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goaskangel · 3 months ago

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drunk sex with your sexy co-worker nanami!

cw : drunk sex, dubcon, mentions of breeding, toxxxiicc, suicide mention

mmm, you want nanami so fucking badly.

you thought this new, high-end job was going to be good for you, get you on the right track for the stability you’ve been craving. sugar daddies or plain suicide crossed your mind an awful lot but fortunately,(?) that wasn’t the case.

so easily distracted, you should’ve seen it coming. when overworked yet diligent personified passed you during work hours. oh, fuck me running through your crowded head as you squeezed your skirted thighs.

maybe it was a good thing because you certainly cleaned up your act. got to work on time so he wouldn’t think you were slacking, ironed your new work clothes so he wouldn’t frown at the wrinkles of your button-up, or god forbid scoff. you already got the job so now you just needed some recognition from an older man. that you work with. that’s never looked in your direction.

but god, he’s such delectable eye candy.

you’re hesitant to attend your company’s 10 year anniversary. at a bar of all places, guess the work really gets to everybody. but you’re a lightweight and would probably sit all alone, trying to make crappy small talk to the bartender. probably hot too, but you think about nanami.

you know he drinks—past all his clean habits of combed hair and tailored suits, his breath fails to conceal his habits the night before.

coworkers constantly joke about it and you finally got the treat of looking through his pristine behavior with the thick whiskey lingering on his tongue.

if you were worse, you would’ve leaned in, arms around his neck and sucked all the alcohol right off his mouth.

but the best you can get right now is sitting across all your colleagues, sipping on a cocktail whilst they laugh and enjoy themselves.

until nanami’s sitting right before you, getting away from his work “buddies” to finally relax in what seems to be his happy place. you can’t help but stop drinking, your eyes glued right on how he fixes to untighten his tie a bit. thick and nice arms revealed when he scrunches his blue sleeves up. the golden hair of his forearm makes your mouth dry enough for you to start sipping again.

your dummy brain resorts to more, harder alcohol to ease the anxiety, or lust, in your body. the way he just unfolds on the velvet furniture is enough to make you throb dully. asking the server for another drink while sitting back, his meaty thighs perfectly molded by his khakis.

poor you, all drunk for nothing. nothing but to stare at just how sexy he is. you could’ve made a move on his tipsy self now that you had the confidence. woozy confidence that could be ignored the monday after if it didn’t go right—but it’s too late. you might as well just call a friend to come and pick your-drunk-for-nothing-self.

you wobble to the exit, holding onto any spiraling furniture or fixture you can get a hold of. at least you got a good look at him, was it worth the expensive drinks? is it worth the hangover tomorrow morning? whatever, you’re going. leaving and flopping onto bed with your slippery cunt and dull heart.

“hey, hon. leaving so soon?” thick whiskey from a pristine mouth. sharp and tall, somehow you’re standing right beside nanami without seeing him even get up.

calling you hon, leaning against the burgundy painted walls and obviously tipsy.

“mmh, don’t know, i guess i…jus’ got bored.” you clutch your purse and lean on the wall out of clumsiness.

“bored, hmm? new and nobody’s bothered you, yet?” he chuckles and you swear it feels like you’ve taken another shot. “lucky girl.”

he gets closer to you, “you weren’t going to drive all by yourself, yeah? here, how about you stay for a little longer and i promise you won’t be bored.” hefty fingers coming by your face to twirl your hair. he’s drunk, god knows how many cups it took but even then, he’s much more tolerant than you. you can’t object, and why would you? he’s the perfect man at not such a perfect time but when else would this happen? nodding with a dazed expression, he just leads you.

big arm guiding you with his palm on the small of your back. his heat and touch getting to you. you lean into it so hard that when he’s got you pushed up to the powder table of a single women’s bathroom, you don’t notice until he’s going back to lock the door.

you sit in a small, little, glazed wooden space with a mirror behind you, crammed in slightly. a sudden throb to the side of your skull as he walks back up to you, the alcohol hitting back at you with waves of headaches causing you to moan and whine.

“hey, hey–shh, nanami’s gonna make it all better, okay?” slurring his words slightly, possibly getting drunk off of you. pretty, new girl all to himself, finally. even if you are half gone, with your squinting, tired eyes and whines.

he runs his hands all over you, drunk and lustful eyes watching every wince and twitch that your heightened body makes, throwing your head back when he thumbs at your clothed pussy, your skirt pushed up. slowly undressing you; your tits exposed with hastily unbuttoned buttons and a rip of the middle of your bra. your skirt pushed past your pelvis to tear your little panties off. contorting your smaller body to rest your limp legs up so he can have his way with you.

“mmmpgh—augh, please. fuck, ohh!—” your back arching when he wiggles his hips to meet yours. nanami’s cock, much bigger than you ever imagined, burying inside of your little cunt.

“just take it, baby. mhmm, let it happen.” he coos at you, a much bigger difference considering how he’s fucking himself into you throughly. your head spins at the impact, unable to even understand what’s going on around you but holy shit does it feel good. the way his cock is completely hugged by your pussy, throbbing around him while spilling arousal down your ass to the marbled floor.

you feel an instant yet hidden orgasm come on when he tells you just how much he’s been waiting for this. for a time where he can take you out of nowhere, where you’re so pliable and perfect just for him. he knows you're a good girl, just for him. all for him. and maybe you’d be an even better girl for him by letting him come right inside you. deep enough where you couldn’t possibly finger his seed out even if you tried. maybe he could finally get you out of this boring job and take care of you for good! ^o^

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moonmunson · 5 months ago

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hello my old heart

a/n: wally clark has invaded my brain space and i cannot seem to rid him from my mind his himbo charms have seduced me. just in my mind this is set in the late '90s, but mr. martin isn't evil. none of the other kids are really mentioned by name, but this would be a few years after charley's death. as always i'm writing with a plus sized!reader in mind but anyone can read it.

summary: struggling with becoming comfortable in death, wally has made himself your new buddy.

cw: general angst and sadness over being dead, wally is a sweetheart who just wants to help. hurt/comfort with a sweet ending and a little bit of kissing. gn!reader, theatre kid x jock

wc: 2.1k

You think you’ve been dead for a little over a week. It’s hard to tell - time moves so differently here. It feels like static on the skin, the way the TV screen feels fuzzy when you touch it after it's been turned off. You haven’t spoken much, and the other dead kids don’t expect you to for a while. They’ve all told you that everyone reacts differently to their death, that there’s no right or wrong way to cope.

You’re worried that if you open your mouth, it’ll be difficult to stop crying. Or screaming, or both. So you sit quietly in the circle in the gymnasium, listening as Mr. Martin leads the support group meeting. You’re appreciative of his trying to get you to open up, but you’re only capable of responding in nods and shrugs. When it’s over, you go to make your way back to the auditorium. It might be weird to some, considering you died there, but it’s still the place you feel the safest.

A few steps out of the gym, you hear pounding footsteps coming up next to you. It’s Wally, because of course it is. He’s dubbed himself your ‘Unofficial death guide.’ He’s the sweetest, and you wish you could actively participate in conversation with him.

“You goin’ back to the auditorium?” When he talks, you have to crane your head to the right and all the way up because he’s so fucking tall. You nod, and he parrots it.

“I don’t know how you can go back to that place. I couldn’t even look at the football field for like a week after I died.” Even when you don’t respond, Wally keeps going. “I also don’t know how you stand sharing a space with Mina. She's, like, totally scary.” He makes a face then, pinched up, like he’s imagining being trapped in a room with the other, objectively more aggressive theatre ghost.

It makes you giggle. Like, audibly giggle. Wally’s eyes widen, surprised that he was able to get a noise out of you. He laughs in return, a breathless exhale. He’s clearly proud of himself.

“I have got to get you to do that again.” You shake your head no, even though the smile hasn’t left your face. “I’m serious, I have got to hear that laugh again!”

When you round the corner near the front office, you stop in your tracks, the smile on your face quickly fading. Your mom and dad are there, holding a box with everything that was in your locker. It’s a weird feeling. You hadn’t forgotten you were dead, obviously, but everything had felt very up in the air.

Like the moment before a show starts - everyone sitting in the audience, the curtain still down to block the view of actors taking their places. Like limbo. Seeing your parents, their tear stricken faces, that makes it feel real. Too real. The sharp breath you take in alerts Wally to the fact that something is wrong, and he follows your gaze to the two adults standing at the front desk.

“Oh shit, are those your parents?” Wally asks, his voice taking a softer tone. He has a volume control problem, everyone knows it, and you’re appreciative that he’s quieted down for this.

You nod, a small jerk of your head. He brings a tentative hand up to your shoulder, and when you don’t move away, he places it more firmly. “I’m so sorry, y/n. I really am. Do you wanna go up and see them?”

You don’t answer, you just walk away. Wally calls after you, but doesn’t follow.

The auditorium truly is your safe space. You were never brave enough to actually perform anything, though your teacher had begged you to. She’d heard you singing to yourself one day, and asked why you’d never auditioned for anything. You’d just deflected and said the stage fright would make you freeze. She’d been understanding, but encouraged you to think about auditioning for the show this year.

You were a senior, it’d been your last opportunity to be in the spotlight, but by the time auditions came around you’d chickened out. The hidden disappointment on your teacher’s face wasn’t so hidden, but she made sure you had your usual spot on the tech and run crew portion of the show.

You died a few weeks later, tripping off of the stage while setting up a set piece and breaking your neck falling into the orchestra pit. Like a sick fucking joke.

Now, you sit in the audience, gazing at the stage. It’s still blocked off by crime tape. The show for the end of the year has been effectively cancelled on account of your dying. ‘Postponed indefinitely’ is the term the overhead announcements had used, but you all knew what that actually meant. It just wasn’t gonna happen.

You mostly just feel numb. Obviously your death isn’t something you could ever prepare for, and just like every other ghost in the building, your life had been unfairly cut short. Just like everyone else, you’d had plans for the rest of your life. None of them solid or reliable, but you’d had some idea of what you wanted your life to look like. A well paying job that you genuinely enjoyed, maybe a husband or wife and a few kids. All of that is gone now.

Your parents in the front office felt like a kick to the gut, salt in the wound. The look on your mom’s face, the way your dad was cradling the box of your things like if he held tight to it enough it would bring you back.. it was too much to bear.

And Wally, sweet, kind, Wally. He’s been trying really hard with you, and you can’t even work up the nerve to say something to him. To thank him for being there for you, or answer any of the many questions or jokes he throws your way.

You don’t even realize the tears are streaming down your face until they drip onto your hands in your lap. Once you feel the first one, the rest fall in quick succession and before you know it, you’re audibly sobbing in the empty theatre. It’s almost embarrassing, the way your cries echo because of the acoustics.

Wally comes in quietly, and sits down next to you. You’ve been too preoccupied to notice anything other than your tears, heavy and streaking down your cheeks. He doesn’t say anything, just wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his chest. He’s warm, and when you grab the front of his sweatshirt, he holds you tighter.

It takes a while for you to calm down - you’d been holding everything in for too long - you were bound to bubble over and explode at some point. When you feel yourself come back to your body, Wally is still holding you. He’s stroking your head and whispering comforts to you. You don’t deserve him, you think.

He’s still rubbing your back when you pull away to look at him, but you’re distracted by the wet spot on his sweatshirt - the light grey darkened by your tears.

“Oh,” you whisper, your voice cracking from how long it’s been since you’ve spoken, “I’m sorry.”

Wally’s eyes widen, not prepared for you to start talking, and he jumps to console you. “Woah, hey, don’t even worry about it. This ratty old thing? I’ve been wearing it for like, almost twenty years.” He giggles a bit, continuing, “I honestly think this is the closest this thing has been to a washing machine even longer than that, so. No sweat, promise.”

You nod, thanking him.

“Are you, like…” he trails off, not sure how to ask you if you’re okay. It’s a silly question, he knows that. “I remember the first time I saw my parents after I died. There was a vigil on the football field like a week after it happened. Everyone was there, and they were all crying and it was so weird. I didn’t feel dead yet, like I hadn’t accepted that it really happened.”

“That must’ve been really hard for you, Wally. I’m really sorry.” Your eyes meet, and he shrugs.

He smiles, a sad, nostalgic thing. He can’t tell you it’s okay, because it’s not. Instead, he goes to hold your hand. “I promise it will get better. It just takes some time. It’s gonna suck for a while, but we’re all here for you. I’m here for you.” His thumb rubs circles on the top or your hand, and you smile up at him.

“Thanks, Wally. I really appreciate it.” Your interconnected hands are grounding you. It’s the first time you’ve felt a semblance of peace since you died. “Do you mind if we sit here for a little bit? It’s quiet, I don’t want to leave yet.” He nods, and the two of you just sit there.

Just like Wally said it would, it gets easier.

You start going to more of the meetings with Mr. Martin, and you actually start participating. It was weird at first - you thought people would make a big deal out of your finding your voice again, but they just smiled, proud of your growth. Wally has been your biggest cheerleader, but they’re all really supportive. Even Rhonda, though she still sports her gloomy demeanor.

When they fix up the stage and clear the crime scene tape, the school holds your vigil there. Wally is right there with you in the audience, holding your hand while your parents speak. Your theatre teacher speaks too, and talks highly of you. Your brightness, the passion you had for theatre. When she says you had a beautiful voice, that you could’ve been somebody, she directs it at your parents. They agree, it seems.

There are still days where it's really hard. You retreat back into your shell, refusing to leave the auditorium or speak to anyone. Wally's patience with you is endless, and when you allow him to stay with you, he spends all day cracking jokes to help you feel better.

One day, instead of letting you isolate yourself, he drags you out onto the football field to get some sun. "We don't really need vitamin D anymore, but I really think it'll help. C'mon, the sun on your skin? Wind in your hair? Can't beat that, babe." He leads you out onto the field - one hand clasped in yours and the other holding a backpack.

