#mercy-loves-carnage

[simplegenius042]

OC/s as Greek Deitiey/s, Flower Aesthetics and "How Does My OC's Story End?" Quiz

Tagged by @raresbaby and @josephseedismyfather

Tagging Tagging @voidika @icecutioner @inafieldofdaisies @socially-awkward-skeleton @derelictheretic @shallow-gravy @direwombat @strangefable @strafethesesinners @rhettsabbott @josephslittledeputy @imogenkol @cloudofbutterflies92 @skoll-sun-eater @cassietrn @carlosoliveiraa @adelaidedrubman @g0dspeeed @wrathfulrook @afarcryfrommymain @aceghosts @turbo-virgins @shellibisshe @deputy-morgan-malone @softtidesworld @starsandskies @ladyoriza @la-grosse-patate @florbelles @sleepyconfusedpotato @titiagls @minilev @yokobai @thewanderer-000 @omen-speaker @justasmolbard @alypink and @thesingularityseries + anyone else who wants to join. Taglist here.

Three OCs for each one of these, all coming from The UnTitledverse, The Silver Chronicles, Life, Despair & Monsters, An Old Ballad Of Chance And Ember Hearts and A Radioactive Calamity Of Love, Bombs & Gore. You can find the Quiz Here. Continue below the cut:

For the "OCs as Deities" I included OCs from The UnTitledverse, The Silver Chronicles and An Old Ballad Of Chance And Ember Hearts. Rule and stuff below:

bold = applies, italics = somewhat applies, strike = does not apply

ARCHIBALD THANATOS (THE UNTITLEDVERSE [THE OMNISCIENT RULE SAGA])

EROS: • scornful jealousy • pink • presents a certain decorum • heavy air in a nightclub (less so than his brother, Osmund Thanatos) • has a tattoo they regret (and he was born with it) • sex & love therapist for their friends (less so than his niece, Willow Thanatos) • juvenescent • uses enchantments • aloof • wears rose-coloured glasses • velvet, latex, & lingerie• milk baths with champagne bubbles • impetuous in love • intense eye contact is a sport • kinky • soft lips • wears stacked rings • sets fashion trends • graceful movements • marble floors • heavy perfume or cologne • deeply emotional • born glamorous •

HECATE: • prefers canine companions • wears symbolic jewelry • can see spirits • melting wax • uses hexes • feels most comfortable at night • smell of cinnamon • moonlight • red wine • understands poisons & herbs • collects bones or feathers • partakes in rituals • black • fog at night • is aware of their shadow self • embraces the unknown • enjoys collecting secrets • approves of necromancy (he's the current Head Patriarch in the House of Thanatos, he hates this shit) • meditates • has prophetic dreams • lace • knowing too many secrets • fishnet stockings •

PAN: • enjoys poetry & prose • wool • smell of decaying leaves in autumn • prefers to be barefoot • tends to overindulge • easily excitable • thriving in social circles (as one of the few Old God Houses left, by process of circumstantial elimination he is, but he doesn't necessarily enjoy being involved in the politics itself) • loves being around campfire • antlers • dirt paths • the sound of wind chimes • penchant for sticky fingers • pine trees • stamina for days • falls in lust • vagabond • physically stronger than given credit for • foxglove • welcomes luxury • non-confrontational • charming words • talking to animals • nature for jewelry •

NEMESIS: • angry • protective of their values • balance & harmony (key to being an (Old) God of Death) • looks like an angel but isn’t • more perceptive than people realize • snow capped mountains • grey • wears leather • silver jewelry • likes snakes • can’t stand ignorance • believes in retribution • analytical of own emotions • well read • marble columns • has very rigid morals • bruised knuckles • humorous under the sarcasm • clean workspace • everything in moderation • cold morning air • resting glare face • fluent in curse words •

HYPNOS: • very calm demeanor • easily overwhelmed • relaxing is their vice • transactional friendships • has a soft voice • head in the clouds • carries drugs with them • has a sibling they’re close with • drawn to winged animals • lavender • has plush furniture/blankets • starry eyed • horrible money management • gives amazing hugs • dreaming big as a full time job • wears comfy or loose clothes • existential questions (appropriate for the current God of Death) • not good at memory based skills • fairy lights • can’t sleep somewhere unfamiliar • crystalline chandeliers • dislikes bright sun • fluttering eyelashes •

IRIS: • life’s a technicolor spectrum • has a lot to say • beaming smiles • always has candy with them • flirting by accident • walking to the beat of their own drum • gossamer curtains • has a surprising amount of connections • blushes very easily • confident laughter • uses a staff • fresh fruit slices • decorated handwritten letters • a social chameleon • blood made of honey • treating people with kindness • sentimental heart • vases full of wildflowers •feels fulfilled when helping others • has a healing aura • always traveling • stained glass windows • just trying to be a good person •

PHILLIP (THE SILVER CHRONICLES AU [FAR CRY 5, FAR CRY NEW DAWN])

EROS: • scornful jealousy • pink • presents a certain decorum • heavy air in a nightclub • has a tattoo they regret • sex & love therapist for their friends • juvenescent • uses enchantments • aloof • wears rose-coloured glasses • velvet, latex, & lingerie• milk baths with champagne bubbles • impetuous in love • intense eye contact is a sport • kinky • soft lips • wears stacked rings • sets fashion trends • graceful movements • marble floors • heavy perfume or cologne • deeply emotional • born glamorous •

HECATE: • prefers canine companions • wears symbolic jewelry • can see spirits • melting wax • uses hexes • feels most comfortable at night • smell of cinnamon • moonlight • red wine • understands poisons & herbs • collects bones or feathers • partakes in rituals • black • fog at night • is aware of their shadow self • embraces the unknown (more than the Voice does at least) • enjoys collecting secrets • approves of necromancy • meditates • has prophetic dreams • lace • knowing too many secrets • fishnet stockings •

PAN: • enjoys poetry & prose • wool • smell of decaying leaves in autumn • prefers to be barefoot • tends to overindulge • easily excitable • thriving in social circles • loves being around campfire • antlers • dirt paths • the sound of wind chimes • penchant for sticky fingers • pine trees • stamina for days • falls in lust • vagabond • physically stronger than given credit for • foxglove • welcomes luxury • non-confrontational • charming words • talking to animals • nature for jewelry •

NEMESIS: • angry • protective of their values • balance & harmony • looks like an angel but isn’t (he's a New God but yeah Phillip isn't as all-knowing and selfless as he should be) • more perceptive than people realize • snow capped mountains • grey • wears leather • silver jewelry • likes snakes • can’t stand ignorance (but ignores the fact he's ignorant himself) • believes in retribution • analytical of own emotions • well read • marble columns • has very rigid morals • bruised knuckles • humorous under the sarcasm • clean workspace • everything in moderation • cold morning air • resting glare face • fluent in curse words •

HYPNOS: • very calm demeanor • easily overwhelmed • relaxing is their vice • transactional friendships • has a soft voice • head in the clouds • carries drugs with them • has a sibling they’re close with • drawn to winged animals • lavender • has plush furniture/blankets • starry eyed • horrible money management • gives amazing hugs • dreaming big as a full time job • wears comfy or loose clothes • existential questions (appropriate for a New God) • not good at memory based skills • fairy lights • can’t sleep somewhere unfamiliar • crystalline chandeliers • dislikes bright sun • fluttering eyelashes •

IRIS: • life’s a technicolor spectrum • has a lot to say • beaming smiles • always has candy with them • flirting by accident • walking to the beat of their own drum • gossamer curtains • has a surprising amount of connections • blushes very easily • confident laughter • uses a staff • fresh fruit slices • decorated handwritten letters • a social chameleon • blood made of honey • treating people with kindness • sentimental heart • vases full of wildflowers •feels fulfilled when helping others • has a healing aura • always traveling • stained glass windows • just trying to be a good person (in the wrong way possible)•

DISCORD, THE MAD KIN OF CARNAGE (AN OLD BALLAD OF CHANCE AND EMBER HEARTS TRILOGY)

EROS: • scornful jealousy • pink • presents a certain decorum • heavy air in a nightclub • has a tattoo they regret • sex & love therapist for their friends • juvenescent • uses enchantments • aloof • wears rose-coloured glasses • velvet, latex, & lingerie• milk baths with champagne bubbles • impetuous in love • intense eye contact is a sport • kinky • soft lips • wears stacked rings • sets fashion trends • graceful movements • marble floors • heavy perfume or cologne • deeply emotional • born glamorous •

HECATE: • prefers canine companions • wears symbolic jewelry • can see spirits • melting wax • uses hexes • feels most comfortable at night • smell of cinnamon • moonlight • red wine • understands poisons & herbs • collects bones or feathers • partakes in rituals • black • fog at night • is aware of their shadow self • embraces the unknown • enjoys collecting secrets • approves of necromancy • meditates • has prophetic dreams • lace • knowing too many secrets • fishnet stockings •

PAN: • enjoys poetry & prose • wool • smell of decaying leaves in autumn • prefers to be barefoot • tends to overindulge • easily excitable • thriving in social circles • loves being around campfire • antlers • dirt paths • the sound of wind chimes • penchant for sticky fingers • pine trees • stamina for days • falls in lust • vagabond • physically stronger than given credit for • foxglove • welcomes luxury • non-confrontational • charming words • talking to animals • nature for jewelry •

NEMESIS: • angry • protective of their values • balance & harmony • looks like an angel but isn’t • more perceptive than people realize • snow capped mountains • grey • wears leather • silver jewelry • likes snakes • can’t stand ignorance • believes in retribution • analytical of own emotions • well read • marble columns • has very rigid morals • bruised knuckles • humorous under the sarcasm • clean workspace • everything in moderation • cold morning air • resting glare face • fluent in curse words •

HYPNOS: • very calm demeanor • easily overwhelmed • relaxing is their vice • transactional friendships • has a soft voice • head in the clouds • carries drugs with them • has a sibling they’re close with • drawn to winged animals • lavender • has plush furniture/blankets • starry eyed • horrible money management • gives amazing hugs (these hugs kill) • dreaming big as a full time job • wears comfy or loose clothes • existential questions • not good at memory based skills • fairy lights • can’t sleep somewhere unfamiliar • crystalline chandeliers • dislikes bright sun • fluttering eyelashes •

IRIS: • life’s a technicolor spectrum • has a lot to say • beaming smiles • always has candy with them • flirting by accident • walking to the beat of their own drum • gossamer curtains • has a surprising amount of connections • blushes very easily • confident laughter • uses a staff • fresh fruit slices • decorated handwritten letters • a social chameleon • blood made of honey • treating people with kindness • sentimental heart • vases full of wildflowers •feels fulfilled when helping others • has a healing aura (quite the opposite actually) • always traveling • stained glass windows • just trying to be a good person •

For OCs as Flower Aesthetics I chose OCs from The Silver Chronicles, Life, Despair & Monsters and A Radioactive Calamity Of Love, Bombs & Gore. Rules and stuff below:

Rules: bold what applies to your oc. italics if somewhat applies.

MERCY OMAR-SEED (THE SILVER CHRONICLES [FAR CRY NEW DAWN] ❀ Daisy: Wears their heart on their sleeve. Soft voice. Minimalistic clothing. Laying in a field of tall grass. Walking barefoot. Puts other people’s happiness above their own.

✿ Bellflower: Very consistent friend. Happy face with sad eyes. Careful touches. Hiding a blush. Light giggles. Makes friends easily. Knows how to make you smile.

❀ Bleeding Heart: Hopeless romantic. Still laughs at dirty jokes (tries to hide it). Believes they can change the world. Caring looks. Dyed hair. Kisses on the cheek.

❀ Protea: Proud. Big gestures. African heritage. Blushes easily. Tries to look tough but is really just a big softie. Content where they are. Doesn’t love easily, but always deeply (nah loves easily and very deeply).

✿ Moonflower: Knowing smiles. Doesn’t open up easily (just like her mothers). Late night. Tired eyes. Soft skin. Not as innocent as they seem (having Azriel as an older sister doesn't really give a chance for this). Loose clothing.

✿ Sunflower: Big smiles. Always looking for the positive (desperately, especially for Silva). Lots of friends. Warm afternoons. Basking in the sun. Stares off into space a lot. Sitting in comfortable silence.

❀ Dandelion: Wishing for the impossible. Shooting stars. Light breezes through their hair. White clothing. Whispered secrets. Far off looks. Kind eyes.

RICO (LIFE, DESPAIR & MONSTERS)

❀ Daisy: Wears their heart on their sleeve. Soft voice. Minimalistic clothing. Laying in a field of tall grass. Walking barefoot.Puts other people’s happiness above their own.

✿ Bellflower: Very consistent friend (Johnny got lucky). Happy face with sad eyes. Careful touches. Hiding a blush. Light giggles. Makes friends easily. Knows how to make you smile.

❀ Bleeding Heart: Hopeless romantic. Still laughs at dirty jokes. Believes they can change the world. Caring looks. Dyed hair. Kisses on the cheek.

❀ Protea: Proud. Big gestures. African heritage. Blushes easily. Tries to look tough but is really just a big softie. Content where they are (who the fuck wants to be in Night City?). Doesn’t love easily, but always deeply (V and Sydney are his favorites and misses Johnny).

✿ Moonflower: Knowing smiles. Doesn’t open up easily. Late night. Tired eyes. Soft skin. Not as innocent as they seem. Loose clothing.

✿ Sunflower: Big smiles. Always looking for the positive. Lots of friends. Warm afternoons. Basking in the sun. Stares off into space a lot. Sitting in comfortable silence.

❀ Dandelion: Wishing for the impossible. Shooting stars. Light breezes through their hair. White clothing. Whispered secrets. Far off looks. Kind eyes.

FINIDY MONA (A RADIOACTIVE CALAMITY OF LOVE, BOMBS & GORE [FALLOUT 2])

❀ Daisy: Wears their heart on their sleeve. Soft voice. Minimalistic clothing. Laying in a field of tall grass. Walking barefoot.Puts other people’s happiness above their own.

✿ Bellflower: Very consistent friend. Happy face with sad eyes. Careful touches. Hiding a blush. Light giggles. Makes friends easily. Knows how to make you smile.

❀ Bleeding Heart: Hopeless romantic. Still laughs at dirty jokes. Believes they can change the world. Caring looks. Dyed hair. Kisses on the cheek.

❀ Protea: Proud. Big gestures. African heritage. Blushes easily. Tries to look tough but is really just a big softie. Content where they are. Doesn’t love easily, but always deeply.

✿ Moonflower: Knowing smiles. Doesn’t open up easily. Late night. Tired eyes. Soft skin. Not as innocent as they seem. Loose clothing.

✿ Sunflower: Big smiles. Always looking for the positive. Lots of friends. Warm afternoons. Basking in the sun. Stares off into space a lot. Sitting in comfortable silence.

❀ Dandelion: Wishing for the impossible. Shooting stars. Light breezes through their hair. White clothing. Whispered secrets. Far off looks. Kind eyes.

Here are results for the "How does your OCs story end?" Quiz for OCs from The UnTitledverse, The Silver Chronicles and Life, Despair & Monsters. Results below:

JOAQUIN COBALT (THE UNTITLEDVERSE)

In The Perfect Storm and The Omniscient Rule sagas, sure (and even then those aren't at the end of his story), but other than those Joaquin's story doesn't end with betrayal, rather on a lighter note.

SILVA OMAR (THE SILVER CHRONICLES [FAR CRY 5, FAR CRY NEW DAWN])

No. After everything Silva goes through, that'd be too cruel. I've got plenty of other characters for that. Closest thing this relates to Silva is "questions unanswered" and "desires unfulfilled"; Silva doesn't get satisfying answers after the Collapse and the tragedies she experienced prior, and she mourns the normalcy she only got to live for such a sparse time before tragedy, the Apostles, Eden's Gate, the Congregation and the Collapse denied her that chance. But she does get a rather good ending, a happiness she deserves.

HAOYU ANABUKI (LIFE, DESPAIR & MONSTERS)

Haoyu's fate in the last installment of Life, Despair & Monsters is left ambiguous and up for interpretation and never answered, just like everyone else who remained with them. However, Haoyu is not left alone in the dire situation they had no choice but to run in to, nor do they plead or cry, just accept whatever result comes next (though begrudgingly given Haoyu does just want to live).

[rawrsatthetree]

Love when people are like “nooo you can still be good if you romance Astarion!! You don’t have to be an evil monster!! Just a chaotic bean UwU”

Sweetheart I installed a mod to let me murder children in Skyrim. We are not the same.

[midnight-the-pony]

Working on a worldbuilding project for someone like me is an absolute nightmare because the "writer" side of me wants to get all the information written out so it's set in stone and there for myself and everyone else to see, but the artist side of me wants to get art done for things before I write about them so there's visual reference, but the neurodivergent part of me wants to do things in chunks and write lists and organise everything before I start writing and drawing in case I forget

DO I realistically need drawings of every character and symbols for every faction and references for every species before I can do anything? No. Is that going to stop me from crunching down on 300+ chibi heads and rarely anything else until they're done? No

[ragsy]

MOTW NPC Rach Lombardi, Mark's toxic ex who got ripped to shreds by dogman and then whose revenant ghost latched onto someone else who was on their own dogman revenge quest (player character Tatara)

she's fun.

[haveyouseenthisskeleton]

Exhausted, Papyrus fell on his knees in the dust. It was covering everything in the room, from the floor to the ceiling. The main door was gone, like most of the windows. Thankfully, no monster tried to enter the balcony, too high. Papyrus crawled to pick up the door, still in one piece by some miracle, and put it in its place. The hinges were gone with a part of the wall, but he forced it to hold by nailing it with some planks that held the windows closed and was now on the floor.

He picked up his phone, hidden deep in his armor. His hands were still shaking with the adrenaline. Sans left about twenty messages, asking if he was fine, then warning him Frisk was gone, then asking him again if he was alright, more and more distressed as the hours went by.

Papyrus simply sent: "Alive. Frisk here." before walking to the kitchen to make sure the child was fine. Several bullets ricocheted against the closet door, but it faced the brunt efficiently. He cleared the chairs out of the way and opened the door, maybe too brutally.

Frisk screamed out of terror and threw themselves in the back of the cabinet. They curled up on themselves, hands on the head, sobbing uncontrollably. They were shaking as well.

Papyrus flinched. He saw himself at five years old, in the same position, as Sans was screaming and fighting for their lives in the living room. This was not a world to grow up. No child should ever be born in this hellish place. Bitter, he felt his soul squeezed painfully. It was his fault. He should have brought the child back to the Ruins. Frisk shouldn't have assisted to any of this.

The skeleton kneeled at their level. He never had been really talented to comfort people.

"Frisk? It's over, they're gone. You can come out."

He leaned a hand towards the human. Frisk kicked it away and tried to get as far as they could from him in the closet. Papyrus tried to stay neutral, but his face betrayed for a few seconds how much it hurt him. He didn't want Frisk to be scared of him. Not after everything they went through to protect them.

The skeleton looked around for a second and noticed a hole in the closet door. Small, but enough for a child to witness everything that happened outside. Frisk saw him slaughter attackers and end monsters on the floor without mercy. Papyrus felt guilty. He gave the child some space and sat in front of the closet, unsure what to do.

No Weakness, Chapter 3.

_______________________________________

Hello, hello!

I commissioned this masterpiece to @seirindono, a French (yeah, team French!) illustrator who works on a multi AU universe called The Missing Scarf, which is a banger. Really cool comic with lots of great characters that you really want to read. Go read it!

I wasn't sure on which fic I wanted a drawing at first, but since we already got one for Horrortale: Rotten Apple (thanks again Zeragii, love you), why not No Weakness?

It's a post-pacific Underfell fic where instead of breaking the Barrier, Sans refused Frisk to fight Asgore and brought them back in safety to Toriel. Now Papyrus, Undyne, Alphys, Mettaton, Toriel and Sans are hiding the child away, trying not to get killed.

The story however is about Undyne and Papyrus' friendship. After Papyrus surprises Undyne kissing Asgore, he is promoted to general of the Royal Guard. Except Papyrus knows something is really wrong here, since that role was obviously supposed to Undyne's. But the more he tries to understand, the more people try to dissuade him from learning more. All the hints lead to Asgore, but how to reach the monarch without getting himself killed, and by extension, those he cares the most about? Between his duty and his friendship, Papyrus will have to make a choice.

