#yandere powder

[boredpotate]

Happier Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Arcane or the music I linked in the title.

I had an idea about an angst yandere scenario.

Synopsis: Isekai Fem Reader turns back time to make a better timeline, but some characters can't help but feel like they know her.

Concept: Isekai Fem Reader who didn't see S2 of Arcane dies and reincarnates into Arcane. Gets taken in by Vander along and becomes a part of the family (younger than Vi but older than Powder) and tries to prevent the future tragedy but fails. No matter how hard they try to change the plot, bother before and after Vander dies, it seems to stay on course. She gets adopted by Silco with Powder, but she can't save Powder from becoming Jinx, can't stop Jinx from losing more of herself, can't convince Silco that there's a better way, can't free Vi from prison, can't stop or change anything no matter how hard they try. At the end of it all it was too much for Reader so they move far away trying and failing to live one without remembering her failures. Later finds out that they feel a connection to the arcane and gets glimpses of a timeline where she didn't exist, but Hextech didn't exist and Piltover and Zuan were united. Risks everything to turn back the clock and fix everything but stays away from her family. Not wanting to risk it. However, her old family can't help but feel like they know her.

If you're interested, have any ideas, advice or an opinion on whether or not there should be romance let me know. I just really had to let out an idea.

Reader Pov

'I did it..... I.. I'm back.'

I thought as I look around at Zuan. It was dirty, messy, smoke and some fires, but it was my home. My shitty dump of a home that I grew to love. When loyalty still meant something.

Just like before all those years ago, I find myself wandering the streets as young girl again.

*step* *step* *step*

I hear a heavy set of steps just like before, but this time I panic. I whisper to myself before quickly rushing to an alley to hide behind some debris. I wait and listen before slowly making my way to the corner to peak around.

What I see makes me want to cry as my heart pound in my chest. Feeling like it would burst out any second. I see a young girl with pink hair holding an older man's hand, a blue head of hair leaning on the shoulder of the man and an all too familiar stature of someone I haven't seen in forever.

"....Dad"

For a moment I consider stepping out and I really want to, but then I remember.

Explosions...Fire...Ringing...Milo...Claggor...Vander......Dead

stop

Silco...Sevika...Ekko...Powder...Shimmer......Jinx

Stop

Vi...Prison...Hextech...Chemtech...Caitlyn...Rocket...Piltover...Zuan...Death......War

STOP

I freeze in place, needing to give absolutely everything I have to stop myself from running to them, stop myself from hugging my sister again and stop myself from hugging dad again and feeling safe.

'I can't. This time it needs to be different. I can't risk it.'

So I stop. I don't allow myself what I want the most. No matter how hard my heart beats. I restrain it all, except one.

I cry. I cry both tears of happiness and sadness.

Happy because my plan worked, because my dad is alive again, because Vi and Jin- no..... Powder (god does it feel good to call her that again) together again, and because it means I can fix it all.

Sad because I can't go to them, because I want them to be happy and because I would be lying to myself if I said I didn't remember.

That dream and those visions. Those damn glimpses into another time where everyone was alive and happy. Alive and happy. Without me. No me, myself and I. Which makes sense honestly, so I don't know why I'm crying. I wasn't supposed to be here in the first place.

I let tears rapidly flow down as I stare for just a few seconds more taking it all in. Just to make sure this is real and I'm not imagining it all.

I finally will myself to pull away from the corner but knock into a bottle laid on the ground by accident.

"Who's there!?"

I hear dad call out, so I quickly hug the wall and stay quiet. Afraid to make noise by trying to run away.

'It's me, dad. It's Y/n.'

I do all I can to keep myself from coming out and crying from hearing him again, but I manage to hold out long enough to hear them continue on their way. I take one last look before turning into the alley.

'I'll fix it all. Don't worry about a thing. I'll get you and everyone else's happy ending.'

Vander Pov

'It wasn't supposed to be like this. Connole, Felecia...... I'm so sorry. I promise I-'

I suddenly hear the sound of steps and a bottle clattering. I quickly turn around, pulling Violet and Powder close, and scan the area I heard it coming from.

"Who's there!?", I call out but receive no reply. I consider going to check, but reconsider when I feel Violet and Powder hold onto me tighter.

'I need to keep them safe.'

I wait a few more seconds before turning back with the kids.

"C'mon, let's get you two somewhere safe."

I don't know why, but I had a strange feeling about something. I couldn't describe it. Doesn't matter right now; what matters is the girls.

Chapter 2

[milkbean69]

My thoughts on the Yandere Arcane Au

Tw: sorry y'all not good at writing yandere, yandere content

Okay before we get started we need to talk about what this universe of the undersity looks like pre- time skip. Honestly I think that this univers had a lot more progression in term of revolution and a lot less shimmer. Also considering the fact that Vander and Silco were able make up after Vi's death makes me think there was a lot less bloodshed between the two over the years. I mean of course silco when and found the note vander left but the fact that the crew is all laughing and partying together means there has to be new layers of loyalty amongst the crew caused by Vi's death.

Yandere's Vander and Silco:

OH GOD!!!! These two I swear, I honestly feel like in terms of protectiveness Vander would actually be worse. I mean he watched Vi die in the attack so you have that. He would not want to lose another.

If Vander was a platonic yandere, yeah no, your never leaving the Last Drop without him ever again. The trama he has from Vi is crazy. But if it was a romantic situation, he would be a little more lenient.

Now for platonic yandere Silco. I feel like a lot of protectiveness would come from a place of guilt and attonment. I mean his actions killed Vi during the pre-timeskip in this universe and he is probably still feel's guilty for that despite the fact that he has been forgiven.

So I feel like bring a young obsession or kid into the mix, would make him feel like he needs to make amends for what he did. Not only to prove to himself but for the others aswell that no other will die under his care.

Now them as a pair, would go crazy platonic or not. We need to remember something the two are brothers and the the pillars of the undercity. So the levels of communication and partnership are already there. There abilities to unite people would probably be where a lot of the Yanderness of the crew starts to fester. Always having someone with you, eyes and ears all over Zaun, and generally not being fucked with or else you'll have two of the powerhouse's of Zaun on you doorstep.

If this was romantic, they would share, God damn it. I don't know what it is but they would share, I just know it. You would be the king/queen of the Zaun in Silco's eyes, Vander hates it because he feels like if bring to much attention to you. Your always with on or the other. Silco defininatly spoils you, I mean you know he would.

Here me out, I feel like they both also have some fears from what happened to Felicia, so that definitly are supper on edge all the time because of that. One of both of them had to have liked her romantically, I was felling the vibes during the flashback.

Okay but I feel like they would be worse than the adults, in terms of platonic yandere's. Like we saw Vi's death really fucked them up. You would 100% be the Vi replacement. Expecally if you were older than them.

With Powder , it would be the worst. She wouldn't be violent, but more manipulative in certain ways., 100% a guilt tripper. Then would rope the other into it as well. Saying things to you about how you remind them so much of Vi, and there protection is just so you don't end up like her, so you should never leave them.

You probably wouldn't go on jobs, mostly saying in the last drop with Vander and Benzo. Maybe they let you go into Piltover, but you are always with someone. But never in the more dangerous parts of Zaun that have yet to be changed, and you still got to worry about the grey. the wouldn't want ther baby breathing in all that polluted air.

With a younger obsession, your never leaving there sights again. Even if you were a year younger than them, your getting little siblinged so hard. They have so much more experience now and realize all of the thing they did as kids was dumb and dangerous. They probably teach you how to fight just in case they are not there. But that is unlikely considering how mother hen they all are. If you ever when parkouring like they used to in piltover you would get an earful.

Powder and Ekko would make you little trinkets and gadgets. They'd make things to lure you in and bribe you. Or to love bomb you when you complain they are being to overprotective.

They would be so affectionate. Powder and Claggor the most, we all saw that scene with Claggor and Milo during the dance. Honestly I feel like Milo would be affectionate in the annoying older brother way, like ruffeling you hair and picking you. Ekko would be affectionate when you inationating it.

In tems of duos we would have Claggor with Milo and Powder with Ekko. Milo is the one to tease you alot, but he means well. He probably thinks he's the funnies guy on the planet, when in reality it's probably Claggor. Milo seems like the more aggressive on in terms of yandere's. He is the jokester character but see seems more scared that something might happen to you. That make him more aggressive and paranoid. While Claggor is more level headed and perceptive, but don't be mistaken, he has build and is the stronger of the two

Between Powder and Ekko, Powder is the one you need to worry about. She lost her older sister, Powder was the youngest of the group, so in her mind she is kind of filling Vi's role as older siblng, and must protect you like Vi did her. Should someone try to hurt there darling, Powder is the impulsive one but Ekko is the deadlier one between the two. Ekko is calm and more laid back, but he seems like he has the patience to go in for the kill on the first strike. Silent but deadly.

Now with romance, there all into you, sorry not sorry. I actually don't think they would have the company to share a darling. Powder and Ekko, maybe? But Claggor and Milo, definitly not. Milo would be that last to realize that everyone is pinning after the same darling, there all pretty perceptive so it wouldn't take them long to figure it out amongst eachother.

You would never have any partners, they would scare them all away. Powder would be the dustrusstful one spreading seed of dought anytime someone would flirt with you, saying there not good enought for you. Ekko and Claggor would be the intimidating ones, Ekko has the deadly glare while Claggor has the build to scare off any potital suitors. Milo is one of two, he is the one who likes to claim you already taken, usually with him saying he's you boyfriend, or the physical aggression type. He will get kind of pissy wanting your attention kind of annoying the person flirting with you. Then maybe ruffing the person's up after they leave your earshot so you don't see.

They would all try to one up each other in there own ways Claggor is the more laid-back type and lenient of yandere, so he would milk you needing to escape from the other craziness. Powder is clingy type and needs to be near you always. Ekko seems like the silent type, always lurking in the shadows, the man always has his eyes on you and knows where you are. Milo seems like the possessive and aggressive. Not aggressive in the, I'm going to hurt you type of way but someone else for looking at you the wrong type of way.

No matter who you end up with its going to be messy, I'm sure of it.

[caffeineaddictwriter]

Please don’t leave me again {Yandere! Jinx x gn! Reader}

Tw: usual yandere stuff

You where a gift to Jinx by the one and only Silco. He had felt it would be best for Jinx to have a 'play toy'. Jinx was ecstatic when she met you but over time she noticed that you weren't wanting to be there almost as if you where trapped with her.

The only reason you had accepted Silcos request was because he had offered to look after your father who was ill. But you had no idea if he was actually doing his part of the deal as Jinx had not let you leave her 'Room' in months. She stated that it was for your safety but you didn't believe her, you where convinced she was lying to keep you there. You would see Silco coming in on certain days, he didn't speak to you only giving you a side glance. Even though you where desperate to ask him about your dad, you had slight fear whenever he showed up, he was intimidating and could easily get you killed and buy Jinx a new toy.

Jinx had just come down to her room and she wasn't pleased. She was almost having an adult tantrum, this wasn't to uncommon though. She started throwing bombs of the edge screaming at things. In all her rage she had forgotten to lock the door. You took the opportunity and legged it. You made it into the last drops main room looking around people where looking at you. Staring at you. Almost as if they where going to hurt you. You felt a rush of fear pass through you. Your breathing quickened, you where starting to think Jinx was right, the world you hadn't been in for months was scary and dangerous. What mistake had you made. Leaving the room, leaving Jinx.

You quickly rushed back towards Jinx's room when you came face to face with Silco. Neither of you said anything as you slid past him running back to the room. When you entered back in the room you where immediately tackled to the ground, your eyes blurred by a wave of blue hair. You wrapped your arms around her. She buried her head in your chest and she said something barely audible "please don't leave me again" .

[plagu3dlov3r]

It’s okay. We’ll show them. We’ll show them all.

[justmejpg]

Please for the love of god I’m still trying to find her

I NEED HELP FINDING A CAI BOT PLEASE!!

So, it’s this bot with Jinx where you’re like dating her and enforcers catch you to question you about her and stuff! This is the picture it had (taken from another bot) and the first message is about how they have you and they’re asking you questions while you’re locked in a cell. I don’t remember if it says anything about waiting for Jinx to save you, but I need that bot again desperately I didn’t finish the story😭

[madamechrissy]

Losing Control Now

Pairings: Mobster Gojo x bartender F!reader

Summary: Something about running the Gojo mafia just makes Satoru so bored. Boring, boring boring. Sure, he loves money, he loves women, he loves snorting snowy powder off their bodies. He loves the power that comes from it- but he's just bored. That is, until he stumbles upon you, the brand new bartender that makes him pause, falter, and then soon he becomes obsessed, with knowing you, in every single way. Paying off your mom's debts and working two jobs, you're exhausted, but something about this pretty Mob boy just makes you... excited again. How far in are you, and how far is Satoru in the mafia world? All he knows, is he must have you.

CW: Sexual tension, eventually explicit sex, mafia themes, drug themes, violence, obsessed ass whipped ass Satoru Gojo, oral sex, possessive Gojo, drug use and drug dealing - lowkey Yandere fkn Gojo hehe. Light angst, some fluff, heavy smut, lots of teasing. This part- Making out, Gojo snorting coke off bodies, touching, teasing, and masturbation (phone sex) -WC this part- 7.2k wc

That Gojo art is by michi_ia on X!!! based on Satoru from Pour it Up (Sukuna's story) You can read it alone! Reblogs/comments so appreciated if you enjoyy!

Playlist- masterlist - Part two>>>

part one

If there was one thought running through the pretty head of Satoru Gojo’s, it’s not -sexy- the strippers dancing all around them. It’s not- thrilling- speaking of doing runs and deals. It’s not- addictive- even as he’s snorting coke off a pretty stripper’s thigh. It’s not- flattering even as he can clearly feel her heat, see her dilated eyes, the way she bites her lip.

Sure, he loves women.

Sure, he loves coke.

Sure, he loves his lifestyle, a mostly carefree mafia King, who lets people do most of the work for him. His best friend Suguru, his right hand man Sukuna, and his other partner Toji, the four of them ran this city. But it’s not- power that runs through Gojo’s head, though he enjoys that too.

The thought constantly in Satoru Gojo’s mind is…

Boring.

He leans back even now, sighing as the coke hits his nostrils, then he laps up that residue with a quick kiss with his pouty lips, the stripper gasps just a bit, and he touches her thigh, seeing a glimmering of slick from just that. Gojo loves to fuck, especially when it means nothing, when he can just let go and feel whatever he needs to in that moment.

But, even that, as he brushes his thumb across it, watching the pretty girl’s head fall to the side, her hips arch, even that has become…

Boring.

This meeting is boring, as he now smiles and winks at her, and she blushes, giggling and running to grab him another drink. His friends, they’re so…

Boring.

Business this, their territory that, what the Kamo family is doing, what the fucked ass Zenin are up to. What they need to do in order to produce enough to keep clientele satisfied. Who owes who money, who needs a lesson, and who needs protection- Satoru is happy to protect his town, his city, what is his as the top mafia family there is- or was.

The Gojo family.

But, as head of it now, it’s the last thing he really wants, in fact he has everything a man could want, endless amounts of money, loyal friends, women, pure cocaine that could help him forget the gnawing feeling deep inside. What is it? He tries not to think, as he crosses his ankle over his knee in his three piece suit, tugging at his skinny black tie, contemplating Sukuna’s words.

“The Zenin are more on the alert than ever.” He grumbles, sighing a bit as a girl hands him a drink, but he refrains from going near any of them really, hopelessly whipped by his new girlfriend. Satoru smirks a bit, earning Sukuna’s eye roll. “Out with it, Gojo.”

“You’re so whipped it’s really cute.” Sukuna’s jaw locks, standing, Satoru’s maniacally giggling, as Suguru and Toji sigh.

“Whipped!?”

“Completely, but I like this side of you. All soft-” Sukuna snatches Satoru up by his collar, earning Satoru’s glinting grin under red lights. “Aw, what’s wrong buddy?”

“It’s not being whipped it’s-”

“Whipped.” Toji earns Sukuna’s ire, as Suguru sighs and shakes his raven haired head, brushing it back a bit. “Sorry, but the kid’s right.”

Gojo snorts at Toji, rolling his pretty blue eyes. “A kid? I’m twenty seven, how is that a kid, old man.”

“Old man, the fuck?” Toji’s jaw locks, scar stretching over his lip, Satoru just smirks.

“Will you all focus?” Suguru asks with a sigh, smiling and lapping some salt off a stripper’s chest, before downing his shot, moaning as he gulps it.

“It’s boring. Ah, thanks, sweets.” Satoru smiles as the dancer hands him a drink now, and he sips it, wincing. “Ugh, not sweet enough.”

Satoru stands, and Sukuna raises a brow. “The fuck, you need even fruitier of a drink? Such a lil bitch drink already.”

“Fuck you, I like sweet things.” Satoru smiles and tilts the stripper’s chin up, watching a blush decorate her cheeks as he giggles. “I’ll go grab one, let you all keep being boring.”

“Oh whatever, Satoru.” He hears as he saunters off, determined to get a much sugarier concoction, as he steps through the club, familiar scenes unfolding, the glimmering lights bouncing off semi-naked bodies. Men with their wallets emptied, girls dealing coke baggies with bottles.

It was surely one of the places he enjoyed, it served as such a good front, along with the Casino he and Suguru ran, and many, many other ventures. A life constantly bustling from place to place, in the back of limos, women everywhere, but something yet again, even with the thrumming music of this club, just seems so boring.

That is, until he sees this girl, gorgeous but she doesn’t quite fit in, despite a banging body in fishnets that glimmer with little gems under the black lights, black booty shorts that showed much of those thighs, and a sexy little boostier. The lace cupping her breasts alone makes his cock twitch, just that!? A man who has naked women in front of him constantly.

But nothing is quite like when his blue eyes trail up her chest, past those pretty titties pushed up, to her face, lit up under the flashing reflections above. She’s biting her lower lip, concentrating, brows together as just a strand of hair falls out of it’s high pony tail, and she blows it away, an adorable little gesture. Her little hands are pouring bottles, as she measures this drink like a damn chemist.

But when her eyes catch his?

When your eyes catch his?

Sparkling and open, just a little nervous as you eye him, there’s something that sparks then, this…

He’s not bored.

Not at all.

You see him, this tall statuesque man, brightly glowing damn near with silvery white hair, but his eyes even in the dark, smoky club are so intense it makes you breathless. And he’s looking right at you, a bright pink drink in one of his giant hands, lithe body frozen just for a moment before he moves. You wait with bated breath as he does, as he steps closer, shooting you a little smirk.

His eyes glint with something deep- at first he seemed detached when you’d seen him, but now, swirling storms for eyes, model cheekbones even more accentuated as he smiles at you. Plump, glossy lips and long snowy lashes complete the prettiest face you’ve ever seen, perhaps even prettier than a painting, a silly thing for a bartender to think.

He leans with his elbows on the marble bar, tilting his head, blue eyes drinking you in, and you feel it like a physical touch. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

“How do you know?” You manage to murmur, trying to be teasing, but his intensity makes your breath catch.

“I’d remember you. I’m sure.” His words like some sultry purr, as his eyes caress your body, to the point you almost moan.