The pet names are a new thing, but you don't mind it. He'd slipped one day, called you sweetheart, and immediately backtracked and apologized profusely. All you could do was laugh and call him cute.

"Where did you even get that?" you giggle, following him to a spot under a tree near the edge of the field. "Did you steal that from someone?"

He drops your hand to bring it to his own chest, offended at your assumption. "Me? Steal? I can't believe you'd think so lowly of me," he plops onto the grass, patting the spot next to him, "Yeah I totally stole it, emptied it out, and then filled it with a shit ton of snacks and drinks so we could have a picnic out here." He unzips the bag, pulling out at least ten different bags of chips and candy bars.

"This is really sweet, Wally," you can feel your face heat up, though hopefully it'll just look like it's because of the heat. "It's like a date, almost." His head shoots up to look at you, pink dusting his cheeks and ears.

"Y-yeah, if you want it to be. If you think you're ready for that kind of thing." He stutters, a nervous boyish thing. He's the sweetest person ever.

“I am, I think,” you nod while you’re talking, like you’ve made up your mind, “You’re the sweetest person I’ve ever met.” Wally ducks his head down, chin meeting his chest. He’s fully blushing now - it’s the cutest thing you’ve seen in a long time.

“C’mere,” he whispers, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and maneuvering your body so your back is pressed up against his chest, head resting in the space between his head and shoulder, “is this okay?”

You turn your head to try and look at him, and he angles his towards you. His face is inches from yours, and if you had a heartbeat, it’d be beating wildly right now. You can almost feel it, the pitter patter of it in your chest. Your hand comes up to cradle his cheek, rubbing your thumb over the space under his eye. You nod, and move in to kiss him.

His lips are so soft, and the way they move in conjunction with yours provides much needed relief. You stay like that for a few minutes, and when you’re done, he rests his forehead against yours. Eyes closed, feeling the gentle breeze sweeping up the hill you’re sitting on. You never had anything like this when you were still alive, the easy conversation and back and forth banter. He’s your new safe space. You don’t have to worry about anything when you’re with him.

“This is perfect.”

a/n: wally clark is actually so special to me and when i think about him for too long i get very emotional. my shayla. i wrote this in the span of like a day and a half so if there are any mistakes i'm sorry LMAO

if you liked this story, please like and reblog!! it'd mean the world to me, even if you just drop a silly comment. i want to write more for wally because he desperately needs more stories on here.

#wally clark #wally clark x reader #school spirits #wally clark imagine #i love that golden retriever man so much

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acidakerizo-47 · 5 months ago

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another one + AU from me that i named "Wingless Moth" (ZADF > ZADR)

CW: injury, scars, suicide mentioned, dramatic stuff

their adult versions after years of developing their relationship

description about the AU:

in short, both in the show and in the comics, as we saw Zim most often protected Dib not only from deadly, but also from pathologically dangerous risks during adventures

and what would have happened if at one point Zim had not kept an eye on this self-confident brat and had not managed to protect him from a truly life-threatening incident, but Dib was lucky enough to miraculously survive?

Zim has mostly been really soft on Dib, but now he would rather start courting him in addition to just visiting, and Zim would also watch and teach Dib to use three fingers instead of four, remembering and scolding him for behaviour like an immortal and almost dead...

in fact, Zim courting about Dib as for the person closest to him and he learns to show his feelings for him in the right way so that Dib knows it's not over for him and at least someone needs him

+ dramatic things

Zim sat by his bed for days and waited for Dib to feel better and come to his senses, he was more worried about Dib's condition than anyone else and still acts up

Dib suffers from suicidal thoughts and deviations he feels inferior and ugly bc of which he simply hates himself, he also refused the prosthetics that his father had extended to him

Zim, in turn, was traumatized by the incident with Dib, so he tries to be around him more often, softer towards him and more caring, even abandoning his assigned mission

accident story:

Dib lost his eye on an unsuccessful paranormal expedition

his physical injuries are related to falls from heights, sharp objects and trees, he mainly defended himself against his hands, which is why they suffered the most.

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yandereunsolved · 10 months ago

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"Don't Stop Me Now" — Five situations where yandere Five loses it

cw(s): yandere themes, non-descriptive self harm, mention of suicide and domestic violence

1 — someone ✗ something is trying to harm you

Pretty straightforward.

This is the numero uno that comes along with every yandere.

Five grew up with an abusive, emotionally absent father figure. He was pushed to be the best, the most successful of his siblings, just for an ounce of affection. He was isolated for so many years with nothing more than a department store doll. He has had to put away whatever loose morals he had to slave away in The Comission.

Then you come along and brighten up his life. No, you do more than that. You perfect it.

Then someone comes and tries to strip that away from him?

It's safe to say you've only seen that crazed look in his eyes when you're in danger. He doesn't care about whatever mission, the greater good, or whatever the fuck when you may end up being killed. He's swift and merciless, just as he was taught.

After he makes sure you are okay, he'll hold you to his chest for what feels like forever. He just needs to become secure again in the fact you are alive. You are here with him right now. It helps ground him so he doesn't end up going about on a killing spree.

Yes. That has happened one too many times.

Klaus now knows not to joke about random people flirting with you. Their spirits won't stop harassing him. In his defense, how was he supposed to know Five would just go out and slowly torture them before letting them waste away into death? Klaus didn't think Five was that unhinged. He knows better now.

2 — you harm yourself (in any way)

He keeps an observant eye on you, so it would be a miracle if you managed to accomplish anything along those lines.

Two words. no. more.

He has the internal breakdown. He's just standing there and staring at you. There are tears in his eyes. He wants to yell, to freak out, but his voice cracks far too much when he tries to reprimand you.

No. Just no.

That's the only word that encapsulates how he feels.

He is not going to allow you to hold any sharp objects. He makes sure you have no contact with Diego. Five is paranoid and suspects that Diego had something to do with this. Somehow.

You are more strictly monitored.

He has an entire list of mental and physical health questions he asks you each morning. If you tell him to leave you alone or that you are tired, there's about a seventy percent chance that he'll go off. It would definitely be in a Five way.

He'd be teleporting around you and sputtering out statistics and caring yet demeaning words.

3 — keeping him out of the loop

Five is meticulous.

When you keep him out of the loop—which could mean not saying good morning to him or hiding a romantic relationship—he feels so powerless again. He needs to know what is going on with you so he can protect you if need be.

Don't even try to argue with him.

He's older than you, so he knows best.

He has so much more experience at anything and everything. He can solve all of your problems if you just let him in.

Does that mean he will do the same in return? No.

There's no reason for you to know what he is doing at any point of the day. You don't need to worry your pretty little head about it. Aka, he's doing things that are morally gray at best and human rights violations at... that's still one of the better cases.

Just tell him. Or he'll force it out of you.

4 — things being out of his control

This ties in with every other scenario.

He needs to be in control.

Everything has to be perfect.

If one thing goes wrong, then you may slip through his fingers.

That isn't allowed to happen. It can't.

It eats away at him at night to think something could happen that he can't control.

The apocalypse happened, and he had to spend decades just accepting that fact. Until there was a chance he could change it.

Now he has to. He has to change, sort, and neatly put away everything. No speck of dust is out of place. If it is, then he'll end up pushing himself into fixing it, to the point of exhaustion or death—whichever comes first.

5 — escaping successfully

The only time there is a plausible chance he will resort to physical violence.

Why, why, why, why, why, why!?

How could he be so idiotic? How did you do it? Who helped you?

Whoever helped you is going to die if they haven't already killed themselves because they know Five is going to be coming after them.

He will act nonchalant, like he is in control, when he finally finds you once again. He'll tease, poke, and prod at your fear, like a ringmaster taming their lion. A part of this act is the truth. He has you back, and now everything can go back to how it was. The other part of him is still devastated and wants to curl up in your lap and just be safe there.

Yandere Five: fragile—handle with care.

✗ @clarioscharm

#tua #the umbrella academy #tua x reader #the umbrella academy x reader #yandere tua #yandere the umbrella academy #yandere tua x reader #number five #five hargreeves #five hargreaves x reader #five hargreeves x reader #five hargreeves x you #yandere five hargreeves #yandere five #yandere five hargreeves x reader

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phossiii · 6 months ago

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｡𖦹°‧⭑ monsters: chapter four

synopsis: you and phosphorus cover for flag. and your "other personality" pays a visit.

cw: reader is a monster, mature themes, violence, profanity, innuendos, phosphorus is phosphorus, gore, blood, demon shit, reader might be a bit op but who cares.

"Are they fuckin' killing each other?" you scoffed, incredulously, as you pressed your pointed ear against the door with G.I Robot.

"Not too far off from what you sounded like an hour ago, sunshine," Phosphorus teased, reaching out to touch you.

"You wanna lose that hand?"

Instantly, your tail whipped up, its sharp edge pointing directly at his throat, Weasel letting out a whimper at the sudden movement.

The four of you were outside the bathroom, waiting for Ilana to finish patching up Flag's injuries.

Though, as made evident by the aggressive, obnoxious moaning, they seemed to have gotten side-tracked.

'Typical...'

Nodding, Phosphorus raised his hands in defense, smirking—unbeknownst to you.

"Message received."

"Have you seen General Flag?" Alexi asked, appearing seemingly out of nowhere.

The four of you glanced at each other, before turning to face him with indifferent expressions.

"Uh, yeah, why?" Phosphorus shrugged.

"Because he should be informed that two of your teammates have left the grounds."

Your eyes widened, slightly, brow raising with confusion.

'The Bride... and Nina?'

You knew the Bride didn't give a shit, but you were surprised that Nina went along.

You never thought she would rebel, seeing as she seemed terrified to step a single webbed-toe out of line.

Not to mention, she had her little goody-two-shoes thing going on.

"Yeah, he's, uh, in there..." Phosphorus stood up straight, pointing his thumb toward the door.

But just as the captain was about to move forward, you stopped him, pressing your reddened palm into his chest plate.

"You don't wanna do that," you sighed, attempting to spare him from the sight of his princess in such a... compromising position.

"Maybe you should just give him thirty seconds," your skeletal partner agreed.

Alexi raised a brow, suspicious.

"I mean, you've seen the princess. I don't know how he could hold out for more than thirty seconds, do you?"

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest as Weasel let out a soft squeak.

"Ah, you got a point, Weez," Phosphorus nodded, thoughtfully resting his hand on his chin. "He's an older guy... probably has a lot of experience. Give him a full minute."

"This is not funny. Why are you smiling?" Alexi ignored.

"Slow down, bigot," Phosphorus scoffed, pulling open his lab coat. "I'm a freaking skeleton. It looks like I'm smiling even when I'm not."

"You are not smiling?"

"Oh, I am... But you can't tell that."

Punctuating his sentence, the sounds of banging echoed from the door, followed by Rick and Ilana's moans

It went on for an uncomfortably long minute, but once it was over, Alexi let out a sigh.

"May I knock now?" he asked.

Phosphorus held up a finger, forcing him to wait as they started up again, only louder, the sounds making you want to smash your head into the wall.

'I was better off at Arkham...'

After Flag cussed you both out for waiting to tell him that the Bride and Nina had escaped, Task Force M left to go rescue them from Circe and the Sons of Themyscira.

But after you arrived to find that neither of them had been horribly harmed, everyone quickly realized their real objective was to leave the princess without protection.

Which is why all of you hauled ass back to the castle, and why all of you were currently charging into the battle-filled courtyard with Alexi's super-powered, armored truck.

Zooming forward, he mowed down a Son that was about to toss a grenade at the royal guards, dismembering the bastard on impact before coming to a complete stop.

The Bride exited the vehicle guns blazing, as well as Flag and Alexi, shooting down five of the Sons right out the gate.

With a sigh, you cracked your neck, exhaling deeply out of your mouth.

"My body is mine... it belongs to me... Shall Mahalat come running... I will force her to flee," you muttered under your breath, repeatedly, as you kicked off your boots.

'Arkham shrinks... don't let me down.'

Out of the team of psychiatrists tasked with keeping you mentally sane, one offered a simple, catchy mantra to help you keep your "other personality" under control.

Whenever you thought Mahalat was going to show herself, or forcefully take over, you were supposed recite it, as the words would keep her at bay.

It worked well enough in your cell—but, then again, you were heavily medicated, anyway, so it was hard to say for certain.

Rushing forward, you dodged the oncoming barrage of bullets from the group of Sons in front of you, completing forward flips, handsprings, and round-offs to build momentum before launching yourself in the air.

There, you attacked, using your tail to slash the eyes of the man in front of you before kicking him into another, the force so powerful that it smashed their skulls together.

Landing on the ground, you turned quickly, shooting a small beam of fire from your finger tip and meeting the oncoming bullet heading for your shoulder, completely destroying it as well as burning a pea sized hole within the man's brain.

Using your speed, you got in close to the three grunts next to him, punching the first one in the face with a flaming fist as your tail twisted the neck of the second.

When the first one tired to shoot, you swirled around, using the second as human shield while you kicked the third in the nuts, forcing him to his knees and thus low enough where your legs could reach.

Using your feet, you grabbed his face and the back of his head before violently jerking, snapping his neck all the way around.

But before he could fall, you ran up his face like a wall, using it to flip yourself back around as your tail let go of the second man's neck.

Landing on the first one's shoulders, you ignited your hands in flame, slamming your fists down on his head with a sickening thud and caving in his skull.

Though, you had little time to celebrate, as the raining bullets from the castle began to increase, forcing you to leap away and duck behind the fountain with the others.

"Are these Nazis, General?" G.I asked from his place standing up, seeing as he was bullet-proof.

With a smirk, Flag turned to him, giving an affirmative nod.

"Yeah, G.I... these are Nazis."

Breaking out into a wide smile, the robot retracted his arms and replaced them with guns, opening fire on the Sons of Themyscira with a look of absolute glee.

Though, it came to a surprise for everyone when his torso suddenly detached, some sort of hover technology allowing him to float high into the air, where two additional guns were added to each arm.