I asked for one of my favorite parts ever, which is the moment Frisk realizes how things really work in Underfell, after witnessing Papyrus committing carnage right after he got promoted to General. It's tradition :D

Anyway, if you want to read the story, it's right here. I'm on summer break right now, but new chapters are coming soon!

Thanks again to Seirindono for their amazing work, I love it so much <3 Really great artist, don't hesitate to commission them! They're really nice and pays great attention to details. It was really cool collaborating with you <3

Go send them some love!

[connorsui]

A Thousand Years of Silence|| R. Sukuna

♡ After years of separation, Sukuna is stunned by the reincarnation of his lost love, grappling with overwhelming emotions as he watches her, unaware of their shared past.

♡ short shot

♡ Reincarnation, Emotional Turmoil, Longing, Past Lives

♡ Genre/warnings: Angst, Emotional Distress, Themes of Loss, Unresolved Feelings, unrequited love, sukuna stuck inside of yuujis mind, our love can't do anything (saddd)

♡ Note: he considered you his wife in the past …but now there's nothing there

w.c: 1.1K

VIP: @moonchhu

It had been a millennium—an eternity stretched far beyond the reach of mortal minds—since Ryomen Sukuna last laid eyes upon you. A thousand years since your heart ceased its steady rhythm in his presence since your breath no longer lingered in the air between you. And yet, in all those years, not a single moment passed where he hadn’t felt the weight of your absence. Time had become a cruel mockery, an endless river he could not escape, and with each passing century, he had drifted further from anything remotely human. Now, confined within the vessel of a boy, Sukuna had become little more than a ghost in a cage—a god reduced to a whisper, suffocating in a body that wasn’t his own.

And then, you appeared once more.

The moment he saw you, the world collapsed. Time, which had weighed like chains upon him for centuries, halted. Each second stretched into eternity as though the gods themselves had chosen this precise moment to mock him. You stood before him, the same yet entirely different, the very air around you pulsing with a vitality he had forgotten. For a fleeting instant, Sukuna forgot to breathe. His breath froze, stolen in reverence, as if the universe had finally granted him a mercy he neither deserved nor expected.

But it wasn't mercy.

It was tormenting.

You were beautiful—more beautiful than memory allowed. Your hair had changed, shorter and unfamiliar, and the hue of your eyes had deepened, something unknown to him in past lifetimes. The curve of your lips, the way you stood—these details were altered, but they were insignificant. It was you. The essence of your being, the soul he had once intertwined with, was unchanged. Everything else was inconsequential. Every lifetime, every version of you was etched into him, stitched into the fabric of his being, as eternal as he was.

He stood still, as though rooted in place, the chaotic landscape of Yuuji Itadori’s mind fading into nothingness around him. This was a moment he had craved, longed for, even if he hadn’t admitted it to himself. He had waited, suffered through lifetimes of bloodshed and isolation, through endless carnage that offered no solace. And now you were here again, alive, breathing, exuding a warmth that struck him like a blow.

It was unbearable.

The rising tide of emotions threatened to drown him, an onslaught so unfamiliar that for a moment, he questioned whether he was still the Ryomen Sukuna he had known. The god reduced to mortal weakness, overcome by the sight of someone who had undone him centuries ago. It was you. Only you could render him powerless in ways no mortal could dream of. Not with weapons or curses—but with a simple glance.

You turned, and your gaze locked onto his. For an instant, Sukuna swore the veil of centuries lifted, and it was as if you remembered. His heart quaked in his chest, a sensation so foreign that he nearly lost his composure. He hadn’t realized it, hadn’t thought that in the deepest recesses of his twisted soul, he had wanted this—needed it. The fire that flickered in your eyes burned into him, rekindling the embers of a connection that should have been long extinguished.

Your smile, tender and soft, was like the caress of a breeze on a spring day, brushing against him with a warmth he had forgotten. And yet, here you stood, untainted by the ravages of time. Sukuna, the King of Curses, felt his chest constrict in a way that made him despise the vulnerability you brought out in him. He had razed kingdoms, struck fear into the hearts of gods and men alike, but here he stood—undone by a memory. A memory made flesh once again.

"Hello, Yuuji," you said, your voice lilting and sweet—so achingly familiar.

It shattered the fragile walls he had built to contain the torrent of memories. The sound of it, that melody, filled him with memories of a time long past. How could something so simple bring him to his knees?

He wanted to laugh at the absurdity, the cruel joke of the gods. How Ryomen Sukuna, who had ravaged nations and reduced men to ash, could be undone by something as simple as a smile. He felt his hand move before he realized it, wiping away a tear he hadn’t known was there.

When was the last time he cried? Has he ever?

The realization struck him hard, like a blade lodged deep in his chest.

You noticed, of course. Your brow furrowed in concern, a mirror of a look you had once given him on a mountaintop long ago. The concern that had soothed his battle-weary soul centuries before. "Are you alright?" you asked, and those words—spoken with such genuine care—hit him like sunlight breaking through the endless storm of his existence. The cold, relentless winter that had gnawed at his immortal soul thawed, just for a moment.

The irony of it all stung more than he could bear. Sukuna, the god of curses, reduced to something human. Mortal.

"I’m fine," he murmured, though the words felt inadequate, as though he was saying them more to himself than to you. Fine was a lie, but it was all he could offer in this cursed vessel, trapped in the body of the boy who carried him. His lips curled into a smile—not the mocking, vicious grin that was his signature, but something real, something so rarely seen that it surprised even him.

It was you.

No matter how much time had passed, no matter the distance or the lifetimes, it had always been you. You were his beginning and his end, the one constant in a world that had long since fallen to ruin. Even now, even without your memories, you were the same soul that had captured him once, the only being who had made him feel something beyond rage and bloodlust.

Sukuna’s heart—immortal, untouchable—beat again, fiercely, with a strength that shook him to his core. He was not accustomed to this vulnerability, this raw ache that clawed at him from the inside out. The feeling was dangerous, a double-edged blade held to his throat, threatening to cut deeper than any wound he had endured in his many battles. But for you, he would bear it. For you, he would endure a thousand more years of silence, a thousand more years of waiting if that was what it took.

Because it was you. It had always been you.

Bby just wants you to remember him :( ...give him what he wants

[mydadleft471]

A Jester Indeed

Summary: You've heard tales of Messmer the Impaler from other Tarnished. They say he's a monster, that his flame will burn through your armor to the bone, and that he is not to be trifled with. So what happens when you, a not-so-serious individual, fight the Impaler and show him mercy?

Spoilers for Elden Ring and Shadow of the Erdtree. Some warnings of violence, fighting, blood, and a stupid Tarnished.

This was a request from anonymous! They requested, "Messmer with a Tarnished reader who chose to spare him at the end of their battle, and she frequently comes by to annoy him." This was so fun, thanks anon! I wasn't sure how to incorporate the Tarnished coming back to annoy him, so I just made her a little shit whenever possible lmao. Hope you like it!

As always, thank you for reading, liking, reblogging, and commenting! I've gotten back into writing because of everyone's continued love and support and I can't begin to thank you guys enough! <3

You were so in over your head.

Traveling to the Land of Shadow was an ordeal all by itself. As you carved your path of carnage throughout the Lands Between, you’d killed many. It did not matter what they were; if they didn’t want to talk it out, you knew there was only one way it would end. No matter how many times you died, which had to be in the hundreds by now, you would come back and try again. Victory had always tasted so sweet. 

As did the amount of runes some bosses dropped.

Seeking out the Lord of Blood was certainly a task, but you had also found the husk of Miquella, Malenia’s twin brother forever cursed to be a child. Disgust must’ve been obvious on your features as Mohg appeared out of a pool of blood and referred to Miquella as dearest. You had a feeling you wouldn’t mind ending the Lord of Blood.

You did mind, however, the amount of bloodflame he threw at you. His trident could kill you in one hit if you weren’t careful, and it did, many times. Eventually though, he fell just like the rest. After you lit the site of Grace near Miquella’s cocoon and sat down, you noticed someone standing a few feet in front of you. They were donned in gold and black armor with an ornately embroidered white cloak. Carefully, you rose, ready to fight if necessary.

She introduced herself as Needle Knight Leda, in service to Miquella the Kind. She told you that if you wished to travel to the Land of Shadow, all you needed to do was touch the withered arm dangling lifelessly outside of the cocoon. Noticing your hesitation to follow someone you had just met, she tells you of her compatriots that would offer you assistance when you arrived.

You were never one to shy away from challenge and adventure, so you rested your hand upon the cold, much larger one. In an instant, your vision went white and suddenly you stood in an unfamiliar place. It almost reminded you of where you first woke up after crossing the fog, but it was more foreboding. You shrugged off the feeling of anxiety and started up the hill in front of you.

After stepping out into the open and seeing the vast landscape before you, you knew you had to explore every inch of this place. You would discover why this place was hidden, and you would almost certainly fight challengers tougher than you could imagine. The thought alone sent shivers of anticipation down your spine. With Torrent by your side, you embarked on your journey throughout the Land of Shadow.

That anticipation that had once set your soul ablaze was now fear coursing through your veins. After weeks of fighting, you had reached the Shadow Keep, home of Messmer the Impaler, who was another of Queen Marika’s children. Messmer’s guards and knights were no joke, and you had met your demise at their hands more times than you could count. But you had persisted and cut your way through his numbers, and here you were: in front of an imposing and cold metal door that would certainly lead to your number of deaths reaching the thousands.

Everything you had heard about Messmer was terrifying. You were unsure if you would actually best him. Many other Tarnished you’d met along your travels spoke of his flame, scorching and unnatural, searing them down to the bone before they were impaled on Messmer’s spear.

You tried to keep your spirits high. You had fought and beat Radahn, once known as the mightiest demigod of the Shattering. You’d killed Mohg. You even killed Miquella’s sister, Malenia, the Goddess of Rot.

So why were you standing here shaking like it was your first encounter with combat?

You sighed and knew you’d have to will yourself to open the door in front of you. Throwing caution to the wind and ignoring your nerves begging you to turn back, you pushed the heavy metal door open and stood in the doorway. You flinched and closed your eyes, expecting your death to be immediate. But you were fine.

Taking a few tentative steps into the room, you realized that it was almost entirely dark. A few candles sputtered weakly along the floor, but that was it. Perhaps the Impaler was out?

Your hopeful thoughts quickly died as the room lit up. Hundreds of candles sparked to life within mere seconds. You drew your weapon and looked around the room, your heart beating wildly against your ribcage.

“Mongrel intruder.”

A low, stern voice echoed throughout the room, sending shivers down your spine. Looking towards the center of the room, you shrieked when you saw a red snake hovering in front of you. It wasn’t poised to strike however, so you, although a stupid idea, reached out to pat its head.

“Thou’rt Tarnished, it seemeth.” 

The snake began to slink away from your outstretched hand. You saw a large towering figure sat on a throne in the very back of the room.

Messmer the Impaler.

“I am, yes. Why does that matter?” Your voice shakes and comes out weak.

He stands up, seemingly ignoring you. You realize how he towers over you.

“Mother, wouldst thou truly lordship sanction in one so bereft of light?” He does not sound amused.

“I don’t want to fight you. ” You realize that might not seem convincing with your sword drawn.

“Yet… my purpose standeth unchanged.” He saunters towards you. 

You really shouldn’t be here.

“Those stripped of the Grace of Gold shall all meet death. In the embrace of Messmer’s flame.” From his hand, fire erupts and swirls, but it’s unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. It’s darker, a deep crimson with black tendrils dancing around like snakes. It’s beautiful, yet horrifying.

“But I can see sites of Grace! There’s one right outside your door!” You plead with him, your voice unnaturally high with fear. He pauses for a second, mulling over your words. Then his brow hardens and his gleaming gold eye narrows.

“The Tarnished, graceless and stricken, is also a liar, it seemeth.”

You were stupid and brave, but a liar? That crossed a line.

With his words as your only warning, he leaps into the air, creating an inferno of raging fire. He slams down next to you and you barely have time to roll out of the way. The explosion clouds your vision, and you don’t catch him hurtling towards you. His spear rams through your stomach as if you weren’t wearing armor, and you scream. Your hands grasp the handle where it impales you and it’s sticky with blood. Your blood.

Messmer comes closer as you fall to the floor. You have to admit, he’s quite handsome, even with your blurred vision. You don’t think telling him that would spare you.

“I don’t want to fight.” Your voice comes out weak and you spit out blood on the floor next to you. You’re beginning to fade.

His eye glows a blinding gold as he stands above you. He seethes with disgust.

“Then thou shalt run. Thine wishes are an impossibility. But rest assured, Tarnished,” he spits the word like an insult, and brings his face closer to yours. “The Impaler will see to it that thy fate never cometh to fruition. Thou shalt perish here, as many times as necessary.” 

With those words, you fade away and return to the site of Grace outside his door. You lay there in stunned silence for a few seconds before you dare to sit up. Looking towards the fog wall in front of you, you question yourself. Could you really defeat Messmer? He’s made his intentions crystal clear and you know that each time you face him, it will end in your painful death. 

No, you say to yourself. You take a few deep breaths and make a conscious effort to not give into the fear he instilled in you. That’s what he wants. He wants you to be afraid to face him, to give him the upper hand. But you won’t do that. Sure, he’s a demigod that’s launched an endless crusade on an entire race of people and has a curse that’s gotten him shunned from his Mother’s good graces, but you’re really good at fighting. And you’re persistent as hell.

Standing, you draw your weapon once more and walk through the fog wall.

He’s returned to his throne, and once he sees you, he grips his spear and stands.

“I warned thee, Tarnished. All thou wilt gain here is an acute understanding of agony.”

“I’m not afraid of you. I’ve faced demigods before and won. I’ve died countless times and came back. This fight won’t be any different.”

He is taken aback by your confidence, but he quickly regains his composure. His face hardens and he leaps into the air once again, flame encompassing his form.

“So be it.”

You dodge his inferno and sidestep him as he rushes at you. You have a feeling he uses his fire to disorient you and shroud himself. You would be wise to keep the distance between you two as close as possible.

“A spear is a horrible weapon for close combat!” You holler at him and see his eye narrow. You’ve successfully pissed him off.

He ignites his spear and soars through the air, then rushes at you with multiple jabs, and you successfully dodge all but one of his attacks. He slams down into the ground next to you, and right as you reach for your flask, a myriad of spears burst from the ground and quickly end you. As your vision fades, you see him above you once more, looking down at you with something you could almost call pity.

You re-enter his arena with little time between your attempts. Though he manages to best you over ten times, you are growing more certain in his attack patterns, and you can seamlessly dodge and punish most of his moves. On your 16th try, you’ve managed to only get hit twice throughout the fight so far, and you still have 9 remaining charges in your flask. You know he’s beginning to worry from the way his attacks grow more and more desperate. He stops charging deliberate moves and instead swings wildly at you in an attempt to kill you instantly.

After side-stepping his barrage and rolling through his summoned spears, you quickly deliver a swipe that cuts his stomach and sends him to his knees. You breathe out heavily and watch his every move with your sword at the ready in front of you.

“Bested, by a meek Tarnished…” His voice radiates with pain and humiliation. He looks at you, his eye dimmer than usual. 

“Give up. I don’t want to kill you.” You hope he doesn’t push you to deal a final blow.

He weakly stands up, using his spear to hold him upright. He turns away, facing a giant statue of Marika holding a baby. How did you not notice that before?

“O Mother, forgive me.” You narrow your eyes and ready yourself for whatever he’s about to throw at you.

He reaches towards his eye that shines a brilliant gold as his long claws near it. In horror, you realize he is about to tear out his eye. Throwing your sword to the ground in an act of desperation, you fling yourself forward and catch his hand. Your weight makes him shift uneasily on his feet and you find yourself staring into the same eye he was about to pluck out.

He glances between your hands around his and your worried expression. He cannot understand why you would stop him. “Let go, Tarnished. I would give thee a fight to ne’er forget.”

You shake your head, clutching onto his hand tighter and trying your best to pull his arm down. “I’m not going to let you tear out your own eye! Are you crazy?”

“Thou hast me at thy mercy. Strike me down or release me.”

“I’ve told you before; I’m not going to kill you.”

His eye narrows and he releases his spear. It thuds onto the ground and the sound reverberates throughout the entire chamber. His other hand wraps around your neck, and he lifts you like you weigh nothing. You do not release his hand as you struggle to breathe.

“Thou’rt foolish and weak. Thy grace is false, thy blade is dull, and it seems thy mind is shattered.” He squeezes harder and you notice black spots in your vision. He peers into your eyes for the Grace you claim to have, and he sees flecks of gold dancing in your irises.

Hesitantly, he loosens his grip enough for you to breathe, but not enough to allow you your freedom. As expected, you heave in heavy gulps of air and cough. He wonders what Mother sees in you, a mere Tarnished, too weak to kill him but not strong enough to delay their inevitable demise at his hand.

“Thank you…” You mutter. You’re still clutching his hand.

“Why didst thou hesitate with thy blade?”

You give a tired and sputtering laugh. “Maybe I’m tired of killing.”

“Nonsense. Reveal the truth.”

“Will you at least put me down?”

He grits his teeth and slowly releases you. He expects you to immediately pick up your weapon and strike back, but you simply reach for one of your flasks.

You notice him watching you with caution. “May I?” You gesture to your flask.

“Fine.”

Unexpectedly, you close the gap between the two of you and unscrew the cork from the bottle. You then hand it over to him without a second thought. 

He doesn’t move, too shocked by your sudden offer. This would heal him, and if he so chooses, he could kill you again with all his strength returned to him.

“I do not require that.” 

You huff and roll your eyes. “Would you please just indulge me? I think you owe me after how many times you killed me, don’t you think?”

Wordlessly, he reaches down and takes your flask. Tipping it back, the liquid warms him as it travels down his throat. He instantly feels better and the wounds you inflicted on him earlier dissipate. When he looks down again, he sees you smiling. He hands the flask back to you and you replace the cork, then store it away in a pouch on your belt.

“There, all better.”

“A duller foe I have never met.”

“And yet, here we are. So, what’s next? Are you going to talk with me, or do you feel like you need to kill me again?” You gesture at his spear still on the ground.

“Why wouldst thou grant me mercy?” His face pinches in confusion.

“Because you don’t deserve to die.” You answer.

“Dost thou consider themselves judge, jury, and executioner?”

“No, but I know enough to understand that you’ve been shunned and cast out by Queen Marika, just like me.”

A Tarnished who speaks ill of his mother? He had yet to wrap his head around that.

“Speak plainly.”

“Okay. I know your mother made you go on an endless crusade in her name against the Hornsent for whatever they did to her. She’s done the same with Godfrey in the Lands Between. The Mountaintops of the Giants, once a land covered in fire, now lay cold with bodies and snow as their only inhabitants. Now, she wants me to fight my way through her remaining children to claim their Great Runes so I can have the burden of becoming Elden Lord.”

“Mother chose-” he begins.

“She cast you out because of your curse.” You interrupt him and his eye blazes out of fury.

“How dare thee!” He bends down to pick up his spear. You hold up your hands and make no move to grab your weapon.

“I understand your pain. I’m cursed to die over and over again until I fulfill her wishes. She doesn’t care for me.” You keep your voice even.

“Thou will never understand my pain nor my curse.”

“Maybe not, but I understand how it feels to be cast out and sequestered without honor or glory.”

Why was he talking to you? He should’ve ended you the moment you gave him your flask. He should’ve killed you 20 times over by now.

But he hesitates.

“Tarnished. Thou hast granted me mercy. Thy reasoning I shall never understand. But thy words ring true and hold merit.” 

“Does that mean you’ll stop killing me?”

“It means I shall consider ceasing hostilities towards you. Thy safety is not yet guaranteed.” 

You groan. These demigods are always so complicated. “Then what do I have to do to get you to trust me?”

“Thou wilt tell me everything.”

You blink at him. “Okay. We could’ve avoided my painful demise many times over if you had just said that earlier.”

The grip on his spear tightens. “I shall make the memory a reality if thou dost not hold thy tongue.”