Fuck, who is he?

“I am new.” You say softly, he hands you his glass then, for a brief moment your fingers brush against each other, and Satoru feels this shock, like static, as he keeps his fingers over yours.

He vividly pictures it then, having you, but fuck not having you… he wanted to have you in every fucking way. Feral from fingers brushing when he just had a stripper all over him. His lips part as he sees your cheeks heat up, your tentative and sweet little smile, while lights dance across your skin, the thrumming of music fading to the background.

It’s like some fucking movie, in slow motion, as your smile melts him. “How about you make me a drink, huh sweetheart? Ya any good at it?”

“How do you like it… Mr…”

“Gojo.” You blink in recognition, everyone knows the Gojo family, though heavy in crime, they protect people, they keep their town safe. They’re insanely powerful, and you can feel his power, as he shrugs a broad shoulder, snowy lashes lowering over his gaze.

“Mr. Gojo…”

“And you are?” When you say your name, he repeats it, softly, and you’ve never fucking heard anything better. “Well, let’s see what you can make, pretty bartender.”

Pretty.

The word is used often, but from him? Your tummy is full of rapidly flapping wings of several butterflies. You clear your throat a bit, taking the glass now. “What kind of drink, Mr. Gojo?”

“Something sweet… sweet as… I bet you taste.” You barely hear the words at the end, and you blink in confusion.

“Huh?”

“Huh?” He grins then, throwing his head back, resting a hip on the bar as he studies you harder. “You’re cute.”

“Cute, hmm.” He just grins, as you make his drink, mixing every sweet concoction you know, he sips it then, moaning and fluttering his lashes.

“Perfect.”

“You’re special, the first drink I made.”

Satoru leans far too close over that bar, as he eyes you, and he knows then, he has to fucking have you. Fuck he’d not even let you leave his damn bed, keep you pinned under him, picturing how sweet you must taste, god how you even smell when he inhales near you is addictive.

“Are you… sniffing me, Mr. Gojo?”

He smirks a bit, but inwardly?

God you smell good.

“Perfume? Is it… Versace bright Crystal?”

“How would you know that?” He’s just grinning, sipping the drink with the thin little black straw, as you wonder just… who is he?

“I’ll see you around, sweets, hmm?” You nod curiously, narrowing your eyes just a bit, sighing as he walks away, you don’t see him when he eyes you again, before stepping back into the velvet red of the VIP room.

“Took you long enough.” Toji grumbles, and Satoru looks at Sukuna then, one question in his mind, along with one thought.

The boredom?

Gone.

“Who’s the new girl?” Sukuna turns towards him, a smirk on his face, which immediately changes as his girlfriend steps in right next to Satoru, he swears Sukuna has heart eyes. Satoru looks at her as she smiles brightly, giving him a hug first, making Satoru grin at Sukuna when he scowls.

“Satoru!”

“Hey pookie how are you?” He smiles and pats her head. Satoru and Sukuna's girl had become close. “How's it living with this psycho?”

“She loves it.” Sukuna huffs and drags her away, earning the soft laughter of everyone in the room as she's sat right on his lap, brushing his hair back affectionately. Strong, tough, big ass Sukuna was just a little kitten for her. “Tell him about the new girl, brat.”

“Oh!” She repeats the name, your name, and Satoru brightens up. Sipping the sweet drink you concocted and exhaling at how good it is. “She's a friend from way back, she got into… a hard situation. So Kuna hired her because he's sweet.”

“Tch.” He glares at her as she giggles, and suddenly Satoru wonders even more about you. What situation? What did you need it for? “You like her huh?”

“Just curious, she seems…” Different, exciting, beautiful sure but there was something so intriguing, especially about her touch.

“Pretty?” Toji says with a grin, and Satoru sighs.

“Duh, just curious… she makes the sweetest drink I've ever had.”

“The way to Satoru’s heart.” Suguru says with a chuckle. Satoru comes back to sit next to him, shaking his head when a girl comes to him

“No thanks, love.” The room collectively blinks at him now, as Satorus pretty eyes rest on Sukuna’s girl, a dancer herself… well somewhat. It's not like Sukuna let's her leave his sight much. “She's your friend?”

“Yes from high school, she left and did her own thing but…” She bites her lower lip. “Um, her mom got into some… bad debts with people, gambling.”

“Oh, she's like Toji.” Sukuna mutters, earning a middle finger from the gruff man, even as he's kissing up a girl's neck.

“Fuck off.” He grumbles, and Satoru would laugh, but he's even more intrigued. “Paid my debts, shithead.”

“Shithead!?”

“So she came to help?” Satoru asks her, and she nods, smiling just a little sadly.

“Her mom left her with a house about to get foreclosed. And debt with… I can't get into too much more. But she works full time and it's only enough for bills, not the debt.”

“So she's working like what, 60 plus hours?” Satoru asks, and she nods with a frown.

“I'm hoping here she'll make enough to get it settled? Kuna may help negotiate-”

“Who is it?”

“Why so curious?” She asks, as her eyes light up. “Oh… you like her.”

“I just… am a curious boy mmkay pookie?” She giggles and then Suguru snorts in laughter next to Satoru.

“He's blushing.”

“Am not! Just… something about her seemed… different. I was curious. Is she…”

“Single? Satoru Gojo is asking that?” Toji says then, and Satoru’s eyes narrow.

“Shut it old man.”

Toji’s jaw tenses. “I swear to-”

“Ask her yourself, hmm?” Sukunas girl says, Satoru sighs, because for the first time ever he feels a little…

Nervous?

Satoru Gojo is nervous, hands sweaty, blushing over you.

Who are you?

“I mean can we… get her in the next meeting?”

“Sure lover boy.” Sukuna says with a chuckle. “Want her on your lap?”

“Maybe. Yes.” The room's atmosphere is just a little lighter, as they finish and Satoru finally heads out for the night, turning a corner and bumping right into you, causing you to almost fall, but he catches you with those big hands, steadying you carefully.

“I'm so sorry, Mr. Gojo.” You murmur softly, god your voice is pretty, it's soft and sensual. He could listen to it all day- wildly wondering how it sounds when you’d cry out his name, to the point he’s just standing there for a moment, as your eyes meet, and he notices now, you have dark circles under them. It seems whatever concealer you had faded by now.

“You headed home?” He asks, seeing you’re now wearing a jacket over that bustier, and you nod a bit, hiding a yawn.

“Yeah, I have to work at like eight am.”

Gojo blinks now, peering at his silver Rolex. “It’s like two am, what sleep are you gonna get?”

“A couple hours I hope.” Satoru holds the door open for you now, and you give him another pretty smile.

“Thank you.”

“Of course, I’ll walk you to your car, unless you want big Jim to.” He points to a giant broad shouldered man, you giggle, looking back at Gojo, who has a little mischievous glow in his eyes now.

“I’ll let you walk me, thank you.” He slings his jacket over a shoulder, holding it with one finger, the other in his pocket, as the breeze gently blows around the two of you in the quiet night.

“How many nights are you working?” He asks, you tilt your head a bit as you come to your car, a little one good on gas, really the only reason you got it.

“I’ll be working Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Do you come here often?” Satoru snorts now, leaning down over you, free hand against your car as he leans, making your heart hammer in your chest at the proximity, eying his glossy lips.

“That a pick up line, sweets?”

“What!? Oh shit… it sounded like one!?” You cover your face in embarrassment, and he chuckles now.

“Teasing you is all. I do come here a lot, I know who I’ll be getting drinks from then. That was the best one I’ve had.”

“What no way!” He just grins as you lower your hands, a little bit of your hair falling out of your pony tail again, he brushes it away casually, tucking it behind your ear, his cool fingertips making your skin tingle. He watches the hitch of your breath, feels the heat of your cheek as you look at him, wide eyed.

“You kept blowing it out of the way.” He teases softly, fingers lingering on your cheek for just a moment.

“You noticed that?” You ask softly, feeling your heart thrumming with excitement despite your exhaustion.

“Noticed you also bite your lip too much.” He brushes a thumb over it briefly, shooting desire hot through your tummy.

You hadn’t even thought of sex or intimacy, as tired as you have been, working full time and taking overtime constantly, finally having this job as well, you haven’t even considered your needs. So tired you barely get horny, but something about this… Mr. Gojo, it’s making you ache to yank him by that tie, pull him in.

Do you even remember how to be seductive?

Why are you thinking like this?

“Do I?” You ask, all you manage really, and he nods just a bit, dying to kiss the indentations on your plump lower lip.

“Sure you’re okay to drive? I have a driver.”

“Oh no I’m good, I didn't have a drink or anything. But thank you, I hope… I hope I see you again… um to make more drinks?”

You’re cute.

Fuck you’re cute.

“You’ll see me around.” He assures you, opening the door then, and you exhale a bit, sliding into your seat and starting the car. “Have a good night, bartender.”

“Bartender huh?” He winks and you wave just a bit, leaving Satoru whistling just a bit, shaking his head, unable to figure out just what this is, this feeling, as Suguru walks out, yawning and stretching.

“Oh shit, that look.”

“What look?” He asks, as they walk to their sleek black car, the driver ready holding the door open for them.

“That obsessive Satoru look.”

“Oh psh.” He rolls his pretty blue eyes, but Suguru just chuckles.

“She is pretty.”

Satoru scowls at his best friend now, who’s just smirking at him. “Don’t even think about it.”

“That’s what I meant.”

“I’m not… obsessive.”

“Mmm, alright Satoru.” He pats Satoru’s shoulder as he looks at his phone now, typing in your name casually of course- to find your socials, and any pictures of you he can save.

******

After busting your ass at your normal 9 to 5, you ran your mom’s interest payment to the intimidating Mei Mei, she’s smiling cooly, so fucking fake it makes your skin crawl, raising a brow under her light blue hair as she sees the amount. “Oh, darling, that's double, hmm?”

“I had the extra, took another job.” You yawn as you peek at your phone, realizing you have to get ready for the bar soon.

“I see, should I charge you more for each installment, since you’re doing so well now?” You blink now, shaking your head and earning her soft laugh, as she stands, tall and curvaceous, hips swaying as she tilts your chin up, long nails brushing your skin. “I was kidding, that face!”

“I’m sorry, Miss Mei. I swear I’ll try to do double but could we keep to the current please?” She nods a bit then, smiling and sauntering back to her desk, sitting on it and crossing her leg, blue dress riding up just a bit.

“I don’t mind helping, as long as you keep paying. You sure are a lot better than your mother. How is she?”

Your jaw sets. The moment your mother left town, and left you with all this debt after begging you to come back, under false pretenses, your life had become an endless cycle of pure work. Work, work, work, and nothing else, that was it.

Work. Bills. Interest.

Work, more work, more interest.

The only break had been meeting him, at the bar, Mr. Gojo.

“Smiling, darling?” You clear your throat, shaking your head.

“Just happy I’m getting this done.”

“That’s the spirit, see you next week.” She now hops down, dismissing you with a little wave of her fingers, as you hurriedly leave, leaning against the door of the fancy building as you damn near feel sick, sighing and trying to gather yourself.

You want to resent your mother, want to hate her even, but you don’t have it in you. There’s just one thing on your mind, work, work, and work. The handsome man at the bar may be a beautiful distraction, but he’d surely just stay that, the little bit of serotonin you need.

******

“On your lap?” You blink a bit, as Satoru’s grinning, leaning over the bar later that night, looking far too sexy in that pinstripe suit of his.

“So usually the strippers do, but I’d really like you too, and you will make more than you do in an hour. How much do you usually make?” You murmur a number, and he hands you hundreds instead.

“You can’t!”

“I’m taking your work time, I damn well will. Here, take it sweets.” You sigh, stepping out from behind the bar, crossing your arms under your breasts and looking up at him.

“I just, sit on your lap?”

“Well, you may have to… let me snort coke off you?” You’re a blushing mess now, and he’s laughing softly, brushing your hair back just a bit. “Just a little coke.”

“You’re kind of insane, Mr. Gojo.”

“I’ve been told. Come on, what do you say?”

So… that’s how you ended up here, in the velvety red VIP room, Toji, Sukuna, Suguru and Satoru of course are there, you see your friend on Sukuna’s lap, the lifesaver who got you this job, who waves from where she’s on his lap. You smile nervously, as Satoru sits, patting his thigh then.

“C’mon, got a seat right here.” He says with a wink, and the next few minutes you’re finding it impossible to focus.

You can feel it, Satoru’s muscled thigh against your heat, pussy throbbing around nothing at this proximity, as Sukuna, Suguru and Toji all talk amongst themselves, Toji and Suguru have stripper’s on their laps, Sukuna has your friend- his girl- on his. And you’re right here, with Satoru’s big hand against your waist, fingers wrapping around the gentle curve of it.

You try to bite back a moan at just how good it feels, and you embarrassingly wonder if he can tell, if he can feel how wet you are, surely not you hope. He’s calmly talking as he shifts his thigh just a bit, and you have to hold in your gasp, your booty shorts aren’t enough of a damn barrier, surely, not for how his thigh presses up for a moment.

“You good, sweetheart?” He murmurs to you softly, and you turn your attention to him, blinking just a bit, lips parted.

“Huh?” Is all you manage, his full lips tilt up just a bit as he tilts his head, his other hand now on your fishnet clad thigh.

“Lots of heavy topics, too much?” He’s so sweet you think, as if the problem isn’t you’re soaking your shorts, and no you didn’t even have panties on to try to help whatsoever, in such a hurry you hadn’t washed any and said fuck it.

Big mistake.

“Oh, a little bit.” You are such a liar, but what do you say? Yes, Satoru, your thigh is making me want to grind on it, to make myself cum like some pathetic-

“Try to tone 'em out, it’s what I do.” He says with a wink, and you laugh softly, breathless, as if you’d heard a word any of them said, no… your pulse is racing too loudly to hear them.

“Got it, Mr. Gojo.” He takes the little baggie one of the strippers has then, brushing your hair back off your shoulder, watching goosebumps raise across your neck, your collar bone so inviting he wants to bury his face against it.

“The Zenin are now a bigger issue than ever, they perceive that Sukuna literally took Naoya’s girl and his kid.” You frown a bit, looking over at Sukuna, who’s gripping his girl so tightly, scowling, while Toji speaks. “I know it’s not that way, but it’s what we’re up against.”

“So we fucking take em all out.” Sukuna throws back a shot, and his girl shakes her head.

“Kuna…”

“Don’t you fuckin’ Kuna me.”

“They’re cute.” Satoru murmurs, you nod in agreement, as you watch her make this giant man melt.

“They are.”

“Is right here alright?” His thumb brushes your collarbone, and you flush nervously, eyes lowering shyly as you nod. “Never done anything like this, hmm?’

“No, not at all.” You look around as the other men are doing so, however, and tilt your neck just a bit. “But I trust you.”

“Yeah?” He murmurs, you exhale, when he taps some of the ivory powder across your skin. “Stay still for me, pretty?”

Pretty.

God when he calls you pretty.

Your heart pounds out of its chest damn near when he’s gently lining it up, one hand gently brushing up your back as he leans over with a rolled one hundred, snorting it right off your skin. Something about it, snorting coke off your body, makes Satoru even harder than he already was, especially when he hears the softest of whimpers from your pretty throat.

“Fuck…” He wonders if he says it out loud, but you don't respond, still as he had commanded you to be, making him wonder wildly just how much you’d listen.

If he told you to hold these sexy thighs open, if he told you to bend over and arch your ass, if he said get on your knees. Would you obey him?

Once the powder is up his nose, his snowy lashes flutter shut, letting it run through his system, and he moans just ever so softly, before lapping up the residue from your throat. Your hand grips his hair unconsciously, without even thinking, hips shifting so he feels that heat on his thigh, making him leak precum.

You’re trembling just a bit as the tip of his tongue slips up the curve of your neck, a hand slipping up your thigh, thumb pressing under one of the diamond openings of the stockings, brushing bare skin. Your breasts are damn near in his face as they rise and fall in the thin black halter you’re wearing, nipples poking out with how they’re tightening.

He presses a little kiss on your neck with plump lips, and instead of smirking at you like he would, he can’t form a coherent thought - all he can think is he needs you, beyond a want. He needs to bite your neck and mark you up for him so beautifully, so much so none of that concealer you wear would work, no you’d have to take days off, finally relax so good with him rubbing every inch.

It’s like the room fades for you, you can’t remember there are strippers, that there are mobsters, that your friend is there, it’s all this man that’s practically a stranger, who you for some reason trust to snort this powder off you. His lips linger far too long, before he pulls back, blue eyes so dark they’re black, his pupils dilated, with a mix of cocaine and desire.

“Woah, you need the room?” Toji mentions, earning your blush, but Satoru can’t stop staring, at that vein in your neck just pulsing, aching to bite it, like some psychotic feral vampire. He feels things right now he never has, not the casual desire, not the ease of having a woman, he wants to bite, kiss and lick every goddamn inch of this sexy body shifting again on him.

“We’re actually almost finished if you can focus a moment, Satoru.” Suguru says as he pinches his nose a bit, tilting his head back and letting his own line hit.

Satoru clears his throat, gently pulling you just a bit more up his hard thigh, smiling at them all. “Go on, finish the boring shit.”

“It’s not exactly boring, Satoru. Considering we need to meet with them.”

“The Zenin?” Suguru nods, and Satoru’s jaw clenches.

“Let’s meet with the Kamo family first.” Sukuna suggests, pressing a kiss on his own girl’s neck, as she strokes back his pink locks, making Satoru ache for this from you, for everything from you. “We can see if potentially they’ll be on our side.”

“Shit, it’s a good idea.” Toji sips on his beer now, laughing as he presses it between his stripper thighs, grinning lewdly.

“I’m down for that first if everyone is in agreement. Satoru?” Suguru asks, and Satoru tries to focus on all this boring shit, when he’s much rather finger the slick he feels gathering against his expensive slacks.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll set it up.” He mumbles, and you look at him, your eyes dilated like his, but without any drug, it’s just pure want. Fucked up off his energy. “I can send everyone the details.”

“Sounds good.” Everyone gets up now, and Satoru holds you down just a bit longer, as they’re laughing and talking, heading out to the bar, he turns you to the side just a bit, tilting up your chin, hair falling down your back, brushing against where he has his arm against your back.

“You alright, sweets? That’s a lot to handle.” You blink just a bit, flushing as you shyly nod. “Ya sure?”

“I didn’t hear much.” You admit, and he exhales, his hand slipping back up your thigh, waiting for you to say something, to push off his hand, but you just watch him, eyeing him carefully, legs spreading just a bit. “I was distracted.”

“Yeah? By what, hmm?” You look away, so shy, he chuckles, leaning even closer to you. “You’re so cute.”

“You say that.”

“You are.”

“These dark circles sexy?”

“On you.”

“Mr. Gojo…” You lean closer yourself now, shifting your hips just a bit, earning his soft moan as he feels that wetness pouring against him.

“Need something, love? A thank you?”

“You gave me hundreds to be here, it’s already too generous. Why… um did you?” You ask curiously, and he looks down a bit, at your lips.

“I heard you work a lot, and can’t miss shifts. I didn’t wanna make you lose out on tips.”