"Hit the deck!" Flag exclaimed.

Quickly, G.I began to spin, his bullets utterly dismembering every Son of Themyscira in sight.

'Holy shit!'

He looked so happy, so utterly relieved to kill Nazis.

It was adorable, and even you were fighting off the smile rising to your lips.

That is... until Circe appeared, completely destroying him.

"G.I!" Nina screamed as he exploded right before her eyes, his parts raining down on the ground below.

"Well, that's enough of that," Circe scowled, looking down upon you all before shooting a large beam of destructive, purple magic.

Quickly, you all dove out the way, just barely avoiding the attack as chunks of the stone fountain shot into the air.

"Is that magic I smell, o' pitiful flesh?" a terrifyingly familiar voice grinned within your mind, turning your blood to ice in an instant.

'No... no, no, no, no, no! Not now! Not today!'

"My body is mine, it belongs to me. Shall Mahalat come running, I'll force her to flee," you muttered, frantically, screwing your eyes shut with fear as you pulled yourself into the fetal position, hugging your legs. "My body is mine, it belongs to me. Shall Mahalat come running, I'll force her to flee!"

"(y/n)! Snap out of it! What's wrong with you?!" Flag barked as he glanced over his shoulder, shooting at a couple of the straggling Sons as he noticed you were laying down in the middle of a battle.

"Is she having a mental breakdown in the middle of a fight?" the Bride asked, going back to back with the general.

"I was told she was cleared for the field!"

"Stupid girl. You know better than I such a weak incantation cannot keep me at bay..."

"Shut up!" you spat, sharply, as you clutched your head. "My body is mine! It belongs to me! Shall—!"

"Enough."

With a choking gasp, she silenced you, forcing your body to float into the air.

Like countless times before, your pupils shrank to the thin slits of a snake, the others watching with awe and confusion as your limbs fell limply to your sides.

"Sunuk zetam ma'ak kula baa nat su da Mahalat!"

Your voice seemed to dubbed over by another, more malevolent one, and after the words were spoken, you burst into hellish flame.

Within this flame, large, red, pointed wings sprouted from your back, your horns growing larger, fangs extending, claws growing, and clothes tearing, leaving you in the tattered remnants of your leather pants and top.

Though, when you turned to Rick Flag, you were no longer you.

But rather the thing that's been haunting you since you since you first opened your eyes in this world.

Mahalat.

"Where has the witch gone?" Mahalat asked, her voice dubbed over yours.

Utterly speechless, both Flag and the Bride pointed toward the castle, where Circe had flown to attack Ilana.

With a bone chilling grin, the demon turned around, her large, strong wings propelling her quickly as she zoomed toward the princess's broken, bedroom window.

Free for the first time in years, Mahalat had only one thing on her mind.

Kill. Kill. Kill.

When she reached the two, Circe had her magical orbs drawn, ready to destroy an already beaten up Ilana.

In an instant, Mahalat flew forward, grabbing Circe by the neck with a sharp, burning hand.

She fought back with a scream, hands frantically clawing at the demon's arm as her throat began to cook.

"I wonder..." Mahalat smirked, her sharp nails drawing blood with her harsh grip. "Is the flesh of a witch as delicious as I remember?"

With a sick grin, she lifted the woman higher, allowing a few droplets of her blood to drip onto her face.

"It's been a millennium since I've had one in my clutches..."

With a malicious chuckle, the demon sank her fangs into Circe's shoulder, the sorceress letting out a blood-curdling scream as the meat was torn from her bones.

Muscle, tendons, and all.

Taking a moment to enjoy her new snack, Mahalat threw Circe out the window with impossible force, leaving her to fall onto the concrete below.

Out the corner of her eye, she glanced at the princess, who looked absolutely horrified, before flying after her dinner.

As Circe attempted to scramble away, Mahalat landed harshly on her back, the sharp claws of the demon's feet digging into the witch's flesh and keeping her in place as she was absolutely mauled.

Any available skin was up for the taking, Mahalat's claws and fangs destroying anything they could reach with a delighted grin.

And as she went to town on Circe's back, Phosphorus approached, lifting Circe's chin with—what everyone could tell—a sick grin

"I always love a good barbecue."

Pressing an irradiated hand into her face, she let out another bone-chilling scream, unable to do anything but sit there as her face was cooked alive and her back was torn to shreds.

From the distance, Flag watched, wide-eyed and thoroughly disturbed as the two before him tortured the sorceress, the realization donning on him pretty quickly that the both of you had gone incredibly easy during your fight in the kitchen.

"You wanted monsters... you got monsters," the Bride smirked, standing knowingly by his side.

"Kunus matez ka'am aluk baa nat su da (y/n)!" your voice finally managed to break through, stopping the demon in her tracks.

Pupils dilating, you snapped out of it in an instant—your wings slowly returning into your back, your horns shrinking, fangs receding, and claws disappearing—while still leaving you in your torn up clothes.

Quickly, you threw yourself off the witch, chest rising and falling rapidly as you snapped your head around, frantically touching yourself to gauge if it was really you, while also covering your practically bare chest.

That was the first time she'd taken over in over three years.

You hoped it would never happen again.

'What did I do?! Who did I kill?! Oh, God, I can taste blood?! Who did I eat?! Why did I—?!'

"Hey," Phosphorus's voice broke through your spiral.

Out of instinct, you flinched, but when you looked up at him, you realized he was holding out his lab coat.

Your eyes widened slightly, surprised by his kindness, and you couldn't help but stare at him with suspicion.

What was the gag?

Where was the joke?

Why was he being so... chivalrous?

"Unless you wanna walk around with your tits out," he shrugged, standing up straight with a grin. "I mean, I'm not complaining—"

Quickly, you took it from his hand, throwing it over your shoulders and crossing it over your chest, avoiding all eye contact.

You weren't sure how or why... but he was doing you a solid, so you wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Thanks," you muttered, standing up.

"You don't understand what you've done!" Circe awoke from her pain induced fainting with a gasp, glaring up at you all as Weasel, Bride, and Flag reconvened.

Your eyes widened even further at her injuries, a little sorry.

It was nowhere near the worst you'd done to someone... but still.

Attempting to gather her breath, she turned her sights on Flag, brows furrowing harshly.

"You've doomed the world!"

#creature commandos #creature commandos x reader #dc #dc x reader #dcu x reader #doctor phosphorus #dcu #doctor phosphorus x reader #dr phosphorus #dr phosphorus x reader

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sleepynoons · 10 months ago

Text

Underneath the Surface

As an attendant for the first Harbinger, Il Capitano, you work to maintain his household in Snezhnaya, though you can still only admire him from afar. But that distant reverence changes completely when you are offered another role that goes beyond your day-to-day and allows you to share a bond with him that no one else knows the true nature of. This is a dream come true, of course, but what happens when the dream ends? When will it end? And what will you do after it ends?

ooc!capitano x afab!f!reader, nsfw, 18+

word count: ~4,600

cw: power imbalance + unhealthy relationship dynamics, dom/sub dynamics, sadism/masochism, pain kink, knife kink, praise kink, predator/prey, ownership + master, use of other sharp objects (claws), temperature play, graphic descriptions of blood/injuries/bruises/pain/etc., sensory deprivation (blindfold), mentions of death + murder

notes: ok i know everyone is head over heels for capitano because big looming man + the mask and cape stay on during sex ikik i get it, but what if our captain had... a dark, serious, + slightly twisted personality? bc i imagine, in canon, for someone so committed to his work and the tsaritsa, his sense of justice and overpowering physical strength could prevent him from making rash decisions like being in a relationship with another... anyway, my take on capitano! tysssssm to @staraxiaa for beta-reading and letting me yap away in our discord <33 lena, could not have churned this out any earlier if it were not for your enthusiasm and hypnosis. ily queen. anyway, hope y'all enjoy!

THE HALLS are still, silent aside from the occasional clanking of metal weaponry. All of the soldiers and attendants are holding their breaths, anticipating for what is to come. You, too, wait, immobile, on the edge of your chair in front of the vanity. You avoid your reflection in the mirror, but appearances are of utmost importance, so you busy yourself by repeatedly smoothing the pleats of your silk nightgown.

It has been two long months since you have fallen back into this routine: waking before sunrise, dressing with your finest gowns and lingerie, and awaiting his instruction throughout the day. Of course, you still behave in an appropriate manner befitting of his grace when he is not around, but there is no need to impress. Not many are aware of the nature of your agreement with him, anyway.

A soldier’s call can be heard from outside your window, a signal of his grace’s arrival from the accompanying blare of a horn. You suck in a sharp breath, pursing your lips as you hold, before exhaling completely. You have half an hour.

Making your way around his chamber, you go about your final checks. He has always been particular with the way things should be, his sense of justice and discipline underlying and interweaving with every aspect of his own life. You blow away specks of dust from his bookshelves, tie the chiffon of the bed canopy curtains to their posts, and return your makeup on the vanity back to a pouch, not before dabbing on a bit more powder and curling your eyelashes once more.

The half hour passes quickly, and you rush to stand by the door as you hear the heavy thuds of his boots approach. You bow your head and curtsy as he steps in. It is important that you do not look at him until he permits. He does not greet you, simply strides over to the bathroom and shuts the door behind him, heading to his closet farther beyond.

You sigh with relief. He did not take you immediately.

The next step of the routine is to wait for him to change. Beyond the door, you hear the faint rustle of heavy fabric hitting the floor, silver and bronze embossings clicking against sharp nails, and the occasional low grunt. You would assist him if you could, but no one has seen him without his fur coat and mask. You consider yourself lucky to have seen him without his cloak, but you, too, have never witnessed his visage. It is strange, though. As per your contract, you are supposed to help him with such tasks. Shrugging, you figure there is no need to hypothesize. You would never dare to act like you understand his grace and how he thinks and acts.

If he still does not speak to you when he returns, the burden falls on you to initiate.

You watch as the door handle twists before the door swings open. Instinctively, you lower your gaze and nod your head once in greeting. Pausing a beat, you give him a chance to speak if he wants. But he does not.

“Your grace,” you say.

He walks over to you, standing in front of where you sit on the edge of his bed. A gloved hand rests on the crown of your head – firm, cold. It traces the shape of your skull, sliding down to your ear, sharp metal claws scraping against the cartilage and the tender skin of your neck. He continues along the path of your jawline before holding your chin between his index finger and thumb. You are still looking downwards, only able to see up to his clothed forearm. Holding you steady, he appraises you and the effort you put into yourself. You try to relax under his gaze, not as an act of defiance or resistance but rather as a demonstration of your trust and loyalty in him. His grace knows best, after all. His criticism is guidance, only out of best interest for you, his praise gospel, miraculous stories to pass down for generations.

He hums. It is a deep, satisfied rumble.

“Well done,” he praises, releasing his hold. “I am relieved to be back.”

It is not often that his grace is content. He is rarely appeased with his own efforts. Naturally, you feel a sense of giddiness, a shiver of delight threatening to shake up your still frame. You even notice an urge of want for him, hoping that he would pay just a little more attention to the way you did your hair or the new perfume you are wearing or how the color of the night gown compliments the curves and rolls of your body. A stroke of luck, you think, to keep your dangerous emotions at bay. You must reflect on tonight and emulate what went well going forward.

Before you can relay your gratitude to your captain, he continues to speak. “I would like to try something different tonight.”

He pulls a wide silk scarf out from his pocket and wraps the navy fabric around your head, thereby obscuring your vision. The lack of light in the room, along with the dark shade of the blindfold, make it impossible for you to see anything beyond the faint silhouette of your hands as you stretch them out in front of you to test the opacity of the silk. But this is nothing out of the ordinary.

You startle as he splays his palm on your back and slides an arm underneath your legs. He picks you up, as if you are but a mere feather, and repositions you so that you are lying down on the bed.

“It will hurt. Will you be able to take it?” he asks. Void of his usual assertiveness, he is shedding his role of a Harbinger, melting into a simple person who wants his desires fulfilled. He is speaking to you with caution and respect, fulfilling his end of his contract, as your master, your owner, to ensure that tonight’s experience will be pleasurable for you as well. However, you know the power and strength he holds beyond the walls of his bedroom will never fully escape your conscience. It is your obligation to protect yourself from dire harm, but you cannot deny him the opportunity to experiment, in fear of retaliation and punishment.

You reply, “How painful?”

The bed dips beside your hip, and you feel the leather of his glove rub into your thigh.

“I will use my gloves and a knife.”

Scared or excited, you cannot tell. At his words, you become acutely sensitive towards the feel of his gloved hand as he continues to glide it up and down your leg. You can almost taste the steely, icy sting of his claws digging into the fat of your thigh, breaking the skin just enough for beaded crimson to trickle, not enough to scar permanently.

“Your grace, is this a punishment?”

“Not at all.” His hand travels farther up and pushes the lace trim of your nightgown aside to reveal your underwear underneath. He pulls at the ribbons at the side, slowly untying the thong, as he chuckles, “It is a reward, for your effort and time.”

The praise is doing wonders to you. You feel dizzy, light, and hot in the head, and the pulsing in your core intensifies, your hole fluttering and throbbing in tandem with the escalating rate of your heartbeat. Even though you cannot see, you can almost sense him smiling, perhaps at the wetness that is spotting your underwear or possibly even the state of your whole being, showing his understanding of and command over your body.

The latter seems likely as he presses his claws into your skin, as if to counter and neutralize your raging internal inferno. The cold shocks the nerves at the juncture where your hip connects to your leg, where the ribbon of your panties used to be tied at.

“I will start easy,” he explains. To demonstrate, he curls his fingers and pushes, channeling all of the pressure into the tips of his claws and persists until they shallowly latch into your skin. You squirm, jump, and whimper at the pain. It hurts more than you had expected, though you really had no point of comparison in the first place. You continue to shudder as he holds his fingers in place, probably gauging your reaction.