He’s met with silence. Perhaps you had finally learned when you were to speak. Or maybe you were just thinking of another clever quip that would make him doubt his decision to spare you.

The hilt of his spear hits the ground and he stands taller. His voice echoes around the room. “Thou wilt stay here, within the Keep, so that I may have eyes on thee at all hours of the day. Thou shalt be safe and comfortable in exchange for your knowledge.” 

“You’re going to keep me prisoner?”

“Wouldst thou prefer a grave to a bed?”

“Fair point. We have a deal.”

You hold out your hand and he stares at you in bewilderment. He narrows his eye.

“What?”

You gesture to your hand. “It’s a deal. We’re supposed to shake hands to make it official.”

“I shalt not touch one so depraved.” He looks disgusted at the mention of touching you.

“Shake my hand or get used to killing me. Your choice, my Lord.”

“Thou wouldst jest, even now? When death stands before thee?”

“Can you just shake my hand?”

“...Fine.”

He reaches out and grasps your hand loosely, and you shake his hand. His skin is surprisingly soft. Just as you are about to say something, he pulls away.

“Come. Thy quarters are just down the stairs.”

“Good. I’m exhausted.”

“As am I,” he replies.

You follow him. “But I gave you my flask. You should feel fine.”

“Thou misunderstood. I am exhausted of thy prattling tongue.” 

You scoff, which earns you a small smile from him. You are steeped in an uncomfortable silence as he leads you to your chambers. You walk down a long hallway lined with ornate paintings and trinkets. This is somewhere you had not been while you were fighting your way up to Messmer. You wonder if he knows how many of his men you had dispatched. Considering he granted you some semblance of mercy, you think he has yet to find out.

He stops at a large wooden door. Twisting the knob, the hinges creak like they haven’t been opened in a century. The room is full of dust and stagnant air, but is otherwise beautiful and luxurious.

“I shall have servants clean thy room, of course, but this is where thou shalt stay.”

“It’s pretty. I don’t think I’ve ever stayed somewhere so nice.”

“For once, thy countenance is agreeable.”

“Well, for once, you’re being nice to me.”

His eye twitches in annoyance. “Was I not nice when I spared thee of another woeful death?”

“Seeing as I stopped you from plucking out your own eye, we’ll call it even.”

He felt like he was dealing with a petulant child whenever you opened your mouth to speak. Even threatening you with your demise just spurred you on.

“I shalt leave thee to thy quarters before my headache worsens.”

As he walks away, you call out to him. “Just admit that you haven’t had anyone so entertaining and interesting in your Keep, it’s okay!”

“Yes, my Keep hath never held a jester such as thee.” He replies over his shoulder, not caring if you heard him.

Smiling to yourself, you think that, yes, he does need a jester.

He’s much more handsome when he smiles.

[fanaticsnail]

It's not what it looks like!

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 2,800+

Synopsis: The ship has taken on a few more guests, the overcrowded Straw-Hat vessel now struggling to accommodate the number. Offering your room to the prisoner, Caesar Clown, you returned to find a sight you were ill-prepared to meet. Caesar had found your secret, and had them over his nose and mouth while chasing his high into his gloved fist.

Warnings: Caesar Clown x f!reader, MDNI, NSFW, 18+, smut, panty sniffing, finger sucking, masturbating, praise kink, exhibitionism, dirty talk, prisoner x captor, Straw-Hat reader, Caesar is a yandere creep - but we love him like that, lingerie kink, you like to dress up beneath your clothes for yourself.

Notes: a gift for @imveryyellow who said they recently ran out of Caesar content. I have been wanting to write him for a while, and this was exactly the opportunity I needed to take him to a solo fic. I hope you like your present!

Legs hanging limply over the edge of the much smaller bed frame, Caesar whimpered and panted into the shroud of lace covering his lips and nose. Eyes scrunched tightly shut, chains rattled together in a sinful shuffle over his thighs. Larger, white coat removed, his yellow jumpsuit was as far down his arms as he could stretch it, his feet and legs exposed while the fabric danced over his body like a flag waving in surrender. 

Hands circling the girth of his cock, he pumped it maniacally in his gloved hands. Each rough motion was complemented by a deep inhale of the clean pair of lace panties covering his nose and mouth. The scent of floral fabric softener, clean eucalyptus detergent, and the scent of your lingering perfume from your wrists flooded his senses as he desperately pistoned his cock in his leather gloves. 

He was close, his breaths coming out in rough and desperate pants. Inhaling deeply, his tongue lulled out and gently dampened the crotch of your panties, pleading for just a taste of what they shroud on the regular. His cock bobbed, pearlescent precum rolling down the clothed thumb of his right hand while his left rose to his face. His middle and unity finger collected the fabric and thrust it into his parted lips, mouthing and fucking his gloved fingers with his lips. 

“ Hha-h, fuck. Just a little more, nghh-,” he whimpered, crying into the fabric and muffling his moans. A soft fall of pathetic tears fled from the corners of his eyes as his hips bucked up into his hands. He knew he didn’t have much longer until one of the other straw-hats would come and get him, but he needed this release. He was so pent up from the capture, so needy and desperate to cum it almost hurt. 

Just as he nearly hit the pinnacle of his release, the handle of the door clicked and began to creak wide. Caesar’s eyes widened, having no time to hook the holes of his jumpsuit back over his body, nor discard the panties from covering his face. 

“Caesar, looks like you’ve got me today! I hope you’re ready to get out to the mess hall for some break- Ah-!” you gasped, your eyes meeting the golden hue of his panicked orbs. Shock wrote itself over your features, leaning against the door and clicking it shut hastily with your ass. “What the fuck are you-? Are those my panties!?” 

The mercy of the straw-hats, the softness after the carnage that placed him on their vessel and in their hands. That was who you were. The ship’s botanist, specializing in different types of plants and their uses for medicinal and weaponizing purposes. Usopp, Sanji and you all worked quite well together, the surgeon of death also enjoying your informative knowledge regarding uses of leaves, saps, and bark as balm for wounds. 

As soon as Caesar’s eyes initially found yours, he was welcomed to a kindness that was foreign for a man such as him. He was smitten, willing to do just about anything to find himself in your good graces. At the offer of your room to house him, willing to bunk with Robin in Nami’s quarters: who gave up her own room to house Law, Caesar’s heart was swollen and as engorged as his large cock pulsating in his hand. 

This was the first night he had slept in your room, swearing to himself that he wouldn’t peruse the drawers and cabinets for your personal effects. The room smelled as sweet as you did, plants and dried flowers pressed within pages of your extensive collection of journals. 

Expecting to find more of your books and findings within your desk, he was shocked to spy an array of clean lingerie. Lightning struck his heart as his eyes widened, the innocent image of you within his mind shattering and replaced by a sexual lust he had no business in rising. The next few steps were made in haste: springing himself from his clothes and viciously fisting the rising bulge in his pants while inhaling the sweet fragrance of a random pair of your collection of panties. 

“I-I-I can explain-!” he desperately attempted to relay, spitting the lace from his lips and scrambling to find the words he needed to sate your wrath, “-It’s not what it looks like! I swear! I wasn’t-.”

“-Masturbating with my lingerie in your mouth?!” you whisper in a curt hiss, flicking the lock on your door behind you and stomping over to your desk, “You had to pick that pair?” Your whine caught him off guard, lips pouting as you adjusted your collection and refolded the mess he made by hastily grabbing the lace, “I was going to wear those today, damn it.” 

Caesar’s eyes widened, his jaw shuddering, and throat gulping back a collection of saliva behind his lips.

“You’re not upset that I’m-,” he begins, halted by your hissed whisper to cut him off.

“-Touching your cock? No, it’s yours. It’s a part of you,” you offer him quickly over your shoulder, ignoring him as you shut the drawer in your desk, “It’s natural. I get it, truly. We’re all pent up after that battle, and thinking about what’s likely waiting for us in Dressrosa is only making it worse.” Turning to face the ten foot giant on your bed, you cross your arms and scowl at him.

“What I am angry about is the fact that you were slobbering all over my panties while doing it. Those don’t belong to you. They’re mine,” you curl up your lip in a grimace, eyes falling to where your lacey pair of bottoms were pooled on the floor. Rolling your head back over your shoulders, you huff out an exhale of frustration, “I don’t get many luxuries while sailing with my crew. My collection of lingerie is one of my few interests that are explicitly mine. I don’t share them, that’s why they’re in my desk and not in my bedside table.” 

Caesar slunk back against your mattress, wanting to become one with the pillow and duvet. At this turn in conversation, he didn’t know if he should feel validated in pleasuring himself, or ashamed at the fact he was using your panties as a channel for his obsession. Looking down to your toes tapping on the wooden floor, arms crossed over your chest, and brow raised at his slinking position, Caesar couldn’t help the twitch in his cock. 

He was so close to release, he could barely contain it. The way you scowled at him made his desire worsen. His cock needed it, his balls sucked into his abdomen and swelling the veins engorging his shaft, prompting his eyes to round and plead at you. 

Truthfully, you had no idea what you expected when you offered the prisoner your room. Perhaps someone else should’ve given him theirs, likely Franky. Considering the ship had no brig, you had nowhere to place him. You knew he needed at least some autonomy, truly not wanting to see the scientist be target practice for Zoro’s throwing knife skills anymore. In honesty, you both pitied him and found him attractive. Using his knowledge and skills with elixirs and potions to craft and chanel his genius had you interested, but the fact he was so willing to listen to you and follow your instructions like a giant puppy had you smitten. 

Eyes traveling down to his bobbing cock, glistening with the first pearls of his sticky release on your bed had a possessive wave overcome you. 

“Well, don’t stop on my account,” you offered him with a smirk, leaning your hips back on your desk and nodding towards his cock. Caesar felt his heart palpitate, expanding in his chest and flooding his cheeks with a rosy blush.

“Y-You-... You want-... I can-...?” he stuttered and fell over his words, the jumpsuit and shackles jingling as he hastily covered his cock, “You want-... Me to finish?” 

“Do you want to finish?” you giggled at him, floating your gaze over his body before peering into his soul through his widened eyes, “Or do you want to be all rigid and frustrated at the breakfast table?” He choked on his breath, sputtering as he hastily moved to sit up on your bed. 

“I can’t with you watching me like that!” he exclaimed, his brows furrowing and scrambling his thoughts, “It’s private.”

“My, my. How the tables have turned,” you chuckle, stepping forward towards the bed. “Need I remind you,” you give him a shove on the shoulders, “You’re in my quarters,” you move your head to his forehead, pushing him back so he lies flat on your pillows, “And in my bed.” Reaching down, you collect your damp pair of saliva-coated panties and place them on his chest, “And have been using my panties in your mouth to stifle your cute little moans. Now, go on. Finish.”

Reaching forward, you collect his right hand and draw it beneath the shroud of his jumpsuit, wrapping it around his cock without touching it. 

“I-I-I can’t,” he whimpered, his cock betraying him as his hips automatically bucked up into his fist at the first form of contact. He searched your face, his eyes begging and pleading with you to not watch him while he does this. 

“Urgh, Caesar,” you roll your eyes, stepping away from his hands and hovering over his face. Gently flicking your index finger over his dewy cheek, you hum down at him with your eyes half-lidded, “We both know you can, you want to, and you need to. Just do it already so I can go to breakfast.” You purr down at him. 

He gulps back a whine at your orders, feeling humiliated at how close you were to him while being ordered to complete his shame to its conclusion. He looked down at the panties on his chest and back up into your eyes, his lips quivering and begging. 

“I-... Do you think…?” he stuttered, darting his rounded eyes between yours, “Can you…?” His eyes flickered down to your panties on his chest, down to your waist, and back up to your eyes once more. “...Can you put them in my mouth again?” 

“Absolutely not,” you giggle at him, gently caressing his cheek with mischief twinkling in your eyes. “Those are mine. I’ve only put them on your chest to serve as a reminder as to why I’m pissed off at you in the first place. You’re too cute to stay angry at, Clown. Gotta keep them where I can see them, while not stifling those little sounds I know you make.”

“Nghhm-!” Caesar groaned as he began pumping his cock at your praise. He kept eye contact with you, his shame evident in each slow thrust. He pleaded, begged and whined for you to break away your attention so he could focus on meeting his bliss. He had a thought that floated over his eyes that he quickly stifled away in a bid to not catch your focus.

“What was that, Clown? What just floated into that intelligent, pretty head of yours, hm?” you asked him, gently cooing at him while he rocked his body into his cock. He whined, trying not to cum immediately at more of your praise. 

Looking down at your body once more, he gulped back his nerves and spat out his confession. 

“Please sit on my face,” he hurriedly cried out for you, “Sit on my face, grab my horns, and let me taste the panties you have on. I need you to, please. Please sit on me.”

A laugh fled from your lips as you considered his request. Catching your breath, you offered him a soft purred, “But if I sit on your face, I'd miss the show-.”

“-Face my chest and hold onto my horns behind you. Let me feel you, please. I need you,” he whispered, gently using your name to further emphasize his words. You shook your head at him, slowly reaching beneath your larger shirt and hooking your pants down your thighs to pool at the floor. The larger shirt you were wearing was girdled at the smallest point of your waist, the hem falling just above the middle of your thighs. 

Hooking your panties over your thumbs, you step out of your pants and gently draw your used panties up to his face. 

“I'm not going to sit on your face, Caesar,” you wrap the crotch of your underwear over your fingers and raise it to his lips, “But I will let you suck on this pair while I watch you fuck yourself. It's the least I can do.”

Pressing your fingers to his lips, Caesar moaned and opened his mouth to welcome your digits in. Gently rocking your fingers on his tongue, the larger clown desperately sucked around the damp pair of lingerie you were grinding over his palate. 

Whining and keening, he eagerly sucked the essence of your honeyed slick from the pair. His cock desperately twitched and his motions picked up. The chains rattled and his jumpsuit flopped with each rustling motion. You giggled at his eagerness, clenching your thighs together and watching in earnest as he began to unravel himself. 

“You gonna cum, big boy? Gonna make a mess?” you pout at him, catching his eyes as his movements pick up. Circling his tip, he used shallow thrusts up to keep from spilling over completely. “C'mon, baby. Let me see. Cum for me. Put on a little show for me. Make a mess in my bed and let me see you cum.”

“Mmmmph-! 'Umming-!” he muffled around your fingers, tears of joy slipping from his eyes as he chased his high. Feeling his abdomen snap, hot spurts of his release shot up and painted his yellow jumpsuit and chest with wave after wave of uncoiling ropes. Sticky ribbons of his ecstasy painted his body, prompting you to empathetically moan at the display. 

He rutt against his body, bucking his hips in languid thrusts as he rode through his high. Be felt humiliated, overjoyed, supported, and chastised by your attention while he completed his moment in solitude. 

Pulling your panties from his lips, you curtly rose your hand up and slapped him across the cheek with the heel of your palm. He squealed out a soft scream in horror, more shocked as you met him with a smile. 

“That was for taking my panties without my permission,” you nodded sternly at him, stooping down to be at eye level. Parting your lips, you hastily collect his beneath yours and kiss him earnestly. Pulling away with a humming pop, you gaze up through your eyelashes at him, “And that was for using your listening ears and putting on a little performance for me.” 

You stroll over to your desk and search through your assortment of lingerie before settling on a fresh pair. Undressing the rest of the way, you unclasped your corsetted bralette and began to assemble a more scandalous assortment of lingerie over your body. Fishnets, cut outs, garters, girdles, and body chains: items that nobody would even know was beneath your flowy shirts and tanned pants, were put casually over your skin. Completing the look with a strappy thong, you turn to Caesar and give him a soft wink. 

“Clean yourself up, Clown,” you giggle at him, watching as his jaw fell slack and eyes glazed over at your body. “I want breakfast, and it's my job to look after you today-.”

“-Do you always wear something like that beneath your baggy clothes?” he whined in a loud moan, hastily using the two pairs of panties you left on him to clean himself with. You nod in glee, your smile warm in contrast to your scandalous assortment of clothes. 

“Yes. I like to feel pretty while I work,” you shrug, looking down at the arrangement and giving it a final nod, “Now hurry up. I'm hungry.”

Caesar emitted a shuddering moan as he cleaned and redressed himself, stealing glances at you as you shrouded yourself in a fresh shirt and pair of pants. He gulped back his nerves once more, gently offering a soft question out like a puppy returning a ball thrown by their owner and placing it timidly at their feet. 

“Do you think I could convince you to ride my face later?” he asked you, peering at you over your shoulder. You laugh wholeheartedly at the question, finally both dressed, and sauntering over to Caesar Clown’s looming form. Reaching for his hand, you gave him a gentle squeeze while darting your eyes down at the shackles. 

“The thong I'm wearing…” you nod down to your pants, Caesar knowing exactly what was under them and visualizing it while you spoke, “...is crotchless. Yes, I will ride your face in it later, thank you for asking so nicely. Again, we're all a little pent up, and I think you're quite sweet beneath all that insanity.”

Caesar’s cock, regardless as to the earlier release, remained half-hard for the duration of the day. Each time he gawked at you, he remembered the assortment of lingerie hiding beneath and eyes blackened at the promise of what was to come. He was going to smile up at you, eagerly lap at your cunt with a smile on his face, while you keened and whined, gripping his horns and chasing your bliss on his lengthy tongue and pointed nose. 

He could hardly wait.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @since-im-already-here @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @sordidmusings @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane

[diejager]

The writing where reader died, what happens if they were revived as a wraith like Ghost? There's probs going to have a lot of fluff and a small angst here and there. But I mostly wanna read your writings!! It's cus' I can't get enough, and kept rereading it all the time

Cw: pain, death, turning, cannibalism, implied torture, implied blood and gore, angst, fluff, hunger, tell me if I missed any. We’re going to forget how you previously died, cuz @bluegiragi gave us more info about wraiths and I just love where the comic is going.

What a cruel joke, irony hitting him in the face the same way his abrupt shift hurt him, an apathetic slap to the face that left him bloody and in shock the way he left Roba on his dying breath. Simon didn’t know what was crueler, the knowledge that you were tortured and buried alive, left to die alone for the sins of his own making and the wrath of another, or that you were left to die a slow and excruciating death after being beaten half to death, expected to lose your resolve solely on the fact that you were a medic, and turned into the monster he was.

Neither your captor nor death had been merciful, much less the reaper, a collector of wandering souls and lost ghosts, waiting their turn to cross the river with a small token for the afterlife. Be it Hermes, the messenger and the carrier of souls, Thanatos the reaper and collector, Anubis - or Inpu, however people called him - the guide, Ankou the shadow, Sgàthach the warrior, or Freyja and Fólkvangr; you weren’t granted the soft embrace of a calm death, but the cruel rejection of it, forced back into life and abandoned by sweet sleep.

He remembered his own, the painful pull of his back, the crazed smoke that filled his mind with a thirst for blood and revenge, the crack and ugly break of his bode, reshaping his body and organs dyed dark, dying and pained. He remembered well the pain of it like it was yesterday, having to crawl out of the shallow grave on his own and discover the carnage he left behind, stained in his and Price’s blood. He was reborn.

And so were you, crying and sobbing, your skin scarred beyond thinking and mind in shambles of broken faith and abandoned affection. He knew first hand how it felt, the burn and agony of it, the hunger and ache that plagued you like an undying pestilence, darker than the one that ripped through Europe in the fourteenth century and more devastating than the Justinian’s. He’d been too late, too slow to help you through the first ripple of shock and fear once you’d quenched your thirst, staunching it like you would a wound. He let you fester in your sorrow and hunger, left you without a guide or caretaker until you ravaged the area, leaving only blood and rubble in your devastation. 

But he’s here now, picking you up from the mess you found yourself in, a storm of smoke and thick black that you hid yourself in, to hide the monster you had become. He might not be proud of who he’s become - much like you - but he grew into it, lived his life as one, and he would be here to help you through the process of it. Where he wished he had a helping hand, you would have his. He would help you with your hunger, the famine that grew the more you left it alone, filling your being with bodies he’d gather up for you to absorb. He would teach you how to control the smoke - the sinews of your being, the consistence of it forming your figure - and build from it, stopping yourself from phasing to and from it, staying as a physical manifestation of it rather than darkness itself. 

