t allowing yourself to lower your guard.

The attacks do not start at night. Rather during the day, when the General is off and away, scouting ahead further when half of his army while the other half sticks at camp, keeping claim.

That is when the insults come, the disbelief, the mockery.

Most of his men settled with the idea, having accepted your position even if it displeased them.

But, there was one. Like a bull—hardheaded and stocky, fists and arms like clubs, testosterone radiating from his body in crashing waves. He wants you to fear him, submit to him.

You feel it. You see it. And you’ve been through it before, other large and brutish gladiators thinking with their muscles rather than their brains. It wouldn’t take long for them to meet their demise, but this one was…different.

He approaches you with a smile than anyone could see right through, a finger brushing your cheek as he pushes a strand of hair behind your ear, leaning in to brush his lips against the shell of it.

“They are hungry,” He drips of vicious intention, “—I say, you give us a show. Entertain us, Medusa.”

Your eyes snap to him, staring him down.

“Pitiful Acacius isn’t here to save you,” He warns, “though, I have reason to believe he is as weak as most men—spread your legs and he’ll be begging for a taste, too.”

“I will gut you where you stand,” You warn, reaching for the thick machete at your waist, “you’re like a pig. Brainless and greedy for whatever you can get. Touch me, I dare you.”

The rest of the men are relatively quiet, but they do not stop him. Smirks and half-smiles hidden behind their cups, lounging on a log near their tents, enjoying the entertainment.

It was nightfall, the fire crackling between you and them, a towering presence at your backside.

And as he dares to, his hand slides up your waist.

Without hesitation you flip the weapon in your grip, grabbing at his wrist and slicing at his arm—a featherlight touch, it was merrily a glorified papercut, but his eyes widened in shock.

“Let us see how well you touch without fingers,” You threaten, flipping the machete until it is pointing in his face, death grip on the handle if he dared to take it, taunting him with the sharp end of your blade, “hands?”

That deep, rumbling sound of hooves approaches through the darkness, everyone slowly falling back into their paces as you welcome back your General with a forced smile.

Acacius hands off the reins to another rider, taking scope of the situation that seemed to be defusing in front of him, but still—he notices. His eyes trade glances between you both before he nods at you to follow him.

Speaking under his breath, “The others have coined you as fury,” He laughs softly at the pseudonym, “little fury, they tell me. Like the Furies. I cannot say I disagree with them. Has he been pestering you long?”

Your brow furrows at the reference, lost on your ill-informed mind.

“Long enough,” You answer honestly, “though, he was bestowed a parting gift this time.”

You raise your blade, his blood still painting the weapon.

He raises the curtain to his tent, allowing you to enter before him.

“Do you know nothing of the Furies?”

“I was not privy to bedtime tales, General.”

He nods, thoughtful as his lips pull together in a thin line, slowly removing his armor as he sits, directing for you to take a seat opposite of him, a few feet away on a decaying stump.

“Goddesses,” He states simply, “of vengeance, striking the wicked down. You have…fire, deep within you. Do not let them put it out, it is your weapon.”

You nod obediently, feeling the humidity stick to your skin, clothes glued to your body as you sit in the uncomfortable heat. There was no world in which you felt safe enough to strip down, quell your body of this unbearable summer weather. You would rather suffer, thick garb covering your body.

Acacius tilts his head, but does not comment.

“I require your protection tomorrow, we must scout an additional day and I fear danger is imminent—relay this to them,” He instructs, “and my lady, if you fear they will visit you at night, that they might strike when you’re vulnerable, you are welcome here.”

He already anticipates your response—he knows, but the gesture was an offer. A kindness.

“If they try, you will be searching for new men by sunrise, General.”

Acacius smirks in amusement, nodding to your words.

“It would not be difficult to replace them,” He notes, “though, little fury, you are irreplaceable.”

General Acacius wasn’t an easy man to protect, but you managed. Over the few weeks that you had taken point within his guard it has leant you plenty of opportunities to prove your worth, slaughtering opposing soldiers like cattle for the glory of Rome, his booming voice pronouncing vie victis as the dead are laid rest under fire and smoke.

But, conflict comes when you are faced with a decision as the camp was raided under complete, utter darkness. It was your shift to guard the General, perched outside of his tent with constant, roaming eyes. Eventually, you drift. It was peaceful, nature taking hold and pulling you under, awoken to the sound of blood curdling screams, the ground painted with the innards of both Acacius’ men and the others.

You were forced with a choice—defend the camp, something Acacius would have told you to do in a moment of desperation, a self-sacrificing man himself. Ironic, given your position, that you even think otherwise. Of course, your feet pull you toward him, whipping the flowing fabric of his tent door back.

There was a knife at his neck, a man towering over him. He’d snuck past—taken advantage of your exhaustion and your mistake was putting the General’s life at risk, his face stoic as he pushed back against the blade with his palm.

Without thinking, you rush toward the man, pulling back at his collar to plunge the knife pointed at Acacius into his own throat, a silent death through the notch of his neck, the blood flowing out like a river, tossing the lifeless man to the side before you’re reaching for your General.

“Do not worry,” He assures you as he rises, still groggy from sleep, “go—protect our camp.”

“But, General,” You plead, not realizing that your hand was grasping on his own, or that he had initiated the touch as a gentle push, a confirmation that he was truly alright, “it is my fault.”

His eyes peer behind you and to the man lying lifeless on the floor, blood pooling around his body.

“Though, it seems you have done your duty,” Acacius comments, head turned down as he stares at the body before his eyes peer up at you under his dark lashes, pensive, “now—kill them.”

You had lost a hundred or so men, nothing to the army of five thousand, but any loss was felt within General Acacius’ army—men of honor, with families or not, deserved a proper farewell.

Covered in the blood of many, some of your friends and some of strangers, hair matted and reeking of death, you approach General Acacius who was sending off a group of men to begin digging the mass grave to dispose of the bodies.

Your body ached, bruised and nicked from battle—you had killed at least five hundred men alone. Pure rage and fury, not a memory of it as you approached him now, a blank stare void of emotion that concerns Acacius, his hand reaching for your wrist as you begin to pass him, heading for your own tent to collapse in exhaustion.

“You did well,” He notes, catching your gaze as he turns his head to infiltrate your line of sight, “wash off before you turn in, you…reek. There’s a river beyond the bend—clean, warm.”

You nod despite only paying half-attention to his words, walking mindlessly toward the river before you are faced with the unfortunate crowd of men, undressed to their natural state, avoiding the watchful eyes and preying gazes, stripping your armor off down near the empty end of the river, pulling at your tangled hair, pulling off each remaining piece of clothing despite your body’s protest, screaming for relief.

It wasn’t unfamiliar, the looks—you bathed alongside all the men under the arena without a thought, knowing most of them were vying for freedom and wouldn’t dare risk it by allowing their cocks to work overtime, forgetting rational thought.

But, to them, you were a trophy. Someone—something, to be conquered.

The thin, flimsy undergarments come off last, stepping into the water and sinking down slowly. The blood washes away as you scrub, back turned as you dip your head into the water before committing entirely, plugging your nose as you dip underneath the water, finding peace in the silence.

“I had my doubts, Medusa,” A voice bellows from behind as you rise, your eyes peeling open with a quickly growing annoyance, “of you being a true woman, but—”

“Careful,” One of the men warned, a stable boy, “she will run to the general.”

It was the same man from many nights ago, big and brutish, always looking for a fight, even with the other men. He hadn’t learned his lesson, clearly.

“Acacius is busy,” He retorts, “so—what say you give us the show you owe us?”

You stand frozen in place, staring daggers at the man who seems only more amused as the anger in you builds, permeates.

(sa themes below: noncon touching, reader is naked in front of several men)

“Get out of the water,” He demands, “unless you prefer I come get you.”

You survey your choices, knowing that staying in the water wasn’t a safe option. They can and will wait you out. Your eyes track toward your clothes, further away than you had left them. Your eyes track the scar on his forearm and you smirk, teething peeking out behind your lips, “How beautiful,” You tell him, his eyes slowly following your own, “quite the scar, is it not? Fancy another?”

You spot the knife sheathed in his leather belt, taking your chances despite the vulnerability that remains with your naked frame on full display as you retreat from the water, he nods with confidence as you approach, a faint whistle in the distance that you’ve heard before. The oaf seems to ignore it, though. His large hand comes to your breast in an instant, body dripping wet and a sickness churning in your gut as the sticks of torch and fire approach amongst the murmuring crowd of men, less than subtle about the rowdiness that was ensuing.

He pulls you into his body with a greedy hunger as his opposite hands gropes at your backside, following the curve of your ass as your hand snakes toward the blade, but the voice that rips through the crowd is enough to wake the dead, silence falling over the area in an instant.

“Remove your hand,” Acacius voice travels, the same booming voice he uses to declare victory over a new territory, “or I will remove it myself.”