“Th-that is alright,” you manage to stammer. The pinch may be harsh, but it does not draw blood or bring tears to your eyes, simply a scraping of the surface of your skin. You can withstand a little more, you reassure yourself. This is your reward. Without a word, he moves his hands back down to your thighs and scratches your right.

The motion is fast, clean. In fact, your body and mind do not react to the two long, slanted cuts he leaves, the blood only spilling milliseconds after the damage has been done. The pain comes even later. At first, you feel nothing, and even the thin streams of blood flowing out of the wounds only leave a wet sensation on your otherwise untainted legs. But then, the stinging comes, akin to that of an unexpected paper cut. Except, with each passing second, it gets worse, as if the paper cut is being pulled along and extended, and your leg strains against his hold to move, to distract itself from the harm inflicted. Crimson is sure to be leaking from the full length of the cuts, and at the back of your throat, you can almost taste the coppery scent of oxidizing iron.

When he moves to repeat the same onto your other leg, you bite the inside of your cheek to prepare for the incoming pain. Part of your role is to adapt quickly, and in this case, you have to sense and react to his grace’s next steps immediately. The chiseled points of his nails cut through your skin like a large kitchen knife slicing through even the toughest of ingredients – precise, swift, ignorant of any and all resistance.

You have never gone this long with just pain, let alone be deprived of one of your senses. Nights with his grace are inevitably bound to be painful, but in his own way, he softens the blows and plows of his roughness and aggression by pleasuring your body.

Your first morning after, you woke up unable to feel anything past your waist. Throughout the night, to show you just exactly what you were getting yourself into, he forced you to reach peak after peak after peak as a test of your endurance, stamina, loyalty. Though, you were more shocked to see the purpling bruises encircling your ankles and wrists, as if his grace had used cuffs on you. But he had not. Those bruises were entirely inflicted by his tight hold on you, shackling you down as you thrashed and kicked and instinctively attempted to escape, serving the same purpose in chaining your life and mercy to his will.

One’s ideals – justice – will always come at the cost of another’s freedom – autonomy.

But you are not opposed to such limitations. Out of all of the Harbingers, you are endlessly grateful that it is his grace who is your leader. Even though he may not be your direct master beyond the clauses of your contract, he is dutiful and considerate towards those who swear an oath to his name. You come from a family of Fatui soldiers, some of the best and the brightest, many trained under the watchful supervision of his grace, so from birth, you have been taught to idolize him. But to have your idol recognize you? Speak to you? Bed you? Unheard of, and to this day, you are not sure why he chooses you, time and time again. You cannot even fathom how he knows of you – a simple, one-of-several attendants who maintain his mansion of a home under the instruction of the head butler.

The nature of your contract with him is simple. (His grace often comments how he much prefers the dealings of the Liyuen people, how quick they are to draw up agreements and negotiations, compared to the conniving nature of some of his colleagues.) Whenever he returns, you shall take care of his personal desires and wants, as he will with yours. You are to fully commit yourself to him, trust in his intuition to know how to treat you accordingly, and he expects you to reciprocate, to satisfy him to the best of your abilities.

Your role is not as physically taxing as it is mentally laborious. His grace is rarely home – you recently heard he has a surge of dealings in Natlan that require his attention –, so your body is not under constant stress. However, when you are with him, you behave as if every night together is a performance review, a test of your memory, if you remember how to overcome your instincts to hold your body still enough in place, if you remember the way he gravitates towards elegant silk dresses and kimonos, if you remember that he will never apologize but will wrap gauze around your wounds when you are asleep.

You know you are expendable. As soon as you fail to satisfy him, he could – will – discard and replace you. While he has never outright pressured you, you know his grace is assessing you as well. But you cannot help but wonder – hope – that there is something about you – something so intrinsic and bespoke about you – that explains why, even in your failings, he will not let you go. You are sure there are faults that lie in you that you cannot see, that he will see. Yet, because you have not been let go, you wonder if he is alright with slight imperfections because it is no one other than you.

Regardless, you must not be too full of yourself. That is a cardinal sin with respect to his grace’s values. The strong become the weak as soon as they overestimate themselves, he would often preach.

You are brought back by a building pressure at your ankles. You raise your head to look down, to no avail. But you can feel his gloves, now slightly warm from being in contact with your body, wrapping themselves around your protruding bones, tighter and tighter, the chains locking with finality. There is a buzz in your toes from the constriction of circulation, and you bite on your lower lip to prevent yourself from whining at the bruising grip he has on you. You count beats in your head, seconds not true to time, muddled by the exhilarated racing of your heart, foolishly trying to distract yourself by examining his grace’s behavior instead. How long will he hold for? How long does it take to leave stubborn bruises that will remain for at least three days? Is it supposed to hurt this much?

But all of those questions and concerns do not matter anymore as soon as he speaks. “I was right in choosing you.”

As if his affirmation was not enough, he releases your legs and moves up the bed to embrace you. Winding his arms around you, he lifts you a margin off the bed so that your chests touch, your silk against his thick black wool. One of his hands then comes up to cradle the back of your head, gently brushing and patting you, almost like he is lulling you to sleep. You melt, and you have never felt such a strong urge to wrap him in your own arms.

Perhaps you can be a bit greedy tonight? Throwing caution to the wind, you mumble, “Y-your grace, may I…?”

His approving hum makes your heart trill with joy. To avoid any mishaps, you place your hands on his arms, following their sturdy build until you reach his shoulders. From here, your fingertips can brush against his flowing black hair. It is coarse and thick, and you muster all of your willpower to resist the urge to run your hands through the locks.

As if reading your mind, he says, “You can touch my hair, if you so wish.”

“That was not my intention,” you reply, fighting the smile threatening to bloom on your face.

He insists by leaning closer to you, so that you are forced to feel the front, shorter strands of his hair poke at your exposed clavicles. You can even argue that you can feel his breath from here, but then again, does his grace breathe? Is he man or monster? (Benefactor or foe?)

“I shall resume.” And he proceeds to grab you at the waist, gripping you as tightly as he did to your ankles, and you feel the same pressure building within you. But you can hold on longer, after all. This is a reward.

He pushes the silk dress all the way up to your neck and exposes your upper body. As your body tenses in response to the cold, he pokes at the goosebumps appearing on your skin, as well as uses the tip of a nail to trace your areolae, centimeters away from your perked nipples. He circles them for two eight-counts, slow and drawling, before suddenly pinching and tugging at them. You yelp – an unintended mistake – and arch your back. He is still clothed, and the metal buttons and chains of his blazer dig into your skin for the briefest of moments, eliciting another wave of shudders from you.

And the worst of the pain comes. He gives one last pinch to your nipples before moving his hands to your sides where your rib cage lies right underneath. He rubs his thumbs over the bump of each bone, gliding his fingers back and forth, perpendicular to the way your bones curve inwards to protect your insides. You do not know this, but he is searching, identifying where he will lay his wreckage next, between which ribs to leave his trace. Then, he curls his claws into you, a bone or two below your breasts, and sinks them into you, slowly wounding you parallel to the slanted direction of your cage.

It is unbearable. There is no way to prevent yourself from screaming and sobbing. Tears drench the blindfold within seconds, and you can only distract yourself by tightening your embrace around his neck and digging your own nails into your forearms to somehow transfer the pain elsewhere, overwhelm your brain so that it cannot perceive the full extent of the damage being done to your chest. Otherwise, you can only hope that his grace is understanding and allows you to wail at the gashes he is leaving.

And what about appearances? Surely, your body will be marred from tonight and may not ever fully erase the signs of tonight’s activities.

You freeze. Your blood chills. Physical pain dims and recedes to the back of your mind.

Appearances… do matter. If you dared to come up with any reason as to why his grace has chosen you, it would only be sensible to conclude that it is because of the way you look, no? Prior to your first night together, you had never interacted with him before – he did not even present the contract for this partnership to you – the head butler did! Therefore, there is no possibility that his grace knows you well, aside from direct reports from the head butler and, perhaps, passing comments from your family. And he would definitely not choose you for your talents, as you have none.

In fact, the only reason you are in the castle is quite simple. Though you are not disowned by your family, you are not treated as one of them. You were sickly throughout childhood, meaning you could not start training early enough. Even if you had enrolled later on, you would have never been sufficient enough in your capabilities to reach the high official ranks that your family has held onto for decades. Lacking the combat prowess your other siblings, parents, and ancestors have, you will never be able to fulfill your lineage’s mission to the Tsaritsa. Therefore, you had to find other ways to serve the Fatui, and your search led you to his grace’s household.

There is nothing to your person besides a family crest that does not want to claim you and a corporeal weak to the natural winds and storms of Snezhnaya. And, truly, the only thing you have all to yourself is this body of yours, something you can willingly choose to offer as long as it cooperates with you.

Is this it? After he scars and carves and rips you open, not even this anatomy of yours will be yours ever again. Is he to leave his mark on you forever, only to end this arrangement soon after?

Your wails are no longer because of your flesh being torn apart by cold, ruthless hands, hands that know the feel and taste and rotting warmth of blood. Instead, these wails are ones afraid of a future without these hands, these nails that are now also stained with your blood and skin and tears. When he cleans these gloves later, you can only hope the alcohol does not eradicate all of your traces.

He does not stop until the gashes reach the ends of your rib cage.

Taking deep breaths from your mouth, you gasp for air as he pulls away and sits back on his heels to examine your state – spent, covered in spit and blood and cold sweat, many things but your usual demureness.

You are incapable of keeping up such a ruse. You are too exhausted and tortured to even feign obedience. Though, if his grace asked, you would try for him, despite knowing you would barely be able to put on a show. Because for him, you would, without a beat of doubt or hesitation, take on any role if he asked you of it, as long as you can share a private bond with him, one that no else knows the intimate details of.

You hear shuffling, a pocket being pulled open – good, blood stains thread quite stubbornly –, and a quick flick of something clicking into place.

“This will be the last thing I do to you tonight. Raise your arm.”

You do as he says, barely feeling your forearms and beyond. He catches your hand and turns it over so that your palm is facing the ceiling.

The smooth, cool surface is recognizable, even to someone who has not fought in years. He places the flat side of the blade against your skin, letting it soak and adjust to your broiling heat. Once it is warm enough, he makes quick work, making short cuts in various directions around your wrist, over the spot where you take your pulse. As he works, he turns your wrist around as needed. The cuts always sting a bit at first before the sensation of the next being made takes over. You miserably think how you will never be able to marry with the way his grace is etching himself into you.

It does not take long, given how skilled he is.

But the routine has been disrupted, and when he sets your arm down, you are not sure what to do next. Usually, you would be unconscious by now. But you are wide awake, body thrumming and pulsing, sending signals to all the places where your nerves are exposed.

Again, you think back to the same question. Is this supposed to be my reward?

“You will now rest.” His grace’s voice commands, leaving no space for argument.

So you ask, instead of objecting. “And my body?”

“We will leave it as is. I need them to mark.” He enunciates with finality. You are unable to probe further, unable to even get a glimpse of what he means beyond his statements.

You manage to croak, “My apologies, your grace, for failing to restrain myself this evening.”

He only places his hand on the crown of your head, soft smooths and pats, like at the very beginning of tonight, before everything that has since occurred.

Perhaps, what you long for, whether that be his touch or his coldness or his grace himself, is salvation. Someone who can bestow you with a responsibility so you can make yourself useful, find value in your being beyond a last name and damaged flesh. Despite tonight, you still want his grace to be with you, even if that means he devours you whole by the morning. Because you are already indebted to him for your employment. And you now owe him more than ever for permitting you to invade the confines of his space, to be surrounded by everything that is his, to feel him. To be something special is what you deeply, most greedily covet, and you are fearful that, in the near future, you will not be the only person who can say they have seen the captain without his coat on. Because without his grace, what will you become? Who are you? What are you?

Rather than relieve your body of strain through arousal and pleasure, tonight, he provides tepid comfort through the slow tempo of his hand against your head, an intangible poultice against your physical wounds. Inside, you realize that, all along, the reward has been his grace’s direct kindness and generosity towards you. And you tell yourself to enjoy these last remnants of his undivided attention, and fall asleep.

In the morning, you do as planned. Wake early. Bathe in scorching hot water even though it could rot your untended wounds. Dress in a burgundy long-sleeved gown. Prepare your hair and makeup. Pray that this dawn is not the last sunrise you will share with him.

Before you leave the bedroom to greet his grace, who is no doubt already working in his office, you sigh, filled with a deep sense of shame, disappointment, and mourning, though these words are futile in fully grasping all that festers within you.

But the walls of this bedroom know something you do not. And they think you ought to know, as they watch you leave with palpable dejection.

They have seen their owner evolve and age over time. Yet, they have only seen him exhilarated barely a few times – and rarely excited and riled up by the same thing more than twice.

The walls see, hear, smell everything about their owner.

Last night, amidst your cries, his grace was huffing with exertion, pouring effort and energy into your body. His eyes widened, pupils dilated, at the way your body struggled under his hold, yet you only held him closer. Mouth gaped in awe at how you screeched from the pain yet did not fight back even as an animalistic instinct to survive. He was practically leaking bloodlust, or more specifically, a strong urge to claim, overwhelm, overpower you. And he did so, purposely not leaving you bandages on the night table as always so that the wounds would stay intact. These cuts and gashes and tears shall never disappear from your body, and you will never forget the pain he has inflicted upon you. He has engraved himself into you because, while his righteousness and loyalty to the Tsaritsa come first, he will still return to you when he can. And he does not want you to forget that, even if this reminder comes in the form of garish wounds and the delicate traces of a bracelet in your skin.

The walls know why his grace chooses you. What you really should know is how much of an abnormality you really are. And his grace adores that about you.

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medullamindset · 3 months ago

Note

hii do u think u could perhaps do daisuke dating headcanons😓😓 can be sfw or nsfw

Yes hehehehhegeheheggeeee

The hc's are divided into general / relationship / NSFW ✦

CW: brief mention of drinking and smoking weed, uhmmmmm that's abt it?

