machinemonstrosity

[machinemonstrosity]

the inbox is open again!! feel free to ask questions or request a fic!

[machinemonstrosity]

DOWN, DOG | gasharpoon!john doe x reader

WARNINGS - MILDLY SUGGESTIVE(???) , descriptions of blood and violence , canon-typical violence , she/he used interchangeably for john ahab , potentially ooc ahab , reader is a sentinel , crazy old woman alert

You have an up close and personal encounter with the Captain.

w/c - 784

a/n - i have been seeing more fics pop up for gasharpoon on tumblr and ao3 within the last few days, and it finally pushed me to try writing a little bit for her myself :] i love that evil whaling captain............

Her unmistakable command rings in your ears.

“Fight me.”

Captain John Ahab looms over your huddled form, sword clutched tightly in your hands and back pressed firmly against the wall. Blood drips from her coat and claws, leaving a macabre trail of evidence of the recent massacre. It was after narrowly escaping her clutches three or so times and witnessing the mangling of your teammates did you manage to get cornered, lungs burning for air and sweat beading down your forehead.

You entirely expected her harpoon to have impaled your skull by now, gutted and thrown aside like the rest before she moved on.

So why was she asking — demanding you to fight?

Raising your sword, a wary expression crosses your face. Tongue swiping across your dry lips, another harsh bark cuts you off right as your mouth opens.

“You can't even stand up straight.” John laughed, extending a clawed finger to your blade. It drags along the edge with a grating shriek, causing you to squint your eyes in disgust. “And here I thought you were meant to protect your little teammates. How pathetic.”

Trying to swallow the lump in your throat, your voice eventually finds purchase, climbing its way to brief freedom from Ahab's scrutiny.

“What do you want? Why haven't you killed me?”

He laughs again.

“I already told you what I want. After all, what use is wielding the blade if you cannot muster the courage to use it? Have your friends died, fought in vain, because of your cowardice?”

Taking a step forward, his metallic peg leg thuds loudly on the shipwrecked floor. How ironic; getting hunted by a sailor on Pirate Bay.

As he stalks closer, his jarring height becomes apparent. She's huge — much larger than any normal person has any right to be. Just her hand alone could cover your entire face, maybe wrap a decent way around your midsection if you excluded the length of her claws. Your generous estimate was at least eight feet tall.

The slam of her palm laid flat on a splintered support beam snaps you back to reality.

“They're dead.” Ahab sneers. “They're dead, and it's your fault.”

Her body shifts, heaving her giant harpoon up to your chest. The tip is poised straight at your heart, already threatening to tear the fabric of your shirt. If you didn't know any better, you'd assume your heart was trying to willingly become a kebab with how hard it thumped against your ribcage.

“Go on. Slice my head off. Flay me alive. You know you won't.”

Blood drips onto you, staining your clothes and trickling down your arms. Your grip tightens on the hilt of your sword, nails grinding into the wedges of the intricate carvings.

And then — finally, finally, in a blur of motion, you swing.

You swing with all your might, aiming for the neck. Yelling in both anger and desperation, the blade glints faintly under the flickering lantern light, swiftly cutting through the cold air. Gritting your teeth, you forced yourself to avert your gaze, awaiting the sensation of flesh giving to steel.

So when you felt the blunt pause of your sword, finding John to have caught it mid-slash…

“Foolish little creature.”

Your blade is roughly yanked away, held up high over your head. You almost thought he was going to use it on you before it's carelessly tossed aside, clattering to the ground. Instead, his hand shoots out, snaking around your wrists and trapping your hands in a vice.

Clicking his tongue in a similar fashion to a disappointed parent, he squeezes your restrained limbs just shy of pain, giggling whenever you yelp. Struggling only wasted stamina and made him grin wider, relishing in every helpless squirm and twitch. Your stone-faced facade collapsed like a house of cards under the weight of her strength.

“No wonder you couldn't save anybody! You're even more miserable than I thought.” Ahab croons, her voice taking on a mockingly soothing edge. It might've been half believable if she wasn't on the verge of breaking into a maniacal cackle.

“Although…”

She leans in, head ducking down to be level with yours. You feel her claws raking down your hands, coaxing another broken whine. Twisting your head back in an attempt to avoid the humid gusts of breath blown your way, a pair of lips find the perfect opportunity to rest on your fluttering pulse.

John's voice lowers to a dangerous whisper.

“Perhaps your Captain likes you that way.”

You hear a hiss of steam as her harpoon takes the fatal plunge.

