#so he’s tortured by his conscience

[magpie-trove]

So what if I said the whole soulless thing with the Buffy vampires could maybe be made sense of by saying the vampires are living in the world of the sensitive appetite which is corporal, just of the body, and they lack the faculties of the soul (reason, will, love) and so when they start using those again they “get their soul back” and be more human in proportion to that

[laniidae-passerine]

there is something so entirely fucked about Louis’ psyche… look at it all! the physical beatings to an obscene degree, the damaging affairs, the psychological warfare, the public humiliation, the participation in the murder of their only beloved daughter. Lestat does this all to him, or a significant amount even if memory is playing its wicked games. Lestat is a vicious horrible thing with his teeth marks on every part of Louis and yet even with decades of freedom, a new partner, the ability to recognise and condemn cruelty and abusive actions, Louis still wants him back. Knowing what he is, what he can do, Louis wants him back. It never mattered if vampires can dream, for Lestat haunts his waking days, a torturous vision of the only living one Louis really loves.

[hooved]

nothing makes me block someone faster than them writing paragraphs about how much they hate odo in the tags on my posts about him

[theorist-fox]

Can I interest you in some silly sex with Simon? 🧎🏻‍♀️‍➡️

18+

Word count: 1k.

CW: nothing really. Just silly sex. Just giggling sex. Just I-need-to-give-this-man-some-humanity sex. Simon is ticklish and you find out, that's the plot.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

You look delectable straddling his hips.

Naked and soft, plump tits sitting prettily in his hands. His thumbs swipe idly around your perked nipples as you ride him slowly, early morning sun peeking through the curtains and lapping at your skin. What a way to wake up, what a sight.

He stares at your lips and how they part for him—something he still has to get used to, though he probably never truly will. How dulcet does his name sound if it’s your voice whispering it, how beautiful your eyes when they take in his face.

Soft hands are pressed on his chest for leverage, and you’re treating him with a view he keeps pinned to the forefront of his brain—gliding your cunt until you’re chock-full of him, stroking yourself until you’re shivering.

He likes it when he’s on top, sure. He’s used to taking the lead and orchestrating every detail, in and out of the job. 

But when you allow him to sit back and take it? Hell, sign him up. He’d do it every day. Especially when it’s this lazy sex here, in which you’re canting your hips to cum before he does, giving him the blissful chance of feeling you clench around him when he's still hard. 

Goosebumps rise under your nails as they graze down his chest and brush his stomach. Your hands wander blindly on his belly, then his sides, as you clock his eyes with your heavy ones, panting softly, idly—my beautiful, beautiful girl.

But then you inadvertently brush his ribs, and he stiffens—even squirms, and your movements come to a halt.

You blink as conscience returns to you slowly, and the room sinks into tense silence. His cock twitches inside of you when you tilt your head inquisitively, squinting your eyes.

Experimentally, you brush your fingertips against his ribs again, and his biceps flatten to his sides, trapping your hands.

Your eyes widen, and his do the same.

“Don’t.”

You gasp, “Oh my God.”

“Darling, no.” He warns, but you’ve clearly made up your mind already.

Your lips are curled in a smile that promises mischief, and he can only give up, sit back, and count his losses.

“Darling, yes.”

Simon feels your fingers wiggle under the tight press of his arms, but no matter his strength, they're seemingly useless against that playful resolve you're displaying.

His cock is still embarrassingly hard inside you, and Simon reckons it won't soften any time soon. You don’t seem eager to get off him either, thus prolonging the torture with each tiny movement you make.

He inhales sharply and fights tooth and nail to school his expression into neutrality. His eyes are narrowed, and his jaw is locked tight. The only thing giving him away is the flush of his cheeks, getting pinker by the second because he refuses to open his mouth to breathe a much-needed lungful of air. Knowing that if he would, he'd bark a laugh that would proclaim you as the winner of this fight.

He would never.

You roll your hips, then—cheap trick. He unravels with a shaky breath, and his biceps give out enough for you to slip your hands away.

And then, he knows he's done for.

“Cut it out.” He barks, trying to sound stern and miserably failing. He knows because you're laughing even harder.

Your fingers feel like tiny bugs crawling up his sides, and they make his breath catch in his throat.

“Never.” You say, with a grin that scrunches your nose. A smile that would normally make his heart throb, but right now just makes him wish he were a lesser man so he could throttle you.

“Fuckin’-“

You chuckle.

You evil little cunt.

Resistance lasts a few more seconds before he bursts.

It’s not a full laugh that leaves him; more of a wheeze that makes you chortle like a wicked witch. His chest heaves as your fingers frantically tickle his sides. Tries to get you off him by shaking his hips, but that only makes the two of you falter and moan, and then chuckle and catch your breaths.

His shoulders shake in a breathless, choking laugh that pitches upward as you continue with your assault (yes, assault—he is not being dramatic), eyes veiled with tears of frustration and mirth. He shrieks when your hands travel under his armpits��the sound makes you giggle in a way that would have him melt. 

“That laugh’s lovely, baby.” You say with a smarmy grin he wishes he could wipe with a kiss, hands unrelenting against his sides. “Sound like a kettle whistling.”

He tries to glower and push you off, but you’re surprisingly strong when you’re focused. Right now, your only goal is to apparently make him hate you—he'd rather be held at gunpoint than being forced to hold in a laugh that makes his stomach hurt.

Simon now looks shockingly harmless, with his cheeks flushed bright red and his voice an octave too high—wouldn't look dangerous if he tried.

“Tea ready, yet?” You add, batting your lashes, because why not rub salt into the already embarrassing wound marring his pride.

It’s that unfathomably stupid joke that finally makes Simon crack. He barks out a laugh that bubbles up his throat, rippling through his stomach so suddenly that you bounce above him. Your own laugh follows soon after, because each time you manage to steal one from him, your heart vibrates with loving triumph.

But still—he is Simon Riley, isn’t he? Member of Task Force 141. Lieutenant in the UK Special Forces, SAS. The Ghost. There is some pride in there, one he'd like to keep intact.

He tries to recollect his breath, sniffling, and his arms shoot out to wrap around your waist. He rolls onto his side, taking you with him.

It’s then that you find yourself in a position of utter disadvantage, on your back with your big brute of a boyfriend holding you down. You’re wide-eyed and still smiling with barely contained giggles, and he’d be lying if he said it doesn't make his heart soar.

Sure, he’s panting, still proper flushed and apple-cheeked, with shivers wrecking his spine and unshed tears in his eyes—but he takes great pride in having won yet another fight (again, not overreacting at all, if you ask him).

He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head.

You fix him with a look. “Simon, no.”

Before you can add more to your complaint, he rams his cock into you until your chest stutters, your lips mouthing around a shaky breath he drinks dry with a wet kiss.

He fucks you into the mattress, then—once, twice, until the remnants of laughter vanish from your face and you’re trembling in bliss, eyes rolled back under heavy eyelids.

He places a sloppy kiss down to your collarbone.

“Simon, yes.”

[rainbowgod666]

Back here in italy mickey canonically works for the police and

[ERROR: ENGLISH TRANSLATION FOR "BRUTO GAMBADILEGNO" NOT FOUND]

Is basically a constant criminal but eh. A few times he was interrogated and the INSTANT he gets to see the evidence hes like "HEY WAIT A MOMENT. Thats not me! I was (at home/doing a different crime altoghether/still behind bars) that night!" and when that happens the rat goes "oh fUCK this is gonna take an extra 30 pages or something" and uuuuuuuhm yeah

[cheesecakethots]

“Whore.”

You could’ve sworn the teacup in your hands cracked a little from how hard you’re gripping it. If you were Illumi, it would’ve shattered into a fine powder by now. But you’re not, which makes you susceptible to being called such things.

They’re at it again. You’re unsure as to what you’ve done to upset some of the butlers and maids, but god do they not like you. No matter. You hate everyone in this stupid boring ugly manor anyway. Huh. Maybe that’s why they hate you, too.

It must’ve been a shock to see Illumi of all people one day bring home his future wife. One he never cared to mention to anyone else beforehand, and one that was still kicking and screaming over his shoulder.

You’re not really sure how long you’ve been here. Months? A year now? However long it’s been, it didn’t take anytime at all to realise that maybe you’re not as safe here as Illumi swears you to be. His mother most definitely hates you, but, oh well, she’s never really tried anything, as far as you know.

The help started muttering things when Illumi wasn’t around, things that hurt more than you wanted to admit. When you didn’t go running off to Illumi at the first few instances of it, it got worse, as though they knew you would never tell him about it.

First off, you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being your saviour when someone says mean things to you. Secondly, you may hate these assholes, but you have a conscience.

Only last week Illumi came into your shared bedroom, absolutely drenched in blood, asking if you could shower together. You quickly found out that whoever he had been torturing wasn’t dead yet, and he still had more to do.

Thinking about what Illumi does to people he doesn’t care about, those he’s only hurting for a job, makes you shiver at the thought of him actually harming someone who did him, or you, wrong. But, despite your mercy on them, this time you’re considering just telling him. Only a little.

You’ve had a notably stressful day, being pranced around by his mother who’s insistent on ‘training’ you to be the perfect wife for her son. Her explaining to you that the family expects at least six children from you both had you rushing to the bathroom to vomit.

Then you ran into his father, on your way back to your room. He doesn’t seem to actively dislike you, but he scares the absolute shit out of you. The man seems to think you’re some house pet rather than an actual person with thoughts and feelings, but you suppose that’s a modicum better than wanting you dead.

You also bumped into Illumi’s grandfather. You’re not sure if you can bring yourself to hate him, but you do hate the look of pity in his eyes whenever he sees you. Sometimes he’ll save you from a lecture Illumi’s mother is giving you, so he’s nice in that regard. He’d never free you, though, so he’s just another kidnapper you can’t become friendly with.

You eventually got back to your room, expecting a nice nap before being forced to attend family dinner, only to find Illumi had gotten back earlier than expected. You cringed at how hungry he was, and not for food, but just allowed him to do as he wished. You were too tired to argue. After he was done, he seemed to take note of how quiet and exhausted you were. Too bad, dinner time. You hated dinner times more than anything else.

You ate the admittedly lovely food in pure silence, but quickly became sick to your stomach at hearing Illumi and his mother discuss the prospects of you becoming pregnant. You didn’t eat anymore after that. You’re pretty sure his brother, Milluki, made some comment about you that Illumi didn’t like, which explains why his wrist was snapped in half a few seconds later.

Illumi tried spoon feeding you when noticing how full your plate was, but you managed to convince him that you weren’t hungry. That got you another lecture from his mother about how you’ll soon be eating for two. You were tempted to tell her that if you ever got pregnant you’d throw yourself into Mike’s jaws, but managed to refrain.