GENERAL HC'S

✿ • 23 years old. (not sure of his birth year since it isn't established wether MW takes place in the future or the past or what)

✿ • Hes 1/2 japanese, 1/4 hispanic and 1/4 fillipino but either isn't spoken as much as english in his house so he never really picked up on the languages, knows bits and pieces tho. His mother is Japanese and his Father is Hispanic/Filipino but they met in america.

✿ • Loves all kinds of music, cannot stick to one genre for the life of him. Reggae, Pop, Techno, Metal, Country, Dad-rock, disco, experimental everything all the way to punk he doesn't care!!!! Hes dancing to all of the above, flailing his arms around and jumping like a madman

↑ I feel like some of his favorite artists would be The Cave Singers, Wooden Shjips, Gorillaz, Björk (that includes her ex-bands like K.U.K.L. and The Sugarcubes), NIN, Ariel Pink, Guns N' Roses, Ramones, RHCP and uhhh yeah just a shit load of contrast basically LOL

✿ • Chronic sims 4 player. He'll be hunched over his laptop for hours putting his poor sims through the most brutal shit and trying the most insane challenges.

His laptop is literally breathing like a dragon with all the mods he downloads-

✿ • Knows the FNAF lore by heart. He tried to be one of the Cool Kids™️ in middle school but enjoyed participating in a few "cringe" interests with the Weird Kids™️ from time to time.

✿ • Was lowkey a bit ignored by his classmates growing up. He was "too girly" for the boys and "too boyish" for the girls. So he was kinda bouncing back and forth, stuck in the middle.

✿ • Swears he'd never date a man but had so many male fictional crushes as a kid, you couldn't waterboard that info out of him but he's definetly a closeted bisexual.

✿ • Monster Energy enthusiast, drinks it like coffee. He'll complain about a headache and everything if he hasn't drank one in a while.

Loves fizzy drinks in general, he's team Dr. Pepper 😎

✿ • Has a few friends(?) That treat him kinda shitty cuz hes so gullible, think of 'em kinda like Tony, Cook, Sid and Chris from Skins UK. Cracking jokes at his expense and pretending to care abt him.. Or maybe they do but just have a really weird way of showing it❓

He goes home a little butthurt every time but doesn't wanna "be a baby" so he rarely makes a thing of it.

✿ • Ok so, i feel like ppl take the "And then theres that teeny bopper thinking only with his downstairs longnose." Dialogue from Swansea to the extreme. Cuz Swansea is usually very pessimistic and dramatic in his dialogue. Daisuke might aswell just have been complaining abt how hard it is to date on a freaking space freighter and how badly he wanted a lovelife while repairing something and Swansea decided to make a snarky/sarcastic remark abt it like he does on other occasions in game. "Capitano! Man with the plan!", "Let's hear it for Wake Rock!", "think i can already feel the ship rumb-a-tumbling through space." Ect.

Or maybe he is just a gooner i mean whaddo i know 🤷‍♀️ (pls don't attack me goonsuke fans)

✿ • Doesn't really drink that much when hes out, he'll have something if everyone else is but he rarely gets drunk-drunk. Hes a sentimental one but thats a secret shhhhh.

✿ • has tried smoking weed too but inhaled it wrong and nearly threw up from how hard he was coughing, his face was beet red for the rest of the night, 50% from the coughing, 50% from embarrassment. His friends get him into alot of stupid shit.

✿ • Talks to inanimate objects all the time and rarely thinks twice about it, like he'll bump into a table and say "sorry" or "excuse me", but if it was particularily hard on a sharp edge he'll go "owwUHH!!😠 You bitch...💔"

↑ Holding the drinks in the car still when he makes a sharp turn and saying something like "Hold on tight, Ladies." With a smirk.

↑ Tells his dishes it's "bath time!" and asked "may i take your coats?🧐" One time when peeling garlic.

✿ • Speaking of garlic he helps his mom around in the kitchen alot when making dinner, hes secretly a really good cook from just watching and learning through her but doesn't really like doing it all that much so it never lives up to its full potential. His dad is a bit scary in the kitchen on the other hand so he stays behind him lol

✿ • I headcanon his parents to be very like-..? They try to be supportive of him and encourage him to "try that" or "check out that job application" but on an emotional level they're a bit harder to get through to. Hes convinced they're dissapointed in him 24/7 what with how his mom called him a slacker. But they just want what's best for him.

He knows he'll never be like them. Just like Swansea said, hes not an ace student, career workhorse or a force of ambition. He doubts he'll ever bring in the big bucks. But that doesn't stop him from wanting to try. Hes just lost.

✿ • Hes had multiple low-paying jobs before the Tulpar like record store employée, Video store, ice cream stand or fast food employée. Top burger flipper Dai 😎🍔 but always manages to get fired somehow 🤕

✿ • That pink hawaiian shirt is just one out of dozens. He just likes them so much, each one is different from the other in color and pattern and he audibly gasps with exitement when he finds a new treasure at his local thrifts. They're literally all he wears. Hawaiian shirt, jeans, tee and jewelry. Every day. Maybe a hoodie over in the winter.. But don't mistake him for an outfit repeater.

✿ • Has been bleaching his hair since he was 20, went full yellow-ish blonde the first time but liked the outgrown roots look better.

Needs help with the back desparately 😭🙏

✿ • Had blue hair at one point as a kid and also shaved his whole head at 16 when he was feeling angsty and regretted it like crazy a week later ☠️

✿ • Wants more ear piercings SO BAD but feels shitty asking his parents for money. Grown ass man..

Lowkey also wants an eyebrow piercing but is afraid of it rejecting or getting ripped out somehow (same).

✿ • wears the most fuckass socks under those boots. Bro ONLY has silly patterned socks. Bananas, dinosaurs, stripes, stars, minecraft, spiderman, flowers, cats, literally anything.

RELATIONSHIP HC'S

✿ • Constantly wonders why you're dating him. Like you're just so cool and pretty and hes just "meh" in his eyes. He is so ready for you to dump him for some hung, beefy biker any second the first three months of your relationship.

✿ • Looks to you for your opinion all the time before deciding something. Sometimes it's just "Does this shirt look good??" But other times he really has to double check with you before making a big decision. He undermines himself quite often, he doesn't realize how smart and independent he actually is or could be. Dissmissing his thoughts to hear yours.

Thats when u have to try and mindfuck slash convince him into trusting his own intuition.

✿ • Loves watching you do your makeup (if u wear any). He'll just be sat behind you and watching everything you do in the mirror. Guesses what the products are before you use them.

↑ Wants u to kiss him all over after applying lipstick.

"But, baby, it'll stain :("

"Yes please!" *points to cheek.*

↑ Also begs you to do his eyeliner from time to time when you're going out. Adores the way you hold his jaw and stare at him in focus.

✿ • if you do piercings or are like "in training" hes begging YOU to do the piercings for him ‼️ "Please baby, please, i'llSuckIt,I'llBuyTicketsToThatConcertNextMonth,I'llBuyYouANewCar,I'llDoAnythingJust PLEASEEE pierce my rook!!!!" Hes literally on his knees with his hands clasped together.

↑ if you're not a pro tho, getting pierced together is definetly a date idea. You'd have a jar with the words "PiErciNG cAsH" scribbled on it standing proudly in your kitchen that you both drop money into regularily.

↑ puts on a brave face when the needle comes but bro has the lowest pain tolerance ever. Fainted once. You had to feed him kitkats till he could stand up.

NSFW HC'S

✿ • Is a virgin but not completely clueless, hes come close to losing his virginity before but both he and the other person pussied out. Got a handjob once tho!

He knows where the clit is from watching porn el oh el

✿ • Has moles all over, not just his face. He has a few on his arms and back but the most noticable(prettiest) ones are the ones on his chest and stomach <3 allllll the way down to his pubic bone.

i need to draw that..

✿ • LOVEEEESSS HICKEYS. Giving and receiving, he just can't help himself. Wears those purple bruises PROUDLY and can't wait for you to leave new ones once they've faded.

Loves seeing you with them too, it's just such an ego boost when he pulls back and sees you littered in them for everyone to see and know. But if you really don't want them to be anywhere visible he'll be like urgghhhh fiiinee.

You always have atleast one hickey somewhere with Daisuke as ur boyfriend.

✿ • Likes cowgirl, but his fav position is missionary, he gets so lost in the sause when fucking you dude. Whining and gasping into the crook of your neck as he tries not to bust early, stopping his agonizing pace every once in a while to grind his hips into yours, trying to dig himself as deep as possible before picking his pace back up again.

✿ • Pretty average in size, like 5-6 inches and girthy, his tip is like a #cc8976 and his cum is actually not that bad, he drinks alot of water. like ALOT. Hes literally a human fountain

✿ • is a chatterbox in the sheets, cringes a bit at dirtytalk but like "accidental dirtytalk" when hes inside you MFHH. Babbling about how good u feel. No degredation is flying out his trap 'round here.

- "Mnhh, fuckk.. Feel so good, baby.. I'm close-..!"

- "You're so wet,.. Mfhh-.. Hah.. This wet all 'cause of me, babe?"

- "God you're so hot-!! Hahh.. How could i get so lucky? Hm-?.."

✿ • Is a bit silly on impulse sometimes, hes the type to smile and wave at you if you look back at him during doggy hehehahGJDH

He'll apologize profusely after, trying to supress his giggles when you call him a fucking moron KSJAHSBD

*taps on your ass like a keyboard and inserts his dick*

"I'm in. 🧑‍💻"

Hehe i love silly sex

✿ • He loves cumming inside you so much, holds resentment towards condoms cuz they prevent him from doing so. He likes it RAW and without restraints!! But he respects you and your wishes so if you really want him to wear one he'll suck it up lol

✿ • Hes a munch, but honestly he just loves having his mouth on you in general. Getting sloppy with your sex, kissing up your stomach, latching onto your tits and sucking on your neck.

God just imagine him tucking his hair behind his ears lazily before going to town MEOWWWWWWW

✿ • Needs reassurance. It kinda borders on praise kink(?) but generally he just wants to know if hes doing good. If he sees even the slightest bit of boredom or discomfort on your face hes pulling away immediately to double check.

Once again with the whole "accidental dirtytalk" thing. He'll ask you something, genuienly seeking confirmation.. But he just says it so out of breath and whiny it sounds borderline filthy sometimes.

- "That the spot, baby?"

- "This ok?" / "You like that?" / "Right there, babe?"

He just wants to please you :((

Sigh..

Click

brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

#mouthwashing daisuke #daisuke x you #daisuke mouthwashing #daisuke x reader #daisuke mw #daisuke juarez #daisuke #mouthwashing x reader #daisuke headcanons

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treatmelikeasmut · 3 months ago

Text

This Journey of Ours

MASTERLIST

PAIRING: Viktor x AFAB!Reader//Modern!AU

CW: Pregnancy, fluff, passing mention of postpartum

WORD COUNT: 1.7k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Kind of wrote this on a whim. Just something small and cute that came to mind!

Don't forget to like, comment, and reblog your favorite fics <3

You stared at the clock, then at the time on your cellphone. Both read 11:48 PM. Of all the days for Viktor to stay late at the lab, it had to be today. Your knee bounced rapidly, impatiently. Gaze lingering on the TV, though you had no idea what was playing. Some show you swore for ages you’d get around to watching and never did. Now the volume was so low it was barely a hum. It joined the anxiety buzzing in the back of your skull.

Once again, you looked down at the object in your lap.

POSITIVE stared back at you. As it had for the last two days. No matter how many times you put the test down or hid it away in a box, that word remained. For two days nerves wrapped you in nausea, or maybe that was just the morning sickness talking. You were pregnant. The reality hardly set in. It just couldn’t seem to sink into your brain with any form of permenace. You were growing an entirely newly life that hadn’t existed before. That grew from two microscopic halves and would eventually become a whole new being.

You checked the clock again, then your cell phone. 11:53 PM. You had texted Jayce that morning, asking for him to muscle Viktor out of the lab early. You didn’t tell him a reason, only that you wanted your husband home before midnight. He had replied that it would be easy. Given the hour, it appeared it hadn’t been.

Chewing the inside of your lip, you looked at the test again. POSITIVE was still there. What would Viktor think? Children were a subject that was danced around in your household. The stance on it should’ve been made clear before your marriage. But was never established.

11:57 PM - the sound of a key being jammed into the front door lock. It was still three minutes to midnight, Jayce got lucky this time. A muttered curse came from the entry way. Then the uneven gait of Viktor’s footsteps as he came down the hall. They stopped at the entrance to the living room.

“Love, you’re still awake,” Viktor observed. He came up behind the couch, kissing the top of your head. “It’s late, you need your rest.”

“I like to stay up and wait for you,” you told him, praying your voice was steady.

“You don’t have to do that.” He came around and sat on the couch, leaning his cane against the arm. He looked at you with that smug expression you loved. “Though, I will admit - coming home and seeing you so immediately after a long day is my favorite.”

You smiled briefly, and Viktor’s expression changed. The test was pressed between your thighs, keeping it from sight. It was a hard rigid against the soft flesh that grew more uncomfortable the longer he stared at you. Your husband was sharp as ever, even as tired as he was. You never could keep anything away from that sharp gaze.

“Something is wrong,” Viktor stated, eyes searching. His hand sought yours, holding in on the cushion between you. “What is it?”

You drew in a shaking breath, staring down at your woven fingers. Your heart was in your throat, clawing at your ribs. You were sick with it. Even the tips of your ears burned.

“What…” you started. “What do you think about kids?”

Viktor sucked in a sharp breath, stilling in his seat. His fingers clamped aorund yours a little harder. “In general? Or…as in us?”

You swallowed, mouth tacky. “Us.”

“I…well, I -” He couldn’t seem to find the words, gaze wandering to the TV. The grinding of the gears in his mind almost audible. He muttered something under his breath. Then said, “I thought I had the count wrong. But I did not.”