“That’s so…” You’re blown away then. “I really appreciate it, but you wouldn’t have had to pay me to sit on your lap.”

“Oh yeah?” You bite your lower lip, shaking your head, when his hand slips even higher, and he eats up every bit of your expression, like you’re just as drunk off him as he is off you.

“I’m sure no girl has ever needed to get paid on your lap, Mr. Gojo.”

“My name, it’s Satoru.” You brush your hair back a bit, letting silken strands flow through your fingers, as Satoru’s hand is at the apex of your thighs, his thumb brushing right against where you’re soaked, eliciting a soft whine.

“C-can I call you that, though?”

“You can…” His thumb brushes your clit now, and you moan out loud, covering your mouth, but it’s too late, he heard it, thumb pressing where you’re sticky and so hot he can’t take it. “You’re soaked, baby girl.”

“Embarrassing… I’m so-”

“No, fuck it’s sexy.” You’re blushing further, so overheated as your thighs spread, and he moans, lips an inc from yours. “Satoru, say it.”

“Sa-”

“Are you coming Satoru?” Suguru peers in, and you quickly hop up, as Satoru considers killing his best friend. “We gotta - shit… didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No, no it’s fine!” You’re quickly walking out, and Satoru literally has to turn and adjust himself, groaning, head falling back.

“Shit, my bad Satoru.”

“I’ll kill you, Suguru.” He grumbles, shoving at his friend just a bit. “Let me say goodbye to her first.”

“Calling it a goodbye?”

“Fuck off, Sugu.” He’s shoving his friend, as he catches sight of you rushing to the locker rooms.

You’re splashing cool water on your neck, on your face, you don’t even recognize yourself in that mirror, with the desire making your face look like you’re lit off your ass, like you’re drugged from that cocaine on your skin. You can’t even be thinking of this, not with who you’re dealing with right now, not with all your shit, all the work you have to do.

Satoru’s beautiful but…

You’ve never been one to fuck randoms, you’re unfortunately a person that needs feelings, and fuck if you don’t already have feelings that make no sense for someone you barely know. Something about him beyond model good looks, beyond that clear confidence, something about his touch sending those shocks through you, shocks that make no sense.

The door opens, and instead of one of the girls, or even Sukuna or Toji, it’s Satoru, disheveled hair spiked up, his eyes bright fucking blue in the lights of the locker room, looking right at you. You turn back to the mirror, hastily fixing your hair, trying to act normal.

“Leaving for the night?” You ask, voice hoarse just a bit, as you ache to say so much more, but he’s walking to you, long strides, until he’s right in front of you, cupping your face with one of those big hands, exhaling sweet cool breath against your lips.

“I want you to sit on my lap during the next meeting, yeah?”

“Satoru…”

“I’ll pay more.”

“What!? Why?” You ask again, curiously, and he sighs.

“I like you there.” His vulnerability shocks you. “Meetings, business, life? It’s so fucking boring. With you it’s…”

“Different?”

“Yes, different. I can’t really… will you?” You nod then, shyly, earning his big grin. “Also, I want you to take a day off.”

“What? Off here?”

“No, your normal job. Here, for next time.” He hands you hundreds, and you shake your head, but he takes it and slips it right in your bra, backs of his fingers brushing against your breasts, eliciting a whimper. “Shit…”

“You can’t give me all this. And… taking a day off, I-”

“Fine then leave early or some shit. Just… you look like you could use a little break?”

“Don’t feel sorry for me for working a lot.” You frown a bit, and Satoru imagines just how little you’ll ever have to do, when you’re his.

“I admire it, shit. Swear I don’t feel bad for you. Just know, that’s pennies to me, okay? And I enjoyed your… I enjoyed you there.”

You smile a bit, as the cash presses against your skin, and you step closer. “Can I hug you?”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Huh?”

“Huh?”

You both giggle, and you’re looking down shyly. “Just a kiss?” Satoru presses you against the counter, his hard body hot against yours.

“Pick which lips you want kissed.” His voice is husky, as he presses a thigh between yours, and you can’t stop the soft cry that elicits from your mouth.

“Satoru…”

“I’m serious. I can put a kissy on each lips, baby girl.” He’s tilting your chin up, and you lick your lower lip nervously, as swirling blue eyes drink you in.

“Why me? You can have… anyone.”

“You’re not just anyone. But also… have you seen you?”

“Yes, silly. I look tired.”

“Psh, pick it, where you want your thank you kiss.” You brush against his thigh, and he leans down, hungrily kissing you, and then it’s over for Satoru.

When your lips, so plush and pliant under his part just a bit, your cute little gasp, his tongue slips in past the seam, and you’re whining out softly, hands clinging to his dress shirt, earning him pressing that thigh harder. You’re grinding on it, fucking shameless as your tongues meet, at first tentative on your end, but Satoru consumes your damn mouth, your everything.

He’s moaning, damn near whimpering, a hand entangling in your hair, pulling just a bit as you roll your hips. “Shit, gonna grind on my leg like that? Even wetter than that whole meeting, huh?”

“Shh, w-wasn’t…” He smiles against your lips, kissing you deeper and deeper, as you grind, damn near about to cum from the friction.

“I can take care of-”

“Ahem.” Toji and Sukuna walk in then, and Satoru exhales, resting his forehead for a moment, against yours, as your breaths mingle, thoughts wild.

Satoru Gojo is dangerous, right?

He runs the Gojo Mafia, right?

Then why is he so sweet, so caring, so… fuck, he’s thoughtful. And every bit of his danger makes you crave him even more, like a moth drawn to his bright light, the beauty of him was just a small part of it. You ached to be consumed by him, fucked until you have no more thoughts.

Not all the damn money you owe Mei Mei.

Not the responsibilities thrown all over you from your mom.

You want to be thrown in every position for this man, submit yourself to anything he wants, and the thoughts are making your brain hurt. You take a shaky breath as he pulls back finally, easing a thigh back when you see it, a slight darkening, of where you’d soaked him with your cunt. Panicking, he just turns a bit, brushing it with his thumb, putting it to his lips.

“Shit, ya’ll need a room?” Sukuna asks, as Satoru’s eyes flutter shut, and his cheeks hollow as he sucks you off him.

“We got VIP rooms, ya know. Should charge Gojo for em.” Toji teases, but Satoru is gripping your face again, making you feel like the only damn thing in the world.

“I’ll be here Thursday, take that next day off, yeah?” You nod shyly, as he then whips out his phone, handing it to you. “In case you need anything.”

“Oh… thank you.” You scan the little code, entering his number in your phone with a shaky hand, and he smiles, eyes lingering.

“Night, sweets.”

“Night, Satoru.” You murmur, as he walks out then, you damn near collapse on this counter, head leaned back, finally alone for a moment.

Satoru Gojo, who is he.

Is he the guy that runs with people like Mei, or is he different? He feels different, he seems different…

Later that night you can’t get him out of your damn mind, tossing and turning, you only have a couple hours to sleep, ever, and you can’t be spending this just thinking of Satoru all damn night. You finally bite your lower lip, shooting him a little text, hoping it wouldn’t wake him up.

You: Good night, Mr. Gojo.

Satoru: You know it’s Satoru, hmm? Can’t sleep?

You: A lot on my mind… but thank you for today, you didn’t have to.

Satoru: That’s nothing to thank me over. But, you’re welcome, have sweet dreams… of me.

You giggle then, shaking your head, and biting your thumb just a bit.

You: Only if you dream of me.

Satoru: You think I haven’t already?

You cover your face, damn near squealing, fuck he makes you feel like some little high school girl, giggling as she hears her crush on the phone. Your hands are shaking just a bit as you contemplate what to say. You are terrified to bring anyone into the shitshow that’s your life, your mom coming in and out, taking money and disappearing, your brother coming too, begging for money.

You have a mess of a life, with a cruel woman after you, threatening you constantly, and you’re scared to open up, to be happy, even for a moment. But when he texts you next, you can’t stop your heart from racing.

Satoru: You know, masturbation relaxes me, knocks me right out.

You: Oh does it now?

Satoru: Try it and let me know next time you see me.

As Satoru speaks, he’s picturing you, and he can’t stop himself from stroking his cock slowly, up and down, as he’s riding in the back of his limo, finally all alone, fuck just your three dots typing and the memory of your taste are more than enough. His head falls back as he does, stroking his cock up and down, twisting and whimpering just so, when you finally type back.

You: Hmm… it is a little relaxing.

Satoru almost loses his shit, picturing how pretty your pussy must look.

Satoru: Giving it a shot? Listening, like a good girl?

Good girl, shit. You’re whining as you run circles over your clit, and you can’t type anymore, and Satoru notices, calling you now, shocking you. “S-Satoru?”

“Lemme give you pointers.” He says huskily, and you hear him, grunting just so, making you cry out.

“What? Are you…”

“So you get good sleep, you know- f-fuck. Rub little circles on that clit, hmm sweetheart?”

“Fuck…”

“You cuss?” He asks with a breathless laugh, hearing your whine on the phone, as your fingers get slippery. “If I wasn’t going out of town I’d come right over, make sure you’re doing it right.”

“Oh, would you? What if… I w-wasn’t, ngh!” Shit, Satoru’s about to bust just hearing your breathy cry.

“I’d have to show you how, baby girl. For your sleep, you know. Maybe use my fingers, bet yours don’t hit hmm? So tiny.”

“Mnh… Y-you would?”

“Let you use my thigh.”

“Satoru!”

“My face?”

“Fuck!” You’re screaming out as your little clit twitches, just edging him to moan, pumping cum all down his hand, he groans at it, at the flooding of sensations, his head falling forward, seeing the endless white cum spurting out his pretty pink tip. “S-sorry, I don’t usually cuss I s-swear… or d-do this…”

“Shh, sweetheart, you deserve some relaxation, hmm?” His murmur makes you ache for him, as you wonder…

What is this?

He just makes you let go.

You exhale now, struggling to right yourself, adjusting your shorts, sticky just a bit, as Satoru’s wiping himself um, moaning softly. “I’ve never done this.”

“You’re so cute. So fun to corrupt.”

“Oh!”

He’s laughing softly, zipping himself back up, as he aches for you, more and more. “I’ll see you soon, maybe I’ll show you some pointers.”

“You’re so sure of yourself hmm?”

“I’m Satoru Gojo, baby girl.” But he’s not sure of himself, he’s not sure he’d last long inside your cunt, god he imagines it’s perfect, he can’t get it out of his head, those moans, those whines, that liquid heat on his thigh.

“Satoru, wherever you’re going, be safe.” Your thoughtfulness touches him then, sure he has some friends, but no one says - stay safe. He’s momentarily stunned, hearing your yawn then, smiling at it.

“Of course I will be. See, masturbation, the cure.”

You giggle, shaking your head as you yawn once more, feeling your eyelids get heavy. “What’s this… mean?”

“That you want me so bad-”

“Satoru!”

“It means you’ll sleep good.” You both laugh softly, and you sigh then.

“Good night, Satoru.”

“Good night, sweets.” He waits for you to end the call, covering his face now, as his cock throbs with aftershocks, and he knows good and damn well it’s not the last time he’d jerk off to you tonight. No, it’s definitely not, he’s in the shower later at the hotel he’s staying at for the night, wishing he could just say fuck all this, and fuck his pretty bartender.

As he lays in the fancy hotel bed, he’s stroking it again, picturing how you’d ride him, how you’d bounce on his cock. The next morning even, he’s stroking it again, until his cock fucking hurts, remembering those moans, those whimpers, those sweet little cries.

Satoru must have you.

A/N - hehe I know it's SO LATE- I'll reblog in the morning <3 I hope you all enjoy- I'm thinking 6 parts or so on this onneee, there is gonna be a lot of drama and a lot of Toru being whipped- this is kinda the intro chap. See you in the comments my lovesss

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[neellscapsule]

Webs of Pain. chapter one: a cruel world

summary | you died. you should be buried, or at least not waking up. yet you lie there, suffering, very much alive.

pairing | platonic batfam x spider!batsis!reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female. literal death, experimentation, consequences of being brought back to life. reader has a severe depression and many scars of what joker and scarecrow did to her. mentions of torture because she has a backstory of how did she end up like that. not the nicest point of her life.

word count | 4.7k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) i plan on making this a series. please vote <3

this is NOT a yandere series, but it has dark themes that you already saw on warnings.

dick is 26. cass is 22. jason is 21. reader is 21 tim and steph are 19. duke is 18. damian is 14.

next.

AFTER DEATH, THE HUMAN BRAIN PLAYS IT'S MOST TREASURED MEMORIES FOR SEVEN MINUTES.

It doesn’t feel like that. Time doesn’t move. Time doesn’t end. It just bends inward, pulling back on itself, dragging you into yourself. You don’t feel the weight of your body anymore — there’s no pain, no sense of dying, no echoes of the final blow, of blood pooling beneath your ribs, of lungs collapsing.

All you feel is warmth. Not the warmth of your skin, or the sun. No, this is different — this is the warmth of love.

Seven minutes of love. Of snapshots stitched together by your soul. Memories you never thought you would have to relive—not because they were buried, but because there was no reason to believe you would ever need to hold on so tightly. They were yours. They lived with you. 

And then, in four hundred and twenty seconds, they unfurl like silk through your mind. Bright. Soft. Agonizingly perfect.

Your parents — your biological ones. Mary, with her sweet smile and gorgeous curls. Richard, his soft blue eyes, his gentle explanations. You were six when the Joker killed them. You were six when Bruce adopted you. You were six when you became a younger sister to Richard Grayson. 

Bruce follows quick — you don't call him that, you don't remember ever calling him by his name. He was dad. Your dad. Yours and your brother's. His proud smiles, his way of loving —not the easiest to understand, but his love anyway—, him patching you up. Running alongside Batman. 

He trained you. You never got to be just a kid, but in some way, being Dragonfly was your childhood. Your dad designed your wings. Your tech. Your suit, that midnight lilac that shimmered like if a fairy was in place. He watched you soar.

Oh, how you would miss being her, the most precious creature to run with a Robin.

Alfred came by immediately, his warm hands —how they smelled faintly of mint and old books—, his tender words. The way he knew you. His tea was a love language, his honey-lemon remedy for every scraped knee and broken heart. Every time you thought you had finally fallen too far, done something too reckless, said something too cruel, Alfred never once looked at you like you were lost.

Dick was your older brother, the one who made you a sister, as you had been the only child in your parents marriage. He was the light in the house, the laugh in the cave. The first time you went out on patrol, he called you Dragonfly because you were fast, sharp, beautiful in the way you cut through the air. The name stuck.

You would miss that name. You would miss him most of all.

Then Jason.

And God, if Dick was light, then Jason was fire. Uncontainable, furious, alive in a way you never were before he entered your orbit. You were both twelve and had been rivals from the second he arrived, but not in a cruel way — no, it was more like iron sharpening iron. You trained together. Fought together. Bled together.

Perhaps that was what made you both so close. Powder and fuse, had once Alfred called you. Your twin in everything but blood. 

You remember when he first died.

That was the first time you felt your soul break all over again. You were fifteen. You had been grounded — again — for going on missions without your father's permission. And then, just weeks later, he was gone. You were supposed to be with him. You were supposed to—

You stopped fighting after that. For months.

Then one day you started again — harder. With rage.

When he came back, angry and carved from vengeance, you tried to hold him the same way you used to. But Jason wasn’t Jason anymore — not for a long time. Still, he always softened around you, called you “Bug,” his voice dropping in pitch when no one else could hear.

You two were the same age. Same chaos. Same grief.

And in your last year alive, he had started calling you “sis” again. Just once. But once was enough.

Tim came next.

He was awkward when he met you, all logic and eyes too wide for his head. You were fifteen still. He was ten. He didn’t smile much, but he didn’t have to. He listened. And that meant more than anything. You used to steal his headphones when he was coding, just to mess with him. He’d scowl, sigh, and hand you a second pair.

Tim was your constant. When everything fell apart — Jason’s death, Bruce’s disappearances, your injuries, your silence — Tim was there. Steady. Intelligent. Often overlooked, always observing.

Steph was loud, sun-bright, and wild in ways that made the manor feel less like a mausoleum and more like a dorm room. You don't exactly remember when she moved in more regularly, and though you tried to act above it all, you loved her presence. She left your makeup bag notes. Borrowed your boots without asking. Hugged you like she meant it.

And then came Cass. She didn’t speak with words, and you hadn’t needed her to. You had connected through movement. The memory that burns brightest with her is the silent training session under moonlight, just the two of you — your bodies flowing like water, like poetry, like rage. The only sound was your breathing.

Afterwards, she pressed her forehead to yours and signed something with her fingers.

“I see you.”

You had burst into tears. 

Were you crying now as well? You couldn't exactly know.

Duke came later. Light, quite literally.

You were older when he joined — already hardened. But he softened you. He reminded you of everything bright that Gotham tried to strangle. You remember him racing you on patrol, skateboarding off rooftops just to make you smile. His optimism was relentless.

And finally — Damian.

Only a year you had with him. But it mattered.

You remember the cold shoulder, the bitterness. But more than that, you remember the slow thaw. Seeing him alongside that cow he loved, the dog he commanded and still treated with so much love. You saw through him, as once your father had with you. 

Seven minutes.

You were dead for much more than seven minutes. 

And then . . . you weren't. 

Water.

Cold, thick water.

You choke on it as you jolt back into existence. Not awake — no, this isn’t waking. Waking is peaceful. Waking is gentle. This is violence. This is agony carved into the shape of resurrection.

Your body convulses. Your lungs scream. River water floods your throat, burns up your nose, and you thrash beneath the surface — flailing, spiderlike, unnatural, primal. Your senses are all wrong. They come too fast, too loud, too bright. Every drop against your skin is a blade, every ripple a scream. Your hands — god, your hands — twitch and tremble, joints locking and unlocking like marionette strings yanked by God Himself.

You claw to the surface.

The air cuts into your lungs like knives. You sob, but it sounds feral, not human. Half-spider, half-death. Your fingers grasp the muddy embankment, tearing into the dirt like your body is demanding to stay this time.

You don’t know how long you lay there.

Time doesn’t mean anything anymore. Not when your memories are still flickering behind your eyelids like film reels melting in heat. Not when you can still taste Joker’s laughter in your mouth, his filth on your skin. Not when you can still hear Crane’s voice, calm and clean and clinical, saying things like "subject stability" and "arachnoid molecular elasticity."

Your skin is raw.

You heave again. River water, bile, and rage spill from your mouth.

And you scream.

A scream that splits the air open. A scream that is seven minutes late.

You don’t know who you are anymore.

You don’t remember coming back. You only remember dying. You only remember blood. And needles. And the look on your father’s face — Dad’s face — when he found your mask, broken in two, lying in a pool of blood.

Why? Why were you there?

Didn’t you have a family? Didn’t you have brothers? Where were your sisters? Didn’t someone come for you? Didn’t he come for you?

“WHERE ARE YOU?!”

You don’t realize you’ve screamed the words until your throat cracks. Your voice is nothing like it used to be. It’s not light or soft or sharp. It’s gravel and glass. All cracked edges and venom beneath.

You drag yourself up the bank. Knees collapsing beneath you. Limbs shuddering with effort.