Where he felt lost and confused, alone and wishing for a swift end, you wouldn’t, he made sure to stay, to be the pillar of support for you whenever you crashed, his body covering yours to stop you from vanishing in a fit of tears. Where he spent time hating himself, demeaning the cannibalism he became, you wouldn’t, he’d rather send himself to hell than let you think you were the lowest of the low, a human eating another. And where he was cruel to himself when death had renounced him, you wouldn’t, he’d whisper the sweetest words, praises, compliments, affection and guidance, he would make sure you wouldn’t drown alone like he did years ago. He loved you too much to let that happen.

Taglist: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @angelcakes-22 @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @mul-pi @danielle143 @beau-min @makayla-666 @urfavsunkissedleo @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @luvecarson @petwifed @randominstake @heartelysia @jggykhug09090 @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @call-me-nyxx @sans-chara @cod-z @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @thigh-o-saur @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami @cassiecasluciluce @sobbingnshtting

[idkyetxoxo]

Daemon Targaryen - Him and I

Summary - Bound by a passion that thrives on violence and chaos, they eliminate anyone who dares to cross them. Their love becomes both their greatest strength and their most dangerous weapon, a perfect match in their shared madness.

Pairing - Daemon Targaryen x Arryn reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!), violence (mentions)

Word count - 2044

Masterlist for Daemon • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

He's out his head, I'm out my mind we got that love, the crazy kind.

"He can keep his tongue," Daemon declared, his voice laced with smug satisfaction. 

The expression settled on his face as he rested his hands on the hilt of his sword, slick with blood, which seemed to meld with his hand as though it were an extension of his very being, a dark instrument of his will.

The man's life had drained away at his feet, but Daemon seemed untroubled, as if violence was as natural to him as breathing. A crimson pool spread slowly beneath his boots, the thick blood glistening under the flickering torchlight like a river of molten rubies, each drop a silent witness to the carnage.

I flinched, a fleeting reaction to the brutality that had just unfolded before me but then, a slow smile crept across my lips. My gaze found Daemon's, his eyes already locked onto mine. 

There was no need for words between us. We understood each other in ways that transcended language, our bond forged in the crucible of blood and sharpened by the steel we wielded.

I licked my lips, savouring the metallic tang of blood, his blood. The fool had dared to speak ill of me, and now his life was nothing more than a bitter taste on my tongue, a reminder of the sweet vengeance.

I raised my thumb to wipe away a crimson smear, aware that the rest of my face was likely speckled with droplets, but I found I couldn't care less. 

This was the price of our love, a love that thrived in the shadows of violence, a love as dangerous as it was intoxicating.

The King had decreed that anyone who questioned me, the sister of his late wife, regarding the mysterious death of one of Alicent's ladies-in-waiting would lose their tongue. Daemon, ever the enforcer of our twisted justice, decided that wasn't enough. 

He wanted blood, and he had taken it without hesitation.

"Your Grace," Otto Hightower's voice cut through the tension, thick with anger as he turned to face the King. 

The man's indignation was palpable, his eyes flickering between the lifeless body on the floor and the King who had allowed this to happen but even Otto, with all his political manoeuvring and cold calculation, knew better than to challenge Daemon directly. 

Not when the bond between us was so absolute, so terrifyingly complete.

He saw the madness in our eyes, a madness that could not be swayed by reason or threats, and I could sense his hesitation, a fear born not of cowardice, but of knowing he was outmatched by a love that defied logic and thrived on chaos.

Daemon kills for me, I kill for him. We're both out of our minds, lost in a love so consuming it leaves no room for fear, no space for mercy. 

We've got the kind of love people whisper about in dark corners, the kind that burns too brightly, too fiercely, and leaves only ashes in its wake.

"This matter cannot be ignored," Otto declared, his voice edged with disgust as he turned his gaze toward me. His eyes bore into mine, seething with contempt, but I simply bit my lip to keep from laughing. 

He was so predictable in his self-righteous indignation, so easy to provoke.

"What would you have me do?" Viserys snapped, his frustration bleeding through every word. 

The burden of the crown weighed heavily on him, and Otto's relentless prying was the last thing he wanted to deal with.

"It is common knowledge that Prince Daemon's wife was present when the body of Lady Elia was discovered," Otto pressed on, his tone growing more insistent. "Merely a day after the lady had slandered Prince Daemon's name."

Viserys ran a weary hand over his face, his patience thinning, frayed by the constant tension between loyalty and fear, between the brother he loved and the monster that Daemon had become. 

I clenched my teeth to keep from lashing out. The accusations were nothing new, just more whispers and rumours in a court that thrived on such poison.

"Prince Daemon's wife has a name," I spat, crossing my arms over my chest. 

Otto turned to me, throwing his hands up in exasperation, clearly irked that this was the only part of his condemnation I had chosen to acknowledge.

"There is no proof that my sister-in-law killed Lady Elia. These are merely rumours," Viserys said, his voice calm but resolute as he met my gaze. I offered him a small, knowing smile, and he continued, "She would do no such thing."

"You say this only because she is your late wife's sister," Otto retorted, his voice sharp with accusation.

"Precisely," Viserys replied, his tone softening as he spoke of my sister. "Aemma would never have let it get this far... my Aemma."

Otto turned back to me, his eyes narrowing in disdain, but this time I didn't hold back. I allowed a proud smirk to spread across my face, mouthing a single word "Oops." His jaw clenched in response, but he had nothing left to say.

"Your Grace, I do not wish to continue this conversation," I said, feigning an upset tone as I glanced at Viserys with wide, innocent eyes.

"Of course, my dear," he replied, a small smile tugging at his lips. His affection for me, the last living reminder of his beloved Aemma, was a powerful shield against Otto's accusations.

"There will be no further discussions regarding Lady Elia's death," Viserys declared, his voice carrying a finality that brooked no argument. His gaze shifted to the lifeless body at Daemon's feet, the head severed cleanly from the shoulders. "Let Lord Tarly be an example."

With those words, the matter was settled. Daemon, with a flicker of something dark and satisfied in his eyes, turned to me. 

Without a word, he took my hand, pulling me from the throne room and through the winding corridors of the Keep. His grip was firm, and possessive, as if he needed to feel my presence.

We moved in silence until we reached our chambers. The door closed with a solid thud, sealing us in our private world, away from the prying eyes and judgmental stares of others. 

The moment the latch clicked, Daemon pulled me to him, our bodies colliding with a desperate intensity. My chest pressed against his, the heat of his skin seeping through his clothes as he held me close.

"The blood of my enemies looks absolutely beautiful on you," he murmured, his voice rough with desire. His thumb brushed across my bottom lip, smearing a trace of dried blood. 

The touch was possessive, reverent as if he were admiring a work of art.

"Your enemies?" I asked, tilting my head slightly, a teasing smile playing on my lips.

"Any man who speaks ill of my wife is my enemy," he replied, his tone firm and unwavering. His fingers threaded through my hair, pulling gently as he rested his hand on the nape of my neck, holding me in place.

"That's exactly what I like to hear," I whispered, my fingers slipping beneath his tunic, desperate to feel the heat of his skin.

I began tracing the contours of his muscles with a feather-light touch. Feeling him shudder beneath my fingertips, the tension in his body turning to something darker, more primal.

In truth, those words were my lifeline, the assurance that no matter how deep we descended into darkness, he would always be there with me.

"Lady Elia?" he questioned, his voice a low rumble. There was no fear in his eyes, only a dark curiosity.

I smirked, looking away for a moment before meeting his gaze again. Rising onto my tiptoes, I leaned in close to his ear, my breath hot against his skin. 

"She insinuated that you were aggressive and unpredictable," I whispered, biting gently on his earlobe before pulling back to my given height. "I don't like it when people talk ill of my husband, so I killed her."

The admission hung in the air between us, heavy with the weight of our shared madness. Daemon's eyes darkened, his lips curling into a wicked smile. 

Without another word, he crushed his lips against mine in a kiss that was hungry, fierce, and unyielding. It wasn't a kiss of tenderness but one of raw passion, a fire that consumed us both. 

We stumbled backwards, our bodies entwined as we lost ourselves in the moment, in the shared understanding that we were unstoppable together. 

"Tell me what you want, darling," I murmured against his lips, already knowing the answer but craving the sound of his voice. 

His hands were impatient, already tugging at the fabric between us, desperate to feel skin against skin.

"You," he breathed, his voice thick with desire. His lips moved to my neck, trailing sloppy, heated kisses down my body, each one sending shivers of anticipation through me.

"Then have me," I whispered, my fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer as I surrendered to the inevitable. "Take me."

His hands parted my legs, spreading them wide as he positioned himself. When he began to push inside me, the sudden intrusion made me gasp, my body reacting instinctively. My walls clenched around him, drawing him deeper, as that familiar, aching need built in my core.

He moved with a rhythm that was both demanding and intoxicating, each thrust driving me closer to the edge. I arched against him, meeting his movements with my own, our hips colliding in a primal dance that spoke of love, possession, and the insatiable hunger we had for one another.

"Yes, just like that," I murmured, my voice breathy with pleasure as he adjusted his angle, the tip of his length grazing a spot deep within me that made my entire body shudder.

His eyes locked onto mine, dark and intense.

"You feel so perfect," he growled, his voice thick with the kind of desire that bordered on obsession. "I could stay buried inside you forever."

It wasn't just lust, it was a desperate need, a hunger that could only be sated by knowing that in this moment, I was his and his alone.

A shiver ran through me at his words, my heart pounding in sync with the fierce rhythm of our bodies. 

"Then don't stop," I breathed, my nails raking across his back, leaving red marks in their wake. "I need you, all of you."

Each movement was precise, as though he were playing me like an instrument, drawing out the sweetest music with every thrust, every deep connection between us.

"You have all of me," he rasped, his voice strained with the effort of holding back, of prolonging the pleasure for both of us. "I'm yours, always."

I could feel the climax building, an unstoppable wave that threatened to crash over me, to pull me under and drown me in its depths. My grip on him tightened, nails biting into his flesh as I rode the edge of oblivion, his name spilling from my lips in a fervent chant.

"Let go," he urged, his voice rough, his breath hot against my ear. "Let me feel you come apart for me."

His words were my undoing. With one final, deep thrust, he pushed me over the brink, and I shattered. Pleasure exploded within me, a white-hot blaze that consumed every inch of my being. 

My body convulsed around him, my voice breaking into a cry of ecstasy as the world shattered into a million dazzling pieces. He followed me into that abyss, his own release crashing over him as he buried himself deep inside me, our bodies locked together in the throes of passion.

As the waves of pleasure slowly ebbed, we clung to each other, our breaths mingling, hearts pounding in unison. He pressed a tender kiss to my forehead, a contrast to the wild passion that had consumed us just moments before.

"You're mine," he whispered, his voice a vow in the quiet aftermath.

"And you're mine," I replied, my voice full of contentment as I nestled closer to him, our bodies still intimately connected.

In that moment, we knew that this was where we belonged—in each other's arms, bound by a love that was as dangerous as it was beautiful.

I am his, and he is mine. In the end, it's him and I.

A/n - Is somebody gonna match my freak (listen to Him and I by Halsey and G-eazy)

[devilmademewriteit]

Ultraviolence

pairing: raider!joel miller x fem!afab!reader

summary: thank god—a handsome stranger saves you from the grips of a pack of cruel, cruel men. unfortunately, said stranger, joel miller, is cut from the exact same cloth as the rest of them.

warnings: oh. boy. rough sex/smut (fem penetration, fingering, cum play if you squint) so 18+ only content; fem!afab!reader; raider!joel; canon typical violence; mentions of hair pulling/reader having long hair; light dacryphilia; age gap; pet names (baby, darlin’, sweetheart, girl); slapping, spanking, choking; !!!NONCON!!! (sexual violence/assault, coercion, allusions to more sexual abuse—Dead Dove, Do Not Eat y’all, protect yourselves).

word count: 4k+

no use of y/n in this fic

alright y’all!!! here is the non-con raider!joel fic!! stay tuned for the version coming out soon wherein Joel actually rescues the reader LOL join the taglist to be notified when I post it!!! y’all’s requests will quite legit be the death of me BUT this was fun to write so im not mad. this version is just purely depraved & Joel ‘Big Dick’ Miller is a mean mean man. wrote it pretty fast too so b nice 2 me.

love u all, sorry for searing your eyeballs:)

-em<3

—

The stucco prickles and tears at the flushed skin of your cheek, a reminder that it’ll be winter soon. The birds are sure of it, and most of them managed to get away before the frost stood a chance of nipping them.

You didn’t.

After a few years of non-stop struggle, losing everything but your own life, you figured there were worse ways to go. At least you would be… well—you, in the end.

In whatever shape this man and his leering group of accomplices left you in.

“Against the wall,” and his voice had been the crack of a whip, snapping by your ear as electricity shot up and down your spine, as the tingling realization that the chase was over—the jig, up—settled into your bones. “Spread your fuckin’ legs.”

There were more hounds around… waiting.

Always waiting.

They’d already gotten to your old, tattered clothes. The brisk air bites at your exposed skin, but at least the cold would account for the violent shivers wracking your limbs. Even as the beast pins you to the side of the decrepit house, forces himself between your knees, your primary preoccupation is to stifle your fear.

They’d get everything else on display—but they would never get to see that.

When the screaming starts, those confused grunts, huffs, and squelches of a blade carving into flesh, you mostly commend your own imagination:

“I did it. I’m in my happy place. This will be quick, then.”

But then a rough, unfamiliar hand grabs hold of your naked waist, flipping you around, slamming your spine against the frosty stucco.

This is real.

And you bear witness to his carnage.

He painted the side of the house into a mosaic of inter-mingling blood, splattered like a Pollock against the grass, the wrinkled clothes and the rugged face of your salvation.

His eyes rake over your still-trembling body before he wrenches a red-coated knife—never breaking eye-contact—from the throat of the man you’d been at the mercy of just a few seconds ago.

Blood gushes up from the fatal wound, and you both watch the cruel scene, mesmerized. The attacker’s eyes dull, all evil dissipating from that once-ferocious gaze. The rescuer’s big, wide hands flip him over, stripping him of his stained beige jacket. Then, he carelessly kicks the lifeless form face-down onto the yellowing grass.

“Put it on.”

You uncross your arms, snatching the coat from the stranger’s extended hands. It doesn’t bother you, its belonging to him.

He’s dead; you get his coat.

A fair exchange.

He keeps an eye on you as he sorts through the pickings: a few strips of dried meat here, a loaded gun there (two bullets in the clip—you watch as he checks), and a few good blades, stashed inside pockets, bags, and down shirt-fronts.

The man straightens up.

Tall.

“Get in front of me,” his low baritone strikes you, causing your knees to concede to a slight wobble. “You run, you die. Got it?”

Texan.

Slowly, you nod, and a firm grip circles your wrist, tearing you from the wall.

“Walk.”

Your heart hammers—near deafening in your ears—as the stranger stalks behind you, directing your trembling movements with brusque, snapped commands.

Finally, the scattered orangey-red leaves begin to multiply, the domestic remnants of a past civilization thinning. The neighborhood opens into a field; large oaks and slouching willows shiver under the weak glare of the afternoon sun.

There’s a house up there. It seems to be in alright shape (some things are built tougher than others) and it’s certainly a step up from a few of the more… unsavory places the outbreak had led you to.

Nearing it, you take not of how much it resembles a barn-house. Red, pentagonal roof, and a big, wide, brown front door.

Gingerly stepping a foot on the cracked wood of the porch, you turn to face your rescuer, uncertainty tying slippery knots in your tummy.

Because there’s clamour coming from inside. There’s people in there.

The momentary hesitation allows you to get a good look at your rescuer: he’s greying and dark—mixed, likely, or just disposed to a stubborn tan—and probably in his mid forties. Probably handsome, too, if it weren’t for the resident cruel scowl deepening his apathetic expression, or the violence dancing in his eyes.

A raise of his eyebrows.

“I tell you to stop?” He nods towards the looming house. “Move.”

But… you don’t.

“Are you gonna kill me?” and you’re downright shocked by the strength—the resignation—of your tone, the way the question comes out so matter-of-fact.

That sparse mustache crinkles in the corners, teasing into something wicked. “You want me to?”

“No.”

“So get movin’, then.”

That left little room for debate.

So, you turn, fingers and knees shaking with anxious anticipation. He cuts in front of you at the last minute, shoving the front door open with his knife at his side—for you or for something else, you’re not entirely certain.

He pulls you into the foyer by your forearm; to your great dismay, you’re faced with an entire group of middle-aged men. Killers—for sure—leering at you with that same starved, animalistic look your rescuer had fixed you with.

Then, he tosses the bag on the floor.

“Found ‘em by the school. Decent haul.”

Their eyes tilt to your shuddering frame, dwarfed by the jacket weighing down your shoulders. One of them looks strangely familiar, proud features reminding you of something else you were afraid of. “No shit, huh,” he commends, “Nice work, Joel.”

Joel.

As the shaggy-haired man speaks, his voice strikes familial resemblance, and it dawns on you. Your rescuer’s brother, or at the very least a cousin.

And what he says is a clearly marked taunt. That much is clear. Uttered with the kind of cruel camaraderie which collected on the tongues of men who committed acts of violence together.

Who hunted together.

And it’s obvious you’re not being rescued. Just… reclaimed. Redistributed.

Fuck.

Another voice joins the mix. “How much you think y’could get for her?”

Joel’s profile turns, harsh, brutal lines forming as he assesses you. “Depends,” and then—ohmothermary—he smirks.

“Gonna have to test her out first.”

A few snickers.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

You’re trapped with nowhere to go, once again surrounded by a gaggle of soulless monsters. Fear grips you, but thankfully, it’s muted, now, having been mostly expended during the harrowing events of the morning.

Just an hour ago, pressed to the side of an abandoned house, you’d allowed yourself to give up.

So, it feels easy—natural—settling back into that rhythm.

To submit to your inevitable, violent fate.

Joel’s voice cuts through the clamour of your racing thoughts. “Upstairs, the room with the open door. Go.”

Eyes glued to the floor, you put one foot in front of the other, your insides twisting and turning inside your core. Fuck, you can feel the pairs of eyes following you with every step you take. The stairs creak as your weight presses into them, squealing like wounded prey.

“N’ take that fuckin’ jacket off,” Joel calls after you, the echoes of his booming voice and the group’s degrading laughter chasing you all the way up into the room—the one with the open door.

And it’s nice, surprisingly. Dusty, admittedly, and clearly having belonged to someone else—a long, long time ago—but the bed is made, the window lets the light in, and the walls remind you of cinnamon.

No, this wouldn’t be the worst prison. Or the worst place to die. It’s a sure-fire step up from the gutter between two dilapidated houses.

You keep the jacket on, shivering under its weight. Even as you hear footsteps climbing the stairs, even as the more rational, civilized side of your mind urges you to accede to your (non)rescuer’s every command.

The conversation downstairs dies off just as Joel rounds the corner, appearing in the doorway—a giant. Though your stomach lurches, and though your legs feel like putty, you hold your ground.

“I’ll fight, you know,” you hiss, watching him seal off the entrance to the room behind him. His flannel has droplets of blood on the collar—reminders of your previous captor—would your other attacker have been a better option? Who’d be more merciful to your quivering body?

You charge your voice with every last modicum of strength at your disposal. “I’ll fight.”

He turns, smirking softly at your clenched fists. “S’good, sweetheart. I like a little fight.” He stalks towards you, swiping his thumb along the plushness of his bottom lip, his intimidating presence forcing your back to meet the flat hardness of the wall behind you.

So much for fighting.

There’s nothing living in his eyes as he says it—nothing save the roiling flames of hunger: “You see those guys downstairs?”

You glare up at him, trying not to notice the alluring hook of his nose, or the way your body works against you, responding to the earthy smell of him.

Then, you nod, wordlessly.

“Did you count ‘em?” He splays a hand beside your head, using one hand to pry your arms uncrossed.

Again, you nod. “How many?” He asks, his voice deceptively soft.

“Five.” Breathless.

“S’right, sweetheart. Ever had your lil’ holes stuffed by five guys at once?”

A swallow, and your voice cracks when you’re finally able to put it to use. “No.”