After that, you finally got to go to bed. It wasn’t something you were looking forward to anymore; you struggled to sleep when Illumi was home because he’d spend the majority of the night just staring at you.

“Can I go outside?”

You don’t remember why you blurted it or where the thought came from, but you remember the confused blink Illumi gave in response.

“Um.. just for.. ten minutes? O-Or five..? I just want to sit in the garden by myself for a bit… If not, it’s alright..”

You hated how pathetic you sounded, unsure as to what Illumi was thinking when he stared at you with that expressionless face.

“Alright.”

“What?”

“Would you like me to ask a maid to bring you out a cup of tea?”

You didn’t really think about his words too much, just happy you got something your way for once, and nodded rather enthusiastically. You should’ve said no.

The first few minutes of being in the garden, sat on the bench and allowing the cool nights breeze to settle on your skin had you relaxing for the first time in a while.

“Your tea, mistress.”

Oh. It was one of the ones you were sure hated you, and behind him was another. Oh, well. You took the tea from his hands, thanking them nonetheless.

It was much more bitter than you liked it, but you didn’t complain. You didn’t really want tea in the first place. They didn’t leave, but you didn’t complain. Illumi probably asked them to watch over you, maybe to make sure you didn’t try to run. It’s alright, you still have a nice view to relax with.

“Whore.”

Your eyes widen a little, and your grip on the cup increases. They continue muttering amongst themselves, but you catch small, demeaning phrases that you’re certain are aimed at you.

Why are you a whore? You’d never even had sex before you met Illumi, and if you had, it wouldn’t be their business. You’re hardly allowed to interact with anyone other than who Illumi allows you to. Where would you have the chance to sleep around? The insult doesn’t make much sense.

That’s what you tell yourself, despite the fact that your shoulders and hands are shaking and you feel something cold and wet running down your cheeks.

Shit.

You put the cup on the floor, hands moving to cover your face and wipe away any evidence of tears. Illumi hated when you cried.

Why are you still crying? What they said doesn’t make any sense. Stop crying, enjoy the view. You don’t have long left before you have to go back inside.

You’re still crying. You don’t notice that it’s gone eerily silent aside from your own muffled sobs, too busy working on shutting yourself up.

“[Name].”

Shit. Shit!

He’s been sat next to you for god knows how long now, and you didn’t even realise. God, this sucks.

“Why are you crying?” Illumi asks, and you can feel him move closer to you on the bench.

“I-I’m not,” you say, a hand still covering your eyes. What excuse do you give? If you say hay fever will he never let you out in the garden again? If you say you have a cold, will he keep you inside your bedroom for a few weeks? Months?

He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel him staring at you.

“Would you like to stay outside for a bit longer?”

Oh.

“Ye-Yeah. Y-Yes please,” you eventually reply, gulping down another sob.

He doesn’t leave, but you’re less bothered by his presence than usual. Despite it being… him, it’s not horrible to have some company, even though you’d never admit it out loud.

You’re not sure how long you sit outside before he stands, prompting you to do the same. Neither of you say anything, not until you reach your bedroom and Illumi tells you in a tone softer than you’d usually hear from him that he has something he must do, so you’ll be sleeping alone tonight.

You turn to go to bed, but he grabs your wrist. He doesn’t look at you for a moment, seemingly considering something. Then, he stiffly leans forward, pressing his lips to your forehead rather robotically. Sometimes you wonder if he is a robot, it really would explain a lot.

The kiss ends soon after it begins.

“Get some rest. You look bad.”

You huff a little, but can’t bring yourself to actually be offended due to the thinly veiled concern in his tone.

The sleep you get is better than you expected. Maybe not having a mass murderer eyeing you up while you try and rest is a reason for that.

Illumi doesn’t show up for the entirety of the next day, which is a little strange. He likes seeing you off in the morning, giving you a kiss before he departs - you’re certain he copied it from a romance movie you used to enjoy watching from time to time. You don’t question his absence too much, you don’t exactly enjoy his company, after all.

The day you have is better than the last. Illumi’s mother seems to be a bit less of a bitch than usual. That’s a win in your book.

It doesn’t take long for you to be back in your warm bed, wrapped up in covers and drifting off to sleep.

You wake up to the feeling of something wet hitting the tip of your nose, and quiet breathing above you.

“Are you awake?”

You are now. It’s pitch black in the room, but you can make out Illumi looming over, his hair framing around you like some makeshift cage.

Still sleepy, you groan a little, “Illumi? What… time is it?”

Something wet hits the bed.

“2:57 AM.”

Huh. You breathe in through your nose. Illumi absolutely reeks. Metallic, is it? You’re not sure it’s the best idea to comment on it.

“Oh. Okay.”

Another drip of something onto the blanket. He doesn’t seem to be in the talking mood.

“Have I done something wrong?”

“… Yes.”

Another.

You gulp. “Are you mad at me?”

“I don’t think so.”

Another drip, this time it hits your arm.

“Are you going to hurt me?”

You could’ve sworn you saw his eyes narrow in the darkness.

“No.”

The silence is deafening. Your hands clutch onto the end of the blanket. He leans impossibly closer, and the stench of whatever is on him becomes all too familiar. He’s smelt like it before, but never this strong.

“How long were the help bothering you?”

“Since I got here.” There’s little point in trying to lie about it now.

“If you hide something from me again I’ll break three of your fingers.”

A little specific, but the threat certainly does the job.

“Okay. I’m… sorry.” You’re not.

Finally, he pulls away, eyes still trained on your face.

“Go to sleep.”

You don’t. You’re certain that you can’t, at least not for tonight. Especially not after hearing him turn the shower on, and after he’s done leave the room once more.

Instead, you sit and stare at the ceiling, and wonder if any of those in the basement will even have three fingers left of them, by the time he’s done.

[morikosa]

REMORSE

SUMMARY: He doesn't realize how valuable you are until he loses you.

Things could have been different. If he had stayed home, you would still be alive. You would still be alive…

''My love… p-please don’t go''

Gojo froze in his tracks, feeling your delicate arms wrap around his waist from behind. Despite himself, a small flicker of surprise coursed through him, momentarily halting his steps towards the door. Your trembling voice reached his ears, filled with desperation and a plea for him to stay.

"I-I will prepare a dinner for you, my love… p-please don’t go,” you whispered, your lips pressing softly against his back in a tender kiss.

For a brief moment, the gentle touch and your plea tugged at a minuscule fragment of buried empathy within him. However, he quickly squashed that flicker of compassion.

He twisted his body to face you, his expression turning cold and unyielding once again under his blindfold. He roughly pushed your arms away from his waist, forcing you to release her grip on him. The action was swift and unforgiving.

“Your feeble attempts to keep me won’t work, y/n.” he spat, his voice laced with cruel indifference. “I have no use for your pitiful displays of affection. I am leaving.”

He turned away from you, resolute in his decision. He regretted his words at the moment he saw the pain and sadness in your eyes. But he couldn’t show it, he couldn’t show any sign of weakness.

After all, he was the strongest

With a last glance, he walked towards the door and left you. As he crossed the threshold, his heart remained hardened, untouched by the anguish he left behind. 

...

He was a terrible husband. He didn’t pay any attention to you. But he wanted to change that, so he bought you a bouquet to make it up to you, and today he was going to take you out to dinner. He was going to fix everything, you were going to be happy together.

“My sweet wifey~, I thought we could have dinner today, husband and wife–”

Upon entering the house, Gojo was met with an eerie silence that sent a chill down his spine. The door wide open, the lights on – everything seemed off. As he stepped further inside, his heart raced, confusion clouding his thoughts. The scent of carnage enveloped him, the heavy air thick with tension.

Then he found you.

Lying lifeless on the floor, your limbs twitching slightly as the waning moments of your life escaped from you. Blood pooled beneath you, the crimson liquid staining the once pristine floors with its haunting presence. A profound sorrow washed over him, accompanied by a wave of guilt – a bitter taste in his mouth.

The flowers he had intended to apologize with dropped from his grasp, the vibrant colors now tainted by the horrifying scene unfolding before his eyes. He watched in horror as you struggled for your last breaths, your fragile body betrayed by the curse that sought to end her life.

The irreversibility of the situation dawned on him at that moment - her fate was already sealed, your time running thin. Tears welled up in his eyes as realizations flooded his mind; regrets of his callous behavior, anger, and neglect came racing back and consumed his conscience.

If only he had stayed... if only he had paid attention.

Gojo fell to his knees beside you, reaching out tentatively to steady her limp form. “Y/N. Stay with me,” he pleaded, a foreign word in his vocabulary. “Please, don’t go.” His tears fell in torrents, landing beside hers on the muddied ground.

“Who. Who did this to you-”

His hands shook as he cradled you close, your warm breath steadily fading in his embrace. The pain of losing you was like a dagger piercing his heart, a relentless torture he could never escape.

What was the point? What was the point of being the strongest if he couldn’t even protect his wife?

At present

Gojo stands before your grave, a solemn figure with his head bowed low. The air holds a heavy silence, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves as a gentle breeze caresses the surrounding trees. The weight of his loss rests heavily upon his shoulders, his heart burdened with a mix of grief and regret.

“Hey, it’s me again,” he murmurs, his voice choked with emotion as he addresses the earth beneath him. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I wanted to let you know… I’m doing my best, even though it feels impossible without you here.”

His fingers trace the engraved letters of your name on the tombstone, his touch both reverent and pained. Memories of your time together flood his mind, each a bittersweet reminder of what he had lost. The weight of his remorse for not cherishing those moments to their fullest becomes evident in how his shoulders slump and his breath hitches.

“I miss you, more than words can express,” he admits, his voice breaking with raw vulnerability. “I wish I had realized sooner what you truly meant to me. I wish I had been a better husband and person for you… worthy of the love you had for me.”

His grip tightens on the flowers he brought, his knuckles turning white. He places them gently upon your grave, his gaze lingering upon the fading petals.

Tears glisten in his mismatched eyes, his voice barely more than a whisper now. “I love you, and I always will. I’m sorry I realized this so late. Wherever you are, I hope you’ve found peace. And just know… you’ll forever have a place in my heart.”

With a final, lingering look at your tombstone, he puts the bouquet on your tombstone and turns away.

He will live a lifetime with the pain of ruining the perfect future he could have had with you.

[gundawifey-inactive]

𝕐𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣𝕖! 𝔸𝕝𝕡𝕙𝕒𝕓𝕖𝕥 ℙ𝕪𝕣𝕒𝕞𝕚𝕕 ℍ𝕖𝕒𝕕

Pyramid Head x Gn! Reader !18+! !MDNI! Syn. Yandere Pyramid Head Headcanons. Tags. !dark content! yandere, non-con, dub-con, violence, kidnapping/captivity, size-difference, monsterfucking, rough sex, blood-mentions, death/murder, (sfw & smut) Inspired by these templates. click & clack

✧ Affection How do they show affection, how intense would it get?