“General,” The man addressed in a drunkish manner, inviting, “she was offering—Medusa, tell him.”

Your silence is expected, his hand wandering toward your other breast, biting hard enough at the inside of your cheek that it draws blood—Acacius sees your hand wrapping around the blade and speaks again, approaches closer as the mud sticks to his boots, “I will tell you once more. Remove it.”

The man eyes you with disdain, dropping his hands away as you relinquish your hold of his weapon, allowing the breath caught in your chest to escape, but it doesn’t stop the touch that follows, taunting with its intention as his palm curls around the back of your head, tilting your head to the side as he squeezes, “I forget—you are the General’s property after all.”

(end of sa themes)

“Take him,” He orders the other lingering guards, men who’ve never shown you anything other than respect—they value their lives and limbs, as any sane person would, “and start the fire.”

Acacius looks around at the lingering eyes, “I suggest all of you return to camp. Now.”

That was all it took, most of them scrambling for their own clothes and armor as they retreated like scurrying mice or dogs with their tail between their legs, leaving you under Acacius' careful gaze. He reaches down to fetch you dirtied clothes, looking them over with disgust.

He removes the black cape around his shoulders without a word, opening it as an offering. Desperate to cover yourself, you slip your arms in the sleeves with his help, his eyes wandering no further than your face as you turn to him, tucking the cape around yourself. He reaches for the hood, pulling it down.

“Come,” He demands, “I would like you to witness.”

–

The screams are audible as you approach camp, a few feet behind Acacius as he rounds the fire and separates the crowd to create a path, approaching the man bound at his feet, one arm roped at his side and secured away, leaving him to fight the men that held him down.

“General, gen—general, I am sorry,” He pleads, “she—you do not understand, she taunts. She is poison, not a leader,” He continues, despite Acacius lack of response, making a motion with his hand to remove the man’s weapon and hand it to him, pulling it from it’s leather cover and examining the blade, he makes a soft sound to himself, “Acacius—you have known me for years. Do not let this woman trick you.”

“Gag him,” He ignores his pleading, leaning down to grip the hand of the man bound below, “your humility is amusing, but your greed is what is costing you. She has shown you mercy, but I will not.”

The cut isn’t a clean slice, either. It takes several swings before the limb detaches, blood spurting out of the appendage as the man screams in pain, dragged helplessly toward the fire before they’re cauterizing the wound—your body unreactive as you watch but silently stewing with frustration.

He had spared the man, sure. But, making a show of it? A mockery?

“Commander, with me,” General Acacius demands, waiting for you to snap back into reality, your eyes meeting his face, blood covering his armor and hands, somehow avoidant of most of the mess.

When you are alone, you don’t hold back.

“I would have handled him,” You tell him, “killed him myself.”

“This is not the arena, we do not go around slaughtering our men without reason,” Acacius retorts, “he will be demoted and replaced and be a reminder to the others that you—”

“I do not need you defending my honor, General.”

“Men will not change, this—society, it does not cater to your safety. To them, women are nothing but vanity and pleasure—”

“And property,” You remark, “lest you forget how you obtained me, General.”

Acacius approaches you near the table at the center of his tent, only a foot away as he removes his armor plate, pulling it over his head, “Had I not, you would have paid for your own freedom eventually. I needed a leader—strong, smart, powerful.”

“By punishing that man, you are sending the message that I need my battles fought for me,” You argue, “and as if these men did not already think I was the General’s plaything, what will they think now?”

Acacius sighs through his nose, pulling at the fabric of his tunic that bares his chest, “I believe they will behave,” He tells you, “because you will not be as kind when you take their heads. He was an example and a pain in my ass for years, he deserved more than that.”

“And what will they think of me now? I am naked under this cloak, your cloak. I must walk the path back to my tent surrounded by men deprived of the things your bestial minds crave.”

Acacius chuckles to himself, “I have been thinking,” He begins, “that you deserve a new name. Something indicative of all that you are. Some of the men award each other with monikers of war. Medusa seems to have become more of a taunt, in light of recent events.”

He unties the leather bands at his wrist, eyeing you with a mischievous gaze as he keeps you waiting, “Have you heard the tale of Minerva, my lady?”

It isn’t a surprise, but you shake your head.

“A goddess of many things—strategy, warfare, victory, and justice…but mostly importantly, wisdom. I have seen the way you command the battlefield, it is not lost on me.”

“You have…many stories, General.”

“My mother told me one every night as she tucked me, it seems they have stuck with me.”

Tell me more, the words linger in the back of your throat.

“I am barely standing, General. I must retire for the night.”

“Indeed,” He agrees, shamelessly stripping down to his undergarments to walk toward the clean bowl of water and wash away the drying blood, “and Minerva,” the name is completely foreign, but you respond with a hum, “your position is yours alone. You have earned it. Do not let them tell you otherwise.”

Like Medusa, the name sticks.

And thankfully, you were a few weeks away from a much-earned break from war, returning to Rome as a free woman for the first time, having finally fallen into a comfortable rhythm with the rest of his personal guards—a mutual respect that had been missing, men waiting for your command.

Long nights of planning spent in Acacius tent, surrounded by the other guards until they filter out one by one, growing curiosity and questions lead to many hours of conversation that you, for many months, had been deprived of in the arena.

“You did promise my return,” You remind him, “they will be expecting you to keep that.”

“They are young, fickle men,” Acacius berates with amusement, “I am sure they have moved on.”

“Do you fear them? The emperors?”

“They are spoiled brats,” Acacius responds, an answer in itself.

“They would visit me often,” You admit, “Caracalla seemed to be—it seems the syphilis in his loins was truly affecting his brains, often he would not even make sense. Or he would come to me, complaining of his brother.”

“You had built quite the rapor,” Acacius notes with a smile, sipping at the broth from his stew as he invites you to sit on his fancy, expensive bed cot. Much nicer than your own, cushioned and wrapped in velvet, “What of Geta?”

“He liked my breasts,” You begin bluntly, “and my—”

“He forced himself upon you?”

“I was property of Rome, Acacius,” You didn’t often say his name in such a relaxed way, blaming it on the full belly and exhaustion, “therefore I was his. I have suffered much worse than a lonely man searching for comfort.”

Acacius seems thoughtful, pensive as he stirs at his quickly diminishing stew. He does catch your lingering gaze on his face after a while, mesmerized by the scar underneath his eye, he encourages you.

“Ask, if you are so curious, my lady,” He places his bowl to the side, empty.

“Your scar,” You nod, pressing your finger in a mirroring way under your eye, “is there a story?”

“Nothing to be told with boast,” He chuckles, “a wound of battle, is all. Like many of the scars on my body,” He tells you, raising his naked forearm to display the various scars, noting the few that paint his clavicle, “and you, Minerva?”

It seems to have become a particular quirk of his, a lilt to his voice as he calls you by your given name—the others have become accustomed to it, too. But, with Acacius, it felt special. Treasured.

You raise your eyebrows at his question, quietly unlacing your top to pull it down your shoulder, sliding a hand over your breast to respect the dynamic between you both—him being your general and you, his subordinate. His eyes squint as he examines the jagged and staggered scar on the side of your breasts—not quite faded, healed but relatively fresh.

“He is a biter,” You warn him with amusement, “Geta.”

Only one scar, given by one of the emperors, somehow untouched from real battle. It was miraculous. You readjust your top, feeling the heat from your neck rise to your face at what you had just willingly offered over to Acacius. Unfortunately, he had a way of lowering your guard.

With that talk, it seemed like a true breakthrough in your partnership with Acacius.

He always allowed you to speak for yourself, never overstepping the boundary you had argued with him over, leading the charge with an iron fist and handling the younger, fresh faced soldiers who just seemed…lost.

It was hard to ignore the lingering glances over time, often during meetings as you spoke, not a look of attention but rather…ravishing. Hungry, but in a subdued manner. You weren’t sure where the lines had blurred, but they had.

Possibly somewhere within the long nights of conversation or the lingering touches that shouldn’t have been as charged as they were, handing over a piece of armor or blade and his calloused fingertips would circle your wrist, pause, before his brain would catch up to his actions.

“Go on,” He encourages after a final night of victory and triumph, many of the men howling and singing tunes around the fire, drinking from their cups and enjoying the pleasures of alcohol and comradery, “you are missing the fun,” He was unnaturally quiet, subdued to his quarters, leaning against the outside of his tent as he watched with amusement but subtle dismay.

A younger man approaches with his hand extended, a gleeful expression on his face, “Minerva, please—come, you must enjoy the party, too.”

The general gives you an expectant look as you let the young man lead you away, curling his fingers around your own and pulling you with vigor, cheering loudly to blend in with the energy of the men despite how you worry about the man several feet away, your eyes tracking his disappearing figure as he slips into his tent, eventually pulled away by another man, one of the guardsmen who adored you, asking for a dance.

