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wouldntyou-liketoknow · 2 years

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Day 7: Lyric Inspired

(Trigger Warnings: descriptions of fear/panic, claustrophobia, implied abduction, mentions of pain/suffering, death, blood, torn flesh, eye-loss, descriptions of decay/rot, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

(A few months ago, I was able to pre-order a signed copy of Nate’s newest album, Scrap Heap; it should be here any day now! And in honor of such a heavy addition to my collection, I created a brand new NateEgo. You can find more information about him here.)

Day 1 Day 2 Day 3 Day 4 Day 5 Day 6

___

Goosebumps prickled over [REDACTED]’s arms at the sound of dull, heavy footsteps proceeding down the corridor behind him. He knew he had to keep moving, but his heart sank once he realized that he’d reached a corner of the maze. A dead-end.

The only way out was to turn around and go back the way he’d come. But he couldn’t do that.

Because a large, metallic hand was suddenly grasping at the threshold he’d just passed. A familiar figure loomed in the entryway.

This animatronic had been following [REDACTED] throughout the maze for almost ten minutes now. [REDACTED] knew that he probably should’ve expected this—he was in a haunted house, after all—but he figured that the animatronic should’ve stopped pursuing him at some point. Hell, he’d already passed a few other animatronics during his visit, but none of them had tried to do what this one was doing.

Wasn’t this particular one supposed to be on a stage somewhere else in the building?

[REDACTED] stared up, up, up at the glowing red eyes that probably should’ve started burning a hole into his head by now. The animatronic wasn’t talking or singing like it had been earlier. It was completely silent, just leering down at him with that maniacal, hungry grin.

The animatronic took a step forward. [REDACTED], acting on instinct, took a step back.

He was forced to keep backing away until he hit the wall behind him.

The animatronic slowly came closer and closer. It almost appeared to be getting even bigger and taller than it already was.

___

S̷C̸R̵A̷P̵ ̸H̶E̶A̴P̷!̵

Mechanical engineering didn’t always make for glamorous work. The jobs in that field paid well, sure, and taking the necessary courses in college to get such a degree meant you might be able to participate in the odd round of robot combat or two.

Even so, being a technician didn’t guarantee you a spot at some classified robotics laboratory. More often than not, your best bet would be to start out at a place like Ransom Recycling, and while the work done in such a place was indeed important, it didn’t change the fact that it was literally a junkyard.

Your current job hasn’t been as exciting as you’d hoped, but you know better than to complain. A dirty, boring job is still better than no job at all. Besides, there’s always the occasion that you get to work with things more interesting than the usual scrap.

Like tonight, for instance.

You stroll down the dirt n’ gravel path, pushing a large, empty industrial cart along. You scan the hills of scrap, taking time to look over the rubble carefully. You see remains of several cars—some were still intact but had obviously decayed over time, and some were smashed in a way that suggested their drivers may or may not have found licenses inside cereal boxes. You see corroded hubcaps, broken metal rods, and too many unrecognizable cubes (the form trash took on when it was put through the compactor on the west side of the yard) to count.

The junkyard’s latest client had come not from a dealership, but an entertainment service. Just a couple weeks ago, a local haunted house—Panic Plaza, to be specific—had been forced to close its doors. You had read news articles about this, but you just can’t remember the exact reason for the building’s shutdown. Panic had been a hotspot for thrillseekers around town, and the fact that it’d been open for more months than just October attested to that.

And while Panic had employed several people to dress in grotesque costumes in order to frighten their visitors, its real strength had come from a series of animatronics.

Animatronics that, wouldn’t you know it, had been dropped off at the junkyard earlier this week. Why they’d been brought here instead of being sold off to a similar business, you have no idea. The representative from Panic hadn’t said much about them; hell, he’d only stuck around long enough to discuss the delivery with your bosses. Maybe the animatronics had malfunctioned in a way that Panic somehow just couldn’t recover from?

Whatever the case, the bosses had made it clear that they wanted at least one animatronic to be salvaged before they returned (they’d just left to haul some repaired cars the next town over).

Now, if they’d only made it clear where said animatronics had been placed in the yard. . .

Your foot suddenly strikes something hard, something that catches around your ankle. You don’t even have time to register the pain before you lose your grip on the cart and go sprawling down. You hit the ground with a thud, and after catching your breath, you turn over to sit on your haunches and glare at the offending object.

Your frustration quickly transitions into anxiety as you realize that the offending object is in the shape of a human arm. One that just so happens to be lying close to something that’s shaped like a human head. . .

You gape like a fish as you hurriedly get back to your feet. Thankfully, before you can really start panicking, you notice how a dim ray from the setting sun shines against the arm and head in a way that is very clearly metallic. They still stand out against the coppery grime that surrounds them, but they definitely haven’t experienced the horrible decomposition that unattended human corpses are infamous for.

Right, you think, trying to stop shaking. We just received a bunch of broken-down robots. That’s all this thing is.

You calm down, but not completely. The fact that the head and arm are positioned in a way that suggests their owner has been crushed and is desperately trying to crawl out of the pile isn’t what you’d call assuring.

I̷ ̴r̵o̵t̶ ̸a̶w̴a̴y̸,̸ ̸a̷n̴d̵ ̵I̷ ̵l̴o̷o̵k̶ ̴d̴e̵a̷t̶h̵ ̶i̴n̷ ̷t̴h̵e̶ ̶f̴a̸c̸e̸

I̴ ̷s̴t̴a̶r̴t̷ ̴t̵o̴ ̷w̸i̴t̵h̶e̵r̸,̷ ̴a̴n̷d̶ ̵I̵’̵m̵ ̶t̴r̶u̸l̵y̷ ̴a̴f̸r̴a̷i̴d̸

You place your hand over the head, just to make sure it’s smooth, cold and hard instead of oozing, soft and decayed. Now that curiosity has overridden your fear, you grasp either side of the head and give it a tug. It does budge, but only by a couple inches. You grab the arm around its wrist and pull again, being a bit harsher this time. The screech of metal scraping against metal crashes against your ears.

You pause, frowning at how you’ve only made a bit more progress. You spend a minute or two pushing chunks of scrap away from the head, managing to reveal a metal neck and shoulders, but the rest of the robot is well and truly stuck.

You pace around the pile and eventually come upon a long, flat piece of metal that has been bent near one end. You pick it up and slide it in between the robot’s back and the rest of the junk on top of it. You leverage it, pulling it to and fro. The ensuing chorus of scraping is less than pleasant, but you can see that this new method is working. Slowly but surely, inch by inch, the robot is coaxed out into the open.

Finally, you’re able to grab hold of the robot’s waist and pull it free. Or, attempt to, at least. It’s out, but it’s also heavy as hell. You can only hold it for a moment before you’re forced to drop it.

You turn it over on its back, then straighten up to finally get a better look. You recognize the animatronic and instinctively brace yourself for it to start belting a morbid verse.

This is Scaredy, Panic’s official mascot.

The animatronic is missing one of his arms, as well as both of his legs. His remaining forearm, neck and head share a silvery-white finish. A black bowtie is attached to his throat, where a person’s collar bones would’ve met. The casing on his torso alternates between black and blue in a way that looks like a vest being worn over a separate shirt; though it’s all one piece, certain areas are slightly raised, having been carefully designed in order to sell the illusion of Scaredy wearing clothes. Some kind of 3D printing process, maybe?

Plastic on top of Scaredy’s head seems to have been given the same treatment—it matches his blue “shirt” and resembles short hair, to the point where it looks like an undercut with side-swept bangs.

You focus on the animatronic’s face and can’t help but freeze.

A long, thin, straight opening runs down the center of Scaredy’s mug, which is comprised of six segmented plates that all fit together perfectly. Hell, they almost seem to be floating. The crevices between each of these plates offers a small glimpse of wires and frames here and there. His mouth has been crafted as a perpetual, wide-open smile, like the robot is in the middle of laughing or singing.

The expression would’ve looked innocent enough, but not if the several teeth lining Scaredy’s maw have anything to say about it. Said teeth are all long and sharp, catching the light like actual blades—you have no doubt that, if you were to brush your hand against them, blood would easily be drawn. There’s a bright red circle on either side of the animatronic’s jaw. It reminds you of the rosy cheeks that would’ve usually been seen on a clown, but somehow, it doesn’t take away from his design.

The teeth would’ve looked threatening enough, but apparently whoever had constructed this thing had given a resounding Fuck it, I can do better! Because you feel a legitimate chill run down your spine as you gaze into Scaredy’s eyes.

A pair of red pinprick-pupils stare up at you from black-as-oil orbs. Eyebrows can be found above them (since when did a robot even need eyebrows?), the same color as the robot’s hair and narrowed in a way that makes it feel like the animatronic is judging you—no, sizing you up. His grin makes that feeling even more prominent.

Worse still, his eyes are glowing. The illumination is dim, but it’s still there.

You hold a hand over Scaredy’s face, waving it from side to side. His eyes don’t follow your movement. The glow remains, but that’s it.

He’s not alive, you remind yourself, shaking your head. He’s a machine—one that’s not even in working order. Get a hold of yourself!

You know this has to be the case. Scaredy hasn’t moved at all, hasn’t made any noise. He’s definitely seen better days. He’d clearly been here for a good while. And if he was still functional, then why would he have ended up at the junkyard in the first place?

A̷ ̷g̵r̴e̵a̷t̶e̴r̶ ̵p̸u̶r̶p̴o̴s̸e̶ ̶l̵e̵f̵t̷ ̶m̷e̶ ̸a̵l̶l̴ ̸n̸o̴t̶ ̴t̶h̴e̵ ̴s̸a̶m̸e̸

M̴y̸ ̸t̸i̵m̵e̵ ̶i̷s̴ ̷r̴u̸n̴n̴i̷n̴g̶ ̸o̶u̵t̵,̸ ̷b̸u̵t̵ ̷y̶o̸u̸ ̷c̴o̷u̷l̸d̴ ̴n̶e̵v̴e̴r̵ ̷f̸o̵r̶g̸e̵t̴ ̷m̶y̵ ̸n̷a̴m̷e̶

You continue searching through the heap until you recover a stray, artificial left arm, which matches Scaredy’s right arm perfectly. The next ten minutes are taken up by even more digging. During this venture, you happen upon more abandoned, dismantled robots; no doubt they’re Panic’s other attractions.

They’re all just as dirty and ruined as would be expected. But you can’t salvage them all at once, and Scaredy already has your attention. These other ones will have to wait.

Apparently it’s your lucky day, because you manage to discover two mechanical legs; first the right one, then the left. Both are black and end in what honestly looks like a pair of blue combat boots. You hold the legs close to the empty sockets at the bottom of the animatronic’s torso just to be sure they belong to him.

That’s it. You’ve officially found all the pieces of this neglected, unnerving animatronic.

Using all your strength, you load Scaredy into the cart and wheel it around, beginning your trek back to the maintenance warehouse.

The animatronic is in a position that forces him to stare at the sky, but the way his eyes glow does a great job at making you feel like he’s watching you whenever you look away from him.

___

The animatronic towered over [REDACTED]. It didn’t take up the entirety of the space here, but it would’ve been impossible for him to slip past it without brushing against it.

[REDACTED] been in a group when he’d first entered the building—and obviously, they’d all been separated from one another. Something in his gut insisted that that wasn’t supposed to have happened. In fact, it almost felt like he was the only person in the maze now. He knew that couldn’t be right. . .but he couldn’t hear any other footsteps nearby. He couldn’t hear the voices of any other visitors. Pre-recorded screams and whispers were echoing throughout the maze via intercom, but that was it.

Why? Had he wandered into a restricted area somehow? Was that why the animatronic had been stalking after him?

The animatronic slowly turned its head from side to side, though its eyes never left [REDACTED]. But other than that, it was standing perfectly still. It almost gave [REDACTED] the impression that the animatronic was listening for something.

Like it was wondering if the two of them were truly alone, too. . .

[REDACTED] wasn’t at the point of hyperventilation, but his anxiety made his lungs feel heavy. He was trying to keep his breathing slow and even, but it just seemed so loud.

[REDACTED] swallowed the lump in his throat, then lightly shook his head.

The animatronic wasn’t an actual threat. It couldn’t have been—if that was the case, then this place would’ve been investigated and subsequently shut down a long time ago.

He shifted in place, planning to sidle past the animatronic.

The animatronic’s arm was a blur. He’d only realized it was moving after it’d slammed into him.

Spots flashed in [REDACTED]’s vision. The air was immediately knocked out of him. He crumpled against the wall, sliding into a heap on the floor. Pain bloomed throughout his chest. His instincts told him that nothing had been broken, but he automatically knew that his ribs had nearly bent when the animatronic struck him.

[REDACTED] shakily tried to pick himself up, but a pair of large, cold hands materialized around him. One arm snaked around his waist to clutch at his stomach; [REDACTED] could feel a set of digits dig into his skin through his shirt. The other harshly grasped the back of his neck as though he was a misbehaving kitten.

All the while a strange, unnatural hissing crept into [REDACTED]’s ears from somewhere directly behind him.

___

W̴e̷ ̸w̷i̷l̴l̴ ̸n̷o̶t̸ ̴b̴e̵ ̷s̴p̸a̷r̵e̷d̶,̶ ̸w̸e̵ ̷w̵i̴l̴l̸ ̶n̸o̸t̵ ̶b̵e̷ ̴s̷a̸v̵e̵d̷

S̵o̸ ̸t̵a̷k̶e̷ ̴t̵h̵i̷s̸ ̴t̵o̷ ̵y̶o̸u̸r̸ ̵g̷r̷a̵v̴e̶ ̴w̷h̷e̶n̵ ̶y̷o̷u̵’̷r̸e̸ ̴j̶u̷s̴t̷ ̷a̸ ̵k̷i̶d̷ w̵h̶o̴ ̴l̷o̵s̸t̸ ̶t��h̵e̷i̴r̴ w̷a̵y̵

Panels suspended from the ceiling flicker, humming and buzzing as they bathe everything below them in bright, artificial light. Roller tool cabinets are sequestered in the corners. Six large, steel worktables have been lined up in two rows of three at the center, with a generous amount of space between each of them. Three of the four walls are almost entirely covered by pegboards—the hooks lining said pegboards support a variety of different tools and mechanical parts. The fourth wall is taken up by a garage door, which is currently open and allowing the fading sunlight to peek in.

You push the collection cart through that same garage door, pausing to type a code into the keypad on the wall beside it. The huge door rumbles as it lowers itself to the ground. The soles of your shoes squeak against the interlocking rubber mats that cover the warehouse’s floor. You wheel the cart over to the nearest worktable, then take Scaredy by his shoulders and drag him on top of it. His arm hangs limply over the edge, his fingers brushing against the floor.

You pause, then walk to that desk in the corner of the warehouse, which is currently covered in papers. Those papers are blueprints and specs outlining the designs and functions of the robots that have been dropped off here. You flip through them, searching for the ones on Scaredy.

Your sibling had worked at Panic Plaza while it’d been open; you can recognize many of the animatronics from the trips you’d taken to pick them up after hours.

A precious few were similar to Scaredy, but most of the robots had been vaguely shaped like animals, with claws, fangs, and puckered, snarling snouts. Some had boasted matted, tangled fur while others had rubbery scales. According to the blueprints, however, those robots were pretty simple: their endoskeletons looked almost like those wooden, poseable figurines that were used for art reference. Their monstrous appearances, while surprisingly elaborate, had been nothing more than costumes.

Finally, you find what you need and bring it over to your table, setting the papers down by Scaredy’s head.

You examine the ends of Scaredy’s severed limbs. . .well, the damage around his connecting joints isn’t too bad. You lift Scaredy’s left arm and peer into the area where it’s obviously supposed to connect to his shoulder. You see a group of rectangular caps positioned in a circle. The interior of Scaredy’s shoulder matches this perfectly.

Those things are specialized magnets. Scaredy’s already been here for a couple days, and the scrap that had been heaped on top of him would’ve definitely soaked up some heat when the sun was out. The changes in temperature must be why the magnets in his joints lost their strength. You check the blueprints, then poke at the short cables that are hanging out around the magnets. These must be here as a precaution; to help the arm move without pulling the magnets away from each other.

You set the arm down next to Scaredy, then cross the room to push one of the roller cabinets closer. You open it up and search through its drawers. Looks like you’ve got some spares to work with.

The next few moments see you removing the ruined magnets and replacing them with some brand new ones. You clean up the ends of the cables, then carefully hold the arm close to Scaredy’s shoulder. The magnets immediately snap together with a series of loud clicks, which would’ve delivered quite a painful pinch if you hadn’t been keeping your fingers out of the way.

You take hold of the cables and, one at a time, guide them about inside the shoulder until you feel them securely catch onto something. You then lift Scaredy’s forearm and slowly maneuver it this way and that. The arm remains snugly in place, but the parts aren’t grinding against one another. That’s good.

As you get to work repeating the process with Scaredy’s legs, memories begin flooding your head.

You’d been a paying customer at Panic once or twice. You’ve seen the haunted house for yourself, seen how each of the attractions had their own unique way of frightening guests. Scaredy’s schtick had been singing, and it had been surprisingly effective.

That’s actually why your sibling ended up getting a job over there: they’d helped write the songs that were recorded for Scaredy to perform. Aforementioned songs were played on an intercom throughout the building so customers could always hear him, no matter where they were.