Physical affection, extremely physical. Since he doesn't communicate verbally and also is a monster rather than a man there isn't any intellectual thought that goes behind his way of displaying affection. He just grabs you, holding you against him when he's docile. And when he's horny moves you into whatever position he wants and just goes at it. Either way, man handles you with no thought, he just has an extreme and intense need to have you felt against him.

✧ Blood How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

Oh he's so messy... Pyramid Head exists as one of the many demons of Silent Hill whose sole reason exists to punish, to cause tarnish and thus Pyramid Head gets very bloody. On his own his existence is to torture and cause bloodshed, it's wired into him. But when it comes to you? Think everything Pyramid Head has and can do, but tenfold. He'll have every inch of Silent Hill covered in the guts and blood of whichever unfortunate soul tried to come between you and him.

✧ Cruelty How cruel would they treat their darling once abducted?

He's unknowingly cruel. See, Pyramid Head knows nothing but cruelty, he causes dismay and bloodshed to anyone who enters Silent Hill that finds themselves near him. Which reflects on the way he treats you when he has you in his grasp.   But his infatuation and need for you are also very real, the cruelty is unintentional in a way. When you try and run, he'll throw you back where he left you. He'll cradle you to hug you and feel you close, but might end up snapping something due to his lack of conscience mind of your bones. Same goes for sex, he doesn't want to cause you pain, but he's huge and rough, it'll hurt.

✧ Delusion How delusional are they?

Everything in Silent Hill is a delusion, Pyramid Head himself, is partly a delusion. He doesn't have to be delusional, sane, or logical when it comes to you. He wants you, and you're stuck here in this town whether you like it or not, you're his. That much isn't a delusion. Once you're in his grasp you belong to him, and that's as simple as it is.

✧ Exposed How vulnerable are they with their darling?

In a sense, Pyramid Head is extremely exposed to you. He's a beast, primal in nature. He simply does, and so whatever he wants or feels you will see the entirety of it with no bars. This goes not just from his bloodlust but to the more sensitive needs.   Of course, he technically doesn't need anything like assurance or care. He isn't mortal. But similarly, he doesn't understand the concept of bottling emotions up or feelings. You know when he's down, and he never shies from showing it, even in less-than-savoury ways.

✧ Fight How would they feel if their darling fought back?

Fighting back doesn't bother Pyramid Head in the slightest, like at all. You can bite, scratch, punch, kick, none of it bothers him. He exists to cause that kind of reaction, to punish and push people into frantic fight or flight. Not like you can hurt him anyway, it's impossible to physically hurt him. And unlike any other poor soul trapped in Silent Hill whom he feels complete indifference to and only kills, he likes you, no loves you, wants you. So try and hurt him, beat him till your fists turn blue, he doesn't react nor care.

✧ Guilt Do they have a conscience, would they feel guilty for the things they do?

Nope. He feels nothing, no guilt at all. Pyramid Head's purpose is to slaughter, why would he feel guilt?   The same goes for your injuries or the damage he causes you. It's unintentional and ultimately he doesn't want you dead, but also he sees guts and torture on a daily so it doesn't hurt his mutated heart to see you suffer at his hands either.

✧ Hell What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

Every day spent in Silent Hill is hell. Silent Hill itself is hell in a way, malevolent to anyone who enters. The fact you've caught Pyramid Head's desire doesn't thwart the misery you suffer stuck in there.  The worst of every equally hellish day though would be the day Pyramid Head found you. Stranded, horrified having barely survived the horrors of the other demons, then came one of the worst ones wielding a blade. Perhaps you had hoped to survive, to find an escape before. But after finding yourself in his clutches, all hope was lost, thus the day your spirit died.

✧ Ideals What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

Pyramid Head doesn't have a mind. He's a creature, truly the only desire he has for you is to have you by his side, till Silent Hill perishes. But it never will, it'll always be an endless limbo, you are his and that'll never change.  He'll have the instinct that is similar to a predator, to take its prey. The other goers of Silent Hill whom he hunts and kills. All except you, another victim no difference, but you will be forced to stay trapped forever with him. 

✧ Jealousy Do they get jealous, how does their jealousy look like?

Pyramid Head doesn't get jealous, per se. He does get possessive though, because you are ultimately his possession. He is a being malevolent and high in power and you belong to him. As such, if something or someone, more specifically, gets in between you and him, he lashes out. Makes sure to make their death extra visceral and makes sure you watch the whole thing, to remind you that you are his. 

✧ Kinks What kind of kinks do they have, do they make their darling participate?

Not kinky at all, because he just wouldn't understand it. For Pyramid Head, he's a creature, when he fucks you it's instinctive. Always has you glued to his side either way so he fucks you wherever however as long as he's inside of you, he doesn't care. Now, he doesn't have any kinks specifically he indulges or desires. But he does a preferred way to fuck, and it's rough. He sticks it in ruthlessly and will cum over and over filling you up to the brim with relentless thrusts, he goes animalistic rearranging your guts. And you just have to lay there and take it, there is no control in him when he's rutting in you.

✧ Love letters How would they go about courting their darling?

Courting is non-existent. Pyramid Head takes, and you are left with little to no voice in it. He desires you, unfortunately, and thus you must accept that. He won't approach, he will not gingerly win you over, he nabs you and you're his. This doesn't mean he doesn't care for your affection either. It's just the fact that affection for Pyramid Head is physical in nature, and he can force you into that, just hold you flush against him 24/7 or fuck you silly whenever. That's how he shows love, whether you return it or not isn't important.

✧ Manipulate How manipulative are they and how do they do it?

He lacks the intelligence to make any genuine forms of manipulation, however, this isn't to say he doesn't attempt to coax you into acceptance. Though it's clumsy and mostly futile. Whilst he doesn't care at the end of the day if you accept him or not since he holds all power over you regardless, he still has an insatiable obsession for you. When he holds you and drags you around with him and keeps you pressed to him it's in hope you grow to reciprocate it. Generally though, not manipulative at all. 

✧ Naughty How would they punish their darling?

You'd never be the one getting punished, because there is no way you can attempt anything worth punishment. Pyramid Head has already deemed you free of his punishment and thus you will not be slaughtered.   This isn't to say he doesn't hurt you, he does. Again not intentionally but often, if he's been aggravated will squeeze you too hard or rampage, but it's never to punish you, it's just a visceral thing. In truth, you are the only thing Pyramid Head does not punish an exception to it. 

✧ Oppression How many rights would they take away from their darling?

The second you've entered the grasp of Pyramid Head, you've lost any will of your own. There is no such thing as having a right to anything under him. You exist solely as his, that is all you are meant for to Pyramid Head. The choice or right of freedom is gone. Pyramid Head will hold you as his captive same as Silent Hill holds you captive. When he tears your clothes off to ravish you, he doesn't care if you wish to cover again, if he wants to drag you with him as he roams, you have no choice but to cling to him as he holds you close.

✧ Patience How patient are they with their darling?

How patient Pyramid Head is entirely depends on what his patience is for. If it's patience for any kind of intellectual love or affection he can go centuries awaiting you to show any responsive form of it, that doesn't matter at all to him. But his patience for you to be there, with him, for him, physically? None. From the first encounter you'll have with Pyramid Head to every single following one under him he has no time to care for your reluctance to follow along. You're sat on his cock the minute he wants to put it in you and cuddled against him the second he finds you.

✧ Quit what happens if their darling dies or successfully escapes?

The only way to escape Pyramid Head successfully would include escaping the wrath of Silent Hill. And Pyramid Head is tethered to Silent Hill, for the fog to release you and you find a way out would mean Pyramid Head follows in your release. It isn't an escape because, like Silent Hill, Pyramid Head will simply accept it and accept your triumph. If you died in his clutches though? That's a whole other story, carnage doesn't even begin to cover the way Pyramid Head mourns. It's instinctive, he roars and destroys like a wolf whose mate has been taken. You were his, and now he'll never have what he carnally desired most ever again. Rage will seep into all his executions following your death.

✧ Risks How compliant are they with their darling?

No compliance, at all. There's also absolutely no risk in his treatment of you or any attempts you may use to utilize to escape. There's truly no winning with Pyramid Head if you want something that doesn't align with his needs. Now, it's a completely separate story if the compliance or risk you ask of him doesn't go outside of his desires for you. If you, for instance, beg him to let go of another victim, he will, there are other monsters who can implement their punishment. If you wish to see a specific area in Silent Hill, with him taking and holding you the whole time, he will without hesitation.

✧ Stigma What childhood event brought about this side of theirs?

(He didn't have a childhood there's nothing to add here sorry)

✧ Tears How does seeing their darling cry make them feel?

It bothers him. Whilst your feeble attempts to fight back or of defiance do nothing to him since ultimately you cannot hurt him, it's another thing to see you experience mental anguish as his. He desires you in a form of love, not in a form of punishment that he inflicts on others. When you cry out, he's seen it all too many times with his victims, but those were people he was sent to make suffer. You are his, not to suffer but to be his. And when you weep, it makes him flare uncomfortably, he'll hug you and hope it soothes you to understand his desires.

✧ Unique Do they do anything different from the classic yandere?

Everything, because Pyramid Head's form of yandere is also very different from the classic concept. For Pyramid Head, he isn't human, or sentient in a way, so his obsessive love for you is primal in nature. The feelings he has for you, are in the most basic way have no actual thoughts behind them. Pyramid Head doesn't dream about you or desire you as a lover to chat with or marry. You are literally like a mate to him, a thing he's found infatuation with and that he needs on him constantly.

✧ Vice What weakness can their darling exploit to escape?

The fact that Pyramid Head only exists within Silent Hill, for Silent Hill as an entity. He is tied to Silent Hill, so if you can break your way out of Silent Hill, through whatever means, you've also broken yourself free of Pyramid Head.  Though his fixation of you is entirely his own, his loyalty still lies in the fog that created him. If you've deemed yourself worthy by Silent Hill, able to escape the demons there, Pyramid Head won't follow you. And will simply hold you as a memory once you've left. 

✧ Wild card Random headcanon of the character.

He has an extremely high libido, it's endless also. He doesn't have a refractory period because his whole structure is impenetrable, he doesn't weaken and neither does his dick. So with you? It's absolutely rabid. Once you're in the picture he gets it ignited from you. You're the object of his every single urge, all of which he fucks out into you. Sometimes just takes you while roaming about, other mortals trapped in Silent Hill may see, but he doesn't care.

✧ Xoanon Would they worship their darling?