Your fingers twitch — and from your wrists, soft threads pulse, wet and twitching like veins. But they don’t fire.

You blink. Your eyes adjust to the dark. And you run.

You don’t know how far. Maybe blocks. Maybe miles. Your feet don’t feel the ground. You don’t feel anything. Not until you crash into the rusted gates of Crime Alley.

Of course. You always end up here.

This place was your grave once. Now it’s your shadow.

You collapse in the corner of an abandoned laundromat, curling into yourself. Shaking. Your clothes are too tight. Or maybe your body is wrong. Everything hurts.

You dig your nails into your arms — but you don’t bleed. Not properly. The skin seals again in seconds. You hate that. You hate how quick your body fixes itself. Like it’s trying to forget what happened. Like it’s trying to pretend you weren’t broken at all.

“You should be dead,” you whisper.

You say it again. And again.

“You should be dead.”

You mean it. You were dead. For months. Years. You know you died. You remember the cold, the rot, the last sound being Joker’s voice in your ear, whispering something horrible — something you’ve blocked out because if you remember it, you’ll break apart again.

So you don’t. You press your forehead to the tile. You tremble. You try not to vomit.

Your fingers twitch again, and the webs flex. Unfired. Uncontrolled. You need something. You need someone.

But who? Bruce?

He didn’t come for you. He didn’t save you. None of them did. Not Dick. Not Jason. Not Tim. Not Cass. Not even Alfred. You were just... gone.

Buried in an empty casket. A name on a plaque. A whisper in the manor halls.

You want to believe they looked. That they searched. That they tore the city apart. But you don’t know.

You curl in tighter, and for the first time in years, you cry. Not rage. Not fury. Grief.

You cry because you don’t feel human. Because your reflection is gone. Because the world moved on. Because the girl who was once Dragonfly died and no one ever found her.

Because now you’re something else.

Something more.

Something wrong.

Scarecrow had called it “Project Spider.” As if giving it a name made it less monstrous. As if branding your horror made it a triumph.

You still remember the needles.

Twelve-inch syringes of something black. He called them serum trials. You called them torture. Your veins remember — you can still see them, your skin pale and thin and patterned with scars. Two symmetrical paths running from your wrist to your elbow, like rivers of ruin.

You had screamed.

They had laughed.

Joker. That bastard.

His voice still haunts your dreams. Still echoes in the rhythm of your heartbeat, because sometimes it beats too fast — spider-fast — and that makes it worse.

“Sing for me, little bug,” he’d said once, pressing a scalpel to your throat.

You hadn’t sung.

You’d bled instead.

You are not what you were.

You feel it.

The way your muscles twitch without command. The way your skin itches from the inside. The way your senses sharpen and shatter simultaneously. You feel everything. The worms in the earth. The dew on the grass. The distant heartbeat of a rat two blocks away.

And worst of all — the hunger.

It claws at you.

You need.

But you don’t know what. Or why. Or how.

You stumble to your feet. You’re barefoot, and your legs tremble under your own weight.

Something is… wrong with your spine.

Your balance is off — until you adjust, and your limbs shift with the grace of a predator. It’s not human. It’s not you.

You wander for days.

The sewers. The back alleys. The places even Gotham forgets. You eat trash and rats and once — once — a pigeon. You weep after. You vomit it up and cry so hard you almost pass out.

You aren’t human.

You aren’t.

The city doesn't feel like yours anymore.

But you clawed your way back. Bone by broken bone. Breath by burning breath. And now the city you once lived in lives in you. It breathes through your skin. It pulses with every strand of web you shoot, every scream you silence, every desperate child you wrap in warmth before vanishing into shadow.

You are Crimson Silk now.

Crimson, like blood. Silk, like the threads you cast to protect the only places that still feel real. Crime Alley. The Narrows. The places no one else dares to watch.

They don’t get heroes. They get you. And that’s enough.

You do not own them — you protect them. As best you can. In the way only something like you can.

You move through the city like smoke. The rooftops don't creak under your weight. You work in silence, in spider-patterns. No flair, no flourish. A body hits the ground — a molester trying to corner a teen behind a bar — and within ten seconds he's webbed to the wall and gagging on his own fear. You don’t even stop. He’ll be found. Eventually. And it will take a lot to take off those webs.

You leave notes now. Sloppy handwriting on torn papers or napkins.

“Tell them I said hello.”

You sign them with a bloody spider. Not your blood, that one is poisonous, would kill anyone in contact with it, or at least burn them bad. 

No one needs to know who you are. Not really.

You patrol until you collapse. You live that way. Move, move, move until your muscles start to tear, until your stomach caves in, until the hunger swallows thought. Then, and only then, do you stop.

Then it’s back to the den. A racked apartment above a pawn shop where the landlord only comes once a month to collect rent. He doesn’t speak English. You don’t speak Portuguese. You give him the cash and he gives you a nod. It works.

No one else knows you live there but three cats that won't leave. You don’t mind them. One sleeps on your chest sometimes. You call him Alfred. He’s gray. Stern. Judgy.

You haven’t seen the real Alfred since…

You bury that thought like you bury everything else.

You have a system now.

Feed the kids. Break the gangs. Avoid the Bats.

Especially Red Hood.

Jason is out there. You feel him in the same way your spider-sense warns you when something shifts in the air. He doesn’t patrol like the others. He stays. He breathes the Narrows like you do. He sees more than he should.

But you’re faster.

You’ve seen his eyes once — through his helmet.

He’d stared at the fresh webbing across an alleyway, half a man stuck to the side of a dumpster with a sticky note slapped on his cheek.

It had said: “Keep your hands off the girls.”

Jason had tilted his head. You were already gone.

Anyways, the floorboards of your apartment at least don't creak. But the heater doesn’t work, and the window locks are broken —nothing you couldn't replace with your fresh webs. You fixed the sink yourself. Ripped out the moldy pipes and welded them back together with pieces of scrap you stole from the junkyard. Rewired the whole breaker box. Built your own water filter using gravel and charcoal and an old coffee tin.

You survive.

Your mattress is old, your blanket stolen from a motel linen bin, but it’s warm . . . Sort of.

By day, you work at Cecilia’s Diner — a rusty little dive on the edge of Crime Alley, where the windows fog up from grease and the neon sign buzzes loud enough to drive anyone sane up a wall.

You’re the waitress most nights. Sometimes the cook, if Luis doesn’t show up. Occasionally the bouncer, if things get ugly.

They get ugly often.

Gotham doesn’t let anything stay clean. Not for long. Men come in bleeding, high, staggering. Women with black eyes and nowhere to go. Kids hungry enough to eat sugar packets straight.

You serve them all.

“Three eggs, overdone, no yolk?” you ask without writing it down.

Cecilia watches you from behind the counter, chewing on the end of a pencil. She knows you’re not normal. Doesn’t say anything. Lets you eat free. Pays you in cash. Keeps her mouth shut.

You’d bleed for her. You already have.

Once, a guy grabbed your wrist too hard. Tried to drag you toward the kitchen when you brought him the wrong drink. You dislocated his elbow with a flick of your hand and webbed him to the door before he could even scream.

No one questioned it.

They just started calling you Silky.

The name stuck.

By night, you patrol. No tech. No Bat-support. Just instinct. And your suit.

You made it from scraps — stolen Kevlar panels, spandex, other materials you don't even remember the name. The base is black, from toes to neck, a white web pattern you painted with your own hands covers the chest and the abdomen, sharp angular white lines on the arms and thighs. A single red mask covers the lower half of your face, leaving the eyes; they tend to get white when you are too spidey-like.

The web-shooters are homemade. Not pretty but they work.

Your spider sense guides you — a thousand whispers inside your skull, dragging your head toward crime like a moth to flame. Your eyes adjust to pitch black. Your bones bend in ways no human’s should. You leap across rooftops with the silence of something more insect than girl.

The kids love you.

They scream and point when you swing overhead. “It’s her!” “It’s Crimson Silk!” “She’s back!” “Did you see that? She crawled on the wall like a lizard!”

You stop for them.

Drop into alleyways with your mask half-down and crouch low so they don’t feel too small. You mend their toys with webbing. Carry them to the clinic when they’re sick. You make them feel safe.

You used to feel that way once.

Once.

Before the needles.

Before the Joker.

Before Scarecrow cut your body open and called it science.

You don’t hate the Joker, though. Not anymore. Not really.

Maybe, once, you did. Once, you were Dragonfly, and the thought of his face made your fists clench. Once, he was the monster in the closet, the bogeyman in your bloodstream, the voice in your nightmares whispering, laugh, little bug, laugh—

But now?

You thank him.

He pulled the trigger, even if it was a knife, and it was slow and so painful, he ended it. Ended the cage, the surgeries, the ice-cold labs, the peeling scent of Scarecrow’s toxin mixed with your sweat. He dumped your body in the river. He ended the experiment.

Joker was a madman.

But Crane? Crane was methodical.

He didn’t laugh. He recorded. He took notes while you screamed. Adjusted the dosage while you convulsed. Tilted your face toward the light and measured pupil dilation while your organs begged for mercy.

You remember the click of his pen better than the sound of your own name.

You ache for him. Not in any human way. Not with longing or hope or justice.

You ache with the same sharp hunger that your body does when you haven't eaten in two days. That need to consume. To end. To burrow into his chest and tear him apart from the inside out.

You whisper his name sometimes, when the walls get too quiet.

You want him to hear it coming.

But that's another story. For another day.

You eat five meals a day now. It’s required.

Your metabolism burns too hot — you need mass, carbs, salt, iron. You once cleared half the diner's pantry in one sitting after a particularly brutal patrol. Cecilia didn’t blink. She just refilled the fridge the next day.

When the hunger hits too hard, you get twitchy. Mean. Shaky. You smell things no human should. Taste colors. Your fangs poke out whether you want them to or not. You have to chug honey and rice just to calm down.

You learned the hard way that venom leaks when you’re starving. It paralyzes. Not forever. But long enough. You’ve only used it on people three times.

You don’t like to remember. You don’t want to remember what you’re capable of when you lose control.

The rooftops are slick with rainwater, summer heat refusing to cool even under the weight of dark clouds pressing down on the skyline. Gotham breathes in smog and exhales smoke; its heartbeat pulses in alleys and fire escapes, in the rustle of newspapers blown through empty streets, in the groan of buildings old enough to remember the blood that stained their bricks. You move with it. You always have. Or at least, you did—back when you were still someone else. 

You land without sound, crouched low like instinct demanded, fingers pressed to the ledge of a dilapidated old clock tower near the upper east blocks—still too close to the nice part of town. You shouldn’t be here. But you followed a lead, and when someone whispers “Scarecrow” in your ear through black market contacts and dying dealers with bleeding noses and red-glassed eyes, you don’t exactly get picky about which roof you bleed on.

Your eyes flick toward movement—blurred but deliberate. Another vigilante silhouette, sleek, red-trimmed, confident.

Red Robin.

He’s standing tall in the spotlight cast by a security beacon that’s been out since last winter. Of course he’d find the one light still working. He’s like that. You can’t hear him yet, but his posture is so damn smug, you don’t need to. It drips off him in waves. You could smell that arrogance even if your spider-sense didn’t warn you first.

You straighten slightly, head tilting.

He speaks before you do. Of course he does.

“New mask,” he says, arms folded across his chest. “New name, new face… but same drama, I’m guessing?”

You don’t answer. Not right away. You don’t need to explain yourself to anyone. Especially not a kid who still smells like Wayne Manor shampoo.

“Didn’t know the Bat let metas out to play without a leash now,��� he continues, stepping forward, motioning vaguely at you. “We doing that? Some sort of spider-themed affirmative action?”

Your shoulders roll with a pop as you stand, eyes narrowing beneath your mask.

“I’m no meta.”

He snorts. “Sure. And I’m not tired of getting dive-bombed by people with bloodthirsty nicknames and unresolved trauma.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you uttered.

He drew his staff in a single, fluid motion. “You won’t.”

You descend in a blur, faster than he expected. His back hits the gravel rooftop with a sharp exhale, but he’s already swinging a baton before your feet even land. You leap, mid-flip, body folding tight over his strike, back bending unnaturally as the baton sweeps under your ribs. You land behind him and kick.

He spins just in time, catching your foot with his forearm and sliding backward.

“Ow,” he says flatly. “Was that supposed to hurt more, or are you pacing yourself?”

“I don’t pace,” you reply, and your voice comes low, measured. Like something that’s learned to sound calm before it bites.

“Noted,” he grunts, and this time he lunges.

Your fights are always quick. They have to be—your strength is nothing short of brutal, and even when you try to pull back, bones break. But Red Robin isn’t just good. He’s calculated. He moves like he knows he’s two steps behind but bets he can fake being ahead long enough to catch you off guard.

Your limbs move faster than human—he notices. His brow furrows mid-swing, even as he ducks your elbow and tries for your side again. You grab his cape mid-motion, twist, and yank him to the rooftop. He gasps, lands on his side, rolls—and smiles.

“You’re really not the friendly neighborhood type, huh?”

You bare your fangs.

You are not going do to anything with them, but you bare them to scare him, to make him run away from you, so you don't have to force yourself to hurt him. 

Venom glistens faintly in the shadows of your mouth—two sharp canines that have long since grown used to being out of place in a human face. You clench your jaw, willing the urge down. You're not hungry, but your hunger doesn’t care. Your body is always reminding you of how much it costs to stay alive.

He freezes, just briefly, eyes locking on your mouth, and you know he's trying to place it—trying to match it with files, images, lost faces.

You leap again.

This time, he doesn’t try to be funny. He fights like a trained weapon, baton in one hand, throwing disks in the other, shouting mid-fight like he can’t turn off his damn commentary.

“You know, for someone this bendy,”—your leg folds around his throat, flips him to the ground again—“you really don’t have a lot of chill.”

You hiss. “Stop talking.”

“Can’t. Contractually obligated.”

You slam him into a metal ventilation unit, denting it in the shape of his ribs. It knocks the wind out of him, but still he gets up. Of course he does. You almost admire it. Almost.

“You’re not a meta,” he coughs, rubbing his side. “But you’re definitely not normal. Not even Gotham-level weird.”

You crouch low, spider-like, wrists twitching subtly. “There’s no one like me.”

He raises a brow. “Oh, you’d get along great with Jason.”

That makes something ugly twitch behind your ribs.

You dart forward again, spider-sense flaring bright white across your nerves. He throws smoke. You web it apart midair.

He whistles, low. “Oh, that’s cheating.”

“This isn’t a game.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he says, flipping onto a higher ledge. “You fight like someone with something to prove. But you don’t kill. You don’t maim. You just knock the air out of me and bounce.”

You follow. He barely gets a block of movement before you web his ankle, yank him down, and flip him mid-fall.

“Whatever you are, you shouldn’t be here,” he said, tone shifting. “You’re interfering. Gotham has a system. If you’re rogue, then you’re a problem.”

“You think Gotham’s system works?” you asked. “Go look at the kids two blocks from here selling powdered poison to keep the lights on. Go tell them the Bat’s system is working.”

“I do,” he cracked. “Every damn night. Which is why I’m not letting some half-feral experiment run wild through it.”

His breath is hitching, his stance slower. He’s buying time. You feel it in the way he keeps baiting. The talking isn’t just annoyance—it’s cover. He doesn’t understand what you are. And maybe, if he talks enough, it won’t hit him. That awful feeling that creeps into your skin like static.

Your spider-sense tingles again. But this time it’s not him.

Something far away—watching.

You twist sharply toward the distant skyline. A flash of blue. A glint of escrima sticks. A rooftop higher than yours, and too far to act on.

Nightwing.

Just for a second, you see him. Tall, composed. Shoulders squared like a warning beacon in a city full of ghosts. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t interfere.

Your breath catches in your chest like guilt.

“Hey!” Red Robin’s voice yanks you back. “Eyes on me. That’s rude.”

You throw the last of your web fluid without hesitation.

It fires in tight spirals, engineered for speed and impact. You slam him against the wall of the rooftop stairwell, wrap him up head to toe before he can move. Arms pinned, legs locked, mouth left free.

“Wha—seriously?” he grunts. “Do you know how much this suit costs?”

“I don’t care.”

He wiggles a little. “I’m gonna get out of this in, like, ten minutes.”

You’re already backing up toward the edge of the roof. “That’s all I need.”

“And when I do, I’m following you.”

“No,” you say, stepping onto the ledge. “You’re not.”

And with that, you vanish into the night. Web-line launched toward the old power lines that string across Crime Alley like ribs, you swing low, fast, pulse racing, heart torn between venom and sorrow. The world behind you shrinks into silence. But your ears still ring.

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t recognize you. The younger brother who used to annoy you in the kitchen, beg to train with you, joke until you were wheezing from laughter—he doesn’t see you now. Just another shadow in the city. Another threat. Another thing to chase.

And maybe that’s better. Maybe it’s safer that way.

You slip back into the darkness of your own making, breathing hard, tears you won’t cry stinging at your throat. The kids in the Narrows need you. Crime Alley is waiting.

But your limbs still ache with the memory of the fight. And your chest still aches with the truth that you can’t say.

You are Crimson Silk.

And you're not supposed to be alive.

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: implied noncon, yandere, kidnapped reader, dollification

♡ FEM reader

You would never be caught dead wearing pink before. Not ruffles or frills or bows either. Not any of this lacy type of shit you see dolls wear. 

You weren’t that type of girl.

You’d argue you never once were, but you might have been when you were little. You must have realized it early on, though, that it wasn’t for you. You just didn’t have it in you, you know? To smile and giggle and pose for pictures with a group of similar girly girls, all with syrupy pink drinks in hand, wearing little pink dresses and tiny clip-on cowboy hats. No, you just couldn’t.

But the fun fact, though, is that you actually wanted to be sometimes… That was always the worst of it. How some times, when watching how frivolous and fun those types of girly girls seemed to have it, you wished you could be one. To be a girly girl without a care in the world, wearing a little pink dress and a tiny clip-on cowboy hat just for the fun of it, without it making you feel stupid. But you weren’t and you couldn’t. It didn’t suit you. You could never get out of feeling stupid.

And now here you are. Dressed up in all that pink glittery bullshit. Looking like you just stepped out of a teen magazine. And the feeling of looking stupid is so palpable, you curse yourself for ever having had the thought.

But he doesn’t care if you’re that type of girl or not. 

Or maybe, it’s all he cares about. Maybe he took you because you rejected being a girly girl by wearing ugly black clothes, and he just couldn’t let that slide. Maybe that’s the only reason. Him finding purpose and satisfaction in forcing you to convert. You don’t know… the guy’s fucking nuts.

You sit opposite each other on a pink fuzzy floor matt depicting cartoon flowers. An assortment of little girls’ makeup kits is strewn out over it. There’s a cheap scent of chalk, vaseline, and other chemicals in the air. It reminds you of Halloween. But you’re not allowed to be a ghost this year. 

This year, you’re going to be whatever he wants. And what he wants is a full fairy princess fantasy.

As mentioned, he’s fucking nuts.

He’s using the small plastic brushes that come along with the sets, along with those dumb Q-tip-esque smear-sticks—those you’ve never understood what are useful for.