You knew Viktor tracked your menstral cycles. It was even on a calendar on your fridge. He must’ve been doing the math in his head. Even being semi-irregular, your period exceedingly late.

“You’re pregnant,” he stated, turning back to you.

There was no doubt in his face. He was as sure about this as if he’d told you the sky was blue. In response, you pulled out the test. It still said POSITIVE. He took it from you with a shaking hand. Viktor was quiet for a long time, just staring at the digital screen. Like he was daring it to change its mind. You knew it wouldn’t.

“I know we didn’t talk about it before,” you admitted. “We should’ve…so, what do you think?”

Viktor didn’t move, replying sensibly, “That we will call the OB in the morning to set up and ultrasound and ensure all is well.”

You nodded. “And…other than that? I’d like to know what’s going on in Husbandland right now.”

Viktor’s eyes bounced to you, holding your gaze for but a moment, before they turned back to the test. “Do you think we are ready?”

“They say you’re never really ready for kids.”

Viktor’s mouth pressed into a flat line. “If I ask something, will you be truthful, my love?’

You squeezed the hand you were holding. “Always.”

“Will I be a terrible father? You know I never -” He cut himself off at the thought.

“I think the fact you’re nervous about it means you’re already a good one.”

The corner of his lip twitched, but his face remained blank. “I always figured if it was meant for me, then children would come. If it was not, then I would be fine with that too. - The same as before I met you. I thought that if love was meant for me, then it would find me. If I was to remain alone, then I would reconcile with that as well. Yet we are married and this test tells me that a little one will come. There is a surprising amount of fear in that.”

“I think you’re going to do great.” You scooted across the couch until your legs touched. Then leaned your head against his shoulder, your folded hands resting on your thigh. You stared at the test with him now. The only sounds in the room the murmur of the TV and the ticking of the clock on the wall.

“Jayce will be stupid excited,” Viktor finally uttered. Louder, he asked, “But what about work? Long nights in the lab cannot be avoided forever. They will happen. You will be alone.”

You shrugged. “We’ll figure it out when the time comes.”

“That is not fair you.”

“It’s what happens when I have a brilliant scientist as a husband.”

Viktor hummed. “I will need to do better…”

“You and I will figure it out down the line.” You squeezed his hand again.

Viktor’s cane clattered loudly as it slipped from its resting place. You both flinched. Viktor stared at it. “I will not be able to run with them. To do many things other fathers can.”

“Viktor,” you cooed, coaxing him to look at you. Panic was leaking through a careful mask. His eyes were wide, breathing a bit more rapid. You took his face in your hands, he leaned into the touch. “Our kid isn’t going to care about the stuff you can’t do. But they’ll always remember the things you can.”

“Like what?”

You leaned in a kissed him chastly. “Like vinegar and baking soda volcanos, and showing up to their games if they’re in sports, reading to them before bed - that sort of thing. They’ll just want time with you, how ever you can. - I’m also scared. What if I mess up? What if they don’t think I’m someone they can trust and come to when they get older? What if I accidentally feed them something they’re allergic to? I’m terrified of getting postpartum and doing something heinous.”

“I have no doubt you will as wonderful a parent as you are a partner. Whatever you need, I will do my best to accommodate.” Viktor cupped your cheek in one hand, running his thumb lightly across your skin. “I let you down enough as it stands. I don’t want to let the little one down, too.”

“You never let me down,” you whispered, a clot building in your throat. You swallowed against it. You were not going to cry right now. “You’ve frustrated me, sure - but never let me down.”

Viktor chuckled, the panic finally easing up. His eyes wandered back to the test. “So, it’s real and truly.”

You nodded. “I peed on two boxes worth of tests in the last three days, it was like Juno in here. They’re all stashed in a shopping bag under the bathroom sink if you want to see them.”

“That’s a bit overkill, don’t you think?” he teased, smirking.

Warm relief flodded through you, all your muscles relaxed for the first time in days. You laughed, shrugging. “Maybe - I wanted to be sure. Really sure before I told you. It’s like one of your experiments, right? You have to be sure you can replicate your results before you announce your findings.”

Viktor laughed rather heartily at that. “I suppose.”

“I’ll call the OB in the morning.”

Viktor nodded. “And I will make a list of questions for her. I have much to learn.”

“I’ll have to warn them when I make the appointment,” you joked, rolling your eyes. “You’re going to go overboard on research, aren’t you?”

“I would never dream of it,” scoffed Viktor, “I just want to make sure we are prepared. There is nothing wrong with that.”

You kissed him again. “Just make sure to enjoy the journey, too.”

Tentatively, Viktor placed a hand on your stomach, gently rubbing it through your shirt. You didn’t have a bump yet, but he seemed mesmerized all the same. He leaned his forehead to yours, then pressed a kiss to your lips.

“As long as the journey is by your side.”

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lvlybin · 3 months ago

Note

Hanbin who loves and lets you lead the relationship, is literally so happy to get dragged around UNLESS it's the sheets, he calls the shots there and I fear I'm dying on this hill 😔

cw p in v unprotected sex, clit play, edging, dom & sub, mentions of Hanbin calling you Mommy, a little bit of mean Bin?, mirror sex 18+ MDNI

✉️ well yes anon, you absolutely are right. that is literally Hanbin to a T. adding this to my headcannons for him thank you babe >_<

Hanbin very much does everything in his power to make sure his girlfriend is always happy. He lets her boss him around quite often, carrying her bags and doing anything she tells him to. Many of his friends don’t hesitate to remind him that you’re the one to wear the pants in the relationship, how he probably calls you mommy in bed. Hanbin just laughs at their comments.

Because if only they could see you now–pussy dripping your juices just like the tears falling silently down your cheeks as he refuses you an orgasm again. The fifth one in a row, and your clit is starting to try and throb itself to a release. All because you’d indulged in his friends’ jokes. You’d said, "Yes, Hanbin’s the biggest sub I’ve ever seen,” but he’d laughed. He’d laughed, and you’d thought it was fine. But now, in your fuzzy mind, you remember the way his hand had tightened on your thigh as a silent warning. He’d told you you were in for it, and you hadn’t even listened.

“I’m the biggest sub you’ve ever seen, hmm?” Hanbin hums as his thumb brushes over your clit, making your hips jerk. “Then you’ve never seen yourself.” His breath is warm against your ear as he leans closer to you. “Should we change that? I’ve edged you enough, right?” You nod eagerly, wanting him to give in to you. The teasing smile that grows on his face as his thumb traces your bottom lip makes you whine. It’s a condescending kind of expression, like he thinks all you think about was him making you cum. And right now, that was absolutely correct. “Yeah… Let’s fix that.”

His hands are on your hips, flipping you over before you can even process what’s happening. And when you lift your head up from the comforter, you’re met with your reflection in the mirror–your hair’s a mess from the rough treatment, eyes glazed over, and marks littering your skin. Your eyes trail up a bit further to meet his in the mirror. They lack their usual sparkle, much more dark and intense than the looks he gave you in public. There was no objection, this Hanbin was in charge. A sharp gasp leaves you as he slowly begins to ease his length in you, his hands keeping your hips propped up and to keep you from squirming away. Taking his cock was always a bit difficult from the sheer heaviness that it would fill your pussy with.

“Does it turn you on how no one else gets to see you like this?” He punctuates his words with rough thrusts, his balls hitting your clit and you almost scream at the sudden movement. “All cute and submissive. All mine?”

“Yours!” you cry out in response, and Hanbin chuckles. As your whines and moans grow louder, the movement of his hips becomes faster and deeper, giving you the good fucking that’s always necessary to fix your bratty attitude. For the night at least. “Binnie– All yours.” He hums as he watches your half-lidded eyes in the mirror. “Boss me around all you want, but I know what you really need.”

#⠀๑﹙ 𝓖entle愛𝓓aydreams ﹚ㅤ𝆬 ̼⠀﹗#૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა 𝒜𝒏𝒐𝒏`𝗌 𝒯𝗁𝒐𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 #lvlybin ☆ shb #zerobaseone x reader #zerobaseone smut #zb1 x reader #zb1 smut #zb1 hard hours #zb1 hard thoughts #hanbin x reader #hanbin smut #sung hanbin x reader #sung hanbin smut #zb1 hanbin x reader #zb1 hanbin smut #hanbin hard hours #hanbin hard thoughts #hanbin imagines #zb1 hanbin

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habitual-creatures · 8 months ago

Text

Mmmmmmmm- yay.

Mod tries not to relapse challenge!

Yayyyyyyyyyyy. I'm fine. It's whatever.

I have no need to find that fuckin sharpener blade again. I don't need to use it to feel. I don't need it to get me in a high. I don't need it to let me lick lanes of my own rubies for fun. I don't need it to get me smiling again. I don't need it to reopen old lines. I don't need it to get giddy. I don't need it.

#REGARDS: MOD 💜 💙#not asks #mental health vent #cw vent #cw mental health #cw relapse #cw sh implied #cw sharp objects #cw blood mention #cw repetition #delete later #people don't need to see this jackass. fucking moron.#take it the fuck down. no one needs to fucking see it #no one needs to see your fuckin pathetic bullshit

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lostintransist · 4 months ago

Text

This Bunny Bites | Part 12

Part 1 | AO3

CW: BIG emotions, the men fighting back the demons of the past and mentions of sex toys.

Your presence lingered like the scent of an overly perfumed woman had passed through the room in the not-too-distant past. It showed in the sharp set of Kyle’s jaw as he leaned over the counter staring at a business card. It appeared in the way John pulled a glass down to pour himself two fingers of Johnnie Walker, and in the rigid posture of Johnny’s shoulders.

“If you want a sister and not an enemy you need to stop egging her on,” Simon took the grape from Johnny’s fingers before he could crush it.

Training had been going well, you absorbed information and could regurgitate it in a way that didn’t feel forced or unnatural. You worked at them though, the connections between the men. Simon wondered if you knew you did it. Picking at the wound between you and Johnny the blood, acidic, caustic burned the edges of their bonds with one another.

“She doesn’t seem like she wants a brother,” Johnny snapped at him as grabbed another grape. The small fruit objected to leaving its sisters and dragged the bunch out of the bag. He cursed under his breath as he cradled them in his hand.

“I can’t call her.” Kyle slapped a hand over the card before dragging it from the counter and stepping to throw it in the bin.

“Now hold on,” John swirled his liquor in his hand. “Why can’t you? And who is she?”

Simon watched John watch Kyle, eyes flicking back and forth.

“Cara. She’s Bunny’s best friend. She’s in the photos that got sent to you from the dress shopping day.” Kyle’s hand stays raised, paused in its arc.

“She’s pretty, and she’s your type. What’s the issue?” John sipped from his glass, eyes shrewd as he studied his sergeant.

From Simon’s position next to Johnny he caught Kyle’s glance to his best friend. Johnny didn’t see it though, eyes down plucking another grape free of the once life-giving vine that trapped it in a death of consumption.

“The issue is he doesn’t want to be steppin’ on toes Cap.” Simon must have nailed it from the roiling anger in Kyle’s glare.

“My toes?” Johnny pointed to his chest. “Have at her. It’s not like you’re going after my wee sister.”

The demons in Simon’s mind started to howl, scenting blood on the words. He liked the look of you. The curves that begged for hands, the wicked sharpness that sparked behind your eyes, and even the knowing you would fight for yours. Having you would not be an option. Ever. Didn’t stop the wanting.

“Soap,” John leveled a hard look at the sergeant over the glass he tipped to his lips.

“Captain,” Johnny replied, stance firm and voice sharp.

“You need to find some peace with her or you won’t be playing bodyguard at any events. We can’t have you breaking roles,” sipping the scotch in his glass.

Johnny crossed one arm across his chest to hold the opposite bicep. His free hand scrapped across the stubble on his face.

“How do you recommend going out about that Cap?”

The tension in the room paused its upward spiral. Johnny asked, sincerely, for advice. Simon and Kyle shared a look. Johnny would rather walk naked to exfil after failing to defuse a bomb than ask for help. They both looked back to the monumental event unfolding before them.

Setting the glass down with a deep sigh, John looked from Simon to Kyle, and from Kyle to Johnny. Sighing again he lifted a hand to his face. Pressing his thumb and middle fingers from the space between his brows to his temples John rubbed both temples in small circles before dropping his hand to the counter.

“One thing you learn as a captain is to watch and to listen. Your sister is smart and will sniff out any bullshit before you can pinch it off. If you want a better relationship with her, to have a sister again instead of a snarling hellcat snapping for your throat, you need to apologize.”

Johnny opened his mouth to say any number of things but paused at the hand John lifted.

“When you apologize you need to mean it. If you regret not going back for her tell her that. Do you regret not killing your father before you left? Tell her that. After you apologize you shut the fuck up and take any abuse she gives you. In saving yourself she was damned to the life she now leads, which is bound to create some rage,” John snatched up his glass throwing back the last swallow like a shot. He held the back of his hand to his lips, eyes distant. Simon thought he looked like a man remembering the times he damned someone. “Most of all stop using her as a whetstone for your self-hatred.”

John’s eyes didn’t leave the memories that played along the counter for his eyes only. Kyle blew out a breath, eyes haunted. Johnny folded his arms and stared at the tiles between his boots. All four of them had made choices they hid behind happy memories and didn’t dare pull out even on the darkness of nights with their vice of choice flowing through their bodies. Those memories played a barrier to living normal lives. How is someone supposed to act normal after finding out that intestines don’t fall from the body like sausage links, but bulge as they are held back by the facisa? Can a regular life be possible for any of them when the choices they made would damn them to prison if someone deemed powerful hadn’t declared it a war?

Simon couldn’t help but rub the heel of his hand against his breastbone. Praying that enough pressure would ease his damnation and that the dreams of you in his bed, crying out to god wouldn’t damn him any further.

When you rise the next morning you make sure to stretch while waiting for your toast to pop. Forgoing the heavy night club makeup and following a tutorial for a fresh-faced look with a warm pop of color on your lips you select an outfit that would blend in well at a country club brunch.