Now, you wouldn’t blame anyone for doing a double-take upon hearing that, because seriously? People got freaked out. . .over singing, of all things?

However, to say something like that would be to ignore just how much of an edgelord your sibling really was. You couldn’t remember Scaredy’s songs word-for-word, but you definitely remembered how they sounded like GWAR and Creature Feature had created a lovechild. Scaredy sang about twisted stuff all the time: murder, torture, general insanity. . .

He’d even been programmed to threaten customers in the intervals between his songs. (You were still kind of surprised that Panic’s owners had drawn the line at swearing.)

T̷o̴o̸ ̴d̸a̵m̷n̶ ̷l̴o̵n̶g̴ ̷t̸h̷a̶t̷ ̶I̴’̷v̸e̵ ̸r̴o̵a̷m̶e̵d̵ ̶t̴h̸e̶s̶e̸ ̶h̵a̵l̷l̶s̴ B̶u̴t̸ ̵s̴o̸o̴n̵ ̵y̷o̷u̸’̷l̴l̸ ̶j̷o̷i̶n̴ ̷u̵s̶ ̸f̷o̵r̸ ̶a̴ ̷b̴i̷t̶e̶ ̵a̴n̴d̴ ̷y̶o̶u̸ ̷c̴a̸n̶ ̸l̴i̵v̶e̴ ̴w̵i̷t̵h̷i̷n̶ ̵t̴h̴e̶s̴e̷ w̸a̷l̵l̶s̵

Time passes, and look at that! Scaredy is whole again.

You’ve made good progress, but holy shit, this guy is huge! How the hell did you not notice that before? You saw how his head was bigger than that of a human’s, but still!

You scan the animatronic’s blueprints—eight-foot-three? Who decided that was necessary? Then again, it has been quite a while since you last saw him. And in any case, perspective is just really weird.

Scaredy’s back and neck are supported by the table, but he’s clearly taking up every inch of space; if you try to move him forward to accommodate his lower half, then his neck will probably hang over the end and leave his head to touch the interlocking mats. Like his arms, Scaredy’s legs are draped across the floor in an awkward way. Had he been a flesh-and-blood person, his current position would’ve promised terrible future back problems.

The animatronic is still, unsurprisingly, filthy. So, you take a can of Acetone from the cabinet, then find a clean rag in one of the storage tubs and begin the long task of wiping down Scaredy’s front. It seems his metal hasn’t started rusting yet.

In just a couple moments, Scaredy’s finish is practically gleaming against the lights above. The silvery-white could easily be compared to cake makeup or deathly pale skin, and either way, he looks appropriately creepy. The dark blue and black of his clothes and hair help to compliment it. And his dark, piercing eyes really pull the look together. He really looks like he could still be functioning. . .

But he isn’t, because you’ve still got work to do. You decide to start opening him up now; if you can’t see any issues on the outside, then they’ve got to be on the inside. You glance back at the animatronic’s blueprints. There should be some small buttons around his face and arms. They can disengage some parts of his casing.

You peer down at his face and can’t stop yourself from shuddering at his grin. You gingerly hook a finger between two of Scaredy’s teeth and pull his lower jaw down, further opening the animatronic’s mouth to reveal a small device inside. It’s a custom-built fog machine. You remember how, when he was still active, it always looked like smoke was pouring from his jaws whenever he talked or sang. That, and the way his teeth would gnash together like some unhinged cartoon character, had added a definite coolness factor to his intimidation.

The slits between Scaredy’s faceplates culminate into a hole that bares an uncanny resemblance to the nasal septum of a human skull. When you discover a small button inside, you start giggling. Scaredy is supposed to be all unnerving. . .and one of his features is booping his nose? You shake your head happily. Whoever designed him knew exactly what they were doing.

You then carefully reach down, keeping your hand well away from Scaredy’s jaws, to tap at the newly-discovered button.

KA-PSSSSSSSSsssssss!

Though you’d barely put any pressure behind your touch, the faceplates pop open so violently that the animatronic’s entire head jerks back, as though he’s been struck.

Your laughter quickly transforms into a startled shout as you rip your hand away and back up a good few paces. A few long seconds dragged by as you warily stare at Scaredy. When he fails to spontaneously combust, you hesitantly move closer to continue the examination.

. . .So that’s what the prints meant when they said not all his systems are electricity-dependent. . .

That’s probably why his eyes are still lit-up after all the time he’s been out of commission.

Scaredy’s faceplates are folded back on hinges, surrounding the head in a way that almost resembles the petals of a flower. . .or the remnants of someone’s face having exploded from the inside out, but with a lot less viscera.

The interior of the animatronic’s head shines with dark gray metal. His expression can’t really be called an expression anymore. His teeth have been arranged to form a smile, and his eyes are still glowing brightly. But without his face plates, Scaredy just looks like he’s blankly gawking at whatever is in front of him. A nest of thick wires has been organized into rows and layers that vary in length around his eyes and mouth.

Galvanized cables: some of the strongest materials you can work with. There must be even more inside the rest of his body—if the rest of his systems are as complex and unique as you think they are, then they’d need as much support as possible for him to move around and keep his balance.

You had taken a Human Anat & Phys course in back college. You remember a particular diagram, one that displayed different parts of the body without any skin. Now that you think about it, Scaredy’s wiring looks shockingly similar to human facial muscles, excepting the lack of eyelids and lips.

You press the nose button again, flinching at how Scaredy’s faceplates snap back into place as quickly as they’d opened. Following the blueprint’s guidance, you push the black button on Scaredy’s plastic bowtie.

Hssssssssssss.

Right above it, a rectangular segment on Scaredy’s throat slides open.

As you’d suspected, more galvanized cables are coiled about, making the animatronic almost look like he has more than one esophagus (which, logically speaking, would put his harmonization module in the role of his vocal cords).

The module in question is in the shape of a tube, covered in rows of small buttons and dials. It’s connected to cables at bottom and top, but there’s an empty socket in the center of the controls. Which means it can either be charged along with the rest of Scaredy’s body, or just charge independently.

You retreat to the back of the room and wheel over a small, compact, multi-adaptive generator. You’re confident that it won’t fry Scaredy’s systems when it’s hooked up to them. The generator rumbles to life as you turn it on, and after some cautious examination, you take hold of one of the extending cords and plug it into the socket. The module gives a small, muffled hum at first. You figure it’ll need some time to warm up, so you return your focus to the specs to find out which button does what.

It turns out you were very wrong about that, because out of nowhere, the animatronic starts screeching.

You jump at least a foot in the air as it drills into your ears, reminding you of that type of TV static that’s always unnecessarily loud (this is even louder. To the point where you’re sure it can be heard all across the junkyard). Not only that, but Scaredy’s recorded voice is there, clearly trying to fight its way up through the shriek, which results in a garbled mess that sounds like nothing you’ve ever heard before.

Your hands fly to the module, pressing every button and turning every dial in a panicked attempt to make the distress call stop.

You manage to lower the volume. Still shaken up, you look back and forth between the specs and the animatronic. Chunks of dialogue start popping up through the static. It takes a couple minutes of trial and error, but eventually, you find the right combination.

The static subsides, and after about ten seconds of blissful silence. . .

“NE-EXT VICTIM!”

Although your heart is still hammering in your chest, you smirk. That was Scaredy’s signature catchphrase. The animatronic’s voice has a slight echo to it—it’s scratchy around the edges, but not so much that his singing would’ve been jeopardized. His tone is snide, as though he knows things about whomever he’s speaking to despite it being impossible for him to know aforementioned things.

W̶e̴’̷l̴l̸ ̷o̴n̶l̸y̵ ̷w̸i̶t̴h̷e̷r̷ ̷a̶w̷a̵y̵,̶ ̴w̵e̷’̵r̸e̸ ̶g̷o̸n̶n̷a̴ ̷f̷a̷l̶l̶ ̶t̸o̷ ̷d̵e̴c̶a̵y̵ ̶I̶ ̵a̶l̷w̵a̶y̴s̷ ̵c̶o̷m̶e̸ ̷b̵a̴c̶k̷,̷ ̵y̴o̷u̵’̵l̵l̵ ̴n̷e̴v̷e̵r̶ ̷s̴e̷e̴ ̵t̷h̵e̵ ̸l̶a̸s̵t̶ ̶o̷f̴ ̴m̶e̵

Tiny lights begin blinking on the harmonization module. You toggle with it some more, but apparently Scaredy’s musical-performance mode isn’t functional right now. (Not that you mind. You need to focus, and Scaredy’s songs are. . .distracting, to say the least.) The animatronic can still speak, but that’s a bit easier to deal with.

At the press of another button, Scaredy lets out a sardonic cackle.

“Well, well, we-ell! What we have here—more adrenaline-junkies, huh? It’s been way-ay too long since I’ve had an au-audience to murder!”

Considering how the rest of Scaredy’s body is still without power, his jaw isn’t moving up and down as he talks. You aren’t sure whether that makes the animatronic’s words more or less creepy. You decide that you might as well go through the rest of Scaredy’s audio. That way you can take note of any hiccups before you start working on the animatronic’s other systems.

“Trying to escape? Well, you’d b-better do it fast; listening to my music comes with a high risk of your brains spla-a-attering on the walls!”

Panic Plaza’s building had been designed as sort of a maze; every section had more than one entrance or exit, so customers couldn’t really predict what order they’d be visiting each of the attractions in. And that wasn’t even mentioning how the sections were treated like escape rooms. Customers would have to solve certain puzzles in order to advance towards the end, and the length of their visit depended on what they did and how they did it.

From your experience, Scaredy’s section had been littered with hidden tools for guests to use. Scaredy would pace around his stage as he performed; he’d lunge at those who strayed too close, but to your knowledge, that was all he did besides singing and taunting.

“Can you believe how sharp this mic st-tand is? I think I’ll make a shish-kabob out of you with it!”

“You need to get away from this thing.”

You find yourself pausing. You think you’d just barely heard. . .something after Scaredy’s line. But you can’t be sure. Are your ears playing tricks on you?

You turn one of the dials, listening more carefully than before.

“You can knock-k-k on that door all you want. . .but the button to open it is on my guitar! Come up onsta-age and press it! I DARE you!”

“You’re in serious danger.”

Your mouth drops open in a silent gasp. There’s definitely another voice piping up in time with Scaredy’s words. The new voice is weak and raspy; you really have to concentrate in order to hear it.

“Where will you go if you stick around with me for too long? EVERYWHERE. You’ll go EV-EVERYWHERE. ”

“What happened to me. . .wasn’t an accident.”

Was this part of Scaredy’s programming? You supposed it would be a clever mechanic, but you can’t remember hearing anything like this back at Panic. And why would you? Not only have you not visited that place for such a long time, but Scaredy’s music had always been so loud. Anxious that you might have done something wrong, you turn the generator off and remove its cord from the module’s socket.

“They knew what happened.”

Scaredy is no longer speaking. But that doesn’t seem to stop the other voice. And now that you don’t have to dissect its words through Scaredy’s lines, you realize just how miserable it sounds. You obviously can’t see the other voice’s owner, but just by listening to them, you can instantly tell that they’re exhausted, that they’re sickly, that they’re in terrible pain.

You unconsciously rest your hand against Scaredy’s face. . .and something suddenly gives way beneath your palm. A chorus of metallic clicking suddenly sounds off from what could only be further inside the animatronic.

Vvvrrrrmmm-sssssssshhhhhhhh.

You turn your head just in time to see a rectangular panel on Scaredy’s stomach slowly start sliding open. You blink, then peer down at the animatronic’s face. It takes you a few seconds to realize that the bright red circle on Scaredy’s right cheek is actually a button of its own.

How could you have missed either of those things earlier?

You look at the specs, and they. . .don’t say anything about a cheek-button or a stomach hatch? Why?

“They saw it for themselves, but they didn’t do anything about it.”

The words hang in the air. The other voice suddenly seems much louder and clearer than it was before. In fact, it almost seems to be echoing. . .from inside Scaredy’s stomach.

W̷e̴’̴r̸e̴ ̷j̵u̵s̵t̶ ̷a̵ ̶h̵u̵s̶k̴ ̴o̸f̴ ̶o̷u̸r̴ ̵n̶a̴m̷e̴s̵,̶ ̵a̶ ̷r̷o̵t̵t̷i̶n̶g̴ ̸p̴i̸l̸e̵ ̷o̶f̷ ̶p̴a̵i̸n̶ ̶I̴’̷l̷l̷ ̴s̴e̵t̷ ̶y̵o̶u̷r̵ ̵w̶o̴r̴l̸d̵ ̸o̸n̴ ̶f̴i̴r̷e̷ ̴a̴n̴d̷ ̴s̶e̸n̸d̶ ̸y̸o̴u̴ ̶s̷t̶r̸a̵i̴g̶h̵t̸ ̶t̵o̵ ̴t̶h̷e̸ ̵s̸c̴r̶a̶-̶a̶-̴a̷-̴a̴p̷ ̴h̸e̸a̵p̵!̴

You fish a small flashlight from the cabinet and turn it on. You spend the next moment staring at the animatronic, listening for the other voice, trying and failing to make yourself move. Eventually, you creep over to the middle of the table. You aim the beam over Scaredy and peer down into his stomach. You’re shocked to discover that the animatronic’s interior is hollow. You can see Scaredy’s inner systems—his wiring and endoskeleton—but they’re being held in place by metal frames.

Due to Scaredy’s size, his stomach seems to offer enough space for a person to fit inside, so long as they kept their knees to their chest. Not comfortably, but plausibly.

But why? You expected to find some kind of engine or calibrating device. Why would a singing animatronic need what can only be described as a storage tank?

“They didn’t even try to get me out. Even though they were covering their tracks, they still just left me in here.”

Well, the answer is technically right in front of you. On one hand, it’s impossible for you to know what has happened inside Scaredy. And on the other hand, you’re desperately trying to convince yourself that the reddish-brown stains covering Scaredy’s interior are only rust.

But you can’t exactly ignore the other things you’ve found in Scaredy’s stomach.

The stench that’s working itself into the air is metallic, but it’s also. . .moldy. Fleshy. It’s not as strong as it would’ve been while fresh, but it’s definitely still there.

Your hand is trembling, but the flashlight somehow isn’t distorting what you’re looking at.

Scraps of fabric are caught between gears and prongs—and those scraps are covered in dark stains. Tendons are criss-crossing up the walls like roots. Strands of torn, discolored, mummified skin are practically melded into metal, along with clumps of matted black hair. Your vision lands on something that looks like a withered grape. It’s cloudy and veiny and—

An eyeball. It’s a human eyeball that has flattened and liquified with decay.

This is the point where your muscles finally start to disengage. The flashlight falls from your hand to clatter on the floor. You stumble back, not stopping until you collide with the wall behind you. You cling to that wall, as if it’s somehow going to help you get further away from the animatronic.

Your stomach has always twisted at the thought of what would happen if someone got their hand caught in a garbage disposal. You never thought you’d have to actively avoid thinking about what it would be like for one’s entire body to be caught in a garbage disposal.

But it looks like Scaredy makes for a pretty good example of that, huh?

You hadn’t eaten much earlier today, but you still can’t stop yourself from retching. You head is swimming, your throat is closing in, you have no idea why this is happening—

“You shouldn’t have taken me away from the others,” the voice inside Scaredy whispers fearfully. “It’s not fair that I get away from the pile and they don’t. They’re going to look for me. They’re going to take me back. . !”

___

The floor suddenly disappeared from under him. [REDACTED] reflexively started floundering for purchase, but the animatronic’s grip didn’t falter in the slightest. It barely had to make any effort in order to lift [REDACTED] up.

For a brief few seconds, [REDACTED] was simply being held in a parallel position.

And then, air was rushing past him as he was quickly moved backwards. He felt his shoes collide with something solid, and his legs were instantly forced to buckle as the animatronic continued shoving him back.

[REDACTED] heartbeat rang in his ears. Now acting on pure instinct, he began writhing against the animatronic. He frantically punched and kicked, barely even feeling the dull pain that came with striking something made of metal.

“Hey! S-stop!” [REDACTED] cried. “Let me go! Let me GO!”

The animatronic didn’t respond. Why would it have?

The room was a blur as [REDACTED] craned his neck, trying desperately to look at his attacker as if that would do anything to help. The animatronic’s blood-red, glowing, unmoving eyes were still fixated on him. Despite its expression, there was absolutely no emotion in those eyes.

Somehow, that only made this worse.

[REDACTED] also managed to catch something he definitely hadn’t seen before—a section of the animatronic’s stomach was gone. A gaping cavity had appeared in its place.

The animatronic was steadily forcing him into that cavity.

[REDACTED] didn’t stop fighting, didn’t stop screaming. His throat quickly grew raw, but he could barely hear himself over the sound of his own pulse.

His sides grated against the edges of the animatronic’s torso. His body was involuntarily contorting, constantly being forced to shift.

In what felt like no time at all, [REDACTED] felt his back collide with the same area his shoes had first touched. He was crammed into a seated position with only his head and arms outside the animatronic. [REDACTED] braced his hands against the animatronic’s exterior, trying desperately to pry himself out.

The animatronic reacted to this via connecting its palm to his forehead and violently pushing him back. [REDACTED]’s head slammed against the wall inside the animatronic. His skull throbbed. Everything was spinning.