The blush is hot pink—nearly neon. He gives up with the tiny brushes after a while and starts using his fingers instead. His ringer, his fucker, and his pointer, all three with hot pink powder, crudely rub over the height of your cheeks and the tip of your nose. He uses enough for the foil to show, so much you’d think you’re entire face is pink. 

Next is eyeshadow, they’re all cream-based. Or, well… the children’s versions of cream-based, which is more like the texture of a bad stick of lip balm. The one he’s using is blue. Or, it looks blue in the tin, but once he’s got it on his finger, it just looks clear. At least it’s got small star sequins inside it. They pinch your lids each time you open and close your eyes. Crinkling and drizzling down into your lap.

You feel so sticky, it’s unbearable. And yet, you stay still. Looking up into the ceiling light—into a lampshade that’s got all the Disney princesses posing on it, looking just like one of those pictures you never got to take. 

Once he’s done fingering your eyelids, he brings forth a mascara—the test type that comes along as a gift when you buy all the other shit. It’s almost definitely dried out and chunky and not at all waterproof. You can only imagine what a wreck you’ll look like once the night’s all over.

Lastly, it’s the lip gloss—thick, pasty, and shimmery pink, tasting like manufactured strawberry syrup. You can’t believe this is what little girls are given to put on their faces. You feel like one of those Barbie styling heads, like no amount of wet wipes can get that fatty feeling of wax away.

When he turns the heart-shaped mirror towards you, you can’t decide which you look like— a cheap prostitute, the birth of a mediocre drag queen, or a seven-year-old girl who’s just raided her mother’s makeup bag for the first time.

But you know he’s going to make you feel like the first one.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Deku, Kirishima, Dabi, Hawks, Overhaul ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Mahito, Nanami, Geto, Gojo, Naoya, Higuruma, Todo ♡ HQ – Kuro, Oikawa, Sakusa, Atsumu, Osamu ♡ CSM – Yoshida ♡ BLLK – Reo, Nagi, Bachira, Isagi, Rin, Sae Kunigami, Baro, Aiku ♡ DS – Doma, Sanemi ♡ WB – Suo, Kiryu, Umemiya, Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[darkbluekies]

Broken restraints

Yandere!doctor oc x reader

Summary: you've finally had enough and decides to switch the roles on your doctor, to try to get where he has placed the poison that is destroying you

Warnings: drugging, reader is held captive and poisoned, basically a little manhandling of darling?, restraints, manipulation/kind of infantilization

Word count: 2k

Your heart is beating. This can backfire horrendously, but what other choice do you have?

“Can I have something to eat?” you ask as he places the two cups on the table.

“Are you hungry?” he wonders and gives you a worried look, always speaking to you in that soft, understanding tone. “Didn't you like the dinner?”

“I did, but I'm still hungry.”

“Okay, would you want a sandwich? Or a fruit?”

“Whatever, please.”

He nods. “Okay, I'll be back soon.”

You wait for the door to click shut before opening your hand where he's placed the sleeping pills. Your eyes turn to his coffee cup. This is such a bad idea.

You grab your own cup of chamomile tea and place the pill underneath, gently crushing it against the desk, grinding it into a fine powder. Your heart beats inside your chest. What if he comes back before you're done? If he forgot something? How do you explain this without telling the truth? 

You pour the powder into his coffee, stirring slightly and feeling your heart sink to your stomach. Despite what he's doing to you, there has to be another way, right? But then again, if there was another way you wouldn't be doing this.

I'm sorry but what else do I do?

He returns with an apple.

“Here you go, little one”, he says. “Can't let you go to bed hungry. It's good that you're hungry. As long as you're not nauseous. Or cramping.”

From your poison, you mean?

You take a bite of the apple just for it to be believable. He takes a sip of his coffee. Your heart stops.

“How are you feeling?” he asks after he's swallowed. “How's your head?”

“Fine”, you reply shortly. 

He reaches out, touching it as if you had a fever.

“That's good”, he says. 

He drinks some more. You try to take another bite of the apple, but you're too worried about him feeling the taste, or the texture of the crushed pill.

“You look like you're going to throw up”, he says. “Are you sure you're fine?”

“I-I actually am a bit nauseous, when I think about it”, you half lie. 

“See? I know when you're lying, you forget I read you like an open book. Drink some tea, it'll help.”

He pushes the cup closer to you. You sip carefully. The warming sensation only highlights the disgusting guilt.

He tucks you in, like he does everything night, and starts to move towards the door, but your hand grabs his white lab coat sleeve.

“Please don’t leave”, you whisper. “Not yet.”

He looks at you in a questioning manner. You've been so quiet ever since you got to know about the poisoned air purifier, not wanting him close. But he can't deny you. Never.

“Okay”, he says and sits down on his stool, rolling over to your bedside. “Just lay down. I'm not going anywhere.”

“Lay?” you ask quietly, patting the space on the bed beside you.

“Why?”

“Please.”

“You haven't wanted me near these last few weeks. You've been rather cross with me.”

“I'm scared. I'm desperate. Please.”

He reads you like an open book, he says, but you pray he feels sorry enough for you to ignore any warning signs. Dr Kry sighs, removes his lab coat, leaving him in his blue scrubs, and lays down on the side of the bed. His bare arm brushes yours. He's weirdly warm for someone so cold.

Carefully, he directs your head to lean on his shoulder without a word. You close your eyes and pretend to sleep, opening your eyes every now and then to see if he's asleep. He's bigger than you. Maybe the pill was too little for someone his size? Or maybe the caffeine in the coffee balanced it out?

“Doctor”, you whisper after a while. “Doctor Kry?”

He doesn't respond. You lift your head from his shoulder, leaning on your hand as you push yourself up on one arm. You realise that you've never seen him sleep. He looks content, peaceful almost.

It makes what you're about to do so much worse.

You glance at the leather straps that have left permanent marks on your wrists from his discipline. Carefully you scoot over and lean over him to grab his right wrist, fully ready for him to grab you at any second. But he doesn't. Slowly, you fasten it to the side of the bed with the buckle straps. And then the other. You get off the bed and back away, taking in the sight. It makes you nauseous.

You walk over to the cabinet by the corner and pull over his stool to get a better look at the purifier. One hand covers your mouth and nose as the other twists and turns the little box, looking for the poison. Nowhere. This close, it looks harmless. 

You make your way down and over to his desk, looking through the drawers. There’s only papers. And documentation. You look throughout the room, but the poison is nowhere to be found. How can you ever get well if you don't even know what you've inhaled?

You have no choice but wait for Dr Kry to wake up. You sit down on his stool, waiting. It's tiresome, long, boring.

His eyes finally flutter open two hours later. You hold your breath. He blinks for a second, feeling something wrong. His hands tug at the restraints. 

“Y/N.”

You've never heard his voice like that spoken your way, only those few unfortunate times he has shown that dark side of his. But then that voice was never used against you.

His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. 

“What have you done?” he asks. “Release me. Now.”

“Wait”, you say. 

“Get me out, Y/N. I'm not joking.”

“You have to listen to me first.”

“How did you manage to do this? You—...I see. You did something with the sleeping pill. Your little joke is not funny. Release me now and I will forget about this.”

“No, you have to listen to me!”

“I have to listen to you? With these kinds of methods you have?”

“Doctor, please.”

He looks at you for a second before clenching his jaw, leaning back slightly. He doesn't say anything, doesn't accept it, but he doesn't reject it.

“Where's the poison?” you question.

“Poison?” 

He looks straight at you, cold blue eyes sending ice throughout you. Anger is so unlike Dr Kry. Maybe this wasn't a good idea.

“Should have asked me when I was free, sweetheart”, he bites back. “I can't move. I can't show you.”

“You have a mouth. You can speak.”

“And you have one too, that's how humans work. One that works without having to tie me down.”

“You wouldn't have listened to me. And if you would have, you wouldn't have taken me seriously.”

“And you think this helps your cause? Because, to me, this looks like the doing of someone who's not well. Who can't be reasoned with. Who's too sick to take care of themselves, and that's why I have to.”

“I'm sick because of you! I want to know where the poison is.”

“Why? So you can go to the cops? I'm sorry, sweetheart but they won't be able to help you. That poison is of my own doing. There is no antidote on the market and if they want to figure out what I've put in it it'll take years to develop one … and who says they'll actually be able to? It's not unusual that new, untested substances make you worse. Face it, I'm the only one that can heal you.”

“You don't have an antidote.”

Kry scoffs. “Don't I? Do you think I'd be so stupid to develop a poison for my beloved, and not create an antidote in case something goes wrong?”

“Where is it?”

“Not in here … but I can show you.”

You hesitate. You're not sure if it's out of pure desperation, need to get out of the situation or the poison clogging your brain, but you move towards the bed. Unsure lying, as if you're waiting for a thought clear enough to stop you. Nothing comes.

You unbuckle one of his wrists. He immediately moves it in circles to massage it, grunting. As soon as you've loosened the other, he doesn't waste time. He flies up from the bed and in one motion, grabs hold of your jaw with his hand and forces you backwards. The grip isn't painful, but it's firm and unyielding. You've known that he's strong, but not like this. 

You stumble backwards until your back finally hits the wall beside the bathroom door. He towers over you, looking down at you in a way he's never done before. It's anger … mixed with something. 

He holds your jaw with one hand, thumb and index finger digging into your cheeks. He tilts it upwards, stretching your neck. You stare wide eyed, fear exploding in you like fireworks.

“What was that?” he hisses. “Do not ever do that again, do you hear me?”

“Let go!” 

“Y/N, don't you realise what could have happened if you hadn't released me? You're not well, you need me, precisely because of these kinds of things. See what happens when you think for yourself with that clogged head of yours?”

You try to turn your head away but he doesn't let you. His grip is still not harsh, just firm.

“You're irrational, hysteric”, he hisses. “And you think I will release you? When you act like this? How will you survive? Antidote or not, you're a danger. Both to yourself and others, clearly.” He thinks for a moment. “That's it.”

Swiftly he lets go of your face, bends down and picks you up, hoisting you over his broad shoulder. You yelp, trying to steady yourself against his back.

“Since you can't be trusted, I have to use your own tricks against you”, he says, walking back to the bed.

He places you down on the mattress carefully, supporting both your head and waist before roughly taking one of your wrists and fastens it to the belt buckle. He tightens it enough for you to not wiggle, on both sides. You stare at them, trying to move. Dr Kry grabs your chin, making you look at him again.

“Are they too tight?” he asks firmly. “If you can't answer verbally, nod or shake your head.”

You nod quickly. He gives the restraints a quick look, trying to decide if they truly are. He then stands straight.

“You'll be fine.”

He turns back to his desk and pops out another sleeping pill and grabs your glass of water that stands on the nightstand. He holds your face, forcing your mouth open and placing the pill on your tongue. Before you can close it, the glass is tilted against your lips. Water floods your mouth. His hand holds your jaw throughout it, refusing rejection. When the glass is removed, he tilts your head upwards.

“Don't fight it. Swallow.”

With the angle he has your neck in, you have no choice but to swallow the sleeping pill. You cough. 

“I despise having to use these kinds of methods against you”, he says dryly. “But if you refuse to listen to what’s best for you and behave, then I have to. I will put you back in your place, and that’s not to be mean. It’s to protect you.”

But then his eyes soften and his shoulders fall slightly. He sighs heavily, the anger running off of him.

“You should catch some sleep”, he says lowly. “You've been up later than usual. It's not good for your health.”

He tucks you in, jawstill clenched, but not angry. Not visibly. It's hard finding a comfortable position when your wrists are pinned.

“Y/N”, he says. “Don't do this again. Honestly. Don't.”

He gives off another sigh and leans down to kiss your forehead. You don't say anything.

“Sleep well”, he says.

He leaves the room, locking the door behind him. As soon as he's alone in the corridor, he leans against the wall, running a trembling hand over his face. This could easily have been avoided. He'll make sure it never happens again. If he has to feed you the medicine himself from now on, he will. Never again will he be put in that spot again.

[noirscript]

Lavender and Powder

Pairing: Yandere!Farmer x City Girl!Reader Description: Isaiah, a farmer with a quiet intensity, becomes an unsettling presence in your life after a chance encounter. What starts as neighborly kindness spirals into a chilling tale of control and obsession, leaving you trapped in a nightmare you never saw coming. Warning/s: Yandere | Psychological Manipulation | Obsession | Emotional Coercion | Stalking | Non-consensual Confinement | Forced Domesticity | Dubious Consent | Threats | Intimidation | Mild Physical Violence | Implied Babytrapping Note: I tried to make the reader bratty in the drafts but it doesn't feel right T^T I don't know if the anon who requested this is still lurking here or not, but enjoy! Also, join the taglist by clicking this link! (My interview ended few minutes ago. My brain is toasted af. T^T)

Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast 50% off

You’d only been in town for five days, and already you were part of the scenery at Gracie’s Diner.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest work. You didn’t mind the grease that clung to your skin, the clatter of dishes, or the sting in your legs after double shifts. What mattered was that you were earning your keep—paying your bills, fixing up the wreck of a farmhouse your mother left behind, and doing it all without help.

You weren’t here to be rescued.

“You sure you’re not overworking yourself, sweetheart?” Gracie asked as you refilled the sugar jars. She was a woman who wore her sarcasm and worry with the same ease as her eyeliner.

“I’m fine,” you said with a smile, rolling your sleeves up higher. “Gotta pay for a new water heater somehow. Thing practically screamed when I tried to shower this morning.”

“Thought your neighbor offered to help with all that?”

You stiffened.

You remembered him well. Isaiah. The farmer with shoulders like barn doors and calloused hands that looked like they could crush rock. He came to welcome you on your first day with a crate of eggs and a bashful smile. In return, you gave him a plate of spaghetti you made that night, more out of politeness than interest.

You hadn't realized the way his eyes lingered as you handed him that plate.

That in his mind, that gesture sealed a bond deeper than you’d ever intended.

“I told him I had it under control,” you said simply.

Gracie gave you a look. “I know you city girls are all about that independence. Just be careful. Some men ‘round here get ideas.”

You laughed softly. “I can take care of myself.”

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Your shifts were long. The tips were modest. And the farmhouse was stubborn in its disrepair. But you were managing.

Until your truck died.

You were halfway down the lonely road toward your house after closing the diner when the engine sputtered and gave out. No signal. No cars. Nothing but the humming of bugs and the distant rustle of trees.

You grabbed your backpack and kicked the tire, muttering curses.

Then headlights pierced the dark.

Isaiah pulled up beside you, leaned out the window with a smile that looked just a bit too pleased.

“Well, now. Looks like you need a hand.”

You blinked. “Yeah… my truck just—stopped. No warning. Can I get a lift home?”

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Was just headin’ back from drinks with the boys.”

You got in.

The silence stretched as you talked. You were tired, but adrenaline kept you going. You talked about the renovations, your job at the diner, your plans to eventually turn the farmhouse into something self-sustaining. You didn’t notice the silence behind the wheel. Not really.

“I just think women shouldn’t have to rely on anyone,” you said, stretching. “It’s freeing, you know? To build something yourself.”

His hands clenched the steering wheel.

You didn't notice.

But he did.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Three days later, the farmhouse was broken into.

You came home after your shift and found everything ransacked. Nothing stolen—just destruction. Dishes shattered. Curtains torn. Couch cushions ripped open like animals had clawed them apart. Your knees gave out. You screamed.

Isaiah arrived before the sheriff.

“Jesus,” he said, crouching beside you. “You alright? You’re shaking.”

“I—yeah—I think—” You gasped. “They didn’t take anything. Just trashed it.”

“No way you’re sleeping here tonight,” he said. “Door’s broken. You’re vulnerable.”

“I’ll go to a motel—”

“They’re all booked for the rodeo this week,” he interrupted gently. “Look, I’ve got a guest room. Just for a night or two.”

You didn’t want to. But your nerves were shot, and there was nowhere else to go.

“Just a night,” you agreed, voice hollow.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Isaiah’s house was too perfect.

Pristine. Polished floors. Dishes stacked in neat rows. A faint floral scent lingered—lavender, maybe.

“Bathroom’s down the hall. Towels are clean. I’ll get the bed ready,” he said, walking away with your overnight bag like it already belonged there.

You spotted a mug on the counter with your name on it. Painted in soft pastel blue.

“You… had this?”

He smiled. “Felt right. Made it when I heard you took the old place.”

You tried to joke. “That’s… thoughtful.”

He smiled wider.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

You tried to offer him money the next morning, after breakfast. Scrambled eggs. Homemade biscuits. Too good.

“Don’t insult me,” he said quietly. “Just help out around the house, alright? You’re already doing so much.”

So you did. You swept. Cleaned. Cooked dinner once or twice. Anything to repay him for the roof over your head while you called contractors and scraped together the funds for repairs.

But the contractors never called back.

Your calls went unanswered.

The mechanic said your truck was totaled.

You didn’t realize someone else had made sure of that.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

It was a week later when you heard Isaiah on the phone.

The kettle had just started to scream when his voice reached you from down the hall, muffled but distinct. You weren’t trying to eavesdrop—not really—but something in his tone made your body freeze.

“…No, she hasn’t figured it out yet. Sweet thing still thinks this is charity.”

A low chuckle.

“I’ve been teaching her… slowly. She’s adjusting.”

A pause. His voice dropped lower.

“Not yet. But soon.”

You stood there for a second too long. Long enough for the kettle to whistle sharply, loud enough to cover the sound of the ceramic mug slipping from your hands and smashing against the floor.

The tea scalded your bare feet. You barely felt it.

Your breath hitched in your throat as his voice stopped mid-sentence. The sudden silence on his end was deafening.

You moved.

Bolted.

You didn’t think—just acted. Your legs carried you on instinct, slipping on the wet floor, catching yourself against the wall, fingers fumbling for balance. The hallway felt longer than usual. Your vision tunneled, the walls squeezing closer with every second.

You reached the back door.

Unlatched.

Unlocked.

Hope surged in your chest so violently it made you gasp.

You wrenched it open.

Cool air hit your face, the smell of soil and pine and freedom burning in your lungs. You were halfway out—one foot in the grass, fingers scraping the edge of the doorway—

And then a hand, large and brutal, slammed the door shut.

With you halfway through it.

You screamed.

The edge of the frame cracked against your ribs as Isaiah yanked you backward, one arm wrapping tight across your waist, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. You kicked, flailed, clawed at his skin, but he held you firm—an immovable wall of muscle and determination.

“I knew you’d run,” he muttered, breath hot against your ear. His voice had lost the syrupy sweetness he wore like a mask. Now it was raw, cracked, and furious. “Ungrateful little thing.”

He turned, carrying you effortlessly despite your thrashing.

“I’ve done everything for you. Gave you safety. Gave you warmth. A home.”

He slammed the door behind you both with his boot, the echo like a gunshot.

You fought harder.

“I was gonna ease you into it,” he snarled, dragging you past the kitchen. “Let you feel like you chose this. But you just had to snoop, didn’t you?”

He didn’t take you to the guest room.

He took you down the hall, past the door you’d never seen open. The one that was always locked.

He kicked it in.

And there it was.

The cradle. A handmade wooden crib, nestled in the center of a room painted in soft yellows and sage green. The mobile above it spun slowly, creaking on its hinges, casting distorted shadows across the walls.