Absolutely, but you wouldn't understand it, neither does he really. There's nothing outright to showcase his sheer devotion to you, but it's there and with Pyramid Head it's heavy. With the many occultish things and benevolently malevolent spirits of Silent Hill, Pyramid Head is spiritual by nature.  And you, a soul he's found obsession to, truly you are god-like to him. You are the closest Pyramid Head can come to the feeling of salvation. A thing he leans on without realizing because he absolutely needs you with him at all costs. To cling to and worship by touch.

✧ Yearn How long do they pine for their darling before they snap?

He doesn't yearn for anything. The second he sees you and has been overtaken with the feelings he harbours for your existence, he'll take you. Brutally of course. As previously stated, how you feel or react to it doesn't matter the first time he takes you, and that's your first meeting with him as well, because Pyramid Head responds to his baser instincts. He sees, he likes, he wants? He's getting. And what he's getting is you.

✧ Zenith Would they ever break their darling?

Pyramid Head does not intend to break you. He's gotten you to be his and the specifics don't matter outside of that. However, you will break, regardless. Be it your bones or heart or mind. Pyramid Head will love you whole till you've accepted the fate you have, to be his. Melded with him at all times, left to live as his for eternity because Silent Hill is an eternity. There is no other choice truly, but to accept your life as Pyramid Head's darling, his possession. Forever deep in the Silent Hills, his...

[kingovbats]

what needs to happen? probably Rimbaud resurrection so he can come out of the basement and start actively torturing himself by profusely apologizing and constantly envisioning the moment he tried to kill him.

would be even worse if Rimbaud ether didn't remember him OR didn't remember the betrayal

Literally where tf is Verlaine?? Like,, dude how many world ending events occur before you'll leave your freakin depression basement?? 😭😭

He didn't come out for Dead Apple. He didn't come out when Q was free and terrorizing people. Or when the majority of the world turned to vampires. He hasn't come out now that theres some crazy ass god thing slurpin everybody up like a juicebox 😭

[moondirti]

Pleaaaase more farmer! Price, I BEG OF YOU

hybrid reader. mean price. brief daddy kink.

farmer price who is mercurial at his worst.

whose temper froths, bubbles beneath sun-hardened skin on market days, when he spends overlong lugging produce to and from his beat up truck. its the heat, or the sweat weaving his chest hair, or the customers who refuse to believe that, despite this year's asparagus being slightly paler than the lasts', it is still just as good. it's a medley of things, each marginally more vexing given their immutable nature. and where he's tailored patience like a glove — watering crops so that they may come alive in the next season, or moulding a perfectly credulous thing to his will — it does no good when his hands are tied.

he's keen to get home. unwind under the cool roof of his ranch. scrub the muck off and knock back a glass of scotch. the august sun might be beastly to work underneath, but he admits it makes for a pleasant sight as it sets. you're so easily awed, at least, bleating softly when he combs his fingers around your ears and calls out marigold rays. it's just the thing to make up for his day. a drink, a view, and a fuzzy pussy to occupy his hands with.

only you're not indulgent. not soft on the idea of sitting still for hours as you're swung to and from the precipice of climax. a strange restlessness has worked its way through your blood in the past week, spoiling the docility that keeps his collar fastened firm around your neck. he credits it to the encroach of autumn. expectation, leaden on your dumbed conscience, that you'll soon be bred and plump with lambs. the swollen heat between your legs is enough signal to the fact, bucking up into his hand when he pets it.

but if not that, then it's the little feet kicking off his lap, disturbing the stable footing he lends to your bottom. it’s the way your fat thighs quiver, locking around his hand to keep him there, to keep his callouses grinding against your clit. and despite the layer of soaked wool nested along your lips, the squelches of your over-eager cunt are clear in the conditioned air. loud, lewd. sticky sounding when he buffs his heavy fingers over the hard bud poking out.

“y’proud of this? huh?” he grunts, singling on that one point where your nerve ending are too exposed. too concentrated. it must be torture when the rough pad of his thumb swipes over it, skinning you alive, flaying you open so that you’re a steaming mess on his lap. damp baby hairs mat by your crown, smelling of salt when he presses a curled lip to your temple. “dumb little lamb. can’t think of anyone ‘cept yourself, mm? making a mess on daddy’s lap after he’s had such a hard day. i should slap this needy thing silly, ‘till you can’t piss without regrettin’ it. call in kyle to tear you apart to his heart’s content. he’s been good lately. deserves it.”

“nnngh! s’too mu- muhh.”

but he thrusts two fingers into your tense hole anyway, feeling you up from the inside. the heat between your legs, the hot fervour of it sucking his fingers deeper, rapidly blossoms up your body. his chest itches with the sweat seeping off your back, beard soaking in the puddle of it that pools off your neck. he would have it in him to be worried, but today is not that sort of day.

the heel of his hand makes good work of kneading into your clit, the poor thing throbbing under the crushing pressure. it all grows to be too much, too fast. you’d been begging for something gentle, no doubt. a merciful address to a heat you can’t control, this recurring cycle of which he was already made aware of. but you’ve been with him long enough to know better.

if this were his break day, he might have stuffed you with a toy. fed your whines with his cock. wiped your tears with scarred knuckles, and kissed your eyes shut as you worked through your desperation.

if it were autumn, if the weather were any cooler, and mating season brought with it a new, soft coat of wool and the right conditions for your pregnancy — including the freeing of his time — he might have even laid you down on the hardwood floors and given you what you so desperately crave.

but for now, he’s holding out, waiting, keeping his little lamb in line.

just as good farmers do.

(and if it hurts, that’s fine. he doesn’t expect an animal to understand, anyway.)

[pen-and-umbra]

The second episode of the Remake, FF7 Rebirth, has proven to be a terrific experience thus far. SE obviously made a few big decisions here and there.

It is seemingly implied now that Jenova wasn't "brain-dead", and it is hinted that Sephiroth was addled during his breakdown.

It all begins with a strategically placed cut, when Sephiroth touches the door bearing the name Jenova and instructs "Cloud" to close the valve. The scene is merely functional for new fans, yet leaves a vacant space that Crisis Core players will quickly fill in with the inferred arrival of Genesis. Smart move that, leaving the interpretation to the player. Whether Genesis exists inside the Remake's continuity or not, the moment reads differently to each fan. Quite frankly, I was half-expecting “Cloud” to come across a banora apple, rolling on the floor, but I suppose that would be telling.

What's remarkable is that they give Sephiroth almost identical symptoms to those that Cloud has in the remake. Glitches and odd headaches superimpose themselves nicely over the original Crisis Core scene. And, as much as I loathe Tyler Hoechlin's acting in the game, he lends a tangible sense of rage to Sephiroth's disparaging remarks about Hojo and his experiments. You can hear the hatred, a touch of pity, and disgust directed at Hojo's work and the creatures he tortured. In Crisis Core, he refers to the test subjects as “abominations” with the same touch of bitterness.

Back to the point: glitches, pupil dilations, and headaches are visual cues for Jenovaroth's influence or proximity, as shown in the first part of the Remake. However, at this point, Sephiroth is still sane — cracking, but still himself — so the only agent who can exert influence on him is, well, Jenova.

Now, a widely established fan hypothesis maintained that Jenova was brain-dead or comatose. Bodily functions sustained, but brain activity plateaued. Rebirth, however, strangely suggests otherwise.

When "Cloud" returns to Sephiroth in the manor's basement for the second time, Sephiroth recites an excerpt from a journal purportedly written by Professor Gast: 

“The specimen, found in a strata dating back two thousand years, smiled with what could only be described as 'ethereal grace'… Though the truth eluded me at first, I later determined that she was an Ancient - or a 'steward of the planet', as they are referred to in legend”. 

Remembering the battles with Jenova Dreamweaver and Jenova Emergent, the creature is far from "graceful" or "ethereal". There is nothing graceful about her figure in the tube either, and she is not smiling. The game goes out of its way to lampshade the glaring contradiction by showing the flashes of Jenova’s fanged skull and grotesque body as Sephiroth quotes the passage. So how could Gast perceive her as such?.. The answer is most likely found in Jenova Dreamweaver's description given in Ultimania: the entity has the ability to induce hallucinations in individuals who come into proximity with it, which is further corroborated by Jenova Emergent description.

An ancient lifeform that Shinra Company has kept under strict confidentiality. Those who come into contact can have their conscience interfered as well as see illusions. Professor Hojo has dedicated half of his life to researching Jenova, and within the Shinra Company building's top floors lies a secret research center called the "Dome," where Jenova's cells are injected into lifeforms or machinery to conduct experiments. (Ultimania)

Gast even writes that “the truth eluded him at first”, but LATER he determines the specimen belonged to the race of Ancients, as if that answer was suggested. The implication is chilling: Jenova may have purposefully misled Gast in order to present itself as an Ancient. As Sephiroth later explains in the FF7Rb, Jenova is capable of seeing deep into one's soul and impersonating individuals you fear, love, or hate.

If ShinRA and Gast were determined to unravel the mysteries of Ancients and their Promised Land, it would make sense for Jenova to "scan" Gast and determine the best course of action: disguise itself as an Ancient in order to escape captivity in geological strata jail.

The scene in which Sephiroth reads Gast's notes is possibly the final time he is more or less himself, before Jenova's image intermingles with his for a brief moment. Again, I appreciate Tyler's voice acting in this particular section and the real rage he brought to it. Admittedly, I was concerned that with next-gen visuals, they would take a more gruesome approach, displaying Sephiroth conducting the Nibelheim carnage with sadistic pleasure, but they took a different route. Slow, zombie-like movements, and a glassy expression.

He speared the militiamen as casually as if he were spearing bugs, which is far more frightening from a narrative point. What jumped out was how they emphasized the possessed-like behavior: from snarling and flailing the book like a suffering person to an empty countenance and automaton-like strides, as if he was being beckoned. Which is what "Mother is waiting" implies.

The final segment of the Nibelheim flashback is likely the most essential as well. According to previous developer claims, Sephiroth's will took precedence over Jenova's, and he was in control — whether Jenova was brain-dead or simply of lesser willpower.  However, the Rebirth appears to suggest something different right off the bat. First, "Cloud" shouts, "I believed in you… No… Not you — whoever the hell you are!", highlighting the significant personality change and the resulting lack of recognition. But then "Cloud" sees Jenova's image superimposed over that of Sephiroth in a rapid, glitch-like succession.

In other words, he sees Jenova inhabiting Sephiroth's body as a vehicle to once again escape the confinements. Whatever that means, whether it suggests that Jenova is in control from the start, or whether Sephiroth is literally the greatest functional agglomeration of her cells, and therefore literally “becomes” Jenova. 

If Jenova's original body was severely damaged — either as a result of eons of incarceration or Hojo's tinkering — it stands to reason that, if she wished to carry out her plan, she would need a new body, one capable of moving at the very least. Perhaps Sephiroth, an able-bodied skilled Mako-infused fighter of considerable might, served as a better "vessel" than her original damaged one. 