Before [REDACTED] could even try to reach out again, a large, rectangular shape slid into place before him, quickly cutting off his view of the room outside and turning his new holding cell pitch-black.

The next seconds dragged by in a painful way, feeling like hours apiece.

Despite his panic, [REDACTED] could only sit in silence.

This animatronic—this thing that wasn’t even sentient—had just hunted him down and stuffed him into its stomach. There probably wasn’t anything outside the animatronic to suggest that [REDACTED] had ever been there in the first place.

He vaguely felt rhythmic motion around and beneath him; the animatronic was moving, seemingly unaffected by the new weight it was carrying.

Why had this happened? How had this happened? Had the animatronic done this before—done this to other visitors? Was this supposed to be some fucked-up part of the experience. . .or was the animatronic malfunctioning somehow?

That was the thing to finally snap [REDACTED] back into reality.

The animatronic may have been enormous, but its stomach was cramped, tight. [REDACTED] could just barely fit inside; there was simply no room for him to kick. But that didn’t stop him from squirming as much as possible, as aggressively as possible.

“HELP ME! HELP ME!” [REDACTED] screamed. “SOMEONE TURN THIS THING OFF! GET ME OUT OF HERE! PLEASE JUST LET ME OUT!”

The chamber shook and rattled around him, but the animatronic didn’t pause its movements.

Outside, [REDACTED] could hear the muffled sounds of screaming.

He knew it had to be part of the maze’s special effects.

And, although his instincts were begging him to deny it, [REDACTED] also knew that his own voice blended in with those screams perfectly. . .

___

I̸ ̶a̶l̸w̴a̸y̶s̷ ̴c̶o̵m̶e̵ ̴b̴a̴c̸k̶,̶ ̸y̷o̴u̵’̴r̸e̷ ̷n̶e̶v̵e̵r̷ ̷g̸e̴t̴t̸i̵n̵g̵ ̷r̸i̵d̸ ̴o̷f̷ ̶m̷e̸ ̵I̸’̸l̶l̷ ̸s̶e̸t̶ ̸y̷o̷u̵r̴ ̷w̵o̵r̸l̷d̷ ̶o̶n̶ ̶f̶i̴r̵e̵ ̶a̵n̸d̵ ̵s̸e̷n̵d̷ ̴y̴o̸u̶ ̷s̸t̶r̴a̷i̶g̷h̸t̵ ̶t̸o̸ ̷t̶h̷e̵ ̴ ̵S̴C̶R̸A̷P̶ ̷H̸E̶A̴P̶!̴ ̷S̴t̷r̶a̸i̵g̸h̴t̶ ̴t̷o̵ ̴t̴h̵e̶ ̸s̴c̵r̶a̶p̴ ̵h̸e̸a̷p̶!̷ ̶S̷t̴r̴a̴i̴g̴h̸t̷ ̸t̸o̷ ��t̷h̷e̵ ̴s̶c̴r̷a̶p̷ ̶h̶e̵a̸p̶!̸

@that-bat @sammys-magical-au @ineedallofthehugs @captainrose35 @yancy1nancy @sw33tst4rs @echoing-night @dungeon-dragons-dragons @pumpking1sheepy @whumpitywhumpwhump

#my writing #goretober 2022 #scaredy/SCARED-E #my characters #fanmade egos #my fan egos #nathan sharp #natewantstobattle #scrap heap #tw implied abduction #tw implied death #tw decay/rot #tw descriptions of pain #tw blood #tw torn flesh #tw eye loss

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dogbites-puppylove · 6 months

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Devil Sins

The Batfam and the deadly sin that colors their life, and the virtue of their darling

TW: Yandere behavior (obsession, possessive behavior and unhealthy ideations), mention of suicide ideation and s/h as well as gore

Tags: Yandere! Batfam x reader

Bruce Wayne: Pride

Within Gotham, it's common knowledge that when crimes wretched hands come down to slit your neck you do not clasp your hands and pray to God, no - you whisper your tears into a puddle of blood and give your reverence to hold out for Batman. It is under no exaggeration that divinity in the cursed city leaves justice to crumbled bones and puddles of teeth and tongue, and its cruel master in the form of a man with no face. It's fitting, for a city of corruption and bile. Gotham’s god is its dark knight with steel for bones and scripture of flesh, man made Godhood with flawed creation in its wake. But man has never been meant to hold godhood, the pathway of immortals too cruel and demanding, even with those who have wielded its deadly blade of eons it rips into them. Tearing at seams and breaking into them until their pieces can be glorified in the stained windows of churches.

Batman is divinity within mortal confines. There have been prayers and hymns in his name, retribution in his name and the painful dependency of creator and creation waged on him. Batman is an entity that is nothing but iron and brimstone, unbending and unfeeling, but Bruce Wayne, the man who created this creature whose only split from being a monster is a bloodied and beaten code, is painfully human. He feels each failure weigh on him, aging him past his own casket and decaying him even as he still breathes, it cradles his head during the night and whispers the screams of those he has watched fall.

Every time Batman stands tall, Bruce can feel something small and young turn decrepit and vile in his stomach until it erupts from him like bile from the back of his throat. He thinks it must be the humanity of a son who in truth, died with his parents in that alley. It slices his open, cutting his flesh to ribbons, and gorges itself on his organs only to fill him up with something inhuman. It's with bated breath with lungs that have been clouded with smog, that he waits for Batman to finally rule Bruce Wayne unfit and strangle him entirely.

Darling: Humility

The Darling acts as the humility to his pride, dragging him to his knees so archaically Batman shrivels in your presence. You are his humanity given form, the antithesis to his claim of being the perfect hero. You lead him by the nose, walking him on a leash so flawlessly he thinks you might have been born just to keep him grounded. Every scrape or bruise seems to repel the mission Batman strives for and replaces it with nothing, but a man stricken that he hadn’t done better. Each burn or scrape, even a paper cut drives guilt into him and brings a physical ache to his body like you had beaten him with a bat. Each mark burns the shame of a failed hero and leaves only the pathetic begs and whines of a man that can only be human.

If he could, he would spend his days by your side, affected by the intrinsic need to provide for you, leaving you physically and mentally unable and robbed of the ability to want. It's a desire that burns molten in his chest and drips down his limbs, it burns and aches at him as if trying to rip out of his chest and lick at your hand like a depraved dog. He would do anything for you, would render the world silent, bring you a heart on a platter, violate himself so terribly he could not know anything but his adoration of your presence and yet it still feels inadequate. A simple compliment from you leaves him bereft of ambition and scorn, leaving him on his hands clasped in prayer.

Batman may have been his creation, but Bruce Wayne is your own tool, use him to get what you want, change him for your own needs just keep him at hand. He'll be loyally and wholly (obsessively and blindly, almost rabid) yours. God bends to nobody's will, but Bruce Wayne knows down to the electrons snapping in his synapse that his place in this world is by your side, whether you point, whenever you deem fit. You’re his god, and himself nothing but a faithful follower.

Richard Grayson: Lust

Perhaps born from watching his parents, who should have been a constant, die in front of him a painful death filled with tourists' eyes and misplaced faith, right outside of his fingers grasps Dick has an inherent need to feel. For him, want runs in his skin like a conscious, whispering what he craves, giving voice to a voracity so impossible that it turns physical. He has known denial from the start, whether it be the blood of the man who stole his parents, a want that made his tongue ache and crawled at his ribs until his bones crackled, or the sweeter craving of a relationship, something that watered at his mouth. Want is something that has haunted him, growing obsessively until it reached lust.

Though sexual desire, of course, is something that is often attributed to it, it's not the only way lust presents itself. For Dick, it appears when he closes enough to reach out and feel flesh on his own, something tangible and it shocks him like a bad dog until he reaches out to soothe his skin. It appears in the dead of night when he can feel no other warmth than his blankets, even as he arches out and reaches pathetically into the air. It is a call of pathetic loneliness, so strong that when his younger brothers are cuddled drowning within him it is to try and get rid of the sudden echo, to try and merge them into one, until he is no longer Dick Grayson, and somehow a part of them. Somewhere in between the heat of a lover and the loyalty of a son, he realizes that being a part of a couple isn’t enough.

He wants like a man starved, all instinct and need, like a child who has been ripped out of his mother’s grasp before she has fed him fully, there is always something he’s not quite satisfied with. What he truly craves is a constant, a union, melting himself, and another so they can be poured into the same mold and make something new, indistinguishable from the other. And despite the carnal behavior of his want, he knows how to get it. He smiles full of charisma, grins with the sun and serenades with the moon to get his fixes, but each one leaves him starved, stricken for more. Like a bad addiction.

Darling: Chastity

The darling brings a chastity in his life, though not to say he wants less, but in the way a husband will fully devote himself to their wife. It’s the deceptive nature of a couple announcing a pregnancy and accidentally alluding to nights spent in bed. The darling hits a spot for him that leaves him mind numbingly euphoric, like a high that is reached after weeks and weeks of suspension. Every kiss has him feral, no better than an animal and chasing after you, every negligence has him whining by your feet, clinging to you. He grows incredibly dependent on your presence, on your touch and everything beneath.

With you his sharp mind bleeds into instinct, and the charisma he wields to pry himself into others good graces is left uselessly at the door. It’s a delusional dreamy trance, every hug sends him tumbling down further and further until his panting against your neck and thinking of nothing but you, you, you. He can feel himself slipping into your existence, swearing he can taste the coffee you drank in the morning, and can feel every cut or bruise you get without him present. His want for you is wet, sticky and binding, threatening to pull you over until you lose your mind along with him.

It’s almost laughable how pliant he is with you, a touch to his arm can have him following you over a cliff, a peck to the cheek and suddenly his on your lap whining for more. For all he is hard and angry, full of vigilante fights and bruised skin you wouldn’t even have to hurt him to kill him. With you, he can indulge himself fully, so much so that he wants no other. In fact any other touch leaves him lacking, so utterly entranced by you that he can no longer feel another’s skin unless it’s yours. To him, his darling and himself cannot be separated, they won’t go down in history but their names, but by the title for lovers. Nothing to define themselves but their own love.

Jason Todd: Wrath

Anger, to Jason, is an old friend that lives in his bones and whispers in his ears with every movement. He has used it well his entire life, a melting anger of forged iron against his father to keep him defiant, a indigent anger filled with a son's tears for his mother, the roar of inequality and social class that steals from the batmobile and the blinding and rash rush that leaves him as robin. It’s at first a soft motivation that keeps him alive, any good street rat knows, or any street rat still breathing that to stop means you’re as good as dead. He covets his rage, it's youthful and idealistic and keeps his heart beating.

Of course, after the pit (after being beaten to death in a warehouse of gasoline and gunpowder, watching his own blood relax as he’s robbed of his own, coming back ripping from his own skin and drowned in green only to find out his father-father-had left him unavenged. Left him replaced and gone) his anger has grown into something primordial. Too old to be Jason’s but so familiar he leans into it. It grows from his bones like ivy and twigs, poking out against his flesh and sewing itself under his skin so that the slightest breach sends it out to take root. Jason’s wrath is something that threatens to leave him choking blood, and yet it keeps him alive with the threat of keeping him running forever. It is the anger of a child on the poster who has never been found, and their stomach full of worms that burrows into his own. The tears of a case under the corrupt policeman’s file, and the ghosts scream in a house empty of their future. It’s all those who have ever been a statistic (as he has been) boiling over under his skin. Because Jason knows the wrath of the dead and unavenged intimately, it burns his memories in green and leaves his chest heaving with permanent mourning of mothers whose children were robbed and never found. It threatens to scratch away from the inside of his ribs until its nails finally rip him open in a mocking autopsy and wail into Gotham’s plugged ears.

Jason's violence, his actions and words, the bullets in his guns and glare under the hood are all reactions to this. As long as the world spins, as long as humans turn a blind eye to victims, and allow the injustice of the world to mold them, he will move. All his actions are an answer, a bullet through a man's cranium, the vengeance of a young girl with a ripped dress, a severed head, the relief of a child who watches their family bleed out for powdered death. Each and every shout of Red Hood, every puddle of blood he coats the ground on proof that he is still moving. Because Jason’s wrath is old and an answer, to the boy in the warehouse, to the boy in the ground and mounted not as a son but a soldier. It’s a solution to the fear that manipulates his chest that should he stop moving he’d be buried again.

Darling: Patience

Jason is a man of action and violence, fear turned into anger because above all he is a man cursed with empathy. With his darling the fear that curdles his insides soothes, like a mother rubbing her child’s stomach and singing a special song to keep the pain away. The world will keep moving regardless of him taking a break, and he has the blinding panic of staying in time, and yet his darling is a perfect encapsulation of time. Something preserved beautifully, a painting stuck in motion, the words on his books that are remembered through words and tongue. The tint of red becomes a pastel pink, and suddenly he’s so, so weak.

With his darling he closes his eyes without fear of waking up decaying. A sweep of your hand against his cheek will pull a sigh of pleasure from his throat suddenly free of phlegm and blood, even a harsh hit will feel divine. His darling functions as a sort of “moment” , something trapped in time and solely for Jason. Much like opening a book, the story is forever clashing but the words stay all the same, waiting for the reader. It’s with you the anger that has kept him moving for so long, washed away, like the dirt clinging to his skin under water. It's freeing and leaves him shakily bare, with you he weeps, with you he grows and stays forever yours. You are life itself, something ancient and timeless at the same time. The nostalgia of losing a tooth and excitement of a birthday party wrapped into tender song and softer skin.

It’s a common sight to see him cry when with you, prayer in the form of tears that are just for you. He spends his days in a lovestruck haze, almost as if he’s been drugged. For Jason there is no constant, no surety but you. He would do anything to keep you perfect, safe and just as you always are. He'll care for you much like a beloved heirloom, of course he loves you with a severance that would scare most, but you are something he seeks to preserve. Nothing can hurt you, will hurt you, you’ll remain untouched until you reach out yourself. Your presence alone is enough for him to intoxicate himself with, bask in forever. But should you give I’m a sliver of your attention, allow him to enter your perfect little world? He’ll be lost forever.

Tim Drake: Gluttony

The most intimate feeling Tim knows is hunger, perhaps not for food but for anything and everything else. Obsession is his most familiar form of companionship, stuffing picture after picture of his object of affection until he can drown in them. In his house of echoing walls and emptiness he comes to emulate it. He feels hollowness in his soul, some nights he wonders if he took a knife to his own side what he would find. Would it be organs? Perhaps a heart? Or would it be the void that has eaten all that made him and left him with a constant hunger to fill himself with? For a time, he manages to satiate himself with Batman and Robin, stalking and drinking them in over and over until one day it's stolen and left him with nausea so terrible. (And Tim still remembers the rawness of his skin as he is thrashing in his room, his throat bleeding from his wails of a boy he never met)

The more he gets the more he hungers, it’s something horrific and apathetic that leads him to chasing after his own fill. Case after case solved, fact after fact filtered and sorted through, Tim is insatiable. Like a well oiled machine, the fuel that keeps him going only works to find more fuel, it's a never-ending cycle of something that can no longer be deemed as human. Half of this can be attributed to the fact that it’s all the same to him, an angelic charity to a garish murder eh takes them and feasts on them all the sometime efficiency is more of a hook then anything, pulling others in so he can feast on them, devouring their mannerisms and habits, licking up and chewing on their thoughts until there nothing left of them.

One could blame this on the fact that the identity of “Tim Drake'' has never really been sought out, so there’s no substance to him. Something useless will obviously stay shiny, clean and unused, it's logical in all the ways it makes Tim want to throw a tantrum. It drives his mouth to salivate until he’s drooling over another function he can consume, another person he can mirror, another morsel to disappear within himself. And yet with each new meal he can only feel the void echo back louder, as if he had never eaten at all. Like a fire consuming too much wood that it withers out in anger, as if the trees that had been cut never existed in the first place. It threatens to force Tim to disappear forever.

Darling: Temperance

The temperance his darling offers is in the form of a craving rather than actual fulfillment. After just his first taste of you, Tim has been enraptured for you, nothing comes close to your unique temperament, your reactions, everything that makes you, you. You leave his mouth watering for more, nothing else can settle against his tongue the way you can, nothing can mimic the way you fill his head with static and leave him filled to the brim. He takes whatever kindness you give him and uses it as an invitation to learn more about you, an invitation to bear himself fully. Any preference you have, a favorite color or show, even general food preference will settle into Tim as if it had been his all along. Where he used to drink black coffee, has grown a taste for your favorite creamer, your playlist will be playing in the back of his head as he switches through W.E. work, it’s all you, you, you. Like a puzzle finally coming together,

Tim’s brain finally quiets down and is forced to digest. Any sort of attention you give him is a five course meal, any scorn is just as quickly devoured. You don’t quite stop the habit of obsession, but you give it direction. Tim has never known such direct want until you, a den he has no plans to stop his indulgent habits. He is ravenous for anything you toss to him, your voice, a text, an opinion, even just a little note, whatever you do stays, It’s a blessing and a curse. Because while the hunger pangs back in your presence, now nothing else can even come close to keeping him occupied.

He’ll obsess over you, crafting himself to be your perfect companion just so he can stay by your side and continue feeding. Everything in your life has a shade of him, your job, your house, your hobbies, even your electronics, each one a special situation he created to have you just a bit closer. Nothing else can come close to you, he’ll make sure you're well taken care of, all he asks in return is you.

