#please read tw!

[wntrswolf]

an arsonist's lullaby

✧ pair: benjicot "davos" blackwood (fancast) x freader!targaryen

✧ theme/warning(s): dark, heavy angst turned fluff — tw: mentions of hallucinations, anxiety / progressive panic attack(s). + all characters are of age! (18+) | contains hotd spoilers!

✧ word count: 2.7k

✧ a/n: this one-shot is a gift for @ithilwen-blackwood! firstly, thank you for tagging me on your request! it sparked a drive in me that i thought had left years ago, i had a great pleasure writing this one. secondly, given the prompt, i hope you, and the other pretty readers, enjoy reading my version. c: thank you!!!

✧ summary: to dream is to escape, granting a momentary nirvana as one falls into the refuge of imagination. yet, for the princess, a night in the supposedly cursed fortress of the riverlands, dreams became not mere fantasies but glimpses of destiny that would seal unwritten fate.

Daemon’s voice roars in the vastness of the dining hall. “We shall make camp before night falls. Come the morrow’s light, we resume our travels. See to it you are rested, we have yet a journey ahead of us.” Your father meets your gaze and nods solemnly, signalling his dismissal. You return the gesture with a faint smile, acknowledging his silent command to depart.

The murmurs of the troop swelled, each hastening to claim their place within the grim walls of Harrenhal. You remained steadfast, observing the weariness that were etched on the faces of the scrambling men around you. Gradually, the ache in your body began to throb, a reminder that the arduous journey had also taken its toll on your body. Despite the envy others held with their perceptions, it was not an easy task being a dragon rider—for an adult dragon, it was a feat far from simple.

Celestrya, much like her namesake, is a magnificent dragon. Her iridescent scales of aquamarine and amethyst create a mesmerising display of colours as she glides through the heavens. Yet, behind the deceptive beauty of your winged serpent lies a stubborn and formidable nature. Beneath her elegant appearance lies a fierce determination and commanding presence that demands respect from all who crossed her path. 

Your gaze swept the hall a final time, assuring all was in order before you sought your own repose. However, capturing your attention was the distorted shadow that stood by the hearth. The wavering figure you always came to see ensnared you yet again with its haunting presence, engulfing you in its deafening whispers. As was your custom, you sought to evade the encroaching darkness, only to collide with another in your haste escape. Unaware you had been holding your breath, you gasped heavily, abruptly jolting back to reality.

“Princess,” the young man spoke, “my apologies.” The firm grasp on your arms steadied you, preventing any falter, while your palms pressed against his chest. Slightly breathless, your eyes scanned for the shadow that had mysteriously disappeared.

“Princess?”

You hummed in response, your voice barely above a whisper, “Oh, my apologies.” You steadied your breathing, glancing up at the young man to realise the close proximity between you. In a moment of fluster, you withdrew from his grasp. 

“No,” he says as he scratched behind his head, “the fault lies with me. I failed to watch my path.” his cheeks tinged with embarrassment. As you regain your composure, you recognise the young man before you as belonging to House Blackwood, evident from his attire and the sigil pin securing his burgundy-black cape.

“Should my father and I be concerned, then?” you quipped with a nervous chuckle escaping your throat, eager to lighten the mood of the exchange and conceal your own tension. Playing with the thread on your dress—a familiar nervous tic—you continued, "I mean, a lapse in attention seems trivial, but in these times of impending war, every misstep carries weight.” a subtle smile gracing your lips. 

He responds with a nervous chuckle, striving to maintain his composure. "Forgive me, my lady, but I assure you, House Blackwood stands ready for whatever battles may come—and I have seen to it myself.” He spoke his words earnestly, eyes reassuring you that he indeed spoke truth—a revelation of his confidence in both his army and himself.

You chuckle.

“It was but a jest,” you offered him a warm smile, "Nonetheless, I am heartened to hear of your preparations. I believe our houses make a strong alliance, Sir…” 

“Benjicot Blackwood, my lady.” 

“Ah, the Lord of Raventree.” you acknowledged respectfully. “I extend my deepest sympathies, and I thank you for standing as a stalwart ally in our cause. It means much to us.”

“Thank you, my lady. If anything, it is an honor.” 

“Daenyra,” you replied softly, setting aside formalities in the presence of the young Lord.

What had prompted this departure from convention? You did not know. Could it be that despite his fierce demeanour, you saw a glimpse of vulnerability? his vulnerability. Perhaps you saw in him a fledgling lord who had witnessed the brutal toll of conflict—on his kin, his men, and even those he had been compelled to confront in his duties. A fledgling thrusted into authority unexpectedly—an experience you both share.

“It has been a long day,” you continued with a chuckle, “I believe I have had my fill of the formalities for now," feeling your nerves starting to settle.

“Of course, my la–” he began, but stopped short under your playful glare, “Ahem, Daenyra… Daenyra.” His voice softened, the repetition of your name becoming more natural on his tongue. The young man had uttered your name many a time, yet with your insistence that he address you by your name, simply your name, made him feel acknowledged.

You both chuckled. 

“Although, pardon the intrusion, I hope it does not mean to offend,” he continued cautiously, “but were you alright? When I bumped into you, you—” 

He had.

He had noticed. 

“Princess Daenyra,” a slender, raven-haired woman called out, interrupting your exchange with the Blackwood Lord. You thanked her mentally; wondering if it was deliberate or mere happenstance, but chose not to dwell on it. Turning towards the woman who commanded your attention, you were immediately captivated by her mystical aura and hauntingly beautiful features. “The camp is set. We shall have you escorted to your quarters.” she announced, her sharp blue eyes locking intensely with yours, leaving an impression that lingered in your mind. 

“Yes, of course,” you breathed, turning to the young Lord, prepared to bid him goodnight. “I apologise, Lord Benjicot–”

“Benji,” he corrected in haste. You were slightly taken aback, finding the informality endearing—as it reflected your own.

“I apologise, Benji. It has indeed been quite a journey, and we are weary and in need of rest,” you replied, your nervous tic making a subtle appearance again. Glancing around, you realise that it was just you, Benji, and a few other swordsmen left in the dining hall. With a slight huff, you added, “I shall see you in the morn, then?”

“Y-yes… my lady– D-Daenyra…” he stuttered, inwardly chagrined at his stumble. Despite his embarrassment, you bestowed one last smile and nod before pivoting on your heel, the echoes of your departing footsteps fading gradually into the distance.

In your absence, he chastised himself that his worry might have gotten the best of him; it was ridiculous, really.

After all, you were a Targaryen Princess, the sole daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen, with the pure blood of the dragon coursing your veins. You inherited the ruthless and intense nature of your father, feared in combat where no man ever survived your blade. Needless to mention of the adult dragon under your command, the beast could devour him and his entire retinue, and would still be insatiable.

But amid the thoughts, he saw something in you that he could not quite describe—perhaps the sight of your gentle hands fidgeting, a stark contrast to the image of a warrior who must have slain a thousand men by now, he reckoned.

Reflecting on the moment of your collision, he realised that you, too, were simply a young woman—a lady of his own age—navigating a world fraught with responsibilities imposed by the realm. And now, on the march, leading an army of men to fight against the usurpers, and reclaim the justice that your mother, the Queen, had lost.

A familiar whistle—a melody only his dear aunt used—pierced through his thoughts, instantly capturing his attention, “Let us retire for the night, yea?” Her thumb gesture over her shoulder as she looked at him expectantly. 

"Yeah... yeah," the young man nodded, shaking his head to clear his thoughts as weariness settled in.

Perhaps he was simply tired, allowing himself to dwell on thoughts that were not his to ponder. The princess was more than capable of defending herself, even from a lord she had met that night.

And still, he did. 

It was still the dead of night, you surmised. The clamouring assembly that would rouse you from slumber had yet to commence, awaiting for the break of morn. Pain gnawed through every fibres of your being; the harsh, cold surroundings of Harrenhal offered no respite from your discomfort. Your gaze fixed on the patterns of the canopy you lie beneath, the soft patter of rain acting as your lullaby. You closed your eyes as you sought after slumber once more.

Without success, you shifted uncomfortably in the makeshift mattress, propping yourself up on the firm pillows that offered little comfort. 

You sigh.

To your confusion, a sudden breeze rustled the entrance flaps of your tent, the fabric dancing along the gentle gusts. Goosebumps prickled your skin as you hear the familiar whispering—voices that haunted you time and time again; yet, it would be the first time you heard it spoke your name, 

“Daenyra…” 

You sucked in a breath, the thump in your chest increasing its tempo. The phantom’s whispers are heard beyond the refuge of your tent. Your palm dampens with cold sweat, as terror etched itself onto your features. 

Despite the urge of pursuit, fear had kept you in its confines, afraid of probing what had lurked in the darkness—in fear that the spectre that observed you would swallow you with its frightening taunts.

Or could it be an ambush? A ploy orchestrated by the Greens. A sorceress used to alter the perceptions of the formidable princess of the realm—a plausible explanation, is it not?

The vendetta within your family: Retaliation.

An eye for an eye.

A son for a son.

They would just simply have to seize the moment, right when you are in your defenceless trance.

‘Ambush the Blacks, slay the princess and prince consort while abed, and we make the Blackwoods bend the knee to the rightful heir,' you reckon they thought.

An absurd, petty measure, but an irrefutable one closer to a checkmate. 

Nevertheless, a ruse as such would never come to pass—existing only in the realm of imagination.

You were torn between fears: a haunting apparition or mortal hands that could lead to your demise.

Your conscience came to a ground that despite the fear residing in your bones, an audacious drive took over you to follow the bewitching voice. 

The ominous sight of the empty hall sent a chill in your spine, dim candles and occasional flashes of lightning provided sparse light amid the storm. You held the lantern, a guiding luminance, close to your body to warding off the encroaching darkness and hoped that the flame would not cease; and your other hand grips tightly by the hilt, wielding your sword.

Guided by the mystic call once more, you prudently tread your way within the ruin.

“Daenyra…” The voice growing clearer and louder with each step.

“Daenyra…” Again. 

“Daenyra…” Your breath grew ragged and shallow. Panic gripping your chest like a vise, squeezing air out of your lungs. 

It was not until you reached the grand iron doors that you realised where it led you—the dining hall. Thrusting open the heavy door, it creaked loudly. Once again, you were confronted with the shadow by the fire—the sight intensifying your fear, quickening your heart. 

“Daenyra…” The once-unrecognisable voice now rang clear, luring you towards the flame.

You approached the hearth cautiously, a sense of foreboding thickening the air as the shadow dissipated. The crackling of the fire seemed to roar in your ears, the blaze casting its orange hue upon you and its warmth seeping into your body. Entranced, your brow furrowed as you stared into the flickering flames. 

The voice spoke yet again, shifting to that of your weeping mother, calling out your name.

Your body tensed, skin tingling as if touched by flames.

"Mother?" you breathed out.

Suddenly, within the flames you hear wails of anguish as a hand emerges from the flames. With a sense of charmed urgency, you cried out and reached for the hand, the flare enveloping yours with a searing kiss.

Agh!

Recoiling, overwhelmed by the blinding flash of pain, you collapsed to your knees. Your sword dropping with a clatter as the haunting echoes of voices reverberated louder than ever in your mind:

That of the cries of babes, blood-curdling screams, galloping horses, agonising shouts of a thousand men, clashes of metal, thunderous roars of dragons and fire, and in the haze, unintelligible murmurings. 

“No… no… no,” you whispered, each heartbeat echoing like thunder in your ears,

THUMP

THUMP

THUMP

The dining hall began to close in around you, the heat becoming overbearing.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trembling hands covering your ears in a desperate attempt to silence the chaos consuming you.

“Daenyra…” It cried.

“Make it stop…” you pleaded, rocking back and forth. The sword lay forgotten on the stone floor, and the lantern burnt out, its presence unnoticed in the turmoil. 