Everything smelled like baby powder and lavender and something far too clean.

Your stomach turned.

“No—no, let me go—!”

“You’re mine,” Isaiah hissed, slamming the door shut behind you. He twisted the lock before pressing you against it, pinning you there with the full weight of his body. “You fed me that day. You smiled. You looked at me like I mattered. What the hell did you think that meant, huh?”

You shook your head, tears blurring your vision. “It was just dinner—it didn’t mean anything—”

“It meant everything,” he growled, gripping your chin so hard it ached. “It was a promise. A bond. You gave yourself to me when you fed me. You just didn’t know it yet.”

You whimpered as his hand dropped to your hip, then your wrist, guiding you toward the crib with terrifying tenderness.

“You’ll see. You don’t need that diner. You don’t need money or dreams or whatever garbage you believe in. You need me. You need this.”

He pressed your palm flat against the cradle’s wooden edge.

“You need to understand your place, wife.”

You sobbed, body trembling, but there was no more strength left to fight.

His voice dipped lower, reverent and sickeningly soft.

“…And maybe it’s time you give me what I’ve waited for.”

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @fandangoballs @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger

[boredpotate]

Happier Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own Arcane or any other kind of media mentioned or linked.

Concept: Isekai Fem Reader turns back time to fix her timeline, but has unforeseen consequences. (If you want to know the full idea I had then it's in the first chapter)

Note: Didn't mention in the first chapter, but I'm going to assume Vi was 11 and Powder was 6 in the opening scene since I don't think it has been confirmed.

(Edit: Forgot to add something. I'm considering letting Reader have a romance with Timebomb, but IDK. Not fully decided yet.)

Vander Pov

Five years.

Five years since two little girls lost their parents on that bridge and since I became a father of two. Didn't think I would take in two more kids from the streets after them, but then again I never thought I would be a father. The two new additions were boys, all together they became a loyal little crew of four Undercity kids. Speaking of.

"You sure this this one's gonna work Pow Pow? The last one almost gave me a concussion.", Vi asks as Powder works on another one of her latest inventions. Supposed to be some kind of smoke bomb.

Powder puffs her cheeks a little with a pout.

"I said I was sorry and I told you it was a test. I didn't mean for it to have a delay on it. The switch went off later than I planned.", she says grumpily, but a hint of guilt in there.

"Of course not. That's just because you're a jinx.", Mylo says teasingly which makes Vi sock him in the arm. Making Claggor chuckle a little. Deserved, honestly.

"It's fine. I just don't want you blowing yourself up."

I smile as I set down drinks for them, not alcohol of course, before turning to Powder.

"Just make sure you don't run any tests in here. Unless you all want to spend the day cleaning paint off bar.", I say before taking a good look at my troop of trouble makers.

Claggor, big and strong, but not dumb. Smarter and wiser than others actually. A kind soul..... unless you're looking for a fight. Kid can take hits and hit you back harder.

Mylo, not the biggest nor the baddest, but surprisingly cunning if you didn't know him before hand. Always putting up a cocky facade, but he does care. Though he has a problem with making his face enticing to punch.

Powder, youngest of them all has a knack for mechanics and inventing. A tinkerer through and through, like Benzo's boy, Ekko. So much potential in a little bundle of joy. She'll go far in life. As long as she doesn't blow herself up first.

Vi, the oldest, the protector and the leader of the four. Always wanting to put herself in front of all the danger for her family. Take on all the burden, like the stubborn girl she is. Especially for her sister. Most likely to kick a door down before checking if it's unlocked.

Together we were a family. Honestly this would have been enough for me, but to think I'd get my brother back too.

"I'm sure it will go well this time. I took a look at the mechanism, she only needs to make a few adjustments.", Silco says, sitting next to Powder while working on his notes and occasionally glancing at Powder's work.

Silco, my brother in every way but blood. I didn't think I'd ever be able to rekindle our bond from before. He read my letter. Apparently he stayed in hiding for a few years to think about all that happened and himself. I still remember when he came back, around the time I took in Mylo and Claggor, the feeling I had felt when he just came walking in one day like it was any other regular day.

We talked about our mistakes and regrets. We reminisced on the old days when we were young and dumb, and when Felecia was still alive. It took time, still is, but right now? We're in a good place now. Forgave each other and moving forward to help Zuan. He and Powder seem to get along well, which is good. Silco was always the smarts between the two of us; always had his nose in his notes or a book.

I couldn't help but smile when looking at the scene. The bar felt more alive nowadays, the kids I took in talking and bickering but safe, and the man who is like a brother to me is back. All in The Last Drop where it's safe. All we need is Benzo and his boy, Ekko, here and we'll have the whole party together.

Everything i-

Dad?

Damn. That damn voice again. Been bugging me ever since the bridge. Like a memory, but from talks I've never had with someone before.

SoOoo, QUiCk qUestIOn. wHo get's THE bAr wHeN YoU reTiRe? hM?

Who is that? I can barely make it out to be a kid's, but I never heard any kid like that. Yet, it feels like I'm supposed to know. It brings out that same feeling in my chest that I have for my kids.

"Vander?"

I look back up to Silco, who is looking at me with concern in his eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Is everything alright? You froze there for a second."

"Oh, don't worry. I'm fine, nothings wrong. Just.... something bugging my head for awhile."

He looks at me with some worry, but drops it after Powder grabs his attention. Probably something about her tinkering.

I go to clean a few glasses as I ponder on the voice again.

'Who is that?'

Reader Pov

"Get back here you little shit!"

I hear and ignore the shouts as I keep running. I managed to eavesdrop on a deal. Heard them talk about there drop off point for payment. The people came earlier than I expected for the money and I got caught in the act. Now I'm running through the streets with five people on my trail. Not my fault everyone ignores kids when discussing stuff.

I weave through alley ways and crowds in the streets with a mask and hood. After years of growing up in it, it's only natural that it's pretty easy to navigate. Especially as a kid; there's lots of little crevices and old pipe lines to slip into. Though these people are pretty persistent, but I can't really blame them. Seems like whatever job they did paid a lot based on the weight of the bag, though I am a kid so I could be wrong.

I take a quick look back to see that the crowd built me a good bit of distance before quickly ducking into another alley. I take many turns before getting onto another crowded street and build some distance before I start blending into the crowd. I see one of them pop out from the alley, but it's already too late. I'm good as gone now.

I steady my breathing as I begin to backtrack from where I ran from. They'll probably stay in this area and wait for me or some kid with a bag to come out, meanwhile my home is on the nowhere near here.

Home.

'I miss home.'

I thought it would be easier than this honestly. Not the living part, that's easy. Zuan isn't some drug filled city like before where everyone is trying to be on top. This like a playground compared to what it turned into. People still have a sense of community and gangs aren't taking over, or at least not completely.

Zuan went from being a dog town to a pit full of chickens and snakes. No more dogs ready to bark and bite for their own, ready to gather together and fight back when backed too far into a corner by the rich. Just a bunch of snakes chasing to be on top and taking out anyone who get's in their way. A bunch of snakes and fakes being led on by even bigger fakes and snakes; couldn't lead from the front or do their own dirty work.

What's hard is staying away from everyone, but it's worth it. To see them happy and together again. It'll really show it's worth in a few years. When everyone can come together and that bridge doesn't need to divide us anymore. Where markets can be opened and communities can intertwine with one another.

Plus, it's good to see Vander and Silco talking again. Even with everything that's happened last time; Silco grew on me. I never thought he would, but like Powder, he became another father figure to me. He didn't like to show it, but I knew he cared.

It took awhile to find him after I got Vander's letter from the mines, but after a lot of eavesdropping and investigating I tracked him down to some old bunker. Slipped inside when there was an opening and left the letter. Just had to hope that was enough to change his mind, and luckily it was.

Without Silco meeting Singed, Shimmer doesn't exist, and hopefully it stays that way for good. Though I still keep an eye out for it. Either way it's one problem dealt with, now onto the bigger one. Hextech.

That one damn job ruined everything, even when I tried preventing it from happening or going wrong. Things still went to shit. Hextech, always advertised as a sign of progress and innovation for everyone was only made for the wealthy. While Piltover thrived, Zuan was left in the dust and forgotten. It only stirred the pot and upped the heat. It just made people more frustrated, hateful, and more open to an aggressive stand against Piltover.

Watching all of this play out was one thing, but living in it? Watching as your very own home was slowly killing itself with no help from it's so called leaders? It was horrible. So many people I knew were killed, corrupted or became another addict hooked on Shimmer. Meanwhile the council and enforcers just let it happen. They could have at least gained control before it grew too big, it was obvious what was beginning to fester, but they didn't. Too busy enjoying the benefits of Hextech and luxury.

'Fuck Hextech.'

My mind wanders and procrastinates on possible dangers and outcomes as I make my way home. Before I know it I'm already across the Undercity, deep into the lanes where it reaches under the river above. Dark, smog everywhere and mostly filled with lowlife crooks and junkies, but less likely to run into the family. Here I can stay hidden.

I find my way home safely in an abandoned building. Parts of it crumbled away, but I managed to make a home for myself in one of the rooms on the upper floors. It was enough.

"Home, sweet home.", I say as I close the door behind me and lock it. I toss the bag aside to count later before flopping myself down on my makeshift bed. Not comfy, but better than nothing. I turn over and stare at the ceiling as I contemplate the future.

"I need to stop Hextech no matter what. One job. Get in, take the crystals, and get out before the crew get's there. Just gotta wait for Jayce to get here. Then it'll all be okay.", I say as begin to drift off into much needed sleep.

Powder Pov

"Stupid, Mylo. What does he know?", while fiddling with one of the toys Vander got for me. Looking out over the buildings buildings of Zuan and the few stars I can see in the night.

PoWDEr

I wheel my head around looking for the source of the unknown voice.

"Hello?", I call out but receive no response.

Y'kNoW, YOu'Re SmArTer tHaN yOu tHiNk yOu'Re RiGhT?

I hear it again, so I stand up and search my surroundings.

"W-Who's there!?", I say, trying to be as brave as Vi. I don't think I'm doing that good.

PoWder, pLEasE LisTen tO Me cAUse I mEAN it. yOU'rE nOt a jiNx. YOu'Re So mUcH MoRe tHaN yOu ThInK yOu ArE, yOU jUsT DoN't sEe iT yEt.

I hear the weird voice again. I realize it's not from someone but from my head, like when I remember a conversation, but much louder. I suddenly feel a sharp headache.

"W-What's happening?" I ask not knowing what's going on.

JinX oR No JiNx. I wiLl AlWaYs bE hERe PoWder. I pROmiSe. I wOn'T aBaNdOn YoU.

Why did that voice sound familiar? Why was it comforting?

"Who are you?"

"Powder!"

I lift my head and see Vi looking relieved, probably has been looking for me.

"There you are I was looking around for you. C'mon it's time for bed.", she says, but I stay still and wait for my headache to die down before taking a breather. I see Vi walk towards me before kneeling down and putting a hand on my head.

"Hey, is everything okay Pow Pow? What's wrong?", Vi asks with concern in her eyes and voice, but I don't know how to respond.

'I don't even know what that was.'

"....Yeah, I-I think so. Just a little headache.", I say, not wanting to worry her over was I heard. Remembered? I don't know.

"Are you sure?"

I do take a second to consider telling her the truth but.....

I wiLl AlWaYs bE hERe PoWder. I pROmiSe.

"Yup. It's fine. I think I'm tired from working on my stuff all day.", I say, trying my best to sound casual. She looks hesitant for second before nodding.

"Alright. Let's go to bed.", She says as she stands up and puts a hand on my shoulder and we head back inside.

As we walk to our room I can't help but think about that voice.

'Why do I remember it? Vi never said that, not Claggor, not Ekko either and definitely not Mylo. So, who is it?'

As I lay in bed and drift off to sleep I can't help but still feel that pull to that voice.

'Why can't I remember? And, why does that make me sad?'

3rd Person

As Powder goes to bed for the night with a head filled with questions about an unfamiliar, yet nostalgic voice. She doesn't know she is not the only one.

A voice being remembered by multiple people, but not able to be recognized by any. It only brings more questions and a feeling of longing and guilt for this voice. Unknowingly something darker lurks underneath all of it. Waiting.

Note: Might either do a little time skip next and work on a little more development for events and the reader, or just do a big time skip next chapter. IDK, I'll figure it out. I just didn't want there to be and immediate jump in time and at least have some kind of development on how things have changed and what reader is doing, and have been doing.

[luludeluluramblings]

Socialite!BatSis!Reader x Yandere!Bat Family - Part Two

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Part One

A/N: I don't know if this will live up to the last one. But, the BatFamily is now going to deal with the consequences of their own actions. This is where we get Bruce and Barbara's POVs on the matter.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Warning: Start of Yandere spiral, Implied past Assault/SA, Fem!Reader, Reader is coping in the only way the known how.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

You had no recollection of falling asleep the night before. But, when you woke up in your own bed late in the morning, you laid there for a while blankly.

Thoughts of laughter, flames, and the echo of a princess's name in your head. Although you quickly reminded yourself that Cinderella wasn't ever really a princess. She was a noble and she had work to do. Just like you.

Ignoring the empty drawers spaces of your vintage wood dresser was easy. It wasn't like it had belonged in the family for generations. It was just something Bruce bought for you when your designer clothes took up too much space in the old one you brought with you from your childhood home. The drawers had broken on it from being stuffed with items your team of stylist insisted you needed. And, now you wonder if Bruce had ever gotten your old one fixed. Probably not.

You shook your head of the thoughts. Moving into your spacious closet filled with empty coat hangers. You hadn't thrown your shoes in the fire last night, but looking at the bloody red bottoms on some of the heels made you wish you had. But, you can't be Cinderella if you have no shoes.

Shaking your head again and again of the thoughts that plague your mind. You really are Cinderella though. And, you have work to do.

Throwing on one of the more casual designer outfits - you would have laughed at the thought once, you begin your routine for the day. Scrubbing everything away in the shower as you exfoliate every bit of skin that had been touched and every stray bit of ash that had clung to your skin.

Then beginning your much too long skin care routine. You made sure to play some music to help the complex task that your highly skilled and highly paid team of dermatologist told you was an absolute must. With expensive creams and odd chemicals that once made your skin burn, but now you seemed to depend on. You miss the beef tallow your mother insisted worked better than anything. But, it wasn't vegan. So it had to go. It's not like half your shoes and handbags weren't made from real leather.

You shake the thought again. Always shake it away. Even as you mouth the lyrics to the random song playing.

Go and fix your make up, girl, it's just a break up

Run and hide your crazy and start actin' like a lady

'Cause I raised you better, gotta keep it together

Even when you fall apart

But this ain't my mama's broken heart

The chorus echoes in your head as you wash away the oils and lather on the creams. Slowly you apply the makeup to your tired eyes as you start to make yourself look human again.

Powder your nose, paint your toes

Line your lips and keep 'em closed

Cross your legs, dot your eyes

And never let 'em see you cry

The smile you give the mirror after everything is said and done, primped and polished, should win you an Oscar. But, thankfully you don't have to deal with anything like that for a few more months. The season has just ended and you needed to contact your stylist about a new wardrobe for this coming one.

Go and fix your make up, well it's just a break up

Run and hide your crazy and start actin' like a lady

'Cause I raised you better, gotta keep it together

Even when you fall apart

But this ain't my mama's broken heart

Your hum as you move down stairs. Time to gag on that collagen and green juice concoction before going to the spa. Not to relax. No, you had to pretend last night wore you out, and it did. But, socialites can only relax if they spend money. Them is the rules. Oh, wait. You're not supposed to talk like that anymore. Better shake that thought away.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Bruce was used to long nights of no sleep. Of being beaten by criminals and his own demons. Sometimes he'd even have bruises from his own children littering his skin. Either from missions gone wrong or a training session gone right.

But, the scars you left on him last night. The way you tore him to shreds and wailed. The bruises on your skin. Those would haunt him.

You were the delicate one. But, he didn't know how to handle delicate things. He just knew how to give things purpose. And, so he did. Placing you at his side to face the Gotham elites had been a genius move, he had once thought. It freed up Tim, who had been his primary asset in the field. It kept Damian from harming some of the more aggravating members of high society. And, he knew the other's lack of interest in the events and the people you make pulling teeth a more pleasant experience.

Additionally, you were utterly charming. How could you not be? You didn't even get it from him. You clearly had gotten it from your mother and everyday he had been grateful for it. Her features blending with his own mother's had made you. His sweet girl.

He can recall the times in the Bat Cave when no one was around and he'd give in to that temptation. The one where he'd justify checking in on you and your mother. And, ignoring that other man.

The smiles and laughter, it all was foreign to him. The landscape foreign. The house foreign. But, deep down he knew you where his. Always his. He had many regrets. Letting your mother raise you wasn't one of them. Letting her go? Maybe. But, he desperately avoided lingering on it.

Right now, sitting in the Bat Cave and seeing the damage the others had sown across Gotham in a wave of crime so violent, great, and terrible that people didn't even connect it back to the very protectors of this city; Bruce regretted leaving you to handle it. You had done it so beautifully. But, he needed his little girl back. He had gifted you to Gotham and left you in it's hand, but that had been his mistake.

He's sorry. He'll fix this. Or, if his destructive hands can't, he'll direct them somewhere they'll be of better use.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

It was Barbara who found you first. In the kitchen acting like everything was normal as you drank your morning concoction. You had laughed off you gagging on it once when Duke asked what it was. You had joked it was disgusting with a laugh.

She remembers thinking 'Better you than me.'

There wasn't anything malicious intent behind the thought either. It had been a passing casual thought that had been lost to the flood of other things in her head.

But, she was grateful she never said it out loud. The only thing she had to ease her guilt at the moment was that she had been silent in your downfall.

Which wasn't good. But, was still nearly just as terrible. She helped people, damn it. Even when she was broken, she helped people. Why had she missed helping you?

"Hey, how are you feeling?" She can't stop the slight wince at the tentative way she asks while you set down the much to large empty cup. Inwardly, she notes that you don't move to eat anything else.

Barbara can faintly recall a time when you wore those silly almost childish t-shirts from some southern store that she hadn't been overly fond of, while making a giant batch of cinnamon rolls. She hadn't eaten one at the time. But, Alfred had reported you ate four yourself. And, she knew Jason had stolen nearly six in his usual pantry raid, and the other's had squirreled off with a few. But, only long after they had cooled and you had disappeared into your room.

"Fine." Comes your reply as you snap her out of her memories. Only to watch you drink some water to chase away the taste in your mouth with practiced easy.

"I don't believe that." Barbara isn't one to mince words. She's briefly reminded of Bruce's stubbornness with your short reply. But, she's stood up to him before without any fear.

"What do you expect me to say? I had a breakdown. It was therapeutic. All better. Time to get back to life."

"You can't juts call that therapeutic. You started a bonfire last night and where practically nude-"

"Oh, come on. No one got hurt. Not even a criminal. Besides, those clothes were out of season and I need to clear space anyway." The way you casually dismiss her had her reeling back.

It sounded like such a vain way of putting things. And, it almost made Barbara want to drop the topic out of annoyance with you.