But the crux of the matter lies elsewhere. The possibility of Jenova being conscious and influencing Gast is very terrifying. With the potential to affect others in close vicinity, she may have influenced the minds of the whole science team behind the Jenova Project, particularly those who had long-term contact with her tissue — Gast and Hojo. It could turn out that the whole idea to revive an “Ancient” was planted by Jenova in order to grow itself a powerful host. In fact, if it could "peer into one's soul," i.e. read minds and memories, it might have easily identified a pressure point to indoctrinate people who could forward her objective. It's one thing to inject tissue samples into an adult body; it's quite another to devise a plan to inject cells into a developing human fetus. Who knows. Perhaps Hojo is such an obsessed Jenova nutcase in large part because he fell under its spell; feelings of inadequacy and being overshadowed by his colleague may have offered a crack in his defenses.

One that Jenova easily took advantage of. After all, as Dirge of Cerberus implies, Hojo ended up implanting himself with alien organic material.

Again, Jenova's power to extract information from an individual when in proximity supports a bleak reading of the events leading up to Nibelheim's ransacking. A person who kept on carrying a photograph of his supposedly late mother and badgered others about his background, as suggested by Ever Crisis episodes, was literally wearing his weakness on a sleeve.

Perhaps the 30-something years of the Jenova Project were supposed to bring Sephiroth there.

Perhaps the chain of events had been nudged in that direction, starting from the very discovery of a derelict non-human lifeform. Nudged by an intelligence both cunning and incomprehensible. And that makes Jenova a much, much scarier presence in the remake than it was ever suggested in OG.

[samodivaa]

┊Impure Thoughts┊

《Part 2┊ Reader x Bucky Barnes?

Bucky is getting more comfortable with going out without the prosthetic. You are getting a little too comfortable with the idea of using it...as a pleasure tool.

Warnings - smut, metal dildo lmao?, mastrubation (f), fingering Words - 1700 ⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄ In the living room, you are settled on the couch with your book, but you pause halfway through reading a sentence when it finally sinks in. You have unconsciously placed yourself directly across the room from the armchair, and something seems to be filling your entire field of vision—Bucky’s metal arm—pitifully, the first coherent thought that emerges, is undoubtedly something that you have been thinking about these past weeks—you grind your teeth and chew your tongue. That is followed closely by the realization that this is probably an instinctual reaction born out of being alone for too long. Right? The thought has you swallowing hard while you feet the beginnings of arousal, you shift uncomfortably, crossing your ankles—the beginning of the end. Here it is again: that feeling of complete addiction, of an irrational kink, need. A craving, a thirst, blood rushing to your ears to chant in your mind once again: God, I want to try it.

Your eyes flicker between the book and the prosthetic. A ripple of gooseflesh erupts down your whole body and you squeeze your eyes shut in mortification, you even change positions and straighten your back, leading to several cracks up your spine. Why did he need to leave his prosthetic arm on the armchair?

You feel your jaw slacken. The inevitable desire floods your brain too quickly, irritation prickling at your chest. “He is not coming home tonight…” you note mentally with a magnanimous twinkle of your eyes. Two identical streaks of pink appear on your cheek and you avert your gaze, shaking your head. You have imagined what it might be like to use it as a pleasure tool countless times, but you have never considered that you would actually be bold enough to do it. But even as that transient thought flits through your brain, the image of your legs spread while fucking yourself on it…the fantasy swirls hazy— This is so wrong, but you are so exhilarated by it—but it’s akin to torture. You rub your eyes and try to focus on the letters and shapes, but it is difficult.

"Right," you mumble to yourself, trailing your fingertip under the sentence to steady your gaze "The man who has a conscience suffers whilst acknowledging his sin. That is his punishment…”

Fuck…

You have already read that sentence twice.

You attempt a denial, tongue stuck to your teeth “Some things are beyond help” you confess, smothering a yawn into your sleeve. You sigh impatiently, but get up from the couch nonetheless. As you head to the bedroom, you stupidly lean your body in the door frame, attempting to dispel the notion that you are so turned on just thinking about it. You let out a stealthy, thin smile, but you instinctually clasp a hand over your mouth. You stare intently into the prosthetic. Head clouding. Heart taking off again. It is not that you don’t want to do it now—it is more like you don’t want your little bubble to pop just yet, the bubble of your innocence. You have finally just given up on the feeble attempt to get your body and mind to settle down to sleep. Your phone, which you have ignored for some time by then, buzzes with a new text. The phone on the coffee table buzzes yet again, but you don’t even acknowledge it.

You make your breaths as quiet as possible, managing to walk over to the armchair without making the faintest noise. A growling soft leaves your throat, followed by an annoyed moan—mentally swooning at the idea you will actually do it this time. Instantly, you feel your blood run cold, and your face immediately falls. Embarrassment, that is all, just sheer and utter embarrassment as you find yourself caught in the act.

Quickly, you let out a nervous laugh, amused by your own antics.

“It's okay, no one will ever find out” you are quick to try to convince yourself, to urge yourself to take the opportunity. You lost in the end. You get on your knees in front of the armchair, leaning down to get in eye level with it before your hand reaches out and finds the metal fingers, using the pad of your thumb to brush against vibranium there. You lace the cold fingers with yours, they move so easily. …you didn’t know that. You are far too entranced by the arm, that you have forgotten about the appendage pressed in between your thighs, until you shift a bit. Instantly, you feel that spot between your legs head up even more and that reminds you of the throbbing sensation you have been ignoring. You apply pressure with your free hand, prying a sharp exhale from your own lips, finding relief on the soft carpeted floor, and spreading your legs—but still the wetness between your legs is growing, and it is unbearable. You whimper as your fingers press into the clit. You start to rub circles into it as you soak the fabric. But you need more, it’s not enough. That's why you reach down and grab the fabric of your panties in between shaky fingers and gently pull it to the side, rapturously rubbing without the fabric in the way. No, this is not enough. Hands are shaking with desperation.

One by one, you place your fingers in your mouth and lick them before running them up and down your slit, finding yourself instinctually moving quicker. You slid one finger inside, shivering a little at the feeling. It is quickly followed by a second, then a third. You jolt in pleasure when your fingers nudge up against the spot. With newfound vigour, you finger yourself even harder. Your body fizzes with a heady sensuality, where you are constantly in the process of getting aroused, bringing yourself closer to an euphoric climax, but you don’t really want to orgasm like that.

You have such an unambiguously bad feeling—awful, really—but you couldn't look away, couldn't stop. But the nearness, the possibility of this fantasy becoming reality, it has dwelled in you for too long. Every embarrassment is forgotten. It has seized hold of your heart: desire is terrible. Your insides clench longingly at need to be filled, practically singing at the thought of something being buried within you. Your hand moves alternately in a frantic blur, then achingly slow, edging closer and closer, fingers are buried deep inside you while the thumb rubs your clit and lips, with you being so wet that you can hear your fingers' movement, but—No, no, no, this is not enough—the fingers are still inside you, moving in a now broken rhythm before stopping completely. You are so tight around your own fingers, how will you feel around the metal ones? You have fantasised about this more than once.

You have touched yourself to that fantasy more than once. “Jesus…I might actually do it” It is unusual to be so nervous, but the words that come out of your sweet lips cut off any rational thoughts you have. Then the inevitable—your pussy throbs at the idea. A reflex, a response, a curse. 

It is actually rather exciting that no-one will see you. You take a deep shuddering breath, eyes are stormy with a ravenous hunger. There are resolved cracks as your desires win this time. You latch onto the index metal finger hungrily and suck it like it's the sweetest treat, staying still for just a second before moving up and down, tongue swirling around the cold digit. Then, wrapping your tongue around a second finger and tasting the slightly metal tangy taste of the vibranium. You bend the fingers of your other hand in that come-hither motion again and again until your cunt is squirting out onto the hand in a stream of clear wetness.

Shit.

Suddenly, you get up and snatch the prosthetic from the armchair, heading to the bedroom.

Your lip quivers as you drink the sight of the arm onto the mattress, all the while loosening your panties and Bucky’s t-shirt you love to wear, but not now—whining through the back of your throat and then heaved breaths through your nose—What, what are you doing? Your mind whirres; you can hear your own heartbeat, your palms are clammy. You take the lube before laying on the bed, squeezing some onto your fingers and applying some to and inside of yourself before you start fingering yourself, spreading yourself open and sliding your fingers inside once again. Breathy little noises, helplessly turned on, you suck your bottom lip into your mouth, teeth sinking into it as you turn your gaze to the metal prosthetic. “Okay…” you murmur quietly, shifting a little so you can grab the arm with both hands and finally align it with your entrance. You are beyond ready.

“H-holy shit…” you pant as the cold surface of the fingers lightly touches the sensitive skin of your stretched hole, and you moan shamelessly, squeezing your eyes shut and arching into the feeling as your skin erupts in goosebumps, unwilling to acknowledge the frissons of pleasure washing over you with each flick of the metal. Anger boils in your stomach as well as a fair bit of shame, because you are not sure if it will fit—it's way too big. You want to come on the metal, want to feel the coldness, but your face contorts in both pain as much as pleasure as you try to push it inside more. You make a strange whining sound, desperate to come, desperate to fit it beyond the knuckles—you gasp out when you begin to move it, thrusting in and out in a slow, grinding motion. You finally look down when you finally fit in more of it—your mouth hangs open and your limbs feel like they are frozen. You have made a terrible decision, you know you have when you see blue eyes illuminated with curiosity, horror…? 

“H-hey” you speak airly, shivering and groaning faintly as his coveting blue eyes meet yours.

Oh yes, you didn't check your phone.

⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄ might write a part two, i personally need more metal arm stuff fr :0

《Part 2

[osamucide]

FLAVOR PROFILE—gn+afab!reader, alternate universe - PM boss!Osamu Dazai, interrogation+torture, psychological manipulation, noncon to dubcon—not safe, sane, or fully consensual, perv+sadist!Dazai, knife play, blood play, tiny bit of choking, degradation, cutting, scratching, biting, marking, mindbreak, debatable whether Dazai kills reader at the end? all around depraved, DEAD DOVE/DARK CONTENT—PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION

ABV—3.8k

BAR OSAMUCIDE IS STRICTLY AN 18+ ESTABLISHMENT. FAILURE TO PROVIDE VALID ID/AGE IN BIO UPON INTERACTING WILL RESULT IN REMOVAL FROM THE PREMISES. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED.

“So, here we are.”

It’s only a matter of time ‘til you start talking, was the last thing the redheaded mafioso told you as his grip on your hair loosened and you slumped forward into the chair once more. We’re gonna kill ya anyway. Just not before the boss gets his hands on you. Don’t you wanna make it easier on yourself?