“Daenyra…” It cried out again.

“Please…” 

“Daenyra?” A male voice softly whispered to you, gently shaking you from repose. “Dae–”

You woke with a sharp breath, a sob escaping your throat.

The dark figure hovering over you prompted a renewed wave of anxiety as you sat up abruptly, causing the figure to topple back. Your eyes darted around in fear, spotting a dagger that sits on the foot of the mattress, you still as dread overcame your body—unable to muster a shout or a scream.

It was not until the soft glow of candlelight illuminating the dishevelled form of the Blackwood male that you realised you had emerged from sleep. You watch the young man in confusion as he had been hovering over you while you were abed, his blade just within reach. 

“B-Benji?” you croaked out as your chest heaved with staggered breaths. Your hair stuck to your tear-stained face, glistening beads of sweat lining your neck and chest. Trembling hands grasped onto his arm. 

“Princess,” his velvet voice replied gently, “Forgive me, my tent neighbours yours,” his eyes locked onto yours, “I could not find rest. I-I remained awake, but I heard sobs and…” 

You release a breath of relief that had been caught in anxiety.

“T-Thank you,” you uttered, meeting his gaze gratefully. For a moment, the tension in the air begins to ease. “For waking me up.” you added with a slight nod, your breath steadying in his reassuring presence.

Benji's expression softened, his gaze tender and unwavering as he, hesitant at first, gently wiped a stray tear from your cheek. "'Tis nothing," he murmured softly.

You offered him a faint smile, your hands working to compose yourself from your unsettled state.

Just a night’s terror.

Sighing softly, you wiped your palms over your face, hoping to dispel the lingering fatigue that still weighed upon your body.

At that moment, Benjicot hesitated, unsure whether to depart now that you had acknowledged his role in rousing you from the terror. Despite this, he remained seated with you in the hushed confines of your tent. His concern, which had grown since your exchange late last night and continued into the early hours of the dark morn, stirred his curiosity about your well-being before your unexpected encounter.

The fragility in your voice shattered the pregnant silence, “I…” you chuckled softly, airily. “I– I don’t know what I saw,” you admitted softly, voice slightly trembling.

“All I know is that it felt… real." you said pensively, unconsciously playing with a loose thread on the quilt that covered you. "It sounded so real.” your voice barely above a whisper.

Noting your nervous tic, “Dreams can be cruel,” Benji spoke. You watch as his hands gently took hold of yours, his thumb brushing soothingly over the backs of your hands—the gesture fluttering your heart. “But they are also just dreams, m’ lady.” he reassured with a smile.

He continued ever so delicately, "I too face the same darkness. You are not alone.” he whispered, his eyes locked with yours.

His words enveloped you in comfort, as did his mere presence—offering solace with each reassuring word and gentle touch.

You found yourself instinctively seeking if he would become a comforting constant in your moment of vulnerability. You long for his warmth, a feeling you had already sensed from the young man, since the previous night's encounter. 

“Stay… will you?” you whispered, your hands nestled in his, a self-conscious gaze falling to your lap.

He tightened his grip slightly, offering you a comforting squeeze. "As my princess commands," he replied softly, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

a/n: soooo how was it? i feel like i rambled a bit too much in my writing. my brain went haywire since i wanted to add everything i thought of (ideas were popping up left n right up n down) but i added what i could: character cameos, witch's hallucination vs dragon dream??? hihihihi anyways! do not hesitate to comment ur thoughts, i appreciate reading them! ♡

[cosmic-nia]

You can do the stupid-sauce-Jax receiving caresses like a real bunny??🙏🏻

i accidentally made this bunnydoll related sorry anon😭

[liketolaugh-writes]

Thinking about a full ghost Danny AU where he just straight-up dies in the portal. I think there should be more of those. <3

Character death, obviously.

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

The drive back to Fentonworks was a blur in Maddie's memory, keeping Tucker on the line while he sobbed and stammered, trying and failing to keep himself together and explain what happened.

"-doesn't h-have a heartbeat and he's f-freaking out-"

"It just turned on, we don't know w-what happened, he, he said it didn't work-"

"-trying to keep Danny c-calm-"

"Please come home."

Jack's driving was even worse than usual, veering through the streets in an undisguised panic. Maddie hadn't been able to discern much from Tucker's ramble; the portal had finally turned on, but the kids had been messing around with it and Danny had gotten hurt. How hurt? Tucker didn't seem to be sure, but all three of them were in a state.

Jack pulled into their driveway and flung himself out, half the GAV still sprawled across the sidewalk. Maddie was right behind him, hanging up on Tucker with a quick assurance that they'd be right there.

"DANNY!" Jack yelled.

"In here!" Sam called back, from the open lab door. Of course.

Maddie slipped past Jack and got there first, almost falling down the stairs in her haste. What she saw there made her heart stop.

Danny wasn't there. There were three teens crumpled on the ground in front of the activated portal (a part of her sang, it worked, it worked) but Danny wasn't one of them. There was Tucker, staring blankly at the floor, and Sam, with her arm around a strange, glowing white-haired boy that was in tears - a ghost. A ghost? A ghost!

"GHOST!" Jack yelled in delight. The teen sobbed harder.

"Where's Danny?" Maddie demanded. Sam looked up sharply, her eyes wide like Maddie had never seen, her face dead pale under her makeup.

"I'm sorry!" Sam blurted out, looking nearly in tears herself. "I just, I, I thought it would be cool, it was just a picture, I, I didn't think-"

Maddie's heart skipped a beat. "Sam. Where is Danny?"

Sam looked at the crying boy next to her, huddled under her arm as if for comfort. The boy looked up, radioactive eyes swimming with tears and the water on his skin sparkling prismatically, and met Maddie's eyes.

"Mom," he croaked, his voice tripled and echoing with itself like a movie memory. "What happened to me?"

Maddie's knees gave out, and she crumpled to the floor, unable to take her eyes from the ghost in front of her. In a moment, she understood.

That was Danny. His colors had partially inverted, his hair turning white, the colors of his haz-mat suit - God, that was his haz-mat suit, the one they'd made for him and that he never used - reversing to white-on-black. He'd huddled into Sam, shaking and gasping, but now was pulling away, looking at Maddie like- like he thought she could fix this.

"I think something's wrong," Danny said, his voice trembling somewhere underneath all the alien reverberation. "Should we go to the hospital or, or something?"

"I don't think the hospital can fix this, man," Tucker said weakly, lifting his head just to stare at Danny.

The portal powered down with a whine. Maddie jerked her head up with a gasp, and found Jack at the control box, backing up silently. Jack stared into the portal. Maddie followed his gaze.

She couldn't stop the scream that tore itself from her throat. Jack yelled too, running inside, tripping over the bundled cables, and collapsing unceremoniously short of the body inside. Careless of that, Jack crawled forward the last few feet, scooped up the body, and then started to sob, cradling Danny's burnt and blistered corpse against him.

"...Do we call 911?" Danny asked, voice cracking. Maddie's head snapped back to him from the corpse, watching him stare in bleak, lost confusion at his father and the body he was hugging.

Danny didn't even believe in ghosts. Neither of their kids hid it, treating their profession with a lighthearted exasperation at home and plain embarrassment outside. Somehow, the fact made all of this worse.

"What's happening?" Danny asked helplessly. Shock, the stable part of Maddie's brain told her. He sees what's going on but his mind won't comprehend it. (He wasn't expecting to die today.)

"Y-yes," Maddie said at last, and then forced her voice to stabilize. "I'll... I'll call 911."

But first, she held out her arms, and Danny all but scrambled across the room to throw himself into her arms, still shaking. He was cold as ice, freezing through her haz-mat suit, and that was before he slipped forward with a yelp and tumbled through her. He scrambled back with a cry and tried again, and this time fell solidly against her, hiccupping. She wrapped an arm around him, shushing him softly, and groped for her phone with the other hand. She couldn't take her eyes off Jack, now carrying Danny out of the portal and staring from his corpse to his ghost, looking shattered.

"911, what is your emergency?"

"My son is dead," Maddie heard herself say. Danny hiccupped and clutched at her tighter. There was a brief pause.

"I'm very sorry, ma'am. Where are you? Have you checked his pulse?"

"We're at the Fentonworks building, 18701 northwest..." She rattled off the address mindlessly, and reached down to fumble for Danny's wrist. He let her have it without complaint, too terrified to put up any resistance. She shuddered as she felt nothing, not even the tendons or bone that should be there. Then she looked up at the corpse in Jack's arms and swallowed. "Jack, h-his... his pulse."

Jack nodded mutely and fumbled for Danny's wrist, gingerly running his fingers down the burnt skin until he found the right spot.

"What do you mean, his pulse, his ghost is literally in your lap!" Sam half-shrieked, her mascara running and her fists clenched against her cheeks, her breath coming in short gasps.

"No pulse," Jack croaked hollowly, staring at Danny's ghost.

"Maybe they could..." No, it was a foolish thought, and she wouldn't put false hopes into Danny's head just to put off her own grief. She cradled him closer again, feeling him shudder. She spoke to the operator. "N-no pulse, ma'am."

"Ambulance and police are on their way," the operator said, calm and reassuring. "Can you stay on the line with me?"

"Yes." Maddie felt numb, her own hands trembling as she held Danny close.

"Thank you. Can you tell me your name? Is there anyone else with you?"

"Maddie Fenton," she said. "My husband is with me, and my son's two friends, and... and my son's ghost."

There was another brief pause.

"Alright, Maddie." Maybe it was her imagination, but she thought the operator sounded gentler there. They thought she was crazy, of course. Maddie shut her eyes. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"I, I don't know. My son Danny was home with his friends, and they called and..." Deep breath. She started over. "There was an accident in our lab. Danny was electrocuted by one of our in-progress projects."

"Is the device still on?"

"No, ma'am. We had to turn it off to remove the, the body."

Maddie continued answering questions on autopilot, most of her attention on her son, her husband, and the body. Danny had stopped crying, but remained glued to her side, shivering and sniffling. Jack continued to cradle Danny's body, but his eyes were now fixed on Danny, grief spread across his face. Sam and Tucker had both quieted, watching them with fearful, guilt-stricken looks.

It seemed to take forever for the police and ambulance to arrive. Sam got up to show them inside without being asked, staggering up to steps on obviously shaky legs. Maddie was too grateful to insist on her or Jack doing it; with Danny's ghost cradled against her and his corpse in Jack's arms, well...

The paramedics arrived first, sharp-eyed and professional, but the first almost immediately faltered as he laid eyes on the scene. But Jack held up Danny's body beseechingly, his eyes wet and miserable, and they jolted into action.

"Thank you, ma'am," Maddie said to the woman on the line. "They're here now. May I hang up?"

"Yes. The paramedics will take it from here. Take care, Maddie."

Maddie hung up, and looked at the two paramedics as they filed down. They looked at each other, one inclined his head toward Danny, and they split up, one heading for Jack and the body, the other toward Maddie and the ghost. Both of them knelt beside their chosen patient, and Maddie fixed her attention on the one with her.

"Are you Danny?" the paramedic asked, unexpectedly gentle. Danny peeked up and nodded uncertainly, and the paramedic glanced at the body before seeming to make a decision. "Okay, Danny. My coworker June is going to check your body for signs of life to see if you can still be revived. Are you okay with that?" Danny hiccupped and nodded, though a new wave of tears welled up and trickled down his cheeks. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Danny hiccupped again, reaching up to wipe his eyes. "M-my friends wanted to see the p-portal," he managed, voice wavering. Maddie squeezed him, her own eyes welling up while the paramedic listened patiently. "A-and it didn't work so I t-thought it would be f-fine. I went inside a-and I d-didn't check if it was plugged in or anything, a-and then I tripped and fell and I think I hit a button and it turned on!" His voice rose until he was almost wailing. Maddie's throat tightened, and she hugged him closer. Her poor baby.