Until she realizes, this isn't you. This is something they let you become.

No, worse. It's something you thought they wanted you to become. Something they pushed you into and let you rot away while trying to fill your role in this family.

"Fair enough." She finds herself saying instead. This is new territory, and she knows she's not going to fix anything with one conversation. This is going to need some careful deprogramming. A detox from this lifestyle you felt forced into.

Barbara may have gotten rid of the perpetrators with the other's, but now it was time to bring you back into the fold where you would properly flourish. There's was still a chance. Last night had shown her there was. You had broken, but the pieces were still there. They could fix this she could fix this.

"What are your plans today then? Something a bit more relaxing, I hope." She tries to smile, and you even smile back. But, it's wrong. It's too sharp. Not in anger, but from how brittle it looks. Like your lips are made from fractured glass, dangerous to touch and cracked.

"A little bit. I have to go to the spa. Do the usual post-Gala wind down. By massage therapist is a huge gossip so she's the best way to get some of the rumors I heard last night to spread quickly. Then I need to call my stylist. Gonna need a new style since the seasons are changing." You lightly comment. Explaining your day to her with ease.

In a sickening awe, Barbara looks at you.

You… You had a strategy for this. You had been doing this long enough that there was a strategy in place for this. One that made it so easy for you to bounce back into things even if you broke down.

"You could take and actual break you know. Take a day off. Gotham had a busy night last night. A lot of those rich asses got their lives upended. We could put out a statement that we were one of them-"

Your eyes narrow at the statement. Not in anger, but in opportunity. "Come on Barbara. The world doesn’t stop turning just cause I lit a pyre. It keeps moving a turning. Now is the prime time to come out looking unshakable to the other Elites. A game of whoever is left standing is being played here. Of who’s not going to crumble under the pressure?"

Already the ways to spin your actions to garner sympathy with the others in your circle start to pop into your head. Cinderella has to get back to work.

Time to pull the lintels from the ashes.

Barbara feels a dawning sense of dread and horror. This is going to be worse than she anticipated. The shame she feels makes her eyes prick. You were more like Bruce than anyone had realized and they had made you use it in the worst possible way.

As she watched you go about your day, making phone calls while pinching your cheeks to add a natural color to them, she made note. They would fix this. They would bring you back. Fuck those assholes, they were old pawns in Gotham's games of power.

Time to bippity-boppity-off some more and keep you home.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

A/N: As I said, don't know if I hit the mark here. But, I want to watch the Bat Family struggle to fix this. Reader's not going to have a villain arc, though she deserves one. She's going to get princess treatment. Just remember, that might not be a good thing.

A/N: Song is 'Mama's Broken Heart' by Miranda Lambert. Yes, it is a break up song, but the undertones have this sorta feminine rage bubbling under the surface.

A/N: Also, for anyone wondering where I've been, I had/have thyroid cancer. But, we caught it early! I'm currently radioactive and in quarantine on an air mattress in the corner of my bedroom. I also had my entire thyroid removed in March. I'm okay though! It's all uphill from here!

[plagu3dlov3r]

Betrayal.

That pain can either break you, or make you something greater.

[acid-ixx]

brutus: out for blood (villain au concept)

ft. neglectful yandere! bruce wayne x gn villain! reader

— masterlist !

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

a/n: did anybody ask for this? no! did i decide to write this anyways? abso -fucking-lutely. is this a rantfic? mayybee. anyways, this is not my best piece nor will anything i write be my best piece but i just love destroying my happiness with angst and altho writing a very anxiety ridden mc is fun, i also love to dabble in sadomasochistic traits for a main character. like i said, i am not proud of this but i figured i should post something. erm... leave comments bec i love reading whatever stuff u guys have in store hehe.

you've tasted blood on your tongue far longer than you've felt the loving touch of a family.

it's metallic. it's salty. it twists every vein in your gut.

it tastes of broken metal pipes in playgrounds, destructive tantrums and broken dreams, of skipped classes and detention rooms, of ripped test papers and missed diplomas. it reminds you of your bitter past every single time; one you swore you've buried six feet deep into the ground. a burning memory with nothing more than heartaches and heartbreaks.

you taste blood whenever they reject your advances for even a single moment of bonding time. you feel it pumping slowly, steadily, painfully whenever you stumble upon a room, only to see them, smiles and all, huddled together in a group with junk food in their hands and a movie playing in that stupid flat screen tv. you know it's the only thing accompanying you whenever he misses another event in your school. it becomes the only friend you have whenever you're alone, inside your too-small room, with shatters glass scattered around and bruised knuckles.

blood, for most, is vile, utterly repulsive. it reeks in every corner of a room, its scent is overpowering, it stains, it's hard to clean. it imprints. and it will always remind you it's there, in the depths of your body, curdling and boiling and ready to burst out of the seems every time you rip at your skin with a razor sharp blade. blood has always been your only friend, like a scar that will never fade away.

yet you embrace crimson like it was the color of your soul, and accept how it's the only color you allow in your grim life. black has never provided you solace, but red allowed for a mantra of emotions to trail into your very being.

blood. it's more homely than you let it out to be.

and you're far more familiar with it than anything else. you cradle it like an unwanted child, you kiss its wounds, allow it to fester and grow into an abhorrent disease that crawls like a lump in your throat that you could never get rid of.

in moments of solace, of quaint prayers and hours of kneeling into the floor— it is the thing that slides on cold, hard tiles. it is the warmth, the numbness, the thing that seeps out of your bruised knees, your scratched neck and your thighs with fingernails buried deep into flesh.

you've come to love blood, cherish it even.

especially if it's your own.

especially if it came from the punch of none other than your father.

left, right, left, right.

his punches were cruel and his kicks can easily crush bones into powder. he demands answers with every strike he delivers, he exudes an energy far more adrenaline based than yours. batman is methodical in the way he moves, the way he acts, and you're not; you're impulsive, you had no plans to counter the towering man— no counter for the brutal hits he lay upon you. you let him, you open every doorway world to beat your body black and blue, with red painting the canvas as a finishing touch.

he's stronger than you, and every time he bashes your head into the wall, the urge to spit into his face, to piss him off, to laugh at him and his Idiocracy; it all becomes stronger.

yet all you do was allow him multiple openings, denying yourself the pleasure of attempting to even take your abandoned gun at the corner and shoot at his cranium— you want him to suffer, even if it costs you your mobility by the near future, fuck it.

up, down, to the side, then an uppercut to your jaw and you're nearly depleted of anymore moves to counter. you want to seem like you've given up; but you want him pissed off, enough to punch you 'til blood seeps into the fibers of your mask. until your face starts bruising, until your nose breaks, until he finally rips your mask off and sees your face.

and he'll come to regret.

you shift to the side, and ignore the sting of your throat, the lull of your head and the soreness of your entire body.

because if you hadn't dodged, then your head would've left an imprint on the walls. you would've preferred that now, rather than the disgusting feeling of sentimentality that creeps into your heart at the implication that his blows were slowly, but surely, weakening.

he's holding back, you hold back a sneer.

as if he actually cares about you.

maybe he does, maybe he doesn't. you know he cares far more deeply for his enemies than he does you, and you hate how glad you are at the pride that finally, just finally are you being acknowledged. at the opposite end of his side, as enemies. but for once you can feel the care he offers others, most of which were nonexistent back when you were just some... nobody.

batman never kills; but he can hurt, he can injure, and he can destroy. and right now, you feel all the air leaving your body as the cloaked vigilante delivers the last punch to your ribcage.

you fall, on your hands and knees, a loud thump resounding through the empty abandoned building. all you hear are your crackling joints, and heavy breathing. heavy, like your eyelids, about to fall, about to shut until black encompasses your vision. if not for the remaining adrenaline coursing through your veins, you would've fainted— but you won't, you wouldn't, not until you see him, see his face.

the thumping in your heart beats louder, and your hands. god, they feel like jelly, it's burning, it's one step closer on collapsing under gravelly concrete and piercing skin into rocks. yet you're forbidden any time for grace, not when he lightly shoves you out of your position, and not when you fall to your sides, hands paralyzed, tears prickling against your cheeks at the pain that burns throughout your body.

"you don't deserve peace after shooting that family in front of that child, you know it."

his voice, domineering, absolutely fucking vibrating with a tremor of sheer anger. he directs his words at you, without empathy, without mercy. he wants you to learn to never mess with him in the streets of gotham. but you'll never... not until he notices you. fuck, you just want him to notice you. and now, he is, with utter vexation that causes a lump in your throat to form.

shit, you've never felt so happy.

it's when his tussled form — heavy, pitch-black boots slathered with crimson liquid — enters your sight that you cough, violently, out of breath, and you can feel it one second, then taste it in your tongue the next.

blood.

you grin, and slowly, ever-so eminently, did you spiral into a cackle. your throat gurgles crimson liquid, and yet it only builds into a cacophony of a broken record. you move your head, look through your nearly shredded domino mask, with so little strength to accompany you, to look at the man above you, eyes glinting with a glow never so alive until now.

you're genuinely so fucking happy.

batman, he who strikes fear into the hearts of gotham villains and civilians alike. he who protects the city at night. he whose name is said with wavering uncertainty— he's looking at you, only you.

'bruce wayne: my dad— is finally looking at me.'

and you! you're laughing, the sounds that emanate from your throat are so scratchy, so utterly decimated that it sounds like vultures feeding through a dead corpse; but you don't let your chuckles die down, because you're so, so happy.

he looks at you, with contempt, with disgust, you don't know; but you're still so overjoyed.

"y-yeah... it's me, i did it. are you proud of me...?" you ask as you look up, through the tears that flow out your eyes, through the grin that couldn't die down. he looks at you like you're insane, and you know he's confused, shifting uncomfortably as he gives someone a status update through the comms, his eyes never leaving your pathetic form—

you look at him like he means the world all throughout.

"call for red robin, i have one of the culprits," he orders through the intangible device, eyes squinting as he takes you in— you whose chuckles slowly calmed down, as your breathing finally becomes heavier, as blood, yours, seem to seep into clumsily made apparel. you, who bruce realized seem too oddly familiar, too small, too childish, whose moment of spiraling insanity is too damn innocent to ignore.

you're not like the typical rogue he encounters, no. and right before you finally allow sleep to overcome you, you muster the last of your energy, to stare back at him with shining eyes, expectant, and like a child's, you ask with the meekest voice.

"hey... dad, i have a surprise." scratchy, absolutely broken, yet spilling with joy, with... your last word right before you continue, bruce's heart thumps ever the slightest faster.

"take my mask off, please?"

crimson began to overtake your entire body, and bruce should've never complied with your... request, but as he kneels and finally gets a grasp of what you truly look like, he notices the frailness, the vulnerability, as if you were never built for... combat. with just how quickly you succumb to the depths of rest, with how oblivious you are to the fact that if it were anyone else, they would've killed you.

you're not properly trained, you fight out of impulse, and he knows it with just how swift you gave up midfight.

when he pulls the domino mask (which seems oddly inspired by the shape of... his vigilante partners, the robins...) off your face, did his heart finally hastened its pace, loud thumping crawling its way to his ears, his eyes registering your face: its form, its shape, your eyes, your nose—

all similar to his, all an amalgamation of your mother's, too.

no... wait, no.

it's not...

it's not his... child?

you?

your eyes, flickering one last time stared at him, softly, like that of a child who looks at their father with pride like nothing else. your hand, it shakes, it shivers, as your fingers find its way creeping to his hand, holding your mask. fingers so dainty, now pulverized bones lay atop his shivering hand, tenderly, as if trying to comfort the very same man who has nearly killed you.

batman— no, bruce looks at you. at what he's done, and only now did he realize his greatest mistake. a child, his child, one whose innocence retained through heinous acts, now a villain, whose actions were all a testimony to merely wanting their father's attention.

he failed you, his child. he failed to protect you, who he has never held up close until now— as your body is hastily taken into his arms. so small, so easily wrapped around his body, so unbefitting of committing criminal activity. now bloodied and laid into barren ground by their very own father.

bruce wayne never felt this much terror, for nearly killing his child.

this, this day marks his sin.

and you? dearest you feel like today is your greatest day.

crimson, nearly every part of you is stained with that putrid color.

yet blood has always been your best friend, no? and right now as you bleed into the arms of your father, you find yourself grateful that it is the last thing you see before a black cloak wraps around you, before black fills your entire line of sight.

short rant ahead: another author's note??? wow. yeah this was such a hard drabble to write. plsplspls leave a comment or some sort of input. anything will do. ive been so demotivated to write lately and i feel like anything i write is just, so bad 😭 like is my pacing good? are the emotions out of place? am i even doing this right ?? i don't know, and i feel like every time i post something i always put up expectations on myself that I should've done better so yeahh. is this attention seeking behavior? probably. but i don't get how people have come to like the stuff i write when i hate whatever i write hence why im in a constant cycle of hiatuses and short breaks. and really, it's just so hard to come into terms with things and i need input lest i accidentally get into a year or two of hiatus, lmaoo.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Something Borrowed, Something Blue.

Pairing: Yandere!Scaramouche x Reader (Genshin).

Commissioned by the very lovely @jadore-mana-sama.

Word Count: 3.5k.

TW: Non/Con, Fatui Era, Fem!Reader, Oral Sex, Forced Marriage, Physical Abuse (Whips/Impact Play), Implied Kidnapping, Prolonged Captivity, Manipulation, and Unbalanced Power Dynamics. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

You never thought you would cry on your wedding day.

It was a stupid thing to assume, really. Most people did – whether it was from stress or joy or the heartbreak only love could inflict. It was silly to think that you were any different, somehow immune to the emotions that turned brides into sobbing messes at the altar or left grooms wiping away tears as they watched the loves of their lives walk down the aisle. You’d thought, childishly, that you would be happy, and that your happiness would be the uncomplicated type. You’d thought that, if anything, you wouldn’t be able to stop smiling.

You’d been wrong.

Your make-up was ruined. Of all things, that was what your mind latched onto, the most apparent problem when you stared into vanity mirror. Tear tracks marked pathways through rouge and powder, separating your devastation into distinct factions. The paint around your eyes was smudged from minutes of involuntarily pawing, further blended from your handmaids’ attempts to clear away the worst of the damage with fingers and handkerchiefs. Your lips were the worst, cracked and bloodied from your attempts to bite back sobs before you had inevitably given up, buried your face in your arms, and wailed. You could only be thankful you weren’t wearing your dress, yet. You wouldn’t know what to do if you managed to ruin that, too.

It'd taken hours. You didn’t have hours until the ceremony – honestly, you’d count yourself lucky if you had an hour left. An hour until you were a married bride. An hour until Scaramouche had gotten what he wanted. An hour until Snezhnaya and the Tsaritsa saw you bound to him forever.

Another sob bubbled up from the back of your throat, fresh and raw. Once again, you were reduced to a blubbering, pitiful mess; a beacon of misery and despair on the happiest day of your life.

A hand found its way to your shoulder, patting nervously. Of the four maids that surrounded you, only one seemed inclined to try and comfort you, even if the effort was clearly made in vain. Two more stood rigidly behind your vanity, fear etched into their pallid faces. The last lingered in the doorway, either significantly braver or more oblivious than the rest. “It’s not going to stop,” she whispered, like you were a bucket that wouldn’t stop leaking, or a clock stuck announcing the hour. “I think we should get—”

“No, no, there’s no need for that,” the maid comforting you cut in, clearly more seasoned. She threw you a smile through the mirror. “It’s just wedding day nerves, isn’t it? You’ll be right as rain when it comes time to walk down the aisle.”

You sobbed louder in response.

The maid in the doorway grimaced, then disappeared. You could only wish you knew her name, that Scaramouche wasn’t so strict about keeping your staff as anonymous as possible. At least then, you might’ve been able to write a letter to her family, explaining why she came home to them in an urn.

You made an earnest attempt to pull yourself together before his arrival, but you didn’t have long. There was a loud, thudding noise from beyond your dressing room – like a body being thrown to the floor – and then he was in the doorway, breathing heavy and eyes as hard as steel. The maid crouching beside you straightened, all three-remaining falling into a low bow. You mimicked the gesture; albeit shallowly, with only just enough reverence to escape the worst of his wrath. You’d never known Scaramouche to be a man above pride. You doubted it being his wedding day would do much to soften that.

“All of you,” he started, speaking to the maids. They resurfaced, but you kept your head bowed. “Out. The next person to lay their eyes upon my wife gets their skull caved in.”

The threat lacked both creativity and necessity. The maids fled as soon as they’d been given permission to. Scaramouche shut the door behind them, and you were left alone with your captor. Your husband-to-be.

He was already in his regalia. Whereas your dress veered extravagant, all needless luxury and impractical frills, his attire was more industrial. His tunic was fitted and black, embroidered with gold and violet in the rigid, geometric patterns he preferred. A sword hung on his belt, well decorated and purely ceremonial, and next to it, a flogger, sleek and worn and clearly more practical. You had heard that he normally kept a whip nearby when he was with his soldiers, since the recreational use of his elemental powers was looked down upon within the infantry. You hadn’t realized he would be carrying one today.

The sight alone made you feel sick. The airy sigh he let out was enough to make your chest tightened, and when he approached you, kneeling next to your stool, you could’ve sworn your heart rose into your throat. But he only rested a hand on your knee, coming the other through his hair as he looked up at you. Whatever anger he’d put on for the maids was gone, now. Calmness, poise, and the faintest traces of exhaustion took its place.

“You’re crying.”

It wasn’t a question, but you nodded. As if he couldn’t see the tears running down your cheeks. As if your teeth weren’t dug into your bottom lip just to keep from sobbing aloud.

“I’m sorry, I—I tried not to let it get out of hand, but I couldn’t seem to stop, and—”

“Stop apologizing.”

You flinched at his tone – blunt, authoritative.  You felt him tense beside you, then deliberately relax, as if hoping you would follow his example. “I mean, I understand why you would feel the need to.” And then, letting his gaze fall to your feet, “I know this isn’t how you wanted it to happen.”

That, more than anything, shocked you out of your spiral. You ran the back of your hands over your eyes, trying not to remember how many times he’d threatened to carve his name into your spine, what he’d promised to do to your legs if he ever caught you trying to run from him again. It wasn’t that you considered Scaramouche incapable of empathy, just not prone to it. Seeing him attempt to extend any type of kindness was enough to catch you off-guard.

“…you do, my lord?”

“Don’t be stupid. The day we met, you told me that if you were ever married, you’d want it to be on Starfell Lake because—”

“Because nothing in the world is lovelier than the way the starlight catches on its waters.” You’d forgotten you told him. You’d forgotten that, even if it’d only been for the weeks his legion spent encamped outside of your village, there was time when you hadn’t hated Scaramouche. “I didn’t realize you held onto that.”

“I’d guessed as much. It’s tragic, really – the prettiest faces always have the least going on behind the eyes.” You kicked him in the shin and he laughed, the noise quick and chiming. “If it helps, this isn’t what I pictured either. It’s too loud, and there’s too many people, but her majesty insisted on something public. Wants to make the rest of the world suffer as much as she does, I guess.”

Despite yourself, a smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “You planned a wedding?”