You agree hesitantly as the crowd roars louder, eyes searching for the exact reason as you see a few men leading a line of women into camp, little clothing to allow them modesty, a less than subtle shushing come from the men as they lead them deeper into camp, and the fear in you tells you to run to the General.

“It is not what you think,” The young man tells you, “they are dancers—no harm will—”

You bypass him, straight toward the men leading the path, stopping them cold.

“They are not here against their will, my lady.” He assures you, though, that could be argued.

“Minerva, Acacius has made it clear that harming women, you—is far worse a crime than anything else. Truly, it is not what you believe it to be.”

“I am telling the General, informing him of their presence,” You admit, “so I suggest you and the rest of the cattle be on your best behavior?”

They both give crisp, curt nods.

As you make the direct line for Acacius’ tent, you are ignorant to his silent plea for privacy at the tied rope, intertwined with gold fabric, pushing apart the fabric doors without much of a thought, reality hitting you as you catch a glimpse of his naked frame, patting down his body with a clean cloth as he washed himself, other hand curved around his cock as he stretched his neck up and back, the water splashing as he dipped the towel into the basin, only aware of your present when you make a small, unrecognizable sound as a result of your own stupidity.

“I—General,” Your eyes widen as they take on a mind of their own, straight down the valley of his chest as he turns to you, quickly spinning on your heels, “I should have—I apologize, uh, the men…they are—”

“I was informed,” He assures, “and they have been warned, I assure you.”

“Yes, hm—um,” It was the only time Acacius had seen you flustered

“I assumed the rope was a clear message,” Acacius teases, “but—it is not your fault. I should have informed you of their…antics.”

He pulls the tight, fabric shorts over his hips, clearing his throat, peering over your shoulder you breathe a sigh of relief, “General, I would like to apologize for—” You swallow, watching as he turned barefoot on his heels, the fabric of the immodest undergarments curving around the stretch of his cock, half-hard under the fabric and the outline of thick head pushing against the linen.

You don’t realize how long you’re staring until he’s approaching with a tap of his finger on the underside of your chin, “There is no need for that,” He assures you, your nose scrunching up in confusion at the sudden touch, feeling the subtle shift as he reaches behind you for the clothes folded on the table at your backside, “surely you must return to the party,” He encourages, “celebrate a well-earned victory.”

“Why?” You counter, “When you will not.”

“Minerva,” He warns.

“You are distracted,” You note, watching as Acacius now avoids your gaze, “it is worrying me.”

He cannot admit the reason why. That it may be you.

“Acacius,” You call his name, hoping that will break through to him.

“Leave me,” He asks, rather than demanding, “I need to rest.”

It was a lie, but you do not fight him on it.

–

Silence blankets the camp in the early morning hours—the witching hours, as you’ve come to know them. Sleeping securely in your tent, bedroll tucked under your head as you drift. Unaware of the creeping men planning your untimely demise, assuring that the entire camp was asleep before they strike, arms and legs rendered useless as the third shoves a piece of cloth into your mouth and ties it around the back of your head, screams muffled behind the fabric, stripped of your weapons. Helpless, they think.

During the struggle, one of them grows frustrated, banging the hard rock against your skull and plunging you back into darkness.

When you come to, you are unclear of where you are, but it was outside, arms above your head against the thick limb, feet bound tight as well, a sting and a string of wetness running down the side of your face as your blurry vision becomes clear.

“Little Minerva,” the voice begins mockingly, all too familiar to your ears, “he has named you—you must feel special, ay?”

He kneels in front of you, the one hand he has left curling around the forearm of what was left of his other appendage, “And you expect to return back to Rome as a free woman,” He laughs, snorts wetly through his nose, “I assure you that will not happen. Rather, you will be a dead one.”

The other two lingering figures join in on the laughter.

“How did you say it?” He taunts, “I will gut you where you stand?”

“It took three of you to capture me,” You retort, “your confidence is lacking sorely.”

He clears the back of his throat, rearing up a ball of saliva in his mouth before he’s spitting at you.

“I will slaughter all of you with my hands,” You promise, “untie me, unless you are fearful.”

Driven by ego, it doesn’t take much for him to agree.

But, as he had underestimated you the first time, and the second, he would regret the third.

The two men come at you first, enough tussling and your teeth ripping into the ear of one of them, searching blindly for a thick, heavy and sharp edge branch that would handle the weight of piercing through skin and muscle, finding the right weapon at the perfect moment—the attacker rearing back as the other approached, driving the make-shift stake through his chest as the other tackled you to the ground, a poor miscalculation on his part as you get your legs around his neck, arms pinned at an painful, awkward ankle until his neck snaps from the force, the ox-like man awaiting in the shadows like a coward, blood spilling from your mouth as you scream.

The heavy hooves approach like roaring thunder and the instant your attacker catches on, his attempts to flee are ruined by the barricade of men at all angles, General Acacius at the head of the charge, a rageful expression on his face. Feral unlike you have ever seen.

He jumps off of his horse, ordering the men to capture the surviving man once again, looking around at the lifeless bodies beside you, assuring his men he would handle you and the mess, demanding they return to camp at once.

You look around aimlessly, blood staining your face as Acacius struggles to capture your attention, eventually resorting to a strong, demanding hold on your face, cradling your head with his hands.

“Are you wounded?” He asks, then notices the trail of blood from your scalp, pushing away the hair to reveal with gash from the rock they had attacked you with, grimacing as he runs his finger over the wound in worry.

Suddenly, you are stricken with a need, “Give me your sword,” You tell him, eyes flicking up to meet his own, “I need your sword.” His movements are too slow, still concerned with you that you reach for the weapon yourself.

Pulling away, you approach one of the dead men with the sword, swinging it up over your head and down with force, beheading him in one go, before switching to the other man, less finesse as you swing—again and again, until there is nothing but a pool of blood, bone, and brain—Acacius steps in eventually, tossing the sword away as he holds you arms in his fierce grip, letting the screams rip from your chest as he sways with you, eventually falling to your knees in exhaustion. He uses his bare hands to wipe the blood away from your neck, your face, feeling the soft shake of your body as you sob in silence, overcome with an emotion you so rarely let surface.

–

The public execution follows the next morning, everyone rousing from their tents to the loud, blaring horn from the ship just off shore—Acacius had assisted you back to camp on his horse, slumped against his back as you rode until the trampling finally stopped, sliding off the horse and into Acacius’ arms as he led you inside his tent.

He didn’t sleep the entire night, watching over you instead—he rarely blinked, staring off into nothingness as he tried to keep the vicious rage at bay, by morning, he was itching.

“You may stay,” He tells you, “your head—I cleaned it while you slept.”

You shove his hand away as he attempts to help you sit, slowly dressing yourself, eventually putting together the fact that Acacius had undressed and bathed you at some point throughout the night, not a speck of blood or spit remaining.

“Are you ordering me to stay?”

Acacius shakes his head, his hand still hovering close by.

“Then I will attend.”

He doesn’t argue against it and there is, despite your weariness to admit, a relief of your chest as Acacius rears back his blade, silencing the final scream the man lets out, pleading for his life. The blood sprays over his face, a strong grimace at the sheer strength it takes to behead the man, but the general manages it with one strike of his blade.

His speech follows, a deep and unsettling warning to all of his men. A final one.

Men, wide-eyed with fear, agree without resistance before he sends them off to ready the ship for departure and a meal before they begin their long trek back to Rome—he is less than gentle as he grabs your wrist without warning and pulls you alongside him, back to his tent.

–

He ties the rope with a stiff tug, before turning to you, stumbling on your feet as pull off his cape, having offered it to you for a second time, assuring that dressing in your usually armor wasn’t needed today, not as you began your travels, a flowing dress tied at your shoulder and waist that you were used to wearing during the showings back in Rome, parading you around like a prize.

“Acacius, perhaps you should sit,” You suggest, watching his hands curl into fists at his sides before he’s spinning on his heels and toward you, cradling your face like he had the night prior, but even this close, it felt like he was trying to keep you at a distance, “—I am sorry, if I did something—”

“I crave you,” Acacius admits, “you must know.”

Your lips part, gearing up the courage to speak, but falling short.

“Nights I have spent,” He breathes, shaking his head, the curls tickling your forehead as they meet, “thinking—wondering—”

“Acacius, why now?” You question him, “As we are homebound, back to your wife. Surely, she would have my head.”

Acacius shakes his head with a soft, but fond laugh.

“Our marriage is complex,” He explains, “Something I do not care to explain in great detail at this moment, you see—,” His hand curves around the side of your neck, tilting your head up, lips grazing against his own as he speaks, “I had no such intention for things to get like this, but you have proven to make things…difficult, for me,” He breathes out through his mouth, his eyes opening slowly to meet yours, “and I need you, should you have me.”

You could easily deny him, knowing he would back off in an instant. But, like this, clearly driven by adrenaline and instinct, riding the high of such a charged execution, he was craving something deeper than an outlet to release the built up tension.