He pries your elbows to your sides, pulling the beige fabric open, revealing the torn remains of your underwear.

It’s almost a croon, feigned concern underpinning his low tone. “You wanna see what it’s like?” He drinks in the sight of your bare chest, almost groaning at the sight of your naked front.

It’s not cold anymore; no, suddenly you’re very hot.

“No, please, no.”

He slips the coat off of your shoulders, letting it fall in a heap to the ground. He assesses you once more: studying every square inch of your skin under his shadowed eyes.

“M’only gonna say this once, sweetheart.” All that fake-gentleness fades from his tone, replaced by the sadistic, authoritative timbre he’d first greeted you with. “I need you to be very careful.”

You’re frozen—all that fight, it drains out of you, captivated by the raider’s looming form, his mesmerizing speech.

“You’re alone, yeah?” A nod, which he acknowledges, trailing a hand up the length of your waist. “S’what I thought. N’ the way I found you today? That’s a best-case-scenario for a girl like you, out here on your own.”

He drags a finger up the centre of your breast, skilled fingertips just barely brushing the peaked nipple. You lean into his touch—the near imperceptible arch of your back doesn’t go unnoticed, and you kick yourself internally as the corners of his lips twitch up.

Still, the raider ignores your trembling.

“You’re mine, now,” he continues, egged on by your involuntary movement. “Means you’re gonna be a good girl n’ do as I say, n’ I’ll make sure I’m the only man who touches you.” His big hand drops to his heavy silver buckle, and the clearly defined, bulging lines underneath it have your heart clawing out of your chest. Joel senses your fear—and it only makes him harder. “I don’t like sharin’ what’s mine, y’know? But you try anything—you step outta line—I’ll throw you to my guys downstairs.”

His hand finds your throat, hunger and warning beating to the same rhythm in his gaze. “I have no problem watching.” He gives your larynx a squeeze, multitasking as he pulls the strap of his belt through the worn loops of his denim. “Understood?”

You have no words left, shaking from head to toe as the reality of the situation finally settles in.

As he works the intimidating weight of his cock out of his jeans.

A huff. Joel flips you over, impatient, pressing your scraped up cheek to the cinnamon-brown of the wall.

Déjà vù.

Your knees are separated by his own, and his weight flattens you. He wastes no time: lining himself up, his tip separates your folds. Resistance is futile—with one hand, he holds your thighs open—even as they try to press themselves closed, even as you whimper at the rough, male knuckles pressed to bruise on the insides of your legs.

Leaving his mark.

It’s not an option to simply take it. Joel forces you to participate in the sinful act: “I asked you a fuckin’ question,” he growls, gripping your chin indelicately. “You understand me, girl?”

A swallow and a flinch as you feel the head of his cock poke at your entrance. “Yes. Okay. Yes.”

“Yes, Joel,” he corrects. “Use my name. You’re mine now. Use my fuckin’ name.”

Tears prick the corners of your eyes at the promised savagery in his tone. Holding back a sob, you respond: “Yes, Joel.”

You watch his hand, large and capable, splaying out a mere inch away from the tip of your nose. “Good,” he commends. “Z’are the only fuckin’ words you know, from now on.”

His free hand slaps against your hip, yanking you down onto his hard length. Your hips buck up against his abdomen, responding to the pull of his fingertips, even as you cry out at the sting, the stretch. The raider tries to force himself between your walls—muttering a grunted “shit”—and thrusting up against your ass.

But you’re too tight, too tense, and your stubborn body refuses to open up for him. Finally listening to you.

“Relax,” he orders, surprisingly softly. He moves his hand from your hip to the apex of your thighs, rubbing rough circles against your clit. Fuck, how’d he find it so fast? You gasp at the feel of his fingertips against your most sensitive, touch-starved spot, hating yourself for the way his pressure makes you feel.

Because…

Because—fuck.

It feels… good. The man knows exactly what he’s doing—methodical in his ministrations, prepping you only enough to ensure his own eventual pleasure. “S’too tight, baby,” he breathes against your neck, “Need to loosen up for me, yeah?”

He’s not gentle. No part of it is gentle. Nonetheless, pleasure ripples through your centre and down your thighs as he effectively turns you on.

“Thaaaaaa’s right,” and his voice is mocking and taunting and degrading as he drags his digits away, grabbing and pulling at your breasts, instead. Feeling the involuntary release of your cunt, Joel finally pushes himself in, sheathing the long, thick length of his cock inside you.

“Need to show this pussy what it’s fuckin’ made for.”

A current of pain flutters up your cunt just as he fills it up to the brim. You can’t help it—your stoicism crumbles to dust—and a soft, scared, pained whimper tumbles from your lips.

And he groans at it, thrusting roughly, over and over again. And again. “Hurts, does it?”

His breath is hot against your ear, and despite the fear, the ancient instincts gripping your bones, telling you to run, run, run, fight, fight, fight—it’s… enticing.

Hot.

“It hurts.”

He laughs, low and dark, bringing his hands to circle your hips, steadying you as you stumble on your tip-toes.

“Cry about it.”

And he keeps on going, tearing you open. The way his girth touches every starved part of your insides leaves you wanting, even despite the sting of his fingernails biting into your hips, the tears and cuts stinging at your opening.

You hate yourself for it.

But you clench around him, stifling a pathetic moan.

God, no—I am not enjoying this.

He breathes another laugh. “Feelin’ full, baby? Tell me how good it feels, c’mon,” and your inhalations come in heaves as he pounds into you, delivering a harsh slap to the side of your hip, hard enough for your skin to ripple from the contact. “Do as I say.”

When you refuse to sate him, swallowing all of your little noises, Joel grips your throat, bringing your head slamming against his shoulder. Your back arches into a perfect crescent, spine contorting at his will. A gasped cry fans out against his salt-and-pepper jaw.

A sob—of fear, of frustration, of reluctant pleasure. “You’re evil.”

The grip on your throat tightens, and he looses another laugh, squeezing your skin, muscles, and tendons oh-so-tight.

You’d be wrecked, bruised—branded—come sunrise.

“Yeah?” He groans, cock slamming up into your very guts.

“M-mhmm—” and the saltwater tears start pouring, trailing glistening slopes down your cheeks in long, long lines. Distantly, you hear his answer—“Yeah, well, you’re wet”—as those silver droplets keep on falling. Where they come from, you aren’t certain; of course, the terror, the physical torture, and the frustration at your entrapment contribute to the mess under your eyes.

But that warmth… the unbridled desire radiating between your thighs… that wasn’t helping, either.

“Fuuuuck,” he groans, muttering another “S’it—s’right,” and releasing your throat to tilt your head up to face him. He drinks in his creation, the ruined sight of your tear-stricken face, and his cock swells between your beaten walls. “God, you look so fuckin’ pretty takin’ it from me—cryin’ like your lil’ pussy ain’t desperate for this.”

Joel smiles when you sob.

It goes on for a while. He doesn’t tire quickly, bringing you right up to the edge of reluctant ecstasy before you remind yourself of the hatred you owed the man fucking into you. You get used to the sound of his hips snapping against your skin, your cries mingling with his gravelly, low grunts. It’s a dirty, depraved symphony—orchestrated by the monster between your thighs.

You can’t help the moan that escapes your lips when he finally, finally brings his fingers back down between your legs. He grunts in approval, barely grazing the length of your folds, pressing his thumb into the delicate flesh of your thigh, instead. “Dirty lil’ girl—fuckin’ dyin’ to be an old man’s whore, z’that it?” and he doesn’t even touch you, focussed on his own pleasure, but the proximity alone is enough to have you wrecked.

And you just can’t help it: “J-joel—”

“Y’know,” he chuckles, slightly out of breath, slowing his strokes to address your wanton whine, “You’re gonna make such a good lil’ fuck-toy, baby, f’you keep makin’ those pretty lil’ noises for me.”

The reality of the situation comes barrelling down on you as he acknowledges—praises—your enjoyment of his torture.

This man… this man was cruel. He was hurting you, and enjoying it.

You struggle against him, a pathetic show of weakness. Joel holds you in place effortlessly, arching your back further, keeping your hips preened back to receive the harsh thrusts he delivers to your torn, ruined cunt. “Where you goin’?” He laughs at your pathetic attempt at resistance, grips tightening. “Thought we were havin’ fun, baby—don’t it feel good?”

And he quickens again, slamming into every needy spot inside you. His breaths grow shallow, as rough as his hands and the ferocity of this punishment.

“No,” you manage, fingernails digging into his forearm.

He tuts, the vocal click constricted with lust, and his hand travels the length of you, settling against that aching bud between your thighs. “Fuckin’ liar.”

He presses down, proving his point. Your entire body tenses as pleasure ripples through you—despite your best efforts, climax crests through your core, threatening to implode within you. Joel hums, smirking when he feels your legs parting even wider.

“S’mine now, alright? You’re mine now.” He crams every inch of his cock up inside you, pulling you flush against his chest. “S’okay to come for me—s’okay, baby, I want you to—s’fuckin’ right, let go for me, baby—” and his crooning takes you over the edge.

Christ, it feels so good.

You clench around him, high-pitched pleas and moans tumbling from your lips, his own pair dragging down the swoop of your ear. In that split second, Joel—the devil at your back—is your favourite thing in the world: your hero, your haven, your God. Fuck, you could just kiss him, marry him, fuck him over and over and over and over—

A hand clamps over your mouth during those brief, blissful moments; the man practically bounces you up and down the length of him, muffling the cries of pain and pleasure tearing from your sore throat against the rough skin of his palm. He groans inside your ear—a stammered, sinful “fuuuck”—and then he’s spilling his seed inside you, shoving it impossibly deep as those quick, harsh strokes stutter and slow.

You come to, waking up from your pleasure-drunk daze. Before you get the opportunity to wriggle away from him, the monster flips you over again, slamming your shoulders to the wall. With his forearm barring your chest, and despite your fear and ire—somehow, all you can think about is the fact that he’s not as out of breath as he really should be (given his age and, of course, what he’d just done to you).

Joel leaks out of you. His cum paints masterpieces down your legs.

He slides his free hand down the length of his cock, collecting the last bits of slick clinging to him and not dripping out of you. The intermingling juices are brought to the roundness of your breasts—the raider slathers your sore peaks with his own spend.

“Nobody’s gonna fuck with you—but that means you’re Joel’s girl. Hear me?” With your head bowed, you glare up at him through silver-lined spider lashes, shame beating at your cheeks. When you hum your acknowledging “uh-huh,” the stranger continues on, gripping your jaw to angle your gaze up: “Means you listen—you-you don’t fuckin’ try me—n’ you take everything I give you, every fuckin’ time. Understand?” He tucks his softening length back in his pants, dark eyes dancing with satisfaction as he leers at your destroyed form.

When you don’t respond, he brings the back of his punishing hand colliding with the side of your face.

Something between a squeal and a gasp tumbles from your lips; Joel catches it, placing the pad of his thumb to your bottom lip, pressing down. Your cheek stings from his harsh slap, delivered on top of the scrapes and wounds a different cruel man had left upon your skin.

“I don’t wanna hurt you, baby, but I will f’I have to,” and he’s earnest, commanding and pleading at once. “You gotta answer me.”

Slowly, you croak out a timid, “Yes,” and an “I understand,” followed by a final “Joel.”

Nodding, he straightens, the violence in his gaze fading just minutely. When he lets go, you stagger—the raider senses the instability of your knees, reflexively snaking a steadying arm around your waist.

You’re not sure where the impulse comes from. Perhaps it’s exhaustion, the aftermath of your orgasm, or maybe it’s just a sick, twisted desire to sink into something beyond your body—either way, you respond to Joel’s support by throwing your arms around his neck.

And he responds by lifting you, walking you over to the bed, and tossing you down on the sheets. Awakening into reality, you scamper back, grabbing and yanking at the surrounding bedding in a desperate attempt to cover yourself.

But Joel pays you no mind.

Having had his way, he’s through with you—for now. Nonchalantly, apathetically, he runs a hand through his hair, tracing heavy steps towards the door.

“Lock the door when I leave,” he instructs, but his tone is soft… possessive and commanding, yes, but… caring. “Don’t open it for anyone but me.”

He waits for your show of understanding, your near imperceptible nod.

Then, he sighs, yanking on the handle and giving you his final address over a pair of creaky, squeaky, rusted hinges. “Try to sleep, sweetheart—got a long night ahead of you.” Chuckling to himself, he leaves the sanctuary of the room.

All you can hear as your body grows heavy and warm, travelling somewhere far, far beyond this violent world are the echoes of male laughter down the hall, and a familiar, satisfied, gravelly voice:

“Not worth much, now. Might just fuckin’ keep her.”

And you slip away, dreaming of belt buckles, blood-stained collars, and the lung-squeezing heat of the setting Texan sun.

—

He used to call me DN

That stood for deadly nightshade

'Cause I was filled with poison

But blessed with beauty and rage

Jim told me that

He hit me and it felt like a kiss

Jim brought me back

Reminding me of when we were kids

With his ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

I can hear sirens, sirens

He hit me and it felt like a kiss

I can hear violins, violins

Give me all of that ultraviolence

He used to call me poison

Like I was poison ivy

I could've died right then

'Cause he was right beside me

Jim raised me up

He hurt me but it felt like true love

Jim taught me that

Loving him was never enough

With his ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

I can hear sirens, sirens

He hit me and it felt like a kiss

I can hear violins, violins

Give me all of that ultraviolence

We can go back to New York

Loving you was really hard

We could go back to Woodstock

Where they don't know who we are

Heaven is on earth

I would do anything for you, babe

Blessed is this union

Crying tears of gold, like lemonade

I love you the first time

I love you the last time

Yo soy la princesa, comprende mis white lines

'Cause I'm your jazz singer

And you're my cult leader

I love you forever

I love you forever

With his ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

I can hear sirens, sirens

He hit me and it felt like a kiss

I can hear violins, violins

Give me all of that ultraviolence

—

TAGLIST: @millllenniawrites @inkedells @stardust-chords-enthusiast @mattmurdocksgirlfriend @bookofbee @liviloo12346 @anyas-stuff @readingsunshine97 @maudlinflowers @sullysflm @sexygaypalpatine @livyjh @s-unflowxr @lostsoldieronahill @chapterhappygirl @raeluvshammett @silkiers @jupitersmoon-cal @supernaturaldean67 @razrsharpwhiteteeth @peqchsoup @corrodedcherries @hawsx3 @monboudoir @theonewithacrush @pono-pura-vida @sallymilkweed @fruitcupsworld @mads-grace4 @ayehomo @dzaga890 @killerrxger @niallsbunny @cilliansangel @snowyarcher @grnherbs @mswarriorbabe80 @tercabed @sweettea-and-honeybutter @bbyanarchist @thisgirl-knm @pedrit0-pascalit0

TAGS WILL CONTINUE IN A REBLOG (there are simply too many of you & I don’t want this post to crash <3)

[imjustdelusionalok]

yandere dc fic idea: koyanskaya! reader <3

i love love LOVE the thought of sly little fox minx reader, and especially if they're based on one of my favs from another fandom, fgo <33 i know koyanskaya is more like a rabbit but for the sake of staying faithful to character they are a fox! the ever beautiful and extremely hardworking boss of NFF services... now turned into a still bewitching secretary at the measly wayne industries?! (the inner fox in you has fainted from pure shame...) but without a doubt, you shall serve your boss master with all your best! (no matter how much you wish to squish them like the bug they are...)

and also, koyanskaya! reader having some sort of relations with the heroes and villains in metropolis?! i could see her luring and manipulating a very familiar snobby metropolitan billionaire, (ahem, lex luthor) like fish to bait, reminiscent to how koyanskaya fooled goredolf in fgo you know? a fuming lex, seeing his stunning former secretary now serving one of his biggest enemies and vowing to put the fox woman in her place... (as if tbh, as he'd get his ass bitten by her beast form)

as for her lovely endearing yanderes, of course we would have the batboy, the superboys, even the flash kids (especially thaddeus, i love love love that miserable little brat) and of course, her boss-master, bruce wayne <3 but theres is plenty more to come ofc so stay tuned!!

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

the concept of love is foreign to a beast like you, as you yourself was born from humanity's own wickedness, and all the earth's slaughtered beast's vengeful cries... leading you to granting the latter's wish as you are a beast first, a person(?) second. you love only yourself and carnage, and supposedly hate everything else. but... maybe... these entertaining humans might make your time worthwhile and who knows, might even start making you rethink your goals twice...

"...mercy, huh." two words from your lips, and now the color of your eyes were stained in molten gold, a sign of your divinity. a guileful smile falls upon your lips, befitting the fox woman you are meant to be. your eyes glances to the front, where your boss was no longer a man, but a bat as nighttime strikes.

"...interesting."

[macabr3-barbi3]

No Mercy

week 4!!! let's fucking go!!!

COME LOOK AT OUR MASTERLIST BY @synamartia IT'S GORGEOUS

SHOUT OUT TO ALL OF MY WIVES @hazelfoureyes @sugoi-writes @minkdelovely @fraugwinska (WHO MADE ALL OF MY BANNERS AND I LOVE HER AND HER LOVELY BRAIN SO MUCH)

Summary: Adam gets enough of you mouthing off during training and picks a fight. Tags: hate sex, oral sex (male receiving), fighting

You knew Adam was getting a little sick of you- but what was the point in being part of his special inner circle of angels if you couldn’t have a little fun with it?

You had mouthed off to him again, and in all honestly you felt that it was a fair question; what did he even do during the exterminations while everyone else was causing mayhem? From what you heard from the others when you joined the ranks, he usually just flitted around watching the carnage or hovered near the portal back to Heaven without contributing anything himself. So after weeks of asking during training, despite the lieutenant telling you in no uncertain terms to drop it, you finally phrased it a little differently.

“What, are you too weak to actually participate?”

You knew he wasn’t. You could see the muscles that flexed beneath his robes while he watched the girls training, the unparalleled power in his wings when he brought them out. Sometimes it just felt good to stir a reaction out of him, to have a strong emotion aimed your way from a powerful being. And yeah, maybe you were hoping a little bit that the constant questioning would eventually prompt him to give you and the rest of the girls a show- you weren’t the only one that thought your commander was sexy as sin, and a casual show of strength would send everyone through the roof.

Perhaps this was a step too far though.

Lute audibly gasped, as did the rest of your squadron. “Recruit, that is unacceptable,” she hissed, and took a step forward to reprimand you when a large hand on her shoulder stopped her in her place.

“Relax, Danger Tits. I’ll handle it. All of you- clear out.” His mask is calm, aloof, but you can see the twitch of the graphics on his eyes that betray his true emotions. He was pissed.

With no one else daring to question him, everyone including Lute was gone in seconds, leaving only you and Adam on the mats of the training room. He slowly strips his robes off, a simple white tanktop and sweatpants underneath his holy getup. You might have drooled a little at the sight of his bare skin, tendons tensing beneath the surface as he drops the clothing and stretches; he was built like a fucking bear, all compact muscle and wiry hair along his chest and arms, the hint of a stubbly shadow that peeked out beneath the edges of his mask.

You’re distracted from your observation of him when he tosses a spear your way- not one of the official, angelic spears, but the shitty ones used for training. His own hands were empty. “You think I’m weak? Alright, bitch, you fucking asked for it. Come at me.”

You stutter backwards a step, having expected some yelling; not a challenge. “What?”

“You fucking heard me. Swing the goddamn spear.”

Normally you would balk at such a demand- Lute would have your ass if she knew you had swung on Adam even in a joking manner. But Adam looked like he meant business, and he was technically a higher ranking commanding officer than Lute, so…

You swing the spear at him the way you had been taught to take down larger demons- aim for extremities to disarm first, and then go for a killing blow. He dodges with a simple turn of his heel, using his fingers in a ‘come on’ motion and urging you to swing again. But as soon as the spear is within Adam’s reach he has a hold of it, tugging hard from the tip- the force of the action drags you closer to him so he can spew bullshit at you. “You think I’m fucking weak?” He presses a finger to your shoulder and pushes, sending you tumbling back and tripping over yourself to the floor. His grip on the spear tightens with a sickening crunch before he lets it clatter to the ground looking like kindling. “Me? I’m the whole reason you’re here, bitch, and you think you have any business to fucking question me?” He squares his feet, arms lifted in front of him like a shield. “Come on! You’re tough enough to talk all this shit but you won’t actually fight? I’ll kick you off the squad right fucking now.”