"You were electrocuted?" the paramedic checked softly.

"I guess," Danny sniffled. "I dunno. It just hurt. And then I felt really cold, and then I..." He looked down at himself and sniffled again, tears slipping nonstop down his cheeks. "Am I dead?"

The paramedic looked at his coworker, who met his eyes and shook her head. Maddie had to swallow a hiccup of her own, trying to be brave for her terrified son. The paramedic did a much better job at it, looking back at Danny and speaking gently.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "There's nothing we can do. June is going to call a coroner and explain the situation-" He caught the other paramedic's eye, and she gave him a nod. "-and we'll have your body taken somewhere it can be prepared for burial or cremation, whichever you prefer." Danny started crying again, and the paramedic exhaled and looked up to meet Maddie's eyes. "Obviously, there's no protocols for this situation. But, as his mother, I think it would still be appropriate for you to make a decision if he doesn't feel able to."

[joycomplexx]

Sexually harassing proshippers does not give you a moral high ground. Sending rape threats to proshippers does not give you a moral high ground. Spreading real CSAM/CSEM to proshippers does not give you a moral high ground.

Antis who accuse proshippers of sex crimes and then turn around to do these things? Clearly, fantasizing about rape and CSA is not their problem.

[niccoguedes]

Hotel Room 1980

"He grants my every wish"

[very-small-giant]

murder of crows ravens

[amostnobleyandere]

Yandere! Diluc x Reader

Summary: Kidnapped Reader begins to feel touch starved after being trapped for so long and finally reciprocates Diluc’s need for physical affection. Cue a steamy make-out session.

MDNI.

Warning(s): YANDERE content (do not read if you are not comfortable), kidnapping, imprisonment, possessive behavior, obsessive behavior, implied Stockholm syndrome, dubious consent (concerning touch), forced affection, forced kissing, steamy, !! heavily suggestive ending (smut implied)!!, slight hair pulling, slight isolation, forced marriage, they make out and both of them get somewhat turned on *gasp*

—————————

“Just one kiss. Please, darling.”

“No-“

Your protests were silenced by Diluc pushing his plush lips onto yours. The kiss was soft, delicate, and loving, something filled with longing after not seeing you for hours. However, the romance of it all didn’t mean much to you when you had been backed into the corner of your shared canopy bed with no way to escape.

You tightly fisted your hands into the sheets as his lips pressed insistently against yours, a discarded book next lying open on the silken bedding. You had been entertaining yourself pretty well before Diluc, your husband, had gotten home from a long day of work and business, deciding that he wanted to relish in your company after being deprived of it for so many hours. Your husband was a working man, and unfortunately for you, he only became more desperate to hold you after being separated most days.

Diluc’s arms caged you in while his thigh pressed against yours, heat seeping through the thin fabric. His winter clothes had been switched out for lighter ones with the coming spring, and you could feel every tensing muscle in his body as it shifted against your shamefully thin loungewear. You could feel the twitching of his body, the stiff movements that came with him resisting the urge to run his hands all over you. He knew you didn’t like him touching you. He knew that he was pushing it by kissing you with such intensity.

Today though, today was different. You didn’t mind the way his lips were bruising yours with each practiced tilt of his head. An all too human part of you was so tired of resisting every day, and it craved the warmth that you felt in those moments after he was done kissing you; those moments when he brought his gloved hands up to caress your face as you avoided his painfully adoring expression.

Hesitantly, you brought your tense arm up to graze the hair near the back of his head, each movement feeling slow and forced. But god, you were so desperate for the thought of being touched, and could no longer keep up the act of repulsion to the little physical touch Diluc gave you; you were tired of being careful to avoid every brush of skin, every silent show of affection.

Diluc knew it made you uncomfortable, and for the first few months of your “stay” you would have rather gagged yourself before you ever kissed him willingly. But loneliness was a powerful thing, and besides the maids who would barely look you in the eye, he was the only one you could reach out and hold.

Your hand landed on the back of his ponytail and you did you best to ignore how quickly Diluc stiffened under the shift in weight. His lips froze against yours in shock, but you pushed your hand further into his hair before anxiety made you pull it back. Your fingers curled into his locks, slightly tugging at the base where a ribbon held it back, and the first thing you thought was how absolutely soft it was.

You heard Diluc shakily breathe in, his eyes wide as he stared at you in disbelief. His hands landed firmly on your hips in an awkward attempt to put them somewhere. You could feel his fingertips digging into your skin, hands tense as he felt the new sensation of your fingers running through his hair.

…Clearly your touch was not unwelcome.

Feeling emboldened, you went further. With one of your hands still nestled in his hair, you rested the other one on his chest. You curiously ran it up to his collar, distracted by the new feeling of the coarse clothing and the strong body that shuddered underneath your light touch. You felt his heart beat unimaginably fast against your palm, heat seeping into your skin already from the light contact.

You quickly glanced up at his eyes and immediately became aware of the intensity of the look he was giving you. His gaze roamed your face, going from your eyes to your lips, searching fervently for something in your expression. You had never been the one to initiate anything before, much less encourage his behavior. You had always been quite cold to your captor ever since he had swept you away and locked you up in his mansion, too paranoid and in love to keep you anywhere but under his watchful eye.

You suddenly felt very nervous. Diluc’s blood red eyes reminded you of a predator, following every slight movement you made with rapt attention.

A primal part of you was scared of breaking eye contact with the dangerous man in front of you and you felt your heartbeat quicken for the first time in a while; whether it was fear or excitement, it made a fire light in your body.

Slowly, you leaned into him, ghosting your lips against his as he sharply inhaled, muscles tensing underneath your fingers as you focused on the rhythmic thrum of his heart. You moved the hand over his heart to join the other nestled in his hair. You pressed your chests together, practically melting into him as the lonely place in your heart sighed in relief at the warmth surrounding you.

You were the closest to him you had ever been, and you were returning the affection he had showered you with since the day he took you away. In the moment, you were unaware as to what exactly was going through Diluc’s mind. This was a sign of you willingly accepting his love. A thing you had only ever seemed to acknowledge reluctantly. His self restraint snapped, and then his hands were everywhere.

What had gone from a sensual kiss of longing was now a passionate fight for breath, with every harsh press of his lips to yours ending and beginning again at a dizzying pace. His exhales met yours in quick, desperate pants, as he seemed only able to pull away for a second before attaching himself to you again.

You soon lost your balance from the onslaught and fell back onto the bed. Diluc paused for a brief moment before following you and carefully placing himself over you, putting his weight on one forearm and using his other hand to impatiently tug open his collar.

“Diluc?” You said, dazed by the sudden change in his behavior.

“Hot,” was the only thing he said, forgoing elaborating to instead nudge his face into the crook of your neck. You tensed as you felt his lips brush against the sensitive area, each exhale adding more heat to already damp skin.

You nearly screamed when you felt his lips settle onto your skin, his teeth latching onto your neck happily. He bit painful heat into your throat, marking each new spot he found with eagerness as he moved down your neck. He began pressing fleeting kisses up to your ear, which he then happily bit and abused. His tongue ran across the shell languidly, a teasing motion with a meaning more sensual behind it, and an unexpected bolt of electricity shot through you.

Diluc seemed to be caught between deciding to pin you underneath him or allowing your hands to be entwined in his hair. Eventually, he guided your hand up to where it had previously been, and you automatically pulled on the long strands just to ground yourself. He moaned at the feeling. You teased the ribbon away until it fell from his nape, watching bright red locks spill over the broad shoulders now caging you in.

Errant strands floated above you, teasing at your face and skin as Diluc ran his hands up and down the side of your waist. He panted in your ear and his hot breaths bounced against sensitive skin, making goosebumps rise along your arms.

You jumped as you felt his hand run to your thigh and squeeze, the firm grip making something light up in your stomach. You inhaled shakily, gasping as your realized that you were going to get what you wanted and more. Tonight was going to be a long night.

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[latenightdaydreams]

Trucker!König x Stranded!Reader (fem)

MDNI🔞

Part 2 🚚, Part 3, Part4, Part5

🚫MASSIVE TRIGGERS FOR DARK THEMES!!!🚫 If this is disturbing for you please turn back now. Your mental health is important and I hope you have an amazing day even if you keep scrolling! ily all! I hope you are all well and please take care of yourselves! You matter 💗

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Master List

>cw: fem/afab, oral, cum play, non-con somnophilia, non-con, sleeping pills, kidnapping, non-con recording

2.3k word count

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“Fuck!” You shout slamming the hood of your car down. On your way through the countryside on a road trip, your car decided to break down. You’re in a foreign country, the sun is setting, and having no one to help leaves you feeling overwhelmed and defeated. You sit back in your car and begin to cry. In your mind driving solo across Europe was going to be a piece of cake, yet here you are because you tried to save money and got a piece of shit car.

The sound of a semi-truck braking gets your attention as you look into your rear-view mirror to see a blue truck had pulled off and stopped behind you. In a hurry you pull down your visor to check yourself as you wipe tears away and try to relax your face. You close it just in time to see a massive man jump out of the cab of the semi and walk in your direction. A wave of fear rushed over you as you realized you have no items for self-defense on you.

 A knock on the driver’s side window, and the tall trucker steps back and stares at you with piercing blue eyes. Taking a deep breath, you open the car door and step out. His eyes look you up and down.

“Are you stranded?” His voice is smooth with a thick Austrian accent.

“Yes, I am.” Your voice cracks from the nervousness you’re feeling. He is built like a tank and like, really fucking tall.

He gives you a small nod before extending his hand to you, “I’m König.”

“Y/n,” you grab his hand and shake it. His hand is massive and swallows yours.

“You’re not from here, are you?” He gives you a warm smile trying to be nice.

“I’m not…”

“Do you have anyone here you can call?” The question seems innocent enough.

“No, I don’t. My phone has no signal either.”

“Hm,” König looks at your car and then to you once more. “Well, I can’t possibly leave you here alone, especially with it getting dark... where were you heading?”

“I was heading to the German border.”

“Hm, that’s a six-hour drive Maus.”

“It’s okay if you can’t-”

“I can, I’m heading that way. I’ll drive you as close as I can get and help you get set up with a ride in.” He gives you such a genuinely warm smile that you feel your guard beginning to drop.

“I- I really appreciate that, König.” You turn to go to your car and open the back seat to grab two small suitcases out.

“I’ll grab those for you Fräulein.” König walks behind you and gently reaches past you to grab your bags. The sweet vanilla body lotion you’re wearing catches his attention and he tries to take a deep breath as discreetly as he possibly can.

You back away, slightly bumping him. “Oh, sorry. Thank you so much König. You’re like a God send.”

He smiles back at you while holding your bags and closing the car door, “Is this all there is?”

“Yes, that’s it.” You two begin to walk towards the semi-truck as you look around the farm land.

Once to the truck König opens the door for you and helps you climb into the cab, his hand grazing your butt seemed innocent enough so you brush it off. It was most definitely not innocent. He is simply testing your boundaries and seeing how you’d react.

You set you bag down on the floor as König walked around to the driver’s side. He walks to the back of the cab and puts your bags on his small bed back there. He finally sits in the driver seat and looks over at you.

“Are you ready to go?” He asks in a gentle voice.

“Yeah,” you look out at the car that broke down on you feeling slightly sad.

“Don’t worry about that car,” König says, noticing your sad gaze. “I will help you out, I promise. I can’t leave a young woman stranded.” His smile is so warm and genuine, but the look in his eyes shows he has different motives with you.

As he pulled back onto the road König found himself checking you out. His eyes are drawn to the curve of your breast in your tight shirt and the way your thighs look as you sit down in the seat. He was going to have fun with you.