He craved connection—through little moments of conversation and touches, someone at level-ground, an equal. You were his equal. He’d given you so much since, and you would be lying to yourself if you denied the thoughts that had riddled your mind too.

“I do not much prefer a soft touch,” You finally reply, “or gentle care.”

He silences you with a kiss, bruising and tense as he licks into your mouth, hungrily searching for more areas to taste and devour, licking along the column of your neck as the blood of another smeared into your skin, his fingers working quietly to undo your dress, in turn wrestling with his armor and clothes, nearly ripping the fabric of his shirt from his body as you claw at him.

Wet kisses and clashing tongues fill the silent room, a screeching sound as your back hits the roundtable before he’s lifting from the back of your thighs and scooting you onto the surface, naked and bare as he spreads your thighs apart to move between them, clearly restraining himself as he licks, teeth grazing carefully.

“I enjoy them,” You admit, “Do not hold back, Acacius. They are what I will keep with me, if this be the only time.”

Like a dog cut loose of his chain, his teeth sink into the breasts mirror the mark of the other, hissing as his teeth break through the skin just enough for the subtle trickling of blood to rise to the surface before he’s soothing the wound with his tongue, staring up at you through a half-lidded gaze, prowling for more. He dips lower, falling to his knees as he pulls you toward the end of the table, ass hanging near the edge as his teeth sink into your thigh, near the swell of your cunt as you moan, fingers digging into sweaty, matted curls.

“Acacius,” You plead breathily, “I want your mouth.”

Where—it did not matter. But, Acacius fulfills that need as he licks a broad strip through your cunt, nose buried in the coarse curls, still smelling of the fresh soap he had bathed you in, taking delicate care as he washed your body, letting you slump into him, soaking him in the process.

“Yes, that—” You respond airily, eyes fluttering shut as his tongue dips inside of you, swirling your slick around on his tongue and sucking harshly at your clit, staring up at you daringly from his position beneath you, unwavering, “oh, gods above…”

Acacius chuckles below you,the sound vibrating against your cunt as your moans increase rapidly, thick fingers dipping inside your pulsating core, “This high—it feels like—”

He rises to press a kiss against your stomach, climbing, tongue licking over your belly button and between your breasts, “—like…” He encourages, “come on, my lady, do not sell out on me now,”

“Like a battle high,” You admit with a faint laugh, “though, different, but….”

He understands, driven by unbridled need, uncapped adrenaline.

“Well, vae victis,” He taunts, “now—come here,” He squeezes at your hips and pulls you to him, his cock stiff, throbbing between your legs before he is twisting and spinning you around, feet planting against the ground as he bends you over, fisting himself tight as he rubs his thick cock head between your folds, watching as your wetness coats him, sinking into your fluttering hole with little resistance, a sweet cacophony of noises releasing from your throat as you grip onto nothing, hand curling into a fist as you moan, open-mouthed and shameless.

“Harder,” You beg, forcing the word out between thrusts, blunt fingernails clawing at your hips, attempting to pull you in closer despite your proximity, as if he could consume and even that wouldn’t be enough, “Acacius, please.”

It was like instinct, his hand sliding up the back of your thigh to lift your leg up, pinning it up—up, until you feel the ache in your sore muscles as he holds you in place with a fist between the bend of your knee, heaving breaths at your neck as he fucks you into the hard surface of the table.

It was a pain you would feel in your bones, that would carry with you into the morning, marks that would last for longer, a remnant of this moment, the mess of blood smearing on your own skin as he melts against you, forehead resting against your shoulder as his gaze follows the movement of his hips, slow but powered thrusts that drilled into you, clawing at his skin to leave your own bruises. The hand that brushes against your core is your ultimate demise, feeling breathless as your orgasm pulls you under, muffled sobs into your fist as you bite down, fearful that it might draw attention. Though, Acacius seems preoccupied, still.

His hand seeks your neck, digging in as he pulled you up, “To your knees,” He demands softly, your body moving out a memory, dropping to the floor—though, the sight is much more tantalizing, Acacius fisting his cock tight, feral as he teeth were bared, like a man fresh from the slaughter, he comes with a deep and guttural groan, your tongue sliding against the underside of his bulbous head, thick spurts coating your tongue, his body shaking as you pull away, swallowing all that he had offered with a steady, locked gaze. He assists you upright, steadying you.

“For a man who has such a distaste for unnecessary violence, you wear it well,” It wasn’t a compliment, rather an observation, his eyes tracking your naked frame, fingertips tracing the curves of your body in admiration.

“You are quite inspiring, Minerva,” He admits, gathering your thick dress and helping you redress in silence, tying the material around your body, “not everyone deserves mercy.”

Your smile is rare, but it is beautiful. And he wasn’t a man for such dramatics.

But, it could bring him to his knees, he thinks.

#general acacius #marcus acacius #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x y/n #general acacius x reader #general acacius x you #gladiator ii #gladiator ii fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal smut #my writing

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sugar-grigri · 8 months ago

Text

Denji no longer has access to his heart

The golden rule in Chainsaw Man is to focus on the title, since it's the key to reading the story.

Rain, Brothel, Removal seem to be three absurdly unrelated elements, and Fujimoto likes to put it that way, because the challenge for the reader is to find a way of reading that links them together.

This chapter is funny as well as disturbing, deeply sad, and in itself this collection of sensations just makes you uncomfortable, since the tone is always reversed, and the protagonist himself refuses to allow his situation to be a comic spring.

Fujimoto confirms an interpretation that is fundamental to understanding Denji: his character thinks only in terms of short-term objectives, incapable of projecting himself, just as he responds only to the satisfaction of needs without being able to verbalize and think about his unhappiness in a more abstract way.

Denji, for example, isn't thinking about whether sex is actually a solution to his problems, no, it's more concrete than that: he's thinking about whether he's masturbated recently.

Another piece of evidence is the rain. I've always thought that when it rains in Fujimoto's works, it's proof that no lies are being told.

Whether in Look Back with a silent victory, the school moment with Reze and Denji.

But that's not what we're interested in here, because there's no doubt that Denji is sincere, or at least the rain only shows us that he's sincerely desperate.

There's a subtlety....

Denji complains that he only thinks with his dick, but there's another, more philosophical and certainly less funny idea behind this: Denji only thinks through his body.

The rain, the amputation, the brothel - they're all proof that Denji only thinks with his senses.

Denji thought the brothel was the solution to his distress, it's when it started raining that he collapsed, as if the change in weather had evoked his own emotional change. Yoru's solution is amputation, another physical sensation and solution.

Amputation is a solution all the more symbolic because it's antithetical to what Denji is: a demon man capable of regeneration.

To amputate is in itself not to regenerate, and not to regenerate is in itself to be more human.

What distinguishes us from animals (although science relativizes this) is the way we think about our own emotions, something Denji is incapable of doing, or at least has great difficulty in doing.

This doesn't mean he can't verbalize it at all, but when he evokes, he evokes a sensation, a dish (a shitty hamburger, a steak, a ton of sex).

Even when he wants to be loved, Denji formulates it in the form of wanting his heart, almost organically.

No one wants Denji's heart because it's gone

And it makes sense, because Pochita has reassembled his entire body, except for Denji's heart, which has literally been left in that garbage can.

That's why, when Pochita lets Denji access his feelings, the place is symbolized by a garbage can.

When Denji asks Pochita to wake up to find Nayuta, Pochita asks him where his legs are, because Denji's only function is to be a body.

And now everything makes sense again

When Denji spoke his dream to Pochita, being Chainsaw Man, I think there was a certain feeling in every reader: what exactly does it change?

What if it changes nothing? It's normal for Denji not to be able to project himself in the long term, as he should symbolically listen to his heart.

Denji's inability to have a dream, a goal for the future, is symbolized by him and Pochita as children.

It doesn't mean that Pochita is an antagonist (although that could be cool), but that Denji and Pochita are prisoners of their own situations.

Denji doesn't have access to his heart, but Pochita is contractually bound to what Denji wants.

This is also why, when Denji reproaches himself, it's his child self who's addressing him, because the only way to reproach himself, to feel guilty, is symbolized by his old self, the Denji that Pochita may have known. Just as Denji doesn't have access to his heart, Pochita has difficulty gaining access to the person Denji has become, all of which only leads to stagnation.

Denji as a child is also the symbol of a scumbag, the remnant of a lost heart, always dressed in poor, dirty clothes, a past that Denji seeks to escape, but a past that is the only time Pochita has been able to get to know Denji.