You get up and charge him, managing to get one blow between his arms against his chest before he’s laughing and shoving you back again to land hard on your ass. Again, and this time you don’t even get a hit in before he pushes back and you fall. Again. Again. He shows you no mercy every time he knocks you to your ass, laughing like it’s a game and hardly even using his strength to push you around. You climb to your feet this time, and the first true whisper of anger curls around your head like smoke to combat the faint heat you feel at being the sole focus of his attention with no one else around to witness it. He hadn’t even broken a sweat, while your breath was coming hard, sweat dripping down your face from the exertion. You feel your face set into a snarl as you rush him this time, swinging a leg instead of your fist and aiming below the belt.

Bad sportsmanship maybe, but so was laughing in your face every time you failed to strike him.

It doesn’t matter- he catches your leg behind the knee like he had caught the spear, pulls you closer in a similar fashion, and wraps a hand around your throat. His wings open up behind him, and in a move so quick you’re not entirely sure how it happened, he’s managed to flip the pair of you into the air and slam you hard into the ground.

The air is knocked out of you, something not helped by the hand that rests on your airways, and the motion has dislodged Adam’s mask- he shakes his head to fling it off, and you’re greeted with his actual face, scruffy and rugged and too handsome for how close your bodies are- and you were right about how easy this was for him, not the slightest hint of moisture along his hairline. Adrenaline courses in your veins, demanding movement and action that you can’t attempt with Adam’s weight settled on top of you, still holding the leg he had caught at an uncomfortable angle hear his hip. It mixes dangerously with the arousal you’ve felt this entire time, making you want to do something stupid and telling like rubbing yourself against one of his thick thighs while he squeezed softly at your neck.

“Low blow to go for my dick,” he admonishes as he lets go of your leg and it slams back to the ground. “All that trash you talk and look how fucking easy it was to get you pinned under me. Still think I’m fucking weak?” His fingers flutter around your throat as he repositions, the action sending a blush racing to your face and spreading to your collarbone. He doesn’t miss it, a cruel smirk taking over his handsome features while he looks down at you. “So that’s the deal, huh? You just wanted a fucking excuse for me to manhandle you a little bit? You kinky bitch.”

“Fuck you,” you snap at him, trying to turn your blushing face away, and he releases a single finger from the grip around your neck to dig into your cheek and turn you back to face him. The move is such a casual show of his strength that it makes you swallow hard, unable to clench your thighs together with him between them.

“You wish,” he laughs, his eyes bright and mischievous, and he uses his free hand to grab the length of his cock through his sweatpants, a dark patch where the tip rested against the fabric. “Shit, knowing you’re getting off on this is hot as fuck- but being a mouthy brat doesn’t get you fucking rewarded, so here’s what we’re gonna do.” He finally releases your throat, allowing you to suck in a lung full of air while he stands before he offers a hand to you. He only helps you up from the mat as far as your knees before he pulls away, crossing his arms over his burly chest. “You’re either gonna leave- and stop fucking questioning me during training, or I really will kick you off the team- or you’re gonna put that fucking mouth of yours to good use for once."

Like there was any question about that. 

You settle more comfortably onto your knees and wait, but he doesn’t do anything more than pulling his waistband down below his cock and stroking it in front of you. And fuck, it was going to be a generous mouthful, the girth of him impressive even in Adam’s huge hands, if he ever got around to doing anything about it. “Are you going to do something with that,” you snark, and his eyes narrow. “Or do you have to wait for the women in your life to do everything for you-”

He takes the opportunity your open mouth presents him and thrusts his hips forward, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat, triggering the muscles there to clench hard before he retreats until just the tip is left in your mouth. “I was hoping you’d take some fucking initiative,” he snaps, “but I guess just like with the fighting you’re all bark and no bite. If you want me to just use you like a fucking slut then that’s what I’ll do.”

He applies the slightest bit of pressure to the hinge of your jaw to get you to open up wider, and this time his entry is slow and controlled as he fills your mouth with the heavy weight of his cock, the taste of him salty and dark across your tongue. You moan around him, the sound unable to escape with how fully he takes up the space between your lips, and the vibrations make his hips jerk.

You reach a hand up to wrap around the substantial length that you don’t have in the wet cavern of your mouth yet, and he reprimands you with a harsh tug on your hair. When you glare up at him, he smirks; his golden eyes are a little glazed over, a flushed tint to his cheeks. “No fucking hands,” he tells you. “You got yourself into this with just your mouth, that’s how you’re gonna get out of it, too.” He keeps his grip on your locks to guide your head, pulling you further down onto his cock with a guttural groan tearing from his throat. Your own throat tenses at the intrusion, a blockage of your air from the inside rather than the out, and your eyes water at the strain of trying to breathe through your nose before he pulls out enough that you can breathe again.

It’s so fucking good. You don’t think he would react kindly to you slipping a hand under your training shorts so you refrain from doing so, instead simply rocking your hips against nothing while you let him use you to take out his frustrations- fair enough, since you had caused them.

Adam keeps a steady rhythm while he fucks your face, your mouth open and lax for him to use as he pleases; only occasionally does he push in a little further, letting the head of his cock dip into the wet clutch of your throat and bump against your soft palate. “That’s fucking right,” he pants as he notices the tears that stream down your cheeks- he uses the thumb of the hand still holding your mouth open to brush an errant drop away from your cheekbone. “You look good like this- fuck, I would have let you choke on my cock sooner if I knew that’s what was gonna finally shut you the fuck up.” You feel the thick vein along the bottom of his length jump with his words where it rubs against your tongue and you know he’s close, the thought of it making you whine around him.

He grunts at the feeling, hips losing their steady movements and his hand tightening in your hair, yanking your head forward and back over him- and then he pulls completely out suddenly, his fist clenched tight around the base of his cock. “Say you fucking want it,” he demands, tugging your hair so your heads tilts enough that you have nowhere to look but at him. Sweat drips down his forehead and chest, darkening the fabric of his shirt so you can see the coarse hair beneath it. “Say you want my cum and maybe I’ll give it to you, even though you don’t fucking derserve it. Come on.” He bumps the head of his cock against your lips and your tongue darts out to greet it, the shock of salt across your tongue enough to break your resolve. 

“Please,” you whisper desperately, your voice raspy and rough from how long Adam had been at it. “Fuck, please, Adam-”

“You gonna stop fucking talking back to me? Questioning me?” His hand resumes a slow stroke, the tip glistening with fluid that drips onto the mats below you when he pulls away from your eager tongue.

Fuck no. Not when this was the result it got you. “Not in front of the rest of the squad?” You offer as a compromise, and you can see him considering it before he relents. He wanted your mouth back on him more than he wanted a promise of peace- and honestly, you think he kind of likes the sass.

He parts your lips with his prick again, pushing deep with a single thrust. “I’ll take it,” he groans, and his hips are pistoning once again, not being as careful about not choking this time as he chases his release with the slick hole your mouth provides him. “Fuck, I’m gonna fucking cum- fuck, yes-”

He swells in your mouth and spills himself. There’s a couple hot pulses of spend that shoot down your throat and coat your tongue, the last couple of shots streaking across your face and lips when he pulls back, still fisting his cock to coax the last drops out and onto your lips.

The taste is thick and bitter, lingering long after you’ve swallowed. But you’ve never been so turned on in your life, the ache between your thighs transforming into an inferno at the look he gives you, still rocking your hips against the air. He drops to his knees on the mat with you, shoving his hand under the waistband of your training shorts and tracing the folds of your pussy with his thick fingers. “Fuck me, that’s hot,” he mutters. “You got like this just letting me toss you around and suck me off, huh? You want my fingers?” You nod, face flaming, and he brushes the pad of a digit across your clit, your hips jolting. “You want my cock?”

“Please,” you murmur, the sound soft, your head dropping onto his shoulder. “Please, Adam.”

His head turns, lips against your ear as he whispers- “that’s too fucking bad.” And then his hand is yanking out of your shorts and he’s standing, the movement dislodging your head against his shoulder and tipping you sideways onto the mat. From your vantage point on the floor, you see that cocky smirk of his is back in place despite the sweat that drips from his hairline, the flush of his cheeks after a damn good orgasm. “Fucking told you in the beginning that being a mouthy brat doesn’t get rewarded- you have fun taking care of that yourself.” He points finger-guns towards your shorts before bringing the hand he had dipped into your panties to his mouth, and the sputter of indignation you manage doesn’t get much farther than your throat as he sucks your slick from his digits with a mean wink. “Let’s try this again sometime when you learn how to show some respect to your fucking superiors.”

By the time you’ve managed to get yourself back into a somewhat upright position, he’s scooped his mask and robes off the floor and flown out of the training room. The slam of the door echoes in the now empty space, along with your frustrated groan as you fall onto your back.

[starmapz]

shame on me || chapter eight || understanding

gojo satoru x female vessel reader

❝gojo satoru is the strongest sorcerer. when you come along with power to match his own, his responsibility to the world gets the best of him and his first impression is poor to say the least. when he needs your help, by some miracle you're too kind to deny him. or maybe he's just manipulative enough to convince you. either way, you're stuck training his student, a vessel like you. what could possibly go wrong?❞

warnings || 18+ only. contains explicit content. enemies to lovers. extreme angst. graphic descriptions of injury and death. hurt/no comfort. hurt/comfort. fluff. major character death. anxiety. panic attacks. extreme slow burn. eventual smut. p in v. oral (f! and m! receiving). praise. overstimulation. unprotected. fingering. mating press. slight nanami x reader. happy ending!

additional tags || gojo is a dumbass but very lovable. very very very minor love triangle, will not be a main theme. no competing. takes place after season 2. au where gojo is not sealed and the shibuya incident does not go down the same. nanami is alive. choso is around. no major manga spoilers but will contain themes and ideas touched on later.

wc || 8.1k.

edited but not beta-read.

series masterlist || main masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter

“I think if they keep ordering him to kill the people he cares about, he’s gonna snap.”

“Domain Expansion. Infinite Void.”

Gojo’s voice is eerily devoid of its usual nonchalance, even devoid of the warmth you’ve come to know from him. The words carry a weight familiar to any sorcerer. His grip on your shoulder tightens and although you know you’re safe from his sure-hit domain, the realization brings no comfort.

His chest is rising and falling as quickly as his heart is pounding in his chest as his warm breath fans the top of your head. His breathing grows quicker, deeper, and you feel his lips brush the top of your head, before he’s gone from your side entirely.

It all happens so fast, you don’t have time to register exactly what happens. You hear a gasp, a cry, a growl. Each one followed by the slumping sound of a body hitting the floor. With wide eyes, you turn to face the sorcerer when the sixth sound rings in the air of the still room.

Standing only a couple of feet away is Satoru, but there’s no warmth, no cunning smirk, not even a cold and calculated glare across his features. He’s panting heavily through his parted lips, blood spattered across his face. The crimson liquid drips from stained white locks, coming to land on his shoes beneath him.

Before you have a chance to take a look around at the damage, the lives fading from the room, Gojo lifts his head, an eerily unfamiliar look in those blue eyes of his. He doesn’t look like himself, wide eyes filled with a seething anger like fire raging through a forest. Like nothing can quell the flames that had ignited.

Still, he teleports to your side, wrapping an arm around you as he guides you out of the room. He makes a point of using his body to block you from the sight of the room, guiding you away from the carnage as he closes the door behind him.

Now out of the room, you turn to observe him. You aren’t sure if the move he made was the right or wrong one. You don’t have enough information to truly judge the higher-ups, although you disagreed with their methods. But still, they were people. People who sentenced you to death without ever considering giving you a chance. The moment the sentence was given, you knew your fate had been decided for you the moment you had entered the room. 

As you realize that, you know Gojo knew that too. That’s why he had insisted on remaining in the room, this was the plan he had always had in mind all along. Whether he knew he would snap or not, he always knew this would be the outcome.

Whether it was the right call or not, you weren’t sure.

You just knew that the lack of mercy he’d displayed towards them scared you.

But looking up at those crystalline blue eyes now, glinting with an anger you’d never before witnessed in him or anyone, you recognize something.

The way the pads of his fingers grip your shoulder like he was holding onto you for dear life, the way he positions his body to prevent you from seeing the carnage behind him, the way the anger behind his eyes glints with something else, something more. He’s scared, too.

“Gojo?”

Chest still heaving, his furious eyes flicker to you, but they seem to look through you, like he isn’t all there.

“Are you… okay?”

He doesn’t answer. It’s a foolish question, but it’s all you can think to say. You inhale sharply, turning to face him as you pull out of his grasp. Examining his expression, you tug your lip between your teeth.

Thoughts race through your mind as you try to think of something, anything, that might help, but you don’t know the man standing before you. Despite being at the school for several months now, he never let you get to know him. You never bothered. You were both always at odds with one another.

“Gojo, I-” you hesitate when he reaches out to grip your forearm. “They’re…” Dead. You don’t dare voice your concerns. “What if that was the wrong move, what if-”

“There was no other option,” he practically snarls, pulling you closer still to him as you flinch. His anger isn’t directed at you, rather he seems to be protecting you, even from himself.

Staring down at his hand on your arm, you realize he’s shaking. The vicious fury blazing within him is enough to strike fear into anyone who would witness him, but as he grips your arm for dear life, you know your fear pales in comparison to what he was going through.

Fiddling uncomfortably with the hem of your shirt with your spare hand, you recall the one thing Gojo had thought to do when you needed comfort and he didn’t know what to do. Maybe he’d done it because he needed it too.

Closing the small distance between you, you wrap your arms around his tall form, his pounding heart beating hard in your ear. His heart rate seems to increase for a moment as he stiffens, before slowly wrapping his arms around your core. Gradually, his breathing slows and returns to normal, his chin dropping to rest on your head.

Woodsy and sweet scents mingle with the stark smell of iron stained into his clothes as you inhale shakily. You don’t dare move, working through your own emotions as you let him do the same.

You couldn’t deny that you were scared, but as he finally pulls back and those familiar blue eyes are no longer looking through you but at you, you knew he needed someone in that moment as much as you had needed someone moments ago on death’s door.

In a strange twist of fate, it seemed you needed one another. Your fates entwined.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers breathlessly, terror ripping through the flames of anger. “It was the only option- I- I- I’ve thought of everything, I-” He heaves a breath in, running a hand through his hair and pulling at it as he leans his head back in thought. “I just-” his voice is low, a burly growl. “I can’t let them keep sentencing people to death every time they’re scared-”

Lips pressed into a thin line, you watch his frantic movements as he continues to ramble.

“-as soon as something inconveniences them-”

“Gojo.”

“-make it my problem to do their dirty work-”

“Gojo,” you try again to get his attention, uncertainly reaching up to set a hand on his arm as it falls back to his side after he flings it into the air while rambling. He doesn’t seem to notice your touch as he flails his arm in the air again.

“-I’m nothing more than a- a-”

“Satoru!” You call his name again, firmly placing your hand on his chest to get his attention. He seems shocked, blinking down at you. “It’s okay.”

He purses his lips at the sympathetic smile you offer as you realize what’s going through his head. Yuta had been right all along. He did care. He wasn’t afraid of the repercussions of his actions against the higher-ups, there was something else he was afraid of, and though you weren’t sure you believed it yourself, it was undeniable.

“We’ll figure things out, okay?” You wait for his nod before continuing. “Let’s get out of here,” you move your hand from his chest to tug on his sleeve and urge him to follow you. The walls of the narrow hallway feel as though they’re about to cave in on you and you can’t bear to stand so close to the room now barren of life.

He stays a short distance behind you, letting you lead the way down winding halls out to Ijichi, waiting outside the car. Ijichi turns to face the two of you, eyes wide as he sees the crimson stains in Gojo’s hair.

“Jujutsu Tech, please, Ijichi,” you tell him with a smile. He nods solemnly as he gets in the car.

The ride back is silent save for the sounds of the road and the consistent chirping of the summer cicadas. Your gaze remains out the window for the duration of the trip, thoughts racing through your mind.

Despite the silence, it’s strangely comfortable beside Satoru, and you realize for the first time since your first meeting, you know where you both stand with one another.

He seems to be on edge sitting beside you, leg bouncing while his hands fiddle with anything in reach in an attempt to ease his overactive thoughts.

As Ijichi pulls into the school, you slide out of the car and the silence follows you to the cabin, broken only by the excited barks of Taro at your return. He comes up to you both, body wagging from side to side with his tail at the sight of not just you, but also Gojo.

He cracks an uncertain smile at the pup before grumbling something about taking a shower and disappearing into the washroom before you have a chance to talk to him. You want to reach out and talk to him, but he’d practically bolted out of reach.

Letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, you bring your hands up to rub your face, the emotions you’d been holding back for the sake of staying strong pouring out. Making your way to the guest room, you shed yourself of the day’s clothes, throwing on an oversized T-shirt and shorts, throwing your hair up into a bun and collapsing on the bed.

You aren’t sure how long you stare at the ceiling when the washroom door across the hall clicks and Gojo exits, pulling a white T-shirt over his head. Gray sweats hang low on his lips, his toned abs visible for a brief moment as Gojo pulls the shirt on. He doesn’t seem to notice you as he rakes a hand through his snowy locks and throws on his sunglasses, looking out at the living room and kitchen.

Realizing you aren’t there, the dove-haired man swivels to face your room. Too tall to fit through the doorway, he ducks as he pokes his head into the room. His eyes bore into you from behind his glasses, a more put-together expression on his face than earlier.

“Hey, uh-”

“Thanks for not killing me,” you blurt out, accidentally interrupting him.

He chuckles dryly, shooting you a half-hearted smirk. “You didn’t think I would, did you?”

“Do you want the answer to that?”

His brow raises, though he catches the teasing lilt to your voice. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, slowly making his way to the edge of the bed to sit a small distance from you. The bed dips under his weight and he pushes his hand through his hair once more to keep it out of his face.

You let out a shaky laugh. “When?”

He catches your meaning and purses his lips. “When you thought I was gonna kill you,” he pauses, “and when I-” killed them. It doesn’t need to be said. He eyes your reaction, chewing on his lip. “I didn’t have a choice.”

You always have a choice, you want to insist, but you stay quiet. Of course it scares you that he was so willing to kill, but you also had him to thank for still being alive.

As if he can read your mind, he continues. “I know that’s a bullshit excuse, but someone wasn’t leaving that room and I-” he clears his throat to prevent himself from choking on his words. “I’ll be damned if it was you.”

You blink in surprise at the honest admission, whether fueled by genuine care or guilt.

“‘Sides, Miriko’d have my head if they got you.” He shoots you a lopsided smile.

“Your head would be the least of your concerns, Six Eyes,” Miriko chimes in from the back of your hand before disappearing.

Gojo huffs, entertained.

“It’s… okay.” You struggle to find words, still a bit scared at the other side of him you’d seen.

“There would never be an end,” he begins, “to the killing, if I didn’t end it myself.” You aren’t sure if he’s trying to convince him or you. “Yuta, Itadori, you…” he sighs.

“I understand,” you whisper, knowing the unsaid name of Geto hung on the tip of his tongue.

Gojo’s eyes close for a moment as he lets out a breath, relieved to find you hadn’t run off.

“What’s gonna happen now, with the higher-ups gone?” You ask quietly, looking up at his tired blue eyes.

“Dunno,” he admits. “The Shibuya incident left us pretty dry of sorcerers. The old asshole in charge of Kyoto will probably take over.”

“Is that… good?” You tilt your head.

“Not sure,” he sighs in exasperation. “Zen’in, Kamo, the old man,” he lists, “at the end of the day they’re the lesser evil, I guess.”

“Will you be in trouble?” You ask, gasping with realization. “Will they send someone after you?”

“They mighta been foolish enough to go after you, but they aren’t foolish enough to go after me.” There’s a small smirk on his lips.

“Awh, does that mean you think I’m strong?” You tease, kicking your feet playfully.