“Obviously.” There was an air of pride around him. Slowly, he rested his head on your thigh, and you didn’t move to push him away. “What I had in mind was more private, though. I’d act as the officiant, and there wouldn’t be any guests. We only would’ve announced it publicly after it was done, to stop the others from meddling.” He sighed, settling his weight against you. “…I insisted on a retreat after the ceremony. It’s only for a few days, but it’ll be remote. Quiet. Just the two of us.” And then, his eyes darting up to you, his hope so apparent it nearly broke your heart, “That makes you happy, right?”

It was strange to see him like this – subdued and vulnerable. It reminded you of how he’d looked when you first met, all wide eyes and quite intensity as he stared you down from the other side of a tavern, never once touching his drink. It reminded you of the flowers he’d left on your windowsill, and the tea he made for you every morning, and how he’d been too afraid to move the first time you kissed him. It reminded you of how he'd clung to you the first time you pushed him away, grip tight enough to bruise.

You brought your hands in your lap, wringing them on instinct. Scaramouche pulled away, cocking his head to the side. “I’m sorry,” you went on, regardless. The words seemed to bubble up from someplace beyond your control, as reflexive as tears. “But I don’t think I can be happy about any part of this.”

His shoulders fell, expression dropping. He stayed where he was – on his knees at your feet, but the position didn’t feel as intimate as it had, a moment ago.  “What do you mean?”

He couldn’t make you say it. He couldn’t need you to, let alone want you to, and yet, one look at the blank glaze over his eyes proved otherwise.

“I don’t want to marry you, my lord.”

The silence that followed was prolonged and deafening. You started to push yourself up, to fuss with something useless and important on the other side of the abruptly cramped dressing room, but Scaramouche’s hand curled around your ankle, keeping you rooted where you were.

“Say it again. Louder.”

“You had have known.” There was no anger behind the sentiment, anymore, or fear, or frustration. Your despair hollowed all of that out, leaving behind only the gentle sorrow of resignation. “Please, my lord. Don’t act like you didn’t know how I felt.”

“My lord. Like you’re a servant. Like I’m not about to be your husband.” He stood suddenly, immediately breaking into a pace. His hand found his belt, the hilt of his sword, and then thinking better of it, the flogger. “Strip.”

You gaped. You were already a mess. There were hundreds of noblemen and politicians and soldiers waiting just outside of your door. He couldn’t be serious. “You have to reconsider, we only have—”

“We have as much time as I say we do. I want you on your knees, disrobed and bent over the stool. Take any longer and I’ll invite our guests to watch.”

It was a wonder that he could still trick you into believing he was kind.

It was a wonder that he still bothered to try.

You shrugged off your robe with as much haste and as much dignity as you were allowed, then looped a thumb under the hip of your panties and glanced to Scaramouche. When he nodded, those were surrendered too – the bride undressed before she’d even walked down the aisle.

Bending yourself over was a new sort of torture. You were used to pain with Scaramouche – his nails burrowed into your wrist, his teeth against your throat – but this was something else, something worse. The wood of the seat dug into your stomach and diaphragm, pushing the air out of your lungs, and the tile floors seemed to sap the warmth from your skin wherever it made contact. Scaramouche claimed he’d never felt home in Snezhnaya, but that couldn’t be true. It was obvious that he belonged in a country as cold as it was soulless.

You did your best to cover yourself, crossing your arms underneath your chest and pressing your thighs together. You clung to your remaining scraps of dignity as tightly as you could, and yet, humiliation burnt bright and hot in the pit of your stomach as Scaramouche circled you, evaluating your little scene as he would a subdued, disobedient soldier or the beaten remains of a captured enemy. You didn’t want to end up like that; reduced to bruises on his knuckles, blood on his shoes, another rotting reminder to those who might’ve dared to cross him. But, whether or not you wanted it less than you wanted to marry him was a question you didn’t like the answer to.

He wasn’t going to kill you. You clenched your eyes shut and drilled the sentiment into your brain as he took his place behind you. Scaramouche wasn’t going to kill you – not for this, not for anything. Even if it hurt. Even if you were embarrassed. Even if your prolonged captivity felt a little more like death every day. He wasn’t going to kill you, so you were fine. Once you were on the other side of this, you would be fine.

At least that was what you told yourself up until the first strike.

He was using the flogger. A cat o’ nine tails, each tress made of braided strips of leather and topped with a curved, wooden tooth-like piece. Pain was the objective, cruelty factored into the design. That it actually hurt shouldn’t have been a surprise, and yet, when the tails first came down on the back of your thighs, it was all you could do to swallow back your scream, spitting some half-choked gasp out in its place. The walls were stone, but sound carried. The last thing you wanted was for a curious guest or concerned servant to investigate your pained cries, and you had a feeling Scaramouche already knew that.

The flogger came down again, and again, targeting the same area with an uncanny precision. The rough leather rubbed your skin raw while the wooden fangs bruised and battered whatever they collided with, cracking against bone and biting into flesh. The burn was almost worse than the force – stinging, searing, cutting, and lingering for long seconds after every strike. He hadn’t given you a number, had he? Immediately, you found yourself overcome with fantasies of mercy, only a few hits before he decided that he'd made his point. By the same logic, though, there was a chance he might go on forever, and you’d be forced to endure this until the end of time.

A strike to your ass, hard and unforgiving. Your hands shot to your face, covering your mouth. Scaramouche let out a breath of a laugh and brought the flogger down again, drawing out a pained moan barely muffled by your palms. “You’re choosing to shut up now?” He scoffed, voice dripping with venom. If he cared about being heard, the concern was easy enough brush aside. “You know what? Good. Maybe the lesson will stick, this time.”

 The point of a fang caught on the curve of your ass, tearing a shallow jagged line into tender flesh. You whimpered, but the sound only seemed to excite Scaramouche, bringing down another volley of blows that left your thighs shaking and your back painfully arched. Dignity was a concept all-but forgotten. The pain was too base, too animal not to drag you down to the same level.

You lost track of the count too quickly, your attention dominated by the pulsing ache scattered across your bottom half. Scaramouche was your only indicator of passing time – his furious silence fading into a mocking echo of your pained sounds, then some of kind of pitchy, erratic laughter. Despite your best efforts not to, you found yourself thinking of Starfell Lake. Your wants had been simple. A partner you loved, friends and family in attendance, a bouquet of cecilia flowers and dandelions to match your dress. Now, the only desire you could seem to dredge up was for Scaramouche to stop.

Something he had minimal interest in doing, apparently.

Finally, with one more strike to your lower back, you went limp. Scaramouche paused, letting out a bark of cruel laughter. “My poor little love,” he cooed, stepping closer and settling a palm against the base of your spine. “Does it hurt?”

Words were beyond you. The most you could manage was a faltering nod, but that seemed to be enough for him. “How badly?”

“It’s—” You struggled to swallow. “It’s the worst thing you’ve ever done to me.”

“Perfect.” The dug his thumb into bruise just below your hip, and you writhed underneath him. “And you understand why I had to do this?”

He was talking to you like a soldier, again. You figured it was in your best interest to play along.

“Yes, my—” And then, correcting yourself hastily. “Yes, husband.”

Scaramouche smiled, the expression almost soft. He leaned down, kissing the nape of your neck, before pulling away.

You let your eyes fall shut. You pictured him kneeling in front of you, cupping your cheeks as he told you to clean yourself up and call the maids back. You were half-right, in the end. He stopped in front of you, but rather than his saccharine malice, you heard rustling fabric, felt his fingers carding through your hair. When you moved to speak, to ask what he wanted you to do, you were met with something thick and hot shoved past your lips and into your mouth. You kept your eyes closed, but it was pointless.

Only a fool would pretend not to know the taste of his cock, by now.

You tried to pull away on reflex, but his hand clamped down around the back of your head, a low hiss slipping past his grit teeth as he forced himself into your throat. Unprepared and unwilling, you choked around him, but if Scaramouche noticed, his only reaction was a trembling moan, a contented grin. You would have to get used to that. You weren’t so hopeful as to believe you’d see less of it, once you were married.

“If you faint, I’m dragging your body to the altar myself.” His blunt nails bit into your scalp. Saliva dripped from the corner of your lips, but you were already a mess – eyes red and body broken down. One more imperfection didn’t seem like such a big deal, anymore. “You’re only doing yourself a favor.” He bucked his hips, deliberately hitting the back of your throat. When you gagged, his grin widened, his hand smoothing over your hair like the owner of some frightened creature, comforting their pet. “I’ve been thinking about this for days. For weeks, actually – ever since I chose your dress. Couldn’t stop picturing you reciting your vows as I buried myself inside of you.”

You might’ve cried, if you hadn’t been so thoroughly exhausted. There was no resistance to your distress, only a half-hearted effort not to collapse entirely while Scaramouche thrusted into your mouth, growing harsher with every jolting movement. “Fuck the technicalities. Call me your husband.”

You couldn’t. Obviously, you couldn’t. His shaft kept your tongue pressed flat, and your jaw was locked at an awkward, immobilizing angle. Your best attempt was nothing more than a garbled collection of sounds, but still, Scaramouche groaned, his cock twitching against the walls of your throat. ”Again. And again, and again, until I say you can stop.”

And you did. Anything for this to be over, for him to let you go. Your mangled voice reverberated around his cock, and Scaramouche cursed, clutching you that much closer. No horror accompanied his climax, the searing flood of cum into your mouth and down your throat. There was only relief that, for now, it was over. You’d get to move onto your next bout of misery that much sooner.

He held you there longer than he had to - hands in your hair, nose crushed against his pubic bone, mouth split open around his cock. His breathing was shallow, raspy, and his eyes were locked onto yours with the type of focus he usually saved for talks of combat or warfare. When he eventually pulled back with a satisfied hum, you let your head roll forward, your body go limp where it was bent over the stool. You wanted more than anything to fall asleep like that, to stay that way forever. It was a testament to the cruelness of bitter reality that, only a few seconds later, you felt Scaramouche’s hand cupping your chin, tilting your head back, rubbing gentle circles into your cheek until you forced yourself to open your eyes.

“I’ll help you clean up,” he said, squeezing playfully. It felt like a thousand needles being driven into your skin, each more excruciating than the last. “No more servants, no more strangers’ hands. We’ll see about getting you dressed properly, and then you’ll do your best to smile for me, won’t you?”

Right. The crying. You’d almost forgotten how this all started, that you’d been stupid enough to summon his wrath.

You forced yourself to nod. Scaramouche leaned down, pressing a long, lingering kiss your forehead. The gesture might’ve been more soothing, had his grin not been sharp enough to cut.

[madamechrissy]

Losing Control Now masterlist/ Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo headcanons

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five - part six (FINAL)

Pairings: Mobster Gojo x bartender F!reader

Summary: Something about running the Gojo mafia just makes Satoru so bored. Boring, boring boring. Sure, he loves money, he loves women, he loves snorting snowy powder off their bodies. He loves the power that comes from it- but he's just bored. That is, until he stumbles upon you, the brand new bartender that makes him pause, falter, and then soon he becomes obsessed, with knowing you, in every single way. Paying off your mom's debts and working two jobs, you're exhausted, but something about this pretty Mob boy just makes you... excited again. How far in are you, and how far is Satoru in the mafia world? All he knows, is he must have you.

CW: Sexual tension, eventually explicit sex, mafia themes, drug themes, violence, obsessed ass whipped ass Satoru Gojo, oral sex, possessive Gojo, drug use and drug dealing - lowkey Yandere fkn Gojo hehe. Light angst, some fluff, heavy smut, lots of teasing, light angst and hurt comfort.

That Gojo art is by michi_ia on X!!! This is the Gojo from Pour it Up (Stripclub owner Sukuna x reader)- six parts - finished! WC- 45.5k - Extras- here

Playlist -Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo headcanons below

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo who just finds everything so boring, even snorting lines off pretty stripper's bodies, even drinking with his best friend and partner in crime, Suguru. These meetings and those things, and this job, and this drop, blah. Negotiations!? Pfft. No he wants something fun and no amount of fruity drinks or sugar up the nose is cutting it anymore.

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo has his drink getting filled by one dancer, sipping it and finding it much too harsh, he stands up then, as Sukuna chuckles 'need it even more of a lil bitch drink?' Satoru rolls his blue eyes, flipping Sukuna off then saying 'it's not sweet enough!' Satoru walks out into the humming club then, faltering as he sees a girl that must be new, in a black bra, black booty shorts and fishnets that are glowing under the blacklights. His eyes trail slowly up and down her body, filling him with filthy images as he finally meets her eyes- your eyes.

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo who is usually so cocky and arrogant just stands there for a minute, like you're bringing him right out of some haze he's been in, as he feels your eyes looking right back, nervous smile on your pretty face. 'New here, sweetheart?' he asks, voice husky and deep, probably the prettiest damn person you've ever seen, for a moment you can't answer, blue eyes swirling and bright even under the club's dark lights and through the smoke and fog, you feel his gaze on your body as you're leaning over the side of the bar. 'I am new'

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo can't get your name out of his mind, as you bite your lower lip, focusing on making his drink - 'the first of the new job, you're special' you tease, and Satoru manages to get some of his charm together, chuckling as he leans over the bar. 'I am special, hmm?' you wonder why he wants that many sugary concoctions in one drink, but god it's the best drink, and he has to murmur 'bet you taste even better' earning your blush even under the flashing lights, 'huh?' he just brushes back your hair, smirking before he walks off, bombarding Sukuna with questions about you.

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo specifically requests you sit with him during the next meeting, as they discuss the Zenin family and the Kamo family, two other big names in the Mob scene, but now he gets to focus on you, as he decorates your collarbone with snowy powder, snorting it off you, while you can't stop a little whimper. No one hears it but him, and it makes him feral, cock throbbing as your hips shift, his eyes notice every movement until they close, and he licks the residue off your throat, hot tongue making your mind go insane with images of just what that long pink tongue can do.

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo finds these meetings about the business so much more fun now, but instead of looking at any of the strippers, he's only looking at you, at your pretty eyes, plump lips parted as you look at him, and he wonders how pretty you'll look cumming just for him. When they're all leaving the meeting in the VIP room the next time, you can't stop yourself, sitting on his damn thigh, wetness making your panties sticky, and you look at him then. 'Need something, sweets?' he murmurs, smirking like an arrogant little ass, as his hand slips up and down your thigh, and he's been edging you for just too long, so you break - 'touch me, please Mr. Gojo'

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo dies internally at your request, precum already making his boxers stick as he finds your clit under this slutty skirt you have on, rolling a fingertip over a twitchy clit, and your head falls back, 'mnh, s'good!' you whine, grinding on his thigh, but it's just not enough for Satoru, he turns you so you're straddling him on this red velvet couch, he looks dangerous but somehow sweet, as you clutch his suit jacket, and he sinks two fingers in your cunt, pressing against that spongy spot in your slick walls, making your cunt drool down to his pretty silver rolex, those sleeves of his coated with you as you roll your hips, moaning, back arching - 'shh, sweets, don't want anyone t'hear this slutty cunt, hmm?'

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo has the most ridiculous, long thick fingers you've ever felt, you're closer and closer as he continues curling them inside your eager hole, your lips just a breath from his as your hands now enwrap in his silky white locks, grinding even more on his hand, as he chuckles softly, his breath ghosting over your lips. 'need me to play with that little clit, too?' you nod weakly - 'sure things, pretty girl, there you go, that's it' you're shattering now, and Satoru is watching, while his thumb presses over your twitchy clit, and you're cumming so hard you feel dizzy, pussy pulsing and dripping down his fingers, trembling thighs on either side of him.

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo sighs at how pretty you are, slipping those two fingers in your mouth, smirking and murmuring 'suck them clean, be a good girl for me' and you eagerly obey, before he grabs your hair by the nape of your neck, slamming your lips down on his. You both get interrupted by a very amused Sukuna then, who says 'let her get to work Satoru, or you need to get behind the bar and shake your ass' Satoru chuckles as you're blushing furiously, and he helps you adjust your skirt and panties, 'give her the day off tomorrow, I'll pay to cover someone' Sukuna sighs 'whatever' he grumbles, you blink then, looking down at his grinning face 'Satoru I can't afford to take off' he doesn't know the bills you have, the situation you have to take care of with your family, to help them, he sighs then 'I'll pay you four times your shift to just date me'

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo has never really gone on a date, no he just has girls on his arm, under him on his bed, he certainly didn't have to even try to do something like offer money, but he'd offer anything for a chance at you. You all don't end up going anywhere, though, because once you're in the back of Satoru's limo, and he's doing a line off your inner thigh, he starts licking at it, and before you know it he's dragged your panties off, burying his pretty face right in your pussy. 'ah, Mr. Gojo!' he leans up as he swipes the flat of his tongue from your drooling little hole to your clit, pressing a kiss on it 'Satoru, while you're cummin' all over m'face, hmm baby? taste s'fucking sweet' Satoru dives back in and the sounds of him slurping you up are obscene

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo licks and sucks your clit, humming on it until you're shattering, cumming so hard you see stars, then you're riding him right in that limo, struggling to take his huge cock, as it stretches your tight little pussy out, veiny and thick and sloppy, he moans into your mouth as your walls tighten around his cock, as he slams up endlessly into your pretty cunt over and over. You're on your knees, sucking his cum off him, off his pretty pink tip, before you're on your knees right in the plush limo seat, and he's hitting it from the back, making you cry out 'Satoru!' which makes him bust again, inside you so deep, pulling out and watching your arousal and his cock drip down so messy, before he scoops his sticky cum and shoves it back inside you.

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo can't stop thinking of how good it looked, your pussy sucking up the cum so greedy, when he sees you the next day at your work, and it's not long until he's behind the bar, eating your pussy that he cannot get enough of, all while you're trying to work, you're so cute trying to mix a drink when his tongue is on your clit, and you're squeaking at him, 'Satoru, s-stop' but he can't stop. He's got your panties in his pocket, he'll keep them for later, you shouldn't worry about that, but you're trembling with nerves and fear when he runs out to deal with the Zenin bullshit with everyone, worried about things you don't fully know yet.

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo is dying to get back to you, he doesn't wanna deal with all this shit, he just wants to drink you up more, but here he is, as he deals with some of the bullshit that the Zenins are doing, he can't stand them then, when he has to actually show them just who and what the Gojo family is. When he is covered in blood, him, Suguru, Toji and Sukuna come back to the club, exhausted, when you see him you blink back tears, and he murmurs 'come to my place, clean me up?' He is exhaling and shooting that smirk, but there's so much behind it, you see now. You eagerly obey, realizing you both don't know anything about each other yet, as you're bandaging his pretty face, all cut up, in his pristine bathroom, and you're wondering just what it is that Satoru has gotten into, but for now you both just kiss, his blood tangy against your lips, as his kiss gets hungry, desperate, and he murmurs 'I need you'

Mafia! Prettyboy Gojo He's smearing that blood across your pretty tits as he has you right on his bathroom counter, knowing he'll do anything to protect you, to keep you, from shit you will now get into for being with him, cupping your face as he fucks into you, and your eyes roll back in your skull, covered in Satoru's spit, his blood, now his precum as he's pumping in and out of you, knowing he certainly can't let you go, but he also can't let anyone know you're his weakness.

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