I know it's a pretty crazy line, but it's precisely because Denji is Chainsaw Man - a being both fused and disconnected - that he thinks with his dick lol

Saving Chainsaw Man by killing Chainsaw Man has never been a truer statement

Chainsaw Man is Denji's prison but also his only hope

A cage

#csm #chainsaw man spoilers #chainsaw man #csm part 2 #csm spoilers #csm 166 #csm 156 #csm 150 #denji #denji hayakawa #asa mitaka #katana man #my thoughts

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zamadness · 7 months ago

Text

--- --- --- --- ---

GenZ! AuDHD! Reader : Having autism and ADHD is like having a huge library in your head but reference numbers and librarians

--- --- --- --- ---

GenZ! AuDHD! Reader : The neurodivergent experience is talking about your brain as if it’s a separate entity from yourself.

Lucifer : Oh my golly! I feel the same!

[Lucifer has ADHD and I stand by it]

--- --- --- --- ---

- When GenZ! Reader was alive -

GenZ! Reader : [searching frantically through my pockets] sh*t, I’ve lost my keys. Lemme borrow yours?

Prison Guard : No

GenZ! Reader : Danm it, man. Come on!

--- --- --- --- ---

GenZ! Reader : Radio Demon, I must confess my sins…

Alastor : [in nun costume] What’s the tea, my child? *aggressively sips tea*

--- --- --- --- ---

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renthony · 7 months ago

Note

🏳️‍🌈preferably the watchable kind bc energy is so so low nowagays

(Drop a 🏳️‍🌈 in my inbox and I’ll respond with a queer media recommendation!)

Wendell & Wild is a 2022 stop-motion animated Netflix film directed by Henry Selick and written by Henry Selick, Jordan Peele, and Clay McLeod Chapman. It follows main character Kat Elliot (voiced by Lyric Ross), a punk 13-year-old Black girl who can see demons and gets sent to a Catholic girls' boarding school after her parents die in a car accident.

It's a very political movie with lots to say about about systemic marginalization and the prison-industrial complex, but beyond that, it's a damn good story about a traumatized teenage girl coping with grief. And zombies and demons and an undead priest voiced by the ever-amazing James Hong. Also, Key and Peele voice the titular demons, and it's awesome.

Kat allies with another student at the school, a Mexica trans boy named Raúl Cocolotl (voiced by Sam Zelaya). Raúl transitioned before the film begins, but is allowed to remain a student at the girls' school instead of being sent away to an unfamiliar place. We get to see his mother stand up for him and support him unconditionally, and it's wonderful.

If I have any complaint about the movie at all, it's that there's a lot of story crammed into a fairly short runtime. I wish it was, like, half an hour longer. But it's also stop motion animation that was produced during the first waves of covid, so I imagine they had to keep things pretty tight in order to get it made.

Here's the trailer:

youtube

#ren's media recs #original post #wendell & wild #wendell and wild

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youryanderedaddy · 1 year ago

Note

yan prison guard who hates u but low-key wants to f??

YES?!

tw: female reader, hinted non-con, period cramps, physical neglect, abuse of power, hinted blood play, reader is hinted to be a criminal, starts flirty but ends dead dovey xD My Ko - fi <3

"Shit." You mumble, your back softly resting against the cold wall. You reach for the nearest utenstil on the ground - all metal now, since you broke one too many nice porcelain plates - and throw it against the bars with little consideration to the vomit inducing "food" still left inside. The yellow sauce splashes all over the floor, and you look up, not even bothering to hide your smug expression.

"I could make you lick that up, you know." Darcy states, adding little emotion to his already monotone voice - his eyes glued to the book in his lap and all the tiny little words in it, perfectly pristine fresh ink in the stuffy air. His gloved hands are digging into the paper, almost crumpling it, and you now know that his pale hands are simply incapable of holding anything gently - even the things he actually likes.

"Will you?" You tease, but the warning bells at the back of your mind go off nonetheless, seemingly in spite of your best attempts to come off as playful and not desperate. He rarely jokes around - not exactly the fun type. "I'll decide after I finish this page." Your warden chuckles humorlessly. "Those whom I love I rebuke and discipline." He starts reading aloud, licking his cold lips. "So be earnest..." You can feel his gaze on you, caging you in like a wild animal. "And repent." He finally closes the book. "Revelation 3:19." The blonde repeats quietly, turning his attention back to you - and you realise calling out was a mistake, but now it's too late. He's got you in his clutches.

"My stomach hurts. Tell me, Father Allmighty, is this devine punishment too?" You spit out sarcastically, hugging your knees in order to numb the pain a bit. "Or am I simply on my period?" It's your turn to giggle, although it hurts to do so - anything to mask the unease tugging at your vocal cords every time you're faced with that demon.

His eyes narrow in response, and his fingers circle his nose bridge as he scoffs at you, annoyance quickly spreading across his irritatingly handsome, yet equally sharp features.

"Your voice makes my head throb. Stop it." The guard barks, voice dropping low in warning. Still, you decide to push your luck due to pure and simple physical need. "But it hurts." You let yourself whine, slowly revealing your collarbone - and silently hoping that just this once the sweat will look like glitter. "I don't care." He hisses, picking his book again.

You roll your eyes.

"Alright. Sure. But you'll be the one cleaning the bloody sheets after." You mutter under your breath, crossing your hands. You're not sure what's more frustrating - the way your stomach is trying to eat itself or having to appease a narcissistic maniac with too much power and free time through it. Somewhere in the part of your brain still capable of rational thought you realize you should be provided with basic hygiene products just like all the other female prisoners. What makes you different, you guess, is the fact that you're kept under lock and key almost extensively. Solitary confinement 24 hours a day, except for Darcy.

He brings you food. He helps you bathe - if you've been good enough. He's the only one who knows if you're dead or alive. Hell, he may be the only one who even cares.

"I'm sure cleaning up your mess will be quite exciting." The blonde cracks a tiny, self evident smile only he knows the meaning of - and you would have frowned in disgust if you could still feel that lovely human emotion. "Admit it, you actually like the thought of me bleeding, you little freak." You scrunch your nose at him, then look back to the floor, the filth so thick it almost sticks to your slightly less dirty shoes. "Takes one to know one." Darcy responds nonchalantly, running his hand through his slick white locks.

At that moment the cramps return in full force, your lower abdomen on fire with sharp stabbing pain. You remember some fragmentary tips from your scrappy teen years - you close your eyes and breath in deeply, you bite the inside of your cheek - you even pray to whoever is listening, but it just won't stop. So you bargain.

"You can have it." You say with difficulty, folded in half. Hot tears prick your eyes and you try to fight them, but soon give into the agony. It's such a relief to cry after months of resilience - to break down completely and let your most vulnerable self out.

The warden takes a single steps towards the bars and motions for you to move closer. You crawl to him, your hand supporting your lower belly in the process. He takes a good look at you and slowly, almost gently caresses your face through the metal - eyes suddenly softened by the image of you dancing in the palm of his hand.

If it was anyone else he'd be simply repulsed by this clear display of weakness. If it was another prisoner, another hardened criminal, he'd have no problem following his own principles of zero tolerance - of crushing and breaking their spirit until nothing was left. But it was you and your beatiful, stipid tears that mesmerized him to no end, that haunted his dreams and turned his bloodlust into something a lot more sinister. Something harder to capture, harder to fight - and easier to give into.

"You can have it." You repeated tearfully, rubbing at your soft wet eyelids - completely still. Scared of your own flesh and its betrayal. "My mind, my body, anything. Just please give me some pills. I can't take it." You whimper pitifully, shaking under his watchful eyes. He's holding onto your cheek, but you feel like he's got you in a suffocating embrace. And then just when you're about to kneel down, he unlocks the door to your cell.

"I've been taking your brain apart for months now." Darcy whispers softly, taking off one of his gloves and letting it drop to the floor. He takes another step towards your cowering form. "Your body, on the other hand, is a white canvas." He tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his burning gaze - and the pain fades away instantly, replaced by raw, intense fear. "I wonder what your insides look like. Surely, they're beatiful."

You feel his lips on your neck, followed by the tip of a knife - a butterfly kiss.

#yandere #male yandere #yancore #male yandere x reader #yandere oneshot #yandere male x reader #yandere x you #yandere oc #yandere oc x reader #yandere warden #yandere prison guard

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feirceangel · 1 year ago

Text

Imagine | Escape (Crocodile)

Imagine breaking Crocodile out of Impel Down.

Warnings: spoilers for Impel Down!!! You’ve been warned.

Word Count: 980

(Not my gif)

"Why are you helping me?"

The question was asked with a tilted head as the boy in the straw hat stared you down.

You just grinned, “Like you, there's someone I'm looking for, and I think he's in here."

"Well, then we'll find him!" Luffy copied your grin, “After we rescue Ace!"

"Of course," you smiled back, "It won't be too hard to break in and out of the impregnable Impel Down."

"That's the spirit!" He laughed, clapping you on the back.

You laughed and raced alongside the young teen.

Confident in your abilities, you rush forwards, uncaring about the possible complications and consequences that could befall you.

The presence of the young teen is a good booster for the spirit. Even when serious, he has that uplifting energy that you admire him for.

It's best to have an ally in this place, you realized that early on. Therefore, you decided to team up with him as soon as you spotted him.