The plans did not include a round of golf, but Jeffrey Dutson loved to get his hands on girls when he took them out on the green. Making a decision you grab the golf outfit with the built-in shorts. Those damn skirts were designed to give a peek and you weren’t ready to get a palm-to-cheek grab today.

Face appropriately affixed and outfit sitting snug on your body you dither over how to do your hair. You had pulled it up and down and side to side trying to find the right option. The knock at the front door comes as you are making faces in the bathroom mirror.

Walking to the door you guess at who is standing on the other side of it. The weight in the knock told you it could be your brother, Price, or Ghost. Kyle knocked lightly like he used to knuckles and rapt the door instead of slamming his strength into the motion. Silence behind the door tipped you more toward Ghost. Johnny fidgeted and John shifted.

Unlocking the door you pull it open.

“Hmm, I was right. Now question, hair up or down?” You glance up and down Ghost appreciating the sight before you.

A black polo, top two buttons undone, stretched across his broad shoulders. Black medical mask and a black cap matched the shirt. His tan slacks and brown shoes completed the look of ‘I’m only hired muscle’ to a T. The half-sleeve tattoo on his left arm pulled your attention. Flames, skulls, and all manner of war tools decorate it. Hellfire and the whip of the devil the priest in your mother’s old parish always droned on about would be your only reward for the desire ripping through you.

“What have you tried?” He steps past you onto the dingy carpet of the living room.

Shutting the door tight behind him you scoop your hair up and show him the several options you’ve already tried.

“The only thing I can’t do is a French braid. I would do a Dutch braid but it doesn’t fit right with the outfit,” you let your hair slap against your back as you drop it.

He doesn’t let his gaze roam like Kyle did. You think he saw everything anyway. Reaching around you he pulled out a chair from the table you shoved in the corner since that is the only place it would fit and not cause you to trip every time you headed into the kitchen.

“I can braid. Sit.”

“Ooh starting off the day with orders,” you send him an ugly look. “Try asking and I’ll get you the supplies.”

Ghost stared down at you, eyes drifting from one of yours to the other. By some sign known only to him, he turned and started down the short hall. Darting past him you slam a hand into each wall, his chest flush with your back.

“Damn man, go back to the table,” you snarl the words at him without turning your head. If you shift even a bit then he might see the mortification painted on your face.

It wouldn’t normally be a problem but last night you had decided to clean and air-dry most of your self-care collection. If you had used more than one while imaging rough, wide hands and thick forearms that would now include a half sleeve, well that knowledge belonged to you alone.

His presence retreats and you grab the comb, water bottle, and the small clear rubber bands that didn’t rip your hair from your skull when you removed them. The handful of steps back to the table are enough to allow you to find composure again. If it had been anyone else at the door you wouldn’t have had to stop them from entering the bathroom. But no. Price had to send the one man who could elicit that reaction out of you.

Ghost braiding your hair reads like a torture session for sexually repressed women. The firm hold, his slight nails scratching against your scalp as he drew up more hair, the near silent movement of his breaths. Torture. Finally, he is finishing off the braid. His fingers aren’t able to open the small hair tie and after the third accidental tug on your braid as he tries you snap at him.

“For the love of fuck! Quit yanking me around. I'll tie it off.”

Taking your hair in one hand, the other is busy stretching the band between your teeth and fingers. In less time than he dinked around trying to get it, your hair was secured. Now hot and bothered, you stand and grab your bag off the table. Leaving all the hair supplies behind you turn around and lift a brow at Ghost.

“Ready to go big man?” You practice your big doe eyes and the tiniest pout.

Ghost takes one, slow, deep breath as he stares at you.

Relaxing you let your face fall into a natural rest.

“You’re right, that was too much. I’ll fit in better once we get there,” waving a hand as if to clear smoke you strode to the front door.

Unlocking it with one hand the other digs out your favorite pair of sunglasses.

“Come on spooks,” glancing over your shoulder at the man you slide them on. “We’ve got men to conquer.”

Part 11 | Part 13

Bunny Masterlist | Masterlist

Cute divider from @/jimzittos

@leahnicole1219 @notsochillnerd @darling006 @harperstyles @lucienofthelakes @redkarmakai @demothers-empty-blog @cheese-pull @itsmeamysworld @fluffysmiko @w0ede @skeletonsucker

#cod #fanfiction #cod x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #soap cod #john price #kyle gaz garrick #gaz cod #This Bunny Bites #lostintransit #lostinstransit writing

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fear-is-truth · 13 days ago

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PRETTY BOY † NATURAL BLOODSTAINED BLONDE

✃ .dust bowl – ethel cain | t. langdon x reader. cw : mentions of violence & blood. loss of virginity

HALF-OBSCURED BY FOGGED GLASS, the drive-in screen breaks into pulses of lurid cobalt and necrotic slate, each jump-cut sketching fractured light across the windshield’s surface. as the axe-wielding killer lumbers through a mist-spun thicket, the final girl (a peroxide blonde with comically bouncing tits) careens barefoot between trees. her face contorts in a grimace that’s supposed to convey terror but tipping, unsettlingly, toward the pornographic.

your boyfriend isn’t watching the screen. hasn’t been for a while. his eyes are on you—drinking in the sight of your profile, alight by slasher-flick blue, bottom lip caught between your teeth. he’s always been more interested in you.

“you’re not gonna watch the movie?”

the inquiry lands hollow, even to your own ears. you’re feigning focus on the screen, but your performance is pitiful. worse, even, than the actress flailing nude across it.

“she’s gonna die,” tate says, deadpan.

and that’s the end of it.

he’s kissing you before the next scream cues. his hand is already under your shirt, cold fingers spanning the furnace of your abdomen. he’s done this before and he’ll do it again, and your body remembers the sequence better than you do—arching into his palm with the dumb trust of muscle memory. your fingers slip into his hair, that soft, flaxen thatch that captures sunlight like a halo, even as everything in him darkened. you give a single, practiced tug, which knocks a groan loose in his throat, quickly swallowed by your mouth.

the windows are nearly opaque now. fog from your breathes blooms against the glass in white bursts.

he’s pushing deeper, tongue slipping past your teeth. you can taste the artificial sweetness of cherry sugar and pepsi syrup. he pulls back, brown eyes glossy and fixed on your mouth. his hand finds your wrist, flipping it palm-up between you.

the pact’s cicatrix rests pale and thin near the base of your thumb, but both of you remember its inception four summers ago: trembling fingers interlocking, each palm slick with fresh, gleaming crimson—an encounter so illicit and pristine it felt almost virginal, flesh pressed against flesh with a thin rivulet of blood slipping between the crevice. that ritual awakened something. a fierce yearning that was first stoked within your belly when he leaned forward and licked the coppery sweetness from your wrist. objectively, it was fucked up, but to you, if that wasn’t love, you don’t know what is.

virginal. that breaking of skin.

a time much later; when he broke you open—this time, in the literal sense rather than the symbolic—you felt everything all over again. red and aching once more, that same look in his eyes. sharp, sacred rupture. his lips press to your the inside of your wrist. and all you could think was:

this is the same vow.

just consummated different.

cinematic violence splatter on the windshield, all blood and guts—but he only has eyes for you.

#american horror story #ahs #tate langdon #tate langdon x reader #tate langdon smut #tate langdon x y/n #tate langdon fanfic #ahs season 1 #ahs murder house #ahs season one #evan peters #evan peters x reader #tate langdon imagine

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gingeralecranberry · 8 months ago

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CHAPTER 1

જ⁀➴𝟐-𝟏 ; 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐛𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

AS YOU'RE RIPPING ME TO SHREDS

☺︎ cw:

mentions of death, fighting, canon-typical violence, gojo may be ooc he's a lil bit of a weirdo, sukuna and gojo both deserve their own warnings, scarring, brief mention/description of injuries, Megumi is an edgy teen, that one scene were itadori is chained to that weird ass pole, mentions of executions, semi-graphic descriptions of Sukuna's finger (cause it really is disgusting)

"Under Jujustu regulations, Itadori Yuji, I will exorcize you as a curse!"

Beneath the shrouded night sky, the moonlight blanketed the scattered chunks of jagged debris strewn across the school rooftop in a soft radiance. The holes in the structure croaked with a melancholy groan, the noise swept away with the wind. Spiderweb-esque cracks stretched their slender fingers across the concrete, across the pale gray walls, across the splintered siding of the building.

"Wait, really, I'm fine!"

Across the expanse of carnage, the two teenagers stared each other down.

The older of the two boys sat on one end of the building, drenched in a pool of his own blood. The carmine color and the sweat caked on his face matted his spiky black hair to his forehead, both fists raised in a false circle. The heightened collar of his uniform jacket cast an intimidating shadow over the lower half of his face, highlighting the kindlings of desperation burning in his muted green eyes.

The younger of the two, a much more spritely personality, raised his hands in surrender. The pink hair that'd been ruffled to stand up nearly straight cascaded down his forehead again, the ominous black markings all over his body swallowed by the flesh tone of his skin. The sharp black talons on the ends of each finger dissolved, almost as if they'd never been there in the first place.

"More importantly," he pleaded, "you and I are both pretty beat up, let's get to a hospital."

"..."

Stuck at odds with his logical rationale and his gut feeling, Megumi Fushiguro could feel the familiar feeling of frustration welling up in his throat.

'I can't tell if the one speaking right now is Itadori or the cursed object! Damn it...'

Megumi still hesitated to drop the stance, fearing an ambush. He grit his teeth to the point it hurt, trying to come up with a coherent plan of action.

'...What should I do?!'

In the near deafening silence, both of the combatants failed to notice the presence of a third person on the roof. As if it were just any other day, the tall man interjected himself seemingly without a care.

"What's the situation?"

Fushiguro immediately dropped his hands in favor of whipping around to look behind him, jaw dropping open as his eyes settled on the familiar sight of his teacher. His internal wheel of emotions seemed to spin back and forth between horror, relief, and utter mortification.

Eventually, it settled for a nightmare cocktail blessed by all of the above!

"Wha... Gojo-sensei?! What are you doing here?!"

Kitted up in his signature gakuran, blindfold, and a bag from the local pastry shop, his white hair stuck up from the pressure of the blindfold on either side of his face. He stood a few feet away from the edge of the rooftop, hands shoved in his pockets.

"Hey." Leisurely, he greeted his student with a relaxed smile, resting a set of knuckles on his chin. "I wasn't planning on coming, but man, you're roughed up..." A cruel grin snaked its way up the man's cheeks, lighting up his face like a billboard even with the blindfold covering the mischievous curve of his eyes.

"...I should show the second years."

His student grimaced, doing his best to twist his broken body away from the camera. He hissed through his teeth, swallowing both his physical AND mental pain in an effort to keep his dignity.

Still, Gojo persisted, leaning in close as he began to snap what the Sendai-student assumed were dozens of pictures. "Hahaha! Face this way!"

Itadori could only stand by and watch in what he described as abject horror-fascination.

Eventually, when it seemed the older man got his fill of amusement, he tucked his phone back into one of his many pockets with a satisfied grin. "The higher-ups wouldn't shut up with a special-grade cursed object gone missing, so I stopped by while doing some sightseeing." Curiously, he examined the surrounding area through the confines of the black fabric pressed over his eyes.

"So... did you find it?"

"..."

"Um..."

Oblivious to the situation at hand, Gojo tilted his head to the side, "Hm?"

The teenagers exchanged glances momentarily.

"He ate it."

Collectively, all heads turned towards the voice originating from the huge hole in the concrete wall of the school.

"Huh?"

In the dead silence of the encounter, the soft pitter patter of quiet footsteps resounded against the desecrated rooftop like drums. Peeking from the shadows cast by the ruined architecture, a tall man in strange attire stepped into the low light of the moon. Donning a pair of black hakama pants and a matching plain black haori jacket, he too inserted himself into the conversation rather casually.

He raised a finger, wiggling it back and forth to demonstrate, "The finger, he ate it."

The two teenagers blinked at him stupidly.

Gojo's posture, on the other hand, straightened with excited recognition, "Sensei!"

'Sensei? Didn't Fushiguro say "Gojo-sensei" earlier though?'

Before Itadori could think about it any further, the white-haired teacher disappeared from view before reappearing on the other side of the rooftop. In the blink of an eye, he was already falling into stride alongside the newcomer as naturally as one would breathe. "What are you doing here?"

The stranger paid no mind to the sudden change in the man's position, walking forward at the same measured pace, "It's been 10 years since you graduated Gojo, you don't need to call me Sensei."

The other sorcerer hummed, "Well, calling you by your last name feels too formal, but I don't wanna say your first name..." He trailed off, letting the silence hang in the air for an uncomfortably long amount of time.

"..."

Finally, he tacked on, "So... What are you doing here? Did you miss me so much you had to visit? No need to feel embarrassed!"

Fushiguro could feel his nose crinkle in disgust.

'God, he's humiliating.'

Completely unphased, the older man's eyes were still looking straight ahead, locked on target. "When one of Sukuna's fingers goes missing, it doesn't take a genius to figure out the higher-ups are going to panic. I was sent in as back-up." He came to a stop in front of the pink-haired teen in question, "Itadori, was it?"

"..."

The 15-year-old gulped down a lump of spit, tilting his neck to look up into the other's (eye-color) eyes.

Instead of trying to kill him (like he expected), the stranger offered Yuji his hand, "(surname) (name), may I?"

"..."

"...Huh?"

"Sorry, I should probably explain myself first." The man retracted his hand in favor of letting it fall to his side again. "I'm a cursed object specialist. Since you swallowed a cursed object, I need to do a quick check to make sure nothing's wrong with you."

"Oh," Yuji murmured, "Yeah... yeah, that's fine."

(name)'s neutral face shifted to an imperceptible smile, nodding gratefully.

He looked the boy up and down first, completing a basic visual examination.

'No signs of markings... but what are those?'