You really do. You do want to make it easier on yourself. But you pledged your loyalty to your misfit faction of gifteds threatening the Port Mafia’s turf as of late—in a rather alarming way, it’s worthy to note—and as one of their highest profile members, as a leader and exemplar of the values of honesty and fairness that you promised to uphold and instill in your society as part of that pledge, you can not, in good conscience, betray what you know. What you call home.

There’s a cause at stake that is larger than your life. What kind of leader would you be if you crumbled? If you failed a cause that’s meant and hoped to outlive you anyway?

It’s your own fault you got caught to begin with.

It’s your own fault for thinking you could go out on recon in the dead of night by yourself. You’ve long known better that the Port Mafia doesn’t sleep; what you hadn’t known or expected was to run into the ruthless commander of the Black Lizard in a warehouse during the hours too late to be considered night, too early to be considered morning. The boss takes the liberty of reminding you.

“I think we’re all lucky Akutagawa’s built up some restraint over those impulses of his, hm?” he continues, his sharp dress shoes clicking cleanly against the concrete floor of wherever it is you’re being held. It just meant they already had their sights trained on you specifically before you started sneaking around—longer than you’d anticipated, and longer than you’d been prepared for. Had you brought along a few of your subordinates, you might’ve stood a chance—well, maybe against a group of low-ranked patrolmen. But that wasn't the case, and now, here you are. Caught.

You're hunched over, wrists at your back, ankles bound, the way Nakahara left you; assured fingertips—softer this time, but only marginally so—find the spot on the crown of your head that he favored earlier and you find yourself held up by your hair once more, wincing through a crusted-over bloody nose into the eyes of the boss—Osamu Dazai.

What strikes you first, aside from the sting curling across your scalp, is the utter emptiness in his stare—the first brown irises you think you've ever seen entirely devoid of warmth. He regards you with an expression you can only place through your blear as distaste—maybe a little boredom, then maybe a contradictory twinge of amusement when you sniffle. You're wholly unsure. All you know is it feels like whiplash when he lets you go and your chin snaps back down to your chest.

"Pretty thing," you almost don't hear him say; you're focused on registering the cuffs falling away from your wrists, the way your upper body is sent forward, and the fact that you can use the momentum to propel yourself up—or try, rather, but you're absolutely concussed and you forget your ankles, having lost feeling now from the restraints, are still attached to the seat. Your palms hit the concrete, the back of the chair knocks into your lower back and you yelp; suddenly you're a pathetic, twisted mess facedown on the ground.

He's chuckling. You can't imagine it reaching those eyes.

And if he's going to strip you of your dignity by laughing, well, at least you were upright before. Now, as your elbows give beneath your own weight, there's tears springing to your eyes; you're sure if they were to fall they'd streak through a layer of grime. And it's not from the pain—no, if you were going to cry from the pain, you would've a lot long ago. You can't remember how long you've been in here, and there's no window, no clock to give you any grace, but it has to have been at least a couple of days. Your body threatens to cry from the sheer humiliation of being crumpled beneath this chair, unable to scramble up—as your cheek hits the floor, a tear crawls across the bridge of your nose and you swear you can hear it echo as it splatters—while this man laughs at you.

By the grace of some god, you feel your tingling feet and ankles coming back to life as he undoes the bindings around them. And you scramble, not unlike a bug, when he lifts the chair off of you and tosses it aside, but still, your body fails you, and he's walking around you to crouch down near your face.

You see him before you feel him; the Port Mafia boss is willing you up by your arms, setting you on your ass, almost sympathetically, as you combat your sniveling. Still crouched, he speaks again only when you look to him, your eyes brimming with disgust.

He speaks softly, like he almost feels sorry for you as he does. "You're free to go, if you can get up."

But you're not stupid enough to try again. The tingling has morphed to the stage which it starts to almost hurt; you don't trust your feet, and only when you try to draw your knees up to your chin do you realize how badly all of your muscles tremble—too badly to make it up the daunting set of stairs that lead to the exit of your chamber. You wish he wouldn't watch you. You'd surely try if he left you alone. You'd look for something, anything, around you that you could use against him—there's nothing in the room other than your chair, a solid oak dresser with drawers against the wall, and your limp, abandoned bindings. You'd shoot him if your gun hadn't been confiscated first thing, and if he wasn't undoubtedly armed himself. Anyway, he gazes at you, intently, still swirling back and forth across the line that separates boredom from amusement. You won't get away with anything beneath his stare.

So you don't try. Your ass hurts, too—that damn chair wasn't forgiving at all, and your palms sting when you touch your own skin. You ache all over, in every joint, like you've got some mutant strain of the flu, and your head pounds with icepick intensity. It's a struggle just to look at him, despite the dimness, despite your desperation. So you don't. You curl in on yourself, and you don't cry. And he stares.

He hums, standing back up. His eyes on you—they feel like ice.

"Chuuya couldn't get anything out of you," he sighs, recounting it like he's briefing you on the morning news. "But you look pretty close to breaking. I'll have to thank him for getting you started."

"Kill me." You mean to spit it at him, but your voice shakes out, hoarse. "You won't get anything from me. Just kill me."

"Oh, but that wouldn't be as much fun yet." He's smiling; you could almost mistake it for a kind expression if it wasn't for those eyes. He's reaching for you again, deceivingly soft—you know it's deceit, how he gathers you up onto your feet with near-gentleness and leads you over to the dresser. He doesn't look strong, but he must be; you're mostly dead weight when he picks you up to sit you on the wooden surface, let you lean back against the wall.

You know what comes next for someone like you when you're faced with someone like him. You don't know what he's rifling around in one of the dresser drawers for, but it hardly matters; he's shuffled himself between your knees, and your closed eyes will not be enough to shut him out; you're already so exhausted. You're already dead, and you try to take comfort in that fact while he picks up your wrist, trails his fingers over it like you're as fragile as you look.

It's when you feel something cold against your forearm that your eyes snap open again, searching.

He looks sharper than the knife. It's a switchblade, glinting as it lays flat against the vains in your wrist; Osamu Dazai's lips twitch into a smile for the first time you've ever seen as you glance between him and it.

"Please don't," you whisper, but it's too late.

One horizontal slash against your arm. At this point it almost feels familiar, like a routine injection. A shot of whisky. You wince, but don't whine.

It's deep enough to pour. Your blood is warm as it circles your wrist like a bracelet, warm as it soaks through the knee of your pants when he drops it like you're a ragdoll to pick up your other one.

"You can cooperate and they won't have to match," he mumbles casually, tracing the tip of the knife across your palm like a pencil across paper as he studies your face.

You close your eyes again, tilting your head back. This isn't the worst of what you've experienced down here. It'll take more than a few slashes on the wrist to make you talk.

Before you can assert that, another one. Opposite arm. They match.

He clicks his tongue like he's disappointed in you. Like he doesn't like having to do this. But when you open your eyes again, that little smile is still there, cracked into his pale face.

You don't have to say it'll take more than that. He knows.

That's why the tip of the blade presses into the space between your collarbones, above the neckline of your shirt.

You suppose you've been lucky to keep it on this long.

So when he drags the knife down, slicing cleanly through the fabric and catching the skin of your chest, abdomen along it a couple times, you don't budge. You don't let yourself look scared. You don't twitch at the hand gripping your thigh hard while he nudges the tattered piece of cloth down your shoulders to expose your heaving chest. That's the most glaring giveaway—your breathing. And now that your shirt is gone, he can see it clear as day.

"Shame Chuuya had to go for your nose." That almost sympathetic tone is back. His thumb comes to swipe at the blood dried above your lips. You jerk your head away, but fall back into his hand when the icepick stabs again. Fuck, it hurts. Your head hurts worse than anything, probably thanks to said nose shots. Your heartbeat is in your temples. "But it's okay. You're still pretty."

You'd be flattered under other circumstances. It's true you could say the same about him, but it's all clouded, hidden beneath the malice he inflicts upon you with such ease.

That smile widens.

"I might have to mark it up, though," he remarks. That false regret—it makes you boil. "Which is too bad."

You've bargained down here, but you figure through your haze, through your bleeding arms, to try again. "You don't have to do this. We can reach an agreement."

"An agreement, you say," he zeroes in on you, hands on either side of your hips as he leans forward to meet you at eye level. "An agreement. What would that look like for you?"

"You can kill me," you concede, breathless. "Let me tell my men to stand down and then you can kill me. It can be over. We won't have to deal with each other again. Ever."

Osamu Dazai looks at you thoughtfully, like he's considering, like he hadn't thought of that as an option before.

You are, unfortunately, stupid enough to let a flicker of hope arise inside you. Even if you die—when you die, you can spare yourself from more suffering and your faction will back off. You will let yourself be the example of what will happen, and no one part of your cause will be subjected to this treatment; you're okay with that, you're okay with being a martyr, if it only means it can all be over—if it only means it won't happen ever again.

Dazai looks to you again. Cold. "You can tell your men to stand down," he begins, fanning that flicker.

You take a deep breath.

"...After I'm done with you."

You're not fully sure what that means until his fingers are popping the button on your pants.

He's got no intention of letting you die in anything less than agony, you realize, no matter what you say.

Tears well up again. You shake your head, kick at him with your weakened legs, but he dodges you easily, picks up the knife again as your trousers settle beneath your knees and you mutter no, no, no over, over. He pushes them off, with your underwear, to the ground and kicks them away, grabbing your flailing hands and holding them to the wood as he threatens you with the restraints once more.

"You're gonna fuckin' talk either way," he growls through his teeth, the first hint of frustration finally seeping into his demeanor, into his eyes. It's gone in a second; gone, replaced with that stale amusement, more chilling than the frustration perhaps, and you almost wish for him to be angrier, more explosive like the executive named Chuuya had been. This quiet rage that seems to be his trademark is far scarier. You can't bite back at it. Especially with your bare ass against the dresser, you can't find your own volatility. It's stuck in your chest. He disarms it, like magic, with each conspiratorial smile, each gentle caress. You can't get around it.

You get your wish when one of his hands grips the column of your throat, throttles your hammering skull back against the wall. You finally whine at the pain. Your hands flail still, clawing at him more out of instinct than anything, but the switchblade is enough to chase you away as he leans into you, pins you in place with his hips—pathetic, as you collect cuts and gashes across your knuckles, fingers, palms while he undoes his belt.

You can feel his throbbing tip against your pelvis as he scoots you closer to him by the small of your back; the blade flips in his grasp and finds a path to hover, pointed over your eye and you catch his wrist as he tells you—

"Keep squirming and this goes through your eyeball right to your brain."