It's not like you were strangers.

Sure, you weren't exactly friends per se, more like acquaintances. Having run into him and his crew a few times, you're familiar enough with him that you're comfortable being allies in such a rough place.

You barely survived the fight against Magellan, Luffy taking the brunt of the damage until you, Luffy, and Bon Clay were ‘Demoned Away’ to Newkama Land.

There, you met the infamous Emporio Ivankov. You’d heard much about him and his followers, so you were honoured to meet him in person.

Albeit, a bit taken aback by his outlandish personality and bizarre followers. He helped Luffy and you, so you were indebted to him.

And now here you are, trying to escape level six and get back out of the prison. It’s a long ways to go and you aren’t thrilled.

You’ve been searching every cell looking for the man you came to find, but have had no luck. Luffy’s had just as much luck as you, seeing as Ace is already on his way to the execution area.

A sinister laugh sounds, deep and rich.

Your ears perk up immediately.

“If you want to escape from here, set me free.”

The voice is deeper than the ocean, smooth as snake skin. You’d recognize it anywhere.

“I can open a hole in the ceiling. So, how about it?”

The sharp clang of shackles rings loudly as the prisoner stands up and walks to the bars of the cell.

“Long time no see, Mugiwara.”

You grin, racing over to the bars, “Crocodile! Here you are!”

His cold eyes meet yours as shock overcomes your companions. Luffy reaches out, clamping a hand on you to drag you back beside him.

“What are you doing, Y/n?! Don’t you know what he did?”

“Hmm, oh well yeah, but we’ve been close for ages!” You reply, slipping from his hold. “I can’t just let my boy rot in here.”

“Your boy?” Ivankov echoes.

Crocodile does not look impressed, “What are you doing here, Y/n?”

“I came to rescue you!”

“He’s who you’re here for?!” Luffy steps towards you, anger in his eyes. “He ruined Vivi’s country!”

“That’s all in the past, I have no interest in that anymore. But a war between the Marines and Whitebeard? That piques my interest,” Crocodile interjects.

“Gonna act like you’re not happy to see me, huh?” You cross your arms, staring at Crocodile.

He ignores you.

“Let’s release him, Mugiwara-boy. He would make an powerful ally,” the King of Newkama says.

“What-?”

“Ivankov,” Crocodile spits out, clearly not happy to see him. You unlock the cell door with a key you snagged earlier, opening it with a flourish and a grin.

“We can’t trust him completely, but I’ve known him since he was a rookie.”

“Really?” You ask, “I bet you have good stories!”

“Don’t say anything,” Crocodile growls.

“Don’t take that tone with me, I have no qualms sharing about your past,” Ivankov smirks.

You raise an eyebrow, “Oh please, I wanna know.”

Crocodile shoots you a glare to which you stick out your tongue.

“It’s only fair after that cold welcome you gave me. Croco-boyyy,” you tease before snatching his hand in yours.

You find the lock on his shackles and slide a different key into it, twisting it deftly. It falls to the ground and you let your hands linger on Crocodile’s skin.

He doesn’t shrug off your touch, but his tense expression doesn’t change.

“I missed you.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says as he flexes his hand. “It’s dangerous.”

“I’m used to danger, silly.”

He huffs in irritation, shooting a glance at the men watching. Luffy still seems to be in shock, while the other two look unaffected.

“Oh, here.”

You dig in your pocket for a second with a toothy grin, “I got you something.”

Smugly, you place a fat cigar into his hand, producing a lighter as well, “You must be cranky cause you had to quit cold-turkey.”

At this, his lips twitch into a soft smile. A smile that he only gave to you, for you alone could make him feel this way.

Not only did you care enough to break him out, but you also thought of the small things.

He places the lit cigar into his mouth, placing his hand on your head to ruffle your hair, “Thank you.”

You lean into his touch, savouring it.

While Luffy and the others discuss their next moves, Crocodile turns you to face him directly. He draws you into a quick hug.

“I missed you too, you know,” he whispers, tightening his hold mindlessly. “But I think you’re an idiot for coming down here.”

You laugh, “Well, we can talk about it more once we’re out of this shithole.”

He nods, focusing on the task at hand: escaping Impel Down with you by his side.

#sir crocodile #female reader #imagine #reader insert #one piece #one piece imagine #one piece reader insert #one piece x reader #op #crocodile x reader #crocodile imagine #sir crocodile x reader #crocodile one piece #one piece oneshots

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monstersdownthepath · 2 months ago

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Homebrew Horror: Galroscul, Nascent Lord of Gluttony and Cannibalism

(Art done by the incredible @crankyteapot!)

First mentioned here, Galroscul is a fierce and powerful fiend who once coveted the throne of King of Demons, wishing to feed from Lamashtu's flesh to achieve his apotheosis... but before Lamashtu even registered his existence as a threat, he was beset by the combined forces of both Zura and Xoveron, who saw him as a challenger to their dominions over consumptive destruction and rampant gluttony. He was powerful, but not so much so that he could overcome such a fierce and coordinated assault from two Demon Lords and their armies, and yet his opponents could not simply kill him or he would rejuvenate and attack them while they were weakened, leaving them all back at square one... so they imprisoned him instead.

On a far-off world under the lock and key of a cadre of hedonistic Zurans and Urgathoans, Galroscul is imprisoned in a great and terrible machine that draws from his demonic power, infusing cuts of meat with fiendishly addictive energy that assures a steady trickle of profits for the meatmongers as customers become unable to stop themselves from buying more. This also serves the purpose of providing tantalizing food for the man-eating demons and undead among their ranks, and all the while the would-be Demon King is slowly being driven insane by the pain of the machine sapping his power and the pain of his empty stomach seeing countless tons of meat pass him by while he has no mouth to eat them.

And yet, wracked with pain and hunger, Galroscul is far more clever than he appears to be, and his fierce desperation will drive him to enact a plan no sane being would ever consider. Able to still wield sparks of his demonic magic even while imprisoned, Galroscul will slowly but surely do the unthinkable, cutting pieces away from his body and shearing his own divine power out of himself bit by bit. Every piece of meat and drop of blood that he cuts away falls onto the procession of meat below, contaminating them with a far more potent form of demonic corruption that his captors intended. Soon after he begins this process, demonic tieflings bearing the features of fiendish boars will start popping up all over the planet as new, bizarre religious groups begin to form around demagogues bearing traces of the Demon Lord's might, contacted in their dreams by the Hunger Sealed in Steel and guided towards the effort to free him.

The statblock below does not represent Galroscul as he was or as he is; in the current time, he is still imprisoned on a far-off world in the torturous meat machine. Despite his imprisonment, his influence still grows in strange parts of the cosmos from both the lingering cultists he possessed when he was vying for the throne of Demon King, and where covert deliveries of demon-tainted meat are served, whether it be the prison world he is held on or another world that his cultists have managed to smuggle products to. As the years tick excruciatingly by, he will cut enough away from himself to slip the machine's shackles and put out a rallying call to all his corrupted sycophants and wicked "children" at once. The factory in which he is held will be destroyed in a single night, after which Galroscul will rampage across this distant world's surface for a hundred days, devouring everything he comes across in both gluttonous fury and rapturous joy at his freedom. For now, though, he simply dreams of the times to come.

Thus, these stats represents Galroscul shortly after his freedom. He is greatly withered both physically and mentally, but this is merely in comparison to his previous power at CR 29, and he still maintains a grip on vast portions of of his old might. As the picture above alludes to, he still has pieces of the imprisoning machine fused to his body. These are now welded to his very essence, and regenerate from damage just as his flesh and bone, serving as eternal reminders of his failure... and reminders to never let it happen again.