Without warning, the older man's hand gripped the teen's jaw between two fingers, tilting his head to the side to scrutinize the new scarring on his cheekbones.

A moment of silence passed among the group.

Finally, the specialist's released the teen's face, "Fascinating..." He placed a hand on his chin, sitting on any other potential questions before asking, "Does anything feel off with your body?"

The teen glanced over his appendages, looking for any injuries, "Not particularly."

The sorcerer hummed again, satisfied, "Truly fascinating."

Laying a hand on (name)'s shoulder, Gojo moved his former teacher out of the way before inspecting the teen himself. "Damn, it really did combine with you... That's hilarious!" He curbed his enthusiasm, continuing to scan the composition of the teen's newly concocted cursed energy. There, however, seemed to be a particularly mischievous idea forming in his head, indicated by the Cheshire grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Say, can you swap out with Sukuna?"

Itadori blinked, "Sukuna?"

Gojo nodded, "The curse you ate."

The teen paused, "Oh... Yeah, I think I can do that."

Upon being given the greenlight, the white-haired menace started to stretch. Rolling his shoulders and squatting to open up his legs he continued, "Then give us ten seconds."

Megumi opened his mouth to voice protest, but (name)--who had taken the opportunity to walk over to Fushiguro--simply shook his head in response.

The teacher righted his posture, shaking out his arms, "Once ten seconds are up, come back to us."

Seemingly already familiar with the danger pertaining to the entity inside him, the younger teen seemed hesitant to comply, "But..."

Immediately, he was was cut off, "Don't worry. I'm the strongest." Upon seeing the boy's shoulders relax a little, Satoru Gojo called over his shoulder. "Megumi."

Fushiguro gave a small grunt in response.

"Hold on to this."

Despite tossing it to his student, (name) ended up catching the carry-out awkwardly in one hand.

Fushiguro's eyes trailed up to the bag, gesturing towards it with his less injured arm, "What is that?"

As if he wasn't about to go up against the King of Curses, Gojo smiled eagerly, "Kikufuku from Kikusuian!" As was characteristic of the man, his hands moved just as animatedly as his voice when he spoke, "It's Sendai's specialty and it's super good. I personally recommend the Zunda and Cream flavor!"

The eldest of the four offered a tired sigh, holding the twine straps in one hand so he could massage his temple with the other. Megumi, on the other hand, narrowed his eyes. His lip curled as he hissed a rather pissed off, "This guy actually went and bought souvenirs when people were out here dying...!"

The sound of Gojo and his student bickering slowly faded into background noise as (name) closed his eyes. The thrum of cursed energy traced the outlines of his feet where they connected with the ground, tickling the sole of his solid black boot.

As a special grade sorcerer, he assumed he'd seen just about everything cursed energy had to offer the mortal realm. Still, (name) had yet to face such... malicious decadence twisted into the very source of the energy itself.

Undoubtedly, the King of Curses was standing on that very rooftop, in the body of a shirtless pink-haired teenage boy.

At a speed faster than the mortal eye could reasonably follow, an avalanche of dust erupted in the wake of the strongest cursed spirit the world had the misfortune of knowing.

Megumi's body surged forward in alarm, "Behind you!"

His teacher paid his cry no mind, wagging a finger at him with a hand on his hip, "Kikufuku's not like other souvenirs-"

What little remained of the concrete floor exploded from under Sukuna's very feet, brushing against your closed eyelids. While not nearly as refined as a certain someone else's cursed eyes, you traced the rough outline of the battlefield like a messy blueprint. The entire rooftop sizzled with the remnants of cursed energy like water left to simmer on an open cooktop. It was difficult to map out the timeline of events, but that could be worried about later. For now, two large husks of cursed energy gave particularly strong outlines.

"--And the whipped cream inside is simply exquisite."

You fanned some of the aftershocks of the explosion away from your face with the wave of a hand, opening your eyes.

Barely even a foot in front of you, the Ryomen Sukuna was hunched over...

... with your former student perched on his back.

The curse gave an angry laugh, immediately weaving to hit Gojo again. He wasn't expecting the man to match his pace, ducking and sliding out of the way with every fist that came soaring his direction. Even more shocking, instead of dodging, the man parried one of his strikes, sending the Curse hurtling through the air to the other end of the rooftop.

Another plume of dust flew up like a smoke wall, obscuring the King from view.

"My student's watching, so I'm going to show off a little."

The corner of the older teacher's lips quirked up in a smile.

Oh, to be young and stupid.

Something about hearing one of his own students saying that made a little memory in the recesses of (name)'s heart flutter with bittersweet nostalgia. He remembered when he would've done the same thing.

With something akin to a groan, Sukuna advanced again.

'He's unbelievably fast? No, that's not it.'

The two met midair, the curse finding itself on the receiving end of a fist straight to the face. Once again thrown nearly head first into the decaying building, he clicked his tongue in annoyance, just barely managing to correct his footing before landing, "For crying out loud... you jujutsu sorcerers are always trouble, no matter the era!"

Following his proclamation, he leapt into the air, bringing his wrath down onto the roof where his opponent stood. Before he could make contact with the floor however, it seemed the concrete hardened and reinforced itself with an electrifying concentration of cursed energy.

Like a piece of fabric, the energy was woven around itself. It laid flat on the ground like a blanket, but it stung with the same potency as snake venom.

Two of his four eyes glanced to the source, widening.

'That volume of cursed energy... and yet it doesn't feel as though he has any.'

(name) stood to the side, one hand still wound around the straps of the bakery bag, the other shoved into his pocket.

"Seven... Eight... Nine..."

Sukuna let out an exasperated growl, chest heaving with the excessive exertion.

"Should be time."

Instantaneously, all muscle control seemed to slip through the curse's fingers like sand through a sieve. Any attempt to grasp at motor function only served for it to escape him quicker.

'Damn it... Again? I can't take over. Who the hell is this... Itadori... brat?'

(name) hummed, enamored as he recollected his cursed energy from the environment. He watched the malevolent aura of the King dwindle and dwindle until it was no more than a blot the outline of Itadori's soul.

The teen's body slowly returned to normality, tattoos disappearing and nails whittling down to that of the average human. As the eyes on the side of his head closed into scars once again, the young teen asked, "Oh, was everything okay?"

"I'm shocked." From the heart of the explosion, the remaining sorcerer sauntered back over to the group. Gojo gave an overly amused smirk at the sight, looking over Itadori again with his Six Eyes. "You really can control it!"

The pink-haired teen nodded, smacking the side of his head with furrowed brows, "He's kind of annoying though, I can hear his voice."

(name) hummed, "That's to be expected when you're a vessel."

The other teacher expressed his own agreement, "It's a miracle that's all he's doing."

Just like the cursed object specialist had done earlier, when Gojo approached and outstretched his hand towards Yuji's face, the highschooler didn't pay any mind. This time however, when two fingers made contact with his forehead, something didn't quite feel right. With maybe a millisecond to register the strange sensation, his eyelids started to droop. Fighting to keep them open, he made a noise between alarm and discomfort, instantaneously confronted with the creeping, rapidly expanding feeling of his body turning to lead.

"What did you do?"

The youngest of the four crumbled, chin unceremoniously knocking on the sorcerer's sturdy shoulder.

"Knocked him out," he grunted as he heaved the Sendai student's body to drape across his back. "If he isn't possessed by Sukuna when he wakes up, he might have potential as a vessel!"

(name) grimaced, watching the uncomfortable bend of the teenager's spine over the curvature of the other man's back.

"Now, Megumi, I have a question for you."

"..."

"What should we do with him?"

Like the responsible kid he was, Fushiguro ruminated on his thoughts before he made a final decision. His eyes reflected each and every one of the potential outcomes his brain parsed through, all the best and worst what-if scenarios.

"Even if he is a vessel, Jujutsu regulations demand Itadori be executed."

The cursed object specialist hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath. Whether out of interest or apathy, he couldn't tell. The moment the verdict was delivered, he exhaled it as a heavy sigh out of his nose.

"...However,"

(name) paused.

Fushiguro's eyes met Gojo's, piercing through him with a thousand-yard stare that was intense and packed with conviction, "I don't want to let him die."

"..."

His teacher's lips peeled back into a coy smile.

"Personal feeling?"

The young man nodded, completely resolute in his decision.

"Yes. Please do something about this."

His teacher's smile only grew wider, a single hand reaching up to brush through his untamed white hair with a quiet snicker, "Now it's a request from a precious student... Leave it to me."

"Wait."

Teacher and student whipped around to the third party, idling like he was on stand-by.

The man cleared his throat, the sudden attention shift making him feel just the slightest bit embarrassed.

"..."

"...Let me carry him, Satoru."

"..."

A breeze drifting by was promptly swallowed up in the silence that overtook the group of three.

There was a snort.

That snort turned into laughter; then louder laughter.

(name)'s cheeks sprouted a flustered pink hue, extending from the roots to fan over his nose and cheekbones. "You're holding him like a sack of potatoes, he's already going to be sore after being thrown around like a ragdoll." He averted eye contact, looking back towards the hole in the wall he'd walked through earlier, "I thought I would at least spare him the unnecessary back pain."

The sorcerer, despite his blindfold, made the motion of wiping a fake tear from his eye as his boisterous laugh echoed into a near silent chuckle. He took another deep breath, resting his hand on his stomach, "Always so doting to students... I wonder where all that was when you were teaching me."

Fushiguro felt like he wanted to vomit.

'God, he's so fucking cringe.'

"But... the recap and current events don't line up."

The room was dark, its only challenger being the gentle light offered by a generous collective of candles strewn around the gloomy chamber at random. While their burning wax dripped onto the dirty concrete floor, the flame dancing at the end of each wick revealed the hundreds--thousands--of sigils and talismans looming above. The pages, yellowed with age, acted like impromptu wallpaper. The few corners beginning to peel, the ink-stained fingerprints on others, the imperfections in the calligraphy didn't stifle the atmosphere in the slightest. The energy seeping in from the unknown, shadowy corners of the room was suffocating.

“Hey, I did my best.”

Sitting with his front pressed against the back of a plain wooden chair, Gojo observed the teenager through his blindfold. His Six Eyes traced over the intricacies of newfound cursed energy, almost mesmerized by the twisting and turning, warping of the two souls manifested in a singular body. He rested his forearm against the back of his seat, “The execution’s still on, but I managed to get your sentence suspended.”

“Suspended?”

Itadori sat flat on the ground leaning against the room’s singular pillar. Large, steel manacles heavy on his wrists, the chains that bound his cuffs to the room’s far wall were thick like pythons. Wrapping around the pillar like a pair of constrictors, they criss-crossed over one another in an X before they anchored themselves in the wall.

“So you’re not killing me right away?”

Staring into Gojo’s blindfold felt weird and unnatural, but the teen didn’t really have any other options.

“Yup,” The man would be the one to break 'eye contact' first, maneuvering to reach into his jacket pocket, “I’ll explain it from the top.” His slender hand returned with something that looked very familiar. He presented the object proudly, holding it up in front of Itadori’s expectant face.

“This is the same as the cursed object you ate.”

The boy's bright amber eyes raked over the grotesque appendage. Ugly, wrinkly purple skin scrunched around the knuckles in an uncanny manner that sent uncomfortable tingles down Yuji’s spine. The texture was only made worse by the lack of a clean cut, bits of flesh left hanging off the finger. Being this close to it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“There are twenty in total. We currently possess six.”

Looking at it was like watching an accident. It was deeply disturbing but it retained this all powerful magnetic quality that made it nearly impossible to look away.

“Twenty?”

Fighting his compulsion to stare, Itadori redirected his attention to the sorcerer sitting in front of him, “Each finger and toe?”

Gojo’s smile only grew wider and more unsettling in the low light.

“No, Sukuna has four arms.”

Without a heads up, the older man tossed the cursed object into the air. In the nanosecond it took the Sendai Student to glance at the sudden movement, an abundance of cursed energy crackled to life like electricity. It snapped like a whip, launching the finger in a cloud of smoke.

“...As you can see, we can’t destroy them! The curse is just that powerful.”

The boy’s jaw hung open like the fat koi fish in the pond he’d pass on the way home. Staring at the fresh crater in the previously unblemished wall of talisman, he failed to notice the lanky white-haired man standing from his seat.

Delicately plucking the fugly finger from the steaming indentation he’d lovingly branded into the side of the room, he sauntered back over to his wooden chair. Completely relaxed, his airy lilt carried through the room, “The curse grows stronger every day, and the seals of modern-day jujutsu sorcerers just can’t keep up.”

Tucking the finger back into his pocket, he threw his leg over the wooden seat, “That’s where you come in.”

Finally closing his mouth, the teenager blinked at him.

“...Huh?”

“You see, when you die, the curse inside you dies as well.” Dramatically, the sorcerer slumped forward with a sigh, “Our elders are total cowards, you know? They’re demanding we kill you right away.”

“...”

Gojo pursed his lips, “But that would be a waste, wouldn’t it?”

Itadori cocked his head to the side, struggling to process the clusterfuck of information being unceremoniously dumped onto his unsuspecting lap, “A waste?”

Resting the side of his face against his palm with an awkwardly cheerful ‘mhm!’, the blindfolded stranger went on, “There’s no guarantee another vessel capable of handling Sukuna will ever be born again," he held up a pointer finger, waving it around to punctuate his statement, "so this is what I proposed!"

“If we’re going to kill you anyway… why not kill you after you’ve absorbed ALL of Sukuna?”

“...”

Gojo crossed his arms over the back of his wooden perch, offering a non committal hum, “It took a lot of convincing, and Sensei had to pitch in, but eventually, the higher-ups agreed… so now you have two options before you.”

Staring into the blank darkness of the black blindfold, Itadori finally seemed to notice how dry the inside of his mouth was.

“You can either die right now…”

He swallowed.

“…or you can find all the parts of Sukuna and die after you’ve absorbed them.”

FAVORITE TOY ; JAZMIN BEAN

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