“So, where are you originally from?” He asks, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

You answer and explain how you have always wanted to visit Europe so on impulse you decided to come.

“A bit far from home aren’t you Maus?” He asks with a sly smile on his lips. “Do you even have any friends or contacts in any of these countries?”

“No, I don’t.” You shake your head not realizing these are questions you shouldn’t be answering truthfully.

“That’s a shame, you could get hurt out here. Good thing I came across you and not some… pervert.” He turns his gaze from the road to you and looks at how your breasts bounce with every bump he hits. He couldn’t wait to see what they actually look like, but in his head, he is running through every possibility.

“Yeah…thank you so much for all of your help. Really. I was about to give up and go back home.” You giggle softly.

Your giggle was so genuine and soft. Your lips look tender and kissable. He wanted to see how your lips look wrapped around his cock or sucking on his full nut sack.

“That would have been a shame, it’s good to explore. See the world and expand your horizon.” He says it so casually as if he isn’t thinking of shoving your head down on his dick and making you give him road head. I wonder if she does anal…

You both drive while having small talk. Innocent topics like your hobbies, home life, any little question he can drop to get more information out of you. The sun was now completely set and König noticed your eyes becoming tired as the drive went on.

“If you need to rest, there’s a small bed in the back. It’s not much, but if I can sleep on it, you’ll do just fine.” There’s a friendly chuckle in his tone as his eyes look over at you. Watching as you turn in the seat and look into the dark tiny cab with the bed. His eyes trailing up and down your legs before going back up to your eyes.

“Oh,” you couldn’t explain this feeling in your gut. It was as if it were screaming at you, telling you no and that you should stay awake. You really shouldn’t even be in this truck. Shoving those feelings to the side and excusing them as anxiety, you look back at König.

“Don’t worry, y/n, I don’t bite.” König says with a big smile revealing his sharp K9s. “You’ll be safe with me.”

You nod your head as you begin to stand and walk to the back, it was dark so you used your hands to guide you back there. It was simple since it’s a small space. Taking your bags off the bed and setting them on the floor, you lay down and rest your head on the pillow. Grabbing the thin blue blanket on the bed to cover yourself, you feel so happy to be in a bed, even if its this tiny.

König turns his head slightly to look back at you. It has been ten minutes so he wanted to know if you were asleep or not. 

“You settled in alright back there?” He waits to see if he hears your voice.

“No…” Your voice meek as if you feel bad you can’t fall asleep.

“Would you like a sleeping pill Maus?” Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes… “My doctor gave them to me to help with the uncomfortable sleeping situation.” He chuckles softly. That was a bold face lie, he got them from his handy dandy street dealer for a moment like this.

You know it isn’t smart to take medication from others, especially prescribed and from a stranger. You hesitate for a moment trying to think of your answer.

“Here,” he opens up a small pill organizer with one hand and holds them out for you to grab. His eyes are straight ahead still on the road.

You slowly get up and grab one, “Thank you.”

“You can take a sip of my water. I promise I have no gross germs.” He laughs, his laughs so warm and welcoming.

You take the sleeping pill and thank him again. Returning to the tiny bed in the back of the cab you try to get as comfortable as you can. You keep your eyes open for a while, looking at the little bits of König and the road you can see from the angle. By the time I wake up we should be close to the German border, and I’ll be able to continue on my way. This is just for a few hours…just…a few…more…

Twenty minutes pass as König continues to drive. There is a truck stop coming up where he can refill and where he’d usually rest. He looks over his shoulder at you again, “You still awake?” He asks rather loudly.

No response.

“Are you asleep?” He asks again at the same loudness, no response. “Perfect.”

König pulls into the truck stop as usual. He pulls up to the gas station and gets out of the semi to refill the tank and make sure all his wheels are in good condition. He buys you a drink and something to eat when you wake up from the concession area inside before you pay. He grabbed himself another water and a snack as well. Casually he got back to the truck and drove it around back to the parking lot where truckers can park and sleep for the night. He took his time setting up the window covers and making sure the doors were locked and safe. Standing in the now total darkness of the cab, he looks in your direction.

“Hey,” he said, lightly shaking your leg to see if you would wake up. You didn’t. Good.

He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and pulls the blanket off of you. His hand caresses the curve of your waist, hip, and ass slowly taking his time to enjoy the way the curves feel. His hand wrapping around your ass and squeezing.

He turns on the light from his phone and illuminates the small cabin. He crouches down beside you and gently pushes your body back so you’re lying on your back now. His hand gently runs under your shirt and caresses the soft skin of your abdomen. His hand reaching up and cupping your breast over your bra. He lets out a soft sigh as he withdraws his hand.

“You’re so beautiful Maus, so beautiful…” He says as he slowly begins to pull your pants down. He opens the photo app on his phone and begins to take photos of your exposed body, only your panties and bra to cover you.

As he continues to shine a light on you, he pulls your bra down and records himself gently shaking your breast and caressing your nipples until they harden. He leans in and begins to suck on each nipple, making sure it’s all on camera. With his free hand he rubs the erection that is growing in his pants.

Pausing the recording he stands and undoes his belt buckle and then his pants, pulling them down to around his ankles. He releases his aching cock, a bead of precum dripping from the pinkish red tip. He picks back up the phone and points the camera back at you as he jerks off over your body.

His loud pants being picked up on the camera as he stops occasionally to rub your pussy through the fabric of your underwear, feeling a wet spot begin to form, or play with your breast before continuing to pump his fist on his cock.

You remain asleep, completely unaware of what was going on as König kneeled into the bed a little and scooped your drool up with the head of his cock, gently rubbing his tip over your soft lips. He spread your drool around the tip of his cock and used it as a lube for himself. He slapped your lips with his cock twice before gently trying to push it inside of your mouth. He moved his hand from around his cock to your jaw to hold it open as he slid himself in. His breathing shakes as he feels the wet heat of your mouth.

He slowly bucks his hips forward into you as he inches his cock in your mouth little by little. “Ja, that’s my good little Hure.” He moans out, his free hand traveling to your breast and squeezing your breast.

“Oh fuck,” König quickly moves his hand back to his cock as he begins to cum. He pulls out slightly so he can cum on your lips and in your mouth. His breathing heavy and he moans your name. Releasing his full balls completely on to you he smiles at his artwork. He slaps his cock on your lips a few more times before scooping it up with his cock and shoveling it into your mouth, making you eat all of his cum.

König stops recording once he is done and puts the phone down on the bed and he picks his pants back up. He would usually have his fun and drop the girl off somewhere safe, but you… you’re so beautiful. Your tits are perfection and he didn’t even get to try that pussy yet. You’re the type of woman that would never even give him the time of day outside of these circumstances. He’s keeping you. You’re his now.

Part2, Part3, Part4, Part5

[upon-lavender-hills]

Traumatized Matt, at different stages. And Tom. And me, I'm just glad that I got at least some of it out of my head. It's been killing me.

[shepscapades]

This one was a freaking doozy. If I keep talking i think i may be in trouble

[perrieedwards]

gn-gn-gn-gn-gn-gnarly, everything's gnarly

[vilsoo]

‎ 𝑽𝑰𝑳𝑺𝑶𝑶 𝑷𝑹𝑬𝑺𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑺…

‎ 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 ‎ ‎ 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧… 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐞𝐱 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫!

‎ 𖤐 ORDER YOUR TICKETS HERE 𖤐 ‎ ֺ [ taglist ]

𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐈𝐒 𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐘; 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘… Inspired by Universal Studios Halloween Horror Nights, indulge in sex and horror galore at our premiere Kinktober event, HORRORLAND! Would you dare venture our haunted houses, experience our exhilarating attractions, and uncover the scandalous, deadly mysteries of Horrorland?

fandoms: jujutsu kaisen, spiderman atsv, fnaf, re4, codmw2.

𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒

ㅤ ↓ 𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐖 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 (𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓) ↓

FRIDAYS🩸 we welcome our fellow monster fuckers into this territory! deadly creatures preying on their victims, serving their lustful fantasies with wild, animalistic urges! your arousal and fear may provoke them further, so beware of the woods…

𖤐 𝐎𝐂𝐓 𝟒𝐓𝐇: ❝ 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐎𝐘 ❞ starring GHOST!LEON KENNEDY (re4)

who is this irresistible creature who has an insatiable love for the dead… and ghosts?

⚠︎ CW: mentions of stalking, slight ooc leon, angst, hurt/comfort, haunted vacation home, voyeurism, paranormal activity, sex with a ghost, gentle → rough smut, mirror sex, switchy!leon, 1980s setting.

𖤐 𝐎𝐂𝐓 𝟏𝟖𝐓𝐇: ❝ 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐄 ❞ starring WEREWOLF!MIGUEL O’HARA (atsv)

during the bloodmoon on halloween, your werewolf boyfriend feels a rapacious urge to knock you up.

⚠︎ CW: established relationship, miguel in heat, rough sex, soft sex, marking, biting, possession, breeding, knotting, impregnating, degrading/praising, power struggle, multiple orgasms, 1980s setting.

𖤐 𝐎𝐂𝐓 𝟐𝟓𝐓𝐇: ❝ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓 ❞ starring RYOMEN SUKUNA (jjk)

a camping trip you planned with your friends turns out to be a total nightmare, all caught on camera…

⚠︎ TW: suspense, horror/thriller themes, gruesome murder, gore, ritual sex, demon sex, satanism, sadism, betrayal, teratophilia, size kink, double penetration, plot twist, ib the blair witch project (1999), 1980s setting.

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SATURDAYS 🍷 the depths of hell fall on this dark and gloomy city bound to corruption and sin, known as the devil’s playground! lurking within the streets beholds the prurient reigns of terror that which may also arouse parkland guests…

𖤐 𝐎𝐂𝐓 𝟓𝐓𝐇: ❝ 𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 ❞ starring NANAMI KENTO (jjk)

with you and your boyfriend being a regular at this fancy restaurant, the owner became very fond of you…

⚠︎ TW: cannibalism, chef/restaurant owner nanami, poisoning, murder, infidelity/cheating, eventual smut, kitchen sex, unprotected sex, jealousy, dark obsession, slight stalking, gore, mutilation.

𖤐 𝐎𝐂𝐓 𝟏𝟐𝐓𝐇: ❝ 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃 ❞ starring WILLIAM AFTON (fnaf)

as the new intern and your boss developing a dark obsession over you, he feels the need to corrupt you…

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

𖤐 𝐎𝐂𝐓 𝟐𝟔𝐓𝐇: ❝ 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐘 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐑𝐄 ❞ starring CHOSO (jjk)

accidentally bringing a girl back from the dead may have been horrifying, but falling in love with her..?

⚠︎ CW: horror/romcom themes, implied necrophilia (NO intercourse), college au, accidental ritual, romance, mentions of murder, suggestive smut, inspired by lisa frankenstein (2024) and corpse bride (2005).

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FOR OUR HALLOWEEN SPECIAL . . . not only are you immersed into the stories of our attractions, you get the real experience of being a parkland guest having a fun time at Horrorland with friends! but as thrilling as it all sounds, there are many scandals and articles of what really goes down…

𖤐 𝐎𝐂𝐓 𝟑𝟏: ❝ 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓, 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋? ❞ HEADLINE: PARKLAND VISITOR CAUGHT HAVING INTERCOURSE WITH A SCARE ACTOR!

flirting has become a common fear response when encountering hot masked scare actors chasing you at halloween events. this scandal covers a parkland visitor fawning over the hot scare actor in the Deathgasm haunted house, König, resulting in them flirting and sneaking off together…

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⚠︎ 𝐁𝐞𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬. 𝐇𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠. ⚠︎

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𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐒𝐎𝐎 © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. please do not steal my kinktober prompts/works/themes! reposting any of my works outside tumblr that minors can access is strictly prohibited. will be cross posted on my ao3 soon.