And you could have sworn you felt the slightest caress of her lips on your heated skin through the explosion of pain.

[machinemonstrosity]

more chance and reader...please...I crave..

RESPITE FOR THE DAMNED | chance x reader

WARNINGS - NONE , fluff , established relationship , he/they used interchangeably for chance , i know nothing about sewing so this may be inaccurate

Chance teaches you how to sew during an intermission.

w/c - 1.6k

a/n - I FINALLY GOT SOMETHING OUT!! i am so sorry for so many of the requests having sat dormant for so long! i have been dealing with so much as of recently — you would not believe the amount of unfinished works sitting in my documents right now. to try and compensate, i may reopen my inbox sometime soon. for now, enjoy more chance, and thank you anon for the request!! :]

The cabin is quiet today.

Groups of two or three are sprinkled around the main room, lounging on the furniture or huddling in circles against a wall. Some simply chatted, indulging in fond memories and sharing anecdotes about their past lives. Others jab and tease over a salvaged board game from the lake, arguing over a hardly legible rulebook and damaged player pieces.

It's a fleeting moment of peace — a delicacy in the midst of chaos. An offer this realm's prisoners will gladly take.

Including you.

Your jaw finally goes slack, your hands no longer the trembling messes you often found them in whenever you looked down. The concept of time felt mostly obsolete here, but you could tell it had been much too long since you've last allowed yourself to relax. Who would have guessed the throbbing pain in your legs due to running for your life hurt more when you stopped?

To be fair, you never accounted for being tossed into a looping murder game.

Flopping onto the couch with a creaky bounce, you sprawl out like a starfish. Your gaze drifts to the ceiling, staring blankly at the wooden rafters as a deep exhale deflates your chest. You knew there were a handful of activities at your disposal, and more than enough company to distract you until the end of the intermission. All options you'd likely consider if you weren't too tired to move.

Every part of your body screamed at you. Your eyelids burned from staying open for too long, tears pricking the corner of your eyes as you blinked. Not many of your teammates dwelled on trying to sleep, given how brutally short these grace periods were. But you can't help yourself. You'd be satisfied with five minutes of shut-eye, for God's sake.

Slumping one arm carelessly over the armrest, you supported your head with the other, legs shifting below to adjust for comfort.

It was only when you were about to drift off that you heard a familiar voice.

“Scoot over, sugar.”

Your head immediately shot up.

There stood Chance, suit in hand, needle and thread dangling between their lips. Having no one to inevitably win against on the slot machines must've finally bored him, not to mention catching the sight of his partner draped across the downstairs couch alone.

Limbs scrambling, you contort and flail, rushing to sit up properly.

“Don't get your hopes up. I gotta fix my suit first.” The suggestive joke barely flies over your head as they move to claim the recently freed seat. Still somewhat drowsy, your own voice stumbles out of you in a slurred mumble:

“Huuuuuh? ”

What the hell, sure. Whatever you tried to spit out totally counts as a response.

You hear a poorly stifled snicker from Chance while he reiterates, “Gotta sew my suit back together. Lady Luck's been a real bummer as of late.”

Ah. You’re able to connect the dots now. And you're awake.

Plucking the threaded needle from his mouth, the garment now lies across Chance's lap, spilling onto the adjacent cushion. Multiple slashes have ripped the sleek linen, a mixture of what looked to be either claw or sword marks, partnered with a barrage of bullet holes. Their new position reveals a neat pile of squared fabric patches, stacked from biggest to smallest. This thing has seen better days.

They roll back the sleeves of their white dress shirt, deft fingers beginning to sift through the pile. Grabbing a piece to measure next to the nearest tear, a sudden pause in their calculated movements alerts you out of your silent observing.

“Somethin’ the matter, babe?”

Your face burns in embarrassment. Damn those shades for hiding their eyes so well.

Although, come to think of it, you did have a question.

“You can sew?” It's a bit more blunt than you intended, but honest nonetheless. Chance didn't really strike you as the kind of person to sew, let alone know how to.

Chance flashes you a grin, now turning to fully face you as if they had expected your confusion. Giving a loose shrug of the shoulders, they hum. “Sure I can! Never had much use for it, though.”

“How often does your suit get wrecked?”

“Enough to make me sew. Wanna help out?”

Raising a brow, you shoot him a playfully accusatory glare. “You're only saying that because you don't want to do everything yourself, aren't you?”

Chance leans back, feigning an offended gasp. Their free hand raises to their forehead like a sickly damsel on the verge of collapse, pitching their voice to match the cheesy theatrics.