Galroscul, the Hunger Sealed in Steel CR 24 Chaotic Evil Huge Outsider (stuff) Init: +8; Senses: Darkvision 120ft, Detect Good, Detect Law, True Seeing, scent (60ft); Perception +35 Aura: Frightful Presence (120ft, DC 29), Unholy Aura (DC 24)

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

AC 40, touch 20, flat-footed 32 (+4 deflection, +8 Dex, +20 natural armor, -2 size) HP 515 (27d10+351); Regeneration 15 (Good) Fort +32 Ref +20 Will +24 Defensive abilities Ferocity, Hog Wild; DR 15/Cold iron and Good; Immune Charm and compulsion effects, death effects, disease, Electricity, poison; Resist Acid 30, Cold 30, Fire 30; SR 34

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

Speed 80ft, burrow 30ft, climb 80ft Melee Bite +45 (2d6+19/19-20 plus grab), 2 claws +37 (1d8+7 plus grab), gore +44 (2d6+19/19-20 plus Dispelling Gore), sting +37 (1d8+7) Space 15ft; Reach 15ft Special Attacks Dispelling Gore, Down in One, Fast Swallow, Gruesome Gullet, Merciless Assault, Overhead Flip (DC 37), Swallow Whole (6d8+22 bludgeoning and piercing plus 5d6 energy plus Consume Essence (DC 29), 30 AC, 51 HP), Spell-like Abilities (CL 20th; Concentration +26)

Constant--Air Walk, Detect Good, Detect Law, Greater Magic Fang (bite, gore), Unholy Aura (DC 24) At-Will-- Dragon's Breath (any option) (DC 20), Greater Dispel Magic, Greater Teleport (self plus 50lbs only), Hunger for Flesh (DC 20), Slow (DC 19) Telekinesis (DC 21) 3/day--Bountiful Banquet, Dimensional Anchor, Hungry Pit (DC 21), Mass Reduce Person (DC 20) 1/day--Delectable Flesh (DC 22), Dimensional Lock, Freedom of Movement, Time Stop

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

Str 39 Dex 26 Con 37 Int 22 Wis 20 Cha 23 Base Atk: +27; CMB +43 (+4 grapple); CMD 61 (+4 vs grapple)

Feats Cleave, Cleaving Finish, Combat Reflexes (B), Consume Essence, Dazzling Display, Dramatic Slam, Great Cleave, Greater Grapple, Improved Grapple (B), Improved Unarmed Strike (B), Intimidating Prowess, Multiattack, Overhead Flip, Power Attack, Savage Leap, Savage Slam, Weapon Focus (Bite)

Skills Bluff +29, Climb +42, Diplomacy +26, Disable Device +28, Escape Artist +38, Intimidate +50, Knowledge (Arcana) +16, Knowledge (Dungeoneering) +16, Knowledge (Engineering) +20, Knowledge (Nature) +16, Knowledge (Planes) +19, Knowledge (Religion) +16, Linguistics +12, Perception +35, Profession (Chef) +23, Sense Motive +28, Spellcraft +16, Survival +25, Swim +23, Use Magic Device +29

Languages Abyssal, Aklo, Celestial, Common, Draconic, Giant, Goblin, Gnoll, Necril, Orcish, Polyglot, Terran, Undercommon; Telepathy 300ft

SQ Nascent Demon Lord traits

------ Ecology ------ Environment Any Organization Unique Treasure Triple ------

Combat: From afar, Galroscul will buffet his foes with Slow and Dragon's Breath to soften them up, Hunger for Flesh and Delectable Flesh, to disrupt their ability to cooperate, and will set up Hungry Pits for future maneuvers. Against Outsiders or creatures whom he has seen use teleportation magic, he focuses his Dimensional Anchor and Lock to prevent them from fleeing. Against humanoids, he will prioritize Mass Reduce Person to shrink them down, allowing him to swiftly devour them with Down in One. After a very short setup, he rushes into combat and focuses his gore attacks on enemies with numerous magic effects on them to rip them asunder. Once in melee, he is not an especially complex creature: He seeks to devour as many enemies as he can at once, utilizing Great Cleave, Cleaving Finish, and Down in One to do so. Against meals that refuse to go down easily, he will utilize his Savage Slam feat line to pulverize his target (or hurl them into Hungry Pits) while Dramatic Slam allows him to continue terrorizing the rest of their allies.

Morale: Galroscul's morale is a fickle thing. His loss of power leaves him vulnerable to death, something he fears immensely while his cult is fractured and weak, but he gets lost in the thrill of combat and the taste of blood to the point he often does not realize how hurt he has become until he reaches a specific hitpoint threshold which forces him to go Hog Wild. Once Hog Wild, his frenzied state sees him acting like a desperate predator alternating wildly between fight and flight depending on how often his attacks connect with their intended targets and how many of his enemies are still standing. Because Hog Wild prevents him from teleporting away, he will fight to the death if he cannot instantly spot an escape route.

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

Dispelling Gore (Su/Sp): The runes carved across Galroscul's tusks grants his bite and gore incredible power while having a ruinous effect on all other magic. Each time he strikes a creature with his gore attack, that creature is affected by a targeted Dispel Magic. If he confirms a critical hit with his gore, the creature is affected by a targeted Greater Dispel Magic instead.

Down In One (Ex): Galroscul's jaws can briefly unhinge to quickly snap down morsels before they can even react. Once per round when reducing a creature of any size to 0 HP with his bite attack OR when confirming a critical hit against a Small or smaller creature or object with his bite attack, he may immediately swallow that creature whole without needing to make any grapple checks.

Gruesome Gullet (Ex): While his crushing and gnawing innards are usually enough to kill most foes, Galroscul has numerous stomachs he can move meals into, each capable of digesting a wide variety of material. Creatures swallowed by Galroscul take an additional 5d8 points of Acid, Cold, Fire, or Electricity each round, chosen by him; he can divide the damage types as he desires between each swallowed creature by shunting each of them into different stomachs as a free action once per round. His multitude of stomachs allow him to continue swallowing victims even after some have previously cut their way out, and their reinforced tissues benefit from his full natural AC bonus, rather than half.

Hog Wild (Ex): Galroscul has been defeated once before, and refuses to ever lose again for fear of going through the same tortures. If he begins his turn below 150 HP, as a free action he enters a frenzied state in which he cannot use any of his spell-like abilities, but he gains the Dual Initiative extraordinary ability, with his second turn immediately added to the current initiative order. When he goes Hog Wild, all creatures within 300ft must immediately save against his Frightful Presence with a -4 penalty to the saving throw, even if they had succeeded the save previously that day. While going Hog Wild, Galroscul is immune to the staggered, fatigued, and exhausted conditions, and cannot be put to sleep through any means. He remains Hog Wild for 1 minute or until the current combat ends, whichever comes first, and cannot go Hog Wild again until 24 hours pass.

Merciless Assault (Ex): Once per round, if a creature within Galroscul's reach is knocked prone or becomes shaken, frightened, or panicked, he may make an attack of opportunity against that creature. In addition, when damaging a creature with his Savage Slam feat, the damage dealt is instead equal to the natural attack he established the initial grapple with.

Nascent Demon Lord Traits: Galroscul has lost enough of his power to have been reduced to a Nascent Lord instead of a full one, and as such he has the following traits:

Immunity to charm and compulsion effects, death effects, Electricity, and poison.

Resistance to Acid 30, Cold 30, and Fire 30.

Summon (Sp): Once per day, Galroscul can summon any demon or combination of demons whose total combined CR is 20 or lower. This ability always works, and is equivalent to a 9th-level spell.

Telepathy 300 feet.

Galroscul's natural weapons, as well as any weapon he wields, are treated as Chaotic, Epic, and Evil for the purpose of overcoming damage reduction.

Galroscul can grant spells to his worshipers, which requires no actions on his part. He grants access to the domains of Animal, Chaos, Destruction, and Evil, with the subdomains Fur, Demon, Rage, and Cannibalism. His favored 'weapon' is bite attacks.

#pathfinder #Homebrew Horror #original concepts

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chaniceroses · 7 months ago

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Bad Boys Ride Or Die: (Armando x Reader) PART THREE

After a hectic day yesterday. You, Mike and Marcus spent the rest of the day making phone calls and writing down names of those who were close to Captain Howard. You are currently in your living room, you followed suit with not going into work with Mike and Marcus since you knew that the whole precinct was pretty much against Howard.

You found yourself looking at a picture of you, Howard and the boys at a summer basketball game of one of his family members. Life had seemed to be so easier to you then, besides the fact that once you had left he was later shot and killed.

“We have your back Captain.”, you whispered looking at the photo. Before you could finish your thoughts you were interrupted by your phone ringing. It was Mike.

“Hey, what’s up.”, you asked, grabbing your purse and looking around for your keys.

“We’re getting ready to head over to the prison, we can come pick you up.”

“No, I’ll meet you there. Heading out now.”, you replied, spotting your keys on the counter.

“Okay.”

You and Mike’s conversation ended. Short and quick, that is how you like it. You’re not much of a talkative person, unless it's something interesting. You went to grab your keys when you noticed once again that your window was slightly up. It kind of gave you the chills but you didn’t know why. You turned around and took a quick glance of your house, scanning the corners and the dark areas. You felt something but also nothing at all.

“I always come by this window, I probably forgot to pull it back down.”, you muttered, shutting it and locking it. You left your home with an odd feeling in your stomach. You weren't sure if it was because you're about to meet Captain Howard’s murderer or the fact that every time you enter your living room, your window is always up.

As you walked to your car, you were stopped by a little kid riding his bike into your driveway. It was the little boy that lives down the street from you, he always comes over to spend time with you when you are home.

“How can I help you?”, you asked, setting your bag on top of your car and walking up to him.

“Why are you coming home late all the time?”, he asked with the softest voice you’ve ever heard. You had a thing for children, well the adorable soft spoken ones. The badass ones you couldn’t stand, you felt that they are demons in children's skin.

“Remember the fake badge I gave you. I’m a police officer, that will happen.”, you smiled, kneeling down to his level.