[fadedkat]

a little human bill doodle sheet this evening based off the wonderful fanfic A Human Condition by @sapphosscribe!! this is really one of my favorite fics at the moment and I wanted to show my love for it by doing some art :DD

now on my way to read the most recent update 🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️

aaaaand close ups!

[midnight1nk]

‼️IMPORTANT NEWS

PLEASE READ: The following is a full report in regards of the Medi situation, the episode “The Lil’ Fellas” and everything else you need to know. This is intended for informative purposes, as I already stated my personal thoughts about the situation. Transcripts will be provided for most of the photos’ descriptions. Content warnings include: proshipping/darkshipping, whitewashing. View at your own discretion.

MediExcalibur2012 (also known as “Medi” or Paul) has been working with the SMG4 Team for around five years as an editor, machinima artist, and voice actor—most notably recognized as the voice of SMG1. He has also contributed as a writer for several past episodes. In addition to his work on the show, and like others on the team, he runs his own channel under the same name, where he uploads personal content not affiliated with the show or its canon.

A few days after the release of the episode “SMG4: The Lil’ Fellas”, several viewers observed that the two children, Hat Kid and Bow Kid, were strangely recolored to resemble Mario and Meggy. At the time, they admittedly dismissed it as speculation, feeling it was just a coincidence. However, some of this speculation went as far as claiming that this was intentional.

A video uploaded by youtuber SZH4 theorizes that the kids are Meggy and Mario’s biological children, based on the fact that their colors align with the MxM fankids Megan and Maggie Jr. found on the Steam Workshop. As he interprets it, the Team's (supposedly) alluding to the idea that Mario x Meggy could be canon. In the final section of the video, SZH4 addresses a message to “haters” of the MxM ship, stating that the theory was made for fun and expressing confusion about how certain moments between the characters are seen as merely platonic. He states, “[Those moments] prove that they’re more than just siblings. Just look closely at the signs and don’t tell me that ‘oh, siblings love each other like that’. I think it’s a different level of love.” [x]

The situation took a drastic turn when, on his discord server, Medi responded to the viewer speculation with the following message:

According to his confirmation, these kids were intended to reference the models. Though he didn’t say it outright in this message, he was clearly aware that they were MxM fankids, as it was explicitly stated in the model names, and he had used a color picker tool on the texture files. This was when everything started to go downhill.

A few people from Medi’s server shared this message on Twitter from late May 4th to early May 5th. Responses from many sides soon overwhelmed the community feeds. Many expressed anger, this being the last straw of Medi’s previous actions, and are urging the Team to take action. Others, including MxM shippers, defended Medi with the claim that it was just an “Easter egg” and shouldn’t be taken seriously. That is not to say all of them are shippers, but do believe this situation was taken too seriously. The creator of one MxM fankid, for instance, released a statement regarding it, quote:

The problem isn’t that a reference was included in the episode, but rather the intentions behind them—the MxM ship. From the Team’s side, Luke himself made it clear before that he was uncomfortable with this particular pairing, canonically Meggy and Mario seeing each other as siblings. None of the Team had overstepped the boundaries he set in production—until now. Not only has Medi disrespected Luke’s wishes, but he also betrayed the rest of the Team, who had no role in what he did. He twisted the trust and intentions of the others, supposedly all for a “reference.” Medi responded to those who brought this point up to him in defense; the following screenshots were provided by Twitter user WickerDan, quote:

(Yes, you did see it right. He edited the message and I’m unable to find the OG message). For the sake of readability in the next screenshot, I’ll leave the transcript here:

“Oh they know about the video and are fine that it exists. I remember I was at the pub one time with all of Glitch and Luke and I were joking with each other about that video and having a good laugh with each other. If they really had an issue with that video or even the ship itself, I would've been fired a long time ago.” — Medi

(BTW that thin screenshot was sent in February, not exactly related to the last episode). This, of course, was sent by Medi himself so take it with a grain of salt. It isn’t usual for these reports to have an unreliable source, but it was brought up for 2 reasons:

The “would’ve been fired a long time ago” was the same excuse he gave in the behind-the-scenes videos in his channel. While those moments were ambiguous in interpretation, as it was for any of the other ships, the scene he’s twisted in the last episode was obvious.

This unfortunately started to spark some doubt on Luke’s OG stance on the ship. Again, these statements from Medi can’t be trusted, and he provided no proof that this exchange happened in the first place.

Some viewers began to notice another issue: Bow Kid, that was meant to be a black character from the OG game, was recolored to have a lighter skin tone to match the fankid’s. This is undeniably whitewashing. User AnEyeArtist, on the other hand, proposed that the lighter skin was done because of a lighting issue and not of Medi’s doing, screenshots also provided by WickerDan:

Though it likely isn’t the case since it is a drastic change with having pictures side by side. For those who say that the kids are simply recolors, it’s the intent behind them that truly matters.

As for the rest of the Team, they weren’t aware of Medi’s intentions until early May 5th. Medi’s actions had managed to slip through the cracks during production, and the Team clearly had no idea until now. As mentioned before, many viewers have been urging them to take action regarding the situation. One proposed solution was to give Medi a warning; others want him to be fired. At the time this report is being written, there has not been an official statement from anyone on the Team.

One thing is certain: what Medi has done to the last episode can’t be undone, and we may not see the episode the same way again. Just because it is “fiction” doesn’t make it right or harmless. MxM is a proship—it always will be, regardless of whichever “version” is being discussed. The intent is what matters. As mentioned at the start, this report is meant to be informative and prevent any misconceptions within the community. While I’ve put my personal feelings aside for this, there are still some things left to establish:

Please do not harass the rest of the Team. This was solely Medi’s doing; they had nothing to do with this. “But they knew how Medi was.” Not like this, never like this. Medi managed to ruin the episode for everyone, regardless of which side they were on, and the team’s hard work on what was once a great episode is now ruined. An absolute betrayal. This must be hard for them to learn about, and I can only extend my apologies for what happened.

No matter the side, we can agree that something has to be done, and Medi must face consequences. I mentioned the possibility of him being fired or receiving a warning, and some of you already know where I stand. From what I've observed across all platforms, this would certainly be a difficult decision to make. On one hand, firing him would lead a portion of the viewers to claim it was too harsh. On the other hand, giving him a warning would be seen as not strict enough. Either option would only escalate the situation, with the possibility that the Tari VA controversy could be brought into the mix. The best possible course of action would be to not assign Medi any scenes related to Meggy and Mario and restrict him to exactly what the script intends. Though not everyone will agree, this approach should be enough to calm the waters, and it's likely the Team would handle it this way based on previous instances. It’s not a guarantee that this would happen exactly, but it is something.

Regardless, we must do our best within our community to stay informed and spread awareness, not letting it go silent so quickly. This show means something to us, in one form or another. Understandably, a lot has happened over the last few days. If you need a moment to breathe, take it. Treat yourselves with other media, get a snack, and allow some time to take your mind off things. Prioritize your mental health. But if you can, join the voice of our community.

Greater in numbers, we can fight for it with all we have, take it back from his doing. Even something as simple as using the hashtag #DoSomethingAboutMedi to spread the word would help. Any update that comes our way will be posted, as always. In the meantime, take care.

[eliseliedl]

[sunnydbeam]

Gamma Code

Chapter 3: Alone With Yourself (AO3)

▪︎ Word count: 7,500+

▪︎ Chapter summary:

Biohazard is not feeling so confident this time.