“You wound me! Why would I ever suggest such a cruel, heartless thing? Perhaps I should leave, so you may continue your couch beauty rest in peace…”

An elbow to the ribs thankfully puts an end to their teasing.

“Ow—! Hey!”

Eventually catching his breath after erupting into a short fit of wheezy coughing and choked laughter, you're given the needle and half of the pile of fabric. Seems like you'd be splitting the work to keep it fair.

Which would have been fine.

If you didn't fail to mention that you have absolutely zero idea how to sew.

You’re already fumbling with the tool the moment it's put in your hand, clumsily maneuvering it from finger to finger and poking your palm with the sharp tip. Hunching your back, your other hand enters the equation, face scrunching as the needle continues to prick you. Not enough to draw blood, but more than enough to drain you of your dignity.

A few aggravated grumbles is all Chance needs to hear.

“You dunno know how to sew, do you?”

His statement puts a momentary halt to your frustrated attempts. Taking advantage of the opportunity, his hands move to blanket yours, gently prying the needle from your white-knuckled grasp.

“Here,” he says, “lemme show ya.”

Your heart skips a beat as their arms slither around you, pulling you in close. They don't stop until your back is flush against their chest, head tucked snugly beneath their chin. Guiding you back to the needle, it's carefully slid back in your hand — now with Chance bending and positioning your fingers to hold it correctly. You felt like one of those poseable mannequin dolls in an art classroom.

Insistent on your comfort, they kept asking for your approval whenever they moved. You probably heard the same question at least a dozen times, the phrases “are you okay?” or, “is this uncomfortable?” tightroping on endearing and annoying a little too well.

The needle finally disappears into the clashing shades of gray once you both settle.

“Hey, there you go! Not so hard now, is it? Now we just…”

Trailing off as he gives the thread a small tug, he leads you to loop the needle back up. Another secure tug, and the first stitch is complete.

The process repeats.

In and out. In and out.

By the first few stitches, you're already growing accustomed to the loop. It's repetitive — consistent. Hypnotic, almost. Minus the needle still poking you every once in a while, of course.

Chance punctuated each jolt and sharp suck of air through your teeth with a soothing hand rub, and each successful stitch with a steady stream of mumbled praise.

Your partner was an odd case, you've noticed. Despite having been in a relationship for a bit now, you still couldn't quite describe his character. He was a charming gambler, yes, but very rarely did he seem to branch outside of that. There definitely was more to him, it was just a matter of how much of himself he allowed to show. Or when he was willing to open up.

Something told you his poker face was a little more genuine than he'd like to admit when he was with you, though.

Before you knew it, you found yourself asking for the needle again.

“Knock yourself out. Someone needs to be my sewing successor.”

“Damn right. And I'll be better at it, too.” You puff out your chest, straightening your back in triumph. Your hands rest on your hips in false heroism.

Chance quirks a brow, scoffing. “Prove it.”

Oh, it's on.

You practically stabbed their suit, deciding to make a show out of your newfound skill. Flicking your wrist in a mockingly graceful gesture, you swoop the needle like a tiny metallic bird taking flight, the thread following close behind. It breaches the other side of the garment with a flourish.

“See? I'm awesome at this. Maybe you should be the one learning instead.”

Just as you're about to do it again, a loud BEEP interrupts you.

An eerie quiet washes over the cabin, freezing in place as multiple pairs of eyes lock onto the door. It's shut and locked, yet does nothing to combat the abrasive alarm blaring from the intercom outside.

Another round is starting.

Looks like your sewing lessons would have to be cut short.

A flurry of goosebumps ripples your skin. An all too familiar knot begins to twist and flip your stomach, the hairs on your arm and the nape of your neck standing up on end. Nothing ever prepared you adequately enough to quell the sickening drop of your heart or the lump in your throat.

Regardless, you have a murder game to participate in. And so does Chance.

Their grip on you tightens reflexively, keeping you in place as a warm palm comes to rest on your cheek.

“Chance? What're you do—!”

Forcing your head to tilt behind your shoulder, an abrupt kiss muffles any complaints you planned to make, melting into a soft sigh.

As they pull away, a breathless chuckle ghosts your parted lips.

“Who's better now, sucker?”

He was totally going to hold this over your head later, wasn't he?

[machinemonstrosity]

oh my goodness??