Damian Wayne: Envy

Damian’s life is a unique contradiction. He was born the sole inheritor of a Thorne he is meant to fight for, something only he can own and yet is so unworthy he is kept from it. It forces him into a sense of jealousy, inadequacy and egregious entitlement. He could have anything he needs, but only as long as he earns it, it gives him a longing sense of feeling everything is out of his reach. That even should he hold the sword in his hands it cannot be called his. Not in the way a dog can call its food their own, and not in the way a writer can crow over their own creation. It leaves him painfully envious of others, of their right to their own possession, it leaves him vicious and poisonous. Part of the reason he squirrels away animals with so much intent, is because they’d be “His.” He’s their sole owner, and as beings with a conscience they can prove their loyalty.

His envy leaves him with harsh words and even deadlier scars, it forces him into a fine weapon and while it’s an ideal state for an heir it’s a broken state for a child. It leaves the boy wanting, fearful and anxious. His envy is young and childish, something not allowed, and it’s something weaponized. It’s part of the reason he defends the title of robin so freckly, not only because he believes himself right, but because it’s his in way the throne cannot be. Because it’s not a legacy he’s supposed to take, it's one he steals from himself. It’s his, in a way nothing has been since he first cried from the pit.

But even then, the title of partner that so many others have worn, cannot soothe the constant ire, the lashing out that comes with fear of being replaceable, of being nothing but a role, comes with. Because Damian has been born as his mother’s son, as his father's legacy, but not as his own person. It makes Damian feel unfit, unusable in the way he has seen his mother discard students who cannot kill. It burns him, kills him and with time he thinks he might just be a husk. Damian is nothing but competency and a perfect successor, a successor will never be their own.

Darling: Kindness

Ironically the kindness that tempers his own envy is not his own but instead, actions of his own darlings. He fully gives himself to you, gives you his very purpose to do what you want with. Should you order him to kill, order him to die, or to live he would do it without complaint. Tell him you want his heart and he will pry himself open and hand it over with a smile, tell him you want his laugh, and he will laugh himself manic until you tire of it. He is a fine blade, a weapon that has seen battle far too much already, and it’s your own kindness that stops it from going to battle. In essence Damian has made himself a role right by you, but has given up his autonomy of your manipulation. You’ve become his master, his owner and his loyal weapon.

Every action is your doing, every remark is for your benefit, and by giving himself to you, he can have you in a way nobody else can claim. Every smile, every hug, every word that you speak to him is something unique from a dynamic he has hand crafted, and therefore uniquely his own. He will store you away from others, wary of letting them stain you, and even more wary of letting them steal you. You’re his, his love, his heart, his blood, his purpose on this earth, and he cannot let another’s touch deter you from this. His darling is a salve to his aches, a bandage that wraps tight enough to manage to hold him together, and his actions are that with the purpose of binding you to him. Your purpose will be each other.

Author's Note: Another reupload! Previously known as lovesick-laboratories.

#yandere dc #yandere batfam #yandere batfam x reader #bruce wayne x reader #dick grayson x reader #jason todd x reader #tim drake x reader #damian wayne x reader

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sporksaber · 2 years

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Theoretically I would love to get my uterus removed, however I also have a viscerally negitive reaction to any part of my body no longer being part of my body. And I feel like the only way to satisfy the disgust I feel over the idea of part of my body rotting without me would be to eat it. But that also sounds gross, mostly because I dont think it would be sanitary and or would taste bad.

#just girly things #ive also thought abluf feedjbg it to a plsnt and then eating the plant #but that also involves my flesh decaying so like #anyway #tw: cannibalism #?#is it cannibalism if its your own flesh?

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wickedusername · 6 months

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Apple Red

Curse!Reader x Mahito || 18+ MDNI

Synopsis:

In which our favorite shape shifting psychopath discovers the wonders of sex with someone equally fucked up in the head, all under a philosophical motif of the Knowledge Argument/Mary's Room, a thought experiment posing that certain mental states can't be known unless you experience them yourself.

A/n: Bringing this over from AO3! It was brought about in my annoyance at every Mahito fic being non-con and others yet thinking the man is illiterate. Listen, he may have been born yesterday but he's read more philosophy than you and me. This has an overarching Mary's room motif, skim it over, your enjoyment will be increased threefold. Just like your cl- Wikipedia article if you can't watch.

Tw: dead dove: do not eat, body horror, sadomaso, asphyxiation/choking, blood kink, double penetration, p in v, anal, murder kink, necrophilia mention, shapeshifting. However!! praise kink, body worship, dirty talk, consensual sex, size kink, no actual murder takes place.

Word count: 6,1k words

Epigraph:

He lowered his abs over your back again and got close to your ear. Licks, pecks and bites peppered your back, popping up in places you know mouths shouldn't be. “The pleasure of your wet, gorgeous pussy, deep and clenching for me… No dead or unwilling thing has it. You'll come for me again, won't you, dearie?

"Absolutely feral” is not enough to describe what was going on between you and Mahito. He groped every part of you, your ass, your thighs, your breasts, the fat on your hips. Arms scratched and pinched at the muscle and fat on every part of your torso with his fingers. All while his tongue licked all over your mouth and lips, swirled around yours, elongated down to your throat. His jaw took in more and more like he would gobble you up. You had your hands way up under his poncho, scratching his back to raw flesh.

This had started as a conversation. You were barely a sketch of a curse, not rivaling the strength of the other ones you knew, but shapely enough to pass as human to those who could see you. You tried your best to mind your own business and stay in hiding, fully aware the persecution of sorcerers could end you in one fell swoop. The unfinished subway station you liked to call home was where you spent most of your time. Nestled between the decaying scaffolding, the staff room was where you sat with him, the only furnished room among the many half-finished nooks of the construction site. The bare surfaces didn't bother you, and the room had remained thankfully untouched in the two or so years since construction was halted and abandoned.

You, however, neglected none of the room. Whenever you had the chance to be around humanoid curses, you made a point to invite them over. You loved to banter and befriend, but just as much as you loved to occasionally hit the jackpot for one that you could sleep with. You didn't care to investigate your origins, but you weren’t born of anything family-friendly, you knew that much.

You'd known Mahito for a while. He was introduced to you by Kenjaku, an annoying body-hijacker who'd seeked to recruit you for his revolutionary cause. You wanted none of it, especially keen on self-preservation, but the two of you had hit it off. Two curses of the psyche had plenty to commiserate about, so you often hung around each other. And you'd just now managed to have him in your nest. Of course it wasn't every time you dragged someone to your staff room that you wanted to fuck them, and you certainly wouldn't mind if it led nowhere. But he was the most human of all curses – maybe of all there were – so of course you wanted to ask him about sex. To your surprise, his opinions were less than satisfactory.

“It's not as good as murder, to be honest.” He tapped the arm of the couch he was slouched on, staring you down with conflicting feelings. It was definitely not what he was here to talk about, but it did leave him curious.

“Are you serious? You've been doing it on things that don't move, haven't you?” It was the explanation you could conoct for why he would think that.

“I can make them move, you know? I've put the parts together, it's just not all that.” He retorted.

“It's about more than the parts. It's the entirety of the person you're with.”

“I've tried full, intact humans. The first one I, uh… killed them by accident. Another one I killed beforehand and they start going cold and don't feel as nice. I kinda gave up after that, I really don't see how it's so hyped.”

“Yeah, that's not the fun way to do it. You're trying to get on the level of fragile, puny humans.” You looked to the side in pure contempt.

The disgust for human weakness nearly seeped out of you. You'd tried humans, and as good as sex was with anyone, you also boasted similar results. You had no need to kill or force, like he likely did. They flocked to you. It was easy, it was your nature. But it always ended in a body to discard. You did wonder, partly, if it was in the inherent fact of being a curse that your drive to fulfill your desire ended in human death. But killing wasn't the drive you yearned for, and you were more than happy to have something that would live to fuck another day. It was the whole reason you enjoyed other curses much more, anyway.

“Alright, I'll bite.” Mahito smiled. “What's the fun way?”

Your lips curled into a smile worth a hundred bucks. Now here you were, gripping his hair, licking his teeth and waiting eagerly for what came next.

Mahito lifted you up into his lap with what seemed like two arms wrapping around your thighs like thick belts. Two others squished and pulled on your asscheeks, torturing them, digits slipping forward to tease your clothed entrance from below. You wrapped your legs and arms around him, even though you didn't need to make much strength to be carried around. Against your belly, his hard-on pushed a tent on his leather pants. He pulled away from you with a laugh.

“This really isn't bad!”

“We haven't even started.” you leaned into his ear, scraping your lips against it before biting hard at his earlobe. “The fun part is that you can fuck me up”.

His eyes gleamed with fun and desire.

“How?” He pinned you against one of the walls. His smile was unnaturally wide, tugging at the muscles of his cheeks, pushing them up against his lower eyelids that squeezed against his fiery wide glare.

“However you want.” Your own stare burned with passion, knowing the idea of destroying you would fuel his fire to the maximum.

His dick twitched in his pants, achingly hard. A fifth arm stretched out of his stitched, toned right shoulder. His hand caressed the side of your face, combing your hair slowly back, tucking it behind your ear, before gripping your face roughly and pushing your head against the wall. He deformed it, veins and muscles bulging and pulsing in waves through your face and down your neck, while you healed up, undoing his damage and rolling your eyes back into your head. You savored his torture. His mismatched eyes burned with glee and he laughed, near maniacally, at your enjoyment.

“You-! You are too much fun!” He licked his lips and continued to cackle, like he had a front seat in the world's best joyride.

“More from the inside.” You teased. You lowered your hand to his pants and wrapped your fingers around the outline of his dick. He hissed as you stroked him, making you bite your lip at the sound.

The hand that was deforming your face stopped its transfiguring and moved to the top of your head, where it pulled your hair. He pressed your body further against the wall, giving you enough stability to bring both your hands to his pants, unzip them and allow his cock to spring free from the leather. You wrapped your hand around it and stroked him. Starting at the base, where it sprouted through the patch of brown fur that framed it, all the way to its pink round head. Your other hand caressed his abdomen, circling and clawing at the stitches in his cum gutters.

Mahito moaned and bucked his hips into your touch, squeezing your ass and thighs harder, pulling on your hair tighter. His eyes fluttered and his mouth hung open, before his sight landed on your chest, rising and falling under your tight fit shirt.

You encouraged him with a hum and the hand that was pulling your hair moved downwards, where its forearm split into halves. They promptly scrunched the cloth at the neck seam, one on each side, and ripped it apart, turning it to a cluster of circular tatters hanging from your waist and arms. His lips let out a long loud breath with the aftersound of a suppressed moan, almost like he was trying not to drool at the sight. He buried his face in your chest with nothing but nirvana in his mind.

You held the back of his head and nuzzled his hair as you kept stroking him, his pleasure-filled expression hidden between your breasts. Your breaths were heavy, and he would not stop letting out quiet grunts at your handjob. His hands roughly massaged your ass and the flesh belts around your thighs cut circulation to your feet, making them tingle. The arm that had split in two reunified, being joined by a sixth on the left side, and they both fondled your breasts. Mahito squeezed his face between the mounds and placed unrestrained bites and licks on them. When he felt himself getting close, he placed his lips against your ribs and muttered into them.

“You were right. I need the rest of it. I need to get in you.”

Mahito gripped your shoulders and slammed you against the wall once again, making you fumble the stroking rhythm you had. With the other pair of arms he gripped your asscheeks like rough dough and pulled you against him, rubbing his dick over your crotch. His nails dug in to the point of piercing cloth.

He brought his arms down from your breasts to fumble with the string of your pants. Unable to pull them or rip them away because of your legs around him, he turned around and let go of your ass, making you fall head-first into the floor. An unpleasant cracking was heard and blood splattered in a beautiful halo around your head, and you just healed the concussion shut. The only thing off the floor were your legs, still held at the sides of his hips. He stepped back and pulled your pants off with two hands at the rim and the two belts at the thighs, now sliding down to your knees and shins. When the pants were off, he tossed them to the side and recoiled the belts back into his body.

With now four arms, he crawled over you and pressed your legs apart. Mahito ripped the underwear you had like it was made of paper, throwing the pieces to the side. He held his dick in one hand, gently rubbing the head against your labia.

“God, I'm going to ruin you.” He grinned with a sing-sing tune of pure glee.

You grabbed him by the poncho and pulled him down to your level so you could talk.

“Think I'm not already rotten?” You whispered into his ear and licked your bottom lip, awaiting his response.

Instead of a witty remark, he just buried himself into you until bottoming out. He bit his lip and swallowed a big gulp, and you salivated with lascivious anticipation watching the stitches on his neck rise and fall from the movement.

“Fuck… This is good.” He muttered almost resentfully.

He threw his head back and enjoyed the feeling of your warm cunt. It was slicker than whatever he had before. Deeper. Warmer. Everything about the real thing, with the wetness and interaction of a willing participant, didn't compare to what he had done to transfigured humans, or to corpses, or to himself. Snapping back to reality, he started moving, and without much buildup he went right to pumping into you repeatedly. He was not at all mindful of still having his clothes on, of being on the cold floor, or even recalled being able to transfigure you while he was at it. All he could enjoy was the feeling.

You gripped the cloth falling over his back and started bunching it over his stitched shoulders, tucking his hair out of the way. When you got to the rim, you pulled the poncho over his head and he carelessly shoved it aside, shaking it off of the single arm that was stuck in its segmented sleeve. His hair fell forward with the movement and it now hung over you, grazing and tickling your chest. The view of his abs over you as he pounded was significantly better than a damn windowpane poncho.

Your own hands were busy as you tugged forcefully on a strand of his hair and decided to touch yourself, bringing about the familiar buildup of heat and electricity in the pit of your stomach. He noticed your hand and soon had it joined by an extra mouth, sprouting comically forward from his lower abdomen, right through his treasure trail. The mouth licked right with and over your fingers, and soon you were holding your pussy open for him, pressing down on your labia with your fingers. Their occasional twitching, your body's way to dispel some of the tension it was building.

“Do you want to feel what it's like when something comes around you? When they squeeze with you inside?” You teased, coaxing dirty talk out of him.

“I do… Come and scream my name. Fuck, I want to watch your face while you do it.”

“Then fuck me harder…” You mewled. His thrusts got stronger and he brought one of the arms sustaining his torso to grip your shoulder and push you harder against him with every pound. Your back chafed against the concrete, ripping at the skin of your scapulas. The mouth on your clit latched on and flicked its tongue around, catching the bud repeatedly.

Mahito lifted the last arm that sustained his torso from the floor, putting his weight on your thighs with the other pair. It forced them higher. It made your muscles sting. You unfolded your knees and placed your calves on his shoulders, and the position was riveting. He placed that hand on your mouth, where he pulled your lips, pinched your tongue, enjoyed the drool. Mahito straightened his back, lifting his torso away from your face. He ended up gripping your lower jaw like a handle, his knuckles under your tongue and thumb pressing into the soft spot under your chin. His nails cut the bottom of your mouth and he probably dislocated your jaw a couple of times with his thrusting, but fuck if you cared.

Your eyes rolled over as the heat built up higher and your toes curled around nothing. You thrashed your feet about in restlessness and the hands holding your thighs apart just tightened their grip, wavering with the movement of the muscles underneath them. You called out to him as promised and came around him. The pressure washed away in waves, rolling over you one by one in electric spasms. The tongue in the abdominal mouth flattened against your clit and you let it lick a trail slowly upwards. He could barely process his thoughts when the first spasm jolted your lower region.

“Ma- a- Ah!!” you fumbled your attempt to utter his name a second time.

“Ah...! Shit!” His eyes shot open and his mouth hung agape as you clenched around his dick.

He lost the regularity in his thrusting and let his sight glaze over, twitching at the feeling of your slick. The pulse brought him over the edge, and before your orgasm had fully waived he was moaning and pumping sloppily into you, spurting warm cum through your insides. His moans were even louder than yours, and his arms shook from the pleasure. Your half-lidded eyes framed by sweat met his and he had to shut them and turn his head away so he wouldn't be distracted. He moaned with the shivers that ran down his legs, his abdomen spasming and clenching. The abdominal mouth hung and drooled against your crotch, devoid of mind.

“Shit… you got so tight.” Mahito sighed, catching his breath, still coming down from his high.

“Isn't it so nice? You'll have to make me come again if you want more of that.” you giggled, partly trying to convince him to please you harder.

“Oh, I'll do so much more than make you come.” The man shook his head softly and looked down on you with a grin.

He didn't have such an issue as a refractory period. As soon as his dick went soft, he just made himself a new one and pushed that within you instead.

“Ah… More…” you cooed after his first few thrusts and it gave him a brand new idea.

Without ever pulling out, he made his cock a full double its volume. It shifted with delicious waves to the length of his foot and the thickness of a wrist. You bit your lips feeling its growth inside you, expanding your walls tighter. He pulled it out just to tease and even pushing it back took a little effort. The member stretched you open, the friction helped by all the wet and seed already inside. You felt a tinge of pride in your own pussy for taking it. He went right back to fucking. The pounding of this new dick made you feel so delightfully full, and the mild pain of his tip hitting your cervix was nothing but seasoning to your masochism. He wouldn't slide all the way in, instead he just pushed against the spongy back of your pussy until he felt too much resistance and slid back out, again and again.