Something shines in Satoru’s eyes as he watches your movements, his eyes crinkling in the corners as he smiles at you. The moment lasts a second too long and you hum, wondering what’s going through his mind. He coughs, mumbling a ‘sorry’ before responding.

To your surprise, he responds in earnest with a chuckle. “You kidding? You’re terrifying when you wanna be.” He leans back on your bed, staring at the ceiling. He doesn’t see your wide-eyed shock from where he lays.

You let the moment hang, your brow knit together in thought.

“Why choose me?”

“Hm?” He props himself up on an elbow. “You or the old hags that told me to kill my students? We went over this.”

“No I know that, but-” you hesitate, the strange feeling of his lips brushing the top of your head replaying in your mind over and over. Maybe it was nothing, but the rational part of you can’t let it go. “You protected me.”

He blanches, eyes flickering to the side. “I was just doing what felt right.”

Your heart sits in the pit of your stomach, nerves chilling your spine. What felt right? That answers less questions than it poses. Your lips part, only to watch Satoru spring to his feet, practically dashing to the door.

“Lessons start back up tomorrow. We need a plan to defeat Sukuna,” he abruptly shuts the door, leaving you further confused than you were before as thoughts race through your mind.

Watching in silence as he closes your door behind him, you furrow your brow. Why did it seem as though he kept running from you?

You swallow hard, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. The only question racing through your mind parts your lips as you whisper to yourself.

“What the hell?”

–

Another sleepless night, another early coffee.

Moonlight pours through the living room window, illuminating the tabletop where your phone sits. The exhaustion deep within your bones is undeniable, yet sleep doesn’t seem to come. Even sitting with legs pulled to your chest on the couch and your dog at your feet, the world feels so daunting.

The feeling of facing the world alone had returned when Nanami left, and slowly but surely you had felt as though you were getting somewhere with those emotions, but now you weren’t so sure. Gojo’s words from earlier hung in the air around you like a fly, unable to shake the feeling he meant something deeper. Not to mention the fact that Gojo, one of the most confident and cocky people you knew, had seemed to lose his edge twice now in one day, running from you.

Worse yet, was the undeniable realization that you felt no fear towards him. In spite of his actions earlier and the fact that death was something that seemed to plague and suffocate you, you felt oddly safe around him. Albeit a bit confused.

It was all too much. The questions, the uncertainty, the anxiety following the meeting with the higher-ups. It all loomed over you like a monster threatening your sanity.

Your head snaps to the stairs as Gojo makes his way down to the kitchen, his hair disheveled as though he’d spent the entire night raking his hand through it. His top half is barren, toned chest and abdomen on display and to your surprise, your eyes trail down his built figure. His usual blindfold covers his eyes and you wonder if he can see at all in the darkness, neither of you bothering to flick on a light.

Your question is answered quickly as he notices there’s coffee made and tilts his head, jumping when he notices you in the living room.

“Shit! I didn’t realize you were awake.” He holds a hand up to his chest in shock.

“Isn’t the whole deal with your Six Eyes thing that you can see everything?”

He chuckles, looping a finger under the material and pulling it down. “That’s the point of the blindfold. Can’t use all my cursed energy just lookin’ at you- around. Lookin’ around.” He clears his throat. “I didn’t hear you make coffee.”

“I didn’t,” you tell him, giggling as he wrinkles his nose at the bitter and very cold coffee he’s just sipped.

“The hell are you drinking this for?” He asks, dumping the mug and then the pot of coffee down the sink before beginning a new brew.

“Didn’t want to wake you up,” you shrug, fiddling with the mug of cold coffee in your hand.

Noticing your movements, Satoru strides over to you and pulls your mug from your hands. With a click of his tongue, he’s dumping that down the sink too.

“Hey! I was drinking that,” you complain, though he does have a point.

“Don’t be stubborn,” he scolds, smiling happily when Taro hops down from the couch with a wagging tail, demanding pets with small whines. Gojo kneels down, scratching behind his ears.

“That’s a sight I never thought I’d see,” you gape.

“What can I say? I’m charming,” the sorcerer grins, chuckling as he catches you rolling your eyes. He mumbles some happy words to Taro in a sweet voice, pleased when the pup plants himself down and waits with him as the coffee brews.

“Your charm won’t work on me,” you tease.

“No?” He smirks, and you suddenly feel fluttering in your chest. Swallowing, you watch the way his muscles clench as he pours you a mug of coffee, careful to step around Taro who follows closely behind him.

Setting his own mug on the coffee table, he leans forward to hand you another warm mug, his fingers lingering on yours and setting your skin ablaze as he pulls his hand back and plops himself down on the couch beside you with a sigh.

Composing yourself, you take a sip. “This is better,” you admit with a grateful smile.

Gojo hums, throwing his feet up on the coffee table. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You shake your head. “There’s so much going on, I-” you let out an unsteady breath at the gravity of your stress. “-I’m so tired, Satoru. When I close my eyes though, it’s just… a mess.”

He frowns, tilting his head as though he was eyeing you. “We could do something to get your mind off things,” he suggests, sipping his coffee. “We could watch a movie.”

You debate his suggestion before nodding slowly in agreement. “That sounds nice, honestly.”

“There’re a bunch under the TV if you wanna take a look.”

You hop off the couch with more pep in your step than before, hoping a movie will soothe the endless stream of thoughts. Opening the cabinet, you’re surprised to find Gojo seems to have a massive movie collection ranging in genre from Romantic Comedy to Horror.

“Are you a big movie guy?” You ponder, moving your finger over the spines of a group of horror films.

“They’re fun,” he grins. You shoot him a smile, giggling to yourself as your finger slides over the spine of Digimon: The Movie.

“I didn’t take you for a Digimon guy,” you comment, the familiar case a sudden blast from the past as you remember watching it with your dad when it first came out. Sliding your finger over the case as you reminisce silently, you don’t notice Gojo opening his wallet and flicking a card at you.

Squeaking in surprise as it makes contact with you, you look down at the card that sits on the floor. It’s an old digimon card, frayed corners laminated to keep it from getting any further damaged. Picking up the card, you flip it over, eyes lighting up at the sight. In the classic art style, Metal Greymon is hunched over, mouth parted with claws facing the player.

“This was in your wallet? You’re a nerd!” You tease with a grin, giggling as Satoru shrugs. “I’d be more impressed if it was Gabumon, though. He’s the best.”

“I’m more of a Guilmon guy myself,” he says, sitting up and leaning forward, “but Gabumon’s a good choice.” His blue eyes examine the movie in your hands from where he sits across the coffee table. “You’re into Digimon?” He doesn’t attempt to mask the child-like giddiness at talking about something so simple and mundane with you.

“My dad and I used to watch it all the time. I loved that old Gamecube fighting game.”

“That’s it,” he stands up, slipping the movie case from your hands and popping the disc into the DVD player sitting below the TV. “We’re watching this.”

You hand back his card with a giggle, the both of you sitting down side by side on the couch as Taro settles at the end of the couch beside you. As the opening ads play, Gojo tilts his head at you.

“Did you play a lot of games growing up?”

“Yeah I guess so,” you shrug, “honestly I still play a fair bit.”

“No kidding?”

You nod, thinking back at the consoles sitting at your old cottage. It must look abandoned at this point, coated in a layer of dust. “Yeah I mean… I was always alone, it was nice to unwind with a game.”

“You shoulda told me, I’ve got a Switch upstairs. I could kick your ass at Mario Kart,” he teases with a grin as he points at his chest. He sets his arm down across the back of the couch, his bicep brushing your shoulder in a manner that sends heat rippling across your skin.

“I’d like to see you try,” you rebuttal playfully.

“I’m the reigning champ, Shoko and Sug-” he blanches, quickly clearing his throat and correcting himself. “Shoko and I used to play all the time.”

There’s a sad edge to his voice, and finally the time feels right to ask the question that’s sat at the tip of your tongue since Yuta brought it up. “Suguru?” You ask softly.

He stiffens, forlorn gaze trailing away from you. “Yeah,” he admits, swallowing. You allow him a moment to steady himself, gather his thoughts.

“You two were close, weren’t you?”

“Something like that,” he sighs bittersweetly. He shuffles uncomfortably, the subject still clearly sore. It’s a feeling you know all too well, one you fear not even death will do you part.

You clear your throat, pleased to have made some sort of real connection with your white-haired counterpart, but not wanting to push him. “I’m sorry, when you showed up at my gate with him, I didn’t-”

“You don’t owe me anything, y/n.”

You hesitate at the firmness in his words, surprised to hear such a tone from him. “No, I know but I was-”

“y/n,” he interrupts again, “you don’t owe me anything. Definitely not an apology.” He rolls his shoulder, his forearm brushing your neck in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. “You did me a huge favor.”

“I’m sorry, Satoru.” It’s all you can think to say.

He chuckles again. “Stop apologizing,” he insists, attempting to mask the sadness in his eyes. “If anyone should be sorry, it’s me.”

“We don’t need to do this,” you insist, shaking your head. This little game of apologies wasn’t necessary in your eyes. Although there were still clearly things left unspoken between you both, you had no doubt in your mind anymore that Satoru was on your side and you were well aware of his regrets.

“No, we do.” His sharp eyes are boring into you now and he takes a deep breath. “I was a fucking grade A asshole. I was so sure Miriko would be like Sukuna that I never gave you a chance,” he pauses, “sorry Miriko.” He bites his lip briefly before continuing. “Then these past few weeks I got to know you and I-”

You lean closer to him, listening intently.

“-I was scared of you,” he chuckles, cheeks visibly reddening. “You reminded me of Suguru. Your wit,” he glances at the Digimon movie title screen that’s been looping for a couple of minutes now, “your interests, your abilities.”

You can feel his warm breath on your cheeks as he finally faces you fully. You hadn’t realized he was so close to you until now, the hair on the back of your neck standing on end at the close proximity.

Running a hand through his long white hair, he moves strands from his eyes. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Your lips part in disbelief, not only at receiving such a genuine apology, but more importantly because of the weight of the statement. The weight of the comparison to someone who meant the world to him.

“I-” you stammer, trying to make sense of his admission. “I forgive you,” you tell him, your voice small. You bite your lip, your body set alight once more as you see the way his eyes flicker to follow the movement. Did you imagine that…?

The silence following feels like a moment and an eternity all at once. Your skin blazes, while your muscles are frozen in place, unable to think as you feel the warmth of his breath repeatedly fanning your face. You part your lips, your heart pounding in your chest as your crimson irises take in the way his lidded eyes look at you, pupils blown.

“S-Satoru?” Your voice is barely a whisper.

He clears his throat, leaning back against the couch.

“Sorry,” his cheeks redden as he fumbles for the remote. “Gabumon is waiting for you,” he recovers quickly, his sly smirk returning as if your entire body wasn’t on fire from the interaction just seconds ago.

Blinking a few times, you sit back and try to focus on the movie, your thoughts racing. Taro’s head plops down on your lap and you busy yourself with petting his head, your mind eventually focusing when Gojo playfully nudges you at the sight of Gabumon.

No longer drowning in thoughts, your eyes begin to grow heavy and at some point, your consciousness fades.

–

The unpleasant feeling of a kink in your neck wakes you the following morning. You groan at the feeling, groggily blinking your eyes open. With your vision still blurred, a woodsy scent hits you and you wonder if you left the window open. No, even then it’s not so much a natural scent.

You attempt to roll onto your back, surprised when something pushes back against you.

“Careful, you’ll fall off.”

You freeze, bringing a hand up to wipe the remnants of sleep from your face. As your vision clears, you become very suddenly aware of how you’re sprawled over your roommate’s bare chest, your face barely an inch from his chin.

Jumping immediately to your feet and out of his grasp, you stare at him in bewilderment. His sunglasses sit atop the bridge of his nose, a calm expression staring back at you from where he lays on the couch. For a moment you think you see hurt flash in his eyes, but you’re positive you’re mistaking something else for that.

“Sorry!” You hurriedly apologize, face flushed at the idea of falling asleep on top of Satoru. You glance back at the screen quietly playing the looping menu screen of the Digimon movie, still.

“I wasn’t complaining, Pretty,” he smirks slyly. “You seemed tired.”

Your muscles seize at the sound of the pet name, your heart palpitating in your chest hard enough to make you think you were having a heart attack. A pet name from Satoru of all people. Worse yet, your stomach bubbles and flutters in ways you can’t begin to describe, because surely he wasn’t causing that feeling. Right?

You swallow hard, your nerves getting the better of you as you take a step back, nearly tripping over the coffee table.

Gojo watches with an amused smile as you stumble around, muttering the occasional ‘um’ or ‘uh’, before your words finally find you.

“I should- um- get ready for the lesson,” you blurt out, turning on your heel and bolting to the washroom, ignoring Gojo’s snickering behind you. Shutting the door as you bolt to the washroom, you heave out a quiet groan, rubbing your face in humiliation.

That was embarrassing to watch, even for me.

Don’t say another word, Miriko.

Of course your audience would decide to chime in right now. Throwing your head back against the door, you let out a prolonged sigh and race to get into the shower, praying the warm water would quell the embarrassment seeping through every crack in your composure.

As the hot water wets your skin, you let out a breath of relief as the steady stream drowns your thoughts. Thank god for that, too, because any longer with thoughts of Gojo shirtless and you might start to lose it. 

As the steam fills the air, you close your eyes, allowing the hot water to cascade over your body and ease your tensions. Your eyes flutter open, droplets of water clinging to your lashes as you let your shoulders relax and take a much-needed long shower.

Throwing the tap off after allowing yourself longer in the shower than usual to cleanse yourself of your confused and uncertain thoughts, you reach out for the towel and-

It’s not there.

You reach a bit further down the rack where your towel should be. It has to be.

It’s not there.

You panic, realizing suddenly that you had done laundry and hadn’t replaced the towel.

“Oh my god,” you mutter to yourself, weighing your options. You either had to call for Gojo, or wait until you air dried, which isn’t really an option because the air on your warmed skin is cold.

You groan loudly, raking a hand through your dripping hair.

“Satoru?” You call his name loudly, unsure if he hears you and you call out his name again.

“Need some help in there?” He asks with a suggestive tone that only furthers the blush creeping up your neck.

“Gojo, please,” you beg quietly. “Just put a towel outside the door.”

You hear an amused hum before his footsteps begin to move away from the door, returning a moment later. “Towel’s outside!” He calls before you hear his footsteps walking away.

You let out a breath of relief, poking your arm out the door to grab the towel and dry yourself off. Putting on your clothes from last night again, you hurriedly make your way back into your room, take the time to groan into a pillow, and change into a clean dress. It’s the first time you’ve worn one in a while, given that you’d struggled with your motivation for the past month. For once, you find yourself smiling at your reflection in the mirror.

Once you’ve put your hair up and done your makeup, you make your way back out to the kitchen with just enough time to make a coffee before your lesson.

“What, no cold coffee this morning?”

The abrupt intrusion of Satoru’s voice in the quiet air of the cabin causes you to jump and you send him an irritated glance as you nearly drop your mug. He grins, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he hops down the stairs and slings an arm casually over your shoulder. The material of his blindfold blocks you from seeing the glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

“Flustered this morning, are we?”

Though you’d always known Gojo to have no concept of personal space, this was something new entirely, even for him. You swallow hard, refusing to look at him as your steady gaze remains on the slow drip of the coffee pot in front of you.

“I’m just tired,” you insist stubbornly, stepping out of his grip.

“Mhmm,” he hums in agreement, his tone betraying the fact that he doesn’t believe you. “You seemed pretty well-rested this morning.”

With his endless prodding now beginning to give you a headache, you rub your temples. “Satoru, we should focus on work,” you insist in an attempt to get him to ease off.

He chuckles, taking the hint to give you a break as he busies himself with other tasks.

Pouring yourself a cup of coffee, you prepare one for yourself before absent-mindedly preparing one for him as well, just the way he likes it with a bit of creamer and an absurd amount of sugar. You’re not sure when you learned his coffee order, but it feels like second nature as you pass him the mug.

He smiles gratefully, accepting the mug from your hands and taking a sip. His brow raises, eyeing you with surprise from behind black fabric at the way his coffee is made to perfection. Almost like the action of making his coffee was deeply ingrained into you, you hadn’t thought twice about the amount of sugar needed to make his coffee just to his taste. “Thanks,” he hums, leaning on the counter.

You smile up at him, taking a sip of your much more bitter coffee and letting your thoughts wander to the lesson today. The first one in a month. The thought is an uneasy one, life is considerably different since then and in many ways it feels more urgent than ever to train Yuji as quickly as possible if you were at such a great risk of being attacked again.

“Do you know who it was that attacked us?” You ask Gojo, swallowing at the horribly vivid memories resurfacing.

“Yeah,” he sighs, his shoulders hunching forward as he adjusts his grip on his mug. The pale blue button-up he wears wrinkles at his shoulders, pulling taut on his back. Your eyes trail over the muscles briefly, returning your attention to him as he continues. “I’ll worry about that, though.”

“Don’t you think it would be good for me to know?”

“Focus on Yuji’s training. I’ll handle him.” His nose scrunches as he sees the way you narrow your eyes, obviously growing frustrated with him, but still he doesn’t let up.

“You don’t have to do everything alone.” There’s a hint of irritation in your voice, mingling with hurt.

His face is fixed straight ahead, avoiding your gaze, avoiding the obvious hurt on your features. “Just let me handle this, Pretty.”

Your heart jumps into your throat at the pet name, only given away by your fingers fiddling with the hem of your dress. “We talked about this Satoru, please don’t be stubborn.” You manage to keep your frustration and nerves in check as your tone comes out even.

His adam's apple bobs in his throat as he swallows, feigning indifference to your words but you know him now. You can read him. You know he’s growing upset.

“With all due respect Gojo, you’re in no position to be keeping this information from us,” Miriko chimes in, red shining eyes apparent on the back of your hand, a forked tongue slithering out from between her pointed teeth.

“Have I been upgraded from Six Eyes?” He teases, blatantly ignoring the way irritation flashes across your face.

Miriko’s eye narrows. “Don’t test me,” she warns in a hiss.

He hums slyly in acknowledgement, not pushing his limits but visibly pleased.

“Why are you so determined to keep this from me?” You ask as he takes another sip of his coffee.

His jaw clenches and you know you’re both one step away from being at one another’s throats. As usual. “It’s not your-”

“For fuck’s sake Gojo, can you cut that out?” Your exasperation finally grows to a breaking point as you motion in the air in disbelief that yet again he was being uncooperative. As if every moment of progress you thought you were making was for naught. “You don’t get to decide what I do or don’t get to know!

His head snaps towards you, mug set down with a heavy snap on the marble counter. “I’m not-” He takes a step towards you, pausing as he watches your frustration further bloom as he growls back. “It’s not like that.” He strains to keep his voice down, running a hand through his hair before pulling his blindfold down. His blue eyes are troubled when they finally land on you.

Your lips part. “Then what is it?”

“I’m trying not to be the asshole you think I am,” he sighs, taking another step towards you. His voice loses its edge as he gives in.

Setting your coffee down, you press yourself to the counter. He’s close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body. “I don’t think… you’re an asshole.” You admit, shoulders dropping as the tension begins to ease now that he’s being honest with you. Red eyes meet his blue ones, his internal debate clear as day in the troubled glimmer in his eyes.

“I’m trying not to… extort you anymore. I’m trying-” he hesitates. “-I’m trying not to involve you in this world that I know you don’t want to be a part of.”

You blink once, twice, three times. It’s strange to hear such consideration from the cocky and overconfident sorcerer you’d come to know. Your lips form a circle, a silent ‘oh’.

“I don’t want-” he hesitates again, stepping forward. He’s painfully close, a realization that sends a jolt of electricity racing up your spine. “I don’t want to involve you anymore if I don’t have to, not when I…”

You tilt your head as he trails off, wondering what’s going through his mind. For someone who had been so one note when you met him, he’s one of the most complex people you’ve ever met and the one person you struggle to understand the most. You find yourself leaning forward slightly, his breath fanning your face faster as his breathing rate increases.

“Not when… I…” He trails off again, toned arms resting against the counter on either side of you as he cages you in. His eyes flicker to your lips, pupils dilating. His voice lowers, husky. “When I could treat you like this.”