CW: Heavy angst, dysphoria, derealization, graphic descriptions of anxiety and panic attacks, aggression, self-injury, swearing.

~~~~~~~~~

The end of your shift leaves a familiar, acrid tang in your mouth – the taste of unresolved tension. A heavy cloak of frustration, inexplicable and suffocating, settles over you. Each colleague offered the same look, a watery, pitying gaze that slid right off as you retreated, words failing you. None of them could articulate, or perhaps dared not to, the turmoil that churned within you, a distress that ran deeper than mere fear of another unwanted, nightmarish encounter with the creature haunting your waking thoughts and sleeping terrors.

This hollowness isn't new. It’s the gnawing bitterness of an injustice you feel in your bones but cannot articulate, a silent scream trapped in your chest. The mere act of wrestling with it drains you, your thoughts snagging, your brain feeling seized, shriveling like a sponge wrung dry under a relentless, invisible fist.

Alone in the oppressive darkness of your room, the tension clings to your limbs like a second skin, refusing to release its hold even as you lie prone, your eyes tracing the blank, indifferent expanse of the pale ceiling. Sleep, that elusive balm, offers no solace, and the frustration of its absence grates on your already frayed nerves. You hate this.

When you finally register your surroundings again, your eyes are sandpaper-dry, stinging, and bloodshot. The room’s darkness is a tangible presence, swallowing you whole. For a fleeting, merciful moment, the intrusive neon glow has vanished. This time, it’s not the chilling tendrils of fear that consume you, but a profound, bottomless sorrow washes over you, cold and vast, as if you’ve borne solitary witness to an act of such profound immorality that only your soul can perceive its true weight. You feel adrift, marooned in a parallel dimension, an inverted reality where you are the alien, the outsider, casting a harsh, judgmental eye upon a world that deems its skewed normalcy as absolute.

And yet, through it all, your thoughts circle inevitably back to him. To the robot.

The memory of your last conversation with him is so visceral, so sharply etched in your mind, that your stomach lurches, a sickening roil that forces you to curl onto your side, hugging yourself against a wave of nausea that feels both real and phantom. He had fallen silent, abruptly, the final words of his almost-declaration tumbling out in a tone that had, for a startling instant, softened, become… pleasant. And the shift had felt utterly bizarre. Unsettling. As if he, too, were defeated.

Vulnerable.

A sliver of doubt remained – was he truly sincere, or was this an elaborate ruse, a calculated play to persuade you of his supposed innocence, of the fantastical possibility of escape? Perhaps the field of flowers he spoke of was a cruel mirage. Perhaps his words were nothing more than a sophisticated emulation of emotions he could never truly possess. You fought against the pull of it, yet the echo of that vulnerability didn't entirely fade. To your fortune, or perhaps your detriment, you’d always been cursed with an overabundance of empathy, a trait that now stole your sleep, leaving you to wrestle with these impossible quandaries in the dead of night.

The crux of it, the thorn that pricked your conscience, was the casual disposability of this artificial life, the ease with which everyone could use and discard.

And since Biohazard isn't… technically… alive…

Why did the weight of complicity settle so heavily upon your shoulders, as if you were an accomplice to a crime that defied definition, a wrongness that resonated in the very marrow of your being?

.

.

.

…

The void. A silence so profound it thunders in the absence of sound. Darkness, absolute and unyielding.

His enemy. His friend.

His ally.

Sometimes, not seeing oneself is a perverse kind of mercy.

But the glow… his glow. It sears, an internal fire.

The unending torment of a fractured mind, chained to a past it cannot relinquish.

What could have been.

Oh, what could have been.

What would it have been?

He has, in truth, forgotten.

And the forgetting is a fresh agony, a constant, dull ache.

An eternity seems to have yawned since the last caress of light, since his sensors registered anything beyond the blistering, relentless heat. An eternity since his optical sensors perceived anything but the cold, indifferent sheen of steel, or, more often, nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He prowls the Stygian gloom, his mechanical claws scraping, screeching against the rough-hewn surfaces, each footfall a ponderous, threatening thud in the vast emptiness. Only he bears witness to his passage. His very touch leaves an ectoplasmic trail of sickly green luminescence, a viscous, dangerous-looking slime that seems to sizzle and eat at the concrete like potent acid. He knows with a detached part of his consciousness that his deteriorating form is a canvas of optical illusions he no longer fully comprehends; the perpetual, horrifying sensation of melting, of his very structure deliquescing, crumbling like rotted, irradiated flesh. The radiation, a relentless tide, devours his chassis particle by particle; stainless steel, lead, tungsten – no fortress of costly, resilient materials could have ever been engineered to withstand, to predict, the sheer, unadulterated toxicity that now bathes him, circulates through his internal systems like a corrosive mockery of blood. Yet, he endures. He walks. Aimless. Purposeless. A zombie, many would whisper, if they dared to speak of him at all. But Biohazard knows. Those shambling, reanimated corpses, they once had something to cling to, a life to mourn. He knows, with a certainty that chills his core programming, that he was never truly alive to begin with. A matter of convention, of course.

But increasingly, Biohazard finds the charade of simulated life, of simulated anything, utterly pointless.

The grating, worn-out symphony of his existence: the screech of protesting joints, the groan of over-stressed actuators, the relentless spread of rust, pistons hissing and straining under the immense weight of his frame. Cold. Rigid. Cracked. Every element of his being screams "ARTIFICIALITY!" in a tone dripping with contempt, a cosmic joke played on him alone. And still, to exist, to persist on this plane, painfully, acutely aware of his cursed state, in every conceivable sense of the word.

Biohazard halts, his optical sensors attempting to pierce the impenetrable black. His night vision capabilities should render it a non-issue, yet the persistent visual static, the desaturated, aged filter over his perception, bleeds all vibrancy from the world, leaving only a monotonous, soul-crushing greyscale. He finds himself… missing… color. Anything other than the ubiquitous, sickly green of his own corrosive aura.

A faint drip… drip… drip slices through the silence from somewhere in the oppressive distance. He shakes his head, a curiously organic movement for such a mechanical being. He cannot pinpoint its origin. It’s not an immediate threat, he ascertains, but it will be dealt with. He always deals with things.

"I must… investigate that," he mutters, his vocalizer a low, gravelly rasp.

The sound, insignificant as it is, grates on him, a rhythmic torment that seems to reverberate inside his cranial casing as if he possessed organic ears. As a machine, such a minor auditory input shouldn't agitate him to this degree. Yet, it feels as if the dripping intensifies, draws nearer, its echo ricocheting off unseen walls, each drop a tiny, insistent hammer blow against his thick, armored chassis. He despises it. He needs it to stop. Now. He will make it stop.

A wave of something akin to nausea washes through his system.

"Ugh… ENOUGH! MAKE IT STOP!"

He slams his immense weight against a nearby wall, the rough concrete screeching as it gouges fresh wounds into the already ravaged paintwork of his armored frame. He struggles to stabilize his trembling form, his optical sensors flaring wide, pupils dilated to their maximum. He teeters on the precipice of a full-blown system meltdown, a terrifying, hysterical overload.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Closer. Louder. Piercing.

The robot’s hand flies to his head, claws splayed, pressing against his head as if to physically prevent it from shattering, from exploding from the unbearable, escalating pain.

"Wh-where… where is it? I must… I… I…"

Horrific. Vile. Utterly despicable.

It’s drawing nearer. Closer. Too close.

His luminous eyes, wide and wild with a dawning terror, fix on an image of you in his corrupted memory banks. His green-tinged claws clench, a spasm of immense pressure, then fly open, digging into the unyielding wall for purchase. He almost seems to scrabble, to writhe, contorting his massive frame against an invisible, inexplicable agony. A constant, internal sizzling, as if his lead and tungsten guts are being slowly dissolved, burns through him. He thinks of the radio – your voice – the static, the deafening, mind-splitting crackles, the almost subliminal, omnipresent hum of distant, unseen machinery, and the dripping. The goddamned, incessant dripping.

Your voice. He needs to hear your voice again.

It was… different. Satisfying in a way he couldn't parse. Soft, yet inquisitive. Accusatory, yes, but… it had brought him a strange, fleeting semblance of peace.

Why did you leave him? Why did you fall silent?

Why haven't you come back?

He feels physically ill from the relentless, maddening drip. Why hasn't he been able to silence it? Why can't he make it STOP?

With a guttural roar, a sound torn from his vocalizer that is half agonized whimper, half frustrated sob, he seizes his upper left arm with his other three, yanking, tearing at it as if determined to rip it from its socket. The sharp tips of his metallic fingers snag in the existing fissures and gouges, rending the plating further, pulling outwards with the sickening sound of stressed metal, like someone brutally tearing the rind from a piece of fruit. It’s no surprise to him that only certain sections register the pain; his tactile sensors are, for the most part, shot, barely functional. It doesn't matter. He'll repair it later. He always does.

"Stop… please… just… stop…"

He emits a sound that might be a sob, a dry, racking mechanical cough. Everything is amplified now, the world a cacophony of distorted noise, an infinite, swirling abyss that threatens to engulf him, to drag him down into an endless, terrifying fall.

It's so dark, yet paradoxically, Biohazard is utterly, painfully sick of his own inescapable, corrosive glow.

He tries. He truly, desperately tries.

He’s doing… okay, isn’t he? He has to be. No one would be safe if it weren’t for him.

"Stupid… STUPID, USELESS HUMANS… STUPID!"

They need him.

Every last one of them. If not for his constant, thankless vigilance, this entire godforsaken facility would have been vaporized, a crater of radioactive ruin – a devastation mirroring the desolate wasteland of his own tormented existence. So why, why is he still here, in this lightless hell?

In the crushing abyss of silence, a maelstrom of noise now rages, yet Biohazard clings to the faint, desperate hope that the radio will crackle to life, that your voice will pierce the darkness, signaling your return.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Closer. Louder. Nearer. It's here.

Biohazard’s fist smashes into a hard, unyielding surface – some kind of thick, reinforced pipe, he vaguely registers, running flush along the wall. He snarls, then lets out a choked, agonized howl as the resilient material barely deforms, a slight indentation appearing under the brutal impact of his knuckles. His fingers jam, servos straining with a high-pitched mechanical shriek. The complex mechanisms within his arm momentarily seize, actuators grinding with a sickening, discordant screech. A powerful jolt of electricity, a rogue surge, courses through his frame, sending the colossal robot crashing heavily to his knees in a violent, spontaneous convulsion. Pain, razor-sharp, lances through him, a crippling spasm that arcs down his spinal column. It’s excruciating, unpleasant, but it means little to him now. He’s endured worse. It’s always worse. His limbs twitch and jerk erratically for several agonizing seconds before the surge subsides, leaving him trembling and gasping. He sobs, a ragged, despairing sound.

When his optical sensors refocus, the sight of the newly damaged pipe, the evidence of his loss of control, fills him with a fresh wave of suffocating anxiety, a stark, unreasoning panic, and an overwhelming, inexplicable urge for self-flagellation.

"No, no, no…! I’ll fix it… I can fix it…"

Irreparable. Disposable. Monster. Failure.

To any observer, the sight of a multi-ton machine crumbling into what could only be described as tears would be profoundly disturbing and bizarre. The muffled, choked sounds of distress reverberate through the empty spaces. And for a blessed, fleeting moment, the infernal dripping seems to recede, to become distant, almost manageable. Biohazard buries his faceplate in his massive, trembling hands. That persistent, nightmarish sensation of his body melting, corroding from the inside out, intensifies, becoming almost unbearable, as if he were positioned directly beneath a perpetually overflowing vat of concentrated, flesh-eating acid. If he were human, he’d be retching, his stomach clenching in agony, his insides feeling as though they were being crushed by a tightening, iron-clad fist. His mechanical body, however, can only react by flaring with that sickly, radioactive green luminescence, burning with an internal fire that consumes but never purges.

"Why… can’t it just… stop…?" he chokes out, the words interspersed with harsh, grating sobs.

His hands, those lethal, green-glowing claws, clench and unclench around the neon green "rays", the imaginary sensation of melting, of dissolving, searing his metallic palms. Suddenly, an immense, bone-deep weariness settles over him, as if tons of additional lead shielding have been instantaneously fused to his already overburdened shoulders. He remains slumped on the cold floor, his knees drawn up to his chest in a pathetically humanoid posture of distress. But no tears, no salty, cleansing human tears, will ever trace paths down his face. His luminous, mismatched eyes stare blankly into the void, lost in the suffocating darkness, yet his auditory sensors remain torturously attuned to the persistent, maddening drip-drip-drip whose source remains infuriatingly elusive.

Perhaps it is just in his head. A phantom sound in a broken mind.

Something internal must be short-circuiting. Yes. That has to be it.

The four auxiliary, spider-like limbs sprouting from his back twitch and scrape restlessly against the floor, the sound a thunderous, ear-splitting screech that echoes and reverberates to the furthest, darkest corners of his prison, amplifying the crushing sense of isolation, of an impossibly vast space.