The hand he once had in your mouth slithered down to your neck, where it was soon joined by the one that held your shoulder. He now had two hands on your thighs and two on your neck. He put his full weight on your trachea, and he seemed to love the feeling of wrapping his fingers around your small chunk of spine and muscle and grip it tight, with full suffocating intent. You couldn't breathe, but you didn't need to. His rhythmic slams against your cunt translated to his fingers digging harder and harder into your flesh, unrelenting as tugs on a zip tie. Pump after pump after pump, the pressure on your neck and on your cervix mixed in your head. They fought for your attention in turns with whichever felt strongest at any given second.

“Ah… I want to kill you so bad. I wanna blow you up into pieces.” Both arms pressed into your neck hard enough to scrunch it thin, folding the skin into rolls. He admired it as its color transitioned in a spotty gradient from pale to pink to red, to near grape under his fingers.

You couldn't talk, but you ran your finger under his chin and up his cheek, up to the stitches near his ear. You gripped the hair at the back of his head with both hands and held the blue-gray strands tight while he rolled repeatedly into you. He hissed in contentment at the feeling of you around him, at the sight of him around you, at the collapsing of your trachea under his hands. It made him way too aroused.

His gaze dropped slowly to your abdomen again and, with an intrusive thought, he decided to push into you until the base of his shaft. The pain stole your attention fully to your nether region. He pushed past any point of comfort into your cervix and gawked at the sight of your abdomen bulging ever so slightly to accommodate him. The sight made his dick twitch with the will to release. The feeling of pushing into your cervix past its intended size put wonderful pressure against his head. He pumped again and immediately had to stop himself because his stomach was coiling in pleasure against his will.

“Shit… I don't wanna come again already.” He let go of your neck and pulled out of you with haste, leaving with a loud sigh.

The curse panted loudly and stood up with laborious effort. He used this break to get his pants fully off. Both gasped for air, though you had much more of a reason. He wormed his legs out one after the other like boneless noodles and threw the pants in roughly the same direction where his poncho sat on the floor.

“You've made yourself such a gorgeous body.” you sat up and reached forward to grip the stitches in his thighs with admiration. You ran your digits over the raised clamps along the scar lines and resisted the urge to lean forward to kiss them. Mahito had kept human legs, even if the hairy patch around his base was still more like fur than pubes. Everything about his body was perfect to you. He snorted.

“You like it?” His smile widened. “How about this?”

With that, he split the dick mercilessly in half and reshaped both semicircles to the same girth as the first. He now had two wonderful shafts of exquisite size hanging from the soft brown fuzziness of his crotch.

“Fuck…” You whined, wordless except for the blushing in your cheeks and the glistening in your eyes. You scooted closer to him and sat up on your knees to get your mouth to the height where it could ghost over the shafts. You held them and fidgeted with their shapes, occasionally running your tongue along them, kissing their sides and cupping his balls. You looked up at him as you placed a hard lick over one of the tips and then the other in succession, tasting the precum that seeped from both. He could swear his balls ached at the sight.

“Get up and turn around for me?” Mahito grabbed both shafts and stepped back to keep you from worshiping them any longer. You bemoaned the loss, but got up and turned your back to him.

He embraced you with care and placed pecks on your neck. Mahito stretched an arm to the side and pushed the small wooden table that sat in the middle of the room against a wall. He walked forward with you until he had your legs pushing against the table’s edge and both of you faced the wall. You watched with wonder and a tinge of horror as a bramble of independent limbs split from his own and wrapped around the table.

Mahito placed a long, breathy kiss on your nape before putting his palm on your back and bending you over. You let him hold your wrists delicately and put them together above your head. He guided your forearms to lean against the wall, where he gripped them tight, making sure your hands wouldn't go anywhere. Two hands stretched from the table only to hold you by the lats, steadying you. Still carefully, the curse rubbed your shoulders and bent over you. He kissed your back and ran his other three hands down your sides, squeezing your anatomy and rubbing gentle scratches on the fats he could grip.

“You are being so wonderful, sweetheart.” Mahito placed kisses all over your back, his hair dragging ticklish paths along your sides. You looked back at him. The mood seemed to shift to something more loving than you ever expected.

“So caring all of a sudden? What's the matter, are you insecure about the b-- ahh?” He immediately shoved the top shaft inside your pussy until the base, shutting up any cocky comments coming out of you. The pain devolved your words into incoherence.

“You don't think I'm some kid, do you? I enjoy your teasing, but I'm inexperienced, not stupid. I'm being nice because I need you to relax if I want them both in.” He patted your butt and rubbed it in circles with both hands. “So you'll just enjoy it for me, yes?”

“I will… Mahito.” The line left you breathless. He was suddenly so much hotter than you'd thought. So far you thought you'd been commanding him, but it hadn't crossed your mind that he knew what he was doing. He knew what he was doing.

As he was standing behind you, he had a perfect view of your entrance dripping for him and he gripped your asscheeks and hummed while looking down at it. The way your back arched so nicely against him when he rolled his hips into you was almost as riveting and the feeling of the bottom dick rubbing against your clit with his back and forth. He pushed a few times, letting his cockhead rub on the hood of your clit, before he reached one hand around your thigh to your crotch. The man felt for your clitoris and then gave his palm a mouth to eat you out with. His fingers sprawled under your entrance, where he kept slowly rocking against you.

“Not that you don't have something I didn't know, but the missing piece was feeling it. I know plenty. It's… a Mary's room situation.” He kept talking, earnest and lost in thought while his hand sucked and licked your clit, mindlessly rubbing and patting your curves in admiration. The second shaft twitched and smeared precum on the back of his hand. “I guess it's just that… I can be too rough for humans to have any of the good stuff, I assumed I just couldn't get it.”

He placed one palm on your back and you felt the most sensitive spot of your clit peek out and expand, becoming bigger, more sensitive. Within your muscles, nerve endings branched and reached, making the pleasure increase threefold. If before you were casually enjoying his eating out, now you spasmed and lost breath as the feeling moved you dangerously up the drop of a roller-coaster. You whined incoherent.

“But you… You've shown me the pleasure in them.” He lowered his abs over your back again and got close to your ear. Licks, pecks and bites peppered your back, popping up in places you know mouths shouldn't be. “The pleasure of your wet, gorgeous pussy, deep and clenching for me… No dead or unwilling thing has it. You'll come for me again, won't you, dearie?”

“Mahito- I'm- Ah, I'm-!” Your breath hitched with the building electricity.

“That's just what I wanted to hear!” He chuckled with a genuineness that felt out of place.

The roller-coaster stopped for only a second at the peak of chilling anticipation before dropping you into a storm of pleasure, washing away. You moaned without thought, the sound echoing against the walls and bringing heat to your cheeks with the embarrassment of your pathetic noises. Your legs shook and threatened to give in, but he had more than two arms holding you tight. As you came off it your heartbeat thumped in your ears, in your chest, in your clit.

He praised you as you came, closing his eyes to enjoy your spasming velvet walls around his dick. You felt like heaven, tight, swollen to all hell, plush, malleable as a squishy toy. He couldn't believe he'd willingly discarded it as literary hyperbole. It could be as good as he'd imagined, and it was breaking him. The red of Mary's apple, sitting right in front of his eyes.

Before your mind was back to the present, he pulled out his cock dripping with slick and pressed the tip softly against your ass. With the hand that ate you out, he gathered as much wetness and he could on his fingers by rubbing them between your folds and brought that hand to your anus, where his fingers entered you to spread it all around.

He now had one hand holding your arms and one in the small of your back angling your ass up at him, another one that thrusted softly into your anus and a final one held his top shaft, preparing it to enter. You had just come off your orgasm when he pushed the shaft inside, slowly against the resistance of your ring. The burn reminded you, what you'd almost forgotten by now, that his dicks were still unpleasantly too big.

You whined and he reassured you with shushes and pats until he was in to the hilt. “You said I can fuck you up and you can't take this much? You're disappointing me…”

“It's not- a complaint.” You clarified. It really wasn't, the noises you produced were entirely reflexive.

Mahito hummed in agreement and held the bottom shaft that peeked between your thighs. He pumped it with his fist to spread the excessive precum that seeped from the tip. It had been dripping, neglected since you last licked it. He curved it towards your pussy and pushed in. You felt stuffed, entirely full, with no space left for yearning, no matter how much arousal had deepened your canal. Especially with both their sizes, it was entirely too much.

“This… is so crazy good. Even when I'm not doing anything else…” Mahito sighed as he slid leisurely back and forth into the holes, fully devoted to feeling. The pleasure of a slick recipient was doubled, occupying more of his mind than anything else had. He gripped the back of your head without looking and felt the sticky matted dirt of blood on your hair.

“Hm? What's this from?” He removed his hand in surprise.

“You… when you got my pants off.” You murmured.

“I like it.” He brought the hand to his mouth and licked the blood off it. “I think I know what I want to do…”

“I don't care what you do, just fuck me… please…” you whimpered, growing desperate at his stalling. You tried remove your hands from his grip, but they were well secured above your head. He ran that thumb over your knuckles in consolation.

“Hm, like this?” He pulled back and slammed into you in mockery.

“Yes! Please…!” you nodded vigorously.

“Is that so? I think I would rather…” He vexed and extended two of his arms forward, where they wrapped around your neck and forehead to pull your head back as far as it could bend. Your neck ached and your mouth opened wide in an effort to relieve his grip on your neck. “Even like that?”

“Anything… please-!” You begged, filling up his sadistic ego.

“Aye aye then…” he cheerfully agreed.

He held your hip with his only free hand and pounded you, over and over, without restraint. The arms that held you stretched unnaturally long to allow him to straighten his posture and pound with his full body. Grunts left his lips that sounded entirely too hot to be caused just by effort.

Mahito kept a steady rhythm and pulled your head back with his hands, forcing every muscle in the front of your neck to stretch taut. Your sight was confined to your forearms rubbing against the unpainted cement wall. His grip on your wrists turned your skin white, outlined by a flurry of red streaks. You spread your pinkies apart, trying to place your fingers on the wall, but barely achieved it, still restrained by his fist.

The hand on your neck twisted your anatomy, sending bulges of vein and muscle through you like shivers, pulsing your entire body with gross transfiguration. Not only that, but it sharpened, the web of this thumb thinning into a blade's edge and piercing into skin with his grip. You gasped in desperation as it started to dig into muscle and tried to heal the cut shut against his hand. He tightened his grip and shook your neck, back and forth, to dispel your effort.

“No.” His hand pierced further. “Let it run.”

Blood dripped down your torso, tickling your chest in its path and leaving sticky ruby trails in its wake. Drips ran down his arm and over your collarbones, contouring the mounds of your breasts, until they could reach your belly and fall to the ground, heavy with accumulated volume, unable to reach any further down and losing their grip on skin from the shaking of his pounds.

The cut burned like fire, stealing your attention from anything else. To get your focus back down, Mahito slammed into you hard and started sliding the shafts in alternating paces. He didn't need to thrust his hips: they pumped autonomously. The feeling was like nothing you'd ever had, either. You attempted to force words out of the hyperstimulating cacophony of sensations he was putting you through, shaking your attention away just to call his name. You bucked your hips backward into his thrusts, helping his movement in the only way you could.

He wrapped two more arms around your waist, gluing his body to yours again, and gripped the softness right below your ribs. You lost count of how many he had. He curved his fingers inward into the middle of your abdomen, sharpening his fingertips into precise blades, piercing at the skin and gripping as if he were going to pull out chunks with his bare hands. He gripped your fat and rammed his hips deliciously as blood ran piping hot down his forearms. The curse moaned and let his mouth hang agape, eyes half-lidded in pleasure, as the inherent eroticism of entering flesh turned him on so bad he thought he might come immediately. The pained cry that left your mouth went from his ears straight to his dick.

“Fuuuuck.” He leaned down and breathed hard against your back. The shaft in your ass twitched, bringing too much tension to his lower belly, relaying the message that with another second his balls would turn blue. You clenched your hole around it, milking it for release, and he couldn’t hold anything back. It pumped your ass full of seed, spewing jets of white inside you. Mahito placed his forehead against your spine and whined, his mouth ghosting over you with a small string of drool below. His fringe caught on beaded sweat and stuck to your back, but still he never stopped pumping. It was all only from the dick on top, the one that had been in you the longest. The one in your pussy still hurt for release, winding a fiery coil in his stomach.

His palms distorted you, shifting your insides so your flesh would compress and release against him. He was using you, making you a flesh toy, providing squeeze in his own terms. It peeved him for being too little effort from you, too close to what he already knew, but just the puffiness of your cunt against him was novelty enough. He didn't care now that he was in despair, pining for a second orgasm that didn't delay much further.

He came for the second time with cries that seemed almost painful and whipped his spine straight, carelessly forgetting himself and pulling on your head enough to snap it backwards. He moaned pathetically with the shakes of every muscle and attempted to rock his hips with faltering success. He let go of the grip in every hand and dropped his sweat-covered frame over you, pushing your body down into the table.

“Ah… ah… are you- alive?” He asked meekly at your limp, unmoving frame. He'd done things that would kill a human a few times, but he wondered if this had been too much.

“I told you I would be.” You replied with equally breathless lilt from underneath.

Happiness painted his perspective in pink and he recoiled all but two arms back while the main pair slithered underneath to hug you tenderly. The sticky layer of blood made his hug that much warmer in the literal sense, giving tangibility to the figurative warmth of his thanks. He pulled you tight into his embrace, and you folded your arms over your shoulders to pat his head on your nape, both waiting for their breaths to settle.

“I know it's been dragging out for long, but still… I don't want it to stop.” Mahito turned to nuzzle the side of your head. “I still wish I had more… more of the things only you can give.”

You pushed yourself off the table, forcing him to slip out of your holes and lift himself off as well. You turned to him and cuffed his chin to bring his lips down on yours, kissing him with sloppy nods, which one could almost mistake for a loving trade of affection. He wrapped his bloodied hands on your back, dragging trails that mixed with sweat to smear more than they should. Your lips separated and your eyes met his mismatched pair, half-lidded and full of wonder.

“Tell me…” you whispered into his lips with confidence he had expected to have snuffed out after all this.

“I want to experience your body more…” He licked his bottom lip, unable to divert his eyes from yours. “Let me find out how much I can dismantle you before you break”.

“If you still have the vigor, I'll give you something that you really never had from your attempts.”

You pushed him backwards, making him stumble with crooked steps and fall on his ass. His smile spread further than humanly possible when you got down and crawled over him, dressed in a stained scarf of blood that licked your entire torso in red.

You kneeled at the sides of his hips and reached down to ride him.

#mahito x reader #jujutsu kaisen fic #jjk x reader #mahito #mahito smut #fanfic #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #smut #dead dove do not eat

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yandere-daydreams · 9 months

Text

Title: Idol Worship.

Pairing: Yandere!Devil x Reader (Christianity).

Word Count: 1.0k.

TW: Consensual Sex, Size Difference, Implied (Past) Injury To Reader, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Scarring, and Themes of Religious Trauma.

The path to His throne was paved with salt and brimstone.

Smoldering rock burnt into the soles of your feet like ember, taken fresh from the heart of the fire. Living corpses, their rotting flesh deteriorating further with ever fraught breath, laid motionless on either side of the crumbling archway, their milky eyes watching your every stumbling movement. The air was heavy with smoke and sulfur, but the buzzling of unseen insects, the stench of the decay – that was all kept in your peripheral. It was meant for someone else, someone whose crimes were far more violent and far more damning than your own. Your fate was elsewhere.

The ascent was made no easier by your anticipation, the steps carved from black onyx and made steep enough to warrant your immediate and self-inflicted dehumanization, to force you to your hands and knees in your effort to scramble upward – ever upward, as if you hadn’t yet had enough of the blinding sky. Rough granite tore into the skin of your palms, but the agony was minimal, a shadow something greater that would not numb you to more intentional agony. The heat, too, was distant, rolling over you in tender waves and seeping under your skin to coil around your ribs, to weave in and out of ragged tears in your mutilated veins. Something snapped inside your chest as you finished your climb, fresh blood washing over your aching throat, but any pain you might’ve felt faded away as a great hand descended from the clouds of smog and ash, His calloused fingertips digging into your waist, your stomach as He took you up and placed you, gingerly, on His silk-clad thigh. His touch lingered, a thumb running over your scalp as He spoke. “Oh, my glorious one,” His voice was deep and flat and beautiful. “What have they done to you?”

Anything they could. Everything they could. Your body was still plagued with the phantoms of it, the frigid cold of steel and iron against flesh and bone. You tried to speak, but your voice was gone, muted by means beyond your own. You frowned, more frustrated than you were surprised, but He did not share in your disappointment. “They are sons of the Most High, for he is kind to the ungrateful and the evil.” After a beat, He added, “I will not be so forgiving.”

His hand began to pull away, but you scrambled after of it, latching onto His wrist in a futile effort to hold Him that much closer. An airy chuckle fell from Him unmoving muzzle – His golden, slit-pupiled eyes remaining focused on some distant point as He took you into His hold once again, lifting you first to His own height. For the first time, he moved in earnest – tilting his head forward and resting his forehead against yours. “The reason the Son appeared was to destroy the Devil’s work, for the thief comes only to steal and destroy.” His breath was cool against your skin, even as anger seeped into His tone. “And now, instead, you are asked to forgive and comfort him, so that he will not be overwhelmed by excessive sorrow.”