[machinemonstrosity]

HATRED'S EMBRACE | betrayed!1x1x1x1 x reader

WARNINGS - NONE , brief mentions of blood , fluff , comfort but 1x probably needs it more , he/she/they used interchangeably for 1x , 1x with wings truther

a/n - i promise i will get to requests at one point! writing has been difficult for me recently, hence why this one is a little short and maybe sloppy. this radioactive glowstick has been rotating in my head recently.........

She growled any time you attempted to wriggle away.

You never expected 1x1x1x1 to be so… cuddly.

Huge clawed hands grappled at the fabric of your shirt, the surprisingly delicate touch leaving sharp fingertips to lightly graze your stomach. Large wings enveloped you in a dark cocoon, obsidian feathers rustling in sync to the steady rise and fall of her chest. Their breath — in which you never knew he had — ghosted the back of your neck in warm gusts. Each exhale was rumbly, creating a quiet “hnngh” that eventually served as your rhythmic reassurance.

Despite how you initially tensed, bracing for impact and the sickeningly familiar heat of fresh blood trickling down flesh, nothing ever came. Her claws never pierced you. The cold press of the chains entangling their arms somehow never reached you. He caressed you as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

As if he didn't want to hurt you.

You were both shielded in your own little world. And he wasn't going to let you leave anytime soon.

Truthfully, you were afraid of the expression she was currently wearing. You expected some sort of disgusted scowl, a mocking sneer at your dependency towards such a beast, perhaps. No one in their right mind goes to the manifestation of hatred and malice for comfort, after all. Much less have said manifestation humor your desperate pleas.

The strange benefits of your existence being tolerated by 1x, you presumed.

Limbs interlocked with yours, you finally dared to contort your head behind your shoulder. Yet when your eyes caught the rough features of her face, you found nothing of what you feared.

They looked calm. Peaceful, almost.

He’s taken to burying his face in the top of your head, disheveled white hair falling over your shoulders. It was only after pestering 1x to the point you swore smoke was going to billow from their nostrils that she begrudgingly tore out her hair tie. Not to mention having to coax it out of his hand after — or the last few threads remaining of it.

Admittedly, he looked nice with their hair down. You swore their eyes softened a fraction when you complimented him, even if you were immediately brushed off with a dismissive click of her tongue and a snarl. Your kind words and gestures had an effect on him, whether she wanted to acknowledge it or not.

You would've maneuvered your body to face them if you knew it wasn't going to startle them. So instead, you settled, simply melting into their careful touch. Accepting his form of affection, knowing they were trying their best. After all, none of this would've been happening if 1x1x1x1 didn't care enough to comfort you.

Letting a walking glowstick snuggle you like a teddy bear made you smile, anyway.

And maybe she was desperate for some comfort, too.

[machinemonstrosity]

hello!! my apologies for the posts slowing down!

i have been feeling very under the weather as of late, which has also made my writing motivation take a bit of a nosedive. i will be alright! but for the time being, my requests will be closing as i try to work on the ones i already have and continue with my other stuff.

thank you to everyone who requested and your patience!! i will do my best to get them out whenever i feel like i can :]

[machinemonstrosity]

DO YOO TAKE ANNONS????v CAN I BE 🪼 ANON? I LOVE YOUR EEITING SONNUCH IN FREAMING IUT OH MY GOD

ahem

Ahem ahem

can I request pre sacrifice azure x reader fluff :3 in so greedy I requested another writer too.....scenario is up to you but if you need one, uhhh azure taking care of sick reader :3333

AS THE SPAWN INTENDED | azure x sick!reader

WARNINGS - NONE , fluff , established relationship , pre-stabbing azure , he/they used interchangeably for azure , reader is also a cultist

a/n - an anon after my own heart with a sea creature emoji........hoping i wrote azure correctly and that tumblr doesn't fail uploading this again :]

The Spawn didn't intend for this. Surely a nasty curse must have befallen you. A targeted attack whispered by blind fools trying to shun the divine truth.

There was an indescribable drowsiness radiating through your bones, your trembling body puppeteered into a sluggish stumble of a walk. Your nose became a leaky faucet, sniffling and sneezing every few shallow breaths. Feverish heat clung to you like a parasite, adding an invisible weight to your slumped shoulders.

While you had half a mind to hunt down and punish the unknown trickster you were convinced was to blame, you doubted you'd walk further than the sanctuary grounds without keeling over. Let alone give chase.

Cursed on the day of a sacrifice ritual. How fun.

Fighting to haul yourself out of bed, you haphazardly throw your robe over your head. Everyone in the sleeping quarters was already gone, the nearby clinking of pots and pans alerting you of breakfast. You hadn't gotten up too late, it seems.