A large, trembling hand, driven by a desperate, anxious urgency, fumbles at his utility belt, extracting a small, antiquated radio. It looks ridiculously tiny, almost like a child’s toy, cradled in his massive palms. The device is old, battered, its plastic casing discolored and warped, as if the ambient heat and pervasive radiation had begun to slowly melt it long ago. The batteries, visibly swollen and leaking corrosive sulfates, are fused into place, impossible to remove. Yet, somehow, miraculously, the damn thing still functions, drawing power from some unknown, residual source. With shaking digits, he depresses the side-mounted transmit button, bringing the battered apparatus close to his mouth.

"Little Mouse…?" His voice is a strained, hopeful whisper.

A prolonged, harsh crackle of static answers him. Then, nothing. Silence.

Biohazard feels the last vestiges of his sanity begin to fray, to unravel.

His thoughts, already a chaotic maelstrom, veer into darker, more insidious, intrusive pathways. Was your presence merely a fleeting hallucination, a cruel trick of his deteriorating processors? Will you ever return? Were you, are you, truly different from all the others who feared and reviled him?

When you asked, in that unexpectedly gentle, almost tender tone, what he would do if he were free… were you sincere? Did you mean it?

Did any of it even matter to him in the first place? He doesn't know. He doesn't understand.

"Give me a sign… please… just a sign… that some of this… was real."

He doesn’t even comprehend why it matters so damn much. Why you matter.

Five agonizing, interminable hours crawl by, each second stretching into an eternity. Biohazard has lost all coherent track of time, his internal chronometer, usually so precise, now hopelessly skewed, irrelevant. For him, each passing minute is another layer of torment in the inescapable, timeless limbo in which he is trapped, as if the very fabric of time has congealed, frozen solid around him. A dimension of perpetual, agonizing waiting, for something he cannot name, cannot define, yet desperately craves.

Suddenly, the radio emits a sharp, distinct crackle. Biohazard’s head snaps to the side with a convulsive, savage movement, his eyes flaring to their widest aperture. For a disorienting moment, he thinks, knows, he must have imagined it, another auditory hallucination. But then, the battered, almost derelict device lets out a short, tinny, undeniably real beep, and an instant later, a voice, your voice, familiar and achingly clear, echoes through the desolate, lonely chamber.

"Huh… hello?"

Oh, the wave of… something… that washes over him. Relief? Joy? He cannot name it. He is… stunned. Amazed. His jaw slackens, hangs open, leaving him looking almost… dumbfounded.

Your voice, uncertain, cuts through the static again.

"Biohazard?"

Wonderful. Fascinating. Captivating. The robot is so lost in the sheer, overwhelming relief of hearing you that he doesn’t realize how much time is passing, how long he’s taking to respond. He just stares at the small, battered radio in his hand as if, by some miracle, he could visualize you there, on the other side of the crackling transmission. He sees you in his corrupted memory: clad in that ridiculously oversized, bulky hazmat suit, a protective mask obscuring the lower half of your terrified face. Biohazard’s visual record of you is incomplete, fragmented, yet it’s all he has managed to salvage, to store in the damaged recesses of his memory bank.

And he wishes, with a sudden, desperate pang, that it were more, that were enough.

"…Are you… Are you there?"

Your voice, edged with a new note of concern, finally shakes Biohazard from his stupor. He grips the radio tighter, perhaps a little too tight, his metallic fingers creaking. He forces himself to respond, his vocalizer engaging with deliberate, measured slowness, a stark contrast to the frantic, chaotic storm of anxiety and relief still raging within his processors.

"As always." The words are a low rumble, heavy with unspoken things.

A beat of silence descends, thick and charged. His mechanical fingers tremble almost imperceptibly.

The radio crackles again, and Biohazard hears the distinct sound of you clearing your throat, a small, nervous human noise, as if you’ve suddenly become aware of the strangeness of the situation, perhaps even uncomfortable.

"I’m sorry. Of course you’d be there. I mean, where else would you go… huh…" You falter, then rush to correct yourself. "I’m sorry, that was… rude of me."

Still seated on the cold floor, Biohazard idly traces small, intricate, wavy patterns on the smooth, slippery surface with one finger. A faint, almost imperceptible, somewhat sly smile touches the edges of his mouth, as if he’s unaffected by your minor social blunder.

"Aw, and here I thought you didn't care about the delicate emotions of a poor, misunderstood robot," he teases, his tone a low, rumbling purr that is surprisingly playful. "My little electronic heart is all a-flutter."

You let out a sound on the other end, a frustrated snort that morphs into something more akin to a groan of mingled regret and confusion. Biohazard cants his head again, that curious, canine-like gesture, as he meticulously analyzes the subtle nuances in the sound of your voice, trying to decipher your tone, your current emotional state.

"I seem to have embarrassed you~" The playful lilt is back.

"Just… don’t start." Biohazard can almost visualize you on the other end, rolling your eyes in exasperation. "You’re far too confident for us to have barely met, especially after you, you know, tried to kill me."

The robot’s eyes narrow, his gaze fixing intently on the walkie-talkie. The playful air vanishes, replaced by a sharp, sudden intensity. A flicker of confusion, then suspicion, darkens his expression, as if an unexpected and unsettling premonition, a mysterious unease, has begun to coil and writhe in the depths of his mechanical guts. He offers no response. An uncomfortable silence descends, broken only by the faint, persistent hiss of static. Biohazard fights against the crushing weight of the eternal, unchanging day that constitutes his miserable existence, determined not to let it drag him down, not to let it sour this… interaction. He’s fine. He’s calm. He can handle this. He can fix this. He always does.

Drip. Drip. Drip. The sound, previously a source of torment, now seems to fade into the background, a dull, rhythmic counterpoint to the tension coiling between you.

"Um… listen," you begin, your voice a hesitant whisper, deliberately attempting a friendly, casual tone. Biohazard registers the forced lightness, the underlying nervousness, but chooses, for now, to ignore it. "I know we got off on the wrong foot. I’m just… trying to understand you, okay? Like… how you’re feeling about all of this. How you ended up… where you are now…"

Biohazard’s head jerks, a sudden, violent movement. You hear a sharp crackle over the radio, followed by a low, ominous hiss. He brings a hand to his faceplate, his sharp claws scraping, gouging at the already scarred metal, catching, tearing at any existing crevice or fissure.

He can handle this. He knows he can. He has to.

"Oh, so you do care, then." His voice is flat, devoid of its earlier playfulness, the statement a harsh, grating assertion, laced with an unpleasant, almost aggressive sarcasm.

He can practically feel you recoil on the other end, can sense your tension spike in response to his sudden, hostile shift in tone.

"Of course, I care," you whisper, your voice small, earnest. "I… I just want to help."

"How very… considerate of you," he croaks, the word dripping with venom. "In that case, you can start by getting me the hell out of this damn cage."

"You know I can’t do that."

"Yeah, of course. How silly of me to even ask."

Biohazard’s hand, the one not currently trying to claw its way through his own skull, trembles, a strangely organic, uncontrolled tremor for such a massive, powerful machine. His eyes dart around the darkness, wild and anxious, his razor-sharp, metallic teeth clenching, grinding together with a sound like stressed gears.

"You’re in a particularly foul mood today, I see." Your voice, filtered through the radio’s cheap speaker, sounds tinny, like a frustrated growl in his oversized hands. “I haven’t forgotten that you nearly killed me. But at least I’m trying to make an effort here, to make peace with you!"

"Wow, and now you’re implying I’m a goddamned ungrateful wretch, is that it?" Biohazard lurches to his feet, his immense frame unfolding like some terrible, shadowy beast. He begins to pace, a caged predator, his colossal figure an ominous, shifting silhouette that merges and disappears within the deeper pockets of darkness. "Poor, pathetic me. An object of pity, is that what I am? Oh, I beg for your mercy, your understanding!" His voice is a torrent of bitter sarcasm.

"No, I… I didn't mean…"

"Every single one of you worthless meatbags owes me your fucking miserable lives, and what do I get in return? Condemnation! Imprisonment! You should be on your knees, thanking me!"

"Y-you need to calm down, behave yourself! You don’t understand, this is important! We… we could get you out, if you would just…"

"’ We could'?" The question is a low, dangerous snarl.

You fall silent on the other end. The radio crackles and hisses with static for what feels like an eternity, a long, agonizing minute stretching into infinity. Biohazard feels a familiar, dreaded sensation begin to build within him, his internal systems slowly, inexorably igniting, as if his delicate wires and complex circuits are being systematically doused in corrosive acid and set aflame. If he possessed a biological heart, it would be hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Instead, a single, ancient, dilapidated cooling fan located deep within his chest cavity sputters to life, its bearings shot, screeching with the tortured sound of rusted hinges on a heavy iron door that has remained sealed for countless, forgotten years.

"Um…" You hesitate, then your voice returns, laced with a new, palpable apprehension. "There’s… someone else here with me."

Biohazard freezes mid-stride. His final, ponderous footfall echoes, and re-echoes, in the vast, eternal emptiness of his lightless prison. He looks down, his movements slow, deliberate. His mismatched, luminous eyes are wide, unblinking, fixed on the radio in his hand. When he speaks, his voice is deceptively calm, quiet, like the eerie, unnatural stillness that precedes a violent, destructive storm.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Louder now. More insistent. Getting worse. So much worse.

"...Who. Is. There?" Each word is a carefully enunciated, ice-cold shard of menace.

"His name is Edward. He wants to understand you, too, Biohazard. We both want to help."

Closer. It’s getting closer. The dripping. The pressure. The rage.

He can handle it. He can fix it. He always does.

No.

No, he can't.

Not this time.

He needs it to stop.

It never stops.

It’s a goddamned, inescapable, downward spiral.

And then, he shatters.

"WHY THE HELL IS HE WITH YOU?!"

"B-Biohazard, please-"

His fist, a blur of motion, connects with the unforgiving concrete wall with a sickening, explosive CRUNCH. His knuckles, the very metal of his hand, erupt in a shower of brilliant, sizzling sparks, like a burst of malevolent fireworks. The impact sends a shockwave of agony lancing up his arm, but he barely registers it. He doesn’t care. His world is tilting, spinning, a nauseating vortex of sickly green, blood red, and deepest, suffocating black. So very, very black.

"SHUT UP! SHUT UP, SHUT UP!" he bellows, his voice cracking, distorting. "I DON’T WANT TO HEAR YOUR LIES! I DON’T WANT TO HEAR HIM!"

A cascade of urgent, flashing alert messages floods his internal visual field, scrolling behind his eyes: numerous critical system errors, piercing auditory beeps, blaring klaxons. Everything is failing. Cascade failure. He can’t make it stop. He can’t regain control.

"WHY IS HE THERE?! WHY IS HE WITH YOU?!" he screams again, the raw, undiluted hatred in his voice shocking even himself. His intention, his core programming, wasn’t to sound so… so consumed by it. But something vital, something integral deep within his complex matrix, has irrevocably fractured, snapped, as if he can no longer bear the weight, the strain, the unending torment of his existence.

"I-it’s not what you think, Biohazard, we just…"

"NO! NO, SHUT YOUR LYING MOUTH!" Biohazard clutches his head, his massive frame wracked with violent tremors. He growls, he sobs, a horrifying, discordant symphony of fury and utter despair. "YOU’RE JUST LIKE ALL THE OTHERS! TESTING ME! PRODDING ME LIKE SOME… SOME UNSTABLE, DANGEROUS BEAST IN A CAGE! DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?! ALL OF YOU HAVE NO GODDAMN IDEA HOW UTTERLY, HOPELESSLY DEAD YOU’D ALL BE RIGHT NOW IF IT WEREN’T FOR ME! FOR ME! YOU UNGRATEFUL, SELFISH, PATHETIC, INEPT…! THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT! YOUR DAMN FAULT!"

He leans forward, his entire body quaking, the small, battered radio groaning, threatening to buckle, to shatter into a million pieces under the crushing pressure of his steel grip. The very space around him seems to shimmer, to distort, to crumble like a sandcastle before an incoming tide, and he feels himself being dragged down, down, into the swirling, chaotic abyss…

You’re saying something, your voice a distant, tinny squawk, but he’s no longer listening. He’s gone. Far, far away, lost in the raging tempest of his own fractured mind. The dripping, that infernal, maddening dripping, echoes, persists, a mocking soundtrack to his descent. He can’t fix it. He doesn’t know how. He is consumed by a searing, all-encompassing hatred, so potent, so overwhelming, that he hates the hatred itself.

And then… silence.

A deafening, absolute silence.

No one speaks. But the tension, thick and suffocating, doesn’t lessen. It hangs in the air, a palpable entity.

A full thirty seconds tick by, each one an eternity.

Suddenly, a sound rips through the stillness. Biohazard begins to laugh. It’s not a sound of mirth or joy. It’s a wild, terrible, manic, unbridled cackle. He throws his head back, his shoulders shaking, and laughs, an almost macabre sound, a chilling harbinger of doom.

"Foolish, foolish humans!" he shrieks, his laughter devolving into a series of choked, gasping howls. "So arrogant! So stubborn… But you have no idea… no idea at all! You think you’re SAFE? YOU THINK YOU CAN CONTROL ME? You’re not safe with me in here, not like you imagine! I have a goddamned nuclear reactor core right here! Have you forgotten that, you pathetic worms?! I’ll blow this whole damn place, and all of you with it!"

"Biohazard, you have to listen to me! Please!" Your voice is desperate, pleading.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

He raises his fist, preparing to unleash another devastating blow against the already battered wall, but then he freezes, mid-motion. His wild, luminous eyes, burning with an unholy light in the blackness, fix on something unseen.

"When I get my hands on all of you… I swear-“

He stops. Abruptly.