It was more of a croak than a proper plea, hoarse and fractured at all the wrong angles. Still, you managed it, your own small hands pressed into the swell of His palm. “Please, my lamb.”

He seemed to catch himself, inhaling sharply as He shook His head. “My apologies, I forget my audience. You are altogether beautiful, my love; there is no flaw in you.” You nuzzled closer to Him, and He allowed you a moment of solace before pulling away, straightening Himself to His most dignified stature. “We have been separated for no short time. Tell me, will you not gratify the desires of the flesh?” A note of humor, a forked tongue allowed to skirt gingerly over your neck. “Will you not allow me to show the length of my devotion?”

You didn’t need to answer, it was a given that you would. His delicate tongue ran over the lacerations on your calves, your thighs - smearing dried blood and soothing open wounds. It flicked upward, lapping at the twin scars on either side of your chest, then the bruises painted across your collarbones, around the base of your throat. His hand shifted, wrapping around your waist, His hold firm and steady as He lowered you onto his length. There were other options – as many shapes and variations as a lustful heart could dream of – but His cock was among His most impressive features. The shaft alone matched your arm in length and your midriff in girth, and yet, it pierced you without resistance, filling you to the brim before He was so much as half-sheathed inside of you. Your knees pressed into his lap, your hand grasping for purchase against his broad chest, but you felt no fear, nor was your exertion necessary in the face of His willingness to serve. He let out a raspy breath, allowing His head to lull back as He thrust gently into you from below. “Earthly one, glorious one,” The pet name fell from His lips like milk and butter and honey. “We will lead each other astray. We will be the force by which the greatest love is defined.”

A growl of a moan as your walls clenched around Him, a sharp snap of His hips. “We will be bound together in perfect harmony,” His hand found the underside of your chin, tilting your head back with only the upmost delicacy. “And those who try to separate us will face only the most just of retribution.”

Your eyes met His, that wonderous gold melting into softened mortality. Where there should have been revulsion, there was only warmth, only light. Foolishly, for a moment, you allowed yourself to scorn the shine of the heavens, to loathe all things that were not Him.

You allowed yourself to believe that you would need nothing else, not so long as His gaze fell upon you.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere oneshot #yandere oc #yandere god #yandere demon #yanderecore #yancore

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the-kr8tor · 2 months

Note

Idk why I hadn't thought of this before but uh, this my 2nd request:3

Bitter Orange for Hobie with💧who thinks he escaped alive with R (from wherever it's up to you but i can suggest like after getting some supplys or being stuck somewhere for a while because it was infested with zombies) and got back to their base safely but little did he know, they didn't tell him that they got bit ;3

I'd like to add to the request I just made (Bitter Orange Hobie w 💧) and uh, this can be optional ig? but can they be best friends who've been pinning over each other but now Hobie never got a chance to confess his feelings n stuff and maybe they do it in those last moments?

Thank you for requesting this heart wrenching fic lmaoo hope u like it!! ❤️

Pairing: Hobie Brown x gn! Reader

Word count: 1k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, Zombie apocalypse AU, Zombie AU, CW blood, CW injury, TW death. Angst.

Katy's one year celebration 🎉

Hobie comes back to you after three days, he's drenched in sweat and grime. But it's all worth it for the two bags full of supplies that you two need. They're at least a month worth of survival, a month without needing to go out and put yourselves in danger. He could've brought you with him if not for your raging fever and cough, he had to go alone. A part of him was glad that he went alone, he was stuck in a warehouse for an entire day while waiting for the hoard to pass by. You would've hated waiting in the dark and damp place especially with your sickness.

You said you were fine to be left behind, that it was just a simple cold that you can fight with the leftover meds. But when he opens the unlocked door that he specifically told you to barricade, the rotting smell of flesh and decay greets him instead of your smile. It tells him that shouldn't have left. It tells him that his greatest fear has come true.

The bags he painstakingly heaved from the city to the cabin in the woods where you two had been surviving in for months now drops like a death knell on the dilapidated floors. It was home for you and Hobie, he still remembers the day you found it. His heart hammered in his chest when he turned around only to find you gone. And then your scream turned him into the fastest man alive, only to find you jumping for joy in front of the old hunter’s cabin.

He knows exactly why he was so afraid that day, even though it was just a second of you not by his side— he has never been without you. Through the years, way before the world ended, you've been by his side. Always latching on to him, always smiling at him. Or was it the other way around? Was it him latching onto you like paint on a wall? Or was it him who always smiled at you? Nevertheless, he loves you, he loves you even when the world ended. He loves you enough to drag himself across town to come get you while the world around him was burning and crumbling.

But he shouldn't have left, he shouldn't have stayed a day more to find you that bottle of shampoo you have always been on the lookout for. It was a surprise, a happy one this time, none of the walking dead jumping at you from a corner. He would do anything to see you smile again, just like when you found the cabin. You've been trying hard to stay positive for him, but he knows, and you knew that it was all to reassure him. He takes care of you and you take care of him, he wouldn't like it any other way.

Grief already clings to him like a vine snaking along a tree. It grips him tighter with every step he takes. Hobie's hand shakes as he reaches towards your shared bedroom door. He hoped that the smell would be gone by then, but it only persisted as he got closer and closer to the last place he saw you.

He should've told you he loves you.

Your milky white eyes are the first things he sees. He grips the door for balance, chest heaving, heart plummeting to his stomach.

You growl at him, skin no longer bearing life, skin shrunken around your nail beds, claws reaching towards him in a rush.

Hobie freezes and awaits your teeth tearing into his flesh, he'd join you, would that be so bad?

Yet, death doesn't come for him. Chains rattle behind you as you growl and desperately try to tear him apart. Hobie, now realizing what you've done to yourself, cries at the sight of your ankles bound on the bed. Your deathbed. You died alone and sick, you died without him by your side, you died crying for him. But it still crossed in your hazy mind to tie yourself down so when he comes home he doesn't face the same fate you had.

His sobs echo among your inhuman groans, tears streaming down his cheeks as you relentlessly try to grab him even in your bound state. Hobie refuses to look at you any longer, refusing to remember you like this. His eyes flick down at your feet. There's medicine scattered along the floor and bedside table. And there's still water left in your glass. A bloody bandage is still tightly wrapped around your thigh. A testament that you fought to stay human until he gets home, that you tried to cure yourself even though you knew it would be futile.

“Why didn't you tell me?” He asks in a broken voice, a voice he doesn't recognize as his own. “I could've stayed for you.” He knows that you didn't stop him because you didn't want him to see you slowly ebb away into a husk. That your death will break him apart right in front of you while he refuses to let you go. That his sorrowful face would be the last thing you ever saw. “I could've been here for you.”

You spared the both of you pain and suffering.

Hobie doesn't know what to do now, you're dead and gone. And there's no one left.

“I should've—” he inhales, slipping down from the wall to the floor. “I love you. I hope you knew that.”

You continue to slash at the air, chains rattling, bed frame pulling you away from him. Hobie sees a resemblance of you behind your foggy eyes, he can't help but think if you're still in there, that you're still fighting inside. He thinks you knew he loved you, he thinks that you might've felt the same after all those years with him. But that's all from his mind, all he wants now is to hear your voice again.

He just stays there on the floor, grief sinking him further down, eating him alive with every guttural growl you yell.

He shouldn't have left.

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bleedingichorhearts · 5 months

Text

𝕾𝖊𝖙 𝖁𝖆𝖑𝖎𝖉𝖎𝖙𝖞

𝕬𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗: What if I combined them all into one, for maximum efficiency? I blame this one, @kit-williams and this one, @barn-anon for this.

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖌𝖊𝖉: @egrets-not-regrets, @bispecsual, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @sleepyfan-blog.

TW // SMUT/NSFW, NonCon and Dubcon, Baby Trapping, Drug, Yandere Themes, Death, Body Horror, Cannibalism.

|°ᴛᴀɢ ʟɪꜱᴛ ᴀᴘᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ°| |°ɪᴄʜᴏʀ’ꜱ ᴀᴏ3°| |°𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕃𝕚𝕤𝕥°| • {Chapter II}

Blasius slowly turns his head to the side from his crouched position. His mouth opening for a better scent thread as he sniffs the air heavily and chuffs.

So soon? He shakes his head, rising from his crouched position. Casting a shadow over the broken body below him. Such an eager little mate.

Glancing back down at the mauled body. Blasius brings forth an main appendage between his armor plates and licks the warm crimson staining his gauntlet. Savoring how rotten it tasted. Something he had almost forgotten about. How atrocious some could be, hopeless and decaying.

Something his little mate was not. Unlike this waste of flesh below him, unable to bring his little mate what she wanted. What she craved for. He can see it in her eyes, in her scent. How could this one not?

He was ignorant of course, too witless to acknowledge her effort. Too endorsed in his time running away from the nest and coming back smelling like another. His little mate was distressed when she figured out what he was doing. Yet, she still believed that he had some “good” left in him. Putting more of her dedication to prove that she was the worthy mate, when it was the other way around.

This false male was the unworthy one of breathing in the same air as his little mate. Undeserving of her attention, her love, her gifts and lingering touches of her commission of fidelity. It drove him crazy that she wasn’t paying attention to him as she poured her devotion into this male who uses her as a side trophy.

He wanted to give his little mate all that he had to offer. He wanted to return that love and attention she put on that failure of a human. He wanted to gift her all the things she found an interest in, but never acted upon it. Craving for that male to gift it to her, to acknowledge her. He wanted to provide what the male would not, could not.

It was no secret this man was a disappointment to any female that he encounters. He can hear the difference between the real and the fake moan’s his little mate does when they are coupled together or how his little mate has to take care of herself afterwards. Having yet to climax herself, but the male was also a disappointment by being infertile. Not that his little mate knows of that.

It is one of the reasons she has gotten a toy however, to sedate her ever growing desires. To finally have something to finish her off and at first, he wanted to rip the toy to shreds. Watch it decay beneath his fingertips, but he stops mid-way of finding the silicone c*ck in her closet. Realizing this singular tool has had a lot more to it than just for making his little mate climax on it.

So, he puts it back in its place where he found it. Leaving it to his little mates next use.

Blasius hums deeply as the appendix of the open body below him bursts, a quiet wheeze coming out of the mouth of the body as it splatters against his greaves. A mix of puss and blood inching down his armor to his sabatons. Another appendage coming out between his plating near his knee to clean up the mess the weak, organic body had made.

He uses another main appendage to reach inside the cut opening in the males body, pushing underneath his sternum and ribs, providing wet sounds and a squelch each time the appendage slips underneath another rib. Reaching the top of the body’s rib cage, he digs the appendage downwards between the lungs and wraps around the windpipe and tugs. A sickening squelch-like pop sounding out.

Pulling his appendage back to him. He wraps the rest of his appendage around the organ and lifts it up to his face, observing it. Sniffing it before he rumbles lowly in refusal. Whipping the rotten lung away with his appendage. Hearing it splat somewhere else.

That was not something he would preferably eat. Healthy organs are the better route of eating, they taste better. Saccharine even. They envelop the tongue like thick wine. Not that he found eating humans was a satisfactory, just a tasteful treat. He found far better sweets in this world to sedate his hunger than he would in his own world, but that rotted lung wouldn't give him the treat he was looking for.

Perhaps, his liver would work better? They were always far cleaner than the rest of the body’s he’s taken a snack on before. Maybe a little bitter with their alcohol consumption, but that doesn't deter him, he’s had worse before. If anything, that marinates more flavor into the organ.

Sliding his appendage between the body’s ribs and organs again. Wet sounds followed while he wraps his appendage around the liver twice. Pushing the other organs aside and over the opening of his torso and stomach. Feeling how the male's organs still pulsed with life. His dull eyes still staring up at his figure. A mule this one was.

With a particularly harsh tug, the body’s liver popped out with a sickening crack of his rips flying apart. His sternum breaking in half as bone shards littered inside and outside of the blood spewing body. The dirt drinking up the body’s lifeline like desert sands would do to water.

Blasius purrs quietly, approving of this body’s liver as he sniffs it. His mouth opening to wrap his tongue around the organ and lay it in his mouth before squeezing it with his tongue. Feeling it pop in his mouth and splatter before he chews, savoring the taste and the memory’s it came with it.

At least, the memories with his little mate in them. Ranging from how sweet his little mate was and how remarkable she was. Offering her food, her home to this male. Never blowing up on him when she clearly wanted to. Some of the many things that he hates the male for, but that was not a matter anymore.

Nurgle, and the intercourses with her. He knows he could have done way better than this male, but to envision her nude and submissive before him? His appendages began to salivate, including his mouth.

The things he would love to do to her.

Her scent wafts over him as he swallows hard. Shivering as his appendages become eager, desiring, and aching. Pushing up against his armor almost painfully. Telling him he wasn’t actually envisioning her scent of her arousal at all. This was real.

He takes a step away from the mutated body, not looking back as his appendages inside of him twitch in anticipation. Those wild packs of wolves that roam around here should eat the rest of the body up like nothing by tomorrow's dusk. Leaving absolutely no trace of him to be found.

Blasius uses his appendages to clean the rest of his armor off to temporarily relieve their eagerness to come out while he slowly follows his little mates arousal back to her nest. He knows has some time to get there before she climaxes and he must be presentable to his little mate after all. He knows how… unnerving he could look.

He hears her soft moans before he even enters into the nest. His senses heightened to seek her out through her strong arousal that begged him to fill his little mate as he inhales deeply, leaning down through the front door.

Nurgle, he is here little mate. He is here to provide. Let him provide for you.

He hears her cry out in ecstasy and that makes him move a bit faster through the house. Holding his breath as he moves swiftly between furniture. Quickly, opening the door and lean down through it to his little mates nesting spot.

The first thing he sees is her riding the false c*ck up and down into her core at a fast pace. Her skin glistening with sweat at all the effort to make herself climax. Her heated breaths staining her own skin as she moans out again, closing her eyes and throwing her head back.

He rumbles quietly and takes side steps into the grounds of his little mates nest. Watching as she chased that high. Kneeling down to the ground in front of her bed. Observing how her folds fluttered around the c*ck. Her muscles constricting around it as she cried out. Her juices leaking down the c*ck.

Yet, she doesn’t turn on the toy? Isn’t that what it was for? To fill her up her womb? Isn’t that what she wanted?

So, he turns on the toy instead, a gasp escaping his little mate as the toy pumps his c*m into her. Selection by selection, until there was nothing left in the toy.

Unfortunate, no worries. He has more to provide.

She makes a move to get up from the false c*ck, but he growls. His appendages coming out, spooking his little mate as he takes her by the hip and pushes her back down on the fake c*ck. Watching as she squirms on it, his c*m leaking around the edges from her hole and down the false c*ck.

He didn’t get drug from that questionable Ultramarine for no reason.

She whines at him, and as much as he would love to hear her cry out to him. He sticks an enthusiastic appendage down her throat. Silencing her cry’s as he shoves moves her shifting hips back down onto the false c*ck again.

Shhh, little mate. Let me take care of you. Your… partner won’t be around anytime soon to please your needs like I will. To caress your skin like I will. To protect you like I will. To provide to you like I will.

To have yours and mine procreation.

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chibikyo · 1 year

Text

War Prize

Baraka x Reader

(can be read as male or female; no gendered terms used)

TW for non-con, biting, mild belly bulge/cum inflation

Description; You are defeated and taken prisoner during Shao Kahn's invasion of earthrealm. As the one to defeat you, Baraka is given you as a prize by the great Kahn. What does the tarkatan leader have planned for you?

*First time posting something I wrote to Tumblr. First time posting smut. No idea where this came from or why. I just got this idea in my head and decided to roll with it. I hope someone enjoys it.

During The first days of Shao Kahn's invasion of outworld, you had been captured by a horde of tarkatans, lead by Baraka. As one of earthrealms champions, you had been presented to the Kahn as a prisoner of war.

"Their yours, Baraka, a reward for your impressive victory." The Kahn had chortled and you were dragged through the koliseum and out into the wastes of Outworld. The Tarkatan war camp was a nightmare to behold. There were corpses, some whole, some dismembered, most in various states of being skinned, hung up outside of nearly every tent. You closed your eyes aganist the horrific sight, but couldn't block that sweet, putrid stench of decay from invading your senses.

When the tarkatans pulled you up a short set of stairs and threw you down on to a tacky wooden floor, you chanced opening your eyes. The sun blurred your vision as one tarkatan yanked you to your feet. You wanted to resist, to try and make your escape but your arms were bound tightly to your sides and your wrists tied together behind your back with thick, coarse ropes.

It was Baraka who lifted you by the waist and looped your bindings over a hook suspended from what might be a gallows. The hook was sharp and left a shallow cut along your back as Baraka let gravity settle you onto the massive hook. You could just barely touch the wood below with your toes. Enough to take away some of the burden of your weight and lessen the pressure of the ropes digging into your guts. Your arms ached being so tightly bound against you and any struggle would just exhaust you more.