What else can you do but let all your tense limbs fall to rest? You feel him poking you uncomfortably, hotly as you crane your neck away from the knife; you're caught. You're really caught, more than you have been the entire time you've been down here. Squirm one way, suffer another. You're stuck between a rock and a hard place and the hope you had, so brutally snuffed out by his cutting words, all dead now, like you will be soon, almost lets you look at him like a man you could want. You would, certainly, under normal circumstances. But you're bleeding, you're concussed, your body is giving up and he's the most powerful man in Yokohama and the way his bangs curtain over his eyes after he pushes them back has you, in your delirium, hesitantly linking your ankles around his waist and it's numbly and distantly infuriating, the relief that washes over your body when you drape onto him, but it's relieving no less, and he's almost beautiful to you if you just don't think too hard about any of it.

Don't think too hard about any of it.

Steal it back from him—look like you could like it through the dwindling coherence you have, and maybe you can steal it back from him.

You find yourself smiling, too. Annoying, he thinks—he knows what you're doing. He holds the blade over your eye which falls shut and opens again in an unconcerned blink that could almost be considered sultry—you must be demented. He knows what you must be thinking. Knows what you must've snapped to.

So he flips the knife again—holds the blade, carefully, handle out, and dips it down to your cunt.

He wants to stab you when you roll your hips against it.

It would embarass you, how quickly you get yourself wet from grinding your clit on the handle of his blade, if you weren't so close to total depletion. Maybe, you think, if you grind hard enough you can get him to cut himself with it; you've never gone down without a fight, and just because you're at your wits end doesn't mean that'll change.

In fact, you channel it into everything you can give. You grind on the handle, and he watches you, cold eyes wholly unamused but now totally focused on you. You'll be a project. You'll make it difficult.

Good thing he likes a challenge.

Dazai's smug again when he pulls the knife back up and shoves the handle between your teeth; "Suck," he instructs you, and you do, widening your drooping eyes, swirling your tongue, urging him forward with your legs around his waist.

It's what you seem to want, you think he mumbles before he's pressing himself into you remorselessy; it hurts, the stretch—he harshly bypasses the ring of taut muscle at your entrance, plunging into you deep, and you whimper around the handle of the knife and he pushes that deeper, too, into your throat, and you gag as he splits you open and the tears finally fall. Not because it hurts or because you're overwhelmed but because you know, through all of it, you're going to break him the same way he and his men have broken you—even if not to the same degree, it'll be enough. A little victory to die with.

And he starts fucking you, fast.

With what little strength you have left, you tear the buttons of his shirt open. A bandaged torso, a chest heaving just as much as yours now—you look at him, ravenously, and he twirls the knife one more time to tell you to watch it, watch your hands, and as he fucks you he's grunting in irritation at your response, and the blade is at your throat, pressing uncomfortably close just like his tip had against your tummy and your moans are open-mouthed, loud, shameless as your nails rake up his chest, throat, and land in his hair. Your blood smears across his neck, across his shoulders.

"You're—ngh—you're fucking crazy," he hisses at you as you clench, arch, press your forehead to his almost like you're lovers. You have to be fucking crazy. The worst part for him—he isn't stopping you. Not that he can't, he just isn't; you're not supposed to enjoy this, but you're lapping your own blood up from his milky skin as the threat of a slit throat is suspended between the both of you and you're kissing him, kissing him and biting his lip, clashing your teeth; he tastes both of your blood and he's pressed the knife harder into your neck in his shock because you should be screaming, begging for him to stop but you're not—you're meeting his heavy thrusts with enthusiasm, deranged in your hysteria.

He's dredged up enough of your wetness now that you're squelching around him. You dig your teeth in deep when you feel the sting from the blade on the delicate skin of your neck; he's losing himself as much as you are yourself, and you're smiling still, smiling as finally as he wraps a cruel hand beneath your thigh and pushes it up to hit you deeper and the pleasure registers through the revenge and the hot, sticky blood. He might cut you to death before you cum but not before he does because you pull back and he's ruined—the most dangerous man in Yokohama, the boss of the Port Mafia, Osamu Dazai is crumbling to ruin inside your dripping cunt; you could laugh—you will laugh, when this is over, and you hope it'll haunt him until the day he's in his grave—but for now, you can only dig your fingernails into his scalp (a little more of his own medicine) and moan, gasp, sob over the way he drags himself in and out of you deliciously. It feels like heaven compared to everything you've been through at the hands of his subordinates in the last thirty-something hours.

Since you're not begging him to stop, you should be begging him to let you cum—but you're not doing that either, and the resolve of the boss of the Port Mafia is shattering, slowly—too quickly—as he pounds into you harder, harder, harder. Bandages coming unwrapped, sweat dripping from the perfect, pointed end of his nose; you lick that up too, gently as you can through the way he jostles your body with each of his movements.

"This the only way you get pussy, huh? Capturing and forcing it? Ungh—Pathetic fucking man," you groan out, smirk playing on your face as you fight the way your eyes roll back. Impossibly harder, faster.

"Sh-shut the fuck up, slut," he spits back at you. Those cold eyes burn.

"You're fucking a dead bitch," you taunt. You think he'll break you. You think you want him to. You think he already has. You have to do it back. "Slut."

The knife presses harder into your throat. You can feel the blood flowing freely.

"Talk or I'll fucking kill you before you cum." But his voice, so smooth and suave and bored and casual earlier, is so broken now, so clipped. "Tell me where those six fucking friends of yours are. I'll find them anyway."

Six friends—your executives and subexecutives. It pulls you out of the moment that he knows how many of you there are. But you put on a good show; you're a good leader who will die with their secrets. His threats are empty to you. You clamp down on him, you clasp your teeth into his jaw, his shoulder as his thrusts slow, still bruising but slow as you feel him coming unraveled—it's enough to send you over, too, blacking out and hearing only your own voice as you sob, squirt a pitiable orgasm onto his stomach but it's one nonetheless and his seed is filling you, warm. You come back to and find his eyes one last time as they fly open, glazed over. He's gorgeous. He really is. You don't mind that he's the last thing you'll see. How unfortunate he couldn't be the death of you in some other way. Maybe in some other life.

A final long slash to send you unconscious. A smattering of sizzling red across his face.

He watches your body collapse at the foot of the dresser. You could've been the death of him too, in some other life—he saw it in your eyes.

How unfortunate it all is.

Osamu Dazai, the boss of the Port Mafia, stands and stares at you, your weakening pulse, for a long time before he gets to cleaning up your blood.

[twilightkitkat]

A major part of Poolverine's dynamic is that they're both envious of each other, in a way. They both believe that the other is their "better half."

Logan feels like he's worthless and undeserving of the title of a hero because of how he let his universe down (and it didn't help to have this confirmed when he found out he was the "Worst Wolverine"). Wade is extremely insecure—he hates how he looks, he finds his own personality insufferable, he doubts his abilities, and he just all-around hates himself.

But why?

The major conflict is this: they both think that the other is a "better person" than they are.

Wade thinks that Logan is the hero he couldn't ever be and that he's inherently more fitting of the title than him. He'd tried to be a hero before—with the X-men, with the Avengers—but he couldn't. He tried but he just... can't understand why he shouldn't kill people who deserve it.

Logan, on the other hand, believes that Wade has so much more capacity to care than he does. Wade so obviously loves his family and is going out of his way to save the universe for their sake. He's capable of emotionally reaching out to people and in a way Logan never could. He failed to save the X-men and protect his home, so seeing Wade succeed and save his family reminds him of his own shortcomings.

When comparing the two, it's easy to say which is more justified in their actions and feelings. It's easy to try to point to who really is a better person to resolve this conflict.

But here's the thing: they both have different standards for what they consider to be a "good" person. And it focuses on the part of themselves that they lack.

Wade believes that "morals" are required to be a good person. One of his defining characteristics that make him a compelling antihero is that he largely lacks a strict moral code. He doesn't follow a set of rules—no killing, no unnecessary damage, no torture—like the other heroes. He tries to care and follow the rules, but he can't find it in himself when he doesn't see why they exist. And yet, everyone around him believes that following a moral code is the standard to become a hero. Which he was never able to do.

To Wade, Logan is fundamentally a "good" person in a way that Wade is not. Even back in his Weapon X days, he clearly had a moral code that led him to leave the army because he couldn't condone senseless killing. When he was a hero, while he did hurt the villains, he was just and tried to prevent unnecessary casualties. He was willing to kill Jean, who he'd loved, for the greater good of the world. He protects people who are weak because it's the "right thing to do" and he can't bring himself to leave them alone even if it puts him in danger (with Rogue and Mariko as examples). He has an inherent moral code that he follows to save the most lives possible.

On the other hand, Logan believes that "empathy" is required to be a good person. While Logan might know the difference between right and wrong, he's always had an issue emotionally connecting to others. He protects people and Does The Right Thing, but he feels hollow. He feels like an imposter because he doesn't "feel" strongly—he saves people so that it won't weigh on his conscience, not because he cares about strangers in the way the other X-men do.

He felt this disconnect pointedly when he worked with the X-men in the past. In serious situations, he was focused on the solution, on saving the maximum number of people and minimizing casualties. Meanwhile, his teammates hesitated and felt bad for each individual life lost even if it was the "objectively" better choice. Logan was the one Charles sent out when a mission required him to do what needed to be done without remorse. Because he would be capable of "dealing with it" (because he was the least "heroic" of them all).

Wade, in Logan's eyes, is so much better than him because he feels for people. He isn't like Logan, he doesn't make the hard decisions based on numbers, he makes them based on emotions. He murdered the headmaster of the orphanage for abusing Russel. He killed all of the people remotely involved in Vanessa's death and his own mutation. He doesn't adhere to a strict moral code because his moral code is his empathy. It's protecting the people he cares about and deciding who is worth saving based on his own feelings. He's confident and proud of his feelings in a way Logan could never be.

(If Logan had been like Wade, had prioritized the people who mattered over the world, he wouldn't have lost everything. It doesn't matter if he was a hero in title, what kind of hero was he to let the people he loved get killed? He still regrets his choices. Regrets killing Jean back then instead of trying harder to save her even if more lives would've been lost. Even if she resurrected later. He regrets not focusing on the smaller pieces instead of the big picture. He regrets never telling them he cared. He regrets and regrets and regrets.)

They are both a reflection of what they wish they could be.

Wade wishes he could care about "justice" and "righteousness" because at least then, he'd have a greater purpose. He could be a hero. He feels frustrated with himself for being selfish and only going out of his way for the people he cares about, but he can't change that. He'd tried and failed. (He wishes he could be "more" like Vanessa had wanted. That he could have a sense of purpose.)