Whatever internal battle was being fought in his head finds its victor as he leans in and presses his lips to yours, chaste and gentle. Your heart pounds in your chest as you freeze, tense in his arms encircling you.

When he pulls back, there’s desperation painting his features as he examines you. Shocked, you meet his wide-eyed stare pensively. Your thoughts are racing, searching for answers. He doesn’t dare move until you do.

You don’t know how to make sense of the confusion, but the butterflies in your stomach threatening to burst make more sense to you than any rational thought.

Your hands find purchase on his chest, sliding up his pecs as you lean back in. His pulse sprints in tandem with yours beneath your arm, eyes fluttering shut as your lips meet again. He moves his lips against yours fiercely, no longer gentle. He’s desperate, sliding his left hand up from the counter to your waist, his fingers clutching at your skin in a manner that you know will bruise.

His right hand encircles you, pulling you flush against his toned body as he parts by barely an inch from you, just far enough to see your flushed features, the way your chest rises and falls.

He smirks against your lips, his voice a whisper meant for your ears only like a sacred lament. “You’re killing me, Sweetheart.”

Your ears burn as you stare up at him through your lashes. Your body is alight with the flames of attraction, your confusion a distant thought as the haze in your mind sings only of your want. How could something like this with someone like Gojo feel so right?

“I don’t want you involved in any of this anymore. Not because I don’t trust you-” he pauses, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip. He hums in satisfaction as your eyes trail the action. “-but because I want to do better by you.”

“That’s not your decision to make, Satoru.” Your voice is small, but steady as you admonish him. A newfound confidence courses through your veins as you fiddle with the collar of his shirt.

“I know,” he says, soft lips pressing against yours with urgency, as though he couldn’t possibly bear to be apart from you even for the length of your conversation. His muscular arms tense against your back as his grip on you tightens.

You barely pull back from him, bunching his shirt beneath your fingers. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m a part of this now.”

“I know,” he sighs again, defeat dripping from his tone. He’s not happy, but he’s willing to respect your decision, and that’s all you can ask for. For once, he’s compromising.

Running his thumb absentmindedly over your abdomen from its place on your waist, he watches the way you chew on your bottom lip, as though either of you is waiting for the other one to make a move.

“Should we…?” You make a movement to take a step back in an attempt to head to your lesson but he shakes his head.

“Just give me one more minute of this,” he whispers, sliding his hand up your body to cup your face. He’s gentle now, as though handling porcelain, as he leans in again. His long white hair tickles your forehead and you smile into the kiss, a reaction matched eagerly by Satoru. His lips are addictive and you find yourself melting into him.

Whether it’s something you’ll learn to regret, you don’t know. This new side of Satoru is fascinating, and as your arms slide over his shoulders and your fingers slide through his undercut, soft strands of white hair tangling in your grip, you want to keep exploring it. You want to keep exploring him. Tugging on the snowy locks, a low wanton groan escapes him, igniting a fire in your lower abdomen.

It scares you. It excites you. 

He pulls back, pupils blown as he chuckles. His voice is an octave deeper than you’re used to. “If we don’t leave now, you’re not getting me out of this cabin,” he warns with a coy smirk.

With flushed cheeks and swollen lips, you nod slowly, untangling your fingers from his hair and falling back onto the ball of your foot. His arm doesn’t leave your waist as though he can’t bear to not feel your touch as he leads the way out the door and towards the meadow tucked within the trees.

He moves his blindfold back over his eyes and slides his hand up your body as the treeline comes into view, resting it on your shoulder in a more characteristic manner.

“y/n!” Yuji calls your name excitedly at the sight of you on your own two feet with no support. You hadn’t seen him since you’d fully recovered so as he bounds over to give you a hug, you smile. 

Gojo’s hand parts from your shoulder, watching from beside you with a warm smile. Yuji bounds back over to the table, excitedly telling you about movies he’d watched with his brother, and things he’d gotten up to with the second-years in the way you would tell a parent. It’s endearing and you wear that fact like a badge of honor.

It’s apparent he misses Fushiguro, but you know if you have any chance at defeating Sukuna and saving Yuji, it’s best that they stay apart.

As you settle down at the table to begin your lesson, Gojo finds his place at your side, his knee brushing yours lightly.

Your plan for the lesson had originally been to work with Yuji to draw out Sukuna’s technique as you’d barely scratched the surface of that lesson when you’d been hospitalized, but Miriko is quick to speak up before you have the chance to begin.

“I have a proposal.” Her toothy frown sits on the back of your hand as usual, eye flickering between the three of you.

“You wanna marry me, Miriko? How cute,” Gojo teases with a grin.

“You test my patience, Six Eyes.”

“Downgraded already…” he mutters, pouting as he rests his chin on the palm of his hand.

You giggle, letting Miriko continue.

“Yuji, please block Sukuna out to the best of your ability,” she pauses as he nods, “I believe I may have a way to kill the King of Curses.”

All of you sit starkly straight, every ounce of attention trained on Miriko now.

“Gojo, when you used your domain with y/n and I, I was unable to move.”

“You used your domain on them?” Yuji inquires, but Miriko moves on, not willing to touch on that subject. It’s an issue for another time, and an issue she wants no part in explaining.

“I am considerably weaker now than I was when we first met. y/n transforming did a number on my technique. I believe if we are able to weaken Sukuna to the point I am at, I would be able to kill him.”

The words hang in the air like static as each of you processes what’s been said. Along with it, a new hope. A solution, maybe.

“How weak are we talkin’?” Gojo tilts his head, leaning closer to you in the process.

Miriko ponders the question for a moment. “My technique relies on souls in my domain and my river is at approximately half of its original capacity.”

“So chip him down to half? That’s do-able,” Yuji looks to Gojo for reassurance, the two nodding at one another.

“As much as I would like to agree with you both, Sukuna outclasses me. I do not believe it will be so easy.”

“I can do it,” Gojo says confidently, setting his large palm over your thigh reassuringly as you cast him a worried glance. His touch still sends electricity through you, a feeling so unfamiliar and yet comforting.

The idea of taking on Sukuna is an uptaking, and it certainly won’t be easy. You know it, Yuji knows it, and Gojo knows it, even in spite of his confidence. But it’s a sliver of hope, and you have time to prepare, to train. To flesh out a plan.

Better yet, you have someone alongside you who's not only on your side, but rooting for you. Someone who cares for you. In fact, as you glance between Miriko’s appearance on your palm, Satoru at your side and Yuji across from you, you realize you have some sort of semblance of a family.

A family you’d give your life to protect, and it warms your heart in ways you hadn’t thought possible anymore. Finally, your life feels fulfilling again and-

Gojo stands suddenly, whipping around to face the treeline on the far side of the meadow behind you.

“Satoru?” You ask quietly, unable to see what had caught his attention as you follow his gaze. You turn your attention back to the sorcerer, confusion turning to concern as his hand reaches out to grip your shoulder steadily. What really strikes fear into you is the way it feels like he’s doing so to hold you back.

“Pardon my intrusion.”

You freeze, every blood cell in your body running cold as dread twists in your stomach. Satoru’s grip on your shoulder tightens further as you twist your head to get a view of the newcomer.

Your whimper could stop a force of nature with the gravity of your pain as your lips part to speak.

“Kento?”

series masterlist || main masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter

a/n || thank you for staying with me through all these chapters! this was such a fun chapter to write and went through many iterations but i'm pretty happy with the outcome ♡ god i love gojo

[raineandsky]

Could you do a story where a guard of a Supermax prison befriends a supervillain, because he treats him like a genuine human being instead of an animal; and later, all the power-dampeners suddenly fail; and all these villains just revolt against the guards; but supervillain makes sure he’s safe since he was always kind to him?

Love Ur writing!!

aaaaaaa this was such a fun idea - im absolutely in love with this lil dynamic!! hope you enjoy reading as much as i did writing it :D

-

tw blood, death

Animals. That’s all the agency ever saw the villains as. Animals they could poke and push and test and break into nothing.

So when the jail’s power-dampeners fail, the villains are more than happy to make like the tigers are out of their cage.

The villain to the supervillain’s right is burning the lock on his cell door. The villain on his left has fazed straight through hers. The supervillain steps up to the iron bars across his own cell to look beyond.

VIllains are flooding the corridor, breaking for the stairs one by one. “You,” he snaps as someone passes, and they thankfully slow down. “Open the door.”

Escape might be tantalising, if the villain’s quick glance to the stairs is anything to go by, but no villain ignores a supervillain. They rest their hands against the door for a moment, their brow knitted in concentration for a moment, before the lock clunks open.

They pull the door outward as the supervillain steps into the corridor, waiting impatiently. “Thank you,” the supervillain says shortly.

The villain wastes no time continuing their great escape, chasing the tails of the other villains. Golden light flashes against the walls of the stairwell like fireworks, panicked shouting drifting from above, dull thumping as inevitable bodies hit the floor. The superhero strolls up the steps to take in the carnage the villains are wreaking on the pristine agency.

Gunfire showers the corridor in the light of heaven itself. Agency guards are backed up against the one exit. Most of the villains have already pushed past them into the room beyond, but those who haven’t are springing on them from all directions with fire or ice or electricity or nothing but hatred.

He can see someone familiar through the chaos, the eye of the storm. His gun sprays death, his face twisted into a mix of anger and fear, his eyes set on the villain currently making her way towards him with palms of steaming water.

Almost all of the villains have passed through. Most guards are either lying in a puddle of crimson blood or following the flock into the next room. There’s two of them—his Favourite, and someone he couldn’t care less about.

The villain’s water flicks from her fingers and sprays the guard, earning a pained cry and a cringe away from her. His attention falls to the scalding cutting through his skin, and in one fatal move the villain swipes the gun from his hands.

The supervillain doesn’t have time to intervene. The other guard swings his weapon to the villain, and with a flash of golden light she drops to the ground. The gun clatters to the floor with her.

The two of them heave a breath like they’re free, and the supervillain sees his chance. He sweeps up the gun from the floor, shouldering his Favourite out of the way, before turning it on the other guard and opening fire. The force of the bullets shove the guard into the wall behind him, and his descent to the floor is accompanied by a nauseating streak of red.

The supervillain turns his gaze to the last guard, his Favourite, the one who helped him from the day he got here. The one who saw past the animals and saw a person.

The guard returns his gaze with abject horror, defenceless, trapped. His eyes are wide, his back pressed into the wall, his mouth working in a desperate attempt at what is probably a beg for mercy.

The supervillain doesn’t waste time. He doesn’t have any. He grabs the guard’s arm, earning a startled squeak, tucking the gun under his arm. He can see the burns left on the man’s arm from the villain’s attack; small but undoubtedly painful. He lays a hand over them and the guard hisses and pulls in his grip, whether in pain or fear of pain he can’t tell.

His hand is cool—he can tell from the way the guard relaxes in his hold after a moment. The supervillain holds down a pleased smile. “That’s it,” he says smoothly. “Is that better?”

He lets go and the guard tips his gaze to his skin, unblemished and unharmed. Like the water never touched him at all. His mouth opens. Closes. His brow creases.

“Your power…” he tries after a moment, confused, “they never figured it out. They thought you’d have something violent.”

The supervillain throws him a smile, unhidden this time. “They never expected a healer at the head of evil, did they?”

The supervillain drags him along, following the path of bloodshed like a map. Some villains are still loitering—one of them slinks up to the pair with a grin. They inspect the guard closely for a moment before running the edge of their knife across his jaw in thought. He tries to shrink away but the supervillain’s grip on him holds fast.

“Oh, isn’t this one pretty?” the villain purrs. They give the blade a flick for emphasis, and the guard flinches as the edge cuts a crimson line into his cheek. “Can’t wait to show the agency what happens to good little boys like him.”

“No one touches him, understand?” the supervillain snaps coldly. “He’s with us.”

The villain scowls, clearly unsatisfied with his answer. “Oh, we keepin’ pets now, boss?”

“We don’t keep pets, [Villain].” His gaze turns to the guard for a moment, a touch softer, almost thankful. “They’re not animals.”

[absolutebl]

This Week in BL - People of Earth we have VERSE rep in 2 Thai BLs! Amazeballs!

Organized, in each category, with ones I'm enjoying most at the top.

March 2024 Wk 3

Ongoing Series - Thai

Deep Night (Thurs iQiyi) ep 2 of 8 (10?) - Everyone seems to be a bit of a player and I’m not mad about it. It’s nice to see high-grade flirting, and I really love how very gay the leads feel. Not BL gay. Actual gay. We shall see how it goes, I suspect we are in "messy gay" territory in which case, I predict utter carnage and that this show will drop ranks precipitously for me. But right now? Of all the Thai BLs airing, I'm enjoying this the most. How bizarre. 

I like the side couple (thrupple?) too, despite the prat fall kiss and possible cheating. They very pretty:

To Be Continued (Thai C3 Thailand grey) ep 4 of 8 - oh dear NO honeychild, face masks are gross tasting!

Rule no 966 of the BL world. He’s never asleep. 

Argh Achi wants Ji so bad. Nice mutual kiss tho, despite Ji's baggage. I guess Ji knew what would happen if Achi stayed? But why is he so scared? Just deeply closeted? The backstory is very high school achy and I feel like it explained Achi but not Ji. And the crying in the movie was lovely, so we totally understand Achi's but Ji is just messed up and confused? I admit to being a bit confused too. Why is Ji the one so angry?

On a totally different aside, I really like how the set dressing is done in Ji’s apartment. It looks lived in and not staged. Super rare in Thai BL. I'm reminded of Ai & Pond's dorm room in Love By Chance, which actually looked like a real college dorm.

City of Stars (Fri iQIYI) ep 7 of 12 - Why is it always the pulps that actually trot out the best communication, conversation, consent, and healthy relationships? Yes I'm still wincing over the truly bad acting but I’m enjoying their good relationship. The sex scene was sweet and tender, although the likelihood of rose petals getting stuck places wigs me out. (Flower petals + lube = terrible combination. Just FYI.)

ALL PRAISE VERSE REP! And a bottom who owns it! Yay! 

1000 Years Old ep 5 of 12 - How ridiculously colorful and flirty they all are. There is nothing at all vampire about this show. I’m a bit bored by the restaurant plot but I'm tuning in for the bonkers approach to goth. How dare they be so cheerful with my precious emo youth, but also, how very Thai pulp of them.  

Ongoing Series - Not Thai

Unknown (Taiwan Tues Youku YouTube) ep 4 of 11 - oh it’s SO GOOD. Reading the yaoi and crying. COME ON TAIWAN HAVE MERCY. The red wrapping of the hands (red thread, yes yes we get it). The boy who doesn’t want to box for so many reasons. Not the least of which is how unpleasant it is to spar with a lover. 

This is easily the best BL currently airing and it is going to hurt us. But I don't care. I love it.

AntiReset (Taiwan Fri Viki/Gaga) eps 8 of 10 - This show is dangerously cute and I’m scared for everyone involved, including me.

Love is Better the Second Time Around AKA Koi wo Suru nara Nidome ga Joto (Japan Gaga) ep 2 of 6 - Poor baby thrown in all willynilly amongst a pack of queeny bitchy gay intellectuals. I'd be lost too. It's the worse kind of fight, one you have to philosophize your way out of.

Although I Love You and You AKA Sukiyanen Kedo Do Yaro ka (Japan Thurs Gaga) ep 10fin - They are extremely adorable and it was a very good ending - mature, adult, and bittersweet. I liked it a lot. But I didn’t love it the way I wanted to.

The promise of this show, younger cook courts older divorced office worker, should have been my catnip. I mean if someone pitched this to me in an elevator I would have downloaded it by the second storey. Unfortunately, it did not exactly fulfill that promise, not in the way I'd hoped. Did I still enjoy the ride, yes, but I feel just a little let down. 8/10 

My Strawberry Film (Japan Thurs Gaga) eps 5 of 8 - Honestly now I’m just shipping the two girls getting together. Frankly, I really don't like this show, and normally I'd DNF but there's only a few eps left and nothing else is airing rn.

It's done, ready to binge, maybe I'll finally get to it this weekend

What Did You Eat Yesterday Season 2 AKA Kinou Nani Tabeta? Season 2 (Japan Gaga) 10 eps

The Servant and the Young Master (Vietnam YouTube)

Began Beginning (Myanmar YouTube) - A Burmese BL? @heretherebedork vouched for it, so I will watch eventually.

It's airing but...

Time the series (Tue Gaga/YT) 10 eps - it's finished now, I dropped it at ep 4. Should I bother?

Close Friend Season 3: Soju Bomb! (Thai ViuTV grey) 10 eps - I'm exhausted by this franchise and the variety pack style of BL. If there is a particularly good couple (or installment) I might watch it, but I'm letting others decide for me.

A Secretly Love (Thai WeTV grey) 10 eps - I watched the first ep but grey is too much work for this inferior of a show. I may pick up and binge if it gets distribution but for now, it gets a DNF from me. KimCop might have held this crap together but Kim without Cop? No thank you.

Lady Boy Friends (Thai WeTV grey) 16 eps - reminds me a bit too much of Diary of Tootsies only high school, not my thing. DNF unless it turns a corner and is truly amazing for some reason.

Gossip

The choreo controversy - Deep Night vs OnlyOneOf. Look, like a musical rift, or a styling photoshoot, there are no new ideas in choreo, I feel like Madonna did this pose too, a long time ago. Certainly someone in the 80s. Or whatever. Anygay, it's an ironic thing to see a Thai BL being called out by a gay-branded Kpop group when both are exploiting eroticized homosexuality for commercial profit... just saying. (HOW DID WE GET HERE?) Not to mention that BOTH are ALSO exploiting the kink community. We live in interesting times, BLabies. In the end, it's a good publicity stunt all round. And I think Nine knows exactly what he's doing (and why he is doing it). Finally: Drama drama drama around coreo? That is V gay boys. Fun fun fun, carry on everyone.

Strike a pose.

You're being recorded for posterity.

Next Week Looks Like This:

Starting

3/21 Two Worlds (Thai IQIYI) 10 eps - One of those "he's dead Jim so time travel" thingames staring MaxNat. I'm over this concept but Asia flipping loves it and I do enjoy MaxNat. Phupha (Gun) and Khram (Nat) love each other but Phupha is murdered. Then Khram is pulled to a parallel world where, 12 years ago, Khram and Tai (Max) were in love. However, Khram was killed by Tai’s dad. Now Tai finds alter-Khram apparently alive. But then there is ALSO an alter-Phupha to deal with. (Phupha is played by Gun Thanawat who was Khom, the repressed butler bodyguard from Unforgotten Night. We like this, we scared of the love triangle aspect.)

Upcoming BLs for 2024 are listed here. This list is not kept updated, so please leave a comment if you know something new or RP with additions.

Forgive me a moment of industry noodling?

Have ya noticed that it's slender pickings right now but it shouldn't be? This is not the mid summer slump nor end of year lull. We should be getting some heavy hitters on first quarter release. (Side eyes GMMTV. Perhaps those painful Japanese acquisitions were a bigger issue than any of us realized?)

Anygay, IMHO, Thailand's BL bubble has popped and sponsor money is drying up. This is my shocked face:

Look, the 2021-2023 level of release and growth (exponential) was never gonna be sustainable, so I'm not surprised. I suspect that in 2024 Thailand will actually produce fewer BLs than 2023 (73, 64 in 2022, and 40 in 2021).

I know I'm sticking my neck out predicting any film industry but... I have seen this kinda thing before and it just *feels* like shrinkage. Thai BL's load has been shot, my peeps. (Not to be crass or anything.)

Oh, don't worry you pretty head about it, it's not going away, just getting less prolific.

Don't we all in our old age?

THIS WEEK’S BEST MOMENTS

My favorite trope, sniff him!

Queen. (both Deep Night)

King. (City of Stars)

Verse rep verse rep verse rep!!! Can you see me doing a little dance this side of the screen?

(Last weeks summation)

Streaming services are listed by how I'm (usually) watch, which is with a USA based IP, and often offset by a day because time zones are too much work.

The tag BLigade: @doorajar @solitaryandwandering @my-rose-tinted-glasses @babymbbatinygirl @babymbbatinygirl @isisanna-blog

If ya wanna be tagged each week leave a comment and I will add you to the template. Easy peesy.