Now all you needed to do was to hobble your way around and not cause too much suspicion.

The plan sounded easy enough; eat, attend to your morning duties, and slink back to bed when nobody was watching. Perhaps pray to The Spawn that you'd be well enough to take part in tonight's ceremony as well.

Not your best work in terms of a strategy conjured up on the spot, but time was ticking.

Shakily inhaling, you straighten your spine, stitching together your healthy facade. Ignoring how your head felt like it was being split in half, you trudged to the kitchen.

There are only so many times you're able to awkwardly clear your throat to stifle a cough during the morning sermon until it gets weird.

This was going to be very difficult, apparently.

Attempting to ignore the multiple heads shifting to your direction, you swore you bolted out of the room the moment the crowd was dismissed. Accidentally bumping into a handful of people on the way out, you hastily mumble a slew of broken apologies in the midst of tripping over your own feet.

You forgot to account for how pale your face was upon promptly flushing in humiliation.

The curse of sickness wasn’t uncommon in the family. You just weren't willing to make a potential laughing stock of yourself due to your absence during an esteemed event. Or worse — having your belief and devotion questioned.

Regardless, you had to keep pretending to be useful, no matter how unconvincing it looked.

Lost in thought as you limped away from the shared lodge, you failed to notice the gentle sway of flora brushing against your robe.

And the entire person you collided with.

“Aah — !”

A firm hand grasps your arm, saving you from your inattentive fall.

“Blessed day! Can I help you?”

Snapped out of your daze, you peek at the hatted figure currently holding you upright.

He smiles warmly, the itchy material of their fingerless gloves aggravating your skin. Their other arm hooks a wicker basket full of freshly picked flowers and an assortment of fruits, the tips of their fingers dirtied with soil and the occasional strand of grass.

If not for recognizing their voice, you'd have already excused yourself and fled.

“By The Spawn, what dreadful curse is this!? You look deathly!”

Azure.

Now your face was flushing for a completely different reason.

Averting your eyes, your own hands balled into nervous fists. You knew he saw right through you, yet you still found yourself mentally shaming the odds of your encounter. Azure was the last individual you needed hearing of your liability, and you waltzed right to him like an idiot.

Noticing the way you tensed, Azure's hold softens. They always caught onto your predicaments a little too quickly for your comfort.

“You're hiding your illness, aren't you?”

There goes your entire plan.

“... Maybe.”

You simply shrug, trying your hardest to act nonchalant about your aching body. A sneeze interrupts you.

Azure sighs.

“We must get you to bed. Right now.”

He began to walk before you could protest.

Of course, you put in your best effort to resist, even if it was futile.

Going so far as to tug and struggle in their hold, your feet slide along the floor as he starts dragging you back to the lodge. Their mannerisms remained gentle despite your struggling, soon finding yourself returning to the shared bedrooms among Azure's guidance.

Zigzagging across the sea of thin floor mattresses, you're expertly parked in front of a particularly decorated bed. An arrangement of exotic flowers are neatly aligned at the head of the bed, each pot carefully painted with love and care. The colorful sheets and comforters stick out like a sore thumb in comparison to the surrounding cluster of beige and gray.

Finally given a moment to speak, a confused grimace pricks at the corner of your lips.

“Your bed?”

“Of course my bed,” Azure laughs, “you must rest somewhere untainted by your sickness.”

“And you don't care if it passes to you?”

“What matters is you being cured first.”

“Bu —”

“Hush.”

Feeling their hand slide to the small of your back, you're ushered to lie down. You're draped in the warmth of the blanket as you're tucked in, a fleeting wave of cool air momentarily blessing your sweaty form.

The sudden heat afterward makes you groan, kicking one of your legs free in retaliation.

“You'll never get better if you don't keep yourself warm, my dear.” Azure comments, lifting the blanket back over your limb.

“Now, I'm going to get you some soup and crackers. And, please — do remain still. I'd rather not be running after my ill sweetheart.”

They kissed your forehead, turning away to fetch your remedies.

You swiftly discovered being bedridden sucked.

Your only solace would be your lover, who went as far as spoon feeding you after you became too weak to hold your bowl. When you eventually pushed the dish away, they nodded understandably, sliding the dinnerware aside.

Opening their mouth to speak, you cut him off.

“Azure?”

“Hm?” He hums.

“May… may you lie with me?”

His giggle gave you their answer.