A crowd of Tarkatans were gathering around the stage, more pouring in from the outskirts of the camp. Baraka was speaking harshly to the horde in his native tongue and you had no idea what was being said, but shame burned on your cheeks as the crowd cheered. Fear curled hot and heavy in your guts, flooded your senses with the weight of your panic as it slowly crawled its way up your throat. Would Baraka make it quick, or did Tarkatans like to play with their food first? The thought of this monster flensing you alive, stripping the skin from your bones without giving you a swift death first? It took everything in you not to give in and sob.

Baraka turned toward you and you could swear there was triumph on that twisted face. He leaned in close and you could see his nostrils flare as he scented you. His breath was hot against your cheek as he drew closer. You shut your eyes and jerked back, though that only succeeded in rattling the chains suspending you. You felt harsh fingers dig into your soft flesh as Baraka grabbed your chin to hold you still. A tear finally broke free to trail softly down your cheek and just as softly you felt what must have been Baraka's tongue tracing the path of it. Like the rest of him, his tongue was coarse, rougher than a human's. It scraped under your eye, lapping up the gathering pool of tears threatening to spill before Baraka pulled away.

He shouted once more at the crowd, their cheers drowning out the foreign words and deafening you. You took a deep breath, waiting to feel the sharp sting of teeth or the edge of Baraka's arm blade. You were stunned when you felt two massive hands digging into the fabric of your pants followed by a loud tearing sound that reverberated in your ear drums. You froze, mind unable to fully process what was happening as Baraka moved up, ripping away your top to expose your chest to the ever growing crowd. Strips of ruined fabric were all that was left of your clothes, except what could not be reached beneath the ropes.

A sudden dread swept over you as you felt Baraka's hands trail back to your hips, the rough pads of his fingers scraping against the delicate skin, diggng into the soft flesh. His breath was hot on the back of your neck as he pressed his teeth against your shoulder, inhaling deep to scent the skin where your neck and shoulder met. This, more than anything, finally snapped you out of the fugue that had settled over your mind.

You struggled against the tight bonds, thrashing and twisting to get away from the monster holding you captive. Baraka merely chuffed, his hands digging harder into the delicate curve of you just below the edges of the rope. He yanked you backward against him harshly, your feet slipping away from the wood even as you scrambled to find some purchase. What little comfort that had been afforded to you before was gone as you felt the ropes bite into you deeper.

Baraka wrapped one arm around your waist as the other moved up to close around your throat. His fingers gripped firmly around your neck, the hollow of your throat pressed against the hollow between his thumb and forefinger. He squeezed only once, coupled with a low growl, which you knew was the only warning you would get about acting up. You felt a chill travel down your spine as Baraka pressed himself against you. You could feel the hard length of him pressing insistently against your ass and the thought of what came next made you feel sick.

The crowd was jeering, shouting harsh words that you could not interpret and hissing encouragingly at their leader. Baraka settled you back in position before pulling his hands away to fumble behind you. You couldn't see what the Tarkatan was doing, but the soft 'schck' of fabric hitting the floor left little to the imagination. You closed your eyes as Baraka's hands found purchase on your thighs again. You didn't fight as your legs were spread enough for Baraka to press in behind you.

"Please don't fo this." You pleaded, desperate to put a stop to this even knowing you were helpless to stop him.

"Quiet," Baraka growled softly from behind you and you choked back a sob.

You braced yourself for pain, but once again was startled as Baraka soothed the skin beneath his hands.Trembling, you couldn't begin to fathom what the Tarkatan meant by the gesture before you felt that rough, almost sandpaper-esque tongue lick a stripe across your entrance. You gasped, the pain-pleasure combo making you dizzy as Baraka lapped at your hole again and again. Your thighs quivered as Baraka plunged his tongue inside you, fucking you with it, forcing pleasure to pool in your gut even as you weakly tried to protest. You could feel yourself reaching that crescendo as your aborted pleas slowly became little more than moans. As your "no" and "stop" became "yes" and "more" and "please".

Baraka's hands dug harder into your thighs, spreading your legs further so he could fuck his tongue even deeper into you. He lapped up the taste of you with abandon, savoring that salty, musky taste as he pushed deeper still, until you could feel the press of his teeth against your entrance. The thrill of those ivory daggers nestled against your most intimate place drove you over the edge and you screamed as you came, thrashing as the most intense orgasm of your life was wrung out of you, Baraka happily lapping up the mess you left as you quivered from overstimulation.

As you slowly came down from your high, the pain from the ropes digging into you was sharper and you felt your face burning in shame as the crowd cheered louder. You almost thought that was it, until Baraka pressed in behind you, his cock impossibly large and pressing into the crack of your ass. You whimpered as Baraka pressed two fingers into your quivering entrance, lubricating the way with the remnants of your orgasm. He pulled them away with a satisfied growl before manipulating you until your entrance was hovering just above his cock. You had never felt so empty before, never been so achingly hollow, and your body clenched with the need to be full. Knowing it would only hurt to fight what came next, you forced yourself to relax as Baraka began to push into you. He went slower than you expected, but unrelenting as his cock speared you open. You had never imagined something so huge could even fit, but your body opened up around him as he just kept pressing deeper and deeper. Not just big, but impossibly hard with deep ridges on the underside that pressed deliciously against your plush insides.

He seemed determined to make you take all of him, growling as he was met with tighter and tighter resistance. You could swear you felt him in your throat, choking as your breath was punched out of you. You felt Baraka wrap his arms tight around you, pressing so tightly against you that the protrusions of bone on his chest and atms dug into your skin. You could feel the growl make its way through him, your only warning as he thrust up into you. You screamed as his monstrous length bottomed out within you, followed by his teeth digging into the soft flesh of your shoulder. The pain was so all-encompassing as you sobbed and thrashed against him.

Baraka stayed nestled inside you, content to wait until your screams subsided into shuddered sobs. He brushed his hand soothinlgly against your collar bones, tracing the hollow of your throat softly and felt your breath hitch and you lurch with pleasure as his arm brushed against a sensitive nipple. His teeth slowly pulled out of your shoulder as he felt you settle again and he lapped at the blood spilling from the needle like punctures. The roughness of his tongue sent spikes of white hot pain through the torn muscle, mixed with the zing of pleasure as Baraka explored your chest, pinching and plucking at your nipples to feel you squirm against his cock nestled so deep inside you. You were panting, your breath hitching on little moans as you adjusted to the intrusion. Baraka pulled away from the wound on your back, twisting the hook and you with it so he could turn you to face him.

The drag of his cock inside you as he manipulated your body with ease had you choking. Once you were facing him, Baraka leaned down, his tongue laving at one of sensitive nubs eagerly. You could see his face twist with ecstasy as he toyed with each nipple in turn. That rough appendage dragging acrosd the delicate skin and over stimulated nerves beneath, coupled with the constant pressure of his thick length inside was too much. He gave a single. shallow thrust, more to readjust your weight against him than anything, and you moaned, gasping, as a second orgasm tore through you. Baraka pulled back, his hands at your waist as he slowly lifted you. The sensation of the hook dragging against your back was dwarfed by the drag of his cock as he lift you almost completely off of it. Your hole fluttered and clenched at the ache of being empty, though that only lasted a few seconds before Baraka was lowering you back down. You choked as that massive length filled you yet again. You barely registered the ropes falling away before Baraka wrapped his hands around your thighs, jerking your legs up and you had to fling your arms around his neck to stay balanced, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist.

His cock rubbed your sensitive walls, drawing out soft moans as you lay your head bonelessly against his shoulder. He barked out what may have been an order to the crowd and you were reminded that this whole ordeal had been in front of an audience. You were too tired to care at that point, burying your head into the crook of his neck as your arms tightened around the Tarkatan leader's neck. The press of his sharp protrusions barely noticeable compared to the shallow thrusts of his cock within you as he carried you down the stairs and away from the ever dissipating crowd.

You finally snapped back to reality as Baraka pressed you down into a nest of furs and blankets. You hissed as the soft fabric brushed against the bite on your shoulder, the skin raw and aching. The sun no longer burned your eyes and you blinked, taking in the walls of Baraka's tent. Compared to the macabre sight outside the tent, inside was quite clean and almost cozy. Baraka noticed your hiss of pain and encouraged you to roll over, only pulling out of you long enough for you to untangle your legs from his before thrusting back into you with a satisfied growl. This time the slide into you was nothing but pleasure and you shuddered with anticipation. A part of you, buried deep since this ordeal began, knew that you didn't want this, that this was an assault by the enemy. Despite this, your body had already begun to crave the heavy weight of Baraka pressed inside you; the tight, almost suffocating feeling of his cock buried in your deepest, most intimate parts.

Baraka caged your body between his arms as he leaned down to delicately lap up the few rivulets of blood that had seeped from his bite mark. He inhaled the scent of blood, coupled with the sharp tang of your phermones, and his tongue poked out to taste it. You whined, rocking your body back against his, desperate for him to move as you felt the deep aching need pooling in your guts again. His growl, as he pulled out until only the tip of his meaty cock rested within you, made you gasp, before his hips snapped forward, driving his cock inside you and punching the air out of your lungs. He began to thrust, hard, fast, dragging harshly against your inner walls as you struggled to catch your breath. You could feel the slide in your guts and when you looked down you could see the top of his cock pushing out from the lowest edge of your belly. You moaned, your hand trailing down to press against that bump, feeling that hard length as it rearranged your guts to carve out space for itself.

Baraka hissed and let out a loud groan as he felt your palm press against his cock from the outside. His thrusts became feral as he rutted inside you, making you choke and slide forward from the force. Your orgasm that had been slowly building crashed over you wave after wave as Baraka continued to batter your insides. You were still shaking, riding out the aftershocks as you felt Baraka's arms around your waist, yanking you back and against his chest as he buried himself as deep as he could and painted your insides with his thick seed. You felt pulse after pulse of hot cum shooting from his cock, filling you to the brim. Your hand went to your stomach, brushing against the head of his cock as he shook through his orgasm. It took a full minute for him to finally stop cumming and you could feel that thick seed leaking out from where the two of you were joined. Could feel his cock twitching inside you. Baraka's cock was still impossibly hard and he seemed content to stay buried within you. He lapped at the blood that had seeped out of your wound as you slowly caught your breath.

"Beautiful." Baraka hissed. "I am so glad the emperor let me keep you. I would have been more gentle, but a public claim is required to ensure the clan knows you are off limits."

"You were…claiming me?" Your voice was rough from screaming and disuse. Your throat ached as you spoke.

"Yes. I've been dying to mate with you since our first fight." Baraka growled. His hands worked there way down your body as he spoke, removing the last remnants of your clothes until you were fully naked against him. "At the tournament." He clarified, nuzzling against your neck so he could drink in the sweet smell of arousal within your phermones. "You smelled so sweet, so delicious, I could barely resist claiming you right then." He gave a shallow thrust making you moan. "You are even sweeter than I could have hoped for."

Your breath hitched at the confession as Baraka slowly arranged the two of you on the nest. He kept his thrusts going, shallow and soft, content to feel you squeezing around him and you could feel exhaustion threatening to swallow you. Although you had not consented, you had to admit that Baraka had been much more careful with you than you'd expected. It didn't help that his arms were huge and warm and you felt safe even with those imposing teeth nestled against the hollow of your throat. You should be finding a way to escape. Instead you moaned his name as he snapped for hips forward, his one hand finding its way between your legs to coax one last orgasm out of you. You clenched around him, your body trembling as you felt him coat your insides with another flood of cum before he finally slid out of you.

You whimpered at ache of being empty as you could feel his spend starting to leak out of you. Baraka's hand brushed against your hole, feeling the mess slowly oozing out of you and twisted away for a moment. You could feel him fumbling behind himself for something, then gasped as his hand found your entrance again. Two of his meaty fingers swirled through the mess collecting outside your hole before he slowly eased those digits, cum and all, back into you. He spent a few minutes pumping those digits into you, working his cum as deep as possible. You choked, cumming again even though you hardly thought it possible. He kept softly pumping his fingers, enjoying the way his cum sloshed around inside you as you whined at the overstimulation. Baraka's other hand gently stroked your soft belly, feeling the way the skin was stretched taught over the small pooch that had formed from how well he'd filled you up.

Finally, as tears threatened to spill from your eyes, he removed his fingers and replaced them with something cold and hard. It slipped inside you easily,the bulbous shape and its flared base plugging your hole and preventing any cum from sliding out. You shuddered as it pressed against your sensitive walls. It wasn't as big as Baraka's cock, nothing was, but it helped ease the ache of the emptiness you felt. You clenched around it as Baraka pressed firmly against your back. He kept a tight hold of you, his tongue leaving little trails over your skin. You were too sore to push him off. There was a bone deep exhaustion settling over you from the fighting followed by the most mind blowing, toe curling sex you'd ever experienced. You drifted off to the sound of Baraka growling softly to you in a mix of yours and his native tongue. You only caught a few of the words as the world faded to black.

"My mate."

#mk11 #mortal kombat #Baraka #mk baraka #baraka x reader #Baraka x male reader #Baraka x female reader #wrote this in five hours of feverish fury #Baraka isn't even a favorite character and it's officially the first thing i've posted on AO3 #chibikaosu writes

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hauntingmiser · 4 months

Text

[ GORE WARNING AND SPOILERS FOR P4/ P4G IG idk????? But yeye ]

MERMAY DAY XXIX ?

sooner or later the investigation heard noises coming from the middle of the fog ever since teddie's submarine was put down in the middle of the fog

The team settled to go to the bottom middle of the fog and put an end to the curse once and for all

until they heard a sore throat yet horse voice calling one of their team members name........

"hₐₙₐ-cₕₐₙ....." the voice said, suddenly yosuke was shocked and questioning if he had heard this voice before and then it clicked on him, it was that girl the one that yu found when he was in his evening swim and the one that he met in June's and so after realizing that voice he shouted through the fog and called her name by the amount of luck he has

"HUH!.....S-S-SAKI!?" yosuke said stuttering his own words

she approached the investigation team and from that day forward, yosuke was all correct all along....

" 𝗛 𝗔 𝗡 𝗔 ~ 𝗖 𝗛 𝗔 𝗡 !!!!!! "

"....oh god......" yukiko feared "this can't be....right?"

" I believe so..." yosuke frightenly answered

The fog covered the team's vision, then vanishing the only to find a merzombie corpse approaching them slowly.....oh god

It's her......

saki....konishi.....the second victim of the crystal curse of "mother nature"

what did this to her? If teddie was right about the biomechanical warfare and that means...

The investigation team had no choice but to attack her and kill her just to keep going until they find the center of the fog

#saki konishi #persona 4 golden #persona 4 #konishi saki #ladies and gentlemen I give you zombie mermaid free of charge also she's a blue fish and before she was like this she was the daughter of #her father's business there was one day when her father told her to take out the trash and the trash can was at the far bottom of #and she swim with no hesitation until when she took out the trash she noticed two green crystals she decided to take a little one #for herself to show it to her father #but it was very heavy like really heavy the point where her hands got stuck in the sand and it was really bad when it decayed on impact and #mutated and mutilated her flesh into large claws #she yelled help at the stasis of her throat being on fire because it feels like the radiation is coming for her neck next #the father came in and noticed her daughter in trouble he tried to help her but he couldn't for no avail #he gave up only to get sick immediately and fall down #and in many days later she cried and cried and cried #but nobody seem to help her it was like she was chosen to be lost alone even #but I'm so sorry for your loss #she's become one of the fog now #and she's vengeful yet sad #anime and manga #mermay 2024 #mermay #but at least she gets to meet her guy friend lol #also my apologies if this Lore became really bad I'm having burnout / don't feel like doing shit I apologies for being late #it pretty much shows #anyways I'll try not do anything “late to the party”( yet ) anymore so goodbye!#tw : gore #because she's a zombie!!!!!#blehh :3

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mellowwillowy · 1 year

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𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐖𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐬 ��𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐮𝐬

Yan! Circus Performers x GN!Reader

(Feel free to insert the Yans yourself, I will tag some that could work by the ending)

TW: Body horror and details (Yans and Reader), general Yan warnings, proceed with caution. (Gore level: 1.5)

Darker than night, deep in the woods you'll find Standing alone, a circus that no one knows

Was it a mistake for you to wander into the woods? With a pamphlet in your hand, you strayed into the woods to see the circus. The pair looked so adorable, the two of them looked alike as though they were only mirroring each other. Although their face looked sad, the two sounded cheerful…. as though they were trying to cover their cries…

Children who can't even carry the trembling limbs they were born with

Master of all, nearly ten meters tall Watching the show, eyes that will slowly grow

Yet no one had ever seen the Master of the Circus.

All who perform smile with faces torn Happy with glee, strange as they look to me

You looked at everyone. The pair of Aces looked into you as they laughed merrily, reminding you of the Ace that you never got in a game of blackjack. The other performer offered you their hand as though they were asking you for a dance. A dance, with a performer that was at least 6 meters tall, oh how amazing.

Shall the fun start? Follow me to the Dark Woods Circus Please, join the festivity

The pair of Ace ran into the circus, and their laugh rang endlessly. The tall performer's back was tapped by another performer who was just as tall as them.

They smile as they dream of their mother's embrace

Come and see the two-headed (freak) of nature

The pair of Ace smiled eerily, both of their hands clasped to each other, the cloak covering their bodies taken off revealing stitched bodies. ""Oh what fun! Come, child of human! Kekekekeke…"" Their laugh was just as mirrored as their appearance and fate!