“Yeah but multiple times a night?”he asked, tilting his head. You could tell that he was genuinely confused, which made you lost also.

“What do you mean?”, you questioned standing up to brush your pants.

“I see you come home late, sorry for spying. I'm just so worried. I watch tv and I see what happens.”, he replied, lowering his head. You could tell that he was sad but also genuine. You lifted his head and stared at him into his eyes. His thick glasses made his eyes way bigger than they are and younger than he looked.

“You have nothing to worry about, okay, lady bug. Once I'm free, we can hangout. I know that your grandparents wouldn’t mind.”, you smiled. Lady Bug is the nickname that you gave him. You never learned his actual real name but because he stays in your yard to catch them, you decided to start calling him that.

“Okay.”, he smiled, pulling out of your driveway and riding away. You watched as his training wheels wobbled. He had to be around five or six. However, you never thought to ask.

You grabbed your bag off the top of your car and got inside. You weren’t the type to listen to music while driving, especially during stressful times. You felt the need to drive in silence so you can collect your thoughts and create a plan. Just in case Marcus and Mike don’t have one, which you know that they never do.

It makes you nervous and nauseous, which means what’s happening right now may become worse. Your body never lies, so believe what it is trying to tell you.

The drive over to the prison took a while but eventually you made it. You pulled up to see Mike and Marcus waiting on you near the entrance. The prison was huge, which means those who were in there had to do some pretty horrible things. After parking next to Mike’s car and walking up to them, you could see the hesitant expression across Mike’s face.

“You ready?”you asked, patting him on his back. He looked at you and replied with a “yes” by shaking his head. It was hot outside with a slight cool breeze, however with the sun beaming onto the three of you backs. You were ready to go in with or without him. The walk inside was long. Alarms were going off left and right, which means something just went down. The three of you were met by the security guards.

“Armando Armas.”, Mike said, lifting up his badge. The guard shifted his eyes towards you and Marcus which made you reply by showing yours.

“Follow Me.”, the guard waved, leading you three towards a dark hallway.

The hallway was long, wet and warm. Each door had a small hole that allowed the prisoners to take a peek. Which led you to being cat-called by all types of men: sticking their tongues out, making sexual gestures and cussing at you.

“Ignore them, they’re animals.”, Marcus laughed, turning his head to look at you.

“Oh trust, they’re not bothering me at all.”, you whispered looking at each door that you passed.

After what felt like forever, you Mike and Marcus finally made it to the door at the end of the hallway. Walking in to see several cages inside the room, with a person inside of them. You followed Marcus and Mike as they walked up to a specific cage in the center of the area, in front of a guard’s desk.

“We need your help.”, Mike whispered looking at the guy inside of the cage.

“This must be Armando.”, you thought to yourself. No response, he just looked at Mike with a smirk on his face.An annoyed one at that. You examined as sweat dripped across his forehead and exposed chest. Which allowed his body to glisten.

“What could I possibly help you with?”he asked, annoyingly shifting his eyes from Mike to Marcus. You watched how he was holding on to the poles, revealing the bruises that were on his knuckles. Was he the reason why the alarms were going off earlier?

“I know that you have connections with the Cartel. You were with them.”, Mike continued stepping closer to him, which allowed you to be in Armando’s line of vision.

You slightly shifted your head towards the guard at the desk, to notice him looking at you guys. He was listening but for what reason?

“She’s with you?”he asked, tilting his head slightly to the side. You quickly turned around to see him looking at you. He was studying your body with his eyes, shifting the conversation. Which wasn’t needed.

“Look, we can help you if you help us.”, you replied, taking a small step towards the cage.

“I wouldn’t do that if I was you, I bite. I’m an “animal” remember.”, he smirked, stroking the beard that was on his face. You felt your breath hitched, which made you reply with silence. He caught on.

“Now how the hell did he hear that.”, Marcus answered in shock looking at you and then back to him.

“I hear everything, I know everything.”, he replied, keeping his eyes on you.

Marcus was right, you could tell just by the way he is acting that he has a big ass ego just like Mike. You hate guys with egos.

“Plus, what are you? A lawyer?”, he continued walking to the back of the cage, keeping his back towards you.

“No. I’m a-”

“She’s our partner.”Marcus interrupted, looking at you. You watched as Mike shook his head in agreement. It made you feel good.

“Okay well…what does any of this have to do with me?”

“I thought you “hear everything…know everything”, Marcus mocked.

“Do you need my help or not?”, he said, turning around to sit down.

“We do. Howard is being framed by some heavy people, but we have no clue who.”, Mike explained walking up to the cage.

“We know that you know the Cartel very well, since you were in it. We know that you can help us prove Howard’s innocence.”, Marcus answered, following Mike.

You felt that maybe you should say something but you allowed it to be between them three. You watched as he stared at Marcus and Mike as if he had fallen deep into his thoughts.

“You want me, the person who killed your friend. To help you guys prove that he is innocent.”, he replied, looking around as if he was trying to find an answer.

“I can do that…but what about me?”, he continued. Now he’s looking at you. Hard. His eyes are dark brown and is searching for an answer. He’s leaning his back against the cage with his hips shifted forward, allowing you to not only see the slight abs that he has while sweat drips down it but the print that is trying to make an appearance. You didn’t respond, you didn’t break eye-contact. You just stared at him because you love to challenge men. Especially the dangerous ones.

“There’s not much I can do for now but I can work on shortening your sentence and having you transported and then afterwards we will see.”, Mike answered, looking at Armando for an answer.

“I can help but you have to be ready, shit may go down.”, he replied, his breathing picking up speed. You can tell that he didn’t want to do it, you could see it all over his body. He never once took his eyes off of you, even after answering.

“Well we got our answer.”, you waved off , breaking the staring-contest that was happening between you and Armando.

“You will hear from us when we-”

“Her.”, he interrupted, pointing right at you. “I want to hear from her, and she will be on the bus when they take me to be transported.”, he demanded.

“Okay.”, you replied, shrugging your shoulders. You watched as Mike and Marcus quickly turned to you in disagreement.

“Hello no, y/n. Not by yourself.”, Marcus argued, shaking his head. “This man is dangerous.”

“So, I’ll be cuffed on the bus.”, he debated, getting up and walking towards the front of the bars.

“Look, we do what we have to do and whatever will work.”, you answered looking at Marcus then at Mike.

“Plus, nothing will go down. Unless she of course wants something too…I wouldn’t mind.”, he smiled, lifting up his hands.

“She’ll be by herself on the bus, we will meet her at the plane and we ALL will be there while he’s being transported. Together.”Mike confirmed looking at you and then at Marcus and Armando.

You watched as Marcus shook his head and Armando smirked in response.

“Why does he want me to ride with him?”, you thought.

You watched as Mike's phone went off and stood there looking at him while he answered. It was a short conversation because it led with Mike pulling you and Marcus to the side afterwards.

“Dorn and Kelly have something for us to watch. We need to go meet with them.”, He replied looking around and then looking back at you and Marcus.

“Well let's go.”, Marcus said heading towards the door.

“Be ready. Y/n and some people will be here to pick you up, once I get everything set up.”, Mike said, looking back at Armando.

“Can’t wait…”, he replied sarcastically, leaning his head against the bars.

You stared at him for a split second and then headed towards the door when you heard Armando call your name.

“What?”, you asked, turning your head slightly enough to where he can see that he has your attention.

“Don’t be late.”, he flirted. You watched as the red light beamed over him, allowing different silhouettes to occur. You knew that he would have a huge ego but you didn’t know that his looks and personality would match up to it. Mike left his hand out to you, to allow you to walk out the door first while Marcus held it.

You could hear the door locking behind you and the catcalling starting up again as you walked down the hallway.

“Y/n we don’t know Armando that well so try to be careful on the bus.”, Marcus suggested looking at you.

“Most definitely.”, you replied, rubbing your hands across your face. You were now second-guessing the decision that you made, even though you felt that it would be best. Armando wasn’t just some normal guy or killer, he was something serious and far more dangerous than the average ones.

His looks and his personality didn’t help. You thanked God that you’ve been in the game for a long time because if you were freshly new, he would’ve had you the moment you walked in, especially with his accent and the way he carried himself. His energy is strong.

“I know that he’s not just a regular killer because he damn near killed you guys…If we're going to be honest here. However, I know what I am doing.” you added.

“Well we trust you because Captain did and we trusted Captain. So let's go see what this video is about.”Mike responded.

You guys made it out of the prison and left. The whole time while you were on the road, you kept thinking about him. The way he looked at you, it wasn't the “undressing you with my eyes”kind of look… It was a different kind of stare, you just didn’t know exactly what. He's on your mind and so is his voice.

“This should be interesting.”, you sighed while being consumed by silence.

#bad boys ride or die armando #bad boys ride or die #bad boys armando #bad boys #armando x reader #armando armas #jacob scipio #x reader

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