Scooting over, Azure curls up around you, legs tangled with yours and arms wrapped securely around your sides. They discard their hat, briefly running a hand through his tousled black hair. He grins seeing the adoration that filled your droopy, fatigued eyes.

“Your eyes are so beautiful,” they breathe, “I could never get tired of looking at them.”

Pulling you close, their face lands in your neck. Your pulse beats steadily against his upturned lips; a cherished sound he only wished they heard every night.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, he runs a line of soft kisses up your throat with a reverent sigh.

“Go to sleep, my love. May your curse be lifted by tomorrow.”

You don't respond, already fast asleep.

To Hell with the ceremony. Maybe The Spawn intended for this after all.

[machinemonstrosity]

i am about to explode. <- tumblr didn't post a request i was trying to answer

[machinemonstrosity]

hey!! no requests or anything, but i found your writing lovely and descriptive!! you’re amazing at this :)

good luck on any of your future requests pal!!!

THANK YOU!! i believe i've seen your writing before, and i quite enjoy it as well!

best of luck to you on your own future writing endeavors :]

[machinemonstrosity]

hjust a qusetion but , would you consider writing for the minions of mafioso's...... im really fond of them freaks << 3 3 33 .

WARNINGS - NONE , silly headcanons for mafioso's henchmen , technically not an x reader but i don't know how else to tag it

a/n - i didn't know what to write since there's nothing about these guys other than one render......i'll write more next time, i promise! working through mobile sucks so i apologize if the image sizes and qualities are bad.

Mafioso's henchmen act like goofy cartoon villain sidekicks. While they can be serious and will get the job done, most of the time people are wondering how they even got into the mafia in the first place. They're a capable group of minions — just not the best in terms of scare factor.

To conceal their actual names, they nicknamed themselves with numbers. They also thought it sounded cooler.

ONE (1)

Out of everyone who tried to puff out their chest to claim the title, 1 received it due to being the oldest and most skilled of the group.

He's the most reasonable and level-headed of the henchmen, although that doesn't mean much. They all tend to bounce the same brain cell around like a game of hot potato.

The most stubborn when it comes to the gang's shenanigans and plans. Yet every time, without fail, he'll still cave and tag along. “Can't let the rest of ‘em get in trouble without me.” As he says.

He doesn't really express as much emotion as the others, but he will crack a noticeable smile or chuckle on occasion. Catching 1 letting out a full-on laugh is rare, normally only being something that happens with the rest of the minions. You're doing something right if he laughs around you.

TWO (2)

King of being competitive. Will absolutely take every small achievement or victory of his as a challenge to do better, especially if it's other people's. It happens to be playfully mutual among the others.

2 beats everyone at knife fights. Including 1.

He has a tendency to be the instigator of chaos. When they're inevitably caught causing a ruckus, all fingers are instantly pointing to him. Everyone still gets punished for it despite the snitching.

The tallest of the group. The running joke is that the tophat is the only reason for his placement on the height chart.

THREE (3)

The loudest of the group and the first to humor a terrible idea. That crowbar is always itching to be used.

3 is very short-tempered. He was unofficially banned from handling interrogations as the result of a group vote. The incident still isn't discussed to this day and is somehow still hidden from Mafioso.

Normally the last to show up for duty. This guy is an absolute night owl and stays up until the early hours of the morning. 

Magically, laundry duty always falls onto 3. Very cruel magic that has the other henchmen giggling and smiling like kids in a candy store. Laundry day rotations are basically nonexistent now.

FOUR (4)

Being the youngest of the group, 4 is a certified rookie. It gets him picked on sometimes, but it's all in good fun.

Surprisingly, he's only the second shortest of the group.

One of the most unconvincing gang members the world has ever seen. 4 is friendly to a fault, having gotten into multiple sticky situations in his naivety. His inexperience is sympathized with, but the boys are trying their hardest to toughen him up a bit.

No matter how many times the henchmen get asked about why they joined the mafia, 4 is the only one who never gives an answer.

Around you, the boys would be total sweethearts! They have one rule: if the big boss is alright with you, it's a pass in their book, too. Whether they were ordered to or not, they'll insist on keeping a careful eye on you and ensuring you're safe and sound. Escorts and free lunch are your new normal.

It may be a bit overbearing at times, but their hearts are in the right places.

Just know it won't be them answering the call if you get hurt. At that point, they're only the messengers.

[machinemonstrosity]

PINNED!!

> hiiii hello!!! you can call me machine or pc. i'm an x reader writer who is currently fixated on roblox, more specifically forsaken! although i am multifandom and my content is subject to change.