Gaze at a siren, her flesh deformed

"Don't you find me beautiful, dove? Do you perhaps envy me? Truth is that I envy you instead." They held your hand, their eyes unable to find yours and yet they envy your beauty.

Fear the all-eating beast and his love for cold Decaying meals that once were warm

The man's arms were bound to his back, the only thing he could do was feast what was placed in front of him! The woman next to him buried her head into her knees, her surroundings were painted in red wine. "It's delicious, they are delicious, Mother, it tastes so good. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm SORRY" "Kekeke, do you have more for us to eat? We'd like to eat you but… a shame… love… heart… kekekeke…"

Did we ask to breathe? Did we ask to only be abused, Living in bodies like these?

The pair of tall performers started dancing, twirling, spinning lovingly as they tried not to step on you. Their eyes stared into each other, dared not to make any mistake with their steps. ""Perhaps it would be nice for the three of us to dance together?"" Their voice rang as their eyes looked down, staring into yours. "It won't hurt that much, dove" "They'll just break and attach a new pair of legs on you, dove"

When you look at me, what is it that you see? Now a face rotting and torn at the seams

"See? I knew you were beautiful." The pair of Ace took off their blindfold, their eyes bore into yours. "So beautiful, a pair of legs, a pair of eyes, and a face that doesn't rot! You look like a dove!"

Through the pain I scream, how "it hurts so badly" "But we can't help it or do anything"

"Don't you think you'll look even more beautiful if you look exactly like one?"

As the girl would weep, telling me this sadly We perform, always the circus repeats

"Or perhaps we could clip your wings." "That way, you are forever bound to us." The pair laughed again, this time their hands were unclasped, reaching out to you.

How I love the show! How I love it all so! Can you see how fun a circus can be?

The pair of Ace jumped, their voice filling the whole circus as they cheered endlessly.

As our flesh decays and our eyes melt away With a face rotting, it's fun every day

""Because we've found ourselves an injured Dove!! Cheer to everyone, Cheer to the deformity of our Master!!""

How I long to die, why am I still alive? Anyone help me escape from this life

"We have captured the Dove's heart! It decides to rest here!" "Let's clip their wings so that they can rest eternally!" "We'll share our food! The best lump of meat you could ever taste of!" ""Fear not, for the Dove could dance even without its wings"" """" Why do you look terrified, Dove? We LOVE you! We CHERISH you! We WANT you!""""

"You can never leave", yes, I have a feeling Long ago, someone had told this to me It is impossible for anyone to say and feel

"Welcome to the Dark Woods Circus"

A pair of hands placed upon your shoulder, their lip brushed the tip of your ear. Everyone bowed down toward the subject behind you.

"Master," Everyone greeted.

--- LOG END ---

(!Proceed with CAUTION!)

"Come visit the Dark Woods Circus!"

You handed people the pamphlets, your smile never leaving your face. While people could not see what was under the fabric covering your skin, you could feel your back throbbing with each second.

The rose sewn onto your face never withered but you could feel your sanity did. You could feel your guts dissolving all the meat you ate, they were no longer upset about the change of food. They were generous enough to share a rather large portion of it although they tend to bite you randomly.

The pair of Ace occasionally showed you tricks on how to fly while their hands roamed all over your skin.

The siren would sing for you while they felt their skin against yours.

The tall performers would also teach you how to twirl with them, although it truly was a shame they couldn't dance with you, perhaps just yet.

------

Pair of Ace : Lyney and Lynette, Lucy-Lucius

All-Eating Beast: Dottore and Collei, Childe, Sampo, Killeon and Dorothy

Deranged Siren: Columbina, Venti, Jingyuan, Blade (sorry not sorry), Mysrymie

Tall Performers: Diluc and Jean, March and Danheng, 03 and 004

Master: Arlecchino, Pierro, Tsaritsa, Neuvillette, Unknown God, Zhongli, Kafka, ???

(Platonic, sharing, or not depends on you)

--- After notes

Lump of meat = Rotting meat or human flesh

Siren = Leg-less, immobile

Pair of Ace = 1 shared body

Tall Performers = man-made legs

Reader = clipped dove

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0bticeo · 4 months

Text

j. sims, e. bouchard| love is an open wound still raw.

part one out of four. (part 2.) (part 3.) (part 4.)

summary.

“one of your wounds has reopened.”

slowly, you glance down to your hand. there’s a small puncture wound on your palm, surrounded by the imprints left by your nails. it bleeds, red seeping out of the flesh in neat droplets of crimson. your fist tightens.

drip, drip.

“it’ll heal.”

“it might get infected.”

“oh, and what are you going to be able to do about it?”

“i have a first aid kit.”

wc. 2.6

tw. worms, jon patching up reader's wounds, heavily implied that elias is having the time of his life watching them go at it, fluff (in this economy?? written by obticeo??? shocking), handjob, blowjob, overstimulation (so um. non sex averse jon.)

work at the magnus institute, they said. it’s a good idea, they said. you thrive on knowing things and burying yourself in niche research topics for days on end for hyper specific information. why not give the esoteric and supernatural a try?

you blame the decent paycheck for signing the contract so quickly.

(there is, really, nothing to blame but your own, insatiable curiosity. an institute studying supernatural happenings. how is the damn thing even funded?)

oh, it wasn’t that bad. not at first, despite your instinct screaming not to trust the devilishly handsome head of the institute and to run away. the archives were a mess, courtesy of gertrude robinson’s piss poor organization. you did not want to know what layed in the artifact storage department. you dutifully ignored the sharp, pinprick pain at your nape, the weight settling over your skin like an accusatory finger. you’re being watched.

again, it wasn’t that bad.

then there were worms.

your fingers clench, dig in your palms. even now, weeks after the flesh-hive broke into the institute, you can feel it. smell it.

the scent of decay, flesh rotting away, peeling bit by bit from brittle bone, and maggots. so many of them, worms everywhere, stark white fleshy mass wriggling, crawling towards you, biting you until they burrow in your flesh.

you should’ve seen it coming, really, what’s with martin being forced to reside in the archives until further notice and the occasional worm managing to crawl its way in.

you hadn’t.

(drip, drip.

blink, and you’re bleeding in a safe room, jon’s palm pressing down your thigh as he wrenches away the worms digging in your flesh with a corkscrew. your leg aches. your wrist is a bloody mess. all you can do is try to bite back a scream and fail, miserably.

blink, and you’re safe, three months later. on bad days you can still feel them crawl, burrowing deeper and deeper in you, hungry, so terribly hungry.)

today, the archives are silent. the others are still quarantined, so the only noise filling the room is that of your breathing and the click, click, click of your pen.

no martin to bring you a cup of coffee with a sheepish smile, debating over the merits of tea over coffee. no tim to prank you with the false statement of joe spooky and his encounters with the horrorsTM, holding back his laughter as you squint at him suspiciously. no sasha to gossip with, to laugh, delighted, voice lowering in a conspiratorial whisper as she tells you the latest tidbit of info she found out about jon - your prickly boss! in a band!

normally, the usual hustle and bustle of the archives (and its rowdy archival assistants), is almost enough for you to forget the permanent, oppressing feeling that you’re being watched. it’s always there, at the back of your mind, pinprick pressure at the edge of your neck. eyes, thousands and thousands of them watching you, knowing you, how you wake up screaming, nails digging bloody trails on your skin to get them out-

breathe.

you’re in the archives. you’re at your desk, tightly clenched hands resting on a manila folder. before you is the portrait of the founder of the institute. jonah magnus, green-grey eyes boring down upon you. you look back, tired eyes dead and unblinking.

the watch on your wrist tells you it’s five and a half in the afternoon, give or take. the sun is declining. you’ve kept the lights off. penumbra settles over you like a blanket and you lean back in your chair. you’ve been there for three hours and haven’t moved an inch.

you should probably go home. you should probably quit, actually. go up to elias’ office and politely tell him that you did not sign up to have your life threatened by worms, supernatural or not.

you don’t.

the manila file in front of you contains a statement regarding robert montourke, given by one of his jailers. you should probably find a tape recorder. maybe there’s a spare in jon’s office.

so you get up and set about getting that tape recorder. a beat. you think you catch the contours of one of these wretched worms, fat larvae half crushed by a bow full of statements. blink and it’s gone.

you all but slam open the door, only to reveal the head archivist in the flesh. he startles, almost dropping the pile of statements he’s been neatly stocking away in a cardboard box.

“what- how long have you been there?”

you stare at him, blankly, hand still resting against the doorknob.

“i- three hours- sorry, i should’ve knocked-”

“yes, yes you should have!”

your shoulders tense. he’s glaring at you with barely concealed suspicion, and all you can do is fight back the creeping panic that settles over you, because you can remember being in this very office, half leaning over jon’s desk, laughing with him, before the wall broke and the worms-

“what are you doing here?”

you take in a sharp inhale.

“i was looking for a tape recorder.”

jon lets out an aggravated sigh.

“here, in the archives.”

“i-”

“you should still be at the hospital, resting-”

“i’ve been discharged three days ago.”

he scoffs, running a hand through his tousled hair. it’s grown, you realize. a few inches, now long enough to brush the sharp edge of his jaw. there and there, creeping up his neck, his fingers, his wrists, you can see the scarring tissue of his flesh, puncture wounds like many cigarette burns. worms.

you swallow.

you don’t realize he’s in front of you until he calls your name, tone sharper than his wit.

“i’m going to talk to elias. this is ridiculous, having you work while you’re barely healed-”

“like you’re one to talk.”

he glares down at you, a scowl twisting his features. you meet his stare, lone sailor in the eye of the storm. his gaze trails over your features, takes in the scars crawling up your forearms, the skin left bare by the rolled up sleeves of your shirt. his frown deepens.

“one of your wounds has reopened.”

drip, drip.

“it’ll heal.”

“it might get infected.”

“oh, and what are you going to be able to do about it?”

“i have a first aid kit.”

with that, he moves behind his desk and opens a drawer with an aggravated sigh. he rummages through it, discarding stationary and a paperback of poe’s selected tales. he’s got taste, you muse, drawing closer, footsteps silent on the carpet. at last, jon pulls out a red box and motions for you to sit down on the edge of his desk.

“give me your hand,” he mutters.

you extend your hand, slowly, holding it up by his desk lamp. his fingers come to cradle your wrist, brushing your pulse, pressing against the faint outline of the bone. your breath hitches. slowly, he gets to work, critical gaze assessing the wound. it doesn’t need stitches. small blessings.

he pulls out a sterile compress and pours disinfectant on it.

“it’ll sting.”

he’s gentle, jon, the compress held firmly against your palm, but not harshly, no. you let out a low hiss, pain like an inferno setting your nerve ablaze. you think you see his frown deepening at the pained sound that manages to fly past your gritted teeth.

the compress comes out stained. finally, he discards it and grabs the gauze, carefully wrapping it around your palm.

in the dim lighting of the room, you make out the sunken cheeks, the five o’clock shadow adorning his jaw, the exhaustion creeping in the deep green of his eyes. they meet yours. your heart skips a beat, then another. silence stretches, stretches.

he’s been watching you, you realize.

“you didn’t have to do this, you know.”

he scoffs, throwing away the stained compress.

“somebody has to take care of you, if you don’t do it yourself.”

you let out a dry chuckle.

“hypocrite.”

“i am not-”

“no? when was the last time you ate? have you slept in the past three days?”

with each question, you get closer and closer to him, until you’re a breath away from him, tired gaze boring into his. there’s defensiveness in his eyes, protests piling up in scathing retort on the tip of his tongue.

“why don’t you take care of yourself, jon?”

you see his shoulders tense under the white cotton of his shirt, fingers flexing, gaze flickering, looking anywhere but you. something like resignation settles over his features, clouding the blazing green of his gaze.

“it’s rotten work.”

“not to me.”

your hand finds the sharp edge of his jaw, palm like a balm against his cheeks. you feel him relax, leaning into your touch, lips brushing against your pulse. you drink in the sight of him, worn to the bone, scars etched in his skin, reaching for his soul. he’s soft, in the sunset, all ragged edges tiredly melting away as you take one step closer to him.

“please, jon. let me take care of you.”

a beat. he chuckles, the sound low and rich, vibration reverberating in your bones.

“i can’t stop you, can i?”

“no, you can’t.”

you fall into his orbit, in the magnetic pull of him. your lips brush against his, brushing hesitantly against the chapped skin. you hear a startled little sound of a gasp, surprise dying on his tongue, melting as you press yourself against him, bandaged hand splayed over his chest. do not still, beating heart. it stutters under your touch, hummingbird yearning for escape. you’d cradle it in your hands and swallow it whole, his heart, keeping it safe.

as it is, you cannot turn bones and spread the open wings of his ribcage apart, so you settle for Knowing him, mapping out each prickly edge of him.

your lips grow firmer in their relentless pursuit of his own. he nips at you, wounded animal desperate for respite, so you cradle him against you, kissing him over and over, until his mouth parts for you, until, finally, you share the same breath.

you melt a little against him, fingers digging in his shoulders for support. the world narrows down, optical adjustment until it’s only you and the warmth of his fingers on your waist, comet tail blazing a path of desire over your clothed skin. your knees go weak.

you pull apart for air, and it feels like losing a part of yourself.

jon looks at you, green eyes dark and heavy, lips kiss-swollen and red and so very inviting.

more…

you don’t know which of you broke the silence. doesn’t matter when jon grabs the front of your shirt and yanks you forward until you stumble in his chest. doesn’t matter when he sits back on his chair, when he lets you straddle him, slender fingers coaxing you out of your clothes.

he kisses you against, and he’s hungry for it, like he’s longed for this, longed for you, you with your mouth like an offering, so warm and safe against him. his hand finds the back of your nape, thumb pressing down, and you dissolve in a sweet puddle of need. he tastes like nicotine and tea, bittersweet in all the right ways, and it feels like a revelation.

your hands set about knowing him, wandering the paths made up by the dips of his ribs, the valley of his chest, going further and further south until your hands press against the buckle of his belt.

“yes- ah!”

you’re gentle about it, really. palming him, tracing the outline of him through his slacks, relishing at the deep, shuddering exhale of your name. his hand wraps around yours, dwarfing yours. your mind goes deliciously blank, his long, slender fingers pulling down his slacks just enough to free his length.

need burns in your mind.

jon chuckles, low and teasing, something like mirthful amusement in his eyes.

“it’s not going to bite, you know.”

“i might.”

with that, you wrap your hand around his cock. jon hisses, hips bucking in your grip. pink dusts his cheeks like dawn rising as he watches you, like he’s committing you to memory.

(he is. he wishes you could see yourself, stark silhouette burned in his retina, clothes unkempt, shirt half-opened to reveal the tantalizing edge of your bra, lips kiss-swollen, eyes wide and dark, hands slowly pumping his length.)

he groans, head lolling back, his hand tightening on your hip.

“you’re a tease.”

“and you’re pretty.”

he gasps at that. you laugh, and press your lips to his, speeding up your rhythm until you feel him tense and writhe, hips jerking against you. beds of wetness drip down on your fingers. you bring them to your mouth and hum, tongue darting out, licking them clean. jon’s breath catches at the sight.

you want to taste him, you realize. know each and every part of him, so you slide off his lap and get on your knees, skirt riding up your thighs. your hands run up his shin, fingers dancing over his knee as they tread the path to his core.

your tongue flicks out against the flushed head, lapping at his pre. he shudders at that, a low groan leaving his lips. you feel him twitch in your grip and speed up, pressing fleeting, fluttering kisses against the soft, heated skin. when your mouth closes on his length and you taste and know him, static buzzes in your mind.

a hand, broad and big and warm, settles on your head and pushes you closer, fingers threading through your hair. you whine. he’s big and heavy, filling up your mouth until all you know is him. your nails rake his thighs and he moans at that. you can’t help but look up through your lashes.

he’s the picture of sin, jonathan sims. his pristine shirt is crumpled, haphazardly unbuttoned to reveal the knife-edge of his collarbone. his fingers tighten on the armrest, deliciously firm in their desperate attempt to find purchase as you bring him closer and closer to his release. and gods, the slow, sublime arch of his neck, the way his head lolls back in rapture as he comes again with a startled gasp-

you hum, delighted, swallowing every last drop.

ah, but you’re not done yet. you’re not done learning about all the sweet moans you can coax out of him, about what makes him tick and come in blissful rapture. so, you make him come.

again, and again, and again, worshiping every precious inch of him as you go, sucking bruises in the tender skin of his neck. mine. his moans fill the room, startled little gasp and desperate pleas for more, for you to stop because it’s too much, to please, please-

when you pull back, your breath catches in your throat. he’s a masterpiece of debauchery, glasses askew, tears of overstimulation trailing down his flushed cheeks, lips parted in harsh, ragged pants.

you nuzzle against him with a coo, one hand slipping under his shirt, settling over his chest, over the thundering beat of his heart.

his hand settles on your thigh, his forehead pressing against yours as he desperately tries to catch his breath.

“w-wait… you didn’t get to… let me…”

“shh…” you peck his lips, the kiss sweet and chaste. “this is about you. for once in your life, let yourself be cared for.”

he nods, reluctantly, fingers tightening over your thigh in a promise.

“fine. but i’m treating you to dinner. that is non-negotiable.”

you laugh a little, smiling fondly up at him.

“boss’ orders.”

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