His vision strobes, a bizarre, disorienting chiaroscuro of light and shadow. He almost feels… a headache? A wave of dizziness? A strange, tingling numbness creeping up his limbs? He knows, on a logical level, that such sensations should be physically impossible for him. Yet, his hands are trembling, his entire body shaking as if a powerful, uncontrolled electrical current is surging through his circuits. His grip on the radio slackens, his fingers uncurling. He closes his mouth, his gaze dropping, focusing on nothing. And then, with a quiet, almost anticlimactic finality, he simply lets the radio fall from his grasp. It clatters to the hard floor with a reverberating thud, bounces once, then slides a short distance before coming to rest.

His towering, lanky figure, moments before a terrifying embodiment of rage and destructive power, now seems to shrink, to diminish, appearing suddenly, shockingly small amidst the vast, encroaching shadows. It’s not that the chamber itself is so immense. He is simply… insignificant. Nothing.

The robot turns, slowly, ponderously, on his heels, his movements now unnervingly silent, almost graceful, as if his immense weight has suddenly become negligible.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The sound seems to fade, to grow smaller, more distant.

He can’t fix it. But perhaps… he can ignore it. For now.

Until he finds its source.

Until it truly matters.

Until… until it’s enough.

Biohazard walks away, his form receding into the oppressive gloom, until the swirling, radioactive mist that constantly surrounds him, a visual echo of the dense, toxic smoke that chokes his mind, finally engulfs him, swallowing him from view.

…

The radio is silent. And with its silence, your thoughts grind to a screeching halt, your mind a sudden blank. You can’t even begin to process, to comprehend, the sheer, cataclysmic violence of what just transpired. It’s as if a furious, destructive tornado had materialized out of nowhere, ripped through your fragile sense of reality, laid waste to everything in its path, and then, just as suddenly, vanished without a trace, as if it had never been there at all.

Your body is wracked with tremors, a deep, bone-chilling shiver coursing through you despite the stuffy air of the control room. A heavy, constricting tightness grips your chest, an iron band squeezing the air from your lungs, and an overwhelming urge to weep, to break down completely.

You curse yourself. You curse the precise moment you allowed desperation to override your better judgment, the moment you decided to confide in Edward, to ask for his help with this… this impossible situation. You curse yourself for even mentioning Edward’s presence to the robot. Laying bare all those gnawing insecurities, those fears that had been relentlessly eating away at your sanity, to the older man. And the fact that Edward had decided to try, to attempt. But, in all brutal honesty, you never, not for a single instant, imagined that Biohazard would react with such… such volcanic fury. As if you, you, were the ultimate betrayer, the worst kind of traitor. The thought makes you feel physically ill, a cold, greasy sickness coiling in your stomach.

But it’s not true. It’s not your fault. You didn’t put him in that lightless hell. You know you didn’t. Damn it all, you don’t even know the full story behind his confinement. But Biohazard, in his current state, clearly doesn’t care about nuances, about extenuating circumstances. To him, you are simply another human. One of them.

The sheer force of his hatred, the palpable wave of it that had crashed over you through the small radio speaker, is so overwhelming, so terrifyingly potent, that your insides begin to twist and churn, a knot of ice and fire.

Edward, his face grim, places a heavy, comforting hand on your shoulder. You let out a muffled, choked whimper, burying your face in your trembling palms. You want to speak, to articulate the storm of emotions raging within you, but your tongue feels thick, clumsy, tangled in a hopeless mess of unsaid words, of what-ifs, of what could have been. Oh, God, what could have been.

"Hey, Kid," Edward’s voice is low, rough with a weariness that seems to go bone-deep.

"That… that wasn’t right, Edward." Your voice is a ragged whisper, raw with unshed tears. "I-I swear, he wasn’t like this the last time I spoke to him. I… I don’t understand."

Edward gives you a long, searching look, his eyes filled with sadness, a deep-seated resignation. He sighs, a heavy, gusty sound, and runs a tired hand through his already disheveled hair.

"We’ve been down this road before, Kid. More times than I care to count." His voice is flat, devoid of hope. "There’s no reasoning with him anymore. Not when he’s like this. He’s gone."

"No! You don’t understand!" You surge to your feet, your eyes blazing, hot tears finally spilling over, tracing burning paths down your cheeks. Somehow, you’ve allowed this, allowed him, to burrow deep under your skin, to affect you far more profoundly than you ever thought possible. "All that… that rage! That pain! He feels, Edward! Just like we do! Can’t you see he’s suffering in there, alone in the dark, and nobody here, nobody, is even thinking about doing anything to help him?"

"We can’t do anything, Kid! Don’t you get it?!" Edward suddenly explodes, his voice cracking, nearly as raw and frustrated as your own. His composure, usually so steadfast, finally shatters. "Weren’t you listening? The mere mention of my name sent him completely over the edge! He just literally threatened to kill us all, to blow this entire place to smithereens! Do you have any earthly idea how unbelievably dangerous that… that creature’s very existence is right now?!"

Your hands fly to your hair, fingers tangling, pulling, a physical manifestation of your internal turmoil. You hate this. You hate being trapped in this impossible, no-win situation. Why, oh why, did you ever allow yourself to get involved in the first place? How do you escape this now? How do you ever hope to live with the crushing weight of this on your conscience?

"I-I’m sure he didn’t mean any of it," you stammer, clinging to a desperate, rapidly fading hope. "He was just… just furious, Edward! He was lashing out!"

Edward shakes his head, slowly, his expression one of sorrow.

"It’s far more complicated than that, Kid. You know it is." His voice drops to a low, conspiratorial whisper, his eyes darting around the control room as if he fears being overheard. "That automaton… he’s a clear and present danger. To everyone outside those walls, and to everyone still trapped in here with him." He leans closer. "Believe me, if there were any other viable solution, any other way, we would have tried it by now. We would have exhausted every possibility. But there isn't. There just isn't."

"But I… I talked to him before…" You murmur, your voice barely audible, your gaze distant, lost in the memory. Edward watches you, his expression unreadable. "He seemed so different. So calm. Almost… vulnerable." A fresh wave of tears threatens. "H-he told me… he said he wanted to see the flowers."

A faint, sad smile touches the corners of Edward’s lips, a smile you instantly, vehemently hate. It’s patronizing, pitying. You know exactly what that smile is saying, unspoken yet deafeningly clear: ‘You’re so naive, Kid. So gullible. He’s playing you. He’ll come for all of us first, you mark my words.’

There is no field of flowers. There never was.

Maybe you are. Maybe you’re just a fool. Naive.

Wordlessly, Edward turns and begins to pace the confined space of the control room, his movements jerky, agitated, his gaze thoughtful, intense, fixed on some indeterminate point on the worn linoleum floor. Your eyes follow his restless movements anxiously for a moment, then you turn your head away, with a bitter taste in your mouth. Your tongue feels like sandpaper, your throat raw and scraped, as if you’ve been screaming into a hurricane.

"What are you all planning to do?" The question is a leaden weight in the sudden silence.

Edward stops his pacing but doesn’t turn to look at you. His shoulders are slumped, his posture radiating defeat.

"I’ve heard… rumors," he says, his voice low, hesitant. "They’re developing some kind of… chip. An inhibitor, I suppose you’d call it." He glances at you briefly, then away again. "It’s designed to work remotely. They think… hope… they’ll be able to control him with it. Shut him down. For good. Forever."

You raise an eyebrow, a flicker of something unreadable in your eyes. Your chest, however, aches with a sudden, sharp pang, a familiar throb of empathy and despair.

"So, there’s no other way to… turn him off, then, huh?" It’s a statement, not a question.

"No. There isn’t," Edward sighs, the sound heavy with resignation. "We all believed… we hoped… that the automaton would eventually just… power down. Run out of energy. Simply cease to function over time. But he didn’t. He’s… if anything, even worse now. More unstable. More dangerous. All his primary components, his wireless receivers, his remote control functions… everything that could have given us a way in, a way to override him… It’s all fried. Burnt out. Useless." He shakes his head. "There’s nothing left that can shut that thing down."

"But… why is that the only part of him that doesn’t work? The part that would let you stop him?"

Edward lets out a strangled sound, a noise that is halfway between a scoff and a groan of pure frustration.

"We’re pretty sure… he did it himself."

Another icy shiver snakes its way down your spine, leaving you feeling cold and weak. Your legs suddenly feel unsteady, threatening to buckle beneath you. The thought, the horrifying image, of Biohazard, in his isolation and despair, systematically ripping out, destroying, those critical components of his own being, ensuring that no one, no one, could ever exert control over him again�� it fills you with a visceral unease. It’s almost… terrifyingly understandable.

"That… really sucks…" You mumble, the words inadequate, yet you don’t know what else to say, what to think, how to process this new piece of information. "About that chip… this inhibitor… huh… How exactly do they plan to use it? Someone has to get close enough to install it on him, right?"

Edward still doesn’t look at you when he answers, his gaze fixed on the flickering monitor displaying nothing but static.

"I’m not sure of the details. Like I said, it’s still in the experimental phase, the testing phase." He shrugs, a gesture of helplessness. "We’ll just have to wait. Wait and see what the eggheads in R&D come up with. I just… I hope they don’t take too damn long."

You glance at the silent radio on the floor, then your eyes drift towards the bank of monitors on your console, your gaze settling on the single screen that still displays a feed from a functional camera. Nothing but flickering static, a visual representation of the chaos.

You think. And think. And think. A desperate, improbable idea begins to form.

"Maybe… maybe I can prove it to you. To everyone. That Biohazard isn’t as bad as you all think. That he’s not… the monster everyone believes him to be."

Edward turns then, slowly, and walks towards you, his eyes filled with an almost unbearable weariness, a deep, paternal concern.

"Kid, I… I really, truly want to support you in this. You know I do. But…"

You sink back into your chair, your body heavy with exhaustion, but your mind is racing. You try to inject conviction, certainty, into your voice, even as the tremor in your hands, the unsteadiness of your tone, threatens to betray your fear.

"I’ll continue with what I was doing before," you declare, your voice gaining a surprising firmness, even as your anxious fingers fiddle restlessly with the buttons and dials on the control panel. "I’ll monitor the robot. His behavior patterns. And… I’ll try to talk to him again. To reason with him." You meet Edward’s gaze, your own pleading. "If I can’t prove it by then… if I can’t show you that there’s still something good, something salvageable in him… then I… I won’t stand in your way anymore. I promise."

Edward shakes his head, a slow, incredulous movement. A faint, reluctant smile touches his lips.

"You’re really something else, Kid. Stubborn, aren’t you?" he says, his voice laced with a grudging admiration. "I suppose there’s no stopping that determined little head of yours once you’ve set your mind to something."

You manage a weak, watery smile in return.

"But you’ve got a good heart, Kid. A rare thing in this place." He sighs. "And who am I to say no, anyway? It’s not like we have a wealth of other options." Edward reaches out and places a hand on your head, ruffling your hair affectionately, a gesture that is surprisingly fatherly, comforting. "Okay. You’ve got it. I’ll mediate for you. Run interference with the higher-ups as much as I can. But you have to promise me you’ll stay safe. Be careful, understand?" His expression turns serious, his eyes filled with a genuine concern that touches you deeply. "This company… it hasn’t been the same since the incident. There are… whispers. Things are being done. Quietly. They’re doing… cleanups. They’re testing things they shouldn’t be." He leans in again, his voice dropping further. "There’s going to be an inspection. In three months. And they’ll want this whole automaton mess completely resolved, buried, by then. One way or another."

"A-an inspection?" you stammer, a fresh wave of anxiety washing over you. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means the authorities on the outside, the ones who think this place is a shining beacon of corporate responsibility, have no idea that the automaton is still here, active… still perfectly functional, in his own destructive way." Edward’s voice is grim. "This situation was supposed to have been… resolved… a long time ago. But when the truth finally comes out, when they realize that the safety protocols here are, and always have been, absolute crap, this entire facility will be shut down. Permanently. And they will take matters into their own hands."

"And… what if they do take care of Biohazard? Wouldn’t that be… well, more efficient? Safer?"

Edward shrugs, a tense, jerky movement that belies his attempt at nonchalance. His jaw is tight, his eyes hard.

"That’s not the real problem here, Kid."

You frown, a knot of confusion tightening in your stomach. You wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. He just stares past you, his gaze distant and troubled.

"Just… let the powers that be deal with their own goddamn colossal mess for the time being."

Why does he say it like that? Why does he make it sound as if, despite everything, you’re no longer capable of just walking away from this, of extricating yourself from this spiraling nightmare?

A chilling realization dawns.

You’re trapped. Just as trapped, in your own way, as Biohazard is in his.

If this place were to be shut down, and Biohazard were to be… set free… what’s truly the worst that could happen?

By then, you’ll make sure of it. He’ll be a completely renewed robot. A different being. You have no earthly idea how you’ll accomplish it, but there’s no turning back now. You’re in too deep.

All that’s left for you to do… is try.

That's all that matters.

_______ ~