> i do requests! please be mindful that i write very slow, but my request status will always be in my bio. you are free to ask for stuff whenever they're open :]

REQUEST RULES!!

i'm generally open to most ideas, but please do not request:

smut

anything weird with characters who are children

character x character fics

content revolving around abuse of any kind

with that being said, i will occasionally write suggestive content.

i am also free to ignore any requests i'm uncomfortable with/don't want to do. please don't take it personally and have common sense with what you're requesting!!

TAGS!!

🖥️ THE SERVER ROOM — answering asks!

📝 REQUESTS — writing requests!

🖱️NEW TAB — reblogs!

⌨️ TALKING — talking posts!

[machinemonstrosity]

You have opened the floodgates, my fellow Forsaken writer. May the Anons have mercy on your soul....

-⚰️

I SWEAR I HAVE. the people are here.........

[machinemonstrosity]

would you like . Ever make rules for requesting or laik. A sign if its Open or not .......hmmms..... telmon :Drool:

more in-depth request rules will be in the eventual pinned post, and request status will be in my blog description in a bit c:

as of right now, requests are open, though!

[machinemonstrosity]

Do you do requests?

depends!! i won't write full-on smut, and i'm mainly focused on forsaken currently. this is my first time writing for basically all of these characters though LOL

[machinemonstrosity]

INJURED RABBIT | mafioso x reader

WARNINGS - DESCRIPTION OF BLOOD AND WOUNDS , hurt/comfort , survivor x killer , this is strictly the forsaken version of mafioso , no established relationship but you can see where it's headed

a/n - where did all of you people come from on that first post. i'm terrified. hello to you too forsaken fandom.

You don't know how it happened.

You hardly even remember it happening. Everything played out so fast.

The deep gash in your midsection burns in overwhelming pain, your hand having gone numb from trying to press the open wound shut. Everything around you is a blur, vague silhouettes of gnarly trees and broken buildings melting into an unrecognizable haze. Drowned by your shaky sobs and the tightness of your throat, your voice only comes out as an anguished croak.

You can't scream for help, no matter how much you're trying.

Just a moment ago, you were huddled with a group of your teammates, following in your paranoid frenzy as they worked to repair a generator. When the snap of a nearby twig startled the small crowd, you had attempted to flee with them, scrambling onto your feet and breaking into a sprint.

Until you felt something sharp snagging your shirt, pulling you backwards and tearing your side open.

Shot with adrenaline, you ran until you were panting in exhaustion. Chest heaving with each breath, your legs eventually gave out, collapsing in a patch of dried grass. As the dull ache in your side intensified to a constant piercing sting, the realization finally sank in:

You're professionally lost. And losing blood. Fast.

By now, your teammates must've been dead or far away from wherever you had landed yourself in. Howling wind and indistinct rustling replace their hushed whispers and careful footsteps, although it's hardly audible through your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

At least, aside from the ones you're hearing right now —

Wait.

Footsteps?

Despite your consciousness hanging by a thread, you try to squint your eyes to gauge the incoming person. Black spots dance around your vision as a testament to your injury, a strained cough racking your weak body while you try to contort it.

Your heart drops to your stomach the moment you manage to view the well-dressed figure.

Of all the killers it could've been, why did it have to be Mafioso?

His reputation preceded him; a ruthless mobster who wouldn't hesitate to knock out teeth if he didn't get what he wanted. Accompanied by his loyal henchmen, every story you heard about him never ended well, brandishing a killcount rumored to be in the hundreds.

It'd be no shock if he was the one who incapacitated you, now returning to snuff out the pitiful bloodied heap he'd reduced you to.

You struggled to wriggle away as he paced closer, not caring if your fate had already been sealed at this point. Somehow, managing a final defiant wail, your eyes screwed shut, praying that you magically bled out on the spot before he drew his sword.

But, strangely enough, it never happened.

Instead, you're suddenly enveloped in warmth, the smell of lingering cigar smoke filling your nostrils.

“C'mere, sweetie. Ain't anyone seen how ya look right now?”

Lifted into his large arms, Mafioso grunts in disapproval at your sorry state.

… This wasn't how the stories went. You should've been a headless corpse by now.

Confused, you try to peel an eye open, only to get nuzzled into the crook of his neck.

“Don't keep lookin’ at that nasty wound,” he murmurs, “jus’ stay awake for me.”