Logan wishes he was able to prioritize the people he loved, back then. He wishes he could admit when he cared like Wade instead of being gruff and emotionally closed off to people. He wishes he was capable of the same kindness. To extend a hand to the Worst Wolverine—who had rampaged, murdered innocents, ruined the reputation of mutants, then chose to drink his days away—just because he empathized with him. To not care about the bad things he'd done and try to sacrifice himself for Logan despite him being an asshole to Wade for the majority of their journey.

They both yearn for what they could never truly have. Whether it's morals or empathy, they define being a "good" person by being the opposite of themselves. By the part of themselves that they'd always struggled with.

By the piece of them that had always been missing.

[miyaagis]

 ெ˚❀ if we leave, will anybody notice? fushiguro toji

lovers shouldn't hide, not when their love is as genuine as a child's laughter. and their forever faithful witness? the moon, keeping their shared adoration a secret from daylight.

but even she has a dark side. so when it lands in reverse, expect your secrets to no longer be yours.

explicit content‐mdni. ₊˚⊹ ᰔ non sorcerer au, rich daughter!reader, stablehand!toji, forbidden love, pretty nasty oral (male receiving) bc he's all gross and sweaty, feminine pet names, mentions of urine and bad smell lol, mentions of guns and violence, mentions of breeding, too much plot i got carried away (• ᴖ •｡)

word c. ₊˚⊹ ᰔ 1,647

kinktober m.list

the longer the days dragged on, the more restless your heart and conscience became.

five days and four, almost five, torturing nights since your lover had been taken away from you, and you felt at the brink of hysteria. where was he? was he even alive? it haunted you to your very core that he could be lying lifelessly, his handsome face tainted by violence when his biggest crime was to love a woman of a different social class than his.

“how dare a low-born, dirty servant like him touch an inch of your skin!”

he wasn’t even a servant, but one of the men in charge of managing the stables at your family’s residence. Toji certainly didn’t deserve the blame, taking into account that it had been you who carelessly exposed your nightly rendezvous spot.

insults and screams were exchanged between your father and Toji—the latter defending your love even as he was muzzled and dragged away from your side, a sight that had you weeping endlessly.

with the weight of your parents' anger during the day, nights were reserved for your grief, lurking in the shadows of your home like a stranded ghost. had you been sobbing, like most nights, you would've missed the pained laments coming from the kitchen.

the staff left hours ago, but it only made sense that once you reached the kitchen, you'd be met with one of them, most likely finishing their duties. after all, who else could it be?

however, it was dark and empty with no one in sight.

“who's there?”

the noise was clearer this time, sharper. a muffled groan coming from behind the rusted door of the old storage room that only grew into desperate bellowing when the door creaked as you opened it.

a naked man stood before you, limbs chained to a metal rack, and with a hollowed bull’s head over his own.

it was instant, having been familiarized with his body, you knew it was him before he could even speak. she recognizes him and calls out his name, getting more muffled sounds and pants from him, confirming her suspicions.

"Toji?"

he bellowed in agony, pulling at the chains even if it teared painfully at his sore muscles. his deep roar shook your soul, your heart growing uneasy upon seeing him suffering in such an inhuman way.

rushing to him, your cries flew easily, sobs and gasps rocking your body as you clung to his waist.

"what did they do to you!? are you alright?" you wished so badly to see his face, to somehow know what was going through his mind but all you could see were the dull eyes of the bull, "I'm getting you out of this."

"no, love..."

with trembling hands, your fingers tightly grasped the animal's head and pushed it upwards, a frustrated gasp turning into a sob when you realized the weight easily surpassed your strength.

“baby, it’s so heavy. i can’t–” your words cut off as you tried again, grunting and forcing your muscles to lift it but it was useless. the guilt pressed down on your heart as a fresh set of tears ran down your cheeks, “i can’t lift it. i’m so, so sorry…”

each sob was a stab to his heart, already picturing your pretty eyes brimming with tears.

“my love…” he tried to sound gentle yet firm, to be a source of strength for you. but it was obvious he was also overtaken by his own pain by having you so close and not being able to see or touch you, “it’s alright, doll. it's not your fault. i'm not mad, baby.”

your arms wrap around his waist, not caring of the layer of sweat and grime covering his form. it must've taken around five minutes for the never-ending weeps to turn into small sniffles. neither of you spoke, not trusting your own voices and instead letting your bodies do the talking.

his usual scent was overpowered by days of sweat, the buildup of dirt on his body emanating a strong stench. as soon as you stepped into the dusty room, your perfume contrasted beautifully against the foul smell, his body reacting immediately to your soft body clinging onto his.

“Toji,” his name fell from your lips in a breathless murmur, your eyes traveling down to his twitching shaft against your hip.

with a deep inhale, he flinched when your damp lips kissed his exposed skin, starting at the center of his chest before moving down to his pubic bone. a muttered curse from him let you know he liked the attention, as well as his semi-hard length bobbing upwards.

his flushed tip made its way past the foreskin, barely peeking out before you decided to help. with just one stroke, it was finally exposed to your eyes, heart rate spiking up at the sight.

as the bulbous head pushed through, it exposed his slit adorned with a translucent bead of pre-cum, your hand grasping it firmly once it stood fully erect. you could feel the tingling between your legs, juices slicking up your entrance as your eyes marveled at what was presented before them.

the limited air around his head began to suffocate him, or was it your trembling touch? either way, he feared he'd end his oxygen supply just by your touch on his dick.

with a gentle flick of your tongue, you licked the pearlescent drop from his crown, earning you a shiver and the deepest rumble from him. the taste was different than usual, stronger and a bit acid.

"I missed you," a mere whisper, but it held a heavy sentiment, "oh, Toji... I missed you like you have no idea. I feared you were–"

the unfathomable thought caused you to stop speaking and just nuzzle against his groin, grounding yourself and focusing on the fact that he was there with you.

he wished to see you so badly, to reassure you that everything would be fine. however, the sudden flares of arousal mixed with his dehydration sent his almost delirious self into despair.

you didn't seem to mind the state of his body, your pretty lips coating his shaft with gentle kisses and licks that only resulted in more pre-cum to leak onto your lips.

with practiced ease, you finally wrapped your mouth around him, suctioning softly while your hands massaged the rest of his length.

the taste was considerably hard to ignore, pungent and with traces of concentrated urine. but the thought of his own taste mixed with sweat on his poorly cleaned member aroused you even more. he's your man—there's not an inch of him that could disgust you. and it only revealed how bad the state of his body was, very likely dehydrated and malnourished.

it was so wet and lewd, a mess of spit and pre that allowed your mouth to glide all over his member. he could picture it vividly, his heart aching for missing such sight.

"nghh fuck– not gonna last at this pace, princess," his hips jumped forward, your tongue soothing his twitching member by gliding against the underside.

"s'okay, baby," you focused instead on the tip, your lips wrapping around the soft flesh tightly.

deeper growls followed your harsh suckling, drawing out drop after drop of him, causing his balls to tighten already.

"shit, shit, fuuuuck– slow down, woman... m'getting so close," he tried to stop you, voice raw and husky as he felt like melting inside your warm mouth.

his voice was heaven to your ears, proud to have him at the brink so early. you couldn't imagine how lonely he must've been the past few days, not knowing his fate, and the thought of it tugged at your heartstrings which encouraged you to give him a sliver of the love he deserved.

"don't care, baby. come in my mouth," encouraging words of praise could undo him, you were aware of that, "c'mon, please? you already taste so good..."

oh, you were begging so prettily, worshipping his aching cock like it was the tastiest thing you've had in your life.

how could he deny his baby from something that belonged to her?

three spurts of semen followed instantly, streaming from his flushed tip and towards your eager mouth. it was euphoric and a catalyst for him, the post coital clarity dawning on him that he's not willing to give you up.

"mhm, baby... so eager," he laughed but was interrupted by his own gasp as you tongued his slit, "fucking shit– you gonna lick my cock raw?"

his threat only made you giggle, deciding to stop messing with him and just kiss his softening length.

bounded to those chains, there’s nothing he can do but take what you're giving him, fists aching to place your legs over his shoulders and bury his dirty cock inside your plush insides, to see the look in your eyes when he’s pounding so fast that all you can do is take it.

he should've gotten you pregnant when he had the chance, but he vowed to make sure not to make that mistake again.

once you had calmed down and finally noticed the industrial pliers on the rack, you clipped the bull's head open, needing to see his face, to kiss him.

“good girl,” what was left of the bull’s head lied a meter away, damp hair on his forehead and an unkept stubble decorating his jaw as he watched in fascination his fragile, spoiled girl trying and failing—how cute—to break his chains, "there's no rush, baby. we have all night."

he vowed to himself that once you freed him from those chains, no one would get on his way this time. not your father, not your mother, absolutely no one. there was no gun within an acre of land capable of stopping him from having you.

he’d make sure of that.

[sitepathos]

I love from gold to mold but now I'm wondering from one of the ask what if reader was tortured to death and just kinda wanted to die so when the deal happens he just kinds of say sure have my body, I don't care, just let me die. So they do, maybe his conscience it's still there somewhere in a coma they don't want to wake up from, but the megamycete is the one in complete control and they decide hey, maybe the polite thing is to notify, so they go to the batfam and spill the entire beans.

And then shit hit the fan. Completelly

It’s a nice thought, imagining the Megamycete recreating Y/N’s body and exacting revenge on his behalf, but unfortunately, that couldn’t happen. If it could, it would’ve left that cave years ago. No, in order to leave the cave, it requires a living host and if you had died, it would’ve just absorbed your corpse to add to its biomass and archived your memories into its records. Once you die, you lose that spark of life, making you just food to the sentient mold and unable to commune with it like you did in Chapter 3.

However, if this were to happen, the process of absorption and archiving wouldn’t go as normally as it normally does. See, most corpses it gets ahold of have long since gone cold, so when it gets through the body’s memories, its sensations and feelings aren’t as powerful (think of it like watered down alcohol).

You, however, are freshly killed, your body still warm and your brain still active, leaving memories fresh. As it absorbs your memories, the rage and sadness you’ve experienced for years hit it like a freight train. It’s been alive for over 400 years and this is the first time in its long existence it knows the feelings of hatred, depression, grief, and loss.

It’s thanks to this that the Megamycete holds you in high regards, valuing you more than the countless corpses its absorbed.

As it goes through your memories, it sees how much you hated the Waynes and wanted nothing more than to make them miserable and so, it seeks to grant your wish as thanks for allowing it to feel for the first time in years.

While it can’t assume a corporeal body, it can expand its roots, burrow them underneath the foundation of Wayne Manor and Wayne Tower and cause significant damage, even causing them to collapse entirely.

And when the roots infiltrate the Batcave? It’ll use them to attack them, whipping them or wrapping around their bodies and crushing them into powder. While I can’t say if the Megamycete could kill them or not, it would provide them with quite the challenge.