A part of you wanted to argue. To kick and scream with your nonexistent energy to let you go, to yell that you'd rather die alone than in the hands of the cruel mafia. Yet there was none of that in his demeanor. He was acting so soft, gently carrying your hurting form as if you were a piece of fragile porcelain. Nothing gave you the impression that he wanted to hurt you.

A point further proven by how gracefully you're being placed down on the nearest elevated flat surface.

You felt like you weighed a thousand pounds. Faintly catching the clip of a box being cracked open, two gloved fingers work on carefully lifting your torn shirt to expose your gash. You wince upon the bandage wrappings touching the tender flesh.

“I know it hurts, I know. But you're doin’ a real good job for me, bunny.”

Hand twitching involuntarily, Mafioso's free one intertwines with yours. The closer he gets to look at the injury he's patching up, the more his brows furrow.

“This ain't look like a cut one of my men woulda done. Didja get caught on a branch or somethin’?”

You hum. Truthfully, you didn't know, but it wouldn't have surprised you. Getting stupidly hurt sounded common, judging by how others tended to describe you.

“Well, ya gotta be more careful,” Mafioso chides, “next time you get hurt, ya go directly to me. Understand?”

At this point, you were too delirious to question why the man who was meant to be hunting you down was saying all of this. Maybe it was better if you didn't. Regardless, you confirm with another broken hum.

“Good bunny.”

To this day, no one believes your story.

You're shortly found in the same spot Mafioso had bandaged you by the last few survivors of his carnage. He was right about how you got injured, according to everyone who saw, having apparently ran off before anyone could catch you.

The general consensus was drawn to you hallucinating in your hysteria, but you know what you saw. And you know what he said.

This probably wasn't going to be your last encounter with the mobster.

[machinemonstrosity]

POOL TABLE | chance x reader

WARNINGS - REALLY SUGGESTIVE , nothing full-on but it's heavily implied , making out , ooc chance maybe , he/they used interchangeably for chance

a/n - i didn't mean for my first post on here to be so spicy LOL?? anyways i'm currently stuck on mobile and wrote this in one night, so i'm sorry if the formatting or writing is wonky!

Chance seemed to revel in your mutual back-and-forths.

Innocent flirting often devolved into heated touches and filthy promises, each empty space or backside of a building becoming nothing more than another surface to slam you against or a spare hand to muffle your whimpers. The stakes only rose higher each time they caught you alone — pushing to see what would get an equal amount of pull in his risqué game of cat and mouse.

What could he say? They just simply couldn't keep their hands off of you!

So when it caught on that you were the one who liked to be pulled, all bets were off.

The pool table you were perched atop of rattles slightly as Chance leans in close, the loose contents above audibly jostling. His hand finds your chin, fingers caressing the smooth skin in a slow rubbing motion. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his other hand splayed across your back, the sensation of their bare arms brushing against you being featherlight in nature.

Their unraveled tie lay loosely around their neck, the first few buttons of their suit vest popped open to tease the muscular expanse of his bare chest. His eyes, although obscured by his shades, drift to meet your wide gaze.

“Tell me,” Chance purred. “How long do you think you're gonna be quiet for?”

Your breath hitches.

God, if only he growled like that more often.

Squirming at his touch, the closest thing to a response you could muster was an incoherent garble. Pleased at your pathetic display, their grin widens.

“I thought so.”

Finally closing what little distance was left, Chance's lips crashed into yours. Their mouth moved with fervor, the hand on your chin sliding to the back of your head. They tug on your hair roughly, forcing his way deeper between your lips with a strangled moan.

Tongue swiping across your bottom lip in a demand for entry, it's granted when you attempt to pull back to breathe – only to inevitably be devoured whole again a second later. The slick muscle tangles with yours, exploring your mouth with equal enthusiasm as the rest of his body. Each needy whine and breathless shudder only spurs him on, a wandering hand finding purchase on your thigh.

Squeezing, Chance takes the opportunity to hike their own leg up, knee landing squarely on top of the pool table. The next soon follows, shoving your body further onto the piece of the furniture to accommodate for themselves as he crawls over you.

He uses the advantage to push you down, your back hitting the cloth-covered surface with a hard thud.

Your lips finally separate a moment later, strings of saliva shortly following Chance as he sits up. They chuckle breathlessly as their eyes rove over your writhing form, chest heaving and eyes glossed over in pleasure. Using a thumb, they gently wipe a stray bead of drool from the corner of your lips.

“What's the matter? I thought you liked it rough.” He rasped, hips settling between your own.

Thighs moving to straddle yours, you could already see the belt around their waist loosening.

Tonight was gonna be a long night.